"No more than two hours." She calls after Anders even as exhaustion drips and curls and drags her down, the soft thrumming of Purrelden's purr soothing the strain from her mind. It is easy to slip into warmth and rest, to drift in fever fogged dreaming to warmer, happier times. Sunlight through a window in the Spire, tucked in a chair in its library. Shelves upon shelves of books on magic, a scattering of notes, a younger self dozing half propped up against her own hand only to be shaken awake by a familiar hand and more familiar smile.
Tall, blond, smirkingly wicked in his own way but so, so easy to tease- the memories and dreams are indistinct. No demons, no tempting offers. At least not yet. Just the warmth of familiarity and the casual tangle of their fingers, the press of his lips against her shoulder as they studied, his confused pout when she makes him wait until this paper is finished. Even when there is only one chair there's playful wrestling, tugging at the sleeve of her robe or outright moments where he sprawled in her lap and refused to move until she offered him attention. She's young in these memories- happier, brighter, kinder. Setting aside work more often to debate sparkling versus still wine, this technique to another for magics, showing off casually her skills when they could get away with it. Here the templars didn't touch them, here they didn't care.
Tears, one night, as he clings. Indistinct murmuring in Orlesian- fear for what was to come. 'You have to come back.' he says, voice trembling. 'You have to be you.'
'They haven't tricked me yet' All the pride and certainty of youth, the arrogance of a mage untried and the memories of the actual harrowing are a smear of shadow and sound and unimportant in the face of stumbling out and being unable to find him. Of reading a letter- words shifting and blurring on the page, delivered by an anxious templar. Of sprinting to the library, halls endless and winding and circuitous and now, the whispers, now the demons.
'There is a cure if you can find him' they say, hands outstretched with familiar fingers, crackling with familiar laughter. 'We know the answer, you have to ask'
It is always hers for the asking, hers to have, and she can't. She screams, frost trailing in her wake and she finds him- she always finds him.
Snowing in the alcove they used to share and it hadn't been this cold- it is her fear made manifest, her grief. Sitting straight and flipping through a book methodically. Taking notes with a familiar scratch of pen to paper and his eyes when he looks up so flat.
So empty.
The brand burning on his skin still, sizzling with lyrium and pain and 'there is a cure if you can find him. We know where he is, we can show you, you can save him, only you can save him-'
Appealing to pride, to vanity, to grief long since abandoned-
Fire in the spire and the hurried sprint out, blood on marble and the children following behind with streaming eyes and shaking hands and he's still there- by the door. Eyes still blank, hands stiff and certain- as he holds a door shut behind him. Thudding against the weight of templars, of demons-
no subject
Tall, blond, smirkingly wicked in his own way but so, so easy to tease- the memories and dreams are indistinct. No demons, no tempting offers. At least not yet. Just the warmth of familiarity and the casual tangle of their fingers, the press of his lips against her shoulder as they studied, his confused pout when she makes him wait until this paper is finished. Even when there is only one chair there's playful wrestling, tugging at the sleeve of her robe or outright moments where he sprawled in her lap and refused to move until she offered him attention. She's young in these memories- happier, brighter, kinder. Setting aside work more often to debate sparkling versus still wine, this technique to another for magics, showing off casually her skills when they could get away with it. Here the templars didn't touch them, here they didn't care.
Tears, one night, as he clings. Indistinct murmuring in Orlesian- fear for what was to come. 'You have to come back.' he says, voice trembling. 'You have to be you.'
'They haven't tricked me yet' All the pride and certainty of youth, the arrogance of a mage untried and the memories of the actual harrowing are a smear of shadow and sound and unimportant in the face of stumbling out and being unable to find him. Of reading a letter- words shifting and blurring on the page, delivered by an anxious templar. Of sprinting to the library, halls endless and winding and circuitous and now, the whispers, now the demons.
'There is a cure if you can find him' they say, hands outstretched with familiar fingers, crackling with familiar laughter. 'We know the answer, you have to ask'
It is always hers for the asking, hers to have, and she can't. She screams, frost trailing in her wake and she finds him- she always finds him.
Snowing in the alcove they used to share and it hadn't been this cold- it is her fear made manifest, her grief. Sitting straight and flipping through a book methodically. Taking notes with a familiar scratch of pen to paper and his eyes when he looks up so flat.
So empty.
The brand burning on his skin still, sizzling with lyrium and pain and 'there is a cure if you can find him. We know where he is, we can show you, you can save him, only you can save him-'
Appealing to pride, to vanity, to grief long since abandoned-
Fire in the spire and the hurried sprint out, blood on marble and the children following behind with streaming eyes and shaking hands and he's still there- by the door. Eyes still blank, hands stiff and certain- as he holds a door shut behind him. Thudding against the weight of templars, of demons-