A/N: There's a NSFW section later in the chapter. Also, this will be the last update until after my vacation. The next one should be the 13th or 14th of July, hopefully.
Thanks to all of those lurking, reading and especially those reviewing. I appreciate it very much.
Decisions and Desires
Hawke stared in horror as Anders became Vengeance. Lyrium and magic, raw and powerful, exploded from him in one furious cry, torn from his throat by a rage and hatred she couldn't comprehend. She watched the scene unfold, transfixed, caught by the terrible beauty of the creature before her in all its unearthly glory.
Ser Alrik grabbed his head and screamed, an inhuman sound of agony as his body collapsed in on itself, falling to the ground broken and ruined. Hawke could feel her mana being drained from her. Her spell faltered, flickered, winked out. She realized with a numb horror that it wasn't the templars surrounding her that had drained away her mana, but the creature beside her, the one who controlled her friend Anders. She was fueling his spells; his brutal and merciless destruction.
"Stop!" she cried above the roar of the tempest and the hum of magic. "Don't kill the mage! Anders! Anders if you can hear me, do not kill the mage. She is who you fight for, who you seek justice for!"
Retribution sought and exacted, Vengeance gradually gave way to Anders. He fell to his knees, holding his head and crying out in his anguish. Tears, still tinged blue from the lyrium, streaked his face, giving him an almost ethereal beauty.
Hawke turned to the frightened young mage, urgency coursing through her blood. "Now, while he has regained control, leave! Run! Find somewhere safe!"
The girl picked herself up and fled, skirts held high. If she was smart she would keep running until she was as far from the city as her legs could take her, Hawke thought grimly. Turning back to the tortured man, Hawke discovered he was gone.
Reaction was setting in as the adrenaline drained from her. She sank down, her knees weakened by fear and anger. She had believed Anders could control the spirit he housed, the spirit of Justice who had become a demon of Vengeance. Did she run away from him or help him? Did she refuse his friendship or accept it? She was staring into an abyss and she must either leap into it or turn away forever.
Hawke had watched helplessly as her father died, unable to do more than weep at the loss. She had watched helplessly as her sister died, unable to even take the time to mourn. Carver had been taken from her and she had been helpless to prevent it. Could she watch helplessly as Anders died slowly at the hands of Vengeance? Or could she offer her hand in friendship? Would it help him or would it further weaken him?
"Do not hesitate to leap." Flemeth's strange words. Were they prophetic? A foretelling of the events before her now? Was it even possible to know or understand what Flemeth had meant?
Hawke sighed. Her life was already complicated, the road ahead of her twisted by the uncertainty in her life. Yet she couldn't bring herself to toss aside the tormented man. She couldn't bear the thought of one more loss in her life, not if she had the ability to prevent it. She stood, leaning briefly on her staff. The staff forged by her father. The staff that gave her strength.
Her decision made, she walked away from the carnage, back the way she had come. She entered the clinic, Reynard at her side, unsure of what she'd find but certain it was where she needed to be.
Anders was bent over a small pack, murmuring softly as he stuffed the pack with his meager possessions. Hawke, her heart guiding her steps, came to stand beside him and put a light hand on his shoulder.
"Anders, you don't need to leave."
"Don't I? You saw what happened back there. I could have killed that mage. I would have killed her if you hadn't stopped me. It wasn't me. Yet it was. It's all just wrong and I can't control it."
"You can control it. You did control it or that girl would be dead. Fight to stay in control. Whatever spirit Justice was he isn't any longer. Justice is always tempered by mercy. Vengeance is just violence and revenge."
She watched Anders shake his head. "If I stay I'm afraid I'll hurt you, Hawke. I can't even…I don't know how I'd live with that."
"Let me worry about that, Anders. I want to be your friend. I want you to stay. Please."
~~~oOo~~~
Maker, what had he been thinking? Why had he insisted they wait until their return to Kirkwall to explore their new relationship? He and Carver would be sailing in two days; she would leave for Orlais the day after that. They'd be apart for Maker knew how long. So why had he decided to wait?
He stared into the hot coals of the fire and frowned. He knew why. She deserved more than a quick roll in the sand. He wasn't going to treat her like some common strumpet. He had waited over a year for her; he could bloody well wait another night, for Maker's sake. But he ached in ways he hadn't experienced in years.
She had felt so right in his arms, so incredibly perfect. He still wasn't sure what had happened, he only knew that she had finally seen him as a man and not as her Second or a friend. She desired him. She wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Hot blood rushed downward, curling and snaking through his body. He shifted uncomfortably.
Nathaniel felt impatience drum along his nerves as he watched Anya and Stroud discussing the recruit, Carver Hawke. She stood and began to walk off with Stroud, holding on to the man's arm as she stepped over the uneven ground. Nathaniel watched her from lowered lids, pretending to study the fire. Her hair was braided and pinned snugly in a neat coil at her neck, its red highlights shimmering like liquid fire in the last vestiges of sunlight. He frowned. She had been badly bruised after their leap into the ocean and he could tell from the way she moved that she was in pain but too stubborn to let it slow her down.
As if aware of his scrutiny, she stopped and turned, flashing a smile at him, sending another quick thrum of heat into him, making his heart beat faster. He wanted her and when were they going to bloody well go back to the city? He nodded to her, wondering if she saw the flare of desire in his eyes. She blushed lightly and her smile grew more intimate before she turned back and continued her walk with Stroud.
"So, a woman commander? I'll bet you enjoy being under her command, eh?"
"Varel warned me you had an attitude, Warden. There's no room for it here. Lose it or I'll help you do so," Nathaniel replied, his voice dangerously quiet as he looked at the tall man standing before him. Nathaniel rose to his feet in a smooth, effortless motion. He turned to look for Anya, hoping she hadn't heard the boorish comments.
"Oh, struck a nerve, did I?"
Nathaniel whipped around, his hand snaking out with stunning speed to wrap around the young man's thick neck. "Apparently you're a slow learner," he said in those same quiet tones, venom masked by the whisper of silk.
Carver's green eyes widened. "I meant no offense," he gasped hoarsely.
"Well offense was taken. If you're not careful that tongue of yours will be a thing of the past."
Carver shook his hand off and straightened up. "So, that's the lay of the land, is it? You have a thing for an Orlesian cripple?"
With the grace of a cat Nathaniel struck, his fingers jabbing into the young man's throat. Carver gasped and choked, sinking to his knees. "You'll do well to keep a civil tongue in that big mouth of yours."
Carver's face was ashen and he continued to gasp for air. Nathaniel turned away, disgusted by the young man's words and disgusted with his reaction to them. It was not like him to lose his control but then, he reflected with a grim smile as he moved over to his tent, it had been a strange day with more than a few lapses in his control. He settled on his bedroll and closed his eyes..
"Nathaniel?" Anya asked softly.
"Commander?" Nathaniel asked. He had dozed off and night had arrived as he slept. He blinked, drowsy and not entirely sure he'd heard her or if he'd dreamed her. He sat up and untied his tent flap.
"No, your commander is not available at this time but your Anya is," she replied and humor laced her words.
He leaned out of the tent and found her crouching down in front of him, smiling. "I wished to say good night," she whispered.
"Anya, if you – I don't know that I can –"
Anya's lips silenced him and he tumbled back onto his bedroll with her in his arms. He groaned against her mouth, his arousal painfully straining against his breeks. Her lips were warm and softly pliant against his. The kiss went on until Nathaniel's control, already frayed, began to unravel and he broke away from her, his breath ragged.
"I had to make sure I hadn't dreamed it," she explained, echoing his earlier sentiment. She curled into him and rested her head on his chest. No doubt she could hear his wildly pounding heart. He took a deep breath.
"And?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He let his fingers curl into her hair.
"If it's a dream, don't wake me," she sighed.
Nathaniel let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. His arms tightened around her and they drifted into sleep.
The ride back to Kirkwall seemed interminable. Anya rode beside Carver, who was quiet and respectful, his earlier belligerence gone. Nathaniel wondered how long that would last. He listened to their voices discussing Ferelden and Lothering in particular and then he heard Anders's name mentioned. He edged his horse closer to the pair.
"You know Anders. What's he really like?" Carver asked.
"That's a difficult question to answer, Warden Carver. The Anders I knew no longer exists. The old Anders wouldn't hurt any living creature unless it was to save lives. He was witty and warm and kind."
And secretive and manipulative, Nathaniel thought bitterly. "He used us all and if I hadn't sworn an oath not to kill him, he would be dead."
"Nathaniel," Anya said quietly, the warning clear in her tone.
"What do you mean? Is Margaret in danger?" Carver asked, pulling his horse up sharply.
"I doubt it but if it will ease your mind, I'll speak with her," Anya offered, before spurring her horse to catch up to Stroud, a silent message to Nathaniel that she was unhappy with him. He couldn't bring himself to regret his words to Carver. They were true and if he was ever to have the relationship with Anya that he wanted, he would not lie to her.
"What was it you called the commander last night? Oh right, the Orlesian cripple. Well who do you think is responsible for that?" Nathaniel asked the young man, unable to keep the acrimony from his voice.
As much as he loved and respected her, Anya was wrong about Anders. He needed to be put down just like any other rabid dog. One day she would understand that. He only hoped it wouldn't be too late.
~~~oOo~~~
Anya stared out the window at the square below. The inn, situated in the heart of Hightown, was clean and richly furnished and comfortable. Her room was across the hall from Nathaniel's. Anticipation and nerves were making it impossible for her to sit still. She smoothed imagined wrinkles from her dress and licked dry lips.
Movement in the square caught her attention and she watched as Nathaniel stepped out of the inn and walked to a dwarf who wore a crossbow on his back and a playful smile on his lips. She continued to watch as the two men greeted each other with an easy familiarity that spoke of a deep friendship.
Who was he? Was he the friend that Nathaniel had asked to watch Anders? Hardly an unobtrusive sort but she trusted Nathaniel. If he felt the dwarf was the right man for the task, she would accept that. The dwarf looked up suddenly and Anya, knowing she had been seen, stood her ground. He bowed slightly, an infectious grin creasing his face. She couldn't stop her answering smile and she raised a hand in greeting.
Nathaniel turned his head, following the dwarf's gaze. Anya's heart leapt to life, pattering across her chest as he flashed a quick smile at her before turning back to speak with the dwarf. She watched as Nathaniel dipped his head slightly and she wondered how his dark, silken hair would feel trailing along her skin. Nerves were chased away by a flood of heat and want that made her stomach flutter.
She turned away from the window, eyes scanning the room. A bottle of wine, two glasses and a plate of fruits and cheeses sat on a low table between two chairs. A low fire burned with cheery warmth, casting golden hues into the corners of the room, stealing their shadows. The bed was turned down, an invitation that Anya suddenly regretted as it seemed too bold a move. She should pull the counterpane up. She should…
A knock interrupted her thoughts, scattering them like ashes caught in a wind. Her heart fluttered and her stomach lurched. What had she been thinking? He would take one look at her body, marked and scarred by battles, and run away. She was an idiot.
"Anya?" Nathaniel asked through the thick oak door separating them.
She moved with reluctance and put her hand on the door, terrified in that moment. Her voice, strangled and foreign in her ears, whispered, "Nathaniel, I…"
"My Anya," he said, his voice low as it caressed her name.
She swallowed and slowly opened the door, forcing herself to look at him and not the floor. He swept her into his arms and her fears began to melt under the heat of his gaze. "It doesn't matter," he said softly, as if he knew the cause of her reluctance. Had she spoken aloud or was the fear written on her face? Did he understand her that well?
"You say that now but you haven't seen…"
"It doesn't matter," he repeated and then his lips found hers and she didn't care if it mattered or not, she only knew that in that moment she was loved and desired.
His tongue sought entrance to her mouth and she opened like a spring flower, her breath leaving her as hunger swept into her blood. A need to touch and be touched, to be consumed by the man who held her, to consume him, to feel him moving inside her flowed into her, coursing through her like a rampant river; dampness soaked her smalls and her nipples stiffened as she moved her hips against his.
"I need you," she whispered against his mouth.
A groan from Nathaniel told her he was feeling the same but he spoke, voice roughened with passion. "I can't promise to be gentle," he warned and she smiled up at him.
"I don't need gentle."
With a feral growl, his teeth bit sharply at her neck. She buried her fingers in the dark silk of his hair, urging him on as he trailed blazing kisses up the column of her neck and along her jaw before returning to nip sharply again. His hands swept along the curve of her waist and continued upward until he cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbing roughly against her nipples. The pain made her throb and pulse and she cupped his hand, pressing it against her breasts. Their moans mingled as his lips founds hers.
Clothes began to fall to the floor, their fingers working in urgent partnership. His shirt fluttered down to rest beside her gown. She shivered as his lips ghosted over her breasts through her thin shift, his breath hot. Her fingers explored his broad shoulders and toned chest, tracing a series of scars along his torso, dipping into his unlaced breeks to wrap around his stiff manhood. He groaned, thrusting into her grip and then she heard a ripping sound; her shift fell away, two halves floating down to the growing pile of clothes.
"Maker," he whispered reverentially, eyes heavy lidded as he reached out to touch her bared breasts. He bent to take a nipple into his mouth, his tongue teasing it and nipping gently at it. She moaned, his name falling from her lips, her fingers urging him not to be gentle. He bit down and suckled in hard pulls and she felt it ripple all the way to her core.
"Please," she whispered, voice ragged.
He picked her up and carried her to the bed and she watched as he shimmied out of his breeks and smalls, his erection throbbing and pulsing with his every breath. He was beautiful, standing in the golden light of the fire. A broad, well toned chest tapered to a narrow waist and hips. A trail of silky black hair drew her eyes down and she reached out to run her hand along his thick shaft.
"Anya," he growled, lowering himself onto her. She guided him into her, moaning with pleasure as he entered, sliding into her moist channel, filling her. She rocked against him, whispered her need.
"Yes," she murmured as she shifted her hips to accommodate his length and the weight of his body. He thrust again and she gasped, catching her lower lip between her teeth at the sensation, her need pooling, gathering, intense and insistent.
He rolled them over and she straddled him. Leaning over, she bit his full lower lip. pulling at it. One of his hands gripped her hip, fingers digging into her skin. He used his other hand to stroke her body, lower and lower until his thumb found her hard bud. She gasped, arching into his touch as the pleasure coiled and tightened in her. She called out; his name a song of lust and want as their tempo increased.
"Anya!" he cried out, thrusting forcefully. Her walls tightened, shivered as they clamped around his engorged member, trembling as her climax approached. His thumb flicked at her nub, teasing and tempting.
"Nathaniel!" she said, voice gone husky, her walls shuddering as the waves of her orgasm crashed into her and she was riding him, her movements in perfect rhythm with his. Another climax was screaming towards her, his thumb relentless in its pursuit of her pleasure.
He arched his hips, his body trembling, her name on his lips as he found his release and spilled into her. Her muscles quivered around his erection and he groaned in pleasure, thrusting reflexively until he was spent.
"My Anya," he growled and her heart fluttered at the possessive tenderness in his voice.
"Yours," she agreed softly. "Only yours, Nathaniel."
They didn't go down to supper, content to nibble on cheese and each other. Anya found herself constantly touching him; brushing his hair away from his face so she could see his penetrating grey eyes, a thumb grazing along his sensuous lower lip, a hand resting lightly on his thigh, drawing small circles on it. When he gathered his shirt and began to pull it over his head, she frowned in disappointment.
"Unless you are embarrassed or cold, I would ask you not to."
Nathaniel turned and gave her an uncharacteristic smirk. "If it pleases you," he said, tossing the shirt aside again.
They made love again after sharing a glass of wine. He spread the counterpane on the floor in front of the fire and let his lips wander across her body, exploring it with teeth and tongue and lips. He found her bud and her swollen lips, teasing and tantalizing her until she was panting and imploring for release. He moved with sinuous grace along her body and then, without warning, thrust into her and her body hung suspended for long minutes of tortured pleasure before plunging over the abyss. He followed shortly after, burying his face in her hair and whispering her name over and over as if he couldn't believe she was real.
In the morning, just as dawn chased away the last lingering stars, they made love again. Slowly, tenderly, their eyes locked on each other.
As she watched him dress to go back to his room, she realized how badly she wanted to return to Vigil's Keep with him. "I will miss you," she said, reaching out to gently caress his face. Regret laced her words.
"I know. It doesn't feel right, leaving you here."
They kissed and held each other, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. "I need to go and visit Margaret," she said reluctantly, adding "I promised Carver," when he made a low sound of disapproval.
"I'll go with you."
"No, Nathaniel. I need to do this on my own. If I leave soon I can meet you on the docks before your ship sails."
Nathaniel finally agreed but not before kissing her so thoroughly she momentarily forgot what her plans were. "You wretched man. You did that on purpose."
"Did what, Commander Anya?" he asked, his eyes wide and guileless.
An hour later, bathed and wearing her Warden leathers and a long, hooded cloak against the morning drizzle, she set off for Margaret Hawke's Hightown mansion.
The woman who led her into a private room was lovely. Beautiful in a way Anya could never be; all golden hair and soft curves and delicate grace. Anya saw the resemblance to Carver in the green eyes that met hers with surprising candor.
"You are Carver's commander," Margaret Hawke stated, inviting her to sit in a high-backed chair.
"I am. It is at his behest that I am here this morning, Mistress Hawke. I would not presume otherwise."
"Tell me," the woman said quietly, sitting across from her.
Anya took a deep breath and told her about Anders and his merging, leaving nothing out of the story. The woman blanched and brought a hand to her mouth as Anya related the events of the massacre. At the end, the woman was silent for some time.
"I didn't want to frighten you, but you need to understand that the man you know as Anders is not who he claims. He is dangerous and if you cross him, you could pay a very high price for it."
"As you did, Commander Anya."
Anya stood, reaching into her pack and producing a small, jeweled dagger in a worn leather scabbard. "I ask that you keep this with you, Mistress Hawke. One day you may need it." She pressed it into Hawke's hands. "For your sake, and because I promised your brother," she reiterated. Hawke nodded reluctantly.
The woman stood, tucking the dagger into a pocket of her gown, a gentle smile on her lips. "You love him."
Shaking her head, Anya corrected, "I did love the man I thought he was. I'm not sure I ever knew the real Anders."
Hawke led her back to the large entryway and Anya was impressed and relieved with how calmly she accepted Anya's story. She admired Hawke, hoped her brother had that same quiet courage and determination.
"Commander Anya, would you write to me? Let me know how Carver does? He won't write, knowing him, and whether he believes it or not, I worry about him."
"I will, but only if you call me Anya."
"And I am Hawke to my friends."
Anya smiled and nodded. "Now, I must get to the Gallows and see Nathaniel and Carver off. Thank you for your time."
Hawke took Anya's hands in hers and squeezed them gently. "No, it's I who should thank you. I know that was not an easy tale to tell. I do appreciate it."
Just as she was about to leave, she turned to Hawke. "If you are ever in need of anything, please don't hesitate to ask. Your brother is a part of our family now, which means you are as well."
She barely made it to the Gallows before the ship sailed. Mooring lines were already being reeled in. Nathaniel was pacing the quay and searching the small knot of people gathered on the pier. He broke into a run as soon as he saw her and he swept her off her feet, hugging her to him.
"Did you think I'd miss an opportunity to nag you about your duties one last time?" she teased as he settled her back onto her feet.
"I thought you might be reconsidering last night," he replied truthfully.
"Never, my dear Nathaniel. The only thing I'm reconsidering is my meeting in Jader."
"I know it's too soon, Anya. I know this isn't the right time or place. I know you're still healing, but I can't leave without telling you that I love you," he said in a rush and before she could reply, he kissed her and then turned, loping back to the ship.
Her heart leapt and danced in her chest. He loved her and she couldn't imagine a greater gift than that. She knew a joy that transcended the pain and sorrow of the past seven months. She knew without him, she wasn't whole. That together they were greater than they were apart. Was that love? Her answer sang sweetly in her blood.
She hurried after him. She was limping and hopping in her rush. No doubt I look like a demented crane, she thought wryly, trying to catch him before he boarded.
"Nathaniel! Wait!" she cried above the raucous screech of gulls.
He turned and stopped, his face open and vulnerable. She was smiling, giddy as a child on Feastday. His rare smile flitted across his face and disappeared as he hurried back to her.
"You can't tell a woman you love her and run away, Nathaniel. At least not until she responds."
"I didn't think the woman was ready to respond yet. I didn't want to rush her," he explained somberly.
"I am as surprised as you are to find that you hold my heart in your hands," she said, reaching up to run loving fingers along his cheekbones. Her hood fell back as he captured her lips and her arms went around his shoulders. She stood on the tips of her toes to whisper against his ear.
"I love you, Nathaniel Howe."
"Two weeks is going to be bloody long," Nathaniel growled and then he was gone, leaping onto the deck of the ship as the captain ordered them under way.
The ship was quickly swallowed by the low hanging wall of clouds.
Her trip to Kirkwall had certainly been full of surprises.
~~~oOo~~~
Anders knelt beside the dockworker, his hands hovering over a deep and nasty gash on the man's chest. The man's breathing was ragged and his face pale from blood loss. The blue glow of a healing spell wrapped around the man and in moments the gash was closing. Anders placed a poultice on the man's chest and then wrapped strips of linen around it.
"Take it easy today and you should be fine tomorrow."
With that, he stood and wiped his hands on a cloth before returning it to his kit. Two men helped the injured dockworker to his feet and the crowd dispersed.
As he made his way back to the small rowboat that would take him across the bay, he saw a familiar figure and his heart seized. Was that Nathaniel Howe running along the quay? Anders fumbled to a stop. He moved with jerky steps to hide behind a stack of crates and watch his former friend.
What was Nathaniel doing in Kirkwall? Had he been sent to bring him back to the Vigil for punishment? Why wait seven months to do that? Why not have Stroud do it? He continued watching as Nathaniel pulled a cloaked figure into his arms.
A woman? Nathaniel had a lover in Kirkwall? Anders had always thought Nate carried a torch for the commander, though he had never said so. A part of him wanted to call out to his friend, to see how things were at the Vigil, to ask after Annie. But he couldn't. He knew Nate well enough to know the man would not welcome him with open arms. He was more likely to kill him.
Anders continued watching as Nathaniel turned and ran back to a ship that was preparing to sail. The woman still had her back to Anders but he was curious what type of woman Nate found attractive. The woman moved, running after Nate with an odd skipping step and Anders realized the woman had been injured, that she was limping. The healer in him felt a moment's pity for the woman. Had he been there to help, she would not have that awkward gait. Her healer must have been an incompetent idiot.
Nathaniel turned back and hurried to meet the woman. Maker's breath, he had it bad. He was grinning like a fool as he ran towards the woman. Her hood fell back as she reached her arms around Nate's neck, exposing an abundance of dark red curls. Anders felt his heart lurch and grind to a stop. His mind went blank for several seconds as shock knocked the wind out of his lungs.
Annie! His beautiful Annie. Maker help him, it was Anya. What had happened to her? What had caused her limp? A searing vision of her, broken and bloody, rose in his mind and he felt a twisting pain in his heart. His grief leapt to life again, his guilt threatening to choke him. Oh Maker, what had he done? He fell to his knees, burying his head in his hands.
You happened, Anders. You and I. Anya survived, is that not enough?
Don't say her name. Don't even think it.
She appears happy, does she not?
Is that one more way you think to control me? Is she real or is this one of your cruel tricks?
A sharp burst of pain behind his eyes brought tears to Anders's eyes, reminding him who had the power and control. He let out a low moan and pulled himself up, using the crates to support him.
You made your decision, Anders. She is lost to you. Look at her smile. She is at peace. Let her remain so.
Anders heard a warning but also a sorrow in Justice's voice that he didn't understand. He also didn't remark on it. It was never wise to question Justice. The pain in his head was receding, even as the pain in his chest grew.
She was happy and at peace. She deserved to be, but it hurt that she was already moving on, that he had left no deep impression in her heart. He stepped into the shadows, away from the woman as she limped quickly along the wooden planks of the quay. He should be far enough away that she wouldn't sense him through the damnable taint, an identifier no less restrictive and damning than his phylactery.
His eyes followed her until she was out of sight. Her limp tore at his conscience. He had done that to her, he and Justice. Maker, the pain he had put her through. No wonder she had moved on. How could she not hate him for what he had done?
He had made his decision and he would have to live with the consequences for the rest of his life. He had disobeyed her direct order and her heartfelt plea so that he could help a friend. Had he known the outcome, would he have still done it? Would he have ignored her and done what he felt he had to? Or had he ever really had a choice? Had he actually made the decision or had Justice already been in control of him in some way? His thoughts tangled up in his head and he blinked, trying to let them go.
He wondered just how different his life would be had he had listened to her and not Justice.
