Notes: This chapter title is not metal! It's from "Remember When" by Avril Lavigne on Goodbye Lullaby.

Warning for character death in this chapter!


Chapter 5: Please Say You Won't Forget


When the twins learned their sister's news, Bethany was unsurprised. Caitlyn recalled that her sister had actually caught Anders in her bed once and doubted that Bethany had believed his lie about "just cuddling." Carver's reaction, on the other hand, was a surprise. She had expected his resentment of the mage to double. Instead, curiously, Carver had... not warmed up, precisely, but become far less hostile to Anders.

Perhaps it's because he sees this as the catalyst for me to leave the house. It can't happen immediately, of course, but now that he knows he won't be "little brother" for much longer, his attitude has improved. A momentary flash of annoyance filled her mind at that realization, but she supposed on reflection that it made sense.

The night that she told her parents her news, she remained in the common room with her siblings and Anders after Malcolm and Leandra had retreated to their bedroom. She wanted to share his loft... and at this point, why shouldn't they? Everyone in the family knew what they had gotten up to, and as her father himself had stated, there was no further "damage" that could result. Chastely taking her usual top bunk seemed almost laughable and dishonest now, a joke. It also seemed to her that she ought to take every opportunity to be close to him, because physical intimacy—any kind—was good for the relationship. And yet... she was not completely certain that Anders would be comfortable openly sharing his bed with her in her parents' own house and didn't want to make him ill at ease.

When the twins finally retired, and Anders stifled a yawn, she made her decision. She followed him up the ladder to his loft. He raised his eyebrows at her but did not object. Once she was there, he spoke very quietly, since Carver was probably still awake just across the wall partition.

"I'm really tired tonight, love."

Her heart fluttered at his use of the word. She gave him a smile. "It's all right," she said in an equally quiet voice. "I just wanted to be next to you. If you don't object." She paused. "If you do—if you aren't comfortable with this in my parents' home—I won't be offended, but I thought..."

He chuckled. "Why try to pretend? They know what we do. Come here." He opened his arms to her, and with a happy laugh, she let him envelop her as they snuggled together.


They awoke the next morning to chattering teeth and extremely sore muscles. Caitlyn found that she had basically clamped around his chest, and their legs were tangled together. It wasn't even an embrace; it was latching—because the cabin was freezing cold. They had left the hearth cold, and tonight, at last, the long-expected late-season freeze had struck.

Anders groaned as she extricated herself painfully from him, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering for a moment before casting a healing spell to loosen his muscles and then a second one for her. "Maker's breath," he swore, pulling on his coat and shivering again.

"At least somebody had the right idea for staying warm," Bethany called out, observing that they were awake. They crawled to the edge of the loft and gazed down; she was emerging slowly from the small bedroom, wrapped in her winter furs.

Caitlyn gazed at the dead embers of the hearth. It was risky, and her father had forbidden her and Bethany from using magic in a risky manner indoors, but... She readied her magic, aimed, and sent a fireball straight at the kindling from the loft balcony.

"I'll just ignore that I saw you do that," Malcolm called out to her as he came out of his bedroom.

When they were all finally in the common room, huddled in front of the blazing fire and sipping hot cider, Malcolm spoke. "Well, Anders," he said, "I'll have plenty to tell you in the coming months about gardening, farming, and the seasons, but this is fairly typical and it's why you have to be careful about what you plant and when you plant it. You want to make sure you don't plant anything that'll sprout quickly."

The young mage nodded silently.

"My daughter knows a lot about this sort of thing herself, but she doesn't have twenty years of hard-earned experience in it." He sipped his cider. "And by 'hard-earned,' I mean that. My wife and I had to learn this out of books and from neighbors." He smiled at the couple. "I'm glad you won't."


That frost really was the final hurrah of winter, however. There were several more cold nights, but none in which the temperature dipped below freezing again. As the daylight grew longer and the calendar ticked towards Summerday, the first of Bloomingtide, all the household seemed to regard the month with anticipation.

Summerday was when the Hawkes traditionally planted the remaining crops for which they had not yet done so. Anders had taken note in his personal journal of when they had planted each variety of seed in the ground, for future reference, along with other skills of which he had little to no knowledge, including various cooking recipes. The approach of the warm season, in earnest, was something he looked forward to on one hand and somewhat dreaded on the other. He knew that with the lasting improvement in the weather, the day would come when he and Malcolm Hawke would have to resolve the issue of the Templars being able to track him. Putting a partner and a child at risk of being captured later on was completely unacceptable, and he knew that.

Anders had his own plans for Summerday, as well.


Caitlyn washed her face and changed her clothes before dinner, after a long day of gardening. She let down her hair, picked up her hairbrush, and ran several strokes through her hair, smiling mildly at her reflection in the mirror as she did. The sun had been good for her; she looked a bit pink, but not burned. At last finished with her lavations, she stepped away from the small oval mirror and walked out of the room.

Anders was waiting off to the side in the common room. "There you are," he said as she emerged. She walked towards him. He took her hands in his and pecked her lightly on the forehead. "Do you have a moment?"

She wasn't sure what to think. He looked eager and happy, but at the same time, she had been dreading the day that her father would leave the house with him to confront the Templars. Was this to be today—or tomorrow? Was he saying goodbye to her before doing that, at last?

She decided to bury her fear for now. "You need only ask," she purred.

He kissed her again. "Let's step outside." He opened the door and escorted her just outside the cabin, near the threshold. The air was springlike once again. "Cait," he began, "you know... how I feel about you."

Her heart began to thump. "I've never felt this way about anyone," she confessed.

He smiled. "When I was in the Circle, love was only a game, and a dangerous one at that. The Templars could use it to hurt you, and you could never have a family... But this is real, what we have. I have never known a mage who dared to fall in love... until I met your family. And this is the rule I most cherish breaking." He took something out of his pocket and held it in a closed fist. "You saw this the first full day I was here." He opened his fist, revealing the sapphire-set-in-silver ring that he had said had belonged to his mother. "I hope it fits—it would thrill me for you to wear it—and I think its original owner would approve too."

She stared at him with wide eyes. "Anders—are you asking me to marry you?"

He glanced down, his face forming a faint grimace. "I—" He sighed. "I—it's a promise. I'm making a promise... if you'll accept it. I feel that, until I can truly be free of the Circle and they cannot find me—find us—I shouldn't jinx it, and asking that would be a jinx... but I promise you, after I am free, after my phylactery is destroyed, I'll ask you properly." He gazed at her pleadingly. "Will you wear that for now? I'll understand if you don't want to without an actual proposal—"

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his head down for a kiss—though he offered no resistance, wrapped her even more tightly in his arms, and deepened it. "I would be honored to wear it," she whispered to him as she broke the kiss. She held out her hand to him, her fingers trembling a little.

He took her hand in his, steadying her trembles, and slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit well. He brought her hand to his lips, then released it and cradled her cheek again.

"I won't let you forget your promise," she teased him. "Once you are free, you will ask me officially."

He chuckled and pulled her close. They remained like that, swaying in the dusk, until they had to return inside for dinner.


"Does that mean what I think it does?" Bethany asked Caitlyn later that night.

She gave her little sister a grin. "Maybe?"

Bethany squealed. "Did he get on bended knee?"

"No," she said. "He actually just promised me that he'll 'ask me properly' once he is definitely free of the Circle. I'll make him get on one knee then," she said with another smirk.

"I doubt you'll have to make him. He wants it to be dramatic and perfect."

"Yes," she agreed, "and he said he is afraid of 'jinxing' the phylactery mission too. Still, I consider this to be as good as."

"It is! I'm so happy for you."


The days advanced toward summer. Malcolm spent more time than usual in Lothering, keeping an ear open for rumors of strange traveling Templar parties in the south. The local Chantry had a few Templars about, but these had little or nothing to do that related to mages. Instead, they often acted as guards against the threat of banditry. Lothering was the only town of any notable size this far south on the road, which made it a target for highwaymen. Guarding against common criminals was not a Templar's official duty, but there were far more bandits than dangerous mages, and a surplus of Templars.

Malcolm was having a pint of ale at the inn one afternoon when the innkeeper himself bustled out to the bar, in high dudgeon about something. The portly man slapped his rag down on the bar and began to wipe, complaining loudly to all his patrons.

"Unbelievable!" he exclaimed. "You lot truly won't believe what I just heard!"

Malcolm had a feeling he knew what was coming, but he waited for another patron to ask.

"Well," the innkeeper said conspiratorially, glad of an audience, "apparently our local Templars have been officially reprimanded by the Knight-Commander of Ferelden himself for allowing an escaped apostate to lurk somewhere nearby for nigh six months!"

Malcolm's attention was fixed upon the man, as he hung on every word.

"He's sent a team on its way, word has it," said the man.

"How many?" Malcolm finally asked. "Will there be a curfew? What's it going to mean for us?"

"I don't know how many—two or three, I hear. Don't know about a curfew. I reckon that'll depend on whether they call one when they come in."

"That doesn't seem right to me," declared a young man who was a squire in the service of Bann Ceorlic. "Templars overriding the bann's authority like that..."

The innkeeper shrugged. "I can't say as I like it either, because it would hurt my business, but you can't gainsay them."

"Well, it's not right. That's a power for his lordship, not some people that ultimately answer to the Orlesians. And I haven't seen any sign of an apostate. If there has been one, it hasn't hurt anything. If he's been around here for six months, they should leave him be, I say."

The innkeeper glared. "Now you just watch your mouth."

The squire shrugged. "Poor blighter. They won't be kind to him if he's been out that long."

"I said that's enough of that kind of talk. I don't want them to come down on this inn."


"We need to do this tomorrow."

Anders shuddered. He knew the day was coming, and it at last had arrived. Well, he thought, it'll be settled soon, at least.

Caitlyn's eyes were huge. "I knew it was necessary, but I just hoped... well, I hoped that they wouldn't look for you again after no signals from it for so long."

Anders took her hands and sighed, gazing down. "I've escaped numerous times before. I'm a thorn in their side. They weren't going to assume anything about me, I'm sure." He cradled her cheek. "It was inevitable, love. But it'll soon be over, and then I'll be free and we can start our life together."

"Unless..."

"No." He didn't care that they were seated on the divan right in front of her entire family. He pulled her close and kissed her in a quick but intense kiss. "Don't even think it. This did not happen—I did not stop right outside this cabin, and this didn't happen"—he placed a hand on her lower abdomen—"for nothing. We are meant to be together."

Malcolm was holding Leandra close by his side, as she too was upset at the news that they were going to set out tomorrow to confront a band of unknown, probably hostile Templars. "He's right," he said to his daughter. "I've believed that from almost the very start."

She wanted to go, but she did not dare ask. She knew that neither one of them would hear of it, and that despite their denials of the possibility of capture, they did know it was a possibility. And if she were along and were captured as well, the Chantry would take her child away as soon as it was born.

Late that night, when the family got ready for bed, she did not give it a moment's thought. She climbed the ladder to Anders' loft, determined and brooking no disagreement or debate. He was expecting it and met her with a peaceful, almost regal look on his face, holding her hand to ease her to the top of the ladder, then pulling her onto the bed gently. Caitlyn had the momentary thought that her parents were probably doing the very same thing—but she didn't want to think about her parents right now, least of all in this manner, so that line of thought evaporated immediately.

This time was sweet, tender, and long-lasting. When at last he drew away from her, leaving a final trail of kisses up her body, he tumbled onto his back and pulled her close, murmuring professions of love into her ears.

Is this the last time—she banished that thought half-formed. It was too ghastly to bear contemplating.


"All right," Malcolm said the next morning as Leandra fussed tearfully over him. "I've thought about this. From what I heard at the inn, it seems that we may have waited too long. If the local Templars have been reprimanded, that sounds as if the Knight-Commander suspects very strongly that Anders is in Lothering specifically. Granted, there aren't many other settled places he could be to the south, but I was hoping... ah, never mind. The point is, if they know that, then the Templars he sent might well return from the Circle with a larger search party after we've got the phylactery away—a party large enough to comb the whole town. This house is very hard to find, of course... it's well off the beaten path... but I think we should move after this affair is settled. I'm sorry," he said as his wife and twins became sad.

Leandra dabbed at her eyes. "Please be safe," she urged him.

He smiled weakly at her. "We're strong mages. And the worst case, we'll get locked up together and can conspire together to escape again. We're both experts in the subject, after all."

That's not the worst case, Caitlyn thought in sudden horror. She turned to her father with wide eyes. "When can we expect you back?" she choked out. "When should we start to worry? It's going to be so hard, staying here, waiting—"

"Three days? It sounds as if the party has been dispatched. This should be quick." He gave her a sympathetic glance. "I know it's going to be tough for all of you, but please, you especially, try to stay calm. Nervousness can't be good for your little one."

That's true, she thought—but unfortunately, his words only created a new fear, the fear that her own anxiety would cause her to lose the baby.

Anders could tell that she was extremely upset and troubled. He rose from his chair and pulled her to her feet, taking her aside for a quick private moment. The gesture finally brought tears to her eyes as she contemplated what she was so terrified she would soon lose. Her family sat silently as they darted away to speak alone.

She buried her head in the crook of his neck, trying to muffle sobs and keep the tears out of her eyes that kept wanting to fall. Desperately, she grabbed his hands and pressed both of them on her lower belly, against her curves. "Feel," she pleaded. "Do your creation magic. Tell me it's all right, that I haven't already hurt it by being anxious."

He knew that their child was right there, just beneath his hands, but it was different somehow to reach out with his magic, his finely honed medical spells, and sense the presence of another being. Mother and child were in perfect health, he thought. And this time, he was able to sense something that he had not before.

"I do feel him," Anders said, gasping, "and he's in perfect health."

It took a moment for Caitlyn to realize what he'd said. "Him?" she finally said weakly. "You... can tell?"

He lifted her head gently from his shoulder and gazed into her green eyes. "You're far enough along that I can now. It's a he." Keeping his hands on her sides, he got on his knees and lifted her tunic to plant a kiss on the spot that was still almost perfectly flat. He leaned his cheek against her, closing his eyes, and then rose to his feet again, placing his hands over the spot once more.

She suddenly choked up. "Please be safe," she pleaded with him. "Please. I know this must be done, but I'm so scared. Please come back to me."

He kissed her on each cheek. "I will. I'll come back—to both of you. I promise."


Malcolm and Anders tracked up the Imperial Highway, using their staves as walking sticks. "You know," the elder mage said conversationally, "I meant to confess something to you once I got you alone. But you spent so much time with my daughter that that was difficult."

Anders chuckled. "You've been very understanding of that, all things considered."

"As I said once, I'm many things—and you're about to learn another thing I am—but I hope I am never guilty of hypocrisy." He paused in his speech for a moment before adding, "Though if you had ended it with her, I'd have cursed you halfway to Gwaren."

"Well, that wouldn't be an instance of hypocrisy, since you never did such a thing to a woman," Anders joked. "But I love her. And I'd never abandon my child."

"I know." He smiled at the blond mage. "Here's what I was going to confess to you. That ward that protected your hide until you started going outside with her to knock her up?"

Anders gaped at the mage's bluntness, but he had a feeling that Malcolm—like Caitlyn—was talking like this to get a reaction out of him.

"You were right the first night. It's blood magic." He ran a hand through his reddish hair. "I learned it from the Grey Wardens. There was something I did for them, twenty years ago, to earn a nice nest egg... and this favor involved blood wards. The form that protects our house has nothing to do with demons. I'd never do that to my daughter, make her deal with demons and trick her."

Anders had suspected that, but he hadn't thought about it in a while. He wasn't sure what to think now that he knew. "But you did trick her about what type of magic it was," he said in a low voice.

Malcolm looked pained. "I regret that, Anders—I really do. You can tell her if you like, once we return. I'll take the consequences of that lie. But if it's a choice between having her do a mild form of blood magic that doesn't involve a demonic bargain, and having my family at greater risk—what was I to do? The blood magic that I performed for the Wardens gave us the ability to establish ourselves. A milder form has protected us for years. There are few things I wouldn't do for my family." He gave the younger mage a knowing, mild smile. "You'll learn that soon."

Anders considered what he had just been told. Would he use a blood ward to keep the Templars from stealing their as-yet unborn child away? Yes, his thoughts supplied. I would. If that were the only way, I would.

His thoughts then turned to Malcolm's assurances that these wards had not involved demonic bargains. Would he deal with a demon to protect Caitlyn and his child? That... was a more difficult question to answer, because he knew that demons lied and promised things that they could not deliver. Mages who learned blood magic from demons didn't usually become abominations in that bargain, because what mage would allow a demon to possess them merely to learn that magic? No, demons got into mages by promising much bigger, much more meaningful and significant things than that—the very sorts of things that they could not actually grant.

But if they could? his traitorous mind nagged at him. If they actually could protect your family... would you? What about a benevolent spirit of the Fade, that wouldn't make false promises?

Anders dismissed this question as a meaningless hypothetical. There was no point in speculating about something that wouldn't happen, and he needed to be on his guard for when he and Malcolm encountered the Templars.


They were several miles north of Lothering when Malcolm suddenly tensed. He gripped his staff tightly, on his guard and alert.

Anders halted in his tracks and instinctively grabbed his own staff. His gaze darted from left to right in the path ahead, looking for the telltale slotted bucket helmets of Templars—

A growling, snarling thing—Anders could not identify what—burst out of the thicket on one side of the road, slamming into him and knocking him down. Fetid breath filled his nostrils, the scent of rot and decay and blood. He heard footfalls and Malcolm's war cries, and was aware that there were more of the—whatever they were—but right now he just had to get this thing off him before it bit him.

He could cast without his staff, so he sent a powerful force hex at the creature that sent it flying backwards, away from him. He grabbed up his staff from the ground and blasted it with a lethal frost.

What was this thing? It looked mostly human and was dressed as a bandit, more or less... but something was extremely wrong with it.

"Ghouls!" Malcolm exclaimed. "I need some help here, Anders!"

Anders whipped around and saw, to his horror, that Malcolm was swarmed with the things. Ghouls, Tainted people that had advanced so far with the Blight sickness that they no longer had their minds, pawed and snarled at him, stabbing with the weapons that they had wielded when they were themselves. Malcolm had already been stuck once; his shoulder was bleeding profusely. Anders grimaced. "Get down if you can!" he shouted to the mage as he cast a furious lightning storm at the swarming ghouls.

The injured Malcolm staggered to his feet, his hair in an electrified halo around his head, but to Anders' amazement and infinite respect, he was still fighting despite the shock and the bleeding wound in his shoulder. He blasted a gibbering ghoul back with a powerful entropy spell as Anders took advantage of the brief reprieve to heal the injury.

A few of the ghouls that had been hit by Anders' lightning were getting to their feet again, but the two mages were ready now. Anders took the ones closest to him and left the rest to Malcolm. With a powerful storm of lightning and frost, they silenced the remaining creatures permanently.

Malcolm breathed deeply and rubbed his shoulder. "Well," he said, sounding exhausted, "that was one thing I didn't count on. After we've dealt with the Templars, I definitely need to tell Duncan about this."


One day later.

Malcolm was not well, and nothing Anders could do seemed to cure it. If anything, his condition was worsening by the hour. Fatigue overcame him frequently, his eyes had dark circles around them, and his irises were changing. There was something oddly glassy about their affect now.

The elder mage finally bade them stop by the roadside. He sat down on a fallen tree and breathed heavily, gazing at the ground.

"Anders," he said after what seemed an eternity of silence, "I'm so, so sorry."

Anders' heart began to palpitate. "What do you mean, ser?" he asked, shocked into sudden formality.

Malcolm gazed up at him with circled, weary eyes. "I am infected with the Blight sickness."

Anders collapsed to his knees. His honey-brown eyes grew wide with horror. "No," he breathed. "Please, no, it can't be—"

But he knew himself that it must be. His healing magic could cure almost anything... but not that. The Taint had no cure except becoming a Grey Warden. Everybody knew that. And the only Grey Wardens whose locations he was certain of were in Denerim, leagues and leagues from here.

"You need to go home," he said. "Tell them. I'm sorrier than I can express to put that on you, son. May the Maker give you the words to say... though there probably are none."

"I should've killed that first ghoul faster," he burst out. "It's my fault. It was the stab, wasn't it? An open wound, allowing it in... I wasn't there for you quick enough."

"It was not your fault," Malcolm said firmly. "That thing stuck me at the same time you got knocked over. There was nothing you could've done. Listen, Anders. Go home, and get them out as soon as you can. The Templars will be upon you in a matter of days. Go to the Chasind and take refuge there."

"No," he insisted. "We'll go to Denerim instead. The Void with my phylactery; your life is more important. We'll go to the Grey Wardens..."

Malcolm gave him a heavy, sad look. "Anders. I won't make it to Denerim."

Anders stared back at him emptily. "No," he insisted.

"A strong entropy spell would end it peacefully... but..." He trailed off, realizing there was no point in reminding Anders that this school of magic was alien to his skill set. "Have you any deathroot?"

Anders shook his head. "I'm a Healer. I... don't keep that."

Malcolm drew the short knife that he kept on his belt. Anders recoiled in shock and anger at what the older mage was implying. "I'm sorry, son. You don't deserve to have this put upon you. But if you don't, I'll die looking and acting like those things, and you'll have to do it anyway to defend yourself. Please, Anders. It's hard, but that'd be so much worse."

"It wasn't supposed to be this way," the young mage cried miserably, accepting the blade but not doing anything with it. "There were still things I needed to learn from you. I was going to be your son-in-law eventually." He gazed at Malcolm in denial and despair. "You won't get to see your grandson... it's a boy, did you know that?" he added bleakly.

"Hey." Malcolm mustered up all the strength he could to face Anders. "Listen. You'll be all right. You had me as a sort of father for six months. No Blighted creature can take that away." He gazed sadly at him. "Now... I'm asking three last things of you. Let me die with dignity, without losing who I am... then go home and take care of my family, your family now... and love my oldest girl with everything you've got."

Anders stared ahead, finally, wretchedly, nodding. He turned to the man who, for however briefly, had meant so much to him, and raised the blade to Hawke's chest. The words felt strange to his tongue, but Malcolm was a man of faith, he knew, so this, right now, was more than just an offhand, trite saying. "Maker turn His gaze upon you," he said, hoping that the words of someone with no faith in the institution that purported to speak for the Maker would still be heard by the deity Himself.


He knew he was supposed to go home. He knew that Templars were after him. He knew that Hawke himself would not have wanted Anders to act sentimentally with no time to spare, but it seemed wrong, immoral, even blasphemous to leave his mentor's body by the side of the road. As horrible as it would be to bring home a container of ashes, it would be worse to do nothing.

He had built a pyre and laid out Malcolm's body when he heard the regular clatter of horse hooves on the road. He knew in his heart what they were before he could see them—and it was then that he realized what a horrible, disastrous mistake he had made. But maybe—just maybe—I can take them myself, he thought with a ridiculous, wild surge of hope as he saw that there were only two of them. Maybe I can at least accomplish this. He picked up his staff and cast a bolt of lightning at the approaching pair.

The horses screeched in dismay as their riders' metal armor received a powerful shock. Anders readied another spell—but one of the Templars raised a hand and blasted him backward to the ground in a glow of lyrium. He sat there, stunned, his entire body tingling, suddenly unable to cast a spell.

The horses' hoofbeats slowed to a silence as the pair of Templars reached the spot where he was crumpled. As soon as they took off their helmets, the last shred of hope faded for Anders. These two were Ser Rolan and Ser Rylock, and he knew both of them—much better than he wanted to.

There had been a handful of Templars at the Circle who had genuinely liked mages and viewed their profession as a way to help and mentor them. Anders had not ever had much to do with these, because he did not want to make friends with people he saw as his captors, but he knew that others saw it differently. The vast majority of Templars held the view that their work was a sacred charge; that mages, while children of the Maker, were weak and susceptible; that they were the protectors of mages—from demons and from themselves—and that, in the direst cases, it was a sad but necessary duty to put down a mage or cut off their connection to the Fade for the mage's own good. It was maddening to Anders, but it at least gave them a sense of responsibility to their charges, which was preferable to the third kind of Templar—which Rolan especially, and to a lesser degree, Rylock were. They took the view that the Maker did not intend anyone to be born a mage after the supposed corruption of the Golden City by magisters, that mages were literally cursed before birth, that the demons of the Fade had gotten to their souls while they were still in their mothers' wombs and that this was why they were born with magic. They viewed their job as an opportunity to rid the world of an evil. Rolan, indeed, had served at Kinloch Hold for the first three years of Anders' residence there, the Templar who volunteered—creepily eagerly—to make mages Tranquil, until he had racked up too many "accidents" involving Tranquilizations that turned fatal. Greagoir had reassigned him to hunt apostates and maleficarum across Ferelden, dismissing him from Kinloch. Anders thought he should have been executed for murder... but it seemed that that was not done to Templars.

They're going to take me away, he realized miserably as Rylock picked up his staff and confiscated it. They're taking me back. But—I escaped before. I can escape again. Someday. But for now...

"Please," he begged Rylock. He knew he stood no chance of persuading Rolan, who was a sadist and mage-hater. "Please. You win. Just, let me give this man a proper pyre before you take me back. It's not right to—"

Rolan scoffed in disgust. Anders caught another strong whiff of lyrium, then a feeling of wooziness, and then—nothing at all. The Templar blasted him to the ground, unconscious, with a powerful Holy Smite.

Rylock gave her colleague a surprised, disapproving look. "I have his staff," she said. "He was surrendering. It wouldn't have hurt to let him give that fellow a pyre."

Rolan spat on the ground. "We owe no favors to the apostate."

"Then as servants of the Chantry, we should do it ourselves," she said.

He scoffed. "It is not our duty. The priests do funeral rites. And furthermore, this one was an apostate too. Look, he has a staff." He pointed at the object that lay just to the side of the pyre Anders had built. "Unrepentant apostates prowl the Void. It would be wrong for us to give such a one an Andrastian cremation. We should go. Our task is complete."

Rylock looked angry, which Rolan noticed. "You are showing too much sympathy for mages," he said fiercely. "I never would have thought it of you. You should remember whom you serve, unlike our soft and wayward brothers and sisters at Kinloch Hold, and it is not the cursed ones."

Rylock glowered at her colleague's back as she lifted Anders' unconscious form onto her horse, but the Knight-Commander had placed Rolan in charge, so there was nothing she could do.


"Something is wrong," Caitlyn said. She rested her head unhappily on the tabletop. "I know you haven't wanted to think of it, but something is. They should have been back by now."

Neither Leandra, Bethany, nor Carver could argue this anymore. She had been anxious and upset for the past six days, but they had attributed it to the mood swings of pregnancy—and tried to think optimistically, on the basis that there was nothing that they could do for Anders or Malcolm by being negative from a distance. But the unpleasant truth could not be denied any longer. Something had gone wrong.

There was a moment of silence, and then Carver got to his feet. "I'll go out."

"What?" Bethany exclaimed. "Alone? No, Carver—"

"If the Knight-Commander reprimanded the local Templars, they're going to be temporarily more zealous, so it's not safe for mages to be out and about in this area in situations in which they might need to cast spells," he said. Bethany's face fell, but she saw his argument—and Caitlyn was surprised at the fact that he had thought of this, which even she had not, as well the fact of his instant concern for his sisters. Carver went to the corner and picked up his bow and quiver. "I should do it. I'll... come back when I find something out."


Carver returned the following day on the family mule. All three women knew as soon as he approached that the news was bad, and when they noticed the sacked burden that he bore behind him, they all feared the worst. Caitlyn's eyes widened, not knowing whether it was her father or Anders whose body her brother carried, but hardly caring—one of them was dead and the other was gone, that she knew at once. Bethany's hands clamped onto her opened mouth, hiding her gape of horror. Leandra was literally overcome. Her eyes rolled backward and she toppled over, only just caught by Bethany, as Carver's mule approached the cabin.

He dismounted and took down the sack and another object—her father's staff. He glanced unhappily at his mother's passed-out form, which Bethany managed to revive with a rudimentary healing spell. Leandra slumped to the ground, leaning against the side of the house. As she identified her husband's staff, she almost swooned again.

"It's Father," Carver said dully. He glanced apologetically at Caitlyn. "I didn't see Anders."

Her mind instantly leaped to a single conclusion. "Those bastards!" she shouted. "They took him prisoner and killed Father!"

Leandra and Bethany gave her pained and disapproving looks respectively. Even Carver was taken aback at the anger and vehemence of her reaction. "I... don't think that's exactly what happened," he said.

She was prepared to shout something hateful and vengeful back at him, but caught herself. Her brother had been the one to see Father's body. He had been the one to cover Father up, to bring him back. This kind of reaction was cruel to him, she realized, and she wasn't even angry at Carver. She was angry at others, anonymous, faceless others. No sixteen-year-old should ever have to do such things... and especially since it was her lover, her partner, who had needed Father's assistance anyway. Caitlyn swallowed the rage and despair, and now guilt, that threatened to overcome her. "What did it look like to you, then?" she asked as calmly as she could.

Bethany was clearly startled that her older sister had not apologized for such a reaction, but she did not speak up.

Carver sighed as he laid out the body bag. "He... his... body... was laid out in a pyre," he said, trying not to choke up himself. "It hadn't been lit, but it was set up like a pyre, with kindling and everything. Anders must've done that. I think something else ambushed them on the road and... Anders made it and... Father didn't," he said, finally losing it.

"And the Templars caught Anders because he tried to do the right thing," she finished, "and took him away before he could give Father a respectful pyre."

"There was no sign of anything of his," Carver said through choked sobs, "not even his staff."

Caitlyn and Bethany crawled over to Carver and leaned against each of his shoulders. "I'm sorry," Caitlyn whispered to him. "I should've been there—you shouldn't have had to..."

Leandra was struck silent, staring at the bag that held her husband's body as if she could not quite believe it. At last, Bethany noticed her mother's silent, lonely misery. Her sister had lost her love of six months and the father of her unborn child, but he probably was not dead. There was still hope that he might return someday. He had escaped from the Circle before. All three siblings had lost their father, but their mother had lost her husband, the man she had loved so much that she had given up her birth family, the man with whom she had lived a simple but happy life for twenty-one years—longer than any of them even had memories. This loss was incalculable to Bethany. It was a loss beyond her entire lifespan. She gave her brother a final hug and crawled to her mother's side.

"It's not your fault," Carver whispered into his older sister's ear as Bethany and their mother hugged and cried. "Don't blame yourself—and don't blame him. Father wanted to do this."

"He didn't want it to end like this."

There was nothing Carver could possibly say to that, so he did not try. He held his sister and shed silent tears with her until they had no more.


Notes: I'm sorry for the emotional roller-coaster of this chapter. I loved writing Malcolm in this, and I do like the idea of a happy, Everyone Lives AU where they all make it to Kirkwall alive and he does have a long-lasting father-figure relationship with Anders, but I couldn't save him for this story. This is obviously putting a very significant additional spin on the eventual Deep Roads expedition in the Free Marches, of course. If you know the role that Rolan plays in Anders' canon, you know he's going to get what's coming to him for that. But unfortunately there is a lot of angst to come.

If you're enjoying the story, please drop me a review! It means a lot to writers. :)