A/N: First of all, I want to thank the wonderfully talented author, lisakodysam, for encouraging me when I first thought about starting this story. I asked for her opinion about the plot and she was very supportive. Her enthusiasm for the story really gave me the push I needed to write it.
I also want to thank all those who have reviewed, alerted, fav'ed and those who are lurking. The response has been far greater than I imagined and I'm honored by that.
Chapter One
The First Step is the Hardest
It was a week before the healer, Sarhal, declared that Anya would live. It was another three days before Anya finally opened her eyes for the first time. Nathaniel's relief uncurled the coiled muscles in his stomach and neck. In that time, he hadn't left her bedside for more than a few hours each day. He would read the scouting reports, shave, bathe and eat. He wrote two letters during that time, both encoded using Grey Warden encryption. One was to King Alistair and the other to the First Warden, explaining what had happened. He kept some of the more grisly details out of both letters.
As he kept his bedside vigil, he waited for news on Anders. He had sent Sigrun and a small group of trusted soldiers out in search of the mage. If anyone could find him, Sigrun could. She worshipped the commander and had been furious when Anders had disobeyed Anya's orders. As Nathaniel relayed the events of the massacre Sigrun's outrage had been tempered with cold resolve.
"Kill him on sight." He would prefer to do the job himself but he would settle for Anders' death at Sigrun's hand. She nodded without hesitation.
Some nights he sat in Anya's darkened room and planned his revenge. He would find Anders and kill him, brother or no, friend or no. Other nights he simply sat, unable to do more than hang on to hope with both hands. She cried out in her sleep frequently and when she did, he would smooth her hair back from her damp brow and whisper to her that she was safe. There were some nights when he even believed it.
One night she opened her eyes and asked, "Anders?"
He knew she was confused, that she thought it was Anders tending her. Nathaniel hated himself for not being able to lie. All she wanted was a bit of comfort and he couldn't bring himself to give it to her, to pretend even for a moment that he was the monster who had nearly killed her.
"No, it's Nathaniel," he replied in a flat, weary voice.
She nodded once and sighed before falling asleep again. He wasn't sure what to make of that but he found himself dozing off as well, the tension in his body easing. In the morning he woke to find her eyes on him.
"You don't need to stay here. He won't be coming back to finish the job, Nathaniel."
She always used his full name in her soft Orlesian drawl, the word gently slurred as if she had caressed each syllable before releasing it. He couldn't imagine her calling him anything else.
"I'll leave if it pleases you, Commander."
"No, don't leave, Nathaniel."
She struggled to sit up but he put a firm hand on her shoulder, holding her in place. "You still have bones knitting, Commander. Sarhal said you aren't to move just yet."
"I need to send a report to King Alistair and the First Warden. They need to be informed of the danger Anders presents," she said but her voice held little conviction. She closed her eyes, sighing.
There was heartbreak in that sigh. Damn you, Anders. Damn you to the Void. I will kill you for what you've done to her. Nathaniel's anger stirred and awoke but he forced himself to breathe deeply, stilling the fury in his blood. When he was sure he had his anger under control, he spoke quietly, calmly.
"It is done, Commander. I sent encrypted messages to both King Alistair and First Warden Magnus eight days ago."
Tears were leaking from beneath her closed lids. "Thank you," she whispered and fell asleep again. Allowing himself a moment to give her comfort, to give himself comfort, he reached down and gently wiped the tears away with the pads of his calloused thumbs. He sat back and carefully settled his mask back into place, waiting patiently for her to wake up again.
Sigrun returned late one afternoon. It was the same day that Anya sat up and ate her first meal in nearly two weeks; tea, toast points and a coddled egg. Sarhal had explained to the commander that since she had not eaten for so many days she should avoid the heavier foods for the first day or two. Anya had nodded in understanding and quietly eaten. By the time she had finished, she was exhausted and had drifted off with the tray still settled on her lap. Nathaniel had removed it and quietly left her sleeping.
Nathaniel was in his office reviewing the recruitment projections when Sigrun returned. Her face, beneath the tattoos, was pale and drawn. She no longer wore the wide-eyed wonderment that made her seem younger than her years.
"Anya?" she asked without preamble, sinking into a chair across from his desk.
"Better. She ate this afternoon. She's sleeping, but it's a natural sleep now. Sarhal thinks she'll be up in another week. Knowing her, it will be sooner."
"Thank the Ancestors!" A heartfelt and relieved exclamation that Nathaniel mentally echoed.
Reaching into her hip kit, Sigrun extracted a gold chain. She held it up and he recognized it immediately. A charm was dangling from the chain; a small bird, wings spread. Anya had given it to Anders to celebrate his freedom from the Circle of Magi.
"Where did you find that?" he asked around a cotton dry mouth. He leaned across the desk to take it from her outstretched hand.
"I think Anders may be dead, Nate. We found a body, burned beyond recognition, in a field not far from the coast, near the old Bailey place. He must have been planning to take passage on a boat. Looks like he just – just combusted or something. There was nobody else around, no signs of a struggle. Believe me, I looked."
Nathaniel rubbed the golden bird with the same roughened thumb that he'd wiped Anya's tears away with and the irony was not lost to him. "This seems to be in remarkably good shape considering the owner was burned so badly you couldn't identify him. That seems rather convenient, don't you think?"
The young dwarf blanched. "You think he planted this to throw us off? You think he killed a stranger and planted the amulet? Anders? The kitten lover? The man who couldn't say 'no' to anyone who ever needed anything? The mage who healed broken bones and wept when someone in his care died? That man?"
Simmering rage nearly choked him, made his voice rough and harsh. "The man who let a spirit into him against the commander's orders? The man who single-handedly killed four templars and three Wardens? The man who nearly killed the woman he claimed to love? The man who ate some of their remains? That man?" he asked, his expression as cold and bleak as a winter's night.
Silence settled; the air in the room was oppressive. Nathaniel dropped the chain on his desk and sat back, rubbing his forehead. "We have to accept the fact that the man we both called friend no longer exists. He's gone but I doubt he's dead. His survival instincts were always strong. I imagine with a demon feeding them, they're even stronger now. Inhumanly so."
"What do we tell Commander Anya?"
Nathaniel's laugh was devoid of humor. "We tell her what Anders wants us to tell her. He's dead. Do you think he didn't intend for this to be found?"
"Don't lie to her, you stone forsaken idiot!" Sigrun cried, shaking her head. "If you ever want those longing looks of yours returned you'd best be honest with her. She doesn't need another man lying to her."
Nathaniel groaned, embarrassed by her words, even more by her insight. "For a woman who claims to be dead, you're remarkably observant," he commented dryly. It was almost a relief that someone knew how he felt. Almost.
"Don't worry, Nate. I've kept the secret this long, I'll keep it until she wakes up and sees what's right in front of her."
Nathaniel shook his head. "Who else knows?"
"Varel, probably. He sees everything. But he's rooting for you, I can tell."
Another groan escaped before he could stop it. "I meant about the body, Sigrun."
"Oh. Right. Just me. Oh, and Jamie, but he won't tell anyone."
Nathaniel nodded, relieved. "I'll tell the commander and let her decide what to do with the information."
"Do you want me to continue the search? I can talk to people in the villages along the coast, nose around Highever's docks."
Yes! Maker knew he wanted her to. He wanted to know where that bastard had gone. He wanted to feel his fingers choking the life out of the mage he'd called brother. There were times when his anger frightened him with its intensity, when his need for revenge was an eerie echo of his father's own madness. Maybe there was more of Rendon Howe in him than he wanted to admit. The thought shook him all the way to his core. He wasn't. He would never be his father. He couldn't be. But the thought was there, sitting in the back of his mind, taunting him.
"No. For now it will be best if we keep the whole thing quiet. The commander is worried enough about the repercussions. Fereldans appreciate the Grey Wardens for saving them during the Blight but there are already rumblings about an Orlesian woman holding property and title, Grey Warden or not. The nobles won't hesitate to use this as an excuse to remove her, even if it means exiling the Grey Wardens again."
Sigrun perched on the edge of her chair, all nervous energy. "I can be discreet. I want to know where that bloody nughumping, flea infested, bastard got off to."
Nathaniel blinked, surprised by the venom in her voice. Sigrun, who loved the bright and shiny world she'd been introduced to, didn't have a mean bone in her body. He studied her intently. She had lost comrades and friends as well. She was fiercely protective and loyal to Anya. It shouldn't come as a shock that she wanted to see justice carried out on the man who had destroyed so much of her life as well.
"For now, we leave it. The important thing is to get Anya up and walking again."
As soon as the words left his mouth he realized his mistake. It seemed he was more tired than he thought. He was letting his emotions, both good and bad, leak out for all to see. Rather than go back and correct the mistake, he ignored it in the hope that Sigrun would as well. Foolish notion.
"Nice to see you know her name," the dwarf snickered.
Her name, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, the soft smile she wore when she talked about her family in Val Royeaux, the way she tapped her chin when lost in thought. He knew. The way she guided her Wardens not just with words but with action; the way her dark red hair glowed like polished copper in the right light, the way she hummed when she was content. He knew.
"She'll wake up and see who's really important," Sigrun promised before getting up and leaving him to his thoughts.
Another week passed. The Wardens, under the leadership of Acting Commander Nathaniel, carried out their assigned duties, shadowy ghosts of themselves. They gathered each evening in the dining hall, peppering Nathaniel with questions and he tried to answer them all.
Varel entered Nathaniel's office the same morning Anya stood for the first time. The grey haired man, the rock of the Vigil, was holding a sealed packed. "From the King. A remarkably quick reply," Varel stated, grey brows drawn down.
"Good news never travels as fast as bad news," Nathaniel agreed, reaching for the packet.
It was far easier for him than he imagined it would be; far easier than it should be. Much easier than any escape he'd made from the Tower. Dressed in plain linen trousers and shirt, he arrived at the docks in the city of Highever on a warm, bright day. It should have been cold and raining to match his mood. A ship, the Bountiful Harvest, was short of deckhands. He signed up. They were setting sail on the evening tide, bound for Kirkwall.
The first mate, a barrel-chested and dour looking man, glanced at Anders' pale and soft hands and let out an amused snort. "Ye'll nae last a day," he chortled. "Can ye even tie off a rope, laddie?"
"I can do whatever I need to do," Anders retorted. Was that him speaking or Justice? There were times when they seemed to be one and the same. Other times, Anders wasn't quite sure who was speaking or where he left off and Justice began. It was like barriers fell, moved, reformed, never in the same place for long. It was disorienting and frightening. More frightening was that he was beginning to accept it.
"Have at it, then, mate. Name?"
"Devon," Anders lied smoothly.
"Welcome, young laddie. I'm Beamish, first mate to Captain Snowden. Stow yer gear below deck."
His gear? The only thing he had in the way of gear was the small hip kit that contained his coin. He'd even tossed his staff away. Anders opened his mouth to explain his lack of belongings but the first mate shook his head.
"Don't tell me yer hard luck story, buck-o. I've heard 'em all."
Anders doubted that but only nodded and went below decks.
Three hours out, wrestling with the knotted rope used to check the depth of the water, Anders thought he might have been mistaken about his ability to do anything he needed to do. Blisters were forming, bursting, reforming. He refused to heal them, not because he was afraid of showing his magical abilities to his fellow crewmates, but because he deserved the blisters and so much more.
You have no reason to punish yourself. Heal your hands, Anders.
"Shut up."
Do you believe if you punish yourself that all the wrongs of the world will be suddenly righted? Do not be so naïve. You survived because we have something far more important to accomplish.
"Don't. Just don't."
"Here now, laddie, are ye speakin' ta the water?" First Mate Beamish asked with a knowing laugh. He tossed a pair of worn leather gloves at Anders.
"Wear 'em, young master Devon."
An unexpected kindness from a stranger and it nearly undid Anders. He wavered, staring back at the rapidly receding landmass that had been his home all of his life. What if he just jumped overboard? Would he make it back to shore to face his punishment or would he sink to the bottom of the Waking Sea where it wouldn't matter, where blessed silence would surely end the madness of his mind. He gripped the rail tightly.
Do not be so dramatic, Anders. You want to live; it is your nature to survive. You could have died many times but you always find a way.
"How could you have done that to Anya? She let you live when it would have been easier for her not to. She helped you find your revenge against the darkspawn."
This discussion is pointless, Anders. She yet lives. Would you have died to save her? Would you have sacrificed others so that she would live? I had not thought you so noble, Anders.
Anders gave an unhappy laugh. He wasn't noble. He had never been as noble as Anya had believed him to be. The first time he met her, he used her to further his own escape. He had turned on his charm and promised to help her. She had not asked him if he had killed the templars that littered the floor around him and he had not explained their deaths, either. She had such unshakeable faith in him, even when he had done nothing to deserve it. He pushed himself away from the railing and went back to work.
Anders discovered that if he kept himself extremely busy he could go for hours without remembering, without thinking about more than how to hoist a sail or swab the deck or one of the other countless, tedious tasks given him. He could collapse each night and not have nightmares. A week passed. Another week passed, his thoughts and emotions buried beneath fatigue. Anders began to breathe easier when it became evident that the Wardens were not chasing him; at least not yet.
They docked in Kirkwall late in the afternoon at the end of his third week. He disembarked, his meager possessions in a small cloth sack. He was dressed in patched canvas breeches and a homespun shirt, worn and stained and all he had in the way of clothing. He stayed with his shipmates as they made their way into the city. The sailors were a rowdy, raucous lot who were more than happy to help their newest shipmate find lodgings in Darktown. They didn't ask questions and he offered no information.
The Undercity, as it was called, was filthy, dark and rife with disease and despair. He opened a clinic, accepting only what the refugees and outcasts could afford, usually a scrap of bread, a trinket from their old life, a grateful thanks.
Still, he found himself staring across the sea some days, thoughts curling around Anya and a life he had so carelessly thrown away. Despair was his constant companion, robbing him of sleep some nights, of peace every night. The pain in him was more than he could bear at times and twice he tried to end his life, a simple poison learned years ago in the Tower.
Justice would not allow it. Or perhaps Anders wanted to believe that it was Justice who stopped him and not his own cowardice.
Anya swiped at her tears, furious that she was still so weak. "Is this permanent?" she asked Sarhal.
"I fear so, Commander Anya. Nathaniel did a fine job setting your leg but there was just too much damage to the bones. It will improve with time, however."
Sarhal, with a sympathetic bow, excused herself and Anya watched the diminutive elf scurry away.
Scrubbing away the rest of her tears, Anya stood on unsteady legs, alone in her room. Her days of fighting the darkspawn in close quarters, using agility and speed, a lightness of footwork, were over. She tossed the cane that Varel had made her into a dark corner of her room and took a hesitant step forward. Her gait hitched as her hip caught and she stumbled, barely catching herself in time to prevent herself from landing face first on the floor.
If she couldn't fight as she had been trained to, she would have to find another way to fight, it was just that simple. Except that nothing was simple. Andraste's grace, what had she done? What had she created in her own foolishness? Any lesson she had ever learned about command had deserted her when she most needed it. All of it, every death, every injury, everything could be laid on her shoulders. Shoulders that slowly bowed as the weight settled on them.
With painstaking care she made her way to her vanity and sank onto the low stool. How could she possibly continue on as the Commander of the Grey after what she had done? How could she ever be forgiven by Felsi? Or little Aedan, Oghren's pride and joy? How many others were suffering because she had allowed her love for Anders to cloud her judgment?
She would have to tender her resignation. More tears began to tickle her cheekbones and drip down to her chin. She let them fall, too tired to care. Everything she had ever worked toward and achieved meant nothing, just so many dreams that were now covered in blood and loss. She stared at her reflection expecting a hideous monster to stare back at her. It didn't seem right that her appearance was largely unchanged. A few bruises, the strange pale patch on her scalp, where her once red hair was coming in as white as the Frostback peaks, but she was still Anya Caron outwardly.
She picked up a small porcelain figurine and turned it over in her hands, frowning. A graceful young woman, with daggers drawn, long red hair trailing down her back and unblinking bright blue eyes, stared up at her. At the base of the figurine was engraved: The Hero of Amaranthine.
She had laughed, embarrassed and delighted by the gift Anders had given her not too long ago. He'd found it in the city of Amaranthine. An industrious cottager had made a dozen of them to sell at the upcoming Summer Festival. It still amazed her that the people of the arling had taken to her, an Orlesian noble from the court of Celene. They should have hated her, and some had; Ser Guy, Bann Esmerelle, others. But the majority of people within her arling appreciated her honesty and her willingness to work with them. They were grateful to her for saving the city at the expense of her keep. But now she had let them down, let them all down. She had betrayed their trust, betrayed her Wardens' trust. How grateful would they be if they knew the truth? How willing would they be to follow her, if they knew what she was guilty of?
Hefting the figurine, she dashed it against a wall where it shattered in a satisfying shower of shards. She bowed her head and let the tears fall unchecked. Everything had changed. Every last thing. Her tears turned into great, gulping, breathless sobs. "Blessed Andraste, forgive me."
She struggled to stand and, with halting steps, made her way along the hall to the stairs that led up, and up, winding around to the turrets and battlements at the top of the Vigil. It took her nearly ten minutes to make the three minute trip up those stairs, one step at a time. And then the next. And another. Just one more. Sweat trickled down the valley between her breasts, made her hair cling damply to her forehead, by the time she pushed open the upper door and stepped onto the ramparts.
The wind was cool, chilling her overheated skin. She could smell the saltspray on the wings of the wind and she turned to face the Waking Sea. She had so much to atone for, so much to be forgiven for. Like a great sweeping tidal wave her shame and grief crashed into her and she stood swaying on the edge of the stone battlement. She stretched her arms out at her sides and raised her head to the warm benevolence of the bright sun.
Even if others could forgive her, she didn't know how to forgive herself. She didn't even know how to begin to do so. Or how to live with a pain that went beyond bone deep. A sob rose on the wind, carried away on the breath of the sea scented air.
"Blessed Andraste, full of grace, grant me your peace," she prayed and took a small, hitching step.
A hand, powerful and familiar, clamped around her upper arm, pulling her back from the precipice.
