Seeing my Amell's Harrowing, and later the more personalized demonic visions of the Fade level, as well as reading some wonderful fic and wanting to write about Anders, seem to have combined into this.
My first Anders fic, based on my headcanon that the templars killed his sister.
Short and not very sweet. Warnings for language, violence, and an unpleasantly young death (this one isn't a particularly happy fic to read or write).
Feedback is really appreciated, especially since this is a new character and heavy subject matter.
Harrowed
Anders
The first time he ran, it was because he actually thought he could escape.
The third, there was still a grain of hope, and it was because he had to try, because if he didn't, what hope was there?
The fourth, he still cried in the privacy - yes, privacy, for he wouldn't see another soul except for the hand that shoved the food that was the quality of what they fed mabari through the hole for months - when he was captured.
By the fifth, it was simply a matter of wanting to stick it to the templars, and he couldn't cry any more. He was old enough and tall enough by then that he could look the them in the eye through their ridiculous helmets. He did, and he didn't falter - that earned him a few new scars, but on the upside, look at the wonderful patterns they made!
Of course, he joked his way through it, because it was all he could do, and if he collapsed in front of her, then all her hope would finally flee, and with it, any of Amell's chances. Oh, the templars call him a selfish little mongrel, but he still has it in him to care for others - he prays that that's not the only shred of dignity, of decency, he has left from this never-ending circle of pain. He heals, because it shows him that they're wrong, that there's still something good in him. Because he wants to take away pain, pain like his own.
As he stands in front of Irving, picking at the hem of this dress - no, these robes - having the "rules" of his Harrowing explained to him in a neverending drone, he looks dubiously at the lyrium placed in front of him.
He isn't that surprised when he finds he's in the Fade - tasting the air, he can tell there's that familiar, telltale tang of lyrium and fear in it.
He sees an apprentice, still in robes - it's almost enough to make him laugh - kicking the shit out of a templar. He considers cheering him on, watching the templar bleed, debates with himself, but is aware it is an illusion, it's all an illusion. That said - He steps in, holds the kid back, healing the templar, seeing the spark of hope, gratitude, on the man's face...
... Then steps back, gestures to the apprentice to continue. "Oh, don't mind me." As the templar begins to bleed all over again, he walks away; he can't help the twitch at the corner of his mouth - there is a kind of savage satisfaction in it.
Ah. Now he understands, and he laughs."Rage, is it?" he calls out. "Oh, very nice." The twitch becomes a full-on grin, and he can't help himself. "Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough!"
The beast of flame is dispatched quickly and - even to say it himself - rather efficiently.
He opens the next door to find a sunny day, Lake Calenhad - or at least, what seems to be Lake Calenhad - and Jowan and Amell on the grassy bank... having a picnic.
She laughs, gesturing to him to sit with them, and he does. "Funny, isn't it?" She passes him a sandwich, and he takes a bite, finding that it's his favourite, ham. "Freedom, I mean. The king finally breaking up the Circles."
"Cailan, you mean?" he says round a mouthful of sandwich. "Not that surprising. Heard he had a thing for mages, anyway."
She smiles at him. "Finally. We have all the time in the world. No having to go back. Doesn't it just feel like you could sit here for ever?"
This is all he has ever wanted, and he has enjoyed it while it lasted - it's a tragedy, really, that ham sandwiches don't transfer from the Fade, since he never gets them in the Tower - but it is time to make a move. Oh, he knows perfectly well that this isn't real: he's Anders - good things like this just don't happen to him.
"You're leaving?" asks "Jowan", sitting up. "Your sister's on her way - surely you want to see her."
Desire demons take many forms, and both of his "friends" jump at his low comment through gritted teeth as he realises: "Not my sister, you bitch!"
But there she is, running to him through the grass in a summer dress, blonde hair just like his own, as lovely and innocent and alive and six years old as she was on the day he was taken, and he has to fight himself not to simply open his arms and hug her and let her in, because it would be so easy just to stay here with his friends and his family...
... And wake up as a braindead abomination, he reminds himself, ignoring the tears that seem to be pooling in his eyes.
He knows it is not his sister, but he doesn't care - this is the image of the little girl that died because he fought, struggled against the bastard templars. It makes him want to stop, and yet, it's not just himself he fights for every day - it's her, too. It's always her.
She reaches him, arms reaching for him, and, even knowing it is a desire demon, he puts two hands on her shoulders, and he smiles, drinking in the sight of her, perfectly preserved from his memory. He kisses her on the forehead, and he's whispering, even though he's not sure why. "I am so, so sorry. Remember that. And I think of you every day. Maybe I'll see you, the real you, not this bitch, someday... and I'll be your big brother again. Hide-and-seek?" The demon's expression of angry surprise at the fact that he knows is perfectly preserved on her poor little face, frozen with his spell. He looks at the ice statue for a moment, swallowing the lump in his throat, and shatters it into a million pieces.
Things fade to black.