Chapter Text
The boy lurked in the corner of the clinic, dark shadows underneath his eyes. As the last patient left he timidly approached the healer. "It happened again." He whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.
"I knew him." He said, his small voice breaking over the words. "He never hurt nobody, he was a good mage. I remember, one day, he helped us. It rained and the night was so cold. We didn't have no way of keeping warm and he came to us. He used his fade touch, he made the fire light, and my mama stopped shivering."
The boy started to cry, "You know my mama ain't around anymore. And, and the last one he got. She was a good mage too, gave us food in the summer. They were the sweetest apples I ever tasted, she stole them from a nobleman's orchard."
"They were good mages, I know it. Why does he do it sir? Why?"
"Please sir, please, you have to stop him. I know where he'll be tonight. I know who he's going to kill next. I tried to tell the guard but they won't listen to me."
After telling his story the boy was given a calming embrium drought and lead to one of the infirmary's cots. Anders insisted that the boy rest and when sleep finally claimed the child the healer quietly slipped out of the clinic and onto the streets of darktown, a blue rage burning in his eyes.
...
The sword slides out of the unlucky mage, he chokes on the blood welling up in his throat. He coughs and splutters, red droplets flying from his mouth and dripping down his chin as the light leaves his eyes.
The murderer spits in disgust and mumbles something about blood magic. He'd been hunting this particular group of mages for weeks. They were evil, vile, and manipulative creatures.
To think that those children had once looked up to them. Magic truly does destroy everything it touches.
His only regret in hunting these monsters is that Hawke cannot join in this hunt. The foolish man would be crushed to know of this. Hawke is, after all, in love with a blood mage. He believes that there is hope for them, that kindness resides in even the worst.
Fenris knows that Hawke is wrong, but Hawke does not need to know.
The elf cleans his blade with a red cloth and a scowl on his face.