#I just think Bethany and Anders should be friends with inside jokes

[flashhwing]

Hawke said one (1) time, to Anders about Bethany, “she’s not the best healer but she’s good in a pinch,” and it immediately became a running gag between Bethany and Anders

any time Bethany would heal someone one of them would say “sorry, she’s/I’m not the best healer” and the other would call back “hey now, I’m/you’re pretty good in a pinch!”

Hawke has to use a skill (lock picking, diplomacy, cooking) they’re not an expert at? “Wow Hawke, you’re not the best at this huh?” “hey but they’re good in a pinch!”

and then of course this comes to a head sometime when Anders is like grievously injured and Bethany manages to heal him to barely conscious, and she’s visibly upset and crying a little and Anders like groans or makes a pained face and she “I’m sorry, I did the best I could, I’m not as good a healer as you” and he responds weakly “it’s okay … you’re pretty good in a pinch” and it’s weird and heartwarming and the WORST part is hawke isn’t even there to witness his sister and his boyfriend being genuine besties and not just at his expense

[emerald-amidst-gold]

Ohh maybe 1, 2, 3, and 28? 👀

*takes a sip from my can of soda* Ahhh~! Caffeine for the soul~ >:3

But you know what's better for the soul? Questions! Curiosity! RAMBLING ABOUT CHILDREN! >:D Let's GOOOO!

1. What would your Warden generally think of your Hawke and your inquisitor?

Rylen: 

Now, I kind of see Elise eventually meeting or at least, reaching out to Rylen after the events in Kirkwall. After all, she’s an Amell, and so is Hawke. They’re literally the only family each other has (that’s not ‘found’ family, that is.). So, I think Elise would reach out through a letter or somehow manage a visit to her cousin and...connect. She would see him as inspiring; Rylen always manages a smile and a quip. However, if they were to spend more and more time interacting with each other, Elise would see that Hawke isn’t very well put together, especially after the Chantry explosion. She would question why Rylen chose the templars, why he executed Anders who was a like a brother to her, but eventually she would come to understand the whys. Elise would see it as no different as when she decided to spare Loghain at the Landsmeet; they did what they believed to be right and what would be best in that very moment. Both Rylen and Elise sacrificed their own happiness for the benefit of others, and were still blamed for future complications and there’s something comforting in a finding another who can relate. :3

Fane:

So, I actually have some later fic ideas for a confrontation between Elise and Fane (after Trespasser, kind of Pre-DA4 shenanas~), and suffice it to say, these two have similar ways of thinking, but their methods are entirely different. Fane is rash, prone to barreling head first into conflict without thinking about those around him. Elise is analytical, always assessing and placing the pieces in her head to make sure everyone comes out alive. This isn’t to say Fane doesn’t care about his comrades; he does. There’s countless, countless times he takes a blow for someone else without batting an eye or thinking that he could die. He just doesn’t plan; he acts. Fane can get lost in the moment of battle, in the heady scent of chaos and blood. Elise, at first meeting him, would see him as any typical warrior; eager for battle and a garden of death. But if they were to sit down and talk...I think she might find him endearing and fascinating. More or less she would think, ‘He’s so mature for someone so young. I mean, he’s twenty-four, but...he speaks as if he’s older. His speech is manicured, measured as if decided upon carefully. And his eyes...there’s pain, a deep, deep pain. Like some of the older Wardens, those just hearing the Calling. But also...hope? Conviction? Who are you, Inquisitor? What has the world done to you?’

2. What would your Hawke generally think of your warden and your Inquisitor?

Elise:

Rylen would probably have the same opinion of Elise as she does with him. They’re family, split apart due the misconceptions and fear, and my Hawke cherishes family. He lost everyone else he could rightly consider family. Fenris, Varric, Sebastian, Isabela, and Merrill are the only people he can call family now. (Anders and Aveline are complicated. I won’t go into that can of worms. For now~ >:3) He would definitely feel a level of guilt for what he had to do in Kirkwall with Anders, with the mages, with...everything, but Rylen just tries to make it through another day. If he and Elise started to interact I think it would be extremely beneficial to Rylen. Elise is patient, sometimes stern, and not afraid to lay all the facts out. Rylen would admire that since he’s had to go through life wearing a mask, a smile, a facade just to placate someone else. He would see Elise as another sister and his opinion of her would probably be along the lines of, ‘I won’t let another member of my family be torn from me. Father, Bethany, Carver...Mother.. I failed them. I won’t fail her. I won’t fail her. She’s bright and she keeps her head held high. Heh, now I see how she killed an Archdemon and lived to tell the tale. ...Bet the lightning has something to do with that, too.’

Fane: 

Rylen and Fane, in my head, actually hit it off from the get go. They’ve both had to take mantles of power, even though they never, never wanted to. Though, for different reasons, of course. But Rylen would find Fane inspiring and wholly capable of doing what must be done. He’d be kind of put off that most of his well thought out jokes and pokes would fall flat on Fane, but eventually, Rylen would see why that is. (Draconic nature withstanding.) Also, once my Hawke found out Fane is dragon?  OHHHH, BUDDY. There would be yelling and screeching and cries of, ‘WHY DO I KEEP MEETING DRAGONS, FENRIS?! FIRST THE WITCH, NOW THE INQUISITOR?! ..I’m done. I’m putting my daggers down and stealing away into the mountains. Varric, you wanna come with? I know you’re fed up with this shit, too! Don’t lie! DON’T. LIE.’

3. What would your Inquisitor generally think of your warden and your Hawke?

Elise:

Fane would probably think of Elise as...interesting. Not in a bad way. Just...interesting. Fane isn’t comfortable with Wardens after Adamant. He learns that he can hear the corruption inside of them and that terrifies him. And confuses him. And makes him go, ‘What the fuck am I? I don’t even know anymore. Why do I try?’ But, if he were to get over that and, like I said with Elise, talk? He would have another perspective of the men and women that had let fear take them by the throat. It wouldn’t change his feelings regarding the Wardens entirely, but one level mind, one open mind, is enough to make Fane tap into his nature and consider other sides of a very, very large cube.

‘She’s more...quiet than the others. Maybe because it’s just her? No...Loghain was still loud as fuck when it was just him, so why? Ugh, I’m so sick of these puzzles. At least she’s more stable, but I can see the pain in her eyes; green like mine, but missing the gold. Maybe the Taint is stronger than she thinks? Perhaps, but still she fights, still she claws her way towards something that may be impossible. ...Hmph. How typical. A similarity. This world continues to confound.’

Rylen:

Fane respects Rylen after spending some time to feel him out, know his cues, and piece together which is his actual face. Once that happens, Fane can move into respect with my Hawke. These two have a fairly similar moral compass; pragmatism regarding most decisions. Again, they both have been thrust into a position without asking for it, so that would be a stepping stone upon the bonding path. All in all, Fane’s general opinion of Rylen would be, ‘He’s worn that mask of smiles and bright, grey eyes for too long. It’s cracking at the edges, wearing down to mere mortar. Then again, I have my own mask. I’m in no position to judge and condemn, but...it’s worrying. Even the strongest wings can be torn and all that greets is the earth below. I hope your wings don’t falter, Champion. It would be disappointing for the world to lose someone who cares when those who should are content to point the finger towards anyone but themselves.’

28. What is their favourite location within their own game and what would be their favourite in each others?

Fane: The Emprise du Lion! Snowwwww! Coooold! Ice dragooooon! >:3 ...minus the red lyrium. *snorts* 

Origins: Hmm, I think Fane would like the Brecilian Forest. He enjoys forests as much as he enjoys the cold, the ice, and the snow. He likes the animals, even though he tries not to interfere with them, and he likes the quiet. No chattering, no demands. Only trees, leaves, and the occasional whistle of wind. Also, Fane likes to investigate ancient ruins. He’s not interested in the history, really. He just wants to see if he can find any remnants about his kin that the elves may have left behind. :3

DA2: Probably Sundermount since again, wilderness. Fane doesn’t do too well in crowded areas and Kirkwall would make his heart rate sky rocket. Not just because of the people, but because of the size. Those cramped streets of Lowtown would just make him...eugh. *shivers*

Elise: She adores Orzammar! Especially the Shaperate! The dwarves fascinate Elise since not many tomes in the Circle went into depth about them! :D And if we want to with Awakening areas, I would saaaay...Amaranthine. She’s always like towns and cities due to not being able to experience them until the Blight! :3

Inquisition: Elise would adore the Frostback Basin. Like, really enjoy it! All that flora and Avaar culture and wilderness? MMMM!

DA2: Definitely the Wounded Coast. Hands down. My daughter enjoys the sea so much. The salt in the air, the feel of sand, and the pretty, pretty shells and rolling waves? Every Circle mages’ wet dream. *waggles eyebrows*

Rylen: So, if we’re not talking like open world areas in the game, I would definitely say Rylen’s favorite place is the Hanged Man. The man needs a drink to deal with Kirkwall. Just saying. It’s also where he can just...be himself with the people who know him. 

Inquisition: Hinterlands. He’s a FERELDAN. He wants his MABARI to RUN in native land! He wants to...go home. ;3;

Origins: I like to think the Hawke family went all over Ferelden before settling in Lothering. I mean, they kind of do, but maybe for more than a few months at a time? So, Rylen would enjoy Denerim. He likes to go where people are, where life is. He likes crowds because he can blend into them and not be tracked down until he wants to be tracked down. ...My Hawke just wants to live in peace with his glowy elf husband and run a mabari ranch. Is that too much to ask, Bioware?! Let Hawke REST!

Woo! That was FUN! It really got me thinking, too! X3 Thank you so much, friend! <3

[basementdwellercreaturefeature]

Honor

The fire was warm and contained in its hearth and the light spilled over the floor like paint lazily pooling on a canvas. Hawke was sitting on the bed, her legs crossed, in her nightclothes. Her hair was short now, cut above her ears. No longer her father’s wild thing, with a fringe that fell so defiantly in her eyes. Not a wild thing now. 

Not her father’s. Not her mother’s. Not the Champion. His. 

Anders walked into their room, hunched over and exhausted from a day spent sewing seeds of selflessness in a city of unfertile, ungrateful ground. He rubbed the back of his neck and the skin around his eyes. Mussed hair, blonde and brilliant, still made her breathless after years waking up covered in its gold. She shifted, situating herself on the bed with her hands sitting in her lap, without occupation they moved around on their own. She had no hair to play with now. 

“Hi,” she said softly and he looked up at her. Tired eyes, older than he was, filled with desperate, aching affection and unending pleading, looked back at her. 

“Hello, love.” 

Hawke held out a hand and beckoned to him, “Come here.” 

Anders obeyed, sighed as he did so and sat down beside her, pulling himself next to where she sat and resting his head in her lap. He pulled at her nightshirt and his fingers flexed and unflexed, trembling slightly. With tenderness, she played with strands of his hair and bent down, kissing his forehead. 

“You’re tired,” she observed. 

“I’m always tired,” he mumbled in response, his eyes closing. 

“Can you stay awake for a little longer?” she asked, genuinely. 

He opened one eye, “Yes.”

“I have something for you,” she smiled and moved his head from her lap gently, carefully. 

He was a precious thing, his inches. Hands held hers and a healing power too potent to refuse. Feet tread fearfully in the Circle halls and over dirt and broken glass and carried him to far off places to find freedom. Legs ran endlessly from the sword of mercy that sought him out, kicking as he screamed, fighting as they feared him. Chest held a heart that beat for every mage that was forced to break their own because the Chantry denied them the love they sought. Shoulders carried a burden too big for one man and offered a comfort for her cries when she missed her mother. Head held dreams. Dreams of a dead man. Dreams of her father.

Hawke walked over to the cabinet she had kept it in, his staff. His honor. Malcolm Hawke’s honor. It was crafted by his hands, Andraste herself at its peak, surrounded by Circle iconography, inverted and defiant. She looked at Anders, sitting up and staring at her quizzically as she held the staff with shaking fingers. Gazing back at her, the mage still made her stomach muscles coil with a wretched guilt. He was so good and he was so terrible and she knew it. She could feel that he was burning and every day the fire was flaring brighter and she could see the smoke and she knew she was breathing it and it was poison in her lungs but all she saw was the way he looked in morning sunlight. Spilled, vibrant sunlight. 

Maker. You’re like gold.

She walked over to him and sat on the bed, holding the staff out.

“This is for you.”

Anders took it from her, his expression unsure, “A staff,” he observed. His fingers traced the delicate workmanship and Hawke watched as his expression shifted from casual observation to wonderment as he studied it. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” she breathed, her eyes still fixed on him, “It is.”

“Where did you get it?”

Hawke’s face twitched between a smile and a contorted, pained expression as she tried and failed to keep the tears shelved deep inside her, the books in the library of her mind she was often too scared to read. Anders had seen her cry more than anyone else. He had been the reason for it, he had been the balm, he had been her desperate solution. After years waking up, tangled in his legs and their sheets and seeing warm freckled arms weaved in the pallid cold white of her own, she still found herself trying to be stronger than she could be because she didn’t want him to have to be strong at all. Not anymore. 

Be weak, my love. Be weak with me and let me hold what you never should have had to. 

If she could hold it, the heartache and the frailty and the bad memories and the desperate screaming that echoed in him, if she could just hold it herself for a little while, maybe he could feel free for a moment. Maybe he could smile. 

Take my empty places. Fill them with the sorrow you know so well. 

Could she give him freedom in the little wisps of the morning, when he breathed so slowly next to her? Could she hold the heartache herself and release him from the agony he wore like a robe held together by tatters and strings? She could champion his sorrow like a mantle and bear the weight if it meant he was free of its burden.

I can carry it with you. I can carry you. Let me carry you. 

She watched Anders with the staff. Flashes of memory, Malcolm working alone on its surface, humming to himself. Andraste was perched proudly on top of it with her arms outstretched, begging for freedom. Like he was. Her father looked at her with brown eyes, like the brown eyes that she clothed her in glory with their adoration right now. 

Wild thing, he said, did you know there is no darkness in the Maker’s light? 

She thought of Kirkwall, the Gallows, Bethany, the screaming matches in the library with Anders and Karl’s face branded with the sun of the Chantry. Fear like poison. 

All I see is darkness, Father. 

Malcolm smiled at her, kissed her forehead. 

Then make your own light.

Hawke looked at Anders, his heart burning brighter than the sun. 

How? 

Anders looked up at her, prideful and warm and safe. Brown eyes like her father.

Love is a light when everything else is gone. 

“It was my fathers,” she said softly, reaching out and tracing the carved handle of it. “Bethany had it, before. When she left, I took it. I kept it safe. It’s the only thing we have of his. We couldn’t bear to leave it behind in Lothering,” she said, struggling to breathe evenly, “I didn’t give it to you before but it's all I have left of him. It was mine, it was a piece of my life that I tucked into myself for safe keeping. He was a piece that I wasn’t ready to give you.” Hawke looked at Anders with a smile that broke through wet tears, it made her face shine in the firelight, spring rain in the morning sun, “I’m giving it to you now because I don’t want to keep anything anymore. Just you. I want to keep only you. I am giving you pieces of me because I want you to hold them all. My father is gone. My mother is gone. My sister is lost to me. You are my family. My father’s dream is your dream. His honor is your honor. His legacy is your legacy. Now it's mine. I make it mine. I claim it as mine. Just like you.”

Love Bethany a little louder, her father had said, you will never know what it feels like to be branded as broken by birth. Love her louder than you think you should, scream it if you need to. Outlast the other voices that tell her otherwise.

Hawke broke, folding over in her shame. “I am so sorry,” she sobbed, her voice strangled with it, her words frail and filled with regret, “I am so sorry it took me this long to be my father’s daughter. I wasn’t brave enough.”

Anders stared at her with glassy eyes, the sheen blurring the brown. He set the staff down gently on the floor and held out his arms to her. She moved into his lap and he held her with that grip she had come to ache for, with desperate fingers that couldn’t bear to let one more thing he loved slip through them like sand. 

“Shh, love,” he whispered, the heat of him calming her slowly, “Shh, now.” She continued to cry and clutch at his shirt until he forced her gaze with his hands on either side of her face, “There is no one braver than you.”

Hawke looked at him like she had never seen him before. 

Barn burning, a little boy ripped away from home, a Templar barking orders, searching for the boy, a father’s back facing his son as he’s dragged away, chained, removed. Stone walls, cold and enclosing and shutting out all light. What is his name, does he remember? Why doesn’t he speak, is he mute? Waking up to violence, forced from sleep by the foot of a man who claims to be above him by right. There is no Maker’s light here.

Running. Always running. So far, so fast, so futile. Dragged back, again. Forced into solitude, the agony of silence, nothing but stillness and no one to talk to. The walls don’t speak but they scream at him. Despair is a friend. He’s burning out. Was he so dangerous?

Gardens, some grace. A boy, older. Wiser. Kind. Smiles like summer. Karl. Secrets exchanged under Circle tables, kisses too eager. The longing, fleeting feeling of aching love and the way he tastes. Fingers brushing against fingers in the library. Notes left in books, little corners of safety that no one can take from them. Until they take it from them.

Running. Again. Running.

The Wardens, the fear. Friends. How and what and why. Bad jokes, wear them like armor. Someone to be a friend, not just the soft fur and the purr of Ser Pounce. Justice. Purpose. Needed? Yes. Bright light and black. No. Something is wrong, something savage inside, not of mortal men. Angry, screaming, vengeful. Blood. What is happening?

Kirkwall. Karl. Knight Commander. Healer, working endlessly, the cries of the refugees in his ears that never seem to stop. Endless days and empty nights. No friends, no place, no pillows or sheets. Makeshift bed in the clinic and linen piles for his head. Cracked skin of his fingers from cleaning his hands. Helping a little girl. 

Hawke. 

Beautiful. Willing to help. Hope? Heartbreak. Frustrated and foolish and oh, so frightened. Pleading and pulling and desperate to please him, hanging onto the inches with the strength of every muscle. Hurting him, healing him. Holding his heart. 

Home.

Hawke knew that her courage was hard won, but Anders' courage was purchased with death. The cost was himself.

Don’t let your fire burn out, my love. Stay with me. 

“Anders,” she breathed, laying her forehead against his, “You’re wrong. Maker, you’re so wrong.” With a hoarse voice and pleading eyes, she held him. “There is no one braver than you.”

[fandomn00blr]

Writing Whatever Whatsitday

Thinking of all the wonderful folks who have tagged me into things lately and hoping you all are doing well... @serial-chillr, @eranehn, @dafan7711, @paraparadigm, @lostinfantasies38​. If you, or anyone else have life updates or things you wanna share, consider this an open and enthusiastic invitation! ❤️

Finding the time/energy for fic writing, or doing anything for my own simple enjoyment, has been hard lately. But at night, to wind down, I’ve been replaying and thinking about DA2 (again...always) very slowly. During early Act I, I decided Hawke would probably try to take the whole Jeven thing into her own hands after hearing him berate her best friend during “The Way It Should Be” (I mean, did you SEE Hawke’s dumb scheming face during that cut scene?). So instead of finishing that quest, I wrote this last night before passing out. It’s real rough and flows like an awkward salamander, but like...it’s a thing I wrote, I guess?

Hawke’s whole face is beginning to turn black and blue and shades of purple. Her lip is busted open and her left eye is practically swollen all the way shut, but she’s smiling wide and giggling as Aveline approaches her cell.

“You look and sound like a lunatic,” Aveline informs her as she begins picking through a jingling mass of old rusting keys.

“Good!” Hawke laughs even louder, and then winces because she has at least one busted rib, she thinks. “Here, allow me…”

Aveline rolls her eyes as Hawke reaches down and pulls a small stiletto knife from a sleeve inside her boot and proceeds to pick the lock to her cell.

“Show off,” she grumbles with a fond little smirk.

Hawke beams up triumphantly at her as something inside the lock grinds against her knife and the heavy iron door swings open with a loud clang.

“A kind benefactor has posted your bail, and something tells me no official charges will be filed.”

“Did you get what you needed?”

“We shall see.” Aveline looks smug as hell for a moment, reveling in what she’s about to do, but then she glances back over at Hawke, her brows furrowing with concern. “Thank you. You didn’t need to do this.”

“It was fun.” She shrugs. “After the way he spoke to you the other day, I’m just sorry you couldn’t be there to throw the first punch. You should’ve seen his face, Aveline...”

“I hope you’ll be heading directly to Anders’ clinic?”

“Maybe after a drink.”

“I think you’ve had enough fun tonight, don’t you think?”

“Is it still tonight?”

“Just barely.” Aveline chuckles.

Varric is waiting for her outside the Keep. Hawke can’t help alternating between laughing at her own incomprehensible “jokes” about Jeven and the size of his genitals and cursing about her injuries. It had hardly been a fair fight by the time Aveline had gotten there with reinforcements to break them up. But Hawke had known just what to do and to say to get the hot-headed Guard-Captain fuming about his role in setting Guardsmen Donnic up. And there had been plenty of witnesses to hear him threaten her on behalf of the Coterie while his lackeys took turns swinging and kicking at her to really drive the point home.

“Shit! Hawke, are you alright?” Varric asks. “I heard you got your ass kicked, but…”

“I’m fiiiiinnne.” She waves dismissively before her face scrunches back up again into a pained grimace. She really should’ve figured out by now that her body is not happy about twisting that way.

“Well, I’ve already asked Blondie to meet us at Gamlen’s place to patch you up.”

“Oh, we can’t go there. Mother will see me like this, and…” She knows it’s ridiculous that she, a grown woman, who has killed enough people to lose count, has worked as a soldier, a smuggler, and a mercenary, is fearful of her mother’s reaction to her getting in a fist fight with the soon-to-be-former Captain of the City Guard and spending half a night in jail, but she’s in no state to pretend she doesn’t still crave her mother’s approval. She can already hear the lecture...how it doesn’t help her case, their case, for the reinstatement of the Amell family’s status when her oldest child makes a public scene getting herself into fights she can’t win with the scum of Lowtown...what would her father have thought of her bringing this kind of attention on their family and risking Bethany’s safety? What kind of example was she setting for Carver?! As if Carver weren’t himself an adult who’d seen his own fair share of fighting and death.

“She already knows.”

“Ugh, Bethany?”

Varric shrugs.

“She always was such a tattle tale!”

Aveline clears her throat and nods them toward Lowtown. She is grateful for Hawke’s contribution to her cause, but she still has to gather her fellow Guardsmen and present the evidence to Seneschal Bran before they can make the arrest.

“While Jeven’s licking his wounds, I’ve got some matters to attend to, if you both don’t mind heading straight home, and avoiding any more trouble?” She looks pointedly at Varric.

“Git ‘im, Aveline…” Hawke gives her a hopelessly crooked smile and grasps her arm.

“That’s the plan, Hawke.” She nods.

“Sure you don’t need anything else from me, Red?”

“I’m sure I told you not to call me that.”

“Fine, fine. Alright, then. I’ll just see that this one makes it home safely without punching anyone else in the face.”

“Thank you.”

[crqstalite]

after adamant.

ugly little fic that i wrote in the middle of the night a while ago and shared with a friend. post-adamant about my inquisitor trying to rationalize their losses at the fortress and in the fade. nothing’s capitalized, so if that annoys you, this isn’t the little fic for you.

chose not to use warnings? im not quite sure what to use here, so tread lightly.

dragon age inquisition. 

-

she stays strong, after adamant it’s all everyone needs. she sees to the few wardens that had been at the keep, had offered inquisition aid.  they thank her thousands of times over, as uneasy as they are.

their senior warden, alistair, won’t meet her eyes. deep brown orbs looking anywhere but at her, even with a smile on his face. he thanks her, quietly. bandages wrapped around his side, muttering that he’d need to get a letter out to the hero of ferelden — tabris.

she leaves him, offering to let leliana find her. to let leliana send the message and get it back to him as soon as possible. he agrees, numbly is when she swings a leg over the elk in the morning, sun peaking over the rise in the distance.

she knows that look that settles in his dark brown eyes, that look that cries it should’ve been me. but she’s sure he knows what he must do now, to lead the wardens properly against corypheus. she thanks him.

he doesn’t say it, but he does respond that hawke’s sacrifice would not be vain. that shatters a part of her, seals her lips all the way back to skyhold. thankfully, marzeyna is lucky enough no one else is in a talkative mood. but they will be, with questions, with reactions, maybe with thinly veiled anger.

she’s not sure if she’s lucky or simply being lied to when varric seems more despondent than furious with her. he simply responds there are letters to write, to bethany, to other friends she’d made in kirkwall. they’d been close. she bites her lip hard enough to draw iron laced blood to keep from crying.

he hugs her.

though he’s not mentioned, marzeyna doesn’t make the request to send a letter to the mage anders. though he will be left in the dark, surely varric would know how close they’d been. the way hawke spoke of him, with a wistful tone laced with uneasiness, she doesn’t want to look into his eyes and tell him she was the reason reyna hawke would not be coming home.

she makes her rounds. to cassandra, to blackwall, to dorian. then to the others who learning of it secondhand, to leliana, who’d been hurt over justinia. to sera, to bull, to vivienne, to solas, who was fascinated about her journey into the fade.

she doesn’t indulge him. any other day, she might’ve, but not today.

marzeyna has to put on a brave face when she’s nearly hit with what she assumes to be a lyrium kit when she visits cullen. to think she’d thought she’d get any miniscule amount of comfort from anyone after her return, she would’ve thought, just maybe, that it would be him. but no, her nerves are shot and she’s terrified and can’t think straight. she hasn’t slept since before adamant, doesn’t even want to think about dreaming in the fade. and yet, she’s able to give cullen the strength he needs to go on. 

she wavers. her tiny form struggles to make it back to the war room after the moon has long risen in the sky. working, bent over the war table. they’d head out for the exalted plains in the morning. switch out her ground forces, get to work.

get her mind off the blonde woman that haunted her thoughts these days. piercing storm cloud eyes with dexterity over daggers that she’d never seen before. a determination to save mages from the templars that burned white hot within her, flames licking everyone she met.

her voice never wavering when she’d accepted her fate. a strong nod when she drew her daggers for the last time.

she shoves the knife meant for josephine’s diplomatic mission into the table deeper than she’d intended, grinding it into the table with a groan. her fire red hair falls into her face, her once tight ponytail loosening into a lump of curls at the base of her neck.

magic crackles at her fingertips, papers flying off the desk and fluttering to the floor. lelianna’s secrets, cassandra and solas’ requests, josephine’s agreements, cullen’s reports.

yanking off her gloves in front of the fire in her quarters, she grits her teeth when she can’t yank a swollen finger out of it’s respective sleeve. eyebrows knitting together in frustration, fire climbing her thoughts.

why hadn’t she been quicker? why hadn’t she forced them ahead with magic? she could’ve done something, done anything different. could’ve fade stepped them past the bastard. but no, she hadn’t done any of those things. she’d knowingly sent hawke to her death, not fought alongside her and alistair, but sent her away so she and alistair could get away.

the glove comes off, pain reverberating through her hand in waves. she kicks off her boots, the pair thumping away somewhere in the darkness.

she should be the one in the fade. running for her life, terrified in the darkness of the spiders she saw racing towards her. reliving nightmare after nightmare.

marzeyna was a mage. she could’ve handled it longer before she went mad. reyna was not, she was a young woman from kirkwall. a rogue no less. so stupid, marzeyna should’ve been the one to stay behind. from what little she understood of the tensions between varric and cassandra, hawke could’ve been the inquisitor. hell she probably was supposed to be. or alistair’s love, tabris.

both were older, wiser than she was. with only twenty five years on her, she wonders if some God with a sick sense of humor had decided it should be her. things had only gone wrong when she appeared in haven, half alive and delirious. justinia had died, the mage/templar conflict in the hinterlands that she couldn’t solve, alexius.

then they lost haven. and so many people. the smell of wood burning around her and screams of people being cut down by red templars. her advisors asking for orders, her mind spiraling in a thousand different directions.

she wonders if cullen saw the terrified look in her eyes when he’d spoken to her. saw her fumbling for answers, saw the little girl that had been given too much power, much too soon. had second thoughts about her being the so called herald of andraste. had wondered why he put his faith in her.

marzeyna lavellan. she was a mage. and a dalish elf. two of the most marginalized statuses you could have in thedas, and so many people still looked up to her. asked her what to do, trusted her not to lead them astray. 

hawke had trusted her. marzeyna had promised her she’d get her out alive, had promised she’d get her back to bethany. to anders. that they could do this.

she yanks a box, some sort of box, maybe empty off the desk and throws it, chucks it into the wall just off the windows. it crashes, shattering into splinters of oak. then something else holding an ink quill, lighter, easier to throw. that too shatters, ceramic maybe. it’s satisfying almost, anger and regret and everything in between flooding her emotions like a tidal wave. they drown her, choking her when she screams like a caged animal, chucking another small box into the wall. raw magic dances at her fingertips and lights her ablaze, body glowing a gentle white as hot tears slide down her face in rivers.

justinia. maybe. she’s needed her and there was nothing she could do. she failed her.

every single person in haven believed in her. they needed her when corphyeus arrived with his forces.

hawke had believed in her. smiled at her. told her jokes. at first skeptical, as any non andrastian would be. but quickly had become her friend. her first real one that wasn’t asking her what was next all the time. someone she could go to when her advisors were too much that day.

her hands clench into fists in her hair, sobs heavy and heaving as she slides to the floor in a heap against one of the walls. now hawke was gone, and it was all her fault. just like it’d been before. another person who’d gotten killed because of her.

she’d tried to justify her decision. the wardens would need someone to lead them through this possible blight. tabris would need him when she got back with her research into the fake calling. 

nothing answers when she thinks about hawke. she can’t justify her death. she was a good person, supported mages to a fault. didn’t seem the type to kick puppies. was friendly to everyone, had a sister, had a friend in varric.

then, why isn’t marzeyna dead?

she has nothing. clan lavellan maybe, but they’d surely replaced her by now, it wasn’t as if she was coming back now. it wasn’t like they were clambering to see her again. she’s a mage, she’s already being persecuted anyway. and it wasn’t as if what she’d started with cullen couldn’t be forgiven. it wasn’t anything serious, he could meet someone else.

sure, she was young. younger than most in the inquisition. but others still had most of their lives ahead of them. she had nothing. no future beyond what lie inside of skyhold.

hugging her knees, the pants legs begin to wet with the fat tears rolling down her cheeks. the anchor was the only thing that made her important, that kept people from actually wanting to get her killed. people put their lives on the line for her. and she couldn’t even return the favor.

her nails dig into her biceps, curling in on her herself as a draft whips into the room. a shiver after the fire chases it away. 

then why is she still here? she’s nothing, no one. 

and right now, she doesn’t want to be anyone. she doesn’t go to bed that night, reading reports until she can’t. staving off sleep to keep from drifting into the fade against her will. eyes blurring and burning when she dresses herself in the morning, she avoids varric’s gaze following her down the corridor to the war room. josephine follows, rattling off things she doesn’t understand. nobles. treaties. alliances.

lelianna and cullen join them a few minutes later. if they notice her hands shaking, they don’t say anything. a glimmer of concern in cullen’s eyes, josephine outright with the words on her lips, gently biting them back.

she should be dead, she chants when they arrive in the plains, i don’t even have a right to be alive. she should be here, and yet i handed the situation to her like the scared child i am.

it’s the beginning of many restless nights.

[theherocomplex]

Spider flower for Handers? :D

Spider flower for Handers? :D

Spider Flower -  Elope with me**********Things didn't go well the last time Anders tried this. The asking a lover to run away with him, that is. Not that he didn't get very, very good at doing so before the end. Every letter to Karl ended the same way: Just tell me, and I will get you out. There are still places we can go. We can go wherever you want.And then the Chantry, and Karl speaking to him in a voice that wasn't Karl's at all, but life's cruelest joke. Then blood on the fine rug beneath Anders' feet, and there was nothing to run toward anymore.How funny, to learn about the world of difference between running away and running toward, and to do it so publicly, too. If any of Anders' new friends had said a damn word, made one joke, he would have burned them all to ash.None of them said a damn word, not even the dwarf. And Hawke, the rangy farm boy with uncombed hair and a sour glint in his eyes, had only walked Anders back to the clinic in silence.That had been the beginning, Anders knows now. Where it all started. And perhaps he should feel guilty about that, that something new had begun even before Karl's body had been burned, but he tells himself Karl wouldn't have wanted him to shutter himself like those Orlesian villas in the Emerald Graves. He tells himself that because Karl is gone, and can't argue.But here he is again, crumpling his cape in his fists and practicing what he'll say that will convince Hawke. This time, he'll know what to say to save someone he loves.Then the door of Hawke's fine house opens, and every word drops out of his head. Hawke never smiles, and never has, except at Bethany, and since Bethany has been gone for three years, Hawke does not smile — but his eyes glow a little, and some steel leaves his shoulders.Oh Maker, Anders thinks, so in love and so tired he can barely think. Let it work this time."Anders?" Now Hawke is frowning, which means it's already gone wrong. Anders could laugh, if he didn't want to hide so badly. "What's wrong?""What?" He tries for a laugh. "I can't appear on your doorstep, just to see you?""It's two in the morning.""Ah."Hawke stares at him for a long time, lean arms braced against the doorframe. "Come inside," he says. "I've got the fire going. We don't have to talk."This is why Anders loves him so, this scowling man, this bitter knot in half the city's throat. With him, Anders can be silent, can be still, can be nothing but a man in love, sitting in front of a fire."I came to ask you —" He stops. Hawke raises an eyebrow. He smells like woodsmoke. Anders swallows, and presses on. "I came to ask you…" Come with me. We can go wherever you want. But let's go now, before something else traps us here.He doesn't say it. He lets Hawke take him by the hand and pull him inside the echoing house, and he lets Hawke kiss him, and he lets himself believe it will be all right in the end.

[shadow-kid-cole]

Ok so this idea JUST popped into my head, but could you write a senatrio where in DA:2 instead of craver or Beth dieing, instead hawk is the one who died. (I thought it would be interesting)

this was such a cool prompt??? i almost want to make a full au out of it but i don’t think i can write the hawke twins consistently enough for that lol

thank you so much, and i hope you like it!

Bethany had thought that finally making it to Kirkwall, getting inside the walls and realizing that the uncertainty and fear of living as refugees was over (well, mostly - she’s always been one, and some part of her knows that she always will be) would at least feel a little bit like a victory. That there would be relief, triumph even. They’ve come so far and made it through so much. That should be something worth celebrating.

Instead, she just feels hollow.

Mother has barely spoken since they boarded the ship that took them across the sea. Even now, safe inside of Gamlen’s hovel, she is silent and despondent. Bethany could swear that her hair, lifeless and gray, was auburn just a year ago. Carver sits quiet too, leaning heavy on his sword with the grumpy expression that she’s used to twisted into something darker, angrier.

There’s a Hawke-shaped hole in the corner of the room. None of them say it, but they know that everything they do in this city will have an edge of bitterness to it. They made it, but at what cost?

~

Carver isn’t sure why he’s so intent on joining this expedition to the Deep Roads. Between him and Bethany, they’re making a decent amount of coin just from minor jobs in the city, even now that their year is up. A voice that sounds suspiciously familiar drifts through the back of his mind; because you think you have to prove yourself, but these shoes are too big for you to fill. You’ll never be able to stop trying.

“Shut up,” he tells it. Bethany gives him a strange look, but says nothing. Beside her, Varric is deep in a monologue about what’s left for them to do before they can join the expedition. He follows their new friend through the streets of Hightown, half-listening and half wondering if anything he ever does will be for himself and himself alone.

~

They aren’t quite sure how they wind up acquiring their little ragtag band of misfit friends. Sometimes, ‘friends’ is even a stretch - the way that Fenris and Anders bicker puts the siblings to shame. Still, they all stick together. They watch each other’s backs, and the Hawke twins are almost starting to feel like this city might be home.

There’s still moments where they start to turn, to direct a question or a joke at an empty space beside them, only to remember too late that no one is there to hear it.

They still don’t talk about it.

~

Months pass. They turn into years, and the Hawke twins become important, noticed, even celebrated. When the city falls into chaos, they rise from it and become champions.

When it falls again, they stand among the flames and realize that this feels right; they are the only two left, and nothing should be safe and whole if their family isn’t.

Carver wants to kill Anders for what he’s done. Bethany holds out a hand to stop him, leans in close and grabs the front of Anders’ robes.

“This is your fault. You’ll help us fix it and get the circle mages out of here safe, or so help me, I’ll hand you to Meredith myself.” He nods, wordless. Her eyes say that it’s not an idle threat.

The Champions of Kirkwall fight their way out of a city drowning in ash, blood, and corruption, side by side. The city that they fought tooth and nail to get to so many years ago burns behind them. They speak no words, but Carver squeezes Bethany’s shoulder, and she waves a hand over him when he winces, the wound in his abdomen closing and healing.

Kirkwall is lost to them, but neither of them ever truly called it home.

Home died on the road out of Lothering, all those years ago.

All they have now is each other.

support me on ko-fi!

[queen-scribbles]

Carver Hawke Week-Growth

I wound up being more literal with this than I intended, but ah well. Gotta go with what the muse give you, right?

They’re five when Bethany’s magic shows up. Carver’s tugging on her braid and when she slaps his hand away her fingers are like ice. Literally. Two pairs of wide eyes stare first at the stinging icy welt on his palm, and then the ice crystals dancing over hers. They tell Father, of course; Bethany’s voice shrill with worry and Carver’s with pride that she’s special. But when she trails after Father and Astrid for lessons the next day, it’s the first time Carver’s felt alone.

He’s seven when they move to Redcliffe and he sees his first knight. It’s a pair of them, guarding the village, a man and a woman, and they both look exactly the way he pictured knights should from the stories Mother reads before bed. Carver is spellbound. He doesn’t mind so much when Bethany has to go practice magic; he can pass the time watching the knights. He’s never been very sneaky, but determination finds him a way into the castle grounds. Determination, and a life of lessons on how to blend in. No one notices a grubby boy who may well be a servant. No one except the stable boy with hair the color of wheat, who smiles bright and shares his lunch when Carver’s stomach growls. They don’t talk or trade names, just sit and watch the knights. It only takes a week or two before Carver starts imitating their moves at home, hands tight around a tree branch as he charges unseen enemies.

He’s a week shy of eight when Father catches him mid-battle with tree stumps and hay bales. Rather than scold him for playing instead of doing his chores, Father ruffles his hair and smiles. When they celebrate birthdays, Bethany gets a new dress, and Carver gets a simple wooden sword. It’s long enough he has to use both hands to swing it, and he has to endure a list of warnings before he can go play with it, but it’s much better than a stick.

He’s ten when they leave Redcliffe. It’s getting too populated, they have a contingent of templars at the chantry and Father recognized one of them. Carver resent having having to leave, even if he doesn’t really have any friends. He liked Redcliffe, liked their house. He doesn’t want to leave. But the risk of discovery trumps his opinion, so he sits in the back of their wagon and sulks as the village gets smaller and smaller behind them.

He’s fourteen when his growth spurt finally hits. Astrid and Bethany make innumerable jokes about how he seems to grows six inches overnight at least one night per week. Carver’s taller than both of them inside six months. He’s taller than Father inside ten. It seems a much better fit to use a greatsword once he hits six feet.

He’s fifteen when Father dies, tries his damnedest to not be jealous when Astrid steps into the Head Protector role. He’s been forced to give up what he wants to do in order to protect the family, protect his sisters, his entire life. Doesn’t he deserve something for that? Astrid looks worried, and actually comes out to spar with him, which she hasn’t done in years. Much as he might resent what he had to give up, he loves his sister more. So they spar, Astrid talks through her concerns, and Carver lands her on her ass in the dust. Just ‘cause he loves her doesn’t mean he has to let her win.

He’s eighteen when the world screeches to a halt. When we becomes I under an ogre’s fist and Carver feels his soul tear in two. He wants to stop and scream, tear apart the darkspawn with his bare hands for taking Bethany away, but he can’t. So he buries it just below the surface, watches out for what’s left of his family on the journey to first Gwaren, then Kirkwall, follows Astrid’s lead as she signs them up to work as smugglers. Wouldn’t have been his first choice, but when has that ever mattered?

He’s nineteen and royally fucked. He can see it in Astrid’s eyes, even as she tries to hide it. Feel it in the way the Taint gnaws at his blood. Hears it in the faint song that won’t stop echoing in his head. Carver’s stay of execution comes courtesy of Anders and the news there are Grey Wardens down here as well. Astrid doesn’t want to let him go, but she does because the alternative is worse. The Wardens don’t want to take him, but do because his sister begs. He’s too far gone to remember the Joining, which is probably for the best. He starts his new life with a pounding headache and awful taste in his mouth.

He’s twenty one before he truly forgives Astrid. Before gratitude she saved his life isn’t mingled with at least a little resentment at the fact, once again, he got no say in his own life. Carver’s well aware it’s ridiculous to resent that she saved his fucking life, but that knowledge doesn’t make it go away. Forging his own path does that. It’s as he settles in, adjusts to life as a Warden, gets to thrive and show off his skill without his sister there to measure him against, that he warms to his new path. Escaping Astrid’s shadow is a worthwhile trade for one last decision he didn’t get to make.

He’s almost twenty three when he sees her again. She hugs him, of course, even as Kirkwall burns around them and worry won’t quite leave her eyes. Carver instinctively hugs her back, wishing he could stay and help. But he’s a Warden, Warden business comes first. Besides, she can handle herself without him. So he gives her an apologetic smile and follows Stroud out of the city. He’s not the least bit surprised when word reaches them that Astrid and her companions routed the qunari forces.

He’s twenty nine when he’s the last one left. Father, Bethany, Mother, and now Astrid. He stares at Varric’s letter and doesn’t fight the tears. He’d lose, anyway. Some things get easier with practice. Losing people is not one of those things. Carver leans his head back against the wall and remembers the sulky teenager, bristling with resentment as he trailed in his sister’s shadow. That teenager was an idiot, he thinks ruefully. He’d spend the rest of his life in Astrid’s shadow if there was a way to get her back. But there wasn’t. No Astrid. No shadow. Just him. The thought hurt, but there was no way Carver was going to let it destroy him. The Hawkes were survivors, and if he was all that remained, he was going to make his family proud.

He’d grown enough to do that.

[kirkwall-group-therapy]

City of Blood, ch3

[Mature content warning, Act 1: cursing, adult topics, violence]

Chapter Three: Blondie

 The next to join their party was yet another mage, much to Fenris’ brooding dismay. But he wasn’t just any mage. Anders, the hunk of Darktown. The healer with a heart of gold, and a bad case of spirit possession. Blondie made all the girls swoon. He was a bit rash, but even Sunshine found herself quickly forgetting about Lowtown Ivan.

You would think that his extraordinary healing abilities are what led Hawke to Anders, particularly given the dangerous line of work she was in, but that wasn’t the case. The Deep Roads expedition needed to find a way in, a good entrance to be precise. One that wasn’t already looted, caved in, or overflowing with Darkspawn, and the only group who would know the Deep Roads well enough in that area would be the Grey Wardens. Varric heard rumors about a Grey Warden who was hiding out in Darktown. Hawke and the group went to meet him, to see what he would be willing to trade for any information, or better yet, a map.

The clinic was located in the farthest corner of Darktown, which you could only find after navigating a series of tunnels, turns, switch backs, and stairs. It was easy to miss the right turn, or not see one entirely due to the dim lighting in Darktown. They had to ask a number of Darktown residents, many who refused to help, before they finally found it. A bright lantern lit up the front entrance. Hawke cautiously opened the door and quietly stepped inside. The clinic was surprisingly crowded, and nearly all of the occupants were Fereldan refugees. A few volunteer nurses scurried about, helping patients and directing others. But there was no sign of the man in charge, and certainly nothing that would indicate that a Grey Warden was hiding there.

“I sense magic,” Bethany whispered. “One of these people must be a mage healer.”

Finally they saw a man in the back. Tall, broad shoulder, blonde hair that just a few inches shorter than his shoulder. He was definitely a mage; he was bent over a small child waving his hands over the boy’s body. Visible, soft green glowing magic wrapped itself around the boy and flooded his body. The blonde man manipulated the current of the flowing magic, pushing it, pulling it, clutching it. Searching for something. He found it, and grabbed onto it, and tugged at it with all his might. Slowly but surely he dislodged it from the boy’s body. The boy gasped for air, coughed, and turned onto his side, color returning to his face. The blonde man exhaled loudly and nearly collapsed. Another volunteer braced him as the healer worked to catch his breath.

The group approached slowly, not wanting to interrupt his work. But the man sensed them, and smelled the thick scent of blood and death that permeated them - most notably Hawke. The scent that only soldiers, mercenaries, and professional killers had. He moved surprisingly quickly, like lighting he whisked a staff, hidden from view, into the air, and gracefully pivoted on his heels to face them.

“I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation,” he said to them. “Why do you threaten it?”

“Easy,” Hawke said, slowly putting her hands in the air. “We mean you no harm.”

“I thought Wardens were dedicated to the blight and dying in the Deep Roads,” Bethany said. “Not healing refugees.”

“The Wardens? They sent you, didn’t they? I’m not going back,” Anders said. “Blighters made me get rid of my cat.”

“Wait, that’s the reason you’re not wanting going back to the Wardens? Not the taint or the constant violence and death?” Varric laughed.

“Ser Pounce-a-lot didn’t like the Deep Roads,” Anders joked.

“His name was Ser Pounce-a-lot?” Bethany giggled.

“Er, I assure you, we’re not here on behalf of the Wardens. We are planning an expedition to the Deep Roads, and are hoping you might have some information or better yet, a map, of the routes in this area. Any information you have could help save many lives,” Hawke said.

“I will die a happy man if I never think about the blighted Deep Roads again,” he said. “You can’t imagine what I’ve gone through to get here.”

“I’m not asking you to come with us,” Hawke said. “But surely you have some information that would be useful to us? We’ll pay you well for your information.”

“I could smell death on you as soon as you drew near,” Anders said. “Based on that, plus your armor and stature, am I correct in assuming that you’re mercenaries or something similar? And at least somewhat successful, since you’re not dead yet?”

“Ah, yes, something like that,” Hawke said, a little confused as why he wanted to know. And also surprised to hear the bit about her smelling like death. That was unsettling for sure.

“But we’re good mercenaries,” Bethany said.  “We help people.” What a beautifully innocent flower she was.

“I … have need of your skill,” Anders said, “more than your coin. A favor for a favor? Does that sound like a fair trade? You help me, I’ll help you?”

“Ah, perhaps. Depending on what your favor is,” Hawke said. “I don’t do anything involving children or animals,” she joked.

“I have a map of the Deep Roads of this area, as you’ve requested. In return, I need your help to save a close friend. I came to Kirkwall to aid him myself. He’s a mage, a prisoner in the wretched Gallows. But the templars learned of my plans to free him. Help me bring him safely past them, and the map is yours,” he said.

“You want me to help break a mage out of the circle??” Hawke asked, shocked. Honestly, the price she thought was too steep and not a fair trade for the map.

“You want to make your friend an apostate?” Bethany asked.

“That’s such a weighted term, but yes,” Anders replied. “Andraste said magic should serve man, not rule him. But I’ve yet to find a mage who wants to rule anything. It goes against no will of the Maker for mages to live as free as other men.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Hawke said. “But … breaking a mage out of the circle is no small ask. And we can’t afford any undue attention from the templars ourselves.”

“I can understand that,” Anders said. “But you don’t know what this circle is like. It’s worse than other mage towers. Karl and I have been exchanging letters, until the letters just stopped. His last letter said that Knight Commander Meredith was turning the circle into a prison. Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances at court, made tranquil for the slightest of crimes.”

“But it’s not legal to make a mage tranquil if they’ve passed their harrowing,” Hawke said.

“You are surprisingly knowledgeable about mages,” Anders said.

“Our father was one,” Bethany said. “As … as am I,” she bravely stated.

“I see. You’re correct though,” Anders said. “And yet they’ve made over a dozen mages tranquil just this year. The more people you talk to, the worse the picture becomes. I have no interest in engaging with the templars either, and I don’t expect there to be any violent confrontation, but neither can I rule it out.”

“Varric, can I talk to you for a moment?” Hawke asked. The two stepped aside to have a private word.

“How badly do we need his maps? Is there no other way?” Hawke asked.

“I’m not too keen on this either,” Varric said. “But all of our other leads have turned up shit so far. Honestly, I think the entire expedition is a bust without his maps.”

“Fuck,” Hawke said. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” Bethany excused herself from speaking with Anders, and joined Hawke and Varric.

“Charlie, I know it’s risky. And it makes me nervous, but, I’d like to help him if we can,” Bethany said.

“We don’t really have a choice it seems,” Hawke said. “But I’m really not a fan of this. And you’re certainly not coming with us when we do this.”

“Sister, please. I want to help,” Bethany said.

“Out of the question. I will not blatantly dangle you in front of templars,” Hawke said.

“I feel for your friend, I really do,” Hawke said walking back over to Anders.

“So you won’t help me then?” He asked.

“Unfortunately I need your map, rather desperately it seems. So I find myself without any other option but to help you. But if my sister ends up in danger because of you, if this brings the templars to our front door step, you had better run,” Hawke warned.

“Understandable,” Anders said.

“What is the plan then?” Hawke asked, and sighed heavily.

“I sent Karl a message to meet me at the Chantry tonight. Maker willing, he’ll be there, alone. But if there are templars with him, I swear I’ll free him from them. Whatever the cost,” Anders said.

“Sounds like this will be fun,” Varric said sarcastically.

“Meet me outside the chantry tonight, just after dusk,” Anders said. “Should anything go wrong, don’t worry about me. Protect yourselves and we’ll rendezvous back here later.”

 Nothing ever goes as planned. That’s a written-in-stone law of the universe. How badly things deviate from the plan though, well, Hawke never seemed to have much luck in that area. They had entered the Chantry together that night, and found Karl without problem or reason for concern. And that’s as far as the things went according to the plan.

“Hello, Anders,” Karl said. He was facing the wall and his voice was flat, mono tone, completely devoid of emotion, of any feeling at all. “I knew you would come.”

“Karl, what’s wrong? Why are you talking like that?” Anders asked, fearing the worst.

“I was too rebellious, like you. The templars knew I had to be … made an example of,” Karl said, turning around to reveal the tranquil mark on his forehead.

“No.” Anders grieved.

“How else will mages ever master themselves? You’ll understand, Anders,” Karl continued, “As soon as the templars teach you to control yourself.”

It was a good thing that Hawke had refused to bring Bethany along - a small group of templars stepped out of the shadows as Karl finished speaking.

“This is the apostate,” Karl indicated toward Anders, still in that chilling, unfeeling tone.

“No!” Anders screamed. Anders fell to the floor and his body twitched. The was a sudden pulse of energy and his body glowed with blue fire, and his voice deepened and echoed. “You will never take another mage as you took him!” Anders bellowed.

The poor templars were no match for Hawke. More accurately, they were no match for Anders and all his wrath. They made short work of the few of templars, blood absolutely everywhere. All over the Chantry walls and tapestries, and the worn wooden pews.

“A-Anders, what did you do?” Karl asked, looking around confused. “It’s like … you brought a piece of the fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like.”

“What did you do?” Hawke asked. “Not the fade part - the angry glowing bit.”

“It’s like a gateway to the fade is inside you, glowing like a beacon,” Karl said.

“It’s a … unique circumstance,” Anders said. “But that’s not important right now. Karl, what happened? How did they get you?”

“The templars here are far more vigilant than in Fereldan. They found a letter I was writing to you. You cannot imagine it Anders. All the color, all the music in the world, gone. I would gladly give up my magic, but this? I’ll never be whole again. Please, kill me before I forget again! I don’t know how you brought it back, but it’s fading,” Karl said.

“Karl, no,” Anders pleaded.

“Isn’t there any cure? Surely there has to be a way to reverse it?” Hawke asked. She had never heard of one, and the circles certainly would never approve, but they were already working outside the circle. Surely someone had a way to reverse it?

“Can you cure a beheading?” Anders asked angrily. “The dreams of tranquil mages are severed - forever.”

“Please Anders,” Karl begged.

“My sister says being a tranquil is a fate worse than death,” Hawke said softly.

“Indeed,” Anders agreed. Anders pulled out a small dagger. He looked into Karl’s face, the fade quickly receding, and Anders plunged the dagger into his heart. “Goodbye,” he mourned.

Karl crumpled to the floor.

“We should probably get out of here, before more templars arrive,” Varric suggested. They didn’t waste any time leaving the Chantry before anyone could discover who had murdered their templars.

Once back at the clinic, Anders pulled out a bitch of parchment. “The map is yours,” Anders said. Sorrow consumed his voice, his eyes, his whole body. He handed them over gently. “I … I need to be alone for a while. But thank you. You don’t know how much it means to me, that you were willing to help.”

Varric had his men begin reviewing them immediately. It wouldn’t be long before they identified one of the entrances on the map as the one to use. But they still had yet to collect the money they needed to convince Bartrand.

~

Hawke and Bethany returned to Anders clinic a few days later. Bethany thought it would be good if they checked up on him, after losing such a close friend.

“Hawke, Bethany,” Anders said a bit surprised when they stepped into the clinic.

“We wanted to come see how you were doing,” Hawke said. “I’m so sorry that things turned out like they did. I know he meant a lot to you.”

“It still … doesn’t seem real,” Anders said. “And I keep finding myself forgetting. I’ll think about how it’s strange that I still haven’t received a letter, or I’ll have a stray thought about something I want to include in a letter to him.”

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Bethany asked.

“You’re too kind,” Anders said. “Especially … especially after what you saw.”

“You mean when you glowed?” Hawke said. She had actually forgotten all about it.

“I mentioned that I have unique circumstances,” Anders said. “They are more unique than you may realize. I … this is hard to explain. When I was in Amaranthine, when I was with the Wardens, I met a spirit of Justice who was trapped outside the fade. We became friends, and he recognized the injustices that mages in Thedas face every day.”

“A spirit of Justice?” Bethany asked. “Father said that such spirits were incredibly rare.”

“How are they different from demons?” Hawke asked.

“Just as demons prey on the deadly sins of mankind, there are benevolent spirits who embody our virtues; spirits of compassion, fortitude … justice. They are the Maker’s first children, and they have all but given up on us,” Anders explained.

“What does this have to do with your eyes glowing?” Hawke asked, feeling more and more nervous about where this conversation was going.

“To live outside the fade, the spirit of Justice needed … a host,” Anders said. “I … I offered to help him. We were going to work together, to bring justice to every mage ever ripped away from their families to be sent to the circle.”

“Are you saying … what I think you’re saying?” Hawke asked, now very weary of the man in front of her.

“But he … I … I guess I had too much anger. Once he was inside me, he … changed,” Anders said.

“You’re … possessed,” Bethany gasped. Hawke instinctively took a half step back.

“So this spirit is living inside you still?” Hawke asked.

“It’s … not like that. He’s gone now. He … we merged. Not even the greatest scholar could tell you where I end and where he begins,” Anders said.

“I’ve … I’ve never heard of anything like it,” Bethany said. “Normally when possessed, the demon completely overpowers and consumes the host,” she said turning to Hawke.

“That may be, but … whatever I saw back at the chantry, looked more like a spirit of wrath and fury, than some form of benevolent spirit,” Hawke said.

“Justice is righteous, hard, unmoving. But with my anger, he changed. He is no longer my friend, the spirit of justice. Now he is a force of vengeance, and he has no grasp of mercy,” Anders said.

“That sounds like a rather considerable, and dangerous problem,” Hawke said. “Is there no way to separate him from you?”

“I don’t think so. The only way a spirit has ever been separated from a living host is by its death,” Anders lamented. “This curse is of my own making. All I can do now is hope to control it.”

“Can you bring the spirit out at will?” Bethany asked.

“No. He comes only when I become consumed by my anger, and I lose power over both. It’s a madness, a frenzy. I only find out later, what I might have done,” he explained.

“That does explain a lot,” Hawke said. “Particularly why you hide here in Darktown, and why you work so hard to care for others.”

“I’m so sorry Anders,” Bethany said.

“I had not thought to ever find someone who would look past my … condition,” Anders said.

“Look past … I wouldn’t state it quite like that. You must understand, you said yourself that the spirit is dangerous. That makes me very uneasy. But it’s obvious that you have some control over it. A great deal of control it would seem, that you’re not rampaging in the streets daily. But you also have a very big heart and have only sought to help others,” Hawke replied.

“Your honesty is refreshing, and still far more than I could have hoped for,” Anders said. “I truly have no desire to ever enter the Deep Roads again, but I’m here if you ever need me.”

“You don’t have to join us for the actual expedition,” Hawke said. “But we also need to secure enough gold to pay for the expedition. Which usually means taking a number of dangerous jobs, which means injuries. We could certainly use a healer.”

“I know a little healing magic,” Bethany said. “But it’s nothing like your healing abilities.”

“I could teach you,” Anders said. “And I could always use more help here in the clinic.”

“I would really like that,” Bethany said, and she blushed slightly.

Hawke invited Anders to their weekly meetings, and Anders discussed times that he could spend training Bethany.

Between all the healing they needed, working together on jobs, and Sunshine's little crush, they saw a bit of the Darktown healer.

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This fanfic is based on the amazing Dragon Age games, specifically focusing on the DA2 game. Thank you EA/BIOWARE for such amazing games & characters!

I’m new to tumblr, so please bear with me as I figure out the best formatting.