Work Text:
The first time Anders helped deliver a baby, he was still in the Circle. He was also still a bit too squeamish about the whole thing to do much more than fetch whatever needed fetching and stand by in case his skill for healing was needed (luckily, it was not).
The part that sent him to bed afterward in bitter tears was nothing to do with the messy realities of the miracle of life, though. No, Anders cried because afterward, he was the one sent to take the newborn to the Templars.
The baby was a girl. If her mother had chosen a name for her, Anders did not know it. He held her close as he walked, moving slowly with such a fragile armful. As he descended the winding stairs of the Circle Tower to the Templar barracks at the base, he thought about how he might make another escape attempt right now, and take the child with him. Sneak past the Templars and out the door, hijack a boat across the lake, head to the nearest town, and then what?
In his heart he knew this was all quite impossible—for starters, Anders had absolutely no way of feeding an infant—but what else was he to do but allow himself the fantasy of being a hero to someone so helpless?
With an inevitability that sank a pit into his gut, Anders reached the bottom of the staircase. He paused before nudging the door open, peering down at the small, sleeping face. Being born, it seemed, was rather exhausting.
“At least one of us will be leaving this place tonight,” he told her. “I’m sorry you can’t be with your mother, but I hope… I hope you never inherit her gifts. I hope you never need to walk back through the doors of a Circle.”
He could already feel tears gathering in his eyes. “Be safe,” he concluded, “and be strong.”
Two days later, he tried to escape again. When they hauled him back in he was spitting with rage, howling at all the injustices of the Circle. “What kind of a place takes a child from its mother hours after being born!?” He kicked up such a bloody fuss there were rumors that the baby had been his.
He didn’t know what became of that child, or any of the children who were born under his care during his tenure in the Circle. He gave all of them the same benediction as he took them away, telling them to be safe, to be strong, and that he hoped they never need return.
— — —
In Darktown, expecting parents usually went to midwives, but Anders was called upon in all the worst cases. Infants who were born far too early, deadly complications, parents who were too ill or malnourished to sustain a healthy pregnancy. Healthy births in his Darktown clinic were rare. Anders did what he could, but the number of infants who died under his care, the number of mothers who met the same fate, made Justice roil with righteous fury.
There were times, however, when Anders’ magic was enough. The first time a child was born healthy and whole in his shabby little clinic, his heart flooded with ecstatic joy knowing that he was going to get to hand the baby to its parents, not to the cold, armored hands of a Templar.
The family had two young children already, who crowded around their mother to meet the newest addition to the family, all of them looking exhausted but happy after a harrowing night that would have ended terribly had they no healer. The father looked up at Anders while the older siblings cooed over their new baby brother, and asked Anders his name.
“We’d like to name him after the man who made sure he made it to this world, and made sure his mother was there to look after him,” he explained.
Anders nearly cried for an entirely different reason than the usual. “Well, I am usually called Anders,” he said, “but that’s no name for a child. If you want to name him for me, call him Adrian. I would be honored.”
Across the span of his years in Kirkwall, there were three babies called Adrian and one called Adrianna. And there was an uncontainable joy that bloomed within him every time he could give a newborn to a parent, and know that even in this dark world, born in a clinic in a cistern, they were loved.
This is what mages should have, too, if they want it.
Anders shared Justice’s opinion without question. And when the time came to tear down anything that kept mages from their families, this was one more reason Anders, without hesitation, lit the fires.
— — —
“Anders, love, are you done working?”
Garrett’s voice was weary, but not the most exhausted Anders had ever heard him (that particular designation belonged to the day he awoke after his duel with the Arishok).
“One moment,” Anders called back. He was ensuring the fire burned steadily enough that it wouldn’t burn the stew in the pot hanging over it, and would instead keep it warm so they could eat whenever they pleased. ‘Working’ was indeed the right word for what he was doing, because Anders was acting more a physician than a husband, as he had been since the previous night.
Had they not been snowed in, Anders may have had it in him to fret over Garrett a bit more, but given no assistance, he was resigned to all the calm confidence of a doctor and none of the nervous energy of a spouse. He was, in that moment, pleased with his work and grateful that everyone was healthy, especially given the blizzard outdoors.
“Oh, good,” Garrett said, as Anders came around toward the bed, “I didn’t want to fall asleep holding her.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Anders said, lifting the edge of the blanket and climbing in beside Garrett, enjoying the warmth of fresh, soft sheets on his cold feet.
“No, I know you would have had help—“ Garrett paused to yawn, “—if it weren’t for the weather. Thank the Maker I married a healer, eh?”
They would have been fine regardless, but much more stressed.
“How are you feeling?” Anders asked. “You should rest, as long as you need.”
“Eh,” Garrett said, remarkably mild. “Being stabbed through the gut was worse. Oh, and so was that time with the high dragon—you remember, when I broke my femur? That was worse.”
“You know, I wonder why I was even concerned.”
Garrett chuckled, still sounding tired. “I am going to sleep, though,” he said. “Here, hold onto Tadpole while I do.”
“Of course.” Anders leaned over to transfer the baby into his arms, gently adjusting the blanket she was wrapped in. “There we go, love. All’s well.”
Garrett turned, pressing his face against Anders’ side. He was asleep almost instantly, and Anders was glad to see him get some rest.
With Garrett asleep, Anders’ full attention was on the affectionately nicknamed Tadpole in his arms. She was peacefully sleeping, too, her little face round and soft, her eyes closed. In the time since he’d last seen one, Anders had almost forgotten how small a newborn baby was. His daughter wasn’t even particularly tiny, it was just a matter of being a person who had only been born three hours ago.
His daughter.
“Oh, Maker, she really is mine, isn’t she?” He spoke quietly enough that Hawke would not wake.
There was a pleasure very like pride that radiated from Justice. It was a familiar emotion, one Anders had sensed from him on any number of occasions since they’d found out they were going to be parents. This time, though, it was tinged with adoration—not the usual kind of love Justice felt for Anders and Garrett, but a parental affection for the baby in Anders’ arms.
She is ours. And thanks to our deeds, she will never be taken from us.
Anders watched her face for a long time. Looking back so many years, he realized he could not remember the face of the first infant he’d ever held, but in his mind, that little girl looked just like his own daughter. It was more likely than not that any child of Anders’ and Garrett’s would be a mage, as well, but he didn’t need to pray that she would never need to pass through the doors of a Circle. He didn’t need to pass her to the arms of the Chantry to be raised away from her family.
She was theirs, forever. She would grow up in the little cabin in the small village they called home, wrapped up at night in the quilts Anders had sewn for her, playing with the little wooden toys Garrett had taken to carving in his free time. When she was old enough that the magic which was doubtless within her manifested, they would teach her how to use it with fatherly patience, the same way Garrett’s father had taught him. They would celebrate her birthday every year in the dead of winter, sometimes, probably, in another snowstorm.
He wondered whether he would ever stop feeling so wildly lucky to have a daughter. He didn’t lift a hand to wipe the tears from his face.
Instead of telling her to be strong, Anders said, “welcome home. I cannot wait to see the person you become.”