Chapter Text
The letter arrives by raven. He’s so desperate to hear from her that he doesn’t even notice that the penmanship on the thick envelope isn’t her clustered chicken scratch.
For as long as he can remember his worst fear has been being made tranquil. Now, for the first time ever, he thinks it might be a dream. He’d even be okay with losing himself to Justice and becoming a mindless machine to rage against Templars, but the spirit has been near silent since the explosion in Kirkwall. And even now when Anders wants nothing more than to be fueled by rage and a passion for justice the spirit does not rear its head. His heart aches so bad he thinks he might perish from the grief alone.
He spends two days in bed, even soiling the linens rather than go to the chamber pot. On the second day he gets up to drink some water but still doesn’t eat. He’s so weak and dehydrated that his head spins with the effort of it. He’s sure he’ll die here, a husk of a man surrounded by his own waste. But on the fifth day a visitor arrives.
He ignores the knocking on the door that gradually becomes pounding. He even ignores the noise of the front door being knocked off its hinges and raining splinters onto the floor. He doesn’t care who it is, he even hopes it’s the Templars finally come to get him. He and Hawke remained two steps ahead of them at all times, it would be fitting for them to find him now that she’s gone.
“Eugh, did you piss the bed?” Carver asks, not even bothering to hide his disgust. Anders doesn’t even bother with rolling over to look at him. The surprise that it isn’t death itself knocking on his door is overpowered by his exhaustion. “Come on,” Carver barks. “Get up!”
When Anders still doesn’t move, Carver grunts. “Pathetic. Fine, have it your way.” Carver Hawke has never been a small man, but his time in the Wardens has made him even larger. Over six feet tall and built like a brick house, his heavy footfalls shake the wobbly bed that Anders is laying on.
For several long minutes Anders thinks he has been left behind. He will finally be allowed to lay here in his own piss until he rots away into nothing. Unfortunately, Carver comes back.
“Last chance,” he offers. And when Anders still refuses to move he dumps a bucket of freezing water on him.
Anders leaps to his feet with a gasp, his head spinning and his stomach rolling with the effort. “You!” He shouts, pointing a finger at Carver. He’s not sure where he plans to go from there, but he definitely doesn’t plan to break down into tears. He ends up on his knees in the middle of the one room cabin he and Hawke had been sharing for the last 3 months, sobbing hysterically with his head in his hands.
“Come on,” Carver murmurs, kneeling beside him. He pats Anders’ shoulder sympathetically. “Come with me to Skyhold. They’re having a memorial service for her. Varric wants you there, he said the Inquisitor will keep you safe.”
“Leave me here to die, Carver,” Anders says, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
“That’s not an option and you know it. Elena would spend the rest of my life haunting me if I let you die in this hovel.” He pauses, his own inhale shaky with emotion. “C’mon, I’ll help you change. You look like shit… smell like it too.”
Carver strips him with a tenderness he hadn’t known the younger man capable of. He’s so numb that he hardly feels embarrassed at the state of himself. Carver grimaces at the stench though. “Ugh. Lemme fill the washtub. I’m not letting you on my horse until you’ve cleaned yourself up.”
He goes to stand outside while Anders bathes himself. He wonders if he could drown himself in the tub or if his survival instincts would kick in and force himself to surface. Before he can test it Carver comes back inside. He digs through the scuffed wooden chest in the corner and shoves clothes into a pack at random. He turns to toss a pair of smalls and some robes at Anders. “Put these on.” After Anders has complied he calls out, “He’s decent now, Sylvia.”
“Who?” Anders asks with the first real panic since he received that awful letter. A tiny woman peeks around the doorframe. She has a mass of wild red curls with pointed ears sticking out and she’s wearing the dark blue robes of a Grey Warden mage.
“Hello,” she greets. Her voice is soft and cautious, like she’s talking to a wounded animal.
“Who are you?” Anders repeats.
“I’m Sylvia, a friend of Carver's.”
Anders’ heart continues to hammer erratically in his chest. “You told someone about this place?” He asks Carver.
“She’s fine, I promise. Plus you’re going to have to leave soon anyways.”
The room feels like it’s closing in on him. “If I leave she won’t be able to find me if she comes back.”
He’s never seen Carver look so sympathetic. It’s humiliating. It’s devastating.
“Are you hungry?” Sylvia asks, tactfully leading the conversation in another direction. “I imagine you haven’t been keeping yourself well fed with all that you’re going through.”
Anders’ stomach grumbles hopefully at the mention of food. “I haven’t eaten in a few days,” he admits.
“You should start small,” Sylvia warns him while digging through her pack. “If you try to eat too much right from the get go you’ll just end up blowing chunks.”
She offers him half of some kind of biscuit and a small piece of jerky. He does his best to pace himself but he still manages to give himself the hiccups.
“Come on,” Carver says. “We should get on the road, we’re losing daylight.”
❈
Anders sits behind Carver on his horse, a gorgeous black mare with a single white sock. They start at a decent pace but Carver quickly notices the way Anders sways on the horse behind him. He’s too weak to even just hang on to Carver and stay upright. To his credit, Carver doesn’t complain or even mention it. Just slows his horse down considerably.
It’s dark by the time they stop riding. They stop at a building that Anders would assume was just someone’s home if it weren’t for the wooden sign in the ground out front that says ‘3 bits for a room’ in shaky, painted letters. It has a small pasture and barn in the back as well as a sizable garden. There’s no other buildings anywhere nearby and the last town they passed was a few miles back. Carver dismounts easily. “Stay with him?” He asks his elven companion.
Carver returns a few minutes later. “It’ll do,” he tells them. “They’ve got room in the barn for the horses. The owner has already made supper for the night but he said he could put a pot of stew on for us.”
Anders attempts to dismount and stumbles in his weakened state. Carver catches him by the elbow and steadies him. “Throw your hood on. It’s just the old bloke in there but I’d hate to risk him recognizing you.”
Anders was right. This isn’t actually an inn, it’s just somebody’s home with a spare room. The old man is stirring a big pot of soup over the fire and looks up at their entrance. “Three of ya?” He asks, in a backwoods accent thicker than any Anders has heard before.
“I hope it’s not a problem,” Sylvia speaks up. “We’re boneweary from a day of travel and just need a few hours of good sleep.”
“S’fine,” the man says. “Rooms small though. Be on top of each other, you’s will.”
“Not a problem,” Carver assures him. “We’re used to much worse sleeping arrangements.”
The man nods. “Wardens. A’yup, knew one once. Could sleep through a quake, he could.” He points his large wooden spoon towards a door in the back corner. “Through there you go. Soup for ya in a bit. Bring it right to your door, I will.”
“Thank you,” Sylvia drops another piece onto the wooden table in the middle of the room as they pass. “A little something extra to show our appreciation.”
As soon as the door is shut safely behind them Carver sighs. “You’re pissing away our money like we’re still on the order’s dime.”
“He’s nice!” She argues. “Plus he needs it more than we do and you know it.”
The room is tiny. There’s a small bed tucked away in the corner, a side table with a large gouge in the wood, and just enough floor space for the three of them to stand crowded together. Anders crosses to the bed and collapses onto it, bending down to begin unlacing his boots.
“You’re not with the order anymore?” He asks, surprising himself by even bothering to ask. He’d thought himself too exhausted to really care, so it’s a shock to realize he actually is curious. They’re both still wearing the uniform. And he thinks Elena would have mentioned to him that Carver defected if she knew.
“Something weird is going on, or maybe was going on, I don’t know. Every Warden from Orlais to the Free Marches was hearing the calling. The Orlaisian commander went rogue, nobody knows exactly what she was doing,” Carver explains.
“I suspect we’ll find out soon though,” Sylvia cuts in.
“Yeah,” Carver agrees. “Varric’s letter was vague but it sounds like the Inquisition has taken care of things.”
Anders exhales shakily. “Why does she always feel like it’s her job to fix everything?”
Carver sits down on the bed next to him. “She always felt like she had to come to my rescue. Or maybe she just had to one up me one last time.”
Anders laughs shakily.
A knock on the door interrupts them and Sylvia goes to answer it. The old man is there with three bowls of soup. She thanks him and tucks them precariously into her arms. Carver is back up in an instant, grabbing one for himself and one for Anders. “You take the bed,” he tells the older man.
Anders is in no place to argue, he’s tired down to his bones. Nobody speaks as they eat their soup. It’s bland but warm and fills Anders’ hollow stomach so he can’t complain. That night he lays awake in the bed, listening to Sylvia’s gentle breathing and Carver’s rumbling snores. He’s not sure what Skyhold will bring, he doubts he’ll ever be truly happy again, but for now he’s alive.