A thank you to AnnaLucia for beta-ing. And thank you, my lovely readers, for your continued support! :)
CW: this chapter contains alcoholism symptoms and recovering from them
Anders gripped the edge of his front door, his other hand trembling as it held the candle. He… couldn't believe his eyes. There, before him, was Isabela, but such a thing was impossible. Isabela had merely stopped in Kirkwall during the autumn, on her way back north; she should be long gone by now. Why was she still in the South, braving the winter seas? Had he fallen asleep at his desk, and this was all a dream?
He pinched his arm, wincing as it ached; when the gray-cloaked head on Isabela's shoulder lolled to reveal his beloved Marian's face, he gasped.
"Oh, Maker," he whispered, "oh—"
The feeling drained out of his legs, feet-first, reducing him to jelly; Anders slid down the door, candle falling from his limp fingers. He would have joined it on the floor, if Isabela hadn't propped Marian against the wall and caught him.
"Shit," she cursed, nearly dropping him. "Are you alright?"
"Y-You're not a dream," Anders murmured, blinking up at her, "you're real."
Isabela made no reply, too preoccupied with not losing her balance. Anders gathered his wits and set the candle on a nearby table, helping the two women inside. His head was still spinning from the shock.
"I-I'm sorry," he said, fetching chairs, "I didn't expect anyone tonight, especially with the weather—here, I'll take those," he hung the sodden cloaks to dry on the pegs. His heart skipped a beat from the familiar scent of lavender and rosemary from Marian's cloak. He relit the candle, unsure how to broach the question lying heavy on his heart. "How did...?"
"How did I find you? I wasn't looking," Isabela replied, helping herself to a chair. Pain ghosted across her features as she warmed herself before the fire. "Ship got rammed by the Ostwicker navy; we came to the nearest shipyard…would've kept going, if I'd known you were here." Anders winced at her barb, turning his attention to Hawke.
Even without the candlelight, there was a definite yellow, waxy cast to Marian's perspired skin; the candle confirmed his suspicions: the whites of her eyes were the same pale yellow as freshly churned butter. Anders shook his head in disappointment.
"Shite," he muttered, "I told her not to drink anymore…" He frowned; this was a very dangerous situation. Anders looped her arm around his shoulder and herded her down the hall to one of his examination rooms. Isabela limped behind, close at hand. She shooed him away the moment he set Marian onto the bed.
"I'll undress her," she said. "You go tell my man at the inn where I am. The one across the square."
He blinked. "But Marian—"
"Will be fine. She's made do without you for months, Anders: twenty more minutes won't make a difference." Her tone broached no argument. Anders bit back his guilt and left, tying on his cloak…and regretted his hastiness when he stepped outside into the tempest.
He'd been so preoccupied with Marian's arrival, he'd quite forgotten he was still wearing his sleepshirt and slippers. He huffed, wrapping his soggy cloak tighter around himself. The frozen rain pelted his bare legs, howling wind whipping through his cloak, leaving him numb from the cold. He stumbled forward, skidding on the icy cobblestones as he made his way across the square to the inn. His pace slowed as he battled the wind; by the time he arrived at his destination, he was half-frozen.
"Ser Meyer," the innkeeper cried when he stumbled inside. "What brings ye here at this hour?"
"C-Captain Isabela," Anders replied; his teeth chattered so hard, he could barely form the words. "Tell her men she's staying at my clinic with Mar—" he stopped himself. Those Templars were still looking for him and Marian; the last thing they needed was a Templar raid on a night like this…
"W-With me," he corrected. "She and her sick passenger are staying with me, until the storm blows over." If the innkeeper noticed his save or hesitation, she didn't say. She nodded, making a note in her ledger.
"Thank ye, I'll let them know," she said. "Will ye stay a bit and warm yerself before the fire? Ye're frozen stiff—"
"There's no time," he cut her off. The woman blinked in surprise at his sharpness. Anders's face went hot as he mumbled an explanation.
"H-Her passenger is in a bad way; thank you, but I can't." With that Anders left, not trusting himself to say anything more. He drew up his hood against the wind, breath shuddering from his emotion. Marian was back. He was… 'overjoyed' couldn't contain all the happiness and relief he felt at the sight of her alive. Yet his heart was heavy: there was only one explanation for her condition, one that gnawed at him all the way back to the clinic.
Anders had driven his beloved to drink with his lies and betrayal…and had no one to blame but himself, should she die from complications and a broken heart.
Isabela was waiting when he let himself in, clad in one of his spare sleepshirts and his woolen housecoat. "Well?" she asked.
"The innkeeper said she'd pass the word on," he replied, hanging his cloak to dry. He shuffled past her to the examination room. Isabela followed.
"I borrowed some clothes," she added, "I'll stop by the ship and get our things later—"
He waved her words away, making a beeline for Marian on the bed. "It's fine, Bela: no need to go out in a blizzard for that. We're all friends here." She leaned against the creamy, whitewashed wall, expression inscrutable.
"'Friends,'" she muttered under her breath. "'Friends' don't ruin each other's lives over a fucking principle."
He froze, "I-I didn't mean—"
"Of course you didn't. You never mean anything, unless it serves you and your 'righteous cause.'" She scoffed, "you broke her. You broke her, Anders: you used my best friend and left her shattered with all your lies, and you expect me to act like it's all fine, like nothing happened?"
"Didn't you do the same thing three years ago with the Qunari?" He shot back, hackles raised. "You claim Marian's your best friend, yet you left her when she needed you most. You fled Kirkwall that night without saying a word, just a hasty note pinned on a corpse. We had no idea where you were or if you were even alive until last year, Isabela, so don't tell me only I broke her. We all did, one way or another: I'm just the latest entry in the long line of misfits."
Silence stretched between them, the only sounds being the wind howling outside and the fire crackling in the grate. Anders shook his head, finished his examination and left for his decoction room, making note of what liver and blood purifiers he'd need to distract himself.
"Dandelion, milk thistle, red clover, burdock," he muttered to himself, meting out measurements. "Skullcap for the nerves and healing. A-And I must support the bowel—"
"Can you do it?" Isabela asked behind him. "Can you save Hawke?"
Anders paused, unsure how to answer. "…I'll try my best," he replied, continuing to measure. "She's in a bad way—"
Isabela whirled him around and grabbed him by the collar, eyes gleaming with a ferocity he'd never seen from her. "Don't 'try,'" she ordered, voice hushed and thick with emotion. "I don't care if you have to use blood magic, you will save her, Anders… or I'll tell those Templars at the inn who you really are, and give you a taste of that 'poetic justice' you love so much."
Anders stared at her, heart booming in his ears and palms sweaty. Hers was not an idle threat; he'd seen Isabela kill men for much less than the acts he'd committed, let alone how he betrayed Marian back in Kirkwall. He gulped and nodded his assent to her terms. Isabela let him go, shoving him into the counter; bottles and herb jars rattled behind him.
"Good. Now. What needs doing?" she asked, rolling up her sleeves.
Anders blinked in surprise, "I—"
"If you think I'm letting you do this alone, sweet thing, you're greatly mistaken: healers can't have all the fun." He knew better than to take her playful joke at face value: Isabela's meaning shone through her veiled words; she didn't trust him to care for Hawke alone. Anders stifled his displeasure and forced a smile.
"Two portions of garlic flakes," he replied, "I'll measure the angelica root."
The two worked in tandem, Isabela measuring while Anders ground and mixed. He couldn't help but notice her speed slowing, her grimaces masked behind cheerfulness, or fumbling fingers disguised as gestures to punctuate her sentences as she shared stories of her travels. Anders's eyes narrowed in observation.
"Come and sit here," he said, pulling out a chair from the table, "I want to examine you."
Isabela scoffed, "I'm fine; no need to trouble yourself—"
"You're in pain; that's never a good sign in winter. If left untreated, that can become permanent." The nonchalance faded from her demeanor; Isabela shuffled to the chair, wincing as Anders rolled down her borrowed woolen socks. Just as he had suspected, her feet and calves were red and swollen, her toes ghostly pale. Isabela's palms were also dappled in painful red and white splotches.
"Maker's Breath, Isabela! Why didn't you say something?" he cried. "This is serious!"
"Hawke needed help first," she replied, "she's worse off."
He shook his head; he'd learned the hard way over the years—and painfully reminded of it even now, with the croup outbreak—that one couldn't pour water from an empty cup. Taking care of oneself took precedence over good intentions. He helped her stand. "Hop on, you shouldn't be walking on those feet." Anders crouched before her; Isabela chuckled as he carried her down the hall, piggyback.
"What?" he asked.
"Last time you gave me a 'ride' was that night at the Pearl in Denerim, remember? You were an excellent lover—"
He nearly dropped her in surprise. "Sweet Andraste, Bela! Not now; Marian could hear!" She laughed so hard, she snorted.
"Oh, I've already told her, sweet thing: laughed ourselves silly from it. 'Wait, what? Why am I always the last to know these things?' Hawke had asked; I thought her eyes would fall out of her head when I mentioned Whistling Wendy. You know that incredulous look Hawke gets? She wore that one."
Anders adjusted his grip with a chuckle; he knew exactly what expression Isabela had mentioned. He'd always thought it adorable, just like how she scrunched her nose and bit her lip when considering something. It comforted him a bit, to know that despite everything that happened, there were still glimmers of his Marian under all the sadness.
He prepared a bed warmer and helped Isabela into the guest room bed, returning to the decoction room for heated water and basins. Marian's tinctures still needed time; they'd likely be ready when he finished treating Isabela's frostbite. He tucked a roll of linen bandages and ointment under his arm before he left.
"Take off your stockings," he said, pouring a basin bath, "it'll hurt, but we must thaw your feet." Isabela bit back the groan as she immersed her feet in the warm water. Anders hid his concern, massaging a mild Fire spell into her calves. Once her circulation improved and she had warmed a bit, they could consider a full-body bath—such a thing would be too painful for her now. Almost as painful for her as not speaking with her hands, apparently…
"And so the Ostwickers launched their Vint Fire without ever considering which way the wind blew, could you believe it?" Isabela was saying, waving her wet hand to punctuate her sentences as she described the harrowing sea battle they had faced. Droplets of water sparkled in the candlelight, like gleaming diamonds.
Anders stared in disbelief, trying to grasp what Isabela and the crew had experienced on their way to Shoreham. Icy waves taller than six men, taller than the clinic? Steel rams that could slice a ship in two? He could barely imagine it, let alone face it on the high seas. "Hands in the basin," he reminded her.
"Hmm? Oh." She set them back in the water, "the idiots set their own ship on fire. And you'll never guess where they got the shit from…"
"Who?"
"Fenris!" She nearly overturned her hand basin, water dripping from her upturned hands. "Can you imagine Fenris, of all people?! I'd thought Varric was telling tall tales over the summer, about Fenris advising the Ostwicker army; I'd never thought I'd witness his work firsthand—"
Anders cleared his throat, interrupting, "ahem. Hands, Bela: they're too delicate for me to warm by magic; I could ruin them that way." He chuckled, shaking his head, "you can take the pirate out of Rivain, but never Rivain out of the pirate…"
She stuck out her tongue at him and smiled, finally complying. Pleased with her progress, Anders left to tend his other 'patient;' he arrived at Marian's threshold, armed with his freshly strained tinctures.
"Marian?" he called softly, nudging her shoulder, breath hitching when she remained unresponsive. Trepidation settled in the pit of his stomach as he set up his workspace.
"Lady Andraste," he prayed before he began, "guide my hands. Please let me save her; she's all I have left…"
It was almost bizarre, to be able to use as much magic as he pleased; he'd grown accustomed to Healing without it, during his time in Shoreham. But Anders was grateful: a thorough examination revealed Marian's liver was worse off than he'd initially realized; mere tinctures couldn't salvage this amount of damage…
He propped her up in bed, feeding tinctures; his heart physically ached to see her so ill. His eyes filled as he gently wiped her chin. "I always said you were my worst patient," he murmured, "you practically lived on stamina and health potions, back in your mercenary days. Don't you know how hard those are on your liver? Between the drink and all the damage you've taken over the years…" He brushed the hair from her face, hand lingering on her cheek in a caress, "you've done so much to save others, my love; when will you realize you're worth saving, too?"
The hours eked past, the pale dawn fading into the snowstorm raging outside until it blurred into a white-gray haze outside the window. Anders worked well into the morning, pushing himself on sheer willpower as he tended Marian. His arms burned and ached from grinding herbs and hauling water; his hands trembled from exertion as he strained his newest batch of tinctures.
The fever had subsided, thank the Maker: during her few moments of consciousness, Marian had been delirious, begging Anders to save her from the shadows at the foot of the bed. She addressed people who weren't there, wrung her trembling hands—it had turned Anders's stomach from worry. Now she rested peacefully; he readied another batch of tinctures for steeping.
"Come on," he whispered to himself, stiff fingers fumbling with the tincture spoon, "just a bit more—"
The spoon went clattering onto the mattress. Anders grumbled, retrieving it from the coverlet…and froze, when he noticed the regular rise and fall of Marian's chest had stilled.
"Hey," he said, "wake up. D-Don't scare me." He struck her palm and received no response; he held his fingers under her nose, heart lurching when no breath tickled his skin. Tears pricked his eyes.
"Shit," he whispered, "no, no, no."
He had only moments to save her; Anders delved deep for a wisp of mana to hold onto as he cast a Healing spell; the pounding headaches he'd been fighting off intensified while he cast, nausea coiled in his gut. He cursed; he'd overextended his mana—
He ran down the hall to his decoction room, fetching the small bellows from its peg on the wall. He skidded into her room, praying. "Come on," he whispered, pumping air into her mouth, "Don't you dare, Marian. Don't you dare leave me." He cupped her back in an attempt to make her exhale, mind racing when it was ineffective.
Time suspended in midst of his horror, stretching until it was a paper-thin, brittle thing. Would it break, Anders wondered? Would he be too late to save her, after the Maker had granted him the chance to finally make amends? All his dreams of a happy future with her came to mind, melting like dew in the harsh sun of the sight before him. He watched his entire world crumble before his eyes as Marian remained unresponsive—
She finally gasped, coughing. Anders exclaimed in joy, setting aside the bellows and embracing her.
"Oh, thank the Maker," he said through his tears, "thank you for coming back." She mumbled something into his shoulder, too slurred for him to make out clearly. Anders held her close and wept, thanking every god he knew as her heart beat against his chest.
They were alive and together; that was all that mattered.
The first sensation that crept through the darkness was the plushy coverlet draped over her and the soft bed at her back. The second was that said bed wasn't rocking on the waves.
Marian cracked a weary eye open; burgundy bed curtains stared back at her, flanking an unfamiliar walnut bedpost. The winter wind moaned outside, icy snow tapping at the leaded glass window on the far wall. She blinked, furrowing her brow. Last thing she remembered, they'd been at the Shaven Crown, back at Estmarch, and now…Where was she?
Marian threw back the coverlet, wobbling to her feet. The room was a bit small, but beautifully furnished; serviceable walnut furniture stood at the ready, with pewter wash basin and crisp linen tablecloths embroidered with scrollwork. She ran her hand over the wainscoting, marveling at the burgundy paint; only the rich could afford such paint and leaded windows, back in Kirkwall. What was it doing here…and why was that shade so eerily familiar?
"Looks more like the hull of a ship, than anything," she muttered. "Could've sworn I saw it on the boats in the harbor." Perhaps their coin had run out, she mused, and Isabela had taken her to stay with one of her well-off Captain friends. They'd certainly have access to a shipyard and boat paint—
A soft snore sounded behind her. Marian froze, hand instinctively going to the dagger in her belt. Her eyes widened when she realized she wore nothing but a linen shift.
"Damn," she muttered, alarm growing when a search of the immediate area revealed her clothes and personal effects missing. She dove for the nightstand drawer, praying she'd find something useful.
"Come on, ye stubborn little shite," she whispered, trying to pry the drawer open. Its contents rattled and rolled with each jiggle. Marian winced, throwing a glance over her shoulder. Anders was still fast asleep by the fire—
Wait, what?
She whirled on her heel, mind racing. There was no way; she must have been mistaken: she'd left Anders back in Kirkwall. He couldn't possibly have sailed to Estmarch, not with the winter storms. Unless he'd stowed away on Isabela's ship—
No, that was impossible; Marian had checked every inch of that ship herself, when they had set sail. How, then…?
"Must have been a trick of the light," Marian told herself. "H-He just looks a bit like Anders…"
But all the logic in the world couldn't reason away the trepidation in her heart. Her palms went sweaty as she crept forward to investigate, gripping the sides of her shift, stopping short at the foot of the bed. He…bore an uncanny resemblance to her beloved, despite his auburn hair and beard. He even threw himself in the armchair the same way: lolled head resting on the top, with his feet propped on the hearth. Marian scoffed; she had found Anders fast asleep like that countless times, after long nights of tending patients or writing petitions to the Grand Cleric. How curious she'd find another man who shared the same sleeping habits…
Then her gaze landed on the gold earring he wore, and she couldn't help the scream.
The man startled awake with his own shout, scrambling upright. Marian backed away, shaking her head. That earring. She had seen that earring on the cord Anders wore around his neck. How could it be? How could Anders find her again, after all this time? No matter how hard she tried to remember, the last few days were a black hole in her memory. She didn't even know where she was—
"Wha—Marian? You're awake," the man cried. Marian gasped: she'd know that voice anywhere; it haunted her.
"W-What are ye doin' here?" She demanded. "How did ye find me?"
Anders gave her a sympathetic smile, the one he reserved for frightened children and unruly patients. It merely turned her stomach. "You fell ill back in Estmarch. It was very serious, Marian; the physician there couldn't treat you, so Isabela—"
Her jaw fell agape. "She did this?!"
"Hawke? Hawke, are you alright? I heard screams," Isabela hobbled in, hands and legs wrapped in linen bandages. She stopped short at the threshold, "oh, shit…"
"Ye brought me to him, Bela?!" Marian exclaimed. "Ye lied to me all this time? Ye knew all along where he was?" Even she winced at her ferocity of tone.
Isabela's eyes widened. "N-No! Listen: I had to find a shipyard, because the Ostwicker navy—"
"Damn the navy! Why in the feckin' Void is he here?"
"I live here," Anders replied, cutting through the argument. "This is my clinic. Now sit down, both of you, before you undo all my hard work."
Marian plopped onto the mattress behind her, eyes wide, she was stunned silent. His…clinic? Anders had a clinic now? And not just any old rundown shack like in Kirkwall, but a beautiful establishment that could easily fit in back in Hightown? She gawked at him; they had only been separated for a few months, how had he accomplished so much?
Her gaze latched onto the wedding band on his finger; the 50 sovereigns he'd stolen from her came to mind and refused to leave her be. It seemed her 'beloved' truly had bought a new life for himself, with a wife and all…and Marian had footed the bill.
"Scurvy, poxy leech," Marian muttered. "Damn 'im to the Void." She couldn't help but wonder what his new wife looked like while Anders helped Isabela to a seat.
The two launched into an explanation of the recent events. Marian pushed aside her venomous thoughts and listened quietly, guilt settling in the pit of her stomach. Her actions had put Isabela in grave danger. No, worse: she had endangered the lives of the entire crew, thanks to her 'enjoying herself' in Estmarch. Her face went hot with shame; she could barely recognize herself in Isabela's stories. The pathetic, unraveling woman in those tales sounded nothing like the proud Champion of Kirkwall. How far she had fallen; how totally ashamed she felt…
Marian fixed her eyes on the coverlet, "I want to go to the inn," she murmured.
Anders stopped mid-sentence. "What? Didn't you hear me? I just said it's a tempest out there."
"Don't care; I can't stay."
"Maker's Breath! You're far too unwell—"
"I don't want this!" She gestured to the room, eyes filling. "I-I never asked for any of this. I'd never ask either of ye to risk yerself, not for the sorry likes of me." She blinked hard. "B-Besides, yer wife wouldn't like it."
"My wife? But—"
"Your what?" Isabela cried. "You're married?!"
Anders's hand instinctively covered his left hand; he gulped hard. "It's a disguise; I had to pretend—"
"'Pretend?' Just like ye did with me 50 sovereigns?" Marian countered. She scoffed a bitter laugh when he fell silent. "Just stop it, Anders; I'm tired of all the lies between us."
He took off the ring and handed it to her, "look at it," he said. "Look inside the band, and you tell me if I'm lying." His gaze was steady, locked onto hers with a seriousness she had rarely seen from him. Marian nodded, holding the still-warm gold up to the light; she gasped.
"'Amor omnia vincit. Malcom + Leandra, 9:06 Dragon,'" she whispered, eyes filling, "'Love conquers all.'" Her parents' wedding ring. She…never thought she would see it again, let alone with Anders. "…where did ye find this?"
"You gave it to me as payment for the first mercenary contract you took me on," Anders replied. "Remember? You were so poor you couldn't afford my services."
She stared at him. "Ye kept it all this time? But that was years ago; ye needed the money."
"I knew what it meant to you; I couldn't bear to sell it. I'd hoped that one day, I could…" he trailed off mid-sentence.
Marian's breath hitched. The tenderness in his eyes practically seared into her, ardent in its sincerity; it was as though they'd never gone separate ways, and part of her bruised, battered heart leapt with joy. She had dreamt so long of those dear honey-brown eyes full of love. Warmth bloomed in her chest; for the first time in months, she actually felt human…
Yet the words Anders had uttered back in Kirkwall haunted her, a knife to her breast. 'All I wanted was protection from the Templars and a tumble in bed. A few kind words, and you fell for it.'
And here she was, falling for his wiles all over again. Marian scoffed at her foolishness; she really was just a stupid farm girl from Ferelden, after all. The warmth in her chest soured to a burning resentment.
"Pretty words, the lot of 'em," she said, brushing her tears away. "Give 'em to the next fool ye charm into bed."
Perhaps it was cruel of her to quote the last words she'd ever said to him. Isabela gasped behind her; Marian paid little mind, eyes trained on Anders's stricken, wounded expression. He took back the ring, practically deflating before her. The wicked, shameful part of her gloated that her barb found its mark.
"I'll help you to your room, Isabela," he said, voice noticeably flat and weary. Marian watched them go, releasing the breath she held once alone.
"Good riddance," she whispered, head bowed and throat tight. "Better off without him."
But no matter how many times she repeated those words, she couldn't escape the yawning abyss of loneliness threatening to swallow her whole…or the nagging sensation that she'd just ruined the only chance at happiness she had.
She refused Anders's treatments the rest of the day, too conflicted to face him; no amount of Isabela's persuasion could dislodge the doubt and sorrow in her heart. She flopped onto her side, staring at the wainscoting across the room.
What was her purpose, anymore?
Marian swallowed hard, a wave of guilt washing over her. As the Champion of Kirkwall, her duty had been to the people of the city-state, to dedicate her life to keeping them safe. And yet she had utterly failed them; worse: she had betrayed them. If only she hadn't examined Anders's kegs in the Chantry. If only she hadn't been so clumsy and dropped the candle—
"How could ye have known what they were?" she asked herself for the thousandth time since the explosion. "It was an accident, plain and simple."
'It was negligence, ye mean,' her inner voice corrected her. 'Ye were so obsessed with Fenris and his witch, ye never paid attention to the signs… just like before, Marian. Ye never noticed the signs with Ma, either, because ye were pinin' over Fen. She was murdered, because of ye; ye have innocent blood on yer hands.'
Hot tears soaked into the pillow beneath her head; Marian stifled a sob. Why did the Maker save her, if she was so useless? To punish her, make her atone for her selfishness? The Void and its nothingness would be a paradise compared to the nightmare she lived, haunted by the ghosts of her failures. Her parents, siblings, every victim and innocent she couldn't save over the years: they gathered at the foot of her bed, staring at her with their cold, relentless eyes. Judging her, condemning her—
"I need a drink," she muttered, throwing back the coverlet. Her hands trembled as she searched and found nothing but water; cravings gnawed at her relentlessly.
"Where's the whiskey?" she cried down the hall. "I need some—"
"Shh! Stop shouting," Anders replied, hurrying towards her, "Isabela's just fallen asleep." He lingered at the threshold of her room, "and there's none in the house, so stop asking."
She narrowed her eyes at him, "go get some, then."
He shook his head, "even if I could, I won't. Come, I'll give you your treatment; it'll help with the cravings."
Ordering her back to bed, like a petulant child. She scoffed in disgust, "I'm the Champion of Feckin' Kirkwall; ye can't stop me—" she scooted past, only for Anders to firmly pull her back over the threshold.
"You used to be the Champion of Kirkwall," he corrected her, "now you can barely walk a straight line."
She shoved him aside, shielding herself from his words as she wobbled down the hall. "Shut up."
Anders pursued her, "don't you understand how serious this is? I watched you die today, Marian." He took her hand in his, tears in his eyes. "Y-You stopped breathing this morning; I'd overextended my mana and couldn't use magic to save you. If I had not acted quickly and fetched the bellows…"
She stared at him. "...Why would ye do such a thing?" she asked, voice barely over a whisper. "Why didn't ye just—"
'Let me go,' was the unspoken ending to that sentence, one that rang loudly between them, despite the evening silence. 'Why didn't ye just give up like I did and let me go?'
"Because you're everything to me," he blinked hard. "I can't lose you, not again."
She shook her head, "ye weren't concerned about that back in Kirkwall. Y-Ye said such awful things—"
"I had to do it. I know it was horribly cruel, but it was for your own good," he interrupted. "Mar. I couldn't bring you down with me, after what happened; I love you too much."
She wanted to believe him; she practically ached to. His words sounded just like the sort of self-sacrificing nonsense he'd pull, but how could she tell if he wasn't lying again? He'd done that so many times in the past, saying whatever he needed to get out of trouble or avoid suspicion. Was this just another ruse?
He held her close, gently stroking her hair just as he used to back in Kirkwall. She stiffened in his embrace, throat once again unbearably tight. The comforting smell of rosemary and cedar mingled with the herbs he'd brewed, so utterly him. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself back in Hightown, before everything went wrong…
"It felt like my world ended, this morning," he was saying through his tears, "I've never been that frightened in my life, Mar, not even after your duel with the Arishok. I-I know you won't forgive me for what I've done, but at least believe that I love you. I'll always love you, Marian; with every drop of my blood and every fiber of my being, I adore you. Never doubt that."
She couldn't stop her grief from escaping, sobs wracking her now wasted frame. Marian buried her face in the crook of his neck, grasping him as tightly as she could. All the emotions she'd ground into her heart came to the surface, fracturing her like fragile glass under his gentle touch, and a part of her was relieved. It was healing, in a way, cathartic to just…let it go, instead of holding onto her sorrow.
A conversation she'd had with Isabela came back to her. 'Holding on to grief and grudges is like holding a hot iron, Hawke: burns no one but yourself. You can't heal if you don't let it go and move on.'
She'd held her hot iron for long enough, Marian decided; it was exhausting to carry that weight with her. After all these months, she'd like nothing more than to finally rest.
They stood in the hall for Maker knew how long, clinging to each other; Anders assisted her back into her room when she was too lightheaded to walk, mixing some tinctures in a tankard.
"Here. For emotional upset," he said, "we can both use some after that little maelstrom, I think."
"Thank ye," she mumbled, downing them in one go. He lifted his hand as though to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, stopping himself.
"...Forgive me, I was too forward back in the hall. I shouldn't have done that without your permission; I—I-I'll leave you to rest," he blurted, busying himself with his bottles. "We have soup for dinner—"
"Stay," Marian heard herself say. "Just 'till it passes, yeah?" Anders froze mid-step.
"Certainly," he replied, pulling up the armchair with a smile that rivaled the sun with its brilliance. She couldn't help but smile back when he retrieved a dog-eared book from the shelf.
'Hard in Hightown, by Ser Varric Tethras,' the worn leather cover said. She scoffed a laugh, her mind traveling back to that night in Kirkwall, where the two of them had read before the fire. It felt like another lifetime ago…
"You can imagine my surprise to find this in the study," he was saying, flipping pages, "it seems my predecessor had great taste in literature." Marian scoffed a laugh at his joke, watching as he stopped a bit past midway.
"…Last time we read, Captain Belladonna interrupted our fearless guard captain's investigation, demanding payment for her cargo," Anders murmured. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"
Marian gasped; he remembered such an insignificant detail? A tremulous ray of hope shone within her. "Ye read Jevlan's lines," she said, voice thick, "ye always butcher the Orlesian accents."
He chuckled, the sound golden and bright, "only if you read Donnen's; it's just not the same if you don't."
Marian settled among the pillows, listening intently as Anders read aloud from their favorite story, like he had countless times before. A small smile graced her lips. Under all the hair dye and beard, it seemed Anders was still the excited boy who loved mystery novels, overly-sweetened tea, and bad voice acting. It did her heart good to see it.
Maybe the distance between them wasn't as impossible as she'd initially thought, and that ring truly was a disguise, like he'd said. Perhaps she'd been too hasty in her judgments; she'd certainly find out by the time dinner arrived…
Her beloved was many things, but a good cook wasn't one of them.
Note: The earliest documented case of frostbite is considered to be a 5,000 year old Pre-Colombian mummy found in the Chilean mountains. The dry cold of the Andes mountains preserved the body and tissues well. The first Western medical description of frostbite dates to 1812, when Napoleon's Surgeon General, Baron Dominique Larrey, wrote about his observations on the army's devastating retreat from Moscow. Soldiers would warm up around communal campfires; their frostbite worsened during the night, when they'd return to their cold tents to sleep, or when the fires went out. Complications could range from irreparable nerve damage to necrosis, gangrene, amputation, and death.
Note: the CPR techniques Anders used to resuscitate Marian are actual techniques used before modern CPR methods developed in 1891 (these were further refined up until 1960, when physicians combined chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation). In 1530, Swiss physician Paracelsus suggested using a bellows to introduce air into a patient's lungs. Variations of this method of resuscitation were used for 300 years.
Other methods included burying patients in snow (to shock the body with cold temperatures), striking them with stinging nettles (oww!), placing hot water or ashes on the abdomen, and inverting the patient by hanging them upside down. Lowering the patient while hanging upside-down forced air out of the lungs, while raising them removed pressure and allowed them to breathe. This method was very successful for drowning victims, and was popular in England, America, and Europe.
Note: Whiskey was first used as medicinal alcohol: an external antiseptic, and an internal anesthetic. During the 1100s-1300s, monks brought distillation techniques to Ireland and Scotland; as they lacked access to grapes, they used grains like barley and wheat. The resulting beverage was known as 'aqua vitae,' or 'water of life;' the first reference to aqua vitae being called 'whiskey' comes from 1405 Ireland. The 'Annals of Clonmacnoise,' a medieval Irish text, refers to a clan member dying from "taking a surfeit of [drinking too much] aqua vitae (whiskey)."