Entire Work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81734421?
Summary: Anders meets the King of Ferelden on the day he joins the Grey Wardens. Then again a few years later. And again. And again. And again...
Characters/Relationships: Anders/Alistair, Darrian Tabris (he's sorta partnered with Morrigan but it's complicated y'know?), an OC I just made who doesn't have a name yet that is just called The Chaplain, Awakening companions and NPCs, Kirkwall companions (eventually)
Chapter 2: Joined
Chapter on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81734421/chapters/215490141
(Maybe the fastest I've published a second chapter of anything ever...lol!)
Anyway, here's a bit more of this...
The Chaplain joins the King and, apparently oblivious to his current condition, asks, “Before you fled your Circle, did you happen to do any training…in healing?”
“Among other things…” Anders waggles his eyebrows at her shamelessly, despite the mess he must appear, lying on a cot soaked in his own bodily fluids, shaking like a leaf, feeling like he’s just been run over by a dung cart.
She surprises him by winking at him and then pulling a warm woolen blanket up around his shoulders and tucking him in. Maybe she’s not completely oblivious. “We’ll take whatever tricks you’ve got.”
A young handsome King who’s happy to see him? A Chaplain who flirts back? Maybe this won’t be so bad. He’ll bide his time for a bit, until an opportunity presents itself. It’s not like he’s in any state right now to make a break for it.
“Oh, Sister…my best tricks I picked up at the Pearl in Denerim.”
She laughs wickedly and then stifles it with a sideways glance to the King, who looks like he’s still trying to figure out the joke.
“I’ve been to the Pearl. Got a bit of a duelling lesson from a pirate there once, but didn’t realize they offered training in…oh.” Realization dawns on his face like a sunrise. “Ohhh…”
“Mmhmmm…”
“Ah…I see.” The King chuckles softly. So softly that Anders might've missed it if he weren’t looming so closely over him. “Well, then.”
If this doesn't make sense... I'm so so sorry. More apologizing in the Author's note (also includes an explanation! Sort of!)
This is set during the BDM just after they were rescued. And yes, there's some fiddling with the storyline. No, Book and Wash aren't dead.
Mal silently counted the room numbers as he lumbered down the long corridor, a hand clamped over his newly done stitches.
1310, 1311, 1312...
1313.
He rested a hand on the smooth door handle, hesitating.
Shaking his head, he steeled himself and pushed the door open, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder.
The room was big, bigger than the one most of the crew was forced to share and it was that precise shade of white between vomit and sunshine the Captain hated. All types of machines lined the wall and Mal swallowed.
Simon was unconscious, a blanket half-heartedly thrown over him. Growling, Mal slammed the door behind him and stalked closer. He tugged at the blanket, careful to avoid the tubes and wires.
Satisfied, he lowered himself into the chair next to the bed, his breath stuttering for a few seconds. Something wet trickled down his stomach and Mal cursed, watching as fresh blood stained his already ruined shirt. Wo de ma, didn't the rutting ben dans know how to stitch a gorram wound?
He reached for the Cortex tucked into his back pocket, wincing when the stitches in his shoulder and stomach pulled.
Pushing the call button with more force than was necessary, he waited for the nurse, a beep letting him know that he had a message.
Zoë: Wash's out of surgery. Doc said we were lucky.
Lucky they were in time to save Book. Lucky they didn't lose Wash. Mal glanced at the unconscious boy on the bed, the Alliance doctor's words still fresh in his mind.
("There's a chance, a big one, that he won't wake up." Dr. Greene glanced at the captain, his eyes dark. "And if the bullet didn't kill, infection probably will.")
That's the problem with luck. Made you think everything was going according to plan just before it blindsided you.
Mal shook his head and pulled the Cortex closer, trying to ignore the beeping of the heart monitor. It was no use dwelling on it now. Luck came in threes and Mal hadn't gotten his third one yet. She still owed him.
His shoulder spasmed and Mal dropped the Cortex with a curse.
Where the di yu was that nurse?
Someone moved near the door, casting a shadow over Simon and Mal wondered how he didn't hear the nurse come in.
" 'bout rutting time-"
Mal looked up and into the eye sockets of Death. The words died in his throat.
"You ain't takin' him," Mal growled, his hand halfway to his gun. His hand met air and the Captain swallowed, glaring at the cloaked figure instead. There was always a blindside.
I'M NOT HERE FOR THE BOY. NOT REALLY.
Mal only stared, holding Death's gaze.
"I ain't losin' one of my own. Not today. She still owes me."
Death stood silently at the foot of the bed, swallowing all the light and air until Mal felt as if he was choking. A few tense moments passed before he ground out in a voice more feral than human.
"Why are you here."
It wasn't a question. Silently, Death pulled out an hourglass from the folds of his robes and held it up to the light. Tiny, delicate golden leaves glittered in the harsh hospital light.
I HAVE ONLY SEEN SOMETHING LIKE THIS ONCE BEFORE, Death said, handing the Captain the lifetimer.
The silver sand hung in a motionless stream, only a few grains left in the top bulb. Mal shook the timer but the sand didn't move. Ta ma de...
I DID NOT KNOW IF THE BOY WAS ALIVE OR NOT.
The Captain's thumb gently brushed over the 'Simon Tam' etched into the blue-black wood.
Looking at the lifetimer, Mal could almost remember what his looked like.
His had been brown and dappled in sunlight, broken, thorny vines twined around the timer. He almost asked Death if he could see it until he remembered it was blood staining the wood dark, not sunlight.
He swallowed down bile, his hand involuntarily clenching around the lifetimer, like he was scared Death would take it away. He won't let Simon suffer like he did. Not if he could help it.
"The boy's too stubborn to die," Mal forced out, not sure who he was trying to convince, Simon, Death or himself.
IS IT JUST STUBBORNNESS, CAPTAIN, OR SOMETHING ELSE?
Mal didn't answer, turning the lifetimer over and over in his hands.
After a while Death spoke again, his voice quiet.
I HAD BEEN THERE THE DAY THE BOY BROKE HIS SISTER OUT. HE WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE.
The lifetimer suddenly seemed too small in his scarred hands. Mal shook his head, in denial of what he didn't know. Maybe defeat.
BUT HE DID, the specter went on, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER.
"I think we both know how," Mal said, his voice harsh.
Death glanced down at Simon, watching as the doctor's chest rose and fell.
HE REMINDS ME OF ANOTHER MAN I MET YEARS AGO.
The glint of a scythe in weak moonlight. The whisper of a black cloak over blood-soaked sand.
Blazing green eyes.
"So, that was you." Mal breathed, his shirt pulling at a patch of dried blood.
Death nodded.
HAVE FAITH, CAPTAIN.
Mal smiled but there was no humour in it.
"I lost my faith years ago."
SOMETIMES FAITH IS NOT BELIEVING IN THE DIVINE. Death glanced at the Cortex half hidden under the bed watching as messages from the crew popped up. SOMETIMES IT IS AS SIMPLE AS BELIEVING IN OTHERS.
Blue pinpricks met Mal's dark and tired eyes.
YOU OF ALL PEOPLE SHOULD KNOW THAT. UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN.
Before Mal could blink Death was gone, the silent swish of its cloak back to haunting the halls, the lifetimer no longer in his hands.
Mal took a deep breath and picked up the Cortex, ignoring the tingling feeling on his neck and the empty feeling in his hands. When the nurse finally decided to show up, he waved them away. He'd wait for his own medic to wake up.
He sighed and scrathed at a patch of dirt on the side of his nose. Of course, She chose Simon, why wouldn't She? He's exactly what She always went for. He just hoped She treated him better than She treated Mal. Somehow he doubted that She would.
Smoothing down the corner of Simon's blanket, Mal glanced at the heart monitor, his own heart connected in more ways than one. Closer to eight than one.
Maybe Death was right. Maybe.
Settling back in the uncomfortable chair, Mal kept vigil. He owed Simon that and so much more. He just hoped the doc knew he still owed the Captain too and dying wouldn't get him out of it.
Somewhere, in the dark recesses of a robe silver sand slowly started refilling the top bulb and blazing green eyes winked at blue pinpricks.
Author's note -
So. Hah. I'm so so sorry about this fic. It feels eww (also, I'm not a native speaker so yay, fun) And it was originally supposed to be just Death and then the fic felt stilted so I had Mal talk about luck and that evolved into adding Lady Luck. And yeah. This is what we ended up with.
If you want to know more about Lady Luck, her relationship with Death and why Mal is so against her please let me know. This was supposed to be a single fic but it just had a bunch of babies so I'm currently swamped under plot bunnies😂 There may be added to this series one day... (sighs wistfully)
Happy Halloween!🎃
Also, the credit for the amazing dividers goes to @djarrex
SUMMARY: When Morgan can’t carry her hope, Eddie is there to help.
CONTAINS: body horror, discussions of death, mortality, decay
After reaching another dead end in her search for answers, Morgan broke down and took an extra long shower to get rid of her smell and wash the rough parts on her body that had been hurt or picked at by bugs. The water pattered on her just right, steadier and softer than rain. When she let it fall into her ear and make the room feel like underwater, she could hold onto the water and nothing else and the aches and cramps faded, and everything was fine. She savored the change in water temperature as it faded from hot to cool as much as the change in the sky from light to dark.
A little later, as she picked at cold fried rice and brains, the waistband on her sweats started to feel a little tight, and when Morgan looked down her coloring had gone another shade of wrong and when she touched her stomach (first in the middle, then all around) she got the sinking feeling she used to once a month: bloating. Maybe it was water damage, maybe it was just that time in the un-life cycle. It didn’t fucking matter, did it?
“Great. First I’m dead, then I’m falling apart and ripped up like a rag doll, and now I’m a dead ripped up balloon doll waiting to pop.” She thought about how she’d announce this latest development to Deirdre when she got home and decided she didn’t want to. So she made some tea, remembered all the chamomile in the world wouldn’t actually calm her and threw it against her studio.
The mug bounced off the wall. Tea splattered the yard.
Morgan picked it up and holed herself up inside the four little walls where she was supposed to be alone. Maybe if she disappeared in a book or a playlist she could forget about what was happening to her body. Funny how she’d dreamed of feeling the world again every day for the last fourteen months; now she’d try just about anything to go numb and float off again.
As Eddie approached the front door of Morgan’s home, an unexpected sound from the backyard caught his attention. He took a few steps back and looked over the fence in time to see the studio door close. If that’s where Morgan was, it would be pointless to try getting into the main house. Admittedly, tracking her down would be a nonissue if she knew he planned to drop by, but Eddie had a sneaking suspicion she didn’t want visitors in her current condition. Be that as it may, he needed to see her. For all he knew, this might be his last chance.
Eddie reached over the fence’s gate and unlocked it from the other side, immediately re-locking it once inside. Even in his haste, he didn’t want to be the reason something unwanted took an open door as an invitation. Eddie quickly bypassed the garden that usually imbued him with a sense of calmness. Today, all it did was put more space between him and Morgan.
At the studio door, Eddie knocked only to enter without waiting for a response. The second he saw her, his heart fell into his stomach. Morgan, for the first time since meeting her, looked dead.
“I heard about what happened,” Eddie announced. He figured wasting time on small talk would be insulting at this point. “I wish you would’ve told me yourself, but I guess it doesn’t matter now.” As he spoke, he walked further into the studio. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of people in your corner right now. Is there room for me to throw my hat in the ring?”
Morgan only managed a few minutes of stillness before she heard a knock. She flinched, dreading what she would have to explain to Deirdre, but before she could work up the nerve to answer, Eddie came in. She was so startled she forgot to cover her face. Her blue-purple pallor was growing new colors, black in some places, yellow in others. Somehow, her skin was peeling and shriveled and swollen at once. Her eyes, now clouded like frost on a window, looked smaller than they should and her lids sagged around the empty space. For a woman who would never age, she sure looked like she had outlived her time.
In the brief instant Eddie held the door open, three flies flew in and circled lazily toward her. They knew a good thing when they saw it. She should probably have been more grateful that maggots and fungi hadn’t found her yet, but the only thought she had room for was, Eddie shouldn’t be here.
“W--what? I--” It didn’t really matter how he found out, did it? “I don’t want to be one of those people that puts their bullshit on kids and makes them carry it,” she sighed. “And I don’t...know what I’m going to do about any of this. If I can do anything about this. I went through the books I had, I tried looking through some others and--” Nothing. She slumped back in her corner on the day bed and covered her face with a pillow. Then, feeling ridiculous, tossed it away and settled for pulling her legs up and hiding that way. “You should probably grab some air freshener from the kitchenette,” she mumbled.
Eddie had never seen Morgan look so small before. In the past, her petite frame always seemed like an act of misdirection. When she spoke, the weight of her words commanded attention. Her laugh charmed a sigh of relief from the world around her. Out of everyone Eddie knew, he couldn’t think of a single person he respected more than Morgan Beck. Seeing her this way didn’t change that, it only proved the severity of the situation. It was time for him to start repaying her for everything she’d done.
“Well, this kid would rather help carry your bullshit than let it bury you,” Eddie replied as he took her advice and walked over to the kitchenette. He wanted to tell her he didn’t mind the smell but lying wouldn’t make the situation any better. Eddie pulled the trigger and a clean-linen scented mist mingled with the smell of decay. It would have to do.
“So,” he continued, moving closer to her before taking a seat beside her on the day bed. “Catch me up to speed, I only know the bare minimum.” Eddie didn’t think being told the details would lead them to a solution but that wasn’t why he came here. Other, more capable people would help Morgan in that area. What he wanted to accomplish was simply to make sure she knew she wasn’t alone. Maybe it wasn’t as glamorous of a purpose as finding a cure but believed it to be important all the same. “You woke up and, out of nowhere, you were alive again?”
Morgan grimaced at the hiss of the air freshener. She had suggested it, but smelling it and knowing how little good it would do was another matter. “You might wanna go a little heavier on that,” she deadpanned. “I’m almost a week into this, and whatever is fucking with me the slow, painful way, has a year’s worth of decay to catch up on.” She let her head rest against the wall and closed her eyes. All her physical senses back, and she still had to endure this latest cosmic ‘fuck you’ in complete sobriety. No rest. No relief.
She curled up a little tighter as he sat by her, as if her death-sickness was contagious. “Uh, if you haven’t noticed, I apparently don’t need to be buried. I can decompose all by myself.” She worked his question thoughtfully, trying to find the right words for it. How stupidly excited she was for so little, and how suddenly it was a little too much.
“I wasn’t alive,” she said at last, face still buried in her knees. “No heartbeat. No warmth. I could just...feel again. The bedsheets were cold. And soft. Weirdly soft. And my girlfriend was soft and cold but different, and the carpet was...coarse and thick and plushy...it was like I’d never been on this planet before. Everything was new. The words I had weren’t enough to describe it. I spent a whole two days convincing myself that whatever was happening it wouldn’t be so bad. Some weird town thing we’d have to reverse. But then I got hurt and it took me forever to heal. And then I didn’t heal at all. And I ate, I had so many brains, but my body was shriveling up, turning color, smelling, all that gross stuff that’s not supposed to happen to me if I do everything I’m supposed to. And do you know how it feels, literally feels, to have your body dry up? Or to--” One of the flies landed on her cheek and began exploring the new terrain. Morgan raised her hand and let it, waiting til it reached her hairline where she wasn’t so sensitive. She slapped it dead and left the goo where it was. “Be food for the bugs? Because that’s something I know now. Can’t wait for everything else to go, or for whatever’s keeping me wide awake for the whole horror science show to...decide what comes next.” She didn’t want to die. She wouldn’t be this frustrated if she did. But being nothing but wobbling bones and leather and dust frightened her just as much as oblivion. She didn’t know which she was really supposed to hope for.
Eddie listened as Morgan described the past few days. At first, her condition sounded like a gift. He remembered when she told him how badly she missed being able to experience the world as a living participant. No heartbeat or warmth meant certain sensations were still off limits but, other than that, he imagined those first two days felt pretty damn good. A false sense of security, obviously. He hated this.
Morgan swatted the fly and Eddie’s lips pursed in response. “Hold on,” he announced, standing up to make his second trip to the kitchenette. Facing the counter, he tore a few paper towels from the roll and wetted them in the sink. After wringing out the extra moisture, he carried them back to the daybed and took his seat again. Eddie tentatively reached out and, as gently as he could, washed away the insect’s remains. When his hand lowered, he kept the damp wad of paper in his hand in case another decided to land on her.
“Morgan, do you remember what you said to me about hope, that it’s a choice?” Eddie asked. Of all people, he knew how unqualified he was to preach the importance of hope but he wanted to try. “You also said that to stop believing in the future is to stop believing in existing.” Even if he lacked the experience to explain the importance of looking for good, he knew Morgan didn’t. He could use her own words to help him navigate the situation.
“This isn’t the first time life’s given you its worst,” he said. “Obviously, you can roll over and accept hopelessness. Or, you can do what you do best and tell death to go fuck itself.”
“Yeah, this is an anomaly—so are you. Nothing is written, right? Don’t give up. Not yet.”
There were a lot of words Morgan had spoken in the past that haunted her now. Magic is going to save my life. All I need is to break the curse. Hope is a fucking choice. What was there to hope for when the only thing on the horizon was another shade of suffering? How could she continue believing in existence, when existence seemed to be shutting her down at both ends? Was she supposed to bone-jangle her way downstairs to breakfast every morning? Or be carried on a stretcher in so many pieces, to and fro? Or would the magic take away her mind too, and this was simply a farewell tour she didn’t have a say in? Morgan didn’t see much hope in that. What had all her suffering been for? A year of half a life, and then this?
Morgan scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and said nothing for a while. Then, just peeking over her knees with dead, swollen eyes, she said, “Death comes for everyone, Eddie. That’s what gives life balance. We end. We go...somewhere. Home. Even if it’s not until this planet implodes or gets struck by the right meteor. Everything is change. To stay stuck one way, that’s the biggest waste of what we have.” She shrugged. “But...stars in the fucking sky above…” Her voice drowned with held-in tears. “I couldn’t find anything about this, Eddie. I haven’t figured it out. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to imagine to hope for. And I’m so tired...I am so tired of climbing back up, of fighting the universe for one scrap of good. And right now...I almost wish I could give up. But I don’t even know what to give up on. All of it looks like giving up something right now.”
Eddie knew death came for everyone. Until recently, he clung to that fact with everything he had. Even now, his grip was only a little looser than before. Death, to him, sounded like a release. Morgan was tired, it made sense for her to want rest. A few months ago, Eddie might not have argued that it wasn’t the answer, but now he knew what loss felt like. If Morgan died, a piece of him would too. Ironically enough, the more he cared about someone, the more selfish he became.
“Lots of things that happen in this town don’t have books written about them. That doesn’t make them impossible to handle,” Eddie insisted before adopting a softer tone. “I know you’re tired. If anyone deserves rest, it’s you, and you’ll get it.” Eddie reached out with his free-hand and took hold of Morgan’s. “Like you said, death’s inevitable but it doesn’t have you yet. As long as you’re here, there’s a chance for things to get better. And—and, no, I don’t know what your pain feels like, but I know my own. Most days, getting out of bed is a fucking triumph, but I still do it; for you. For Alfie, for Bex, and Kyle, and everyone else who’s been kind to me. I don’t know what I’m hoping for exactly. Maybe I’m just hoping for hope.” Eddie paused before speaking again. “Think about that scrap of good, are you ready to let it go?” He meant the question genuinely and without pretense. “If you do, there’s no getting it back. No more garden, no more Deirdre, no more laughter, no more anything. Is there really nothing left worth fighting for?”
Morgan hid her face again as it crumpled with grief. But she let Eddie take her hand, and though her fingers were stiff, she squeezed his back. Mina had told her once that life was a curse of its own; Morgan had brushed it off as a flash of witty irony. But it came to her again now: was this living? Was crawling out of one hole only to fall into another what life looked like from the inside? She couldn’t think of a person she knew who wasn’t crawling out of something right now. The difference was only in terms of degree. When she was alive, human-alive, she had coached herself into accepting happiness as a stolen gift, a thing she would be caught red handed with and have to surrender. It would all be okay, because when the curse was over, she could have as much as she wanted and more. She could chase down every bright thing and know that however it turned out, it was fair as anything on earth could be, and she had given her best. It made her dry organs shrivel just a little more to suppose this was the way of all things, not just a thirty-nine-year blip of existence.
And yet there was no better choice before her. It was just like Eddie said. If she tried to will this bullshit to the end, she would be releasing everything she’d fought so hard to hold. And if she surrendered to the thought of an eternity of true living death, it would be much the same. The world struck no natural balance in the course of a life, and in White Crest it arched toward cruelty, and yet there had to be another horizon. These scraps of good had to be enough because they were all she had. And maybe In another week, a month, in a decade, things would be different. Magic always had a key to unlock itself. What was done might someday be undone. (Might, and with so little evidence to make it feel like anything at all.) She tried to imagine it, coming out of a stupor like sleeping beauty, kissing her own skin for holding its shape and keeping her here just enough to try and make a better balance in the world, kissing Deirdre, and the cats, and having every fresh memory from those early days to guide her toward contentment. She couldn’t hold the image very long. It burnt in flashes. Somehow, it hurt worse than either path of doom she saw. Morgan nodded and let hope in and sobbed, breaking with the weight of it.
She tried to muffle her cries with her other hand, but it was no good. She shook and soaked her sweatpants with her tears and turned Eddie’s fingers red with her grip. At last she noticed the change in the feel of his hand and let go. “Sorry. I’m...s-sorry. Um.” She wiped her face on her sleeve and tried to look at the boy. “You know you’re...a really kind, brave kid, right? And that’s why we all want you to be more careful? Because we need more of that around. We need you. And I wish you could be there for yourself like you are for me right now.” She heaved another dry sob and scrubbed her face again fighting for composure. It was always harder to show up for yourself, especially when you were alone.
“I’m not--uh, this isn’t because--” She gestured vaguely at the mess of herself. “I mean, you’re right. You’re right and I know you’re right and it’s just--” Kind of wish you weren’t. It would be so much easier if you weren’t. She shook her head, abandoning words in favor of meeting his gaze. What she didn’t know how to say was this: it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, holding out for hope and hoping for its own sake. But Eddie knew dark almost as well as she did; maybe he would know this just by looking at her, too.
When Morgan broke down, Eddie knew he’d struck a chord. He could only hope that meant something good and that he hadn’t made things worse. Her grip on his hand tightened exponentially but the pain barely registered. All he could focus on were her anguished sobs—he wondered how long she’d been trying to swallow them. Despair like that didn’t come to term in an instant. It laid in wait, brewing and accumulating more grievances both big and small until it could no longer be contained. If he had managed to help her rethink the release of death, maybe a release like this one would suffice for now.
“No, no, it’s—” Eddie’s dismissal of Morgan’s apology cut off when she spoke again. His expression slowly relaxed, brows raising in gentle surprise. A few people had called him brave now but he never seemed to get used to it. After spending so much of his life in hiding, he didn’t think he deserved that kind of praise. At the same time, he wanted to believe he was wrong. Eddie smiled sadly at Morgan. “One day, maybe. It’s a work in progress.” He didn’t know what to say about being needed but he tucked the compliment away somewhere he could find it when he lost sight of what mattered.
What she said—or, more accurately, didn’t say next resonated exactly as she expected it to. “It feels impossible, doesn’t it?” Eddie asked before his smile returned. “Kind of like when you’ve been in the dark for so long your eyes adjust to it and suddenly a light comes on and blinds you.” He gingerly rubbed the back of her with his thumb. “We’ll adjust to the light the same as we did the dark, just gotta give ourselves some time.”
Morgan nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Slowly, she unfolded her legs. There wasn’t much of her left to hide, and the second fly was already crawling along her skull. She thought about what Eddie said when it came to the light and the dark, and wondered how long it would take for her vision to get screwed up from so much back and forth that everything hurt. It would have to be a long time from now, wouldn’t it? She would have to make it that way.
After what seemed like a long time she said, “You know, for someone who lumped in hope with the evils of the world, you’re getting pretty good at being hope’s cheerleader.” Then after another silence, “You don’t have to stay with me though, okay? I’m not gonna go off the deep end, or do anything I shouldn’t. Deirdre will probably be home soon anyway.” Time had a way of moving funny when you were miserable, something Eddie was probably familiar with too, but the last thing she wanted him to carry was more worry about her. She nearly reached over to pat his arm, reassure him in a performance of her good ol’ self, but she remembered how she looked and let it fall empty instead. “Thank you though,” she said quietly.
Since Eddie last gave Morgan his opinion on hope, a lot had changed—was still changing. He didn’t find comfort in misery as much as he used to. Now, he understood happiness took a little elbow grease and that brains need to be re-wired every now and then. Some days were harder than others, he didn’t always believe his positive affirmations, but he was trying. For himself and everyone he loved, he was trying.
“When you’re wrong, you’re wrong,” he said with a shrug. “I thought I might as well give your outlook a shot. It’s going pretty okay so far.”
When Morgan next spoke, Eddie considered her carefully. He didn’t want to linger if she needed time to decompress but he also didn’t want to risk leaving too soon. Finally, he said, “Okay, if you’re sure.” Eddie stood up and took a deep breath before turning to face her. “If you need anything, anything at all, call me. I don’t care what time it is. I know it sucks to feel like you’re weighing people down but I love you, Morgan. I like helping you.” He leaned down to wrap his arms loosely around her. “Don’t ever feel like a burden.”
“I love you too, Eddie,” Morgan whispered. “Go on now. Be good and I’ll see you soon.”
Eddie straightened up and walked over to the kitchenette to toss the wadded up paper towels in the trash. Afterwards, he headed for the door. “See you soon,” he said, glancing back at Morgan before taking his leave.
I know I missed @andersweek by a day, but I've been poking at my unpublished Andistair long fic all week, you guys, in between trying to remember how to write at all in my Fenders AU Linked, just trying to gussy up something enough to share with you all lovely wonderful Anders-loving people.
This would've probably best fit, like everything I write, for Sunday's prompt (Speculative Sunday: AUs/divergence/second chances/post-canon)...call it a crackship or non-canonical pairing if you want, but I happen to think it works really well in a certain broken world state where you get these two first meeting in Awakening, and then DA2, and then...behind the scenes at a few key moments in my head. But they're so...fun. Lovely? A little bit tragic? Complementary...?
Anyway, I humbly offer you the very beginning of a thing I hold near and dear to my broken little heart (some dialogue stolen directly from Awakening with tweaks bc I can)...
Working Title: Keeping Vigil
Summary: Anders meets the King of Ferelden on the day he joins the Grey Wardens. Then again a few years later. And again. And again. And again...
On AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81734421/chapters/214992976
Characters/Relationships: Anders/Alistair, Darrian Tabris (I never played through Origins as a Tabris but I created him for Morrigan and Alistair in this world state...they needed a fun and slightly unhinged city elf rogue to keep them from killing and/or fucking each other in this one...and then I also fell in love with him...oops), Oghren, other Awakening Wardens <3 and Kirkwallers eventually, of course...
Chapter 1: Conscripted (yeah, I'm posting the whole thing under the read more..!!!)
Anders isn’t sure how, but they manage to survive the onslaught of Darkspawn and before the dust has even settled, he hears trumpets blaring, announcing the oddly-timed arrival of the newly-crowned King of Ferelden. The Warden-Commander offers him a hand through the black smoke, checks only to make sure he’s standing on his own two feet, and then darts off to the gates with a disconcertingly child-like grin to presumably greet this most recent arrival to the cursed fortress. Anders and the others follow him…why? Maker-only-knows…
“Your majesty, beware!” A harsh-looking woman steps forward past the King’s battered entourage, eyeing Anders with so much malice that he takes a step back behind Oghren. “This man is a dangerous criminal…”
“Oh, the dwarf is a bit of an ass,” the King laughs, “but I wouldn’t go that —”
Anders sees the Templar insignia emblazoned on her chestplate, and the relief he’d been starting to let himself feel at having somehow survived the ambush is sucked right out of him by a second wave of adrenaline and a sudden all-too-familiar urge to flee.
“She means me,” he forces himself to mutter instead, realizing there’s no chance for him to slip away from this mess he’s gotten himself into unnoticed now.
“Allow me to explain,” she huffs, directing her explanation to the King, instead of the Warden-Commader who appears to be sneering at her. “I am Ser Rylock, and this is a nefarious apostate who we’ve been in the process of bringing back to the Circle to face justice before this new wave of —”
“Oh, please,” Anders scoffs. He figures he might as well make this count since he has a bit of an audience, judging by the Warden-Commander’s initial reaction to her and the familiarity he senses between him and the King. He isn’t exactly highborn nobility, being an elf, and he seems to have experienced his own fair share of injustice at the hands of a different, albeit intertwined, establishment. “The things you people know about justice would fit into a thimble! I’ll probably just escape again, anyhow.”
“Never!” The Templar turns back to Anders now, her face growing red with fury. “I will see you hanged for what you’ve done here, murderer!”
“Murderer?! But those Templars were — oh, what’s the use? It hardly matters, right? Not like it even counts seeing as we’re not even human to you…”
Anders glances back toward the Warden-Commander to see his reaction, but he seems to be busy having some kind of side conversation with the King using only his eyebrows. Anders sighs in resignation as Ser Rylock takes another step towards him bearing enchanted shackles that will disrupt his connection to the Fade and block any magic he would attempt to use to defend himself.
He takes a deep breath to prepare for the sickening emptiness he’s about to feel, but he knows from experience that submitting to this humiliation is better than resisting and earning himself a full on smite.
The King clears his throat. “Well, it seems there really isn’t much to say.” To Anders’ surprise, he steps between them, causing Ser Rylock to pause and take a step back just as she’s about to shackle him, looking absolutely shocked to be eclipsed by the hulking form of the King. “That is, unless…you have something to add, Warden-Commander?”
The Warden-Commander nods and there’s another sly grin shared quite obviously between the two of them, before he turns to Anders. “How would you feel about joining the Wardens?”
“What?!” Ser Rylock exclaims, her voice sounding weirdly distant and hollow now behind the King and all his armor. “Never!”
“I believe the Grey Wardens still bear the Right of Conscription, no?” King Alistair glances innocently enough between Ser Rylock and the Warden-Commander.
“I believe we do…” The Warden-Commander grins with no attempt to hide his smugness.
“I will allow it, then!” the King declares triumphantly, with a nod so enthusiastic that it nearly jostles the delicate crown off his head.
“If…if your Majesty feels it is best,” Ser Rylock mutters, looking utterly dejected as she turns away and skulks back toward the gates.
“Ha! Way to go, kid!” Oghren slaps Anders on the back and he lurches forward, gasping another hard-earned sigh of relief. “Welcome aboard!”
“Me?” Anders asks. He is still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he’s not currently being led away in magebane-coated shackles. “A Grey Warden? I mean…I guess that will work…”
He glances back up at the King, who is now attempting to straighten the crown on his head self-consciously while also trying to straighten his face and keep from bursting into laughter at the Warden-Commander, who is showing no such restraint himself, snickering at him as he finally lends the man a hand and shoves the ridiculously delicate thing back into his closely-cropped hair, tucking it back behind his barely-pointed ears and grasping his shoulders, before pulling him into an embrace.
“Congratulations, ser mage,” Mhairi says to Anders with so much reverence and conviction that he actually believes her when she adds, “I look forward to fighting at your side.”
Seneschal Varel pulls the Warden-Commander and the King aside and fills them in on the situation after this latest skirmish with the Darkspawn. It seems grim — missing Wardens, no trace of any of the Orlesians, and a whole bunch of repairs to make if the Keep is to withstand another attack. What has Anders just gotten himself into? He starts to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to go back to Kinloch with Ser Rylock and take his chances at another escape. It’s not as though he’s really any closer to Kirkwall serving as a Warden here. He might eventually be able to make his way further north…but when? How long can Karl really be expected to wait for him?
But then Oghren grips his arm and pulls him away. “Come on, kid. We got a Joining to prepare for!”
The King looks up at the two of them from his conversation with the Seneschal and what is soon to be Anders’ very own Warden-Commander, assuming he survives this mysterious ritual. There’s a mix of pity and admiration on his face as he looks him over, and when he realizes Anders is staring back at him, his expression quickly changes, and he offers him an encouraging nod instead. Anders doesn’t even know what he’s doing before he catches himself winking cheekily at the King of Ferelden. Thankfully, the Seneschal says something that brings the King’s attention back to the conversation as Anders’ cheeks redden at his own habitual shamelessness.
“An Arl, then…? Look at you!” Anders hears the King say as he slings an arm around the much smaller elf at his side. It’s not that the Warden-Commander is particularly small for an elf. It’s just that the King is…well, he’s just a very large man. The Warden-Commander shrugs into him and mutters something about “...bloody shem politics,” before the King finally bursts out into laughter. It’s a truly beautiful sound.
Anders asks Oghren, “What’s he like, the King? I mean…you fought with him during the worst of it, right?”
“You think you got a chance with him, kid?”
“Well, he did just help to save my life…”
“Saved mine plenty of times, too. Doesn’t mean he wanted to share a bedroll!” He cackles, wheezing, then coughs. “He’s a good man. Bit idealistic at times. Has a sadness to him, though. But good to have on your side because he can swing a sword, too, and will throw himself in front of pretty much anything for you. Consider yourself lucky he and the Commander seem to have a soft spot for you mages…that Templar sure seemed to have it out for you.”
“Yes, well…” Anders sighs. “That just seems to be a part of the job.”
“You know, the King was almost one.”
“One what?”
“A Templar. Got conscripted to the Wardens right before he took his oaths.”
“Interesting…”
“Don’t go gettin’ any weird ideas about it.”
“I’m…not…”
“Yeah you are…” Oghren snorts. “I can see the filthy gears turnin’ in your head already!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can we just…” Anders huffs. “What exactly are we meant to be doing right now?”
“Gotta collect some Darkspawn blood…think we’re gonna have to drink it!”
“Wait, seriously?”
…
Darrian had asked him to stay. To oversee the new Wardens’ Joinings and to help with repairs to the Keep. And Alistair was thrilled. It’s what he was hoping for, to be honest. That his quick “tour” would turn into more of a “stay.” Much to his guards’ and his uncle’s annoyance. Teagan would be waiting back at Denerim to scold him for leaving so recklessly at the first sign of trouble and abandoning his duties as King, most certainly. But that was a problem for later. He was a Warden, after all. Before he was ever a King. And with an active Darkspawn threat, his loyalty was to the Order.
Little did he know that Darrian had Rendon Howe’s only surviving son chained up in the dungeons, awaiting a decision about his fate after an attempt on his life.
“I think I’m going to give him the option to Join,” Darrian tells him as they tour the armory, taking stock of all the ways they’re ill-prepared for a full assault should the Darkspawn horde target the Keep again in earnest.
“What? This is the son of the Butcher of Denerim…remember him?!”
“Yeah. Of course, I remember him…” Darrian stops and glares at him.
Well, of course he does. Alistair shudders at the memories of what they discovered in the dungeons of the Howe estate and the reparations he continues to try to make for the man’s heinous crimes.
“And he’s sworn to get vengeance…for disgracing his family, yeah?”
“I think he’s begun to realize we’re not the ones responsible for his family’s fall from grace…”
Darrian pulls out his favorite dagger when they reach the sharpening station and wipes it clean on the leather strap hanging from his belt.
“It’s obviously your call,” Alistair sighs. “But honestly…?”
Darrian examines the edge of his favorite blade, squinting at the way it reflects the light, before lowering it onto the whet stone and sliding it carefully over the surface. “We gave that snarky apostate the option…”
“Well, yes, but that’s hardly…”
“And I was right about Zev, wasn’t I?”
“Jury’s still out. He still might show up and try to kill you. Not sure if Crow contracts have an expiration date.”
“You never seemed to mind sharing a tent with him.” Darrian points the knife at Alistair’s chest.
“We weren’t…it was never…ungh!” He shoves the blade away from him. “I don’t even know why you’re asking me my opinion. It’s clear you’ve made up your mind. And you know as well as I that he could just as easily die from it, anyway.”
“Exactly, so let’s give this noble brat a chance to prove himself. If he tries anything, I’ll just kill him.” Darrian stabs the air next to him with the knife as if he needs to illustrate to Alistair that he’s capable.
“Comforting.” Alistair watches for a few minutes while Darrian takes out and cleans and sharpens the rest of his knives. It’s something he always found sort of mesmerizing at camp, the way he always seemed to turn even the most mundane tasks into a form of play. “When, exactly, are you planning on putting them through it?”
“Tonight. I’ve got six, including Howe. There’s your mage…”
“Excuse me, my mage?”
“Yeah, I mean…isn’t that why you had me conscript him? Figured you thought he was cute or something.”
“Darrian, what in the the Maker’s ever-loving bosom could have given you —”
“What was with all the eyebrows and giggling, then? Haven’t seen you like that since we met that duelist at the Pearl in Denerim.”
“I thought I was doing you a favor!” Alistair throws his hands up and then motions around him at the half-empty armory. “You’re not exactly swimming in new recruits or overflowing with resources here!”
“Oh, and the fact that he’s exactly your type had nothing to do with stepping in and sending that Templar bitch home with her tail between her legs?”
“Okay…it was a bit satisfying.”
“Ah ha! See!”
“Fine. He’s cute. But I’m…not in any kind of position to be finding apostates who are about to undertake their Joining cute. And definitely not going to be doing anything about it while I’m here.” Though he will be sure to do something about the lack of resources, if he can.
“Uh-huh…anyway…so in addition to those two, I’ve got Oghren, of course. A young knight who is obsessed with us, a dwarf from the Legion, and a Dalish mage who also wants to murder us all, I think, over something to do with her sister.”
“Sounds about right. What can I do to help?”
“Oghren’s taken them to get the blood…and I’m pretty sure he’s already told them all they’re going to have to drink it, which just seems to be his go-to for everything, so they may or may not believe him. Varel’s got the chalices ready with the other ingredients. If you don’t mind reading from the book…? That part creeps me out.”
“Yeah. I think I can handle that.”
“And then, there’s everything that comes after…”
Alistair nods. “Right.” It’s going to be a long night.
“I think Oghren will be alright.”
“Are you overly attached to any of the others?”
“Trying not to be…haven’t even really bothered to learn their names.”
“Smart.”
“Thank you.” Darrian places his hand on Alistair’s arm and squeezes. “For being here.”
Anders meets the King of Ferelden on the day he joins the Grey Wardens. Then again a few years later. And again. And again. And again...
Entire Work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81734421?
Characters/Relationships: Anders/Alistair, Darrian Tabris (partnered with Morrigan), Awakening NPCs and companions, Kirkwall NPCs and companions
Chapter 6: Rescued
Isabela convinces Hawke and Fenris and a reluctant Anders to rescue the King of Ferelden from his Chantry tower!
Current Chapter on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81734421/chapters/222197161
Excerpt:
“What are you looking at, mage?” Fenris asks him, though it lacks any real bite to it. It surprises him.
“Just trying to figure out why I agreed to come out here with you idiots.”
“Because somewhere in there…” Isabela waves at the foreboding towers rising up in front of them. “...there is a very good-looking man who made the biggest ‘please fuck me’ eyes I think I’ve ever seen at you, specifically, today, and it’d be a proper shame to let your combined Warden stamina go to waste tonight, don’t you think?”
“Fuck my life…” Anders groans, and Fenris grunts in agreement with him for once.
“Not trying to tell you how to live your life, darling. But how long has it been for you? And Justice?”
“Isa…bela. I swear to the Maker…”
“I know. I know. I’ve just never seen you like this! I do worry about you, you know?”
“Where did you say they were staying?” Hawke asks, seeming happy to steer the conversation away from Anders’ last sexual encounter.
“I don't know the exact room! That Teagan guy just said they were staying in the Chantry. But I bet, if he has one, the King will be staring wistfully out of a window like some kind of fairy tale damsel in distress.”
“So what? Are you suggesting we just…creep around until we see him?”
“Isn’t that how Corsa found his dragon?”
“Umm?”
“Sorry, sorry…I mean, how the Bear-King fucked the Jackal…?”
“I think we grew up with very different versions of that story,” Hawke laughs.
“You know what I mean!”
“C’mon…” Anders huffs, leading the way back down the steps and around the side of the eastern tower into the Chantry gardens. To be honest, he’s relieved at this insane ‘plan.’ Maybe, they’ll get bored of wandering around the perimeter and decide to go back to Hawke’s estate and do whatever it is they plan to do tonight and he can slip away before things get too embarrassing.
“So impatient!” Isabela calls after him.
From an upcoming chapter of Keeping Vigil, this is supposed to be their "we-can't-do-this" conversation...
“For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry I can’t. If I weren’t…me. If I didn’t have Justice. And all…this.” He motions vaguely at the clinic and the piles of pamphlets behind them. “If you weren’t the King of Ferelden…and we weren’t Wardens…”
“That’s a lot of ifs…” Alistair groans.
“Yeah…but maybe if you had ended up becoming a Templar or something, and we met at Kinloch, and I never met Karl, and never had a reason to come here, I could definitely see us falling desperately in love.”
“Oh wow…so that’s the fairy tale you’re going with, huh? A forbidden Templar-Mage romance fantasy?”
“Heck yeah! Why not fall back on some of my best material?”
“I’m really happy to see that merging with Justice didn’t fix whatever’s wrong with you.” He smiles. Genuinely.
Anders shakes his head. “No! Hear me out. I would totally seduce you…successfully, mind, because I’d still be great at it. But then, I'd quickly realize I had deeper feelings for you. And I’d convince you to abandon your vows, because it wouldn’t be hard, considering you never really wanted to take them in the first place, and we’d run away together. And like, change our names — new clothes, new hair…everything.”
“But I like your hair!”
“Too bad. It’s gotta go!”
“Ugh, fine…”
“Okay…maybe after a few years, I’d let it grow back out. We’d become sheep farmers in the Hinterlands or some shit, living out the rest of our lives in obscurity together, probably driving each other insane. Is that what you want?”
“Thanks.” He snorts. “Now, if I ever find myself trapped in the Fade again, I’ll have to be on the lookout for you and a bunch of sheep there tempting me to stay.”
I have a note to myself for this section that just says "make them more sad and stupid."
Entire Work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81734421?
Summary: Anders meets the King of Ferelden on the day he joins the Grey Wardens. Then again a few years later. And again. And again. And again...
Characters/Relationships: Anders/Alistair, Darrian Tabris (he's sorta partnered with Morrigan but it's complicated y'know?), Oghren, Nathaniel Howe, other Awakening companions and NPCs, Kirkwall companions (eventually)
Chapter 4: Rested
Chapter on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81734421/chapters/219484296
Excerpt:
He forces himself up with a groan, still sore and feeling a little discombobulated and depleted without the aid of the copious amounts of lyrium he’d helped himself to last night. He shuffles toward the desk, and takes a swig straight from the bottle there. It runs smooth and warm down his throat, but the finish is sweet and tart and slightly perfumed, a unique flavor unlike any of the cooking sherries he and the other apprentices used to sneak into the Circle kitchens to sip late at night, or the much cheaper brandy that old Enchanter Abernath kept tucked away in his private stash that he and Karl used to help themselves to when he wasn’t looking. He looks more closely at the label and finds the word “maracuyá” amid the other more familiar Antivan words there, and he files that away as something fancy and exotic should the opportunity ever arise to impress a more worldly (or just wealthy) drinking companion.
“Oh, good! You’re awake!”
Anders nearly drops the bottle as he jolts, setting it quickly back down on the desk and then spinning around to see Alistair standing in the doorway, holding a bundle of something under his arm, and beaming at him like a fucking ray of sunshine. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the King had gotten a full night of beauty sleep with how bright-eyed and bushy-tailed he looks.
“The Seneschal and I were able to find a set of robes that we think might fit…” If he had a tail, Anders is sure it’d be wagging happily behind him. “Er…that is, until you can have something custom made.”
What, honestly, gives him the right to be so cheerful and radiant all the time? Oh, right — the whole…superior bloodline thing. He’s supposedly genetically predisposed to being better than everyone else.
Anders takes the bundle from him, “Thanks,” and then sets it on the bed and begins to unwrap it, conscious of the way Alistair's eyes stay fixed on him, waiting to see his reaction.
Deep royal blue velvet graces his finger tips, with fine silverite stitching. He unfolds the garment to reveal heavy pillowing over the shoulders and chest and a griffon with wings raised up embroidered over the upper arm of each sleeve. He pulls it on over the linen undergarments the Chaplain gave him last night and silken lining glides unexpectedly against his skin. He looks more closely at it and notices the lining also has little griffons woven into the damask and smiles at them. It’s probably the nicest robe he’s ever worn in terms of material and craftsmanship, and, though the sleeves could stand to be let out about half an inch to fully cover his wrists, it fits him well enough. Too bad he’s always hated the color blue.
It was a pearly-morning, and the moisture in the air was gentle, not threatening. The air was rich with bird-song and Spring-tones. I woke up duly at 7:00 (feeling a little sad at having to wake up after early after a later night than I’d intended), and got ready to do Warren‘s “Climate Change is Real” – I’d promised him I would keep the flag aloft, so to speak, and I wanted to be good about…
