Dancing Dead
Title: Dancing Dead
Rating: K+
Characters: Anders, Justice
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Word Count: 1474
Summary: It's a celebration. A celebration of Anders' failure.
Warnings: Spoilers
Anders walked into the Hanged Man, intent on finding Varric. It'd been some time since he and Varric had a good story exchange, and Maker's teeth did he need a distraction right now. It seemed that these days his few hours a week with Varric seemed to be the only time he could reach a state that slightly resembled relaxation. Everything seemed to be escalating between Templars and mages, and Justice was calling for action. Anders felt it in his soul with every passing day. If he didn't do something soon, he knew Justice would take things into his own hands.
Ideas had been forming in Anders' mind, crazy plots that he could never possibly pull off. They may have come from his undeniable desire to destroy the Templar force or maybe Justice had concocted these irrational ideas in his mind to haunt him thoroughly for every moment he sat idle. In fact, he hadn't slept in two days.
The Hanged Man seemed busier than usual. Bodies seemed crowded in the tavern's main drinking room, moving to music a couple of minstrels were playing. The sound of a grandfather clock sounded, signaling midnight, which was weird, as Anders didn't think the Hanged Man had a grandfather clock. He shouldered through the crowd, keeping his eyes downcast as he caught sight of Templar armor, and didn't want to attract any undue attention. Or have Justice come to the surface. He made a line for the private back room that Varric stayed in during his off time, only to find the dwarf was not there.
He must have been off with Hawke on some adventure. There really was no other reason for Varric to leave the Hanged Man these days. Why would there be? Here he had wine, pretty girls and most importantly, an audience for his grand tales of the Champion, not to mention hot food and a warm bed. Though if he were off with Hawke, Anders had to wonder why he hadn't been called upon as well. Hawke dragged him everywhere, even into the Deep Roads, where Anders had vowed never to return.
Letting out a disappointed sigh, Anders made his way back to the big room where the crowd had multiplied. Though he normally hated crowds, especially ones with Templars, Anders decided that he could use a drink that night. Maker knows he deserved it, after these past weeks. Pushing his way through swaying patrons, he reached the bar and set two copper coins down. A splurge for him. But to his surprise, the bartender pushed the coins back along with a tumbler of whiskey. "Drinks are free tonight, so relax," he grumbled and turned away to pour more drinks.
Well, that definitely explained the crowd, but what could possibly be going on that the Hanged Man would be giving away drinks like this? Anders gazed in at the amber liquid lightly sloshing against the sides of his cup. He could almost see ethereal eyes glaring at him, his mind and soul in chaos. He closed his eyes to the sight and downed the drink in one gulp, the liquid hardly burning. It was free, after all.
Anders found himself calling out for another. They were free, and watered down, so why not? This business with Templars and mages, his own disagreeing beliefs with those of his companions and the war inside his soul had him at his wits' end. He needed this. Maybe he'd even step into this dance.
The bartender didn't seem to hear him over the noise, so Anders called to him again as loud as he could. It seemed the music had gotten louder, the room more dense with bodies, and a strange, acrid scent had wafted through. Perhaps someone had vomited. As Anders called out a third time, he felt a pressure in his head begin to build, a headache from all of this stimulation. Finally, the bartender turned to him.
Anders met a mask of death. The bartender's face, which Anders was now just getting a good look at, was slack, gray and rotting in the left cheek. The eyes were cloudy blue and staring at the ceiling. A bloated, slightly purple tongue poked out of cracked lips. With a yelp, Anders stumbled back into the crowd, turned away from the horrifying sight only to see it all around him, on every face of every patron, dancer, mage and templar. He was surrounded by dead faces, rotting bodies gyrating to chaotic music growing ever louder.
He had to get out of here, get some room to think. He pushed his way through groaning bodies back through the hallway and into Varric's room to find, much to his surprise, Hawke's sister Bethany. Anders had met her a few times before she was taken to the Circle. She was standing by the fireplace, her back to his, almost motionless. "Bethany?" he called to her, approaching her, his heart beating hard in his chest.
"Is that you, Anders?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at him. To his relief, her face was flushed with pink, her golden brown eyes full of life.
"What is going on?" he asked with a voice choked by a fear-tightened throat. Bethany didn't answer, however, but turned around to reveal a sight more horrific than the dancing dead outside: she stood there with a great big sword sticking out of her belly. Her blood looked black against her azure robe.
"Anders," she groaned, falling to her knees. Anders knelt by her side, already looking to see if he could possibly heal the damage. "You failed, Anders," she whispered hoarsely in his ear, her tone condemning. He looked into eyes fading, uncomprehending her words fully. "You failed me. You failed us all."
Behind him, the door crashed open as two Templars strode in with sick grins on putrid faces. Anders jumped to his feet, reaching for his staff, knowing they had to be responsible for this, but they approached him easily, clapping hands on his shoulders as if they were old friends. "Relax," said the Templar to his right, his words smothered a little by bloated purple lips.
"Come join the dance," the other said as they urged him back out into the hallway, their combined strength too much for Anders to fight against.
"Anders! About time!" called Varric's voice from down the hall. "We're celebrating you, ya know!" Anders eyes locked on his dwarf friend. Three arrows stuck out of Varric's thick neck marked with rusty blood trails.
"Your failure, that is," Merrils piped in cheerfully, popping out of another room. Her right arm was missing, and the whole right side of her face was bashed in, a chilling clash with her sweet, sincere smile. Anders felt dizzy, confused. His failure? How did he fail-what happened to his friends-did he lead to this? Was he to blame for his friends' maimed features? For all the dead in the Hanged Man?
"Anders," Hawke's strong voice cut through the noise both inside and outside of the apostate's head. Hawke was behind Anders, and Anders didn't want to turn around and see what horrid fate his closest friend had met because of him. "Anders!"
Suddenly Hawke was in front of him, but his eyes were etheral, otherwordly. A long, jagged slit made its way across Hawke's neck, leaking blood with every word he spoke. "Do you see what you have done, Anders?" Hawke demanded. Anders wanted to look away, to shut his eyes against this sight, but he found himself paralyzed and at the mercy of his own fear as he stared at the talking corpse of the Champion.
"You know what you must do." That was the voice of Justice, speaking through Hawke. Anders hadn't heard that voice since he and Justice had joined, and it seemed like a stranger's. "You must act, Anders, or all of this will be." He raised his arms in gesture to his battered and bloodied friends. Isabella staggered out of the room Merrill had come out of, a huge, gaping wound in her thigh. Fenris walked in behind Hawke, carrying his own head.
Jerking awake, Anders nearly fell to the ground. He sat up in his own bed at the clinic, shaking, his body slick with sweat. He pushed his back the hair sticking to his forehead, rubbing the images he'd seen from his eyes. It had only been a dream, not reality.
No, not just a dream. It was a message. Justice. Anders had been dwelling over a plan, a horrid plot that would end in his own death. He was hesitant about it. Afraid, of the risk and for himself, for Justice. He hadn't been able to decide if it was the right thing to do.
But now he knew. He had to act. He could not fail.
Rating: K+
Characters: Anders, Justice
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Word Count: 1474
Summary: It's a celebration. A celebration of Anders' failure.
Warnings: Spoilers
Anders walked into the Hanged Man, intent on finding Varric. It'd been some time since he and Varric had a good story exchange, and Maker's teeth did he need a distraction right now. It seemed that these days his few hours a week with Varric seemed to be the only time he could reach a state that slightly resembled relaxation. Everything seemed to be escalating between Templars and mages, and Justice was calling for action. Anders felt it in his soul with every passing day. If he didn't do something soon, he knew Justice would take things into his own hands.
Ideas had been forming in Anders' mind, crazy plots that he could never possibly pull off. They may have come from his undeniable desire to destroy the Templar force or maybe Justice had concocted these irrational ideas in his mind to haunt him thoroughly for every moment he sat idle. In fact, he hadn't slept in two days.
The Hanged Man seemed busier than usual. Bodies seemed crowded in the tavern's main drinking room, moving to music a couple of minstrels were playing. The sound of a grandfather clock sounded, signaling midnight, which was weird, as Anders didn't think the Hanged Man had a grandfather clock. He shouldered through the crowd, keeping his eyes downcast as he caught sight of Templar armor, and didn't want to attract any undue attention. Or have Justice come to the surface. He made a line for the private back room that Varric stayed in during his off time, only to find the dwarf was not there.
He must have been off with Hawke on some adventure. There really was no other reason for Varric to leave the Hanged Man these days. Why would there be? Here he had wine, pretty girls and most importantly, an audience for his grand tales of the Champion, not to mention hot food and a warm bed. Though if he were off with Hawke, Anders had to wonder why he hadn't been called upon as well. Hawke dragged him everywhere, even into the Deep Roads, where Anders had vowed never to return.
Letting out a disappointed sigh, Anders made his way back to the big room where the crowd had multiplied. Though he normally hated crowds, especially ones with Templars, Anders decided that he could use a drink that night. Maker knows he deserved it, after these past weeks. Pushing his way through swaying patrons, he reached the bar and set two copper coins down. A splurge for him. But to his surprise, the bartender pushed the coins back along with a tumbler of whiskey. "Drinks are free tonight, so relax," he grumbled and turned away to pour more drinks.
Well, that definitely explained the crowd, but what could possibly be going on that the Hanged Man would be giving away drinks like this? Anders gazed in at the amber liquid lightly sloshing against the sides of his cup. He could almost see ethereal eyes glaring at him, his mind and soul in chaos. He closed his eyes to the sight and downed the drink in one gulp, the liquid hardly burning. It was free, after all.
Anders found himself calling out for another. They were free, and watered down, so why not? This business with Templars and mages, his own disagreeing beliefs with those of his companions and the war inside his soul had him at his wits' end. He needed this. Maybe he'd even step into this dance.
The bartender didn't seem to hear him over the noise, so Anders called to him again as loud as he could. It seemed the music had gotten louder, the room more dense with bodies, and a strange, acrid scent had wafted through. Perhaps someone had vomited. As Anders called out a third time, he felt a pressure in his head begin to build, a headache from all of this stimulation. Finally, the bartender turned to him.
Anders met a mask of death. The bartender's face, which Anders was now just getting a good look at, was slack, gray and rotting in the left cheek. The eyes were cloudy blue and staring at the ceiling. A bloated, slightly purple tongue poked out of cracked lips. With a yelp, Anders stumbled back into the crowd, turned away from the horrifying sight only to see it all around him, on every face of every patron, dancer, mage and templar. He was surrounded by dead faces, rotting bodies gyrating to chaotic music growing ever louder.
He had to get out of here, get some room to think. He pushed his way through groaning bodies back through the hallway and into Varric's room to find, much to his surprise, Hawke's sister Bethany. Anders had met her a few times before she was taken to the Circle. She was standing by the fireplace, her back to his, almost motionless. "Bethany?" he called to her, approaching her, his heart beating hard in his chest.
"Is that you, Anders?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at him. To his relief, her face was flushed with pink, her golden brown eyes full of life.
"What is going on?" he asked with a voice choked by a fear-tightened throat. Bethany didn't answer, however, but turned around to reveal a sight more horrific than the dancing dead outside: she stood there with a great big sword sticking out of her belly. Her blood looked black against her azure robe.
"Anders," she groaned, falling to her knees. Anders knelt by her side, already looking to see if he could possibly heal the damage. "You failed, Anders," she whispered hoarsely in his ear, her tone condemning. He looked into eyes fading, uncomprehending her words fully. "You failed me. You failed us all."
Behind him, the door crashed open as two Templars strode in with sick grins on putrid faces. Anders jumped to his feet, reaching for his staff, knowing they had to be responsible for this, but they approached him easily, clapping hands on his shoulders as if they were old friends. "Relax," said the Templar to his right, his words smothered a little by bloated purple lips.
"Come join the dance," the other said as they urged him back out into the hallway, their combined strength too much for Anders to fight against.
"Anders! About time!" called Varric's voice from down the hall. "We're celebrating you, ya know!" Anders eyes locked on his dwarf friend. Three arrows stuck out of Varric's thick neck marked with rusty blood trails.
"Your failure, that is," Merrils piped in cheerfully, popping out of another room. Her right arm was missing, and the whole right side of her face was bashed in, a chilling clash with her sweet, sincere smile. Anders felt dizzy, confused. His failure? How did he fail-what happened to his friends-did he lead to this? Was he to blame for his friends' maimed features? For all the dead in the Hanged Man?
"Anders," Hawke's strong voice cut through the noise both inside and outside of the apostate's head. Hawke was behind Anders, and Anders didn't want to turn around and see what horrid fate his closest friend had met because of him. "Anders!"
Suddenly Hawke was in front of him, but his eyes were etheral, otherwordly. A long, jagged slit made its way across Hawke's neck, leaking blood with every word he spoke. "Do you see what you have done, Anders?" Hawke demanded. Anders wanted to look away, to shut his eyes against this sight, but he found himself paralyzed and at the mercy of his own fear as he stared at the talking corpse of the Champion.
"You know what you must do." That was the voice of Justice, speaking through Hawke. Anders hadn't heard that voice since he and Justice had joined, and it seemed like a stranger's. "You must act, Anders, or all of this will be." He raised his arms in gesture to his battered and bloodied friends. Isabella staggered out of the room Merrill had come out of, a huge, gaping wound in her thigh. Fenris walked in behind Hawke, carrying his own head.
Jerking awake, Anders nearly fell to the ground. He sat up in his own bed at the clinic, shaking, his body slick with sweat. He pushed his back the hair sticking to his forehead, rubbing the images he'd seen from his eyes. It had only been a dream, not reality.
No, not just a dream. It was a message. Justice. Anders had been dwelling over a plan, a horrid plot that would end in his own death. He was hesitant about it. Afraid, of the risk and for himself, for Justice. He hadn't been able to decide if it was the right thing to do.
But now he knew. He had to act. He could not fail.