Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to Bioware. I just kidnap their characters for some fun.

Author's Note: And so here it is, chapter three. Apologies for everyone who has this on alert, considering how long it took for me to get it out and the note that Ch. 2 left off on. ^^; This story is something of an experiment, and I'm half-developing this as I go along. Thank you for your patience, and please continue to give my story your support. I appreciate all of it, and so do Anders and Nathaniel.

As always, this chapter was beta'd by Teakwood.

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Forever
Chapter Three

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Once, many years earlier, Nathaniel had made the unfortunate decision to sample Oghren's homemade brew. One cordial of the foul-tasting, burning liquor and a day later, and Nathaniel had sworn to himself that he would never act against his better judgment again.

This headache was comparable to that, in the way that a mouse's squeak was comparable to the bark of an agitated mabari. The instant he attempted to open his eyes he was assaulted by what felt like white-hot pokers piercing straight into his brain. As if that in itself wasn't enough, shifting his body sent shocks of pain radiating from his lower back up along the length of his spine, and several sharp pieces of wood were threatening to penetrate through the now very tender skin of his ribcage. Moving, it seemed, was not going to be an option for the rogue – not until he was able to at least see what he was doing in the process of extrication.

And then, unexpectedly and without warning, there was warmth. A slight pressure against his chest, and then tendrils of warmth spread out from its center, each one moving through his body, through his legs and arms and up his back towards his head, finding the individual sources of his discomfort and pain and easing them.

The vice clamped tight against his temples loosened, the pain that had been overriding his senses diminishing and allowing his body to tell him all of the useful and unpleasant things that it was experiencing. He became aware of the coppery taste of pooled blood in his mouth, although the accompanying injury to his tongue was gone, of the tingling pins and needles sensation of his circulation returning to his arms and legs, and of the sounds around him as the roaring in his ears diminished enough so that he could hear clearly.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please… please wake up… I'm sorry…"

The pleading words, interrupted regularly by halting sobs, were the first things to register clearly to Nathaniel. He recognized the voice, and doing so provided him with an explanation for the warmth and slow-progressing relief he was feeling – the voice above him and hands on his chest belonged to Anders, and what he was feeling was the mage's once-familiar healing power. It had been so long since he'd experienced that instinctive flavor of magic that he had almost forgotten the feel of it.

But there was something wrong with it.

He and Anders had both had the privilege (or curse, depending on the point of view) to have been among the first of the Amaranthine Grey Wardens, when their numbers had consisted of three humans, two dwarves, a spirit and a Dalish elf. Seven in all, and they'd had to deal with a darkspawn civil war between an insane broodmother and a manipulative Emissary with no more than that. Needless to say there had been more than a few injuries between them, and Nathaniel had become well acquainted with Anders' personal flavor of healing.

Anders' magic had once been warm and enveloping, like a blanket being draped across one's shoulders, or the soothing warmth of a filled, heated bath. Those elements still remained, but it was the third trait that Nathaniel remembered all too well that had shifted – the calm steadiness of someone who was confident in his abilities, of a master healer who could reassure the injured and sick that they would get better, that they would recover if only given the time to do so. Colin had once remarked to Nathaniel that he had known healers twice Anders' age who had never possessed such certainty, and that it had been a testament to Anders' skill and natural talent in the healing arts.

That calm was not only gone now but fragmented, the pieces of it still clinging raggedly to the overall effect, like sailors holding fast to the wreckage of a sinking ship. Anders' healing, though still warm, gave a sense instead of jagged unsteadiness, as if Anders' magic were a glass sheet that had once been smooth and unblemished, but was now instead covered by a web of cracks that would shatter under even the slightest pressure. Nathaniel's throat tightened in apprehension. He was no mage, he only even noticed the change because it was Anders, but he knew instinctively that this was important. And not good.

Enough of the pain had subsided now to allow Nathaniel to try opening his eyes again, and this time he succeeded in doing so enough so that he could look at the blurry form hovering above him. One blink brought the image more into focus, another even more so, and it wasn't long before he could put a worried and anxious expression to the quiet, sobbing pleas and trembling hands.

"Anders," he whispered, or tried to, his voice coming out no louder than the barest whisper. He swallowed and licked at his lips with a dry tongue, and tried again with more force. "Anders."

He heard the mage's ragged breathing catch, and Anders' eyes were suddenly not focused on Nathaniel's chest but on his face. Tears had tracked down his cheeks, visible streaking through the pale filament of dust that covered his face. Red-rimmed honey-brown eyes widened, and a strangled gasp of what was either surprise or relief (or some mix of the two) caught in Anders' throat.

"You're alive," Anders choked out, suddenly touching his fingers to Nathaniel's cheek. The rogue was shocked at how cold his touch felt, as if Anders had been holding his hand against a block of ice. "Thank the Maker, you're alive. I thought…I thought…" His trembling got worse and he withdrew his hand. A part of Nathaniel wanted to reach up and catch it, but it was neither appropriate nor possible; feeling had returned to his arms, yes, but so had the pain. Healing magic or not, he was going to be sore for some time.

"I'm alive," Nathaniel confirmed, dark eyes seeking out the mage's. "Now tell me why that surprises you so much."

Anders looked hesitant, uncertain. He fidgeted, tapping his fingertips together rapidly. "Do you…do you remember what happened?" he asked, averting his eyes and avoiding Nathaniel's gaze.

Nathaniel shifted his position and winced – he wasn't quite ready for that yet. "I remember grabbing your arm," he said. "I remember nearly being blinded by light, and then I remember a lot of pain." He was quiet for a moment. "I told you my mission, and you tried to bolt. What happened, Anders?"

Anders rose to his feet and drew back, wrapping his arms around his waist as he kept his back to the rogue. He had to still be in pain, unless Nathaniel had been unconscious for longer than he'd thought, but that had nothing to do with the way Anders' shoulders were hunched forward and how he held himself as if he were trying to disappear from view.

"…You shouldn't have tried to stop me."

"Excuse me?" Nathaniel asked incredulously, his eyebrows going up. "After what I had to rescue you from, you'd think I'd just let you run out of this place, half-naked and without a scrap of food or coin to your name? Are you daft?"

A harsh laugh choked its way out of Anders' throat. "That's the question lately, isn't it?" he asked, staring down at his hands. "I don't…I don't know… sometimes I wake up, and I don't even know where I am. If I'm here, or if I'm there, on the other side, trapped between waking and dreaming, surrounded by everything I love and hate all at the same time." His voice trembled as he spoke. "He doesn't want you to take me back. I don't…I don't know why, he hasn't said a word, but he doesn't, he wants me to keep running, running until they catch me, running until I can't run anymore and all I can do is collapse and lay where I fall until everything stops."

Nathaniel steeled himself against the pain and pushed himself up, the wreck of what had once been a trunk before the full weight of his body had landed on it shifting around him. Despite Anders no longer touching him, Nathaniel could still feel the magic working his way through him. Any other time and he would have been impressed; Anders hadn't been able to heal without actively casting when he'd been in Amaranthine.

Any other time, but at the moment he was concerned – concerned, and a little disturbed. Anders was rambling, which had never been unusual, but what was alarming was that there was nothing coherent or concise about his words. And while Nathaniel hadn't been serious in his comment, the way that Anders had latched onto the question of his sanity was discomforting.

Nathaniel had not been entirely honest when he had told Anders what his mission was. Its primary objective was to retrieve the wayward Warden and return him to Amaranthine, yes – but there was a secondary aspect of it as well. The report that Anders had been behind the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry had shocked everyone at Vigil's Keep, even those who had never known the mage. Anders had left behind a legacy in the time he'd been there, the few mages who had been under his instruction at the Keep passing stories of him down to newer recruits – and of course, there were the tales of his time at the Circle Tower, which many of those same mages knew as well. And although his lack of respect for Templar authority and Chantry doctrine had been well known, not a single Amaranthine Warden had been prepared for the news of what had occurred in Kirkwall.

Colin had rebelled against the notion at first, not wanting to believe that Anders could have been the instigator behind such a thing, but he had eventually been forced to admit that seven years could change a person, and none of them knew why Anders had vanished in the first place. Why, if he had been in trouble, he had not come to his Warden brothers and sisters for aid.

That was what Nathaniel had been sent to do. Find Anders, bring him back to Amaranthine – and find out why.

He thought back again to that moment before he'd lost consciousness, to the blue-white light that had filled his vision. A light that, he realized as a knot formed in his stomach, had come not from any outside source, but from Anders himself.

"Anders," Nathaniel said quietly. "What's happened to you?"

Anders said nothing for a moment, keeping his back to Nathaniel and his head bowed. Then, slowly, he gave a slight nod. "Let's…let's clean up a little," he said softly. "I'll tell you. I just…a little time. Please."

Nathaniel pressed his lips together, but in the end nodded. There was something about Anders' posture, the slump of his shoulders and the lack of vibrancy that the rogue had once been so familiar with, that made it impossible for him not to agree. "All right."

Anders moved past Nathaniel to the furniture that had been thrown into disarray by Nathaniel's unscheduled flight across the room, righting what furnishings hadn't been outright damaged. After a moment Nathaniel joined him, keeping his hands busy with putting the room back in order, and it occurred to them that they both made quite a pair limping along gingerly as they were, both of them minding their injuries. Nathaniel more so than Anders, or so it seemed – Anders seemed to be moving more with exhaustion than with pain, even though there was no way that his ribs could have fully healed in the time that Nathaniel was unconscious.

When the bed had been cleared and the chair righted and checked over for stability – nobody wanted a chair's bottom to fall out from under them because it suddenly couldn't support their weight, Nathaniel moved to reclaim his seat, only to be stopped by Anders. The mage held out his hand, still not quite touching him, and then shook his head and gestured to the bed. Nathaniel frowned in objection – after all, they were both injured now – but Anders didn't back down, and eventually Nathaniel was forced to acquiesce just to break the silent stalemate between the two of them.

Stubborn mage.

He sat on the edge of the bed; Anders took the chair, one hand still gingerly resting against his side. And they sat there, Nathaniel watching Anders, Anders watching the floor, neither speaking.

It was Nathaniel who finally broke the silence. "Well?" he prompted, trying to keep the impatience that he felt out of his tone, but knew he wasn't entirely successful. So help me, if I have to dangle a carrot on a stick and coerce him to talk, I will.

Anders clasped his hands together tightly, though not fast enough that Nathaniel didn't catch the trembling in them. "Sorry," he whispered. "I…I had to make sure. Make sure that he wouldn't interfere."

"Make sure who wouldn't interfere?"

Anders swallowed hard, his shoulders shaking slightly as if the sheer force of trying to keep his hands still had transferred the motion up his arms. Then, finally, he lifted his head, and let his gaze meet Nathaniel's.

The broken, despairing look in his eyes made Nathaniel's throat tighten. The faint swirling of white surrounding Anders' pupils, just barely visible among the familiar amber, made his body tense. And the single word that Anders spoke, the helplessness in his near-inaudible voice, brought a deep ache to Nathaniel's heart.

"Justice."