Characters: Anders (References Anders/Hawke)
Word Count: ~300
Rating: K
Author's Note: In an effort to not clog FFN too much, this here will be my catch all for any and all drabbles, double drabbles, triple drabbles, and vignettes set in the DA universe. (Basically, any and all independent stories that I wright for DA that are ~300 words or less in length, will get dropped here. There will likely be no rhyme nor reason to these fics.) This entry was done for DAO_Challenge over on LJ 'Lightning Round' prompt of 'Forgetfulness.'

Manifesto

There are black spots in his memory. Dark holes that eat up minutes, hours, days. Areas where his thoughts breakdown, divert. Take off on some wild tangent around a road block that he can't see.

The need to know where – how – those moments are spent, consumes him. So he writes; hoping to find the path that will lead him through the labyrinth of his mind. Jots down every idea that gets a foot hold. Keeps a sheaf of paper on him at all times Along with a bent quill. Keeps them buried beneath the folds of his robes, jostled up in the space where Pounce once rested – when he was a scrawny little thing desperate for warmth, and a token bit of affection (not so different from Anders, really).

So he writes. Some days, the letters are penned in a hasty, lopsided scrawl, and he knows that those are his own agitated ramblings. They speak of desperation, of necessity. And are wholly unremarkable in every way.

But some mornings… some mornings when he wakes – drags heavy limbs from the cocoon of Hawke's arms, sheets wrapped around him like shackles – he stumbles to the desk to find bright, elegant lines glaring at him from the page.

Lines that spill accusations at the Templars, at Meredith, at Orsino… at Hawke. Lines that scream for freedom, for equity. That hail down judgment with a level of conviction that even Anders at his most hardened moments has never been capable of on his own.

They are lines that he never remembers writing, but the stains on his fingers tell another story. The exhaustion in his body tells him the same.

More and more, he finds himself scrambling for the pages. Clinging to them like a talisman, soaking up the forgotten sentences like rain. Phrases that belong to Justice, but that more and more, he wishes were his.

~End