dragon age. anders-centric. spoilers for awakening and DA2. PG-13. characters belong to bioware.

tempora mutantur

Anders is six years old, and the Gwaren winters are harsh and cold.

His father is away, busy delivering firewood in the city for weeks at a time. He sends letters, but they are few and far between, and his mother cannot bring herself to smile like she used to.

He stomps around in the snow until he stumbles and falls, landing on his back with a soft thud. Wind scatters loose snowflakes onto his face, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight. His cheeks are on their way to frostbite, but he'd rather be out here. Most of his days are spent indoors; his mother tells him he mustn't play with the other children.

The sky is white, indistinguishable from the clouds, and the sun shines through them so bright he can't quite stare up at it. The air is sharp and crisp, and he can't resist rolling over in the deep drifts.

Once he's had enough of the snow melting in his hair and dripping down the back of his neck, he wanders towards the house, admiring the icicles that hang from the rooftop. A row of them cling to the windowsill, and he cups one in his hands.

It turns to water faster than it should. He laughs and shakes the droplets away from his hands, eager to get back inside to the warmth of the fire.

Anders is eleven, and he sneaks away from home to fish in the forest brooks that trickle down towards the sea. The days are long and quiet, but he doesn't feel lonely. This is how it's always been.

He likes the way his heart races when a fish snags itself on the hook, and likes it more when he's able to set the poor creature free. He wants the rendezvous with fate to teach them to save themselves, somehow, to avoid the men in their ships off the coast. He wonders if they'll remember.

He hopes they do.

A twig snaps, leaves crunch, and there's a slender specter of a girl who dashes through the trees with bare feet and ink on her cheeks. Anders looks up, startled, and accidentally drops his fishing pole into the creek.

Horrified, he watches as the current carries it downstream, and turns to say something harsh to the one who caused it.

"I'm sorry!" she blurts, equally afraid. "It's just, I'm running away, a-and I need to-"

"Running away?" he asks, confused. "Why?"

She shakes her head. "I can't tell you, you're a... you're not..."

It's the first time he's seen an elf. There are plenty in the city, he knows that, but for all his pleading he's never been allowed to go with his father.

"Are you okay?"

She's not, and spring is hardly any kinder with its weather than winter. He leads her back to their farm, and tries his best to make her comfortable in the barn. They talk in awkward, halted exchanges for a while until she at last explains that she's left her clan. She's done something bad, she says, and when they find out they'll be angry.

The girl is his age, if not younger, and so frail that she could be a skeleton. Her shoulders shake from the cold, and he feels sorry for her.

He kneels down and touches his fingertips to a flake of hay to use as kindling. They catch quickly, and he's proud of himself until the elf shrieks and shocks him into releasing more flame than he's ever conjured before.

He panics. It gets worse.

Anders is twelve, and the death of the Dalish child has drawn more attention to his family than they've seen in years. His father has locked him in the root cellar, where there's nothing he can set on fire.

He fixes his gaze on the sliver of light that shines down around the door's hinges and loses track of the hours that pass. When angry footsteps thunder toward him and throw open the door, he is too terrified to find joy in seeing the sky.

They drag him from the cellar and bind his wrists with heavy, rusting chains, and no amount of struggling or screaming will convince them to leave him be. Accidents caused by young mages are never forgiven.

He's shoved roughly into a cart with a small bag of his meager belongings. As they pull away from his home, he catches sight of his mother sobbing, crying out for him, and his father's stern eyes watching as he's removed like vermin.

He never sees them again.

Anders is thirteen, and misses his mother desperately. The stale air in the Tower is enough to drive him mad. The other apprentices are too absorbed in their own sorrows to console him.

Most days he must adhere to a strict schedule, lest anyone think him disobedient or delinquent. In what little free time he has, he stays hidden away in a corner of the stock room. As long as he's quiet, Owain lets him spend hours there, gradually reading half the books in the library.

He's made friends with a tabby cat, who diligently chases down the mice who scamper through the Tranquil's supplies. Once he's worn himself out, he curls up against the ample fabric of Anders' robes and naps beside him.

For the first time since he left his family, Anders feels a sense of peace.

Anders is fourteen, and spends his lessons drawing in the margins of books many times his age. He learns that his gift is a curse, that the Maker would condemn him for setting foot outside the Tower's walls. Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him.

Even without demonic involvement, they think of him as an abomination. And don't they all? Didn't his parents? They're hidden away from the world, as if they could all be swept under the rug so as not to offend society with their existence.

He decides that he doesn't belong here. The first chance he gets, he's leaving, templars be damned. He will not spend his life trapped in this forsaken place.

An opportunity presents itself soon enough, during their weekly exercise routine. Senior Enchanter Sweeney can hardly be expected to keep track of them all, not with his impaired vision. Finn is doing an excellent job of distracting the poor man, and refuses to drop his concerns of what diseases the Calenhad mosquitoes might harbor.

Without looking back, Anders breaks into a sprint and jumps into the lake. The water is freezing cold and his robes weigh him down, but sheer determination keeps him moving foward towards the shore.

He can hear the other apprentices shouting, some even cheering, and Greagoir harshly rebuking Sweeney. With their heavy armor, the templars cannot follow him. Not yet.

Anders heaves himself up alongside the pier and gasps for air, laughing breathlessly. He's soaked and chilled to the bone, but he's free.

He pays a merchant twenty silver - all he has - to hitch a ride somewhere, anywhere far from here. It's the second time he's ridden in a cart, but this one will be quite the improvement.

For several days he finds himself in the company of West Hill watchmen, but all too soon they've sold him out to the Chantry's forces. Not many would harbor an apostate, and even fewer in a fortress that claims ghosts as part of its legacy. They're all superstitious fools.

The ride back to the Tower only serves to strengthen his resolve. He refuses to think of it as home.

Anders is seventeen, and passes the days by practicing healing magic with the older mages. He is fascinated by the way the energy flowing through his hands can knit wounds and ease pain. If he could only prove to the world that mages can help, not harm, and could use these talents to soothe so much suffering, then maybe... maybe another child someday could stay with his family.

"You have exceptional talent."

The words break his focus, and the magic fizzles out from distraction. He glances up, embarrassed. "Really? He shrugs, dismissing the matter. "It wasn't anything special."

Karl shakes his head. "Too many apprentices ridicule the school of Creation, and favor the other three. Their scorn is unwarranted and foolish. They grossly underestimate the power of these spells."

Anders nods in agreement, but can't help smirking. "I think they just want to blow things up."

Karl laughs. "True! And there's a time and place for that, but not left unchecked within the walls of the Circle."

Anders smiles at that. He concentrates, and conjures a wave of energy that blooms out across the small space. He lifts his gaze to meet Karl's eyes, and he can't tell if the surge of warmth that curls through him is because of the spell.

For the weeks following they spend increasing amounts of time in each other's presence, and it culminates with Anders moaning in an abandoned room, Karl's head between his thighs.

Anders is eighteen, and cautiously makes his way through the silent halls while the rest of the Circle sleeps. Every once in a long while, the Templar guarding the entrance to the subterranean docks will leave the post to relieve himself. For the briefest of moments, the path will be clear.

He's learned the art of silent running.

The cavern is lit by the ethereal glow of enchanted lamps, and they're barely enough to guide his way as he wades into the water. He's kept hidden a pair of robes, sheared off at the shoulders and knees, to help him swim more easily. Lake Calenhad is gigantic, and it's adrenaline and sheer will that pushes him across its murky depths.

By the time he reaches the shore, he's exhausted to the point of collapse. It's a struggle to crawl onto the muddy bank, but once his fingers sink into the fresh, springy grass, he feels alive in a way he hasn't since he was a child.

The Spoiled Princess is not a place he can hide in for long. He glances around, desperate for help, for a way out of this area entirely. He's dripping buckets of water onto the floor, and he gives the bartender an apologetic look.

An elven girl stops sweeping the floor long enough to stare at him quizzically.

"What happened to you?" she asks, amused. "You get mauled by a bear?"

Anders shrugs. "It was a giant nug, actually. You should've seen him, he was a beast."

Namaya laughs, and props the broom up in a corner. She sits down, and pats the table for Anders to join her.

"Okay, yeah," she says. "I think I want to hear this one."

They talk briefly, until the bartender shouts for her to get back to her work. Namaya retrieves the broom and gives Anders a quick grin before resuming her task.

He hides out behind the tavern for hours, sipping on weak ale and waiting for the girl to end her shift. It's dawn by the time she's finished, and she takes him back to her home as the sun shines through the morning mist. It's not much more than a shack, really, but her bed is warm, and so is she, and he can't complain.

He tells her about what goes on across the lake, about all the abuses the mages endure, about his desire for a life of his own choosing. She presses a kiss to his damp hair and promises to help, in whatever way she can.

They've hardly fallen asleep when Rylok bashes down the door and drags him away, kicking and clawing at her and the other Templars in a blind rage. No doubt the patrons of the Princess overheard enough conversation to figure out why he was wearing tattered mage robes, and wasted no time reporting what they'd witnessed.

Anders spends a year locked in a disused storage closet, windowless and cold, without even a cat to keep him company.

Namaya swears she'll see his phylactery destroyed.

Anders is nineteen, and wishes the Tower had the hidden passageways the Templars mistakenly thought it did. A shipment of runestones and lyrium has arrived, and some of the crates are destined for Redcliffe. This is his chance to leave for good.

"This is it!" he hisses, terrified of being overheard. "Hurry!"

Jowan sneaks along after him, not so convinced that it'll work. "They still have our phylacteries. They'll find us!" he insists.

Anders shoots him a pointed look in the dark. Now is not the time for dissent.

They manage to unload one of the wooden crates, and stash its contents away in a shadowed corner of the room. Among the items was a letter requesting permission to study, but Jowan snatches it away before Anders can finish reading whom it's from. With its seal broken, anyone could see it's been tampered with, and Jowan burns it before it can arouse any suspicion.

Anders climbs into the crate, drawing his knees up to his chest. It's cramped, of course, but this is their path to freedom. A few hours of discomfort is certainly worth that much.

Jowan joins him, and scowls at the tight fit. "This was your plan?" he asks, annoyed. "What if the delivery is postponed? What if the caravan is attacked? What'll we do then?"

Anders smiles at him, and leans in to kiss his cheek. "Then I'll protect you," he whispers.

He's barely laid his head on Jowan's shoulder when the other mage shrugs away, and hefts himself out of the container. "This isn't what I agreed to," he mutters.

Anders listens to the sound of his footsteps fade away, and sighs.

The following night he escapes into the Bannorn before the caravan has even reached Lothering. His robes are coated with lyrium dust, and his back aches from confinement. Ahead of him lie endless farms and fields, and reaching just about anywhere by foot will take weeks.

As an apostate, he will be a moving target.

The title sounds strange now, to even think it, even though it's all he's wanted for years. For a fleeting instant he wonders if he's made the right decision, but he quickly waves away the notion. He's a free man. That's what matters.

With no reliable way to get his bearings, he simply begins walking away from the dwarven merchants. He hopes he's heading east, or the Imperial Highway will eventually be an unwelcome surprise. After years of living indoors, he's hardly accustomed to any extended exercise, and within an hour it's difficult to keep going.

He stops in a wheat field, intending for the tall grain to shield him from enemy eyes. If not for the silence of the open air, he never would've heard the agonized groan from a short distance away. Without a staff, he has limited means to defend himself should it come down to conflict.

"Hello?" he calls, wary. "Is someone there?"

Another sound of pain leads him to a man lying near the field's fence, bloodied and bruised. A dagger is embedded deep in his leg, and Anders needs no further encouragement. He kneels beside him and begins to cast spell after spell, determined to at least ease his suffering, if not heal him entirely.

He helps the man to sit up and lean back against a fence post.

"Are you all right?" he asks, already aware of the answer. "What happened to you?"

He's dressed in rich clothing, and stares up at Anders, confused. "What are you doing here? Those thieves left me to die..." He glances to the knife, abandoned on the ground now that it's been removed from his flesh. "You saved my life."

Anders smiles. "Well, I couldn't just leave you there, could I?" He lets the injured man lean against him for support. "Let's get you back to your home."

Once they reach the estate, he learns that he came to the rescue of an important man. Bann Ferrenly struggles to express his sincere gratitude, and Anders finds himself showered with attention from all sides. Ferrenly's wife herself cooks him a meal, as all the servants have retired to their quarters at this late hour. Their little girl fixes an amulet around his neck and looks at him shyly.

He leaves their estate with fine garments, expertly crafted but not enough to draw much notice, and enough food and coin to get him to Denerim. Well-fed, with clothes to disguise himself and the Fox's pendant secure against his throat, he feels ready to start this new life.

Anders is twenty-one, and has been caught in Amaranthine. A Chantry initiate turned him over to the Templars in hopes that it would garner some favor with the Maker. Anders wonders if Niall didn't have the right idea after all, that mages should be left alone, somewhere away from these self-righteous morons.

They stop at Vigil's Keep for a short rest, and by the time they're ready to depart, it's been overrun by darkspawn. Anders breaks away from them without a second thought, and fights off both his captors and the corrupted creatures until he finds himself face to face with the Hero of Ferelden.

Before the sun rises, he's consumed tainted blood, and will never sleep soundly again.

The Blackmarsh lives up to its reputation, and it is there he meets the Spirit, fighting valiantly to free those ensnared by a powerful witch. He has no name, nothing but an essence, an ideal, and Anders wonders if he truly has been selfish all these years.

"I can still feel his memories."

Anders trails his fingertips along Ser Pounce-A-Lot's side, stroking through his fur, and glances up to what remains of Kristoff's decaying corpse. Flesh hangs from his hollow cheeks, his lips cracked and peeling, his eyes sunken and drying out.

It's nauseating.

"What's it like?" he asks, conversationally. Ser Pounce rolls lazily onto his back and allows Anders to pet his stomach for a while before quickly tiring of it and kicking at his hand.

"I do not wish to dwell on his thoughts, but it is unavoidable," he says, a note of concern in his voice. Justice stands utterly still, looming over the two on the bed, oblivious to how intimidating he seems. "I still feel... sorrow, for his wife. She has been wronged."

Anders tilts his head. "But we avenged his death, didn't we?"

Justice is silent for a long moment. "I have seen endless slaughter of these creatures, yet it cannot console her in this mourning."

"Mmm." He scoops Ser Pounce into his arms and stands up, sighing deeply. "There are some things we just can't fix, no matter how hard we try."

Justice does not agree.

A willing host, a friend, and Aura can finally lay her husband to rest.

It is unspeakably strange to no longer be alone inside his mind, but for the first few hours he's convinced nothing has changed. He feels normal, as normal as one can with two sets of thoughts coursing through his consciousness. He trusts Justice. He trusts his judgement.

Only when he sees his limbs moving of their own accord, wrenching off Rolan's head as he screams, does he realize he's made a terrible mistake.

Anders is twenty-two, and The Pearl is possibly the sole place in Ferelden where no one gives a shit who he is. He sits in a corner, taking long swigs of whiskey mixed with a lyrium potion. Something about the substance soothes Justice, keeps him at bay long enough for Anders to think for himself for a time.

A pirate captain is bound for the Free Marches, and Anders knows he is no longer welcome in this country.

Anders is twenty-five, and wakes up in a bed instead of a cot for the first time in years. Hawke sleeps soundly beside him, and Anders watch his chest rise and fall with his breathing.

Justice would have him abandon this, spurn these precious moments of security for a true revolution, but he cannot possibly understand its real significance. Only when every mage in Thedas can promise to spend their lives with a lover, to spend their days in a house instead of a prison, will they have succeeded.

He curls an arm over Hawke's waist and easily falls back asleep, lulled by the steady sound of his heartbeat.

Anders is twenty-eight, and the entire world wants him dead.

Through sheer force of will, Hawke shields him from Meredith's wrath, saves his life when he thought it forfeit. He was ready to die for his cause, completely prepared to be a necessary sacrifice, but Hawke won't allow it.

Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he could inspire such loyalty.

With the Knight-Commander dead in the Gallows, the lot of them flee to the hillsides, desperate to regroup and keep the anger of Kirkwall far away. None of them want a knife to the throat.

They linger in a cave on Sundermount for far too long, and within weeks their numbers have dwindled to three.

"I can't stay here," Isabela insists, her arms crossed over her chest. "And neither can you two."

"We need a ship," Hawke replies, and it's as simple as that.

Varric pulls some strings, and they manage to sell the Amell estate. It brings in more than enough coin to buy Isabela a new boat and a crew to go with it.

She agrees to meet them on the coast, well beyond the city walls and its prying eyes. The salty ocean breeze tousles their hair and ruffles the feathers on Anders' robes.

"Kirkwall could've been yours," he says, his gaze fixed on the Waking Sea. "Do you ever wish...?"

Hawke shakes his head fiercely. "My family is dead, Anders. I won't lose you, too."

And he's lost nearly everything, himself. Anders spends a week at sea pleading with Isabela and Hawke to stop in Amaranthine before they leave this part of the world behind forever.

"I can't just abandon him," he begs, his eyes full of desperation. "I've caused so much harm already. I won't give him up after all this!"

Only at Hawke's insistence do they set sail, and Delilah Howe finds herself caught completely offguard with an apostate and pariah on her doorstep. She hushes Anders before reluctantly letting him inside, more to prevent a commotion than anything else. The Wardens disowned him long ago.

Ser Pounce-A-Lot is not the kitten he remembers, but the cat still recognizes him. He rubs against Anders' shins, loudly announcing his impatience and his wish to be picked up.

Anders buries his face in the cat's fur and lets out a choked sob.

Anders is twenty-nine, and Ser Pounce is eight. He never thought he'd see his adored pet again; if he ever had any doubts that Hawke loved him, they've been dispelled now. Not many would travel back so far for an animal.

They pass Llomerynn, and Isabela parts ways with them at Dairsmuid. She has business in Antiva, and has not the death wish to sail any closer to Par Vollen.

She embraces both of them tightly, and grants them each an affectionate kiss on the cheek. Even Ser Pounce gets a goodbye hug, and purrs his approval.

"You boys keep safe," she commands, biting her lip. "I can't come rushing back here to save your asses."

"Thank you," Hawke says, sincere and smiling. "For everything."

Isabela pauses, then turns on her heel and strides quickly back to her ship before anything else can be said.

Kont-Aar is far to the north, but Hawke is convinced it's the only place they will find refuge. The Qunari have no love for the Chantry, after all. Anders is rightly concerned that they harbor no love for mages, either, but they have little choice when the rest of the continent is out for their blood.

It's odd and strangely sobering to be a refugee again, especially after years spent in the plush comfort of a Hightown mansion. Anders has been escaping his captors his whole life, and the ordeal seems a return to the ordinary.

Hawke is fascinated by the Qun, and Anders finds himself tagging along as they become viddathari. He's always believed that the Maker created mages for a reason, and perhaps solely for his connection to Hawke, he is permitted to take a role amongst others skilled in medical practice.

In time, they reluctantly accept him as an unchained saarebas, and the irony of at last finding this freedom in a society who cuts mages' tongues out is not lost on him.

Anders is thirty-five, and Thedas is at war.

There have been rumors flying that the Chantry wishes Kirkwall's Champion to set things right, to step in and diffuse the uprisings, but Hawke refuses to go. There is no stopping the momentum now.

"Justice is proud of you," he announces, beaming at Hawke. "It's because of you the mages have a chance now."

Hawke cups Anders' cheek and smirks. "No offense to Justice, but I hardly did this for him."

Anders is forty-two, and Qunari warships have set sail from Seheron. Tevinter and all its magisters cannot hold back the invasion forever. If not for their conversion, Anders would fear for his life as a former Ferelden. Hawke insists that the Qun does not sanction such a waste of life, but his does little to placate him.

At night his dreams are plagued by equal parts darkspawn horde and horned giants. Even with Hawke protective at his back and Ser Pounce curled against his chest, he can't suppress the fear.

Anders is fifty.

"I've always wanted to go to Weisshaupt," he muses, looking at Hawke with tired eyes. "Pretend they still have griffons..."

He crosses his arms over his stomach, as if to ward off nausea. "My family's from there, you know. Anders, Anderfels. That's the joke."

Hawke watches him, and wonders when his skin became so sallow, his irises so dulled.

A letter from Varric arrives with a map of theorized Deep Roads entrances in northern Thedas. They take little in the way of weapons, but Anders brings an urn with Ser Pounce-A-Lot's ashes. If they're going to do this, he wants them to all go together.

The overwhelming sense of claustrophobia is almost enough to send him back to the surface, but he knows there's no other option at this late hour. The darkspawn taint ultimately corrupts any Warden, and this is his Calling.

He is honored that Hawke is beside him.

When they set out, he had but a faint hope that they'd find the creature he was seeking, but the Architect awaits their arrival as if he somehow knew.

"I am surprised to see you again," he notes, his voice quiet and thoughtful as it's always been. "My efforts have proven worthwhile. I trust you found the path clear."

Anders nods, and Hawke says nothing, but takes the mage's hand in his own.

"Without a horde to fight, I had to search for a battle," Anders explains. Long ago he may have had a bit of amusement in his tone, but it's long gone now. "And there's no glory in suicide."

The Architect considers this. "You sought me?" He scrutinizes the both of them from behind a mask of flesh. "I do not understand."

Anders smiles wearily. "I didn't expect you to."

The two step forward together. Anders clutches the urn to his chest, and squeezes Hawke's hand so tightly he's afraid the bones might break. Hawke meets his gaze for the last time, and there's simply nothing left unspoken.

The Architect rearranges the structure of the cavern, and sends half the tunnel crashing down on top of them.

Justice crosses the Veil.

After years of waiting, nothing came.

As your life flashed before your eyes, you realize you're looking in the wrong place.

I'm a reasonable man, get off my case.

- radiohead, "packt like sardines in a crushd tin box"