A/N: Something I came up with after my Hawke gave The Shield of the Knight Herself to Aveline. I had the shield in storage, and I was rather indignant over the outcome. Also, credit to LadyCallia for bringing the song lyrics to my attention - many months ago.

Set in Act II, before All That Remains


All the places I've been and things I've seen
A million stories that made up a million shattered dreams
The faces of people I'll never see again
And I can't seem to find my way home

- Five Finger Death Punch

7. Like Mementos

Anders stared blankly at the scene in front of him. Shattered jars, overturned cots, numerous footprints. Dozens of missing poultices and crafting materials. He should have been outraged, but instead he felt numb. It was the shock of disbelief. He knew that his clinic was well known in Darktown, but he'd thought the common thugs would have the decency—the humanity

Oh Maker, did they take it?

His gut churned at the thought, and he quickly rushed to the back of his clinic. His belief in the good of the residents of Darktown hadn't stopped him from hiding his most valuable and rare materials out of sight. And Freedom's Call, his staff from Fereldan. He reached the concealed panel at the rear of the clinic and tore it open. And then he sighed in relief. Nothing had been taken; the thieves hadn't noticed the slight difference in pattern along the back wall. His staff was safe.

Anders reached out and grasped the worn red leather wrapped around the wood. The colour had faded from years of use. Karl had given it to him, all those years ago in the Circle. Anders never did find out just how his friend had smuggled it past the templars. He'd never properly thanked him for it, either. It wasn't a magnificent staff, like the First Enchanter's; it was only marginally better than the ones they gave to newly harrowed mages. Now, given all the dangerous adventures he found himself on, the staff was more or less useless. But he hung on to it. Not that it would be worth much even if he did try to sell it, but he couldn't bear the thought of parting with it. Freedom's Call, the only thing he had left to remember Karl. The man had died three years ago, but it still pained Anders to think of him.

"Maker, what happened?"

He spun around instantly, and found Theia standing in the front of the clinic. She looked around, disgust evident on her face. "I can't believe someone would be so callous as to steal from a free clinic." She turned her attention to him. "You weren't here, were you?"

He couldn't help but smile at her concern. It was still strange to have someone care for him. "No, love. I'm fine."

She looked as if she was about to say something, but then she caught sight of the object in his hand. Recognition dawned on her features. "Isn't that … your old staff?"

He glanced at it, like he needed to remind himself. "Yes. I know it's old and ineffective, but I just … can't let it go. Silly, right?"

An expression passed over her face too quickly for him to identify. But his stomach twisted the way it always did when he said something stupid.

"Were you worried that the people who broke in had taken it?"

He nodded, afraid to say anything else that might inadvertently offend.

"Would you like me to keep it safe for you?"

"That would be incredibly generous of you."

There was that look again, and his jaw snapped shut. "No, it really wouldn't."


They walked in silence from the moment they left his clinic until they arrived in her room at the Hawke Estate. She stooped down next to her bed, reached under, and dragged a massive locked chest out from underneath it. Anders' eyebrows shot up, but he didn't say anything. She removed a key from around her neck and unlocked the chest. Without looking at him, she beckoned him over. As he sat beside her, she slowly opened the box.

At first, Anders was slightly unimpressed with the contents of this secret chest: another old staff, a rusted greatsword, and a templar's shield. He couldn't understand why Theia would hang on to any of these items—or how she'd come to possess any piece of templar tackle—but before he could ask, she gently reached into the box and grabbed the staff. The reverence with which she held it told him more than he needed to know. This had belonged to someone dear to her.

"This …" She carefully laid the staff back down inside the chest. "This was Bethany's first proper staff. Our father bartered it from some black market salesman. She was so excited when he gave it to her."

She ran her fingers along the rusting blade. "This belonged to my brother, Carver. You never got to meet him. He died when we were fleeing Lothering. I couldn't stop him from going after that ogre." She blinked back the tears that were threatening to escape her eyes. "He worked odd jobs for months to save up for this, so he could join King Cailan's army. He was so bloody proud when he came home with it."

Anders watched her silently as she indicated the templar shield. "This belonged to Ser Wesley, Aveline's husband."

Aveline's unimpressed voice came back to him in a flash. He had been there when Theia had excitedly presented Aveline with a shield apparently borne by her namesake. But the Guard Captain had been less than pleased. "I had a shield. It belonged to Wesley. It was difficult to let it go, but I did so. Utility over sentiment, right? We sold it, didn't we?"

"I thought Aveline said you sold it." Anders watched her face carefully.

"I was going to," she answered softly. "I took it to a merchant in Lowtown with everything else I could spare. But it wasn't worth that much, and I thought Aveline would appreciate having it back. Before I could give it to her, we rescued Donnic from Jeven's set-up. And I saw the way she looked at him, and suddenly it didn't seem like such a good idea any more. But I hung onto it. Somehow it didn't feel right to sell it. Not when I'm keeping old things of Bethany and Carver's." She gave him a half-hearted smile. "So no, I don't think you holding on to your staff is silly. There's nothing wrong with mementos. They hold memories, of people who we've lost."

Anders' heart ached as he listened to her. He felt—for Theia, for himself, for everyone in the motley band. No one was immune to tragedy. Isabela, for all her bragging and bravado, had never really belonged anywhere. Did she even have anyone to remember? Varric had lost his own brother to greed and insanity. Merrill had been rejected by her entire clan. And yes, Anders could even feel sorry for the elf—Fenris had no memories of his past, of his family.

He was honoured that she would include Karl in her treasured memories.

"You're right," Anders murmured as he wrapped his arms around her. "There's nothing wrong with keeping mementos." Even if it hurts to remember those we've lost, we must still remember.