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Apples and Apostates

Summary:

"The story will go where it wants to go. The characters drive it, not me. A good story, you don't really write. It was always there. You just uncover it."

A companion piece to Accursed Ones. This is a collection of vignettes, told in various perspectives by various characters. Requests are always open and can be submitted via comments or via asks on Tumblr. Thank you for reading!

Notes:

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: Codex

Chapter Text

Codex

The stories are arranged by the perspectives from which they are told, in chronological order. Perspectives vary from first person to third person limited.

Anders

  • 58: Mana Drain - Anders using mana drain on Amell.
  • 24: Sun-Kissed Alabaster - Anders/Amell Explicit Content.
  • 23: Love Sex Magic - Anders/Amell Explicit Content.
  • 9: Let’s Get Undressed - Anders/Amell Explicit Content.
  • 33: Fuck Me Blind - Anders/Amell Explicit Content.
  • 59: It’s Fading - Anders hugging Karl.
  • 56: Before The Rain - Anders talking with Amell at Vigil’s Keep.
  • 57: Sentimental Scar - Anders healing Amell.
  • 61 : Little Nightmares - Anders has a nightmare.

Amell
Amell centric chapters may contain implied alcoholism and suicidal tendencies.

  • 21: Broken Circle - The Broken Circle quest in DA:O from Amell’s perspective.
  • 8: You Wanted More - Amell/Zevran Explicit Content. Zevran offers Amell an Earring.
  • 6: I Need a Drink - Amell’s perspective when first encountering Anders at Vigil’s Keep.
  • 23: Shut Up and Kiss Me - Amell’s perspective on his first kiss with Anders.
  • 34: Just Let Him Have This - Anders napping on Amell’s chest.
  • 2: Ma’Arlath - Anders/Amell Explicit Content. Implied Alcoholism.
  • 15: Just a Flame - Anders/Amell Explicit Content
  • 12: See No Evil - Anders/Amell Explicit Content.
  • 43: Happy. Alive. - Amell’s reaction to encountering Anders again after two years apart.
  • 52: Cut Your Teeth - Amell’s perspective on Anders’ return to Vigil’s Keep.
  • 53: Ugh - Amell’s perspective on his first conversation with Amell after he returns to Vigil’s Keep.
  • 60: Tell Me What You See - Amell’s perspective on the events at the Grand Tourney.
  • 64: Maybe Someday - Amell’s perspective on his first kiss with Anders after he returns to Vigi’s Keep.
  • 65: Only the Lonely Survive - Amell’s perspective on his first fight with Anders after he returns to Vigi’s Keep.

Oghren
Oghren centric chapters may contain excessive vulgarity and implied alcoholism.

  • 40: All the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men - The Battle of Denerim as told from Oghren’s perspective
  • 3: You and Me - A conversation between Oghren and Amell, post break-up with Anders.
  • 36: We all Got Our Shit - Oghren telling a story about self-harmers being mistaken for blood mages.
  • 25: Feint - Oghren and Amell leaving Vigil’s Keep for Amell’s Calling
  • 42: Wardens (we could be) - Amell’s attempted Calling from Oghren’s perspective

Hawke
Hawke centric chapters may contain graphic depictions of violence.

  • 37: A little less like my father and more like my dad - Hawke’s backstory.
  • 19: All Bark - Hawke’s perspective meeting Anders for the first time.
  • 45: Eye to Eye - Hawke's thoughts on Anders and Karl's relationship.
  • 27: Poor Bastard - Hawke realizing he has feelings for Anders.
  • 35: Tell Me About Carver - Hawke talking to Varric about Carver.
  • 26: Shred of Blue - Hawke and his companions lost in the Deep Roads.
  • 44: Demon’s Backbone - Hawke dealing with debt collectors.

Zevran
Zevran centric chapters may contain suicidal tendencies.

  • 14: Your Man - Zevran and Amell meeting for the first time.
  • 41: Bury Me - Zevran’s fears about the Blight and Amell’s ability to defeat it.
  • 50: And I See Fire, Hollowing Souls - The Urn of Sacred Ashes quest from DA:O from Zevran’s perspective.
  • 39: Letters From Zevran - Unanswered letters Zevran sent to Amell after their break-up.

Justice

  • 7: Not A Bad Thing - Justice’s thoughts on love.
  • 16: Justice for Anders - Justice’s thoughts on joining with Anders.

Jowan

  • 17: Bound in Blood and Magic - Jowan and Amell as children in the Circle.
  • 18: Apples and Apostates - Jowan’s perspective on Amell’s crush on Anders at the Circle.

Alistair

  • 47: A Strong Leader - Alistair and Amell enlisting Orzammar’s aid during the Blight.
  • 67: Nature of the Beast - Nature of the Beast as told from Alistair's Perspective.

Alain

  • 32: No Saying No - Alain’s backstory from his life at Starkhaven.

Compassion

  • 5: Compassion - Compassion’s thoughts on Anders.

Dalian

  • 30: Count Down - The backstory of a mage Anders saved from the Circle.

Daveth

  • 31: We All Died at Ostagar - Ostagar as told from Daveth’s perspective. Explicit Content between Amell and Daveth.

Duncan

  • 29: Blighted Blood - Duncan recruiting Amell at Kinloch Hold.

Gamlen

  • 38: The Things We Do For Love - Gamlen discovering Quentin and Leandra are seeing each other.

Isabela

  • 63: Sweet Thing - Isabela takes Hawke to the Blooming Rose

Karl

  • 20: See You Again - Karl’s thoughts on Anders before and after he is made Tranquil. Explicit Content.

Morrigan

  • 55: At His Hands - Morrigan’s perspective on Anders’ arrival at Vigil’s Keep

Nathaniel

  • 4: Fool for a Day - Nathaniel/Velanna Explicit Content - Wall Sex.
  • 62: We’re Here For You- Nathaniel’s perspective on Anders’ return to Vigil’s Keep.

Rolan

  • 11: Silver Sword of Mercy - Rolan’s backstory and pursuit of Anders.

Sigrun

  • 10: The Best That Dust Can Be - Sigrun’s final moments. Character Death. Suicide.

Sten

  • 13: Close to the Heart - Sten’s perspective on Zevran and Amell’s break-up.

Quentin

  • 28: O Children - Quentin’s backstory and his life with Revka and their children.

Varric

  • 46: Coffee and a Quill - Varric reflecting on Hawke’s decision to give Isabela to the Qunari.
  • 49: A Hundred Roses - Varric’s advice on Hawke’s relationship with Anders.

Velanna

  • 54: Heard You Were Talking Shit - Velanna’s perspective on Anders’ return to Vigil’s Keep.

No One/Multiple Perspectives

  • 48: A Hero Comes Home - Amell’s return to Vigil’s Keep.
  • 51: The Absence of Something - Amell’s life in Amaranthine in Anders’ absence.

Chapter 2: Ma’Arlath

Summary:

Anders played, and lost, but he also ended up having sex, so really it was more of a win. It left him exhausted, and while he didn't remember falling asleep afterwards, but he must have because he woke up to the scratch of a quill moving over parchment, and the soft glow of mage light. Amell was sitting in bed next to him, writing in his journal.

Notes:

This chapter takes place after Chapter 17 - Lost in Dreams of Accursed Ones and is told from Amell's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 27 Matrinalis Morning
Vigil's Keep: Dining Hall

I've never had a taste for tea, but I've had friends who swear by it for hangovers. I don't have a hangover today, but I'm drinking it anyway. Habit, probably. I take another sip, and it's as bitter as I expect it to be. It tastes like sticks, dirt, and regret. I should just leave it for a servant to clean up, but I know I'd feel guilty if I did. I asked for it, someone made it, and now I have to live with it.

I cradle the cup in my hands and stare out at the dining hall. It's crowded with soldiers, men and women serving under Garavel who I'll probably send out to die someday but whose names I'll never know. I should give another address this week. I need to keep morale up. Drinking normally helps with that, but I don't want Anders to know I have a problem, and he's been spending the night a lot lately.

I can't help smiling, thinking about him. He sleeps like a rock in my bed. I don't know if that's me or the mattress, but I love it. I've been through the barracks, and I know he sleeps on straw otherwise. After a year of sleeping in bedrolls on the ground, goose feather feels lavish to me, but if Anders likes it, that's reason enough for me to keep it.

"Commander," A nondescript soldier says politely, walking past me. I raise my cup at him, and wish I knew his name. A few of my Wardens are in line for breakfast, Anders among them. He's wearing the robe I gave him. Tevinter fashion is probably the only thing I don't like about the country. The feathered shoulders look ridiculous to me, but the robe isn't for me.

It doesn't matter if I like it. Anders wanted it, and Anders likes it. The only real problem is how difficult it is to find anything Tevinter-style in Ferelden. Anders doesn't need to know that I had to raid the templar warehouse in Amaranthine with the Collective to get it for him. All that really matters is he's happy.

Anders grabs his tray and spends a few seconds looking out over the dining hall. Eventually his eyes settle on me and he waves. I raise my cup at him, and he starts walking over. I can feel my heart start racing and my palms getting sweaty, and I have to set the cup down. Anders sets his tray down and takes a seat across from me.

"This seat taken?" Anders asks with a grin that only touches one corner of his lips, and raises the same eyebrow. It looks painfully flirty, and it's hard to believe it's directed at me.

"It is now," I say, and nod at him. "You look good in that,"

It's not a lie. Anders looks good in everything. Ridiculous feathers or not, the robe is sleeveless, and shows off his arms. He's wearing two golden bangles, above both elbows, and I have to wonder where he got them.

"But I'd look better in nothing, right?" Anders jokes and winks, ripping a piece of bread in half to soak up his runny eggs.

"Hard to say," I shrug, "I'd need a reminder to be sure,"

"Well keep it up and maybe you'll get one," Anders grins.

We're back in my quarters almost as soon as he finishes breakfast. I don't know how I managed it, but we're here, and his hands are on me. It's all I can do to cling to him. He has deft hands, and never in my wildest fantasies could I have imagined all the things he can do with them. He cradles my jaw in one hand and gets my belt unbuckled with a few twists of the other.

Anders grabs my belt and pulls, and tosses it vindictively across the room when it comes free of my trousers. He loves throwing clothes. I don't know why, but I love it. It's reckless and carefree and everything I'd expect from him.

With a suddenness that takes my breath away, Anders hits his knees and grabs my trousers to pull them down around my thighs. I'm not as hard as I wish I was yet, but I'm getting there. Anders looks up at me, and for a moment it's all to surreal.

He's too beautiful. His eyes are like honeyed mead, and it's so easy to get drunk or drown in them. His face is made of perfect angles, everything from his jaw to his nose to his chin begs to be traced and touched and worshipped.

The moment passes, and it's real again. So wonderfully real. Anders takes hold of my cock and licks me slowly from base to tip, his tongue brushing over the tips of his fingers in the process, and for some reason that's what's most erotic to me. He pumps his hand once when his tongue reaches the head of my cock, and I moan for him.

It's all the invitation he needs to take the head of my cock into his mouth. The curve of his lips around my cock is one of the most perfect things I've ever seen, and the heat of his mouth one of the most perfect things I've ever felt. His mouth is sheath of wet warmth, but it's nothing beside his hands.

He rolls my balls between his long fingers, and slides one forward to caress the space between my balls and my entrance. It's like rapture, and I want to bury my fingers in his flaxen hair. Anders smacks my hand away when I try. He never lets me touch his hair, unless we're lost in the heat of the moment.

Anders might not be, but I am. I don't know what to do with my hands if I can't touch him. I flex them at my sides while Anders unravels me. I stop existing outside of the pleasure burning through my veins, the fire in my stomach lit by his hands and mouth. I can feel my pulse beating hard and fast in my cock, and the pressure that builds inside me is almost unbearable.

I grab his shoulder and squeeze urgently. "Can I come in your mouth?"

I don't know why I still ask. Anders has never said no. He glances up at me and gives me a playful thumbs up, and I think that must be why I still ask. I want to laugh, but I know what my laugh sounds like, and I don't want to ruin the moment. I exhale hard through my nose instead, and finish a heartbeat later.

My release fills Anders' mouth to overflowing. My whole body tingles, especially my feet, a pleasurable ache that throbs in time with my heart in my cock. The euphoria is almost numbing. My left ear is ringing, my hands are stiff.

Anders sits back, and my cock and his chin are dripping with spit and come. He wipes his face off with his forearm and grins a proud sort of grin. "I must be getting better at that. You practically crushed my shoulder. Good thing I'm a healer."

"You're fantastic," I say, because he is.

I've had better, but only physically. He is getting better, but for me, the fact that it's Anders makes up for any inexperience. Nothing compares to him. I think if he looked at me long enough he could get me to come. Whether or not this is an experimental game to him, nothing will ever mean more to me than knowing I'm the one he chose to play it with.

I join him on the floor to get his smalls off and return the favor. I love making love to him. His sighs and groans, the way his cock twitches between my lips, the way his hands grab the back of my head and tangle in my hair. Recently, the way my name slips in among the sounds he makes for me. His breath takes on a staccato rhythm, and I hold the pace I've set, knowing he's close. I wonder if I know before he does.

Anders tugs on my hair a heartbeat later. "Fuck I'm gonna come. " I moan encouragingly on his cock and he fills my mouth a few seconds later. I have to swallow to keep up with him, and I hold onto his hips while he shudders underneath me. "Fucking flames, Amell," Anders gasps and eventually goes still.

I hold him in my mouth for a few seconds for the taste before I swallow. We're still lying on the floor, and I know he'll want to move soon, but for now I lie between his legs and rest my head on his thigh. I want so desperately to hold him, but I know that's not the kind of relationship we have. I settle on locking an arm around his leg, and wonder if we'll get there someday.

Anders plays with my hair while he catches his breath. "We should start every day like this," Anders muses.

"I won't argue with that," I say. I know he means sex, but I pretend he means cuddling like this.

"It's pretty decent out today, for Kingsway," Anders says, "Do you want to get a game of quoits in or something?"

"A quick one," I agree. I always feel a little giddy whenever he wants to spend time with me without having sex. "I have to hold court today."

"Ew." Anders says, and gives me a shove to get me off his leg. We clean up and dress, and our game goes by far too quickly and holding court takes far too long. It's dinner before I know it, and I spend it with my Wardens, listening to all of them recount their days.

Velanna has opened up a lot with everyone else. Sigrun seems less Void-bent on going to her Calling. Nathaniel's doing well, and Oghren is relatively sober. I still miss my old friends, but the five of us work well together. It almost surprises me how much I care about all of them. I doubt they know it, but they make ruling this accursed arling almost tolerable.

Anders especially. He catches me staring at him throughout dinner and tosses a few smirks my way that stir up butterflies in my stomach. He's back in my quarters that evening, and when we have sex it feels like he drains me of every drop of come in my body and fills me up with his instead. I fuck him until he's too exhausted to leave, and he passes out in my bed.

He's so worn out the mage light I summon doesn't wake him. Anders looks serene when he's asleep. His lips are slightly parted, his flaxen hair finally free of its tie and tossed about his handsome face. A few strands are stuck to his forehead, still damp with sweat from sex. I lean out of bed and unlock my nightstand to find my journal and a fresh piece of graphite.

I spend an hour sketching him. He sleeps hard, and it makes him easy to draw. I map his face, the sharp lines of his shoulders, the expanse of his chest, his lean arms and perfect hands. The covers are tangled around his narrow waist, so I stop there and wipe away a few mistakes. My finger tips are stained black, and I'll have to get up to wash them before I go to bed.

I stare at the sketch for a short while, comparing it to the amazing man lying next to me. It's not perfect, but I'm a decent artist, and I think I've captured the moment. I scribble the date beneath it, and hesitate on a title. Ma'arlath, a voice that is and isn't mine suggests, but I know what Anders means to me. I don't need to write it down.

Chapter 3: You and Me

Summary:

"You know, Sparkles, sometimes it's not about you." Oghren said, rummaging through the mess on his bunk for another bottle. He stuffed both bottles under his arm, and headed for the door. "Sometimes people are just fuck-ups, and they know it, and it gets 'em down. And when that happens, there ain't nothing you can do but drink until it goes away."

Notes:

This chapter takes place after Chapter 20 - Uprising of Accursed Ones and is told from Oghren's perspective.

Written for a request for something from Oghren's perspective. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 5 Parvulis Afternoon
Vigil's Keep: Barracks

"You know, Sparkles, sometimes it's not about you," I say, looking for the bottle of Aqua Magus I had saved up for the day Sparkles ditched the Kid. I'm lying through my ass. Probably picked that up from the Kid. "Sometimes people are just fuck-ups, and they know it, and it gets 'em down. And when that happens, there ain't nothing you can do but drink until it goes away."

Sparkles doesn't say nothing. Ain't nothing for him to say. I stuff the booze under my arm and head out.

I fucking hate stairs. I gotta bend my knees to get up the sodding things, and it's like doing squats all the way up to the little thunderhumper's room. I'm huffing and puffing like a fucking forge by the time I get to the third story. Give me an ogre, a dragon, a little boy, and I'll kill it like it's nothing, but stairs kick my hairy ass.

I get to the little nug humper's room and knock. For a while there ain't nothing but I know he's in there. "Boss!" I yell to let him know it's me and not Sparkles.

That does it. "Come in!"

I fumble with the door handle and gotta dry my fat hands off on my trousers. Don't remember what I was eating but they're greasy. Chicken probably. I let myself in and find the Kid standing by his liquor cabinet, just like I knew he'd be.

Sparkles had him on bed rest, but I knew the Kid wasn't gonna listen to that. Kid can't stand thinking he's weak. Thinking he's powerless. Stupid little fuck has exacerbated every real bad injury he's ever gotten, trying to push himself. Gotta be the leader. Gotta be the hero. It'd fuck anybody up, but the Kid's only twenty-one, balls barely dropped. Feels like I'm the only one who remembers that sometimes.

I walk across the room and hand him the bottle of Aqua Magus I brought him. He uncorks it and takes a long drink. Kid took to drinking like a fish takes to water, ever since I got him started on it almost two years ago now. Shit's my fault. I'm bad for him like I'm bad for Felsi and the nugget. Don't know why he ain't realized it yet.

There's a bottle of brandy on top of his liquor cabinet. Shit's already half empty. Kid's face is almost as red as his eyes. He's been crying. Sparkles must of really done a number on him.

Kid gives me a watery smile as fake as a whore's orgasm. "I fucked up." He says.

"I know ya did, Kid," I say. I grab the brandy and climb up onto his couch, and the Kid joins me there. "Come on, let's drink it out."

I drink. It's what I'm good at. Kid sits next to me drinking too. I shouldn't let him. He's gonna turn into me someday, and Stone knows I don't want that. He deserves better. Kid helped me get over Branka, he got me back with Felsi, he treats me like I'm still a member of the Warrior Caste, and not just some old fuck who drank his life away.

Kid's such a good liar I believed him for a while, until I took up drinking again and pissed it all away.

"I miss Morrigan." Kid says eventually. No real surprise he's thinking of her. Swamp witch was the one who got him interested in blood magic in the first place. She and I were probably the only two in our old gang who didn't have a problem with it.

"I know ya do, Kid." I say.

"I miss her so much," He gasps and buries his face in his hands, choking back a sob.

"She had a great rack, I'll give ya that." I snort.

Kid laughs. That freaky cackle of his never bothered me, and he never holds back when it's just us.

"So come on," I say now that we're good and proper drunk, "You wanna talk about it?"

"I don't know." Kid says. "I should be used to this by now,"

"Bad as the Elf or naw?" I ask.

Now there was a fight. Kid and the Elf circling the whole camp, screaming back and forth, crying back and forth, Elf storming out, Kid running after him. Kid coming back alone, holding some earring like it was a wedding ring the Elf threw at his head all dramatic like. He wore the thing for a while, after the Elf was gone, till a darkspawn ripped it out of his ear and ate it. Good times.

"I don't know." Kid takes another drink, and runs a hand through his coal-black hair. "No. Yes. I keep doing this... Why do I keep doing this?"

"Fucking up?" I guess he means.

"Why can't I get a man to stay with me?" Kid asks.

"What am I, chopped nug liver?" I joke.

Kid laughs again and says, "I love you, Oghren."

I give him a shove for it. "Yeah I know. I love you too. Slap a pair of tits and a cunt on you and I'd give you a go or two."

Kid laughs. We drink a bit more.

"I tried," Kid says. "I tried so hard. I've been holding back."

"I know you have been, Kid." I say. "You've really mellowed out with all the blood magic shit, but it's who you are. It's in your blood, the way killing's in my blood. It's all we're good at."

"I thought he understood." Kid says, and his face goes back in his hands. I let him have his cry. I know he's got it bad for Sparkles. I've known for years.

Found out when we first went to his Circle, to recruit all the other mages to fight the Blight. The poor fucker was out of his damn mind. I figured it was just cause his home had been turned into a mess worse than Felsi's festival day stew.

Demons infested the place like the Blight. Flesh sacks everywhere, with mages hanging from them. Demons slowly burrowing into their minds, trying to make 'em into those fleshy abomination freaks. We found one fucker strung up on the wall, and in retrospect he looked an awful fucking lot like Sparkles.

He had the hair, he had the scrawny build, he had a similar face. Kid lost it. Bolted across the room and left us all behind. Clawed Sparkles' twin out of the flesh-wall with his bare hands, and only calmed down when he got a good look at his face.

Found out from Wynne Sparkles had taken off again before Uldred lost his marbles. Elf was so jealous he pouted for the rest of the mission. Kid loves Sparkles the way I love booze and the new elf loves bitching. It's in our blood.

"It's not your fault, Kid," I say.

"Why don't you ever judge me?" Kid asks, looking at me with eyes redder than usual, "With the blood magic? Why don't you think I'm a monster like everyone else?"

"Shit. Like you've ever judged me," I shoot back. "You know I butchered that little kid. You know I piss liquor, and don't say it don't get in the way. I remember the ambush at camp. The one I slept through, too fall down drunk to be of any damn use to anyone."

"It was an ambush," Kid says, "None of us were ready for it. You've always been there when I need you."

Kid's a damn liar. The ambush wasn't the only time my drinking set us back. I don't argue. No point. Kid's stubborn as a bronto. Once he gets his head about a thing there's no changing his mind.

"... Do you think he'll ever forgive me?" Kid asks, like I'm some Paragon of Wisdom or something.

"Why you asking me?" I ask. "You know I fucked it up with Branka and Felsi. Don't come to me for relationship advice."

Kid takes another drink, and it makes me feel like shit. I know I'm all he's got.

"Look, the way I see it, it's a damn miracle you ever got Sparkles into bed to begin with," I say. "That guy is a lady-killer. You knew he wasn't into dudes from the start. You knew he wasn't into blood magic. You gotta put down the torch you're carrying for him, cause it's blinding you from seeing who he really is. He's just some dude who wants an easy fuck and a laugh. If you ain't gonna change for him, you gotta know he's not gonna change for you."

"You're right." Kid says, and sighs. He gets up to get us another bottle. Low table's littered with them by now, Aqua Magus, brandy, whiskey. We're a right mess.

"I know you wanna find the perfect man and settle down as some happy housewife, doing blood magic in the kitchen or whatever, but Sparkles doesn't want that, anymore than the Elf wanted that," I say. "You gotta get that in your head."

Kid doesn't say anything. He comes back with something that looks like brandy and pours us another round. Tastes like brandy. I drink, he drinks. I'm not helping him any. I wonder why I even came up here, thinking I could do any good.

Kid stops drinking eventually, and stares at the glass in his hands. "I think I love him."

"Yeah, I know," I say.

"I miss Barkspawn," Kid says.

"Yeah, I know," I say.

"I miss Zev," Kid says.

"I know, kid." I say. "I was there when everything went to shit, wasn't I? I know it fucked you up, and I know you're fucking up. I get it. I don't know what you want me to say." Admitting it puts a bad taste in my mouth. Kid deserves a better friend.

"I don't know what I want you to say either," Kid says. "But I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah, I'm here," I say. "Don't know what good I'm doing, but I'll always be here. I won't leave ya, kid. If this is another Blight, I'll fight it with ya, and we'll die with honor or we'll win and die later, but whatever happens I'm with ya,"

If drinking's all I'm good at, drinking's what I'll do. I hold my cup up for a toast. "We're blighters, you and me."

The kid knocks his cup against mine, "You and me," He says.

Chapter 4: Fool For a Day

Summary:

"I wish I knew." Nathaniel said. "I went to go talk to her, just to make sure she was alright but she was so distraught. About her clan, about her Keeper's death and what you learned about Seranni... I hugged her, and that turned into a kiss and one thing led to another..."

Notes:

This chapter takes place during the events of Chapter 22 - Serpents High, Angels Low of Accursed Ones and is told from Nathaniel's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 13 Parvulis Evening
Crown and Lion Common Room

"I don't want us to have a thing!" Velanna shouts, throwing her cards on the table. I watch them scatter, two angels, two songs, and a dagger. I catch the dagger before it slides off the table and flip it into my hand. That's a winning hand, assuming Velanna doesn't ask to be dealt back in and I have to give the card back. I can never tell with her.

"I joined this Order to find my sister, not to make friends, or to play this stupid card game, or to care about durgen'len or shemlen," She looks straight at me, and I realize this is serious. Her eyes are full of venom, and I can't imagine I deserve it. "Ma din lethallinen."

She shoves back her chair and stands. I try to turn the phrase over in my head, but I've only managed to pick up on a word or two in her conversations with Amell.

"Velanna-" Amell starts to call her back.

"Leave me be," Velanna glares at him. If Amell can't get through to her, she must be upset. I watch her leave the common room, and note the unsteady steps that take her up the stairs. I know she doesn't like the boots. I wonder why she wears them at all.

I look at Amell and ask, "What did that mean?"

"You are not my clan," He translates.

The others talk. I stare down at the cards in my hand. I never had a taste for gambling, until I joined the Wardens. My old master Ser Rodolphe was never one for anything that wasn't hard work and training, and I think his scowl wore off on me. Amell is something different. We play games, we drink, we go on wild adventurers. We might not be a clan, but we're close.

"I'm out," Sigrun says, setting her cards down on the table. "Goodnight guys."

"I am as well," I say, standing. I nod to Amell and Anders. "Goodnight, both of you."

I climb the stairs to the second story and head down the hall after Sigrun. She lets herself into her room, and I know the proper thing would be for me to do the same. We all have our demons to deal with, and I know Velanna likes to be coddled no more than I do. I stop outside her room all the same. I think of the venomous look in her eyes, and I know there was pain underneath it.

Maybe I'm a fool, but I knock on her door.

"I said leave me be!" Velanna yells at me from within. Her voice is broken. I try to picture her crying, but I can't. She's no damsel in distress, awaiting my rescue like something out of the storybooks I'm all too fond of. She's a proud mage and Dalish warrior... but there's a woman under there somewhere.

I knock again. "Velanna, can we talk?"

"We have nothing to talk about!" Velanna yells.

"Please?" I beg.

I'm surprised it works. Velanna opens the door and steps back to let me into her room. She stands in the center of the room rather than taking a seat to make it clear my visit should be a quick one. The pronounced red in the whites of her eyes is a stark contrast to the green, and it's obvious she's been crying.

I need to stop idolizing everyone.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

"Why do you care?" Velanna sneers at me, but I'm long past taking the defense mechanism personally. Her harsh words are no different from Anders' jokes.

"I care because I care about you," I say. "I thought I made that obvious."

Velanna scoffs and turns around. She buries her hands in her hair and shakes them, and her bun comes undone. Long wavy locks of gold spill down her back. "You care about me," Velanna mutters. "You don't even know me. You have no idea the things I have done."

"I saw the caravans, Velanna," I say, daring a step forward. My boots are loud on the wooden planks, but Velanna doesn't turn around. I reach for her shoulder, "I know you made a mistake-"

"A mistake!" Velanna whirls on me. She sees my hand mid-air and smacks it away viciously. "You know nothing! I wanted to fight the humans! They tried to burn us out of the forests, and I chose to fight back! I called Ilshae a coward, and those were the last words I ever spoke to her before she died!

"I led half my clan out to slaughter! I am the reason my sister is some darkspawn thrall, Blighted down there beneath the earth! Seranni never wanted to fight; she never knew anger, or pride. She came with me to try to convince me to relent, and now she is lost, and I am stuck with all of you! Shems! Fools! We are not friends!"

Tears start to spill from her eyes half way through her speech. They carve a wicked path down her cheeks, and I reach up to wipe them away with my thumb. Velanna smacks at my hand, but there's no strength to the blow. "I don't need your pity!"

I brush the tears away anyway. "Why do you wear the shoes?"

The question stumps her. To be honest, it stumps me. Velanna forgets her anger and her sorrow to squint up at me. "What?"

"Why do you wear the shoes?" I ask again. "You hate them, and you never have them on at the Vigil. Why do you wear them when we go out?"

"They came with the uniform," Velanna says. "What kind of question is that?"

"But you don't have to wear them." I say.

"Why do you care about my shoes?" Velanna snaps.

"I think you wear them because you want to be a part of the group, but you don't know where to start," I say. Velanna glares at me, and I know I'm pushing her. Maybe she needs to be pushed. I grin, "It's ridiculous. You don't need to give up your heritage or forget your clan to be a Grey Warden. We don't mind that you're Dalish, Velanna. We love it. I love it."

Velanna's glare stays firmly in place. I wonder if I'm making a mistake. Probably. It wouldn't be the first. I take a step forward and put a hand on her shoulder. Velanna stiffens, and I pull her into a hug. She smells like dirt and grass and sunlight. Like the wilds and the forest and adventure.

"What are you doing?" Velanna asks.

"It's a human thing," I jest, "It's called a hug."

"I know what a hug is, you imbecile," Velanna says. "Why are you hugging me?"

"I thought you could use a hug," I say.

"Use it," Velanna huffs, "And just what do you expect me to do with it?"

"Normally, people hug back," I say.

"And if I don't?" Velanna demands.

"You'll hurt my feelings." I jest.

"How will I ever live with myself?" Velanna muses, but her hands slide slowly around my waist and she rests her head on my chest. She relaxes in my arms, and I twist one lock of her golden hair around my finger. "What do you even see in me?"

"Beauty," I say easily, "Strength. Cleverness. Fantastic magic. Remorse. Regret," I gather up a handful of her long hair and stow it away behind a ear, tracing over the pointed tip, "You're an amazing woman, Velanna."

I lean back to gauge her reaction to me, and worry for a moment I'm making a fool of myself. Velanna's emerald eyes search my face, and I wish I knew what she was looking for. "You are a fool," Velanna says eventually.

I'm about to make a smart comment about Satinalia and naming the town fool ruler for a day when Velanna kisses me. I don't see it coming, and the soft press of her lips against mine comes as a shock. Her lips are soft as rose petals, and kissing back is as natural as breathing for me.

Velanna locks her arms around my neck; she has to stand on the balls of her feet to reach me. I bend down for her, and wrap my arm around her waist. She's so slender it's a little startling. I slide an arm up her back to cradle the back of her head in my hand, and lose myself in her lips.

It's probably not safe. Any second now she could change her mind, and probably slap me, but I don't care. She tastes like honeysuckle with a hint of salt from her earlier tears, and I flick my tongue into her mouth for more of it. Velanna's lips part from mine for a few seconds, and she whimpers, "Oh Nathan."

Nathan. That's new. I like that. I knead up and down her back, and Velanna fists her hands in my hair. Her teeth graze over my bottom lip, and for a second I wonder if she'll bite me. She doesn't, and I'm almost disappointed. There's a wildness to her that excites me, and has since I met her. I don't want to tame it; I just want to experience it.

Velanna pushes up against me, but our tabards and tunics are between us and I can't appreciate the press of her breasts against my chest as much as I wish I could. Velanna grabs my tabard and forces her hands beneath it. The bite of her nails against my chest has me breathing hard, even with my tunic between us.

Her hands are at my belt a second later, but she's unfamiliar with the clasp and she fumbles. The mad scramble is beyond arousing. I unbuckle it for her, and throw my tabard off. Velanna does the same with her belt and tabard, and flings herself back into my arms. It's so much easier for me to touch her with those two pieces out of the way. For her to touch me.

She tugs my tunic out of my trousers and shoves her hands beneath it. They're rough and calloused and feral and perfect. She rakes them over my chest, down my back, and I can't help groaning into her mouth. I steal a hand beneath her tunic and run it up her side; her skin is warm, almost feverish, and the only thought in my head is that I want to cool it with my tongue.

I give her a second to stop me, and sweep my hand up to cup her breast when she doesn't. Velanna gasps into my mouth, and her nails dig into my shoulders. "Nathan," She says again, her voice choked with passion, and it makes my cock stiff. I circle her nipple with my thumb and Velanna whimpers. She shoves back from me, and a few panicked thoughts force their way into my head around my arousal. We're going too fast. We need to slow down.

Velanna tears her tunic off. The thoughts go away. "You're so beautiful," I say, but Velanna doesn't want to hear it. She grabs my tunic and tugs it up over my head, and I raise my hands and duck down for her to get it off. Velanna stares at my chest and the dark hair that I've never given much thought to until this moment, and I wonder if I disgust her.

Velanna drags her nails down my chest and I exhale hard through my nose. It feels amazing. My heart is racing, banging in my ribcage. Velanna's eyes rake my body briefly before they look up into mine; when she speaks her voice is full of lust, hesitation, fear, excitement. "Make love to me."

I don't think I've ever been harder in my life. I'm anxious beyond words, but at this point I don't think I could stop even if I wanted to. Our trousers aren't off so much as caught around our thighs when I grab her and lift her off her feet. She's so light in my arms, I don't think I even need the wall to make love to her, but I pin her to it anyway.

Velanna manages to kick her trousers off one leg, but they catch on the other. I leave them there, and kiss her again. The taste of her is electric; it shocks my tongue and sends a thrill down my spine. Velanna grabs my cock and I don't have any time to enjoy her touch before she guides me to her entrance. The heat of her sex on the head of my cock makes my hips buck, and I bury myself roughly inside her.

Velanna cries out and locks her legs around my waist. I muffle a shout in her shoulder, her hair is in my face, spilling down her chest and over her breasts. Maker, she's beautiful. We fit together perfectly, her sex wet and warm and the only yielding thing about her. I pull back an inch and drive my hips forward.

Velanna screams my name again. Somewhere, in the swell and surge of our sex, in the mad pulse of our hearts beating together, our bodies moving together, the sweat that turns to steam and the scorching heat of our mingled breath, I fall in love with her. Velanna trembles in my arms when she climaxes, and bites my shoulder to muffle another scream.

It stings, and the pain of it sets me back. I bring her to her peak again and help her crest it with one hand teasing her breasts. I finish with her this time, and my knee jerks and slams into the wall when my orgasm courses through me. It sends a sharp pain down my leg that mingles with the pleasure burning out my lungs and sending tremors through every muscle in my body.

Velanna holds me, her hands on my shoulders, on my face, in my hair. She kisses my cheek, whispering her name for me in my ear over and over. I turn my head and capture her lips with my own, and our tongues tangle together while our hands explore bodies we didn't have a chance to learn in our haste.

Velanna must be more tired than I am. Her hands stop before mine, and I kiss her neck when she stops responding with her mouth. "Put me down," Velanna says.

I set her down, and she darts out from around me. I lean my head against the wall, and wonder when my breath will come back to me. The sound of a buckle clasping makes me look up. Velanna's dressed, and pinning up her hair. A rock settles in my stomach. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"This was a mistake," Velanna says. I think I'm going to be sick. "It never should have happened."

"What?" I ask. Velanna pulls on one boot, and I try to grab for her and trip up over my trousers. "I know we rushed things but-"

Velanna runs out the door before I can finish and slams it behind her. I grab my trousers and wrench them up around my waist. I'm still lacing them when I run after her.

"Velanna wait!" I yell after her. "Please don't go! Talk to me!"

"Ir abelas," Velanna says, and runs down the hall. I run after her, down the stairs into the common room, and out into the streets of Amaranthine. I slam open the front door of the tavern in time to see her root magic swallow her.

The street is empty. The stars and moons paint the streets in an alabaster light, and an autumn wind chills the drops of sweat that still cling to my chest. I feel like I'm freezing. I stand out in the middle of the street for what feels like an age, and it feels like my ribs are slowly constricting around my lungs and heart.

I'm a fool.

And it's not Satinalia.

I go back inside. I feel sick and lost and stupid. I think of what just happened and I hate myself. This isn't one of my fairy tales. I'm not some story book hero. Velanna isn't some fair damsel. People don't fall in love in a moment, they fall in love with the moment.

The stairs feel like a mountain but somehow I climb them. I go back to Velanna's room and get dressed. I close the door and look at the door to my room. It's where I should have gone in the first place. I start towards it, and walk past Amell's door in the process.

No. No, I'm not that selfish. I know he and Anders are having problems. It wouldn't be fair to go to him.

I try to take another step, but my feet are lead. I knock on his door. It opens a few seconds later.

"Nathaniel," Amell says. He's still dressed. I doubt he was abed, but I can't imagine why he would still be awake. "Is everything alright?"

"No," I admit, and put on a rather pathetic smile. "I think I ruined things. Between me and Velanna. I ... don't know what to do. I'm sorry, I know shouldn't be bothering you with this-"

"It's fine," Amell steps out of his room and closes the door behind him. "Do you want to go downstairs and talk?"

"Yes," I say. "Thank you. I know it's late,"

"We're friends, Nathaniel," Amell gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze. I need it. I'm not Dalish. I don't know what it's like to have a clan. With how dysfunctional my life has been, I barely know what it's like to have a family. But I know what it's like to be a Warden. "I'm always here if you need me."

Chapter 5: Compassion

Summary:

"Alright, well... You stay safe, alright? And don't listen to any demons or anyone else's dreams. You're not a weak spirit. You shape the Fade with the best of them."

"Thank you, Anders." Compassion said. "I love you too."

"I didn't say that." Anders said.

"You thought it." Compassion said.

Notes:

This is a request for something from Compassion's perspective. I don't know how good I am at writing esoteric pieces, but hopefully this isn't too cheesy/hard to follow. Thank you for reading!

This chapter is set at no particular time in this story, but it is linked from Chapter 17 in Accursed Ones and told from Compassion's perspective.

Chapter Text

Sometime
Somewhere

The light is soft and all around and underneath. How hard it is to mimic the sun of the mortal world for his dreams, but Anders loves the sun. I pull the pieces from his mind and shape them back together, but I do it wrong. It is too hot, too cold, too inside out and upside down and I can never get it right. Everything else is a piece, but the sun is many pieces. It is light and it is warmth and it is freedom to him, but I have never seen it, and do not know how to shape it right.

I hope he does not mind.

The rest is easier. Warm crust, melting apple, a touch of cinnamon, like his mother used to make. She calls him to her with an old name, full of hurt. I make the name anew, whenever he pulls on the memory. 'Anders, time for dinner!' She says instead. The new name never hurt him.

I can't fix the old name. The hurt is too deep, tied too tight around his heart.

So much of him is hurt.

A Flame that burns but never warms. A Sword of Silver that knows no Mercy. Chains and dark and desperate, begging, pleading, hands are bleeding, banging on the walls, can't anyone hear me? Out. Out. Let me out!

I push the memory away. I don't want it. I don't know how to fix his pain.

Neither does he.

He hides it instead, under warm woolen sheets soaked with sweat. In tankards of honeyed mead. In apple pies and roast beef and all the other foods that come in shapes that never fit into a circle. In soft fur and low purrs. In love without ties because ties become chains and we will never be chained again.

I feel him in the Fade, and I think for a moment I am Love and not Compassion for the life he breathes in me. I run to him, but he is lost in dreams and not aware of me. I do not mind.

I am just happy he is here. The Veil sings in him. He burns so bright, so beautiful, and there is nothing that exists outside his song. The wisps that live within my demesne flow over him like water, obsessed, enthralled, enraptured. We love him. He makes us. I care not for any mortal Maker; he is mine.

Mine. My mage. My Anders. My everything.

The corruption is still there. I see it like a seed. It has its own song, a Call about it that frightens me. I know he has to answer it someday.

I weep whenever I remember.

He is dreaming of Amell again. They are sweet dreams, and I like to watch them.

Amell means so much him. There is nothing red eyes cannot see and strong hands cannot fix. Anders brings everything to him when it's broken and it comes back better, brighter, new.

I wish I had that power, but I aspire to Compassion. Amell is Command. Anders never knew to trust it before. Command has always been control and corruption and cages, but Amell does it right. He gives Anders a choice and sets him free and Anders loves choosing him because the choice is there.

In Anders' dreams, Amell gives silly orders. Picking flowers, stacking cups, climbing stairs. Anders follows all of them; he likes trusting him. Amell is unbowed, unbroken, unchained. Mages aren't what Amell is, but Amell is Amell anyway. It gives Anders hope, and sometimes fear.

I pull from the pieces of him. His eyes, a russet with red rings that make Anders think of blood and all the lies the Circle told him. His hair, and the way the sun catches in the wild raven locks, because the sun is there whenever Anders wants to see it. The smells that cling to him, blood and magic and sweat, and the way the combination is just Amell and Amell can do anything. His smile, so quiet and so full of secrets and Anders wants to know all of them.

Anders dreams of other things. I try to put the pieces of Amell back together, but there are so many. I let them go, and they scatter through my demesne, with thick socks and warm scarves and tunics in teal and clothes that Anders can have because Anders can have clothes now, and he doesn't have to wear the robes that mages always wear because the Circle gives him nothing else.

He still likes the robes, but he can like them because he likes them, and not because they're all he has. He has more things now: rings and bracelets and bangles and necklaces and earrings. Beautiful, worthwhile things that remind him he can be beautiful and worthwhile too. Things that people have because mages can be people too.

Anders loves people. He remembers their faces and I remember their souls when we heal them together. Some are dark and twisted and hate us and our magic but we heal them anyway because together we can show them that mages aren't dangerous. We can help. We can heal. We can make a difference, even if it's just one person, like the little girl we met in Denerim.

Anders dreams of her, and I make sure the wisps get the memory right. The little elf is playing tag, and she has short blonde hair like straw. She has bright blue eyes and they well with tears when she trips in front of Anders and skins her knee. Anders kneels next to her and asks if she wants to see a magic trick. She says yes.

He puts a hand over her knee, and makes up a silly word. He heals the cut and takes his hand away. The girl is delighted. She looks at him in awe and he palms a copper from his pocket and pretends to pull it out from behind her ear. He only has ten coppers on him, but it's worth it to see a smile and a laugh in place of tears. The girl runs off with her copper, and Anders runs away before she tells anyone she met a mage.

The little elf is what first makes him think he wants children, and what he remembers when he remembers what he is and why that can't ever be.

I push that part of the memory away, and Anders goes back to dreaming. I watch for a time, and eventually I sift through the wisps and memories and dreams to wake him. All it takes is a gentle pulse of magic, and he is aware of me and the Fade around him.

He looks at me, and I love that his eyes are like honey, so close to gold. So close to mine.

"Hey there, sweetheart," Anders says. "What's going on?"

I think it a bittersweet irony that I can collect Anders' memories and hold onto so few of my own, but I try. I remember him. His smile. His laugh. The way it feels when he puts an arm around me and pulls me against his side.

"I wanted you aware of me." I say.

"Is that all?" Anders asks, and he grins, "You're not hard to please, are you?"

I rest on his shoulder, and I can feel his affection for me when he holds me. I love him with all that I am.

"Do I help you?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" Anders asks.

"I know we heal others together, but do I help heal you?" I ask.

"I didn't know I was hurt," Anders says.

"You are." I say. I rest a hand on over his heart, and Anders stares at it. His thoughts move too fast for me to follow. He picks up my hand and kisses my finger tips, and I try my hardest to hold onto the memory.

"... Yeah," Anders says. "You help."

Chapter 6: I Need a Drink

Summary:

Amell looked at him for a long moment and Anders tried not to fidget under his stare. Amell still wore his helmet, but it made the scrutiny no less bearable. Anders wasn't a fan of helmets, especially full helms. Templars wore full helms, and in Anders' experience, the anonymity could lead men to do things that would make even monsters hesitate.

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 1 - Awakening and Chapter 2 - Nothing For It of Accursed Ones and is told from Amell's perspective.

Written for a request for the first two chapters told from Amell's perspective. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 17 Ferventis Morning
In the Dungeons of Vigil's Keep

I hate today.

"Mhairi, the door!" I yell over my shoulder, reaching out with telekinetic magic to grab hold of the table and force it against the far door of the small room we've taken refuge in.

I hear a slam and I assume Mhairi's followed through with my command, "Unbelievable!" Mhairi says from behind me, "The Keep has been completely overwhelmed!"

"The Wardens should be mounting a better defense," I agree.

If dragonscale does anything, it retains heat. I'm melting under my armor, and I unlatch my helmet to set it on the table. My hair falls into my face and I know I need to cut it, but it's been so hard to find the motivation to do anything these past six months. The Keep suits me. We're both falling apart.

I shove my hair out of my eyes and take a look at the survivor we've stumbled upon.

Blonde hair, cheeky smirk, honey eyes, a wiry figure I spent far too many years staring at from across the dining hall in the Circle, what feels like ages ago now. "Anders," His name slips out of me, unbidden.

Anders jumps and takes a startled step back. He doesn't recognize me. Why would he? We've never spoken. Not really.

I stumble over my recovery. I can feel the pull of Mhairi's blood, and I know she's injured. "You're a healer, aren't you?" I ask, like I don't already know.

"I-..." Anders stares at me, and his fearful gawking slowly gives way to a look of enlightenment, and he snaps his fingers, "That's it! I remember you from the Circle,"

I really hope he doesn't.

"The armor threw me off. Did you decide being a mage wasn't all it's cracked up to be?" Anders asks.

"Not exactly," I say. Dirth'ena ensalin, a voice that is and isn't mine supplies proudly. I shake it off, "Can you see to her?"

"Of course. Hey, I know what they've been saying about me back at the Circle, but this," Anders waves at the bodies of two dead templars, like I care, "Not my doing. You know how it is, templars catch apostate, darkspawn catch templars."

I fight back a smile. He's everything I remember. Witty and bold, brazen and free. I watch him heal Mhairi's leg, unable to help staring at his talented fingers and the way they work over my recruit's injuries. His hands hum with powerful magic and for one ridiculous moment I wish I was injured.

"This is awkward," Anders says, glancing at me, "But I don't remember your name."

"Amell," I say, wondering if he'll get it right this time.

Mhairi babbles out my full title and I feel an embarrassed flush creep up my neck. Anders hears the part about me being the Lord of Vigil's Keep and rolls his eyes, "Oh. Well, congratulations," He says sarcastically.

I fight back a laugh. I can just imagine his face if he heard my insane cackle. Anders grins at me and I feel like I'm sixteen all over again.

Mhairi and Anders talk for a time, and listening to him flirt with her helps me come to my senses. I'm not sixteen. This isn't the Circle. I am the Lord of Vigil's Keep, whether I like it or not, and I have a responsibility. I put my helmet back on, and Anders asks me to let him go, like I ever had any hold on him in the first place.

I promise to tell the templars who come searching for him that he's dead. Anders seems surprised by the offer, and why wouldn't he be? He doesn't know me, any more than I know him. Mhairi starts to lecture Anders, and I make up some nonsense about needing her help moving the table.

Anders wishes me luck. I take one last look at him. He's better as a memory. He's safer that way. I go back to fighting darkspawn, and hope I never see him again.

I hate today.

I see Anders again not an hour later. I'm in the middle of a choked fight when he comes running down the hall towards me. I grab him and throw him behind me, and loose a spell that boils the blood of the darkspawn pursuing him.

I listen to Anders explain he wants to help when the fight is over. I fight back a childish urge to scream at him. I don't need his help. I could drown this whole Keep in blood, and I could do it alone. Now that he's here I have to keep him close or I can't keep him safe, and I've never been able to keep a clear head when I have to protect people I care about.

Oghren elbows me and breaks my train of thought, chuckling. "Oh, he's a keeper. Let's make him dance."

Anders looks at me and fidgets nervously. I wonder if he's afraid of me.

He should be.

"Stay close," I say.

"Try and stop me," Anders says.

I take point and eventually we come across another of my recruits. He's gutted on the ground, and I wonder if I could have gotten here in time to save him if I hadn't been mooning over Anders. His name is Rowland. I make sure to say it out loud so I don't forget it. I'll write it in my journal later.

Rowland's last wish is to fight at my side. It's some consolation to me I can give it to him.

I slit his throat, pull a wisp across the Veil, and bind it to his corpse.

Mhairi reacts exactly how I expect her to: with horror and outrage. She calls me things I've been called before and I'll be called again.

I'm so tired of justifying myself. I know Rowland was a friend to her, and I force myself to respond to the accusations, but I don't apologize. I never will. I put my helmet back on and take point with what's left of Rowland at my side.

Anders falls into step beside me. "So... what kind of spirit is that?" He asks.

I must have heard him wrong. I stare at him and try to find the condemnation that should lie behind his eyes, but there is none. He just looks genuinely curious.

"Hello?" Anders says, "Anyone home? Is the Warden-Commander in?"

"I'm sorry," I say, "I thought I misheard you. I'm not used to that kind of reaction,"

Anders asks after my magic and the specifics of the spell, and I didn't think it was possible for me to be any more infatuated with him than I already was. When we reach the top of the Keep, Mhairi and Oghren take a break, and Anders and I go on alone.

We find the Seneschal at the mercy of darkspawn, and I don't have time to worry about how Anders will react to the rest of my magic. I make a casting cut in front of him and enslave the darkspawn holding the Seneschal. "You will not mention this," I say to him.

There it is. Anders shakes his head; the black of his pupils eat up the honey in his eyes, and the color drains out of his face. The fear is familiar to me. The fact that it's from Anders only stings a little. "Protect the seneschal when the fighting starts," I say, and hope he at least understands the darkspawn are more important right now.

"I'll try," Anders says nervously.

The fight erupts a short while later, and everyone comes out of it alive. Anders blurts out an offer to heal everyone, and I can't help the frustrated groan that slips out of me.

Only Oghren hears me. He gives me a nudge and whispers, "Least he's pretty, right?"

I press my fingers into my forehead as if warding off a headache and look down at him. I still have my helmet on, but Oghren chuckles away.

Mhairi and Varel are already accusing Anders of murdering his captors. I interrupt.

"I saw the wounds. They died to darkspawn." I lie. I never even looked at the templars. I couldn't care less if Anders killed them. They deserved it. "Which are still our concern at the moment."

It gets everyone back on track, and we agree to start searching for survivors. I make to follow Varel back inside.

"Commander," Anders calls, and I stop. We move apart from the rest and Anders fidgets nervously. "Thank you. I'm not used to people looking out for me. I-um... I hope you know I'll return the favor."

I take my helmet off and force myself to look at the man in front of me and not the memory. Anders looks hesitant, desperate, anxious, lost. My heart aches for him, and I want to say something reassuring, but I don't know whether he's afraid of my magic, of going back to the Circle, or of something else. I hold out my hand instead. Anders gives it a rapid shake like he's afraid I'll enslave him if he holds on too long.

I put my helmet back on to hide a rueful grin. I resigned myself to this kind of life years ago. I think of telling him to run, now, while we're still searching for survivors and cleaning out the last of the darkspawn, but I don't. He's a healer. It doesn't matter how I feel about him. I need him.

I ask him to stay to help with the wounded later, and he agrees. He asks for nothing in return. He probably thinks he deserves nothing. The templars didn't even feed him. Anders laughs about it, like it's nothing. Anger bubbles inside me, and I promise him three sovereigns and get him the biggest lunch I can carry.

Then the templar shows up. The sight of shackles on Anders' wrists makes me see red. I almost reach for Alistair, and force him to order the templar to back down. I know it wouldn't be hard. Alistair was never very strong-willed, until I pushed him to think for himself. I think of Barkspawn, and how much that backfired on me.

Alistair speaks up on his own. I had the spell half-formed, and I think for a moment Alistair is right to hate me. I conscript Anders instead, and for once Alistair agrees with me. The shackles come off.

The templar practically throws Anders at me. I catch him, and he smells like sweat and dirt and darkspawn blood. There's blood still stuck to his forehead and I want to brush it off. I wonder when the last time he had a bath was, or a hot meal, or a bed to sleep in. I trade a few words with Alistair before I drag Anders to the cellar to talk to him in private.

I give him three sovereigns and tell him to run. I don't want him anywhere near me. Anders is bright and beautiful and he deserves better than death at my hands. Even if he survives the Joining, I doubt he'll live long as a Warden. Every day he's with me is a day I'll have to look into his eyes and see the fear I see in everyone, and I don't know if I can live with that.

I think about the fantasy I fell for, broken now. The maleficar who would never submit to the Circle, who understands the need for blood magic and would never judge me for it. That's not Anders. Anders is something else, and Anders wants to stay.

I hate today.

Chapter 7: Not A Bad Thing

Summary:

"This world is nothing like I thought it would be. I used to scoff at demons' lust to cross the Veil. I pitied mortals, I did not envy them. When I was forced here against my will, I thought you mortals beyond my reach, beyond help, but I was wrong about this world. There is so much beauty here... and it coexists with such great darkness. It is so confusing."

Notes:

This chapter takes place after Chapter 40 - Justice for Naught of Accursed Ones and is told form Justice's perspective.

Written for a request for something from Justice's perspective. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 28 Umbralis Morning
Vigil's Keep: Warden's Barracks

It is difficult for me to tell mortals apart. Most are formless shadows, a strange combination of shape and color that is meaningless to me, but I try to learn the differences between them.

Things simply are in the Fade. I did not learn what was just and unjust. I knew. The dreams of mortals were shown to me in pieces, colored with motive and intent. It is not so here. Here these things are complicated, and I have to learn.

Learning is a strange concept. Anders tells me I can. I want to believe him. I want to be more. I started with our group. I learned their names. I learned their crimes.

Amell told me there was more to them than that. I did not understand at the time, but I do now. I wish I had learned before he left. I owe him an apology I can never give.

Sigrun is more than just a thief. She is a creature of compassion. Velanna is more than just a murderer. She is a victim of the injustices of her world. Nathaniel is more than just an assassin. He is a man of noble pursuits and honorable ideals. Oghren was beholden to more than sloth and liquor, he was a warrior of unspoken loyalty. Amell was more than just a maleficar, he was a protector.

I still wish for them to atone for their crimes, but it is deeper than a pursuit of justice for me now. I care.

It frightens me.

My feelings for Anders frighten me most of all.

He is beautiful. I noticed it when I first saw him in the Fade. There is a pull about him. His soul burns brighter than any mage I have ever encountered, and summons an inexplicable desire to be in his presence. It is what first provoked me to beg aid against the Baroness' evil, and it is even worse in the mortal world.

He brings the Fade into this world, and it is like home. Wisps and the breath of spirits linger on his spells, and they sing beautifully. He pulls magic through the Veil with a natural artistry and finesse that is singular to him.

Amell's magic was dark. Velanna's harsh. Anders' has a harmony to it. It is almost as attractive as the ring he gave me.

I told him of it once. He told me spirit healers pull spirits, but that he is no more knowledgeable of the reason than I. He claims it should not concern me, and that I can be in his presence whenever I wish.

He did not feel that way at first.

I do not know why he did not care for my presence initially. Anders told me it was no fault of mine. He claimed it a misjudgment on his part.

I am glad he does not hate me.

"You having breakfast with Aura again?" Anders asks me. He is winded, just back from his morning run with Nathaniel and Sigrun. I was wrong to think him apathetic. Exercise is hard for him, but he understands his obligation to the Wardens. Recently he even understands his obligation to his fellow mages.

I want to be capable of such change as well, but I do not know what I am to be if not a seeker of justice. Sometimes, I think it is not just the lives of mortals that fascinate me but also living as one.

"Yes," I say. "I believe our time together is a comfort to her."

"I'm sure it is, Justice." Anders slaps my shoulder. I have been told it is a gesture of camaraderie. The metal of my armor hurts his hand and he winces, shaking his palm. I do not know why he did not consider this possibility. "You know it's okay if it's a comfort to you too, right?" Anders asks.

"I... will consider this," I say. "Thank you."

"Yeah. Well. Good," Anders says, stripping out of his tunic. He is very thin. "I'm going to pass out, but I'll catch you later alright?"

"Alright." I say.

Anders collapses onto his bed. I think perhaps he is exaggerating his exhaustion. I leave the barracks and go to find Aura in the dining hall. She is at our table, and not hard for me to find. Perhaps it is because of Kristoff's memories, but Aura burns brightly for me.

I know all the things Kristoff loved about her. Her gentleness. Her compassion. The way she hides her mouth when she laughs. The sparkle in her eyes and the sunlight in her hair.

Sometimes it is hard to remember the love is not mine.

I sit across from her. Aura smiles. "Good morning," She says.

"Good morning, Aura," I say. "Are you well?"

"I am doing better." Aura says. "I think it helps to have work."

Anders spoke to the Seneschal for her. I know she was giving lodgings at the Vigil, and work as a maid. I do not know how long she intends to stay. Aura tells me she has not yet decided.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I ask.

I ask every day. So far Aura has always made a request of me. For me to recount a particular memory, or to give her a particular belonging of Kristoff's. Today she shakes her head.

"Do you not need to eat?" Aura asks, gesturing at the empty space before me. Strange. She has never concerned herself with me before.

"I do not." I say.

"Kristoff was always hungry," Aura says.

"The darkspawn Taint." I say. She nods.

Aura tells me stories I already have memories of, but I enjoy seeing them through her eyes. I share what I can. Things Kristoff never told her, either because he did not have the chance or because he was waiting for the right moment. I enjoy our time together, but it runs deeper than that.

I know it is not I Aura loves, nor even I who loves Aura. I have such longing to feel this emotion for myself, as myself. To love and be loved in turned. I ache for it with a passion. It confuses and frightens me.

I want to talk to Anders.

I bid Aura goodbye an hour later, and go to find him.

He is on the floor between his bunk and Sigrun's, playing dice with her and Velanna. Anders moved his bunk, after we returned from the Deep Roads. The bunk he has now puts him between Sigrun and Gerod.

I think this most noble.

"Hey sweetie," Sigrun says to me. "You want to play with us?"

"I would like that." I say.

I join them on the floor. Kristoff's body cracks, and it concerns me. Anders raises an eyebrow at the sound. I have nothing reassuring to say.

I play dice with them for a time. It is a strange game. As near as I can tell, there is no test of skill to it. It is a game of chance, and I do not understand the appeal. Anders has told me Sigrun wants me to be mortal, and that engaging in the games of mortals is a comfort to her that helps her to better understand and relate to me.

I do not mind.

Velanna abandons the game when Nathaniel enters the barracks, and Sigrun decides to stop so she can attend to other pursuits.

"Well now what?" Anders asks.

"May we talk?" I ask.

"Sure," Anders says, and he stands. He holds down a hand for me, and I take it without placing any weight on him. He is incapable of lifting me in my armor, and I suspect the offer is another symbol of camaraderie. "You know you can just ask whenever if you want to talk, you don't have to wait until I'm not doing anything."

"You are not often occupied." I say.

"Ouch." Anders snorts. He leads me to the chapel. I have come to think of it as our place. Anders takes a seat in one of the pews, resting his back against the arm of the pew and throwing his feet up on the bench. I sit beside him. "What's on your mind?"

"I have been thinking of Aura," I say. "I think often of the love she and Kristoff had for each other. Their love is beautiful, but I am not a part of it. I envy the feeling. I want to experience it on my own. Is this wrong of me?"

Anders exhales heavily, and rubs the back of his neck. "...No. No, you're not trying to take their love away, Justice. It's okay to want something like that. Everyone wants to be loved."

"Do you?" It occurs to me after I ask this might be too personal a question.

"It's kind of different for me, Justice." Anders says, and shifts. He looks away from me. I am not sure what the motion means.

"How?" I ask.

"Well... you know. I'm a mage." Anders says.

"I do not understand." I say.

"... It means-... I don't know what it means." Anders sighs, and pulls one leg up to his chest. "I thought it meant something, but now... At the Circle, mages don't fall in love. We just don't. It's not safe. I've seen it happen. Two apprentices fall in love, but one of them doesn't pass their Harrowing, and then they have to live the rest of their life looking into their lover's eyes after they've been made Tranquil.

"How do you live with that? You just don't. You can't. I've seen mages kill themselves over it. And even when you've both passed your Harrowing, what then? You can't have children. You have to keep it a secret, and when someone finds out, because someone always finds out, they send your lover to another Circle."

"This is a great injustice." I say. "But you are no longer a mage of the Circle."

"Yeah, I keep telling myself that," Anders says.

"Do you not want to be loved?" I ask.

Anders rubs a hand over his eyes and looks away from me again. I fear I have made him uncomfortable. He looks back to me and smiles, but there is pain in it. "I know you don't get this, but love always isn't a good thing, Justice. Sometimes... Sometimes love hurts."

Chapter 8: You Wanted More

Summary:

"He lets him go, free as a fart. If you're not careful, this guy is gonna go all Zevran on you, mark my words."

"You think so?" Amell wondered quietly, "He didn't seem the type, but maybe if I ask him nicely."

Notes:

This chapter takes place during the Blight, before the events of Accursed Ones, and is linked from Chapter 4 - Joining. It is told from Amell's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon 25 Frumentum Early Morning
Somewhere in the Hinterlands, In a Tent

I wake up to Zevran's mouth on my cock. The heated caress of his tongue destroys me, and the first sound from me is his name in a tortured gasp. Zevran chuckles, and it sends ripples of pleasure through me. He runs a hand up my chest, and I grab his wrist when it nears my mouth to suck on his fingers. Zevran takes his hand back, and pushes two fingers me now that I'm awake.

A sound half a gasp, half a scream escapes me. The talented caress of his fingers is dizzying, overwhelming. I can't think. I can barely breathe. I never know which ecstasy to focus on, and the combined sensations always leave me a shivering, sweating mess of screams and gasps. My orgasm hits me in a blissful, pulsing intensity and for a few breathless moments I belong to him.

I love waking up like this.

Zevran's mouth slides off my cock, and his fingers slide out of me. I'm empty and aching and I love the throb that settles in my cock. Zevran crawls over me and takes hold of my chin when he kisses me. He spits my cum into my mouth and I swallow obediently. The taste is salt and sex and it leaves my lips dripping wet. Zevran smirks.

"You make the most divine sounds, have I told you?" Zevran asks. I love his accent.

"You're the one making me make them," I say.

"I suppose I am at that," Zevran says. I'm still breathing hard, and Zevran must notice, because he runs his fingers down my chest. "Ah, but we already knew of my skill at lovemaking, no? Here it was you I was trying to compliment. I suppose I must try again."

"You'll have to give me a minute," I say.

Zevran laughs, and I reach up to trace over the pointed tip of one of his ears. "Tch!" Zevran catches my hand and bites it. "What is this? You leave my ears alone."

"I like your ears," I say.

"You like a lot of me, I suspect," Zevran says. "This is fortunate because I happen to like a lot of you."

I grin. Zevran kisses me again, and we end up having sex again. I'm tracing over a tattoo on his lower back when he speaks up. "I have been thinking," Zevran says.

"Does that not happen often?" I tease.

"Oh you are cruel," Zevran laughs, rolling over to kiss me again. I run my fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and he gives me a gentle bite on my bottom lip. "What I was thinking is that I have something I want you to have."

"For Satinalia?" I guess.

"For now." Zevran says. He rolls away from me and rummages through the pile of clothes he left at the foot of my bedroll. Eventually he comes back and presses what feels like a ring into my hand. I feel giddy and stupid, and have to battle back my imagination. I open my hand and look down. It's not a ring. It's an earring: a gold hoop with ruby studs.

"An earring?" I ask.

"Such keen eyes you have, my dear Warden," Zevran grins. "And such a lovely color, while I am thinking of compliments. Yes, an earring. I acquired it on my very first job for the Crows. A Rivaini merchant prince was wearing it and little else when I killed him."

"Do you always have sex with your marks before you kill them?" I ask.

"Not always," Zevran sniffs as if offended, "There was... ah... hm. In any case! I thought it was beautiful, and I took it to mark the occasion. I've kept it since, and I'd like you to have it. It seems fitting, no? You freed me from the Crows, and I no longer have need of such ties. I know your ears are not pierced, so... you know, feel free to sell it."

"You're giving me this just so I can sell it?" I ask. I can't help frowning a little.

"No!" Zevran sits up. I sit up with him. "I mean.. it's meant a lot to me, but so... so has what you've done for me. Please, just take it."

"But what does giving it to me mean?" I ask.

"It means I want you to have it," Zevran shakes a frustrated hand through his flaxen hair, "What do you want from me?"

"I want this to mean something," I say. "I want us to mean something."

"You-" Zevran glares at me. "You are a very frustrating man to deal with, do you know that? You shower me meaningless gifts all the time, but I cannot give you this? Fine!"

"They're not meaningless-" I protest.

"Maldición!" Zevran snatches the earring out of my hand. "You don't want the earring? You don't get the earring! Very simple!"

He starts gathering his clothes. I shouldn't have pushed him. He told me there wasn't any place for love in what we have, but I held onto hope anyway. "Zev-"

"Braska!" Zevran snaps at me, and storms out of my tent. He's still naked, and it's morning. I hear Alistair shriek.

"Why!?" Alistair screams. "Why? Just why!?"

I scramble out of my bedroll and shove the tent flaps out of the way. Alistair is sitting at the fire, making breakfast, and he pins me in place with a scowl and a pointed finger. "No! Don't you dare! You put pants on before you come out of there! I'm not seeing that again!"

I go back into my tent, and get dressed. I've already wasted enough time chasing Zevran without literally chasing him. I come out of my tent in my trousers and tunic, and grab a bowl of whatever horrible medley Alistair's made for breakfast today. Alistair frowns at me, but I'm not in the mood for him today.

I make my way over to Morrigan's tent. Barkspawn follows me. Morrigan's brushing her hair, raises an eyebrow at my approach. "I do not want to know," She warns me.

"I wasn't going to say," I say.

"Then sit," Morrigan says. I sit and eat in silence. Morrigan goes back to brushing her hair, and pins it up when she finishes. She makes a noise not quite a groan not quite a sigh. "Well?"

"Well?" I ask.

"What is the matter?" Morrigan asks.

"Aside from breakfast?" I ask.

Morrigan giggles. "Aside from that, yes. We all hear you and that rogue together. I know he must be quite something in bed. So what is the matter?"

"... I want more than that." I say.

"What? Like love?" Morrigan scoffs disdainfully. "Do not mistake me, I am glad you have found something to take your mind off our... situation, but love is fleeting. Love is meaningless. Survival and power are all that should matter to you. Have we not discussed this? Did you not agree with me?"

"I did." I say.

"And now?" Morrigan demands. "Tis sickening to watch you two together, tis true, but you must know you risk a great deal to be so close to him. There is nothing stopping him from killing you whenever he pleases, you know."

"I know," I say. It's obscenely arousing. I don't mention that.

"Then you are a fool," Morrigan says. "I-... we, cannot afford to lose you. Certainly not to him. You have brilliance beyond measure in all things except this. He makes a fool of you. I have seen it in the way you favor him in battle, in that fool grin of yours whenever he looks at you."

"I know that too," I sigh. I set my food down, and Barkspawn sniffs it. Even he doesn't want it. "I know he does. I know things are coming to a head here and I can't afford to be distracted like this."

"Precisely what I am saying," Morrigan says. "Do you remember what I told you of the mirror I stole from a noblewoman, the first time I left the Wilds?"

"Flemeth smashed it to teach you a lesson." I recall. I bought her a new mirror, a month ago. I've been holding onto it for Satinalia.

"Zevran is your mirror." Morrigan says.

It's a good analogy. I glance back at the campground, but Zevran isn't sitting with everyone else. I'm not sure where he went.

I know Morrigan's right. I shouldn't be with him. He's a risk, and he distracts me, and I should never have spared him. I'm one of two surviving Wardens in all of Ferelden, and an entire country is sitting on my shoulders. What I want shouldn't matter. I scratch at the scars on my arms and sigh.

"... and he does not understand you." Morrigan adds.

"We didn't fight about that this time." I say.

"Truly?" Morrian raises an eyebrow at me.

"Truly." I say. "... He wanted to give me an earring, and I wanted it to mean something."

Morrigan scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Fortunate you are, then. I have my own gift for you, and it is meaningful indeed."

"For Satinalia?" I guess.

"Do not be absurd," Morrigan gets up, and fetches a pouch from her tent. I think I'm the only one who cares about the up-coming holiday. Morrigan tosses the pouch to me and I catch it. "I said it was meaningful, did I not? Tis a ring, but tis more than a pretty bauble. Flemeth once gave it to me, because it allowed her to find me no matter where I went in case I was ever captured by hunters."

"That's useful." I say.

"Tis indeed," Morrigan smiles. I smile back. I've been fond of her since I met her. She understands necessity. "I disabled its power, of course, but recently I thought to change it. Now I will be able to find whoever wears it instead. It is clear you think naught of your safety, so I have decided tis for me to think of it instead. If you are ever captured by your templars, or what have you, the rest of us will be able to find you quickly."

"Thank you, Morrigan," I say, and put the ring on, "I appreciate it."

"You had better," Morrigan sniffs. "Tis powerful magic. I shall want it back someday, I imagine."

"Then I'll give it back." I say.

Morrigan hums. I check over my shoulder again. Zevran is finally sitting around the campfire with the others, eating breakfast. "Can I ask a favor?" I ask.

"You can ask," Morrigan says. "I will not promise anything."

"Could you pierce my ear?" I ask.

Morrigan groans. "You have not heard a word of what I have been saying, have you?"

"I heard you," I say. "And I agree with you. I'm just... not as strong as you are." It seems a better thing to say than explain all I've ever wanted is for someone to love and understand me. I know it's not a realistic thing for a maleficar to want.

"I think this is perhaps the most absurd thing I have ever heard you say," Morrigan huffs. "You are the most formidable mage I have ever met. If I thought you would ever consider it, I would ask for more than your friendship."

The offer sends a flush up my neck and I rub it away, grinning, "You know, Morrigan, sometimes I wish you were a man."

"I often think the same of you," Morrigan teases me.

I laugh. Morrigan fetches a needle, and it's a simple matter for her to pierce my ear. She gives it a flick when she's finished, and I thank her before joining the others around the campfire.

If Zevran notices my ear is pierced now, he doesn't say anything.

Chapter 9: Let's Get Undressed

Summary:

Amell was asleep in minutes. Anders stared at him, his thoughts in a fog. He ran his fingers through his hair, and Amell mumbled drowsily and nuzzled his shoulder. Anders traced over the scar above his eyebrow, and down his jaw, and Amell twitched again, "What are you doing?" Amell slurred, "Tickles, stop it."

 

"Heh, sorry," Anders said. He managed to keep quiet and keep his hands to himself for a few minutes, but his thoughts kept turning over and back to Amell asking him what he liked during sex, and the quiet awe that he finally had an answer.

Notes:

This chapter takes place after Chapter 29 of Accursed Ones and is told from Anders' perspective.

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 29 Parvulis Morning
Vigil's Keep

I don't know what's wrong with me. I've never been able to stand the thought of any man setting himself above me; I guess because it's always been a templar doing it. And even when it's a mage, odds are that mage bows to a templar somewhere. Authority really doesn't work for me, so I don't know why I find it so attractive. Or maybe I just find Amell attractive.

It took a long time for me to get here, but I trust him completely, Ferrenly and all my fears be damned. Maybe Justice is right and I've given into sloth, but it's a huge relief that Amell is there to take the weight off my shoulders. There's no more worrying about templars, no more worrying about where I'm going to get my next meal, no more worrying about anything, really.

I know he'll take care of everything, so I stopped worrying about everything. I know he's got all of it under control, and when I'm with him I don't even have to think. I just relax, and do what I'm told. I don't know when it happened, but I kind of like being told what to do, as long as it's him. Amell might not like ruling, but damned if he doesn't look good doing it.

He's got this aura about him. It's not magic, but it's close. He walks with his shoulders back and his chin up, and it's really not the way mages are supposed to walk. I've got a hunch in my shoulders and I keep my head down, but Amell walks like he could walk into the Black City and paint it gold if he wanted. And listening to him give orders?

That's not a voice he ever uses on me, but damned if I don't wish he did. It's stern and steady, with just a little bit of force behind it. Once or twice I've listened to him address the Vigil's soldiers, not because I care what he says, but because I really like the way he says it. It's hard to believe he's younger than I am. When he's not using his 'Commander' voice, he talks like he's a thousand years old, and he's sitting on the lore of ages.

He's not bad in bed either.

I snag him early today, and he doesn't argue when I drag him back to his quarters. He never argues, and I really love that. We're at the stairs when Private Kallian cuts us off. I fold my arms over my chest and pout like a mature adult, assuming I've lost him.

"Warden-Commander," Kallian bows.

"Report," Amell says. It's one word, and he's not even talking to me, but it gets my imagination going.

"I have the report for the salvage operation from Anselm's Reef, a materials requisition from Master Wade, and another from Master Glavonak for you." Kallian says, "And some letters," She hands Amell a stack of papers thicker than a tome, and I pout harder.

Amell flips through a few of them there at the base of the stairs, and stuffs them under his arm. "Thank you, Private. Dismissed." That's four words. He's still not talking to me, and my imagination is still going.

Amell turns back to me and notices my pout. "I'll worry about it later," He promises.

It's just what I want to hear. I grab his hand and drag him up to his quarters, and try to find my nerve along the way. Amell unlocks the door to his room, and lets us both inside.

"Did you ever play any games?" I ask while Amell puts his papers on his desk, "Back at the Circle?"

"Games?" Amell asks over his shoulder.

"You remember how it was there," I say. From what he's told me I know Amell found the Circle as much a prison as I did. "We had to find some way to make things bearable. Did you ever get into the naughty mage and the helpless recruit? The secret desire demon and the upstanding knight?"

"Oh those games," Amell says, the whisper of a grin on his lips. He heads to his liquor cabinet and makes us both a drink. "I thought you were talking about cards or dice."

"You're avoiding the question," I say. Amell avoids a lot of questions, in place of ever saying no to me. It's frustrating, especially when I don't notice until a few days later. I'd pick up on it more often if I was half as smart as he is.

"I might be," Amell says, and hands me a shot of something I know will taste amazing. I knock it back, and its got a nutty warmth too it, with a hint of spice. "Were you into 'games'?"

"I was into sex." I say. "If it took a game to get it I wasn't complaining. So come on, tell me."

"I never had much of a mind for role play." Amell says, and he shrugs. "I'd rather be with whoever I'm with, but if that's something you wanted to do with me, I wouldn't mind."

"Be sure to curb that enthusiasm first," I joke.

"I don't think you can talk," Amell muses, and pours me another shot. "I seem to recall you describing my appearance as 'whatever' the first time we had sex."

"I don't remember that." I lie, and knock it back again. "Couldn't have been me. I'm the most romantic man I know."

Amell holds out his hand for some reason. I take it, and Amell gives my hand a quick shake, "I'm Amell. We must not have met."

I laugh, and toy with the shot glance in my hand, "I walked right into that. Your sense of humor's definitely improved. I must be rubbing off on you."

"Every night," Amell jokes.

I laugh again, and wish the alcohol had done more for the knot in my stomach. Amell's always asking me what I want in bed. I've never been able to come up with anything until now.

"Did you have a game you wanted to play with me?" Amell asks, no shame about it. He never has any shame. Not with sex, not with magic, not with his feelings. And he thinks I'm brave.

I can't get the words out. I feel my face heat up, and wonder why this is suddenly so hard for me. I've never had a problem with sex before. But then, I never cared about who I was having sex with before, or what they thought of me.

Amell sets his own drink down and walks me back to the couch with his hands on my chest. He gives me a push, and we both sit down. "Whatever it is, I'll do it." Amell tells me, his voice low and full of promise. I love how agreeable he is, but it's not what's on my mind right now.

"Do you mind if I call you Commander?" I blurt. The words came out in such a jumbled rush I wonder if Amell even understood them.

He stares at me with that enigmatic face of his. His eyes are captivating, and I stare into them wondering what he's thinking. "Is that all or do you want me to call you something?" Amell asks.

"You're not going to ask why or anything?" I ask.

"Do you want me to?" Amell asks.

"I don't know," I say, "A little."

Amell runs a hand up the inside of my thigh without taking his eyes off me, "I thought you hated calling me Commander."

"I do. You know. When I have to," I shrug. It's not much of an explanation, but I'm not good at weighty. Amell never seems to mind.

"Anything else?" Amell asks, and kneels on the couch next to me. It makes him taller than me. I like it.

"No." I say.

"No...?" Amell drawls, and squeezes my leg. Maker, he's good at this.

"No, Commander." I say.

Somehow, I don't feel like an idiot for it. Amell shoves me back on the couch and crawls over me, and my heart pounds so hard it almost hurts.

"Take your shirt off," Amell orders in that voice he never uses on me.

I'm in such a hurry to obey I get stuck. Amell grabs my shirt when it tangles around my arms and tugs it the rest of the way off. I lean back on my elbows and watch Amell cool my burning skin with his tongue. I feel a pull from the Fade and his breath is hot and then cold and then hot again as he licks up my stomach to my chest.

"Maker," I moan. I had no idea how bad I wanted this, and I paw at Amell's neck and shoulders. I wish his shirt was off.

"No Maker, just me." Amell's teeth graze me and I suck in a sharp breath.

"Commander," I say instead, arching my hips up into him.

"Do you want something?" Amell asks, and tugs on my earring with his teeth.

"Fuck me," I beg.

"I thought I was the one giving orders," Amell mumbles, and pulls out my hair tie.

"Please fuck me, Commander," I plead, lips against his ear and hands at his shoulders.

Amell sits up, and straddles me. My cock presses up against his ass and even though it's not what I want right now it still makes me buck my hips into him. Amell takes his shirt off, and drops it on the floor beside us. I run my fingers through the dark hair on his chest, and my fingers spark with static and an unspoken offer.

Amell takes one of my hands and sets it on his thigh.

I send a low pulse of electricity through him, and Amell moans and shudders, pitching forward. Sweat breaks out along his shoulders and I run my fingers through it. Amell keeps his hold on my hand and sets it on my thigh. I can't help hesitating.

"Do it," Amell orders. I shock myself; I've never done it to myself before, not in front of anyone, and the jolt of pleasure that courses through me makes me whimper. Amell sweeps his hands up and down my chest, and his heated stare makes my hips buck again, "You're beautiful," Amell says and kisses me.

His tongue flicks over my lips and I part them so he can slide his tongue into my mouth. Amell's tongue dances over mine, and I bury my hands in his hair. I'm such a hypocrite, and I know it, and I don't care. Amell's hair is thick and soft and always disheveled, and I love tangling my fingers in it.

"Commander, please," I choke out.

"Take your pants off," Amell orders, and climbs off me so I can obey. I get my belt unbuckled in a mad scramble, and shove my trousers and smalls off in one frantic motion. Amell only has his belt off, "Lie on your back."

I do what he says, but I must not be where he wants me because Amell picks me up and moves me back so my shoulders are on the arm of the couch. He climbs back over me and plants one knee next to my hip, opens my mouth with his thumb. I lick the taste of salt off the tip of his thumb and Amell slides two fingers into my mouth.

I suck on them eagerly and Amell takes them from me after a few seconds. I feel his fingers press against my entrance and I can't help breathing fast, and when he pushes two fingers inside me I can't help moaning recklessly. Amell curls his fingers and strokes the bundle of nerves that makes me near sick and dizzy with pleasure, and I have to hold onto him to keep from shaking.

I'm shaking anyway. Amell leans down and pushes my hair back from my ear, "I'm going to do something for you and you're going to love it," Amell says.

I nod. I can't do anything else. The Fade pulls around him, and his fingers send a wave of warmth coursing me. It radiates in my cock, skips my stomach, and pulses through my shoulders, my hands, and my feet. Amell could be Maferath himself and I'd let him burn me if it meant it felt like this. "Fuck," I gasp.

The heat waves don't stop. I can't stop sweating; the back of my legs and my arms are slick with it, and I shake my head to get my hair out of my face. It doesn't work. The strands are soaked through and stuck to my forehead, "Fuck-fuck yes-don't stop."

Amell bites my shoulder. I dig my fingers into his back and arch against his teeth. "Amell," I whimper. Fuck my game. Fuck me.

"Are you going to cum?" Amell asks.

I moan into his shoulder and I hope it's answer enough. It must be, because Amell takes his fingers from me. I whine, confused and honestly a little angry. Amell climbs off me and takes off his trousers, and for a second I'm embarrassed. For a while I forgot there was anything more to him than his fingers.

Amell strokes himself for a few moments, and I hold my balls watching him just to keep feeling something. He climbs back over me, and straddles my chest, and I open my mouth without being told. Amell sets his cock on my lips and I make a hollow of my mouth to fuck him with. His taste is beyond arousing, it's heady and thick and him.

I grab his ass and love the way his muscles tense under my fingers. I'm not Amell; I have a gag reflex, but I don't mind it. Honestly, gagging turns me on a little, especially when it's on his cock. Amell minds, though. He squeezes my shoulder and says, "Don't choke."

I can't really argue like this. I moan instead, and Amell brushes a strand of damp hair off my forehead; an ice spell is on his finger tips, and it feels like bliss right now. I'm so hot I think he gave me a fever; I definitely feel faint enough.

Amell pushes me off and shifts back to lie between my legs. He kisses me, and I kiss back, and a heartbeat later and he's inside me. I think I scream. I'm not sure. His mouth swallows whatever sound I make. I have no idea how something can feel so wrong and so perfect at the same time. The way his cock leaves me stretched and full and filled is dizzying, overwhelming.

I cling to him; I have to. He makes me writhe and shake so much so I think I'd thrash without him to ground me. Amell never stops kissing me. I don't want him to. Amell tastes like whatever we were drinking, and it's a full flavor that leaves me feeling intoxicated, but sex with him always makes me feel that way. It's not long before I can't kiss back, and I just moan into his mouth.

Amell caresses up and down my chest, along my side, over my thigh. We're both sweating, and his touch is as soft and smooth as his tongue. The affection used to bother me, but I don't care anymore. I just love that he loves to please me until I can't take anymore. My every muscle tenses up, and my orgasm burns through me. I break from Amell to press my head into his shoulder while I ride out wave after wave of thick, mindless bliss.

I don't have any words. Just gasps. Amell grabs my hip, and drives into me with a fervor that finishes him. His hot seed adds a perfect glide to his last few thrusts; he's never cum inside me before. Not counting my mouth. I should tell him I like the way it feels, but I don't. I just wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him to my chest.

Amell doesn't pull out of me. I don't really want him to. He slides an arm around me, and kisses my shoulder. I bury my face in his hair and inhale; copper, warmth, sweat, sex, magic. Amell moves eventually, and rolls us over so I'm lying on his chest. It's colder without him on top of me, and I grab his shirt from the floor and throw it over my ass.

Amell exhales hard through his nose. It's not quite a laugh, and it frustrates me to no end. I know his laugh sounds insane. I don't care. But I don't tell him that.

"Thanks, Commander." I say instead.

Amell does his quiet almost-laugh again, and runs his fingers through my hair. It's gentle, and soothing, and I think I could fall asleep here even though the day's just started.

"Anytime."

Chapter 10: The Best That Dust Can Be

Summary:

"Mythal halani Sigrun dareth." Velanna whispered.

Notes:

This chapter takes place during the events of Chapter 42 - Bold and Brazen and Beautiful of Accursed Ones and is told from Sigrun's perspective.

Written for a request on Sigrun's final moments, when our heroes go into the city of Amaranthine without her. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 1 Cassus Afternoon
Outside the City of Amaranthine

Root after root tangles around Velanna, and forms a rapid nest that drags her underground. I don't need to look, but I do. She's there, at the gates to the city, kicking off the shoes she hates so much as she runs. Her magic gives life to a tree, and it fights the darkspawn with her when none of us will.

"Velanna!" Nathaniel screams, and there's so much anguish in it.

My legs give out on me, and I can't do anything but sob, "Sweetie, no."

"Garavel, burn it down." The Warden-Constable orders.

"Aye, Commander." The Vigil's Captain says.

They don't hesitate. The orders haven't changed.

"Maker forgive us for what we are about to do," The Constable of the City Guard says.

"No!" Nathaniel screams, and terror grips me like a vice. "No, damn you!" He makes a mad dash down the road after Velanna, and deserts us.

No. No no no.

"If any more of you so much as think of deserting-!" The Warden-Constable starts to warn us, but Anders is already running after Nathaniel, and Amell's dog runs with him.

"Nathaniel, wait for me!" Anders yells, and I can't even remember when he used to be the fearful one between us.

"Jacen!" The Warden-Constable points at Anders' back with her sword, and we all understand the order. Jacen notches an arrow and lets it fly. I cover my mouth to muffle a scream, but it flies wide and Anders keeps running, never looking back.

A blue light flares to my left, and I've never seen Justice so furious. The spirits burns through the cracks in his armor, and he draws back a hand, and for one petrifying moment I think he might attack the Warden-Constable. He runs after Anders instead, moving faster than any human, elf, or dwarf ever could. There's no point ordering Jacen to shoot him down.

"You can burn with the rest of the city!" The Warden-Constable yells after them, and it's Kal'Hirol all over again.

All my friends are fighting darkspawn. All my friends are going to die. And I'm too big a coward to die with them.

"Get up!" The Warden-Constable orders me. "All of you, take a defensive perimeter around the artillerymen."

The Warden-Constable turns to the Awakened darkspawn. "You. You will accompany us back to Vigil after we burn this city, and then you will lead us to this 'Mother's' lair. Do you understand me?"

"The Messenger is understanding," The darkspawn says in its guttural voice.

I still haven't gotten up off the ground. I try, but I can't move. I can't do anything but stare at the dirt, and think that I'm just like it. I'm going to die of old age, in my bed, and when I do they'll bury me in the dirt and I'll never see the Stone because I don't deserve it.

A gauntlet appears in front of my face. I follow the arm and look up into Stroud's sympathetic face. I can barely see him past my tears. "Here, Sister." He says. I force myself to take his hand and he pulls me to my feet. "You've family yet." He says, too soft for the Warden-Constable to hear.

I suck in a rickety breath. My heart is in my stomach, and it hurts. Ancestors it hurts. My jaw quivers and there are so many tears I can't swallow back. I follow Stroud to my place in the defensive perimeter around the artillerymen. The darkspawn are still swarming the fields outside the city. The archers and artillerymen will need someone to defend them while they burn my friends alive.

Amell would be so disappointed in me.

"Can you fight, Sister?" Stroud asks gently. His concern should mean something to me, but it doesn't. All I can think is that he's out of place in our perimeter, standing too close to me and too far from Gerod so he can talk to me.

I nod. I couldn't talk if I tried.

Behind me, I hear some of the archers talking as they unpack and string their bows. "We shouldn't be doing this." One says quietly.

"Orders are orders." Says the other.

"Orders from the Constable." The first says. "Not the Commander. Warden Anders was his lover. What do you think he's going to do to all of us when he gets back and finds out we killed him?"

"Orders are orders." The second says again.

"Notch!" The Vigil's Captain yells.

The soldiers tie tows around their arrows and soak them in pitch. We don't have any mages left. Two soldiers strike flints and light torches, and run through the ranks lighting arrows.

"How many people you think are still alive in there?" The first soldier asks.

"Orders are orders." Says the second.

"Fire!" Yells the Vigil's Captain. The arrows loose. I watch them soar through the sky, and blacken it for a moment, and then fall down over the city's walls. I choke on a sob. I picture one hitting Anders in the back.

I promised I'd stand with him. I looked him in the eyes and said I'd die with him if anything ever happened. Now I'm just the reason he's going to die, if he's not dead already.

"Notch!" The Vigil's Captain yells.

Amell would be so disappointed in me.

"Fire!" The Vigil's Captain yells.

The arrows sail through the sky again. I watch them, and picture another hitting Velanna in the neck. I picture her hand coming up to clutch at the shaft in her neck, I picture Anders trying to heal her, I picture Nathaniel screaming.

"Notch!" The Vigil's Captain yells.

"Hold!" The Warden-Constable yells. "Darkspawn incoming!"

Are they? I wasn't paying attention. I look out at the field, and see the shrieks running towards us. I don't feel anything. None of my usual fear or anxiety or excitement. I draw my axes, and my body makes the motions for me. I'm not thinking of the battle. I'm thinking of how hard I fought to keep Varlan alive when the darkspawn came for us in Kal'Hirol.

I'm not fighting very hard now.

My friends deserve better. They mean every bit as much to me as Varlan did. I think of Nathaniel, and all the time we spent together, playing cards, exercising, working on traps and poisons for our missions. I think of Velanna, and the day she apologized for snapping at me, and told me she was just upset because she started thinking of me as a sister, and it made Seranni hurt more.

"Notch!" The Vigil's Captain yells. I guess the wave of darkspawn is over.

I think of Justice and how bad he was at playing dice or cards, but how he tried anyway just for me. I think of all his silly questions and how he trusted me to answer them, as if I didn't just learn how to read two years ago. I think of Anders, and the day he told me about his Fear demon, and I asked him if that meant he couldn't feel fear anymore. He laughed, and said he wished it worked liked that.

"Fire!" The Vigil's Captain yells.

Orders are orders.

"Notch!" The Vigil's Captain yells.

I remember Varlan, and how he taught me to read. A noble, wasting time on a duster. I think of how he used to tell me the caste system was flawed, and that I had just as much worth as anyone else. I remember the last time I ever spoke to Amell. He was blind, but when he took my hands it was like he could see me.

"Fire!" The Vigil's Captain yells.

"I left standing orders with Dworkin," Amell had told me, "The first lyrium bombs are yours. I've never broken a promise before, Sigrun, but I think we both know I can't keep this one. I talked to Dworkin. He told me it will be painless if it comes to it."

"What about you?" I'd asked. "Will it hurt? When a demon possesses you?"

He hadn't answered.

"Are you scared?" I'd asked.

"No." Amell had said.

"Why not?" I'd asked.

I wanted to know. I'm such a coward. I talk about throwing myself at death, but every time I think there's a chance it will take me, I'm petrified. I know I'm unworthy. Even if I was buried in the Stone, I know it would reject me. I'd become part of the gangue, and the Legion would have to carve me straight back out, or I'd become a rock wraith. I know there's no rest for me. My death is going to be as meaningless as my life.

"I've done enough." Amell had said.

I haven't done anything.

I'm a thief. I'm a Carta thug. They call us dusters for a reason. We're no better than dust. No better than dirt. If we're downtrodden we deserve it.

I think of Oghren and the day he left with Amell. He'd wanted to talk, and I thought it was just going to be another dirty joke.

"Hey there, saucy lady," Oghren had said. It hadn't been a good start, and I'd been in a bad mood already.

"What do you want, Oghren?" I'd snapped at him. "If you're just going to be obscene, go away."

"Hey, I can be serious," Oghren had said. "I know you women folk are all preoccupied with feelings and shit, and I just wanted to tell you I mean it, with all the talk. I like ya."

"... That's it?" I'd asked.

"That's it." Oghren had said, and then he'd left.

I think of Nathaniel, and all the times he called me a noble warrior. I think of Velanna, and all the times she told me I don't have to prove myself to anyone. I think of Justice, and how he told me I was an example of all that's good in the mortal in world. I think of Anders, and how he told me I'm perfect just the way I am.

I think of how I let them down.

"Load the trebuchets!" The Vigil's Captain yells.

I hadn't even noticed they set them up, but they're there. Ballistas and trebuchets and all manner of siege equipment, lined up alongside the road to Amaranthine, ready to burn down the city and all the innocent people inside.

All of my friends.

I leave my spot in the perimeter. I walk down the road and I hear the Warden-Constable yelling at me to get back in formation. I take a bomb off my belt, and all the soldiers scatter. That's good. I don't want to hurt anyone.

I throw the bomb into the trebuchets and ballista set up to the right of the road. It works just like Dworkin said it would. The explosion is cataclysmic. There isn't even a trebuchet left when the flames die down. I don't think it will hurt.

I walk to the other side of the road. The Warden-Constable is still yelling. I think she's ordering to Jacen to shoot me. I look at the old Dalish, and he looks at me. His eyes flick to the city, and I know he won't shoot.

No one wanted this.

I'm not afraid.

I'm a Legionnaire.

And that's the best that dust can be.

Chapter 11: Silver Sword of Mercy

Summary:

"You still think this is a game," Rolan noted bemusedly. "You stand accused of consorting with demons. If you cannot leave the binding circle, you will be executed, and your fellow maleficar will be made Tranquil for harboring an abomination. If you can step out from the binding circle beneath you, you will be released. We will return your things, and never speak of this again,"

Notes:

This chapter takes place throughout several chapters of Accursed Ones, but is linked from Chapter 46 - Champions of the Just. It is told from Rolan's perspective.

Written with inspiration from Mikkeneko on abominations and their forms. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 16 Parvulis Morning
Denerim: Templar Compound

"We're losing, Rolan," Commander Tavish mutters, wiping at his nose as he always does when he gives a speech. It will be red by the time he finishes.

"Yes, Ser." I say, because it's all he wants to hear. The lyrium is getting to him lately. They say death comes for us all, but a templar's calling is higher. The Maker takes our minds before our lives.

"We're losing to maleficarum!" Tavish snarls, pinching his nostrils shut. "I had to recall the men from Amaranthine. If I left them there, he'd break their minds. We'll need a March to take the arling back."

"Yes, Ser." I say.

"It's that damn Collective." Tavish mutters, pacing. "I burned them out of the capitol and they all ran north to be with that... that..."

"Warden, Ser?" I supply.

"Abomination!" Tavish snaps.

That sounds overzealous to me. I don't doubt the Warden Commander is a maleficar, but the rumors of him being ten feet tall with lightning shooting from his eyes are a little exaggerated.

"And now with the Starkhaven Circle in flames!?" Tavish continues, wiping at his nose as if he's trying to flatten it against his face. It's a bright pink now. "Maker knows how many apostates and maleficarum we have coming in from across the Waking Sea, while that man gives them refuge in the city! We're losing, Rolan."

"Yes, Ser." I say.

"I feel like I'm the only one who sees what's happening here." Tavish says angrily. "Putting a mage in charge of an entire arling!? If this keeps up Ferelden will be the next Tevinter."

"Yes, Ser." I say.

"I had to contact the Crows," Tavish continues, sniffing and pinching his nose again. "We need the Wardens out of Amaranthine. Bann Esmerelle understands."

"Yes, Ser." I say.

"Greagoir doesn't understand," Tavish says, "He's too soft. You've heard the rumors about him. How he favors the mages. How he shared his bed with one."

"Yes, Ser." I say, though I personally think anything between Knight-Commander Greagoir and Senior Enchanter Wynne is pure speculation.

"He can't know about this. And we can't trust Ser Borris and his men." Tavish resumes pacing, "I gave them simple, explicit instructions. Apprehend the apostate. And they come back without him? And somehow his phylactery no longer works!? The Warden-Commander broke their minds. I know it."

"Yes, Ser," I say.

Commander Tavish finally stops pacing and smacking at his nose. It's bright red, just as I knew it would be. Tavish puts a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Rolan. I know Ser Rylock was important to you,"

"Thank you, Ser." I say.

There's no real point in explaining that Rylock hasn't been important to me for years. She was decent company and a decent lover, but that was before they assigned her to Anders. Granted, an apostate who spends the entire time he's in shackles belting out 'King Weylan the Eighth I Am' at the top of his lungs would drive anyone mad, but Rylock was obsessed.

Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to be the most important man in my woman's life. Rylock never shed a tear for me when I left her. She had Anders.

"We'll get justice someday," Tavish continues. "For Rylock, for Biff, for every Brother that maleficar took from us."

"Maleficar, Ser?" I ask. I can't help it. We all knew about Anders. He was undeniably annoying, but no real threat. I can't picture him as a maleficar. The man was a waif. A paper cut would probably bleed him dry.

Then again, I only saw him once or twice after his year in solitary. It's possible he's gained a little weight since then, but a maleficar? I'm more inclined to believe the Warden-Commander is to blame for the deaths of the templars who came after Anders, but a mage without a phylactery can't go unchecked.

"Are you having doubts, Rolan?" Tavish demands.

"No, Ser." I say quickly. "I was simply unaware." 

"We can't afford that, Rolan." Tavish warns me, tapping the side of his beet-red nose. "These maleficarum are everywhere. We have to be aware. We have to be vigilant."

"Yes, Ser," I say.

"The Crows will pull through." Tavish continues. "The so called 'Hero of Ferelden' won't stand in our way much longer. When he's gone, Bann Esmerelle tells me Rendon Howe's son will replace him. He's a pious man. I have no doubt he'll help us reclaim the arling."

"Yes, Ser." I say.

"As soon as the Hero of Ferelden is dead, you'll go to Vigil's Keep and join the Wardens," Tavish orders. "We need someone on the inside, to protect the people from these maleficarum the Wardens are harboring. Someone incorruptible. I can't think of anyone better suited."

"Thank you, Ser," I smile for the praise. I know I deserve it. I have three Harrowings, four apostates, and seven maleficarum to my name. By the Maker's grace, I've never fallen prey to blood magic. I sincerely doubt Anders of all people will be the one to change that.

The Crows don't kill the Warden Commander, but they do leave him so grievously wounded he has to abandon the post. For some reason, he leaves it to the Orlesian Wardens in place of Nathaniel Howe, but the dwarf who takes the post of Warden Constable is all too eager to recruit a templar when I come forward.

To my surprise, he also claims Anders for a maleficar, and begs me to watch him and a Dalish woman who was a companion of the late Commander. The dwarf admits to knowing nothing of magic, but at least in his ignorance he still understands the dangers of it. The third and final mage is no maleficar. His name is Eylon, and he is elated to have a templar in the ranks.

It's certainly refreshing to speak to a mage of some sense. Eylon is Dalish, or he was, and he confesses he's never been Harrowed. He mentions being relieved to have a templar near to handle him if he becomes an abomination, and proves a fast friend.

The Joining feels like the Maker has forsaken me.

I survive it, and it doesn't surprise me. I know it had to have been blood magic, and I refuse to let myself be felled by such evil. There is another dwarf at the Vigil, a young woman who calls herself Sigrun, and for the first few days she helps me adjust and proves a rather amicable companion.

That is until Anders confirms what everyone suspects of him, and outs himself for a maleficar in front of us all. He goes so far as to use blood magic on a Brother, and I'm reminded of Tavish's many lectures. Mages aren't people. They can't be trusted and they can't be befriended. I feel guilty for thinking Anders as a maleficar was just another of Tavish's delusions.

I should have listened to him. Anders is in his trousers, scrawny and disheveled with sleep. He doesn't look like the other maleficarum I've faced. For some reason, all I can think of is the annoying apostate who skipped through the halls winking at every other skirt. Annoying. Irritating. Irresponsible. Downright dim-witted, but not dangerous.

I don't smite him. I tell him to let Gerod go instead. Eventually he does. Gerod confesses to quite possibly one of the most monstrous crimes I can imagine, but if I can tolerate Anders I can tolerate him.

I spend some time with him after Eram dies, and Leonie has him castrated. Gerod doesn't seem to want to go to a Revered Mother for his crimes, but a templar he can talk to. He knows he's a monster. It's better than nothing. I recite a few verses for him whenever we talk, but he still revolts me. I keep it to myself, for the most part. The Maker can forgive him. I don't think I can.

Leonie is an impressive woman, for an Orlesian. When a Crow assassin comes for her, I send a hasty letter to Commander Tavish to call them off. He tries, but Bann Esmerelle is no longer with us. She still wants the Wardens gone, no matter their leader. I spend a great deal of time at Leonie's side after that, keeping an eye out. She executes a few of Bann Esmerelle's conspirators, but until the Bann is gone she'll never be safe. Telling her what I know would mean incriminating Tavish, and I won't betray him no matter how delusional he gets.

Leonie reminds me of Rylock, before she became obsessed with Anders. Strong and powerful with an unwavering resolve and commitment to duty. I would hate for her to die because of my Commander's reckless decision to ally with the Bann, but perhaps it's more than that. Leonie catches me staring before I do, and summons me to her quarters for a lecture on fraternization. I apologize and promise to watch myself, and assume that's the end of it.

It is, but before I go Leonie mentions she's flattered.

I spend more than a few nights thinking of her after that.

Amaranthine is a disaster. It takes watching the five of the late Warden-Commander's Wardens desert and destroy the siege equipment for me to realize just how bold they've all become, especially Anders. He was all talk in the Circle. He wasn't dangerous. He is now.

Leonie has a change of heart, after the dwarf kills herself, and leaves me behind with Constable Aidan in case Amell's Wardens manage to save the city. I sincerely doubt that will happen. It seems far more likely to me Anders and Velanna will give themselves to demons and slaughter the whole city, darkspawn and civilians alike.

Then it will be damage control for me and all my fellow templars as we chase two abominations through the arling. I'm not looking forward to it, but I wait with Aidan. We lose quite a few people, but we manage to hold out in the farmhouse while the darkspawn siege the city.

Come the next morning, I head into the city with a few volunteers to find out if there are any survivors. We find a hold out at the Chantry, Nathaniel and Velanna among them. Anders and Justice are gone, and it only takes a handful of accounts from the survivors for me to know exactly what happened.

We send for the rest of the refugees and soldiers outside the city, and I help the guards set up a barricade. Constable Aidan takes charge and gathers pitch and oil so we can burn out the darkspawn if they return, which they do. I hold the front line with the rest of the warriors.

It's a hard fight. I don't doubt an abomination made it easier for the survivors on the first night. I also don't doubt none of them realize how lucky they are the monster decided to keep chasing darkspawn, and didn't turn around and kill every last man, woman, and child in the Chantry.

I'm not looking forward to hunting an abomination. I've never faced one before. I've never let it come to that before. It shouldn't have come to it here. Anders was always stubborn and stupid. I don't know whether or not I wish I would have killed him when I had the chance. On the one hand, he did save the city. On the other, he could be burning down another right now for all I know.

Maker, what a mess.

We'll have to follow the ruin Anders' leaves in his wake to find him, without a phylactery. I hate the thought. I'm helping with the wounded and imagining how many more there will be when Anders is through, when I hear word that the 'mage who stopped the horde' is back. I draw my sword and run out into the Chantry courtyard in time to see a perfectly normal looking man walking with Nathaniel and Velanna to the Crown and Lion.

What?

How?

... Was I wrong?

Anders eventually heads up to the Chantry. He looks perfectly normal. I can't believe it. I confront him about it, but he gives me no answers. The blow he deals makes me think he must be an abomination to have found such sudden strength in his wiry frame, but before me stands a man.

What am I dealing with here?

I enlist Ser Rylien's aid to help me find out. She's reluctant, at first, considering how invaluable Anders has been healing the sick and the wounded, but I convince her. She understands the risk of letting an abomination go free, and she understands magic. Anders should not have been able to save this city on his own.

I talk to Leonie about my suspicions and request leave to go to Denerim and enlist aid from more templars. Leonie does more than agree; she tells me she witnessed Anders' eyes glow, and his skin light on fire, not an hour ago. I don't know what to make of it. Abominations are misshapen, monstrous creatures.

When demons wear a mortal's skin, they siphon a mage's innate potential to heal, whether the mage is a healer or not, and attempt to reshape themselves into forms that are more familiar to them. Only the strongest of them are capable of accepting the transition and retaining the mage's original form, like when Pride took Uldred.

Is 'Justice' that powerful?

I decide to bring extra templars. I stand to leave and Leonie calls me back.

"Rolan, I have a question of a personal nature." Leonie says. "Sit."

Curious. I take a seat across from her, and keep my expression guarded. I can't imagine what she wants to ask me. I wonder if she knows about the Crows.

"I will need the influence of a Howe in the aftermath of this war. Nathaniel has made it clear I will not have it unless I change my stance on his relationship with Velanna, but I will not make exceptions for anyone. If the rules change, they change for everyone." Leonie says. "If that happens, are you still interested?"

There's no nonsense to her. No ridiculous jokes. No coquettish foolery. She just asks, shameless and certain, her muscular arms folded over her chest, her eyes an icy blue and impatient for an answer.

She really is quite something.

"I absolutely am." I say.

"You're dismissed, then," Leonie says.

I might have a bit of a spring in my step when I go to find Ser Rylien for our trip to Denerim. I don't hope for anything, but it would certainly be nice. It's been too long since I've been with anyone. I save the thought for later, and Rylien and I make the trip to Denerim to speak to Commander Tavish. He promises me as many men as I wish, with such a broad grin on his face I know he's ecstatic to finally be making progress in Amaranthine.

I bring ten templars in total, myself and Rylien included. I've never fought an abomination before, and to be honest I don't know what to expect. I know their rampages can cause enough devastation to kill hundreds of people, but that's assuming they stick to farmlands, where there are no soldiers to bring them down.

The eight templars I've recruited agree to dress down as refugees. I know if we startle or provoke Anders before we're prepared, he'll be a risk to the Vigil. We need to wait to catch him off guard and corner him so he's not a threat to anyone. I doubt it will be difficult. If the demon within him has not yet fully taken hold, and there is anything of Anders left, he is bound to do something stupid.

When he does, Velanna and Nathaniel will doubtless still be with him. Velanna might have turned to demons as well for all I know, but Leonie needs Nathaniel. I enlist Cera and Eylon, with the intent that the two of them can render Nathaniel and Velanna unconscious with their magic, and we won't have to fight them. Both of the mages agree without much convincing; neither of them bore Anders any love.

Our chance comes, after near a week of waiting. Anders and his friends sneak down to the cellars in the middle of the night, no doubt for some unholy ritual of blood magic or demon summoning. You can never be too certain with maleficarum.

My templars suit up, along with some of the Vigil's soldiers Leonie leant me for the task. Men and women who have never been injured, and won't feel indebted to Anders for healing them.

"You are about to face a creature of the most powerful magic known to man." I tell them. "You must not hesitate, and you must show no fear. When the demon shows itself, strike, and know that the man he once was is long gone."

A murmur of agreement ripples through everyone. Ser Rylien looks nervous. "What if we are wrong?" She asks.

"Then nothing happens, but do not count on it." I say. "This is our sacred duty. We are holy warriors, sworn to protect the world from the dangers of magic, and Anders is a danger now. Would you risk letting an abomination loose on the Vigil? On Amaranthine? On the world?"

"No." Rylien admits, but she sounds reluctant.

"Take heart, Sister." I say. "Blessed are the peacekeepers."

Swords draw from their scabbards, and over a dozen voices chorus me.

"Champions of the just."

Chapter 12: See No Evil

Summary:

"Why not?" Anders asked. "Just put your hands on me. We've had sex in the dark before. Just pretend it's a blindfold or something."

"Pretend it's a blindfold," Amell snorted.

"You've tied me up before," Anders reminded him, "Why can't I blindfold you?"

"... I guess you can." Amell allotted, mapping over Anders with his hands.

Notes:

This chapter takes place following Chapter 34 - Spirits and Demons of Accursed Ones and is told from Amell's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 13 Frumentum Evening
Vigil's Keep Warden Commander's Quarters

I've never prayed before.

Not once, in the twenty-one years of my life, have I gotten down on my knees and prayed to an absent god. I don't call on Him when I'm angry. I don't invoke Him in the throes of passion. I've only called on Him once, when Anders stood over me with scalpel in hand, my father's hand on his shoulder. The tether of blood magic never broke, and when Anders slid the scalpel into my eye-socket, for the first time in my life I thought 'Maker, make it stop.'

He didn't.

The Maker has no place in my life, and He'll have no place in my death. Oghren understands. Anders not so much.

I can hear him going through my liquor cabinet. The bottles clink and thud as he picks up each one and reads the vintage aloud. I assume it's for my benefit. I've heard Anders mumble to himself before, but it's always a joke of some sort he's testing on himself before he tells someone else.

He makes himself laugh a lot. I love that about him. My sense of humor is atrocious. I once cracked a bad joke about the Taint and Morrigan didn't speak to me for a week. I love jokes anyway, and I try to surround myself with people who make them. Anders is witty and whimsical, and a grin from him used to be enough to win a hard exhale or two from me.

That only works if I can see it.

"What's this?" Anders asks.

"Is it bigger than a bread box?" I ask.

Anders laughs, and asks, "Garbolg's Blackcounty Reserve? Is this one any good?"

"Fantastic," I say. "It's a forty year old whiskey, brewed with fire crystals."

"That sounds safe." Anders jokes. "You want to blow it open or are you saving it for something special?"

"Nothing special," I lie. I'll never see her again anyway.

Because of the blind thing.

I'm hilarious.

"Alright, no fire spells," Anders warns me. I hear him uncork the bottle, set two glasses down, and pour. There's silence, and then a hand on my shoulder. I wish he was wearing shoes. I can't hear him moving around my room when he's in his socks.

He takes my hand and presses a cold glass into it. I feel the couch shift when he sits beside me, and then shift again when he scoots closer so our thighs are touching. Anders puts an arm around my shoulders, and gives me a guiding tug that leaves me with my head on his shoulder.

Anders is warm, and he smells like sun-kissed grass and elfroot, with a hint of soap and cedar on his clothes. I wonder how much of this is real, how much of it is guilt, and how much of it is him trying to convince me to stay. I press the glass to my lips, find my mouth, and knock it back. It helps me not wonder so much.

"You want to get out of here?" Anders offers.

"Get out of here?" I ask, cradling the empty glass in my hands. I wish Oghren were here. He would have refilled it by now.

"Yeah," Anders says. "You've been locked up in this room for days. Isn't it getting to you?"

"The Vigil can't know about this, Anders." I say.

"I know, but it's really late in the evening," Anders says. "We could wait an hour or two for the Vigil to sleep and, I don't know, go for a walk or something. Get you out of this room."

"I thought you liked my room," I say.

"I do," Anders takes the bait and latches onto it. "I love it up here. You've got the whole place-..."

Anders stops, and pinches my neck. It comes as a surprise and I wince.

"Stop that," Anders huffs. "Don't change the topic. It can't be good for you to be entombed up here, and hey, it can't be good for Barkspawn either."

Cheeky bastard, tugging at my heart strings like that. I sigh and lean my head back on his shoulder. "Where did you want to take me?"

"Anywhere," Anders says eagerly. "We could sit in the chapel for a bit, or get some fresh air in the courtyard. If you're really feeling up to it we could sneak out to the Hafter, go for a swim. It's not that long a walk from the Vigil."

"A walk or a swim sounds fine," I say. Not the chapel. Never the chapel.

"Just like that?" Anders asks. I feel him shift on the couch, but I don't know what that means.

"Just like that." I say.

I feel a warm hand with long fingers press against my cheek, and a second later I feel Anders lips press against mine. He changed the way he kisses me, after the incident. He's softer now, and leads with a closed lipped kiss on my bottom lip to get my lips to part. His tongue slides over mine and he runs his thumb over the short beard on my jaw.

"Thank you," Anders says, and the warmth of his breath spills over my lips. He tastes even better than he smells. "For trying."

I don't know that I am, but at least he's happy. The couch shifts again, and a second later Anders' weight is in my lap. A closed mouthed sound of surprise and amusement escapes me. "I guess you did say in a few hours," I say.

I push my empty glass into Anders' chest and he takes it from me. I hear a soft clink that must be him putting it on the low table. "Cutting it close, I know," Anders jokes.

I find his thighs and run my hands over them. I could never pick a favorite part of him, but I love his legs. There's a fair amount of muscles in them, enough to be firm without being hard. The way his thighs tense when I hold his hips is one of the most arousing things I've ever seen... Or it was when I could see.

Anders runs his fingers through my beard; I like the scratch of his nails on my jaw. "So how do I look with a beard?" I ask.

"Marvelous, obviously," Anders says, his hands moving from my jaw down to my waist without ever leaving my body. "I styled it, remember?"

"There is that," I say, sliding my hands up to his hips. I rock my hips up and push him down to meet me, and Anders grinds eagerly back and forth on my cock.

I never thought he'd want me to fuck him, but he hasn't wanted anything else since we made love in the Blackmarsh. Even now that I'm blind and inept and infirm, he still wants me on top of him. It's hard to feel attractive as an invalid, but Anders almost makes me forget what happened to me.

I try to imagine the room is just dark.

Anders pulls my doublet out of my trousers, and I hear the buttons snapping as he undoes it. I tug his tunic out of his trousers, and slide my hands beneath it to run my fingers up his spine. Anders hums and arches forward, and I can't help grinning. He always says he doesn't have any preferences in bed, but I finally think I know him. Anders is like a cat: touch his spine or his ears and he melts.

Our tunics come off, and I hear the whip of fabric snapping as Anders throws them somewhere. His lips come back to me, and linger for a moment on mine before they fall to my neck. Anders' tongue flicks over my collarbone, and works its way down to my chest.

"Do you want anything special?" I ask, thinking of the handful of times Anders has asked to call me Commander. It's a good thing I don't lead anymore expeditions. I think if I heard him say 'Yes, Commander' in the field I'd be hard as a rock for the entire mission.

"I'll let you know," Anders gets off me, and I feel his mouth leave a trail of burning kisses down to my hips.

There's a tug at my hips, and I hear metal snapping, and a hiss of leather on fabric as my belt slides out of my trousers. Then a clink and a thud when Anders throws my belt somewhere. I raise my hips for him and Anders drags my trousers and smalls off. My cock hits my stomach without them in the way, and Anders gives my thigh an excited bite.

I feel Anders' hand take hold of me, and he licks the tip of my cock. His tongue is softer than silk, and the heat of his breath makes me eager for his mouth. I grip the couch on either side of me, and Anders sucks on the side of my shaft. It almost feels like a kiss. "You can put your hands in my hair," Anders says.

I find his shoulders, and knead them while Anders teases me with his tongue. When he finally captures my cock in his mouth, I let a moan shiver through me and bury my hands in his hair. "Fuck, Anders."

Anders hums something that sounds like 'please' and feels like bliss. Anders bobs his head, and my cock slides along his tongue and between his lips. Another moan escapes me and I run my hands through Anders' hair; it's light and feathery and flaxen and even though I can't see it I love the way the strands slip through my fingers.

Anders takes in another inch of me and gags, and I give his hair a tug. "Don't choke."

Anders pulls back from me and bites my thigh. "It's your cock; I'll choke on it if I want."

"I don't-" I start to protest but I'm breathing hard and easy to interrupt.

"I like it," Anders says. "It makes me shiver."

Hearing Anders admit anything makes him shiver makes my heart race a little faster and sends a hard pulse through my cock. I don't argue when he goes back to me, and buck my hips for him. Anders runs a hand up my chest and paws at me, moaning between every tiny gag. "Fuck. Fuck yes-stop, I'm gonna come,"

Anders stops. His mouth and hands leave me for a moment and I reach out into the empty black for him and swallow down an unhappy whine. It's just dark. I'm not blind. I'm not helpless. Anders grabs one of my outstretched hands and climbs into my lap. I feel the press of bare skin against my thighs, and realize he just took his trousers off.

I think I'm losing it. Anders kisses me, and strokes my cock a handful of times before he guides me to his entrance. I set my hands on his hips and Anders lowers himself onto me without any hesitation. He's hot and tight and feels amazing, but he sounds even better. I can't stand quiet lovers, and for a while Anders was nothing if not that.

He's not anymore. When I'm inside him he makes every impassioned sound I can imagine. Anders wraps one arm around me, and I guess he holds the couch over my shoulder with the other. His face is pressed against my cheek, and his every hard gasp goes straight into my ear. Anders starts moving, and I set the pace with my hands on his hips.

My name slips out of him and it sounds perfect. My cock drives into him and he feels perfect. His ass connects with my thighs every time we join, and I don't think he's ever held me tighter. Anders curses inarticulately while we make love, but he might be an Archdemon for how beautiful it sounds mixed in with gasps, and groans, and always 'yes, Amell, yes.'

Anders tenses and soon it's just me keeping us moving, "Are you going to come?"

"Yes. Fuck yes, don't-don't stop," Anders chokes out, and his gasps unravel, and soon he's trembling in my arms and around my cock. I feel a splash of heat hit my chest, and wipe his release off my skin. I feel for his mouth with my free hand and feed it to him when I find it. Anders sucks on my fingers as eagerly as he sucks on my cock, and it pushes me over the edge.

I lose myself in the warmth of Anders' skin, in the sweat on the small of his back, in the soaked strands of his hair, in his trembling thighs and clutching hands. I fill him with a few sporadic thrusts and Anders makes a small sound that's not quite anything. I abuse his neck with my mouth while I ride out the waves of passion that come over me, and it's only when I'm reduced to nothing more than sore muscles and the aching pulse of my heart that it occurs to me I should have pulled out, or warned him.

Anders pulls off of me, but he stays in my lap. Recently, he likes to hold and be held, and my only real regret is that it took us so long to get here. Anders tangles one hand in my hair, and leaves the other draped around my shoulders. I run my fingers down his spine for the shivers it stirs in him, my thighs pleasantly damp with come and sweat and spit.

"... I like when you do that." Anders says eventually.

"Do what?" I ask, sweeping my fingers up his spine.

"Come inside me," Anders says.

"Now I want to fuck you again," I say.

"Give me a minute," Anders says.

I exhale hard through my nose, but we don't end up having sex again. Instead Anders holds me, and I hold him, and for a short while I'm not blind.

It's just dark.

Eventually, the moment passes. Anders gets up and he has to lead me to the washroom so we can clean ourselves up, and then he has to find all my clothes and help me back into them. For the most part I can dress on my own, but the buttons trip me up, and I never notch my belt right. I've never felt so incompetent and worthless in my entire life.

Anders does a sweep of the Vigil for me before he takes my hand and leads me out of my room while Barkspawn follows us. For all Anders' means well, he's a terrible guide. It doesn't occur to him to warn me of sudden drops or lifts, and I end up tripping more than a few times. By the time we get to the Hafter River I'm absolutely miserable, but I've got a face for Wicked Grace, and I know Anders can't tell.

We strip for a quick swim, but unless Anders' has a hand to me I end up sitting in the sand and pebbles in the shallows so I don't end up being swept out into the Amaranthine Ocean. I wonder what the stars look like. Whether the moons are out. How many times Anders shoots me a cheeky grin and I miss it. It's winter and the water is cold, and the wind is colder, but I have to admit the fresh air breathes a little easier.

We dress after a half hour or so, and Anders leads me back to the Vigil and wants to stop in the chapel. I regret ever giving him my copy of The Search for the True Prophet. I like it for the history. For the magical theories. For the possibility of finding freedom in Tevinter and the Imperial Chantry. Anders likes it because he's an Andrastian. I don't mind him going to the chapel when he wants to work through something, but I don't belong here.

Anders sits me down on a pew, and I don't think anything could be more unpleasant. The wood is hard and the backboard is too short to rest comfortably against. At least I don't have to look at the statue of Andraste or any of the tapestries I know are in here. And Barkspawn is a comfortable footrest. There's silence for a long while, and I speak up, "Are you praying or did you fall asleep?"

"I fell asleep," Anders jokes and squeezes my thigh. "I'm rubbish at praying. I just like sitting in here. It's quiet, and it's warmer than the rest of the Vigil. It helps me think."

"What are you thinking about?" I ask.

"You," Anders says.

"What about me?" I ask.

"Just you," Anders says unhelpfully. "Do you want to head back to your quarters?"

"We can stay a bit more, if you want," I say. I lean on him, and Anders puts an arm around my shoulders, and another around my waist.

I don't need the Maker.

I have him.

Chapter 13: Close to the Heart

Summary:

But anyway, time goes by, and the Boss does his thing, and even the elf can't deal with it. They have it out in front of everyone, big fight about how the Boss is crazy, the Boss is gonna get himself killed or possessed, the elf can't take losing another lover, it's the elf or the blood magic.
 
You can guess which one the Boss picked.

Notes:

This chapter takes place before the events of Accursed Ones, during the Blight, and is linked from Chapter 21 - The Resolutionist and The Aequitarian of Accursed Ones. It is told from Sten's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon Umbralis 28 Evening
Somewhere in the Bannorn, at Camp

He has not moved since the elf left. He sits at the edge of the camp, a distant shadow, staring at a small bauble in his hands. It catches on the fire light, and glints gold and crimson. I wonder if it is akin to a dragon tooth necklace. I feel as though this must be the case, but I am not certain. Foreign cultures are so strange to me.

The others have made no effort to speak with him since the incident. The witch took the form of a wolf and gave chase after the elf. The dwarf is on his third bottle of brandy. The others are not so close to him. The boy-who-would-be-King sits with the songstress while she braids his hair. Shale and I sit together in quiet companionship, and the old witch has left long ago.

There are others, members of the army we have gathered, but of our group, he has no one. His mabari is with him, a noble warrior, but doubtless not a comfort for his loss. I remember how I felt at the loss of my brothers. To death, and not desertion, but I suspect the loss is no less keen. I stand, and the golem's head shifts with the grind of rock against rock to look at me.

"The Qunari is going to speak with the Grey Warden?" They guess.

"It is," I say.

"About the Painted Elf?" They ask.

"Yes," I say.

"I had thought the Painted Elf sought the attention of the Grey Warden." They muse.

"As did I, Kadan." I say.

"I do not understand the Painted Elf's objection to its magic," They say. "It is most amusing to watch its enemies fountain blood, and for a mage the Grey Warden does not often offend,"

"This is true," I give them a polite nod, and head over speak with our leader. I would speak more, if I knew the words, but the common tongue is confusing for me. I am quiet because I would rather they think me stoic than ignorant.

He looks up at my approach, and moves to make room for me on the log on which he sits. The mabari cocks its head at me, and I give its ears a companionable scratch. I would not, in front of the others, but unlike the songstress he has never mocked me for finding beauty and honor in small things.

I join him on the log, and note that he holds an earring. It looks masterful: golden and bespeckled with rubies. It seems as if the blood drop design would suit him.

"My people have a word for you," I say.

"Is it kadan?" He guesses. A foolish guess, but he knows less of Qunlat than I know of the common tongue. I should not fault him.

"That is my word for you," I say. "Our word for you is saarebas. It means 'dangerous thing' in your tongue."

"Saarebas," He tastes the word on his tongue; his accent is atrocious. He smiles, "I like it."

"I imagined you would." I say. "You are fond of flaunting your lack of an arvaarard."

"An arvaarad?" He asks, face full of curiosity. I think he would prove an eager viddathari were he not a mage. He seems to agree with all else of the Qun I have told him, save for what his role in it would be.

I am not sure I agree with it either. At least not for him. He would never submit to it, and I know he would suffer for it. For his sake I hope my people do not land on Ferelden's shores for many years.

"They are like your templars, save that they are actually proficient in their roles," I say, thinking of the horrors that befell his old prison. "They watch our mages."

"Then in that case yes, I'm glad I don't have one." He says.

"An unbound mage is like a wildfire," I say. "As prone to consume itself as it is to devour all that surrounds it. This is what the elf feared for you."

"That was poetic, Sten." He says.

"Thank you." I smile. Analogies are hard for me; I'm glad I managed to find the right words.

"What does kadan mean?" He asks.

I have no translation. "I am not sure there is a comparable word in your tongue," I admit. I touch my chest, "It is a word for a person who is close to the heart."

"So... Like a loved one?" He asks.

"Yes," I say.

"Why didn't you ever tell me you felt that way?" He asks.

"I did," I can't help frowning. I know I'm missing something in translation here and it frustrates me.

"... I don't think I think what you think I'm thinking." He says after a moment. "... Like a brother, maybe?"

"Yes." I say.

"That makes a lot more sense," He admits. "I'm pretty sure you'd break me."

Ah. Of course. He is of the same mind as the elf and the witch, only not so obtrusive about it. "Not intentionally." I joke.

He snorts, and smothers a laugh. "I thought your people hated mages."

"No," I say. "Of course not. We pity them. You live with the constant threat of demons, and it is for this reason the arvaarad watch over you,"

"Sounds like the Chantry." He says, with palatable disdain.

"It is not," I say, "Your templars are far too lax in their duties. My people would never allow a mage to walk free. There is no way of knowing whether or not you have been influenced by demons, otherwise. Or that those in your presence were not influenced in turn."

"I think we already know what the answer is there," He says.

"Indeed." I say.

"Does that bother you?" He asks.

"No." I say. "I do not doubt that you are doing all that you can to end the Blight, even at the cost of your soul and the souls of those around you. You are a Grey Warden. Asit tal-eb," I flounder for a moment, trying to think of the proper translation, "It is to be. You do what must be done."

"It means a lot to hear you say that," He says.

"You are welcome." I say.

There is silence for a time, while he stares at the earring in his hand with an unreadable expression on his face. "How do relationships work under the Qun? I know you've said sex isn't a part of it, but do you ever go past brotherly affection? Do you have people you want to spend the rest of your life with? Romantic love?"

"All love is romantic." I say.

"That was profound." He says.

"Thank you." I say. "I had a deep affection for many of the Beresaad, especially Ashaad."

"From your dream in the Fade. I remember." He says. "He seemed like he had a good sense of humor."

"He did." I say.

"... Do you think that kind of love makes you weak?" He asks.

"I think weakness lies within a person, and not within a feeling." I say. I know for certain it lies in me, or I would not have reacted to my brothers' deaths the way I did.

"... It wasn't even the blood magic." He says, staring at the earring he holds. "It was never about the blood magic. It was just about us. I wanted so badly for him to feel the same way, but after what he went through with Rinna and Taliesen... I guess there just wasn't enough room for me."

"You speak as if love is a finite resource, and not simply a feeling to be expressed as readily as joy or sorrow." I say.

"For some people it is," He says, and reaches for his ear to affix the earring to it. It looks how it looks. "I kept pushing him and pushing him knowing this would happen, and I think I wanted it to because at least knowing it was over would be better than waiting for it to break, but now I just want him back, even broken," He sighs, "...Some mirror."

"Mirror?" I ask.

"Something Morrigan said," He shrugs, and wipes away what I assume are tears, "I should have listened to her. Love is a weakness, and the next time I feel it, I'll keep it to myself."

Chapter 14: Your Man

Summary:

So back during the Blight, the Boss was with this elf. Now I ain't into dudes, but this guy was something. High cheekbones, pouty lips, the works. We're talking so pretty at first I thought he was a gal. And this elf was one of them Crows. Assassin type, cold blooded killer, vicious as a bronto's fart. Archy's dad hired the elf to kill us, and the elf tried, but fucked it up, and the Boss recruited him.

It was love at first sight. I'm telling you, it was gross.

Notes:

This chapter is linked from Chapter 21 - The Resolutionist and The Aequitarian of Accursed Ones and is told from Zevran's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon 5 Pluitanis Afternoon
Gherlen's Pass

Today is a good day to die. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the skies are clear. I sit on a crate in the center of the road, kicking my feet in the dust. The Grey Wardens have just left Orzammar, or so the scout of the little mercenary band I have hired has told me. They should be heading down the main road any minute now.

Once our little apostate leads them to us, it will be all over. For me or for the Grey Wardens. How I hope it is the former. What a terrible plan this is. Oh, I have made an effort. It is a narrow pass in which we wait; I have the archers on the hills, and a dozen trip wires to stop anyone from reaching them. I have muscle with me, hiding under the upturned caravan, under bushes, in plain sight as dead men.

We have men waiting to cut off their retreat, two trees ready cut and a handful of boulders just waiting to be pushed over. I know it will not be enough. Planning has never been my strong suit. I was for the killing, for the lovemaking. It was Rinna who did all the thinking for me. Taliesen was the brawn, Rinna the brains, and I the loathsome little tag-along who slit her throat.

I take a deep breath of fresh, Ferelden air and inhale the scent of pine, dirt, and the rotten flesh of the pack animals we have slaughtered to make this look like the site of an old ambush, and not a new one. I look up to the sky, and if ever I believed in omens, the crow that flies overhead convinces me today is a good day to die.

There is a whistle from our look out. I pull down my mask, an oversized crow's skull, and take my spot behind the overturned wagon. A short while later I hear them coming. I wonder how many I will take with me. Hopefully not all of them. Someone has to kill me, after all.

Our little apostate throws a small gout of flame into the air to give the single, and the battle is joined. I vault over the caravan with a roar, and the first rain of arrows bounces off the armor of the warriors in the front. The others dodge.

"Alistair, the mage!" Cries the unmistakable voice of a leader. "Morrigan, left archers!"

A soldier who fights with the form of a templar brings his shield up, and charges my little apostate, a giant on one side of him and a dwarf on the other. It is most comical, but they are no concern of mine. It is their leader I want; focusing him is the best way to make a target of myself.

He is in the back. He stands between two women, and the three of them are the most gorgeous, vicious trio I have ever seen, behind Rinna, Taliesen, and myself. At least this will be fun. A handful of the mercenaries charge with me, and one of them is tackled by a vicious mabari. I dart around it, and in a few quick steps I am on their leader.

He is in light leather armor, and carries a staff and a tome from which he casts. He catches the first of my swords on his staff, and I laugh in delight. Good. If he is competent, perhaps he can kill me, but I won't make it easy. I lunge in again, and again my blade imbeds itself in his staff, but I have his motions down now. I step in around his staff, and bring my blade down at angle. It catches on his side, and cleaves through the leather of his armor.

What a handsome face. Feathery black hair falls about a strong brow and down into blood red eyes that squint in pain as my blade strikes true. Thin little lips curl back into a hiss of pain, and such a jawline! It angles sharply down into a perfect chin that begs to be pinched in the midst of a kiss. What a shame.

I give him a smirk, and shift my grip on my sword to wrench it free and drive it home again. I have barely moved when he laughs, and I think it a lovely sound to die to. Blood is under my mask, in my mouth, in my eyes, sinking into my pores like a lavender lotion at one of my favorite whorehouses, and I am lost. He is more than handsome. He is perfect. I would do anything for him.

He grabs the back of my head and pulls me closer to whisper in my ear, such sweet pillow talk, "Kill them."

He lets go of me, and I him. I turn to the little mercenary band I have hired, and cut through them like butter. I dodge every trap. I am the one who set them. The archers never see me coming. A blade here, a knife there, and soon the valley is quiet save for the chatter of strangers and my own heavy breathing. Where is he? I need him as I have never needed anything before.

I spot him in the valley, sitting on the same crate on which I sat so recently. I run back down the hill, dodging my own trip wires, and am almost to his side when a heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder and flings me to the ground. I land on my back, and the qunari who threw me plants a foot on my chest, but I don't care about him.

I wrench my mask off and dig my hands into the ground to drag myself closer to the red-eyed beauty. "Command me," I beg.

"The poison on your blade, what is it?" He asks, and I see he is sweating profusely from it.

"A blend of venom and deathroot," I say. "Concentrated."

"Do you have an antidote?" He asks.

"Yes, with my things," I say.

"Bring it to me," He orders. "Sten, let him up."

The Qunari takes his foot off me. I scramble to my feet and sprint down the road to the mercenary camp, and rip through my pack for the antidote before I come running back. I hit my knees in front of him and press it into his hand. He uncorks it and drinks all of it. His hands are shaking from the fast acting poison, and I notice one is wreathed in red.

"Leliana, tie him up, quickly," He says to someone I don't notice or care about. "I don't know how much longer I can hold him."

The redhead does more than tie me up. She goes through my armor and takes every little knife, dagger, and blade she can find. She misses three, and binds my hands behind my back and my ankles together with a rope from her pack. I don't care.

I don't care about anything but the man sitting before me. The way the sun catches in his raven hair. The lyrical baritone of his voice. I want another order. I want nothing more than to obey. He looks at me, and his smirk is my whole world.

Past that, he is shaking. Sweating. His pupils are dilated and some part of me knows the poison hurts. The dark haired woman beside him takes off his chest armor to inspect the wound left in his side by my blade. She tests the inflamed skin with her fingers and he hisses in pain. The dwarf offers him a drink which he takes.

"He is a Crow," Says the redhead, picking up my discarded mask. "An order of assassins out of Antiva, renowned for getting the job done, so to speak. Killing is an art to them."

"He is hardly an artist." Says the Qunari.

"Maker's breath, we've got assassins after us now?" Complains the blonde man.

"Alistair..." My red-eyed beauty finally speaks. He reels slightly.

"Don't throw up, whatever you do." The redhead says. "You have to keep the antidote down."

"What?" The blonde man asks.

"I..." My raven, my little crow tries to move and topples off the crate he is sitting on, "Fuck-don't kill him."

He passes out. The miasma of blood around his arm heeds gravity once more and becomes a puddle. Pain explodes inside my head, and darkness takes me.

I cannot say how long I sleep, save that it is daytime when I wake. The pain in my head is like that after a night of drinking and whoring and being left out to bake in the hot summer sun for a day. I groan, and attempt to sit up when I remember my hands are bound. The events of my failed suicide attempt come rushing back to me, and I twist my head on the ground for a better look around.

My captors are all around. The Qunari stands before the entrance to the pass, an impressive statue of grey muscle and white dreads. The redhead in all her freckled glory sits thigh to thigh with the blonde warrior with the simple face, and the dwarf is sitting against one of the upturned carts. Beside him is their leader, his hair damp with sweat and his chest bandaged, but what a chest. Dark hair and lean muscle, slender shoulders and a thin waist. At his feet sits the mabari, and at his side the dark haired enchantress from before.

She is quite something herself. Dressed in leather and feathers and bone like a Chasind beauty, and showing so much skin. She has a small mat set out before her, with an assortment of bowls and herbs and jars on it. No healing magic between them, then. If I had not fetched the antidote for him I might have killed at least one of the Grey Wardens.

The dog barks at me. "He's awake," Says the redhead.

"Am I?" I wonder, without bothering to move. The dirt does not feel so terrible under my cheek. "That is something. I rather thought I would wake up dead, or not wake up at all, as-"

The blonde man interrupts me. He grabs my collar and lifts me to my knees only to punch me in the jaw and knock me back on the ground.

"Alistair!" The redhead says.

"He said I couldn't kill him. He didn't say I couldn't hit him." Alistair says, fists clenched tight at his sides.

I laugh; it is but a little sting, "Keep an eye on this one. Bend the rules much further and you will have to take them out for dinner after, no?"

"No hitting," Their leader says.

"He tried to kill you!" Alistair shouts. "And he almost succeeded!"

"Technically, I tried to kill all of you," I say. "So, you see, this was nothing personal."

"You see, Alistair, it was nothing personal," Their leader agrees. What a delightful man. He looks back at me; such eyes. I cannot help staring. "I have some questions."

"And here I have some answers," I say. I tell him everything. The words escape one after another, everything from the Crows, to the mission, to the Teryn. I think if I kept staring into those eyes I would tell him even more. Things I cannot even bring myself to whisper in the dark.

I suspect some part of his spell must linger, else I would not be so quick to fall apart like this, but fall apart I do. Here I was ready to die, and I look into some stranger's eyes and want to live. I go so far as to beg for it. Playful begging, but begging none the less.

It puts quite the sparkle in those eyes. He took blade and poison from me, and there he sits with his chest still bandaged from it, but a few minutes of my charms and I can see the whisper of a smile on that handsome face. And how I want to see it.

"Untie him," He says.

"What?" Alistair demands, "You want to take the assassin who just tried to assassinate us with us? Are you insane!? He'll kill us in our sleep!"

"I think it a fine plan," The enchantress says. "Though I would watch our meals far more carefully with an assassin around."

"Be nice to get some more gals in on this sausage fest," The dwarf jokes.

"He told us everything, Alistair." Their leader says.

"Yeah, but how do you know he wasn't lying?" Alistair asks. "How do you know he's not just going to lie in wait to pick us off in our sleep?"

"I suppose I don't." Their leader says. "Untie him, Leliana."

And so she does. The ropes fall away, and I sit up to massage my aching muscles. The man who reminds me so much of a crow with his black hair and red eyes and sharp face climbs to his feet. He is in a far worse state than I, but he walks over to hold down a hand for me.

I take it by his forearm, and he has me on my feet a moment later. How easy it would be to kill him. The blade is in my sleeve; I could draw it and sheath it in his throat in the space of two heartbeats. I look into those eyes and do nothing.

"My name is Amell," He says without letting go of me.

"Then, Amell, I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you until such a time as you see fit to release me from it," I say, and how I mean the words as I have meant so few before. "I am your man, without reservation. This I swear."

Chapter 15: Just a Flame

Summary:

"... you don't have to go you know."

"That's not very sneaky." Anders said. "You don't think me slinking out of your quarters in the morning is going to raise eyebrows?"

"I think the servants are going to gossip either way, and they're the only ones who will notice." Amell said. "... I'd like it if you stayed."

Notes:

This chapter takes place after Chapter 17 - Lost in Dreams of Accursed Ones and is told from Amell's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 28 Matrinalis Evening
Vigil's Keep

The first thing he does when he wakes is pull a wisp across the Veil and bind it to a ball of light. Whether we're in my quarters or in the field: if Anders is awake, there's light. At first I thought it practical, but recently I think it's something else.

I wanted to show him Dworkin's work, earlier. The explosives engineer has been working with the first batch of lyrium sand we retrieved from Kal'Hirol, but it's delicate work. It has to be done away from any flame or even light, and it has to be done in secret. Dwarves have excellent vision in the dark, or so Dworkin assures me, so he's been working beneath the Vigil.

Anders seemed more than happy to follow me through the Vigil, provided he had a wisp circling idly about his head, but the second I told him it had to go out, he panicked. I'm not unfamiliar with panic attacks. Alistair used to have them, but seeing them in Anders hurts, especially with how he handles them: he makes them a joke.

He starts laughing, almost hysterically, talks faster than any man should be able to talk, and bolts away from whatever is making him uncomfortable. I saw it in the Silverite Mines and I saw it when I summoned a demon in front of him, and it seemed reasonable that both would upset him. But then I see it again, at just the thought of standing in a dark room, and I know it's more than that.

I spend close to a quarter hour searching for him before a servant tells me they saw him head up to my quarters. I don't know what to make of it. It's the last place I would expect him to be, but I head up the stairs and into my room, and he's there. He's sitting crossed legged on my bed, holding a pillow-my pillow-in his lap and I swear I see him sniff it.

He looks up when I open the door, and flings the pillow away from him. It hits the wall and slides down behind the headboard. I raise an eyebrow at him and he puts on a grin so goofy and lop-sided it looks like it might slide off his face. "Didn't-ah-think you'd come back up here," Anders says sheepishly.

I head over to the bed and pull the pillow up from the crevice with telekinetic energies, and toss it back to him, "Should I leave you two alone?" I ask.

"I swear, it's not what it looks like," Anders jokes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.

"Am I going to get in trouble if I say no?" Anders asks.

"No, of course not." I take a seat next to him, and remember his drunken confession from weeks ago about how he likes the way I smell. Remembering that makes me remember how he tried to kiss me when I helped him back to his bunk. How hard it was not to let him.

Anders' hands buried in my hair, his face inches from mine, his breath so thick and heavy with alcohol I could taste it breathing in. Come on, you know I've been thinking about it. Just let me see what you taste like. Just the memory is enough to make my chest tighten and my blood warm. It was all I could do not to run back to my quarters for release when I finally got him to lie down.

My silence encourages the opposite from Anders. He never likes to be pushed into anything, and I've been trying to accommodate him, but it's so hard for me not to ask him for more than he's ready to give. I feel like I'm always a breath away from telling him exactly how I feel, but I made that mistake once already. I won't make it again.

"I mean, you saw me down in the mines," Anders says, massaging the back of his neck. I wonder if he'd let me massage it for him. "Me and darkness don't really get on these days."

"I'm sorry," I say; I thought it was the combination of darkness and cramped spaces that upset him, not just one or the other. "I shouldn't have asked."

"Hey, whatever," Anders shrugs, "How were you supposed to know? I know I'm acting like a moody child, but-"

I hate hearing him talk like this. I grab his hand from off his neck and tangle it in mine, "You're not," I say. "Anders, what the Circle did to you... I can't tell you how much it impresses me to know you recovered from that."

"Don't know that I did, really, but thanks," Anders smiles, half a smile that only touches one corner of his lips, but if Anders is anything it's pale. The flush on his neck is obvious.

"You did," I say.

"Well I guess that settles it," Anders jokes.

"You did," I say again, "You won, Anders. This isn't your eighth escape attempt, this is your first escape. You're free, and I'll keep you that way."

"You're really not going to say anything about how I just had a panic attack over nothing and spent a good ten minutes sniffing your pillow to calm down?" Anders asks.

"It wasn't nothing, and you can sniff my pillow as much as you want," I say, "You can sniff me if it helps."

"Well aren't you kinky," Anders jokes, "Alright, fine, come here,"

Anders shoves my pillow aside and crawls into my lap. His hand takes a spot on the back of my neck and he presses his nose against my ear. His exaggerated sniff sounds like a gale and I smother a laugh.

"Laugh, damn you," Anders orders.

"Haha," I say in a practiced monotone.

"You drive me crazy," Anders tugs on my ear with his teeth, the sensation as much as his words send a delightful shiver through me. "You figure out I'm not brave yet?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, letting my hands stray to his thighs. Anders turns his head, and his nose brushes over my cheek on his way to my lips. I have them ready parted, and Anders falls into the kiss as if it's the most natural thing we could have done. He tastes a little of elfroot and honeyed lyrium, and flick my tongue into his mouth for more of it.

His weight feels like it belongs on my thighs, and I love that he's gained some since I recruited him. There aren't words for how I loathe the Circle and the Chantry. I used to think of Anders as someone I aspired to be when I defied them, but now I think of him as someone to protect. He doesn't want to defy anyone, he just wants to live, and I'd do anything to let him.

Anders grapples with our belts, and I pull on a breath of mana to charge my fingers with static and run them down his chest. "Fuck yes," Anders says. I reach his hip when he gets his belt off, and let the magic loose. He looks so beautiful, caught in that brief starburst of passion. He throws his head back with a gasp of pleasure, and offers up his neck for me to worship.

I pick one spot to torture, sucking and biting and licking while Anders struggles with our trousers. I know it's going to leave a mark, but I don't care, and by his passionate sighs, neither does Anders. Damn Woolsey and the rest with their warnings. I need these stolen moments where Anders is mine, and he's the only one I'll let dictate what we do together.

Anders pulls me off his neck and slides two fingers into my mouth. I lavish them, grazing my teeth only just over his skin while my tongue works around each finger. Anders watches me, and there's such a need in his amber eyes it sends shivers of anticipation through me. "You meant it, right?" Anders asks, voice barely audible. "You still think I'm brave?"

I give his wrist a tug to take his fingers from my mouth, and Anders' nervous delay keeps me from blurting that I adore him. I scramble for something else to say, "I think you're perfect."

Shit.

Anders surges forward and sweeps me up into a kiss that steals the breath I was holding. The anxious tension melts out of my shoulders, and Anders shoves me back on the mattress with such a powerful impatience it makes me bounce. He catches my hips, and wrenches my trousers down around my thighs with one hand. The other pushes two wet fingers inside me, and I'm on fire.

It's such a perfect feeling, made all the more perfect knowing its him. Nothing but his cock has ever felt more right than this; Anders curls his long fingers and sends a rush of pleasure through me that tears an enthusiastic moan from me, "Fuck, Anders, just fuck me," I beg.

"Knees," Anders says. I kick out of my trousers and I'm in the middle of pulling off my tunic when I stop at the slight pull of the Fade. Anders hand glistens, and he rubs the conjured oil onto his cock. He bites his bottom lip and it slides out from between his teeth with every other stroke. He struggles to keep his eyes open, and smirks a little at me watching him.

Anders isn't out of any of his clothes, and I still have my tunic on when he grabs me, and turns me around. My heart feels like a hummingbird trapped in my chest and trying to escape out my throat when Anders knees my legs apart and slides an arm around my waist. His name escapes me in a pleading whimpers.

Anders doesn't make me wait. A rush of intense satisfaction makes me writhe when he enters me; it's more than completion. I feel full and stretched and then nothing. Anders pulls back, and pushes back into me, and the tease of the head of his cock sliding in and out of me is torturous. I'm incoherent, and my pleading is just his name.

Anders catches my jaw, and slips two fingers into my mouth to silence me. Anders drives his hips forward and I moan around them. "Fuck, Amell," Anders' breath spills hot and humid on my neck, and he grabs my hips with his free hand to pull me further back. My ass hits his thighs, and his balls slaps up against me, and I can feel every inch of him inside.

The sound that escapes me is so close to a sob I think it scares him, but I can't control what comes out of my mouth when we're like this. I just feel, and all I feel is Anders. A sweat breaks out on my shoulders, and the warm, wet friction of every long, deep stroke is worth moaning over. Anders takes his hand from my mouth to hold onto my chest instead.

"What does this feel like?" Anders asks, voice hoarse.

"Fuck," I say. Like you own me. Like you're possessing me. "Like-I'm on fire,"

Anders bites my neck, and his fingers fist in my tunic and pull it taut. Fire doesn't quite describe it. Ablaze sounds better. The heat that coils in my stomach spreads up my back and down into my thighs, and I reach behind me to dig my fingers into Anders' ass and pull him in deeper with every thrust.

His fingers go back in my mouth and hold it open, but I don't need the encouragement. Moans spill out of me with reckless abandon until they turn to harsh screams, and I stutter out some sort of noise to let Anders know I can't take anymore. His hand wraps around my cock, and a few excited strokes from him push me over the edge.

I love the heat. The pressure Anders built in me uncoils from my stomach and burns through me in waves of mindless gratification. Anders squeezes the last few drops of cum from me, and rubs his thumb over the tip of my cock. I choke on a whimper. I can't handle any more sensations. Anders pushes between my shoulder blades and I hit my hands and knees for him.

Anders grabs my thighs, and the fervor of his last few thrusts makes my hands slip out from under me and drives my face into the sweat soaked sheets beneath us. "Fuck, Amell," Anders groans, and the sound is everything I've ever wanted to hear from him. I reach behind me again at his first shudder, and hold his thigh when he spills himself inside me.

It feels perfect, it always does, but Anders hands running in mindless, affectionate sweeps on the small of my back and over my ass feels better. For a few seconds I wonder if this is a dream. I don't want to move. I don't want him to stop. Anders grabs my shoulder and pulls me off the bed, and wraps his arms around my chest. It's a quick hug joined by a hard kiss on my shoulder, but it makes me want to melt in his arms.

Then it's over. Anders pulls away and rolls over to collapse on the bed, and I make a quick trip to the wash to clean myself up. Anders is already asleep when I get back. He's still dressed, his pants around his ankles and his tunic damp with sweat at his armpits and his collar. I pull the ruined clothes off him, and Anders wakes up enough to make a few grateful grunts before I get him under the covers and he's out again.

I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at him. He's barely asleep, and I know brushing any strands of damp hair back from his forehead or tracing his arm would wake him. I think about him and the nights he's spent with me recently, and the light I know he'll conjure in the morning.

I get dressed and leave my room to find a servant. I'm a mage. I don't have any need for torches or candles when I can summon my own light. But I don't wake up hating the dark. I have one of them fetch me a candlestick, and I light it and leave it on the nightstand before I go to bed.

We never speak of it.

Chapter 16: Justice For Anders

Summary:

"Before he left, the Warden Commander and I spoke of the other spirits he had encountered in this world. He mentioned a woman named Wynne, a mage of unfathomable strength and unlimited potential who shared her body with a spirit of Faith. If we are to die here, I hope it will be with honor, but these innocents we are defending do not deserve to suffer at the hands of darkspawn.

"... Perhaps together we could do what we cannot do alone."

Notes:

This chapter takes place immediately following Chapter 42 - Bold and Brazen and Beautiful of Accursed Ones and is told from Justice's perspective.

Written for a request for Anders and Justice fighting the horde in Amaranthine. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 1 Cassus Late Afternoon
Amaranthine

I take Anders' hand and let the world fall away. There are no guards on his mind, no barriers. He looks at me and there is only surrender in his eyes. I am not Kristoff. Kristoff is not me. I surrender my hold on the form and take the one that is offered me.

We will save this city.

Anders is mana. Anders is magic. The Fade breathes in him as it always has, and it is only in him I finally feel its pull as not a whisper but a roar. I turn to face the darkspawn, and I can feel the nigh limitless energy that flows through our connection. I unleash it, and there is finally feeling in me that Kristoff's corpse could never give.

I can taste the air and the smoke that lies in it. I can feel the fire of our spells warming Anders' face. I can feel the static discharge of his lightning magic making the hair on his arms stand on end. I can feel the chill of the blizzards he summons numbing his finger tips. It is power and it is limitless and I am alive.

"I will cleanse this city in fire!" I roar, and the words feel fantastic tearing through Anders' throat. I can feel the tremors of a charging ogre, and I remember how Anders' enslaved the last ogre we encountered. He did not have the time to fight it. He did not have the strength.

I give it to him. As the ogre reaches us, it reaches out with a massive hand as if to pick Anders' up. I clasp hands with it and whirl with the motion, channeling the Fade, and rip the creature's arm off. Blood and muscle and sinew rain down on Anders and it is warm, so wonderfully warm.

"I will drown this city in blood!" I scream. How euphoric the words. The air rushes into Anders' lungs, and vibrates in his throat when he pushes it back out. Everything from the taste of his tongue in his mouth to the strain of his muscles is perfection. I feel so real. So alive. I am finally more than I was and it is everything I hoped for.

The darkspawn fall before us in droves. I could never have achieved such a thing in the form I once wore. Kristoff was dead, his skin peeling and rotten, his bones brittle, his muscles stiff. Anders is alive, his skin taut and sweating, his bones strong, his muscles limber. Another ogre reaches us, and I grab the fel creature's heart.

Anders' magic manifests our hand as something neither human nor spirit. A gauntlet-clad hand rips through the Veil, and tears into the ogre's chest. The pulsing chord of muscle beats once in our grasp, and with a hard yank we pull it forth from the ogre's ribcage. The bones give with a sharp crack, its grey skin splits, and another shower of blood is on us.

I feel nothing but exultant. This has always been my purpose. My pursuit. Together we can cut out this cancer at its heart. We can bring down the Mother, the Architect, every last Archdemon. I scream as much, and the difference between the living and the dead has never felt more keen. Speaking through Kristoff was a harsh rasp of flavorless air pushing over stiff vocal chords. With Anders there is flavor in everything.

I lose myself to it. The flow of his magic, the pull of the Fade, the rhythm in his steps and the fluid motions of his hands. He was beautiful before. His magic sang, his aura glowed, his very existence seemed to bring comfort and compassion, with a whisper that said 'Here. Here is home. Here is a man more than a mage who will understand you and this world and your place in it.'

And he did and he does and he is. Our enemies are felled. We are victorious. We have held ourselves to Kristoff's oath. To Anders' oath. To the oath of every Grey Warden and their noble struggle against the spawns of darkness, and it felt. Maker bless us, how it felt. I stare down at Anders' hands, still gloved, and flex his fingers, cracking his knuckles. It feels euphoric after months of rotting and wasting away.

I roll a knot out of his shoulder. I massage the back of his neck and run gloved fingers up along his scalp, and all of it is such perfect feeling. I love everything from the cramp in his side to the ache in his thighs to the burn in his throat from my screams. To be blessed with such feeling, to think that Anders offered this so readily...

Anders...

I stop stretching and look at his hands again. They are glowing. Not with magic, but with me. I pull up his sleeve, and see myself cracking through his skin. Breaking it apart. Breaking him apart.

And then I hear it. A faint sound, or distant feeling, like that of a mortal screaming. More than a scream, it is a sound of such mind-shattering torment I can feel demons press upon the Veil in answer. "Anders?" I say aloud, needlessly. I can feel him now, or what is left of him.

His mind feels like broken glass, an endless reflection of pain. This was never my intent. I must have done something wrong. I only meant to help him. To be a part of him. Not break his mind and take his place. Velanna. Velanna was learned in the Fade, in spirits, in what we have done. She'll know how to help us.

I look back to the Chantry, and see the survivors staring at us. Even with what little I understand of mortals and the subtleties of their expressions, I understand what they see in us.

Abomination.

Run, one of the fractured pieces of Anders' mind counsels me. Run. All I do is run.

I run through memories of thickets, of reeds, of swamps and hills and a time when Anders' only thought was freedom, however temporary. I run through memories of abandoned lovers, of forgotten friends, of ties that Anders never made to keep from hurting when they broke. I run until I stand alone in a clearing, well outside the city, and the grip of Anders' memories releases me.

His mind is still in pieces. I do not know how to fix it. I try to surrender the hold on him as I did Kristoff, but the broken shards of his memories pull me back in. The sobs of a child begging for his mother. Of a boy screaming for his friend's betrayal. Of a man pleading for his lover's life. I am Anders. I can't escape him.

Anders... Anders is mana. Anders is magic. If I cannot help him, Anders can help himself. I sit in the clearing and pick through the shards of his memories. Every memory I pull upon seems to pull his mind further apart, until finally I find it. The counsel a spirit of Compassion gave to a boy no more than twelve.

'I am here for you, always. All you need do to call on me is call on my virtue. Think only of how you care for those who suffer, and I will answer. Together we will live a life of succor. We will be happy.'

Compassion is no virtue of mine. It does not define me. I do not know how to make Anders call on me. I am Justice. I cannot promise him a life of succor or of happiness. All I can see is a wrong and the need to right it. He does not deserve to suffer, at my hands or the hands of any man or monster.

The thought fuels me. It gives me purpose. I offer everything I can of the energy I once commanded in the Fade, and I can feel his memories realign and his mind recover from the trauma I so unjustly inflicted on it. Healing for me is just a pale mimickery of Anders' own abilities, copied from his memories, and I cannot say for certain if the damage I've done is irreparable when he recovers enough to fit within his own skin.

I cease to heal. I cease to breathe. I cease to feel. Anders is Anders, and Anders passes out and drags me into darkness with him. I go with the hope that when we wake he is well, and the oath that I will never let such a thing happen again. I will protect him from all that would threaten him.

Even myself.

Chapter 17: Bound in Blood and Magic

Summary:

Jowan, or Levyn, or whatever his name was was nothing like Anders anticipated. A blood mage who betrayed his best friend to escape the Tower and later went on poison an Arl and destroy an arling seemed like an intimidating sort of fellow. Ten feet tall, with blood dripping out his sleeves, and an evil laugh worse than Amell's. Whatever Jowan was, it wasn't that.

Notes:

This chapter takes place before the events of Accursed Ones and before the Blight. It is linked from Chapter 35 - Love is Blind and is told from Jowan's perspective.

Chapter Text

9:18 Dragon 17 Parvulis Early Afternoon
Kinloch Hold

Jowan's ankle itched. He kicked his foot against the leg of his chair, trying to scratch it without making too much noise. He didn't want to get in trouble for fidgeting again, but he didn't care about the lesson. Jowan hated learning about the Chantry and the Chant of Light. Everyone said something different about magic. His teacher said it was a gift. The templars said it was a tool.

Jowan's mother said it was a curse. She said he was a demon child. An abomination in the Maker's sight. A thing she didn't want in her house, so Jowan's father had taken him and handed him over to a Chantry sister, almost three years ago, and Jowan had been in the Circle ever since. Jowan hated the Circle. He wasn't allowed to run, or make noise, or do anything other than sit in his chair and listen to boring lessons.

"Can anyone tell me what the Chantry says about magic?" The teacher asked.

"That magic is evil?" Jowan guessed.

"Magic is meant to serve man and never to rule over him!" Fausten said loudly from the table over.

"Very good," Their teacher said, to Fausten, and not Jowan. Jowan never got any of the questions right. "Does anyone have any idea what that means?"

"Only boys can do magic!" Kennon said.

"Hey!" Petra kicked the back of Kennon's chair.

"No, that's not what it means," Their teacher said.

Jowan looked at Fausten. Fausten always knew the answer, but he was frowning at his desk.

"Fausten?" Their teacher called on him.

"... That we have to be in control of our magic?" Fausten guessed.

"Close," Their teacher said, "It means we must not abuse the gift the Maker has given us. A mage uses his magic to help, to heal, and not to control. Everyone write this down: Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,"

The scratch of quills over parchment filled their section of the library. Jowan dipped his quill in his ink well and started writing.

Magik is ment

Jowan's ankle still itched. He rubbed his shoes together, and forgot about the quill in his hand. A handful of ink blots fell down onto his parchment while he was busy scratching his feet. Jowan looked back at his paper. One of the ink blots had eaten up what he'd written, and he couldn't remember what he was supposed to be writing. He was going to get in trouble again.

Fausten already had his quill down. He looked between Jowan and the teacher, and his paper floated over to land on Jowan's desk. Jowan copied it quickly, and pushed it back across the divide between their desks. Fausten grinned. Jowan grinned back at him.

"Jowan, don't waste ink," The teacher said when she checked his paper and saw the blots staining it. Jowan nodded, and tried not to fidget. It was so hard. He hated sitting. He just wanted to get up and move and walk and run but there was no running allowed in the Circle. He sat through the rest of lesson, and couldn't remember much of anything when it was over.

It was lunch time anyway. Jowan bounced on his feet waiting for Fausten to stop talking to the teacher. Teachers always wanted to talk to the two of them, but Fausten got compliments while Jowan got in trouble. Jowan wasn't as smart as Fausten, but he wasn't as fat as Fausten either, so he guessed they were even.

Fausten barely fit in the chairs at their desks. A lot of the other kids laughed. Jowan didn't. Jowan wished he was a noble like Fausten, and got to eat enough food to be fat, but no one was a noble in the Circle. Fausten was smart and fat and Jowan was skinny and stupid and they were friends and they were hungry and that was all that really mattered.

Jowan grabbed Fausten's hand to lead him to the dining hall, but Fausten tugged him the other way. "Come on, I want to show you a secret!"

"What kind of secret?" Jowan asked.

"The secret kind!" Fausten said, dragging him back towards the dorms. Jowan didn't want to go to the dorms. He wanted to eat, but he was curious, so he went with. Fausten led him back to his bunk. "Don't be scared okay?"

"I'm not scared of anything," Jowan lied.

Fausten scrambled under his bunk, and Jowan fidgeted. He was already scared. He hoped Fausten wasn't going to pop back out and scream at him. Fausten came back out with his hands loosely cupped, and the largest spider Jowan had ever seen crawled up his arm to his elbow and stayed there.

Fausten set his hand beside the spider, and the spider crawled up onto him at the offering. It was almost bigger than Fausten's palm. It was covered in ugly brown hair and absolutely terrifying. Jowan swallowed down a whine and knelt next to him, heart racing. He didn't want Fausten to think he was afraid.

"I found him under my bunk," Fausten said, "He has a big web there and everything."

"Are you sure he's not going to bite you?" Jowan asked.

"Spiders eat bugs," Fausten said. "I'm not a bug. Look, he just likes to crawl everywhere."

Fausten was right. Fausten was always right. The spider crawled up Fausten's arm and over his shoulder, making a faint hissing noise as it scuttled. Jowan bit back another whine. It was still scary. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Keep him," Fausten said. "I named him Webber. He's mine."

"We're not allowed to have pets," Jowan reminded him.

"That's why it's a secret," Fausten said. "Don't tell anyone, okay?"

"Okay," Jowan said.

Jowan never told, but the templars found out anyway. Keili saw Webber, a few days later, and told the templars. Jowan hated the templars. They were even scarier than Fausten's spider. Their eyes were nothing more than a dark slit of black in their helmets, and they stood still as statues, always watching. Except statues didn't come to life and kill your best friend's pet.

"Alright, Keili, calm down," The templar said, "Where's the spider?"

"There, there!" Keili sobbed, clinging to the templar's skirt. She pointed to Fausten's bunk, and Fausten ran in front of the templar.

"No, don't kill him!" Fausten begged, "He's not hurting anyone."

"Fausten, go sit down," The templar ordered.

Fausten's hands balled into fists, but he stormed away and sat next to Jowan on his bunk. Jowan gave one of Fausten's chubby hands a squeeze. "It's okay," Jowan whispered. "I bet he won't find him."

The templar drew his sword and used it to lift up the skirt around Fausten's bed. He made a sound of disgust, stabbed down once, and brought his sword back up with Webber impaled and twitching on the end. "That is one big bastard."

The templar shook Webber off his sword, and a lot of the other children came over for a peak at the dead spider. Fausten started crying. Jowan tried to hug him, but Fausten jumped off his bunk and ran over to the templar. "You're stupid!" Fausten screamed. "You're stupid and you killed him and you're stupid! He wasn't hurting anyone! You shouldn't have killed him! He shouldn't be dead! He shouldn't be dead!"

Webber was not dead. The spider twitched and contorted, and the rest of the children bolted out of the room with terrified shrieks. Jowan was too stunned to go anywhere. Webber's legs scrambled for purchase in the air, and after a brief struggle the spider flipped off its back. It scuttled up Fausten's leg to sit on his shoulder, glowing a faint cerulean glow.

"You healed him!" Jowan exclaimed. "How did you do that?"

"I just... didn't want him to be dead," Fausten said, taking Webber off his shoulder to stare at the spider in his hands. It was oozing blood. Jowan suddenly wasn't so sure he'd healed it.

"Fausten, let go of that spell," The templar ordered. "You don't know what you're doing."

"No," Fausten scowled, "He's mine! I fixed him,"

The templar sheathed his sword, grabbed Fausten by his arm, and dragged him out of the dorms. Jowan ran after them. "Where are you taking him?"

"This doesn't concern you, Jowan," The templar said, "Go play."

"No! I want to be with Fausten," Jowan said.

The templar grabbed him by the scruff of his robe, turned him about, and gave him a shove that sent him stumbling. By the time Jowan climbed to his feet, Fausten was already down the hall, and being pulled round the corner. Jowan ran after him, and ran into another templar, who walked him back to the dorms.

He didn't see Fausten for three days after that. When Fausten finally did come back to the dorms, he sat on his bunk, not talking or looking at anyone. Jowan still went to morning classes with him, but Fausten had his evening classes somewhere else.

Fausten's first night back, Jowan climbed out of his bunk and snuck over to sit with him. It was dark, and neither of them knew how to summon light or fire, but Jowan could see a little from the light that snuck in through the cracks under the door to the dorms. Fausten looked like he was pouting.

"What happened?" Jowan asked. "Did you get in trouble?"

"I don't like it here," Fausten said.

"Me neither," Jowan said. "Maybe we could run away together."

"We're not allowed to leave," Fausten said, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his chin on them.

"Anders did," Jowan said.

"Who?" Fausten asked.

"One of the older boys," Jowan said. "He ran away, while you were gone. Everyone is saying he swam across the lake."

"I can't do that," Fausten said. "I'm too fat."

"Well... get not fat," Jowan said. "And then we can run away together."

"Okay," Fausten smiled. Jowan smiled back.

"So did you get in trouble?" Jowan asked.

"I think so," Fausten said. "The First Enchanter says I have to take special classes now."

"You met the First Enchanter?" Jowan's jaw dropped. "What's he like?"

"Old," Fausten said.

"What else?" Jowan asked.

"He didn't care about Webber." Fausten said.

"I'm sorry your spider died." Jowan said.

"He didn't die," Fausten said hotly, "They killed him. They didn't listen to me. It's not fair."

"I'm sorry," Jowan said.

"When I get older, I'm going to learn magic that makes everyone listen to me," Fausten said.

"The teachers say we're not supposed to control people with our magic," Jowan said.

"I don't care," Fausten said. "If they don't listen to me, I'm not going to listen to them."

Ten years later, and the irony of the men they'd become had never escaped Jowan. Fausten started going by Amell, and Amell was nothing if not an exemplary student. He went on to be the First Enchanter's own apprentice, he lost all the extra weight, and he was utterly beloved by everyone in the Circle, templars and senior mages alike. He was soft spoken and dedicated, and the perfect example of what a mage was supposed to be.

Jowan was nothing like him. He still couldn't sit still, he still had trouble focusing and concentrating. His studies suffered and he fell even further behind as a result, and it just made him more and more frustrated with himself. He had frequent mood swings, and it set the other apprentices and even the templars to whispering that he was going to fall prey to demons one day. The talk terrified Jowan, but nothing terrified Amell.

When he made the first cut, Jowan's only thought was that he wanted to be just like him.

Chapter 18: Apples and Apostates

Summary:

I couldn't decide if I wanted to be you or if I wanted to fuck you. I went and found you in the dining hall, a few days later, and tried to start a conversation. I got maybe a handful of words in when Surana sashayed over, her robe down to here." Amell pinched his doublet between his breasts, "She leaned over you and asked you for 'another healing lesson.' You said 'Nice talking to you, Apple,' and left me there with your tray.

Notes:

This chapter takes place before the events of Accursed Ones, and before the Blight. It is linked from Chapter 23 - Malleus Maleficarum and is told from Jowan's perspective.

Amell and Jowan are 16, Anders is 21, and the individual Anders is with is Karl. Thank you for reading!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

9:26 Dragon 17 Eluviesta
Kinloch Hold: Dining Hall

Amell inhaled sharply. Jowan didn't have to look to know that meant Anders had walked in, but he looked anyway. Anders was one of the older boys, and there wasn't a soul in the tower who didn't know his name. He walked into a room and immediately owned it.

Anders pointed two fingers at one of the templars posted in the dining hall and winked as soon as he entered. Jowan saw his mouth move, and guessed whatever he said was insulting by the clench of the templars' fist. Anders laughed, and walked to the queue with a careless kick in his step.

A few tables waved. Anders waved back, and ran a hand through his flaxen hair and shook it out to a chorus of whistles. Anders joined an older man with black hair in the queue ahead of them. No one said anything when he cut in line. Amell made a sound like a whine beneath his breath.

Jowan didn't see the appeal in men. Thick thighs and broad hips, a buxom chest and a soft face were what did it for him. Anders had none of that. If anything Anders reminded Jowan of a bird. Sharp and thin and always preening himself.

"Oh come on," Jowan rolled his eyes, "He's not that hot."

"Compared to the sun?" Amell asked.

"Maker's breath you're pathetic." Jowan said.

"Don't be jealous," Amell said.

The line moved forward a foot. Amell craned his head to watch Anders in the queue. Anders was playing cat's cradle with lightning between his fingers for the amusement of the black-haired man he was with. Jowan nudged Amell with his elbow, and Amell sighed longingly before he turned away.

Jowan sang, "Pathetic."

"Oh shut up, Jowan." Amell muttered.

Jowan batted his eyelashes with an exaggerated sigh. Amell shoved him. Jowan shoved him back. Amell shoved him again and they dissolved into a grappling match that Amell ultimately won. Amell had always been stronger than him. Apparently you had to have a bit of muscle to carry around all the fat Amell had lost recently.

"Get off," Jowan's protest was muffled by Amell's sweaty armpit and the fact that he had his nose buried in it.

"Is that an offer?" Amell asked.

"Fuck you," Jowan scrabbled to get himself out of the headlock.

"You're not my type," Amell let go of him. Jowan came up for air with a pained wheeze. They'd lost their place in the queue. Three people had walked around them while they were wrestling.

"Liar," Jowan elbowed Amell again. "You love me."

"I adore you," Amell agreed. "You're just not my type... We're joking right?"

"Obviously we're joking." Jowan said.

Anders had grabbed his tray, and was hovering in between two tables, both of them whistling and hooting for his favor. The older mage he'd cut in line to stand with had gone on to sit at his own table. Anders took a step towards him, when a girl with a perfect hour glass figure beneath her robes dragged Anders to another table.

"What do you even see in that guy?" Jowan asked.

"Aside from myself?" Amell asked.

"Ew," Jowan mocked gagging, "Did not need that visual."

Amell snorted, and the Tranquil serving filled their trays. Jowan doubted it was a coincidence Amell picked a table with a perfect view of Anders. Anders was sitting on his own table, one leg up on the bench, the other dangling while he gestured wildly with his utensils. Jowan knew it was yet another exaggerated story of whatever had happened to him on his latest escape attempt. There'd be at least eight different versions out by the end of the day.

"Three months," Amell said, a gleam of unadulterated awe in his eyes, "He was gone for three months in winter. Do you think he really ran across the lake when he escaped?"

"I think I don't care," Jowan said, eating a spoonful of his stew. It was a bit lavish, and better hot. White asparagus, fresh cranberry beans, scallions and an assortment of herbs Amell let go to waste while he stared at Anders. His chin was in his hand and a dazed expression on his face that made Jowan sigh.

Maker, not again. Amell was always at his worst the first few days Anders was back from his latest escape attempt. All he wanted to do was hover around the fringe circles that formed around Anders and listen to one ridiculous story after the next.

"You should have seen him when the templars brought him in," Amell said, with such a dreamy lilt to his voice Jowan knew he'd feel guilty if he didn't at least pretend to listen. "Shackles on his wrists, arms strung up between two templars, knees dragging on the floor, bruised and bleeding..."

"And this was a turn on for you?" Jowan asked, "We need to talk."

"It wasn't that," Amell picked a scallion out of his soup and flicked it at him. "He was smirking. I got chills just looking at him; he's so sanguine about everything. How long do you think until he escapes again?"

"Sanguine?" Jowan asked. "He's so red about everything? What does that even mean?"

"It means confident, Jowan, read a book." Amell said.

They were teasing, but it still hurt. Realization lit Amell's eyes a second later and they snapped away from Anders to fix on Jowan. Amell jerked over the table to grab Jowan's free hand in both of his. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Whatever," Jowan shrugged. He knew he was stupid.

"I'm sorry," Amell said.

"I said whatever," Jowan pulled his hand away. He wasn't hungry anymore. "Why don't you go sit with your precious Anders or something."

Jowan knocked his leg on the table and bounced the silverware when he stood. He kicked his way out from under the table and left the dining hall, ducking his head when he walked past the templars. He didn't very far into the halls before Amell caught up with him.

"Jowan, wait," Amell called after him.

"Fuck off," Jowan said.

Amell grabbed his arm, and Jowan shook him off. He knew it only worked because Amell let him win. The only time Jowan ever won was when someone let him. His chest felt constricted, and it was suddenly hard to breathe in enough air. Jowan looked at the templars stationed in the hall watching the two of them, and took a sharp turn that put him in an empty enchanter's laboratory.

Amell followed him, and Jowan landed a punch on his shoulder Amell didn't bother blocking. It made him feel a little better when Amell winced and rubbed the bruise. "I'm sorry,"

"Fuck your sorry," Jowan said. "You're the only one in here who's never called me stupid, and then you take one look at that apostate and you act like I'm a Tranquil. Is it just not supposed to hurt when you say shit like that? You know I have trouble reading."

"I know you do, I'm sorry," Amell said, "I was just trying to think of something to say to tease you. I wasn't thinking,"

"Damn right you weren't," Jowan snapped. Amell's shamefaced expression was making it hard for him to stay angry. Jowan turned around to glare at the wall instead, and knew it was a mistake when Amell pulled him back against his chest. Amell squeezed Jowan's arms with one hand and his stomach with the other.

"I'm sorry," Amell said. "I wasn't thinking. You know I don't care if reading is hard for you. It doesn't make you stupid."

Jowan tried for a hostile noise in the back of his throat. Something closer to a whine came out.

"Fuck Anders. I love you," Amell said, forehead pressed into Jowan's shoulder. "I shouldn't have said what I did."

Jowan gave one of Amell's enveloping arms a weak squeeze. "Yeah, I know you want to fuck Anders," Jowan scratched at his stubble with his knuckles, and ultimately untangled himself from Amell's embrace.

Amell gave him a melancholy look, "Do you forgive me?"

"Yeah I forgive you," Jowan sighed. "Come on, let's go see if the Tranquil took our food away."

Amell bumped against his shoulder on the way back to the dining hall. Jowan gave him a shove in turn. "I really am sorry." Amell said.

"You know what they say I guess," Jowan shrugged, "You think with your dick, you act like a dick."

"He's really hot, Jowan," Amell said.

Jowan snorted. Their plates were still there, albeit cold. Anders was still there, though he was finally sitting on the bench instead of on the table. Amell sat with his back to him.

"You can stare," Jowan said. "I'll stop giving you shit."

"I know what he looks like," Amell said with forced disinterest.

The rest of the meal passed with talk of other things, and Jowan felt slightly vindicated knowing he still meant more to Amell than some runaway. Come the next day Jowan just felt guilty. Amell got to see him every day. Anders wasn't always around, and had been gone for three months. Jowan should let Amell gawk if he wanted.

They were late to dinner, a few days later, and happened to chance upon Anders finally without his usual crowd of admirers. He was sitting with the same black haired mage from before, more or less alone and far less intimidating to approach. Jowan gave Amell a nudge.

"There's your chance," Jowan said.

"My chance for what?" Amell asked, eyes on Anders when they went to get their trays. Amell had to be the most unsubtle person Jowan had ever met.

"To go talk to him," Jowan said.

"Talk to him?" Amell squeaked.

Jowan laughed. "Well look at that, 'Lord Amell of Kirkwall' is finally scared of something."

"I'm not scared of anything," Amell hissed at him.

"Uh huh," Jowan hummed. "It's a good thing too. You know there's no way in the Void you have a chance with him, right?"

"What?" Amell asked, "Why not? I've lost weight and my face isn't that bad anymore."

"Because we're losers," Jowan reminded him. "You're the teacher's pet and I'm the Circle idiot. And he's way too old for you."

"He is not," Amell muttered. "He's only five years older than I am."

"I can't believe you even know that." Jowan shook his head. They picked a table across from Anders. Dinner was a thick beef stew Amell didn't touch.

"I bet I could get with him," Amell said after a long minute spent staring at Anders.

Jowan snorted, "Maybe if you kidnapped him. You know he's slept with like, every girl in the tower, right?"

"That just means he'll have to start on the men," Amell said.

"Ugh," Jowan groaned. "You know what, I bet you're all talk," Jowan took his apple off his tray and planted it in the space between them, "I bet you my dessert you can't even go over there and introduce yourself."

"He's busy with a friend," Amell said.

"I knew it," Jowan held out a hand across the table, "Hand over your apple,"

"No," Amell hadn't touched his food, but he tugged his tray closer to his side of the table defensively at the threat of it being taken away. "You know what, fine. I will. I'll introduce myself."

"Alright, go do it," Jowan said.

"Fine." Amell said.

"Fine," Jowan agreed. Amell didn't move. Jowan laughed at him, and Amell shot him a scowl before climbing off the bench. "Shit, I have to see this," Jowan scrambled after him.

Jowan bit his lip to keep from laughing at just the sight of Amell approaching Anders' table. His whole demeanor changed into the fakest thing Jowan had ever seen. He put his shoulders back, his chin up, and his voice even dropped an octave. Jowan sat at the corner of the nearest table and did his best to look disaffected.

Anders looked up at Amell's approach and shot him a grin, and Jowan swallowed down a guffaw at Amell wiping sweat off his palm on his robe. "It's Anders, isn't it?" Amell asked. Not a bad start, Jowan supposed.

"That's the rumor," Anders agreed.

"Except it actually is a rumor," The man next to him mused quietly.

Anders laughed and nudged him, and took a bite out of his own apple.

"I'm Amell, do you mind if I join you?" Amell asked.

"Nope," Anders said.

Amell sat. Jowan was impressed he even got that far.

"I know we haven't really talked before, but everyone's heard of you," Amell said, "I heard you made it to Gwaren this time, and I know you would have had to go over the Southron Hills and through the Breceilian Passage to get there, and I was wondering if-"

That was as far as he got before one of the elven girls wandered over to wrap her arms around Anders' chest, and rest her breasts on Anders' shoulder. She whispered something Jowan couldn't hear in Anders' ear and Anders face lit up, "Well we did skip three months," Anders purred in response to whatever the elf had said.

Anders tossed down his apple and got up, pointing a finger at Amell as he left, "Nice talking to you, Apple," Anders said, letting the elf drag him out of the dining hall.

Jowan held himself together until Anders was out the door before he burst out laughing. He staggered over to the table Amell was still sitting at and draped himself over his friend's shoulders, hooting, "Oh Maker, that was beautiful. I'm in tears. Nice going, Apple. Where were you even going with that, anyway? Maker, my sides. Send help."

"He called me Apple." Amell said in a daze.

"I guess you showed me," Jowan laughed. "Let me go get my apple for you, Apple."

"I can't believe he called me Apple." Amell said.

"He really is quite pleasant once you get to know him," The man who'd been at the table with Anders said quietly. "He just gets ... distracted easily."

"I suppose that's fair," Amell said.

"He'll be back if you want to wait to talk to him," The man said.

"No I-I think I'm okay." Amell said, getting up and retreating to his own table. Jowan went back with him, and rolled his apple over to Amell, laughing. Amell took a bite out of it and frowned at the table.

"What'd I tell you?" Jowan asked, "You're like a kid to him, and besides, he obviously likes women."

"People can like both, you know." Amell said.

"Whatever you say, Apple," Jowan chuckled.

Jowan assumed that would finally be the end of Amell's infatuation, but Anders was back in the dining hall the next day, and Amell was back to staring at him. "Seriously?" Jowan sighed. "After he blew you off you're still going to sit here pining?"

"Why would that change how I feel?" Amell asked.

"Because most people don't like being treated like crap?" Jowan guessed.

"Love doesn't always beget love," Amell said.

"What does that even mean?" Jowan asked.

"It means I don't need him to like me back." Amell said.

"You remember how you said I wasn't your type?' Jowan asked, "I'm going to take that as a compliment. I think your type is assholes."

"Well I mean-" Amell started.

"Stop!"

Chapter 19: All Bark

Summary:

Then Anders blinked, and it was gone. There was a line cut through his left eyebrow Amell didn't have. He was taller, his shoulders broader, his arms not lean but thick. His skin was a little darker, his nose not quite so round and his lips not quite so full, and his beard didn't grow quite the same way. He looked at Anders without the slightest spark of recognition in his eyes.

Notes:

This chapter takes place during the events of Chapter 55 - Birds of a Feather of Accursed Ones and is told from Hawke's perspective.

This is a very tiny spoiler free look at ... Love at first sight? Maybe? No? Okay.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:32 Dragon Eluviesta 6 Afternoon
Kirkwall Lowtown

"So," Bethany throws all of her weight on me knowing I'll catch her. An arm around her waist is enough to swing her off her feet, and carry her a few steps before I let go, "When we meet the famous apostate healer risking his life to help the refugees in Darktown, you're going to play nice, right?"

"I always play nice," I say.

"Hawke, you wouldn't know nice if it stepped out of the Maker's ass and handed you a puppy." Varric laughs.

"Puppies shit everywhere," Dog whines, but it's true, "How is giving me one nice?"

"Stop it, you two," Aveline huffs, and thumps a gauntlet-clad fist on my chest. It's winding, and I force an ugly smile through it, "Hawke busts the teeth and buys the drinks. That's as nice as anyone needs. And let's not forget, the apostate is still an apostate. We don't know what we're walking into."

"Aveline's right," I say.

"Because all apostates are inherently dangerous?" Bethany demands.

"Yes," Aveline and I say in tandem.

It takes Bethany muttering, "No one asks for this life," under her breath for me to realize she wasn't talking about the healer. Maker's breath, I hate these fucking games. I'm so bad this.

"Beth-" I start, but Bethany cuts me off with a wild flap of her hand and takes a longer stride to walk ahead of us. I turn the rest of my argument into a mindless growl.

"I'm thinking of Cloud for you," Varric muses, "You know, since you're always blocking the Sunshine."

"Don't be a tit, Varric," Aveline says.

"I'm-do you two-" Words, Hawke. Words. Talk like a person. "I need-" Fuck, I can't do it.

"Go on, we'll hang back," Varric says with a wave of allowance.

I jog after Bethany, and Dog runs at my side nipping at my hand like it's a game. I have to shove someone out of my way when they don't see the Red Iron armor and move. I grab Beth's forearm and she turns to scowl at me. "Beth-come on," I say.

"Come on yourself," Bethany snaps.

"Um."

"What-oh-Gross, Garrett," Bethany bites down a laugh and punches my shoulder. I barely feel it through the boiled leather. "So he's an apostate, so what? You heard all those refugees, the Dog Lords. He's like a savior to them."

"This isn't about him, is it?" I ask.

"I hate hearing you talk about mages like that," Bethany folds her arms over her chest, and she looks all of ten to me, still in pigtails and pouting when Father won't let her come with us into the city.

"He's an apostate in Kirkwall, Beth," I remind her, "Anyone who can manage that is dangerous. I'm dangerous. You're dangerous. It's not a bad thing; it's just the truth."

"I'm dangerous," Bethany rolls her eyes.

"Deadly," I try for a joke and it falls predictably flat.

"I don't want to be," Bethany mumbles.

"I know you don't," I take her hand and plant a kiss on the back of her palm. Bethany swats my nose.

"Stop it," Bethany huffs. "Your beard itches." Bethany sighs and laces her fingers over her head, "You are going to be nice though, right?"

"What does that even mean?" I ask.

"It means acting like a person for five minutes," Bethany explains, "No barking. No biting. No growling. 'My name is Garrett. I heard you were a Warden, and I was hoping you could help me with my Deep Roads expedition.'"

I make a joke of counting out the words and Bethany hits me when she notices. "I'm serious!" Bethany says.

"What?" I say, "Varric is going to do all the talking anyway. It's better that way."

"You could try to act like people, Garrett," Bethany sounds exasperated, and I honestly can't blame her. I think it's exasperating sometimes, but I'm not about to tell her twenty-six years lived in isolation for her sake have made me dog shit at talking to people. I don't know how she and Carver ever learned how to function.

"Varric can be people for me," I say, "Whoever Anders is, he's a Warden, he's a healer, and he's obviously going to be an asset. I'm not going to fuck it up. I just don't think there's any harm in being cautious."

"I suppose that's fair," Bethany sighs. "You know it would be really nice to spend time with another mage-"

"No," I cut her off.

"Garrett," Bethany whines. "He might not be like Merrill."

"He's a he," I point out. "No."

"Are you joking right now?" Bethany asks, "I wasn't even thinking that."

"Good," I say, "Don't."

"You're impossible," Bethany mutters.

"And he's an apostate," I say.

"You keep saying that like it means something," Bethany says.

"It means he'll always have to worry about templars, and he'll never be safe for you to be around," I say. "We just need the expedition, the coin, and the status. Then you can make all the friends you want in Hightown."

"I'm so tired, Garrett," Bethany sighs.

"I know." Maker I know. We've been tired for the past five years, if not our whole lives. "But we're not indentured anymore and with a Warden and a healer this expedition will pull through."

"I hope so," Bethany says.

I unpack my bow on the lift down to Darktown. Dog throws his usual fit on the way down. The dumb mutt is as afraid of the dark as he is claustrophobic, and whines every time I go to talk to Tomwise. As soon as I kneel down to string up my bow Dog puts his head on my knee and whimpers.

I uncork a vial of kaddis from my belt and smear a streak of red over his muzzle and one on my nose to match. "No whining," I press our foreheads together and stare into his eyes to drive the order home. "You're a war dog, remember?" I ask. That shuts Dog up. If only people were half as easy to talk to.

We get off the lift, and it's into Darktown. It's a shithole. There's not much more to say about it. This whole damn city is a shithole. We spend the better part of an hour lost in caves and mineshafts looking for a green lantern and an apostate half the city seems enamoured with.

We find it when we find the Coterie. Their leader knows Varric, and he does his best to talk them down, but they're here for the healer, and I'll be fucked if I let them steal the only Warden in this accursed city before we have a chance to talk to him. The fight is inevitable. One of the Coterie starts it with a dagger they throw at Varric. They miss. I don't.

Varric falls back. Aveline rushes forward. Bethany stays behind me, and her magic manifests as a rush of adrenaline for all of us. It's subtle and safe, and the heightened focus makes it easier to chase after the handful of arrows I keep, retrieve them from the throats they're buried in, and fire them again. Dog on the right, and no one can reach me.

No one in Kirkwall has ever seen an archer like me. Every fight I've had here, the thugs and bandits seem to think rushing me with their throat bared for an arrow will work. It doesn't. The fight ends, and the door to the free clinic slams open. A crack of lightning ricochets through the corridor. Dog whines and I flinch. Maker's breath, magic is terrifying.

Before any of us have a chance to react, Aveline's shield explodes on her arm. The shards go everywhere, and I have a sudden and very intense hatred of the bastard who did it. "We have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation, and you will not threaten it!" A powerful voice bellows.

And he's hideous.

Of course he's hideous. Why did I think he wouldn't be hideous? The thing in front of us looks more like a drowned rat than a man. His clothes are a mismatched assortment of rags, and I don't even have words to explain the... Robe? Coat? Maker what is he wearing? All of it is stained with blood, vomit, things I don't want to identify.

His hair is long and wild, twisted into a messy knot on the back of his head that does little to help contain the greasy strands. His face is covered in freckles or dirt or both, and his stubble looks like he tried to shave it with a dagger. His complexion is sallow and malnourished and his eyes are lined with so many dark circles I can't even tell what color they are.

He looks like someone dragged him through the Blight, the sewers, and every manner of filth imaginable and unimaginable. I don't even know the bastard and I feel sorry for him. He looks straight at me, and collapses against the door frame to his clinic. I can't name the expression. Delight? Relief? Shock? A softness about his eyes that almost speaks of love.

... That's going to make me uncomfortable.

Yep. I'm definitely uncomfortable.

Aveline grabs him by his coat, and shakes him hard enough to break his eyes off me. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it's short lived. Aveline is screaming at him, and I know he deserves it, but we need him.

Maker's breath, I hope he stops looking at me like that.

Chapter 20: See You Again

Summary:

"I was too rebellious," Karl explained, and it felt like looking at Hawke when Anders expected Amell. There was no affection in his ice blue eyes. No curve to his rose red lips. Not the slightest angle to the silver eyebrows he'd worn thin with worry. "Too much like you. The templars knew I had to be made an example of."

Notes:

This chapter takes place before and during Chapter 55 - Snap of Accursed Ones.

It is told from Karl's perspective. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:32 Dragon 29 Nubulis Morning
Kirkwall Gallows

Karl lay abed. Anders had left long ago, and the maid had come and gone with breakfast. Karl had taken to sleeping during the day with Anders nightly visits, but the rising sun streaked in through his ever-open window and sleep eluded him.

His thoughts kept turning back to Anders. His cheeky smirk that only turned up one corner of his lip, and made his eyes crinkle when he said, "I don't know, kiss me again."

Anders' heavy-lidded gaze was something Karl had only thought to see in his fantasies. Idle fantasies conjured by an idle mind to pass the time in solitary, but they were nothing beside reality. Karl recalled the way Anders breath had turned harsh when Karl had pulled Anders' bottom lip between his teeth, the way Anders' hands had flexed on Karl's shoulders.

Karl dropped his head back against the pillows with a sigh. Maker, Anders had meant it. Anders wanted him. Karl ran a hand through his hair, remembering the way Anders' nails felt scraping along his scalp. Anders hadn't cared at all for the color, only the length, his fingertips brushing over Karl's beard while Anders palmed his cheek.

Three years. Four months in solitary. Karl had almost forgotten what it felt like to be touched. The memory was enough to make him hard. Their lips meeting and breaking until Anders' lips were bruised and swollen. That one muffled whimper Anders had let slip when Karl let electricity build between his fingers.

Karl fought out of his robe and smalls and kicked the offending articles of clothing aside. Freedom. He'd have it soon. He wouldn't have to leave his robes on and steal frantically beneath them to draw a hasty release from his lover. Always dressed and in the dark, never knowing the other's body because it was never safe, there was never time.

Karl dragged blunt nails down his chest, imagining the touch was Anders. He thought of those amber eyes shadowed with passion and raking his body while his nails followed the path of his gaze. Karl sucked on his fingers and ran them over his nipple until it was stiff, imagining it was the flick of Anders' tongue. Anders circled his nipple with his tongue, and Karl let his magic warm his fingers.

Anders would love magic. Embrace it between them. His hands would crackle with static when he ran them down Karl's chest, tapping playful fingers over his hip bones and the flat of his stomach. He'd tease, and they'd have time to tease. He'd neglect Karl's aching cock where it lay heavy on his stomach, and trace down to his thighs instead. Karl laced the static on his fingers with a low pulse of creationism, and shocked himself.

Pleasure flared through his veins and he shuddered, biting his bottom lip to stifle his moan at the electric intensity. Anders would laugh, an unashamed chuckle, his tongue wetting kiss-swollen lips while he looked up at Karl through his lashes. Karl ran his thumb over the fluid leaking from his cock, and bit down a gasp imagining Anders' tongue flicking over his slit.

Karl spat into his palm and wrapped his hand around his shaft, picturing Anders' lips stretching over the head of his cock, his tongue a talented swirl as he sank low on his shaft. Karl dug his nails into his thigh, picturing those honeyed eyes starring up at him through ruddy lashes. Anders' long hair everywhere, falling about his face and into his eyes until Karl gathered it in his hand and held it at the back of Anders' head.

Karl thrust up into his fist and imagined the delicious friction came from Anders' mouth. He let his primal magic warm his palm, creationism slick it, and the fantasy was so close to feeling real. Karl's hips jerked, and his mind conjured the sound of Anders' gagging in surprise, but adjusting, letting Karl fuck deep into his mouth and throat. Karl bit his lip to muffle his groans, and felt the pressure building in his stomach, coiling together with heat and shivers of passion.

Karl swallowed down Anders' name, and imagined him with his mouth open, his tongue out, his eyes eager and still sparkling with mischief. He'd look beautiful, his lips bright and red and wet, splashes of white painting over his flushed face and the freckles that streaked across his nose. A few erratic strokes of his hand drew the last of his finish from him, but Karl kept his hand moving, kept his eyes closed, tried to keep the fantasy going.

It faded, but his affection for Anders didn't. Karl opened his eyes to his quarters in solitary, and for once felt comfortable with the throb in his cock and the ache in his wrist. He didn't feel guilty or desperate, trapped or hopeless. He just felt satisfied.

Anders had spent his whole life escaping the Circle, but he'd come back for Karl. Anders wouldn't stop now that they were this close. He'd find some way to get Karl out. This wasn't solitary. It wasn't a prison. It was just an in-between, and it would pass. Karl dried himself off, and sat in the center of his bed to practice the magic Anders insisted he could learn.

He thought of crows. Of flying and freedom, and he was okay.


To the Desk of Ser Alrik
Delivered

I assure you, every effort was made to obtain the illegal correspondence and contraband Thekla kept in his quarters, and I say again, it was lost through no fault of ours.

It came as a shock to us all. Thekla was compliant when we first discovered him writing to this apostate 'A'. He stood aside and offered no resistance and we believed him penitent. When we had gathered all of the assorted paraphernalia, the papers burst into flame in Ser Feran's hands.

Trust me when I say there was no warning. You will recall Thekla was an instructor in primal magic. By the time we sensed the pull of the Fade, the spell was already cast. I cast the smite myself, and Thekla was shackled, but the letters were lost. All we retrieved from the flames was a burnt sand coin and ashes.

Is it not enough that we have his last letter? We know he was writing to an apostate 'A' who was attempting to teach Thekla shape-shifting. I understand Thekla has not been forthright with questioning, but surely Tranquility is unnecessary.

Respectfully,
Ser Bardel


To the Desk of Ser Bardel
Delivered

Bardel, perhaps the gravity of the situation escapes you, so let me reiterate. Thekla and the rest of the libertarians were placed in solitary confinement for dangerous proselytizing and inciting to riot. By your own admission Thekla used his magic against one of our own, and now fails to cooperate with our investigation. He has sealed his own fate.

We must now concern ourselves with a shape-shifting apostate loose in Kirkwall. I cannot imagine a graver threat. A mage who can move freely between the Gallows and the city, visiting every mage with a window and instilling more thoughts of rebellion in them? He must be our priority now, and Thekla is the only tool to catch him we have at our disposal.

Do as I have commanded.
Ser Alrik


To the Desk of Knight Commander Meredith
Intercepted

Knight-Commander, I must question the morality, the legality, and the wisdom of carrying out the Rite of Tranquility against a Harrowed mage. While I understand the Rite of Tranquility exists as an alternative to death for mages unable to resist the lure of a demon, as far as I am aware it has never before been utilized as a means of punishment for a mage who has already proven himself.

I understand Thekla's actions warrant disciplinary action, but is this truly the path we are to take? Many Circle mages take comfort in passing their Harrowings as a guarantee they will not be made Tranquil. Can we truly afford to take that one comfort away from them when we already offer so few? Would not Aeonar be more suitable?

Respectfully,
Ser Bardel


To the Desk of Ser Bardel
Delivered

I have told you a hundred times not to bother the knight-commander with your pathetic questions. She's a busy woman and has no time to nurse you through your crisis of conscience. You are under my command. If you take issues with my orders, you bring them to me, or I will see you stripped of your knighthood!

Thekla is dangerous and we must take steps to deal with him and the apostate assisting his rebellion. I expect this done by the end of the week. If I must see to it personally, I will also find out exactly why you failed to carry out your sacred duties.

The Maker has given us a divine task, Bardel. We cannot fail Him.

Ser Alrik


To the Desk of Knight Commander Meredith
Delivered

I, Knight-Corporal Oscar Bardel, formally request to be relieved of Knight-Lieutenant Otto Alrik's command and that Enchanter Karl Thekla be shown mercy for his actions.

Respectfully,
Ser Bardel


To the Desk of Ser Bardel
Delivered

Reassignment granted. Mercy denied.

Knight-Commander Meredith
Dictated but not Read


Bardel walked through the white-washed halls of the Gallows, the silverite of his boots echoing loudly through the abandoned corridor. Mages confined themselves to their quarters of their own accord these days. Self-inflicted solitary was better than being caught out in the hall with Ser Alrik around. Bardel stopped in front of the quarters where Thekla had been relocated and damned himself for a coward.

He had to see it. It was his report that had damned Thekla. He had to see what he'd done.

Bardel took a deep breath, and forced open the door. It wasn't locked. There was no need with the Tranquil. Thekla's quarters were appropriately sparse. There was a bed, a table, and a backless chair. The only window was a small slit in the door to allow a little bit of air to flow into his room.

Thekla sat on the backless chair, in little more than his smalls. His robe was draped over the foot of his bed. The sunburst was raised and welted and fresh, glistening obscenely between two dead eyes. "Hello Ser Bardel," Thekla said flatly.

"Hello Karl," Bardel put on a smile. Life under Alrik could make a good liar out of any man. "... Why aren't you wearing your robe?"

"The friction caused discomfort," Thekla explained. Bardel circled him to take in the marks on his back left by Alrik's 'questioning' when Thekla was still Thekla. The scars were fresh, bright pink and red but no longer bleeding.

"Damnit," Bardel turned away from it. "Alrik's out of his damn mind." Thekla was pushing fifty. He was damned lucky the beating hadn't given him a heart attack. Or maybe unlucky. Maybe dead was better. "They never got you a healer?" Bardel asked the wall.

"Ser Alrik said the discomfort would serve as a lesson to dissuade further disobedience." Thekla explained.

"Damnit, Karl," Bardel flexed his fingers apart until the strain stung, "Why couldn't you just cooperate?"

"I remember thinking it was important Anders not be taken captive," Thekla explained. Tranquil didn't understand rhetorical questions. "I don't remember why."

Bardel circled back around to crouch in front of him and look into his blank blue eyes. "You know you don't have to go. You don't have to be a part of this anymore. I know Tranquil still have some volition. Alrik won't care if you get hurt or die in this ambush. Alrik's not even going. He won't know if you don't."

"Anders would never hurt me," Thekla said.

"You know Alrik is going to make him Tranquil," Bardel said.

"I know," Thekla said. "It will be good for him."

"I can't see how this is good for anyone," Bardel stood up and started pacing. Damned if it wasn't like looking at a corpse.

"Anders has always had suicidal tendencies," Thekla explained. "It will hurt him to see me like this. He will not understand. Tranquility will calm him. It will help him be at peace. I see now this is the only freedom we will ever know."

"That's not what you said in your letter," Bardel glanced over his shoulder. Thekla hadn't moved. He sat stiff and unerringly straight on the stool, hands on his knees, the occasional involuntary twitch running along his shoulders from the lingering pain of Alrik's beating. Bardel had heard from the templars who still served under Alrik Thekla hadn't given up a word, even when they'd brought out the brand.

That kind of sacrifice shouldn't be thrown away so easily.

"It doesn't have to be like this, Karl," Bardel turned back around and knelt back down in front of him. "I can try to find him for you, before all this happens. Warn him not to come."

"I would prefer that you did not," Thekla said. "It seems likely he might take his life or yours if he knew."

"So you still care about him?" Bardel asked.

"He is my friend," Thekla said. "I want him to be well."

"I didn't know Tranquil could even still recognize friendships," Bardel stared at him, but Thekla looked no more or less expressive. "That you even still felt anything."

"I feel calm," Thekla said. "I hope Anders soon feels the same."

Chapter 21: Broken Circle

Summary:

"Anders, do you know what happened back at the Circle?" Amell asked, "During the Blight, with Uldred, and the Rite of Annulment?"

"Sort of?" Anders shrugged, "I mean I heard there was a big mess with blood mages and abominations, and I know a lot of people died, but I was in Harper's Ford at the time. I haven't been back to the Circle in... over a year now."

Notes:

This chapter takes place before the events of Accursed Ones, during the Blight, and is linked from Chapter 21 - The Resolutionist and The Aequitarian. It is told from Amell's perspective.

Written for a request on Amell completing the Broken Circle quest. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon 7 Molioris Afternoon
Kinloch Hold

Where is everyone?

Where's Niall? Eadric, Finn, Cullen? Where's Leorah? Evelina? Godwin?

Where's Anders?

Damn Wynne. Damn her and damn Greagoir. Damn them and damn their child and damn them all. Cravens cowering outside locked doors and barriers when they could be doing something. They want an Annulment. I'll show them an Annulment. I'll annul every last templar who crosses me.

Bastards. They've done nothing. They do nothing. I hear the excited whispers of wisps, and call on one, giving it purpose the dead templar it possesses never had. The corpse stands, silver sword of mercy glittering obscenely on its chest armor. If ever the Order had been invented to protect mages, their symbol would be no sword.

Wynne's pathetic excuses are still ringing in my ears. She couldn't leave the children. She couldn't fight alone.

A mage is never alone.

The first demon we cross is Rage. I must have drawn it. The creature is spitting hate and dripping fire, and how I can relate. I know it wants purpose, unity, me. Would that I could give it that. To take it and tear through these halls, but I can't. I'm so furious the spell is almost effortless, and I can feel the demon turn exultant through our blood binding. This will have to be enough for us.

"Maleficar!" Wynne screams, and I haven't the patience. I whirl on her and my first thought is to rip out her mind and reshape it into something worthwhile, but Morrigan slaps her. Lectures her for me. I keep moving. I don't have time for her.

There are so many shades seeping through the Veil the apprentice quarters looked cloaked in shadow. The first abomination we find is small. Too small. A girl perhaps six or seven, and the demon reshaping her tiny body is Fear. I can see it in the vestigial arms dangling through the tears in her robe, in the extra eyes sprouting along her brow.

How easy it must have been. Fear must have been haunting her as it haunts every mage child from their first night in the Tower. What child wouldn't say yes to the voice in their head that promises to take that Fear away? Where were her templars? Where were her protectors?

Where's Anders?

She charges us with a wail that puts shrieks to shame. Alistair freezes. Oghren screams. Leliana prays. Zevran throws a dagger that takes her in the eye, and burst of ice from Morrigan takes the girl in the chest in an attempt to slow her. She dives me, and I catch her on my shield. The force of her indents it, and I feel a sharp snap of pain that marks my arm breaking. Sten cleaves her in half with a downward stroke of Asala.

"Are you alright, Kadan?" Sten asks.

"Kill the Rage demon." I order. Creationism can't heal through blood magic, and I can't fight with a dead shield arm. Sten and the rest of the warriors cut the demon to pieces. I can feel it raging through the binding for the betrayal, and it hurts as much as it always does. "Wynne, my arm."

She hesitates. Anders wouldn't have. Her lips are pursed and her brow is furrowed when she finally steps forward to heal me. Her eyes are radiating condemnation and if not for my helmet I'd smirk. Nothing cuts deeper than the object of your hatred being completely unaffected by it. The templars taught me that. I pick up my indented shield and keep moving.

Where's Anders?

The next demon we encounter is Desire. There's no lust in me right now, but I can twist rage into a lust for blood and the binding takes. Despair is a struggle, but Terror is as effortless as Rage, and there are two of them.

"Amor," Zevran says after the last, a touch of concern in his beautiful voice. I wish he wouldn't waste it on me. "How many of these can you hold?"

"As many as there are," I say. Perhaps it's a lie. Perhaps it's not. I don't need their blood yet, but I'd bleed them all to see this tower cleansed. It's not what I want. Damn me, it's not. A warden is ruthless to their enemies, compassionate to their friends, and inspiring to their troops. Those were the words Duncan left me with, but I don't have anything in me but ruthlessness right now.

Where's Anders?

I take the stairs at run. The second story is all senior mages. The abominations here are bigger. The shades stronger, with a lifetime of imprisonment to feed off. Leorah is possessed. Fear. Again. So many of the abominations are Fear. Shades are manifesting in the shadows of every corner. This whole Tower's gone to the Void.

Damn everything. The Fear abomination's affinity for frost gives Leliana such a shock of cold it knocks her unconscious. It throws Alistair so hard it gives him a concussion and an assortment of contusions. Even Sten is wounded, an ugly gash on his sword arm that's gone through to muscle. Wynne says it will take an hour to heal them all.

"I don't have an hour!" It comes out in a shout. Everyone looks at me. I hadn't meant to yell. I never yell. I clear my throat, and tell the wounded to barricade themselves in the quarters we're in now. We'll come back for them. I have to sweep the senior mage quarters.

It leaves me with Oghren, Morrigan, Barkspawn, and Zevran. Shale didn't fit through the doors, and we had to leave them behind in the entry hall. I have my demons, ethereal veins of blood flowing between the four of them and myself. I don't need help. I can do this. I can drown the whole Tower in blood if I have to.

Where's Anders?

I find Owain in the stockroom, and he claims to have seen Niall. Godwin is locked in his room. There's no sign of anyone else who isn't an abomination, and the few that have mutated beyond recognizing aren't wearing fox pendants. Then we search the lounge. The room is infested. This is Blight. I don't have another word for it. The walls are lined in muscle, dripping blood and pulsing, and there are mages sewn into the undulating mass.

They're saving them.

The Veil is pulled thin, and demons press upon it. I can hear all of them, desperate for a taste of the mortal world, eager to break through and take advantage of every prone mage they can find, and there are so many. I know more than most of them. I think I might be sick.

Zevran rests a hand on my shoulder. I reach to take it when I see him. He's set high in the wall, his head lulling, blond hair falling in front of his face, flesh and muscle growing over his lean arms and freckled skin. Terror reads me before I read myself. The two demons dive into the ground, and manifest in front of him, waiting.

I sprint across the room, pulling on my tainted blood to add an unnatural haste to my steps. I'm across the room seconds behind my demons, and Terror wraps its arms around me and lifts me up to reach him. I rip into the rot holding him to the wall, and he falls down into my arms, light as death. Terror sets us down and it's only when I lay his limp body on the ground I realize the sound I'm making.

It's not a scream and it's not a sob. It's not anything. It's a tangled mess of gasps and shrieks and he's not moving he's not breathing he's not he's not he's not he's not he's not

He's not Anders.

Not Anders.

I stumble back. Whoever the he is, he could have been Anders' twin. Everything from his cheekbones to his nose to the set of his jaw is perfect. His eyes are wrong. They're green, and a few other features are wrong, but he's so close. He's so close I feel sick. I can't be in here. I stumble out of lounge, and make a blind path back to the room where Wynne and the others are waiting.

I sink into a chair, and Oghren pushes a drink into my hand. I down all of it.

"You look like you just saw a ghost," Alistair says.

I fling the flask in my hand so hard the wood shatters when it hits the wall. I try to scream at him but all the sound tangles up in my throat, and my hands knot into fists so tight they hurt.

"Maker, I-" Alistair struggles, "Amell-I-that wasn't-I wasn't thinking. That was-"

"Perhaps you should next ask him who died, you toadstool." Morrigan hisses.

"Old flame?" Oghren guesses, somehow manifesting another flask for me despite the fact that I broke the last. I think I love him.

"No-I-... I-it-It wasn't him." I take another drink. It helps.

"Was not who?" Zevran asks. I dare a glance at him, but Zevran's a Crow. His missions were all seduction. If there's anything Zevran can control, it's his expression, but I can hear how tight his voice is when he asks.

I should lie, but... "Anders."

"Anders?" Wynne repeats the name, and even now, even with the entire Circle melting down around us, there's disdain in her voice. Morrigan's right. Wynne is cattle, willingly corralled and good for nothing. She'd let the templars slaughter her and every other mage if they told her it was for the best. "The apostate? He escaped. Again. In the chaos you and Jowan caused."

Her wizened voice is laced with condemnation, as if Anders would be better off here. As if anyone would be better off here, dead by a templar's sword or a demon's will. I've never met anyone who embodies everything I hate before. A mage who turns on her own kind and bows to her templar jailors. I look away from her when I start to see spots.

"A lover of yours?" Zevran guesses.

"No," I look at him and I hope he knows I'm not lying, but I lie too much. I don't think anyone can tell when I'm telling the truth anymore.

"Those lying lips will be the death of me," Zevran chuckles, with the slightest shake of his head and roll of his eyes.

"He's not. He's just someone I knew." Even that seems a stretch. We only spoke twice.

"I know a complication when it rears its ugly head and threatens to bite," Zevran says, "Enough of this. We have abominations to kill, no?"

Zevran doesn't speak to me after that. I can't blame him. We find Evelina later. She was working with Uldred, and tells me his intent to see the mages free of the Chantry and the Templars, and I couldn't agree more. I give the girl a hand and get her off the floor, and she helps us with the rest of the fight through the second story. Wynne is livid. I couldn't care less.

We reach the library, and Eadric is possessed. Pride. I lose two demons to dust in the fight, and a handful of us are injured. Finn appears from whatever nook he was hiding in, and helps heal everyone. He joins our growing procession of convert blood mages and rescued mages, and I can't keep track of all of them. When we've cleared the second story, I send the entire group downstairs to join the rest of the survivors.

The third story is more demons. I lose and bind them in waves, bleeding anyone who offers me an arm. The fourth floor is filled with templars, possessed or enslaved. I have to stay in the back with Morrigan and the others. My demons fall to the templars, and then I do. A smite hits me, and I barely manage to get my helmet off before I'm retching. I've never felt a fiercer pain, the fight is over by the time Zevran helps me to my feet.

I grab him by his collar before he can pull away, while we're still apart from the others, "Zev... There's no complication. You're the only man in my life."

"Braska," Zevran slaps my hand off, "Why do I care? I make no claims upon you, nor do I wish to."

I hate today.

We reach the main hall of the fourth floor, and I nearly trip over Niall's corpse.

Fucking.

Fuck.

Damnit.

I kneel to search him for the Litany, and by the time I notice there's something wrong with the room, it's too late, and the runes flare under our feet. I look up into the eyes of an abomination, born of Sloth. I can see it in the way its skin sloughs off its face, as if it's very body is too lazy to hold itself together. I can't move or speak. I don't think anyone else can either.

"Such a struggle," The abomination says, and I wish it was any other. Pride. Desire. Rage. Something I could resist. It's blood magic, but the words reach me, and they're all true, "You're tired of it, aren't you? Fighting. Living. Let it go. Lie down, and forget. The world will go on without you."

Everything goes dark, and then I'm running. I'm still in the Circle. I recognize the smell of parchment and lyrium, the echo that carries in the circular corridors, the cold stone floors and windowless walls. Why am I running?

Someone is running with me. I look down at the hand locked in mine, the long elegant fingers, the pale skin, the smattering of auburn hair that starts past the hand's wrist, and follow it up to the man it belongs to. "Anders?" I stammer.

Anders glances over his shoulder at me and grins; his hair, his eyes, the freckles on his face. Everything about him is golden and precious, "Come on, we're getting out of here."

"But you already got out." I remember. Wynne told me.

"I came back for you," Anders explains.

"... but you don't even know me." I stop. Anders scowls. Anders never scowls. Violet flecks through his eyes and I look up at the emerald sky of the Fade and laugh. Of course. Of course it's a dream. I should just go back to it.

"That was well done," I tell the demon.

"What was well done?" Anders asks.

"You don't have to wear that form," I tell it. "We can talk. As equals."

"Can we?" Anders takes a suspicious step back, and his eyes sweep over me, and I battle down a shiver. It would be easier if the demon showed itself: lilac skin and glistening muscle. Attractive, but not heartbreakingly so. "I think I'll keep this form for now."

"This isn't your demesne, is it?" I ask. It's obviously Desire. I'm not subtle. "You're trapped, just as I am, and you want out. Help me navigate this realm, and find however many of my companions are trapped here. We can kill Sloth, my companions and I will leave, and this demesne can be yours."

Anders laughs. Damn my memories, his laugh is perfect. "You think it that simple? You know nothing, mortal. This isn't the realm of a simple Sloth demon. I am not so weak as to be bound by one. This is Apathy, and it has fed for ages on your Circle, waiting for the Veil to thin. We are here forever."

"You don't deserve that form," I look the demon over, and I can see the cracks forming, violet breaking through Anders' veins, "How much did you pull from my mind? You said we were getting out of here. Did you mean it or not?"

Anders eyes me warily. Another other Harrowed mage would have fought it by now. I wonder how many have bothered to speak to it. It hesitates, but it can't resist. It's Desire, and if it picked Anders' form, it desires freedom above all else. I hold out a hand, and Anders takes it.

He reaches out his free hand, and drags his fingers through the walls of the Circle. The Fade breaks apart, and I can see the vast expanse of Apathy's domain beyond. It's just a moment between moments, but when Anders steps through and pulls me along behind him, it feels like the rescue I always imagined.

It's a dream, but it's a good dream.

I wake what feels like an eternity later, but it might have only been minutes. Apathy lies dead besides Niall. Desire has its own realm. I retrieve the Litany, and all of my friends are silent save Morrigan. The rest are too ashamed of their own nightmares to speak. I don't have time to worry about comforting them now.

We reach the stairs to the Harrowing Chamber, and find Cullen. I have no name for the magic that holds him. It reminds me of a binding Circle, but made for mortals. It's obviously blood magic, and Cullen is obviously mad. He screams at me as I head for the Harrowing Chamber, begging me to kill every mage I find, begging for the Right of Annulment, as if the Circle has any need for it now. As if there's anything left of any of us. I'm not a mage anymore.

I'm a maleficar.

Chapter 22: Love Sex Magic

Summary:

Amell gave his bottom lip a gentle tug with his teeth, "I'll say anything you want me to."

"How are you okay with all of this?" Anders asked, aware he was moving the conversation somewhere dangerous, but he wanted to know more than just Amell's body.

Amell abandoned his lips to carve a path down Anders' jaw and over his neck. The drag of his teeth and hot swipes of tongue left Anders grinding mindlessly against him. "There's nothing you could ask me for I haven't already done."

Notes:

This chapter takes place after Chapter 29 of Accursed Ones.

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 23 Parvulis Afternoon
Vigil's Keep, Warden Commander's Quarters

Anders heaved his third heavy sigh of the afternoon, and tossed his head on the sheets to stare at Amell. Ignoring him. Still. Anders walked his feet up the canopy bedpost, robes sliding down around his thighs and leaving him looking a little ridiculous, black socks cutting off just above his ankles and giving way to pale legs freckled with ruddy brown hair. Anders heaved another sigh, eyes darting to Amell working at his desk. Still nothing.

Anders listened to the scratch of Amell's quill working against the parchment. Yet another missive to yet another noble that Anders didn't care about. The scratching halted for one hopeful second, before it was followed by the clink of the quill being tapped against the ink jar, and the scratching resumed. Maker, what was Anders even doing here? He had better things to do than lie neglected on Amell's bed while the man slaved away for an arling he'd never wanted in the first place.

Anders sighed again and draped his arms over his eyes, irritated he'd even formed the thought. "You don't have to stay here with me, Anders," Amell finally spoke up. Anders let an arm slide off his face to peer at the man, and gave a frustrated groan when he found Amell had already resumed working.

"Do you really have to do all this now?" Anders asked, not bothering to mask the low whine in the question.

"I should," Amell said, and Maker's sweet saving grace, the quill finally dropped into the inkwell. Amell dusted the parchment, and set it to dry, and-Andraste preserve him-picked up another letter to read.

Anders let his feet slide off the bedpost and swing down to the floor. The momentum swung him along and carried him to his feet, and Anders couldn't help his smug smirk when Amell's eyes finally darted his way at the motion. They were back on the parchment in the next second, but Anders finally got him.

"Alright," Anders shrugged innocently, crossing the room to drape his arms around Amell's neck. Anders' plan fell out of his head with the rest of his thoughts. A crisp, clean scent clung to Amell: woodsmoke and cedar with his natural copper, and Anders buried his nose in the wild silk strands of his hair and breathed him in without thinking.

Amell freed a hand from the letter he was reading to clasp one of Anders' wrists where it lay draped across his chest. His thumb slid along Anders palm and splayed his fingers, and Amell pulled the digits up to his lips to kiss one after the other. It hadn't been Anders plan at all, and it took him longer than he cared to admit to remember it.

It didn't matter. It left Amell with only one hand on the letter, and made it a terribly simple affair to snatch it out of his hand and dart back from his desk. Amell heaved a sigh of his own, and Anders felt downright giddy ignoring it. "Anders..." Amell said, but Anders heard indulgence, and not impatience, and grinned.

"Yeah, babe?" Anders fought down a laugh, all but skipping backwards when Amell stood up.

"Give me the letter," Amell ordered, following Anders across the room and towards the bed.

"What letter?" Anders asked innocently. Maker, he was enjoying this far too much. Amell's eyes were practically sparkling.

"The one in your hand?" Amell clarified, "From Lord Guy?"

"Lord Guy?" Anders repeated, snorting, "Did you forget his name or is that actually it?"

"That's actually it," Amell grinned, darting forward to make a grab for the crumpled parchment. Anders snapped his hand back and above his head. Amell leapt for it, and missed, and Anders scrambled backwards, laughing.

"I don't know, I don't think you want it," Anders teased. He walked backwards and bumped into the couch, and-Maker he was fast-Amell surged forward and pinned him to it. Anders held the letter over his head, laughing hysterically at the slight advantage in his height that had Amell practically climbing on him. "Nope, you definitely don't want it."

Amell scowled up at him, and Anders leaned down and planted a victorious kiss on his pouting lips. Amell's lips parted without pause, and his response was eager but gentle, a feather-soft roll of lips and teeth and tongue that left Anders humming into his mouth. He cradled the back of Amell's neck, fingers sliding into silken hair, when Amell made a mad grab for the letter. Their teeth clattered together at his sudden jump, and Anders shoved him back. Anders climbed onto the couch, scampered across it, and leapt off on the opposite side of his makeshift barrier.

"Anders, this is important," Amell leaned on the arm of the couch, and Anders thought for a moment he might vault it just to reach him. He didn't, and it was disappointing. "You're older than I am; you should know better."

"Should have, would have, could have," Anders grinned, walking in the opposite direction around the couch when Amell started towards him. "What, Lord Dude is more important than I am?"

"Lord Guy," Amell corrected him, and stopped in his circle of the couch. Anders stopped with him. "He's concerned about our connections to Montsimmard and Jader-"

Anders cut him off with a loud yawn. Amell vaulted over the couch and made another grab for the letter. Anders side stepped him, and bolted to the bed, climbing over it at a crouch and hopping down on the other side. He waved the letter tauntingly and giggled.

Amell set one hand to his hip and ran the other through his hair, frowning. Anders couldn't help giggling again. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, fairly confident he could keep this up well into the evening, and Amell wouldn't stop him. Or so he assumed, until he felt the breath of the Fade, saw the sheath of cerulean on Amell's hand, and the letter lifted out of his grasp. Anders leapt after it, but Amell wrenched on the magic, and the parchment went sailing across the room to land in Amell's outstretched hand.

Amell tapped the letter into his palm, and went back to his desk with a click of his tongue and a victorious smirk. Anders groaned, and let the force of it throw his whole body forward, arms dangling down to his thighs. Amell sat down and flipped open the letter, and promptly resumed ignoring him. "Fine," Anders sighed. Stupid arling. Stupid nobles. Stupid Amell.

Anders could always bother Amell later. This evening. Or the next evening, maybe, to punish Amell for ignoring him now. That sounded like a plan. Anders wandered out from behind Amell's bed and went for the door. As soon as he pulled it open, the door glowed a shimmering blue, and closed on him while his hand was still locked around the handle. Anders let go before he stumbled, and turned around to shoot Amell an accusatory frown.

The man was still sitting at his desk, letter laid out beside a fresh piece of parchment, quill in hand, but Amell wasn't look at it. He was staring at Anders instead with a grin so wide it looked painful. Anders abandoned the door and turned around, one hand to his hip.

"You know I don't like being trapped anywhere," Anders meant to smirk, but his lips insisted on a smile.

"That doesn't sound like you," Amell smirked, and Maker, he knew what he was doing when he shifted back in his chair, arm draped over the back, legs splayed wide enough Anders could sit comfortably in his lap if he wanted.

"Seven time escapee, remember?" Anders let go of his bottom lip when he realized he'd pulled it between his teeth, and forced himself to walk parallel to Amell instead of straight to him.

"I remember," Amell followed him with his eyes, letter forgotten. His quill was still in his hand, turning over and over, black feathers brushing over his talented fingers with every twirl. "You're good at escaping... not staying escaped... Come here."

"Make me," Anders shot back, thighs tensing with the inane want to run again if only it meant Amell would chase him. The feather fell, and Anders took half a step backwards. The bed was behind him, and Anders knew it. He'd wanted Amell's focus, and now that he had it thought fled from him.

Amell's eyes were fixed, that red inferno burning straight through Anders' clothes and heating every inch of skin beneath. Dice, cards, conversation. Anders wanted it. He didn't need it. He needed this. Craved the way Amell craved him. The rest could wait until he was too exhausted for anything else.

Amell sheathed his hands in telekinetic energies, and a shackle of blue locked around Anders' left wrist, and then his right. An ethereal tug dragged him forward a step, and all Anders could do was laugh. He'd never dared dream of laughing at shackles, at the Circle, but it was all so far away, and Anders had Amell to thank for it. Anders clashed his mana with Amell's, dispelling the shackles, and wiggled his freed fingers with a smug smirk.

New shackles took their place, and Anders dispelled them again, and the cycle continued with Amell wrenching him forward and Anders darting back, neither of them making any progress outside of wild laughs and draining mana. Amell gave up without warning and rushed him, arms locking around Anders' waist to pick him up and heave them both back onto his bed. The force of the fall made them both bounce, and Anders laughed so hard he felt winded.

Amell flipped them over, and grabbed Anders' wrists to pin them above his head. Anders squirmed under him, rocking his hips up into Amell for a ripple of pleasurable friction. "I win," Amell said breathlessly.

"Liar," Anders grinned. He didn't need his hands to inhale a breath of mana, and exhale it as a wash of heat on Amell's face. "You said come here. I didn't come."

"Yet," Amell smirked.

"Is that a challenge?" Anders asked. Amell's hair fell about his face, leaning over him, and Anders loved the shadow it cast on his skin, and the way his eyes burned through it. He rolled his hips again, and saw Amell's sharp inhale even if he didn't hear it.

"It's a promise," Amell squeezed his wrists, and another band of telekinetic energy formed around them. Anders strained experimentally, knowing full well he could dispel it if he wanted, and as far as he was concerned it made the binding even better than ropes.

Amell slid his hands down Anders' arms to his shoulders and squeezed, hands flaring with primal magic that made his every touch tingle with static. Anders bit his bottom lip and squirmed, not quite shaking as Amell's hands ran down his chest. The magic sank into his skin, crackling with pleasure and making his cock throb in the too-tight confines of his smalls.

Anders arched his head back and his hips up, and felt the slick warmth of Amell's tongue on his throat, flicking over the vein that fluttered with the rapid pulse of Anders' heart. Anders sucked in a gasp, and bent his head back further until he felt the press of Amell's teeth against his skin. Amell grabbed a fistful of Anders' hair and held him in place, a hard suck dragging Anders' pale skin against his teeth and making him whimper.

Amell broke from him, and Anders shivered at the brush of cold air on damp skin. A hard tug turned Anders' head to the side, and made his hips buck in a mindless chase for friction. Amell chuckled against his neck and rocked back against his cock in answer, and Anders swallowed down a groan. Amell worshipped his neck again, static still rippling out from the hand he kept on Anders' chest. Amell pulled his skin between his teeth, and it came paired with a rush of heat and magic from his tongue. "Oh fuck," Anders gasped.

"You like that?" Amell asked; the throaty question went straight to Anders' cock.

"Mmm," Anders managed, not trusting himself to more. Amell kept the spell alive, tongue impossibly hot when it blazed a wet path over Anders' jaw, and urged his lips apart. Anders moaned into his mouth, and Amell unlaced the front of his robe and pushed it open, exposing him to cold air with only the warmth of Amell's hands to battle it back.

Amell tugged on his bottom lip when he cut off the kiss, and shifted down on Anders' chest. Amell gathered him up in his sparking hands, his tongue a torment of sleek, sweltering heat on Anders' skin. Amell chased freckles, traced ribs, and finally swirled his tongue over one nipple, fingers tugging and teasing at the other. Anders strained eagerly against the bind on his wrists and tossed his head, gasps slipping in around hard breaths and stifled groans.

"Harder," Anders begged.

Amell's teeth closed obediently on his chest, pressing hard, and Anders arched up into the sting. "Fuck, harder," Anders panted, a shiver of excitement running through him when Amell broke from him and sat up. Amell raised a hand sheathed in sapphire, and a collar formed on Anders' neck. It dragged him upright, almost choking him, and Anders collided against Amell's chest with a grunt, bound hands falling about Amell's shoulders.

Amell lifted Anders' arms off his neck, and dispelled the shackles on Anders' wrists for the brief second it took to slide his robe off his shoulders and push it down about his waist. Amell rolled off and around him. Anders sucked in a breath of anticipation, heart racing when Amell gathered up his hands and pinned them behind his back, the magic for his shackles reforming, tight enough that Anders could feel an ethereal bite against his skin.

"Fuck, that's perfect," Anders said.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you," Amell wrapped his arms around him, and hands on Anders' chest. Conjured oil manifested on his palms and grew hot under primal magic, or maybe just the fevered flush of Anders' skin. Amell rolled already stiff nipples between his fingers, and the oil felt almost like hot wax when it ran down Anders' chest and over his trembling stomach.

A tug on his collar dropped Anders' head back on Amell's shoulder. Anders bit down a moan; he could feel his pulse throbbing in his cock where it strained against his smalls, every twitch of his hips inventing friction and making him shiver. Anders knew what he wanted to say.

He wanted Amell to fuck his face, his cock buried in Anders' throat, his hands fisted in Anders' hair. He wanted Amell to fuck him until he couldn't walk, a hand around his throat squeezing to the point of choking, a hard smack on his ass between every thrust until the sensations left Anders sobbing with pleasure.

Anders swallowed it all back, and smirked up at Amell instead, "Make me."

Amell knotted a hand in his hair, and yanked him to the side to tug his earring with his teeth. He twisted Anders' reddened nipple between thumb and forefinger, and a ripple of static made Anders whine. "Tell me," Amell ordered.

"Nnngh," Anders refused, and suffered the same fantastic torture again when Amell switched to the other stiff peak. Amell found the mark he'd left on Anders' neck, nipping and sucking at the hypersensitive skin until Anders was writhing and bucking his hips into the empty air. "Ah-fuck-" Anders gasped at another hard tug from the hand Amell left buried in his hair.

"Yeah?" Amell slid his hand down to the flat of Anders' stomach, and the play of static stopped, but Anders could still feel the mana welling in Amell's hand.

"Oh-fuck," Anticipation made him shiver, and Anders knew Amell felt it. There was nothing but sweat and the thin fabric of Amell's tunic between them. Maker, Anders loved it. It was everything he wanted, Amell unraveling him and losing none of his composure in the process. Controlling, commanding-

Amell shocked him. Anders cried out and arched in his arms, pleasure flaring and hissing over every inch of skin and leaving him trembling. The brief starburst of passion left him panting, shoulders shaking while he struggled to catch his breath. Amell traced his bottom lip through his gasps, a whisper of static still clinging to his fingers. Anders felt the magic in his teeth, and licked the tips of Amell's fingers.

He tasted lyrium, sweet and sugary and mixed with the salt on Amell's skin and made a sound of want. Amell slid two fingers slipped past his teeth to slide along his tongue, and Anders sucked on them greedily. He swirled his tongue around each finger and flicked at the cleft between both when Amell pushed his fingers further back. It was messy and he was moaning and he wanted more, teeth and lips dragging over Amell's skin with every shallow thrust of his fingers.

"What do you want?" Amell asked against his ear; his voice was a hoarse whisper that sent shivers down Anders' spine. He freed his fingers from Anders' mouth, and left a trail of damp on Anders' neck on his way down to his taut nipples. Anders bit his lip at the first cold pass of his fingers. "Tell me. I'll give it you." Amell tugged on his nipple, and Anders whimpered. "Is that what you want?" Amell tangled a hand in his hair and pulled, "You want me to give it to you?"

"Fuck me-" Anders broke, "Yes. Yes-fuck."

Amell rewarded him with a hard kiss on his temple. He caught his shoulders, and threw him face down on the mattress. Anders groaned into the sheets, his fingers twisting against the small of his back where his hands were still bound. Amell's hands carved a path down Anders' body, massaging his shoulders with the heels of his palms, squeezing down his straining arms, raking over the small of his back, and finally catching on his robes. Anders arched his hips for him, and Amell dragged his robes off.

Amell burned with the Fade, and Anders loved it. Telekinetics bound Anders' arms and neck, elemental heat blazed on Amell's tongue, primal magic crackled on his hands, creationism oiled his fingers, and all of it was for Anders. Amell grabbed his hips and pulled him up and back; Anders loved everything from the drag of his face across the sheets to the hard press of Amell's cock against his ass, even through the rough fabric of his trousers.

Amell ran oiled and sparking hands up the backs of Anders' thighs and squeezed his ass, spreading him to grind against his entrance. Anders canted his hips back against him while Amell worked oil into eager flesh. "Do you want me to spank you?"

"I want-" Anders cleared his throat.

"Anything," Amell promised and squeezed again.

"I want you to fuck my face," Anders begged, even if he couldn't help rocking back against Amell's cock.

The collar tightened around Anders' throat, and choked him when it dragged him up onto his knees. Anders gasped when it loosened, the throb in his cock almost painful at having his breath literally stolen from him. "Oh fuck-that-that too-later," Anders begged. "With your hands-when you're fucking me."

Amell pulled out Anders' tie, already slipping from Anders' hair with how often Amell had his hands in it. The gold strands fell about his face, and Amell gathered them back up a heartbeat later to retie them tight at the back of Anders' head. Knowing why he bothered made Anders' heart thud madly in his chest, and had him sucking on his lips to wet them.

"Anything you want," Amell's teeth closed on his shoulder in a bite hard and full of promise. Anders rolled his shoulder back against the sting, eager for the red crescent he knew it would leave on his skin if only Amell pressed a little harder.

"Fuck, do you-" A hard tug on his collar dragged him forward, and Anders should have let it stop him, but he kept going even when Amell led him off the bed and had him kneeling on the floor, "-do you even like this as much as I do?"

Amell grabbed a pillow off his bed, and ordered Anders' knees up to rest it beneath them. Amell caught his jaw, and dragged his thumb across Anders' bottom lip, staring down at him. Anders felt like he was burning up under his eyes; he could feel the sweat running between his shoulder blades, over his balls, down his thighs, every part of him ablaze at just a look. "I love it."

Amell let go of him to unbuckle his belt, and Anders' fingers and toes curled and uncurled in eager anticipation. Anders could feel his pulse in his cock, wet warmth leaking down his shaft and making him shiver. He loved the ache, loved the shackles that denied himself the sweet release of friction, loved the-he loved it.

Anders sucked in a sharp breath when Amell freed his cock from his trousers and wrapped a hand around his shaft. The unhurried strokes were a torture to watch. Maker, Amell didn't need them. His cock was thick and rigid and twitching against his palm when it should have been twitching against Anders' tongue. Anders held back from begging for him, and bit impatiently at his lips instead.

Amell pressed his thumb against Anders' lips and parted them. Anders held his mouth open, fighting the urge to plunge down on his cock at the first brush of it over his lips, and took Amell into his mouth with a moan. He licked the taste of him from off Amell's flushed skin, circling his tongue over the head of his cock and his slit for the closed-mouthed groans it won from Amell. Anders sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, and Amell's slow blink and sharp inhale went straight to Anders' cock.

Amell set a hand to the back of his head, and Anders laid his tongue flat against his bottom lip. A tug on his collar and a push on the back of his head pulled him forward, and Anders swallowed inch after breathless inch. He gagged when he felt the pressure of Amell's cock at the back of his throat. It sent shiver of pleasure cascading down his spine, and Anders loved it. Amell loosened his grip on the back of his head, but Anders' moan tightened it all over again.

Anders adjusted to his length after a few shallow rolls of Amell's hips. Anders groaned encouragement, and practically keened when Amell finally held his head steady and thrust into his throat. Maker, this. His lips stretched around Amell's spit-slick girth, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth, eyes watering at the pressure, tiny gags slipping in with his moans. Hands bound, throat collared, everything at Amell's mercy.

Anders couldn't decide if he wanted his eyes closed or open. The sensation was all he wanted. He wanted to focus on the smooth slide of Amell's length on his tongue, on every ridge and vein; on his salty taste and heady scent clouding his thoughts and leaving him lost in everything that was Amell. He wanted Amell's eyes on him just as desperately. His heavy-lidded gaze and the way he grit his teeth was everything Anders wanted.

"Perfect," Amell praised him, and Anders loved that he couldn't interrupt him, "Fuck, Anders-You're so good. You're so-"

Anders pulled on a breath of the Fade and let it warm his tongue, and Amell cried out. The sound sent a needful pulse through Anders' cock, and had him moaning around the one in his mouth. Maker, he loved when he could get Amell screaming. He loved when Amell could get him screaming. The flush on their skin already felt near feverish, rivaling the heat of Anders' spell.

"Fuck-yes," Amell choked, sweat-soaked hair falling about his face. Amell held it back with one hand to keep his eyes on Anders while he fucked his throat, "Fuck-I love-your magic."

Anders added a hum of electricity to the spell, and Amell dissolved into impassioned gasps and half-shouts, "Oh-fucking -I can't-oh fuck, stop-" Amell caught Anders' face in his hands and eased him off his cock, a mouthful of spit cascading over Anders' lips at the sudden withdrawal. Amell sat heavily on the edge of the bed, cock flushed and glistening, chest rising and falling while he caught his breath.

"Yeah?" Anders tried to ask, but his voice was too hoarse to form the words. His throat burned, his chin was soaked, and his jaw was sore. He felt used and not nearly used enough.

Amell must have heard him anyway by his smirk. He stood on shaking legs and shoved off his smalls and trousers. His doublet followed, and Anders stared at him longingly and wished he had half of Amell's confidence to compliment his body. Amell was gorgeous. Lean contours of muscle, silken sable hair, a collection of scars that only seemed to scream defiance to the Chantry, to the Circle, to the Templars, to anyone who would dare control him. Anders loved them; they were everything he wanted controlling him.

"Up," Amell ordered, a sheath of sapphire on his hand dragging Anders to his feet by his collar. Anders took a half step forward, and Amell caught him by the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss. Anders' lips were soaked and sore he struggled to return it, lips sliding over Amell's mouth. Anders wanted to hold him, but his arms were still bound behind his back. Amell broke from him and climbed back onto the bed, and Anders followed him eagerly.

A hard shove knocked him face-down onto the mattress, and Anders was happy to stay there. Amell massaged the backs of his thighs up to his ass, thumbs spreading him to run oiled fingers through the cleft in his backside. Amell pressed the pads of his fingers against his entrance, circling and stretching, and Anders whined for the tease. "I can't keep my mouth off you," Amell mumbled.

"Don't," Anders croaked. "Don't keep it off me. Fuck Amell just-don't ever stop."

Amell eased a finger inside him, steady thrusts wringing eager, needy gasps from Anders' lips. No one had ever known him this way; the way Amell curled his finger to stroke the very core of him twisted moans in Anders' throat and spilled them out against the sheets. The first hot pass of Amell's tongue that joined his finger left Anders writhing with pleasure and grinding into the sheets. "Fuck, Amell," Anders gasped.

Amell moaned in answer, and the play of his breath made Anders' shiver. Maker, it wasn't even the way Amell fucked him, it was the way Amell fucked him. As if he knew every inch of Anders' skin and exactly where to lick and stroke and squeeze to leave Anders shuddering beneath him. He worked him with his finger and tongue, impossibly soft and smooth, and Anders fought back spasms of pleasure at every flick and thrust.

A second finger joined the first with a rush of creationism that sent hot oil rushing through the cleft in Anders' ass and over his balls. A faint trickle reached his aching cock, and the rest pooled in the sheets. Anders' desperate grind against them won him enough friction to leave his skin flushed and tension coiled tight in the pit of his stomach. His gasps pitched up, and Amell bit down hard on the back of his thigh.

Anders whimpered, writhing, and Amell licked the abused flesh before his tongue rejoined his fingers, darting between them, thrusting with them, leaving Anders fingers clenching in the empty air, digging into the heels of his palms or the small of his back. Anders kicked his foot into the mattress and tossed his head; he gasped so hard and so often drool left the sheets damp beneath his cheek, and Anders bit his lip to stifle a scream at the perfect stretch of a third finger.

Another pulse of magic coated more oil on Amell's fingers, and his tongue abandoned him. Anders all but wailed, and bit down on the sheets to muffle his protests. "Fuck, Anders, you sound fantastic." Amell said breathlessly. His hand came down on Anders' ass in a smack that would have been tame if it didn't ripple with static. Anders rocked back into the sting and onto Amell's fingers, and Amell spanked him again, "I think I could come just listening to you."

The next slap broke him. "Fuck me," Anders begged, "Amell, fuck me, please fuck me."

Amell eased his fingers from him, and dispelled the shackles around his wrists. "No-I want them," Anders insisted.

Amell grabbed his thigh with one oil-slick hand, and flipped him over. "I know you do," Amell caught his hands and pinned them above his head again, where the magic reformed. "Remember when I fucked you with just the bracers on?"

"Fuck, yes," Anders strained to free his arms, and relaxed when the spell held him firmly in place. Anders locked his legs around Amell's waist, and pressed his heels into the small of his back to knock him onto his chest. Amell landed with a huff, and grabbed Anders' shoulder to drag himself up to his lips. Anders kissed him, catching Amell's bottom lip between his teeth and sucking hard. It won him a moan, but a breath of static won him a whimper.

"Do you still want me to choke you?" Amell asked around his lips.

"Yes," Anders said eagerly, arching his throat up at just the thought.

Amell licked down the column of throat Anders offered him, and sat back. The sheets were ruined, soaked with sweat and oil, and Amell worked yet more into his cock while his free hand massaged Anders' thigh. Anders held his head up to watch him, breath coming in eager gasps when Amell finally set a guiding hand to his cock and eased inside him. Anders cried out at the stretch, the pressure, the intense flare of pleasure, but not for the Maker. Not for anything but Amell.

"Oh-fuck me-yes," Anders moaned shakily. Amell grabbed Anders' thigh to steady himself, and thrust obediently into him. Anders raised his hips to claim every inch of him, pleasure thrilling down his spine and igniting in the pit of his stomach. "Fuck, you're-" Anders choked on the words, and hated himself for it. Amell locked a hand round the back of his neck, and kissed him hard, sucking and biting at his lips until words didn't matter anymore.

Every shallow roll of Amell's hips left Anders' skin flushed with pleasure; Amell's thick length stretching and sinking into him tore wild gasps from his throat, still sore from taking Amell's cock. Amell met them with broken groans and lips that shook against Anders' own. "Choke me," Anders begged.

Amell held himself up with a hand planted beside Anders' hip, and locked the other around Anders' throat. He didn't squeeze; his steady thrusts left Anders shaking, arching his throat against Amell's palm with a whimper. "Tell me-" Amell inhaled sharply, "Shock me or something if-"

"Just fucking choke me," Anders begged. Amell's hand clenched, and he added a whisper of weight that cut off just enough air that every breath was a shallow gasp. The collar was nothing like it. The collar wasn't Amell's hand, Amell's palm, Amell's fingers, closed about his throat with care, relaxing every few thrusts to allow Anders a deep gasp of air before his grip tightened again.

Anders loved it. The intensity. The trust. The way Amell thrust harder and deeper at Anders' reassuring moans. Maker, Anders loved that he was muffled, and Amell's hard gasps and the wet slap of their bodies coming together were all he could hear. His pulse was just as loud, roaring in his ears and throbbing through his cock. Amell's thighs connected with Anders' ass with every hard snap of his hips, and it wasn't a slap but it was close enough that Anders writhed for more.

"Harder," Anders gasped when Amell's hand relaxed on his throat. "Harder-fuck-please, Amell."

"I can't-" Amell dragged a trembling hand down his chest, nails raking over Anders' flushed skin and drawing shivers, "I can't choke you if you want harder."

"I don't care," Anders begged. Amell eased out of him, dispelling the shackles from his wrists. Anders didn't bother begging for them back when Amell grabbed his hips and flipped him over again. Amell pushed down on the small of his back, and angled his hips up. Amell sank into him with a groan, and gathered up a handful of Anders' hair. Amell wrenched Anders' head and his hips back, driving sharply into him, and an eager shout ripped from Anders' throat.

"Like that?" Amell asked thickly, every hard thrust striking that perfect bundle of nerves inside him that left Anders half-sobbing, half-screaming with pleasure.

"Fuck-yes, yes, Amell-yes," Anders choked. Amell drove into him, and the sensations left Anders writhing, barely able to hold himself upright. His arms were trembling, and if not for the tight hand Amell had fisted in his hair he knew he'd collapse. Anders screamed himself hoarse, his throat already raw from choking on Amell's cock and hand.

Every sound that escaped him was broken. A tattered breath, a raspy groan, a shaky moan. Maker, Anders could barely breathe and Amell had stopped choking him ages ago. His cock was so hard it hurt, pleasure built to boiling and sweating out on every inch of his flushed skin. Anders fell apart into a mess of gasping sobs; he felt like he was hanging on the edge of ecstasy, and anything could push him over.

"Are you going to come for me?" Amell dug blunt nails into Anders' hip, and it broke him.

Anders lost himself; pleasure shattered him to the core, broke out across his skin in crackling static and tore out his throat in a soundless scream. Maker, Anders went blind, his vision black with spots of red like Amell's gorgeous eyes. Anders' arms buckled, passionate shudders playing through his entire body, clenching around Amell's cock and ending in Anders' own as he spilled himself on the sheets.

"Oh fuck yes," Amell let go of Anders' hair to drag his fingers down his freckled back. Anders sucked in a shattered breath, trembling at every thrust of Amell's hips into his yielding body. It sent aftershocks of pleasure through him, like violent shivers that ran across his shoulders, down his spine, in his feet, and Anders collapsed.

Amell eased from him, hot oil dripping across Anders' ass, and rolled him over again. Anders went wherever Amell put him. He couldn't feel his toes or hear from his left ear. Maker he was still seeing spots when Amell knelt next to his face, and fisted a hand around his glistening cock. Anders let his mouth fall open, and Amell bit his lip, a hard exhale escaping around his broken smirk, "You want it?"

Anders couldn't remember how to talk. He moaned instead, and closed a shaky hand around Amell's fist to aim his cock towards his mouth. Amell came with a string of curses, interlaced with his name, and broken by gasps. Anders' guiding hand hadn't helped, and most of Amell's release was painted across his chin and down his jaw. Anders wiped off his jaw with his thumb and sucked it clean while Amell watched.

"You're gorgeous," Amell stumbled down to his hands and knees, and fell more than leaned down to kiss him. Anders pressed his lips against him sleepily, still lost in the taste of him, and the overwhelming scent of sex. Amell ran a hand through Anders' sweat-soaked hair and traced his face down to his throat, red and worn but not quite bruised.

"M'fine," Anders managed, smacking his hand away.

Amell shifted to lay down beside him. Some barely-conscious part of Anders insisted that was sweet of him, if only because where Amell was lying was soaked through with sweat and come, and he still had work Anders had interrupted. "What-" Anders started and was interrupted when Amell took a spot on his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. Amell was warm. It wasn't so bad. "-what about Lord Man?"

"Lord Guy," Amell corrected him. Anders yawned and didn't have to fake it. "He can wait. Are you going to nap?"

"Mmm," Anders tangled a tired hand in Amell's hair to watch the way the black strands slid through his pale fingers.

"Do you want me to bring you anything when you wake up?" Amell asked.

Anders shrugged, "Apple something?"

Amell twisted to plant a warm kiss over Anders' heart, "Anything you want."

Chapter 23: Shut Up and Kiss Me

Summary:

It was just a kiss, really. Amell's lips were soft, and tasted faintly of cider. For some ridiculous reason, Anders had almost expected him to taste like blood.

Notes:

This chapter place during Chapter 13 - All Soul's Day of Accursed Ones and is told from Amell's perspective.

Written for a request for Amell's perspective on a kiss with Anders. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 2 Matrinalis Afternoon
Vigil's Keep Library

Many historical accounts of the time are rife with evidence for Andraste as a mage. The Chant of Light claims that Tevinter suffered from many destructive forces of nature, from lightning storms, to earthquakes, to firestorms, that are-

The Chant of Light claims that Tevinter suffered from many destructive forces of nature-

"Destructive forces of nature, coming right up," Anders had giggled, slinging a fistful of stone towards the house of cards we'd built when Wicked Grace had begun to bore him. It had missed, spectacularly so, and sailed across the barracks to slam into Nathaniel's bunk and scatter pebbles across the floor.

"You missed," I'd noted, rather astutely, to which Anders had snorted. Anders' skin is so pale it speaks of ivory, and when he blushes (or when he's drunk) a flush spreads across his cheeks like it's trying to hide behind his freckles. It makes him look coy, even when he's smirking, and it's one of the most endearing things I've ever seen.

"Prove it," Anders had said, his actual fist slamming down on the table and knocking the house of cards over where his stone fist had failed. I'd laughed, and Anders had laughed with me, and before the laughter had even stopped his hand was on my thigh.

He'd been drunk. Too drunk. Stopping him was harder than it should have been. The man is all limbs, and limber and lean and- His hands had been everywhere. In my hair, finding ways into my clothes, curling around my belt in the few steps it took to get him to bed. "In the morning, if you still want," I'd promised.

"I want now," Anders had said, long elegant fingers fisted in my shirt collar, "Come on, you know I've been thinking about it. Just let me see what you taste like." Rolling him into bed had been enough to keep him from getting up again, but he'd been close enough that I could practically taste the alcohol on his breath with every nervous inhale.

I swear I can still taste it. I couldn't care less about the Search for the True Prophet right now, but I can't spend all day in my quarters with a fist around my cock and Anders' name on my lips. The memory of him draped over me is enough to send my blood rushing back to my crotch, and it takes several minutes of shifting and flexing to get myself under control. I try to focus on the book again.

According to Emperor Kordillus, Andraste lost her sister Halliserre to flames. The Ciriane felt animist spirits accounted for this loss, which seems to suggest the spirits had something to be drawn towards: such as the pulse of the Fade that might have resonated within Andraste-

Footsteps pull my head up. Anders looks like he's fresh from a bath. There's a slight sheen to his hair that makes it look golden-brown, and he's wearing a dark navy robe today with silver embroidery. The ridiculous feathered pauldrons he loves so much are draped about his shoulders and chained with gold about his neck. None of it matters. He could wear rags and still be gorgeous.

I can feel my heart claw its way up my throat when Anders crosses the room to take a spot by my armchair, and I don't remember setting the tome aside but it's gone, "Good morning."

"Is it?" Anders smoothes back a few imaginary flyaways, and I bite back from telling him he looks as perfect as he always does, "I thought it was afternoon, at least."

"It's morning for you," I guess from how much he had to drink last night.

"I guess so," Anders grins, and I can feel my heart thud in my throat.

"Sleep well?" I ask after I swallow it back down, trying and failing not picture picking up where we left off last night.

"I honestly don't remember," Anders admits, and for some reason I relax. Him not remembering is better than him blaming it all on the drink, "I don't suppose I missed anything important?"

"Such as?" I ask.

"Did I throw up?" Anders guesses, sitting down on the arm of my chair, and I hope he doesn't notice me wiping the sweat off my palms, "Profess my undying love? Go on an alcohol induced rampage?"

"Not quite," I grin, and give him an edited account of the night. There's no reason to pressure him with the truth, "We played cards for a bit, and then you sang your own rendition of Andraste's Mabari only with Ser Pounce-a-Lot as the hero before passing out."

"And where does my pillow come into all this?" Anders asks, and it takes me a few seconds to even remember what he's talking about. Pillow... his mother's pillow. His things. That's right. It was hard to focus on anything but his sleeping face when I'd dropped them off.

"I wrote to the Circle, when you told me about it," I explain, "Your things arrived this morning. Your old staff, as well, so you don't have to use the 'creepy darkspawn' one anymore."

"Well I..." Anders looks away from me, and I swear his chest shudders. He licks his lips and tries again, "I mean... you... I definitely owe you."

Damn the world that showed a man who draws on a spirit of Compassion so little, "Anders-"

"No, I definitely do," Anders cuts me off before I can tell him he owes me nothing. "Except I'm poor as dirt, and even if I were rich, I couldn't afford what my mother's pillow means to me, so how about a kiss?"

I can't have heard that right, but Anders is staring at me, sober, his gaze torn between my eyes and my lips, and I know I must have. "I'd settle for that," I find my feet, half-expecting him to change his mind, "Right now?"

"Sure, why not?" Anders shrugs and hops off the arm of the chair. He fixes me with a sudden frown, and I hope it's playful, "But just one, and you can't mess up my hair."

"So many rules," I note, "Anything else?"

"Your feelings can't be hurt if it turns out I'm not into it," Anders warns me.

"Well I'll try to make it a good one then," I take a step forward, and when Anders doesn't take a step back I set my hands on his chest and walk him back to the wall. I can feel his heart thudding under my palms, racing just a little faster for me when he sets his hands on my waist. There's the slightest hint of a blush at his neck, a tint of pink to alabaster skin, and the way he wets his lips with teeth and tongue gives me a surge of confidence.

He wants it. He wants me. He wouldn't make such a show of it otherwise, biting down a little on his bottom lip and flexing his fingers on my waist. He's beautiful; everything from his gorgeous heart shaped face to the way his amber eyes crinkle when he grins to that perfect nose and every flawless freckle. His jaw fits perfectly against my palm, the cold metal of his earring grazing the back of my fingers, and Anders twitches slightly from the touch. "Hair."

"I won't," I promise. There's not a single strand askew. Nothing in life has any business being perfect, but here he is, everything I want when I press our lips together in little more than a gentle brush. Anders' hands react before he does, squeezing tight, thumbs pressing into the hollow of my hips, and for one wonderful moment I swear he holds his breath.

It's all I need. I kiss him harder when he responds, lips barely parted when they meet with mine and we sink into each other. He tastes like magic, like elfroot and honey, like somewhere deep inside him is a fire and the warmth of it is on his tongue when it flicks briefly over mine. I have to stop to gasp, but before I can claim his lips again Anders juts his chin up and laughs when my kiss hits his jaw, "I said one."

"This is one," I protest.

I think my legs might give on me when Anders smirks and his eyes sweep over my face, "Nope, the rest are mine." He declares, a sudden arm around my waist pulling me firm and flush against him. Anders kisses me again, his free hand squeezing up my side like he wants to know every inch, and I fist my hands in those ridiculous feathers when a loud cough interrupts us.

I'm going to kill someone.

Chapter 24: Sun-Kissed Alabaster

Summary:

"Don't pout," Anders laughed, "Come on, you're bad at it. It makes you look like a caveman. Come here. I like you. Let Anders kiss it better. What hurts? Mouth? Dick?"

"Mouth," Amell decided, grabbing for him when he came near. Amell fell back and pulled Anders atop him. It wasn't the sort of kiss Anders had intended. Anders had planned on something passionate, but Amell's kiss was lyrium sweet, and lasted so long Anders forgot he cared.

Notes:

This chapter takes place immediately after Chapter 23 - Malleus Maleficarum of Accursed Ones and is told from Anders' perspective.

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 15 Parvulis Evening
Warden Commander's Quarters

There was a slight crease of concentration to his brow, broken by the few dark locks that fell in front of his handsome face. Amell's eyes were downcast, and he smacked his bangs away only to have his braid escape instead. Anders thought of pushing it back into place for the excuse to trace over the faint scar of an old piercing on Amell's ear, but his Commander had a firm hold on his hands, and they weren't going anywhere.

Amell gave the buckles to bracers a final tug, and fixed his hair on his own when he let go of Anders' hands. "Imagine if they hadn't fit after all that."

Anders laughed, glancing down to inspect the engraved silver locked about his forearm. "Eagles, though?" Anders teased for the pout it put on Amell's face, "Why not griffons? You love wardeny things."

"They're not for me," Amell frowned, and Anders pinched one corner of his downturned lips.

"What did I tell you about pouting?" Anders grinned, "You're bad at it. That's not a pout. This is a pout," Anders stuck out his bottom lip with an exaggerated sigh that dragged his shoulders down and his eyebrows together.

"That just makes me want to bite your lip," Amell said, with a demonstration on his own that made Anders shiver.

"That's how you know it's working," Anders said, grabbing a handful of Amell's tunic when the man caught his lip between his teeth and sucked. A shove from his lover knocked Anders back on his elbows; the couch had more than enough room for both of them. They'd proved that more times than Anders bothered counting. He flashed Amell what he hoped was a smirk and not just a giddy grin.

Amell knelt between Anders' legs, his hands on his bent knees, kneading slowly down his thighs. His eyes never left him, a slow sweep over his body that Anders could feel, and it felt feverish. He tried and failed not to fidget, one leg slipping and his fingers digging into the cushions beneath him when the man smirked. "You look good in those."

"But I'd look better in nothing, right?" Anders asked; his throat was too dry to manage the right inflection for a joke. He wanted the man one foot forward, straddling his hips, his cock buried deep in that intense heat while Amell screamed with pleasure, but Amell didn't move.

"... Would you mind doing something for me?" Amell asked, and the massage felt infinitely more intimate when Amell switched it to the backs of Anders' thighs.

Anders snatched up the question and pushed himself slightly higher on his elbows. Amell never asked him for anything, "What? I mean-probably not, what is it?"

"Put the rest on?" Amell asked, a sheer of sapphire on his hand accompanied by a gentle tug on Anders' earring. "Your jewelry. The necklaces, the chokers, the bangles, all of it."

"That's it?" Anders rubbed his ear between his fingers, chasing the phantom touch of Amell's magic, "You don't want to slather me in whipped cream and spank me with a paddle? You just want me to wear a few bracelets?"

"The rest is fine too," Amell shrugged; he raked him with his eyes and grinned, and Anders wondered if he was seriously considering it. Maker knew he wouldn't have said no, but Amell didn't say anything, so Anders reached for him. His fellow mage pulled him upright with another twist of telekinesis.

"You know you can use your hands," Anders smirked up at him. Amell was still kneeling, and his hair fell back in front of his face looking down at him. Anders loved the shadow it cast, and the way it halted just beneath his eyes.

"Good to know," Amell caught his face in his hands, and tilted Anders face up to claim his lips. Anders loved those hands and the way the Veil warped around them. They were as firm and unwavering as the man, and felt almost as fantastic as his lips on Anders' body. Amell ran them down his neck, and Anders bit back a gasp when Amell's thumbs ran under his chin, pressing faintly at his throat. Anders closed his eyes to a brief fantasy of his Commander choking him before Amell's hands dropped to his shoulders.

Maker, Anders wanted Amell to fuck him, but the way he screamed when Anders had him was addictive. Anders wanted that sound ringing in his ears every night, Amell shaking under him, his tawny skin slick with sweat, his hands fisted in the sheets while he gasped, 'Harder, Anders, harder,' with every toss of his head. Anders lost himself in Amell's lips, pulling moans from the man with every nip of his teeth or flick of his tongue that left Anders' skin flushed and his cock throbbing in time with his heart.

Amell broke from his lips to press their foreheads together; Anders pawed at Amell's tunic, hands warming with the idle thought of burning it off the man. "Jewelry?" Amell reminded him, breathing hard and heavy through his nose. Maker, Anders didn't care about jewelry. He had the bracers, and he knew exactly how he wanted to show his gratitude, but if Amell wanted him in gold or garters, then damnit Anders would do it.

"Alright," Anders gave Amell a push that knocked him away, and swung his legs over the couch. He could already hear the others giving him shit when he ran into the barracks, half-hard and throwing on every piece of jewelry he owned, but to the Void with it. "Should I be expecting anything when I get back? Whips, ropes, corsets?"

"I don't own any corsets," Amell grinned, lying where Anders had left him, the sharp rise and fall of his chest almost enough to make Anders want to forget his request, but it was the only one he'd ever made, so Anders fled back to the barracks to gather up bangles and bracelets and anklets, and change into them and one of his robes with the intention to take everything but the skirt off when he got back to Amell.

By some mercy of the Maker, the others were out, save for Oghren, who gave him little more than a terse, "I don't want to know." It fit just as well, since Anders wasn't about to tell. He fled back through the Vigil, robe hastily pieced together considering he was just going to take it back off. He took the stairs at a jog, and only crossed paths with a few servants before he was back at Amell's door.

Anders stole back inside to the sight of Amell pacing in nothing more than his trousers, his scarred body on shameless display for him. His Commander caught his hand and dragged him inside, a push of magic shutting the door behind him. Amell crushed him against his lips, his hands at Anders' neck and wrist tracing chokers and chains, rings and bracelets. Anders wriggled out from his grasp and darted back a few feet.

"What?" Amell all but whined, and Anders laughed the few fumbling steps he took after him.

"Wait," Anders said, "I'm not ready yet."

"But you're beautiful," Amell blurted in protest.

A lump that might have been his heart caught in Anders' throat, and he managed a shoddy, "Wait," around it before he fled to the wash.

Anders shut the door behind him and kicked off his shoes, pulling his robe apart until only thing left of it was the outer layer of his skirt. Four decorative strips of red rimmed in white hung down to his ankles, and his legs broke through them with every step. Anders kicked off his smalls, and pulled out his tie. He ran his hands through his hair, shaking out the gold strands that matched the hoop in his ear and went well with the silver choker at his neck.

Anders left his fox pendant on the vanity; the warden necklace was better: a small vial of crimson to pulse at his heart, corked with the pewter head of a pride demon. Citrine set in sterling hung from a chain at his waist, and gold bangles wrapped tight around his upper arms. His forearms were still locked in engraved silver, with rings enough for half his fingers and three of his toes. A silver chain connected one toe ring to his anklet, and chain after chain hugged the same leg, cutting off just below his knee.

Anders pulled his shoulders and his head back, and spent a few extra seconds twisting in front of the mirror before he decided he was as good as he was going to get. He stole from the wash to find Amell back to pacing, impatient hands at his hips, but they dropped when Amell turned and saw him. His right hand raised a heartbeat later to fist in front of his mouth, and a few staggered steps back dropped Amell down on the edge of his bed. "Fuck me, Anders."

"That's the plan," Anders laughed; his grin hurt his face, but there was no forgoing it with the way Amell looked at him, an all-consuming fire in his eyes that drank in every inch of him and yearned for more. Amell's heated stare fell to his legs at Anders' first step, and the way his legs broke through the fabric. Anders gave the chain at his waist a tug and his skirt a slight twist, and relished the way Amell's hands forgot what they were for and danced between his face and his lap. "Everything you wanted?"

Amell found his feet and met him half-way across the room. Anders hadn't stopped grinning, and wasn't liable to when Amell set his hands on him. "You are so much more than that," Amell mumbled; the words caught low in his throat, and the sound made Anders' toes curl into the floorboards. "You are-" Amell raked his nails up Anders' stomach, "-without a doubt-" up his chest, "-the most attractive man-" to catch on his collarbone, "-I've ever met."

"Haven't heard that before," Anders joked; he'd never forget Amell's candid confession in Kal'Hirol, or the way he'd waited until Anders had pressed him to even look at his half-naked body without his consent.

"Then I should say it again," Amell traced over the choker at his throat and the necklace beneath it, his eyes following the path of his fingers. "You're gorgeous." Amell tugged his earring between his teeth, and Anders found a place for his hands on the man's thighs. "You're gorgeous," Amell whispered, but the words were loud against his ear, and came paired with another tug that drew a sound of want from him.

Amell matched it with a hard exhale, and a bend in his knees that left him free to worship Anders' chest in a lave of teeth and tongue and magic. "You're gorgeous," Amell breathed against his chest, the words hot and humid on the swath of damp left by his tongue. Amell kissed him, and Anders ran his hands through his dark hair at the first faint press of teeth.

Anders arched into the sting, and Amell bit harder at his encouragement, a firm suck that hollowed his cheeks making Anders hiss in delight. Amell wrapped an arm around him to hold him steady while he worried his skin between his teeth, one hand toying with the chain at Anders' waist. "That feels so good," Anders swallowed down a moan, dulled to everything but the pull of Amell's lips and the switch of his tongue, "Don't stop-keep doing that."

Amell moaned against his skin, and Anders dragged his fingers up the back of Amell's neck and through his hair, watching the way the thick black strands spilled over his fingers. Jewelry be damned, the red crescents of Amell's teeth and the violet mark of his mouth were what Anders wanted decorating his body. Another hard suck stung, and Anders bit back a gasp, but Amell must have felt him wince because he broke from him.

"You're gorgeous," Amell licked the bruise he'd left, the soft brush of his tongue on hypersensitive skin evoking a shiver. Anders pulled him forward, and Amell picked another part of him to mark. His mouth was wet and warm and wonderful, and carved a path down Anders chest to his stomach while his fingers lost themselves to gold, whether it was in Anders' hair or his chains or his skin. He broke to utter a firm, "You're gorgeous," between every mark, and by the time Amell reached his hips Anders was writhing, as eager for the tease to end as he was to keep it going.

Amell sat back on his heels and stared up at him, and Maker, Anders should have said it back. The man was made to fuck. Anders couldn't look at him without thinking of his hands buried in his void-dark hair, twisted into fists to tame it and holding him steady for Anders to thrust into his throat. His lips stretched thin around his cock, and an arch to his strong eyebrows that spoke of an ecstasy his half-lidded eyes would have confirmed if his breathless moans didn't beat him to it.

"I love this," Amell traced the chain at his waist, and a possessive tug dragged Anders forward a step. The outline of his cock was visible where it strained against the heavy fabric of his skirt, but Amell ignored it in favor of the citrine that dangled from Anders' hips, "It matches your eyes."

"That was the-" Amell ran the fingers of his free hand over Anders' skirt, and the torturous tease of contact cut him off, "That was the plan."

"It's a little low," Amell grinned, licking just beneath the chain until he reached Anders' hips, where he bit down.

"Saves you-looking up," Anders joked, a closed mouth moan and a push on the back of Amell's head winning him a sharper bite.

Amell broke from him to sweep his hands up Anders' thighs and squeeze bare skin; Amell raised an eyebrow at him, "Is this all you have on?"

"Why don't you find out?" Anders shot back. He wasn't expecting Amell to stand, but he was getting better at learning not to whine. Amell was his Commander for a reason, and Anders loved the things he came up with for them. Anders watched the man shove his hair out of his face, his lips glistening from the time they'd spent in nothing short of prayer on his chest, and dragged him into a kiss.

Amell tasted like magic, like the Veil stopped at his lips and Anders crossed it every time their mouths met: an earthy spice that hummed with electricity and sank into Anders' teeth. It bled together with the scent of copper and clouded any thoughts that weren't for Amell. Anders locked one arm around the man, and ran the other down his back, the skin broken just beneath his shoulder blades with the smooth scar tissue of an old burn.

"What's this from?" Anders' mouth asked without his consent.

Amell let out a hard breath against his lips in the closest Anders could get him to come to a laugh when he was holding back. "Archdemon."

Anders was getting used to Amell picking him up, to noticing when he knelt, to locking his legs around the man and tangling his arms around his neck, to looking into his eyes with a little less fear of what he'd see. Amell held bare skin, the firm clasp of his fingers spreading him for his fingers, warmed with elemental magic and running teasingly through the cleft in Anders' ass. Anders sucked in a sharp breath, and grinned at Amell's smirk when the man carried him back to his bed.

Amell threw him down, and stole a gasp and a giggle from him. Anders scrambled back to make room for him, one too many chains catching on the sheets in the process. Anders let his eyes wander over Amell's body while the man unbuckled his trousers, searching for other scars, but there were surprisingly few outside his arms. Aside from the massive scar at his heart, which Anders had caused, there was a scar at his side, and-

Amell shoved his trousers down his thighs, where a white scar cut through tawny skin and dark hair. Amell kicked the last of his clothes away, and climbed onto the bed after him, twisting one strip of Anders' skirt around his hand and giving it a tug that pulled it low on Anders' hips. "Lift up," His commander ordered, and Anders hips went up. Amell yanked, and dragged the skirt off in one fluid motion to throw it on the ground behind him.

Amell caught Anders' foot when he reached it first, his palm pressing chains into pale skin. Amell kissed the sole of his foot, and Anders squirmed when the kiss turned into a lick that ended at his toes. Amell sucked on one, spinning the ring with his tongue, and Anders broke into a fit of choked giggles and barely managed to keep from jerking his leg, "Stop-aha-stop, no-that tickles, I'll kick you."

Amell let go of his foot with a restrained chuckle and climbed up his legs. Anders grazed his fingers over the scar at the man's side when he was near enough, "What's this from?" Anders asked, and wished he knew why he wanted to know the history written into Amell's skin.

"Assassin," Amell planted a knee between Anders legs, and Anders pushed against him for a bit of friction Amell didn't deny him. A whisper of elemental magic breathed beneath his finger tips, and Anders sucked in a breath of anticipation. Amell let his fingers dance over his chest, breathing ice in place of the heat Anders expected. He rolled one nipple between thumb and forefinger, and Anders hissed, unable to decide if he wanted to move into the touch or away from it.

Amell pinched him, and Anders came to a quick decision, throwing his head back and arching into the chill. Amell's tongue swept up the exposed column of his throat, and his fingers twisted, the breath of winter sinking into freckled skin. Anders swallowed down a moan but let slip a gasp when Amell's hand switched to the opposite nipple, his fingers leaving a path of frost that melted fast on Anders' flushed skin.

His nipples stiffened at the first touch of ice, and Anders bit down a whimper when Amell tweaked it, "Ice?" Anders asked breathlessly.

"You sound like you like it," Amell grinned, dragging his fingers down Anders' chest in a gentle caress of frost that left a path of dew behind on Anders' skin. His shivers sent drops cascading down his sides, and even the slightest sensations sent a thrill through him when they came from Amell. "I can stop if you want," Amell promised, fingers toying with the chain at Anders' waist before they swept down the narrow patch of auburn hair beneath his navel and back up again.

"I didn't say that. Is this-" Anders started, when Amell sucked on a fresh mark above his hips. It cut Anders off with a gasp, and he rolled his hips to chase the sting, an involuntary jerk of his leg swinging gold chains against his skin, "-ah-is this really all you wanted? Just to dress me up and tease me?"

"That's all," Amell promised, climbing over him so their cocks were pressed together and trapped between their stomachs. Amell rolled his hips and that first blissful brush of friction made Anders close his eyes and grind mindlessly back. Amell held himself up with one hand, and pulled through the Veil with the other, dragging oil and heat from the Fade and dripping both onto Anders' chest.

It smoldered on his skin after Amell's frost spell, and Anders jerked upright with a startled gasp of pleasure that twisted into a groan when Amell stole his hand between them. Deft fingers worked oil into Anders' cock and had him bucking his hips, eager to lose himself to any part of Amell clenched tight around his cock. Amell grinned down at him, sultry and shameless and taking his time with the slow play of his fingers.

They brushed teasing along the underside of his head, slid down his shaft, ending a firm cup of his balls before they ran back up through soft curls of reddish-brown hair. It drove Anders half mad and left him running his hands through his hair, rings catching on the sun-blond strands, and Anders was almost grateful for the sting. "Remember-fuck-remember what we said about evil blood mages?"

Amell's fingers left his cock to trace over a mark at Anders' hip, and send a few sparks of static dancing over the sensitive skin. Anders bit down on his fist to keep from crying out, hips jerking for friction against Amell's cock. "Not coming to me," Amell grinned, the blunt drag of his nails up Anders' chest turning his breath sharp and eager until Anders couldn't take it anymore. He took a hand to both of them, long fingers stretching around their cocks to stroke the two of them together.

"Quitter," Amell said throatily, but he abandoned his tease of Anders' chest to rock eagerly into his hand, his own pendant swaying in the space between them. Anders caught it, and used it to pull the man down while he pushed himself up and met him in a clash of warm lips and breathy pants. The sounds twisted together with the wet jerk of his hand, the sharp scent of sex and magic and everything Anders wanted to lose himself to.

Amell held himself up with one hand and held him with the other, caressing Anders' hip with his thumb and digging his fingers into his skin in such a firm grip Anders thought it could have kept him from the Void. Anders needed it with every broken gasp that spilled from Amell's lips, moans Anders could feel shake against his lips as Amell thrust along his cock and into his hand. Anders pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and sucked, Amell's passionate groan shooting straight to his cock.

"Off," Anders let go of their cocks to grab Amell's hips and roll them over, his chains dragged the sheets with him. An irritated kick freed him, and Anders lay on his stomach, head at his Amell's hips. Sweat and oil ran over Anders' fingers when he ran his hand up his lover's flushed and glistening cock, and guided it between his lips.

"Oh-fuck yes-Anders," Amell's moan sounded half a sob, the first sweep of Anders' tongue along the ridge of his cock wringing a shudder of pleasure from him. It jerked his leg up and dragged the sheets along by the heel of his foot, the muscles in his stomach trembling, and Anders groaned at the sight.

The beads of sweat and oil on Amell's skin were more beautiful than any gem or jewel ever would be. Anders dragged his tongue up his shaft in a slow lick that twisted eager gasps in Amell's throat, and had him reaching for him. His hands flared blue when they fell short, and dragged Anders near enough that Amell could grab his thigh pull him close.

Anders propped himself up on an elbow to watch him, curling his fingers into Amell's thigh in anticipation of that slick heat closed around his cock. Amell shoved back sweat-damp bangs, and warmed his skin with a single shaky exhale before he took him into his mouth, lips stretching around the thick shaft and claiming inch after inch with shameless moans and hollowed cheeks.

Anders pressed his forehead against Amell's bent leg, and bit down on a tense and trembling thigh and the only scar he hadn't asked after to muffle his cries. "Hngh, fuck," Anders gasped, tangling his arms around his lover's legs when he went back to him. Amell moaned around his cock, the subtle vibrations and the wet drag of his lips sending pleasure flaring through his veins.

Maker, Anders loved his mouth so much it was hard to focus on his cock. He closed his eyes to everything but the firm length sliding between his lips, savoring the heady taste of sweat and the Fade. Anders loved the sweet saline that breathed sex and magic and Amell, and gripped him tight at the build of heat and pressure spurred by his tongue. It started low in his stomach and spread to his chest, leaving his heart racing his lungs as waves of pleasure ran through him.

Anders looped a hand under Amell's knee and pushed his leg up, locking an arm around him to take hold of his ass. He felt Amell's whimper around his cock, either in anticipation or because the silver bracer was cold against the small of his back, and rewarded him with a pulse of elemental magic on his tongue. Amell cried out and his hips bucked, thrusting deep into Anders' throat and forcing a gag from him.

Damned if there was nothing better than the way Amell fell apart on his cock, his every descent shallow and rhythmless and broken by ragged gasps as he struggled to keep pleasuring him through the fog of his own rising bliss. Anders pulled on the Fade, and coated a finger with oil to run through the cleft of his lover's ass, circling his entrance and pressing faintly in time with the needy whines that made Amell's tongue vibrate against his cock.

Anders pushed inside him to an eager moan and the clutch of Amell's fingers on his thighs. Anders leaned back and let his lover's cock fall from his mouth, his lips soaked and dripping with spit he swallowed hastily, "Fuck, you feel good," Anders groaned, easing his finger in to the knuckle and relishing the glide of heat over his skin. A crook of his finger made Amell shake, trembling against him and still struggling to work his cock between his lips.

"Stop for a second," Anders pressed a soft bite into Amell's thigh, and Amell broke from his cock with a hoarse gasp. "I want to hear you,"

"Fuck, okay," Amell choked, clinging to his legs and breathing hard against his hips. Every shallow thrust and crook of Anders' finger wrung shameless cries of pleasure from him, and Anders wanted to hear them more than any compliment or praise Amell could ever give him. Anders licked the taste of salt off his skin along his waist and up the length of his cock to take him back into his mouth.

"Yes-fuck-oh fuck yes," Amell moaned, stringing wet and shaky kisses across his hip while Anders fucked him, "Fuck-Anders-ha-ah-don't ever stop fucking me-don't-don't-fuck."

Anders sucked hard on the head of his cock, cheeks hollowing, and won a reckless cry for it before he broke off, "Ever? What happens when you come?"

"Don't stop," Amell dug his nails into his thighs, and Anders went back to him obediently. A flush of elemental magic sent waves of heat rolling off his tongue, and tangled screams with frayed gasps in Amell's throat. The same magic on his finger added broken sobs, Anders' name lost among them as the man fell apart, thrusting shakily into Anders' throat through his climax.

Anders was too tangled in him not to feel everything, from the way Amell's hands clenched on his thighs to the way his teeth locked down hard on his hip, his muffled scream vibrating against Anders' skin while his ass clenched around his finger and his cock jerked in his mouth, heat and salt thick on Anders' tongue and lingering long after he swallowed.

Anders kept fucking him, his finger thrusting into clenching heat and his tongue working over his rigid length, come and spit spilling past his lips and over Amell's trembling thigh. Amell shuddered under him, whimpering and gasping through aftershocks of pleasure until he broke again and shoved Anders off him. "What happened-to don't ever stop?" Anders joked, struggling to right himself with the sheets catching on all his jewelry.

"Fuck me," Amell ordered shakily.

"I think you're all fucked out," Anders joked, and pinched one nipple with a whisper of frost that made Amell hiss and arch into his touch. The man made the most amazing sounds and listening to them left Anders pulse throbbing through his cock, and desperate for the release Amell offered.

"Fuck my face," Amell corrected himself.

"Is that an order?" Anders joked.

"Yes," Amell's magic tugged him forward, and Anders straddled his chest, a hand to his cock and a hand to the back of Amell's head. A slow roll of his hips pushed him past his lips and down his throat, the warm embrace of his mouth around his aching cock wringing a string of eager gasps from Anders' throat.

Amell wrapped his hands around his thighs, and held him tight at the sudden thrill of Fade, "Fuck," Anders choked, thrusting into the heat pulse on his tongue. He felt it everywhere, wave after wave of such intense pleasure it was almost unbearable, "Ha-happy-to-" Maker, Anders couldn't breathe save to gasp, "-follow it, Commander." Anders managed, somehow.

Amell chuckled, and the vibrations forced Anders' eyes closed and left him biting his tongue. He opened them again to watch his cock slide between Amell's drool-slicked lips with every thrust, and couldn't help them drifting up to his eyes, intensity in every ring of red. It was as hard to look away from as it was to look into, the fire there matched with the one burning Anders up from the inside out.

It consumed him, and Anders lost himself to it, ensnared in Amell's eyes when ecstasy made his thrusts erratic. Amell squeezed his thighs, moaning encouragement on his cock Anders met with a broken chorus of gasps and moans, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," Anders fisted his hand in the damp strands of Amell's hair, pleasure streaking through his body like lightning, arching his back and leaving his muscles clenched and trembling.

Sensation came back slowly; Anders felt his pulse in his cock and heard it loud in his ears, bliss still curling his toes and tingling in his thighs. Anders thrust lazily between Amell's lips, cock slick and streaked with white, dripping down Amell's chin and over his neck. It looked damn beautiful, and Anders relaxed his grip to run his fingers through Amell's hair. It feathered out when it was wet, and left the slightest wave framing his face.

Anders rolled off him when he realized what he was doing and threw himself down on the ruined sheets. He draped his legs over Amell's chest, trying and failing to forget his stare when he'd fucked him. Amell found his ankle and squeezed it, running his thumb along the sole of his foot. It tickled, and Anders thudded his leg on the man's chest with a mumbled, "Stop, tickles." Amell wheezed at the betrayal, but dropped his foot.

Anders grabbed the sheets and dragged them over to wipe off his face, bracers glinting in the firelight at the motion. Anders' ringed fingers traced over the eagle engraving, and down to the gold bangle on his upper arm. His skin was still tingling in the aftermath of his orgasm, and his touch made him shiver on his way to the choker at his throat. Anders thumbed his earring, and dropped his hand down to the silver chain and vial of blood.

He owned all of it. Every bit of gold and silver. Every winsome robe. Every fetching doublet, and blighted pair of trousers. Anders dangled his warden pendant from his fingers; the vial swayed gently, blood smearing along the glass and demon eyes catching in the light. It was creepy as all get out, but it was his, and he could have it and the rest of his things. Like any normal person could.

"Any other orders, Commander?" Anders joked, letting his hands continue their trail down over the marks on his chest and the chain at his waist.

"Let you know," Amell yawned.

"You better," Anders nudged Amell's hip with his foot, "If this was your idea of me doing you a favor I'm feeling mighty charitable."

Amell exhaled hard, even if he didn't quite laugh, and Anders curled his toes into his hip. His anklet and toe rings glinted on his foot, the result of a month's stipend, but worth it. Fine things were always worth it, if it meant remembering he was damn fine, too.

"Amell?" Anders asked.

"Hm?" Amell mumbled.

"Thanks," Anders said.

"What for?" Amell asked.

"Just... you know, thanks," Anders said with all of his usual elegance, but from his bemused hum, Amell didn't seem to mind. Anders heaved himself to sitting, and flipped over to throw himself down on Amell's chest. "So hey, I've got a good one, two mages walk into a bar..."

Chapter 25: Feint

Summary:

"Let's pretend for a bit this ain't all gonna be rainbows and butterfly farts," Oghren said, unwrapping the bandages around his hand. "Say we go, and shit doesn't work out, yeah? What then, Sparkles?"

"Then you come back, and we find something else." Anders said.

"Yeah? Let's say we don't. Then what?" Oghren asked.

"Just pack your things, alright?" Anders made to leave.

"Sparkles." Oghren called after him. "I still got that favor to ask."

Anders stopped, frustrated. "What?"

"You know what I'm getting at," Oghren said. "I know you're in serious denial about this, but get it out now. Before he leaves. Just in case."

Notes:

This chapter takes place immediately following Chapter 35 - Love is Blind of Accursed Ones and is told from Oghren's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon 14 Nubulis
Somewhere North of Lake Calenhad

Kid dares a glance over his shield, and I give him a smirk before my axe comes down on it. Little shit thinks he's clever, but I saw him training with Pike-Twirler last week, and I know he's going for a feint. Sword comes up like the kid's going for an overhead blow, and snaps down at the last second for a shot at my legs, but the thunderhumper's been training with another human. Pike-Twirler's got about three feet on me, and that's three feet to the right I can move by the time the kid's sword finishes its sweep. Kid hits dead air, and I twirl like the prettiest belle at the ball to get behind him.

One good kick in the ass knocks the kid to his knees, and with the ruckus he and the elf were making last night I know he felt it. Kid's back on his feet quick enough, turning the momentum of his fall into a stumblin' sort of run like a drunk out of Tapsters, and I gotta admit it's a good recovery. Gives him some distance, and he's gonna need it, cause I'm not going easy. A good and proper bellow gets my blood flowing and gives the kid some warning I'm coming before my axe comes down again. Kid's recovered by then: deflects it with his shield and goes straight for my neck, no feinting, faking, or farting around this time, but he ain't got the range.

A few steps back and we're dancing again, Kid poking at me like a Feastday roast to see where I'm tender, but Branka didn't turn mosslicker for nothing, and tender's the last thing old Oghren is. Kid tries to close the distance between us, shield up like Pike-Twirler taught him, but Pike-Twirler's used to fighting skirts. Gotta have the shield high for skirts, or you get a face full of fire ball, but I ain't no skirt. Shield's too high for a dwarf. Leaves the kid's legs open, and I kick 'em right out from under him and land him back on his ass.

I've got him beat then. He knows it. I know it. The whole camp knows it. And maybe it's cause I ain't sparred in years, or maybe it's cause I'm sweating so much booze I got drunk on the fumes, or maybe it's just cause I'm warrior caste, but the fight ain't over till it's over, and I'm screaming and my axe is coming down and there ain't shit all I can do about it by the time I realize what's happening. I'm seeing red, and I hope to fuck it ain't the kid's blood, and then I'm seeing black.

Wake up in my tent. Piss drunk, passed out, knocked out, I always wake up in my tent. I'll be damned if I know how the kid gets me there. I weigh about as much as a bronto and when I'm crocked I'm about as stubborn as one. Kid probably just puts the tent up around me when I'm out, but the Kid ain't there. I can hear him outside though, talking with the rest, and they're slinging words like shit. I'm a drunk. I'm a danger. I'm a damn waste of space.

Ain't as if they're wrong.

Flask ain't far. I fish it from my pack, and drink myself back to sleep listening to them argue. 'Just a broken shield arm,' Kid's saying, like it's nothing. Like next time it won't be a severed shield arm. Like I ain't killed a kid like him before. Kid don't know how hard this is for me. I never know when to stop. Not in a fight, not with Branka, not with the Assembly, not with Felsi, not with the booze.... not never. Kid's gonna get himself killed trusting me.

Not two days later and the kid wants to train again. Wynne wiggled her fingers and the kid's arm's good as new, but his shield is fucked. He picked up a new one at the armory, and I'll end up fucking that one too, but the kid don't care. Kid don't care about anything but the Blight, and his magic ain't effective against the genlock dwarf gals shit out when the darkspawn turn 'em into broodmothers, so he's gotta learn how to fight without it, and I gotta teach him.

Kid needs me. He ain't afraid to say it, but I sure as fuck am. I'm nothing, and I know it, and someday he's gonna realize it, and that scares the piss out of me. Scared me for a year straight, fighting the Blight at his side, teaching him how to fight dwarves and genlocks and berserkers and everything in-between, but I did it. I made a warrior out of him, and the kid went and returned the favor. I'm still a drunk, a bad husband, a terrible father, a waste of a man, but I'm a damn good warrior.

I don't need the warrior caste to tell me that anymore. I've got the Wardens, and I've got the Kid, and the Kid's got me. He knows it. Sitting behind me on this sorry excuse for a bronto humans call a horse, arms locked around my waist like the kid's got it as bad for me as he does for Sparkles. I don't give him any shit for it. Figure the last words I say to him should be some profound shit, like back at the Battle of Denerim when the kid clasped my arm and gave me command of the gate. Landed me a spot in the army with that battle, but I couldn't keep it. Wasn't the same without the kid.

Nothing will be.

I got Felsi and the nugget, but I didn't name the nugget Amell for nothing. Kid needs me, and I need the kid, and if we're going to his Calling, we're going together. We're riding for about a mile before we reach the crossroads. North goes up to Soldier's Peak, to Avernus and whatever weird shit he can do for the kid's eyes. West goes to Orzammar, to the Deep Roads and the Calling.

"Well, Kid?" I nudge him with my elbow, and glance over my shoulder at him. Kid's still got the blindfold on, and I know he can't see shit, but he knows the roads. He knows where we are. Knows why I stopped. Kid looks west, and I can't help thinking of the first time we sparred. I knew he was gonna feint then. I could see it in his eyes, but there ain't shit I can see in them now. "What's it gonna be?"

Chapter 26: Shred of Blue

Summary:

They ran into a pack of deepstalkers at the end of the third day. The result was an acid burn, a half-dozen scratches, and food that didn't keep. Hawke carved the corpses and Anders cooked them. They ate what they could and carried what they couldn't, and suffered the entire time. The deepstalker meat was murder on their stomachs, and everyone down to the dog spent half of the fourth day shitting out their insides.

Notes:

This takes place during the events of Chapter 78 of Accursed Ones and is told from Hawke's perspective.

This is a combination of three requests, one for Hawke's thoughts on his relation to Amell and how that plays into his relationship with Anders, one for Hawke's perspective during the Deep Roads, and another for the use of the phrase "Don't fucking touch me."

Chapter Text

9:32 Dragon 15 Solis Sometime
Somewhere in the Deep Roads

The Deep Roads echo. We’re a good dozen yards from Varric and we can still hear him shitting his inside out. From how long it’s been, he must have run out of shit and moved onto organs. “Ancestors have mercy… “ Varric’s prayers echo through the caverns, interspersing with the occasional slosh of shit, “I’ll never tell another lie, piss on a stick-I’m dying. I’ll stop drinking-Paragons save me.”

No one’s laughing. The deep-stalker meat went right through all of us. Fenris damn near recited the entire Chant of Light. Anders gave up on the Maker and moved onto Elven gods before he passed out. I don’t even remember what came out of my mouth, but it couldn’t have been worse than what came out of my ass.

I wouldn’t mind dying down here for Beth, but this isn’t for Beth. It’s for Bartrand, and we’re not even dying. I almost wish we were. I can’t fucking stand it. There’s no way to keep clean. My ass itches, my beard itches, my hair itches, my skin itches. I can’t stop scratching, and Anders keeps staring at me, and I fucking hate it. He looks like he pities me. He looks like he pities all of us, when he’s not busy pitying himself.

He’s better off than the rest of us down here. He’s a Grey Warden. Sometimes he remembers and sometimes he forgets. It’s panic. He has fits that almost remind me of Carver, no filter, his foot so far up his mouth it’s coming out of his ass. Screaming nonsense about how we’re all going to die and he’s going insane and soon his demon-…spirit-…whatever is going to be left possessing a ghoul.

It’s… fitting. I don’t know shit about Justice, but I know he’s not Anders, and if we are going to die down here it makes sense Anders would die thinking about anyone other than himself.

Selfless idiot.

Someone touches my shoulder, and it presses the fabric of my tunic against my sweat-soaked skin. It’s beyond an itch at this point and more like a stab.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” I scream and smack a hand off me. It’s Anders. He’s staring. Again. I must have been scratching.

“How about another song?” Anders offers.

“Shall we keep pace with Varric’s shit?” Fenris asks.

“It’s that or listen to it,” Anders shoots back.

“Don’t fucking fight,” I say. “I swear if you start fucking fighting again-“

“Fine, sing,” Fenris cuts me off. “Tell me, what lyrics do you have to go with this wonderful melody?”

I don’t know if Anders has a good singing voice or not, I just know he sounds a lot better than Varric’s shit.

“Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay.

There was a stir within his blood
And the dreams lay thick upon him.
A call did beat within his heart.
One road was left before him.

Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay.

‘See how the rain has washed away
The tears that you were crying?
Though the darkness calls me down
You know we all are dying.’

Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay.

And so he came upon the place
Where so many tread before.
One last look upon the world
Before he crossed that final door.

Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay.

Birds reel across the endless sky, above a house upon the plain.
In memory she sings to him of a time before the rain.

Sweet Andraste, hear our song
For his road will be ours too.
Before darkness claims our souls
Let us see that shred of blue.

Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay.”

“A song about dying without ever seeing the sky,” Fenris says flatly. “Lovely.”

“That a Warden song?” I wonder.

“Yeah… it uh-I-… a-….I found it,” Anders stumbles for so long it’s obvious he’s using a loose interpretation of the word ‘found.’ I don’t know why he bothers trying to hide it. I don’t give a shit. Fenris doesn’t give a shit. Varric gives a shit, but it’s a literal one. “The maps I gave you? I got them from another Warden. They’re planning an expedition and I honestly thought we might run into them down here.”

I wonder if he’d go with them if we did. I sure as fuck would.

“How lucky for you and unlucky for us that we did not,” Fenris says.

“They wouldn’t save us,” Anders says. “They’d be down here fighting Darkspawn and hunting Broodmothers and doing Wardeny things. If we ran into them, it would be join or die.”

“Considering our options now are limited to ‘or die’ it sounds a fair deal,” Fenris says.

“I thought so too, once,” Anders scratches at the stubble growing on his face and sighs into his hand. He spends the next few minutes in silence, staring at me. He gets morose whenever the topic of Wardens comes up. Have my cousin to thank for that, and I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t help that I look like him.

For all his staring, I wonder if Anders even sees me. Varric said to wait it out. Give him time to grieve, but Anders is always grieving. My cousin. His Circle lover. Some dumb ass refugee that ate the wrong mushroom.

“Varric, are you dead?” Anders yells.

“Yes!” Varric yells back.

“Do you need any help?” Anders asks.

“Do I need help shitting!? What do you think, Blondie!? Unless you have something to wipe my ass with-Bemot’s beard-I think I’m shitting blood.”

“You probably have a hemorrhoid, I’m going to come heal you.”

“You can heal me when I’m done shitting!”

“Please stop yelling about shit,” Fenris mutters. “Either go back and heal him or pick another song.”

“I knew he was stress eating,” Anders sighs. “I should have stopped him.”

“Lesson learned,” I say. “No more deep-stalkers.”

“Because we have the luxury of selection.” Fenris snorts.

“Do you have anything positive to say?” Anders demands.

“I’m positive that I have nothing positive to say,” Fenris says.

“It was a good song,” I say. Anders looks at me. Really looks at me. There’s a smile on his lips, but only just, as if he can’t decide on the emotion behind it. “Some sort of metaphor about dying to darkspawn?”

“… something like that,” Anders says, settling on sorrow for his smile. “Warden secrets.”

“You still keep them?” Fenris asks.

“Sometimes,” Anders says vaguely.

He looks sad. I don’t know what to do about it. He’s a damn good man. A damn dumb man. A possessed maleficar who spits on everything the Chantry ever taught me and gives everything he has for people who hate everything he is. I wish I could say something to comfort him, but I’m piss with words, and I don’t even know which Warden secret he’s depressed about now. “You won’t,” I say eventually.

“Won’t what?” Anders asks.

“Die to darkspawn. We’ll get out of here. All of us.”

“A foolhardy promise,” Fenris says.

“… Made with a true heart,” Anders says. “…Thanks, Hawke. You’re a good man.”

“Or a dead one,” Fenris adds.

“You couldn’t just let him have the last word?” I ask.

“No.”

“He’s just jealous,” Anders grins, “He knows you’d save me first.”

“Blondie…” Varric calls feebly, “Can you help me?”

“Anders to the rescue,” Anders says, and leaves to see to Varric.

“It’s not my place…” Fenris says when Anders’ leaves.

“It’s not,” I agree.

“He is possessed,” Fenris says.

“I know.”

“He is a blood mage,” Fenris says.

“I know,” I snap, trying to keep my voice down least it echo back to Anders. “I fucking know, alright? You don’t think I’ve prayed on it?”

“I care more for your life than your soul,” Fenris counters.

“… Beth was an accident. He wouldn’t hurt me. Or you. Or any of us. He’s a good man, Fenris.”

“… Good men can be driven to desperate measures for good causes. Just-… be careful, Hawke.”

Chapter 27: Poor Bastard

Summary:

"Beth was right. You do have a soft heart."

"I just-... I think-... that's not-..." Hawke stuttered.

Maker's breath, was he shy? Was that it?

"I'm making you uncomfortable," Anders guessed.

"Yes." Hawke said quickly. "I mean-... yes. But.. it's- it's fine."

Notes:

This takes place during the events of Chapter's 60 - Let's Try This Again and 61 - A Preoccupation with Spirits of Accursed Ones and is told from Hawke's perspective.

This is a request for when Hawke realizes he has feelings for Anders. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:32 Dragon 3 Molioris Afternoon
Kirkwall Lowtown: The Hanged Man

It's always warm in Varric's room. Something's always burning. Wax, wood, pitch, summons from the Merchant's Guild. Varric looks over a pile of paperwork and tosses it into his fireplace. It crackles with the maplewood, and I can make out a few words before it crinkles up into ash. Expedition. Dougal Gavorn. Regret. Sovereigns.

Varric makes a show of rubbing his hands together afterwards. It's laugh worthy, but I don't have a worthy laugh. I exhale hard through my nose instead.

"That's better," Varric sighs, taking a seat and waving me into one. "So Killer, is now a good time to talk?"

Tankard are already set out on the table. Whatever's in mine tastes like piss. "I have no good times."

Dog whines; I hold the tankard down so he can sniff, and the idiot recoils a second later. Or maybe I'm the idiot for drinking it.

"Listen, as a friend, I feel like I'd be doing you a disservice if I didn't say something," Varric says, "Maybe, just maybe, getting involved with the possessed mage might be dangerous."

"I know what I'm doing," I say.

"I hope so," Varric says. "Don't get me wrong, the guy is a real Paragon of Justice, but he's about as stable as a seesaw. You haven't forgotten what he did to those templars, have you?"

"How could I?" They weren't templars when Anders was done with them. They weren't even men. Just meat. "... but I haven't forgotten what they did to his lover either."

"The guy's a real tragic hero, I'll give him that, but there is a whole lot of crazy in that package. All I'm saying is I don't want you or Sunshine getting hurt. And by hurt I mean electrocuted and left for dead."

"He needs help, Varric," None of the candles on the table have sticks. They've all melted into the stone, sealing in the dwarven runes, and I pick at one of them so I don't have to look at him. "Started crying on the way here. Over dinner and a bath in this shithole."

"Hey, I live in this shithole," Varric protests.

"So you agree it's a shithole," I take another drink. You get used to the taste, after a while. Anders must feel the same way about starving.

Poor bastard.

"Yes, but it's only okay when I say it," Varric says.

"Whatever. So he starts crying on the way over to this…" I trail off.

"Shithole," Varric supplies.

"But before, the whole way, he's conjuring water and fire for refugees and healing boils and shit," I think all of Darktown would be dead without Anders after what I saw today. "Didn't even want to come. Practically had to drag him."

Varric raises an eyebrow at me, "Not that I don't trust you as an extremely reliable narrator, Killer, but what exactly did you say to get him to come here?"

I shrug and take another drink, "Told him he needs a bath."

"Killer…" Varric draws out the nickname. Like a disappointed parent, as if I know any other kind.

"He smells like shit," I say defensively.

"Killer…." Varric says again, more drawn out. More disappointed.

"What?" I ask.

Varric just sighs. I hate people. I hate talking. Everyone always says they want honesty but no one ever means it. I frown into my drink until Varric kicks my foot under the table. "Take a seat," Varric says to someone in the doorway. "Hawke, you recognize this guy?"

Holy shit.

I guess it's Anders. He looks good. Damn good. Hair's cut, face's shaved, skin's clean. Everything is sharp. Nose, jaw, cheekbones… collarbone. Hips. He's thin. Damn thin. I shake my head.

Poor bastard.

"I can translate." Varric takes the reins to the conversation, "That was a compliment."

We talk. Varric acts like he actually wants Anders to join the Expedition and he wasn't just warding me off him seconds earlier. It's two faced, but it could be worse. Some people have more.

It's just talk - nothing special, except Anders apparently hasn't sat in a chair or eaten real food in Maker knows how long. He sighs and moans at everything, rolling his shoulders, sinking into his chair, caressing everything with the slightest hint of texture. Reminds me of Isabela - he makes everything sensual.

… should bring him more often.

I actually enjoy it, until Varric brings up the ogre that killed Carver.

I snap at him. I can't help it. He should fucking know better. I leave to get drinks, and stop in the privy first. Dog's followed me. Stupid mutt. He sits and waits, like he knows. Like he remembers. Dog whines and nudges me. He probably does. Too smart for his own damn good.

No one should have to remember the way Carver looked at the end. Cut in half, a string of guts the only thing connecting him to his ass, collapsed on Mother's chest. Like she could just catch him. Like she could just stitch him back together like a tear in his trousers. I spend a good minute crying into Dog's fur before I recover and actually get the drinks.

Corf's ready with the food, so I take it up with the drinks. There's more talk when I get back. Anders and Isabela flirt relentlessly. There's a back and forth between them that seems as natural as breathing. I don't know how they do it. Through it all, Anders is staring at me. It's worse than the flirting. He looks at me like he knows me. Like we share some kind of secret we'll take to the grave together.

No one ever looks at me like that.

Maybe he likes me.

Why the fuck would he like me?

Norah threatens to burn his clothes, and Anders has a fit. They're probably the only thing he owns at this point. "I'll get them, Norah."

They're fucking filthy. I don't blame Norah for giving up. It takes hours of hard scrubbing to get them halfway decent. I leave them to soak so I can finish them in the morning. Everyone is hung by the time I get back. Varric, Isabela, Anders. They're all flirting with each other, and it's so easy to win the next hand of Wicked Grace it's not even fun.

Anders is still staring. By the time I work up the nerve to ask why he has a fit, sets himself on fire, turns blue, and almost falls over. When he manages to right himself he looks like he's going to throw up.

Maker, he's a mess.

Apparently his demon-spirit-thing doesn't like him drinking. I carry him back to his room, get him a chamber pot, and hold his hair back while he retches. It feels like muscle memory after a year of Gamlen. As natural as notching an arrow. He starts crying again when he's done throwing up.

Poor bastard.

Should rub his back or something.

That's weird. Why would I do that? I shouldn't do that.

He's probably hungry again. Should make sure he gets food. What did I put in the pack I gave him? Rice and potatoes and shit… he needs protein. Some dried meat maybe. Could find some time for an extra hunt. Get up a bit earlier and leave a few more snares.

It's quiet. Anders stops crying and I hand him a cloth for his face. He uses it to blow his nose and babbles for a bit about not wanting charity. I don't have the patience for pride. We talk for a bit, and I say something about something, and Anders says I have a soft heart.

He's drunk.

He's wrong.

He's a good person.

I don't know what to say back. Don't know if I should say something back. I fumble over a few words and leave shortly thereafter to clean up his sick before heading back to Varric's room.

It's a disaster. Varric and Isabela are a mess. They look like they started playing Strip Diamondback and forgot the Diamondback part. Varric is passed out in his chair, bare chested save for his gaudy necklace nestled in his chest hair.

Isabela's lost her shirt and replaced it with Varric's tunic and jacket. The tunic fits. The jacket doesn't. Her arms are stuck out on either side like mainsails, and she giggles when she sees me. "Hawke, save me."

"How did you get like this?" I ask, untangling her from Varric's jacket before she rips it.

"Fingers first," Isabela waggles her eyebrows at me, "Want a demonstration?"

"No," I lay Varric's jacket over him, and pick Isabela up to take her to her own room.

"I can walk," Isabela protests, only to cling to me when I go to set her on her feet. "I can walk - I didn't say I wanted to. Where are we going?"

"Your room, to sleep."

"Take me to the bar first!" Isabela orders, swinging a wild arm out towards the door like she's captaining her ship to the horizon. "I want to show everyone a magic trick."

I don't ask. It seems safer that way. I carry Isabela downstairs, Dog nipping at her dangling feet while a few patrons whistle and hoot. When we get to the bar Isabela says, "Alright, now give me a copper and I'll make it disappear."

I should know better by now, but I hand over the copper. Isabela flicks it to Corf. "Corf, get me an ale!" She wiggles her empty fingers at me afterwards. "And it's gone!"

"Someone call the templars! We've got a mage in here!" A patron cheers to a round of laughter from the tavern.

I don't know what I expected.

Isabela cradles her ill gotten ale all the way back to her room, grinning toothily at me. "So am I your favorite mage?"

"No."

"Excluding Beth."

"...No."

"He is pretty cute, isn't he?" Isabela muses, sipping her ale. "So there is something there after all?"

"There's nothing." I say, stopping outside her door. I don't have the key and I can't unlock it carrying her.

"But you wish there was."

"Unlock your door." I tell her.

"Unlock yours," Isabela shoots back.

"What?"

"What?" Isabela blinks, like she can't remember what she just said. She fishes her key out of her corset and unlocks the door so I can carry her to bed. "You know there's no harm in having a little fun every now and then. He seems into you, sweet thing. Those pretty little eyes of his were on you all night. I say go for it."

"... Goodnight Isabela."

"If you don't I will!" Isabela calls out as I leave.

I head back upstairs, move Varric to his bed, and start cleaning up. There's cards mixed with food mixed with cards, and it's a good half hour before everything is clean and put away. Dog's found a spot outside Anders' door, and he's growling like he wants to break in and maul the poor bastard.

I whistle for him to stop, and spare Anders' door a glance before I leave for the night.

… something small. Something he can turn down, and not feel guilty about.

Drinks.

Chapter 28: O Children

Summary:

"There there, Fausten. No tears. It'll be better now. We can fix it. We can make things right."

Notes:

This chapter is an introduction to Quentin and his motives and is told from his perspective. It is him reflecting on his time before coming to Vigil's Keep while waiting for Amell in Chapter 28 - The Apple and the Tree, but it is linked from Chapter 32 - Blame it on the Night to avoid spoilers.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 18 Parvulis Late Morning
Vigil's Keep - Main Hall

They were beautiful children. I remember each of their births. My dear Revka bathed in blood, her body spent and trembling, but still so strong. How she reached for them, as if she would cross the Veil and pull them from the Maker's side just to see, to smell, to touch.

Our first, Parthalan, had none of her. He came out crooked. His arms, his back, his legs, all twisted up like little bows. How she wept for him, until one miraculous day he straightened. I remember how she thanked the Maker, but Pride is a jealous mistress, and I could not bear for us to live a lie.

She took it well. So well. The Maker's ears would burn to hear those midnight prayers, and the passionate throes in which they were spoken. I knew then that I would love her till death parted us, and everyday thereafter. My perfect Revka, my purest Revka, my one and only love. There was nothing I would deny her, and so, children.

Our second, Daylen, had some of her. He came out cleft, with lips that wouldn't purse. He would never suckle at her breast, never know her milk, and starve within the week. An ill rumor, I made the servants say. The boy was born in perfect health, for how else he could be well a fortnight later?

How Revka thanked me. How desperately she wanted more of me, of us, of the life and lives we made together. How she lived and loved and bled for me. How her heart beat for me and me alone and I with never the need to make it. It was she who entraced me, who controlled me, who enslaved me.

Our third, Fausten, had more of her. He came out weak, resenting his first breath. His tiny lungs had no room for air, his cries like little gasps. Revka wept with him and the colic that might have taken him, but curiously it passed. Embrium did wonders for the lungs, we told the neighbors.

I was so very proud of them. Our children. Such promises, such deals I made for them. For what, aside from love, could be stronger than blood? I remember how my sweet Revka said their names, reverent little prayers when they were born, desperate pleading shrieks when they were taken. Magic. Magic, magic, magic. Always, they were magic.

Parthalan, they sent to Ostwick. Daylen, to the Gallows. Fausten, to Kinloch. And I, they sent to Starkhaven.

Solona, they forgot.

Our fourth, our last, our favorite. Solona had all of her. She came out perfect. She had Revka's skin, her smile, her Void black hair and blood red eyes. So little time I had with her and Revka before they found me, and reduced my love to letters, but I remember. I remember she was perfect.

The templars found Solona afterall, long after I was gone. Long after Revka was gone. She wrote to me, even though I never wrote her back. After Revka's death, Solona woke me from mine. Save me, Father, the letters said. They're going to make me Tranquil, the letters said.

I tried. Maker have mercy, I tried. I burnt Starkhaven's Circle to the ground, I found a ship, I took its crew. I found her in Jainen - Ferelden's forgotten Circle. I sailed to the middle of the Waking Sea, scaled the Circle walls, and found her ruined.

The Chantry's sunburst marred her perfect skin. Her lips had lost their curve. Her void black hair was coarse and flat. Her blood red eyes were dull and lifeless. She wasn't perfect. She wasn't Revka, but she served.

My gnarled old hands shook the whole procedure. I couldn't lose them both, but if I were to have only one, it had to be Revka. I pieced her back together, bit by bit, stitch by stitch, but the eyes. I sliced through the left when I carved them out, and squished the right.

It couldn't be me, I realized then. I needed an apprentice. Someone younger. Someone steady. Parthalan, I visited first. So much like me. So little like Revka. He understood. He agreed. But he was Tranquil, and I needed more than his assent - I needed his magic. I left him in the tower, a reminder of my future should I fail.

Daylen, I visited next. What little he'd had of Revka, he'd lost. Everything about him was too big. His hands, his nose, his ears. Even his eyes were wrong, turned more brown than red with age. He didn't serve. Not me. Not Revka. Not anyone. Not as a Tranquil.

Fausten was the last. The last of my line. The last of my blood. The last of Revka's blood. And oh how he used it. Such stories they told! A necromancer. A maleficar. An abomination. Whole armies risen at Denerim. Whole armies enslaved at Redcliff.

Surely together we could fix our little family. Surely together we could revive, reverse, restore. Death and Tranquility need not be our end. We need not have an end at all. If there was one thing I learned from the bloody birth of my children, it was that the question was not can it be done, but what will it take?

I straighten my spine, waiting to receive him. Not in a Circle, but in a castle of his own making. Vigil's Keep, they call it. Warden-Commander, they call him. A man who does whatever it takes to get the job done. I think of his birth, and how he wasn't ready for the world, and how now the world isn't ready for him. He's turned out so much like me.

The doors open, and they show Fausten inside.

He's perfect.

But so are his eyes.

Chapter 29: Blighted Blood

Summary:

It's tradition that the Wardens only recruit one mage from a Circle at a time. When the late Warden-Commander Duncan came to the Tower almost two years ago, everyone knew that mage would be Amell. He was Irving's own apprentice, a prodigy who mastered the summoning sciences at thirteen. He is undeniably exceptional.

Notes:

This takes place during the Blight, before the events of Accursed Ones, and is told from Duncan's perspective. It is linked from Chapter 5 - It Comes From Beneath.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:29 Dragon Parvulis 23 Mid-Day
Ferelden: Kinloch Hold

Irving called the boy a prodigy, and there before the watchful eye of his templars he’d been made to prove it. A waste, Duncan couldn’t help thinking, watching the boy move through the motions of a dance, hands sheathed in blue, telekinetic magic rearranging the furniture. He was after a Warden, not an interior decorator, but he had enough imagination to picture the same spells turned against the darkspawn, lifting whole scores and seeing them dashed upon the ground.

Whether or not the boy had the courage or character, Duncan couldn’t say. He was cowed, as were most of the Circle mages. Fiona had been a diamond in the rough, but she was a Warden no longer, and the Chantry had approved a replacement ages ago, but Duncan had never found anyone suitable.

“Very good, child.” Irving cooed when the Amell boy finished his demonstration, and held out both arms for a quick check by one of the templars in the room. An unfortunate but necessary precaution, Irving had explained the way the templar rolled up the boy’s sleeves and turned over his arms, and then sparked their hands with a white light that made the Circle’s newest mage wince.

The boy had a natural tendency towards schools of spirit and entropy, though Duncan didn’t know much about what that meant beyond what Irving claimed. Apparently, the boy was considered a high risk for blood magic and possession, and had to be watched carefully. Not only because of his schools, but also because his best friend was a blood mage.

A terrible business, Irving had explained, but it happened. The tomes were there, and apprentices were occasionally drawn in by the lure of the forbidden. Amell’s friend had fallen to temptation and was slated for Tranquility, and Irving was all too eager to see Amell recruited before he suffered the same fate. Duncan thought it a grim business to blame the fish for not seeing the hook behind the bait, but Wardens weren’t made for mercy. He had seen the Blight with his own eyes, and he needed the best.

Irving had the boy walk him back to his room. Amell asked a few questions about the Order, expressed an unexpected admiration for his weapons and armaments, and complimented his earring. It was regrettably less than Duncan was looking for. There was no talk of the injustices of the Circle, scarcely any curiosity of the outside world, no mention of the Warden’s stance on blood magic. The boy was polite, but unremarkable. He was noble born, and the arcane came to him naturally, where Duncan would have preferred he’d had to work for mastery of his magic.

He was staying at Kinloch for a few days, at least, Duncan supposed. He had time to search the tower. Perhaps Amell’s friend would be better suited.

The commotion came the next day while Duncan was having dinner with Irving and Greagoir and going over possible recruits. A young templar lad burst into Irving’s office, tongue tripping over his words in his haste: “Victim’s Door” and “Repository” and “break in” the most noteworthy among them. Greagoir stood abruptly, and strode from the room with Irving on his heels. Duncan invited himself along for curiosity’s sake.

With identical rooms, robes, and rules, there were so few ways for a mage to distinguish himself. Courage was certainly one, and making an attempt to escape the Circle was nothing if not courageous. Foolhardy and vain, but courageous, and admittedly a little reminiscent of Duncan’s young self, and just as liable to end in death if a Warden didn’t intervene.

Greagoir hurried down through the winding stairwell, armor rattling heavily on every step. He snatched up every templar he passed on his way down, and Duncan wished he could have called it excessive, but he knew what mages were capable of. The three templars Greagoir gathered might not be enough to stop a determined mage. To hear the templars talk, the culprit was a young man named Jowan. One suggested another mage named Anders, to which someone else snapped that only an apprentice would need to break into the repository, and Anders would never bother helping another mage escape.

The Circle felt reminiscent to the streets of Orlais in a way, the disparity of power akin to the disparity of wealth. The Templars stormed through the halls in full silverite, while mages dodged out of the way in robes. Duncan couldn’t help his sympathy. At least on the streets of Orlais, there was more than one way to run. There was only one way out of the Tower, and they found their culprits trapped between the main door and the templars guarding it, and the ones closing in on them from the hall.

The small group shouldn’t have had a chance. Three that Duncan could see, trapped between two templars on one side and a half dozen Greagoir joined with his three on the other, but magic wasn’t a thing to be underestimated. Nor, apparently, was Irving’s apprentice.

There the boy stood, ripping the Circle down around him. Statues and pillars had been torn from where they were inlaid in the stone and thrown together in a hasty barricade to stop the templars from reinforcing their fellows on the other side. Without a clear line of sight, there was no smiting the escapees.

The Templars had enlisted another mage to clear the Amell boy’s barricade, to no avail. Whatever the boy was doing with his magic, it was more than the templar’s recruit could handle. Sapphire light cascaded through the corridor, clashing with violet in violent explosions of magic that staggered anyone caught in them. The mage the templars had recruited was sweating with effort, but on the other side of the barricade the boy was cackling.

“Move or I’ll kill her!” The other mage was shouting to the two templars blocking their path. He had a Chantry initiate clutched tight to his chest, what Duncan guessed to be a blade pressed to her throat by the jut of his elbow.

The girl was neither crying nor screaming, and Duncan couldn’t help wondering if she was a co-conspirator in the whole ordeal. Or she was terrified out of her wits, and he was giving the boys far too much credit, but there was no reason for an initiate to be so far from the chapel. Duncan doubted they had dragged her the distance, which meant she was a willing hostage.

“Fausten!” Irving shouted, a burst of violet devouring all the sapphire in the hall. “Cease this immediately!”

A mad cackle answered him, and the ceiling collapsed. Duncan recoiled and brought up a hand to block the worst of the dust and rubble that roared across his face. Irving’s hands glowed blue, and swept the mess of broken marble and cracked stone aside with a grunt of effort.

“Men!” Greagoir bellowed, “He’s bluffing! Take him down!”

“Aye, Commander!” The Templars in the foyer yelled back.

“Jowan just kill them!” Amell screamed, and the order won him a smite. The ceiling cracked open above him, a shock of white lightning on the stone that split the air and crashed down on the boy. A scream ripped from the boy’s throat with the same intensity, a seizure crumpling his legs beneath him.

“Amell!” Jowan screamed; light flashed across the blade he’d had pressed to the initiate’s throat when he raised it high and slammed it down into his palm. The air imploded, sucked from Duncan’s lungs and replaced with fire despite his distance. The Templars who rushed through Irving’s clearing collapsed outright, as did the two between him and the door.

“Hurry!” Jowan ran forward to help Amell from the floor, but the boy was boneless. The Chantry initiate confirmed Duncan’s guess that she’d been a willing hostage until the boy had turned to blood magic.

The Chant spilled from her lips to a shaky chorus of “Jowan, no,” and “What have you done?” as she retreated back towards the templars.

“Lily help me get him up!” Jowan begged; the initiate ignored him and bolted through the passage Irving had cleared in the rubble, while Amell grabbed Jowan’s collar and hissed something Duncan couldn’t hear.

Whatever it was, the boy bolted from the Tower, and Greagoir and his remaining Templars shoved Lily out of the way to charge after him.

They didn’t get two steps into the foyer before Amell’s hand glowed blue, and lifted shakily towards the door. The statue of Andraste that hung above the twin doors cracked, and collapsed, blocking the way after his friend. Two templars dragged him to his feet and locked their shackles around his wrists. He was too weak to stand on his own, wheezing for breath, hair soaked through and stuck to his face, but somehow still cackling, a smirk more mad than smug twisted round his lips.

Irving picked up his robes and picked his way across the rubble. A shimmer of blue across his hands dragged the broken statue out of the way of the door, and Irving surveyed the damage with a sigh. With the impediment gone, three of Greagoir’s uninjured Templars bolted from the Tower after Jowan while the others stumbled groggily to their feet.

One templar kept a firm hold of Lily, and led her back into the foyer. Duncan followed them, taking in the damage with no small measure of respect. There was an artistry to it. The choice of chokepoint, the reliance on physical over magical barricades, the false hostage… The sacrifice, and the minor victory.

“Child, what were you thinking?” Irving sighed deeply, kneeling to retrieve the blade the other boy had dropped when he’d fled. He pinched it gingerly between two bony fingers, and lifted it still dripping blood from the floor. “Aiding a maleficar…”

The templar holding Lily brought her to stand beside Amell for judgment, where the girl sobbed for mercy, “Knight Commander, I swear I didn’t know.”

“Be quiet, girl,” Greagoir snapped.

“Maker, Jowan, how could you?” Lily simpered, ignoring the order, slack in the arms of the templars holding her. “How could he? Amell, how could he?”

Amell inhaled long and hard, and spit on her face. He broke back into the chuckle of a madman, and laughed even harder when the templar holding him twisted his arms and knocked him down to his knees. “You never loved him.”

"Blood magic is evil, Amell!” Lily screamed, “It corrupts people! Changes them! I trusted him! I was ready to sacrifice everything for him!”

“Enough!” Greagoir shouted. “ An initiate conspiring with a blood mage. She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall of the blood mage then… meaning she willfully scorned the Chantry and her vows. And you! Newly a mage and already flouting the rules of the Circle! What do you have to say for yourself?”

“To say?” Amell laughed, “I don’t need to say anything! He’s gone! He’s free! You think I didn’t want this!?”

“I am disappointed in you, child,” Irving sighed. “You could have told me what you knew of this plan, and instead you enacted it. You know the Rite exists for a reason. Yes, it is a sad affair, but it is for the good of all mages that-”

“The good of all mages!?” Amell interrupted him, “You don’t care for mages! You just bow to the Chantry’s every whim! I told you! I begged you for help!”

“There was an investigation-” Irving started.

“Fuck your investigation and fuck you,” Amell spat.

“Commander,” A templar poked their helmeted head back inside the main door, “He’s gone, Ser. Froze the water on the lake and ran across. It unfroze before we could follow.”

Amell started laughing again.

“Damnit, Irving, this is all your fault,” Greagoir snarled. “If you had let me act sooner this never would have happened! Now we have a blood mage on the loose with no way to track him down! As Knight-Commander of the templars here assembled, I sentence this mage to death, and this initiate to Aeonar.”

Duncan couldn’t help but be impressed when both of the conspirators went willingly, Lily with a slouch to her shoulders and Amell with a proud set to his own. This was what he’d come to the Circle to find. Not the silent and submissive student Irving paraded before the templars. He wanted the martyr, the tactician, maybe even the maleficar. The boy was born for it.

“Knight-Commander,” Duncan interrupted, “If I may. I’m not only looking for mages to join the King’s army, I’m also recruiting for the Wardens. Irving spoke highly of this mage, and I would like him to join the Warden ranks.”

“What?” Amell asked.

“Absolutely not!” Greagoir barked.

“Duncan, this mage has assisted a maleficar,” Irving said patiently, “I admit, I recommended him before, but he has shown no lack of regard for the Circle’s rules. He will not prove an obedient soldier, nor a good Warden.”

“He is a danger to all of us!” Greagoir agreed, “He would have killed my men if he were able.”

“It is a rare person who risks all for a friend in need,” Duncan said. “I stand by my decision. I will recruit this mage.”

“No!” Greagoir shouted, “I refuse to let this go unpunished!”

“Greagoir, mages are needed,” Duncan said patiently; Maker, the Chantry was hard to reason with, but he’d done it for Alistair. He could do it again. “This mage is needed. Worse things plague this world than blood mages. You know that. I would take this mage under my wing and bear all responsibility for his actions, or do I need to invoke the Right of Conscription?”

“A blood mage escapes and his accomplice is not only unpunished, but is rewarded by becoming a Grey Warden!” Greagoir snarled, punting a broken bit of Andraste across the foyer, “Are our rules nothing? Have we lost all authority over our mages? This does not bode well, Irving.”

“Enough,” Irving sighed, “We have no more say in this matter… Child-”

“I’m not your child,” Amell snarled, and then stumbled when the templars holding him unshackled him and shoved him towards Duncan.

It was an easy affair to catch the boy, and right him when he hit his knees, “Come, let’s gather our things, your new life awaits.”

The boy made no protests on the walk back through the Tower, though he did stare at him so fixedly Duncan couldn’t help chuckling, “Have I grown a second head?”

“Are all Wardens like you?” Amell asked.

“How do you mean?” Duncan asked.

“… I mean don’t you care? About what I just did?” Amell asked. “The Knight-Commander was right. I would have killed them.”

“So I imagine,” Duncan mused.

“Wardens don’t care about killing templars?” Amell asked.

“A warden is ruthless to their enemies, compassionate to their friends, and inspiring to their troops,” Duncan told the boy, “In that moment, they were your enemies. It was an admirable thing you did, and I think most Wardens would agree.”

“… I can’t wait to be one.” Amell decided. It wasn’t until they reached the boy’s quarters, and he was packing up his things that Duncan saw him wince.

“Injured?” Duncan guessed.

“The repository was guarded,” Amell explained, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. “Enchanted statues.”

“May I?” Duncan asked, unlatching his pouch, “I always keep some bandages on me.”

Amell shrugged, and shrugged out of the upper half of his robe. There was a cut at his side, hidden by the sash he’d pulled up over it. It wasn’t enough to do any lasting damage, but it was enough to stain the inside of his robe. And it was blood. “I must say, I’m impressed,” Duncan said, retrieving a poultice from his belt to smear on the bandage, “I’ve never known a mage to be able to cast through a templar’s smite at your age.”

“… Jowan needed time to run,” Amell said, and to his credit he met his eyes when he said it.

“And you gave it to him,” Duncan noted, wrapping the bandage around his side, “It was well done.”

“I’ve never done that before,” Amell said. “I didn’t even know if it would work; I just knew I needed mana, or something close to it.”

“So long as you use it against the darkspawn, you’ll be free to practice with us, if that’s what interests you,” Duncan assured him.

“… it is,” Amell said. “… it really is.”

Chapter 30: Count Down

Summary:

Selby gave his free hand a pat, "I want you in the tunnels for the rescue."

".. really?" Anders stopped writing; ink dripped onto his letter and swallowed up a sentence. Selby's pat turned into a pinch, and Anders stowed the quill. "...Even after everything with Decimus?"

"You were impulsive, running off with those Starkhaven mages, but sometimes impulsive is good. Makes you move. Gets you going."

Notes:

This chapter takes place before Chapter 100 - Free To Good Home of Accursed Ones and is told from Dalian's perspective.

Written for tumblr prompt for the phrase "Count Down." Thank you for reading!

TW: Implied/Referenced Rape; Attempted Suicide

Chapter Text

9:33 Dragon 4 Pluitanis
Kirkwall: The Gallows

Dalian Shaw had a pretty face until he didn’t.

The slender mage sat before his vanity, fingers hovering over the flattened cheekbones on the left side of his face. His bronze skin had been beaten a mottled purple, but somewhere, beneath the burst blood vessels and crushed cartilage, were eyes a lovely shade of topaz. If he turned his head to the right, just ever so slightly, they were still there.

Like it never happened.

His cheekbones were still high. His lips still plump. His skin not scabbed and scarred but smooth. Dalian opened the small jar of red ochre on his vanity, mixed it with a bit of kohl to darken it to a shade more befitting his skin, and added a touch of sycamore juice until it was at the right consistency to paint across his face. More kohl to line his eyes, a bit of rouge for his cheek, a touch of wax for his lips.

Still pretty.

Still Dalian.

He still belonged to himself.

Not to Karras.

Not if it killed him.

Dalian left his vanity for his window. It was a cool spring day, less than a fortnight since Wintersend, and the wind brought in the scent of salt and the sea. Dalian drummed his fingers along the sill, and lifted a knee to join them, when he noticed the blood stained beneath his nails. Such an ugly shade of brown and black. A quick trip back to his vanity painted them a proper shade of purple. Like mulberry wine, poured beside a fire on a warm winter night.

Better days.

Better tastes.

Dalian ran his tongue along his teeth, skipping newly empty spaces, and chewed a bit of resin until it ate away the taste of copper. He straightened his robe in the mirror, twisting this way and that until his profile pleased him, and went back to the window when the knock came at the door. His visitor didn’t wait for a welcome before they were inside, and Dalian half-way out the window when he realized it for Orsino.

“First Enchanter…” Dalian said cautiously.

“Enchanter Dalian,” Orsino smiled. A pleasant sort of smile, for fireside chats, and not windowsill ones. “I am interrupting.”

“No,” Dalian lied, one leg still out the window. “Never. What can I do for you?”

The elderly elf took a seat at Dalian’s tea table, adjusting his many-layered robes until he’d made himself comfortable. “I am vexed by a … philosophical question,” Orsino gestured to the chair opposite him, “I wonder if you would humor me.”

“Tomorrow?” Dalian suggested, trying to take the measure of the man. Orsino was far from the most remarkable of mages at the Gallows, but he had a respectable command of telekinetic magic that could easily lift a man… or catch one. “I’m expected elsewhere, and I have to drop in. For appearances sake.”

“Of course,” Orsino bobbed his head in acquiescence. “I don’t want to keep you.”

The First Enchanter didn’t move from the chair, watching Dalian with eyes that shifted through various shades of green. Moss to emerald to olive, like new growth from old wood. As if anything could grow within these four walls.

“... you don’t?” Dalian asked.

“Not at all,” Orsino assured him. “Appearances are everything, and I know the pride you take in yours. I understand why you are in such a hurry to… drop in, but as you are still here, perhaps you would not begrudge me my question. What is justice?”

Dalian relaxed on the ledge, though he kept one leg on either side of it, his robes bunched up on about his knees, wind cool on his calf. Just a slight tilt to the left…

“Justice?” Dalian parrotted.

“Yes. We know it for an ideal - a spirit, but what is it in practice? Does it exist outside the Fade at all, as some inherent principle of the world? Is it the law? If so, is it the laws of Men or the laws of the Maker? Which men? Which maker? Who is to say if men deserve the suffering to which they are subjected? Is there such a thing as a just world? And if not… do we have an obligation to make one?”

“... what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that there is another way out,” Orsino said. “... Perhaps the same out, but at least means would justify the end.”

Five days.

Five days for freedom.

On the first day, Dalian climbed down from his window sill. He crawled into his bath, and there he stayed until the morning of the second.

On the second day, he climbed out of the bath still fully clothed, and refused to change his robe for fear of what lay beneath it. He went to breakfast soaking wet, and left a river of soapy water in his wake. Two Knight-Lieutenants dragged him back to his room, and when he refused to change his clothes, changed them for him. Dalian screamed like the Fade had emptied and all its demons were there in his quarters, but the templars left him in peace after forcing him to change.

On the third day, he stayed in his quarters. He missed breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No one came to check on him.

On the fourth day, he went to the chapel and prayed for justice.

On the fifth day, Ser Karras came for him.

So did Ser Bardel.

He was the Void made man. Close cropped black hair and a goatee peppered with grey, a brow so heavily lined it hid his eyes in shadow. He entered Dalian’s room and had scarce shut the door before Karras followed him.

“First come, first serve, Karras,” Bardel said, blocking Karras from entering with a well-placed arm.

“I know you like cunts,” Karras protested, tilting his head to look beyond the barrier, “What are you doing here?”

“Have you seen Shaw?” Bardel snorted, hand on the hilt of his sword, “What are you doing here?”

“Fine, fine,” Karras held up both his hands and backed up, “First come, first cum. See you tomorrow, Shaw,” Karras promised, blowing Dalian a kiss.

Bardel shut the door in his face, and Dalian went to his window.

“Wait-!” Bardel grabbed at his own throat. It was such a strange motion that Dalian hesitated long enough for Bardel to rip out a necklace. It swung hypnotically from Bardel’s shaking fingers, embossed with a broken Circle. “Wait. Please don’t. On my honor, I’m a friend-”

“Templars have no honor,” Dalian spat, but the swaying symbol begged to differ.

“I do,” Bardel promised, sliding the necklace back under his armor. He took no steps towards him, which Dalian appreciated. “I swear it. Enchanter Dalian, on my honor as a templar, on my soul as an Andrastian, on my word as a man, I’m here on behalf of the Mage’s Collective to see you from the Gallows.”

“If I’m caught-... If Karras catches me-...” Dalian couldn’t finish. He sat on his windowsill, staring at the door and what lay beyond it. It would be so much easier to just lean back, and fall away.

Bardel took one step, then another, until he was at Dalian’s side, where he knelt. He drew his sword, and leveled it on his knee. “On my honor, Enchanter Dalian, from here till the Gallow’s gates, I die before you do.”

“Death would be a mercy,” Dalian mumbled. He traced the edge of Bardel’s blade, and pressed until it stung. He bled a pretty shade of rosehip. It seemed the only pretty part left of him.

“Mercy lies beyond the Gallow’s gate,” Bardel pulled a kerchief from his armor, and wiped Dalian’s blood from his blade. He tied it about Dalian’s bleeding finger like a favor. “You have simply yet to meet him. Come quickly. We do not have much time.”

Leaving the room meant leaving his window, and for that Dalian hesitated. He went to his vanity and painted his face and fingers, and waxed his hair and his lips. He gathered up all his powders and paints into a pack, and turned this way and that, switching from bruise to blush, and stopped on the bruise. Crushed cheekbones and sunken topaz stared back at him… bitter, but not broken.

He wouldn’t give him that.

From the Gallows they fled.

It passed in a blur. It passed in a breath. Dalian stood in the sewers beneath the Gallows, where rubble hid ancient caverns from an ancient age that led… out. Away. Bardel moved a rock here, a rock there, and a passageway Dalian had never imagined was revealed, guarded by a man he’d never met.

He did not look like mercy.

He looked like justice.

The relentless pursuit of it had lined his eyes in shadows, and they carried a hard edge to match the blade at his hip. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and he stood tall and determined, wearing his rags like silverite. He wasn’t pretty. He wasn’t trying to be.

Bardel bowed to Dalian, “Here is where I leave you, Enchanter.”

Dalian tried to think of how to thank him, but there weren’t words.

Bardel didn’t seem to need them. He clasped the stranger’s arm, in greeting and in parting, “In this world.”

“Or Beyond,” The stranger said.

Bardel left.

The stranger looked at Dalian's bag of cosmetics, and handed him a backpack.

“... What is this?” Dalian asked as he put it on.

“I’ll give you a guess, when we’re not a stone’s throw from the Gallows,” The stranger said, urging him on through the tunnels of limestone, dripping with the weight of the ocean above them. “Come on.”

Dalian followed him, the pack rattling on his back with whatever it contained. “I’m not of a mind to guess right now.”

“A canteen, a cookpot, and food for a week,” The stranger said over his shoulder.

“How did you know I wouldn’t already have all of this?” Dalian asked.

“I used to be like you, once,” The stranger explained. “I didn’t think when I ran. I just ran. Took all my jewelry with me every time. It seemed so important back then…”

“It is important,” Dalian rolled his pack of cosmetics up into his arms, “I can’t look into a mirror without it. I have to see who I make myself. Not who he made me.”

The stranger stopped so abruptly Dalian ran into him. The stranger turned around, and seemed to look at Dalian for the first time, taking in the face Karras had beaten sideways. The stranger reached for him, and Dalian couldn’t help his flinch until he felt the Veil thin, and saw the telltale glow of a spirit healer’s benevolent energies on the stranger's hand.

Dalian scrambled through his pack for a mirror before the spell finished casting, only to hold it up to a mangled face. His cheekbone was still flattened. His eye still slightly sunken. Only the bruises had receded.

“The bones have already set. I’d have to break them again to heal them straight,” The healer explained. “... I will if you want me to.”

“Why?” Dalian exhaled shakily at the offer to fix all he’d been through, made so casually. “Why would you do that- this for me? You don’t even know me.”

“I’ll do a lot for a pretty face,” The healer smiled - and maybe the mercy behind the justice was in his lies. Dalian wasn’t pretty. Not anymore.

“Why bother?” Dalian asked. “It’s death or Tranquility for escapees. I’m just counting down the seconds until they catch me.”

The healer touched him. A gentle hand on his shoulder; the first gentle touch Dalian had borne in far too long a time. The healer smiled honest. “Stop counting.”

Chapter 31: We All Died at Ostagar

Summary:

"I did give you a chance to run," Amell reminded him. "That was more than Duncan ever did."

 

"Who?" Anders took another drink, wondering how long his headache would last.

"The Warden who recruited me, and two others," Amell fished a necklace out from beneath his tunic; the small vial of blood looked suspiciously familiar. "The first recruit died. The second got scared, and tried to run. Duncan killed him to keep the Joining a secret."

Notes:

This chapter takes place during the Blight, before the events of Accursed Ones, and is linked from Chapter Four - Joining of Accursed Ones. It is told from Daveth's Perspective.

Written for the prompt "push beyond exhaustion." Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:29 Dragon - Day Unknown
Ostagar

Ostagar's a big place. It’s deep in the Korcari Wilds, far as the old Tevinter Imperium ever stretched. There ain’t no maps what go beyond it. The crumbling ruin straddles a narrow pass in the hills, and right now it’s our last best hope for Ferelden.

Blight’s here, or so Duncan says. He pulled me straight out of the hangman’s noose and threw me straight into something worse: fighting darkspawn. Night-gangers, some call ‘em, cause that’s when they come. Monsters that don’t kill Maker-fearing folk so much as eat ‘em, and the lowlands are set to be a banquet if we don’t stop ‘em.

Lot of armies gathered to fight the darkspawn. Kings. Teyrns. Banns. Mercenaries. Wardens - that's us. We’re a good two dozen. Mismatched misfits Duncan’s pulled out one fire or another. Got murderers, bandits, pirates, mages, knights, templars, even a farmer or two who can get nasty with a pitchfork.

Most of ‘em been here a while, fighting the good fight, ‘cept me, and two other sucklings - Ser Knight and Ser Mage. We still gotta undertake the Joining.

Big secret, that. Bit like Ser Mage. Dark and mysterious and probably not the sort of thing I should be messing with, but the Blight really puts things in perspective.

Ain't nothing worse. Makes a man feel good about his choices.

He's a pretty little thing. Hair black as the Void, and lips like he could take you there. Ain't no shame in any part of him. From chin to brow, every feature's fearless and taking up a bit more space than they’re meant, but it works.

He knows it too. Nothing in how he moves or what he says. He walks like a soldier. Talks like a soldier. Yes, ser. No, ser. Good little order taker, but his eyes say things would turn a Chantry Sister scarlet.

They fit beneath his brow with a bit o' shadow, like they got a secret, and they burn like hot coals. He's been raking me with them since dinner. Never seen a man who just ate look so hungry, but I figure I could sate him.

He's a little young for my taste, but he's lean and slender and he'd fit nice in a lap. Duncan ain't said nothing about whether us recruits can get to know each other, but I figure we know all there is to know.

Ser Templar tells a joke. He’s like our wet nurse, till the Joining takes us off the teat, assuming we live that long. Ser Knight laughs. I nudge Ser Mage - that’s the pretty one.

“So,” I say, “I’m here to escape the noose, Ser Knight’s here to escape his wife, Ser Templar’s here to escape the Chantry, what about you? What are you here for?”

“To save the world,” Ser Mage says, but it’s a shit answer and he knows it. He gets up to leave, and walks so close I could knick his pockets when he does.

"So he's… a bit strange, isn't he?" Ser Templar says when he's gone. Funny sort of fellow. Always got something to say and someone to say it to. Suspect he and I will get on, even if we don't get off.

"I confess, mages make me uneasy," Ser Knight says. He's a big boy. Big mouth. Big nose. Big bones. Big heart. Too big for little old me. "I am grateful for your presence, Ser Templar."

"Not a templar," Ser Templar says. "I just trained as one, and I wasn't very good at it. Not a fan of the uniform. Or the lyrium addiction. Or the mage hunting. But the shame and self-flagellation? Now that I could get behind."

"Tell you what I can get behind," I say, but then I don't. Not the kind of thing you share. Not unless you really want to talk shame and self-flagellation. "Magic to fight the darkspawn. The whole world's at stake. Can't afford to be picky."

I leave 'em for the night, and try to find Ser Mage, but I don't know where to look. Too many tents. I give it a good go but ultimately give up, only to find Ser Mage waiting in my mine. Bold little thing. That kind of shit would get your teeth kicked in back home. Must be different in the Circle. Can't imagine being so cocksure for cock. Bit jealous, me.

I tie the tent flaps together and turn back around. He's still there, sitting in my bedroll like I invited him. Suppose I did. Little late if I didn't.

I find a nice spot in front of him and loop my thumbs into my belt, rocking a bit on the balls of my feet, "Got something to say to me?"

Ser Mage wets his lips and eyes on my crotch, "No," He says.

"Good." I grin.

He rolls up onto his knees and reaches for my belt, and I decide for a bit of fun, "The fuck are you doing!"

Ser Mage falls flat on his ass, "I thought-"

"Just messing." I laugh. He laughs. I regret making him laughing. Got a wild sort of cackle that sounds half-mad, but then the belt's off and I don't give a shit.

He's got no shame. Never been with a man like that before, looking up at me every so often while my cock slides between his lips. Like he's proud of being on his knees. I could come apart like this, but, "Got some oil, if you want."

He keeps a hand on me when he breaks off, lips wet and glossy, "You want me to fuck you?" Something in the way he says fuck is damn vulgar. Like I've never been fucked before.

"Other way about," I say.

He makes so much noise. My finger inside him gets him moaning, hitchy little things that sound like pleas for more, and more makes him sweat. Glistens on his thighs when I go for two, soaks his hair when I make it three. Can't wait to see what my cock does to him, but then he asks, "What's your name?"

"You care?" I ask.

"You want me to?" He asks.

"Daveth," Guess I do.

Never fucked a fellow on his back before. His ankle fits nice on my shoulder, and he fits nice on my cock. He says my name like he's testing it, little whimpers on every thrust. I like how he shakes, how he sweats, how he holds his cock while he bounces on mine. Don't mean to finish so fast, but he's… something.

He finishes himself. Looks good, doing it. Nice bit of tension in the glistening muscle on his arm, and then he's dressed and gone.

Forgot to ask his name.

Makes for a bit of awkward the next morning. Figure I'll stick with the nicknames till someone says his real name, but it never happens. Breakfast is a bit o’ hardtack and jerky, and water with a hint o’ ale to keep it clean. It ain’t much, with us waiting on the next batch of supplies to come from the Teyrn of Gwaren. His men gotta go around the Southron Hills, and I suspect it’s a bit of buffer against the darkspawn.

His army might be doomed, but his folk would be fine if we fail. Darkspawn’d prolly keep heading up into the Bannorn afore they’d turn back around. Whole country’s gonna get eat, and I can’t help wondering if it’s all some Chasind witchery. Darkspawn don’t seem to be coming from Orzammar, or popping out of the Fade. They’re coming from the uncharted territories, conveniently chasing the Chasind out and into our lands.

Don’t matter none in the end, I suppose. We all die the same. We got the rest of the day to our lonesome, and Ser Mage is gone to do whatever it is Ser Mage is gone to do. I spend the day cleaning out a few pockets - old habits die hard - until I see one of the sergeants talking to Duncan.

Big fella. Angry. Got a dog with him, and they’re both growling. He looks a bit like Ser Mage, the more I look. Got the same hot coals for eyes, and they rake me over when he looks at me, but there ain’t nothing nice in the way he does it. He’s fingering an arrow at his hip like he wants to stick it where the sun don’t shine, and not in any fun sort o’ way.

“I’m sure there is another explanation,” Duncan’s saying.

“Name it,” Ser Dog snarls, “My brother caught him with his hand in his pocket.”

“Careful,” Duncan says, hand to one of the fifty swords he got strapped all over him, “You are talking about a Grey Warden. I would trust his word over your brother. In any event, I vouch for the good conduct of all the Wardens here. Are we clear?”

Ser Dog looks at Duncan, looks at me, and nods. “Clear,” He says, and he leaves.

Now ain’t that something.

I grin, hands in the pockets I filled, but don’t get more than a few steps before Duncan’s caught me by my collar and hauls me off like the bad little boy I been.

“I need to say something to you,” Duncan says when we’re in the shadows, “You’re a worthy and skilled recruit, and I know of your talent with sleight of hand.”

“Do my best,” I grin.

“It’s a good thing,” Duncan says, “Grey Wardens use a diverse range of skills and tools to accomplish their missions, but the law is very hard on thieves. I should not need to remind you how I recruited you. But that is not all.

“Ferelden still bears mistrust towards our order, so practice these skills with caution. Your standing as a Grey Warden will not always help you.”

“But I can practice?”

“Certainly,” Duncan smiles, and somehow the purse I nicked off the sergeant’s brother is twisting ‘bout his fingers, “Just don’t get caught.”

“I’m a like being a Warden.” I decide.

Duncan laughs and sends me on, but he keeps the purse. Suppose I deserved to lose it.

I spend the rest of the day talking to the prisoners. Deserters. Thieves. Murderers. They’re more my ilk, and I can’t help but figure it’s just luck that don’t have our places reversed. Come evening I figure I could use another go, so I try Ser Mage’s trick of heading to his tent, but it don’t work out like I figured.

Pretty little thing’s sitting in his bedroll with a cut on his wrist, but the blood ain’t falling. It’s floating. Bubbling up into the air like a fancy champagne.

… Huh.

“So uh… you some kind of blood witch?” I ask. Ser Mage starts, and the blood splatters on his forearm. For a second I figure maybe I was seeing things, but my eyes are good. He ties his arm up in a bandage, and it seems a bit strange he don’t have the magic to heal it. Maybe it’s one o’ the other with mages.

Should probably make a run for it, but he ain’t a darkspawn, so how bad can he be? I sit. “You ain’t going to turn me into a toad, are you? Put me in a pot?”

Ser Mage eyes me suspiciously, like I’m the danger between us. “... Are you going to tell anyone about me?”

“Can’t see a reason to,” I say. “What were you doing?”

“Practicing,” He says. “... For the Darkspawn.”

“And you can’t use normal magic for that?” I ask.

“Most of my magic is anti-magic bursts or mana alteration meant for other spellcasters… Or telekinesis. I’ll probably have to use the latter against the Darkspawn, and I don’t know what my limits are if I run out of mana and have to use blood.”

Didn’t understand a word he just said, ‘cept that his magic runs out same as my arrows.

“What about them mage potion things?” I ask. “Those blue bottles all the Circle mages have on their hips?”

“Lyrium potions," Ser Mage calls 'em. "Duncan was able to get me three. That’s three fights. We don’t know how long this battle is going to last or what kind of enemies we’re going to face. I need to be prepared.”

“Say I could get you more," I venture, "Would you care how I got ‘em?”

“Why would you do that?”

"Duncan says we can do as we like, long as we’re fighting the Darkspawn," I shrug. "That’s what we all want, ain’t it? Fight the Darkspawn, end the Blight, save the world?”

“... That’s what we want,” Ser Mage agrees, but something in the way he says it makes me think maybe he wants something more. “... If you came across more lyrium potions, I wouldn’t care how you found them.”

“No?” I grin, “Maybe you’d even thank me? Life is fleeting, you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow.”

Ser Mage thanks me in advance. There’s a real appreciation in the way he does it, in the slow swipe of his tongue and pull of his lips. He hums his thanks, and I card my fingers through his hair while his head bobs in my lap, talking about nothing much. The six years I spent in Denerim, the little blot you wouldn’t find on a map that used to be my home, the father that chased me from it.

When he’s done showing his gratitude and swallowing mine, I head out and nick his potions. Stole a key off one of the prisoners who stole it off a mage. Makes it easy to empty out one of the Circle's chests for him. There’s a good half-dozen blue potions in it, a couple of balms that do fuck knows what, and a rock that’s probably not a rock. Ser Mage likes the rock so much he thanks me again.

“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” I say.

“What did you think I’d be?” Ser Mage asks, hands glowing funny while he fiddles with the rock.

“Not a blood mage, but here you are,” I say. “Makes my nose twitch, but you watch my back out there, I’ll watch yours.”

“I’d like that,” Ser Mage agrees, “Thank you, Daveth.”

Shit. I still don’t know his name.

Next morning, Duncan wants to send us out into the Wilds for darkspawn blood for our initiation ritual, which makes sense. He also wants us to get some old treaties in the ruins, which doesn't. They're from back before the Wardens were exiled from Ferelden, and make folks honor bound to fight with us. Fuck if I know why we need them. Seems to me we got every army Ferelden has to offer right here.

I nudge Ser Mage, "You following?"

"In case we fail," Ser Mage explains.

"Seems to me we won't get a second chance," I say.

"What else are Wardens?" Ser Mage says.

Profound, that. Don't answer my question none though. "How you suppose we'll be able to use these treaties if we're all dead?" I ask.

"Don't die," Ser Mage says cheekily.

"Oh aye?" I laugh, "And if I do?"

"I'll bring you back," Ser Mage says.

… Creepy.

Ser Mage breaks from the group, and goes to stand at attention by Duncan. All respectful like. "Duncan, the ritual for the Joining, is there any magic involved?"

"We can discuss the Joining after you have been through it," Duncan says, with all the patience of a parent, "Not before."

He and Ser Templar leave to go talk with the Senior Wardens, and leave us recruits to our lonesome again.

"Suppose that means yes," I muse, "You don't suppose the Joining is some kind of blood magic ritual, do you?"

“I should hope not,” Ser Knight says, all aghast and clutching at his chest like he’s got a corset choking him. “The Grey Wardens are a noble order of renowned warriors. They would not debase themselves with blood magic.”

“Don’t know about that,” I say, “Figure anything that beats Darkspawn beats Darkspawn.”

“When we stoop to the ways of our enemies, we become no better than our enemies.” Ser Knight says primly.

“Here’s how I see it. You kill one killer, sure, world's still got one killer in it. You kill fifty…” I waggle my eyebrows, “You catch my meaning?”

“That is a very poorly nuanced assessment of ethical conduct.” Ser Knight frowns. Big frown on a big face. Shame.

“Eh, it’s done for me so far,” I shrug, but Ser Mage is gone, and I don’t even know who I’m defending now.

I look about for him, and find he’s wandered off to talk to the Teyrn hisself.

Bold little fuck. Hope he asks him about us getting more rations, but somehow I doubt it. I’d kill for a good pickled pigs foot right about now. From the look on the Teyrn’s face, he’d kill for a lot less. Wonder if it was something Ser Mage said to him, or if it’s just the face a man makes at the end of the world. Ser Mage comes back and doesn’t share.

We get our supplies together and out into the Wilds we go. Horrible place, the Wilds. Swamps and bogs, bogs and swamps. No safe place to step without losing a boot, and I'm free o' mine in a minute. Air's nice and thick with mosquitoes and the smell o' rot, and it ain't just darkspawn we have to worry about, it's feral wolves and giant spiders and crabs.

Ser Templar leads us three, calling out whenever he senses darkspawn. The first fight almost kills us.

Darkspawn crawl out of the bog like the undead. They look like it, too. Mutilated things that aren't quite men and maybe never were. Their skin isn't skin: its pus and rot stretched thin across their bones. Their armor's made of rust and scrap metal, and they don't so much wear it as embed it in their not-skin. Some got weapons. Some are weapons.

They cut Ser Templar off from the rest of us, and then they're on Ser Knight. They drag him into the bog, and that's it. Little bubbles all that's left of him as he goes down screaming. I can't fire arrows fast enough. They don't do shit 'cept add some pretty feathers to the darkspawns' armor.

I try and switch to knives but they're so fucking fast. One's in my face, screaming and spitting and Maker it's gonna fucking eat me -

It explodes. Just pops. Blood and bone go everywhere, including my mouth. It's not just blood, there's something soft and crunchy and I throw up. Part of the thing’s skull is embedded in my cuirass, vomit's under my collar and in my shirt, and Ser Mage is laughing.

Not just laughing. He's … dancing? Spinning about with his staff, weird sapphire glow on his hands. One by one the darkspawn pop, until one gets him. Thing comes out the bog, grabs his foot, and breaks his focus. One hard yank, and he's gone with a splash.

Then it's just me. I grab my knives, pick a good tree to plant my back against, and say my prayers. The first darkspawn to come for me gets his throat slit. The second chews through my pauldron before I can get him off my shoulder. The third has me, until it doesn't.

Ser Templar's back. He skewers the thing, and tosses it aside like it's nothing. He picks up my bow, shoves it back into my hands, and then he's off. He's like a fucking beast, hacking and slashing his way through the darkspawn to pull Ser Knight and Ser Mage out of the bog.

"Okay," Ser Templar says when all the darkspawn are dead, and we're not. "So… we need a strategy. We need to strategize. Take a tactical approach. With tactics."

"You're just saying words now," I say.

"This - all this seems - is there not a better method for us to acquire whatever components are needed for the Joining?" Ser Knight asks, his bald head toupee'd with moss from his fall in the bog. "Should we not bring a larger contingent of forces?"

"This is part of your test," Ser Templar explains, offering Ser Mage a bandage he declines, "Every Grey Warden has to spill their own blood."

"That was poetic, Alistair," Ser Mage says, leaning heavily on his staff after his spill. Why he's so fucking good with names?

"Poetry will not save us against the Darkspawn!" Ser Knight don't look so good. He wheezes, and his skin's looking more and more like moss.

"... you alright, Ser Knight?" I ask.

"No, I am not alright!" Ser Knight squeaks, "Those things - those monsters, did you not lay witness? Those are no earthly beings. They are a plague, a disease-"

"A Blight," Ser Templar says. "The word you're looking for is Blight."

Suppose it might be rude to laugh, so I try not to. Ser Mage exhales hard through his nose. Ser Knight spins about in a panicked circle, and vomits on his boots.

"Oh boy," Ser Templar says.

"Jory," Ser Mage heads over to put a comforting hand on the big fellow's bowed back. "You have a wife?"

"Helena," Ser Knight dry heaves, and a bit of bile sticks to his lips. Think I can spot some jerky in the mess on his boots. "In Highever."

"What would you do to save her from this?" Ser Mage asks.

"Anything…" Ser Knight tries for a breath, and somehow he manages. "Anything. Yes. I see your meaning. Just give a moment to collect myself."

"I could switch my approach," Ser Mage offers, still rubbing the big boy's back. "If you give me your weapons, I can imbue them with telekinetic energies… it should make them more effective. I noticed you struggled with your arrows, Daveth. You should stick with your daggers."

And just like that Ser Mage is in charge. He's got us changing places and switching weapons, drinking all kinds of weird potions and smearing balms over our faces, and we're off again.

The rest of the fights go better, but I can't help noticing Ser Mage chugs through his potions like a lush. The three he got from Duncan. The ones I stole for him. We're deep in the Wilds when he runs out, and I suspect he moves onto blood. Gets paler by the minute, until he's pushed beyond exhaustion and into something else.

“Hold up,” I call, “This ain’t working out.”

“The tower is just ahead,” Ser Templars lets us know, gesturing to the marble ruins spliced between the trees in the distance. “The treaties should be in a cache somewhere within.”

“Right, but I’d like all of us to make it there,” I jut a thumb in Ser Mage’s direction. He don’t even notice, crawling along like his staff’s turned into a third leg.

Ser Templar stops, and waves a hand in front of Ser Mage’s face. Ser Mage don’t even blink. I wonder if he done died and picked hisself back up, and we never even noticed. Ser Templar snaps his fingers, and Ser Mage finally shakes out of it. “Yes?”

“... you alright?” Ser Templar asks.

“I’m fine,” Ser Mage lies, bald-faced as Ser Knight.

“Riiiight,” Ser Templar drawls, seeing through it. “Why don’t we take a break in the tower?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, but it don’t happen.

There’s a witch waiting for us in the tower. Some Chasind looking lass, claims her mother stole our treaties, and we gotta go with her to get ‘em back. Terrible plan, that. Kind that ends with ‘And they were never seen again!’ but Ser Mage must have never read a story that ended sideways. I figure I lost my bedroll buddy with how he’s smitten. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ ‘We sincerely appreciate it.’ ‘It’s my pleasure.’ ‘Thank you, yes, of course.’

And then he’s gone, leaving the tower with the witch, and we figure we follow or we never see him again.

The witch actually has a mother, and not the kind that seems like to eat us. Daft old lady with twigs in her hair, who spends her time talking backwards and eating mushrooms straight out of the dirt. They live together in a little shack with one too many things made out of one too many bones, but Ser Mage makes hisself right at home. He sits at the table taking tea and talking magic, and crazy old lady gives him a potion that seems to fix him right up but could have just easily knocked him right out.

Trusting to a fault, that one, but even the crazies aren’t crazy enough to want the darkspawn to win this war. Benefit of being a Warden, I suppose: Anyone joins, anything goes, and everyone knows: In peace, vigilance, in war, victory, in death, sacrifice. You miss the first two, and you only got the third left. Witch gives back our treaties, and sees us safely back to Ostagar, and that’s it, we’re done until Duncan’s ready with the Joining.

“So what’s with you?” I ask Ser Mage that evening, when we’re all rested and gathered round the fire, “I get it, we all want to save the world, but you’re so for this Grey Warden business you’re ready to bleed out and die for the fuck of it?”

“I am,” Ser Mage says, and he’s a little too serious for my blood.

“Why?” I can’t help asking. “You ain’t been a Warden, what? A fortnight?”

“I think I’ve been a Warden all my life,” Ser Mage says, playing with his fingers in the fire. “I was just waiting for someone to tell me.”

“You ask me, world’s got enough martyrs.” I say, keeping my right distance, “What it could use are some heroes.”

“A hero is just a martyr who lived too long.”

I grin, “Then I hope to be a hero.”

I mean it, but I don’t know which I’ll end up when Duncan holds the chalice full of darkspawn blood at the Joining that night, and tells us all to drink it. Figure I should go first. Figure that’s what heroes do.

Duncan says a nice little prayer when he hands it over, just for me, “Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you.”

Tastes like death, it does, but I seen Ser Templar fight, I seen the Darkspawn, and I know we need it. The Blight won't end easy, and either we join and we win, here and now, or we all die at Ostagar.

Chapter 32: No Saying No

Summary:

Alain had always been an agreeable man.

Notes:

This is a piece on Alain's backstory which is linked from Chapter 86 of Accursed Ones.

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 17 Eluviesta Early Morning
Starkhaven Circle

Alain Darrow was an agreeable man. He was quite unsuited for conflict, being quite unaccustomed to it. He had been born of an agreeable family, into a relatively small amount of privilege and comfort, and had enjoyed it for a relatively small amount of time. Darrows of Starkhaven were a Maker-fearing family, with many children to spare, and had surrendered Alain to the Circle at the age of six when his magic had manifested.

It left him noble in name, and for the Circle, that was noble enough. An agreeable name made certain Alain had an agreeable time. His instructors were agreeable towards him, and it made his studies agreeable in turn. Agreeable studies made for agreeable success, though not all was agreeable happenstance. Under the Templars’ watchful eye, disagreeable mages had a way of not remaining mages long.

The Tranquil were a little too agreeable, even for Alain, so he decided he would be agreeable by choice, for as long as he had one. He swept stockrooms and storerooms, cleaned closets and commons, laundered linens and larders, and found it agreeable to be agreeable. It was never not appreciated. Children torn fast from their families were few and far between of an agreeable sort, and Alain was the exception praised by enchanter and templar alike, but that praise lasted only as long as his apprenticeship.

Alain was Harrowed an agreeable mage, and aught much else. Where other mages were tenacious, intelligent, or courageous, Alain was agreeable. Where other mages were ambitious, benevolent, or confident, Alain was agreeable. Where other mages were diligent, disciplined, or resourceful, Alain was agreeable. As time passed, while few men would speak to Alain’s vices, even fewer would speak to his virtues.

It was spring of 9:31 when one of the Knight-Lieutenants set Alain to gathering the linens in the barracks. It was a task better suited to the Tranquil, but Alain was quick about it, and they had taken to asking him, and he had taken to agreeing. He went from bunk to bunk with his head down, not listening to talk a mage ought not to listen to, and left with his basket overfull. He knew the route to the scullery by heart, and was rounding the stairwell when another mage barreled into him.

The avalanche of soiled clothes buried him, the only sign of his assailant a snarled, “Watch it, Tranquil!” as his fellow mage climbed over him like just another stair. “Bloody turnips.”

Their footsteps echoed through the stairwell with their departure. Alain remained, forgotten amidst the scattered linens until the air turned stagnant with the stench of sweat. It occurred to him it didn’t occur to him to correct them. What was there to correct? He did the same tasks, for the same taskmasters, with the same tenacity. All he lacked was the sunburst on his forehead, and how long would it be before he agreed to that too?

The thought haunted him for weeks to come. He felt apart from himself. He watched another man move about in his skin, going from task to task with the same mindless determination of the Tranquil, and wondered at the difference between them. Where was the joy? Where was the purpose? Where was the passion? Where was anything? When he had stopped acting out of fear, and just started acting? This wasn’t his life. This wasn’t anyone’s life. It just was, and it wasn’t enough.

He found solstice in literature and the lives of others, and it was in the library that he met Terrie, and found her not at all agreeable.

“What are you reading?” An innocuous question, but a rhetorical one. Alain displayed the spine of his book in answer, and Terrie plucked it quite unceremoniously from his hands. “Kirkwall: The City of Chains, by Brother Genitivi,” Terrie said, affirming she could, in fact, read. Alain said nothing. “Is it any good?”

“It’s h-h-history,” Alain said.

“Which means what?” Terrie asked. Alain reached for his book without answer, and Terrie withheld it.

“It just is,” Alain said.

“Oh,” Terrie surrendered the book, “You’re one of those.”

There was no reason to speak further. He had his book, and she her answer, but the way she said it, so derisive and dismissive… it was a tone reserved for the Tranquil. Alain set his book aside.

“One of what?” He demanded.

Terrie had stopped and smiled, “Someone who lets history happen to them, instead of happening to history.”

Terrie was a woman of grandeur, Alain discovered in the days to come, and she made herself small for nothing and no one. She was two big eyes, and two big lips, and too many big ideas. There were few Alain agreed with, but for once he found it agreeable to be disagreeable. He found passion in Terrie’s passion, in being called into question and having his answer matter more when it wasn’t yes. They debated everything from history, to religion, to politics.

The discourse was addictive, and Terrie always indulged him. When they ran out of topics, she brought him to sit in on the Fraternity of Enchanters’ conclaves, and they debated which faction they would join when they became enchanters. Over a matter of weeks, Alain watched himself be swayed from Loyalism, to Aequitarianism, to Libertarianism. It was the only choice that left him with choices, and it took having one to realize they were too important to concede blindly.

He could disagree. He had to disagree. With the realization, Alain finally felt himself again, or perhaps felt himself for the first time. It felt like looking up from black ink and yellow parchment, and discovering the world was full of colors beyond his imagination. It was blue skies, orange sun rises, red sun sets, purple painted lips that smiled when he told Terrie she was right. History was in the making, and the Libertarians were the only ones unafraid to make it.

He was ready to be a part of it. He was ready to have an opinion and not be afraid to speak it. He went to bed thinking of the proposals he would draft, the protests he would lead, the difference he would make. No sooner had he closed his eyes than he was shaken back awake. Terrie stood over him, a finger held up against her bright purple lips. Alain donned his slippers, and Terrie led him to the library where a group of mages had gathered. They spoke in the hushed whispers of heretics, hidden behind the anonymity of their hoods.

Somehow, Alain knew these mages weren’t Libertarians. They were something else entirely. Something Alain wanted no part in. For a moment, he forgot Terrie. He was Alain Darrow, an agreeable mage in disagreeable company. He froze, and they noticed. Heads lifted, hooded eyes somehow more threatening than the slitted ones. It felt as if the hourglass of his life turned over, and all choice had been taken from him.

“Join us,” One said.

Alain knew there was no saying no.

Chapter 33: Fuck Me Blind

Summary:

His hands felt the same to Anders, blind or not. They were still strong, and every firm squeeze on his ass or the backs of his thighs still left Anders sighing.

Notes:

This chapter takes place following Chapter 34 - Spirits and Demons of Accursed Ones and is told from Anders' perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 15 Frumentum Evening
Vigil's Keep Warden Commander's Quarters

There were moments Anders almost forgot he was blind.

When it was dark, when there was nothing but sweat and skin between them, when Amell's hands were locked about the back of his knees and Anders held him by his thighs and relished every time they tensed beneath his palms. "Anders-" Amell groaned, and Anders wanted nothing more than to summon a light to see his face, but Amell would have felt the Fade shift, and Anders had promised. It was just dark. It was just dark for both of them.

"H-harder," Anders moaned at the next swallow thrust, pawing at Amell's legs and the coarse hair wet with sweat. Maker, it was good but it wasn't enough. He wanted to be fucked senseless, to break the bloody headboard and the bed altogether as Amell fucked him into the mattress until he was sobbing with pleasure and the pain of his arousal, and not anything else in his life.

"Yeah?" Amell released his legs, and Anders choked on a whimper when Amell pulled from him. A trickle of hot oil ran down his ass at the loss, and Amell rearranged them so his right arm pressed Anders' leg as near to his shoulder it would go. It took him a moment to realign himself, and when his hips snapped forward Anders saw stars in place of black.

"Like that?" Amell asked through grit teeth. Anders couldn't respond; he ceased existing outside of Amell's cock pounding into him, outside of the hand the man fisted in his hair and used to bend his head back, leaving Anders' throat arched and open for every wild cry Amell stole from him.

"Yes," Anders choked, grabbing Amell's arm and his own leg and digging his nails into both, "Fuck, yes," The sheets were soaked beneath him, every thrust chafing the fabric against his back, but Anders barely felt it over the inferno building in the pit of his stomach, "Please-please-oh please, Amell."

"I've got you," Amell promised, "Come for me."

Anders turned his face into Amell's arm and gasped, smearing spit and drool on his wrist, and freed a hand to wrap around his cock. A few frantic strokes dragged him over the edge, and Anders lost himself to the rush of heat that burned across his skin, an all-consuming wildfire that stole everything from his breath to his thoughts to the feeling in his toes.

Amell sang his praises for it, a tattered mix of 'Anders' and 'Perfect' and 'Fuck yes' and somewhere in there 'Let me taste you.' Anders ran a shaky hand through the damp on his stomach and found Amell's lips, even in the dark, even blind. Amell sucked on them through his own end, and not long later Anders' felt the throb of his cock and the rush of heat that came paired with a broken chorus of gasps and screams.

Anders locked his arms around Amell when he collapsed atop him, trying his hardest not to think, not to exist outside of this one moment, but it wasn't possible. He could feel the woolen fabric, soaked through with sweat where Amell's head lay against his shoulder. He couldn't forget it, in the dark that Amell had insisted on so Anders wouldn't remember him this way.

Anders found his forehead, and told himself he didn't notice when Amell tensed when his fingers brushed over the blindfold. He pressed a hard kiss on his brow, and Amell relaxed, but it wasn't the same.

It wasn't just dark.

Chapter 34: Just Let Him Have This

Summary:

"You humans take way too much for granted."

Notes:

This chapter takes place after Chapter 17 - Lost in Dreams of Accursed Ones and is told from Amell's perspective.

Written for a tumblr prompt "hammock." Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 26 Matrinalis Morning
The Wending Wood

"Did you just sniff a handful of dirt?" Velanna demanded, forgoing her hammock in favor of lying amidst the autumn leaves. The fact that she lay beneath Nathaniel's hammock was no doubt coincidence.

"I didn't," Sigrun insisted, shoving her hands behind her back, where Amell could clearly see the soil black staining her fingers. Amell kept his chuckle in his throat; any lower and Anders would feel it where he lay on his chest. His sun-blonde hair was spilled about his freckled face, one arm hanging and reaching almost to the ground. Amell pushed his foot against the ground, and Anders' arm swayed with the hammock.

"You did!" Velanna sat up on her elbows, fallen red and orange leaves grumbling at the motion, "I saw you!"

Anders twitched sleepily at the exclamation, and Amell rocked them again. He made a shushing sound, and Velanna gave an exasperated roll of her eyes.

"Why are we whispering?" Sigrun whispered obediently.

"Anders fell asleep," Amell explained, settling a cautious arm around Anders' waist. Anders didn't stir, and there was no real need to hide his smile.

"Princess needs his beauty sleep," Oghren snorted, a violent gesture from his flask sloshing ale out across the forest floor. It was strong enough that Amell could smell it, harsh spirits mingled with the sickly sweet scent of autumn, and the crisp hint of elfroot and firewood that was Anders. It was perfect for him: soothing, subtle, sublime.

"It's been a long day," Amell said quietly, and the gentle sway of the hammock kept Anders from waking with his words. "Anders is our healer; he didn't get to break with the rest of us between fights. Just let him have this."

Conversation stayed a whisper. Amell kept them swaying, watching Anders sleep and trying to commit him to memory for a sketch when they went back to the Vigil.

Just let him have this.

Chapter 35: Tell Me About Carver

Summary:

"Did she tell you Hawke here killed an ogre escaping the Blight? I suppose that's not much for a Warden, but for the rest of us mortals, it's kind of an achievement. I have been dying to know what was going through his head at the time."

"It ripped Carver in half in front of me," Hawke said. "What do you think was going through my head?"

"Shit, Hawke," Varric set his drink down. He wrung his hands together and spent a few seconds searching for words, "Sunshine never mentioned-I... Shit. Sorry."

Notes:

This was for a tumblr prompt for a conversation between Hawke and his best friend. It is linked from Chapter 61 - A Preoccupation of Spirits of Accursed Ones.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:32 Dragon 12 Molioris Morning
Kirkwall Lowtown: The Hanged Man

"Tell me about Carver."

"He's dead. What's there to tell?"

"See, Killer, you say that, but I've been wondering if you really believe it."

"What are you talking about?"

"You never talk about him. You never talk about Ostagar. Shit, you never talk about anything before Kirkwall. It's like you just appeared in the middle of your own story."

"Get to the point."

"It seems to me you think if he never existed then he never really died. It doesn't work like that. The dead die, but you're the one who gets to decide if they're gone."

"So I should tell a few stories about him so I can relive his death all over again?"

"Only if that's the story you tell. Come on, Killer, there must be something you want the world to know about him."

"The world didn't give a shit about Carver, and Carver gave too much of a shit about the world. He would have done anything to make a name for himself, except actually go out and make one. Thought he could complain his way to fame or infamy or something in between.

"He had a girl - Pear or Pearl or something - he used to talk about running away with before he started complaining about her too. Was never going to have the life he wanted in Lothering. Thought he'd find it in Ostagar. He talked about joining the Wardens after the battle… guess he did better than most of them even getting out."

"What do you think he'd be doing if he were here?"

"Looking for fodder for your stories?"

"Call it inspiration."

"You're not putting my brother in one of your bawdy serials."

"Just hear me out, I'm thinking of switching genres."

"What's the title?"

"Hard in Hightown."

"Varric-"

"Hey, if your mind's stuck in the sewers that's between you and Blondie. It's gonna be a crime thriller! Guardsman Donnen Brennokovic is solving the murder of… shit, I don't know. Someone. I'll figure it out."

"Carver'd hate it."

"Junior doesn't even know who his character is yet."

"He'd hate being called Junior, too."

"Everyone hates their nicknames. Where have you been, Killer?"

"I don't."

"I'll have to change it then. Anyway, what I'm sensing here is that Junior hated being in your shadow, so… what about having him as the sidekick? Every good hero needs one. Maybe he saves the hero in the end in this version."

"I think Carver would rather kill him."

"I can work with that."

"Ha!"

"Of course, if I'm going to write about him, I'd need to know about him so..."

"... Maybe after another drink. There was this one time he nailed Beth's braid to the bed when she was sleeping."

"Another drink it is. Hey Corff! Another round on me!"

Chapter 36: We All Got Our Shit

Summary:

"And she's gotten better at blood magic, apparently." Anders said.

"Are you trying to bait me into a fight, Anders?" Nathaniel asked.

"Nope," Anders said, "Just wondering if you knew."

"No." Nathaniel said.

Notes:

This is a little drabble inspired by @whatsanapocalae‘s Mage Prompt - 50. Self-harmers being accused of blood magic. I originally tried to combine it with @rederiswrites writing exercise - 3. As told around the campfire by multiple people who were there, but I failed miserably at the multiple part. It is linked from Chapter 29 of Accursed Ones.

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon Some Day in Parvulis
The Wending Woods

“Right. So this happened back during the Blight. You all heard how Denerim went down, bunch of armies coming together for the greater good and all that nugshit, but getting there? That was our little group. Now, there were about a half-dozen of us-"

"Nine," Amell interjected.

"I ain't counting the dog," Oghren huffed defensively.

"A half dozen is six," Velanna said. "I suspect you 'ain't counting' a few."

"You a magician or a mathematician? Anyway, like I was saying, there were nine of us in the main gang. Me, the boss, the boss's elf, King Pike-Twirler, a swamp witch, an old mage gal from the Circle, one of them qunari oxmen, a golem, and Leliana.

"Now for this to be funny you gotta know the type of gal we're talking about. Leliana was one of them Chantry Sisters. Said a prayer for every stone-cursed duster we ever killed and gave a sermon about it every night. We’re talking so pious she could have converted a Paragon. Don’t ask how the boss managed to convince her to work with us blighters-”

“How did the boss manage to convince her to work with you blighters?” Nathaniel asked.

“Piss if I know. Blood magic, probably.”

“No,” Amell said.

“Uh-huh. Sure. So being religious and all, you can guess Leliana wasn’t much for the boss’s magic. This gal had such a thing against blood she must have been on the rag since-”

“Stop,” Anders said.

“This is why your wife left you,” Sigrun added.

“Alright, alright. Anyway, considering the boss here’s been doing blood magic longer than he’s been doing magic magic, it put their relationship a little on the rocks. But the boss ain’t into gals and this gal ain’t into the boss, so who gives a shit, right? She hooks up with King Pike-Twirler, the boss hooks up with the elf, and the rest of us hook up with our hands.”

“Gross,” Sigrun said.

“Is this relevant?” Velanna asked.

“No,” Amell said.

“Calm your tits, I’m getting there. So time passes like gas, and one day we find out it’s King Pike-Twirler’s name-day. And we find out King Pike-Twirler hasn’t ever twirled his pike, if you catch my meaning.”

“No, I don’t think I do,” Anders said.

“Pampered his paragon? Bucked the forbidden bronto? Donned the velvet hat?”

“Please stop,” Sigrun groaned.

“Please don’t,” Anders laughed.

“I’m leaving,” Velanna said.

“Alright, relax, I’m almost at the good part. So we buy him a night at the Pearl, to help him, you know, find the pearl, but once we get him there he says he doesn’t want anyone but Leliana.”

“That’s so sweet,” Sigrun said.

“Yeah, yeah, sweet enough to rot your teeth. So the boss goes to get her, and we give ‘em the room, and the rest of us spend the night at the bar. By my ancestors, that was a fine night indeed. They had this one gal-... anyway, while Pike-Twirler’s off twirling his pike, the boss and the elf get to thinking they may as well do the same.

“Now, a brothel is like a privy. There’s a rule: you don’t look, but the boss’s got arms like a butcher’s block. Soon as the elf had him out of his shirt, everyone in that bar knew what he was. Someone snitched, and before you knew it the whole place was full of the wrong kind of skirts.

“We were fucked, and not the kind of fucked we wanted to be. No weapons, no armor, maybe one or two daggers between us. I’m too piss drunk to fight and the elf’s an assassin. He can take maybe one, two dicks at a time, but not a half score in full plate."

"A half score. Ten?" Velanna clarified. "Are we truly to believe this many templars would be beyond you?"

"It would have taken a sacrifice," Amell explained.

"Boss prolly would have done it, too, if Leliana hadn't come running out. Now remember, this gal was a Chantry Sister. If she was any more uptight, Pike-Twirler would have gotten stuck. But the templars don’t know that any more than they don’t know she’s not a mage. She’s got a dagger in her hand, and she slams it straight through her palm.

“Everyone freaks. People start screaming, crawling out windows, trampling each other like a herd of mad brontos, and this gal is really selling it. Screaming how she’s the most powerful blood mage Thedas has ever seen, how she’ll give the templars a chance to run before she kills ‘em all, but what really sold it was her arms. If the boss’s arms were a butcher’s block, her arms were the shit that got butchered. We’re talking so many scars you couldn’t count ‘em all.”

“So more than ten?” Anders teased.

“More than ten times ten! The templars eat it up and one brave sod tries to smite her, but it don’t do shit because she ain’t a mage. So they all start trying, and it still don’t do shit, because she still ain’t a mage. Then Leliana starts counting back from ten, and they damn near piss themselves,” Oghren’s voice took on a shrill falsetto at the retelling, “‘It’s not working! She’s too powerful! Maker save us!’

“Dumb fucks scattered like nugs before she ever got to five. Funniest shit I ever saw.”

“And I reminded you of this story because…?” Velanna asked.

“Because I’ve seen scars from someone who cuts for magic, and scars from someone who doesn’t. I get that the boss is teaching you, but I don’t know if the boss gets just how much you like it.”

“... Velanna, is this true?” Nathaniel asked.

“... And what of it?” Velanna demanded, “I will not be judged by shemlen filth who-!”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Oghren held up his hands, “Filth, sure, but shemlen’s going too far. I ain’t human, and I ain’t judging. Anyone judging?”

No hands raised.

“Alright. So no one’s judging. Just saying, if you’re gonna cut like the boss, then cut like the boss. And if you’re not… then you’re not.” Oghren took a long drink in the silence that followed, grateful his vice didn’t tally itself into his arms, but he knew it wouldn’t have stopped him if it did. “We all got our shit.”

Chapter 37: A little less like my father and more like my dad

Summary:

It was always like that. It changed on a bit. If Father was caught, we'd run with Mother. If Mother was too sick, we'd run with Father. Nothing was permanent. Nothing was important. Carver mattered. Beth mattered.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! This chapter is linked from Chapter 81 - My Failing and My Falling Part Two of Accursed Ones.

Chapter Text

Around 9:10 or 9:11 Dragon
A Market

Hawke's first memory is of templars. He's four. Maybe five. He's made of limbs and dreams and nothing can shatter them. No tree is too high, no future too big. His world is made of little boys' magic, and not the magic of men.

He's in a market. Not the market, because he can't remember which town or what shop, just a market. The summer sun glints off the blue glass of a child's bauble, and he wants it as much as a child wants anything. But glass costs coin, and his father explains they don't have the copper Hawke knows is in his pocket.

It's not a tantrum - it's not - it's just a question. Why not? Why not why not why not, but his father isn't listening to him, isn't even looking at him, and so he asks again, a little louder every time until he's screaming it and his father is dragging him into an alley.

There's no lecture. No discipline. No cuffing, pinching, or spanking. His father smothers him - one giant sweaty hand swallowing up his face and all his protests. Shut up, Malcolm snarls, and in that moment he is Malcolm and not father and Malcolm is mad and so Hawke shut ups.

He sits in that alley, suffering, suffocating, his father's bulk hunched over him while a procession of templars marches past. More than anything, Hawke remembers their swords. The rattle of metal in wooden sheaths, the sunbursts emblazoned on their hilts, the idle hands that finger them. He hates those hands because he can't hate the one on his mouth.

When they're gone, his father lets him go, and Hawke can breathe again, but he thinks it makes more sense to cry.

Never again, Malcolm says. You hear me? If I say no, it's no. If I say stop, you stop. If I say run, you run. You don't question. You don't hesitate. You just do. You hear me?

I hear you, Hawke says.

The templars leave his father's magic and take Hawke's instead. A few years pass, and Hawke gets a little bigger, but he gets a little smaller, too. Some trees are too tall. Some dreams are too big. There are other memories, other moments, but it's the templars he remembers most, because he remembers what they made his father. Growing up, he knows the man's belt more intimately than he knows the man himself.

Denerim is different. Hawke is six, maybe seven, and the small apartment must not fit his father because all Hawke remembers of him there is a balcony of burnt blood lotus. Hawke learns to read from letters he runs for bits on slanted streets. In the refuse that fills them, he plays with a group of elven boys, and for a time they're all just normal boys with normal boy lives. Then his mother teaches him their ears are wrong, and that doesn't sound right, but his mother's tongue is sharper than any switch. Hawke's mistakes are whetstone for her words, and so he doesn't play with them anymore.

He makes new friends, but they’re stuffed, and they don’t play as well. He keeps them on his cot, and a few fall off when his father shakes him awake and says they have to go. The mabari is his favorite, and it’s somewhere, but the moons are new, and it's so dark, and he can’t find it. It's under the bed, maybe, or in the laundry, he thinks, or somewhere, somewhere he can find it, he just needs a minute - just a minute, please, and he swears that he can find it - but then his father cuffs him.

What did I say? Malcolm reminds him, as if he could forget. When I say go, you go. You hear me?

I hear you, Hawke says, and so he goes and the stuffed mabari doesn't.

It isn't raining that night, but Hawke remembers a storm. Torches like lightning, boots like hail on cobblestone, the thunder of leather clad fists on dozens of doors. Dragged from her home is a woman, screaming for mercy for her magic, but all the windows stay shuttered, and none of the neighbors want to hear.

A few months pass and Hawke finds friends that he can't lose. He makes them from his fears and his frustrations and they don't talk so much but then again he doesn't either. He learns to love his loneliness, before his parents take that from him too.

They're in Crestwood when the twins are due. His mother is screaming, so loud Hawke is sure the neighbors will hear and the templars will come, and he hates them for it because he can't hate her. She’s so big Hawke thinks she might birth a monster and not the siblings he was promised. Someone has to help her, but his father's magic is as harsh as the man, and it can't save the children like the Chantry can.

His father leaves, and Hawke doesn't want him to go almost as bad as he doesn't want him to come back. Alone with his mother, she doesn't hold his hand so much as crush it. She's in so much pain she has to share, and it hurts, it hurts so much, but his mother is still screaming and Hawke has to wait his turn. He wants her to hold on almost as bad as he wants her to let go.

His father finds a midwife - a Sister in the Chantry. She isn't a templar, and she isn't a mage, and there's no magic in the way the twins are born. There's shit and piss and a scent like old copper bits, and Hawke doesn't even want to be a brother, but the Sister makes him think it wouldn't be so bad. He doesn't remember her name or her face, but she's so much bigger than herself. She makes Hawke want to be big, too, and he feels like he is because the twins are so small, but he's not. He's seven, and he's eight, and he's nine, and yet he doesn't get to be.

He gets to be what his father tells him to be. His father tells him to be a brother, and a brother keeps their siblings safe. Hawke does the best he can, but there's too much to protect them from. There are always templars, and there are never templars.

Years pass, and they're in Elmridge the first time Carver gets the switch. Hawke sits him in the snow, and the ice embraces him when father fails. Hawke knows it helps, and Carver knows he knows, and it must be too cold to cry because they don't. I hate him. Carver says, and Hawke doesn't say it back because he's too afraid he'll mean it.

Hawke does the same for Beth, the first time she gets the switch, but it must not be cold enough because Beth still cries. Beth doesn't hate anyone, but if she did, Hawke knows he'd hate them too.

The next time she gets the switch, Hawke gets in the way. The blow cuts across his brow and bleeds into his eyes, but he's seeing red already. The switch falls from his father's hand, and Hawke almost wishes that it hadn't. It's just one fight, and there'll be more, and Hawke won't win them all, but this one he remembers.

A few months go by, and Hawke finds other things to fight beside his father. He's thirteen. Maybe fourteen. He squires in Arl Wulfe's army, running arrows on the ramparts in the winter, but when the Avvar come down from the Frostback they look suspiciously like Malcolm.

Sugarcane hurts less than birch, and Amaranthine is easier. The twins have wooden swords and woolen dolls, and normal lives. Hawke works at the kennels with a girl who doesn't care for mages or templars or anything but Hawke. He's sixteen, and he loves her as much as a teenager can love anyone. Then Beth gets her magic, and Hawke has to pick who he loves more.

He makes sure the twins have time to pack their toys.

In Lothering, he watches the sun set and rise through windmill blades. The days blur together on the quiet farmstead, and there are still templars, and Malcolm is still Malcolm and Hawke is still Hawke but Hawke is bigger now and the first time the belt comes off Hawke decides he’s big enough. He breaks his father’s hand, in that fight, and his father’s magic throws him half across the room.

The memory is almost middling. A day among dozens. When the twins don't just flinch for father, Hawke's hard look in the mirror makes the mirror break. Hawke might not have Malcolm’s magic, but what he has of Malcolm is too much, and he can't have anymore.

His mother doesn't understand. His father does. Malcolm knows what it is to be made of limbs and dreams and become the breaker of both, and so he says, I never escaped the templars. Not really. I brought my whips and chains with me and gave them to you. You don't make my mistakes. When you leave, you leave, you hear me?

I hear you. Hawke says and he leaves.

In Gwaren, Hawke is a fisherman. The small boat was never meant to be a house, but it serves all the same. Hawke sleeps under druffalo hide and the stars, the Voyager burned into his eyes every night when they close. He’s seventeen, maybe eighteen, and he doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s doing, just that he wants to go and he wants to do.

He’s pushing his boat out to sea when a man with a face burnt by the sun and whipped by the wind accuses him of stealing his spot. Words turn to blows in the sand, a fevered grappling match that pretzels them across the shore. A fillet knife appears between them, and a few of the man’s silver teeth accent the blade Hawke hilts beneath his jaw

You never should have fought me! Hawke snarls, and he isn’t sure if it’s rage or regret or something in between, but it’s over.

The Crimson Oars find him on the crimson sand and don’t bother asking him to join. Their heraldry is inked into his skin before the sun sets, and he trades his boat for theirs before it rises.

Alamar is made of rocks and raiders, and Hawke fits in easily with both. The summer sun is sweltering, and Hawke keeps all the windows open in his small room above the bar. Wind and wails carry through, and Hawke won’t shutter out the world like all his neighbors did in Denerim. Outside, a too big man beats a too small child with a whip, and Hawke doesn’t remember stringing the bow, or notching the arrow, but he remembers it whistling across the street and lodging in the stranger’s neck.

The little urchin girl is grateful - luck has it he was a stranger to her too - but Hawke doesn't deserve the dog she offers up. He was going to eat him, messere. Please. I can’t keep him. I get so hungry sometimes I’m afraid I’ll try and eat him too. It might be kinder if she did, but Hawke pays two sovereigns for his peace of mind. Mabari aren’t exactly mousers, but the captain lets him keep it, and it works out well enough.

Hawke means to kill a lot of men, but the next one is an accident. In Highever, someone calls someone else a mage. All at once, the bar is in an uproar, and someone grabs his shoulder, and so Hawke grabs his cup. His spin puts it through the stranger’s eye, and the stranger falls down dead. There’s a bit of liquid that’s not quite blood and not quite water that trickles down his cheek, and it’s the first time Hawke has ever seen a templar cry.

The next day, the gallows welcome him, but not his dog, and so the mabari mauls five men for the mistake. They have to muzzle the damn dog to carry out his sentence, but someone in the crowd offers up a choice, and Hawke decides to take it.

The Ash Warriors erase everything. His crimes, his records, maybe even his memories. Hawke is twenty-two. Maybe twenty-three. His life is penance and prayer and bandits and brigands. He fights whatever, wherever, whenever the Chantry sends him off. Through the turning of seasons, he finds a Father he can love, but somehow a letter comes for him from Carver, and reminds him of the one that he forgot.

Father is gone. The letter says. And so is his coin. Mother won't work and Bethany can't. I'm trying, but there's only so much work on the farm and I can't keep begging at the Chantry. We have a month before they kick us off the land. I hope this letter finds you. I don't know what to do.

Ash Warriors have no fortune and no family, and so there's no future where Hawke's one of them. The twins rejoice at his return, but Mother's welcome's far from warm. Her words are as barbed as Father's switch and cut him twice as deep. She'd rather have Hawke’s coin than his confession and so he takes up hunting, and no one ever asks after his prey.

Copper turns to silver turns to gold, until the tithing starts and all of it turns back. The Chantry sends their templars to collect, and Hawke knows them all by name. He calls them loud and clear so Beth can run and hide, and it’s her own hand on her mouth when Hawke comes down to get her. It’s the cellar or the Circle and there’s no tears between them because it’s just the way it is.

When Hawke says run, she runs. When Hawke says hide, she hides. She doesn’t question and she doesn't hesitate because they both know the templars won’t. They’ve seen the Wonders of Thedas and the dead mages who make them and Beth’ll be dead and gone like father before she’s dead and there like them. And if it means that Hawke’s too much like Malcolm then Hawke isn’t sure it matters because Hawke still has his magic.

Malcolm’s magic is Beth’s magic, and Beth’s magic is water frozen in the bath, and warm fires in the hearth, and chairs pulled out from underneath him, and light when night is darkest, and oil slicks on the stairs. Then one day Mother goes down first, and Beth still plays pranks, just not that one anymore. Hawke’s love for her is so complete he can’t help but love the man who made her.

When the call goes out to battle back the Blight, Hawke is twenty-five. Maybe twenty-six. It’s been years since Malcolm’s grave was made for dancing. Etched into the stone that marks his tomb Husband stands out crisp and clear but Father's weak and whispered on the rock. Hawke isn’t sure if he misses the man or the memory, and he isn’t sure it matters.

I hear you Hawke says, and he does, in every mage’s spell and every templar’s smite, I forgive you.

Hawke takes a chisel and adds Mage among the monikers before he leaves for Ostagar.

Chapter 38: The Things We Do For Love

Summary:

“I suppose I just needed some time to realize there’s still life once your children have outgrown you… I’ve actually been wondering if I shouldn’t remarry.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Nothing I’m willing to share yet, so don’t pry,” Leandra nudged him. “And don’t tell Garrett or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Notes:

This chapter takes place before Chapter 106 - The First Sacrifice of Accursed Ones and is told from Gamlen's perspective. It was written for ssryzor on tumblr with the prompt, "An overheard conversation about your OC." Thank you for reading!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

9:33 Dragon 4 Martinalus
Kirkwall Hightown

"Damn her," Gamlen huffed to himself, startling the courier who hurried past him on the long walk up to Hightown. His knees were killing him, popping like corn kernels over an open flame.

If Leandra would just think about someone other than her damn self for once in her life, she might have remembered she was the one who was supposed to be visiting him, and not the other way around. Instead, Gamlen had to summit the city for tea.

It stank like the Void up in Hightown. Scented oil lamps on every corner, rose trellises on every wall, perfumes and powders caked into the skin of every fat bastard who had the nerve to wrinkle their nose when you walked past, as if you were the one who stank. Gamlen smelled like a man ought to smell. Like sweat, and dirt, and drink. Maybe soap, if the occasion called for it. Seeing his sister certainly didn't.

Gamlen climbed the final steps to Hightown’s west market, and collapsed on the nearest bench, wheezing. His lungs were going to give out on him at this rate, and then what was he going to do with his nephew's boy sworn off his healing magic?

"Move in," Garrett had offered.

"Fuck you," Gamlen had countered.

He didn't need the boy's pity. So Leandra got the house. Gamlen had got the money. He had his own place. He had his own life. Besides, it warmed his heart to know Leandra was sitting on the scandal of having a besotted brother who lived with the rest of the Lowtown dregs. It was the least he could do for her after she'd abandoned him to run off to Ferelden with that apostate. The least she could do for him was show up for tea.

Gamlen made it to the estate: a fucking feat of magic that should have gotten him sent to the Circle with his niece. The dwarven servant opened the door with a grin Gamlen met with a scowl.

"Master Amell! Come in, come in, let me take your boots. Can't leave tracks on the floors, now can we? Sandal, my boy, clean these up for our guest, won't you? Such a pleasure. Can I get you anything? Masters Hawke and Anders are out for the day. Mistress Amell is… ah… occupied at the moment."

"Occupied," Gamlen repeated, shooing the fretting dwarf away before he took the rest of Gamlen's clothes. "She's supposed to be occupied visiting me. Where is she?"

"In the solar," The servant explained, chasing after him as Gamlen made for the stairs. "With a gentleman."

"Not likely," Gamlen snorted, “What’s his name?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” The servant said.

The private family room was tucked away on the third story, with windows overlooking the markets. Gamlen had never cared for it when he’d still owned the estate. There wasn't much family to use it once the cholera started, and the stairs became too much for his parents.

Leandra's laughter carried down the hall, stopping him before he reached the entryway. A man's followed, though whether or not he counted for 'gentle' was anyone's guess.

"-have to admit he's happy," Leandra was saying. "That boy has made a servant of him. Garrett's always bringing him meals, drawing him baths, waiting on him hand and foot...

"You know I actually caught him with his old lute the other day, working on some sort of song? You can just tell he's young and in love. Some part of me still wishes he'd find a nice noble girl with a dowry and good standing, but…"

"We all follow the beat of our hearts," A man's voice said.

"I’d almost forgotten what it felt like,” Leandra sighed, a dreamy lilt to her voice that had Gamlen swallowing back a gag. “If you hadn’t come back into my life… all those years I spent running... I would do it again for you, you know.”

“Let us pray that never comes to pass, my dear,” The man returned.

“For us or Garrett,” Leandra agreed, “I still can’t believe he fell in love with a mage-”

“What the fuck are you doing!?” Gamlen burst into the room, unable to restrain himself. What in Andraste’s flaming garters was his sister thinking, telling some stranger her son - his nephew - was bedding a mage? After the templars had nearly killed them all for harboring Bethany!? “Are you trying to get us all killed!?”

Leandra shrieked, toppling out of her seat and taking a handful of doilies and vases with her. Impossibly, imperceptibly, fucking magically, the vases slowed just before they hit the floor, gently bouncing where they should have shattered. The “gentleman” his sister was with stayed in his seat, seemingly unperturbed by Gamlen’s intrusion. He had grey hair with a few stubborn strands of black, and skin so translucent and vascular it was almost blue. He smiled like a ghoul. It wasn’t a smile Gamlen had forgotten.

“You,” Gamlen scowled.

“Gamlen!” Leandra clambered to her feet, adjusting the necklace that had spun about her neck. “What are you doing here!?”

“What am I doing here?” Gamlen repeated, thrusting an accusatory finger at his cousin-in-law, “What is he doing here?”

“He-... I-...” Leandra stuttered, “This is-...”

“I know who he is,” Gamlen snapped, “I’m not bloody senile. You think I don’t remember? How did you escape the Circle?”

“Cousin,” Quentin smiled.

“I’m not your fucking cousin,” Gamlen snapped. “Revka was my cousin, and she’s dead. She died after you lied about your magic, and got yourself and all your children sent off to the Circle. Broke her bloody heart. You know she just stopped eating one day? Wasted away because you-”

“Gamlen, stop it!” Leandra slapped him, and set his ears ringing. “You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being cruel!?” Gamlen demanded, shoving her, “What are you being, putting your boy at risk galivanting around with another fucking mage!? Your dead cousin’s husband, at that! He’s practically family!”

“Leave it alone! I love him!” Leandra screamed back at him. “You have no idea what it’s been like, being alone all these years-”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like? You don’t even know, do you? Do you even remember Mara? Or did all the servants look the same to you? Did you even know I loved her? Did you even know she left me? Well guess what, when you lose someone you love, you don’t get to bring them back. You do what the rest of us do, and you move on with your bloody life. You think it’s a coincidence you went and found yourself another mage? Malcolm is dead-”

“Stop it!” Leandra shoved him, “Stop it, stop it, stop it! You won’t take this from me like you took my estate, my fortune, my standing! I love Quentin. We’re getting married on Summerday, when his affairs are settled, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You think so, do you?” Gamlen demanded, “You think I can’t go to the templars and tell them-”

Leandra’s eyes welled with tears, huge, fat, disgusting things that caught on her lashes and sent great black streaks of kohl down her cheeks. Damn her. Damn her, damn her, damn her. Gamlen pulled her into a rough hug. “Damn you. You know I won’t. I won’t.”

“Well…” Quentin gathered up the scattered doilies and vases, and rearranged them neatly on the table. “It appears I have overextended my visit. I must be getting careless in my old age.”

“It’s my fault,” Leandra scrambled out of Gamlen’s arms, and hurried over to Quentin. “I wasn’t looking at the time. I should have been more careful. If you were caught-”

“Now, now,” Quentin caught her hands and patted them gingerly, “You needn’t worry about that, my dear lady. It’s been nearly twenty years. This city has all but forgotten me. It is only my name that need be kept secret.”

“I know,” Leandra took a deep breath, and Gamlen hated her for making him care about the fear he could see shaking through her shoulders. “I know. I’ll see you later.”

“Sooner than you think,” Quentin promised, kissing her fingers. “I’m having a surprise delivered to the estate, in a few days.”

“I hate surprises,” Leandra said.

“White lilies,” Quentin confessed easily, “Your favorite.”

“I love you.”

“And I you, my dear.” Quentin released her, and scooted past Gamlen in the doorway on his way out, “Gamlen. Such a pleasure to see you again.”

Gamlen watched him go, scowling. His cousin-in-law slunk out through the servants’ passageways, all too familiar with the estate from the many years he’d lived within it. He turned back to Leandra, scrambling after his anger, but he was exhausted, and not just from the climb to Hightown.

“Does the boy know?” Gamlen asked.

“No one knows,” Leandra said. “A few of the servants know I’m seeing someone, but that’s all. You mustn’t tell anyone.”

“Did I tell anyone about Malcolm?” Gamlen demanded.

“Promise me, Gamlen,” Leandra grabbed hold of his tunic, her grip knuckle-white against the brown linen, “You mustn’t tell anyone. Not your drinking buddies. Not the servants. Not anyone.”

“You’ll have to tell the boy eventually.”

“No one can know. Not even Garrett. Please, Gamlen, promise me you won’t tell.”

“Alright,” Gamlen sighed, “I promise.”

Notes:

Hawke's song, as mentioned in this chapter, titled "My Beloved's Hands."

My beloved’s hands are blessed
So blessed are his hands
My beloved’s hands are bloodied
So bloodied are his hands

They’re so bloodied

My beloved’s hands are bloodied
My beloved’s hands are blessed
In him the Maker’s will is written
I looked upon him and confessed

“My faith’s thin as samite
The Void is yawning for my soul
Take me upon your altar
Make me new and make me whole

Let your fire forge me
Let me be your sword
In you the Maker’s will is written
On your arms the Chant is scored.”

My beloved’s hands are blessed
So blessed are his hands
My beloved’s hands are bloodied
So bloodied are his hands

They’re so bloodied

My beloved’s hands are bloodied
My beloved’s hands are mine
I worship at him nightly
My sacrilegious shrine

“My love is my confession
My love my only prayer
Take me in your arms
My heart is yours to bear.

The blood will wash away,
The guilt won’t prey upon your soul,
Your sins are long forgiven
My love can make you whole.”

My beloved’s hands are blessed
So blessed are his hands
My beloved’s hands are bloodied
So bloodied are his hands

They’re so bloodied

Chapter 39: Letters From Zevran

Summary:

"My poor stupid Warden,

"I warned you, did I not? We Crows are a dastardly sort. You should know better than to trust us, but blind trust was always a weakness of yours. How is it you are not dead yet? I cannot say why there is a new contract on you, and Ignacio went back on his word. We are on less than friendly terms these days.

"The Crows hunt me as well, you see, and I have my own battles to fight. I confess, I was surprised to receive your letter. I thought I had put you behind me, and not in the naughty way, but here we are. I expect the Guildmaster will agree to meet with me soon. Or perhaps I will kill him. In either case, I will do what I can for you. For old time's sake.

"Z."

Notes:

This chapter was written for uzhauz on tumblr, for the prompt "A letter to your original character from a companion they haven't seen in a while." These are the other letters Zevran sent, after the first. It is linked from Chapter 36 of Accursed Ones.

Chapter Text

Greetings from Antiva!

I must have missed your reply, my dear warden. Even with how we left things, surely you would not leave me in the lurch? Or perhaps it was that you felt no reply was needed. I write again to tell you I have news. Master Eoman Arainai is dead, though I suspect only half of this name will mean something to you. Do not fret - we Antivans are not so stingy as to keep our surnames within the family. The name is simply that of the House that purchased me for the Crows when I was a boy. I fear his death may be contagious, and many more Arainais will follow.

But enough of good news. Master Eoman was kind enough to share who put out the contract on your head. A Commander Tavish, of Denerim, and a Bann Esmerelle, of Amaranthine. No other contracts will follow. I will see to it personally. You have my word. For old time’s sake.

I hear the darkspawn have still not gone away? They are like houseguests who overstay their welcome, no? I confess, there are times it does not sit with me that I did not stay to see such business through to the end, but I heard tales of your victory in Denerim. They say when the armies fell to the darkspawn, you rose them to fight again. How many sacrifices did it take you, I wonder? Perhaps you will write back to tell me?

Z.


Greetings from Rivain!

I regret, I must have missed another reply. It is my own fault for traveling so, no? You might have heard of the few other members of House Arainai that died with no contracts on their head. A strange thing, is it not so? It shall have to remain a mystery.

I confess, I have been thinking of you more often than either of us would like. Of how we left things. Of how I left things. But this is your fault, yes? You knew the kind of man I was when you took me to bed. You knew what I did to Rinna. You knew what that earring meant to me. You knew you should not have tried to get me to say it.

… And here, I knew the kind of man you were. I knew you were a man without limits. I knew there was no line in the sand I could draw you would not cross. I knew you would do anything to end the Blight, and here you have done it.

Or have you? How are things with these nasty darkspawn of yours?

I will be here a while. Surely this time I will not miss your reply.

Z.


Greetings again from Rivain!

Perhaps it is you who is missing my letters? You are a busy man, no doubt about it. I have enclosed them again, or at least, what I can remember writing. The names are the most important thing. Commander Tavish and Bann Esmerelle. Do not forget. These are the ones who took the contract on you.

Z.


Greetings again from Rivain,

You are getting these letters, are you not? I have spent a tidy sum to ensure they make it across the Waking Sea. This time I have even paid extra to ensure delivery. You owe me five silvers, my dear warden.

Perhaps I was too forward before. Perhaps you are the one who has put me behind you. If so, this is all well and good, but you must write back. For old time’s sake. The Archdemon could not best you. Surely a few extra darkspawn and an angry bann or two are no great threat?

Z.


Amore,

There is no point in sending this one, I suspect. I know you will not get it.

Ho tali rimpianti

Z.

Chapter 40: All The King's Horses And All The King's Men

Summary:

The Battle of Denerim

Notes:

This takes place before Accursed Ones, during the Battle of Denerim, and is told from Oghren's perspective. It is linked from Chapter 72 - A Year Ago Today.

Chapter Text

The kid ain't alright. It's like he's losing pieces. Compassion. Temperance. Mercy. Bits of him just falling off. I met lepers' held together better. There ain't much of him left now. Just the Blight.

Even his magic is different. Something with his blood and the way he uses it. He don’t even need the cuts anymore. The shit in his veins is a cocktail of poison more foul than a midden heap. Taint. Dragon’s blood. Whatever weird concoction Avernus brewed up for him. Enough ain’t never gonna be enough for him.

The kid ain’t even a kid anymore. Got so many titles I can’t keep up. Warden. Blood Mage. Necromancer. Arcane Warrior. Reaver. Chancellor. Folks damn near piss themselves when they see him coming. Kid walks around Soldier’s Peak in full dragonscale armor with a sword of starmetal and a shield of ironbark, in that fancy warden tabard, and I hardly recognize him.

Couldn’t have been that long ago when I was still teaching him how to hold his own in a fight, but he don’t need me for that now. Kid can fight. What he needs is someone to tell him when to stop, but that ain’t me. That ain’t anyone that’s left. The old gal, the elf, the boy king - they’re all gone. The golem’s got a heart of stone, and the rest of never had one to begin with.

We still got Leliana, but she ain’t been the same since the Landsmeet. I figure Pike-Twirler didn't just leave us, he left her, and even if he didn’t, the Bitch Queen don’t seem like the type to share. Leliana’s got it as bad as the kid. Stopped singing. Stopped dancing. Stopped stopping. When shit hits the midden heap, she ain’t gonna stop it from spreading.

So the kid ain’t gonna stop, cause we ain’t gonna stop him. Teryn’s no better. Two of them spend every day pouring over maps within maps, preparing for when the Archdemon finally shows its sorry self. To see ‘em together you’d never know the old bastard spent the whole year trying to kill him. Kid might not begrudge him none, but I do. Someone’s gotta care if the kid lives or dies, cause the kid sure as shit don’t.

Kid just cares about the Blight. There ain’t much I can do for what’s left of him, but there’s still something I can do for that.

Find him hearthside in the grandhall, looking over requisitions from the army, and pull up a chair.

“Hey, Kid,” Feels weird, calling him that now.

Kid smiles. Looks tired.

I hand him the flask off my hip, “Drink?”

Kid drinks. He’s never said no to nothing.

“They gotta like you,” I tell him.

“Hm?” Kid asks. Sounds tired.

“The troops. They gotta like you. Can’t just be big speeches. That ain’t about them. They don’t care about that. You gotta make ‘em care about you. You gotta make ‘em think you care about them. You gotta drink with ‘em. You gotta eat with ‘em. You gotta know their names. You gotta know their women's names, same way you know mine.

“Any blighter can make you wanna fight for him. Not every bligher can make you wanna die for him.”

Kid sits with that. Really sits with it. No sentimental shit. Ain't none of that left in him. Doesn't say nothing about not wanting folks to die for him. We’re past that. Folks are dying already; may as well be for something.

“Thank you, Oghren,” Kid says.

“Aye… There’s something else, too. Something I wanna say before this all goes tits up. You took in a drunken disgrace of an Orzammar warrior. You gave me a reason to fight and the will to keep going. You helped me find the one woman in the sodding world who might put up with me, and you helped me get past Branka so I could find someone new. I owe you a lot, Kid.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“Figured you’d say something like that. You should know, I consider it a fine honor to die for you and your cause.”

Kid sits with that too. Nods a couple times like he’s making peace with it, and another piece of him falls off. Sanguine leaves his eyes when he smiles. “I love you, Oghren.”

“Alright, don’t make it weird.”

The kid always gave damn good gifts, and the troops are no exceptions. Kid finds a tower-full of runes for the Circle, and a whole bloody forest for the elves. Convinces the crown to donate a wholeass mine to Orzammar, and steals a fuck wagon of coin for the soliders. Gets himself another title for it, too, when the nobility starts calling him the Dark Wolf, not that they know it’s him.

The troops love him. He eats with them. He drinks with them. He sleeps with them. They start writing songs and naming kids after him and we ain’t even won yet. I ain’t any better. I tell Felsi we’re gonna name the nugget after the kid when he’s born, if I’m still around to name him, and she’s been following the army so long she don’t even fight it. They start calling him the Hero of Ferelden, but then the Archdemon hits Denerim, and it’s looking like there won’t be a Ferelden anymore.

We ain’t ready. Troops are scattered, and it’s a grim march to the capital. Queen gives a speech. King gives a speech. Arls and banns and every noble in between gives a speech, but none of their speeches do shit. We ride the horses to death, trying to catch up with the horde, and the kid finally gives his speech in blood.

Kid raises the horses. One after the other, the horses fall, and the kid picks ‘em right back up. There’s blood, and there’s magic, and there ain’t a soul who says shit about either. Imperial Highway’s flagstoned in red by the time the kid’s done, but the Blight’s spread from Lothering to Denerim. Death is in every direction, and folks would rather ride with it than against it.

Don’t matter none. City’s in flames by the time we get there, and it’d take the blood of all seventy-thousand blighters who live there to put it out, but damned if the kid don’t try. We start with clearing the gate, but the darkspawn are dug in, and digging ‘em out ain’t easy. The city’s bloated with ‘em, and they come pouring out like the Feastday shits. Waves upon waves that put the Deep Roads to shame.

Takes more than it should just to breach the gates. Once they’re breached, someone’s gotta hold ‘em, and the Kid decides that someone should be me. We got banns, arls, the whole sodding warrior caste, but the Kid picks me. Don’t know if it’s cause he wants me to fight or if it’s cause he doesn’t, and don’t figure it matters.

“This is it, Kid,” I clasp his arm, and the kid clasps back hard enough to hurt, “When from the blood of battle the Stone has fed, let the heroes prevail and the blighters lie dead. As one of the blighters, I sodding salute you. Let’s show them our hearts, and then show them theirs.”

“Here’s to us blighters,” Kid smiles. It ain’t happy. It ain’t sad. It ain’t anything but goodbye.

Kid leaves, and I figure that’s the last I’ll ever see him, but the army don’t get far when we split it. Archdemon burns through a whole fucking battallion just trying to reach the Market District. Wind carries it back. Smells like roast nug, and makes folks sick when they realize it makes ‘em hungry. Doesn’t make me anything but on edge. Ain’t looking good, and it ain’t long before the army falls back.

Kid falls back with ‘em. Finds me in the thick of it - and it’s thick. Ogres. Emissaries. The fucking Archdemon taking sweeps. We’ve got a damn good army, but it’s not good enough. Fighting darkspawn don’t make the soldiers Wardens. The elves’ arrows don’t pierce through ogres or Archdemons, the Circle don’t train their mages to fight, and we only got so many dwarves. The best fighters Ferelden’s got are with the kid, but there’s only six of them, and one’s a dog.

At least the dog’s still fighting darkspawn.The rest are fighting each other.

“A frontal assault is folly,” The Teryn is saying.

“We press on,” The oxman’s saying back.

The kid ain’t saying anything. The kid’s looking at me, but I ain’t the warden here.

“Come on, Kid,” I say. “You gotta see all of it.”

Kid climb’s up on the golem, and looks. He looks for a long while, and then he climbs back down.

“Help me get to the infirmary,” Kid says.

“Are you hurt?” Leliana asks.

“Send word to Eamon to take over the gates. All of you, stay with Loghain and get to the Fort. We need the ballistas if we’re ever going to get the Archdemon out of the air. Spread the word - we move in squads - no companies - or its breath will burn us out. Oghren, Morrigan, with me.”

Three of us don’t need an army - we are an army. The witch can’t pick a form, bears, spiders, and swarming insects arcing with lightning across the battlefield. The kid’s got so many magic auras shit just falls down dead when he gets near it. The dog and I are just there to look pretty, but we’re damn good at it. We clear a path to the infirmary, and find the old gal manning it.

She ain’t happy to see us. She’s less happy to hear us. Kid sends her and all the other healers out. There ain’t a need for ‘em. They can’t heal the Taint. The only cure for the Taint is becoming a Grey Warden, and there ain’t time for that now. There ain’t time for much of anything. Kid looks out at the army, and the darkspawn cutting them down, and then he looks at me.

I see the last piece of him fall away. He ain’t coming back from this.

“I’m with you, Kid,” I promise.

He knows the first one. It’s my fucking fault. My fucking advice. Some bannorn soldier with a girl in West Hill. He wants to be a brewer, but sots piss better brandy. A darkspawn bit his leg, and the healers amputated it. No way to know if they were fast enough but to wait, but we ain’t got the time.

“Warden?” Soldier don’t look all there. Don’t know if that makes it better. “Did we win?”

“We will,” Kid says.

It’s clean. Gotta give the kid that. Sword goes straight through the soldier’s heart, spheres of blood draining from his body until he’s a withered husk his girl in West Hill ain’t gonna recognize. Kid brings a whole squadron back with him. The corpses rise behind the darkspawn lines, routing them, and the fight starts turning one sacrifice at a time. The infirmary brings back a whole company, and we take the market district with them, but the kid ain’t alright.

I can hear him sometimes. Whispering names under his breath, trying to remember ‘em all. For every four soldiers there’s one that didn’t make it. Kid brings ‘em all back, a miasma of blood that makes the air around him taste like copper, and no one’s memory’s that good. There’s no hiding it, and there’s no need. No one says shit. A few folk even stumble back from the front, bleeding out, pressing the hilt of their swords into his hands, saying shit like, “Save the city,” and “Make it count.”

Kid gets us to the Fort and we join the rest of the gang on the way to the roof, but an Archdemon ain’t an easy thing to bring down. We got ballistas. We got mages. We got blood magic, and we barely get the damn thing out of the sky. The Orlesian Grey Warden eats it. The Archdemon burns half the roof with its pitch-dark fire, and the kid sacrifices everyone caught in the blast. Whatever spell he casts with their blood blows a whole wing off the thing, and it finally crashlands on the roof.

Ain’t any easier to fight. Thing’s still got teeth, and claws, and it’s the size of whatever the fuck is that size. It’s deathknell summons the whole horde to its defense, and we start losing people faster than the kid can raise ‘em. A pack of ogres takes out one of the warrior caste houses. The elves lose a whole clan to an emissary’s firestorm. The less said of the humans the better.

Kid loses his damn mind. A horde of undead take on a horde of darkspawn, and the kid goes for the archdemon. Channels some magic shit and moves so fast I can’t keep up with him. Archdemon lunges for him, and before I know what’s happening he’s swinging onto its neck, and driving his sword into its skull. Its death throes take it over the edge of the Fort, and the kid right along with it.

“Kid!” It ain’t his fucking name. I don’t know why I scream it. I just do.

The witch shapeshifts into a crow, and goes right over the edge after him, but unless she can turn into a dragon, she can’t catch him. The golem just jumps, and I don’t know if it’ll just land or shatter, and I bet it doesn’t either. I can’t do shit. I just run. I don’t know down how many stairs, I don’t through how many rooms, I just keep running till I reach the bottom.

Golem's there, along with a crowd, and a huge fucking dragon corpse. I can’t see over them, so I barrel through ‘em. I’ve got half a mind to clear a path with my axe if the blighters don’t get out of my way, but I don’t and they do. The kid’s still a kid, and not a stain, and that’s about all I can say for him.

He’s a mess. Bruised black with crushed limbs and Stone knows what else wrong with him. He’s got prolly every healer the Circle has to offer clustered around him, glowing all magic-like. Even the old gal is there, and I don’t wanna interrupt her, but I gotta know.

“Is he dead?"

"He should be so fortunate," Old gal says bitterly, "No, he will live. He will live with everything that happened here today. I'll make sure of it. Accursed ones shall find no rest in this world or beyond."

Kid’s the only one in the infirmary. He sleeps for a few days. The world goes on without him, but I don't. It's not till he's awake and breathing that it feels like I can do the same. Kid wakes up like he thought he wasn't gonna.

"Hey Kid," I say. "It's over."

Kid starts crying, and I can't help thinking there's a piece of him left after all.

Chapter 41: Bury Me

Notes:

Thanks for reading!

This is a drabble from Zevran's perspective.

Chapter Text

Lothering was a pretty place, once upon a time. I would not know - not really - but Leliana assures us it is so. We are due there come nightfall, following the Imperial Highway from Redcliffe Village. It has been a most humbling journey through the Hinterlands. Fields of barley and wheat are left to rot in the wake of the darkspawn hordes pouring up from the Korcari Wilds. Even the sunlight is dappled, as if it cannot stand such a sorrowful sight.

“Lothering was a place for lost souls,” Leliana says, sounding terribly pensive. The wind plays in her auburn hair, like it's trying to cheer her, little strands of fire wisping back and forth before a most solemn face. It is a shame, like many things these days. “It was peaceful. Sometimes, it was so quiet you could hear the Maker.”

A few of our companions giggle, or offer dismissive snorts, but I believe it. Some of the abbeys in Antiva were so. The Brothers and Sisters moved like ghosts among the vineyards, as if they had worshipped their way to the Maker’s side and left their bodies behind. We shall find no such souls nor bodies in Lothering now, I suspect. The darkspawn will have taken them all, as they have taken everything.

This is a fool’s journey, and ours a fool’s plight, led by the biggest fool of them all. He walks at my side, casting smiles now and then, like little spells. Mi amor. Mi maleficar. I cannot say if they are persuasion or corruption, but I am helpless against them. I am his. I know this, and yet, I was Rinna’s once too. There is nothing to stop the same fate from befalling him. He knows this, and yet still he smiles.

Such a fool.

We come at last to Lothering. The village is… not in the best of ways. Blight has taken it as completely as my foolish warden has taken me. It lives in the fields, in the very air, a viscous filth that stinks of death and rot. All around, you can see the last ditch efforts of the villagers. A house surrounded by unsprung springtraps. Another boarded up only to be broken down. Hasty chevaux de frise built from picket fences.

We are in the heart of it now. There is no life here. The inn is a ruin; a hole gaping mostly obscenely through the side of the building, dripping with rubble. The second story has collapsed on the first, and the ceiling has caved into the kitchen from the darkspawn’s exertions. Within, the belongings of those who once sheltered here. Chests of clothes. Looms, spinning wheels, and bits of livelihood. The toys of children. There are no bodies. No bones. The darkspawn have left nothing behind. Not even hope.

In the distance lies the husk of a chantry. The doors are still firmly boarded up, but the windows are shattered. Scattered all across the ground are bits of tinted blue, like little teardrops. A fitting effigy, perhaps. It is truly the Maker’s plot now. There are no bodies within it either, but it still stands, and so we make camp within its walls.

We set up defenses, dig latrines, start a fire… and then make merry. A strange thing, it seems, among all this death, and yet the camaraderie brings with it a certain type of calm. The type, it would seem to me, that precedes only more death. Leliana strums at her lute, while Alistair dances in true Fereldan fashion, like a mabari after its own tail. Oghren even sings, though the lyrics are as foul as his breath.

“An ale is much better than a woman, I'll tell you why I’m right
An ale won’t get mad if I stay out and drink all night
An ale goes down easy, an ale is always wet
Do I want a wife? No thanks! Another ale? You bet!”

The rest of the lyrics are drowned out by the groans of those gathered, and it seems as fine a time as any to slip away. I pick out a room for myself, and my presumptuous little warden follows. No subtlety with this one. He hides nothing. Not his footsteps. Not his magic. Not his heart, just there on his sleeve when he slides his arms around my waist and hugs me from behind.

“Tired?” He guesses.

“Hm,” I suppose that is one way to say it. I trace along an arm, beneath his sleeve, following the path of scars up to his elbow. How eager he is to bleed for a world that would never bleed for him.

“How tired?” He asks, and the tunic is gone when I turn around. He takes hold of my belt, and walks ever so confidently back to the bedroll I have laid out in the ruined alcove. It was for prayer, once upon a time. A votive rack in the corner could never hope to hold enough candles now. There are too many dead.

How easily he could join them.

I untangle his hands from my belt. They are strong, of that I have no doubt, and yet they yield to me as easily as he did the first night he spent in my tent. How foolishly he trusts. Perhaps I should light a candle for him now and get it over with. “How many such places have been lost to darkspawn, I wonder? Villages throughout Thedas, lost to shadow…”

“Many,” He accepts the somber shift, running his thumb over the back of my palm as if he means to comfort me. As if I, loathsome little thing that I am, deserve any comfort from him.

“I suppose that is where you come in, is it not?” I take my hands away, and lean against the entrance to the alcove. Beyond, the Chantry pews lie in ruins, and I gesture to them, “You are quite the hero of Ferelden.”

He catches my meaning easily enough, “There was nothing we could do for Lothering.”

“No, of course not,” I agree, and hope he catches the rest, “What is one village to a country? What is one country to Thedas?”

It is not the first time we have had this fight, nor do I suspect it will be the last. Ferelden is against the Wardens, but other countries are not. Other countries are not embroiled in a civil war while death looms on their doorstep. Other countries are not so far away that we could not go to them, and prepare anew.

“We can end it here, Zevran.” My warden argues.

“You know this, do you?” I whirl on him. He is painfully close, and it is painful. An ache, deep in my chest, that grows with every breath of him. He reaches for me, and I smack his hand away, “With what vast array of experience, I wonder, when the senior most member of your order has spent only months among them?”

“We have allies,” He argues, as if they cannot be counted on one hand, “Once the civil war is ended-”

“And how will you end it?” I demand, “You are one man. One foolish, reckless man. You cannot end the war any more than you can end the blight.”

At last, a frown. His strong brow furrows ever so slightly, overconfidence squaring his shoulders, “Watch me.”

“I am as like to watch you die. Why should I wait?" I slam him against the wall, a gasp spilling from those perfect lips, all too familiar to the ones I have wrung from him night after passionate night. A blade drops from my sleeve and into my hand, and I press it to his heart. I can feel it hammering madly in his chest, though whether it is fear or fervor I cannot say. “You make it too easy. Do you know how many times I could have killed you? How many nights?”

“All of them,” He swallows, his tongue darting out across his lips, as if he has forgotten the blade between us.

“The Crows would take me back.” I know it to be true. I need not do this to myself. I need not stay with him. I need not wait for the day his own blade cuts too deep. I need not watch him die. And yet, for the chance to be by his side, I feel I would storm the Dark City itself.

“The Crows aren’t what you want,” He counters.

“You know this, do you?” I press the blade a little more. Just a little more, and I could be free of him. “You would bet your life on it?

“Yes.”

"Such assumptions you make, my dear warden."

"I am," He says

It throws me, “You are what?”

“Yours.”

What a silly thing to say. What has ever been mine? I am a slave. Let us not mince words. The crows purchased me for the very fair price of three sovereigns, and so I am theirs, and there is no room for anything to be mine. I have nothing. I will always have nothing. Not Rinna. Not Taliesen. Not Amell.

How easy it would be to return to them. To finally fulfill my contract and be done with all of this.

My warden’s hands move slowly to clasp over my own. I can feel the shake in them, however slight, and I know he is not certain. It is almost a comfort. Then he pushes. He always pushes. Pressing the blade into that perfect chest of his, denting wheatish skin, until it cuts. He sucks in a pained breath, blood as red as sin on my knife. It’s a shallow cut. Superficial, but it feels as though I have gutted him. It feels as Rinna felt, only worse, for Rinna did not welcome death at my hands.

“You stupid man," I drop the blade, and claim his lips. He is so warm. So alive. His breath fills my lungs, hot and desperate, his hands clutching fervently at the back of my neck as if he hopes our lips might never part. I have to gasp against his mouth, “Do you want to die?”

“If I have to die, I want you to be the thing that buries me.”

If Lothering is a place for lost souls, then it is no wonder I am here. I have never loved a man as I love him that night, and I have never loved a man as I love him in the morning. He is still a fool, though I think perhaps, I am the bigger one.

Chapter 42: Wardens (we could be)

Summary:

Alternative Titles: One Last Drink, I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Afterlife, Toast to Tomorrow

Notes:

This chapter takes place following Chapter 31 - Love is Blind but is is linked from Chapter 115 - Long Time No See of Accursed Ones. It is told from Oghren's perspective. TW: Suicide Attempt; Implied Alcoholism; Implied Rape

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon The Month of Umbralis and Into Cassus
Soldier's Peak

Oghren was getting used to the screams.

He’d heard all kinds of screams before. Screams no man should have to hear from their best friend. Passionate, furious, terrified, anguished. You name it, he’d heard it, until now. The screams the kid was making now were something else. There wasn’t anything in ‘em. Like they were just wind. Like the Kid was just breathing.

Other folks stayed away from Avernus’ Tower, but Oghren got used to it. Came up with drinks and a dish like it was nothing. It was something, but he had to pretend it wasn’t. The Kid needed something normal. Something that wasn’t ritual after ritual, taking eyes out, putting eyes in, casting so much magic it’d make a demon blush.

Oghren shouldered open the door to the tower. The room had been a torture chamber, once upon a time, and in a way Oghren supposed it still was. A few tables and chairs were set up for surgery, but they had a sinister feel about 'em. The wood was a little too dark. The leather straps a little too worn.

Avernus used 'em for his experiments before the Kid forced him to stop. 'Ethical' research only, but whatever the old, old, sodding old blood mage thought was ethical was anyone's guess. Damned ironic was what it was. The Kid told Avernus no more experiments on Grey Wardens, and yet here they were, experimenting on the Greyest Wardenest one of 'em all.

The Kid lay on a surgery table, in a pair of black trousers he'd been wearing for days. Smart color, black. Hid the stains, but it couldn't hide the smell. Last eyes didn't take. Nearly killed the kid, rotting right out of his skull. Avernus said the blood was wrong, not that Oghren knew what that meant. Blood was blood. As far as he knew the only type was red.

Kid got a fever that turned to chills, and he'd been sweating it out ever since. Oghren kicked a chair across the room to the Kid's side, and set the plates on the table next to him. Lunch was a meatpie and a tankard of ale. The Wolves weren't much for cooking anything that wasn't hare or hart, and the Drydens weren't much better, but they made food and Oghren ate it. The trick was getting the Kid to eat it too.

Oghren tapped the plate with the tankard. Amell's head lulled towards him at the sound. His bandages were a shade of yellow, and he looked and smelled like pus and piss. His hand found the plate first, and the tankard second. Amell picked the tankard, rolling onto his side to cradle it against his chest, like a nugget with a doll.

"You drink it like that, you're gonna drown in it," Oghren said.

"Promise?" Amell asked.

"Aye. Rather see you wallow in booze than whatever you're wallowing in now. Who knows, you try hard enough, you might look like me that time I fell in Lake Calenhad."

Kid exhaled a bit like he meant to laugh but no one had ever taught him how. "That wasn't funny."

"It sure as shit was," Oghren begged to differ. "There we were - Lake Calenhad spread open wide before us, dripping wet, Kinloch in the distance, huge, long, thick, throbbing-"

"Throbbing?" Amell snorted.

"Just sayin', the way they erected that thing, it's no wonder you turned out the way you did. So anyway, we're about halfway across the lake when I remember I can't sodding swim. Must have figured there wouldn't be a better time to learn, because I fell into that lake like a shit into a privy."

"I told you not to stand up," Amell recalled, a smile peaking all sly at the corner of his lips like a lecher looking up a skirt. Kid didn't need to be so damn coy about it - he could just smile - but whenever he thought he might take a tumble with happiness he turned into a damn tease.

"Aye, but you ain't as persuasive as you think you are without your slicy dicy blood magic. I fell into that lake in full plate - made such a splash I nearly took the boat with me. Thought for sure I'd sink to the bottom and have to run my way back to shore."

"I remember," Amell finally smiled in earnest, and took a small sip of his ale. "You thought swimming worked like walking."

"Well, no one ever accused me of being smart, but that's not a sodding bad guess for a dwarf who's never seen standing water he didn't make. Couple more farts in me and I might have been able to float my way to freedom, but my armor wasn't having it. Then you go and jump in after me."

"I thought you were going to kill me," Amell exhaled again. It sounded more like a laugh aught, but it was still a stone's throw from the real deal. "You were flailing so hard I could barely get your armor off."

"And don't you forget it - you're not getting me out of my drawers that easy. But you did. Swam me back to shore like it was nothing. You know, I never asked, where's a mage even learn to swim? Doesn't seem like a thing templars would teach you if they're trying to keep you in that tower."

"Kirkwall is on the coast. I used to go swimming with-..." Amell trailed off, his fingers clenching tight around his tankard. "...-with my family."

"That's nugshit," Oghren spat, both at where he’d accidentally taken the conversation and at the only member of Amell’s family he'd ever met. "Don't believe it. There's no way you remembered that shit from when you were seven."

"I had Duncan teach me, again, when he recruited me." Amell explained, and Oghren breathed a sigh of relief the kid pushed past it, and didn't just curl up on the table for the night, "I wouldn't leave until he did."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

Amell ate. Oghren felt good about himself for getting him to eat. He spent the rest of the day getting Amell to do other things. They walked around Soldier's Peak, talking about their glory days with a couple of the folks who lived there, but after, they went back to their normal days. More eyes. More magic. More screams. Then one day, Oghren brought him lunch, and the Kid wouldn't eat it.

"I've got a craving for some spit-roasted nug with hot sauce, myself," Oghren said, feeling his heart turn to stone at the Kid's untouched plate.

"We could get some in Orzammar," Amell said.

"Aye… aye, I suppose we could.” Oghren said.

Oghren meant we. He’d never not. He wouldn’t send the Kid off by himself for all the ale in Orzammar. The little thunder-humper was everything to him. Always had been. Always would be. For two years, the Kid had been like a son, father, brother, and friend all rolled into one. The Kid was solid as the Stone, and if this was the only way to cut the gangue from him, then Oghren would do it.

He wrote a letter to Felsi. The old gal was tough. If she could survive her own cooking, she could survive without him. The nugget ate at him, but the Kid didn’t have anything to do with that. Oghren had failed as father before his son ever knew how to call him one. The nugget was lucky to be alive after Oghren had dropped him not once but twice for his drinking. Little Amell would be better off without him, but Big Amell? That Kid needed him, same way Oghren needed the Kid.

They took the Imperial Highway to Orzammar. Oghren spent the time cracking jokes and cracking farts, and the Kid laughed easily enough at both once he knew where they were headed and why they were headed there. Oghren tried not to think too hard about it - which wasn’t too hard. Not thinking had always been his strong suit. They climbed the Frostback Mountains to the great thaig, and King Bhelen gave them a hero’s welcome.

The palace was great and all that, but the Diamond Quarter left a foul taste in Oghren’s mouth, like he’d swallowed a fart. Years of begging and buggering after Branka stuck with him, and Oghren swore he could still hear the crowds sniggering behind his back. Oghren the weaponless warrior. Oghren the drunk. Oghren the murderer. Oghren the last Kondrat. The one everyone left behind.

Everyone but the Kid.

When Bhelen was done fussing over the Kid, Oghren dragged him down to Tapsters to get good and proper drunk. Some of the boys were still there, and couldn’t wait to hear about the Blight, and all they’d done to stop it. Oghren did most of the talking; the Kid did most of the listening. The Kid also did most of the smiling. Oghren supposed it didn’t matter if he didn’t. It wasn’t like the Kid could see, and even if he could, the Kid couldn’t expect him to be glad to see him off.

Oghren drank enough to put down a bronto, but still felt sober as the day he was born. The Kid did great. He drank enough to flush his face, and join in the songs with an abandon Oghren almost envied, ‘cept he knew where it was from.

“Here’s a health to Wardens and a lasting peace
To faction an end, the Blight may cease
Come let us drink it while we have breath,
For there’s no drinking after death.
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down;
Down among the dead men let him lie!

Let the Wardens’ health go round,
With them the darkspawns’ ends are found.
And may death yet pursue,
That selfish Warden-hating crew.
And he who'd Warden’s health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down;
Down among the dead men let him lie!

In all life’s smiling joys I'll roll,
Deny no pleasure to my soul.
Let this health round briskly move,
For we are all a friend to love;
And they that would this health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down;
Down among the dead men let him lie!

May love and ale their rights maintain,
And their united pleasures reign.
Until death serves to sheath my sword,
We'll sing the joy that both afford.
And they that won't with us comply,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down;
Down among the dead men let them lie!”

Amell stumbled free of the dwarves he’d been strung up between when the song ended, laughing and reaching out blindly with both hands for him, “Oghren?”

“Aye?” Oghren caught one, and set it on his shoulder.

“I’m ready to go,” Amell said.

“Aye,” Oghren refilled his flask and hooked it to his belt. One last drink, for the ditch.

Oghren led him to the Deep Roads, and a few warriors saluted them on their way out. They’d seen enough legionnaires and wardens to know when someone was headed out and not coming back. The Deep Roads were the same as Oghren remembered. The great decay of the dwarven kingdom. Massive tunnels glittering with lava and molten gold, extravagant to excess, for all the benefit of deep stalkers and darkspawn.

“Aeducan thaig is close, isn’t it?” Amell asked, almost cheerily, his face still flush red.

“Aye, I suppose it is,” Oghren led him in that direction. “Don’t know if we’ll find much there, though. Nobles like to clear it out every now and then - reliving their glory days.”

A few deepstalkers peaked at them from the shadows, their reflective eyes gleaming, and in the distance, Oghren could hear the skittering of nugs and bats. He couldn’t sense any darkspawn, and imagined it’d be a while before they encountered anything he couldn’t kill on his own. Aeducan thaig was like the rest of ‘em. Great. Grand. Abandoned. Oghren led them to the ruins of the thaig’s square, where cryers and deshyrs might have gathered back in the day, and stopped for a stretch.

“Alright, we’re here,” Oghren said.

“Thank you, Oghren,” Amell said.

“No darkspawn,” Oghren noted.

“I’ll wait,” Amell said, “You can go; you don’t have to keep me company.”

“Nu uh,” Oghren said. “I ain’t leavin’.”

“This is my Calling, Oghren, not yours.”

“Oh yeah?” Oghren asked, anger bubbling up in him like a belch that got stuck in your chest, “How you gonna go to it?”

“I can still sense darkspawn,” The Kid frowned, just a little, like the thought of being useless didn’t sit with him, but he hadn’t been anything but since he’d lost his eyes. “I’ll just wait.”

“Just wait,” Oghren snorted, focusing on that frown, and anything he could do to make him frown a little more. Feel a little more. Fucking be a little more for once since all this shit had gone down, “Just sit and wait and let a darkspawn eat you. Why don’t you just bend over for them while you’re at it?”

“You know why I’m here,” Amell reminded him.

“‘Course I do, you dumb sack of nug shit. I agreed to bring you here. I didn’t agree to leave you here.”

“Leave,” Amell snapped, shoving him back a pace. “Go back to your wife and son.”

“How you gonna make me?” Oghren demanded. The Kid took a step towards him, but all Oghren had to do was step the other way, and the Kid was lost. The Kid didn’t have shit to find his way around that wasn’t Oghren’s shoulder. No guide cane. No guide dog. No nothing. The Kid had just assumed Oghren would be there for him, and damn near shit his pants when he wasn’t. Kid hated feeling useless, and Oghren knew it, but maybe he just hadn’t felt useless enough. “How you gonna do anything?”

“I’m here to die!” Amell snarled, spinning towards his voice and taking a few uncertain steps in his direction, “I don’t need to do anything!”

“Not gonna take any darkspawn with you?” Oghren stepped as he spoke, circling him. “Just gonna lie down and die like some winking, slack-jawed coward? You call that a Calling?”

“For the last time, Oghren, leave! That’s an order.”

Oghren kicked him. His boot connected with the Kid’s ass, and sent him sailing across the thiag. The Kid didn’t see it coming, and went crashing face first into the stone. Amell rolled onto his ass and scrambled to his feet. He’d sliced open his cheek, in the fall, and pulled the blood from his face with a hand. It swirled about his fingers, all magic-like, and Oghren spat.

“Try it, you little shit,” Oghren dared him. “Blood magic your way out of this.”

“Leave!” Amell ordered, flinging the blood through the air.

Two years with the Kid, and Oghren still didn’t know shit about magic or how it worked. He still didn’t care. The blood diffused into a mist that spread across the thaig in a wide net, but the Kid must not have learned shit from the years they spent sparring, because he spread it too high. It seemed to Oghren like he missed, but maybe his magic was just that strong it didn’t matter, because Oghren still felt it. An overwhelming urge to turn and run from the thiag like a bat out of the Deep Roads, and by the balls of his Ancestors, it hurt to resist.

“No,” Oghren snarled. Blood dripped from his nose at his defiance, but he wasn’t about to give up that easy. He ran at the Kid, and bled a little more with every step, until he thought he’d damn well die, but he made it, and tackled him off his feet.

It broke the spell, and Amell hit the ground with a crack couldn’t have hurt nearly as much as Oghren wanted it to.

“Damnit Oghren-!” Amell clutched his injured head with one hand, and swung at him with the other.

“Damn right I’m Oghren!” Oghren blocked the wild blow, and punched Amell for good measure. “I’m Oghren fucking Kondrat!” Another punch, “Grey Warden!” Another, “Best damn warrior Orzammar’s ever seen!”

“GET OFF!” Amell screamed, a wave of telekinetic energy blasting Oghren off him and sending him rolling across the thiag. He crashed into a rock column, and the impact dizzied him unconscious. He might have been out for seconds, minutes, or hours, but when he came back the Kid was sobbing.

“Oghren?” Amell called out. Kid looked pathetic. Crawling across the ground with great sweeps of his hands, like a Shaper who lost his spectacles. “Oghren, answer me!”

“Fuck you,” Oghren managed, stumbling to his feet and over to Amell. A hard kick to his stomach sent the Kid rolling. “Who the fuck are you, huh? Hero of Ferelden? Warden Commander? Can’t even fight a fat old fuck like me? How are you gonna kill a darkspawn?” Oghren advanced on him for another kick, but the Kid must have heard him coming. He rolled into his leg, and knocked him off his feet. Amell crawled on top of him, dragonscale gauntlets cutting into Oghren’s skin as Amell climbed up to his neck, and wrenched him into a headlock.

“Leave, damnit!” Amell grappled with him across the thiag, trading awkward punches, wrenching at random bits of armor or hair, and rolled them into a wall. Amell scrambled up it, keeping his arm locked around Oghren’s neck, and wheezing through the elbows Oghren flung back at him while he choked. “I am the Warden Commander of Ferelden, and I gave you an order!”

“Fuck your orders, Kid,” Oghren gagged. “I never followed your orders, you filthy fucking nug-humper, I followed you.”

Amelll let go of him just when Oghren thought he was going to pass out again. The Kid slid to the ground, wheezing and holding a hand to the ribs Oghren had battered. Oghren massaged at his bruised throat, coughing like he had the day Amell had dragged him out of Lake Calenhad.

“Don’t you get it, Kid?” Oghren asked. “I’m not leaving you. I’m never leaving you. I love you, you stupid little shit.”

“I can’t,” Amell wept. Really wept. Tears like lyrium ran down his face, and he buried his face in his hands. “I can’t.”

Oghren crawled over to him, and pulled the Kid against his side. “Yes you can, Kid.”

“Fuck,” Amell rolled into his side, and hugged him so tight he must have thought he was Sparkles. “Oghren I-... I don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to be like this. I can’t be helpless again. You don’t understand - You don’t know - what the Circle did to me -...”

“I can guess, Kid,” Oghren hugged him a little tighter. “Come on, Kid. You kicked my ass! You can kick it again. We’ll figure it out. What the fuck are we, huh?”

“... Wardens,” Amell clung to him. “We’re Wardens.”

“Then let’s go fucking be some.”

Chapter 43: Happy. Alive.

Notes:

For the tumblr anon who asked, "I can't believe Amell is back and you didn't even make us wait until the end of act 3! Please, pleeease tell us you're going to write something about his return to Vigil's Keep (finding out about the events he missed) and/or show his reunion with Anders from Amell's perspective? Think about the delicious angst possibilities! Break our hearts!"

This chapter takes place immediately following the events of Chapter 115 - Long Time No See of Accursed Ones and is told from Amell's perspective. Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

9:34 Dragon 17 Ferventis Evening
Somewhere in Kirkwall

Alive.

Happy.

Alive.

Happy.

"Boss?" Oghren's voice, deep as the lost thaigs of the dwarven kingdom. "... Kid."

"What is it, Oghren?" I ask.

"... Nothing."

I reach out until I feel my hand connect with his shoulder, hear the clatter of dragonscale on silverite. "I'm fine."

"... He’s gotten fat." Surana volunteers.

"He was of a healthy weight," Jacen disagrees.

"And hairy." Surana adds.

"S'called a beard, and you elves should try it sometime." Oghren says. "Don't know how you can tell your men from your women, walking around like barefaced babes."

"I'll tell you when you're older, da'len," Jacen jokes.

"Disgusting," Surana says with a playful drawl. "I cannot believe I used to bed him."

"That ain't special," Oghren snorts. "Sparkles has sowed so many oats he could end a famine."

"Ugh!" There's a clatter, silverite on silverite, and Oghren chortles. Surana must have shoved him. "Must you?"

"No, but I'm still gonna," Oghren chuckles.

Alive.

Happy.

Alive.

Happy.

"What do you think, Boss?" Oghren asks suddenly.

"What?" Dumat nudges me slightly west, and I change course. I must have missed some of their conversation.

"That guy Sparkles was with. Replacement nug, much?"

"He did bear a striking resemblance, evanarius," Jacen agrees.

"Forget him," Surana says, "He's clearly forgotten you."

"Now, I didn't say-" Oghren starts.

"You should have! He's a deserter. It's in his nature."

"You were not there, da'len," Jacen says gently, "You do not know what he deserted."

"I've heard the stories," Surana says dismissively.

"Walk it back, kid," Oghren says.

"We weren't there either, Oghren." I say.

I wasn't there.

He was alive, and alone, and I wasn't there.

Oghren nudges me into Dumat, who growls a warning and sets me back on course. "You couldn't have known how all that shit was gonna go down, Boss."

I could have stayed. I could have tried. I could have stopped-

"Kid," Oghren squeezes my arm. "Ain't nothing you could have done different. Ain't no other way it could have gone."

"He was a good man, and a formidable mage," Jacen says. "It is clear that much has not changed."

“He’s a deserter, all the same,” Surana says. “The Commander gave him the choice to come with us and he declined.”

“Few volunteer for this life,” Jacen says, “You are unique.”

“I am Warden,” Surana says proudly, “I would never give that up for anyone. Certainly not a man with no magic. I remember my Joining. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn.”

“They are just words, da’len. You are young. One day, you’ll realize love often outweighs them.”

"Who said anything about love?” Oghren asks, slapping my shoulder, “So he's fucking your cousin, so what? We’ve all been there.”

“Have we?” Jacen chuckles, “You’ve wisdom to rival hahrens, my friend.”

“I’m a fount,” Oghren agrees, “Branka rolling with Hespith didn’t stop me trying to get her back. Don’t see how it should stop the Boss any. Maybe he’ll have better luck than I did.”

“He’s happy, Oghren,” I remind him.

“Just saying, it’s your ring he’s wearing.”

Oghren means well, but he doesn’t understand. None of them do. They’ve no idea what this means to me. What he means to me. To know that his merger with Justice left his mind intact. To hear his beautiful voice. His perfect laughter. His righteous anger. His worries and his cares. To know that he’s alive and well, that he exists, whether or not it’s with me.

We haven’t gone far, but I call on the magic in the ring Morrigan gave me years ago. For just a moment, I can feel him and all that he is through the Fade.

Happy.

Alive.

Happy.

Alive.

Chapter 44: Demon's Backbone

Notes:

For the tumblr anon who asked, "I've reread Chapter 90 way too many times than I'd like to admit for the hurt/comfort stuff. Upon my nth reread today I realised that we never got it from Hawke's perspective - the big decisions to save Anders, out himself to the nobles, confront Leandra (not the rug!), reconcile using blood magic, and convincing Merrill to help (Isabela had a part in this?). May I ask for some Hawke thoughts if you're free and feeling it? Amazing work churning out so much lately, by the way! Thank you so much!" Thank you for reading :)

This chapter takes place during Chapter - 89 Enemies Among Us of Accursed Ones and is told from Hawke's perspective.

Chapter Text

9:33 Dragon Verimensis 10
Kirkwall: The Darktown Healer’s Clinic

The lantern hung from a chain bronzed with rust, emerald flames shifting and catching on the blackrock. The creak of swaying metal echoed softly through the caverns, largely abandoned in winter. Blackened sleet drained down from the city above, smearing the graffitied Coterie tags that surrounded Anders’ clinic.

Hawke supposed the poor bastard owed them as much as Hawke owed the Carta. Warm blood welled beneath his vambrace, soaking his sleeve, and making him acutely aware of the cold. The wind rattled impatiently at Anders’ door, begging entry where Hawke hesitated. He shouldn’t have come, but he couldn’t afford not to.

Hawke banged his good fist against the door. It was corroded at the bottom, a strange green rot eating up the metal and allowing a few feet of vision into the clinic. Hawke watched Anders’ feet hastily cross the clinic, and wondered how the man could manifest compassion in the motion. With a single step, it was apparent Anders was a healer. He moved with purpose, opening the door with an outstretched hand prepared to guide or guard whoever knocked on it.

“Hawke,” Anders said. An expression played in Anders’ brow - Confusion? Concern? Suspicion? - and vanished before Hawke could identify it. “What is it?”

Hawke held up his arm, the gash through the leather, the blood soaking it, and Anders ushered him inside and over to one of his surgery tables. The clinic was a mess, but it wasn’t Anders' fault. Darktown was a mess. Kirkwall was a mess. The whole damned world was a mess.

The clinic was in an old ore chute that occasionally vomited dust and dirt across his floors. Tomorrow it would be a cave. Overmorrow a mineshaft. Anders moved it as needed whenever the templars came knocking, and they always came knocking. He was an apostate. He would always be an apostate.

… A damned gorgeous one.

Not like most men were gorgeous. Anders was so damned thin he was more clothes than man, and they weren’t even nice clothes. He wore rags cobbled together from feathers, old leather, and something that looked like a burial shroud. Which fit, considering he had the complexion of a corpse, and looked like a shaved rat on the best of days, his hair pulled back into a tangled nest of blonde.

But he was still gorgeous. Something in the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the strength in his nose. The tired set of his brow, and the warmth in his honeyed eyes despite it. Like under the mess was a man who would work himself to death to keep others from theirs.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Anders untied the mangled vambrace, and set it on the table beside him. It was a damn shame he couldn’t heal armor. Thirty silver, gone.

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Hawke said.

“I’d be concerned if you had,” Anders grinned.

His hands lit with veilfire, and it seemed they should burn, but they didn’t. Anders’ touch was warm, like the fire came from within him and not without. He held his arm, tracing over the damage and slowly reversing it. His head tilted to one side while he worked, like he was listening to something Hawke couldn’t hear. His demon, probably.

… spirit.

“You have to do that?” Hawke asked.

“Do what?” Anders’ gaze flicked back to him.

His eyes were more intimate than his hands. They were so intense it was almost painful. Anders looked at him like he wanted to know him. Like he wanted to see into his soul and lay it bare with everything else inside him. Hawke couldn’t stand it.

“My arm,” Hawke gestured to the hands Anders kept on him.

“Do… I have to heal your arm?” Anders asked.

“Are you being cute or stupid?”

“Mad, I think,” Anders frowned, but didn’t let go of him. Hawke wanted to say that counted for an answer, but he’d seen him heal without holding his patients before.

“I mean-...” Fuck it, what was the point? Hawke’d sooner learn magic before he learned how to talk. “Nevermind.”

“No, you mean what?” Anders’ frown intensified, creasing in his brow and straightening his spine, and Maker not again- “Do I have to channel a spirit to perform spirit healing? Is that it? Or - let me guess - demon healing?”

“That’s not what I said-” Hawke tried

“No, you said I was stupid.” Anders cut him off.

“You are stupid!” Hawke’s arm jerked in Anders’ hands, and the sudden shift of pressure stung.

“Why don’t you just get a poultice and brace it then?” Anders finally let go of him. His arm hadn't quite healed, but the wound had lessened, and Hawke supposed that was good enough. “Wait, I remember, because magic actually helps people-”

“Anders-”

“Whether or not people deserve to be helped!” Anders stormed away from him.

Hawke groaned, running rough hands through his hair and spiking it in all directions. Why? Why the fuck couldn’t he just talk like a normal human being? Why was everything that came out of his thrice-damned mouth a pile of hot garbage? Hawke shoved himself off the table, retrieving his ruined vambrace when Anders snapped at him. “Sit down!”

Hawke sat, a little startled. Anders came back with a small bowl of thick green paste that smelled like grass.

“... What?”

“Elfroot,” Anders said. “For the pain.”

“I’m not in pain,” Not physically.

“You moved,” Anders pressed the bowl into his good hand, and held his wounded hand a second time, “... Hold still.”

Hawke chewed on a mouthful of it while Anders worked his magic, “You don’t need to do that.”

“Hawke, I am in no mood-”

“You don’t need to touch me,” Hawke blurted. Anders’ grip faltered, and the frown was finally gone when he glanced at him, “Am I wrong?”

“... you’re wrong,” Anders said quietly, and went back to focusing on his arm.

Seemed like a lie, but Hawke didn’t trust himself to call Anders out if it wasn’t. He stared at the floor, trying and failing to ignore the way Anders’ hands felt caressing down his forearm, kneading at the muscle, testing his mobility.

Anders stepped back when he finished, and Hawke shoved his thumbs into his belt to keep from reaching for him, but Maker, he wanted to. It would have been so much easier. To pin him to the wall of his clinic, to fist a hand in the tangled strands of gold and tangle them a little bit more, to feel whatever warmth he had to offer in this frozen voidscape that wasn’t in his eyes but his flushed and trembling skin-...

Hawke cleared his throat and did nothing. “... Thanks.”

“That's what I’m here for,” Anders said. “Mending and misunderstanding.”

I’m sorry.

You’re worth more than that.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

“... Wicked Grace next week?”

“I’ll be there.”

Hawke kicked himself back to the estate. A year. A whole fucking year, and Hawke still couldn’t talk to him. It never mattered what he wanted to say because what he wanted to say was never what he said. He opened his mouth and he was an asshole. He kept his mouth closed and he was an asshole. He existed and he was an asshole.

It was for the best, at the end of the day. Anders was an apostate. Anders was a maleficar. Anders was an abomination. He wanted to tear down the Circle, the Chantry, and everything else that had ever slighted him or anyone like him. Anders was everything the Chantry had ever warned him against and everything he’d ever wanted.

Fuck.

Hawke shoved open the door to his estate, and wind and snow followed him inside, furnishing the foyer where he failed. “Mother!” Hawke called, unbuckling his other glove, “I’m back. I’m going to take a bath. I swear if you just bought more milk at the markets-”

“Hawke, you’re finally home!” Someone who was not his mother said.

Hawke spun, throwing daggers laced between his fingers. A half-dozen dwarves were in the withdrawing room. They paced around the room, tapping at the marble mantle, tracing old portraits, and tugging at the curtains. His mother was sitting on the divan with a dwarf who looked like a sheared sheep. He had no hair, no beard, no eyebrows. Even his eyelashes were suspect.

“Dougal,” Hawke said.

“Lovely home you have here,” Dougal gestured grandly around the room.

“No it’s not,” The portraits were weathered. The curtains were moth-eaten. The estate had more rooms than it did pieces of furniture. Hawke had spent everything he’d earned on the Deep Roads expedition getting it back from Gamlen’s debtors and repaying Dougal for the loan that had let him go on the expedition in the first place. There was no reason for them to ever see each other again.

“Big, then,” Dougal revised, “And may I say your mother makes for delightful company?”

She didn’t. Leandra sat with her hands folded into polite fists in her lap, knuckles so white the bone was liable to break through. Her scowl was so intense it swallowed her eyes, but they pinned Hawke in place all the same. Looking at Dougal was easier.

“We settled our business, Dougal,” Hawke said.

“You’ve done business with this man?” His mother hissed, and if they walked out of this alive, Hawke knew it wouldn’t be the last time he heard about it.

“Just a simple transaction, Mistress,” Dougal said politely, “A quick talk and we’ll be on our way.”

“Mother, leave,” Hawke said. His mother listened to him for once. Dougal let her go.

“Delightful woman,” Dougal’s face split with a wide grin. His teeth were so big he could have eaten apples through an orchard’s gate. “A shame she spends so much time here. Alone.”

A few of the dwarves that were with Dougal paced circled around Hawke. Hawke kept his grip on his blades. Dougal, he could take. Maybe two others. Long enough for Mother to run.

“Get to the point.”

“I know all this came from the Deep Road’s treasure,” Dougal patted the divan, “I know you’ve repaid me. But seeing all this… I think I deserve a larger share of your fortune. Fair’s fair, right?”

“I kept my end of the bargain,” Hawke reminded him. “You got your coin back.”

“What can I say?” Dougal shrugged, “Things have gone poorly for me, and I’m a bitter man. A hundred sovereigns, and I’ll go away. If I don’t, I’ll make things unpleasant.”

“... Unpleasant how?” He hadn’t been in Hightown long enough for anyone to miss him, but Hawke supposed Dougal at least knew he couldn’t repay him if he was dead.

“Well let’s see…” Dougal clicked his too-big teeth. “I think people would like to know just what happened to Bartrand Tethras. Oh, I know his brother claims he betrayed you, but really? Your business partner disappears, and you end up rich?”

“There hasn’t been a single question asked about that,” Varric made sure of it.

“Yet,” Dougal held up a single fat finger, “Yet, my friend. Questions could be asked. About you. About your friends. About your sudden riches. Help me out, and my friends in the Carta will make sure the… evidence… I have will never see the light of day.”

“Get out of my house,” Hawke tightened his grip on his throwing daggers.

Dougal smiled, “You have until Wintersend. If I don’t get my money, I’ll tear your mansion apart brick by brick, and I guarantee you, your mother will be home when I do it.”

Dougal and his men left. Hawke stayed in the withdrawing room. He set his daggers down, and scratched at his scalp, his beard, his face, digging his nails into his skin and trying to breathe through his snarls. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. Fuck.

“Garrett Florian Hawke,” Leandra’s voice cut through his panic, as sharp as his father’s whip and carrying all the memory of it. Hawke winced. “What have you done now!?”

“Not now, Mother-” Hawke tried to step past her, but she spun him about by his arm.

“Don’t you ‘Mother’ me!” Leandra’s fierce scowl carved canyons in her weathered face, “Am I to understand you -.. What? You’ve indebted us to this thug? What in the Maker’s name were you thinking?”

“What was I thinking?” Hawke repeated incredulously, “I was thinking we lost the estate! I was thinking that we needed to get it back! I was thinking Beth-”

“Don’t you bring Bethany into this,” Leandra thrust an accusatory finger into his armor, “Bethany would never have risked our lives like this!”

“Beth risked her life every damn day-”

“Do not use that foul language with me, Garrett, I am your mother! And don’t you dare speak of Bethany like that. You’re the reason she’s gone! You’re the reason Carver’s gone!”

“I-” Hawke choked. Flashes of Carver’s stupid face, his stupid smile, his stupid fucking confidence as he rushed out to face the ogre haunted him. His cheerful, stupid, stupid, stupid fucking final cry of Back me up, brother!

Hawke hadn’t.

Carver had died.

Leandra was right.

“... I know,” Hawke said.

“You’re going to fix this,” Leandra said. “I don’t care what it takes. I never want to see that man in my house again. Do you hear me, Garret?”

“I hear you.”

“Good. Now, tell me everything.”

Hawke had choices.

The de Laucents were old friends. Orlesians. They had two daughters, and they each had a dowry of two hundred sovereigns. The Reinhardt’s daughter was around his age. Kirkwallers. A hundred and fifty. The Harrimans had another. Starks. Three hundred.

“We’ll have a dinner party, and you’ll tell Dougal you’ll decide on Wintersend.” Leandra said, patting his knee. When he didn’t respond, she pinched his ear, “Do you hear me, Garrett?”

Hawke winced, “I hear you.”

Hawke wasn’t sure how it happened, but he ended up back in Anders’ clinic that evening. Anders had other patients, and spared him a glance, but seemed to realize there was nothing for him to heal. Hawke found an out of the way corner, and sat to watch him while he worked. He burned with all the fire of the Fade, his magic erasing the city’s sins one broken bone at a time.

… He really was beautiful.

“... You alright?” Anders asked when the patients slowed.

“Just watching,” Hawke said.

“If that’s what you’re into,” Anders grinned, wiping the blood off his hands with a rag. Somehow, there always seemed to be more. “As long as you’re here, why don’t you help me clean this up?”

“Alright,” Hawke joined him in wiping down his clinic.

“You sure you’re alright?” Anders pressed when they were finishing up, “You’re pretty quiet.”

“When am I not?” Hawke asked.

“Fair point,” Anders tilted his head. “You didn’t answer me though.”

“No.”

“Well… are you going to?”

Hawke wrung out the rag he’d been using over the gutters, and hung it up to dry. The rack that Anders was using for his linens was an old wheel, propped up against a rock. It was garbage. It was all garbage, and somehow Anders turned it into a sanctum of healing and salvation. The man had nothing, and somehow he made it everything. Somehow he was everything.

“Hawke?”

“...No.”

“Good talk,” Anders rolled his eyes.

“I’ll see you, Anders,” Hawke made to leave, but Anders caught his arm. His hands felt even better when they weren’t healing. Slender fingers. Soft palms. Firm grip. “What is it?” Hawke asked.

“I-... I just-...” Anders swallowed. Hawke watched the motion play out in his throat, and followed it up to his lips. They looked dry. They looked soft. “I’ll see you.”

Anders accosted him after Wicked Grace. Hawke wished he hadn’t. Anders wanted drinks. Anders wanted them to try again. Anders wanted what Hawke couldn’t give him. Hawke blamed it on the Chantry and Anders’ view of it, partly because it was true, and partly because it was easier. When that didn’t work, he blamed it on Anders’ spirit. When that didn’t work, he left.

He was sitting in the estate’s chapel that night, trying and failing to pray, when the knock came at his door. He expected Dougal. Or Varric. Or someone who wasn’t a mage, bleeding and burnt and branded.

The woman was a mess, hair tousled about a panicked face. She was wearing shackles and boots of blood, bits of metal embedded all along her legs and cutting up her trousers. “Help!” She slammed the door behind them as soon as Hawke opened it, her pupils blown wide, “You’re the hawk? You know Anders?”

Hawke’s heart alternated between falling into his stomach and leaping into his throat, “What happened to Anders?”

“They caught us!” The woman grabbed his doublet, staining it with blood, “The estate - the third estate on the west end - in the next district - they caught us and they aren’t taking us to the Circle! They mean to rape and kill us all! You have to save them! He told me you would save him!”

They.

Templars.

Raped and killed.

Anders-... Anders couldn’t have known he would save him.

Anders had to have known he would save him.

Hawke grabbed the woman’s wrist, and dragged her through the estate to his quarters. “How many?”

“I don’t know-”

“Guess!”

“A half-dozen,” The woman guessed obediently.

Hawke let go of her when they reached his room, and grabbed his armor from his stand, buckling it on over his clothes. “Tell me the layout.”

“The what?”

“The layout!” Hawke snarled through his teeth while he fought with his boots.

“There’s- I- …. I don’t know - Anders shattered my shackles, but he only had enough bl-mana for one spell-”

“Tell me the fucking layout, damn you-”

“I don’t know!” The woman tugged at her chestnut hair, like she could pull memories from the strands, “They knocked me out! It was a cellar! There were stairs! I ran, and there was a door-... I don’t know.”

“Damnit,” Hawke strung up his bow and grabbed his quiver on his way back out of his room. The woman hurried along at his side, “Next district, third estate on the west?”

“Yes,” The woman promised, “The - district to the south. The Gardens or - I don’t know what it’s called.”

“Stay here, I’ll be back-”

“I’m not staying anywhere!” The woman laughed, a crazed sound, “They caught me! They tried to rape me! I’m getting out of here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry - I swore I would get you - that’s all.”

The woman bolted out his door and ran off into the night. Hawke pulled down his hood, and sprinted south. He didn’t need the instructions. He could see the flames in the distance, illuminating Hightown as they ravaged the estate, licking up doors, trellis, and windows, assaulting the stone, despoiling the ground.

Templars surrounded it. Silverite caught and reflected the flames, far more than a half-dozen times over. There was no getting in the front. Hawke circled the back of the mansion, and spotted a trellis leading to the second story. Vaulting up the stone, Hawke rolled in through an open window, bow drawn and arrow nocked, but the room was empty.

The estate wasn’t. Hawke could hear the shouted commands of templars, and the unholy laughter of whatever they faced. Swords of the Chantry, facing off a demon or abomination that might otherwise lay waste to the city, and Maker damn him for it, but the city could burn for all he cared. Hawke made for the stairs. They curved down to the foyer, which split off into half a dozen rooms, only one of which was open. The door led down into the cellars, and sitting at the top was Anders..

Shackled.

Bleeding.

Barely conscious.

Maker, why couldn’t he have moved faster?

A templar emerged from the cellars and grabbed Anders by his collar, dragging him through the foyer. He didn’t quite make it to a room before he slammed Anders against a wall, obscuring him from Hawke’s line of sight. “What do we have here? A blood mage bleeding to death?” The templar’s free hand moved like it was fumbling with a buckle.

Hawke loosed the arrow into the templar’s throat, ripping it free in a fount of blood to renock it. The templar collapsed, and dragged Anders down with him. The poor bastard was ashen. Burnt. Branded. Bleeding. Anders met his eyes, and despite it all, there was a warmth in them still. Deep and viscerous. A relief so profound Anders surrendered everything to it, and passed out.

Hawke carried him back to the room he’d entered from, and sat him on the windowsill, but he couldn’t get him back down the trellis if Anders couldn't hold onto him. Hawke gave him a shake, and Anders groaned.

“Mage bane,” Anders tried to explain, “Justice… Alain…”

‘I have you,” Hawke promised, draping Anders' shackled arms around his neck. “Hold onto me.”

“Can’t heal…” Anders warned him.

“I have you,” Hawke promised, and Maker, he meant it. His debts, his family, his faith, all of it be damned. He meant it till the end of his days. “Stay with me.”

Chapter 45: Eye to Eye

Notes:

For the Tumblr anon who asked, "So I've been giving the whole series a reread and I got to chapter 101 where Hawke and Anders well do it for the first time and I noticed the part where Anders takes note about a recent tattoo Hawke got done of a Druffalo skull with a sunburst tattoo on the forehead like a tranquil, I assume it's in reference to the Karl incident? I was wondering if you plan on maybe writing an Apple and Apostates chapter about Hawke getting the tattoo seeing as it seems there's a Karl/Anders fan week?"

This chapter takes place during Chapter 56 - Snap of Accursed Ones and is told from Hawke's perspective. Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

9:32 Dragon Eluviesta
Kirkwall

Hawke had never loved anyone the way Anders loved Karl.

He thought he had. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his girl in Amaranthine and his girl in Kirkwall, but not like that.

"It's like a madness when he comes out." Anders had said. "A frenzy."

Hawke knew Anders had meant the spirit inside him, but that wasn't what stuck with him. Hawke had killed before, albeit not with anywhere near the brutal efficiency that Anders had managed in the Chantry. The templars weren't even men when Anders was finished with them - they were just meat. But even after everything the spirit - Justice - was a pale imitation of Anders' rage.

Anders' rage was cataclysmic - burning with more fire than the sun. It consumed him from the inside out. He’d knelt in that Chantry a charred husk of a man, cradling the ashes of his love in his arms. "I'm so sorry, Karl," It hadn't been a sob. A sob didn't do it justice. Anders' heart and lungs and soul were in that sound. Every emotion Hawke could name and more that he couldn't until there was nothing left in him.

Until he'd looked all but Tranquil himself.

"You can take it off now, Karl," Anders had whispered, sliding a ring off the dead man's finger, "You're out."

Hawke hadn't know the significance of the ring. He still didn't. A wedding ring, if he had to guess. He didn't want to think that Anders had killed his husband, but he couldn't imagine what else the ring could have been. He couldn’t bring himself to ask.

He didn't have the courage.

Anders did.

Anders had killed Karl with a spell, but Hawke imagined a blade - Anders driving it through their hearts and taking them to the Maker’s side together. It would have been kinder, but Anders had gone on living. He didn't have a choice. He loved Karl too much to ever let his fate befall another mage. Hawke was willing to die for the people he loved, but Anders was willing to live for them.

After, Hawke had gotten a tattoo of a sunburst emblazoned on a skull. For Karl. For Anders. For himself. For love, and what Anders and Karl taught him it could be.

Chapter 46: Coffee and a Quill

Summary:

The Tale of the Champion was not strictly an accurate one.

"I thought you'd have noticed by now," Varric smiled, but there was something terribly sad about it. "I lie a lot."

Notes:

This chapter is linked from Chapter 122 - The Weight of Years of Accursed Ones and is told from Varric's perspective.

Chapter Text

9:34 Dragon The Month of Solace
Kirkwall Hightown: Hawke Estate

In the aftermath of the qunari invasion, Varric stayed at the Hawke Estate. His room at the Hanged Man was still there, buried beneath the rubble and regret. Varric had every intention of returning to it eventually, once he could justify spending coin on a tavern, and not soup kitchens, creches, and clinics. He hadn’t quite managed the mental backflip just yet.

Some of it was his coin. Most of it wasn’t. The Merchant’s Guild Houses were entrenched in Kirkwall’s relief efforts - doing everything they could to ensure they’d own half the city once they put it back together. It was almost enough to get the kalna and the ascendants to work together. Almost. There was a joke in there somewhere, but Varric was too tired to go digging for it.

Sleep seemed a downright waste of time these days. Varric hopped down from the too-big bed, bathed in the too-big bath, and changed from the too-big dresser before he left the too-big room for the kitchens. Servants passed by him in the halls, sparing him polite nods as they moved through the too-big estate. For all the city had suffered, Hawke was doing well.

He was, after all, the Champion of Kirkwall.

”He is larger than life, isn’t he? In all the right places, too, I’ll bet.”

“You’re wicked, Rivaini.”

“What else would you call it? He’s just so… much. Don’t you dwarves have a name for someone like him? A Paragon, right?”

“I don’t know that I would call Killer a paragon of anything.”

Damnit, Rivaini.

The kitchens were the size of Varric’s room at the Hanged Man. Predictably lavish, they were filled with ovens upon ovens and cabinets upon cabinets, with doors leading to larders and ice cellars and pantries. A serving counter split the room in two for anyone who didn’t fit in the dining hall. Varric didn’t fit much of anywhere. He climbed onto a too-high stool, and waved down one of the scullions.

“The usual, Master Tethras?”

“Would you?”

Varric went digging through his pockets for a coin - old habits - but the scullion moved on by the time he realized what he was doing. He wasn’t in the Hanged Man. The servant wasn’t Norah. The empty stool beside him wasn’t Rivaini’s.

”You know, Rivaini, you promised me you’d tell me how your ship wrecked.”

“I was drunk! I thought the reefs around the Wounded Coast were made of candy.”

“Oh, come on.”

“And a demon told me to do it. It bet me sixty sovereigns and a bottle of port.” A flash of pearl white teeth and a laugh just as light. “You’re not the only one who can bullshit, you know.”

Bullshit.

It was all bullshit.

”You’ve got to tell me what was in that box, Rivaini.”

“Which box? I’ve opened so many…”

“Well, those too, but later. Right now: that qunari relic.”

“I'll make you a deal: I'll tell you what was in that box if you tell me how Bianca got her name.”

“Fine, forget I asked. Evil woman.”

It was a good deal.

He should have taken it.

Bianca would have understood.

”Take her and go.”

The scullion came back with coffee and two scones. They broke their own fast on the stool beside him, sharing the latest news from the criers. Varric ate and he listened, but there was no good news. There never was. There was another sinkhole somewhere, flushing the whole damn city down the drains with the rest of this shit. There was no fixing any of it. There was no going back to the way things were.

The estate wasn’t the Hanged Man.

The servant wasn’t Rivaini.

Hawke was no Champion.

Varric took his coffee back up to his room, trying and failing not to think about it. The Arishok, destroying the city. Rivaini, running with the relic. Hawke, hunting her down. The doors to the Viscount’s Keep bursting open at the last minute, saving Choir Boy and the rest of the nobles from the Arishok’s axe. Hawke… Killer… carrying Isabela over his shoulder and throwing her at the Arishok’s feet.

”Your thief.”

Like that was all Rivaini was.

Like that was all she’d ever been.

The way none of them had done anything about it.

What kind of ending was that? What kind of story? What kind of hero? What kind of person was Varric to just let it all happen, like he was reading about his own life with no say in how it played out?

Varric sat in his too-big chair at his too-big desk, staring at the too-big parchment with too-few words. The small glass jar beside it mocked him. There were no words inside. It was just ink.

It didn’t have to happen like that. Rivaini didn’t have to run. She could have come back with the relic. She could have trusted them to save her - they could have given her a reason to. They could have fought the qunari. They could have fought the Arishok. Some grand battle in the Viscount’s Keep. Some romantic duel to the death. Hawke kicking down the doors of the Keep with Isabela at his side, and not on his shoulder.

A serpentined battle through the Keep, arrows flying, massive axe crashing through pillar after pillar. One final blow to Killer’s chest just as Killer’s arrow found the Arishok’s throat. Blondie’s broken cry, a panacea of restorative magic wrenching Hawke from death’s doorstep while the nobles cheered and Rivaini laughed and the statue of Hawke standing down at the docks made any fucking sense.

But that wasn’t what had happened.

Varric buried his face in his hands, fighting back a sob. The parchment wasn’t for tears. It was for stories. Stories full of adventure, and romance, and good friends. Good friends who didn’t stay silent while not-so-good friends betrayed other friends because they thought a home was somehow more important than the people in it.

That wasn’t this story.

Ancestors, how could he live with himself?

Varric took a steadying breath and a long drink. It burned going down, drying up the water welling in the corner of his eyes. He didn’t have to tell this story. He could tell any story. Any story at all. A better story. A story with heroes. A story with champions. He’d live with that story, once he could bring himself to tell it.

… With coffee, Varric supposed.

And a quill.

Chapter 47: A Strong Leader

Notes:

Alistair and Amell enlisting Orzammar's aid during the Blight. This is from Alistair's perspective.

It was written for the “First Line of Defense” prompt from @dafan7711‘s 98th 30 prompt list. Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

A Strong Leader

Amell had taken up residence in the far corner of the dwarven library. The dwarven … shifters? sanders? had been accommodating so far, but their patience had to be wearing as thin as their shelves. The man had made himself at home in the most literal sense. There were chairs of the deep roads, tables of darkspawn, and a whole bed of military strategy.

The one in the royal palace had to be softer, if a head shorter, but Alistair had yet to see him use it. “Still here I see,” Alistair noted, maneuvering his way through the stacks to squat on a relatively sturdy looking pile of tomes. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“It keeps the darkspawn at bay?” Amell guessed.

“Well… no, but that’s better than what I had. What are you reading?"

"A journal of a dwarven miner, from the Blessed Age,” Amell handed it over, to Alistair’s immediate regret. He made a pretense of skimming a page, and hoped that Amell didn’t actually expect him to read it. “He speaks a lot about the spread of the darkspawn corruption. He had a theory that some varieties of deep mushrooms could be used to build up an immunity to the taint, if consumed regularly in small doses."

"Really?” Alistair flipped through a few pages, none of which were kind enough to read themselves, “… well, did it work?"

"No, he turned into a ghoul and ate his own face."

"Ouch.” Alistair handed the book back. “How?”

“Lips first, I guess."

"Fun. So, listen, I’ve been thinking… about this whole Harrowmont versus Bhelen. Duncan always used to say that Grey Wardens shouldn’t meddle in politics. And yet here we are. Meddling. We’re meddlesome meddlers meddling in the monarchy”

“What choice do we have?” Amell asked.

“No choice is my choice,” Alistair said, “Can’t we just wait for this succession to sort itself out? I mean, how do we even know that Bhelen is fit to be king?”

“He’s King Endrin’s son,” Amell noted.

“Oh, well, in that case, my father was a shoemaker - that must make me great at making shoes."

"I thought you were raised by flying dogs from the Anderfels?”

“Talented shoemakers, all of them! Someone had to make sure we had something to chew on.”

“You want us to back Harrowmont instead?”

“I don’t want us to back anyone.”

“We tried that. The Assembly won’t honor the treaties without someone on the throne. Bhelen is willing to offer the casteless a place in the army, and the more troops we have pledged against the Blight, the better.”

“I know that, I just…”

“What is it?"

"I just can’t help thinking Duncan must be so disappointed in me…”

Amell set a hand to his shoulder, but Amell couldn’t have understood. He’d been a Warden for little more than a month, and already he seemed like a veteran of the Blight. He studied darkspawn weaknesses, devised combat tactics, and had a plan to unite the whole of Ferelden against the Blight. Alistair was lucky to plan what they’d have for dinner. If it wasn’t for Amell, he’d probably be on his way to Weisshaupt to report that Ferelden had fallen by now.

Duncan never should have assigned him to the light the beacon. He should have let him join the battle so Alistair could have died in his stead, and Amell could have had someone competent alongside him. “I’m not,” Amell said. “I’m glad you’re here, Alistair. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“Sure you could, but thanks for saying that."

"The dwarves are the first line of defense against the darkspawn. We need them at their strongest, and a strong leader does whatever it takes to win.”

“I don’t know that I like the sound of that, but I guess you’re right,” Alistair stood up, “You coming back to the palace? …Barkspawn misses you, you know."

"I miss him too,” Amell grinned. “I’ll come back tonight. I just want to read up on a few more things.”

“Fair enough,” Alistair shuffled his way out of the stacks of books, and paused at the aisle exit, “You know, I’m glad you’re here too. I couldn’t do this without you either."

Chapter 48: A Hero Comes Home

Summary:

"Why didn't you look for me?"

"They told me you were dead."

Notes:

This chapter is linked from Chapter 123 - How Have You Been? of Accursed Ones.

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon Late Cassus
Ferelden: Vigil’s Keep

“Tell me again.”

“Enough! Dirthara-ma. He has told you. He has told you every hour of every day for the past three days. You are tormenting yourself and you are tormenting him. Anders-”

“Velanna. Please. He deserves to hear it.”

“You are both fools.”

“... It was the fifteenth of Haring. Anders was having trouble sleeping. He asked me to help him with a ritual to send him into the Fade-”

“Help him how?”

“He needed unprocessed lyrium from the storage rooms. We waited until nightfall-”

“How long after nightfall?’

“Three hours. Anders dispelled the wards and I picked the lock. We took the lyrium and relocked and warded the door. We went to the crypts below the Keep, and Anders cast the ritual beside Sigrun’s sarcophagus. He looked like he was asleep. A few minutes later - maybe ten - I heard footsteps echo in the crypt. Velanna went to send whoever it was away, and a few minutes after that - maybe five - I heard her scream. I left Anders in the crypts. I ran upstairs and saw the soldiers. There were over a dozen-”

“How many over?”

“Fifteen. Maybe sixteen. A mix of templars and soldiers from the Vigil, along with Eylon and Cera-”

“How many templars?”

“At least seven. Velanna was on the ground. I saw Cera raise her staff before I passed out. I think it was a sleep spell. I woke up in one of the cells - the second on the left - in the dungeons above the crypts. There were two templars outside the cell along with five soldiers from the Vigil. I didn’t recognize them. Barkspawn was outside the cell, but the guards had muzzled him and tied him to a pillar.”

“Tied him with what?”

“Rope. I couldn’t pick the lock. At least two guards were always watching. I woke up Velanna, but she couldn’t stand or cast any spells. She’d never been silenced by a templar before-”

“How do you know?”

“She told me. The guards were placing bets on whether Anders and Velanna were maleficarum or abominations. I heard screams a quarter hour later-”

“Whose screams?”

“Anders. He sounded like he was in pain.”

“How much pain?”

“He sounded like he was dying. He sounded like he was being burned alive. I couldn’t make out any words. Velanna said she felt the presence of demons, and a demon of Agony escaped from the cellar. It distracted the templars, and I tried to pick the lock, but just the demon’s presence was painful. I couldn’t hold onto the wrench and Velanna had no mana left after the smite.

“One of the guards unmuzzled Barkspawn and untied him from the pillar. He helped them fight the demon, but as soon as they killed it an abomination - Eylon possessed by Despair - followed it out of the cellar and killed Barkspawn. It was hard to see-”

“Why?”

“I was crying.”

“Because of Despair?”

“Possibly. Anders followed Eylon out of the cellar and tackled him. His body was falling apart. He was covered in blood-”

“Whose?”

“Everyone’s. His skin was splitting, breaking apart in chunks of flame, and someone had stabbed him through his stomach. Eylon cast a spell that knocked him off, and he crashed into the bars of our cell. Velanna tried to get his attention, to get him to recognize her, but he wasn’t-... he didn’t sound human anymore.”

“Why not?”

“His voice was several octaves lower. He didn’t speak. He just roared. He sounded like a rage demon. He burned through the bars of our cell and I don’t know if he was trying to rescue us or kill us. A templar charged him before we found out and Anders killed him-”

“Killed him how?”

“Fire. A spell of some sort. The templar’s armor melted, and the backsplash hit Anders’ skin - melting it down to the muscle along his shoulder. We tried to run, but the rest of the templars cast another silence. Anders and Velanna collapsed and… I picked Velanna. I picked her up, and Anders climbed to his knees, and a templar impaled him.”

“Impaled him with what?”

“A spear.”

“Where?”

“His chest. Near his heart.”

“Near it or through it?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t see him get back up. I dragged Velanna backwards up the stairs, and more soldiers charged him. Anders killed two of them on his knees, with another fire spell, but a third drove his sword into his back.”

“Where on his back?”

“Low. Near his kidneys. I didn’t see him get back up. I reached the top of the stairs, and I got a horse from the stables. I rode us out into the Wending Woods, and left Velanna in an alcove in the forest once I was sure she was stable. I spent maybe two minutes with her. I rode back to Vigil’s Keep, and the soldiers were mobilizing. I went back into the dungeons and found several bodies. I couldn’t recognize any of them.”

“Why not?”

“They were burnt or melted or cut into too many pieces. I found Cera in the crypts, and asked her what happened. She said that everyone was dead. I asked her where Anders was and she said that everyone was dead. Leonie followed me into the crypts with two escorts and she had me arrested. I was in the dungeons until you got back.”

“... Tell me again.”

“... It was the fifteenth of Haring. Anders was having trouble sleeping. He asked me to help him with a ritual to send him into the Fade.”

“Your position is forfeit. Surely you must know this. You are in no fit state to serve the Wardens or the Arling as a cripple. The First Warden and the Crown will concur, but out of respect for your service during the Fifth Blight I will spare you the disgrace of the discharge. I recommend you abdicate and retire to our compound in Denerim, where you can better be of service.”

“Your recommendation is noted, Constable, as is your challenge. I accept it.”

“My challenge?”

“... With all due respect, Constable, the Commander is right. If you are to claim the title and the Arling along with it, then you have made a challenge, and it should be settled according to tradition: a test of arms in single combat until one party yields, and we who are assembled will abide by the outcome.”

“I agree with Mistress Woolsey. Commander. Constable. Will you face each other or have you champions?”

“I need no champion.”

“I am a Chevalier and a Warden. There is no honor in fighting a cripple.”

“You will find some, or I will sentence you to death for treason against the arling, and kill you where you stand.”

“... Constable? Have you a champion?”

“Damn you, Garevel. I am my own champion. This is a disgrace. This is an absolute disgrace. Do not forget I offered you the chance to resign with dignity when my sword is at your neck.”

“Garevel, gather the men in the courtyard. Bring everyone.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Archy.”

“Oghren.”

“Talk to the Kid.”

“What would you have me say to him?”

“Something that makes some fucking sense! Have you seen that broad-ass broad? Kid and I got a couple bouts in at Orzammar, but he ain’t ready to pick up a sword yet. Stupid little shit can barely pick up a fork.”

“I think it is the most sensible thing he has done. Dread Wolf take the woman. I will be glad to see him put an end to her.”

“You miss the part where the Kid can’t fucking see? You ever wiggle those magic fingers of yours with your eyes closed? Archy - come on. Help me out. I didn’t drag the Kid out of the Deep Roads to watch him die in a duel.”

“Perhaps he will not use a sword? Or magic that requires a line of sight? I know he had several spells that seemed more akin to auras. Would they not apply here?”

“You don’t get it. Did you miss the armor? The stupid little thunderhumper’s basically warrior caste. How do you think he dueled the Teryn? You think he went to the Landsmeet with a staff? You think he’s gonna use one now?”

“I think that he is a mage and it is high time he remembered. Leonie din'an sahlin. Come. Let us find a good view of the dueling ring.”

“... Fuck that. Booze is still in the same place, ain’t it? Get me if the Kid lives. Leave me alone if he dies.”

“... I worry for him, Velanna. The drinking.”

“Worry for yourself and what Leonie will do to us should Amell lose.”

“You made it sound as though you had every confidence in him when Oghren asked.”

“I have every confidence I want to see that shemlen bitch torn limb from limb for what she did to us… Here. The ground is soft. Hold onto me. I will see us from the Keep if he fails.”

“... I love you.”

“Be quiet. Here they come.”

“I accept your surrender whenever you offer it, Commander.”

“And I yours, Constable.”

“Commander. Constable. Prepare yourselves. The duel begins on my mark. Three. Two. One. Mark.”

“By the Void.”

“Andraste have mercy.”

“Maker’s breath - her leg - did anyone see?”

“It was too fast.”

“It just exploded. Maker, Andraste, and Maferath. What kind of magic was that?”

“Quiet! They’re talking!”

“In darkness enveloped - Maker - my leg, my leg - I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path-”

“Do you yield, Constable?”

“Maker’s Light - with my eyes closed - my leg - I shall not be left to wander-”

“Constable.”

“I yield. I yield.”

“I accept. You are dismissed, then… I’m sorry I cannot get you a healer.”

“Hey Kid.”

“Hey.”

“Heard what you did, blowing the bitch’s leg off. Just gonna blood magic ‘em out in the open again, huh? We back to that?”

“We’re back to that.”

“Aye, alright… Get you a drink?”

“Would you?”

“Aye… Kid?”

“Hm?”

“... Nothing.”

“What is it, Oghren?”

“... About Sparkles… it ain’t your fault. I know-... come on, we all know how much he-”

“The drink, Oghren.”

“... Aye, alright then.”

Chapter 49: A Hundred Roses

Notes:

For Context: Bogdan is the name of Bianca's husband.

This chapter takes place immediately before Chapter 124 - Spin a Story of Accursed Ones and is told from Varric's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:34 Dragon 30 Matrinalis Nighttime
Kirkwall Hightown: Hawke Estate

Hawke looked like shit.

Granted, he wasn't crying, but he was close. Sitting in an armchair in the foyer, cradling his heart and a cup of coffee against his chest. Varric wondered, briefly, so briefly, so very briefly, if Bogdan ever felt the way Hawke felt now.

Then it passed.

Varric joined him with a cup of coffee. "Hey Killer," Varric said, signing a, "Hello," to go with it.

"Hey," Hawke signed a "Hello," back.

The rest of their conversation was a mix of signs, shouting, and lip-reading.

"Join you?" Varric asked.

"No one's stopping you," Hawke waved at the empty armchair.

Varric climbed up into it, "What's on your mind?"

"He's going to leave me, isn't he?" Hawke asked his coffee.

"I did warn you about getting involved with the possessed mage, didn't I?" Varric reminded him.

"I'm asking, Varric."

"He might," Varric wasn't about to pretend Blondie was over Creepy. He'd listened to more than enough stories about Blondie's time as a Warden to know just how much the man had shaped him. But he'd also seen Kirkwall take Blondie apart piece by bloody piece, and knew Hawke was the one who’d put him back together.

Hawke breathed a hard sigh and took a long drink of his coffee.

"What are you going to do to stop him?" Varric kicked Hawke’s chair, "A hundred roses? A dozen diamonds? Couple more cats with some golden saucers?"

"Think he'd rather have the Knight-Commander's head on a pike," Hawke snorted.

"Don't forget to put a bow on her," Varric joked. "Who knows, maybe Blondie's just having a late night at the clinic."

"A late night at the clinic the same day his ex lover decides to visit?" Hawke raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"Stranger things have happened," Varric said.

"... I can't share him, Varric."

"Have you considered that maybe you're giving him too little credit? That maybe you're giving yourself too little credit?"

Hawke took another drink, "No."

"Have you considered considering?"

"Would you?" Hawke countered. "Would you really be with someone who couldn't hear your stories?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?" Varric reminded him.

"Hanged Man's gone," Hawke said. "Not like you have a choice."

"Killer, you wound me,” Varric set a delicate hand to his chest, “Look at this face. I have all the choices in Kirkwall, and I'm choosing to stay with the Champion."

"Don't call me that,” Hawke wrinkled his nose.

"You don't think you earned it?"

"Do you?"

"If it wasn't for you Kirkwall would be a crater right about now, so I'm gonna go with yes."

“Not what I’m asking and you know it.”

“Do I?”

“Varric…”

“What are you asking, then?” Varric pressed. Mostly, he just wanted to hear Hawke say Isabela’s name. Just once. Just once after all this shit had gone down. Just once to prove he wasn’t just Killer. Just once to prove he was still Hawke.

“I’m asking if you’d love your brother if you had a choice,” Hawke said.

“You aren’t Bartrand,” Varric said. Bartrand had betrayed them for gold. Hawke had betrayed Isabela for people’s lives. Isabela had betrayed him for hers. All this shit was fucked, but it wasn’t the same. “You did some shit because some other people did some other shit and some more shit happened because of it.”

“Said he was tired.”

“Tired of what?”

Hawke shrugged, “Yelling. Talking. Signing.”

“No one said you losing your hearing was going to be easy. For you or for Blondie. Easy’s what happened down in that surgery. You want easy, you know what it costs.” At Hawke’s silence, Varric continued, “He’d do it if you asked him.”

“I know.”

“Well?’

Hawke shook his head.

“Alright, so… Blondie,” Varric prodded, “What have we got? Silk brocades? Silver bracelets? Chests of lyrium?”

The door to the estate opened, and Hawke scowled over Varric’s shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been!?”

Well… he tried.

Chapter 50: And I See Fire, Hollowing Souls

Summary:

Medicines and magic had failed to cure Arl Eamon, who slipped closer to death each day. It was believed that the Urn of Sacred Ashes of the Maker’s prophet Andraste had legendary healing powers. Eamon’s wife Isolde sent her knights out in search of the Urn, but all returned empty-handed. If Arl Eamon was to have any hope of recovering, Andraste’s Ashes had to be found. A Chantry scholar by the name of Brother Genitivi was their best lead, but he was missing. The only clue to his whereabouts was the name of an unmarked village, somewhere in the Frostback Mountains.

Haven.

Chapter Text

And I See Fire, Hollowing Souls

Just once, Zevran wanted to walk into a remote mountain village and discover a lively dance. A drinking festival. An orgy. Alas, no. Haven’s Chantry was filled with cultists. Not the good little cultists of Val Royeaux Approved Andrastianism, but the bad little cultists of High Dragon Worshipping Andrastianism. Mad, with a bit more blood letting and human sacrifice than usual.

A trivial alterity, to be sure. The mages within the Crows often made sacrifices of blood, and such things had given them uncanny abilities. Whatever the abilities of the cultists, his Warden would have them before their little venture was through. Zevran knew it to be true. It was like a sickness, Amell’s obsession. Something in his blood that made him desperate for more of it.

The villagers were led by Father Eirik, a Revered Father in place of a Revered Mother. A curious thing, to be sure, but more curious was that the man was a mage. A blood mage, if Zevran was feeling particularly pedantic, though none wore the words quite so well as his Warden. He was like death incarnate, and the villagers found it at his hands when they challenged him.

It was but one spell. One spell, and a village fell. Even the darkspawn did not have such dominion over death. The cloud of entropic energy filled the Chantry in a fog of blood and shadow, and he laughed. Such a laugh. A wild cackle, reminiscent of demons and hollow souls.

“A mistake,” Morrigan cautioned, for all the wrong reasons. “How are we to uncover their secrets should they take them to their graves?”

“Easily,” Amell flashed her a smile, a prideful thing, and found the corpse of the Father. He knelt, and even Zevran, mundane man that he was, could feel the Veil thin as Amell pressed upon it. Smoke and shadow gathered about the hand he locked around the dead man’s throat. “Who are you?” He asked of the corpse.

His Warden was a necromancer. Zevran knew this. Zevran had seen this. But with every day, every grimoire, every demonic deal, he saw a little more. This, he had never seen before. This… this he feared.

“I am Father Eirik, Discipline of Andraste, Revered Father of Haven,” The corpse spoke. Smoke flowed from its mouth, its eyes, its ears, and it spoke. It actually, truly spoke. “I am dead?”

“You are,” His Warden agreed. So polite. So cordial. So deadly. “Tell me of the magic of this village.”

“I have… a sacred duty… failure to protect her… would be a greater sin… I will not…” Even dead, the refusal seemed most unwise. The corpse withered, taking on a grey translucency as Amell drained it of blood.

“You will,” His Warden said. “Tell me, or be bound to your rotting corpse for all eternity.”

“I-... It is the blood.” The corpse relented, “The blood of Andraste... The blood of the dragon... The strength of a thousand generations.”

“What kind of strength?” Amell asked.

The corpse hissed, blood and smoke staining its teeth and spilling out over its shriveling lips, “Pain… a feast of souls… a frenzy of blood… to drink of the blood is to be changed at the core… the act of becoming…”

“Become what?”

“More,” The corpse crumbled to dust and bone in Amell’s hand, completely drained of blood.

His Warden dusted his glove off on his greaves, as if clearing it of dirt and not dehydrated skin. “This quest might be worth it after all.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan agreed pleasantly. The witch of the wilds leaned on her staff, bits of bone and skull rattling like windchimes, and thought nothing of what had become of their Grey Warden.

“If you are to grasp your foes in the jaws of the aban-ataashi, you would do well to have its blood,” Sten added, just as unconcerned. The hornless qunari’s tune had changed considerably ever since Amell had helped his sword find its way back to its sheath, and magic no longer concerned him, no matter how far gone it was. “We will need fire balms.”

“Aye, saw a few that’d serve back at the shop,” Oghren toed the shopkeep, slumped over dead in one of the pews. He giggled. Zevran expected no less of the drunken dwarf. “Suppose they’re free now.”

“I suppose they are,” Amell agreed. He shared a shove and a laugh with Oghren as they left the Chantry.

Haven welcomed them back as coldly as it had when they’d arrived. Winter winds whipped at reddening faces, a blazing white swallowing the small village and obscuring most of it from sight. They kept close together, and yet still Zevran walked apart. His thoughts were as wrapped up in his Warden as he in his furs. Ursine. Very fine. A gift. One of many from his Warden.

Everything Zevran owned was a gift from him. Ancient elven armor recovered from ancient elven ruins, gifted with honeyed words of reference for his heritage. Brilliant blades more famous than the assassins who once wielded them, pressed into his palm with praise for his work. An enchanted silver band, blessed by a Dalish Keeper, slipped onto his finger with something between a promise and a plea. “When this is over.”

Fool that he was, Zevran wore it. He wore it and yet he refused to give his Warden something to wear in turn. The earring was with him, always, golden and dripping with rubies. Like blood. Like it was made for Amell. Like Zevran had kept it all this time just waiting for fate to bring them together. He had tried to give it to him. Braska, he had tried, but his Warden had wanted it to mean something, and there was only one thing it could mean.

Mi amor.

What was left of Zevran to love? A murderer. A betrayer. A miserable little pile of loathing. And yet his Warden loved him anyway. He was a fool. A beautiful fool. Doomed to die - to war, to darkspawn, to dragons, to taint, to his insatiable thirst for blood. His Warden. His maleficar. What was left of him to love?

Zevran adjusted his hood to better cover his ears, and won his Warden’s attentions for his efforts. Amell stopped, and with the same hand that had ended the life and prolonged the death of the Revered Father cupped his cheek. His gloves were warm - some trick of magic - and grew warmer with the contact. “Cold?” He guessed.

“Tsk,” Zevran caught his wrist, but felt a mabari after its own tail, uncertain on what to do with it next. “A pyre of dragon’s breath is like to keep me warm enough. You truly mean for us to fight whatever we find on that mountain when we could just sneak around it?”

“Sneaking won’t help us prepare for the Archdemon,” Amell countered. Ever so practical. Ever so confident. “The fire balms will protect you.”

“They serve against teeth and claws, do they?” Zevran demanded.

“I’ll keep it’s focus,” Amell promised, as if such a promise were not exactly what he feared. “We’ll never get another chance like this, Zev.”

“Such promises,” Zevran shook his head. The glove slipped further into his hood, cupping the back of his head. Amell pulled him in for a kiss he couldn’t resist, and he felt yet another victim of the man’s magic. Whole seasons fell before him, winter erased in the warmth of his lips and the heat of his breath. Those lips breathed a fire into the core of his being, flushing his skin and hitching his breath, and he was lost.

“I promise,” Amell whispered, their lips brushing as he spoke, “I promise whatever you want me to promise.”

“Do go on,” Morrigan’s voice intruded on the moment, “You are both making me ill.”

Zevran broke from him with a practiced laugh, “My dear Morrigan, you know if not for my Warden’s objections, I would have you join us.”

They reached the shop, and looted all that they could carry before returning to the Chantry, where a second search revealed a hidden door leading to an underground prison and an underground prisoner. Zevran had read a few of Brother Genitivi’s works, and would not have been averse to reading a few more, and so couldn’t object to his Warden’s decision to send him back to Denerim.

Brother Genitivi objected. Quite vehemently, as it were. He shared their quest, albeit his pursuits were scholarly where theirs were practical. Or as practical as a Hail Maker attempt to revive a half-dead Arl with a handful of ashes so he could rally the country against its Reagent before the darkspawn devoured it could be. Which wasn’t very practical at all, and was why half of their party hadn’t accompanied them.

If the civil war escalated or their small band died, the rest would fall to Alistair. Zevran didn’t envy the man his inevitable failure should such a thing occur. He didn’t envy himself the inevitable failure of his Warden. They camped in the village for the night, and climbed the Frostback in the morning. A temple sat high atop the frigid mountain, though whether it had ever belonged to Andraste Zevran couldn’t say. Its interior was swathed with sheets of ice and snow, but otherwise seemed remarkably intact.

The temple was so intact that they found a whole reliquary within it, so bloated with tomes and magical artifacts Zevran had no doubt they'd be returning to it later. Amell could never resist cutting himself on a good book, and the others could never resist indulging him. Past the reliquary were the living quarters, filled with the living, and they killed all but one.

Tamar. A woman dressed in dragonscale and painted with blood. She called herself a Reaver, and spoke of the power of dragons. With a bit of persuasion from his Warden, she took them to Kolgrim, the Cultist’s leader who agreed to give it to them. It cost nothing, save Amell’s soul, and he was all too eager to trade it.

The Ashes of Andraste, bride of the Maker, defiled by blood magic. Amell thought nothing of it. He asked for aid against the Blight, Kolgrim promised it, and the deal was struck. Whether it was with men, elves, dwarves, or demons, there was no deal he would not take. No line he would not cross, and save for a bit of disappointment from Oghren they wouldn’t be fighting the dragon after all, there were no protests from their group.

The earlier slaughter of their comrades forgiven or forgotten, the Disciples of Andraste asked them to dine with them and Amell accepted. Zevran slipped away, and spent the evening in the underground hot springs that made up the cultists' baths. Save that it had stalagmites and piles of guano in place of pillars and sculptures, it reminded him rather of Antiva and its bathhouses. Zevran rested on a smooth slab of rock, all but his head submerged, steam sticking to his skin and soaking in his hair. Not for the first time, he felt conflicted and homesick.

Dalish though his mother may have been, Zevran was an Andrastian. Most Antivans were. He knew the stories of Andraste and Maferath and Hessarian. He even knew the stories of Shartan, dissonant as they were. He believed in the Maker, and some part of him even believed in the Creators, but it was a belief in the way one believes in all far away things. They were there, and they existed, but there was no place for Zevran among them. The gods were absent and uncaring and objected to nothing - not Zevran and not Amell - and so it seemed he shouldn’t either.

The pad of bare feet on stone intruded on his thoughts. Zevran flashed Morrigan a welcoming smile. She wore her coat and little else, and shamelessly dropped it to join him beneath the waters.

“It has been a time, has it not?” Zevran asked.

“Since what, I wonder?” Morrigan countered, untying her hair and shaking out the luscious raven strands.

“Since many things,” Zevran offered vaguely. Their group had abandoned much more than just baths. This new deal was just more proof of that.

“Tis not vague at all,” Morrigan rolled her eyes, dunking her head beneath the water.

“I am a mystery,” Zevran agreed when she came back up.

“You are wily, I will give you that,” Morrigan stretched out on her own slab of rock. Her feet reached him, and she gave his ankles a playful prod with her toes.

"How am I wily, o magical temptress?" Temptress she was, sprawled out naked beside him, the ripple of the waters not quite obscuring the dark hair beneath her arms and between her legs, the magnificent curvature of her breasts. Yet, even as he knew that he preferred women and appreciated her beauty, he no longer desired her so.

"Getting in the good graces of the one who decides whether you live or die,” Morrigan elaborated, “Not to mention the one who can protect you against your former comrades."

"We are not so dissimilar, you and I,” Zevran countered. “I know what you are doing as well."

"And what am I doing?" Morrigan hummed.

"Biding your time,” Zevran had not so soon forgotten Morrigan had sent Amell off to kill her own mother. For her protection, she alleged, but Zevran was not so sure. He was not so trusting. He was not so foolish. “But for what, I wonder?"

Morrigan declined to answer him. "And you?"

"We all have our reasons for doing what we do,” Zevran shrugged. “Mine happen to come with a set of strong hands and lovely eyes."

Morrigan finished her bath and let him be. Zevran lingered, pruning and prickling. He knew his reasons for being here, even if he did not know how long they would last. He did not know Morrigan’s. He did not even know Amell’s. His Warden was one of the most powerful mages Zevran had ever met, but it seemed he never had enough power, and one day it would be the death of him. Zevran didn’t know how to save him. Zevran didn’t even know how to save himself.

The Crows would come for him. The Crows would come for Amell. He did not doubt it. So long as the civil war raged, and the contract stood, they would never give up. When that day came, who was he to say that he would not turn on Amell as he turned on Rinna? That given the choice between his life and his love, he would not pick the worthless one?

Zevran rolled over in the bath, his torso free of the water and his chin on his folded arms. His things were neatly stacked on a nearby bench. Things Amell had given him. It would seem that he owed Amell some obscene sum for it all, but his Warden would not have it. The leather pouch and the silver within it was the greatest gift of them all.

Freedom in the minted face of a dead man. The king’s coin. His Warden had coin to rival kingdoms with the alliances he had built, the fortress he had reclaimed, the countless mines and forests and villages he had cleared of darkspawn, and the priceless artifacts he found within them. He could have withheld it, he should have withheld it, but his wealth went to requisitions for the army and small stipends for his companions. Zevran was no slave or indentured servant as he was with the Crows. He was a free man. He had been for some time.

Ever since he had taken his Warden to bed.

Zevran remembered that night like it was yesterday. He’d invited Amell back to his tent for a massage, and had made it clear he had no intentions of keeping it one. His swords and all his daggers had been laid out on his leathers, and any number of them could have found their way into the pliant body beneath him. Amell had trembled for his touch, though whether it was fear or anticipation or some combination of the two Zevran couldn't say. His breath had caught every time Zevran’s hands strayed low on his hips or high on his thighs throughout the massage.

It had been maddening. The trust the man had in him to allow him so close. So dangerously close. Zevran had wanted so desperately to see it rewarded in the best of all possible ways. He’d shifted to hold himself over him, to feel the heat of him, to whisper into those uniquely human ears, “Would you have me, mi maleficar?"

"Wait," Amell had rolled over beneath him, dragging the blanket with him. What remained of the covering had barely been enough to contain his obvious desire for him, and how Zevran hated waiting, but he had.

“Such a tease,” Zevran had murmured. His eyes had been drawn to the expanse of skin the blanket revealed. Such a strange piece of him to be so captivating. Zevran had traced the sharp cut of his hip down to his thigh, trying to contain his impatience. Zevran had invited him. Zevran had made his intentions clear. There was no other way for this night to go, and yet Amell had found one.

“I release you," Amell had said softly.

"What?" Zevran had blinked. "What is this? You have no hold on me, mi maleficar. Release me from what?"

"From your oath," Amell had explained, a trembling hand tracing the tattoos on the side of his face. The markings of a Crow. Of an assassin. Of a man sent to kill him. "I release you."

"... why would you do this?" Zevran had whispered. His blades had been in arm’s reach. There was nothing to keep him from reaching for them but his word, and Amell had freed him from it.

"You don't owe me this,” Amell had said. “You don't owe me anything."

"... you stupid man. Say you will have me."

“I'll have you. Freely. Only freely.”

What a night that had been. What a perfect, passionate night. The sounds they had wrung from each other's lips. Clutching hands slipping on oiled skin and sweat soaked hair. How completely he had surrendered, so deeply, so utterly, so shamelessly. He could not have been more his if Amell had made it so with his blood. Lost in his arms while the man’s shallow thrusts unraveled him into pure sensation. Heart-racing heat and tension. “Zev,” Amell’s voice, so low and thick with passion that Zevran imagined Amell had loved him even then, “What do you want?”

"Such - ah - stupid questions," Such a concern it had been. So many constant questions throughout. ‘Is this still good?’ ‘We can always stop.’ ‘Tell me where to touch you.’ As if he were some blushing virgin and not a master of seduction who had killed countless marks like Amell before. As if he could not end Amell at any moment and return to the Crows without a second thought.

"Tell me, please,” Amell had begged, “Tell me what you want. Tell me what-"

"You,” Zevran had never been more sure of something. “You. You."

"Can I use magic?"

"Oh, yes - let us try that."

And so Amell had, some sort of telekinetic energy enveloping him, caressing and containing every inch of Zevran's sensitive skin. Like a cage. A cage that Zevran had seen Amell crush more than one foe with on occasion. His heart had skipped at the realization, and in that instant he had one terrible, horrible, terrifying moment of trust. After that night, he couldn’t help but think that, perhaps, he was not the master of seduction between them.

He hated how much he loved him.

They left the cultist’s temple in the morning, and continued through the mountainside tunnels to its summit, where they met Andraste. Zevran had almost taken the cultists claims for madness, but she was real. The massive high dragon was a mountain in her own right, but it wasn’t her that Zevran feared. She was but one dragon, with a handful of clutches tended by a handful of cultists.

It was the Archdemon. A creature of equal measure in command of a horde of darkspawn, and not a few dozen cultists. Zevran watched Amell watch her, rolling thoughtful fingers along the hilt of his sword, and he could already predict how this quest would end. Amell would defile the ashes, learn his ritual, and then have his practice. He could see it in the way Amell seemed to count the scales, gauge the claws, measure the wings. He could see it in his eyes - blood red and bloodthirsty.

It was not yet to be. The dragon ignored them for the moment. With Kolgrim at their side, she allowed them safe passage to the real Andraste’s temple, and the Urn of Sacred Ashes within it. Kolgrim walked them to the door of the temple, but would go no further. He claimed the second temple a gauntlet of trials that no man had yet managed to survive.

A comforting thought, that, and in they went.

The temple was positively sick with lyrium. It was woven into the walls, pulsing like a sapphire heart and thinning the Veil. All was unnatural shadow. Spirits and demons abounded. His Warden took the lead and Morrigan the rear, channeling a spellshield to cover their small group as they progressed. There were too many to fight, the Veil too thin, and their mages urged them not to listen to anything as the spirits preyed upon them, but Zevran couldn’t help it.

It was worse than the Fade - and the time he had spent trapped within it. This was no nightmare. This was not some trivial piece of his past. He was not laid out upon a torture rack, gritting his teeth as his fellow Crows wound him tighter, ever tighter, testing the limits of his tolerance for pain until his Warden’s strong arms pulled him from the memory, his voice steady, righteous anger keeping his tears to a trickle.

“Never again,” His Warden had promised then, banishing his demons, “They’ll never touch you again.”

This was worse.

The demons fed, and everyone saw everything.

They were in the Diamond Quarter of Orzammar. Weaponless. Worthless. Banging at the doors to the Assembly, their hands splitting on the stone, their head splitting from their hangover. Begging. Pleading. Sobbing. “She’s my wife, you filthy nug-humpers! She’s your sodding Paragon!” The Deshyrs within ignored them, and the nobles without pointed and laughed. Drunkard. Murderer. The last Kondrat.

They were near Lake Calenhad, surrounded by their brothers, surrounded by darkspawn. Failed. Forsaken. Cut off, carving through the Tainted creatures, striving for just the one. Just let them save the one. Just Ashaad. “Ashaad! Maraas kata!” A smile, so far away, too far away, filled with soft surrender. “Maraas shokras.” They woke up alone. Soulless. Angry.

They were in the wilds, a good and growing girl among good and growing things but not nearly grown enough. Young. Vulnerable. Beaten down with words and fists and broken mirrors that hurt worse than broken bones, so they emptied themselves of everything there was to break. “Mother.” A word that meant nothing and everything.

They were in the Circle. Monster. Mage. Abandoned by a would-be father to a templar’s lash, their skin flayed open while they focused on anything but the pain. The blood, trickling down their back like the torrid caress of a would-be lover, if only they could use it. If only they knew how. “Out of the Circle?” A broken promise of freedom.

They were in Antiva. Cold-blooded. Cruel. Tricked into betrayal. Their lover pleading for mercy they hadn’t cared to grant. “Zevran, please, I love you.” Their callous laughter as they spat on her face and slit her throat. Innocent. She had been innocent. They knew. They’d known.

Somehow, they pushed through the hall of shades and into the next room, sealing and warding the massive marble doors behind them. All of them were ashen. No one spoke. No one knew how. They stared at the floor instead of each other.

The dwarf was the first to move. Oghren unhooked his flask from his belt, took a long drink, and passed it to Amell, who did the same until they’d all shared one. And then, for some Maker-forsaken reason, his Warden hugged them. Each of them, in a slow circle of sympathy, until they were huddled together in a tangled mess of limbs and shallow breath.

“We speak of it if we want to speak of it,” Amell said firmly. “We don’t if we don’t.”

“Aye,” Oghren muttered. “I say we don’t. Damn place makes my skin prickle.”

“Let us move on,” Sten said.

“Agreed,” Morrigan said.

“On then,” Zevran said.

They continued, but the next room was worse. Another grand hall of marble pillars carved to look like Andraste and Maferath and Hessarian, bloated with lyrium and shades. They formed from the shadows and pressed upon them. Once more, they clustered behind their mages, but these creatures were not content to simply jeer and drain. They warped, and changed, and suddenly the demons were copies.

Copies of all of them. Completely identical - down to the vibrant fade-touched red of Amell’s eyes, the ruddy tint of Oghren’s complexion, the little bones of Morrigan’s staff, the braided white of Sten’s hair, the tattoos and scars on Zevran's skin. The copies formed, and the copies charged.

“To me - don’t break from each other!” Amell yelled.

“Now we get our hands dirty,” The copy of Morrigan chuckled, a perfect replica of her voice, and loosed a bolt of lightning into their mist that defused on Amell’s spellshield.

“The Antivan Crows send their regards,” He said. Zevran had said. Zevran had said once before but would never say again. The copy - the demon - the thing had said it. Zevran hadn’t said it. The demon sprinted from the shadows, familiar golden eyes trained on Amell, too-deft steps taking him forward too fast, and Zevran panicked.

He broke, and rushed himself.

"Zev!" Amell called after him.

A flicker in his spellshield.

A blast of telekinetic energy from his copy.

Their group scattered.

Chaos.

"Take yourselves out!" Amell ordered.

Zevran barely heard him. He only saw the Crow. The Crow, the Crow, the Crow. The armor might have changed but the man beneath it never would. Zevran fought himself, half-mad with fury, but he knew his every move. His every step. His every expression. His every curse and grunt of exertion. Everything was identical. Their blades met in parry after parry, and Zevran couldn't fight him.

"Kid!" Oghren called out. One of the Oghrens. "This ain't working! I can't kick my own ass! Think of something else!"

Zevran couldn’t kill himself. He’d failed at it once before, and he was failing at it again. A quick glance at the battlefield confirmed that none of them could.

… Amell could kill him.

One cage of telekinetic energy, and he’d be dead.

… Zevran could kill Amell.

One twist of his knife, and he’d be dead.

Zevran dodged back, and let his copy go. The demon ran for Amell at the first opportunity, still engaged with himself in a violent clash of mana against mana that sent wave upon wave of violet energy cascading through the room. Zevran prayed it was no feint, and that the demon had not simply charged the other demon.

“Amor!” Zevran called, but his voice caught in his throat, barely audible over the din of battle. Somehow, Amell still noticed the demon.

"Zev -"

One word. One little word. Amell caught the copy’s blow on his shield, and didn’t strike back. He didn’t cast his spell, but he had to have known. He had to have known it was the copy. He had to have known that Zevran would never. That he’d abandoned his contract long ago, but he mustn’t have. Why else would the copy live? Why else would Amell not have killed it with as little hesitation as he killed everything else?

Did he truly think that Zevran had finally seized his moment, knowing no one would question it if some version of Zevran killed him now? Or was it a feint? Was it demon against demon to trick him into yet another betrayal? Zevran tore his gaze away, and rushed the other Amell. And he prayed.

He prayed to Elgar’nan, and Mythal, and Falon’Din, and Dirthamen, and Andruil, and Sylaise, and June, and Ghilan’nain, and Fen’Harel, and the Maker, and to absent gods and their soon to be defiled brides. He prayed, and he killed him.

It took but a moment. He deflected Amell’s sword with one of the blades his lover had gifted him, spinning into his arms like an embrace, and drove the other up, under his ribs and into his heart. There was a pained grimace as perfect lips parted for one harsh gasp, blood red eyes flickering in a mixture of confusion and heartbreak, “I love you.” Amell whispered unsteadily.

No. No. No no no it was the copy it was a copy it was just a copy

Zevran's swords clattered out of his hands, and he caught Amell as he fell, the warmth of his blood running down his arms, "No - Amor - mi amor perdonami- "

"It's okay," Amell promised, blinking hard and struggling to focus. Sweat gathered on his brow, a flush to his skin almost like the aftermaths of ecstasy. He shuddered, tracing the tattoos - the Crow tattoos - on Zevran’s face with unsteady fingers, “It’s okay… I forgive you.”

No. No. No no no no no. No. No no

Amell evaporated in a puff of green smoke.

What

What?

Zevran stared at his hands. The blood was gone from them. He turned them over and over, leather, metal, leather, metal, but no blood. Zevran picked himself up with his daggers, but the fight was over. The others finished dispatching their copies. No one seemed to notice his breakdown. No one but Amell.

His Warden reached for him, and Zevran hadn't the strength to smack him away. Amell pulled him into an embrace of metal, and there they stayed for far longer than they should. Amell was alive. Amell was alive and well. Zevran hadn't killed him. Zevran would never kill him.

"This isn't real,” Amell - the real Amell - promised, running his fingers through his hair, “The Veil is thin. Demons, spirits, wisps… it isn't real. It's the lyrium in these halls. It addles the mind."

"Braska!" The fool. The beautiful fool. Had he not seen? Did he not know? Had he not listened? Did he not understand that he would not be the first lover Zevran had killed? That no demon nor lyrium had possessed him to kill Rinna? That it had been his own hands, his own heart, his own choice to slit her beloved throat? "Do not comfort me."

Zevran stumbled into the next room of horrors that awaited them in this accursed temple. A massive chasm divided the next room, dropping off into the center of the earth, and spanned by a magically-manifested incorporeal bridge that led to a closed door. It became corporeal one section at a time, but only when the right lever, switch, or pressure plate was activated, and the sections only lasted for a moment before they became incorporeal again. The magic required a certain sequence of levers and pressure plates to create the bridge, and the longer they practiced with it, the more apparent it became that only one of them would be able to cross.

One wrong piece in the sequence, and it would be death.

A plaque at the entrance read, “Andraste loved Her disciplines as She loved the Maker. As we have faith in the Maker, so must we have faith in our friends.”

Zevran had faith in his friends. Faith that they would one day stab him in the back. Faith that he would one day do the same to them.

“That’s unnatural,” Oghren spat over the edge of the chasm and through the incorporeal bridge. “Where I come from, bridges are either there or not. I wouldn’t trust that thing to hold my weight.”

“You aren’t going, Oghren,” Amell said. “I am.”

Sten nodded, like it was a thing someone should nod about. Like Amell hadn’t just volunteered to die. “Tell me what you would have me do here, kadan, and it will be done.”

“No!” Zevran grabbed his arm before he could fling himself into the Void. “No. No, why are we even here? For some Arl, as if they are different from one another!? You wish to end the civil war so badly, I will end it. Let us to Denerim, and I will assassinate Loghain myself.”

“A fine offer, had it been made earlier,” Morrigan mused.

“Can you not simply shapeshift across?” Zevran demanded.

“Did you see the door open on any of our sequences?” Morrigan countered. “It seems to me it will not open without someone on the bridge, and I cannot make an instantaneous transformation to a crow, nor can I make one in free fall. Tis troubling, truly, but if Amell believes-”

“Merda!” Zevran cut her off, “Amor, let us simply away-”

“The civil war won't end with Loghain,” Amell said patiently. “Arl Howe would take his place. We need a victory no one can question. Arl Eamon is respected. If he supports Alistair's claim to the throne, the rest of the nobles will follow.”

“You cannot do this!” Zevran screamed. “This is no bridge, it is the road to the Void, and it is paved with all your good intentions. What if you are wrong? What if the door does not open?”

“Then Alistair will need your help,” Amell said simply. As if his death was a thing to be discussed so simply. As if his death was a thing to be discussed at all after how long Zevran had warred with himself over sparring it night after night after night.

“Least I won’t have to carry your corpse down the Frostback,” Oghren snorted.

“There is that,” Amell agreed.

“One for the ditch, Kid,” Oghren handed Amell his flask.

Amell took an easy drink and handed it back, “Zev, we agreed that the Blight has to come first-”

“What has this to do with the Blight?” Zevran demanded, “This is about power, no? When is it not with you? Do not pretend you care for aught else.”

Amell grimaced - the same pained grimace the demon wearing his face had made when Zevran had stabbed him. Zevran braced himself for the ensuing fight. The same fight they had had time and again about the reckless abandon with which Amell pursued his endless quest for power to defeat an undefeatable foe. It didn’t come. Amell’s expression evened out, and turned to stone.

“The plate, Zevran.” Amell ordered.

Zevran stormed away from him and to his spot. He crouched on it, as if being lower to the ground would somehow make him heavier. As if he could simply lunge across the chasm and catch Amell when he inevitably fell. The others went to their respective places. Oghren’s happened to be on the pressure plate beside him. “... Gonna regret it if that’s the last thing you say to the Kid, elf.”

“Do not speak to me of regrets,” Zevran snapped. He had more than most would ever know.

It began.

They ran from pressure plate, to lever, to switch, trying to keep up with their sequences. Amell just ran, stone by stone as the bridge formed and evaporated beneath him. Zevran forced himself not to watch. He had to focus. He had to keep up with his sequence. If he looked at Amell he would lose him. He couldn’t hear anything but his pulse thrumming in his ears as he went through his sequence.

He wondered if Amell would scream if he fell. He wondered if it would be better or worse if he didn’t. He wondered why he let himself care. He wondered why he ever thought the pain of the rack would be the worst he ever felt. He wondered why he subjected himself to so much worse every day that he spent with Amell.

Amell lived. Zevran almost wished that he hadn’t. He was so very angry. He was so very tired. He was so very in love with an unlovable man. His Warden was everything. He couldn’t make himself into anything less. He was too brave. Too bold. Too reckless. Too trusting. Too driven. Too proud. Too ambitious. Too forgiving. Too generous. Too loving. Too lethal. Too much. He was too much, and Zevran couldn’t take it anymore.

The door opened and the bridge snapped solid at his crossing, and they followed Amell into fire. The next room was filled with it, an ethereal emerald flame that burned from the floor to the ceiling. Amell and Morrigan each made their own attempts to dispel it to no avail.

“Powerful magic, indeed,” Morrigan noted.

Just standing in the room was enough to make Zevran sweat. It felt as he imagined the archdemon’s breath might, and he couldn’t help but see his Warden burnt to ash in the face of it. He couldn’t bear to see his Warden burnt to ash in the face of it.

“The fire balms?” Sten suggested.

Amell tried one, covering a gauntlet with a swath of the orange liquid and waiting until it hardened into a protected casing before he reached out to touch the flames. The casing melted almost instantaneously, his gauntlet flaring a bright red. Amell launched it from his hand with a blast of telekinetic energy, hissing in pain. Morrigan grabbed his arm, coating the burn with a breath of ice magic and questionable creationism.

“Anybody gotta piss?” Oghren suggested.

“You are quite finished, I hope?” Zevran demanded while Amell retrieved his half-melted gauntlet. “Is one burn not enough for you, or must you have more?”

“I thought you liked scars,” Amell muttered, but he didn’t sound half as playful as he usually did. He picked up his gauntlet, and stopped to stare at the wall.

“What have you found?” Morrigan asked.

“... Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit,” Amell read, clearing dust from an old placard, “King and slave. Lord and beggar. Be born anew in the Maker’s sight…”

“Goodness of spirit, huh?” Oghren chuckled, taking another drink from his flask, “Aye, I can get behind the goodness of spirits.”

Amell stared at his melted gauntlet, and back at the flames, and Zevran knew exactly what he was thinking.

“No,” Zevran stormed forward and grabbed him by the collar of his armor, rattling him in it, “No. You will not do this. You will not walk into fire for blood.”

“Zevran-”

“Have you forgotten that Wynne is gone? Morrigan cannot heal you if you are wrong about this. You know this.”

“I’m not wrong,” Amell said.

“If you wish to die so badly, you have but to ask,” Zevran snapped at him. “I could have granted such a wish a hundred times over.”

Amell glared at him. For all their fights, Zevran had never seen him wear such an expression. It didn’t seem possible that it could be darker than his magic, but it was. “If you want to kill me, Zevran, then kill me.”

Amell reached up and snapped off a buckle to his pauldron, pinning him in place with his eyes and the fire within them. His breastplate followed. His gauntlet. His vambraces. His tasset. His tabard. Somehow he even managed to look dignified as his greaves and sabatons came off. His tunic followed. His trousers. His socks. His smalls. Everything. Amell stood naked in front of him, in front of all of them, still glaring, still waiting, still daring him to challenge him.

“Well?” Amell took a step towards him, close enough that Zevran could have sheathed any number of blades in his heart, his throat, his lungs, wherever he wished, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to kill him. He just...

“... I don’t want to watch you die.”

“I’m a Warden, Zevran,” Amell reminded him. “... Death is all I am.”

He walked into the fire.

Chapter 51: The Absence of Something

Summary:

“Do you…” Anders cleared his throat, “I mean, are you with anyone?”
 
“No,” Amell said.

“Why not?”

“Why do you ask?”

Notes:

This chapter takes place between Chapter 87 - Burn After Reading and Chapter 99 - Until the Last Dog is Hung of Accursed Ones and expands upon Amell's life in Amaranthine. It is told from Amell, Morrigan, Leliana, and Nathaniel's perspectives. Thank you for reading!

TW: Potentially problematic analogies for those with visual impairments. Discussions of rape. Potential triggers for corrective rape.

Chapter Text

9:32 Dragon Cassus and into 9:33 Pluitanis
Ferelden: The Arling of Amaranthine

How do you describe the absence of something?

The absence of scent? The absence of taste? The absence of sound? The absence of touch? The absence of sight?

Amell likened it to death and the undefinable absence of life. It was a separate state of being. A state he could command. A state he could control. It was a comfort, but a companionless one. Ferelden was far from Nevarra, and no one found the same comforts in death he did. His friends would have found offense in the comparison, and so he told them it was dark.

But it wasn’t dark and it wasn’t light. It wasn’t anything but the absence of it all. There was a cloister in Highever for those with visual impairments, but there was nothing relatable in their experiences. Everyone he’d met there still had something, be it shapes or shadows. Amell had nothing, so he made something, and found some solace in it.

Kennels and stables at Soldier’s Peak, handled by the Wolves for the sightless, the hard of hearing, the physically impaired. In a land devastated by blight and civil war, it was a service the people desperately needed. The country clamored for it, and after a year, his kennels had sired more than the Kings. The wounds the Orlesians left on the arling scarred over.

The land grew fat off the mines of the Wending Woods and the fisheries of the Blackmarsh. With the reclamation of Kal’Hirol, trade flowed as freely above ground as below. The Wardens patrolled the Deep Roads and the Silver Order patrolled the North. The arling prospered, and the Wardens prospered with it, and it was something.

"Aye, sure, the arling’s fat as a Feast Day nug,” Oghren threw his boots on the table, tilting his chair back at an impossible angle to accommodate his height. It seemed a lesson in consequence waiting to happen for the children in the creche, “But the Kid ain’t alright.”

"I should think not with how you coddle him," Morrigan rolled her eyes, trailing a finger along the rim of her drink. Frost spread at her touch, spider webbing across the glass and chilling the West Hill White. "You do remember which Amell is which, I hope?"

"Old enough to be his dad too. Stone knows I woulda been a better one," Oghren grumbled. Were it not for his incessant fathering, he was almost tolerable, but it was difficult to blame him. He was, after all, a father. “Kid’s just a kid.”

"He is a grown man with a 'kid' of his own," Morrigan took a sip of her wine. A fine gift, from a fine man. She had no intentions of wasting the opportunity Vigil’s Keep afforded her to enjoy it. She had not found such simple comforts often in her two years of travel. "You should think to treat him like one."

"You are a seriously dislikeable woman," Oghren grunted.

Morrigan tipped her wine towards him for the compliment. "And you are hardly recognizable sober." Two years had changed him: his complexion not quite so ruddy, the lines beneath his eyes not quite so deep. It suited him, though she would never say it.

"Feels as bad as it looks," Oghren agreed, tugging at his cardinal beard and the few strands of grey that had come to pepper it. Oghren’s little Amell toddled past. He held some small stuffed thing that was either man or mabari, soaked from the time it had spent in his mouth. There was no doubt as to his father. The tiny dwarf might have fallen from Oghren’s beard for how he resembled him.

"... your boy looks well," Morrigan noted.

"Gets it from his ma," Oghren grunted.

"Naturally."

Oghren watched Kieran toddle after him, a reluctant smile forming beneath his beard, "...Kid's good. Your kid, I mean."

"He gets it from his mother as well,” Morrigan smiled with him.

Oghren chuckled, “I missed ya, you old witch."

"I thought not once of you, dwarf,” Morrigan said playfully. She enjoyed another sip of her wine, and waved a hand of allowance at him, “Let us have it then."

"Have it, huh?” Oghren chortled. “Sure, I’ll give you a roll. Why not?”

"Try and I shall roll you right off the battlements,” Morrigan threatened, a push of telekinetic energy knocking his feet off the table. Oghren pitched back with a graceless squeal, and barely managed to catch himself before he toppled. “Tell me whatever it is you wish me to know about Amell."

"Stick around and you'll figure it out."

And so she did. It was not a difficult thing to pick-up on, but Amell’s methods were of no concern to her in the past and were of no concern to her now. Magic thrived on use. A mage who feared his magic could not master it, and Amell was nothing if not a master. Time may have changed him, but Morrigan was not worried. He was simply quieter. More reserved. But no less remarkable.

He had done much with little time. One of the studies had been converted into a creche, and her eluvian had been relocated to the private quarters Amell afforded her and Kieran. He had even convinced the crown to give her his old title without any of his old responsibilities. An Arcane Advisor, untouchable by templars. If it were all just for her it might not have moved her so, but it was also for Kieran.

Morrigan was, first and foremost, Kieran’s mother. Amell was Kieran’s father in whatever capacity she allowed, and it was perhaps his unquestioning acceptance of this that made her allow so much. Kieran could not have asked for a better father. Amell had sacrificed much for him before he was ever born. Occasionally, Morrigan couldn't help remember what it cost him.

The night they spent together. The ritual they had used not just to preserve the soul of an old god in their unborn child, but to alter his mind to make such a union between them possible. There had been no other alternative. Amell enjoyed the company of men and was not capable of enjoying the company of women. The spell had been as painless as she could make it.

"... what of my feelings now?” Amell had asked. “Will I still love him?"

“Zevran?” Morrigan had guessed, though the assassin had long since left him, “I cannot say.”

“... Will it be permanent?”

"I cannot say."

"... would you stay if it was?" Such a painful question it had been. To think that he had been willing to give her whatever became of him. To live a thrall for her own happiness as if such a thing could ever make her happy.

"It would not be real,” Morrigan had said more for herself than for him. She had wanted him from his first kind smile in the Korcari Wilds, but not like this. “Whatever happens tonight, it is not you."

"This is me now. Whatever the spell does to me, Morrigan, you're my friend. I love you. That's real. It always will be."

After, there had seemed an ocean in the sheets between them.

“You are well?” She had asked.

“Well,” Amell had promised, but she'd known it to be impermanent.

“You will tell me when it fades?”

“I will.”

Tears then had seemed selfish, but she had shed them anyway, “Tis not you.”

“It is for now.”

“Tis not the you I want,” Morrigan had pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, but the images of what the spell had done to him were burned forever in the back of them. “Twas foolish and selfish of me. Alistair or Loghain would have served. Twould have been a simple compulsion.”

“Rape,” Amell had countered. “It would have been rape.”

“This is not?” Morrigan had laughed wretchedly.

“No,” Amell had reached across that vast divide and squeezed her shoulder, still sheened with sweat from their time together.

“Tis,” Morrigan had sobbed.

“It’s not,” Amell’s voice had been gentle. He had held her, and his hands had been gentle. It had all been so undeservedly gentle. “I agreed. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

A lie. He had been sick when the spell had finally faded - and lied about that too.

… She would never be worthy of such friendship.

Kieran’s shriek of laughter broke her out of her thoughts. Ripples of telekinetic gently pushed and pulled the rocking horse upon which he sat. Amell’s magic. The man in question sat on the floor, all his bandages and blindfolds abandoned in her company. He looked comfortable, barefoot and cross legged in black wool trousers and an unlaced tunic. Beneath him, a woven rug with a mural of the wilds where they had met.

Morrigan sat on the couch, draped in loose fitting furs and gifts of old gold. An unread book was propped up against her bent knees, a half-finished glass of rose wine in arm’s reach on the cushioned low table. All of her furniture was the sort that someone could stumble into and walk away from unscathed. Her insistence on it had gone unquestioned, but after a month Morrigan had come to realize it an unnecessary precaution for both father and son.

“He has your eyes,” Morrigan said, though truth be told Kieran had much of him. His hair, his skin, a wild little giggle reminiscent of his laugh.

“I doubt that,” Amell grinned.

"Do not be coy," Morrigan flicked a wave of telekinetic energy at him. "You know the eyes of which I speak."

The magic knocked Amell on his back, and there he stayed with a bemused chuckle. Never one to miss an opportunity, Kieran slid off the rocking horse and raced over to him with unsteady steps. With a wild giggle, he flung himself onto Amell and winded him. Amell gathered up the little beast of a boy when he recovered, holding him aloft while he flailed and babbled.

"He is fond of you," Morrigan noted.

"I'm fond of him." Amell countered. "I'm fond of you both."

"I should certainly hope so." Morrigan set her book aside, and joined them on the rug. She stole Kieran from his arms, and sent him off with one of his scattered toys to steal his focus. "You have gone through a great deal of trouble for us otherwise."

"My life is a great deal of trouble," Amell joked.

"So it is." Morrigan laughed, battling back a silly surge of guilt. She would have none of it. If Amell did not feel sorry for himself there was no reason she should. "Your dwarf is worried for you."

"Oghren is always worried," Amell said dismissively.

"Has he reason to be?" Morrigan countered, meeting the brilliant eyes that Avernus had left in him. Sightless, but she knew he could sense her presence. When he did not answer, Morrigan flicked his ear. "Is Kieran not enough, or must I teach you to speak as well?"

"The blood magic worries him," Amell relented, tugging at his ear.

"Ah,” Morrigan broke from him briefly to redirect Kieran when he went for her wine, “The rumors, I presume?"

"Hm,” Amell hummed an agreement.

"They are true, then?"

"They are," Amell said easily.

"Good for you,” Morrigan said, not just for how he had taken to his magic, but for how he owned it. With anyone else, she knew he might disavow it, but there were no lies between them. “Do as you will. Why should you not? You are the Hero of Ferelden. They would do well to remember what that means."

Morrigan did. Amell was no child to be coddled. He was a mage and a man. A force and a father. Content, in the quiet of her quarters, and the family they afforded him. Whatever else he missed in his life, he did not miss it here.

He needed someone.

A love. A canary. Someone to let him know when he’d gone too far - and he went too far too often. There was no proof of course - Amell knew better - but Leliana knew better too. The Wardens weren’t enough, and Morrigan and Oghren simply did not do. They were good and dear friends. Too much dear. Too little good. Leliana suspected the same of herself, and so she resolved to help him.

"His Royal Whineness approacheth," Oghren should have whispered.

"Alistair," Amell should have bowed.

"Amell," Alistair should have made him.

"How I have missed you, my friend!" Leliana broke from Alistair's side to fling her arms around Amell’s neck. He made a sound of surprise, and fought valiantly with the many ruffles on her dress to hug back. "You look so well! Look at your suit! Spin - you must spin. It is the Archdemon, is it not? I can see the flames. The iridescence for the scales. The cape like the wings, yes? Such embroidery! Who is your tailor? You must tell me."

"Warden secrets," Amell smiled. It had always been easy to make him.

"Oh, do not be cruel!" Leliana swatted his shoulder, "All eyes are on you. You will dance with me, of course? The remigold, at least, you know the steps?"

Alistair cleared his throat, "Leliana, maybe we should let the Arl get back-"

"No, we must not let him do anything. We must spoil him with food and drink and fine gentlemen," Leliana arranged Amell’s hand on her arm, adjusting his cape and her dress to walk at his side. "You will indulge me. I leave you no choice. Come, now you will tell me all about the Arling."

Leliana promenaded him through the ballroom, away from Kings and Queens and Teryns and Arls, but followed always by their eyes. It did so work for him that he could not see them stare. He would have been the envy of the Grand Game with how little he gave away. Someday, she would have to take him to Orlais.

"He is gone," Leliana whispered conspiratorially once they were free of Alistair. "I have a surprise for you."

Amell squeezed her arm, "You didn't need to get me anything."

"My friend, you are so very good at giving gifts and so very bad at getting them," Leliana teased, "You must trust me."

"Trusting," Amell relented. "Where are we going?"

"Aha! Trust!" Leliana led him from the ballroom entirely, to such a sigh of disappointment from all the lords and ladies gathered it rivaled the winter winds. Out on the balcony, Leliana set his gloved hands to the frosted railing, and waved for the servants to shutter the curtains behind them.

"Is there something out here I'm supposed to notice?" Amell leaned one elbow on the railing, knocking a bit of snow into the gardens. He did so know his angles, Leliana mused, battling back a grin.

Everything was perfect. She had ensured it. Scented oils throughout palace, marking the change from one room to the next, and music to match. Laughter peeling through the halls, positively festooned with ribbons and royalty. A grand ball for a grand annum. First Day was the start of a new year and new possibilities for all of them.

"You are losing your touch, my dear Warden," Zevran said. His words were coated with honey, but Leliana knew how long it had taken him to find them. He stood off to the side on the balcony, in a suit of very fine suede. His boots ran all the way up to his knees and his coat ran all the way past them, a deep blood red embroidered with black thread in patterns reminiscent of the Antivan Crows, with buttons like coins.

"... Zev?" Amell’s voice was so very soft, and Leliana was so very glad.

"So it is," Zevran’s footsteps crunched across the fallen snow, and he stopped scandalously close to Amell. "So I am."

Amell's hand flexed against his side, "I got your letters."

"How cruel of you not to answer them," Zevran murmured.

"I did," Amell swallowed. "You left Rivain. I couldn't find you."

Leliana simply could not take the tension. It took everything in her not to shove Zevran into Amell's arms when that was where they both so clearly wanted him to be. She peeled Amell's frozen form from the railing to stand him closer to Zevran. Just a little closer. "Ah, but you are not the King’s spy master, are you? This is what you have me for, to find the things you have lost, and bring them back to you."

"Happy I am to be back," Zevran agreed.

"... how have you been?" Amell managed.

"It is to be that, is it?" Zevran set a gloved hand to the railing, scattering snow as he dragged it closer to Amell. "The hows? You do not want the wheres? The whys? The whos?"

"The whats?" Amell asked.

"Which one?"

"What you want."

"Such a question," Zevran purred.

"Such an answer," Amell mumbled.

Silence stretched. Leliana nudged Zevran. With a visible amount of effort, Zevran tore his gaze off Amell. It was like watching an icicle fall from the eaves. He shattered, the many pieces of his heart scattered at Amell’s feet. He looked at her and all but gestured to them, as if to say, "What now?"

"Kiss him," Leliana mouthed.

Zevran glared at her.

"Do it!" Leliana mouthed.

"It occurs to me," Zevran cleared his throat, and didn't kiss him, "That you have gained a title or two while I was gone."

"Or two," Amell whispered, not moving.

"What am I to call you now, I wonder?" Zevran’s hand slipped from the railing to Amell’s cape. He twisted his way up the fabric, and won a sharp inhale for the contact. "Hero? Commander? Chancellor?" Zevran reached his collar, and tugged, "Amor?"

Andraste guide her, they still weren't kissing. It was like they'd forgotten how. They were so close their breath and bangs were tangled.

"Is that what you want to call me?" Amell asked.

"Is that what you want to be called?" Zevran countered.

His eyes were fixed on Amell’s lips and the shallow breaths spilling over them, his own trembling through the movements of a kiss they still hadn't shared. Leliana couldn't stand it. Maybe just a little push -

"You left," Amell said.

Oh dear.

"I am here now, am I not?" Zevran demanded.

Oh no.

"Tell me why," Amell said.

No, no, just kiss!

"Because I wish to be!"

Sigh.

"And when you don't?"

"You-!" Zevran let go of him to pace in a frustrated circle, kicking up snow. "You are a very frustrating man, do you know this?" Zevran’s circle took him back to Amell. He clasped his jaw, the press of his thumb beseeching Amell’s lips, "I have crossed oceans for you. You wish to know what I want? It is you.”

Leliana fought the urge to bite her knuckles. If only they would just -

“Amor doesn’t mean want,” Amell said.

“Can I kiss you or not?”

“Not.”

Damn it.

“You-” Zevran started, but he was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Nevermind Amell, Leliana was the one losing her touch if she was so distracted she hadn’t noticed the Queen join them on the balcony.

“Chancellor,” Anora called. Her golden hair was perfectly plaited, and she wore a matching gown that trailed to the bannorn and back, trimmed in sapphire and sable. She was the envy of all gathered, under pain of the game. Leliana tried as hard not to hate her as she did not to love her.

The three of them bowed.

“Your Majesty?” Amell said.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Anora smiled, “But the Marquis of Jader and I seem to be at an impasse. I thought perhaps you could persuade him to see things my way?”

“I’d be delighted,” Amell said, his first and only touch the gauging hand he set to Zevran’s chest to step around him. “Excuse me.” He followed Anora’s voice to her side, and the Queen tangled his arm up in hers. “You know I'm always happy to make a compelling argument.”

The two of them went back inside. Leliana stuffed her hands into her sleeves, rubbing warmth back into her palms with a sigh. Maker grant her strength, she’d been so close to fixing everything, but that woman, these men-

“Braska!” Zevran slapped a hand against the railing and sent a flurry of snow into the gardens below. “He missed me, you said.”

“He does!”

“A most ardent longing, I believe it was-”

“It is!”

“That man is no mark,” Zevran pointed after him.

“That’s how you pursue a mark?” Leliana huffed, freeing her hands from her sleeves to set them against her hips. “Shameless lothario that you claim to be, you ask to kiss him and do not simply do it?”

“You heard him, woman, he wants none of me,” Zevran gazed longingly after Amell. Their friend was taking a turn around the ballroom with the marquis, and had acquired a glass of wine at some point. Red, of course.

“He loves you, Zevran,” Leliana argued, “He wants you to love him back.”

“Who are you to say?” Zevran whirled on her, “He has told you these things, then?”

“Perhaps not in so many words…”

Zevran paced a few aimless feet in the snow. “I left Antiva for lies.”

“Then go back to Antiva!” Leliana kicked her way through the snow to scowl at him, “Let us see if it is as easy the second time around. Ho tali rimpianti. I have such regrets.” Leliana translated the phrase she’d read in his letters to Amell. “What regrets are those, hm?”

“You know what I regret! I regret all of it. I should have stayed by his side. I should have told him I would have stormed the Dark City itself for the chance,” Zevran shook his head. “From what I have heard, Denerim was close enough, no?”

Leliana didn't want to think of that day. “Denerim was worse.”

“... And his eyes?" Zevran asked, "Shall I assume he traded them for whatever unholy magic the dear queen has him working?”

“They are saying it was a Crow.”

“That is quite a thing to say. Is it true?”

“It would not be the first time one hurt him,” Leliana folded her arms across her chest. Zevran staggered like she’d stabbed him. He turned around and stared out at the gardens, looking very much like the wind should be playing pensively in his hair, but the strands were waxed and still. “Well? Antiva awaits.”

“You are a cruel woman,” Zevran sighed, “What more would you have me do?”

“Talk to him,” Leliana said. “Talk to him like you talk to me. Talk to him and tell him the truth.”

“Very well,” Zevran said.

“Really tell him,” Leliana frowned.

“Yes, yes,” Zevran flapped a hand in her face.

“I mean it.”

“And so I will tell him.”

“That you regret leaving.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sorry.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And you love him.”

“Yes! Enough, wicked woman, I will tell him.”

“Good, then let us inside before we freeze-”

“To wait hand and foot on your countrymen?” Zevran snorted, adjusting the cuffs of his very fine suit that looked not at all like the ones the servants wore. “I think not. I will be here.”

“You’re a guest, Zevran.”

“Am I?” Zevran raised an eyebrow, “And who shall see me as one?”

“The Alienage Elder is on Alistair’s personal court-”

“Is he? You will point him out for me, I hope? Is that him?” Zevran gestured to an elven servant carrying a tray of cheese, “Or perhaps him?” Another serving wine. “There are so many, I cannot tell.”

“... I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, you do that,” Zevran leaned against the railing, and Leliana went back inside.

The Marquis’ mind had made a miraculous change, and he was much more amicable to everything the Queen had to say. Amell had rejoined Oghren by the hors d'oeuvre table, glass of wine still in hand, though how many times the servants had refilled it Leliana couldn’t say. She navigated the ballroom at a socially appropriate speed, exchanging far more pleasantries than she would have liked before she reached them.

“You can’t just whip a dick out like that, Lel,” Oghren greeted her around a mouthful of cheese. “You gotta warn a man.”

“At least talk to him,” Leliana sidled over to squeeze Amell’s shoulder, “He is here for you.”

“He’s never here for me,” Amell said.

“That is not true,” Leliana insisted.

“I can’t be with a man who doesn’t love me,” Amell downed the rest of his drink, and held the empty glass out to one side. A servant emerged from the wallpaper to refill it before vanishing again. “Not again.”

“You must give him a chance to love you.”

“I did.”

“You must give him another,” Leliana caught his wrist before he took another drink.

“Boss’s got fifty fucks in here, easy,” Oghren jutted his chin at an ogling arl, “Double, if he wasn’t so picky. If he wants one he’ll get one. Elf ain’t special.”

“That is not true and you know it,” Leliana hissed at him. “Please talk to him. He is here because you wanted him to be here. I know you tried to find him. Why, if not for now?”

Amell massaged a hand down his forehead to the back of his neck, and pushed a frustrated sigh out of his throat. “Fine.”

Leliana dragged Amell back outside. Zevran was where she'd left him, frozen half to death, a statue of stubbornness. He looked surprised she’d managed to get Amell to come back, which was slightly offensive, but she let it go on the grounds the man was an assassin and not a bard, and lacked the same skill at the game. Amell stayed where she put him, and Leliana rolled a hand to get Zevran talking.

“I did not thank you,” Zevran forced out. Amell didn’t say anything, and so he continued. “You saved my life, you freed me from the Crows, and I never thanked you. It occurs to me I did not do much of anything for you. I did not even stay to see things through to the end. I’m sorry.”

Confusion crumpled Amell’s expression, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Leliana couldn’t quite believe it herself. Zevran spread his hands in a “Now what?” gesture at her and Leliana held up a palm for, “Wait.”

Eventually, Amell asked, “Why didn’t you?”

“In the Crows, we do not have…” Zevran went hunting for a word, and returned with a hare in place of a hart, “... attachments, and yet there you were and I could not help but be attached. An assassin must learn to forget about sentiment. It is dangerous. You take your pleasures where you can, when life is good, and so I did.”

“... is that all I was?”

“... It was all I let you be. To expect anything more would have been reckless, and you were always so very reckless. Surely you remember that much was true. Are you so surprised I did not wish to see your story end? I know these stories. I grew up on these stories. The hero always dies.”

“I didn’t.”

“Glad I was to be wrong… and wrong I was.”

Hopeful, tentative silence. Leliana gave Amell a nudge.

"... I have a son," Amell volunteered.

"… you jest." Zevran said.

Leliana bit back a groan.

"I don't," Amell frowned.

"You have a son," Zevran repeated slowly. "... How is it you have a son?”

“It’s complicated,” Amell said.

“When are you not?” Zevran joked. By his expression, Amell didn’t take it for one. “Ah-... I meant only that I am used to complications. Your son is of no consequence to me unless you wish him to be.”

“I haven’t changed, Zevran.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“How?” Amell asked.

Zevran crossed the divide between them, fingertips tracing across Amell’s hairline, down to the top of his ear, and the faint scar of an old piercing. Amell shivered, but it could have been the cold. “Do you not know?” Zevran murmured, “Can you not see?”

“Zev-”

Zevran pulled him close, so close their noses brushed and it seemed their lips did as well when he spoke, "Say I can kiss you."

“... You can kiss me,” Amell said.

Leliana left them on the balcony when it was clear they stopped needing her help. She went and found Oghren, who’d eaten his way through one room and moved onto the next. He squinted at her approach. “Why do you look like a toper in a taphouse?”

“Because you owe me fifty silver.”

“Nugshit,” Oghren spat.

“Go outside and see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“... Double or nothing. One month and the elf is out.”

“Very well, I accept.”

Leliana wanted to win. She wanted Amell to win. He deserved a win. Not for the Wardens, or for Ferelden, or for anyone but himself. He’d gone too long without one, and Leliana was worried. She was worried about the void inside him and the red he filled it with, and that one day there’d be nothing left of him but blood and wine.

“Easiest sovereign I ever won,” Oghren said at the end of his story, flipping the coin in his hand.

“How does Amell feel about you betting on his love life?” Nathaniel asked, with a nod at the man in question. Amell walked at the front of their procession, his mabari leading him through the city to the bann’s estate. He hadn’t spoken about the incident with the Antivan save to apologize to anyone who overheard it.

Nathaniel couldn’t say how Amell felt about it all. He knew very little of the man his Commander had courted, and it seemed he shouldn’t know what he did. That Amell wouldn’t or couldn’t sleep with him. That this was apparently a grand offense. That Amell was withholding affection or incapable of it.

“We’re splitting the winnings,” Oghren snorted.

“I fail to see a winner here,” Nathaniel said.

“Were you not listening?” Velanna asked, waving a hand at Oghren, “It was Oghren.”

“You are a terrible woman,” Nathaniel said.

“You are a foolish man,” Velanna countered.

“I would never bet against us,” Nathaniel said.

“Five silver the elf breaks up with you for that,” Oghren said.

“That is a ridiculous-”

“Yay or nay, Archy.”

“Yay,” Nathaniel frowned.

“Three silver, and I shall do it,” Velanna said.

“Deal,” Oghren said.

“We are through,” Velanna said cheerily.

“We are not,” Nathaniel said.

“Pay the man,” Velanna said.

“You heard the lady.”

Nathaniel sighed, and dug a handful of silver from his pocket he dropped into Oghren’s outstretched hand with a roll of his eyes.

“My cut?” Velanna prompted.

“You can’t just get back with him though-”

“I made no such accord, dwarf. My cut.”

“Never trust an elf,” Oghren tossed her three silver.

“Perhaps I was too hasty,” Velanna nudged him with her shoulder. “What would you say to dinner?”

“I would say you are paying,” Nathaniel said.

They reached the bann’s estate, and Nathaniel kept his head as far down as it would go when they passed his statue. His sister and Albert welcomed them as warmly as they always did, sharing fine food and fine wine and fine stories. His nephew was well, and spent the visit underfoot, still learning his steps. His name day was coming up next month, and it was hard to imagine him already a year old. Harder still to remember his namesake had been gone for one.

The six of them sat on the floor of the drawing room after lunch, Sigurd toddling between them as they spoke of the things families spoke about. Nathaniel had much in the way of it between the Howes, the Brylands, the Varleys, the Wardens, and even the Dalish. It was a nice thing to have and be had by, and he could imagine no world where he limited his love to just one person. Still, Velanna’s place in his heart was not one he could imagine another filling.

Ser Pounce-a-Lot joined them at some point. The cat went to Amell, as it always did, and curled up in his lap. Amell scratched its ear, and spoke little. Nathaniel couldn’t help but notice, and joined him for a drink in the lounge that evening.

“You can always talk to me, you know.” Nathaniel said.

“Thank you, Nate,” Amell said.

“Would you like to?”

Amell took a drink and shrugged.

“I remember how hard it was for Velanna and I. I don’t think you know just how much you helped us. She needed time, and you helped me realize that. I assume you need the same time from him, I’m just not sure why he wouldn’t give it to you or why you needed it.”

“I’m blind, Nate.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Nathaniel joked.

“Most people don’t.”

“Does that make things difficult for some reason?”

“Things?” Amell raised an eyebrow at him.

“Intimacy,” Nathaniel elaborated.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re my friend. Even if I can’t help, I can listen. I’m not Oghren. I’m not going to make whatever joke you think I’m going to make.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fairly positive.”

“It would be easy.”

“I get the sense you don’t care for easy any more than I do.”

“It’s complicated,” Amell relented. “I tried, but I can’t see him.”

“Did you and Anders not…?”

“We did. It was different.... He was different… He had magic. He was magic.”

“Not that I’m one to protest a well placed spell, but why is that necessary?”

“... Because it’s dark.”

Chapter 52: Cut Your Teeth

Summary:

I know we can’t see each other often, but I’m not alone. I have Justice. I am Justice. Lately I just can’t help thinking it would be nice to have you too. I promise I’ll think about it, but I haven’t felt this happy in… well, six months. I’ll think about you too. A lot. You probably shouldn’t have told me that. I was never able to get you to postpone a meeting before, and now I’m afraid I’m going to use this power for evil.

I’m kidding. I’m kind of kidding. I don’t think I could stop thinking about you that way if I tried, and after that letter, I’m not trying.

Always,
Anders

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Fuck, Marry, Kill of Accursed Ones. It is told from Amell's perspective.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:35 Dragon 19 Eluviesta Early Evening
Vigil’s Keep

"... Still considering your proposal for a Circle free of Chantry oversight… concerned about the lack of volunteers for… Minimal surface activity, but the West Hill entrance for Ortan… King wants to ensure we can withstand..."

Amell couldn't focus. Everything had to be perfect. Vigil’s Keep had been all but replaced with the Black City: granite walls awash in emerald veilfire, enchantments throughout the stonework to warm and chill as the weather suited, wisps bound in the grandhall for the evening play. Food, drink, and minstrels were in for the feast, the south courtyard cleared for games and the north for Anders’ arrival. What was he forgetting?

To breathe, apparently.

Amell inhaled so hard he almost wheezed. The room went silent. Garevel coughed. Shit. What had they been talking about?

“Continue,” Amell said.

“King Theirin-” Garevel started back up.

Amell rolled his eyes - one of the few boons of his blindfold that no one could see him do it. Anora may as well have married her father with how paranoid Alistair had become over rising tensions with Orlais ever since he’d scorned Empress Celene’s proposal. If nothing else, at least Alistair wasn’t his brother. If Alistair ever put Anora aside he’d put the mages aside along with her, and they’d have even less of a chance at freedom than they did now.

Which would be impressive considering their chances now were more or less none. Why had he ever thought he could do this? Why had he told Anders he would do this for him? What was he supposed to say when Anders asked him how it was going? It’s not?

Damnit. Anders was already here, and Amell still had no idea what he was supposed to say to him. Giving him the ring was a mistake. An amazing, aching, agonizing mistake. Amell couldn't handle the sheer longing that Anders felt for him. A keening sort of desperation that seemed to pierce his heart at random, and might have been perfect, save that it came laced with guilt of late.

He knew he shouldn’t have sent the sovereigns. Oghren had told him not to send the sovereigns, but damnit, Anders deserved them. Woolsey had agreed. He should have had the stipend ready with his reinstatement, but Amell had been so distracted by the fact that Anders was alive he hadn’t considered what he needed to live well. Anders shouldn’t have felt guilty for it. If anything, Amell should have.

Fuck him, Anders was already ruining him. Amell could feel him. Like a fog clouding his head through the ring, the corruption in his blood almost restorative, like Anders could heal through the Taint itself. There was no way he could work like this - he had to excuse himself - he had to get out of here - he had to chase down the pulse of Anders’ blood and the maddening compulsion it stirred in him to throw himself at his feet and worship him in place of any god or Maker.

Some savior knocked on the door to the war room, and Amell breathed a sigh of relief. “Enter!”

"Pardon the interruption, Commander," Corporal Kallian’s voice followed the creak of the door opening. "Warden Anders is in from Kirkwall, and requested an audience."

"Dismissed, we’ll continue tomorrow." Amell said, voice pitching so high only dogs could hear him. He hoped. That couldn’t be the first thing Anders heard him say. Not at that octave. Amell cleared his throat and scrubbed the sweat off his palms on his trousers. What was he even wearing? Black trousers, white tunic, red vest. That was fine. It wasn’t too much or too little. No reason to second guess it now, not when he could feel Anders in the room with him when it emptied.

“Anders,” Amell said. Normally. Like a normal person. He walked the length of the table - trying to think of something else to say - something profound - something funny - something romantic -

“Hey,” Anders beat him to it, voice like a lyre, but Amell felt like he was the one made of strings.

He couldn’t do this. He was going to snap. What could he say back? What should he say back? Every word Anders had written for him haunted him, that Anders cherished hearing from him, that he couldn’t stop thinking about him, that he wanted him, that he wanted them-

“Hey,” Amell said when he reached him.

Hey? Hey!? That was the best he could do? Anders crossed the Waking Sea for “Hey”?

Damnit. Shit. Say something else. Say something better. Do something better. Say something better and then do something better. Tell him you love him and throw him on the table. What was on the table? Maps? Reports? Anything breakable? Someone had been drinking water - a pitcher and goblets. Maybe candles. Fuck it - a mind blast would clear it - he just had to say something.

Say something. Say something. Say something you stupid shit. Fuck him, Anders smelled incredible. The Fade was practically scorching through him. The Fade and the scent of the sea from his voyage and-...

And sorrow.

Amell’s arousal evaporated, concern welling in its place. "You feel sad."

"I'm engaged," Anders said.

Engaged.

He was engaged.

Of course he was engaged.

Amell laughed - he couldn't help it - it was too perfect. Too predictable.

“I'm not joking," Anders said.

"Of course not," Amell cleared his throat and his head and his heart. "I'd like my ring back."

"Why?" Anders asked. He sounded wretched. He felt wretched, and Amell felt wretched in turn, and fought back the feeling. He couldn't afford to feel anything until Anders took off the ring. Anders was practically flooding him with guilt, and Amell couldn’t stand it.

Anders was engaged. Anders was engaged and there was no reason he should have felt guilty about it. There was no reason for him to feel anything but happy and Amell wasn't going to give him one.

He had to ask twice, but Anders handed over the thing, and Amell pocketed it, relieved. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” Anders said, unnecessarily. Amell knew how sorry he was. He’d felt how sorry he was.

“Why are you sorry?” He asked.

What did Anders even have to be sorry about? Amell had told him to think about it. Clearly, Anders had thought about it. If he wanted someone closer to home, if he wanted someone who’d been with him longer, if he wanted someone who knew him better, if he just wanted someone else for whatever reason he wanted them, then he should have them.

It was fine. It was fine. It was fine. It was fine.

“Because -... because I’m engaged,” Anders explained.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m happy for you.” He would have tried to will that happiness on him, if Anders still wore the ring, but he wouldn’t have been able to because he didn’t feel it. “When is the wedding?”

“I don’t know,” Anders maybe lied. It would make sense if he didn’t want him there.

“I hope you’ll invite me when you do,” Amell said.

“Are we still friends?” Anders sounded like he was fighting back a sob. Amell hated it. It was his own fucking fault. If he hadn’t been so damned open with his heart he might not have broken Anders’ making him choose between him and a man he’d been with for years.

“Of course we’re still friends, Anders,” Amell set a hand to Anders’ racing heart, running his fingers over his chest until he found his arm and squeezed. “Why wouldn’t we be friends?”

“Because-...” Anders took another shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Amell said firmly. "Just be happy. I'm glad you came. I have some work to finish up, but I had a feast planned for when you arrived. We can talk more then. Why don't you go see everyone?"

Amell found the door and opened it for him.

“Yeah…” Anders cleared his throat. “Okay, I’ll- … I’ll go see Sigrun. Amell, I-... I’ll see you at dinner.”

Anders left. Amell closed the door behind him. He kept his hand on the hardwood, and breathed mana into the rune of silence etched into the surface, sealing the sound in the room from the outside world. He couldn’t seal off the Fade, and he waited until Anders was gone from the Vigil and wouldn’t feel his magic before he screamed.

He couldn’t stop once he started - a storm of telekinetic energy erupting from him in ceaseless waves until his throat was hoarse and his screams were silent but he kept screaming them until there was nothing left inside him. No mana. No emotion. Nothing.

Morrigan must have felt the spell. He could feel her magic on the way down the hall, and smoothed back his hair in time for her to let herself into the war room and shut the door behind her.

“Lovely,” Morrigan said flatly, her footsteps crunching over whatever he’d broken when she walked over to him. “What have you done now?”

“… how bad is it?” Amell asked.

“How bad do you think it is, you fool?” Morrigan countered.

Amell took a step to his left. "There should be a table here."

“There is a table everywhere,” Morrigan said helpfully.

“Shit,” Amell muttered.

“I take it your little reunion did not go as planned?” Morrigan guessed.

“He’s engaged,” Amell explained.

Morrigan laughed. Amell laughed with her, relieved the walls were still standing so he could lean against one and drag his hands through his hair. “I’m done with men. Do you want to be together? We could try that old spell - see if we could make it permanent.”

"You have never been more unattractive to me than in this moment,” Morrigan sniffed.

“That’s fair,” Amell sighed. “... Go ahead.”

“I told you so,” Morrigan said at the allowance. She found a spot on the wall beside him, the press of her shoulder and the scent of the wilds a familiar comfort. “... Have you any thought as to how you will explain all of this?”

“Tensions are high with Orlais,” Amell pulled from the grab bag of things he could have been reasonably upset over.

“Tis not actionable,” Morrigan noted.

“... Orzammar,” Amell decided instead. “Bhelen still hasn’t agreed to allow us to establish a Circle outside the Chantry’s jurisdiction.”

“Better,” Morrigan agreed. “Let him know he tests your patience.”

Amell found her hand against the wall, and squeezed. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Morrigan squeezed back. “... Kieran is in the creche, but perhaps we could steal him away early, seeing as all the tutors you find are such fools the boy learns more from the lack of them.”

“We could,” Amell kissed the back of her hand. “I love you.”

“So you should,” Morrigan tangled their hands together and led him away from the room, and all the broken things inside it.

Chapter 53: Ugh

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 137 - Credit for Trying of Accursed Ones the morning after Anders talks to Amell and is told from Amell's perspective. Vulca mentioned they were curious as to Amell's perspective during that scene so I thought I'd write something small. Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

9:35 Dragon 20 Eluviesta Morning
Ferelden: Vigil’s Keep

"You truly mean to tell me this man - this engaged man - begged your company in the middle of the night, spent an hour crying on your shoulder, and actually persuaded you into offering him sex with no strings attached?" Morrigan asked, draping her feet over the small of Amell’s back where he lay face down on her couch.

"Ugh," Amell groaned.

"Tis truly remarkable. I should be delighted to make the acquaintance of such a powerful maleficar."

"Ugh," Amell groaned again.

"You are aware you have no self respect?" Morrigan tapped him with the heel of her foot.

"I know," Amell mumbled into the cushions.

"None at all," Morrigan tutted.

"I know," Amell said again.

"How will he ever respect you if you do not respect yourself?" Morrigan asked. "I do not even respect you right now."

"He seemed upset," Amell sighed.

"Oh no," Morrigan clapped her hands mockingly. "Do you think your back hurt his knife?"

"There’s no knife in my back," Amell said.

"There is no spine either," Morrigan said.

Amell rolled over, and gathered up one of her feet to massage. "I told him it wasn't what I wanted."

"But you would have done it all the same," Morrigan noted. "This is what happens when you smoke. You stop caring."

"Shouldn't I?" Amell asked. "Does it matter how he sees me anymore? I may as well not hide it."

Amell couldn’t believe he’d actually let Anders see him like that, blazed out of his mind and blurting one truth after another. He couldn’t believe it hadn’t mattered. The memory of Anders’ kiss was stuck in his head, the firm press of his lips against his fingers and the hard inhale that accompanied it, like there was any scent but blood lotus on his hands worth making a memory over. Anders’ assurances that he didn’t want him to settle for his happiness - like Amell could stop himself when Anders was practically throwing himself into his arms.

His eloquent response that all but guaranteed Anders would never do it again.

Your friend shit.

Not “You’re my happiness.” Not “Then stop tempting me with it.” Not “Then why are you here with me and not with him?” Not “Leave him, I love you.” Not “Tell me what changed.” Not anything that was worth anything.

Your friend shit.

Ugh.

"'Twould be slightly less sickening for the rest of us if you did," Morrigan said.

"Oghren thinks-"

"Guh!" Morrigan kicked him at the mention of his friend. "Do as you will with the man, but if you bring so much as a leaf of lotus near our son-"

"I won't," Amell cut her off, squeezing her foot. "You know I won't."

"... does this man truly grieve you so?"

"... He truly does."

Chapter 54: Heard You Were Talking Shit

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 138 - A Gift of Flesh of Accursed Ones and is told from Velanna's perspective. It takes place after the card game and was written as a request from Wombuttress.

Chapter Text

9:35 Dragon 21 Eluviesta Late Afternoon
Ferelden: Vigil’s Keep Barracks

“Warden Anders, Ser,” Kallian’s head popped into the barracks. “Mistress Alerion is asking for you.”

“That’s my cue,” Anders noted, discarding his abysmal hand. The man could not bluff to save his life.

“You can’t get out of a bad hand that easy, Sparkles,” Oghren protested.

“I just did,” Anders said cheerily, kicking free of his seat and hopping towards the door. “See you all at dinner?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Amell smiled that stupid smile of his he reserved solely for Anders. A thing so full of secrets it seemed Dirthamen’s envy, but in truth the man was an open book everyone but Anders could read.

Anders laughed - an embarrassingly loud honk like some mad goose loose in the Vigil as he flew out the door. The fool was so transparent Velanna could see the beating of his simpering heart whenever Amell spoke.

“Disgusting,” Velanna rolled her eyes when he left.

“Mythal makes us fools,” Jacen mumbled.

“Anders lathbora viran,” Amell said under his breath.

“Abelas da’len,” Jacen said.

“Ma serannas,” Amell said.

“You gonna jibber all game?” Oghren asked.

“I was thinking of jabbering,” Amell said.

“Hey, look at me, I’m an elf!” Oghren tugged on one of his ears. “Tra la la, trees are pretty.”

“Trees are pretty,” Jacen said thoughtfully. “Discarding Serpent of Decay.”

“Card’s cursed,” Oghren muttered. “Bad things happen if you take it.”

“I’ll take it,” Amell said, holding out a hand. “Bad things happen to me anyway.”

Jacen passed him the card. Oghren leaned back for a look at Amell’s hand, and held up four fingers to indicate the serpents in Amell’s hand.

“Are you sure?” Amell asked without looking at him. “I could be compelling you to see something else.”

“Guh!” Oghren dropped back into his seat. “You better not be, you creepy little shit.”

“Stop cheating,” Amell said.

“... Are we sure he’s alright?” Nathan asked, still staring after Anders’ departure.

“We are sure we do not care,” Velanna said.

“Does something seem wrong?” Amell asked.

“Aside from the obvious?” Nathan asked.

“You are blind, not blind,” Velanna flicked Amell’s ear. “The man is a fool, but surely you can see he is still more the fool for you.”

“Jar, open,” Oghren waved a wild hand across the room. “Worms, everywhere.”

“I’d rather not discuss it,” Amell deflected, discarding a knight and drawing a replacement.

“Are you sure?” Nathan asked. “I can’t be the only one who finds it a little coincidental Anders is engaged to your identical cousin.”

“It is quite the resemblance, Evanuris,” Jacen said thoughtfully.

“What else do we know of the man?” Velanna asked.

“Shit in a fight,” Oghren offered.

“Why do we know that?” Amell asked.

“Cause I fought him,” Oghren snorted.

“Did you win?” Amell asked.

“Who you askin?” Oghren countered.

Amell took a drink from his tankard, which did little to hide his satisfied smirk, and Velanna chuckled. A handful of salted meats, cheeses, nuts, and sliced bread were laid out on the table to combat their endless hunger. Velanna grabbed a handful of nuts, and Nathan saved her from the cashews among them before she tossed them back.

“He seemed a respectable enough archer when we fought together in Kirkwall,” Jacen countered.

“I suppose that depends on what you consider respectable,” Nathan noted. “I’d like to see for myself one of these days.”

“Whether he can shoot or whether he can dodge?” Velanna wondered.

“I don’t think I need to answer that,” Nathan said.

Velanna laughed.

“Be nice,” Amell said. “We’re cousins.”

“Do not pretend such things matter to you,” Velanna said. “Blood is power, nothing more. Your family is here.”

“He matters to Anders,” Amell explained.

“... Does he?” Nathan asked. “I admit, an outside eye is a biased one, but I remember the two of you together. You were very….”

“Disgusting?” Velanna supplied.

“Affection forward,” Nathan flicked a crumb at her. “I’m not sure how to say this, but when the two of them are together-...”

“You can see your cousin’s face,” Velanna picked up where he left off. “He is not stuck to it as he was with you.”

“And?” Amell asked.

“And maybe he wants to stick his face somewhere else,” Oghren chimed in. “If you know-”

“We know, da’len,” Jacen cut him off.

“Anders knows how I feel about him,” Amell said. “He told me he was happy and that he didn’t need me to rescue his relationship.”

“Maybe he wanted you to ruin it,” Oghren suggested. “Just sayin’.”

“This is ridiculous,” Velanna said, kicking Amell’s chair. “Get Anders, tell him he is yours, and be done with it.”

“Anders doesn’t belong to me,” Amell said.

“Doesn’t he?” Velann asked. “Are you his Commander or are you not? I say you show him exactly what you have to offer with this Gift of Flesh and make him rue the day he left you.”

“Anders never left me,” Amell argued. “I left him.”

“Kid,” Oghren said warningly.

“Oghren,” Amell countered, emptying his tankard and searching for a refill. “The pitcher?”

“You can pry it from my cold dead hands,” Oghren said, scooting it to the opposite end of the table.

“Your cold dead hands will pour it for me,” Amell countered.

“Try it, you little shit.” Oghren cracked his knuckles.

“Southern courtyard in five?” Amell asked.

“Get your ass ready for my boot,” Oghren agreed, tossing his cards onto the table.

The two of them left. Velanna watched them go, shaking her head. Typical men, to think they could beat away their problems. Amell would have as much luck with that alone as he would with Oghren. It was Anders he needed. One night alone with Anders would solve all of Amell’s problems, had he the courage to get him there. Fools, both of them.

“Shall we continue or call?” Jacen asked.

“Call,” Nathan suggested.

“Coward,” Velanna won the hand with the call, and a week off her assignments.

“Shall we watch the fight, my lady?” Nathan suggested, taking her hand and tangling it up in his arm when they left the barracks and headed for the southern courtyard.

“We were never such fools, were we?” Velanna wondered, walking in tandem with him.

“Never,” Nathan grinned.

“I thought not,” Velanna said. “I cannot imagine what Anders sees in this other man.”

“... Neither can I,” Nathan said, but there was something in the way he said it. Something troubled.

“What is it?” Velanna asked.

“... I’m not sure,” Nathan admitted. “I suppose I just thought Anders and Amell would end up together.”

“I cannot imagine why, given that they are desperately in love with each other.”

“Amell, granted, but… maybe I just don’t know Anders as well as I thought I did anymore.”

“Or maybe he does not know himself.”

Chapter 55: At His Hands

Summary:

"Anders…" Amell cradled his jaw, and for one merciful moment it felt like this would all be over. "If you feel that way about me, why aren't you with me?"

"Because I'm with Hawke."

"Leave him," Amell said.

"I can't." Hawke wouldn't let him.

Amell took his hand away, and all Anders’ hopes along with it. "Then leave my room.”

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 139 - Help Me of Accursed Ones and is told from Morrigan's perspective. It is just a little something for fluff and fun. Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

9:35 Dragon 22 Eluviesta Evening
Ferelden: Vigil’s Keep - Commander’s Quarters

Morrigan shouldered open the door to Amell’s quarters, wine glasses pinched between her fingers, a bottle beneath one arm and a book beneath the other. Amell was lying on his couch, an absolute mess of a man. He looked fresh from the wash, his hair spilled like ink about his face, wearing little more than trousers that stuck to still damp skin.

Morrigan closed the door with her foot, and warded it shut with her magic. Amell stayed where he was, one scarred arm draped over his eyes and the magic that resonated in them. “I have brought you a gift,” Morrigan hummed, setting out the glasses on the table before him.

“Red or white?” Amell asked.

“Red,” Morrigan poured him a glass and tapped it with a lacquered nail to signal its location, the sound pinging softly through the room. “Flames of Our Lady.”

“A Chantry vintage?” Amell noted.

“Alistair’s ill-kept secret suggested it. You will speak not a word of it or I will hear not the end of it,” Morrigan warned him, pouring her own glass and rearranging his legs in her lap to sit on the opposite end of the couch. “You would like the color, I imagine. The hue shifts from blood to fire.”

“I would,” Amell said, making no move to retrieve the glass.

“Well?” Morrigan huffed. “Am I to pour it in your glass or down your throat?”

“You could drown me in it, if you’re feeling particularly charitable,” Amell suggested.

“What have you done now?” Morrigan took a small sip of her drink, flipping through her book for where they had left off last.

“I told him to leave him,” Amell’s arm flopped off his eyes and over the edge of the couch.

“Incredible,” Morrigan said. “Sober?”

“More or less,” Amell sighed, tracing his fingers along the table until he found his glass.

“You are without a doubt the most desperate man I have ever had the misfortune of meeting,” Morrigan mused.

“I actually said ‘leave him,’” Amell repeated, taking a long drink of his wine without raising his head. It seemed a wonder he did not choke on it at the unfortunate angle.

“So you said,” Morrigan noted.

“He didn’t,” Amell said.

“No?” Morrigan drawled sarcastically.

“I don’t know why I said it,” Amell drained the last of his wine, the red staining his teeth, empty glass balanced precariously between his fingers. He truly was pathetic. His love was a weakness. Perhaps his only weakness. It grew in him like a cancer and made him do more foolish things with every passing day. It was death, and Amell was dying, but there was something almost poetic about it. Like he was resigned to his death. Like he welcomed it, hand to the hilt of the blade this man was driving into his heart.

“Tis a curious thing, indeed,” Morrigan refilled his glass. “The way you pursue him so intently, one would think you have never known a man before.”

“Not a man like him,” Amell bemoaned.

“Ugh,” Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Please. Count yourself fortunate. Love grows rotten on the vine so quickly. A sour fruit that offers only a memory of sweetness. What is it worth, truly?”

“Everything,” Amell said.

“You are aware there are other men, yes?” Morrigan asked. “In Thedas? In Ferelden? In this very Vigil, even. Bed one of them, if you are so desperate, and move on from this man.”

“You know I can’t,” Amell said.

“I know no such thing,” Morrigan countered. “Are you truly so stubborn as to die of thirst in the rain?”

“I would at his hands,” Amell said with such a gentle earnestness Morrigan felt her heart skip traitorously for it.

“Ridiculous,” Morrigan scoffed to clear her throat. “You speak of poetry where I ask practicality.”

“I’m not being poetic,” Amell said. “... Morrigan, promise me you won’t share this.”

“Share what?”

“I broke my father’s compulsion. For less than a heartbeat, I broke it, and I could have stopped him from taking my eyes, but I didn’t have a clear shot. The spell would have killed Anders before it killed my father… so I didn’t cast it. It’s not pretty or poetic… it just is.”

“What could this man possibly have done to warrant such devotion?”

“I can’t talk about it,” Amell took another drink.

“Very well. I have a solution for you, then,” Morrigan decided. “It involves your cousin and a cliff.”

Amell chuckled. Morrigan took heart in it, and retrieved her second gift from her pocket to press into his free hand. “What is this?” Amell asked, turning the bit of fired clay over in his fingers.

“A gift from your son,” Morrigan explained.

“Round,” Amell noted. “What is it?”

“He has made you new eyes, though I suspect you will not wish to keep them in your skull.”

“From clay?”

“I would have thrown it away, but he insisted,” Morrigan lied. It was a rather delightful coincidence that Kieran had so chosen to think of his father when his father so clearly needed his thoughts. The awkward lump of clay might have been balls for all anyone could tell, but the intent was there.

Amell smiled for it, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“'Tis but a bauble,” Morrigan smiled, considering he could not see it. “Do not make that face.”

“What face?” Amell asked.

“Like I have handed you a cure,” Morrigan explained.

“I don’t need a cure,” Amell said.

“Yes, your prophecy,” Morrigan rolled her eyes. “You know how else your eyes might work when you need them? If they worked at all times.”

“I’m fine, Morrigan,” Amell lied.

“You are not,” Morrigan said. “He is leaving when the month is out?”

“He is.”

“Then I will allow this until then,” Morrigan said, propping their book up on her bent knees. “Where were we?”

“Somewhere else,” Amell said.

Chapter 56: Before the Rain

Summary:

Sweet Andraste, hear our song
For his road will be ours too.
Before darkness claims our souls
Let us see that shred of blue.

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 139 - Help Me of Accursed Ones and is told from Anders' perspective. Just a bit of fluff I wrote for fun. Thanks for reading.

Chapter Text

9:35 Dragon 23 Eluviesta Late Afternoon
Ferelden: Vigil’s Keep - Ramparts

Cloudreach was Anders’ favorite month. The end of spring, moving into summer, grey skies cut through with shreds of blue. Recently, it reminded him of the song of the same name, and he hummed the chorus to himself as he sat on the ramparts of Vigil’s Keep. The tune was swallowed by the wind, whipping through his sun-blonde hair and numbing his face to the lash of the wild strands.

The rest of him was warm. Buried beneath a heavy woolen cloak, a deep blood blue and trimmed in rusted silver, all but enchanted with the scent of copper, lotus, and the Fade. Amell sat next to him, conspicuously cloakless, leaning back on his hands with an ear turned towards him. His pitchblack hair was braided behind it, and there was no excuse that Anders could find to brush any nonexistent strands free of his nonexistent sight.

“Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey,” Anders hummed. “A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay.”

“Birds reel across the endless sky, above a house upon the plain. In memory she sings to him of a time before the rain,” Amell picked up the next verse, spoken and not sung. “You’ve been humming that all day.”

“Well, it’s no Blood on the Ramparts, but I like it,” Anders shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Don’t apologize,” Amell said. “Are you warm?”

“Warm,” Anders agreed, eyeing the plain wool tunic Anders had left him with after stealing his cloak. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Amell said again - he seemed to implore it of him, like he couldn’t stand the thought of an apology, so Anders took it back.

“Not sorry,” Anders took Amell’s hand and sent a pulse of primal magic through him, warming him against the weather.

“Thank you,” Amell said, though whether it was for his magic or his retraction or both, Anders couldn’t say.

“You know I used to come up here to be alone with my thoughts?”

“I don't remember you coming up here often,” Amell said.

“Turns out I don’t have that many thoughts,” Anders joked.

Amell chuckled - a bemused exhale that was too reserved to be his real laugh. Anders missed fighting for his wild cackle. Anders missed the days he could consider that a fight.

“It wasn't all the time,” Anders continued. “Just once or twice to look out past the walls of the Vigil, you know? I dreamed of stealing a ship and sailing to exotic lands… taking you with me.”

"Where would we go?" Amell asked.

"Llomerryn, obviously," Anders said.

"Obviously," Amell said.

"Sandy white beaches,” Anders said wistfully. “The Rialto Bay…”

"The Great Bazaar," Amell added.

"You get it," Anders grinned, squeezing his hand. "... I think my friend is there."

"You think?" Amell raised an eyebrow.

"She never told me where she was going, but the Felicisima Armada is there."

"Your friend is a pirate?" Amell deduced.

"Well she's not a privateer." Anders joked. "There’s a difference. Don't ask me how I know."

"How do you know?" Amell asked.

"Someone called her one once,” Anders recalled - with a fond smile for the memory. “You could call her anything - whore, slattern, slut - but a privateer? A respectable officer of the law? She almost killed the poor bastard. Gave the whole tavern a lesson in history, etymology, politics. Three sheets to the wind, but at the end of the night everyone in the Hanged Man knew the difference, and no one ever called her that again."

"She sounds like quite a friend,” Amell noted.

"Captain Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas,” Anders drawled. “... She met you once."

"I remember,” Amell said. “In Denerim. She was a good duelist."

Isabela hadn’t mentioned anything about dueling Amell, from what Anders could recall. He wondered how much more there was to their story, and felt a pang of regret he’d likely never hear Isabela’s side of it again. "She said you were good at cards."

"I am good at cards," Amell said.

"Your hubris is showing,” Anders nudged him.

"Pride has its uses."

"Against inferno golems, sure." Anders joked for the memory of the last time Amell had bound such a demon.

"Among other things," Amell said mysteriously.

Anders liked the mystery too much to unravel it. Amell's secretive smile seemed a secret itself for the way he wore it. It hardly touched his lips - so faint if it had been a kiss it might have been nothing more than a soft exchange of breath - mistaken for the wind.

"... the wind is nice," Anders said.

"It is," Amell agreed. "Does Justice like it?"

"... I think so," Anders said after a moment’s consideration. "He's still quiet."

"How is the view?" Amell asked.

“You know,” Anders shrugged, still staring at the gentle curve to Amell’s lips. “... Lots of roofs.”

"Riveting," Amell grinned in earnest - and for all his secrets, Anders knew what he saw in that smile wasn’t one of them.

“I’m kidding,” Anders said. “... It’s beautiful.”

Chapter 57: Sentimental Scar

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 139 - Help Me of Accursed Ones. It was written for Midnight Prelude's prompt of "Touching Scars / Wounds." Thank you for reading. :)

Chapter Text

9:35 Dragon 24 Eluviesta Early Afternoon
Ferelden: Vigil’s Keep - Courtyard

Anders sat on the fence to the training ring, his cranberry muffin crumbling apart in his hand, forgotten. His focus was on Amell, getting ready to spar with one of his Wardens. Ser Fenley was a big bastard, with a good half foot on his Commander, but Anders wasn’t willing to count Amell out just yet. Granted, Amell was blind, but Amell was Amell.

Andraste preserve him, Anders loved watching him move. The way he gauged the world around him. Dumat led him to the ring, but from there it was all Amell and his hands, ghosting over the posts until he found a free spot to drape his clothes when he undressed down to his trousers. Anders couldn’t not count himself blessed that spot happened to be a few feet from where he was sitting.

He would have given anything for those hands to gauge him. To feel them sweeping over his legs, even if Anders couldn’t keep them still this close to the man. Anders was practically shaking with the urge to hop off the fence and into his arms. Amell didn’t even bother covering them anymore, the myride of scars left by his magic on display for anyone watching, and Anders couldn’t not.

He was still so gorgeous. Anders couldn’t believe how gorgeous he still was. Scarred, lean muscle, with a light dusting of dark hair that captivated for how it vanished below his waistband. Amell set one foot to the fence, stretching in anticipation of the coming fight, lithe and limber and utterly enthralling.

"Hrngh," Anders whined.

Oops.

"What?" Amell tilted his head towards him.

"Good luck," Anders cleared his throat.

"Do you think I'll need it?" Amell asked, his smirk entirely unfair no matter how faint.

Anders laughed, an unflattering series of bleats he stuffed his muffin into his mouth to stop. “Wouldn’t bet on it,” Anders said through the muffin.

“Bet on me,” Amell suggested, still with that painful smirk, and left to join Fenley in the center of the ring.

“... You’re grossing me out, Sparkles,” Oghren said from beside him.

“Like you ever chew with your mouth closed,” Anders rolled his eyes.

“We both know that ain’t why you’re drooling,” Oghren said.

“I’m not drooling,” Anders wiped a hasty hand over his mouth, surprised it actually came away dry.

“Uh uh,” Oghren snorted, draping himself over the fence. "And I'm the Queen of Antiva."

"Your majesty has really let herself go," Anders joked.

"Jugs got bigger though, right?" Oghren chuckled, groping himself and shaking a breast.

"Big breasts," Anders held up his left hand. "No standards," Anders held up his right hand.

"Put your hands together," Oghren suggested. "Now you got my kinda woman."

"I missed you," Anders laughed.

"Don't get all weepy now," Oghren warned him, turning his attention to the fight.

The only wrestling Anders knew anything about involved significantly less clothes, and didn’t normally come with an audience, but the way the men moved seemed close enough. They took up a spot in the center of the ring, their hands on each other’s forearms, foreheads pressed together, and the intimacy of it made Anders irrationally envious. The fight started, and before Anders could process what was happening, Amell ducked down and surged forward. His arms locked around Fenley’s legs, heaving the larger man onto his shoulder and flinging the two of them into the dirt.

“Maker, I wish that were me,” Anders didn’t mean to say out loud.

“Ask him nice,” Oghren suggested. “Shit, ask him mean, he won’t give a fuck. ‘Cept, you know - heheh - if you want him to.”

“I just meant - you know - I love wrestling,” Anders lied.

“Yeah, I remember how much you and the Boss loved to wrestle,” Oghren rolled his eyes. “Who you kidding, Sparkles? What are you even doing with his cousin anyway? You got the real deal right here.”

“It’s complicated,” Anders said. “Can we not talk about it?”

“Aye, sure, but first you gotta not talk about it,” Oghren pointed out. He shoved two meaty fingers into his mouth, and whistled at whatever was happening in the fight. “Get fucked, Fenley!”

Anders guessed that meant Amell was winning. He couldn’t tell, save that Amell seemed to be on top. His arms were around Fenley’s waist, the two of them crawling ingloriously through the dirt as Fenley struggled to escape him. Fenley rolled them, and something in the way Amell hit the ground looked painful. He recovered quickly enough, an arm around Fenley’s neck flinging them over to a wild cheer from the crowd.

Amell won. No one was surprised. The two men helped each other to their feet, and Fenley reoriented Amell to point him in the direction of his clothes. Anders couldn’t say whether or not Amell needed the help, but he definitely needed healing. The fall hadn’t looked fun, and had to have bruised something. Amell retrieved his clothes, and left the ring without putting them on, his mabari falling in at his side.

“Dumat, water,” Amell ordered. The mabari set off towards the trough, and Anders hopped off the fence to jog after him.

“Amell,” Anders called after him. Amell stopped. Anders touched his shoulder, slick with sweat and dirt from the time he’d spent wrestling, and wonderfully warm. "Do you need healing?"

"... Not here?" Amell suggested, splashing himself down with a few handfuls of water.

"Infirmary?" Anders offered.

"Alright," Amell followed Dumat, who followed Anders to the infirmary. His old haunt was empty, just a collection of tables, chairs, and shelves of supplies. Dumat helped Amell find a table, where he sat and set his clothes aside.

"That fall looked rough," Anders noted.

"I've had worse," Amell said, rolling the shoulder he'd landed on.

"I remember," Anders set a hand to Amell’s chest, and the grisly scar left by a dragonbone poleaxe. It was just a scar, the skin slightly stretched from Amell’s refusal to rest while it healed, but there was something so captivating in it. Anders traced along the edge of the old wound, and couldn't not notice the way Amell trembled for it. His breath took on a shallow, staccato rhythm, and the first pulse of healing magic from him only seemed to amplify it.

"I'm sorry," Amell whispered.

"For what?" Anders asked, traitorous fingers following the path of Amell’s scars, old and new. He skipped down his ribs, to the one Rylock had left on him, and Amell shivered.

"I don't know," Amell mumbled.

"I don't either," Anders said.

"... did you bet on me?"

"Every day," Anders said.

Amell caught his hand, and it had to be some implicit plea to stop touching him, but Anders couldn't. He caressed up Amell's arm, over the tight skin of scar upon scar upon scar, and prayed Amell wouldn't tell him to stop. The Maker must have heard him, because Amell moved to return the caress, but froze at the brand on Anders' wrist.

"What is this?" Amell asked.

"A glyph," Anders said.

"What kind of glyph?"

"Neutralization," Anders said, his every breath unsteady with Amell’s thumbs kneading gently at his wrist. "It was a lyrium brand. It cut me off from the Fade… from Justice until it healed."

"It doesn't feel like a glyph."

"Justice ripped off the scar," Anders explained.

A smile, soft and slight. “I like him more each day.”

“He uh-... he likes you too,” Anders said, hoping it was true. It didn’t feel like a lie, but he couldn’t feel anything but Amell, gently tracing over his scar, his fingers occasionally slipping a little too high or a little too low on his arm.

“I’m glad,” Amell said.

Anders set his free hand back to Amell’s chest, tracing along his collarbone, and a new scar from something that must have broken it once upon a time. He couldn’t find the words to ask after it, and Amell didn’t offer any answers. Amell walked a hand up Anders’ arm to the back of his neck to press their foreheads together, in the same pose he’d held with Fenley before they’d fought, only infinitely more tender.

“... How’s your shoulder?” Anders asked.

“Still hurts,” Amell lied.

“... It might take awhile to heal,” Anders lied.

“That’s okay… I can wait.”

Chapter 58: Mana Drain

Summary:

"We killed two dragons last week, and you can't think of a toast?" Amell exhaled hard through his nose, that characteristic almost-laugh of his that so frustrated Anders whenever he couldn't get a real one out of him.

"You killed two dragons," Anders corrected him. "I hid behind a statue, covered head to toe with fire balm. Maker's balls, that was awful. My skin was sticky, my hair was a rock, and I have no idea how the servants ever managed to wash it out of my clothes. I'm not drinking to that."

Notes:

This chapter takes place before Chapter 12 - All Soul's Day of Accursed Ones. It was written as a combined prompt for "crippling numbness after magic overuse" for ushauz and "in hushed whispers" for an anon. This is just fluff. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:31 Dragon 24 Solis
Silverite Mines

The dragon hit the ground in a shower of dirt and stone, one wing stiff with hoarfrost from Anders’ blizzard. Its sister was already dead, blood oozing from every orifice in the aftermath of Amell’s corruption. Another enchanted arrow went pinging off the surviving dragon’s scales, erupting in a burst of ice magic and blistering on its shoulder. The dragon reeled, roaring in agony, and Oghren roared back, charging across the mine to bury his greataxe in its thigh.

The dragon lashed out with a vicious kick that sent Oghren sailing backwards, almost colliding with Sigrun, who rolled out of the way and took his place, driving her smaller axes into the creature’s hamstring. Vines from Velanna burst forth from the ground, wrapping around the dragon’s legs and holding it in place. The dragon’s one good wing beat frantically, attempting to take flight, and Anders summoned another blast of ice to encase the flailing limb.

An inferno blazed forth from the creature’s maw, washing over Amell's shield. Its jaw snapped, narrowly missing him. In a motion that almost seemed practiced, Amell rolled onto the creature's neck and drove his sword down into its spine. The dragon died with a bloody gurgle, and the fight was over.

"I think we work well together," Nathaniel said cheerily, surveying their handiwork.

"You think?" Sigrun laughed, twirling her axes and spraying blood across her armor. "We're amazing! I know this is the opposite of what I’m going for, but I've never felt so alive!"

"Ridiculous," Velanna said, vines crumpling to the ground as the wisps animating them fled back across the Veil. “How does one feel alive?”

"You know,” Sigrun skipped to the front of the dragon to peer at its teeth once they finally stopped snapping. “Your skin sweating, your heart racing, your blood pumping! You just feel it!”

“Ooooh yeah,” Oghren chuckled, rejoining them from wherever the dragon had kicked him. “You feel it alright.”

“Ew,” Sigrun sighed.

“I don’t know about that,” Anders muttered, shaking the hoarfrost from his gloves that lingered in the aftermath of his blizzard. “I can’t feel my fingers.”

“I can help with that,” Amell offered, taking off his helmet. He was wearing the same wild look he always did after a battle, but he hadn’t kissed Oghren yet, and he wasn’t looking at Nathaniel.

“Oh yeah?” Anders raised an eyebrow at him, wetting his lips without thinking. “You learn primal magic when I wasn’t looking?”

“Something like that,” Amell smirked. It was a nice smirk. On nice lips. Anders probably should have blushed or something, but the blizzard left him so numb he felt worse off than the dragons. He needed a nap. Or a coma.

… but they really were nice lips.

“Give me your hand,” Amell said, taking off his gloves and looping them into his belt.

“My hand?” Anders fanned himself. “This is all happening so fast. You haven’t even met my parents. My father will never forgive me if I marry a mage.”

“I think our fathers are the ones who need our forgiveness, don’t you?” Nathaniel mused.

“Idiot,” Velanna rolled her eyes.

“Bitch,” Anders shot back, peeling off his gloves and stuffing them into his satchel. Amell took his hands, a pulse of primal magic making his own glow a soft sunset orange, and that might have been nice, but Anders still couldn’t feel it.

“Sweetie, you look a little pale,” Sigrun joined them, setting a concerned hand on Anders’ back.

“He is a little pale,” Velanna said. “Are you allergic to the sun or do humans find your corpse complexion attractive?”

“I freckle,” Anders glared at her, but it was hard to hold onto the expression. “Actually… you know what, I can’t feel my anything.”

“Do you need to sit down?” Nathaniel suggested.

“I am not surprised,” Velanna said. “With that blizzard, it’s a wonder you have any mana left.”

“You know, I don’t think I do,” Anders stumbled woozily, steadied between Sigrun and Amell. “I could really use a pick me up. Anyone got any lyrium potions left?”

“You would not need one if you had but an ounce of self restraint,” Velanna huffed, but she dug through her satchel all the same and came up empty.

“I’d settle for an ounce of mana right about now,” Anders said.

“Drain me,” Amell suggested.

“Do what now?” Anders blinked.

“Drain me,” Amell repeated. “Do you know the spell?”

“Spirit magic opposes primal magic, you know,” Anders reminded him. “I’m a primal mage. It’s why we work so well together. I think I’ll just… sit down. Take a nap. Hold me?”

“You can still manage the basics,” Amell said. “Pull from me, the way you would from the Fade. Think of it like a parasitic bond.”

“Parasites. Very sexy,” Anders rolled his eyes.

“If you want it to be,” Amell said.

“Ugh,” Velanna said.

“Don’t be gross!” Oghren protested.

“There’s no way you can make that sexy,” Anders said, but the numbness he felt after burning through his mana was so crippling it was almost cold. If he didn’t figure something out soon he was going to pass out, and that didn’t seem very sexy of him either.

Amell leaned in, his hushed whisper something Anders felt more than heard as his lips moved against his ear, "You can drain as much of me as you want."

"Okay, so maybe you can make it sexy." Anders mumbled, fumbling over the spell.

"Oh, oh, what did he say?" Sigrun bounced on the balls of her feet. "What did he say?"

"Something sexy," Amell shrugged.

Anders managed the spell on his third attempt, reaching for Amell like he would the Fade and siphoning a vestige of mana from him. Anders wasn’t sure whether it was because he was so focused on Amell’s lips, or if it was just the way the spell manifested, but a shadow of sapphire lifted from them and flowed over Anders’ own, like a breath of lyrium, soft and sweet and shivering down his spine.

“... That was kind of hot!” Sigrun said.

“That was kinda gross,” Oghren disagreed, shouldering his greataxe and trundling towards the exit. “I’m getting out of here before you start draining something else, if you know what I mean.”

“Can I escort you back to the Vigil, my lady?” Nathaniel asked, extending an arm towards Velanna.

“I know the way; I’m not an imbecile,” Velanna hissed, smacking his elbow out of her face and following Oghren out.

“No, sweetie, wait, he meant he wants to walk with you!” Sigrun called, running out after Velanna. Nathaniel sighed, and followed suit, which just left Anders, alone in the mines with Amell, and two rotting dragon carcasses.

“So…” Anders cleared his throat.

“Can you feel your hands?” Amell asked. He was still holding them, primal magic almost akin to necromancy for how it revived the feeling in his fingers. Anders wiggled a few, battling back a shiver as the warmth of Amell’s magic flowed into him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Anders joked, taking his hands back to scrub away the tingling sensation Amell stirred in him on his thighs.

“... Drain me again,” Amell said.

“You keep that up, I’m going to start thinking you’re into it,” Anders warned him.

“I might be,” Amell said.

“... why?” Anders asked. “What’s it feel like?”

“Like…” Amell trailed off, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and Maker save him, that was bad enough.

“Actually, don’t tell me,” Anders said quickly, for fear of Amell saying something that would make him regret the fact that they were covered in firebalms, and standing beside a pair of corpses. It definitely wasn’t the most romantic place for a first kiss. Or a second kiss. Or whatever. “... As much as I want, huh?”

Amell raised an interested eyebrow, “How much do you want?”

“I don’t know yet,” Anders admitted.

“Tell me when you do.”

Chapter 59: It's Fading

Summary:

Karl sat back on his bed. Anders hesitated. The bed was more comfortable, and the bed had Karl. Anders joined him and sat with his back to the wall. Karl sat with his hands folded his lap, and Anders stared at one for a while before he stole it.

Karl let out a nervous chuckle; it was nice to hear someone he cared about laughing.

Notes:

This chapter takes place after Chapter 54 - Doubts and Revelations of Accursed Ones and is told from Anders' perspective. It was written for Ser-Thirst-A-Lot off the prompt "Touch Starved." Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

9:32 Dragon A Day in Nubulis
Kirkwall: Darktown Clinic

Anders pressed his pestle to his mortar. The elfroot had long since ceased to be a paste and was becoming a dye, staining the grey stone green. It was a waste of regents, but he couldn't focus. His hand was still tingling, the memory of Karl's touch haunting him these past three days, drowning him in guilt, longing, and all manner of emotion.

Amell was gone. Amell was dead. He was dead, and he wasn't coming back, and Anders had to move on. He wanted to move on. He was tired of being alone. He'd already spent a year alone in solitary, and the thought of being alone for any more was crippling.

Veilfire cut through his veins, settling deep in his lungs and evening out his breath. Anders took one breath, and then another, Justice’s fire surging up his spine and keeping his shoulders from shaking, his body from collapsing, but Justice couldn't touch him. Justice couldn't hold him. Justice couldn’t give him what Karl could give him.

Karl was a good man, and he deserved more company than the handful of books the Circle afforded him. The poor bastard needed it. Karl was so touch starved Anders could practically feel his caress in every letter. The shaky deliberation in every word, and the clear care with which Karl chose them.

Anders flexed his hand again. Maker save him, he was so hungry for affection he felt like he was starving, but he didn’t want to lose Karl to his appetite. He liked the version of himself that he saw in Karl, and that version of Anders would never use one man to replace another. He couldn’t trust that he wasn’t doing that with Karl when he could barely bring himself to think Amell’s name without breaking down.

Anders gave up on his poultice, and spent the rest of the day wringing his hands, desperate for the chance to hold Karl’s. He visited him that evening, a crow flying in through the window Karl left open for him. Anders’ transformation from crow to man was a great deal more graceful than it had been the first night he’d visited, but he still felt like he was crashing into Karl’s world.

Karl had clearly been pacing, waiting for him to show. Anders might have cast a winter blast for how Karl froze at the sight of him, but the truth of it was Anders wasn’t any better. He might not have been in solitary, but his solitude was no less painful. Karl thawed out slowly, a twitch to his fingers, a curve to his lips, a shallow breath that trembled in his chest.

“Miss me?” Anders waved. … He waved. Karl was two steps from him, and he waved. Anders bit back a groan, but Karl waved back. At least they were both stilted and awkward. Solitary had a way of doing that to people.

… the Circle had a way of doing that to people.

“By the hour,” Karl said shakily.

“... Do you want a hug?” Anders offered, the same way he always did.

“Yes,” Karl said, the same way he always did.

They hugged, the same way they always did.

Chapter 60: Tell Me What You See

Summary:

“What do my eyes look like?” Amell cut him off.

“What?”

“What do they look like to you?” Amell asked again. “Tell me what you see.”

“They’re-” The question threw him. There was no explaining what he saw. He just saw Amell. “They’re beautiful.”

Notes:

This is a request from LonelyAura on the Wardens’ reactions to the events of Chapter 151 - Alone. It is written from Amell’s perspective.

Alternative Title: Amell and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Chapter Text

9:35 Dragon 17 Umbralis Late Morning
The Grand Tourney - Warden’s Encampment

“Fausten Amell - Commander of the Grey, Arl of-”

Amell tuned out half-way through his titles. “Tell me when they’re finished?” Amell whispered, leaning into Fenley.

“It may be some time yet, Commander,” Fenley whispered back. “Wave with your left.”

Amell waved to a mingled chorus of cheers and claps. It wasn’t the same reception he received in Ferelden, but it was a reception all the same, and he had to be present for it. He could have done without it, but he wanted to present for Nathan. He’d talked of nothing but the Tourney for the past two months, and Velanna had gotten so frustrated with him she’d refused to attend. It was just the two of them and a handful of other Wardens, not that Nathan seemed to mind.

“- presenting Nathaniel Howe of Amaranthine, Constable of the Grey!” The announcer finally finished his string of titles, their voice echoing through what must have been a druffalo horn.

Amell whistled - amplifying his voice with magic to shout over the crowds. “Good aim, Nathan!”

“Better than at the privies!” Surana yelled along with him, and uproarious laughter swallowed up the rest of the encouragement that came from the Wardens.

“How’s he look?” Amell asked.

“Steady,” Fenley said. “But he’s using the cane today.”

“He doesn’t aim with his legs,” Surana huffed.

“Pain distracts,” Fenley said.

“First shot!” The announcer called out. A hush swept over the crowd, but Amell couldn’t hear anything of Nathaniel’s shot. He must have fired it all the same, because a mix of cheers and boos rang from the crowd a few moments later.

“Eight,” Fenley said. The announcer echoed the score a moment later.

“Out of?” Amell asked.

“Ten,” Fenley said.

“Well done!” Amell yelled.

“Orlesians aim better!” Surana yelled.

“Second shot!” The announcer called. Another round of silence. Another silent shot. Another round of louder cheers and boos.

“Ten,” Fenley said.

Amell set two fingers to his lips to whistle over the cheers from his Wardens.

“Lucky shot!” Surana screamed. “Wind’s in your favor! You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn without it!”

“Third shot!” The announcer called. Another round of silence, another silent shot, another chorus of cheers and boos so loud they deafened him, and Amell couldn’t hear the score until the announcer repeated it.

“Ten!” The announcer called out. “Constable Howe advances - two points above Champion Hawke! Next contender!”

The Wardens rushed to join Nathaniel, and Amell kept a tight hold of Fenley’s arm. He felt almost painfully blind at the Tourney - surrounded by thousands upon thousands of people. There was so much blood he could barely sense it. It was easier to gauge if it was tainted, and he clung to his Wardens like a man to driftwood in the midst of an ocean. Nathan. Just focus on Nathan.

“First round, first place!” Nathan laughed. A hand clasped his shoulder - Nathan’s no doubt - and a heavy weight followed. Definitely Nathan.

“You got lucky,” Surana said. “Ten silver the Champion takes you next round.”

“Make it twenty,” Nathan countered. “I’ll take his title next. Fenley, can I walk with the Commander?”

“Of course,” Fenley untangled them, and Nathan took his arm a few moments later.

Nathan leaned heavily against him on the walk back to their encampment, and Amell stepped halfway through the Fade to alleviate his weight. “Bad day?” Amell whispered.

“Wretched,” Nathan laughed under his breath, squeezing his arm in gratitude. “I thought for certain I wouldn’t last the round.”

“I can speak with the game master - see if you can shoot sitting,” Amell offered.

“No - I can stand with and stand against the competition,” Nathan said stubbornly. “I won’t win the Tourney from a chair.”

“There’d be no shame if you did,” Amell said. “The crowd can see the cane.”

“The day you use a cane is the day I trade mine for a chair,” Nathan countered.

“At least have Surana see to it,” Amell argued. “Another poultice? I’ll see if the game master can push the next round back an hour.”

“Thank you - we’re here,” Nathan said, setting his hand on slightly chilled hardwood. A table. “Bench to your left.”

Amell sat, and felt a nudge against his leg as Dumat settled down beside him. Someone handed him a drink, and the Wardens fell to recounting tales from their time at the Tourney. They’d been in the city for almost a week enjoying the festivities, though not everyone had wanted to attend. Velanna had all but shoved Nathan into his arms with an exasperated, “Take him!” and stayed behind with Seranni. Oghren hadn’t trusted himself not to turn to drink when so much of it was free, and with the news that came from Kirkwall it had seemed best not to bring Morrigan or Kieran.

Fade take him, had it really been four years? How much longer before Kieran showed signs of magic beyond his prophecies? Amell drummed his fingers along his tankard, trying to think of the youngest age he could recall for a mage’s magic to manifest. Jowan had been five - and some of the other apprentices had been younger but not by much. Did the prophecies count? Would Kieran ever have any magic beyond them? Between Urthemiel’s soul and his and Morrigan’s blood, it didn’t seem like that could be the end of it.

“Amell?” Nathan’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“Hm?” Amell asked.

“I said Surana saw to my leg” Nathan repeated.

“Good, I’m glad,” Amell said.

“... Distracted?” Nathan guessed.

“Somewhat.”

“Over Anders?”

“Not till now.”

“I’m sorry, I assumed-”

“It’s fine, Nathan.”

“Is it?”

“As fine as harboring an all consuming love for someone who’s forgotten you exist can be,” Amell muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. I said it’s fine, and then I just stopped talking.”

“Of course, my mistake.”

“I should see to the game master,” Amell decided, standing.

“I’ll accompany you,” Nathan took his arm, and Amell spared him a frown.

“Your leg-”

“Surana saw to it,” Nathan cut him off. “Walk with me. I know how you feel about the crowds.”

“We stop when you tire,” Amell warned him.

“Wardens never do,” Nathan said cheerily, leading the way through the crowds to the arena and the game master’s box. The crowds weren’t quite as thick inside, and it was easier to sense the people around him. Nathan, of course, and Dumat, along with a half-dozen in the game master’s box when it exploded.

The force of it separated all of them, and sent him crashing into a wall. Muffled screams echoed from every direction, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. Everything was blood - there was too much of it to sense anyone or anything. Amell ripped a forcefield from the Fade, pressing himself up against the wall, and felt the ground crumple beneath his foot with the motion, giving way to heat.

Fire. Fire on the floor below - eating away what was left of the floor above. Amell tapped his heel on the ground in a slow semi-circle until it hit open air, somewhere off to his left. Where was left? Was left the way into the game master’s box or the way out of it? Where had he fallen? Where the fuck was he?

“Dumat!?” Amell yelled. “Nathan!?”

Ringing. Nothing but fucking ringing. Ringing and more muffled screams and the crackle of wood giving way to flame as the arena collapsed - a taste in the air like smoke and burning wood - like oak or maple.

“Dumat!” Amell yelled again, testing the floor to his right. The boards didn’t give beneath his hand, and he crawled along the wall with his heart in his throat and his simulacrum whispering in his ear - begging for his death. “Be silent,” Amell hissed. His simulacrum quieted and he continued his crawl until his hand connected with warm fur and a wet nose, and a cautious lick.

“Dumat,” Amell breathed a sigh of relief, scooting across the floor to sweep his hands down his mabari’s sides. He felt whole - no missing limbs - no lacerations - no mangled burns. “Up,” Amell ordered.

Dumat shifted under his hands with a pained whine, but stood. “Show me,” Amell said. The mabari shuffled beneath his hands until they reached his foreleg - badly sprained.

“You can walk,” Amell said. “If Nathan can walk, you can walk. Stay off it.”

Dumat pressed up against his side, and Amell stumbled to his feet, a hand to the mabari’s head, and pulled for the Taint. Somewhere. Somewhere near him. “Nathan!?” Amell yelled over the screams of the rest of the survivors, amplifying his voice, but if Nathan yelled back he couldn’t hear it. “Dumat, find Nathan,” Amell ordered. Dumat turned in a slow circle, and laid back down. “Find Nathan,” Amell ordered again.

Dumat huffed from his spot on the floor. Amell sank back down to his knees, and swept a hand across the floor until he reached open air. “Is Nathan here? Did Nathan fall?”

Dumat whined, not moving. “Down then. Show me down. Remember how we came up? Show me back down.”

Dumat climbed to his feet. Amell kept a hand on his head, and the two of them staggered through the crumbling arena until they found a flight of stairs that took them down a floor. “East,” Amell coughed, pulling for more of Nathan’s blood. “East on this floor.”

Dumat led him down a hallway - maybe. The wall gave free in places as he dragged his hand along it, until it connected with a frame that marked the threshold to another room. It had to have been on fire. It was too hot not to be and he didn’t know the primal magic to see it out. “Can you see him?”

Dumat barked - and surged forward until Amell grabbed frantically at his scruff and collar. “No! No, you stay. You’re not warded. Sit.” Dumat sat with an unhappy sort of whine. “Go get Fenley if the fire reaches the hall. You understand? Fenley.” Another bark, and a lick of his fingers. “Good boy.”

Amell stepped partway through the Fade, blending a barrier into his forcefield to serve against the flames consuming the room and the arena along with it. “Nathan!?” Amell yelled again, testing each board beneath his feet before he put his weight to it. “Nathan - answer me!”

“Here!” Nathan called. “Your right - ten paces - stop! There’s a hole - go left - left - there - forward for five. Here - I’m here.”

Amell knelt, reaching out into nothing until Nathan grabbed his arm. “Why aren’t you moving?” Amell asked, running his free hand down Nathan’s arm to his shoulder.

“There's a beam - across my waist - I can’t lift it,” Nathan gathered up his hands and set them to the wood.

“Do I need to throw it?”

“No - just lift, I think.”

A surge from the Fade amplified the strength in his arms, lifting the plank. Nathan’s hands gripped his shoulders, adding his weight to the plank as his friend pulled himself free of the wreckage. “I’m out - I’m out. Give me your arm - and your barrier - everything’s on fire.”

Another surge of mana expanded the barrier, and Nathan led him from the room and back to the hall, where Dumat pressed back up against his side. “He’s limping.” Nathan noted.

“His leg is sprained. Hold on, I want to carry him,” Amell explained, kneeling to heave the mabari into his arms. Nathan locked an arm around his shoulder, simultaneously leaning on him and leading them out.

“You know,” Nathan coughed. “If you really wanted to delay the games for me, you could have just talked to the game master.”

Amell cackled, “You know I’d have picked blood over fire.”

“Whoever did this must prefer both,” Nathan chuckled. “Stairs ahead - five paces and we’re out.”

The rest of the Wardens were waiting for them with another round of cheers and chuckles. Surana took Dumat from him with a surge of her own physical magic and healed his sprain back at their encampment. He and Nathan changed into fresh clothes, free of smoke, and someone pushed a tankard of ale into his hand where he would have preferred a roll of lotus.

“I’m starting to think Velanna was right about skipping the Tourney,” Nathan admitted.

“Now that it’s finally interesting?” Amell drank, but not nearly enough for the day he’d had. He needed a smoke. He needed more than one.

“Interesting?” Nathan repeated. “Is that what it’s called when someone tries to kill us?”

“I doubt it was meant for us.”

“And if it was?”

“Then it’s interesting.”

“You worry me, my friend. Assassins are worrying. You should be worried.”

“I don’t see why. I’ve yet to meet a man who tried to kill me who hasn’t ended up a friend, or more than one,” Amell joked.

“You assume it was a man.”

“That’s what keeps it interesting.”

Nathan snorted. “Are you alright?”

“I could use a smoke,” Amell admitted.

“I think I’ve had plenty,” Nathan joked. “But I think Surana still has some elfroot left if you wanted me to get you some.”

Elfroot wasn’t blood lotus, but it was better than nothing.

“That would-”

“Amell!” Anders. It sounded like Anders - but it couldn’t be Anders.

He’d spent a month with Anders. A month of adoration and arousal flooding him night after night only for Anders to come to the Vigil and announce his engagement to his cousin - with his cousin. Amell had spent weeks in abject anguish over every touch that passed between them. The way Anders clung to him like a drowning man to driftwood. The way Anders’ fingers trembled when they traced his face - like he was the man blind between them and somehow hoped to relearn every inch of him with just his hands.

Anders had tormented him - his days, his nights - his every waking hour and every unconscious one - begging back his ring when he wore another man’s upon his finger. A man he’d left with - walking out of the Vigil and his life without a word. Not one. Not a single letter. Not for six months, and Anders would be married in six more, and Amell didn’t doubt he wouldn’t hear from him through those months either, but he was here and he needed help so Amell helped him.

He should have anticipated the thanks he got for it.

”I don't want your hands on me. I never wanted to leave Hawke - you forced me away from him. I don’t want anything to do with you. I never have and never will.”

Apt, as always. For Anders. For the day he’d had. For the year he’d had. For the life and loves he’d had. It was so apt it took every ounce of his self restraint not to laugh. His cousin wasn’t looking for him to laugh. His cousin was looking for him to bow out, so he did, taking Cullen’s arm and his offer of an escort, and finally chuckling when it felt like they might be out of earshot.

“Something funny, Chancellor?” Cullen asked.

“It’s nothing,” Amell said.

He was nothing.

He was nothing to Anders, and Cullen was nothing to him. Amell tore Cullen’s blood from his veins - forcing it through his skin the way Cullen had thought to force him - the way templars had forced him for years - the way no one would ever force him again. The way Cullen would never force anyone again - even if Amell had to drain his heart to change it.

Amell took one shallow breath after the next until he calmed enough to laugh - but Anders interrupted him - and then Anders ruined him.

“They’re black - and red. Like… Desire or Pride.”

Amell couldn’t find his way back to the encampment. He couldn’t focus on the corruption inside his Wardens - he could only focus on the corruption inside himself. His staff connected with a wall, and Amell sank down to sit in the dirt against it. Anders saw black, demonic eyes. Not the deep red that Nathan saw, because he thought he was normal, or the milky white that Fenley saw, because he thought he was blind, or the raw veilfire that Morrigan saw, because she thought he was magic. Anders saw demon eyes, because he thought he was a demon.

Hours must have passed before Nathan found him, and sat down beside him in the dirt. “... What happened?”

“... he saw my eyes,” Amell explained.

“... what did he see?” Nathan asked.

Amell took off his blindfold, and tossed it into the dirt. “It doesn’t matter.”

No one would ever see anything worse.

Chapter 61: Little Nightmares

Summary:

Hawke was right about everything. He was right about the Grey Wardens. He was right about Amell. He was right about Anders. The only thing Anders managed to hang onto was that Hawke wasn’t right about Justice. Justice wasn’t a demon. Justice wasn’t some malevolent influence on him. Justice was the best thing about him. If Anders was one of the only good things about Hawke, Justice was one of the only good things about Anders.

Notes:

Unfortunately, I could not fit this scene into the main story, but I wanted to share it. This takes place during Chapter 142: No Children of Accursed Ones and is told from Anders' perspective.

Chapter Text

9:35 Dragon Early Molioris Nighttime
Kirkwall: Hawke Estate

Just one dream. He just wanted the one dream. Just one dream to talk to Justice - to assure him he wasn’t a demon - to assure him he still loved him - to assure him he still had the same rights to their form as Anders did and draw him out from whatever dark recess of their shared consciousness he’d retreated to ever since Hawke had proposed.

Hawke wouldn't have to know. Anders disentangled himself from Hawke’s arms and slowly slid off the bed, freezing at every other hitch in Hawke’s breath until he was free of the mattress, but somehow he made it free. Anders retrieved the enchanted kaddis from Hawke’s things, and rolled up his sleeve to paint a glyph of neutralization onto his upper arm.

He could have painted it on his wrist, but the thought that Hawke might wake up, might see it there, might know what he’d done-....

Anders stuffed the kaddis back under Hawke’s desk, rearranging the jar half a dozen times until he was sure it was how he’d left it, and then crawled back into bed. Hawke didn’t have to know if he talked to Justice. There was no way for him to know. The glyph was just a bit of paint, easily broken… unless it stained his shirt. Unless for some reason Orana mentioned the stain when she laundered his linens.

Why would she mention it? She had no reason to mention it. Stains were just stains. She didn’t talk to Hawke about the laundry. … did she? They talked. She played the lute. Hawke played the lute, or had, before he’d gone deaf. … it was fine. It would be fine. It was fine, it was fine, it was fine, but it wasn’t fine, it wasn’t fine at all, and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t sleep, and it was late but he didn’t know how late and it could be morning soon and Maker what if he never talked to Justice again?

He had to talk to him, he had to talk to him, he had to talk to him-

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

Amell. He stood under the eaves in the southern courtyard, and all Anders smelled was rain. No blood lotus. No copper. Just rain, soaking into the soil and cleansing the char all the horrors of time had left upon the land.

Anders seized Amell’s face in his hands and kissed him, swallowing Amell’s startled sound, barely audible around his own moan. His lips felt like the Maker’s mercy - like the enveloping Light He promised at the end of all Trials. There was so much warmth in him - his skin, his breath - filling him with fire, and mana, and strength, and unflinching conviction. Amell’s arms enveloped him, somehow gentle in their desperation.

“Help me,” Anders couldn’t break from him to beg - he spoke the words against his lips, between each impassioned breath, “Please - I want to leave him - I want you - I’ve always wanted you.”

“I’ll help you,” Amell promised. “I’ll always help you.”

"Do you still love me?" Anders asked.

"Of course I love you," Amell promised. The blindfold was gone - and Anders finally saw his eyes. Empty sockets, pouring rivers of blood down his smiling face, as they stood in the courtyard of Vigil’s Keep, and he left - he left - he left. "Take care of yourself, Anders."

"No - ! No! Don't leave - don't leave me again!" Anders snapped up, drenched in sweat. Everything was soaked, from his hair, to his tunic, to the sheets, as if he’d actually been there, back in the rain with Amell, and not leagues away with Hawke. The motion broke the glyph on his arm, and the Fade rushed back to him, but it was just the Fade.

Anders thought of his dream, and wondered if it had anything to do with Amell at all. He stared at the veins on his wrists, free of veilfire, and traced them through his tears.

Chapter 62: We're Here For You

Summary:

Nate had the best reaction because Nate didn’t react. Nate just cut his hair.

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 156 - You Can Stay of Accursed Ones and is told from Nate's perspective.

It is a combination of requests. ArcaneFeathers asked for Anders using his cat form. Ushauz asked for Nathaniel's perspective during Anders early days at the Vigil. Vulca asked for Nathaniel talking to Velanna about Anders using their room to wash up.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:36 Dragon Early Molioris
Ferelden: Vigil’s Keep

This was ridiculous.

Velanna may not have been his wife, but she was as close as anyone would ever come. Nathaniel had no reasons to keep any secrets from her. They’d been together for five long years, going on six, with a handful of breaks that they’d mended along the way over a handful of different things. Religion. Magic. Marriage. Children. Never in the ways that Nathaniel expected them to fight. Nathaniel loved her passion, and all the ways that she still surprised him with it.

They fought over the differences in their beliefs, and revealed a heartache they’d never know each other in the afterlife. They fought over magic, and exposed concerns of hers getting the better of her or him dying for the lack of it. They fought over marriage, but only because they knew no clan or chantry would ever accept them. They fought over children, but only for fear that so many couples found their future in them.

Nathaniel loved their fights as much as he loved reconciling them, but he wasn’t exactly looking forward to this one.

Anders was his friend. Deep down, Nathaniel knew he was Velanna’s friend too, she just hadn’t quite come to terms with him yet. She would. Nathaniel knew she would. She just needed time. Anders needed time too, but more importantly, he needed a bath.

He looked - and smelled - like someone had dragged him through the sewers, the Void, and the Deep Roads, and then put him through the Joining all over again. Nathaniel couldn’t fathom that everyone hadn’t forgiven him on the spot. Anders and Justice might have spent the past year distant and uncommunicative, but they clearly hadn’t spent it happy. Anders had shown up at the Vigil looking more ghoul than Seranni, slouched under a thick leather jacket that looked like it weighed more than he did.

His hair was a nest of matted braids that clearly hadn’t been washed or tended to in well over a month. Dirty blonde strands fell in front of his gaunt face, amber eyes sunken in his skull and twitching spastically in every direction, like his Calling had come and he heard voices in every shadow. He flickered with veilfire whenever anyone moved too fast or came too close, muttering under his breath and scratching his arms, his chest, his throat.

Nathaniel picked up a handful of words and phrases, but he couldn’t say if Anders was arguing with himself or with Justice. “We’re safe. Not here. We’re not safe. I can’t. We can’t. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

It was… beyond concerning, but Nathaniel hadn’t needed to hear any of it to know something had happened to him. He’d just needed to see him, standing there in the wash like Oghren had said.

Hey Archy, we gotta talk. Listen, it’s uh-... about Sparkles.

Anders? What about him? Have you heard something from him?

Heard something? Shit, I’ve seen something. Showed up about an hour ago looking to rejoin, but he ain’t looking too good. I was gonna go tell the Boss but I don’t think he should hear it from me.

What do you mean?

Sparkles ain’t exactly sparkling. Looks like a pile of trampled bronto dung. I don’t know what happened to him and I don’t think I wanna know, but the Boss ain’t in a place to hear it.

Why do you say that? I can’t think of anyone who’d want to know more if Anders wasn’t well.

Come on, Archy, you know how hard it was for the Kid to get over Sparkles. Doesn’t take a Paragon to feel bad for you when you look that bad. We go telling the Boss now, he’ll crawl so far up Sparkles’ ass we’ll never get him out.

It had been, regrettably, a good point. Considering Oghren made so few of them, Nathaniel couldn’t help but feel obligated to honor it, but he’d underplayed just how bad Anders looked. Standing in the washroom, drenched from head to toe in soapy water, dyed pink from how raw he’d scraped his skin, still in his trousers and tugging at the laces like he was terrified at the prospect of them coming off.

It wasn’t anywhere near normal. Normal had taken one look at Anders and decided it had better things to do. Normal certainly didn’t live in fear of its own nakedness. The only thing that did that was something that had a reason to fear being naked, and twenty questions later, he’d found it.

Nathaniel had never been raped. Nathaniel had never known anyone who’d been raped. Nathaniel didn’t even know how to tell when someone was being raped. For all his concerns and his suspicions, he’d been so blind he’d walked in on Anders being raped last year and walked right back out. But that wasn’t about Anders, that was about Nathaniel, and he kept it and everything else to himself because that was what Anders asked of him, and it seemed like the least that he could do.

He could also help him with a bath, considering Anders seemed too traumatized to take a public one, but the only other bath he had was the one he shared with Velanna, and hence, the ridiculousness of it all.

Velanna had no idea why Anders had written Amell and Oghren and not them, and was as envious as she was outraged. She needn’t have been. Nathaniel couldn’t speak to the letters Amell had gotten, but Oghren kept his, because Oghren kept everything, in a sty of letters, clothes, and half-eaten food beneath his bunk. Nathaniel had dug out a few and read over them, but they read like the ramblings of a madman.

Apologies interspersed through what looked to be a treatise on mage rights, like Anders was constantly abandoning his train of thought or never had one to begin with. His spelling was atrocious, his handwriting more so, sentences starting or stopping seemingly at random. Nathaniel supposed it could have been interpreted as Anders giving so little thought to the consequences of his actions he felt a simple sorry would suffice before moving on to discuss his own interests, but in retrospect it seemed obvious not even Anders had ever been that flippant.

“So he thinks to write to the dwarf of magic and not to me?” Velanna had huffed when Nathaniel had shown her one of Anders’ letters. “And you thought this would move me to forgive him how exactly?”

“I think it’s obvious he’s not well,” Nathaniel had countered.

“He has never been well,” Velanna had crumpled up the letter. “This changes nothing. I do not forgive him and I do not want to see him.”

It was a challenging request, all things considered, but Nathaniel reasoned that while the filthy orange tabby stuffed under his arm might have been Anders, it didn’t look like Anders, so really, Velanna had no reason to be upset. “My lady?” Nathaniel poked his head into their room. Empty. Maker’s small mercies. He set Anders on the floor and shut the door behind them.

“You really don’t have to do this, Nate,” Anders said, when he was Anders again.

“My friend, if you could smell yourself, you’d know I really do,” Nathaniel joked. “There’s plenty of towels, soaps, and the like in the wash for you. No pumice, I’m afraid.”

“Guess I kind of lost privileges there, didn’t I?” Anders said with a sheepish smile, but Nathaniel couldn’t blame him. It made sense, in a horrific sort of way, that Anders would all but skin himself to be free of his rapist’s touch.

“For a time,” Nathaniel said. “I’m sure sure the kitchens could spare some vinegar if you wanted to soak your feet.”

“You sure I shouldn’t just soak my head instead?” Anders countered, scratching at his scalp and the short strands of blonde beneath the dirty brown that had been uncovered by his haircut.

Nathaniel hadn’t known how to handle Anders’ self-deprecating jokes even when he’d been well. Now that he wasn’t, it seemed like the best solution was just to ignore them. “My mother used to swear by vinegar for her feet. I remember when she used to take her socks off to chase us from the drawing room if ever she wanted privacy.”

“I don’t know that you’re making the best case for a cologne,” Anders said.

“Vinegar would be an improvement, trust me,” Nathaniel grinned. “I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Nate,” Anders saw himself into the wash, and Nathaniel picked out a book for himself to read on the couch while he waited. He’d scarcely made it through the first few pages when the door to his room opened, and Velanna slipped inside.

“There you are,” Velanna clicked the lock behind her. She pulled the pin from her hair and shook the sun-blonde strands free in a cascade of gold that still dried out his throat, even after five years. “I need a word with you, Constable.”

Nathaniel set his book aside. “Velanna-”

“Wrong word,” Velanna grinned, a flare of telekinetic magic encasing her hand in a sapphire glow and pinning him to the couch when he tried to stand.

“Griffon!” Nathaniel blurted hastily. “Griffon!”

“Ugh,” Velanna groaned at the safe word, dispelling the magic. “What is it? You have some meeting you cannot miss?”

“Not exactly.” How was he supposed to explain this? How was he supposed to get out of this? Maybe he just needed to get out of the room and the problem would resolve itself. Nathaniel stood up and caught Velanna’s hand, turning her away from the room and towards the door. “Maybe I could have a word with you in the war room, my lady?”

Velanna squinted at him, and he knew he’d been caught, but he had no idea how. “... What are you doing?”

“Nothing?” Nathaniel lied.

“Where is your cane?” Velanna asked.

His cane. Of course he had his cane. He always had his cane, except for some reason he didn’t. It was propped up against the couch, all but forgotten. An hour around Anders and he hadn’t felt like he’d even needed it.

Lie. Quick lie. Good lie. “Your presence is so invigorating I don’t-”

“Where is he?” Velanna cut him off.

“The wash,” Nathaniel sighed.

“Why is he in our wash?”

“He needed a bath.”

“I do not care what he needs. I have no wish to fulfill his needs just as you clearly have no wish to fulfill mine.”

“My lady-”

“Do not ‘my lady’ me,” Velanna wound her hair back up into a hasty bun and stabbed her pin through it. “If you are so fond of the man, see how far your fondness gets you. Make sure he heals whatever you catch from him.”

“You can’t be this eager to pick a fight,” Nathaniel said. “Haven’t you seen him? How is your back not aching from bending to punch so low?”

“I am not Amell,” Velanna scowled. “I will not raise him from the grave he dug for himself.”

“You’re being juvenile.”

“At least I am not sneaking men into our bedroom!”

“I actually snuck in a cat.”

“... what?”

“Give him a chance, Velanna?”

“No,” Velanna left, slamming the door behind her, and Nathaniel sighed. He went back to the couch and his book, mentally running through a handful of gifts that might serve as an appropriate apology, when it occurred to him Anders might have heard their fight. Setting his book aside, he went to knock on the door to the wash.

“Anders?” Nathaniel called.

“Still here,” Anders called back - his voice was hushed, and hoarse, and at a guess it seemed like he’d been crying.

“... Everything alright?” Nathaniel asked.

“Peachy,” Anders lied.

“Do you need anything?”

“I’ll be okay,” Anders said, and Nathaniel hoped it was true.

It was hard to watch him settle into the Vigil. The rest of the Wardens didn’t know him - and didn’t make many efforts getting to know him - considering they got to know Justice instead. Anders stayed in the infirmary where Amell had assigned him, either as himself or as a cat curled up in a small patch of sunlight whenever Nathaniel came to check on him.

Oghren didn’t seem to know how to help Anders adjust and went overboard hazing him, toppling him out of his bunk in the morning, kicking chairs out from underneath him, shoving him left and right in what might have been comforting camaraderie in the army, but didn’t look comforting at all for someone who’d just escaped their abuser. Velanna wasn’t any better, conjuring roots beneath his feet whenever he went outside that sent him careening face first into the dirt.

Amell didn’t see him at all. Nathaniel went and found him after he’d helped Anders with his hair and his bath. Amell was in his quarters, and Nathaniel’s first, second, and third knocks went unanswered. “Go away, Nathan!” Answered his fourth.

“I need to talk to you,” Nathaniel called back.

A long moment passed before the door opened. Amell had a roll of blood lotus in one hand and an amber drink in the other. A bottle on the table marked it for whiskey. Amell took a seat on his couch, and Nathaniel took a seat next to him, watching him drain one glass after the next before he cleared his throat.

“At a certain point you don’t really need the glass, do you?” Nathaniel asked.

“What do you need, Nathan?” Amell muttered.

“A new altar,” Nathaniel said.

“... what?”

“In the chapel. We need a new altar.”

“What’s wrong with the old altar?”

“We just need a new one,” Nathaniel said.

“Fine,” Amell said. “See Woolsey and Voldrik tomorrow; I’ll sign for the stonework.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“... Do you want to talk about it?” Nathaniel asked.

“No,” Amell said.

“Alright,” On any other day, Nathaniel might have pressed him. The air was thick with lotus and the bottle was bound to end up in the privy with how quickly Amell was working his way through it, but he didn’t know what he could say that would undo what Anders had done to him. Amell had always seemed like he’d invested far more in their relationship than Anders, and as much as Nathaniel sympathized with both of them, he knew Amell deserved better.

Nathaniel’s hand was on the door when Amell called after him. “Nathan?”

“Yes?”

“... How is he?”

“... He seems a bit shaken up,” Nathaniel said cautiously. “He looks like he’s had a rough time. I helped him with a haircut and a change of clothes.”

Amell took another drink and waved him out. Nathaniel resolved to leave it alone, but after a week Anders still hadn’t left the infirmary, and Amell still hadn’t visited him, and his twenty questions haunted him. That Anders had been in solitary. That Hawke had put him there. That Anders didn’t seem to know how to leave it even long after he’d left Hawke. That he was still sitting in some sort of self-imposed isolation as some sort of self-imposed punishment just because he thought it was what Amell wanted, but Amell wasn’t Hawke and the Vigil wasn’t Kirkwall.

“He hasn’t left the infirmary,” Nathaniel told Amell, after the week was out, because Amell needed to know. Because Amell was his friend.

Because they all were.

Chapter 63: Sweet Thing

Summary:

“Spent time at the Rose, learning what you'd like.”

Notes:

This chapter takes place before Chapter 97 - Ghilan’him Banal’vhen of Accursed Ones and explains the time Hawke spent at the Blooming Rose that is referenced in Chapter 125 - Give and Take. It is told from Isabela's perspective. Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

9:33 Dragon 15 Pluitanis Mid-Day
Kirkwall Lowtown: The Hanged Man

Hawke was something.

He was nothing like the rest of the men in Kirkwall: besotted fools who couldn’t hoist a mainsail and spent most of their days greasing their own. He was a mountain of a man, dangerously and deliciously competent, but oh so agonizingly repressed. He acted like he’d never known the touch of a man or a woman or anyone in between. Isabela wouldn’t have been surprised if he was a stranger to his own hand.

Isabela had offered - the way friends do - to help him with that little problem, but Hawke had declined. And declined. And declined.

“Not interested,” Hawke had said, and said, and said, but the way those delightfully red eyes lingered said otherwise. They just didn’t linger on her.

They lingered on Anders. They’d always lingered on Anders and Isabela had no idea what was holding him back. Hawke looked like the kind of man nothing and no one could stop. He was an archer - and Isabela regretted never taking the time to appreciate one before. It took a special kind of strength to handle a bow, to string it up, to draw it back, to pull it taut and let it loose and bring his target to their knees. His arms alone were thick ropes of inked and veined muscle his leather armor left out on display, and what a display it was.

Isabela tapped her fingers along her tankard and sighed wistfully watching him. She wasn’t the only one. Anders was practically squirming in his chair, paying so little attention to his cards he showed his whole hand more than once leaning this way and that for a better look at the man across from him. Every glance Hawke threw over his cards in Anders’ direction made the poor mage flush pink from head to toe, the heat between them so intense at one point Anders accidentally set his cards on fire.

Archer or no archer, no one could handle that kind of tension, so Isabela wasn’t surprised when Hawke joined her at the bar after the game was over, and Anders left a few coppers lighter for his loss. Hawke slid onto a stool and slid a copper across the bar for Corff in the same motion, and it took him the whole tankard before he finally worked up the nerve to speak.

“Need your help,” Hawke said.

“You need a lot of help, sweet thing,” Isabela teased, nudging those impressively broad shoulders of his.

“Don’t know what I’m doing,” Hawke muttered, scratching nervously at his scalp and disheveling his coal black hair.

“Do any of us?” Isabela countered.

“You do,” Hawke said.

“Not that I don’t love a good mystery, but what are we talking about?”

“What you’re always talking about.”

“Sailing? Sex?” Isabela guessed. “I hope it’s sex.”

“Sex,” Hawke mumbled the word into his tankard, like he was ashamed of it, the poor thing. It didn’t surprise her - not any more than any other thirty-some-odd year old virgin might have surprised her. She’d met Hawke, after all. More than that, she’d met his mother. If ever there was a man with issues and a mommy to give them to him.

“You’ve come to the right place, then, sweet thing,” Isabela grinned, twisting on her stool towards him. Hawke stayed in his tankard, his skin flushed a shade of red to match his eyes. “Or you will. Sailing is like sex. Do it wrong, and it’ll make you sick, but do it right, and there’s no feeling in the world like it. But why do you need my help? Is this about the Reinhardt girl that mother of yours wants you to marry?”

“Not marrying her,” Hawke muttered.

“Poor her,” Isabela teased. “Who are you marrying then?”

“Not marrying anyone,” Hawke said.

“Good for you, sweet thing,” Isabela waved Corff down for another round, considering Hawke seemed to need it to keep him talking. “Marriage is overrated.”

“Don’t mean never,” Hawke glanced at her from beneath his bangs, an expression that made him look uncomfortably vulnerable and made her look away. “Just mean now.”

“So what’s special about now?” Isabela prodded, nudging him with her boot. “Are you just itching for someone to truss you up like a feast day foul and wear you like a puppet? Because I’ve got plenty of twine in my room.”

Hawke shot her a frown, and it took another tankard’s worth of ale before she finally wrung an answer out of him. “Anders is special.“

“Well aren’t you sweet,” Isabela tapped his broken nose. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re asking me and not him.”

“How am I supposed to ask him?” Hawke snorted.

“The same way you’re asking me, but with less clothes,” Isabela grinned, tangling up a finger in his collar and snapping it back against his chest.

“Not what I meant,” Hawke scrubbed the sensation away with a fist. “You’ve been begging to bed me since we met - no questions asked - and now that you know you’re full of them.”

“Well… yes, but…” Isabela fumbled for words, and took a long drink when she couldn’t find any. She didn’t particularly care that Hawke was a virgin, but she cared about why he cared. It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling she wanted nothing to do with and resolved to bury in the bottom of a tankard. “Full of questions - full of cock,” Isabela held up her hands and wibbled them back and forth. “If you’re giving me the choice I know which one I’d pick. Do I have a choice?”

“No,” Hawke frowned.

“Well there you go,” Isabela shrugged.

“Don’t want Anders asking questions,” Hawke sighed, twisting around on his stool to lean back against the bar. “Don’t have any good answers.”

“So the world’s been holding out on you,” Isabela shrugged. “So what?”

“Not the world’s fault,” Hawke said. “Had plenty of chances.”

“But…?” Isabela drawled, reigning in a dozen different jokes. “I’ve seen you in tight trousers before, sweet thing, and let me tell you, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.” Hawke made a face at her and crossed a leg over his knee. Isabela laughed and slapped his thigh. “Come on, tell me or I’ll have to weedle it out of you.”

“... wanted to love someone first,” Hawke mumbled.

“Oh ew,” Isabela wrinkled her nose.

Hawke made a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “This is why-”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Isabela caught his arm when he stood to leave and yanked him back onto his stool. “So you’re a little confused about love and sex being mutually inclusive. It happens. Why don’t we see what we can do to fix it? I’ll get you a night at the Blooming Rose if it means that much to you.”

“I’m not interested,” Hawke frowned. “Just-... I just want it to be good for him.”

Sometimes, people said things that were so sweet they made you sick. Isabela tried not to be around when that happened, but life didn’t always give her a choice. Hawke’s pathetic puppy dog sigh was definitely one of those times. Isabela patted his arm. “It will be, sweet thing. The only thing you need to know about sex is that you need to listen. No one is going to teach you better than your partner. They’ll guide you with their sighs, their shudders, their gentle swaying as they ride the crest of the waves…”

“Not good enough,” Hawke said.

“Then why don’t we see about that room at the Rose?”

“Isabela-”

“We don’t have to join in!” Isabela argued. “We can just watch. That’s a thing they do, you know.”

“... really?”

“Oh, sweetness, there’s nothing they don’t do. Just don’t ask for the ‘bad boy special.’ Trust me, it’s not what you think. Come on, let’s go before you lose your nerve,” Isabela drained the last of her tankard and slammed it back on the bar. She grabbed Hawke’s hand and dragged him out of the Hanged Man towards Hightown. The poor man was as red as his eyes when they left, but the more steps they climbed the more his color went back to normal.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this,” Hawke muttered.

“I can always get you a cucumber instead,” Isabela grinned over her shoulder at him.

“Not doing that,” Hawke said.

“A banana, then?” Isabela knocked shoulders with him. “A tuber? Oh! Can you fit your fist in your mouth?”

“What-... why-...”

“Can you fit your fist in other places? I need to know what I’m working with.”

“Nothing!” Hawke blushed. “You’re working with nothing.”

“Now I know that’s not true,” Isabela grinned.

Isabela bought them a night with Leonato and Osric when they reached the Rose. Isabela lounged on the divan, her legs draped over its arm with her head hanging upside down over the edge in what proved to be a surprisingly exciting angle. Hawke sat next to her as silent and studious as Fenris learning his letters, and it took everything in her not to laugh at him for it.

Leonato and Osric had an enviable amount of fun narrating just how much fun they were having, and Isabela threw in an encouraging whistle here and there for them considering Hawke was as talkative as a qunari mage, and it seemed like applause was the least an audience could do. The climax of their little performance certainly warranted it, as far as Isabela was concerned. Leonato blew them a kiss on his way out, and Osric a polite, “Come back anytime you want to come.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I certainly wouldn’t mind another lesson,” Isabela nudged Hawke’s shoulder with her boot, still lying upside down on the divan. “Are you sure you’re not marrying the Reinhardt girl? What do you say we get Sabina and Jethann up here?”

Hawke cleared his throat and finally spoke, “Can’t believe you know all their names.”

“Only the ones I’ve slept with,” Isabela flapped a hand at him. “It’s just manners. You sure you don’t want me to get you a night with someone?”

Hawke shook his head, “Don’t want anyone else.”

It was sweet, but it might have been too sweet. Isabela remembered the night she’d spent with Anders and how easily they’d both moved past it in the morning, and couldn’t imagine Hawke doing the same. “... Listen, sweet thing, I can definitely tell you how to please a man, but before you get your hopes up, I don’t think anyone can tell you how to keep one.”

“Don’t need any help with that,” Hawke waved her off.

“If you say so,” Isabela rolled off the divan and onto her feet. They went back downstairs to the main room, but Isabela couldn’t get the idea of Sabina and Jethann out of her mind, and decided to stay while Hawke elected to leave, but he caught her arm before he did.

“Bela… don’t tell Anders.”

“Our little secret,” Isabela flashed him a toothy grin.

“... thanks,” Hawke said.

“You know normally I have to have sex for someone to thank me for it,” Isabela teased.

“Not about the sex,” Hawke rolled his eyes. “Just… thanks. For being a friend.”

Isabela’s heart seized up on her for how easily Hawke claimed her for one. There was only one other word that came to mind that was more dangerous, but Anders could worry about Hawke’s love. Isabela was more worried about his friendship. She could see it there in the hesitant smile on his lips, and the way it crinkled in his eyes, and… well… what was the worst that could happen?

“Go get him, big guy.”

Chapter 64: Maybe Someday

Summary:

“Yeah, I know,” Anders stared at the manifestation of Amell, of everything Amell felt for him, formed, somehow, amidst all of the rage and grief and desperation of their lives, and damned if he wasn’t tired of talking to echoes. “I love you too.”

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 164: Triage of Accursed Ones. It is told from Amell's perspective. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:36 Dragon 8 Solis Mid-Day
Ferelden: West Hill Bannorn

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Two months.

Anders had been back for two months and Amell had kissed him.

He’d been without Anders for five years, and he couldn’t even make it two months?

Amell hadn’t brought nearly enough blood lotus to handle the mess he’d made of this entire expedition. He never should have let Anders accompany him. He should have left him in Amaranthine or Harper’s Ford or anywhere away from him where Amell wouldn’t have to feel his magic. The way the creationism sank under his skin and set it aflame. The compulsion it stirred in him that put blood magic to shame.

“I told him not to heal me,” Amell paced the room at the inn, counting his steps to keep from pacing himself into a wall. Five? Was it five? It seemed like it was five. “I told him.”

“I know, Kid,” Oghren said from the cot, somewhere off to his left. Oghren took a drink of something - water, probably. Nothing alcoholic. Nothing Amell wanted to drink.

“How hard is it not to heal me?” Amell kicked the wall and stumbled backwards, swearing under his breath. “Shit.” Not five. Four? Maybe four. Maybe he was moving too fast. Witherstalk always made him move too fast. “I hate Witherstalk.”

“Then stop smoking it,” Oghren suggested.

“Tam doesn’t smoke anything else,” Amell muttered, taking another pull and rewriting his mental map of the room to compensate before he started pacing again. “I should have brought more lotus.”

“You should quit the lotus,” Oghren countered, belching up his drink. “Should quit all this shit. Sparkles ever see you like this?”

“Who cares how he sees me?” Amell whirled and dizzied himself. Table - there was a table somewhere. Amell took a few unsteady steps into the center of the room before he found it and braced himself on it. “I told him not to heal me.”

“You said that already,” Oghren said helpfully.

“He doesn’t respect me,” Amell took another long pull of witherstalk, rapping his fingers along the wood to keep his hand busy. “He doesn’t listen to me.”

Anders had never respected him. Anders had only ever used him - and Amell had only ever let him. Anders hadn’t changed. Amell hadn’t changed. Nothing had changed. Anders was only going to use him all over again. He’d be a ghoul by the time Anders was done with him. Just another withered husk to be put out of its misery. He should have made himself a phylactery so Nathaniel could hunt him down with Velanna and end them both.

“I ain’t arguing,” Oghren said - a creak sounded like him moving on the cot. Getting comfortable? Going to sleep? Getting up? Amell stopped tapping on the table and listened, but no footsteps followed, so at least Oghren wasn’t trying to leave him like Jowan had left him and Zevran had left him and Anders had left him and everyone had fucking left him-

“I shouldn’t have kissed him,” Amell dragged his thumb across his bottom lip, and grimaced at the bitter taste of witherstalk that clung to his fingers from an evening spent smoking it. It didn’t help. He could still taste him - a whisper of lyrium from his last potion, an undercurrent of earth from Famine’s compulsion, the raw warmth and magic that was just Anders. Fade take him, he could still feel him.

The way Anders had clung to him, his hands everywhere, his magic everything, gasping like he’d been the one dredged from the depths of the River Dane between them. The whimpering almost-words that fell from Anders' lips between each impassioned moan like he was on the verge of begging to be fucked right there on the bank. Amell probably would have done it if Velanna hadn’t dragged him away. “I shouldn’t have kissed him.”

“I ain’t arguing that either,” Oghren snorted. “Relax, will ya? So your little head got in the way of your big head. Shit happens.”

“It can’t happen,” Amell went back to pacing. “It can’t happen because it’s Anders.”

“So it’s Sparkles. So what? He’d kiss anyone,” Oghren lobbed something at him. Bread, maybe. Whatever it was bounced off his shoulder and went fuck knew where after that. “Why are you making a big deal out of it?”

“I don’t want to be just anyone,” Amell ran his hands through his hair, and almost lost his roll in the process when he forgot he was holding one. “He doesn’t want to be with me. He just doesn’t want to be alone.”

“So don’t be with him,” Oghren said, like it was that simple. Like it was that easy. Like simple and easy ever aligned when Anders was involved. “You got more pride than that.”

“No I don’t,” Amell cackled.

“Alright, so you don’t,” Oghren said instead. “So be with him.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed him,” Amell finished off the last of his roll and dug through his pack for another. Tam had given him what she had, but what she had was a grand total of three rolls and Amell had already smoked one. He lit another with a shaky flare of primal magic and tried not to think about it.

“Kid,” Amell could hear Oghren’s frown, and imagined the way it filled his face. “You’ve been dying - literally dying - to be with Sparkles for years.”

“It was an accident,” Amell lied, trying not to think of that night. It wasn’t hard, considering he couldn’t remember it, but he could remember the morning. The way his mouth had gone dry from too much dust, too much smoke, too much drink, too much of everything there was to have too much of before he’d thrown it all up. The way his head throbbed and his muscles ached in the hours he’d spent fading in and out of consciousness while the bath went cold. The way Oghren had dragged him out of it, slapping him awake and shaking him back to life.

Maybe it hadn’t been an accident, but it hadn’t been about Anders. Not completely. It had been about his father using Anders to carve out his eyes, about coming back to Vigil’s Keep and thinking he was dead, about losing everything and everyone over and over again, about being so tired of all of it. About being so fucking tired.

“Sure it was,” Oghren drawled - as immune to his lies as he was to his magic. “You want to be with him so bad, just be with him.”

“I told you - he doesn’t want to be with me,” Amell kicked a wall again, and cursed again, and adjusted his count again. “Damnit - I hate Witherstalk.”

“You said that already.”

“I know.”

“You should quit.”

“I’m in pain-”

“Quit running into shit.”.

“Not real pain.” Amell took such a deep pull Oghren interrupted him with a concerned Breathe, Kid. “Just pain. I’ve been in pain since he came back. The only way I can get his attention is if I’m in pain. He doesn’t want me; he just wants to heal me."

“I don’t know what you want me to say here, Kid,” Oghren said.

“I wanted to take things slow,” Amell said.

“Guess it’s kinda ironic you kissed him, then,” Oghren noted.

“Given my life-long search for irony, you can see how happy I am,” Amell said sarcastically.

“Don’t think irony was part of your life-long search,” Oghren said.

This was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake. He’d never mean as much to Anders as Anders meant to him. Anders had never wanted him. Anders had never loved him. Anders cared about him. That was it. That was all he’d ever confessed. Care. Like Anders cared about his patients or his friends or his cause. Like he’d cared about a mage he’d never met, and promised to save him from the Circle, because that was just the kind of person Anders was.

Someone who cared.

Someone who never did anything more than that.

“I never should have done this,” Amell said.

“Done what, Kid?”

“I never should have told him we could try again. I never should have let him back into my life. I never should have been with him in the first place.”

“Well, you did, so what are you gonna do now?”

Amell was going to get in a fight. A fight seemed like a great thing to have, but when they reached Bann Franderel’s estate, none of his men were willing to have one. Amell seized the seneschal’s stores for the freeholders, and the seneschal thought it was sensible. He ordered the opening of the granneries for the armies, and the treasurer thought it was generous. He added on blankets, and raw goods, and supplies, and the Bann’s men agreed to all of it.

They were the most agreeable men Amell had ever met. They didn’t just support the seizure, they offered up suggestions for it, praising him and cursing Franderel in the same breath. Amell came out of the entire exchange in desperate need of a drink, and when the choice was brandy or witherstalk, Oghren preferred he stick to brandy. Oghren took him to a tavern, and let him drown for the better part of an hour before he cut him off.

“Come on, Kid, three’s plenty,” Oghren said.

“Three’s a start,” Amell disagreed, cradling his tankard in both hands before Oghren could take it from him. If Franderel did nothing else, he made sure West Hill made good brandy. It burned in the best ways, and tasted like blackcurrant with a honeysuckle finish, and was still nothing beside the dirt Anders had eaten under Famine’s influence.

Anders should have just worn a helmet. Amell should have made him wear a helmet. Amell should have made all of them wear helmets. If they’d been wearing helmets none of them would have been able to eat dirt, or bark, or rocks, or each other. More importantly, he wouldn’t have been able to kiss Anders if he’d been wearing a helmet, but he didn’t make Anders wear his helmet, or Velanna wear her shoes, or any of them wear anything they didn’t want to wear.

He should have made them. He was their Commander and he should have acted like it but he didn’t. He just let them dress however they wanted to dress because he knew what it was like to have someone make you wear whatever they wanted you to wear and he remembered all the reasons the Circle wanted him to wear it. Robes. Fucking robes. No buttons. No laces. No buckles.

Amell dug a copper from his boot and set it on the bar, “Another round.”

“I said you had enough,” Oghren warned him, and a sound like the copper being scraped across the surface of the bar followed - no doubt Oghren keeping it from the barkeep.

“I heard you,” Amell shouldn’t have brought him with him. He should have just ridden out on his own. Dumat might have been tired from the journey to Wutherford, but Amell didn’t need him for everything. Dans Leur Sang knew the way to West Hill - and Amell had his staff. He would have been fine. He might have been fine. “Go back to the room, Oghren, I’m fine.”

“I’ll go back when you go back with me,” Oghren didn’t follow it up with a joke, but Amell wasn’t in the mood for him to be serious.

“I’m not going back,” Amell tapped his empty tankard on the bar. He could feel the barkeep behind it, no doubt watching the two of them argue while Oghren warded him off. “I’m going to drink.”

“You’re going to fuck this up is what you’re going to do,” Oghren said.

“What am I fucking up?” Amell asked.

“Your whole sodding life, that’s what.”

“By having a drink?”

“You had a drink,” Oghren said. “You had plenty of drinks, and you had plenty of drugs, and you had plenty of time to figure out what the fuck you’re doing. So come on, what are you doing?”

“I’m drinking,” Amell frowned.

“Nuh uh,” The sound of wood scraping against wood marked Oghren pushing his stool back, and the thud that followed marked him hopping off it. “You’re done drinking.”

Amell twisted to follow the pull of blood when Oghren circled him, “I’m done when I say I’m done.”

“You’re done now,” Oghren disagreed, and Amell’s stool went scooting away from the bar. “Let’s go, Kid.”

“Oghren, I swear-” Amell snarled.

“On what, you little shit?” Oghren spat at him. “What do you even believe in?”

“Keep pushing me and find out,” Amell warned him.

“That’s how you wanna play it?” Oghren sucked spit in through his teeth and spat it back out, but he must have been in a good mood since it didn’t wind up in Amell’s face. “I gotta kick your ass out the door?”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Amell tightened his grip on the tankard.

“Oh I’m trying,” Oghren wrenched his stool out from under him.

Amell stumbled off it, and smashed his tankard down on what might have been Oghren’s shoulder or his back. It won him a pained snarl before Oghren charged him. A weight collided with his stomach and slammed him back into the bar, rattling wood, glass, and copper. Amell hit it with a grunt, and the tavern erupted into cheers and one very loud, “Take it outside!” from the barkeep.

Amell grabbed the first thing his hand came into contact with on the bar - cold, smooth, glass - and shattered it over Oghren’s head. Whatever was inside it soaked Oghren’s hair and beard with the scent of alcohol, and splashed back up into his face. Oghren took the blow with little more than a laugh and punched him. Fist after fist connected with his hips, his stomach, his ribs.

A surge of physical magic and a shield of arcane energy took the worst of the blows, diverting the force of them into the Fade, but he’d had too much to drink and too much to smoke and wasn’t nearly fast enough to spare himself the worst of the pain. Amell added a wave of repulsive energy to his auras that barely staggered Oghren, but his elbow did. He threw his weight down on the crook of Oghren’s shoulder, and finally won a loud, “Son of a fuck!”

A sweeping blow knocked his legs out from under him a heartbeat later, and cracked the back of his head on the bar on his way down. Amell hit the ground, dizzied, and his auras faltered. Oghren dove on him, a vicious blow that could have been anything from his fist to his foot connecting with his jaw and coming so close to breaking it Amell practically fell into the Fade to escape it.

Amell tackled him, and the resulting grappling match cost Oghren a few handfuls of hair, and left Amell so bruised and battered he didn’t have any strength left in him when someone finally tossed them both into the alley. Oghren grabbed his boot the second they were outside and dragged him through the street, scraping up his face on dirt and rocks. Amell kicked his way free and stumbled to his feet, but being outside made him acutely aware of the fact that he didn’t have any way to navigate that wasn’t Oghren.

“My staff,” Amell wheezed, holding up a hand.

“I didn’t kick ya in the staff,” Oghren said, breathing hard.

“My staff’s inside,” Amell explained.

“Aye, I’ll get it,” Oghren grabbed his arm, and sat him on what felt like a crate. “Sit your ass down and stay sitting.”

“I’m sitting,” Amell relented. The pull of Oghren’s blood faded, and the sound of a door opening and closing followed as he went back into the tavern. Amell leaned back against the wall, struggling to catch his breath, but Oghren had done a number on his ribs, and they didn’t come easy.

… he probably could have used a healer.

Oghren returned a few minutes later to press his staff into his hand and take a seat on the crate beside him. “Good fight, Kid,” Oghren elbowed him.

“Thanks,” Amell said.

“Aye, ain’t about to kiss your ass, but you need someone to kick it, you know where I’ll be.”

“I know.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Oghren offered.

“I want to drink about it,” Amell said.

“Too bad,” Oghren said.

“... He’s just going to hurt me again,” Amell said.

“You don’t know that, Kid,” Oghren said.

Amell wrung his hands on his staff, “Yes I do.”

“Alright, so he hurts you, so what?” Oghren said. “You think I ain’t ever hurt Fels?”

“You love Felsi,” Amell argued.

“Sparkles loves you.”

“He’s never said it.”

“You really need him to?”

Amell didn’t know, so Amell didn’t say. They rode back to Wutherford to distribute supplies to the freeholders. Anders had seen to most of the injured, after the battle, and was still seeing to them when they returned. On any other mission, Amell would have already left. The undead had been routed, and there was no reason for the Wardens to stay, except that Anders and Justice wanted them to stay. Anders didn’t just want to save the villagers, he wanted to feed them, to shelter them, to heal them…

He cared.

Anders always cared.

Amell meant to tell him he didn’t just want him to care, but Anders was busy healing someone when he came to see him, and sent him off with a roll of elfroot that turned into two that turned into more, and by the time Anders finally had time for him Amell didn’t care that all Anders did was care. And then Anders was in his arms, and his hands were in his hair, and his magic was under his skin, and he-...

He was tense.

He was so tense.

Anders locked his arms around his shoulders the second Amell had him on his back, frozen so stiff it seemed he’d shatter at a single touch. He stopped moving. He stopped breathing. His pulse felt so fast and frantic it couldn’t have been anything but fear. Amell imagined a handful of reasons why that might have been, but anticipation wasn’t one of them. “You feel tense,” Amell swept his hand along Anders’ side. “Talk to me?”

“Sorry,” Anders choked out.

“Do you want to stop?” Amell offered.

“...Maybe,” Anders said - like yes wasn’t an option - but if it wasn’t a hard no then it was a hard yes.

“We can stop,” Amell tried to pull from him, but Anders held him even tighter, like he couldn’t bear the thought of parting, so Amell didn’t. “Anders?”

“Sorry,” Anders said again, his voice thick with phlegm and feeling.

“Don’t be,” Amell settled over him and traced his face, but Anders wasn’t crying despite how close he sounded to it. Amell almost wished he would. It would have made sense. It would have made the whole evening make sense, but it made sense anyway. It made too much sense. It made so much sense Amell hated how much sense it made, but Anders didn’t sound like he was ready for it to make sense, so Amell pretended it didn’t. “I might have smoked more than I needed.”

Anders finally moved, gathering up his hand to press trembling lips to his knuckles, in a way that seemed unnecessarily grateful, but for once Amell hadn’t done anything for him. “Stay here?”

“Right now or tonight?”

“Both?” Anders begged, in the barest of whispers. “Is that okay? Is this okay?”

“... Anything you want,” Amell said. It felt easy to say. It felt simple to say. Anders rolled them over and lay on his chest, his weight firm and familiar, his breathing slow and shallow. The scent of elfroot and old blood clung to his hair from his infirmary, and steady hands traced idle circles on his skin while he recovered, because he had something to recover from.

It seemed obvious, and Anders seemed… vulnerable. Vulnerable in a way Amell couldn’t remember him ever having been. Evening turned to night, and Anders turned to him, and while Anders never said he loved him, Amell wanted - more than he’d ever wanted anything - to believe one day he would.

Chapter 65: Only The Lonely Survive

Notes:

This takes place during Chapter 181 - How Could You? and is a request for Tarenel who wanted to see the chapter told from Amell’s perspective.

Chapter Text

9:36 Dragon 21 Frumentum Early Evening
Orzammar: Diamond Quarter

“So the elf told me this one a ways back-”

“It sounds like Zev told most of your jokes,” Amell noted.

“Stow it,” Oghren shot back. “Like I was saying, a human, an elf, and a dwarf are walking down a trail, and they stop at a stream to let out a stream, if you know what I mean.”

“They stop for a threesome?”

“Gah! They’re taking a piss! So anyway, they take a piss, and when they’re done pissin’ the human pulls some soap out of his ass-”

“I don’t think this is how it goes.”

“You got a better place for him to keep it? You carryin’ soap around in your pockets?”

“Well I’m definitely not carrying it around in my ass.”

“Eheheh- if you were-... eheheh-”

“Keep trying,” Amell said. “You can do it.”

“If you were-... eheheh-” Oghren chortled so hard he wheezed. “If you were it’d give-eheheh-it’d give a whole new meanin’ to getting your pipes cleaned.”

Amell chuckled and shoved him. “Finish your joke.”

“Eheheh,” Oghren giggled, taking a steadying breath. “Where was I?”

“Pissing,” Amell reminded him. “The human has soap.”

“Right, right. So the human washes his hands and he says, ‘We humans learned how to be clean and hygienic.’ The elf pulls some leaves off the trees, and wipes his hands, and he says, ‘We elves do as tradition taught us, and use what nature gives us.’ And the dwarf-eheheh-the dwarf-eheheh-hohooho-...”

Amell exhaled hard through his nose, and cleared his throat to keep from dissolving into laughter with him before he’d even reached the punchline. “Oghren, the dwarf.”

“The dwarf-hehehe-the dwarf pulls up his trousers and he says-hehe-he says, ‘And our ancestors taught us dwarves not to piss on our hands!’”

Amell cackled the rest of the way to the embassy, where the grind of stone against stone marked Oghren opening the door for him. Amell followed him into the common room. He could sense Kieran some short ways off and fast approaching. “Look what I bought, Father!”

Amell knelt, and held out a hand Kieran pressed whatever he’d purchased into. Cold. Hard. A carved stone statue. “A mabari?” Amell guessed.

“Ugly one,” Oghren snorted.

“It’s a cretahl!” Kieran said, adjusting his grip to trace over the carving. “These are the horns! They live in the Deep Roads.”

“Lived,” Oghren corrected him. “Those things died out before the dwarves did, kid.”

“They linger,” Kieran insisted with Urthemiel’s voice.

“No shit?” Oghren hummed.

“Fascinating,” Amell said.

“It’s for Endrin!” Kieran explained.

“Did you get one for Trian?” Amell asked.

“A nuggalope!” Kieran ran off to retrieve the other statue and hand it to him. Alabaster, perhaps, finely carved and free of imperfections. It felt more or less like a nug, smooth and bulky, with four ridged horns that curved around its head. Amell had never seen a nuggalope, but he assumed it was accurate enough. “It’s a Knuckled Thunderer!”

“You picked excellent gifts,” Amell said. “Your friends will love them. Can you tell your mother we’re back?”

“Okay!” Kieran ran off.

Oghren elbowed him when he’d gone, “Know why they call ‘em that, don’t ya?”

“Knuckled Thunderers?” Amell asked.

“‘Cause when they get knucklin’ it sounds like thunderin’,” Oghren joked.

Amell snorted and stood, “Knuckling?”

“When you use as many euphemisms as I do you gotta get creative,” Oghren said.

Amell laughed and left for his room to change for dinner with Bhelen. He could feel the pull of Anders’ blood, and smiled when he let himself inside. “Anders, have you heard this one?” Amell had the room more or less memorized after a few days, and set his staff beside the door. “A human, an elf, and a dwarf are-”

“We have to talk,” Anders cut him off.

Amell paused, hand to the clasps of his cloak, and focused on Anders’ heart. It felt like it was racing, and Amell made his way over to him. “Is everything alright?”

“No, everything is not alright. How could everything be alright?” Anders recoiled at his approach, his heart still pounding madly in his chest, but he wasn’t bleeding, and he wasn’t baned.

“Did something happen?” Amell guessed. “Did you see someone sign again while you were out?”

“No, I-” Anders took a shaky breath. “Look, I know about golems, alright?”

“What about them?” Amell asked.

“What about them?” Anders’ laugh sounded manic. “What do you mean what about them? Where do I even start? No, you know what, where do you even start?”

Amell didn’t know where to start. Amell didn’t know what about golems had made Anders so angry. So he knew about golems. Everyone knew about golems. What could he possibly know about golems that had him so upset? “Anders-”

“Don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that,” Anders warned him, but Amell had no idea how he’d said it. It was just his name. It was just how he said it.

“Alright?” Amell said.

“You know,” Anders said darkly. A crack of lightning snapped across the room, echoing like thunder in some twisted parallel of Oghren’s joke, and Amell fought off the instinct to summon a spellshield and fall back a pace. It was just magic. Involuntary magic, spurred by emotion, because Anders had magic and emotion to spare. It wasn’t a threat. It probably wasn’t a threat. “I know you know how they’re made. You know they’re people. People you boil alive in molten lyrium and bind to a stone prison for all eternity. I know you know they’re slaves. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

… Maybe everyone didn’t know about golems.

Anders clearly didn’t know about golems. Shouldn’t Anders have known about golems? Hadn’t Anders encountered golems before? Anders had read his journal. Anders had claimed to have read his journal, but he hadn’t read his letters, so maybe he hadn’t read it after all. Or maybe he hadn’t written about golems in his journal. Or maybe he just hadn’t written about golems in that journal. Shit. The damn thing was six years old and Amell had no idea what had been in it anymore. Shit. Alright. Alright….

Shit.

“I’m not making golems, Anders-”

“Don’t lie to me!” Anders’ voice cracked and his magic cracked with it, something that might have been static or fire thinning the Veil when it rolled across his skin. “I know you had a golem during the Blight. I remember the golem we found and the golem we fought in Kal’Hirol. I know you use control rods to bind them.”

Binding. Binding was easy. That was an easy thing to fix. Amell had never bound Shale. “Shale was a friend, Anders. I never bound them. I never could. Their control rod was broken when I found them.”

“What about the rest of them?” Anders paced across the room, but his steps were soundless, and something about it was unnerving. It shouldn’t have been unnerving. So they were soundless? So he wore socks? Amell could still follow his blood. “The golems in Kal’Hirol? Those were people and you knew it. We could have tried to save them and you just threw them at each other to fight to the death. They’re slaves, Amell. They’re bloody slaves! They’re worse than slaves and you used them. Maker, you helped make them!”

… What?

“What are you talking about?” Amell asked.

“Don’t do that,” Anders was suddenly on him, so close Amell could hear him breathing, hard and harsh through his nose, like Amell had just tried to mind control him. “Don’t make me doubt myself.”

“...I’m not trying to make you doubt yourself,” Amell contemplated reaching for him, but he had no idea if that would make whatever this was even worse. “Can you just tell me what you’re talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you could have destroyed the Anvil of the Void and instead you kept it. You used it,” Anders hissed. “You’re still using it!” Anders went back to pacing, and Amell let out the breath he was holding. Fade take him, he’d thought he was done having this fight. He was so sick of this damn fight. It was like Alistair had possessed Anders instead of Justice and Amell had to fight with him all over again.

Amell was so sick of fighting. He was so sick of explaining that no one life meant more than any other and if he had to sacrifice one life to save a thousand then it wasn’t even a sacrifice. It was just what had to be done and he was always the one who had to do it because everyone else would rather watch the world bleed than risk getting any on their hands. “Do you have any idea how many casteless they’ve taken and turned into these-... these bloody things?” Anders asked, like he didn’t know. Like he didn’t care. Like he didn’t count.

“A hundred and forty-seven,” Amell said.

“What?” Anders asked.

“A hundred and forty-seven soldiers,” Amell said, fighting back a frown. “That’s how many.”

“Soldiers?” Anders repeated, like they were anything less. Like all of their names hadn’t been added to the engravings in Bownammar to honor their sacrifice. “They’re slaves!”

“They’re volunteers,” Amell said.

“Volunteers-...” The Veil thinned again, static rippling across Anders’ skin. It had to have been static. It didn’t have the same charred scent of flame, and Amell didn’t see any veilfire - but that didn’t mean Justice didn’t feel the same way when the two men were so entangled. “You don’t believe that. Don’t tell me you believe that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“They don’t know what they’re volunteering for!” Anders’ voice cracked, and he had to be hurting his throat with how hard he was trying to yell, but it wasn’t like Amell could tell him to calm down. He wouldn’t listen. He never listened.

“Neither do Wardens,” Amell said.

“That’s not the same!”

“Why not?”

“We don’t have control rods!” Anders argued, still crackling with static. It was just static. Just excess mana. Just excess anger. Anders wasn’t going to hurt him. He didn’t need a spellshield. He just had to ignore it. Amell took a steadying breath, trying to hold onto what they were fighting about, but Anders was using so much mana it was hard to focus. Lightning coiled through his panacea, and the occasional flare of cleansing flames, and he didn’t need a spellshield but he would have felt so much better with one.

Just ignore it. He didn’t need it. Just ignore it. If it hit him it hit him. It would just be an accident. It probably wouldn’t even hurt, but a spellshield would. Anders would think he didn’t trust him and it would just make everything worse. When was the last time he’d been hit with lightning? What did it even feel like? That hurlock emissary, maybe, a year or so back. It hadn’t been that bad.

“-you knew!” Anders said.

Shit. What else had he said? Why hadn't he been listening? “Anders-”

“Maker, I can’t believe you,” Anders’ rasped, his voice breaking on every other word with how hard he was pushing himself to speak. “You just let me - you just let all of us run around the city searching for survivors when you knew there wouldn’t be any! You knew what was happening, and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t trust me. You didn’t respect me.”

“Anders-”

“Do you have any idea how much that hurts?” Anders whispered like he’d been wounded.

Amell hadn’t meant to wound him. Damnit, he hadn’t even known he hadn’t known, but he doubted Anders would believe that. “I do respect you. Anders, I can’t just accuse Orzammar of an act of war without any proof-”

“Don’t make this about politics,” Anders coughed, a surge of restorative energy washing over him while he struggled with his throat.

“Are you alright?” Amell asked.

“Don’t change the topic,” Anders rasped.

“I’m not," Amell took a tentative step towards him, and another after that when nothing happened to him. "Do you need me to get you some tea?”

“What I need-” Anders wheezed. “Fuck-...What I need-”

“Anders…” Amell set his hands on Anders’ chest and slid them up to his throat. His magic subsided, but he still felt tense, like he was actively restraining himself from lashing out. Amell cooled his throat, and Anders swallowed, but whether it was for pain or to swallow back another tirade he couldn’t say. “I’m going to get you some tea, and I’m going to come back, and you can say whatever you need to say to me.”

“I can get my own tea,” Anders muttered, pushing his hands off and storming out of the room.

Amell hung up his cloak when he left, desperate for a drink, or blood lotus, or witherstalk, or anything he could drink, or smoke, or snort to escape this fucking nightmare. He should have known better. He should have known Anders didn’t know about golems. He should have known Anders wouldn’t have understood whenever he found out about golems. He should have known all of Anders’ talk about understanding the choices he’d made during the Blight was just talk.

The Anvil of the Void wasn’t anywhere near the worst thing he’d ever done, and if this was how Anders reacted to it, Amell couldn’t begin to imagine how he’d react to the rest of it. Amell felt for the couch and sat on the armrest, burying his face in his hand. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. Fuck all of this shit. Damnit. Damn this fucking nightmare and damn the Blight and damn him and damn every other choice he’d buried back then that was still there just waiting to be exhumed so it could come back to haunt him.

Of course Anders was the one who exhumed it. Of course Anders was the one making him relive it. Of course Anders didn’t understand. Why would he understand? Why would anyone understand? He should have died with the Archdemon. Alive, he was just a reminder of the Blight and all of the sacrifices it had taken to end it. There was too much blood on his hands for anyone to hold them.

This was a mess.

This was a mistake.

The scrape of stone against stone signaled Anders’ return, and a sloshing sort of clank followed. “Handle’s facing you,” Anders said. Amell smelled dirt. “Your cup’s on the left.”

… His cup?

His cup for tea?

… He hated tea.

… Why didn’t Anders know he hated tea?

“I don’t actually care for tea, Anders,” Amell forced a smile. “Thank you, though.”

“You know golems are evil, don’t you?” Anders went right back to pacing without acknowledging him. He probably hadn’t even heard him. He probably wasn’t even listening. “Tell me you know golems are evil.”

“It’s not that simple,” Amell said.

“Of course it’s that simple. Morrigan said you had a chance to destroy the Anvil,” Of course. Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? Morrigan agreed with him. Morrigan understood him. Morrigan was the only one who ever did. “Why didn’t you? You’re a mage! You know what it’s like to be a slave! How could you let anyone become a golem?”

“I’m a Warden,” Amell corrected him. “We needed golems.”

“No one needs slaves!”

“We needed golems-”

“Call them slaves,” Anders said, because Anders still didn’t understand, because Anders still wasn’t listening. Golems weren’t slaves. Golems were soldiers. Golems were sacrifices.

The Anvil of the Void was a tool - a dwarven relic - a weapon to battle back the darkspawn. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t evil. It was whatever whoever used it made it and Amell wasn’t even the one using it but Anders was acting like he’d personally dragged a hundred and forty-seven casteless kicking and screaming to the anvil and dunked them in lyrium himself because he didn’t understand what a small number a hundred and forty-seven was beside the thousands upon thousands that had died in the Fifth Blight.

Amell frowned, “No.”

“That’s what they are!” Anders’ voice cracked when he tried to scream. Amell heard the sound of Anders pouring himself another cup of tea, but it felt like he was pouring molten lyrium over him instead when more tea meant more fighting.

“It’s not that simple,” Amell scrubbed at his trousers, torn. He could just leave. He could just get up and leave and get a drink or a roll or something that wasn’t this, but there’d be no coming back if he did, and Amell couldn’t leave him. “Anders, I don’t know what Morrigan told you-”

“Don’t you dare tell me she was lying-” Anders snarled, with another crackle of electricity.

Amell brought up a hand, but the static stayed coiled around Anders’ skin and didn’t snap across the room. “I’m not saying she was lying-”

“No, because you were,” Anders said. “You knew the truth about golems and you never told me. If you really believe there’s nothing wrong with using them, then why hide it from me?”

“I wasn’t hiding anything from you, Anders.”

 

“Then what were you doing? What were you thinking? Why did you bring me here? Did you honestly think I’d never find out?”

“Anders-...” Even if he had known Anders would react this way to everything, it wasn’t as if Amell could have left him at the Vigil. Amell would never forget holding him in that accursed alley, his hands clutched tight around his throat, the warmth of Anders’ blood pulsing beneath his fingers as he focused everything he had on keeping it within his veins.

He’d never forget the healer - the way they hadn’t even tried - the way they’d insisted Anders was gone - that Amell was holding onto a dead man - that his blood magic wasn’t saving his life, it was just prolonging his death. The way his command and the blood he forced into it had broken them - and forced them to try anyway - pouring all of their mana into their spell until it had almost killed them too.

It didn’t matter.

It had worked.

He’d do it again.

He’d do all of it again.

“I’m not ready to leave you alone,” Amell said. Not even now, with Anders’ hoarse screams and his harsh magic, and the lingering threat that this could still get worse. “Not after what happened.”

“You should have told me!” Anders said, but Amell hadn’t known he’d even needed to tell him. He’d thought Anders knew about golems, and he might have had his suspicions about the abductions, but they were just suspicions, and there was no reason to voice them without proof.

“You wouldn’t have understood,” At this rate, Anders wouldn’t even believe him, so there was no point in explaining.

“I understand enough. I understand that for some reason you think anything excuses an eternity of servitude. How could you?” Anders asked plaintively. “I have been driving myself mad trying to think of some way to justify what you did, but there isn’t one. It’s wrong, Amell. It’s just wrong.”

It didn’t matter that it was wrong. “It was war.”

“I’ve been in wars. We didn’t need golems to win any of them.”

“You’ve been in battles. This was war. This was a Blight.”

“That doesn’t excuse it!”

“It excuses everything,” Amell said - and maybe reading it in his journal wasn’t the same as hearing him say it. Maybe Anders just needed to hear him say it - no matter how much Amell didn’t want to say it or remember it. “Anders, I’m glad you spent the Blight safe in Harper’s Ford. I’m glad you never had to face it, but I did. It wasn’t one battle. It wasn’t one city. It wasn’t one expedition. It wasn’t even one war. It was the end of the world.”

“I know that!”

“No you don’t. I served at Ostagar. The darkspawn horde decimated the king’s army, the Grey Wardens, the Ash Warriors, the Chasind. The only survivors from that battle were a few hundred men under Loghain’s command, deserters, Alistair, and I. Thousands died. You can’t imagine death on that scale until you see it. That valley was a river of blood and death.

“The armies that weren’t at Ostagar were pulled into a civil war because the Guerrins were too proud to stand behind Loghain after he deserted, and hundreds more died because of it. Arlings were overrun because no one was left to defend them. South Reach. The Southron Hills. The Western Hills. Everything south of the Imperial Highway and half of the bannorn. Thousands dead. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands.

“Of course I kept the Anvil, Anders. Orzammar was in the middle of a civil war. Bhelen and Pyral had the Warrior Caste killing each other in the streets, and no amount of blood magic could convince them to stop. Branka was a living Paragon. She was the only person who had the influence to stop the war and convince them to focus on the true threat, but she was gone.

“She took her entire house into the Deep Roads to search for the Anvil of the Void, because she knew Orzammar needed something to help them stand against the darkspawn hordes. You’ve seen the city. You’ve seen how empty it is. You’ve seen how few dwarves are left. Golems are the only reason Orzammar is still standing - and I don’t regret using them.

“I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t find Caridin in the Deep Roads, I found a steel golem who used his name. A steel golem no one had met and no one would believe, who had nothing to offer me against the Blight except a clear conscience. Branka offered me golems. She finished four in time for the Battle of Denerim. Four golems - and they helped me hold four districts - and it still wasn’t enough to turn the tide because it was a Blight.

“I sacrificed hundreds of people that day. Men. Women. Children…” None of the golems were children. Children who hadn’t made it to Fort Drakon before Vaughan closed the gates. Children who were tainted and knew it. Children who wanted to help more than they wanted to die. Children who wanted to be Wardens. Children who took his sword with tiny gasps when he told them they were the best of Wardens and used their blood to bring back legions of the dead that saved other children because he couldn’t save them all.

… Anders didn’t need to hear that.

… No one needed to hear that.

“I don’t expect you to understand, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done to end the Blight,” Amell said. “Nothing.”

“They’re slaves,” Anders said.

“They’re volunteers,” Amell said.

“You think anyone would volunteer for that life?” Anders asked - and Amell had to stop thinking of children and think of some other volunteer.

“I did.”

“What?”

“I volunteered for this life. I wanted it,” He still wanted it. Even now. Even after everything. He had to want it because no one else would. “Greagoir was going to have me sent to Aeonar for helping Levyn escape the Circle and Duncan offered me a life of service instead.”

“That’s not volunteering. You didn’t have a choice.”

“Aeonar was a choice. Tranquility was a choice. Death was a choice,” All choices he’d considered. “Mages have choices. We just don’t have good ones. Look at the casteless and tell me they’re any different.”

“They are different! You don’t have a control rod!”

“I’m not the one making them.”

“They’re still getting made!” Anders poured more tea - for more fighting - and Amell scrubbed the sweat off his palms. “You can’t tell me they’re not. This wouldn’t be a secret if people weren't being forced to keep it one.”

“What do you want me to do about it, Anders?” Amell asked. There was nothing he could do about it. He’d given the dwarves a weapon and the dwarves decided how they wanted to use it.

“I want you to stop it!” Anders said - like he actually thought he could.

“I didn’t start it. You don’t need to make a control rod to make a golem. You can just make golems, but that wasn’t my decision then and it’s not my decision now. I’m not Orzammar’s king. I can’t order Branka to stop making control rods.”

“But you can study Harvesters with her?” Anders shot back, like that had anything to do with the casteless or the abductions. “I know you send her the corpse of every Harvester you kill. Why would you do that when you know she’s turning people into golems? So she can turn around and make more of them?”

“The Harvesters are golems, Anders. Branka knows more about them than anyone in Thedas,” Branka knew about golems. Loghain knew about tactics. Avernus knew about the taint. How many times did he have to tell Anders that people were more than their mistakes before he believed him? “We need every advantage we can get-”

“No you don’t!” A crash accompanied Anders’ shout, like he’d thrown something at him, and Amell flinched. He shouldn’t have flinched. He should just take it. He should just take it the way he took everything and maybe then Anders would finally feel better and this would finally be over and he could go smoke until he forgot it ever happened. “Maker, do you hear yourself!? The Blight is over, Amell! It’s over - you won!”

The scrape of stone on stone marked Anders shoving some piece of furniture when he rounded on him. “You can stop! You have to stop!” Amell braced himself, smothering the urge to summon a spellshield, an arcane shield, a fade shroud, and all the other magical defenses he had at his disposal. They weren’t worth it - the same way they weren’t worth it with Alistair - when all they would do was prove to Anders he didn’t trust him. Amell waited, but Anders didn’t touch him, with his magic or his hands.

“What are you doing?” Anders demanded.

“What do you mean?” Amell asked.

“... I’m not going to hit you,” Anders sounded hurt, because of course he did.

Next time he just wouldn’t brace. “I never said you would.”

“Do you really think I would hit you?” Anders asked.

Yes. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

Anders set his hands on his shoulders, but they were just gentle. He kneaded down his arms and back up to his collarbone, inhaling a few times for words that never came, but he’d said enough. As far as Anders was concerned, he was no better than a templar, enslaving innocents for his own amusement, and nothing Amell said seemed to change his mind, so he may as well stop trying.

“I would never hit you,” Anders said.

He may as well. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I would never hurt you,” Anders’ hands swept up to cradle his face, his thumbs moving in a slow caress against his cheeks, but it didn’t feel like much of anything. “I would never hurt you.” Anders kissed him, and that didn’t feel like much of anything either. Anders kept kissing him, so Amell kissed him back, and Anders pressed their foreheads together. “I would never hurt you.”

“Alright.”

“I promise.”

“Alright.”

Anders kissed him again, a taste like dirt and spindleweed on his lips, and ran his fingers through his hair, hopefully not ruining it too much before dinner. Son of a shit. He still had to go to dinner. At least there’d be drinks at dinner. Could he get away with smoking a roll before dinner? Shit. No. Kieran had to go to dinner with him. Damnit.

“I promise,” Anders said.

“I heard you,” Amell said.

Anders pressed a hard kiss against his brow, his hands everywhere. Caressing his face, squeezing his shoulders, smoothing down his hair. Like he’d broken and Anders was trying to pack him back up into one piece, but he didn’t feel broken. He just felt tired. He could hear Anders’ breathing, rickety inhales and exhales, and on some level he knew Anders had switched from anger to depression, but he didn’t have it in him to do anything about it. “I’m sorry,” Anders whispered shakily.

“You didn’t do anything,” Amell said on instinct - to his immediate regret when Anders went right back to fighting.

“This is wrong,” Anders said.

“Anders-” Amell sighed.

“It’s wrong,” Anders said, but at least he said it gently. He wasn’t trying to shout, or cast any magic outside of his panacea, and Amell hoped he’d calmed down. “You know it’s wrong. I know you know it’s wrong. This isn’t a Blight, Amell. Orzammar doesn’t need golems, and even if they do, they don’t need slaves.”

“What do you want me to do about it, Anders?” Amell untangled them and gently pushed Anders back a pace in case he hadn’t.

“I want you to stop it. We came here to stop it,” Anders said, like he hadn’t been looking for proof the whole time they’d been here. “They’re abducting freeholders.”

“I can’t prove that.”

“You know that’s what’s happening.”

“What I know and what I can prove are two different things. Anders-...” Amell sighed, and pressed his fingers into his face. “I know you want to do the right thing, but doing the right thing right now would be an act of war.”

At least that Anders seemed to understand, because he didn’t have anything to say in response. Amell ran a hand through his hair and down his neck, kneading at his chest and forcing his heart rate to slow. Damn but he needed a smoke. Amell leaned back against the arm of the couch, and felt the breath of the Fade wash over him, a faint sapphire light replacing the void that made up his absence of sight.

Justice, because one fight wasn’t enough. “You have an obligation.”

“What obligation?” Amell asked.

“You supported the use of the Anvil of the Void and the creation of golems,” Justice said, but at least he didn’t shout. At least he didn’t seem angry. At least he wasn’t acting like something he’d done six years ago was something he’d done six minutes ago. “You are responsible for how it is used and how golems are created. You have an obligation to see it is used well.”

… What?

“Well?” Amell repeated.

“You claim a control rod is not necessary to create golems. If this is true, then perhaps they should be created, but they should be created willingly,” Justice said - like it was that simple.

It couldn’t be that simple. Anders certainly didn’t seem to think it was that simple. Justice was Anders. Anders was Justice. Justice couldn’t understand him using the anvil. Justice couldn’t support him using the anvil. Justice should have hated him for it the way Anders seemed to hate him. “I can’t make her stop.”

“You must try. You must do all you can. You must not allow an atrocity to continue when you have the ability to end it. ...Is this not what you believe? Is this not why you put an end to the Blight? Because you could where others could not?”

“This isn’t a Blight,” Amell said.

“This is an evil,” There it was. Evil. Like evil even existed at the end of the world. Like it even mattered if it did. They didn’t understand. They never would. They hadn’t seen it. They hadn’t experienced it.

… maybe that should have been enough for him.

Justice clasped his jaw, and gently turned his gaze back to him and the faint sapphire light that was the only thing Amell had ever seen in six years. “Perhaps it was a necessary one.” Amell inhaled sharply, but he hadn’t misheard him. Necessary. He’d said it was necessary. A spirit of justice said it was necessary. “But it is no longer. See an end to it.”

Amell covered his hand with his own for fear he’d take it away. The veilfire in his veins felt cool, burning against his cheek as Justice’s thumb moved in an idle caress against his skin, and felt better than anything had in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years. “I’ll-...” Amell cleared his throat. “Talk to Bhelen.”

“And should he not hear you?” Justice asked.

“I don’t have any leverage to stop him from doing anything unless I can prove he’s abducting freeholders. If I can prove it…” If he couldn’t prove it, there was nothing he could do. “He’d have to believe we’d be willing to go to war to stop.”

“Are you not?” Justice asked.

“Alistair wants it to be darkspawn,” Amell said. “Even if it’s not. If we went to war with Orzammar, word would spread to Jader and to Orlais, and they might decide to act against us while we were weak. Bhelen knows that, but he doesn’t know Alistair or Anora well enough to know if we’re willing to risk it. He only knows me.”

“And would you risk it?”

For once, Amell didn’t see a point in lying. A few missing freeholders weren’t grounds for a war that would kill hundreds if not thousands. “No.”

“Is Bhelen aware of that?”

“No.”

“Then the threat alone should serve. Ensure he makes no further control rods and that he destroys the ones he has and you will have made an end to it,” Justice said.

“Is that all you want me to do?” Amell asked.

“Is there something else that needs to be done?” Justice asked.

“I don’t feel guilty,” Amell warned him.

“I did not ask this of you,” Justice sounded unbothered.

“... You don’t think I should?” … why didn’t he? If all Justice wanted was for Amell to ask Bhelen and Branka to stop making control rods, then why hadn’t Anders just asked that?

“Guilt serves no one,” Justice said. “You must take action to undo action.”

Justice kept hold of his face, running his thumb across his cheek and his fingers through his stubble, seemingly unbothered by the contact, if not outright enjoying it. Justice had never wanted to touch him before, and after everything he’d learned, it seemed like he shouldn’t want to touch him now, but damned if Amell didn’t want to be touched. The hand that clasped his face was gentle, and ginger, and filled with unearned absolution.

“Any other thoughts?” Amell asked.

“Several.”

“On me?”

“... Several,” Justice murmured, with a gentle press of his fingers.

Amell broke into a smile despite himself. He loved the way he spoke - every unanswered and unasked question that felt almost like a waltz - but through it all Justice had never been ashamed to speak of love whenever Amell asked it of him. “Such as?”

“You are searching for something specific,” Justice noted.

“You’ve never said something specific.”

“I think no less of you.”

“...Why not?”

“I remember Kristoff’s oath. I remember Anders’ oath. I understand the darkspawn are an evil at the heart of this world and you used what you felt was a lesser one against them, but you are responsible for the world you save.”

… He had saved it. It felt good to hear Justice say he’d saved it. On some level, it even felt good to hear Justice say he was responsible for it. He had been responsible for it. He’d been one of the only people responsible for it. “There were only three of us.”

“Three of who?” Justice asked.

“Us... Grey Wardens,” Amell said, surprised he wanted Justice to know, but more surprised he trusted him to understand. “At the Battle of Denerim. Alistair quit the field. I was there with Loghain and Riordan, a Senior Warden from Jader. One of us had to die to the archdemon to end the Blight. Morrigan promised her ritual would keep me alive, but I don’t think she knew if it would really work. I think she just hoped. I think she just had to.

“I didn’t. Riordan promised to take the final blow for us, but he died before he could. The last thing he said to me was that he was sorry if I survived, because the world would hate me. Whenever there wasn’t a Blight actively crawling over the surface, humanity would do its best to forget how much they needed me… and that I should let them. Wardens have to stand apart from everyone. That’s the only way we can ever make the hard decisions.”

“I trust that it was a hard decision,” Justice said. So easily. So sincerely. So without question or doubt it stole his breath away. “I trust that you have made many, but you must do more than save the world, you must make a world worth saving. Did you not say as much when you promised to do all you could to see the mages free? Do you not still feel the same?”

Amell didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded.

“Then I think no less of you,” Justice promised.

“... Thank you,” Amell kissed his fingers. He wanted so ardently to kiss him he didn’t think to ask, and Justice sucked in a sharp breath, his hand flexing at the slight press of his lips, and Amell wondered if that was too much for him when he cared so little for sensation. He hoped it wasn’t.

“I require no thanks,” Justice said - a slight tremble in his voice Amell hoped meant he also needed no apology. “You have but to act.”

“We’re expected at the palace for dinner this evening,” Amell took a slow breath, and kept hold of his hand when he dropped it from his lips to hold against his chest. “I’ll talk to Bhelen then.”

“Do you want me with you?”

“Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes,” Justice made to step back from him, and Amell felt his heart seize for it. His support had meant more than he could say, when Anders had given him so little, and Amell caught his arm to pull him and the veilfire that burned in him close.

“Justice-...” Amell swallowed, searching for something to say that would make the moment last.

“Yes?” Justice said.

“... Will you stay with me?”

“... Yes.”

Chapter 66: Someday

Summary:

"I love you," Anders vowed. "I love you. I love you."

Notes:

This chapter takes place during Chapter 187 - I Love You Too of Accursed Ones and is told from Amell’s perspective and was requested by a handful of folks. I sincerely hope you like it! Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

9:36 Dragon 2 Cassus Evening
Orzammar - Grey Warden Compound

Anders was beautiful.

He sounded beautiful, high and hitching gasps interspersed with deep and desperate groans, softening into gentle moans the longer Amell fucked him. Amell worked slick fingers inside him in shallow, scissoring thrusts, oiling and opening him for his cock.

He felt beautiful, the heat of him around his fingers, relaxing with every stroke and clenching with every spank. Amell felt over his flushed skin, his trembling thighs, his clutching hands, bound tight against the small of his back. Amell brushed over them, and Anders' fingers shook, grabbing for him.

Amell gathered up Anders' hands, and flooded him with hot oil. Pleading whimpers spilled from Anders’ lips as the magic spilled into him, soft and whispered Oh’s, almost like he was surprised, like he’d forgotten what Amell’s magic did to him. Amell had. Amell had forgotten so many things about him - the way he moved, the way he felt, the way he looked.

“Please, oh please-please-” Anders rocked his hips back, fucking himself on his fingers, gasps pitching higher and higher like he was right on the edge until Amell pulled him back with another sharp spank. “Ah!-Oh, fuck me,” Anders begged like he was on the verge of tears. “Take me-”

Amell pressed himself against his back and Anders clutched at him, gathering up whatever part of his tunic he could in his bound hands. Amell kept his fingers buried in him, still flooding him with his magic, and on some level he didn’t even want to trade them for his cock. He just wanted to keep feeling him, to keep focusing on him, to keep fucking him however Anders wanted to be fucked.

Fade take him, Amell had wanted to fuck him for five years. He felt starved for him - for the way Anders felt beneath him - his body lithe and lissome and yielding to his every touch. He moved like magic moved him, like Amell sank into his skin and his blood and his bones, like Anders wanted all of him, trusted all of him, loved-...

“Fuck,” Amell groaned, digging his nails into Anders’ thigh, denting pliant flesh, thrusting through his finish while Anders trembled beneath him, nails raking his back, gasping lips pressed so close to his ear his every whisper felt a scream. “-Anders-” “-Ah!-ah!-” “-Fuck-” “-ah!”

Amell bit down on Anders’ shoulder, burying himself in his warmth, pouring his heart, and his soul, and his sex into him. Amell kept hold of Anders’ thigh, cleaving them together, breathing hard against his flushed skin and living for Anders' every overstimulated shiver as he filled him with everything he had to offer. Amell would have given him anything. Amell would have given him everything. Amell would have given him nothing if that was what Anders wanted from him.

Anders clung to him in the aftermath of their shared ecstasy, taking deep, steadying breaths against his shoulder, his nails buried so deep in his back he almost broke the skin. Amell held him, pressing his lips to his chest and the scar across his heart. Anders had a lot of scars, and Amell felt all of them.

The one on his heart, and the one on his throat, and the ones on his soul. The ones that made it hard for him to eat, and hard for him to drink, and hard for him to talk, and hard for him to trust, and hard for him to fight, and hard for him to flee. The ones that scarred, and reopened, and rescarred, and reopened again. The ones that made it hard for him to love and be loved.

Amell slipped his fingers into him to feel him and his release spilling from him. “Do you want to go again?”

“I want to go always,” Anders said. Amell slid his fingers in deeper, and Anders shivered, tangling his hands up in Amell’s hair to pull his ear close to his lips so Amell could hear the soft moans his slow and shallow thrusts wrung from him. Anders felt so warm, so perfect, his every harsh exhale speeding Amell’s heart and his fingers until Anders caught his arm. “I- fuck, I think I’m tired, actually.”

Amell pulled his fingers from him and ran his hand along his thigh instead. “Take a bath with me?”

Anders gave his tunic a tug, “Will you finally take this off?”

“Maybe,” Amell joked.

“I swear to the Maker, Amell, if you bathe in this just to spite me-”

“You’ll…?” Amell prompted.

“I’ll swear to the Maker, Amell, pay attention,” Anders rolled out from underneath him and dragged him into a bath warmed with primal magic and filled with salts and soap. Anders took it upon himself to wash his hair, but it felt like more of a massage, and Amell relaxed into it. “Thank you,” Anders said, at some point, for some reason.

“For what?” Amell asked.

“For you,” Anders said.

“Did I do something?” Amell asked.

“You did everything,” Anders pulled him back against his chest. “... Amell, spending the night with you-...” Anders trailed off. Amell imagined him saying something meaningful, and imagined it being enough, and on some level it was, but eventually Anders continued. “I never dared to think that I could do that again.”

“Hm?” Amell hummed.

“Have sex like that,” Anders elaborated.

Amell felt his heart cinch for the confession, and wished he didn’t know exactly what he meant and why he meant it. He squeezed Anders’ hand so hard he might have hurt him. “We can have sex however you want to have sex.”

“Still trying to get me to step on you?” Anders joked.

“Someday,” Amell said.

Anders chuckled, freeing his hand from his vice grip to run his fingers through his hair, and press a kiss against his neck, “I want you to fuck me.”

“I want to fuck you too,” Amell promised.

“Are you just saying that because you have to say it?” Anders asked.

“I don’t have to say it,” Amell said.

“... Are you sure?” Anders asked.

“I’m not compelled, Anders,” Amell said. “You cleansed it.”

“I’m the one who cast it in the first place,” Anders said.

“For me,” Amell said. “Not on me. There’s a difference.”

“Not to me,” Anders hugged him again. “Not on you. Maker, Amell, if I hadn’t asked you how to cleanse it before tonight-”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Amell said.

“You can’t just say that,” Anders protested. “I would never do anything like that to you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I’d forced you to be with me.”

“You can’t,” Amell turned in his arms to face him. “Anders, I told you, you can’t force me to do something I already want to do. Don’t you remember when I taught you persuasion? I had you compel me to kiss you because it was something I would always be willing to do.”

“You can’t say that,” Anders said. “What if you were tired? I’m tired. I told you I was tired. I told you I was tired and you stopped because I’m tired.”

“I’m not tired,” Amell said.

“What if you were?” Anders insisted, his voice wavering. “What if you were tired? What if you told me you were tired? What if-” Anders sucked in a ragged breath. “-what if you were tired?”

“...I’m not tired,” Amell said softly, cradling his face to caress his cheek with his thumb.

“I’m tired,” Anders whispered. Amell ran his hands over him, kneading his arms, his chest, his shoulders. Anders shivered, and it could have been the bath gone cold. It could have been, but it wasn’t. “I was tired.”

“You can say you’re tired,” Amell ran his hand through his hair, a length slightly shorter than his fingers with how Anders had grown it out these past six months since he’d cut it and all his ties. “You can say stop. You can say no.”

“So can you,” Anders said. Amell didn’t want to exhume everything that had happened to him at the Circle. He was past it, in a way Anders wasn’t, but Anders seemed to need him to say something, because he said it again, “So can you.”

“... I didn’t,” Amell said.

“What do you mean you didn’t?” Anders asked shakily.

“I didn’t,” Amell said. “They said they’d make me Tranquil, so I never said no to them, but you can say no to me, or you can just not say yes to me, and I promise to hear the same thing. But you can’t say that you could ever force me. You can’t.”

“I-...” Anders crawled into his lap, and locked his arms around his shoulders. Amell ran the pads of his fingers along his spine, feeling the occasional shiver play through him, until Anders finally whispered, “I didn’t say no either.”

“You can,” Amell said.

“I don’t want to now,” Anders said, hugging him tighter. “... I thought it didn’t count… if I didn’t say no.”

“It counts,” Amell said.

The water went cold, and they got out, and they ate dinner, and dinner had gone cold too. Anders burnt it with a flare of primal magic, and subsequently refused to acknowledge he’d burnt it, and Amell went along with it if only because he liked going along with him. “... you said you’ve been compelled before?” Anders asked over their burnt dinner, and Amell hummed around a bite of charcoal. “Can you talk about it?”

“You were there for it,” Amell reminded him. “The baroness in the Blackmarsh?”

“Was that the only time?”

“...No,” Amell admitted, but he wasn’t sure how much more than that he wanted to admit. Being compelled to be agreeable where Anders was concerned wasn’t terribly concerning, and wasn’t anything like the compulsions he’d suffered at the hands of demons during the Blight.

“Have I mentioned I love how loquacious you are?” Anders joked.

“Not recently,” Amell grinned - and resolved to change the topic. It was enough to share what he’d shared about the Circle without sharing any more. Anders had already said he was tired, and he didn’t need to hear that Amell was tired too, because Amell was always tired, and that Pride, and Rage, and Fear, and Desire were nothing beside Sloth, and the demon’s promise that he could finally rest, and how many times Amell had tried.

He wasn’t trying now, and if some nights it took drink to drown despair then drink would just have to be enough. Everything he had would just have to be enough because he’d never have any more, and Amell could live with that. Amell had lived with that for the past five years, and he could live with it for however many he had left.

Amell held Anders in his arms that night, doing his best to ignore the pang in his chest when he thought back on everything Anders had and hadn’t said. They were just words. Empty words he didn’t need to hear. Empty words he probably never would.

“I love you,” Anders laughed over breakfast, like it was nothing. Like it went without saying. Like it was something he’d already said. Like he’d said it so many times he didn’t even think about saying it.

Like he meant it.

Something shattered. His heart. His soul. A tiny tray of porcelain tumbling out of his trembling hand. “What?”

Amell misheard him. Anders misspoke. He meant the words for another man in another life and the true tragedy lay in the fact that that other man had scarred his heart, and his soul, and his throat, and would never hear those words again. Anders was having breakfast with that man, the same way he had hundreds of times before, and even if he’d never have breakfast with that man again he was still having breakfast with him now.

“I love you,” Anders said. Again. To him. To here. To now.

Amell felt like he was suffocating. His throat closed, and his chest tightened, and he couldn’t breathe. His eyes burned, and Amell swore he was bleeding, and it was blood, pouring down his face, because it hurt too much to be anything else. “What?

Anders must have moved, because suddenly his hand was on his shoulder, trembling like he’d never touched him before. Amell must have fallen, because suddenly he was on the floor, suffocating, bleeding, drowning, dying. He was dying.

Anders pulled what remained of him into his arms. “I love you,” Anders lied. “I love you. I love you.”

“No-” Amell choked.

“I love you,” Anders crushed him against his chest, creationism flowing through him, like there was anything left of him to heal. “I love you-”

“No-”

“I’ve always loved you. I love you-”

Amell clutched at him, crumbling apart in his arms, great gasping sobs swallowing every breath, “You love me?”

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. It was always you,” Anders said, holding him, healing him. “It’s always been you. It’s always been you.”

Chapter 67: Nature of the Beast

Summary:

"The only way to protect against the werewolf curse is not to be bitten. If you have been infected, you will know within a matter of days. You will begin to sweat and vomit and, most tellingly, your temper will become wild and uncontrollable. If that happens to you, you should seek out Witherfang even more swiftly. Your mission at that point will be rather… personal."

Notes:

This chapter was originally posted as an original work. It has been reposted as part of Apples and Apostates and the original work has been removed.

This chapter takes place before the start of Accursed Ones and is told from Alistair's Perspective. It covers the the quest Nature of the Beast as it occurred in Accursed Ones.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

9:30 Dragon
Brecilian Forest

"What are the odds the Dalish would have their own troubles?" Alistair wondered aloud to no one in particular. "I mean really, werewolves? Couldn't they have been plagued by werebunnies or something?"

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to be fighting bunnies," Leliana protested, leather clad fingers tapping thoughtfully at her longbow for a more suitable target. "Maybe wererats?"

“Or werenugs?” Alistair teased.

“Oh, do not be cruel!” Leliana gave him an ineffectual push, “Werespiders though-”

“Where the fuck are we going?” Oghren interjected, calling up ahead to where Amell led the way through the woods with Barkspawn. “Boss, are we really trusting the mutt to get us through this sodding forest?”

“We’re trusting Morrigan to get us through the forest,” Amell corrected him, but between the two, Alistair would pick the dog every time. “We’re trusting Barkspawn to get us to the werewolves. He was a tracker at Ostagar.” Amell gave the mabari a pat, and was rewarded with an affectionate bark from the dog and a suspicious grunt from the dwarf.

“Cheer up, Oghren,” Alistair said. “This forest isn’t so bad.”

“It’s beautiful,” Leliana agreed, stepping over a fallen log painted with moss a brilliant shade of emerald. The sunlight that made it through the forest canopy was tinted to match, a vibrant contrast to auburn hair and compliment to sapphire eyes.

“It really is,” Alistair agreed.

"Speak for yourself," Oghren grunted, scrambling over the same log. It splintered beneath his foot, vomiting up all manner of insects that had taken residence within. "Damned unnatural is what it is."

"I don't think it gets more natural than this,"Alistair said, dodging the stampede of bugs the man had unleashed.

"Good hard stone is what’s natural," Oghren grumbled, shaking moss off his boot, "All this greenery is making me sick."

"It could be worse,” Alistair said, “It could be haunted.”

For all the Dalish had hyped the horrors of the woods, they'd yet to encounter anything more dangerous than the occasional wolf or bear, neither of which had any 'were' qualities that he'd noticed. At this rate, Alistair was beginning to doubt they’d ever encounter any werewolves, let alone Witherfang.

"Haunted?" Oghren squeaked.

"Oh, yes," Leliana chimed in, "People have always spoken of dark and mysterious woods, haunted by unseen things. The Brecilian Forest is actually one such forest. They say the Veil is thin here, and spirits from the Fade pass over, drifting through the trees and giving them an unnatural and sinister intelligence."

"Intelligence?" Oghren repeated, shuffling away from one tree only to jump when he hit another, "Like, uh, like they're alive?"

"They're called sylvans," Amell elaborated, "And your ax is more than enough to fell them."

Oghren scurried up to the front of their procession to join Amell and his assurances. Leliana snapped off a small branch from a nearby shrub and hurried after him. “You know Oghren, it is said, if you feel you are being watched in the Brecilian Forest, you are!"

Leliana swished the branch across the back of Oghren's neck and the dwarf shrieked, leaping to the height of a human, “Son of a motherless bronto, woman, what’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, I am sorry, I was having you on,” Leliana laughed, “It is just a story, Oghren.”

“With enough truth to it,” Amell said, “The Veil is thin here. We should make camp. It’s getting dark; Morrigan should be back soon with a bird’s eye view of the forest.”

“Finally,” Alistair dropped his pack, and the others fast followed suit. A mind blast from Amell cleared away the detritus and underbrush, and they set about making camp.

Beautiful it may have been, it was slow going through the forest. The ground was made of cliffs and chasms, twisted together with brooks that made it almost impassable. Add in the fact that most of them were wearing silverite, and suddenly having Barkspawn as a tracker didn’t matter so much when they couldn’t follow where he tracked. “Do we really have to go hunt werewolves?” Alistair asked, taking a seat at the fire when he finished lighting it. “Isn’t there some other Dalish clan we can recruit? Surely the treaties apply to all of them?”

“I think we would have a bit of trouble,” Leliana said, taking a seat at his side, “Everything I’ve heard has led me to believe the Dalish would be much harder to find. I think this clan let us find them because they needed help. We may not get so lucky again.”

“We can’t risk it, Alistair,” Amell said, joining them. “They’ll contact the other clans for us once we kill Witherfang for them.”

“It’s never that easy,” Alistair said. “What do we even know about the Dalish?”

"I know a little. Did you want me to start from the beginning?” Leliana asked.

“It usually makes more sense than the middle,” Alistair joked.

“The elves gained their freedom from the Tevinter Imperium. When Andraste began Her Exalted March against the Imperium, the elves joined Her cause to fight their masters. The great elven leader, Shartan, born in captivity, rose up to lead his people. He foresaw a future where the elves were free.

“Shartan was killed when Andraste was betrayed, but the elves continued to fight, eventually breaking free of the Imperium. The elves claimed the Dales in the south, and settled there, in a land of their own.”

“And everyone lived happily ever after,” Alistair joked.

“Not quite. The elves lived in the Dales for centuries. They resurrected the worship of their elven gods, and would allow the building of no chantry. This angered the Chantry, and the hostility between the two factions finally broke out in open war. The Chantry says the elves struck first, but I do not know whether to believe it.

“The Chantry declared a holy Exalted March against the elves, named for Andraste’s similar march against Tevinter. During the Exalted March of the Dales, the elven cities were sacked, and the elven state completely dissolved. Some of the elves bitterly accepted their fates, and surrendered to human rule, living in the human cities as second-class citizens.

“But others, still fiercely proud of their heritage, refused to bow to the humans and instead became homeless wanderers. They were the elves of the Dales - the Dalish."

"I suppose people who've spent their entire history fighting are the sort we want on our side against the Blight." Alistair allotted. “I just know something’s going to go wrong eventually.”

“Didn't look homeless or helpless to me," Oghren said. "Didn’t you see those land boat things?"

"Aravels," Amell supplied.

"How do you suppose those work in the forest anyway?" Alistair asked. "Do the trees just move aside for them?"

“Sylvans may,” Amell said.

“Right. Creepy. Forget I asked,” Alistair stood and stretched, "Well, I need to use the little soldier’s room, be back in a bit.”

“Don’t go too far,” Amell warned.

“Yes, father,” Alistair called back as he left the clearing in search of underbrush. He navigated his way through a few trees and down a small slope, lost to his thoughts.

It figured the first mission he’d managed to convince Amell to let him join would amount to little more than a hunting trip. His friend was all too eager to leave him behind whenever they were faced with a potentially life-threatening mission. There was a grim practicality to the man that Alistair begrudgingly understood. They were the only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden. If something went wrong, it was better it only go wrong for one of them, but just because Alistair understood it didn’t mean he had to like it.

Amell treated him too much like how everyone had treated him his entire life. Like he had to be protected at all costs, but at least Amell did it before he knew the truth of his parentage. Alistair could honestly say Amell hadn’t treated him any differently once he found out the truth. It was a pleasant surprise, not unlike the snap of a broken branch from behind him when he finally felt secure in his privacy.

“I can hear you, you know,” Alistair said, taking off his helmet.

“Because I let you,” Leliana said, jogging to catch up and pin him to the nearest tree. She met him with an appreciative stare that still didn’t seem like it could possibly be meant for him. “So much armor. How fast do you think we can get it off?”

“Ah ha- well I- you know - there’s a lot of buckles-”

“You are so cute when you blush.”

“And you’re cute when you- you know-you-”

“I am always cute?” Leliana suggested. “This is what you were going to say, no?”

“Yes, exactly,” Alistair said, “How romantic of me!”

“I love you,” Leliana said. Alistair kissed her. He was getting better at it. The kissing. He knew he was getting better because Leliana had stopped stopping him to tell him he was doing it wrong. If there was one good thing to come out of the Blight, it was her. Her soft lips and soothing hands, the way both fit against his own as if they were meant to find each other, though at the moment neither changed the fact that…

“I really do have to go to the privy.”

“Well that is a fine thing to say to a declaration of love!” Leliana huffed.

“Leliana - love of my life - my beautiful bard - my radiant rose - I really do have to go to the privy.”

“Go on then, but I won’t forget this.”

“I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Alistair said, donning his helmet again.

Leliana vanished back into the trees, towards camp. Alistair hadn’t gone far, but given her arrival, felt like he should probably go a little further. He picked a random direction, and headed off in search of a suitable bush to turn into the little templar’s room.

This was it. The final treaty. Once they had the support of the Dalish, the only thing left was Loghain. Hopefully by the time they found this Witherfang and killed it, Eamon would wake up from his coma, rally the nobility, and win the civil war so they could finally face the Blight and the archdemon behind it. Then Eamon could take the throne, and Alistair and Amell could head to Highever to hold a proper funeral for Duncan. And after that… he and Leliana could travel the world together recruiting for the Wardens. Happily ever after, right after the Blight.

Alistair cleaned himself up and headed back towards camp.

And continued to head back towards camp, long after it seemed like he should have reached it.

“Hello?” Alistair called out. “Amell? Leliana?”

Silence answered.

Alistair doubled back to his bush, and tried to take in his surroundings. There were trees. And more trees. “Hello?” Alistair called again. “Amell? Guys!?”

More silence. Somewhere off in the distance, a brook babbled to itself, and a bird took flight. “Alright… so… I suppose that tree looks a little familiar…” Alistair set off again in a different direction, but no camp awaited him. And this time when he doubled back, neither did his bush.

“Oh boy…”

Alistair set off again, and again, and each time couldn’t tell if he was heading forwards, backwards, or in circles. Each tree looked more familiar as the last, and only the occasional rock gave him any indication he’d actually moved. Any semblance of a path had long since vanished, swallowed up by pinecones and conifer leaves. The forest stretched for leagues in every direction. Great firs and cypress blackened the sky, while their roots made a labyrinth of the forest floor, so cavernous Alistair could sense the darkspawn they drew into their depths.

So far, none had taken notice of him, but he doubted his luck would hold all night. “Hello!?” Alistair called again.

Something answered him. Like someone whispering just out of range. Alistair turned towards it, and saw nothing but trees. More trees, it seemed like, than had been there the last time he looked. “Hello?” Alistair called again.

Wind, probably, creaking through the boughs, or darkspawn, echoing from the forest’s caverns. Nothing he hadn’t heard or fought before. Alistair unhooked his shield from his back, drew his sword from his scabbard, and pressed on. “Amell!?”

The something came back. This time, Alistair was certain it was whispering. Unintelligible and guttural, like how he imagined a darkspawn might talk if they could. He turned back around, but the way he’d come from was blocked. A tree stood where none had moments prior, the ground upturned as if it had somehow just planted itself.

“Okay… Either I’m going crazy or you just moved,” Alistair decided. The tree gave no answer.

“Crazy it is then,” Alistair decided. He must have been. Trees didn’t follow people, but these trees certainly seemed like they were. It was almost as if they were herding him somewhere, but where? The only thing before him was roots, twisted into massive caverns that might have led all the way down to the Deep Roads, and there was no way Alistair was heading inside them.

Which left… left. A small cliff face seemed climbable, if crumbling. Alistair made for it, and the whispering stopped. He stopped along with it, but the trees hadn’t moved. Which meant it wasn’t coming from them.

Too late, Alistair noticed the shadow atop the cliff. The thing dove, black as ichor, and landed heavy on his shield arm, knocking him off his feet and sending his sword flying. It wasn’t a wolf - or a man - or even something in between. Golden eyes shone with malicious purpose as it snapped at him over the edge of his shield, row upon row of dripping fangs stained with the blood of old kills. Alistair shoved, frantic, but his arm was pinned with its weight.

The thing snarled back, thrashing atop him and trying desperately to tear through his armor. It dug at his shield with its foreclaws, splintering it in half, numb to every kick and shove Alistair threw at it. He managed to free his sword arm, and punched, but the thing caught his hand in its jaws and crunched. Teeth shattered against the silverite, but its fangs reached far enough to catch him above his gauntlet, and pierce the leather at the joints.

Alistair screamed, and the thing wailed, finally rolling off and away.

Alistair scrambled backwards across the forest floor, kicking up leaves and rocks in his haste to reclaim his sword, but by the time he had it in his hands and turned, the thing was gone, and the forest was silent again.

Morrigan was back by the time he found his way back to camp. Tents had been pitched, and something that smelled like rabbit was roasting atop the fire. Everyone was gathered around it, and looked to be in the midst of an argument his arrival interrupted.

“Finally,” Oghren said, “That must have been a royal piss. Get it? Eheheh.”

“At long last,” Morrigan said, “Finally figure out how everything works down there, did you?”

“Yes, haha, thank you all for your concern,” Alistair dropped his sword by his tent, “I'm going to change.”

“Are you alright, Alistair?” Amell called after him.

“I’m fine,” Alistair called back, tying the tent flaps behind him.

He was fine. Of course he was fine. Alistair took off his helmet and left gauntlet. The right was stuck. Blood and saliva had adhered the leather straps to his skin above his elbow, and had to be peeled free. Two punctures from the creature’s fangs bubbled with fresh blood when the gauntlet finally came loose. It wasn’t pretty, but it was far from a gaping wound. Alistair had had worse.

He hadn’t had worse from a werewolf.

Alistair took off the rest of his armor, set a poultice to the wound, and wrapped it. The sleeve of his tunic was of a convenient length to cover the bite, not that it needed covering, because it wasn’t a big deal. It was just a small puncture. It wasn’t a real bite. And the thing he fought might not have even been a real werewolf. Even if it was, they hadn’t seen any proof of Zathrian’s claims that those who were bitten became werewolves. They’d just seen some sick elves, who couldn’t be healed by magic. That could have meant anything.

Alistair emerged from his tent, and joined the group by the fire. “So where are we at?”

“Morrigan spotted some elven ruins to the east,” Amell filled him in, breaking off a leg of the rabbit for him, “It’s possible the werewolves could be using them as their lair.”

“Great. Sounds great.” Alistair took a bite of the rabbit - unseasoned but somehow still flavorful. Because he liked rabbit. Because rabbit was a normal thing to like. “So.. hey, what do we know about werewolves anyway?”

“What’s there to know?” Oghren belched. “Stick ‘em with the pointy bit like everything else.”

“They’re just demons,” Amell explained. “Wolves, possessed by rage, no different from the abominations we faced at the Circle. You should be able to smite them as easily as before.”

“And the curse…?” Alistair pressed.

“I’ve never heard of demons spreading a curse. Perhaps it’s the Blight?”

“Or perhaps the Dalish spoke true,” Morrigan said, “And these werewolves are no demons, but something else.”

“Like what?” Alistair asked.

“How am I to know?” Morrigan asked.

“Great. Very helpful,” Alistair rolled his eyes, and shifted to face Leliana, “What do you think? Do you know anything about werewolves?”

“I know the tale of Dane and the Werewolf, would you like to hear it?”

“Delightful. A bedtime story. If you will excuse me, I think I’ll tuck myself in first.” Morrigan tossed the bones of her share of rabbit into the fire, and left to her tent.

“I’ll give it a listen,” Oghren said, taking a drink from his hip flagon and passing it to Amell.

Alistair had no idea how Amell could trust whatever was inside it, but their fearless leader took a drink and tipped his head to Leliana. “Go ahead.”

“Let me sing of heroes and honor lost and found,
Of monsters and men in all forms,
Of Dane, hunter without peer,
Feared by the forests of Ferelden,
Who one autumn morn spied
A hart of pure white in beam of warmest sun,
A prize for huntsman’s spear.

Through the greenwood they ran, hart and hunter
Bringing the stag to spear at last in a long-forgotten grove,
Heedless that the chase had waked a hunger in the golden wood,
A werewolf, a creature with mind of man,
Lured by the hunt and come forth to lay claim
To the hart as rightful tribute
Drawn by the scent of cooling blood.

In the silence, the two hunters held.
Dane, spear-armed against the wolf with all his brood,
Knew with sinking heart he was lost
Steeled for the winding roads of the Fade
Then the best spoke, human-like in voice,
“You have taken this stag from my woods, and my pack
But nothing comes without a cost.”

The wolf pack circle, ever closer, and he
Who felled boars and bears with his bright blade
Knew fear. They spoke his name in roars
Like gravestones, offering a beast’s bargain.
“Die here, huntsman, alone
And forgotten, or take my place amongst the wolves
As I take your place amongst man.”

Thus was a bargain struck,
And Dane the wolf pack served in wolfen form,
As the werewolf to his family sped, as Dane,
One year and a day all told.
But some things cannot be repent.
Some coinage cannot be unspent,
When hearts are wagered, a fissure rent.”

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take away from that, to be honest,” Alistair said. “So Dane turns into a werewolf? Does that mean the curse is real?”

“Let’s not find out,” Amell suggested.

That night, Alistair slept uneasy, and dreamt of harts and the wolves who hunted them, and the trees that moved to shelter them. He woke to Leliana shaking him, calling his name in a panic.

“What? What is it?” Alistair demanded, struggling out of his bedroll and groping blindly for his sword.

“You were screaming,” Leliana explained, pressing the back of her palm to his forehead. Her hand was refreshingly cool, which was less of a comfort than it should have been, “Do you have a fever?”

“I’m fine,” Alistair pulled her hand away, but the more awake he became, the less fine he felt. His tunic was soaked with sweat, and the rabbit wasn’t sitting well with him. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You did not wake me,” Leliana promised, “I was watching you sleep.”

Alistair dragged his thumb over his mouth, and whipping away morning drool, “I’m sorry for that too, then,” He decided.

“Did you know your eyelids flutter when you dream? And you have such pretty eyelashes.”

“My eyelashes?”

“Mmhmm, they’re like little butterflies… I want to catch them and keep them in a jar.”

“You’re teasing. You are teasing, right? Please be teasing.”

“I feel safe in your arms. Safe, loved, and accepted. I want you to feel the same. Not plagued by nightmares of darkspawn.”

“It comes with the territory, I’m afraid,” Alistair pulled her into a hug, “I’m sure I’ll feel better after a bath. Did we camp near a brook?”

“To the north,” Leliana kissed his cheek. “Should I come with you? I don’t want you getting lost again.”

“Who said I got lost?”

“Amell. He thinks it is something to do with the Veil. That some magic in the forest is playing tricks on us all, and making it hard to know where we are going.”

“That makes sense, I suppose… Maybe no bath, then.”

“You smell good to me,” Leliana assured him, “And you look good too.”

“Always a good thing to hear from a pretty girl. I’ll take it over darkspawn anyday.”

“How glad I am to rank so high on your list. Come then, the others will be up soon and we have a big day ahead of us. Werewolves await with bated breath for you to put them out of their misery!”

“Oh… right. Blasted werewolves,” Alistair forced a grin, and got dressed.

Breakfast was uneventful, and they set off in search of the ruins Morrigan had spotted the night before. They shouldn’t have been hard to find. ‘East’ didn’t leave much room for interpretation, and yet no matter how far east they seemed to go, no ruins appeared. No ruins meant no Witherfang, and no Witherfang meant no cure to the werewolf curse. Alistair broke from Leliana’s side after a few hours walking to join Amell at the forefront of their group.

“Hey,”

“Hey,” Amell raised an eyebrow at him, “Where’s your shield?”

“I uh- I lost it. So, what’s going on? Where are these ruins?”

“To the east.”

“And we’re going?”

“As east as the forest lets us.”

“What do you mean ‘lets us’?”

“I mean there’s something wrong here, and it’s more than just the sylvans moving. We’ll walk for a time, and then suddenly we’re not headed east. I can’t explain it, but there’s some sort of force keeping us from getting to the ruins.”

“So, what are we going to do to get past it?”

“I’m not sure. We might need to head back to the clan and see if the Keeper has some sort of magic that will let us keep going.”

“Back?” Alistair's throat closed up on him, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the ache in his injured arm, “Like, all the way back? We can’t go back! We’re at least a day’s journey from the camp. The elves will have died by then.”

“According to Zathrian, they don’t die, they turn into werewolves,” Amell corrected him, “And Zathrian believes he can cure them if we get him Witherfang’s heart.”

“We can’t go back!” Alistair snapped.

“... what would you have us do instead?” Amell asked.

“I don’t know, you’re the fearless leader. Think of something!”

Barkspawn growled for his raised voice, and Alistair frowned at him, “You hush!”

“Alistair-”

“Don’t Alistair me! We made a promise that we would help these people, and we have to find a way to keep it! You said the forest was magic, right? Well you’re magic! Use some sort of ritual or something and-”

“Alistair look out!” Amell yelled, a shockwave of magic rippling out from him and knocking Alistair off his feet. It also knocked over the werewolves that burst forth from the trees. “Oghren, to me! Watch for their teeth!”

The battle was joined. Alistair rolled to his feet and drew his sword. There were a dozen werewolves, at least, and they had them surrounded, for all the good it did them. The beasts had been frozen mid-charge by Amell and Morrigan’s magic. Two were already peppered with Leliana’s arrows.

Alistair stared at one. It hung, suspended in mid-air, muzzle open mid-growl… or maybe mid-scream. Three arrows protruded from its breast, blood pulsing from the wounds to the frantic beat of its dying heart. Its once silvery pelt was painted a fetid crimson by the time Morrigan’s spell waned. The beast -... the creature, collapsed with a whimper, and lay in the grass, watching him until its eyes went dim.

No sooner had it died that another charged over its corpse towards him. Alistair drew on a holy smite, righteous fire lashing out at the werewolf and washing harmless over it. Alistair side-stepped the creature’s madly slashing claws, and spun to slash his blade across its back. The werewolf howled, a desperate, keening sound more man than wolf or demon, and kept running out into the forest, swallowed by the safety of the sylvans.

As quickly as it began, it was over. Five of the werewolves lay dead at their feet. The rest had retreated.

“We are victorious,” Morrigan noted.

“Any bites?” Amell called out.

“None here, Maker be praised,” Leliana said.

“All good,” Oghren agreed, kicking the nearest werewolf over. It rolled a handful of feet before colliding with a rock, and flopping onto its back, tongue lulling from its open maw. “That’s a lot of teeth,” Oghren noted.

“People teeth,” Alistair said. “They’re not demons. I couldn’t smite them.”

“... So the elves really turned into these things, huh?” Oghren toed the werewolves, “Heheh… walking on the wild side.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little disrespectful?” Alistair asked.

“They are dead,” Morrigan noted, “What is there to respect? Besides, these pelts would fetch a fine price in any city.”

“They’re people!” Alistair was aghast. “You can’t skin people!”

“I beg to differ,” Morrigan said.

“We’re not skinning them!” Alistair said.

“The forest let them pass,” Amell noted. “It might let us do the same if we made use of the pelts.”

“Or - or - !” Alistair body-blocked Oghren when he took out his skinning knife, “It might be furious at us for skinning people! This is a bad idea! Does no one else think this is a bad idea? Leliana?”

“... perhaps if we had a small funeral after?” Leliana suggested.

Oghren shouldered past him, and stabbed the knife down into the chest of the werewolf fletched with Leliana’s arrows. Alistair’s stomach turned. “I’m going to be sick,” Alistair ran to the nearest shrub and retched. The bread and cheese he’d had for breakfast upended into a porridge in the dirt, and the sight of it made him vomit a second time. If the rabbit he’d had for dinner joined it, Alistiar couldn’t identify it.

Leliana came up behind him to rub his back, “You have a kind heart-”

“How could you go along with this?” Alistair whirled on her, “Don’t you care about who those people used to be!?”

“Of course I care-”

“Like you cared about Marjolaine?”

“... That was beneath you. You know what she did to me. Why she needed to die.”

“Amell is wearing off on you. You’re different. Harder.”

“And what if I am?” Leliana squared her shoulders, “Perhaps you should be too.”

Regret hung heavier on his shoulders than the pelt as they continued. Leliana didn’t deserve his anger, but she’d gotten it all the same. The pelts worked, and east became east again. The ruins loomed, a vast marble structure vaguely reminiscent of the imperial highway. Grand buttresses and massive archways were overgrown with all manner of foliage, swallowed up by the forest and its denizens. The entryway opened up to a massive stairwell that descended into darkness.

“So… elven ruins, underground?” Alistair noted. “Did the elves live underground just like the dwarves?”

“Everyone’d live underground if they knew what was good for them,” Oghren grunted.

“They have a Tevinter make about them,” Morrigan noted. “Though filled with elven trappings. Tis very odd.”

“Let’s just find Witherfang.” Amell said.

For all they searched, Witherfang was nowhere to be found in the ruins. Instead, they found spiders, the undead, and a handful of demons, none of which brought them any closer to ending the curse.

“So this was all a waste of time,” Alistair said. The ruins dead-ended into a library, and unless the books were about where to find werewolves, Alistair couldn’t have cared less. He whirled on Morrigan, “Did you know about this? Did you do this on purpose!?”

“Yes, I have deliberately delayed our quest, as part of my nefarious plan to waste my own time,” Morrigan rolled her eyes, turning to Amell, who emerged from one of the bookstacks turning something over in his hands, “What is that you have there?”

“A phylactery,” Amell revealed a small vial filled with blood, akin to the ones Alistair had seen during his training as a templar. They were used to track mages, though this one seemed different somehow. “... Can’t you hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything,” Leliana said.

“Boss, you sure you should be messing with that?” Oghren asked.

“... I have to free him.”

“Free who?” Alistair asked

“Wait a moment-!” Morrigan reached out, too late. Amell uncorked the vial, and the blood surged forth, seeping into his eyes, his nose, his mouth before it exploded, knocking them all backwards.

Alistair climbed to his feet and ran to Amell’s side. His friend lay on the ground, unconscious or dead, and Alistair felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Wake up! Amell - come on - wake up!” He yelled, shaking him.

Amell groaned, and Alistiar breathed a sigh of relief. “Look, maybe, just maybe, just to spice things up, for once we don’t mess with every strange magical artifact we come across?”

“Ma nuvenin,” Amell said.

“... what?”

“Ma nuvenin, ir abelas,” Amell said.

“... Uh,” Oghren said. “You okay, boss?”

“Ir eth, ma enfenim?”

“Oh boy. Am I drunk, or is he not speaking the common tongue?”

“It sounds like elvish,” Leliana noted.

“Why is he speaking elvish?” Alistair demanded.

Morrigan retrieved the now empty vial from where Amell had dropped it, and ran her thumb over what Alistair assumed was an engraving of some sort. “This was an elven phylactery. Several centuries old, by my guess. I hope whatever deal he made with the creature within was worth it.”

“Ar glandival dithara dirth dirth’ena enasalin suledin,” Amell said.

“Great, thanks, that clears everything up,” Alistair stood up and started pacing “Is he possessed? Did some old elf possess him?”

“I do not believe so, though I suppose it could be possible,” Morrigan said.

“Maker, now what are we supposed to do?” Alistair muttered.

“Fen lasa ghilan.” Amell said, patting Barkspawn. The mabarai snuffled happily at his armor, oblivious to his sudden loss of language.

“We - can’t - understand - you,” Alistair enunciated, though by Amell’s frown he was willing to guess Amell understood him just fine. The mage patted Barkspawn again, this time removing the werewolf pelt he wore to hold it beneath Barkspawn’s nose. The mabari sniffed twice, and barked, circling the library once before stopping to wait for them by the exit.

“That’s your plan?” Alistair guessed, “Hope that Barkspawn can track the werewolves for us?”

“Nuvenin,” Amell said.

“Works for me,” Oghren shrugged, hefting his axe over his shoulder and heading to the exit.

“This can’t be happening,” Alistair said.

“This is not a permanent state of being for you, I hope?” Morrigan asked.

“Mir renan sahlin melana, ar glandival,” Amell said.

“Hmm,” Morrigan hummed, as if she could actually understand anything Amell was saying.

They followed Barkspawn out of the ruins to Maker knew where. They were doomed. They wouldn’t get anywhere without Amell. Alistair couldn’t lead them. Not through the forest, not into battle, not against the archdemon. “We’re doomed,” Alistair muttered. “You do realize we’re doomed, don’t you? How are we supposed to do anything without Amell?”

“We are doing something right now,” Morrigan pointed out.

“Have faith, Alistair,” Leliana said, “I am sure he will be able to speak common again soon. Perhaps we have only to teach him. Amell, can you say hello? Hello? Repeat after me, hello.”

“Aneth ara,” Amell said.

“... Close,” Leliana said.

“That was not close!” Alistair groaned.

“We could head back to the clan,” Leliana suggested, “They might know something of what avails him.”

“No,” Alistair said.

“No?” Leliana asked.

“No,” Alistair repeated, “We can’t head back. We have to find Witherfang before it’s too late… for the elves.”

“How noble,” Morrigan scoffed.

“It is,” Leliana agreed, though her tone was much gentler, and Alistair hoped it meant she forgave his earlier outburst. “We will find Witherfang. I know it.”

They did not find Witherfang. Day turned to night, and they made camp a second time. Dinner was hardtack and jerky, though Alistair couldn’t bring himself to finish the hardtack. When Amell retired to his tent for the night, Alistair followed him.

Amell glanced up at his entrance, red eyes catching on the fire outside. Not for the first time, Alistair couldn’t help thinking the red was appropriate for a blood mage who apparently couldn’t resist the allure of the forbidden. “Garas quenathra?”

“Yep, gar ass queen the,” Alistair said, taking a seat at the edge of Amell’s bedroll. “Look, since you can't tell anyone else right now, I have to tell you something." Taking off his gauntlet, Alistair rolled up his sleeve to reveal his injured arm. It didn’t look to be healing, if the putrid stain that had seeped through the bandage was any gauge. "... I got bit. By a you-know-what. It's probably nothing, it's teeth barely grazed me, but I thought you should know."

Amell launched into an elvish tirade. At least, Alistair assumed it was a tirade. It certainly felt like he deserved one. "Let me guess - you told me so," Alistair cut him off, and reaffixed his gauntlet. He’d meant to end it there, but something in him forced him to continue, "I insisted on coming along, and look what happened. You're always saying one of us has to stay behind in case something happens to the other, but why does that person always have to be me?

"I don't know if you're protecting me, or risking yourself, but I’m sick of it. And you know what else? I’m sick of how everything always works out for you! I’m sick of how you make everything work out for you with blood magic and demons. I’m sick of the mockery you’re making of the Grey Wardens. Did you even stop to think what would happen to the rest of us before you made a deal with whatever was in that phylactery!?

“Of course you didn’t. Because it offered you power. I don’t even know what power, I just know it was power! Duncan would have been disgusted with the way you just-.. you just-.. do anything to stop the Blight,” Alistair sighed, and stared at the wound on his arm. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry - I’m just-... I don’t know. Angry, I guess.”

Amell said something in elvish. Something that would have made him feel better, Alistair was sure, if only he could understand it. “Sure wish we’d taken some lessons from those Silent Sisters right now,” Alistair sighed when Amell finally gave up on whatever he was trying to say. “Look -.... Don’t tell Leliana. I mean, you can't, but when you can, don’t. I don’t want her to worry. We honestly don’t know if anything is going to happen. Maybe the curse isn’t real, or maybe it only works on elves, or maybe the taint makes me immune.

“But if you-know-what happens… don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine. You'll find Witherfang, and you'll kill it, and Zathrian will cure the curse and I'll show back up at camp in my name-day best. And the next time we have a mission come up, I’ll know better than to come along.”

Alistair turned to leave, and Amell caught his good arm, and pulled him back into a hug. “Tel’din’anshiral, falon. Ar nadas halani ma.”

“Thanks,” Alistair said, “I think.”

They didn’t find Witherfang the next day, or the day after that. Eating churned his stomach, and thinking churned his mind. The longer they went without finding Witherfang, the more frustrated he became. He couldn’t sleep - and when he did, his nightmares woke him in a sweat so cold it chilled him to the bone. His wound had festered, and at this point, he feared what lay in wait beneath the bandage.

And yet, he didn’t fear it as much as he feared himself. His outburst at Amell was the first of many, and he directed them everywhere. From Morrigan, to Oghren, to Leliana, to himself. No matter what he claimed, Amell wasn’t the one Duncan would have been disgusted with. Alistair was the real disgrace to the Wardens, but at least he wouldn’t be one much longer. On the third night, he left.

Alistair wasn’t sure where he was going, save that he was going away. He left behind his armor, his pelt, and his weapons, and wandered through the forest in a fevered dream of harts, wolves, and trees that ushered him down into their roots, where he became something else.

The transformation was agony - as if every bone in his body had broken. His jaw snapped, gums splitting as teeth turned to fangs. His fingers cracked, nails ripping from beneath his skin and curling into claws. His fever turned to fire, skin burning as hair sprouted from his spine and spread to cover his entire body. It was pain beyond measure, a pain so blinding it erased everything from him. His name, his memories, his will to live.

A sound not quite whimper nor howl escaped him, as he lay curled beneath the roots of the great sylvan, and seemed to summon… help.

A werewolf slid down into the cave with him, churning up dirt and bits of bark in its descent. A brindle, with golden eyes that seemed somehow soft. It sniffed at his wound, and he growled a warning. The brindle ignored him, creeping closer, and he snapped at it.

A mistake. The brindle surged forward with a snarl, locking its jaws around his neck until he whimpered a surrender. The brindle licked the wound, then, and curled up beside him in the dark. Somehow, he slept, and dreamt not of harts or wolves or darkspawn, but of the forest, and the shelter it provided.

He woke as if on fire. His blood seemed to boil through his veins, making his skin roil and ripping an agonized wail from his throat. Dragging his back along the roots and scratching at his fur brought no reprieve from the curse. It was his veins. He had to be free of it. He had to tear it out. He chewed at his wrist, when a weight slammed into him, knocking his arm from his mouth. The same weight kept him pinged, preventing him from ending his agony.

It was a werewolf. A new one. There were three now. The brindle, a blue merle, and a plain brown. He hated them. For the pain, for stopping him from ending it, for ignoring the snarls that spilled from his lips as they pawed in circles around him.

"Welcome, brother," The red growled. "The pain will not subside, but you can live with it. The Lady will help you."

“I don’t - want - to live with it,” He managed, somehow.

“You will,” The red promised. “We will help you. You are our brother now.”

“Do you remember your name?” The merle asked.

He tried, but there was nothing. Only the agony of the curse. “No.”

“Pick a new one,” The brindle suggested, “I am Longhowl.”

“Why?” He asked.

“Because my howl is long,” Longhowl explained.

“Why… a name?” He clarified.

“To have a name is to have a self,” The red explained. “You must have a self, or you will only have the curse. I am Swiftrunner.”

He tried, but no name came to him. His eyes darted across the confines of the small root cave, and settled on the arm he’d tried to chew through. There was a scar at his elbow, two pinpoints, as if left by fangs. “... Fang,” He decided.

“A good name,” Swiftrunner said. “Welcome, Fang.”

“Welcome Fang,” The other werewolves echoed.

The werewolves led him through the forest, to ancient ruins overgrown by the forest and heavy with the scent of more of their kind. Just entering the den was soothing. It carried the promise of life, of survival, of more than just the curse. Werewolves relaxed in beds of fur and foliage, fought over half-finished kills, and chewed idly on the leathery skins they left behind. A few approached at his entrance to introduce themselves, and ask after his new name and old life.

It seemed to matter a great deal whether he had been human or elf, but Fang honestly couldn’t say. “Why do we hate elves?” Fang asked.

“Because they have cursed us,” Swiftrunner explained. “Their leader Zathrian created the curse for the actions of our ancestors… so now we spread the curse to his people! So he must end the curse to save them!”

They descended deeper into the ruins, far below the ground, where roots overgrown the marble structures and gave way to a subterranean forest, lit by glowing lichen and glowworms. Walking amidst the trees was a woman neither human or wolf. Her skin was like new bark, roots shown at her joints, and her hair was tangled with vines. She smelled like the forest, but her eyes gleamed with all the powers of the Fade.

“Welcome home, Swiftrunner,” The Lady said, emerging to stroke Swiftrunner’s cheek, “Who is this?”

“Fang,” Swiftrunner explained. “We found him in the forest.”

“Welcome, Fang,” The Lady said, turning the same favor upon him. Her touch soothed the agony roiling beneath his flesh, and for a moment he had a glimpse of something beyond the pain. A human fletched with gryphon feathers. A woman borne of sunburst emblems. A mage with blood red eyes. Then it was gone. “You are home now. Go and meet your family.”

He wasn’t sure why family was important to him, but the words spoke to a part of himself he couldn’t remember. He wanted a family, almost as much as he wanted an end to the curse and the suffering it brought. His fellow werewolves welcomed him into their den. They brought him on patrols through the forest, on hunts for hart, and rabbit, and deer, and eventually, elves.

“I want to help,” Fang told Swiftrunner, some days later.

“Then you will help,” Swiftrunner agreed.

He joined Longhowl on his next hunt, following the most recent report of the watch-wolves. The group was easy to find. They were loud, and they were many, though there was only one elf in their midst. The rest were human, dwarven, qunari, dog, and one made of living stone. Their group of werewolves waited in the cover of sylvans as the humans descended into one of the forests' many valleys. “The watch-wolves spoke true,” Longhowl whispered to him, “The Dalish send humans to repay us for our attacks, to put us in our place. What bitter irony.”

“They will die,” Fang snarled.

“They will! With me, brothers and sisters!” Longhowl roared, leaping from cover and down into the valley.

Fang followed, claws churning up the ground beneath him as he charged down into the valley, eyes on the elf. He was in the center of the group, but one leap would clear the frontline and bring Fang down on him. He tensed his legs to lunge, when all once-

‘Stop!’ The command reverberated through his entire being. Fang froze, eyes twitching in his skull as his body refused to obey his mind. All around him, his fellow werewolves had frozen. He snarled, saliva dripping from his fangs at the scent of the elf, so close, so horribly close, enraged at the one who had stopped him.

It was a human, at the front of the procession. Chains of blood spun out from his hand to ensorcell the entire pack, while his companions continued to charge. “Hold!” The mage yelled. “Oghren - Shale - Stand down! Find Alistair! I can’t hold them for long.”

“For what?” A female mage laughed, leaning on her staff as she eyed the pack. She smelled of the wilds, of death and magic, “Another pelt?”

“Over my dead body,” Another female hissed. She wore leather armor that smelled of wyverns, and bore a quiver across her back to accompany the bow within her hands.

“This seems an incentive,” The mage hummed.

“Barkspawn, go, find him,” The leader ordered the hound at his side. The mabari let out a happy bark, and ran into the pack, sniffing eagerly at Fang’s companions.

“... they all look the same,” An older mage noted, a tinge of resigned despair to her voice. “Even their eyes… Leliana, dear… The spell will not last forever.”

"We have to try!” Leliana snapped, “Can you not - can you not paralyze them after Amell’s spell wears off?”

“Possibly,” The younger mage agreed, “If I had the desire to. I do not.”

“Alistair!?” Leliana called out, running into the twitching pack, “Alistair? Alistair, where are you!?”

“Help her,” The leader ordered.

“What are we even to look for?” The stone creature wondered, “All flesh creatures look the same to me.”

The rest of the group wandered obediently into the pack, poking and prodding at Fang and his brothers and sisters. Eventually, Leliana stopped in front of him, her hands running over his face, his neck, and catching on his collar. “Here!” Leliana screamed, lifting the collar to display the small emblem that hung from it, “He’s here! It’s his mother’s amulet! Alistair, my love, I am here.”

“Shale, grab him.” The leader ordered.

The golem wrapped its massive arms around him, and carried him away from his brothers and sisters as the spell ended. Fang snarled, flailing against the creature holding him, but it was made of stone, and his claws and teeth didn’t so much as chip it. The thing held him tight against its chest while the humans cut down his brothers and sisters, and there was nothing Fang could do to help.

Leliana ran to him when the battle was over, babbling of her love for Alistair. Fang scrabbled to try to free himself from the golem, snapping madly at the hands she stretched towards him.

“Bastards,” Fang snarled, scratching madly at the golem holding him, “Die! Die you bastards! Suffer as we have suffered!"

"Do stop moving or I may squish it," The golem warned him.

"Do you not recognize me?" Leliana asked, crestfallen.

"Let’s just focus on curing him, Leliana," The leader said, steering her away from him.

The rest of the humans ignored him after the battle. They set up camp, and spoke amongst themselves while Fang raged against his stone prison. He tired, come nightfall, and hung limp in the golem's arms when the leader finally approached him. There was something in his eyes that was familiar, though Fang couldn’t place it. Fang growled at him, but he didn't appear intimidated. “Earlier, you said you had suffered. How have you suffered?”

“The curse,” Fang wailed, “It burns. It burns away everything. Always, it burns."

"Everything?" The leader asked, "Like your memories?"

"Everything," Fang agreed.

"We’re trying to cure it. Do you know how?"

"I do not trust you!"

"My name is Amell," The leader explained. "Your name is Alistair. We were friends, before you were cursed. Trust me,"

"Empty words," Fang growled.

"Either you trust me of your own free will or against it," Amell warned him, rolling up his sleeve to reveal arms littered with the scars of the same blood magic that had killed Fang's pack.

"The Lady would know," Fang relented. "I can take you to her… if you promise not to kill any more of my brothers and sister."

"I promise," Amell said. "... do you truly remember nothing?"

Fang thought back to the few flashes he'd had of his past since his transformation. Some of the humans seemed familiar, like the remnants of an age old dream. Whoever they were to Alistair, they weren't to Fang. "Not enough."

"... if we can't cure the curse, what do you want me to do for you?"

"... end it."

The next morning, Fang led them back to the den to meet the Lady of the Forest, who tasked them with retrieving Zathrian and bringing him back to her to end the curse. Amell agreed, and the Dalish Keeper was brought to the ruins for a parley that ended in bloodshed. On pain of death, the Keeper was convinced to end the curse, an end that also brought about his own and the end of the Lady of the Forest.

The former-werewolves accompanied them back to Soldier’s Peak, where they began their new lives in service of the Grey Wardens, and Alistair remembered he was one. A handful of apologies and assurances later, and he excused himself to the ramparts, where he sat on the edge of the wall watching the comings and goings of the Drydens, the Wolves, and their small group of heroes as they moved about the keep.

Alistair wasn’t sure whether to blame the curse, the taint, his bloodline, or maybe just where he was sitting, but something about it all made him feel far away from everyone. After a few hours, Amell found him like that, and came to sit beside him.

“How are you feeling?” Amell asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Alistair asked, “What happened to the whole… elvish thing?”

“I fixed it,” Amell said.

“I noticed. What was all that about, though?”

“There was a spirit trapped in the phylactery. It offered me arcane knowledge in exchange for its freedom. The knowledge just happened to be its memories. It took me a while to remember which ones were mine.”

“Losing your memories, huh?” Alistair whistled, “That I can definitely understand.”

“I’m sure you can, Fang.”

“Har, har. We’re never telling anyone else about that - you know that right?”

“The gold eyes will be hard to hide,” Amell noted.

“No one really paid attention to my eyes before,” Alistair waved him off. “As long as they’re still in my skull, I think I’m okay.”

“So… flying dogs from the Anderfels doesn’t sound so far-fetched anymore,” Amell noted.

“You’re telling me,” Alistair grinned. “I think I vastly overestimated how much fun it would be to be raised by wolves.”

“What was it like?” Amell asked.

“Aside from the constant and excruciating pain?”

“Aside from that.”

“... Honestly? It was nice. It felt like… having a family. Not that I’d know.”

Amell wrapped a companionable arm about his shoulders, “You do have a family, Alistair.”

“... Yeah… Yeah, I suppose I do.”

Chapter 68: Red Mother, Red Mother

Summary:

Red Mother, Red Mother,
Everything is red
Red Mother, Red Mother,
I think my dog is dead

Notes:

This is a short piece for practice from Hawke’s perspective during Act Three. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

The Age of the Dragon
The Red City

Everything is red.

Hawke can’t remember when it wasn’t.

Everything is hot.

It makes him think it’s summer, but it can’t always be Bloomingtide. He thinks it might be Harvestmere. He likes the way the wind feels, sitting on the docks, staring at the fortress in the center of the sea. His dog is sitting with him, its head resting in his lap, but he swears there’s something wrong with it.

Everything was wrong with it. That dog was always such a dumbass. Scared of its own shadow, chasing a non-existent tail, barking at all hours of the night. But that dog’s right here, tail wagging while he scratches at its ears around the lyrium growing behind them. Color’s wrong, though. Dog looks more red than brown, but that might just be his eyes.

They don’t belong to him. He still remembers that. Still sees it in the mirror when he wakes up every morning. The red’s all wrong, too close to blood, dripping in the harbor when he stares at his reflection. The red is everywhere. It’s not just in his eyes, it’s under them, bright flecks of red he can see pulsing through his veins he knows aren’t blood because they keep breaking through his skin.

There’s so much lyrium on the left side of his face. It looks like muscle. It looks like metal. His skin looks burnt, all around where it breaks through, blackened bits that crack and stretch when there’s so much red it can’t fit inside him. The shards keep getting bigger, maybe, but he still has a hold on them. He still has a hold on something.

What’s wrong with the damn dog?

Something’s wrong with the fur on its back, some kind of ridge behind its shoulders. It might just be the lyrium, growing down its spine to that long tail the dumb dog doesn’t have, but this dog isn’t dumb. It listens when he can’t, and it looks at his hands and not his face, and it knows how to follow orders. The dog is wrong. There’s something wrong with the dog. It’s not Dog.

It’s just a dog. It’s just a hound. It’s not even a mabari. Some kind of Rivaini Ridgeback. Hawke scratches at the lyrium growing from its shoulders, and the hound kicks its foot, delighted. It’s still a dog. It’s still his dog. It’s just not Dog.

Where the fuck is Dog?

Why can’t he remember? It’s not just Dog, it’s everyone. It’s everything. The day, the month, the year. The time, as the sun settles in on the horizon, and he can’t tell if it’s going up or going down. The fortress is still there, and Beth is still inside it, and he can’t remember if that’s good or bad but at least he can remember where she is.

The others are all gone. The memories are all muddled. Everything after Mother. That much, he remembers. The sight of her skinned - the muscle, the fat, the bones, the blood. The man Mother introduced to him the day she died who’d smiled and said, “You remind me of my son.” The one who’d proven all maleficarum were monsters and the reason he’d gone on the red.

Everything is red.

Everyone is gone.

Varric isn’t at the Hanged Man. Sebastian isn’t at the Chantry. Fenris isn’t in Danarius’ estate. He can’t remember the last time he saw Merrill or Aveline, and Isabela-...

Isabela’s gone. He remembers that, or tries to, when he can remember anything, but sometimes he still ends up standing by her stool in the Hanged Man, signing at some stranger in her seat, until the stranger slinks away. Hawke watches them go, but he was just down at the docks, and he doesn’t remember going to the Hanged Man, but he’s there, the dog lying at his feet, and a snap turns its head up to look at him.

Its eyes are red. Does Dog have red eyes? Dog must, because that’s Dog, because Hawke only has the one. The one dog. The one sister. The one city. The one love.

Anders is-... somewhere. Hawke sees him everywhere - in everything. He wears his things and he carries his staff and he doesn’t care if the world mistakes him for a mage because mages are all that Hawke has left. His sister. His lover. His servants - all the apostates he keeps safe because he told Anders that he would and Hawke always keeps his word.

He just can’t remember what he said - what he did - where he went - what’s going on through all the red. Hawke scratches Dog’s ear, and Dog stares up at him with those red eyes, and somehow Hawke just knows they’re wrong. Those aren’t the right eyes. They don’t belong to Dog anymore than his eyes belong to him, but there’s red in his reflection and he can’t carve it out.

He tries, sometimes, but that always seems to make it worse. He digs at the shards that break through his face but they feel like they’re fused to the bones beneath it. There are three of them, all along the left side of his face, and most days Hawke doesn’t recognize himself but everyone recognizes him.

The Mad Viscount.

The Exalted One.

Where is Petrice?

Everything about her is red. She always makes it right. She dresses like divinity - layered red robes over obsidian armor, red lyrium splitting through her gloves like long lacquered nails, a cowl covering her hair and a featureless mask over her face. She speaks of Exaltations, of change within the Chantry, of the descending darkness, of magic and the majesty of the Maker.

That she speaks at all of mages is what first brought them together. She signs her sermons for him, and he watches her sign of a world where he can live with the man he loves free of fear, and he imagines for a time that it's real, and it's so hard to remember that it isn't when everything is red.

Petrice doesn't hold her sermons in the Chantry, but underneath the city, where Hawke can almost hear them. Everything is red. The walls. The floors. The ceiling. Her cathedral is the beating heart of Kirkwall red lyrium built beneath it. Dog doesn't like it there, but the dog goes everywhere Hawke does, so it's there for all the sermons same as him.

Petrice swears there's nothing wrong with it, and Hawke trusts her with his soul, but he isn't sure he trusts her with the dog. That dog was there for everything. For his father, and his brother, and his mother. Hawke's lost so many and so much, but he's always had his dog.

This dog…

It feels red.

It feels wrong.

It's not Dog.

It's just a dog.

He lost Dog.