museyboxy | Vampire AU

Vampire AU

In Thedas, vampirism is a rare, powerful, and highly unusual form of blood magic that can be directly learned only from hunger demons. It differs from all other forms of blood magic in that it directly changes the user's body, making them into essentially a monster.

How to become one: Becoming a vampire is far more involved than learning simple blood magic. It's a ritual that must be conducted in the waking world, rather than the Fade. Therefore, the hunger demon needs a body. In other words, vampirism requires sacrificing someone to become a hunger abomination. The hunger abomination then feeds the mage their own blood, and drains the mage's blood in return. Once the last drop of living blood is gone from the mage's body, they collapse and the abomination takes them, feeding on them for a night and a day. The second night, the mage rises again as a vampire, and the hunger demon is freed from the bond between them. Most vampires let the abomination go, but many choose to kill their demonic sire, to cover their own tracks.

How common: The choice to become a vampire is a serious one, requiring a real, extremely risky deal with a demon. Albeit one that many end up betraying. Vampirism is most common in Tevinter, but not as much as one might think: the weaknesses of vampirism make the prospect unattractive to many magisters.

Outside of the Imperium, vampires are the subject of legend and folktales, but most folk, common and educated alike, believe them nothing more than ghost stories. The Chantry teaches nothing about them, and most templars believe them a fiction.

Abilities: Vampires can turn others, of course, in all the usual vampire ways. Vampiric abilities (speed, strength, hypnosis, etc) are immune to templar cleansing and dispels, and vampires cannot be tracked using their mage phylacteries.

Vampires have abilities similar to those in True Blood: speed, strength, the ability to sway the minds of others (glamouring/hypnosis), and heightened senses. Vampire mages can all do blood magic (even if they weren't directly turned by a demon, and never directly learned blood magic). Vampiric weaknesses are similar to those in Buffy: sunlight, though they can handle being in shadows, staking, silver, and certain holy symbols- though, ironically, not the Chantry symbol.

Vampires can walk in sunlight, but it hurts their skin and weakens their abilities. If mages, their magic is hampered, giving them the strength of the average Circle mage and nothing more. Their ability to tolerate sunlight increases the more recently they've fed. However, they will always be stronger at night.

Prompts:
1) Sire - make someone a creature of the night.
2) New Blood - maybe you wanted this, maybe it's being done to you. Welcome to vampirism.
3) Victim - some fanger's sticking a straw into you like you're a Capri Sun.
4) Hunter - did a vamp kill your family? Are you a Templar off the reservation? Idk.
5) Harem - that hypnosis thing? Yeah, you're some vampire's pet now.
6) Wild Card - roll your own. Let's get weird.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ OOC: So a few notes for this:

- not sure how much Hawke could actually see, but I added some details anyway, because why not? Also I could get all dramatic with it so whee

- took that part in the prompt about vamps being able to turn others and went the "drain the victim completely/feed them vampire blood" route. But if that doesn't fit the AU then let me know!

- sorry this is longish ]

Anders waits a minute or two, getting antsier by the moment. Ox has become no fonder of him over the course of his bath, and the discomfort wracking his body hasn’t abated either. He’d almost be fine to just wait it out. Justice has gone back to his formless anger now that Hawke is safely at a distance, which makes Anders feel just the smallest bit less on-edge.

They had given him plenty of chances to take the ritualistic route. There seemed to be a preference for that- to come into it willing, understanding just what was going to happen. Anders’s staunch refusal was received with disappointment, though not with surprise.

It’s too hard to just sit still and wait though. He’s sure the mages he killed weren’t the last of them. What if they had followed him here? Who else would they try to drag into their mess? And he’s not exactly learning anything new about it just standing around in a bath towel. Anders slicks his damp hair back with one hand and moves towards the door.

One mage on each wrist, and another on his throat. They hadn’t dosed him as usual that night, figuring it would be fairer for their captive to have his wits about him. That had been their undoing, in the end.

“Hawke?” Anders cracks open the door, only intending to stick his head out and take stock of the adjacent bedroom. “What are you-“

The smell of fresh blood nearly brings him to his knees.

The last thing the mages would have seen was Anders writhing, blood steadily dripping out of the corner of his mouth while an unnatural blue glow spread over his skin like a crack in glass. None of them had accounted for this. There’s a cry of mixed anguish and fury. The bonds snap like nothing more than twine.

And then the killing starts.

Anders steps into the room slowly, feet making absolutely no sound on the carpeted floor. There’s no conscious decision made to cross the distance between him and Hawke. One second he’s by the door, then the next he’s behind her, his hand coming to rest firmly on her shoulder.

“Hawke.”

He repeats the name again, but there’s an entirely different inflection to it this time. Almost pleading, but somehow still calmer than before. Eerily so.

She doesn't answer him the first time he speaks; this bit of magic is complicated and requires focus. The fact that he stops speaking doesn't rouse her. As far as she can tell, he fell silent out of disapproval or horror at seeing her performing blood magic. Hawke has never let him see her actually ritualizing this before, and is a little embarrassed- or maybe, finally, there's something in this world capable of making her feel shame.

The hand on her shoulder, though, that makes her jump. She cuts herself by accident and swears up a minor storm.

"Ow, shit fucking damn Maker's ass fucknut- Anders, what the hell?"

Anders doesn’t reply to the outburst. Instead, he steps closer, his body nearly flush with Hawke’s as he releases her shoulder and reaches around for her wrist. His hand clamps down on her arm, grip not painfully tight- but uncompromising. Anders pulls it back over Hawke’s shoulder and, without a moment’s hesitation, traces the line of blood on her arm with his tongue.

This was what all of that old blood should have smelled like, what it should have tasted like. Anders can’t think much at all at the moment, but he knows that much. All the confusion and the pain fades to background noise in the face of it. He’s not been properly drunk thanks to Justice in years, but that’s the closest thing he can compare this feeling to. Intoxication.

But the same part of him that instinctually knows the difference between fresh and old blood also knows that a scratch on one’s arm isn’t the best place to start.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, not even meaning to, not really even understanding why he’s apologizing. The hand on Hawke’s wrist loosens. The other hand gently pulls the hair away from the side of her neck.

Maybe she's just nervous- nervous, at what the man she has feelings for will do in the face of uncompromising evidence of her filthy blood magic. That's what stills her when he gets so close that her breath catches- when he seizes her wrist in a gently iron grip.

Then he licks her arm, and something happens. Hawke tries to turn around and speak. She tries to pull her arm away and ask him what he's doing. Suddenly her arms feel heavy, her muscles sluggish and weak, mind wrapped in a gentle fog that sounds like her heartbeat but does nothing to dim her confusion. It feels rather like the paralyzing leash of Idunna's blood magic, but softer somehow- gentler. And oh, the way he touches her. She's dreamed of closeness like that for so long.

Part of her wants to pull away, in confusion and a little bit of fear. The rest of her goes very still, mesmerized by his touch and wanting more. Wanting a caress, a kiss, wanting him.

It feels like Anders is half-dreaming. He’s himself, but he’s not. The arm that gently circles Hawke’s waist to pull her against him, his body supporting her weight- that’s him. The sharp points of his teeth that skim over her neck as he nuzzles in close, aching for the pulse of her blood- that’s something else. He’s in its thrall as certainly as Hawke is in his. It’s anyone’s guess who or what is really in control at the moment.

“Hawke…” he murmurs her name against her throat, his voice warm and soothing as the subtle blood magic he’s instinctively using. Relax, is what it whispers beneath the surface. Trust me.

Anders presses a light kiss to Hawke’s skin, just over the point where her pulse beats the strongest. It’s only a matter of seconds before his newly-formed fangs follow. In comparison to everything else, it’s not slow or soft. It’s quick as lightning, or a snake striking prey, which is its own mercy. It would hurt more for the fangs to sink in gradually.

Anders groans low in his throat as he has his first taste of fresh blood, his hold on Hawke only tightening as he sways slightly on his feet. It’s the rush of lyrium after he’s overextended his magic; the joy of walking free under the sun without the Circle’s ceiling above him; the warmth of a hand holding his own in secret where the Templars can’t see; Hawke smiling at him as he finishes healing her after a fight. It’s all of those things and more.

And as the blood pulls him under, the magic works on Hawke on his behalf, stealing the pain after those first few seconds and replacing it with a more diluted form of the same rush. It promises pleasure and comfort- if only she doesn’t resist it.

The arm around her waist, the closeness, how he nuzzles against her neck- oh, it's all so good, like a thousand dreams and fantasies she's had, and she nearly goes boneless in his arms. It's Anders. Of course she trusts him. If he just needed a near-death experience to make him realize his feelings, then she's not one to question finally getting everything she's ever wanted.

Then comes that kiss, the soft press of lips to her neck, and it's all she can do to not actually moan from anticipation. She loves him, she wants him so badly, she-

-hurts. It hurts, a lance of pain so unexpected it takes her a few seconds to realize what's happening, though her body reacts with tension and trembling and a soft pained sound escaping her throat.

He's hurting her. He's- shit, is he biting her? Not just biting her, but drinking her blood, oh gods. Maybe Anders hasn't heard of this, being Ferelden, but Hawke's parents used to tell scary stories about blood-sucking creatures that seemed human. An old Marcher legend, from the days of the Imperium. This knowledge rings loud and terrified in her mind, but the urgency seems to get lost on its way to her limbs. She tries to fight him, but her arms feel so heavy and all she manages is some weak attempt at struggling.

Everything is perfect for those first few moments. The seconds tick by, and Anders drinks deeply from Hawke’s neck, the struggling doing absolutely nothing to deter him. He could keep going on just like this right up until Hawke’s veins are dry. He wouldn’t even notice until she slipped lifeless from his arms.

Anders doesn’t think about that, but someone else does. Hawke will be able to feel his body go tense as the struggle for control begins, three natures warring together in one body.

Finally, Anders’s eyes fly open in a flash of blue, and the air is filled with the staticky ozone of the Fade energies Justice always brings with his manifestations. He pulls away, stumbling back, the siren song of blood magic falling away as he does. If Hawke were to look, she would see the way he holds himself strangely stiff- or rather, how Justice holds Anders’s body that way. His resolve is the only thing keeping their shared body from rushing at Hawke again to finish what he’d begun, and it’s no simple task to keep still. His glowing limbs shake subtly from the effort.

“LEAVE.”

She falls to her knees immediately, collapsing in a bloody heap. One hand goes to her neck, pressing against the small wounds there that are bleeding profusely, shoving a messy jumble of blood magic and healing artlessly against the wound. Hawke scrambles on the floor away from him, mouth open in utter shock.

Fangs. He has fangs. Justice just saved her life, probably, but now that his teeth are away from her flesh she can think more clearly and all she can see is that Anders has fangs and tried to kill her by drinking her fucking blood.

Vampire. That's what they called it. They made him a fucking vampire.

"You first," she gasps, blood seeping between the fingers at her throat. "This wasn't how I imagined our first kiss going. Really, Anders, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

The faintest gasp of humor, to cover up how stunned and scared she is. A weak wave of force sends his clothes flying through the air towards him, but they barely make it halfway before falling to the floor. She's too weak.

In a panic she holds up her other hand, the one not putting pressure to her neck, and squeezes a fist. It draws on her own spilled blood, the blood running down her fingers and arm and trickling down her throat to disappear under the deep V of her tunic. It draws on her blood and constricts his, the first time she's ever used blood magic on a friend, and she can only pray to the Maker that it works.

“We cannot-” Whatever else Justice was going to say gets lost as he suddenly stops, body jerking sharply as Hawke tries to use her magic. It might seem that, for a moment, it’s working. Anders’s body goes down on one knee, one hand dropping to the ground right after to keep him upright. “Stop this,” he orders, but his tone wavers partway through. He’s never sounded like this before, like both of them are trying to speak at once, their voices discordant. The blue on Anders’s skin flickers, the light in his eyes with it. Then it goes out.

Anders remains on the ground, panting, fingers curling against the floor. Gradually, his breathing slows. His hand relaxes. When he looks back up, it’s with eyes so dark that barely a hint of their usual amber color can even be seen around the edges of the iris.

“Now now, love…” He straightens his posture and puts his weight back on his heels, still kneeling on the ground. His head tilts back, then to the side, the lazy movement at odds with the way his eyes keenly follow he paths of blood tracing Hawke’s skin. If the blood magic she’s casting is affecting him still, he’s not showing it. He smiles as his eyes wander back up her form to find her gaze again.

“There’s no need for that. This doesn’t have to be difficult.” He extends a hand, and with it comes the pull of his own blood magic once again. Like before, its effect is subtle. Rather than forcing her body to move, it whispers directly to her mind. Relax. Come here. Don’t fight me.

“I want you, Hawke. I’ve always wanted you.”

When he looks at her, she knows she's lost. The slowed breathing, how his tense body and clenched fists relax, those all tell her that the blood magic isn't working right, but it's the look in his eyes that really drives it home.

Then he speaks, and her blood runs cold. It isn't Anders. Whatever this creature is, it isn't Anders. She's heard shades of that tone before in his flirting, and seen that smile in part when they banter, but she's also seen that smile before a battle, or when discussing revolution.

Whatever he's doing to her when he reaches for her bloody well works. The sharpness of her mind goes blurry, like a picture just barely out of focus. A heartbeat that isn't hers sounds in her head, slow and steady and so relaxing.

A retort. "I've always-" wanted a pony, but you don't see me trying to eat one. It dies a quiet death on her lips, drowned in the pitch-black pools of his eyes. They draw her in and pull her down into the emptiness and chill radiating from him. The hand held up in a fist slowly relaxes.

Wants her? He always wanted her. Oh, and she wants him. She always has, she's sure of it.

Somewhere inside her mind she struggles, she thrashes, an animal sinking into tar pits. In the real world, she reaches a hand to him, eyes wide and uncertain.

The terrible thing is that it’s true: Anders has wanted Hawke since their first conversation in his Darktown clinic years ago. And it only got more intense as he’d gotten to know her better. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was fierce, brave, foolhardy and loyal and a million other things Anders tries hard not to think about at length. He’s never allowed himself to admit any of it, too concerned about the consequences. What if she didn’t feel the same way? What if she did?

But the words coming out of his mouth now are a far cry from a heartfelt admission, just like the smile on his lips is nothing like a real smile at its core. It looks close enough in passing. But it’s the cold in his eyes that gives it away as nothing more than the bait it really is.

“Just like that,” he encourages softy. His eyes remain locked on hers, deep and unblinking. There’s no sign of light or warmth in them. He stands, free now of even the lingering traces of her blood magic, and slowly closes the distance between them once again with the slow surety of a predator in its element. Anders takes Hawke’s hand in his own as he kneels before her once again. His other hand gently traces a line down her cheek. A parody of a caress.

“And I need you now more than ever.” The hand continues down over Hawke’s jaw, then her neck, touch feather-light. “Will you help me?”

The soft chains of Anders's thrall may keep her limbs heavy and her muscles from springing into action, but it doesn't dim her fear. It strips away her defenses, and with her defenses comes her humor, her sarcasm, her shit-eating smartassery that serves as both wall and weapon. They sweep away gently as leaves on the wind, leaving something vulnerable, something soft and yielding, something that has no choice to obey.

It leaves desire, and fear, and submission. Stripped of her armors, she closes her eyes against wetness that threatens to well up there, feeling his soft touch and still, despite everything, wanting him with a terrible ache.

She knows the legends. She knows how this part goes. Bereft of weapon, of silver, of some ancient dramatic holy thing, she isn't the hero to slay the beast- she's the damsel, ravished by an insatiable hunger that they both know will leave her lifeless. And still, she feels Anders, and she wants him.

Him. Not this- but him. Even as his hold over her deepens, whispers through her mind of desire and want and need, pulling at the strings of her love and her longing, something else is stronger. Fear. Self-preservation. Her fierce, unceasing, all-consuming zest for life. In this moment, all that's left of it is a terror of what he's going to do.

She wants to give in. Between her feelings for him and the irresistible tendrils of dark magic sunk deep into her, she wants to give in. But she's afraid of what that means.

"Anders," her voice has never sounded so vulnerable, so shaky. So very unlike her. Marian's eyes open to meet his, feeling the cold, alien dark pulling her in. "I don't want to die."

It's a feeble, pitiful thing, and some deep part of her that still roars loathes the weakness of it, but it isn't: the sad little plea is the last gasp of a nearly-indomitable spirit, refusing to go down without a fight. Most people would have said yes five minutes ago.

Edited 2018-04-24 16:32 (UTC)

Anders goes still. It’s more pronounced than it could have ever been before tonight, an eerie, unnatural sort of pause that lacks any of the natural shifts of a regular human body. It’s followed by a terrible moment where his expression is worse than cold- it’s blank. Whatever is going on behind his eyes isn’t reaching the outside.

Then he blinks, and while his gaze is no clearer than before, there’s at least someone back in control.

Well. To an extent.

The hand on her throat moves again, brushing Hawke’s hand away from her wound. He opens his mouth, then stops, the words caught in his throat as his hand comes to rest over the bloody mess of the hastily healed skin. He says nothing still as a quick pulse of healing magic flickers into his palm. It’s more than enough to heal the wound, though it can’t make her recover her lost blood any faster. It could lend her strength despite the blood loss. That’s the goal anyway.

Anders tugs her other hand closer to him and, gently but decisively, presses her palm to the center of his chest. Where his heart would be beating, if it indeed still is.

“If you don’t want to die,” he finally speaks, his voice strained. The smooth confidence of the predator lies beneath it still, but it’s frayed, held under the surface by sheer force of will. But just barely. “Then you need to stop this.”

This. It. Anders. There are many things that simple word could mean, and he means every one of them. His eyes, still pools of black, are only barely tinged by the faintest suggestion of desperation and fear. Hawke has a very small window in which to act.

She can feel his heart beating, but it feels faint. If he were still a normal person, it would worry her- as it is, it just reminds her of everything he used to be. It anchors her, in a strange way.

Anders. The person talking to her right now - telling her to stop him - looking at her with a hint of desperate fear in his eyes - that is Anders.

The faint tracings of blood magic are still on her: she finds she can't move away from him, or shove him away, or raise a hand against him aggressively. What she can do is draw on her own spilled blood and clench a fist in the air- a sudden spasm of blood magic that ripples through the house, catching every still-living being in it. Orana, Bodahn, Sandal, Ox. Hawke worked out a signal long ago: if she's ever attacked such that she can't call for help, if there's ever an emergency that she can't raise an alarm for, she'll use the only power she has and seize them in a ten-second spell of frozen blood-paralysis. It's brutal, it's harsh, but it's the signal for them all to come running.

It's all she can do. That simple act of defiance takes so much of her strength, and then the faint whisper of blood magic (magnified by the force of her affection for this man) has her pulling in closer to him.

There’s a flash of understanding in Anders’s eyes before it’s overtaken again, the pleased smile of the predator returning as Hawke comes closer. It’s lucky for them both that it’s too early on, the hunger too sharp and new for there to be any significant amount of communication between those two parts of Anders’s psyche. Rather than worry about the blood magic she’d cast, he’s much more focused on Hawke herself. The promise of her blood is much more immediate.

He’s gentle as he embraces her again, gentle as his teeth sink into her neck again the same spot. The blood magic at least numbs the pain that would come from the reoccurring injury. Through it all, Anders can do that much.

It’s not long after that the cavalry arrives. It’s a flurry of movement, barking and snarling, screaming and pleading. But Anders doesn’t relinquish his hold on Hawke until something is pressed to the bare skin of his back. Pure silver. Runes blazing. It’s in a flash of searing pain and relief that Anders releases her, howling in a voice that is him and Justice and something else all at once. He goes unconscious after that, leaving Hawke to be tended to by the faithful caretakers of her household. Minutes more, and they would have been too late.

[ OOC: Where this goes from here is after you! I'm up for a time skip to a later scene. ]

As soon as his fangs sink into her, Hawke is lost. The last of her resistance ebbs away, setting her adrift on a sea of captive, pained bliss. It's not pain from the wound, exactly, but pain from the unnatural sensation of the life slowly leaving her. At the same time there's a wonderful feeling, something that has to be from blood magic, something that makes her enjoy the feeling of being fed on.

In the end it's Orana who saves her. Ox latches fiercely onto Anders's arm and Sandal takes off for his enchantments and Bodahn shouts, all in vain. But Orana, bless her Tevinter heart, presses a silver mirror against his skin until Anders releases her in a fury and goes unconscious.

Hawke learns all of this later from Bodahn. The manservant tells her of how Orana saved her, how under her guidance they tied the mage's hands with a thick silver chain that was once, they think, part of some overwrought jewelry or cloak or some shit. Into a trunk he went, Sandal shouldering most of the burden, and they put a piece of furniture on top of it. Orana, apparently, knew about vampires, and what they could and could not withstand. She fretted, but promised he'd be fine until the next nightfall.

Then, apparently, Merrill had come. Merrill, for nobody else in their group could be trusted not to freak out. For all the elf lacked healing talent, she had looked over their pale, unconscious leader and declared that healing wouldn't help- she needed to recover her blood loss.

Apparently Sandal and Orana had both volunteered, and Bodahn also. Hawke lowers her chin and feels shamed at that, that anyone would need to sacrifice blood for her health. Isn't that how the blood magic slippery slope works? But Bodahn assures her they did it out of love, that only a bit came from each of them- and that seeing the color return to her face made it worthwhile.

Still. Hawke feels sick. Sick, and sad, and in more than a little shock. Orana tells her that Anders probably didn't mean it, that vampires get strange after they turn- just like Master did. (And just like that, she vows never to tell Fenris about Anders's condition.) No matter how Orana assures her, no matter how the elf girl tries to explain that he might be alright now, she can't get it out of her head.

The coldness. The predatory cruelty. How willingly she went into his arms- and longed for him. When Hawke thinks about the things he said, the way he spoke to her and confessed to always wanting her, it makes something inside her twist cold and empty.

One thing doesn't make her sick, though. The memory, crystal clear, of how she begged. The sound of her own small pitiful voice makes her furious, so the next night she stomps into the spare room, where Anders is still locked in the trunk, and shoves the furniture off the lid with force magic.

Her other hand is wrapped in silver jewelry when she opens the trunk- dreading what she'll see inside.

The time spent unconscious is a blessing, though Anders is completely unaware of that fact until he next wakes. It’s not night yet when his eyes blink open. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he can feel it. It’s early afternoon perhaps. That strange knowledge comes secondary, however, to the burning at his wrists and the fact that he’s crammed into a box. His first few moments of consciousness are spent panicking, body jerking against the silver and the confines of his temporary prison. Not enough space, not enough air, why is he…?

Then he remembers exactly why he’s trapped. In detail. There’s no convenient amnesia of the things he’d done in the thrall of his bloodlust the night before. He remembers it all as clearly as if he’d been the one making those choices. And in some way, hadn’t be? Using blood magic. Attacking Hawke and drinking her blood. Was she even alive? Anders stares blindly at the inside of the trunk, breaths coming fast, a trembling starting in his limbs that quickly overtakes the rest of him. What he’d done. What he’d said. Oh maker, what he’d done.

The struggling stops after that, but it’s only the start of a very, very long day.

He has plenty of time to think, to remember, to piece it all together. Those blood mages had changed him into something even less human than he’d been before. He’d used blood magic as easily as breathing (which after hours in the trunk, he realizes is something he doesn’t need to do anymore). He’d spoken his true feelings to Hawke, except that the intent had been utterly twisted. Demonic. He hadn’t felt a thing but satisfaction as he’d drained the life out of the woman he loved. Fenris, he thinks, would be quite happy with this proof that Anders finally is the monster he’d warned them all about. And Anders can’t even argue the point now.

And the worst of it? By the time the sun sets again, the hunger is back. The constant burning of the silver binding him is there to meet it every time it rises, but it’s there still. Anders presses his forehead to the wood, grits his teeth, and tries to swallow down the howl in his throat. He’s still doing just that when there’s a loud thud and the lid of the trunk finally opens.

Anders blinks up at the light, momentarily blinded. Then he sees her, and the world narrows down to just the sight of Hawke’s face. Alive. Pissed off, or perhaps just afraid, or both. But alive.

The face staring up at Hawke is drawn and pale, but it’s very much Anders and only Anders. His expression cycles through too many things to be predominantly a single emotion- relief, shock, fear, pain. When he goes to speak, he can really only bring himself to say her name in a wavering voice. “Hawke?”

It doesn't look like a monster. There's no eerie calmness, no blown-black eyes, no drawn fangs. It doesn't look like it would hold her down and slowly kill her. No, it looks like Anders- sweet, volatile, melodramatic, earnest Anders.

Somehow, that just pisses her off more.

"Morning, lover," she snarls, then lifts her leg high to bring her boot down hard on his face.

"You made me bleed," Hawke spits. "How thoughtless. I could've stained the carpet while you killed me."

Anders had been expecting anger, but he hadn’t quite anticipated a broken nose to happen so quickly. Despite the pain and Hawke’s sudden brutality, Anders doesn’t find himself that surprised. He’s certainly not mad about it. This is, after all, just. While part of him darkens with the knowledge that he’s lost Hawke’s trust, curls up like he’d done in the trunk and aches, another part of him- tempered by Justice, the more logical side of things- is glad for it. He can’t trust himself. No one else should either. And there’s no way he’ll get near Hawke’s throat again if she detests the thing he’s become.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt though, and Anders reflexively turns his head away with a few rough, heaving breaths through his mouth. He doesn’t need to breathe, but his body hasn't forgotten its natural responses just as quickly.

The kick isn’t what gets him the most though. Lover. That’s the thing that sticks in his chest, sharp like a shard of glass between his ribs.

He deserves this, he reminds himself. He deserves worse than this.

“I did.” He steadies his voice and turns his head back, looking up at Hawke. He won’t cower. He doesn’t make excuses either, knowing that none of them would mean a damn thing. There isn’t one that justifies any of it. Blood runs freely from his nose, but either because it’s his or because of the silver, it does nothing but make him feel nauseous. That was one question answered at least: he can’t feed on himself.

“Who stopped me?” That part is harder to remember. He’d been a little too… preoccupied.

Hawke stares down at him, unpleasantly surprised by how little she enjoys it. Normally a good stompin' chunk o' revenge is just the thing to put a smile on her face, but this? She never wanted this. Seeing his face swelling and blood running from his broken nose just makes bile rise in her throat. Before she knows it, she's raising a hand in healing.

Healing. After what he did.

Fuck.

"Orana. Can you believe it?" A pathetic, fitful attempt at levity, to hide the unshed tears stinging her eyes. "That little thing beat out Sandal's enchantments and a full-grown mabari. She knew about the silver."

A beat, to let that sink in.

"Apparently, she learned about this sort of thing in Tevinter."

Fuck, this hurts. The lover sticks in her own craw like something choking, caught between her vicious attack and the sudden healing. The desire to lash out and not wanting to see him hurt.

It comes to her, all at once, that she's in love with him. Was. Is?

Shit. Damn it. Fuck. She wipes her eyes angrily with one hand.

Anders doesn’t have time to protest the healing spell before it’s setting his nose, causing him to hiss in pain even as the magic does its work. She doesn’t have to, he wants to say. She shouldn’t.

There’s too much that comes after to spend time on the magic though. He files each piece of information away- that it took that much to stop him, that the silver worked, that Tevinter apparently has working knowledge of whatever foul magic this is- and promises himself that he’ll write it down later, if he’s ever free again to do so.

The sight of Hawke’s tears has him, for the first time since the lid came off, struggling against his bonds. Just for a moment, just until he remembers that reaching out to her is the absolute worst thing he could do right now, even if his hands were free. He stops and sinks back, body still but eyes bright, almost feverish with the force of what he’s feeling as he watches her.

“I’m sorry.” He hates how his own voice shakes, his regret nearly choking him with just those two words. “I’m not- this isn’t me asking for forgiveness, but I want you know. I’m sorry, I didn’t… I wouldn’t have…” He shuts his eyes, willing himself to focus. This isn’t about him.

“I couldn’t control it.” Opening his eyes again is a feat, but he’s not enough of a coward that he’ll look away. “And you suffered for that. There’s… nothing else I can say. There’s no apology that’s enough.”

The sight of him struggling doesn't faze her (those bonds are strong), but his apology does. Marian doesn't want Anders, the soft-hearted, understanding rebel who knows what it is to suffer. She wants the monster, the demon, something to throw her strength against and win. There has never been an opponent she couldn't crush or a fight she couldn't win. But love? She's never had even a single defense against love.

"Shut up," she hisses tearfully. "Don't think you can make it better just by being you."

Shockingly, there's no bitterness or hate in the word 'you.' There's tears, and something very like love. As if, only a day ago, being him could have gotten him out of anything. As if, even now, it's hard to see the man when she's hurting from the monster.

She has to turn away. This is too much. Hawke takes a minute to collect herself, back turned to the creature bound in the trunk.

Edited 2018-05-02 05:10 (UTC)

Anders takes advantage of the moment as well, letting his eyes close and his head turn back so it’s facing the inside of the trunk. He can feel the weight of these last few days acutely- the abduction, the ritual, being found by and then nearly destroying the person he trusts most. His hands occasionally spasm where they’re bound at his back, the silver constantly burning into already raw skin.

“I’m not trying to make this better,” he says, his voice somehow hollow. This is the end of it all: his work to free the Kirkwall mages. His clinic. Hawke’s friendship. And he’ll never be able to fix any of it, particularly the damage done to the woman with her back now turned to him. Every bit of him wants desperately to somehow make it right. But when he closes his eyes, he can see it all happening over again, and his entire body shudders again with disgust. “I can’t.” He almost apologizes again, but manages to swallow the words before they’re spoken. He assumes that’s what she’d meant: to stop apologizing.

"You know," Hawke sniffs, trying very hard to get herself together. "When you said you would only hurt me, I imagined emotional pain. Heartbreak. The thrilling whirlwind of loving a revolutionary bound for some overwrought Varric-written tragedy. Not being eaten like a goddamn sandwich in my own house."

She wants to be able to let him go. She wants to take that silver off, so he doesn't keep flinching and hurting, she wants to give him a hug and laugh about what a crazy trip this all was and put it behind them.

That can't happen. Not anymore. Not when the man she loves (!) is a monster that only time will tell how dangerous.

Wait. No, that's not true. Not just time will tell. There's someone else.

Her voice is clear, though her back remains turned. "I want to talk to Justice."

Edited 2018-05-02 11:04 (UTC)

Anders really doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to hear his worthless good intentions thrown back at him, and he doesn’t want Hawke to sound like it matters so much to her. The Hawke that kicked him in the face on-sight was easier to deal with.

If he’s grateful for anything just then, it’s for the fact that Hawke isn’t looking at him when she says the word ‘loving.’

Speaking to Justice is one request Anders hadn’t expected. He nearly asks why. But then the silence stretches on, and eventually the only sign that he’s heard her is the telltale prickle of energy that’s uniquely Justice’s.

”I am here. Speak."

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never apologize for long tags ok wow WOW

don't tell me that or i'll accidentally write you a novel one day

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