Chapter Text
It had been a totally normal day—until it wasn’t. Though, now that Anders thought about it, perhaps it hadn't been a "normal" day, week, or even month. It was hard to tell what "normal" meant anymore. But by the standards of anyone who had spent as much time with Hawke as he had, this day had seemed relatively typical.
As usual, there was someone who needed help, and as usual, Hawke couldn’t say no. So here Anders was, trudging through a cave system, following a far-too-chipper Hawke who was chatting with an equally chipper dwarf, while a particularly prickly elf followed behind. What had started as a simple trip—a quick jaunt to the coast to kill slavers and rescue innocents—had stretched on, like everything else they did. A quick in-and-out mission, maybe a day at most. But when had anything ever gone according to plan for them? He was at least glad he'd planned to be away from the clinic for a couple of days, just in case. Really, he needed to learn to say no to Hawke.
Finally, after what felt like hours of walking, the cave opened up into a cavern filled with cages and the remnants of a slaver base. But there were no people—no slavers, no innocents. Maybe they’d gone to the wrong cave? Wouldn’t that be just perfect? Anders suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at their luck. Varric and Hawke had already wandered in, poking through cages, rifling through boxes, and generally looting without a care in the world. Behind him, he could hear Fenris moving about, alert for danger, his attitude the exact opposite of Hawke’s. While Hawke’s approach could be described as aloof and reckless, Fenris’s leaned closer to paranoia. Perhaps, in this case, paranoia had merit, Anders thought to himself. Something about this situation felt… wrong. Unsettling.
The first sign that something was wrong—aside from the glaring red flag of an empty cavern—came in the form of a barrage of arrows that narrowly missed the looting pair. Within seconds, the cavern erupted with the sounds of slavers rushing in, and Anders swore under his breath as his hand instinctively went to his staff. He heard Fenris do the same behind him, his sword drawn with a soft scrape.
How had they managed to make such an amateur mistake?
As a mage, Anders’s role was supposed to be simple: stay out of the fray and focus on healing and buffing his companions. But Hawke never followed traditional formations, and neither had the Grey Wardens. Over time, Anders had become proficient in close combat out of necessity. It was the only way to keep the whole party alive. But it made balancing his healing duties and keeping an eye on everyone much trickier, especially with their archer—who should have been safely at the back—now swarmed by enemies. And of course, Hawke was in the thick of it as well.
"Damn Hawke," Anders muttered under his breath, dodging a swinging blade. "Only bringing one melee fighter into a cave this small!" At this rate, Anders would burn through his mana just keeping Hawke and Varric standing.
He cast a quick healing spell toward Varric, who was still fighting off one of the slavers. The dwarf’s shoulder was bleeding, but nothing serious. Still, it was a risk Anders couldn’t afford to take with a fight like this.
Fenris was another story. There were many disadvantages to having a moody, angry ex-slave in their party. Chief among them was his general attitude and outright disdain for mages. But there were advantages too. Fenris had been trained as a mage’s bodyguard, and that experience meant he understood the importance of keeping certain party members from being completely surrounded by enemies with swords. Anders had lost track of their warrior for a moment, but then he spotted him—Fenris was cutting his way through the slavers with a precision that was nearly as terrifying as it was impressive. The group around Hawke and Varric began to thin out, giving them enough space to push forward—at least the elf understood the concept of formation.
The slavers were growing desperate. Their own mages began raining fire and lightning down on the battlefield, striking their own men in the process. Anders scanned the battlefield again. Hawke and Varric were still holding their own to his right. Just as he pushed a cocky rogue away with his staff, his eyes found the flash of white hair in the distance.
Fenris was surrounded—too many enemies, too few options. His left arm was bleeding heavily, and somehow, he had lost his sword. Anders swore under his breath, torn between his fight and the growing desperation he felt for the elf. He was just about to deal with his last opponent when a flash of blue light caught his eye. Several of the slavers around Fenris collapsed in a heap.
The strange flash tugged at Anders’s senses like a sudden pull from the Fade, a flicker of magic, too brief to fully comprehend but undeniable. His pulse quickened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The magic wasn’t his own, nor did it feel like anything he’d felt before. It was raw and uncontrolled, like the first spark of a mage discovering their power.
Anders froze. What was the flash? his eyes whipped around the carver looking for an enemy mage, but Hawke and Varric seemed to have felled them already. Had he imagined it? Turning back towards the warrior his breath caught, the elf hadn't moved. He was just standing there, as if he'd forgotten that there was currently a group of slavers trying to kill them.
"Fenris! Fenris, damn it—Hawke, Varric, something’s wrong!" Anders shouted, his voice barely carrying over the noise of the battle. He didn’t know what had happened, but something was wrong.
Anders fought his way through the remaining slavers, each swing of his staff growing more frantic as he tried to close the distance. But the fight didn’t matter anymore. His focus was entirely on Fenris, who remained unresponsive as the slavers regrouped and closed in. The elf’s posture was rigid, his breath shallow and panicked, eyes darting in a way that Anders had only seen in refugees who had been through too much. This wasn’t a warrior—this was a man who had lost all sense of control.
"Fenris! Move!" Anders shouted again, his voice raw with urgency.
Fenris didn’t move.
The sight of the usually unshakable elf standing frozen in a battle like this… it wasn’t right. Anders had seen panic before, but this was different. This wasn’t just fear—it was something worse.
Fortunately, after what felt like an eternity, the others finally caught on to Anders’s frantic calls and quickly dealt with the remaining slavers. The sound of their enemies falling was a small relief, but it was short-lived. Fenris remained unmoving, standing rigid as ever, his gaze fixed on the ground, as if he hadn't heard a word.
"You holding up okay, elf?" Varric called across the cavern.
Hawke frowned before glancing toward Anders. "Did you see anything?"
Anders moved closer, his voice low but edged with concern. "Fenris, come on, talk to me. What’s going on?" But the elf didn’t respond, didn’t even twitch.
"Hey, broody, you hear us?" Varric repeated.
Fenris remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the ground. For years, Anders had only thought of Fenris as someone who could express anger or apathy—perhaps unfairly—not this wave of terror and anxiety that seemed to radiate from him.
"Hawke, Varric, either of you injured?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. Both companions shook their heads, still watching Fenris, reluctant to break their focus. "Go see if anyone’s carrying anything useful. I’ll handle this."
Neither seemed thrilled with the suggestion, but Varric caught on quickly and pulled Hawke to the far end of the cavern to loot the bodies.
"Fenris..." Still no response. Anders took a cautious step forward, aware that the warrior’s left arm was injured, possibly his side as well. Beyond that, the blood staining Fenris's form made it impossible to tell what was his and what belonged to the slavers. A usual frustration—Fenris’s tendency to get lost in the chaos of close-quarters combat—flickered at the back of Anders’s mind. Under any other circumstances, he might have teased the elf about it, sparking one of their usual biting exchanges. Anything to break the silence and return to some semblance of normality.
As Anders drew closer, healing magic instinctively began to pool in his hands. It was this that finally snapped Fenris out of his daze. The elf's wide eyes locked onto him, filled with raw fear, and he let out a guttural cry in Tevene—a sound that twisted in Anders's gut. Fenris scrambled backward, tripping over his own feet as he retreated, his sword forgotten as he passed it, pressing himself against the cavern wall.
Not a good sign.
Anders had long learned to navigate Fenris's "no magic" rule, a dance of delicate unpredictability. Some days the elf tolerated healing, especially in battle—sometimes even requesting it. On others, Anders would need to rely on other methods. But this... this was different. There were no sharp words or angry gestures. Fenris's reaction felt less like defiance and more like resignation—like a cornered animal, drained of its will to fight, desperate to flee from an unseen terror. This wasn’t the Fenris Anders knew, and the sight felt entirely wrong.
Quickly, Anders dispelled the healing magic and raised his hands in what he hoped would be seen as a placating gesture. He crouched down, trying to make himself less intimidating—an action he never thought he would need to take with the warrior.
“No magic. That’s fine,” Anders said softly. “I just need to look at your arm. I promise, no magic.”
The words felt almost absurd, and Anders was aware of how ridiculous he must seem, but he couldn’t afford to spook Fenris any further. Even without his sword, the elf was dangerous. Anders wasn’t sure how much focus Fenris needed to use his lyrium abilities, but he had no doubt the elf could hurt himself—and everyone else—if this spiraled out of control.
When he finally managed to get close enough, it became clear that even non-magical treatment wasn’t going to be enough. Fenris had all but collapsed to the floor, muttering in Tevene, eyes wild, as if expecting an attack at any moment. He seemed completely unaware of Anders’s presence, his movements erratic and panicked.
With a sleep spell already primed, Anders reached out cautiously to touch the elf’s arm, hoping to assess the injury. The moment his fingers made contact, Fenris’s demeanor shifted instantly. The terror evaporated, replaced by something darker. He lunged at Anders, teeth bared, a growl rising from deep in his throat.
The spell took effect before they could connect, and Fenris collapsed, his body going limp falling against Anders causing the mage to stumbled back, struggling to maintain his balance. He stayed there for a moment. What in the void just happened? His hands shook as he adjusted Fenris, shifting the unconscious elf to the floor.
"You alright Blondie?" Varric practically appeared to his left.
Anders let out a shaky breath, his pulse still racing from the sudden shift in Fenris's behavior. His mind was a whirlwind, trying to process what had just happened. The elf, so controlled, so guarded, had just... snapped. It didn’t make any sense. Fenris had been surrounded by enemies, sure, but that hadn’t been the first time. Why had this time been different? And why had he reacted that way to Anders’s touch?
"I—I’m fine," Anders muttered, though his voice was less certain than he would’ve liked. He glanced down at the prone form of Fenris, whose chest was rising and falling in shallow breaths, the tension still radiating from his body despite the sleep spell. Anders’s mind was still racing.
"Crisis over yet?" Hawke asked, causally leaning against the cavern wall behind Varric.
Anders didn;t reply. What could he say? He was still trying to figure out the last few minuets himself.
"Yeah, I think we're clear," Varric said, his tone light, though Anders could detect the underlying concern. "But I think it's best we cut this short and get the elf back to Kirkwall."
Hawke looked completely unfazed. "He’s fine," he waved a hand dismissively, as if the situation were nothing more than a minor inconvenience to be solved by some simple charm and a few well-placed words. "Just wake him up. He can walk. Whatever it was, it’s likely just a momentary lapse."
Anders fought the urge to throw something at the other mage. Hawke’s irrepressible tendency to downplay serious situations was one of his more irritating qualities, but this time, it bordered on reckless. What Anders had witnessed was far worse—Fenris had looked like a man drowning in his own fear, his entire being overtaken by a terror so consuming that it had dragged him completely out of reality. He had lashed out, like a cornered animal, no longer even a warrior but a prisoner of his own mind
"Momentary lapse," Anders muttered under his breath, his tone sharp as he rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to snap back.
The dwarf, however, had been uncharacteristically quiet since He and Hawke had returned to join Anders, his usual stream of sarcastic quips and dry humor notably absent. Instead, his gaze kept drifting back to Fenris, who was laying unconscious when Anders sleep spell had left him.
“I don’t know if waking him up is a good idea,” he said, his gaze flicking between Hawke and Anders. "The elf looked like he was ready to rip someone’s throat out before you knocked him out. What if he bolts? Or worse—what if he turns on us?" Varric paused, his voice softening, his tone far more serious than it had been in a long while. “I don’t think any of us want to find out what happens if he goes berserk out here.”
Hawke’s casual demeanor hadn’t shifted, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes as he met Varric’s gaze. Anders realised that he knew, deep down, that Varric was right. But that didn’t mean he was about to back down. “We’ll be fine,” Hawke said, though there was a hesitance in his voice now, a rare crack in his usual bravado. “Fenris isn't stupid. He’ll calm down.”
Anders didn’t share Hawke’s optimism. Fenris wasn’t stupid, no—but fear had a way of warping a person. He'd seen it at the Circle, at the clinic. Void, he’d even seen it in himself.
Hawke groaned theatrically, glancing up at the cavern ceiling, clearly realizing he wasn’t going to win this one. "Fine. I'll carry him," he muttered, shooting an exaggerated glare at Anders. "But if we get back to Kirkwall and he wakes up fine, I'm not going to be happy."
--
Fenris awoke more slowly than usual. If he'd felt more aware, this might have annoyed him. He hadn’t spent most of his life learning to never let his guard down, even in sleep, for nothing.
Forcing his eyes open, Fenris was greeted by dim light filtering through heavy curtains, casting uneven shadows across polished wooden floors and ornate furniture. The air carried a faint scent of lavender, an unfamiliar luxury that unsettled him as much as the surroundings themselves. His breath caught in his chest as he scanned his surroundings.
The Amell Estate.
It took a moment for the disorienting realization to fully register. Last he remembered, he had been hunting slavers along the Wounded Coast, the air thick with blood and violence. How had it gone from that to this? His mind grasped for the missing pieces—the flash of blue light, the chaos of battle—but they were elusive, slipping through his fingers like sand.
His pulse quickened as fragmented memories fought to push through. The more he focused, the more they became distorted, as if something important had been erased. The gnawing uncertainty of not knowing what had happened clawed at his mind.
He stood quickly, the sudden movement making his head spin. There was no time to linger. He needed to leave. Slip away unnoticed, gather his thoughts, and figure out whatever had happened—alone.
Moving as quietly as possible, he made his way toward the door. His bare feet made almost no sound against the wooden floor, only the rush of his breath—quick and shallow—as he tried to collect himself.
His sword rested against a nearby table, and he seized it without hesitation, sheathing it in one fluid motion.
He pushed the door open, careful not to make a sound. The faint murmur of voices reached him—the unmistakable, brash tone of Hawke and the quieter, more controlled voice of Anders. The quiet was tense, as though one was fighting to maintain control while the other tried to push through the barrier with his usual bluntness.
His path to the front door was clear. Across the lobby, through the entryway, and out the door. From there, it would be a short distance to his stolen mansion.
He moved quickly, silently, his heart beating a steady rhythm of urgency. This was what he had to do. He probably should feel a little bad sneaking away like this. No explanation. No word. But he never asked to be brought here after... whatever had happened. He'd explain to Hawke later. After he had figured things out.
The voices grew louder as he crept closer to the door.
“Hawke, this is serious.” Anders’s voice was low, but the strain was clear.
“You knocked him out. He'll wake up, and it will be over.” Hawke’s answer was casual, but something about it felt off, as though his words were a thin veneer hiding unease or impatience he didn’t want to admit. "This time next week we'll all be laughing about 'the time Fenris freaked out.'"
But Anders didn’t back down. “It’s not that simple. He wasn’t himself. Something happened in that cave, something I don’t fully understand yet. He—”
"You're overthinking it." Hawke interjected, the sharpness in his tone betraying a hint of frustration.
Fenris froze mid-step, his heart thudding in his chest. It wasn’t just the fact they were talking about him—it was the tone, the tension, the feeling of being scrutinized in ways that left him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
He could feel the growing panic inside him again. He had to leave.
Without a second thought, he pushed the door open fully, stepping out into the night.