#FemHawke x anders

[maintitle]

On a similar note, I always felt very on the outside of the Dragon Age fandom because I never understood the appeal of Anders.  It wasn’t until I dug my hands into the fertile ground of the Tumblr Dragon Age community that I finally pieced it together:

Anders is the quintessential Tumblr Sexyman.

#Anders #DA2 #Dragon Age 2 #Hawke x Anders #FemHawke x Anders

[samzikei]

𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭𝓷’𝓽 𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓪𝓬𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓮.

I drew this as a companion piece to a Hawke x Anders Playlist I made recently. You can listen to it here.

songlist under cut--

#dragon age 2 #da2 #handers #anders #anders dragon age #anders x hawke #hawke x anders #femhawke #fem!hawke #anders x femhawke #dragon age #bioware #art post

[kabuffr]

And there they are

Difficult, love

Will burn in love, but they won't let each other go

#drawing #portrait #dragon age #anders da2 #da2 fanart #dragon age hawke #femhawke #marian hawke #hawke x anders #my art #art

[scarfacemarston]

saw your post saying that you want ideas for Fenris, so here's my 5 cents;

You know the romance ending for Fenris? Whenever I see it and I hear Varric say "a hero was born" for some reason that makes me think that it is giving us the idea that Fenris has become a dad, soooooo, any thoughts on Fenris as a dad?

Have a good day/night

Hey! I LOVE that idea. Seriously, that is so heartwarming to think of. It's been months since I've written hc and I've never written for Fenris before, but I hope you like it! I have bonus hc's from the crew below the cut. Background: Despite being together for over several years since Act 3 and the fact that they might as well have been married, Varric and crew still found themselves surprised to hear that Fenris and Hawke were pregnant/adopting. "Broody with a Broody Jr on the way? I knew it'd happen at some point; you owe me 50 coppers, Rivani."

If pregnant - Hawke was initially worried Fenris would leave them because of their first night together, but he had proven himself loyal to a fault numerous times, the thought thankfully disrupted quickly.

Fenris is the worrying warrior until after the baby is born, or if adopting, til they bring them home.  His mind is always going a mile a minute risk calculation and problem-solving for things that haven't yet happened. Hawke has to get him to snap out of it. He's extremely attentive partially because he tries to think about any possible situation and discomfort and how to avoid it. If Hawke is pregnant, he's ready, whether through ginger tea, soothing balms, hot towels, massages, craving outings, you name it.

It's not original, but the baby would definitely be named Bethany, Leandra, or Malcolm if it's a son. With adoption, he feels a little more in control. (I love the idea of Fenris having a daughter, so that's what I'm using her. Feel free to hc differently!)

The baby loves his voice. Adores it. She perks up whenever Fenris speaks, even if it's the quietest of murmurs or humming. Fenris would talk to the baby if his partner is pregnant, calming her down, especially if she starts kicking.  

He doesn't mind getting up in the middle of the night to take care of her. He's lived on such little sleep before, but this was something worth it. He sometimes likes the quiet to reflect on his new life and gaze at the miracle in his arms.

Fenris has to be reminded to put her down sometimes so Hawke can hold her ---then Hawke has to be reminded to put down the baby so they can get work done.

Definitely lots of story time together and time spent reading books together. 

He wants his child to be curious about the world and not be afraid to question why things are the way they are. He encourages her to ask difficult questions, even if it's something he doesn't always want to answer. He will try to answer in an age-appropriate manner anyhow.

Incredibly protective. He never thought he'd have a family, and now he has someone who depends on him more than anything. He is never far from her; if he can't chase after them, she's in a playpen where he can keep watch. However, he also tells himself that falling and making mistakes is okay. Scratched knees or messes are to be expected. Fenris becomes very good at toeing the line between being protective and allowing her to pick herself up and figure out solutions "by herself." (Of course, he'll still be there to kiss it better or give her a boost.)

He and Hawke agree that they'd rather gift her love and time than gifts.

Somehow, Fenris has ended up with an extra Malbari, 2 cats, and a goat as pets.

He teaches her a lot of skills, Lots of nature excursions, and teaches her things like navigation, plant identification, starting a fire, and helping her learn a language. 

He and Hawke agree to teach her self-defense once she's old enough. He's a firm & thorough but patient teacher.

He and Hawke believe she should do whatever she pleases with her body. Does she want long-flowing hair? He'll show off his braiding skills. Does she want chopped hair like FemHawke? Done. 

If she turns out to be a mage, Fenris would accept it. He would know that was a possibility whether she was biologically theirs - because of Hawke's mage line or, if adopted, that it is a randomized gene. He would be lying if he didn't think their lives would be easier if she wasn't a mage - but that is because he is worried for her and the current politics - not so much because of his past treatment of mages. It would take him a little time to process it, but he would love her just the same……….he only hopes that Hawke or one of their friends can help with the magic because turning the floor into an ice rink or the smell of burnt hair can only be tolerated for so long.

Bonus:

The Hawke crew isn't always around, but I like to hear them stay in touch and visit. Maybe they still travel together. I hated the idea of them breaking up.

Varric has most definitely written a few adventures with her in mind - one being a talking animal version of Hawke's adventures. Another about griffons and another about malbari adventurers.

Merrill brings the sweetest gifts and loves telling stories and taking her foraging. Flower crowns are a must.

Isabela develops a liking for stuffed plushies. It started with a stuffed parrot, and before they knew it, the bed was crowded with stuff like Malbari, parrots, griffon, cats, and whatever she could find. Isabela also gives her her first pirate sword. Baby Hawke loves her jewelry.

Aveline - mage or not - offers to train her in combat. Of course, Hawke laughs and says, "She's a baby. I think she's fine for now." She'd offer to babysit - Hawke having a child really has her curious about starting her own family with Donnic when they can find the time. Donnic makes her a set of cards so she can "play" diamondback with them.

Anders offers medical care if he is around and also offers to tutor her in magic - but I think we all know what Fenris' thoughts on that would be. Still, Fenris would begrudgingly be thankful for any care he provided.

#fenris x hawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris x m!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #Dragon age Fenris #fenris dragon age #marian hawke #garrett hawke #varric tethras #dragon age isabela #dragon age merrill #aveline vallen #dragon age anders #da2 #dragon age 2

[eurekq]

some tabristair and handers for my soul

#alistair theirin #anders #handers #dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age 2 #warden x alistair #tabris x alistair #tabristair #rhiannon tabris #femhawke #marian hawke #my ocs #my art

[magerightsyeah]

Something Borrowed

Rating: G

Fandom: Dragon Age II

Pairing: Hawke x Anders

Tags: Weddings fluff, wedding jitters, not beta read

Summary: After the events in Kirkwall, Hawke and Anders find themselves seeking shelter in a small chantry off the Wounded Coast. Anders asks a question he’d never let himself entertain before.

“Marry me?” 

Anders was breathless, covered in mud and blood and sweat and rain. His feathered shawl, iconic to anyone who knew him, had been long discarded in favour of more innocuous farmer’s attire.

“What?”

Hawke was mostly covered in blood, her blade stained crimson from the countless templars, chantry soldiers, and Starkhaven forces she’d had to cut down to get here. At the present moment, she was dressed in the Templar fatigues of some poor soul who decided to test their mettle against hers. The armour pinched her body in all the wrong places and made it hard to move, but it was better than nothing.

“I’m asking you to marry me.” Anders reiterated.

“What? Here? Now?”

It wasn’t that she was necessarily averse to the idea of marrying him, but this was… not precisely what she imagined when she spoke of it in her letters to his sister in the Wardens.

He smiled, Maker it’d been too long since she’d seen him smile. “Why not? This storm will last all night, and the Brother here has no idea who we are.” He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. “When will we get this chance again, love?”

She’d imagined a white dress. She’d imagined having Bethany there, and Isabela, and Varric. She’d imagined a lot of things when she thought of her life with Anders, none of which involved a dingey chantry with mouldy pews and holes in the roof.

But with the warmth of his hand in hers, she wondered if she really needed all that.

She bit her lip, then nodded. “Alright, let’s do it. Let’s get married…” Hawke laughed and shook her head, “Maker, Bethany is going to kill me when she finds out we did this without her.”

“I’ll go talk to the brother.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you.”

~~~

Something old

Hawke had brought a piece of the Amell crest from her estate in Kirkwall, it was one of the only things she’d had time to grab.

Something new 

At the last town they were in, they’d managed to stop by a market stall and Hawke had picked out a thin red ribbon to keep her hair out of her face while she fought.

Something blue

Well, Justice would be there so maybe he’d count. Anders probably wouldn’t find that very funny, so Hawke decided to use a bit of the blue sash that was part of the Grey Warden uniform she’d managed to scrounge up during that mess with the ancient magister.

Something borrowed

That’s where she got caught up. Ideally, she’d ask Bethany or… her mother. But she wasn’t sure what to do when there was no one there but her and Anders. She knew it was just a silly superstition, but even so, it felt wrong somehow to disregard it. 

Evidently, she didn’t hide her distress as well as she hoped and she felt a gentle tap on her shoulders.

Hawke quickly turned to face her attacker, hand planted firmly on the hilt of her sword. 

The chantry brother chuckled. “‘Tis only me, my child.”

He was an older man, probably in his late seventies or early eighties. By his own account, he’d been in charge of the small chantry since before the Fereldan revolution, and he certainly looked it. On his face was written that of a life well lived, with deep laugh lines and crow’s feet. He was almost entirely bald except for a few tufts of white hair just above his ears. He also walked with a slight limp and often made use of a thin cherrywood walking stick to get around. 

All-in-all, he was entirely unintimidating and Hawke felt her grip on her blade relax.

“I apologize, Brother, I’m just… nervous is all.”

He chuckled again. “Don’t worry, child, you are not the first young lovers I’ve had here, fleeing the judgement of their parents or peers.”

“That’s not-”

He shook his head. “You don’t need to tell me. Love is the greatest gift the Maker has given us, and to find it at all is almost a miracle in of itself in these troubled times.” 

He reached around his neck and removed his amulet, a small relief of Andraste on a golden pendant with an inscription on the back. “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light”.

“Here you are, it’s an old Fereldan tradition, right? Just return it to me after the ceremony, those aren’t easy to come by any more you know.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “How did you know I was Fereldan?”

“The Chantry is a sanctuary for all. You have nothing to fear from me, you nor your man, Champion.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing at all, my child. I am an old man and I grow tired. We shouldn’t keep the Maker waiting.”

~~~

She’d taken a bath and done up her hair, really that’s all Hawke had done. But as Anders watched her walk down the aisle of that dark Chantry, features only barely illuminated in the twilight by the flickering torch light, she’d never looked more beautiful. Not even covered in buckets of Templar blood that she’d killed herself, though he was sure Justice would disagree with that assessment.

He wondered if this was the right thing to do, if he was dooming her to a life of heartache by attaching her to him. But she’d already proven she’d follow him into the abyss if he asked her to. Maybe that was unhealthy, but he knew he’d do the same for her. If they were damned, at least they’d be damned together.

“Maker, but you’re beautiful.” He muttered once she got close enough to hear.

She laughed and brushed a stray hair away from his face. “And you still look like a sewer hobo.”

She was still in the Templar uniform and Anders momentarily wondered what past him would say if he saw this scene without context.

The brother smiled, and the crow’s feet next to his eyes deepened ever so slightly. He turned towards Anders. “Would you like to begin, serah?”

His throat bobbed nervously but he nodded. “Maker I… I had this whole speech planned outit was going to be grand and magnificent and… And I’ve completely lost the words. All I know is that I will love you until the end of my days, however limited they might be. And that’s not a promise, that’s a fact. You’ve ensnared me entirely my love, you’re not going to be able to get rid of me now.”

She rolled her eyes and grinned. “You know how that tragic rebel bad-boy stuff gets to me, Anders… save it for the wedding night.”

The brother cleared his throat and shot Hawke a playful glare.

“Right, sorry. We’re in a house of the Maker.” She turned her attention back towards Anders. “Anders, the day we met was the day everything in my life started to turn to shit.”

He looked mildly offended but let her continue.

“Granted, that was the same day I met Varric so that might have more to do with it. Either way, since knowing you my life has been a mess. I nearly lost my sister to the Deep Roads, I almost died probably a hundred times, and I finally got a house with more than one story only to lose it a few years later.”

Anders looked more than just mildly offended now.

“And despite all of that, I wouldn’t trade a second of it for all the gold in Thedas. Anders, you are the light of my life, my sun and moon and stars, and I will follow you and protect you to my dying breath, of that you can have no doubt. Perhaps there is only abyss, but we’ll step forward together, just like we always have.”

Seemingly unable to control himself, Anders surged forward and captured her lips in his. He tasted like blood and like the smell of rain, he tasted like magic and she never wanted to let go. 

The brother rolled his eyes playfully. “Then in the Light of the Maker and of Holy Andraste, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

Anders pulled back, that stupid adorable grin on his face she had missed so much over the past few years.

“Though I must insist you save the consummation for after you’ve left the premise.”

“Right, of course.” Anders nodded, not taking his eyes off her.

She nodded. “Absolutely. Thank you, Brother.”

But by the look in her new husband’s eyes, she wasn’t certain how able she’d be to keep that promise.

#my writing #fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #anders x hawke #handers #wedding fluff #dragon age 2 #dragon age ii #crossposted on ao3 #ao3 #fanfiction #anders dragon age #f!hawke #anders x femhawke #femhawke #one shot

[quillfulwriter]

Words: 900 | Rating: T

Anders answers the Calling. He writes a note to Hawke and trusts Isabela to do the rest.

☕ Tip me on coffee if you liked the read!

#da anders #da isabela #da hawke #dragon age 2 #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #dragon age #poly ship #hawke x isabela x anders #handers #hawkebela #isabela x anders #femhawke #marian hawke #mage hawke #purple hawke #my fanfiction #spoilers #da2 spoilers

[earlgreyfrootloops]

It’s Over.

The Arishok Fight

*some light hawke x isabela*

The best warriors are very predictable, if you watch them long enough.

The Arishok barreled forward with such force that Varric almost clutched his nonexistent pearls— well over an hour ago, when the fight had first begun. The move was nothing special now, one of about three total that the giant ox cycled between.

Varric didn’t know how she was still alive. It had been around 42 minutes, Varric surmised, since the Arishok rammed his sword through Hawke’s stomach. Varric, Anders, Aveline, and Isabela all watched in horror as the sword emerged through Hawke’s back.

All Hawke could muster was a pitiful, shocked squeak as the blade was yanked out, and her blood gushed and pooled onto the floor beneath her. Varric knew Isabela was scared, but at that moment she started to sob.

The 42 minutes passed by, and Varric had heard Rivaini plead, pray, curse, and cry out for the life of her lover, and their friend. The giant puddle of Hawke’s blood had darkened and dried, and still Hawke lived.

No one quite knew what the final killing blow was. Slowly, the Arishok began to stumble, to sway. Still he swung his axe wildly at Hawke, still he was as deadly as any army of men. But he grew weaker nonetheless. A gash at his ribs had been bleeding profusely for 33 minutes. Hawke had managed to swing her blade hard enough to cut deep. In the moment, the Arishok simply reared back and slammed his shoulder into her chest, smacking her to the floor. Aveline swore that slash would do him in. Perhaps she was right. It wasn’t until the final minutes of the fight that the Arishok started nursing the cut, dropping the sword in his right hand to clutch at it. Hawke side-stepped around her opponent like a reanimated corpse, clunky and pained– filled with such wild determination, it was almost as unnatural as necromancy.

Everyone in the room sensed it was about to be over. Who would be the one to fall was anyone’s guess. Hawke took a step back, gathering the strength to deliver one more good hit. As she turned, the Arishok rammed into her, throwing her against a pillar, the blunt force against the gaping exit wound in her back causing her to cry out in agony. As she crumpled to the ground, the Arishok himself fell forward. His weight landed on his knees only for them to cave in, and his limp form thudded onto the tile beneath him. He laid lifeless on the floor.

Hawke stood herself up. Every little move was painful. The crowd was breathless, unstirring until she lifted a foot and took a step forward. Victory.

That single step, though, was all Hawke could manage. She fell to the floor, collapsing onto her hands and knees. Anders, knowing his cue, sped down toward her, crying out to their companions for help. Isabela, Varric, and Aveline hurriedly trailed behind him.

“Get her armor off. Now!” Anders knelt beside his wounded friend who had now fallen back onto her knees. He frantically pulled at the buckles of her cuirass to treat the wound underneath.

“Get this fucking helmet off!” Hawke pleaded tearfully. While Aveline helped Anders, Varric reached up and gently lifted Hawke’s helmet. Her face was a ghastly sight. She had vomited blood and bile all over herself and her helm, covering her neck, chin, and cheeks. She was heaving and sobbing, tears pouring out of her eyes. Isabela wailed behind them, too frightened to step closer to Hawke in her fragile state.

“Shit.” Aveline muttered. Varric looked down to see Hawke’s now bare torso was practically torn open. Anders was pressing his hands to the lesion, glowing with the warmth of healing magic. Hawke fell back. Varric brought her head into his lap, wiping the hair out of her face. His eyes stung. She tried to smile up at him, her teeth stained red.

“You’re okay, Hawke.” He said. He looked up to see Isabela sitting down across from him, on the other side of Hawke’s head. Hawke turned to her, eyes softening. Isabela’s hands stroked her face, soft but panicked, her thumb caressing her, leaving a swipe of blood across the bridge of Hawke’s nose. Hawke’s hand lifted to Isabela, and Isabela took the other girl’s hand in hers. Varric pulled out a handkerchief, wiping off the ichor stained on her face.

“I’m okay, Izzie.” Hawke said.

The heavy doors of the Keep swung open, and a hesitant Knight-Commander Meredith stood in the doorway, with Orsino and a small legion behind her. She paced up to the busy scene before her.

“Is it… over?” She said, looking at the giant corpse, and the near-dead warrior that put it there.

“It’s over.” Hawke choked out.

#femhawke #isabela x hawke #isabela rivaini #varric #anders #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age #fanfic #hawke x isabela #writing #combat #fantasy

[astriaage]

Finally finished this commission of Greer Hawke and Anders (and their cat Porkchop ;-;<3) for @skiing-down-anders-nose !!

They were an absolute joy to work with and I LOVED doing this commission!! Also!! Please go check out their blog! It’s 10/10, very good content.

————

COMMISSION INFO HERE! (or DM me for more info!)

#anders x happiness!!!!!! #anders x happiness #my art #da2 #dragon age #da #dai #dao #dragon age inquisition #anders #anders x hawke #hawke x anders #handers #fem!handers #femhanders #fem!hawke x anders #femhawke x anders #femhawke #fem!hawke #anders x femhawke #anders x fem!hawke #dragon age 2 #dragon age awakening #daa #hawke #commission #commissions open #digital art #original comic

[curiousthimble]

Self Promo Challenge

THANK YOU SO MUCH @elveny for tagging me in that self-promo challenge ♥

I am in long-fic hell atm, but I do have some fun little things to share!

Rules:  Post the first line of your last 10 published fics, then tag 10 people. (If I can come up with that many?) So I’m going to start with @anjelica-grey @kunstpause @melaena and...that’s all I got, lol

All fics are Dragon Age.

1. The Wrong Warden:  “All hail Hera Drakul, Queen of Ravenloft!” DAO, Alistair/OC Grey Warden

2. Soldier at War: “Leliana, what is that tune?”  Trash fic, but a LOT of fun!

3. The Calling and Beyond: “Leliana, this is foolish.” Sweet little gift fic I wrote for a friend, epilogue to Cold Hands, Warm Heart

4. Kallian’s Choice: “Zevran.” Tabris/Zevran series. Tagged for slight lemony content.

5. Idiot: Three days after Zevran joined their ranks, Tabris realizes two things: he wanted to sleep with her, and Alistair didn’t like it one bit. Tabris/Zevran. Tagged for content.

6. An Inquisition Carol:  “Why the long face, Graceless?” The beginnings of a Quiz/Cullen romance. Holiday fun.

7. Every Snow Thaws:  Two riders crest the hill and pause, looking at the towering hulk of Skyhold. DAI era. Multiple pairings.

8. The Cost of a Life:  “You were up late last night,” Leliana teases when the Inquisitor sits at the table. DAI Era. Hawke/Anders, Evelyn/Cullen

9. Sure:  He asked several times a day, and each time he heard the same answer. Hawke/Anders

10. The Wall Between:  Blackwell carried her as gently as if she were a child. DAI

#fanfiction #self-promo #dragon age fanfiction #my writing #alistair #zevran #cullen #blackwall #cullen x in #cullen x mage #alistair x grey warden oc #zevran x tabris #zevran x warden #dragon age romance #hawke #femhawke x anders #anders #femhawke #dragon age 2 #dragon age origins #dragon age inquisition

[urdnotcadash]

One of over 100 da2 ss I'm currently downloading. my xbox currently hates me lol.

#da2 #marian hawke #anders romance #blue hawke #femhawke x anders #my screenshots #my ss

[captainderyn]

Yup, I still love them.

#da2 #femhawke x anders #femhawke #anders #oc: Briar Hawke #otp: Until Dawn Comes

[ladydracarysao3]

Nemesis of Neglect: A Dragon Age & Jack the Ripper Tale

This is a canon divergent Dragon Age and True Crime mash-up of Kirkwall, and London’s notorious Jack the Ripper. It is a tale not for the faint of heart, but rather for the reader who wishes to ride a thrilling mystery of sex, deception, and murder.

Chapter Six

Summary Ian wakes from her night of passion. More disturbing news is brought to her attention - featuring another note from the Ripper! She argues with some high-powered people in the city. And then she desperately tries to gain some semblance of control on this entire week from Hell, doing what she does best...what everyone begs her not to do.

[Read Chapter Six on AO3]  or  [Start with the Prologue]

Chapter Six

Without opening her eyes, Ian draws in her first deep breath of morning consciousness. A slow, content smile then twists her lips. Her mind travels back to the night before. A wonderful feeling bursts through her body from her newly beating and rejuvenated heart. Anders provided the rest, love, and care her body and soul so desperately needed.

Eyes still closed and smile firmly in place, she reaches across the warm, soft sheets to Anders sleeping body. Her hand trails the linens like fluttering, silken chiffon, but when she finds only a cold empty side of the bed, she reaches with far more haste. Opening her eyes, she discovers herself alone. Sitting up fast enough to give her head a spin, she blinks through the dizziness to find that Anders is nowhere in sight.

The emptiness is a vacuum and air is sucked from her body. She notices a chill that she hadn't before. Her hearth’s fire had long since burned out, and there is a subtle morning frost on her window panes. Ian pulls her wool blanket over her naked shoulders, her skin prickling under the shivering cold. Wrapping herself completely, she steps on to the frigid floor and scurries toward the hearthto ignite a new fire.

It is not until the fire is crackling and glowing in brillant heat that she turns and notices a small paper on her table nearby. Dread and hesitation consumes her, staring at that note. It is heavy, magnetized, and the vision of it spurs and immediate headache. She sits in the chair beside the table, eyes fixed on that magnet of surely doom-filled paper. She should have never trusted herself to fall again, and so quickly this time.

Stupid, stupid woman.

Ian picks up the note that she fears holds the words that will shatter her will. Still holding her blanket around her naked body with one hand, the other only peeking through the wool just enough to show her trembling, anxious fingers around the small folded paper. She stares at it for a long while, Anders' handwriting unmistakably scrawled across the cream colored fibers. Ian , it says. Not My Love , or My Darling , just Ian . Her thumb draws across the long-dried ink, burning to know what it is inside. She burns even more, however, to stay seated in the contented bliss of which she had woken.

But that bliss is long gone anyway. It vanished as soon as her eyes opened. So, with a deep inhale for courage, she flicks the note open.

I just need some time to think.

A.

She stares at the words. Some time to think? He’s had over a year to think. What of all the words he spoke to her this night last? What of the tender touches, the caring stares, the loving kisses? How could he give in to her so fully then, only to run as soon as day broke?

That newly rejuvenated heart slips back into darkness. A normal person’s first inclination may have been to shed tears, but Ian is no normal person. Insead, she sniffs them back, shakes her head, and crumples the note before throwing it in the fire like the vile thing it is. Vile like the plague. Vile like the pox. Vile like anything that should be burned and never thought of again.

The blackness of her heart is fine. She knows it well. She is comfortable there. She was a fool to think it could grow to be anything else. She knows better. A momentary lapse in reasoning, like most of her decisions in this blasted and bloody week that has risen straight from Hell.

She has persevered through worse than rejection. She has lived most of her adult life swimming within rejection and death and darkness and solitude. She thrives there. When she and Anders work, it is beautiful, but it has always been fleeting, always been messy, always been a disaster. As beautiful of a disaster as Anders may be, she can do this - all of this - on her own.

With dark iron gates firmly reinstated around her blackened heart, she stands to dress. No more with the thoughts of that man. She brings her focus back to the task that is far more important.

Bethany.

The fact remains that Ian is far more rested and healed than she has been in recent days - the medicine she was given able to do wonders while she slept. Her faculties should now be altogether better and ready for her in dealing with the tragedy sweeping Kirkwall.

Considering the path the last days have taken, Ian digs out her old harness from her drawers. A harness from the days that were spent fighting for survival in the hills of Ferelden all the way to the streets for Lowtown. The leather straps help to conceal two substantial daggers. She pulls one from its sheath to inspect the edge, dragging it over her fingers carefully. The metal is sharp and it shines in the light filtering in from her windows. It will do. It will do just fine.

Not long after dressing, as she finishes the last touches of her suit and buttons, Ian overhears a stir from the foyer below. The voices are followed by the sound of clomping on stairs in a hurried pace. Not long after, the door to her bedroom opens and Varric bursts through.

He doesn’t have to say anything, the look on his face explains it all.

“Another,” Ian says simply, and Varric nods.

The dwarf reaches to up smooth the hair back that had become disheveled in the process of racing to her home. “Hawke, this one you have to see.”

Ian swipes her hat from a hook on the wall and marches toward the door, and Varric follows her through her estate. “Have you slept?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Sandal is bringing the horse around, Mistress Hawke,” Bodahn calls to her from the foyer doorway, her coat in hand.

Ian offers her thanks as she takes it from the man and slips it on, and she and Varric leave the house. They do not have to wait long before they see Sandal round the corner with her carriage and horse.

“Enchanted,” Sandal says with a sullen nod, and they climb inside. Varric gives the boy their destination, and they take off through the streets of Kirkwall like Andraste riding into battle with her flaming sword.

“What changed your mind?” Ian asks while staring out the small carriage window beside her. “You all told me to stay away.”

“It seems no matter how much we want you out of it, Hawke, you’re in it.”

She turns her head to peer at the man riding beside her, but he keeps his gaze to his window and does not say another word.

Upon reaching the area of the crime, Sandal comes to an abrupt stop. Audible quarreling can be heard outside to which her horse nays and kicks. Ian opens the door to her carriage, finding a mob of people crowding the street actively making it impossible for them to travel further.

“Looks like we’re here,” Ian says and hops out of the carriage. She tells Sandal to wait a safe distance away from the mob.

She pushes her way through, Varric trailing a step behind her. They are soon consumed by the amalgamation of bodies and yelling. She hears racial slurs against elves, damnation on conjurers, and shrieks against the Chantry. People shove and spit, punches are thrown, but the mob itself quickly diffuses small outbursts of violence by the sheer inability to properly move within it.

It is no easy feat, but Ian and Varric eventually work their way through the crowd to a line of guardsmen. They guard a doorway while those who are allowed buzz in and out of it like a some kind of frenzied, frantic, and terrible beehive. Guardsman Donnic leads the blockade, however upon seeing Ian’s face, he nods and moves to the side, allowing her and Varric entry.

“The Guard Captain is inside!” he yells to her over the sounds of swirling chaos.

She steps through the doorway to find a modest room with a bed, a round table with two chairs, and a small wood burning stove. A very ordinary dwelling for one who resides in Lowtown. The extraordinary and ghastly part of it, and the reason for the mob outside, is the extreme amount of carnage also inside the room. She stares at the body...or rather...the pieces of body strewn across the bed and floor. She believes it to be the body of a man, but she cannot be sure to whom the parts once formed. She finds Merrill sitting in one of the chairs, sniffling and crying with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“She found him,” Aveline says, stepping beside Ian. “She’s been in shock and refusing to leave, but we need to get her out of here, Hawke. It’s not right to spend this kind of time staring at the remains of a close friend.”

Ian peers back at the body. “A close friend?” she asks, but her words are so quiet they are directed more at herself than to anyone else. She overhears Varric trying to persuade Merrill from the room while she stares at the remains.

Along with the usual dismemberment and cuts to be expected from the Ripper, the victim’s face has also been mutilated. His ears are missing, and even his nose. There is so much blood and viscera everywhere that it is hard to see what he once looked like, but with the age of the skin, the grey of his blood-soaked hair, and the reaction of her friend, Ian wonders if it is not the man she’d met with a few days prior.

“Orsino was his name, according to her,” Aveline says after following Ian’s sights to the bed. “She said you met with him after we found your sister.”

“I did,” Ian says. “Why am I here, Aveline? We could have discussed my meeting with the man elsewhere.”

“I wanted you to see this,” Aveleine says. She moves from Ian’s side to reveal the wall behind her. Upon the wall is old peeling wallpaper, a pattern of fading blue flowers on a cream background. And written clear as day over it all are words calling out to her in blood.

Keep your nose clean, Marian Hawke. I’ve got ears everywhere. DEATH TO CONJURERS.

“What?” Ian asks, staring at the words. She looks back at what is left of Orsino and his missing parts.

“Get Merrill out of here and somewhere safe,” Aveline says with stone cold purpose. Her piercing green eyes sear through Ian’s. “Then meet me in my office.”

“Of course,” Ian says more than a little shocked, more than a little perplexed. “Come, Merrill.” She scoops up her weeping friend with Varric’s aid and the two of them, along with Guardsman Donnic escort her back to Ian’s carriage.

Once inside, Ian sits across from Varric and Merrill, and the dwarf lightly rubs the elf’s shoulders. “Merrill,” Ian says with the softness of a breeze. “I am so sorry. If I put your friend in danger, I…”

“We are all in danger,” Merrill’s Dalish lilt hums through her tears. “This Ripper knows who we are, one way or another. If he knew about your sister, he would have easily known about Orsino as well. He must know about me. He must know about all of us.”

“He will never get to you, Merrill,” Ian says. She means it. She means it more than she has ever meant anything. “You will stay in my home and I will hire men to stand watch day and night until we catch this son of a bitch. Do you understand me?” She connects her gaze with Varric’s. “Stay with her...at least while I speak with Aveline.” Varric nods while continuing to rub Merrill’s shoulders.

Ian leans forward, taking the elf’s hands in her own. “He’s getting sloppy. We will find him. I promise you.”

The ride back to Ian’s estate is a long and arduous. After getting Merrill safely within her home, and Bodahn set to call upon a few trusted men to stand guard at the house, Ian relieves Sandal and takes to riding horseback to Aveline’s office.

The air is cold and damp. It had rained the night before, and the clouds still cover the sky in a deep grey haze. Darker clouds spread far in the horizon, and the smell of a storm fills Ian’s lungs. She rides hard and fast, and the cold air chills her cheeks. Her coat flies through the air behind her. Dirt and mud and anything else is kicked and splattered in a trail of ferver. Townspeople run and dart from her path, for it is obvious she will not deviate. She is on a mission and it burns bright in her cold hard glare.

She takes her horse directly up the stairs to the Viscount Hall and quickly ties it to a lamp post. She shoots a don’t-fuck-with-me stare at an official who tries to object. He closes his mouth before more than a sound could escape.

Her pace through the hall is as quick as it is heavy. Her purpose and vitality and every resource needed renewed, she slams her body through Aveline’s doorway with the force of a charging army and the heat of a thousand suns.

Aveline speaks first, through it is more of an accusatory scolding, heated in molten cast iron than anything else. A branding meant to sear into Ian’s flesh. A reminder of her orders, her place, and her own betrayal to the Guard Captain. “I told you to stay out of this, Hawke!”

“If you thought that I would, you do not know me.”

“Well, look at the mess we are in now. This maniac is fixated on you and your meddling. How the hell am I supposed to operate an investigation when your unsanctioned bullshit is tearing through this city, inciting even more destruction and mayhem around you?” Aveline's red hair could be burning flames and it would not look odd, it would be fitting to the level of anger the woman radiates through the room.

“You don’t,” a new voice states firmly from behind Ian.

Ian turns to find the source of the words, and Aveline redirects her glare to the man now standing in her doorway. “Excuse me,” she demands - it is not a question.

A tall, broad man of high confidence and assertive stature steps fully into the office. The man looks familiar, she’s seen him around her brother at times, but then a realization strikes a cold shock through her veins, making her blood freeze solid. She had seen this man in her lyrium vision. This man had stopped her from following Bethany. This man aided in her murder.

“The Templars are taking over the investigation. We have allowed your folly for too long. The Chantry and its special branch of Templars are far better equipped and knowledgeable when it comes to the activities and well being of enchanters.”

Ian peers at the flaming sword upon the man’s lapel. Visions of the real flaming sword slowly entering her heart and engulfing her in flames flash through her mind.

“The Templars are not an official branch under the Viscount. You cannot come in here and order me around, sir ,” Aveline says with disdain dripping from her tongue.

“Wellbeing?” Ian says, glaring at the man. His amber eyes focus on her and she inhales involuntarily, thoughts of her vision screaming in her mind. She pushes through her budding fear, though, and steps closer to the man. “Templars care nothing for the wellbeing of conjurers. You make them disappear.”

The man sighs. “We rehabilitate them, we do not harm them. Get your facts straight before you shoot your mouth off at a member of the branch.”

Ian crosses her arms and cocks her head. “I will say what I want, when I want, and no pompous thug of a man will tell me otherwise.”

“Miss Hawke, if you have questions concerning the order and our true purpose, I suggest you take them up with your brother.” Looking back toward Aveline as if he was done with any further communication with Ian, as if he has a choice, he says, “And Guard Captain Vallen, if you have any questions regarding the validity of the order I am providing, I suggest you take them up with the Viscount himself. It was he, Madame Meredith Stannard, and the Grand Cleric who decided this, I am simply to inform you to step down.”

“Believe me, Mr. Rutherford, I will be speaking to the Viscount immediately,” Aveline says and storms from the room. Her shoulder slams into the man’s arm, but the hulking resolve he carries holds no room for bending, and he deflects the gesture without so much as a batted eye.

“Preposterous,” Ian sneers and is as equally ignored as she is determined to make her opinion known.

The man sighs again before looking at her. “Miss Hawke. If you are discovered pursuing this investigation, you will be brought into custody as well.”

Ian scoffs. “Under whose authority?”

“Under that Chantry’s.”

“The Chantry does not run this city. The Chantry has no power over me.”

“While I’ve been told that you are delusional enough to believe that you infact run this city, Miss Hawke, you do not. The Guard Captain may be blind enough to allow your criminality to take place, but let me assure you, the Chantry and the Templar Order with have zero tolerance with the likes of you.”

“This all seems too convenient to me. How do I know it is not one of you involved in the first place?”

“ That , Miss Hawke, is none of my concern. Good day.” The man, this Mr. Rutherford, full of piss and pompous arrogance, then turns and leaves the room without any further acknowledgement.

Ian waits impatiently for Aveline to return. Sitting in her desk chair, she drums her fingers on the wood and watches the pendulum swing on the old clock across the room.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Ian huffs and fidgets and shifts around until she decides to open the drawers of Aveline’s desk. It is easy to spot the file containing the notes on the ripper case. So, she pulls it out to rifle through its contents. She finds photos of the scenes. Black and white and flat, they seem trivial, but she can still sense the devastation they depict. Snapshots of murder. Snapshots of loss. Snapshots of psychosis.

Snapshots… of her sister.

Her hand pauses on a photo whose edge is just peeking from behind another. Though void of color, she will never forget that blue velvet cloak. Hesitating at first, she slides the photo free from the pile. She stares at it, the same shock she felt in person attempts to overtake her. It pulls at her and sings longingly to trap her in despair. It is tempting, this song. A siren calling seamen to their deaths. Her eyes trace the image, wanting to give in, wanting to drown in an ocean of misery and loss, but she slides the photo away, pushing all of the photos with it, and covering it from her sight.

That is when she sees a small torn page with simple notes. Aveline’s writing scrawled across in ink. Names and groups, many of whom are crossed out, the Qun being one of them. But two words are circled, with the note beside them stating, “Need more answers, less run-around.” Those words and the circled ones beside them are particularly interesting to Ian, given recent events. Circled there among a list of what seems to be suspects and dead ends are the words, Chantry , and Templars.

At that moment, she hears Aveline’s voice roaring through the halls beyond her office, and she quickly brushes all of the strewn contents of the folder back inside and shoves it into the desk drawer. The drawer clicks shut just as Aveline arrives, groans an exasperated groan, and glares an exasperated glare.

“Get out of my chair.”

Ian stands without protest and moves away, back to her intended side of the room while Aveline slams into her seat.

“Is it true?” Ian asks. “Did the Viscount allow them to take over?”

“It is.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?” Knowing now that Aveline’s investigation is interested in pursuing the Chantry and its special branch lends Ian’s stance to be a bit more empathetic toward the Guard Captain.

“According to the Viscount, no,” Aveline says, staring down at the wood grain of her desk like she could set it ablaze with just her eyes. “He took a meeting with Elthinia and that Stannard woman this morning, and they ‘ mutually decided the most fitting course of action is for the city to trust in the Maker and His soldiers in this delicate matter .’” She groans and runs her fingers through her hair as if to pull it free from his scalp. “My hands are tied. I am to do nothing aside from lend aid if called upon.”

“You may be tied, but I am not.”

Aveline glances up to her. “Careful, Hawke…This is not a group you want to anger, your mistake would be fatal.”

“I’m going to go meet with that Stannard. She’s the leader of the Templars in Kirkwall, is she not?”

“She is. And she is a cold-hearted bitch. Watch yourself with her, Hawke. I’d order you not to even attempt it, but I know you won’t listen.”

“You are correct,” Ian says, and with that she storms from the office.

Riding her horse through the posh streets of Hightown, it takes no time at all to reach the Chantry district. She ties her horse and stampedes toward an ominous building nearby. It is not quite as malefic as the towering cathedral next door, but unsettling and imposing in stature just the same. The building itself is called The Gallows through whispers on the streets, due to the nature of many whom entered are never heard from again.

She slams herself through it’s oppressive and menacing iron doors in the way she does throughout Kirkwall, with unabashed disdain. The hall is gloomy and dark. Its walls are made of greystone that stretch high into the sky. Dark bronze statues loom in agony, wrapped in chains from years past when this was a slave trading establishment. It was meant to intimidate the slaves, and of course, the new owners of the hall saw fit to keep the buildings cheery aesthetic.

Ian's steps echo on the stone floor, announcing her arrival, and soon men come marching into the hall to meet her. Her brother chief among them.

“Sister? What are you doing her?” He stops her in her tracks, two goons standing behind him on either side.

“Where is Stannard?” she asks in more of a command than anything else.

“Why would you need to speak to her?” Carver responds with a crossing of his arms. His flaming sword broach glints in the low light, and Ian feels sick at the sight of it.

“I demand to speak with her.”

“I don’t see why you of all people would need to speak with the leader of the Templars.”

She cuts her eyes at her brother and steps closer. “Did you know? Did you have a hand in this?”

“What are you raving about, Ian?” Carver sighs heavy.

“Bethany. Your Stannard has taken over the Ripper case and threatens harm to anyone else who wants to help.”

Carver smirks. Ian has half a mind to wipe the smug little thing off him with her fist. “Sounds about right to me. The Templars are more suited with dealing with conjurers and enchanters. Stannard is the best for the job. I bet you’re just cross that you can’t go sticking your arrogance where it doesn’t belong.”

“Where is she?” Ian asks, looking over his shoulder, but he blocks her view. “I’m not here to deal with you or your stupidity, Carver. I have no time for this.”

“I think it’s best that you just turn around and head home, sister. We have this handled.”

“Carver, if you don’t get out of my way…” Ian rears back her fist. “I swear on Bethany that you will regret it. Templar goons with you or no.”

Carver stands taller, inching his body closer in determination. Just as he is about to speak, a more seasoned female voice calls from behind. “Let her pass, Mr. Hawke.” Carver immediately backs down and gives way to the source of the voice.

A blonde woman with stern features that are still undeniably beautiful steps past the men. Ian immediately recognizes her as the woman who pushed the flaming sword through her chest in her vision. Her heartbeat quickens, though she bites back the instinct fighting within her to attack the woman.

“Miss Hawke, I was wondering if you would stop by. Mr. Rutherford mentioned his encounter with you,” the woman says. She is as cold as the icy-blue of her eyes.

“Why have you taken over the Ripper case and shut everyone else out in the process? Should this not be an all-hands-on-deck scenario? The body count is rising,” Ian says.

“I assure you, the case in in good hands. There will be no more bodies. We have this under control.”

“How can you assure that? And why would you not want my involvement? You realize this madman has been targeting me in messages, do you not?”

“That won’t happen any longer. We have the matter firmly in hand.”

Ian’s blood boils. “How?”

“Templar and Chantry business is none of your concern. All I can do is offer my condolences and apologize for not taking over sooner.” The woman is impassive, and Ian realizes that Stannard will only talk her in circles.

“Your words are empty, Stannard. I do not trust a single syllable.”

Stannard motions to Carver and nods to the imposing iron doors. “Perhaps your brother can escort you home? Your family has much to mourn, you both should be with your mother in a time like this. Rest assured that the killings will cease.”

Ian sneers at them both. “Forget it. Carver belongs here.” She steps closer to the woman and the men behind rustle their feathers, angling to action. “Something isn’t right here,” she says, voice low. “I intend to find out what, and there is nothing your thugs can do to stop me. Do you hear me Stannard?”

She smiles and holds Ian’s glare. “Loud and clear, Hawke. Have a pleasant evening.”

Ian turns to leave, her echoing steps banging through the cold hall. Stannard calls out for one last word. “Be careful out there, miss. The streets of Kirkwall have proven to be dangerous indeed.”

If steam could pour from Ian, it would be filling the large hall with a balmy humidity that would drip down the stone walls.

Leaving the building, she marches down the steps to where her horse is tied. Her back to the alley beside her, and mind racing with anger, she thinks about finding that emporium from before. She will do what it takes to find the answers she needs. She has the power and will to summon that spirit, and Anders be damned, she will do it. Demon or not.

She is so caught up in her thoughts and fury that she stumbles with the knot in her horse’s lead, and she does not pay mind the the figure looming through the alley toward her. It is almost too late when that figure lunges, but it is the winnie from her horse that gives Ian the fraction of a second to react. Spinning on her heels, she manages to catch a wrist in one hand, and push the body with her other.

A figure, in black from their head to their toes grunts over her, pressing her down. Ian feels her knees begin to buckle, unable to get into a stance fast enough to counter the attack effectively. Ian groans in waning strength, her eyes fixed on a long knife shining down at her from the hand of that caught wrist.

The two struggle for power, the knife closing in far to quickly even though the time moves slow. She will not die like this. Not now. Not by his hand. With a loud roar, Ian musters all of the strength that she can to shove the figure way a couple of steps. The person stumbles backward just enough for Ian to be able to grab one of her hidden daggers and point it at her assailant.

“You’re him, are you not?” she says through heaving breaths. They both crouch and stare at each other, though she cannot see his eyes through a dark cloth he wears over his face. “You’re the Ripper.”

He has no reply but to lunge forward with his knife. Ian spins to dodge away, but the blade connects with her forearm, slicing through her coat and shirt and skin like she was made of nothing more than butter. Ian screams from the shot of pain ricocheting through her and jabs her dagger in return. The Ripper is slower to react than she, and Ian’s knife slides deep into his abdomen. Ian then feels a sharp sting in her calf as his knife slices through muscle.

There is a crack of thunder, a strike of lightning that is far too close. That storm she sensed before has rolled in, and Ian’s horse screams and kicks, almost hitting both her and her attacker. As Ian dodges from the flying hooves, the Ripper hollers from the pain in his gut and escapes down the alley. Ian ventures to chase, only to stumble and fall on her face due to the cut in her calf. She screams out of both pain and frustration as rain drops begin to fall in large balloons of wet, and the long black cape of the Ripper flies through the air as he runs, illuminated by more flashes of lightning.

The Ripper long gone, and managing to get back on her feet, Ian is eventually able to drape her body over her horse just enough to ride. Rain falls heavy, the sky dark and the streets just as black. Ian relies on the fright in her horse to guide them home, cursing the Ripper, the Chantry, the Templars, and herself the entire way.

Once at her estate she limps her bleeding body through the house, heading directly toward Bethany’s room.

She had not stepped inside the room since long before Bethany’s death, but now she swings open the door and stands there while clutching her arm, pain and rage pulsing through her in tandem, creating a cocktail of wicked determination. She scans the room, he eyes landing on Bethany’s writing desk. She pulls it open, sloppily pushing her sister’s things around in search of a specific secret. A secret that got her killed.

Tearing through the room, she searches and bleeds and destroys and yells, “Where is it? Where did you hide it, Bethany?” Finally, under her sister’s bed. She finds a small locked box. No key in sight, and no patience to seek it out, Ian smashes the box on the floor until it falls apart. And there it is. One small vile of blue conjuring agent. Lyrium.

Ian snatches the vile and heads for her bath. Passing her mother on the way, Leandra looks alarmed at the state of her eldest daughter. “Marian! What has happened to you?” she calls out to Ian’s deaf ears. Ian opens the hall door to the bathroom that joins her bedroom and locks it behind her, making sure to lock the door to her room as well.

Her movements in a fervent frenzie, she pulls her case of hand-rolled cigarettes from her breast pocket and spills its contents on a table in the room. Unrolling a cigarette, tobacco spilling across the table top and onto the floor, she uncorks the vile with her teeth and dumps the blue powder on the rolling paper, mixing it with the remaining tobacco. Blood dripping down her palm and staining the paper, she rolls the cigarette and licks it closed between her shaky fingers.

The voices of Leandra, Merrill, and Varric call to her beyond the doors. They knock and yell to her, their hands jiggling the handles. Ian ignores it all. She rips off her jacket and digs for a match box from her trouser pockets. Easing into the clawfoot tub in the room, her blood and rain soaked clothing smears red down white porcelain walls.

She sticks the new lyrium-laced cigarette between her teeth and strikes match after match until she is finally able to get one to light long enough to bring the fire to her lips. “Alright, demon,” she says through clenched teeth. “You want blood? Take it.”

After inhaling frantic puff after frantic puff of the blue drug, she begins to feel the world slip from around her. The knocking and hollering beyond her bathroom doors are a distant sound, bearly louder than crunching a blade of dead glass.

Soon, she is surrounded by darkness and complete silence.

“Where are you, Bethany? I’m bleeding here for you!” she yells into the void.

A figure appears before her, but it is not Bethany’s. It is a figure of a woman, though she is shrouded in a red netting of sorts. Branches, or perhaps antlers, sprout from her head, draped in the red. It’s almost like lace, and it cascades down her face, gathering below her chin, the clings tight to her thin, lithe body only to pool at her feet in a mess of gauzy red...something. It’s not fabric, it’s too otherworldly for that, and something about it feels... alive .

“You aren’t Bethany.”

The woman, or being, or demon floats toward Ian until she can see black eyes shine at her from behind the red draping stuff. In this close distance, the red seems to pulse, like a netting of tiny woven veins. Intricate and ghastly, they have a glossy sheen to them, and there is a metallic spark of a smell in the air around her. A blood webbing of some kind? Surely not...

The creature reaches toward Ian. Impossibly long bony fingers extended longer by even more impossibly long nails, or perhaps claws, clutch around Ian’s bloody forearm. She swipes a claw into the cut and Ian hisses through the pain. She tries to rip her arm away, but the creature is too strong. She would break it before she could ever release herself from the red grasp.

The being examines the blood collected on its claw then stares its black eyes into Ian’s soul. Without warning, Ian is thrown from the blackness.  A force sucks her through space and throws her on the floor of a dark, damp room. She barely has the time to get her faculties together before she sees the black cloaked figure of the Ripper step literally through her. She spins around to follow where the Ripper is gong in this dark dungeon of a room, only to find, to her horror, Anders strapped to a table. He is struggling and attempting to scream through a gag tied around his head and through his mouth.

He thrashes and his yells and the black figures selects a knife from the table. Anders screams a guttural sound. His skin begins to glow in the way it does during rage, and blue lightning cracks through the room.

“No!” Ian shrieks and lunges forward just as the Ripper brings the knife down and into Anders’ body.

The vision disappears and the bathroom door to breaks open with a resounding crash in the same moment. Bleary and shaken Ian is able to see Anders rushing toward her through the door that is now in tatters, her mother and friends flooding in behind him. Anders falls to his knees beside the tub, a look of horror on his face when he discovers her wounds and the blood pooling within the porcelain walls.

“Ian,” he says wiping dirt and sweat and hair from her face. “What happened? Ian? Ian, talk to me, my love.”

“Anders,” she says, though it is weak. She brings her fingers to his cheek, the nightmare of her vision searing through her mind. She knows now without a doubt that Stannard is wrong. This is not over.

And she cannot lose him, too.

“You’re in danger,” she says in naught but a whisper. “I cannot lose you, too.”

And then her world goes black again, but this time it is void of blood-red-sheathed demons with horrifying prophecies.

---

Notes:

I want to shout out to everyone for the amazing love you've been sending me in the comments, on Tumblr, and in private messages. It means so much to me. This has become my favorite project, and while it's not my most popular, I think the quality of this readership is top notch. You guys are amazing. Thank you for all of the support and ideas and creativity!

I want you all to please head over to Idrelle_Miocovani's corner of AO3 and check out what she did for me with Ian and Anders, it is amazing! Check it out, you will not be disappointed. Give her kudos and comments and love! And check out her other writing as well, because it's stellar. Like some of the best out there, for real.

What she wrote for me is here, go read it!

#nemesis of neglect #Jack the Ripper AU #ian hawke #anders #fem!hawke #femhawke x anders #f!hawke #f!hawke x anders #handers #kirkwall au #dragon age fanfic #dragon age au #da2 #dragon age 2 #my writing #new chapter!

[mothdogs]

Anders never was much for sleep since his Joining--insomnia had been his sole companion through many of the past decade’s empty nights. Until Justice.

And until Hawke.

He watches half-lidded as she snuffs, makes as if to turn over, then settles back down against him. Anders smiles and flicks a lock of hair off her face, marveling. Here lies a contradiction: she is a human firecracker, his bulwark in battle, yet now she cups herself to his chest, almost more dove than Hawke.

The banked fire glows in the fireplace and he drifts, on the cusp of sleep now and musing--thoughts of Justice, pushed far back in his mind tonight, and of stories and names. She’d never asked his surname, and he’d never called her by her first. Not for three years. Not until this night

(Oh Maker -- yes, Marian, yes -- )

and he relishes the memory now, how sweet it was to call her and know her, the consonants and vowels of that name falling from his lips in a babble as he arched above her.

He slits his eyes open for one last look: the portwine birthmark splashed across her nose like blood, like fire. He wants to reach into that fire, close his fist through it and shape it, burn down everything that would try to take her from him.

Anders sleeps. For tonight, at least, she is safe. For tonight that is enough.

#handers #f!hawke #anders #dragon age 2 #hawders #marian hawke #hawke x anders #anders x hawke #anders x femhawke #femhawke x anders #da2 #dragon age #andermance #GOD THERE ARE SO MANY SHIP TAGS #doesn't help that the portmanteau is shitty af #my art

[cower-before-power]

Anders: I’m an apostate that’s wanted by the Chantry and been kicked out of the Grey Wardens. I’m literally possessed with a Spirit of Vengeance that makes me want the world to be rid all Templars and anyone else who has ever wronged a mage. I have plans involving mass murder and religious hate crimes. I practice illegal medicine. I’m overly obsessed with cats.

My Hawke, frantically trying to get out of her robes in a remotely sexy manner: Say fucking less.

#romancing anders is for those who like making bad life choices #he got the idea but he’s made all the wrong turns #how seggsy #dragon age #dragon age 2 #anders #anders dragon age #anders x hawke #anders x female hawke #anders x fem hawke #femhawke #sexy potato time

[didiher]

Kirkwall Afternoon. 

Still in love with this rebel nerd.

#hawkexanders #anders #dragon age #da2 #femhawke #anders x hawke #Fanart #dragonage2 #champion of kirkwall #handers #ilustration #digital art