It was a temptation. He knew that, even as he felt the press of the glass vial against his chest beneath his tunic. He told himself he carried it "just in case" of some nebulous emergency he didn't quite care to define too clearly. He returned to his clinic and life continued much as it had before, though with a few small changes.
Fenris brought breakfast on those mornings when Anders had not spent the night with him in the mansion; the mornings were given over to alchemical work for the most part, but twice a week they would spar. The rest of the day was given over to Anders' work in the clinic. Sometimes Fenris would join him; more often he would arrive in the early evening and find Anders still hard at work. Fenris would extinguish the lanterns, send home those who were capable of walking, and help Anders tend to those who needed an overnight stay. If the clinic were empty, then often they would return to the mansion.
If Anders had patients to tend, then Fenris would stay; tending Anders almost as much as the healer tended his patients, in a way. He kept him distracted in the lonely watches of the night; and if sometimes that distraction were physical, then what of it?
He kept the vial in a pouch around his neck; like a talisman, "just in case".
Sometimes Hawke would have need of them both; a welcome distraction from the routine. It brought in extra coin, though Varric had been right; word of Anders' skills as an alchemist spread slowly and often Varric would drop by with a pouch of coin for some of Anders' little custom creations - indeed, enough that Anders could outfit the clinic more comfortably, and buy what stock of herbs he could not find himself. Much of his research were given over to healing however.
It was late summer when he had to take the first dose. A mining accident; a shaft collapsed, injured miners first trickling into his clinic, and then a flood of injured - some walking, many more not. Broken arms, legs, head injuries, crush injuries; broken spines, broken bodies. Too many, too severe for mere poultices and potions.
He had stared around him in despair, then reached for the vial.
That evening, he steadily drank himself insensible in Fenris' arms and slept like the dead for a day afterwards. Fenris thought it was because so many had still died despite the magic from the lyrium. Anders knew it was because he could not bear the emptiness inside.
It was the first time, but it would not be the last.
The next time it happened, chokedamp had risen up in an area of the shantytown built in one of the lower levels of Darktown. The first he knew of it was the pounding upon the closed and barred doors of the clinic and frantic cries for the healer. He had flung open the doors, seen the steady stream of people being brought to him, and as he turned to ready himself for the hours ahead he reached for the vial.
And it happened again. And again. And again.
A patrol with Hawke gone wrong. A party of Tal Vashoth that outnumbered them. An ambush set by outlaws. Dragons in the Bone Pit. Anders found himself reaching for the vial again, and again, and again.
Every time, he told himself it was only because the need was dire. And the need was always dire.
At first, it was perhaps once a month. Then every couple of weeks. Then maybe two or three times a week.
After a year, he was taking it daily. He no longer tried to pretend to himself that it was need - or rather, no longer the need of others.
He needed it for himself.
And then one vial ceased to become enough.
"I'm worried."
"We all are, Beth," said Hawke heavily as he glanced up from the tankard of ale he'd been nursing for the past hour. He glanced over at Varric; the usually-cheerful dwarf was solemn, staring down at the ledger book in front of him.
"It doesn't look good, Hawke. I've had my suspicions for some time; Blondie's been buying lyrium more frequently lately, but he's not working on anything new. He's producing the same amount of his little blast capsules for me as he ever has. Even allowing a little extra for... emergencies..." Varric shook his head. "At a guess, I'd say he must be taking this stuff on a near-daily basis and probably has for some time."
"He has," said Bethany glumly. She blushed as she felt their eyes on her.
"You sound like you know something, Beth," said Hawke. "Go on, we're listening."
"He... I..." She trailed her finger through a puddle of spilled wine, mouth pulling down into a small moue of distress. "I've been... giving him lyrium. Only the odd vial here and there, when he needed it - only, he's been needing it more and more, lately."
She lifted her head as her words were met with silence; she glanced, worried, at her brother. Hawke shook his head slowly.
"Beth, Fenris is going to go apeshit when he finds out."
"When I find out what?" rasped Fenris as he appeared in the doorway just in time to catch Hawke's words. He stared at the three of them as they sat there, aghast; Bethany's hands flew to her mouth.
"Find out Anders is addicted to lyrium?" he suggested quietly.
"You -" began Bethany. He glanced at her.
"Already knew?" he finished for her. "How could I not?" He pulled out a chair and dropped into it heavily with a low sigh.
"How long -" began Hawke as Varric rose from his seat to pour Fenris a glass of wine; the elf took it with a nod of thanks.
"How long have I known? Or how long has this been going on?" he asked tiredly as he took a sip of the wine. Hawke spread his hands helplessly. Fenris sighed again and set the glass down before slowly stripping off his gauntlets.
"I'd had my suspicions for some time," he said slowly as he picked up his glass and cradled it in his hands. "I don't think he was addicted - not at first. It was slow. The odd vial here or there. It was always to save lives; I could not forbid him." Not after what happened with Mae. The unspoken words hung heavily in the air.
"He needed it more and more though. I don't know when it was that the lyrium became the first thing he reached for, rather than the last. But he takes it daily now." He lifted his head slowly to regard them all, a look of deep misery in his green eyes. "He cannot function without it."
"How long?" breathed Hawke, horrified.
"A year," replied Bethany quietly.
Varric and Hawke exclaimed aloud in shock and horror, but Fenris merely tilted his glass slightly towards her.
"It is as you say," he agreed.
"You knew Beth was giving him lyrium?" said Hawke slowly.
"Not precisely," replied Fenris. "I thought it likely however. I have been keeping a careful tally on the lyrium you have sent, Varric - doubtless as you have. But there always seemed to be vials I could not account for."
"I must say, you're taking this rather calmly, Broody," observed Varric slowly. The elf shrugged.
"At least whilst Hawke's sister was giving him what he needed, I need have no fear he was dealing with smugglers and risking a tainted batch - or worse," he added darkly. "But now..." He exhaled slowly as he leaned forward to set the glass down on the table. "Now, I am... desperate. I do not know how to help him. I need your help. I can't do this on my own any more." He dropped his head into his hands, and then after a moment, his shoulders began to shake.
It took them a moment to realise he was silently weeping.
Fenris led them back to the clinic. They exchanged glances as they stood outside; both lanterns were extinguished, but they could see light inside through the cracks in the doors. Fenris glanced at the others, then knocked twice before slowly pushing the doors open.
Anders was hunched over one of his alchemy experiments, carefully adding something liquid to a flask. He didn't look round as they entered, too intent on his work; as they entered the clinic behind Fenris, Anders set the vial of liquid into a rack then scribbled something in a journal. He laid the quill down, then reached into his pocket for something that glowed blue. As they watched, he uncorked a small vial of lyrium with trembling fingers before downing it in one swallow. He sighed softly in relief and sat there for a moment or two, unheeding of their presence; and then he took up his quill once more with a hand that was now steady.
"Anders."
At the sound of Fenris' voice, Anders laid the quill down and glanced over his shoulder. "Hello, love," he said with a tired smile, then froze as he realised they were not alone. WIth a start, Hawke realised the mage had truly been oblivious to their presence.
"Blondie, you've been cooped up in here too long. Why don't you come have a few drinks with us and get away from all these fumes? Can't be too healthy for you breathing in this stuff," remarked Varric as he gestured at the retort stands, flasks of liquids and other apparatus that fumed and bubbled across the surface of two rickety tables.
Anders glanced at his work, then back at Varric. "I... can't," he said quietly. "It's not that I don't want to, but -"
"Come on, Anders, you can take a break for an evening, surely?" suggested Hawke.
"Love. Please," said Fenris quietly. His voice and expression suggested that he and Anders had had this argument many times before.
Anders opened his mouth as if to argue, but then his shoulders slumped. "Very well," he sighed. He laid the quill aside then gently closed the book. He rose with careful slowness from his chair and reached for his coat and staff.
Fenris slipped an arm around the slender mage's waist and Anders leaned into his support gratefully. The others exchanged worried looks as they followed them out of the clinic.