She steps in from the bright sunshine into the cool hall; It's too quiet for midday. Checking carefully for any sounds of movement she begins to untie the reeking leather, peeling the layer of foul dead skin from her body; the cool air teasing her flesh into goose bumps.
She leaves the bulk of the armour on the floor and steps out of the boots, flexing and cracking her toes as she pads across the cold stone floor. She pulls the damp tunic out of her leather pants and suddenly tips her head, is that movement? Above the crackling of the fire she can hear nothing else.
Glad of an empty house for the moment she basks in the luxury of isolation. Her mind clear as she wanders across the hall taking in the pile of unopened letters and the equipment scattered across the benches. Exhaustion envelops her as she mounts the stairs, her legs are protesting with each lift. Hand over hand she pulls herself up the staircase, pausing for a moment at the top. Head cocked, listening again for that noise. Nothing. The temptation to lie on the rug and sleep is only tempered by the thought of the bed beyond the door. She inhales and rubs her eyes roughly with the heel of her palms. First things. She unlaces the pants and rolls the hot leather down her legs. If anything the smell is worse now as a weeks worth of warm vapours evaporate. Her tunic sticks across her clammy shoulders, her buttocks, restricting her movement enough to irritate. Grabbing at the fabric at the back of her neck she lifts the linen over her head before flinging it at a corner. Noticing the open window she's suddenly self conscious and holds an arm across her chest as she enters their room.

Just five minutes. Without thought she falls face first onto the bed; both arms outstretched, and sighs. She'd got them this far. And with that one word the peace passes. Them? Ghosts rush in, clamouring at her thoughts, disapproving, judging. Her dad, so careful and calm came to berate her for her recklessness; her brother and sister for not protecting them, for breaking her promise; her mother for not being strong enough, fast enough, for not being Bethany, for not being Carver, for not being Malcolm. The weight on her chest swells, she can't breathe. A silent protracted sob forces all the air out of her body.
After a week of movement, of doing, she was back to this: catatonic and unable to rest; pressing her face further in the bed, just cry, wanting to purge all this excess, feeling the pressure of the bed but unable to feel her body.
It was too long; she'd had to take the lead again. Aveline had been with them, why can't she make decisions for once? Crushingly she knew that it was her ability to mask her pain that meant none of them realised. It had been going on for so long now that she wouldn't even know how to talk about it. Strangely Sebastian seemed to have noticed a glimpse of it once, perhaps that's why she tolerated him? She needed people that could see her as something other than 'The Champion'. Fenris might hate her now, in fact he probably hated her then, but at least when they were arguing she was someone.
She couldn't let them down; they were her only family now and she needed to protect them all. And if that meant they didn't see her weakness, then that was fine; she'd do that for them.
She'd never seen her Dad upset. Cross, yes, but always so quiet, so strong, and he'd kept them all safe. Running away had been the worst thing she'd done to him, and still he'd been there, waiting. Not judging, just wanting to understand why.
The door clicks open, but she remains where she is. The bed moves as he sits beside her. Please hold me. He sighs gently and the bed shifts again as he leans over to kiss her shoulder blade.
"Come here" he breathes, but still she can't move. He's the only one who sees her like this, the only one who knows. He moves again, rolling her onto her side, her exposed body creased from the sheets. Her skin tightens in the sudden cold air and he wriggles over, shirtless, pulling her into his arms, cradling her, crushing her against his body, gently rocking her back to herself.

"GO! / Anders / You're just like them! Always watching, Leave Me Alone! / No, I / WHAT? / It's just / It's always 'just', just this once, just that / Love, no / DON'T! Dragging me with you like a child! / I / I'm NOT A CHILD / I'm not / GO!"

He's back amongst the books, frantically patting the desk searching for something. She stands by the fire quietly. "…talk to me."
He throws another book, it slams into the statue above the fireplace then thuds onto the floor at her feet, pages splayed and curled, crackling unnaturally. She hasn't taken a breath, hasn't moved.
"Go! I'm working!"
"Please just talk" This time it's an ink pot, it explodes against the mantle piece in a cloud of blue, showering her dress with flecks of dark glass. "I'm not leaving."
"I wish you would," he says quietly, barely audible above the crackle of the fire. He turns back to the desk, but rather than returning to work he braces himself against it, head hung low.
"You don't get to do this,"
"Get out." His voice is cold and flat.
"I'm not someone you can just push away."
"Get. Out."
"Anders listen to me, I need to know what's wrong."
He stands, unable to face her.
"I'm going out now. I have work to do."
Whether it's frustration or desperation she says the words that she knows that will make this worse. They've had this argument so many times now, but he's the one that is there for her and it rips her apart that he won't let her be there for him.
"I love you."
"Then you're a fool."
She knows the tears are there when they start dropping off her chin. She can see him struggling for breath; she can see it hurts him too. She has to be strong for him; she has to be his support.

With a growl of frustration he lifts the table and tips it roughly to the side, spilling jars and books across the room. Always she has to push. He's been so alone for so long he's forgotten how to speak to anyone in a meaningful way. So used to burying his emotions, he can't find the words to express them – and now she's standing there, trying so hard to care for him despite all this, when she should be out making herself happy. He looks at her bewildered, why would anyone want him now? Snatches of intimacy here and there were all he needed until she happened to him. And now he needs her, even as she stands there, her hair and shoulder stained inky blue, tears streaming down that face - her eyes pleading with him. And he can't do it – no matter what he does next he will hurt her. Please leave - make this easier for us both and go. But even as he thinks it, he knows she won't. And he can't. If he makes her leave he'll lose that final part of self, when she's with him he knows who he is, knows why he has to do it. His heart could burst with love for her but he can also see glimpses of the future, of what has to happen to be truly free. Without her he's pure action and loses that perspective. He needs the balance; he needs to be reminded constantly why he does it. Why it must be him. It's selfish and cruel, but he's so much stronger with her. Just please let her be strong enough.

As he calms down, his shoulders relax, and his face softens. She smiles softly, encouragingly. In three brisk steps he's across the room, wiping her tears away with his sleeve, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, gently tracing his hand down the side of her face to lift her chin. She lets him. She breathes a sigh of relief as they kiss gently, tentatively, so much energy already expelled. Lazily she lifts her arms up around his neck, letting them rest there as his kiss sinks deeper. His hands trace firmly down her back, resting on the rise of her buttocks and pulling her hard against him. She leans back to look him in the eye, wanting desperately for him to understand, to know that she'll be there for him no matter what. That he's the only one she needs. He takes that moment to move her against the wall, pressing against her, whispering apologises into her hair, her neck, he bites her shoulder. She lets out an involuntary gasp, her body throbbing deeply, as he looks back to her, smirking.
"You stink; let's take you for a wash".