A/N: This four-part story will span 9:34 Dragon, when the Arishok fell, to 9:37 Dragon just before the endgame. Obvious spoilers are obvious. Many thanks to BioWare, and to the crazy peeps on the Anders thread. ILU ALL.

Atlas

By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)

9:34 Dragon

It was a strange city, Natale Hawke mused as she returned to her Hightown estate, in which she could attend a state funeral in the morning, a fancy party celebrating the Arishok's downfall in the evening, and spend the day in between diverting the illegal lyrium flow through Darktown. Just the idea of the nobles celebrating their lives with wine and revelry instead of, say, electing a new Viscount made her uneasy.

But she wasn't Anders. She could be patient. She could be subtle. She could smile and dance and rub shoulders with the wealthy and powerful, help turn them slowly to her side.

She still had the luxury of time, for now.

Instinctively, she felt for the dagger strapped to her leg. At least the damned dress was Antivan silk and didn't restrict her breathing the way some of the Orlesian designs did. She missed the weight of her armor, the gentle hum of her staff at her back. This red silken thing might be pretty, but she didn't fancy throwing around lightning in it.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the stone in the street before her. Deliberate. Natale watched Aveline round the corner. Her friend didn't seem at all surprised to find her out late in the evening.

"Come to join me on patrol?" she said with a smile. Two more guards, Donnic and Brennan, stepped out after Aveline.

Natale chuckled quietly. "I think I'm a bit tipsy for that," she said, though she'd only had a glass or two of wine at the party.

Aveline turned to Donnic and Brennan. "Go on ahead," she said. "I'll get Hawke home, then catch up to you."

Part of Natale still chafed at being treated like the girl who Aveline met outside Lothering, on the run for her life from the Blight. But for the most part, she was glad for the company. The guard captain walked her back to her estate in a companionable silence, both of them enjoying the cool spring air.

"No word on electing a new viscount?" asked Aveline after a few minutes, looking around for anyone who might be watching or listening. Natale shook her head.

"Maker's mercy, it's been months!" said Aveline indignantly. "What are they waiting for?"

"The nobles aren't waiting for anything," said Natale in a low, hard voice. "You and I both know perfectly well who's been stalling the process."

A frission of tension ran between them. Aveline sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "It can't last forever," she said.

"I guess I'll call that optimism," said Natale.

"It's the law, Hawke."

"Then I guess we'll hope the law prevails. For all our sakes."

Aveline fell silent. Natale didn't need to mention the hesitation among the nobles or the sudden tension between the templars and the guards. The earlier curfews, the rumors of families of mages disappearing in the night. They both already knew, and were long past the point of pretending.

They reached the front door of the estate. There was no need for the Champion and the captain of the guard to go in through the back.

"Sure I can't get you anything before you go?" asked Natale as she opened the door.

"If your mabari's still up, I'd love to take him out. It's fun watching Brennan squirm." Natale chuckled and looked at Calenhad, who was fast asleep in front of the fire.

"You're an evil woman," she said with a grin. "And no, he's being lazy tonight."

"Then take care, Hawke," said Aveline. Then she paused, turned back to look at the young woman in her silken red dress, framed in the doorway with firelight. But Natale just waved and closed the door. She knew Aveline wanted to help. But she couldn't. Natale was already too deep in for the captain of the guard to get herself involved.

The scrawled note from Athenril on her desk proved that. She glanced it over quickly before slipping it into her shoulder bag; four crates of lyrium taken from the smugglers, plus Athenril's estimate of their relative black market value, and her information about ship captains willing to smuggle apostates out of Kirkwall. She'd have to examine it more closely and ask Varric for a second opinion tomorrow. She still had some of her old contacts, and she knew the underworld, but it had been years since she got directly involved herself.

Strange that the very life that shielded her from the templars for a year would now benefit other mages.

She heard the sound of tearing paper from the bedroom upstairs. A quick detour into the kitchen for some drinks and a few rolls from dinner, and she headed up to her bedroom.

With a slight sigh, she stepped over the torn and scattered sheafs of Anders' manifesto and sat down on the bed beside him, balancing the tray on her lap. He'd been fine when she left earlier in the evening. Or at least, relatively fine given all that had happened recently. She was hoping today would stay a good day.

"Hey," she said quietly, pushing a mug of warm milk into his unresisting hands. "Talk to me."

He looked from the milk back up to her, his hair unkempt from hands running through it over and over in frustration during the last few hours. "You look lovely," he murmured. Natale rewarded him with a small smile; she placed the tray on the table beside the bed and bent to start cleaning up the fallen pages.

"Don't," said Anders. "I'll take care of it."

"What you'll do is eat something, then go to sleep," she replied calmly. She stood and waited, watching as he slowly sipped at the milk. He didn't say anything until she'd finished cleaning up and started carefully removing her jewelry and pulling the pins from her elaborately done hair.

There was a clink of plates as Anders put down his mug. His words came out in hardly a whisper.

"Are you...ashamed of me?"

It took her a few seconds to realize what he'd said. She turned around, setting her necklace down on her dresser. "Of course not!" she said sharply. "Why in Andraste's name would you think that?"

Anders didn't answer. He didn't have to. She could see them both reflected in the mirror; the Champion of Kirkwall in her lovely silken evening gown, and the revolutionary apostate with nothing the world considered of value. He got like this sometimes on his bad days, claiming he wasn't worthy of her affection, that she took too many risks on his behalf. But never had he asked whether she felt that way.

Natale got to her feet and closed the distance between them, touching his face. He reluctantly met her keen gaze, and she felt her heart seize. He wore the same look as he had after he almost killed Ella, and only allowed her to comfort him. He was so open with her, so painfully vulnerable when he got like this.

"Sit down," she said, gently leading him to the bed. She scooted closer to him and took both of his hands in hers, willing him to feel her warmth and strength.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For all that she and Anders had shared in the last few months, all that she loved him, she still hadn't told him why. Why she stood at his side when she could have anyone she wished in Kirkwall, why he meant more to her than everything she'd achieved. It wasn't necessary...until now.

"Did I ever tell you," she asked, her eyes still closed, "about the first time I killed a templar?"

She heard him start in surprise beside her. "No," he said slowly, clearly wondering what her strange question had to do with anything.

Natale opened her eyes. She could still remember everything from that day in sharp detail; the bitterness of fallen leaves, feel the autumn wind in her hair, the leaden fear that had paralyzed her limbs. She shuddered a little and attempted to quell it, but Anders noticed. He always noticed.

"It was the fall after Father died," she said in a rush before she lost her nerve. "Mother was still grieving, and Carver was keeping her company. I was...trying to cheer Bethany up, and I took her to a traveling acting troupe that set up camp on the road into Lothering."

It still hurt a little, remembering when they'd all lived under one roof. No matter what anyone said, it didn't change the facts. Her mother and sister were gone, her brother tainted by the Blight. And all of their lives were her responsibility. She felt Anders squeeze her hand and smiled a bit. At least she hadn't failed her friends.

"I don't even remember what the performance was about," she admitted. "I was too busy keeping an eye on Bethany, making sure we were safe. But my little sister's laughter...I remember that." Bethany had the same laugh as Father: a full-throated chuckle that made her eyes gleam with mischief.

"Normally, we would've left with the other villagers after the performance," she said. "But...it had been so long since I saw my sister so happy. She wanted to stay, talk to the actors. And Maker help me, I let her."

Natale paused and looked up at Anders, grey eyes shining in the firelight. "She was only fifteen."

He heard the unspoken plea and put an arm around her shoulders. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she continued with her story, her stomach turning over. What would he think of her when she told him what happened next?

"It was nearly dark by the time the troupe started packing up," she continued. "Bethany got a kiss on the cheek from one of the actors," she added with a fond smile, trying to stall her tale.

"And I'll bet he got a glare from you," said Anders.

"What do you mean?" said Natale innocently. They both had a quiet laugh, but she quickly sobered up.

"I was anxious to get us home. Usually Bethany and I cut across the farms at night. Fewer templar patrols, even though it takes longer. But this time, we took the road. And that's when I saw him."

Faint moonlight glistening off steel. The appraising turn of his head, the barely visible eyes behind those foreboding helms. The slight pulse of fear she always felt when she saw an unfamiliar templar.

"Bethany and I knew all the templars in Lothering by name and sight," she said. "He was completely unknown to us. He stopped us, asked us what we were doing...and where we lived." Anders tensed instinctively, his hands squeezing hers.

"I still to this day don't know what tipped him off. Maybe I seemed too nervous. Maybe he was just paranoid. Or maybe he was some despicable son of a bitch like Alrik who deserved to die," she said in a low, hard voice. "But it doesn't matter. Bethany and I left the road; we figured he wouldn't follow us if we looked like we were heading to another farm. But he did. He didn't even try to hide it-just followed us at about fifty paces, like a dog tracking prey."

"We sped up. So did he. I took Bethany's hand, tried to keep her calm. But I could feel her shaking with fright, and I knew the templar could probably see it. Neither of us dared look back, but I could hear him gaining on us. Slowly, but inexorably."

"A patch of wood separated some of the homes in Lothering. The farmers sometimes placed animal traps along the treeline to protect their crops and livestock. I had a sudden idea...and I had to make a choice."

"Better one templar than you and your sister," said Anders, unable to control himself. She could hear Justice's fervor in his voice, his anger.

"It's easier said than done when you're two frightened girls who have never faced down a templar in your lives," she replied, more sharply than she intended. "How often did you fight the templars who recaptured you?"

Anders looked down at his hands. He knew the answer, and so did she. No mage could hope to go toe-to-toe with a templar. It was what the Chantry taught him to control him, what her father taught her to protect her. If it came to combat, it was usually too late.

"Bethany and I made for the treeline. I'm not the most...devout sort, but I remember praying for the traps to be unsprung, searching for a glint of metal. That blighted templar quickened his pace, closing in on us-he was barely twenty paces behind. I almost broke Bethany's fingers trying to keep her from running. And then I saw it."

"Old Barlin had brought out the wolf traps-I knew how to spot them. Carver helped him set them. We weaved our way through the traps, and the instant I let go of Bethany's hand, she broke into a sprint." Natale no longer felt the warmth of the fire or the pressure of Anders' touch. She was back there in those woods, running for her life and hoping against hope she hadn't doomed them both.

"I'm not exactly sure what happened next," she continued, her voice ringing with determination. "There was this...grinding snap, then a scream. And then a blinding pain in my hand. I remember turning, seeing the templar's knife point-first in the ground, covered in blood. My blood."

Anders drew a sharp breath. The way she'd said it, like it meant more than just an injury from a templar...

"Then...this was when you first used blood magic." It wasn't a question. Natale didn't answer. She could hardly hear him, lost in her past.

"I stopped feeling the pain. All I felt was this...surge, this unexpected power flooding through me. I could feel the templar's life as he lay on the ground, his leg ensnared in the trap. I could sense the pain pouring through him. And I must have done something, because the next thing I remember is wrapping my injured hand around his mangled leg and squeezing with all my might."

"I don't know if he screamed. I guess he didn't, and neither did I, or all the farmers nearby would've come running. But when it was over, Bethany stood over us both, white with shock. The templar lay limp and white as a sheet, all the life drained from his body. And I had this."

She pulled her hand from his grasp and turned it palm up; the jagged red scar gleamed, livid against her pale skin. He'd once asked her what it was from. She'd never told him the full story.

Natale was shaking slightly now, and neither Anders nor the heavy blanket he threw around her bare shoulders helped. "It sounds romantic, doesn't it? Killing your first templar," she said with a bitter laugh. "It's not like that at all."

"No," replied Anders instantly, remembering Rolan...and all the others. "No, it isn't."

"I turned around and threw up. Not on the templar, I suppose. Insult to injury and all that," she said with a weak laugh. "I think Bethany helped me up when I was done. She was shaking too, even worse than I was. Because it didn't matter that he was dead, and that we were safe. There were more templars, always more. In Lothering, on the roads, in the Circle tower. And when I'd finally recovered my wits enough not to cry, I realized we were in even more danger than before."

"It was Bethany, of all the Maker's children, who came up with the idea that saved us. We added cut marks from his knife to his leg, then put the knife in his hand and a cloth between his teeth. Covered up our tracks. When we were done, it looked like he'd stumbled into the trap and bled to death trying to free himself."

"Neither of us said anything when we returned home. Carver was brooding as usual-I don't think he even noticed anything amiss. And Bethany and I never said a word to either him or Mother. It was our secret. I haven't told another soul...except for you."

It seemed like shutters had closed behind her eyes. She pulled herself from Anders' arms and started to pace restlessly, as she always did when she wasn't sure what to do or say next.

"And every time after that day, when I saw a templar, I felt that fear, like a sickness in my stomach. That was the first time a templar tried to kill me. The first time one really threatened my little sister. And I had to resort to blood magic to keep it from happening. I wasn't as strong as Father, or as experienced. And it wasn't about a cause or a message. He was a man like any other except for his uniform, and I planned his death to save my skin. Knowing that, living with that..."

She drew a shuddering breath. "That fear ebbed as time passed, but it never went away. Not until I met you."

She stopped pacing. Anders opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand, her grey eyes intent on his face. She took him in as a whole; his warm tired eyes, his slight slouch when he sat, the unassuming strength in those slightly calloused hands.

"It was like being struck by lightning, being with you," she said quietly. "You fought the templars, and I couldn't understand how or why. But you showed me how to live without fear. You lit a fire in me."

Natale sat back down and cupped Anders' face in her hands, running her fingers along his unshaven cheek. She tipped his face up to meet hers and placed a kiss on his forehead. Then she found Anders burying his face in her shoulder, felt the dampness on his cheeks.

"I've doomed you," he whispered between shallow, shuddering breaths. "I've brought you to a cause that I can't uphold anymore." He gestured to the scattered pages of the manifesto that she'd neatly piled on the bed beside them. "I can't go on like this, not after-" He closed his eyes and turned pale. Even now, months after his attack on Ella, he still sometimes woke her with nightmares.

"Anders. Anders, love. Look at me." He did so slowly, his eyes glassy.

"Let me help," she said urgently. "I know Meredith's been cracking down. I know your friends in the mage underground need help. I can see it in your face every time you get like this."

"You're the Champion!" he protested.

"Yes, you dolt, I'm the Champion. And I haven't been using my influence nearly as much as I should," she said. When Anders continued to look dubious, she retrieved her shoulder bag from its hook on the back of the bedroom door, pulled out Athenril's letter, and pushed it into his hands.

She stood in silence, gazing into the fire, as Anders read the letter. He inhaled sharply when he got to the bottom.

"Maker's mercy," he breathed. He got to his feet and stormed over to where she stood, waving the letter in her face. "Are you mad? Lyrium smuggling?"

Natale swallowed a smile. Angry and worried was an improvement over self-loathing. "I promised Athenril it would be profitable."

"You're really going to do this," said Anders slowly. "You're serious." She couldn't tell if he sounded hopeful or aghast. Probably a little bit of both. He read over Athenril's letter again, letting every word sink in. She'd thought this over. It was detailed, planned, something she'd been working on for months now.

"There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself," she said gently. "It's not just about us anymore." The ferocity and pride that had drawn him to her like a moth to a flame blazed brightly in her eyes. "Someone has to oppose Meredith-not openly, but it has to happen. And I am the only person in Kirkwall with the influence and resources to do it."

Slowly, very slowly, a worried smile spread across Anders' face. "You know what you're getting into, right?" he said, searching her face for any sign of hesitation or fear. "In just the last couple of months, Meredith's decimated large parts of the underground."

"And she'll continue to do so, I know. But the man I love will not just lie down and let her take what she will. And neither will I."

Hope. He'd given her hope, years ago, and now, she was returning the favor. Anders pulled her toward him in a fierce, desperate kiss. The hunger, the sheer need in his touch made her tremble. His fingers seized at the fragile ties on the back of her dress, and she chuckled slightly when he growled with frustration.

"How attached are you to this thing?" he gasped, his voice low and rough. She was about to respond when he pushed her roughly against the cool stone wall next to the fireplace, pinning her with his hips. He began nipping at her neck, her exposed shoulders, drinking in the faint smell of her perfume.

"Anders-" she whispered, arching against him. He silenced her with another burning kiss, his hands running along her silken dress with abandon. He didn't pull back until he had to gasp for breath. Then suddenly, his eyes turned gentle. They still burned with desire, but he relaxed the pressure on her hips and very lightly traced his hand down the marks his kisses had left on her pale skin.

He reached behind her and found the ties on her dress again. Slowly, gently, he undid them one by one, his lips barely brushing over her cheeks and eyes.

"I love you," he whispered over and over again. He breathed it into her skin, her hair, her lips. She started trying to remove his robes, but he gathered up her hands in his, and gently but firmly pinned them above her head against the wall. Natale let out a soft moan when his fingers reached the small of her back, sending shivers up her spine.

She could turn the tables if she wanted, but there was nowhere she'd rather be. Her dress slipped down her shoulders to her elbows when Anders undid the last of the bindings. One hand still held hers in place, and he ran the other across her breasts, pinching her nipples through the thin, smooth silk.

In one smooth movement, Anders let go of her wrists and dropped to his knees; the dress fell, pooling in red around her feet. His breath alternated between hot and cold against her smallclothes.

"Oh, Maker," she gasped, resting her head back against the stone. Her fingers twined in his hair, urging him on. His tongue just barely touched her thigh, and sparks began to dance up and down her body, sending little waves of ice and fire along her exposed skin. Inch by torturous inch, he removed the last of her clothing, his lips skimming the surface of her skin.

"Anders-" she said, danger starting to creep into her voice. "Don't start what you don't intend to-"

He silenced her instantly, pressing his tongue against her. She gasped and writhed, but his hands came up, holding her hips in place against the wall. He could feel her hands beginning to clutch at his hair, smell the tang of ozone in the air when her powers began to wax and wane. But he took his time; he always took his time with her.

"My name," he whispered raggedly, pulling back from her to look up at her glazed eyes and flushed cheeks. "Say it."

"Anders." He smiled a little and slid two fingers into her.

"Again."

"Anders, please-"

It didn't take long before he heard her gasp, felt her clenching around him, but he was relentless. He continued to touch her, tease her, until her knees gave out and she slumped against the wall. Anders leaned forward and caught her, lying her down on the thick rug in front of the low embers of the fire.

She beamed up at him like a contented cat; he half-expected her to purr as she stretched before the fire. Anders nudged her knees apart and pulled her hands up, placing them on the clasps of his clothing.

"Clothes off. Now." Natale couldn't help a smirk. He only talked in those short, clipped phrases when he was nearly blind with desire for her. She closed her eyes, concentrated, and a wave of force washed over him, loosening the straps on his robes and boots. Practiced hands practically tore him out of his clothes, pulled him down over her, surprisingly strong hands kneading his back.

He pushed into her with one hard thrust, and then, nothing else mattered. The Circle, the templars...all that evaporated. All that mattered was the taste of his mouth, the heat of his skin against hers, his ragged and desperate gasps in her ear. He raised himself on his arms and held her eyes, gasping her name. She could feel him starting to tremble and kissed the back of his neck.

"I love you," she whispered. Anders shuddered and let out a low moan before collapsing on top of her in front of the fire, his long limbs entwined with hers. He nuzzled her neck, content for the moment to just enjoy the feeling of her body under his, her hands rubbing his back.

Eventually, he propped himself up on his elbows, running one hand from her neck to her stomach. "I wish..." he began wistfully. "I wish I could give you a normal life. Freedom. Security. Children. All those things you deserve."

Natale bit back the sarcastic retort that popped into her head. Instead, she kissed him on the nose and smiled.

"I don't think I was ever going to have a normal life," she said. "And if it's to be an abnormal one, I'd rather it be with you."

She had no regrets, and no illusions. But that night as she drifted off to sleep in Anders' arms in front of the fire, she dreamed of fields of gold. Of a world with no templars and no fear.

Of Anders, with the wind in his hair and laughter in his face. And a beautiful little girl with golden curls on his knee, watching her father cast magic with wide, enchanted eyes.