Ghosts From the Past
The clinic is empty. Deafening silence and oppressive darkness lie over the deserted cots like a shroud. No one who dared a look inside would be able to tell that this place only a few hours ago has been full with noisy people and hectic activity. It is a sad and depressive place, rundown and neglected and devoid any living being. Devoid except for the lonely figure sitting on one of the cots, with slumped shoulders and hanging head, staring at the dusty ground without really seeing it.
Anders is tired. Exhausted both physically and mentally. All he wants to do is sleep but he knows even sleep won't bring any relief. In the days, the templars are hunting him and at night, he's haunted by his dreams. There is no rest to be found and it makes him increasingly jumpy and nervous. Every sound in the dark, silent clinic makes him flinch, every move – the scurrying of rats, the fluttering of a piece of cloth in a breeze – makes him feel for his staff.
Am I going crazy?
A self-deprecating, little chuckle leaves his lips. He probably is. Not only is the lack of rest starting to get to him, no, he started to imagine things as of late. Gray-blue eyes in a crowd. The scent of vanilla and almond among the smell of sickness and death. Even now, in the absolute solitude of his sanctuary, he thinks to feel her presence. Yes, it is very possible he's indeed going crazy.
A crunching sound by the door pulls him from his thoughts and his head snaps up in alarm. Squinting his eyes, he scans for unwelcome visitors but, of course, there is nobody there. The place is still as empty as it was before. Even the streets outside are utterly deserted this time of night. He's imagining things again.
With a sigh, he slowly stands from the cot and just as slowly makes his way to the back of the building where his private room is situated. He needs to stop seeing threats where there are none, he tells himself. But just when his hand closes around the door handle, the crunching sounds again and this time, he's sure he did not imagine it. Spinning around, Anders raises his staff and pulls at the fade, readying a spell.
"Who's there? Show yourself!" he calls at the unmoving, silent shadows by the entrance. There is no answer and he takes a careful step forward, highly alert and prepared to attack. "Whoever you are, the clinic is closed!"
He assumes a battle stance when one of the shadows starts to move and a figure steps into the poor light streaming in through one of the narrow windows. He cannot make out if it's a man or a woman standing there in front of him, unmoving, unspeaking. A dark, hooded cloak conceals the figure's face and body but somehow, there is a familiarity to it. He has no idea why that is but the longer he keeps staring, the more certain he is that he should know this nightly visitor and that his presence in the clinic does not bode well. His fingers twitch with growing anxiety and the wood of the staff in his hands becomes slick with sweat.
"I was told the clinic is never closed," the figure finally utters quietly and Anders' knees get weak with the sound of it. He would recognize that voice everywhere. Cold shock washes over him with incredible intensity.
No, that's impossible, he reprimands himself silently. It is not her. I am imagining this. Just another illusion. It is not her!
He closes his eyes, takes a deep, shuddering breath. The staff threatens to slip from his suddenly trembling hands. His heart hammers against his ribs, hard and fast and loud. He silently counts to ten, then opens his eyes again, hoping, praying that this is not real.
But the figure… illusion… she… is still there and his shock slowly turns into panic. Without realizing it, he takes a step back, then another.
"You can't be here," he whispers. Pleadingly. Desperately.
There is a slight move under that dark hood and the sound of something that could be a quiet laugh.
"You can't be here, either, right? Because you're dead." A gloved hand rises up and removes the hood, revealing dark, long hair framing a too familiar face with expressive, gray-blue eyes. "At least that's what I was led to believe for the last six years."
The panic threatens to overwhelm him. His chest feels as tight as if he is buried beneath a ton of rock, every breath becomes a painful effort when the truth of this being real indeed finally sinks in. Frozen to the spot he watches as she comes closer, ever closer, as if in slow-motion. Pictures, memories flash in front of his inner eye in rapid succession, tangled, chaotic. Thoughts run amok in his head. Why is she here? How did she find him? Why does she know?
She stops two feet in front of him. Her eyes are cold and piercing. For a long, long moment, she just stands there staring at him. Anders feels like she's dissecting him, piece by little piece, and he can't stand it. There's no feeling in that gaze, no warmth, and he averts his eyes, guilt and fear and regret tying his stomach into knots.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. He's not aware he has said that aloud until she slaps him in the face, hard and without warning. His eyes water with the stinging pain suddenly flaring in his cheek but he does not move, does not try to defend himself. He deserves it, doesn't he? That and so much more.
"Liar!"
All the emotions her eyes are lacking are contained in that one word and it cuts into him like a knife. Hurt. Humiliation. Contempt. It is even harder to bear than that cold, unfeeling stare.
"You thrice-cursed, no-good son of a bitch! Say something!" she yells at him when he does not answer. He's being pushed and then pushed again until he hits the wall in his back.
"Why, Anders!"
He closes his eyes, pained and desperate. There are so many reasons why but none she will understand. In her eyes, what he did is betrayal and every word, every explanation, no matter how reasonable or logical or true it may sound, will be nothing more than an excuse to her or even worse, a lie.
"I had to," he forces out. It is not enough, he knows that, but it is all he can give her. Her answer is a disbelieving, slightly derisive laugh.
"You had to? You bastard broke my heart six years ago and all I get to hear now is that you had to? You owe me an explanation!"
Anger begins to mix into his already tumultuous emotions with those words. He owes her? Didn't he tell her from the start not to trust him? That he would only hurt her in the end? Didn't he tell her again and again that their relationship was not meant to last? He warned her so many times not to hang her heart on a selfish, broken apostate like him and now she tells him that he owes her?
From the corners of his eyes, Anders sees her hand raising once again but this time he catches her wrist before she can strike. Slowly, he turns his head to look at her again.
"No, I don't," he snaps, voice dangerously low. "I didn't ask you to come here. I didn't want you to know that I am alive and I owe you absolutely nothing!"
Her eyes get wide and for a fleeting second, he can see through that hard, unfeeling mask, can see the vulnerability she's so good at hiding and it hurts. It hurts more than every accusation or punch she could ever throw at him. He never wanted this. None of it. All he ever wanted was for her to be happy. It is part of why he left. To give her the chance to be happy with someone who deserves her and that someone has never been him.
Anders takes a deep breath and forces himself to ignore the hurt. He tries instead to concentrate on the anger boiling beneath the surface. Anger is good. When he's angry he can pretend that his feelings for her don't exist anymore. When he's angry it is easier finding the words to scare her away instead of falling to his knees and begging for her forgiveness. She shouldn't even be here in the first place. She can't be here. It is dangerous and foolish and it will break him. He can't afford to break now, not with the war that is about to begin soon, the war he himself incited.
"If you've only come here to get an explanation I'm afraid I have to disappoint you, Commander. There is nothing to explain," he says coldly. "You're trip here has been for naught."
She forcefully breaks away from his hold and just a moment later, Anders is up against the wall again with a dagger at his throat.
"Not for naught," she whispers close to his ear and he can hear the hate in her voice ever so clearly. "What I've really come for is to kill you."
His heart skips a beat with her words before it starts racing in his chest. A sardonic grin forms on his lips as he lifts his gaze from the blade in her hand to her eyes. For a moment he just enjoys the sight of her. So beautiful. So dangerous. So full of hate. This is how it should be. This is what he wants from her. Not the hurt. Not the despair. Her hate. Her fury. It is feeding his own anger, his only means to ensure that she leaves this accursed city again as soon as possible.
"And you think you've got the guts for that, love?" he taunts her, a quiet laugh in his voice.
Her head tilts to the side as she mirrors his grin and it makes his blood boil. His pulse is thumping in his ears like a war drum and his breathing becomes fast and irregular.
"I've been waiting for it ever since I found out about your betrayal."
She sounds so very sure but Anders sees the reluctance in her eyes, feels the slight tremble of her hand that holds the dagger.
"Then what are you waiting for?" he dares her. By now his heart is pumping so hard, it feels like it's going to burst his chest. He's trembling with excitement and breathless anticipation. He wants her to make him pay. He wants her to end it.
She growls and the blade presses harder against his neck, drawing blood and he welcomes the pain, craves it, embraces it. It feels right. It feels good, so good. Suddenly he feels alive again. More alive than he had been in a long time.
His fingers close around her hand that's holding the weapon, almost crushing it and the sharp metal cuts even deeper into his skin. He feels the blood trickling down his throat and soaking into his shirt. Their gazes are locked on each other in a silent battle of wills. Adrenalin runs high in his system, invigorating, arousing and without really knowing what he's doing, Anders grabs a handful of her hair and pulls her into him. His mouth crashes down on hers in a wild, brutal kiss. He can't control it; the rage, the despair, the want.
She gives the tiniest sound. Something in between pain, surprise and the same desperate need he feels and his hand tightens in her hair, holds her head in place while his tongue pushes against her lips, her teeth demandingly. The dagger clatters to the dusty floor and he feels the shiver that runs through her, feels her hands clawing into his shirt, not sure if she should drag him closer or push him away, her slender body against his. He lets his lips wander to her ear.
"Fuck me," he whispers maliciously. "Just once more for the sake of the good old times."
Her body tenses up and her fists pound at his chest as she struggles to get away from him. With a mean, little laugh he shoves her back before he can lose himself in the taste, the smell, the feel of her. His breath comes in fast, shallow gasps, his heart is still racing.
She stares at him, eyes burning with shame and humiliation, her breath just as fast as his own.
"I hate you," she rasps and his laugh becomes outright cruel, a desperate attempt to hide the pain from her that is slowly tearing him apart. He can't stand her sight any longer, this reminder of all he could have had if he had just been brave enough to face his fears instead of running from them.
"And you think I care?" he scoffs. "Go home, little girl. Take all that righteous anger of yours, your hollow threats and hurt pride and leave me the fuck alone if you don't have the guts to kill me like you said you would!"
The expression in her eyes is murderous, her hands clenched into fists. Everything about her radiates danger and Anders braces himself for the final attack. He doesn't take his eyes off her as she slowly steps towards him again. She holds his gaze. Her every move is calm, controlled, despite the fire in her eyes and the hate in her heart. Without leaving him out of her sight, she bows down and picks up the blade to his feet. The shiny metal reflects the poor light of the candle nearby as she raises the weapon and points the tip at his heart.
The seconds tick by. Ten, fifteen, and they are still staring at each other. Then suddenly, with a flick of her wrist, the dagger disappears from her hand, back into her sleeve where it had come from and she slowly shakes her head at him.
"No, you are not worth it, mage. I won't soil my hands with your blood. For all I care you can rot in this hole," she says indifferently before she turns her back on him and starts walking towards the entrance.
He can only watch as her figure melts into the shadows again as if she's never been there and he still watches for a long time after she is gone. Only slowly, he comes down from the high of emotions she put him in but when he does he feels empty, drained and more alone than he's ever felt before. His legs give out from under him and he slides down the wall in his back. Curling into a ball, he hides his head in his arms, hot tears burning his eyes and strangling his throat. All he wants to do is to sleep, to forget and he doesn't care about the nightmares any longer because his worst nightmare has already come true.