#inquisitor anders

“Not that bad? Are you trying to convince yourself?”

Dorian lets out an awkward chuckle. What is it with Anders falling for men who can’t seem to take care of themselves? Something like this could be deadly if they’re not careful. Blood poisoning is no laughing matter. 

“This would have been a lot easier to treat if you’d mentioned it sooner.”

Dorian’s eyes dart away. “I didn’t want to be a bother, darling. You were so busy with,” Dorian flicks his wrist in a circle, gesturing around them. “You’re saving the world. Every day you’re on a new mission, saving lives, healing every soldier you can get your hands on. You deplete your mana until you’re glowing with Justice’s juices. I didn’t want to add anything more to your plate.”

Oh. 

Anders’ heart skips a beat at the idea of Dorian caring for him. He wanted to protect Anders, even if the idea of hiding an injury is stupid in Anders’ book. It’s the thought that counts. 

Anders hums softly, reaching into his bag and bringing out a jar of poultice. “This is going to hurt,” he says softly before putting a large amount directly into the wound. Dorian whimpers but Anders is careful and uses a tiny bit of magic to soothe the inflammation. Then he wraps up the wound with clean bandages. 

Sweat drips down the side of Dorian’s brow, his eyes glued to Anders’ face. 

“I’ll need to change these every morning and as soon as the infection has run its course, I’ll be able to properly seal and heal.”

Dorian’s hand touches Anders’ wrist, stopping him from pulling away. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t want to be just another burden.”

“Dorian,” Anders breathes out. He’s still on his knees, between Dorian’s legs. They’re so close, achingly close, yet at the same time Anders wishes they were closer. “I’m not upset. I was worried. If anything happened to you--” Anders has lost too many people that he loves. He doesn’t think he’ll survive going through that yet again. 

It would be better to put distance between them. He can’t get hurt if he doesn’t love again. 

Unfortunately, it’s too late for that. 

“Nothing is going to happen to me. Do you really think a little flesh wound could stop the evil magister from Tevinter who surely does blood magic while he’s reading those evil books all night?”

Anders’ eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, unable to stop the surprised chuckle that leaves him. “Is that the current rumor?”

“Yes,” Dorian says, raising his nose in the air. “There’s also a rumor about how I’m corrupting the Inquisitor.”

“Really? If anything, the abomination is corrupting the mages.”

“Nonsense. I’ve seen my fair share of abominations and none of them hold a candle to you. A handsome renegade if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Don’t let Varric hear you say that,” Anders says with a smile.

The hand on his wrist moves up to his face, gently cupping his face. “You have everything on your shoulders, Anders. You do so much for everyone. Who takes care of you?” Anders can’t meet Dorian’s eyes. “Ah, as I suspected.”

Dorian cups his chin, forcing him to raise his face. “I’m going to kiss you now. Is that agreeable?”

“Is that? By the Maker, Dorian. Yes.” 

They lean into each other, their lips meeting. Anders doesn’t remember the last time he did something just for him, but this kiss? This is just for him. The world fades away. There’s no anchor running up his arm, there’s no Corypheus, there’s no demon army. There’s just Dorian and Anders. 

“Every time I love, it ends in disaster,” Anders whispers against Dorian’s lips. Despite how perfect this moment is, he feels like he has to warn Dorian. 

Dorian huffs against his lips. “We’ve only just started and you’re already planning on it ending?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s okay if you do. You’re the best healer I know. Let yourself have this. Let me have this. You’re not the only one who hasn’t let himself imagine love.”

Anders wants to fight against this but he can’t. Dorian is right. There’s no guarantee of tomorrow, so why not embrace the here and now. This might not last but that’s no reason to cut it off before it even has time to bloom. 

Clanging splits through the night, drowning out all else. The signal bells. While icy dread creeps up Anders’ spine, the ringing reverberates in his ears. Between one moment and the next, the village of Haven turns from celebration to mayhem and panic, the soldiers and mages taking arms while civilians flee from an unknown threat.

Anders gazes up at the mountain ranges to the north-east with wide eyes, his staff already in hand. Little spots of light from carried torches are all that stand out against darkness and endless snow, but the beat of marching forces drawing nearer is unmistakeable.

It couldn’t be so easy, of course. The Breach is closed, but the fight isn’t over.

Cassandra, her sword unsheathed, is already flying down the steps towards the lakeside gates of Haven. Anders hurries after her, passing through the whirlwind of everyone rushing in all directions, the cries of fear lifting into the night air. Justice simmers beneath the surface of his mind, on edge, preparing to defend.

They find the trio of advisors by the gate, Cassandra seeking more information while Anders tries to make out any distinctive features of the force descending the mountain pass in the distance.

From beyond the gate, he hears a scuffle; several pairs of boots in the snow, the clash of metal, a yell—

Something slams into the doors hard enough to rattle it on its great hinges. Blue light flashes beneath it. Another bang, then silence.

“We can’t come in unless you open!” a voice calls from the other side.

Anders has no clue what to make of it, but he rushes towards the doors all the same; whatever is going on, they need answers. The soldier on guard obligingly pushes the gate open for him, allowing him to dart through.

Bodies lie on the blood-splattered snow, each of them donning a suit of templar armour. In the middle of them stands yet another templar, their thick cuirass emblazoned with the flaming sword and their helm obscuring all personal features, forming one of the faceless, impenetrable jailors that Anders has spent most of his life running from.

Rage flaring through his veins, Anders swings his staff around and slams it into the ground, sending a strike of lightning upon the templar. Even here, he thinks with a blend of irritation, resignation, and despair, he is not free from being hunted. A Seeker may believe he was sent by Andraste, but that doesn’t mean the rest agree with her.

The templar grunts as the lightning crackles across the heavy armour, spreading paralyzing sparks. Satisfaction soothes Anders’ nerves when the templar’s grip on their greatsword goes slack and they stagger, one knee slamming into the disturbed snow.

“Wait!” that same voice from before cries.

Anders startles at the appearance of another from behind the templar, revealed as the bulky armour no longer blocks him from view. This one is no templar—he’s in patchwork linens and leathers, his deathly-pale face almost entirely obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.

“Explain yourself!” Anders orders as he brandishes his staff again, ready to bring more lightning down if he must. No templar will get the better of him again.

“My name is Cole,” the slighter figure says. He steps forward, hands raised and palms out in surrender.

The templar drops the sword into the snow, then lifts their hands to their helmet.

Anders bares his teeth, his grip tightening on his staff. He isn’t sure which of them to focus on; the threat of a templar is obvious, while the other—Cole—is too much of an unknown, leaving both Anders and Justice wary.

“We came to warn you. There are people trying to kill you. You probably already know that,” Cole continues.

“We?” Anders repeats.

The templar wrenches the helmet off, tossing it away, and Anders goes stock still, eyes widening.

Stark white hair grown longer than when Anders last saw it, now swept back into a braid revealing a trio of lyrium dots against dark skin that used to be obscured by bangs. Familiar green eyes meet Anders’ for the first time since that calamitous night in Kirkwall. Eyes that glared at him with fury, derision, and hurt.

Fenris looks at him with less reproach now, but no gentleness has replaced it; his gaze is flat, guarded. Anders can only stare at him, stunned, unsure.

Cole strides forward again, saying something about the Elder One and the templars. The Commander appears at Anders’ side, making Anders bristle, finally rousing him from watching Fenris in disbelief.

While Cole and Cullen speak, Anders takes a tentative step forward, returning his attention to Fenris. He looks down at the blazing sword upon Fenris’ chest, a new surge of anger coursing through him. “You became a templar?” he asks. “After everything, after… you…”

He clutches his staff, torn between guilt for unknowingly striking Fenris and wanting to strike him again for this new betrayal.

“No,” Fenris says, speaking for the first time. The sound of his deep voice makes Anders’ chest twist. “The armour was only a means to an end. It was how Cole and I escaped.”

“Escaped?” Anders echoes, his tone becoming embarrassingly shrill.

“We don’t have time to discuss it,” Fenris says. He grasps his sword again—and now that Anders takes the time to focus on it, he recognizes it as a Sword of Mercy—using it to push himself back onto his feet. He stumbles even with the crutch, still shaking off the lightning.

Despite himself, Anders darts forward to catch him, one hand still holding his staff while the other goes around Fenris’ waist.

Fenris exhales softly, like relief. He wraps an arm around Anders’ back. “I was coming to find you,” he says, barely above a whisper, like he’s sharing a secret.

Anders’ breath catches in his throat.

After Kirkwall, Anders thought the only way he’d ever see Fenris again would be as the warrior’s prey, just like the templars, like Vael. What he and Fenris used to have, the peace they’d managed to carve out for themselves—Anders understood that his actions shattered it just as thoroughly as he brought the Kirkwall chantry to ruin. Anders had expected it, had tried to prepare himself for it, but that hadn’t dulled the pain in the slightest when the inevitable came to pass.

He’d shown Fenris a different side to mages, and then—

But Fenris’ tone does not suggest that he was coming to kill Anders. Quite the opposite. There’s an aching regret in his voice that Anders never dared to hope for.

Anders wants to be angry—part of him still is angry—but it has been four years, the last couple months have changed everything, and he just misses Fenris so incredibly much. If Fenris heard about the Conclave and took up the opportunity to finally close the distance he put between them… that’s enough for Anders to clutch him a little tighter, even with the terrible templar armour stuck between them.

Neither of them gets the chance to say anything else. The Elder One’s army is upon them. Corypheus’ army. The blighted magister that should already be dead.

As they all hurry back through the gates into the village, Fenris straightens up, able to move under his own power, but he doesn’t pull away from Anders’ side.

“Sorry about the lightning,” Anders says.

Expression grim, Fenris says, “I understand.”

“Can you still fight?”

Now, Fenris scoffs as if offended. “You know me better than that.”

A small smile forms on Anders’ face. He does know Fenris’ abilities well. The two of them are matched in resilience. The kind of resilience born of always looking over one’s shoulder, needing to be ready to fight for freedom at any moment.

The group of people Anders has been travelling with since first being named the Herald of Andraste are waiting for them.

Anders glances at Fenris, then at the others. “Solas and Sera, with us. The rest of you, protect the villagers.”

They spread out, Anders leading his team to the north trebuchet. The templars are on them almost instantly, breaching the walls and storming towards them. With a sickened lurch in Anders’ stomach, he notices that unlike Fenris’ pristine armour, these templars are corrupted, infected: growths of red lyrium spike through the plates, emerging from the flesh beneath. Some of them glow an ominous red, like a sharp counterpoint to Justice’s pure blue aura.

Fenris contrasts them as well, his familiar ethereal tone feeling right when Anders catches sight of him phasing through the battlefield, cutting down templars with deadly efficiency. Fighting alongside each other again brings Anders a sense of home, even as the differences around them remain jarring.

Together with Solas and Sera, they cut through the onslaught, then proceed to the south trebuchet, preparing it for launch when there’s a second to breathe. Their efforts are rewarded when they bury a swath of the templars in an avalanche.

But their victory is short-lived when the night is split with the deafening roar of a dragon, its wingbeats growing louder as it emerges from the mountains, bearing down on them. Corypheus didn’t have a dragon last time.

There’s nothing to do but retreat.

As they hurry through the village, helping the stragglers along the way, Fenris remains close to Anders, the two of them naturally guarding each other’s flanks. For brief moments through the fight, Anders can feel like nothing ever broke between them.

When they make it into the relative safety of the chantry and convene with the Commander and Cole, it quickly becomes clear that the only way for everyone to escape through the passage Roderick reveals to them is with a miracle or a very significant distraction.

Anders’ eyes go unseeing as he processes, still breathing hard from the fight. He knows what must be done.

It is the right thing to do, Justice agrees.

Anders would have liked to do more before his end, but that he’s still standing after Kirkwall is already more than he bargained for. That he got to offer the mage rebellion safety and support is already more than he dreamed of back when the most he could grasp at was a catalyst for change.

And the Calling is upon him. His time is limited, whether it comes now or in a month. Better to die under the open skies than suffocated within the Deep Roads.

“If Corypheus is here for me, I’ll make him fight for it,” Anders says.

Cullen narrows his eyes at Anders, ever suspicious even after Anders has dutifully played the role of Herald just like the advisors want. “And when the mountain falls? What about you?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’ll mourn me,” Anders snaps.

“Anders.” Fenris grasps Anders’ arm, drawing his attention away from the Commander. With Fenris, it’s clear he does care what happens to Anders. His brow is pinched, his lips pressed into a firm line.

Anders forces a smile. “I’ve survived worse odds.”

The words only make Fenris’ expression tighten further, a flicker of pain in his eyes. “Then I will go with you.”

Anders’ chest clenches. “Fenris…”

“I will not abandon you a second time.”

Emotion lodges in Anders’ throat; the back of his eyes prickle. One phrase, spoken with Fenris’ strong, unyielding determination, and Anders is ready to crumple into his arms, to melt into him and forget all the time they spent apart, the hurt and grief washed away.

Unable to hold back, Anders leans into Fenris, dipping his head down as he reaches to cup the back of Fenris’ head with his free hand. His fingers slide over the soft strands of Fenris’ braided hair as they meet, Fenris pressing just as close to share their first kiss since the Kirkwall chantry fell.

Anders doesn’t care about their audience. He doesn’t care that they hardly have time to spare. He doesn’t care that they might both die in the coming minutes. He wants to commit the feeling of Fenris’ lips against his own to memory, for as long as that memory may last.

Still, they must break apart before long, but when they do so, Anders feels bolstered and full of fire. “Let’s go see if we can kill that bastard. Again,” he says.

Fenris smirks, eagerness crossing his features.

They turn for the great doors of the chantry together. Solas and Sera wordlessly fall back into step with them, warming Anders’ chest further.