It was somewhere around the third cave the next day that he began to hear things.
It wasn't much; just a strange, high-pitched twittering - like the calls of bats, but almost he thought there were words to it; not quite intelligible, but close enough that he found himself straining to try and make them out.
"D'you hear that?" he'd asked Bethany quietly. "Aren't we rather far underground for bats?"
"I don't hear anything," she said, her voice sounding confused. "What can you hear?"
"It's probably nothing," he shrugged. "Maybe just my ears making something up to make up for the loss of my sight." He swung his staff carefully before him in a small arc; it tapped a rock, and he carefully sidestepped around it. He was getting better at finding his way around now; he was learning to hear for the slight echoing of their voices that told him how wide the cavern must be, and with his staff he was getting the hang of walking without knocking into things. He could feel where the others were around him with just a little push of magic, which made it easier keeping up. They were making better time as a result.
He was still pretty much reliant on Bethany or Varric in a fight to guide him somewhere safe, and most of his concentration was taken up with healing and invigorate spells, cantrips to increase their speed, and shields to protect them - counting on the others in turn to protect him, though he got off plenty of offensive spells too, when he had a clear line of fire. Occasionally one of the others would call out a direction and how far away a target was, and he would trust to their shouted guides and lob a fireball in that direction; or Bethany would target something with a lightning bolt that he could sense with his own magic and see as a lighter patch of red against the perpetual darkness around him to home in his own spells; but it all demanded a lot of concentration, and as each day passed increasingly he would fall back into the role of healer as the constant concentration and the growing, racking pains in his body took a toll on his meagre energy.
And the pains were growing worse. One vial of lyrium a day wasn't enough; and by the fourth day he was trying to eke it out a little further; that day he took only half a vial in the morning, and that evening he spent huddled beneath his blanket, alternately shivering and sweating, every joint in his body stabbing with pain when he tried to move. Fenris had tried to coax a little food into him; he had refused, certain it would come back up. Eventually he fell into an exhausted sleep, only to awaken the next morning feeling as though he had barely slept at all.
He lay there, his head pounding and his guts churning, listening dully as Hawke and the others discussed him. Their voices boomed through his skull, too loud for thought.
"He can't go on, Hawke." The low rumble like falling rocks; he knew that was Fenris. "He is in withdrawal."
"We can't stay here, Fenris." Hawke, that one; a voice like the crack of thunder overhead, bright and loud and ringing painfully in Anders' disoriented ears. "We're running low on food. We have to press on. Beth - I hate to ask, but -"
"I gave him the last of my lyrium, Garrett." Sweet Beth. Her voice was soft, but still it cascaded through his head like a raging torrent, sweeping away concentration until he thought he would drown in her voice. Blind though he was, her voice called up images in his mind of a swirling river, and he thought he might surrender to it. He couldn't hear the bats when she spoke.
"How much has Blondie got left, Broody?" Varric, a voice like honey or treacle; Anders was caught in it, cloying yet soothing, weighing him down.
"Not enough. He took only half a vial yesterday, and you have seen the result. He had one and a half vials left. I do not know whether making him eke them out like this is not more cruel than letting him ride out withdrawal now." Lost in the swirl of sound, the meaning of Fenris' words was lost on the delirious mage; he was too transfixed by the swirling green patterns his mind made of the voice that followed him back down into sleep, distracting him from the burning pain in his guts.
He had no idea how long he slept, but the pain through his body and the churning nausea was so much worse when he woke again. Someone was calling his name.
He opened his eyes and Karl was smiling down at him, the red flaming sun brand upon his forehead still ugly and fresh and new, and he cried out. "I'm sorry, Maker, I'm so sorry!" he told him as he reached for Karl; but the Tranquil mage only shook his head then pulled open the front of his robes to reveal Anders' dagger still embedded in his heart and the blood, still pumping out fresh and hot.
It was on his hands, in his hair; everywhere he looked he could see blood, smell it, taste it in his mouth. The taste of flesh, the stench of burning corpses, and they were all around him - Wardens, Templars, but Roland was still laughing at him, laughing and laughing as the blood ran from his mouth; and Anders screamed and vomited, his stomach twisting painfully, uselessly.
There were hands holding him and he could feel cold, sharp armour; he shrank away from the templar. "No, no please, don't hurt me, don't hurt me again, I didn't do anything!" he wept.
A lance of pain stabbed through his head and he screamed again. He was vaguely aware of voices, but he couldn't make sense of them. The bats were back, jabbering and chittering away in voices that should have been too high for human speech but there were words in there, he knew; and he could smell them now - smell the corruption, the taint; rank, vile and rotten, the stench clinging to the inside of his throat and choking him as his stomach twisted again. He'd felt the taint earlier but now it was all around him; it was upon him, inside him, in his very blood.
His skin burned and itched; he clawed at it desperately, feeling it grow slick under his hands until someone was restraining his wrists and all he could do was writhe helplessly and beg for mercy between screams until his throat was raw and he couldn't scream any more. The pain was like knives jabbing into his stomach, pulsing with his heartbeat, with the blood he could feel rolling across his skin as it burned.
Dear Maker it hurt, it hurt and it wouldn't stop and Maker please someone make it stop...
"Anders. Anders!" Slowly the voice penetrated the haze of pain.
"Fenris, it hurts, it hurts so much - sweet Andraste let me die," he sobbed. He could feel Fenris' arms around him; he opened his one remaining eye but could see nothing.
"Easy, mi amatus," rumbled Fenris softly; gentle hands were brushing the wet hair away from his eyes before bathing his face with a soft cloth. He could feel the taint worse than ever and he weakly tried to pull away. The cool water was soothing but it reeked of corruption, of the bats that wheeled and chittered overhead with those foul voices that set his teeth on edge and made the pain in his head nigh unbearable.
"Make them stop - make it all stop!" he begged.
The buzz of voices; he couldn't follow the conversation. Karl was whispering to him again, and he could feel the blood dripping on his skin from the wound in Karl's chest. He tried to scrub it away frantically; he burned everywhere it touched. Karl's face was melting, the flesh running off like hot wax - just like the faces of the dead templars who were taking him back to the tower only they never saw the darkspawn, and though he hated the templars he hated the darkspawn more and they were burning, everything was burning, Maker he was burning - a fire in his veins, his guts, his skin.
He couldn't move his arms. Something was holding him down. He glanced down and out of the darkness he could see glistening wet coils, black and sinuous, winding around his body and pinning his arms to his sides. His eyes widened in terror and he began to scream. He tried to call upon his magic, lightning dancing from his fingers, but suddenly he felt it arc, out of control, and he jerked as it raced through his body. His spine snapped backwards and he tried to scream as the shock raced through him, his body twitching and jerking spasmodically. He couldn't breathe.
He thought he would die, but suddenly the pain stopped.
He blinked, looking around slowly. The cavern was lit by a dim green light; as he got to his feet and stared around himself, he suddenly realised he could see. His eyes widened and he stared down at himself, then around again wildly.
The cavern was empty. The lyrium veins in the walls glowed softly, their silvery blue light radiant and lovely yet cold and chilling. He felt drawn towards it, but stayed where he was.
"What are you doing here?"
He whirled round, alarmed. A pale golden figure was regarding him curiously. It seemed vaguely female - or at least, it seemed to have long hair that drifted slowly in a breeze he could not feel, it seemed to be wearing some form of floating gown, and what he could see of its figure seemed to have shapely curves approximating those of a woman. He couldn't make out the facial features, if indeed there were any.
"I... I don't know," he answered.
"Hmm... a mortal. And aware. We don't get many like you here. Usually your kind are dreamers." It drifted closer, tilting its head on one side.
"You're a spirit," Anders said. "But... what are you a spirit of?"
A second spirit appeared next to the first and peered at him curiously.
"We know you," the newcomer said softly.
"Y-you do?" asked Anders, stumbling backwards.
"Oh yes. We have seen you before," chimed a third voice; pale golden hands came to gently rest upon his shoulders and he cried out in alarm.
"Don't be afraid," said a fourth, drifting close to him.
"We only want to help," said a fifth.
"We always come to help," agreed a sixth.
"Who are you?" he breathed.
"Don't you recognise us, Spirit Healer?" asked the first spirit, drifting towards him. It smiled gently, then lifted impossibly slender arms as it drifted closer still. He stared into the glowing light where he still could not make out eyes, or any other features. Soft, warm fingers cradled his face and he felt a gentle breeze upon his skin.
"You are the one who calls us," said the spirit; and though it had no mouth, Anders knew it was smiling. "You are the Healer."