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Chapter Text

Fenris didn’t hate Anders, not really. It was this, somehow, more than anything else, that dragged him back from the precipice of oblivion. 

The mage was babbling, his voice high and strained with panic. Fenris supposed his situation must have been rather dire for that. For all that Anders seemed to have no concept of how loud he could become, he very rarely panicked. Fenris imagined that being a Grey Warden would do that to you. Raiders and slavers would pale in comparison to archdemons and broodmothers. 

Anders’ words come to him slowly, filtered through the gauze of the common tongue that Fenris has learned in the three years following his escape, and mastered in the three years after that he has spent at Hawke’s side. 

“ - you stupid elf, you can’t die, not now, not here. I mean, what would that do for my reputation? And more importantly to Marian. I know you hate me, but she really doesn’t deserve to lose one tattooed brooding pain in my - ”

Fenris got the general idea. When he speaks, his throat burns. “I don’t hate you, mage. I simply disagree with you and everything you stand for.”

At last, Anders’ figure: kneeling above him in some Maker-forsaken slaver cavern, all blurred greens and golds, resolves itself into the acquaintance Fenris has come to know since his arrival in Kirkwall. The mage grins and Fenris adds that, too, to the evidence of how close he’d come to the great welcoming arms of the Void. It would have to have been dire indeed, for Anders to swallow his usual impatience. 

With a sunny smile, Anders claps his hands. “You know what? I’ll take it.”

Fenris tries to sit up, and clenches his teeth when he does so. He doesn’t whimper: he has learned to swallow pain far more severe than this and far more masterfully crafted. Anders’ hand touches his shoulder, barely, more a suggestion of touch than its reality, and gently pushes him back down. When Fenris looks at him, the corners of the mage’s eyes are tight. 

“Best not. I’ve done what I can, but the damage was - ,” Anders hesitates, breaking Fenris’ gaze, “substantial.” One of his shoulders lifts in half a shrug, and he raises a hand, around which a weak flickering imitation of his usual power glimmers for a moment. “And I’m all out of mana, so I can’t fix it again. Guess I’m the weak simpering coward you always took me for.” Anders’ intonation suggests Fenris should take the insult as humorous, but he struggles to see the levity in it, distracted instead by the sharp way Anders’ mouth curls in an expression that looks nothing like the smile he’d been wearing mere moments previous.

Fenris doesn’t have the energy to scale the mage’s walls. So he lies back, and rests.

When Fenris wakes again, it is to the smell of blood. This is not so unusual, but he tenses regardless. The tattoos in his body make their protest known at the sudden movement, but his abdomen is blessedly quiet. Fenris takes as much inventory of it as he can: remembered bruises are barely butterflies on his dry skin, there’s a tightness that runs right across his gut in a ragged line and a dulled pounding at the back of his head. 

Then he listens. There’s a fire crackling, and the warm rumble of Varric’s voice, regaling his companions with some improbable stunt he’s credited to Bianca in the chaos of battle. Isabela laughs, loud and raucous, and Hawke’s sharp tongue joins the conversation, quick and light and grinning. He cannot hear the mage. 

Fenris frowns, blinking sleep from his eyes, and stares up at the faint blue luminescence of insects in the cave’s ceiling. Amber sparks drift up into the darkness, scattering the stone with firelight. The smell of burning wood and cooking meat fill his lungs, barely overtaking the sweat of his companions and the spilled blood of their foes. 

Cautiously, Fenris stands and makes his way to the fire. Hawke is resting against her mabari, its great head peaceful in sleep. Beside her, Isabela sits sprawled against a rock, and opposite them across the fire Varric sits beside Bianca, coat shrugged over his shoulders and shirt incongruously unlaced. They’re fine. Fenris feels some of the tension slip from his shoulders. There had been a part of him that had worried - if both he and Anders had been taken out of the fight - about how well his companions would have fared in the battle that had raged about them. Apparently such concern was unwarranted. Fenris feels a wave of something light and warm and too big for his chest swell beneath his ribcage and rise up to his throat. 

They really were the most remarkable people. 

At this point, Hawke spots him, and her sharp expression eases into one of unguarded relief as she gets to her feet. Her mabari lifts its head but does nothing other than watch as Hawke hops over the fire and stumbles to a stop in front of him, grinning wide and bright. “Fenris! How are you feeling?”

Fenris gingerly touches the fabric over his belly, above the place where he’d been struck. The mage must have fixed his tunic too. Fenris tries hard not to be grateful for the gesture, even as his mind fills with the memory of the wound. It is an impossible thing to have survived. He has seen enough of war to know how quickly the acid of his stomach would have spilled into the rest of him, how quickly his innards would have slipped loose of his skin. Fenris is not a delicate man, but he feels his newly reconstructed stomach roll at the thought of it. 

Hawke is still watching him. He meets her eyes. The blue of the creatures on the cave ceiling glitter across her face. “I will live.”

Hawke’s mouth sets into an unhappy frown, but then Fenris blinks and she’s smiling again, leaving him unsure as to whether he’d imagined it. She steps back, and gestures to the slab of stone on which Varric is perched. “Come and sit with us. There’s some food left.”

Fenris eyes the all too familiar, bulbous shape skewered on an old spear across the fire. “Could we not bring rations with us on these expeditions?”

Isabela barks a laugh and takes a swig from her canteen. Fenris would not insult her by presuming that it contained anything other than some ill-gotten, eye-watering version of rum. “See Marian? He can’t be that bad if he’s turning his nose up at spider à la stick.”

Fenris’ stomach rumbles. “I was not turning my nose up at it.” Though there is some part of him that wonders how the new lining of his gut will handle anything he ingests. 

Varric, apparently, is thinking along similar lines. “Can he eat solid food?” Fenris sits, and does the dwarf the courtesy of pretending not to notice the way his clever eyes watch him for any lingering signs of injury. 

“Anders said he could when he woke. And that he should, actually. So Fenris,” Hawke turns to him, proffering a blackened chunk of spider husk. “Eat your greens.” The inside of the husk is, indeed, an unfortunate shade of green, and the smell is both sour and bitter. Had it been another night, Fenris would have chosen to remain hungry. But his body feels fragile in a way to which he is not accustomed, and if Anders had said that food would help then he would believe it. The man may be an abomination, but he is skilled at his craft. Hawke does not keep company with any who aren’t. 

Reluctantly, Fenris takes the offered husk and picks at the stringy, glistening meat inside whilst Varric gives a low whistle. “Maker, he’s good.”

“Who, Anders?” Isabela perks up, her smile a flash of light in the shadows. “He is , and full of all sorts of naughty little -”

Varric chuckles, interrupting before Isabela can tumble down her own salacious path. Privately, Fenris is grateful. He has heard enough exaggerated iterations of Isabela and Anders’ various liaisons to fill a modest bookshop. He feels no need to add another tale to the collection. “As a healer, Rivaini.” Varric says the word fondly, as he does with all of their nicknames. Fenris supposes it’s why he hasn’t yet seen fit to protest his own moniker. 

“It is remarkable.” Hawke adds, uncharacteristically sincere. She scratches her chin. “My cousin took an injury like that, in Ferelden. He was dead before he hit the ground. It was...messy.” She shrugs off the memory like so much rainwater, apparently oblivious to the way Isabela is watching her. Fenris averts his gaze. He doubts that either woman would appreciate his intruding on their vulnerability. 

Varric does them all the favour of breaking the quiet before it stretches. “I’ve seen it too. And I’ve known my share of healers. In Hightown a comtesse can’t so much as sneeze without someone calling the Circle.” Varric laughs again, but it’s a little more forced this time, and Fenris watches him sidelong, trying to understand the reason for his bitterness. “Never saw a Spirit Healer though. Maybe that’s it.”

Hawke makes a soft sound of affirmation. “Beth said they’re rare, powerful.” Hawke’s mouth curls with a fondness it seems only to sport when she speaks of her sister. “She called them a blessing. A gift from Andraste, to heal the hurt that we cannot.” Hawke’s eyes flicker to Fenris then, quick and defensive. Fenris lets it pass. He can imagine no universe in which magic is a blessing, let alone of Andraste. But he is also reluctant to press on the still fresh wound of Hawke’s sister, so soon after she had been lost to the Deep Roads and their demons. Besides, the mage is not present, and he is the only one who Fenris feels any need to convince of magic’s intrinsic corruption. 

“Where is he?” He doesn’t feel the need to specify, and imagines referring to Anders as an abomination so soon after the man had saved his life would be taken poorly. (And perhaps there is some part of him that feels uncomfortable with the idea regardless.)

Hawke chucks her chin at her mabari, and Fenris sits up a little to look beyond the beast’s great shoulders at a huddle of blankets on the cave floor. In the flickering glow of the fire, he can just make out a handful of copper hair, spilled like expensive yarn amidst the rough wool. He sits back, satisfied. “Is he well?”

Isabela raises her eyebrows. “Do you care?” She makes no effort to hide her incredulity, and Fenris frowns. 

“I would care if he died.” All of them stare at him, and Fenris feels at once both very warm and very small. Did his companions really think so little of him? He is wary of Anders, as they all should be. That does not mean he wishes death upon a man who has proven himself a worthy ally. A man who in three years has done nothing to abuse his trust or compromise their collective safety. Still, such an admission would likely be construed as something approaching friendship, and Fenris doubts he has the patience to deal with Isabela’s teasing so soon after his brush with the Maker. “We will have need of his skills if we are to complete this errand.”

Varric’s mouth turns down a little, and part of Fenris quails at the dwarf’s disapproval, even as another part snarls that it is no less than the truth. He sets down his half-eaten spider husk. “I must rest.”

The concern is back on Hawke’s face, but Fenris tries not to linger on it. Instead he gets to his feet, unused to the absence of the familiar burn in his muscles so soon after a skirmish. An old, familiar ache replaces it, lines of pain that seem to sink gnawing into his bones along the intricate curves and stretches of his lyrium. Fenris bites back a sigh and walks to his bedroll. 

It is only then that he notices that someone had folded their coat beneath his head in place of a pillow, carefully tucking the feathers away. 

“MAGE!”

Fenris supposes it’s possible that any one of the several mages on the battlefield could have construed his shout as meant for them, but only one of them responds. Anders ducks, graceful as a dancer, and whirls, throwing a freezing gust at the slaver that had been about to stab him in the back. The man freezes solid, eyes wide and still moving beneath the glistening shell of fresh ice in which he finds himself. 

Fenris’ mouth sets into a thin line and he turns away, hefting the axe Hawke had pressed into his hands mere hours previous. In one swing, he cleaves his next assailant in two, but it does little to erase the image of the other, pinned like a butterfly as he waits for his doom. 

The battle rages on. Fenris can taste sweat and blood and other things dripping into his mouth. These skirmishes were nothing like the Provings into which Danarius had so delightered in entering him. There was no beauty here (there had been no beauty there, either). Slavers like these fought dirty and desperate, their blows weak and unskilled, but manic and unpredictable in their sheer bloody determination to stay alive. These and their numbers had Fenris’ breath heaving in his chest. 

His tattoos are screaming now, white-hot brands that writhe on his skin with every step, protesting their abuse. Fenris ignores them. He’s good at that. 

A behemoth of a man lifts a sledgehammer to bring it down on Hawke’s unsuspecting head, and Fenris slices the thing in half before bludgeoning the man’s knees, back pressed up against Hawke’s armour. Apparently oblivious to the blood dripping from her hair, Hawke laughs and presses back for a moment in boisterous camaraderie. “Fenris! We must do this more often.” Fenris takes the moment of his safety to scan the battlefield, trying to assess any significant threats.

“I would prefer that we didn’t.” He says, calmly. Hawke just laughs again, and ducks, suddenly, to slip between a woman’s legs, slicing her calf-strings as she does so before tumbling back onto her feet and lightly tossing a grenade at one of the enemy apostates. 

“Let’s table it.” She calls back over her shoulder, using the cavern wall to jump up and onto another man, twisting her legs around his neck and using the momentum of his falling body to kick a pair of archers onto their backs. 

Fenris feels the corner of his mouth pull into something resembling a smile, a reflex he long since thought he’d mastered, but over which he’s begun to lose control in these last few years. The woman’s humour is infectious. 

He easily parries the next attacker who comes for him, using the haft of his axe as a barrier for the cheap steel of her daggers, before twisting and letting the weapon’s weight bring it down on her shoulder. The daggers clatter to the floor, and Fenris grabs the woman’s head, bludgeoning it against the cave wall in one swift blow. He has no interest in prolonging such things, and drops the woman’s body to the floor without a second glance. 

Varric is on a staircase, calling taunts, Bianca leaping in response to his deft touch. Isabela is below him, sheltered by the hail of arrows from above. In a moment, she’s joined by Hawke, and the two settle easily into fighting back to back. As they move, Fenris wonders how anyone could be unaware that they were in love - their movements are quick and fluid and mirrored as the most intimate of dancers. 

Then there’s a scream. Fenris frowns, turning back to the battlefield as a whole. It’s a sprawling sandy cavern that stinks of saltwater and rat droppings. Sunlight pours in from a weather worn hole in the ceiling, and beyond it seagulls and the roar of the ocean are a distant underscore to the discordant clang of their battle. There are only a handful of their opponents left now, and most have clustered around the knot of death that constitutes Varric, Isabela, and Hawke, presumably imagining them to be vulnerable targets for their lack of heavy armour. Fenris turns away from them, striding quickly into the centre of the cavern to get a better view. 

There’s a glimmer of blue light to his left, and Fenris flinches, bracing himself for the familiar crushing hum of magic in his bones. None comes: instead the mage focuses on his attackers - two brutish sorts armed with shortswords. Fenris feels himself relax. Anders has fought his way out of darkspawn hordes and dragons’ nests. Two second rate slaver hirelings would be of little matter to him. 

He’s about to turn back to the rest, to see if perhaps he could join in Hawke and Varric’s game of counting their kills, when there’s another shout. It is unmistakably the mage this time, and Fenris scowls. Anders is rarely so loud, even when he’s hurt. It’s a stubborn quality (and one Fenris refuses to admit they share) that has more than once compromised his chances of survival. For him to be crying out now - Fenris marches towards the scuffle, smothering his irritation at the mage for drawing him away from the group and deciding to berate him for it later. 

It’s only when he gets closer that Fenris can see the issue: one of the hirelings has had the bright idea to skewer Anders to the wall with their sword. The thing is stuck through his shoulder, and the injury bleeds steady and sluggish around the tarnished metal. Anders’ pale face is grey and sweat glitters on his forehead. His staff is discarded on the ground nearby. In the time it takes Fenris to act, one of the slavers grabs the sword and twists it with an ugly grin. Anders keens.

Fenris doesn’t think. He kills them. 

Behind him the sounds of the battle are drawing to a close, creaking leather and gurgling shouts leaving the light grey walls of the cavern echoing like some terrible cathedral. Fenris barely hears them. The slavers had apparently lifted Anders off his feet, and now he hangs awkwardly from the sword, attempting to relieve the pressure by standing on his toes as he raises his good arm to remove it. 

Fenris steps forward, and bites down the ripple of concern that rises in his chest when Anders’ uneven pupils turn to him, unfocused in pain. “Fenris?” Anders’ words are mumbled and breathless, and Fenris doesn’t see much reason to respond. Instead he steps forward and puts his hand on the sword hilt. Anders’ eyes widen, and blue cracks break across his skin. Fenris flinches in spite of himself, and curses both himself and the injured man before him for it. “Don’t!”

“What.” The word is spoken more like a curse than a question, but Anders is not apparently lucid enough to take issue with it. 

Anders shakes his head, and his hair clings to his cheeks as he does so, sweat damp and ruddy with blood. “Blood loss.” He shuts his eyes, slumping. Fenris catches him around the waist before he has time to think better of it, lifting him and easing the pressure on the wound. Anders sobs, and Fenris feels something in his chest squirming with discomfort. He does not doubt that the mage would hate to be seen like this, by him most of all. But there is little he can do about that now. Anders looks down at him, and his gaze is unsteady, meeting Fenris’ eyes and then drifting away. “Please get me down.” The words slur, but Fenris doesn’t need to be told twice. Carefully, holding Anders’ body with one arm, he extricates the sword from the stone with the other. It’s not easy: Anders’ is much taller than him, and Fenris needs to stretch awkwardly to reach the sword. But he manages it, and lays both Anders and the sword onto the ground. 

The battle is certainly over now. Distantly, Fenris can hear Hawke and Varric laughing, and the soft hiss of weapons being sheathed. The silence around him seems to be almost a physical thing, weighing down on his shoulders. Fenris clenches his jaw. “Now what? Mage.” Anders has shut his eyes, and his skin in the sunlight is deathly pale. His chest doesn’t move, and Fenris’ heart clenches in one tight beat of panic before he slaps him, hard. Anders flinches, and chokes on a sound when the movement pulls at the sword. He frowns up at Fenris. 

“Why’re you hitting me?” 

Fenris disregards the question. “The sword, mage. Can I remove it?” Anders’ eyes slide to the cheap sword skewered through his shoulder and he grimaces, raising a hand. Blue light flickers weakly around his fingers. He slumps back onto the cave floor and laughs, weak and hoarse. Fenris’ frown deepens. “I do not see what is funny.”

Anders chuckles again, his blood running in a steady stream from his shoulder. It’s pooling around Fenris’ toes now, warm and liquid as it soaks into the sand scattered across the cavern floor. Anders lifts his hand, and the blue light flickers again. “No more magic. Again.” Anders grins, and it’s the same sharp imitation of a smile he’d worn before. “I bet you love that.”

Fenris decides not to rise to the jibe. Instead he goes into the pouch at his belt. “You cannot heal yourself.” It’s barely a question, but Anders grunts and nods.

“The sword is preventing the worst of the bleeding and I, ah, can’t afford to lose much more blood than I already have.” He says the words as if they’re of no consequence. Fenris decides not to waste time wondering why. He glances at the corner where Anders had been pinned: there’s a dull rosette of blood staining the stone, and a greater pool beneath it. It’s a wonder the man is lucid, let alone speaking. Fenris wonders if it has anything to do with his status as a Grey Warden. 

Finally, he finds what he’s looking for, fishing an Elfroot potion from the pouch on his belt. He uncorks the thing and presses it to Anders’ lips. “Drink.” 

Anders does so. After a moment, a flush of colour returns to his face, and he hisses. Fenris supposes the numbness that came with such blood loss may have had a palliative effect, too. He waits for Anders to look at him again. “Another?”

Anders nods, and Fenris presses another to his lips, unable to shake the intimacy of the act. This close, the copper and gold flakes in Anders’ eyes are as beautiful as Isabela claimed, and there’s a faint scattering of gold freckles around his forehead, along his nose, and across the high points of his cheeks. Fenris wonders whether they would darken in the sun. The sweet scent of the potion fills his mouth. It strikes him that in this moment, breathing the taste of elfroot, blood and honey, he knows exactly what it would taste like to kiss the mage.

Fenris frowns, pulling back. An absurd thought, and one that needn’t be lingered on. He tolerates the mage, at best. Nothing more. Anders’ chest rises and falls in a slow, measured breath, deeper than any he’s taken since Fenris had seen him pinned to the wall. Fenris viciously ignores the wave of relief that rushes up from the base of his spine to crash down over his pounding head and aching shoulders. He leans forward, careful to curve his body in such a way as to maintain the greatest possible distance between them. “The sword?”

Anders grimaces. At his side, his hand curls loosely into a fist. There’s a scar on the base of his thumb, and Fenris finds himself wondering how he obtained it. But then Anders nods, and Fenris grips the hilt of the sword, pulling it free in one clean movement. This time Anders doesn’t cry out. His hand curls loosely at his side, and then he sits up a little, jaw tight. Fenris moves and hesitates, unsure whether to help or stop him. Anders’ nostrils flare as he breathes through the pain. 

“Fenris, I need you to put pressure on the wound.”

Fenris nods, complying before he asks, a little warily, “Should you not be lying down? This cannot be easy.”

Anders huffs another laugh, breathless and high. “Whatever made you think that?” His hand moves up in a quick, fluttering spasm. “I need to keep it raised to slow the bleeding.” Blood trickles slowly between Fenris’ fingers, warm and wet. Fenris shifts, his body making his decision for him. Carefully, he braces Anders with one arm whilst the other maintains the pressure on his wound. 

Anders leans back into him gratefully, and Fenris takes a moment to consider how very little the mage actually weighs. It cannot be healthy for a man of his height and build. But then Anders is looking up at him, eyes yellow as a cat’s in a face streaked with sweat and blood and soot, copper gold hair hanging lank and mussed around his face. “Fenris, I never knew you cared.”

For some Maker-forsaken reason, Fenris feels his cheeks burn. He breaks the mage’s gaze to look at his wound instead, and tries hard not to think at all about the warmth of the man in his arms.

“Anders?” 

Fenris supposes Isabela has a reason for maintaining her reputation of caring little for anything or anyone, but he is not sure how anyone believes it. He doesn’t know whether the woman is simply less guarded than she claims to be, or if she has begun to deliberately lower her guard for the sake of Hawke and her companions. He’s inclined to believe the latter, and is warmed and flattered by the thought which follows it - that he is among those Isabela trusts enough to be openly kind. 

The mage is, too, of course, and it is he on whom Isabela focuses, crossing the cavern in a handful of silent footsteps. She crouches beside them, sharp eyes taking in the cheap sword, the red rose on the cavern wall, the puddle at the base of its scarlet stem, and the wound under Fenris’ bloody hands. Isabela scowls, and Fenris is reminded that for all her kindness she is also a terribly efficient killer. “What happened?” Her voice is flat and sharp in a way Fenris imagines it would be on her ship following some minor disobedience. He finds himself answering in kind. 

“Some hirelings pinned him to the wall. His mana is expended and the blood loss has weakened him.” Fenris’ mouth twists. “I believe that this is all we can do until his mana is restored.”

Anders blinks up at him, and Fenris tries not to notice the way the sunlight makes his blonde eyelashes gold. “We’ll make a healer of you yet.”

Isabela’s shoulders slump, and she carefully takes Anders from Fenris’ arms, covering the wound herself. Fenris lets her, and wonders at the sudden sense of emptiness that follows as Isabela smiles down at the mage. “Come here, sweet thing. You’re going to be fine.”

Anders’ blood is cold and sticky on Fenris’ hands. He looks away.

Chapter Text

The rest of the trip passes in a similarly gruelling fashion, and by the time Hawke announces that they’re approaching the ringmaster’s hideout, even Fenris has nearly had enough of killing slavers. Nearly.

The mage is doing poorly. He is not, apparently, interested in practicing what he preaches as far as the proper treatment of major injuries is concerned. He has refused to take any more rest than he usually would, and has continued to use his mana with typical abandon. In light of such recklessness, his hovering and general henpecking over Fenris’ injuries is especially irritating.

“I had to reconstruct your internal organs.” The mage is, at least, back to his usual flaming adamance, something Fenris could not previously have imagined he was capable of missing. Now Anders glares at him, and Fenris glares back. “This isn’t a normal injury Fenris, you need to be more careful.”

Fenris had managed to pull some part of the carefully re-stitched mess that was his abdomen. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, though he was certain that he had no interest in knowing the grisly details. He had pulled something, the mage had healed it, it was fine.

“So perhaps I should have allowed that slaver to stick his knife through your back?”

Anders huffs. His hands are shaking, and Fenris can recognise it as a symptom of his over-exertion. He’d lost count of how many lyrium potions the man had drunk over the course of their last battle, but he had been taught enough about such things to have some idea of how toxic it could be. “I would have been fine.”

Fenris’ frown deepens. “You would have been dead.”

The mage’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Exactly how helpless do you think I am? I can handle one slaver. Or have you forgotten which one of us is a Grey Warden?”

“I am well aware, as is most of Kirkwall, though whether your boasting has earned you anything but trouble, I have yet to tell.” Anders opens his mouth, no doubt to respond, and Fenris continues before he can. “You are overreaching yourself.” He gestures, once, to the mage’s hands. Anders stills. “Any fool could see it.”

For a moment, blessed silence falls between them - filled by the distant roar of the sea and the closer snap of the fire, bringing with them the simple, familiar tastes of salt and smoke. Anders looks away, letting his hands fall at his sides. “Be that as it may.” His chest rises and falls in one great sigh. “If we are going to make it through this in one piece then I need you to be more careful.” Anders looks up, now, and his eyes are dark under the moonlight, only a glimmering promise of gold. “Fenris, I’m asking you - I know there’s hardly any love lost between us, so I won’t ask as a friend. But as your healer, please, be more careful.”

It strikes Fenris that it must take both great courage and great humility for Anders to speak with such kindness to a man who had seen fit, more than once, to state his hatred for him and all his kind. It’s not enough to make him regret it: Fenris has seen enough of the corruption of mages to fill a lifetime, and one seeming kindness can hardly balance that. But he bites back what he had wanted to say, about the mage’s shoulder and the way he still flinches when he wields his staff. He nods instead.

“Very well, mage. I will take your request into consideration.”

Anders slumps, though Fenris thinks he catches him rolling his eyes. “That’s all I ask. Come on, Hawke will be worried.”

Fenris grunts. “She would not admit it.”

Anders huffs something approaching a laugh at that, walking through the sand. “Neither would you.”

Fenris doesn’t reply. Above them, the stars stretch like glitterdust scattered across a deep and endless sea.

Everything had gone wrong. There had been more slavers than they’d expected and too many mages. The battlefield had descended almost immediately into a confusion of fire and indoor tempests. Fenris had lost track of his companions, focusing on felling one slaver after another - being careful (Maker damn the mage) not to stretch his abdomen. It had made him slow, slower than he was used to, but none among the nest of vermin they’d found had presented any real threat. 

Occasionally he’d glimpsed Isabela, appearing from a cloud of smoke before descending into another. The hail of Varric’s arrows was a violently reassuring percussion, though how they never managed to strike his companions Fenris could only credit to some strange enchantment. He would have worried more for Hawke, had he not more than once heard her laughter bouncing across the cave, usually followed or preceded by the sharp sound of silverite beaten into a biting point. The mage was a flash of blue at the corner of his eye, and occasionally a rippling wave of strength or healing. 

Fenris had hardly needed it. He had been tempted to break from the skirmish more than once to shake the man into preserving his own strength. But the battle had worn on, and Hawke and her companions had seized their victory. They could at last return to their homes, satisfied in the knowledge that one more nest of thieves had been eradicated - however much all of them knew that there would be another to replace it by the next moon.

Fenris was breathless and largely uninjured, so he found himself mostly content as he walked back across the cavern and through the smoke to find his companions, listening for the familiar sound of their voices. 

It should have occurred to him sooner that Isabela was silent. As it was, the tableau revealed by the smoke was one that Fenris was quite certain would find its way into his nightmares. Hawke was on her knees, covered in blood. Isabela was still and bloodier, lying unconscious on the ground. Varric, looking strangely serious, was standing over them. Fenris nearly missed the mage, “is she -”

“Not yet.” Anders speaks through clenched teeth and doesn’t turn to look at Fenris. He’s on his knees, hands wreathed in blue light and hovering above her chest. A wet, dark cavity stares back up at him, dangerously close to Isabela’s heart. Fenris crouches, glancing up at the mage as he works. His eyes are still his own, not those of his demon. Sweat runs down the side of his face, and his hair is clumped into chunks matted by blood and filth. His hands are shaking.

“Do you need lyrium?”

Anders frowns. “I need you to be quiet.” Fenris bites back his own response (something acerbic, was that a command, magister? ) and falls silent. The silence stretches, until the soft humming buzz of magic is itching at Fenris’ ears. It’s a relief when Hawke’s mabari breaks it, apparently finished with whichever poor soul it had made its meal, claws tapping on the stone as it trots closer. When it sees them it whines, and Hawke’s chest lifts and falls in one quick breath which says as much of her grief as broken sobs would have done on another. 

Fenris feels something rise and stick in his throat, choking him. He has no idea how to offer comfort. So little has ever been offered to him. 

“She will be fine, Hawke. She is a great warrior and the abomination is skilled.”

“The abomination heard that.” The mage’s voice is rough, as though he were towards the end of some great marathon, but no less vehement for it. Varric frowns at Fenris, and Fenris’ hands curl at his sides. Can none of them imagine how much they ask of him? How much he gives, merely to be here at all, beside a creature possessed and working magic on someone he - Hawke breaks his chain of thought before it can spiral further, though whether it was tending towards violence or grief Fenris cannot say.

“ Anders is not an abomination, Fenris.”

Fenris decides not to argue the point. 

After what feels like hours, but cannot have been, Anders lowers his hand a little. He’s not touching Isabela, but he’s closer than he was before, and the ragged base of the wound in her chest begins to knit itself together, restoring the lovely sun-freckled brown of her skin. Fenris looks away. It’s one thing to know, intellectually, that magic is twisting the body where he cannot see it. It’s another to watch it warp flesh like clay. 

Hawke, conversely, leans forward. She has one arm around her mabari, which has sat silently at her side since it had found them. Fenris itches to scratch its head, and take some comfort in the simple affection of the creature.

Without Isabela to focus on, Fenris finds himself increasingly aware of the mage’s laboured breathing. Breathing that seems to be becoming more laboured by the moment. Despite his better judgement, Fenris glances back at Anders and Isabela. 

Isabela looks well: her skin has returned to its usual rich colour, her breathing is slow and even. The wound on her chest is nearly healed, barely an inch of shallow red gore just below her collarbone speaks of the devastating injury she’d worn less than an hour previous.

The mage does not.

Sweat has left tracks down his cheeks and neck, and his jaw is clenched tight. He’s shaking violently now, and the magic around his hands flickers and spasms erratically. Fenris frowns, sitting up straighter than he has since he first crouched beside his fallen friends. “Mage. You should stop.”

Anders shudders, sweat dripping down his chin. “Not the time Fenris.”

Fenris’ frown deepens. “You have overexerted yourself. You must stop.” 

Hawke shifts, and her mabari whines as she does so, though she’s careful not to jostle Isabela. “Fenris, now is really not the time.”

Fenris clicks his tongue. “I am not asking because I am uncomfortable with his magic, I am asking because the mage is going to do himself an injury.” He feels rather than sees Varric’s gaze shift from his head to Anders. The mage in question doesn’t look up. 

“If I don’t finish now, what’s left will scar.” Anders shudders, and for a moment the magic around his hands flickers out. Anders’ shoulders shake, and Fenris catches the way he flinches around his injury when they do. Then the magic resumes. “It’s nothing.”

Fenris’ eyes narrow. The magic around Anders’ hands now is brighter, warm and pulsing. Fenris has seen a great deal of magic in his life. A thought occurs to him. “Mage. How are you fuelling this spell?”

“It’s not - blood magic - if that’s what you mean.” Even as he says it, blood begins to trickle from Anders’ ears. Fenris feels anger rise boiling in his chest. 

“You are expending your own life force on this spell. Isabela will not mind another scar. Cease this madness immediately.” 

Hawke purses her lips. “Anders, what’s he talking about?”

“You’re not looking so great, Blondie.” Varric steps a little closer, which is enough of a sign of his concern for Fenris to know that he has his companion’s approval.

Anders does not stop. “I’m nearly finished.”

He is, but…”How many?”

Blood runs freely from Anders’ nose, over his lips and chin. “What?” The question is ground between his teeth.

Fenris responds in kind. “How. Many. Years?”

Something passes across the mage’s face then - Fenris cannot tell what it is. Anders lifts his good shoulder minutely in something like a shrug. “Five years? Ten? It doesn’t matter.”

“What?” Hawke’s voice is loud in the quiet, and both Fenris and Anders flinch. Fenris decides not to think about it. Hawke leans forward and Fenris leans back, letting her take hold of Anders’ hands. “Anders, stop, now.”

The corners of Anders’ eyes tighten. “I’m so close.” He is - there’s barely a finger’s breadth left of the wound. The scar, if there is one, will speak very little of the weapon that gave it. Still. 

Hawke moves her hand to Anders’ chin, lifting it gently to make him meet her eyes. Anders’ mouth is open as he breathes, heavily, and blood and sweat drip down his chin and neck. Hawke cups his cheek, and Fenris looks away from the kindness in her eyes. It is not meant for him. Her voice is soft and low when she speaks. “Anders, now. Please.”

Fenris doesn’t see the way Anders looks at Hawke. He doesn’t need to. There’s a soft, quiet sob, and then the light dies. Anders topples forward, and Hawke catches him. It’s at this point that Isabela wakes up.

“Hawke? Not having a party without me, are you?”

Fenris had taken Anders from Hawke whilst she’d tended to Isabela, and Varric had set about building them a camp. They had not discussed whether they would camp for the night. They had not needed to. The mage was not breathing easily, and Fenris could not at this point tell which blood was his and which was that of their enemies. His ears and nose at least had stopped bleeding. He was trying, hard, not to blame the state of the man on their companions and their decision to ignore his warnings. He was not succeeding.

“I said he was overextending himself.” He spits, pulling Anders’ bedroll over his shivering body and telling himself that shivering at least meant he was alive and well enough to feel the cold. He considers Anders’ coat: it had made a good enough pillow for his own head, but he is unsure if the mage would take well to his removing it. He knows that he would not, in his position, and Fenris has no similar garment to share and match his kindness. It only adds to his frustration. “Yet none of you listened.”

“We heard you the first time, Broody.” Varric grunts, adding more kindling to the fire. 

“Careful Fenris, we’ll start to think you care.” Isabela teases weakly from her side of the camp. Her injury is healed and she claims her pain is largely gone, but she’d accepted the rum Hawke stole from their unfortunate enemies gratefully enough. All of them had seen enough magically healed injuries by now to know that she would need some time for her body to catch up with the speed of its own recovery.

Still, Fenris cannot quite deflect the sting of her words. “I am beginning to wonder whether you do.”

Isabela blinks at him, both unperturbed and unimpressed. Fenris feels blood rushing into his face as shame coils in his gut. “I was unconscious, so I’m pretty sure I’m exempt from this particular tirade.”

“And I know it’s easy to forget, what with my magnificent presence, but I’m a dwarf, Broody. It’s not like they teach us much about magic in the home cavern, and you’ve seen how tightly controlled that knowledge is in Kirkwall.” Varric sighs, and takes a swig of their stolen rum. The coconut scent of it stings Fenris’ nose. “I didn’t know. I would’ve stopped him sooner, if I did.”

“And Beth was mostly self taught.” Fenris stiffens a little when Hawke approaches from the shadows, and wonders at the woman’s preternatural ability to do so. He’d been trained to watch for all threats, both mortal and otherwise. Hawke should not be able to sneak up on him as easily as she apparently can. If she notices his tension, she does him the courtesy of letting it go unnoted, and walks instead to Anders’ feet, bending to help lift him. Fenris mirrors her, slipping his hands under the mage’s slender shoulders and stepping forward so that his lolling head is propped against his chest. Together, they set Anders down as close to the fire as might be safe. In the jumping copper light, he looks almost as much like the honey and gold people of his homeland as he usually does - bright and fair and out of place in Kirkwall. Hawke clicks her tongue. “Dog.” She gestures, and her mabari trots over to the side of Anders not facing the fire, lying down against his back. Hawke gives the beast a strip of jerky she’d liberated from a raider’s belt before sitting by the fire next to Isabela. “I know magic can tire mages and make them sick. But I didn’t know they could use their own life force to fuel it.” Hawke takes the rum from Isabela and lifts it, offering it to Fenris over the sparks dancing above the fire. “Come on. Sit down.”

Fenris wants to refuse. He wants to challenge her. He wants to run away. He wants to ask her why she is still being so kind, even when he makes it so difficult. He does none of these things. He takes the rum, and he drinks, and he sits. He can feel his friends watching him, and he has an idea of what they expect, but reaching into that part of his brain is like breaking into a chest with a stiff lock. It takes a moment.

“It’s...an unusual practice. In Tevinter, it is not necessary.” Fenris answers the question on Hawke’s lips before she has the chance to ask it. “If a mage runs out of power, all he needs is blood. His slaves will give him that in abundance.” Fenris stares at the cracking logs at the heart of the fire and thinks of skin splitting with blue light. “Willingly or otherwise.” The cave is mostly sheltered, but where the sunlight had spilled before now comes the wind, and Fenris cannot shake the memory of screaming as the breeze whistles against the stone. “My understanding is that here in your Circles, mages very rarely use magic powerful enough to require any exceptional measures, and if they do they are well supplied with lyrium.” Fenris purses his lips, studying the lines that wrap in a web around his hands. His body aches with old, familiar lines of pain. “But lyrium is poisonous in large quantities. There is a point at which even a mage must stop. And at that point they can either use blood or - ,” Fenris pauses. 

“Or what?” It’s Varric who breaks the quiet, eyes bright with curiosity. Fenris wonders whether this detail will make it into his chronicles. 

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and stifles the smile that jumps to his lips at Varric’s brief expression of thwarted frustration. The dwarf rarely loses at anything, and his petulance at being denied his desires can be amusing, on occasion. “They don’t know. Tevinter magisters see such measures as weakness, self-flagellation and martyrdom, an inability to accept the mage’s true role as a superior being with the right to draw on every resource the Maker has seen fit to provide. Circle mages do not write on such matters, as the Chantry would not have any of those in their keeping attempt such powerful magic. Thus it remains a mystery. Perhaps it is his soul. Perhaps it is time. It will shear years from his life regardless. That is all we know for certain.” Fenris drinks then, deeply. 

Far off in the cave, some skittering, screeching thing bursts from the wall in a shout of leathery wings. Hawke’s hand rests lightly on the hilt of one of her daggers and her mabari lifts its great head. After a moment, silence falls again, broken only by the snap and pop of the fire. 

“I thought you couldn’t read.” Isabela says the words lightly, but Fenris grits his teeth all the same.

“Rivaini, I know you’re not interested in respecting the privacy of the bedroom, but there are some things folk like to avoid discussing when in company.” Varric’s tone is lightly teasing, and Fenris knows the words for what they are - a promise that they can change the subject if he so desires, more than a real chastisement of Isabela. He’s grateful for it, and offers a kindness in turn, leaning over the fire to offer Isabela the rum. She takes it with a smile, and something like relief in her eyes. Fenris sits back, satisfied that his meaning was clear. It is forgiven.

“I have been learning but, no, I couldn’t. I have, however, been present for innumerable and lengthy academic discussions on every possible application of magic.” Fenris hesitates, worried then that Isabela will make some joke about whatever Anders did with electricity that had her so enthralled, and he will be forced to recall a recurring subject of conversation - and other things - that he has worked hard to forget. 

To his immense relief, she does not. 

“You know, Broody, you really should give talking to Blondie another chance.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow at Varric. “I speak to the mage frequently.” He considers the lengthy stretches of their trip in which neither he nor Anders had been injured. “I often wish we spoke less.”

“You insult him frequently.” Hawke corrects, humour softening the words. “You yell at him, sometimes. Call him names. That’s not conversation.”

“And with everything you know about magic, you two would have a lot to talk about.” Varric adds, warming to his idea. 

A shiver runs cold and sharp down Fenris’ spine. “If I never spoke of magic again I should die a happy man. But I am not fool enough to think I should be so lucky.” He gets up and walks away from the fire before he can say more, unwilling to ruin his companions’ good mood more than he already has. He does not say good night.

Behind him, Varric sighs. “Well, it was good while it lasted. Pass me the rum, Rivaini.”

“We should get a cart.” 

For once, Fenris finds himself agreeing with the mage. Not that he has any intention of admitting it. The man in question is slung over his back like so much grain. He had made his discomfort with the situation quite clear, but since Fenris was the only one in their party capable of carrying him for such a distance, and since the alternative was waiting for more slavers to take the others’ nest and find them down a healer, Anders had eventually conceded to the indignity. Fenris had borne it with what was not so much grace as silent pragmatism, though the proximity of the mage’s grating voice and its false cheer to his already pounding skull was making him reconsider his magnanimity. 

“I’ll make a note of it.” Hawke calls back from further up the path. 

“You really are remarkable, aren’t you?” Isabela is walking backwards, feet sure despite the pebble-strewn sand, and eyeing Fenris like he’s a particularly delicious cut of her favourite meat. Fenris is not unaccustomed to such attention, and from Isabela would usually welcome it with something like good humour. Now it only adds to his irritation. Fortunately he is spared from drawing her displeasure by the mage on his back.

“Bela when you do that I can see it too. Can you keep it in your pants until you’re back in Kirkwall, at least? I did not consent to this fantasy threesome.”

And doesn’t that present a vivid mental image. 

Fenris stumbles, and Anders shifts on his back. “Do you need to stop?”

Fenris grunts, adjusting his grip on Anders’ thighs and hefting the man on his back. He makes a sound somewhere between a protest and a yelp, and that does nothing for the vision making itself known at the back of Fenris’ head. He deals with this problem as he deals with many things. He lets it make him angry. “I’m fine. I’m simply in need of a blighted haircut.”

Isabela does not sneak up on him, a courtesy Fenris has noticed before and for which he is still grateful. “May I?” She lifts her hand slowly, keeping it in his line of sight, and far enough away from his face that it would be easy to deny her. Something small and fragile in his ribcage quails at the suggestion, but Fenris had spent six years acclimatising to non-violent touch, and his hair really was getting in the way, even if it had in the moment been little more than a convenient lie. He nods, and Isabela brushes his hair back behind his ear, neither lingering nor taking advantage of his vulnerability. He offers her as much of a smile as he can muster in return for it, and she grins, wide and sunny and sharp as the blades on her back.

“Thank you.” Fenris huffs. Isabela skips backwards and turns around, catching up easily with Hawke. 

“Don’t mention it!”

They walk for another three hours before Varric calls a break. Fenris doubts he would have done usually - usually they’d be back in Kirkwall by now. But he’d noticed the way the dwarf was watching him, and the looks he and the mage had exchanged when they’d imagined he couldn’t see them. 

How any of his companions labour under the impression that he is oblivious to their actions is a mystery to Fenris. Especially in the case of the mage - as if he would ever treat the man with anything less than the greatest suspicion. Anders has shown great courage and kindness on several occasions in their escapades, yes, and the man is frequently imbecilic, naive, terrible with money and awful at cards. But he is also possessed of great and terrible power which he could at any moment use to rob Fenris of his freedom or his life. How he could imagine that Fenris would ever, could ever, forget such a fact Fenris chalks down to the mage’s seemingly endless ignorance of his own nature and the corruption of his kind. Not ignorance even - willful denial. It is a delusion of the highest order, and one day it will see all of them debased and abused for the sake of his demon and the siren song of power. 

“Fenris? You good to go?” There’s no concern on Hawke’s face now, just the teasing tilt of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Fenris nods, putting away his canteen. 

Ranting at the mage in his head is far less satisfying than hearing the idiot’s rebuttals in reality. 

Fenris has half a mind to instigate one of their debates as he walks across the grassy dunes to where he’d set Anders half an hour previous. When he gets there he dismisses the notion. Anders’ eyes are glazed and unfocused, and there’s sweat sticking to his skin. Fenris waves a hand briskly in front of his face, and Anders flinches back in a way Fenris recognises as preparing for a blow. It is not an instinct of combat. Fenris knows it only as he learned it from Danarius, and he knows Anders has never served under any magister. ( You’ve got magisters, we’ve got templars. If you just let the magic part go you’d see how similar we are!)

(You ask the impossible, abomination. And do not think I will forget so transparent an effort to have me ignore what you are. You are a wolf. You cannot make me think you a sheep.)

“Mage.” Anders blinks, and returns to himself. Fenris is not sure how to offer comfort and is not sure that he would want to. Instead he jerks his head towards the others, who are packed and waiting. “Can you stand?”

Anders does, and Fenris turns, letting the mage climb onto his back and trying to ignore the way his hackles rise when he does so - the way some base and screaming part of him is terribly aware of how close the man’s hands are to his neck. But Anders does not choke him, or poison him, or draw his blood. Instead he slumps heavily against Fenris’ shoulders, like nothing so much as a child. 

Above them seagulls shout into the afternoon sun, and around them the dunes hiss with the wind. Fenris adjusts his grip on Anders’ legs and pretends it is only the sunlight coiling warm in his belly as the man on his back sighs and presses closer. As if he were a place of safety.

As if he were a shield, not a weapon.

“Fenris, we should talk.”

Fenris considers it a sign of great charity and character growth that he does not simply tear the mage’s heart from his chest right then and there. 

They have completed the gruelling walk back to Kirkwall, and every muscle in Fenris’ body aches. Worse than that, his lyrium tattoos are screaming. By the end of the day every footstep had sent new shooting lines of pain stabbing up into his joints. He wants nothing more, now, than to return to Danarius’ mansion and drink his expensive wine until the pain is buried beneath a thick blanket of sour grapes and ethanol.

Instead, he is breathing in the rat-shit stink of Darktown.

Worse, Hawke has left already, keen to see Isabela pressed into her bed for activities that Fenris expects both women will find recuperative if not restful. Varric had left with them. So Fenris is alone, with the mage and his clinic and the smell of shit and piss, chokedamp and vomit. His tattoos are hurting badly enough to make his teeth ache.

“Can it wait?” He asks, shortly, making no effort to hide his impatience. Anders is propped against his door, and Fenris is vaguely concerned that he will not make it to wherever it is that he sleeps without falling onto the dirt floor of his makeshift clinic. But he had promised himself he would release any sense of responsibility for the mage’s wellbeing after he had seen him past the threshold of the hovel he called a home, and the threshold had been crossed. If Fenris became the threat to that wellbeing, so be it. He had paid his debt.

The mage, damn him, has the gall to smile, raising his eyebrows as he does so. “Don’t let me keep you from your thriving social life. I’m sure Messeres Putrefaction and Rot make excellent house guests.”

Fenris spins on his heel, ignoring the sharp stab of pain up through the sole of his foot and into his ankle bone as he does so. If the mage was well enough to rankle him then he was well enough to find his own bed, and he need not humour him a moment longer. 

“Fenris, wait!” There’s a shuffle and then Anders is in front of him, bent almost double with his back to the staircase. It would be so easy to push him. It wouldn’t even kill him. Part of Fenris is annoyed that he has no desire to do it. But then Anders’ eyes are on him, catching what little light filters down into the Undercity. “You’re in pain, right? I think I can help.”

Fenris nearly punches him. “I will not accept your magic, mage. And you have none to give regardless.” His lips curl back over his teeth as he speaks, and Anders raises his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

“Whoa, no, yeah, agreed, no magic. It’s just a potion. It’ll do you better than wine and a hangover in the morning.”

Fenris scowls. “My mornings are none of your concern.”

The mage’s cheek dimples as he bites it, and Fenris decides not to drive himself mad wondering what could be so irritating that even he would not say it. Instead he meets Fenris’ eyes again, and Maker damn him the man is stubborn as a mule. “No, you’re right, and you can get as sloshed as you want as soon as you leave but please, please just take some pain relief.” Anders pauses for a moment, gaze moving to the filthy walls around them, scanning them as if he were reading some ancient text before his mouth sets into a firm line and he turns back to Fenris. “Consider it payment for a favour. I don’t want to be in your debt, and I don’t think you’re the kind of man who’d hold it over me.”

Fenris considers this. He does not typically enjoy any kind of debt, given or received. It smacks too much of forced obedience, servitude without consent. It is this, he imagines, that the mage has surmised about him, and he’d be more surprised by it if he weren’t so irritated. He considers informing the abomination that he and his kind are among the few people he would consider allowing to be in his debt. But Fenris does not expect the admission would go over well and the mage is, under his poor attempts at manipulation, apparently doing him a kindness. The lines around Fenris’ ribs pulse like hot wire, biting into his skin and the muscles beneath it, constricting around his chest. He would not deny the possibility of relief for spite.

Not this time.

“What did you have in mind?”

Chapter Text

There is a low murmur of sound coming from the mage’s corner of Darktown as Fenris approaches, and he slows on instinct, too accustomed to avoiding crowds and the risks that may lurk in them. As he gets closer he sees, to his relief, that it’s not so much a crowd as a steady trickle of people entering and leaving the clinic. Fenris pauses in one of the many, many shadowed corners to be found in the Undercity. He leans against the splintered, sticky wood, careful not to touch it with his bare arm, and watches.

He supposes it shouldn’t be remarkable that there’s a wide variety of people outside the mage’s hovel: the one thing every race in this blighted land had in common was that they bled. 

There are many, many elves. Like so many of his people, they look starved and beaten, and not so unlike the slaves he’d grown up with. If anything, most Tevinter slaves were better dressed - no magister would have his pets looking so filthy in public, not unless it was some kind of punishment or twisted preference. 

Still, Fenris can see that it’s not for lack of trying. None of the stains on their clothes are fresh - except for one surly looking teenager with a strip of red fading across his midriff and a black eye, jaw tense and clenched. The rest have obviously tried to clean what they have, and just as obviously have neither the money nor the means to afford better soaps. Their faces are mostly clean, though there’s one child whose cheeks are covered in pox. Their hair is not clean: none of these elves could afford the expensive soaps made for hair alone, and none would want to waste a body soap by using it with the frequency their hair needed. Instead their hair is cut short or tied back, kept out of their faces and neatly braided. 

Around them, humans of all shapes and sizes limp and shuffle in line. These humans are different to those in Hightown. They don’t shove ahead of the elves or spit at them. There’s one: a gruff, bearded man with his arm in a loose makeshift sling, making cheerful conversation with an elvhen woman with two babes in her arms. As Fenris watches, she carefully passes one to him. Fenris stiffens. Too often he’s seen what happens to elvhen babies in human hands. So his gut doesn’t know what to do when instead the bearded man’s face lights up, as if it were a human child, and he shifts his weight to hold the infant closer, beaming at the woman before him. She shyly returns the smile. Fenris looks away.

It is perhaps most surprising that there are dwarves in line. Fenris knows their magical resistance will make magical healing much more difficult than it is for the other races. He also knows that magic is not the only way in which Anders knows how to heal. There’s one casteless dwarven woman standing in the line, chin raised high in defiant pride. A little further back, a dwarf wearing the unmistakable armour of the Carta is limping, using his shortsword as a crutch.

The Carta dwarf is not the only criminal in line. Now that Fenris is looking, he spots several Coterie thugs of various genders, and even an elf he knows who works in the employ of Athenril. He wonders at what kind of complicated ceasefire these various factions must have agreed upon, that none of them are attempting to slit each other’s throats. He wonders at the influence the mage must have, to effect such a treaty.

Comfortably certain that no one is going to spring at him from the shadows, Fenris walks forward. He notices more than one glare shot his way. Presumably the mage’s clients think he means to jump the queue. He ignores them, moving instead to stand near the door so that he can look inside. 

The Fereldan woman who’d first pointed them in the mage’s direction is here today. Fenris supposes that’s why they’re able to handle more patients than usual. Her hair is tied carefully back beneath a white scarf, and she’s concentrating on an elvhen child, binding her knee with bandages. Further off is the mage.

As Fenris watches, Anders deftly lights a fire with one hand and sets a pot of water on a tripod above it with the other. He makes no show of the magic, Fenris doubts many of the people in the room have noticed it. Whilst he waits for the water to boil, he grinds a handful of herbs into a paste with a pestle and mortar, glancing up to assess his clinic the way Fenris has more than once seen him take in a battlefield. Fenris is well hidden in the corner he’d chosen, but he leans back anyway, and counts to ten before he leans forward again.

Paste ground, Anders moves to an elderly dwarven woman sitting on a cot that sits much lower to the ground than the rest. He crouches, and offers her a kind smile that Fenris is surprised to recognise as one of his more sincere expressions. Even more surprising, that the dwarven woman smiles back at him. Carefully, Anders removes the thick woolen stocking around her foot, revealing a bruised and misshapen swelling of some kind. Fenris does not know enough about the healer’s arts to identify it, but Anders doesn’t hesitate, merely glances up at the woman again, exchanging some words with her before beginning to carefully massage the paste into her skin. 

Fenris tries hard to make the connection between this man - a human, of good education and immense magical power, one who willingly housed a creature of the Fade and thus poses a dangerous risk to himself and all those around him - with the one on his knees on an earthen floor in the poorest part of Kirkwall, massaging the feet of a dwarf. It’s an act that most humans in the Free Marches would consider the most immense indignity, but Fenris can find in Anders neither shame nor hesitation. Like two magnets repulsed by one another, the thoughts refuse to join. There is the abomination, the monster Fenris fears and fights alongside. And there is the healer, who Fenris does not understand at all. He does not know how to shape them into two parts of the same strange man he has known for three years and still feels he barely knows.

The rest of the day passes in a similar fashion. A young elvhen boy vomits on Anders’ chest, and Fenris waits for the strike that should inevitably follow, and is rewarded only by Anders’ sudden concern for the child, laying him down and brushing off his apologies as he fetches him water to rinse his mouth. There’s a Coterie rogue, who wakes from her surgery screaming and waving the first scalpel she can find. The mage doesn’t even use magic: just calmly grips her arm and says something low and quiet until she relaxes and drops the instrument. 

There is even, at one point, a human man stinking of ale who does not come for aid, only to stand at the door and shout abuse whilst the mage runs his glowing hands just above the belly of a pregnant woman. The mage does not look up, not when the man calls him monster, or demon, or abomination. Not when he calls him filth or rot, poison or damned. Fenris supposes he’s used to it, and refuses to examine the sour wriggle of something like shame at the back of his mind that comes with the thought. Anders does not deal with this one. It is instead Lirene, wielding a broom like a staff, who comes marching towards the drunk with fire in her eyes. The man braces himself, and for a moment Fenris prepares to intercede. But then Lirene sweeps the man’s feet out from under him and pushes him when he’s unsteady, letting him fall graceless onto his arse. Fenris feels his lips twitch into something like a smile as Lirene follows him. “Piss off Bob. And don’t think I won’t be telling your Amelia about this.”

Finally, finally, the day begins to draw to a close. By this point the sound of crying children has faded into background noise and the grisly, damp sounds of surgery are only so much soft accompaniment. The mage’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his skin is streaked with blood and other things - though only above his forearms. His hands and wrists remain meticulously clean, and Fenris isn’t entirely sure how he stops his skin from peeling away with how often and how thoroughly he scrubs it. His hair is still tied back, though more than a few strands of gold and copper have slipped loose of the leather tie, hanging around his face as he smiles tiredly at another chattering customer. The magic around his hands is nowhere near as diminished as it had been on the Wounded Coast, but Fenris can still see the edges of it flickering like frayed cotton as he carefully examines a human girl’s ribcage. 

Anders purses his lips as he does so - it’s not often that he expresses any kind of negative emotion, Fenris imagines the facade is largely to keep his patients at ease. He wonders whether the mage’s displeasure is intended as some chastisement of the girl herself, or if instead it is simply so great that in the moment the mage cannot hide it. He receives his answer a moment later when the girl turns her head. Her mouth is swollen and bruised, and there’s a cut on her cheek. She looks like she’s about to cry. Fenris expects that she will, but then the mage pulls a handful of daisies from his sleeve. It’s the most childish, two copper magic he could imagine, the sort of thing that would see a magister laughed out of Minrathous for his foolishness. At the end of a long day of heavy work, it’s a needless waste of energy. But the girl brightens, the side of her mouth not swollen by an errant fist lifting into a trembling smile, and she raises her own hand. Magic glitters around her fingers. Fenris tries very hard to hate her. 

Anders smiles, and gently takes her shoulder, saying something soft and low. The girl nods, and the magic fades. Gingerly, she takes the flowers, and Anders presses a quick kiss to her forehead. The bruises heal. Fenris would despise him for the unnecessary show if he could not see how much the gesture comforted the child. Anders gives her another tight smile, and she hops down from the cot. It is at this point that a barrel-chested, red faced woman comes storming into the clinic. From the look on her face, she had seen both mages using magic, and she marches towards the girl, one hand already curled into a fist. Fenris suddenly has a suspicion about the child’s bruises.

He hasn’t entirely thought it through when he decides at last to break his cover, muscles and tattoos creaking in protest as he does, burning with new heat along his skin and pooling in molten agony around his joints. He has done this a thousand times before, doing it again without flinching is as much a habit as quietly raising his axe, though Fenris regrets the way the previously peaceful inhabitants of the clinic flinch back from him when he does so. He sees at least one Coterie rogue lay a hand on her dagger, though her gaze shifts between he and Anders, as if her concern is for the mage. Fenris supposes that makes sense - Anders is the one who will heal the nasty mess that is her broken leg. But he doesn’t have time to appease her. 

“What exactly are you doing with my daughter, Apostate?” The barrel-chested woman spits the word as if it is the most filthy insult. Fenris’ mouth twists. 

Anders raises his hands, palms forward, but he steps carefully between the girl and her mother. “I was healing her, Caroline. She had some rather nasty bruises.” He does not bother to veil his accusation. Fenris cannot decide whether he resents the mage or admires him for it.

“That is none of your concern.” The woman is spitting rage, no doubt angered by Anders foiling her attempts to reach the child as she tries to move around him. Anders stops her easily. Fenris had seen the man stand between Hawke and half a dozen Hurlock bolters. An untrained human woman would not be the one to break his guard. (Which begged the question: why in the name of Andraste did he feel the need to intercede now?)

Anders keeps his voice level, despite the increasing amount of attention being drawn their way by the commotion. “Perhaps not. But her fractured ribs were. Any more pressure and they would have been broken, and then liable to puncture her lungs. She could have died.” Behind Anders, the girl quails. Anders does not move his gaze from the woman in front of him. “I’m sure we can agree that neither of us wants that, messere.” The title is a concession, granting the woman a higher status than she can possibly hold over the man in front of her. Not for the first time, Fenris wonders whether the mage is possessed of any pride whatsoever. It is just another of the many things that puts him so profoundly at odds with everything Fenris has ever learned about his kind.

The woman settles, and for a moment Fenris thinks that must be the end of it. He’s a little embarrassed at his own overreaction, and is halfway to replacing his axe on his back when she suddenly backhands the mage, hard enough for the crack to echo through the wooden room. Fenris stares: shocked not only by his own lack of judgement, but by the mage’s decision not to avoid the blow. There’s no possible way he couldn’t have dodged it if necessary. He must have made the decision to take it. Either way, he rubs at his now reddened cheek, head snapped to the side by the force of the thing. When he speaks, he does so with humour, and Fenris wonders whether he’s gone quite mad. “Ow. That hurt.”

It is, somehow, the Coterie rogue who intercedes  - despite her mangled leg. She limps between the woman and the mage, using his staff as a crutch, and brandishes a chipped, tarnished, nonetheless wicked looking knife. When she speaks she does so with a burred Kirkwall growl. “I think it’s time you make yourself scarce, serah .”

The red-faced woman gets, somehow, more red. But she steps back, clearly recognising the rogue’s Coterie livery. “Kate.” The word is more of a bark than a name. 

The girl hurries after her, pausing to turn back and mouth a quick “Sorry” to Anders, who smiles and waves her off. The two of them leave, and the rogue turns to Anders. 

“You alright Healer?” Her words are rough, but her dark eyes are worried, and Fenris steps back, uncomfortable with intruding on the intimacy. Anders smiles at her, despite the blotching red mark on his face.

“I’m fine, Jas. And I thought I told you that you needed bed rest. I’m pleased to see my staff makes a viable crutch though.” He says it with humour, but Jas flinches anyway, moving to return the staff to him.

“Right, sorry, I just -”

“Don’t give it back! I’m stronger than I look, but I wouldn’t mind a little help getting you back to your cot.” Anders slips Jas’ arm around his shoulders, and she lets him, looking for a moment far younger than she’d seemed at first. Fenris wonders how long she’s been a part of the Coterie. He wonders how she’d ended up in it at all. 

“Thought mages were particular about their staffs.” Jas mutters as they make their slow way across the dirt floor. 

Anders hums. “No more than you might be about your daggers. It’s just a weapon, in the end. Some people get weird about it, some don’t give a damn.” Carefully, he sets Jas back down onto the cot. 

“And you, Healer?” She asks, lying back in the cot as the mage fusses with her pillows. Anders shrugs with his good shoulder, taking his staff and flexing his fingers around the grip-worn wood. 

“It’s a magic stick. But in general I prefer not to be defenceless.” Anders waggles his eyebrows. “Well, not unless you ask very nicely.” Jas’ dark cheeks flush, and Anders winks at her. 

Fenris decides he’s spent long enough standing in the centre of Anders’ clinic like an idiot. That, and one of the children is staring at him. He clears his throat. “Mage.”

Anders turns, looking a little surprised to see him. “Fenris! How long have you been here?”

All day. “Not long. Is this a bad time?”

Lirene had left just under an hour previous, and it was clear that the mage had been wrapping up for the night. But he shakes his head and ushers Fenris to one of the few unoccupied cots. “No, no, not at all. I’m glad you came.” He sounds like he means it, which is perhaps the strangest thing of all. 

Whilst Anders busies himself with pouring Fenris a cup of water from a jug placed on a wooden shelf, Fenris studies his reddened cheek. “Are you hurt?” He’s unsure whether Anders had seen his own foolish attempt to intercede in the matter, and tells himself that this is the reason that he asks. 

Anders rubs his cheek, and the uninjured side of his face flushes to match the rising bruise. He looks embarrassed. “You saw that, did you?”

Fenris grunts. “She does not seem well suited to motherhood.” He takes the water Anders offers him, and waits to drink until the mage has poured a cup for himself. 

“Not many are.” Anders sighs, leaning back against the cot opposite the one on which Fenris has sat. Anders runs a hand over his face, pushing back into his hair. “I don’t know why she doesn’t just let the poor girl get taken by the Circle and have done with it.” Anders’ expression sours. “Though I suppose having a convenient apostate might prove useful for household chores.”

Fenris tilts his head to the side. “Would the Circle be so much worse than her current situation?”

Anders doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.” Fenris opens his mouth to contest that. He had yet to see Circle mages sporting split lips and broken ribs. Anders pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fenris, can we just - not do this? I’d very much prefer to heal you than fight you.” The corner of Anders’ mouth jumps into a smile as he opens his eyes and meets Fenris’ gaze, and Fenris has no idea what there is to smile about. “Please?”

Every inch of Fenris’ body burns. This is not unusual. He nods. “Very well.”

The corner of a smile broadens into a toothy grin, and Anders gets up, suddenly energised. “Great! Ok, I’m going to need you to remove your armour.”

Fenris freezes. Anders notices, and purses his lips for a moment. “How about this?” His hands move to the buckles on the front of his coat, and he begins to undo them. Fenris frowns, utterly bewildered. But then Anders finishes with the buckles and brisky removes his coat, before bundling it into his arms and moving it and his staff to the other side of the clinic. Fenris watches him carefully, but when Anders returns in his shirt sleeves it’s transparently clear that he is neither armed nor wearing any kind of armour.

“Is that wise? Considering your...clientele.” Fenris lets his gaze linger meaningfully on the bruise the mage has yet to treat on his cheek, and then shift to the Coterie rogue in the corner. Anders follows his gaze and snorts. 

“Jas wouldn’t touch a hair on my pretty little head.” His lips curve into a wicked smile. “Not unless I asked politely. And this is nothing.” As if to demonstrate, he lifts his hand and brushes the bruise from his cheek as if it were nothing more than a sootstain, fingers glimmering with light. He folds his arms across his chest, and Fenris notices the way his shirt hangs loose around his belly. “This way, if I were for some reason to decide to have my wicked way with you, both your armour and your weapon are close at hand whilst I stand at a disadvantage.”

“ You are a weapon, mage.” Fenris reminds him, bluntly.

Anders rolls his eyes. “So are you.” Fenris flinches, and Anders bites the inside of his cheek. “My point is, if I give you a reason to go all chest invasion on me, I’ve left myself nice and vulnerable for you.” He gestures to the off-white cotton blend of his shirt, and Fenris cannot quite ignore the soft fuzz of copper gold hair that curls over his freckled chest, criss-crossed with thin white scars. “I’m trying to make you comfortable. Is there something else you need me to do?” Anders pauses, and his eyes are not unkind when he asks, calmly. “Or would you prefer to try this at another time? We don’t have to do it at all if you’re uncomfortable, Fenris. I’m not interested in coercing you into doing anything.” 

Anders steps back as he says the words. It’d be easy enough to leave: Fenris wouldn’t even have to step around the mage. He’s left a clear path to the exit. It’s this, of all things, that lets Fenris finally relax a little, and he feels the relief of it in the unwinding of his shoulders. He does not have to do this. He can go. He can make it stop. And the absence of the staff in the mage’s hands is a reassuring one. 

He nods. “You will stop, if I ask?”

Something tightens at the corners of Anders’ eyes, but he nods. “Of course.” There’s more behind the words, a weight like a river pressing at a dam. 

Fenris looks away and strips his armour quickly and methodically, laying it neatly beside him. When he gets to his tunic he hesitates. “Do I -,” the words get stuck in his throat, but Anders is shaking his head before Fenris can finish fighting with the sentence caught between his teeth. 

“No, the issue is the enchantments on your armour more than the material itself. Your tunic isn’t enchanted, right?” He must know, but Fenris finds himself appreciating the fact that Anders gives him the option to answer.

“No.” 

Anders nods and smiles again, just a little. “Right. Give me a minute.” Then he turns and walks away. Without his coat and the rare arcane feathers that adorn it, he looks far more like one of his patients than the fabled Darktown healer. In a simple shirt and breeches, hair a little dirty and half tied behind his head with a strip of leather, Anders just looks like a man. 

Fenris cannot imagine being afraid of such a person, though he thinks that’s part of what makes him, and all mages, so terrifying. They’re chameleons, blending into the midst of innocent people, leaving all around them utterly unaware of how easily they could twist their minds and bodies to their will with a snap of their fingers. Fenris’ stomach turns, and he tries not to stare too hard at the other patients left in the clinic. None of them are magical: the only one had been the girl, and she is gone now. He’d watched. 

Still, it’s one thing to be unarmed with this mage. It’s another to be defenceless in a crowd of them. Fenris knows the latter feeling all too well. He has no desire to repeat it. 

Anders puts out the lantern in front of his clinic, and draws the doors closed with a soft thud, lighting a handful of candles with his hand and speaking softly to the few patients he’s kept overnight, occasionally administering a potion or a light dose of healing magic. By the time he’s back, Fenris is unarmed and clenching his fingers around the wooden rail of the cot, feeling the rough texture of the stiff linen under his fingers. He flexes and curls his toes and tries hard to ignore the panic rising in his brain for no sensible reason. 

Anders returns and lights the candle at Fenris’ bedside table with a match. It’s ludicrous: as if Fenris could not have noticed his use of magic in the rest of the clinic, as if he were not about to use magic on Fenris himself. Despite his better judgement, Fenris appreciates the gesture. In the dark, Anders smiles at him, smelling faintly of bitter herbs. 

“Sorry about that.” He speaks softly, no doubt to avoid disturbing his patients as they bed down for the night. Fenris says nothing. He’s unsure of what he’s being asked to forgive. Anders rubs his hands together, and Fenris wonders whether he’s cold. “Shall we?”

Fenris looks at him. “What is it that you intend to do, exactly?”

Anders nods. “Good question. This time I just want to perform a diagnosis. I have some,” his mouth twists into a frown, “theories about what might be going on. But I’m not going to treat you on the basis of a theory. I’ll need to use magic to get an idea of what’s happening under your skin, and ask you some questions about anything you know or remember about what was done to you, and how the tattoos feel now. Does that sound good to you? Any red flags?”

Fenris pauses, considering. After a moment, he makes his decision, and ignores the part of him that quails and flutters in his stomach at the idea of willingly letting another mage lay hands on his markings. “Yes. What do you need to know?”

Outside the clinic, the distant wails and screams of Darktown have begun to mirror in human voices the cacophony of birds settling for the night. Within it, the soft sigh and occasional whimper of its occupants as they shift on their creaking cots lays texture on the darkness. Fenris speaks softly, and tastes damp and herbs when he does so, until he thinks the dusty smell of them is plastered to his tongue. Anders listens.

The surgery doesn’t come until the second visit. Anders had explained the procedure at length, answering every one of Fenris’ questions in more detail than even he really felt he needed. He had repeatedly offered a number of possible alternatives. On the third such attempt, Fenris had met his eyes. “Mage. Which is the most effective choice?” Anders’ silence had given him answer enough, and Fenris had nodded. “Then we will do this. I can handle pain.”

Anders has closed his clinic early tonight, and Fenris finds it eerily empty, the great width and height of the place is nowhere near as imposing when it is filled with people, drawing the eye closer to the ground. Fenris wonders what the space had been before. Anders greets him briskly when he opens the door, and a miasma of bitter herbs and soap follows him, wafting into the rat-ridden streets of Darktown. The mage steps back to usher him inside, and Fenris wonders at himself going willingly into a room with only an abomination for company. 

Unfortunately the idea of sharing the details of his situation with his companions, however close they had become, had felt fractionally worse than coming here alone. So here he was. Anders’ coat is discarded and his staff is propped against the far wall. There’s a cot in the centre of the room, and it’s been wadded with several additional blankets. Next to it is a table cluttered with potions, at the end of which a rack of liquid lyrium glows a soft, ethereal blue. Fenris walks closer and touches the layered blankets. It’s hardly a bed in Danarius’ mansion, but it’s still more comfort than he needs.

“You didn’t need to do this.” He supposes that as much as evident, but he wants to see the mage’s response.

Anders shrugs, hands fluttering like small birds. He does this when he’s nervous, as far as Fenris can tell, and he’s surprised he hadn’t noticed the habit sooner. “This is not going to be a pleasant evening. I wanted to make it as comfortable as possible.” 

Fenris snorts. “You could always compel me.”

Anders scowls. “You’re an arse. Sit down.” Fenris remains standing, and Anders rolls his eyes. “Please Fenris would you consider sitting down so that I can begin a very long and hard night of free work exclusively for your benefit.” 

A little chagrined, though refusing to let the mage see it, Fenris sits and begins to remove his armour. The mage tosses something in his direction and Fenris catches it without thinking, enjoying the way the mage’s eyes widen slightly as he does so before looking at the thing itself. 

The light is low in the clinic. Anders has only lit candles near the place where he intends to perform the surgery, and the shadows in the corners are thick and deep. Candlelight flickers off the waxy surface of a small, unblemished red apple. Fenris blinks, and tries to swallow around the sudden pebble in his throat. He doesn’t speak. He’s not sure what his voice would do if he tried, and his reaction to the thing is vulnerability enough. But he bites into it, and shuts his eyes, and thinks of dust and a distant aching memory of a woman’s voice and clothes on a laundry line.

When Fenris opens his eyes again, he catches the corner of a small, secret smile on the mage’s lips as he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and carefully washes his hands. Fenris watches him: watches the long elegant lines of his fingers, and thinks that he might have been a musician, if he hadn’t learned to summon hurricanes and fire storms. 

Anders meticulously dries his hands and turns back to Fenris, who is now wearing only his tunic and breeches. The axe Hawke had given him is propped against the cot, looking a little worse for wear in the weeks it’s been used since its initial gifting. Fenris would care for it better, but he has no doubt the woman will press some new stolen instrument into his hands within a month or so. He hopes it’s a sword. 

“As we discussed, I’m going to use magic to go into the tattoos themselves and see exactly what Danarius used to adhere them to your epidermis and how deep it goes. It is going to be immensely painful. So I am once again going to suggest, as your healer, that you allow me to anaesthetise you for the process.”

Fenris clenches his jaw. “And I am once again going to refuse, mage. I will not be unconscious for this procedure. If you are unwilling to perform it under these conditions, then I understand,” (he doesn’t, some desperate part of him is screaming not to let this opportunity pass), “but I must be awake.”

Anders huffs, hands curling and flexing at his sides. After a moment, he shakes his head. “Fine. Fine. Have it your way.” He turns to the table he’d prepared and picks up an awfully familiar leather gag. Fenris feels bile jump into the back of his throat, and he glances at the door, calculating exactly how long it would take him to reach it. Perhaps he had misjudged this. Perhaps the mage had only lured him here with the promise of healing. Perhaps he intended instead to do what every other mage had ever done to him: hurt him until he begged, and then hurt him more, just because they could.

In Darktown, distantly, a woman screams, and there’s the sound of clanging metal. Anders glances at the door, and grows serious when he turns back to Fenris, lowering the gag. “Fenris? What’s wrong?”

Fenris realises he’s squeezing the wooden side of the cot tightly enough for it to splinter. He can feel it creaking under his hands. He wishes he had his gauntlets. He feels naked. Somewhere in his panic he has enough sense to ask, roughly, “What is that?”

A complicated series of expressions run over Anders’ face at that: surprise, understanding, fury, grief. He lowers the gag. “It’s to stop you from biting your own tongue off. It’s...a fairly standard part of any healer’s toolkit, especially if they don’t have magic. But I can see how it would make its way into less savoury hands.” Anders purses his lips for a moment, freckled brow furrowing. “Alright, new plan.” He turns and walks away, and Fenris watches him go and feels the jackrabbit race of his own stupid heart as his panic fades into something cold and fragile and empty. He looks down at his hands, at their familiar callouses and filed nails. Danarius had liked him clean and plucked, and Fenris had split a nail too often over stupid things to shuck the habit. He hates it, hates his useless, clawless fingers. It doesn’t matter that he knows they would be meaningless if he uses the magic sewn into his body. He feels weak. That matters. 

Anders rattles through a stack of boxes on the other side of the clinic, and after a moment finds whatever it is he’s looking for. “Aha!” 

Fenris wonders, not for the first time, how a man of Anders’ age could possibly have lived as long as he had and survived as much as he did without unlearning habits as childish as crying out when he was happy. Did he not know what the world did to those who wore their happiness so openly? If his Circle had really been as bad as he claimed, he would surely have learned as much. 

Fenris dismisses the thought before his anger can meet his anxiety and run utterly beyond his control. When Anders returns, he does so smiling, holding a strip of bark in his hands. “Willow bark,” he explains at Fenris’ questioning look. “I mostly grind it for the powder. It’s better that way, but we still need to stop you biting your tongue off and choking on your own blood.”

“Lovely.” Fenris mutters. Anders offers him the bark and he takes it. It’s thick and dark and a little elastic. It’ll work.

“You’re the one who wants to do this without anaesthetic. When we start, bite down on this. I don’t want any stupid macho ‘I’m a broody elf who hates mages’ bulllshit. You’re my patient, and I won’t have you suffering any more than you are apparently determined to do.” Fenris tries, hard, to resist the urge to smile as the mage falls back into what seems to be familiar territory. He wins the battle before Anders looks at him again.

“Very well. Is there anything else?” 

Anders wrings his hands, and Fenris frowns. They had not discussed anything else, and he’s unsure how he will handle a revelation similar to that of the gag so soon after it had been resolved. When Anders speaks, he does so in a whisper, “Yes I know, thank you.” He sounds annoyed. Worse than that is the implication that - Fenris shifts his weight, ready to stand and leave. 

“Your demon is present.”

It’s not a question.

Anders rolls his eyes, holding up his fingers as he speaks. “One, not a demon. I don’t know how many times I need to say that but I will say it every time because I’m pretty sure, elf, I’m the only person in the Free Marches more stubborn than you are.” Fenris opens his mouth and Anders raises his voice. “That was not an invitation for debate. Two, yes, he’s present. If I’m present, he’s present. It’s sort of a permanent deal. I really thought we’d explained this and also, honestly, that you were smarter than that.”

“Insulting my intelligence will not make me any more willing to allow your demon to lay its hands on me, mage.” (He can hear laughter, taste wine in the back of his throat, and smoke and sulfur and there are hands - but they’re hot and flaking and they’re too big and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.)

Anders’ smile falls. “Fenris?” He sighs. “Look, maybe we shouldn’t do this. Even if you’re ready for it, I don’t actually want to force you to receive treatment from me. We could...ask the Circle maybe. Have you treated by someone who isn’t an,” Anders’ cheeks narrow as if he’d sucked on a lemon, “abomination.”

Fenris huffs. “If the Circle is as corrupt as you claim, it would have me thrown in a dungeon as a magical curiosity as soon as it’d help me.”

“It would.” Anders agrees, and scowls. “Andraste’s tits. Fenris - I need you to give me something. Because I won’t send you to the Circle, no matter how much of a stubborn bastard you might be, and you’re obviously not going anywhere near Tevinter. I don’t know how many apostates you might find scattered across the Free Marches but I know I haven’t met another Spirit Healer yet. Well. Apart from Wynne, but she’s,” an old, tired grief crosses Anders’ face like a cloud across the sun. He clears his throat. “As far as I can tell it’s me or, shitting fucking bollocks.” Anders rubs his jaw. There’s a light graze of ginger stubble there, flecked with blonde. “Maybe the Dalish?” Anders’ free hand is fluttering again, moving in quick, violent movements that echo his frustration. “Their whole,” a wide, spasmodic gesture, “ thing with the Fade means a lot of their magic centres around spirits.” Anders frowns, head tilting minutely to one side. “Yeah, no, I get that, obviously we’re not going to let him near anyone who uses -”

“Anders.” Fenris breaks the mage’s ranting, and he stops, turning back to him with his mouth hanging open. “I did not say I would not let you do it.” Anders’ mouth snaps shut. Fenris takes a deep breath and tells himself the ground isn’t spinning. “I am,” he hesitates, “intimidated by your,” Fenris’ mouth twists, “creature. But.” Fenris takes another deep breath, and forces himself to look up and meet Anders’ eyes. For once, he lets himself feel the comfort he finds there, in their kindness. His shoulders drop a little. “But I have come to trust you. If you can swear to me that the creature will not make itself known during the surgery, then I am willing to proceed.”

Outside the wooden doors of the clinic, a group of teenagers walks chattering and laughing, their voices bouncing against Darktown’s low ceilings. Anders looks like he’s been slapped. After a moment he collects himself and nods, stepping forward. 

“Right. Ok. Right. Well then. Uh, you should lie back.” Fenris does, squinting at the distant ceiling and folding his hands on his abdomen. The wadded blankets beneath his back are a little uneven, but there’s more comfort in the care that went into the gesture than the material itself. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the soft cool blue of Anders’ magic. He keeps his breathing slow and even. “Ok. I’m going to start in a moment. I’ll count you in so you know what to expect. And you know you can ask me to stop at any time, for any reason.”

Fenris rolls his eyes at the shadowed dark. “Yes, Anders.”

The mage gives a soft exhalation of air, high and warm with something like surprise. “Right. Fenris?”

Fenris sits up a little, looking at the mage standing beside him. “Yes?”

Anders doesn’t meet his eyes, but there’s something like a smile curling near the corners of his lips. “I trust you, too.”

Fenris nods and lies back, and tries hard not to think about the gentle warmth that settles in his gut at the mage’s admission. 

“Ok, I’m going to count you in. Three, two, one -”

The agony was blinding. Of course it was. Fenris remembers screaming, and he knows that it takes a great deal to make him scream, now. The taste of the willow bark is bitter and brackish in his mouth, as if he’d swallowed river water, and his teeth ache from how hard they’d been clenched. But they did not stop 

Fenris does not know how much time passes. He only knows that when he wakes, Anders is sitting beside his bed, asleep and exhausted, smelling of sweat and lyrium. 

Fenris watches him for a while: taking in the deep purple shadows pressed in thumbprint bruises under the man’s eyes, the faint hint of freckles scattered over his nose, the curling strands of red-gold hair hanging over his shoulders. There’s a furrow on the mage’s brow, even in sleep, and Fenris finds himself possessed with the almost irresistible urge to lean forward and press it away, like smoothing a wrinkle from old cloth. 

Instead he speaks, softly. “Mage.”

Anders startles awake, blinking, and his pupils are wide and black as he adjusts to the shadows. He waves a hand, and the candles around them light, and both of them jump. Anders glances at Fenris, and Fenris shakes his head. 

“It’s fine.” He looks around the wide, darkened room. “I can see the practicality of it.” Anders’ mouth curls into a small smile, which he hides as he stands and stretches. 

Without his coat, the loose linen shirt he’d worn lifts a little, revealing a line of hair that runs down from his belly button in a rich line of copper and gold. Fenris looks away, deciding he vastly prefers the man with his coat on. Anders’ shoulders crack, loudly, and Fenris winces sympathetically. “I would have imagined a healer would know something of the risks that come with sleeping in a chair.”

Anders sighs and moves to another table on which he’s set his tripod, lighting the flame with a wave of his hand and setting a kettle on it to boil. “A healer would. This hypothetical healer would also know that leaving their catatonic patient unobserved would constitute malpractice at best, and in such a situation this anonymous healer might, in theory, decide to lump it.”

“Must so many of your decisions end in self sacrifice?” Fenris muses, half provocative, half sincerely curious. 

Anders snorts. “You’ve been talking to Varric.” Fenris hadn’t, not about the mage, but he makes a mental note to do so. “Tea?”

Fenris blinks. Coffee was the beverage of choice in Tevinter, and he’d rarely had the opportunity to try tea, nor yet the desire to. It was hardly Hawke’s preferred drink, and they didn’t serve it at The Hanged Man. “What is it?”

Anders squints at the clay jar in his hand. “Uh, peppermint? I think?”

“You think.” Fenris repeats, voice flat. Anders doesn’t look at him, spooning dried herbs into a pot. 

“No tea for you then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Anders snorts, and gets out a second mug from another cupboard by the wall. “He says yes, he says no, Maker whatever shall I do with him?” Fenris feels that perhaps he should be more offended by that, but it is at this moment that he makes the unfortunate mistake of attempting to sit.

Fenris doesn’t cry out. He’d long since learned how to bite back such reflexes. What escapes him instead is a wet, choked exhalation of air. Anders turns anyway, concern written plain across his features. “Fenris?”

Fenris doesn’t answer. He’s trying to concentrate past the web of fire melting into his bones. He can feel his body convulsing: feel his toes and fingers curling and spasming, twisting uselessly in the sweat damp blankets as he reaches desperately for any kind of mooring in an ocean of pain. 

He barely registers the smooth lip of glass pressed to his lips, or Anders’ long fingers gently massaging his throat. He doesn’t know how much time passes. He only knows that when his senses return to him, the smell of mint is sweet and clean in his nose, and Anders’ eyes are a bright, ethereal blue.

“They will not have you, Singing One.” The voice that comes out of Anders’ mouth is not his, and Fenris scrambles back across the cot, unutterably relieved when the movement causes him no substantial pain. Anders’ - the mage’s - the abomination’s head turns to follow him, cracks of blue light splitting his freckled face. “This injustice will be answered.” 

Fenris finds his axe, and he’s hefted it and lifted it by the time the thing turns to face him. Every part of him is screaming, telling him to strike - except, except, except. Anders’ body slumps, and the glow fades, and Fenris drops his axe to the ground with a heavy thump. Anders flinches, and Fenris refuses to sympathise.

“Have it under control, do you?” He spits, trying to concentrate his fear into anger, and chase the weakness from his body despite how it tries to shake. 

Anders frowns, rubbing his forehead. “ That was a terrible idea. This is why we don’t let spirits handle personal lives.” Fenris isn’t sure the mage is talking to him, and it only makes him angrier. He lifts the axe again and Anders snaps to attention, raising his hands palm forward (as he had with the woman, before she’d struck him. Was Fenris going to strike him now? It would be far worse than a bruise.)

“Look at me, abomination.”

A muscle at the corner of Anders’ jaw jumps. “Fenris. You’re not going to hurt me.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, and Fenris has no idea why in the name of Andraste that makes something twist in his chest. He is going to hurt him. He should hurt him. This is a mage that has willingly given himself to a demon. An abomination. A monster. He should end the thing here and have done with it, as he should have done years ago.

“What were you going to say to me?”

Anders frowns. “What?”

Fenris squeezes the old leather grip of the axe’s haft. It creaks between his fingers, which still feel naked and bare without his gauntlets. It doesn’t help. “Last night. There was something else you were going to say to me. Before we got sidetracked by your demon.” Anders’ eyes glimmer blue, and it’s all the incentive Fenris needs to adjust his stance. It would be so easy to land a killing blow. One strike would do it. He sees Anders’ eyes shift over his shoulder, in the direction of his staff. It’s too far away to be of any use now. Anders refocuses on him, meeting his eyes. His hands are still, and Fenris cannot tell whether that means he isn’t nervous, or if he’s simply too scared for such simple anxieties. Something sour in his gut rolls at the idea of actually frightening the man. He dismisses it.

Anders lifts his chin, and his jaw is strong and proud. Fenris supposes it makes sense that he’s beautiful. Poisonous things often were. “I was going to ask if I could trust you.”

Fenris’ grip slackens. “What?”

Anders shrugs, as if he could roll away the tension that had settled between them with one gesture of casual insolence. “You were trusting me. But I’m not really sure you realise how much I was trusting you.”

“What are you talking about?”

In the corridors beyond the clinic, a mabari barks, loud and deep and rough. Doors open and close in a chorus of rattling wood and creaking hinges. The city is waking up. Anders sighs.

“Pain like that does things to people. Makes them confused. Irrational. And you have this nasty habit of sticking your hands in people’s chests.” Anders huffs a laugh, and spreads his arms wide. “I’d removed my armour, and my staff. I’d rendered myself defenceless,” his eyes narrow when Fenris opens his mouth, “defenceless enough. And with the amount of mana I needed to heal you, I wouldn’t even be able to muster a shield.”

“So why did you do it?” Fenris’ voice is quiet. He doesn’t know where his anger went, but he wants it back now, because in its place is only confusion, and shame, guilt and a sense of stupidity the longer he stands with Hawke’s axe held over an unarmed man whose offence was nothing more than the kindness to heal him.

Anders gives him a small, sad smile. “Because you needed it. And because I trust you. So you’re not going to hurt me with that axe. You’re going to put it down, and you’re going to drink some tea, and we’re going to discuss your next appointment.”

Hawke would kill him if he murdered Anders.

Fenris tells himself that’s the reason he drops the axe. He’s not sure who to blame for what happens next. 

Fenris sets the axe against the cot, and his fingers brush the layers of rough blankets piled on top of it and twisted in the night. When he looks up, he forces himself to meet Anders’ eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Anders’ shoulders drop, and he gives him a wide, mischievous smile. “You’re forgiven.” Fenris stares at him. He’d had this once, from Hawke, and found himself here three years later. He still does not know what to do with such easy, generous compassion. He has no idea how to accept it. If Anders notices the brief mental war Fenris is battling, he doesn’t mention it. Instead he turns, walking back towards the kettle. As he does, his loose shirt slips a little down his back, and Fenris catches the telltale hatchwork scars of a flogging. He frowns. Oblivious, Anders continues, chattering merrily to the quiet of his clinic. “Now, let’s find out what you think of peppermint tea.”

Chapter Text

Fenris leaves an hour or so after the incident with the axe, and Anders sits heavily on the closest stool he can find, staring at the old wooden doors the elf had shut behind him. “I think that went well.”

He tried to kill you.

Anders rolls his eyes, getting to his feet and redistributing the blankets he’d stacked onto Fenris’ cot, speaking as he works. “But he didn’t, which is the crucial point. Besides, he didn’t actually try to kill us. We’d know if he had.” Anders scratches his chin, running his fingers over the rough stubble there before making the executive decision to worry about it later. “That was just...asserting authority.”

He can feel Justice’s confusion before the spirit asks its next question, and he smiles a little as he sets up the potions and poultices he’ll need for the day. He won’t be able to use magic today, not after he’d exhausted himself last night, but that doesn’t mean he can’t heal. 

“He needed to know he could stop us - me, if he needed to. And he needed to know that we would let him.”

What if he had let the axe fall?

Anders pauses, hands full of the cool, smooth necks of half a dozen potion bottles. “Then the morning would have turned out very differently. Like I said, it went well.”

Once he’s set up the potions and poultices, he moves to tidy away the equipment he’d needed the night before, pausing mid-step as both he and Justice share the remembrance of it.

Fenris had screamed in a way Anders hadn’t heard anyone scream in a long time. There were certain arcane, unnatural things that worked far crueller agonies on the body than anything any mortal person might encounter in their usual activities: living poisons and biting rot that lacerated the nerves and boiled the blood. Anders had seen a little of it, in his time as a Grey Warden and once in Kinloch Hold. He’d had a suspicion he’d encounter such horrors again, at Hawke’s side, what with their meeting over her insistence on venturing into the blighted Deep Roads. He hadn’t expected those horrors to make their way here, into his clinic. He doubted he would sleep well in the weeks to come. 

He has suffered a great injustice.

Anders sighs, picking up the empty lyrium bottles and fetching a cloth to get rid of the sticky residue on the table where he’d knocked over the empties. He and Justice had worked far into the small hours of the morning, until his vision was blurred and his muscles were shaking, tongue stinging with the acrid taste of lyrium. He’d barely had the grip to hold a potion bottle, let alone drink it, and yet still there was more. Danarius’ mutilation of Fenris’ body wasn’t just sadistic, it was obsessive in its detail, making the elf’s chronic pain intrinsic to the lyrium’s function - a design choice, not a flaw. Anders’ stomach rolls, and he thinks of the way Fenris had looked at him, jaw clenched, eyes wide. ( You will stop, if I ask?)

“He’s suffered several.”

“Talking to yourself again, messere?” Lirene’s voice is warm as she rolls the wooden doors to the side with a shallow rattle. Anders startles, setting down the empty bottles in his hands. 

“Oh, you know me. Mad, bad, dangerous apostate.” He wiggles his fingers for effect, and Lirene rolls her eyes. Anders smiles at her. “Tea?”

“Ginger, please.” Lirene has finished opening the doors, and the smell and sounds of Darktown wash in through them. Children playing, dogs barking, merchants shouting their wares. It’d be almost idyllic if it wasn’t for the smell of rat piss. 

“How’s the shop?” Anders calls across the clinic whilst he sets about heating Lirene’s tea. There’s a simple joy in this: in the freedom to light a fire with his hand and not fear being seen. His residency in Darktown has not always been easy, but the small miracle that constitutes living freely as himself among non-magical people without fear is more than worth it. 

It is Just.

Anders smiles at the teapot. It is.  

“Oh, you know. Everyone wants what we don’t have. Occasionally some noble woman comes in to complain that the genuine Fereldan robes she purchased had bloodstains on them.” 

Anders snorts. “Surely that’s a design feature? It’ll really shock those conservative aristocrats with the grisly reminder of our ruined homeland.” 

Lirene chuckles, methodically boiling bandages and laying them out to dry. “See that’s what I should’ve said.” She sighs. “Instead I agreed to see what I could do.” Anders looks up at that and raises his eyebrows. Lirene is giving him a rueful smile, and has a set of folded robes in her arms. 

“By that did you mean that you would see what I could do?”

Lirene crosses the clinic and hands Anders the robes. He passes her the tea in return and she takes it gratefully, fingers wrapping around the clay cup as she breathes in the sweet smell of ginger. “Would you, healer?” 

Anders unfolds the robes, examining the bloodstain. There were several creative applications for magic that he’d developed over the years, things that would hardly have made their way into any approved Circle journals, being more like Hedge magic than anything else. One of those is the removal of stains, an art in which he’d become quite skilled whilst fighting for his life against an army of Darkspawn. This doesn’t even have any blighted taint. He folds the robes and sets them to one side. “It should be fairly straightforward. I’ll do it when we close up shop.” He doesn’t explain that he needs to save what little mana he has remaining in case they see a patient who needs it more. At this point in their acquaintance Lirene understands such basic mechanics. This understanding is just another aspect of his life for which Anders is unspeakably grateful, and he feels a wave of fondness rise in him as he looks at the stout, defiant woman in front of him. “Any other news?”

Lirene frowns, then brightens. “Oh, the most impossible thing!” 

Anders raises his eyebrows. Lirene is not a woman given to exaggeration. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Someone donated three gold pieces.” Anders’ eyebrows hit his hairline. Lirene smiles - it’s a small thing, beaten down by hardship and loss. But it’s still warm. “I know. Three gold! We can turn into an actual operation with that. We could make a real difference with the profits.” Lirene’s dark, clever eyes are already racing ahead to ledgers and margins, a conversation to which Anders can add very little, so he draws her back to the present.

“Do you have any idea who might be responsible for such a thing?”

A spark of mischief comes into Lirene’s expression. “That’s the thing. Susanna says there were only Fereldans in the shop that day. And you and I both know there’s only one Fereldan in this blighted city who’d even have a chance of holding that much coin.”

Hawke. 

Anders’ heart does something stupid in his chest, and the mischief in Lirene’s expression grows, her cheek dimpling as her smile tilts into a grin. “She’s very handsome, healer.”

Anders turns away so that Lirene can see neither his blush nor the sharp stab the words do to something in his chest that sits dangerously close to his heart. Hawke is in love with Isabela. Whilst Isabela might share, Hawke doesn’t seem to work that way. Which is fine. It’s fine. He had briefly been head over heels for the woman in the weeks and months after he’d met her, he expected every member of their motley crew had (with the possible exception of Varric.) But over time it had become clear that Hawke herself was drawn to the siren song of the sea, metaphorically speaking, and Anders had had his own grief to deal with. (Karl’s face flickers into his mind and Anders dismisses it, sharply.) Hawke does not and will not return his feelings. That’s fine. He’s over it. Really.

This saddens you.

It’s both a statement and a question. Anders’ mouth twists whilst he busies himself with rinsing the kettle and scrubbing his hands. It’s complicated.

“Healer? Is the clinic open?”

The voice is one Anders recognises, and he turns to see a red-haired, pregnant dwarven woman standing in the doorway. He smiles, and lets his anxieties slip away to be dealt with later. “Vennah. How are you? Come on, let’s get you sat down.”

The rest of the day passes in the usual blur, and Anders lets himself relax into the routine. His feet are barely sore by the time Lirene needs to leave, though his hands sting a little from the soap, and he reminds himself to rub some lotion into them later. He’ll be no good to anyone with cracked skin ripe for infection. 

Jas stops by, and presses a stolen bottle of Antivan brandy into his protesting hands, blushing darkly. When Anders stops attempting to resist the gift, she springs onto her tiptoes and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. She smells of citrus and leather oil, and Anders feels himself tickled pink by the gesture. She gives him a shy smile, and Anders grins stupidly back, ignoring Lirene’s teasing as he takes the brandy back into his bedroom-come kitchen-come living space. Apparently his days of successfully hiding half a dozen trysts under more than forty heavily armed templars’ noses are over. (And isn’t that a fun mental image? Anders catches himself doodling it later: templar noses jousting over the honour of protecting Andraste’s knickers.)

Anders finishes with a tall human miner who’s been having trouble with an old knee injury. He listens to the man explain the thing before examining it himself, and squints up at him from where he’s kneeling on the dirt floor of his clinic. He makes an effort to ignore his own bad knee. “This mine you work in. It wouldn’t happen to be The Bone Pit, would it?” The man, a gentle soul with grey eyes and curling grey-white hair, purses his lips.

“It’s the only one in Kirkwall that’ll take Fereldan workers.”

Anders sits back in his haunches and bites his cheek. “As your healer, Gerald, I really have to suggest you seek another form of work.”

Gerald laughs, and it’s a mirthless thing. “Why, you got a position open here?” It’s a joke, but worse than that is the very subtle thread of hope he buries in it. Anders can’t quite force a smile.

“I’m afraid a free clinic means no wages. I’m sorry.”  With an effort, ignoring the twinge in his scarred joint, Anders gets to his feet.

Gerald frowns. “How do you eat then?”

Anders shrugs, and gestures to the modest pile of ‘donations’ that have accrued throughout the day. “I have generous patients.” He hesitates. “Do you know Varric Tethras?” 

Gerard guffaws, a great belly laugh that startles an nearby elvhen child and causes a mabari outside to start barking. Anders blinks. “Was it something I said?” His mouth is twitching into a smile anyway, heedless of his embarrassment. It’s difficult to listen to such a heavy, roaring laugh without smiling, and Gerald’s whole face folds into half a hundred familiar laugh lines with it, speaking to a merrier man.

After a moment, wheezing, he wipes his eyes. “Do I know...Only the most famous dwarf in Kirkwall. Maker, healer, you do make me laugh. Do you never leave your clinic, to know so little of the outside world?”

Anders resists the urge to say that he had been on Sundermount not three days previous. Even the most understanding of Darktown residents got a little twitchy about renegade apostates making nice with the Dalish on demon infested mountains. 

“I’ll have to take a look at my social calendar.” He says, instead, smile still lingering around his lips.

Gerald hums and leans back on the cot. “Why’d you bring up Varric Tethras, anyway?”

“He’s a friend of mine.” Anders says, with as much innocence as he can muster, and enjoys immensely the surprise that blooms on Gerald’s face like the sun revealed by storm clouds. The big man’s mouth hangs open, and his curly grey beard only enhances the effect.

“You know Varric Tethras?”

Anders grins. “I’m not a total shut-in, Gerald.” His smile falters a little as he recalls why he brought this up in the first place. “Speak to him. If there’s a job in Kirkwall for a Fereldan miner, he’ll know it. You need to be careful with that knee: it’ll give out on you at the first sign of trouble.” Like a recurring infestation of dragons, he doesn’t say. But he meets Gerald’s eyes, and tries to convey the seriousness of the request. If he tries to run, he’ll fall. And you couldn’t work in The Bone Pit if you didn’t have fireproof armour and a decent pair of running legs, whatever lies Hubert told about its safety.

“Alright, healer. I’ll ask. But if I get laughed out of The Hanged Man I’m coming back here to repay you in kind.” 

Anders snorts and holds out his hand and Gerald takes it, his own much larger than Anders’ and rough with scratching callouses. “It’s a deal.”

Anders does have enough magic, in the end, to deal with the robes, and Lirene hugs him before she leaves. He deals with one more patient after she’s gone: a little elvhen boy with skinned knees, which he cleans and binds and gives a little healing because he can. The boy grabs his waist in a quick, tight hug, and before Anders can decide how to respond he’s gone - running back into the shadows of the Undercity. Anders watches the dark where he’d gone for a moment: the deep gold light that falls in narrow shafts onto the chipped and splintered wooden walls of Darktown, and far off the sounds of the city above. Then he turns to his lantern, and blows it out.

He doesn’t hear someone coming up behind him, exactly. A deep, reflexive instinct that Anders has chosen to put under the general umbrella of ‘Grey Warden Nonsense’ kicks at the base of his spine just before Justice’s voice makes itself known in his head.

Anders!

Anders whirls, catching the arms of the stranger in a firm grip and twisting. 

“Ow, Maker’s Balls, Anders! Let go.”

Anders freezes. For one terrible moment he thinks this is it. He’s finally lost his grip on reality. Fenris is right, and he is insane, and everything he’s done since he’d escaped Kinloch Hold is merely a symptom of that same awful disconnection with reality.

“Anders? Mon coeur , what happened to you?” The stranger steps forward, and her face comes into the sunlight, and Anders stares at thick curly dark hair and scattered moles across olive skin. Angelique Lyons hasn’t changed much in the years since the fall of Kinloch Hold. Anders stares at her like she’s a ghost.

There’s a simple, gnarled wooden staff strapped to her back, and she’s wearing a practical black woolen cloak. Her brown eyes are gentle, and Anders doesn’t really say anything, doesn’t know how to. He makes a sound that’s something like a sob and then he’s letting go of her and pulling her into a hug. She hugs him back, arms wrapped tight around his midriff as she buries her face in his shoulder. Anders squeezes his eyes shut, and buries his face in her hair, and starts to cry in earnest when the smell of lavender and honey fill his lungs. For one moment, he’s sixteen again, and they’re sitting with the windows open to the rain, and he’s holding the new apprentice from Orlais as she cries and trying to distract her with stories of his misadventures. 

Angelique’s body is small and warm and strong in his arms. She’s so real, solid and heavy and there , that Anders isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to let her go again. 

Then she pulls back, and rubs the tears from her cheeks with the back of her thumb. She reaches up to cup his face with one small dark hand. “What happened to you?” The lilt of her accent is softened by time and travel, but it still pulls him decades into the past. Anders shuts his eyes, and presses her hand to his cheek, leaning into it. Angelique’s thumb gently runs over his skin. Anders takes a deep breath.

“Let’s go inside.” His voice is rough, but Angelique doesn’t mention it. Both of them check behind them for any unwanted observers before they step into the clinic, and Anders shuts and bolts the door. 

Half an hour later, Angelique is sitting in the narrow strip of space Anders has turned into his home at the back of the clinic, across the rickety wooden table from him. Both of them are drinking the brandy that Jas had given him. Angelique raises her eyebrows when Anders brings it over. “You have an admirer?”

Anders shrugs, but gives himself the luxury of a small smile. “She’s a mercenary and a thief.”

Angelique smirks. “So she’s your type then?”

Anders sighs, happily, and sits. “Yes, but a little young for me. My patients occasionally develop infatuations, it’s a side effect of being one of the few people in this blighted city who offers aid without demand or expectation.” Anders scratches his chin. “It engenders unnecessary devotion.”

On the table between them, a candle casts Angelique’s face in gold and shadow. She breaks the bread he’d given her but doesn’t eat it, choosing to raise an eyebrow at him instead. “You mean they admire the generosity of a kind and courageous man?”

Anders snorts and gestures at the glorified storage crate in which he lives. “I’d hardly call this courage. Hiding in the Undercity, writing treatises that no one will ever read, whilst up there in the blighted Gallows there are children who -” 

Angelique stops him with a gentle touch on his wrist, and Anders catches himself. “I know, chaton .”  

Anders clears his throat, and turns his hand: an invitation, not a demand. Angelique takes it and winds their fingers together. Anders takes a drink of his brandy with his free hand. The liquid is rich and smooth, and it rolls like fire and caramel down his throat. Justice rumbles his disapproval, Anders ignores him. I can have one drink. These are what I’d call exceptional circumstances.

“What happened to you?”

He doesn’t ask why she didn’t write, why she hadn’t made herself known to him sooner. He doesn’t know what he’d want her to say. Angelique looks away. The light of the candle dances in the reflection of her dark eyes.

“We were being returned to Orlais, you remember?” Anders nods. Angelique shuts her eyes. “It was three weeks’ journey on foot. Once we were out of sight of Lake Calenhad the templars grew...restless. By the turn of the fortnight they had turned on us. They,” she hesitates, and Anders notices the small pile of torn bread on her plate. He squeezes her hand.

“You don’t need to tell me this.”

Angelique squeezes his hand in return and gives him a small smile. “It’s fine, thank you. They did not succeed. I...killed them. We were a week outside of Val Royeaux and suddenly we were apostates. I’m sure I do not need to tell you the challenges we faced. Villages turning us away, hiding from templars on the roads -”

“Farmers with pitchforks?” Anders adds, grinning. Angelique snorts, and it’s a lovely thing.

“Basically.” Her expression falls. “Eventually I was on my own. We had become separated from some of our group, and the rest,” grief falls over her face like a shadow. “I pressed on. I thought perhaps if I returned to Ferelden we could find allies there.”

Anders catches his breath, and Angelique nods, mouth pressing into a thin line. “The Blight. I escaped, barely. I still do not know how. Perhaps the Maker had seen fit at last to smile on me, for all the times he’d turned on me and mine before.” Such words would be construed by most followers of Andraste as heresy. But the anger is familiar, and Anders feels his smile turn sharp and bitter.

This is not Justice.

Anders drinks, and ignores the spirit’s discontent. No. It isn’t. 

“I just followed the people. Eventually I found my way onto a boat to Kirkwall. It’s not exactly ideal but I didn’t know where else to go. And then I heard rumours of a Darktown healer: a Fereldan apostate with the straw hair of the Anderfels who wouldn’t stop talking about his cat.”

Anders self-consciously touches his hair. “You used to say it was copper.” 

Angelique grins at him, and squeezes his hand again before letting go. “Copper and gold both, chaton , don’t worry. You haven’t lost your good looks.” Anders tries and fails not to preen at that. Angelique is still a very beautiful woman, and he has not yet changed enough to forget it. “So, tell me. I have heard some truly bizarre rumours about you. Is it true that you were a Grey Warden?”

Anders grins. “You want to hear my war stories?”

Angelique’s eyes glitter in the half dark. Far outside the clinic, a group of drunken men stumble singing into the tunnels of Darktown. The space between them is full of the scent of lavender and honey. “Are they very frightening?” Angelique’s voice is low and lovely.

Anders leans forward and loosely takes her wrist, running his thumb over the soft skin on the inside of her forearm. He looks up, and meets her eyes. “Just the worst.”

Later, folded close in his bed in a tangle of warmth and bare skin, Angelique runs her fingers over Anders’ chest, tracing the lines of his scars. She looks up at him. “What happened to you, mon coeur? ” They don’t need to whisper, with the clinic standing between them and Darktown. But the darkness asks for quiet, and it’s difficult not to obey. Anders runs his fingers through her hair, and imagines he’s a teenager again, hiding his face in Angelique’s shoulder to try and forget the anger and humiliation of another day in glorified captivity.

He looks at her, and his gaze shifts to a wicked looking scar cutting over the brown curve of her shoulder. “I could ask you the same, liebling. ” The word feels dusty on his tongue. He’d so rarely had cause to use the language of his childhood, and it barely felt like his own anymore. But it was right here. Angelique frowns, shuffling closer, and her hand moves down to cup the narrow width of his hips. 

“I asked first. You’re starving yourself.”

Anders shifts, lifting himself up onto his elbow and walking his fingers up the soft, slender curve of her belly. “I’ll have you know I’m fighting fit.”

Angelique huffs. “You know that’s not what I mean Anders.” She hesitates, not looking at him when she continues. “There’s something in your eyes. Something that wasn’t there before.” For a moment Anders is very, very cold. He and Angelique were intimate friends, and she is a brilliantly intelligent woman. She understands the mechanics of spirit healing. But he’s still not sure what he would do if she hated him for this. His anxieties are interrupted when she turns, hair falling loose over the soft curve of her breasts. “Where’s Karl?”

All at once, he’s there: smiling in Anders’ memory, bending to kiss him, shyly pressing a book into his hands. And then it’s twisting, and there’s a brand on his forehead, and his blood is on his hands, and -

“Anders!” Angelique doesn’t raise her voice, but her whisper is sharp and her hands are firm on his shoulders. “What happened?”

“They made him Tranquil.” Angelique catches her breath. “They made him Tranquil and I killed him.” 

Angelique stares, “ Why? ”

She doesn’t need to clarify - the templars made mages Tranquil for any number of reasons, and rehearsing their alleged crimes didn’t help. But Tranquil mages were still people. Anders shakes his head, but his eyes are burning and his throat is full of something he doesn’t want to name. “It broke, for a moment, I don’t know how.” (It was Justice, but he couldn’t have that conversation now.) “And he begged me. He begged me to kill him and I, so I, I did.” Anders starts to cry in earnest then, and Angelique pulls him into her arms.

For a moment, they just lie together as he weeps, Angelique stroking his hair. After a while, Anders stops, feeling light and washed clean, as if by the rain. When Angelique speaks, it’s with her cheek resting on his head. Anders’ face is hidden in her shoulder, body curled around her. “I heard a rumour. They said - solitary confinement, for a year.”  Her fingers trace gently over the scars on his back.

Anders takes a deep breath, and his mouth and lungs fill with the scent of lavender and honey. “Not a rumour.”

Angelique’s arms tighten around his chest, pulling him close. Anders doesn’t need to see the lilac sparks around her fingers. He can feel her magic pulling on the Fade, quick and bright as a shooting star. “Sometimes I just want to burn it all down.” 

Anders shudders in her arms, and tries to ignore the burning light of Justice in his chest. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Where will you go?” Anders wants, desperately, to ask her to stay. But he knows that isn’t how this works, and he knows regardless that she wouldn’t if he asked. Angelique seems to read something of this in his expression because she gives him a small, sad smile. Beyond the staircases, there’s the sloshing sound of someone tipping water on the dusty earth outside their home.

“Wherever the wind takes me.” 

Anders sighs, and stops himself from pressing her further. He tries to force some humour when he asks, not so jokingly, “You’ll write, won’t you?”

Angelique smiles at him. “Of course, mon coeur . How else could I regale you with my adventures?”

Anders feels a real smile touch his lips at that, and he leans against the doorframe of his clinic. “I’ll hold you to that, Lyons.”

Angelique laughs then and skips forward, up onto her tiptoes. She takes his face between her hands and pulls him down to press one long, chaste kiss to his lips and touch their foreheads together. “Be safe, Anders. There are more that need you than you can possibly imagine.”

Then she turns, and leaves. Anders watches her go, and stands outside his clinic for a long time: long enough to watch the burning orange light of sunrise bursting through the broken walls of Darktown. He stands, and stares, and tries not to think about anything at all.

When he gets back to his room, he finds his manifesto on his desk. There are a few corrections and suggestions written in Angelique’s familiar looping hand, and beneath it, she’s added her own paragraph onto what he’d written.

Furthermore, are not we all children in the eyes of the Maker? Magic is more than just a weapon. It heals. It brings joy. Only turn your gaze to such apostates as the Darktown Healer for evidence of this. 

If those who bring harm without provocation are accursed and hated by the Maker, what of those who prevent healing? Who would stop mages using their Maker given gifts, who would extort the free citizens of Thedas for the privilege, and keep their healers locked and beaten behind walls built by slaves?

No citizen of the Free Marches should live in fear of abuse. This includes the mages.

Chapter Text

Why in the name of Andraste Hawke hasn’t yet seen fit to set Hubert’s decapitated head on a spike in Lowtown market, Anders can only chalk down to some vague Kirkwall politics about which he cares very little.  He satisfies himself instead with imagining the man’s face on the body of every dragonling he kills, and tells himself it does something for the fire of vengeance burning brighter in his chest for every dead Fereldan they find in these blighted mines. 

Sweat is running into his eyes, stinging with salt as his breath heaves burning in and out of his chest. Anders is exhausted. Of course this is the point when a mature dragon decides to introduce itself to their motley crew with a wall of fire hot enough to give him superficial burns over forty feet back. Isabela falls, and Hawke goes with her, and Anders throws himself into the effort of getting them back on their feet whilst the nest of dragonlings closes in around them. His arms are shaking with the effort, and he feels more magic than man as he channels what he can of his soul into his friends.

Anders, this is reckless.

Anders ignores the voice of Justice in his head, and concentrates through the hazy blue-white light of his own power as both Isabela and Hawke are lifted off the ground. They find their feet, and he slumps, wheezing in the wake of so much lost energy. 

It’s possible that would have been the last thing he’d ever done, were it not for the sudden slick hiss of a sword, terrifyingly close, slicing through dragon scales and sinew as if they were nothing but hot butter. The head of the dragonling behind him thumps wetly to the ground, teeth still bared in a snarl. Anders jumps, turning as Fenris kicks the creature’s body to the ground, readjusting his grip on his sword.

Hawke had given him the weapon a week ago, and even Anders had seen the faint hint of pleasure on the elf’s face as he’d received it. He was competent with every weapon Anders had seen him handle, but there was something about a greatsword that just looked right in his hands. Anders had never really understood the Warden’s lectures about swords being an extension of the self, hadn’t really felt the need to. But he understood it now. The fluidity and ease with which Fenris used his weapon was almost balletic, his usually troubled features peaceful and calm with simple focus. It suited him.

Still winded, Anders raises a hand as the elf moves away. “Thanks.” He’s not really sure whether Fenris heard him.

It is unlikely.

Anders snorts, uncorking a lyrium potion with his thumb and downing it in one shot, nose wrinkling at the acrid taste. Brandy was so much better. 

You need to concentrate.

Anders rolls his eyes. Yes, thank you Justice. He looks up, pushing his sweat damp hair out of his face and trying to take in the battlefield. His heart races like a jackrabbit as he looks at the mother dragon, though he flatters himself to think it doesn’t show on his face. These things are always so impossibly huge. It makes them look like ants. 

Hawke and Isabela are standing, fighting now. Both of them are close to the dragon, racing out of her line of sight and ducking between her legs. As Anders watches, Isabela increases her pace and leaps into the air, rolling in a tight ball as she flies over the dragon’s tail. Hawke raises her arms in the air and shouts, loud and wild. She does not avoid the tail, and Anders winces as it sends her flying. 

He looks around the field. Fenris is missing. Above them the sky is dizzying in its vastness, especially so soon after the bloody ruins of the mines. Anders squints at it for signs of any other visitors before returning his gaze to the earth. There! Fenris is backed into a corner, sweeping his sword in a great wide arc as he’s set upon by a clutch of dragonlings. Anders wouldn’t usually worry, but their numbers are increasing as their siblings notice the cornered prey. 

Taking a deep breath, Anders marches forward and sets his staff into the earth, feeling for one moment the sudden rightness of his magic flowing through his connection with the Fade. He raises his hand and pushes, and a blast of cold shoots across the battlefield, immobilising the dragonling directly in front of Fenris. Anders jogs forward, stopping a dozen feet or so away and ignoring the deer-sized dragonlings that turn in his direction. He sets his staff in the earth again, finding the moisture in the ground and the air, and heaves. A cresting wave of ice erupts from the ground, freezing the dragonlings trapping Fenris in a crescent. 

Fenris doesn’t miss a beat, he raises his sword with a roar. The tattoos on his body burn, and he swings his sword in one great sweeping arc, felling half a dozen dragonlings in a single blow. Anders stares. “Holy shit.” Fenris looks up at him, wreathed in chipped ice and soaked in sweat, slender chest heaving. He nods. 

Your mouth is open. 

Anders shuts it, and then a dragonling latches onto his arm, teeth sinking through his armour and into his flesh. “Andraste’s knickerweasels!” He wrenches his arm back and swats at the dragonling with his staff, though he only manages to bounce the wood on its nose, shaking out his throbbing arm as he does so. “Tits.” He slams his staff into the ground, feeling the reverberation of it through his palm, and a blast of fast jumping electricity skewers the offending dragonling and its closest siblings. With a word, Anders has healed his arm, and he turns back to the mother dragon. There are a handful of dragonlings left at his back, but he has no doubt that Fenris will make short work of them.

Isabela is down again, and Hawke has apparently decided that it’s a terribly intelligent idea to pick a fist fight with a dragon. She’s standing over Isabela’s body, daggers in hand, arms moving fast as she strikes blow after blow over the dragon’s bloodied muzzle. The beast’s great lips curl. Anders barely has the chance to scream, “ HAWKE!” before it begins to breathe another great column of fire. He throws up his hand, and a shield flickers into being around Hawke and Isabela’s bodies, diverting the worst of the flame and distorting the grass and dust around them into a soap bubble’s iteration of their surroundings.

As the dragon turns its head and the spewing wall of flame comes careering towards him, Anders thinks that perhaps he should have listened to First Enchanter Irving and actually completed his course on the Arcane school of magic. The memory is an oddly fond one, and he’s satisfied with it, as far as last thoughts go.

ANDERS!

Anders shuts his eyes, and feels the fire growing to an unbearable heat. Time has slowed to a trickle. He wonders whether he’ll see Karl again.

Then something burning white and blue careens into him at a breakneck speed, sending him flying backwards onto the ground and skidding through the dirt. The body curls around him, tightly, pressing him into the dirt as the flame skids across their heads, and Anders’ mouth and nose fill with the smell of burning skin and leather as the fire grazes their back. Then it’s gone.

Noise returns in a rush. Distantly, Anders can hear the dragon screaming, and the chattering snap of her children. Hawke is shouting. The wind howls over the mountain. Fenris pulls back, and Anders blinks against the afterimage of his tattoos, burned onto the backs of his eyelids. Fenris is frowning, and the concern is so clear on his face that he almost looks naked for it. “Mage? Are you alright?”

Anders breathes, and the smell of burning leather fills his mouth. “I’m fine. Are you?”

Fenris scowls, and Anders resists the urge to grin, fairly certain his relief will be misconstrued as teasing. “It is nothing.” He pulls back, and it’s only when he does so that Anders realises the elf had been holding him tightly. Fenris gets onto his feet and holds out a hand. Anders stares at it, and the elf starts to pull his hand back. Anders takes it before he can. Fenris’ tattoos hum under his skin. His palm and fingers are rough and calloused, hot and damp with sweat. He pulls Anders onto his feet easily with one hand, and lets go, turning back to the battle at hand.

Later, Anders thinks perhaps he imagined the way Fenris’ fingers flexed and curled at his side, after he let go. 

The rest is chaos. With the dragonlings dispatched, Fenris settles into the hard work of beating down the mature dragon. Anders revives Isabela, and watches from a distance as his friends do what they do best. Varric’s stories are fanciful smut, most of the time, but he has to admit: watching them like this, silver blades glinting in the sunlight, twisting and leaping over the dragon’s lashing tail, there is a certain romance to it. Anders does what he can from a distance, and feels the aching pull on his mana. He leaves most of the damage dealing to his companions, whose weapons cannot feel fatigue, and wonders whether to include that in his manifesto.

He blames this errant thought for missing the moment that Hawke scrambles onto the dragon’s back: but he catches it when she plunges both of her daggers through its eyes and deep into its brain. The thing slumps to the ground with an earth-shattering crash, and Anders catches himself as he stumbles. Isabela is already climbing over the dragon’s warm body, whooping, and as Anders watches they kiss, with the late pink of the early evening sky behind them and a dead dragon’s head beneath their feet.

In a rare display of exhaustion, Fenris has stabbed his greatsword into the ground and is leaning on it, breathing heavily. Anders quickens his pace towards them. Hawke’s mabari comes barking up to Fenris’ side, and Anders catches a rare private smile curl across Fenris’ lips for a moment as he scratches the ugly thing’s massive head. It whines and wags its tail, and Anders makes his feet fall a little more heavily. The smile falls from Fenris’ face, and Anders tries to ignore what that does to his heart. 

“Need any healing?” He asks, wiggling his fingers. Fenris’ eyes narrow, giving the mana around his hands a critical gaze. It had taken some time for Anders to realise the elf was no longer glaring at him because of the magic in itself: he was assessing how much of Anders’ energy he had left to spare. Anders pours a little extra energy into the display.

After a moment, Fenris nods. “Healing would be appreciated.” Anders doesn’t need him to ask twice, he steps forward, falling into the meditative task of taking inventory of Fenris’ injuries and healing what he can. Whilst he works, Fenris glances up at Hawke and Isabela, who have begun the gruesome task of butchering their kill. Satisfied their attention is diverted, Fenris looks back to Anders. “Do you have any of your - ah - the potions for my -,” he hesitates, flushing, and Anders grins at him whilst he coaxes a rib into knitting back together beneath his fingers.

“Oh! You mean Gold Dust.”

Fenris snorts, and Anders doesn’t try to fight the smile that rises when he does so. He is a very handsome man when he smiles, and Anders refuses to pretend that he doesn’t like it. “I’m not calling it that.” Anders thinks anyone who didn’t know the elf, himself included up until the last few weeks, would read his words as blunt at best. He can hear the humour in them now. He understands a little better what Hawke had meant every time she’d asked them to try and listen to the man in front of him, instead of judging him for his quick temper. 

Anders cocks his hip, and Fenris raises his eyebrows. “Third pouch on the left.” 

Fenris’ mouth curls into a very small smile. “You cannot remove them yourself?”

Anders doesn’t stop his work, moving to Fenris’ other side and wondering how far he’d get by insisting the man get marginally better armour if he insisted on breaking this many ribs every time they left the city. “I could, but that would increase the length of time your ribs are broken. I know we’re not exactly friends, but I choose to believe that standing a little closer to me is marginally preferable to that.”

Fenris hums, deftly unhooking the pouch at his belt (and isn’t that a promising line of thought? Fenris’ deft fingers doing things to his belt...) Fenris pops open a bottle and drinks it. Anders tries very hard not to be distracted by the long line of his throat as he swallows. Fenris finishes, and sighs. The potion is fast-acting but not immediate. Now Anders is looking for it, he can see the tension of pain in the stiffness of his body and the careful way he holds himself. Once he’s drunk, Fenris rolls the stem of the bottle between his fingers. “We could be.” He says, softly. 

Anders frowns a little, moving to stand behind him and carefully examining his back. “What?”

Fenris’ hand curls around the bottle, and he turns to look over his shoulder at Anders. His eyes are mossy and green, and his hair is white as the moon on a clear night. “We could be friends.” He pauses, and looks down and away. Anders doesn’t quite realise that he’s stopped moving. It doesn’t seem to matter. Fenris clears his throat. “I would like it, if we were.”

Anders lets out a long, deep breath, and looks at the beautiful man in front of him.

“Yeah. Me too.”

By the time they get back to Kirkwall, the sun has set and the sky is deepening to a dusky blue over the sandy buttresses of the city. Anders makes his excuses and sets off for Darktown without checking to see whether they’ve been received. As he leaves, he downs a lyrium potion.

It’s not the first time The Bone Pit has been attacked during his time with Hawke, but he still feels underprepared every time it happens. It would help if the blighted templars didn’t -

Anders. Focus.

Anders frowns and hurries on through the streets of Darktown. He can already hear the weeping, though he can’t tell whether that’s his imagination, memories, or just the general misery of the subterranean slums he calls his home. 

You are being followed.

Anders loses his footing for a moment, frowning at the ground strewn with broken glass ahead of him as he continues to walk, slowing his pace a little. Where?

Over your left shoulder. There is a corner we can turn into shortly. Use it to surprise your assailant.

Anders nods, grip tightening on his staff as he goes. The wood under his fingers is soft and smooth with use. He ducks into the corner and whirls, raising his staff, fingers crackling with power. There’s a blur of blue-white movement, and Anders finds himself quite suddenly pressed roughly up against the wooden wall. He blinks at the net of glowing tattoos in front of him, and waits for his eyes to adjust and reveal the man beneath them.

“Fenris?” Anders lets the magic fade from his fingers, and Fenris’ grip slackens. Anders tries very hard not to think about exactly how easily Fenris can lift him from the ground. “Is there a...reason, you’re following me?” Part of him wonders whether this is some kind of bizarre and complicated courtship ritual. He quickly dismisses it. 

Fenris looks away, letting Anders down, and Anders straightens his coat and tries to ignore the way his heart is trying to break out of his ribcage. “You took a lyrium potion before you left.” Fenris’ eyes are hidden by his hair. “I was. Concerned.” The word is stiff and awkward. Anders resists the urge to point out that he doesn’t sound concerned. It’s clearly effort enough to make this admission. 

“Oh, right. Well.” He lifts a hand, and lets magic glitter around his fingers. “I’m all good. Got mana to spare and everything.” Fenris grabs his wrist and shoves it down, and for one second there are different hands on him, and there’s the sound of metal, and they won’t let go and he can’t make them and he’s trapped - Anders takes a deep breath. “If we’re going to give this friendship thing a shot, I need to politely request that you try not to manhandle me.” Fenris lets go of him like he’s been burned, and Anders briskly rubs his wrist, trying to forget the clinging memory of different touches. Fenris’ eyes narrow, and Anders swallows, deciding abruptly that he really doesn’t want to be backed into a dark corner. He sidesteps between Fenris and the wall, slipping into the main thoroughfare of Darktown, which does at least see a glimmer of thrice-blessed sunlight. 

After a moment, Fenris follows him, making no effort to hide the way he assesses the space and crowds around them for any potential threats. Once he’s satisfied, he steps closer to Anders, all but whispering in his ear, breath hot over Anders’ neck. “You should not be so reckless.” 

Anders cocks an eyebrow. “Fenris. I’m the Darktown healer. I delivered Sally’s twins last winter.” He waves at the woman as she passes, and she waves back, looking up briefly from the array of belt buckles she’s set out on a scarf in front of her as a makeshift stall. Her toddlers wobble beside her on a blanket in the dirt. “I’m the one Roger goes to for his dodgy back.” Anders raises his voice a little to call over to the man currently beating a molten sword. “How’s the shoulder Templeton?” Roger lifts his mask, and grins, teeth white in a soot and sweat stained face. 

“Alright Healer. I feel twenty years younger.”

Anders snorts. “I think you have your Marcus to thank for that.” 

Roger’s cheeks get ruddy and he shrugs, smile turning bashful. “Maybe so.”

Finally, they reach the staircases outside his clinic. Anders is already rolling up his sleeves. He hadn’t been imagining the crying. 

He gestures to the mass of people outside his clinic, and the handful of volunteers inside trying to manage them: young men holding others on makeshift stretchers, a tall broad woman with an unconscious girl bleeding on her back, elvhen boys crying as they cling to their father’s breeches, and he in turn holding a woman in his arms with a bloody stump where her arm ought to be. Anders clenches his jaw. “I’m the person they go to when shit like this happens.” Fenris has stopped, staring at the crowd, expression as inscrutable as ever. Anders doesn’t. “Right now? Magic is the least of my worries.”

Anders works past sunrise. He drinks lyrium until his teeth taste like metal and his tongue is numb. His hands won’t stop shaking, but that doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t have time for detailed work. If his patients aren’t on the brink of death, he moves on to the next one. He goes where he’s needed. Lirene and the others can handle most injuries, but there are enough wounds horrific enough that he doesn’t get a chance to breathe. Lirene shoves chunks of bread and cups of water into his hands, and Anders is grateful for it, too dizzy to look around for long enough to find them. Everywhere he turns there’s another tear streaked face, cheeks bubbling with burns, brows smeared with soot. He can’t get the smell of ash out of his nostrils, and his sleeves at his elbows are slowly turning from red to black with blood. Anders feels the world tilting and shakes his head, pinching his forearm. He can’t stop yet.

With the hours following The Bone Pit disaster doing what it does to Darktown, Anders doesn’t realise Fenris had remained with him until sunrise. Familiar tattooed arms carefully set the torso of a man who’d lost both his legs onto the cot in front of him, and Anders frowns, thinking he’s hallucinating. 

“Mage.” Fenris’ voice is as deep and rich in his imagination as it is in reality. But then there’s a hand on his upper arm, and it’s not grabbing as it did before. There are no gauntlets this time. Instead it’s a gentle, friendly grip, steadying him. Anders looks up, and finds himself lost in moss green eyes. “You must rest.”

Anders nods. “I will. Just. Let me do this first.”

Fenris’ mouth turns down, just a little, but it’s much easier to notice his fractional expressions now that Anders knows to look for them. After a moment he nods, and steps back. Anders fumbles at the closest table for another lyrium potion, and feels one pressed into his palm, the cold not-heat of the thing burning softly against his skin. Anders wraps his fingers around it and ignores the way Fenris scowls when he drinks it, gasping against the blistering burn of the stuff in his throat.

You are pushing yourself too far.

Anders huffs and tries to steady himself against the side of the cot. Fuck off.

There’s no anger from the spirit as he begins to heal the man’s wounds. He’s not a man, really. He’s barely a boy. He should never have been down in that blighted mine. None of them should have been. Beyond the heavy fog of his fatigue, Anders can feel the rage building in him, hot and biting and violent. 

Where are the Chantry now? Probably outside wheedling some poor whore out of their earnings. Not here. Not where they’re needed. No, instead they’re up above them in their cathedral, polishing their giant golden statues. Well, they can craft themselves a golden dildo and go fuck themselves with it. 

“Mage.” Anders startles and looks up. The corner of Fenris’ mouth is tilted into something like a smile. “You’re still talking.”

Anders nods, not lucid enough to remember exactly what it was he’d been saying. Instead he looks up and across the clinic. The taste of lyrium and ash in his throat reminds him of another battlefield, years ago, with the wardens. He should be able to feel them. Any moment now, the smoke would clear, and there’d be that familiar tugging sensation in his mind, and Nate would be there. Except - what’s that blighted chattering…?

“Anders!” Anders blinks and Fenris’ face swims into his vision. “You’ve done enough. You need to rest.”

At that point, Caroline Baker comes in with Gerald Orchard slung over her shoulder. Fenris follows Anders’ gaze and snaps, harshly. “ No. ”

Anders ignores him, pushing across the clinic and between the cots: every one is occupied, some two to a bed. He marshals Caroline towards his bedroom and she lays Gerald onto his mattress. Anders can feel panic rising quick and high in his chest as he stares at Gerald’s unconscious body. Why hadn’t he listened? Why don’t any of them ever listen? He’s going to bring that damn mine to the ground himself. It won’t be difficult. He just needs to fill it so deep with rubble that excavating it won’t be worth whatever meager profit means more to Hubert than these people’s lives.

Anders finally finds the reason for Gerald’s unconsciousness. There’s a strip of raw, blackened burn straight across his face. It’s an ugly wound. He’s blind. 

Anders whirls and punches the wall, hard. One of the volunteers, Polly-Anne, flinches back, and Anders tries to find the wits to apologise. But Fenris steps forward, speaking softly to her before lightly touching the back of Anders’ shoulders. “Mage - Anders. There is nothing you can do for him now.”

That’s not true. That can’t be true. Anders tries to breathe through the wet, sticky thing filling his chest and his throat and burning behind his eyes. He shakes his head. “We can’t save his eyes, but if we don’t act now he’ll die.”

“I know.” Fenris’ voice is solemn. Anders frowns. 

“That’s not good enough!” He hears Justice in the words, and sees the way Fenris startles, heel slipping back. He regrets it immediately and shakes his head, crouching to fish another lyrium potion from the cupboard beneath his bed. 

Both Justice and Fenris speak at the same time. No. “No.”

Anders presses both hands over his face. His skin is stinging and raw from the number of times and speed with which he’d scrubbed it tonight. “We can’t let him die. I won’t let him die.” He uncorks the bottle. Quicker than he’d thought possible, Fenris swipes it from his hands. Anders stares at him, mouth open. “Give that back.”

Fenris’ mouth sets into a stubborn line. “No.”

Anders’ frown deepens. “Fenris, now. The man is dying.”

Fenris’ gaze shifts over Anders’ shoulders to the big man on his narrow bed, and his grip tightens around the bottle. “No. You’re poisoning yourself.”

Anders huffs. “Fine!” He turns and crouches to get another bottle. As he does, he feels a familiar electric rush. “Justice, no - !”

It is not comfortable to exist in the mortal realm. It’s wet, and loud, and dirty. Justice tries not to wrinkle his nose. Anders had explained that mortal beings would take offence. He stands slowly, as Anders had, avoiding any sudden movements. The singing elf has already drawn his sword.

He raises their hands, palms open. “I do not want to hurt you, Singing One.” His voice sounds strange to him, as if distorted by deep water. The elf’s lips curl back into a snarl.

“Give him back.”

Justice tilts his head, trying to understand the creature’s logic. “I have not taken Anders. This is his body, and it is mine. He is not gone.” Justice pauses. “He will grieve this man. But if he takes any more lyrium, he will make himself grievously ill. I have a solution.”

The elf scowls. “I’m not making a deal with you, demon.”

Justice quenches the deep, infinite fury that pours into his soul from the Fade at the word. “I am not a demon. And I am not asking you to make a deal with me. I will heal this man, and I will leave.” He considers. “If possible. I will convince Anders to sleep.”

The singing elf grunts and Justice inclines his head. “It is rarely an easy task.”

Then he turns to the man in the bed, and raises his hand over his face. Mortal bodies are complicated, but Anders’ knowledge is detailed, and he draws on it. He has a suspicion that the human is sulking. Satisfied, he turns, and bows to the elf. “Thank you.”

The elf frowns, hands flexing on his sword. “For what? I gave you nothing.”

Justice chuckles. “You let me live.”

When Anders wakes up, everything hurts. This has happened before, so he doesn’t feel much reason to be terribly concerned. He takes inventory of his surroundings. He’s in a bed: good. It smells sweetly of straw. Great. Not a Circle bed then. There’s the distant sound of mabari barking and children playing, voices echoing off wooden walls. Fantastic. He’s in Darktown. He focuses closer to home. There’s soft crying and the occasional moan. As he listens, someone vomits. Not great, but not world-ending either. Anders frowns, and his brain makes its vehement opposition to any attempt to open his eyes known by driving a knife into his skull. “Owwww.” Anders pouts, smacking his lips. His mouth tastes like lyrium. He wrinkles his nose, and that does something to his brain knife, and he grimaces.

“Mage?” There’s the soft sound of someone clearing his throat, and then Fenris speaks again. “You’re alive, then.” The words would hold more of the elf’s trademark dry humour if it weren’t for the fragile tension of real concern beneath them. A clay cup of water is set on the crate Anders had turned into a bedside table, wedged between his bed and his desk. “You must drink.”

Anders nods, and realises what a terrible decision that is when his brain thuds into his skull with a hard smack. “Again, ow. What happened?” 

Fenris sighs. “You overexerted yourself. Again.” There’s a promise of anger in the words, like the promise of thunder in a stormcloud. Anders thinks about it, thinks about the patients in his clinic, far more than there usually are. It comes back in a rush, and he forces himself to get to his feet, ignoring the blinding pain in his head.

“Gerald. Is he - ?”

Fenris looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the floor. The elf looks haggard, hair sticking a little in greasy clumps, face smeared with soot and other things. His sword is propped against the wall of Anders’ quarters. His legs are unfolded and loose, lacking his usual stiff posture. “Your demon did something.”

Anders frowns, which is another terrible idea, and raises a hand to his head. He’s determined to get rid of the blighted headache. This is perhaps his worst idea yet. There’s a flash of blinding pain, and then he blacks out. He comes to a heartbeat later to a face full of Fenris’ armour, the musky smell of dragon’s blood sticking to the roof of his mouth, Fenris’ strong arms carefully supporting him. Gently, Fenris sets him back on his feet, and Anders leans back against the countertop. For once he thanks the Maker for the cramped space of his living quarters. 

Fenris’ jaw is clenched. “You should not use any more magic.” The words are ground out between his teeth. 

Anders shuts his eyes, and tries to breathe through the waves of pain rolling through his skull. “Never thought I’d say this, Fenris. But I think you might be right.”

He thinks he hears Fenris chuckle, low and rough, and then the elf’s hands are on his arms again - not wearing his gauntlets, not gripping, just ushering him back in the direction of his bed. Anders doesn’t try to fight him this time. It’d be a losing battle, and he isn’t interested in any more fainting fits. Maker knew Varric has enough melodrama in his novels already.

He lets Fenris guide him back to bed, pressing a cup into his hands and helping him drink cool blessed water before pulling a blanket over his body. Anders doesn’t remember when or why he started shivering, but he’s grateful for the warmth. 

Fenris sighs, and sits down next to the bed, white head of hair leaning back against the mattress, barely an inch from the back of Anders’ knuckles. Anders stares at him for a moment, half tempted to uncurl his fingers and brush the back of the elf’s head. He wonders if his hair is as soft as it seems to be.

When he wakes, Fenris is gone.

Chapter Text

“Healer! Healer, you need to hide!” 

Anders frowns as he wakes, rolling out of bed before he’s opened his eyes and slipping his bare feet into the soft, familiar leather of his old boots. He rubs his face and yawns, stepping over the rough splintered threshold of his quarters to see a young boy standing in the doorway of the clinic. He smiles. “Leo! Morning, kiddo. How’s your sister?” Leo’s face is white as a sheet, and Anders’ smile falls as he quickens his pace across the clinic, pressing the back of his hand to the boy’s forehead. “Are you alright?”

Leo looks up at him from under a thatch of curly blonde hair with big, scared brown eyes. There’s a growing patch of red on his cheek. Anders narrows his eyes, and carefully brushes the bruise away with his thumb and a faint hum of magic.  “Who did this?”

Leo takes a quick wet gasp of air that makes his skinny chest swell, and lets it out in a gusty sigh. “Templar, messere. They’re on their way here.” The boy’s eyes flash for a moment with anger sharp enough to drown out his fear. “They’re a right lot this time.” The fear returns, and the boy shoves at Anders’ belly, small hands sinking ineffectually into the material of his coat. “You need to hide, messere.”

Gently, Anders catches his hands. Over their heads, in the cracked wooden wall between Darktown and the cliffs, seagulls squat and squawk at each other over some stolen piece of fruit. “Ok, alright, I’m going to. But I need you to tell me where they are.”

Leo nods, and when he pulls back his hands Anders lets him go. He rubs the back of his hand under his nose and sniffs. “Jas has got them distracted.” He grins, and he has a tooth missing. Anders makes a note to have him come in for a checkup soon. He’s not a master of dentistry, but Darktown is a hotbed of infection, and he prefers prevention over cure where possible. “She’s leading them on a proper chase through the tunnels, said she saw a dangerous apostate.” Leo snorts and wiggles his fingers, and Anders gives him a tight smile and tries not to worry about his favourite Coterie rogue.

She is strong.

Anders’ smile softens into something a little more genuine. I know. Thanks, Justice. He thinks for a moment - Hawke is out of town. There was something she’d needed to do for Merrill, and she’d just so happened to leave Anders behind. He can’t imagine why. She’d taken Isabela and Varric with her - which left...Anders bites the inside of his cheek. Something uneasy flips like an eel in his stomach. He considers it: if Leo is right, and the boy isn’t given to exaggeration, he might need back-up. He wouldn’t mind requesting that from Varric or Bela. But. Anders purses his lips, decision made, and breathes out through his nose as he crouches so that he’s at head height with the boy in front of him. As he does, he notices yet another hole in the boy’s shoes. Another item to add to the to-do list. 

“Ok, Leo, here’s what I need you to do.” Leo listens carefully, eyes getting round as saucers when Anders tells him where he wants him to go. But he swallows and nods.

“Alright, messere.” For a moment, his mouth wobbles, and his brow pulls up in a mess of far too many creases for a boy so young. “Are you -,” he stops and swallows again, but his voice still cracks when he speaks, “are you going to be alright?”

Anders gives the child his brightest smile and ruffles his hair, letting a shower of sparks fall from his other hand. Leo watches them with eyes as wide as if he were watching fireworks. “I’ll be fine kiddo. Besides, I can shoot fire with my hands.” He winks, and Leo nods, giving him another gap-toothed grin before turning and running back into Darktown. Anders resists a deeply buried paternal urge to stop him - to tell him to slow on the staircase, or at the very least get that shoe fixed.

Instead he turns around and goes into his clinic, shutting and bolting the doors.

Leo was right. This particular band of templars are a ‘right lot.’ Anders thinks he recognises them. He’s made it his business to make himself familiar with most templar patrols in Kirkwall. (And if Varric had just so happened to slip him a roster or two to peruse in The Hanged Man, well, Anders certainly wasn’t going to go and tell Knight Commander Meredith.) This group are captained by one of the nastier boys in pretentious armour, a Knight-Lieutenant called Tiberius Heius. Anders winces at the shattering cascade of breaking glass as they knock over another rack of potion vials, and he feels Justice surge up inside his chest like a wave.

This is unjust.

Anders keeps his arms wrapped tightly around himself and tries very, very hard not to think about the tight space around his body, or the taste of earth in his mouth, or the awful, pressing dark. His heart hammers against his chest, hard and heavy as lead, until he half imagines it beating a bruise against his skin from the inside out. 

Heavy footsteps come thudding over the floorboards above his head, and Anders holds his breath. There’s the clink of plate armour, and the creak of leather. What little light slips between the floorboards is blotted out as the old wood groans. Anders squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the ballooning ache of air held in his chest. He can hear a woman’s voice, a rough Kirkwall accent. That’ll be his Corporal, Seerah. After a long, long moment she walks away. Anders resists the urge to gasp, despite the blistering ache of the need to do so screaming from his lungs. He feels a cool, numbing rush of magic spread through his chest, and tells himself the damp behind his eyes is just oxygen-deprivation. Thanks Justice.

They will not have you.

It’s not quite the spirit’s usual certainty. It feels more like a promise than a statement, meant to comfort, not clarify. Anders feels a tear run down his cheek, tickling as it reaches his chin and falls onto his chest. Thank you.

There’s a sudden thunder crack of violence above them, and Anders jumps, banging his head on the wooden strut behind him and barely biting back a sound as he does so. There’s more banging, and Anders holds himself tighter and tries to ignore the way his body twitches with old, remembered fear as the templars above his head destroy his clinic. He keeps his eyes shut and tries to ignore the images jumping jagged and bright into his mind. Metal gauntlets grabbing fistfuls of his hair, strands catching in the steel until they tore at his scalp, pulling him out of his latest hiding spot. Wrists chafing until they bled as the rope around them pulled him to jog until he vomited behind their horses. A poignard driven through the joint in his knee to keep him pinned to his bedroll before they set off in the morning. The same knee is shouting at him now, protesting the length of time he’s kept it folded in his makeshift bolthole despite the tight brace of bandages he’s bound it with. Anders thinks longingly of the balm he’d made for it and prays without much hope that the templars haven’t destroyed that too. 

He can hear their voices, raised now for some reason, but he can’t hear why. Anders breathes, slow and quiet and deep, and wonders what the hell is taking them so long. 

He gets his answer a moment later, and really wishes that he hadn’t. The templars fall silent, and there’s the heavy clanking of footsteps as they move away. Anders breathes in the smell of his own sweat, bare earth, and above him the sour smell of spilled potions dripping through the floorboards. Later, he has no idea how he heard it. Grey Warden nonsense, Justice, or just some base human instinct that’s triggered only in situations of the most dire need.

There’s a scratch, a hiss, a sigh. A tiny wooden clatter. Then a great, whooshing roar. Anders opens his eyes. Flickering orange light falls between the floorboards like sunlight on the ocean. The templars laugh, and he hears them leave in a scraping metal shout. 

Above his head, his clinic burns. 

Anders doesn’t know how long it lasts. He knows he can’t get out, knows the fire is only another tactic. Like smoking out a rat. So he listens, as potion bottles explode with the heat in showers of cracked splinters, as the spilled medicine turns into foul smelling steam and mixes with the acrid stench of smoke. He hears his cots and blankets huff into ash as the fire claims them, and he feels tears of frustration run down his cheeks, staring through the distorted soap bubble of the shield he’d mustered around himself as he waits for it to be over. 

Damn them. Damn them all to the Void and worse. Let them be Blighted. Let them be lost in the darkest guts of the Deep Roads, to be torn apart by Darkspawn like so much rotten meat. Let them die screaming and afraid.

Maker, just let it be over.

Anders isn’t worried about the fire reaching Darktown, he’d laid the enchantments on the clinic himself. There are more than a few substances he works with that are flammable, and with all the wood, fire is certainly a risk. His living quarters, too, are protected, which is a blessed relief. Fenris’ potions are kept there and they’d cost a small fortune to replace. He hadn’t called them Gold Dust for nothing. 

No, the only thing at risk is his clinic. So he listens as it burns. 

We will have Justice.

Anders shuts his eyes, and presses his forehead to his knees, and feels his old injury burn. Will we?

Anders had expected the first voice he heard to be Lirene. Possibly Leo, or even Jack Hammersmith - one of Aveline’s guards assigned to his part of the city. Perhaps Aveline herself would be drawn by the fire at the Darktown Healer’s clinic. Then again, Kirkwall had enough crime to go around. Likely she was busy breaking up a turf war in Lowtown, or continuing her endless, futile battle to end smuggling on the Wounded Coast. 

He hadn’t expected it to be Fenris. He hadn’t really thought he’d come. 

He doesn’t know who it is at first: he hears running feet, and then a sudden stop. He hears whoever it is take in the devastation, and tries to imagine what they’re seeing. Suddenly, staying where he is for a little while longer seems infinitely more appealing than seeing the ruin that has been made of his home. The silence stretches, and then there’s a whispered, furious word in Tevene.

“ Kaffas .” It’s followed by louder words in the common tongue. “Mage! Mage! Where are you?”

Anders nearly laughs, but his shaking hands are already fiddling with the latch on the trapdoor above his head. He didn’t just let his clinic burn for one elf to blow his cover all over again. 

Above him, Fenris’ tone changes from anger to outright worry. “Mage? Are you injured?” Anders hears the sound of toppling furniture, broken legs cracking as Fenris shoves them aside whilst his sweating fingers fiddle with the waxed rope and wooden catch. “Mage!” There’s the sound of broken glass being kicked, and a thump as another cot is lifted out of the way. “ Venhedis. Anders! Anders, where are you?” Another crack as a piece of wood is tossed unceremoniously across the floor. “You, boy, you said they didn’t take him.”

Leo’s voice is small and shaken. Anders has for a long time known that his clinic is a safe harbour for the child and his sister. It could not be much reassurance to see it like this. “I - I - I didn’t think they, I didn’t see him, but messere elf, what if they did , what if they have him right now, what if they’re going to make him -,” The increasingly frantic sound of moving furniture stops, and Anders has to strain his ears to hear what Fenris says next.

“That will not happen. I swear. I will not let it.”

There’s a loud sniff, and a pause. “Alright. Should I  - should I help you look?”

Anders lifts the trapdoor over his head and pulls himself out of his bolthole, stumbling to the door of his living quarters. The thing hangs open on broken hinges. He tries hard not to take in the devastation of his ruined clinic. Instead he focuses on the man in the middle of it, whose head had snapped in his direction as soon as he’d moved and who is now staring at him with wide, beautiful green eyes. Anders gives him a little wave, and tries to muster a smile.

“I realise this might be too much to ask, but shouting mage at the top of your voice is not really helping with the whole ‘renegade apostate’ thing.”

Fenris crosses the clinic in half a dozen strides and stops in front of him, bare feet miraculously unharmed by the glittering snow drifts of broken glass on the floor. At his sides, the elf’s hands curl and uncurl, fingers flexing. His gaze runs over Anders’ body, lingering on the way he’s keeping pressure off his knee. “Are you well?” Fenris’ voice is rough and low and not nearly as calm as he is so clearly trying to be. 

Anders nods at him, and his smile softens into something more sincere. “Yes, Fenris. I’m fine.”

Fenris nods, once, jerkily. His hands curl and flex at his sides. “I thought -”

Anders holds out his hand in the space between them, and Fenris stares at it. “Not dead, not taken by templars. I’m real and everything. See for yourself.”

Fenris stares for half a heartbeat longer, and then he takes Anders’ hand, and Anders has a fraction of a moment to be uncomfortable with the sensation of metal gauntlets on his bare skin before Fenris is using his hand to tug him down from the step of his threshold and pulling him into a brief, fierce hug. Fenris holds him so tightly it almost hurts, but as soon as it’s begun it’s over, and he lets go, turning to Leo.

“Do you have a broom?”

Leo is staring between Fenris and Anders as if they’ve both grown second heads. But he nods, vigorously. “Yeah, I mean, no, I mean we don’t, but I can get one.”

Fenris presses a gold piece into Leo’s hand, and Leo’s eyes get very wide. “Please fetch one.”

“Right you are messere!” Leo turns and sets off at a run, and Anders nearly calls after him to be more careful, but it’s at this point that he tries to put weight on his bad leg and he hisses. Fenris immediately looks up at him, hands full of charred and broken wood. 

“M- Anders?”

Anders shakes his head, folding to sit and gingerly straightening his leg. “It’s nothing they did. An old injury.” He grits his teeth, rolling up his breeches. Fenris frowns at the mess of scar tissue plastered over his knee. “Could you do me a favour?”

Fenris sets the junk in his hands aside. “What is it?”

Anders jerks his thumb to his living quarters. “Under the bed. In the cupboard. There’s a clay pot. It says,” Anders pauses.

Fenris huffs. “My lessons with Varric have been progressing. As long as it’s not some academic nonsense, I should be fine.”

Anders nods. “It just says knee.”

Fenris snorts, already moving past Anders and into the narrow space of his living quarters. His fingertips brush Anders’ shoulder as he goes. Anders would assume it was an accident, if he didn’t know that every movement Fenris made was carefully controlled by seemingly infinite discipline. Fenris’ voice is soft as he speaks. “I can manage that.”

Half a moment later, Fenris is back, and Anders takes the pot from him gratefully, uncorking it and breathing with relief the smell of mint and spindleweed. He dips his fingers into the thick beeswax and begins to gently massage it into his knee whilst Fenris sets about tidying what he can of the clinic.

The quiet between them is almost comfortable. Anders still can’t force himself to take in his clinic. He catches it in glimpses, focusing instead on Fenris and the small crease on his brow, the way his hair moves like fine silk, light and lovely. After a while, Fenris breaks the silence. “What happened?”

Anders sighs, and tries to ignore the sting of smoke in his throat. “Templars - some new guy called Tiberius and his -”

“I didn’t mean here.” Fenris pauses, dropping a pile of ashen rubble into a barrel he’s made into a makeshift bin. He turns back to Anders, looking at him across the smoking ruins of the clinic, and his gaze is steady. “We can discuss that if you wish. But I had meant to ask about your knee.”

Anders blinks. His knee is at the prickling point of numbness now he’s applied the ointment, and he’s left his lower leg bare as it sinks in, not wanting the sticky balm to adhere itself to his breeches. “Oh.” He clears his throat and tries to shrug. “You know I ran away from the Circle where I was raised?”

Fenris grunts, and moves to another corner of the clinic, carefully picking up larger pieces of broken glass. “To hear you tell it, you spent more time running than you did living there.”

Anders grins, fondly, thinking of the dizzy rush of wheat fields and wide wide blue sky. “Yeah.” Fenris snorts, and Anders looks at him, catching the rare curve of a smile on his face before the elf stifles it. Anders wishes he wouldn’t. “What?”

Fenris shakes his head, tossing the glass away before breaking a shattered cot into more manageable pieces. “You are incorrigible.”

Anders’ grin widens. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Fenris hums, and Anders feels something warm spread to fill his chest. The smile falls a little when he remembers how the conversation started. “I was seventeen. I made it a decent way, but after leading the templars on a merry chase through a swamp and a blackberry bramble, I was caught.” Anders clears his throat. “The knight-lieutenant stuck her poignard through my leg and pinned me to my bedroll.” 

“ Venhedis.” Fenris snaps a table leg and tosses it into the barrel.

Anders forces himself to laugh. “To be fair, it did stop me from running again.”

Fenris turns, frowning. “Your knight-commander. Surely they would have taken issue with such,” Fenris hesitates, searching for the words. “Unnecessary measures.”

Anders raises his eyebrows. “Greagoir was the kind of man who liked to avoid conflict. Specifically, conflict with the armed and violent members of his cohort. What was one injured mageling? I’ve got healing magic, remember.”

“That’s not the -,” Fenris starts to raise his voice, then looks up at Anders, frowns, and catches himself. “That is not leadership.”

Anders sighs, opening his mouth to respond. Then he looks up and the words catch in his throat. Leo is standing in the splintered door of his clinic, proudly holding a broom. That’s not what draws his attention. Behind him is a small crowd of people: carrying brooms and mops, buckets and brushes and toolkits. Anders recognises Polly-Anne, Caroline Baker, Sally, Roger and Marcus Templeton, Jas - as well as more he doesn’t know, adults and children of all races clustered at his doors. Even Vennah is there, one hand on her belly, and Gerald is standing beside her, a bandage wrapped around his eyes. Vennah gives him a broad smile. “Hello Healer. We heard you needed some help.”

Anders’ gaze moves from the crowd at the door to Fenris, who looks for one moment so very much like a child: jaw slack, eyes wide, utterly bewildered. He heaves himself to his feet, and limps to stand beside him, smiling at the dwarven woman, nudging Fenris with his shoulder. Fenris’ mouth snaps shut. “Thanks, Vennah. That’d be appreciated.”

The fact that Fenris joins Hawke and Varric’s makeshift rota after the incident does not go unnoticed by Anders, but he doesn’t comment on it. He figures that the elf will say something if he wants to talk about the informal guard duty Anders’ friends have decided to foist upon his clinic. Anders tells them he doesn’t mind as long as it doesn’t scare off the patients, and privately lets himself be reassured by their presence. He could not have afforded to rebuild the clinic after the last incident with Tiberius and his cronies, but the next morning had seen a small fortune of gold in a leather pouch and Hawke’s familiar, cramped hand on a note brought by Bodahn. The note reads, simply:

I know you’d normally refuse this, but both of us know you need it. Do a favour to my conscience and just accept it. With love - Marian.

Anders sighs, and sets about planning his purchases.

With the help of Darktown and his companions, the clinic is nearly back to normal, though the smell of burnt potions will linger for weeks yet, despite the bundles of dried lavender Lirene has hung about the place. Jas has built a rota of her own, and Anders occasionally recognises the familiar face of a rogue who’s visited him for treatment. Most of the Coterie don’t give him their names, but he knows Liam and Mathilde, and waves at them cheerfully as he heads out on a rare expedition into the city above.

“Going sightseeing, Sparkle-Fingers?” 

Anders grins at Isabela as she shrugs away from the wall of his clinic. “Aren’t you missing a feathered friend?” 

Isabela rolls her eyes, but the shadows of Darktown don’t quite hide the blush on her dark cheeks. “Marian went to fetch us breakfast. Where are you going?” There’s no insistence behind the question: of all his friends, Isabela is perhaps the one best placed to understand that protection by smothering is no protection at all as far as Anders is concerned. Anders gives her a toothy grin. 

“I thought I’d go and pray.”

Isabela raises her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re born again in the name of our lady.”

Anders snorts. “Hardly.” His smile falls, and his fingers flex around the soft leather strap of his satchel. “There’s something I need to do.”

Isabela gives him a hard look at that, bright eyes sharp. After a moment she steps back, folding her arms, giving tacit permission if not approval. “Alright. But try not to get into any trouble, sweet thing. I think you’ll give Fenris a heart attack.”

Anders laughs and turns, walking away. “Me? Trouble? When have I ever done that?”

Anders is passing by The Flying Pig when he bumps into a Knight-Lieutenant. More accurately, the Lieutenant bumps into him, stumbling suddenly out of the pub and crashing into Anders’ shoulder with bruising force. Anders trips, mostly surprised at himself for not noticing the movement of the door, and glances up at the tall man in front of him. He has dark hair and brown eyes. His skin is tanned by the sun. He’s about the same height as Anders, and broader. Perhaps most troubling - there’s a glint of recognition in his expression as he takes in the man he’d fallen into. 

The man smiles, and Anders watches as his lips curl over his teeth and wishes suddenly for Isabela. “Apologies, serah.”

Anders ducks his head and moves to leave, trying to ignore the stupid pounding of his heart in his chest, even as he scans the area for the man’s patrol. Though he’d not yet had the misfortune of meeting him in person, Anders was fairly certain that this was Tiberius Heius.The Knight-Lieutenant responsible for the Darktown patrol. The man who had burned down his clinic. 

He recognises his voice.

He feels Justice prickling like static electricity under his skin and hurriedly shoves him away. He doesn’t want to cause a scene. Not here, in the middle of a street, where passers-by could as easily be foes as allies. People got scared around magic, and they’d often do whatever they thought necessary to ‘aid’ templars in their pursuits. Anders had seen mages brained with sledgehammers for less. He had no interest in being the subject of Chantry-maddened mob justice. 

A gauntleted hand grabs his shoulder, and Anders feels every nerve in his body prickle to life, as if someone had scraped a razor down his back. He stops moving and turns back to the man in front of him, wetting his lips. “Do you need something?” In the pub there’s a sudden shout as a chorus of drunks raises a toast. Anders flinches. He catches the slight twitch of a smile at the corner of Tiberius’ mouth.

Tiberius cocks his head to the side. His grip doesn’t ease on Anders’ shoulder. Anders wishes he had his staff and at the same time is weak in the knees with relief that he doesn’t. There’s very little to indicate that he’s a mage without the thing. But Tiberius’ hand moves, stroking the feathers on the shoulder of his coat. Anders’ skin crawls. “These are pretty. What kind of bird did you get them from?”

It’s unlikely a templar, even a Knight-Lieutenant, would know anything about Arcane Feathers. They weren’t exactly a Circle-approved form of magical augmentation: much more common among witches and in Tevinter. Anders reminds himself of this, fiercely, even as he falls back on humour. “Why, planning a makeover? I’m not sure it’d go with all the silver.” As he speaks, Anders tries to pull back a little. Tiberius’ hand tightens on his shoulder. Anders tries to ignore the feeling of being caught, like a dog on a leash. 

Tiberius’ eyes glitter. Over their heads, there’s a sudden flap of wings as a seagull jumps out of the rafters. “I heard they were a mage thing. Black feathers. Makes their magic stronger. You’re not a mage, are you?” His breath smells like ale. Anders feels mana prickling under the palms of his hands.

“No, messere. I’m just a herbalist. And if the feathers are magical I wouldn’t know what to do with them. I’ve never heard of anything like that. I just thought it suited me.” Anders shrugs, and hopes Tiberius writes off his flush as embarrassment. For a long, long moment Tiberius holds his gaze. Anders can feel Justice pulling at his magic, ready to leap. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck. 

But then Tiberius’ hand loosens on his shoulder, and Anders feels blood rushing back into the area, warming his skin in the shape of a bruise. As he lets go, Tiberius brushes his gauntleted fingers against the lobe of Anders’ ear and the earring there, the silverite catching in his hair. Anders tries to repress his shudder. Tiberius smiles at him, and his tanned skin folds into a map of creases. “It does suit you.” Tiberius leans back, and Anders tries not to slump in relief at the sudden blessed space between them. Tiberius doesn’t stop smiling. “Run along then.”

Anders leaves. 

He tells himself he doesn’t run.

The Chantry smells of dust and incense. The taste of it clings to the back of Anders’ throat, and he shivers in the sudden cold as he steps through the massive wooden doors of the building. They swing shut with a sigh on perfectly oiled hinges, and the sounds of the city beyond - the ocean, the birds, the people - are muffled by a thick blanket of wood and marble. Anders takes a deep breath.

I am with you.

Anders smiles a little, and starts to walk, footsteps bouncing up towards the impossibly high ceiling of the church, imitating in rigid stone the arcing vault of the sky. The smell of wax fills his mouth, and a Chantry sister gives him a polite smile. Her cheeks are plump and her eyes are bright. She can’t be older than sixteen. Anders wonders which noble family she hails from. “Maker protect you, messere.” Anders inclines his head. He wonders whether she would have said it if she knew he was an apostate. He keeps walking.

The sound of footsteps and whispered voices are swallowed by the mighty scope of the church. As Anders gets closer to the great golden statue of Andraste, he pauses, staring up at her. He’s been told a hundred things and more about the founder of the church which has plagued his life with misery since childhood. She is kind. She is mighty. She is just. He stares at the golden depiction of a beautiful woman’s face, serene and impassive as her blank eyes stare out at a city of liars and thieves, cheats and slavers. Candles flicker across the statue’s golden skin. Anders doesn’t know how to feel about Andraste. Half of him hates her.

Half of him wishes she would love him.

He returns his gaze to the earth. A cluster of Chantry sisters tending to a stack of red wax candles are looking over their shoulders in his direction and whispering. No doubt they’re concerned about a man in such poor attire standing so close to their very shiny donations box. Anders steps away from the thing: a beautiful crafting of mahogany that is in itself worth more than what most of his patients earn in a year. He raises his eyebrows at the sisters, and they blush, turning back to their candles.  

Anders is struck, momentarily, by the memory of one particular chapter of Chantry history, about the foundation of the Circles. A group of mages in Val Royeaux, dissatisfied with a life of indentured servitude in which they were allowed only to light candles and dust cathedral floors, had put out the everlasting flame and barricaded themselves into the loft. Divine Ambrosia II had attempted to order an ‘Exalted March’ on her own cathedral. She was prevented from outright slaughter by her templars, and 21 days later the mages in question retreated into exile and formed the first Circle.

Ander squints up at the distant rafters of the Kirkwall Chantry, and imagines them running red with the blood of over a hundred innocent people, whose only crime had been to snuff out a glorified candle. So much for peace and charity. 

He climbs the cool, shallow marble steps up to the platform on which Andraste’s statue stands. Beside it, near her lectern, is Grand Cleric Elthina. She has a reputation for making herself available to the people of Kirkwall, for practicing fairness and compassion in all her dealings. Yet Kirkwall’s streets still run rife with crime, overflowing with refugees and the poor. Anders has not yet seen any of the Chantry’s many generous donations filter back down into Lowtown, let alone the Undercity. 

What he does know is that it was Elthina who sentenced Viscount Threnhold to imprisonment after his attempt to oust the templars from the city: deciding to answer with force the age old question of whether the Chantry and her military branches were in fact as politically neutral as they claimed to be. Anders knows it was Elthina who gave Knight-Commander Meredith, as her direct subordinate, the authority to appoint the next Viscount, Dumar, in an unprecedented move in Kirkwall’s troubled history. 

The Grand Cleric has a reputation for magnanimity. She’s a woman of the people, people say, and she stands on her platform and looks down on her cathedral so that every Maker-fearing resident of the city can see it. Anders looks at her and sees a very clever politician. 

“Grand-Cleric! I was wondering if I might ask for your guidance? I’ve been troubled of late, by doubts concerning the Chantry, and I hoped that you might ease them.” 

Anders had left his staff behind for this little expedition, and he feels naked without it. But it pays off when Elthina’s eyes move to his shoulder and her posture relaxes a little as she sees him unarmed, taking in the rest of his clothes in a way that would perhaps have been more subtle to someone who wasn’t a fugitive and a Grey Warden to boot. Satisfied that he’s a poor merchant of some kind, she turns to him and spreads her arms wide, hands papery and smooth in the way that only those treated with a truly expensive lotion could be.

“What troubles you, my child?”

Anders makes a show of his hesitation, enjoying the pantomime. For a moment, he’s sixteen again, and leading Senior Enchanter Sweeney on a series of increasingly ridiculous misadventures. “Well, Grand-Cleric, I was wondering.” He pauses for effect, and resists the urge to grin at Elthina’s quickly restrained impatience. “Does the Maker ever...make mistakes?”

Elthina frowns. “What has prompted this question?”

Anders wrings his hands, the picture of a god fearing Andrastian. “Well it’s just that. You know. There’s so much crime in Kirkwall. There’s so much disease. There are the poor, starving every day, and -”

Elthina’s face clears, and she gives him a practiced, beatific smile. “The Maker tests us in many ways, child. It is kind of you to care about your fellow denizens of this earth. But His plan is great. Even when you cannot see his compassion, it is there.”

Anders nods, making a show of his response, as though she’d bestowed on him some great wisdom and not hollow platitudes. “Right, right, so suffering is a test?”

Elthina’s smile doesn’t slip. “Quite so.”

Anders nods, and tamps down on the anger rising in his chest. “And, and the people who suffer less - like the nobles in Hightown and the clerics here. They suffer less than those in Lowtown because they’re better? In the eyes of the Maker?”

The smile flickers. “We all suffer in different ways, my child.”

Ander hums, rubbing his chin. “Right. Right but like. Everyone here has got enough to eat. And there’s all this gold. And they’re not trading their bodies for safety or anything.” His eyes widen with mock horror. “Are they?”

Elthina purses her lips. “No, my child. The Chantry is kept funded by donations from all who fear Andraste, and those who serve her are kept safe and well.”

Anders nods again. “Ok, I see. So, um, what about the babies?”

The smile falls. “I’m sorry?”

Anders warms to his point, and thinks he sees for a moment the cold flicker of the sharp mind behind Elthina’s matronly persona. “You know, the babies? Like. A poor baby can’t have done anything wrong as soon as it leaves its mother’s legs, right? But it can’t have done anything right either. And yet, you know. If it’s born up here, it’ll be fed, and clothed, and kept warm. And down there, well. It could die of cold before the sickness gets it. If it’s clothed it’ll be clothed poorly. Its mother might not even have the strength to feed it, if she’s starving, which is likely as not, especially in Darktown.”

Elthina sets a hand on his shoulder, and Anders tries very hard not to shrug it off. “What are you asking, child?”

Anders meets her eyes. “Well it just strikes me that maybe some of those donations could go to the children. You know, the poor. The desperate. Because we’re all the Maker’s people, right?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer. “And I don’t think babies can have offended Him yet, I think maybe He just expects us to do something as simple as feed our own children. Except we can’t. And I’m pretty sure that’s where you’re supposed to come in. But I’ve never seen a Chantry sister in Lowtown doing anything but ask for donations. And the Maker doesn’t make mistakes, does he? So wouldn’t that mean you do, Grand Cleric?”

Elthina’s expression fixes into a mask of impassivity as still and hard as the marble that surrounds her. “I think perhaps you are confused.”

Anders narrows his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right, I must be. There’s no way I could be standing in a church of Andraste, surrounded by gold and marble, when below her holy feet the city starves. There’s no way the Grand Cleric could be so lost to her own pride that she couldn’t admit her capacity for failure. There’s no way she’d commit that kind of heresy, and even if she did, she wouldn’t let children die for it. I mean, the ones locked in the Gallows don’t count. They’re mages. They’re basically demonspawn. I get that.” Anders’ tone is venomous. “But the ones that don’t have magic staining their veins, what about them? Tell me, Grand-Cleric, are you practicing balance or just good business? One of them’s got to pay for all that silk.” 

For a long, long moment there’s nothing but the cold kiss of dusty air in the space between them. Then Elthina speaks, raising one arm and pointing imperiously at the Chantry’s mighty wooden doors. “Leave.”

Anders snorts and chucks his chin at her. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

He doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing that Fenris was certain he hated about the Gallows, it was the blighted statues. All of them, larger than life, golden starving bodies twisted in expressions of torment. He wonders at the perverse pleasure the magisters of this place must have taken in their molding. He wonders whether they were modelled on any slaves in particular: whether some unfortunate souls had been stripped and tortured and suffocated by hot wax so the artists could have their cast. He’d heard of such things happening. He would put nothing past the cruelties of Tevinter. 

This is not usually a place that he would visit of his own free will. But the mage has been troubling him lately, and Fenris has found his feet more and more often taking him away from the Chantry, past the Keep, and down towards Kirkwall’s infamous Circle. 

It’s a sunny day in Kirkwall. It’s always a sunny day in Kirkwall, though never of the same dry heat as Tevinter. Here, the ocean soaks the air, and the sunlight is thick with insects, though blessedly fewer than there were on the Wounded Coast. Fenris swats some buzzing thing away from his face anyway, taking in the courtyard’s usual sellers. Sunlight bounces off the white stone, clean as an untouched beach, and Fenris feels the heat sinking into his skin. His tattoos ache, though the pain has dulled greatly over the course of the mage’s treatment. He flexes his toes against the rough stone tiles beneath his feet. 

Despite his better judgement, Fenris takes a deep breath, and tries to see in the faces of the mages in the courtyard something of the injustices that Anders insists they face. 

He has spent his whole life around slaves, at least all that he remembers. Fenris knows the signs of abuse, knows the way the eyes lower and the body flinches. He is certain he would recognise it here (if it exists, a small, bitter voice in the back of his head spits). So he leans against a sun-warm wall, and breathes in the salty smell of limestone and the distant sea, and waits.

The mages rarely cross the courtyard proper. They cling to the walls of the buildings, remaining in the shade. Fenris supposes that makes sense. They spend most of their time indoors, and would burn easily in the sun. He’d known a slave once, elvhen, with white hair and pink eyes. She had burned easily too, and her magister had kept her indoors, jealously guarding the impossible ghostly pallor of her skin. She hadn’t said a word, but Fenris caught her one morning, staring out of the window at the bright blue sky, weeping. Danarius hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t mentioned it. Eventually they went away. Fenris doesn’t know what happened to her after that. 

After a while, though, Fenris begins to realise that the mages are not only keeping to the walls to avoid the sun. Each cluster stands under the watchful eye of one templar or more. Some, especially the Enchanters, are personally supervised. Other younger groups might have one templar to three or four. It’s hard to read the templars’ expressions under their helmets, but Fenris recognises their posture. All of them are alert. Observant. Ready to strike. 

That doesn’t have to be against the mages. Especially in the case of the younger ones: anyone could come to the courtyard, and it’s no secret what most people in Thedas think of anyone with magic. Fenris himself is a good example. In all likelihood they are security, nothing more. Fenris watches as a tall, gangly boy with ill-fitting robes grazing the tops of his ankles shoves off a wall and moves to cross the courtyard. The templar at the wall behind him moves, sunlight lancing off the polished steel of their armour. The boy stops and turns, head half lit by the sun and half sheltered by the shadows. Nearby, a cluster of girls barely brushing their teenage years stops and falls silent, turning to stare. Fenris finds himself willing the boy to comply.

The boy, with messy black hair and bright blue eyes, lifts his chin and says something stolen by the wind before Fenris can catch it. Then he turns and steps into the sun.

The templar grabs his arm, and Fenris frowns when the boy winces as the movement jostles his side, lifting one hand to his ribs. Before either Fenris or the boy can react, the templar lifts their hand and backhands him, hard. The boy topples to the ground, a fresh cut bleeding dark as crushed berries on his cheek. On the other side of the courtyard a dark-skinned man in the robes of a Senior Enchanter steps forward. The templar beside him touches his shoulder and he freezes, hand lowering. Fenris thinks he sees something like shame cross the man’s features. The templar by the girls steps forward, and the one with the boy picks him up roughly by the arm and pushes him back towards the tower. The girls are ushered away too, and Fenris’ eyes narrow when the other templar lowers their hand, letting it rest with intimate familiarity on a girl’s lower back.

Almost as soon as the incident had started, it’s over. The dwarf at the weapons shop grunts, and Fenris turns in his direction. “He’s new, that one. From Starkhaven. Always takes them a few weeks to settle in.” Fenris nods and pushes away from the wall. He averts his eyes from the statues as he walks, and the harried faces of the mages under their templar handlers. He tries not to recognise the pain in their faces, or worse, the rage. Tries not to see the way their shoulders hunch, the way they flinch at the sound of shifting armour, the way they don’t pull away from unnecessary touches, only stiffen and accept them. 

Fenris is apparently more tied up in his own thoughts than he’d imagined (a creeping, familiar stroke down the back of his neck as they stood in the market; a hand in his hair as he knelt watching the Provings; a touch -) because a small body thumps into him hard. Fenris stops, one hand moving to his sword before conscious thought has returned to him. He stares at the pretty, freckled face of a young Tranquil mage. She cannot be older than fifteen summers. She has a full head of frizzing black hair, and clever grey eyes. She bows to him, deeply. 

“My most sincere apologies, messere. I was not fast enough to move out of your way. If you wish to see me reprimanded for my actions, Knight-Lieutenant Miranda is overseeing the courtyard today.” Fenris can’t stop staring at the livid red emblem of a sun on her forehead. 

“You’re Tranquil.” He says, stupidly. The girl’s expression doesn’t change.

“I am, messere.” 

Fenris tries to collect his thoughts, parsing the many conversations (debates, shouting matches) he’d had with the mage on the subject. “You did not pass your Harrowing?”

The girl shakes her head. “I did not attempt the Harrowing, messere. Mages who fail their Harrowing are usually executed, to prevent further violence. I was too weak. Ser Alrik recommended I be put forward for the Rite of Tranquility.” Her small, fixed smile doesn’t bend. “I am very happy, messere.”

“Why?” Fenris isn’t sure what prompts the question before he asks it, but he finds himself suddenly needing to know the answer. 

The girl in front of him considers the question, bright grey eyes following the path of a seagull as it lands in the courtyard and waddles across the stone. “I am alive, messere. I have rooms and food and clothing.” The sentiment is uncomfortably familiar. ( Do they not feed you, mage? Do they not give you clothes and shelter? That is more than most can name in this city, and yet still you complain. ) The girl looks up at him, and gives him that same strange false smile. “What else could I want?”

“Do you feel?” Fenris asks, softly. The girl’s expression changes into a practiced imitation of empathy.

“Tranquil mages have lost their connection to the Fade. This means we are no longer capable of practicing magic, dreaming, or feeling emotion. I cannot feel, messere, but I do think. I think that safety is better than harm. I think that purpose is better than life without meaning. I think that I am intelligent, and that my skills are of use to the Chantry and to the Maker.” She pauses. “It is hard to explain. I am not pleased by this, I cannot be pleased. But I am satisfied.”

Fenris nods. He’s heard enough, and he’s not sure how much longer he can meet the girl’s eyes. There were slaves like this in Tevinter, people trapped in the service of magisters who prided themselves on ‘breaking’ their servants. Even those were not quite so hollow as this child. And for all that he tries to make himself imagine it, he cannot see the great threat this girl could possibly have posed to justify robbing her of her dreams, her grief and her anger and her joy. Fenris tries to imagine Anders without such things: without his fire, without his plans, without the love and warmth in his face as he tugged Isabela into a dance at The Hanged Man, or failed again to best Hawke at arm-wrestling. He cannot. Anders feels everything so strongly, and it is reflected in his every expression, his every act. Without his heart, he would not be himself at all.

“What is your name?”

“Catriona, messere. Should I inform Knight-Lieutenant Miranda of this incident?”

Fenris thinks of the boy from Starkhaven, and the way he’d held his ribs. He shakes his head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you for answering my questions.”

Catriona gives him a fixed, polite smile. “It cost me nothing, messere.”

Fenris doesn’t reply. He turns, and walks across the courtyard, and feels the emptiness of the space around him and the mages pressed close to the walls. His pace quickens as his back prickles, suddenly, with the sensation of being watched. He gets to the sun-baked steps that lead from the Gallows to Lowtown, and he takes a deep breath and looks out over the cramped geometry of Kirkwall’s white and yellow buildings. Damn the mage. As Fenris walks down the steps and away from the Gallows, he can’t quite shake the sinking sensation in his gut that Anders is right. 

Fenris is halfway back to Danarius’ mansion when a Darktown boy comes running towards him across the square, shouting. “Messere Elf! Messere Elf!” Fenris stops, and raises his eyebrows as the boy skids to a stop, the sole of his shoe flapping like a lolling rubber tongue, pulled quite loose of his torn leather shoes. The boy reaches him, and tries to speak, face bright red with exertion. Fenris holds up a hand to stop him, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.

“Breathe first.”

The boy nods, giving him a grateful look, and bends double, hands gripping his skinny knees. Around them, a few noble women cast glances their way, eyes narrowing at the urchin boy and the armoured elf. Fenris catches the gaze of one and bares his teeth. She hurries away.  After a moment, the boy catches his breath. “The healer, messere. He’s in trouble.”

Fenris blinks and frowns. “Have you told Messere Hawke?”

The boy shakes his head, a mess of blonde curly hair bouncing on his head as he does so. “She’s out of town messere, so’re the others. The healer said to fetch you and the Guard Captain, but I can’t find the Captain so.” The boy takes a great, heaving breath and looks up at Fenris with wide, scared brown eyes. “You’ve got to come quick. There’s templars there right now. Jas is distracting them but I don’t know long she can do that for.” He looks like he wants to say more, but Fenris stops him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’ve done well. Go to the Keep. I will find the healer.”

The boy stares at him for a moment, mouth open wide. Around them, the sound of conversation and market sellers bounce off the zig-zagging walls Hightown. Fenris is already considering how long it will take them to reach the clinic. Certainly not before sundown, even if he runs. But then the boy shakes his head. “No messere. I’m coming with you. The healer’s done a lot for me and Nancy. I’m not going to abandon him now.” Fenris looks at the child, and briefly weighs the merits of debating the point further against simply acquiescing. For the sake of expediency, he settles on the latter. 

“Very well. We must move quickly.”

They burned it. 

It’s the first coherent thought Fenris can shape, and it brands itself into the back of his skull as he stares at the gutted, charred remains of Anders’ clinic. Broken tables and shattered glass lie about the place, signs of vandalism even before the fire. It stinks of burnt herbs and the acrid scent of boiled potions. Fenris can’t imagine how much this would cost to replace, but he knows Anders can’t afford it.

Which brings him back to the mage. The mage who isn’t here. The mage he can’t see anywhere. A dozen images spring into his mind: Anders’ charred body, twisted beyond recognition in the ruins of his home. Anders found bruised and beaten, kicked to death in some Lowtown back alley. Anders shipped away by slavers, whipped and manacled until he lost the defiance in those pretty golden eyes. Anders in the Gallows courtyard, giving him a practiced, placid smile under the burnt red of a sun that never sets on his forehead.

“ Fasta Vass .” Fenris swears, kicking a broken table leg and turning in a circle. “Mage! Mage! Where are you?”

Fenris waits, and tries to ignore the rapid acceleration of his heart. In the doorway the boy, Leo, is sniffling, and he thinks he should probably do something about that. Except that in this moment nothing has ever felt more important than finding his damned mage again. 

A terrible thought occurs to him, and Fenris stares at the jagged ruins of the splintered furniture. “Mage? Are you injured?” Fenris begins to rip aside chunks of furniture, the wood still warm under his hands, breaking easily against his gauntlets. “Mage!” He imagines Anders unable to speak, skewered by some stray piece of wood, gagged, bound, tortured. “ Venhedis.” He spits, and tries and fails to stay calm as he turns to another corner of the clinic. “Anders! Anders, where are you?” Fenris rips at broken wood and burnt cloth, and there’s nothing.

Desperate, he turns to Leo, still pulling aside piles of broken rubble. “You, boy, you said they didn’t take him.”

Leo is crying. “I - I - I didn’t think they did, I didn’t see him, but messere elf, what if they did , what if they have him right now, what if they’re going to make him -” 

Fenris feels all the strength run out of his limbs. He crosses the clinic easily, and crouches in front of the boy, gently taking his shoulders and meeting his wide brown eyes. “That will not happen. I swear. I will not let it.”

Leo sniffs. “Alright, should I - should I help you look?”

There’s a creak of wood behind them and Fenris whirls, one hand moving to the hilt of the sword on his back. But then there’s a familiar sigh, and a shuffle, and Anders is standing in the back of the clinic at the door to his quarters. He gives them a small wave and a smile. He looks exhausted. He’s alive. 

He’s the most beautiful man Fenris has ever seen.

“I realise this might be too much to ask, but shouting mage at the top of your voice is not really helping with the whole ‘renegade apostate’ thing.”

Fenris moves without thinking, scanning Anders for injuries. He can’t see any - though his gaze catches on the man’s knee and the way he’s carefully avoiding putting any pressure on it. He looks up, and meets Anders’ eyes, and tries to see something of what happened here in their flecks of gold and amber. “Are you well?”

Anders nods, smile gentling into something that makes Fenris’ chest ache. “Yes, Fenris. I’m fine.”

Fenris nods, feeling the dizzying fall from all the worry that had been building in his chest threatening to swallow him whole. He tries to speak, to explain, “I thought -”

Suddenly, Anders holds out his hand in the space between them. Fenris stares it: with the scar at the base of the thumb, dusted with light gold freckles. “Not dead, not taken by templars. I’m real and everything. See for yourself.”

Fenris is seized, suddenly, with the very stupid urge to kiss him. 

Instead, he takes his hand, and feels the solid weight of it in his, and it’s not an entirely conscious decision to tug him closer. But then he is, and Anders makes a soft sound of surprise. Fenris hides his smile in the man’s shoulder as he wraps his arms around him in a tight, fierce hug. He breathes deep and feels him, solid and warm and there and alive and whole and himself. Stupid, infuriating, beautiful, kind, Anders. Fenris doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let go again. 

So he does, and turns to Leo before Anders can see the expression on his face. “Do you have a broom?”

Fenris tells himself that his reason for deciding to protect Anders’ clinic is a purely pragmatic one. With the number of misadventures they end up in at Hawke’s side, they are in perpetual need of a healer. They cannot risk any harm coming to him or his materials. That’s all. 

So Fenris has no idea what to do when he’s stopped by an elvhen man on his way into the Undercity and presented with a simple wooden basket full of bread and fruit. He stares at the man. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

The elf gives him a small, tired smile. He’s tall for an elf, with black hair and green eyes. He’s wearing cheap, practical clothes, and his feet are bare and dusty. “The name’s Domnall. I was at The Bone Pit.” He lifts his shirt, revealing a vicious looking scar curving halfway across his midriff. “You saved my life.” Fenris blinks. He thinks he remembers now. The night had passed in a blur of blood and vomit, until he was numb to the seemingly never-ending tide of suffering pouring in through the clinic’s doors. But he remembers Domnall, unconscious and in the arms of a dark human man, who’d cradled him close when they were finished and pressed a kiss to his head. It had struck him as strange. 

He looks at the basket. “What is this?”

Domnall’s smile grows a little, shyly. “My thanks.”

Fenris frowns. “That is not necessary.”

Domnall rolls his eyes. “You saved my life, messere. Let me have this dignity.” He presses the basket into Fenris’ hands before he can protest further, and Fenris carries it down with him into Darktown. On the way he sees Leo, carrying an infant girl with a head of the same blonde curly hair. Most children tended to run from Fenris, or at the very least back away. Leo waves. He keeps walking. Sally, the mother with twins, smiles and nods at him. Roger Templeton grins and looks up from his work. Even Lirene, apparently on some errand or another, gives him a nod on her way back out of the Undercity and into the sunny world above. By the time Fenris reaches Anders’ clinic, he feels thoroughly thrown off balance. 

Which is when Varric sees him and smiles, broad and bright. “Broody. Didn’t think I’d see you down here today. Isn’t your appointment next week?” Fenris doesn’t bother to ask Varric how he knows that. It would be far easier to ask what Varric Tethras didn’t know. 

Instead he frowns, and glances past the lit lantern outside the clinic and through its open doors. “Does Hawke have need of the mage?” 

Varric chuckles, and leans back against the wall. It’s only now that Fenris notices Bianca, propped at the dwarf’s side. His frown deepens. “Have the templars returned?”

Varric’s expression darkens. “Not that I know of. Guess they must be too busy dealing with whoever it is that keeps messing with their lyrium smuggling operation.” His eyes sparkle, and he gives Fenris another grin. Fenris just nods. It makes sense that templars willing to overreach themselves in such a way would engage in other indulgences. He tries not to think about what else they might do. (A hand resting light and familiar in the small of a young girl’s back.)

“So why are you here, Varric?” 

Varric shrugs, and gestures broadly to the general filth of Darktown. “Figured I’d take in the view.” Fenris frowns, and Varric cocks his head at him. “More to the point, why are you here Broody? Everything ok?”

Fenris nods. “Everything is fine. I -” he hesitates, considering whether this is a truth he’s willing to share. He decides he’s willing to share it with Varric. “After what happened, I wanted to see if I could provide some additional security. Since the mage is unwilling to seek it himself.”

Varric raises his eyebrows. Through the broken walls of Darktown, the late afternoon sun is white gold on the distant cliffs. “You want to join the rota.”

“The rota?” 

Varric shifts, pulling a battered looking scroll of parchment out of his bag and unrolling it. The thing is covered in Varric’s characteristic, flourishing hand, but Fenris recognises a few of Hawke’s spiky, cramped letters, and even Isabela’s neat, curving penmanship. “What is this?”

Varric is already getting out a quill and a pot of ink, narrowing his eyes at the sheet. “Few months back, Blondie got himself in a nasty way. Some templar patrol kicked the crap out of him and Rivaini nearly went on a murder spree. Since we agreed that starting a war with the Chantry is something even Hawke might not win, we worked out a compromise.” Fenris parses, with effort, the words on the paper. Varric’s unnecessary flourishes always make it harder. But eventually he reads days of the week, times of day and, in neat blocks, the names of Hawke and her companions. Even Aveline’s name is there. 

“This is a duty rota. You’ve been keeping watch.” Fenris tries to keep the accusation out of his tone when he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Varric looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. “A few months ago, you were pretty happy to tell everyone in Kirkwall that you’d clap him in irons and take him to that blighted Circle yourself.” Varric pauses, and Fenris tries to ignore the thorny knot of shame tangling itself in his chest. “What changed?”

Fenris shrugs, stiffly, thinking of the way he’d felt when he’d seen Anders standing in the ruins of his clinic, whole and safe and unharmed. He lifts the straw basket. “An elf gave me this. Domnall.”

“Nice guy. Shame about his choice of profession.”

Fenris nods. “I saved his life. After The Bone Pit.” 

Varric scratches his chin. “Right, Blondie mentioned that. It was good of you to step in.” Fenris looks away so that Varric can’t see his flush, and doesn’t try to pretend the dwarf wouldn’t have seen it anyway. 

He looks, instead, at Darktown: at its filthy streets and splintered wooden walls, at the hard packed earth and broken glass, the rats scurrying down the stairs and the children playing further off. “The people here need him. Need this.” He stops, falters, and looks down at the basket in his hand. It’s such a simple gift. He has received so very few of them. “I would not see it stolen from those who need it.”

Varric grunts and sighs. “Yeah, me neither. Alright, when are you free next week? I might give you one of Hawke’s shifts. She and Isabela keep insisting on doing their shifts together, which is very sweet and all but also means they’re both getting twice as sleep deprived.” Varric chuckles, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that Fenris refuses to address when he looks up at him. “Young love, eh?”

When Fenris gets back to Danarius’ mansion, there’s a note under the door. Fenris picks it up, and carefully skirts the rotting bodies of Danarius’ men, briefly holding his breath as he passes them to spare himself the stink of rot. He gets to Danarius’ bedroom, and the benches he’s covered in the notes from his lessons. On one, covered in a rich red satin, is the Book of Shartan. Its pages are full of scrap paper now, marking various passages Fenris had returned to again and again in the first weeks and months he’d spent learning to read, and then again only when he’d reread them for comfort - losing himself in Shartan’s exploits at Andraste’s side, and the people they freed at last from bondage. Fenris sits on the bench, and half wishes for the mage’s ability to light a fire with only a wave of his hand. Instead he holds one leg under himself and lets the other hang loose as he breaks the seal on the letter, pulling out the thin, cheap paper inside.

Fenris,

Thank you for the money. I arrived in Kirkwall on the 6th day of Ferventis. I have found lodging in a tavern in Lowtown called The Hanged Man. I will await your visit for the next seven days, before returning to my home in Tevinter. 

I hope to see you in that time.

Your sister,

Varania

Fenris reads the letter three times, and then another three. His hand is shaking. He looks around the empty shadows of Danarius’ mansion, and feels the chill of the wind gusting in through the broken roof of the foyer. He frowns, and tries to think, crumpling the paper a little in his hand. Then he reaches for the closest bottle of Danarius’ wine, removes the cork and begins to drink. 

Perhaps if he drinks enough, he will not have to wonder why it is that he feels so afraid.

“You want me to help you?” The mage’s voice is both loud and incredulous. Fenris rolls his eyes, letting the man gently uncurl and fold his fingers. “How’s that?”

“Fine.”

“Fenris.”

“A three. Satisfied?” Fenris watches the mage as he works, clever eyes running over the lines of his tattoos with no hint of the hunger worn by the magisters before him. His tattoos ache, but dully. Anders’ treatment is still working, and Fenris can still barely make himself believe it. Anders moves onto his other hand, and Fenris dutifully unfolds it, trying not to wonder whether the mage feels the same electric prickle of heat every time they touch. “In answer to your question, yes. I want you.” Fenris feels himself flushing, and is suddenly grateful for the fact that the mage’s attention is diverted. “To help me. I want you to help me.”

Anders hums, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. He’s washed it recently, and it looks soft. There’s a gold hoop looped through his earlobe. Fenris breathes, and smells herbs and soap. It’s comforting, somehow. 

“Wouldn’t you be happier with, I don’t know, Bela? Varric? How’s this?”

Fenris shrugs. “Four. I might be, but I would feel better still if I knew that we had a mage on our side. Danarius will not hesitate to use magic against us.”

“If he’s there.” Anders corrects him, and Fenris bites back the impulse to snap at him. Instead, he inclines his head.

“If he’s there.” 

Anders steps forward: he’s not wearing his coat, he never does when he treats Fenris, and his body is suddenly very close as he gently gestures for Fenris to lift his arms above his head. Fenris breathes in the smell of sweat and cotton, and makes a valiant effort not to think about tilting his head to kiss the patch of Anders’ bare chest that’s exposed just above his nose. Above him, Anders gently holds his hands together. “You’d trust me with that? How’s this?”

Fenris huffs. “Six.” Anders lets him drop his arms, and he looks up at the mage, who’s regarding him with open concern. “Is that so strange?” To Fenris’ surprise and quickly suppressed delight, Anders’ freckled cheeks grow pink. He shrugs, quickly, and gestures for Fenris to lie back, lifting one of his legs. 

“No, I just…” He trails off, a furrow creasing the wide band of his brow. Elsewhere in the clinic, a small elvhen girl snores as she sleeps off the healing of her broken collarbone, and one of the volunteers hushes a human baby. 

Fenris draws his leg back, and Anders lets it fall, moving to the other. “Three. If you aren’t willing to help, then -” Anders startles, hands squeezing for a moment around Fenris’ foot. 

“No, no, Fenris, of course I am. I just.” He stops, biting the inside of his cheek, and Fenris refuses to acknowledge the surge of bright warmth that surges in him at the sight which he cannot call anything but fondness. Anders lets his leg fall, and Fenris grunts.

“Six.” Anders frowns, running his hands over Fenris’ leg, blue light running over his lyrium tattoos. 

“That shouldn’t be happening. Hang on, maybe it’s…” He stops, concentrating, and Fenris lets him work, relaxing into the gentle sag of the linen cot at his back. The clinic still smells very faintly of burnt potion, but it’s almost entirely back to normal. Fenris can’t help but be relieved. After a while, Anders does something and the pain eases. Fenris sighs, and Anders looks at him, hands still cupping his calf and his knee. “How’s that?”

Fenris offers him a small, honest smile. “Three.” 

Anders grins, bright and triumphant, and lets Fenris straighten his leg. “Maker, I’m good. They should give me a medal, you know.”

Fenris looks around the clinic: a Dwarven woman sitting back as a volunteer massages ointment into her swollen legs. An elvhen girl recovering from a broken collarbone. A human baby, asleep on the chest of a volunteer, with barely a hint of the measles it’d been suffering when it had arrived. “They should.” He says. He means it. Anders grows pink again, and Fenris stifles his smile, getting to his feet. 

“If you’re coming, we must go tonight.” Fenris picks up his sword and sheaths it. When he meets Anders’ eyes, his expression is serious. “If it is Danarius, you must be prepared. He is not unaccustomed to fighting magic users. And he has some kind of - power. Over me.” Fenris looks down, trying to push away the memories of thick trees and sandy beaches and his friends’ corpses cooling at his feet. 

Anders’ hand grips his shoulder as he steps forward, and when he speaks his eyes flash a bright, blinding blue. “We will not let him have you.” Fenris can hear the voice of Anders’ creature in the words. For some reason, it doesn’t frighten him. Anders blinks, and his eyes are their familiar gold and copper once more. “I’ll be there, Fenris.” Fenris nods, and reaches up to his shoulder, squeezing Anders’ hand there for a moment before letting it fall away.

“Thank you, my friend.” He turns and leaves before he can see the expression on Anders’ face. He will in all likelihood face Danarius tonight. He cannot afford to be distracted.

Chapter Text

Considering that the situation involved himself, Fenris, and Marian Hawke, Anders really shouldn’t have been surprised when it all went to shit. 

Still, his heart was apparently soft enough for him to believe that the elvhen girl who Fenris believed to be his sister was sincere. Varania had greeted Fenris cautiously, eyes sliding to his companions, and Anders had attempted to seem as non-threatening as possible. He supposed on reflection that she was just trying to figure out exactly how much of a threat they posed.  Then Fenris had remembered her, and his expression had softened in a way that Anders had never seen. “I remember you...We played in our master’s courtyard. You used to call me -”

“Leto.” Varania answered, looking away. “That was your name.” (And suddenly Anders was twelve years old again, getting pushed around by the other kids. Well he came from the Anderfels didn’t he? If he won’t speak let’s just call him that. Anders. )

Fenris had begun to suspect something amiss when she’d mentioned something about an apprenticeship, and that connects enough dots in Anders’ brain for a vicious sting of hurt to stab into his chest. 

He speaks without thinking, not really caring for the bystanders. “Your sister’s a mage! You flaming hypocrite, you really are just jealous.”

Anders doesn’t need the sudden pinch of Justice’s irritation to regret the words, not when Fenris glances back at him, eyes wide and suddenly afraid. Anders opens his mouth to say something, but it is of course at this moment that Danarius elects to make his grand entrance. 

Anders doesn’t think he’s ever met a man that he’s wanted more badly to punch. Considering that he has, in fact, met Knight-Captain Cullen, he really thinks that’s saying something. Judging by the venom in her voice when Hawke speaks to Danarius, he imagines they’re on the same page. Then Danarius says, smiling, “He really is rather skilled, isn’t he?”

Fenris snarls, tattoos glowing blue, and Anders stares and tries to shake himself out of his own memories ( now get on your knees and be a good little mage). 

But then Hawke throws a knife at Danarius’ head and suddenly there are far too many demons. 

Anders loses himself to the ebb and flow of battle after that - but he doesn’t miss the way that Fenris’ shoulders drop when a fireball from Danarius is stopped by a shield that he throws up in front of him. Slowly but surely, he and Varric take out the shades, whilst Hawke and Fenris press ever closer to Danarius himself. And then Hawke falls, and her body lies on the ground between Fenris and Danarius. Fenris falters, staring at his former master with the kind of despair that Anders never wants to see him wear again. 

He vaults over a table, ignoring the twinge in his knee as he does so, and shoves himself between Fenris and Danarius, pulling up a cresting wave of ice from deep beneath the earth. “Get behind me!” Breathing heavily, Anders lifts his hand and concentrates, feeling the familiar shape of half a dozen glyphs as he mutters in Tevene. Danarius’ body is lifted off the ground in a  wave of crushing blue light, and Anders clenches his fist as the old man screams. Then he steps back, and jerks his head at Fenris. 

“He’s all yours.”

Fenris strides over the melting ice. He grabs Danarius’ robe, and spits into his face, “You are no longer my master.” Then he plunges his fist into his chest. Anders holds the spell for a moment more, and then he lets it fall. Quickly, he folds to his knees, pouring his energy into Hawke. She blinks awake and he grins at her, covered in the stinking sulfurous ash of a dead demon. 

“Did we win?”

Anders glances up at Fenris, who’s staring at the cooling heart dripping between his fingers. “Yeah. We won.”

Hawke sighs and lets her head fall back against the wood. “Great.”

Behind them, Fenris drops the heart. Anders looks up as he goes, his own words from before ringing in his head. “Fenris!” 

He’s not sure what he wants to say - apologise, maybe. Offer comfort, at least. Fenris ignores him, climbing through the rubble they’d made of the tavern. Anders doesn’t really blame him. 

But then Fenris is moving to his sister and grabbing her, roughly. Anders scrambles to his feet, helping Hawke stand beside him.

“Fenris, no!” Fenris freezes and turns to Hawke, and Anders tries to ignore the twinge of jealousy in his chest at that. Of course he would listen to her, over him.

“She betrayed me.” The words are barely coherent for all the fury and pain with which they’re said. Fenris turns back to Varania, and his voice is so quiet that Anders barely hears what he says. When he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t. “I would have given you everything.” Fenris starts to glow again, and Anders has half a mind to let him kill the girl. 

Varric puts a hand on Fenris’ arm. “Trust me, Broody. You think it will help. It won’t.”

For a moment, silence falls between them. In it there’s only the smell of spilt beer, blood and ash. Then Fenris speaks. “Get out.”

Varania runs. But she stops in the doorway. “You said you didn’t ask for this, but that’s not true. You wanted it. You competed for it. When you won, you used the boon to have mother and I freed.” Anders stops breathing.

Fenris grits his teeth. “Why are you telling me this?”

Varania looks at him with the kind of hatred that Anders has only seen borne of terrible, terrible pain. “Freedom was no boon.”

She leaves. Fenris turns to them, looking from Hawke to Varric before his gaze settles on Anders. He grimaces, and turns away. Anders feels the tentative house of cards that they’d been building over the last few months threaten to fall. And then he’s gone.

Are you certain this is wise?

Anders takes a deep breath, and runs his free hand over his hair, nervously. It’s late, and the moon is full over Kirkwall. In his other hand, he has a bottle of Antivan Brandy. Jas hadn’t asked why he’d wanted it, and Anders was more than glad of her discretion. Now he’s in Hightown, unarmed, without his armour. It is at least usually more free of the typical Kirkwall thugs than Lowtown and Darktown. The fact that he’ll need to venture back through both after this is a problem for future Anders. Present Anders needs to do this, because otherwise present Anders will be eaten alive by guilt and never sleep again.

You cannot be eaten physically by guilt.

Anders rolls his eyes, and stares again at the door of Danarius’ mansion, trying to muster the courage to knock on it. Thank you Justice.

“Come on. Grey Warden. Survivor of the Fereldan Blight. Handsome renegade apostate. You can knock on one measly door you stupid coward.”

On the other side of the courtyard, a giggling pair of noble born teenagers duck hand in hand on their way towards The Blooming Rose. Anders rolls his eyes and lifts the bottle to his head, pressing his forehead against the smooth surface. “Come on. What’s the worst that can happen?”

He might kill you.

Anders grits his teeth. Not helping.

He feels the gentle rumble of Justice’s ambivalence.

 I do not think it likely that he will. It is only a possibility. It is much more likely that you will be attacked here, unarmed, by one of the gangs that have attempted to claim these streets.

Anders sighs, and turns, scanning his surroundings for any sign of said rogues. There are none. Above his head, the stars are bright and lovely as ever. Even in Kirkwall. He turns back to the dusty silver wooden door of the mansion in the moonlight. 

He knocks. 

Nothing happens. 

He might be inebriated. Or sleeping.

Anders frowns. He definitely won’t be sleeping. Despite himself, he feels worry coiling in his chest. What if Danarius had had backup? Surely he would have, wouldn’t he? A powerful Tevinter magister - he wouldn’t just risk everything for one slave, no matter how obsessed he was with his ‘little wolf’. What if they’d come after him? What if they’d left Fenris to face them alone?

It’s this, more than anything, that has Anders opening the door to the mansion. His fingers twitch, and he wishes he had his staff, but he settles into the careful stance for unarmed fighting that Nate had insisted he learn after an incident in the field. 

“Fenris? Are you there? It’s me, Anders.” Anders bites his cheek, cursing himself for being so stupid, and brandishes the bottle in his hand like a weapon. “I just wanted to see if you were alright.”

“Mage?” Fenris’ voice is slurred, and comes from the top of the stairs. Anders looks up and wrinkles his nose when he sees the rotting corpses. He hopes perhaps Danarius finally being dead will see Fenris attempt some spring cleaning. 

Awkwardly, Anders waves the bottle. “I come bearing gifts.”

Fenris turns away, going back into his bedroom. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Andraste’s tits, Fenris, wait!” Anders hurries up the steps, avoiding the small swarm of flies buzzing around the bodies as he goes. The smell of rot hits him and he gags, pressing on and into Fenris’ bedroom. There are papers scattered across the floor and benches, scattered with stilted writing and neater correspondences from their various companions. The fire is unlit. Most notably, there are about half a dozen empty wine bottles scattered across the floor. Anders raises his eyebrows and sets down the brandy. “Where’s the party?”

Fenris isn’t looking at him, glaring instead into the cold grate and the grey coals in its iron teeth. “Leave me, mage.”

Anders hums, and sits down opposite him, carefully brushing some of the papers to the side. His eyes catch on The Book of Shartan for a moment, and he feels a small smile touch his lips. Hawke, no doubt. It’s fat with notes and bookmarks, the spine wrinkled with use. Anders’ smile grows. He could imagine what Fenris might enjoy in this. It makes him wonder what else the elf might like to read. He thinks he knows a book or two. “You’re going to need to try harder than that.”

Fenris narrows his eyes. His lips are stained a deep purple by the wine, and he smells richly of the stuff. Danarius’ blood is crusted on his gauntlets. “You’re an abomination. You are twisted and corrupt, naive and foolish and vain. You care for no one but yourself. You are a disgusting, poisonous freak of nature and I should strike you down where you stand.”

Anders sighs. “Yeah, I deserved that.” Fenris blinks at him, wine-drunk and slow. Anders presses on before he can chicken out again. “Look, I’m sorry. For what I said about your sister. Apart from being outright wrong and really, really bad timing, it was cruel. You’re right to fear the magisters. You’re right to hate them. And I understand why you don’t want to trust the mages here. If I were you…” Anders pauses, running over the same train of thought that’s been rolling in a loop through his head since Darktown. “I wouldn’t either.”

Fenris frowns, and pauses, drinking heavily from the bottle in his hand before dropping it, empty, onto the floor. The hollow glass rings as it rolls across the stone. “You know nothing.”

He isn’t meeting Anders’ eyes, but Anders can see the doubt in his expression. Part of him is amazed that Fenris is anywhere approaching sober after this much alcohol. The rest remembers his tattoos and isn’t surprised at all. “You’re right.” He hesitates, fiddling with his sleeve. “I’ve known...something of suffering. But it’s nothing like the kind of atrocities that have been done to you. I can’t imagine the life you’ve come from, and I’m sorry if I’ve hurt or insulted you by drawing comparisons between us.” Anders takes a deep breath, and links his hands, letting them rest loosely in his lap. “But Fenris, this isn’t a competition. I’ve been hurt. You’ve been hurt. I don’t really care which one of us has been hurt worse, though for the record, I think it was probably you. The fact is we’re both hurting and right now I don’t think you should be alone.”

Fenris frowns at him. Outside, on the streets of Hightown, there’s the telltale clang of steel on steel. Both of them glance up, and then Fenris looks back at him, toying with the cork of his next bottle. “I am alone.” He looks around the mansion. “Danarius is gone. Varania is...” Fenris stops himself, swallowing. “My mother…” He grits his teeth and whirls, hurling the wine bottle against the wall. Anders flinches. ( This precious to you, mageling? Is this something very important? ) Fenris leans forward, and cradles his head in his hands, streaking old blood and fresh wine through his hair. “I’m finally alone.”

Anders thinks that it would take Fenris about sixty seconds to kill him, even inebriated. He gets to his feet, and lights the fire with a familiar rush of magic. Fenris jumps. Anders doesn’t back away. Instead he gets onto his knees, and takes the rough, steel gauntlets covering Fenris’ hands. He looks up into his eyes, and squeezes them. “No. You’re not.”

Fenris looks at him and blinks. His eyes are shining. Anders decides to blame it on the firelight. “You said I was a hypocrite. I thought you were going to - that you would...” He stops, shutting his mouth tightly. 

Anders ignores the growing pain in his knee. “Let him take you?” Fenris doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at him. Instead he stares out of the window at the torchlit streets of Kirkwall. Anders sits up, and gingerly lifts a hand to Fenris’ cheek. Fenris doesn’t pull away, and Anders very gently cups the side of his face. “Fenris. I would die a thousand, thousand painful deaths before I would willingly let that man live a moment longer. Let alone let him touch you.”

Fenris shuts his eyes, and Anders tries not to stare at the snow white colour of his eyelashes. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Painfully, Anders gets to his feet, still holding Fenris’ hands, and gently pulls him to the door. “You build a new life. Fortunately for you, I’m great at that.” He lets go of one of Fenris’ hands, and picks up the brandy on the side. “Get your sword. Come on. Let’s go.”

Sunrise on the Wounded Coast is as beautiful as it is over the sea of any place Anders has ever been. Fenris sits next to him quietly on the sand dunes, and together they listen to the soft hiss of the reeds, the shout of the seagulls and the roar of the not so distant waves. Fenris is still holding Anders’ hand. Anders doesn’t comment on it. 

The sun spills a path of gold over the water, racing towards them from the horizon, glittering and refracted by the leaping sea. Anders clears his throat, and blinks the gritty ache of a sleepless night out of his eyes. Then he cracks open the brandy, and passes it to Fenris. 

“Welcome to your new life.”

Fenris drinks, and stares at the sunrise, and Anders watches it paint his dark face gold. It has been so long since he last fell in love. 

Fenris turns to look at him, and Anders doesn’t try to hide his staring. Fenris’ eyes are bright and green as a forest on a summer’s day. He smells like wine and blood and leather and Anders desperately wants to kiss him. 

“Will you be with me, mage? In this new life.”

Anders grins, and pretends his heart doesn’t skip a beat in his chest. “A naughty renegade apostate? Didn’t know you had it in you.” Fenris is still watching him, steadily, and Anders’ smile softens. He holds out his hand for the bottle, and Fenris passes it to him. Their fingers brush.  “Yes. I’ll be here. As long as you’ll have me.”

Anders drinks, and the brandy is caramel and fire. Next to him, Fenris hums, and his hand tightens around Anders’ on the dune between them. “That could be a long time.” The words are teasing, warning. 

Anders sighs, and lies back in the sand, staring up at the blushing lilac of the early morning sky. “Could be forever.”

Fenris chuckles, and lies beside him. “Promises, promises.”

Chapter Text

It’s Wicked Grace night at The Hanged Man. The mage is losing. He always loses. Fenris thinks it’s improbable that a man who has successfully remained a fugitive for as many years as this one has could possibly be this bad at bluffing. But then he supposes it’s possible that he and the rest of their companions are the only people who know Anders well enough to read his tells. It’s possible that he simply isn’t used to having friends. Fenris files the thought away for consideration at a later date, and lays his hand on the table in front of a smirking Isabela. Two angels and three knights. Her smirk immediately turns into a scowl, and she leans across the table, grabbing his gauntlets. “You elvhen bastard! How in the Void did you do that?” Fenris lets her inspect him for hidden cards, grinning. Across the table, Anders looks down at his hopelessly mismatched hand.

“I’m never going to get this, am I?” 

Varric chuckles and raises his flagon to Fenris when he notices his gaze. “Probably not, Blondie. But it’s fun to have you here all the same.” The mage does something which is terribly close to a pout, and then Hawke wraps her arms around Isabela’s waist and tugs her back across the table so that the woman all but falls into her lap. Isabela yelps, realises what’s happening, and almost purrs, turning and settling herself comfortably on Hawke’s thighs. Hawke suddenly gets very red. Fenris directs his smile at the stained and chipped wooden table in front of him as he shuffles their cards.

“Another round?”

Anders sighs and sits forward. Fenris frowns. So does Varric - both of them having noticed the sudden seriousness in the mage’s expression. Merrill is distracted by Isabela and Hawke, at whom she is staring with wide eyes and a faint blush. At the bar, Aveline is scooping a flight of tankards into her arms. “Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about. All of you.”

Isabela abruptly stops wriggling in Hawke’s lap and turns to Anders, frowning a little. “What is it, sweet thing?”

Anders sits forward, and lowers his voice. Fenris catches Varric making a gesture at a man in dark clothes of no clear allegiance to any thieves’ guild he knows, and the space around them grows quiet as the patrons nearby make themselves scarce. The mage doesn’t seem to notice. Instead he’s turning the card in his hands over and over, running his long fingers over its boxed and worn edges. On one turn Fenris catches it: the Knight of Sacrifice. Of course.

“I’ve. Been engaging in an...operation.” Anders bites the inside of his cheek. Hawke is watching him now, her bright blue eyes sharp and clever. He continues. “I’ve recently learned a disturbing piece of information.” Varric raises an eyebrow.

“What have you heard, Blondie?”

Anders links his fingers on the table, and frowns at the old soft wood. Its wrinkles are deep and dark with age. “There is a templar who has, allegedly, proposed something he calls the ‘Tranquil solution’.” Hawke’s eyes narrow.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

Anders lets out a long, shuddering breath. Fenris can’t stop thinking of the girl in the Gallows courtyard. ( Should I inform Knight-Lieutenant Miranda of this incident? ) “To make all mages at the age of majority Tranquil, starting with the Kirkwall Circle?” Anders’ hands curl into fists on the table and slowly uncurl. There are grazes on the backs of his knuckles. He meets Hawke’s eyes, and his mouth is set in a firm, grim line. “Yes.”

“Maker’s breath.” Varric mutters, stroking his chin.

“So who do we need to murder?” Isabela poses the question lightly, but Fenris knows her well enough by now to see the fire in her eyes. 

Anders seems to see it too, because he gives her a small, tight smile. “Ideally, the Lieutenant in question. One Ser Alrik.” Anders’ mouth twists into a scowl, disgust twisting his lips. “He’s a sadist. Likes to make mages beg. I’ve,” Anders hesitates, and for a moment shuts his eyes. He takes another deep breath and gives them all another bitter, joyless smile. “I’ve had dealings with him before.”

Hawke catches her breath, and Fenris glances at her, but she’s still looking at Anders. “Karl?” She barely murmurs the name, and Fenris frowns. He doesn’t like being out of the loop on these things. Judging by the way Anders nods, once, tightly, and covers one hand with the other before they can all see them shaking, the man was clearly important to him. He resolves to ask about it later.

Around them, the bar is noisy with laughter and shouting. The Hanged Man’s resident musicians pluck a merry jig as the evening wears on. The place smells of firewood and cheap beer, straw and damp wood. 

Merrill breaks the silence. “Who’s Karl?” Fenris’ suspicions that the man was important to the mage and that something awful had happened to him are confirmed when Hawke glances back at her with something like guilt. 

Varric starts, “Daisy -”

But Anders clears his throat and Varric falls silent. He meets Merrill’s wide green eyes, and his expression is tight and patient, the same one he wears when he’s dealing with his younger or more vulnerable patients. “He was a dear friend of mine. He’s dead now.”

Merrill’s brow pulls up into a mess of worry and embarrassment. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Anders’ expression softens into a gentler smile. “It’s fine. You weren’t to know.” He turns back to Hawke. “I can’t do this alone. But I need to stop him. And if I’m going to do that -” His gaze shifts to Fenris, of all people, and his eyes are gold and bright in the firelight. “I need your help.” 

Hawke tenses a little. “Anders.” The word is warning, and she’s looking at Fenris. Fenris frowns, shifting, and Dog whines as he moves his feet from where the beast had been laying its great head. Anders shakes his head.

“It’s fine. He knows about Justice. And I’m not going to lose control. Not this time.” Fenris decides to consider the implication that Anders had, in the past, lost control of his demon - and that Hawke had elected not to tell him about it - later. For now, he nods. The rightness of it settles comfortably into his chest.

“I will help you, mage.” 

Varric raises his eyebrows, and Fenris drinks from his tankard, swallowing a great gulp of the watery, bitter stuff that passed for ale at The Hanged Man.  Anders looks at the others, and Isabela smiles at him, gently. “Do you even have to ask, sweet thing?”

Hawke cracks her knuckles, and grins, baring her teeth. “Any excuse to crack a few templar heads.” Fenris snorts. The woman made little effort to hide her resentment of templars. It has occurred to him more than once that Hawke’s fierce protection of the magelings in their motley crew is likely some form of projection, a misplaced protective instinct that had failed to save her sister. He hasn’t yet seen any reason to point it out. He does not think he would wish for such a thing, were he in her position. 

Varric nods, once, firmly. “It’s decided then. That... operation of yours,” Varric chooses his words carefully and Fenris makes no effort to hide his frown this time. Why were they all being so damnably evasive? Varric continues, “is it doing alright? Don’t need any extra security?” The dwarf gives Anders a critical once over, lingering on the grazed knuckles Fenris had noticed when he’d come in. Anders puts his hands under the table. 

“Your concern is appreciated, Varric, but it’s fine.” 

“What is this operation?” Fenris asks, when it becomes apparent that none of them are going to elucidate further. Varric and Hawke both glance at him sidelong. Anders sets his shoulders and lifts his chin. 

“It’s an underground railroad. I’m getting mages out of Kirkwall.”

Fenris’ heart sinks somewhere to the region of his stomach, and he barely resists the urge to groan out loud. Well, that was new fodder to add to his nightmares. Young, untrained, possibly traumatised mages, set loose on a city of illegal slavers and thieves. What could possibly go wrong? “Of course you are.” Under the table, apparently sensing his distress, Dog licks his foot. Fenris scratches the beast’s head with his toes in return. 

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “You’re taking this awfully well, Fenris.”

Fenris grunts. “I’ve begun to realise that it comes with the territory.” Anders grins. 

Fortunately, at that point, Aveline returns with their drinks. Fenris downs the rest of his warm beer and reaches for another whilst Isabela laughs. “Welcome to the club, handsome.”

The fact that Anders’ underground railroad is clearly profoundly unsafe has not escaped Fenris’ notice. He intends to have a long, detailed conversation with the mage about why confronting heavily armed gangs of lyrium smugglers and blighted templars , alone , is not in fact an intelligent idea, later. When they’re safe, and he has thoroughly reassured himself that the brave, stupid man who he is unfortunate enough to call his friend and very probably in love with is safe and whole and well. Mostly he’s just angry that Anders didn’t mention any of this sooner. 

They find Ser Alrik and his cronies deep in the caverns. The man is looming over a young mage girl wearing simple robes. She is clearly not a danger to him or his men. There are over a dozen heavily armed templars surrounding her. Fenris thinks about the gangs sent after him and viciously stamps down his own rising anger. Losing his temper will not be helpful. So he watches Hawke as she holds up her hand, and they stop and wait and listen.

Alrik sneers something about what’s done to mages who lie, and Anders shudders before blue cracks break across his skin. He shakes his head, “No, this is their place, we cannot -” Fenris tries to ignore his unease as the mage speaks to the creature making its home in his skin. Were it not for the magic, he’d understand him entirely: Alrik’s words are far too close to the taunts and threats of every magister he’s ever known. 

Then the girl falls to her knees, and begs, and Ser Alrik takes his time as he tells her that she’ll do anything he asks when she’s Tranquil. Fenris thinks of the girl, Catriona, in the courtyard. (Ser Alrik recommended I be put forward for the Rite of Tranquility. ) He wants to throw up. Hawke’s fist is curled so tightly it’s shaking. Isabela’s weight shifts, minutely, in preparation to move. Fenris readjusts his footing on the loose gravel of the cave floor. 

Finally, Hawke breaks their cover. And then Anders begins to glow with bright blue light, and when he speaks, it’s with the voice of his creature. “You fiends will never touch a mage again!”

As the battle begins, Fenris is most disturbed of all to realise that he doesn’t disagree. It’s a long, arduous fight, but as it continues Fenris realises he’s still receiving healing from Anders  - or more rightly, his creature. When he feels the prickling thrill of a sword careening towards his undefended back, there’s an electric hum, and he turns to see the templar’s sword shaking against an invisible shield, the creature’s glowing blue hand outstretched. Fenris doesn’t have time to process his confusion or his unease. He ducks and drives his sword at an angle beneath the man’s armour. Again and again as the fight wears on, the creature protects him: throwing up walls of ice and raining down fire, as Anders would usually do. It roars at the templars, but it says nothing untrue, and Fenris finds himself almost motivated by the thing’s simple, indignant fury. These people had been preying upon the mages in their care. They had betrayed the trust of their charges and turned them into glorified prisoners. They had abused innocent, unarmed people. People like Anders. 

Fenris swings his sword and feels his arms burning as he decapitates another of his foes. He whirls, panting, and realises with a dizzy rush of relief and frustration that it’s over. Then he frowns, breathing blistering air into his aching lungs. Anders is still glowing. 

“I will have every last templar for these abuses!” The spirit roars. The girl on the ground - Ella, cringes back. 

“Get away from me, demon!” 

The spirit’s, Anders’ eyes widen and it marches forward, face twisted with fury. “I am no demon! Are you one of them, that would call me such?” Fenris can barely breathe. The air tastes of metal and magic but he can’t concentrate on that, because he’s staring at this creature that is so clearly unnatural and he knows how it feels.

So he stumbles forward and grabs the thing’s wrist. The spirit whirls, and stares at him, and Fenris breathes, still winded from the battle. He forces himself to meet its swirling blue-white eyes. “That’s not what she meant. She’s just scared. You want to help her, don’t you?” For a long moment the spirit stares at him. Fenris can feel the cracks in Anders’ skin resonating strangely with his tattoos in a way that makes his hand ache with a deep, blistering pain. He doesn’t let go. He wonders how time passes in the Fade. 

The creature frowns. “She is theirs, I can feel their hold on her.” ( Magic spoils everything it touches. )

Fenris shakes his head. “No. She’s the reason you’re fighting. Don’t turn on her now.” He prays the abomination won’t turn on him, either. He is quite certain it would break his foolish heart. 

The creature pulls its arm out of Fenris’ grip, and he lets it, fingers numb and tingling with the pulls of its magic on the lyrium in his tattoos. The girl falls to her knees, weeping. “Please, messere.” The creature starts to glow and raises its arms. Fenris doesn’t move away. He’s struck, suddenly, by an old Tevinter fairytale about a knight and a green giant. He shuts his eyes, and prays the axe doesn’t fall. 

Hawke shouts, “Fenris!” There’s a cresting roar of magic, and then suddenly it’s gone. Anders is blinking, staring at him. He looks like he’s about to be sick. 

“Maker, no, I almost -” the mage sounds like a boy twenty years his junior and Fenris knows exactly how he feels. (He’s on an island, and there’s blood in the sand, pooling around his toes.) Anders stares at him, “If you weren’t here…” He shakes his head. “I - I need to go.” 

He flees before Fenris can find the words to stop him.

It’s unusual for the clinic to be closed at this hour, even after an excursion with Hawke. Fenris finds Leo standing outside, kicking the dirt with his new boots. When he hears Fenris approaching, the boy looks up and half runs, half walks over to him. “Is it true what that mage girl said? That the healer’s demon killed a bunch of templars and that bastard Ser Alrik?”

Fenris takes a moment to process this. He starts with the easiest part. “You shouldn’t use language like that.”

Leo sniffs. “He is a bastard, ser. He’s one of the ones who took my ma.” Something in Fenris’ chest twists. He cannot imagine the rest of the woman’s life was particularly happy. Instead of addressing a conversation for which he is not remotely qualified, he moves onto his next question. 

“Is the girl safe?”

Leo shrugs. “Seemed a bit shaken up, but I told her where to find Mistress Selby.” The boy scowls. Far off, there’s the sound of distant hammering on metal. Fenris wonders whether it’s Roger Templeton. “She’s not going back to that blighted Circle, anyway.” Fenris raises his eyebrows, and Leo crosses his arms across his skinny chest. “I meant what I said, and I stand by it.” 

Fenris tries hard not to laugh at the defiance in the boy’s face. He has been spending altogether too much time with the mage. Instead he moves to his last question - tries and fails to find a way to put it delicately, and settles instead for a direct approach. “What do you mean, the healer’s demon?”

Over the broken walls of Darktown, the sun has set, and there are long streaks of pink and purple cloud strewn across the darkening blue sky like spilled paint. A cold wind rushes through the tunnels, and Leo shivers. Fenris frowns, and wonders whether the boy has any kind of coat. 

Suddenly suspicious, Leo narrows his eyes at Fenris. “What do you mean the healer’s demon?”

Fenris tries not to lose his temper. “Tell me what you saw.” He’s not, apparently, entirely successful, because Leo pales but stands his ground.

“Only if you swear not to hurt him. No matter what I say.” Fenris considers for a moment how quickly a boy like Leo would be killed in Tevinter, and then feels deeply nauseous. Swallowing it down, he nods and meets the boy’s eyes.

“I swear it.” He tries not to be disturbed by how deeply he means the words. 

Apparently satisfied, Leo shrugs. “The healer’s an abomination.” Fenris stares at him, and then quickly checks their surroundings for any passing strangers. A rat scurries up a partially boarded up wall and into the darkness beyond. Leo continues. “A while back, the first time The Bone Pit went really bad, it was madness here. And the healer didn’t have any volunteers back then - Lirene was back in Ferelden and he hadn’t met you and Messere Hawke or your friends yet. So he did what he always does and he was saving people and we could see he was in a bad way but people were dying and he weren’t listening to Polly-Anne anyway.”

Fenris shifts his weight and resists the urge to tell the child to get to the point. “Anyway it’s like, past midnight and suddenly he just collapses. We all thought he was dead or something. But then he lifts up all glowing and blue and speaks with this voice and goes ‘Anders must rest. I am Justice.’ And we didn’t know if it was a demon or anything but people were still dying and all so we just sort of let him help.” The boy pauses. “Well actually Sally hit him with a broomstick but he was just like ‘an admirable response to a demon. But I am Justice. I wish to help you.’ And we figured if he was a demon he’d have eaten us or something. So we let him help and he stayed till morning.” Leo chews his bottom lip. “The healer slept for a week after that and no one told him what happened, cos we thought if he knew we knew he was an abomination, he might want to leave. But no one minds really. Though it’s funny when he talks to himself sometimes.” 

Leo grins, and there are more gaps in his teeth than the last time Fenris saw him. “I don’t think his demon really understands how people work. Anyway he don’t mean no harm, the demon that is. He’s just a weird old codger who feels real strongly about mages and slavery and stuff.”

Despite himself Fenris asks, “How does he feel about slavery?”

Leo’s eyes get wide. “Oh he hates it. He hates it as much as templars, I reckon. He’s always saying they should go and get rid of the vermin in the caverns and the healer’s always being like ‘we can only do one thing at a time Justice’.” Fenris can’t help it. Leo’s impression of Anders pushes him over the edge and he snorts, then laughs, as the boy flushes red. Leo scowls. “Well I told you didn’t I. What’re you laughing at anyway Messere Elf?”

Fenris shakes his head. “Nothing, Leo. Only that you do a very admirable impression of your healer.” 

Leo’s grin is back, and Fenris returns it hesitantly, though after a moment it fades. “Is he alright, messere? He must have been real upset or real hurt for his demon to come out like that. It’s awful protective of him.”

Fenris sighs, and tries not to breathe in too deeply the rat-shit and piss smell of Darktown. “I don’t know. But I intend to remedy matters. Go, see to your sister. I will keep him safe.” Leo watches him for a moment longer, and Fenris is struck by how terribly naked it feels to stand under the gaze of a child trying to decide whether you’re a person worthy of trust. After a long moment, Leo nods, and Fenris feels warmth spreading through his chest. 

“Alright. G’night, Messere Elf.” Fenris nods, and lifts a hand in farewell.

“Good night, Leo.”

Then he knocks on the thin, cheap wooden door of Anders’ clinic. He waits, and after a moment receives no response. Fenris sighs and pulls the door open, wishing, not for the first time, that the mage would agree to installing locks. He steps into the shadows of the empty clinic and breathes in the now familiar, bitter smell of herbs and magic. “Mage.” There’s still no response. Trying to ignore the rising memories of stepping on the still warm ashes of the place in ruins following the last templar raid, Fenris walks forward across the soft, hard earth floor. Gently, he knocks on the door to Anders’ quarters. “Mage.” He says again, quietly. 

“Piss off, Fenris.” 

Fenris snorts, and lets relief crash down over his shoulders and loosen the tension that had been winding the muscles there into knots. “May I open the door?”

The mage doesn’t answer. Fenris takes that as permission enough, and gently pushes the door open. Of course he hasn’t locked it. Fenris decides to chastise him about it another time as the door brushes the earthen wall on the other side of the narrow space. Anders is sitting on his bed with his back to him. There’s an empty brown bottle of something that smells acrid and stinging on the floor. He has another clear one in his hands, and drinks from it deeply. Fenris raises his eyebrows as the taste of alcohol stings his tongue when he breathes.

“I thought your spirit didn’t like it when you drank.”

Anders tightens his arms around his folded knees. His staff rests against the earthen wall, next to his makeshift washing table (an upended barrel.) “That’s rather the point. Since when do you call him a spirit?”

Fenris shrugs and steps closer, skirting the tiny wooden table that splits the middle of the room. “Spirit, demon, creature. The witch would have me believe they’re all one and the same.” Anders snorts, and the sound is damp and hoarse.

“Since when do you agree with Merrill ?” 

Fenris hums. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” He stops within arm’s length of the mage and stares at the crooked, broken feathers on his back. He tries not to think of wings. 

Anders presses his face into his knees. “If you’re here to have a go at me, Fenris, then I need to warn you that I’m,” he pauses, and drinks again from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “very drunk and I will probably cry. And that’ll just be embarrassing for both of us.” Fenris narrows his eyes at the bottle in Anders’ hands - he’s had his fair share of alcoholic beverages, but this one reeks.

“I am not here to chastise you, mage.” He considers for a moment the growing list of things about which he wishes to chastise the mage. “Not now. What is that?”

Anders grunts, and drinks more. “Rubbing alcohol.”

Fenris frowns. “Is it safe to drink?”

“Who needs safe when you’ve got effective?” 

Fenris takes the bottle out of Anders’ hands. There was a chance when he was sober that he might have been able to stop him. As drunk as he is, he’s slow and clumsy. Easy prey, with all his doors unlocked. Fenris ignores the flash of irritation that rises in him at that and sets the bottle on the table. Anders turns at last to look at him, and his eyes and cheeks are red from weeping, his hair pulled loose of its usual tie and hanging messy about his face. “That’s cheating.”

Fenris raises his eyebrows. “Stopping you from poisoning yourself? I’m starting to think it’s a vocation.”

Anders stares at him for a moment longer, then leans forward in a transparent attempt to retrieve his alcohol. Gently, Fenris catches him, and Anders pulls against his grip without much effort, which Fenris takes as leave enough not to break away. “Why are you here? Really.”

Fenris moves, stepping closer into the bracket of his arms, and Anders looks down at the floor between their feet. Fenris crouches, and looks up into Anders’ eyes, and they’re warm and gold and brown. “I wish to provide some comfort, if you would let me.”

Anders shuts his eyes for a moment, and something like pain pinches his brow. “You of all people should know I don’t deserve it.”

Fenris lifts his hand and, carefully, tentative, terrified that he’ll disappear like some awful illusion, lets it rest gently on Anders’ cheek. He doesn’t pull away. His skin is soft and warm and Fenris tries not to marvel at it: at the mage under his hand, unflinching, like some wild fragile creature held by its own foolish decision to trust in kindness. Fenris looks at the man under his hands, all freckles and fire and far too much love for any mortal heart. He wonders which of them is really the fool. “I do not think it is a question of what we deserve. Only whether we accept it, when it is freely given.”

Anders shudders, and he shakes his head. “I thought. I thought I was going to.” He catches himself, biting off the words and choking on a great wrenching sob as he rocks forward. Fenris moves his other hand to cradle his face and holds it gently, firmly.

“But you didn’t.” He says, as calmly as he can. 

Tears run down the mage’s cheeks and he heaves in a painful gasp of air. “But I was going to, Fenris, Justice - Vengeance, was going to. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m mad? What if all this time it’s been for…” He stops, and squeezes his eyes shut, and his breath stinks of alcohol. Fenris sits up, getting onto his knees and taking Anders’ shoulders.

“For nothing? Perhaps you would wish to tell that to Roger Templeton? Or Lirene? Gerald Orchard? Leo? Kate Baker? I’m sure it would please them to know how little their healer thinks of their lives.” 

Anders frowns, torn out of his weeping by confusion and slowly growing indignation. “What? No. Of course not.”

Fenris tries not to smile at him as he struggles to find the point and misses it completely. “Do you remember the incident after The Bone Pit disaster?”

Anders grunts, and scowls. “Which one?”

Fenris inclines his head. “The most recent. I was here. Do you remember?” Anders nods, and he looks up, clever eyes searching Fenris’ face for an answer to where this line of inquiry is going. Anders’ long legs are warm around his hips. Fenris presses on. “Your spirit manifested then. It saved Gerald’s life.”

Anders blinks, understanding dawning on his face. “So that’s what happened.” His mouth turns down. “Just another time I lost control. Great. Add it to the list. If this is a nice way to talk me into letting you execute me, it’s not necessary. And for the record, kind of cruel. I’m unarmed.” As Fenris stares, he shrugs off his armoured jacket and lifts his chin, baring his throat and chest. “Go ahead.”

For a long moment, Fenris is speechless. He can see the leap of the mage’s racing pulse under the thin skin of his throat. He can see the tension in his posture, the stubborn determination in the set of his jaw. He really thinks he’s going to kill him. He really thinks he still could, after everything. 

“ Fasta vass mage you are the most stupid man I have ever met.”  Anders blinks, jaw going slack as Fenris pulls away from him. He shuts his eyes and rocks back on his heels, opening them to look up at the bewildered apostate on the bed in front of him.  “Am I really so terrible at comfort?”

Anders opens his mouth and shuts it again, hesitating. Fenris watches him visibly warring with the impulse to reassure him and the desire to reject any kind of kindness that he is determined to believe he does not deserve. In the end, Fenris’ needs win out, because of course they do. “No, no, it’s just. I’m serious, Fenris. If Justice - Vengeance, whatever he’s become, whatever I’ve made him. If he’s taking control then this needs to stop, now. I won’t be used to hurt anyone.” He shuts his mouth, and clenches his jaw, and Fenris can see the fear in him: in the flare of his nostrils and the subtle tremor of his hands. He’s still waiting for death. As if all this were some cruel pantomime that Fenris would break at any moment with terrible, violent finality.

Fenris sits on the floor. “I’m not going to kill you.” He says, firmly. As he says it, he strips the gauntlets from his hands and unbuckles his armour, dumping it on the cramped space beside him. “I have no intention of doing you any harm, mage.” He stops, thinking, and breathes in the musty smell of old cotton bed sheets in need of a wash and the stinging bite of alcohol. “I mentioned the incident only to illustrate that I do not think your spirit means harm to anyone, save those who thoroughly deserve it.” He thinks, with satisfaction, of the templars’ corpses. “I have only ever seen it take over when you are incapacitated by distress or exhaustion. It has never hurt me, or any of our companions. It has on a number of occasions protected us. The scenario with the mage girl was unfortunate, but it did not actually hurt her. I believe it was confused, and angry, and hurt. As you are. As I have been, many times.” Fenris pauses, and looks at his bare, calloused hands. The one that had touched the spirit still aches. “You do not need to be a creature of the Fade to commit violence in the blindness of pain, even against the innocent.”

Anders is quiet for a long moment, and when Fenris finally finds the courage to look up at him, his head is bowed, hair hanging to shroud his face. “How do you know? How do you know he won’t do something worse? That I won’t lose control?”

This, at least, is easy. “I do not. But I know that I trust you. And, Maker save me, I believe I trust your spirit too. If I should be proven wrong, then assuming I yet live, you can rest assured that I will do what I can to liberate you from its grasp.”  

Anders frowns and looks up, and there’s no fear in his eyes now. Fenris supposes he would have fallen in love with a man who was so stupidly brave. “If that happens, you need to kill me.”

Fenris says nothing. He cannot kill this mage. He has learned the truth of it over and over again these past few years. But he will not lose him, either. Not willingly. It has to be enough.

The silence stretches, and Anders’ eyes move to the bottle on the table. Fenris clears his throat, and folds his legs so that he is sitting with his feet pressed together, leaning back on his arms. “Did I ever tell you how I escaped Danarius?”

Anders pauses, a glimmer of curiosity sparking in his bright eyes. “No.”

Fenris nods. He hadn’t really needed to ask. He guards this particular secret with jealousy. It hurts every time he shares it. “Would you like to know?”

Anders nods and then, needlessly, voice rough from weeping, says, “Yes.”

Fenris takes a deep breath. Far away a mabari barks into the thick dark of night in the Undercity. “We were in Seheron. The Qunari had invaded the city, and the ship on which Danarius escaped had no room for slaves.”

Chapter Text

“You’re early.” It’s not an accusation so much as a question, as Isabela shrugs away from the wall outside the clinic. It’s late afternoon, and Fenris is due for the night watch. He has a few hours left before his turn on the rota. He holds up the basket in his hands, offering a hesitant smile of thanks to Vennah as she steps aside in the queue to let him past. The dwarven woman’s eyes crease as she smiles, one hand settled comfortably on her broad pregnant belly.

“I come bearing gifts.” Isabela raises an eyebrow and comes closer to lift the towel set over the basket and peek inside. Her face brightens. 

“Dolmeh!” She fishes one of the Rivaini delicacies out of the basket and pops the bundle of leaves wrapped around minced vegetables into her mouth, moaning loudly and shutting her eyes at the taste. “Oh it’s been years since I had these. Where’d you get them?” Fenris shrugs, attempting to hide his pleasure at her reaction by looking away, at the slowly diminishing queue outside the clinic. He thinks he recognises a pair of elvhen men from the alienage, one now supporting another as he shuffles forward on an injured leg.

“There’s a new stallholder in Hightown. Rivaini. I asked him what would feel like home.” He frowns. “I wasn’t entirely certain whether he was telling the truth.” 

Isabela is rooting through the basket now, and Fenris lets her, until she finds a small pastry. “Ugh, and nazook! How do you expect me not to bed you when you give me presents like this?” Fenris grins at her a little.

“Because Hawke would challenge me to a duel for your honour and I would surrender, knowing the cause to be already lost.” Isabela punches him lightly in the arm, but she doesn’t quite hide the pleased flush that rises to her full, round cheeks.

“I should have your tongue for that, handsome.” She pauses, eating the pastry, and shuts her eyes in pleasure as the smell of walnut and vanilla fills the air like a perfume. “You really think she’d challenge someone to a duel for me?” 

Fenris’ smile gentles a little. “Of that I have no doubt.”

Isabela’s full lips curve into a smile that’s warm and sincere. “So why are you early? Apart from making me the happiest girl in Kirkwall?” She walks to the walls and Fenris follows her, leaning against the splintered wood beside her and glancing up at the scrawled graffiti etched into its surface.

NINA HAS GREAT TITS. 

J + N FOREVER. 

I FUCKED KNIGHT COMMANDER MEREDITH.

HARRY WOZ HERE.

Not so far away, there’s the squeal and laugh of a child, and the patter of small feet racing down Darktown’s earthen tunnels. Fenris looks back to the queue. There aren’t too many people left now: Vennah is inside, and the elvhen boys are near the door. “How is he?” He asks, quietly.

Isabela sighs, and folds her arms across her chest. “How do you think?”

Fenris feels his mouth draw into a tight, unhappy line. Anders has not been well, ever since the incident with Ser Alrik. He’s barely been sleeping and all of them have noticed the fact that he’s lost weight. Not that he had any to lose. Instead, he’s been keeping his clinic open longer and longer, and seeing them less and less. Fenris has no idea what to do. He is fairly certain that his companions don’t either. “I feel...powerless.” He admits, after a long moment. Isabela frowns at the queue outside the clinic, and the lantern flickering against the shadows. Then she presses one of the pastries into his hand. 

“Eat this, it’s good.” Fenris does as she asks. It is. The filling is creamy and sweet, and the pastry flakes onto his tongue. Whilst he eats, Isabela talks. “I knew him before, you know? We were friends,” she smiles, ruefully, “after a fashion.” She pauses, and her expression softens. “I cared for him. He was sweet and silly, pretty and fun. Easy to talk to, easy to -” she pauses, glancing sidelong at Fenris, and her smile dimples her cheek into an expression that’s a little more knowing. Then she glances back at the clinic, and sighs. “This Anders is nothing like the man I knew before.”

Fenris finishes his pastry and brushes the sugary crumbs onto his breeches. “He’s changed?”

Isabela toys with the stud under her lip. “The Anders I knew... He was so bright. Like sunlight. Angry, yes, but happy too. Playful. He never took anything seriously. He was always joking, letting the cares of the world slip from his shoulders like water off a duck’s back.” Fenris considers this. He’s certainly seen glimpses of it - in the mage’s grinning teases and insistent irreverence. But it’s hard to imagine an Anders who isn’t serious. One who isn’t wearing his scars like armour and waiting for another. Isabela takes another dolmeh from the basket, and the oil of it glistens on her fingers. She eats, and Fenris waits, distracting himself by absently scanning the area for any potential threats with an ease that only came from old, familiar habit. “I heard a rumour. He’d stopped showing up at The Pearl. I thought,” she stops. “I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t know much about the Circles back then, and he didn’t really talk about it.” Fenris snorts. It’s this, perhaps, that’s most difficult to believe. Isabela looks at him, and her bronze eyes are steady and severe in their sincerity. “He had scars. But he’d shrug it off. He’d say they’d flogged him and joke about the colour of the First Enchanter’s robes in the same sentence.” She looks away. “He was surviving. But I really had no idea exactly what his life was like.” She breathes. Her chest swells with the movement, and she tightens her arms around herself against the faint chill of the Undercity. “I heard later that he’d been caught. Put in solitary confinement. They kept him there for a year.” Isabela’s voice doesn’t break. It just gets hard. Angry. “I did nothing. I guess I just told myself someone would. And I assumed he’d die, honestly, if he wasn’t dead already. I barely knew him. And something like that...I mean, look at me. I’m not exactly qualified for rehabilitation.”

Fenris resists the urge to argue the point.

Isabela shakes herself, and eats another dolmeh. “When we found him here... It was like someone had put the light out. And I see it sometimes: when he’s happy. When he feels safe. But there’s so much darkness in him now. He’s so much quieter.” She grits her teeth and shakes her head. “He could’ve been great. And they muzzled him.” She spits a bit of grit between her teeth onto the dirt floor. She doesn’t look at Fenris as she continues. “I abandoned him once. I won’t do it again.” 

Fenris considers what she’s said, and watches the elvhen boys shuffle into the clinic. “It’s not your fault.”

Isabela pushes away from the wall. “I know. But I’m still angry.” She looks at him then, and her eyes are dark and cold. “A year. Can you imagine what that does to a person?”

He can’t. Danarius - most magisters he knew - had used solitary confinement as a punishment. Fenris had known days of it. In more extreme cases, weeks. He could not imagine the madness of a year. He could not imagine the solitude. He considers his memories of the mage: the way he presses close to Hawke and Isabela, always seeming to be touching them in some way, tension easing as he does. He thinks about how he hates the dark. It makes a terrible kind of sense.

“I cannot imagine what he has suffered. And I did not know him as you did. But I do not think the mage is broken.” Fenris hesitates, looking at the clinic and the flickering lantern hanging above its open doors. “I think he is wounded. I think he is in need. And when he has need of us, we will be there, as we have been for one another.” He shrugs, a little frustrated. “It’s all I can think of to do.” He pauses. “I suppose we could try and find him a cat.”

Isabela snorts, and it’s warm and childish and lovely. “Where did Mr Brooding and Bad at Emotions go? I almost miss him.”

Fenris tilts his head, and watches the last member of the queue - an elderly dwarven man - walk into the clinic. “He met a healer.”

Two weeks later, Fenris is in Danarius’ mansion, drinking and re-reading a passage from the Book of Shartan. He has no intention of admitting it any time soon, but the place smells much better ever since the mage had convinced him to remove the bodies. ( You’re going to give yourself some horrific bubonic disease and then I’m going to have to remove it and I will be reminding you of your pus-filled boils for the rest of your natural life .) 

Anders is still not talking to him. He’s not really talking to any of them. Fenris has enough self-awareness to be able to admit to himself that he’s worried. This and the escalating Qunari situation make for more stress than he’d usually choose to endure. He wonders, not for the first time, why he hasn’t just left Kirkwall already. He expects to think first of Hawke, but instead a face full of freckles with a strong jaw and a fine nose makes itself known behind his eyelids. Fenris groans, and lets his head fall back against the wall. He wonders, not for the first time, whether the Maker has decided to mock him personally.

Then there’s a knock on his door.

Adrenaline chases the sleepy calm of alcohol from his veins like lightning, and Fenris picks up his sword, carefully stalking out of the bedroom and onto the staircase. There’s another knock, louder this time, and Fenris adjusts his grip on his sword. Above him, the broken ceiling opens onto the stars, scattered across a deep blue sky.

The front door swings open with a squealing creak that Fenris refuses to address, no matter how many times Aveline asks him to. It functions as a very good primitive alarm system. He’s hardly going to give any potential thieves aid in breaking in unnoticed. “Hawke!” The Captain of the Guard’s voice is loud in Fenris’ empty foyer. “You can’t just go breaking into people’s houses.”

“Fenris isn’t people, he’s a friend. Besides, he left it unlocked.” Hawke’s voice is loud and bright. With something like relief, Fenris sheaths his sword and wipes the wine from his lips.

“Speaking of which, has anyone updated him on the whole Followers of She situation?” Varric’s voice is the third to join the group, and Fenris leans on the bannister as he waits for them to come in. Hawke snorts, and Fenris catches the skittering claws of Dog on the tiles of the mansion floor.

“Please, he could take them out in his sleep.”

“It’s what they might do to him in his sleep that I’m worried about.” Varric replies, frankly.

“Oh! That’s why he keeps that door so squeaky.” Aveline is louder than Varric and Hawke combined, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Varric chuckles.

“Creaking hinges are the Maker’s alarm system, Aveline. I figured you’d know that by now.”

Aveline hums ruefully. “I suppose I’ll have to tell the servants at the Keep to stop oiling the hinges.”

Varric laughs. “Don’t let me tell you how to do your job, captain.” 

At last, the trio step into the main hall. Hawke’s dark hair is silver in the moonlight, and Bianca glitters. Aveline tilts her head, and smiles honestly when she sees him. Fenris nods at her. Hawke waves. “Hey Fenris. Couldn’t sleep?”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you were trying to be quiet.” 

Hawke grins. “Not really.” Next to her, Dog barks, and Fenris moves down the stairs, meeting the beast halfway and crouching to scratch its head as it licks his face. 

“And how are you? Have you killed any slavers recently?” Dog growls and Fenris chuckles, rubbing his great neck and sinking his hands into the creature’s warm, rough fur. Hawke catches up with her pet a moment later.

“We really need to get you a mabari.” She muses. Fenris stands, breathless from the dog’s attentions.

“I confess, I wouldn’t complain.” Next to them, Dog wags its tail, and Hawke absently scratches the top of its head. Fenris adjusts his weight on the stair and pretends not to notice Varric raising his eyebrows at the conspicuous absence of dead bodies.

“What emergency threatens now?” 

Aveline grins. “That’s what I said.” 

Varric chuckles, and answers before Hawke can. “O ye of little faith. Must we only call on you in emergencies?”

Fenris folds his arms. “Usually, yes. “ 

Hawke chuckles and scratches the back of her head. “Whilst that may be a fair point, this is a different kind of emergency. It’s about Anders,” she scans his expression, and Fenris tries not to shift under her sharp, clever eyes. “We’re staging an intervention.”

Fenris raises his eyebrows. “You’re doing what?”

“For Anders. The man is moping. Worse than that, he’s starving and working himself into the ground. Since there aren’t any other magic healers offering their services for free or an affordable price that I know of,” Hawke pauses to take a breath. “We’re his best shot.” She gestures to the four of them.

Aveline waves her hands in an attempt at cheer. “Hooray!” 

Fenris stares at her, and she blushes. He resists the urge to smile, and turns to go back up the stairs. “Very well.” 

“Uh, Fenris? Where are you going?” Fenris returns a moment later, arms full of wine bottles. Hawke raises her eyebrows. “You know Justice doesn’t normally let him drink, right?”

“These are for us. The mage will undoubtedly explain to us in detail the reasons for which he does not deserve our help. We will want them.” 

Varric chuckles. “Spoken with the voice of experience, Broody.” The question is light, but his eyes are bright, searching for an answer. Fenris shrugs. 

“He is my friend. I have been reliably informed that this is a natural and ordinary element of the relationship.” Hawke hooks her arm around his shoulders and pulls him into a lovingly crushing hug. 

“See Varric! He’s learning!”

It doesn’t take them too long to get to Darktown, though they’re stopped at one point by the Followers of She, and Fenris loses a bottle of wine in the process. It’s no great loss: he’s still barely chipped into Danarius’ collection. But both Varric and Hawke seem mildly put out by it, so he assures them that they can both have a bottle each once they’ve restored some kind of sanity to the mage. Fenris privately imagines it will be a losing battle, but chooses not to air his thoughts out loud. Hawke is a stubbornly optimistic person, and by experience Fenris has learned that the only way to deter her from a course of action is to allow her to experience the error of her ways first hand. He imagines it’s somewhat akin to parenting.

They pick up Isabela at The Hanged Man, and Merrill in the alienage. Fenris is somewhat surprised that the witch is remotely interested in helping Anders, for all his open criticism of her magic. But then he considers the fact that he has more than once seen Anders treating elves from the alienage, and that despite her trouble fitting in with her new neighbours, Merrill has become fiercely protective of them. He looks at the baked nut loaf in a simple clay dish that Merrill has cradled in her arms, and smells richly of traditional Dalish spices. He supposes that perhaps it isn’t so surprising.

Together they walk to Darktown. Usually Fenris would be altogether more tense, walking through the thief-ridden streets of Kirkwall at night. But he is with Hawke and almost all of her companions, and he knows from experience that they can face down a mature dragon and her nest with ease. He doubts any thieves stupid enough to engage them in pitched battle on the streets of Kirkwall would have the ability to pose any real threat. 

So they enter Darktown without much ceremony, walking down streets echoing faintly with distant music seeping through the thick mud walls of gambling dens. The smell of tobacco clings to the wood here, and Fenris lets it fall from his mouth like poison, carefully avoiding the broken glass in the dirt. They keep walking. A crowd of drunken miners bursts from The Flying Pig, stinking of moonshine strong enough to make Fenris’ eyes water. A woman with a black eye and flaming red hair grins at him as they pass, before she’s tugged back into her companion’s arms. Dog growls at a chained mabari asleep beside an empty water bowl, and the creature only lifts its head. Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris watches Merrill twist her wrist and refill the bowl with magic before hurrying to catch up with them. He decides not to comment on it.

Through the broken walls of Darktown, they catch glimpses of the walls of Kirkwall and her cliffs, ash grey in the shadows of the night. The moon skates silver over the sea, and the stars glitter in the darkness. 

Most of the familiar faces Fenris is used to seeing are absent now, tucked away in whatever spaces they can find that are safe and warm enough for the night. The cold air runs over his feet and slips down his neck. Fenris tries not to wonder at the source of the growing sense of trepidation building in his gut. It’s only paranoia. He’s learned what it feels like to be hunted, and even with his own hunter gone, he still sees shadows in every corner. But they’re just shadows. Nothing more. 

Silence settles over Hawke and the others as they continue to walk, descending the stairs before they head back up the next flight to Anders’ clinic, where the lantern is out and the landing is dark. One of the doors stands open. There’s a spreading dark patch of something that smells like blood on the scuffed dirt. Isabela lifts the blanket of quiet that has settled over all of them, and Fenris tries not to jump at the sound of her whisper in the shadows. “Something’s wrong.”

Fenris ignores the others. He heads straight towards the clinic. Hawke swears. “Maker’s hairy tits, Fenris! Come back!” 

Fenris isn’t listening. He walks through the door of the clinic. The familiar bitter smell of herbs fills his lungs. It’s empty. Fenris looks around. That doesn’t have to be unusual: Anders doesn’t always need patients to stay overnight. The clinic often has one or more guests sleeping in its cots, but it’s not so strange for it to be empty now. Fenris glances towards Anders’ living quarters. The door is open. His heart makes its way into his throat. He walks towards it, and tells himself this doesn’t have to be a problem. It would be - unusual - for Anders to sleep with his door open. But there’s a possibility he’s eating, or working. Probably writing that damn manifesto. Fenris feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he gets to the doorway and steps inside. 

Anders’ bed is empty. The room is largely undisturbed. His staff is propped against the wall. 

Fenris feels the ground tilt beneath his feet. Outside, there’s a commotion, and Fenris moves quickly back to the doorway. In the clinic proper, his companions have fanned out, and Dog is sniffing at one table in the corner. Hawke has lit a candle, and she lifts it now, as she speaks to their intruder. It’s Sally. One of Anders’ volunteers. Her cheek is flushing with a fresh bruise that mirrors the deep purple birthmark on the other side of her face. She looks up when Fenris appears in the doorway, and her expression is wounded with the quiet, tired kind of anger that only long suffering can impart. 

“They took him.”

Chapter Text

It’s late. Anders’ shoulders ache, and Justice, somewhere in the back of his head, shifts uneasily. They haven’t spoken since the incident with Ella, and Anders continues to ignore the spirit now. He doesn’t particularly care if it makes him angry. Instead, he concentrates on his work. He can’t remember the last time he ate, or how much he’s drunk. He knows he feels lightheaded and dizzy. There’s a pragmatic, irritating part of him that points out he’ll be no good to his patients if he falls prey to fainting spells. Most of him, however, is focused on Vennah, who is currently giving birth to triplets. 

Anders’ mouth is full of the smell of blood and other fluids, as he and Sally help Vennah through a long and complicated labour. Vennah is too small to comfortably birth triplets - most dwarven women are. So instead Anders has been forced to perform a cesarean surgery. He coaxes his magic into the inflamed skin around his incision. With Vennah’s dwarven resistance, it requires far more mana than usual, and he can already feel himself beginning to slump with exhaustion. As he deals with the incision, Sally carefully extricates each of the three children, washing them and wrapping them in rough, warm blankets whilst Anders stitches the wound. For a long time, his mind is only focused on his task and the warm, slippery feeling of blood beneath his hands.

So it is perhaps unsurprising that he doesn’t notice the templars approaching.

Justice wakes in the back of his head. 

Anders.

The spirit’s voice is warning, and Anders doesn’t stop concentrating on coaxing Vennah’s belly into knitting itself back together beneath his hands. I’m not listening.

There’s the heavy, clinking sound of plate armour, and Anders frowns at the long red line bisecting Vennah’s belly. It’s not often anyone with the coin to afford plate armour finds their way down here, and it normally means some member of the city guard has gotten themselves into a bad way. Which means Aveline will be here tomorrow, pretending not to be worried and interrogating him for every possible detail about the incident, which her guardsman will have attempted to brush off as nothing to worry about. 

“Just a minute.” He murmurs. Nearby the babies in the cot are crying, and absently Anders wonders why Sally isn’t seeing to them. She can’t usually be kept away from newborn babes, and Vennah’s children are sweet and small and handsome. He supposes this anonymous guardsman must be in some unique kind of trouble, to divert Sally’s attention. As he works, his hair falls into his face and tickles his nose.

Justice’s voice comes again, more urgently now.

Anders!

Anders scowls. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m working. Anders feels the healing tugging on the dregs of his mana reserves as he lays his palms on the soft hair of Vennah’s belly and pushes a spell into her muscles to ease the pain of the labour. Her expression eases, and he allows himself a small, private smile. She still ought to rest here for the night, but she’s safe and healthy and well, despite the complications of her labour. He turns to the children. All of them share their mother’s brown eyes, their faces red and waxy with birth, wrinkled like puppies. Anders coos at them, marvelling at their tiny fingers and toes. There are many things he enjoys about his work as a healer, but bringing new life into the world is, perhaps, one of his favourites. Gently, he tucks another blanket over their bodies and tends to them, making sure they’re strong and healthy and close to their mother before he at last looks up at his newest guests.

The light of his lantern flickers into the shadows of Darktown. Far off, there’s the sound of clanging swords as a skirmish breaks out on another street. Knight-Lieutenant Tiberius Heius, his corporal Seerah, and three heavily armed templars stand in his doorway. One of them, an aristocratic looking young man with a heavy looking brow and a sneer on his lips, has caught Sally by her hair, and is lifting her a little off the ground. Her eyes are wide and frightened. She has a red flushing mark on her cheek, opposite the deep purple of her birthmark. Anders takes a deep breath. 

He thought he’d be scared, when they finally caught him again. There’d been some part of him that had always known they would, he’d just wondered how long. But now that it’s happening, his heart beats slowly, and he feels strangely calm. He holds up his hands, palms forward, and speaks quietly. “Alright, you’ve made your point. I’ll go with you. Please could you let this woman go?”

Aristocratic sneer bares his teeth and shakes Sally. She whimpers, wide eyes staring at him. Justice rises, electric and boiling in his veins. Anders shoves him down, viciously. “How do we know she’s not an accomplice?”

Anders inclines his head, gesturing carefully to Vennah, asleep on the cot to his right. The air smells thickly of blood and birth. The children are crying. “This woman is a noble dwarf of House Fairel.” It’s a lie. Vennah is casteless, and if she’d ever known the name of the man who made her pregnant, she no longer had any wish to. Her face was at least free of the tattoos used to indicate her station in Orzammar. It was one of the few benefits of her being raised Topside. 

Anders, however, is banking on the ignorance of a templar patrol that thought it was a good idea to set fire to a healer’s clinic without checking to see whether there was anything flammable in it first. He tries not to look at Tiberius as he continues, honestly,  “she needs medical care. I’ve just finished a major operation, and she should be observed. I assume that you are reluctant to anger the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild?” He tries not to phrase it as a challenge. It’s difficult. His hands are still red with the blood of birth and these people would see him torn from those who needed him for what? Magic? Anders feels Justice’s anger fizzing in his veins.

Tiberius narrows his eyes. “How very convenient.” He pauses, and Anders thinks he can hear the slamming of his heart in his chest as he tries to figure out what the hell he’ll do if they attack. Tiberius’ dark eyes tell him nothing, watching him carefully whilst Anders tries not to be sick. After a long, long moment, Tiberius breaks the quiet with a loud, performative sigh. Anders tries not to flinch. Sally jumps. “Still, best not risk it. Marcus.”

The aristocratic one tightens his grip, but Tiberius waves a hand, and Sally is released. She stumbles, weeping, and Anders catches her. Carefully, Anders steps between her and the templars, holding out his wrists. He tries for a smile. “Clap me in irons?” He can feel the absence of his staff on his back like a missing limb. 

Tiberius smirks, and turns to his corporal. “Seerah?”

Seerah, a woman with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes, grins and folds her hand around her fist as she steps forward. “Don’t worry mage. We won’t need chains when we’re done with you.”

Anders wakes up some time later. He doesn’t know how long has passed. He’s in a small, dark room, and one of his ankles is chained to the wall. He feels Justice greet him with a wave of sparkling relief that bubbles from his toes up to his head in a dizzy rush of healing magic, washing into his bruises.

You’re awake.

Anders tries to shut his eyes, and realises one of them is swollen shut. Magic pours into the side of his face and he shudders. Thanks. How long was I out?

Five hours, I think.

Justice feels uneasy. Anders knows the spirit struggles with time in this plane, but he also knows that it’s more than that. Memories of the night before come back to him in pieces. He remembers a gauntleted hand dragging him by his hair onto the landing outside the clinic. He remembers Sally screaming. He clenches his jaw, and his teeth hurt. He remembers the babies crying. He remembers an armoured boot hitting his gut again, and again. What a way to welcome children into the world. He scowls and wriggles his bare toes, testing the weight of the chain on his leg. It clinks when he moves. 

I will destroy them.

Anders shuts his eyes. No, you won’t.

Justice’s confusion is as sudden and solid as a brick wall.

Why?

Anders throws a dozen images of Tranquil mages at the spirit. Because if you do, Tranquility is the best we can hope for. Justice shrinks back before simmering to the surface again. 

We could fight. We should fight.

Anders shakes his head. We’ll lose.

There’s the heavy sound of armoured footsteps in the corridor outside, and Anders feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The door to his cell: a heavy wooden thing with a narrow window stuffed with iron bars, grinds open. A templar comes in with a tray, and a clay cup of something that smells sickly sweet and familiar. Anders swallows bile as it jumps into the back of his throat. 

“Drink this.”

Anders doesn’t bother to refuse. If he’d been a younger man, perhaps he would have. But he plans to survive this, somehow. And that means obedience. So he picks up the clay cup, trying to ignore the way his hand is shaking, and lifts it to his lips. He looks at the way the dark viscous liquid drips against the rough edges of the clay. Magebane smells like liquorice. Anders had always hated liquorice. 

He drinks it like a shot, and feels the seeping effect on his mana almost immediately. Justice starts to panic.

Anders. What is happening.

Anders puts the cup back on the tray, and waits for what else the templar might want or need. He tries to brace himself to give it. But they just take the tray and turn, shutting and locking the door behind them. Anders relaxes a little on the cold stone floor of his cell. It’s ok. It’s a poison. We’re just going to be a little distant for a while. I’ll be fine.

The Magebane is already pulling a migraine into his skull, as his brain and body and magic fight against the unnatural leeching of power from his body. Anders breathes slowly, deeply, and thinks with relief that it’s just as well he dealt with his worse injuries before they dosed him. He won’t be able to heal himself properly for a while. 

He hopes Hawke isn’t too worried. 

With magic dripping from his body like blood from a wound, Anders rests his head against the wall at his back, shuts his eyes, and falls into something halfway between sleep and unconsciousness. 

Anders is brought before Knight-Commander Meredith at midday. His feet are still bare. He wonders what they did with his coat. They keep him in chains, and the iron drags as he walks, chafing against the scars around his ankles. Anders tries very hard not to think about it. 

The Knight-Commander’s office is cold, and boasts an expensive glass window that looks out over the myriad rooftops of Kirkwall, glowing gold in the sun. Anders stares at the stretching blue sky and the deep blue sea and the distant mountains, and his chest aches with something like physical pain. A few minutes after Anders is carried into her office with two templars at either arm (hardly necessary, with him unarmed and drugged as he is) First Enchanter Orsino arrives. He looks harassed, and there are grey bags under his eyes that speak to a life of restless nights. He takes in Anders: wearing a shirt and breeches, manacled, bruised, face slack with poison, and his mouth turns down into an unhappy line.

“Is this really necessary?”

Meredith doesn’t look up from the correspondence she’s scratching at her desk. “Don’t you know who this is, Orsino? This is the infamous Darktown Healer. He’s flouted my authority for over three years, and made a mockery of everything we stand for.” She sits back, and meets Orsino’s eyes. Hers are cold and steady. “You’re here to explain to me why I shouldn’t call for the Rite of Tranquility.”

Anders wants to throw up. Distantly, like thunder on the horizon, Anders can feel Justice raging somewhere deep inside of him. Outwardly, he starts to shiver. Orsino narrows his eyes, clearly thrown off balance. His hands are stained with ink, and he smells like coffee. Anders doesn’t need to be Varric Tethras to guess that the man had not been informed of his late night arrival in the Gallows Courtyard. He’s being asked to come up with a defence on the spot, with no context and no warning. Great. Anders’ personhood is a game. 

Orsino does not seem to find the situation particularly funny. “Knight-Commander, you know that I need to conduct an investigation. A few hours, at least -” 

Meredith blots a little ink on her parchment and tuts, picking up the paper and crumpling it before tossing it into a small bin and starting again. Outside, in the courtyard, Anders can hear the familiar rhythmic clink of armour as the templars run their patrols. All at once he’s twelve years old again, and he just wants to go home to his mother.  “Now, Orsino, or I take his head and have done with it.” 

For one moment, Anders sees a brief flash of blistering fury cross Orsino’s features. He slumps in the templars’ arms, and tries not to flinch away from the cold biting metal of their armour. He watches as Orsino thinks, fast. You couldn’t become First Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle without the ability to think on your feet, though why in the Void anyone would ever want to was beyond Anders. “You said he was a healer.”

Meredith grunts, finishing her letter and dipping her quill into an ink well. “Rumour is that he’s been running a free clinic since his arrival in the city from Ferelden.”

Anders watches the frustration bite its way into Orsino’s expression, and watches the way he leashes it. Orsino turns to him. “In what schools of magic are you trained?”

The man’s grey eyes are bright with single-minded determination. This is a person who wants to save his life, and is asking desperately for his help to do so. Anders clears his throat, and tries to find his thoughts in the stuffed cotton of his drug-addled head. “Arcane, elemental, creation,” he hesitates, and Orsino raises his eyebrows. Anders supposes it doesn’t make much difference. “I’m a Spirit Healer.” Orsino’s eyebrows climb further up his forehead, until they’re in danger of approaching his receding hairline.

“Is that unusual?” Meredith’s voice is sharp, and her eyes are on them both. Anders flinches. She had not, apparently, been as distracted as she seemed to be. Anders kicks himself for not assuming as much sooner. 

Orsino turns to her, chin lifted. “Yes, it is. I recommend you let him live, without using the Rite of Tranquility.”

Far off in the Gallows courtyard, Anders thinks he hears children laughing. His eyes feel suddenly hot, and he blinks rapidly, squinting at a handful of Orlesian titles in the books on Meredith’s shelf. Meredith sets down her quill. 

“It must be a rare skill indeed, for you to suggest such a lenient sentence. And how should I punish him instead? Or do you want me to allow him into my Circle without reprimand for his actions, and set a precedent for every renegade apostate and hedge witch in the Free Marches?” Anders catches the way Orsino clenches his jaw when Meredith calls it her Circle, and he feels a breath of magic in the air, distant and roaring as a waterfall. 

Orsino doesn’t look at him when he replies. “How do you usually punish them? Put him in solitary confinement, if you must.”

“No!” It’s the first time Anders has spoken since they brought him here, and it’s spoken without thought. His shivering escalates into violent shaking, and Orsino looks at him with concern, moving forwards. He’s stopped by a gesture from Meredith. She walks around her desk, and takes Anders’ chin in one gloved hand. Her gloves are soft, expensive leather, and Anders resists every instinct in him that screams at him to pull away. 

“No? What would you have me do, mage?”

Anders can’t breathe. His mind is caught somewhere between the slow treacle of the magebane and the dizzying panic of the thought of any further isolation. He tries to swallow, and his mouth is dry. He forces himself to meet Meredith’s eyes. “Flogging. Please, Messere.”

He hates her. He hates that she’s making him ask for this. He hates that it’s an option at all. But he can handle pain. He can’t deal with the dark. 

She smirks, and lets him go, and Anders hangs his head and tries to breathe past the cold shivering panic ballooning in his chest and the hot flush of humiliation. “Very well, twenty lashes and no food for a week. We’ll assign him to the infirmary, since he seems so determined to heal people.” Meredith sighs, already picking up another letter. “It’s an admirable enough vocation, even if it is twisted by magic.”

“I won’t be able to work after that, Knight-Commander.” Anders speaks roughly, still working off the edges of his panic. The hands on his arms grow painfully tight, and Meredith’s mouth sets into a firm line.

“Forty lashes, no food for a fortnight, and on second thought - do keep him isolated.” Anders’ chest heaves. Meredith glances at him. “Do you have any other comments, mage?” The word drips with acid. Anders tries not to think about how similar it sounds to the way that Fenris used to say it. He lowers his gaze: away from the window and the bright open blue sky, and stares at the stone under his feet. Meredith hums, satisfied.

“Orsino. His phylactery.” 

Orsino nods, and draws a blade from his belt, stepping forwards. The templars don’t move. Meredith tuts at her desk. “Give him his arm then.” One of the templars roughly yanks Anders forwards, and Anders feels his body try to recoil from them and what they’re about to do. Gently, Orsino rolls up his sleeve. 

“Take a deep breath.” He murmurs, and when he looks at Anders, Anders thinks he can read the apology in his eyes. Orsino cuts, and Anders’ blood bleeds sluggishly into the vial Orsino has slipped from his pocket. The elf frowns, but Anders watches him make the decision to ask about it later. Instead, he wipes his knife and heals Anders’ arm with a gesture. Anders stares at the small glass vial of his blood, and feels his heart slamming against his rib cage. Orsino waves a hand over the vial, and mutters a handful of words in elvish. Anders feels the moment the spell takes effect, like an anchor tied to his foot. Or a noose around his neck. 

He can’t stop shaking.  

Meredith looks up and takes the phylactery from Orsino, examining it for a moment before setting it down, apparently satisfied. She gestures to them all. “You can go.” The templars half lift, half pull Anders out of Meredith’s office. On the way, he hears her call after them, “I will expect his sentence to be carried out this evening. Inform Knight-Captain Cullen.” The templars stop. One of them shifts, and the grating of their metal helmet on their armour grinds on Anders’ frayed nerves. 

“Yes, Knight-Commander.”

They drag him away. At the end of the platform, just before they hit the stairs, Anders looks back over his shoulder. He sees Orsino staring after him. He can feel the weight of the chains on his legs, pulling him down. But in that moment, under the frame of the bright blue sky over Kirkwall, Anders thinks Orsino is no less a prisoner than he is.

He supposes that’s part of the problem. 

It just hurts.

Anders has read and heard a lot about pain: as a physician and as a revolutionary, he’d read tract after tract from any number of people describing the suffering they’d experienced in sometimes poetic, sometimes medical detail. Anders thinks that it has to happen after the fact, that eloquence, refracting something neither the brain nor the body wish to accurately remember into something abstract. It was like fire. It was like lightning. It was like being melted down and twisted into another shape, made anew.

In reality, it just hurts.

He doesn’t know how much time passes. The room they’d taken him into is wide and cold, but he doesn’t know if it’s cold now. His mind has no space to understand such a simple physical detail. It’s trying, hard, to tell him with every tool at its disposal that he needs to leave, escape, fight, prevent this injury. His hands hang in the manacles above his head and he can no longer feel his arms. Anders sobs, and sweat and blood run down his face and his back and his legs, and it doesn’t stop.

It just hurts.

Finally, finally, the rhythm breaks. Anders waits for another blow, and the pain doesn’t ebb, doesn’t diminish, doesn’t fade. He just stands there, burning, bleeding onto the floor, barely able to do that if it weren’t for the chains pulling him up toward the stone sky of the cell.

“Do you repent?” Knight-Captain Cullen sounds terribly, terribly calm. 

Anders shuts his eyes and smiles. They’re not going to kill him. They’re not going to make him Tranquil. They’ve already decided to send him into the dark.

He can handle pain. 

“No.”

They give him another twenty lashes, after that. Anders is awake for most of them, but at some point he blacks out. He wakes up three days later, bandaged and exhausted. He’s in a small cell: long enough for a bed and a bucket. The bed is half a foot shorter than his body, but Anders is a tall, poor man and he’s used to that. It’s essentially a wooden board covered in cloth stuffed with old rags. It doesn’t matter. 

He doesn’t have a window.

His door has a grate, with a panel on the other side that can be pulled back. But the stone walls touch the ceiling uninterrupted by anything that might allow light or fresh air. In the day, the grate on his door is left open, and dim grey light filters into the room. At night, it’s drawn shut. There’s a slot at the base of the door through which he supposes he would receive his food. Occasionally, a Tranquil mage is allowed in to collect his bucket. Occasionally, he’s given more water. His stomach bites at him, gnarled and twisted with hunger. Anders ignores it. He’s been hungry before. 

He lies on his side on his stiff bed, and feels the pulsing pain of his new wounds, and waits for them to become new scars. 

He misses Justice. 

Anders can feel himself starting to disappear. He can feel his sanity blurring, especially at night, when the heavy pressing darkness of his cell is almost physical, suffocating in a way that’s terrifyingly familiar. He talks and laughs and screams sometimes, unable to tell the difference between reality and memory in the shadows. But he spends the fortnight unmolested, and over time he begins to realise that they’re steadily weaning him off the Magebane.

On the tenth day, Justice re-appears in his head, a weak flickering candle compared to the bonfire he usually is.

Anders?

Anders shuts his eyes and starts to cry. He feels scraped thin, and bruised, and cold. He doesn’t try to stop himself. It’s not like the templar outside hasn’t seen worse.

You are hurt.

Justice sounds unhappy. Anders shudders, and shuts his eyes. Yeah. He can feel the spirit tentatively spreading itself out, tickling into his limbs and filling them with magic. 

They have not let you eat?

It’s not really a question: Anders knows that Justice can feel the screaming ache of his hunger as intimately as he does. He answers anyway, just to have a conversation. No. It’s been ten days, I think. They’re weaning me off the Magebane.

They think you broken.

There is a satisfied sort of challenge in the spirit’s statement: not defeat, just certainty that such a thing is impossible, flushed with a strange kind of pride. Anders feels his mouth pull into a tight smile. They don’t know I’m a Grey Warden.

They don’t know that you are yourself. Anders the mage could never be so easily felled.

A wave of proud certainty rushes through Anders’ weak, injured body, and he nearly laughs. As it is, he manages a rough, hoarse chuckle. Far away he thinks he can hear doors opening, and the movement of unarmoured people - mages, probably - preparing for the day. The closeness of the Circle proper is one of the few things that’s helped keep him sane. Anders feels Justice’s curiosity before the spirit poses its question in words, and answers it. Other mages, I think.

It will be interesting to meet them. Perhaps they can be recruited to our cause.

Anders sighs, and picks at the rough, stinking material of his breeches. What he wouldn’t give for some soap and a flannel. We can’t recruit them.

Justice’s confusion is nearly as quick as his anger. 

Why?

Anders shifts, rhythmically flexing his fingers and toes in a half-hearted attempt to maintain his circulation. He’s still too weak to stand for long. Starvation will do that to you. We can’t protect them. If we get them into trouble, it won’t just fall on our heads. We won’t win if we just engage the templars in outright war, especially not from the inside. They can stifle our magic, drug us, and overwhelm us with greater numbers and better weapons. For now, and for the sake of the mages in this Circle, we need to play by their rules.

But they will abuse you.

Yeah. Probably. Anders shuts his eyes, and feels his throat thicken as his mind fills with the same fragmentary, recurring visions that have been haunting his nightmares and daydreams. (Gauntleted hands gripping too tight, fingers in his hair, a steel-clad boot hitting his gut, the edge of a belt and the butt of a sword and the bite of a whip and hot breath on his neck and -)

Anders. Return to me.

Justice’s voice is both firm and gentle. Anders notices with a distant, clinical kind of detachment that he’s shaking. He tilts forward and stiffens when the movement pulls on the ruined landscape of his back. I missed you, buddy. 

And I you.

Justice’s voice is warm, but Anders can feel the spirit’s unease. He’s not a fan of subterfuge at the best of times, and Anders can sense his confusion at the need for it now. He can feel his own anxiety rising in response. If Justice manifests here, now - if he loses control -

I will not act without your consent, unless I believe your life to be in danger and you are incapable of acting yourself. I do not understand this plan, but I trust that your reasons are Just. I have no desire to endanger the mages of this Circle. 

Justice pauses.

I have a great desire to endanger the templars. 

Anders snorts, and feels the spirit’s answering, furious humour. 

But I understand your concerns. It is improbable that we would win, and a defeat would only spill more innocent blood than it would save. We shall wait for Hawke and the Singing Elf.

Anders blinks, staring at the dusty grey stone of the wall on the other side of his cell. He’d long since adjusted to the half-light of the room, and he traces the familiar pores and scars of the stone now as he asks Justice, why do you call him that?

The Singing Elf?

Anders hums out loud, and doesn’t particularly care if the templar outside of his cell thinks he’s mad. Yeah.

His tattoos. They sing. Can you not hear it?

Anders can feel something like surprise from the spirit now, and his mouth tilts into a rueful smile. No, I can’t.

Would you like to?

Anders’ back is better than it has been in ten days. The pain isn’t gone, but it’s eased, and he no longer feels like he’s going to break the scabs every time he moves. Better than that: the worrying heat that had been burning on his skin and suggesting infection in patches up and down his back is gone entirely. He takes a deep, slow breath, and thinks of mossy green eyes and hair like moonlight. Yeah. That’d be nice. He feels the gentle rumble of Justice’s approval, like a mountain purring.

It doesn’t sound like music at first: more like wind, whistling through a deep sea cave. But as Anders listens it builds, looping and echoing into a strange, lilting, lovely song. He shuts his eyes. Tears run silently down his cheeks, and tickle his chin as they fall. He feels Justice’s confusion.

Should I stop?

Anders shakes his head, and allows himself a little more water, which he pours from the jug he’d been provided into a simple wooden cup. The water tastes brackish and old, but the wood is soft. He wraps his fingers around it, and listens to the sound of Fenris’ song as Justice shares it from his memories. 

For one moment, he’s far away, lying on a sand dune as the sun rises with the taste of brandy on his tongue. ( Welcome to your new life. )

Then there’s the sound of metal on stone, and Anders opens his eyes, and breathes.

He’s done this before. He can do it again.

Chapter Text

Fenris is in the Gallows Courtyard. In the week since Anders was taken, it feels like he’s barely left. The sun beats down burning onto his head and neck, washing against his armour in waves of heat. His feet are warm on the sunbaked stone. It’s so quiet here. The courtyard itself feels massive: made larger by the absence of people and noise that crowd the rest of Kirkwall’s streets. Here, mages cower in the shadows of the courtyard walls, and templars stand silent as golems, watching over their unarmed charges. Above the courtyard, the sky is throttled by a noose of stone, made small and suffocating, like a blanket of blue pressing down above their heads. 

Fenris blinks, and thinks the courtyard gets bigger. Suddenly, there’s a desert of tiled white stone spreading out around him. He flexes his toes, and the stone turns to sand. Out of the silence rises a distant roar. He’s sweating, and breathless, and his sword is drawn. Black ichor drips from the blade into the blood-drenched sand. He blinks against the sweat dripping into his eyes, feels the burn of breath in his lungs and chest and the aching shout of his muscles. His tattoos sear his skin and the bones beneath it like hot iron. 

There’s a figure in the distance. He can hear the crowd screaming. Fenris adjusts his grip on his sword hilt, feeling the soft leather wrapped around the metal give way under his sweating palms. There must be a new combatant entering the arena. The sun beats down on him like a physical thing, licking fire through his hair and over his neck.

Fenris squints at the shadow: human, by its height, and not broad as a knight. A mage, then. He breathes and waits for demons, or blood, or fire. His master will be watching from his box. He cannot fail him. 

The figure resolves itself into a tall, human man with blonde and copper hair and bright golden eyes. Stubble grazes his chin, rough and a little darker than his hair, shadowing the fine line of his jaw. He’s wearing loose, armoured robes, decorated with arcane feathers. He has a simple staff, not fine enough for a magister. But then Fenris supposes that’s why he’s in the arena with him. The man gives him a slow, placid smile. On his forehead is a brand, burned livid red, in the shape of a flaming sun. 

Fenris wakes up with a start, “ Anders.” He doesn’t scream - he’d long since shucked the habit of making noise in his sleep, too conscious of the horrors he might attract with his screaming. Instead the name is a breathless, hoarse whisper as his heart pounds against his chest and cold sweat shivers down his back. Fenris sits up, hands curling in the silk covers of Danarius’ bed. He stares at the shadows of his bedchamber: the expensive, empty armoire, and a tall mirror in the corner that shows nothing but another corner of the room. Moonlight pours onto the dusty floor through the window, and moth eaten curtains stand drawn and inert at its side. Fenris breathes. 

Wind howls into the mansion through the hole in the ceiling, and he shivers a little. Every time he blinks he can see the mage’s face: placid, smiling, calm beneath a never-setting sun. Fenris clenches his jaw and gets out of bed. He’s been sleeping in his armour of late. There had been a time, after his impromptu trip with the mage to the Wounded Coast (brandy on his tongue, and laughing golden eyes, welcome to your new life ), when he had tentatively begun to wear bedclothes instead. It had been difficult at first: after so many years on the run, it was easier to sleep with his armour than without it, sheltered by a leather carapace of comfort. But he’d eased into it, and marvelled at the luxury of so much ease. Now the mage is gone. So he splashes some water onto his face and picks up his sword, leaving the mansion and heading straight for the Gallows.

Judging by the faint lightening of blue in the night sky, and the slow spin of the stars over the horizon, Fenris guesses it’s about 3am by the time he gets to Kirkwall’s blighted Circle. He settles into his usual spot, near where the Dwarven weapons seller and his human neighbour will arrive later. Fenris folds his arms, leaning against the wall. He blinks grit from his eyes, and looks up at the great fortress in front of him, mighty and foreboding in the shadows of the night. He waits. 

Fenris watches sunrise creep over the gallows with long fingers, grasping the broad stone battlements like fire. He sighs, and wishes he’d had the forethought to bring some kind of flask or something to eat. He’s reluctant to leave, now, staring through the heavy iron gate of the place and waiting for the first movement of distant mages and templars across the Gallows’ inner courtyards. 

Not long after sunrise, the Dwarven merchant shows up. His name is Adenek of House Alran, and Fenris gives him a nod as he begins to unfold his wares. Adenek nods back, and turns to squint up at the Gallows. 

“They don’t normally let the mages out till nine o’clock.” 

Fenris doesn’t ask why he offers the information. On his third day at the courtyard, Adenek had given him a look full of something like sympathy and cleared his throat, “You don’t normally see new mages out here until they’ve been in for a fortnight. Sort of an,” the old dwarf’s dark, handsome features had wrinkled a little, “induction process.” He’d smacked his lips, like the words left a sour taste on his tongue. Fenris had said nothing. 

Since then, Adenek had occasionally struck up conversation with Fenris, offering pieces of information about the mages’ routines, new members, new templars and other such insights. Fenris rarely engaged with it, but he memorised each new detail anyway. After a week, he’d paid the man three gold for a pot of metal wax. Adenek had raised his white eyebrows - the stuff was worth 50 silver at best. Fenris had shrugged. 

“For your advice.” 

The corners of Adenek’s dark eyes had creased into a worried map of wrinkles, and he’d sighed and taken the money. “I’m sure your friend will be alright.” He didn’t sound certain. “You’ll see them soon enough.” 

Now, Fenris can feel Adenek’s eyes on him, trying to guess how long he’s been here already. Fenris wonders whether he thinks that his mysterious friend is elvhen. He supposes it would be the logical conclusion.

The sun climbs a little higher into the sky, and begins the steady task of beating away the cold of the night into the familiar Kirkwall heat. Fenris rolls his shoulders. Far off, he can hear the rhythmic metal thumping of the templars doing their morning drills. He wonders, not for the first time, who actually holds the power in a city where the Grand Cleric commands a magically enhanced army and the Viscount has only his personal security and the city guard. Aveline is a good captain and a good warrior, but he wouldn’t lay money on her guardsmen’s affordable equipment withstanding much of the templars’ heavy plate armour and expensive longswords. Fenris’ arms tighten around his chest, and he thinks of the mockery that Tevinter had made of their Chantry. It seems the situation is only reversed here. The more things change…

“ Aneth ara, Fenris!” Merrill’s voice is happy and warm and utterly out of place in the stark, blazing white stone of the Gallows courtyard. Fenris turns to look at her, and finds the woman grinning, thrusting a loaf of something wrapped in an old soft cloth at him. He blinks.

“Good morning, witch.” He wonders when the word had stopped being an insult. Merrill’s grin just widens, and she unfolds the cloth before turning to fiddle with her bag. No warrior would ever move the way she does: awkwardly exposing her unprotected ribs as she twists to pull a flask out of the satchel. Fenris says nothing, but he notices himself shifting his weight minutely to protect her if necessary. Hawke would be devastated if he let someone murder her pet blood mage. 

“I brought soda bread! And water. And,” Merrill finally stops fiddling with a soft triumphant huff. Fenris blinks at the pink, bruised apple in her hand. “An apple! Varric said you like them.”

Hesitantly, Fenris takes it whilst Merrill folds to sit cross-legged on the courtyard tiles, breaking the bread. Fenris doesn’t sit, but he moves to lean against the wall beside her, listening as she speaks. 

“I think I’m making real progress in the alienage, you know. The children don’t move away when I pass any more, and sometimes people meet my eyes without getting strange about it. And! You’ll never believe this, but Nolaren actually said good morning today!” Merrill sighs, happily. “Can you believe it? Praise be to Mythal, I really think I’m making progress.” Above their heads, seagulls scatter into the sky, drifting on updrafts from the sea. Fenris looks down at Merrill. She’s still wearing a small smile as she splits the bread into pieces, carefully setting it onto the cloth she’d brought with her. 

“Why do you care?”

“Hm?” Merrill looks up at him. Her eyes are darker than his, but still eerily familiar. Fenris glances away. Merrill has never been broken in the way of the elves in Tevinter. Looking at her, at the Dalish in general, always feels a little like looking at a ghost. Or a demon, perhaps, taunting him with all the freedom he could have had, instead of a skull full of old memories and a heart full of hate. 

Oblivious to the thoughts running through his head, Merrill lifts her hand, offering him a piece of bread. There’s still a little warmth in it, and Fenris wondered whether she’d baked it that morning. She’d have to have been awake for almost as long as he had been, but she acted as if the gesture was nothing.

He takes the bread, and eats. Merrill smiles at him and eats her own, and for a moment silence settles almost comfortably between them. Fenris holds the apple loosely at his side, saving it. The bread is a simple, light, salty thing that tastes familiar somehow, of sunny days and the smell of laundry soap and the half-remembered sound of his mother’s voice. Fenris shuts his eyes for a moment, and swallows. He clears his throat, and tells himself it’s only for the tickle of crumbs at the back of his mouth. “Why do you care about what they think of you? They’ve shown you no kindness.”

Merrill shrugs, and it’s a small, shy thing as she passes him another chunk of bread before nibbling on her own. She’s watching the great gates of the Gallows too, and for all her naivety her eyes are clever and sharp as she searches the first pockets of mages shuffling on the other side of the iron bars. “Well. They’ve had hard lives.” She hesitates, and glances up at him. Fenris pretends not to notice, searching the mages for a glimpse of familiar blonde and copper hair. “I think, when you’re in that much pain, it must take a lot of energy to be kind to yourself. Let alone anybody else.”

“Then it’s a losing battle. Why try when you know you cannot win?” Fenris tries hard not to think of Anders, and the fury in his eyes as he spoke yet again of the plight of the mages. 

Merrill’s smile grows tight and brittle. Fenris wonders whether she’s thinking of the same thing. “I don’t know that. And some things are worth doing anyway. Even if victory isn’t certain.” 

“A very Dalish philosophy.” Fenris mutters. Merrill rolls her eyes. 

“And how do they think in Tevinter? Everything is pointless so we might as well give up?”

Fenris thinks of the elves he’d known in Tevinter - willingly walking to their deaths because there was no other option open to them. “More or less.”

Merrill’s face falls, and Fenris feels both a vicious stab of satisfaction and a very faint tug of guilt. The woman looks more like a child in moments like this, and whilst Fenris had long since become desensitized to the suffering of children, some part of him is still conscious that it ought in theory to be avoided. But then Merrill’s grief molds into something determined and defiant, and for one moment Fenris sees a strong jaw and golden eyes. “Well. Something should be done about that.” Merrill sits back, folding away her cloth and tucking it back into her bag before hooking her hands around her feet, cupping them loosely as both of them watch the first templars and mages of the day walk into the courtyard. “You know, we’re all going to die.”

Fenris frowns, trying to follow the woman’s erratic train of thought. “Yes?” 

Merrill purses her lips, gaze running over the pale face of a young elvhen mage girl with red curly hair, who keeps glancing over her shoulder at the templar behind her. “So we’re all going to lose, if you think about it that way.”

Fenris’ frown deepens. He concedes, hesitantly. “On this we agree.”

Merrill looks up at him with something like triumph. “Well if we’re all going to lose eventually, then it’s not about the battles we win. It’s about the ones we think are worth fighting. I want to know my neighbours. I want to befriend them. And I want a better future for them, and all my people.” Her smile curls into something mischievous and teasing. “Even you.”

Fenris scowls. “I have no interest in your pity.”

Merrill huffs and bounces to her feet with more agility than Fenris might have given her credit for. “I don’t pity you, Fenris.” She stretches her arms over her head, and yawns, and Fenris stares at her and wonders how she can possibly stand here and see the fear in these mages’ eyes and not seem to be afraid. “I like you.”

For the first time, Fenris tears his gaze away from the mages filtering into the courtyard. “Why? I have given you no reason to do so.”

Merrill shrugs, rolling forward onto the balls of her feet, still scanning the small crowd. “Hawke likes you. You’re brave, and kind, though you pretend you’re not. And I don’t think you hate me really.” 

Fenris snorts. “Another losing battle.”

Merrill grins at him. “Another battle worth fighting.” 

Fenris looks away from her, watching a Senior Enchanter walk into the courtyard, apparently in conversation with the Templar at her side. He eats his apple.

The day wears on, largely without incident. Both mages and templars seem fairly placid today, moving quietly and making no sudden movements. Fenris hates it, hates the docility of it. They’re standing outside in the open air but they move as if they’re in a church. Something in Fenris’ chest twists, and he thinks of Anders, face licked by flame and shadow as they camped under the open sky. ( They tell us we’re poison. That we were born cursed. Every day we’re told we’re hated by Andraste, feared by our friends. Is it so surprising that we turn to suicide? The Chantry makes it clear that our god does not wish us to live. ) He imagines standing in a church would be little comfort, for a mage raised in the Circle. 

It’s well past noon when something happens. An elvhen girl: the redheaded one from before, suddenly starts shouting. Fenris glances at Adenek, but the dwarf is frowning at his wares, the blades of the swords he’s selling rippling and liquid in the sun. The girl shouts, “Don’t TOUCH me!” Her accent is thick and Dalish. Fenris wonders how she ever found her way into this place. Suddenly, there’s a burst of magic. It’s bright and blue in the midday sun and Fenris can taste it, thick and metallic on his tongue. He feels the answering ache of his tattoos, shifting his weight uneasily and frowning at the corner of the courtyard in which the girl is trying to pull herself away from the gauntleted hands of a templar. The moment stretches. At his side, Fenris can feel Merrill become very, very still, like a startled halla. Or perhaps more accurately like a wolf, ready to leap. 

The templar lifts their arm, and Fenris purses his lips, waiting for a blow (a boy’s cheek, split and bleeding as if it was smeared with crushed berries.) But no blow comes. Instead, there’s a rippling wave of force, distorting the air, and the girl crumples with a whimper. Fenris frowns. He doesn’t know what happened, exactly: the girl is still struggling, but the strength is gone from her limbs. Fenris breathes, and the air feels hollow somehow, as if something has been stifled. The mages near the scuffle shrink back, eyes wide. Next to him, Merrill frowns as the templar all but lifts the girl off her feet and drags her back inside. She beats uselessly with her bare hands against the shining silver of their armour.

“What did they do?” He finds himself asking, quietly.

Merrill is scowling. “Silence.” Her mouth turns down, and she whispers furiously. “They tell us we pervert magic but they’re not afraid to come up with their own corruptions.” She breathes, and her narrow shoulders lift and fall. “They stopped her magic. Not permanently. That’s Tranquility.” Merrill shudders. “Think of this more like...suffocation. If Tranquility is death, Silence is when you can’t breathe. You’re alive but you’re missing something vital, and it hurts.” Merrill’s eyes narrow, and she wipes her hands on her breeches. “She barely scratched them! Look at her, she’s just a child! They didn’t need to do that.”

Fenris considers this. “Have you experienced it? This silence?”

Merrill shivers and rubs her arms. “Oh no, thank the Creators.” She pauses, chewing on her bottom lip. “I spoke to Anders about it. He said it happened often, in his old Circle. That and,” she hesitates and looks away, rubbing her thumbs and fingers together at her sides, “and other things.” 

Fenris imagines it - imagines Anders, suffocated and severed from his magic, beating at the armour of his captors. He frowns, and glances down at Merrill, who’s watching the templars with the same sharp steady caution with which she treats any of their foes. “Are you not afraid? To be here?”

Merrill lifts her small, pointed chin, and straightens her shoulders. “No. I don’t fear them.” She looks up at Fenris, and her dark green eyes are bright with anger. “The Dread Wolf will take them eventually.” Her smile grows crooked, and her teeth are small and neat and sharp. “But I hope I get to them first.”

This should scare him. This is a mage: a blood mage, no less, openly wishing violence on servants on the Chantry. Not only that, she’s threatening it herself. He should be scared, angry, irritated at the very least. Instead, Fenris snorts. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

Merrill smiles, and it’s a bright twinkling expression that anyone who hadn’t met her would read as innocent. Harmless, even. “I suppose that can be arranged.”

Fenris goes home when the sun sets. The mages are normally escorted from the courtyard at some point in the late afternoon, but he waits for a while after they’re gone before he can find the wits to accept the reality of the situation. Another day has passed. If he’s alive (a face swims into his mind, placid and smiling under a never-setting sun), the mage is still inside the walls of the Gallows. Fenris curls his fingers at his sides, folding them into fists and clenching until his knuckles hurt as he breathes, slowly. He thinks of the way Anders’ shoulders dropped and lowered whenever they left the city, the brightness and laughter in his smile when they walked out into the open air. He thinks about what Isabela had said - tries to imagine a year, locked away from the sky. Even if he had somehow been left unharmed, even if they had not punished him for his flagrant disobedience of their laws, Fenris could not imagine Anders was happy to have spent so long away from the sun.

Merrill glances at him, as the sky deepens from purple to a darker blue. “Coming to The Hanged Man? I know Hawke would like to see you.” The invitation is tentative, hopeful. Fenris stares up at the empty, dark arrow-slits on the Gallows’ battlements. 

“Not tonight.”

The stone is cold under his feet as he walks away. Merrill doesn’t stop him. 

Once he’s back at the mansion, Fenris heads straight for the cellar, grabbing a bottle at random and opening it with practiced ease. The wine is rich and dusty on his tongue and it does nothing to ease the old ache of worry in his chest. He walks back up the cellar steps, into the ruined hall, and looks up at the stars. He thinks of the mage, lying in their campsite, wide awake.

(“ The point of me taking the first watch is that you use it to rest, mage.” 

Anders had snorted, face dusky blues and greys in the dark. “I’ll do what I want, thank you very much. Besides, they’re never this bright in the city.” He sighs, and his eyes glitter very faintly with the light of the distant stars. “The drawback of living in Darktown is you never really get to see the sky.”

“That’s the only drawback?” Fenris had asked, flatly, and Anders had sighed. 

“Do you really not think they’re beautiful?” He gestured at the glittering, distant carpet of bright diamonds tossed across the arc of the sky, wreathed by golden dust in a great arm that bisected the horizon. 

Fenris stared for a moment, and then looked down at the gauntlets on his hands. “I think they are cold, and far away, and lifeless.”

Anders tsked and shifted. The whisper of his bedroll was loud in the quiet of their camp as he rolled to face him. For some reason, he was smiling. “But that’s the beauty of them, isn’t it? They’ve been here for ages, seen a thousand, thousand lifetimes. You and me, we’re just dust to them. They were here before us, and they’ll be here after, and new people will look on them with new eyes, in another time.”

“That seems fatalistic.”

“It’s not.” Anders rolled onto his back, and stared up at the stars, folding his arms behind his head. “There’s a comfort in knowing how small we are, in the context of the universe. It doesn’t care about us. It just exists.”

Fenris sighed, and shifted his weight on the log on which he sat. “If only we were blessed with such luxury.”

Anders huffed, and his laughter was quiet and easy. “Now you’re getting it.”)

In the present, Fenris folds to sit on the floor, and drinks, and cranes his head to stare up at the stars. He feels a little of his worry ease. They were here before us, and they’ll be here after, and new people will look on them with new eyes, in another time. Fenris shuts his eyes, and breathes. 

There’s a knock on his door. 

Fenris frowns. Hawke doesn’t knock, and the sound is too light for it to be another of his regular companions. With an effort, he makes his way to his feet, and thinks not for the first time longingly of the potions that Anders had been providing to him before his capture. The lyrium on his body squeezes and burns, and he sighs against the pain of it as it stabs its way up into the bones of his wrists. 

Leo is standing outside in the dark, holding a lantern. He looks frightened and determined. He should certainly not be outside alone on the streets of Kirkwall at night. Fenris steps back, and gestures for the boy to come inside, glancing up and down the street before shutting the door behind him whilst Leo stares open mouthed at the sweeping luxury of Danarius’ mansion. 

“What are you doing here?” Fenris still has the wine bottle in one hand. He wonders whether he should put it down, and considers the fact that Leo lives in Darktown. He has, undoubtedly, seen far worse. Fenris drinks, and the rich warmth of the wine spreads through his chest and settles in his belly. 

Cautiously, Leo sets his lantern down on a polished mahogany table. “I wanted to ask about the healer. It’s been ten days. I’m twelve years old, I’m not a kid,” Fenris says nothing, “I need to know. Did they - have they - is he,” Leo stops, and swallows. His lower lip trembles. Fenris drinks more wine. Leo takes a huge, damp breath and looks up at him with shining eyes. “Did they make him Tranquil?”

Fenris sighs, and leans back against the closest wall. The light of Leo’s lantern sends shadows jumping across the walls. “I don’t know.”

Leo sighs, and his narrow shoulders drop. When he looks at Fenris, his eyes are fierce. “You’ll tell us, if you learn something.” It’s not really a question. Fenris raises an eyebrow. Leo doesn’t back down. “Darktown’s angry. Vennah’s told everyone what happened. Roger Templeton near went up into that blighted courtyard himself, but Caroline Baker stopped him.” Leo scowls at the reflection of his lantern’s flame on the polished wood of the table. “Not like we could do anything about it. Sally and Polly-Anne have been running the clinic.” 

Leo hugs himself. There are smudges of dirt and small blue and purple bruises scattered across his arms. “I think Sally feels guilty, even though no one blames her, obviously. But it’s not the same. Tahel from the alienage came down with some kind of infection in his leg and if the healer was there he could’ve fixed it but they ended up having to, to, chop it off. He doesn’t know how he’s gonna work now. He’s in a bad way. And Briawen’s been trying to make him feel better, she’s visiting him up there every couple of days, but,” Leo sniffs, and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. He shrugs, and it’s a quick, sharp, unsteady thing. “We need him.”

Fenris resists the urge to be cruel, or callous, or more honest than he needs to be. Instead he asks, “How is your sister?”

“Nancy’s alright. Sally’s been letting us stay with her, which is good. She’s too little to really understand any of this, truly.” Leo sniffs again. He looks dangerously close to the edge of tears. Fenris shifts uncomfortably.

“How did you meet him?”

Leo blinks and looks up at him. “The healer?” Fenris nods, and Leo brightens a little before his face darkens. “There’d been some templars in the Undercity, and I was, sort of, panicking? I’d get these, dizzy spells. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see straight.” Leo frowns. “Even the sound of them. It was like it did something to my head. And all I could see was their armour and those big swords and then suddenly the healer was there. And he was all kind and gentle and talking slowly. He asked me if I was alright and I told him it’d been like that ever since templars had taken my ma.” Leo sniffs, a great wet thing. “She was a mage and they found her a year back. She didn’t try to fight them or use magic or anything.” Leo scowls. “But they, they hurt her. And me and my sister were crying and there was so much blood.” Leo’s voice is getting high and thick and Fenris moves before he thinks, putting one hand on the child’s shoulder and squeezing it firmly.

“You do not need to tell me this.”

Leo shudders, and shuts his eyes, skinny chest swelling and deflating with deep, even breaths. Fenris watches for a moment, until he’s fairly certain they’re safe from imminent weeping, and lets go of him. Leo takes another deep breath and opens his eyes. “We were on the street, after that. I tried to get what food I could, for Nancy, but no one really wanted to help us. I went to the Chantry to ask for it but the sisters told me to leave.” He scowled. “They thought I meant to steal from them, as if I would ever steal from a church!” He stops, and glances up at Fenris and clears his throat. “Anyway. Every time the templars came through my head would get all confused and I’d get panicky, till the healer found me. He told me this way to breathe.” Leo sucks in a slow, even breath demonstratively, and lets it out again. “And count in my head. And it helped. And after that he’d always stop by, and he’d give us food, and when Nancy got sick he made her better. He’d let us come and sit in the clinic if we were scared, even if we didn’t need healing. He told me about magic, and his adventures.” Leo’s eyes get big and he grins with all the grisly delight of a twelve year old boy. “Did you know he was a Grey Warden?”

Fenris hums and nods, suppressing a smile. “I did.”

“How did you meet him, Messere Elf?” Leo’s still smiling. There’s a new tooth poking its way out of one of the several gaps in his gums. Fenris shifts against the wall, making himself comfortable. 

“You’ve met my companion, Hawke?” Leo nods vigorously. “And you’ve heard of Varric Tethras?” Leo’s eyes get huge. Fenris allows himself a small smile. “Varric’s brother wished to embark on an expedition into the Deep Roads. And Hawke had heard rumours of a Darktown healer who had once been a Grey Warden.”

“What do you mean you can’t guarantee they’ll do it?” Hawke’s irritation is restrained in only the loosest sense of the word. Fenris adjusts his weight, and wonders exactly what will happen if they have to battle their way out of the Viscount’s Keep. “I was under the impression that your office was independent of the Chantry.”

Viscount Dumar pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was appointed by Knight-Commander Meredith. It is the proclamation of Grand Cleric Elthina that the Chantry is neutral in situations of political conflict. It was Grand Cleric Elthina who sentenced my predecessor to a lifetime imprisonment.” Dumar waves his hand, and it glitters with dull silver rings. “Make of that what you will, serah.” Hawke bristles at the diminutive term, but bites her tongue. 

Outside the Viscount’s office, there’s the distant hushed sound of voices: aristocrats, guards, and occasionally complainants from the city at large. Outside the Viscount’s window, the sun beats down bright and glaring over the rooftops of Kirkwall. 

Hawke frowns. “Then Elthina’s in charge. Not you.”

Dumar sighs, wearily. “So one might assume. And yet it seems that I am burdened with the responsibility of dealing with the blighted Qunari.” He spreads his arms wide. “I make a convenient scapegoat, do I not?”

None of them say anything. He does. After a moment, Dumar lowers his arms and turns away, looking out over the city. “Do you have any news on the missing patrol?”

Hawke’s hand tightens around the sealed scroll of parchment in her hand. “Not yet. Something came up.”

Dumar turns, and his eyes rest meaningfully on the object in her hand. “I’m sure. Well, I hope this mage means as much to you as your city.” Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris catches the flash of frustration on Hawke’s face.  

“I will see the matter dealt with, messere.” Her jaw tightens. “I have no interest in seeing bloodshed on the streets of Kirkwall.” And then, because apparently even the Viscount of Kirkwall cannot inspire any real sense of propriety in Marian Hawke, she adds, “Well, no more than usual.”

Next to her, Varric chuckles. Viscount Dumar frowns. “If that is all?”

Hawke ducks her head and gives him a lackadaisical, two fingered salute. “Go get rid of your extremists. Got it.” She turns to go, and stops in the doorway, glancing back at Dumar with a rare breath of real sincerity. “Thanks for this. You’re a good man.” Fenris isn’t sure if Dumar is meant to hear what she adds next, as she leaves, glancing down at the parchment in her hand. “Too bad you can’t do anything about it.”

Chapter Text

On the fifteenth day, a templar opens the door to his cell. Anders’ magic is almost entirely returned to him, no longer being leeched steadily by magebane. His mouth tastes of sleep and dust, but it’s far, far better than the lingering smell of liquorice. And with Justice back he is, at least, no longer alone. All in all, he feels far more like himself than he has since before he arrived in this blighted place. So when he sees the templar without her helmet and recognises her as Corporal Seerah, the same woman who’d beaten him when he’d been arrested, he doesn’t hesitate. He grins. “Good morning, messere! It’s a beautiful day. Well, I’m making that assumption, obviously.” He gestures at the blank grey walls of his cell. “But it is Kirkwall, so I’m pretty sure it’s sunny.” 

The smell of soup is filling his nose and mouth. The stuff is cold, and an unappealing grey-green in a wooden bowl. Seerah is holding a wooden spoon in one gauntleted hand. Anders tries very hard not to stare. It’s never a good idea to let a templar know what you want. Seerah steps inside as if to give it to him, and then twists, pouring the soup over his head. Slow with hunger and weak with the lingering effects of magebane and his injuries, Anders barely has a moment to react. The soup drips, lukewarm, over his head and down his face. Justice blazes to life in his chest and Anders shuts his eyes and concentrates hard on pushing the spirit down as Seerah laughs. 

“Enjoy your meal, mage.” 

She slams the door behind her, and Anders hates the fact that he flinches. For a few moments, he just sits and lets himself breathe. Then he sucks the soup from his fingers. It’s as disgusting as he’d expected it to be, but his mouth waters all the same at any food at all. Once he’s salvaged what he can from his hands and wrists, he pulls the sheet from his bed and uses it to scrub his face and head, carefully dampening it with a little of the water in his jug and scrubbing till his skin is sore. He tries to ignore the way his hands are shaking. When he’s done, and clean, he bundles the sheet into a ball and shoves it under the narrow gap beneath the bed. He tries hard not to think about the fact that he is meant to go free today. But as the day wears on and nothing happens, he feels the shivering approach of old demons gnawing at his mind. 

(They were supposed to let him go yesterday. They’ve never kept a mage in solitary confinement for this long. It had been three weeks. Why hadn’t anyone come for him? What if they left him down here forever? What if he died in this place, alone in the dark? It’s happened before, bodies pulled up the stairs to be burned in the courtyard. Anders imagines his own corpse, cold and stinking, wrapped in old cloth. )

I am with you, Anders.

Anders can feel Justice’s anger, blistering cold as a blizzard. He shuts his eyes, and smacks his lips, and tastes cold soup and his own sweat. Thanks Justice.

The next day, Knight-Captain Cullen appears at his door. “Sorry about that, it looks like Knight-Corporal Seerah didn’t get her orders. You should have been let go yesterday.” He has a bowl of soup in his hands. This one is steaming, and it’s more green than grey. Anders’ mouth waters. Cullen’s expression softens into something Anders would call kindness, if he hadn’t known the man stand and watch while he was flogged. “Eat this. I’ll escort you myself.”

Anders takes the bowl and tentatively spoons some of the thin liquid into his mouth. It tastes of salt and water and that hardly matters. He finishes the bowl in a matter of moments, and when he’s done his stomach rumbles. 

Cullen chuckles. “Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from. Though I’d advise you stick to liquids for the next few days.” Anders resists the urge to point out that he’s a healer. Apparently Cullen wishes to labour under the assumption that he’s a Good Templar. Fine. He can use that. 

Satisfied that he’s scraped every last dreg of soup from the ball in his hands, Anders takes a deep breath and gets to his feet. “I’m ready.”

Cullen nods, and fishes a key from his belt, bending to unlock the cuff around Anders’ ankle that’s being keeping him chained to the wall. There’s a crust of dried blood around the iron now, and the skin around his leg is livid and sore with cuts and growing infection. On his worse days, Anders had pulled at his leg until his ankle bled. The pain barely registers now. 

Anders stares at Cullen’s bent back, and briefly indulges in a fantasy of grabbing his head and slamming it into the wooden bed, knocking him out before he turned and ran into the corridor. He’d make it about a hundred metres, but Andraste’s tits it would be funny. 

The chain unlocks with a click and Anders moves, feeling the ability to move more than a few feet away from the wall with a relief that settles deep in the base of his spine. Cullen stands and straightens, hooking the keys back onto his belt. Anders stares at them, trying to memorise their shapes, more out of habit than anything else. One of Cullen’s gauntleted hands grips Anders’ arm, tightly, and Anders tries to ignore the nausea rolling in his gut as he’s pulled into the corridor. This is fine. He can handle this.

Cullen escorts him down a long, dark hall, towards a staircase that’s almost burning with sunlight. Anders blinks and Cullen pauses. “You might want to shut your eyes, they’ll need some to adjust.” 

Anders is staring at the stairs. “Thanks, but no.” He hesitates, feeling the hand around his arm tighten. “If that’s alright?”

Cullen shrugs, and the scrape of his armour grates on Anders’ nerves. “Your problem, not mine.” 

Cullen pulls him up the stairs, and all at once Anders feels the sun on his face. He blinks rapidly, eyes burning as they water in the sudden light. He doesn’t care. When his vision stops swimming, finally, finally he can see the sky. His breath shudders as it leaves his chest. Cullen doesn’t stop walking. It’s far, far too soon when they reach the shadow of the next building, and then Cullen is opening a heavy wooden door and Anders is back inside again. He grits his teeth, and resists the almost physical need to turn and look back over his shoulder. 

This new building is more familiar. It’s not the same as Kinloch Hold, but it’s similar enough: tall ceilings, as if to offer some half-hearted concession to the imitation of freedom, and wide square pillars. Anders can hear voices: high and young, soft and older, and the gentle hush of unarmoured footsteps. He can smell the books and the dust. It’s just another prison, but it’s far better than his cell. Best of all is the familiar wash and tingle of magic, weaving brightly through the air with so many mages in one place. Anders feels the electric kiss of it wash over his head and down his spine. There are very, very few things he’d missed about the Circle. But Maker, he’d missed this. 

Cullen keeps walking, and Anders grins at a gaggle of apprentices as they stare at him from their desk, covered with crumpled parchment and heavy books. One of the books is upside down. They turn right, and then left, going up a narrow staircase. At the top, an elvhen woman in the robe of a Senior Enchanter steps aside with her head bowed, but Anders sees the curiosity in her eyes and feels the quiet power of her magic, like fresh snowfall. He nods at her. Cullen tugs him on, until eventually they reach the fourth of six identical corridors, mirroring another six on the other side of the hall. Cullen turns left at the first room (cell) and takes the keys from his belt again. Anders wishes, not for the first time, that he was anywhere near as good at pickpocketing as Hawke. Cullen unlocks the door: revealing a small, spartan room with a bed, a chest, a desk and a wash basin. There’s even a window: albeit one covered in iron bars, and looking out at another of the Gallows’ great stone towers. But if he gets close and tilts his head, Anders can make out the sky. It’s bigger than his quarters in Darktown. His chest aches for them. 

Cullen puts the key back onto his belt and finally lets go of his arm. Anders resists the urge to rub away the feeling of his grip, and glances at the keys. “Do I get one of those?”

Cullen’s expression hardens. “Do you have something to hide?”

Anders ignores the stupid, sudden racing of his heart and holds up his hands, palms forward. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Knight-Captain.” 

Cullen nods, once. “Make yourself comfortable. Dinner is at the nineteenth bell. You will commence your duties in the infirmary tomorrow, but First Enchanter Orsino has requested your presence first thing so that he can formally assign you the appropriate position.”

Anders nods, and offers a two-fingered salute. “Ser, yes ser.”

Cullen’s eyes narrow. Anders can practically taste the lyrium on his breath. He can see the textbook in his mind. Common adverse effects of ingestion over a long period: paranoia, obsession, and dementia. Side effects may also include memory loss. Cullen’s voice is very cold when he asks, calmly, “Are you mocking me?”

Anders’ heart finds its way into his throat, and he glances at the sword on Cullen’s back. He forces himself to look down at the floor. “No, messere. I’m sorry, messere.”

There’s a sudden movement of metal and Anders feels himself flinch and hates himself for it. Cullen is far too close. Anders can taste the metal sting of lyrium on his tongue. “I do not tolerate bad behaviour here, apostate. Whatever life you lived before? Forget it. You answer to me now. You answer to Andraste. And we will not tolerate disobedience. Do I make myself clear?”

Anders tries very, very hard not to curl his fists at his sides. He can feel magic crackling under his skin, and he doesn’t think he can blame it on Justice this time. He stares at the ground. “Yes, messere. It won’t happen again.”

Cullen stands there for a moment longer, and Anders’ body prickles at his proximity, bracing itself for any number of blows. Then Cullen pulls back. “Good.” He wrinkles his nose. “And take a wash. You smell.” With that, he leaves. 

For a long moment, Anders stares at the closed door and listens to the roaring of his blood in his ears. Then he whirls and punches the wall, hard, hand wreathed in fire. For a moment he stands there, the impact of it rocking back up through his arm as he breathes heavily and the flames flicker and die on his skin. Then he pulls back, and passes a hand over his bruising knuckles. We can do this.

Justice’s voice is a disapproving rumble at the back of his head.

I do not like that man.

Anders snorts, and moves to the wash basin beside the bed. That makes two of us.

As he waits politely for the First Enchanter to be ready for him, Anders wonders whether Orsino ever actually leaves his office. He hadn’t seen him in the canteen at dinner or at breakfast this morning. There was an apple core on the edge of his desk, and several empty clay cups hidden amidst stacks of letters and half finished manuscripts. The elf doesn’t look like he’s had a good night’s sleep in years. Then again, that’s hardly surprising. When it becomes clear that Orsino is not going to notice his presence unaided, Anders clears his throat. Orsino startles and looks up, frowning. The frown only eases a little when he sees who’s waiting in his doorway.

“Right. The new apostate. Come in.” Anders does, and Orsino glances up at the templar behind his shoulder.

“You can leave us, Miranda.” The templar nods, and shuts the door behind her. Anders feels a little of the tension ease from his shoulders, and when he looks back up at Orsino, the elf’s expression is a knowing one. 

“Take a seat.” He pauses, frowning at the high backed chair opposite his desk. “How are your injuries? Would you prefer a stool?”

Anders sits gingerly on the edge of the seat provided, and resists the urge to read the stacked documents on Orsino’s desk. “No, thank you First Enchanter. It’s fine.”

Orsino nods and sits back, steepling his fingers. “I suppose even a thing like that is of little consequence to a Grey Warden.” Anders blinks, and Orsino offers him a small, tight smile. “There is only one mortal creature that bleeds so slowly. Unfortunately your desertion of their cause has not left them much enamoured of you.” He picks up a heavy sheaf of paper. “They will not help you now.” Anders recognises the grey broken seal on its edges.

“You wrote to the Warden-Constable?” He doesn’t manage to hide the incredulity in his voice. 

Orsino sighs. “I did. But it seems you are stuck here, for the time being.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “Stuck here? Aren’t you supposed to be an advocate of the Circle, First Enchanter?”

Orsino carefully puts the paper back down on his desk and leans back in his chair. “When it functions, certainly, but…” He trails off. “Besides, I have a suspicion that you are going to be more trouble than you’re worth.” There is a very subtle note of humour in his voice. Anders grins and spreads his hand wide.

“Me? Spirit Healer and former Grey Warden, roguish apostate and Darktown healer? How much trouble could I possibly be?”

The corner of Orsino’s mouth curls into a smile. It occurs to Anders that he really isn’t bad looking. If he weren’t First Enchanter, he’d almost be handsome. But then Orsino sits forward, and slips another piece of paper from his stack. This one bears a red seal. “I also used your phylactery to discover a little more of your identity, Anders.” He pauses. “I pity your previous First Enchanter.”

Anders shrugs, and ignores the fluttering of nerves rolling his stomach. “Irving needed me to keep his life interesting.”

Orsino looks at him and raises an eyebrow. Anders grins, and Orsino sighs, not quite hiding his chuckle as he does so. Then he passes a hand over his face, and looks away from Anders, to the papers on his desk. “I understand that you were kept in solitary confinement for a substantial period of time.” Anders swallows against the sudden, aching pain in his throat. Orsino’s mouth tightens. “I apologise for suggesting it. I would not have done so, had I known.” Orsino looks up at him, and his expression is tired and scarred with old pain. “Such things can have an...effect...on the mind. I understand that you are a competent healer, I’m sure I don’t need to explain. Should you ever need to talk about such things, you may do so with me, or any of my Senior Enchanters. I trust them to act with the utmost discretion.”

Anders blinks, and tries to ignore the burning behind his eyes. He clears his throat. “Right. Thanks. That, ah, won’t be necessary. But I appreciate it.”

Orsino inclines his head. “It is at your discretion. In the meantime, I will do what I can to prevent such measures being used against you in future due to your,” he hesitates, and huffs, before settling on, “extenuating circumstances.” He sits up, and sets the letter aside. “Of course, I would appreciate it if you did nothing to demand such punishment. I prefer my Enchanters whole and healthy.”

Anders raises his eyebrows. “You’re making me an Enchanter?”

Orsino smiles a little. “You’re a little old for an apprentice. And altogether too competent. You’ll be working with Senior Enchanter Iolva. I believe you’ve already met.” Anders thinks of the elvhen woman. He blinks.

“Do you have eyes everywhere?”

“It is my Circle. It’s my business to know what occurs within its walls.” Orsino huffs, though he’s still smiling. “And it’s not often Iolva gets to meet a Spirit Healer. Prepare yourself for a detailed and thorough interrogation.”

Anders snorts, and relishes the faint thrill of excitement that runs through him. It isn’t often  that he gets to speak about his magic, and almost never that he gets to talk about it with someone who understands what he’s saying. He hasn’t been able to properly debate magical theory since Karl - his train of thought comes to a grinding halt. 

Apparently Orsino sees something in his expression, because his smile falls and when he speaks he does so softly. “I...think perhaps you already know. But there was an Enchanter transferred here from Ferelden, Karl Thekla. I believe you knew him.” Orsino hesitates. “He was killed some years ago.” Anders thinks he can still feel the warmth of Karl’s blood on his hands. He shudders. 

Orsino stands, and Anders braces himself, and then tries to ignore the way Orsino looks at him with both recognition and understanding. Instead, Orsino sets a kettle full of water over his fire, and moves to a tall oak cupboard, getting out a pair of cups. “Would you like some tea?”

Anders breathes, and smells peppermint. He thinks about going back outside: feeling the gaze of the templars on his shoulders, trying not to jump at every corner. He looks around Orsino’s office, at the tall shelves stuffed with books, and listens to the soft crackle of the fire. He clears his throat. “Yes, please.”

They spend the rest of the morning discussing the finer points of magical theory around Spirit Healing and its capabilities. Anders doubts he tells Orsino anything he doesn’t already know, the elf answers too quickly and too easily to ever seem really challenged, even when Anders introduces more advanced concepts and things he’d learned after his escape from Kinloch Hold, more out of curiosity than anything. But Orsino humours him, and the tea is hot and sweet, and by the time they reach midday, Anders realises he hasn’t felt afraid for the first time since he’d got here. 

They’re interrupted by a light knock on the door, and then a man with dark skin and a fine beard wearing the robes of a Senior Enchanter comes in. When he speaks, he does so with a light Orlesian accent. “Sorry to interrupt, First Enchanter.” The man glances at Anders curiously before turning back to Orsino. “You’re needed at the gymnasium.” Orsino sighs and gets to his feet.

“Very well. Anders, I believe Iolva will be waiting for you.” He inclines his head. “Thank you for your company. I really must read more about Spirit Healing.” The Senior Enchanter raises his eyebrows, and Anders gets a little stiffly to his feet, ignoring the man’s look of sympathy when his robes slip and reveal the thick bandages wrapped around his torso.

Orsino picks up his staff: a beautiful thing, of three twisting dragon heads carved out of black wood, and pauses between them. “Right, Anders - this is Philippe Dubois. He’s one of our Senior Enchanters, he specialises in Entropic Magic. Philippe, this is Anders, our newest Enchanter and a Spirit Healer.” Orsino straightens his robes and looks between them expectantly. “Well, shall we?”

Anders likes Iolva. He’d guessed he would when he first felt her magic. She’s clever, witty, unafraid to speak her mind and a damn good healer. He spends the rest of the afternoon not happy, exactly, but something approaching contented - shadowing Iolva as she shows him how she runs her infirmary and asks him more questions more quickly than anyone has ever asked him in his life about Spirit Healing and its applications. The clinic is well stocked: more than once Anders finds himself looking longingly at their neat locked cabinet of Ambrosia and piles of clean, bright white bandages. With supplies like this he could have run a real operation, instead of salvaging what he could and praying it was enough. Well stocked as it is, Anders tries not to resent the fact that the infirmary remains almost empty as the day wears on.

Iolva, apparently, has no such qualms. She gestures, briskly, to the empty beds - and they are beds, not cots - before tucking a strand of flint grey hair behind one pointed ear. “Look at this. You were an apostate,” Anders blinks. There are Circle mages who will barely breathe the word, as if the term itself is somehow infectious. Iolva does not seem to have this problem, “you’ve seen the Undercity, yes? I heard you ran a clinic there.” Anders nods, and she continues, “Then you know how many need our help. How many could use the assistance of magical healing? Think of the rates of infection. Disease! Think how many lives could be saved if we were only allowed to use our Creator-given,” she pauses, glances at the templar standing by the door and rolls her eyes, “ Maker-given gifts to help these people. It would be good for all of Kirkwall. Instead I stand here like a, like a, what is it you say in Common? The yellow fruit that pinches your cheeks.” 

Anders grins a little. “Lemon?”

Iolva thrusts her finger into the air with a sudden flourish. “A lemon, yes. I was the most skilled healer my clan had ever seen. Now what do I do? Fold bandages.” She snorts. Anders clears his throat, folding the soft gauze beside her. 

“It’s been a long time since I read any magical theory, and I know almost nothing about it from an elvhen perspective.” He’d attempted to engage Merrill on the subject once or twice, but she wasn’t interested in healing magic, and all too often they were derailed by their profoundly different perspectives on the Fade and its denizens.  

Iolva chuckles. “Not many books about it on the outside? This is a surprise.” She grins with her sarcasm, and tucks the bandages onto a pile in a nearby cupboard. 

“Could you teach me? I’d like to know more about Creation magic.” 

Iolva grins widely, and the tattoos on her cheeks wrinkle with her smile. “Spirit Healer! Of course. Your lesson has already begun.”

Anders is sitting in the canteen trying to find the energy to eat his soup when a templar heads straight for his table. He feels more than sees the mages around him shrink back, and forces himself to lift his chin as he sets down his spoon. This is another one of the people who’d taken him in, a member of the Darktown patrol. Marcus. Anders is beginning to get the impression that this particular patrol has it out for him. He can’t imagine why.

Anders meets Marcus’ eyes, and tries not to think of his fist breaking his nose, and then hitting him again when he didn’t scream. He’s not going to do anything here, not during a meal, not with every Senior Enchanter (and even Orsino himself for once) at the head table, watching. Anders glances up and sees the First Enchanter looking at Marcus with narrowed eyes. He probably won’t do anything. 

“You’ve got guests, apostate.”

Anders blinks, but there’s already a hand on his arm, pulling him roughly to his feet, and he barely manages to avoid spilling his soup as he trips over the wooden bench. At the head table, he sees Orsino get to his feet. A handful of mages on nearby tables are staring. The rest are fixedly bowing their heads, looking at their food. 

“Right, ok! I’m coming!” 

Marcus doesn’t respond, he just starts to drag Anders out of the hall. When they get to the door, Orsino intercepts them. “What is the meaning of this, serah?” Orsino’s voice is cold and calm. Anders resists the urge to cling to it like a child to his mother’s skirts.

Marcus shifts, letting Anders stand a little more steadily on his own two feet. “Knight-Commander Meredith wants to see him. Apparently he’s got visitors. From the Viscount, no less.” Orsino raises his eyebrows and glances at Anders. Anders tries to convey something of his confusion, although he has a creeping suspicion he knows what this is about. After all, Hawke had stuck up something of a mercenary relationship with Dumar ever since that incident with his son - Anders crushes the hope before it can turn into a fully fledged thought. He’d only regret it later, if it wasn’t her.

Orsino steps back. “Very well. But next time, I expect to be informed before my Enchanters are manhandled out of the dining hall, serah.”

Marcus gives Orsino a toothy grin and Orsino meets it coldly. “Won’t happen again, messere.” Anders doesn’t need to be Varric Tethras to know the man is lying. He feels Orsino’s gaze move to him, and catches a brief flicker of concern. Then Marcus drags him away. 

He’s taken to Knight Commander Meredith’s office. Anders is trying very hard to suppress the memory of the last time he’d stood here when he hears a familiar voice and his knees go weak with relief. He’s almost glad for Marcus’ bruising, numbing grip on his arm. Almost.

Marcus knocks on the door, and Meredith answers. “Come in.”

Marcus opens the door. Anders stares. Hawke is standing in front of Meredith, the sharp line of her jaw tight with barely restrained anger. Next to her is her mabari, its ears pressed flat against its head. Behind her is Isabela, arms loose and lips pursed. With them: handsome and ethereal and looking like he hasn’t slept for a month, is Fenris. Anders meets his eyes, and something catches in his chest like a fish hook, dragging its way up into his throat. Fenris’ eyes shift to the hand on Anders’ arm, and flicker to the bandages over his shoulders. Anders tries to offer him a smile, and gives them all a small wave. “Hey guys.”

Meredith glares at him. “I did not give you permission to speak, apostate.”

Anders thinks he can almost hear Hawke’s teeth grinding. Meredith gestures, briskly, into the space between them. Anders cannot shake the vision of a hostage situation out of his head. “Well. Say your piece.”

Hawke frowns. “Do you intend to stay and watch, Knight-Commander?”

Meredith folds her arms. “Is there a reason you wish to speak with a recently arrested apostate in private, serah?”

Hawke rolls her eyes. “A woman has needs. Surely you can understand that.” Meredith scowls. Hawke scowls back, and turns to Anders. “Alright, fine. Anders: my cunt has been aching for you ever since I last saw you, and all I want is to feel your hot, hard -”

“What are you doing?” Meredith’s voice is cold with anger. Anders is trying very, very hard not to laugh. Behind Hawke, Isabela is having significantly less success. 

“I’m trying to sex talk my lover, since apparently you won’t let us send letters. It’s kind of kinky that you want to stay for this, actually.” Hawke grins, and Meredith scowls, but there’s the faintest flush on her cheeks.

“This is a ploy. Your companions are still here. Your attempt at subterfuge only makes you more suspicious.” Meredith’s words are almost shaking with the force of her anger. 

Hawke rolls her eyes and gestures at Fenris and Isabela. “A weird elf and a Rivaini pirate. Do you think I keep them around for how easily they fit in? I have many needs, and my companions help fulfill them. Right, guys?” Anders thinks he sees the corner of Fenris’ mouth twitch into a smile. Isabela steps forward and drapes herself over Hawke’s shoulders, licking a long stripe up her cheek and sucking on her earlobe before making direct eye contact with Meredith.

“Think of us like a harem.”

The faint pink flush on Meredith’s cheeks turns red, though whether it’s with anger or arousal Anders can’t tell. He suspects the two are all but one and the same, in Meredith’s case. She scowls. “Fine. Go and engage in your filth elsewhere. But you are not to perform any sexual activities or I will have him flogged, am I understood?”

Anders catches another flash of anger under the humour in Hawke’s expression, but she sighs and waves her hand. “Oh, don’t go giving me ideas.”  

Meredith narrows her eyes. “The Viscount will be hearing about this. I do not expect him to waste my time with such frivolities.” She turns to Marcus, and it’s only now that Anders notices the heat of the man at his back, and the heavy weight of his breathing. Anders wants to throw up. “Marcus, escort them to the third room down the hall and fetch them in an hour. You have better things to do with your time than watch a handful of fools fondling one another.”

Marcus clears his throat. “But, Knight-Commander -”

Meredith’s eyes flash. “Are you questioning my authority, serah?”

Marcus’ grip slackens on Anders’ arm. “No, messere.”

Anders is briskly escorted out of Meredith’s office, and down the hall. Marcus shoves him into the empty room, hard enough to make him trip. He would have fallen flat on his face, were it not for Fenris, suddenly, gently catching the arm that Marcus hadn’t been bruising. Behind him, he watches as Hawke slams her armoured shoulder into Marcus, hard. “Oops, sorry. Didn’t see you there.” Her mabari snarls at the templar, and he flinches back.

Marcus steps forward, and Isabela gets up into his face. “Say, what happens if you do question your Knight-Commander’s authority? Does she spank you? Or just keep you off your lyrium?” Marcus scowls. But he gets the message and backs down, slamming the door behind him. Isabela snorts. 

Then suddenly Hawke is hugging him. Anders hisses as the movement pulls at the wounds on his back, setting them on fire like flint on stone, and Hawke loosens her grip immediately. Anders feels the moment Fenris lets go of him like a string, snapping. Hawke looks at him and makes no effort to hide her worry. “What have they done to you?”

Anders shrugs, and ignores the way the movement pulls on his split skin. “Nothing I didn’t expect.” He tries to keep the accusation out of his voice. He’d told them all about the horrors of the Circle a thousand times. They could hardly be surprised by them now. Instead, he smiles. “Wait, you’re not going to tell me about your aching cunt?”

Hawke laughs, and it’s bright and wild, and Anders feels some of the tension that had been coiling around his chest disappear. “Did you see her face?”

Anders grins. “Too bad you didn’t give her an aneurysm.”

Hawke hums. “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

Anders’ smile falls. “Next time?” But he’s already kicking himself. Of course. Of course she isn’t getting him out. Even Marian Hawke can’t take on every templar in Kirkwall. And whilst Dumar might be able to get her a visit with him, the man had been appointed by Meredith, for the Maker’s sake. It isn’t like he can go around freeing mages. 

Isabela steps forward. “We’re doing everything we can, sweet thing. We’re going to get you out of here.” The words sound like a promise. Anders tries to believe them.

“Just not today.” He tries not to sound bitter. He thinks about cold soup dripping down his face, and hands on his arms, the bite of hunger and the sting of the whip. 

“Not today.” Fenris says, softly. “You’ve lost weight.” There’s a faint air of disapproval in his voice, and Anders almost laughs. 

“No food for a fortnight. Though, fifteen days as it turns out. Still getting used to solids again.” Fenris nods. He looks neither shocked nor surprised. Anders guesses things like this were common enough in Tevinter. These and worse. 

Fenris’ gaze moves to the bandages on his back. “You were flogged?” The words are tight, almost clinically detached. Anders looks away.

“Forty lashes. Well, sixty. Got twenty more for refusing to repent.”

“ Kaffas. ” Fenris hisses. “Are you trying to make them kill you?” The anger doesn’t quite drown out the worry in his voice.  Anders’ mouth twists in a small, irritated shrug. 

“They’re not going to kill me. Or make me Tranquil, apparently. I told you. Spirit Healing is a rare ability. They won’t waste that if they can help it. They just come up with,” (he’s been in the dark so long he doesn’t think he remembers what the sun looks like), “creative punishments.”

Hawke frowns. “Do they know about your metaphysical bunkmate?”

Anders shakes his head. “No.” He tilts his head. “They probably would have killed me by now, if they did.”

“ Fasta vass. ” Anders looks up at Fenris, who’s pacing back and forth in the small stor room in which they stand. He turns, suddenly to Hawke. “We must take him, now.”

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “And put ourselves at the top of Meredith’s most-wanted list? If we survive armed combat with,” she pauses and glances at Isabela, “I counted twenty-six of them in the courtyard. You?”

Isabela frowns. “Thirty-two.” She sighs, and it’s short and irritated as she folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t fancy our chances.”

Hawke blinks. “Damn. Where were they hiding? This is like Where’s the Warden all over again.” She frowns and shakes her head. “Ok, not the point. Anders, we’re doing what we can. Trust me. I don’t want you here any longer than you have to be.”

Anders swallows the thick, painful lump in his throat. “I know.” He forces himself to look at Fenris. “I’ll be fine.”

Fenris scowls. “Don’t lie, mage.” Anders flinches at the word, and Fenris’ expression slackens briefly in something that could be surprise, or guilt, or both.

Hawke looks at Isabela. “How long have we got?” 

Isabela glances up at the window. She’d always been the best of them at tracking time. “Half an hour, I’d say?” Hawke nods, and steps forward, gingerly hugging Anders again before she cups his face in her hands. The leather on her palms is soft, and her fingers are warm and rough with callouses. Anders shuts his eyes, and for a moment just relishes the feeling of her, close and strong and caring. Then Hawke presses a quick, firm kiss to his forehead, pulling back for a moment to press their heads together. Her breath tickles his chin. 

“I will not abandon you. I swear it.” Hawke’s eyes are blazing and blue. Anders has seen this woman emerge from the Deep Roads and fell a dragon. He believes her. He thinks she sees it in his eyes, because she relaxes even before he nods. Her thumb brushes his cheek. “Don’t go picking fights, alright? I don’t want anyone ruining that pretty face.”

Anders huffs a laugh, and leans into her touch. “I’ll do my best.”

Hawke smiles, and it’s gentle and sad. “That’s all I can ever ask for.” Then she steps back, moving to Isabela’s side. 

Isabela nods at him. “What she said.” Anders grins. 

Then Hawke turns to Fenris. “You’ve got twenty minutes. Do me a favour and try not to kill him.” Fenris stares at her. But before he can respond, both Hawke and Isabela are leaving and shutting the door behind them, Hawke’s mabari whining at Anders before it follows her. Anders watches them go, and feels an old, familiar ache open in his chest. 

“I,” Fenris starts, and stops, looking at the door with something like panic. “I didn’t ask her to do that.” 

Anders snorts. “Don’t worry Fenris, I wasn’t labouring under the impression that you actually cared for me.” He tries to hide the hurt in his voice, and isn’t sure how well he succeeds. Judging by the surprise on Fenris’ face, not well.

“No, I do.”

Anders blinks, and Fenris steps forward, and then with quick jerky movements he’s pulling the gauntlets off his hands and dropping them onto a crate. For a moment, he hovers over Anders’ arms, before gently resting to hold him just below his biceps, careful not to touch him where Marcus had less than an hour previous. Anders swallows, and feels something fluttering in his chest. “Uh, Fenris?”

Fenris steps closer, and his eyes are forest green and lovely. “I do care about you m-,” He stops, purses his lips and starts again. “Anders. I do care about you.” Anders shuts his eyes, as if that will do anything to stop the blood rising to his cheeks. Fenris’ voice is soft. “Say something?”

Anders keeps his eyes shut. “Hold me?”

He hears Fenris’ breath catch, and then warm, strong arms are wrapping around him, and pulling him into stiff leather armour. Anders bends around Fenris and presses his face into his shoulder. Fenris’ arms tighten around him, and for a moment Anders just holds him and feels the slow, steady movement of his breathing. Then, tentatively one of Fenris’ hands moves to Anders’ head. Anders shivers and Fenris stops. “Is this...may I do this?”

Anders nods, and his words are muffled by the warmth of Fenris’ neck and the strange tingle of the lyrium in his tattoos. “Please.” Fenris doesn’t need to be told twice. Slowly, carefully, he begins to run his fingers through Anders’ hair. Anders shuts his eyes, and thinks about being nineteen and lying with his head in Karl’s lap until he forgot the reason he’d been crying.

Fenris breaks the silence. “I will get you out of here. And I will kill them, for what they have done to you.” There’s barely any anger in it. Just simple, defiant certainty. Anders laughs, and pulls back, and Fenris’ eyes move to the tears on his cheeks. He brushes one away with a calloused thumb and Anders breathes in the smell of him, metal and leather and sweat and lyrium. 

“My hero.”

Fenris shakes his head, and gently strokes his cheek, fingers curled around his ear. “No. I am your equal.” Fenris’ gaze drops to his lips, and Anders catches his breath.

“Fenris.” He moves. He thinks Fenris does too.

“Oh, I just like them to have a bit of fun with each other, you know?” Hawke’s voice is sudden and loud and clearly a warning, and the two of them break apart a heartbeat before the door swings open and Marcus comes back inside, followed by Hawke and Isabela. 

“Time to go, mage.” He grabs Anders by his hair and Anders winces, even as Fenris lunges forward. There’s a blur of brown leather and a soft impact, and Anders opens his eyes to see Hawke with her arm in front of Fenris’ chest. Isabela raises her eyebrows at Marcus. There’s a knife in her hand, and Anders has no idea when she drew it. 

“Is that really necessary?”

Marcus glares at her. “You threatening me, whore?”

Anders wonders whether this man has any idea how quickly any one of them could kill him. Isabela doesn’t blink, she just prowls forward and puts her hand over Marcus’, the one he has in Anders’ hair. “Tell you what,” she gets up on her tiptoes, and this close she smells of roses and the sea. She sheaths her dagger and runs her hand over Marcus’ other arm as she pushes his hand out of Anders’ hair and repositions it on his arm. “This suits you much better, handsome.” Marcus stares at her, eyes wide and face red. Isabela settles back down on the ground and grins at him, cocking her hip. “Just as a favour. For me.” Marcus smiles, stupidly, eyes falling to her breasts. 

“Y-yeah.” He adjusts his grip on Anders’ arm. “For you.”

Isabela smiles at him. She has murder in her eyes. Anders hopes she makes it slow. “I’m very impressed.” She purrs. Marcus’ smile widens. 

“My name’s Marcus.” 

Isabela twirls a strand of thick, dark hair around her finger. “I’ll remember that.” Anders wonders whether Marcus can hear the threat in that promise. 

Then Marcus snaps out of it. “Come on. The Knight-Commander will have my head if we’re late.” He drags Anders out of the room. The last thing Anders sees of his friends is Fenris, eyes wide, expression caught somewhere between fury and grief. He tries to smile.

Then they’re gone, and he’s alone again.

Chapter Text

They let Anders into the courtyard a week later. Fenris almost doesn’t believe it when he sees a head of long copper and blonde hair, stubbornly free of any kind of hood or head covering. But then Anders’ eyes catch his, and he sees the mage smile - just briefly. Fenris is moving before he’s had a chance to think about it, crossing the great square of the courtyard and walking beneath the blazing sun. Behind him, he thinks he hears Adenek chuckle. 

Because Fenris is angry: every night he hasn’t dreamt of Anders Tranquil has been one in which he’s fantasised about wrenching the heart from that pig, Marcus’, chest. But he also can’t stop thinking about the moments before the templar had arrived, the feeling of Anders’ hair under his hands, the look in the mage’s eyes as he breathed Fenris’ name.

Fenris stops a foot away from the mage in question, who’s staring at him with wide eyes, and glances back at the templar over his shoulder. They’re nearly as tall as he is. “Is this a friend of yours?” The woman’s voice echoes against the hollow metal dome of her armour. Anders clears his throat and smooths out his robes. Fenris wonders what they did with his coat.

“Yes. One of my p - former patients.” Anders stumbles, corrects himself, and clears his throat again. Fenris thinks about a boy with a cut splitting his cheek like crushed berries, and a red-headed girl beating uselessly at an armoured hand, and a pretty child with a brand on her forehead. He steps back, and dips his head.

“Healer.”

He watches Anders’ shoulders drop a little. “Fenris.” 

Fenris wonders whether this templar can hear the warmth in Anders’ voice as he says his name. Fenris himself cannot stop rolling it around his head. Anders swallows, and wrings his hands.

“It...would be better, if we could have some privacy. My work is often deeply personal. I would not wish to break my patients’ trust.”

It’s impossible to guess at the expression beneath the impassive mask of the templar’s helmet. Fenris feels the sun beating down on the back of his head and the warm stone beneath his toes and waits, impatiently, for her answer. After a moment, there’s a squeak of metal as she inclines her head. “Very well.”

Anders lets out a heavy breath of air, and he bows his head. “Thank you, messere.” Fenris had mostly heard him use the term jokingly, before all this. He hates to see him say it now. 

But then Anders’ hand is on Fenris’ elbow, and there’s the faint thrill of his touch, sharp as electricity on his skin. Fenris lets himself be guided away, beneath the shadow of the stone canopy. It’s cooler here, and Fenris glances up to see Anders staring wistfully at the open steps and the city beyond them. He waits until Anders meets his eyes. “Say the word.”

The corners of Anders’ mouth turn up in a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks exhausted, and too thin. His hair is lank and loose around his head, and he holds himself carefully. Every few moments, he glances at the templars in the square, watching them with the obsessive, desperate attention of a man on a battlefield, trying to find a way to survive. His hand drops from Fenris’ elbow, and Fenris’ skin tingles at the absence of his touch. 

“It’s good to see you.” Anders’ words are rough and heavy with their sincerity, and Fenris glances away, feeling suddenly and inexplicably shy.

“I wanted to know if you were alright.” He glances back up at the mage in front of him, frowning. “Are you?” 

Anders lifts one shoulder in half a shrug. “I’ve had better days.” For a moment, his expression darkens. “I’ve had worse.” He lifts a hand to his hair, and it’s shaking. Fenris’ frown deepens, but then Anders clicks his tongue. “Look, I’m only allowed out for an hour and honestly, the last thing I want to do is think about being inside again.” Above their heads, seagulls squawk and squabble on a rooftop over some stolen bread. Anders looks at Fenris, and his eyes are dark and gold in the shadow. “Can we talk about something - anything else? Please?”

Fenris nods. “Of course.” He thinks, for a moment, and then steps towards the edge of the pillar, a little closer to the sun. Anders follows him, and shuts his eyes as the sun hits his face, brushing him in liquid light. For a moment, Fenris just stares at him: at long eyelashes dusted gold, and the strong line of his nose, and the curve of his jaw, and the soft pink bow of his lips.

Anders opens his eyes. “Fenris.” The word is soft, and warning. Anders glances meaningfully towards the templars ringing the square. ( When I was in the Circle, love was only a game. It gave the templars too much power if there was something you couldn’t stand to lose. ) Fenris tears his eyes away, and stares instead at the rooftops of Kirkwall through the arch opening onto the Gallows courtyard. He tries not to think about how easily it could be closed. He tries to ignore the frustration burning in his chest.

“We found the person responsible for kidnapping the Qunari delegation. One Sister Petrine.”

Anders raises his eyebrows. “I remember her.”

Fenris hums, and forces himself not to turn and look at the man beside him. “Hawke told the Arishok what happened. The Viscount is worried there may be war.”

It’s a strange feeling, to walk so far into Darktown without knowing that the mage will be waiting at the end of it. Fenris is struck by the sense that the man had somehow been his travelling papers, that their relationship was what gave him permission to be here. Without him, he feels abruptly out of place, and far more uncomfortably aware than he usually is of  the staring eyes of strangers as they watch the elf with white tattoos walk into their midst. 

The smell, at least, hasn’t changed. As Fenris walks, he sees a great bear of a man heaving an old stinking bucket into an alley and tipping it onto something like mud. Excrement and filth pours out, and Fenris wrinkles his nose. When the man turns and catches his eye, he gives him an apologetic shrug. Fenris passes children with skinned elbows and dirty feet, and skirts politely around knots of Coterie thugs.

As he continues, he hears the familiar clang of metal on metal and almost relaxes when he catches sight of Roger Templeton, mask pulled down over his face as he beats a strip of bright burning iron into shape. Fenris slows a little, and nods at the man in greeting. The sound of hammering pauses, and Fenris hears it echoing in his ears even as Roger pushes the mask up into his hair. The man looks exhausted. He turns his head, back into the workshop built into the walls behind him. “Marcus! I need you.” A tall, slender man with black hair and bright blue eyes steps outside wearing a heavy blacksmith’s apron, and Roger passes him his hammer without explanation, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as he does. The man, Marcus, smiles, and Fenris blinks. Marcus takes over the work, and the sound of hammering resumes as Roger steps out, pulling off his heavy gloves. “Morning, Messere Elf.” The man smells of smoke and metal, and this close Fenris can see that he’s even taller than Anders, with much broader shoulders.

“Good morning.” Fenris replies, attempting to veil his suspicion with neutrality. 

Roger Templeton has kind brown eyes, and they tighten with worry as he asks. “Have you heard anything about the healer?” 

Fenris feels abruptly as if he should not be here. He wishes, fervently, desperately for Hawke or Varric. Either of them would know far better how to say what these people wanted to hear. He feels Roger’s eyes on him like a physical weight, and forces himself to meet his gaze. “I saw him yesterday.”

Roger’s expression slackens into something that desperately wants to be relief and cannot yet permit it. It’s a feeling with which Fenris is intimately familiar. “Is he - ”

“He is not Tranquil.” Fenris answers, before Roger can force himself to ask the question, and the man’s great burly shoulders settle. Further up the tunnel, a mabari barks at a squealing group of children. Reassured that Anders is neither dead nor Tranquil, Roger’s expression shifts from fear to anger. 

“I heard what they did. Sally’s been telling everyone.” He huffs, but there’s no real mirth in it. “Vennah’s on the warpath, too. I’ve never seen a woman have triplets and still have so much energy left over.” Roger clenches his jaw. “You’re going to get him out of there, right?”

Fenris stares. He is aware that the people of Darktown are loyal to their healer: you’d have to make an effort not to be. It makes a simple kind of sense. Anders had provided the care and aid they’d needed, without asking for recompense. That type of generosity engendered a different kind of debt, one that seemed to answer kindness with kindness. The people of Darktown love their healer. They would not wish him hurt.

But it is one thing to care for one mage and another entirely to flout the laws of Andraste and her church by wishing to break him from the Circle. Then again, Fenris supposes there aren’t many in Darktown who haven’t flouted one law or another. If they could break the laws of the city, they could break the laws of the church. They had long since learned that neither much cared for them and theirs. And Fenris had yet to see a Chantry sister brave the dark of the Undercity in those expensive robes to pester the orphans for donations. 

Fenris clears his throat, and says honestly, “I do not wish him to remain in the Circle, no. It has become...twisted.” He frowns as he says it, and shifts his weight from one foot to another. This conversation is coming dangerously close to politics, and that is not something in which he wishes to engage with a stranger.

Roger tuts. “The whole thing’s broken. Here.” He turns, stepping back briefly to his stall to pick up a thin pamphlet printed on cheap paper. He thrusts it into the space between them, and Fenris stares. At the top of the page is printed in thick capitals, ON THE RIGHTS OF MAGES - AND THE LIBERATION OF THEDAS . The ink is blotted and faded in places, clearly printed fast and cheap. Beneath the title is a mass of cramped letters. Fenris squints at the first sentences:

Andraste suffered at the hands of magisters. Thus, she feared the influence of magic. But if the Maker blamed magic for the magisters’ actions in the Black City, why would He still gift us with it? The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker.

Fenris recognises these words. He looks back up at the blacksmith. “This is Anders’ writing.” 

Roger grunts. “Vennah’s got a stack of them in the clinic, she’s handing them out to everyone who’ll take one.” He scratches the thick dark red curls of his beard. “He makes some good points. Like this bit.” He flips through the pamphlet, pointing to a heading in short, block capitals:

On Community

There is much that the poor of Thedas and its mages have in common. If you have lived as a citizen of the Free Marches, you have seen its injustices. You have seen the way in which ordinary people are treated by the rich and powerful. How many amongst you have lost a sibling or a child to an Arl’s lustful eye? How many have served in so-called noble houses only to be kicked and beaten like dogs? This is not justice. This is not freedom.

If you have lived with your head bowed, afraid of meeting the eye of the rich and powerful, then you know what is to be a mage.

Fenris reads the words slowly, wishing that he could use his finger to keep the cramped lines of print separate as they swim in front of his eyes. Roger doesn’t seem to mind. Fenris supposes that most in Darktown have less than exemplary standards of literacy. Once he’s got through the first few sentences, he skips to the base of the section, seeing with relief some shorter words before the next heading. He feels something leap in his chest as he reads them.

Our oppressors seek to divide us. They seek to make us hate one another, because it is so much easier and less frightening than engaging in a battle we may not win. 

Remember these words: We can. We shall. We will. 

Fenris thinks of a tall, starved slender man with a mess of blonde and copper hair and a mischievous, curling smile. He glances at the next heading on the page.

The Matter of Tevinter

If Mages are to have their freedom, it cannot follow the route of destruction cleared by the Tevinter Imperium. Freedom built on the backs of slaves is no freedom at all. 

Fenris breathes, and thinks he sees the ink swim in front of his eyes. He realises that his hand has tightened around the page, crumpling the thin paper somewhat. His heart is pounding in his chest. He feels as if he can barely breathe. The sound of a hammer on metal seems far away and filtered through deep water. He looks up at Roger Templeton, and the man is giving him a small, stubborn smile. 

“You can keep it. Marcus has a copy too. He’s got some stuff on the elvhen in there, as well.” Roger looks at him, and his gentle brown eyes are burning with a familiar defiance. Fenris has been on the run far too long not to recognise the desire in another to fight for his freedom. “It’s a good read.”

Fenris takes the pamphlet, and ignores the slightest, single tremor in his hand as he does so. Then suddenly Roger’s broad hand claps his shoulder. Fenris resists the urge to shove it away, as he once might have done, though he feels himself stiffen uncomfortably. He clenches his jaw, and looks up at the tall human man. Roger gives him a smile that’s kind, and creases the soot-smeared skin around his eyes. “He’s strong, Messere Elf. He’ll get through this.”

Fenris frowns, taking half a step back, not so much pulling away as suggesting his desire for the contact to end. Roger lets go, and Fenris resists the urge to relax with relief. Instead he says, “yes. I know that.”

Roger gives him a wide, toothy grin, and his teeth are bright and white in the low light of Darktown. “See, that’s why I like you. You’re good for him.” He steps back before Fenris can ask exactly what he means by that, and turns to his smithy, waving over his shoulder as he does so. “Give my love to the triplets when you see Vennah. They’re the sweetest little things you ever saw.”

For a moment, Fenris stands in the dusty, stinking streets of Darktown. Then he notices a tall, skinny girl staring at him with the hunger of a pickpocket, rubs at the faint ache of the lyrium on his calf with the heel of his foot, and keeps walking. 

It doesn’t take him too long to reach the clinic. There’s a much smaller queue than usual today, which Fenris supposes makes sense. Anders was in demand for the great litany of things he could heal with magic that could not be treated in any other way. Without him, most of his patients would need to seek alternative remedies, and most of those would be palliative. Fenris thinks of Leo’s face, red in the shadows of Danarius’ mansion with unshed tears. ( Tahel from the alienage came down with some kind of infection in his leg and if the healer was there he could’ve fixed it but they ended up having to, to, chop it off.)

He approaches the clinic slowly, feeling all at once like an unwanted stranger intruding on a community which owes him neither sympathy nor welcome. He feels a few curious looks shot his way by the handful of people in the queue outside the clinic doors, but as a runaway slave covered head to toe in lyrium, Fenris is not unaccustomed to curious glances. Then suddenly, a voice calls out to him from inside the clinic. “Messere Elf! I’ve been wondering when you’d show your scowling face again. Come here, let me see you.” Utterly bewildered, Fenris follows the voice’s instructions - a woman’s, he thinks, and steps through the thin wooden doors of the clinic. Vennah, the dwarven woman, is sitting on a rocking chair that someone must have brought in specially. In her arms are three very small, very red babies wrapped in a pile of cheap blankets. Next to her, on a table, is a stack of pamphlets. Vennah grins when she sees him.  “How are you? All of this must have been a terrible shock.” 

Fenris frowns, glancing around the half-empty space as he breathes in the smell of herbs. Sally is nearby, her toddlers on a cot behind her whilst she tends to an elvhen man with his arm in a sling. The woman, usually shy and timid, is frowning now with a look of concentration. The pink smudge of the birthmark on her cheek is bright as she tucks her hair behind her ear. Nearby, Polly-Anne fusses over a thin human girl with a wash of red pimples. 

“I’m well, thank you.” Fenris tries to keep the question from his voice. “I apologise, I’m not sure I understand the shock to which you are referring.”

Vennah’s brown eyes widen. “Well the healer was your sweetheart, wasn’t he?”

Fenris stares. He rather wishes it was as easy to suppress a flush as it was to stifle a smile, but as it is he feels the tips of his ears growing warm. “I - well, that is to say -”

Vennah continues before he can protest her assertion. One of the babies in her arms yawns, a great toothless stretch of a thing. Fenris thinks, for a moment, of a mabari puppy, all wrinkles and eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Have you any news of him? We’ve all been so worried.” It’s not just worry in Vennah’s brown eyes. Fenris can see the same anger there that had been in Roger Templeton, and from the corner of his eye he catches Sally pause as she washes her hands before she deals with her next patient. 

Fenris clears his throat, and tries not to notice the way silence has fallen as both the clinic’s volunteers and its patients turn their attention to him. When he speaks, he does so stiffly, staring fixedly at the babies in Vennah’s round, strong arms. “He is as well as he can be.” He forces himself to look up, at the hungry, tired faces of the people who would have been Anders’ patients. “They have not made him Tranquil.” He watches relief spread through the small crowd like a wave, and two elvhen girls grin at each other, squeezing one another’s hands. He continues, desperately, hoping that this will be all they ask of him. “It is unlikely that they will do so. His healing abilities are rare and powerful. He would need to do something truly heretical in order to incite such a punishment.” For Meredith to sacrifice the resource he constitutes, he doesn’t add, but judging by the hardness that settles in Sally’s face, there are more than a few in the crowd that take that as read.

A dwarven man in the queue with a long black beard scowls and spits. “As if a mage needs to commit heresy to be punished by the blighted templars. They’re bullies, the lot of them.” He waves a piece of paper as he speaks, and Fenris recognises Anders’ manifesto. He glances at Vennah, who’s watching the man with a quiet expression of defiant satisfaction. “They’d kick us into the mud as soon as look at us, mage or not. They don’t care about us.” He spreads his rough calloused hand, and Fenris realises belatedly that he’s wearing the distinctive leathers of the Carta. “Look at this. You call this justice? The will of Andraste? What heresy was he committing? What crime? Helping us?” The dwarf’s face twists into a snarl. “Well that tells you all you need to know of what the Chantry thinks of our people then, doesn’t it?”

There’s a range of reactions in the crowd to the man’s words. A skinny Fereldan man with one hand in the ruff of his mabari’s neck is nodding. The elvhen girls look pale and frightened. A broad chested human woman with blonde hair has pursed her lips and is looking fixedly away. Another dwarf in the queue is looking back at the one who’s spoken with his eyes narrowed. It’s not exactly resounding support. But as the silence stretches, Fenris realises it’s not condemnation either. 

After a moment, Polly-Anne breaks the quiet, her voice shivering a little with nerves as she speaks to so many people at once. “Be that as it may, this is a place of peace and healing. The healer felt strongly about these things, but he would treat all people,” she raises her voice as a few people in the crowd began to murmur, “regardless of their feelings about mages or the Chantry. If you have need, look for the lantern.” Fenris feels a little of the tension that had pressed into the air like magic ease from the space, lifting the weight of imminent conflict from their shoulders. Behind Polly-Anne, Sally is frowning. She speaks before anyone can move.

“But if you think this is unjust and you want to help the healer, speak to Vennah. She has his writing, in his words, about the abuses of mages and the poor.” Sally lifts her chin, and her brown hair is loose and wisping about her face. “The Circle is broken. Tell yourselves all the lies you want. Running away won’t bring our healer back.”

“Easy for you to say, Sal.” Fenris glances up at the voice coming from the back of the crowd. He recognises the man as the drunk who’d toppled into the clinic the first time he’d visited to spit abuses at Anders whilst he worked. He raises his eyebrows, and notices Vennah bristle a little in her chair. Carefully, he takes a step forward, adjusting his weight. He feels the Carta dwarf watch him, and meets his eyes, silently inquiring as to whether he will receive his assistance. The dwarf’s blue eyes are bright and cool. He nods, fractionally. Fenris returns the gesture. At the back of the queue, Bob, a man of average height with a thatch of brown hair and a thin beard, steps out from the crowd. “You were here when he was taken, weren’t you? You’re the one who let him go.” Bob turns to the people. “I heard he handed himself in. He abandoned us.”

Vennah’s face becomes so red it’s almost purple. For a woman in a rocking chair holding triplets, she looks imminently capable of homicide. “You shut your mouth Robert Wheeler.” But the words have already had their effect - the crowd is murmuring, people looking confused or unsure as they try to understand what this new information might mean. Fenris curls his fingers at his sides and tries to tell himself that Anders would not forgive him for hating these people. 

Then Sally steps forward. Her face is white, and it highlights the pink smudge of the birthmark on her cheek. She’s trembling a little, and Fenris glances at her carefully, moving to put himself between her and the crowd. She looks at him, and Fenris is struck by the gratitude in her eyes as she does so, shoulders thin and hard with hunger and hardship settling into a firm, stiff line. 

“You’re right Bob. I was there. The healer was delivering Vennah’s babes. She couldn’t birth them naturally so he had to open her up.” A few people in the crowd quail, but Sally just lifts her chin. “You know how many times I’ve seen a mother survive that? Without magic?” She waits. Fenris feels as if the silence is a thread, splitting in shivering beats of tension, waiting to snap. “Once. You know how long I’ve been a midwife?” She looks at the crowd: making eye contact with the blonde woman, and the dwarf, and the elvhen girls. “Sixteen years. But the healer did it like it was nothing. Didn’t cause no pain. Delivered three beautiful babies at gone midnight and didn’t ask for anything because he never did.” 

Sally’s hands, knobbed and thin around the knuckles, curl into fists. “And his hands were still red with birth when those templars arrived.” Sally sniffs, and Fenris realises uncomfortably that she is on the edge of tears. He sees a few of the people in the crowd shift, too. Bob, in particular, is staring at his feet. 

Sally continues. “But he didn’t stop. He didn’t want to leave Vennah with a scar. So he healed her, and he let her sleep, and they grabbed me.” Sally’s voice breaks for a moment, briefly high in remembered fear. “They hurt me. And the healer held up his hands and said he would go with them, as long as they let me go and let Vennah rest. The babies were right there, still waxy from birth.” She points at one of the now empty cots as if she’s thrown a punch. “And they let me go.” Sally’s voice shakes. “And I went to them, and I tried to stop them crying.” 

The shaking in Sally’s voice moves from weeping to anger. “He didn’t fight them. He was worried about Vennah, and me, and the little ones. He left his staff. But they took him outside, and they beat him till he bled. Till he wasn’t screaming any more, and I thought, I thought.” The tears are back, and Sally scrubs at her nose.

Bob speaks, awkwardly, quiet in the hush of the clinic. Far off, there are children laughing, their voices echoing in the tunnels. “Sal. You don’t need to - you’ve made your point. You don’t need to say this.”

Sally’s face flushes red, and her hands tighten at her sides. “No, Bob Wheeler, apparently I do. The healer didn’t abandon us. He protected us. That’s all he’s ever done. How many times have we seen him ignore his own needs: for sleep, for food, for coin? Just to help us, who come here and call him poison.” She scowls. “I cleaned his blood from that landing you’re standing on, Bob. He didn’t fight them. He just let them kick him into the dirt in front of those lovely babies.” She glares at the blonde woman. “Is that how you’d wish your children, to be welcomed into the world, Fran?” She lifts her chin. “The Chantry says the mages are the monsters. I say it’s their blighted templars. And if you think otherwise, you go to Polly-Anne. Because I’m not the healer, and I won’t help you.”

For a long, long time, nobody moves. Fenris watches the crowd, feeling the bright sharp rush of adrenaline coursing through his body as he prepares for the possibility of a fight. Far away, quiet for the distance, there’s the muffled crash of the sea. Vennah breaks the quiet. “Bob. I think you should leave.”

Bob sputters. “What - I - I’m only saying what I heard! It’s the truth!” No one looks at him. Fenris knows this situation: they won’t help him now. Instead they stare fixedly at their feet, and one another. The only one who meets Bob’s eyes is Sally. She looks about ready to break his nose. Apparently Bob can see this too, because he surges forward, face red with anger and humiliation. “You bitch , I’m going to -”

Fenris is a very skilled warrior. He crosses the clinic without thinking, and puts one palm on the man’s chest, holding him back without effort. He looks into the human’s eyes, and lets himself be as frightening as so many of his kind fear him to be. “I do not think they will ask you again.”  Bob’s red face gets dark, and his expression twists before he spits in Fenris’ face.

“Fucking knife-ear.” 

Fenris doesn’t flinch. He has been subjected to far worse. So it’s something of a surprise when the broad, blonde human woman turns and slaps Bob hard enough for the echo of it to bounce off the soft wooden walls of Darktown. “You and your filthy mouth best make yourself scarce, Wheeler. And don’t show your face in my tavern, neither.”

Bob stares at the woman for a long moment. She’s half a foot taller than Fenris, and Fenris is still deciding whether or not to move away from her when Bob steps back and walks away, spitting into the dirt. One of the skinny elvhen girls in the queue rolls her eyes. “Stupid shem.”

The blonde woman turns to Fenris, fishing an old rag out of her pocket and passing it to Fenris, her face touched by a stern hint of concern. “You alright love? Sorry about that. We don’t treat our people differently down here. Poor is poor, no matter how big your ears are.” Fenris stares at the rag in his hands, and tentatively wipes his face. He hands it back to her, and the woman nods, folding it away. “Come by The Flying Pig later. Your first tankard’s on me.”

Fenris thinks that he will not take her up on that offer. But he also thinks, glancing at the crowd around him, that this is the first time he’s been the centre of such a commotion and not the hated part of it. The people are looking at him with kindness. Rage, yes, but on his behalf, not against him. Something thick rises in his throat, and he ducks his head to hide his expression. “You have my thanks. I - I must go.” 

He turns to leave, but Vennah calls after him. “Don’t be a stranger, Messere Elf. You have friends here.”

Fenris cannot imagine a world in which that could possibly be true. But he does not think she is lying.

A week later, Fenris walks to the Gallows courtyard with something dangerously close to a spring in his step. He has a pack of cards for Wicked Grace in his pocket: a habit he and the mage had commenced a few days into his now regular visits. The man is still awful at the game, but he’s improved a little, and Fenris thinks he understands the practicality of Fenris teaching him to improve his poker face. They meet and speak about all manner of things: Hawke’s misadventures, Varric’s latest romance, and, often, the clinic. Anders has even begun to pass on instruction: careful suggestions and remarks that Fenris reads as the requests they are and dutifully passes on to Sally, Polly-Anne, Briawen and Domnall, the elf he’d helped who had begun to volunteer at the clinic as of late. For his part, the mage has been looking better. He’s eating again, and has clearly begun to sleep more. He moves far less carefully now that the wounds from his flogging have begun to heal, and whilst he clearly doesn’t like his templar chaperone (a woman called Miranda), he also clearly doesn’t fear her. He speaks warmly of his work, and seems to have struck up a friendship with one of the Senior Enchanters, a Dalish elf called Iolva. He still stares with a deep, aching longing at the sky and the sea beyond the city, but he also seems to be enjoying the company of so many mages. 

Fenris would not go so far as to say that he thinks Anders is doing well in the Circle: the vision of the templar, Marcus, roughly grabbing at his hair, does not fail to make his blood boil in remembrance. But he also thinks that the mage looks healthy, and calm, and that perhaps being allowed to study and teach with so many of his own kind is not such a terrible thing after all. 

Anders’ manifesto sits on a bench in Danarius’ mansion, beside his copy of The Book of Shartan. Fenris has not yet found the courage to read it.

Fenris reaches the courtyard, and nods to Adenek when he sees him. The elderly dwarf offers him a friendly smile and a wave, before gesturing to the eastern corner of the space. Sunlight bounces off the bright white buildings of the Gallows. Above them, the Circle itself towers, firm and vast as the fist of the Maker himself. 

Fenris walks quickly across the stones of the courtyard, rough and warm and familiar as they are by now under his feet. He can see the mage already: his blonde and copper hair glittering like precious metal in the late morning sun. 

But then Anders turns, and Fenris falters. He doesn’t look calm and relaxed now. Instead his shoulders are stiff and tense and his jaw is tight. The templar behind him is shorter than Miranda, and has a gauntleted hand settled heavily on his shoulder. Anders is clearly uncomfortable with the contact, but he doesn’t shrug it off either. Fenris slows to a stop, unsure of what to do. He feels abruptly exposed in the great empty space of the square, with the sun beating down on the bright white stones. 

Anders sees him, and Fenris cannot read the expression on his face. When he says his name, he does so with a careful lack of any emotion at all. “Ah, Fenris.” He doesn’t move closer. He’s all but held in place by the templar at his back. So Fenris comes to him instead. He glances between Anders and the polished metal of the templar’s helmet. 

“Healer.” He says, and nods stiffly to the templar. 

The templar shifts, pulling off their helmet and revealing a short stout human woman with a bob of dirty blonde hair and laughing brown eyes. She holds her helmet loosely under one arm, still gripping Anders’ shoulder with the other hand. “This one of your old patients, mage? Did they not get the memo or something?”

A muscle in the corner of Anders’ jaw twitches. Fenris does nothing, but watches him carefully and waits for some indication of what he wants him to do. Anders explains, quietly, “Fenris experiences chronic pain. He needs to see me for regular treatments. There is no one else outside the Circle who can help him.”

The woman raises her eyebrows and looks at Fenris as if he were a stray dog. “So you’ve got him eating out of your hand. If I’d known that was how to tame these damn knife-ears I’d have learned how to heal myself. Maker, he’s got pretty eyes though, doesn’t he?” She shakes Anders, as if he were a child, and tilts her head to grin at him in a horrible mockery of play. “Do you like his pretty eyes, mage?” She turns back to Fenris, and makes no effort to hide the way she runs her eyes up and down his body. Fenris clenches his teeth and reminds himself that he cannot, in fact, decapitate a templar in public. “How does he pay you, anyway?”

Fenris catches the brief flash of anger on Anders’ face in the way his nostrils flare. By the satisfaction on her face, the woman caught it too. But when Anders speaks, he’s still making an effort to be calm. “Fenris lives in Hightown, messere. He pays me in gold.” Fenris had never paid Anders for anything, but he understands the point of the lie as the templar raises her eyebrows at him with a mix of surprise and grudging respect. 

“Rich elf in Hightown? You sure he’s not some noble’s bed-warmer?”

Fenris thinks of old hands on his shoulders, and his hips, and his thighs. Thinks of a beard scratching his face and magic stinging his skin and - Anders clenches his jaw and grinds his response between his teeth. “I’m quite sure, messere.”

The templar snorts, satisfied to have a rise out of him, and pushes Anders forward roughly enough that he stumbles. Fenris catches him, careful not to hold him for any longer than he has to as the templar sets down her helmet and folds her arms. “Go on then. Work your magic.”

Anders is standing close enough that Fenris can feel the uneven pace of his breathing as he gathers himself. The mage barely looks at him as his hands begin to glow, and Fenris holds out his arm. Cool, healing light washes over his tattoos, and Anders frowns a little, glancing up at him, a question in his gold and copper eyes. Fenris answers honestly, “eight.” Anders’ frown deepens. Fenris had run out of Anders’ potions a few weeks previous, but he hadn’t yet seen reason to raise the issue. He had lived most of his life with the constant company of his pain, and the period in which it had been alleviated was nothing in comparison. He’d had other things to worry about. Anders’ magic ripples into his muscles, and Fenris releases his sigh slowly, unwilling to display such weakness in front of the templar watching them. 

Anders looks at him. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a hint of warmth in his eyes as he asks, “Now?”

Fenris nods. “Four.” There’s the faintest touch of a tilt around the corner of Anders’ lips. He moves to Fenris’ other arm, and a curl of long blonde and copper hair falls in front of his eyes. Fenris’ fingers twitch with the urge to tuck it back behind the freckled shell of his ear. He resists the urge to do so.  For some time, not nearly long enough, they continue in that way, with Anders’ body so close Fenris can feel the warmth of it but cannot do anything to draw closer. Anders finishes, and clears his throat, and Fenris thinks perhaps he can see the same yearning for touch in his mage’s eyes. 

“You need to take potions for the pain. There are more in the clinic. Ask Sally.”

The templar moves forward, grinning. “Ooh is she that brunette? Don’t tell me she’s magic too. Maybe we should have taken her when we got you, mage. What do you think? Should I go and pay her a visit?” The blood drains from Anders’ face.

“No, messere, she’s not - the potions are only herbal. I can explain the recipe.” Anders says something else, but Fenris can’t quite hear it past the blood rushing in his ears. He thinks of Sally, on the edge of tears, but they took him outside, and they beat him till he bled. Till he wasn’t screaming any more, and I thought, I thought - Fenris feels an old, familiar hatred settling into his gut. He stares at the woman: at her muddy brown eyes and the light mark of a scar on her chin. So this was one of the templars who had taken him, then. Fenris understands the truth of it as well as he knows, with dreadful certainty, that he will kill her. 

“Helloooo! Knife-ear? Maker mage, you didn’t go and hex him do you? I don’t know how many lashes we’d have to give you for that.” The woman’s voice is cheerfully threatening, and Fenris shakes his head and realises that his hands are curled into fists so tight that his knuckles ache.

“I beg your pardon, what were you saying?” He doesn’t add an honorific. He will not pay this woman such respect. 

The templar grins. “I asked if you had anything else you needed or if I can get this one back inside.” Her smile widens. She might’ve been handsome, were it not for the threat of violence in her eyes. “They get weird if we let them out too long. Start thinking about trying to run away.”

Fenris is struck by the distant memory of a magister who had refused to allow his slaves outside of his mansion. He had made a similar argument. Danarius had only laughed and pointed out the man clearly had no idea how to wield control. He had substantiated his point with Fenris, and a - Fenris cuts off the thought. It will not do to have it now. 

Instead, he meets the templar’s brown eyes, and makes no effort to hide how very badly he wants to kill her. He adopts the aristocratic sneer he’d learned in Tevinter, and lifts his chin, imitating the posture of the magisters. “I would appreciate it, in future, serah, ” the woman bristles at the term, “if you addressed me as messere. ” Fenris flips a gold coin at her, and watches her fumble to catch it. “I may be a knife-ear,” he continues, drawling, “but I do appreciate basic manners.” The templar ducks her head, convinced by the gold if nothing else of his alleged station.

“Of course messere, won’t happen again messere.” Fenris feels a brief stab of vicious satisfaction as she ducks and bobs her head.

He only realises his error when she grabs Anders and shoves him back towards the gate. It’s a month before he sees the mage again. In the days and weeks that follow, Fenris runs the memory through his mind over and over: Anders’ back bowed, the blood red of the Kirkwall Circle’s robes swinging around his feet, a flash of gold and copper hair. Fenris wishes he had looked back, just once. 

Instead, every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is the back of Anders’ head as he’s dragged away. 

Chapter Text

Please be aware this chapter contains reference to gang rape. The act itself is not described, but the aftermath is shown. It will be divided from the rest of the fic with *** and continues from there to the end of this chapter  - please skip if you need to.

It’s past the twenty-first bell when they find him. Anders supposes he shouldn’t be surprised - he’d enjoyed Fenris’ dressing down of Seerah, but he hadn’t expected it to go unpunished. He’s more afraid than he wants to admit when he sees Tiberius leading the little group. Xavier, Marcus, Kaleb, Seerah. The whole Darktown patrol turns a corner and just so happens to find him stepping out of his classroom and into a dead end. This, Anders can almost hear Karl chastising him, is why he shouldn’t work late. At least not alone, where anyone could find him. 

Karl had given him the lesson in a rare fit of worried temper after Anders had found his way to his rooms, bloody and stumbling in the middle of the night. For a while, Anders had remembered it. But it was easy to lose himself in the mundane administration of teaching, and it was the only distraction Anders had from the reality of the Circle in which he found himself. He’d been...peaceful. Enjoying himself, even. He hadn’t noticed the shadows lengthening across the room, or the light growing dim. Looking at the small group of templars cutting off his exit, Anders feels something in his chest twist. He’d pay for that now.

Tiberius steps forward. He’s not wearing his helmet. Whether it’s arrogance, vanity or something else, Anders doesn’t know. He seems to like it when people can see his expression. His voice is light and casual when he speaks, even as his patrol fans out to surround Anders. “Do you know why I became a templar, Anders?” Anders wraps his hand around the soft wood of the cheap staff he’d been given to teach with, and wishes he thought it would do anything for him now. At the back of his head, Justice boils and says nothing. 

Anders forces himself to meet Tiberius’ eyes. “Because you get off on being a bully?” He asks the question lightly, and feels Justice’s panic, bright and sudden.

Anders!

Anders doesn’t stop watching Tiberius. Nothing we can say will stop this. Seerah is scowling, glancing at Tiberius, apparently looking for permission to move. Anders stifles a small smile. Might as well make it fun.

Tiberius’ expression doesn’t change. “I’m from Antiva. I used to live on the border with the Imperium. Do you know how many mages I saw, fleeing into my village, thinking they could make easy prey out of the free people of Thedas?”

One of the patrol - Xavier - suddenly steps forward. Anders flinches back, and feels the cool stone of the wall behind him. Tiberius frowns, just a little, and stops the man with a quick slicing motion of his hand. Anders swallows past the painful lump in his throat. “Don’t they have any kind of vetting process for you people? I feel like ‘quest for vengeance’ isn’t a great reason for wanting to stand over kids with swords.”

Tiberius chuckles, and Anders feels Justice burning electric under his skin and fights desperately to control him. “Perhaps.” Tiberius walks forward. The patrol stands back, watching him. Anders stays very, very still. Distantly, there’s the soft sound of footsteps and quiet voices. Anders considers crying out. He knows he won’t. Most mages would be old enough and wise enough to stay the hell away, the rest too young or naive not to. He wouldn’t endanger the latter. 

As for the templars? Anders had long since given up on the idea of receiving help from them. 

Tiberius steps up to him, so close that their toes are nearly touching. His breath is hot on Anders’ face. Anders’ skin crawls. His hand tightens around his staff. He can feel his palms sweating. When Tiberius speaks, he does so quietly, dark eyes scanning Anders’ features. “Now tell me. What was an apostate like you doing speaking to a fugitive from Tevinter?” Anders’ eyes flicker to Seerah, and then Tiberius’ hand is on his chin, the metal cladding around his fingers digging into Anders’ jaw. “Don’t look at her, mage. Look at me. Tell me the truth.”

There’s a part of Anders, a part that’s small and young and bruised, screaming at the back of his head. He hates it. He hates that he’s faced down ogres and dragons and broodmothers, and none of them have scared him as much as this man, speaking quietly, who hasn’t even drawn his sword. He blinks away the burning in his eyes and tries to find the anger that has carried him through every other injustice he’s suffered in places like this. “He’s a patient. That’s all. Or is healing people filed under demonic and evil now too? I forget.”

The strike is sudden and somehow Anders doesn’t see it coming. He thinks it’s a particularly stupid part of the Maker’s design that will let him dodge a blade but hold him still and paralysed with fear under a templar’s hands.  Anders’ cheek stings and splits with the force of the impact, flushing hot as it begins to bruise. He grits his teeth. Tiberius’ other hand is in his robes, now, and Anders’ can feel the fabric pulling against his skin as he’s lifted onto his toes. He tries very hard not to be afraid. 

There’s something mad in Tiberius’ eyes when he hisses, still quiet, still almost calm, “Don’t lie to me, mage.”

Anders tries not to snarl. It’s difficult, past the roaring of Justice in the back of his head. “I’m not . Ask anyone. You do investigate these accusations, right? It’s not always punch first and ask questions later? It’s just that a little bird told me you people were still pretending to be the good guys.”

Tiberius’ hand moves to his throat, lifting him off his feet. Anders clenches his teeth and resists the urge to struggle. He refuses to give this man the satisfaction. He tries not to look at the faces of the others. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Seerah grinning. “You will address me as messere .” Tiberius spits.

Anders rolls his eyes, ignoring the burning of his lungs and the bruising grip around his throat, the way his face is burning and his eyes are watering. Justice screams at the back of his head. He’s pretty sure it’s sheer spite that allows him to speak with what little oxygen is left in his lungs.  “Sorry buddy, it won’t make your dick any bigger.”

Tiberius throws him onto the ground and Anders’ head hits the stone hard with splitting force. There’s the thudding impact of a Cleanse, and then there’s a metal boot, crunching into his ribs. Anders laughs as he cries, pressing his face into the stone as they descend on him. 

It was worth it.

“Now why would anyone wish to do this to such a handsome face?” Iolva tuts, her fingers soft and cool as she prods at the swelling around Anders’ eyes. He smiles at her a little, and regrets it as it pulls at the bruise on his cheek. He’s sitting on one of the beds in the infirmary, and Iolva has a small stack of healing supplies beside her as she tends to his wounds. It’s not yet daybreak, and they’re the only ones there. Even Miranda hasn’t yet finished her duty on the mages’ corridors, though she’ll be here soon enough.

“Do they have to have a reason?” He asks, and hears the bitterness in his voice. He’s wearing a loose bed shirt and pants to allow Iolva access to the concave mess Tiberius and his gang had made of his ribs. They’re healed, now, or at least no longer in danger of tearing his lungs. Bruising spreads green and purple across his chest. Iolva frowns, and Anders can taste the fresh snow smell of her magic in the air over the astringent bite of chemicals. 

“They usually do, even if it is terrible and made up.” She moves to his neck, and tuts at what Anders doesn’t doubt is a distinctively hand shaped bruise blackening there. Anders looks away from her, at the narrow barred windows of the infirmary. The bars have been painted white, as if that will make them less intrusive, and the daylight that bounces off the Gallows’ walls comes to them filtered and grey, spilling like spring water onto the stark white empty beds.

“They think I’m...colluding with someone. Allegedly.” Anders frowns, and tilts his chin up, trying to swallow through the ache of his bruised windpipe. At the back of his mind, Justice rages against the walls of his skull, desperate to unleash vengeance on his abusers. The spirit had not taken well to the discovery that the templars’ Cleansing and Silencing abilities also served to dampen the connection between them, and Anders can feel the unfamiliar tremor of fear under his rage. He cannot protect him. It frightens Anders too, but he’s not sure how much energy he has to be any more afraid than he already is. 

Far off, in the courtyard, there’s the now familiar rhythmic metal thump of the templars doing their morning drills. Iolva hums, and dabs something stinging onto a cut on Anders’ collarbone, cleaning the wound. “They mean your lover?” Anders blinks, staring at her, and she gives him a faint sympathetic smile. “You are not as subtle as you think you are, da’len. ”

Anders frowns. “Fenris isn’t my -” he stops, realising what he’s revealed even before Iolva’s smile softens into something gentler. “Maker, I didn’t think...”

Iolva shrugs, her narrow shoulders strong with years of work and decades before that of wandering across the Marches with her clan. “It is unusual for a human and an elf to strike such a bond. And for two men, to find such intimacy.” There’s the subtle hint of a question in her words, as she lifts his hands and carefully passes a wave of healing magic over his recently broken fingers. Anders raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t tell me you have an issue with an interracial, same gender relationship?” 

Iolva chuckles, clasping his hand gently before moving on to the rest of the scattered surface wounds left over from his beating. “No, Spirit Healer.” Her Dalish accent curls around the r’s in her words. “Though Tiberius and his cronies will.” She frowns. “They are a nasty group, those ones. Even worse than the usual templars.”

Anders gestures, loosely, to the bruised mess of his face and body. “I’m aware.”

Iolva frowns at him, and her grey eyes are troubled. Gently, she rests one hand on his bicep. “You must try not to provoke them, da’len. ” She continues as he opens his mouth to protest, “I know, I know they will attack without provocation. But you have become their prey. When the wolf begins its chase, there is nothing that will heat its blood faster than prey which flees. You must not fear them. Obey. But do not fear. They will lose interest.” The corners of her eyes tighten with something like regret. “Eventually.” 

“And if I don’t? Will you be here to pick up the pieces?” Anders tries to add humour to the question, but realises as he says it how desperately he needs to know the answer. His bare feet are cold on the stone floor of the infirmary, and he stares at them instead of Iolva, afraid of what he’ll see in her face. 

There’s a rustle of cloth, and then Iolva is embracing him. She’s shorter than he is, and slender, but she’s also strong, and she holds him tightly, mindful of his injuries. The embrace is brief, and when Iolva lets go she glances over her shoulder at the empty corridor outside the open door before she meets Anders’ eyes. She says, firmly, “Always, da’len .”

Anders smiles a little, and clears his throat, getting to his feet and moving to the corner of the room where he’d folded the blighted robes they’d given him. He steps behind the curtain and begins to change, gingerly. Iolva has healed most of him: a fractured skull, a black eye, three broken ribs, a broken wrist and four broken fingers. But both of them know it does the body little good to heal too much of it too fast, and though he’d drunk a potion for the pain it has yet to take effect. So he moves carefully, and feels the gnawing worry of Justice in his limbs as he does so, washing magic over his wounds like the sea on a shore. 

“I knew a human, once.” Iolva says, over the faint clink of her tidying away the vials and potions she’d used for his healing. Anders pulls on his robes and bites down the whimper that threatens to escape him as he bends his body.

“Just the one?” 

Iolva laughs, low and warm, and Anders pulls back the curtain with a loose rattle, adding the bedclothes to the bag of laundry he’d take to be washed later for the infirmary. Self-consciously, he smooths down the heavy fabric of his Circle robes, and tries not to think of Karl wearing something almost identical, forehead branded with a red sun. 

Iolva breaks him out of his thoughts. “Her name was Hannah.” The distinctly human name sits a little awkwardly on her Dalish tongue, but she says it with great affection. Anders tilts his head, crossing the clinic to help replace some of the supplies on the higher shelves. The stool Iolva had used before his arrival for the same purpose stands gathering dust in the corner. 

“She was a friend of yours?” 

Iolva smiles, and there’s a faint graze of pink over her cheeks, even as she glances again at the open door with the familiar paranoia of habit. “She was a friend, like your Fenris.” She frowns a little. “It is not a Dalish name, though he wears vallaslin.”

Anders moves to the other side of the clinic, helping set up for the day. He’s due to teach classes, later, but he likes to spend time in the infirmary when he isn’t. It’s far better than being in his room, or walking through the great halls of the building alone. He’s been trying to make friends, but he doesn’t plan to stay here long, and his targeting by Tiberius, Seerah, Marcus and the rest hardly makes him an attractive prospect. He understands why the other mages avoid him. Were he a different man, he would too. 

“They’re not vallaslin. He comes from Tevinter.” Iolva makes a soft sound of understanding. Anders continues. “The markings were sewn into him against his will. They’re imbued with lyrium.” 

Iolva clicks her tongue. “That would be agony.” 

Anders nods, pursing his lips as he sets up the beds and sees, for a moment, the memory of Fenris in his clinic, screaming. “It still is.”

“The pain is chronic?” It’s barely a question. It hadn’t taken long for Anders and Iolva to understand one another, finding the spaces where their medical knowledge had common ground and filling in the gaps in one another’s understanding. She understands what he’s saying, and he knows she realises the gravity of the thing. It’s good to have a partner. He wishes it had been under different circumstances. 

“It is.”

“How did you treat it?” There’s a medical curiosity in the question, and Anders looks up to give Iolva a smile. The woman loves her work, taking a simple joy in learning that Anders can admire. It reminds him of the Senior Enchanters he’d liked best in Ferelden, people who would humour his debates for the sake of exploring a topic further, listening to and countering the points he made as an equal, not a prisoner. He’s about to tell her about the potions when the heavy, familiar clink of armour heralds the arrival of a templar at their door.

Miranda is not wearing her helmet, and her salt and pepper hair is tied tightly back behind her head. She gives Iolva a tight smile when she sees her, and Iolva smiles back. Anders watches the two of them. Miranda has over a foot on Iolva, but she moves around her carefully, hesitant to make any sudden movements. He’s wondered, more than once, whether their relationship might have been different, in another world. 

As it is, he clears his throat and nods at Miranda. “Good morning messere.”

Miranda smiles at him, politely. She’s kind, for a templar, but Anders does not labour under the impression that she would help him if he needed her. So his answering smile is faint, and cool. “Anders. How are you?”

Anders gestures at the yellow and purple ring of fading bruising around his eye. “Oh, you know. Picked a fight with a wall.” 

Miranda frowns. “Do you know their names? You know that you can report anyone who is behaving inappropriately to myself or Knight-Captain Cullen.” Anders tries hard not to laugh. In some ways, she reminds him of Aveline. But at least Aveline understands the limitations of her own system. Miranda, it seems, has yet to accept that reality. 

Still, he doesn’t want to alienate one of the few templars in this blighted place that doesn’t want to use him as a punching bag. So he nods, politely. “Thank you, messere, but it’s fine. I’m afraid I must be off, I have a morning class with the apprentices.” He turns to Iolva, and bows his head a little more sincerely. “ Ma serannas , Senior Enchanter.”

Iolva smiles at him, and the corners of her eyes crease with the sincerity of it. “Be safe, da’len .”

Anders steps into the corridor and walks to class. Elsewhere in the Gallows, a great bell rings in the eighth hour of the morning.

Anders’ neighbours are an eclectic mixture of people. He’d been surprised, the first time he’d opened his door, to find a short, dark human boy who couldn’t be more than twelve in the room opposite him. He’d raised his eyebrows and said, gently, “I didn’t know they made Enchanters so young in Kirkwall.” The boy had giggled and gestured to his Apprentice’s robes.

“They started running out of space a few years back. This is one of the overflow corridors. I’m Huw.” He’d thrust his hand into the space between them, and Anders had taken it.

“Anders.”

Huw’s room is opposite him. Next to Anders’ room is the quiet Orlesian Senior Enchanter, Philippe, who Anders had met in Orsino’s office. He has a neatly combed beard, dark skin and dark eyes. He also apparently specialises in Entropic magic, which Anders would have found more surprising if he hadn’t remembered, distinctly, the day when calm, quiet Karl had met his eyes and announced his intention to study Force magic. 

Further up the corridor is an elvhen woman with dark skin and a head of frizzy black hair called Alice. Alice is a master of Primal magic, though she has yet to make the leap to Senior Enchanter. Anders suspects that this is more for her outspoken political beliefs rather than any lack of talent. As an Enchanter, they get her in no end of trouble, but as a Senior Enchanter the repercussions would be severe. He likes her. 

At the end of the corridor is Lacey, a small girl with blonde hair who’d apparently been picked up off the streets of Lowtown. She’s about eleven years old, though no one is really sure. She hasn’t spoken since she was brought in six months previous. When she isn’t clinging to Alice’s skirts, she’s sticking to Miranda like a shadow. Anders can’t decide whether he feels a kinship with her or if she makes him uneasy, reminding him all too well of a little boy with long red-blonde hair, light brown eyes and lips pursed tightly shut. He knows Lacey’s mutism is psychological, not physiological. He also knows that she will not speak until she’s ready, and that that may well be never. In the meantime, he’s taken to teaching her the hand language that Karl had taught him, in those early years in Kinloch, when he had needed to retreat into himself. 

He’s sitting in Lacey’s room now. Alice sits beside her on the bed, talking whilst Anders carefully draws a series of rough sketches of the hand patterns that will constitute Lacey’s homework for the week. The girl watches him with wide eyes. Next to her on the bed, Huw is swinging his legs. The boy doesn’t need the lesson, and strictly shouldn’t be here: the templars didn’t take well to friendships between corridor mates. But he wants to learn, and Anders is reluctant to deny him such a simple joy. Both he and Alice glance repeatedly towards the door, anyway. 

“So then Senior Enchanter Amelie says that apparently I lack finesse. Finesse, I tell you! I could shoot lightning between her perfect buttocks and hit her -” Anders glances up from his work to raise his eyebrows, meaningfully, at her and tilt his head to the children. Huw has stuffed his hands in front of his face to try and stifle his giggling. Alice follows Anders’ gaze and catches herself, clearing her throat, though she shoots Huw a quick flash of a smile. “Anyway, the point is that the woman has about as much magical talent as a wet rag and I should be Senior Enchanter for Primal magic, obviously.”

Anders smiles a little at the paper in front of him, taking comfort in simple Circle politics as a distraction from the templars that prowl the Gallows’ corridors. “I don’t know what wet rags you’ve been using, Alice, but I think you might want to see an exorcist.”  Alice scowls at him, and Anders lets himself grin at her. She’s a handsome woman, with bright green eyes and dark freckles scattered across her cheeks. Her skin is dark and her lips are full. Were he a younger man, Anders would have already invited her to his bed. 

“Ha ha Anders. Come on, don’t tell me you think she’s right for the position.” Anders knows very little of the situation, though he does know that Amelie is somewhat lacking in magical power. Any mage with half a brain could know that. She’s non-threatening, which is probably why Orsino had given her the job in the first place. He holds up his hands appeasingly. 

“I’m bound by my honour as your corridor-mate to say yes, Alice, you’re absolutely right, and Orsino should have given you the position. Also, he should add true Dalish history to the curriculum, let you get your vallaslin and make the Book of Shartan mandatory reading.” Anders lets humour warm his words, but he thinks his warning is clear. There was a reason Alice hadn’t been promoted, and it wasn’t for lack of magic. 

Alice sighs a little, the fight running out of her as she does so. Lacey looks up at her with naked concern. Anders’ chest aches. He remembers wearing his every care so openly. It feels like a very, very long time ago. Alice smiles down at the little girl, and gently pets the top of her head. “It’s alright Lace. I’m just frustrated is all.” She turns to Anders. “Aren’t you? You’ve got to be the most gifted healer I’ve ever seen. No way you should only be an Enchanter.”

Anders’ shrugs, tightly. “I’m just trying not to stick out.” 

Alice raises her eyebrows, green eyes settling pointedly on the bruises on his face. “How’s that working out for you?”

Anders sighs, and hands Lacey the paper. “Well, the operative word is trying.” He catches the sympathy on Alice’s face, and waves away her concern. “We can talk about it later.” He tries not to notice Huw watching them, and instead points to the pictures on the page in front of Lacey, forming the shapes with his hands as he explains them. “Ok, so this is the sign for Cloudreach.” He curls his fingers and gestures, “and this is for Bloomingtide.” He uncurls his fingers, imitating the motion of a flower opening. Lacey smiles at him and copies the gesture. Anders grins at her. “Very good. And this is Justinian.”

The lesson takes another hour, and then the bell for the nineteenth hour is ringing, and doors are opening up and down the corridors as mages head to the dining hall. Huw jumps to his feet and darts out. There’s the soft sound of laughing voices as he finds his friends. Alice gets up as well, whilst Lacey carefully puts the sheet of paper Anders had written for her into the chest at the end of her bed. The three of them step outside, and see Philippe waiting for them. He doesn’t hide his disapproval, but he’s not good at hiding his concern either, so Anders smiles and waves at him a little as they approach.

“Have a fun day poking the dark corners of the universe?” Philippe frowns when he gets closer, taking in the bruises on his face. When he speaks he does so quietly, glancing at the templars on the other side of the corridor and the steady river of mages heading down to the dining hall.

“What happened to you?”

Anders shrugs, feeling the comfort of dozens of bodies hiding him from prying eyes. “Tiberius and his friends felt that I was in need of some extracurricular discipline. I’d like to say I object, but then again I suppose I would.”

“I heard you’re not allowed outside for a fortnight. They say you were colluding with some elf in the courtyard.” The words are barely breathed, Philippe anxiously watching the templars who stand as still as statues as they pass them. Alice presses in closer to Anders’ other side, the soft curves and warmth of her brushing his elbow and his hip.

“What? You didn’t tell me that.” The cloud of her hair touches his cheek, and Anders shrugs at her apologetically. 

“I assumed you already knew.”

“Were you? Colluding?” Philippe’s voice is urgent with fear, and Anders frowns at him.

“I’m stubborn, not stupid. He’s one of my former patients.”

“I didn’t know you had elvhen patients.” Alice murmurs. They turn a corner, the babble of half a hundred conversations following them. Anders blinks at her.

“I’m also not an asshole. I worked in Darktown. I had plenty of elvhen patients.” He purses his lips. “They just wanted a reason to punish me.”

He feels Alice’s hand take his and squeeze, gently, before she lets him go when the crowd parts. She meets his eyes. “Try not to give them another.”

*** 

The twenty-second bell has rung by the time Anders’ begins to walk the winding path back to his room. He’d allowed Iolva to convince him to stay with her in the library after their meal had ended, and Alice and a few other elvhen Enchanters had joined them. They’d sat by the fire, and the others had drunk wine whilst Anders had nibbled on the cheese and biscuits someone had brought from the kitchens, ignoring the agitated pacing of Justice in his mind like a wolf in a cage. There were times, like that morning on the beach with Fenris after Danarius had died, when Anders was not interested in following Justice’s insistence that he abstain from alcohol. But here in the Gallows, where the walls crawled with the echoes of the templars, the idea of dulling his senses was nauseating. So he didn’t drink. But he did relax in the company of his fellow mages, occasionally engaging in their debates about the finer points of everything from Creation magic to Orlesian literature. It was fun, and it had almost made him forget the nature of the prison in which he sat. Almost. 

Empty as it is now, the Gallows feels far more haunted at night than it does in the day, full of the movement of children and teenagers and young adults, chattering and studying and playing with one another. The tall ceilings feel needlessly palatial, and the shadows hang like cobwebs between great stone pillars. It’s not frightening, exactly - Anders sees enough monstrosities in his nightmares that it would take far more than an old empty building to scare him now. But it is eerie. Anders wonders how many people have died here. He suspects he would not want to know the answer.

He’s taking a turn he had a few hours previous, past a branch of corridors that lead on to the classrooms, when he hears a very small, very quiet whimper.

Anders stops. 

A decade ago, perhaps, he would have kept walking. He can feel, even now, the freezing chill of adrenaline dumped into his stomach as he turns and walks carefully, quietly, closer to the sound. It didn’t do to help crying children at night. Not in the Circle. You’d only find yourself at the mercy of whatever had made them cry. 

Except that in the years since his adolescence in Kinloch Hold, Anders has survived a year of solitary confinement. He has escaped the Ferelden Blight and become a Grey Warden. He has fought his way out of the Deep Roads and befriended Marian Hawke. And he does not want to turn his back on a child crying. 

So in the deep, cold shadows of the night, he creeps closer to the classroom from which he’d heard the sound. There’s a loud thwack of metal on flesh, and he hears the same soft, quiet whimper. Anders frowns, and looks through the grated window on the door. It’s Tiberius and his patrol. Of course it is. If Cullen has any idea what is happening under his command, he certainly has no desire to remedy it. Anders waits for one of them - Xavier, he thinks - to move so that he can see the child. 

He opens the door before he’s had the chance to think about the decision. He doesn’t need to. 

All of them turn around to look at him. Anders breathes, deeply, and ignores the way that something in his chest is shaking. Instead, he holds the door open and speaks calmly, holding his staff loosely in one hand. “Lacey. Go and find Alice.”

Lacey doesn’t need to be told twice. She darts out of the room like a frightened cat. Anders tries not to stare for too long at the bleeding cut on her forehead. Instead, he looks up at the group of templars in front of him. Tiberius, Seerah, Marcus, Xavier, Kaleb. He feels his heart hammering in his chest hard enough to make him sick. He feels Justice roaring at the back of his mind. He hopes he imagines the crack of blue light that appears on his hand. But then Tiberius swipes one hand through the air, and Anders staggers back as the Cleanse takes effect, throttling his connection with his magic. Tiberius nods at Xavier. 

Xavier closes the door. It shuts with a faint click. 

Tiberius walks forward, flanked by Marcus, Seerah and Kaleb. Anders is distantly aware of Xavier behind him. He thinks, with an awful certainty, that he knows what’s about to happen. 

Suddenly, his fear is very far away. He feels as if he’s watching himself from a distance, as he’s done too many times before, in a different Circle, at another time.

Tiberius’ hand moves to the side of his head, twisting in his hair. His breath is hot on Anders’ chin. The others close in, surrounding him with a wall of bodies and metal. Tiberius laughs, and moves so close their noses are almost touching. He’s pulling Anders’ hair hard enough to hurt, and tears prickle uselessly at the corners of his eyes. Tiberius’ gaze is dark, and his voice is quiet as he smiles. His other hand moves down Anders’ body, fingers hooking into the belt at his hips.

“Now now now. Whatever shall we do with you?”

When they’re done, they leave him there, on the floor of the classroom. Anders presses his cheek to the stone, wet with tears and saliva and other things. He shuts his eyes, and shudders until he’s sick. He can barely find the strength to lift himself up onto his arms, and the rest of his body is one terrible burning ache. He feels scraped out and empty. He feels filthy, and every time he moves there’s something dripping, down his chin or over his thighs. He sobs, and lets himself fall forward back onto the ground. The torn mess of his robes does little to protect his modesty, not that there’s much point in that now. Anders curls his fingers against the stone, and squeezes his eyes shut, and presses his face into his arm and screams, and screams, and screams. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes. He thinks he sleeps. He can hear the distant murmur of voices, and it’s that - the idea of being found like this - that finally gives him the strength to move. Justice says nothing. He had returned at some point after the templars were done with him, fighting through the fog of their lyrium enhanced mockeries of magic. For a terrible moment, Anders had felt the spirit’s blank horror, and then there was only a blinding, infinite rage that had burned until he’d cried out for the pain of it. As soon as he did, it disappeared, shrinking into a spark. Justice hasn’t said a word since. Now, silently, magic washes into the base of Anders’ spine and below it, soothing his torn and bleeding body.

Anders shuts his eyes, and scrubs at his filthy face with his sleeves, trying to ignore the cum that flakes off onto the material as he does so, trying to ignore the way the taste of it lingers in his mouth every time he breathes. Instead, he holds his robes together as best he can and manages a brief wave of magic to clean the floor and desks they’d - Anders doesn’t think about it. He picks up his staff, and leans on it heavily as he limps in the direction of his bedroom, trying to ignore the curious looks of the few mages already awake as he walks down the wide, red rugs that spread like blood across the great stone halls of the Gallows. 

It feels as if it takes him a lifetime to reach his room. When he does, he collapses into his bed, too exhausted to do anything else. Mind blank with horror and shame and something like grief, Anders sleeps.

He wakes again three hours later to the sound of a knock on the door, and the scrape of metal on metal. Anders blinks, and their hands are on his hips, and they’re tearing at his clothes, and there are metal fingers squeezing his thighs, and there are teeth on his neck, and someone is groping at - he doesn’t realise he’s hyperventilating until the door is bursting open and Knight-Captain Cullen is there, standing over his bed. Anders vomits, and Cullen recoils. 

“Are you well, mage?” Anders wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He shakes his head. Cullen takes another step back. “I’ll fetch the healer. I take it you are not well enough to step out into the courtyard?” Anders shuts his eyes and thinks of Fenris, of the small smile on his face when Anders laughed, of the gentle touch of his hands. It’s been two weeks. He wants to see him so badly his chest aches. 

He can’t walk like this. 

He shakes his head, and tries to ignore the tears running down his cheeks and into the thin material of his pillow.  Cullen clears his throat. “Right. I’ll fetch Iolva.”

He leaves, and shuts the door behind him. Anders tries to move, and sobs as pain lances up his spine. His mouth tastes of sex and blood and bile. He fumbles for the cup on the washbasin by his bed and struggles to fill it with water from the jug, gargling it before he spits. The smell of the sick on the floor fills his nose, and he barely restrains the reflex to throw up again. He doesn’t know how long it takes for Iolva to come. He listens to the far off, rhythmic metal thump of the templars doing their drills, and shivers. 

( He’s pretty for a mage, isn’t he? I like his hair. Listen to the sound he makes when you pull it. )

“ Fenedhis lasa.” Iolva hisses when she arrives, and then she’s moving to his bed, her hands crackling with magic. “I will take the hearts from their chests and feed them to Fen’harel myself.” Anders smiles a little, and thinks of Fenris. The image is oddly reassuring. 

“Hey. Mind the vomit.” He gestures to the floor. Iolva tuts, and reaches out, pausing before she pushes his filthy hair back from his face. 

“What did they do to you, lethallin ?”

Anders shuts his eyes, and tries hard not to think of bodies, and pain, and someone moaning as he screamed. 

Iolva’s hand moves feather light over his head, gently brushing back his hair, as careful as a mother with a child. “Never mind. Tell me where it hurts.”

That night, there’s the familiar metallic sound of armoured footsteps outside the infirmary. Iolva sits up, and takes her staff from the wall. It’s an elegant, powerful thing made of silver wood. She holds it firmly as she moves to her door, standing between the bed in which Anders lies and the door to the corridor beyond. 

“Who goes there?” She asks, coldly. 

Anders tries to breathe around the ballooning panic in his throat. There’s a crunch of metal, and the soft sound of sliding leather as the templar removes their helmet. Miranda doesn’t smile, but Iolva’s shoulders lower. Miranda glances past her, at Anders, and nods at him. Anders looks away. He stares, instead, at the thin white curtains that hang between the beds, and tries not to imagine the shifting mists of the Fade.

Miranda’s voice echoes through the infirmary. “I thought it might be a good idea to provide some extra security. Given...everything.”

“Thank you, Miranda.” Iolva sounds sincere.

“Of course.” Miranda’s voice is fervent in her sincerity. Anders shuts his eyes, and ignores the tears trickling over the bridge of his nose. His hands are curled so tightly in the covers of his bed they hurt. It does nothing to ease his sense of helplessness.

There’s a faint metal click as Iolva shuts the door, and Anders’ stomach lurches. The sound is followed by soft footsteps, and then Iolva is standing over him. “I know you’re awake, da’len .”

With an effort, trying to ignore the blistering pain between his legs, Anders rolls over. He glances up at the door, through which there’s the broad and unmistakable silhouette of a templar in full armour. “Is she going to stay the night?”

Iolva sets her staff to lean beside her on the bed on which she sits. “I would appreciate the extra security.”

Anders meets her eyes. “There’s no such thing as a good templar.” When she doesn’t stop him, he continues. “There are just the ones who hurt you,” he glances at the door, and then back up to the elvhen woman in front him, “and the ones who watch.”

Iolva sighs, but her eyes are tired with an old, familiar anger. Anders imagines he is not her first patient, for injuries like these. And he will not be her last. “I know, lethallin . Sleep. You will need your strength.”

Anders is halfway to telling her he doesn’t think he can when she passes a hand over his forehead. He feels the soft blanket of unconsciousness pulled over him like old, warm furs. 

He sleeps.

Chapter Text

It’s been fifteen days. Fenris has been in the Gallows Courtyard since the early hours of the morning, and when Knight-Captain Cullen arrives, late, the man has the gall to look briefly irritated. Anders is nowhere to be seen. Fenris crosses the courtyard quickly, shaking the cold of the morning from his limbs as he does so. He’s five feet away from Cullen when the man holds up his hands, palms facing forward. It only reminds Fenris of the same gesture Anders had used to calm his patients, the one he no doubt used the night he was taken, a scenario that Fenris has by now imagined a hundred times and more. The thought makes him angrier. Surrender had afforded Anders no mercy from these people. Fenris would not grant it to them now. 

“He’s sick.” Cullen says, before Fenris can begin his tirade. It’s so utterly stupid that Fenris falters, and rocks back onto his heels.

“No, he isn’t.” He frowns at the Knight-Captain. The man is taller than him, broad and healthy and strong. Fenris is still fairly certain he could best him in combat, if it came to it. Over the past fortnight, the scenario has become a recurring daydream. On the back of his head, the Kirkwall sun beats hot and unrelenting. Around the corners of the courtyard, in the shadows, the mages shuffle like frightened halla. 

Cullen frowns back at him. “Yes, he is. I just saw him.” The man wrinkles his nose. “He vomited.”

Fenris had been forced to learn restraint, in his time serving Danarius. He thinks it is only that, now, which prevents him from punching the templar in front of him. “He was poisoned?”

“Uh, no? I think it’s a stomach flu, or something.” Cullen still looks confused. Fenris wonders how it’s possible that a man could have reached such a position of seniority in the templar order and still know so very little of the arcane arts.

“That’s not possible.”

Cullen blinks, and then folds his arms, stubborn and irritated as a small child who has not yet learnt the simplest facts of life and is determined to defend his ignorance. The sunlight glances off his armour. “Oh really.” His voice is flat and unimpressed. Fenris clenches his jaw.

“Yes, Knight-Captain. He’s a Spirit Healer. He cannot fall ill by natural means. So, either your Circle is subject to a particularly vicious arcane infection - which I find improbable, since you have chosen to quarantine neither yourself nor your charges - or Anders is not sick.” Fenris makes an effort to use as many short words as possible, and imagines himself beating Cullen over the head with them.

For his part, the Knight-Captain’s jaw slackens, and he rubs his chin with his gloved hand. “Huh.” He shrugs. “Whatever it is, Iolva will figure it out. The point is he’s not coming out today.” Cullen fixes him with a glare, as if Fenris is somehow the party in error here. “And probably not for a while. He didn’t look like he was in much state to stand.”

A thousand awful scenarios run through Fenris’ mind as he tries to imagine what’s actually occurring: something that would make Anders vomit, something about which he would lie to Cullen, something which would have him forsake the limited freedom he treasured so deeply. Something which left him unable to stand. 

Fenris wants to throw up. He can feel his tattoos burning, feels himself on the edge of igniting them and ripping this stupid, spineless man’s heart out of his chest. 

He can’t do that. 

He thinks about being a slave, and standing and bearing every humiliation brought down upon his head. His tattoos fade. He looks up and meets Cullen’s eyes, and tries to imagine the character of a man who either had so little idea of the behaviour of his subordinates that they were able to freely torture the charges under his protection, or else cared so little for those charges that he chose to let them. He’s not sure there’s much difference, in the end. Either way, they’re suffering. 

“Perhaps,” he says, spitting the word and wishing it was poison, “you should make an effort to keep a closer eye on the soldiers under your command, Knight-Captain. It strikes me that any abuses they might commit would, ultimately, be your responsibility. I cannot imagine that the injured parties would hesitate to include you in their vengeance.” It is all but a naked threat, and Fenris thinks Cullen hears that, because he unfolds his arms and adjusts his posture - standing so that he would be better able to strike. Fenris would be faster than him, he thinks, in all that heavy armour.

He spins and turns on his heel before he can do something that he does not think he will regret.

Fenris isn’t sure what instinct possesses him to visit the Chantry. Four years ago, it would have been a need for guidance: an instinct to seek comfort in the quiet, empty churches that had provided such shelter and reassurance for him in the first months and years after his escape from Tevinter, churches so different to those of the only country he’d ever known that he’d taken strength from their simple strangeness. The sisters in those churches had been hesitant with him, but then in those first months and years everybody had, and Fenris wasn’t sure that they were wrong to be. He was hurting and confused and angry, ready to strike any who so much as breathed the wrong way in his direction. He saw magisters and their soldiers around every shadowed corner. But once the sisters had got over their initial discomfort, they’d offered him advice and wisdom - had listened to his rambling tirades and given him scripture with which to guide himself. Meaningless platitudes, perhaps, but Fenris had never received even this much, and he’d treasured the scraps of parable and prophecy they’d seen fit to share with him. 

Ever since, he’d held a simple, sure faith in the Andrastian Chantry. It is a guiding light of strength and mercy for him, even in his darkest hours. He sees the robes of a Chantry sister and he trusts them. He expects peace and safety in a church. 

So it should be that, now, that leads his feet down the steps and away from the Gallows, towards the towering building of the Kirkwall Chantry.

But Fenris thinks, instead, that it’s anger. 

He steps through the mighty doors of the Chantry, feeling the cool wood of them beneath his fingers, and stares up at the distant ceiling. He thinks of the Gallows, imposing and mighty, looming over the Kirkwall skyline. He lets his hands fall away from the doors, and steps into the shadows of the church. The air is thick with the smell of melted wax and incense. Fenris breathes it in, and feels something at the base of his spine uncoil on instinct: remembering months of hunger and old bruises and sleeping under pews in the little churches the villagers of the Free Marches built for their prophet. He blinks as his eyes adjust from the bright, glaring light of the sun on white stone to the flickering, candle-lit shadows of the church. A few of the sisters look up as they enter, but they neither tense nor treat him with caution. Fenris has been a regular visitor to the Kirkwall Chantry ever since he’d arrived in the city, taking his first visit shortly after surviving Danarius’ first band of hunters, to ask whether he could trust the strange woman who’d helped him and asked for nothing in return. He thinks he recognises a few faces, now. 

He keeps walking, staring up at the towering gold statue of Andraste. She is beautiful and impassive, her fair features unchanging as she stares blindly out upon her city. Fenris wonders how she must feel, to see her people suffering. Candle-light flickers in the reflection of her golden robes. The soft hush of footsteps and quiet murmuring of voices barely breaks the blanket of silence that lies heavy and gentle over the church. It is the quiet respect of faith, and Fenris can feel something in him easing with it as he reaches the shallow steps that lead up onto the plinth on which Andraste stands. 

He trusts this place and these people. They have only ever given him advice and comfort. (He thinks of the Carta dwarf in Darktown, well that tells you all you need to know of what the Chantry thinks of our people then, doesn’t it? ) Fenris frowns. The Chantry helped those who helped themselves: he cannot, will not imagine that any one of the people he’d met and come to know in the Undercity would be turned away here. They had only to visit. The sisters would help them, as they had helped him, over and over again. They could not be so callous. They couldn’t be.

He climbs the shallow steps to the podium, the marble soft and cool under his bare feet. This close, his shoulder barely reaches Andraste’s golden ankle. He takes comfort in it, in how small it makes him feel. (He thinks of the mage, on his back in the shelter of the sand dunes, staring up at the starlit sky, there’s a comfort in knowing how small we are, in the context of the universe. It doesn’t care about us. It just exists.)

Fenris reaches the top of the steps, and sees the worn, gentle face of Grand Cleric Elthina. His shoulders lower. He knows this woman. He likes her. She’d never shown any of the fear that some of the younger sisters had, the first time he’d arrived here. She’d welcomed him, as she welcomed everyone, without hesitation into the light of Andraste. He needs her guidance now. 

Elthina smiles, and her features fold into a soft map of gentle creases. “Fenris. It’s been some time since your last visit. I was beginning to worry.”

Fenris bows his head, sincerely, before looking up to meet the kindness in her grey eyes. Their voices fall into the great empty space of the church and disappear, like snowflakes at midnight. “Grand Cleric. I have been...distracted.”

A touch of a frown wrinkles Elthina’s brow, and she moves to the balcony overlooking the church. “It sounds like you are in need of guidance. Come, let us speak.” She doesn’t wait for him to follow, doesn’t push him. Instead she moves alone, resting her arms on the smooth clean white marble stone of the balcony, looking out over the people in her care. Fenris hesitates, looking at her back, curved a little with age, and beyond her the great towering beauty of the church itself. He has always felt out of place here, unsure what to do in all this majesty. But neither Elthina nor the sisters have ever made him feel unwelcome. 

He joins her, standing a few feet away and staring down at an elf he thinks he recognises, kneeling next to a small stack of candles, melted together like rocks on a seashore. When he speaks, it’s halting. “I’ve been troubled of late, by doubts concerning the Chantry.” He makes himself look up at Elthina, and tries not to quail at the faintest shadow of a frown on her brow. He does not wish to displease her. “I hoped that you might ease them.”

Elthina inclines her head. “We are only mortal beings, child. It is in our nature to doubt. What is it that troubles you?”

Fenris frowns, staring at the flaming red hair of the elf kneeling on the floor below them. “It’s about the mages.” Elthina raises her eyebrows. Fenris had more than once found his way here, to complain of mages and their abuses, to ask why more could not be done to control them. It’s strange, now, to find himself asking different questions. He clenches his teeth and tries to gather his thoughts. “It’s not only the mages. It’s - the poor. The Undercity. Why don’t the sisters visit Darktown?”

It’s not the first question he wanted to ask, but Fenris can feel all of them crowding his mouth like a river, and his teeth are a dam that can barely keep them back. Elthina tilts her head to the side, and glances meaningfully at the greatsword on his back. “It is not safe for my children to venture into that part of Kirkwall. I am sure you can imagine why. It is already dangerous enough for them to visit Lowtown.”  

Fenris frowns, and resists the urge to point out that it was only dangerous for the wealthy to visit Lowtown: that if the sisters wore less expensive robes, carried less coin in their purses, they’d see that they weren’t bothered at all. Instead he asks, “But surely the templars could protect them?”

Elthina smiles at him, as if he is a child struggling to understand the complexities of the world. Fenris does not think that he is. “The templars must uphold their sacred duty to prevent the mages in their care from giving into temptation. I cannot request that they sacrifice that duty for the sake of our visiting the Undercity.”

Fenris’ frown deepens. She says the words as if he’s suggesting a shopping trip, a simple excursion. He thinks perhaps she has not understood his point, and searches her face as he attempts to clarify. “But it would not only be a visit. There are people in Darktown who are sick, starving. They need the aid of the Chantry.”

Elthina purses her lips. “You speak, perhaps, of the infamous Darktown Healer?” Fenris notices, for the first time, one of Vennah’s pamphlets sitting on the podium. He blinks, and stares. He hadn’t been, and the presence of Anders’ manifesto (a document he still has not yet found the courage to read) only adds to the conflict growing in his chest. This place used to be a place of simplicity: a way to untangle the confused lines of anger and pain in his heart. Now it seems to be the source of it. 

He swallows, and wets his lips. “No, I -”

Elthina cuts him off. “That man was a dangerous apostate. He was stopped, rightly, by the templars, before he could spread the infection of his disease any further through our city.”

“What?” Fenris doesn’t have the sense to be angry. He’s just confused. Elthina lifts her chin, and her eyes are blazing with what Fenris used to think was righteous fury and now looks terribly akin to petty irritation. 

“He was poisoning his patients. Cursing them with demonic temptation. He promised them lies of wealth and comfort. Have you seen how many more people have fallen to possession and abomination in recent years? Especially in the Undercity. Do you think that a renegade apostate attempting to incite senseless bloodshed with golden lies is irrelevant to this?” She gestures, suddenly, to the podium, and Fenris barely stops himself from flinching. “I have read his so-called manifesto. It is as convincing as the argument of any demon, calling on the simple temptations of rage and vengeance.” Suddenly her expression softens, and she looks at Fenris with something that he thinks is supposed to be kindness. He feels an almost irresistible urge to step back and away from her. “It’s alright, my child. None of us are impervious to temptation. But that man is a dangerous liar who seeks to lead us away from the light of Andraste.” She gestures up at the great, motionless statue towering above them. “Do not heed the words of a false prophet. That path leads only to oblivion.”

Fenris feels dizzy. He rests a hand on the heavy, cold, solid reality of the bannister behind him and shakes his head, trying to think. “No, I haven’t read it, Grand-Cleric.” For a brief moment, there’s something like surprise on Elthina’s face, and then her expression eases into an honest smile.

“I apologise, Fenris. I should have known that your faith would not be so easily shaken.” Fenris stares at her. Shaken by what? Knowledge? He thinks of The Book of Shartan, and the expression on Hawke’s face as she gave it to him. ( He was removed from the Chant of Light just before the Chantry’s ‘Exalted March’ against the Dales. Interesting timing, don’t you think? )

“It’s the mission of the Chantry to bring all people back into the Maker’s grace, by spreading the Chant of Light to every corner of the known world, and keeping the song and the fire burning without end.” Fenris doesn’t know why it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Elthina inclines her head, and he looks at her and wills her to see what he sees: what he cannot stop seeing, everywhere he goes. “But Grand-Cleric, I’ve never heard the Chant of Light in Darktown.”

“Then you must sing it.” Elthina says, calmly. Fenris thinks about Anders, and his clinic, and the safety and joy that it had provided for so many years to people who had so little else. He thinks of Leo, in Danarius’ mansion. ( He’d let us come and sit in the clinic if we were scared, even if we didn’t need healing. ) The Maker helped those who helped themselves.

“I follow the light of Andraste.” Fenris cannot make himself ignore the doubt in his voice. “But not everybody can. There are people who are hungry, who are hurt, who are unable to protect themselves. Surely it would be in the interest of Andraste and those who serve her to help those people come into her light by removing the obstacle of suffering?”

Something happens then. Elthina’s expression hardens, somehow, growing smooth and firm as the cold stone around her. When she speaks, it’s a warning. “Do not presume to know the will of Andraste, child.” 

Fenris frowns, trying to ignore the foolish stab of hurt in his chest. “I’m not. I’m asking you. Why do you let her people suffer?”

Elthina sighs, and it’s the sound of an exasperated school mistress. Fenris thinks it is meant to inspire shame or embarrassment in him and only finds himself irritated at such a transparent tactic of condescension. “I feared this day might come.”

Fenris’ frown deepens. “What day?”

Elthina turns to him, and the kindness is gone from her features. She lifts her chin, and for a moment Fenris can see in her the woman that she is: namely the most powerful person in Kirkwall. For one moment, she looks like a magister. “The elvhen stand further apart from the Maker’s light than even humanity. And you were raised in Tevinter, a land cursed by demons and corrupted teaching. It is only reasonable that you would fall, now, into the shadows of doubt.” 

Now Fenris does step back. It’s only half a step, more emotion than a real decision to move away, but he thinks he sees the very faintest hint of satisfaction in Elthina’s expression. He stares, and feels the heavy thump of his heart in his chest. He is good at cards. He is good at reading people. He has to be: he’d lived for most of his life endlessly searching for the least of any number of evils, trying to find the way to survive each day and every night that followed. Elthina has an excellent poker face. But it isn’t perfect. He shakes his head. 

“No, I’m not. Concern for the poor is neither unique to the elvhen nor an interest in Tevinter. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Elthina smiles. “It’s alright, Fenris. You are only an elf. It is difficult for your kind to find the Maker’s light. You are born in darkness by the nature of your birth, and the fight is harder for you to find your way to grace. But you can do it. You need only release these doubts and trust in the will of Andraste.”

Fenris’ face is growing hot, and he’s terribly, terribly conscious of the way his ears are burning in a way he hasn’t been since he was very young, and not yet desensitized to the disgust and fascination to which he was subjected by the humans around him. He takes another step back, and speaks without thinking. “What about Shartan? He was an elf. He fought at Andraste’s side. Was he also so far from the Maker’s light?”

In front of him, Elthina takes a step closer, and Fenris can feel the heat of a small mound of candles at his back. He feels abruptly trapped. “That is heresy, Fenris. You must know that.” She stops, and Fenris stares at her, and feels the rapid heaving of his chest. He chases, desperately, the comfort that he had found here so many times before. Elthina gestures broadly to the candles at his back. “It’s alright. You can make this stop. You can make it all go away.” 

Fenris looks at her, and holds onto the thin, splitting thread of the faith he has in her wisdom. “How?”

“Pass your hand through the flame. Let the light of Andraste wash you clean.” Elthina’s face flickers in the light and shadow of her church. Next to her, the great golden body of Andraste is still and unfeeling. Fenris stares at her. 

“You want me...to burn myself?” He thinks of Danarius. ( Kneel, little wolf. I will make you better. )

Elthina inclines her head, still smiling as if she were only chastising a naughty child. “We have ointments. It will not hurt for long. And it will help. I assure you.”

Fenris stares at her. He has heard of this. It is not an uncommon practice. First and most frequent is simply writing sins on paper that is ritually burned. He has done so himself a hundred times, ever since Varric had first taught him to write. Second, for more serious offences, passing one’s hand through a flame. After that, though he had hesitated to believe it, branding. This was one element of the mages’ Tranquility. A permanent mark of cleansing. And then, whispered among nervous faithful in tiny village churches about the mighty mysteries of Val Royeaux: self-immolation, for the most heinous of sins. (Though a part of Fenris had whispered then, and whispers now, how could that be the will of Andraste, if suicide was a sin in the eyes of the Maker?)

Fenris’ mouth is dry, and he adjusts his feet, standing firm and steady. He has fought far more frightening enemies than this. He has unlearned much deeper doctrine. If he can free himself of Tevinter, he does not need to obey the commands of a woman struggling to assert her power over him. “No.”

Elthina blinks. “I’m sorry?”

Fenris lifts his chin. “I said no.”

Elthina’s expression changes into one of sympathy, and now that he’s looking for it, Fenris can see the lie behind her facade - can see the disdain beneath the mask. “Oh my child. It is worse than I thought. Who has done this to you?”

Fenris curls his fingers at his sides. On the cathedral floor, the elf with red hair gets up at last from his prayers. Fenris does recognise him: one of the workers from The Blooming Rose. He looks up at Elthina. “No one, Grand Cleric.” He steps forward, and part of him is gratified when she steps back. Another is deeply, deeply ashamed that a woman he had so trusted could still be so afraid of him. “You speak of heresy. It strikes me that the greatest heresy of all would be to turn from those who needed you, to turn on them in their suffering, for the sake of your own petty human pride.”

Elthina maintains her mask of pitying condescension. Fenris takes some satisfaction from the effort it clearly takes her. “You are confused, child.”

Fenris huffs a laugh. “Maybe I am.” He steps away from her, and feels a sudden wave of relief as he does so, like a hand removed from his back. He glances up at the great, beautiful, unmoving face of the statue above them. “I trust in the wisdom of Andraste.” He looks down at the woman on the podium in front of him. Next to the statue, she seems terribly small. She is, after all, only human. “But I no longer trust in you.” He dips his head, mocking. “Goodbye, Grand Cleric.” He leaves without looking back, and tries to ignore the image of hounds snapping at his heels. 

It takes Fenris a few minutes to realise that he and the red-headed elf are moving in the same direction. The red-head apparently realises too, because he slows his pace and turns with a smile. “You’re one of those weirdos who hangs out with Hawke, right? Friend of the healer?”

Fenris hesitates, considers this, and decides that it’s not strictly inaccurate. “My name is Fenris. You work at the Rose?”

The man gives him a bright, pretty smile. “Jethann. You going to the Clinic?” 

Fenris raises his eyebrows, glancing briefly at the beautiful ivy covered buildings of Hightown. “I -”

Jethann’s smile grows mischievous. “You’re not exactly a regular. I figured you weren’t heading in this direction to avail yourself of our services.” He smirks. “Though there’s more than a few that’d give you a discount, for a face as pretty as that.” Jethann sighs as he walks, offering a small wave to a blushing human nobleman as he passes them. “Such a shame you’re a mercenary.”

Fenris tries not to think about hands pulling at his thighs. “It is the profession to which my skills are best suited.”

Jethann looks at him sidelong, and Fenris wonders what he sees on his face. After a moment he hums and shrugs. “Each to their own.” For a moment silence falls between them as they take a turn and begin to walk down the steps from Hightown to Lowtown. “How is he?” Jethann’s question is soft, and there are other people on the stairs, the light foot traffic of a day in Kirkwall. The stone is sun baked and warm under Fenris’ feet. 

Fenris doesn’t ask to which ‘he’ Jethann is referring. He watches a pickpocket at the base of the steps snag a coin purse from a city guardsman, and watches the guard notice the theft a moment later and give chase as the people of Lowtown step aside. Such things are not uncommon here, and they treat it as they would a mabari chasing pigeons. Next to him, Jethann snorts. His perfume smells of flowers and candied fruit. They get to the bottom of the stairs, and Fenris can feel the weight of Jethann’s eyes on him as they move towards the Undercity. 

“I have not seen him for fifteen days.” He tries to say the words as calmly as possible. He’s not sure that he succeeds. But then he supposes, in Jethann’s profession, one has to become skilled at reading the emotions that strangers might not be willing to share aloud. 

“Do you know why?” Jethann’s question is careful, gentle. Fenris frowns at his feet as they walk through the dusty streets of Lowtown, stepping between sunlight and the shade of the crowded buildings, breathing in the smell of manure and sunbaked stone.

“Apparently they thought I was colluding with him.”

Jethann giggles. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” 

Fenris shoots him a glare and Jethann holds up his hands, even as he rolls his eyes. “Seriously though, how’d you get out of that one? Templars aren’t usually inclined to take the testimony of us knife-ears.” He flicks his own, long ear as if to emphasise his point, and his grin grows crooked. “Well, not unless they’ve paid for a very specific scenario.” 

Fenris clears his throat, uninterested in what scenarios the many templars who frequented the Rose could possibly want from an elf. “Guard-Captain Aveline was willing to give testimony to my character.”

“Huh.” Jethann folds his arms behind his head as they step onto the lift to Darktown. A cluster of Coterie rogues glance their way, and Jethann gives them a flirtatious grin, arching his back so that his shirt pulls up and exposes the smooth, soft lines of his bare belly. “Guess it must be useful to have her in your pocket.” The lift comes to a stop with a heaving clunk, and they and their fellow passengers disembark. Fenris gives a nod to Hawke’s friend, the poison-seller, as they go. 

“She’s not in my pocket.” He says, offended despite himself on Aveline’s behalf. Jethann drops his arms and lets them swing loosely at his sides as they pass under the swinging wooden sign of The Flying Pig, and the familiar rat-shit and chokedamp smell of Darktown fills Fenris’ lungs.

“Whatever you say. So they’re punishing him?” A little of the carelessness disappears from Jethann’s voice as he asks the question, and Fenris nods to Sally, spreading out her Fereldan wares in front of her on her day off from the Clinic. Behind her, her toddlers push at each other mildly on a blanket in the dirt. Sally smiles at him. 

“They were. He was supposed to be allowed out today.”  Fenris feels Jethann’s clever blue eyes on him. 

“Supposed to be?” He asks, and there’s a hint of tension in his voice as they come up on the familiar rhythmic music of Roger Templeton’s smithy. Fenris gives the man a nod, and Marcus waves at him from further inside. 

“Knight-Captain Cullen says that he is unwell.” 

Jethann snorts, then falters when Fenris doesn’t share his humour. “But that’s a lie, right? His magic stops him getting sick. He said so.”

Fenris lets out a short sigh, and glances up to the right, at the broken walls of Darktown, and the cliffs of Kirkwall beyond them. “That is my understanding.”

They reach the top of the second staircase, and Jethann stops on the earthen landing, a few feet away from the small queue outside the clinic. “So what happened?”

Fenris tries to decide how to respond, and wishes he wasn’t responsible for the decision. Lyrium curves burning over his calf, and he tries to ease the pressure of it with the heel of his foot, staring down at his feet instead of meeting Jethann’s eyes. “He said he was sick. That he vomited, and couldn’t walk. I don’t know any more than that.” He doesn’t think he’s said anything particularly incriminating, but when he looks Jethann’s face has twisted into a look of rage that Fenris had honestly not imagined he could possess. 

He spits on the ground. “Blighted templars.”

Fenris watches him carefully. “Truly, I don’t know what happened to him.” And if it is what he suspects, he is not sure that Anders would wish anyone else to know. Jethann narrows his eyes, and for a moment he looks less like the playful sex worker he pretends to be and more like a man who has weathered a great many torments, and knows he will survive many more.

“There’s only so many times you can play the naughty mage for a templar without figuring out exactly how their blighted Circle works.” Jethann scowls. “They love it when you beg them to stop.” His slender, manicured hands curl into fists at his sides, and he frowns at the queue of people outside the clinic’s doors. “We all had an idea.” He hesitates, and a muscle in the corner of his jaw twitches. “You get to know the look. And he understood. When a client had been a bit - when we had to call him. He understood in a way other people just,” Jethann stops himself. He purses his lips. “He doesn’t deserve this shit.” 

Fenris frowns and finds himself stepping forward, wondering what in the Void he’s doing. “I do not think anybody does.”

Jethann recoils, familiar insult falling into his posture as he does so. “Look, if you’re going to tell me I need ‘saving’, messere -”

Fenris frowns and shakes his head. “No, I have no issue with your services when they are freely given.” He pauses, and offers Jethann a small smile, “or at least given for a competitive fee.” Jethann snorts, and Fenris feels his smile settle into something a little more sincere before it falls. “But it should not be performed under threat of violence. That is - I do not think it should be done in fear.”

Jethann’s expression softens. “The healer teach you that?”

Fenris shakes his head, thinking of the first months after his escape, and a kind, rough-handed human man with gentle brown eyes and coarse black hair. For a long time, he had only seen sex as he had known it in Tevinter, as an act of violence and degradation. He had expected that,from the farmer who’d courted him during his time in the wilds of the Free Marches. He had not known what to do when he had only been kind. But the man had shown him, in deeds and words that asked for no more than he was willing to give. Fenris had left without saying goodbye, and hoped he would understand. He had not engaged in such intimacy often, after that. But he had learned how to be comfortable with it. He had even enjoyed it. It was something which he had hoped he might share with the mage, before his imprisonment: the simple language of touch, and love for the sake of loving. The image of it still haunts his dreams. He does not know what to do with it now.

Fenris clears his throat. “No, he didn’t. But I think it is something on which we agree.”

Jethann smiles, and nods. “You probably do.”

Fenris is going to respond - he is struck, suddenly, by the image of himself speaking to a sex worker with something like kinship, when he feels the sharp familiar pull of magic on his tattoos. He whirls, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and stares at the queue outside the clinic. None of them look afraid, but that only suggests that the magic has been performed in secret, which arguably makes it more dangerous than any flashy show of power. He’s moving before he has the chance to think, pushing through the crowd to get to the clinic proper, a hundred situations running through his head. Some rogue apostate or worse, slaver mage, taking advantage of Anders’ clinic as a place of sanctuary to seed exactly the kind of corrupting influence of which Elthina had accused him. It is this, somehow, that makes Fenris angrier than anything else: the idea that some cowardly fool might substantiate the lies hurled against Anders’ name, and all the good work he’d done here. 

He bursts into the clinic without ceremony, and stumbles to a halt. Hawke looks up from where she is carefully stitching a stomach wound on an unconscious dwarven man. “Oh, hey Fenris.” She smiles a little at his open mouthed expression. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think I might be the one who gave him this injury.” She frowns. “I feel like I’m defeating myself.”

Next to her, in the middle of the room, is Merrill. Her hands are glowing with the green light of her magic, and there’s a stack of books on the table beside her. Her brow is wrinkled in a frown as she squints at the pages. Fenris can make out, just, a detailed sketch of a human body. Sitting on the cot in front of her is a very nervous looking human man. “Right, ok. So if I just do this.” She moves her hand. The man makes a soft sound of pain, and Merrill flinches. “Sorry, sorry, wrong wiggly bit. Creators but Anders made this look easy, didn’t he?” Fenris isn’t sure to whom she’s directing the question. Hawke, on her side of the clinic, is carefully tying off her stitching and cutting the thread. Merrill moves her hand again, and the man in front of her relaxes. She beams, and wipes sweat from the back of her forehead with the back of her hand, hands still glimmering with magic. “There! All better.”

The man gets up and away from the cot like a kicked cat. Fenris watches him flee, even as Hawke calls to Merrill before she tends to her next patient, “Wash your hands!”

The woman herself has her elbows rolled up, and is scrubbing at her hands in the basin beside her, drying them with a towel before she gestures to the next patient. It’s a young elvhen girl who looks between the armoured human rogue and the Dalish mage and apparently decides on the lesser of two evils, moving to Hawke’s side. Merrill doesn’t seem to notice, flipping as she is through one of the several books she has on the table in front of her. Fenris thinks he recognises them from his sporadic visits with Hawke to Merrill’s home.

“What are you doing?” He asks, not quite conscious of when exactly he’d crossed the space of the clinic to stand beside her. The familiar bitter smell of herbs fills his lungs. Merrill looks up at him, not apparently perturbed as she waves a human girl forwards: Fenris recognises Kate Baker, and frowns at the fingerprint bruises on her arms.

“I’m helping.” Merrill says to him, and then her eyes widen. “Oh, right. Domnall, can you get Fenris’ potions please?” On the other side of the clinic, the elf in question - long black hair tied back into a neat ponytail - gives Fenris a friendly wave and nods at Merrill, stepping to the back of the clinic whilst Merrill turns to Kate Baker. “Hello da’len . What seems to be the problem?”

Kate shifts uncomfortably, and Fenris realises abruptly that he’s interfering. He steps back, and her eyes widen in something like fear. Merrill follows her gaze, and if she’s hurt by the fact that the child is afraid to be alone with her, she doesn’t show it. Instead she asks, gently, “Would you like Fenris to stay?”

Kate nods, and Fenris steps forward, awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I will not leave you. Your name is Kate, yes?”

Kate nods. Fenris frowns a little. “Did your mother do this to you?” He gestures to the bruises on her arms. Kate bites her lip, and blinks, and her eyes begin to shine with tears as if she were a child half her age. 

“I’ve been having trouble, Messere Elf, controlling the magic.” Even as she speaks, orange sparks dance around her fingers. Next to him, Merrill’s eyes widen a little with understanding. Fenris thinks he should be scared of the teenager in front of him. He isn’t. “Ever since they took the healer.” Kate takes in a deep breath, and her skinny chest swells with it. “I just get so frightened , and it, just, jumps out.” She blinks, and there are tears running down her cheeks. Fenris feels suddenly profoundly uncomfortable. “Please Messere Elf, I don’t want to be a demon.”

“Oh little lamb, it’s alright. Come on, I have a few breathing exercises you can do.” Merrill gestures to an unoccupied corner of the clinic. Kate hesitates, looking up at Fenris, and he feels Merrill’s eyes on him too. 

“Merrill will not harm you.” He says, stiffly, half disbelieving that he’s saying it. “You can trust her.” 

Merrill gives him a wide, toothy grin that tells Fenris he will not be hearing the end of this any time soon, and hurries away from her station with a little too much eagerness, throwing a quick request over her shoulder as she goes, “Could you cover for me for a bit?”

Fenris stares at the table in front of him and the queue of people at the door. An elvhen man sneezes. He sighs, and takes off his gauntlets, setting his sword on the table behind him and methodically washing his hands. As he dries them, he looks up at the small crowd in front of him, and the yellow light of the midday sun beyond them, filtering through the broken walls of Darktown. “Who’s next?”

The day passes peacefully enough. Merrill heals with magic what they cannot treat without it, and whilst it’s clear that she finds the process both difficult and confusing, it’s also clear that the people of Darktown are relieved to once again have a magical healer in their midst. Between Merrill, Domnall and Fenris, the clinic sees far more elvhen patients than it usually does. A shy woman Fenris has never seen before with deep black hair carefully ushers her children into the room, glancing about for the exits, and one of the little ones stares up at Merrill in gap-toothed awe. “Are those vallaslin?” Fenris thinks he can feel the force of Merrill’s delight from the other side of the clinic, and catches Hawke grinning at her hands as she folds away a roll of bandages. Merrill spends the rest of the day chattering about Dalish culture to anyone who will listen, and earns a steady stream of elvhen patients for her trouble. Fenris has often seen the woman happy, it seemed it took little to please her, but it’s more than that now: she looks confident, comfortable. It occurs to him that as someone raised to be a Keeper from childhood, Merrill was much more accustomed to the position of teacher than outsider. 

By the time the hour comes for them to close the clinic, Domnall has already left, offering them a quick farewell and telling Merrill politely that he would see her in the alienage. Merrill had smiled so widely Fenris was sure the expression must have hurt, flushed with pleasure. 

On the other side of the room, Hawke crouches to scratch the great ruff of her mabari’s neck, finished at last with her patients for the day. Finally, they’re alone. Hawke puts out the lantern, and Fenris helps her shut the light thin wood of the clinic’s doors. Merrill busies herself with tidying the things they’d used, before picking up a small satchel that chinks with glass when she moves it. 

“Here, they’re your potions. I think I’ve figured out the recipe, so you should go back to taking them daily. Alright?” 

Fenris takes the satchel and raises his eyebrows at her. “Why are you doing this?”

Merrill, who’s busy trying to pick up a stack of books nearly as tall as her torso, doesn’t look up at him. Hawke leaves his side with a soft laugh, carefully taking half the stack from Merrill’s arms. Merrill grins at her, gratefully, cheeks brushed pink with a blush. Fenris doesn’t blame her. He’s fairly certain that all of them had been a little in love with Hawke at one point or another. He knows that he had.

“What do you mean?”

Fenris tears himself from his thoughts, and tries not to consider what it means that his mind goes to blonde and copper hair and light brown eyes. “You are not skilled in this school of magic.” 

“Ouch.” Merrill replies good-naturedly, as Hawke easily slides the doors open a little with one hand and ushers her mabari out in front of her. 

Fenris frowns. “I do not mean it as an insult. Only that you are skilled in other magics. Certain…’culturally different’ schools, in particular.” It is as polite as he has ever been about the witch’s blood magic, and Fenris tries to ignore the way that Hawke is raising her eyebrows at him. Far off, in the tunnels, there’s the sound of a fiddler playing their tune into the night. 

Merrill shrugs awkwardly around the heavy books in her arms. “Well, Anders wouldn’t like that, would he? It’s not like I can only use one school of magic. Though Creation magic is tricky, you would not believe how many bits and pieces there are inside the human body. In every body? Every time I think I’ve got it I realise I’ve missed something.”

“Not words that fill me with confidence, Merrill.” Hawke laughs, whistling for Dog whilst Fenris shuts the clinic doors behind him and swings the satchel heavy with potions over his shoulder. 

Merrill flushes. “I mean, I think I’ve got it. But you can’t learn a new school of magic overnight. It would be like me asking Fenris to master the longbow.”

“I can use a longbow.” Fenris responds, without really thinking, as the three of them and Hawke’s mabari begin to walk up out of Darktown. Merrill rolls her eyes.

“Alright, but that doesn’t count. You’re good at everything.” Fenris raises an eyebrow at her. “At least as far as weapons are concerned!” She frowns, pursing her lips as she considers it. “Ok, maybe it’s more like learning another language. Every school works differently, has its own distinct tricks and eccentricities. I use primal, elemental, entropic and blood magic. Creation doesn’t have much in common with any of those. It’s like learning to speak Common and Rivaini and Tevene, and then trying to use that to understand Qunlat.”

Ahead of them, Hawke steps around a suspicious smelling patch of damp on the earth. Fenris and Merrill follow her lead. “For the record, I stopped following this analogy about five minutes ago.” She calls, her voice bouncing off the low rafters of Darktown.

Fenris frowns. “No, I think I understand. What schools did the m - did Anders use?”

Merrill brightens, apparently enjoying the opportunity for a lesson. Fenris tries not to find it endearing. “Well, elemental - like me, but also spirit,” she grins, “obviously, spirit healing, creation, and arcane! Which makes sense, since he was raised in the Circle. Arcane is sort of a classic school for academic mages. Just like primal is classic for the Dalish.” Her smile widens, and Fenris thinks of her small body surrounded by columns of lightning, scorching the earth around her. He raises his eyebrows. 

“It is not a peaceful school.” 

Merrill shrugs, awkwardly for the books in her arms, and they pass back under the sign for The Flying Pig. The smell of weak ale and cheap wine filters onto the street, over the sound of loud voices and laughter. “Well, no more or less than nature itself. A hurricane doesn’t want to hurt you, not really. It just exists. Understanding the natural world is important to my people, and the primal school of magic lets me grow closer to the earth.” Her expression softens. “It’s like...communion.”

Fenris nods, not sure that he’s convinced, but not unable to see her point, either. Together they step onto the lift to Darktown, Hawke giving a two-fingered salute to the poison-seller packing away his wares. On the lift itself, more than a few passengers give Hawke’s mabari a wide berth. She grins at them. Together, they come up into the light, and Fenris takes a deep breath of the sea-touched fresh air of Kirkwall. The potions in his satchel clink, and more than one curious face turns in his direction. He touches the satchel a little self-consciously, reassuring himself it’s still there. 

“What was the recipe?” At Merrill’s questioning look, he clarifies as they begin to walk through the streets of Lowtown. “For the potions.”

Merrill’s eyes widen, and Hawke calls a greeting to one of the guardsmen patrolling the darkening streets. “Did Anders not tell you?”

Fenris frowns, and wishes that he wasn’t suddenly afraid. “Did he not tell me what?”

Merrill hesitates, glancing at Hawke’s broad back before she looks back at Fenris. Fenris’ frown deepens and she shakes her head, uncurling her fingers around the stack of books in her arms as if to wave away his worry. “No it’s nothing bad, it’s just. Mythal, I think he’s really in love with you.” Fenris stares at her, and tries to ignore the way his face is flushing as they turn towards the alienage.

“What are you talking about?”

Merrill gives him a small, sad smile as they walk down the steps into the alienage, beneath the great curling branches of the Vhenadahl. “Well it’s a pretty simple tincture, elfroot, spindleweed, everything you’d expect. So it took me a while to figure out what it was missing.” She stops, and the dappled light of evening falls through the branches of the tree above her as she looks up at him. “It’s ambrosia. The key ingredient.” She smiles a little, as if Fenris hadn’t stopped breathing, as if he could hear anything other than the blood suddenly rushing in his ears. “It must have cost him a small fortune to make those. He never told you, did he?”

Fenris goes to reply, but Hawke interrupts them, standing outside Merrill’s home. “Merrill! Door, please?”

Merrill hurries over, fishing a key from her pocket (it had been Varric, of course, who had finally convinced her to install locks), and unlocks the door. She and Hawke walk inside with her books. Fenris doesn’t move. He stares at the flickering candles at the base of the Vhenadahl, and the rich textured red and white paint that spirals over its bark, painted with careful love despite the filth of the slum in which it stood. Far away, he can hear the sea. His hand tightens around the strap of the satchel on his shoulder. The ache of his tattoos is dull, and muted, as it never had been before. The wind whispers through the leaves of the tree above him. Fenris is as free as he has never been: of his pain, of Hadriana, of Danarius. He feels a thousand possibilities unfolding before him, a million possible paths.

So why is it that the only one he wants to follow is that which may lead to another prison, and a life on the run from different masters? Fenris stares at the Vhenadahl, and holds the heavy satchel in his arms, and wonders whether this is what the poets mean when they say that love is blind.

He is broken from his thoughts by Varric, walking comfortably down the steps into the alienage. “Thought I might find you here, Broody. Where are Hawke and Daisy?” Fenris clears his throat and gestures to Merrill’s home. Varric raises his eyebrows, coming to a stop in front of him. “More to the point, who pissed in your porridge? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Fenris blinks and shakes his head, trying to clear it. “No, it’s nothing. I must -”

Varric stops him. “Go? Yeah, I don’t think so. You’re going to want to be here for this.” Fenris frowns. Varric was not in the habit of telling him to do anything. He’s about to ask where this is coming from when the dwarf grins at him, sharp and clever and full of mischief. “I’ve got a plan to rescue Blondie.”

Behind them, Hawke steps back outside. “About damn time.”

Varric grins at her, and turns back to Fenris. “We’re debriefing at The Hanged Man. You coming?”

Fenris adjusts the satchel on his shoulder, and offers the dwarf half a smile. “Do you even need to ask?”

Varric laughs, a rasping chuckle of a thing, and Hawke’s mabari barks. Above them, the branches of the Vhenadahl creak in a light wind. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Chapter Text

This chapter contains this story's second and last reference to sexual abuse. As before, it will be divided from the rest of the chapter with *** - please be safe, and do not read if it will make you uncomfortable.

***

Two weeks later, Anders is released from Iolva’s infirmary. He has one night of peace, in which he ignores Huw’s confusion, Alice and Philippe’s knowing looks and Lacey’s wide, frightened eyes.

On the second night, there’s the sound of armoured footsteps outside of his door, followed by a heavy knock. Anders sits up in bed, wincing at phantom pain and the ghosts of hands on his hips. He stares at the door, and feels his heart beating fast and hard as a cornered halla. The handle twists, and Kaleb steps inside. He’s not as tall as Anders, but broader, with long black hair, a neatly groomed beard, fair skin and brown eyes. He shuts the door behind him. 

“Good evening, mage.” The man’s voice is touched with an aristocratic sneer. Like Marcus, he’d come from noble birth. Unfortunately, he’s significantly less stupid. Marcus likes to hit things till they scream. Kaleb likes to get clever with it. Anders knows which he prefers.

He tries to breathe. “What are you doing here?”

Kaleb tuts, moving to sit beside him on the bed. Anders flinches away, and tries desperately to control the blistering heat of Justice in his head. His friend had been...changed, lately, ever since the incident with Tiberius and his patrol. Anders could feel him twisting, and is half amazed that he had so often doubted whether he would feel the transformation: it is both blisteringly painful and impossible to ignore. Justice is becoming a demon. He is fighting it, but he is losing, unable to comprehend the things that have been done to his host, and unable to control his anger in response to them. Anders glances down at his hand, splitting with orange light that burns like acid. He moves it under his blankets, and glances at his staff on the wall. Even if Kaleb uses a Cleanse, he still might stand a chance. He’s good with a staff. Nate had helped him learn, after he had explained to him once the helplessness he’d felt under the onslaught of a templar. He could escape: run to the library, perhaps, or to Orsino.

Kaleb follows his gaze and gives Anders a slow parody of a gentle smile. Outside his room, the corridors are quiet, the silence broken only occasionally by the steady metal thump of a templar patrolling the stone halls. “He’s a sweet kid, isn’t he?” 

Anders frowns, and feels Justice - Vengeance - rising at the back of his throat like bile. “Who?”

Kaleb sits back, moving his hand towards Anders. Anders flinches away. The stone wall is cold at his back. “Your neighbour, Huw. Apparently they found him on the border with Nevarra, in the Anderfels. That’s where you’re from, right?” Anders thinks of rolling green hills and wide, sweet fields of wheat. He tries very hard not to cry. 

“What’s your point?”

Kaleb moves, turning to him, and Anders presses further back against the wall, even as he tastes the man’s breath falling over his face, stinking of alcohol. Orange cracks spread up his arms. Somewhere in the back of his head, Justice is roaring. Kaleb tilts his head, meeting Anders’ eyes. “You’ve got a choice, mage. Either you do exactly as I ask, or me and the others go and introduce ourselves to that cute little kid the way we introduced ourselves to you in that classroom.” The cracks spread past his elbows. Anders tries to breathe. 

“You’re sick.”

Kaleb pouts, and moves closer. Anders can feel his body shaking and hates himself for it. “That hurts my feelings.” His eyes fall to Anders’ lips, and he looks back up, smiling the smile of a man who already knows that he’s won. “So?”

Anders can feel the violent anger of Justice, or Vengeance, or whatever he’s becoming burning into his flesh, twisting his sinews with the force of it. Justice, and no small part of him, wants to say no. He wants to lash out, and fight, and tear this man’s throat out with his teeth. He wants to be sure that he will never do this to anyone again. 

But then what? He would be subdued by templars and the Enchanters loyal to them. He’d be taken away for his punishment, killed or made Tranquil or just flogged again. And the others would go to Huw, as they’d come to him, and they’d hurt him, as they’d hurt Anders, and there would be no one there to protect him. Huw was twelve years old. Anders had been fourteen, the first time. 

He shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He hears the low sound of Kaleb’s laughter as he moves, the rasping hiss of his armour on the blankets and the creaking groan of the bed. A cold, gauntleted hand slips under the loose material of his bed-shirt and squeezes his waist. Anders shivers. He opens his eyes. “Alright. Just, don’t hurt him.”

Kaleb grins, and his teeth are white and neat and even in the dark as only the teeth of the wealthy could be. His hand tightens around Anders’ belly and there’s a dull shock as he casts a Cleanse, anyway. The orange cracks disappear from Anders’ arms, and Justice’s screaming is abruptly silenced in his mind. It’s almost a relief. Kaleb leans forward, and Anders’ head bumps against the wall as he kisses him, tasting of ale and lyrium, his beard chafing against Anders’ chin. Anders lets him, feeling his body go limp. Kaleb pulls back and lifts a hand to Anders’ head, the metal on his gauntlet catching in his hair. “Now. Be a good little mage.”

Anders shuts his eyes. “Yes, messere.”

***

“So if you cast the cloud in a ten foot radius then it’ll effectively reduce the strength of enemy combatants by twenty-five percent, but then that’s cubed, which, multiplies the effect? Surely it would dilute it.” Anders can feel a headache coming on. He’s not sure whether it’s whatever corruption is happening to Justice, the vastly reduced amount of sleep he’s been getting ever since Kaleb and his friends had begun taking it in turns to pay him nightly visits, or just the sheer quantity of maths that Entropic magic requires. This is exactly why he had never wanted to learn Force magic. Anders is a good student and a man of decent intelligence. But numbers had never been an element of academia that were interested in cooperating with him. Across from him, sitting on the other chair beside the fire, Philippe frowns. 

“It depends entirely on the volume of gas in the room. Ideally we want it to spread as far as possible, even one particle of the cloud will have the desired effect. So it’s less about concentrating it in one area and more about ensuring that it is at the perfect concentration in any given casting.” The man’s Orlesian accent is soft and lilting, and he speaks a little more quickly when he’s engaged with his subject. Anders would enjoy it far more if it weren’t for the fact that the subject at hand was far from his speciality.

He squints at Philippe over the flickering light of the fire. “And what exactly do you need me for again? Surely you’d be better off with Anthony, or Zavhel? Arcane magic and Force magic have far more in common with Entropic than Spirit Healing.” 

Philippe shrugs, the movement small and hesitant on his broad shoulders. “In its mathematical aspects, yes, but Entropy ultimately draws from the Fade.” 

Anders massages his temples. “Philippe, all magic draws from the Fade. And honestly, I’ve never been good with Entropy. If there’s a reason you’re keeping me captive after the twenty-second bell, I’d love to hear it.” Around them, the shelves of the library tower, vast and silent and full of secrets. The templar of the day will be arriving at his bedroom soon. Anders doesn’t want to think about what will happen if he isn’t there. 

Philippe looks down at the small stack of books on the table between them. “I know about your visitors.” 

Anders feels something cold settle in his gut, even as his face flushes, and he’s abruptly glad for the shadows. He tosses his head, trying to cover his humiliation with false irreverence. “What can I say? I’m a whore. Listen, if all of this was a ploy to tell me to keep it down then you could have just asked.”

Philippe doesn’t look amused. Instead he sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and meets Anders’ eyes. Anders looks away. “They are abusing you.” He says the words very softly. Anders shrinks into the padded cloth of his chair. 

“Give the man a prize, he’s identified the bleeding obvious.”

Philippe sighs, once, shortly. “Anders -”

Anders looks at him and feels like he’s fifteen all over again, arguing with the Senior Enchanters about why he had the right to break that templar’s stupid nose. “So what? I don’t know if you’d noticed whilst you were busy playing goody two-shoes, Philippe, but they’re abusing all of us. This whole blighted place is a prison. They just made it up to look like a school.” He doesn’t raise his voice, he’s not stupid enough for that. But the words hiss as he says them, bitter with stupid, helpless, rage. 

Philippe looks down at his long, dark hands for a moment. “Do you know why I chose to learn Entropic magic?”

Anders frowns, torn briefly out of his building frustration by confusion. “What?”

Philippe glances up, past the shelves towards the wide corridor that leads away to the classrooms. The fire snaps and spits in the grate. “It is because it scares them.”

“Who? The templars?” Anders doesn’t make an effort to hide his incredulity, and Philippe’s smile is bright in the shadows. 

“Quite so. It is one of the more chaotic forms of magic. It plays with the horrors of the Fade. They fear me, though they will not admit it. They think that if they were to use me, in the way they have abused you, they would go mad, or become diseased, or worse.” Philippe sighs, and folds his hands in his lap. “It was my armour. You must find yours. They think you weak, because you heal.” Anders opens his mouth to protest, and Philippe stops him. “Whether or not it is true. You must find a way to escape them, as I have.”

Distantly, the twenty-third bell begins to toll. Anders feels fear run down his spine even as Justice’s rage rises to meet it. He’s going to be late. He gets to his feet. “I have to go.”

Philippe gets up as well, and moves to stand between Anders and the corridor. “Stay.”

Anders frowns and pushes past him, trying to ignore the fire burning under his skin. “No.”

He starts to walk away, increasing his pace as he goes, wondering whether he should check Huw’s room first. 

“He is safe.” Philippe calls after him, softly. Anders stops with one foot raised over the red carpet that spreads across the stone floor of the library like blood in the darkness. He looks back at the tall, dark man behind him. 

“What?”

“You need not go to them. Not tonight. Please, Anders. Sit with me a while longer.” Anders hesitates, feeling the heavy beat of his heart in the back of his throat and the shiver of adrenaline down his spine. He glances up at the distant, dark ceilings of the Gallows, and wishes he could see the stars. 

“How do you know?” His voice is hushed and urgent. Even as he asks the question he checks the hall again for the tell-tale gleam of a stray templar, ears straining for the sound of metal on stone. 

Philippe steps closer, palms held face forward as if Anders were a frightened animal. “He is with Iolva.” Philippe’s mouth softens into a rueful smile. “I gave him a mild flu. He’ll be fine.” Anders stares at him, and Philippe’s expression gentles. He lowers his hands, turning one and holding it out into the space between them. “Sit with me. Tell me of the Anderfels. It is a region to which I have never been.”

Anders feels his hesitation weighing on him like an anchor, dragging him down to a place where he cannot breathe. He does not want to go to them. Not again.

With an effort, Anders takes Philippe’s hand. It’s warm and soft. It feels like coming up for air. Anders swallows, and doesn’t thank him. Philippe’s hand squeezes his, once, briefly before he lets go. Anders follows him back to the chairs that they’d pulled closer to the fire, earlier, when Philippe had invited him to aid him in his studies. The fire pops and crackles. Anders sits, gingerly, and passes a hand through his hair. Philippe watches him patiently, politely, waiting for him to begin.

Anders takes a deep breath, and thinks of dizzying blue sky. “I mean, I think it’s the most beautiful place in the world. But that’s probably the lens of childhood speaking. What I remember the most are the fields: wide and sweet and golden, stretching as far as the eye could see.”

Thirty-two days after he’d been banned from the courtyard, Anders sees Fenris again. It feels like coming home. The elf in question is leaning against a wall near the steps that lead out of the courtyard to the rest of the city, next to two stall holders selling their wares. One of them, a dwarf with a white beard and dark skin, looks up across the square in Anders’ direction and turns to Fenris, saying something. Fenris’ head snaps up, and even across the courtyard Anders feels the moment he meets his eyes. Something that had settled sharp and jagged at the base of his spine ever since he’d been locked back inside eases, and he realises he’s taken a step forwards without thinking. Anders hesitates, feeling his heart in his throat. He glances back over his shoulder at Miranda. Her helmet gives away nothing, but she shepherds him under the shadow of the stone awning hanging over the sides of the courtyard in Fenris’ direction. When she speaks, her voice is even, “Would you like to see your patient, Anders?”

Anders can’t find a way to speak. He just nods. Fenris had begun to move when they had and he meets them halfway, one side of his dark face turned bronze by the sun, the other dim in the shadows but for the soft, eerie glow over the lyrium that curls over his features. For a moment, they just stare at one another. Anders thinks that he has never seen anyone or anything more beautiful than the man standing in front of him. He wants to run away. He wants to fall into his arms, and forget that they’d ever been apart. He just wants to touch him. Far away, the sea crashes against the cliffs of Kirkwall. 

Fenris speaks first, voice soft and hushed in the cool shadow of the morning. “Healer.” There’s an affection to the word now, a way his voice curls around the syllables with something like reverence. Something like care. Anders tries not to flinch away from it, tries not to think of cold stone under his knees and fingers in his mouth. Fenris looks at him like he’s something precious. Anders just feels dirty.

He looks away, at the distant jagged rooftops of Kirkwall, stabbing up into the wide blue sky like a mouthful of broken teeth. He wonders if he could make out The Hanged Man from here. 

Fenris steps forward, and his bare feet on the stone are almost silent, but his armour creaks. “Are you well?” Anders thinks that anyone who didn’t know the man in front of him would think the words were spoken calmly. As it is, he can hear the fervency of them. He can almost feel the tension of the restraint with which they’re said, can only imagine at the strength such restraint demands. He gives Fenris a small, exhausted smile. 

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t ask Miranda to give them space. He’s too conscious of the other templars in the courtyard. Seerah is here, and Xavier. They are on the other side of the stone pen. Thrask is out too, so that’s something. It isn’t much. He tries to meet Fenris’ eyes, and can’t quite do it, glancing instead at the slender curve of his ears as they slip through his hair. “How’s the pain?”

Fenris frowns, looking between him and Miranda, but he clears his throat and humors him. “Four, most days. I - a woman from the alienage,” Merrill , he doesn’t say, and Anders is glad of it as Fenris continues, “gave me some more of the potions.” Fenris pauses, and tries to meet his eyes. “I know why you called them Gold Dust, now.”

Anders’ mouth curls into a more honest smile, despite the bruised ache of his heart. He can’t stop looking at the thin blue line of the ocean on the horizon beyond the city. He thinks of being a younger man, and jumping into the cold waters of Lake Calenhad, laughing at the shocking freedom of the thing even as he began to swim. He wonders if Isabela would let him go with her on her ship, just to cross the boundary of that horizon and taste the liberty it promises him.

In front of him, Fenris huffs, and gives him a smile. “Had you ever intended to tell me?”

Anders shrugs, and feels the way Fenris watches his body for any sign of injury. There are none, now, and he catches Fenris’ confusion as he realises as much. He can almost read the questions running through his mind: why he would seem so much unhappier now, unharmed, than he had been when he was flogged and beaten. Fenris is a very intelligent man, but Anders hopes he doesn’t figure it out. At least not until he’s gone, and Anders doesn’t have to see it on his face. He doesn’t think he can handle his pity. Not when he would leave him here, after. 

“I figured we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.” He hadn’t. He hadn’t planned to tell Fenris at all. When he’d first brewed the potions, it had only been an issue of necessity. Ambrosia was what made it work, so Ambrosia was what he needed. He’d asked Jas to help him secure some of the stuff, and used the coin Hawke shared from her adventures to buy it. At the time he and Fenris had barely been acquaintances, tentatively approaching something like friendship. Anders had no interest in holding the expense of his remedy over his head, and had decided to keep it to himself. As they grew closer, he’d taken a quiet satisfaction in brewing the things, knowing the secret gift he was giving him. It had felt good to do such a thing without asking for thanks or recompense. And if he had occasionally wondered what might happen if Fenris found out, in those last weeks of freedom? If he’d dreamed of a handsome elf knocking on his door with a lovestruck expression fit for one of Varric’s serials? Well, the only person who knew about that was Justice, and the spirit had been too confused by it to linger on it for long. 

This, though? Sharing it now, under the eyes of a templar, wearing the robes of Kirkwall’s damned Circle, conscious of his abusers and their attentions and the damnably incessant movement of time drawing his precious moments in daylight to a close? This wasn’t how Anders had imagined or hoped this revelation would go. He wanted to tease Fenris. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to tell him about how he’d come up with the recipe. He wanted to take his hands and spin him into a dance, and tell him that it was nothing if only he’d stay. Instead he gives the man a helpless shrug, unable to answer the questions crowding his green eyes, and clears his throat.  “Have you got any cards?”

Fenris blinks, and Anders catches the faint ghost of a frown on his forehead. But then he moves, pulling out a pack for Wicked Grace. As he shuffles, he speaks quietly, frowning at his own calloused hands and the lyrium that loops and weaves around them as fluidly as water. “Tensions with the Qunari are at a boiling point. Isabela has requested Hawke’s help with a certain artefact,” he looks up, meeting Anders’ eyes, and Anders raises his eyebrows. It’d been four years. It is...more than surprising that the thing would show up now. And, as so often seems to happen in Hawke’s life, truly awful timing. Satisfied that Anders has caught his meaning, Fenris continues. “Aveline says there’s something she needs help with, too. I think Hawke will help Isabela, first.” Fenris lays out the cards, and Anders takes his hand. They play. 

This, at least, Anders knows how to do, and there’s a scrape of metal on stone as Miranda leans against a nearby pillar. Anders shivers a little, the sound all too intimately familiar by now, and feels Fenris glance at him sharply as he does so. The sun beats down on Anders’ right side, and he resists the urge to move further into it, unwilling to give any of the templars in the courtyard any more to hold over him than they already have. Fenris breaks the quiet occasionally, pointing out a tell or a possible play. Over their heads, seagulls are a white smudge on the cloudless sky. 

“Anders.” Anders blinks, jerked out of his thoughts, and looks up to see Fenris smiling at him, just a little, gentle and almost indulgent. Anders swallows and looks down at his hands as if that will stop the blood rising to his cheeks. There’s a creak of leather as Fenris sits forward. Anders breathes and his mouth and nose fill with the scent of sweat and lyrium. A gauntleted hand settles on his arm. (There’s a gauntleted hand on his wrists, squeezing too tight, and Anders wants to struggle and doesn’t, and wishes they wouldn’t hurt him anyway.) Anders flinches, and Fenris recoils as if he’s been burned. Anders tries to slow the rate of his breathing, tries to tamp down on the confused agony of Justice in the back of his head, muddled by his memories and unable to distinguish them from reality. 

There’s a shuffle, and then the sound of hollow metal placed on stone, followed by the faintest brush of sword-calloused fingers over the back of Anders’ hand, warm from the sun and tingling with lyrium. Anders looks up. Fenris’ gauntlets are on the ground, and his hands are bare. Fenris is frowning, a little, but he does nothing to hide his concern. Anders tries to smile at him as he finds a way to breathe again. Fenris glances up at Miranda, and slips into Tevene. “ Are you alright?”

Anders swallows, trying to ignore his rising panic at this new possible route of disobedience. Miranda wouldn’t say anything - probably wouldn’t say anything. But he has no idea what any other templar would do if they found him speaking to a heavily armed elf in Tevene.  He thinks of Tiberius Heius, dark eyes narrowed, gauntlet digging into his chin. ( Now tell me. What was an apostate like you doing speaking to a fugitive from Tevinter? ) 

When he replies, he does so in a whisper, feeling cold sweat run down the dip of his spine. “I’m fine. ” Anders had never been great with Tevene cases, and the words feel awkward in his mouth, softening in a way that letters in Common don’t. But Fenris’ shoulders lower, even as he draws a card from the deck. 

“They are hurting you.” It’s not a question, and Fenris purses his lips as he says it, glaring at the cards in his hand. 

Anders draws. “Does that surprise you?” He has a terrible hand. He always does. He’s not sure how he’s managed to pick up a card in every suit, but he has. He discards a Serpent, and glances up at Fenris, waiting for him to take his turn. Fenris is still frowning at the cards in his hand. There’s the sound of metal footsteps, echoing across the stone courtyard, and both of them jump - but it’s only Thrask and Zavhel, one of the Senior Enchanters, speaking amicably as they walk in the direction of Solivitus’ stall.

Fenris looks back down at his cards. “It might have done, once.” He hesitates, and Anders watches him take a careful, steadying breath before he meets his eyes. “ What have they done to you?”

Anders blinks, rapidly, and looks back down at his cards. He’s holding the Angel of Truth. The angel on the card stares placidly out of the picture, calm as still water. Anders glares at it, and discards when it comes to his turn. He snaps a little when he replies, and can’t find it in himself to honestly regret it. “It’s nothing they haven’t done before. ”

A light breeze carries with it the taste of the sea, and further off the smell of beasts and people, sweating under the sun. Silence falls between them like a hammer on an anvil as Fenris becomes, abruptly, very still. Despite himself: despite his near certainty that the man has no desire to do him any harm, Anders tenses. Fenris’ fingers curl around the cards in his hands, and the boxed cardboard bends under the tension. Anders has seen him rip people’s still beating hearts from their chests - it’s hardly a display of strength. It is, instead, a very subtle, very small crack in the facade of his self-control. Adrenaline races through Anders' body, cold and electric. Fenris stares at the cards in his hands. Then he says, quiet and deadly calm, “I will kill them all. ”

There is a part of Anders which understands that one elf - even a magic, angry elf with weird tattoos - cannot possibly kill every templar in Kirkwall. But the rest of him has never known Fenris to go back on his word. He believes him, now. 

Behind them, Miranda seems to have picked up on the escalating tension, because she shrugs away from the pillar with a scrape of metal on stone. Anders clears his throat, trying to ignore the shiver of fear that strikes down through his chest to sour like bile in his stomach. “Anyway, these Tevene poems are fascinating. I wish we had a decent translation in the Common tongue. Thank you, the literary context really situates Amores I,9 in the corpus.” Fenris blinks and stares at him, and tips of his long dark ears flush as red as the high spots on his cheeks. Anders feels an honest smile curl his lips, and nearly weeps for the relief of it.

In the Gallows, one of the great bells begins to ring the tenth hour, and Miranda steps forward. “Anders.” It’s a gentle warning, but it’s still a warning. 

Anders looks at Fenris: at the dusky pink of his lips and the long dark line of his throat and the rough callouses of his hands. He wants so badly to lean closer. Instead he gives him another smile, and tries to chase the sadness from his expression. “Well, I fold. You win again.”

Fenris nods, and swallows, and Anders thinks he can feel his reluctance as he packs the cards away and gets to his feet. He doesn’t put the gauntlets back on yet - Anders supposes he has the rest of the day to do what he wants, and he’s often seen him through the windows of the Gallows’ towers, standing outside long after he’d left. Anders tries to think of something to say now, some appropriate farewell. He tries to ignore the panic scratching at his chest as he wonders how long it will be until he sees him again - even as he wishes that they could have spoken more freely, that they could have said more, that he could only touch him.

He’s spared from the burden of choice when Fenris steps forward suddenly, and Anders feels something cool and soft slipped into his sleeve as his mouth fills with the taste of sweat and leather and lyrium. Fenris meets his eyes, and Anders can feel the heat of him as his rough fingers brush the back of Anders’ wrist. There’s a crooked smile on his lips. “You know the real trick of Wicked Grace?” He tilts his head, and the words are barely a whisper, breathed hot on the shell of Anders’ ear. “You cheat.”

Then Fenris is pulling back and away, and Miranda’s hand is resting lightly on Anders’ shoulder, gently pushing him back towards the great iron gates of the Gallows. 

Later, in his room, Anders takes out the card that Fenris had slipped him from his sleeve. It’s the Knight of Dawn: a human woman with stylised locks of red gold hair tumbling over her silver armour. Across her shield there’s a mess of stilted, awkward letters, pressed hard enough into the card to leave it dented with the fervency of their message.

YOU WILL BE FREE

Anders shuts his eyes, and folds his hands around the card, and bends forward to hide his face, the cool kiss of the linen wrapped card stiff against his forehead. He’s not sure whether he laughs or weeps. 

Chapter Text

Militat omnis amans. Every lover wages a war.

Fenris holds the words in his head for the rest of the day, and all night after, thinking over and over of the poem and the small smile on Anders’ face as he’d referenced it. It does something to ease the anger that rises in him every time he thinks about the rest of their conversation: the exhaustion in the mage’s face. The fear. Fenris pulls his gauntlets over his hands and picks up his sword, drinking one of Anders’ potions before he leaves Danarius’ mansion and heads for Darktown. 

The light is fading over Kirkwall, and the sky is streaked with pink and lilac. It’s beautiful. Fenris thinks of Anders, walking beside him, tilting his head up to stare at the sunset. ( I never get over this. ) He’d taken the mage by the elbow and pulled him away from the shattered remnants of a barrel, unwilling to hear the man’s whining if he skewered his foot on a splinter. ( What? The sky?) He’d made no effort to hide his scorn, and expected irritation in return. But Anders had looked down from the blushing sky, face bright with simple joy. ( Seeing the sunset. I spent so long watching it through barred windows. This? This is an improvement. ) And then he’d turned back to the sky. Fenris had watched him then: watched the profile of his long fine nose and strong jaw, the curl of his gold and copper hair, the gleam of the gold in his ear. At the time, Fenris had neither liked nor trusted the mage. But even then, he had known the man was beautiful.

Now he thinks of Anders, breathless and grinning up at the open sky, and feels something twist in his chest. Fenris increases his pace. 

When he gets to Darktown, Hawke, Varric and Isabela are already there. Aveline had declined, telling them she needed to go to the Qunari compound. Hawke had let her go, though she’d made no effort to hide her concern for the woman, and had sent Merrill with her. It’s best that Merrill isn’t with them for this, anyway. Fenris imagines the woman, trapped and beaten the way that Anders has been over the last weeks and months. His stomach turns. He’ll miss the sheer power of Merrill’s magic, but he’s inclined to agree. He wants her no closer to the templars than she has to be, and is half amazed to realise how much he’s changed. He thinks of a curling, laughing smile and bright golden eyes. He cannot bring himself to regret it. He supposes that makes him the romantic fool he’d always feared he might be. 

Fenris nods at Hawke, Varric and Isabela. Isabela in particular looks uncomfortable, and she doesn’t meet his eyes as she greets him. Fenris frowns. But then Varric steps forward, and he’s grinning. “Ok Broody. So we have a problem.” Fenris’ frown deepens. Varric keeps smiling. “Well, not exactly a problem, but,” he gestures to the filthy passage Anders had shown them when he had requested their help with Ser Alrik. For the first time, Fenris realises that the voices he can hear are not only the distant residents of Darktown. Instead, they’re coming from within the tunnel itself. Hawke’s hand is resting lightly on her mabari’s head, but as Fenris steps towards the tunnel entrance, the creature moves forward too, whining. 

Fenris looks back up at Hawke and Varric. “We have company?” He’s resting one hand on the soft, chipped wood of the door over the tunnel. Hawke gives him a rueful grin, and there’s an expression Fenris can’t read in her eyes.

“We have help.” 

Fenris’ frown deepens, and he climbs into the dark of the tunnel, ignoring the dull throbbing ache of his lyrium as he does and waiting for his eyes to adjust. The smell of candle wax fills his lungs, thick and immediate over the old smell of rotting food and sewage. Fenris stares. 

The mage underground that Anders has aided over the past few years has never been a substantial operation. Fenris suspects that it’s one of the reasons the thing has lasted as long as it has. No one takes Mistress Selby and her allies especially seriously. What are a handful of adolescent mages, in the grand scheme of things? They are rarely powerful enough to be a real threat, or in large enough numbers to be noticed. The attitude of most in Kirkwall is simply to turn a blind eye to it. No one wants to add the plight of the mages to their troubles. There’s enough shit in the city to go around. 

As a result, the tunnels are rarely secure. If they aren’t infested with spiders, they’re being used by lyrium smugglers, or raiders, or slavers and other unsavoury characters. Fenris had long been unhappy with Anders’ insistence on performing his operations alone, despite the foes he inevitably faced. More than once, the man had turned up late to Wicked Grace, stinking of the sewers, with a bruise on his cheek and blood on his knuckles. He’d brushed off Varric and Hawke’s friendly concern, and eventually they’d stopped asking, agreeing when Anders left the table that they’d do something if it ever became a real problem. Fenris had watched the pair come to this conclusion in the unfinished sentences and silent understandings that made up the half language Hawke and Varric shared, just another mark of a deep, close friendship. He had observed it all with something that was mostly exasperation, and wondered not for the first time why in the name of the Maker they kept the mage around, when he was so much trouble to maintain. As his relationship with Anders had improved, however, he had begun to share their concerns, and wondered whether the man might actually accept his help, if he offered it.

Then Anders was taken, and the point became moot - though Fenris was struck, now, by the sudden guilty realisation that the operation must have become both more difficult and more dangerous for Mistress Selby and her friends without a healer and a Grey Warden to boot to aid them. 

All of this is to say that when Varric had announced his plans to use the tunnels to get Anders out, all of them had expected to encounter a handful of raiders, smugglers, and a slaver or two. They’d accounted for that in their plans: factoring in the time it would take them to deal with any potential skirmishes in such a way that would still let them break into the Gallows under cover of night.

The sight with which Fenris is confronted instead had not been part of the plan.

“You’re staring.” Hawke murmurs as she climbs down after him, before turning to the open tunnel and patting her thighs, encouraging her mabari to jump down beside them. It does, and Varric follows. After a moment, Isabela comes too. 

In front of them, standing in two rows like a mismatched guard of honour, holding candles that flicker bravely against the darkness, are hundreds and hundreds of people. Fenris recognises some of them. He sees Coterie uniforms and Carta leathers. He doesn’t know them all. He stares. “Varric?” He says the dwarf’s name quietly, all too aware of the eyes on him. 

Varric chuckles, but it’s a forced thing, and Fenris glances down at the dwarf to catch the expression of worry on his face. They cannot fight this many people, if that is what they intend to do. “Nothing to do with me, Broody.”

One of the figures steps forward from the darkness, and Fenris catches dark skin and long thick black hair. Jas lifts her chin. “We’re here to help.” She looks at Varric. “Heard you’re planning to free the healer.” She turns, and gestures at the tunnels, and the dwarves and elves and humans that crowd them. “We figured we’d clear a path.”

Fenris stares at her. Next to him, Hawke lets out a low whistle. “Thanks.”

Jas nods, and her eyes glitter in the dark. “Yeah, well. We aren’t doing it for you.”

Behind Hawke, Isabela clears her throat, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Fenris frowns at her. She’d never seemed afraid of templars before. “Well then. Shall we?”

Hawke nods, and steps forward without hesitation. Head held high with her mabari at her side, she looks like some legendary Fereldan hero. Varric chuckles and follows her, arms swinging at his sides, head turning as he takes in the faces of the people lining the rough stone walls. Fenris can almost hear his mind working. He looks at Isabela, and she smirks, gesturing with one dark hand. “After you, handsome.” 

Fenris nods. Hesitantly, staring at the humans and dwarves among the elves on either side of him, he steps down onto the sandy earth. He feels his lyrium flicker to life, and tries to ignore the way the people of Darktown stare at the glowing elf as he walks down the middle of the road they’ve made for him. With an effort he fights the desire to lower his eyes and walks into the dark - hearing the crunch of Isabela’s footsteps as she follows him. They walk in silence, and the people along the walls are quiet too, mouths shut tight and chins raised in stubborn defiance, eyes dark in the shadows of the cave. Fenris feels them watching him, and tries not to be afraid. Because they’re not looking at him with fear, or anger, or disgust. Instead, again and again: in the face of a blonde freckled man who must have been a farmer, in the sharp features of a woman with black hair and daggers on her back, in the round soft curves of a dwarven man with dark skin and brown curling hair, Fenris sees respect. Admiration. Awe. 

His hands curl and flex at his sides, and he lets the sound of their feet on the gravel fill his ears as he watches the jumping shadows on the cave walls. Finally, they reach the end. There’s a small knot of armed mercenaries and rogues standing under the trapdoor that will let them into the Gallows, beyond the iron gate above them. Fenris isn’t sure whether he imagines the itching tingle of the lyrium on his skin, in proximity to all the magic above their heads. 

Jas stops beside the knot of mercenaries. Next to her is the black-haired dwarf Fenris had seen at Anders’ clinic, who’d spoken out against the templars. He folds his broad arms, and looks at Varric. “We want to help.” 

Hawke glances down at Varric, and Fenris catches the concern on her face. “Look, ah -”

She stops, and the dwarf grunts. “Toram. Of House Beden.” Varric’s eyes glitter with recognition. Next to them, Isabela keeps looking over her shoulder. Fenris doesn’t blame her. They are all skilled fighters, but against the sheer number of people here now, he doesn’t trust their chances.

“Right, Toram. Short of burning the Gallows to the ground, the only way this is going to work is if we go in quietly.” Hawke opens her mouth when Jas goes to protest, holding up her hands. “And whilst I’m sure that you’re both very stealthy, if we’re going to pull this off then I need people I know. We have a plan. Trust me: no one wants to get him out of there more than I do.” Fenris thinks that isn’t true, but decides not to mention it. Next to Hawke, Jas and Toram scowl.

“And what if you fail where we might have succeeded? They could make him Tranquil for this. They’ve done it for less.”  Fenris catches the brief flash of anger on Hawke’s face before she hides it, and subtly adjusts his weight. 

“I know. And believe me when I say that I will kill Meredith herself if it comes to that.” No one blinks at the heresy. Fenris wonders what that says about exactly how far Anders’ message has spread. Hawke continues, meeting Jas’ eyes. “But let me try. I’m really quite proficient with a dagger.” For a moment Jas holds her gaze. Fenris watches her weighing her options: watches her hesitate, and sees the moment that she makes her decision.

“Fine.”

Next to Jas, Toram scowls. “Wait, no, Jas -”

Jas glares at him. “I said fine.” She turns back to the elvhen and human rogues in the group. “The Coterie will hold the tunnels.” She looks at Toram. “Will the Carta help?”

Toram frowns, and heaves a heavy sigh. “Fine.” He jerks his head at the dwarves in the group. “You heard her. We keep this place secure.” Then he turns to Hawke. “You better not fail, human.”

Hawke grins at him, sharp and laughing as she ever is. “I don’t intend to, dwarf.” 

With that, she begins to climb the ladder leading to the trapdoor in the ceiling above their heads. Fenris moves to follow her and stops when a hand grabs his arm, frowning as it pushes on the lyrium in his skin. He breathes in the smell of cinnamon and jasmine, and looks up into Jas’ dark eyes. “He’s sweet on you.” She says, roughly, and Fenris realises her dark cheeks are red. “Don’t let him down. I’ll kill you.”

Fenris stares at her, and chooses not to pull his arm away. Instead, he inclines his head and says, honestly, “If I fail him, you are welcome to try.”

Jas huffs and lets go, turning with a whip of dark hair. Fenris frowns at her, and his frown deepens when Isabela passes him and doesn’t take the opportunity to make some off-handed comment about spurned lovers. Instead he bends, scooping Hawke’s mabari over his shoulder. It’s not a small creature, but Fenris is a strong man, and he’s done this before. The dog licks his face with a hot, rasping tongue, and Fenris grins a little in spite of himself as he climbs up the ladder, setting the mabari onto the cool stone of the courtyard before he gets out of the tunnel himself, breathing in the fresh sharp taste of cold air and clean stone. Together, the four of them look back at the tunnel, glowing with yellow candlelight. Hawke gives their new allies a two-fingered salute, and whispers. “Wish us luck!”

In the tunnel, Jas frowns. “Don’t come back without him.”

Carefully, Varric and Fenris replace the metal grate, whilst Hawke scratches the back of her head. “Did that sound like a threat to you? I think that might have been a threat.”

Fenris glances up at the bright light of the full moon, heavy and silver in the sky over Kirkwall, and wishes for some clouds. “It does not have to be, if we do not fail.”

Hawke huffs a quiet chuckle, and sets off in the direction that Varric’s spy had told them was the way towards Anders’ quarters. “Can’t fault that logic.”

The outside of the buildings behind the Gallows’ gates is eerily quiet, only occasionally broken by the clank and scrape of a templar on patrol. Following Varric’s muttered directions, they begin to move in a silent zigzag through the paths and courtyards, avoiding the soldiers as they follow their nightly routines. As they move, Fenris stares up at the imposing vastness of the Gallows themselves. The windows in them are narrow, and the first that he can see only breaks the white face of the stone some fifty feet above the ground. The stone itself is sheer and not easily climbed, and what windows he can see are barred. It looks far more like a prison than a place of learning. He shivers, and returns his gaze to the earth. He can dwell on such things later. With luck, perhaps he will do so with Anders by his side. 

It’s Isabela who breaks the quiet between them, as they wait for the distant footsteps of a templar to turn a corner and leave their route clear. “How do you think Merrill and Aveline are getting on?”

Varric huffs a quiet laugh. “Is that concern, Rivaini? Daisy might look like she just finished frolicking with baby halla, but she can handle herself.”

Fenris glances at Isabela, confused as well by the sudden and uncharacteristic concern. “Do you have reason to think they might not be?”

Isabela doesn’t look at him, folding her arms and quickly brushing her bare skin, as if to warm herself. “I get it, I’m a heartless pirate. Forget I said anything.” Standing at the head of their group, pressed up against the corner of one of the Gallows’ great buildings, Hawke turns to look back at her, frowning. 

“None of us think that. What’s wrong?” The sound of the templar disappears as they turn a corner. Isabela moves forward without a sound, daggers drawn, expression shuttered and impassive.

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

Together, they get inside the Gallows itself. On the inside, the Kirkwall Circle looks significantly less like a prison. Fenris stares at wide, expensive rugs, and glittering brass braziers on the walls, long broad oak tables and towering shelves filled with thousands upon thousands of books. He looks at tall, lavish fireplaces, and plush chairs, and beautiful curving staircases. He tries very, very hard to ignore the sudden rearing of old prejudices in the back of his head. This place looks more like a palace than a school. It’s hard to imagine anybody suffering here: hard to sympathise with the plight of the mages when he knows how people live in Darktown. 

But then, he supposes, if someone were to judge his suffering by the wealth of Danarius’ mansions, they would not think his life so very terrible either. 

Together, the four of them and Hawke’s mabari walk forward through the deep cold shadows of the Gallows’ halls, dwarfed into miniature by the building’s mighty pillars and distant vaulted ceilings. None of them say anything. Hawke only pauses occasionally to glance at Varric, and he in turn gestures for her to turn, or continue, or climb a staircase. Occasionally, the heavy quiet of the halls is broken by the sound of armoured footsteps on stone, sometimes muffled by the thick rugs of the Gallows’ halls. Fenris feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and itches to carry his sword. It would be a waste of energy that he might need later, but he cannot shake the sense of eyes on his back, and he feels defenceless for it. The lyrium on his body burns with an old, familiar ache. 

At last they reach a narrow hall with a lower ceiling. There are six identical corridors branching off on either side of the hall, and at the end of it is a large imposing painting of a man wearing the armour of a Knight-Commander. It sits above a polished wooden table. There are no fireplaces here, and the corridor is cooler for it, though torches burn with a soft sigh in the braziers on the walls. Hawke gestures, and they crowd at her back. Her mabari sits quietly, its clever eyes watching her face for a command. Hawke turns to Varric, and whispers, “Where is she?”

Varric frowns, peering past her, and then down the longer, wider hall in front of them, down which a red rug runs like a river towards the distant wall. “I don’t know. She should be here.”

Isabela scowls, daggers held loosely in her hands. “This feels like a trap.”

Fenris turns as the sound of metal on stone breaks the silence, and grimaces, drawing his sword and pushing one foot back on the thick wool of the carpet. “It seems you are correct.” In front of them is a small squad of templars, led by Knight-Captain Cullen. Beside him, her helmet removed to reveal salt and pepper hair, is Miranda. Varric’s contact, and the templar they had apparently wrongly identified as sympathetic to the mages’ plight. There are a few others Fenris recognises in the group, and one in particular - a woman with a light scar on her jaw and dirty blonde hair. Fenris’ hands tighten around the hilt of his sword, and he feels the lyrium on his body burning as it flares, bright and sudden in the low light of the vast halls. 

Knight-Captain Cullen looks at him. He has not yet drawn his sword. He steps forward, and Hawke does the same. “So the elf is a sympathiser.”

Hawke frowns. “He has a name. It’s Fenris.”

Behind Cullen, Miranda is trying to make eye contact with him. Fenris ignores her, not taking his eyes away from the blonde woman, Seerah. He can feel his blood roaring in his veins. Cullen inclines his head. “My apologies, Fenris. Serah Hawke, surrender now and you and your companions may yet get off lightly.” Fenris does not think Cullen notices the way Hawke’s jaw tightens, or the way her mabari tenses, drawing one paw back on the stone as it waits for a command from its master. Cullen gestures to the mighty hall around them. “Look at this place. It’s hardly a prison.” Fenris thinks of Anders, wincing as he stooped, trying not to pull at the new scars on his back. Cullen continues, “We only want to protect the mages. Help them. Not hurt them.” Fenris thinks of Anders, tripping on Tevene. It’s nothing they haven’t done before. Cullen keeps speaking, “Everything we do is for the sake of the mages in our care and the will of Andraste. I know you want to help your friend. But the best thing you can do is let him stay here, where we can give him the guidance that he needs.” Fenris can hear Anders at the back of his head. They tell us we’re poison. That we were born cursed. He thinks of walking beside him, through the midge-ridden dunes of the Wounded Coast, and the mage taking him off guard by asking whether he’d ever considered taking his own life. He thinks of the way he’d broken his gaze when he’d said, quietly, some things are worse than death. At the time, Fenris had tried to tell himself he didn’t know what Anders meant. Now…

Fenris looks at Hawke. She’s glaring at Cullen, making no effort to hide the disdain in her eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself to help you sleep at night? You’re helping them. You’re guiding them. You’re keeping them safe .” Hawke is raising her voice, and Fenris catches Isabela and Varric exchange a nervous glance. The people of the building are asleep, for now. They won’t be for much longer if Hawke keeps this up. The woman in question tosses her head, and finally, finally draws her daggers. “Tell me, is the rape and suicide part of the package, or just an unfortunate side effect?”

Cullen looks like he’s about to respond, but it’s at that moment that Hawke jerks her head at her mabari and it snarls, leaping forward. For a split second, the templars scatter, and then they’re falling into the familiar chaos of battle. Fenris dives into the fray, ignoring Miranda and the bruising clash of plate armour as templars stumble and charge into his body. Over his head, the familiar whistle of Bianca’s arrows precedes a hail from above that hits with terrifying accuracy. Somewhere, he can hear the slick, silent work of Hawke and Isabela, disappearing too fast to follow between the slow movement of the templars around them. Fenris ignores all of it, searching for a head of dirty blonde hair. He doesn’t have to search long. A blade glances off the armour at his side and Fenris whirls, the blue white glare of the lyrium in his skin leaving a burning afterimage on the backs of his eyelids. 

“Looking for me?” The templar grins at him. Fenris doesn’t humour her with a response. He raises his sword and swings it, trusting in the strength of his limbs and the anger in his heart, as he has done a thousand times before. His sword makes contact and Fenris feels the reverberating impact of the blow, feels the crunch as the woman’s ribs give way and the brief white pallor of fear on her face. 

Fenris smiles, small and vicious, and eases his weight, not allowing his emotions to distract him from the simple dance of battle. He’s good at this. And this woman has sorely misjudged her opponent. She scrambles backward, armoured feet dragging on the rug, and Fenris stalks forward, easily parrying a slow, clumsy blow. The woman is sweating now, moving awkwardly. Behind them the cacophonous roar of battle shouts up into the air above them, curling towards the stone ceilings. The woman tries to strike Fenris again, and Fenris pulls on the lyrium in his skin, letting his body fall into the ever-present mists of the Fade. The woman’s sword swings through his chest as if there was nothing there, and her eyes get wide. 

Fenris snarls, adjusting his grip on his sword and feeling tension coil in his ankles and his calves as he prepares to leap forward for a final, killing blow. And then the woman is speaking, voice high and vicious in desperation. “You’re sweet on him, aren’t you? That mage. You should’ve seen the way he begged for it, when we had him. Squealed like a stuck pig till he couldn’t scream no more.” She grins, and it’s a cruel, ugly thing. “He’s so pretty on his knees.” 

Fenris’ world goes white. His hand slides through her armour and into her chest, and he stares into her frightened eyes. “I trust the Maker’s judgement. I wonder what He will do, with your immortal soul?” Then he clenches his fist, and feels blood and gristle surrounding his hand, feels the violent beating of the woman’s heart, even as he crushes it in his palm. He lets her body fall to the ground, eyes still open wide and staring at some distant horror. Fenris looks away and hefts his sword, turning back to the templars. 

Eventually, they’ve thinned the patrol down to Cullen, Miranda, and a handful of soldiers Fenris doesn’t recognise. Fenris watches with satisfaction as Isabela climbs off the body of the thug who’d chaperoned Anders on their first visit - Marcus. His throat is a bloody, tattered mess. Isabela wipes her dagger with an expression of distaste, moving to take in the battlefield. Hawke raises her hand, and Fenris and her companions stop. Fenris has his sword levelled at a tall man’s throat: someone with a neatly groomed black beard, fair skin and long black hair. He waits for Hawke to let him kill him. Then there’s the sound of metal on stone. 

“Maker’s blighted filthy balls.” Varric spits. Hawke’s mabari stays where it is, snarling up at an injured Cullen. Behind them, from the far end of the hall, comes Knight-Commander Meredith herself and a phalanx of more than thirty templars. Cullen relaxes, and Fenris tries to quench the frustration rising in his spine as he stares at the ragged band in front of him and the bodies on the ground beyond them. They had won. They couldn’t lose now.

“Serah Hawke. I should’ve known it would be you.” Meredith’s voice is cold, and it bounces against the tall stone walls of her fortress. Hawke snarls, and then turns with a smile to the Knight-Commander, dipping a mocking bow.

“Knight-Commander. Fancy seeing you here.”

Meredith stops her troops with a gesture, and they come to a halt as one. Fenris feels the lyrium curling over his hips in a deep blistering ache. He doesn’t lower his sword.

“I assume that you’re here for your apostate ‘lover’, serah.”

Hawke sheaths her weapons. Reluctantly, Fenris does the same, and watches Varric and Isabela do so too, even as Hawke’s mabari whines in confusion. “Oh you know, I just thought I’d come and take in the view.”

Meredith sneers. “Enough. I will tolerate no more of your disrespect. Knight-Captain.” Behind them, Cullen snaps to attention. “Escort Hawke and her,” she stares at Fenris with open disdain. Fenris glares at her as she finishes, “...companions, to the cells.”

“Not a super necessary design feature for a school that’s meant to protect its mages.” Hawke says, conversationally, as Cullen steps forward and roughly pushes her arms behind her back. The bearded man Fenris had had at swordpoint does the same to him, and Fenris makes no effort to hide his disgust when the man leans closer than he needs to, breath falling hot over Fenris’ neck. 

Then, suddenly, there’s an explosion. A few of the templars jump. For her part, Meredith frowns, and sends one of her soldiers to look with a quick gesture. She turns back to Hawke, “If this is your doing, serah -”

Hawke snorts. “Even you can’t seriously blame me for every crime that happens in Kirkwall. I’m a dashing rogue, not a demigod.”

Meredith narrows her eyes. For a long time, they stand in silence. Fenris wonders what the mages are doing in their corridors. Are they waiting to see what the result of their skirmish will be? Are they barring their doors? He imagines Anders, so close he could shout and hear his voice, shut away in his room and waiting for a signal that will not come. He grits his teeth. 

One of the templars returns, armoured footsteps loud on the stone as they run. “Knight-Commander, it’s the Qunari! They’ve left the compound - they’re, they’re waging open war on the city.” 

Next to him, Isabela curses. Hawke gives her a quick look, but Isabela doesn’t meet her eyes. Fenris frowns.

The templar continues. Now that Fenris is listening for it, he can hear the sound of distant screaming. “First Enchanter Orsino has begun to gather the Senior Enchanters. They’ve taken the Viscount’s Keep. Messere, it’s chaos.” 

“That’s enough, serah.” Meredith snaps, and turns back to them, the flare of her nostrils the only outward sign of her irritation. After a moment, she seems to make her decision. “Very well. Serah Hawke, consider yourself the luckiest woman in Kirkwall.” Hawke raises an eyebrow.

“Not that I didn’t already, what with all the horrible misfortune, but do go on.” 

Meredith sucks her teeth. Fenris catches Varric stifles a grin out of the corner of his eye. “Help us. Defend your city and I will choose to forget this little incident.”

Hawke blinks, openly surprised. Behind them, Cullen starts, “But, Knight-Commander!”

Meredith holds up a hand, and Cullen falls silent as if he’d been slapped. “Silence. Hawke. Do we have a deal?”

Hawke shrugs. “Sure. What could possibly go wrong?” 

Meredith gives her a tight smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “What indeed.”

The next few hours are one long battle through the streets of Kirkwall. They find Merrill and Aveline, both injured but alive. They lose Isabela, and Hawke stops Fenris before he can search for her with an expression that looks too much like grief. They meet First Enchanter Orsino, and he confronts an entire Qunari guard alone to provide a distraction for them. They get into the Viscount’s Keep. The Arishok explains his quandary and Fenris finally, finally realises what has been so wrong with Isabela for these past few days and weeks. Then the woman of the hour announces her presence by sinking her dagger into the back of a Karasaad and returning The Tome of Koslun. 

Of course, at this point the Arishok challenged Hawke to ritual combat, and Fenris was reminded all over again of why he’d fallen in love with this brave, impossible woman the day he’d met her. 

Looking like she’d been forced to eat a fistful of spiders, Meredith had declared Hawke Champion of Kirkwall in front of the gathered aristocracy. Afterwards, Aveline had dragged Isabela outside, and Fenris had braced himself for a fistfight. He’d still been trying to decide whether he should intervene when the guardswoman had pulled Isabela into what, even from a distance, looked like a bone-crushing hug. Then Hawke, covered in sweat and blood, had taken Isabela’s hand and tugged her in the direction of her family’s mansion. 

They were alive, the Qunari were ousted, Hawke was Champion and Isabela had returned to them. It had, on balance, turned out almost as well as it possibly could have done. 

Fenris cannot stop thinking about Anders. 

He has managed to steal a handful of hours of sleep from his own gnawing anxiety, mostly with the help of Danarius’ wine. He has not yet found the courage to go back to Darktown. They already know he failed. He does not want to have to see it on their faces. 

At sunrise on the third day, Hawke lets herself into the mansion, wearing the mantle of the Champion. Meredith has yet to declare the new viscount, but such things are not easily rushed. It’s something of a wonder that Hawke’s ceremonial title had been handled as quickly as it had, but Fenris suspected that neither the Knight-Commander nor the Grand Cleric wanted the people of Kirkwall to linger on the ascension of a Fereldan refugee and outspoken mage sympathiser.

Hawke’s mabari licks his face and Fenris grunts, sitting up in bed and putting a hand to his temple, scowling. Something flies towards his face and he catches it without thinking. Hawke chuckles. “Here.” She looks at the bottles on the floor. “Who got married and didn’t invite me?”

Fenris scowls, downing the foul tasting potion and getting to his feet. “We failed him.”

Hawke hums, lightly, and passes him his sword. “That suggests we’ve stopped trying.” She meets his eyes, and gives him her most winning smile. “It’s not over yet. Come on. Meredith might be able to say no to Viscount Dumar, but I think she’ll find the Champion of Kirkwall just a touch less biddable.”

Fenris stares at her, and works through the wine-softened haze of his mind. He hadn’t considered how Hawke’s new status might impact their efforts. Feeling something like excitement chasing away the clinging cobwebs of his hangover, he slings his sword over his back. “Shall we?”

Hawke’s eyes glitter. “We shall.”

Varric and Isabela meet them in Hightown Market. There’s a silent agreement between them that they will not be bringing Merrill to the Gallows, and Aveline has been up to her elbows in clean-up ever since the Qunari had attacked. Isabela is quieter than usual as she walks with them, and refuses to meet Fenris’ eyes. 

Fenris frowns, and stops to purchase a small handful of nazook from the Rivaini seller in the market, handing Isabela the cloth wrapped bundle after he’s done so. She stares at the pastries, glazed and shining with sugar, smelling sweetly of cream and vanilla. Isabela looks at him, and Fenris sees a question in her eyes. He looks away, pushing through his own discomfort. “We have all made mistakes.” He hesitates. “I am glad you came back.” 

Isabela grins at him then, and Fenris gives her a small smile in return. Then she’s moving forward to Hawke, grabbing her shoulder. “You simply have to try these.”

Walking beside him, Fenris feels Varric looking up at him. “Since when did you go soft, Broody?” It’s not an accusation. Fenris shrugs, looking up at the bright pale blue of the morning sky over Kirkwall. 

“I have learned to be grateful for the friends that I have.” 

Varric chuckles, but it’s warm and not mocking. He nods at a dwarven merchant as they turn a corner, and grins at a human noblewoman. “Does that mean I’ll be getting cream pastries any time soon?”

Fenris tilts his head to the side. “Only if you intend to draw down a Qunari invasion on Kirkwall by stealing one of their most sacred artefacts and then return at the last possible moment to give it back. But,” he glances down at the dwarf, and gives him a rueful smile, “I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

Varric laughs then, hoarse and honest, and Fenris grins. “I like you, Broody. I really do.”

Fenris raises his eyebrows. “Have you only realised this now?”

Varric laughs again, and the grin he gives Fenris is both wicked and warm. “Don’t push your luck.”

They should have known that something was wrong.

Meredith grants them an audience with Anders immediately. She says that she’d expected they’d request as much, and has a templar escort them to the room in which he’s waiting. The templar is a tall woman with salt and pepper hair, pinned back tightly behind her head. Miranda. The woman who’d double-crossed them. She looks like she’s been crying. Varric narrows his eyes and says nothing. Together, they silently follow Miranda down a hall and around a turning, to a room with an ordinary wooden door that would imprint itself onto Fenris’ nightmares for the rest of his life. 

Two templars are standing outside the door, but they stand to the side for the Champion, as all of their fellows have done up to this point. Miranda looks back at them, once, and Fenris doesn’t understand the expression in her eyes. 

Anders has his back to them. He’s wearing the dull red robes of the Kirkwall Circle. Fenris wonders whether this means that they have destroyed his coat, and resolves to purchase him a new one if it turns out to be the case. The thing was ostentatious, but Anders clearly felt comfortable in it. Fenris would do what he could once Anders was free again, to restore some kind of comfort to his life. 

Anders’ hair is clean and neatly tied back, and the room in which he stands is quiet. When they enter he turns and greets them with a gentle, placid smile. 

Hawke stumbles. Fenris has never seen her stumble before. 

“Maker’s breath.” Fenris doesn’t think Varric realises he’s spoken. 

Isabela moves forward, “Oh, my love. What have they done to you?”

A faint hint of a frown touches Anders’ face. “You’re acting as if I am unwell, Isabela. I’m perfectly fine.” He smiles, and it’s the same calm, placid smile he’d worn before. There’s no hint of the reckless joy that normally curls his features when he smiles, wild with the simple defiant rebellion of being happy in a world that had never wanted him to be. “Honestly, I feel better than I have in a long time.”

The spell that has fallen over Hawke and Varric breaks. Hawke walks forward, pacing on the other side of the room, not looking at Anders. “This isn’t - I don’t understand - he passed his Harrowing. I know he did.”

An old, tired anger is settling into Varric’s face like cracks in stone. “I don’t think they cared.”

“What do we do now?” Isabela sounds far, far younger than she is as she asks the question, turning from Anders to Hawke, with one hand still cupped on the side of his face. 

Fenris can’t move. 

Anders looks at him, and gives him a placid smile, tilting his head to the side. They’d taken his earring. Fenris hadn’t noticed that before. He feels as if everything is happening very far away. “Fenris? Is something wrong?” Anders steps forward, and Isabela’s hand falls, as if she could have stopped him with a gesture. Perhaps she could. Fenris doesn’t move. Distantly, he can feel the thudding of his heart in his chest. Anders looks at him, and his eyes are flat and dull and unfeeling. Fenris searches for the warmth, the fire, the kindness from which he has drawn strength so many times before. It isn’t there. 

Anders spreads his hands. “I thought you’d be pleased. Don’t you see? I can’t hurt you now.” He won’t stop smiling. “They fixed me.” They killed him. “I’m free.”

For one terrible, eternal second, Fenris stares at Anders’ face: at his fixed, quiet smile, and his flat golden eyes, and the red never-setting sun on his forehead. 

Then he screams. 

When Fenris comes back to himself, he’s killed three templars and Hawke is arguing with the Knight-Commander. He stares at the bodies on the ground: at the face of a woman with salt and pepper hair. Blood drips from his fingers. Hawke negotiates something, Fenris doesn’t know what. They leave, and they don’t take Anders with them, and Fenris comes back into himself at that, pushing at Hawke and Isabela as they pull him away. Varric steps in between them, drawing his gaze down. “Easy, Broody. We’re not giving up. He’s safer here.”

Fenris thinks of Ser Alrik. When you’re Tranquil, you’ll do anything I ask. He thinks of Anders, shame and grief bruising his features as he muttered in Tevene. It’s nothing they haven’t done before.

“No he isn’t. He never was. Hawke, we can’t leave him here.” Fenris’ throat is thick with tears. He feels something like panic rising in his chest like a wave. He hasn’t wept like this since he was a child. Hawke’s hand tightens around his arm, not painfully.

“It was him or you, Fenris.” She breathes, and Fenris is close enough to hear the way her breath shakes as it leaves her. “I need you. He can’t feel it now. We won’t abandon him.”

Fenris sobs, then, and feels his strength leave him with the sound as he all but collapses into Hawke and Isabela’s arms. Hawke’s mabari whines at him, and Fenris can’t see it through the tears burning his eyes. “That’s what you said before.”

Hawke flinches, and she adjusts her grip on his arm. When she speaks, she does so with the quiet fervency of prayer. “I know.” She looks at him. “I’ll fix this.”

Fenris stares at her. “How?”

Hawke doesn’t reply. 

Far off, Fenris can hear the distant crash of the sea.

Chapter Text

Hawke doesn’t let him go home. Fenris is glad of it, later. He doesn’t know what he would have done. Drunk himself into oblivion, probably. Destroyed another of Danarius’ rooms. Gone out with nothing but the sword on his back and murder on his mind, and tried to start a war with Meredith and Elthina and all that followed them. Fenris doubts he would have survived the endeavour. It’s hard, even now, to bring himself to care.

Instead Hawke drags him back to her home. Isabela presses close to her side and says nothing. Fenris can see the discomfort in her decision to stay in the way her fingers trip up and down Hawke’s arm. It takes a lot, for Isabela, to remain here with them in the vulnerability of grief. Fenris has no doubt that she is doing it for Hawke, and tries to give her her privacy.

For his part, Varric is just very, very quiet, as he hasn’t been since his return from the Deep Roads. Since the loss of Bethany and his brother both. Fenris tries not to look at him too often, sure that the dwarf wants only the privacy of his own mind. 

When they arrive, Hawke’s mansion is as empty as it has been since the death of her mother. For a moment she hesitates in the hall, staring at the high ceilings and empty space of her ancestral home. Fenris recalls that she’d lost a brother, too, whilst fleeing Ferelden. Not for the first time, he wonders how a woman who has shouldered so much grief can possibly keep trying to be so kind. Then Isabela’s hand slips down her arm and she interlaces their fingers. Isabela squeezes her hand, and Hawke breathes out and walks inside. Fenris stares at the floor and tries hard to ignore the vicious wrenching of his heart. (In his mind he sees long, fine hands, fit for study and music, dusted with gold freckles, with a faint curve of a scar at the base of a thumb).

Bodahn and Sandal, thankfully, ask nothing of their adventures. Either they had not yet heard and had simply seen it on their employer’s face, or they had and had made a tactful decision. Fenris isn’t sure he cares which. He sits on the floor, and accepts the bottle Hawke passes him. Hawke’s mabari settles between him and Hawke herself. Marian sits forward in a chair with a bottle hanging between her knees as she stares at the fire. None of them say anything. They drink.

Aveline arrives at sunrise. She’s armed and armoured, and she doesn’t hesitate to let herself in. Her grief and her rage are as clear on her face as every other emotion she ever wears. “I came as soon as I heard.” She looks at Fenris, then, and Fenris squints at her through the pounding in his skull. Hawke’s mabari is warm and heavy where its head is resting on his thigh. “Fenris, I can’t imagine -” Fenris frowns, trying to understand where her sentence is heading and unsure that he wants to.

Varric interrupts, and he sounds tired and far older than he is. “Not sure that now is the time, Captain.” 

Aveline shrinks back, folding her hands in front of her chest. “Right. Right.” She takes in the pile of empty bottles scattered across the floor - Isabela and Hawke curled around one another like a pair of cats, and Varric sitting in the other chair to Fenris’ left. “What are we drinking?”

Varric chuckles, and it’s too quiet in the great space of the empty house. “Didn’t take you for a day drinker.”

Aveline sits on the stone floor, heavy and awkward for her armour, and holds out a hand. Hawke’s mabari wags its tail with a soft rhythmic thump, lifting its head to look at her. Aveline gives it a smile as Varric passes her another bottle from the Amells’ impressive liquor cabinet. “I can be, if the occasion calls for it.” She drinks, deeply, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand before looking down at her lap. “He was my friend, too, you know.”

“He’s not dead.” It’s the first thing Fenris has said in too many hours, and his voice protests the decision hoarsely. He clears it, and tries again, getting unsteadily to his feet. “He is still imprisoned there. We must retrieve him.” He scowls at the empty room, only now noticing the cold. The fire in the grate has long since died out. “Where is the witch?”

Varric sighs. “Everyone grieves differently, Broody. We’ll check on Daisy later.”

Fenris scowls. “I do not wish to inquire after her health. We will need her help if we are to storm the barracks.”

“If we’re to what?” Aveline’s voice is loud in the quiet, and on their seat both Isabela and Hawke startle. Hawke glances at Varric, sharp and bright even on the edge of sleep. Varric grunts.

“Broody wants to go storm the Gallows and rescue -” Varric stops, and clears his throat.

“Anders. I wish to rescue Anders. He is no less himself for what they have done to him.” Fenris drops the word like a hammer onto an anvil, and he sees the way they flinch. He tries not to care. Hawke shuts her eyes. Aveline is looking at him with something terribly like pity. It’s Isabela who speaks, glancing at Hawke before she does so.

“But he is, sweet thing. We know how it works. He can’t - he can’t feel. He can’t dream.” She stops, and when she meets his eyes it’s with the defiant, practiced strength of a pirate. “He’s gone.” 

Fenris feels something like panic rising in him at that, like a great pit at his back, opening under his heels, which holds only darkness and a long endless fall. The mage could not be gone. Not when he had only just begun to know him. There was still so much left to say. 

“Then we reverse it. We find a cure.” None of them will look at him. “ Fasta vass , Hawke!” Hawke meets his eyes. She’s never been one to decline a challenge, for all the pain he sees it takes her to meet this one. “You have done more impossible things than this.” Hawke looks away. Fenris feels his hands curling at his side like a child’s. “You said you would fix it. Let us at least try!”

Aveline gets to her feet with a chink and scrape of armour, and she’s looking at him far more gently than Fenris can take. “Fenris, it’s done. He’s gone. We cannot bring him back.”

Fenris stares at her. He steps back, and feels himself falling into that great, black pit from which there is no return to the light.

Suddenly, the door to Hawke’s mansion swings open. All of them jump. Fenris whirls, and imagines, stupidly, for a moment, copper gold hair and freckles and slender shoulders. 

“Sorry, sorry, I know I’m late.” 

Fenris frowns. He’d expected Merrill to be red faced and weeping. Possibly, he’d thought she might be drunk, or quiet, the way she became following any visit they made to her former clan. Instead she sounds almost cheerful. 

Isabela sits up, and she and Hawke share a quick glance. Aveline asks, quietly, as Merrill fusses with something in the hall, “Does she know?”

Hawke looks at Varric, but he’s frowning too. “I had someone take a message. It’s possible they missed her -” he doesn’t elaborate. It was not likely that anyone in Kirkwall would miss a message from Varric Tethras. 

Finally, Merrill enters the parlour. She’s carrying a stack of books that comes almost to her chin, and Aveline moves to take them without hesitation, frowning at the elvhen and Tevene titles on their battered brown leather spines. Merrill gives Aveline a wide, bright smile. “Thanks Aveline.”

Then she turns to the rest of them. Isabela sits up. “Are you feeling alright, kitten?”

Merrill blinks, and pats herself down, as if the source of her injury were on her person. “Me? Oh no, I’m fine.” She looks over Isabela’s shoulder at the pile of bottles on the floor, and her mouth tips down in a disapproving frown. “Are you all sober? I think you’ll need to be for this.”

Fenris speaks first. “For what?”

Merrill looks at him then. Her eyes are not like his: they’re darker, and a little more shapely around the corners. Her eyelashes are dark, his are not. But he cannot make himself unsee the faint resemblance between them and all of their kind. He can see grief in her, now, and fear. But he can also see a bright spark of defiant intelligence that he has only ever seen burn as brightly in two other people. One of them is the human woman sitting behind him. The other, coincidentally, is a mage.

“Well we’re getting him back, aren’t we?”

With the assistance of her books and, to all of their surprise, Fenris himself for some of the Tevene translations, Merrill explains her plan. She had, apparently, begun her research the moment that she had heard the news. She believes she has some way to reverse Anders’ Tranquility, based on the strength of his connection with Justice. Merrill’s eyes are bright with a breathless excitement and desperate courage that Fenris cannot help but mirror. In her seat, Hawke sits forward, shaking off her drunkenness like her mabari shaking water from its coat. Neither Varric nor Isabela are so physical in their interest, but both of them listen closely and quietly. It’s something of a testament to the severity of the situation that Aveline settles for only a folding of her arms and a disapproving frown, even as Merrill announces her intention to use blood magic. 

“I think that it’s possible, probable, actually, considering the nature of their...relationship, that Justice is still connected to Anders - well, to the part of Anders that’s been taken from him, in the Fade. So what we need to do is find them and convince Justice to come back.”

Fenris stares at her. “Do you think that his demon will be so easily convinced?”

Merrill hesitates. In the time that she’d been speaking, Hawke had lit the fire and pulled in a few more chairs from another room, before fetching a loaf of bread and cheese from the kitchen. Merrill’s books are stacked between them, and it’s a far warmer picture than it had been a few hours ago. Hawke’s mabari trots about between them, no longer laid down by their general misery, and nuzzles at Fenris’ hand. Fenris absently scratches its head, stroking the soft fur behind its ears.

“Well - I’m going to leave aside the debate about what defines a spirit and what humans might refer to as a demon for the sake of expediency. But...yes, I think so. Spirits aren’t without feeling: they are feeling. I think it’s unlikely that any of them could spend so long with a mortal host without forming some kind of emotional connection to them, not unless that host was really terrible, and I don’t think Anders ever abused Justice. I mean, as far as I gathered the worst he ever did was ignore him sometimes.” Merrill pauses again, brushing her hands over her breeches as she does so. “Of course. I don’t know what might have happened to Anders in his time at the Gallows. Certain...offences, could certainly be substantial enough to corrupt him. I mean. It’s all about strength of feeling. If there was something that made him angry enough, or sad enough, then it might not be Justice that we’re looking for.”  Fenris thinks about Knight-Captain Cullen ( he didn’t look like he was in much state to stand), he feels something like fear bubbling in his chest, and the quick heat of anger rising to hide it.

“Then we find ourselves trusting in the constancy of a spirit. Hardly an encouraging strategy.”

Merrill frowns at him, though there’s no more anger in it than there might have been in the scowl of a disapproving school teacher. “Obviously not. Unlike Anders, I am not a woman who trusts a spirit at their word.” A beat of silence hits as all of them decide not to remark on that. Merrill blushes and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Well. I’ve learned not to. Fortunately for us it might not be a matter of choice. Remember what Anders said? Justice was stuck here. I think their souls are intertwined. Tangled, somehow. And as far as I can tell there’s no reason for them not to be in the Fade. The connection will continue until one of them dies - but the Rite of Tranquility doesn’t kill that part of a mage, it just separates them.” Fenris is struck, suddenly, by the image of a thousand mages walking the Fade, with no memory but all their feeling to tell them how frightened they might be in such a place. He clears his throat.

“So we find the spirit and Anders. Then what?”

Merrill smiles at him, gentle and joyful as if they were discussing a dance on Summerday. “Oh, some terribly complicated nasty blood magic on my end. But no deals and no demons, I promise. You just need to convince Justice to come back.”

For the first time, Hawke interrupts. “And trap himself again in our realm? Why would he do that? Especially if we cannot rely on his affection for Anders.”

Isabela nods, tapping her chin. “And what if he’s corrupted? Won’t that just make Anders an abomination?”

Merrill’s jaw tightens. “If he’s...changed. I have a way to separate them, I think.”

“You think.” Varric repeats, dryly. Merrill scowls at him.

“Do any of you know blood magic?” Silence falls between them, broken only by the fire and the distant bells of the city ringing in a new hour. “Well then. Ideally it’d be best if it was Justice. I’m not sure I can separate them without killing Anders entirely. Demons are much harder to kill than human souls.” Merrill pauses, and looks down at her hands, curled loosely in her lap. “Even mages.”

“You say ideally, as if we could affect the outcome.” Fenris begins, slowly, and tries not to feel the weight of their gazes on him. ”But if the creature has become corrupted, then is it not too late?”

Merrill’s eyes widen. “Oh no! Everything changes in the Fade. That’s sort of the point. It’s the only place where you could change a demon. Which, well, that’s one reason where you really could make a good academic argument for the elvhen understanding of both the dimension and its denizens,” she pauses, expression growing rueful as she looks at him. “Not the point right now. Right. The point is: you just have to remind him of what he is. What he was. He can change himself. He just has to be...sufficiently motivated.”

“You still haven’t answered why he’d come back.” Isabela points out. “It sounds like being trapped here is torture for the poor thing. I don’t see why a powerful, immortal spirit would want to repeat that. Especially if it isn’t getting the fun homicidal perks of demonic activity.”

“He has not yet completed his mission.” Fenris barely realises he’s spoken aloud until Hawke is staring at him, one eyebrow raised. He clears his throat and sits up, dropping his hand to the mabari sitting by his chair to stroke its great head. “The liberation of the mages. It is not yet complete.” Varric is looking at him as if he’d suddenly announced that he has every intention of returning to Tevinter. Fenris glares studiously at the food Hawke had laid out in front of them and breaks his bread. After a moment, his companions shift. 

“Right. Well. That sounds like a plan. Sort of.” Hawke clears her throat. “What do we need?”

Merrill pulls a face. “That’s the fun part.”

Isabela narrows her eyes. “You didn’t say that in a way that sounded fun, kitten.” 

Merrill wrings her hands in her lap. “We need a pig, for the blood.” Isabela wrinkles her nose, and Merrill continues. “We need Felandaris, which means we need to go to Pride’s End. It’s the only place I know where it grows. And…” Merrill glances nervously at Aveline, as if this will somehow be the moment at which the woman protests. “We need Anders’ phylactery. Well, I need his blood, and it’s the only place I can think to get it.” Merrill looks down, and for the first time Fenris sees a little of the grief that she’s been restraining ever since she’d arrived. “And, you know. If - when we get him back. He won’t want them to have it. I figured, two birds with one stone.” She looks up at Fenris, of all people, and smiles a little. Fenris isn’t entirely sure what possesses him to smile back. But he does. 

“It’s settled then.” Isabela grins. “Nothing like a little breaking and entering to get a girl into the heroic mood.”

Aveline at last unfolds her arms. “And that’s my cue to leave. I’ll fetch the pig.” She looks at Hawke. “If you need a little company climbing that mountain, you know where to find me.” Hawke grins at her, and the expression is soft and fond.

“I do. Thanks, Aveline.” Aveline smiles at her, the corners of her eyes creasing with the sincerity of it. She nods, and smiles at Fenris, and leaves. 

When she’s gone, Varric breaks the quiet. “Daisy, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Merrill blinks. “Am I?”

Varric sits forward, frowning at the open books on the floor around their feet. “Aren’t we going to need Blondie’s body?”

“Oh! Actually we don’t.” Merrill grins. “We can do this through the Fade, we only need his blood.”

Fenris considers that. “So he’ll wake up in the Circle.” Alone, he doesn’t say. Without me, he tries not to think. 

Merrill purses her lips. “Yes. It’s definitely the biggest hiccup, but I think it’s the safest plan. The Knight-Commander isn’t exactly going to let us take him without a fight, not when she knows how much he means to us.”

“We can’t anyway,” Varric points out, neutrally. “After Broody went chest punchy on the templars, she’s keeping Blondie in the Circle until we can prove we’re ‘responsible citizens’. Better translated as ‘I’m a nug-humping asshole who wants to use your loved ones against you’ but hey,” Varric grins, and it’s sharp and angry. “Who am I to judge?”

Merrill blinks, and continues with a quick rise of her slender chest. “Right. And, well,” she pauses, glancing at Fenris, “it’s sort of the perfect camouflage. If all of them think he’s Tranquil, they won’t be paying as much attention. He just needs to act all...you know, for a few days before we break him out.”

Hawke raises her eyebrows. “You’re planning to break him out?”

Merrill stares at her. “You weren’t?”

Hawke sits back with something like a smile around the corners of her lips. “Fair point.”

“How will he know? To act.” Fenris asks, quietly. 

“Well, Justice should be able to tell him that.”

“And once again we find our plan hinging on trusting a demon.” Fenris frowns. “We should not leave him there for any longer than is absolutely necessary. If Ser Alrik was any indication, the treatment of Tranquil mages is even more distasteful than that of their cogent counterparts. I do not know that Anders will be able to maintain such a facade, if he is preyed upon in that way.” He does not say again. His point is clear enough. Hawke frowns at the fire, her jaw clenched tight. Isabela picks her nails with a dagger. Merrill just looks terribly sad.

“Agreed.” Varric heaves himself forward. “I’ll call in some favours. And we won’t rely on any blighted templars, this time.” 

Fenris nods, and looks at Hawke. “Can we go tonight?”

Hawke tilts her head, and glances at Isabela. Isabela grins at her, teeth sharp and white as pearls. “Oh lover, I’ve robbed Orlesian palaces on less sleep and for far less reason. We’ll get it.” 

“We should have everything ready.” Fenris says, trying to brush away his nerves and the old burning ache of the lyrium in his skin by rubbing at his calf with his heel. “If they notice his phylactery gone, they might punish him.” 

Isabela turns her smile to him, and her gold eyes are dark with a vicious kind of anger. “Then I suppose we’ll have to break more than one.”

Hawke hums. “I like that plan.” She claps her hands, and her mabari sits up, looking at her attentively. She grins at it, and clicks her tongue, and scratches its head when it trots to her side. “Alright. Merrill - you, Aveline and I will take a trip to Sundermount in,” Hawke tilts back in her chair to squint at a window in a far room, “two hours? That should give her time to get the pig.” She sits forward. “Varric and Isabela, plan a way into the Gallows. Fenris -” Fenris raises an eyebrow at her, and Hawke grins at him. “Try not kill any templars till I get back.”

Despite himself, and every event of the past twenty-four hours, Fenris finds himself chuckling.

“I make no promises.”

Fenris has relatively few common fears. He does not fear spiders, or rats, or the dark. He is not afraid of snakes, or fire, or the ocean. He does not, crucially, fear heights.

Which is just as well, since he is currently clinging to the side of one of the Gallows’ many towers, hundreds of feet above the rooftops of Kirkwall. 

From here, the city seems like little more than a toymaker’s playset. The houses are small rough blocks, etched in charcoal against the blue of the night. The sea is black crinoline, glittering under the light of a waning moon. The stars are wreathed in thin scattered clouds, like a dancer’s silks, barely concealing their glimmering light. Fenris breathes, and tastes the cold, salt and stone air of Kirkwall. His muscles burn. His tattoos are a dull ache. The stone under his fingers is rough and unforgiving.

Above him, Isabela works silently, the tip of her dagger burning white hot with one of Sandal’s enchantments as she cuts through the bars set into the window above which she is hanging from the uppermost spire of the building. Sparks jump and fall into the air as she works, momentary as shooting stars. The woman is only holding onto her position with one hand, loosely swinging above the city. Not for the first time, Fenris wonders whether Isabela is capable of feeling fear when it comes to her physical safety. She treats her body as if it is invulnerable, dancing into blades and tempests with little more than a reckless laugh. It is something that she and her paramour have in common.

There’s a quiet creak as Isabela wrenches the bars out of the recessed stone sill into which they’d been built. She gives a quiet huff, and then she’s swinging back on the rooftop, as if it were rigging on one of her ships, and using the momentum as she swings forward to hurl the grate into the courtyard. 

Far, far below them, fire blooms in great fat blossoms of light near the Gallows’ gates. Distantly, Fenris can hear a mabari barking. He’s not sure whether he catches a woman’s laughter, or if it’s just a trick of the wind. He has no doubt that Hawke is enjoying herself. 

Gold eyes dark in the night, Isabela looks down at him with a knife-slash of a grin. “After you, handsome.” 

Fenris grunts, and pulls himself up and through the window. The room in which he stands is round and cramped as an aviary. There is only one door leading out of it, and it is surrounded by an arch of engraved stones. Fenris wonders whether mages would be affected by them - they look like elvhen script. Not for the first time, he considers learning the language properly. It seems to be an increasingly practical endeavour. 

Behind him, Isabela swings herself into the room with a whisper of fabric and a light thump as she lands on the balls of her feet. She follows his eyes to the door. The question in her eyes is clear. Do we have company?

Fenris steps forward, and feels his lyrium burn as he lights it, reaching towards the iron handle. Around them racks and racks of vials are stacked like Danarius’ wine bottles, glittering like rubies in the darkness. Each vial has a label pasted onto its belly. Each is corked and kept shut with a wax seal. There must be over a thousand of them. Fenris cannot allow himself to be distracted by the enormity of that: cannot imagine all the people represented by these vials, for good or for ill. Instead he touches the handle of the door, letting it ground him. He pulls the thing open. 

In front of him is a templar. She stands at the top of a spiral staircase, and is not wearing her helmet. She has a long brown braid and freckles. Fenris feels his brands burn, and sees the fear in her eyes, and his hand is halfway to her chest when he is struck, suddenly, by the memory of the boy - Keran, and his sister. ( We won’t be able to pay you, on his wages.) He suspects Keran is not the only person in Kirkwall to take the position of templar for the money. He lets the brands die. Behind him, he feels Isabela’s attention shift into concern like a knife on the back of his neck. 

“You have one chance to convince me not to kill you.”

The woman’s eyes are wide. She cannot be more than sixteen summers. Fenris had long since become desensitized to the suffering of children - but. He waits for her response. She looks past him, to Isabela, and the racks and racks of phylacteries that line the wall of this tower. She swallows. When she speaks, she does so with a thick Fereldan accent. “Are you here to steal them or destroy them?”

Fenris frowns. “What difference does it make?”

The girl lets out a shaking breath, and moves her hand to her sword. Fenris’ brands flare to life. He feels, rather than sees, the shifting of Isabela’s weight behind him. “Mages will do a lot if you have their phylactery.”

Fenris scowls. “You are not enamouring me to your cause.”

The girl glances between him and Isabela. The whites of her eyes are showing. Behind her, a stone staircase spirals down and away into the dark. Far off, there are the sounds of battle, as Hawke and Varric conduct their distraction. “No, I mean. If you’re here to get some mage under your thumb then I, I’ll fight you.”

Fenris considers that. “And if I am not?”

The girl shrugs, and her armour is loose and heavy on her shoulders, clanking with the movement. “There was a break in. They came in through the window. I don’t know how I didn’t hear them, messere.” She lifts her chin. It’s pointed and small, and her lips tremble in her attempt to keep her expression steady. Fenris looks at her, steadily, trying to find evidence of a lie. 

“Why would you trust me at my word?”

At this, the girl smiles, just a little. “You’re a friend of the Champion, Messere Elf. There’s not many like you with tattoos like that. And the Champion’s been outspoken, in her feelings about mages, and Fereldans both.” She sniffs. “If all that wasn’t hot air then I think you’re probably here to destroy those things. And I think I’d probably let you.”

Isabela shifts, and Fenris isn’t sure whether he plans to help her or stop her, but she doesn’t attack. “If that’s true kitten, why did you join the order in the first place?”

The girl shrugs and looks away. “Gotta eat, don’t I? And I have a family to feed. Three sisters. I couldn’t watch them starve. It’s better than begging or the blighted Bone Pit.” She frowns down at the staircase and the shadows beyond it. Her gauntleted hands curl and flex at her sides. “Least I thought it was.”

Fenris lets his brands grow dim. He doesn’t say anything to Isabela. He doesn’t think he needs to. The girl stares at him, and her skin is white in the dark. “They will punish you.” He’s not sure whether he means it as a question or a warning.

The girl sniffs again, and gives him a grin. “Probably. But us Fereldans are like cockroaches. Real hard to kill.”

Fenris huffs, and meets her eyes, and sees the fear there. He bows his head. “It is good to know that there is one good templar, in this place.”

The girl snorts. “I’ll take Fereldan. Not sure good and templar go hand in hand.” Her expression darkens. “Not any more.”

Far off, there’s the dull boom of an explosion, and the girl jumps. Isabela steps back into the heart of the tower, and Fenris follows her, shutting the door before reigniting his brands. They shed a faint blue-white light onto the phylacteries around them whilst Isabela crouches, reading the labels on row after row of small glass vials. The wind rushes in through the window, and Fenris turns his face to it, feeling the chill breath of it on his skin. After what feels like an age, Isabela makes a soft sound of triumph and springs to her feet, a tiny glass bottle in her hand. Fenris can read the script on the paper glued to its belly, written in spindly handwriting, ANDERS: Spirit Healer, Elemental, Creation, Arcane. Isabela moves to the window between one heartbeat and the next, sticking her head out of the tower to look down at Hawke and Varric’s chaotic distraction. She moves back inside, the vial already tucked into a pouch at her belt, one foot in the window, thigh bare with the movement of her tunic. 

“Shall we?”

Fenris stares at the phylacteries. They’d planned to destroy a few more at random. Maybe a dozen. They’d had a thin hope that it could be written off as an accident: even the unfortunate consequence of the explosions at the gates. 

Fenris thinks about what it feels like to wear a chain around his neck.

“Go. I’ll meet you momentarily. And brace yourself.”

Isabela doesn’t argue, just raises her eyebrows before pulling herself out of the window, lithe as a cat. Fenris follows her, climbing into the windowsill, and crouching almost double in the stone space as he fumbles with his belt. He glances outside, along the stone tower, and sees Isabela several feet below him. He feels the warm electric fizz of the grenade in his hand, swilling against its glass container. 

“Fereldan!” He shouts, as loud as he can. “DUCK!”

Then he tosses the grenade and swings himself out of the window, hanging onto the sill with all his might. There’s a faint, gentle chink as the glass hits the stone. Then there’s a massive, blooming explosion, which roars in a great cloud of copper out of the window and into the night. The rest of the phylacteries shatter in a cloud of glass splinters, exploding with the heat if not the initial grenade, and the smell of blood and smoke fills Fenris’ lungs. He looks down at Isabela, who’s staring up at him with one knife jammed into the stones of the tower.

“Do you think they heard that?” 

Fenris thinks she would sound angrier if she wasn’t smiling, and climbs down to meet her, breathless with something like excitement. “Then we had better be quick.” He grins at her, and continues to climb. Isabela blinks, and beams so brightly her cheeks are round with it. 

“Oh I like this Fenris.”

Together, they beat a hasty retreat, down the tower and through the tunnels. When they come up out of a sewer in Darktown, there are templars in the streets, and both Isabela and Fenris press close to the buildings as they make their way back to Danarius’ mansion. When they get there, Varric and Hawke are laughing so hard they’re crying, faces covered in blood and soot, tears from their laughter streaking paths in the mess. Hawke’s mabari is jumping between them, not barking, despite the way its tail is wagging. Aveline looks like she’s about to have a migraine, but she gives Fenris and Isabela an honest smile when they arrive.

“You made it.”

Isabela grins at her as she slips Anders’ phylactery from her belt. “Did you ever doubt us?”

Aveline’s mouth bends into a rueful smile. “I suppose I didn’t.”

Fenris greets Hawke’s mabari, which is making up for its master’s request that it be quiet by wagging its tail so hard its whole body shakes. He crouches, and scratches the rough fur around its neck. It rewards him with a hot rasping lick over his face. Fenris snorts and wipes his face off as he stands. “Where is Merrill?”

Aveline dips her head, and leads him into the main hall. Merrill is there already, surrounded by a great pentagram of blood. Just for a moment, Fenris hesitates. Through the open roof of Danarius’ mansion, moonlight falls onto the broken stone of the floor. He had always known that he would see blood magic done here. He had never imagined that he would condone it, let alone wish for it. He wonders whether this is what was really meant, when the sisters of the Chantry spoke of blood magic and its temptations. The floor is cold under his feet, and his body burns. 

Hawke’s hand is heavy on his shoulder. She smells of burnt poison and hot steel, scorched leather and fire and smoke. Fenris looks at her, and her blue eyes are bright and beautiful in the low light of the candles that surround them. She meets his gaze and speaks softly. “I would never let you fall.”

He believes her. 

Fenris breathes, and follows Isabela and Varric into the hall, careful to avoid the damp edges of Merrill’s pentagram, glistening in the dark. She looks up at him and gives him a tentative smile, and then her eyes widen and she springs forward. “Oh, no, Dog, don’t!” Hawke catches her mabari by the neck before it can lick a gap into Merrill’s painstakingly painted circle.  

“No blood magic for the puppy.” Hawke’s voice is strained with the effort of pulling back the beast, but it quickly loses interest in the arcane symbol painted on the floor in favour of its master. Hawke snorts as it licks her, and heaves it close in a hug before setting it down on the floor. “Now, be a good dog and go lie down.”

The mabari whines, but does as it’s told. Isabela gives Merrill the vial, and she waves her hand over it, eyes shut. Fenris feels the force of her magic in the air, shivering like the atmosphere before a storm. He tries to ease the pain from the lyrium in his calf by rubbing it with his heel. 

Merrill smiles, narrow shoulders dropping in relief. “This’ll work.” 

She moves back to the circle, and sets the phylactery into the centre of it before stepping back towards the outside and into a smaller circle beyond it. Then she looks to them, gesturing as she does so. “Ok. Hawke, Varric, Fenris, Isabela. You need to stand at the cardinal points of the compass. Hawke, you take the South - that’s strength, adventure, loyalty.” 

Hawke grins and steps beside a curling flower of blood surrounded by Dalish script. “Merrill, if you wanted to pay me a compliment you really didn’t need to go to this much effort.”

Merrill snorts and turns to Varric. “Ok, Varric you’re West. Confidence, business, persistence.” Varric chuckles and steps to his corner of the circle. Merrill nods. “Isabela - charm, adaptability, wit. You go to the North.” Isabela moves to the side of the circle opposite Hawke. They smile at one another, once, briefly, over the sprawling pentagram on the floor. Merrill lifts her head to Fenris, but he’s already moving, taking the one remaining spot beside the circle on the floor. “And Fenris, for the East. Trust, sincerity, love.”

Fenris blinks, and feels the power of the thing below his feet. His toes are not quite touching the blood, but there’s a tingling electric power in the air, and an invisible weight on his shoulders, pressing him down. He glances at Hawke, and her jaw is clenched tight. Merrill raises her hands into the air.

“Great mothers, Ghilan’nain, Sylaise, all-mother Mythal. Guide us now. Great fathers, Falon’Din, Elgar’nan, help us right this injustice. Keep us safe from the trickeries of Fen’Harel.” Merrill lowers her hands, leaving them with the palms facing down just below her belly, and breathes deeply. She looks up at them. “Are you ready?”

Varric, Hawke, and Isabela look at him. Fenris swallows, and tries to ignore the dryness of his mouth and the way that the lyrium in his body is burning. “Yes.”

Merrill smiles at him. “ Dareth shiral, ma vhalon .”

Then everything is light.

Chapter Text

Justice is conflicted.

This is not a state to which he is accustomed, especially not within the great infinite mist of the Fade. It is a consequence of the time he has spent in the mortal realm, and it leaves him uneasy. He can still feel the memory of his imminent corruption, present as a shadow in this place of thought and dream, aching like a scar. It was his time within the mortal realm that had led him to this point, the injustice and abuses suffered by his host. Justice is confused by many of the things that had happened to him and to Anders whilst they were together, but one thought is clear: he could not become a demon. That would be unjust. He would lose everything he is. 

Another thought, though he is less willing to accept it, is just as clear. The experience of mortal feeling: mortal cruelty, mortal suffering, mortal fear, is an experience that had driven him to the edge of madness, and beyond that a transformation in the mortal plane that could not be undone. He would have destroyed himself and Anders with him. That was not Just.

Justice does not know how long he has existed. He thinks he has probably existed forever. Time is not a function of the Fade. It is almost meaningless. 

He thinks. 

He will exist after Anders dies - of old age or, more likely, at the hands of his oppressors. He existed long before Anders was born. The cause of the mages is one Justice. There are infinite others. In the Fade, it is much easier to see this than within the limited confines of a mortal mind, where Justice was informed only by the parameters of what Justices Anders could imagine. Anders was a Just man, but he was human, and whilst his compassion was great, it was not limitless. Within his body, Justice’s vision was narrowed, blinkered. It made it difficult to see things clearly, to maintain the balance that was his being. Now that he has returned to the Fade, he can see it again, and what he sees is troubling. 

How can he be Just, and serve only one cause? That is not Justice. Choice demands preference, preference bias, bias injustice. 

But is neutrality Justice? It is not, cannot be. Inaction in situations of injustice is cowardice at best, and at worst no better than active participation.  On this he and Anders had repeatedly agreed. He cannot sit in the safety and peace of the Fade knowing what injustice is done in the mortal realm, taunted by the chance that he could have some impact on it, doing nothing. 

Justice is a spirit, he does not wish to leave the Fade. But permitting injustice, knowingly, is antithesis to his very being. Risking his own existence and corruption into Vengeance in order to spare those who cannot save themselves seems like a Just sacrifice. But it also seems like the temptation of Pride.

He thinks.

Within his core, the small, faint ember of Anders’ magic burns weakly in the Fade. Justice shields it jealously, and wonders at even this decision. He has grown fond of Anders, in their time together. He cannot decide whether this is a virtue or a sin. He is reluctant to let the man go. He knows that as long as they are bound together, he cannot be what he is. He should be pleased, to be here again, free and pure once more. He is pleased: the Fade cleanses his being and his magic, filling him with power and purpose. But there is still one tether tying him to the mortal realm. He cannot let it go. 

He should let him die. It would be simple. It would be peaceful. It would not even be a death, not really. Anders’ magic, his dreams, his heart, would simply be lost to the great wilderness of the Fade. Justice would never see him again. He could allow the memories of his anger, his grief, his pain, to disappear with him. He could forget the injustices done to them. He could return fully to himself. He would finally be free. 

Justice cannot let go.

He considers Anders, and wonders whether this is how the man felt sheltering him. He seems so small here, in this place. His soul, his mind, his magic, that burned so brightly in the mortal realm, are dwarfed by the scope of all that Justice can be. He is one man, one cause, one plight. He cannot be the only purpose Justice serves.

But Justice does not want to let him go. 

He existed long before Anders was born. He will exist long after he is dead. Can he choose, to serve this cause now, and another in another time? Is that Just? He thinks that it is. But he also thinks that the thought is a terribly human one, informed by hope and feeling and selfish affection. He wants a reason to keep Anders with him, to try and finish their mission, to see the end of his story. He does not want that story to end here, now. He does not want to let him die. These are the thoughts, the feelings, of a mortal creature - bound by transience and fear.

He wonders whether this is what his Maker wished him to learn. 

Justice settles a little more comfortably into his domain, and shapes his spirit around the flickering orange ember in his chest, keeping it safe from the mists of the Fade. 

If he has learned anything of Anders’ companions, it is that they will come for him. 

Justice waits.

Fenris had lost his companions almost as soon as he had entered the Fade. He supposes he should not be surprised. The place is maddening and infinite, swept in mist that unfurls to no horizon. He walks, and is not sure what it is on which he treads, nor how long it is he travels for. He feels like it has been no time at all. He feels like it has been days. He holds his sword in front of him anyway, feeling the weight of it pulling at his arms. His lyrium sears his skin like molten metal, vibrating somehow in this place in a way that makes his bones ache. Fenris ignores it. He can handle pain. 

He tries to push away the fear that he will be lost here forever, doomed at last to the depredations of demons and madness. He reminds himself that he trusts the witch. She would not have sent them here if she did not believe that she could retrieve them. Even if she would have done that to him, she would not have done it to Hawke, and Hawke would not let her do it to him. This will end, and he will live. It is only a dream, and it is a dream from which he will wake. It’s fine. 

“Hello little wolf.” 

Fenris clenches his jaw and tells himself it is not a surprise that Danarius would find him here. These creatures prey on his emotions. It is only a wonder that a shade of his former master had not found him sooner. The question now remains: which demon does it represent?

Fenris turns, and his master flickers into the corner of his eye, face half formed from roiling white mist. He whirls, and Danarius is suddenly before him, a messy hole in his chest where Fenris had ripped out his heart. He smiles at him, and something small and scarred in Fenris quails. There had been days - weeks, months, years, when he would have done anything for that smile and the comfort it promised. Danarius’ pleasure was the horizon after which he’d chased daily, seeking the safety of his approval and satisfaction. It seemed, always, to remain just beyond his reach. 

“It is good to see you, Fenris.” 

Fenris hates him. He hates him. He concentrates on the bloody wound in his chest and summons up his disdain. “I have killed you once. I will kill you again.”

Danarius nods, humming, the way he did in Fenris’ lessons - indulging an observation before he dismantled it, proving Fenris’ ignorance and promising punishment later for the folly. Fenris curls his fingers around the hilt of his sword and ignores the way his hands burn. Danarius circles him with both hands behind his back, relaxed and unafraid. Fenris ignores the pounding of his heart in his chest. “You did kill me, didn’t you? But even still you are not free.” Danarius chuckles, and Fenris feels icy sweat run down his back. He looks at him, grey eyes glittering with knowledge of something Fenris does not yet know. Fenris swallows back his fear and it rolls like bile in the pit of his stomach. “Come now, my little wolf.” Danarius reaches out and touches the side of his face. Fenris doesn’t move. “I thought I taught you better than that.”

The spell breaks. Fenris flinches back, violently, swinging his sword at his master’s - the creature’s - stomach with enough force to slice through his - its - spine. His sword meets nothing, and laughter echoes in his ears as the shade melts into mist.

“You’ll have to try harder than that.” Danarius’ voice is close, suddenly, breathing over the back of his neck, and Fenris whirls with a cry, skin crawling as he tries to shove himself away. He cannot shake the feeling of phantom hands running over his bare shoulders, stroking him like a pet. He stares at the thing that looks like Danarius, and his chest heaves.

“Enough of these games. What do you want from me, demon?” Fenris shouts into the shifting mists of the Fade. He tries to ignore the way his voice breaks on them.

Danarius smiles at him. “Fenris. You know that I took your memories. You know that I changed you, made you mine.” The smile turns cruel as he drags his eyes down Fenris’ body. “You knew only to serve me. Only to love me.” There’s a flicker, and suddenly the creature is next to him, too fast for Fenris to follow, close enough to kiss. “You know what mages do to people like you.” Before Fenris can flinch away the creature is flickering again, disappearing into the thick opaque clouds of white mist swirling around him like thin fabric.

“What has he done to you, Fenris?” 

Fenris can feel his breath coming too fast in his chest. The tattoos in his body are prickling, as if he is being stabbed with a thousand burning needles. He blinks, rapidly, trying to ignore the sweat sticking to his temples and the hairs lifting on the back of his neck. He doesn’t turn around. 

Anders moves to stand before him, lifting his chin gently with an expression that’s almost kind. Fenris stares at him: at his unblemished forehead, and the colour in his cheeks, and the freckles scattered over his nose. “You know what it means to love a mage. He’s poisoned you. Why have you let him?”

His eyes are wrong.

Fenris shakes his head, jerking back, and swings his sword again. He doesn’t expect it to do much, but he needs the comfort of the gesture. “I said enough of these games, spirit. What do you want?” The creature disappears and reappears over his right shoulder.

“Aren’t you angry, Fenris?” Hadriana’s voice is as saccharine now as it had ever been in Tevinter. Fenris snarls and turns to strike her, and his sword swings through the mist. Hadriana laughs. “Don’t you want justice, for what they did to you?”

Fenris narrows his eyes at the shifting clouds, searching for any sign of movement. There’s a shadow to his left and he moves, striking before he’s made out Merrill’s form in the mist, small and slight with eyes as red as blood. “Do you trust her? Really?”

There’s Hawke, suddenly, in front of him, grinning with a chain in her hand. “Can you trust any of them?”

Fenris stares as the chain races towards him, link by link, fast as an arrow, looping into reality from the mist and solidifying into a collar around his neck. The chain jerks, and Fenris stumbles forward, choking, falling to his knees. The mists around him are a cold kiss on his bare skin. The collar burns. Suddenly, Anders is there, one hand wrapped in the chain, the other pulling at his hair, yanking his head up. “You really think you love him, don’t you? That’s hilarious.” The creature - shade - Anders, grins a familiar curling grin, and his face shifts, and then Danarius is there, pulling Fenris’ head back until his neck aches, forcing him to stare up into his face. 

“What do you think he’s done to you, little wolf?”

Fenris stares up at his master and feels the burn of his hair pulling at his skull, and the weight of the collar on his neck, and the cold of the mist around his knees. He remembers, still, what it felt like to love him. He knows that it is not what he feels now. 

He clenches his teeth, and grins at the shade above him, and sees confusion cross its face for one moment before he’s shoving his sword through its gut and feeling, finally, the impact of something as he skewers it and it screams. 

The image fades, and Fenris’ mouth fills with the taste of sulphur as a great, blackened husk of a creature appears from the mists of the Fade. He shoves his sword up and through the heart of it, feeling heat fall burning onto his hands as he does so, and lifts the sword above his head as he slices it in two. The thing collapses into the mist in a pile of ash and coal. Fenris lets his sword fall to the ground by his feet, blade smeared black with ichor. “I never thought I’d get to kill him twice.” He kicks a chunk of coal and walks across the mist to the smoldering ember at the heart of the thing, lifting his sword again. “Thank you, for that.” He lets his sword fall, striking through the centre of it, feeling the light give like flesh before it bursts, and flickers, and dies. 

Fenris sheaths his sword and walks away. 

He feels like it has been no time at all before he hears a voice again, and he draws his sword before he searches for it. If he knows anything of the denizens of the Fade, it is that they will come to him. 

“That was bravely done, da’len .” 

Fenris frowns at the elvhen endearment, turning in a slow circle as he searches the mist. It coils and curls like a living thing, shifting into an impossible eternity. 

“It is difficult to resist the taunts of Vengeance.” The voice continues. It’s a woman’s voice, he thinks. It’s almost familiar. He cannot place it. “Especially for one who has suffered as you have.” There, at last, in the distance, Fenris can make out a shape: it’s dark, and as it approaches it resolves itself into a short elvhen woman with brown hair and brown skin. She is wearing cheap, practical clothes, though they’re clean and well maintained. There are lines of age around her mouth and eyes. Fenris has no memory of her face. But he knows her. 

“Mother.” He had not planned to say the word. He’s not sure he could have stopped himself. In reality, the distance between them would have stolen the softness of the whisper, but as it is the word carries, lifted on the mists of the Fade. The woman’s face softens, and she comes to a stop some fifteen feet away from him.

“Hello Leto.”

Fenris blinks away the sudden burning of tears in his eyes as something young and frightened and long forgotten unravels in his chest. He had forgotten what she looked like. But he remembers now, and with it comes a dozen other memories. He remembers her arms around him as he tried to sleep. He remembers her voice, singing him a lullaby. He remembers her wrapping cloth around a graze on his knee. He remembers her kiss on his cheek. He remembers the pride in her eyes as he learned how to fight. He remembers the taste of the bread she baked for them. He remembers how often she said that she loved him. 

He tries to speak past the thickness in his throat, and it’s like his mouth has been stuffed with wet cotton. “What do you want from me, spirit?”

The woman’s expression changes, crumbling into grief. “I’m sorry, da’len . I do not wish to taunt you. I am Mercy.” The mists roll white and shifting between them. She has his eyes. He has hers. Fenris stares. “I wanted to return her to you.” Fenris frowns, and ignores the roll of tears down his cheeks. 

“Why?”

The woman smiles at him. “It was the merciful thing to do.”

She turns to go, and Fenris raises his hand, reaching to her across the mist. “Wait.” She stops, and turns, and the soft green material of her skirts swings with the movement. “She sang to me. I remember...when I was hungry. When we couldn’t sleep.” He frowns, the tune resting at the edge of his memory, just past his hearing, like a shadow or a ghost. He’s not crying now, but he can feel the ache of his grief, hollow in his chest. The spirit looks at him, and Fenris feels something as it does so - some kind of presence, or light. 

She sings to him.

“ Tel’enfenim, da’len

Irasssal ma ghilas

Ma garas mir renan,”

Fenris shuts his eyes, and murmurs the words with her, feeling the meaning of them return to his mind, remembering their comfort as he’d curled against his mother’s chest in the dark, holding his sister’s hand. “ Ara ma’athlan vhenas.”

She finishes. “ Ara ma’athlan vhenas. ”

Fenris feels a sob work its way into his throat, and curls his fingers at his side, trying to hold the emotion there. He opens his eyes. She’s gone.

Fenris stares. Then he stumbles forward, in the direction of the shadow, walking at first and tripping into a run, reaching out for the ghost of his mother, or Mercy, or whatever she had been. “Wait! Please! Don’t leave!” He runs, faster and faster, seized by the notion that he could catch her somehow, desperate for her to return to him. 

He barely notices the mists changing. Beneath his feet, the Fade is cold and even. His breath rasps in his chest till it burns. His heart pounds against his skin. He runs until he’s dizzy and he keeps running and the Fade doesn’t change. 

Then suddenly it does. 

Fenris stumbles to a stop, staring, breath heaving in his chest. He’s standing outside Anders’ clinic. The wooden doors melt upwards into white mist, and on either side of them instead of the earthen walls of Darktown there are only the shifting wastes of the Fade. Tellingly, there is no smell. But Fenris recognises these doors. He stares at them, and tries to breathe. 

A hand claps down on his shoulder, and he looks up into Hawke’s grinning face. Her eyes are bright and blue, glowing and inhuman. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find us. You alright?”

Fenris doesn’t know what to say. Hawke’s expression softens, and next to her, her mabari comes barking out of the mist, licking at his hand. Its tongue feels warm and wet, and Fenris scratches its head without thought. “I’m Compassion. We’ve been waiting for you.”

She lets go of him then, and turns to the clinic, knocking on the thin wooden doors. Fenris stares at her and tries to understand whether this is a trick. His mind feels like it’s a wet rag that’s been twisted and wrung till it’s dry. The doors rattle open, and Isabela steps out, eyes as bright and blue as the thing that looks like Hawke. “Courage! Have you found Justice yet?”

Isabela shakes her head. “Wisdom is fetching him.” She looks at Fenris. “Is he alright?”

Fenris finds his wits. “What are you?”

Suddenly, Merrill is at his side, staring at the sword on his back. She grins at him. Her eyes are bright and unnatural and blue. “We’re spirits. I’m Curiosity. Hello! All of our names don’t begin with C, that’s just a funny coincidence. Ooh, Coincidence, that’s a C! Not a spirit though. Well, I don’t think it is. I suppose it could be.”

Isabela leaves the clinic to take Merrill’s arm and pull her away from Fenris. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

Fenris did not know much of the nature of the Fade but - “Inside?” He asks, bewildered.

Merrill grins at him. “Not inside in the way it would be in the mortal plane, but some of us have our own realms. For safety, sometimes, and for experimentation. We made this one for you. You have an awful lot of lyrium in your body. You’re sort of a siren for demons. Which is a problem. They’re terribly nasty, demons. Do horrible things to mortal bodies. We needed to bring you somewhere safe.”

Fenris frowns. “For what purpose?”

Anders steps out of the clinic, and he smiles at Fenris, and his eyes are bright and unnatural blue. “You’re here for your lover, right? We want to help.”

Fenris stares at him. He’s wearing that ridiculous coat, and he’s well and unharmed. His hair is copper and gold. There’s a scar on the base of his thumb. “And what are you, spirit?”

Anders’ expression softens. “What do you think I am?”

Fenris feels the rightness of it before he speaks, even as he moves closer, stepping through the clinic’s doors. “Love.”

The spirit nods, and its smile is warm as it lets him in. The clinic smells of bitter herbs, and around them there’s the faint image of Anders’ patients, moving like ghosts in the mist. Vennah and her babies. Leo and his sister, sitting on a cot and swinging their legs. Lirene, laughing with Sally. Roger Templeton, loosely holding hands with his partner. Fenris feels his shoulders drop, and he turns to the creatures that look like his friends. 

“What now?”

Varric Tethras, of all people, walks through the clinic’s doors, followed by Aveline. “Now, we talk.” Behind them comes a spirit, hazy and blue white, with a tiny heart-sized lump of burning orange within the vague area of its chest. 

Fenris guesses at the creature’s identity before it speaks, and recognises its voice when it does. “Hello, Singing One. I knew that you would come.”

“So the problem is that Justice is too weak to actually leave the Fade. We need some kind of additional power source - something even more powerful than whatever magic your friend worked to bring you here. And you have no magic of your own, so that’s a problem.” Curiosity speaks much more quickly than Merrill does, but shares her lilting accent. Fenris frowns and tries to follow her. He and the spirits in the shape of his friends are sitting in a circle on the rough image of wooden benches. Beside him are Compassion and Integrity - Aveline. He tries not to shrink away from them. He tries not to wonder how in the Void he has found himself sitting in conference with half a dozen spirits and not making an effort to run away screaming. 

Instead, he looks at Curiosity and holds up his hand, woven with lyrium that burns in his skin. “Would this work?”

Next to Compassion, Courage shifts. “Bravely offered, but it could kill you and corrupt him.”

Aveline hums. “It will not, if Justice is able to control himself.”

Hawke looks worriedly at the ghostly, flickering humanoid shape of Justice. “You so recently recovered yourself. Do you think you could survive the temptation again?”

Justice shifts, and the lines of him blur, the great burning light of him imprinting itself onto the backs of Fenris’ eyelids. “I do not know. My corruption was born from suffering.” He shifts to look at the spirit sitting in the shape of Anders beside him, and it frowns. Justice continues. “I do not think I would fall. But I do not wish to harm you, Singing One.”

Fenris wonders at what it says about the progression of his madness that he believes him. He pushes the thought away. “What about your situation? Anders said that you were trapped before. Would you be trapped again?”

Varric moves, sitting forward beside Curiosity. “We don’t think so. We’re spirits, we exist beyond the movement of time and mortality. When your mage dies, Justice will return to us.” Curiosity nods, smiling. 

“It’s not the first time this has happened, but the stories are rare.” Her smile widens. “Fortunately I love stories.” 

Varric hums. “And there’s a great deal that we can learn from them.”

Fenris frowns at his hands, remembering lyrium pouring into his skin, and the blinding agony of the greatest pain he has ever felt. “Is there any other way?”

Aveline frowns at Hawke, who sighs and sits forward, scratching the head of her mabari. “We don’t know. But time in your realm is...difficult. Justice leads us to understand that the longer this progresses, the less likely it is that your mage will be returned to you intact.”

Anders looks worriedly at the small ball of copper gold light in Justice’s chest. “He’s dying. It’s something of a miracle he’s survived this long, and thanks only to Justice.” He smiles at him, fondly. “But mortal souls are not built to live like this, with spirits in the Fade. His energy would normally have been siphoned into the mists, or into Justice himself.” Anders looks at Aveline. “The fact they haven’t merged is evidence that Justice still retains his control.”

Aveline frowns. “You wish them to succeed regardless, your judgement is not unbiased.”

Anders inclines his head, conceding her point more mildly than the Anders Fenris knows in life has ever conceded anything. 

A thought occurs to him. “You have taken the forms of my friends.” 

Hawke nods and looks at him, and her eyes are opaque and bright and blue. “We thought it might be easier, if we appeared to you in this way.”

Fenris nods, looking away from the eerie glow of her eyes. He is unsure whether their attempt had succeeded, but he decides not to say as much. He can, abstractly at least, appreciate the effort. “What made you choose them?”

Isabela grins. “It’s the virtues they best present! The courage to face your mistakes, even when they might kill you.”

“Integrity in a flawed system.” Aveline says, firmly.

Merrill brightens and sits up. “Curiosity to learn old magic and new!”

Hawke smiles, “Compassion, to befriend all who ask for it.”

Varric chuckles, “Wisdom, to see yourself and your actions within their context.”

Fenris turns to Anders, who gestures to the clinic, and the images of his patients. “Love, to give of yourself to those who have nothing to share in return.” The smile he gives Fenris is warm, and kind. “And to bind yourself to one you thought had hated you. To see past old scars, and find the beauty in them.” Fenris feels himself flushing, and tries to ignore the prickling heat of it.

He turns to the shifting light of Justice. “And you? Anders said you were a knight before.”

Justice shifts. “It is difficult, now, for me to see Justice in that form, as I once did.”

Fenris thinks of the templars, and their heavy suits of plate armour. “Who would you be? If you were one of us?”

The spirit flickers, and Fenris finds that he is, suddenly, looking at himself. Justice meets his eyes. “I would be you.”

Fenris stares, even as Justice flickers back into shifting light. It is suddenly very difficult to breathe. 

“This is why we want to help you.” Hawke says, gently. “Your cause is Just.” She smiles, and she looks so like Marian that something in his chest aches for the sight of it. “But you do not need to do this alone.”

Fenris stares at her. He breathes. Around them, the ghost of Anders’ clinic is bright and faded, as if painted in watercolours onto old paper. Above them stretch the endless white mist of the Fade. 

Fenris looks at Justice, and holds out his hand. “Then let us try.”

The other spirits leave them, until it is only Justice and Fenris sitting alone in the mist. With Love’s departure, the clinic disappears, and Fenris once again finds himself in the centre of a great shifting eternity. He looks at the creature in front of him, and the tiny ball of golden light within its chest. He realises, abruptly, that he is looking at Anders’ soul. 

“You do not have to do this, Singing One.” Justice’s voice is clearer here, unfiltered by the mortal plane. Fenris can feel it humming through his body, but the sensation is not unpleasant: more akin to the distant rumble of thunder than anything that might cause pain.

He nods, and lifts his chin, trying to ignore the fear that flutters up his spine at the memory of old and terrible suffering. “I know, spirit.”

Justice doesn’t move. Fenris wonders whether it is aware of how long it remains still, its form flickering in the mists of its home. After a long time, it speaks again. “I do not wish to harm you.” 

“I know.”

Justice’s response comes much more quickly this time. “Anders would not wish to harm you, either.”

Fenris smiles. “I know.” He holds out his hand in the space between them, palm up, fingers splayed, an unmistakable gesture of friendship in every land he’s lived. “I trust you. Maker knows why. But I do. And I would have him returned to me.”

“It will be painful.” The spirit says, quietly. 

Fenris tilts his head to the side, and feels the burn of the tattoos in his body. “I am not unaccustomed to pain.”

The spirit shifts. “I do not know what I will do, if this kills you. It would be a great injustice.”

Fenris huffs, and shifts his weight. “Then do not kill me.”

“That is not a simple request, Singing One.”

Fenris frowns. “Why do you call me that?”

The spirit shifts the shape of its head. When it speaks, it sounds almost surprised. “It is because you sing.” The thing gestures with one of its glowing limbs to Fenris’ body. “The lyrium in your skin. It is always singing.”

Fenris considers that. His hand tingles. He tries not to imagine how much time has passed. He looks at the glowing, copper-gold sphere of light in Justice’s chest. “What’s it like?”

The spirit ripples. “Do you wish to hear it?”

Fenris nods despite himself, suddenly both desperately curious and terribly afraid.

The sound reaches him slowly, as if approaching from a distance. At first, it sounds like wind in a cave, one rough note of sound howling in a loop. But as he listens, it builds, lilting into a melody. It’s beautiful. Fenris lets out a breath of air he hadn’t realised he was holding, and feels his mouth curl into a breathless, painful smile. He shuts his eyes, and shakes his head, and the song of the tattoos burned into his body sings around him like a lullaby. 

When Fenris opens his eyes, Justice is standing before him, constant and burning. Fenris looks up at him, and smiles, and ignores the thickness in his throat. “Come, spirit. Let us go home.”

Justice takes his hand.

Then everything is light.

Chapter Text

Fenris wakes up to Merrill’s face hovering inches above his own. He flinches back, and hits his head hard on the floor beneath him, which only compounds the headache dawning in his mind like a terrible sunrise. Merrill flinches too, hands moving like little birds in her panic as she pats her belt for an elfroot potion. “Sorry! Sorry!! Are you alright?”

Fenris frowns and regrets it, as it does nothing to ease the pain. He holds his hand out for the potion and drinks it in one long gulp, barely tasting the rich honey sweetness of the thing as it moves down his throat. With an effort, he sits up. The pentagram is gone, and Hawke, Aveline, Isabela and Varric are standing behind Merrill, staring at him with concern. Hawke has one hand on the back of her mabari. Fenris looks up at her. “What?” His voice sounds rough as sandpaper, and his throat feels worse. He coughs a little, trying to clear the sensation.

Hawke purses her lips. “You went a bit glowy there, buddy. And not in the usual way. Sure you’re not possessed by a demon?”

Fenris considers it. The tattoos on his body are a dull ache, milder than he’d expected. His mind feels calm. The memory of what had happened in the Fade is like the memory of a dream, but there are parts of it that are still vivid. His mother’s face. His confrontation with Vengeance. The spirits. Justice.

He waits, but there is nothing else but the quiet peace of his own mind. He is alone. He is safe. Fenris relaxes, and shakes his head, careful not to do so with too much force. “No, I am myself. Though my head feels as if it’s been stuffed full of nug-shit.”

That startles a laugh out of Varric, and Merrill chews her bottom lip, lifting a hand glittering with green light. “That doesn’t sound good. May I?”

Fenris blinks at her, slowly. “Do you promise not to rearrange anything?”

Merrill blushes, and behind her Hawke snorts and covers it quickly and poorly with a cough. “I promise. I just want to take a look and see if I can do something about the pain. And I’ve been practicing.”

Fenris tries, and does not entirely succeed, to stifle the smile around his lips. “Very well, witch.” There is no concealing the affection in the moniker now, and Merrill gives him a crooked grin for it as she lifts her hand to his head. Fenris keeps very still, and resists the urge to flinch. As Merrill’s magic washes over his head like cool water, Fenris thinks he can smell the distant scent of pine trees. 

He looks at Hawke, not moving from where he’s sitting on the floor. “How long was I gone?” Hawke glances at Isabela, who shrugs and tilts her head to look up at the broken ceiling. The sky is pink and gold above their heads. 

“All night, handsome.”

Fenris breathes. It’s better than he’d hoped. The pressure in his head eases, and he relaxes a little more, looking at Merrill. “Thank you.” 

She grins at him, spots of pink on the apples of her cheeks, the simple pleasure of a job well done. “You’re welcome.” Merrill’s expression grows serious. “What happened in there?”

Fenris considers the question. He can feel his companions watching him, but he is unsure how much he is ready or willing to tell them. He says, carefully, “I found Justice. He used the lyrium in my body to return to our realm. Or,” he catches himself, frowning, “that was the plan. I do not know if it succeeded.”

“What about his and Anders’...situation?” Hawke’s question is carefully neutral, and Fenris looks at her sharply. She holds up her hands in surrender. “I just want to know if we should be expecting six feet and pretty or twelve feet and,” she pauses, “less pretty.”

Despite himself, Fenris snorts. “Justice remains uncorrupted. Returning to the Fade was good for him. And he will be freed, when Anders reaches the end of his mortal life.” 

“How do you know?” Isabela asks, making no real effort to hide her cynicism. 

Fenris shrugs. “It is what the spirits said. One that called itself Curiosity.” He glances at Merrill. “She looked like you.” Merrill’s eyes get huge, and she grins.

“Oh really? Oh that’s, that’s wonderful .” Fenris can feel Varric’s gaze on him, and turns to the dwarf, raising an eyebrow.

“Sounds like you’ve got a real story there, Broody.” He makes no effort to hide his interest, and Fenris inclines his head.

“Perhaps I will tell it to you, one day.”

“So.” Aveline speaks when no one else does. Above their heads, seagulls shout into the distant sky. “What now?”

Hawke folds her arms. Released of her touch, her mabari trots forward to Fenris. He pets it as its master thinks. “We need to know whether the plan worked. An Anders we can trust to be his usual fireball throwing self is very different to an Anders who’s,” she hesitates, glances at Fenris, and continues, “and that’s very different again to an abomination.”

Fenris frowns, “He’s not an -”

Hawke holds up her hands. “I know. I’m just saying. There’s a chance. We failed at this once before. I have no interest in failing again.” She sighs and looks at Varric, and they exchange one of their mostly silent conversations. Fenris breathes, and smells old blood and magic. Merrill fiddles with her sleeve.

Then Varric grunts and hefts Bianca over his shoulder. “Right. Time to visit my favourite Knight-Commander.”

Hawke scowls. “I’m going to need some ale for this.”

Isabela snorts. “I’ll keep a seat warm for you in The Hanged Man.”

“And for those of us who don’t speak thieves’ tongue?” Aveline asks, exasperated. Hawke gives her an apologetic grin, and turns to the three of them.

“Varric and I are going to see Meredith - no, Fenris, you can’t come. I love you and all but you will murder some templars and that will make negotiations more difficult.”

“What about me?” Merrill asks, quietly. 

Hawke steps towards her and holds out a hand. Merrill takes it, and Fenris notices her flush to the tips of her ears. He looks away. They had all been in love with Hawke at one point. It was likely that they always would be. Hawke squeezes Merrill’s hand. “Well, first you’re going to sleep until at least midday, because there’s no way that spell didn’t take a fuckload of energy. And then after that, do me a favour and see if you can find anything that will help us figure out whether all this worked from a distance, ok?”

Merrill sighs, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with her free hand. “You just want to keep me away from the templars.”

Hawke grins, and lets go of her hand. “Alas, you’ve caught me in my evil plan. One mage getting taken by those assholes is more than enough stress for me for one lifetime.” Hawke’s expression softens, and she smiles at Merrill kindly. “I’d really prefer not to lose another.”

Merrill purses her lips. “I can look after myself, you know.”

“And you can murder as many templars as your heart desires after we’ve rescued Blondie.” Varric interjects. “Come on Daisy. For me?”

Merrill bites her lip, but after a moment she sighs and nods. “Alright, fine.”

Hawke claps her hands. “Great, I call that a plan. I’ll see you once I’ve convinced Meredith to see the plight of the mages.” 

Fenris heaves himself to his feet, ignoring the pain rolling in waves through his body as he does so. Aveline raises an eyebrow at Hawke. “So, never?”

Hawke clicks her tongue at her mabari and it trots eagerly to her side. “I’m aiming for sundown. Meet in The Hanged Man?”

All of them look to Fenris, and he inclines his head. He finds himself itching to go to the Gallows, wondering if he might catch a glimpse of gold and copper hair. The Tranquil were allowed into the courtyard more often than the mages. He might even catch him unaccompanied. “Very well.”

Hawke, her mabari and Varric leave with Isabela. Aveline helps Merrill collect her books, and stops her before she goes, “Actually, Merrill, I’m planning on going to Darktown. Let me help you with these.” 

Merrill beams up at her. “Oh, thanks Aveline!”

Then Aveline turns to Fenris. “Fenris, I have a favour to ask of you.”

Fenris raises his eyebrows at her. It is a rare occasion indeed, that would see the captain of the Kirkwall city guard asking for help from an elvhen runaway. “What is it?” All that he can imagine is some den of thieves which requires additional manpower to eradicate. He thinks of the Gallows. Above them, the sun beats down through the broken ceiling. 

Aveline adjusts the books in her arms. “Would you come with me to the clinic? There’s something you need to see.”

A hundred horrible things run through Fenris’ head. He remembers finding the place burned and black and broken, scattered with splintered glass. “Very well.”

It’s a shrine. 

In many ways, Darktown is unchanged. It still stinks of rat piss and chokedamp. It is still, well, dark, with the golden yellow light of the Kirkwall sun filtering in shafts through the broken walls. There are still too many too hungry people crammed into its crowded, earthen streets. 

But it’s also changed. There are posters pasted across the wooden walls, printed in cheap ink and block capitals.

FREE OUR MAGES!

END THE TYRANNY OF THE CHANTRY!

JUSTICE FOR FERELDEN!

JUSTICE FOR THE ELVHEN!

JUSTICE FOR KIRKWALL!

Beneath these titles are scrawled excerpts and paragraphs: passages Fenris recognises from Anders’ manifesto, and new sentiments from different pens. Messages are scrawled onto the walls, cut with ink and daggers, scratched into the wood: phrases in elvhen, Tevene, Orlesian, Antivan, Rivaini and more that Fenris doesn’t know. Again and again and again he sees the same phrase repeated, pasted on shop signs and walls, doors and windows.

JUSTICE FOR THE HEALER!

And then there’s the clinic. The doors are open. Domnall and Polly-Anne are there, administering what care they can. Toram, the Carta dwarf, is standing with his arms folded on one side of the cheap wooden doors. Jas stands on the other. Between them, at the thin column between the doors, is a shrine. It is covered in red wax candles and flowers, bread and fruit and sweet meats. There are scraps of paper slotted into baskets and propped against the wall. In the centre of it is a thin sheaf of pamphlets. As Fenris watches, an elvhen boy carefully, carefully sets a small wooden halla onto the pile. He stares. 

Next to him, Aveline watches him closely, and when she speaks she does so softly. “News about what happened to Anders spread quickly. We’ve been having trouble keeping the peace here in Darktown, and in pockets of Lowtown as well. People are...not happy that their healer was made Tranquil. I give it a week before we see rioting in the streets.”

Fenris turns to her. The light filters across the copper of her hair. “Why are you telling me this?”

Aveline gives him a small smile. “They have a request.”

Fenris frowns, but it is at this point that Jas sees him and shrugs away from the wall. He stiffens. He has not seen the woman since their first, failed attempt to liberate Anders. He is unwilling to see her now. But she does not rage, or attack him as he’d expected. Instead, her fingers curl at her sides. “We heard what happened. To the healer.” Jas looks up at him, and there are dark circles bruised beneath her brown eyes. She looks away, again, at the small queue outside the clinic. “We want to do something.” She stops herself, and looks at the shrine. From here, Fenris can smell the scent of flowers and candle wax. “ I want to do something.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. “Something with which the Coterie cannot help you?”

Jas shifts her weight. “It’s not really their style. It was Leo’s idea, actually.”

She tells him. Fenris listens, and feels Aveline as she watches him. When Jas is done, Fenris makes an effort to breathe, slow and even, trying not to give anything away. He glances at Aveline. “And I suppose the city guard won’t help?”

Aveline smiles at him, and there’s something of Hawke in the expression, a glimmer of chaos that Fenris likes and fears in equal measure. “Some of them will. But a little help would be appreciated, in case things go south.”

Fenris nods. It makes sense. He looks at Jas. “Then I will help you. When are you planning to go?”

Jas lifts her chin. “Just after sundown. We’ll go up through Lowtown. Get as many people as we can. Vennah and Roger have already been spreading the word. And the Coterie and the Carta have agreed to a ceasefire.” Fenris raises both eyebrows at that, and Jas laughs. Far off, a mabari barks into the tunnels, and someone shouts after it. “Just for tonight.” The smile fades. “For the healer.”

Fenris stares at her, and wonders whether Anders will ever understand the impact that he has had on these people. Then he clears his throat, and bows his head. “Very well. For the healer.”

At sundown, Fenris meets Hawke and their companions in The Hanged Man, and tells them of Jas’ plan. 

Hawke had been three flagons of ale in and counting following a profoundly unsuccessful visit with Meredith. The Knight-Commander had no proof to connect the Champion of Kirkwall to the destruction of her phylacteries, but had made no effort to hide her suspicions. 

Given an opportunity to drive the woman to further distraction, Hawke brightens immediately. Together, they descend into the shadows of Darktown.

Except that Darktown is bright. 

In every window, on the walls, in open doors and set into the dirt, there are thousands and thousands of candles. Fenris is conscious of the reassuring weight of his sword on his back as they walk - past children and adults of all races, clutching red wax candles in their hands, staring with chins raised into the dark. The Flying Pig is closed, and there are candles set in its narrow windows and along the threshold in front of its door. A banner is pasted across the door.

COME TO THE GALLOWS AT SUNDOWN. FOR THE HEALER.

They keep walking. Roger’s smithy is shut. The tunnels are quiet. Fenris feels as if he is entering a church. Outside the broken walls of the Undercity, the sky is dark and blue. Fenris breathes, and tastes smoke and candle wax. 

They reach the top of the first flight of stairs before Anders’ clinic, and Merrill brings her hands to her mouth with a soft gasp. Hawke stops. Varric stares. “Holy Maker.” The words are barely a whisper. Far away, Fenris can hear the sound of the sea. 

In front of the clinic are dozens and dozens of people. All of them are holding candles. There’s Caroline Baker, and her daughter Kate, looking white faced and determined as she clutches the candle in her hands. There’s Marcus and Roger Templeton. There’s Polly-Anne, and Sally, shepherding her children. There’s Domnall, and Briawen, another of the clinic’s elvhen volunteers. There’s Toram, of the Carta, and a handful of other dwarves with him. There’s Vennah, babies clutched in a sling around her chest. There’s Gerald Orchard, holding a staff, chin lifted and defiant despite the bandage around his eyes. There’s Fran, and more than a few patrons from The Flying Pig. There’s Jethann, and Viveka - and other employees of The Blooming Rose Fenris cannot name. There’s Jas, and next to her is Leo. With him is a very small girl with the same curly blonde hair that he has. The candles in their hands are bright as a fistful of earthbound stars. 

Aveline steps forward, and her guardsmen walk with her - Donnic, Brennan, and others Fenris doesn’t know. Their armour chinks as they move. Aveline looks back at them, and her expression is gentle and determined. “Come on.”

They descend the staircase, and ascend the flight beyond them, stepping onto the landing. This close, Fenris can feel the heat of the candles on his skin. Leo brightens when he sees him, and steps forward with his sister clinging to the dirty material of his breeches. “Messere Elf! I knew you’d come. Here, take this.”

Leo passes Fenris his candle. The wax is a little damp with the sweat of his fingers, smooth but uneven. Fenris tightens his grip around the thing, and stares at the flickering yellow glow of the fire on its wick. He thinks of a small ball of amber light. Leo turns and disappears into the crowd, returning with an armful of candles that he distributes to Hawke and the others. Carefully, quietly, still hushed by something that is either shock or wonder, Fenris watches them light their candles from those of the other protesters. Even the guardsmen take some, the red wax lumpy and incongruous against the polished silver of their armour.

When they’re ready, Vennah shuffles forward. She’s not holding a candle - Fenris is somewhat amazed that she’s here at all, considering her babies, all of which now sport a tuft of soft red hair. For her part, Vennah grins up at him, her own red hair streaked with silver. “Quite a party, don’t you think?”

Fenris nods and answers, honestly, “it is remarkable.” He looks around at the quiet crowd and the jumping shadows of their candlelight. “Is this your doing?”

Vennah shrugs, and her eyes twinkle with it. “Well, it was young Leo’s idea. And Jas helped. But it turns out there’s not a lot can’t be done once the Coterie and the Carta stop disagreeing with each other.” She grins, and it’s a sharp, angry thing. “Turns out if you can make a poor dwarf, an elf and a human agree on anything, it’s that they had no right to mutilate our healer.”

Fenris thinks of the red of a never-setting sun. He says, quietly, “No. They didn’t.”

Jas joins them then, armed and smelling of freshly waxed leather armour. “Vennah? We ready?”

Vennah looks up at Fenris, and he glances at Hawke. She nods at him, and there’s a small, quiet smile on her face. Vennah hums, satisfied. “Yes, Jas. I rather think we are.”

Together, with Hawke and her companions and the city guard acting as their chaperones, their brand processes through the earthen tunnels of Darktown. Dozens and dozens of people stare out of their doors and their windows. Many of them hold candles too. But even more remarkable than that is the way their band grows as they walk. By the time they’ve reached the lift that will return them to Lowtown, their numbers have doubled, and they have to take the lift in shifts.

Then they come up into Lowtown, and there’s a circle of candlelight waiting for them.

They walk into the fresh stone and salt air of Kirkwall, coming up through the slums. A group of elves joins them from the alienage, and scattered among them are the Dalish, wearing their distinctive vallaslin. They walk on. Fenris feels the sunbaked stone of the city rough and warm beneath his feet. They pass The Hanged Man, and more people join them: dwarves and humans filtering into the crowd, some of them carrying swords and moving amicably besides Hawke and the guards, settling comfortably into protecting the band as they move.

They climb the stairs to Hightown in a long river of light. The stone is cooler here, sheltered by great mansions and polished marble. The streets are empty, and the only sound is the soft hush of their footsteps. Fenris watches Vennah and Jas as they go. They could have gone directly to the Gallows, but this choice seems deliberate, and he watches curtains in windows twitch to the side as Kirkwall’s aristocracy stares at the river of fire running past them and wonders where it ends. 

Above them, the stars are distant and bright and cold as diamonds, scattered through the dark. 

At last they reach the Gallows. Fenris stares up at the great, twisted bronze statues of slaves, contorted in their suffering. His grip tightens around his candle. At his side, he feels the gentle brush of a human woman he doesn’t know, and beyond her an elvhen man, and more and more of them, running down the steps and into the night. He lifts his head high.

They reach the templars at the Gallows’ gates. Aveline steps forward. 

The templar greets her warily. “Guard Captain.” The crescent moon glitters in the reflection of their armour. Aveline’s guards in Hightown had been informed of their procession, and whilst they had been wary they had not been afraid. The templars had not been given advance warning, and Fenris watches them look at one another uneasily now. Good. 

Aveline inclines her head. “The people of Kirkwall would like to invoke the right to a peaceful protest, against the treatment of our mages and the abuses of your order. This is their right by law, and by the grace of Andraste. They mean no harm, and wish only to sit in the Courtyard until sunrise.” She lifts her chin, and in her profile then Fenris can see the woman who had brought a city’s guard to heel. “Do you intend to stop me?”

For a long beat, the templar says nothing. Over their heads, the wind rushes and curls around the great stone of the city like silk. Fenris feels the heat of the candle in his hand, flickering under his chin. Then there’s a scrape of metal on stone, and the templars step aside. 

Aveline gives them a very small, very tight smile. “Thank you.”

She steps to the side, and ushers the procession in. By this point, Fenris has lost count of their number. As they fill the courtyard, sitting on the wide rough stones, he thinks there must be over half a thousand of them. He waits until they’re inside before moving to sit at the front, staring up at the empty iron gates of the Gallows at Hawke’s side. Several of the people in their band are staring at the Champion of Kirkwall herself, sitting among them as if it is nothing. As if she does not know what it means, for her to do this now. Hawke just looks straight ahead, the golden light of her candle reflected in her eyes. 

Fenris folds his legs and sits on the rough stone, under the starlit sky. Together, they wait.

They do not have to wait long. Above their heads, there’s a distant murmur of voices that grows louder with the swinging of wooden doors and the crunch of armoured footsteps on stone. The windows of the Gallows light up, sporadically at first and then faster and faster. There are rushing feet and raised voices. And then, haphazardly shepherded by the templars, there are the mages. Fenris stares. They’re on a rooftop some sixty feet above him, and he has to crane his head, but he can see all manner of people: humans and elves, dark and light, young and old. There are children, there are adults, all distant varied silhouettes. Among them, templars move briskly, uncertain of what to do now but attempting to maintain some kind of order. 

And then Fenris sees the First Enchanter - Orsino, make his way to the edge of the rooftop. He watches the mages turn to him and tries to scan the crowd for a glimpse of familiar copper gold hair. He’s so busy searching for Anders that he almost misses what Orsino does next - catching it only as Hawke shifts beside him, brushing his arm with hers, “Is he?”

Orsino raises his hand into the air. In it he holds a sphere of burning light. On the other rooftop another mage - an elvhen woman wearing the robes of a Senior Enchanter - does the same. Then a dark human man copies them, and then there are more, and more, and within moments every mage on the rooftop of the Gallows is raising their hands, burning with light.

Next to him, Fenris feels Hawke move suddenly as she gets to her feet, and lifts her candle into the air. Her chin is raised and she is staring up, unafraid, at Orsino. There’s something like a smile on her lips. Around them, there’s a great shuffling of feet as the crowd stands, following their Champion. Fenris stares, and watches them: strangers, enemies, friends; elves, humans, dwarves,  all raising their hands together in defiance. In solidarity. In hope. 

He breathes, and it hurts. 

He raises his hand. 

Chapter Text

Anders wakes up. 

He’s lying in bed, in his bed clothes, on his back. Anders has slept on his side curled up as tightly as he can (despite the increasing length of his limbs) for over twenty years. It has been that way ever since he’d first been taken to Kinloch, when he had slept curled around his mother’s pillow and trying to ignore the other apprentices. Now, lying stiff and straight on his back, he stares at the grey ceiling of his room, and blinks. He breathes in the smell of cleaning chemicals and cotton. 

Very quietly, gentle in the back of his head, he hears Justice.

Anders?

Anders braces himself for the acidic sensation of the spirit burning in his head. It doesn’t come. Instead it feels familiar: cool and bright, not something stuffed into the space of his skull til it hurt. Justice feels like cool water, washing gently through his head and down his spine. He breathes. “You’re back.” He feels a rumble of approval.

I am myself.

Anders grins at that and sits up, uncomfortable in the way he’d been lying, putting his hands beside him on the rough sheets of his bed. He squints up at his narrow window. Sunlight has not yet fallen onto the tower opposite his room, but the stone is brightening with the coming day. In front of him, propped against the wall, there is a bucket and a mop instead of his staff. Anders frowns. He feels Justice’s consternation in his mind: not painful, not any more, more like the discomfort of sand in a shoe.

How much do you remember?

Anders blinks. I forgot something…? He thinks, hard. He remembers - he remembers a battle. It was past the end of his corridor. There were swords, armour, the clash of metal on metal. He remembers hearing a mabari bark, and not daring to hope, and then he’d heard Isabela’s laughter - wild and deadly, and Fenris roaring. He’d stood by his door, uncertain of whether or not to leave the safety of his chamber. He remembers looking through the grate in his door down the corridor at Alice, on the other side, her green eyes wide and worried. They’d waited for what felt like an age, and Anders had held his staff in his hand and waited, wanting nothing more than to help his friends as he had so many times before. Then the battle had fallen silent, and there had been more armoured footsteps, and he’d heard Meredith’s voice. Anders had pressed his forehead to the cool wood of his door and tried not to weep.

Then there had been shouting and a distant explosion, coming from elsewhere in Kirkwall. He’d lost track of what happened to Hawke and Fenris and the others after that as templars came into their corridor and locked them into their rooms, taking Philippe as a Senior Enchanter. Anders had heard something about a Qunari attack, and had rattled his door uselessly when they were gone. Across the corridor he’d heard Huw, quiet and frightened, calling through the wood. 

“Messere Anders? What’s going to happen to us?”

Anders had laid his palm against the wood, and wished he could provide any more comfort for the child barely ten feet away from him. But he’d taken a deep breath, and ignored the screaming burn of Vengeance in his head, and said as easily as he could, “Nothing Huw. We’re going to have a long quiet night and miss all the fun. I’m sure we’ll hear all about it in the morning.”

There had been silence, then. After a moment, Huw had sniffed. “A-alright.”  

Anders had slumped against the wooden door, and slid down it to sit on the floor, staring up out of his window as distant fire and plumes of smoke rose into the sky, climbing above the tower opposite his room. He wondered what would happen if the Qunari won. He wondered what it would feel like to have his lips sewn shut. He wondered what he would do if they did that to the children. Sparks fell around his fingers, bright and dancing. Anders hugged his knees to his chest, and waited. 

The battle ended. The sound of distant screaming and weapons fell quiet in time for the sunrise. Across the corridor, Anders could hear the soft sound of Huw snoring. He rolled his staff in his hands and blinked the grit of sleeplessness from his eyes. He waited to find out who had won. 

He found out three hours later when the templars returned at last to unlock their doors. Were he a younger man, Anders might have raged against them: screamed at them for leaving them trapped and waiting for their new Qunari captors, defenceless and abandoned and afraid. Vengeance wanted him to. But Anders was older now, and tired, and mostly grateful that Kirkwall was still free, after a fashion. He did ask the templar who came to his door what had happened. They were wearing a helmet and he didn’t recognise them.  But then they grabbed his arm, and a shocking Cleanse thudded with bruising force into his bones, and Anders was too confused to do anything as he was dragged out of his room and down corridors full of soldiers towards Knight-Commander Meredith’s office. 

Meredith had looked like she’d had a worse night than he had, and Anders had taken some satisfaction from that, despite the panic roaring in his mind. He could see Orsino, his magic crackling with barely restrained fury, thunderous as a waterfall. Anders understood what was going to happen before anyone said anything, but he still fought back when they pushed him onto his knees. 

He doesn’t remember exactly what was said then. He remembers Orsino shouting, white faced with anger. He remembers Meredith hitting him, hard, with the back of her hand. He remembers armoured bodies pressing close in a wall of metal. He remembers the smell of hot iron. He remembers laughing as he cried.

Because of course. Of course, after everything else, they would take this now.

Anders remembers staring up at the burning gold of an iron sun, and grinning at Meredith until all his teeth were bared. He remembers his last words.

“You will never win.”

It had felt like a snap. Anders remembers it now, vividly: the moment he was severed from himself in one final, violent tearing. 

And then he went away.

In the present, Anders reels, gasping, and gets unsteadily to his feet. He feels Justice rolling nervously in the back of his head.

Anders -

Anders ignores him, he gets to his wash basin, and leans heavily on the ceramic rim of the bowl in the wooden table. He stares at the small sheet of polished metal hammered into the wood above the bowl, nailed to the wood to prevent mages from using it to harm themselves. He blinks, and feels his breath coming too fast in his chest, until he’s dizzy with it. He recognises his jaw, clean shaven. He sees his nose, and his cheeks, and his eyes, wide and staring in panic. And there, in the centre of his forehead, is a scar: livid red and raised with the depth of the burn, in the shape of a never-setting sun. 

Anders falls back and brings his hands to his face, fingers gingerly touching the rough edges of the scar. It doesn’t hurt. It’s far too late now to heal it. Anders pulls his hands back through his hair and tugs on it until it aches, wheezing as he breathes too fast and not deep enough. He stumbles away from the mirror until his back hits the wooden door behind him, and blinks away the black spots at the corners of his eyes. 

Of course. Of course. He has suffered every violation these people have to give, and now it will be stamped onto his skin for the rest of life. 

Anders crumples to the floor and bends his chest forward into his folded knees. Then he pulls at his hair and he cries and he cries and he cries. 

There’s a very soft knock at his door. 

It’s a light sound, and lower down the wood than an adult would knock, almost level with Anders’ head. He falls silent immediately, realising abruptly that a Tranquil mage would not - could not - sob like this. He gets to his feet, rubbing his face as he does so, and stares at the wood of the door. The knock comes again. Anders breathes, deeply, and feels it hurt as he does so. He tries to school his features into impassivity. He’d always had a terrible poker face.

He puts his hand on the door handle, and feels the cold metal under his skin as he turns it, softly.

In front of him in the empty corridor is Lacey. The little girl’s thin blonde hair is carefully braided behind her head, and she’s staring up at him with wide eyes. Her apprentice’s robes are loose around her shoulders. Their clothes were hardly tailored to them, and living on the street had left Lacey’s body thin and weaker than most of her counterparts. Anders tries very hard to be as neutral as possible when he speaks. “Hello. What do you need?”

Lacey scowls, and her hands flutter into a series of shapes. Anders blinks, and remembers how it had felt the first time Karl had understood him when he had done this, and he had realised he was no longer alone.

Lacey says, “ You came home?”

Anders stares at her, then steps carefully into the corridor, checking for witnesses. He looks down at the child in front of him. He should lie. He has no idea what the templars will do if they realise he is no longer Tranquil - he has never heard of such a thing. He doubts that it will be good. The less Lacey knows about it, the safer she will be. 

Except that she’s staring at him as if he’s about to disappear and Anders, like every mage in every Circle who’d reached adulthood, knows exactly what it feels like to lose a companion to Tranquility. His hands fold into a series of familiar shapes, and as they do he realises his knuckles ache, his palms are raw and calloused, his fingers stung and chafed with chemical burns. He guesses that and the mop explain something of what they’d had him doing. It makes sense. A tower as big as this is always in need of more cleaners.

He says to Lacey, “ Yes. Don’t tell. Promise?”

For a long moment Lacey doesn’t move, and Anders begins to wonder whether telling her had been a good idea after all. Then, suddenly, there’s a soft heavy impact at his waist, and she’s hugging him. Her thin chest shakes as she cries, and her skinny arms are tight around his back. Anders looks down at her and very, very much wants to hug her back. But that is not what a tranquil mage would do. 

Then a door in the corridor opens. Lacey’s arms tighten around his waist, and Anders looks up, feeling something like panic rising in him as Alice steps out of her room. She doesn’t look at him, gaze falling immediately to the child with her arms around his waist. Her expression softens, and she hurries forward. 

“ Da’len , he’s not - you need to leave Anders alone, ok? He has work to do.” She looks up then, at Anders’ face, and her green eyes are bright. She has her hands set lightly on Lacey’s shoulders, but she has not yet made an effort to pull her away. Anders looks at her, and swallows, and Alice’s eyes get wide. One of her hands flies to her mouth, and she glances up and down the corridor before she’s pushing both Anders and Lacey back into his room and shutting the door behind them. She says, quietly, “Anders?”

Hesitantly, Anders smiles. Alice gasps, and the sound is high and quiet, and then she’s laughing and crying and throwing her arms around him. The elvhen woman is round and soft and heavy despite her small stature, and Anders stumbles back as she embraces him. Then he’s laughing too, and wrapping his arms around the soft curve of her back, and pressing his face into the cloud of her hair, and feeling the warmth of another person in his arms. He holds her tightly, and both of them shake as they cry, and he breathes in the smell of Alice’s magic: autumn leaves and rain. Between them, Lacey wriggles out of the way and bounces on the balls of her feet, silently clapping her hands. Alice pulls back, and rests one soft curved hand on Anders’ cheek. “ Lethallin . How?”

But then there’s another person in the door, and all three of them freeze to see Philippe standing there, hand frozen in the air, staring. Hesitantly, Anders waves at him, blinking the tears from his eyes. Philippe says, softly, “I heard the…”

He slices his hand through the air in one quick, sudden motion and all of them flinch. Philippe’s magic is coal and iron, and it strikes the air like a pickaxe. Then he crosses the room, and both of his hands are cupping Anders’ face, and he’s grinning and there are tears on his dark cheeks. “Apparently you are no less reckless, my friend.” 

Alice is staring around them at the faint shimmer in the air. “Misdirection hex?” She asks, though she sounds as if she knows the answer. Philippe nods, and his hands are shaking a little where they touch Anders’ jaw. Anders lifts his hands to Philippe’s, and presses them close to his face.

“It will make any other passers by think the room is empty. Anders - how?”

Anders shuts his eyes, and leans into the warmth of a gentle touch, and feels something in his chest resettling. “It’s a long story.”

Far off, but not far enough, there’s the sound of armoured footsteps. Philippe frowns. “And one for which we do not have time. You will accompany me today, I am only working on a thesis for the Brotherhood. I will say that I have requested your assistance.” Anders blinks, and Philippe’s expression softens, apparently seeing the confusion in his face. “You have a terrible poker face, mon ami .” His expression grows serious. “We cannot risk this...miracle, spreading further than it already has.”

Anders feels himself slump a little in something like relief, and Philippe gently pats his face before letting him go. He feels a small hand tug on his robes and looks down to see Lacey holding her arms up to him. At eleven, she’s almost too old to be held like this, but she’s thin enough to lift easily and Anders can understand the instinct. He bends, and picks her up, and she puts her arms around his neck and hides her face in his shoulder. “Thanks. I...don’t know how long I could keep up the pretense.”

Alice huffs, but then her expression grows serious. “When did you…?” She hesitates to finish the question. Lacey’s arms tighten around Anders’ neck. Anders shrugs. 

“Sunrise?”

Philippe breathes something that’s almost a laugh. “So you kept your secret for half an hour. This is why you’re terrible at cards.” 

Anders grins at him. It feels good to smile again. “Guilty as charged.”

Alice frowns. “Alright but, what next? We can’t keep this up forever. And if there’s a way to reverse Tranquility then -”

Philippe holds up his hand and she falls silent. Anders is more grateful for it than he can say. He doesn’t know how to explain that he doesn’t know if it could be repeated, at least not without the aid of another spirit. That would necessitate explaining Justice, for one, and he’s reluctant to lose some of his only allies in this place so soon after he has returned to them. Philippe strokes his beard. “I do not doubt that his friends will come for him. We only have to maintain the pretense until they do. Word is that they have already requested his leaving the Circle once.” He glances at Anders, and there’s something like amusement in his brown eyes. “She’s Champion of Kirkwall now, by the way. Your friend. She defeated the Arishok in single combat.”

Anders stares. “She what?”

Alice grins, sharp and mischievous. “Oh yeah. She’s the talk of the town. A Fereldan mage-sympathiser. The Knight-Commander is thrilled .”

“Which is why she prevented a tranquil mage leaving in the first place. Orsino is...vexed, but,” Philippe shrugs and doesn’t elaborate. All of them know that Orsino’s displeasure has meant less and less in recent months. Anders has known and heard the stories of weak First Enchanters, too afraid or too ambitious to openly challenge their templar counterparts. He does not think Orsino is weak. But he knows Meredith is mad. He doesn’t envy him. 

Another set of armoured footsteps cross the end of their corridor, and all of them flinch. 

“Enough. Anders, come with me to the library. Alice, keep an eye on Lacey. I don’t need to tell you what will happen if this gets out.”

“Chaos, revolution, freedom?” Alice asks, breezily, and rolls her eyes when Philippe glares at her. “Yes fine I’m not an idiot. It’s my people that already survived one Chantry-ordained genocide, remember?” Philippe flinches then, and Alice softens a little, turning to Anders. “You should go to Iolva, before you leave. She’ll want to know.”

Then, carefully, she takes Lacey from Anders’ arms, propping the girl against her hip. Outside the Circle it would be a strange sight: a dark elvhen woman carrying a fair human child on her hip as if she were her own. Within it, it’s almost ordinary, and Lacey tucks herself into the soft curves of Alice’s body. Alice gently strokes her back and presses a kiss to her forehead, before looking up at Anders. “ Mala suledin nadas, lethallin .”

Anders dips his head to her, and privately wonders whether there is any world in which she could receive the vallaslin she longed for. They would suit her, he thinks. He can imagine the branching curve of them over her cheeks, bracketing the wash of freckles that run up to her forehead. “ Ma serannas, lethallan .”

Alice smiles at him, and leaves. Anders looks at Philippe. “So. The library?”

Philippe gives him a faint grin, though it doesn’t quite hide the worry in his eyes. “Just try not to be too obvious about your distaste for mathematics. It’s a dead giveaway.”

Anders groans, “If I must.”

Then suddenly, Philippe is crossing the distance between them and pulling him close, strong arms bracketing his shoulders as he cups the back of Anders’ head. This close, he smells like coal and iron, and his body is warm. The embrace is brief, and fierce, and as he holds him Philippe says quietly, fervently, “It is good to have you back, my friend.”

Then he lets go and moves to the door. The shimmer of his spell distorts the air around him. “Are you ready?”

Anders sets his shoulders, and nods. “I am.”

They go to Iolva just after the nineteenth bell, taking advantage of the rush to the dining hall. Philippe still pretends to have harmed his ankle in a way that suggests he needs Anders’ help, and Anders is surprised and amused to learn that Philippe is a significantly better actor than he is. With Philippe leaning heavily on his shoulders in a way that requires Anders to actually use his strength as he hasn’t in months, they shuffle to Iolva’s infirmary. They’re a few feet from the door when Anders feels the familiar touch of her magic, fresh as fallen snow. There’s a templar outside the door: not Miranda, which is surprising in itself, and Anders tries to ignore the thudding of his heart as he attempts to school his expression. The templar steps aside, barely looking at him, and they step into the clinic.

Iolva is on the other side of the room, methodically filling vials with elfroot potion from a great metal basin. Watery grey light falls onto the stark white beds. The place smells of chemicals and cotton, and Anders feels himself relaxing minutely for the familiarity of it. He carefully keeps his gaze away from the bed on which he’d rested following Tiberius and the others’ - 

We do not need to think of these things now.

Anders relaxes further, grateful for the reassurance of Justice’s presence. Thank you.

“Yes yes hello, I will be with you in one moment. It is only that I must finish distributing this potion and the Knight-Commander has not yet seen fit to reassign me another healer after mutilating my -” Iolva stops, suddenly, and stares. 

In many ways, when it came to the other mages within the Circle, it didn’t matter how impassive Anders could pretend to be. They could feel his magic as he could theirs, and they could feel the absence of it in the Tranquil - a strange void like a hole cut into the sky. Mages who had spent a lot of time with each other, like he and Iolva, grew accustomed to the sense and scent of one another’s magic, accommodating each other’s presence and working in harmony. Iolva would recognise Anders’ magic anywhere. 

She stares at him, and her grey eyes are wide. Then her mouth sets into a firm line and she moves quickly across the room, barely brushing Anders’ side as she moves. She opens the door to the clinic and steps out, shutting it behind her with a soft click. Anders and Philippe exchange a look. Outside, they can hear Iolva’s voice.

“Now then Keran, go on, you need your food. Yes yes I know, it is not as if my clinic is going to be overrun in half an hour now is it? I am a Harrowed mage and a Senior Enchanter, child. I assure you, I can handle myself. Go on. You’re a growing boy. Yes, go now. Goodbye. Shoo.”

There’s the crunch of metal on stone as Keran - and Anders isn’t sure why that name is familiar - walks away. Then the door swings open, and Iolva carefully shuts it behind her. She looks at Philippe, and her face breaks into a smile. “You can stop pretending now, da’len . You look very strange.”

Philippe huffs a laugh and straightens, removing his arm from Anders’ shoulders. Iolva steps towards Anders, and raises her hand to his face. Her fingers are soft and papery with age. “ Lethallin . How?”

Anders smiles at her, and gently cups her thin wrist. “It’s a long story.”

Iolva’s mouth curls into a smile, and she lifts her other hand to Anders’ face, gently pulling his head down to kiss his forehead before pressing their heads and noses together and breathing in. Anders does the same, and feels the warmth of the gesture as the same air fills their lungs. A tear runs down Iolva’s cheek, trickling over the dark lines of her vallaslin. Her thumbs brush a soft path over Anders’ cheeks, and she cups the backs of his ears before she says, softly, “Well. No matter now. You are returned to us. Praise the All-Mother, she has returned you to me.”

Anders shuts his eyes, and tries to ignore the tears that rise in them. Iolva lets go of him, and Anders opens his eyes to look at her. “ Anetha ara, lethallan .”

Iolva smiles at him. It creases the skin around her eyes and mouth in a thousand wrinkles. “ Andaran atish’an .” She laughs, then, and presses her hand to her mouth, and then she moves forward and throws her arms around Anders’ chest, pressing her face into his shoulder. Anders glances at Philippe, who moves surreptitiously to the door before he bends and hugs her back, holding the small elvhen woman tightly in his arms. Anders shuts his eyes and feels their magic, woven together like threads in a tapestry, singing. He grins into her hair, and smells freshly fallen snow. 

After too long, and no time at all, they separate. Iolva looks up at him and grins, brushing the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “Well. Tea? You will need your strength, if you are to escape this place.”

Anders stares at her, but she’s already heating water in a kettle. “I -”

He goes to protest, glancing at Philippe, but Iolva waves him off. “Nonsense. Your friend, the Champion, and that handsome Tevinter elf with the vallaslin that are not vallaslin. They will come for you and we will help them and you will leave. You were never meant to come here, da’len . I will not see you caged a moment longer.”

Anders stares at her as she briskly fills a mesh cup with dried tea leaves and slots it into a clay pot. “What about you?”

Iolva looks up at him, and her expression is tight and fierce. “My clan is dead.” She waves, briskly, at the empty clinic around them. “This is my clan now. I will stay here, and I will protect them. But you - ” She jabs the air with a teaspoon. “You will return to your people, and your lover. You will fight, for them, and for me, and for all of our people.” 

Your mouth is open.

Mechanically, Anders shuts it. Iolva continues, filling the teapot with steaming water. 

“Mythal does not grant favours lightly, da’len . The Creators,” she pauses, looks at Philippe, and glares, “yes the Creators - have given you a miracle. You must use it. You must lead us to freedom.”

Whilst the tea stews, Iolva crosses to the other side of the clinic, and reaches for a high shelf, dragging her stool to help her. Anders crosses the room without thinking, and she smiles at him and points to an old, battered leather bound book. Anders stares at the elvhen writing on its cover. He can feel the power in the thing: decades of magic shivering beneath his touch. Iolva smiles at him, and presses it back into his hands when he goes to give it to her. “You will take this. It will help you.”

Anders’ throat feels thick. He shakes his head, afraid to even lift the book’s cover. “Iolva, I can’t - this is...” Iolva smiles at him, gently, and presses the book into his chest.

“You can, da’len . You will.” She moves briskly to the other side of the clinic. “It is the duty of a Keeper to pass on her knowledge.” She tuts as she fills three cups with steaming tea. “It would have been better if you were elvhen, but it does not matter. The Creators have chosen you and you are my First. You can ask your Dalish friend to help you with the translations, yes?”

Anders stares at her, and feels the weight of her grimoire in his hands. “But you -”

Iolva sets his tea on the counter beside him and presses another cup into Philippe’s hands. “I am, I do not know what you say in Common, I am in my winter. I know every word in that book better than my own tongue. I have no need of it any more. But your path is only beginning, and it will be a long and difficult journey. Help my people. It will be recompense enough.”

Anders feels the gentle movement of Justice in his head.

This is Just.

He smiles. It is.

“ Ma nuvenin , Keeper.”  Carefully, deliberately, and he thinks for the first time in his life, with sincerity, Anders bows. 

He keeps his head bowed until Iolva rests her hand on his shoulder, and says softly, as a blessing. “ Melana en athim las enaste, da’len .” Anders stands, and stares at her, and tries to understand the gravity of what it is that she has given him. Then his stomach rumbles, and Iolva grins at him, crooked and bright. “Now drink your tea, and go get some food before they close the dining hall. You will need your strength.”

Anders laughs, and dips his head. “Doctor’s orders?”

Iolva smiles at him, and the expression is gentle and warm. She reaches up, and pushes his hair back behind his ear. “A request. From your Keeper, da’len .”