Work Text:
He managed to take exactly two steps before they had him surrounded, trapped between the wall of their grimy bodies and that of the Hanged Man.
“Well, look what we have here. Pretty little staff you carry there.”
“You’re a long way from Darktown, Healer.”
“Came all this way for a bit of stew, did you?”
I should be so lucky.
He had been hoping for a little food and company, but neither Hawke nor Varric had been there. He hadn’t even been able to find Isabela, who was usually glued to the bar, only Fenris, with his stupid eyebrows raised at him from across the room, all smug condescension… Anders had been out the door only minutes after he’d entered, his mood soured and his stomach still empty.
And now here he was, cornered by a nice little mob of Lowtown’s finest. Just what he needed. And to make matters worse, the bloody elf was watching him. Anders could see him through a window at the far side of the wall, comfortably lounging in his chair as he observed the scene with a bored expression. Probably looking for a show, or a front row seat to Anders’ last moments of freedom.
You’d be happy to see the Templars drag me away, wouldn’t you, you hypocritical…
Evidently, Fenris wasn’t the only one. The gang’s leader crossed his arms in front of his chest, puffing himself up to his full height.
“Not very wise, is it, an apostate strutting about in the middle of the day. I bet the Templars would pay a lot to know where you take your meals…”
“Protection comes at a cost,” the woman to his left added, making sure to stress the word protection.
Ah. Trying to scare him into paying for their silence. What a bunch of dumbasses. As if an apostate on the run was likely to have a steady source of income. And yet there were half a dozen greedy faces eyeing his purse. What did they think he kept in there, the lost riches of the Circle Tower?
They were closing in on him, obviously certain he wouldn’t dare to defend himself in broad daylight. Unfortunately, they weren’t exactly wrong. Make it a secluded alley in the dark and he would have had them all paralyzed within seconds, but he could hardly rain ice and fire on them in the middle of a busy street. Lowtown or not, there was always a risk of Templars (or Chantry sisters begging for money) lurking right behind the corner. Smarter than they looked, the smelly lot.
Well, nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.
He raised his chin in carefully practiced haughtiness – and caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun around to find Fenris walking up to them.
Huh?
The elf placed himself right at his side, hand on his sword in that casually menacing way no one else could pull off quite like him. (And yes, Anders had tried. Maybe it just didn’t work with a staff…?) Fenris gave a little nod in his direction. His voice sounded utterly bored.
“I believe it is time for us to go home.”
Double huh??
“Need a little elf to fight your battles?” the gang’s leader jeered. The rest of the group - apparently smarter - were eyeing Fenris warily, but none of them seemed ready to give up on their presumed prize just yet.
Anders shrugged. “Oh, trust me, he’s worth twice as much as the whole lot of you combined. Eh, I mean, on the battlefield…”
Great. Pull yourself together. There was no way in the world, the Fade or the Maker’s bosom he’d let Fenris rescue him like a blushing apostate in distress. Over his dead body. Or well, at least over his stubbed toe… He wouldn’t let it come to that, simple as that. He wouldn’t give the blighted elf a chance to mock him for yet another supposed “weakness”; he’d talk his way out of it.
Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last.
He shrugged again, this time elaborately. “But there’s no need for him to get his prickly hide all sweaty. You’ve just walked into your doom all on your own. Lovely of you to do all our work for us, you Marchers are so considerate.”
Some eyes widened, some narrowed, derisive hisses mingled with uncertain murmurs. Alright, mixed reactions, but at least he had their full attention. He pointed at the ground in front of him.
“Don't you know it's dangerous to cross the shadow of a mage? It’s a gateway, every demon preying on the mage’s soul will be led straight to yours instead.”
More whispers, fewer sneers. Still not unanimous, but well, he’d only just started.
“Listen to him spinning tales, you think we’re—“
“Andraste have mercy, don’t you Marchers know anything? Ferelden children learn these risks before they learn to walk. Why do you think they call it the Chant of light? ‘Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow,’ does that ring any bells?”
“How do the Templars ever catch one of you, then, eh?” a woman in the back called out.
“You think they wear their shiny pompous armour just for fun? That flaming sword is the only thing that protects against the shadow, it must be visible at all times.“
“Constant polishing. Truly dreadful,” said a dry voice next to him.
Anders risked a glance. Fenris still looked completely unfazed but…was there a tremble around the corners of his mouth? Maker’s flaming buttocks was he…making Fenris laugh??
The crowd still didn’t look entirely convinced. Stubborn folks, you had to hand it to them. Well, time for Ferelden folktales part two, then.
He pulled out his waterskin, took a hearty gulp and then raised it above his head as though it posed an immense threat.
A few of them backed away, eyes wide and arms stretched out in front of them.
“You do at least know what happens to water that was touched by a mage’s mouth, I hope? Any of you lot want children…?”
“I’ve heard about that…they say it’s in the water.”
“…it’s spreading…”
“…our children will be abominations…”
“…I heard they can turn you into a toad with just one blink…”
“…no, no, they can turn into ravens…look at his feathers…”
“…there was something about cats too…”
“…does he have a cat with him…?”
“…I think they are hidden in his shadow…”
“…with claws the size of an Ogre’s…”
With muttered words and anxious looks over their shoulders, the group dispersed until at last, with one final, withering glare, even their leader turned and stalked off.
There was a snort to his side, a few inches below his ear. He turned his head.
“That was pathetic.”
“Hey, I—“
“But amusing to watch.”
Anders stopped dead. He stared at Fenris, unable to suppress a grin. Amusing, was he?
“Well, I’m glad you were entertained, but I have a lot more tricks up my sleeve. I bet I could even come up with a few equally amusing legends about a walking lyirum cactus. If you ever find yourself in need of a show, just call me,” he finished with a little flourish.
And then he stood there, with no idea what to say next, feeling rather awkward. It was probably safe to leave now anyway - safer than to stay, even, in case any of those brave blackmailing heroes now decided it was better to inform the Templars after all.
Before he had a chance to make his exit, however, Fenris cleared his throat.
“Perhaps you could…show me now? I have wine and food at the mansion. You are welcome to them in exchange for more…entertainment.”
Huh? Huh? Huh? Glyph of paralysis, brain winter’s grasped. All he managed for a reply was a pitiful stammer.
“I...eh...yes...I think I...eh...could...do that...?”
Fenris gave him a curt nod. “Follow me.” As he started walking in the direction of Hightown, he called over his shoulder. “And watch your shadow.”