Notes: This chapter title is a lyric of "Another Stranger Me" by Blind Guardian.
Warning: Hawke acts like an absolute shitheel at the end of this chapter, and the circumstances under which she does are pretty awful. As I said in an early chapter, her anger is going to get her in trouble with people she cares about...
Chapter 13: Someone Else, Another Stranger
The first sounds Caitlyn heard as she emerged from the Fade were vaguely familiar voices around her.
"Look at them! It's so precious," murmured a female, maternal voice.
"Grandma, is my father going to be staying here?"
"I hope to the Maker not," grumbled a male voice. "Another person to put up who could support himself?"
Caitlyn blinked awake. Mal, her mother, and her uncle were standing in the doorway to the shared bedroom. The adults were having a discussion, while the little boy was pleading with them. She realized that she was very warm and glanced to her side. Anders was still asleep, and he had rolled on his side so that his face was turned to hers. That would account for the warmth. She didn't think they had actually been snuggling, because she had not had to extricate herself when she awakened, but they had been close. She felt vaguely relieved, but at the same time, also vaguely pained. Perhaps their... status... would be more easily determined if things just happened on their own, unconsciously. Perhaps if she had woken up nestled into him, she would have a better idea of what to think based on how she would have responded to that discovery.
It doesn't work that way, she chastised herself. Whatever we decide to do, we'll have to make a deliberate choice, no shortcuts.
"Good morning," Leandra said, noticing at last that her daughter was awake.
Mal bounded over to her. "Can we wake up Father?" he whispered playfully, glancing at Anders with mischief in his eyes. He was hiding his hands behind his back.
In spite of her own uncertainty, Caitlyn smirked. The innocence of a child was just right at times. "Don't hurt him," she said, "but you can surprise him."
The little boy grinned. He knelt on the floor next to Anders and brought his hands around to his front. She realized that they were dripping wet and that he must have been playing in the puddles of rainwater. Making a quick assessment that it was just water and not mud, she got off the pallet and watched in amusement as he placed his small hands on Anders' face.
A startled shriek came from Anders as he woke up. Before his eyelids fluttered open, Caitlyn noticed something odd; a light blue crackle resembling the shape of lightning flashed across his cheek and neck before vanishing. What was that, a spell he cast subconsciously as he left the dream world? That happened on rare occasions; she had a scorch mark on her quilt—packed in a crate now, as it was not the cool season in Kirkwall and she did not need it—from an accidental tiny flame burst, about the size of a candle flicker, years ago. She had been a young girl then, though, still learning to control her magic. Nothing like this had happened with Anders four years ago on any of the occasions when they had spent the night in his little loft; he too had control of his magic as an adult. She would have to remember to ask him about it; perhaps the traumas he had suffered had caused this to happen. He blinked awake, gasping in surprise—and, to his credit, instantly realized what had just happened upon seeing the child's face.
"You little scoundrel!" he exclaimed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he grabbed his son around the waist before the latter could flee. Mal squealed as Anders stood up, holding him all the while and swinging him around in his arms before bringing him into a quick hug. He set the child down with a smile and turned to the others in the room.
Caitlyn's heart had thumped oddly at the sight of Anders playing with Mal. In that brief second, she longed for him to stay—to be here, to be a part of their family all the time, to be the father he obviously wanted to be, and also to... No, she interrupted her own thoughts. Too soon. And he still has something important to tell me.
He pulled on his coat and fastened the belt around his waist. "I should go," he said, his voice suddenly very sober. "Patients start to arrive at the clinic early." A scowl formed on his face. "The way Fereldans are treated is a disgrace to this city. I would ask why the Chantry isn't helping the Fereldan poor except I think I already know the answer."
Uncle Gamlen, who had fortunately moved to the common area but still overheard, raised his eyebrows. "Good morning to you too," he said pointedly as all three of them left the bedroom. "Now, let's just get one thing straight."
Instantly Caitlyn and Anders tensed. He was clearly not happy that his sister had let another person into his house while he was in a drunken sleep.
"Leandra told me who you are," he continued, glaring through narrowed eyes at each of them. "For the little boy's sake, I'll allow you to visit here. But I am not going to tolerate any of what caused you two to get him in the first place. Not in my house. Understand?"
Get him? Caitlyn thought in disgust. What a way to put it! I knew he was vulgar, but— "Oh, certainly, uncle," she seethed, cutting off Anders' reply before he could speak a single syllable, "that's exactly what I wanted to do in the same bedroom as my child and my mother! Maker's breath."
Gamlen glowered back. "Personally I think you and the boy should go to his—what do you say it is? A clinic?—in Darktown."
"Oh, Gamlen," Leandra exclaimed, her face falling. She turned to them. "Don't listen to him."
"If he gets paid as a Grey Warden, he ought to be able to support them. They're his family, especially the boy. He should take care of them."
He actually has a point, Anders thought, but as he noticed the hostile glower on Caitlyn's face directed at her uncle, he realized that now was not a good time to discuss any version of that idea. This was obviously not a happy household, and he did not know what sorts of grudges and resentments had festered over the course of the year. In any case, it would be pretty presumptuous to expect them to move at once, especially since he had not seen Caitlyn in years, did not know exactly where they stood, and did not have a better home than this one to offer. I should help with the coin, though, he thought. My expenses as a Healer are quite low; I gather most of the herbs I use, and the Warden-Commander will ship lyrium as needed. I already have decent savings from the time in Amaranthine.
"I have every intention of doing all that I can," he finally said, "and I won't impose on your... hospitality... any longer." The pause was deliberate; Anders did not mean it as a slight of the physical accommodations, but rather, Gamlen's extremely inhospitable behavior. From the look on Gamlen's face, the barb struck. Coolly he headed for the front door.
Leandra tried to stop him. "Anders, you don't have to leave immediately!" she exclaimed. "Have breakfast, at least."
"Thank you, but your brother is right," he said gently. "I do have coin of my own and food stored at my clinic. I shouldn't take from you."
Mal's eyes widened. "You're not going to live with us?"
A pang of guilt hit him. He got on his knees and patted the small child on the head. "This is your great-uncle's house. He thinks I should live in my own home, and he's right. I live in Kirkwall. You can visit me any day, and I'm not going to leave you again."
Caitlyn's heart suddenly started to pound rapidly, not out of sentiment, but out of irrational fear. What is happening? she thought in panic and annoyance. He lives in Darktown, and he's only going to work—to treat sick refugees. Sick Fereldans. He's not going—
Mal voiced her unspoken fear, making her heart thump harder. "The people who took you..."
"They can't take me away now. I became a Grey Warden, and that means they're not allowed." Anders wished he were as confident as his words suggested that the Templars of Kirkwall, about whom he'd heard nothing good, would leave a Grey Warden mage be, but this child did not need to know about that.
"Grey Wardens are heroes," Mal replied, awe in his young face.
Anders laughed sadly. "Some are. I just want to help the other people who came here from Ferelden."
"Which is heroism in its way," Leandra added encouragingly.
"I wish we could all live together," Mal lamented.
So do I, he thought. What to tell Mal, though? Caitlyn was right there, and he did not want to say anything that might sound presumptuous to her ears—but neither did he want to extinguish hopes, either Mal's or, if he were honest, his own. Perhaps even though Mal was three and a half, he could still hear some version of the truth. He was intelligent and perceptive, after all; Anders had realized that after just one night. "Your mamma and I have not seen each other in a long time, since before you were born," he said. "We need to do a lot of talking before we make any decisions like that. But I promise you this," he said, locking his gaze with his son's, "I want to see you. I want to spend time with you. And we'll do that, no matter what."
"I can come to your house?"
Anders smiled. "It's not a house like this one; it's a place where I heal sick people, but yes. If your mother allows it."
"And I will," Caitlyn murmured.
Leandra looked as if she wanted to continue to argue, but he actually did need to get to the clinic in case there were early visitors. He gathered up the rest of his belongings, picked up his staff from the corner next to the front door where he had laid it, and opened the door to the morning sky. The musty, earthy scent of fresh rainfall greeted him.
As he opened the door and stepped onto the doorstep, a strange thing happened to Caitlyn. Across the muddy street, a woman in red was sweeping out her home—but for a second, Caitlyn saw a Templar dressed in the distinctive burgundy of Kirkwall, holding a greatsword rather than a broom, and the panic that had been swelling in her took over. She hissed and yanked Anders back inside, slamming the door behind him. She faced him, eyes wide, heart thudding so hard that her pulse was actually visible across her upper abdomen, even through her clothing.
"What the—" Leandra began.
Caitlyn closed her eyes and leaned against the door, breathing heavily. That was Uncle Gamlen's neighbor... wasn't it? Or was it? She was so sure for a moment that she had seen one of Meredith Stannard's people holding a huge sword, ready to cut them all down or take Anders away again. She kept her eyes shut, blocking out everyone, ready to hear the heavy knock on the door that she had dreaded all her life.
It did not come. Gingerly she opened her eyes again. Everyone there was staring at her in concern, but Anders alone had an additional expression apparent in his face. He seemed to understand what had just happened.
"Er," she began, now feeling embarrassed as she realized the trick her own mind and eyes had played on her. "I... thought I saw a Templar for a moment." She opened the door, steeling herself as she did. Even though she knew now that it was just a Lowtown resident, the irrational panic and terror stirred again at the fear that perhaps she was wrong. Breathing heavily, she forced herself to look across the street—but the person had disappeared. Her heart thudded again. She no longer trusted her own perceptions; had there been a person at all? Yes, and she went back inside, Caitlyn told herself, scolding her own mind for being irrational. She went back into her house. That was not a Templar.
And yet, despite these determinedly rational thoughts, despite his own assurances that he was a Grey Warden serving the Hero of the Blight, she did not want to let him walk back to Darktown alone. The last time she had let Anders go off somewhere without her...
"Do you want to walk with me to the clinic?" he asked her. He glanced at Mal, who was staring at his mother in concern. "And what about you? Would you like to see me at work?"
"Is Mamma all right?" the child asked in a small, worried voice.
Anders nodded. "Your mamma and I both have some bad memories."
"You heal sick people," he said stubbornly. "Is Mamma sick?"
Good question, Caitlyn thought. What had just happened? It was almost as if the Fade itself had intruded, except there were no signs of a rift or a weakness. Was she going mad?
"No," Anders said firmly. "Definitely not. She just didn't get a good look at somebody, and it made her remember something bad that had happened."
"Let's go to your clinic," she said, picking up her staff. In a quiet voice that only he could hear, she added, "And if you do need to look at me, you're the one who'll have to explain that to him."
A patient was already camped outside Anders' door, a young woman who appeared to have been a soldier once, based on the sword she had, but was now, judging by her armor, working for the Coterie, the loosely organized guild of thieves. Caitlyn felt a surge of irritation at the thought that yet another highly qualified Fereldan was forced to work for organized crime because of Kirkwall prejudice when the legitimate City Guard needed all the help it could get. Aveline was also a soldier, but I wonder if her Orlesian heritage is the real reason the City Guard hired her, she thought darkly. The patient was bruised and bloodied, explaining her presence outside Anders' clinic.
As he tended to her wounds, Caitlyn noticed that Mal was fixated upon the healing magic. His eyes were wide with interest as Anders sealed up the woman's injuries. I hope you can do it someday, since you are so interested in it, she thought. I don't mind hoping for that now. Since Anders and I are both mages, I should accept that you will probably show magic someday too rather than living in denial about this, and I promise I'll make it right for you if you do.
The Coterie woman got off the sickbed and grunted as she got to her feet. "That's a lot better," she said. "How much?"
"I'm being paid by the Grey Wardens to do this as a service to the Blight refugees," he said.
"Then consider this a donation to the 'Grey Wardens.'" She slipped him a silver. "Especially since..." She nodded toward Mal, having worked out his relationship to Anders.
The clinic was empty after she departed, and no one else was waiting outside yet. Caitlyn took a deep breath and turned to him. "Well," she said, her voice brittle and dark, "whatever you weren't saying at my uncle's house, you should say now."
He looked confused for a moment before recalling what she was worried about. "I truly don't think you have anything to worry about," he said. "When I was serving at Vigil's Keep, in Amaranthine, something similar happened to me... I believe."
"Oh?"
He suddenly remembered that he had not told her a word about Rolan or the gruesome fate of the ex-Templar—or Justice, he thought with a pang. But now was not a good time for that with little Mal present. "There was a former Templar who joined the Grey Wardens," he said, "the very one who captured me that day, in fact. Yes," he added as her face instantly curled in furious recognition of what that implied. "He did it because he had it in for me. I'll... tell you more about that later," he said pointedly with a quick glance at Mal. "But there was one day, the day after he joined, that we got into a brawl in the Warden library. I cast an accidental spark of lightning, and he panicked and used a Templar skill against me. And for a moment, it was that day on the Lothering road all over again." He closed his eyes in pain. "It was as if my own eyes and brain were playing a trick on me."
She breathed heavily. "That is basically what happened. I wasn't sure what I was seeing for a moment. It was frightening to be unable to trust my own eyes. What do you think it is? I wondered if it might be a spot of thin Veil, but I couldn't sense anything magical."
He gazed ahead thoughtfully. "I wondered the same thing, but I don't think it is either, for the same reason. I think that this... phenomenon... could be stronger in mages, certainly, since we can reshape reality... but I really think this is something that happens in our own minds. Even mundanes can alter their perceptions by drinking and consuming certain... substances. It doesn't change what's real."
"Great," Caitlyn muttered. "So it is something like madness."
"I didn't mean that! I just meant that there are certain memories that are a lot stronger and more vivid than others, I've noticed—easier to recall, and just thinking of them brings back a flood of emotions and somewhat takes me away from what is happening at the present moment. These seem to be like that, but they bring up shock and fear instead of anything pleasant."
She sighed, rubbing her head. "I suppose if there were anything you could do about it as a Healer, you would have done it to yourself by now."
He chuckled darkly. "Healing magic only cures physical injuries. Traumatic memories aren't."
"And yet they're sometimes the worst injuries of all."
That, Anders thought, was far too true for comment. There was nothing he could say to it.
The sound of activity outside the clinic door interrupted their contemplation. "That'll be the refugees who stand guard for me," he said briskly.
"I actually wondered about that. Have you been threatened?" Caitlyn asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.
"Not directly, but they all seem to know that a Grey Warden would have coin about—and of course they know that I am a mage. Even though the Templars aren't supposed to interfere with us, there are lawless zealots in the ranks... as I learned in Amaranthine," he muttered darkly. "And I've heard nothing good about the ones here in Kirkwall or the Knight-Commander."
"Then I expect everything that you have heard about them is accurate," she said in bitter tones. "There seem to be an unusual number of the zealous kind here. The Knight-Commander looks at me whenever she passes me as if she knows my secret and just needs proof."
Anders glanced up sharply. "I hope you don't carry that staff about much, then."
"No more than I have to, but I do have to sometimes. I can use a dagger in basic ways, but I wouldn't last long against a pack of assassins or mercenaries if I didn't have magic. Given the choice between being murdered on the street and using magic, what can I do? There is an organization in Kirkwall called the Mage Underground that helps mages escape from this place. A Fereldan woman can't go about in Kirkwall defenseless, Anders. I saw that from my first day here."
He seemed to turn to stone at that, and whatever the strange magic phenomenon was, she was sure she noticed a flicker of it again behind his eyes for a moment. "Did somebody—"
"They tried once. It was the last thing they ever tried, too," she said grimly.
"Good." The idea of her striking down a group of would-be rapists was very pleasing to him... and to Justice... but he hated that it had been necessary. So much loss and fear in her life shouldn't have occurred—and he blamed himself for not being there. I swore I'd protect them, he thought. I swore to her father just before his death, and I couldn't keep my word.
"But that doesn't mean I'm safe. On the whole, I'd rather risk being taken to the Circle by Templars than... alternatives. Carver and I still bicker a lot, but I know he'd try to get me out. And you would too, of course."
Anders breathed heavily, turning his head aside to stare outward. Caitlyn glanced at him and noticed that odd bluish-white crackle dart down his neck again. So, it seemed, did Mal.
"Is that magic... Father?" he asked.
Startled, Anders turned back as he realized what must have happened. "Yes," he said to the little boy. "It is."
"I know Mamma is in danger from Templars and bad people," he said, his voice low. "I've heard her talk about it."
Caitlyn felt awful suddenly. "Oh, Mal, I didn't mean for you to hear those things!" she exclaimed, rushing to hug him. "There are dangerous people, yes—but I won't let anything happen."
"Neither will I," Anders said, his words resolute and his voice strangely deeper.
Mal managed a smile, still somehow comforted with the belief that nothing that awful could happen to his parents—even though something terrible had happened to his aunt right before his eyes. His parents, though, were different—or at least, he was still young enough to believe so. Anders' appearance in Kirkwall must have rendered him invincible in Mal's mind. Caitlyn realized it, and it made her feel profoundly sad to know that someday that illusion would end for him. She just hoped that it ended gently, by the maturation of his mind, rather than by another tragedy. She lifted her gaze to Anders and realized, from the look on his face, that he was having similar thoughts.
"Oh!" Mal was suddenly fascinated with a chart on Anders' wall depicting regions of specific healing magic sensitivity in human, elven, dwarven, and qunari bodies. If he's a mage, he really might be a budding Healer himself. I... would like that, she thought as she lifted him onto the nearest bed to the chart.
Anders smiled proudly and then turned back to her. "There is one thing I can do, actually—but I won't promise to do it unless you want me to."
"Oh?"
"I..." He hesitated, vaguely sickened at what he was about to suggest, but it might be the only way. "If you are ever captured by Templars, I could conscript you into the Grey Wardens. I wouldn't even have to make you a Warden," he added at once. And I hope to the Maker it never comes to that, he thought, because if the Wardens themselves found out that I had conscripted her, they would force her to take the Joining—and that is often fatal. I think she would survive, but some people don't. "Just making the claim would get the Templars to back off."
For a moment she had been visibly affronted at the offer. Did she regard it as a way for him to control her? He didn't mean it that way. It would be an option of last resort to protect her. He wanted to protect her, to attempt to keep his promise to Malcolm for the surviving Hawkes.
His suspicion of how she viewed the offer was correct; her first instinct had been that he was mightily full of himself to suggest that. His reassurance that he wouldn't necessarily have to go through with it cooled her off, however, and she realized why he had actually said it. After a moment, she nodded. "I'd rather you did not do it immediately, though, even if the worst did happen. Only do it if I got locked up and could not get out after... a fortnight, we'll say."
He nodded in agreement. "There are sacrifices to being a Warden," he said in a low voice. Not just infertility—I'll have to tell you about that if, and when, we get back together, and if we do, that's already going to be a sacrifice we both make—but other things too. "I wouldn't want you to have to take them on—but if I did have to conscript you, it's possible that outside Wardens might learn about it, and they would insist that you truly become one. Better that it not come to that. Just... be careful, all right? Maybe keep the staff concealed... or as concealed as you can."
She shook her head in mild exasperation. "Advises the man who has been in Kirkwall less than a week. I've lived here for a year, you do know."
He felt sheepish at that. "You're right. I concede the point," he said with a hint of a smile.
Despite the mild presumptuousness of the offer and advice, Caitlyn felt happier after the discussion. It was like old times, in a way—discussing a serious topic with Anders, but with banter and mild teasing mixed in, ending in mutual respect. Maybe, despite everything, he isn't so different after all, she thought. And although she didn't believe she needed protection, it was nice to know that he wanted to offer it. He wants to help people now, she thought. That's why he is here at all. He also mentioned being more motivated to help mages due to everything that happened. He has always been a Healer, but if anything significant about him has changed, it must be this—and that's a good change.
He seemed to be thinking similar thoughts. When they raised their eyes to each other, she gazed into his warm brown ones and felt a sudden urge to kiss him—to lift her hand to his cheek and just embrace and kiss him right here, in the clinic. It had been so long, and she had missed him. Yes, I have missed him, she thought. I can admit that. Anders took in a quick breath; he too seemed struck with the inclination to kiss her... but the moment passed, and they did not.
He broke his gaze with hers. "Right, then. So... I mentioned my... friend... from the Circle last night? How he needed to be broken out of the one here?"
All of a sudden, Caitlyn did not want to kiss him at all. Oh yes, I remember, she thought with a rush of sudden... something. Anger? Jealousy? Those would be the last lips he kissed, presumably, unless he got up to something as a Grey Warden and lied about it last night. —Oh, why am I thinking this? she argued with herself. He wasn't lying. I just need him to have been because otherwise I don't have the right to be jealous or resent him for this man, since I did the same thing.
To him she replied, a noticeable coolness in her voice, "Yes, I do recall. You want to conscript him into the Grey Wardens?"
Anders raised his eyebrows at her tone, or perhaps her suggestion. "I hadn't thought of that, but it's a decent idea," he said. "As long as they let him stay at a fortress and didn't sent him into the blighted Deep Roads." He shuddered at the memories of the Amaranthine campaign that Caitlyn realized he still had not shared with her—and that thought steamed her. He wanted a very risky favor from her but wouldn't share all his secrets even now?
"You thought about it with me. Why not him? You don't want to choose his career, I see."
He was startled at her sudden frostiness. "I really didn't mean any offense, and that wasn't what it was about at all! If you don't want me to, I won't!" He softened, his gaze pleading. "We parted as friends, Caitlyn. He had already ended the other because I told him about you. I just want to get my friend, a fellow mage, out of that place."
"He learned about me long before I learned about him, then," she said icily, well aware that that was an unreasonable comment, but not particularly caring. She felt as if she were being emotionally coerced and extorted. "But very well, I'll be your muscle if you insist—though I should say that outing myself as a mage in front of Templars may not be the best way to keep it a secret. Though I suppose that if that happens, you can always conscript me into the Wardens!"
That one struck target. He sucked in his breath. "The idea is to avoid encounters with Templars and smuggle him out. If Leliana were locked up in the Aeonar, wouldn't you want to get her out just so that she could be free?" he retorted. He felt bad about it—that seemed like a low blow—but he just wished she would understand that she would not have to "compete" for him if she wanted him back. He really did simply want to rescue a mage, his friend, from the clutches of Meredith Stannard and her henchmen.
She glowered back at him but could not dispute the point. All the warmth and closeness that she had felt merely minutes ago was gone, but her anger had returned, and she found a certain degree of comfort in the familiarity of that. "All right, Anders—yes, I would, though I expect that Elissa Cousland would take on that particular task first. But I suppose this man does not have anyone who can do that." With cold businesslike briskness in the gesture, she extended her hand for him to shake. They shook briefly, Caitlyn ignoring the pain in his eyes at this conclusion to their otherwise warm encounter.
She went over to the patient bed where Mal was studying the chart intently and quietly urged him that it was time to go home. He was momentarily crushed, but he seemed to understand that his father needed to work.
"So, let me get this straight," Varric drawled as he and Carver accompanied Caitlyn to the Chantry the following night, where the mage was supposed to be waiting. "We're going to bust out your former lover's former lover from the Circle? Or rather, smuggle him from the Chantry after some mysterious others get him there?"
"Evidently," Carver growled with a dark glare at his sister. "I still don't know why. He said he'd give us the maps anyway. Though if it means he's taking up with that fellow and not returning..."
Caitlyn had been listening to the conversation with growing resentment, not at her companions, but at Anders for asking this—and herself for going along with it—but Carver's comment hit her like the pommel of a sword. "Then what?" she said, stopping in her tracks and fixing him with a deadly glare. "What would that mean to you?"
"That his vanity and his interest in styling your hair make sense now? I mean, all right, obviously he likes women too, but..."
"How nice, Carver. Try to remember whom you are talking to before you make these comments, please," she muttered, though a cruel, hypocritical part of her wanted to chuckle at his stereotyping. Why do I still want to hurt Anders so much?
"What should I remember, that you're the same way or that you still have feelings for him? Because I remember both just fine."
She was torn between denying the latter out of spite and merely coming up with a generic riposte, but Varric mercifully spoke up. "All right, children," he interceded. They momentarily stopped bickering.
"Honestly, Carver, I don't like it either. It feels like emotional extortion," she said, relishing the words and banishing all thoughts of compassion or—especially—a debt to Anders from her thoughts. "But he told me that they were just friends now and he only wants to help his old friend."
"At the potential cost of your freedom."
"That has occurred to me," she muttered darkly. "He thinks he has a solution if that happens. Bloody Grey Warden self-importance. 'I could conscript the Empress of Orlais if I wanted to and nobody could stop me!' Want to bet?" She knew that she was being unfair and that Anders had made no such assertion, but it certainly felt good to lash out. The revelations of the past couple of days had been an emotional shock to her, one that she was still unsure of how to handle, so retreating to the company of her old friends Rage and Spite was what she was doing. It was easier and simpler to find—or invent—reasons to be angry with him than to think about the four years he went through, his escapes, what he suffered, the despair he had in Amaranthine, Bethany's ashes...
"He was already self-important enough, if you ask me."
She laughed nastily, taking joy in it even though she knew she always would have defended Anders against Carver's insults before.
Varric raised his eyebrows at the two siblings, but they were approaching the Chantry steps, so they ceased the commentary. Anders was waiting outside.
"I saw Karl go in," he remarked nervously. "I didn't see any Templars with him."
"I didn't see any either," Varric replied, seeing that neither of the Hawkes probably should talk to him right this moment. "Let's go inside."
They entered the Chantry. At the top of a set of stairs, waiting in a wing, was a brown-haired bearded mage whose back was turned, facing a cabinet. The group approached him.
The mage turned around, and Caitlyn's eyes widened in horror. The nightmare she'd had years ago, the dream of the Fereldan Circle room where Anders was being kept, the marking on his head—it was on the head of this man.
"Anders, I know you too well. I knew you would never give up." Karl's voice was flat and hollow.
Anders had not yet seen the brand. He drew back for a moment, panic filling his face. This wasn't like Karl. "What's wrong? Why are you talking like—"
Karl turned around, and Anders' eyes widened in despair as he saw what had happened to his friend. "I was too rebellious, like you. The Templars knew I had to be made an example of." The words were still empty and flat, as if he were repeating something that had been told to him by someone else rather than speaking what he thought himself.
And that's exactly what he is doing, because they took his own mind away from him, Anders thought in anguish as he burst out, "No!"
Caitlyn was too appalled at this, this nightmare made reality, to even listen to the rest of the horrible pablum—and as she tried to focus on something else, anything else, she overheard the approach of footsteps.
Karl finished speaking at the very moment that a group of Templars approached the party. An ambush! she thought in fury. These bastards set up an ambush! She slung her staff off her back and readied a spell to blast them back—but before she could, the blue-white light that she had seen hints of and assumed was just a manifestation of a spell glowed from Anders' entire body, illuminating his eyes like otherworldly lamps, crackling down his neck and limbs.
He tumbled to the ground, clutching his head—and in the next moment, rose to his feet, light blazing from his eyes and extending from his entire body in a glorious blue flame. His very voice was different as he roared, "You will never take another mage as you took him!"
So that's his secret! He really is a different person! The conclusion was instant for Caitlyn. She had never personally seen an abomination, but her father had, and he had described to her and Bethany how possessed mages transformed as the demons they had allowed to share their bodies took them over. There was no doubt in her mind that that was what she was witnessing. Anders wasn't the only one ambushed—we were too, by him! He kept that from me!
Without thinking, she blasted him full in the face with a cloud of entropic energy.
"What the fuck?" Carver exploded at her as Anders went down. Fury and terror were in his blue eyes—and in the moment after the sense of vindictive satisfaction left her, she realized what a horrible, potentially fatal mistake it was to incapacitate an ally, even temporarily. Now she was faced with numerous well-armed Templars—with only Carver and Varric as allies, and no Healer.
Anders remained on the ground for a few seconds, the blue light suffusing his body, before rising to his feet, but the attackers had already wounded everyone. With a roar, he engaged them.
The lead Templar brought his sword down in an arc very near Caitlyn. A sudden burning sensation shot from her arm, then blood burst from her rent flesh to the carpet. It was deeper than a mere graze and continued to spurt. Jerking back, she clutched her staff arm with her other hand—which was a mistake. The Templar raised his hand, and a sickening sensation filled her as she felt all the energy in her body leave her. She collapsed to the floor, cold and shaking. The Templar hefted his blade to end her.
In a flash, Carver was in front of her, bringing his greatsword through the air in a deadly arc, cutting through the attacker's armor and sending him to the floor in a gush of blood. Caitlyn felt a bit of energy returning to her, but she could barely get to her feet after that, let alone cast another spell—and her arm was spurting vividly red blood, a sure sign of a severed artery. She wouldn't last long.
A blast of healing magic struck her arm, knitting the gaping, otherwise mortal wound back together. Shocked, she glanced at Anders, who was still possessed... but the demon had not transformed him into the hideous misshapen thing—or its own form in the Fade—that her father said always happened eventually. His body was still his own, though the Fade-light poured from it. And it didn't kill me, she thought in an instant. It healed me—though there was still a gash, and a trickle of blood continued to ooze.
I wish I knew how to do blood magic, she thought, shocked momentarily at the idea that had crossed her mind, but it was in times like these, when her mana level was still very low in the recovery from a Holy Smite, when it would have been useful to have an alternate source of magic. She glanced at Anders—or whatever is puppeting Anders' body, she thought—who looked to be flagging himself despite the thing that still suffused him with blue light. That was a powerful healing spell, so it probably took a lot out of him. She staggered to her feet and began to cast again, though her spells were not as strong as they had been before.
At last the Templars were all down. One of them was still struggling, and Carver brought his sword down lethally to still him. Varric raised his eyebrows at that, but only for a moment.
He healed me. I took him down, and he healed me anyway. Another thing I owe him. Damn him, why? Why can't he be cruel back to me? she thought. He claimed he could protect me, and then the bloody bastard went and proved it. I didn't want—but if he hadn't, we might all have died.
"I—Anders, what did you do?" exclaimed Karl, clutching his head. His eyes were wide with shock, and his voice was natural now, with emotion and variance of tone. "It's like you brought a piece of the Fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like."
Because he did do that, Caitlyn thought mutinously. Whatever kept him from transforming fully, it doesn't matter. He could have killed us all—and to get his former lover out of here, at that! She did not truly believe that; the time to do that would have been in battle, but it certainly felt good to think it.
"Karl—I—" Anders' words were pained.
"It's like the Fade itself is inside you, burning like the sun," Karl continued. He gazed desperately at his friend, eyes wide. "Please, kill me before I forget again! I don't know how you brought it back, but it's fading."
Anders closed his eyes in misery. Not this. Not this again. For a moment, he thought he was by the side of the road north of Lothering again, and another man—another mage—who had meant something to him was begging for death at his hands. It was not a full flashback like the one he'd had in Amaranthine, or the one that Caitlyn had experienced the day before, but it was still a horrible memory. Another condition I cannot cure, he thought. Another person I cared about, another mage with so much to offer, destroyed because he knew me.
"I would rather die as a mage than live as a Templar puppet," Karl pleaded, his face strained in anguish. "Please."
Anders closed his eyes, trying not to recall the words that Karl had spoken before Justice took over and, for however briefly, brought his friend back. I would too, he thought—but he didn't want to be the one to do this. Not again. He turned to Caitlyn, hoping that she would understand what he wanted—and forgive him for asking it, even silently.
To his despair, she merely stared back at him, her gaze as hard as stone, a fury of betrayal and outrage burning from her eyes.
"You're the one," Karl said to her. "The one he told me about. I'm glad that he found you again, now that they did this to me. Please—take care of him."
She turned aside, closing her eyes momentarily as if that would also block out the words, then glowering at the floor. No. I am done. He's chosen his protector and he will live with that choice.
A cry of anguish escaped from Karl as he felt himself slipping away. "Do it, please!" he exclaimed.
Anders realized that he was on his own. She wasn't going to step up. Why, Caitlyn? Why can't you show an ounce of sympathy or mercy even at a time like this? You would have four years ago. What in the Maker's name did these years do to you? But no, he was going to have to kill Karl, and it was his own damned fault. Choking back a sob, he drew his blade and advanced on Karl. "I was too late," he choked out. I'm always too late for the people I care about. "I'm so sorry." He gazed at Karl's face, trying to fix this in his memories forever—this face, the lively, animated face of his friend, not that other face.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
"Goodbye," he choked out as he drove the dagger home.
The mage—yes, he is a mage, and he is dying a mage, Anders thought miserably—collapsed to the floor, bleeding out, but with his knowledge of the body and his Healer training, Anders knew exactly where to strike, so it fortunately was no more than a few seconds. His face crumpled as he stooped to the floor to pick up Karl's body, hardly caring if blood got on him. He closed his eyes and felt a tear run down the side of his face. Goodbye, he thought again, hefting the body over his back.
"So."
Her voice was vicious. His eyes popped open in shock, and he found her glaring at him in utter fury. Tiny flames were actually bursting from her palms, and she was making no effort to stop this. Her brother and the dwarf glanced at her in surprise—and in the case of Varric, sharp disapproval.
Not here. At least wait to hear me out. Please. "We should leave before more Templars come," Anders said. "I'm going to go outside the city walls to burn him."
Caitlyn's thoughts were a mix of insults, swears, anger, and hurt pride as they descended the stairs. He'll want to talk again about the offer to conscript me to "protect" me, she thought. He will want me to consent to his doing it immediately if I'm captured by Templars, not waiting two weeks or any amount of time at all now, after this. And even if I didn't consent, if that situation arose, he'd probably do it anyway. Karl was a Harrowed mage, and Anders is a Grey Warden. This shouldn't have been allowed. He will do anything now to keep someone else from going into that place—as if he has the right to protect anyone! He harbors a demon in his body and kept that a secret from me! He's a danger to us himself!
He healed me, she thought again. Even after I attacked him. Surely a demon wouldn't do that... but who am I to say what they would or wouldn't do? she tried to reason. Who can fathom the logic of demons? He probably only did it because we needed every fighter we could have.
"You have a lot of explaining to do," she snapped, following close behind him as they left the Chantry. "I suggest you start talking now."
"Don't do this, Cait," muttered one of the others.
To her surprise, the voice was Carver's. She halted in her tracks, letting Anders get a few paces ahead of them as they reached the streets of Hightown once more, and whirled around to glare at him. "What's it to you?" she snarled, an orange flame blossoming from her hand and vanishing in the night air. "You approve of what you saw in there? He's possessed!"
"He didn't turn on us, and this isn't the time," Varric said through clenched teeth. "Let the poor man mourn."
"He is possessed by a demon!"
"It's not a demon," Anders finally said. "It's a spirit." He glared at her. "You heard Karl. Do you think a demon would do that for him—bring him back from the brink like that, however—however briefly?" he choked. "Or heal anyone? And yes, the spirit did it."
"You spent the night in the same room as my child!" she exclaimed, advancing on Anders again, ignoring his words. He was just defending himself again, and she had had enough. She was sick of him always having a bloody answer. She wanted him to hurt. She wanted to provoke him to be just as cruel to her as she was to him, because that would cancel her guilt. That would make it even.
"He would never harm either of you," Anders replied defensively, clutching Karl's body as if it were a shield. "He knew exactly who you both were before I even met him properly in the Fade."
"'He'? Your demon is a man too, I see?" she snapped. "That explains a lot, I suppose. That explains the entire four years so much better than that sad yarn you spun for my family in which you are so conveniently always the victim and always the tragic hero." Anders' face crumpled at that, but only for a moment; in the very next, his expression hardened into rage of his own. The sight gladdened her. At last, she thought—and she kept going recklessly, the vicious, cruel words tripping off her tongue faster than she could control them. "Not only did you turn to someone else once I wasn't there, but you also decided to literally share your body with a demon. I have to ask, are there any others you've invited inside? A wisp, perhaps, to replace your son? Or maybe there's a new demon coming to replace him?" she added with a nod to the body Anders carried. He was still standing like a stone as she continued. "That would be much more convenient for you. Unlike a person, if a demon gets cut off from the Fade, it can simply find a new host."
"What?" Anders finally exploded, though his voice was taut and cold.
Carver sucked in his breath, and Varric's jaw dropped. "Whoa, Hawke, not nice," he muttered.
For a moment she wondered if she had pushed too far, and if the demon would make another appearance, but not a flicker of the bluish-white light appeared. The cold anger she was now seeing was all his own. He glared at her, towering upright and holding Karl's body like it was a sacred duty.
He took a quick breath, then let it out. "You said you had changed. You're right—you definitely have," he said, his lips curling in contempt. He did not have to add, and not for the better, because it was unspoken—and she understood the message too. His nose turned up slightly as he stormed away, carrying Karl's body on his back as he headed for the city walls.
Carver glanced at his sister in disgust, shook his head, and began to walk away toward Lowtown without a word. Varric was also scowling at her. He tried to calm himself by taking breaths. Meanwhile, she stood by, fists clenched, tiny flames still shooting from them as she glowered at Anders' retreating form. Go, then, she thought. Go, and never come back, so I don't have to face you... or myself, for what I've said and done to you tonight. If she didn't have to face her own cruelty, the anger and pride would take over, and she would be able to avoid the guilt entirely.
Rage and pride are forms of demons, she thought idly—but pushed that aside. She wasn't the one who was possessed.
"All right," Varric muttered, startling her out of her glower. "I'm not your father, so I won't scold you for that—but I'll speak my piece and then leave it. If you don't want to lose him forever, you'd better go after him and get on your bloody knees to apologize—and I hope that would be enough." His tone made it clear that he was doubtful on that score.
She glared at him. "Who cares if he doesn't come back?" she spat.
"You do."
The simple words, spoken plainly and with little inflection, somehow broke her will. Oh, Maker, what have I done? she thought as Anders' tiny silhouette disappeared beyond the gates of Kirkwall. What have I done?
She gave Varric a quick nod and dashed after him, hoping she hadn't ruined everything.
