A/N: Thank you, Lisa, for your beta skills and your encouragement!
Hunger
Hawke had been Maker-sent, helping him clean the clinic, and assisting with the patients. He had seen her pressing coins into the hands of several of the refugees who sought his healing. She had smiled and talked to everyone, but the smile had seldom reached her eyes. There was a tension in her shoulders, and a suspicious brightness in her eyes, but Anders didn't ask her why she had come to help, or why he'd caught the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. He was happy enough for the company that he didn't want to chase her away. Even after she left, her essence seemed to linger.
As he left the clinic, heading for The Hanged Man, he wondered what Anya was doing and if she was well. Memories of evenings spent in the main dining hall with the other Wardens, playing cards or telling stories, pushed away other thoughts. A lifetime ago, but the longing to return to that time was powerful.
Loneliness gnawed at his resolve like a dog worrying a bone. He had sworn that he wouldn't become attached to any of his 'friends' in Kirkwall; that he could survive without another's touch. Working beside Hawke in his make-shift clinic had made Anders realize the difficulty of such a vow. He missed the touch of a woman with a hunger that left him almost dizzy with yearning for any human contact. But he didn't want to hurt anyone, not after what he'd done to Anya. Yet, he couldn't deny the longing in him to be touched, to be accepted. He longed for a gentle touch, a tender word, anything that reminded him that he was not alone. Not that he was ever truly alone, he reflected bitterly.
You would dishonor Anya in this way?
I can't dishonor what I no longer have, Justice. She's moved on and I think it's time I did, as well.
She moved on because of this same need? There was sorrow in the voice, and confusion. Anders, walking along the rain-swept streets, shivered. Was it the cool wind that made his blood seem colder, or the aching regret in Justice's voice?
Humans crave the touch of others, Justice. Surely you know that by now. The question is, Anders, why you would choose to desire a woman whose affections are focused on another.
I didn't say anything about Hawke. Too late, he realized that his quick denial had only confirmed the truth of Vengeance's words.
You respect her talents, admire her strength. There is logic in desiring her. In fact, I approve of your interest. She will be of great benefit to our cause.
No, Anders, do not use her as you did Anya. Have you learned nothing from your past mistakes?
How curious, Justice. Was it not you who desired Anya? Did you not want to merge with Anders to experience what physical love felt like?
No! Cease your accusations!
Now, now, spirit. How just is it to lie? How noble is such craven behavior? You hungered for her, Justice. You hungered for that which you were not permitted to have.
Justice fell silent and Anders was grateful for the respite. He would not allow Vengeance to use Margaret Hawke if he could prevent it. The ache of loneliness would pass, as it always had. He would not do to Hawke what he had done to Anya, no matter how lonely he was, not unless she showed an interest in him. Anders shook his head. She was interested in only one man at the moment, and that wasn't apt to change.
Do not underestimate your charms, Anders.
Get out! Just get out and shut up!
The voices stilled, the turmoil in him receding into the shadows that marked the barriers he was striving to erect in his mind in the hope of conquering the constant noise in his head. He took several deep breaths, counting softly to himself. He would not let the others erode his calm. He would not. He was in control, not Justice, and certainly not Vengeance.
He blinked, surprised to find himself standing in front of his destination without remembering the details of his journey. He straightened his shoulders, fixing a brittle smile on his face as he pushed open the door of The Hanged Man. He spotted his friends at their usual table and his smile softened, settling more comfortably on his lips. He wasn't lonely. He had friends that cared about him, and that would be enough. It had to be.
"Blondie, what took you so long? Hawke's been here for hours!" Varric called out, hoisting a mug in his direction.
"Someone had to clean up after her. She's too important to get her hands dirty sweeping my floors!" Anders replied with a grin.
"Such a taskmaster," Hawke teased, smiling at him as he settled across from her.
Fenris was by her side, and Anders noted that the elf had no welcome for him. Anders's grin widened as he leaned across the table, winking. "You loved it and you know it."
Fenris's eyes narrowed at Anders. "If you wish to risk your life in that disreputable hovel you call a clinic, that is your right, but it is a dangerous place for Hawke."
"I believe that's Margaret's decision. I didn't ask her to come down to the clinic and help; I merely accepted her assistance without questioning her motives. Don't blame me if she needs more in her life."
Hawke frowned, looking from him to Fenris and back. "You both need to find something else to discuss," she said firmly.
"But you're the most interesting thing in this place," Anders protested, flashing a boyish smile.
"On that we do agree," Fenris said quietly.
Anders lifted his mug and grinned. Something tightly-coiled in him unwound and he felt relaxed in a way he hadn't for months. "Never thought I'd see that happen," he said with a cheeky grin.
"Nor I, Mage."
They raised their mugs, clinking them softly in a silent toast. Anders was sure the cordiality was as fleeting as the temporary silence in his head, but he accepted both for as long as they would last.
~~~oOo~~~
The slate grey clouds were turned silver by the slanting rain; rivulets of cold water flung down at them from an angry sky. Worry plucked with hungry fingers at the edges of Nathaniel's thoughts. He glanced at Anya, but the hood of her cloak hid her face. She looked neither right nor left as they rode through the storm. She appeared oblivious to the cold wind that pushed at their backs.
The horses splashed through large puddles, slipping as they hit patches of mud. They slowed, picking their way daintily around the quagmire, tossing their heads and prancing, nickering and snorting. If the rain didn't let up they'd have to stop and wait it out. The roads were becoming treacherous.
Nathaniel's eyes flicked to the other riders. Carver was miserable, his face bearing traces of their earlier fight and he was hunched over and swaying in the saddle. Gideon was no happier to be riding in the storm, his face a mask of wretchedness.
The storm finally passed, continuing to race southward. The clouds clung stubbornly to the sky, but the cold rain had turned to a drizzle and then finally abated. Even with the sudden cessation of the tempest, none of them spoke. They traveled on, their horses gaining confidence as the roads began to dry.
Still Anya didn't speak, but she pushed her hood back, and in the waning light he saw the large bruise on her temple, and that her face was pale and pinched. She glanced at him, a grim smile resting uneasily on her lips. He nudged his horse closer to her.
"Anya," he began but she waved him into silence.
"Let's just get to the inn. We'll talk then," she said briefly.
She was right, of course. Now that they were south of the Wending Wood, they were far too exposed for his liking. He nodded, scanning the horizon, looking for likely ambush sites, searching for the slightest hint of movement ahead of them.
Bold streaks of golden sunlight pushed through the clouds and he realized that they would barely reach the inn before daylight failed completely. He turned his watchful gaze to the west and saw the sun struggling to free itself from the iron grey sky. The thought of being on the road in the dark, without knowing who was responsible for the earlier attack, made his disquiet blossom into anxiety, twisting low in his gut.
Who had ordered the attack? Why did they want to capture Anya? As a bargaining tool? The thought chilled him. She was from a prestigious and powerful Orlesian family, as well as being a powerful figure within Ferelden in her own right. She was also being used as a pawn by both the Empress and the Wardens. Whoever was after her had already underestimated her, and that had worked to their benefit. Nathaniel wasn't naïve enough to believe that would happen again.
The last rays of the dying sun stretched across the darkening sky as they clattered into the courtyard of the Wayfarer's Inn, the cobblestones still slick from the recent rain. The soft yellow light streaming from the mullioned windows of the inn were a welcome sight.
Nathaniel pulled up and dismounted, reaching automatically for his bow and quiver. The stable-boy touched his cap and gave them all a cheeky grin.
"Here now, Master Nate, Arlessa Anya! It's fair late for ya to be arriving!" he shouted cheerfully, gathering reins and murmuring reassurances to the horses.
"Greetings, young Tamrick. How fares your family?" Anya greeted.
Nathaniel merely nodded his greeting, looking at the empty stalls, and then up at the loft where the shadows lay deep. He was about to mount the ladder and search those shadows when Anya shook her head, an imperceptible signal that most would have missed altogether.
"They be as fine as a spring day, Mistress. What brings yon Wardens here by?"
Anya smiled, the lines of stress around her mouth and eyes easing. "A trip to Denerim. Shall I bring something back for you?"
Bright red hair, the color of a winter sunrise, gleamed in the lamplight as the young stable-boy doffed his hat. "Ah, sure, that would be grand, Warden Commander. I've a hankering for a bit of those honeyed almonds," he replied, his grin growing.
"And so you shall have them," Anya assured him and then leaned forward, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper that Nathaniel had to strain to hear. "How many travelers are inside?"
"Four merchants, a couple as claims to be from Dragon's Peak, and there's naught else. Ma's that unhappy not to have more for supper. She's spitted a pig," the young boy replied.
"Thank you, young Tamrick. You'll make a fine guardsman one day. If that's still your wish?"
"Aye, Commander," the boy replied, his green eyes narrowed. "And I'm fair on to being of age," he added proudly.
Nathaniel held his tongue, though he wanted to tell the boy, who was barely thirteen, not to be in a rush to join the army. Like so many young people who'd survived the perils of the Blight and the attacks along the Pilgrim's Path, Tamrick thought the army was a place for heroic deeds. The boy had a gift with horses, a gentling spirit that would make him an excellent stable-master one day, given the right assistance.
"Nothing untoward?" Anya prodded, glancing around the stables.
"Nothing a'tall," the boy replied. "Last night'd be a different tale, howsoever."
"What do you mean?" Nathaniel asked quickly, frowning.
The boy's eyes widened and he wet his lips. Nathaniel realized his tone and manner were making the boy nervous and he tried to add a smile to soften his words but Anya shook her head.
"Gideon, would you and Carver take the gear in and arrange for rooms?"
The dark-eyed scout looked mutinous but even he knew the suggestion made in so silky a voice was a command, not a request. With a curt nod, he began to gather the saddlebags and gear. Carver assisted him with no complaint, and Anya waited until they were out of sight before she turned back to the young boy.
"Tell me about last night," she said quietly, giving Tamrick a reassuring smile.
"Well, thems that treat horseflesh so cruelly are naught but right bastards, if you'll pardon my saying so, Arlessa Anya. The bay's mouth was that damaged and he'd more'n a few welts. Fair fractious he was, poor old dobbin."
"How many of these right bastards were there, Tam?" Anya asked.
"Six, all told. And big, ugly brutes they were. Da didn't sleep a wink last night."
"Were any of them familiar to you?" Nathaniel queried as he helped Tamrick unsaddle the horses.
"Nary a one, Master Nate. Heard them talking whilst I cleaned tables, though. Fair bit of squabbling they was doing amongst themselves, too."
"Squabbling?" he prodded, feeling his concern giving way to anger.
"Didn't seem like they was happy to be together, is all. Kept bickering about where'd they take their package, but I didn't see any package a'tall."
Anya glanced at him and Nathaniel raised a brow at her before asking, "Did you hear where they were planning on taking their package?"
"Aye, ser. They was arguing betwixt Kirkwall and Denerim."
Anya reached into her kit and extracted several silver coins, dropping them into Tamrick's hand. "Thank you, Tamrick."
"Thank you, Arlessa Anya. I'll be sure ta' give Nicodemus an extra brush," the young boy said with a grin.
"That was enlightening," Anya remarked as they walked from the stable to the inn.
Nathaniel put his hand under her elbow, guiding her around a large puddle. His mind was digesting the information that Tamrick had shared with them. Why would anyone want to take her to Kirkwall? Or Denerim? Given the dagger they'd found, he'd have guessed they'd have taken her to Orlais.
"So fierce and low, the warrior's brow, for one and all to see his woe," Anya murmured, a quote he'd heard before when he spent too much time frowning.
"Not woe, just a very reasonable amount of caution," Nathaniel corrected, opening the door to the inn.
"Truly? Your frown looks to take up permanent residence."
Nathaniel forced his tense muscles to relax, affixing a smile to his lips. "Does this please you?" he asked dryly.
~~~oOo~~~
The public room was redolent of roasting pig and the fragrant tang of baked apples and cinnamon. Underneath those smells, she caught a whiff of freshly-baked bread, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation. Aengus Mac Innes greeted her with a broad smile and waved her to a table.
"Will you have a pint, Warden Commander? I've just tapped a fresh keg of barley brew."
"Yes, thank you, Aengus."
The rotund innkeeper had the same shocking red hair that his son had, and blue eyes the color of the Waking Sea. She had met him the first time they'd come to the Wending Wood to find out who was attacking the trade caravans. He'd been trying to find the answer too as business had declined, and he was in danger of closing the inn for good. But it had been his father's inn before him and his grandfather's before that, and he was determined not to lose it, most especially not to darkspawn.
They'd found him in the Wending Wood, injured but not tainted. Anders had healed him, and Anya had assured the innkeeper that she would find and stop whoever was attacking the caravans. After that, she'd made it a habit to check on Aengus and his family regularly, and had come to appreciate them as the epitome of a hardworking Fereldan family.
His wife, Mab, came out to greet Anya moments later. The woman was as tall and thin as her husband was short and round. She greeted Anya with a bright smile and a plate of bread, drizzled with drippings from the roasting pig.
"Supper'll be soon, Arlessa Anya, but I know that Warden hunger," the woman said, placing the plate down and beckoning for Anya to sit. "Aengus, haven't you poured her pint yet? The poor woman looks fair on to starving."
She had nearly finished her mug of barley brew and bread when the others joined her. Mab and her daughters, Rayleigh and Catrione, served the meal on large platters. Mab waited, hands on hips, to make sure the Wardens were enjoying the fare, before she went back to the kitchen. The girls, giggling and eying Carver, pottered around the public room, trying to look busy. Carver was a study of contrasts, blushing, yet oddly cocky.
Calm nibbled at her earlier shock, determined to feast on it until all that was left was a sense of peace and a curiosity about the event. Anya pushed her plate away and glanced around the common room, as she had countless times since entering. She knew exactly where the exits were, who else was in the room, and what weapons each person carried. She was sure that both Nathaniel and Gideon were just as aware as she was. Carver, however, was hunched over his mug of ale, wearing a grimly determined scowl, one that had appeared once Rayleigh and Catrione had left the room.
"Why would the Orlesians attack you?" the bellicose young Warden asked, his voice louder than she would like.
"A question that won't be answered in the public dining room of an inn," she rebuked quietly. "I'm going to go upstairs. Stagger your departures and meet in my room in one hour. And Warden Carver, try to look as though you aren't angry at the world."
Carver's scowl deepened momentarily, before melting into a remarkably gloomy smile. She thought he was better with a glower, but she appreciated that he was trying, realizing that subtlety was something he had yet to learn. There would be time enough to teach him, Anya decided, as she stood and bid her fellow Wardens a pleasant night.
The stairs were problematic as her hip and leg ached from the fight with her assailants. She took them slowly, one at a time, gritting her teeth in frustration every step of the way. She longed for a quiet evening by a fire, book in hand, but the events of the day had to be discussed before they arrived in Denerim the following evening.
As she suspected he would be, Nathaniel was the first to tap lightly on her door, a whisper of bare knuckles on wood. She opened the door and was immediately swept into his arms, his lips moving hungrily along hers. He kicked the door shut and walked her backwards toward the fire. When she finally broke the kiss, she opened her eyes to meet his stern grey gaze.
"You just opened the door without a word. I could have been anyone," he admonished.
"Or any one of the three Wardens I'm traveling with," she responded, flashing a quick smile at him.
"Why won't you take this more seriously?"
Anya sighed, surprised by the tension in his voice, the underlying fear that coated his words. She placed her hand lightly on his cheek, offering an appropriately somber smile. Would he ever understand that she was not nearly as naïve as she had been a year ago?
"Nathaniel, I am taking the attack seriously. I know that three of the merchants staying here are lightly armed and the fourth has a matched set of daggers. I know that the couple from Dragon's Peak have not left their room all evening because they are newly wedded. I know that Aengus has recently added new locks to these rooms and that my window's wooden shutters are latched and locked. So tell me what it is you think I'm not taking seriously?"
He had the grace to look faintly apologetic. "You could have been killed today."
Anya leaned up, pressing a light kiss on his lips and then rubbing her cheek against his stubble-clad jaw, finding comfort in the rough feel of it. He smiled, pulling her close. Soon both of her cheeks burned from his attentions. Reluctantly, she pulled away and spoke again.
"My death was never their intent. They wanted you dead. They wanted me for leverage, I suspect. The question is who hired the mercenaries? Was the dagger a warning? A hint? It's highly suspect that the assailants took such pains to wear plainly-made gear and carry ordinary weapons, yet one of them carelessly used a dagger I could easily identify. And they were not all that skilled. I would suspect they were sacrificed to deliver a message. The question is: what's the message?"
A soft tap at the door prevented Nathaniel from answering immediately. She admitted Carver. "You look flushed, Commander. You're not running a fever, are you?"
Anya touched her cheeks, trying not to smile. "No, I'm fine. Are you? That was a nasty cut on your back."
"I've had worse. Gideon stitched it up when we got up to our rooms."
Wincing, Anya motioned him to sit in one of the chairs she'd placed in front of the fire. He tried so hard to be an adult but there was an overgrown boy in him; easily offended, often boastful, but oddly insecure. She understood it was difficult to live in the shadow of an older sibling and knew, in time, he would flourish in the Ferelden Wardens.
"When we get to Denerim I'll have King Alistair's court healer look at it."
"Yes, Commander."
A few minutes of silence passed and then another stealthy knock at her door announced Gideon's arrival. Once they were all settled around the fireplace they took turns giving their impressions of the fight. All agreed that the mercenaries had been poorly equipped and inept. Carver frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"What is it, Carver?" Anya encouraged.
"The big one with the dagger? He smelled like the docks in Kirkwall. That fishy, saltwater and sweat smell."
Gideon chuckled. "You've just described every dockworker in every port city."
"No, there's a peculiar smell to the water in Kirkwall, from the foundry, I think. Coppery. I smelled that too," Carver argued.
Anya shivered, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the fire. The argument about where to deliver the package, and Carver's assertion that at least one of the men had been from Kirkwall told her where her next trip would have to be. The thought of returning to Kirkwall did not sit well with her. Nathaniel knew, she saw it in his carefully controlled expression.
"Now why would someone in Kirkwall want to kidnap me? And why would they want suspicion to fall on the most influential houses of Orlais?"
~~~oOo~~~
Shock froze her brain. She sat on the filthy floor, rocking her mother, unable to think. She couldn't cry, but the tears were there, locked behind her lids. Waiting. She was only vaguely aware of Aveline's strong arms lifting her from the floor. When they wanted to leave her mother in order to take Margaret home, she rebelled, slapping at the hands that tried to hold her back from tending to her mother.
Magic gathered like a coming storm, thick and pungent in the air. Maker, why had she been cursed with such an affliction? She wanted it gone, she wanted to open her veins and watch the magic pool on the floor with her blood, with her mother's blood. She wanted to be free of the terrible burden.
She clutched her mother close and began to sing softly. Her mother had sung that very song to her when she was a child, sick and in pain. Work-roughened hands had smoothed her damp curls away from her forehead and the words had comforted her.
Her companions were standing around her, uncertain what to do. She could feel their eyes, hear their whispers. But they didn't know. They didn't know and she couldn't tell them but, oh Maker, she wanted to warn them. Her voice drifted to a halt, the words forgotten.
"I don't know what arrangements need to be made," she whispered to nobody in particular.
"I'll take care of it, Hawke. Let Sebastian and Fenris take you home now," Aveline said in her strong, sure voice.
Margaret shook her head. Home? An empty mansion that had meant nothing to her, but everything to her mother? She felt her body shudder, and her hands began to shake. "I should fetch her cloak. She hated to go out of the house without her cloak."
They didn't know and she couldn't tell them that it was her fault, her words, that were responsible for her mother's death. Maybe they did know. Yes, they must. They knew she hadn't been able to find the killer in time, that she was to blame. Why didn't they say something? Why didn't they yell at her? Please, Maker, yell at me, she begged over and over, a silent chant beating in her thoughts like the wings of a frightened bird.
A hand rested on the top of her head, a light touch that offered comfort but she stiffened, moving away from it. "Come, Hawke, let us take you home," Fenris said quietly.
She looked up at him and then down at her mother. They'd had words about Fenris. About Anders. About…her thoughts drifted away. She felt herself lifted and strong arms supported her. Walking, thoughts eddying like the ocean in a storm, along streets she knew but couldn't remember.
She was surprised when Gamlen raced out of the house and put his arms around her. She stood silent and still, enduring his embrace. "I'm sorry, Uncle Gamlen. Mother isn't at home right now."
Bed. She was in bed and so cold. Maker, it was cold, and her magic was still gathering, flickering, whispering. The demons were there, waiting for her to succumb to their temptations, their offers. She blinked.
What was Anders doing in her bedroom? Her mother would be furious with her. No. No more Mother. No more Bethany. No more Carver. Broken promises to Father. Gone, gone, gone, to the bottom of the sea.
Anders was holding her hand. He would understand.
"Take my magic away," she implored. "It killed Mother."
Fingers, kind and soothing, stroked her cheek. She curled into the touch, seeking warmth against the terrible cold that permeated the room. A softly-sung lullaby that whispered against the pain, reached through the numbing cold.
Grief gnawed at her like a ravenous beast, threatening to tear into her with savage teeth. Grief waited in the shadows like the demons in the Fade. Just waiting for the shock to be eaten away so it could enter.
Grief. Hungering for her. She would have to feed the beast. She closed her eyes and slept.