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It was a dark, cold night in Lowtown. Wintermarch had just begun, but the First Day’s celebrations had been cut short by a sudden cold spell that had swept northwards over Fereldan before invading Kirkwall, along with most of the Free Marches. All around the City of Chains, doors and windows had been shut tight to keep out the cold. Some were even concerned that the harbour would freeze over. Every so often, a frigid blast of air would come shrieking inland, chilling the bones of any individual unlucky enough to be caught outdoors.
One such miserable soul hugged his arms close to his chest, trying in vain to ward off the icy winds. Rufus shivered quietly beneath the dim light of the moon, unable to stop his body from trembling beneath his robes. He hated Kirkwall. He despised everything about the loathsome city: from the stench of the stagnant sewer air that constantly drifted up from the Undercity, to the way the Chantry’s bells could be heard ringing out all the way from up in Hightown no matter how far one tried to get away. The bells served as a reminded that the city was held in the clutches of those who served the pretender on the Sunburst Throne, a fact that every mage in Kirkwall was keenly aware of. Rufus had seen the templars prowling the streets every last wretched day he had spent here, their arrogance and self-righteousness radiating off them like a foul odour. It was no wonder the mages in Kirkwall were so weak-willed and powerless when their oppressors roamed so freely. Rufus had been to many southern towns and cities, from Denerim to Ostwick, but none had had the same air of hatred for mages that was so ubiquitous in Kirkwall. It made his blood boil to see the rightful rulers of mankind be so downtrodden and spineless. But not even the fires of rage within him were enough to keep out the chill that was now gripping even his bones.
Rufus sneezed. He hated Kirkwall.
He was getting impatient. Tonight was to be his last night in the Free Marches before he and his crew finally returned home to Tevinter. Every last one of them had been hotly anticipating their departure from the South. But his man was late. Rufus had been standing outside in the cold and the stench for far too long, and his anger was growing. He’d thought about lighting a flame with magic to warm himself, but he didn’t want to risk drawing the attention of the templars who occasionally passed by on their patrols. He couldn’t afford to be found out now – not when he was so close to sitting warm by a fire in Qarinus again. He thought of the young elven girl his lord had let him keep for himself. She’d been so spirited once. Now she was meek and placid, and Rufus thought her the best of all his slaves. He was greatly looking forward to seeing her again.
Rufus heard footsteps approaching from his right, and turned to see a short, robed man holding a lantern, hobbling slowly towards him. The light played on his face, revealing a hooked nose and a pair of watery eyes. Rufus stepped out from the darkened spot he’d been lurking in upon recognising the nearing figure.
“You’re late, Celsus,” Rufus drawled. “Tell me why. Bear in mind that whatever pitiful excuse you give me will be relayed to our lord. And he won’t be quite as understanding as me.”
Celsus bowed his head low. “You have my sincerest apologies,” he wheedled. “We ran into a spot of trouble in Darktown.”
“What sort of trouble?” A vein pulsed in Rufus’ temple. He loathed his so-called “business partner”, Celsus, almost as much as he did Kirkwall itself. The man was a spineless worm who cared about nothing but coin and profit. The way he bent himself double to grovel and beg so often, Rufus doubted he had ever stood up straight in his entire life.
“...Perhaps you had better come and see for yourself.”
Celsus looked over his shoulder as a cart approached out of the gloom. It had been following some distance behind Celsus, finally catching up as he had come to a halt. It was an old, wooden thing, drawn by two muscle-bound men. The same sort of cart could be seen all around Kirkwall, especially around the docklands, where they were generally used to transport fish and other goods brought in daily on ships. A drab cloth or tarp had been drawn over the cart’s contents, hiding them from the watchful gaze of any patrolling guardsman or templar.
Celsus jerked his head, urging Rufus to approach the cart. He strolled over, trying not to let the little man notice his shivering body, and flung the cloth aside. Lying beneath was a collection of half a dozen unconscious bodies, male and female alike. Rufus counted two elves and four humans. The elves were both young and female, and their facial resemblance was almost uncanny, leading him to assume they were siblings – possibly twins. Then again, all elves looked the same to him.
“You’re telling me these little knife-ears gave you trouble?” Rufus sneered at Celsus, only for the little man to shake his head.
“No, no, it was him.” Celsus pointed at one of the humans, a tall man with a stubbled face and dressed in light-coloured clothes, complete with buckles that fastened them shut. His angular face was atypical for a Marcher, as was his hair.
“Fereldan?” Rufus grunted.
“Perhaps,” Celsus muttered. “But when we found him, he tried to fend us off using that.”
Celsus indicated a long, wooden staff, intricately carved with runes, lying next to the unconscious man. Rufus recognised it at once – why wouldn’t he? It was the staff of a mage.
For the first time in weeks, Rufus’ face split into a grin.
“Lord Regulus will be pleased,” he told his companion. “Now, come. We’ll bring them to the warehouse.”
The cart was heavy. Even with Celsus’ two assistants on hand, it took some time to carry the captives all the way across Lowtown to the warehouse on the docks. Fortunately, they did not encounter any guardsmen or templars who may have been wary of their cargo. At last, they reached the warehouse, quickly and quietly unloaded the cart and carried the unconscious bodies inside. Before long, each of them were tied up to either the floor or the wall, chains tightly binding them. Now that they were all separate and in a better light, Rufus could examine them more closely. First was a human woman, wearing drab clothes and with sandy blonde hair. Her face was gaunt and pale – she likely had been taken from one of the poorer parts of Lowtown. She would have a happier life, he was certain, in slavery. After all, at least her master would feed her regularly.
Next was a young man with dark hair and broad shoulders. He looked perfectly healthy to Rufus, who supposed that he would be put to work doing manual labour.
The next human was another man, older than the previous one. His skin was tanned and leathery, and Rufus could see the calluses on his strong hands, bound above his head. This was obviously a man who had spent most of his life working. Rufus doubted he would mind being put to work once again.
Then came the elven girls, tied together with chains around their waists. Even in the light, they were difficult to tell apart. Rufus saw that they were very young, barely out of childhood. That was good; Lord Regulus liked his women as young as possible. Rufus did not envy their fates.
And lastly, Rufus came to the mage. He was tied to a chair, his wrists bound tightly behind his back. Even in sleep, the man’s face was creased with a heavy frown. Rufus had taken his staff – it would make a pleasant keepsake.
Rufus suppressed a sigh as he heard Celsus approach.
“You say he gave you trouble?” Rufus glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye.
“He did,” Celsus said, nodding hurriedly. “Fortunately, we were able to remove his staff and drug him before he could hurt us. But we saw how he fought with that thing. He may be dangerous.”
Rufus smiled as he regarded the mage. “Perfect. He’ll make an excellent addition to Lord Regulus’ collection. We’ll set sail at dawn.”
Celsus smirked, bowing once again. “Of course. I’ll prepare the men at once.”
But just as Celsus was about to depart and leave Rufus in peace, the mage stirred. He let out a bleary groan as he slowly lifted his head, eyes flickering open and shut. They gradually grew wider and wider as he took in his surroundings – the warehouse’s interior, Rufus imagined, was an intimidating sight for any prisoner.
Rufus opened his mouth to address the mage, only for the prisoner’s body to shudder and tense. His expression tightened into a furious scowl, skin cracking and revealing bright blue light underneath. His eyes, too, lit up with the blue light.
“What is this...?” Celsus croaked, taking a step back in fear.
They watched as the mage, glowing with that ethereal blue light, stood up from the chair. He twisted his wrists, snapping the chains binding them, causing the metal links to fall to the floor in pieces. The mage drew himself up to his full height, standing tall over both the Tevinters.
“Wh-What are you?” Rufus hissed, terror bubbling in his gut.
The man regarded him with a snarl, eyes blazing with that furious blue light.
“I am Justice!” he roared, and Rufus screamed as he lunged.
Fenris suppressed a shiver, not for the first time that night. Somehow, it was even colder in Lowtown than it had been in Hightown, the chill winds rushing through the streets and straight through his clothes.
“Come on, Hawke,” he heard Varric complain. “How much longer do you expect us to wander around in this weather? I’m sure Blondie’s just drowning his sorrows in a bar somewhere.”
Hawke shook his head. “I know Anders. If he was just going to the pub, he would’ve said something. He even tells me if he’s going back to his clinic in Darktown. He didn’t leave a note for me or anything. Not even Bodahn knew where he was going.”
Varric sighed. “I get that you’re worried, Hawke, but did you have to drag me along with you? I was in the middle of telling a great story about you taking down the Arishok.”
Hawke scoffed. “You’ve told that story a thousand times, and I swear more details get added every time. Which version was it this time? Did I beat the Arishok to death with my elbows? Or his?”
“Hey, if you’d let me finish, you would’ve found out.”
“Why did you feel the need to bring me out here?” Fenris asked.
“You know the docklands better than any of us except Isabela, and last I heard she was challenging a man called ‘Erik the Fist’ to an arm-wrestling match. Suffice to say she’s taken for the evening.”
“And you thought I wasn’t?”
Hawke raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise you had plans.”
Fenris folded his arms, both in an expression of defiance and an attempt to ward off the cold. “I may have.”
“Were you planning on reading that book I gave you again?”
Fenris’ mouth curled. “...Perhaps.”
Hawke chuckled. “I swear that old thing will fall apart soon, the amount of times you’ve read it cover to cover.”
In the distance, Fenris heard a cry of terror and pain that was quickly silenced. Followed by another. Then another.
“Hawke,” Varric cut in. “You hear that?”
The Champion nodded, his expression turning grim again. “It came from the docks. Let’s go.”
The three of them broke into a sprint, Hawke leading the way, Varric trailing slightly behind on his shorter legs. Fenris’ hearing was able to track the sounds to a warehouse near the harbour, which had grown eerily quiet as they had drawn near.
“Another warehouse,” Fenris grumbled. “At this rate, I’ll have spent most my life in these blasted things.”
Hawke didn’t respond, choosing instead to march up to the door and fumble with the handle. When the door refused to open, Hawke took a step back before lashing out with a strong kick. The wooden door caved in, crumpling under the force, and Hawke shoved through. Fenris and Varric ran in after him.
They stood inside a large room, the walls and floors littered with blood and the remains of various body parts. The stench of gore and singed flesh was almost overpowering. All around the room were chains and cages, the sight of which turned Fenris’ stomach more than anything else in the warehouse.
“Slavers,” he snarled.
“You know,” Hawke said, his tone weary, “it’d be really nice if, for once, I kick down a door and the room inside isn’t coated with dead people.”
Fenris saw movement – there were people still alive. He caught sight of some humans and a pair of elven girls. They were shaking, either with fear or with the cold, and staring at something else in the room. Fenris tracked their gaze to a woman with blonde hair, sitting on the floor, being tended to by a mage with light-coloured robes...
“Anders!” Hawke rushed over to him, not even seeming to notice or care about the gore he was stepping over. Varric and Fenris chased after the Champion, taking more care with their steps.
“Anders! Are you alright? What’s going on?”
Hawke shook the mage by the shoulders, only for him to slap his hands away.
“Not now, Hawke. Can’t you see this woman needs my help?”
Surprised, Hawke took a step back as Anders continued healing the woman.
“The slavers using this warehouse took us here,” Anders explained as he worked. “They found me in Darktown and drugged me. I wanted them to. I was hoping they’d take me here. It’s a lot easier to find their hideouts when they do all the work of bringing you there.”
“You...” Hawke sighed. “I take it Justice is responsible for the mess?”
“Mostly,” Anders replied. “Remember, Justice and I are no longer separate beings. He and I are-”
“Yes, I know.” Hawke shook his head in exasperation, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face. “You’ve told me a thousand times, Anders.”
“Justice took one look at what was going on here and...well, you can see what happened.” Anders hands stopped glowing as the woman’s wounds sealed shut. She was shaking slightly, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you. You saved me!”
Anders smiled, and clasped her hands in his own. “Think nothing of it. Are you feeling better?”
She nodded shakily. “I...I think so.”
“Good. We’ll have to get you home, now.” Anders looked up at the other former captives. “Are any of the rest of you hurt? I can heal you if you-”
“Don’t you dare come near me!” one of them howled. He was a young human male with dark hair, staring at the mage with hatred and fear. “You’re an abomination! You murdered all those men!”
“‘Those men’ were slavers,” Varric pointed out. “Blondie here saved you. A little gratitude wouldn’t be too much to ask for, surely?”
The young man snarled. “I’d rather die a slave than owe my life to an abomination like him!”
The other human man among the captives stood beside him, and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, son. Like it or not, you’re still a free man because of that mage. You’d be on a ship to Tevinter by now if he hadn’t been here.” The older man stepped cautiously towards Anders. “I don’t care if you are an apostate. Because of you, I’ll be able to see my children again. Thank you.”
Anders shook his head. “There’s no need to thank me. I only did what was right.”
Fenris eyed the two girls on the floor, huddled against each other and shivering. “We need to take these people back to their homes.”
Anders nodded. “You’re right. I’ll bring them-” He tried to stand, only for his legs to wobble. Hawke immediately swooped in and caught him, pulling him into an embrace.
“I’ve got you.” He lifted Anders up until he was carrying him in his arms. “You’re not going anywhere except straight back to the manor. Varric and Fenris can help bring these people home.” He looked expectantly at them both.
Varric shrugged. “Sure, sure. I guess that round of Wicked Grace in the Hanged Man can wait.” He walked over to the human men. “Let’s bring you guys home. You got a family waiting for you, kiddo?”
The dark-haired one grunted. “My husband.”
“Great. You can show me where he lives.”
Meanwhile, Fenris had knelt down beside the two girls. They looked like they were twins, and they both looked petrified with fear. “Are you two from the alienage?” he asked.
They nodded.
“Then I’ll bring you back. Is that alright?”
Slowly, they nodded once more. Fenris held out his hands, and they took them. With one of the girls at either side of him, Fenris led them towards the others, where Anders and Hawke were arguing.
“I didn’t need rescuing, Hawke!” Anders’ tone was almost petulant. “There was no need to worry. I had it all under control. And I can walk, thank you very much.”
“Nope,” Hawke said, gripping the squirming mage ever tighter against his chest. “You’re not getting away from me that easily.”
“Garrett, I’m serious.”
“You’re going straight to bed, you hear me? Honestly, you had us all worried sick.”
Varric had rounded up the three humans, and he led them out of the warehouse, already regaling them with a tall tale about Hawke and his companions. The twins were still clutching onto Fenris as he led them out, following behind Hawke, with Anders still in his arms. Just as they were about to leave, Anders turned his head to look over Hawke’s shoulder.
“Oh, Fenris, there’s something you should know.”
“...What is it?”
“One of the slavers was still alive when I came to. Justice had done a number on him to get my staff back, but I managed to heal him enough for him to stay conscious while I interrogated him. He told me that he was working for a magister called Regulus. He didn’t seem to have any connection to Danarius.”
Fenris frowned. “Are you sure?”
“I imagine it’s quite difficult to lie when your arms have been ripped off,” Anders retorted. “He was telling the truth.”
“...Very well.”
Fenris watched as the pair of them stepped over the remains of the front door and walked out into the frozen night. He couldn’t help but take one last look at the carnage inside the slavers’ warehouse – the bodies on the floor, the severed chains on the walls. Despite the gruesome sight, he couldn’t help but smile at the audacity of what Anders had done.
Fenris approved.