If Marian Hawke had a bit for every time she'd had to sneak into her family's estate through the cellar, she'd only have two bits, but it was weird that it had happened twice.
"Very weird," Marian murmured to herself as the ghosts of yesteryear shivered past her, ripples in the darkness.
The small flame that was barely doing its job of lighting the way through the maze-like vault beneath the Amell's ancestral home flickered as its wielder whipped around, summoned by her idle comment. Marian was certain that if the flame had been a normal flame, a flame born of stone striking stone, it would have sputtered and died in protest of the reckless carelessness with which it was handled. Luckily—or unluckily, depending on how one looked at it—for Marian, however, the flame was not a normal flame, and the man wielding it was not a normal man.
She squinted as the quivering flame and its summoner approached her, what she had initially thought to be a pitiful little excuse for a light now blazing with the brilliance of the sun. Whether it was because her eyes had become so adjusted to the oppressive darkness that they couldn't handle direct confrontation with the darkness' antithesis, or because her under-the-breath remark had pushed the flame-wielder's anxiety past its frayed limits, his adrenaline-fueled fear spilling into the magic used to create the miniature inferno cradled in the palm of his hand, boosting its light-the-way powers to new and glorious heights with each passingthumpof his heart, she couldn't say. She suspected it was some combination of the two though.
The man, now close enough that she could smell the two weeks' worth of salt and sweat he had accumulated over the course of their long boat ride, lifted the dancing flame slowly from her chest to her cheek. Marian's skin buzzed with that unpleasant tingle one only experienced when they were being scrutinized, and she imagined that the man's honey-brown eyes were narrowed in concentration, his thin lips pulled into a severe line, brow as wrinkled as her laundry. The part of him that was the clinician, the healer, had taken over, inspecting her from head to toe, searching her and the precious cargo held securely against her breast for signs of harm or distress. Of course, there was nothing wrong to be found—externally, at least—and when the flame-wielder-slash-healer discovered this, he asked, "What was that?"
Marian wasn't about to admit that she'd briefly hallucinated an event two decades old, watched apparitions of her sister, her best friend, and her lover—him—charge into the labyrinth beneath the sprawling estate with the recklessness of youth. The last thing he needed was something else to worry about, and the last thing she needed was someone else worrying about her—well, worrying about her more than they already did. What she did need, however, was that Maker-damned fire out of her face; not answering him would only encourage his alarm and feed the blighted fire though, and so, in her most convincing voice—which wasn't all that convincing—she said, "What waswhat, Anders? I didn't hear anything. Did you?"
Anders—for that was who the man, the wielder of the flame, her lover, was—didn't budge. "Marian."
Marian's lips stretched wide in a crazed grin as the flame in Anders' hand brightened, orange-red tendrils licking at the skin lining her jaw.
Definitely anxiety powered.
"Your fire is very nice, Anders," she cooed, "and while I'm very proud of you for making something so wonderfully radiant to light our way, Iwouldlike to retain the use of my retinas." She shrugged. "You know…. Watch Leah grow up, stab a person or two, walk down the aisle, save a city from a rampaging hoard of Qunari…. Normal things that normal people do with their normal kids."
"Watch Leah…what? You—oh." The flame dimmed to the size and strength of an abnormally large firefly. "I'm sorry, I—"
"That's another bit for the Sorry Jar," she singsonged as she blinked, clearing the dark spots that dotted her vision.
"Another bit for the—but I wasn't—this has nothing to do with—that's notfair."
"A sorry is a sorry. I don't make the rules."
"You do, actually." Free of the black splotches popping in her eyes, Marian could see the affection in Anders' gaze as he looked down at her, his words robbed of any bite they might have had.
"Do I? Always considered myself more of a rulebreakerthan a rulesetter, but there's a first time for everything I suppose."
"Yes—like staying on topic."
"We were on a topic—a topic about rules and about how I set them, apparently. You're the one trying to derail us. At least, that's how it looks from where I'm standing."
"Marian, that's not—"
"And before that, we were talking about normal things that normal people do with their normal kids, your fire in my eyes—my retinas thank you, by the way—and something about you hearing voices and medefinitelynot hearing them." She tilted her head to the side. "That about covers everything we've discussed in this brief interlude, does it not?"
Anders sighed, his non-flame carrying hand rubbing at his tired face. For a heartbeat, Marian felt her gut roil with guilt—shewas the one putting those creases of stress in his forehead,shewas the one causing the crow's feet around his eyes to deepen,shewas the one responsible for the slump of his shoulders—but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come, reflexively grabbed and shoved down beneath conscious thought, buried in her unconscious mind where it would fester and boil and rot her from the inside out. "Love,please. What's wrong?"
Marian held on to her smile. "Nothing, Anders. Nothing is wrong."
Disbelief radiated from the mage, his mouth screwing to the left.
"Really." Marian's electric-blue eyes fixed him with their piercing stare. "I'm fine. Leah is fine. We're fine. Everything is…fine."
"If you're certain…" His tone of voice suggested that he, at least, was not certain.
"Yes!" Marian exclaimed, a bit too aggressively. Anders lifted an eyebrow at her in suspicion and she cleared her throat. "Yes. Yes, I am," she said, much calmer this time. "Certain. Certain that everything is fine." It was, of course, at that exact moment that their dreaming daughter—Leah—decided to shift in Marian's aching, overused arms. A hiss escaped from between her clenched teeth, her biceps screaming that they, at the very least, werenot fine. "OK—I take it back, I'm not fine." It was her turn to lift an eyebrow at Anders. "But unless you plan on carrying Leah, this giant, two-handed sword strapped to my back, or, better yet,both…it's best we move forward before I fall on one or both of them."
Anders' mouth twitched at the corners. "If you're carrying Leah up front and the sword is on your back…how could you fall onbothof them?"
"It's me, Anders. I'd find a way."
The ghost of a smile slipped across Anders world-worn face, amused despite Marian's stubbornness. "No doubt you would."
Satisfied that Marian and Leah were at least not it any immediate physical danger, Anders turned around, his back to Marian once again, the flame returning to its former strength as he resumed his trek through the darkness. With some effort, Marian forced her burning legs after him, the bone-gnawing exhaustion born from living a life on the run for thirteen years—a life of light sleep, kidnappings, ransoms, assassins, and confrontations with Prince Piss—doing little to take the edge off of her discomfort at being the follower instead of the leader. It was only logical that Anders was the captain of this leg of the journey, however, as, despite the fact that the estate belonged toher, she hadn't spent nearly as much time exploring its depths as Anders had, hadn't memorized its layout, its twists and turn. She'd never had to flee into its maw to escape the templars prowling Darktown, hunting for their prey—hunting forhim.
Anger spiked her blood, quickened her pulse, a new set of ghosts rising unbidden before her.
How many times had Anders emerged from the underground beaten and bloody, his robes ripped, skin bruised? How many times had Marian discovered him sitting in front of the fireplace, drenched in cooling sweat and steaming entrails, his normally expressive eyes vacant? How many times had she woken to find him slumped over a desk, his hands stained night-black with ink and bright, sticky red with poultice, mud and sewage crusting his clothes?
He'll never have to run 'llnever have to run again, Marian told herself firmly, eyes trained resolutely on Anders' too-thin shoulders, reminding herself that the ghosts were just that— Inquisitor finished what he—whatwe—started. Sister Nightingale is Divine Victoria. The Circles are gone. Mages are free! Mages. Are. Free. It's over. It's done. No more running. No more templars. No more late night manifesto editing sessions. All is right with the world! All is right with the world. All is… All is… All…
Despite her super-convincing self-reassurances, the angry thing that lived inside some hidden part of her, buried so far down she hadn't even realized it existed until she had had to make what was supposed to be an impossible choice between her love and the so-called greater good, stirred. Her grip on Leah tightened, vision tunneling until all she saw was the too-lean man before her. She took a deep breath in, felt her chest expand with dank cellar air, held it until she felt like her lungs would burst, and then let it out, trying to root herself in the present.
All is right with the world. All is right with the world. All is right with the world.
She kept consciously breathing in and breathing out, kept focusing on the man that was alive—alive, despite it all!—in front of her, kept reminding herself that the weight in her arms was his—her—theirdaughter, as the angry thing reached up towards what remained of her soul, gripped its fractured edges, andpushed.
"We're nearly there," Anders announced, his voice cutting into Marian's increasingly frantic thoughts like a hot knife through butter. Startled, Marian gave a violent blink and looked up to see Anders observing her over his shoulder. He must have noticed her agitated mien, assumed it was his fault—as he always did—and felt responsible, as the next words out of his mouth almost robbed him of another bit for the Sorry Jar. "Sor—I mean…." He paused, considering his next words. "It's taking so long because it's been…awhile…since I last had to do this."
Marian barked a short, sharp laugh, the angry thing still smoldering in her veins, causing Leah to stir in her sleep. "Yes, howdareyou have been forced to play so much hide-and-seek with the templars that you memorized the location of every rusted nail and loose floorboard of my basement."
"Is that what upset you earlier? Thinking about—"
Marian bristled. Nope—she was not having this conversation. Not now. Notever. "I think I know where we are!" she declared, brusquely brushing past him.
"Marian, we need to—"
"Yes, Idefinitelyknow where we are." She squinted into the shadows that lived beyond the flame's warm halo, examining the support columns and spider-webbed casks. "Usually sent Bodahn to fetch…whatever it was we kept down here, but sometimes he wasn't around, and Oranahatedthe cellar." She continued on ahead, not caring how obvious it was that she was simply talking to fill the void and steer clear of Chantry-Go-Boom Day discussions and anything related to it—templars and the angry thing simmering inside her included. Anders remained silent behind her, the only evidence that he was following her the fact that she had not yet been plunged into darkness. "It was because of the spiders—Orana wasn't just scared of them, shedespisedthem. I tried to help her get over her fear-slash-hate—told her the spiders in the cellar were very small compared to what we ran into in just about every cave, forest, thaig, and other giant-spider-friendly place. Didn't help her much, if at all. Actually…I think it made her fear-slash-hateworse. Couldn't even get her tothinkof going near the vault door for weeks. Speaking of the vault door…" She whirled around, flashing a mad, triumphant grin at her mage. "There it is."
Anders returned her grin with a somber, tired smile that wasn't really a smile, but more of a "We're totally talking about Chantry-Go-Boom Day and Related Matters later" grimace. "Yes—there it is." The flame winked out of existence as he moved to the bottom of the wooden stairs that led up to the vault door.
Marian resisted the urge to shoulder him aside and rip open the vault door, bursting into the mansion with a scream so loud that the residents of the Fade could hear her, warning any unwelcome visitors that lurked within that they had less than ten seconds to flee before she did her best imitation of Fenris and sent her gauntlet-clad fist through their chest. Fortunately for any unwelcome visitors that may or may not have been lurking, she had agreed with Anders that whoever wasn't carrying Leah should do a sweep of the estate before the Leah-carrier entered, confirming the safeness or unsafeness of the abode. It was only logical that Marian be the Leah-carrier, seeing as how, despite the strength it took to wield a stave with as much flourish as Anders did, she was stronger, and, since he hadalsobeen stripped of his Warden stamina thanks to Queen Cousland's Cure for the Taint, Marianalsobeat him in that regard now. This, therefore, logically meant that Anders would go first into the unknown, but, in that moment, as they were on the precipice of their success—or doom—Marian damned logic.
"Don't."
Marian looked up in the direction of Anders' voice. "Don'twhat, Anders? I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific—I can't read minds."
"Don't eventhinkabout doing what I know you're thinking about doing," he chastised, Marian smirking at the frown she couldhear.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied, the tension between them thickening like the mud on the bank of Lothering's river after a good rain. "Also…since when canyouread minds?"
"I don't need to be able to read minds to know what's going through yours."
"Enlighten me then. WhatamI thinking?"
Anders sighed heavily, and she pictured him pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Please, . Not now. Not when we're so close."
Marian opened her mouth, a witty retort ready about how at least one of them was close poised to leave her lips, thought better of it. "Fine."
"Thank you, love." The lock on the vault door clicked as he unlocked it. "Stay put. I'll be back."
"Unless you're not."
"Marian—"
She gestured with her elbows at the door, even though he couldn't see her. "Go on! I won't move a muscle. Pinkie promise."
"Why does that not fill me with confidence?"
"Because you know me."
"To your detriment."
Before Marian could respond, Anders was gone, the door creaking as he slipped through and shut it behind him. She let out an exasperated huff, frustrated at the need for their clandestine return to Kirkwall, at herself, at him, at…everything.
The angry thing lifted its head, waiting to see if it would be fed.
Marian kicked distractedly at the wood-planked floor, cringing as the pointed tip of her Champion boots dug into the recently replaced boards.
So much for Varric's restoration—already ruining it. Just like you ruin everything else you touch. How long will it take you to fuck things up this time, Marian? A day? A month? A year?
She took her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it, doubt curdling her stomach.
Was she doing the right thing? Bringing Anders back to Kirkwall—the city where he'd lost his first love, where he'd nearly losthimself, the city that hated him, where his sins—hersins—watered the very ground they stood upon in the blood of a hundred innocents, the very ground that their daughter—
Leah.
Marian glanced down at her golden-haired child, tucked safely against her breast.
How many mothers had lost their daughters that day? Their sons? What about the daughters that had lost their mothers? Sons their mothers? Marian was no stranger to loss—her father had been taken from her by illness, her brother ripped apart by an ogre, her mother mutilated by a madman—but to know that she had played a direct part in the immense death and destruction that day…
Leah's weight became unbearable, and Marian staggered forward, her vision growing faint as her breaths came fast and quick.
You kill, Marian. That's what you do. What's the difference between a Mother, Sister, Brother and a mother, sister, brother? Chantry, Qun, templar, mage, prince, citizen…everyone is something to someone. And everyone is guilty of something. No one istrulyinnocent—not even children. Children are bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.
Yes, I'll admit that some children are rather…unpleasant, but—
Nobuts! You never felt bad about it before—about what Anders did. About whatyoudid. Why start now? Is it because you're back here, after all this time? With Leah? Withhim? Or is it because you—
"Marian!"
Anders' voice pulled her back from the brink, like it always did. Blinking, she focused her eyes on where he stood at the top of the stairs, the warm glow of the candle on the wall behind him lighting his black-feathered shoulders. Marian felt her heart skip a beat as she stared at him—he was why she had done what she had that fateful day. Why she'd do it again in a heartbeat, too. She would never,everlet anyone take Anders from her. Or Leah.
"Marian?"
Marian plastered her trademark Marian Hawke grin across her face. Yes, she would do it all again. She would do whatever it took to keep Anders and Leah safe. The angry thing inside her agreed.
"Ready or not, here I come, Anders!"
Varric hadn't been lying when he said he'd returned the Hawke Estate to its former glory.
Placing both hands along the top lip of the banister, Anders leaned forward to survey the spacious great room below. Even with only a handful of the manor's candles lit, their inviting, homey glow trapped firmly inside the house's towering walls by massive rich red curtains, Anders could tell that his—no,Marian's—friend had spared no expense in restoring her family's home, returning it to the exact, if not better, condition in which they had left it that fateful night thirteen years ago.
He pretended not to watch as Marian slowly picked her way towards the stairs, her face a carefully arranged mask he couldn't read, her sharp blue eyes absorbing everything and betraying nothing. The urge to seize her face between his scarred hands and force her to look him in the eyes and tell him what had disturbed her earlier was strong, but he resisted. That wasn't how one went about getting Marian Hawke to talk—Marian Hawke would talk when Marian Hawke was ready, and that's all there was to that.
Marian paused at the desk directly beneath where Anders stood, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she leaned over to read the message that Varric had left her. Anders averted his gaze to give her some privacy; having discovered the letter during his preliminary inspection of the manor, it had taken naught but a glance for him to recognize the dwarf's handwriting, and, seeing as how he was still on Varric's shit list, had assumed the words were not for him, and immediately moved on.
No longer searching for threats, Marian preoccupied, Anders allowed himself a moment to appreciate the finer details of the restored estate. To his left, the marble-white fireplace stood quiet, freshly chopped wood stacked neatly inside its firebox, hearth swept clean of all debris. A writing table and chair sat to the left of that, though whether or not they were the exact same pair he had frequently used during his previous stay at the estate, he couldn't tell from his vantage point. Across the octagonal-patterned stone floor lay a light-red rug, two sets of golden lines embroidering the length and width of it near its out-most edge. Even the plants were the same, their leaves faded to the exact calming yellow-tinged green shade as their predecessors.
Anders' fingers curled into a vice grip, fingernails digging into the granite.
It was as if time had stood still at the Hawke Estate and he had returned to the night he had nearly destroyed everything he loved.
Guilt twisted his insides into painful knots.
After all he'd done…after every lie he'd told, every person he'd betrayed, every life he'd taken…. Did he deserve this? Did he deserve a partner that loved him? A daughter that adored him? Did he deserve…did he deserve…
...to live?
Anders closed his eyes, screams—always, the screams—ringing in his ears. Even now, over a decade later, the smoke still clogged his nose, the blood still filled his mouth, the ash still burned his skin. He remembered it all with stunning accuracy, could recall with perfect clarity every single detail—the flash of Hawke's Key, the wettumpof Varric's arrows burying into the chest of a frantic mage, Aveline's shield clanging as she deflected a Templar's rapid blows. He remembered the anger—no, thehate—roaring in Sebastian's sky-blue eyes as he'd sworn his vengeance, the disgusted sneer in Fenris' voice as he reminded Anders that he was helping the mages for Marian and Bethany but not forhim, Isabela never failing to remind them all that she absolutely did not want to do this but was anyway with exasperated groans. He remembered the pity with which Merrill—Merrill! Who had been responsible for her Keeper's death, who had been banished from her clan!— had regarded him, the stern reproach in the thin line of Nathaniel's lips and draw of his brow that had been directed at him, Bethany a perfect mirror of her mentor. He remembered Donnic, the assassin Zevran Arainai, and even that wretched Templar Samson, all stepping in to fight on their behalf. He remembered them all and more—the wounds of that night had sunk into his bones, his marrow, hissoul.
He would never allow himself to forget—even if there was some way to erase that night from his memory, some potion he could drink that blotted it all out, some spell he could cast that overwrote the pain, he wouldn't use them. No, he would never allow himself the dumb comfort of ignorance, would never allow himself to live a life blissfully unaware of all the carnage he and Justice had left in their wake.
And he would never let himself be forgiven, either.
"Isabela's stairwell carvings are gone."
Anders' eyes flew open, his attention snapping to his immediate right where Marian had come to stand next to him. When had she ascended to the second floor? How long had he been lost in his own thoughts?
Always wrapped up in yourself, never paying attention to the ones that matter most. Typical.
Adrift in her own memories, Marian seemed to not have noticed the alarm she had raised in him. "I wonder if Varric replaced the stairsbecauseof the carvings, or because someone else vandalized them with something evenmoreunsavory."
Anders was proud that he was able to keep the panic out of his voice, his heart slowly calming from his fright. "Is that sadness I hear?"
"Yes, it is sadness." Marian sighed. "She had some really, ah,unique…etchings."
Anders offered her a consoling smile. "I'm sure she'd be happy to ruin your furniture once again."
"Gleefully," Marian agreed. She pursed her lips, thin eyebrows bunching together as she glared at him out of the corner of her eyes. "And it'sourfurniture."
Anders opened his mouth to correct her—he had no right to claim this life of luxury—only for Marian to quickly cut him off.
"Yes, it'syours, too, Anders. I don't carewhatyou say. If something happens to me—"
"Nothingis going to happen to you." Anders let go of the banister, his cramping fingers thanking him, and turned to face her. He set his jaw, brow furrowing. "I won't allow it."
"You won't allow it? Ha! I'll let the Maker know, next time I see Him."
Anders' mouth went dry. "Next time you see Him? I thought you said—"
"Sarcasm, Anders! Sarcasm." Marian laughed a laugh that did not quite reach her eyes.
Anders closed his eyes, forced himself to swallow. "Pleasedon't joke about that."
"About what? The part about seeing the Maker, or the part where I—"
"I don't give a blighted rat's ass about the Maker." Anders opened his eyes as he clenched his fists, Marian making an exaggerated, faux-offended gasp at his blasphemy. "Idogive a blighted rat's ass about you, however, and you…youdiedMarian."
Marian lifted her shoulders in a shrug, seemingly indifferent about her own demise. "I got better, didn't I?"
"That's not the point!" Anders shouted.
Marian shot Anders a warning glare as the five-year-old in her arms whimpered and curled into her chest.
"That's not the point," he repeated in a whisper, determined not to let the topic slide—again. "Youdied because ofme. Because I…." The words got stuck in his throat, tears welling in his eyes.
"Because youwhat?" Marian picked up ruthlessly. "Knocked me up? Lost control to Justice? Couldn't stop me from knocking Justice-you out because he was burning you up from the inside out and I couldn't bear to see you die?"
"I—"
"Is it because your actions led to the Wardens—Nathaniel and Velanna—no longer trusting you?" Marian pressed relentlessly on, her voice gradually increasing in volume. "Because you were dozing comfortably in Nathaniel's strong, muscled arms while I held Prince Piss and his pissy posse at bay? Or is it because you couldn't make that grand sacrifice you've been dying to make since the Chantry exploded and finally—"
Leah groaned again, shutting Marian up mid-tirade. Both froze as their daughter moved, mumbling something that was almost coherent as she snuggled further against her mother.
"It doesn't matter," Marian said, quieter this time, eyes downcast.
Anders swallowed the urge to scream. Itdidmatter. It mattered quite a lot, in fact. To him. To Leah. To everyone else whose life Marian had touched. How could she not see that? How could she not understand that she was the thing that had held them all together all those years ago, that wasstillkeeping him in one piece now, a stubborn, persistent sap that valiantly refused to be dissolved no matter the agent used against it?
Because you broke her.
"Marian, we need to talk about—"
"It. Doesn't. Matter."
"Itdoes," he insisted, frowning. "And we need to—"
"We need tosleep. Before we say things we'll both regret. It's been a long day."
He couldn't argue with her there. "….Fine."
She smiled a smile that reminded him of a particularly mischievous cat. "There; that wasn't so hard, was it?"
"But we will be discussing this later."
"Discuss wh—oh! Don't glower at me."
"Marian,please."
"Alright! Alright. If it means that much to you—"
"Itdoes."
"—then we'll discuss it later."
"Thank you."
"Please, don't mention it," Marian grumbled.
Truthfully, Anders didn't believe that she would discuss it later, but he also knew that further argument was pointless. Shelving his objections for the time being, he opened his arms. "Here—give Leah to me."
"Gladly." With a carefulness at odds with the enthusiasm with which she spoke, Marian maneuvered their sleeping daughter into his arms, chuckling slightly as Anders let out an, "Oof!" Wincing, she stretched her arms above her head, mouth opening wide in a yawn. Despite the bulky Champion armor clinging to her toned body, their mini-fight,andthe extreme exhaustion threatening to claim him, Anders felt a stirring in his loins.
"Didn't your mother teach you its rude to stare?" Marian teased.
Anders tried to shrug as nonchalantly as Marian had while carrying Leah, failed. "Probably." He grit his teeth as his upper back screamed in protest from the attempted shrug. "How did you manage both Leahandyour two-hander?"
With a wink that weakened his already shaky knees, Marian turned sharply on her heel. "Put Leah to bed and I'll show you what else I can manage."
Anders shook his head, a breathy, incredulous laugh escaping him. He followed after Marian, turning left towards Leandra's old room while Marian continued on straight to the master bedroom. "What was that aboutneedingto sleep?
A/N:Aaaand there we go! My first chapter in the first fanfic I've published in over four years! Hope you enjoyed; there are at least nineteen more chapters ofTen Years From Nowto go, with other fanfics in my Of Bastards and Renegades world state planned, including more Anders/Hawke goodness!
If you're interested in seeing some artwork of Leah Hawke, Marian and Anders' daughter, along with some of my other DA babies, feel free to follow the links below! Their pages are WIPs, so please excuse the scarcity of info!
Thanks for reading! See you next /sissy_the_siren/da-arion-howe