Title: Settling Old Debts
Chapter: 1/3
Rating: T for mature content.
Chapter Warnings: None of my usual fare. Maybe some cursing, I can't really remember.
A/N: I'm outing myself to the Dragonage Kink Meme over at Livejournal. I got hooked to the blasted thing reading another author's stuff on FFnet and had to mosey over to LJ to see what was up. This is a response to the promt: " After Anders'... unusual departure from the wardens as seen in the romance thread on the BSN, I'd love to see them meeting again a few years down the line and it to be angsty and tragic and all that fun stuff. " I'm posting it here because it's short, sweet, and to the point and LJ won't let me post the chapters as I have intended them to be read.


Anders was extra paranoid as he slipped among the shadows of Lowtown. His head was like an owl's swiveling on a pivot to try and watch each side of him as he hurried along his path. No eyes were ever on him, no shadows slipped behind his to follow, and yet still the paranoia would not leave him. No, not while the culmination of his manifesto was so nigh at hand. As soon as Hawke returned from taking care of extraneous loose ends, there was only one place they would be going: the Chantry.

Where the bomb was set and waiting.

But he had his own loose ends to take care of before the grand climax of the plot. The missive that had been pinned to his clinic door this morning had been short, sweet, and to the point:

"Ser Pounce-A-Lot will be waiting at the Hanged Man."

Ser Pounce-A-Lot, Anders scoffed as he skirted around a murky looking puddle that smelled much like urine. There were only a handful of people in all of the Free Marches that knew of his old pet, and they were few and far between. At first, he had thought that maybe Hawke had spilled the tale of Anders' cat with Varric, and that Isabella had to give him crap about it. But when those two had escorted Hawke this afternoon…

If not Hawke, or Varric or Isabella or any of the others, who then would summon him? And the answer was plainly clear: the Grey Wardens who made him get rid of Ser Pounce-A-Lot. And the Wardens looking for Anders was never a good thing. He did not need this drama in his life right now, not when he was about to blow the Chantry sky-high.

The Hanged Man was busy as always as he stepped out of the shadows, pulling his coat tighter around him as he strode boldly down the street. He had lived in Kirkwall for well over six years, and had been a regular patron of the shabby inn since day one. Surprising, he thought as he pushed through the creaky door and into the bustle of the common room, that the Templars simply hadn't raided the place by now to catch him.

"Oi, surprise seeing you here tonight. Thought Hawke had some business for you lot?" Groff, the bartender, barked above the din of the crowd as Anders made his way to the bar.

"They're off taking care of some things before the main event," Anders smiled warmly as he leaned against the counter. "I figure I need a drink or two before I get myself killed tonight."

Gorff snorted with a short laugh before plunking a heavy wooden stein on the counter. Ale sloshed over the brim, spilling onto the stained wood. "How many times do ye say that, and still ye show up the next time."

With a wry smile, Anders took a hearty swallow from the mug before slapping down a couple silvers in its place. "Too many to count. Say, I've been expecting a friend to show up in town for a while now. Goes by the name of Ser Pounce-A-Lot?"

At that, the bartender stilled and gave him a wary, sideways glance. "So you're who they're expecting, eh?"

"They? How many of them?" Anders narrowed his eyes, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as all his alarm bells went off. He should leave, he told himself. Just turn around and walk right at the door, and no one would be the wiser.

Gorff shrugged. "Two that I've seen. Been a bloke or two sneaking down to see 'em, but I don't know if they're together or just local contacts reporting in."

"Wardens?"

The bartender nodded silently. "Surprised Varric or Isabella didn't say anything to Hawke. The whole lot arrived last night, about ten in the evening. Covered in more shit and grime than you lot come in with."

Cursing, Anders tried to hide his face in his ale as he glanced around the common room. No one was looking his way, and nothing seemed off. There was the usual crew of gamblers in the corners, drinking and playing away their money. Serving girls were laughing and flashing their goods to prospective clients. Everyone was laughing and telling stories.

Gorff slapped a rusty key on the counter top and slid it towards Anders. "Back room, after Varric's. There's a door in the floor leading to the cellar."

"If I don't come out, make sure Hawke knows what happened," Anders muttered before downing the rest of his liquid courage. He would need what little comfort it supplied him to confront the ghosts of his pasts that awaited him.

No one in the common room seemed to notice the look of utter dread on his face as he crossed the room, slipping between scattered chairs and around gambling tables. He ignored any friendly calls cast his way, or offers to join games of Diamondback or dice. Any other day, he might have accepted just to make the Wardens wait longer on him. But Hawke would be done any moment, and he had a schedule to keep if he wanted his big finale to go off right.

He took the stairs two at a time to the back of the inn, and the din practically died to a muffled murmur as he strode down hall. His boots clipped softly on the hard wood floor, heels hitting first before the pads of his toes struck a hollow sound. It was quiet back here, with Varric's usual corner of the world abandoned since the dwarf wasn't in residence. No bard ever took his place to entertain the evening's guests.

Some woman was moaning in a room he passed, coloring Anders' cheeks red. At least someone was having a good night, he thought as he slipped by the last of the inn's rooms. The storage door he stopped in front of was plain and old, the lock just as rusted as the key in his hand. But the mechanism released as he turned the key in the door, and the old iron hinges creaked as he opened it warily.

Nothing jumped out of the darkness to assault him.

Scowling, Anders stared at the little door in the floor. The slide bolt was unlocked, and light filtered around the edges of the little thing. But no voices drifted up, no movement of cloth rustling or feet rushing to take up ambush positions.

With a deep breath he grabbed his staff from its clip on his back and gathered the magic that flowed through his veins. Running through the words and weaves in his head that would throw up his magical barriers in a heartbeat, Anders flipped the door open with the toe of his boot and descended the stairs.