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Fenris let the door fall shut behind him with a bang. He wrinkled his nose as the pungent mixture of herbs, blood, the usual Darktown stench, and a hint of the sea hit him. A lovely place, exactly where he wanted to spend his night. Granted, his mansion didn’t necessarily smell all that much better, but at least…well, at least he was there because he chose to be, not because he had to play errand boy for Hawke. Or rather, for the clumsy mage who’d let himself get stabbed in the back, giving them all the fright of their lives. Well, them. Not him, certainly not, what did he care that Anders had needed two health potions to regain enough strength to heal himself and that even then, he’d still been so weak that Hawke insisted he stay at the estate for the night? Or that he’d looked horribly pale and lifeless, eyes robbed of their spark, breath coming in shallow puffs as though he was about to die right before their eyes…
He shook his head, trying to focus on the task at hand. Get the mage his spare coat and some clothes.
“Yes, Fenris, I’m asking you. You can hold your own in Darktown, if necessary.” And you also just so happen to be the person Anders is least likely going to miss if he wakes up before you return. The latter had remained unsaid, but as always, Hawke’s eyes spoke a lot more freely than his mouth.
Well, fine by him. He’d drop the mage’s tattered belongings off on the way back and then head straight home, to his fireplace and a well-deserved glass of wine. Something to calm his nerves. For some reason, he’d felt strangely unsettled all day.
Now, where did Anders keep his ratty garments? Fenris had never ventured into the private parts of his clinic but surely, it would have to be there?
He stepped past the moth-eaten curtain and surveyed his surroundings. A bed, a chamber pot, a wobbly chair and one large chest. Only one possible storage place, then. Well, at least it’d be quick.
And indeed, it didn’t take Fenris long to pick out a shirt – even more threadbare than the one Anders usually wore, but at least it had the benefit of not being soaked in blood – and find the pillow Hawke had described (yes, a pillow, because apparently the five already scattered across Hawke’s bed weren’t enough for the mage’s delicate behind). Rifling through the contents for a spare overcoat, his gaze fell on a stack of letters addressed to – Justice?
Gingerly, he pulled them out from beneath a heap of old socks and underclothes and stared at them for a long time, weighing his options.
It wasn’t like there was any actual need to hurry. Hawke was just being his usual, fussy self. He could spare a moment.
Curiosity got the better of him.
He sat back against the bed, crossed his legs in front of him and placed the stack of letters on the ground, studiously ignoring the little voice in his head and its vivid suggestions of how he would feel if someone snooped around in his private correspondence. (He wasn’t snooping, he was gathering intelligence. There might be vital information on the state of Anders’ demon in there; it would be foolish not to check. He would stop reading if they turned out to contain only irrelevant or too personal information, he wasn’t betraying anyone’s trust and if one looked at things closely, it was all Hawke’s fault anyway!) Once he was seated comfortably, he carefully unfolded the first page.
Dear Justice,
Today was a good day. I led three mages to freedom – I know it’s nothing compared to the thousands that are still locked up, but…these three will never be whipped again, never again be belittled, abused, and told they are cursed, they will never be locked up in the dark. And at least for today, saving them felt like saving them all. I wish we could have celebrated together. Everyone in the Hanged Man said it was nice to see me smile for once. Isabela even let me win at cards – well, she denied it of course, but that luck was just a bit too much of a coincidence. I know you don’t approve of gambling but...I think you would have had fun. Or maybe you did have fun…did you have fun? It’s impossible to tell, sometimes.
He huffed. Of course, Anders would rant about the plight of mages even when writing to his demon. There he was, gushing about the day he let dangerous mages loose on the city. A day Fenris realized he remembered. Anders really did look better when he smiled…
He shook his head and grabbed the next letter.
I'm sorry I failed you, for what I’ve done to you...if we had killed that girl…Hawke says it wasn't my fault, or yours, but you know him, he only sees the best in me. In us. Perhaps Fenris is right. Perhaps I should...realize my limitations.
Reading these words should have brought a sense of victory…but all Fenris felt was a nasty gnawing in his stomach. He firmly pushed it away and picked up the next page.
I feel so alone. All the time. I wish I could talk to you. Really talk. You know...like we used to. I miss you. I could really use a friend.
And another one.
I thought I heard your voice in my head today, but then I wasn’t sure. Are those really your thoughts, or am I just fooling myself into thinking they are because I long to hear them? It’s so hard to tell where you end and I begin, if there even is an end anymore…I wish I could ask you. I wish you could reply. I feel you driving me, I feel our cause pulling at you, at us…But I miss your words.
There were more of them, several years’ worth of letters, and they looked as though they’d been read countless times. Folded, unfolded, pages gripped tightly, creased and torn, ink faded by fingers pressing against it…stroking it, perhaps. And yet there wasn't a single reply…
Another attack of nibbling teeth in his stomach. He ignored those too. Not his problem. No. Not at all.
He got up with a huff, stuffed the pile back into the chest, picked up the mage’s blasted special pillow, the spare shirt and coat and hurried out of the clinic. No. Absolutely not his problem.
That would have been the end of it. If it hadn't been for the night he met Justice.
A couple of weeks had passed when Fenris decided to swing by Anders’ clinic on the way home from the Hanged Man to stock up on potions. They would have been easier to obtain on the market, of course, but Hawke never stopped pestering them to “only buy them from Anders. You know he needs the coin, and he won’t accept it for healing, it’s his only income.” Fenris would have complained, but if he was honest (with himself, no one else needed to know), Anders’ potions were of a far better quality. Whatever else you could say about him, the mage knew his craft. And if the extra coin helped keep his stomach full and thus made him less cranky…well, Fenris couldn’t really complain about that either.
The sun had long set, and Fenris felt comfortably buzzed after a pleasant evening of cards and wine. He wasn’t in the mood to return to the empty quiet of his mansion just yet, which made the slight detour seem even more appealing. It was late, but knowing Anders, he’d be working well into the night, long after the rest of the city (minus bandits, slavers, and the occasional guard) had retired to their beds. And indeed, when Fenris pushed open the door, he was greeted by a familiar shape hunched over his desk – no, not hunched. In fact, Anders’ posture was uncharacteristically rigid. Back held straight, he perched on his rickety chair showing little to no sign of movement, in his hand not the usual quill but a thin piece of paper. As he walked up to him, Anders turned his head and Fenris’ greeting got stuck in his throat. Two bright blue hollows stared at him from an expressionless face.
He involuntarily took a step back, hand shooting to the hilt of his sword. So it had finally happened. The demon had taken over and consumed Anders’ soul, erasing every last trace of the man Anders had been. How foolish to believe there had ever been the slightest possibility of a different outcome. Damn Hawke and his soft, hopeful heart, damn Anders for throwing away his life…and damn himself for his complacency, his naivety, for starting to trust, to actually begin to consider the notion of a benevolent spirit. It had led him straight into a trap, alone against a demon attack…
Except it wasn’t attacking. It kept sitting there, regarding him with the same eerie, unreadable expression, the piece of paper still firmly in its grip. Upon closer inspection, the colour and quality of the paper looked familiar, as did the scrawled writing filling it from top to bottom. Underneath the demon’s finger, Fenris could make out part of the first line.
—r Justice,
It was…reading Anders’ letter? Now Fenris was admittedly not an expert on the inner workings of demons (and he certainly had no intention of becoming one), but that did not seem like the action of an aggressive, hostile being.
Keeping his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, he slowly advanced into the room. The demon remained seated. It still showed no signs of movement but all of a sudden, it spoke.
“Anders is asleep. Mortals need rest. Unless you require healing, you cannot speak with him now.”
Asleep. As in “still there”. The tension in Fenris’ body eased noticeably. He was, however, not ready to let go of his sword and fighting stance just yet. It might not be a permanent state, but the thing was still in control of Anders’ body. And there was also the question of why it was walking it around in the first place.
Fenris huffed. “This hardly looks as though he is getting much rest. You are tiring out his body.” He glared at the demon…no, he supposed it was still their local abomination’s spirit half after all. “Does he even know you have taken control of it?”
“He knows I clean the place when I get bored. He is grateful for it. He leaves me notes.” His fingers stroked the letter. The gesture was almost…reverent. “I do not take us out of the clinic while he rests. What tires his body are the journeys he takes with you.”
“You…know who I am?” It shouldn’t have been surprising, Fenris supposed, considering the thing, the spirit, was always present, but it was far from a comforting thought.
Justice cocked his head. “Yes. You are the angry elf. Fenris is your name.”
His name from the lips of a spirit. The thought sent a chill down his spine, even if he had to admit that its voice sounded…almost human. Calm. Not as expressive as Anders’ and slightly lacking in intonation, but it wasn’t the otherworldly booming he’d expected. And now that he looked closer, he noticed that there were no blue cracks in Anders’ skin and while they were of an unnatural blue, his eyes didn’t burn with the cold intensity they’d shown the last time the demon spirit…Justice had taken over.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, I am Fenris. And you are…Justice. Controlling Anders’ body. And—“ One last time, just to make sure, and then he’d leave and let the mage sort this mess out by himself. “—Anders is still in there, he is safe and you will return control to him when he awakes.”
The spirit performed something that could have been interpreted as a nod. “Yes.”
“I shall leave you to it then.”
“Good,” was all he got for a reply; Justice had turned his attention back to the letter in his hand. His fingers were no longer stroking it, but there was something tender in the way he held it, in the angle of his head as his eyes scanned the page.
Fenris shook his head and made for the exit. Not his problem. Not his problem. Not his problem. He was almost at the door… Venhedis.
He turned around.
“Anders has written to you countless times. Yet you never reply. His letters are…emotional. He cares. Why do you abandon him when he reaches out for a sense of belonging?”
“I did not abandon him! I am here!”
Agitating a dangerous spirit when he simply could have left. He was clearly spending too much time with Hawke. And with Anders, obviously, considering he now found himself pressing on against all better knowledge.
“He is lonely. He misses you. And all he asks for is reassurance. It could easily be given. What ‘justice’ is it to deny him that?”
“It is not easily given.” Justice’s eyes turned back to the page, staring at it with something that might have been longing. “There are words in the Fade. Memories of written things, books, signs, or cherished letters, much like this one. They are part of me, I understand them. I can read them in this mortal world. If I were in the Fade, I could make them appear. But I cannot get this body to write them. I do not know how.”
The words hit Fenris like a sudden, icy shower of rain. He of all people should have known better than to just assume.
His next words were out before he had time to fully consider their implications.
“If you wish, I can teach you.” Fasta vass. Not his problem. Wasn’t it enough that he allowed Hawke to involve him in his ridiculous schemes?
Justice tilted his head to the side. “Why do you offer help? You are not our friend.”
“Ah. So you have noticed. I was afraid I was being too subtle.”
“Yes. It makes Anders sad.”
“He is sad because of…me?” Fenris stared at him, dumbfounded. That hadn’t been part of the letters. He’d have remembered for sure.
The spirit continued, unperturbed, as if he’d merely made a casual remark on the weather. “Yes. He likes your physical appearance. And he thinks you should understand him. These two thoughts frequently go together, and they make him sad. I am not certain as to why.”
Well. The staring wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. “He...likes my physical appearance and thinks I should understand him?”
The spirit gave another, slightly too-stiff nod. “It is hard for me to grasp his meaning. His senses confuse me. He frequently thinks that you reek of pain, that your voice sounds like the wind in the fields, and that your buttocks are as tasty as a fresh piece of pie - and yet I perceive none of those things.” He cocked his head even further to the side. “Did we taste your buttocks? I am not aware of any corresponding memories.”
“No. It is a…figure of speech. Or…wishful thinking. There was no tasting of any parts of any kind. On either side. And…Venhedis, do you want my help, or not?”
“Your claims are true. It is unjust to leave Anders waiting for a reply. Your help would be welcome, Elf.”
“Then let us begin, Spirit.”
“Yes. Spirit.” Justice’s face was still impossible to read but for a moment there, Fenris thought he looked pleased.
Fenris returned almost every night for the following week, always making sure to arrive long after Anders usually went to bed. On his third visit, he’d walked in on him working on his manifesto in a mood that was lousy even by his standards. Having no desire for a repeat of his lecture on “the appropriate time to buy potions and the dangers of gallivanting through Darktown at night”, his lessons with Justice now took place close to sunrise, a time when even a headstrong, self-destructive nuisance like Anders could be counted on to be catching at least a few hours of sleep. The time suited Fenris just fine, he preferred sleeping through the early morning to lying awake for hours in the dark, listening for possible dangers.
The process of teaching Justice turned out to be more difficult than Fenris had expected. He remembered how Hawke had taught him well enough to pass it on, and the fact that Justice already knew how to read should have made it easier. And perhaps it did, but teaching a spirit came with its own set of problems that Fenris, who’d had to spend months learning to sound out and write every single letter in order to learn how to read them, had never even considered. Justice knew words, but he had difficulty grasping the concept that they were made out of single letters arranging themselves into a new whole. He was used to conjuring them up as entities already formed, to bringing them alive as the concepts they represented in the Fade. Therefore, teaching him how to break words down into their components and then put them back together was a painstakingly slow process and more than once, Fenris wished he’d passed the job on to someone more patient.
He couldn’t blame it on any lack of trying on Justice’s part, though. The spirit seemed eager to learn, focussing on his tasks with an intensity that was, at times, unsettling. At least when he wasn’t bombarding Fenris with questions about the ‘mortal world’ and its ‘strange customs”, or the needs and peculiarities of ‘living bodies’. The latter in particular tended to involve prying into matters Fenris would rather have kept private. At first, he had made a point of brushing Justice off – he had agreed to teach him, not to become friends with a dangerous entity that had no business being in this world – but as the days went by, he found his resolve slipping more and more often. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Anders wasn’t the only one missing his friend. And if you thought about it…He’d agreed to help the spirit learn to communicate with Anders to help keep the mage stable. Would giving Justice someone to talk to not have the same effect on him – and thus, also on Anders? If Fenris was quite honest, the questions weren’t that much of a bother. Some of them were even rather amusing. Furthermore, he had to admit he actually enjoyed listening to him. A refreshing change from the rowdy group Fenris usually spent his time with, Justice was surprisingly straightforward, collected, and sensible in his views (well…unless you mentioned mages). Apparently, this possession – or, as Justice insisted, merger – was a case of opposites attract.
Thus, he found himself being more and more at ease in Justice’ company – never completely, no, only a fool would forget that as well-spoken and stimulating as he might be, he was still a spirit. A threat. But he could grant Anders’ point that at the very least, Justice had good intentions, even if they would most likely still disagree on where even the best intentions could lead.
“The page is full. I need another task.”
Fenris took the sheet Justice was holding out to him, suppressing a sigh as he looked at it. Another batch of scrawled, jumbled letters, just as expected. One word, however, stood out, not least because it was the only actual ‘word’ on the page: Anders.
It was spelled correctly and perfectly legible, if not necessarily pretty to look at (which Fenris was in no position to complain about). It wasn’t the first time Fenris had noticed that this seemed to be the only word Justice had no difficulty writing. At first, he’d thought it was because it had been one of the first words they’d used for practice, but to this day, it remained the only one Justice had mastered.
“You should work on the individual letters again. There is no point trying to write words when your letters are still illegible.” He tried not to make his voice sound too harsh, but Justice didn’t seem to mind either way. He merely nodded and grabbed another piece of paper. “What I do not understand – you can write Anders’ name. It looks the way it should, every time. But this—“ Fenris pointed at a twisted blob on the page. “—should say ‘And’. The letters are the same as in ‘Anders’. In fact, they are one half of the word. You should be able to write them, and yet you fail every time. Why is that?”
“Anders has a memory of it.”
“A…memory? I would assume he has those of more than just that particular word. Although he does seem to spend a lot of time thinking of himself…”
“He has many memories of words. But not of writing them.”
“There is a difference?”
“Yes. He concentrated on the movements of his hand. I can see them. He remembers how it felt to write them.” He added, like an afterthought. “There were tears on the page.”
“He remembers writing his name…because it was the first word he learned to write?” Fenris nodded to himself slowly. It made sense. His name had been the first thing Hawke had taught him as well. He just couldn’t quite understand why there would have been tears. Surely, he would have been proud?
“No. He remembers that word too. I do not know what it means. The movements were shaky. Difficult. But his mother smiled when he showed her.”
“Can you write it?” Fenris heard himself ask despite himself.
“Yes.”
He peered over Justice’s shoulder, staring at the odd combination of letters with a frown. He had no idea what they meant or how to pronounce them; it didn’t look like any word he’d ever seen before. Most likely a name in a language that was foreign to him. Anders’ mother’s, perhaps?
A thought occurred to him. “Are there…other words you can write?” Other memories I should not be prying into.
Justice picked up the quill and produced a list. A very short list.
Karl
Please
free
together
Fenris stared at the page for a long time. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“We….should continue our lesson.”
After two more weeks, Justice had become noticeably better, but progress was still slow. Fenris didn’t fully understand why. As far as he could tell, Justice had no difficulty navigating Anders’ body through the mundane tasks he took care of at night (and he’d definitely had no problems controlling it when he’d torn through the Templars attacking them in the sewer tunnels), but when he couldn’t draw directly from Anders’ memories, the minuscule movements of transferring ink to paper proved an enormous challenge.
“No, like this, move your wrist...Venhedis, you're as clumsy as Anders!”
“I am not,” Justice promptly informed him. “I have never let this body fall headfirst into a barrel of ale.”
“And…Anders has?” Fenris asked, trying and failing to hold back sudden bursts of laughter as he pictured the mage covered in frothy, dripping feathers.
“Yes. The other wardens were laughing at him, like you are now.”
“Another vivid memory, I assume?”
“No. I saw him. We were not yet one.”
The words “Tell me all about it” slipped out before Fenris even noticed.
Over the following weeks, Fenris got to enjoy several more stories of Anders’ (and Justice’s) time in the Wardens. The spirits seemed only too happy to divulge them, and Fenris realized, with a lack of unease that should have worried him, that he was beginning to think of his time in the clinic as less of a chore than as time spent with a…friend, sharing stories about…another friend. That was what Anders was when it came down to it, wasn’t it? A snarling, bickering one, but a friend nonetheless. Someone Fenris would gladly raise his blade to protect. And truth be told, there’d been considerably less snarling lately. At times, Anders had been almost…friendly.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Fenris found himself less and less inclined to snap at the mage himself. It was difficult to keep thinking of someone as nothing but a whiny nuisance when you’d heard about them falling on their ass in the middle of a haunted swamp, hiding their stack of naughty stories in a loaded ballista, offering to defend a city overrun by Darkspawn all by themselves, or throwing themselves between their cat and an ogre. Not that Anders had necessarily become less annoying, but somehow, Fenris was less annoyed. Enough so that he let most of the mage’s foolish remarks slide these days. And sometimes when he did, Anders smiled at him. Yes, he really did look better when he smiled. Handsome, even. And come to think of it, he also had nice hair. Fenris had always (secretly) thought it looked pretty, but he’d never noticed just how much it shimmered in the sunlight. Apparently, he’d once had an earring that shimmered too. A gift from one of the few real friends he’d ever had. A gift he’d cherished. Sold to pay for passage to Kirkwall, to find…
Fenris shook his head, softly. No need to dwell on this now. It was a sad story. Most of his stories were sad, struck a chord of loss and pain that Fenris recognized all too well. He couldn’t help wondering why Anders never talked about them. Of his cause, of broad, alleged suffering, he spoke freely, but the harsh truths of his own life he kept locked away, never to be mentioned. Would he be angry if he knew how freely Justice shared them? Was Fenris taking something he had no right to possess?
It was a moot point now. His time with Justice was nearing its end. At this very moment, the spirit was writing his first letter to Anders, all on his own. If he succeeded without guidance or interference, he would no longer need Fenris’ help.
Truth be told, he probably hadn’t needed it for a while now. Fenris wasn’t quite certain the last few lessons had been necessary; Justice seemed to be doing well enough on his own. But it was better to make absolutely sure Anders wouldn’t receive his very first letter and only be able to understand half of it. The mage was so quick to worry….
But it didn’t look as though there would be any cause for worrying. Leaning forward to glance over Justice’s shoulder, Fenris had no problem reading his broad, sloping letters.
…not fooling yourself. It was wrong to make you wait so long for a reply. I did not consider that writing could be taught. But the elf Fenris told me it could. He shows me how to do it, every night, so I can finally answer all your questions. He is our friend now. He smiles. He helps. He explained to me that you feel lonely. I do not think he understands that you are not. We are one. But he understands other things. He is not angry. Perhaps you could ask to taste his buttocks now? I think he would say yes. He asks about you. He likes your stories.
Fenris read the letter (he was not snooping, he was merely checking for errors. Besides, Justice would show it to him anyway.) And then he read it again. And again, resolving to tell Justice to revise certain parts. Inappropriate, embarrassing, indecent, untrue, unjust – there were countless arguments for changing them.
But in the end, he said nothing. As he walked home, there was a strange, fluttery feeling in his stomach. He couldn’t quite place it. Was it anger? Apprehension? Or…hope?
Anders stared at the letter in his hand, wide-eyed. Every night. He’s been helping him. For me. For me?
“Justice…” he said out loud. “I’m not sure if you can hear me but if you can…I think tonight, I would like to…not rest. And…talk to Fenris myself.” He swallowed around the words. This could either go really, really, beautifully well. Or bad. So, so bad.
Well. He swallowed again. Only one way to find out.