Notes: This chapter is Anders in the Circle. I regret that it had to be a flash-through of a couple years, but I didn't want to drag this out in story chapters. I hope that I've addressed the shock, trauma, grief, and depression aspects sufficiently, but that is for you to judge! The Anders/Karl parts are not explicit, and I actually think they're no more than hard T, possibly soft M for a brief moment. I've never written detailed male slash before—I know this is very unusual, but I just prefer reading and writing het and femslash—and I wouldn't know how to do it, but I also know that's not why anyone is here for this fic.

The chapter title is a lyric from "Tanelorn/Into the Void" by Blind Guardian on At the Edge of Time.

Finally, we meet somebody else who's quite important...


Chapter 6: Don't Turn Your Back on Your Prodigal Son


When Anders finally came to, he was sure that this had to be the Fade. His mind was tormenting him, shaping the Fade to be a small room in the Circle at Kinloch Hold.

Then he remembered everything.

No. This cannot happen. I can't be locked up here again. And—he glanced around wildly, realizing that he was not even in the apprentice dormitories, but isolated somewhere—why am I in this cell? Why did they separate me from everyone else? Are they going to—

He calmed himself, taking deep breaths. Whatever happened, he would not let them make him Tranquil. He'd take out his blade and stick it through his own heart first.

Maybe they just want to keep me here until they've checked me over and talked to me. I was out of the Circle for six months, after all. It is probably that. If they meant to make me Tranquil, surely they would've done it while I was unconscious.

I've got to get out again as soon as I can. I have to go back to Lothering. Or... no, I should go to Denerim and tell the Grey Wardens about the ghoul attack. I can go there and ask them to make me a Warden. That would free me from the Circle. Then I'll write to the Hawkes and have them leave that place, joining me, before it is overrun with Blighted monsters. Calmed somewhat by the notion of a plan, even a plan with no steps for the actual escape itself, he opened up his traveling purse and examined its contents.

The book of edible plants he had was gone. Apparently they had confiscated that and added it back to the library shelves. His mother's ring, of course, rested on Caitlyn's finger, far south in Lothering, a promise he had made that he had to keep to her, somehow. His personal grimoire was still there, as was the pillow his mother had embroidered... and, he noticed, the fiery orange handkerchief was still tied around his arm. Suddenly, it hurt to look at it. He untied the knot, unwound it, and tucked it into the traveling purse on his waist next to the pillow.

The sound of loud, heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He felt a surge of anger at the recognition that these were the footsteps of a Templar in full armor, and when the person—Ser Carroll, he noticed, an authoritarian sort whom Anders had personally slipped past several times for his escapes—appeared, he knew his face was a hostile glower.

"You're recovered," Ser Carroll said coldly. "All right. Explain yourself."

Anders stared back silently, refusing to answer.

"You'd better talk. You've been an apostate for six months. The Knight-Commander wants to know what you got up to, what kind of blood magic you must have used to prevent your phylactery from working correctly until recently."

Anders wanted to continue to defy the Templar's command, but if they suspected him of using blood magic to conceal himself, then he supposed, with a surge of resentment at this, that he probably should say something. Of course, it actually had been blood magic, albeit not his own—but they couldn't know that.

"I have no idea why it didn't work," he lied, his voice as cold as Ser Carroll's. "I didn't use blood magic. I've never used blood magic. I didn't do anything to interfere with you lot—don't you suppose that if I had, I might've kept it up, so that you wouldn't have ever found me?" As soon as he voiced the bold words, a painful thought crossed his mind. I shouldn't have gone outside as much as I did. If it's my fate to be stuck indoors, better that it had been the Hawke cottage than here.

Carroll glared. "You cheeky, disrespectful little shit. All right, I'll tell this to the Knight-Commander. We'll see what he thinks."


"Knight-Commander, Anders has never been suspected of using blood magic," came the voice of First Enchanter Irving, echoing through the holding cells. "It really is possible that the phylactery was just old, that there was a tiny hairline break in the seal that caused the blood to go bad."

"That may be, Irving, but I'm worried about him. He has barely spoken a word."

"If you remember, ser, this was what happened when he first came to the Circle. It appears to be how he... adjusts."

"I worry that he is at heightened risk of possession."

"I understand that, ser, which is why I think it would be better to get him out of that isolated cell and back among the other mages. He is a talented Healer; they are very rare. I beg of you, don't make him Tranquil."

Anders' blood ran cold at these words, as he studied the shadows of the two old men, silhouetted in the torchlight down the hallway. So some of them were considering it.

The Templar sighed heavily. "I don't want to, but if he is under demonic influence, I don't want to turn him loose among the other apprentices. You talk to him. Maybe he'll speak to another mage."

Anders tensed as the footsteps resumed and drew nearer, but they were not the heavy, metallic stamping of a person in Templar armor. As he waited for the person to appear, dread pooled in his gut.

First Enchanter Irving rounded the corner and stopped in front of Anders' cell, peering in. His facial expression was disappointed, sad, and deeply troubled. It irritated the Void out of Anders.

"Son," Irving began.

You don't have the right to call me that! Anders thought in outrage. That's what Malcolm Hawke was calling me—and he's gone, because of this. Because of the Circles. How dare you call me that!

Irving noticed the expression of utter fury forming on the young mage's face and sighed. "Anders, what are we going to do with you?"

You could send me to the Grey Wardens, he thought mutinously. But of course, he was quite sure that if he suggested that, it would never happen, because Irving—and Greagoir, more importantly—would regard it as a reward.

"I can't let you out until you tell me something about what you did the past half year," Irving said. "I want to let you be among the other mages, but the Knight-Commander won't have it unless you provide some information." He leaned in as Anders remained resolutely, resentfully stone-faced. "Anders, if you don't talk to me, the Templars will make you talk to them. What did you do?"

I survived a blizzard and an attack by Tainted creatures. I found a family of mages that accepted me as one of their own. I fell in love with a woman, another mage, and started a family with her. I saw spring come to the world for the first time since I was twelve. I learned how to plant crops and cook food. And I had to kill the one man who has ever been a true father to me.

"I lived," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. To his dismay, he felt his eyes moistening. "I didn't 'do' anything, First Enchanter. I just lived a normal life."

Irving's face was lined and sad. "Anders," he said, "normal life for us is different."

It doesn't have to be. I saw proof that it doesn't have to be.

The elderly man sighed. "I believe you. You have never adjusted to Circle life, but you've never shown signs of abusing your magic either. I will talk to Greagoir. I suppose you needed to have this experience, but you are back where you belong, so it doesn't matter now."

It doesn't matter? Irving didn't know, of course—Anders knew he could confide in no one about the Hawkes or especially his unborn child with Caitlyn, because they might go looking for the child of a mage if he did—but to hear his experiences, their love, their son, dismissed that way hurt and angered him more than he could possibly describe.


A Templar came to Anders' cell shortly after that. Anders glowered, still refusing to talk to any of them unless it was necessary. This one did not seem to be there for conversation, anyway. He drew a short knife and grabbed Anders' arm roughly, shoving up the fabric of his sleeve to make a cut. Anders winced in pain; this was surely much harder and more painful than it had to be. He looked away from the red ribbon of blood flowing out of his forearm into a glass vial, closing his eyes and focusing instead on Caitlyn Hawke. I hope she doesn't hate me now, he thought suddenly. If they found her father's body, I hope they realize what happened and I hope she doesn't blame me... even though I am to blame, in a way.

The Templar finished filling the new phylactery and shoved Anders' arm away. "You can heal that now, mage," he said gruffly.

Giving the man a look of loathing, Anders cast a quick spell over his arm. The Templar then pulled him to his feet and silently marched him up to the apprentices' dormitories.


Two months later.

Anders lurked in the shadows behind Carroll, who guarded the entrance to the tower. The Templar yawned, and while his hand was covering his mouth and his eyes were closed, Anders seized the opportunity.

This one's for you, Malcolm, he thought as he cast a blast of electrical magic at the man, sending him to the ground in an unconscious heap, lightning arcing across his armor. A heady thrill of triumph filled Anders' body as he leaped through the threshold.

I did it! I knew I would. I'm coming home, love. He dived into Lake Calenhad and ducked completely underwater, holding his breath as he swam—but inevitably, he had to surface to take a gulp of air.

"There he is!" The words echoed from a window just above the ground level of the tower.


"Anders," said First Enchanter Irving, his voice both exasperated and somewhat defeated, "you have to stop doing this. If you just devoted your time and energy to preparing for your Harrowing, I could perhaps try to secure a placement for you in a noble house. They always have need of good Healers. But you'll have to be a full Enchanter before I can do that."

I don't want to serve a noble. I want to go home and be with my family, he thought. He glared back at Irving silently.

The older man sighed and left him alone in his cell once again.


Five months later.

It was winter again, and Anders realized, with profound sadness and anger, that he had been back in the Circle for longer than he had been among the Hawkes. It had been seven months since the Templars had taken him away; he had lived with the family for six.

She's due, he thought that night as he curled into himself, buried completely under the covers, in his bed in the dormitories. He had told absolutely no one about this, not even the older apprentice, Karl Thekla, who had been the closest thing he'd had to a friend in the Circle. The times he had experienced with the Hawke family, the love he'd shared, and the idea that, perhaps, he was a father—or soon would be—were secrets for no one else to know.

If she hasn't already... Maker, if she still wanted the baby... she's due now. The idea that Caitlyn might have done something to terminate the pregnancy out of anger at him cut into his soul, especially since he had no way of knowing, and even more so since anything she could have done after his departure would have been horrific and dangerous to her. It was almost too late for her to have used the herbal potion when he left; anything she could have done since then would have been—

It would have been butchery, he thought. It would have been a mundane using knives and poisons on her—or an untrained hedge mage casting entropy spells. Those things can ruin a woman's body. The thought nauseated him. Maker, don't let her have done that. He knew that it was a ridiculous prayer; whatever had happened, had happened—and he also did not truly believe that Caitlyn would do that. She had loved him. Even if her family had discovered her father's body—and Anders hoped that they had, to have closure and to give him the funeral that the bastard Ser Rolan had denied—surely she wouldn't take it out on her little one even if she did blame him for the loss. She had to know, to understand, that he hadn't wanted any of this to happen, and that he still tried every day to find a way to escape and get back to them...

What if she lost the baby because she was so upset? That... was a possibility that Anders could not dismiss so easily. He recalled their parting that morning. She had already been upset merely at the thought that she might not see them again; what if the dual losses had sent her over the edge? The idea that the Blight and the Templars had, together, cost his child the opportunity to live threatened to overwhelm him with violent, righteous outrage.

The best-case scenario was that she had carried it to term and their baby either had recently been born or soon would be. Or perhaps she's going through that right now, he thought, his mind fixing upon that thought like the compulsion to tear at a hangnail. Perhaps she is giving birth right now, suffering the pains of labor. Her mother, brother, and sister are there... but Bethany is not a specialist at healing. She could be suffering, or already suffered, or will suffer in a few days... because I'm not there. She could be bringing our child into the world this very night, and I'm not there. I should be her Healer for this. I should deliver my own child, see him first, hear his cries, and help her. And I'm not. I'm not there when she needs me most. Maker, if I hadn't already failed her family by not being able to keep her father from dying, I certainly have failed them all now.

He buried his face in his pillow to muffle the sobs, clutching the orange handkerchief under the covers. The pillow became damp and stuck to his cheeks before the Fade took him.


Even in the Fade, he knew that this was a dream, and that it would be horribly painful when he awakened from it, but it was a good dream and he meant to enjoy it while it lasted. The Hawke cabin glimmered around him, the family bustling about—all of the family.

"You did a fine job last night," boomed Malcolm Hawke, giving him a paternal pat on the shoulder, as he so often did. "Go see her now."

Anders wondered for a moment why he wasn't with Caitlyn overnight, but—oh yes, he remembered now—he had had to be away for something. He was back, though. He smiled at Malcolm and entered the room that he shared with Caitlyn, a new room in the cabin, one just for them.

For them and for the bundle she was holding.

"Can I see him?" he whispered. She lay in bed, her long fiery hair trailing in waves down her shoulders, as she held the bundle close to her chest. The baby's face was turned away, and his head was concealed by the blanket. Anders wanted to know if he had his hair or hers... or a blend of both...

She turned to him, gazing at him with those fierce emerald eyes, which glittered with flecks of purple in the Fade, so it seemed. Her face broke into a very wide smile as she passed the bundle to him wordlessly.

Anders gazed down at the bundle. The baby's eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open. He's sleeping, Anders thought, smiling as he pulled the flap of blanket back from the baby's head.

Instead of hair, blood covered the infant's scalp. Anders stared, appalled, but was unable to look away. The infant opened its eyes then, revealing blank, bloody sockets. A dark laugh escaped its mouth, a laugh that should never issue from any baby.

Anders could not stand it. This could not be their child. This was a demon, surely. He threw the thing back at Caitlyn. "What happened to him?" he shouted accusingly.

"It has not happened," she spoke at last, though her voice was strangely distorted and cold. "Not yet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He glared at her. "And what are you? The woman I love wouldn't be calm and collected about—about this. Stop wearing her face, whatever you are."

The infant sat upright, smiling inhumanly at Anders, as the personage that resembled Caitlyn got to its feet. As it did, the red hair faded and vanished, its skin turned lavender, and horns grew from its head, revealing a desire demon, an obscene distortion of the natural, beautiful female form.

"Clever mage," the demon cooed, sidling up close to him even as he tried to get away. "They trained you well at the Circle."

A tiny part of him almost wanted to talk with this demon simply as an act of revolt against that comment, but only a smidgen. He knew what it wanted. "I'm not letting you possess me, demon. Your kind make false promises, things you can never deliver, and take over our bodies. It isn't going to happen with me."

"I was not going to ask you for that," said the demon, still smiling. "But that doesn't mean I cannot help you. Don't you know that there are some among us who know the Circle very well indeed? We see so many of you, and the Templars too. We know some of their... secrets..." She trailed off.

He knew it was a bad idea, but maybe—just maybe—he could get the information that this demon offered without having to give up anything. He had heard of mages who did that, who spoke with demons and extorted something from the demon without giving up anything themselves. It was spoken of in hushed whispers, but—

"Do you know how to get into the phylactery chamber? Is that one of these secrets?"

The desire demon smiled back enigmatically at him, sashaying in the Fade-light.

"What about exits that are unguarded? Are there any of those?"

"I have seen the thoughts of the Templars," the demon repeated.

"You should not listen to it," issued another voice.

Anders whirled around, away from the desire demon's rapidly curdling face. Before him stood an entity of translucent greenish-white, helmeted and armored, bearing an ethereal sword, but nothing like a Templar. This being felt stark and hard-edged, but also clean, pure, and honest—and in reaction, the purplish demon with whom he had been talking began to seem unclean and vile. Anders stepped away from it and faced the new presence.

The... spirit, Anders supposed... flung its arm out in rejection and denial of the desire demon. "This one lies to you. It would insinuate its way into your mind gradually, not taking immediate possession of you, but that is its ultimate goal."

"You are the liar," seethed the demon. "I know what this mage seeks! I have the information he desires." It turned to Anders. "Look at this thing. What does it look like to you? Do you trust a warrior bearing a sword?"

Anders turned back to the spirit. "It's not a Templar," he said. "I trust some warriors bearing swords."

The spirit did not laugh; perhaps it did not understand humor, but it nodded in satisfaction. "Then let us dismiss this one."

The desire demon was furious. "If you destroy me, the knowledge I have will perish with me."

Anders hesitated for a moment. The other spirit noticed and responded immediately. "It does have what it claims, but the truth is more complicated than it has told you. If you go into the chamber where the vials are kept, you will trigger a trap. They will catch you inside there. Then, it will offer to take you over to fight them off, seizing upon your desperation and panic."

Anders could see it at once. He turned back to face the desire demon, fury seething in every line of his face at the planned betrayal that this spirit had revealed.

"A grave injustice has been committed," the spirit said to Anders. "I see that; your anger at this terrible wrong and your burning desire to see it set right compelled me to your side. But you cannot get justice for them by giving in to this demon or its fearling." The spirit gestured scornfully at the demon infant. "You will merely become an abomination, be killed, and will not see her or your child again."

"He lies!" screamed the desire demon.

Anders cleared his thoughts. Benevolent spirits—which this one unquestionably was; its aura proved that—did not lie. They might be dangerous, but they were not deceitful. "No," he said, turning to the good spirit. "He doesn't."

The spirit formed a magical staff from the Fade and tossed it to Anders, drawing his sword on the desire demon as they charged it together. The imagery of the Hawke cabin melted away to become raw Fade, losing shape and form, as Anders and the spirit drove the desire demon and fearling away.

"You have done well, but it has drained you. You should leave the Fade now and wake up," said the spirit once the demons had disappeared into the ether. He held out his hand, forming a ball of energy in it.

Anders felt himself slipping away back into the waking world. "Thank you..." He realized he didn't know what kind of spirit this was. "Wait! What idea do you—"

He fell out of the Fade before he could finish the question or the spirit could reply, waking up, shocked and rather horrified, in his bed.


After the encounter with the good spirit—whatever kind of spirit it was—the desperation and acute misery that had dogged Anders for the past seven months seemed to subside into a sad resignation—not of lifetime imprisonment in the Circle, but of the likelihood that his confinement would continue at least until he passed his Harrowing. The Templars watched him too closely now for another escape attempt to have much chance of succeeding, and unsuccessful attempts would hurt him. If he pushed too far, Irving might not be able to prevent them from—but no, he wouldn't think that. It wouldn't happen. He owed it to Caitlyn, to their child—who he hoped had been born healthy—and to the Hawkes not to let that happen. She would prefer I stayed here for years, biding my time, plotting a final escape that was ultimately successful, than die or be made Tranquil in a half-baked desperate attempt. I hope it doesn't take years, but she would rather see me then than never again.

This sad resolution calmed him and enabled him to finally renew his studies, though it was not the same as it had been under Malcolm Hawke. The Senior Enchanters were mostly decent people, but they lacked warmth. The Circle has driven it out of them, Anders thought. They don't form lasting connections with other people anymore, perhaps because they are too afraid to have something they cannot bear to lose.

Nevertheless, despite his resolution to bide his time, he could not help but think, every day, that he was missing another irreplaceable day in his son's all-too-brief babyhood. Unless he could get out soon, he wouldn't get to see Caitlyn nursing him, wouldn't get to see his first crawls, his first smile, his first steps... wouldn't get to hear his first words. And that was the best case. The other possibilities did not bear further thought.

Have I conceded defeat without admitting it? Anders found himself wondering. I tell myself I will escape permanently someday, once I have this perfect plan, but is that just something I'm telling myself to salvage my own conscience for—yes, think it, face it—abandoning my love and my child?


"You are depressed."

Anders looked up from his desk. His friend, Karl, was hovering nearby, looking deeply concerned.

He leaned back in his chair, sighing. "I suppose so."

Karl pulled up a chair. "I've noticed. It's been getting worse, and I'm just... do you want to talk about it? Is it because of the long escape?"

Anders was not sure that he should confide anything to anyone, but the truth was that he was starved for meaningful connections. The benevolent spirit had not appeared to him again, which he supposed was just as well. The other apprentices largely avoided him now, after his lengthy escape; he suspected they were either jealous of him or thought that he had done something dreadfully wicked by being an apostate for so long. It sickened him now to overhear amorous laughing in the library or to nearly stumble upon a couple that had their hands up each other's robes, knowing that it meant nothing to anyone. Two young women had attempted to flirt with him, but he had brushed them off; his heart was already claimed. Meanwhile, the Enchanters were mere instructors, not mentors. He had not thought about it until he had met Malcolm Hawke, but now that he had that point of comparison, he could tell the difference, and it hurt terribly. There were times at night, in the Fade, when he had to relive that horrible moment of sticking Malcolm's blade into his chest, hoping—hoping!—that he had struck the heart and that it would be very quick, watching him breathe his last, his eyes—so like his daughter's—closing forever. It had hurt so terribly, and yet... that was proof that it had mattered. Better to feel too much than to feel nothing.

All these thoughts passed through his mind in a second. He made a decision and turned around to face Karl. "It is," he said in a low voice. "When I was out there, I made friends." "Friends." Oh, love, I'm so, so sorry. I'm saying that to protect you, he thought.

Karl nodded sympathetically. "I thought it must have been something like that." He turned to the blond mage. "I understand if you don't think you can talk about them. You have a friend here too, if you want. I know I don't replace any of them, but... I've always considered you a friend, and you shouldn't be all by yourself like this."

Anders thought he detected an offer of more than friendship, especially in that last sentence, and the implication that he might think Karl was trying to replace Caitlyn—even though Karl did not know about Caitlyn, did not know that what had happened during the long escape was much, much more than friendship. Or does he know? Anders suddenly wondered. He had been depressed indeed. Perhaps Karl had worked out some of the truth. And Anders had long suspected that Karl was attracted to men. For his own part, he had never done anything with another man, though he had to admit that the idea had crossed his mind, before he met Caitlyn, and... it had specifically involved Karl.

With his own words, he simply offered friendship, and that's what I'm going to take, Anders decided. As long as he had to stay here for the time being, there was nothing wrong with having a friend to help him through the lonely days. It wasn't as if having a friend was betraying her.


Anders felt marginally better after talking to Karl, and the improvement in his mood continued when the two young men began to study and duel together regularly. "You know," remarked Karl, "we may get to be Harrowed by the end of the year. Full Enchanters!" He grinned at Anders. "And you're a specialist in healing. You might even get an assignment outside the tower. I hear that old Irving would like that."

The end of the year, Anders thought. It seemed so far off. To Karl he replied, "He mentioned that once to me. I would only be interested if I could go to Lothering, though."

"Ah." Karl understood. "Your friends."

"I'd like to see them again," Anders said seriously, cringing inside at the almost grotesque understatement of that, wishing that he could trust himself to confide in this mage—but he just couldn't. What if something happened? The perennial fear in the back of the mind of any Circle mage, which kept them from falling for each other, too: What if something happened? If anyone other than him knew about the Hawkes, that doubled the risk to them. It pained him, and he felt that it created a certain distance in this friendship to have this secret, but he had to keep it.

Fortunately, Karl seemed to understand, even if he visibly wished that Anders would confide in him. He seemed to realize that it wasn't that Anders distrusted him; it was something far darker than that. It was that Anders distrusted the Templar authorities and would not put it past them to torture information that they wanted out of a mage. Granted, most Templars who served at Kinloch Hold were not sadists like Ser Rolan... but "most" wasn't "all." And there was another fear, a fear that Anders would not voice even to his own thoughts, a fear that he still had for himself, that all mages had—but he had a plan in case they ever tried it. Anders had his knife, but he had also started to keep deathroot on him. It had felt wrong, because he was a Healer and did not poison people... but he'd had no choice with Malcolm Hawke, and that would have been easier if he had carried a fast-acting poison. He would die before he let them turn him into a creature that had no will of its own and would give up any information merely by being asked.

Anders forced his thoughts out of this dark tunnel and back to the present. "I feel like I'm almost ready to pass my Harrowing now," he confessed, recalling the nightmare in which the spirit had helped him to reject the desire demon. That was an excellent practice run for the trial itself... and if one looked at it the right way, he already was Harrowed by having done it. But of course, he had to go through the process officially.

Karl nodded. "Same here."


Anders regretted missing the arrival of spring and summer. He could attempt to find a window, to see the sun, but this was yet another instance of cruelty, he realized. Now that he knew what he was missing, he wanted out more than ever.

The Harrowings were scheduled, at last, for the beginning of Kingsway. "Enchanter Anders," he thought with more than a hint of contempt. That title is all that some mages ever strive for. That's the crowning glory of their circumscribed lives. I have other dreams.

And yet, and yet. As the days advanced, and the month of Kingsway approached, he realized, to his utter shame and dismay, that the pain was less than it had been before. He rarely cried himself to sleep or ran through horrifying scenarios about what might have happened to his son. In fact, there were occasions during the day when he was having a pleasant conversation with Karl about some magical theory and he realized later that he hadn't thought about the Hawkes at all.

What's wrong with me? he thought, brooding one night. This happened when my mother died too. It hurt horribly at first, especially the thoughts of how much I had lost by being in the Circle instead of being with her, but then it began to fade. Is this just what happens with grief? Is this how my mind copes? Or am I becoming like almost everyone else in this Maker-forsaken place and losing what makes me a person?

He needed to get out, and he knew it. His mother, at least, had passed away; he had known that he could not do anything for her any longer. But that wasn't true—as far as he knew—for Caitlyn and her family. For our boy. The thought that he had already missed half of his son's first year of life suddenly rushed into his mind, reigniting the old anger.

It was at that very moment that Karl walked into the corner of the library where he was seated.

"What in the Maker's name is the matter?" Karl exclaimed, noticing Anders' fury.

He got up from his desk to try to calm himself. "Bad memories."

Karl hesitated for a moment before coming over to Anders' side and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. The big day is a month away. I guess do what you have to do, but... only if you're sure that it won't last for a whole month, you know?"

Anders sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. "You're right," he muttered, knowing it to be true. He did not think there was any chance that his state of mind would prevent him from passing the Harrowing, but it was possible that Irving would call it off if it were apparent that Anders was in a bad state. Remember the resolution, he told himself. You'll see her again, but you have to do it right. Surrendering to panic and desperation won't help anyone.

Karl began to rub his muscles, relaxing the tension. Anders closed his eyes and let the other mage increase the massage. It really did feel good, and he probably needed it, he realized. This was just a back rub. It was just what friends did when one of them was suffering. It wasn't anything else.

He continued to tell himself that up until the point that Karl planted a kiss on the side of his neck.


Not betraying her, you say? How about now?

The accusing thought lashed Anders as he lay in his bed. Beside him, the other mage dozed in the Fade, and the plain truth was that—despite his accusing conscience—the greater part of him had wanted Karl to stay the night. He had been so lonely for so long, and Karl had been a real friend, the only one in this entire blasted tower, and those long-ago feelings from before he had met the Hawkes had resurfaced whether his conscience liked it or not. He had allowed Karl to continue to kiss him, then returned kisses of his own, and they had gone hand-in-hand into the apprentice dormitories and tumbled into bed.

They hadn't done too much, thank the Maker—nothing that he hadn't done himself with his own hand many a time—but what they had done weighed on his conscience. It was one thing to bring himself to completion with his hand. It was another for the hand of somebody else to do so. It was another still to return the deed for that same person.

And yet he's still here in bed, Anders thought. I don't want him to leave. Maker forgive me, but I liked that. I haven't felt that in so long, since Justinian of last year, when I was with Caitlyn, and it mattered with him. He means something to me. He was there for me, emotionally, when nobody else was. He's helped me feel better, to recover from grief and depression somewhat. He was sympathetic without judging what I did or what I want. I don't think I can ever go back to encounters that don't mean anything.

That realization slammed into him like a wave. When he was being affectionate and intimate with Karl, a little voice in the back of his head had told him that it was all right because it wasn't like doing anything with another female mage of the Circle, that because Karl was physically different from a woman, it wasn't like replacing Caitlyn, and therefore this didn't "count." That was the sort of thing he could tell himself from the vantage point of no amorous experience with other men, but now he knew that it did count. It did, in both the good and the bad ways. It had mattered—and that increased his guilt.

I would feel guilty no matter what, he told himself sternly. I would feel horrible about something meaningless. And yet... this is meaningful... so is this not doubly cheating? But at the same time, it truly didn't bother me to be friends with him. I felt no guilt over that. It only changed tonight, when I realized it was more than friendship.

She is in Lothering right now, nursing our son in the middle of the night after being awakened, for all I know, he thought, his mind tumbling down that rabbit hole of misery once again. That's what she was doing, and this is what I was doing, finding comfort in the arms of somebody else. How can I look her in the eye now?

But... what if I don't have the chance to look her in the eye? his thoughts continued, arriving at the darkest possibility at once. What if I never get out? I should value Karl. I shouldn't push him away in the morning. I wanted this; I allowed this; Maker, I participated. He doesn't deserve one of my dark moods.

If Karl noticed anything amiss in Anders' behavior the next morning, he did not comment. They still shared a bed again each night before the Harrowings. It did not go much farther than the first night—there were lines that he did not want to cross, even though he did value the closeness of this relationship—but it helped him to prepare mentally for the Harrowing. Anders' Harrowing would be first, then, the following day, Karl's.


He held his ethereal staff, which he had won from a spirit of Valor in the Fade, and pursued the hunger demon confidently. When he had first seen Valor, he had wondered if this had been the spirit who had come to him in that nightmare, but it had told him that was not the case—and benevolent spirits didn't lie. Anders was vaguely disappointed; he wished he had learned, at least, what the spirit was, so he would know to whom he was indebted. He had become increasingly certain, since that dream had happened, that the spirit had saved him from becoming an abomination. It was, if not a friend, then certainly a... a what? A champion, his thoughts supplied.

When he reached the central clearing where he expected to see the hunger demon, he looked around. It appeared absent. However—Anders' eyes widened in surprise and delight—there was his warrior spirit.

"It is here," said the spirit in an undertone. "Be on your guard."

In the next moment, an entity taking the form of Malcolm Hawke walked around an outgrowth.

Anders did not doubt his thoughts for a moment. Malcolm Hawke was dead, and this was a cruel, sick mockery. This was the demon, taking a form that represented not desires which could yet be fulfilled in life, but his unsatisfied hunger for a lasting relationship with a father, a hunger that never would be fulfilled now that Malcolm was gone. It was despicable, and rather than feeling longing, rather than being stricken against attacking something that resembled his mentor, Anders felt a deep, all-consuming rage that this thing would dare to appear in this guise. He attacked the hunger demon eagerly, the warrior spirit helping him without even being asked.

"Thank you once more," Anders said, turning to the warrior spirit once it was over.

The spirit inclined its head in acknowledgment.

"Before I have to return... it was you in the nightmare, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was."

"I thought so. Your aura was the same. Who... are you?" That seemed more respectful than asking what kind of spirit it was.

"I am Justice." The spirit pointed into the distance. "You should not linger."

"I know." Knowing, at last, what virtue the spirit represented had satisfied Anders. It made sense, too, as he recollected the spirit's statements to him during the dream. To have a spirit of Justice on his side, endorsing his view of the situation of mages, watching out for him in the Fade, was surely a good thing. "Thank you, again."


"We need to talk."

Anders had been dreading this. Ever since he and Karl had passed their Harrowings to become full Enchanters of the Circle, he had been avoiding the other man—and Karl had noticed. Dreading what he feared was to come, he turned aside from the bookcase he was pretending to browse and faced Karl.

"I thought that what we had was special and that it meant something to you, but I don't know anymore. Was this just something to relieve the tension before your Harrowing?"

Anders' shoulders slumped. "No," he said, "it wasn't. It mattered to me too."

"Anders, just tell me the truth, whatever it is."

He sighed. "I can't do it here."

Karl scowled, but nodded in resignation. "Then can we go someplace where you can do it? Your new quarters, perhaps?"

"Why my quarters?" he muttered. He did have a dormitory to himself at last, which was nice, but surely Karl did too. Harrowed Enchanters of the Circle had their own rooms. However, he led the other mage out of the library and into the room that was now his. There was no door to close, but he moved to the most private location he could.

Karl gazed out at him expectantly.

"You must have suspected this," he said in a low voice. "When I escaped last year, I... the people I met... one of them was more than a friend, all right?"

Karl breathed deeply. "I did suspect it... I hoped it wasn't so... but you still love this person?"

Oh, Maker. "Yes," he acknowledged, glad to finally say it to someone, to get it out like any normal person would be able to do, not to keep it a secret like it was something shameful—even though this was just the barest amount of detail he could possibly give. "I do." Seeing Karl's face fall, he continued, pleadingly, "Please, try to understand. I was captured. I didn't end it with her; I was taken... and the circumstances were very bad."

Karl tried to control his breathing. It was clear that this was painful for him. "How bad?"

I can't tell him about the baby, Anders thought, feeling a pang for that. He hated having to keep any part of this secret now that he had told some of it, but the fact that he, a mage, had sired a child was something that no one in this tower could know. "Her father went with me to try to confront the Templars who had my phylactery. We were going to put sleep spells on them and take it peacefully. Blighted creatures killed him first. No, actually—they infected him, and I had to give him a merciful death." He put his hands over his face, tears coming to his eyes at the words that tumbled from his lips. He had never told anyone about this before, and this was like reliving it.

"Oh, Anders," Karl said compassionately. Anders wiped his eyes and faced the other mage; a sad, understanding look filled his face. "I see now why you've... been the way you have."

He heaved a deep, heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. It really has meant a lot to me, what we've had—but I just can't take it any farther, Karl. You should... look at others. I want to keep your friendship, but if you are done with me after this, I understand that too. I'm sorry for... well... using you to get through my own grief." He hung his head. "It wasn't what I ever intended."

"In any relationship, there's a component of 'using' the other person to get through difficult times," Karl said. He managed a weak smile. "I prefer to think of it as helping each other out. I'm glad to have had what we did, and I'm glad you told me about those six months at last." He sighed. "I would like to keep your friendship, but it may be difficult—"

Anders closed his eyes. I never should have led Karl on. I didn't mean to, but I should have exercised better control of myself. Now I'm going to lose his friendship too.

"—because Irving and Greagoir have informed me that I'm going to be transferred to the Circle in Kirkwall."

Anders' eyes popped open, wide with shock and horror. "What?" he breathed. His heart began to pound.

"It's true. That was what the Knight-Commander told me this morning. It's why I don't have my own quarters."

"Why?" Anders burst out, but suddenly he was sure he knew the answer. "It's because they've seen us together," he answered his own question, his voice suddenly turning low and dark with fury. "They don't want mages to get too close to each other. It might mean we put a relationship ahead of loyalty to them, or they imagine that caring about someone might make us easier prey for demons."

"Whatever the reason, I'm going to be shipped out tomorrow," Karl said morosely. "I just—had to know before I left. I had to know where we stood, what we'd had, what it meant." He hugged Anders. "I'm sorry. I hope you can find her."

As Anders hugged Karl back, he tried to suppress the sobs that just kept coming. I'm going to be alone again, he thought. What in the Maker's name am I going to do now? He reflected on what Karl had just said, as the answer came to him. That was a coded message to make an escape. I'm going to do it. The time has come.


He made it out, vacillating for a moment about whether to head north, south, or east. Kirkwall's Circle was infamous among mages, though they spoke quietly to avoid being overheard. It was a bad place, with rules that were even stricter than the ones here. Karl didn't need to be there.

But Caitlyn. She is in Lothering, with our son. That comes first. And perhaps once they see I have escaped, they'll bring him back to Ferelden—or he might manage to escape as well.

He recalled that his phylactery had been sent to Denerim after he passed his Harrowing. Hmm... he had business in Denerim. The Grey Wardens needed to know about the ghouls outside of Lothering... damn it, the summer of last year! It had been too long, and with that thought, an entirely different, Blight-related set of fears filled his mind.

Lothering it was. He headed south.

They caught him in the Bannorn, dragging him out of his camp in the middle of the night. When he saw that the apprehending Templar was again Ser Rolan, who was utterly gleeful, he wanted to punch the man's teeth out.


Knight-Commander Greagoir stood away, scowling, as the Tranquil workers finished installing the locking door on Anders' private bedroom. "If I had my way, you would be spending the next year in that same cell you were locked in after your long apostasy, but the First Enchanter is more merciful and talked me into locking you in your chamber instead. You will do your studying here. If you need books from the library, you will request them from a Tranquil; you will not go there yourself. The same if you need any supplies from the laboratory. Your meals will be brought to you at scheduled times. You will have no social visitors. Do I make myself clear?"

They're locking me up. They are imprisoning me in this bedroom for a year, without any contact with anyone except the Tranquil—I presume to show me what they would do to me if I weren't a Harrowed mage now. Giving the Knight-Commander the surliest, most spiteful look he could muster, he sneered back, "Perfectly."

The Tranquil backed away from the newly installed door. Greagoir slammed it and turned the key in the lock with a cold click.


He found himself sleeping a lot after that. It was as if hope itself had fled him. Another year of my life gone, he thought. Another year of my son's childhood that I will never get to see. Another year with her, taken from us. It was too much to cope with by day, and he found that the dreams of the Fade, the visions of her and the child, of her family, sometimes of Karl, were better than being awake even though he knew they were not real.

As he wandered the Fade increasingly often, he felt the presence of the spirit of Justice more and more. At first it was soothing to know that the benevolent warrior spirit had his back, but after a time, he began to mistrust the entity. At last, he confronted it.

"Why are you following me around in the Fade?" he asked, not with a deliberately hostile tone, but very bluntly nonetheless. "You have been interested in me for over a year and a half."

Justice was not affronted, and it seemed to appreciate the bluntness. "I sense incredible anger and misery over a great injustice," the spirit explained. "It has drawn me to you. Your feelings have drawn many spirits to you, but the others mean you harm."

Anders was about to protest that he had passed his Harrowing, but the words died on his lips. He didn't believe that made a bit of difference. As he had said himself to Carver Hawke once, he didn't think the Harrowing proved anything except that a mage could refuse one demon at one moment. He considered Justice's words. "I want to make things right, but I don't know how," he said. "Everything I try seems to make things worse—and now I am locked in this room, away from everyone I love, for the greater part of a year still."

"You will yet succeed at escaping if you plan well."

"If you're asking to possess me so that you can 'help' me—"

"I am not. I do want to help you, but since it is my nature to see justice done, I will share my ideas freely in a case in which an injustice exists."

Anders relaxed. "I'm glad you have taken an interest in me," he confessed. "It looks as if you are the only friend I will be able to talk to until I get out."


Notes: So... this got more AU than I had expected, and it's much more Justice-positive than I ever dreamed I would write (I have been a Justice skeptic). I think it is safe to say that here, Justice saved him. This is going to influence the Awakening parts, needless to say. The next two chapters will return to Hawke's viewpoint, beginning back in mid-9:27 when we last saw her.