Chapter Text
When it rained in Kirkwall—true rain, instead of the half-frozen slush blown off Sundermount which covered the streets in dirty puddles of waste—the denizens of Darktown slithered from their holes, hoping to catch a single mouthful of water that did not taste of sewage and refuse. They walked the streets of Lowtown, mouths open to catch the smallest drop. As in all other things, they were scorned for this minor indulgence. Many were chased off by merchants or freeholders, scaring them back to their boltholes in the darkness belowground. But for those willing to endure the ridicule and physical abuse of their betters, it was a rare chance to drink something fresh and pure.
Coby was no different. Kirkwall in the rain smelled of dirty rock; a thick, cloying hit to the senses suffusing the air until it sat on the tongue when breathed in. He enjoyed the glimmer of something almost-natural instead of the other, less wholesome scents plaguing the Darktown air. It brought back mostly-lost memories of a childhood spent under open skies in the Hinterlands of Ferelden. At least, he thought they were his memories. He might’ve stolen them. He had no parents to tell him otherwise.
He was small for thirteen. Most of the other boys had outgrown him by a head already. It made it easier for him to fit into tiny spaces—a gift in the City of Chains. But the rain drew him out. Made him forget the importance of caution. You saw Kirkwall’s true colours when the rain washed away the veneer; the streets and walls shone almost black in the damp. Thick droplets hit his face, quickly soaking his thin shift. It was worth it. Later, somewhere safe, he would squeeze out the water into whatever container he could find and sell it to whoever could pay. Fresh water a precious commodity in Darktown; he might get a whole silver for it.
He was soaked to the bone when the rain suddenly ceased. He opened his eyes, heart hammering in his chest. A woman loomed over him, larger than life. Her robes were sleek and dark, and only served to draw the eye to the impressive staff carried across her back.
Her eyes were hard. Coby didn’t like her eyes.
“I’m looking for someone, boy. A Ferelden. A mage.”
Coby took a step backward. His retreat was cut off by his back hitting the greeves of a man behind him. The man grabbed a handful of Coby’s shirt and hauled him up, straightening his back painfully.
The woman continued, her voice cold and detached. “A...healer, if you’d have it.”
She meant Anders. Coby’s eyes flickered to the right as he tried to think of something to say. Anders was a strange man, but kind. He didn’t want to lay any trouble at his door.
“I don’t—”
The woman’s chin tilted and the man shook Coby until his teeth rattled painfully in his head.
“Tell me.”
Coby shook his head. With a sigh, the woman drew a knife from her side. The blade was thin, but sharp enough Coby could practically hear it slice through the air as she brought it to rest against his cheek. He breathed in sharply, the slightest movement of his face brushing against the blade opening a line which immediately ran with hot blood down his face.
“I have time to indulge you as you try to remember, child. But I don’t think you’ll quite enjoy the way I pass my free moments.”
He closed his eyes. “He owns a clinic in Darktown. There’s a lantern outside the door.”
She smiled and withdrew the blade. The man released him and he dropped to the ground, clapping his palm against his cheek.
“Thank you.” She dropped a copper bit on the ground in front of him.
He watched her boots retreat, his eyes only occasionally flickering down to the coin on the ground in front of him. When she finally disappeared onto the main street, he grabbed the coin and pushed himself to his feet. The coin burned in his hand. He’d betrayed their healer for it.
Coby turned and headed in the opposite direction. If a copper was the price for betrayal, perhaps Messere Tethras would pay more for deliverance.
*
Pages. Pages full of words he didn’t remember writing. ‘His’ manifesto. Justice’s ultimatum.
Anders stared at the words, trying to parse the ones he might’ve written from the ones where his hand had been guided by the spirit. They blended together until he couldn’t tell the difference. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. Not this... semblance of individuality. He’d tried to help Justice. But things... things... were not what they were supposed to be.
Anders cast down the page and cradled his head in his hands. He’d snuffed the lantern outside, hoping for a moment of peace, only to find himself alone with warring thoughts.
Such wars distracted from his cause.
Was the thought even his own?
A knock on the clinic door drew his attention and he rose. He should stay, to continue work on the Manifesto. Whatever poor fool had gotten themselves hurt knew the rules of the clinic, and he should abide by them. But few would bother him when the lantern wasn’t lit. It could be Hawke, in need of assistance. Another distraction he could ill afford. Since Hawke had waltzed into his life, he’d been nothing but a nuisance trying to pull Anders away from work that mattered.
“He’s my friend,” Anders whispered.
He didn’t need friends. He needed to focus on the plight of the mages and furthering their cause.
Anders pushed the thought away and moved to the door.
It exploded inwards, a fist made of stone flying past his ear and leaving a trail of rubble and crumbling rock in his wake as it exploded against the far wall. Anders threw up his hand, even as Justice crept into the forefront of his mind. The Fade spirit’s blue glow illuminated the thickened air, half-blinding Anders in the process.
“How dare you attack our sanctuary!”
“And now we know what happened to Justice.”
The voice sent a chill down his back. He stepped away, despite every alien instinct screaming for him to stand his ground. The overwhelming power of Justice’s manipulation of his mana faded into the background, easing the blue light away. The dust and debris began to clear, first revealing the Grey Warden crest embroidered onto dark robes. When, finally, the Warden Commander’s sharp features faded in, he fought down the dread and despair of seeing her once more.
He cleared his throat, hating how his voice cracked and betrayed his fear through his attempt at flippancy. “Did you come all the way to Kirkwall for little old me? I thought you had people to run these sorts of errands for you.”
“And leave others to bring me back my favourite mage? Don’t be silly, Anders. This is a chore I relish doing for myself.”
She waved to the two men behind her. New recruits. Warriors, from the looks of them. The Commander had outgrown her habit of piecemeal armour—both of them were bedecked in the same uniform plate bearing the Wardens’ crest.
Anders whipped out his staff. “I’m not going back.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.” She smiled, though her eyes held only cool disdain. “You swore an oath to the Grey Wardens. I’m going to make sure you honour it. Unless...yoy can’t possibly believe you can best me? We both know force magic isn’t your speciality.”
Justice rose up to the forefront once more. “You’d be surprised what a desperate man can do when motivated.”
“No I wouldn’t. Though I’m a little appalled at what you’ve done to him, Anders. I knew you were selfish, but I didn’t think—”
Ander scoffed. “Selfish? Me? That’s rich coming from the woman who burned down Amaranthine.”
“I didn’t hear you do more than whine about it. If you had an alternative...”
He barely noticed the trap in time to avert it. As she spoke—her eyes hypnotic as the gaze of a serpent—her two men flanked him, approaching from either side. He dodged to the side, barely managing to throw a wall of ice between him and his attackers. He stumbled over one of the low-rising cots, hitting the ground a few feet away. He jumped to his feet, holding his staff out in front of him, prepared to counter any coming spell.
“Learned some new tricks, I see. They won’t help.”
If the Warden Commander felt anything, it didn’t show. She was a study in grim practicality. Every action a carefully calculated move to further her ends, whether conscripting a mage on the run from the Templars or forcing her second in command to whore himself out to an apostate who’d offered an unthinkable solution to a deadly problem.
She was right, though: his small offering of force spells wouldn’t aid him. Mana coiled up within him, waiting to be unleashed once more. Before he could even lift his hand, the Warden Commander raised hers. A grasping invisible force curled towards him, tugging at his arms and legs and trying to constrict him. He thrashed in the grasp, barely managing to bring his staff down on the ground and sending a bolt of energy her way, hoping to distract her enough to break the spell.
It almost worked. Her concentration sundered, she dropped her hand. But in the attempt, he’d forgotten about her help once again.
Rough hands grabbed his arms at the elbow, yanking them painfully backwards as the second man landed a solid blow to his jaw. They ripped the staff from his hands, throwing it across the clinic. Justice rose up yet again, preparing to unleash a painful flood of magic their way.
Before he could, a blade poked the sensitive skin beneath his chin. He froze. Through Justice’s distorted vision, he saw the Warden Commander as Justice had always seen her: a flawed human woman, so far above the corrupting influence of demons that her dark practicality was corruption itself.
“This won’t do, Anders. I can’t have Justice causing problems when we drag you back to Vigil’s Keep.”
With ease, the two men hoisted him into the air and manhandled him across the room to his desk, dropping him onto the surface and holding him down. The Commander stood at his side, looking at him with disdain.
“I’m sorry, Justice. But I cannot suffer demons to remain on this plain.”
“How dare you! You think we are demon when we have fought honourably by your side.”
“You were useful when you inhabited a host who could not corrupt you. I’m afraid Anders has done you no favours.” She pulled a dagger from her side. “Do you recognize this blade, Anders? I found it among some of the Warden toys at Weisshaupt, along with some interesting Tevinter scrolls.” She placed the flat of the blade against his chest. “It seems the magisters had their own ways of dealing with uppity abominations.”
“Solona...please...”
Instead of a response, the Commander began chanting in Arcanum. At first, there was nothing save the sweeping chill of fear biting into his bones. But slowly the words began to roll over him, wrapping him up in magic older than anything he’d ever studied in the Tower Circle. The suffocating feeling bit into his skin, sharpening into the sensation of overly stiff parchment slicing across his skin in a thousand small cuts. He wanted to scream, straining against the magic and the hands holding him, but the smallest twitch of his body drove yet more painful cuts into him. The blade began to heat, burning through his clothes until it pressed up against his bare chest.
Something inside him was ripping itself free; as though a layer of his skin was slowly peeling back, tearing away in painful inches and exposing the muscle underneath. The feeling of the knife burning against him faded away and, slowly, her chanting died down to a whisper.
“Come on out now, Justice. Meo imperio.”
Anders’ entire body heaved upwards, the frail final strings keeping Justice bound into him splintering into nothing. Justice tore free, sliding through the blade as if it did not exist. The spirit floated disembodied above him, returned to its natural, amorphous form. For a moment, it looked as though Justice would leap at the Commander, but instead he froze.
From where the knife had touched it, Justice began...unravelling. Anders watched, tears streaming silently from his eyes, as the boundary between the Fade and the physical world shifted, pulling Justice back to his home realm. He tried to reach up, but the lingering pain had turned his limbs to dead weight and the hands holding him would not give.
When Justice was gone, he closed his eyes and turned his head. The Commander’s men finally released him, leaving him to curl up on the flat surface of his desk, knocking a few scattered papers to the floor.
“Grab anything that looks like Grey Warden property. Our boat leaves shortly.”
Anders forced his eyes open. He could already feel Justice’s influence fading from his mind, erasing things he’d cherished more than his life not an hour ago.
He had to hold onto some of it.
“No.” Blackness threatened to overcome him as he struggled to sit up, though he felt drained and more empty than ever before. “Please, Commander. I’m doing important things here.”
“You have a duty to the Grey Wardens. Whatever side projects you’ve acquired in the meantime mean nothing.”
“They mean something to me.” His temples pounded, half-obscuring his thoughts and making his voice stick in his throat. He pushed himself off the table, stumbling and hitting the floor on his hands and knees. He reached out to grab his desk, steadying himself as he fought to his feet. “I won’t leave with you.”
She stared at him, taking his measure. The same cool look of appraisal she’d leveled at him when invoking the Rite of Conscription.
“Then you leave me little choice. I must do as Duncan did before me.”
The dagger rose once more. She stepped close to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and pulling him close. He teetered on his feet, kept in place by the strength in her deceptively thin arms. The whisper of the dagger’s tip rested against his side.
“There is no turning from the Grey, Anders.”
Her arm tensed to drive the blade into his side. But a cough from the door interrupted her only seconds away from driving it home.
“You wouldn’t be the first woman I’ve caught with a knife at Anders’ side—well, actually, you are, but I think it’s more because he’s far more discrete than Isabela rather than any predilections he’s been hiding—but does whatever he’s done really merit murder?”
Hawke?
The Commander’s arm pulled away and Anders collapsed, his head cracking against the side of his desk. He finally gave in and allowed the darkness to take him.
Damn fool mage. What trouble had he gotten into now?
Fenris stood tensed behind Hawke, sword already in hand as he waited for the order to strike. His eyes darted to Anders, prone on the floor. There appeared to be no outward damage, save for the newly-acquired blow to the skull. His stillness was...worrisome.
“This is not your concern.” The woman—the Grey Warden?—said. Two men, still and silent behind her, moved to her side. They were well-coordinated. Well-trained. Unfortunately for them, Hawke and his companions had been using the Bone Pit as a practice field for years.
“Well, except for how it is. You see, Anders is terribly useful. I mean, truly handy to have around. It’s hard to find decent healers, and I’ve gone to all the trouble to have him house trained and everything. I’m afraid I can’t let you kill him.”
“Breaking in another mage would be far too much like work,” Isabela agreed. Her eyes narrowed, studying the woman. A flicker of familiarity passed through her gaze, gone in the next instant when the two men shifted and they all tensed for a fight.
The woman tucked the knife away, freeing her hands. “Do you know who I am?”
“Well, you’re too well-dressed to be Coterie, too mage-ish to be Templars and too...washed to belong anywhere else in Darktown. Tax collectors?”
“Anders has found someone able to match his skill at annoying me. Splendid.” Flickering green light surrounded her right hand. “I am Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. This man belongs to us, and we’ve come to either bring him back or execute him for sedition. Your interference won’t stop us.”
Hawke looked at Isabela sidelong, half-pouting. “You know, Grey Wardens were my next guess. She’s gone and ruined all my fun.”
Isabela flipped a dagger around in her hand. “All of it?”
Hawke smiled and tightened his grip on his blade. “Well, not all.”
“You arrogant whelp. I slew an Archdemon and lived. Do you think you can best me?”
“I’m pretty sure, yeah. I mean, I haven’t slain any Archdemons, but I’ve dealt with Isabela the morning after she’s gone on a bender. You can’t be that much worse.” Hawke shifted his right foot, preparing to strike. “You lot have already claimed my sister. I’m not going to allow you to take my Anders, too.”
“If your sister is truly a Warden, she will appreciate the necessity of bringing him back.”
“I somehow doubt it. Bethany has this thing about personal freedom.”
For the first time, the Warden Commander blinked. The flickering green light died away from her hand. “Bethany...Hawke?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re Leandra’s boy.”
Slowly, Hawke eased out of his fighting stance, drawing himself up to his full height. Fenris kept his sword at the ready, prepared for any sign of attack. But the tension bled from the room, replaced by new and ill-tested neutrality. Anders still showed no signs of movement. What had they done to him?
“I am Solona Amell. Your...cousin, I suppose. I’ve been following your exploits since Stroud mentioned running into you in the Deep Roads. Not that there’s been much to follow in the past three years. Thankfully, Bethany has proved somewhat more entertaining.”
The words hit where she meant them to, and the tension flooded back into Hawke. Before he could once again reach for his sword, she waved him off.
“Calm, cousin. If Anders is truly useful to you, I suppose we could make an exception. For family. Especially since I doubt you’ll be able to avoid the call of the Deep Roads. They have a seductive power which draws in men such as you.” Her eyebrow quirked upwards. “But be warned. This little rat has already forsworn one sacred pact. Do not suppose he will hold truer any vows he makes you.”
She gestured to her men and started for the door. Hands still close to their weapons, Hawke and his party moved aside, allowing them to pass.
Hawke cast a guilty look towards Anders, his attention still tracing the Warden Commander’s path as she left the clinic, no doubt anxious to question her about Bethany.
Fenris frowned. “Go. I’ll see to the mage.”
“Oh, like that won’t end badly,” Varric muttered.
Fenris’ lip curled in annoyance. “I can be trusted to tend to one of Hawke’s friends, dwarf.”
“Thanks, Fenris,” Hawke said absent-mindedly, already making his way out of the clinic. Isabela followed close on his heels.
Varric lingered, looking torn. “Try not to be too rough with him. Seems as though he’s had his fair share for today.”
“I don’t think mages understand what a ‘fair share’ is.”
Varric sniffed and turned to go after Hawke. “Good thing you do.”
Fenris stood amongst the ruined debris of the door for a moment, torn between attempting to fix it and secure their position and seeing to the mage. Finally, Varric’s warning struck home and he crossed the room to Anders. Carefully—mindful of his head injury—Fenris maneuvered him into a sitting position and tucked his hands under his armpits to haul him up.
Anders’ head lolled backwards. “Fenris?”
“Yes.” He tucked himself under Anders’ arm and hauled him towards the back of the clinic, where he kept a small room away from the main area.
“’M glad you’re here,” Anders whispered as Fenris stretched him out on his pathetic cot. “’S lonely in my head. I never realized...” He fell unconscious again before Fenris finished putting him down.
There had to be more than a head injury. Anders had healed himself with his skull half-bashed in. It made no sense he do it now. And he seemed...smaller. Frail in a way Fenris had never associate with the abomination. It was troubling, though he was loathed to admit it. Regardless of his own feelings, Hawke was correct: as far as healers went, they weren’t likely to find one much better.
Fenris left Anders on the cot to attend to the door. He used what remained of one of the broken cots to brace what remained to keep the outside world at bay. If the Templars decided tonight was a good time for a raid, they’d be in trouble, but it would keep the majority of the riff-raff out. And Fenris would stay. Just to make sure.
Halfway through the night, Anders’ eyes opened, glassy and unseeing. Fever dreams. Fenris placed a hand on his forehead, surprised to find it cool to the touch.
Anders’ hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around Fenris’ wrist in a surprisingly strong grasp.
Fenris frowned. “Release me, mage.”
“Empty. It’s all...empty. Gone. It’s gone, Fenris.”
“What is?”
Anders looked lost for a moment, almost childlike in his confusion. “...everything.”
He fell unconscious once again.
In the morning, when Varric arrived to check on Anders, Fenris left the man in the dwarf’s care, his wrist still tingling with the ghostly sensation of Anders’ hand upon it.
He might’ve found a reason to drop by the clinic. He could have easily acquired a convincing wound and sought out the mage’s aid; the Wounded Coast offered a plethora of opportunities to fight with and be maimed by the miscreants who inhabited it. But going out even with the pretense of looking for a fight would be akin to admitting he was...interested in the mage’s welfare. And it would not do.
He waited for Hawke to collect him for some fetch quest before he finally returned to Darktown.
“His clinic was closed for over a week. He may not be up for much...” Isabela waved her fingers in front of her.
“It’s open now, isn’t it?” Hawke asked.
“With a queue formed out front, no doubt.”
Fenris remained silent and taciturn at the back of the party, neither looking for nor wanting acknowledgement. When the clinic came into sight, true to Isabela’s words, a small line up waited out the door. Mostly Bone Pit workers from the look of them; Hawke would no doubt be called back to deal this month’s resident monstrosity.
Before they reached the door one of the miners, still injured from the look of him, stumbled out.
“He won’t see anyone else today. Everyone go.”
Gratitude in Kirkwall lasted only until a kindness could not be paid. Grumbling in dissent, the rest of the group dissipated, leaving only one or two hopefuls bobbing like anxious pigeons outside the door. Hawke darted past them, walking in brazenly despite the dirty looks pinned to his back.
Over his friend’s broad shoulder, Fenris caught a glimpse of the mage, half-bent over his desk. Sweat beaded across the waxen skin of his forehead and laborious breaths drew themselves almost reluctantly into his lungs.
Hawke paused inside the door. “Anders?”
Anders tried and failed to straighten, his knuckles a hard white from the clench of his fists. “Hawke. I didn’t hear you out there.”
“Just arrived. Otherwise I would’ve made more of an entrance.”
“Of course. I’d expect nothing less.” He took a long breath—one Fenris could practically hear rattling about in his lungs—and finally righted himself. “What did you need?”
“Something is going on near the Wounded Coast. Slavers. Or profiteers. Or pirates. Or something. I lose track. Was wondering if you’d be kind enough to join us and stop the imminent severe blood loss.”
“I don’t think I would be of much use to you.”
“Nonsense. Your witty repartee if nothing else would help lighten the mood. Maker knows these two don’t appreciate my humour.” He waved over his shoulder.
Isabela rolled her eyes. “Come for my sake, sweet thing. I need someone to talk to who will give me a straight answer instead of sarcasm or brooding silence.”
They both looked back at Fenris. He crossed his arms and stared at the nearby wall. He certainly wasn’t going to further their cause. Not when Anders looked as though he was seconds away from hitting the ground and staying here.
Ander’s lips twitched, but he shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Hawke.”
Hawke frowned. “If you’re sure?”
“I’m sorry,” Anders repeated. “Please douse the lantern on your way out.”
Hawke and Isabela exchanged a quick look. The former shrugged and headed back out the door. Fenris lingered for only a moment; long enough to see Anders drop heavily into a nearby chair.
Strange how he kept expecting his own mind to argue.
His hands shook as he poured boiling water over a handful of pathetic tea leaves he’d already used a hundred times. He’d awoken feeling nearly normal for the first time since the Warden Commander’s visit. Since he and Justice made their pact, as though whatever made him Anders was slowly ebbing back. But opening the clinic had been a poor choice. The drain had been intense, and he’d helped less than a handful of patients.
A violent tremor sent some of the water spilling over the side of the tea pot and Anders cursed. He put the kettle down on his desk and cradled his hands close to his torso. The shakes started when he’d regained consciousness the morning after the Commander had left. They’d already lessened in intensity; hopefully it wouldn’t be long before they were gone all together and he’d be able to return to normal.
“ But be warned. This little rat has already forsworn one sacred pact. Do not suppose he will hold truer any vows he makes to you.”
He clenched his hands into fists, trying to control them. He’d used to be quite good with his hands. No complaints, at any rate. He sniffed with bittersweet amusement.
He jerked back in his seat when a sharp knock on the clinic door interrupted his—brooding—thoughts. Illogical fear jumped to the forefront of his mind; the last time an unexpected visitor had shown up at his door after hours, things hadn’t ended well. He grabbed his staff and crossed the clinic, each step drowned out by his heartbeat hammering panicked in his ears. Though he managed to reach the door without it exploding inwards, his breath stayed trapped in his throat, a choking concern he couldn’t quite escape.
Anders coughed to clear it. “Who is it?”
He probably imagined the impatient sigh. “It’s Fenris, mage. Open the door.”
Despite himself, he smiled. It was good to know there were things upon which he could rely.
He unbolted the door and opened it enough to allow the slim elf to slip inside. Whatever ‘errand’ Hawke had run earlier left him worse for wear. A poorly-tied blood-soaked bandage covered his arm from his shoulder to below his elbow. Fortunately—or unfortunately for whomever had caused the wound—it wasn’t his dominant arm.
“I take it things didn’t go well.”
Fenris frowned. “The slavers weren’t appreciative of our involvement.”
Fenris never fidgeted. Never moved without purpose. Every time he shifted, it was with intent. A habit developed during his years of slavery. But there was a subtle language his body conveyed. From the tension in his shoulders and hard lines marring the corners of his eyes, Anders could tell he didn’t want to be here. Would be anywhere else, if he could. The injury was likely worse than he even admitted to himself, if he’d succumbed to the need to see a healer.
Justice hated Fenris; his hypocrisy and the way his sharp comments and carefully-placed barbs could distract Anders so terribly. But Anders had never hated him. Not truly. There too much in common between them; hating Fenris would’ve been dangerously close to hating himself.
“I’m making tea,” Anders said. The proverbial olive branch.
Fenris’ right eyebrow twitched, the sole betrayer of mild surprise. “Tea.”
“Well, strong water. I know it’s not your normal vintage, but there’s enough for two. I’ll see to your arm while it’s steeping.”
Reluctant—wary—Fenris inclined his head. Anders bolted the door and gestured for him to follow to the back of the clinic. He finished pouring the water into the teapot, his hands only shaking a little, and he set it aside to let it steep as he directed Fenris to his cot to investigate the wound. Fenris made no sound, no twitch, as Anders gently unwrapped the cloth from his arm. The gash was nasty; made with a blunt blade which had relied more on the strength in the attacker’s arm than any real skill. Small flecks of rust and dirt were ground into the wound as well.
“It’s good you came to see me. Such injuries become infected far too easily. I should clean it before I use magic on it.”
“However you see fit to heal me, mage. Don’t feel the need to natter at me the entire time.”
Anders chuckled and retrieved the kettle. He kept a bowl and several clean clothes on hand, and left them to soak in the remnants of the hot water for a few minutes. If he kept busy, and out of his head, some modicum of steadiness returned to his hands. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it wasn’t distracting. And hopefully he’d gotten enough rest there would be no concerns when he went to call up the magic required to knit the flesh back together.
Once the cloths had soaked, he wrung one out and set to cleaning the grime from Fenris’ arm.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to tend to this immediately. I haven’t been at my best lately.”
“With that thing gone, you couldn’t possibly be worse.”
“Careful, Fenris. You came dangerously close to paying me a compliment.”
Fenris sniffed. “Not my intention.”
Anders smiled, a gentle curl of his lips. “I know.”
He cleaned the wound as quickly and carefully as possible, taking care not to tug on the ragged edges. Once it was cleansed to his satisfaction, he held his palms out towards it, drawing upon his last reserves of mana and letting it flow through him in a wash of bright-tasting magic. He focused on the size and shape of the wound. Adjusting and tying it, drawing flesh, muscle and skin back together. When he’d tended the miners earlier, it had been with detachment and the weariness accompanying occupation without personal investment. It was easier to heal Fenris, knowing that doing so might save the elf’s life. Or the life of their companions. Fenris might not care for him, but three years of acquaintance came close to almost being a friendship.
He didn’t realize the strain the magic was taking until Fenris’ hands closed around his arms and tugged him away. He blinked, suddenly aware of the black spots dancing in his vision and the throbbing at his temples. Cold suffused his limbs, as though he’d stayed out too long on a winter night.
“I didn’t come here to put myself in your debt, mage. Stop Before you fall over.”
Anders’ hands were shaking again. Blast it. At least the wound was mostly closed. Only a thin line of half-healed scabbing remained.
“I...I’ll get the tea.”
Rising to his feet proved to be a poor idea. A wave of dizziness hit him as a club to the head, and he swayed in place. Only Fenris kept him from toppling over. With more care than Anders would have imagined, he set Anders down on the cot and moved to pour the tea into one of his chipped cups.
“This is what happened to you this afternoon?” Fenris asked, shoving the mug into Anders’ hands.
Some of the tea splashed over the edge. He barely felt it hit his fingers. “Yes. I suppose I grew too accustomed to working magic with Justice’s aid.” Anders finally managed a small mouthful of tea, the bitterness of the leaves rolling over his tongue and returning some warmth to his chest. “It may be a while until I’m back to full strength.”
“Then you should have taken more time before opening the clinic. If you died, Hawke would be displeased.”
“And we’d all hate that. He does tend to go on when things don’t go his way.” He took another sip. “You know, back when I was in the Ferelden Circle, there was another mage who had made a similar pact with a spirit. She was a healer, too, and taught me almost all I know. Magically, anyway. She kept the secret close, but those of us who knew what to look for saw it clear as day. She never experienced what I did when I bound myself to Justice. Her spirit never suffered for its association with her. It was steadfast, and made her stronger without succumbing to the corrupting influences of the world around it. If I’d been as strong, perhaps Justice would not have changed. She’s the reason I thought it would be a good idea.”
Fenris refilled his cup, careful to leave sufficient room to avoid the hot liquid spilling out again. “You should feel fortunate your tie to it was severed. I saw many succumb to the temptation and ease of joining themselves to a demon in Tevinter, and the price they paid was always far too high.”
Anders frowned. “It was a high price. But now I wonder if I haven’t paid more now the Commander has torn us apart.” He drew one of his hands away from the cup to watch the lingering twitching in his fingers. “I was joined with Justice for almost four years. Long enough I feel as if I’ve forgotten who I am. And now I’m free of the Grey Wardens, too. I barely remember what it means to be ‘Anders’ any longer.”
Fenris was silent for a moment. The quiet sat heavy between them, as if another companion had entered the room to stay, unwelcome and awkward in its interruption. When he finally broke, his voice was reluctant, as if he was choosing to speak against his better judgement.
“I do not remember the time before this was done to me.” He raised an arm, running his eyes along the engraved lyrium tattoos marking his flesh. “Though sometimes small bits return in nightmares and waking dreams. I find the more I try to remember, the worse the nightmares. I’ve...contented myself with making the most of my time and trying to focus on who I have become, rather than what Danarius tried to make me.”
“Are you though? Content, I mean. Living in a dilapidated mansion and obsessing over revenge?”
Fenris’ back stiffened. “I do not expect you to understand, mage.”
“But I do. You’re afraid to look outside of the life you’ve created for yourself because you’ve seen what can happen when you try. It’s why most mages sit complicity in their Circles, unwilling to seek out a chance for freedom, even when it’s offered.”
“I am not interested in your proselytizing. And I am not afraid. Not of Danarius. Not of anything.” Fenris turned to leave, his hand flying to a dagger strapped to his side when Anders reached out and caught his arm.
“I’m sorry. My mouth has a terrible habit of running away with itself when I’m not paying attention.” Fenris paused in place. “You’re one of the braver men I know, Fenris. I know firsthand how much courage it takes to run knowing you’ll be chased and eventually dragged back. Forgive me.”
Fenris’ lip curled slightly. “We’re nothing alike.”
“Aren’t we?”
Before he could say anything more, Fenris pulled his arm free and stormed out of the clinic. The door banged closed behind him, and Anders winced at the sound. He stood slowly—relieved when the dizziness did not return—and placed his empty cup back on his desk.
Why was trying to make Fenris understand suddenly important? The elf obviously hated him and Anders could hardly blame him; they’d been antagonizing each other as long as they’d been acquainted. But he had to sort out what his feelings were when separated from Justice. Had to make his own opinions and form his own thoughts now they were his thoughts to form. And despite what Fenris said, they were alike. And perhaps that was why it was important for Fenris to understand. To appreciate that they could be more than enemies.
Because outside of Fenris, he wasn’t sure anyone could understand.
This wasn’t his best day. The drain of his magic weighing him down—he didn’t have much left. Isabela was down for the count—and wouldn’t the gaping hole in her side be an utter joy to heal?—and Fenris had charged off after one of the nastier bastards who’d snuck up on their left flank. If they pressed the attack, he’d be completely useless save for the meager attacks his staff allowed.
Speaking of which.
Anders spun around, whipping another bolt from his staff towards one of the bandits sneaking up on their position, nailing his torso with neat precision.
Another three charged in from behind and Anders barely managed to throw up his wall of ice. Two of them were knocked backwards, half-frozen and unconscious. He staggered, his last reserve of mana drained completely away. The third man out of the way, leaving his comrades to freeze. Anders barely had enough energy left to keep standing, let alone do anything useful. A basic light spell probably wouldn’t work.
Before he could straighten, the last of the attackers charged Anders, knife in hand. Anders tried to parry with his staff, but the man darted in too close too quickly. The knife came down, aiming for Anders’ neck. He threw up his arm, catching the blade with his bicep. It cut in deep, the hot white pain of biting metal slicing into him. Blood immediately welled in the wound, sliding down his arm towards his face. The bandit grinned knowingly, pressing all his weight forward until Anders could feel the tip of the blade scraping the bone.
It would be easy to use his blood and summon something up. To call to his darker urges and the masters of their domain. He could crush all these insignificant little toads and show them why mages were to be feared.
A hot splash of blood hit his face.
There were no invocations needed. No rituals. No petty words. Merely his blood and his will. Demons swarmed to the very edge of his connection to the fade. Hungry. Waiting. It would be child’s play to bring them forth. To let them overtake his body through the open wound and hand over complete control. They could save him and his friends.
The bandit backed Anders into a sharp outcropping of rock and pulled another blade from his side.
Hadn’t he done it already? Wasn’t he used to the sacrifice demons demanded? Couldn’t he relinquish the weight of responsibility constantly weighing him down? What would it matter? Who would fault him for making the one decision that could save his life?
Anders gasped. “No.”
He snapped his hand up and drew upon the last of his strength to cast a light spell directly in front of the bandit’s eyes. The man screamed and stumbled backwards, leaving his knife embedded in Anders’ arm as he clawed at his eyes.
Before he could recover, Fenris’ heavy two-handed sword struck down and severed the man’s spine. He dropped, leaving the blood-spattered elf standing over him. Hawke downed the last of the bandits nearby, finally offering them some respite, however temporary. Bandits bred like rats in the honeycomb network of caves along the coast.
Anders’ drew in gulping gasps of breath, trying to force air into his lungs. Fenris regarded him with sharp eyes, cataloguing the wound in his arm and the assortment of small injuries with which the battle had left him. With more willpower than he would have credited himself with a year ago, he yanked the knife from the wound. Blood flowed freely down his arm, and Fenris’ lip curled.
“Tend that.”
Anders barely managed a nod, Fenris took off to check on Hawke and find a way to fortify their position. As Anders bound up the wound with one of the bandages he’d taken to keeping on hand since Justice had gone, his connection to the Fade dimmed away from him mind. He closed his eyes and tightened the bandage as best he could one-handed.
“Not every mage is a step away from blood magic,” he whispered to himself, forehead smoothing out of a deep frown. He’d resisted. Keep resisting.
“So it would seem.”
He gasped as Fenris reappeared and grabbed the edges of the bandage, tying it in a tight, efficient knot. Without another word, he returned to where Hawke was trying to revive Isabela.
He stiffened, narrowing his eyes when he heard the crash of breaking pottery downstairs. Drawing himself up and out of the bed, he readied his sword and headed to the landing outside his door. He waited, listening for more sounds from below. He eased himself down the stairs. The mansion was mostly cleared of the shades and monsters Danarius had kept to guard it, but a few occasionally popped up when he accidentally tripped one of the many nearly-invisible glyphs his former master had hidden about the place.
Another crash near the kitchen.
He passed through the house silently, his stocking feet less than a whisper on the frayed carpet. When he reached the pantry he paused outside and readied his blade. With a quiet exhale of breath, he turned and kicked the door in.
Empty.
Fenris frowned and narrowed his eyes as he scanned the room. A large clay pot lay shattered on the floor, the mouldy flour still hanging in a dusty cloud. He drew slowly forward, muscles tensed to strike. The flour settled, coating most of the room in white. The air barely cleared when another jar rattled beside him. He adjusted his balance and swung his sword around, bracing himself for an attack.
A weak mew was his opponent’s only response.
Fenris lowered his sword and used the tip to push the jar aside. A small, sodden kitten—fur matted with flour and dirt—cowered near the wall, shivering. Fenris stared at it for a second and sighed in annoyance. Sheathing his blade, he turned to leave.
The pathetic creature cried again.
It was young. Too young, perhaps, to be away from its mother. The thought drew a grimace and he made a quick circle around the room to check for other ‘visitors.’ It remained in place, shivering. Fenris started for the door—back to his uncomfortable mattress and frigid room—but paused at the last moment.
He turned a steely glare on it. “This is no place for you. Go back to your mother.”
How were its eyes so ridiculously large?
Suddenly—uncomfortably—reminded of a certain mage of his acquaintance, Fenris paused beside it. He huffed out an irritated breath and bent down, grabbed the small cat by the scruff of the neck and lifted it upwards.
It curled up, staring at him. They appeared to be at an impasse.
“I suppose if I leave you to your own devices, you’ll end up in some Darktown stew pot, won’t you?” Or frozen outside. Or starved to death. Or flattened by some of the more zealous youths parading the streets. Or luncheon for the giant spiders infesting every darkened corner of Kirkwall.
But he couldn’t keep it. He barely kept the mansion from falling down around his ears.
“Fine.” He tucked the kitten into the crook of his arm and headed up to his room to dress.
When he found himself once again outside the mage’s clinic a quarter of an hour later, he stood cursing his own stupidity for a few moments Before, finally, he raised his hand to knock.
Darktown smelled worse when it rained. It explained why its inhabitants ran up to the upper streets, to escape the choking scent permeating the air. The kitten squirmed in his arms, occasionally whining when he refused to loosen his grip.
A few minutes later—at least the mage was sleeping—Anders finally answered his door.
“Fenris?” He blinked bleary eyes, frowning as if trying to determine whether Fenris was real or a product of his imagination. “What are you doing here?”
Fenris shoved the kitten into Anders’ arms.
Anders’ eyes sprung open. “You...brought me a cat?”
“I have no need of it. Take it.”
“But—”
“Or leave it to starve. It hardly matters to me.” Fenris turned to begin the trek back to Hightown. From behind him, half-drowned out by the irritated buzzing in his ears, he only just heard the whispered ‘thank you.’
No, definitely an idiot.
Fenris probably still hated him. Regardless of the fact he’d been downright civil the last few times they’d spoken. Dared to show some concern for him. Given Anders a kitten. It didn’t mean he would welcome Anders into his home with open arms. Arms, perhaps, but only the sharp and pointy kind and it would be a very brief encounter.
But here he was anyway, with Munch tucked into his satchel and a rather unfortunate bottle of wine held against his side as a peace offering. A thank you. He’d missed having a cat. The strays around Darktown were as likely to curl around your feet and play nice as lunge for your face with claws out at the meagerest sign of food. Munch was proving to be much more companionable.
He was still taking his life into his own hands showing up unannounced at Fenris’ door.
“Munch, is this a stupid idea?”
Munch meowed at him noncommittally. Ser Pounce-a-lot had been much more helpful in situations such as this, though he’d had the benefit of experience. Munch wasn’t much more than six weeks.
At least he’d regained the stamina to heal his nose if Fenris took exception to his face.
The door was perpetually unlocked, but Anders knocked anyway. Out of politeness. And a desire to avoid potential facial trauma.
“He still hasn’t cleaned up the bloodstains, I see,” Anders muttered, tip-toeing over the carpet in the front entryway as he made his way towards the foyer and the stairs to Fenris’ room. At least, where he thought Fenris’ room was. He’d only been in here once to clear out the mess its former owner had made. But the master suite seemed as likely as anywhere for Fenris to stay.
He made his way up the stairs, not bothering to conceal his footsteps. Catching Fenris unawares was the easiest way to find yourself on the business end of a blade.
Anders reached the landing, wincing at a particularly loud creak of floorboard beneath his feet. “Fenris?”
He heard some shuffling in the master suite. “What do you want, mage?”
Anders took it as permission and entered the room, holding the bottle of wine in front of him as a fragile glass shield. Fenris sat at a large table, a few bottles of wine of much better vintage than Anders’ offering scattered across the surface.
Fenris was uncomfortably distracting when unarmoured.
“I thought...well, one of my patients left this for me by way of thanks, and I know you enjoy wine. Or, if not enjoy it, certainly appreciate it, and I thought I’d bring it by, which was stupid, really, because you have a cellar full of wine and this is probably hogswallop, but when I thought it at the time I completely forgot about your cache downstairs, and I could leave if you want, but I—”
“Maker’s mercy, mage, take a breath before you lose consciousness. I’m in no mood to drag your body back down to Darktown.”
To his credit, Anders did take a breath. “I thought you and I might share it.”
Fenris stared at him. “Share it.” The words were flat enough to make even the most knowledgeable scholars reconsider their geomorphical leanings.
“As a thank you. For Munch. And...everything.”
“I haven’t done anything you should thank me for.”
“Still, I want to share it. If you’ll have me.”
In the earliest days of their acquaintance, when silence swept into the space between them, it had been loaded with anger and bitter words, fueled by prejudice and hastily-formed opinions. The quiet now was oddly comfortable as Fenris considered his words with genuine gravity, instead of dismissing Anders out of hand.
Finally, “What is a ‘munch?’”
Anders smiled. “Teyrn Munch-a-bunch. My new feline companion.” He tickled the side of his satchel and the grey kitten stuck his head up. He looked at Fenris with the utter love and adoration of a cat expecting food. When none was forthcoming, he jumped out of the satchel and began his investigation of the room.
“If I’d known you’d pick that name I would have done him a kindness and left him out on the street.”
“Don’t listen to him Munch. It’s a proud and distinguished name.”
Fenris’ lips almost twitched. Anders counted it as a victory. He took it as an invitation as well. He crossed the room to Fenris’ table to sit and set the wine down between them. Fenris inspected the bottle.
“As I said, it pales in comparison to what you’ve been drinking—”
“Danarius spent years collecting the bottles downstairs. I remember him receiving a box from Antiva and paying hundreds of sovereigns for the contents. I don’t drink it because I enjoy it. I drink it because it would madden him to no end to know someone with no oenophilic taste is emptying his wine cellar.”
“‘No oenophilic taste’?” Anders repeated with a smile.
“Hawke’s words.”
Anders cracked the seal on the bottle and passed it to Fenris. Fenris waited a second, his eyes on Anders’ hand wrapped around the neck, but finally took it and lifted it to his lips.
“Well? Swill?”
Fenris coughed. “Worse.” He hit his chest a couple of times for good measure and slid the bottle to Anders.
They passed the bottle back and forth, the polite quiet slowly melting as a happy warmth curled up in Anders’ stomach.
“...I thought Eleenko’s force spell might’ve broken Jeynkyns’ back, but Jeynkyns pops up and yells ‘that was majestic,’” Anders laughed and tumbled back into his seat, earning a friendly swat from Munch on the table in front of him. “You know, I hated living in the Circle because I was forced to be there, but not every moment was torture and misery.”
“You’re lucky,” Fenris said. His voice was frighteningly fond. “To have such memories to counter the others.”
“Yes. For every ‘correction’ I received from the Templars—especially Knight-Commander Greagoir. What a sour puss. As though things weren’t miserable enough without him scowling at everyone.” Anders reached out and stroked Munch’s back until the little bugger spun around and tried gnawing on his knuckles. He grabbed the bottle and took another swallow of the truly terrible wine. “The First Enchanter tried to smooth things over as much as he could. It was rather like watching your parents fight.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Fenris muttered.
Anders flushed. “Of course you wouldn’t. I’m so—”
“Apologize again and I will send you flying out the front door,” Fenris said. He grabbed the bottle away and finished the remaining contents with a few long swallows. His throat was distressingly elegant when it bobbed in such a fashion.
Apparently the wine had gone right to his head.
Anders lay his head down in his arms and watched Fenris from the crook of his elbow. “What’s your best memory, Fenris?”
Fenris pushed the empty bottle away. “Meeting Hawke.”
Anders sniffed. The wine suddenly wasn’t sitting well. “He is a charmer.”
“Hawke was the first person to look at me as something other than an escaped slave. Property. He’s given me purpose. I’m not rotting away in this place waiting for Danarius to return and attempt to drag me back to the Imperium.”
“I’d like to see the bastard try,” Anders muttered.
Fenris smiled. Almost. If he’d been an animal, all his teeth would’ve been bared in a particularly terrifying way. “I would as well.”
Anders stretched out and lay down on the bench, staring up at the roof. “You’ve a hole in your ceiling.”
“And here I thought Hawke was the one prone to stating the obvious.”
“Oh, no, you’ll find I’m quite good at it too.” Munch dropped down from the tabletop and settled on Anders’ chest. “You know, I’ve almost gotten used to being along in my head. Now I have perspective, and I’m almost grateful for it. Justice was getting too loud. Too demanding. I think I would have eventually done something terrible. Something I would have regretted. He would have considered it just, but in the end, our path would’ve led us to vengeance.” Anders frowned. “I never wanted this for him.”
Fenris stood, chair scraping against the floor.
Anders sat up and Munch fell into his lap. Vertical, his head swum and it took him a moment to realize how close Fenris had gotten. He opened and closed his mouth, suddenly unsure of what to say.
Fenris leaned down into Anders’ space. “It’s rare we get what we want. Rarer still we get what we deserve.”
Anders’ mouth dried up. “Cheerful thought.” Anders could smell the wine on his breath and the scent of his skin; not musky, as a human’s might be, but understated and willowy—a summer morning.
“It’s kept us both alive, hasn’t it?”
Before he could stop himself, Anders leaned forward. His lips pressed against Fenris’. The elf’s lips were smooth but warm, and they made Anders all the more aware of how chapped and rough his own mouth was. He rested a hand on Fenris’ chest, above his heart.
He was going to die. Probably painfully—having your heart torn out certainly seemed a painful way to die. But maybe Fenris would show mercy and do it quickly...
Fenris was kissing back. It wasn’t the most enthusiastic kiss Anders had ever received, but his lips were moving, and Fenris brushed a hand against Anders’ nape.
Anders gasped in utter shock and they broke apart. Their eyes met. Fenris had beautiful eyes. Green, bordering on silver. He could get lost in those eyes.
“Don’t kill me.”
Anders cursed inwardly. He hoped Fenris did kill him and permanently stop his mouth from moving outside of his control.
Fenris sniffed. “I’ll try to restrain myself.” He stepped away. “You should go, Anders. You’ve had too much wine.”
From the way Anders’ swayed when he stood, Fenris wasn’t far off the mark. He steadied himself with a few deep breaths and gently grabbed Munch to slide him back into his satchel.
“I...would like to do this again, Fenris. If you’d be interested.” Up to and including the kissing. He didn’t say that part, in case he was already pressing his luck.
Fenris’ eyebrow quirked upwards. “Only if I’m allowed to choose the wine.”
Anders grinned. “You made a joke. A marvelous joke. I never suspected you had a sense of humour.”
“I’m not joking, mage.”
“You called me Anders a second ago. I liked it.”
“I’ll take it under advisement. Do you need help back to your clinic, or do you think you can make it without passing out in an alley?”
“I’ll have you know when we managed to smuggle liquor into the Circle, I drank everyone under the table. I once shared Chasind sack mead with my dwarf Oghren and remained standing far longer than he thought I would. I am a paragon of—”
Fenris kissed him again. A rough touch of lips and a scrape of teeth, barely there and gone in an instant. Anders quieted, the stupidest smile spreading across his face.
“Good night, Anders.”
“Good night.”
He gathered up Munch and made his way out the door and back down the stairs, acutely aware of Fenris’ eyes watching him from the landing above.
“I don’t think the Quanri are apologetic about anything,” Hawke replied. “Besides, I enjoy rattling the Arishok’s horns. Every time I make a point he doesn’t like, he gets this squinty-I-hate-you-and-everything-you-stand-for look in his eyes. The only thing better is bothering Aveline about Donnic.”
“I wasn’t joking about severe bodily harm, Hawke,” Aveline muttered.
“Ha! Please.” Hawke dodged around a particularly large Qunari warrior. “I’m more worried about the fact they don’t seem interested in leaving. The Viscount’s knickers are going to bunch up over this one. Especially if Seamus keeps associating with them.”
Wasn’t that the understatement of the year? Regardless of how light Hawke was making of it, there’d been a terrifying gleam in the Arishok’s eyes—in his words—suggesting violence was imminent. Anders hoped when the surf crashed upon the shore, they’d be there to mediate. Despite his utter lack of diplomatic skills, Hawke was surprisingly good at mediating.
Anders paused as the same warrior stepped into his path. The Qunari looked down his nose at him, eyes narrowed. Hawke and Aveline continued forward.
“Excuse me.” Anders took a step to the left, only for the Qunari to plant himself once again in his path. “Can I help you?”
“It offends the very air we breathe that you are unencumbered, Bas Saarebas. Your corruption spreads stink to every corner of this city.” His voice wasn’t as deep as the Arishok’s, but it carried the same weight. The same unsubtle contempt for everything outside the realm of the Qun.
Anders’ eyes widened. “Oh. Well…sorry. I’ll try to keep my stink to myself from now on.”
The Qunari’s lip curled in a dangerous grimace, his hand twitching for the spear strapped to his back. Anders took a step backwards, only to run into a solid wall of armoured elf behind him.
“Arvaarakost. We are leaving. If the Arishok has seen no reason to detain us, you must abide by his will.”
The Qunari glared at Fenris, but finally stepped aside. It didn’t stop him from banging his shoulder against Anders as he passed. Once they were out of the gates—the heavy clang jarring Anders down to his bones—he glanced at Fenris sidelong.
“Thank you. I thought things were going to turn ugly for a second.”
Fenris inclined his head. “They were well on their way. You should be more cautious around the Qunari. Their hatred for magic rivals anything you might feel for the Templars and the Circle. In the future, keep your eyes lowered. It will help you avoid drawing their attention.”
Anders looked back over his shoulder, shuddering when he saw the same Qunari watching him from beyond the gate. Hawke turned up the stairs leading back to Lowtown, the Hanged Man and Corff’s newest batch of tongue-flaying grog. Fenris stayed close at Anders’ side, his gait easing back from its usual long-legged stride. His shoulder occasionally brushed against Anders as they made their way through the sparse crowd of Kirkwall’s docks.
Through the throng of passers-by, a familiar face suddenly jumped into Anders’ sight. He shifted slightly, away from Fenris, to allow the man to bump into him. A small slip of paper was nudged into his hand, and he pocketed it immediately.
“Friend of yours?” Fenris asked.
Anders’ lips twitched. “In a manner of speaking.”
He feared the note’s contents and what it could mean to the Underground. Ser Alrik had been overzealous in his hatred of late, and it was starting to feel as though Meredith was beginning to sympathize with his persecution of those under him. If the other members of the Underground were taking the chance of contacting him in the middle of the day, there was something definitely amiss.
Fenris shifted uncomfortably. “If…there’s anything you need…”
Anders turned his attention to Fenris. His lips were pinched at the sides, and a small line had formed between his brows. The look was new. To Anders, at least. Fenris appeared concerned. Worried, as though he was capable of displaying emotions stronger than the bland offerings he presented to the world at large.
“Thank you, Fenris,” Anders said, quietly enough the words would only barely reach the elf’s ears.
Fenris nodded sharply, his features shifting back into their usual mask of stoicism. Still, when his shoulder brushed Anders again, it felt warmer.
The Underground had been using the tunnels for years, quietly ferrying out mages who could no longer stand the scrutiny and iron-fisted rule of Meredith and her Templars. Since his separation from Justice, he’d been determined to remain involved. He still believed in the cause. Only somewhat less violently.
Anders crumpled the note in his hand and then opened his palm to allow a small ball of magical flame to incinerate it. Corff ignored it, sliding a mug of watery ale Anders’ way. Anders stared at the pale amber liquid for a moment, the world around him fading in favour of his thoughts. He could go tonight. The Underground had no planned escapes for the next week as they awaited a batch of children to be carted in from the rest of the Free Marches. And this late in the evening there probably wouldn’t be anyone down there. But going alone would be unadvisable. The Templars had started guarding the area, a first step in acknowledging the lyrium smuggling problem which existed amongst their order, and the Underground hadn’t managed to find a copy of their patrol schedule yet. If he ran afoul of the order...
Hawke sidled up to the bar beside him, motioning to Corff for a refill. “Have you and Fenris started spending so much time together that his brooding is rubbing off on you? Because I have to say, Anders, you’ve made some incredible strides in the last few months and I’d hate to see them all for nothing.”
“I thought you’d be glad of it. I was under the impression our sniping was annoying you.”
“Unimaginably. But now I’ve got to find another way to keep myself entertained on the long walk between here and the Wounded Coast. You two were good for half the journey at least.”
“Is that why you kept bringing up the Tevinter magisters?”
“Well it wasn’t for my own education. I’ve forgot two-thirds of what you told me.” He drained the new glass immediately. “Anything you want to talk about?” His eyes were shiny; the glossy-warm brought about by too much liquor and surprising luck at the game of Wicked Grace taking place back at their table. Varric wanted something if he was letting Hawke win.
“I think I forgot to feed Munch. I’ve got to head back to the clinic before he decides to venture out on his own and runs into trouble.”
Hawke’s eyebrow quirked. “You forgot to feed your cat?”
“I know. I’m a terrible parent. It’s probably best that only women carry babies. I’d hate to be responsible for scarring some poor child for life.” He slid away from the bar, out of Hawke’s way. “Oh, here, pass my ale onto whoever wants it. It’s a poor substitute for real Anderfel stout, but I think Corff halved the amount of water he slipped into the keg this time. The result is practically Orlesian.”
“Anders—”
“I’ll see you later, Hawke.”
It wasn’t a graceful retreat, but it got him out of the bar without drawing too much attention.
He slipped out into the night air and made his way to one of the numerous entrances to Darktown. The entrance to the smuggler’s tunnels wasn’t far from his clinic and his area of Darktown was positively friendly compared to the rest of Kirkwall. Well. Ish.
He hoped he didn’t run into any giant spiders. He hated giant spiders. But the Maker seemed to be with him and the sewer lines leading to the tunnels were blissfully clear of the oversized arachnid vermin he’d come to expect.
“Look on the bright side, Anders,” he murmured, “this is much more pleasant than the Deep Roads. It doesn’t stink of death, there aren’t any darkspawn, and you don’t have the other Grey Wardens barking demands in your ear. This is practically a holiday in comparison.” He climbed over a small pile of rubble, wrinkling his nose at the sight of a pair of torn trousers half-buried in the muck. “I should consider a holiday. Somewhere warm. Without Templars or giant bugs to ruin things. I hear Antiva is nice this time of year.” He laughed. The sound bounced off the tunnel walls and he winced at how loud it sounded in the closed quarters. “Well, as nice as anywhere infested with assassins, political intrigue and complicated politicking. I wonder if Munch would like Orlais.”
He should’ve brought Munch along. Talking to your cat was less reminiscent of insanity and more an endearing habit.
The tunnel shifted—changing from natural rock formations to something more deliberately crafted. The dampness from the sea crept into the tunnels in these parts; moss and other miscellaneous plant life sprouting up in every nook and cranny. He ducked under a half-rotted wooden beam. Not much further to the Gallows and the Underground’s drop spot, where members could quickly dart down to secret away any necessary communication and return without being missed.
When he finally reached the small alcove where the Underground hid their communiqués, he scanned the area quickly. There were any number of places for Templars to hide, but it looked as though he’d managed to avoid them as long as they didn’t come in through the entrance leading up to the Gallows. He crossed the area towards the half-rotted barrel barely standing amongst the vegetation trying to claim it. He dropped his staff and reached into the ancient wine cask to find whatever the Underground had left for him.
Anders frowned when his hand scraped the bottom of the barrel without brushing against anything inside. He ran his fingers along the decaying oak, the crease in his forehead deepening with every moment. Where was it?
“Looking for something, serah?”
Anders’ heart stopped. He slowly withdrew his arm and turned. A small contingent of Templars—including Ser Alrik himself—crowded the entrance leading up to the Gallows. Alrik already had his sword drawn, smiling at some private joke he seemed disinclined to share.
“Yes. I think I mistakenly left some of my laundry down here. Terribly careless of me. Would’ve lost my head by now if it weren’t attached.” Not his best work. If he’d brought Munch, he could’ve come up with a much better excuse. Probably involving cat toys. “But it doesn’t seem to be in here. I’ll be going...”
Alrik’s men shifted positions, several of them moving to block Anders’ retreat. Peachy.
“I know who you are, apostate. Do you know what we do to your kind when we catch them?”
“Send them to bed without dinner?” Anders glanced at his staff, fingers twitching with the desire to grab it up. It wouldn’t do much good. He seriously needed to invest some time and learn more force magic.
“Grab him.”
Anders lunged for his staff, barely managing to get his hands on it before one of the Templars reached him. Without room to maneuver, he could do little more than bring the hard wooden shaft down on the man’s forehead. The man yelled in surprise and stumbled backwards. Backing up against a rocky outcropping—the closest he could come to defending his back—he waited for their next move.
“This is useless, mage. Do you think you can hold us all off?” Alrik took a step forward, bringing him almost within distance of Anders’ single offensive spell. Almost. “Because I promise you, even if you try, more will come. We know you filthy mages are using these tunnels to escape the Gallows, and it ends now.” He smiled nastily. “And once we get our hands on you, we’ll make sure you’re never able to cause trouble again.”
“I’d sooner die than be made Tranquil,” Anders snapped.
“We can arrange that as well.”
Anders ripped away from the wall and brought his staff down against the ground, channeling every ounce of magic he had into one massive blow. It sent the Templars to their knees and Anders charged forward. He could outrun them. He’d spent his life trying to outrunning Templars. It was all the amour, dragged them down—
Alrik grabbed his ankle as he passed and Anders hit the floor in a graceless sprawl. Alrik wrapped his hands up on the hem of Anders’ robes and pulled Anders back towards him.
“Nice trick. But we’ve seen it.” He ran the fingertip of his gauntlet over Anders’ forehead. “I’m already imagining how perfectly the lyrium brand will suit you. How nicely you’ll thank me for the favour afterwards. They all thank me, eventually. So prettily. Content in their new place; the place of all mages.” Alrik leaned down to whisper in Anders’ ear. “Your friend Karl thanked me too.”
Anders screamed in rage and jerked his head forward, bludgeoning Alrik’s nose with his forehead. Alrik jerked backwards, loosening his hold enough to let Anders squirm out from under him. He abandoned his staff, sprinting towards the exit. He knew these tunnels. He could lose them.
Another armoured figure appeared the doorway. Anders skidded to a stop, throwing a poorly-aimed punch without even registering whether they were wearing Templar amour.
As it would have it, they weren’t.
Hawke caught his hand and carefully eased him arm down. “One of these days, I’m going to teach you how to really hit someone, Anders.”
Anders gasped in relief. “Hawke.”
Hawke shoved him out the doorway, away from the Templars and towards Fenris. The elf looked him up and down, checking for injuries with a quick eye. The entrance to the alcove was too wide to provide them with a chokehold, but from the looks of things the Templars were still recovering from Anders’ initial strike.
“You know, I think you need to ask permission from the Chantry before turning a mage Tranquil. Or did I hear wrong?”
Varric nodded. “I remember hearing that somewhere, Hawke.”
Alrik—nose dripping with blood—pointed past them at Anders. “The mage is an apostate. We are perfectly within our rights to—”
“Why don’t we all take a step back and think to ourselves who’s going to win in a fight: you and your men, who spend most of your time shepherding around mages who’ve already been cowed, or me and my friends. We killed a dragon yesterday.”
Varric pulled out Bianca. “Actually, I think it was Tuesday.”
“Right.” Hawke scowled. “Tuesday.”
Alrik’s men, slowly regaining their footing, went for their weapons.
Fenris placed a hand on Anders’ shoulder and guided him backwards. “Stay out of the fight. Without your staff you’re not much good to any of us.”
“But—”
Fenris’ eyes flashed dangerously, quelling the argument forming on Anders’ lips. Before anyone could say another word, one of the Templars struck. They bounded across the short distance between them and Hawke, bringing their sword to bear on the other man. Hawke easily deflected the blow and sent the Templar spinning into a wall, the clang of metal bouncing off rock loud enough to make Anders’ teeth hurt.
The small area dissolved into violence.
Anders watched from the sidelines, waiting for any opportunity to dive in and retrieve his staff. But Hawke had made a point about their strength of arms. Fenris neatly cut down three of the men as Hawke engaged with Alrik, careful to avoid the sweep of the man’s oversized sword. His own blade swept into the weak crevices of Alrik’s armour, cutting through the thin undermesh with brutal efficiency and grinding him down until Alrik fell under the assault, a final blow spearing him through the chest and pinning him to the ground.
After checking for any other opponents, Hawke shrugged to himself. “Doesn’t it figure. You clean the blood and gore off your amour and just end up getting it dirty again a few minutes later.” Hawke grimaced as he inspected his chest plate.
“Could be worse,” Varric pointed out. “Wyvern blood never comes out.”
“True enough. I lose more undershirts that way.” He pulled his sword out of Alrik’s chest and wiped it off on a small bunch of moss nearby. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed Anders’ staff and tossed it back Anders’ way. “Dropped this. Try and keep a hand on it next time. I’m not going to give you any more epic gifts if you lose them.”
“I’ll try to remember,” Anders said quietly.
“Next time,” Fenris muttered. His tone was almost scary. “This shouldn’t have happened, mage. If you don’t have enough sense to ask for help when you need it, then at least make the effort to tell us you’ve decided to walk into a trap.”
“It couldn’t have been a trap,” Anders murmured. “They didn’t know I’d be here.”
“Then they either have the Maker’s own timing or you’ve got worse luck than I ever imagined,” Hawke said, already rifling through Alrik’s things. He came up with a couple of interesting baubles he’d probably have Anders look at later and a tightly-rolled scroll bearing the Chantry’s seal.
“May I see that, Hawke?” Anders asked.
Hawke shrugged and handed it over. Anders unrolled it quickly; the wax had already been broken once, and the parchment was crumpled at the sides as though someone had been angry when reading it. Even a cursory inspection made Anders’ heart catch in his chest.
Fenris appeared at his elbow. It was scary how close the elf had been of late. Scary and...
“What is it?”
“It’s from the Divine. She’s denied Alrik’s request to...” Anders took a steadying breath. “To turn every mage in the Free Marches Tranquil.” He looked at Fenris, traitorous hope welling in his breast. “She refused.”
Perhaps...perhaps there could be peace.
Hawke grinned and wrapped an arm around Anders’ shoulders. “Glad to hear it. Now if you wouldn’t mind, I was making a small fortune at Wicked Grace Before you decided to cut and run.”
“Why did you follow me, anyway?” Anders asked, holding the parchment far more tightly than he should’ve. It was something to cling to. A token Justice might have brushed aside as nothing, but one that weighed heavier in Anders’ hands than anything else of which he could’ve conceived.
“Please. You’re the last person in the world who’d forget to feed your cat. Next time you need to lie to me, at least make it plausible enough I’ll actually buy it for a few minutes.”
The bounty hunter took a small bolt of electricity to the face before he finished his sentence. He wouldn’t allow anyone to speak of Fenris that way.
Hawke cast a scathing look Anders’ way. “Thank you for robbing me of my quippy response, Anders.”
“I’m sure you’ll have other opportunities,” Anders said, readying his staff as the other hunters charged.
Fighting their way through the bounty hunters, and into the catacombs and old slaver pens was less painful than watching the cold tension slowly sliding into Fenris’ shoulders. His every move was an angry blow delivered not only to the men and women standing between them and his would-be prey, but also to his companions. He snapped at Hawke, glared at Isabela and outright ignored Anders, as if Anders’ presence was a personal affront.
They finally found Hadriana skulking in the shadows in the room furthest from the surface. Fenris’ expression had been stuck on ‘scowl’ for the last half-hour, and the expression only deepened when he finally came face-to-face with his former tormentor. Watching him kill her was like seeing a door close behind his eyes. One Anders now expected to be open to him.
“Fenris,” he whispered, reaching out when the elf straightened.
“Don’t,” Fenris growled, recoiling. He spun on Hawke. “You saw what was done here. There’s always going to be some reason, some excuse, for mages to do this.” He stabbed a finger out towards Anders, rage brimming in his eyes.
Hawke glanced uneasily at Anders. “Not all mages—”
“Spare me your misplaced sympathies. What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?”
Hawke placed a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe we should leave.”
Fenris pulled away. “I don’t want you comforting me.” His face twisted up angrily. “I...need to go.” He left the pen without a backwards glance, the pregnant silence left in his wake broken up by his heavy footfalls.
Anders released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Was that it, then? Months worth of peace and warmth shattered by his past? Would he hate Anders forever for the sins committed by Danarius and his get?
Isabela slid up beside him, fresh from looting one of the corpses left in Fenris’ wake. “Don’t pout, sweet thing, it makes you look tragically heartbroken. If you need someone to help warm you up tonight, I’ve got a friend or two who’d be very obliging.” She leaned over to look into his eyes. “Make it three. Three’s enough to help you get over him.”
Hawke shook his head. “Isabela, even I think that’s inappropriate.”
“It’s a genuine offer from someone who cares. Would you prefer to let him spend the entire night crying over spilt milk when a mug of hot cocoa is within his reach?”
“Can we go?” Anders snapped.
Hawke nodded, a surprisingly sympathetic downturn to the corner of his lips, and led them back out of the labyrinthine corridors. The trek back to Kirkwall was silent, and the lack of charged flirting between Hawke and Isabela made the tense air between them even more repressive.
By the time they reached the city gates, all Anders wanted was to disappear down to his clinic to try and mend his hurt feelings. And how ridiculous was it his feelings were hurt at all? He was a grown man, and well aware of what Fenris thought of him. Of all mages. A couple of clumsy kisses and a generous amount of ogling while drunk weren’t going to do anything to combat years of slavery and servitude. He should be cherishing that Fenris had even temporarily looked past his former hurts and judged Anders’ on his own merits.
The thoughts all coalesced into a simple feeling. Flames. His heart hurt. He’d taken for granted that Fenris would always look at him differently than other mages. Apparently he’d only been fooling himself.
Before he could escape, Hawke grabbed him. “Look, about Fenris...”
“I really don’t want to talk about this, Hawke.”
Hawke barged ahead anyway. “I know you two have been...getting along lately. I’m sorry if this has ruined it for you. I know how important it is to keep friends where you find them. Fenris does too, I think, deep down wherever he hides his heart. He’ll come around.”
“Thank you.” Anders doubted it, but he managed a small smile for Hawke’s sake anyway. “You’re a good friend.”
“I’m actually pretty rubbish at this sort of thing. But the whole lot of us are one, big, damaged family. And families forgive each other, right?” He laughed, a hollow, humourless sound. “Of course right.”
For all Anders had lost recently—for all he was losing now—he couldn’t forget Hawke’s own losses of late. The other man disseminated and tapped down whatever feelings got in the way of his goals, many and varied though they were, but they existed under the surface. It gave him a generous empathy, when he chose to use it.
Anders grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Good night, Hawke.”
“I’ll see you at the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace tomorrow?”
“Far be it from me to deny Varric my share of today’s treasure.”
He didn’t sleep. More than ever, he was glad to have Munch around, if only for the warmth settled on his chest and the rhythmic purring giving him something other than his memories of Fenris’ anger to focus on.
What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?
Still, it was a surprise when Fenris walked in the door that evening.
Hawke looked less surprised than the rest of them. Maybe because Fenris had stopped by his estate the previous night—which shouldn’t have rankled Anders as much as it did.
Anders tensed, preparing to slide back from the table. Hawke caught his eye and shook his head in warning. And it was probably a hopelessly stupid move for Anders to ignore him, but a similarly hopelessly stupid move had gotten him his first kiss and tentative smile from Fenris in the first place. He left Munch in Merrill’s over adoring arms and crossed the room before Fenris was even a foot inside the door.
“Can we talk?”
The scowl was back. Perhaps it had never left. “No.”
When he tried to dodge by, Anders slid back in front of him. “Please.”
Fenris stared at him with flat eyes. When he finally nodded, sharply, Anders sighed in relief and offered a tentative smile. They headed back down the stairs to the main room and out the hallway to the backdoor.
“I was worried about you—”
“Save it, mage.”
Anders hadn’t heard the tone in months. He hadn’t missed it. “Fenris, I—”
Fenris grabbed the front of his robes and shoved him up against the side of the bar. “You what? What platitudes do you have to offer this time, now you have to save face in light of seeing what your brethren are capable of?”
“The Tevinter magisters are not my brethren. Do you think I could condone slavery after all I’ve done to try and help liberate mages who are in similar circumstances right now?”
Fenris’ lip twisted upwards. “Similar circumstances?” He pulled Anders back and hit him against the wall again. “You call being coddled and wrapped up in a tower similar to the way Hadriana and Danarius used me?” His fist slowly tightened in Anders’ robes, the force pulling at the neck until they sat uncomfortably tight around his throat. “Go ahead, mage. Tell me how what they’ve done to me compares at all to what you’ve gone through in your spoiled, ignorant existence.”
The grip grew tighter. Anders’ hands flew up, wrapping around Fenris’ wrists. Beneath his palms, the lyrium markings burned into his skin, both a reminder and an offer. A promise. A threat.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Stop me, then. Put this dog back in his place.”
“That’s not who I am.”
“Of course it is. You just won’t admit it.”
“No.”
Fenris’ face closed in next to his. “Yes, mage. Deny it all you want, but we both know. You face the temptation every day, and it’s only a matter of time until you give into it. Just like all the rest. Despite your crying and pathetic attempts at protestation, you know you’re a weak moment away from selling yourself to whatever demon offers you the power you crave.”
The words hit like a blow, crashing into Anders’ lungs and robbing him of breath. Fenris released Anders, and the sudden loss of his bracing strength sent Anders tripping along the wall until he managed to get a hand out to steady himself.
He shook his head in denial. “I thought...”
“What? I would willingly place myself in the thrall of another mage? Are you arrogant enough to believe I don’t see your trap for what it is?”
“Fine, Fenris!” Anders rounded on him, pulling himself to his full height as anger displaced his disappointment and heartache. “I hope you sleep well at night knowing you’ve fully outwitted me. I couldn’t possibly have any other motivation for wanting to spend time with you! I’ve never had a thought in my head which didn’t involve your subjugation, after all. Isn’t that right? According to you, I’m barely human. I’m an abomination already. I always have been. All mages are. There can’t be any exceptions. There’s black and white. Nothing more, nothing less. Better I should’ve died or been made Tranquil when Alrik caught me. At least then I would’ve spared you the embarrassment—the sheer humiliation of even a moment’s doubt regarding my motivations—”
Fenris grabbed him again, but this time, when he shoved Anders up against the wall, he followed with his own body. Dangerously close. Fenris mashed their mouths together, a punishing kiss driving bruises into his mouth to accompany the bruises Fenris’ hands were leaving on his biceps. He tasted blood, and teeth skated his lower lip, dangerously close to drawing more.
When he pulled away, Fenris’ face was warped in self-loathing and dismay. Anders stared at him and Fenris pulled back as if burned.
Anders pressed his hand against his mouth, trying to banish the feeling. If it was to be the last kiss between them, it wasn’t the one he wanted to remember. “If that’s how you feel, then it’s something we’ll both have to live with.”
Fenris met his eyes for a single second and then turned and disappeared down the alley. Away from the Hanged Man. Anders remained still and stiff in place, suddenly freezing despite the flagon of Corff’s finest he’d tossed back earlier. He hadn’t wanted this. But perhaps it had been unavoidable.
What has magic touched that is doesn’t spoil?
“That could have gone better.”
Anders turned towards the voice, relieved to see Varric hanging off the doorframe rather than Hawke. He couldn’t have dealt with Hawke.
“I suppose it could have,” he whispered.
Varric sighed. “I hate to say it, but you knew what you were getting into when you started chasing after him.”
Anders wiped the taste of blood away from his mouth, relieved when his hand came away unstained. “I thought I could change his mind. Had changed his mind.”
“It takes more than a kind word and a tummy rub to earn the trust of an abused cat, Blondie. Come back inside. Let me buy you a drink.”
Anders hesitated. Part of him wanted to go after Fenris. The romantic part of which he’d never cured himself. But he didn’t give in. If he followed, something might happen that they would both regret. Something clawing and violent which had only begun to promise itself when Fenris had kissed him the last time. He couldn’t give into it. If he did, there would be no hope of ever resurrecting what might have existed between them.
Who did Anders think he was, anyway, to believe himself above and removed from Fenris’ rage? There was no escaping it? Hadriana had fallen. A score of bounty hunters and slavers were dead at his hands. Yet Anders thought himself better than them? That his clumsy attempt at drunken seduction would earn him any favours? How dare he use Fenris as nothing more than a conquest. Whoring himself in Fenris’ good graces as though a thousand other mages hadn’t used similar strategies to get what they wanted in Tevinter. Oh, no, Fenris was aware of their tricks. Their lies.
He took another pull on a half-full bottle of wine and then sent it hurling towards the fireplace. What was it other than some token he’d taken to spite Danarius? The mage was the same. Some small thing he’d thought to keep as a way of spitting in Danarius’ face. Because wouldn’t it have enraged Danarius no end, knowing another mage—someone he might’ve considered an equal—held Fenris in higher esteem than a score of magisters who would see him put down. Someone strong enough to withstand the call of blood magic and the demands of the Chantry. Danarius would’ve scoffed and called Anders weak.
Fenris would show him weak. When Danarius came for him—because he would, inevitably, show up and try to reclaim what he felt he was owed—he would make a stand. There would be no compromise. No middle ground. He would rip out the man’s heart and find whatever peace waited for him afterwards.
He picked up another full bottle and threw it against the mantle to shatter into the fire. The contents hissed and sizzled, barely popping the wood when they connected with the flame. When combined with the overly sweet vintage, the flames quelled when they might’ve twisted higher with any other liquor. It wasn’t satisfying, not when he was in the mood to watch something burn.
Hadriana’s reappearance was a reminder. He wouldn’t be truly free until Danarius was dead. Until then, he was a favoured pet who’d slipped his leash and run from his owner. He could scream and rail all he wanted; he was still a slave. Real freedom meant escaping the shackles Danarius had bound him with, both physical and mental. The burning hate inside him was a means of control. The magister would have laughed at Hadriana’s death, if for no other reason than it proved Fenris was still the weak-willed pet he’d used for his own amusement, unable to control his violent urges without a firm hand to hold him back.
Damn him. Even when he was dead, would there ever be peace?
Unbidden, Anders’ face jumped to his mind. He sneered and tried to brush it aside. There was no peace to be had there. Anders would drag him to war with the Templars and use him as Danarius had.
But, at least, it would be his choice if he wanted to follow. True freedom. To stand by Anders’ side or to look away. And was it not slavery to deprive himself of the choice he might make?
A scream from outside. Quick. Cut short too soon. Not bandits—the criminals who haunted Hightown made an art form of keeping their victims silent.
Fenris grabbed his sword.
He opened his door and raised his sword in time to deflect a stray Qunari spear. His brow knitted in confusion. What were the Qunari doing in Hightown? He huddled against the wall next to his door, watching as a small contingent of warriors dragged a family of nobles from their home. Towards the Viscount’s keep. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. If this was an invasion, they would look to indoctrinate anyone they caught alive and send them to the Ben-Hassrath to be re-educated in the name of the Qun.
He stuck to the shadows, slinking along the walls of the estates surrounding his home, keeping a mental tally of the number and arms of the Qunari he saw. This wasn’t a true attack—the Qunari favoured elite weaponry and superior number of arms when they chose to strike. It must’ve spread out from the Docks on orders of the Arishok.
How many had they packed into their small compound?
Hightown would soon be lost. The City Guard weren’t strong enough to repel the forces the Arishok had at his disposal. And there was the rest of the city to think of.
Darktown. There was nothing down there to defend the residents from the attack, and doubtless thousands would swarm below in a foolish attempt to escape the Qunari. Easy pickings for any of the karasaad who ventured after them.
Anders would be in danger.
“Are we going to die, messere?”
Anders shuffled the children as far away from the front as he could.
“We’ll be fine, darling. I promise.”
The children and their escort barely made it from the Gallows when the fighting had spilled into the streets of Darktown, and the next leg of the Underground wasn’t scheduled to pick them up until morning. They’d gone from being hidden in sacks designated for refuse to the damp sewers below the docks. Andraste’s bustier, but it’d been close. Another few minutes and they would’ve been caught up in the insanity outside. Residents from Lowtown were flooding downwards, trying to escape the massacre in the streets above. All it did was bring the Qunari to Darktown.
What did the Qunari want?
An explosion rocked the door, loosening the makeshift barricade he’d cobbled together from whatever detritus he could find around the clinic. It wouldn’t hold under direct assault, but for now it kept the outside world at bay.
“Anelan,” Anders said, picking out the first face to which he could put a name. The boy—barely older than fifteen, but already full of promise—stepped forward. “What do you remember of the Chant?” Far be it from him to draw upon any lessons from the Chantry, but for the kids it would be something familiar. Something to cling to.
“The...the light shall lead her safely...”
There was another explosion. One of the younger girls screamed and Anders drew her close, whispering comforting nonsense into her hair. Munch curled up around her feet and she reached down to grab him.
“...Through the paths of this world, and into the ne—”
The clinic door rattled as something flung its full weight against it. Anders waited a beat, hoping it was merely passing violence.
It happened again. He handed the girl to Anelan and stood, unslinging his staff from his back.
“Good, Anelan. Keep going.”
The children drew closer to the boy and Anders headed towards the front of the clinic. The clinic did not have a back exit—one of the few downsides to hiding in his quiet corner of Darktown. But if the violence came, he would not let it take them.
The door burst open and a Qunari stepped inside; the same warrior who had harassed Anders a precious short time ago. His eyes searched the area, finally landing on Anders. His face remained stoic, but there was a gleam in his eyes Anders had seen in the gaze of the most overzealous Templars. Lovely. He’d always wanted his own Qunari stalker.
“Bas Saarebas. My devotion to the Qun led me to you. As I knew it would.”
Anders spun his staff around in his hand, shifting his left leg back behind him. If he could maneuver the brute out of the clinic, there was a chance no one would think to come back and look for the children. It was their best hope. The Qunari snorted and tightened his grip on his weapon, closer to a sword on a stick than any spear. And, with a yell, charged.
Instead of jumping away—back towards the kids—Anders met the charge and brought his staff up to catch the spear as it descended towards him. With a twist of his wrist, he forced it away and the blade partially embedded in the nearby wall. He ducked under the Quari’s arm and backed closer to the door, maintaining eye contact and praying it would be enough to keep the oxman’s full attention.
He pulled the spear out of the wall with ease and charged again.
His staff was unwieldy as a parrying weapon, but he managed to deflect a blow flying towards his head, hooking his staff where the spear’s shaft met the blade and forcing it down towards the ground. His arms screamed with the strain of holding the spear in place, but he managed for a few precious moments until the Qunari kicked outwards and caught him in the side. He staggered back, his hold on the spear broken. The blow had given him enough room to strike out with the full length of his weapon, however, and he managed to throw his attacker off-balance as he tried to avoid the bladed end of Anders’ staff. Anders twisted around and ducked under the Qunari’s arm, striking out with the side of his staff and planting it in the back of his knee. The warrior grunted and Anders threw himself towards the door, spinning at the last moment to send a blast of ice back towards the Qunari.
Only a few more feet and he’d be out in the streets of Darktown.
He though barely crossed his mind when a whistle in the air announced the Qunari’s spear. Anders tried to hit it aside with his staff, but it’s weight and momentum kept it in the air. Instead of hitting his shoulder, however, it sank into the soft underside of his forearm. Anders screamed, his staff falling from suddenly useless fingers. The spear was too heavy for his flesh to support and it tore downwards as the shaft dragged it free, slicing his arm open.
The Qunari was on him in moments. He smashed his forehead against Anders’ and grabbed his bare neck to prevent him from falling as the world spun around him. With surprising ease, he lifted Anders into the air until his toes barely brushed the ground.
“As all corrupting things, you fall to your own arrogance.” He struck Anders across the face in a hard backhand. Anders tried to take a breath around the hard fingers pressing against his larynx. “I will place the Saarebas collar upon you myself. And once you are properly leashed, I will be the first to mount you. Then will you know true submission to the Qun.”
His hand tightened and black spots began to dance in Anders’ vision.
Suddenly, the Qunari’s hold weakened and he lurched forward, a spray of blood splashing against Anders’ chest. Anders hit the ground, barely able to keep his feet under him as he finally took a real breath inwards.
The Qunari collapsed.
Fenris stood behind him, still aglow with the power he’d called upon to crush the warrior’s heart.
Anders frowned in confusion, hoping this wasn’t sort of traumatic fantasy his mind had come up with as a pleasant means of coping. “Fenris?”
The elf’s gaze snapped up, real worry in his eyes. He quickly moved to Anders, his fingers carefully running across his body to check for injuries, mindful of the sharp tips on his gauntlet. He hissed as he grazed past the bloody gash in Anders’ arm. Once no other injuries remained to be checked, he pulled Anders into a tight embrace.
Anders closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of having Fenris’ arms around him. The scent of his skin. Small things he’d missed he hadn’t even thought about.
“I’m all for a show of physical affection, Fenris, but your armour is uncomfortably pokey in places I’m rather fond of.”
Fenris pulled back and, cupping the back of Ander’s head, pulled him forward into a deep kiss. His tongue sought out Anders’ immediately—questioning and possessive all at once—and he murmured happily when Anders raised his good arm to cup his cheek. When their lips reluctantly broke apart, Anders pressed his forehead against Fenris, content to touch whatever part of the elf he’d allow.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” Fenris muttered, barely loud enough to hear.
Anders smiled. “Me too.” Their lips brushed again, all-too-briefly. “I would’ve hated to miss this.”
His injured arm brushed against his side and Anders winced. He raised it as high as it would come without tugging on the edges of the wound and rested his palm atop the wound to start healing it. Fenris scowled down at the Qunari’s body.
“If we can hold out here until morning, we should be able to get a better idea of the Qunari plans. Then we can go find Hawke. Until then the streets won’t be safe for us.”
“Agreed.” Anders flexed his fingers and sighed in relief when there was no lingering numbness. Healing magic occasionally missed nerve damage. “Come. I need to check on the children.”
“The what?”
Kirkwall was slowly pulling itself out of the war torn mess the Qunari had left it. If the attack had been a small sample of their military ability, no matter how well planned, Anders never wanted to witness a full scale invasion. Even the thieves in the street seemed disinclined to continue their business for now. Anders had dealt with a constant stream of patients in and out of his clinic in the past few days, continuing his efforts to the point of exhaustion. But the wounded slowly petered off, and he finally had the opportunity to visit Hightown. And Fenris.
Fenris’ mansion was untouched, for no other reason than the Qunari must have believed it had already been attacked. The lock on the door was still broken, the remnants of the front hallway a battleground of dust and decay. Anders stepped over a small bundle of fungus on his way to the master suite.
Fenris was within, banking the remnants of mostly-burned coals in his hearth. Anders paused in the doorway, suddenly unsure of his welcome until Fenris straightened and looked his way. His eyes were devoid of the hate and anger which had dogged them since his fight with Hadriana. Relieved beyond words, Anders stepped into the room. Fenris watched every foot fall bringing him closer and Anders paused within arm’s reach, a nervous lump forming in his throat.
“I didn’t bring any wine this time,” Anders murmured.
Fenris’ lips twitched. “You’re here. It’s more than I could have asked for. More than I deserve.”
He reached out to run his hand through Anders’ hair. When it snagged on the loose leather which kept a few unruly locks out of place, he slid his fingers through the knot, loosening it and allowing Anders’ hair to fall free around his face. Fenris’ palm came to rest on Anders’ cheek, remaining still as Fenris studied him silently.
The elf closed the distance between them and wound an arm around Anders’ waist. Anders had the height advantage, but the sinewy strength in Fenris’ arms held him in place, keeping him trapped as Fenris brought their mouths together. Arms around each other, they stumbled away from the fireplace, towards the lonely bed in the corner of the room, clothes hitting the floor in a long line behind them.
Anders’ shins hit the bed and he fell backwards, his eyes opening to watch Fenris above him. Fenris stared down, tragic disbelief in his eyes; whether for Anders’ presence or his own actions, he couldn’t tell.
“Fenris—”
Fenris allowed the last of his garments to slip to the floor and straddled Anders’ lap, seeking out Anders’ neck with his mouth and mouth over the sensitive skin. Anders gasped as lips brushed against his jaw and he grabbed Fenris’ forearms. The lyrium markings sang to him, called to his magic until he could barely avoid the flow of mana through his fingers. It danced up Fenris’ arms and the elf groaned; deep, throaty. The noise went straight to Anders’ stomach and sat curled up in a pool of arousal.
Before he could do more than take another breath, Fenris pushed Anders down and kissed him again.
The bed wasn’t comfortable, and Anders only faded in and out of exhausted sleep until Fenris rose. He opened heavy eyes and watched as Fenris pulled on his previously discarded clothes, a troubled cast to his brow. Anders shook away the sleep trying to reclaim him and pushed himself up.
“Are you all right?”
Fenris froze in place for a moment—the most obvious tell Anders had ever seen—and then shook his head. “No. And yes.”
Anders frowned. “What is it?”
A heavy silence trailed behind his words until, finally, “this was a mistake.”
Anders’ heart stopped. “A mistake?”
Fenris turned away. “For years I’ve been trying to remember who I am. Reclaim some small bit of memory. Even now I can feel my past calling out for me, forcing its way into the front of my mind when I’m not expecting it.” Anders rose from the bed, but Fenris retreated back towards the fire. “I can’t be who you want, Anders. I never will be.”
“I want you.”
“You want me when I’m not trying to kill you. When I don’t hate you for what you are. And even then you’re a fool.” Fenris released a long breath, self-loathing brimming in the echoes of its whisper. “I’ll turn on you again. Hurt you again. And I can’t stand the knowledge any more than I can stop myself from making it true.”
He turned away. When he could breathe again, Anders slowly gathered up his robes, slipping into them as quickly as possible. He could understand what Fenris was saying, even if he didn’t agree. If he pushed the point, he risked pushing Fenris away forever. He could wait. He would wait. As long as it took for Fenris to find some measure of peace.
When he finished dressing, he started towards the door but paused at the last second. With slow steps—not daring to take Fenris by surprise—he joined him next to the fire and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I will always be here, Fenris. Whatever you think of me.” He silently steadied his nerves. “And I would trade the rest of my years to hold this memory of us close.”
Fenris remained silent and Anders showed himself from the room.