Archive of Our Own ^beta

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As a boy, the village Chantry had been his refuge. He loved all of Andraste’s stories: her bravery, her tragedy, the way she made everything change. After a day laughing, shouting, running through the fields, he’d track mud onto the warped wood floor, the only place he ever sat still, to add a candle to the pile of mismatched melted wax. It lit a fire inside him as he stared at the small, simple bust of the prophet staring defiantly into the dark.

But when that fire became flesh and took down the barn, brought the men in spit-shined armour with swords on their chests, it burned away everything he had.

In his first days in Kinloch Hold, they dragged him to sit in front of the Maker’s bride, gold and garish and gauging his guilt. “Why won’t you tell us your name, son?” the Sister had asked, but he stared down at the stone. He never did tell them he was born in Ferelden.

He stayed on the other side of the threshold for years, until Karl dragged him behind the last pew—“The Chantry, really?”—pulled him close and pushed up his robe, beard scraping across his cheek and breath hot in his ear: “This is the last stop on their patrol,” he whispered, “and I want all the time I can get.” Here, together, safe, alive—until the templars tore that away, too.

The next time he passed by Andraste’s eyes a recruit drank too much wine to make his watch. A quick jolt to open the window and he’s falling, he’s flying, he’s free. Fleeing where he could, he hid from each village’s sunburst sign in a years’-long game of cat and mouse, one step forward and two steps back, refused to give in, refused to let them break him. They tried. They kept trying until he slipped free with a sip of darkspawn’s blood.

But after he became we, a partnership he didn’t yet understand with a ferocity he’d never fully comprehend, he found Karl behind another pew, a sunburst seared into his forehead, begging with his eyes until they slid back into emptiness. When he took Karl’s life, the fire started again to grow.

In the years after, he found friendship, he found love, but it’s not enough to quench the flames. They take mages and tear them open, steal their lives and their futures and their hope, and his pain—his anger, his desperation—burns.

Now he’s watching the candlelight flicker on Hawke’s face as she talks to Elthina, and saying a silent prayer to Andraste’s imposing image. “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” the Chanter intones, wrinkling her nose as he slips past. It must be the sela petrae weighing down his pockets.

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“I have an idea.” Anders should have known from the look on Hawke’s face as she bounded into the Herald’s Rest, the way she tugged on Varric’s sleeve with mischief in her eyes. “And you can’t say no.” This would be trouble.

“Alright, Hawke, I’m intrigued,” the dwarf says as he sits back, crossing his arms. On the other side of the tavern, Maryden is packing up her instrument, Bull laughs and claps Krem on the back as they head out the door, and Cabot is grimacing while he runs a cloth over the last of the day’s dirty glasses. “You know it’s the end of the night, right?”

“Kind of you to notice. That’s exactly why this is perfect.” She grins, and holds her jacket open to show a tall, thin bottle filled with what looks suspiciously like whisky. She sneaks a glance at the bartender, then makes devilish eye contact with Anders. “I thought we could make use of Justice’s absence. You know, I’ve never seen you drink.” His pang of disapproval is completely vestigial, but it’s there.

“I hate to be the adult in the room,” Varric looks pained to even say it, “but we’ve been working so hard at secrecy for Trevelyan here. Do lowered inhibitions really sound like what we want right now?”

“I thought stopping rumours in their tracks was what your spymaster’s for. You can even invite her if you like. I’ve already looped her in.”

“And what did Nightingale have to say about this proposal of yours?”

“That it’s a terrible idea.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“But that she’d never dream of standing in my way when I have my mind set on something.”

“Another wise statement.”

Anders taps his fingers on the table. “Do either of you care what I have to say about this?”

“No, not really.” He’d always been weak in the face of her smile.

“Alright,” Varric says, “Let’s do this then.” He hops down to go usher Cabot out the door, convince him they’ll clean and close up.

Under the table, Anders feels Hawke’s hand move onto his thigh, but he keeps his gaze carefully forward. He can almost see her mirth out of the corner of his eye. When the door swings shut and the three of them are finally, unmistakably, gloriously alone, he pulls her tight to his side. “Do you know how hard it’s been to pretend not to know you?”

“I can guess.” He leans toward her, but she twists away and smacks the bottle onto the table with a dramatic flourish. Varric tries to bring over glasses, but she waves him away. “I think you have the honour,” she says, bumping her hip into Anders’.

He probably shouldn’t have taken such a large gulp. It bites more than he remembers, a sudden and smarting burst through his entire chest. Hawke laughs as he starts to cough.

Varric takes an elegant swig and passes it on. “I guess not everyone’s like you and me, Hawke.”

“I will have you know”—he manages just a small hack this time—”that I could more than hold my own in Amaranthine. Among a group of Wardens.”

“I don’t think your weird blood’s helping you out any more, Blondie.”

“So,” Hawke cuts in, “I want to hear more about what you two have been getting up to. I really can’t picture it.”

Varric tents his fingers, ready. “Well, there was that one time an Avaar was throwing goats at the castle wall—”

The more he drinks, the warmer he feels, but it’s not the same wild abandon he remembers. He’s watching the light in Hawke’s eyes, the way Varric’s shoulders shake with laughter, the shadows moving across dusty corners. Hawke’s holding his hand, and Varric’s telling story after story, and he can almost pretend he’s back in the early years at the Hanged Man, drunk on their company in a way that felt secure, spirited, safe. He shoves away the next logical thought—how quickly those nights turned bitter, to long hours spent staring at the table instead of into his friends’ faces—and leaps to his feet, setting the stool wobbling.

“I’m going outside,” he announces, but from the way Hawke reaches up to steady him, he’s not sure how it actually comes out. “I want to see the stars.”

Hawke’s up and already moving to the door, but Varric grabs her hand. “Wait, I don’t think everyone needs to find their Inquisitor drunk off his ass in the middle of the courtyard. As tickled as I am by that mental image.” He pulls her back toward the stairs. “I have an idea. Here, help me get him back to his quarters. I’ll make sure there’s no one around.”

She slides an arm around Anders’ waist, drapes one of his over her shoulders. Anders stares at a point on the floor. Is it supposed to be spinning?

“Sure, Varric, go check for traps.”

“Only if you promise not to immediately step in them, Hawke.”

Anders presses his nose into Hawke’s cheek and breathes in. “Did I ever tell you you’re the most beautiful, attractive, stunning, exquisite—”

“Yes, plenty of times. You even tried to write me a song about it.” She tucks his hair back behind his ear. He’s not sure where the band holding it in place went. “Come on, you.” She guides him away and up, and when they reach the summit, Varric’s already at work, balcony doors thrown open, pulling all the ridiculously ornate cushions and quilts out into the night air. “Let’s get this coat off.”

She helps him onto his back, and there it is stretching out in front of him—miles of sky, sparkling stories stitched into the constellations; the hum of crickets and the soft embrace of stillness; the comforting weight of alpine air settling deep in his lungs. Freedom. Safety. Peace.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Thanks, Varric.” He hears the door click, and feels Hawke slide in next to him and surround them both in a nest of blankets. “I should have figured you’d be a lightweight. Still, it’s…nice to see you smile again.”

“Is this real?”—he hiccups—“Are you really here?”

“I’m here.” She presses a kiss to his temple as he closes his eyes. He exhales.

Chapter Text

Justice notices them enter before Anders does. When he had lit the clinic’s lantern that morning, these were exactly the kind of people he’d prayed would stay away. A woman in her clanking guard dress, a young man with a broadsword as wide as his arms, a dwarf with an intricately intimidating crossbow—but then there was her.

He can sense the magic in her even before he notices the staff strapped to her back, and feels a quick bloom of heat at the way she confidently meets his eyes.

With a violent rise, the spirit in his head, the spirit that he is, moves to defend their sanctum.

When she responds with a joke, his walls unravel. When she tells him about an expedition, he sees an opportunity. But it’s not until she softens into an earnest strength—”I would help any mage in such circumstances, map or no”—that he really sees her for the first time: his Hawke.

—

As ashes streak through Kirkwall’s sky, as they’re surrounded by a cacophony of templars, mages and anyone caught in between, he can’t look back at her. He tries to fill the silence, to tell her there’s nothing she could say that he hasn’t told himself, but really he can’t bear to hear the truth from her mouth.

He braces himself, knowing he’s only able to hide his fear because it’s her with his life in her hands. This is the way it always had to be. The thought belongs to him as much as Justice.

The knife doesn’t come. “Help me defend the mages,” she says. Her voice isn’t wavering anymore.

He stands, turns, stares in disbelief. “You mean, stay with you?” He can’t look into her eyes for more than a moment—the blend of pain and fear and affection is too much to bear. Even worse, he thinks he can still see her love. Maybe even understanding.

She cups his cheek in her hand, moves close enough for him to feel her breath. “Of course I mean that.” He squeezes his eyes shut and brings his hand up to cover hers.

—

“Inquisitor, meet Hawke.” There’s an amused lilt in Varric’s voice, but he keeps his face straight.

She steps down the stairs, and even the air feels different.

It had always been this way, really. Catching her eye across a room was the only time he could ignore Justice’s driving whisper, his own desperate grasping for change, the weight of years suffering cruelty and control. It felt like freedom. And he’s never wanted anything more than freedom.

Then when everything became too much, when he traded that freedom for the hope of everyone else’s—when she stayed her hand and stayed by his side—she became a reason to keep breathing.

The voices are different this time—demons scrabbling through holes in the sky, politics crawling under his skin, the crushing gravity of the future in his hands—but in an instant they still.

“Hi,” she says quietly. He holds back, conscious of the eyes of the Inquisition all around, of Cullen’s door just steps away, but he can see ten years of love and safety and shelter in her face. He hopes she can see it in his.

Chapter Text

He has to do something about Cole. On their way back from the Storm Coast—sea spray drenched and painted with darkspawn blood, Anders’ head pounding so close to its corruption, Cassandra grimacing and grimly silent—Varric had tried to distract him with a game.

“Okay, kid, try it again like we practised.”

He adjusts that big hat of his, leans in. “Two pairs beats one pair. Four of a kind beats two pairs.” Varric nods encouragingly. “She slips the ace of dragons into a thigh-high boot, calls to the barman for another round. Blondie stares at the table—angry, always angry.”

Anders’ heart skips as he slips on a stone. “Andraste’s ass!”

Varric clears his throat. “Alright, maybe don’t go digging up my bad memories, kid.”

Anders stays silent for a few beats, straining to notice Cassandra’s every movement. She doesn’t react, but he stays on edge until they finally break apart at Skyhold’s gate.

Varric holds back. “So, do you think he was browsing through my brain or yours?”

“Does it matter?” He runs a hand across his forehead. “Don’t you think it’s only a matter of time before he starts spewing the truth to the whole Inquisition?”

“Maybe you should talk to him. I never quite know what’s going on there, but he means well. He’s just trying to help.”

“Aren’t we all.”

But once he’s sure Cassandra is focused on her training, that no one else is looking his way, he climbs the creaking stairs to Cole’s loft. He’s in the corner, drying off his daggers before laying them lovingly into a chest and locking the lid. He doesn’t turn, but Anders can feel a bit of a shift, the same way he can feel when another mage silently weaves a spell.

“Hey, Cole. Can I talk to you?”

He turns and stares with that same calm, ethereal, infuriating expression. “That’s an odd question. Of course you’re capable.”

Anders ignores that, drags over a chair. “I know helping people is important to you. I understand—really. But the biggest way you could help me is to stop doing that thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“You know, digging into my mind. Announcing to the room what’s going on there.”

Cole tilts his head. “Nightmares, the screams, the sky—she was supposed to choose death, not love, how could he deserve love?” Anders grips the edge of his chair, feels a splinter slide into his palm. “Everyone’s staring, watching, hoping, believing. He only knows how to be hated. Injustice everywhere, but no Justice inside.” He pauses, considers. “He still thinks about you, too.”

Anders laughs, the same thing he’s always done when a knife slides too close, when staring something in the face becomes too much. “Exactly, that. If you can see all that, you can see why I don’t want everyone here to know who I am, right?” Cole doesn’t respond. “Okay, now you’re scaring me.”

“I was in the dark, too.” It’s almost a whisper, but it goes straight to his spine. “Cold, clammy cell; sharp, shooting hunger; no way to turn the key; empty inside when they forget. Sometimes you wished they’d forget you, too.”

His heart clenches, his hands go cold. “Cole, I’m serious—”

“Hated for what you are, hatred for those who watch, only a cat to hear.”

“Did you just bring Mr. Wiggums into this?”

Undaunted, he keeps going. “Years of trying, hoping, helping, but no one can free the city from its chains. Red crystal glistening, the sun’s brand blistering, grand ones not listening—backed into a corner, backed by no one, one last desperate push to make them see.” Anders puts his head in his hands, tries to count his breaths. He feels a hand on his shoulder, soft and strong. “Cole would have thanked you.”

He cracks open.

He can’t remember the last time he let himself cry.

Cole waits, then takes his hand and leads him across the green. He rubs his eyes, not seeing whoever they pass.

They’re in the kitchen now, empty after the lunchtime chaos, sunlight streaming softly through the windows. Cole kneels and pulls a sprig of green from his pocket—an orange tabby runs from the next room, tail held high, graciously grateful for the mint.

Anders reaches down to stroke its fur. “I hope this is your way of saying my secret’s safe.”

As the cat flips onto its side, Cole stands back with a small, satisfied smile.

Chapter Text

So there’s no new one shot here today—instead I’m uploading part two of my main series about Inquisitor Anders. And in line with today’s Januanders theme, it’s from a newly solo Justice’s point of view. You can read it here.

(Since it’s not part of this work specifically, I didn’t include its tags here—so mind the tags when you click over!)

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Hey Junior,

This one’s just for you. Your sister has enough to worry about without me adding this, too. Take care of her, okay? I couldn’t bear to see the best person in Thedas heart-broken or murdered by demons, templars, or whatever fresh hell we’re releasing these days.

Sappiness aside, I hear there’s something going on with you Wardens. Our mutual friend here isn’t feeling anything, so I’m not sure how true it is, but do you have any idea what’s going on? I know you probably don’t want to tell me if you’re not okay, but it’s important strategic, tactical information and it is your duty as a Warden, blah blah blah.

What’s that thing you’re always on about? Vigilance? This is me being vigilant. You have my ear any time. –V

Rivaini:

Do I ever have some gossip for you. Who’s blond, dresses like a molting bird, and never shuts up about mages? I could give you twenty guesses but I bet you’d never get it right.

The so-called Herald of Andraste. I shit you not.

I swear, the book practically writes itself. Could use some steamy scenes, but our leading lady’s off somewhere near the Anderfels with her brother. Though we do have a dashing young mage from Tevinter, and he apparently knows how to time travel. I don’t know, there’s some potential there.

Burn this after you read it, obviously. I’ll let you know if there’s anything you can do for us. I’m sure he’d love to see your new hat. —V

Aveline,

I would ask how Kirkwall’s holding up, but I know she’s in good hands. I assume you’ve already put up a great big “don’t” sign beside wherever they’re rebuilding a Chantry. Sorry. Too soon?

This is strictly need-to-know, and I think I need you to know. But keep this away from the other powers that be, won’t you? You’ll see why. Just think of Hawke, okay?

You’ve probably heard of this big old Inquisition thing, and maybe even that I’ve found myself in the middle of it. You won’t have heard—and I’d really like to keep things that way—that you’re also acquainted with the rift-closer at its centre. You know, the moody one. Likes cats. Caused you no shortage of headaches.

We’ll stay out of your hair and make sure the city’s safe. He owes you that much. I hope you’ll do the same for us. —V

Hi there Choir Boy,

Well, you finally rubbed off on me—I’m a card-carrying member of the armies of the faithful. You are talking to Varric Tethras, inner circle of the incredible Inquisition. Okay, fine, a Seeker of Truth brought me here under duress. And I’m mostly sticking around in case I can get a good book out of it. Did you really think I was serious?

Anyway, I’m writing in case your princeliness has any supplies you could send us. You know, weapons, food, blankets, anything you’d usually need for a holy war; use your imagination.

I’ll put you in touch with our resident Warden Blackwall, I think you’ll get along. See you sometime. —Varric Tethras

Hi Fenris,

Are you sitting down? You should sit down. Maybe take some deep, calming breaths.

I’m telling you this because I think you can help, and Hawke seems to think you can be trusted with this, and I guess after everything we’ve been through together you have a right to know. I’m hoping you’ll see it as some form of poetic justice. (And I use that word intentionally.)

Am I stalling? Definitely. Are you going to destroy this letter in a couple of minutes? Please do.

So you’ve probably heard about these demon-spewing rifts, and that there’s a mage who can stitch them up with a swish of his fingers. It turns out that you know that mage, like arguing so much you both ruin Wicked Grace night kind of know. In a way, he’s fixing what he started. He honestly really is trying.

Anyway, we should talk. We need discretion, and we need people we can trust. Your particular skill set wouldn’t hurt.

You still owe me five sovereigns, by the way, but maybe let’s call it even. —V

Hey Daisy,

Hope things are well with you and all the elves back home. Please tell me you’re eating, and staying well away from all this demonic shit going on. I know, I worry too much.

I’ll be stuck away from Kirkwall a lot longer than I thought—this Inquisition thing’s taken a bit of a turn. More on that in a second. There’s an elf here who likes to go on about spirits and your people’s history—he’s a bit pretentious and honestly I fall asleep every time he talks—but you’d like him, I think.

But that’s not why I’m writing, or why I’m staying. I need you to promise to destroy this letter right after you read it, okay? It turns out this Inquisitor you’ve probably been hearing about is a mutual friend of ours. Blond. Feathers. You said once he should do what he can to put things right. Well, he’s doing that more than you could have imagined.

Feeling pretty lost these days, but I’ll find my way out. I always do. I’ll be in touch. —V

Your Inquisitorialness,

I’m leaving this on your desk because we still really need to work on that face of yours. Lighten up, there’s cats running around everywhere here.

Okay, so, for Corypheus. A weekly ranking of Thedas’ most powerful and influential, and he never breaks the top ten.

For the commander? Fated to fall desperately, hopelessly in love with a mage.

Madame de Fer? Outfits designed by Solas for a year.

I expect your suggestions at the Herald’s Rest tonight. You always did have more creative ones. —V

Chapter Text

He really had intended to go. He’d been keeping a small pile aside for himself. Not much, just enough food and lyrium for the journey south and back again—he wouldn’t be gone long.

The Conclave. The word had a reverent kind of power, a precious resonance, as he repeated it in his mind. The Conclave: a hard-won admission that mages deserve to be heard, to define their future on their own terms. The Conclave: a chance to end the death and suffering and destruction they’d needed to get here. To Justice, a culmination. To Anders, a sign he might soon rest. They both knew they had to be there.

But when the sun streamed past the curtains that morning, when he looked down at Marian still snoring softly in the crook of his arm, he felt something shift.

She stirs, groans, and tries to dive down under the blankets, but he wraps her in his arms. “So,” he says, “I changed my mind. I’m coming with you.”

She sits up, eyes curious and questioning. “You’d miss the Conclave? I mean, I’m not complaining. The absolute opposite. But I would have thought Justice at least—” Oh. That’s the shift. Anders can feel a protectiveness spread through his chest, an anchor connecting his heart to hers. Nothing new in ten years of knowing and loving Marian Hawke, but, and he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been so used to how it felt before, there’s suddenly a—concordance. “Wait,” she says, grabbing his shoulder. “Don’t think, don’t talk, don’t change your mind again.” She lunges forward and kisses him, hard, and he melts into her.

“Ugh. I’m still here, you know.” Carver’s voice is muffled with the echoes of sleep, and when he stands up from the pile of blankets he’d gathered on the floor, his eyes are red and raw. Another night of nightmares for him, too, then—an unrelenting torment that had plagued them both for weeks.

At first he’d feared it was the terror that always lurked in the back of his mind, the fate he knew would eventually claim him, if he dodged the templars and the Chantry and Sebastian Vael long enough to even have a Calling. But Carver—he’s too new. It can’t be his time yet.

Which means they still have farther to go to get out of the song’s grasp.

After they gather their things and turn the cabin’s key, Anders takes one last look to the south, where somewhere in the distance mages and templars and anyone with power are gathering to decide Thedas’ future—but looking down at Marian’s hand in his, and forward at the horizon to the west, he follows the Hawkes into his.

Within days, the darkspawn call quiets to its usual dull hum. They find shelter quickly, abandoned homes becoming all too common as rumors of an explosion and a prophet and a heretic filter through each village. Whenever they find a slash in the sky, demons tumbling into mortal terrain, he defends the Hawkes with all he is, blue cracks and gray smoke against green light and black hate, justice and vengeance against rage and fear and pride.

When a letter arrives, from the only other person she’d do anything for, Marian leaves with a promise: to come back, to stay safe, to come home.

The dreams return. And when they become almost too much to bear, Carver carries on, hoping there’s answers to be found at Weisshaupt. But he stays, waiting, hoping, enduring each long, slow day alone. Justice goes to her in the Fade each night while they sleep, his reassurance each morning that her heart still beats the only thing keeping Anders’ panic at bay. His own nightmares build.

Until, one day, they stop.

He doesn’t know how to fill the silence. He gathers elfroot, cooks the same blasted stew, lies in the grass and tries not to think. He tries to talk to Justice, but he stays silent, languishing too. When the leaves begin to turn and the cool air forces him inside, he starts building a fire each night, sitting with his arms around his knees and gazing into its depths until the last embers die.

But on this night, soon after the crickets start to sing and the logs begin to catch, he hears a knock.

Justice flares, and Anders grabs the staff by the door as he listens, heart wild and breath caught at the first sign of danger he’s seen in weeks. When he flings open the door, he’s ready to fight, defend, kill—but he’s not ready for it to be her.

There are bags under her eyes, tired and bare without the emerald powder she usually spreads on her lids, and her armour is dented, rusted, flecked with dried blood in its fur trim. He’s never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

The staff clatters to the ground as he reaches for her, and he can feel her hands in his hair and the rhythm of her heart, and she tastes like extraordinary relief, a fervent exaltation.

“Hi, love,” he says, pressing his forehead to hers once they break apart.

“I’m home.” Her voice is soft, determined. He’s not sure which of their tears start falling first. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The next morning, as he watches the sun stream through the windows onto her face, as she’s relaxed and at peace and glued tight to his side, he knows it’s a sight he’ll treasure for the rest of his life. He’d drown the world in blood to keep her safe—but with just the two of them here, quiet and together and secure and free, it’s a different kind of comfort to realize he might not have to anymore.