Chapter Text
The cake was delivered at the crack of dawn, before the clinic was even open, by a starry-eyed young woman— though the stars in her eyes weren’t for Anders. Her new husband worked in the Bone Pit, and had all the fingers on his right hand crushed by a falling rock.
The hand was past traditional healing, and no Circle mage would be allowed to leave the Gallows to help—it struck Anders as past corrupt and into the realm of evil, that mages were confined so, leaving their valuable skills at the beck and call of the Chantry and those powerful enough to call in a favor.
It was the work of an hour to heal the fingers, and the young man’s wife had clung to him weeping. She worked for an impossibly high class Hightown bakery, and after staggering into the Darktown clinic with the enormous cake, Anders was impressed that no one had tried to take it from her—it covered a quarter of his writing desk, and was quite a way of saying thank you.
The cake, the young woman told him before tripping out the door again, was made with leftovers from the bakery and, Anders assumed, some ingredients she had bought herself. The flour was rough, and a bit grainy, and the fruit in the batter consisted of dried apple, apricots and cherries, instead of the gluey jewel-bright preserved fruit that Hightown nobles favored.
Most interestingly to Anders at least was the crisp brown icing on top that the baker told him was made of raw brown sugar and butter cooked together upon a stove. She seemed a bit embarrassed that the cake was not a pale bland confection like the usual customers preferred, but after a few minutes of Anders’ profuse thanks, she blushed and left the clinic happily, leaving Anders alone with the largest cake he’d ever seen.
Using his wood-handled belt knife, Anders cut a thick slice of the cake, and ate it, absently. Then another. And another.
Throwing good sense to the wind, Anders ate a third of the cake, until he was fairly certain his stomach would burst. It was the first time he’d eaten his fill in—three years?, leaving his stomach feeling more settled than it had in recent memory. Grey Wardens could not starve to death—only grow more gaunt. It made sense, as Anders was fairly sure that Grey Wardens and darkspawn shared that trait. It was easy to justify not eating as much when others needed food to see another day, but Anders had caught a glimpse of his reflection the other day and had barely recognized himself, and for once even Justice agreed that it was probably not a good idea to continue depriving himself.
With a last longing glance at the cake, Anders opened the clinic.
It wasn’t that busy of a day—leaving Anders free to make a few potions and set them aside to bottle as he healed a few festering cuts and broken bones. He was about to close the clinic for a must needed cleaning when a familiar boot kicked open the door.
Isabela and Hawke each had an arm under one of Fenris’ shoulders, the elf’s feet barely brushing the ground. His hair was matted with blood, and he looked conscious, if dazed. The black of his armor covered any blood that was there, yet its silver was splashed with blood instead of dully gleaming.
“Down here,” Anders directed, and the two rogues gently lay their burden down on one of the cots.
“That looks nasty,” Anders commented. “Head wound?”
“That and more,” Hawke panted, stretching with his hands in the smalls of his back. “I think Fenris only leaps into the middle of the fray because he knows you’ll have to heal him after.”
“You bastard,” Anders said to the barely conscious elf. A nudge of magic had Fenris slip into true unconsciousness, and Hawke looked to Anders with worry.
“I think he’d prefer not to be awake for this,” Anders said. “I’ll get him standing and yelling in no time at all.”
“You could leave him prone and yelling,” said Isabella, leaning against the wall with a faint wince. Anders in passing pressed a hand to her shoulder, healing a few nicks and stretched muscles. She goosed him in gratitude.
“Getting a healer was your best decision,” Anders heard her say to Hawke as the two left, but not before Hawke could unclip Fenris’ sword from his back and lean it against the wall.
“All my decisions are good,” Hawke said smugly.
“Obviously not or you wouldn’t have ended up in Kirkwall,” was the last thing Anders heard before closing the door behind them.
He turned to Fenris, who was not looking at the top of his game. His normally gleaming head was dark and matted with blood, and it had turned his face into a gory mask.
Ignoring that for now, Anders set to work. Laying his hands on Fenris’ head, he concentrated. It was good that he’d been brought, as blood was pooling where the blow had landed, pressing into the brain tissue.
It was not quick work to heal, and Anders was more than grateful when no one burst into the clinic to distract him. But soon the wound was nearly healed completely, and the lines of pain that Anders recognized smoothed from Fenris’ narrow face.
The elf wouldn’t even wake up with a headache.
“Still got it,” Anders murmured to himself, allowing himself a grin. He got up and went to the corner where a barrel of ice and water stood waiting, and dipped a rag into the icy slush. He entertained just flopping the wet rag on the elf’s face, but coincided that would probably deserve a clawed hand ripping his liver out. He concentrated, and the towel began to steam slightly. Waving away some of the heat, he gently draped the warm rag over Fenris’ face, and wiped away the crusted blood. Then he cleaned Fenris’ hair as best as he could, until the white strands squeaked beneath his fingers and only a few streaks of blood remained.
That done, he looked at Fenris and thought. He could shake the elf awake, but natural sleep was the best cure for most ills, and he could monitor the effects of his healing. But there was no way the elf would rest easy covered in steel as he was.
Anders spent some precious time wresting the armor off the unresponsive elf, then was faced with another problem entirely.
The lyrium lines ran smoothly down Fenris’ arms, undisturbed by scars and humming softly beneath Anders’ fingers. But the skin around the lines, despite Fenris’ dark skin, was deep red, puffy and hot to the touch.
Infection, Anders thought wildly. He extended his magic without a thought, and winced at what he encountered—the channels in Fenris’ skin where the lyrium had been poured were raw, as if they’d never healed.
“What in Andraste’s name…?” Anders sat, stumped. The only place where Fenris’ lyrium was not burning his skin was on his chin and neck.
Anders pondered this, holding the elf’s limp arm and examining it. Then he noticed what a thin arm it was.
“Maker,” he breathed, as one of his hands circled Fenris’ bicep completely. The elf was slender, but this was ridiculous–
A horrible thought occurred to him, and he rose and went to look at Fenris’ sword, and he grabbed the bloody handle, yelping when it toppled, wrenching his wrist.
It was heavy, vastly so. And Fenris was hefting it like it was a feather pillow, despite lacking much muscle mass.
It had to be the lyrium allowing him to do so, but his lack of muscle meant that he must be using the lyrium constantly.
Maker, had the stupid elf not been eating? Anders cast his mind back and remembered seeing him share meals with the others, but considering all the battles that Hawke took him on, if Fenris wasn’t eating more than that…
Anders nodded sharply, then moved back to Fenris’ side.
Another 20 minute bout of healing had the lyrium channels healed up as best as they could be, and left Anders swaying. He sighed, and went to blow out the lantern–if anything was dire, people would bang the door down, he was sure.
He put the kettle on, and boiled a great kettle of water, and used some precious tea leaves to make a pot of tooth-scouring black tea, and into a good-sized cracked bowl poured the steaming tea, adding a generous few spoonfuls of honey. Taking an absent sip, he kicked a chair over to the side of the bed.
Fenris frowned and shifted.
Anders put the tea down on the chair and found a plate, and cut a generous slab of cake, one that exceeded the edges of the plate, and put it on the chair as well.
Fenris woke before the tea had stopped steaming. Anders had been picking the leaves off elfroot when the elf sat straight up on the cot, and then twisted to face him.
”You’re in the clinic,” Anders said, his hands not stopping. “There’s tea,” he added, pointing with his chin.
”Mage,” the elf said, his initial look of trepidation flattening into his usual grim mask. He moved to get off the cot, and Anders sighed.
“You took quite a knock,” Anders said shortly. The elf seemed to realize this as well, as his knees giving out, making him sit heavily on the edge of the cot.
“If you’re not nauseous, you should eat and drink,” Anders said, not looking at Fenris.
He could imagine the elf looking at the spread on the chair.
“What is this?” Fenris finally said, his voice free of inflection.
“It’s food,” Anders said. “Just eat it before you leave.”
“Where are my things?” the elf demanded. Anders lifted his head finally.
“Sword,” Anders pointed. “Armor,” he added, pointing at Fenris’ gauntlets, shoulder guards and breastplate. He had wiped the blood off, until the armor pieces gleamed dully in the firelight.
“I don’t need food,” Fenris said tightly, going over to his armor and putting it on with quick jerky movements.
“Wait,” Anders said, finally abandoning the elfroot with a sigh. “Fenris, we need to talk about your markings.”
The elf stilled, and turned only slightly so that Anders could see only one green eye. Silently the elf put on the rest of his armor, then turned to Anders.
“There is nothing to talk about,” Fenris said.
“I healed you—wait!” Anders got his feet, moving in front of Fenris as he went for his sword.
“They’re irritating your skin—it was like an infection,” Anders said.
The elf looked shocked, as if he had hardly noticed his own sad state. He raised one arm and stared at it, the skin around the markings now flat and dark instead of puffed and red.
“Thank you,” he muttered and moved as to go around Anders.
The thanks made Anders blink, but he still stepped in front of Fenris again.
“I—we need to talk about this,” he insisted.
“We do not,” Fenris said, finally meeting Anders’ eyes.
“I mean nothing by it,” Anders insisted. “It can’t be good for you. Look, just sit, and eat, all right? Hear me out.”
Turning quickly, Anders got another bowl of tea and a chair. Fenris had made no move to leave, but also remained standing, uncomfortably shifting.
Anders set down his own tea and the chair, and, in a moment of whimsy, he swept his arms dramatically in a bow toward the cot.
“It’s no Hightown mansion, Ser, but I hope you’ll find it satisfactory,” he said cheekily. He needed to put Fenris at his ease—so jokes and smiles were the way.
Fenris huffed, but stode forward and settled on the cot. Anders took a slurp of tea, and sat back, thinking about what to say.
“Your head injuries aside,” he started slowly, “I noticed today that your skin around the markings was inflamed. How long has this been happening for?”
“Years now,” Fenris said warily. “Maybe three.”
It had been four years since Fenris had arrived in Kirkwall. Anders quieted for a moment, thinking.
He noticed Fenris’ eyes were glued on the cake set on the chair.
“Eat that,” he said absently. “ It’s for you.”
One clawed hand closed hesitantly around the plate’s edge, and Anders swirled his tea.
“I think I know what your problem is, and lucky you, it’s easily fixed.” he said after a long moment, not looking at Fenris. The clink of metal on ceramic stopped.
When Anders had escaped from the Circle, he had barely known how to take care of himself as an adult, and had feared leaving his small boltholes for fear of capture, which is why he spent four months without leaving the Pearl—not for the reasons Isabela had insinuated. Fenris seemed to have much the same problem, the combination of looking over his shoulder and the fear of his ignorance combining to make leaving his mansion a harrowing experience. Even to buy food. Even to seek healing. Maker, the elf had to be suffering.
“First,” Anders said. ”Have you considered using a smaller sword?”
“No,” Fenris said irritably, and Anders looked up. The cake was gone, and the plate was balanced on Fenris’ knees.
“Are you sure? Because as terrifying as that nugsticker is, you’d be just as deadly with a lighter sword,” Anders said, trying to draw on his dusty and long-unused charm.
“So the problem is with my sword? Spit it out, mage.“
Anders breathed deeply through his nose. Charm, he reminded himself.
“Fenris, you are ridiculously strong,” he said. “But the truth is, you’re not eating enough. Just hear me out,” he said sharply, when the elf opened his mouth.
“I don’t know if you used to be more muscular than you are now, but you’re dangerously thin, even if you didn’t run around with Hawke fighting half the day.” Fenris had to understand, and Anders caught his gaze and held it. “To even carry that sword, you must be using your lyrium all the time, Fenris. You need to build up muscle so that it’s not such a problem.”
He set his tea down, and ticked off on his fingers. “Your arms were the worst off, but your torso and legs were also a mess, because they have to bear the weight.”
Anders peered at Fenris. “I know it’s hard to care for yourself when you feel like something’s breathing down your neck, but if you are going to keep fighting the way you are without seriously hurting yourself, then you need to build up your body’s strength, and not rely so much on the lyrium.”
Fenris tore his eyes away, and Anders felt a surge of compassion for the prickly elf.
“That’s all. Drink the tea as well, and you can go,” he said softly.
Fenris’ head whipped around, and he looked incensed.
Anders flinched, and amended, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do! But it’s sweet, and will give you a bit more energy.”
“It’s not an issue,” the elf said tightly. “You don’t even know if my habits are a problem. And I can handle the pain.”
“But you don’t have to,” Anders said, his voice rising. “You don’t need to be in pain, you idiot! You don’t need to punish yourself.” He rose to his feet, and Fenris did as well, scowling.
As he and Fenris glowered at each other, Anders took a deep breath. Charm, charm! he scolded himself. Maker, he was rusty. “Did you like the cake?” he said.
It came out a little flatly, but Fenris still looked taken aback.
“Well?”
“I…”
That was enough of an answer for Anders. He stooped and picked up the bowl of tea, and before Fenris could react, pressed it into his gauntleted hand. Then he turned and went into his room.
Oh, it almost made him cry to do this. But even Justice, who had sat in his mind watching the events unfold like a wary tiger, lashing tail and all, stirred to remind him “You have no need to eat, not as others do.”
“Yes, Justice, I do, but he’s not exactly dying here–”
Justice gave his equivalent of a shrug—he wasn’t particularly invested in Fenris’ well-being, and slinked away into the recesses of Anders’ mind.
Anders busied himself with a large piece of clean sheetcloth, and marched back into the clinic with the rest of the precious cake, wrapped up tightly.
“Take this,” he said, and Fenris coughed a little in surprise, rivulets of tea running down one side of his mouth, and warily wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand, making no move to take the bundle from Anders.
“It’s more of the cake,” Anders said after a moment of silence, damning himself for starting to blush. He was Fenris’ healer, giving the elf much needed food should not feel so embarrassing.
“I don’t need it,” the elf said hoarsely, sounding, oh Maker, was he embarrassed as well?
For a brief moment, the look on Fenris’ face was pure misery, and Anders realized it was shame, not embarrassment that Fenris was feeling. And that wouldn’t do.
Anders smiled, and held out the package invitingly. “It’s good, but not much to my taste,” he said cheerfully. “We Anders of the Anderfels aren’t used to fine things like Hightown cakes. My upbringing compels me to give this to someone who will appreciate it.”
Lies. Anders loved—or used to—love fine things, the more glittering, or delicious, or expensive the better. But Fenris didn’t know that.
He thrust the package into Fenris’ arms, hoping the cake would not crumble overmuch.
“All yours,” he said cheerily to the stymied elf. “Three meals a day, as much meat and bread and green stuff as you can manage. Less wine. Next time I see you I want to see biceps– ” he made a circle with his hand– “This big.”
He turned his back on the elf. “See you Fenris,” he called out, and it hurt his sense of the dramatic to only have a curtain to swish behind him.
After a few moments, he chanced a look into the clinic. The elf was gone, and his heart lifted to note that the precious bundle was not tossed on the floor or against the wall.