Crouched in a muddy pit, shivering with cold and fear, it was one pair of sapphire eyes that found him and carried him back up into the world of the living. He would never forget it.

Blue eyes would always be a sign of salvation.

Malcolm Hawke found what he first thought was the emaciated body of a boy dumped in a pit on his way home from the village. His stilled, feeling a sense of pity and loss before stepping closer. He needed to get home, Leandra would worry…

The body was slight, painfully thin… whoever the lad had been, he had been hungry for a long time before—

The filthy blonde head shot up, hair plastered to gaunt cheeks. Feral brown eyes connected with his, sunk into a pale white face.

"I en't done nothing!" came a rough cry; it had to have come from the pit itself, there was no way that sound had come from that boy.

But if there was rage in this person, there was also magic. It crackled off of him, painful and unrestrained, residual energy floating away from him like mist over water.

An apostate child. Untrained. Alone. He must have been about Marian's age, or even slightly older.

Malcolm put down his pack, and showed both empty hands to the boy. His staff was still on his back. He saw the wide eyes dart quickly to the wood and then back to his face.

"My name is Mal, what's yours?"

The boy didn't reply, but he swallowed hard and kept his body stiff.

Malcolm took a tentative step closer. Then he called a small flame forth, dancing delicately and blue at his finger tips, "You'll be safe with me."

The boy's eyes were glued to the fire, "M-mage?"

"Yes. I can help you. Are you…" he extinguished the flame and lowered his hands, "Do they know where you are?"

"No," the boy jutted his jaw forward, a moment of pride, juxtaposed to his current position, "I en't seen any for days."

Malcolm knelt at the edge of the pit and lowered his hand in, "What's your name?"

They boy took his hand but didn't reply.

Malcolm hauled him up, startled at his incredibly light he was, as if his bones were hollow, "You're from the Anderfels? If I have any ear for—"

"I was."

"Well, all right then, Anders. We're all entitled to our secrets," standing on level ground, he picked up his pack and placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, "Food and shelter, that's what I can offer you. Do you have… anywhere to go?"

The boy, Anders, shook his head.

"Right then. Well. Now you do."

The boy's face was tight and worn beyond his years, but Malcolm saw the faintest softening of a smile there.

Marian Hawke slapped her brother's gut in warning.

"Carver, be still!" she hissed, "They'll know we're here."

He glared at her, but obeyed, ceasing his impatient wiggling and instead sitting on his heels and peering with her through the slats of the stair's railing. Their sister, Bethany, sat on Marian's other sit, still as stone.

They watched as this strange new figure, little more than a skinny silhouette in front of the fire, took a small basin from their mother's hands. He kept his head down, but muttered what must have been thanks and carried the basin out of the room.

"Are you mad?"

Their father casually tore off the heel of a new loaf of bread and smiled at her broadly, "Perhaps."

"Malcolm, the risk-"

"Would you rather I'd left him there to starve? Or worse, leave him there for the bloody Templars to find him. He's a child, Leandra. Imagine if it was Bethany—"

"Stop. Don't."

Marian cast a glance at her younger sister, who in turn stared up at her with deep chocolate eyes. Marian grasped her thin fingers and squeezed gently.

"What of his family?" There was resignation in Mother's voice.

"He's come all the way here, alone. I don't think he has a bed waiting for him at home."

"For how long are we keeping this…"

"Anders."

"That's his name?"

Smiling at her, he shrugged, all charm, "It is now."

Marian had always so unbelievably proud of how handsome and charismatic her father was. She understood how exactly he managed to get by, to scrape himself out of impossible situations. Her father was a powerful mage, yes, but more than that. Charm. It was a magic that didn't start fires or heal wounds, but a magic nonetheless.

"All right. I'll… here," she handed him a roll of blankets and a pair of scissors, "Dinner's almost ready. See to him. I'll set another place at the table. I'll have Marian make a palette for him, I suppose he can sleep in here tonight… the stable will be near freezing."

Holding the bundle to his chest with one hand, he used to other to cup her faces, "I married a goddess, a Virtue, a-"

"A long suffering martyr? Yes. Now, go."

He followed after the boy.

"And you three," Leandra said, turning back to the pot, "careers in espionage are not in your future, I fear. Wash up and get down here. Marian, help them. Carver's nails are a disgrace."

"Fuck! Fuck off, Carver!"

Marian held a hand to her cheek, feeling the blood flow freely between her fingers.

"It's your fault, Mare!"

"Don't call me that!"

"I hate sparring with you. It's always my fault when you screw up."

"Fuck off."

Carver sheathed his sword and tromped off back to the house, leaving fifteen-year-old Marian standing alone in the field. It was a blindingly sunny day, the green grass glinting, and the smell of fresh clean spring air restorative.

This was the last thing she needed. She pulled a rag out of her pocket and pressed it against her cheek, wincing and grunting. It was deep. It was another scar waiting to happen… and on her face. Fucking Carver.

"Hey…"

She turned on her heels to see the tall lean shape of Anders walking towards her. He was empty handed, save a heavy pouch tied to his belt. A good day of trading, it seemed, "What happened to you?"

"What always happens to me? Carver."

"Ahh…" he closed the distance between them, and tilted his head, "Let me see."

Long artful fingers brushed her skin as he reached to remove the rag. Marian averted her eyes, staring at the trunk of a nearby tree, hoping that he couldn't feel her heart thud.

It was wrong. He was her brother.

Well, no. He wasn't. But he also was… and had been for the last four years… which seemed like forever. She had a hard time remembering life at home before Anders.

He pulled a breath in between his teeth, "You're lucky he missed your eye. That'd be a sight harder to heal."

"Like putting a split grape back together?" she offered, smiling up at him.

"Ugh. Disgusting, but… yes. Just like that. Here," he took her hand and lead her to the trunk of the tree. She sat with her back against the bark, and he knelt in front of her, his knees settled in the grass on either side of her outstretched legs, "I can fix it."

She nodded quickly and looked away from him again.

He smelled like sweat and sun and rosemary and wood and leather and burnt air. Like her Da in that way. He smelled like a man. When had that happened, when had he stopped being a boy—

"You wiggle, and I might heal your eyelid shut," he smiled at her, and she felt his warmth breath on her cheek, "So, hold still, okay?"

"Y-yup. Okay."

"Hey," he leaned in even closer, dipping down to level his warm eyes with her own, startlingly blue under those thick black lashes, "Don't be scared. I won't hurt you."

She worried her lower lip and blinked quickly, "I know."

"Here," he pulled the rag away again and set his thumb at the bottom edge of the fresh cut. She felt the cool familiar tingle of healing, and saw the blue glow from the corner of her eye. She dared to look at his face, set with concentration as he knit her skin back together.

He didn't look like the family. He was narrow where they were broad; he was fair where they were dark.

His skin was tan, from being outside with her father and Bethany, practicing spells and tactics in the field behind the stable.

His long legs were lean but muscular from walking to the village to trade several times a week. She tried not to think about the warmth she felt from his body so close, his thighs arched over her own, far enough away to not touch her at all.

His arms were strong, more muscular than a mage was typically expected to be from hunting with her father and Carver. Da always insisted that a person, mage or otherwise, needed more than one arsenal at their disposal. Mages needed to be strong, needed to fight with their hands and blades… because magic could be dispelled.

And Anders could fight.

And set fires.

And heal.

And…

She opened her eyes without realize she had closed them. The wound was closed, but Anders was still very near, his legs still spread over hers, his weight resting on his fists where they rested in the grass close to her hips.

"All better," he said, his voice thick.

"Thanks, brother."

With shuddering intention, he pressed a kiss to her freshly healed skin. She gasped.

He pulled back, only slightly, and she responded, leaning forward and kissing the corner of his mouth, normally curled into a smirk, so like Da's, but now slightly open, breathing jaggedly, warm minty breath warming the open space between them.

Anders absently chewed mint leaves as he walked. He plucked them with those well-shaped fingers, and his hands and breath always clung to a little bit of the scent.

He returned the kiss, pressing his lips against the corner of her mouth. And he lingered.

"I…"

"Couldn't leave you mangled like that, could I?" he cleared his throat, "What with your newest suitor coming around tomorrow night."

"Balls!" she slumped back, spine against the tree, "I'd forgotten about that. Who is it this time?"

"You don't remember?"

"They are a blur of boringness and spots and sketchy little chin beards," she replied, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his ear.

He smiled down at her, straight white teeth and dark wry eyes and spring sunshine in his hair.

He kissed her lips once, a chaste peck, and rose away from her, pulling with him all the warmth and the smells of home.

They had always slept here, like this, with a plank of knotted wood separating their bodies.

They were separated into two rooms, she and Bethany in one, and Carver and Anders in the other.

On very cold nights, she thought she could feel the warmth of his body through the wall, as if he too curled against it all night long (he did).

And when this behavior had started… well, it was normal. She believed it was normal, anyway. Her mother had refused to talk to them about the matter, but her father, somewhat awkwardly had given them all the talk… together. She had giggled uncomfortably, as had Anders, while the other two who were still at the time a hair too young for the talk had just stared up at him with horror.

Sharing a space with another person, another teenage person, sooner or later, there were certain urges that had to… well, that you waited until the other person was asleep to… she knew Bethany had done it. The rustling of sheets late at night, quick little breaths pulled between gritted teeth; private exploration, but polite and in total darkness.

She pressed her fingers against the wood, hearing his weight shift on the other side, rolling onto his back, she thought. She lay perfectly still, offering the polite solitude that anyone in this scenario deserved (even if artificial).

He had glowered at her all night, and said nothing through dinner, save snapping at Carver who had refused to chew with his mouth shut even once throughout the meal.

She had gone out with the boy twice. Eric. She liked him. He wasn't pathetic or awkward like the rest of them. He was smart and funny handsome with thick auburn hair and blue eyes, and today, he had taken her hunting with him with her father's permission. Watching him fell a stag with a bow had sent a warm thrill through her.

But returning home with the meat he had prepared and given to her as a gift for her family, she felt all that warmth replaced by cold guilt.

Anders had eaten none of the meat. And he had not spoken to her. And he had gone to bed early. Stubborn Anders.

On the other side of the wall, she felt the rhythmic movement of his arm, the rumble of a poorly stifled moan leave his throat without his conscious permission. She wondered if he intentionally allowed his arm rub the wall as he jerked, rubbing himself, hoping that she would feel it or if it was accidental. If the pleasure of his hand distracted him so that he failed to notice. She moaned quietly.

One palm pressed to the wall, the fingers of her other hand found their way down to the hem of her nightshirt, pulling the fabric up to her waist under her quilt.

She thought of the heat of his body. She thought of the flesh of his hand, which she knew as well as her own, grasping and brushing and tight against the other skin she did not know… but skin that would be smooth and hard and hot… and her fingers brushed the outside of her sex. Soft dark hair curling against the pads of her fingers, she did not press further, just grazed the outside, the hint of moisture that welled inside. On her side, she lifted one thigh, resting the knee against the wood with an almost silent padding contact.

He moved faster then, and she felt him thrust from the mattress into his fist. She knew the echo of movement through the wall. Another rebellious groan. And his breathing hitched.

She joined him, middle finger sliding into the warmth, thumb circling her little nub of nerves. She matched her thrusting finger to the pace he set on the other side of the wall as best she could, gasping when they met in time, like a dance, like they intended to do this together. That this wasn't secret. That they never ever spoke about this. That they never would.

She felt him shift his entire body closer to the wall, felt the warmth of him through it, and quickened, adding a second finger, moaning as she did so, thinking that it was him. Anders' fingers. Anders' tongue. Anders' cock. What would he say? Her name, ragged and hot. He would say Marian… Oh, Maker… oh, Gods… I need you. I need to fuck you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Pinning her, rutting, here, in her bed, secret and in the dark, with everyone else in their family asleep, his hair loose and sweaty, strong arms caging her head, his slim hips snapping against her where now the heel of her hand brought the wave inside of her to a crest.

She came silently, bright lights flaring behind her eyelids. She heard him, felt him, follow after her in the dark, on the other side of the wall.

She shifted after a few moments, rolling so that he totally faced the wall. She curled away, her back pressed against it, against him. Like that, they slept.

"Bethany!"

There was no hope. Totally drained, Bethany could do nothing but watch as the beast closed in on her. It wasn't like any animal they'd ever seen before. A wolf with monstrous spines growing from its back, green pus-like slather and broken yellowed claws that curled, delicate and alien. Ghastly.

Marian ran as fast as should could, throwing her blades futilely ahead of her, hoping to at least distract the thing away from her sister. Both blades fell, useless. Me not her, please!

But it was Anders' body, not Bethany's that took the blow from the jaws.

He hurled himself between the two shapes. He let it takes his back, shredding fabric and skin.

"Noooo!" Marian screamed, her feet feeling heavy and slow. "NO! Anders!"

He made no sound, which she registered distantly as a bad sign.

A wave of magic swept past her, enveloping the beast, killing it instantly.

Marian and Malcolm Hawke ran towards the pile that was the dead wolf, a frantic Bethany, and a very, very still Anders.

"Anders, get up!" Marian screamed at him.

Bethany looked up at her, "It's my fault, I-"

Malcolm shoved past both of them, looking first at the wolf, and then at Anders, "Shit."

"Da, what is it?" Marian crouched by Anders, touching his shoulder.

"It's a… a blight wolf. But… Oh, Maker, Anders…" he pushed Marian aside and rolled Anders onto his shredded back, pulling a bottle of lyrium from his belt, "Bethany, heal him."

Bethany didn't have much healing magic, nothing like what Anders had… but something. Over the last eight years, training with Malcolm, he had become astonishingly good. He knew the body and the magic, which was the key to being a truly adept healer.

"He'll heal himself," Marian mumbled, "Right? He'll heal himself."

Malcolm too was bracing himself, hands blue over the prone form.

"The wounds are easy to close. It's the blood. The blood is… tainted."

She saw real fear in her father's face. Tainted.

"Poison?" Bethany gasped, looking at the body of the wolf.

Anders coughed, awake but only just.

"Here, son," Malcolm tilted another bottle to his lips, and he swallowed, "Heal yourself."

"Beth… is Bethany…" he mumbled, eyes rolling.

"I'm fine."

He nodded and closed his eyes, focusing inward. It was amazing magic to watch, his body mending itself from within. Marian had seen him do this endless times… rarely to this extensive damage… but it never stopped being amazing.

"Something's… wrong," Anders said, with more clarity in his voice.

"It is," Malcolm's voice was tense, "But… let's get back to the house. Can you walk?"

He nodded and Marian and Malcolm helped him to his feet. She lingered, her arms wrapped around his waist.

"Marian! Don't touch his blood!" Malcolm jerked her away. The wounds were closed now, but his blood still soaked the shredded clothing and wet his skin. It was on her cheek.

"What's wrong?"

"The beast, it's Tainted. And… unfortunately… Anders-"

"Is as well," Anders offered, calmly.

"Tainted? What does that mean?" Marian looked back and forth between them. Grim resignation in Anders' face set the hairs on her neck upright.

"Remember the legends of Darkspawn… and the Blights?"

"Monsters that live underground, yes… but…"

She looked at the wolf.

"I don't understand why here, why now."

Malcolm sighed, "There's nothing I can do for you."

"I know."

At twenty, Anders had the peculiar ability to look nearly double that in certain moods or certain lighting. This was one of those times.

"Marian, take Bethany home," Malcolm said quietly, "I need to talk to Anders alone."

"What? No. No. Da. What are you…" she had heard this tone of voice before, when a beloved mabari had been attacked but not quite killed by a pack of wolves year before. He had sent them away, and put the animal out of its misery.

"Bethany, go home!" she shouted.

"Marian, please…" Anders sighed, reaching for her hand.

Bethany backed away, running towards the safety of home, still very much a child. Marian felt the distinct shift happen then… when her childhood finally and completely broke away.

"I can do nothing…" Malcolm started.

"Make it quick then," Anders said, squeezing Marian's fingers, his hands very still otherwise.

"You can't! Da… he's your son. He's my…" she turned to Anders, "And how are you being so bloody calm about this? Huh?"

He spoke quickly, "Marian, I've never once forgotten how I came here. I've been living on borrowed time. It's-"

"There is a Warden in Lothering."

They both looked at Malcolm.

"A Warden?"

"I'm sure it's connected… but yes, a Warden. They can… Anders, if you go with them, you can't come back, but they do have… means."

"A cure?" Marian wove her fingers into Anders'.

"No."

"So… it's that or turn into a…" Anders glanced at the wolf.

"Or die on my blade."

"Ahh… well, as… appealing as those latter options are," Anders smiled weakly, "my gut leans towards living. But, I know… virtually nothing about the Wardens. They'll… they'll take me? An untrained apostate."

"You're trained," Marian spat, "He trained you."

"It's different," Malcolm soothed, blue eyes soft, "And… I know this Warden. He.. he's a good man. And he owes me."

"All right then," Anders nodded, "The beast forced my hand."

"Let's go," Marian said, tugging Anders after her.

"No," Malcolm said firmly, "You stay here."

"What?"

"Marian, we don't have time for this…" her father stepped away, but his face softened, looking down at their linked hands, "Say your goodbye. I'll… I'll run back and get what we need… and tell your mother."

He left them then, standing alone, and when he had slipped from sight, she caved.

"I'm coming with you-"

"Shut up," he dropped her hand and took her face between his palms, "Marian, just shut up."

"I don't want you to go…" she felt weak panic grip her chest.

"Would you rather I die? Or that Malcolm Hawke be forced to mercy kill me? Maybe you'd like to keep me chained up in the yard like a rabid-"

"No, of course not!" she grabbed his wrists, gripping him with white knuckled intensity, "I'll follow you to Lothering. I'll go where the Warden takes you."

"Marian…" he breathed. Mint. Blood. And that Anders smell.

"I need you," she whispered into his mouth.

"I hope…" he said, and stopped, letting those simple words bear everything in him to her. Everything he could never give voice to. All the guilt. The confusion. The bond, there, between them palpable and full of blood.

"I'll find you," she swore, bringing her lips against his. There was nothing chaste about this kiss. His tongue against her bottom lip wrenched something loose inside of her, and she pushed herself hard against the front of his body.

So much left unresolved.

So much left unseen, untouched.

"I'll find you."

"Live, Marian," he kissed her, feeling Malcolm returning with two ponies for the journey, "Live."

They broke away, stepping away, leaving distance between them that gaped and bled, a painful wound that she was sure would never, ever close.

And without another word, he swung himself into the saddle and they rode toward Lothering.

She slept that night curled against a wooden wall that held no heat.

The Taint claimed its victims then. The Blight swallowed armies whole. Destroyed her family, one by one. First Anders. Then her father. Then Carver. Stupid fucking Carver and his bloody sword.

And they found themselves flotsam in Kirkwall. She killed for money. And tried so hard to just… live.

For a year, she did this.

And then, the dwarf threw her a line. And she followed it. A healer. A Warden in exile. Her heart flipped at the off chance that when she walked into that clinic, beyond the smell of bodies and dirt, that he would be there, just as he's been, years before. Anders.

He was drifting then, still unaccustomed to… sharing his body.

The lines had blurred, and he himself couldn't tell where he ended and where Justice began. It was all… it bled together. And whatever it was that they had become together…

He thought he was doing the right thing. He thought… but everything that had been taken from him. His family. His life. Marian. Now Karl. It had warped everything, the hate he felt… and now… he had killed. He was capable of savagery that knew no human tongue. He was an abomination, yes, but he was still Anders too.

Healing gave him focus. It was a process with a beginning and an end, and he was doing something. He was Anders, the Healer. And it gave him direction and purpose and…

She walked in.

He spun, drained from healing the broken body of a boy, and sure that this was a trick that his morphing mind was playing on him. Marian Hawke, for whom he had ached for years… Marian.

Marian, his sister, on the other side of the wall, moaning Anders quietly, coming around the sound of the name her father had given him. Marian whose berry lips smirked and whose skin had tasted like honey on the rare occasions he'd ever tasted her. Marian, whose cunt he had worshipped endlessly in a solitary fevered state, a heaven as perfect and real as anything religion had created to seduce followers into blind faith. Marian.

He needed salvation again. Hope. And he found it in blue eyes.