Shattered Beliefs
The night is chilly and smells of snow. His breath is visible as white, foggy plumes in front of his face as he leaves the inn much later than he planned to. For a moment, Anders lingers in front of the entrance, deeply inhaling the fresh, crisp air. He likes that smell that is the harbinger of winter, his favorite season. He can already see the roofs and streets, the trees and fields covered in a glittering, snowy blanket. The world looks so much more peaceful and innocent then, like a blank sheet waiting to be filled. Maybe that's why he always chooses to escape the Tower in the middle of winter. Because snow, for him, always means new beginnings and despite the fact that the templars got a hold of him again each time, his belief in that is still unbroken.
Maybe this time they won't catch him. Maybe this time he's finally made it. He's never come this far ever before. Amaranthine. The name sounds like a promise, whispering of freedom and chances. Just a few more hours and he will be on a ship bound to Maker knows where. He did not ask its destination when he booked passage but anywhere is fine with him as long as it takes him away from Ferelden and away from life as he knows it.
He is looking forward to this journey, no, he is not looking forward to it, he's giddy with excitement and anticipation. The sea fascinates him since he first laid eyes on it. Nothing could be more vast and mysterious and exciting than the sea. He has dreamed of being a pirate many times when the silence and the darkness in his cell at the Tower became too much to bear, imagined to roam the oceans on a great ship with red sails, free to go wherever he pleased and bound for nowhere but where the wind may lead him.
Turning up the collar of his cloak, he descends the few steps in front of the inn and starts walking down the dark alley. His thoughts are already far away. Maybe they will go to Antiva? He's heard stories about Antiva, about long white beaches and exotic beauties. They were said to be more tolerant towards mages, too. As long as you did not offend the Crows, you could lead a good life in Antiva. Or Rivain. That would be even more appealing. A Rivaini pirate he met in Denerim during his last escape had told him that the Chantry had little to no influence in Rivain. It was a true paradise for mages. If he had to choose, he'd probably say he wanted to go to Rivain.
His thoughts are pulled back into reality when someone bumps into him. He lifts his head to apologize but the man has already hurried past. With a shrug he trains his eyes on the way before him again. The streets are still busy despite the late hour. He can see a couple, walking down the cobblestone path arm in arm, a group of men telling jokes and laughing, a young woman climbing down from a wagon's coachbox.
He frowns a little with the sight. Somehow that woman looks familiar but he can't pinpoint why that is. Unconsciously, he slows his steps and lingers just out of sight, staring at the woman's back like hypnotized. She ascends the few stairs to an entrance and the door swings open, revealing another, older woman with open arms.
"Emma!" he hears her calling out in delight and his blood freezes in his veins. The young woman turns her head and he can get a glimpse at her face. His chest becomes tight and he feels as if someone has pulled the rug out from under him.
Emma…
Suddenly, he's not standing on a dirty street anymore but is running down a green, sun-kissed hill. He can feel the grass under his toes, the sunshine on his skin and the breeze on his naked arms, can smell the scent of hay and cornflowers.
"Brother, wait! Wait for me! Not so fast!" a little girl's voice calls after him and he turns around, catching her when her tiny legs won't keep up with her speed and she stumbles and falls. Big eyes, the same color as his, look up at him and her grinning mouth reveals a gap in her teeth where just yesterday she lost her first baby tooth. That crooked grin is infectious and his lips split into a grin of his own. He picks her up and lifts her over his head, sitting her onto his shoulders and she squeals in delight as he starts running down that hill once more.
The memory blurs into another one. Those same amber eyes staring at him again, round and tearful and horrified. He hears that voice once more.
"No! Set him down! He's done nothing! Set him down! Set him down, you big ox!"
Her small hands are pounding at a plated chest until they are bleeding. She is crying and screaming and trying to get his captor to release him. He feels an iron gauntlet digging into his arm and cold, merciless eyes staring at him. He tries to speak, tries to tell her to stop before she gets hurt but no sound comes from his mouth and then that iron gauntlet strikes his sister down with a hard slap to her face. It is his mother crying and screaming now, hurrying to her girl's side and unleashing a murderous tirade upon the two Templars who have come to take her son away and dare to lay hand on her daughter.
He doesn't remember what she had been saying but he does remember that look of despair in her eyes and the nasty, rapidly swelling bruise on his sister's cheek, the blood on her face and on her hands. He also remembers his own fear and desperation, the need to cry without being able to and the helplessness that rendered him frozen in the Templar's grasp.
Just as frozen as he is now, staring at the faces of his mother and sister. It's been eleven years since that fateful day, eleven years that he has neither seen them nor heard of them. But you don't forget your family. You remember their faces even when you try to forget. You remember the good times and the bad and sometimes, when you try hard enough, you can even remember their smiles and how it felt to be loved.
Tears prick at his eyes as the memories all come crashing down on him. There's a longing in his heart that he only ever felt when he was dreaming of the ocean, of freedom, a need for the things he so desperately wishes for and can never have.
"Mama…"
The word slips him without him even noticing it and he takes an unwitting step towards the two women but freezes again when there is a squeal coming from behind his mother's back and a whirlwind with red-blonde hair launches itself at his sister.
"Emma! Emma! I've been waiting for you so long, sister!"
His breath hitches in his throat. The world suddenly stands still. His eyes are glued onto the little boy hanging on Emma's skirts. He looks like a miniature of himself with his blonde ponytail and brown eyes. He has a baby-brother. His mother had another child; another son. The mere thought of that hurts. It makes him wonder if they forgot all about him or if they sometimes think of him, remember him like he remembers them.
Whenever he thought of his mother and sister, there has always been the firm belief that they love and miss him. Now he's not so sure anymore. Upon seeing this happy, little family there under the warm light of the lantern, that little boy that so much looks like him, he more than ever feels like an outcast. It feels as if the memories he has of his family are just a product of his imagination, a desperate effort to pretend he, at some point in his life, belonged.
He still stares at that spot on the stairs when the door has long since closed behind those people who have once been his family. His limbs feel numb from the cold outside and his heart and mind feel equally numb from a very different cold from deep within.
He doesn't hear the commotion behind him, metal boots scraping over stone, almost doesn't feel the iron gauntlet suddenly falling down on his shoulder and digging into his skin. His disappointment and despair and the need to cry without being able to render him frozen in the Templar's grasp and when he and his companion wrestle him to the ground and his eyes stare at the night sky unseeing, the first snowflakes sail down from above him and settle on his flush cheeks and for the first time, he doesn't see the beauty in them, the promise of a new beginning.