Once, there was a boy. The boy had a name, given by parents who loved him, used by friends who admired him.
"Ow!" The boy yelps in pain, and clutching his finger.
"Oh, now now Liebchen, what's this?" His father sets down his hammer on the anvil and crouches down next to him. He looks at him, eyes sympathetic. "Banged yourself in the fingers, didn't you? Must've made that mistake a thousand times when I was learning."
"I hate this," the boy mutters. "This is stupid."
"Now, now, don't say that. You want to take over Papa's smithy one day, don't you?" The boy doesn't contradict this, not wanting to start another argument he won't win. "Let me get some whiskey and cloth to bandage this."
Father and son are just settling back to their tasks, when there is a pounding on the door.
The knocker is Rose, their neighbor. "Please! Our wagon's overturned, just down the road, and Darren is trapped!"
His father swears in a language the boy only half knows. He looks at his son. "Stay here, wait until I or your mother come for you."
The boy waits until their footsteps die away. Quietly, he slips out the door to the smithy. Under his bandage, he does not notice that the wound has vanished.
"Ready or not, here I come!"
The boy runs, panting and grinning. He reaches the neighbor's barn. Somewhere behind him, he can hear the sound of his pursuers, laughing and giggling. He slides open the barn door and slips inside.
The smoke of the dying fire billows into the night as the boy stares, hollow-eyed, lead weights in his chest.
"Liebchen!" His father bursts through the gathering crowd and sweeps the boy up in his arms.
The barn's owner, Wylla, grabs the boy's father and pulls him aside for a conservation. After a minute of furious whispering, the boy's father turns to look back at him. The affection, the humour, the warmth so ever-present, are now gone. In their place is something the boy does not recognize, something he has never seen in those eyes before.
A week goes by. His father will hardly look at him. He only looks when he thinks the boy will not see. Again, something in his eyes the boy doesn't recognize. Fear?
"Liebchen, wake up!" It is his mother, shaking him awake. "Liebchen, the templars are here, you must run!" She presses a satchel into his hands then helps him clamber out the window.
The boy runs, panting and shaking. He reaches the woods. Somewhere behind him, he can hear the sound of his pursuers, armour clanking through the brush.
Then an armored figure bursts from the trees in front of him.
"Do you have a name, boy?" The man in robes peers down at him.
The boy looks steadfastly at his feet, still clutching the satchel in his hands. If I don't say anything, they can't prove anything, he thinks wildly. They'll have to let me go.
The robed man looks up. "Well?"
"Been like that the whole way from Frostrun, First Enchanter," the templar still holding the boy's shoulder says. She seems to be in charge. "Didn't have time to get much info from the parents, so we've been calling him 'that Anders kid.'"
"You know, cuz he looks like he's from the Anderfels," another templar adds helpfully.
"Indeed," the robed man says, giving the second templar a withering look. "Well, I suppose the nickname will have to do until he chooses to talk to us. Welcome to the Circle of Magi, Anders."
"Nasty cut you've got there, Padric," Anders remarked as he worked.
The elderly man sitting on his examination take chuckled. "Yes, well, that's what I get for tangling with the Coterie at my age."
They made conversation as Anders continued working. Then Padric peered at him. "Say, you're not from Frostrun in Ferelden are you? Near Gherlen's Pass, just west of Lake Calenhad?"
Anders tried very hard not to tense up noticeably. "What makes you say that?"
Padric shrugged. "Lived there for a time, 'fore the Blight hit. Knew a blacksmith there, looked just like you, but older, different haircut. Oh, and a funny accent. Can't remember his name, but he was the kindest man I ever met, always willing to help a stranger in need. Like you, come to think of it. Any chance you're related?" Padric grinned toothily.
"No," Anders lied.
"Mm. Ah well. Shame really. Poor blighter was cut down by darkspawn during the Blight. Saw him and his wife both get gutted, along with half the village. Barely made it out myself. It's how I got this." Padric raised his arm, showing off a badly healed scar on his forearm.
"I see," Anders said, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He finished healing the old man and sent him on his way. Somehow, he made it through the rest of the day. If any of his other patients noticed his odd demeanor, they didn't comment. When he was finished for the night, he put out the lanterns, locked the doors, and went to bed. He lay awake for a long time, thinking about a life taken away from him, about a name he hadn't used in over 15 years, a name no one left alive knew anymore. No one but him.
"Are you alright Anders?" Hawke said. "You're staring into space again."
Anders blinked. The onions he was halfway through chopping had lain untouched for the last minute or so. He shook himself out of his reverie. "Sorry love, I was just thinking about a patient I saw the other day." It wasn't even entirely a lie.
Hawke frowned. "You've been doing that a lot this week. Are you sure everything's alright?"
Anders tried to smile. "Really, love, everything's fine."
Hawke raised an eyebrow in a I don't believe you but I'll drop it for now expression, and went back to preparing the chicken. It was a weekly ritual of theirs, started not long after Leandra's death over a year and a half ago. Once a week, Hawke gave Orana, Bodahn, and Sandal the day off, and she and Anders would make dinner together. It was a pleasant ritual, one that ensured they got some time alone together that wasn't always interrupted by Coterie thugs, or blood mages, or abusive templars, or even just Fenris' glares or Isabela's lewd commentary.
They finished preparing dinner in companionable silence, only speaking to ask where the salt went, or how long the chicken should roast for. As they sat down to eat, Hawke recounted the recent story of how she had helped Aveline track down a ring of bluedream smugglers earlier in the week. The story involved an increasingly improbable chain of clues and events, ultimately culminating in Hawke, Aveline, Donnic, and a squad of city guards confronting nine naked Avvar berserkers, high as dragons on their own product, in a sheep pen just outside the city.
"We thought we had them cornered, since they didn't have any weapons or armor on them," Hawke said dryly. "Except it turns out they did: projectile sheep."
Anders nearly choked on a carrot as he tried to laugh and swallow at the same time. "Maker's breath," he gasped. "Is that where that enormous bruise came from?"
Hawke grinned ruefully. "Sheep are heavy. And those bastards were strong. Aveline made Varric swear not to put it in his next guard serial. He told her she didn't have to worry, because his editor would reject it as too absurd."
The conversation lulled into silence after that, as they concentrated in their food. Eventually, Anders sat down the silverware. "Hawke, do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you hadn't been a mage?"
Hawke set down her own fork, thinking things over seriously. "Once or twice. When we had to leave Redcliffe, I was pretty bitter about it. It was the place we'd lived the longest at that point, and I didn't really remember anywhere else. But honestly I'm not sure my life would be that different. Look at Carver: he's not a mage, but he's lived his life on the run just the same as me. Not being a mage wouldn't have stopped the darkspawn from overrunning Lothering, so I'd probably have ended up in Kirkwall no matter what."
"You think you would have joined the templars like Carver did?"
A shadow flickered over Hawke's face, and she clenched her fists. "No. No I would not."
Anders decided to drop that line of questioning. "And what if your father and sister weren't mages either? What if your family wasn't affected by magic at all?"
Hawke leaned back in her chair, thinking a minute before answering. "I'm not sure my family would even exist at that point. Father was from Ferelden, Mother was from Kirkwall. They only met because the templars decided to bring Father to the Gallows instead of Kinloch Hold." She shrugged. "Magic has defined my family so much. I might wish we didn't have to live on the run or in hiding so much, but at the end of the day I can't regret the magic itself." She gave him an inquiring look. "What about you? I'm guessing you've thought about the what-ifs of your own life."
Anders smiled. "Right. Well. I think I told you my father was a blacksmith? So perhaps I'd have stayed home, blacksmithing away, with a pretty wife and a dozen baby blacksmith children by now."
Hawke poked him in the arm, grinning. "You saying I'm not pretty?"
"Mmmmmmm. 'Pretty' is too inadequate for you, love. When I want to describe you I think 'fierce.' 'Magnificent.' 'Glorious.'"
"Oo, I like those words." Hawke chuckled. "Still though, I'm trying to picture you as a blacksmith, and don't take this the wrong way, but I'm drawing a blank."
"Oh, I hated it, and I was always sneaking out to play with the other children instead." His smile faltered, as he remembered what happened the last time he had escaped lessons.
"Now that sounds much more like the Anders I know and love." Her grin turned into another curious look. "I would like to know what brought this on."
Anders hesitated, then told her what Padric had said.
"Oh Anders…" Hawke knew enough about his past to know what it meant. Across the table, her eyes glistened with tears he knew she was working furiously to hold in, not wanting to add her pain to his.
A smile flicked across his face. "That's just it, love. I should be grieving, but I'm not. I just feel… Regret, I suppose. And awful that I don't feel worse." He buried his face in his hands. "Maker, what on Earth is wrong with me? They weren't bad people, even father, for all he was wrong. Why doesn't it mean more to me?!"
"Anders." There was an iron undertone in Hawke's voice as she reached across the table and gently pulled his hands into hers. He looked up at her, amber eyes meeting green ones. "I've seen a lot of grievings in my life, and if there's one thing they've all had in common, it's that it's different every time. Grief doesn't follow logical patterns, there's no one right way to do it. And just know… I'm here for you. Whatever you need."
Something in Anders broke a little, remembering when he spoke those words her, all that time ago. He lunged across the table, scattering chicken everywhere as he snatched her into a desperate kiss.
Some time later found them both in bed, Anders curled up in Hawke's arms as she absent-mindedly stroked his hair.
"Marian?"
"Mm. Yes, love?"
"You remember when I told about how I got my name?"
"Of course."
"Does it ever bother you?"
"Well, I felt pretty stupid at the time for not wondering about it sooner."
"No, I mean, that I haven't told you my original name."
"Oh." Hawke had that contemplative look on her face, the one he found irresistibly endearing. "Well, just because we're together, doesn't mean you give up the right to have any secrets at all. If you don't want to tell me, then I don't need to know. Besides: Anders is the name I met you under, and fell in love with you under. I don't need anything more than that."
He wrinkled his brow. "You mean you don't want to know?"
"Oh Maker's balls no. I'm pretty much a seething mass of burning curiosity. But that's my issue to deal with, not yours."
"I… Really appreciate that, love. But I've been thinking. Everyone who knew that old name is gone. Everyone important, anyway. I'd like there to be at least one person who knows both names." Someone should know it, after I'm gone, after I've done what I have to.
"All right. If you're sure."
"I am." He leaned in to whisper in her ear.
Once, there was a man. The man had a name. A name everyone knew him by, friends and enemies alike. The name he would one day grow infamous under, the name his lover thought when she said "I love you." But there was a second name, a name long disused and locked away in the chests of memory. That name didn't really belong to him, not anymore. It was the name given to a boy, a boy who had long ago ceased to be, though he could not have said exactly where the boy stopped and the man began. He pulled it out, one last time, and gave it away for safekeeping.
A/N: The general story about how Anders got his name comes Worlds of Thedas, via the Dragon Age wiki. For those of you who don't know German, Liebchen roughly means "dear one," and is often used as a term of endearment. I needed a nickname that his parents could use to address him, since I didn't want them addressing him by his given name.