Author's Notes: My first actual story that I want to share with a bigger audience. More than sure to contain some rather weird construction mistakes for English is not my native language and I didn't think about finding a beta reader (maybe in the future). It's a short piece, to tell the truth inspired by another fanfic ("Stay" from the DA kink meme) and it's Anders' fear of dying alone. I have some ideas for this to be a multi-chapter story, but right now consider it a one shot piece of (not so good) fiction.

Disclaimer: Dragon Age is not mine, I'm just a fangirl that tries to add something from herself to the community. If DA was mine the main characters would probably be Anders and Nathaniel… And Varric to share some stories.

It's been so long since his dreams involved anything else than darkspawn Or Justice that at first he's confused about the whereabouts. The street is familiar and after a moment Anders remembers the place – one of Amaranthine's back alleys, where he had tried to hide from the templars.

It takes him a moment to recognize the memory. He sees himself, his younger happier self from the time he was on his seventh escape. Dirty, thin and shivering from the morning chill that the thin cloak couldn't protect him from, but happy. Free, even if it's only for a few more minutes. He can actually hear the templars coming. They felt when he tried to warm himself up with a simple spell.

Anders forces himself to breathe. It's just a memory, not a pleasant one but bearable, especially since he knows that it's end is at Vigil's Keep – maybe not the safest place on Thedas but the feel of belonging he had there makes him smile even now, during lonely waking hours in Darktown.

He wills himself to keep control – this is just a memory and it would do him no good to lash out uncontrolled spells in his sleep, when suddenly the dream shifts. It's still Amaranthile, still the damn reeking street, but the sun is not shining anymore, the templars' taunts grow more malignant. He sees fear in his younger self's eyes, sees the powerlessness. They throw him down onto the ground, a pair mailed hands holds down his wrists while another starts tearing off his robes, he's screaming but no sound escapes as the sword descends down onto his chest-

He wakes up screaming.

Cold sweat covers his trembling form, hand covering his mouth to stifle the sobs and whimpers as much as he can, he can feel Justice in the back of his mind, scolding him for weakness and he lets his tears fall for even with, or maybe because of the spirit's presence he feels alone more than ever.

Always alone.