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The door just barely still clung to one of its hinges, swaying on the breeze that carried the stench of smoke and sea into even the last tiny, hidden nook of Darktown. Hawke hadn’t bothered with such niceties as knocking or handles in his haste to get his patient inside. For once, Anders couldn’t even blame him. Every passing second might as well be one more second than Fenris had.
It had taken Anders several moments to recognize it was him scooped up in Hawke’s arms, what with there being more visible blood than visible elf. Hopefully, at least some of it belonged to whomever they had been fighting, or Hawke could have spared himself the trouble of running all the way down here. The body could only handle so much, and a body this size… But, he realised with relief (Hawke would never forgive himself if something happened to Fenris), Fenris was still breathing.
And even though Anders had no idea how in the Maker’s name he still had the strength for it, he was also still talking. Apparently, the bastard really lived on bile and spite alone.
As if to prove him right, what Fenris chose to say, now, when he was just barely still clinging to life and already walking the fringes of the Fade, was: “No magic!”
The hand he’d reached up to grab Anders’ collar flopped back down like a dead fish before it made it halfway to its destination, but the contempt in his voice was as strong as if he were in peak condition. But it wasn’t the contempt that made Anders stop dead. He was so used to that by now it couldn’t even coax a raised eyebrow out of him anymore. What he wasn’t used to, however, was panic. Pure and uncovered, shrill in its hoarseness and ringing in his ears.
Maker, if he didn’t know him better he’d almost have said Fenris sounded like he was… pleading.
Whatever emotion it truly was, it was still there in the last murmur Fenris managed before he slipped from consciousness, with his eyes unfocused but somehow still aware Anders was leaning over him.
“Do… do not… use… magic…”
Then what am I supposed to do, pour a potion down your passed-out throat and watch as you choke and bleed to death at the same time?
Even if Fenris had been awake to properly drink it, there was zero to no chance a potion, even several potions, would do the trick. Of course, Anders couldn’t assess the full extent of Fenris’ injuries without using magic, but it didn’t take a healer to tell serious damage had been done; even Hawke’s slobbery beast of a dog could have seen that. The only question that remained was how serious. Did Fenris have minutes, hours, or mere seconds without direct treatment?
Still bent over his patient but thrown off his usual course of action, Anders bit his lip. Perhaps he could stem the bleeding with some elfroot bandages for now, take care of the visible wounds first. The elfroot would also numb the pain so when Fenris woke up again, maybe he’d be less agitated and let him…
If he woke up.
He might very well not.
Inaction… sloth… an obligation to help… selfish… your gift is a responsibility…
Vague, distant thoughts were floating through his mind, all of them as true as they were unhelpful.
Shaking his head – not now! – he grabbed his knife and began to cut open Fenris’ blood-stained tunic.
“Hawke, can you go over there,” he nodded at a nearby shelf, “and fetch me some bandages, elfroot leaves, and elfroot potions?”
“Bandages?” Hawke paused his nervous fretting long enough to raise a quizzical eyebrow. “I know I’m not the expert here but he’s got more gashes than Varric’s roast nug.” He pointed at a particularly nasty cut that ran almost all the way up Fenris’ arm. It did look bad, but it didn’t worry Anders nearly as much as the one on his lower abdomen or the odd deformation on his left side. “Shouldn’t you start by, I don’t know, closing them?”
“That’s what the elfroot’s for. It should stop the worst of the bleeding and stimulate tissue growth. It’s got pretty strong healing properties.”
It did. Not nearly strong enough for this kind of damage, though, that was becoming more and more clear with every inch of skin Anders examined. Definitely not hours, plural. One, if they were lucky.
Hawke had obediently walked over to the shelf Anders’ had indicated, but called over his shoulder, “You know what else has pretty strong healing properties? You. What exactly are you waiting for, just do the glowy thing.”
“You heard him,” Anders said through gritted teeth, “he doesn’t want me to use magic.”
“You can’t be serious!” Hawke’s cry was accompanied by the sound of half of Anders’ provisions being knocked over and falling to the floor.
Yes, please, by all means, wreck my clinic. It’s not like I have other patients beside your favourite pretty elf to worry about.
“Anders, he’s delirious, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Hawke had lowered his voice only marginally and was pacing in front of the shelf with a nervous energy to rival Merrill’s. “You heal him in battle all the time – Maker’s tits, he even asks you to and complains about ‘useless absent-minded healers’ when he thinks you’re not fast enough. You two argued about that just yesterday, for crying out loud, now fucking do something!”
The way this day was going, there was a good chance Anders would have chewed his lip bloody long before it was over. “He was pretty clear about it, Hawke. And you know how he gets when he’s—“
“You want him to die, is that it?” Hawke crowded into his personal space. “Maker be my witness, I know he’s not your favourite, but I never thought you would go that far.” As usual, he preferred words over fists, hurling them with all the force and precision of a gauntlet’s slap across the face.
Anders pointedly avoided his eyes as he snatched the elfroot potion from his hand and began to carefully apply it to the wounds. “No, I don’t, believe it or not. I may not be as enamoured of his narrow-minded ass as you are, but I’d rather he live so I can keep trying to shout some sense into him. Now if you’re done accusing me of casually murdering my patients, help me lift his arm.”
He had no idea what he was even arguing for. Hawke was right; they both knew it. It was a losing battle, and he hadn’t even looked at the damage beneath Fenris’ leggings yet. There was no way around it: it was either use magic or let him die.
The choice was clear. And who would have to face its consequences? Not Hawke, no, of course not, he wouldn’t be the one who ended up getting yelled at for being evil, power-hungry, an abomination, delusional, or whatever else was on the bigot menu of the day. He’d get all the blame and not a word of thanks.
It was all so terribly unjust.
“Why were you two alone, anyway?” he grumbled as he put down the knife and readied himself. At least he wouldn’t need to take off Fenris’ leggings and get accused of ‘peeking’ on top of it all. For this type of healing, the true form, he didn’t need to see the wounds to look for damage. “Where’s everyone else?”
The sheepish look on Hawke’s face shouldn’t have been that satisfying – after all, Hawke was his best friend and only real source of support. But Maker, every time he got like that, Anders had to fight the urge to strangle him with his bare hands.
“Um, yes, they needed some time off and well, Fenris lives nearby and it was just a couple of bandits, a routine job… At least it should have been.”
“Oh, of course, what was I thinking, two mighty warriors with their mighty swords, what could possibly go wrong? Help? Nah, who needs a healer when they storm Carta-infested hideouts, not you, you’re invincible, why would you bother taking the endless path through your cellar to come ask for my help…”
“I did come ask for your help just now, didn’t I?” It was more an apology than a retort; Anders was very much aware, and he very much didn’t care.
“Yes, now, where it might well be too late. If he dies, it’s on you, not me.”
“I know.”
No, no, he refused to be swayed by Hawke’s puppy eyes and quiet voice. “I sure hope you do. Now stand back and pray you got him here fast enough,” he hissed as he placed his hands on Fenris’ chest, closed his eyes and let his magic course through him.
Hawke had given one of the urchins that were always lurking near the entrance of the clinic a silver – “and three more upon your return” – to go fetch Sebastian. Together, the two of them carried a stabilized and, for as far as anything life-threatening was concerned, healed Fenris over to Hawke’s estate. Which was more than fine by Anders, even if it meant having to endure the presence of his holiness blessed by the Chant. Fenris had still been unconscious when they left, and he’d rather not be there when he eventually woke up.
Let him yell at someone else for once.
Naturally, Anders had no such luck. He’d told Hawke to make sure Fenris stayed in bed for at least four days. On the fifth day, he opened his door at the crack of dawn to light the lantern and found Fenris waiting on the dirt that passed for his doorstep, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
“I told you not to use magic.” Straight to the point as always, he brushed past him without giving him so much as a second look.
Anders closed the door behind them with a sigh. “My, good morning to you too! It’s just lovely to see you, please, do come in.”
“Do not try your act on me, Mage. You disrespected my wishes.” Fenris had planted himself at the centre of the room like a tree. A tiny, sanctimonious tree with thorny branches and a look that could melt your skin off, waiting to pounce. Not that trees could pounce, usually…
Perhaps that image had gotten away from him a bit. Point was, Fenris was in his clinic, and he was annoying. And also vaguely threatening. Just a tiny bit terrifying. It wasn’t like Anders couldn’t take him on if he had to but… he’d rather not have to. He’d hate for all that healing to have been in vain.
Mimicking Fenris’ stance, he crossed his arms but kept his distance. “You’d lost so much blood you were barely conscious. Hawke agreed you were delirious.”
“Of course. You did not like my choice, so clearly, I must have been delusional. You really were born in the wrong country.”
Yes, because saving your bloody life and keeping you enslaved are exactly the same thing, you self-righteous pile of dragon dung. “Hawke kept pestering me to use magic, he actually – hey, wait a minute, how do you even know that’s what I did? Did he tell you? Not enough that he accuses me of letting you die on purpose, he then has to run and tell—“
“So you would have lied. Why am I not surprised?”
“Well… no, actually, I would have jumped at the chance to tell you that without my evil, filthy magic, your body would have long started to rot. But even I would have had enough sense to withstand the temptation to rub that fact in your prickly little face until you were fully recovered. You know where you should be right now? In bed. Do you have any idea what a close call that was?“
The bastard actually snorted at that. “As a matter of fact, I do. Hawke did not tell me, nor would he have needed to. Wounds like that do not disappear in a couple of days. Certainly not without leaving scars.” There was a brief, painfully bright flash as he lit his markings. “And I can feel your magic all over me.”
“You… you can feel magic? Even after it’s…” Anders trailed off, too busy wondering what else Fenris might be able to feel. Could he really tell it was his magic? Could he sense what type of magic had been used? And… what exactly did he mean by ‘feel’? “Does it… hurt? When magic is used on you?”
“That is none of your business.” Spoken with all the finality of a whip cracking down.
“Fine. If it’s none of my business, then what exactly do you want here? I tried not to use magic – although I have no idea why I even bothered, you’ve freaking asked me to heal you at least a hundred times. It didn’t work, you can’t cure that kind of damage with prayers and potions. Hawke stood right over there and accused me of wanting you to die – which you would have, by the way, just in case you’re not as all-knowing as you think. Hawke insisted. So why don’t you go pester him?”
“It was your decision. Are you claiming he held you at knifepoint?”
Anders rolled his eyes, which was a far more gentle reaction than Fenris deserved. “You know perfectly well Hawke doesn’t need a blade to get his way.”
“So his wishes are to be placed above mine.”
“Oh for the love of the Maker, that’s not the point, the point is…”
That was the problem with ‘the point’. In the end, as convenient an excuse as it was, Hawke’s pleas had had nothing to do with his decision.
Anders raised himself up to his full height, angled his head as though he wanted to stab Fenris with his chin and looked him straight in the eye. “To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker.”
In all his life, Anders had seen few things more satisfying than the utter confusion that took hold of Fenris’ face. There was no trace of his usual smugness or blasé composure; he looked more lost than Merrill when she tried to find her way on the Lowtown market. Too bad he caught himself quickly. A stammer would have been a lovely addition, but Anders had to settle for an icy glare and a “What?” dripping with wariness.
“What’s with that look of ‘whoops, someone tripped and fell on my sword’?” Anders tried and failed to suppress a grin. Alright, he didn’t really try that hard. “I’d have thought those words would be perfectly clear to you – they were, after all, yours.”
“And you mocked me for them. I have not forgotten.”
Anders shrugged, as nonchalantly as he could manage. “Well, you deserved it. Some things are worse than death. For all your endless whining, I’m surprised you don’t know that. But my point is, you said, explicitly, that you thought dying by your own hand a sin you refused to even consider. And then you go and try to turn me into a weapon with which to do just that?”
“What are you talking—“
“Refusing my healing was the same thing as killing yourself. Exactly the same,” Anders didn’t give Fenris a chance to voice his protests. “And you seriously expect me to just smile and let you use me like that? I don’t think so. You want to die, go right ahead, I’m not going to waste my time trying to stop you, but I’m sure as the freaking Void not going to help you. ‘Death by mage’ would be just the perfect conclusion to the grand cautionary tale about the evils of magic that is your life, wouldn’t it?” He hadn’t even noticed he’d taken a few steps forwards and started to gesticulate wildly. Just what was it about Fenris that Anders never seemed to be able to keep his cool around him? “Sorry to disappoint, but you’ll have to find another fool for that. You are not dying on my watch. I’ll keep you alive even if it kills me.”
For a few long – really, just ridiculously long and awkward – moments, all Fenris did was stare at him. Then, he stormed off, nearly taking the door off its hinges for the second time that week and leaving Anders to huff at an empty room:
“Typical.”
Two hours later, Fenris was back. There was no other way to say it, he was just there, materialising right behind him like he’d taken a trick out of a shade’s book and causing Anders to jump with an undignified yelp.
“Andraste’s pearly ass, what—“
Fenris cut him off in his usual charming way. “It was not my intention.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Anders was too old and too tired for this, really.
“To die.”
Old and tired as Anders was, he still couldn’t stop himself from sneering. “Oh, so—“
Again, Fenris talked right over him. Just how much trouble would Anders be in if he just punched him in the face? He had a feeling it might well be worth it.
“I was delirious. That does not erase my right to choose. But I concede your point. Your decision was correct. I… thank you. For my life.”
You weren’t just delirious, though, that was downright panic. What was really going on? Was it even about me?
It took more than a moment’s deliberation but ultimately, Anders decided not to ask. Perhaps because he had a feeling that deep down, he already knew the answer. Or perhaps because for once in his life, he did not want to make things worse. Maker help him, he had no idea why, or how he’d gotten there from his very recent desire to punch Fenris, but there it was.
“I bet it hurt like shitting a live bronto to say that.” You could never go wrong with a shit-eating grin.
“It is most unpleasant, yes.” Fenris gave him a curt nod, turned and made for the door.
“Waaaaiiiiiit a minute, you’re not getting away that easy.”
Fenris’ eyebrows rose in obvious suspicion –well, rightly so – but he did turn around. “Knowing you, I suppose I should not be surprised.”
“Oh, not a chance, I won’t let you bait me, not this time. Just so we’re clear on this: you knew you were out of it and I was right to ignore you, especially since you usually let me heal you without complaint – well, some complaints, we’re still talking about you – yet you came here to yell at me anyway. To… pick a fight? For no reason? Just for the fun of it? Or did you miss the dulcet tones of my voice so much you just had to see me? Please, I am dying to know, what was the point of this lovely visit?”
“I… do not know. Right or not, you ignored my decision.”
“A decision you didn’t actually make since your mind was clearly someplace else and whose consequences you did not wish for in the slightest?”
“That is correct,” Fenris said. Or more like, sighed.
Anders shook his head. He couldn’t have said whether it was with fondness or exasperation. “Maker, you’re such an extraordinary nuisance, I might even end up missing you when your recklessness eventually does get you killed.”
“An ‘extraordinary nuisance’?” There was a slight quiver at the corners of Fenris’ mouth. “Hm. So we are more alike than I thought.”
He was out the door almost as quickly as he’d appeared.