Chapter Text
Anders stretches his arms above his head and arches his back, wincing as his spine pops and crackles. “Maker,” he mutters to himself, then calls out, “All right, next.”
It’s been a long day, but his services are desperately needed here, and he’ll keep his doors open until sunset or later. A young man comes through, supporting a wizened old woman. Anders recognizes them. “Ester!” He comes over and shuts the door behind them, then helps the woman to a chair. “Your knee nagging at you again?”
She nods, scowling. “Bloody thing aches like shit. What d’you think about chopping my leg off? Wooden one probably don’t hurt as much.”
Anders lets out a faintly aghast chuckle. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty. I’ll just take a quick—“
The door bursts open.
A young boy stands there, breathing hard. Behind him, a man and a very pregnant woman glare. Anders recognizes the boy too. “Alfonse.” He stands. “What is it?”
Alfonse points behind him. “I saw some men taking your friend!”
Shit.
Anders kneels in front of him. “What friend? Where were you—sorry. Just start from the beginning.”
“The one with the white hair.” Alfonse gestures to his head. Fenris. ‘Friend’ is a bit strong, but still, this is bad. If these people managed to grab him, they must be good at what they do. “Me and Marie were playing at Fishknife Square and he was walking past us, and then the whole square just—everyone started running toward him, they were all waiting, and me and Marie hid in an alley and watched them all fighting. They got him with something and he went down—“
“Something? Magic?”
Alfonse shakes his head. “Poison, I saw the knife. They wrapped him up real quick and started carrying him, so we followed them, and we figured they were heading toward the market gate so I sent Marie to stay on them and I came to get you. She’ll be waiting at the gate if they’ve left.”
Left the city. Shit. No time to run for backup—if he waits any longer he’ll lose them. He’s the only one close enough to help.
So it appears he’ll be staging a rescue effort this evening for the man who hates him more than anyone else does, except maybe the templars. “Thanks, Alfonse. Stay here until I get back, would you? There’s food in the kitchen. And tell everyone I’m closed.” He stands. “I’m sorry, Ester. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow, I promise.”
“Oh, no worries. You go save your friend now.”
Friend. Right. “That’s the plan,” he mutters, and goes to retrieve his staff. “Alfonse, is there anything else you can tell me about the people who took Fenris? Were there any mages?”
“I don’t think so. Just a lot of knives. There were eight and they were good, got to him before he could draw his sword.”
All right. A small chance then. Armed now, Anders dashes out the door.
He sprints through the streets, sliding around corners, calling out so that people get out of his way and he doesn’t smack into anyone. The gate isn’t far, and he’s there inside of ten minutes. There’s a little girl loitering beside it, familiar—Alfonse’s friend, Marie. He treated her once for a broken hand. She spots him and runs forward. “He got in a wagon. It was big, there were four horses up front. Two were brown, one was black, one was red.”
“Wait—he got in? I thought they knocked him out.”
“They did, but they woke him up just over there.” She nods over Anders’s shoulder, to a dark space between two buildings. “He looked confused, but he could walk. They led him into the wagon.”
Blood magic? Maybe just drugs. “All right, thanks. Go back to my clinic and stay there, Alfonse is waiting.”
“Be careful, there was a lot of them.”
“I will.”
She runs off. Good. Now he needs a horse.
The stables are right by the gates, and house the horses of all the travelers who don’t want to be seen passing through the main gates, or of the farmers who’ve come into the city to sell their bruised or misshapen produce to the only people who will buy it. He ducks in and scans for the best-looking horse. A tall black one at the end. He goes to it and unlocks the gate—
“Oi! What d’you think you’re doing?”
Stableboy. Shit. Anders turns. “…I’ll bring it back?”
“I don’t care.” He draws a club. “Fuck off before I knock your head in.”
Anders sighs to himself. The citizens of Darktown can always be counted on for their charity. “How much?”
“Eh?”
“How much do I have to bribe you so you’ll let me take this horse?”
“Oh. Fifteen sovereigns?”
An absurd price, but Anders doesn’t have time to haggle. He digs for his emergency stash on the inside of his robes and hands over the named price. The stableboy hesitates, made bold by the lack of resistance. “Er—I don’t know, maybe twenty-five might do it—“
“Do you want me to set you on fire?”
“Fifteen! Excellent.” The stableboy snatches the coin from Anders’s hands. “She’s all yours.”
“Price like that had better include you saddling her for me.”
“Course, ser. Bridle too? Might take a bit, I don’t know which one’s hers.”
Shit. “No time.” He’ll have to go without.
The sun descends as Anders gallops down the dirt road. The horse responds to the shifting of his weight in the saddle—not as quick as she would to reins, but he doesn’t need maneuverability. He just needs to catch up. He doubts the kidnappers will be in much of a hurry—a wagon going at a gallop would be somewhat suspicious—so he should spot them before too long. In the meantime, he can plan strategy. Setting them all on fire seems like a good idea, but he doesn’t want to set Fenris on fire too. He could freeze them, and when he inevitably misses a couple and they run at him, then…he can try to set them on fire before they stab him dead. Bit chancy, that.
The sullen flicker at the back of his mind. Justice. Whom he may need to call on here, although each time he does, he feels his control slipping just a little bit more. The last thing he needs. If Fenris sees him taken over by a spirit—Anders doesn’t think he can take on Fenris, especially if the kidnappers manage to injure him first. Those tattoos—repel magic somehow.
But, Maker willing, it won’t come to that. Ice first, then fire. And lots of praying.
He passes carts, a few lone riders trudging forward into the gathering dusk, and leaves them all behind. He needs a wagon, drawn by a team of four. His horse gallops forward, steady and even. There, in the distance. A square trundling shape. Anders spurs his horse. Ice. Fire. Praying.
They see him through the back window from fifty yards off. Too far away to start casting. Not too far for bows, though, which Anders discovers when he sees in the dim light a small black missile flying toward him. Tracking it with his eyes, he flings a hand out, crumpling the Veil around it. The arrow shatters apart in a small explosion of flame, the pieces still falling as he charges past it. More arrows pierce the air. Shooting at him when they don’t even know who he is or if he’s streaking down the road for some other reason than pursuit? They must be getting paid very well.
It’s fine. He’s been shot at plenty over the past few years, and he knows how to defend himself by now. The carriage starts trundling faster, but Anders keeps his horse at a gallop, holding on hard with both legs. He’s gaining. Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty-five. Straining his senses, he seeks out the Veil—and feels it there, barely, complete with the faint distortion from Fenris’s lyrium.
He reaches out, combing the Veil through his fingers. In the furrows between the temperature drops to a cold that isn’t found anywhere in Thedas. A couple of people fall frozen from the open back doors. Perfect. Anders pulls the Veil taut around them, thin enough for tongues of flame to lick through, to slip under their armor and dive hungrily into their flesh.
His horse screams. Arrows. Shit. Anders leans forward, finds the arrow stuck in her chest and yanks it out, then presses his hand to the bloody hole and sends a flush of healing magic through her flesh. She whinnies and presses on. Fifteen yards. Another arrow, shot down. Damn, but they’re hard to see in this light. Ten yards. Five.
Anders draws up alongside the wagon and drags the Veil apart. A fissure of flame opens in the air, and the driver screams. Three down, five to go. The team of horses doesn’t slow. Anders spots the roller bolt between the driver’s feet and clasps his fist in the air.
The bolt explodes, and the traces fall free of the wagon. The team pounds on ahead while the wagon begins to roll to a stop. Anders leans, and his horse wheels around.
They pour out of the wagon into the dusk. He counts, keeping his horse at a canter as he circles behind them. One, two, three, four. And the fifth—dragging Fenris with him. Oh, these bastards.
Anders lashes out with one hand, pawing aside the Veil, making way for a spray of ice to leap out at the gathered soldiers—slavers? Hard to tell. They’ve got nice armor, that much is obvious. He only catches one—trying not to get Fenris—arrows, shit, one, two he shoots out of the air, but the third gets his horse’s flank. She whinnies in pain. More used to pulling carts than riding in combat. Damn it all. She goes down, that’s his biggest advantage gone. Anders leans, guiding her back around the wagon. One of the archers fans out to follow him. Idiot. Anders twists in the saddle, claps his hands. Two sheets of fire crash over the man, and he screams, collapsing. The rest were smart enough to stay with their human (elven) shield.
He thinks of drawing his staff. His attacks will be faster, certainly, but less precise, and it’s harder to cast while he’s holding it. The staff stays on his back. As he comes around the other side of the wagon, a pair of archers are waiting for him, but he’s ready and takes their arrows out with a single sweep of flame. They slip back behind the wagon, and Anders canters forward—
—to find a third archer, bow drawn. The arrow gets Anders’s horse in the leg. She screams and staggers; then the leg collapses, and she falls sideways.
Not a hard fall, but Anders’s leg is still trapped under her. Good thing he doesn’t need that to cast, although he does need it to run away, which he will have to do in a moment if he’s to get out of this alive. He casts wildly, throwing out bursts of ice with one hand while using the other to drag himself back. Cover enough, almost—one of them gets close, stabbing downward with a dagger. Anders raises a forearm to block, catching the man’s wrist and diverting his stab into the dirt. Shit. The others will be coming. Anders makes a messy jab at the man’s nose, gets lucky on the angle, feels blood bursting over his closed fingers. He plants his foot on the horse’s back and shoves.
Free, finally, but he doesn’t have time to stand because the others are here, one of them with Fenris in tow. He might be able to cast once—might, and it won’t be enough, they’re too scattered, but he tries anyway, reaching out once more for the Veil, feeling it—slow, too slow, they’re here—
He lashes out. The Veil obeys him—belongs to him, and a graceful swirl of ice spirals around him with vicious precision. It catches the first of the pair running forward, as well as the one whose nose he smashed. They freeze in place, their flesh black and dead.
Which leaves just one to kill.
Anders rises. The last man stumbles back, fear flickering on his face, and jams his knife up under Fenris’s jaw. “Don’t move! Don’t move or I kill the elf!”
Fenris stands with arms at his sides, looking mildly disoriented but nothing else. This would have been easier with his help. But it seems he cannot help. There’s a white glow at the edges of Anders’s vision, piercing the gloom of dusk. He glances down at himself. Oh. It’s him. He’s glowing again. Hadn’t even noticed.
The man retreats up the road. Anders watches him go. Don’t move or I kill the elf. Such an ultimatum is predicated on the assumption that when the man sees Anders moving, he will still be in a condition to consummate his threat.
The cracks of white smolder warmly on Anders’s skin. He must be quite visible in the gathering dark. It will be a gamble, with Fenris’s life as the prize. Or the price. But such a loss is not so great a tragedy as to dissuade him.
Justice raises his hand, a bright blade cutting the night. He does not need to reach for the Veil. The Veil is his. It spikes out, pulling ice from the air. There’s a faint distortion just at that spot. The lyrium, still there, still restless. Would it die if Fenris did?
The two silhouettes stand shadowed and murky past the wagon. There are no cries of pain or surprise. No twitches of deadly movement.
Anders limps up the road—his ankle’s hurt, must have got twisted under the horse. “Fenris?”
No response.
The grip of terror in his gut. He can’t have failed. He can’t have. “Fenris? Are you there?”
Silence. He squints, drawing closer. “Are you all right?”
A frozen statue. And beside it, Fenris, watching Anders, the knife still jammed up under his jaw. His neck is clean of blood.
“Oh, Maker, Fenris—“ Anders stumbles forward, tips Fenris’s chin up, and guides him gingerly away from the knife and out of the frozen statue’s grip. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”
No response. Fenris just stands there, waiting.
Definitely something wrong with him. They didn’t have mages, or he would have seen them during the fight. So it’s got to be poison. “Can I try and heal you? I think you’ve been drugged. I might be able to help.”
Again, no response. Anders decides to give up on those. Very gently, he rests his fingertips on Fenris’s forearm. Fenris does not break his hand or smash a palm into his skull—that’s good, at least. Anders moves his fingers up Fenris’s forearm, smoothing the Veil over his skin so he can see the shape of Fenris’s body and what isn’t right—
The lyrium brands flare bright, and Anders jerks his hand away. “Ow,” he whispers. That burned—not physically, but magically, the Veil deforming and turning on him. Fenris flinches, watches him with terrified eyes. Anders sighs. “All right, maybe magic’s not such a good idea." He doesn't seem to be bleeding anywhere, at least. So perhaps the healing can wait. "How about I get you back to Kirkwall?”
No response.
“Do you understand anything I’m saying?”
No response.
Anders stops and thinks for a minute. He can’t leave Fenris in the middle of the road with eight corpses scattered haphazard about him. And he can’t ask Fenris to come with him, because apparently language is something this drug holds prisoner, for the moment, at least. He could sling Fenris over his shoulder and throw him on the horse, although he would really not like to do that, not while Fenris is still so confused and afraid.
So Anders decides to start smaller. He reaches out and holds Fenris’s arm—lightly, with no magic this time, and the lyrium does not react. Good. “Let’s go home,” Anders says, and tugs, just a little.
Fenris hesitates, then starts walking.
Ah. Perhaps there will be no throwing over shoulders after all. Anders limps forward, and Fenris comes with him—wavering some, Anders notices, and staggering as he goes down the road. But they reach the horse without either of them falling over. “Hang on a minute,” Anders says, and kneels. He tugs the arrow out of her flank, and then the second from her leg, and lays his hands on her. He isn’t glowing anymore. Well, that’s something.
Healing a horse is only slightly more difficult than healing a person, and in a minute her wounds are closed, and she scrambles back to her feet. Anders pats her back. “Fenris, do you remember how to mount?”
Fenris hovers, tentative. His eyes slide from the saddle to Anders to the saddle again. Then he grasps it, steps into the stirrup, and hauls himself up.
Only to start falling backwards. Anders darts forward and plants a hand on Fenris’s ass, another on his lower back. It’s a stable hold, and the fall is aborted before anyone can crack their head open on the dirt. Anders grimaces, shoving Fenris up onto the horse. “You are a lot heavier than you look, you know that?”
Fenris swings his leg over the saddle and does not respond. Anders winces. “Listen, I know you don’t understand me, but I’m sorry for grabbing your ass, I had to, and please don’t kill me when you wake up from all this.”
Fenris stares blankly ahead. Perfect. Anders mounts behind him and readies himself for death. The horse dances sideways a little—not used to carrying this much weight, probably. They’ll have to take it slow. Anders rotates his ankle a bit. Still twinges. Definitely something wrong. Well, he’ll work on it when he gets back. He clicks his tongue and presses his heels into the horse’s flanks.
She starts forward. Fenris begins to slip sideways, and he grasps for the saddlehorn; Anders wraps both arms around him to take hold of the saddlehorn himself. It’s quite easy. “You know, you could really stand to eat more,” Anders observes.
Fenris is quiet. The evening is quiet. Anders sighs quietly. “What a bloody mess.”
They go at a walk. Fenris’s back shifts against Anders’s chest with the rhythm of the horse’s gait. They’ve never been this close to each other for this long. Normally Fenris would no doubt be hissing a long string of acerbic comments at him, and Anders would of course be commenting right back, and a fight might break out right there in the saddle, at which point Anders would probably have his heart ripped out in about three seconds as Fenris has the overwhelming advantage at close range.
But instead Fenris is quiet. Docile, almost. The thought makes Anders shift in discomfort.
By the time they reach the city gates again the sun has disappeared behind the horizon and the sky is a deep purple-black. Anders guides the horse through the streets of Darktown, receiving irritated glares from the passers-by who must flatten themselves against the walls to avoid being trampled. But this is both faster and safer than going on foot. He hopes his reputation will protect his clinic from retributive robbery or vandalism.
He squints up at the sky and mutters an oath. It really is getting dark. He had thought vaguely of taking Fenris up to Hightown and leaving him with Hawke—he’d probably feel safest waking up there—but the street gangs will be out in force. Fenris can’t defend himself, and Anders isn’t sure he could defend both of them, not if they run across someone with a grudge.
“Shit. All right,” he tells Fenris. “You get to spend the night with me. I know, you must be positively thrilled.”
If Fenris is thrilled, he makes no signal to indicate that.
At last the clinic comes into view, and Anders leans back in the saddle. The horse slows, then stops. He dismounts, then holds out a hand to Fenris. “Here.”
Fenris gazes at his hand, bemused—but then takes it and slips off the saddle onto the ground. Less danger-fraught then ass-grabbing. Anders knocks on the door. “It’s me, you can let us in!”
The lock clicks, and Alfonse peers out. “You said there was food in the back.”
“Well—wasn’t there?”
“There was vegetables. Just raw vegetables. Is that what you eat?” Alfonse shakes his head in disapproval and steps back to let them past. “We made soup.”
Oh. He had meant to do that earlier. Apparently he didn’t. He takes Fenris’s arm again and guides him inside. The clinic smells of garlic and rosemary. Anders doesn’t think he had any rosemary. Alfonse or Marie must have gone out and got some.
“Are you all right?” Alfonse asks Fenris.
Fenris doesn’t even look at him. Anders jumps in. “Er, he’s very confused. Doesn’t really understand what anyone says right now. I sort of had to coax him back here. Listen, do you think you could take that horse outside back to the stables quickly, before someone steals it? You can still have dinner here, of course.”
“Course I can. I helped make it, didn’t I?” He turns and goes, shoving the door shut behind him.
Anders brings Fenris over to a chair and tugs his arm down a little. He sits placidly. “How’s that soup looking?” Anders calls.
From the back Marie replies, “I think it’s ready!”
Bowls. Shit. Anders thinks he has three. Hopefully one of them will be done by the time Alfonse gets back. “Stay here, all right?” he says to Fenris, not that it’ll do anything, and limps into the back where Marie’s on tiptoes stirring the big pot of soup she’s got going on the stove. Two bowls on the shelf. “Oh, come on,” he mutters. He knows there are three—oh, there’s the last one.
A high-pitched squeak. A grey-white cat blinks up at him from the corner, her tail curling. Ellen. He hasn’t seen her for a few days. There’s a saucer of scraps (nearly empty) in front of her, and the last bowl half-full of water. Anders used to put the water in a saucer as well, but he broke his second-to-last one a few days ago. Should go buy more, he thinks, just like he thinks every morning about how he should buy a second chair, or a desk that doesn’t wobble, or a blanket that hasn’t been shredded by sharp little claws. He has the money for it, it just—never seems important, somehow. He picks up the bowl and gives Ellen a scratch between the ears. She trots past him and out of the kitchen as he gives the bowl a quick wash. “There.” He holds it out. “I’ll take some out to Fenris.”
Then he realizes Marie is hardly tall enough to stir the soup, let alone ladle it without spilling it everywhere. So he does it himself and plucks a spoon from the cabinet, slipping past Marie into the main room.
Fenris is sitting on the floor. Ellen sits between his crossed legs. His arms are around her, and her tail flicks happily. Even from here Anders can hear the purring. He stares. That’s the first thing Fenris has done on his own, without being directed or prompted. Anders comes over and crouches, setting the bowl aside. “Why don’t I get your gauntlets off before you start petting her?”
No response. The asking, of course, being rather superfluous. Anders pries one of Fenris’s arms out and starts pulling at the buckles of his gauntlet. A minute later and his gauntlets, spaulders, and breastplate are piled under the desk. Ellen licks inquisitively at his bare arms. Anders holds out the soup. “Here. Are you hungry?”
Fenris looks up at him, then the bowl, then the cat. “It’s all right,” Anders says. “I think she’ll stick around.”
Fenris stares a moment longer, then reaches out and takes the bowl. But of course he doesn’t start eating, so Anders mimes the act with an imaginary bowl and spoon. “Go ahead.”
Fenris, tentative, lifts a spoonful of soup and slips it into his mouth. He swallows and dips the spoon back in, this time coming up with a slice of parsnip. Ellen settles down inside his folded legs.
Anders waits until both Alfonse and Marie have eaten before he serves himself. Smoke wanders in for a bit and also takes to Fenris inside of ten seconds, but he’s quickly distracted by the children. He’s young and still a kitten at heart, and as they play with him Anders tries to inspect Fenris a little closer. Fenris’s pupils are slow to accommodate, his hands are clumsy, and his strength when he grips Anders’s finger is far below where it should be, although that might be due to the confusion. He hasn’t gotten any better since Anders found him, either.
Well, hopefully after a good night’s rest he’ll show some improvement.
Anders chases Alfonse and Marie out eventually, after thanking them again for tailing Fenris’s attackers and bringing the news to the clinic. Smoke goes with them, twining around their ankles.
Which leaves Anders with one drugged elf, plus a very affectionate cat.
First he digs up the bedroll he’s had since his Warden days and spreads it out next to his bed—changes the sheets on the bed, too, and pulls an extra blanket out of the shabby pile in the corner. Then he limps over to Fenris, grasping his arm gently and tugging him to get him to stand. “All right, time to turn in.”
Fenris resists. That’s new. He looks up at Anders with wide eyes, his fingers still sunk in Ellen’s pale fur. Oh. “Here, you can take her with you.” Anders crouches, picks Ellen up, and holds her out.
Fenris takes her in his arms. None of the usual brusqueness there. Instead he holds her as if she is the most precious creature in the world. She sits in his arms like a loaf of bread and lets out a contented squeak.
When Anders tries again Fenris stands without complaint and goes to the cramped bedroom. Anders gestures at the bed. “It’s all yours. Not much better than the floor, to be honest, but it’s something.”
Fenris sits on the edge of it. Ellen squirms out of his grasp and arranges herself on the mattress instead, her paws tucked under her. Fenris lies down, still watching her. Anders pulls the covers up over him. “There. You two sleep well now.”
Fenris’s eyes flick up. They really are very green. “I’ll be here if you need me,” Anders tells him, indicating the bedroll.
No response.
Anders sighs and settles down to sleep.