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Chapter Text

~Anders~

The Wounded Coast had never been Anders’ favorite place; it was hot, windy, and crawling with everything from bandits to blood mages. Truthfully, anybody in their right mind would consider it completely irredeemable.

And yet, taking in the view of the Waking Sea, struck at an angle by the low-hanging sun, he considered that maybe all the time spent clambering over rocks and trudging through sand wasn’t a total waste. The water looked like it had been set on fire, and the sound of waves crashing against the rocks of the coastline was almost soothing. The breeze, coated with the scent of salt and sun, was a welcome reprieve from the Darktown dank.

'Sometimes it’s worth it,’ he thought, satisfied.

And then an irate voice interrupted his admiration.

“Are you planning on wasting the entirety of today, mage, or were you intending to assist with camp at some point?” came the voice of his least favorite and most broody ally.

Turning, Anders caught Fenris’ eye, the latter of whom was carrying an arm of splintered gorse -presumably for the fire Varric was trying to coax some life into. The four of them had left Kirkwall earlier in the day, on the hunt for some bandits that had been raiding merchant caravans along the coastal trail. The Viscount had offered a modest sum to the group that resolved the issue for him, and, naturally, Hawke had taken him up on the offer.

From inside his head, Justice’s consciousness rang with admonishment, rebuking him for not helping with the camp's assembly. Anders internally acknowledged his spirit, trying not to come across as dismissive.

“Ah, well, I just thought I’d admire the view. The picturesque moment loses some of its glamour when I look at you lot, though, and I don’t seem to have my mirror handy to make up for it,” he replied, pretending to preen.

“It is likely you mislaid it with the rest of your ineffable ego. Perhaps check your pack,” Fenris countered coolly.

Hawke snorted with laughter from where he crouched next to the tent he was assembling.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d classify that as flirting.” He swung a fist sized rock at a stake, driving it into the dirt. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “I do know better.”

It was Varric’s turn to chuckle. “You know, they say love and hatred are two sides of the same coin.”

Fenris rolled his eyes and unceremoniously dropped his bundle of twigs at Varric’s side. “They also say that all dwarves grow beards. Does your lack of one reduce you to the status of ‘very short human?'”

“Ah well, you know how it is, Broody,” Varric grinned. “Well, maybe you don’t.” He winked, stroking his stubble pointedly.

“Can elves even grow facial hair? Or body hair of any sort?” Anders asked. Fenris didn’t answer, though Anders couldn’t tell whether it was because he didn’t deign to justify the question with a response, or if it was because Anders had been the one to ask it.

“Fine, keep your secrets then,” Anders waved a hand, “I’ll just have Hawke ask his bondmate.”

“Actually, I don’t think I have ever asked her that.” Hawke looked amused. His eyes slid out of focus as he ‘spoke’ to Merrill through their bond, the mental connection at the back of their minds. It was a two-way link between them, thoughts and feelings able to be shared with the other anytime one chose to.

Despite being somewhat uncommon, soul bonds were widely considered to be the highest form of romantic relationship. However, much was unknown about the spiritual connections some couples in Thedas formed, and what little credible information existed was often hard to come by as sensationalist misinformation ran rampant among the general populace.

Though arcane researchers had been studying and compiling data for decades, to the day, they had barely enough information to fill a tome or two. That didn’t stop the public from spreading rumors and hearsay, and writing a truly horrific number of romance novels about the subject. And yet, even with all the propaganda spread about soul bonding, a few facts seemed constant whomever you asked.

The first was that bonds were created spontaneously, without permission or initiation from either party involved. The second was that the bond gave both people involved a window into the other’s consciousness -a link through which emotions and thoughts could travel unimpeded, despite distance or whereabouts. The third was that once the bond had manifested, the pair were connected mentally and spiritually for life; there was no way to break it. 

For most bondmates, particularly strong emotions were transmitted regardless of permission; they flooded through the link like a swollen river bursting its banks. However, couples that had been bonded for extended periods of time and who practiced their emotional control were able to stifle it, preventing their sentiments from crossing the bond of their own accord.

“She’s too busy giggling to give me a straight answer,” Hawke said wryly, his eyes eventually coming back into focus.

Fenris smirked. “Then it remains a mystery.”

Unbothered, Anders shrugged to himself, resolving to ask Merrill on his own about elven body hair at a later date. He meandered calmly over to the “fire” Varric was knelt in front of. The tiny twigs at the center of the pile were smoking a bit, but the wind from the coast was holding true flames at bay. The dwarf looked up at Anders.

“A little help?” he asked sheepishly.

Anders hummed and pretended to consider it, tapping his chin in mock contemplation.  

“You know, Anders, if your face wasn’t so pretty, you’d be really annoying,” Hawke chimed in, strolling over to the rest of the group. The camp had come together rather quickly, despite Anders’ lack of aid.

“I assure you,” Fenris said, “he is an annoyance despite his face.”

Both Hawke and Varric laughed.

“Then I’m lucky I have so many lovely people willing to grace me with their continued friendship.” Anders placed a hand over his heart, pretending to humble himself.

“Yes, yes, we’re all saints, truly. Now, if our most beloved annoyance would start us a fire, perhaps we may have something to eat before the sun rises.”

“What would you do without me?” Anders sighed, conjuring a small flame in his palm and laying it against the tinder. The twigs took the flame greedily and started to blacken.

“Let’s see… get a good night’s sleep,” Varric started to count on his fingers. “Remember what silence sounds like…”

“Regain the ability to hear our own thoughts,” Fenris added.

Anders put on a look of false outrage.

“I’ll have you know that on the way here I only spoke for three of the four hours.” He gave a decisive nod, as if that settled the matter.

“Admirable. You’ve added 20 minutes to your record,” Fenris said.

“Okay, okay,” Hawke said around a laugh. “Leave our healer alone. We all know where we’d be without him.”

“Dead,” Hawke finished.

“A state of euphoria,” Fenris deadpanned.

“Scattered through the streets of Hightown,” Varric announced with bravado. Hawke and Anders looked at him with confused disbelief, a look matched by Fenris’ single raised eyebrow. “What? That’s where I want my ashes to be spread,” he said, completely unapologetic. “So I can intimidate my business rivals, even in the afterlife.”

“Right… Anyway,” Hawke said, shaking his head quickly as he changed the topic. “Where did I leave that brace of rabbit? Let’s get some food started, shall we?”

But as Hawke turned to look around the campsite, a glint of light from the rapidly descending sun caught his eye. His brow furrowed, attempting to pick out what among the bushes was reflecting light. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

“Heads up!” Hawke yelled, reaching for the daggers at his waist. He barely got the blade up in time to deflect the arrow that flew at him from the bushes. The camp exploded into noise and motion.

From the bushes came a dozen raiders. Clad in rough leather and wielding chipped daggers, the bandits descended upon their group. Fenris -who it seemed to Anders never removed his armor- whipped the greatsword off his back as if its weight was similar to that of a butter knife’s. The elf lunged forward, snarling a challenge at the thugs who were laying into Hawke, drawing their attention away from the rogue.

Anders' eyes flicked toward his staff, laying across the clearing against one of the logs surrounding the small campfire. Out of reach. He cursed quietly.

Readying himself to cast without a focus, he concentrated on the barrier at the edge of existence, bundling magic in preparation for pulling it through to his side. With some difficulty, he twisted the veil, creating an opening for the gathered magic to escape. Anders spread his hands in front of him, harnessing the magic as it flowed across the bridge between two worlds.

On the other side of camp, Varric had retrieved Bianca from the fireside and was firing rapidly at the back of one of the raiders. With a ‘thunk!’, one of his bolts buried itself in an attacker’s spine, felling the assailant immediately.

Cradling the glowing bundle of magic between his hands, Anders pinched off the flow from the veil. With a snap from two fingers on each hand, he ignited the orb. Trying not to feel smug that he’d retained the ability to cast devoid of a focus, he took careful aim at the group of bowmen still crouched in the brush. He pulled his hands inward, then flung the fireball at the group of archers. It wasn’t until the magic was leaving his fingers that he thought, ‘Andraste’s ass, that was a big fireball. I should probably warn-‘

And then the ball of enchanted fire exploded at the feet of a half dozen unsuspecting archers, who had approximately half a second to realize just how screwed they truly were, before the bushes and their occupants were engulfed in a raging inferno. The blast lit the camp, bathing their section of coast in light, as if the magic was attempting to rival the setting sun.

“Heads up,” Anders said weakly, echoing Hawke’s earlier warning.

“Ya’ don’t say!”  Hawke yelled back over the sound of roaring fire.

“Maker's balls, Blondie!” Varric swore.

The clearing was rapidly emptying. Between Anders’ fireball and the rest of the party’s blades, most of the bandits were either dead or dead and burning. Anders dropped his hands to his sides, suddenly fatigued. ‘Too much mana,’ he thought wearily. 'That was way too much mana to put into one fireball.’

Lost in his own exhaustion, Anders didn’t see the archer. The solitary bandit that had been separate from the rest of the group, crouched further up the hill, not currently burning in wildfire. Anders didn’t see the bowman aim -didn’t see his fingers loose -didn’t see the arrow sent sailing toward his heart.

But Fenris did.

Fenris saw the archer take aim, and he saw that Anders didn’t. There wasn’t time to issue warning, there was only time to act.

And so, Fenris did.

Deliberately, he took one quick step to the left, directly into the arrow’s path. He started to raise his sword, trying to put it between himself and the arrow, already knowing it would be too late.

Shick!

The quiet sound of the arrow’s impact and the elf's grunt of surprise seemed to echo around the clearing. Hawke’s head whipped around; time seemed to slow. The sound of howling brushfire was drowned under the rush of blood hammering through his ears.

“NO!” Hawke bellowed.

As if it were as easy as breathing, he hurled one of his daggers at the lone archer, where it buried itself in the bowman’s chest at exactly the same moment Varric’s bolt punched through his eye.

Hawke’s yell snapped Anders’ out of his stupor. Back on alert, his eyes darted around the camp, first to Hawke, then, following his gaze, to Fenris. His eyes found the elf just in time to see Fenris drop to his knees, the arrow jutting from between his ribs.

“Oh, Maker,” Anders breathed.

He took a halting step forward, willing his knees not to give out. In front of him, Fenris coughed, swayed, and fell forward, just barely managing to catch himself on his hands.

Hawke reached the elf first. He skidded to the warrior’s side, his look of concern quickly turning to alarm as Fenris coughed again, this time bringing up a mouthful of blood to spatter across the sand. The rogue dropped to one knee, hands hovering uselessly over the arrowhead protruding from Fenris’ back. After a moment of panic he snapped out of it, and he scanned the camp, looking for Anders.

The healer staggered to where Fenris was on his hands and knees, struggling to breath past the blood in his airway. Anders slumped to the ground at the elf’s side, trying to focus past his exhaustion.

The arrowhead stuck upwards, approximately six inches from the surface of Fenris’ back. Anders surveyed the wound and was dismayed to find the arrow had struck just inside the cardiac box. It had probably missed his heart, but the large vessels surrounding it were almost guaranteed to be damaged. Fenris coughed up another mouthful of blood. Anders added a lung to the list of likely injuries.

Varric, who was scanning the area for stragglers with Bianca at the ready, kept shooting glances at the wounded elf.

“Is Broody gonna make it?” Varric asked, trying to keep his voice light. The strain in his tone let slip his apprehension.

“Probably,” Anders replied tersely.

Hawke was brusque. “I need better than 'probably,' Anders.”

Anders ducked his head to look at the other side of Fenris’ chest. He could see the fletching, jutting from Fenris’ ribs and scoring shallow, bloody lines in the sand. He was preparing to sit up again when he glanced upwards, his gaze meeting the elf’s. Fenris’ eyes were narrowed, clouded with pain, and for perhaps half a second, Anders saw something that could have been fear. He held Fenris’ gaze for two more heartbeats before tearing his eyes away and sitting up.

“The arrow has to come out before I can attempt a heal on him.”

Fenris growled, both in pain and in protest. Anders ignored him.

“I won’t lie, this is going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch,” Anders warned, not just Fenris but Varric and Hawke as well.

“Just tell us what to do.”

“Give me your knife.” He held a hand out to Hawke, who warily did as he was bid.

“What are you going to do with a knife?” Hawke asked nervously.

“Cut the arrowhead off.” Anders moved to slit the sinew that held the arrowhead to the shaft, but in his exhaustion, his hands -usually so steady when working with patients- were shaking heavily. He swallowed.

“You’d better do it,” he said, avoiding Hawke’s gaze. Hawke took the knife back and delicately slit the sinew. He looked questioningly at Anders who nodded, and, as carefully as he could, unwound the tether from the shaft.

“Good. Now,” Anders grimaced, shooting a glance at the back of Fenris’ head, “gently hold the shaft.”

It was a testament to how dire the situation was that Hawke didn’t crack a single joke. Instead, he tightened his fist around the body of the arrow. Fenris’ groaned.

“Sorry,” Hawke winced. He got only a grunt in return.

Anders shook himself. Then without further hesitation, he grabbed the arrowhead and yanked, breaking the adhesive that held it in place. The elf snarled in pain, flinching slightly. Anders tossed the arrowhead to the side and looked back to Hawke.

“We need to sit him up. Get behind him.” Hawke did as he was told, shifting behind the elf.

“Fenris, can you sit up?” Anders asked as he moved to kneel in front of Fenris’ head. The elf coughed, more blood spattering the sand between his hands.

“I know it’s hard to breathe right now. We’ll be as fast as possible.” Fenris didn’t reply. Instead, he braced himself then pushed off with his hands, coming to rest on his knees. A breath hissed through his clenched teeth. Anders was shaking with exhaustion.

‘Justice I need you.’

Wordlessly, the spirit poured its energy into Anders.

'Thank you.’

When Justice only managed a weak acknowledgement, Anders grew concerned; the fireball must have severely weakened his spirit. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to worry about that now.

“Okay. Hawke when I say ‘go,’ you’re going to push the palm of your hand as hard as you can against the end of the arrow. I’m going to pull from this side. Keep him sitting up.”

“Ready when you are,” Hawke said tensely, resting his palm on the end of the arrow jutting out of Fenris’ back.

“Right. Three,” Anders put one hand on Fenris’ shoulder, the other on the arrow where it met his chest.

“Two,” Anders took a steadying breath and looked up into Fenris’ eyes. They were narrowed to slits, but he met Anders’ gaze steadily, the blood on his lips and his unnaturally pale skin in sharp contrast with one another.

“One,” Anders held Fenris' eyes with his own, silently acknowledging the vulnerability he saw there.

“Go!” Hawke pressed hard against the shaft of the arrow, Anders pulled with all his strength and the arrow slid free, accompanied by a snarl from Fenris and a gush of blood.

Dropping the arrow, Anders slotted his palm directly over the wound in Fenris’ chest, reducing the flow of blood. He reached beyond the veil, sparing half a heartbeat to wish he’d bothered to retrieve his staff from where it still lay across the camp before the magic had coalesced in his hand. He paused momentarily to gather some of it in his palm before he willed it outward, into Fenris.

The moment his magic sank into the elf’s flesh, a hundred things happened simultaneously.

A bright flash of white light emitted from his where his hand met the elf’s chest, and Hawke flinched, yanking his hand back as if burned. The lyrium in Fenris’ skin flared to life and a dagger of pain lanced through both Anders and Fenris, dragging a hoarse yell from each. A blue corona of magic spread outward from Anders’ palm to surround the two of them, pulsing like a heartbeat, causing Fenris’ lyrium to illuminate and darken rapidly in time with the rhythm.

‘Justice,’ Anders gasped internally, 'what’s happening?’

The spirit seemed at as much of a loss as he was.

Anders glanced around, bewildered. He didn’t dare take his hand from Fenris’ chest, the wound under his palm still bleeding heavily. He looked up at Fenris and saw his own shock reflected on the normally stoic face, the flickering light from Fenris’ tattoos could have been firelight as it danced over their expressions. Anders' healing magic was still flowing through him, slowly staunching the stream of blood, but when he looked down, he saw that both he and Fenris were covered in it. His own hand looked black, coated as it was with the elf’s blood.

Whatever was happening, whatever interaction his magic was having with Fenris’ lyrium, it would have to wait. Anders had seen enough chest trauma to know that this was a fatal wound if not closed quickly, and so -ignoring the kaleidoscope of light- Anders pushed the magic harder. The halo of magic that surrounded them flashed angrily, burning ever brighter, and another rush of pain bolted up Anders’ spine.

The fireball he’d cast at the bandits earlier had taken its toll, and Anders felt himself weakening. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. If he took a break now, before the wound in Fenris’ chest was healed, he may as well be delivering the death blow himself. He pulled more magic from the veil, using his body as a conduit, shaping the magic, instructing it to heal. He felt his muscles begin to shake with the strain, felt a trickle of blood run down his nose, the edges of his vision blurred; he was reaching his physical limit.

Justice poured every remaining ounce of energy into Anders, and the mage gave one last massive shove, forcing as much healing energy into Fenris as he could. The halo surrounding the pair splintered, shards of light flinging outward in every direction, and, as the sun finally disappeared below the horizon, Anders’ vision went completely dark, and he fell into the open arms of oblivion.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Buried under layers of mental fog, Anders stirred. A tiny hum at the back of his mind coaxed him into daylight.

‘Justice?’ Anders asked.

’Are you well, Anders?’ came the reply.

‘Give me a moment, and I’ll let you know.’

Anders struggled through the clouds that muffled his thoughts, fighting to regain awareness. The humming from the back of his mind got a little louder. From what he could tell, it wasn’t Justice. It was inside his head, a separate entity, but not the one he was used to. It seemed to occupy a similar space, but it had no consciousness.

‘That’s new,’ he thought, gesturing internally at the fluttering mass.

‘Indeed,’ Justice responded. ‘What is it?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

He was answered by a feeling of dissent.

‘Well, we can deal with that later. For now, we’re on damage control.’

Anders resumed his attempt to wake up, pushing through the oppressive fog that lay over his mind. The more alert he became, the more he realized how much pain he was in, and, as the haziness dissipated, the fluttering at the back of his head went with it. Anders dismissed it as a concussion. 

Sounds began to filter through the mist: voices, the smell of wood smoke and brine. Anders opened his eyes to rough canvas stretched above his head. He was uncomfortably cold, and he hoped that was because he’d remained stationary for so long, not because he was developing a fever. 

“We should go back to Kirkwall,” came Hawke’s voice. “I can carry him -he’s not that heavy.”

“And, what, I’m going to carry Fenris?” Varric’s sardonic reply rang with skepticism.

“I can walk.” That was Fenris, sounding defensive, and, more importantly, alive.

“Broody, no offense, but you look like dog shit. You’d make it a mile, maybe a mile and a half tops. We should wait and see if Blondie wakes up.”

“We have no idea when that’s going to be, or if he’ll wake up at all!” Hawke’s tone was strained, but the words came with a note of resignation; it sounded like they’d been debating this point for a while.

“Can Daisy tell us anything else?” Varric changed the subject.

“I’ve already driven her half mad with worry as it is. I don’t know if she’ll be of any more help.”

“And she really has no idea what all of… that was?”

“Without being able to see it first-hand she can only speculate. I tried to describe it as best I could, but she seemed as much in the dark as we are -she’s never heard of anything like that happening before.”

“I don’t suppose Sunshine ever mentioned anything?” Varric sounded like he was grasping at straws.

“No. Bethany led a pretty sheltered life when it came to magic. Father taught her a lot... how to control her power and go unnoticed by Templars, but I doubt her education would have extended this far. Granted, we didn’t discuss magic often; it tended to attract unwanted attention.”

“Wonder if Fenris’ tattoos had anything to do with it…” Varric mused.

“They didn’t,” Fenris snapped. “I would remember if this had ever happened before. I have been on the receiving end of plenty of healing magic and it has never-”

“Yes, and Anders has healed you before with no issue,” Hawke interrupted. “So, why was this time different?”

“Well, there’s enough blood in that sand to give a Tevinter magister a giggle-fit. Maybe it was because Fenris was close to death?” Varric speculated.

“Or that fireball Anders threw; that thing was massive. Very unlike him to waste so much energy on an attack spell.”

“Perhaps his demon is taking over,” Fenris groused.

“It’s a spirit of Justice, Fenris, that would go against its very nature,” Hawke argued.

“You can’t trust demons to tell you the truth, Hawke.”

“No, but I can trust Anders to.”

It sounded as if the elf wanted to continue the argument, but he left it at that. Anders could practically feel the vitriol Fenris was holding back, and it stung more than he’d care to admit. It felt unfair how distrustful Fenris was being if one took into account that Anders had risked his own life to save the elf’s.

Head pounding, Anders struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. He was inside one of the tents, the flap pinned open to show the camp -now thankfully devoid of corpses. Anders could see Hawke pacing, wearing a line in the dirt. Varric was standing by the restless rogue, looking concerned and pensive, and Fenris was propped against one of the logs. The same log, Anders noted, that still had his staff leaned against it.

The elf looked the worse for wear. His clothes were matted with blood, his hair disheveled, eyes sunken with exhaustion. Yet for all his wear and tear, he still looked magnificent, Anders begrudgingly noted.

‘The guy just took a brief walk at the Maker's side and he has the audacity to pull it off,’ Anders fumed to Justice.

The spirit didn’t bother to dignify that with a response, so Anders continued.

‘It’s unfair -no, it’s unjust!’ he goaded. Anders could have sworn Justice rolled non-existent eyes.

Anders looked around the tent, and was grateful to discover somebody had left him a water skin. He reached for it, wincing as his head throbbed. Gingerly, he lifted the waterskin to his parched mouth and drank greedily, but in his haste, he choked, accidentally inhaling some of the water.

Three heads snapped toward the sound.

“Anders!” Hawke hurried to the entrance of the tent. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

“Like I just lost an argument with a pissed-off high dragon,” Anders moaned. “How long was I out?”

“All night and half of today. I wanted to dose you with a healing potion, but Merrill warned me I might accidentally drown you doing that.”

“She was right.” Anders groaned and tried to sit up. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. Eventually he gave up, flopping back onto the bedroll. “I’ll take one now though.”

Hawke reached for a flask on his hip and passed it through the flap. Anders fumbled the stopper from the bottle and brought it to his lips. The mellow taste of elfroot calmed his nerves a little.

“So,” Hawke asked. “What in the name of Andraste’s crispy nipples was that?”

Anders wanted to laugh, but in light of the pain that still wracked his body, he settled for a weak grin.

“Beats me -and I mean that literally. I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of Bronto,” he said. “Saw that happen once. Wasn’t pretty.” Anders met Hawke’s gaze. “In all seriousness, I don’t know what that was. I could make a few guesses, but they would be exactly that: guesses.” He took a long draft from the potion.

“Well, we can figure that out later, I suppose. For now we should get back to town. I don’t know if those were all the mercs out here, but if not, we’re not in any shape to find the rest of them.”

Anders swallowed his pride along with another draft of prepared elfroot.

“I won’t be able to walk for some time. We might have to wait a while longer -at least until my magic comes back. Although,” he admitted, “I probably shouldn’t try to heal anybody until I figure out why my magic went all ‘Feastday Fireworks’ on me.”

Hawke sighed and nodded. He rubbed at his neck, the stress of the day’s events weighing on him, but a moment later he straightened up and swung around to face Varric and Fenris.

“Looks like we’ll be sticking around for at least a few more hours. Get comfy,” he said, then added, “but not too comfy. We’ll need to set a watch when the sun goes, in case those bandits had somebody to miss them.”

Varric nodded and gave a half-hearted wave, volunteering to take the first watch. He plunked down on the log next to Fenris, grabbed a few crossbow bolts, and set to scrubbing the blood off each one.

“I’m going to see if I can find us some dinner,” Hawke said, “and if I hear one more comment about my cooking, I’ll hide the seasoning salts and you can eat flavorless rabbit for supper.” He left the camp with a short bow and quiver in hand.

Fenris, Anders observed, hadn’t spoken a word since the elf had realized he'd woken up. Anders didn’t know what to make of that.

He took another drink of the potion, already feeling marginally less shitty than he had earlier. He resumed his attempt to sit up, and was pleased to find he could do so.

Anders' mind went to the incident that had transpired the night previous. With Justice’s help, he went over the sequence of events, starting with the attack on the camp, and ending when he blacked out. He’d ask Hawke later if anything had happened to either himself or to Fenris after he’d lost consciousness, but for now, he had more than enough to consider.

The variables were thus, he decided: One, he’d cast both the fireball and the healing spell without his staff. Two, he and Justice had been physically exhausted by the first cast. And three, Fenris’ lyrium.

None of these were unusual enough to be considered noteworthy on their own, but if one factored in all three elements...well. There might be something there.

It was true -he’d healed Fenris plenty of times prior to this and his lyrium had never reacted the way it did last night. But Anders had never directly touched Fenris’ skin while casting before, and he’d always used his staff as a conduit to focus the magic. Perhaps touching the lyrium while casting was what set off the aurora? In addition, the exhaustion he’d felt -as well as the severity of Fenris’ wound- might have exacerbated whatever reaction the healing elicited.

‘Ideas?’ he asked Justice.

‘I know not what caused the incident to transpire, nor do I have knowledge of such things occurring.’

‘Helpful and informative, you are,’ Anders replied sarcastically.

He let out a heavy breath and finished the potion. Having given the elfroot time to work its magic, Anders felt better, but he was still weak and despite the warmth from the sun that was being trapped in the tent, Anders was cold. He found himself longing for a place by the fire. Grabbing the waterskin, he crawled across to the tent’s exit and slowly stood, using one of the tent poles to balance as he righted himself.

Outside, the warm breeze rolling off the ocean cooled the sweat on his forehead. He breathed deeply, then began to limp toward his staff where it was still propped against the log next to Fenris.

“Alright there, Blondie?” Varric asked. Anders gave him a tight smile, but didn’t answer, too focused on walking without toppling over.

“I’m gonna go water the plants. Don’t kill each other while I’m gone,” Varric announced, hopping up from the log. He slung Bianca over his shoulder, and trudged off toward one of the brushlines that hadn’t been charred black by the fireball.

Anders continued on his arduous trek; the 20 feet between the tent and the fire felt closer to a mile. As he approached, Fenris grimaced and made to stand. Anders halted his slow progress across the clearing, watching as Fenris tried to get to his feet, his face twisted in pain.

“Well, don’t get up on my account,” Anders rasped in a hoarse voice. Fenris ignored him and pushed himself shakily to his feet. The elf was not steady in any sense of the word, and he only managed two steps before he dropped to one knee.

“Sit down before you hurt yourself,” Anders grumbled as he resumed walking -or shambling, as it were- one arm clutching his ribs. As he passed Fenris, the elf leaned away from him, a granite snarl on his lips.

Anger coiled itself inside Anders’ chest, and Justice roused in response.

‘Leave it to the elf to take offense when somebody tries to save his life.’

‘His aversion is unwarranted; you did not attack him, nor did you intentionally cause him harm. However, irrespective of these truths, the scars from his past influence his actions, much as yours do your own.’

‘Yes, but to him, it’s irrelevant that I stopped him from bleeding out. He doesn’t care that I almost died for his miserable hide, or, if he does, he doesn’t care enough to look beyond the scary, magic lights.’

‘He has seen the damage unknown and experimental magic can cause.’

‘Yes, but-‘

“Talking to your demon, mage?” Fenris hissed, interrupting him mid-thought. Anders spared half a moment to wonder how the elf could tell he was speaking to Justice.

“He’s a spirit of Justice.” The frequent correction came to his lips automatically.

Fenris snorted derisively.

“Maker’s balls, elf! You act as if I tried to kill you last night rather than save your life,” Anders growled, finally irritated enough to speak out.

“I know that I live. Whether or not it was your intent that I do so remains to be seen.”

Anders face twisted into a mask of anger and disbelief.

“Oh, for the love of cats -what is it you think I was trying to do?!”

“I can name a number of execrable spells one could cast with an abundance of blood coating their hands.”

“Blood magic?! Blood- Andraste’s ass, Fenris, I was trying to heal you. The arrow almost hit your heart! A few inches to the right and even I wouldn’t have been able to pull you back!”

“Then answer me this, mage,” Fenris spat. “What was the purpose behind causing me further harm in the process?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t-”

“The pain I experienced during this alleged ‘healing’. Southern mages supposedly don’t employ the same spells as Imperium maleficar.”

Anders shook his head, trying to make sense of Fenris’ accusation.

“You think I used Tevinter blood magic to heal you?"

“Among other things,” Fenris said darkly.

“I don’t think that’s even possible...” Anders mused, then digressed. “Listen, Fenris,” his previous irritation had given way to confusion, “whatever it is you think happened last night, I swear to you that all I did was try to save your life. It turned out pretty well, all things considered.”

“We shall see.”

The elf pulled himself against a different log. Anders could see he was breathing heavily. Whether the warrior’s clenched teeth and furrowed brow were caused by pain or anger, Anders couldn’t tell. Sweat had beaded on Fenris’ forehead, again bringing concern of fever to Anders’ mind, but it was also exceedingly warm outside, so it was impossible to tell without closer inspection. He grumbled in frustration.

With any other patient, Anders would have just informed them that he needed to conduct an exam, and gone about his duties as a healer. But with Fenris in the mood he was in, trying to examine the elf was likely to get Anders killed.

’His condition is not dire. Grant the situation time to deescalate,’ Justice reasoned.

Begrudgingly, Anders nodded, accepting the wisdom of the spirit's words. He shuffled the rest of the way to the log Fenris had previously occupied, carefully bent to retrieve his staff, then settled with his back to the fire.

Despite the heat of the sun, Anders welcomed the warmth of the flames, and he drew his legs closer to his body, wrapping his arms around himself. He had to admit it was likely he had a fever, but there was nothing he could do about it for now aside from rest, drink water, and hope that his magic returned to him soon.

As he drank from the waterskin, he could feel Fenris’ eyes on him, watching him for any sign of treachery.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Varric returned a short while later, and took up a spot next to Anders. The three of them sat in silence for a while, Varric cleaning the rest of his crossbow bolts, Fenris doing his usual brooding, and Anders trying not to think about the chill that had seeped all the way into his bones. But, apparently, a few minutes of silence was too much for Varric to handle, and it seemed the dwarf felt the need to fill it with a story.

“I ever tell you guys about the time Bartrand single-handedly derailed an entire Merchant’s Guild summit?”

Anders, desperate to take his mind off of both his chattering teeth and what he’d taken to calling the “Aura" event, replied, “No, but I bet you’re about to.”

“Well, it all started with a rival in the guild showing up late to the convention with the daughter of another house on his arm,” Varric started.

Anders tried to listen to the story, he truly did, but the fever was really starting to assert itself, and he knew it was only going to get worse. He bit his tongue as he got to his feet, smothering a groan of pain, then dragged himself to the tent he’d woke up in, and retrieved his bedroll. He hauled it back to the campfire, and, before settling in, he threw a few more logs on, stoking the flames higher.

Now wrapped in his bedding, he resumed listening to Varric’s tale.

“The man was so drunk, he thought Lady Dasca’s pet nug was a deepstalker, and clubbed it to death at the dinner table, right in front of every single merchant chair in the guild!”

Anders realized that he’d completely lost the plot, but didn’t bother asking Varric to repeat it. Toward the end of the story, Hawke reappeared with a handful of rabbit.

“Bartrand walked right into the middle of all the representative chairs, put one finger in the air and said, ‘I may not know much,’ then vomited all over Lord Gherat’s boots.”

Varric roared with laughter and, surprisingly, Fenris chuckled. It was a quiet, easy-going sound, and Anders jerked his head sideways to look at the elf in disbelief. As soon as Fenris’ eyes met his, however, the smile vanished. Even more startling than hearing the elf laugh was Anders realizing that he wanted to hear it again.

“I see you told them about Bartrand’s reign of terror at the Merchant’s Guild conference,” Hawke said, dropping the brace of rabbit at the fireside.

“I’ll take any chance I can get to embarrass my brother,” Varric chuckled.

Hawke unslung the hunting bow and quiver, then pivoted to face Anders and Fenris.

“Either of you feeling better?” he asked, looking from one to the other.

“P-p-peachy,” Anders said through chattering teeth. The potion had worn off, it seemed; his head was absolutely throbbing again. Not only that, but the mysterious humming essence at the back of his mind had returned, and Justice was developing a serious case of restlessness. The spirit’s consciousness was radiating swells of discomfort that felt like shock waves bouncing off the inside of Anders' skull. 

“Well, I’m not dead.” Fenris’ tone suggested that he wished he was.

The pair of them looked miserable -a fact that didn’t escape Hawke. The rogue's brow furrowed.

“Let's get some food in you. I’ll cook this up, quick as I can.”

He pulled a knife from his belt and set to splitting and skinning the carcasses, but as the scent of rabbit blood reached Anders' nose, his stomach immediately began to roil. Fighting nausea, he turned his head into the breeze from the coast, desperate to chase the smell away. Fenris appeared to be in much the same boat, his skin pale and clammy.

“I don’t think I c-can eat, H-Hawke,” Anders stammered, trying unsuccessfully to stop shivering. Of all the times to come down with the flu, it had to be 15 miles out of town while he was entirely out of mana and stuck with an angry elf who resented and distrusted him. Anders' luck was really quite stellar.

In the back of his head, Justice had become quite agitated. The foreign fluttering Anders had felt earlier was amplifying, now feeling more akin to an angry hive of bees rather than a gentle humming. He could feel Justice’s turmoil, but when Anders asked the spirit what was amiss, Justice did not answer. As the fever climbed, so did Justice’s disquiet -a fact that did not help Anders' pounding headache.

'Settle down, will you? You’re killin’ me here.'

'I cannot… I do not know what is causing… this.'  Justice sounded almost pained, a fact that caused Anders no small amount of alarm.

'What do you mean? Causing what? Are you… hurt somehow?’ he asked. Frantically, Anders cast about for some memory, some knowledge of anything that could hurt a spirit without the host knowing about it.

“Blondie? You holdin’ up okay?”

'Pain… something constricting… tearing.'  

The spirit was now convulsing in agony, driving shards of heated metal through Anders’ brain. The mage dropped his head into his hands, eyes watering with the pain.

' Is there anything I can do? Should I try to heal?’

But even as he suggested it, Anders knew it was pointless: his magic still evaded him.

The spirit could no longer respond, at least not coherently. The angry swarm of bees that had been buzzing ferociously in his head now filled Anders' mind with raucous uproar. He caught echoes of the debilitating torment Justice was enduring. Each time the spirit writhed, Anders’ head was besieged by sharp, stabbing pains, as if the swarm had begun to assault his brain with inch-long stingers. Anders couldn’t tell if the angry, droning hoard was caused by Justice’s agony or actually causing it, but the pain continued to escalate, multiplying again and again until, eventually, it was a perpetual, white-hot blade of fire scrambling his brains. He made a choked noise into his hands.

“Anders?” Hawke's concerned voice sounded muffled, as if Anders' head were underwater. The anguish was becoming almost unbearable, and he let out a wail, quiet at first, then louder, sharper as the pain intensified ever higher.

“Elf?” Anders heard Varric ask distantly. There was the distinct sound of someone vomiting, followed closely by an agonized howl.

“What the hell is happening to them?” Hawke said, aghast.

Through the pain, Anders felt a ripping sensation in the back of his head, in the space Justice lived -felt something tear. The agony in his skull ratcheted up another notch, reaching a fever pitch, and Anders couldn’t tell if the shrieking he heard was from Justice inside his head, or torn from his own throat.

Just as Anders thought he couldn’t take it any longer -the plea for death upon his lips- everything stopped.

The pain in his head vanished, replaced by a dull ache, and the tortured howls cut off abruptly. Anders was suddenly drenched in sweat, uncomfortably hot from the fire. The bedroll he’d cast off in his throes of agony was now snarled around his legs, he was breathing heavily, and his face was wet from where tears and perspiration had cascaded down his face.

Cringing, Anders opened his eyes slowly, fearing the light from the setting sun would begin the onslaught anew, but the suffering from moments earlier had abated completely.

“What in the 17 bloody voids was that?” Hawke demanded, looking between Anders and Fenris.

Anders took stock and was amazed to find that he seemed to be in perfect health, save a slight headache, and even that was fading. Extraordinarily enough, Anders felt better than he had in years. Even his nausea had gone, leaving the potential for a healthy appetite in the vacancy.

Most importantly, his magic had returned in full force, and he was brimming with energy.

He glanced in Fenris’ direction. The elf's chest was heaving for air in much the same way Anders' was, the sand beside him was now sullied by a pool of retch, and on Fenris' face, the purest look of raw hatred aimed directly at Anders.

Before Anders even had time to process Fenris' expression, there was a flurry of movement, and Fenris was on him, pinning him against the sand. One hand pressed a dagger to Anders’ throat, the other glowed ethereal blue as the lyrium brands in Fenris' skin burned threateningly.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t end your wretched existence now!” he snarled into Anders’ face, his voice deep, and dark, and deadly.

“No, wait! Just- hang on!” Hawke said, taking a step forward in astonishment.

Anders was reaching up to pull at Fenris’ wrist with both hands, but the elf’s arm didn’t move an inch.

'Bloody strong bastard,’ he thought briefly.

Anders stole a second to think. Now that his magic was back, he could probably blast Fenris off of him and keep him at bay, but using his magic aggressively right now was guaranteed to end very poorly, regardless of what happened after the fact. He drew a deep breath, held it for a second, then released it, trying to steady his nerves. This had to be handled carefully.

'Justice, whatever happens next, don’t interfere,' Anders warned. There was no response from his spirit, neither thought nor feeling, and Anders tried not to think about what that meant.

Deliberately, and with no small amount of willpower, Anders let every muscle in his body go limp. He looked directly into Fenris’ eyes, and despite being seconds from death for the third time in fewer days, Anders could not help but admire the beauty of the elf’s striking, green gaze. Then, forcing himself to stay relaxed, he slowly let his eyes slide upward, toward the darkened sky, hoping the enraged elf's wasn’t to be the last face he ever saw. He let the air in his lungs escape in a slow, heavy breath.

It was the least threatening posture he could think of. Not looking at the challenger, muscles relaxed, mouth closed and breathing steadily. Some part of him recognized he was using the same technique handlers used on hostile dogs, but he rationalized that it would work on any kind of mammalian predator… right?

For what was either seconds or an eternity, nobody moved. Anders could feel the blade pressing into his throat, barely a centimeter between the tempered steel and his life. He could hear Fenris breathing through gritted teeth, and, beneath that, he could hear the blood thundering through his own heart. The wind whistled through the branches, the surf broke upon the rocks, and Anders breathed.

Hawke and Varric were frozen, still as stone, though who knew how long that would last. Eventually, somebody would break, and Anders could only pray the ‘break’ didn’t come in the form of Fenris breaking his neck. Anders silently begged Hawke and Varric to stay where they were -to not say a word. He wasn’t sure how this would end, but he knew that any intervention on their part could cause an already precarious situation to erode swiftly and violently.

“What are you?” Fenris asked abruptly, voice low and deadly.

Anders would have liked to say, 'Scared, confused and a little turned on,' but that was a gamble. Breaking the tension would work on Hawke or Varric, Isabela or even Aveline. But Fenris? Fenris was a wild card, and Anders knew that, given an iota of reason, the elf would absolutely end his life.

He knew what Fenris was asking: 'Is a demon driving the meat-suit?'

So, Anders weighed his options: A Spirit Healer. An Ex-Grey Warden. A coward. A mage. A monster.

“Human,” he settled on.

He kept his muscles loose, kept reminding himself to breathe slowly and steadily, and he continued looking at the stars, fearing that if he looked elsewhere, he’d lose his nerve. Moments passed and Anders had no choice but to bide his time in limbo.

Then, with infinitesimally small movements, the blade lifted from his neck, and the blue glow that shone in his periphery faded. Anders didn’t dare look down.

'Keep breathing,' he reminded himself. 'Just breathe.'

With unseen grace, the elf sprung backward off Anders' chest. Anders listened intently, and it wasn't until he heard the breath 'whoosh' out of Hawke and Varric that he finally dared to look.

Fenris stood a few paces away, back ramrod straight, dagger still in hand. Anders met his narrowed gaze steadily.

“Start talking, mage.” Fenris spat the last word like a curse, his voice still laced with lethality.

Anders took a deep breath; he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“Whatever is happening here -tonight, last night- it’s not me causing it. I've no idea what it is or from where it’s coming. What I do know is that, other than when I tried to heal you last night, I haven’t cast any spells. I didn’t even get my magic back until that... whatever that was, ended.” He shook his head in uncertainty, then continued. “It’s entirely understandable that you blame me for what’s happening; I am a mage, the only one here, and as such I am the most likely culprit.”

Getting slowly to his feet, Anders stood, but he didn’t take his eyes from Fenris’. “But I swear, whatever magic this is, it isn’t mine.”

When Fenris didn't immediately respond, Anders continued.

“I know you want answers -believe me, so do I, but I don’t have them for you, Fenris, and I won’t make something up just to appease you.”

After a few moments of consideration, a little of the tension eased from Fenris’ posture, and he looked down at the dagger, weighing it in his hand. Against all odds, it seemed like Anders was getting through to the elf. Fenris looked uncomfortable, but not angry or scared. It seemed to Anders’ that he would have to reevaluate his ability to read emotion, because the picture he was getting from Fenris’ face and stance said 'shame.' Maybe even 'guilt.' Anders shook himself.

“Fenris,” he said, calmly, and the look on the elf’s face disappeared behind his usual mask. “How do you feel?”

The elf gave him a look through narrowed eyes, clearly expecting some kind of trap. Anders didn’t probe, just waited for an answer. Off to the side, he could hear Hawke and Varric shifting, muttering to each other, but Anders paid them no mind; he didn’t take his eyes from Fenris'.

“Fine.” Fenris’ curt reply was more than enough for Anders.

“I do as well -better than I have in years, in fact,” Anders said, almost in a rush. “I don’t know what that was and, Maker help me, I hope I never have to know it again, but once it stopped…”

Fenris nodded absentmindedly, his eyes losing some of their focus as he became lost in contemplation. Impressed with his own display of diplomacy, Anders waited for Justice to note his approval, but the spirit remained silent, adding to Anders’ apprehension.

After a moment, Fenris seemed to surface from the mire of his thought, and he focused on Anders again. Several seconds passed with each just observing the other through guarded eyes.

Then he tore his gaze from Anders and levied a look at Hawke and Varric, the two of whom were watching the pair with intense interest.

“The mage says he is fit to travel,” Fenris told Hawke, his tone entirely neutral. “We should leave at first light.”

“Yeah, uh- I mean, yes,” Hawke stumbled, thrown by the sudden shift in mood. Fenris nodded once more, then, silently, he turned from the group to his bed roll, slipping into his tent without a backwards glance.

Hawke looked at Anders, then to the tent that Fenris had disappeared into, down to Varric at his side, then back at Anders again.

“I think I just got emotional whiplash…” Hawke marveled.

Anders was inclined to agree.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

The journey back to Kirkwall was mercifully uneventful. That is, it was uneventful in the sense that there were no more attacks from bandits or of mental agony. After the four of them had pulled up camp, they’d set off at an easy pace, following the coast back to the city. Despite protests from both Fenris and Anders that they were fine, Hawke insisted they take frequent breaks. As such, the sun was already dipping below the horizon when the city gates came into view.

Fenris had kept his distance from the mage. Though he had eventually come to believe the healer when he said the chaotic magic had not been his doing, or at least not his intent, he still didn’t trust the man farther than he could throw him; the pain was still too fresh in his mind.

And yet, despite the agony of whatever spell had been unleashed on the both of them, Fenris realized that, after the initial awkwardness had passed, the journey back to Kirkwall had been almost… companionable. Banter flowed easily between the four of them. Jokes and jibes were traded, usually at the mage’s expense, and Anders had taken it in stride, not rising to a single barbed comment. Despite his misgivings, Fenris begrudgingly admitted to himself that the mage’s level of emotional control was admirable.

Halfway through the journey back, however, the mage had gone quiet, speaking only when spoken to, engaging only when necessary. Fenris had chalked it up to exhaustion initially; the mage was sorely lacking in stamina, but Anders wasn’t limping or lagging behind. Instead, it seemed he was thinking, and the man’s furrowed brow said it was something unpleasant. In any other circumstance, he’d have considered possession, but the mage was already possessed. Perhaps he was conferring with his demon -he did have that look on his face- but something told Fenris that wasn’t right either.

The silence had only lasted a few minutes. Had Fenris not been watching the mage so closely, he might not have noticed it; it certainly seemed Hawke and Varric hadn’t. Then the man was speaking again, discussing theories about the past few days, rambling without waiting for a response like he was thinking aloud. 

The mage had taken to calling the two spells the 'Aura' and the 'Surge' respectively. Fenris thought the names were fitting, particularly the latter, if one were putting it mildly. A surge of energy was exactly what the spell had felt like, at least in the same sense that a high dragon could be called a "lizard."

Hawke had started probing Merrill for more information through their bond at Anders’ behest, asking her to get a headstart on research while they traveled. Merely thinking of the events set Fenris’ teeth on edge, and he did not engage in the discussion. The mage had seemed content to leave him out of it, save for asking him two questions.

The first, Fenris recalled, was an inquiry into his current health.

“How are you feeling now? Physically, I mean,” the healer had asked him carefully. Anders had been very delicate in his mannerisms when speaking to Fenris. Likely, Fenris assumed, because the memory of his blade pressed into the flesh of Anders’ throat had made the man cautious -made him consider each word carefully before speaking it.

It grated against his nerves, the way the mage spoke to him, like Fenris was to be approached the way one would a proximity charge -as if he would detonate at any given moment. However, with a pang of self-disgust, he admitted that was probably the case; one wrong move on the mage’s part would shatter the fragile peace that had formed.

'The rabid, little wolf knows his teeth are sharp,’ he’d mocked himself internally, using one of Danarius’ favorite sayings.

“Fine,” he had replied shortly, but it was not entirely truthful, and he could see Anders knew that. Fenris had scowled, then elaborated. “Pains that I have had for years are gone. Old battle scars no longer ache, broken bones that healed badly seem to have smoothed over.”

“And your head?”

“Sore, but it is not a sharp pain. More akin to a dull ache -not unlike a bruise.”

The mage had nodded along, compiling information and mulling it over. There was a period of silence as Anders thought.

‘Conferring with his demon again,’ Fenris suspected. After a while, the mage asked his second question.

The second question had been in reference to what Fenris had felt during each of the events. Not wanting to prolong the interrogation, he’d answered with only slight hesitation.

“The first felt as traditional healing magic does,” he’d said about the Aura, “if one is not including the pain that followed it.”

“What type of pain?” the mage had probed. “What did it feel like? When and where did it hit you?”

Fenris remembered gritting his teeth against the barrage of questions, but he’d controlled his temper, and instead focused on getting it over with as soon as possible.

“Sharp pain, like a stab wound or lightning magic. It jolted up my spine and into my head,” he’d said. “Then it became a burn that grew hotter and hotter, then another sharp pain, identical to the first.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hawke look at him curiously for a second. He’d met the rogue’s gaze, who sheepishly looked away as if he’d been caught doing -or thinking- something he shouldn’t have.

The mage had nodded, then asked. “And after the second jolt, was there any more discomfort?”

“After the second jolt, the light halo exploded. You blacked out,” Fenris smirked. “Once the magic was gone, my head continued to ache, but there was no additional pain.”

“And the Surge?”

Fenris had to school his features to hide the disquiet that came with just thinking about the second spell.

“Agony. On par with any I have ever felt… including the lyrium brands.” Fenris had avoided the rest of the party’s gazes, looking at the ground in front of his feet as he walked. “First, I felt as though I’d taken ill. Cold, like I could not get warm, no matter how near to the fire I moved, and my stomach turned. It escalated rapidly, beginning with a headache, then like a hundred wasps had burrowed into my head.” Fenris had swallowed to force down the bile. “Then they…” Fenris searched for the words.

“They ignited? Burned?” Anders provided.

He’d grunted in agreement. His face had resorted to its customary snarl to finish his answer, “It was torture, as though my brain was being eaten alive and lit aflame simultaneously. I retched, I yelled, I begged for death...”

“And then it stopped,” Anders had finished for him.

“And then it stopped,” Fenris agreed.

~*~

The four of them arrived at the Kirkwall gates as the sun again set across the Wounded Coast. The job they had originally left the city for was supposed to take a day at most. They had now been gone for almost three.

As they entered through the gates into Lowtown and prepared to go their separate ways, Anders signaled for the party to stop.

“Hawke, I need a favor,” Anders said, but although there was anxiety in his voice, Fenris could tell it didn’t stem from the act of asking the favor itself.

“What is it?” Hawke had asked. If the rogue was apprehensive, he hid it well.

“I need to heal you,” Anders blurted. “I’ve been away from the clinic for three days, and there will be many people who need my help -who need healing.” He chewed his tongue.

“You need to know if your magic is safe.” Hawke nodded in understanding.

“Yes. I can’t risk something like the Surge happening on a sick patient. it’s entirely possible they wouldn’t survive, much less make it out mentally unscathed.”

Hawke didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Come to the manor, we can do it there.”

“Try not to die; you're supposed to lose some games of Wicked Grace to me tomorrow,” Varric said, then he bid the rest of them goodnight, strolling casually down the staircase toward the Hanged Man, completely at ease in his city. The other two headed toward the manor, and without thinking, Fenris started to follow.

He hesitated, warring with himself. He’d had enough of the mage’s magic (as well as the man himself) to last a lifetime, and he wasn’t particularly keen on being around more magic anytime soon. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny his curiosity; he was eager to know the answer to the puzzle. Eventually, curiosity won out, and he followed Hawke and Anders up the Hightown steps.

Hawke stopped and looked at him in surprise. “I would have thought you’d had enough of us by now.”

“I have. More than my fair share,” Fenris groused. “But I will see this through. And if there is a risk that you both start choking on your own tongues, you will likely want someone there to read you your last rites.”

“How noble of you,” Hawke laughed. And with that the three of them climbed the stairs toward the Hawke estate.

~*~

Merrill threw herself in Hawke’s arms the minute he walked through the door.

“You surprised me!” Hawke exclaimed. “I had no idea you were here! You’re getting too good at blocking the link,” he accused playfully.

“I’ve been practicing,”Merrill giggled sweetly, and Hawke beamed at her. Then she spotted Anders and Fenris over Hawke’s shoulder.

“Anders! Fenris! are you alright? I’ve been worried sick about you!”

She would have thrown herself on the pair of them, had Hawke not casually hugged her from behind to surreptitiously prevent her from doing so.

Fenris scowled and Anders’ face tightened a bit. Merrill wasn’t a favorite of either of them, especially when she was hovering around them like a hummingbird, but Anders found it in him to be cordial.

“We’re both fine, Merrill, but I need to determine if my magic is safe to use. I may not have instigated either of the events, but if it fed off my magic, or if it corrupted it somehow, I need to know."

“Oh! How are you going to test that?” she asked.

There was a heavy silence as Anders and Hawke exchanged a look, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You’re going to test your magic on Hawke, aren’t you!?” Merrill put the pieces together.

“That was the plan, love,” Hawke said. Merrill bit her lip and fluttered nervously.

“Oh, but- you’ll be careful, won’t you?” she fretted.

“Of course he will, Merrill,” Hawke soothed. She wavered for a moment, then eventually relented, taking a few steps away and turning to watch with her face cradled in her hands. Fenris followed suit, stepping away from the pair and turning to watch.

Anders took a deep breath, gathering his resolve. Gripping his staff firmly, he touched Hawke’s arm, and called healing magic to his hand. All four of them held their breaths. Underneath Anders’ palm, Hawke’s skin glowed a soft, green color. Hawke smiled and Anders returned it, relief etched into his face.

“No pain?” Anders asked.

“None. I feel great,” Hawke confirmed.

Fenris felt his heart sink into his gut.

“One part of the mystery solved,” Anders was saying. “Thanks for being my test-nug, Hawke.”

“Anything for my favorite annoyance,” the rogue teased fondly.

Merrill went to Hawke’s side, looking relieved. She perked up then.

“Anders, why don’t you try it on me, just to be certain,” she said.

Anders nodded, appearing more confident, and reached his hand toward her. As with Hawke, a soothing, green glow spread across Merrill’s skin under Anders' palm.

A crushing wave of disappointment surprised Fenris as it washed over him. Had he really expected to find the answer so easily? No, he decided, that isn’t it.

While he did want to know what caused the strange reaction, that was not where the sudden disappointment had stemmed from. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had been looking for somebody to blame -wanting somebody else to take the fall -to be responsible.

But if it wasn’t Anders causing the haywire magic… If the mage had been able to heal Hawke and Merrill with no issue…

Fenris grimaced.

Anders was looking at him, but Fenris couldn’t meet his gaze. Emotions churned inside him like a storm.

“Well, Fenris, Anders, it’s been a pleasure, but I think a bath and a hot meal are in order. I’ll see you two at cards tomorrow, right?” Hawke asked, yawning and stretching his arms over his head.

“I’ll be there,” the mage replied. Fenris just nodded, keeping his face carefully blank. He could feel Anders' eyes on him as he left, and an inexplicable pang of regret accompanied him out the door.

He didn’t look back.  

~*~

Fenris made the quick trip from Hawke’s manor to the decrepit building that had once belonged to a man who claimed to own him.

He gave a wary glance to his surroundings, ensuring the prying eyes of the city watch weren’t upon him as he slunk into the “abandoned” mansion. Once inside, he sagged against the door, head slumping onto his chest, emotionally and physically raw.

Then an abrupt spike in temper overtook him, and he whirled, throwing a gauntleted fist at the door, denting the wood and making the door rattle in its housing. Pain lanced up one knuckle. Broken, he was certain.

Fenris padded into the wine cellar, bare feet near silent on the cold, stone floor, and grabbed a bottle from the top shelf. He pulled the cork free with his teeth, upended the bottle and drank deeply. Stalking back into the parlor, he lit the flame rune under the hearth, and slumped into one of the battered armchairs in front of the fire. The sofas were some of the only intact furniture in the place, the rest smashed to bits in one fit of pique or another.

He drank from the bottle, glared at the fire, and drank some more, lips occasionally turning up into a snarl. He repeated this pattern until the bottle was empty, then he looked at the label. An intricate border surrounded a neat picture of a grape cluster. Text was penned in delicate, flowing script underneath. Text that he, of course, could not read.

'The finest wine, fit for an archon,’ Fenris scoffed. Idly, he wondered what the slave who’d labeled the bottle would think if they learned who’d been the one to drink it.

Would they rejoice that one of their own had the chance to enjoy something nice? Would they be envious? Mortified?

The former slave cocked back an arm and hurled the bottle at the stone wall. He waited for the sound of shattering glass to grant him a taste of smug satisfaction. Tonight, he tasted only the wine.

Another bottle retrieved from the cellar. Another bottle drained. More delicate, tinkling chimes from the shards that fell among the flames, a glaring disparity to the violence of the act.

For his third bottle, Fenris glowered at the fire and he drank, and as he drank, he cursed every name he could think of for everything wrong in his life.

He cursed Danarius for his cruelty, and all his slaves for their misfortune. He cursed each and every Fog Warrior that had ever shown him an inkling of kindness.

He cursed the Maker and his Bride for abandoning them all to their fate, and then the Elven pantheon for good measure, though he couldn’t name them all.

Fenris stood from the chair and strode with unsteady steps to the front of the hearth, and as he did so, he cursed the Qunari and their discipline, the Imperium and their arrogance. He cursed the elves and the dwarves and the humans for ever having the gall to survive despite the odds.

He drained the rest of the bottle while cursing Anders for his audacity to have redeeming qualities, and cursing Hawke for his blighted companionship.

Fenris pulled back his fist and smashed the bottle against the wall. In addition to the crack of another fractured knuckle, he felt a slicing pain as glass shards bit into his palm, but the sensation was dulled by the drink.

He brought his hand up to his face, and the bloodied fragments of glass that jutted from his skin caught the fire light. He met his own gaze reflected in the crystal, and the three perfectly circular moons on his brow stared back at him, taunting, jeering.

It was the lyrium. He’d known all along. He’d lashed out at the mage, but deep down, Fenris knew he had just been denying the obvious. His markings had caused the Aura. They’d caused the Surge. The lyrium in his skin would plague him for the rest of his life.

Never unseen. Never truly free. Danarius’ Little Wolf would always have his collar.

For all that remained, Fenris cursed himself.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Anders woke the next morning to a pounding headache, watering eyes and a rolling bout of nausea. Anxiety pricked at his mind. Was this just illness, or another onset of the Surge? He reached for the cup of water he kept beside his cot, but as he opened his right hand to take the cup, pain lanced through two of his knuckles. Anders hissed in surprise and cradled his fist. He sat up in the cot and, in what dim light filtered through the clinic, he examined his hand.

Nothing.

There was nothing there. His hand was not swollen nor discolored; it had no lacerations he could see. He flipped it this way and that. The pain was there, sharp and inconsistent, exactly the way a broken bone would feel, but a broken hand was easy to distinguish. Bruising, swelling, intermittent pain -especially on movement. What did it mean to have only one of the three symptoms?

Anders knew he was getting up there in years, but arthritis seemed unlikely. Only yesterday he’d felt in peak condition, better than he had since his early 20’s, his aches and pains had all disappeared. Granted, it also hadn’t been that long ago he’d pleaded for death as dragon fire melted his brain during the Surge.

The healer reached for his staff and called healing magic to his hand. The warm, green light sank into his flesh, but when he clenched his fist to check his handiwork, he gasped, another bolt of pain shooting through his hand. He tried again, summoning more healing magic. Gingerly, he closed his fist, but the pain hadn’t diminished in the slightest.

Not only that, but his headache, watery eyes and nausea were all firmly in place as well.

‘Justice?’ He tried.

No response.

‘Justice, if you can hear me, say something.’ Again, only silence.

Anders was well and truly concerned now. His magic wasn’t working, and he hadn’t heard nor felt even a hint of the spirit since the Surge. It wasn’t like him to go completely dark for so long.

He probed the back of his mind, searching for the spirit’s presence. The space Justice normally occupied was empty.

Or… almost empty.

In the vacancy, a tiny, fluttering warmth purred quietly, like a cat on somebody’s lap. Curious, he nudged it with his mind and a dull ache radiated from it. He pulled back from it but continued his inspection at a distance. The presence didn’t feel malignant, in that it seemed not to have intended to hurt him. The ache reminded him of the feeling one got when pressing against a bruise. It hurt, but it was the pain of a healing injury, not a fresh wound. Something had happened to Justice, of that he was certain. Perhaps this thing in the back of his mind actually was the spirit, just lying dormant, placed in some sort of hibernation by the spells on the Wounded Coast.

Anders was at a loss. He had too many questions and no way to answer them. He would have liked to ask Justice if he could detect something wrong with his magic, or if the spirit knew of a way to retrace the effects of a spell back to its source. He would have liked to ask how he should go about getting Fenris to allow him an examination, to check for lingering effects of the past few days. Now that the spirit was gone, Anders was coming to realize just how much he’d taken Justice for granted.

It was dawning on him that, in his day to day life, Anders asked a million questions and there had always been somebody to listen, even if the spirit didn’t answer. Many questions had been unimportant; what the capital of Antiva was, what the spirit thought about one pair of socks versus another. But others had been useful, like ‘what was in that poultice Elder Katherine used to take the sting out of Rashvine nettle?’

Even if the spirit hadn’t answered, even if he’d had no opinion to give, he was there. Now Anders questions echoed in the void left by Justice’s absence. For the first time in years, Anders was completely isolated with his thoughts, and it left him feeling hollow and alone.

He reconsidered the fluttering mass that had taken Justice’s spot. It didn’t seem to have sentience -or at least not much. It truly did remind him of a sleeping cat. It was kind of nice, he supposed, but Anders wanted to know what had happened to his friend and how to get him back. Or, if this was indeed Justice, how to wake him up.

But where does one even begin to ask that question in the middle of a city like Kirkwall? Anders imagined striding up to one of the cowering mages in the Gallows and saying, ‘Hello, my name is Anders. Until recently I was possessed by a spirit of Justice and I was wondering if you knew how I could get it back? I’d like to be re-possessed, thanks.’

Oh yes, that would end well.

Anders rubbed at his face, momentarily forgetting the mysterious state of his hand and gasping in pain again. That was going to get very old very quickly.

He reached for the cup of water with his other hand and drank it down, praying his headache and pseudo-broken hand would disappear as he got on with his day. He got up and pulled on his robes, lamenting the state of his hair in the clouded mirror over his wash basin. He shoved a stale heel of bread between his teeth and went to open the clinic. He may not have been able to heal, but there were always patients in need of advice, potions, poultices… all things he could provide without casting a spell.

As he chewed on the stale bread, he lit the lantern outside his clinic, then busied himself pulling potions from shelves and unwinding lengths of cotton for bandages. He was in the middle of trying to use a mortar and pestle to grind elfroot using only one hand when the door to the clinic opened.

“Be with you in a moment,” he called over his shoulder. He set the stone cup down on a counter and wrapped a towel around his “injured” hand to remind him not to use it overmuch. When he turned to greet his first patient of the day, he was met with the sight of an exasperated Hawke and a wretched-looking Fenris.

“I went to check on him this morning and found this,” Hawke said, gesturing to the haggard elf at his side. Fenris scowled.

“For the final time, Hawke, this is not caused by the bloody-“

“You’ll have to excuse me, Fenris, but I think I’d rather have the good healer here confirm that for us.”

“Fasta vass,” Fenris hissed.

Anders walked closer to the pair, keeping his wrapped hand at his side to avoid drawing attention to it. Fenris took a half step back as he drew near, but Anders pretended not to notice. He peered at the elf, and the sight of the elf’s watering eyes, pale skin and exceptional level of grump made his own headache throb in sympathy.

“He’s hungover, Hawke, I can smell the wine from here,” Anders said. Fenris shot Hawke an accusatory look.

“Ah- well. He may have mentioned that fact…”

“You are insufferable,” Fenris grumbled, though Anders thought he heard an undercurrent of amusement in the elf’s tone.

Without thinking, Anders called magic to his staff and sent a wave of healing energy over the elf. It was entirely instinctual, a habit borne from years of healing the dozens of patients who walked through his door every day. He gave it no more thought than breathing.

But as soon as the magic left him, he realized his mistake. He snatched his hand away and killed the flow of magic. He was spluttering apologies before the soft, green light had faded from the elf’s skin.

He dropped his staff to the floor and raised both palms, one of which was still covered by the bandage he’d wrapped around it.

“Fenris, forgive me, I shouldn’t have done that, I-I wasn’t thinking,” he stammered. Every muscle in the elf’s body was tense, his shoulders hunched and his hands curled into fists at his sides. His jaw was clenched tight as Anders continued his apologies.

“Hold on. Everybody stop,” Hawke ordered. Anders bit off another explanation mid-sentence and did as Hawke bid. Fenris didn’t move, maintaining his rigid stance. There was no magical explosion. No agonizing shrieks or blue halo of magic lighting the clinic walls. Nothing happened.

“It was just a healing spell, the same as he’s cast on you a hundred times,” Hawke said calmly. Anders looked back and forth between the two, waiting for Fenris to say something. It did not escape his notice that the elf already looked better. Color had returned to his skin and, although Fenris’ eyes were currently staring daggers into him, they were no longer bloodshot. It seemed his magic did work after all.

Slowly the elf unwound his muscles. He was still tense, but he didn’t look ready to go for Anders’ throat again, so it was a step in the right direction. Anders looked at Hawke and gave him a nod, hoping Hawke would take the hint.

“Fenris,” the rogue asked, “Are you well?” The elf didn’t answer at first. “Fenris?” Hawke prompted.

“You mean aside from my desire to strangle the mage?” Fenris grit. Hawke laughed, and just like that the tension broke. Anders chuckled nervously but didn’t take his eyes from the elf.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Fenris growled, turning toward the door.

“You’re still coming to cards tonight!” Hawke called after him as the door slammed.

“He’ll be there,” Hawke said, grinning, “Even if I have to drag him there myself.”

Anders laughed, this time sounding more genuine.

“Thank you for bringing him here. I was looking to check up on him anyway, but I was still trying to figure out how to go about it. He might not thank you for it though,” he chuckled quietly.

“I’m not worried about it. He’ll forgive me, he always does.”

“He won’t forgive me so easily, but I find I’m not too bothered by that,” Anders said, lifting a shoulder in nonchalance.

And yet, as Hawke left the clinic, Anders was surprised to discover that the thought of Fenris never forgiving him did, in fact, bother him, and he wondered at what point he’d come to care about the elf’s opinion so much.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it though; patients were already lining up at the clinic’s door. There was work to be done.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon Anders realized that, along with his headache, the phantom pain in his hand had vanished.

~*~

That evening, after a long day of healing what seemed to be half the citizens in Darktown, Anders was on his way up to the Hanged Man for their weekly card night. He walked through the doors into the tavern and headed to Varric’s suite, nodding hello to the regulars and avoiding eye contact with a group of men that he thought might be off-duty Templars.

“There he is! We were just about to send out the search party!” Hawke grinned, standing to clap Anders on the back before retaking his seat next to Merrill.

“You’re just in time, Blondie,” Varric said, shuffling a deck of cards, “Just starting a new game.”

“Deal me in,” Anders smiled. He was tired from healing all day, but he enjoyed card night, despite the fact that he always lost. Varric shuffled a few more times, cut the deck and started dealing out cards.

“Thirsty, sweet thing?” A tankard was placed in front of him as Isabela returned from her apparent ale run. He smiled gratefully at her, turning on the charm the way he knew she liked.

“You are too good to me.” He gave her a wink and she laughed, high and beautiful. She was always beautiful, and there was a time in his life that would have been enough for him to take her up on one of her many offers to keep him company. Though nowadays, it seemed, she made the offer already knowing he’d refuse, just to tease him. They’d banter back and forth, and she’d jokingly swear one day she’d change his mind. He knew it was just playful flirting, neither of them really intending anything by it, but it was nice to feel wanted.

“I just do it to see that lovely smile,” she crooned. Isabela took her place at the table next to Fenris and picked up her cards. Anders did the same, sitting between Varric and Merrill, and grimaced at the sight of it. Nothing. He had no playable hand. Business as usual, then. He took a long drink from his tankard and resigned himself to just enjoying the company of his friends.

Looking around the table, he saw Aveline frowning in concentration as she rearranged her hand. She was almost as helpless at cards as he was, but he assumed that, like him, she came to card night just for the camaraderie. She’d say she was too busy -that being guard captain was a responsibility she couldn’t just put down whenever she wanted, but she’d always show.

To Aveline’s left there was Varric, seated at the head of the table, cracking jokes and robbing them all blind as he was wont to do. On Varric’s other side sat Anders, then Merrill and Hawke. At the other head of the table was Sebastian, then Isabela, and finally Fenris, seated on Aveline’s other side. The elf looked relaxed, alternating between listening to the table’s discussion and sorting his hand, but then he looked up from his cards into Anders eyes, and Anders realized he’d been caught staring.

He averted his gaze quickly, but he felt the elf’s eyes on him even as he pretended to study his cards. Eventually, he risked a peek, raising his eyes to discreetly glace at Fenris from under his brow. The elf’s gaze met his own. A few seconds passed and neither of them looked away. Anders didn’t know if this was some weird contest of will, or if the elf was just trying to make him squirm, but finally he cocked an eyebrow at Fenris teasingly and Fenris looked away.

The game continued for a while, the conversation jovial and light-hearted. That was until Anders caught the expression on Isabela’s face and the look she was giving Hawke and Merrill across the table. Her eyes were narrowed, darting between the bondmates suspiciously.

“You’re cheating!” she exclaimed in mock outrage.

“Hmm, what?” Hawke tried for the picture of wide-eyed innocence.

“You’re using your bond to cheat again, aren’t you!” Isabela accused, though she sounded anything but angry. Instead, she laughed delightedly.

“I would never!” Hawke protested, but his cheeky grin was the epitome of unconvincing. Isabela leveled her gaze at Merrill.

“Kitten, how could you?” Isabela pretended to sound hurt.

“But you cheat every single game, Isabela!” Merrill huffed. “Why can’t I do it?”

“Because everybody already knows that I cheat, Kitten. When you do it, it’s like a little kid trying to pick pockets: cute the way they try, but also sort of sad.” Merrill pouted, but dissolved into giggles at Isabela’s wink and the rest of the table joined her in laughing. Isabela turned to Varric who was guffawing from his seat at the head of the table.

“Why do we keep letting them sit next to each other?” She demanded.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Rivaini,” He shrugged, still grinning widely.

“You owe us all a round for that one, Hawke,” Aveline suggested in a tone that did not imply suggestion.

“Fine, fine, you caught me. I’ll get the drinks.”

Anders was still chuckling under his breath when he caught Fenris’ eye again, and the intensity there startled him. His heart lurched, and he tensed automatically, before realizing the elf didn’t look hostile. Anders couldn’t tell exactly what that look was -the elf was harder to read than most- but as soon as he realized Anders had seen him, Fenris looked back at his hand. Anders returned his eyes to his own cards, confused.

Hawke returned a few minutes later, just in time to see Sebastian ‘win’ his first round of the night.

“And Choir Boy takes the round,” Varric announced. There was a collective eye roll as Varric pocketed Sebastian’s share; no gambling for the ‘hallowed and virtuous’.

Hawke set a cup of ale in front of Sebastian, then Isabela. Norah, the waitress, was holding a tray filled with the rest of the drinks, and Hawke doled them out one by one to everyone around the table.

“Thank you, Norah.” Hawke gave her a little bow and a smile. She rolled her eyes, nodded at Varric and left the suite. Without looking up from his hand, Sebastian silently pushed his untouched drink across to Isabela, who also did not look away from her cards as she accepted it.

“Alright, new hand,” Hawke said, sitting back down in his spot.

“Oh no you don’t,” Isabela protested, wagging a finger at him. Hawke didn’t even feign ignorance; he knew he’d been made.

“Alright, alright,” he held both palms up.

“Kitten come sit by me. Fenris, sweetheart, could you go over there and make sure Hawke doesn’t get away with it so easily?” She gave him a coy smile. Fenris smirked, rolled his eyes and stood, but halfway around the table he slowed, apparently realizing that he was now seated directly next to Anders.

The mage looked at him. He looked back.

Then, apparently steeling himself, Fenris sat down carefully in the seat next to Anders.

Anders was now very aware of how close the elf was to him; barely a foot lay between them. He could have been imagining it, but he thought he could feel Fenris’ body heat warm against his arm. His eyes were on his cards, but every other sense was honed in on the seat to his left. The elf was tense, and though he also had his eyes trained downwards, Anders could tell he wasn’t really looking at them either.

If the rest of the table noticed their unusual behavior, they chalked it up to their mutual animosity. The game continued as normal. Varric swiped a card from the draw pile. Merrill leaned her head against Isabela’s shoulder and Isabela smiled gently, petting the elf’s hair. Aveline grumbled over her cards.

Despite Fenris’ close proximity, Anders typical resentment toward him was conspicuously absent. He should have been wary, what with the way the elf had nearly slit his throat a few days prior, and while he was cautious, there was a definite excitement there too.

“Let’s move, slow slug.” Aveline’s voice startled him. He’d been so focused on Fenris he hadn’t even realized that is was his turn.

“Ah, call,” he said, tossing a silver into the center of the table. For all the staring at his cards he’d been doing, Anders had no clue what was in his hand. When he took another look, actually seeing the cards this time, he realized his hand was the best he’d had all night. A few trips around the table and he called each time, until eventually-

“And there’s the Angel,” Aveline said, holding up the Angel of Death.

“Alright, let’s see ‘em!” Hawke called. Everybody laid their hands out, except for Sebastian and Merrill who’d both folded earlier in the round.

“Shit, Blondie!” Varric laughed, and everybody looked to Anders’ hand, wherein lay two angels and three knights.

“Did- did Anders just win a hand?” Hawke looked so surprised it was almost comical. Anders could feel his face start to flush from the attention, and he rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly.

“I, ah, guess I got lucky?” he shrugged. Varric let out a low whistle and shook his head.

“No kidding.” Isabela looked impressed. She treated him to a wink followed by a seductive smile. Anders could feel his blush darken and he ducked his head in embarrassment. Suddenly, there was the loud scrape of wood against wood as Fenris shoved his chair back and stood. He snatched his tankard off the table and headed for the door, shaking it over his shoulder to indicate he was going to get more ale.

Aveline sighed and rolled her eyes, Varric and Hawke exchanged raised eyebrows.

“Somebody’s not having a lucky card night,” Isabela teased. Varric shrugged and dealt the next hand. By the time he was finished, Fenris was still not back, and Isabela volunteered to go search for him. She left the room with a swish of a hip and the table fell into casual discussion.

A few minutes later, Isabela came back, Fenris following behind her. Her demeanor gave off the distinct impression of the cat who ate the canary: smug and very self-satisfied. Rather than a tankard of ale, Fenris had brought back a bottle of deep red wine.

They started the hand, but as they played, Anders couldn’t help but notice the looks Isabela kept shooting over at Fenris, and from the corner of his eye, Anders could see the elf smirk in return. Fenris poured a serving of his wine into a glass and passed it to the pirate who took it and drained the glass in one pull. Anders also didn’t miss the impressed raise of an eyebrow Fenris gave her. The little spark of jealousy that lit in his stomach was unexpected and most unwelcome.

He’d turned Isabela down a hundred times a least -sometimes multiple times a night. He also knew it was just playful banter -that she was never seriously propositioning him. So why was it now, when she was playfully flirting with somebody else, that he suddenly had a problem with it? Was it because Fenris was reciprocating? Or was it just the fact that she’d chosen Fenris to begin with? It really didn’t matter in the end, neither explanation was acceptable. He scoffed, disgusted with himself.

“Alright there, Anders?” Hawke asked, and raising his head, Anders realized all eyes were on him.

“Oh, ah… yes, sorry.” He cursed his lack of subtlety. “Bad hand.”

“You know, Blondie, most people don’t raise two silvers with a bad hand,” Varric mused. “Or if they do, they usually do a better job of hiding the fact.”

“Yeah, ah,” he laughed weakly. “You might have noticed by now, but I’m not great at cards.” To his relief, everybody laughed and went back to the game. He let out a long breath.

Finally, the night was drawing to a close, Varric taking the last hand for himself. The group mingled for a minute longer, enjoying the companionship. Sebastian ducked out first with a wave of farewell, followed by Isabela. Hawke was making plans to leave later in the week for a trip up Sundermount.

“You’ll come?” he asked Anders. The mage sighed but nodded. He was a sucker for that little hopeful face Hawke always put on when he was asking Anders to come out on a job with him. He could tell Fenris was looking at him again, but his earlier excitement had soured after the elf’s exchange with Isabela, and Anders didn’t meet his eyes.

Anders waved his goodbye to everyone still at the table and descended the steps from Varric’s suite. The night air was cool on his skin, pleasant after the stuffy tavern, and the streets of Lowtown were awash in the light of the full moon. Isabela was leaned against the outside of the building, one hand clutching a bottle of Antivan brandy. Not for the first time, Anders marveled at her alcohol tolerance; she seemed entirely sober despite drinking enough to put even a Grey Warden under the table.

“Congrats on winning, sweet thing.” She pushed off the wall to saunter over to him. “It’s about time you leave Wicked Grace night with a pocket of coin, for once.”

Anders grinned at her, and his jealousy fell to the wayside in the face of her carefree disposition. He’d never been able to hold a grudge against Isabela, no matter what she did.

“If you’re under the impression that every coin I won didn’t go directly into Varric’s pocket, you’ve got another thing coming,” he said wryly, and she laughed. She was close enough to touch now, her beautiful, amber eyes staring up at him.

“I think half of Kirkwall is in debt to that dwarf,” she murmured, cocking a hip. Isabela studied him for a moment, then she reached out to cup his face, brushing a thumb across his cheek. It was such an unexpectedly tender gesture, and it made Anders' heart ache. He’d just found himself leaning into her palm, chasing the warmth, when suddenly the door behind him opened.

Fenris stood in the tavern entrance and took in the two of them. Anders took a quick step back, feeling ashamed, but Isabela didn’t flinch -didn’t even turn her head. She just watched Anders, slowly lowering the hand that had rested so gently on his cheek. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something sad in her eyes. Fenris followed her gaze, alighting for what seemed like the hundredth time that night on Anders. It held there for a moment, his face an impassive mask, then he let the door swing shut.

“Take care of yourself, Anders,” Isabela said softly, and she gave him one last small, sad smile before she turned away.

And just like that, the moment was over.

It was like she'd flipped a switch. Isabela looked at Fenris and he cocked an eyebrow at her, which she returned with an impish grin. The tender heart from seconds earlier was re-encased in steel, as if the entire exchange had never happened. She strolled over to Fenris and leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

The spark of jealousy from earlier in the evening reasserted itself with vigor, and Anders felt vines of ivy wrap themselves around his heart. He shook his head firmly. He had no business staking a claim; he’d made it clear time and time again that he wasn’t going to take Isabela up on her offer. Doing so now would be, as Hawke put it, “a real dick move."

Anders had never seen that side of her before, but it hardly mattered now. His heart was raw, and the emotional riptide of the night had left him feeling vulnerable; there was nothing left for him here but a bruised ego. He did his best to keep the emotion off his face, summoning a carefully aloof expression, and then swung around to head back to his clinic before he could do something stupid.

“Alright, well, be seeing you,” he called over his shoulder in a voice that -mercifully- didn’t crack. He made a real effort to keep his stride even and slow as he walked away, though he felt like sprinting. Anders could hear as the two of them exchanged words and he hated the way he reflexively strained to catch them.

He’d just begun to descend the steps into Darktown when he heard a call from behind him.

“Mage, hold a moment.”

Anders turned and was surprised to see Fenris striding toward him. He considered just walking away, but the idea was dead on arrival. He still had to work with the elf -still had to see him on missions with Hawke. So, he climbed back up the three steps he’d made it down and walked a few paces back toward the elf.

A moment later Fenris reached him. As he slowed to a stop in front of him, Anders was struck by how painfully gorgeous the elf was bathed in moonlight. His hair was radiant, and the lyrium in his skin seemed to shimmer as he moved. Anders' heart twisted with envy again; how was he ever to compete with that?

Fenris opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. He was clearly trying to find the right way to phrase something -a circumstance Anders found himself in often. However, despite his sympathies, the jealousy still holding Anders hostage was making him impatient. He was seconds away from telling the elf to spit it out when Fenris did just that.

“Thank you.”

Anders blinked. Had Fenris just shown actual gratitude to him?

“Er- for what?”

“This morning. You healed me.” Fenris shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “It was… appreciated.”

Anders took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and swallowed his pride. Envy aside, it was a good a time as any to extend the olive branch. When he opened his eyes again, he held the elf’s gaze firmly. 

“No, Fenris, I should be thanking you,” Anders said, voice low and sincere. “After what happened on the Wounded Coast, you trusted me when I told you I had nothing to do with it, though you had every reason to believe otherwise. Your initial reaction aside, you gave me the benefit of the doubt that most people in your shoes would not have. And this morning you held your temper despite a serious trespass of your personal boundaries. After what happened the last time I healed you, nobody would have blamed you if you’d laid me out on the spot.”

Fenris was staring at him now, brow knitted in confusion.

“So, I am sorry,” Anders finished. “While I did not mean to overstep your boundaries, I did, and the fact that I did so out of habit is no excuse. Will you forgive me for that?”

The elf seemed a little dumbstruck, jaw slightly ajar like he wanted to say something, but he managed to nod anyway.

“Thank you. Have a good night, Fenris,” he said, and waving to Isabela over Fenris’ shoulder, Anders turned and again started back toward the clinic.

Now, as an overwhelming sense of loneliness put down roots in his heart, he missed Justice’s presence in his mind more than ever.

He’d taken the same three steps down to Darktown when he paused again. Knowing full well he shouldn’t, Anders looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Fenris reach Isabela where she was waiting for him. He didn’t like the way she looped her arm through his with casual familiarity, and he didn’t like the way he turned to speak into her ear.

He especially didn’t like the way those little, green vines of jealousy threaded their way through his ribcage and burrowed into his heart.

But, above all, he didn’t like the way he realized Isabela wasn’t the culprit behind them.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

Fenris couldn’t sleep.

That was nothing new -he was no stranger to the frustration of insomnia. However, this time the cause of his sleep loss was driving him to pace the mansion.

When Isabela had come to find him between rounds at the Hanged Man, she’d boldly suggested they go back to his place for a drink after cards. It had seemed like a good idea at the time; he’d been restless since the incident on the Wounded Coast and figured perhaps a distraction was what he needed to unwind. After he’d seen the way she looked at the mage, the notion had only grown more desirable.

That was until he'd spoken with Anders outside the tavern. Fenris hadn’t conceded until later that he’d only approached the mage under the guise of thanking him as an excuse to see the jealousy on Anders’ face. But the mage hadn’t taken his gratitude. Rather, Anders had actually apologized for crossing a line, and Fenris was completely at a loss after that.

If somebody had asked him five months ago, or even a few days ago, what he’d do if a mage apologized for healing him without consent, he’d have bitterly replied that it was likely some kind of ploy to earn his trust, only to stab him in the back with it later.

The only thing he was certain of now is that he was very uncertain in general. Not about mages -he was still sure that the majority of mages, especially those from Tevinter, would do anything to achieve their goals, no matter the cost, no matter who they had to step on to do it.

But one mage in particular was systematically unraveling every preconception he’d had up until that point. From the man’s selfless behavior and desire to stand up for the disadvantaged, right down to the spells he cast, none of it meshed with how Fenris had come to understand the world.

And it was this thought that was keeping him awake.

On their way back to the mansion, Isabela had asked what had transpired between him and the mage. Fenris had responded with the truth: he’d thanked the mage for curing his hangover that morning. Of course, he had failed to mention how Anders had answered his thanks, but if Isabela knew he was withholding information she didn’t ask for it. Instead she remarked on the beauty of his eyes.

But with every step toward the mansion he took, Fenris felt less and less inclined to spend his night with her. He’d just come to the conclusion that he’d invite her in for a drink before sending her home, when she stopped, looked him straight in the eye and asked “Do you really want this, or were you trying to make poor Anders jealous?”

For the second time that night Fenris had been dumbfounded. How had she known what he himself had only realized moments ago?

To her credit, she didn’t get angry, didn’t even appear bitter. She’d merely smirked and answered his blank stare with, “Thought so. You know where I’ll be if you change your mind.”

He truly did not give the pirate the recognition she deserved; she was far craftier than she looked. The truth was, Fenris realized, that he’d only wanted to take Isabela home in retaliation against the mage, but after Anders had apologized, it seemed in very poor taste.

So now he was pacing, trying to determine just exactly when he’d begun to concern himself with the mage’s opinion.

Dawn was approaching and he had no more answers than when he’d started his restless wandering the night before. He finally collapsed into a fitful slumber as the sun breached the horizon.

~*~

Fenris awoke much later in the day to the feeling that something was very, very wrong. He bolted out of bed and snatched his greatsword, Lethendralis, from where it was propped against the wall. Straining to listen, he was met by absolute silence. Nothing moved, there was no sign of an attack, but the back of his head was buzzing with anxiety.

On silent feet, he padded to the doorway and peered over the balcony into the parlor. It, too, was empty. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, but there was no observable cause for said alarm. He was just on the brink of chalking it up to a side effect of the spells on the Coast, when out of nowhere, he was doubled over in pain. First his gut, then his arms, then his head. It felt as though he were being beaten. Thoroughly. Through watering eyes, he twisted his arms to look for bruises, but the skin was smooth, marred only by the lyrium. What fresh torture was this? 

Fenris could feel himself slipping into the grips of panic. Between the pain assaulting every square inch of his body, the dread that seemed to originate from nowhere, and the fear of the Surge making a reappearance, Fenris was losing the last shreds of control he’d been desperately clinging to. The pain wasn’t unbearable -not even close to the agony he’d encountered during the Surge, but it felt like he’d been battered by a dozen armored fists and nobody had hit him.

Then, as quickly as the pain had come, it started to fade again. He could straighten up and move without much discomfort, but the anxiety was still reverberating in his head. 

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! rang the gong of panic in the back of his mind. He shook his head, trying to clear it. 

Finally he couldn’t take it any longer: he had to get out.

Fenris returned to the bedroom and strapped his armor on quickly. He kept Lethendralis at the ready until he reached the front door, then, sheathing his greatsword on his back, he warily stepped into the evening sunlight.

It was as calm outside as it had been in the mansion.

Feeling cagey and unwilling to return inside, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door hurriedly behind him. He let his anxious feet guide him across the streets of Hightown and it shouldn’t have surprised him that he wound up outside Hawke’s estate. Fenris knocked on Hawke’s door -harder than strictly necessary, it must be said- and was greeted moments later by the round, smiling face of Bodahn Feddic.

“Ah, Messer Fenris. Messer Hawke is not in at the moment; I believe he is with his bondmate in the Alienage.”

Fenris was just about to tell Bodahn to disregard that he’d visited when a young boy ran up to him. The boy was breathing heavily as if he’d being running for a while, and the ragged clothes on his back suggested he was a resident of Darktown.

“I have... a message… for Messer… Hawke!” The boy announced with heaving breaths.

“He’s not in, but I can take the message,” Bodahn said kindly. The urchin shook his head.

“It’s gotta go to ‘im! It’s important!”

“What’s the message?” Fenris asked. The waif hesitated.

“The dwarf said I was only ‘posed to tell Messer Hawke,” he said, shifting under the weight of Fenris’ stare.

“You can give the message to me. I’m a friend of Varric’s,” Fenris said calmly, though he felt anything but. The boy looked at him with wide eyes.

“Oh, y’know Messer Tethras? Ok… I ‘spose I can tell you then. The message is ‘Blondie’s getting raided, bring back up.’”

An inexplicable pang of dread hit Fenris, compounding the panic already bouncing around inside his skull. Forcing himself to stay focused, he pulled a few gold pieces from his coin purse and pressed them into the runner's palm.

“Will you run me one more message?” Fenris asked. The boy -whose eyes had gone wide at the sight of the gold- looked up at Fenris in awe.

“I’m your boy; anyfin’ you need! What’s the message, ser?” he asked with a toothy grin.

“Same message. Run to the Alienage, find Hawke in the house on the far-right side across from the stairwell. It has a big green banner above it. If an elven woman with black hair opens the door, you may give her the message,” Fenris said quickly. The boy nodded and shot off like a stone from a sling, feet flying over the cobbled streets.

“If Hawke returns, tell him what’s happening,” he said to Bodahn.

And then he ran.

Varric wouldn’t have sent a runner telling Hawke to bring back up unless the situation was dire. His conflicting emotions on the mage himself aside, the clinic catered to dozens of poor and destitute daily, and Kirkwall Templars, while necessary, did not have a reputation for treating those associated with apostates kindly. His long strides covered the distance quickly, and the exertion made the anxiety easier to cope with.

It seemed like every Kirkwall resident was out in the streets as Fenris dashed through Lowtown. He nimbly avoided two women carrying baskets and dodged a group of dwarves haggling over prices; the grace and speed with which he moved would have made a dancer envious. As he ran, Fenris considered possible courses of action. It was likely -based on the message and speed of the runner- that there had already been physical action taken against the clinic occupants. The clinic was a wide area, easy to maneuver in, and he took that into account when determining how best to approach a fight, if it came to that.

He reached the stairs that would take him to Darktown and descended them rapidly. Before he’d made it even halfway down the steps, he heard the sound of a commotion. There was yelling, women crying, a baby wailed in fear; he took the rest of the steps three at a time. As he sprinted around the corner, the scene that he was greeted with made him grit his teeth.

Fenris could see at least ten Templars, swords drawn, pulling elves and humans alike from the clinic and flinging them into the dirt outside the clinic doors. Young children clutched at their mother’s legs, crying. Men were thrown to the ground and kicked over and over again until they were left cowering. Fenris could not see Anders among the trembling mass outside the doors to the clinic, but he did see one of the mage's aides.

He strode to where she was crouched outside the clinic doors with the rest of the battered patients. She was a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties with pale skin and red hair. He’d seen her around the clinic a few times when he’d visited with Hawke.

“Holly,” he said in a low voice, panting slightly from his run. He crouched next to her. She whipped around to face him, startled, before her face crumpled in relief.

“Oh, Fenris, thank the Maker you’re here! Is Hawke with you?” she gasped, looking behind him. Fenris looked over her shoulder at the Templars to ensure they hadn’t noticed him yet.

“He will be,” Fenris said with more confidence than he felt. This was turning out to be bigger than he could tackle alone, and he was sincerely hoping his runner had reached the Alienage by now. He searched the crowd for other friendly faces but found very few. “Is Varric around?” Holly shook her head.

“I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s here somewhere, or somebody close to him is. Stay safe,” he said, standing.

“What are you going to do?” she whispered, looking up at him nervously.

“That is an excellent question.”

Shoulders pulled back, Fenris strode calmly up to the Templar who was barking orders at the rest.

“Under whose orders do you raze a healer’s clinic and brutalize those seeking care?” he challenged. The large Templar who appeared to be in command pivoted to face him. Fenris had seen bigger men, but not many. The man towered over everyone in the general vicinity, Fenris included, and though Fenris knew the armor made him look larger than he was, he guessed the Templar still had at least eight stone on him.

“Mine,” rumbled the voice from inside the helm. “There have been several eyewitness accounts of an apostate living in this dwelling, and even a report of blood magic.”

“And these ‘witnesses’ gave this information to you freely, did they?” Fenris asked dubiously. He also highly doubted that the charge of blood magic was anything other than an excuse to launch the raid. Anders had voiced opposition to blood magic on numerous occasions, and while Fenris did not hold the mage in high esteem, he believed Anders unlikely to be so foolish as to resort to such measures while also playing host to a demon.

“I don’t answer to civilians and especially not to a damn knife ear,” the man growled. He leveled his sword at Fenris, forcing the elf back a step. Fenris went willingly enough. He would bide his time; as long as no more innocents were hurt, he could wait until the cavalry arrived, albeit impatiently.

As far as Fenris was concerned, this man’s life was already forfeit, just on the matter of his treatment of those beneath him alone. The bloodied face of a child, crying pitifully into his mother’s skirts was more than enough evidence for him.

Many of the scared patients huddling in the dirt were staring at Fenris, eyes darting between him and the Templars. He was not one for reassurance; he had no comfort to give them. Instead, bringing justice against those who had wronged them would have to suffice. It was only a matter of time.

That was until they dragged Anders from the clinic -battered, bloody, and seemingly unconscious- to dump him on the ground with the rest of the patients. One of the Templars sent a vicious kick into his gut and the mage grunted in pain, curling up on his side to clutch his stomach. Many of the people cowering in the dirt cried out when they saw him, and there was a collective gasp when the boot connected with his stomach. A jet of molten rage hit Fenris’ gut like an adrenaline surge, and he clenched his jaw to keep from howling in fury. Fenris didn’t have time to analyze the unusual strength of the protectiveness that seized him, however.

“Quiet! The lot of you!” barked one of the Templars. A few children began crying anew at the guard’s order, and the man raised a hand to strike the one closest to him: a girl with tear-filled eyes who couldn’t have been more than six. Her mother buried the girl in her arms with a cry and twisted away from the Templar to shield her daughter from the blow.

Fenris intervened. They’d removed the choice from his hand. At this point, however, he’d have thanked them for it; he never had been very good at inaction.

Fenris’ hand darted out, caught the Templar’s arm mid-swing, and flung it away from the cowering pair with deadly calm. The man who’d swung seemed not to know what to make of the lithe elf in spiked armor staring defiantly into his eyes.

“Unwise,” Fenris stated, tone low and lethal. He didn’t move from his spot in front of the girl and her mother.

The Templar looked at his officer, then back at Fenris, nonplussed.

“An’ what in the 17 fuckin’ voids do you think you’re doin’, then?” The guard took a step toward him. Fenris didn’t flinch.

“I would first have you answer the same question.” His voice was icy. “These people are not deserving of the cruelty you show them.”

“They deliberately hid the location of an apostate.” This from the lead officer who strode forward, pushing his subordinate out of the way. “And I’ve already warned you once, knife ear.” The officer swung a gauntleted fist at Fenris’ head. Fenris ducked the blow and pivoted behind the Templar, grabbing one of the many jutting edges of the bulky armor. He kicked at the back of one of the man’s knees, buckling it, then used the leverage from his grip on the armor to send the man crashing into the dirt.

For a second nobody moved, save the officer who was struggling with the weight of his massive armor, trying to get to his feet. Then the Templars recovered from their shock, and three of them rushed Fenris, swords drawn. Fenris reached for the greatsword on his back-

“ENOUGH!”

The booming voice rang through the enclosed streets of the Darktown Warrens, halting everyone in their tracks, just as Fenris’ hand closed around the hilt of his sword, and Fenris thought he’d never been so glad to hear that damnable Ferelden accent.

He glanced over his shoulder to see an absolutely thunderous Hawke, flanked by Merrill and Varric, striding up the alcove steps to stand over the officer who had yet to regain his feet. One of the Templars rushed forward to offer his leader a hand which the officer knocked aside and finally straightened to stand before them.

“Serah Hawke,” the Templar officer sneered, deliberately addressing Hawke with the incorrect title. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“See, this is the part where I usually crack a joke at your expense, but you’ve already beaten me to the punchline with this entire operation,” Hawke scoffed.

If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was completely calm -nonchalant, even. But Fenris did  know Hawke, and he could hear the seething fury simmering just below the surface of the rogue's tone.

“There is a mage living here outside the Circle, and a report of blood magic made against his name.”

“Right, I’m sure that’s legitimate and definitely not fabricated for the sole intent of raiding a healer’s clinic,” Hawke said, echoing Fenris’ earlier sentiment. “And what of all these innocents you’ve turned into refugee purée? Got an excuse for them too?”

“They were harboring an apostate,” the officer spat.

“Which, if I’m not much mistaken, Ser Veres, falls under the jurisdiction of the city guard.” An attaché of guardsmen headed by Aveline Vallen descended the Lowtown staircase to arrive on the scene. Fenris couldn’t help the smirk that spread across his face. Aveline strode forward to stand beside Hawke and Fenris.

“Guard Captain,” the officer said scornfully. “You’re here too. How nice of you to join us.”

“You have vastly overstepped the boundary set by the Templar Order and the Kirkwall city guard, and believe you me, your superiors will hear about it,” Aveline said coldly, her voice leaving no room for doubt. “Brutality of this magnitude is unauthorized in all but the most extreme circumstances, and I sincerely doubt any of these people has lifted so much as a finger to you.”

She stalked directly up to the officer. Her face was not quite level with his, but the confidence with which she held herself made her appear several inches taller.

“So tell me, Ser Veres: what is it about little girls crying that unmans you so?”

“Unresolved childhood trauma,” Varric chipped in. “It’s always the childhood trauma.”

Ser Veres met her eyes with a snarl on his lips, but Aveline didn’t back down. There was a fire in her eyes that made Fenris thankful he wasn’t on the receiving end of her wrath. The two stayed like that a moment, locked in a battle of wills.

But, eventually, between Aveline’s intimidation, her accompaniment of city guard, and the presence of Hawke’s team, the Templar seemed to know he’d been routed. He broke from the eye contact.

“We’ll sort out this mess,” Aveline said. It wasn’t a recommendation.

Ser Veres gave their whole group one last defiant sneer before he snapped at the men shifting uneasily behind him, “Move out. Now!”

In rank and file, the Templars marched to one of the large, wooden platforms. Ser Veres slammed his shoulder into Fenris’ as he passed him. Fenris grit his teeth but stayed calm. He had no trouble keeping his cool with the memory of the man scrabbling in the dirt at his feet to entertain him. After they’d all loaded onto the platform, Ser Veres threw the lever, and the Templars were lifted out of the Darktown streets.

As soon as they were out of sight, Aveline started barking orders to her men, the majority of which included making sure nobody was actively dying and trying to clear the space around Anders who was obviously the most wounded of the clinic occupants. Hawke, Fenris, Varric, and Merrill hurried over to Anders where he was still laying curled on his side in the dirt.

“Anders?” Hawke asked, kneeling next to his wounded friend. The mage neither responded nor opened his eyes. Fenris gave the man a cursory once-over, looking for hemorrhaging, missing limbs or any other significant issues. The mage was badly bruised, large purple contusions already blossoming across the outside of both forearms. His face was pale, clammy and blighted by two black eyes. Defensive wounds, Fenris recognized; it looked as if the mage hadn’t fought back.

“Damn fool mage,” Fenris cursed, but his anger was masking the concern that twisted in his gut. He pressed two fingers to Anders’ neck, ignoring a small spark of static electricity that triggered at the contact. The mage’s pulse was rapid.

“Shock,” he stated. “Hawke give me your cloak.”

“You have medical experience?” Hawke asked incredulously, removing the outer layer and passing it to Fenris.

“Not enough,” the elf answered curtly. He went to tuck the length of fabric around Anders’ torso when he noticed the mage’s abdomen was rigid and distended. Anders was bleeding out internally.

“Elevate his feet,” he snapped over his shoulder. Varric found a bucket somewhere, and with Hawke’s help, the three of them rolled Anders onto his back and lifted his feet onto it.

“Do you know any healing magic?” Fenris asked Merrill sharply.

“Oh, ah- kind of? Not really, I mean- Anders was going to teach me just in case, but we never-“

“Do it. We just need him to regain consciousness, then he can heal himself.”

“Won’t he be in terrible pain, though?” Merrill asked.

“Pain is generally preferable to death, would you not agree?” Fenris hissed.

“Ooh- yes, I would.” Merrill concentrated hard, furrowing her brow and muttering under her breath. The tiniest green light budded on her palm and she lay it on Anders’ forehead. For a moment nothing happened, and Fenris was about to insist she try it again.

Then Anders eyes cracked opened just a fraction and he moaned.

“Why does this keep happening?”

Fenris wanted to laugh aloud, so strong was his sense of relief, but in that moment, his whole body started to ache again like he’d been the one severely beaten, not Anders. Fenris chalked it up to the adrenaline starting to wear off and focused past the pain.

“Mage,” Fenris looked down at the man, “can you heal?” Anders eyes fluttered and he groaned.

“No… no magic,” he said with labored breaths. Fenris shook his head, disconcerted.

“What do you mean no magic?” he demanded.

“Bloody… magebane. No mana.” Fenris, who’d long been a staunch advocate of the magebane potion, found that at the moment he wasn’t too keen on the stuff.

“Does anybody have a mana potion?” He’d phrased the question to everybody, but he looked at Merrill when he said it. She winced.

“Fresh out, I’m afraid.” Fenris hissed in frustration.

“What kind of mage doesn’t carry a mana potion?” he growled.

“Enough,” Hawke cut in. “This isn’t going to help.”

“I’ll check the clinic,” Varric offered. The dwarf stood and bustled into the clinic, Merrill following on his heels.

‘There won’t be time,’ Fenris realized. ‘He's going to black out again before they find it.’

Most of the patients had been moved elsewhere, only some stragglers remained. Fenris allowed himself exactly five seconds to deliberate. His sudden, strange need to protect the mage won out.

“Mage, listen to me. Open your eyes,” Fenris said. Anders groaned again, but his eyes stayed shut. “Do as I say!” the elf snapped, accompanying the words with a somewhat less-than-gentle slap to the mage’s busted face.

“Andraste’s ass, Fenris,” Hawke muttered as the mage moaned in complaint.

“You know better than I how much trouble you are in right now, so be silent and concentrate.” He roughly took one of the mages’ hands and pressed it against his own arm.

Fenris took a deep, resigned breath, and lit the lyrium markings in his skin.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

The reaction his markings had on the mage was instant and explosive. Anders’ eyes snapped open and his pupils dilated to such a width that his irises were nearly obscured. The hand that Fenris had placed on his markings immediately clamped down, gripping the limb with such ferocity that the nails sliced tiny crescents into the elf's skin. Anders' other hand darted out toward Fenris, latched onto the sternal guard of his armor and yanked him down, almost with enough strength to pull the elf right down on top of him. Fenris flung his free hand out on the ground opposite him, catching himself, thrown off guard at the mage’s sudden strength. The bucket that had been propping up Anders’ legs was sent flying, and Fenris tried to overlook the obvious metaphor.

Fenris grunted in shock at the force of the reaction, but he tried to focus nevertheless. “Treat the energy as if it were your own. Harness it; don’t give it free range to do as it pleases!” he growled.

The mage was taking great gulps of air, eyes rolling wildly, and Fenris began to think that perhaps this wasn’t the best course of action he could have taken.

As Anders writhed on the ground, moaning and tossing his head, despite this being potentially the worst possible time, Fenris found himself becoming aroused as a frisson of lust exploded from the back of his mind.

In spite of the fact that none of what was happening was sexually appealing to him in any way, his head was clouding with desire, and he shook it back and forth trying to clear it. To make matters worse, he couldn’t ignore the fact that Hawke was watching everything happening in front of him.

“Mage!” he snapped, determined to ignore his body’s strange reaction. “Pull yourself together!” Fenris sat back up on his haunches, careful to not dislodge his arm from Anders’ grip.

Regrettably, it seemed his orders fell on deaf ears; the man was too far gone. He was about to give it up, dim the lyrium and wait for Merrill and Varric to bring back a potion, but to his dismay, he looked up to see the two rushing back up to him empty-handed.

“The Templars smashed everything!” Merrill exclaimed, eyes transfixed to Anders twisting and writhing in the dirt.

“There isn’t a single potion left in that building,” Varric grimaced, though he, at least, was attempting to avoid staring at Anders; he kept his eyes on Fenris.

“Speak with Aveline. Go wherever you must to get one- and bring a few health droughts with you,” Fenris ordered. Merrill managed to tear her eyes away from the mage and she and Varric ran off again to speak to Aveline.

‘At least they won’t be here to witness this,’ he thought. Whatever was happening to the mage was clearly not something for the public eye, and even Fenris was uncomfortable on the mages’ behalf. Luckily, aside from a few guards and Aveline in the distance, it was just Hawke and himself to see it. He didn’t want Hawke to leave in case the very real chance that he needed help came to fruition, but he also knew that, were he in the mage’s place, he’d at least want an attempt at privacy to be made.  

“Hawke,” he said gruffly.

“What do you need?” the rogue answered immediately, voice strained.

“Turn around.”

Hawke hesitated, seemingly unsure of Fenris’ intent. Fenris growled; he did not have time for a virtue defense.

“Were it you in this position, would you not ask for privacy?” Fenris demanded. Hawke didn’t argue farther. He pivoted, crossed his arms over his chest, and bowed his head. The rogue's posture was rigid with stress.

Returning his attention to Anders, Fenris saw to his despair that the mage was weakening. He wasn’t utilizing any of the lyrium’s energy, and now that the mania from the initial exposure was wearing off, the mage was fading rapidly. They were running out of options.

“Mage?” he peered down into the man’s eyes, searching for signs of recognition. He saw none. Anders’ pupils were still dilated, but they were unfocused, staring through the ceiling above them. Fenris shook his head; he was running out of ideas. He quashed the sudden dread threatening to engulf him and made one more attempt.

“Anders?” he tried. Miraculously, the mage’s eyes focused, locking on to Fenris’ face. He jumped on the opportunity. “Use the lyrium; treat it like your own power and heal yourself, you damnable fool!” he hissed urgently, trying to get his point across before the mage slipped away again, this time possibly for good.

Anders closed his eyes, but Fenris could tell it was intentional this time, and the blue light of the lyrium’s energy that had been dancing over the surface of Anders’ skin sank into the tissues. A moment later, an enormous wave of green light lit up the mage’s body like a prolonged bolt of lightning, temporarily blinding Fenris. When his vision cleared, he reexamined the mage’s face and saw that, while there was still blood caked to the mage’s mouth and nose, his black eyes had been wiped away.

It had worked. It had actually worked. Fenris refused to give in to the desire to shout his relief aloud. His own aches and pains vanished and Fenris assumed they’d been alleviated by the green light of healing magic. The disturbing arousal had abated somewhat as well, though it lingered in the back of his mind. Fenris was in no mood to analyze that little fact.

“Hawke,” Fenris called, and his voice absolutely did not crack. At all. Not even a little bit, regardless of what Hawke said.

The rogue, who’d already turned around when the green light lit the alcove outside the clinic, strode quickly to Anders’ other side to crouch beside the mage who was now -thankfully- breathing regularly. Hawke gave Anders a visual once over, running his hand through his own disheveled hair and letting out a gust of breath. He looked from Anders to Fenris, only to see the elf still watching the mage intently.

“It’s been a hell of a week,” Hawke muttered, looking back down to Anders’ still form.

Fenris couldn’t have agreed more; all told, he felt a little nauseated from the prolonged tension.

Between their trip to the coast and this raid on Anders’ clinic, Fenris was wound tighter than a loaded crossbow. He was still flushed with adrenaline, jittery and lamenting the fact that Hawke had shown up before he’d gotten the chance to sink his blade into something. He bitterly acknowledged that it was better to avoid bloodshed with an organization as large as the Templars, but the pent-up energy still coursing through his veins was doing its level best to persuade him otherwise.

After another few moments Anders stirred.

“I know I’ve earned some bad karma, but Andraste’s blazing ass-cheeks…” Anders groaned. He opened his eyes, blearily looking up at Hawke and Fenris where they were still kneeling at his side.

“Welcome back,” Hawke grinned, relieved. “Do us a favor and take a break from near-death experiences for a while, will you? Two in a week is plenty to be getting on with.”

Anders let out a noise halfway between a chuckle and a grunt. He made a motion as if attempting to sit up, before realizing both of his hands were still locked onto Fenris with a vice-like grip. He grimaced and met Fenris’ gaze with a sheepish look.

“Ah, sorry.” Anders released his hold on the sternal guard of Fenris’ armor, flexing his hand and easing the strain from the tendons. His other hand, the nails of which were still embedded in the skin of Fenris’ arm, was pulled back as well. Blood welled in the crescent-shaped cuts left by the mage’s grip, scarlet rivulets running down Fenris' wrist. It was all but inconsequential to Fenris -he barely noticed the blood, but Anders didn't miss it.

“Want me to take care of that?” the mage asked, slightly abashed, gesturing vaguely at Fenris. Fenris looked bewildered for a moment, shifting on his knees like he wasn’t sure what Anders was talking about. Then he glanced down at his arm and his eyebrows lifted in understanding. Fenris shook his head, giving the offer even less consideration than he normally would have had he not just rescued the mage from the brink of death. Again.

Hawke and Fenris moved back, giving Anders room to sit up and the mage groaned as he righted himself. Anders blinked and examined his surroundings through narrowed eyes, gingerly twisting his neck to look behind him at the bloody patches of dirt, the open door of his clinic, and the wreckage within. Fenris and Hawke watched him cautiously. Aveline, who’d been in conversation with another guard, saw Anders sit up, and with a quick word to her subordinate- she walked over to meet them.

“Are you well, Anders?” she asked, coming to stand beside them.

“Oh, just lovely,” Anders wheezed. “Like a day well spent at an Orlesian spa.” He glanced around at each of them. “I’ll need one of you to fill me in -I assume I missed a few things.” Aveline barked a laugh.

“I’ll leave that to Hawke. I’ve a lot more to do and he enjoys hearing himself talk.” She nodded at them and headed back toward the guard waiting patiently outside the alcove of Anders’ clinic.

Fenris had spared a moment to glance up at Aveline’s arrival and departure, but seemed unable to keep his gaze from Anders for longer than a few seconds. The mage met his heavy stare, searching the elf’s face for information.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hawke said, prompting Anders to turn away from Fenris’ gaze. The mage frowned, thinking.

“I was in the clinic. We had over a dozen patients in there as well as their families. I knew we’d be busy today, so I’d asked my aide, Holly, and her brother, Mattias, to help out.

“I’d been in the middle of treating a young girl for bronchitis. The damp had gotten into her lungs and she was having trouble breathing.” Anders ran a hand through his hair, which had fallen loose from its usual tail. “The air down here can turn a simple cough into pneumonia faster than ale disappears at a dwarf party. While I was speaking with her parents, one of the local boys sprinted into the clinic and yelled that Templars were on their way."

“I usually have lookouts, wards, people who watch for raids,” Anders explained. “None of them triggered. The Templars must have had an informant -somebody who knew their way around Darktown.”

“What happened?” Hawke prompted.

“There wasn’t enough time, not enough forewarning. The lookouts aren’t there to stop the Templars, just to give us a moment to get out, for the patients to scatter. But without the lookouts, they were on us in seconds. They stormed in, waved their swords around, blocked the exits and crowded us all to the middle of the clinic. They ordered us to kneel-” Anders broke off, grinding his teeth in frustration.

“They demanded that any mages step forward. At first, I stayed put, hoping they’d been acting on a hunch, that they didn’t actually know there was an apostate in the clinic, but the bastards grabbed one of my patients, a young boy. He was already crying, and they twisted his arm behind his back so hard he screamed.” Anders’ face was twisted in impotent rage. Fenris looked for the blue glow that indicated his demon's presence, but it was entirely absent.

Anders stilled, breathing deeply for a moment to calm himself. “It’s very likely they caused permanent damage to the tendons -shoulders are delicate things, especially in young people. Regardless, I couldn’t sit idle any longer; I wasn’t about to put anybody at risk to protect me, least of all a child. So, I stood and told them it was me they wanted.”

“And then?” Hawke asked.

“They let the boy go and grabbed me, threw me in a corner and beat the sass out of me… hard to do, I know.” He gave Hawke a wry smile before continuing. “They made to pour a vial of magebane down my throat and I didn’t dare fight back. I’m not too proud to admit that I couldn’t take a dozen Templars single handedly. Besides, even if I could, they had a few dozen hostages.” Anders sighed. “I don’t remember much after the magebane. That shit is bloody horrible -like liquid strangulation. I could hear them tearing the clinic apart, kids crying, their parents begging for mercy.”

The familiar burn of fury had swept through Fenris as the story progressed. He told himself that it was entirely for the injustices committed against the innocent bystanders, but the rage that spiked at Anders’ recitation of his own treatment argued otherwise.

“I faded in and out for a while after that -don’t remember much besides pain, and… ah… well.” Anders cleared his throat and ducked his head to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “Next thing I know I’m lying in the dirt with you two staring down at me like I died.”

“Well, if not for Fenris, you might very well have,” Hawke said seriously. Taken aback, Anders turned to peer at Fenris who met his gaze for a moment then looked away, shifting under the scrutiny.

“What? What did you do? I mean-”

“Oh, nothing much. Just saved your life,” Hawke answered drily.

‘Again,’ Fenris added internally, but he didn’t give the thought voice.

“How?”

“Well, it turns out our elven warrior here knows a bit of combat medicine,” Hawke said, beaming at Fenris. “He could tell you were going into shock, so he wrapped you in my cloak, elevated your feet and had Merrill heal you to the point you regained consciousness. Then he…ah…” Hawke trailed off, looking awkward. Anders looked between the two of them.

“What? Then he what?”  the mage demanded.

“Ah… well, he… um- Fenris?” Hawke mumbled. Fenris rolled his eyes.

“You regained consciousness temporarily, long enough to inform us that you could not heal yourself,” Fenris took up the mantle.

Anders nodded. “Right, the magebane. So, then how did you heal me?”

“I did not. You healed yourself,” Fenris dodged.

Anders managed to look both dazed and annoyed. “Yes, but if I had no mana and I couldn’t drink a potion...?” he led.

“I activated the lyrium in my skin and pressed your hand to it.”

Anders did a double take. “You what?”  he asked, stunned.

“Were you under the impression that they were for purely aesthetic purposes?” Fenris asked disdainfully.

“Well, no, but I thought they were for combat. You know -yanking people’s hearts out of their chests and whatnot.”

Fenris averted his gaze. “They can be used for other methods.” 

“Okay, so -what? You lit your markings and I just healed myself?”

Fenris hesitated. He was certain that never in a hundred years would he tell the mage exactly what had happened while he lay unconscious. Whatever reaction he'd had to the lyrium had been extreme… and apparently erotic. The memory of Anders moaning, writhing in the dirt was enough to bring a touch of color to Fenris’ face again. No, the mage certainly did not need that information.

“I slapped you,” Fenris answered instead. “You were not coherent enough to utilize the lyrium’s power.” He shrugged, aiming for indifference. Fenris pointedly did not mention the fact that it was not the slap that had finally retrieved the mage’s attention either.

“You slapped me. Whilst I was in the midst of dying.” Anders gave him a withering look.

“If you take issue with my methods, I can reverse the effects,” Fenris growled, miffed.

“Now, now, children,” Hawke tsked. “While Fenris’ bedside manner leaves something to be desired, he did save your life, Anders. I believe a little gratitude would not go amiss.”

It was Anders' turn to roll his eyes.

“Thank you, Fenris,” he said, but while it sounded off-hand, Fenris felt the mage’s appreciation as if it had been sincere and earnest thanks.

“Consider it a debt repaid,” Fenris replied gruffly, though he privately acknowledged that the ‘life-debt score’ was actually 2-1 in his favor. Normally, he’d embrace the thought of holding such arrears over the mage’s head -rather enthusiastically at that- but something felt off about the concept of manipulating him in such a fashion.

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps made Fenris leap to his feet and step protectively in front of Anders, his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Hawke stayed his blade with a gesture.

“It’s Merrill and Varric,” Hawke said, and sure enough the pair rounded the corner at a run, each clutching a few potions. They slowed to a stop, panting. Varric set the potions down and bent double, bracing himself on his knees.

“Well you could have told us Anders had finished ‘almost dying’,” Merrill glared crossly at Hawke, who rubbed his neck guiltily. 

“Ah, yeah. Sorry. Should have called off the alarm.”

Then Hawke broke into laughter as he surveyed the wheezing dwarf.  “Alright there, Varric?” Hawke teased.

Varric waved him off, still trying to catch his breath.

“Daisy has… long legs… and runs… like a rabbit.”

“He slowed me down, truth be told,” Merrill giggled.

“Yes, the dwarf has trouble keeping up with the elf. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow. Front page.” Varric righted himself and took a better look at the three of them.

“So, I take it the lyrium worked?”

“Eventually,” answered Fenris.

“Thank the Creators,” Merrill murmured, setting her own potions down beside Varric’s. The dwarf nodded in approval.

“Nice save, Broody.”

Aveline rejoined them a moment later.

“All the civilians made it home. There are injuries.” Aveline’s face was stony -it was clear she was rankled by the abuse of power. “I have a list of those in need of attention. They didn’t exactly make it easy, but I managed to convince them they were under no threat of being arrested. I suspect it’s only because they’ve seen me with Hawke that they gave me the information at all. Thank the Maker for small miracles.” She looked slightly peeved as she handed the list to Anders.

“Thank you for that, Aveline. They don’t trust the city guard. Not without reason, of course -those in positions of power here in Kirkwall have more than earned their reputation of being cruel to refugees and the vulnerable.”

“I was a refugee too,” Aveline said, coolly, “I worked hard to achieve what I have. I recognize not everyone is afforded the advantages that I was, but those who turn to unnecessary violence, be they Templar, mage, or refugee are not worth the dirt they walk on.”

“For once I agree with you,” replied Anders, mildly.

“Isn’t that sweet,” a familiar voice crooned, and the group turned to see Isabela sashaying her way over to meet them, smiling mischievously. “One big happy family, we are.”

“Ah, thank the Maker. Our merry band of misfits was missing its token whore,” Aveline said by way of greeting as Isabela approached.

“Missed you too, Big Girl” Isabela smirked. “Alright, somebody fill me in,” she said, looking at each of them expectantly, sparing an extra second for Anders who was still sprawled in the dirt.

Hawke gestured dismissively. “Anders got swooped and beaten to a pulp, we came to the rescue, Fenris saved his life and Aveline’s got a load of paperwork to do tonight. You’ll pick up the details as we go.”

Isabela, raised her eyebrows. “Now that’s a story I could do with hearing.”

“Okay, okay, so, what happened to the Templars? And how did you know the clinic was being raided?” Anders asked Hawke, returning the conversation to the topic at hand.

“Easy,” Varric answered, “I sent for him. One of my guys tipped me off and I sent a message to both Hawke and Aveline. Fenris got here first, though, and I am curious about that.”

“I was at Hawke’s estate when your runner arrived.”

“What were you doing at my place?”

“Looking for you. Sparring practice,” Fenris explained, intentionally leaving out little details like the phantom pain, anxiety bordering on panic and the strange premonition of danger he’d experienced. Hawke raised his eyebrows, looking pleasantly surprised.

“Well. That’s convenient.”

“I sent the messenger to find you and headed down myself.” Fenris shrugged a shoulder.

“What happened before we got here? They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Merrill fretted. Fenris let out a snort.

“I wish they’d tried -or tried harder. It was just getting good when you arrived. You spoiled my fun.”

There was a crack of laughter from Hawke and Varric.

“Go on,” Isabela prompted. Fenris sighed, folded his arms, and resigned himself to telling the rest of the story.  

“I got the message from your runner. You do not often send sprinters for petty matters, so I sent the boy to find Hawke in the Alienage and decided to come myself, in case Hawke was delayed. When I arrived, the Templars were removing people from the clinic. It was not… amicable. I confronted them. The big one -Veres, was it? He said a charge of blood magic had been made against the mage’s name.” Anders let out an outraged splutter at the accusation that Fenris ignored, “I was going to wait until Hawke showed. They forced my hand.”

“How so?” asked Aveline.

“One of the Templars raised a hand to a young girl,” Fenris’ tone dripped with disdain. “She had the audacity to be afraid of men five times her size who were assaulting her and her family.”

“Oh yes, what gall,” Varric agreed sarcastically.

“I stopped them.”

“That was very brave of you, Fenris,” Merrill fawned.

Fenris replied with cool indifference, “It needed to be done.”

Anders was looking at him strangely, something the mage had been doing with ever increasing frequency as of late. Fenris didn’t meet the man’s eye, but he could feel the weight of his gaze.

“I was about to teach the fools a lesson when Hawke showed. Next time, either move slower or move faster,” Fenris added lightly.

Hawke chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint. If you’re still of a mind, I can take you up on that sparring practice if you’d like?”

“Absolutely,” Fenris agreed, still eager for some kind of outlet to ease the stress from the week.

“I don’t suppose a few of you would mind helping me with that mess?” Anders asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, somewhat meek.

“Oh, yes, I can do that.” Merrill volunteered.

“For you, sweet thing? Of course,” Isabela smiled. “Want me to take a look at you while we’re at it? Make sure you’re all better? Not that I doubt Fenris’ capabilities, of course.”

“I healed myself, thank you very much!”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at Anders.

“Okay, fine. I admit I had some help.”

The twinge of protectiveness that had lit briefly at Isabela’s comment was wiped away by the look that Anders gave him. It was a genuine smile, lopsided and toothy, and warmth blossomed in Fenris’ chest at the display of honest emotion. His own response in itself was almost as confusing as all the week’s events combined.

As half of the crew left to begin working on the clinic, Fenris was lost in thought. Anders started to stand, his legs unsteady. The mage reached out to grab Varric’s proffered hand, but Fenris was already there, grabbing him by the elbow to steady him. Fenris had made no conscious effort to help the mage, and almost snatched his hand back in embarrassment when he realized what he’d done, but he waited until Anders was firmly on his feet before he let go.

Then, avoiding Anders’ eyes, he beat a hasty retreat into the clinic under the guise of helping clean. Some of the crew had already gotten started. Merrill was speaking animatedly to Isabela, filling her in on the details Fenris had left out. Aveline and Hawke were trying to salvage some of the ingredients that hadn’t been ruined. Fenris just wanted to go back to his nice, quiet, empty mansion now that the alarm bells ringing in his head had finally calmed, but he felt magnetized to the clinic in some way, like something was tethering him to the clinic.

‘The exhaustion must be getting to me,’ he thought before setting to work, picking up shattered glass, intermittently surveying the damage the Templars had done to the clinic. They really had destroyed the place; flasks were smashed on the ground, cots flipped over, some broken into so much splintered firewood. Neatly stocked ingredients had been flung from shelves and scattered across the floor. An utterly unnecessary waste.

The group worked to clear the debris. Anders was grumbling to Hawke about Templars, Merrill and Isabela were delicately collecting shattered bits of glass from the floor and tossing them into a bucket. Fenris, Aveline and Varric stacked broken wood from tables and cots in a corner by the door.

By the time they had helped Anders tidy the place up, it was looking better, but there was only so much they could salvage. Fenris overheard Hawke and Varric conferring in low voices, planning a delivery of furniture while Anders’ back was turned. Fenris considered offering some of his own gold to the fund, but just the thought of the looks he’d get from Hawke and Varric made him grimace; they’d look at him like he’d gone mad… right after they finished laughing.

Fenris approached Hawke after they had done all they could for Anders' clinic.

“Would you mind if I took you up on that sparring offer tomorrow? I did not sleep well last night, and it is catching up with me,” Fenris said quietly, and though he hadn’t meant the mage to hear, Anders shot him a dirty look.

“Yes. No doubt you were a bit distracted,” the mage scoffed. Fenris was taken aback by the sudden bitterness in Anders’ voice.

‘He believes I spent the night with Isabela,’ Fenris realized. He felt a strong urge to correct the mage -to inform him that he hadn’t, in fact, slept with the pirate. Though why he had the sudden desire to defend his honor -to Anders of all people- Fenris had no idea; he only knew that leaving Anders with the impression he slept around put a sour taste in his mouth.

But before he’d had a chance to correct the misunderstanding, the man struck up a conversation with the closest person to him. Fenris sincerely doubted that Anders actually wanted to speak to Merrill, but it was clear the mage was trying to avoid him. It proved to be an effective deterrent, nevertheless.

Abruptly, the magnetic pull Fenris had felt earlier seemed to reverse polarities, and rather than wanting to stay, he found he couldn’t leave fast enough.

Fenris bid the rest of them good day, and without further ado, he headed for the clinic doors, back to his quiet, empty mansion.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

It wasn't until nearly a week had passed since the incident on the Wounded Coast that Anders finally had some down time. The day after the raid on his clinic, Anders had closed his doors and gone about checking off the list of patients Aveline had collected for him. The boy whose arm had been twisted by the Templars during the raid had been his first visit.

“You were very brave, Micha,” Anders had said to the boy with tear-stained cheeks. Micha was sat on the side of a straw bed in his home, cradling his injured arm and trying not to cry. Anders was knelt in front of him, the boy’s parents watching anxiously over his shoulder.

“Now, Micha, remember a few months ago when I fixed you up after you fell off that lift?” Anders asked. Micha nodded, lip wobbling.

“And you remember how I had to look at your ankle to make sure it wasn’t broken before I healed it?” Another nod.

“Okay, well I have to do that again. It’s gonna hurt for a second while I check it out, but then I’ll heal it up and you’ll be good as new, okay?”

Micha had squeezed his eyes shut and nodded again.

“Count to ten and it’ll all be over, alright?" Anders soothed. "Ready, go.”

“One, t-two,” as the boy began counting, Anders quickly but gently palpated the muscles of the child’s shoulder.

“Three, four, five,” Anders let a small amount of magic scout the tendons and muscles of the joint, seeking the worst damage. It was harder than he was used to; the lack of guidance from Justice had put a serious hamper on magical diagnosis, but eventually Anders was able to locate the deep injuries.

“Five, six, sev-ow!” He apologized quickly as Micha flinched from his touch against particularly tender spot.

“Seven, eight, nine, ten.” Micha finished counting just as Anders sent a precise thread of healing magic into the swollen tissues. Anders gently felt the boy’s shoulder again, watching his face for any signs of discomfort. When the boy didn't flinch again, he smiled and -after a moment- Micha returned it.

“How’s it feel? Go slow.” The child cautiously rotated his arm and lifted it away from his body, then giggled excitedly.

“You fixed it!” Micha exclaimed. His parents let out deep breaths, looking relieved.

Anders allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at the look on the family’s faces.

A while later, as he was headed out the door to visit the next house on his list, Micha’s mother stopped him.

“Thank you so much, Anders. Please, you must let us repay your kindness.”

“That’s very kind of you, bu-“

“We insist,” The boy’s father had interrupted, pressing a few coppers into Anders’ hand.

“Thank you,” Anders had conceded. Justice wasn’t around to chastise him for accepting the coin, and Anders reasoned he could use the money to replace some of the supplies that had been ruined during the raid. He’d left the family’s home to Micha and his sister shouting excited goodbyes.

Anders then traveled to the rest of the houses, and was grateful to find that most of the patients and their families had only sustained minor injuries. He had taken care of a few bad bruises, some broken noses, and a fractured arm, but most of the patients insisted he save his magic in case he should need it for others. Night was settling over Kirkwall when he made it back to his clinic, and -more importantly- his bed.

He sat on the edge of his cot and chewed some salted meat ponderously. Now that nothing was demanding his attention, he could finally do a little investigating of the foreign presence that had taken up residence in Justice’s spot.

Anders had begun to grow suspicious of the fluttering mass in the back of his head; he was certain by now that it wasn’t Justice. He hadn’t had much chance to explore this little thing, and in the time since he’d last examined it, whatever it was had grown. It seemed to have gotten bigger somehow -not that there was a way to actually measure its size, but it seemed to be unfurling metaphorical wings, becoming more active, making itself at home in his head.

The Curiosity had never done anything to him, per se. It hadn’t intruded into his thoughts, hadn’t made any demands or asked any questions, but it did seem to have its own consciousness at this point. It was not as fully developed as Justice had been in that it didn’t speak or have thoughts of its own, but occasionally it seemed to get… upset, seemingly at random. It would give off little feelings of frustration or sorrow, amusement or even anger.

However, it usually seemed content, relaxed and at peace. It was almost soothing, this thing in his head, and that fact made him wary. Sure, it didn’t seem dangerous, but Anders was concerned nonetheless, worried that it might be manipulating his thoughts or emotions.

Yet somehow that seemed too complex for the little, purring bundle at the back of his head. The thing didn’t seem capable of subterfuge, or, indeed, of any great strength in general. Anders didn’t even think it was magical -at least he could not detect any magic coming from it- but he had no other ideas of what it could be.

If it was a spirit or a demon, it was a type Anders had never heard of, and unless there were spirits of Fluffiness roaming about in the Fade, Anders thought it probably was something else entirely.

Through no conscious decision on his part, he’d come to picture it as a baby griffin. He’d always been fond of the stories the Wardens told of flying through the sky on the backs of powerful, winged beasts in the days of old, and the Curiosity had reminded him of how he thought a fledgling griffin would act.

As to the origin of the Curiosity, he was almost positive it had come into existence during the incident with Fenris on the coast. He may not know what it was, but if he was ever going to figure it out, he needed to ask Fenris a few more questions, namely whether or not the elf also had a little ‘griffin’ thing in the back of his head.

Anders glanced at through the door of his private quarters to see the clinic immersed in sunset. It wasn’t too late in the day; he was fairly sure Fenris wouldn’t be asleep for another few hours at least. He debated with himself for a few moments. On one hand he knew Fenris valued his privacy, and he’d never visited the elf without Hawke there to act as a mediator. On the other, he wanted answers and he knew that until he got them, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. In the end he decided that he’d at least make a go of it. If Fenris turned him away, he’d at least go to bed that night knowing he’d made an attempt.

He ate the rest of his jerky, grabbed his staff by the bed, and was about to head out the door when he paused. He walked over to the mirror, quickly washed his face, and ran his hand through his hair a few times before retying it in his usual tail. Then, feeling a little more confident, he left the clinic and started toward Fenris’ mansion.

~*~

Anders felt a little nervous climbing the steps leading to Hightown. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Fenris, but the thought of talking to the elf on his own turf did set him on edge. Anders would be out of his element, both in location and in discussion; after all, he still had no idea what he was going to say to Fenris once he got there. It wasn’t until he was halfway up the Hightown steps before a thought occurred to him.

What if Fenris had… company?

He was chewing his lip, thinking about what he’d say if he knocked on Fenris’ door and Isabela answered, when he was brought up short by a pair of boots. He’d been staring at the ground in front of him as he walked and hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going. Anders looked up into the face of a city guard.

“Apologies, I should have been watching where-“

“You don’t live up here,” the guard interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down his nose at Anders with eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“No,” Anders replied, “I don’t, I’m on my way to visit a… colleague.”

“Uh huh. Colleague. Sure,” The guard said, apparently not willing to accept Anders story.

“Yes, a colleague. He lives here in Hightown,” Anders said, miffed.

“Yeah, and I’m the queen of Antiva!” scoffed the guard.

“You are!?” Anders gasped sarcastically, “Oh, your Grace, how delightful it is to make your acquaintance!” He bowed low, nearly bent double. “I must say, I thought you’d be prettier. And female.”

The guard was not amused.

“A funny one, eh? Think you’re clever? Get lost, before I decide to mess up that pretty mug of yours.”

Anders straightened to look at the guard.

“For what reason? I’ve got business here; you’ve no reason to turn me away.”

“It’s passed curfew,” The guard sniffed, “And ‘cause I said so.”

‘Typical,’ Anders thought, ‘Another supposed ‘keeper of the peace’ on a power trip.’

“Are you gonna leave on your own, or do I have an excuse to make you?” said the guard, uncrossing his arms and straightening.

Anders was about to bite out another retort when a cool voice sounded from behind him.

“Is there a problem here?”

Anders half turned to see Hawke coming up the stairs, flanked by Fenris and Merrill.

“No, messer, I was just running this rabble off,” said the guard, giving Hawke a slight bow. Hawke laughed loudly.

“Ha! Rabble! How many times have you been called ‘rabble’ this week, Anders?” Hawke chuckled, grinning at the healer.

“You know, I wish I could say this was the first,” Anders said, returning Hawke’s smile with a wry one of his own. He turned back to see the guard, now looking rather astonished.

“You must be new to this rotation,” Hawke told the guard, not unkindly. “This riffraff is one of mine; he visits from time to time. He always says he’s on business, but I think he just misses me to be honest.” Hawke winked at Anders, grin still stretched across his face.

“Yes,” Anders said dramatically, “It’s true. I pine for him.”

“Ah. I- I see,” the guard stammered, abashed, “Very sorry, messer.” Anders noted that he’d looked at Hawke when delivering his apology. Fenris was smirking from his place next to Hawke.

“Alright, come along, rabble,” Hawke said, walking past the guard and heading for the manor across the courtyard. Fenris, Merrill and Anders all followed, leaving the guard at his post.

Once they were a good distance away, Hawke looked over his shoulder at Anders.

“You came all this way to see little ‘ole me?” He asked, “I’m flattered!”

“If I were to grace you with my presence, you should be flattered,” Anders quipped, “But I didn’t come to see you.”

Hawke stopped a few paces from the manor’s door.

“You didn’t come to see me? I’m devastated,” Hawke pretended to clutch at invisible pearls around his neck, “Well, what are you doing up here then? Or should I say who?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Anders snorted a laugh. From the corner of his eye he could see Fenris watching him with interest.

“I know I just got done singing my own praises, but come on, Hawke. Look at me! I’m not exactly a catch.” He’d meant it to be a self-deprecating joke. Unfortunately, it came out sounding more like a legitimate protestation.

“Anders do you own a mirror? If I were you, I’d not be able to tear my eyes from my own reflection.”

“I shattered the last one I looked in,” Anders said, thankful that this one, at least, had the desired effect as Hawke laughed and Merrill giggled. Even Fenris seemed amused, a corner of his mouth turning up.

“You really are quite handsome, Anders,” Merrill sounded less like she was giving a complement and more like she was stating a fact.

“Any fisherman would be lucky to land a catch like you,” Hawke said.

“Alright, alright, don’t work it too hard,” Anders chuckled.

“So,” Hawke digressed, “What did bring you to Hightown, if not your favorite dashing rogue?”

“Well, ah-” Anders cleared his throat, his eyes darting to Fenris, “I was actually looking for you, Fenris.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows and Hawke looked surprised, looking from Anders to Fenris and back again.

“What do you want with Fenris?” Merrill asked, a look of confusion on her face.

“I just wanted to ask him- that is, I wanted to ask you some questions,” Anders said, redirecting his answer to Fenris, “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“What type of questions?” Fenris asked warily. Anders gave him an exasperated look.

“The type of questions that will answer other questions, with any luck. Look, you must be as eager to get to the bottom of this thing as I am,” Anders reasoned.

After a second, Fenris nodded slowly. A step in the right direction.

“Excellent. So, you’ll do it?”

“Yes. I’ll answer your questions.”

Anders was pleasantly surprised. He’d half expected Fenris to refuse him outright.

“Great! Erm… where would you like to go?”

 Fenris glanced behind him at Hawke’s mansion, then across the courtyard to his own dwelling.

“My house.”

Anders smothered a twinge of regret. Of course, Fenris would want to go to his own house. It’s not like they would exactly have privacy in Hawke’s manor.

“Alright. Sounds good to me,” Anders said.

“Sure, you don’t want to come in?” Hawke asked, ever the nosey bastard.

“Don’t worry, Hawke, I’m sure one of us will fill you in afterward.” Anders didn’t miss the look of disappointment that crossed Hawke’s face.

Anders swallowed nervously, “Shall we?”

Fenris nodded in affirmation, then again in farewell to Hawke. He set off across the Hightown cobblestones at an easy pace, Anders falling into step to his left and slightly behind him.

As they walked, Anders tried to focus on what exactly he was going to say to the elf once they made it to the mansion, but he was too distracted by the elf walking casually at his side. Anders spared a moment to be grateful for the fact that the scenario of him accidentally interrupting Isabela and Fenris in the act wouldn’t come to pass after all.

As they reached the manor’s entrance, Anders turned to scan the courtyard. Aside from the lone guard that had stopped Anders on his way into Hightown, the area was empty. He heard the lock click and the door opened behind him. He turned back to the manor and nodded gratefully at Fenris who was holding the door open for him. He stepped across the threshold and Fenris locked the door behind him. As he meandered into the parlor, he noticed several things.

The first was that there was hardly any light in the mansion. The sun that had dipped below the horizon had taken the only source of light with it, leaving the mansion in darkness. The second thing he noticed was that the place was in shambles. Sure, he’d been there before with Hawke, but never past the entryway - never in a place that had been well and truly destroyed. Anders didn’t consider himself a neat freak, but this place looked more akin to a dust-covered war zone than a house.

He did his best to not let his disgust show but Fenris must have seen some kind of discomfort on his face because he was wearing a smug look, like he was amused that his home evoked a level of repulsion in the mage.

Fenris gestured toward one of the armchairs in front of the hearth and Anders took a seat, checking to make sure he wasn’t sitting on something unpleasant before he did so. Fenris sat down as well.

“I love what you’ve done to the place,” Anders said wryly. That earned him a chuckle and Anders heart lurched at the sound. He was spared the chore of trying not to look at the elf when Fenris knelt to light the flame rune beneath the hearth. He found himself admiring the lithe shape of Fenris’ profile, thrown into sharp relief when the logs in the fireplace caught flame. He managed to keep his eyes on the fire as Fenris sat gracefully in the other armchair.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, Anders gathering the threads of his thoughts, trying to find the right words. Fenris seemed perfectly content to watch the leaping flames in the hearth while he waited.

“I trust you actually have questions to ask and aren’t planning to simply ravage me under the guise of an investigation?” Fenris broke the silence in a mild tone.

‘Was-was that a joke?!’ Anders was so surprised his laughter came out as a wheeze. He coughed and looked at the elf. He was struck dumb by the sight of a genuine, full-bodied smile on the elf’s lips. Maker, happiness looked good on him. Anders was frozen in shock, the smile on his own face a by-product of the elf’s mirth. When Anders hadn’t managed a response, Fenris looked from the fire into his eyes, the smile fading a bit.

“Ahem, ah, no there are actual questions,” Anders managed to respond. He was desperately curious as to what had the elf in such a rare mood, but he decided it was probably better not to pry, lest he undo the pleasantness Fenris had graced him with. He was very keen on keeping that smile around, but he knew that as soon as he launched into his discussion of the little Curiosity in his head, that attitude would sour rapidly.

“Convenient that you and Hawke turned up when you did,” Anders said, avoiding the looming discussion in favor of perhaps getting a hint as to what had Fenris in such high spirits.

“We seem to be making that a habit as of late,” Fenris said. He turned his gaze to meet Anders’ again, appraising the mage through easy eyes. His posture was the picture of relaxation; his elbows rested on the arms of the chair, his legs were stretched out, ankles crossed and his head lolled slightly onto one shoulder as he turned his head to look at Anders. The firelight warmed his olive skin, turned his emerald eyes into liquid gold. Anders felt like he’d been sucker punched.

Maker, had Fenris always been so stunning? He’d long admired the beauty of the elf’s eyes and the grace of his movements, but recently it seemed he couldn’t keep his eyes off him. Anders shook his head, dazed.

“Yes, you do. I’m glad you showed up when you did. I can only sass them for so long before they get stabby.”

Fenris chuckled low in his throat. It was the sound of rolling thunder, an avalanche of rocks rumbling down Sundermount, echoing not in the parlor, but in Anders’ ears, and it sent an arrow of lust harpooning through his gut.

Anders was at a loss. Sure, it had been a while since he’d shared his bed with somebody. Okay- a long while, but was the sudden desire he’d been feeling for Fenris something more than that? Perhaps it was tied to the spells on the coast. This hunger stemming -not from sudden revealed chemistry- but the unusual experience they’d shared? And he couldn't remember ever hearing Fenris laugh so much outside of Hawke and Varric's company. He couldn't help himself: he had to ask.

"Where were you lot coming from anyway?"

"I took Hawke up on his sparring offer," Fenris said casually. "Afterward, I joined him at the Hanged Man where he had arranged to meet Merrill for drinks."

"Just the three of you? Can't imagine that was a riveting conversation," Anders mused.

"Hardly," Fenris snorted, "I played Diamondback with the dwarf and Hawke and Merrill practiced cheating at cards with their bond. They tried to be discrete, but Merrill is a terrible liar and even worse at being quiet."

"That makes more sense."

They lapsed into silence again, the darkened room brightened only by firelight. 

“And these questions you wanted answered? The ones that you assure me exist?” Fenris prompted, opening the conversation to Anders’ thoughts.

“Yes, right, the questions.” Anders shook himself again, trying to refocus. There had been a slight edge to Fenris’ voice, like he knew the questions were going to be unpleasant to endure.

“Have you noticed anything… unusual about yourself since we returned from the coast?” Anders asked, trying to work around to the question he wanted answered.

Fenris straightened in his chair, sitting up off the back. He appraised Anders for a moment before replying.

“I suppose you could phrase it like that…” Fenris said carefully.

“What have you noticed?” Anders asked. Fenris seemed to withdraw, the casual elf from moments earlier had been replaced by a guarded, barely-willing participant.

“Pain with no origin. Premonitions.”

Anders’ eyes widened in surprise, but he reined it in; he didn’t want Fenris to close up without telling him the rest of the story.

“Where do you believe they’re coming from?” Anders asked.

Fenris narrowed his eyes at Anders.

“Are you asking because you already know the answer, or because you want to know what I do?” Fenris challenged quietly.

“All I have right now are theories,” Anders assured.

“Hrmph.”

Anders waited, resolute in his desire to hear the words from Fenris’ mouth, rather than him agreeing with words Anders put there. Eventually, in halting cadence, Fenris answered the question.

“Yesterday, the day your clinic was raided, I awoke to a feeling of foreboding, like something was wrong, but there was nothing amiss in my surroundings. As I was investigating the house, I suddenly felt as though I was being beaten. There were no unusual marks on my skin, at least none that hadn’t already been there that afternoon.”

Anders was fixated on Fenris’ face, intent to capture every word.

“Then a few moments later the pain disappeared. It was not the same as the Surge. I can only describe it as being beaten by invisible fists.

Anders brow furrowed, disquieted; this was highly irregular. But then a memory surfaced in his mind.

“Yes, I’ve experienced something similar: injuries with no markings. My hand, the day after we returned from the coast…”

“You are referring to the morning you cured my hangover?”

Anders nodded his assent. Fenris’ face darkened, his expression transitioning from wary to worried.

“What is it?” Anders asked, not missing the look of consternation on the elf’s face.

“You felt as if your hand was broken? Your right hand?”

“Yes, exactly like that. Like I’d fractured a few knuckles, but there was no bruising or swelling as there would be if my hand were really broken-”

“On the same morning you healed me?” Fenris asked again.

“Yes, yes, the same morning. Why?” Anders said, slightly annoyed at the redundancy.

“Because that morning my knuckles were broken. Two knuckles on my right hand,” Fenris whispered.

Anders didn’t react at first, trying to put the pieces together. When he finally understood what Fenris was saying, a feeling of dread blanketed his heart.

“You’re… You’re saying that I… that we…” Anders said haltingly. He swallowed and looked into the elf’s eyes.

“We can feel each other’s pain?”

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Anders was pacing. He couldn’t help himself. He walked back and forth in front of the fireplace as if rats nipped at his heels.

Fenris sat on the edge of his seat, eyes unfocused, his face overtly disturbed.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this happening,” Anders said with a voice full of tension. “I-I know there are spells that can temporarily link life forces, that can mirror pain, but they require concentration, a prolonged spell cast by one of the two affected parties.” He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands, breathing slightly erratic.

Fenris didn’t answer. His posture was tense, anxious. Anders didn’t blame him in the slightest.

“I-I certainly didn’t cast such a spell. I’ve no idea how to even go about doing something like that. I’m a healer, for Andraste’s sake. I don’t do… I can’t do…” Anders looked slightly manic, eyes wide and panicked, “Maker, what do we do... where do we even...” he trailed off, stopped pacing abruptly and forced himself to take a few deep breaths.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked steadier. He stood directly before Fenris, staring down at the elf still seated on one of the sofas.

“We need to test this.”

That caught the elf’s attention. His eyes refocused and he stared back at Anders, apprehensive.

“What?”

“We need to test this,” Anders said again, searching his surroundings. His gaze alighted upon a shard of glass near the hearth, and he bent to pick it up.

For a second, he studied the sharp fragment. It looked like it was from a wine bottle, purple glass with a picture of a grape cluster on the torn label.

Then he looked at Fenris. His eyes met the elf’s and for a moment neither of them moved. Then, still holding Fenris’ stare, he swung the shard of glass down across his palm in a brutal slash. The pain was biting and he almost flinched, but he didn’t let his gaze leave Fenris’.

As soon as the flesh on Anders’ palm was rent by the glass, Fenris hissed in pain and shock, cradling his own hand to his chest. Both of them froze. Fenris raised his eyes back to Anders’, then together, they looked down at Fenris’ palm… and the unbroken skin that lay there.

Blood from Anders’ wound dripped down his arm. Neither of them paid it any mind.

“This is madness,” Anders whispered.

“This is magic,” Fenris spat, voice suddenly knotted with vitriol.

“Well, yes, most likely-” Anders started, but Fenris interrupted him.

“Nothing good ever comes of dealing with mages. They corrupt everything they touch.” Fenris wasn’t looking at Anders as he said it, but his words cut deeper than any shard of glass ever could.

It was Fenris’ turn to pace. He took up the path Anders had been forging in front of the hearth, and Anders unthinkingly moved a few steps to the side, out of his way. “Venhedis,” Fenris hissed in frustration.

Anders didn’t respond. He wanted to leap to his own defense, wanted to fight back against the accusatory words flung at him like knives, but he couldn’t find the motivation. He didn’t have the willpower to fight this battle any longer. Not right now. Not against Fenris.

For years he’d struggled to get Fenris to see his side, to understand. Now that he was somehow linked to the elf, Anders found that the very notion of fighting with Fenris was exhausting. He lowered his eyes to the floor. The echo of the elf’s footsteps and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds in the otherwise silent parlor. Then Anders heard the footfalls stop, and he looked up to see Fenris facing him, regarding him with a terse expression.

“Do you mind?” Fenris said, gesturing to the bloody mess of Anders hand, still dripping, adding to the scarlet pooling on the floor.

Anders lowered detached eyes to look at the torn flesh of his palm. Without a word, green light outlined the ragged edges of the laceration, and Anders watched disinterestedly as the surface knitted itself together. When the glow dimmed from his hand, there was a pale, white scar adorning the skin, creating a new life line on his palm.

Distantly, Anders remembered a time in the Ferelden Circle when one of the younger apprentices, a girl his age named Thesa, had approached him and asked if she could read his palm.

‘I’ve been reading up on it!’ she had said excitedly, showing him the cover a book she’d been clutching to her chest. A Beginners Guide to Palmistry and Hand Topography had been etched proudly into the cover. Anders had chuckled but good-naturedly agreed, setting aside his own book -a collection of poetry- and offered the girl his hand. She’d taken it and gently traced the lines in his skin, humming in contemplation, breaking every now and again to reference something in the book she’d opened next to her.

‘You’ll struggle,’ Thesa had said, solemnly, ‘Your life will be hard, an uphill battle every step up the way, and you’ll have to fight for what you want. Very few things will come easy to you.’ Anders remembered trying not to laugh as she very seriously explained what each line meant.

‘Thank you, Thesa,’ Anders had said, smiling, ‘but I already figured as much, what with all this.’ He’d gestured to the walls of the common room and the other apprentices, referring to their mutual entrapment in the Circle. She’d looked a little embarrassed but joined his laughter anyway.

Looking down at his hand now, Anders wondered what Thesa would say about the fresh scar that lay over the creases in his palm. The lines that supposedly detailed the path his life would take were now interrupted by this new, raised welt. Probably nothing good, he imagined.

“Sorry about the mess,” Anders said, quietly, still staring at his hand. There was silence for a moment, then quiet footsteps, and he looked up to see Fenris approaching slowly.

“I was not speaking of the blood,” Fenris said, softly. Anders followed his gaze to where the elf was looking down at his own palm, smoothing his thumb over the lyrium inlaid there. Selfishly, he’d forgotten that the pain in his hand would have echoed in Fenris’. If Justice had been there, he’d have rebuked him for allowing another to suffer needlessly, and a pang of loneliness compounded his heartbreak.

“What were you thinking about?” Fenris asked. Anders met the elf’s eyes with reservation and noted the calm curiosity that they held. He blinked, puzzled.

“Just now… you quieted,” the elf explained, “You were thinking.”

“The Circle,” Anders muttered, “And a girl I used to know.”

Fenris studied him for a moment, then walked back to the fire, retaking his seat in the right armchair. Anders didn’t follow.

“What was her name?” Fenris asked.

“Why do you care?” Anders bit out harshly, irritated and defensive at the seemingly arbitrary line of questioning.

“Humor me,” Fenris shrugged.

Anders hesitated, then looked down at his hands again, thinking, remembering.

“Thesa,” he said eventually.

“She was another mage?”

Anders nodded, then reconsidered, “An apprentice, like I was at the time. We studied together.”

“Were you close?” Fenris asked. Anders lifted one shoulder noncommittally.

“Eventually. We arrived at the Circle around the same time, but I didn’t care to know anybody at first.” He frowned, tracing the new scar on his hand with a finger.

“She tried to talk to me a few times, as did the rest of the apprentices. I ignored them all.” Anders brow creased. “I hated it there. I wanted to go home.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.” Anders took a deep breath, then continued. “After a while, the other kids stopped trying to talk to me. All except for Thesa.” His throat felt tight. “She was stubborn. She made it her mission, bound and determined to get me to open up.” Anders face turned up into a wry smile at the memory, and as he talked, he wandered closer to the fire.

“Did it work?”

“After a time… she wore me down. The two of us started spending time together, we got to know each other. She sat next to me during lessons, we ate our meals together.”

Fenris quieted as the mage relived his past aloud, studying him surreptitiously through sidelong glances. “During our down time, we’d spend hours just quietly enjoying each other’s company. She’d show me drawings that she’d done -she was a brilliant artist- and in return I’d read her horrible poetry I’d written. We grew close, and before I knew it, I’d made a friend, completely against my will.”

Anders sat down in the other armchair. He stared into the fire without truly seeing it, reflecting on recollections of another time. “We didn’t talk about our pasts, but we did talk about our futures, plans we had and all the things we were going to do once we finally left the tower for good. She was going to Orlais, she told me. She wanted to see the ridiculous masks the Orlesians wear, and the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux. She was going to draw them, she said. Wanted to travel around and capture the brilliance of different cities with ink and parchment.”

Anders swallowed, his throat constricted. “She would have loved it there.”

Fenris’ brow furrowed as he watched the mage, heard his voice grow somber.

“She never went?” Fenris asked, puzzled at the abrupt sorrow on the man’s face.

“She never got the chance,” Anders murmured. “She was slated to undergo the Harrowing, the test mages must pass to prove they’ve learned to control their magic. She’d been putting it off for months, terrified that she would fail; she was scared of her own magic, did her best to avoid lessons and using magic in general. I think she hoped it would just… go away if she ignored it long enough.” Anders’ mouth folded into a grimace. “The Grand Enchanter offered her a choice: go through the Harrowing or be made Tranquil.”

The mage’s eyes had grown bright, unshed tears reflecting the fire’s glow. Fenris watched in growing understanding.

“I didn’t think it amiss when I didn’t see her the night of her Harrowing, but I went looking for her the next morning when she didn’t come to find me. One of the enchanters pointed me upstairs to the stock room with this sad look on his face. I didn’t realize until later it was pity.” He took a deep breath. “She was there, sorting ingredients. I called out to her. She turned around and I…I saw…”

Anders broke off, unable to finish the story. From his seat by the fire, Fenris could see as the tears that had been threatening to spill from the mage’s eyes made good on their promise. He looked away, giving Anders a moment with his grief. The mage sniffed and wiped roughly at his eyes.

“I’d see her around the tower every now and again. I visited her between escape attempts, but I avoided her for the most part. A few years later, after my latest escape failed, I went to see her. I asked her how she’d been. She said she’d been well; her voice was aloof and emotionless as it always was after… after. I made the mistake of asking her if she kept up with her drawings, and she told me that she didn’t see the point in them, not when there was work to be done in the stock room. I don’t think she ever drew again. That was the last time I saw her.

“After I finally escaped the Circle for good, one of the mages staged a coup. He tried to take over the tower. I learned later that Thesa was killed in the fighting.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Fenris said solemnly. Anders cleared his throat and glanced at the elf at his side, then looked back at the fire, straightening.

“She was gone long before the demons killed her,” Anders whispered, “There are things worse than death.”

He looked at Fenris, gaze suddenly intense, red-rimmed eyes blazed with impassioned fire, “I would rather die than be made Tranquil.”

Fenris didn’t respond, seemingly at a loss as to how to reply to such an assertion. They both looked back at the hearth, avoiding each other’s eyes.

They were quiet for a few moments, awkward silence filling the parlor. Anders breathing steadied as he watched the fire. Fenris mulled over the mages’ words.

“So, you read poetry?” Fenris finally said, breaking the tension. Anders laughed, a loud, hearty sound, though it was tinged by bitterness.

“Maker, so much poetry. Not so much anymore, mind you, but there was a time when I read little else.”

“I would not have expected that from you,” Fenris said, the corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile.

“I was a tortured soul locked away in a tower. I thought the best way to express my rampant, teenage angst was through iambic pentameter.” Fenris gave him a questioning look.

“It’s a type of measurement used to describe the rhythm of some poetry,” Anders elaborated.

“Did you have a favorite author?” Fenris asked. Anders looked at him, searching his expression for any sign of mockery, but the elf seemed genuine.

“I had a few,” Anders said.

“Perhaps you’ll read some at the next card night,” Fenris mused, and there was definitely a teasing glint in his eye this time.

“I would need more than a few drinks for that to ever be a possibility. And a large sum of gold -I try not to make it a habit of embarrassing myself for free.”

“You do not succeed,” Fenris chuckled.

Anders laughed at the jibe and looked at the elf from the corner of his eye. Fenris was smiling gently, absentmindedly, it seemed. Anders own lips turned up as he surveyed the elf’s profile. His heart felt light and curiously unburdened, and he was filled with a renewed determination to get to the bottom of whatever had happened to the two of them, not just for his sake, but for Fenris’ as well.

He stood from the armchair and turned to face Fenris who met his gaze calmly.

“Well, one good thing has come from tonight. We have a lead,” Anders said. “I don’t know anything about this ‘link magic’, but I know where to start looking, and that’s more than we had.”

“Two,” Fenris said.

“Pardon?”

“Two good things,” Fenris said, looking up at the mage.

“What’s the other?”

“Varric bet me that I could not have a civil conversation with you lasting longer than 30 seconds.” Fenris smirked.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” Anders said, studying the elf’s face with narrowed eyes.

“He did offer once. I regret not taking him up on it now.” Anders rolled his eyes but returned the grin all the same.

“Yee of little faith,” the mage said, pulling his coat over his shoulders. “I’ll see myself out. I’d wager I can get a few hours of rest before the night’s out.”

Fenris tipped his head in acknowledgement, but as he was heading for the door, the elf spoke.

“Thank you for telling me of Thesa.”

Anders turned to look back at the elf, meeting his gaze.

“Some stories are best shared with others,” Anders said quietly, but he was pleased that Fenris had listened intently enough to remember her name.

“Have a good night, Anders,” Fenris said, then turned back to the fire. Anders watched the shadows play across the elf’s face for a moment, then opened the door and walked out into the warm, evening air.

~Fenris~

The door closed behind the mage, and the silence of the mansion descended around Fenris once more. The night hadn’t gone the way he’d expected, but he found he was satisfied, nonetheless. The revelation that he and Anders could feel each other’s physical pain had been a shock, but what had come after had been almost more so.

He replayed the story the mage had told him in his head, and he saw in his mind’s eye a young Anders, reclusive and withdrawn, slowly coaxed into friendship by the proffered hand of a stranger. He pictured the mage scribbling poetry by candlelight, stealing moments of happiness with a friend he never intended to have, and saw as it was all snatched away from him in a single, cruel moment.

As the mage had told his tale, Fenris had felt sympathy, but from the back of his mind there had come the distinct sting of grief; a sorrow that was not his own.

He hadn’t relayed the information, but he was beginning to suspect that the link he shared with the mage was not limited to physical pain. When he took these new insights into account, the events of the last week started to form a clearer picture. The morning Anders’ clinic had been raided, the physical pain he’d felt must have been an echo of what Anders was experiencing, and barring a sudden inclination toward supernatural precognition, so had the anxiety and panic he’d experienced.

Fenris didn’t know what to do with this information, but he resolved to keep a closer eye on his own emotions in the future.

As he was readying for bed, Fenris recalled the mage’s story, the man’s vehement hatred of Tranquility and his declaration that death would be always preferable to such a state. Fenris didn’t agree; he was of the opinion that death was the only thing one could not return from. If one could still draw breath, there was still a chance to fight, to triumph; to die would be to admit defeat. Death was the worst possible outcome, as it was the only that ended in finality.

Fenris propped his greatsword against the wall and crawled between the cold sheets. He closed his eyes, let sleep call him, and as he lay in bed, his untethered thoughts drifted to the rest of the mage’s story. His drowsy mind alighted on Anders’ offhand comment about poetry. Fenris had never shared the mage’s fondness for it; the only experience he’d had with it was during Danarius’ parties, performed in overdramatized fashion for a room of pompous magisters.

Fenris was, however, interested to learn that the thought of Anders reading poetry did not draw his ire, and that, perhaps, he might enjoy hearing the mage read some.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

Hawke, Isabela, Varric and Fenris were clustered around the Hightown gate, waiting somewhat impatiently for their last party member to arrive. The sun was high in the sky, scorching the streets of Kirkwall and any unfortunate citizens who walked them. Isabela was the only one who didn’t seem to mind the heat, her face turned up to the sun to bask in the warmth, while the rest of the crew tucked themselves tight to the wall, hiding from the sun’s wrath in the shadows.

A few days had passed since Anders had visited Fenris’ mansion, and now Hawke had taken them all up on their begrudging agreement to accompany him up Sundermount. Merrill had initially agreed to come, but -according to Hawke- had changed her mind that morning.

“She didn’t feel up to seeing the clan; last time was a little rough on her,” Hawke had said, referring to the glares Merrill had endured the last time they'd had reason to pass through the Dalish encampment.

“You’d think they’d at least try to seem happy to see her,” Hawke continued, looking miffed.

“Their loss, our gain,” Isabela shrugged. “Merrill is better off with people who appreciate her anyway.”

“I suppose,” Hawke grumbled. He folded his arms and surveyed the sun in the sky. “Anders is late.”

“Bets?” Varric asked.

“He’s booby-trapping the clinic in case Templars show up,” Hawke submitted his guess.

Isabela snickered. “Booby-trap.”

“It is more probable that he’s espousing the evils of Templars to the local children,” Fenris smirked.

“No, no, he lost track of time writing his diary," Varric teased, waving a hand. "Oh, excuse me. Manifesto."

“Or overslept because he stayed up too late writing said diar- Manifesto,” Isabela added, then changed her mind. “Actually, scratch that, he’s an insomniac. I bet he’s polishing his staff.” She threw in a suggestive wink for good measure.

Varric, fishing a gold out of his coin pouch, said, “I’ll take those odds.” He slid it between Bianca’s suspension cables, putting the money on display. Isabela pulled a coin of her own from one of her many hidden pockets, and the sunlight refracted off the metal's surface as she twirled the money between clever fingers.

“I’m game,” the pirate said.

Fenris was about to decline; he’d made his guess as a joke, after all, when an idea occurred to him. Concentrating, he searched his mind for a trace of the strange connection he now shared with the mage. Filtering out his own state of mild amusement and discomfort from the heat of the sun, he tried to isolate emotions that didn’t mesh with his.

Initially, he couldn’t detect any sentiments that were not his own; he did not perceive any emotions he’d experienced through the connection before, specifically panic and anxiety, for which he was grateful. He narrowed his mental search, clumsily examining each thought as it crossed his mind.

Eventually, underneath the noise of his own consciousness, he caught a wisp of foreign emotion and he targeted it, pulling it to the surface. As he focused on the rogue emotion it grew a little clearer and he was met with a thin thread of innocent affection.

Fenris felt the smug satisfaction of successfully navigating unknown territory, then placed it aside and tried to think about the kind of situation somebody -namely Anders- would experience a chaste fondness for. He looked up to meet Varric’s expectant gaze.

“I wager the mage is leaving milk out for the strays,” Fenris said, masking his new-found confidence with a tilt of his head.

Varric laughed. “I think your original guess is more likely to win you the gold, Broody.”

Fenris took a gold piece from the coin purse at his belt and held it between taloned fingers.

“Do you want the wager or not, dwarf?” he goaded.

Shrugging, Varric replied, “Sure, I’ll take your gold. Hawke?” Fenris slipped his bet under a strap on his left gauntlet.

“You’re all wrong,” asserted Hawke, flipping his own coin into the air with one thumb and catching it deftly. “I bet he forgot about the mission entirely.”

“That’s your bet?” Varric asked, dubiously. Hawke raised a shoulder and flipped the coin again, bouncing it off each arm before snatching it out of the air.

“It’s as likely a guess as any of yours.”

“Right, yeah. And that spirit of Justice in his head would absolutely let him forget something like doing his friend a favor,” Varric smirked. Hawke froze in the middle of his aerial acrobatics display, and the coin hit the dirt with a muted plop.

“Oh. Shit,” Hawke said eloquently, remembering too late that Justice would never let Anders forget an obligation. He opened his mouth, but Varric interrupted.

“Ah ah, bet’s set. You’re locked in, my friend.” Varric’s face split into a grin at the scrunched up look on Hawke’s.

A stern voice broke in, reaching them from a steadily decreasing distance. “I must have misheard you, Varric, because I know you’re not gambling. Not in my streets,” Avenline walked over to meet the group.

“Of course not, Guard Captain,” Varric said, cheekily, without missing a beat. He turned to face her. “That would be illegal.”

Isabela let out a deliberately fake cough directed at Aveline. “Hypocrite,” she grunted, followed by another fake cough.

“Oh, don’t get me started on prostitution,” Aveline shot back at her.

“Yeah, Hawke, it’s illegal to whore yourself out,” Isabela said putting her hands on her hips and staring at Hawke accusingly.

“Why I never,” Hawke gasped in mock outrage, putting a hand over his heart. Fenris didn’t bother suppressing a chuckle.

“If I’d known you were that desperate for coin, Hawke, I wouldn’t have taken you up on that bet in good faith.” Fenris caught Aveline’s eye. “The bet that absolutely does not exist, that is.”

Aveline rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I'm glad I caught you, though.”

“Caught us? We already told you, Aveline, we’re definitely not gambling.”

“Hawke, if I didn’t know how much you do for this city, I’d have you up on a dozen charges before sundown.”

“Maker, it’s a good thing Anders isn’t here yet or he’d be raving about corruption and lack of integrity in the ranks,” Hawke gestured dramatically.

“Yes, and if you’d relent in your endless theatrics for half a second, what I have to tell you concerns him.”

Hawke sobered and looked at Aveline, lips turning down in concern. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“Not with any luck, no. I trust you remember Ser Veres?” Aveline asked, rather unnecessarily.

“Yeah, the bastard with a chip on his shoulder the size of Sundermount. I recall.”

“Well, I levied paperwork against him and had a word with his commander after the razing of Anders' clinic.” Aveline scowled, “She wasn’t concerned with the unauthorized raid, but the treatment of the civilians in the clinic struck a chord with her. Apparently, this is not the first time he’s done something like this.”

“We are all completely shocked,” Hawke deadpanned.

“Well, as it happens, this latest transgression was enough to earn him a relief of duty. He did not take it gracefully.”

Fenris was surprised, and at the look of shock on Hawke’s face, he wasn’t the only one.

“They actually fired him? Really?”

“Well, they can only overlook so many incidents before he becomes a bigger liability than an asset." Aveline was scowling now. "I was there when they let him go, and after the outburst I witnessed, I must say I’m surprised it took as long as it did.”

“Why? What did he do?” Hawke asked.

“The man threw a fit like an overgrown child, that’s what he did,” Aveline said. “Started ranting, raving at his commander and myself -threatening us with death by dismemberment, unending retribution. You know, the usual.”

“Hope you taught the boy a lesson for that one, Big Girl,” Isabela said in an uncommon display of protectiveness over the redhead. Aveline tipped her head to one side.

“That’s not what concerns me; that’s to be expected in this line of work,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “What does concern me is that he mentioned Anders by name.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes at the mention of the mage. He didn’t like the look of trepidation on Aveline’s face, and, in his head, a metaphorical guard dog raised its hackles vigilantly.

“I assume he wasn’t voicing his intent to send our healer a bouquet of roses,” gritted Hawke.

“Not quite... Unless that’s slang for evisceration.”

Hawke was aghast. "Maker’s breath, he really said that?” 

“Not in those exact terms, but it was obvious he holds Anders accountable for the loss of his job.”

“Maker forbid a man take responsibility for his actions,” Isabela drawled.

Hawke let out an exasperated growl. “Anders wasn’t even conscious for the majority of the raid!”

“The appropriate placement of blame didn’t seem to be his strong suit,” Aveline said wryly. “Just... keep an eye out. That’s all we can do in the meantime.”

“Shame you can’t arrest him on threats of violence alone,” Varric mused.

Hawke ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Alright. Will do.” He met her eye and added sincerely, “Thank you, Aveline.”

“Somebody has to do their job around here,” the Captain of the Watch said. “And, speaking of which, I need to finish my patrol. When you see Anders, tell him to be on his guard.”

Aveline waved a quick farewell and Isabela gave her a casual, two-fingered salute goodbye.

“Well, shit,” Varric muttered after Aveline had turned the corner.

“And now I hope one of our bets was right and Anders isn’t late because he met that Veres prick in a dark alley.” His voice was tense with anxiety. Frowning, Hawke looked up at the sun again, shielding his eyes with one hand.

“Think we should go look for him?” Varric asked.

“No need, here he comes now,” Fenris said, leaning lightly against the gate’s housing.

Fenris heard Anders approach before he saw the man round the corner. The guard dog in his mind relaxed as soon as he laid eyes on the mage, and he watched with mild interest as the man hurried toward them, looking ruffled and out of breath.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m late, I know.”

“Where were you?” Hawke asked the mage somewhat sternly as the man in question leaned on his staff to regain his breath.

“Would you believe a dying patient held me up?” Anders panted.

“Not when you already apologized for being late.” Hawke folded his arms and drummed the fingers of one hand against the opposite bicep.

“Ah, how about Templars?”

“Nope. You’re not angry enough. Or glowing.”

“I overslept?”

“Not a chance, Blondie. You barely sleep as it is,” Varric added.

Anders let out a breath and had his face not already been red from the heat, he would have flushed.

“Alright, alright,” Anders looked sheepish. “I was... I was feeding the local cats, okay?”

Varric let out a roar of laughter and slapped his knee, doubled over in hysterics. Anders looked at him, bemused.

“What?" Anders whined plaintively. "I’ve been wanting a cat since I had to give up Ser Pounce,” he muttered, looking a bit embarrassed at Varric’s overdone laughter.

“No. I don’t believe it. You two worked this out in advance.” Hawke was frowning between Anders and Fenris.

Anders floundered, baffled. “Worked what out? What did I miss?” 

Isabela, still twirling the gold coin around her fingers, flicked the aforementioned coin toward Fenris who caught it, a smug grin pulling at his lips.

“Fair’s fair,” she smirked. “Pay up, you two.”

“Did you bet on why I was late?” Anders said, putting two and two together at last. 

“We did, and I’d still think that you two collaborated to rob us of our hard-earned gold if it hadn't been Varric’s idea in the first place,” Hawke grumbled. “I’m still not entirely convinced you didn’t, but I can't prove it, and a bet’s a bet besides.” Hawke stooped to pick up the coin he’d dropped when Aveline arrived and tossed it lazily at Fenris.

“You must know Blondie better than you let on, Elf,” Varric said, finally recovering from his laughing fit and wiping tears from his eyes.

“How did you know I was feeding the cats?” Anders asked curiously, peering at Fenris. The elf shrugged.

“I pay attention,” Fenris said casually, holding his hand out toward the dwarf. Varric pulled his gold piece from between Bianca’s suspension lines and slapped it into Fenris’ palm.

“Alright, you lot, let’s hop to. We’ve already lost half the day because somebody has a cat obsession.”

“Argh, Hawke, you are killing me,” Isabela groused. “Perfect setup for a pussy joke and you let it slip through your fingers.”

~*~

The five of them headed through the gates and turned their sights on the towering mountain ahead of them. As they walked, Hawke filled Anders in on Aveline’s warning.

“I’m surprised they actually kicked him out,” Anders said, looking skeptical. “Templars usually cover up their indiscretions better than that, what with all the collusion.”

“I said the same in not so many big words,” Hawke told him.

“So, he’s after me, huh? Well, he’ll have to get in line. There are a few people who’d like a crack at me first; it’s only fair he waits his turn.”

“Man on the run. Fugitive rebel. That’s a good look on you, sweet thing. You should work that angle more,” Isabela said slyly.

“I already said there’s a queue of people who want me dead, Bela. I can’t handle a string of disappointed lovers on top of that.”

Isabela laughed loudly. “That sense of humor isn’t going to help you scare off your suitors, self-deprecating or otherwise.”

“Ok, so tell me: who does one ask for advice in running off potential lovers?” Anders chuckled.

“I’d say the elf over there does a respectable job of scaring people, but the brooding thing turns the odds in his favor,” said Varric from his spot next to Hawke. Fenris snorted dismissively.

“Oh please, we all know somebody who is entirely useless when it comes to the affairs of the heart,” Hawke led.

“Aveline,” they all replied simultaneously.

“Big Girl could give you a few tips,” said Isabela impishly. “After she finished burying your body in a shallow grave, that is.”

“Come now, that’s not fair,” Hawke chided, then he broke into a wide smile. “She’s strong enough to do better than a shallow grave.” He doubled down on the teasing.

“You have to think bigger than that,” Varric rejoined. “She’s smart. Buried means there’s a body to find; she’d carve him up and burn the pieces.”

“Fire?"  Fenris scoffed. "You may as well scream ‘I’ve committed murder!’ from the rooftops. It’s far more likely she’d tie his corpse to a few large rocks and toss it into the sea,” he argued.

“This conversation has taken a turn for the decidedly macabre,” Hawke announced with a grimaced.

Fenris inclined his head. “Perhaps, but it is entertaining.”

“I think if you want to hide a body, you do it in plain sight,” Isabela mused. “I mean think about it! A body turns up in the Rose every few weeks. Nobody bats an eye at kinky sex gone wrong.”

“That would mean you have to intentionally go into the Rose," Hawke countered, continuing with the discussion despite his declaration of it being overtly morbid. "This is Aveline we’re talking about; she wouldn’t be caught dead!”

“Oh, I’m passed that now. I was just saying, in general, getting rid of a body isn’t as difficult as you’d think.”

“You concern me sometimes, Rivaini.” Varric gave her a sideways look. She returned it with a wink.

“All part of my charm, Varric.”

The conversation carried them all the way to the foot of the mountain, but the joviality petered out rather briskly as a grave-looking Keeper Marethari met them at the edge of the camp. She was flanked by an armed guard of two elves, both holding swords at the ready and glaring at Hawke's approach.

“I’m guessing we came at a bad time?” Hawke asked as the two groups met.

Looking over the Keeper's shoulder, Fenris could see restless elves pacing back and forth at the camp’s border, most clutching bows already nocked with arrows.

“You guess correctly, human,” the Keeper said, tense both in body language and tone.

“Anything we can help with?” Hawke offered. The Keeper opened her mouth as if to reject on force of habit, but then her brow creased, and she closed it again, considering.

Observing the pacing elves as Fenris had, Anders noted, “Your people look anxious.”

With some hesitance, Marethari explained the situation. “Last night a large group of humans captured one of our hunting parties. We believe they intend to sell them into slavery.”

Fenris stiffened, his jaw snapping shut; he looked at Hawke expectantly.

Hawke didn’t disappoint. “Sounds like our type of problem.”

Until this point, she'd been guarded, unwilling to give out information that had the potential to bring further harm to the clan. Now, however, having made the decision to trust Hawke and his group, it seemed the Keeper could speak freely. “I’d send our own hunters to retake them, but I can’t afford to leave the camp unguarded,” Marethari's said, almost in a rush. 

“Keep your people safe. We’re very good at killing slavers.” He glanced at Fenris. “Lots of practice.”

“Creators bless you, child,” the elder said gratefully.

“Alright. You heard the Keeper: change of plans,” Hawke said, facing the group.

“You never told us the plan to begin with, Hawke,” Varric drawled.

“Oh, did I not? We were out here to pick elfroot and flowers for Merrill’s birthday.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Of course, I am. The original plan was to clear out some giant spiders from one of the caves.”

Isabela shuddered. “Ok, well, now I see why you didn’t tell us.” 

“Great, so we’re all on board with the ‘killing slavers’ thing?”

“Yes,” Fenris said immediately.

“Yeah, I’m in,” Anders added.

“Yes,” Fenris repeated.

“I’ll take slavers over spiders any day,” Isabela said.

“Yes,” Fenris hissed impatiently, yet again.

"Yeah, we get it, Broody. Your eternal bloodlust for slaver hearts will be sated soon,” Varric said, half exasperated, half amused. “Let’s go, Hawke.”

“Excellent.” Hawke clapped his hands, then turned back toward the camp and led the way to the line of elves. At a wave from their Keeper, the patrolling elves nodded rigidly, moving aside to let Hawke’s group pass. After sharing a few words with the elf in charge of hunting parties, Fenarel, they had a vague approximation of where to begin their search.

“Have you told Merrill what's going on yet?” Isabela asked quietly as they picked their way through the camp, heading toward the slope on the opposite side.

“No, and I’d like to keep it that way until we rescue her clanmates, so let’s do that quickly, shall we? I’m not as good at blocking the bond as she is; I think it’s a mage thing.”

From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Anders’ stumble as he missed a step, and when he looked over at the mage questioningly, Anders met his gaze with a pensive expression. Fenris raised an eyebrow to ask for clarification, but Anders just shook his head; a gesture synonymous with the colloquial ‘never mind.’

Returning his eyes to the path before him, Fenris again allowed himself to immerse in his favorite pastime: imagining slavers screaming in fear and choking on their own blood. He stayed alert, though, eyes scanning the brush on either side of the path up Sundermount, as if every bush held a blood mage, ready to be run through to the hilt.

“Fenarel said the hunting party was tracking game about halfway up the mountain,” Hawke relayed. “We’ll start there. Everybody keep their eyes peeled.” He readied his weapons and the rest of the party followed suit.

Fenris pulled Lethendralis from its sheath and held it aloft, admiring the sharpened edge of the blade as it reflected the sun.

Isabela spun a dagger in each hand. “Leave at least one alive for questioning,” she reminded the group as a whole, though she was looking at Fenris pointedly. Fenris scoffed but didn’t protest.

“Yes. Killing them is on the agenda, but finding the hunters is the main objective,” Hawke agreed.

Anders held his staff at his side, looking ponderous and detached. Fenris was slightly curious as to what had the mage so preoccupied, but he didn’t voice this aloud.

The crew kept moving, eyes sharp for signs of movement and ears pricked for the sounds of their adversary. Hawke led the party with Fenris at his side, Varric and Anders behind them and Isabela bringing up the rear guard. They traipsed up the cobbled path, silent but for quiet footfalls and even quieter breathing, aiming to make as little noise possible to avoid giving the enemy forewarning.

After a while, they reached a fork in the road, the main trail bending left and a small footpath heading straight and into some brush. Hawke gestured at Isabela and himself, then toward the footpath, and the two rogues moved wordlessly to the mouth of the trail. They disappeared into the thick growth, then reappeared a few moments later on a rise above the rest of the party. Hawke held up a fist -a sign to wait while he and Isabela scouted- then headed farther up the trail, disappearing back into the brush where it resumed atop the rise.

The rest of the group, Fenris, Anders and Varric, automatically fell into a triad formation, standing back to back, monitoring their surroundings while the rogues explored the off-shooting path.

A few minutes had passed when Fenris tapped his hand twice against the pommel of his sword, signalling that something had caught his attention. Varric and Anders turned to look at him, then followed his gaze where it was focused a few hundred yards up the mountain.

A column of smoke was climbing into the sky, and its small diameter indicated that a campfire was the most likely source. As the three of them watched, gaps appeared in the column of smoke.

“Signal fire,” Varric murmured, keeping his voice low. Fenris grunted in quiet agreement. It was too distant for the fire to belong to their party; Isabela and Hawke wouldn’t have had time to make it that far up the mountain, much less start a fire.

“Not ours,” Anders echoed his thoughts, reaching the same conclusion Fenris had.

With a gesture, Fenris motioned for them to step off the path into the mouth of the trail Hawke and Isabela had entered. He peered up the path the two rogues had followed, but saw no sign of them. Fenris caught Varric’s eye.

“See if you can find them,” Fenris suggested quietly, looking up the trail. Varric nodded, then slung Bianca over his shoulder and started to hustle up the path after Hawke and Isabela. He reappeared briefly on the same rise Hawke had earlier, then vanished back into the undergrowth.

The two remaining party members continued to wait, occasionally glancing up the footpath for the rest of the group. Eventually, Fenris stood on tiptoe to look over the brush at the signal fire. The smoke was dissipating, and Fenris assumed that the slavers didn’t intend to broadcast their position for an extended amount of time. As he turned to look back down the mountain, however, movement caught his gaze.

Approximately a hundred yards down the path, a group of at least a dozen slavers was climbing the mountain at speed. They were well-armed and speaking in raucous voices to each other, apparently trusting their numbers and weapons to scare off potential threats.

Fenris muttered a curse, dropping back into a crouch. He spun quickly, grabbing Anders by the arm and hauling him deeper into the brush farther down the footpath.

“What-” the mage started, but Fenris silenced him with a hissed word of warning. He looked over his shoulder and saw the bandits closing in on their position much faster than he would have liked.

“Damn it,” Anders muttered behind him, spotting the approaching group. They both shuffled backward a few more paces but were forced to stop as the footpath rose steeply, the brush leaving a large gap on the rise. They would most assuredly be spotted if they climbed. While staying put would grant them more cover, they had nowhere to run if they were discovered, and confined as they were by the heavy growth on either side of the trail, there was no room for Fenris to swing his blade. They were trapped.

“We can’t take them all,” Anders hissed. Fenris moved a step closer to him, attempting to conceal himself within the branches as much as possible.

“Nor can we climb the path,” Fenris grit back. He listened intently, but he could hear no sign of the rest of their party over the voices of the slaver group rapidly growing nearer. Fenris cursed silently, regretting that he’d sent Varric to find Hawke and Isabela.

Their full party would have been at a disadvantage against a dozen slavers. Fenris, Varric, and Anders by themselves would have been even further from ideal odds. But just he and the mage alone?

Their situation was dire.

“What now?” Anders mouthed at Fenris as he met the mage's anxious gaze. Fenris gave himself ten seconds to deliberate, his mind racing through possible options, sifting through his tactical experience for anything that might be of use.

What he came up with was very far from perfect.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

As quickly as he could, Fenris relayed the plan to Anders in a whisper, passing the mage his greatsword and pulling a short length of twine from a pouch at his hip. To his credit, Anders did not meet his strategy with the skepticism it deserved. Instead, the mage nodded seriously, set Fenris’ blade in the grass at his side next to his own staff, and took the length of twine from him, listening intently. They fell silent, making not a sound as the group of slavers came within hearing distance of their position.

“I thought you told Massrick no fire,” one of the slavers complained in an accented voice.

“When have you known Massrick to do what he’s told?” another shot back at him.

Fenris knotted a white cloth around his mouth, gagging himself, then pulled his wrists together behind him. Following Fenris’ earlier orders, Anders looped the twine tightly around the elf’s wrists, binding them securely behind his back with deft hands.

“Is he trying to alert the rest of the damn knife ears?” This from a third voice.

“Probably,” the first slaver replied, “At least if they leave their camp it’ll make it easy to nab the rest of them. More gold for us!” There followed a chorus of laughter.

“Maker’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you lot to keep your fucking mouths shut!” A new voice barked angrily, this one deeper and laced with authority. “You bitch about Massrick giving our position away, then proceed to do it yourself with your inane blathering.”

“Sorry, Vasius,” muttered the first voice. The group was close. If Fenris had to guess, he’d estimate they were about 50 feet away.

Fenris and Anders shared a glance. Neither said a word, but from the determined look on Anders’ face, he was as ready as he’d ever be. Fenris nodded and made to stand, but Anders pulled him back down. He shot the mage a look.

‘What are you doing?’ his stare said.

‘Trust me,’ Anders’ eyes replied.

The mage hesitated for half a heartbeat, then pricked his finger on the tip of Lethendralis’ point and squeezed his finger, forcing blood to well in the cut. Without a word, he traced the finger down Fenris’ upper lip, then again across his cheek, creating a crimson smear indicative of a bloody nose and scratched face. Fenris would have frowned, had he not been gagged, but he was forced to admit the mage’s idea was a good one.

He made to stand again but Anders’ hand still held him in place. Fenris was about to glare at the mage accusingly when Anders’ fingers tangled themselves in his hair.

Caught off guard by the feel of the mage’s hands fisting themselves in his hair, Fenris almost jerked out of his grip, but the man’s fingers brushed over the sensitive points of his ears and Fenris nearly let out a surprised groan at the accidental touch. Had he not been keenly aware of how dire their situation was he wouldn’t have managed to catch it, but even so he knew his face was flushing with heat.

The mage quickly ruffled Fenris’ hair, giving the elf a distinctly disheveled appearance, and Fenris gnawed on the gag between his teeth to distract himself from the echoes of the man’s touch against his ears. When Anders seemed content with the state of disarray he’d created, he pulled his hands back and Fenris glowered at him. Anders pursed his lips, trying not to smile.

Rolling his eyes, Fenris tossed his head toward the main path and finally the two of them stood. Anders slung his staff across his back and hefted Lethendralis with his left hand, barely managing to hold the weapon off the ground. The greatsword was unwieldy in the mage’s unfamiliar grip, but hopefully he wouldn’t be holding it for long. Fenris could hear Anders take a steadying breath behind him, then the mage placed one hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward, out of their protective cover of branches.

“Let’s move, dog,” Anders said loudly, deliberately alerting the slavers to their presence. As Fenris stumbled out onto the cobbled path, he was greeted by the sight of the slavers, halted not 20 feet from their position, weapons drawn. 

“Well well, what have we here?” The man at the head of the group said, slapping his sword against a gloved palm. He looked the pair of them up and down. He was of medium build, dark haired and olive skinned, and his eyes looked hungrily at the pair standing before him.

“I caught this one scampering back to camp,” Anders said to the leader, shoving Fenris closer to the group. “He was trying to go for reinforcements, I imagine.”

“And just who exactly are you?” the leader asked with narrowed eyes.

“Good one, boss,” Anders laughed. The leader was not convinced. He leveled his sword at Anders.

“Come on, Vasius, I’m part of Massrick’s crew,” Anders bluffed, pulling Fenris to a stop before the slaver. His tone was light, and you’d have to be listening for it to hear the undercurrent of tension in the mage’s voice. “Surely you haven’t forgotten me that easily.”

Vasius still looked unconvinced, but his eyes moved from Anders to Fenris, giving the elf an approving look.

“Right, and you caught this one trying to flee, did you?” Vasius said, “He’s a pretty one. Should fetch a nice price.”

“That’s right. I assume you saw the signal fire?” Anders continued, “A group of their hunters thought they’d try to take the camp unawares and free their fellows.” Anders chuckled darkly. “It didn’t work out for them.”

“You caught them?”

“Yep. There’s a few hundred dragons worth moping around in chains back at the camp, hence the signal.”

Vasius approached the pair of them, then gripped a chunk of Fenris’ hair, yanking the elf’s head back to examine the lyrium on his throat. Fenris forced himself to stay still, biting back the desire to snarl at the slaver’s audacity. 

“These don’t look like them other knife ear’s markings.” Anders shrugged.

“Maybe he’s special. Didn’t put up much of a fight, though.”

Vasius grunted, then released Fenris’ hair and strode behind him to pull at the bindings around his wrist. “Nice work on these knots,” The slaver said.

“It’s a specialty. I like to think I’m a pretty ‘knotty’ guy,” Anders chuckled at his own lame joke.

Vasius let out a groan at the pun and turned his back to Fenris to give Anders a withering look: a mistake, it would turn out. The next noise that left the Tevinter’s mouth was a blood-laced gurgle.

Fenris -who moments before had lit the lyrium lining his skin and phased through the bonds that held his wrists- now instead held the slaver’s heart in his fist. Vasius dropped to his knees and was dead before his torso hit the dirt.

“Fenris!” Anders called, tossing Lethendralis to the elf. Fenris caught the greatsword by the grip and swung the blade around in a wide arc, catching the slaver directly behind him at the neck and relieving the man of his head.

The mountain path was suddenly much livelier than it had been seconds ago, Anders throwing bolts of lightning at the slavers, careful to avoid Fenris as the elf carved his way through the ranks of men caught unawares. The pair of them felled three more foes before the rest had time to react. The remaining slavers did not go down as quickly, one managing to catch Fenris’ next swing with a shield. While Lethandralis split the shield and broke the arm of the slaver that held it, the block had successfully  arrested Fenris’ momentum, giving the next slaver in line an opening to bring his blade down across Fenris’ bicep.

The blade was like a line of fire down his arm, and Fenris snarled in pain. The man was readying for another swing, but a dagger of blue plasma hit him square in the jaw, leaving the man’s face a smoking ruin. Fenris didn’t spare any time to thank Anders, instead opting to finish off the shielded slaver with a brutal blow to the head. He turned to the next attacker, arcing the greatsword up and taking a few limbs in the process. He’d taken out two more, when a familiar feeling of alarm bolted down his spine.

‘Fenris!’ He heard Anders’ voice in his mind a second before the mage cried out behind him, and that single added second of forewarning saved his life. He blindly thrust Lethendralis behind him, catching the slaver sneaking up on him in the gut, the dagger that had been about to slit Fenris’ throat dropping uselessly from limp fingers to the ground at his feet.

He glanced briefly at Anders’ openly shocked face, before pulling his sword free and spinning back around to face the remaining slavers. The last two ‘Vints rushed him and, almost lazily, Fenris struck at their throats, opening both with a gush of blood. Their momentum carried the dying men forward, and Fenris turned sideways, slipping between their outstretched blades. The last two adversaries crashed into the dirt on either side of him, twin clatters finishing the battle as they hit the ground simultaneously.

Fenris reached one hand up to untie his mouth gag, the blood coating his gauntlet leaving a red streak at the back of his neck. Then, with two quick movements, he plunged his sword down into the dying men’s chests, one after the other, their burbled moans cutting off as each heart was pierced by the elf’s blade.

And then the clearing was silent.

“Maker’s breath.” Anders leaned heavily on his staff, looking at Fenris, impressed. Fenris looked around them, ensuring all the slavers were dead, then turned back toward the mage farther up the path. He walked forward to meet him.

The lyrium in Fenris’ skin was still active as he strode back toward Anders, and as he neared, the mage let out a gasp. Fenris stopped a few feet from him and examined the man’s face. Anders’ eyes were dark, he was breathing heavily, and from the back of his head, Fenris was again awash in a lust that did not belong to him. He was beginning to suspect the cause of it.

Out of curiosity, he cracked his neck with his unbloodied hand, then sent a rush of power to the markings causing them to flare brilliantly. Anders let out a strangled noise and his jaw dropped. The mage’s pupils blew wide and his face flushed a brilliant crimson. The dagger of lust exploded in Fenris’ head.

‘That answers a few questions,’ Fenris thought.

“F-Fenris,” Anders gulped. Fenris quirked an eyebrow, amused at the mage’s predicament. Smirking and intent to get a little payback for the mage’s ruffling of his hair, he sent another bolt of energy through the lyrium. Anders choked. Fenris watched him double over, the lust in his mind curling seductively, pulling at his own desire.

“Fenris!” The mage panted, this time sounding more than a little desperate. Fenris relented, allowing the markings to fade into dormancy once more. The mage breathed deeply, trying to get his heartrate under control.

‘Interesting,’ Fenris mused as he watched Anders try to recover. Eventually, the mage managed to right himself, using his staff for leverage. Fenris didn’t need to glance down; he already knew what he’d find below the mage’s beltline.

“You… enjoyed… that…” Anders accused, still breathing heavily.

“As did you, it would seem,” Fenris said, his smirk growing wider. If it were possible for Anders’ blush to darken anymore, Fenris was sure that it would. He met the man’s eyes with a teasing glint.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” He asked.

“As much as I’d love to give you the satisfaction, I haven’t the foggiest myself,” Anders said.

“And your- ah… spirit. Does it have any information to share?” Fenris asked. He watched Anders’ face fall, his eyes grow somber, and the sudden shift in mood did not escape him. Anders chewed his lip for a moment, considering. Fenris’ brow knitted as he studied the mage.

Anders’ head dropped to his chest and he didn’t meet Fenris’ eye. The lust that had permeated his mind only moments previous was snuffed out like a candle, and Fenris was again met with the wretched feelings of sorrow and loss.

“Mage?” Fenris asked, slightly concerned.

“I don’t know,” Anders said quietly, voice shaky and brimming with sorrow, “I haven’t felt Justice’s presence since the Surge.” Fenris was taken aback, both at the confession and the vulnerability in the mage’s voice.

“What?”

“I-I don’t know what happened to him,” Anders said, studying his shoes. “He just stopped responding. I’ve tried to speak to him, but…” He looked up to meet Fenris’ open stare, and Fenris could see the pain that lay in his eyes. “I think he’s gone.”

Fenris was bewildered. “I was under the impression it was a… permanent arrangement.”

“It was!” Anders cried. “Or, at least, it was supposed to be!” His hands twisted on his staff nervously. “The space he normally occupies…” Anders trailed off, his eyes distant. He was silent for a moment. The man looked downright despondent, teeth worrying at his lip and fingers twisting at the binding on his staff.

“The space is what? Empty?” Fenris prompted.

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?” Fenris felt himself growing impatient but refused to let the frustration enter his tone. He waited calmly for Anders’ answer.

“The space Justice has occupied for years was taken up by… well, I don’t know what it is.” Anders ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve been keeping an eye on it. The night I visited your mansion, I was actually coming to ask if you’d experienced the same thing, if you had something similar in your head.”

Fenris thought back to that night and, remembering how shocked the mage had been at the revelation they could feel each other’s pain, understood why the thought would have been driven from Anders' mind.

“You were distracted by the…how did you refer to it? The ‘link magic’?”

“Yes,” Anders nodded. “This thing… I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not Justice, of that much I am sure. It seems to have its own consciousness, but it doesn’t speak like Justice did. Do you?” Anders asked, “Have one as well, that is?”

Fenris considered, “I may have something. I am unsure if it is the same as what you describe.”

“What do you mean?”

It seemed the time to reveal the rest of what Fenris knew was at hand. He’d been holding the information close to his chest for a few days, unwilling to part with it freely, but in light of the mage’s confession it seemed only appropriate that he reciprocate.

“I believe the ‘link’ spell is not limited to physical pain,” Fenris said slowly.

“What?”

He took a breath and met Anders’ eye, “I believe I can sense your emotions as well.”

The mage’s brow creased in confusion. “Is that what you meant? Back at your house, you said you’d felt premonitions,” Anders said, “Is that what you were talking about?”

“Yes. You recall I told you the day your clinic was raided I awoke to a feeling of foreboding?” Anders nodded. “I believe that was your own dread echoing across the link.” Anders frowned.

“And just now… with the lyrium?” Anders asked, too preoccupied with theories to bother feeling ashamed.

“Yes, I felt…” Fenris cleared his throat, “ah- your excitement.”

“Ah.” This time Anders did look embarrassed. Fenris watched him expectantly.

“Yes, well, I truly don’t know what that’s about,” The mage said, rubbing the back of his neck. He shook himself, then continued. “So, you’re saying you’ve been able to feel my emotions as well as physical pain I’ve experienced as though they were your own?”

Fenris nodded, then added, “Originally, I did not know the source; they seemed to generate of their own accord, but recently I have paid them closer attention; I believe I can now detect the difference, discern if they are yours or my own.”

Anders looked pensive, eyes unfocused and brow furrowed in concentration.  

“Wait.” Another thought hit Fenris then, a memory from only minutes ago. “There might be something else.”

“Oh?”

“During the fight, as the rogue snuck up behind me, I heard your voice in my head.” Anders shook his head, bewildered.

“My voice?” Anders looked mystified.

“Yes, it was the sole reason I reacted in time. Had I not had that forewarning, I’d not have been quick enough to stop the blade.”

Anders’ eyes darkened as he took in the new information. He began to pace, placing a hand on his chin, walking back and forth before Fenris and muttering to himself. This went on for several moments, then, abruptly, he stopped in his tracks. The mage stared off into the distance, mouth open, hand frozen at his chin. The look on Anders’ face was one of dawning realization, and in the back of his mind, Fenris could feel the mage’s astonishment, tinged with dread.  

“Fenris, what if-“ Anders started, but before he had the chance to finish his theory, there was the sound of hurried footsteps sprinting down the path and a moment later, Hawke, Varric and Isabela exploded out of the brush at the mouth of the footpath.

“Andraste’s blazing bush!” Hawke said breathlessly, taking in the corpses surrounding the rest of his party.  “What the hell happened?”

Anders shot Fenris a look. A look that said: “Let me do the talking.” So Fenris did.

“We improvised,” Anders said nonchalantly, looking at Hawke.

Hawke let out a low, impressed whistle. “Clearly it went well; glad you’re both on our side.”

“Did you guys find anything?” Anders asked.

Hawke shook his head. “Nothing worth mentioning. Granted, we didn’t make it all the way up the path before Varric caught us.” Hawke strode forward to look at the corpses that littered the ground. “You two did all this? By yourselves?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hawke,” Anders laughed, “Fenris and I are perfectly capable of taking out some second-rate snatchers.”

“Yeah, but there are twelve of them.”

“We got the drop on them; they never had a chance.” Anders said proudly, beaming at Fenris. On top of the little swoop that look made his heart do, the mage’s grin pulled a smile to Fenris’ own lips, despite him giving it no such permission to do so.

“How did you manage that? What’d you do -jump out of a bush and yell ‘boo’?”

Anders told the three rogues about Fenris’ plan to use himself as bait and how Fenris had phased through the bonds to catch their leader unawares.

As he told the story, Fenris’ eyes wandered of their own accord, first to the mage’s face, then his hair. Anders’ mane had nearly fallen loose from its tail, the leather cord just hanging on to the ends, and as if the mage could read his mind, Fenris watched as he pulled the cord free and shook his hair out, combing through it with his fingers absentmindedly as he spoke.

The bright afternoon sunlight shone off the mage’s hair, the golden strands catching the light in a mesmerizing display as Anders carded his fingers through them, smoothing them down, working out the knots. Fenris was hit by the desire to run the mage’s hair through with his own fingers, to tangle his hands in those reddish-blond waves…

Fenris shook himself roughly. Where in Thedas had that come from? He may have begrudgingly admitted to himself upon meeting Anders that the mage was conventionally attractive, his stubble and dark circles aside, but the sudden desire to touch him? With something other than violence? That was new. That most assuredly had not been there a few weeks ago. Fenris was slightly disturbed by how strong the urge had been and forced himself to look elsewhere. Anywhere but the mage.

But as Anders finished the short tale of their ambush, he began to pull his hair back into a tail again, and Fenris couldn’t look away as he gathered the stray tresses and corralled them all within the confines of the leather cord once more.

“Well, color me surprised,” Isabela said, but though she was responding to Anders, she was looking at Fenris, and he knew the pirate had caught him staring. He met her gaze levelly, hoping the color in his cheeks wasn’t as noticeable as it felt, and she raised an eyebrow at him before finally looking away.

That did not bode well.

“Well, excellent work you two! That should make the rest of our job significantly easier. We still have the main camp to take care of, of course, but I can’t imagine there’s too many of them left.”

As Hawke and Varric searched the bodies, Anders turned to Fenris.

“I can heal that, if you’d like.” Anders gestured to the deep cut on his arm. Still distracted by his own unusual reaction, Fenris nodded without thinking.

Anders moved a few steps closer to Fenris and called a small amount of magic to his hand. “This may sting a bit,” the healer said, but as soon as Anders’ lay his palm against the cut on Fenris’ arm, a strong bolt of arousal skittered down Fenris’ spine and he groaned softly. They both froze.

Lust coiled itself in Fenris’ gut, sudden and unexpected, and Anders' eyes went wide. He stared at Fenris. Fenris stared back, shocked. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure nobody else had heard his outburst and was relieved to see the rest of the party was seemingly out of earshot.

He turned back to Anders who was now looking positively wicked, grinning in obvious satisfaction. It was clear the mage felt Fenris’ reaction to his magic, and now, thanks to Fenris himself, Anders knew exactly where it was coming from.

“Or maybe it won’t,” Anders said, slyly. Fenris jerked his arm away from the mage and ducked to search the pockets of one of the slavers to cover his indiscretion. Fenris cursed himself. What had he been thinking, allowing the mage to heal him? Even if he’d been distracted, he should have refused outright. Not that the mage’s magic had ever delivered that outcome, per se, but had he not learned his lesson after the Aura?

Finding nothing of note on the slaver he moved to the next body and searched it with slightly unsteady hands.

It seemed the effect the mage’s magic had on him was similar to the effect his lyrium had on the mage. Fenris was already at a loss to the type of spell that could link two people’s minds together, but this added a whole new level of strange to the already bizarre circumstance. What manner of spell provokes semi-erotic daydreaming, and, more importantly, who would bother casting such a spell on two strangers?

“I have something!” Hawke called from his place by Vasius’ corpse, interrupting Fenris’ contemplation. Hawke stood over the leader’s body, a piece of paper in hand.

“It’s a list,” Hawke said, unfolding the paper and scanning the contents. Fenris walked over to him and looked over the rogue’s shoulder. Though he couldn’t read the words, the meaning was obvious.

“The going rate,” Fenris said, icily, looking at the numbers next to the scribbled text.

“It appears ‘females’ are in high demand,” Hawke grimaced. Fenris spat in disgust.

“Let’s pay their friends a visit, shall we?” Varric suggested.

~*~

The five of them climbed further up the mountain, naturally falling back into their original positions, and it wasn’t long before they found the slavers’ camp, nestled up against the side of the mountain. From his vantage point, Fenris could see a handful of occupants standing guard over a group of chained Dalish. The elves were shackled at the wrists and strung together like cattle. Fenris felt a growl rumbling in his chest.

“If we go in there half-cocked, they could use the hunters as hostages,” Hawke whispered to the rest of his party. They were crouched in the bushes, out of sight from the camp. Every instinct in Fenris’ body screamed at him to charge in there and rip the slavers limb from limb, but he didn’t. Hawke’s leadership hadn’t let him down yet, and Fenris owed it to the man to follow his lead when it came to strategy.

“Bela, you and Varric sneak around back. Stay quiet; we’ll move on your mark,” Hawke whispered, “And try to keep the fighting away from the Dalish.”

Isabela and Varric crept away, footsteps nearly silent against the rocky mountain surface. The rest of them watched the camp.

“There’s a claw trap on the path to the camp,” Hawke muttered, “Avoid it and we’ll be golden.” Fenris couldn’t see the trap in question but made a mental note of its approximate location. A few moments passed in silence, the three of them watching intently for the signal.

The sound of a body hitting the ground started the party.

“What the-“ One of the slavers leapt to his feet upon seeing his comrade face first in the dirt, a crossbow bolt protruding from his head. Fenris let out a guttural war cry, charging from the bushes and drawing the group’s attention away from Isabela and Varric on the opposite side of the party camp. Five heads whipped toward the sound and Isabela took the opportunity to emerge from the shadows, slitting the throat of the slaver nearest to her.

It was over in a matter of seconds.

The unprepared slavers fell one after another until only one remained. Fenris held Lethendralis to the man’s throat, keeping him pinned down while the rest of the party gathered around him.

“Karma is a bitch, isn’t she?” Hawke tsked.

“Please, d-don’t kill me, I’m begging you!” Whimpered the slaver under Fenris’ blade.

“Oh, darn, he said ‘please.’ I guess we can’t kill him,” Hawke said mockingly. “There goes my whole weekend.”

“I’ve got a family!”

Hawke was not impressed. “Well you should have thought about that before you decided kidnapping and selling people was a good profession.” He sighed, “Here’s the thing, shit-for-brains, these elves have families too.”

“I-I’ll tell you anything you want to know!” The slaver gasped, voice high with desperation.

“Great. Saves me some time. Why are you this far south?”

“Our captain, Vasius, knew them knife ears was camped here!” spluttered the slaver. Fenris pressed his blade into the slaver’s throat.

“Word of advice? They’re called elves,” Varric said casually.

“R-Right. Elves. Sorry.”

“Hmm, right. And Vasius, was he working for anybody?” Hawke asked. The slaver hesitated.

“No…”

Fenris growled and sheathed his blade in one fluid motion. He grabbed the slaver by the breast plate and hauled him to the entrance of the camp, Hawke following at a casual pace. Fenris spotted the claw trap Hawke had mentioned earlier and dragged the kicking man over to it. He lowered the man’s head toward the spikes.

“I’ll ask you once more,” Hawke said dangerously, “Who does Vasius report to?”

“Havard!” The slaver cried, scrabbling for purchase against Fenris’ gauntlets, trying to keep his head away from the trap’s teeth.

“He works for a magister named Havard! He lives in Vyrantium!”

“And does he have cause to send more of your ilk this way?”

“No! I-I mean sometimes if a group of us doesn’t return he sends a scout, but otherwise he doesn’t bother!” The slaver stammered.

Hawke smiled, all teeth. “Now, wasn’t that easy?”

“So…So you’ll let me go?”

“Sure.” Hawke said, “Fenris? Let him go.”

Fenris grinned darkly… and dropped the slaver.

His scream was interrupted by the telltale sound of the claw trap springing shut.

~*~

“Well! I think we can mark this one down as a success!” Hawke said jovially, retrieving the keys to the shackles and unlocking the cuffs around the elves’ wrists and ankles.

“We could have handled it,” One of the elves grumbled, but received an elbow to the ribs from one of his fellows.

“Thank you, human. Despite what Harlen says, we clearly could not have handled it.”

“All in a day’s work,” Hawke grinned.

Isabela stooped to pick up one of the discarded shackles and examined it with mild interest.

“Thinking of taking a pair home, Rivaini?” Varric chuckled.

“Hardly. I have a much nicer set already,” Isabela smirked.

A quick search of the camp turned up a few fistfuls of gold and a pair of tattered pantaloons. Anders gave Hawke a look, and the rogue dropped the pantaloons back where he found them, muttering something about a collection.

The elves had retrieved their weapons from where they had been stashed away by the slavers, and finally, with the sun dipping below Sundermount’s peak, they headed back to the Dalish camp.

The group was met with delighted cries of relief as they reached the base of the mountain, and the hunting party was rapidly surrounded and embraced by loved ones. Hawke and his party side stepped the rejoicing elves and caught the eye of Keeper Marethari. She strode forward to meet them.

“Thank you, human. I believe I am beginning to see why Merrill speaks so highly of you,” Marethari said with a small smile.

“The only good slaver is a dead one,” Hawke returned the Keeper’s smile.

“You’ve done us a great service. I believe Ilen, our craftsmaster, has a bow he has recently finished. Take it, as well as our sincerest gratitude.”

Hawke nodded graciously and bid her farewell, insisting that she need only ask if ever a situation arises in which he could assist. After retrieving the bow from Ilen, Hawke gestured to Fenris and the rest of the party, and they started back to Kirkwall, the setting sun at their backs.

As the Kirkwall gates came into view, Varric broke their amiable silence with the suggestion of drinks, to which Hawke and Isabela readily agreed. Fenris considered it before ultimately declining, citing need of a bath. He held up a blood encrusted gauntlet as evidence.

“You say that like blood and sweat aren’t staples of the Hanged Man!” Varric laughed.

“I think I’ll pass this time as well,” Anders said, glancing quickly at Fenris.

“Suit yourselves,” Varric shrugged as the five of them passed beneath the gates.

“Thanks for coming,” Hawke told them all sincerely.

“My pleasure,” Fenris said, “Let me know the next time you plan on ridding the world of a few slavers. I’ll be there.”

Hawke laughed and turned with Isabela and Varric toward Lowtown and the Hanged Man. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Fenris watched as the three of them rounded the corner, then turned toward his own destination, only to come face to face with Anders. The mage met his gaze with a terse expression.

“We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Fenris gave him a measured look. His expression was cautious, like he'd known this moment was coming, but was unsure of what the outcome would be. That made two of them.

“Regarding what, exactly?” Fenris asked carefully.

Anders met the warrior’s guarded expression with one of his own. He knew that he needed to handle this delicately, but he felt himself fraying at the edges, a combination of nerves and adrenaline pulling his consciousness in every direction.

“Somewhere private would be preferable,” Anders said tightly. He was endeavoring to keep his tone neutral, but he could hear the tension in his own voice, and he was sure Fenris could as well.

The elf gave him a once over. Then he tossed his head over his shoulder, indicating Anders should follow him and started toward his mansion.

Anders took a deep breath and followed.

~*~

“Bonds and bondmates, while frequently discussed both within the magical community and without, are assuredly among the number of topics the magical community knows little of. What little is known about them cannot be measured by average, external metrics. Thusly, data is restricted to personal accounts of those who have themselves been bonded. While we can assume bonds are spiritual in nature, they appear to be links, not between Fade spirits and their hosts as is the case with magical possession, but rather between the spirits of two conscious beings. However, this is further complicated by the observance of Dwarven bonds, which by many accounts do indeed exist. As Dwarves lack a connection to the Fade, this calls into question the necessity of the Fade’s presence in forming the bond, and therefore the spiritual nature of the bonds themselves.”

Hawke sighed and snapped shut the book from which he was dictating.

“What they’re really saying is ‘fuck if we know! We’re just going to talk out of our asses and hope nobody notices!’” Hawke sounded frustrated.

“That’s the circle for you,” Anders replied tiredly from his seat by the fire, cradling his cup of tea in one hand and another, separate tome in the other.

“I mean, really. If this is a bond, I feel like I would know,” Hawke muttered, picking up another book and flipping open the cover, “I don’t expect a glittering fairy to descend from the Maker’s side and hand me a scroll that says ‘You’ve been bonded! Congratulations!’ or anything, but still!”

Hawke dragged himself over to the fire and collapsed onto the rug in front of the hearth. He pouted as he thumbed through a few of the pages disinterestedly.

Anders and Hawke had been in the manor study for an indeterminate number of hours, researching bonds in a seemingly futile attempt to discern whether or not Hawke was, in fact, the proud new owner of a bond.

Unfortunately, the books they had managed to scrounge up were proving to be ultimately useless. The few they had borrowed from Bethany in the circle were almost as hollow as the ones they’d purchased from the shady book merchant Varric had begrudgingly recommended. The dwarf had passed along the information with a warning that it was unlikely they’d find what they were looking for, but Hawke had patroned the book stall despite it, desperate for any and all information he could find.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere, Hawke,” Anders said, closing his own book. Hawke looked up at Anders again, eyes ringed with exhaustion. “You need to sleep.”

“I need to know,” Hawke protested. “I can’t sleep not knowing whether or not she’s…”

“Your bondmate?” Anders finished. Privately, he was under the impression Hawke was just in the vicious throes of puppy love, but he’d never say that out loud. Hawke was adamant there was more to it, and Anders felt obligated to help his friend find the answer. Hawke sighed again and his head drooped against his chest.

“I know Bethany and Varric both think I’m losing it -you as well for that matter- but something’s different about her. Merrill is sweet, polite, prettier than anybody has a right to be. She has a good heart, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Anders was tempted to dismiss these words as run-of-the-mill pining as well, but the rogue’s next words made him pause. Hawke looked up into Anders’ eyes and he spoke with utmost sincerity.

“I think she’s the one, Anders.”

“Now that is sappy, even for you, Hawke,” Anders laughed quietly, but most uncharacteristically, Hawke didn’t return the laughter. It was that fact in combination with the tone he used that made Anders finally sit up and take notice.

“You really think there’s more to this than meets the eye?” Anders asked, his eyes searching Hawke’s.

Hawke nodded solemnly.

Anders sighed and tipped his head to the side.

“Alright. Then we’re going to figure this out.”

~*~

The sound of Fenris’ front door closing behind Anders felt ominous; the iron and wood rattling against each other rang with an impression of finality, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

Fenris glanced over his shoulder at him, his face neutral, but he didn’t say anything. Then he looked away, and Anders was left with little choice but to enter the hearthroom behind him.

‘Perhaps it’s not too late to turn back,’ Anders thought desperately. ‘I could leave, turn around right now, and nothing would have to change.’

It was nonsense, of course; nothing more than the frantic thoughts of a man with his back to the wall. This realization was enough to upend his entire life and call everything he knew into question. The only certainty about his future now was uncertainty.

Fenris knelt before the hearth and a moment later a small fire was dancing and flickering with more mirth than felt appropriate. He glanced at Anders again, then moved to sit delicately on the edge of one of the sofas. He looked at the mage expectantly.

Anders took a few steps forward but didn’t sit, instead hovering nervously behind the other chair.

“I…” Anders cleared his throat, searching for the words, what to say, how to explain-

“You know what the spell is,” Fenris said bluntly. Anders stared at him, mouth hanging slightly open, trying to speak words he couldn’t find.

The warrior’s expression was open and almost… earnest. Quite the unexpected sight, truth be told; Anders would have expected him to be more on edge. He closed his mouth and nodded in affirmation.

“And?”

Anders shifted under the weight of Fenris’ gaze. He chewed his lip and averted his eyes. He had no idea what to say, how to even begin to break the news to Fenris.

“I can feel your anxiety, mage,” Fenris said gently.

Anders’ heart sank. The words themselves were nothing -not compared to the softness with which the elf spoke. Never before had he heard Fenris use that tone; not with Hawke, nor Isabela, and especially not with him.  How far they’d already come. How much things had already changed between them. Days had passed without a word spoken in anger, without their mutual animosity rearing its head, and all without even knowing…

All that progress would be rendered meaningless by the confession Anders couldn’t bring himself to make.

“Whatever you have to say, say it, and let us deal with the outcome,” Fenris said calmly.

Anders knew that as soon as the words left his mouth, he couldn’t take them back. He knew that things wouldn’t just go back to normal between him and Fenris -they’d be so, so much worse and the thought was harder to accept than he would have thought possible. He let out a shuddering breath and was appalled to find his eyes were blurred with tears. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, then looked up into Fenris’ eyes.

They were beautiful. Deep emerald and intense, the flickering fire calling forth the gold flecked throughout.

“It’s a bond,” Anders whispered.

~*~

“What do you feel when you think about Merrill?” Anders asked the man sitting on the carpet before him. Hawke paused for a moment before answering.

“Happy,” Hawke said simply, then his brow furrowed, and he looked down slightly. “...and nervous. Excited, but also terrified.”

“Terrified?” Anders asked, at a loss for how anybody could find the petite elf frightening. The whole binding-demons-with-blood-magic thing aside, Merrill wasn’t exactly the most intimidating person in Kirkwall.

“I’m going to ruin this. I don’t know how, but I am. I’m going to say something, or- or do something and just destroy any chance I have with her.” Hawke looked positively dejected, like he’d already blown his one and only shot with the girl of his dreams.

“Well you haven’t ruined it yet,” Anders soothed. “I’m not a master of interpersonal relationships, mind you, so take what I have to say with a grain of salt, but you’re crazy if you think Merrill isn’t already head over heels for you.”

Hawke’s eyes snapped to Anders’ face like he was a shining beacon of hope.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t seen the looks she’s been giving you!” Anders wanted to groan aloud, but he settled for an inward eyeroll to Justice. The spirit gave him a metaphorical disapproving shake of the head.

“What looks?” Hawke asked eagerly.

“Hawke, the girl looks at you like the sun shines out of your arse! Every time you say something funny or do something even remotely nice for somebody, she looks like she’s going to swoon! I think if you saved a kitten from a tree she might spontaneously combust,” Anders said wryly. “She couldn’t be more infatuated, trust me. You have nothing to worry about.”

~*~

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. They simply stared at each other, each waiting for the other to speak.

Fenris’ brow was furrowed; It seemed like he was trying to determine whether or not Anders was joking, but the grave look on Anders’ face brooked no argument.

“You mean a spell that mimics a bond?” Fenris asked eventually.

Anders bit his lip again and he had to force himself to maintain eye contact.

“No, Fenris,” he said quietly, “I mean an actual bond.”

Fenris didn’t respond at first, just kept staring at Anders with a searching expression, trying to connect the dots. Then he shook his head. Slowly at first, then faster, more insistent.

“That’s -No. That’s impossible,” Fenris said, voice adamant, head still shaking back and forth.

“It’s the only explanation,” Anders said tersely. He stood stock still, fingers clenched bleakly on the back of the armchair. “It’s the only thing that could account for all the evidence. The misplaced emotions, the stray thoughts, you hearing my voice in your head.”

“I was under the impression bonds were formed between those who are compatible,” Fenris hissed, rising to his feet. The calm, patient elf from moments earlier was gone. In his place was the old Fenris, distant and defensive, and opposed to everything Anders stood for.

“Apparently not!” Anders threw his hands in the air, his strained nerves reaching the breaking point. “Maker help me, I don’t know why it happened, but the pieces fit too well for it to be anything else!”

“No, this must be some kind of spell.” Fenris shook his head again, unable or unwilling to accept the mage’s words as truth.

Anders grit his teeth in frustration and prodded at the link in the back of his head. ‘Tell me a spell that can do this!’ he snapped at the little, fluttering fledgling in his mind.

“It’s not possible!” Fenris yelled aloud as the fledging in Anders’ mind hissed in retaliation. “You are insufferable. Not a day goes by that we’re not at each other’s throats and you think we’re well-suited enough to form a bond!?” Fenris scathed.

“If you have a better idea, I’m listening,” Anders said hotly.  

“The spells on the coast-” Fenris started, but Anders interrupted.

“They weren’t spells.”

“What do you mean they weren’t spells?” Fenris hissed.

Anders narrowed his eyes against the hostility, but began to speak despite it. “If we assume this is a bond, then it’s likely the Aura was the ‘birth’ of the bond -the process of it forming,” Anders explained. “I expect that the interaction between your lyrium and my magic provided an additional complication to the process which is what caused the actual Aura itself; the blue halo must have been the two powers colliding.”

“You’d cast numerous healing spells on me prior to that -why was this supposed ‘bond’ not formed then!?” Fenris argued.

“I cast the spell without my staff? You were close to death? I actually touched you when I healed you?” Anders rattled off. “Who knows! It could be one of a hundred possibilities or any combination thereof!”

Again, Fenris shook his head in denial and opened his mouth to interject, but Anders beat him to it.

“I’m not sure of all the details, Fenris. I’m not an expert on bonds, I’m just telling you the facts as I see them.”

Fenris didn’t reply to that, choosing to avert his eyes and fume instead.

“The Surge…” Anders continued, eyes growing distant. “I think… I think it was Justice. In the time the Surge was building, Justice was restless. He was trying to tell me something… it seemed like he was in pain. He kept growing more agitated, he said something was tearing…” Anders chewed his lip, thinking.

“I’m not sure of this, but I think maybe Justice was taking up the ‘spot’ that a bond normally holds, as if there wasn’t room for both of them. Justice was weakened by the healing -I think he lost the ‘fight’ with the bond and was… I don’t know… forced out?”

Anders lowered his head, trying to smother his feelings of despair and loss under a blanket of apathy. He missed Justice so badly it ached, but the last thing he needed was for Fenris to pick up on those emotions through the bond. He needed to remain detached.

A moment passed in heavy silence before Fenris turned to look at Anders. His face was cold, carved from stone.

“So, you think this is a soul bond?” Fenris hissed quietly.

Anders looked into Fenris’ narrowed eyes and nodded seriously.

“Prove it.”

~*~

“If this truly is a bond, there should be a way to make sure,” Hawke said.

“As far as I know, there isn’t a definitive method for telling whether or not a bond exists,” Anders replied.

“There has to be something!” Hawke moaned in frustration.

Anders shrugged. “Have you tried speaking to her? Through the bond, I mean.”

“What, you mean like thinking really loud?”

Anders wanted to laugh, but instead replied, “I don’t think it works like that. You know what I mean though; bonded people are able to talk to one another through their link, right? Try to direct your thoughts through the bond.”

“But I don’t know where the bond is.” Hawke said.

‘It’s in your head,’ Anders thought, but forwent saying so aloud.

“Well, how do you communicate with Justice?” Hawke asked. Anders paused for a moment to consider.

“I speak to him internally and he responds. I direct my thoughts toward him, and he returns them with his own, like a conversation. Although, now that we’ve been part of each other for so long, I don’t have to structure my thoughts as much. He can get the gist of what I’m thinking with vague thoughts or mental images alone.”

Hawke put a hand on his chin, looking thoughtful. “So, when you first got... possessed, how did you know where to direct your thoughts?”

Anders thought back to those early days when he was still getting used to hosting the spirit in his mind. “He spoke to me first, so I had a reference point to go off of. Whenever I speak to him now, I sort of ‘aim’ my thoughts at him, toward the back of my mind.”

“The back of your mind…” Hawke trailed off.

“Do you feel anything in your head? Something that wasn’t there before you met Merrill?”

“Maybe…” Hawke mumbled, “It’s hard to tell.”

Anders watched as Hawke closed his eyes, brow creased with concentration.

“I think there’s something.”

“What does it feel like?” Anders asked.

Hawke opened his eyes and looked up at Anders with a huge smile on his face.

“It feels like Merrill.”

~*~

“And just how do you expect me to ‘prove it’?” Anders asked, voice heavy with frustration. “There’s no test for this, Fenris! I’ve already lain all the evidence at your feet; you already have your proof!”

Fenris snarled, his hands clenched into fists. “You claim that this is a bond, but bonded pairs don’t feel each other’s pain. Explain that, mage.”

“I admit that it’s not a one-to-one comparison with other bonds,” Anders said, trying to regain his composure. “Bonded pairs don’t usually feel each other’s emotions unless they’re inordinately strong, nor do they feel their mate’s physical pain as if it were their own. It seems like our bond is somehow stronger. More intense.”

“Do not call it our bond,” Fenris hissed furiously, his hand slicing through the air, “I did not ask for this.”

“And you think I did!?” Anders yelled, losing his cool. “I’m not exactly thrilled with this situation either, elf.”

“So, break it!” Fenris yelled right back. That caught Anders off guard.

“Break it?” Anders said, baffled. Fenris stalked up to him, jabbing a finger into Anders’ chest.

“If you are as against it as you claim, break the blasted thing and let us be done with it!” Fenris snarled.

Anders shook his head in bewilderment as his heart sank into his stomach.

“Fenris, bonds can’t be broken.”

Fenris shoved his face forward until it was just a few inches from Anders’, his eyes alight with cold fire.

“Figure it out,” he hissed. “Or I will.”

For a moment he held Anders’ gaze, a challenge in his eyes. Anders met them without flinching. Then Fenris whipped around, marched over to his sword where it was propped against the wall and snatched it up.

“Get out.”

His back was to Anders, his shoulders curled in defensively, sword at his side.

Anders didn’t know how to reply to that. His heart clenched against the abject rejection, and traitorous tears sprung to his eyes unbidden. Biting his tongue hard to keep from howling in frustration, he spun on his heel and strode to the foyer arch.

But halfway through it he stopped, whipping his head over his shoulder. Fenris was looking back at him with an expression halfway between grief and anger.

Anders gave him one last defiant snarl, hoping Fenris was too far from him to see the tears that filled his eyes, then wrenched open the front door and slammed it shut behind him.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

Fenris was cursing before the echo of his front door slamming shut had faded from the hearthroom. Of all the stupid mistakes he had made, this had to be his biggest. Of all the stupid things he had done, this took the cake.

He had never fucked up so badly and he had nobody to blame but himself.

He wanted to scream and curse and hit Anders, blame him for this absolute disaster he was in, but the very thought of the mage lying bloody at his feet, put there by his own hand, turned his stomach to knots and drove a shard of ice into his heart. Even now he could feel Anders’ grief flooding through his mind with painful clarity, and it both enraged him and shattered him.

Had he learned nothing? Had his life experiences not taught him to stay as far away from mages as possible? They could only ever bring trouble -they’d proven that time and time again. Were it not for Hawke, he might have avoided all contact with mages, but no, he’d allowed himself to be forced into proximity with one and what did he have to show for it? A Maker-forsaken bond of all things.

He’d only just regained his freedom, fighting tooth and nail, clawing his way to liberation. And now, through his own carelessness, he’d allowed himself to be tied down, to be snared by a yet another magic-wielder. Attached to a bloody mage against his will. Again.

Only this time it was infinitely worse. He could escape slavery, he could lay waste to anybody in his path to escape, but a bond? It was the most cunning trap he could think of, and he had no way out of it.

He hefted Lethendralis and brought the greatsword screaming down on a nearby end table, a howl of rage tearing from his throat. He hacked and slashed at the intricately carved furniture, reducing it to splinters. He spun and lopped the end post off the bannister at the foot of the stairs. He carved a great chunk from the railing itself, then rounded on one of the armchairs before the fire, his sword poised over his head.

He froze. An image of Anders -smiling gently while sitting in that very chair- flashed before his mind’s eye, halting his swing. He could hear the mage’s bright laughter, feel the warmth of his smile. A fresh wave of external anguish rolled over his heart and he summoned more fury, intent to burn it away.

Fenris reared back with the sword again, but despite his anger, he couldn’t make himself swing. The image of Anders in his mind was weeping now, tears falling silently as he told Fenris a story about a friend he used to have. The vulnerability in that memory stayed Fenris' blade and he lowered it from over his head. Arms hung limply at his sides, the memory of Anders -alarmingly clear in recollection- said, “Maker, so much poetry,” then a laugh, undercut with sorrow.

Fenris crumpled to the flagstones beneath his feet, Lethendralis clattering to the floor beside him. His hands balled into fists at his hair, pulling it harshly, desperate for the physical pain to tether him in the present, to chase away the image of the mage from his mind. He grit his teeth against the sorrow pressing against his chest, pulsing through the bond like blood from a wounded animal. Anders’ grief was biting, and Fenris knew that in that very moment he’d do almost anything to make it stop. He staggered to his feet and entered the wine cellar.

Several bottles later, Fenris had his back pressed against the ember-lit hearth, hunched in on himself in utter silence. The room was pitch black save the ember’s residual glow, but if one had keen vision, they would perhaps be able to make out the tears that stained the elf’s cheeks.

~Anders~

Anders stormed back to the clinic embroiled in a thundercloud of aggravation. He’d tried to shove his heart in a drawer and lock it, but pain leaked through the keyhole, staining his frustration with sorrow.

In the absence of Justice’s voice of reason, Anders’ logic warred with his emotions, each side unable to bend the other into submission.

‘Stupid elf has no idea what he’s talking about,’ seethed Anders’ emotional side.

‘Neither do you, really,’ his logical side pointed out.

‘I know more than he does!’ Emotion hissed.

‘Oh, bully for you! A mage who spent time around arcane researchers and Grey Wardens knows more about spirit bonds than an elf who’s been enslaved for most of his life! What an accomplishment!’ Logic berated.

‘He’d rather bury his head in the sand than face facts! First, he’s adamant the bond isn’t real. Then, after he finally accepts that I might be right, he wants me to find a way to break the bond!’

‘You want that too!’ emphasized Logic.

‘And if I don’t?’ Emotion challenged.

That thought brought Anders up short. He did want the bond broken… didn’t he? If he had the option to break the bond right this second, he’d leap at the chance… right?

Anders didn’t want to be in this situation, of that he was certain, yet his heart shied away from the idea of severing the connection with Fenris. He pushed that thought to the side, heaping it in the same drawer in which he’d shoved the grief from Fenris’ rejection. He wanted to be angry, not hurt. He wanted the power of rage, not the weakness of heartbreak.

But he couldn’t even find the energy to combat his inner turmoil, much less summon enough fury to blot out the world.

‘The fact is that you just sprang a life-changing revelation on the guy, and he lashed out. You shouldn’t take that personally,’ Logic reasoned. In the back of his mind he could feel Fenris’ rage, white hot and blinding in its strength.

‘It’s life-changing for me too! Why do I have to be the only one who keeps his calm?’ Emotion complained bitterly.

‘You didn’t keep your calm!’ Logic asserted. 'You yelled right back at him; don’t claim innocence where none exists. Fenris probably feels trapped. He’s only just earned his freedom, now he’s bound against his will -to somebody he hates, no less! You’d feel the same way!’

‘I do feel the same way!’ Emotion declared.

‘Then how can you hold him to a higher standard than yourself?’

Through the Maker’s mercy, Anders didn’t encounter anybody on his way back to the clinic. Fortunately for him, for as he fought his internal battle, he wasn’t paying any attention to his surroundings. He would have been easy prey for Templars or bandits had he been spotted. As it was, he reached his clinic unscathed and shoved the door open roughly.

Anders didn’t bother disrobing, falling unceremoniously into his cot and hauling the mess of blankets over his head. He was desperate for the sweet escape of unconsciousness, but if it was difficult to sleep without life-altering revelations to keep his brain occupied, trying to sleep with them was downright impossible.

His restless thoughts were enough to keep him awake on a typical night. Tonight was far from typical.

As he lay in bed, hiding from the world under patched blankets, he felt Fenris’ fury start to dim, shrouded by a haze of alcohol. He spared a moment to marvel at how lucidly he could feel the elf’s emotions. Idly, he wondered if he concentrated hard enough whether or not he could taste the wine Fenris was drinking.

Anders fully understood why the elf was so enraged; part of him even admitted that he should never have expected anything else, but the sting of disappointment was so potent it threatened to drive him to tears again. Anders held his back to the drawer containing his heart, forcing it shut, cutting himself off from his grief. He could not allow the pain to swallow him whole, he could not afford to show Fenris that level of vulnerability. Not again.

He bit down on his tongue with bruising force, trying to ground himself, adamant that he not waste any more tears on an elf who’d only mock him for the display.

But that wasn’t fair either, his logical side argued; the only time he’d ever wept in front of the elf, Fenris hadn’t mocked him for it. Fenris had been patient, maybe even kind. He’d asked about Thesa with the utmost respect, despite his views on mages.

Anders wanted to be angry too, he wanted to blame somebody for this shitstorm, but rationally he knew that Fenris’ reaction was perfectly justifiable. Anybody in his position would be furious; he was bonded to somebody he only tolerated for the sake of a mutual friend.

He lay in his cot, chasing the same few thoughts around and around his head. Anders didn’t know how much time had passed, but after a while he noticed the bond shifting again. Steeling himself, willing his heart to harden in preparation for what he’d find, he took a closer look at the little fledgling in his mind.

Sorrow.

Fenris was grieving.

Anders felt the bond beat a sad, slow rhythm against his heart. It sounded like sadness. It felt like defeat.

For a moment Anders didn’t know how to react. A day ago, he wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the feelings passing through the bond from his own. What impeccable timing; the bond had matured enough that Anders could feel Fenris with perfect clarity, just in time for both of their emotional states to implode.

Anders tried to observe the bond from a distance, wanting to catalogue the nuances of the little fluttering mass, but he couldn’t seem to separate himself from it like he had when the bond was still forming. Fenris’ loss settled over his heart, over his own distress, weighing it down, multiplying it.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to stop feeling. Anders cursed the taint in his blood for enhancing his wretched alcohol tolerance. He could get drunk -he knew it was physically possible, but he hadn’t the coin to afford that much alcohol. He resigned himself to damage control, trying to contain their combined sorrow, to mold it into something manageable.

Hours passed and Anders was an unmoving lump under his heap of blankets, but when dawn broke, he’d not slept a wink. The emotions phasing through the bond had finally petered out just before daybreak and Anders guessed that meant Fenris had fallen asleep.

The sun poured into his quarters, and finally Anders hauled himself from the cot, bracing himself to open the clinic and face the day. Grateful as he would be for the distraction, he knew from experience that a night spent laying awake made for a very long, exhausting day.

He wandered over to the washbasin and splashed some water on his face, tried to fix his hair in the mirror. His dark circles and bloodshot eyes delivered a truly haggard appearance, but at least he was upright.

And right now his only goal was complete and utter distraction from his own problems.

~Fenris~

Sunlight streaming through a window and a pounding headache roused Fenris from his stupor. He couldn’t tell if he’d actually been asleep or not, and for a moment he blearily wondered why he was on the cold floor and not in his bed. Then it came crashing back with enough force to knock the breath from him.

He was bonded. To Anders.

His heart sank into his gut and he had to fight the urge to wither under the tide of despair. He felt trapped, walled in by this new revelation, suffocated under the smothering press of staring down an eternity without freedom.

For a moment Fenris struggled with the crushing weight of impotence, but then a blaze of determination ignited in his chest; he wouldn’t remain bonded to the mage for long. Not if he could help it.

As far as he knew, there was no way to sever a bond, save one of the bondmates dying. Fenris could tell that between the bond’s interference and Hawke’s presence he would never actually manage to kill Anders, and the very notion of even attempting to do so made his already nauseated gut twist painfully. But if there was another way to break the connection between them, Fenris was going to find it.

In the back of his mind, he could feel Anders -could sense the mage’s exhaustion, and Fenris guessed the mage must not have slept last night. He thought back to yesterday, before Anders revealed what he knew, when Fenris had believed he and the mage were merely victims of an unknown spell. Before he’d known just how wrong he was. Yesterday, he would have felt some sympathy for the mage and his battle with insomnia. After all, Fenris himself was well acquainted with how frustrating sleepless nights could be.

Part of him even mourned the loss of the budding companionship he’d started to form with Anders, but he crushed that concept with an iron fist. He knew the bond was manipulating his thoughts and emotions, just as he knew that he’d be loath to let them run unchecked.

He shook his head to try and push the mage’s pain from his thoughts, then immediately regretted it as his headache throbbed at his temples in retaliation. Fenris took solace in the fact that at least the mage would be saddled with a hangover as well, and it brought him a modicum of satisfaction to imagine Anders stuck with a headache he couldn’t heal. Groaning in pain, he got unsteadily to his feet and staggered over to his waterskin. Fenris drank down the tepid liquid and mulled over his options… or option, as it were.

Due to his illiteracy, he was limited to verbal discussion as his only method of information gathering, and the only bonded pair he knew well enough to speak candidly with was Hawke and Merrill.

Hawke was out; the rogue was far too keen and asked too many questions. Any mention of bonds would have the man hot on his trail with suspicion, and the last thing he wanted was for their little group to catch wind of the goings-on between him and the mage. As for Hawke himself… well. The man was physically incapable of passing up such a gold mine of potential ribbing.

That left Merrill.

Fenris knew he was still going to have to phrase his questions as benign curiosity, as well as find a way to bring the discussion about organically. He didn't know how to go about starting even a casual discussion with Merrill, but he pushed that thought to the side, deciding to cross that bridge when he came to it.

Fenris grimaced, far from content with the only course of action available to him, but he supposed it was better than no option at all.

Decision made, Fenris drained the waterskin and shuffled to the washroom. His appearance left much to be desired; he was still bloodied from the Sundermount mission, as well as caked with dirt and dried sweat. A tangle of matted hair and bloodshot eyes completed the look. Leaving the house in the state he was in was guaranteed to draw even more attention to him than his spiked armor, massive sword and lyrium brands already did.

Sighing in resignation, he went to retrieve a clean pair of leggings and a tunic from his bedroom.

Fenris returned to the washroom, peeled off his armor, and piled it in one corner of the room, then watched as the clean water cascaded into the basin beneath the large, cracked mirror. Breathing in the steam from the hot water, Fenris wet a rag and began to scrub the grime from his skin, but when he looked up into his reflection, the bloody mats in his hair drew his eye. Grumbling, he lowered his head back to the basin and scoured away the crusted blood, then after he'd ensured he was clean, he sluiced the majority of the water from his hair with his hands and toweled off.

The only thing left now was his bloodied armor.

Fenris donned the clean tunic and leggings, then, damp cloth in hand, he slid down the wall, pulled his breastplate toward him, and set to scrubbing.

~Anders~

Anders threw himself into his work. The clinic was still recovering from the Templar raid, but it was looking significantly less destroyed after a few hours of reorganizing. An order of furniture -mostly cots and tables- had appeared outside the clinic a few days after the raid, and Anders made a mental note to thank Hawke for the delivery.

His stock of ingredients was also woefully lacking. Many of the herbs he used had been unsalvageable after the Templars were through with them, but he’d snagged some elfroot during his mission to Sundermount with Hawke, and he still had some usable embrium. So, while Anders waited for patients, he set to work mixing poultices.

Anders felt the exact moment Fenris woke up.

He’d been about to hand an elfroot potion to a local tanner complaining of body aches when a vicious headache interrupted him mid-sentence. Anders' eyes narrowed against the pain, and he finished giving his instructions to the tanner in a rush. The man had looked at him strangely, but thanked him all the same, and as he left the clinic, the man threw the healer a concerned look over his shoulder.

Surveying the clinic, Anders was relieved to see it mostly empty. Holly, his aide, was tending to one of the local elders, but other than that the clinic was now unoccupied.

He retreated to his quarters, cradling his head in his hands. Between the sleep loss, the emotional turmoil and now this headache, Anders felt his composure starting to crumble, and he forced himself to take deep breaths.

He wished he knew how to block the bond. He wished he knew where to begin to fix this disaster of a situation. He wished he still had Justice in his head, instead of a problematic bond fusing his existence to an irritable elf who hated his guts.

Anders didn’t want to close the clinic; it would be wrong to allow his patients to suffer due to his personal problems. However, in order to treat them to standard, he needed to take a step back and compose himself. He was considering just asking Holly to take over for an hour so he could retreat to his quarters and try to get himself under control, when an idea occurred to him.

Steadying himself with a few more deep breaths, Anders rolled his shoulders back and returned to the main room of the clinic. He strode over to Holly who was administering a breathing treatment to one of his routine patients.

“That’s it, El. Deep breaths,” Holly was saying to the elderly woman sitting before her on the cot. The older woman, Elanor, had her eyes closed and was clutching the mask of a medical apparatus to her mouth. Anders could hear the rasp of her inhaling deeply.

Elanor frequently had trouble breathing; she’d been a miner in her youth, and long years of inhaling dust and volatile gasses had done a number on her lungs. Her son would bring her to Anders’ clinic once or twice a week when her breathing grew labored. Anders had fashioned a device from a flask and some leather with which to give the elder breathing treatments. The bottom of the flask was filled with an embrium concoction which, when held over a small flame, would release a vapor that soothed the lungs and eased breathing. He’d been meaning to make another to send the elder home with, but hadn’t had the chance to search for suitable leather with which to construct it.

“How are we doing?” Anders asked quietly, crouching at the side of Elanor’s cot. The elder opened her eyes and, upon finding Anders knelt by her side, her eyes crinkled up in a smile. She didn’t take the mask from her face, but her gaze held Anders’ for a moment while she continued to take deep breaths in through her mouth. Anders smiled gently and briefly placed a hand on her arm, then he turned his head to catch Holly’s eye. He gestured over to the corner of the clinic and Holly nodded.

“Keep doin’ what you’re doin’, El. We’ll be right back,” Holly said, as the two of them stepped over to the edge of the clinic, out of earshot of the elder.

“I’m going to visit our old friend,” Anders said quietly. “Will you two be alright while I’m gone?”

Holly rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Of course we will.”

“Good,” Anders murmured, rubbing his face tiredly. “I shouldn’t be longer than an hour or so. I’ll see you when I get back.”

Anders started to turn to head out the door when Holly caught him by the arm.

“Wait, just a moment,” Holly said quietly, and Anders turned back to face her. Holly looked up into his eyes and Anders could see concern written across her freckled cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” she asked knowingly, and when Anders opened his mouth to deny it, she shook her head.

“Don’t tell me nothing’s bothering you, Anders. I know something’s up. We’ve worked together for a few years now; do us both a favor and don’t make me dig it out of you.”

Anders sighed and didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“When is it not?” Holly teased, but her voice was gentle.

Anders shifted on his feet, and Holly took pity on him.

“You don’t have to tell me about it now if you don’t want to -or ever for that matter.” Holly tipped her head to the side, looking up at Anders fondly. “Just remember I’m always here, even if all you need is somebody to tell you really bad jokes and try to make you smile.”

Anders let out a breath and some of the tension left his posture. Holly reached up and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Whatever it is will pass. It might pass like a kidney stone, but it will pass.”

“Thank you, Holly. Really,” said Anders, his voice a little rough with emotion. “You’re a treasure.”

“That I am,” she grinned, then added, “But you are too, you know. We need you in tip-top shape, so if whatever this is can be handled by a good ass-whooping, let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

“You? You’re going to beat somebody up for me?” Anders asked, smiling skeptically.

“Oh, no. Not me. I’d get Isabela or my brother to do it. I’d just call whoever it is mean names and insult their wardrobe; you know, the stuff that really hurts.” She laughed and despite the turmoil of yesterday, Anders found himself chuckling right along with her.

“Oh. Wait, before you go.” Holly held up a finger, then ducked into a side room briefly, reappearing a moment later. “Take this with you,” she said, handing Anders a wrapped package.

“You already did the shopping?” he asked.

“I was planning on visiting him myself, actually. You saved me a trip.”

“You’re more than welcome to come with,” Anders lied. He loved Holly. Really, he did, but he’d had his heart set on this being a solo trip, and he was relieved when Holly shook her head.

“That’s okay. El and I have some catching up to do as it is. I need my weekly dose of chatter and she always has the best gossip.”

Anders smiled and shook his head. Holly returned to Elanor’s side and sat beside her on the cot, murmuring something in a voice too low for Anders to catch.

He ducked back into his personal quarters to grab a small satchel. Quickly, he stuffed a few sachets of tea, a bottle of ink, a quill and some parchment into the bag, along with the package Holly had given him. He slung his staff across his back, splashed a bit of water on his face and tried not to look at his own reflection in the mirror.

Anders returned to the main clinic area and, at the last moment, nabbed an overripe apple from the bowl of fruit he kept on the counter for kids who came into the clinic. He took a bite of the sweet fruit and then turned to wave farewell. Elanor had finished her breathing treatment and was now nursing a cup of tea Holly had prepared. They both looked up and smiled warmly, returning his wave before going back to their gossip.

Anders closed the door to the clinic softly behind him.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Anders made himself take his time on the walk over. Fenris’ headache still pounded against his temples, taking the term ‘painful reminder’ to a whole new level. Anders measured his breaths to re-center himself, and he counted each step in an attempt at distraction as he made his way to the Lowtown docks.

The entrance to the small, squat residence was tucked in an alleyway behind a fisherman’s stall off a somewhat busy street. He sidestepped a group of rowdy kids who were kicking a ball back and forth, then ducked into the alley.  Anders cast a glance over each shoulder, then knocked quietly on the door and let himself into the apartment.

The small building had only two rooms: a living space and a bedroom. Anders walked through the front door into a small mudroom which was separated from the rest of the house by a thin, wooden partition.

“It’s just me,” Anders called, shutting the door behind him and toeing off his boots. He leaned his staff against the wall by the door, then walked around the partition into the main room proper. The home’s only occupant was sat in his usual spot; the squashy, red armchair by the window had a relatively nice view of the ocean and the street outside. Anders could see the children he’d passed earlier still playing through the windowpane.

Anders walked over to the old man sitting in the armchair and crouched in front of it. The man turned his head slightly to look at Anders and recognition glimmered in his eye. He took the man’s left hand and gave it a light squeeze.

“How are you feeling today, my friend?” He asked. The man in the armchair returned the squeeze with two of his own.

“Okay?” Anders confirmed, “The pain is manageable?” Two more squeezes. Anders smiled and nodded.

“That’s good to hear. I’m happy it isn’t troubling you today.” A smile came to his lips without effort.

Anders let his eyes trace over his friend. The right half of the man’s face was a ruin of burn scars, one eye missing and the other hazy with cataract. His skin was pale, and his legs were atrophied from disuse, but Anders could tell he’d once been a large man, strong in his youth, presumably before the incident that had robbed him of his independence and the majority of his mobility. He could only really use the left side of his body, had limited range of motion in his arm and almost total paralysis in his face. He guessed the man was probably in his late 60’s based on his grey hair and cataract development.

Anders didn’t know his name. The only time he’d asked, the man had slowly shaken his head, declining to answer, and Anders hadn’t asked again after that. In fact, Anders knew very little about the man in general. To the extent of Anders’ knowledge, he couldn’t speak; in all his visits he’d never once heard his friend utter even a sound.

He’d been coming to visit the man for a little over a year now, keeping him company and relieving the aches from his bones when needed.

Anders thought back to the day he’d met the old man in the armchair.

It was by sheer happenstance Anders had discovered the man’s existence at all. He’d been at the docks to purchase fish oil from a local merchant when a stray ball, kicked by kids on the street, had sailed through the old man’s window, shattering the glass.

The children had frozen, and Anders had overheard them whispering in hushed, nervous voices. He’d walked closer to the group of kids, just in time to hear one of them say the house was abandoned, only for another kid to chime in that it wasn’t abandoned, than an old man lived there.

Anders had peered through the broken window and, in the deep recesses of shadow, he could just make out the shape of a man sitting in an armchair. With a quick admonishment to the children, Anders had knocked on the door but gotten no response. He’d let himself into the building, announcing his presence.

The man looked much the same as he did now, frail and immobile, but didn’t appear to be wounded. Anders had retrieved the children’s ball and returned it to them, with a stern reminder about being careful, then went back inside to check on the old man.

Anders had introduced himself, but when the man didn’t reply, he had quickly ascertained the man was mute. He was preparing to simply clean up the glass and bid him farewell when he gave the man a closer look. The elder was breathing heavily as though in pain, but Anders couldn’t see any blood. He’d given the man a once over, saw the terrible burn scars and the rigidity in his posture.

“Are you in pain?” he’d asked. The man had remained silent, but when he’d met Anders’ eye, the healer could see the distress therein. After a brief moment of deliberation, Anders had revealed that he was a healer, capable of easing the man’s suffering.

“I can heal you, but I ask that you don’t reveal my secret.” Anders had whispered conspiratorially. The old man had hesitated for a long moment, then closed his remaining eye, and gave Anders a barely perceptible nod. The healer had rested his hand on top of the man’s and let Justice guide him to the source of his pain.

The man’s tense posture had immediately relaxed as the glow of magic illuminated him and Anders heard a heavy breath escape his lungs, sensing the relief that came with it. The old man had opened his eye and turned his hand up to grasp Anders’, squeezing it with all the limited force he could muster.

‘Thank you,’ Anders understood.

Curious about the man’s circumstances and not wanting to leave his home in the state it was in, Anders had cleaned up the fragmented glass and covered the man with a blanket to keep the slight breeze from the broken window at bay. He’d then spent several minutes working out a way to ‘speak’ with the man.

By the time the sun was setting the in the sky, the pair of them had worked out a method of communication and Anders had promised to return in a few days to ensure the man’s pain had not returned.  

And so, he did.

For the next year, Anders would drop by the little house to visit and ease the man’s chronic pain. More often than not, Holly would accompany him; she enjoyed visiting their old friend as much as Anders did.

Looking at the man now, Anders realized that he was much the same as the day they’d met, but that his friend was relaxed, at ease in Anders’ now familiar presence.

Anders knew the man had a son who lived somewhere in the city, but he’d never met him. In fact, Anders had never run into anybody at the man’s house, save the old man himself, and only knew what little he was able to glean through the unsteady words the old man had managed to scribble on parchment. His fine motor skills were nearly nonexistent, but Anders was patient.

He took the quill, ink and parchment from his satchel and placed the parchment under the old man’s left hand where it rested on the arm of the chair. Then Anders loaded the quill with ink and pressed it between the old man’s fingers. The man gripped the quill clumsily and began to scribble.

“I brought groceries,” Anders said, standing. While he waited for his friend to write, he took the package Holly gave him to the small pantry where he unwrapped it and began shelving the non-perishables. There was some salted meat and a few packets of dried fruit, as well as a tin of tea -the kind Anders knew his friend liked.

The last of the package consisted of a few pieces of fresh fruit and a small jar filled with soothing balm. Anders set all but one piece of fruit in the bowl on the small counter, then turned back to the man in the armchair.

He glanced at the parchment under the old man’s hand, reading the words he’d managed to scribble out.

‘You’re tired’ was written in barely legible script. Anders nodded but tried to keep his face neutral.

“I didn’t sleep much last night,” Anders confirmed. The man narrowed his good eye and Anders felt slightly abashed.

“Okay, I didn’t sleep at all last night,” Anders amended. His friend looked at him sternly.

“I know, I know. It wasn’t intentional. I wasn’t even writing anything, I just couldn’t sleep,” Anders said evasively. He didn’t want to think about the cause of his sleeplessness. The bond was mostly quiet, just an undercurrent of frustration making its way through to Anders’ side. He was grateful for that.

He held up the jar of balm questioningly, trying to change the subject. Anders’ friend blinked twice, slow and deliberate. A ‘yes’, as Anders had come to know it.

He grabbed a sitting stool from one corner of the room, placing it to the right of the man’s armchair. He sat down, pulled the lid from the jar and the strong scent of the salve washed over him, smelling heavily of elfroot and dawn lotus. His friend began to scribble on the parchment again as Anders scooped a few fingers into the balm, drawing out a dollop of the soothing cream.

The healer rolled up the sleeve of the old man’s dressing gown, revealing the terrible, marred flesh to the light. Scars covered the entirety of the man’s right side; His face, arm, torso, and left leg all bore the telltale contracted scaring of a burn victim.

The man’s left side was scarred as well, but not by fire. Silvery lines crisscrossed the skin, some thin and deep, others superficial but twisted and gnarled as if they’d healed poorly. Old battle scars, they looked like. Anders guessed the man’s whole body had similar marks once, but whatever had caused the massive, intense burns to the man’s right half had effectively covered them.

Anders rubbed the balm between his hands, warming it, then gently began to smooth it into the ruined skin of the man’s arm. His friend winced slightly and closed his eye briefly, and Anders couldn’t tell if he was enjoying the sensation or weathering the sting of the balm.

“Does this hurt?” Anders asked quietly, pausing in his application. The man opened his eye again, appeared to deliberate for a moment, then blinked twice. ‘Yes’

“Would you like me to stop?” Anders asked. The man blinked three times - ‘No’ - then stared into Anders’ eyes, wordlessly trying to communicate. Anders thought he understood.

“A good pain? The kind of pain that comes with healing?” Anders asked. He friend looked relieved, relaxing slightly in his chair. Two blinks.

Anders nodded, resuming the motion of his hands, spreading the salve evenly across the scars. The man resumed his writing, moving the quill in slow, deliberate strokes. Anders glanced at the parchment again.

‘Poem?’ Anders read, ‘Calm.’

“A calm poem? Peaceful?” Anders double checked, a smile turning up his lips. Two blinks.

“I think I can do that.”

Frequently when Anders visited, his friend would ask him for a poem, occasionally a story. It was the only time Anders read his poetry aloud to anybody, overlooking his own embarrassment to bring his friend a few moments of happiness.

He’d nearly given up writing poetry entirely before he’d met the old man, instead devoting his parchment and ink to his manifesto. But one day, on his and Holly’s third or fourth visit to the man’s house, Holly had made a passing comment about Anders staying up too late. She’d then teased him, saying he shouldn’t sacrifice his sleep to write poetry he’d never read to anybody.

The old man had tapped his good hand against the armchair somewhat urgently and, after a lengthy series of yes/no questions, they’d discovered their old friend had a fondness for it. After that, the man had asked Anders to read to him nearly every visit.

Sometimes Anders would bring a book, other times he’d merely recite one of the many poems he’d committed to memory. Anders had read him a good number of Varric’s books, choosing to forgo the dwarf’s romance serials. Once he’d brought an illustrated book depicting some of Thedas’ more fantastic beasts, another time he’d read a story or two from a book of children’s tales. His friend had a particular fondness for stories that allowed the reader to choose their own adventure, though they were hard to come by.

Anders searched his mental list of poems, looking for one that would convey the atmosphere his friend requested. He picked one and narrated it internally first, ensuring he had the verses right. Then, with confidence he found only within the walls of this house, Anders began to recite.

“Recall an autumn sunset,

The leaves glow fire bright,

Colors unattained by man,

Yet through the Maker’s light

See the feathered sparrow’s wing,

It’s truly unmatched grace,

By our Father’s will she flies,

Takes wing through starlit space

His lady lights our darkest paths,

Unwavering she guides,

Never lost in shepherd’s gaze,

The moon, our Maker’s Bride

His endless love, scorned by man,

Though not without redemption

We will return to his side

As one without exemption.”

Anders finished the poem and looked up from his ministrations. The old man’s remaining eye was closed, his head leaned back against the chair. The sunlight touched his face and Anders saw the smile pulling at the left corner of his mouth.

He took another scoop from the jar and rubbed it across the man’s palm, carefully kneading it into the skin and smoothing it down each finger. This hand bore the worst of the scarring, as if the man had reached out to block the fire as it burned him. It seemed a miracle he had kept the hand at all, though Anders assumed he had little to no feeling in it. He looked up again at the sound of the quill scratching on the parchment. It was nearly out of ink, he noticed, and he paused in smoothing the balm over each finger to refill the quill and replace it back in the man’s hand.

While he waited for his friend to write, Anders finished applying the salve, then stood and grabbed a wet cloth from the wash bin. He rinsed his hands and retrieved the fruit he’d set aside, along with a knife.

He moved his stool around to his friend’s other side. In his time spent working with Kirkwall’s citizens, he’d encountered many people involved in tragic accidents. It was true that most of his patient’s wounds were nowhere near as extensive as this man’s, but he’d picked up a few habits in his time spent treating those with traumatic injuries. One of said habits was to default to sitting on their less injured side.

His friend’s hearing was his strongest sense, though Anders had determined it was exclusively through his left ear, and while his only eye was clouded by cataract, he could still see well enough through it to read, though it took him longer than it otherwise would.

Anders retook his seat, now on the left side of the armchair and surveyed the parchment.

‘Beautiful. Praise Him. Yours?’

These few words were a veritable goldmine of information for Anders. He had already surmised during previous visits that the man was educated; he had never misspelled a word as long as Anders had known him, and this note further solidified that conclusion. He also now knew the man was devout, and rather strongly at that.

“Not mine,” Anders said, “It was by a Chantry sister. Sister Irene, to be exact. I don’t know when she penned it, but I first read it years ago when I was in the- Ferelden. When I was in Ferelden,” Anders cut himself off last minute. His old friend already knew he was a mage; he’d healed him many times in the past to ease his chronic pain, but Anders was still wary of revealing too much information. The man didn’t need to know Anders had first read the poem when he was still traveling with the Wardens. “But yes, it is beautiful.”

Personally, Anders found the poem a little preachy for his tastes, a little too ‘Chantry,’ but he admired the cadence and it was easy enough to memorize after a few readings. Anders refilled the quill again and handed it back.

 He lay the cloth across his lap and began to cut the ripe nectarine into slices while his friend scribbled another note.

‘Ferelden,’ Anders looked away from the fruit he was cutting to read, accidentally nicking his thumb with the sharpened blade. He bit down a hiss of pain, cautious of startling the old man and tucked his hand briefly behind him to heal the cut. Anders looked up at the man to see him watching from the corner of his eye.

“Cut myself,” Anders explained, “And yes, I am Ferelden.”

Three blinks, ‘No.’ Anders considered.

“You are Ferelden?” He guessed. Two slow blinks, seeming almost mournful. Anders nodded and tried to think of safe questions to ask.

“Do you miss it?” Two blinks, fast and emphatic.

“I do as well. Kirkwall is my home now, but I will always miss Ferelden.”

‘Yes,’ his friend blinked.

“Do you have family there?”

‘Yes,’ A pause, then, ‘No.’

“Yes and no,” Anders mulled that one over.

“You used to have family there,” Anders hazarded a guess.

‘Yes,’ the old man looked sad, his brow slightly creased and his eye downcast.

“They died?” Anders asked, then added, “During the Blight?”

‘Yes, no.’

“They died before the Blight?”

‘Yes.’

“I am sorry to hear that, my friend,” Anders said. And he was. He was glad his friend had family that yet lived; his son here in the city with him, but Anders knew the pain of losing a loved one. Time heals, but some wounds never truly stop hurting. Anders made a split-second decision.

“I had a cat,” He told the man. “His name was Ser Pounce-a-Lot; he was given to me by an old friend.”

The man looked at him and Anders thought he saw a hint of amusement on the old man’s face.

“I had to leave him behind when I left Ferelden, but he was the best cat you could ever ask for.”

A glimmer appeared in the man’s eye.

“You’re a dog person, aren’t you?” Anders accused playfully. Two blinks.

“Well, I happen to know that cats are far better than dogs.” Three blinks.

“Yes, actually they are,” Anders said, nodding matter-of-factly. He cut up the rest of the nectarine. “Cats are highly intelligent, and they don’t drool like dogs do.”

 Anders took a slice of nectarine and held it to his friend’s mouth. The man closed his teeth around it and chewed it slowly.

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘Dogs are smarter, and they can protect you, right?” Two blinks. Anders popped a slice into his own mouth. The juice washed across his taste buds, sinfully sweet with the perfect amount of tartness.

"I’ll have you know that Ser Pounce was a force of nature.” Anders thought back to the time the little, orange furball had clawed a genlock in the face. He helped the man take another bite of the nectarine. They sat like that a while, Anders telling his friend about his cat, polishing off the rest of the nectarine together. Before he knew it, an hour had come and gone.

Anders regretfully realized he would need to head back to the clinic soon. He helped clean the sticky juice from the man’s face, then stood from his seat and washed his hands again. He rinsed the knife and put it back in the spot he’d retrieved it from.

“It’s about time for me to head out, my friend. Before I leave is there anything else I can do for you?” Anders corked the inkwell and placed it back in his satchel along with the burlap from Holly’s package. The man’s eye crinkled into a small smile and he blinked ‘No.’

Anders took back his quill and the parchment, placing them both in the satchel. He’d leave them, but the quill was useless without ink, and his friend couldn’t fill the quill on his own. He slung the pack over his shoulder, then patted his friend gently on the shoulder.

“I’ll be back in a few days. Would you like me to bring you anything?” Anders asked.

The man blinked twice. Anders grinned widely.

“Besides more poetry?”

‘No.’

~Fenris~

Fenris stared up at the large tree in the center of the Alienage. The ‘Vhenadahl’ Merrill had called it. The city elves said it was a “Tree of the People,” a desperate bid to cling to their history, to the things that separated them from humans.

‘It’s just a tree,’ Fenris thought, but he did privately admit the tree itself was something to behold. Huge, it towered above the elves that walked beneath its bows. Its canopy was massive, shading the vast majority of the Alienage with its branches. He looked away from it, training his eyes on Merrill’s front door.

He’d been hovering outside uselessly for several minutes, having decided not to knock on her door before he had at least some idea of what to say to her. He knew one misplaced expression, one offhand comment, would be enough to make her question why he needed to know about bonds. He was determined to avoid arousing suspicion.

But how to go about bringing up bonds naturally without doing exactly that? He looked up at the tree again as if hoping to find the answer in the leaves that fluttered in the breeze. His gaze moved down to the base of the trunk. It was ringed with red paint, the roots adorned with candles and trinkets placed there by reverential elves.

Roots…

An idea crossed his mind. Perhaps he could ask Merrill about Dalish customs, make her believe he simply wanted to get in touch with his roots. He could ask her about ‘what it meant to be elvhen’, then work around to bonds and what they meant to the Dalish.

Fenris grimaced at the thought. The deception was not the source of his ire, he had no qualms about evading the truth in this case, but the idea of deliberately asking Merrill about Dalish culture rubbed him the wrong way. He would need to keep a straight face, or she’d believe he was mocking her.

However, the idea was probably the best he’d be able to come up with.

A familiar voice reached his ears. Two familiar voices. Fenris turned to see Hawke and Merrill descending the steps to the Alienage, walking close together and talking amiably. Fenris froze before he realized he hadn’t been caught doing anything wrong. He trained his eyes upward again before they spotted him.

“Fenris?” Merrill asked, and he looked down from the tree’s branches, meeting Merrill’s eyes as if just noticing her.

“Hawke. Merrill,” Fenris said by way of greeting.

“Bit of a ways from home, aren’t you?” Merrill teased. Fenris let the comment pass over him without rising to it.

“Somewhat,” he answered instead.

“What are you doing down here?” Hawke asked curiously.

Before Fenris had time to think of response, Merrill interjected.

“Oh, did you come here to look at the People’s tree? It’s quite pretty, isn’t it?” She said, voice full of admiration. Fenris seized the opportunity.

“Yes, I did. It is… rather impressive,” Fenris said, looking up at the tree again.

“You came all the way down here to look at a tree?” Hawke asked skeptically.

‘Predictable,’ Fenris thought, but instead shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly.

“I had free time,” He replied.

“Oh, leave him alone, love. You have to admit it’s worth the trip,” Merrill nudged her bondmate. Hawke still looked unconvinced, but he dropped it, nonetheless.

“You’re coming to cards, right, Fenris? The night after next?” Hawke asked instead. Internally, Fenris kicked himself for forgetting. He could say no, of course, but he had no excuse ready and if he skipped out on card night, Hawke would want to know why. Left with little option other than acceptance, he nodded, trying to keep the disgruntled look off his face. Hawke beamed at him.

“Great, we’ll see you then.”

Hawke and Merrill passed Fenris and headed for Merrill’s front door. For a moment he was worried they’d both go inside, but Hawke stopped at the threshold. The bondmates exchanged a few words, then a kiss, and Merrill shut the door.

Hawke walked back to Fenris, pausing next to the elf. He joined Fenris in looking up at the branches.

“It is a rather marvelous sight,” Hawke said, and Fenris could hear the mischief in his voice.

“Indeed.”

“I’m headed back up if you’d like to join me. Unless you’re still pretending to admire the big tree.”

Fenris shot Hawke an annoyed look. Hawke grinned and held up his hands.

“Alright, alright. Don’t tell me what you’re up to. Just don’t get arrested; you already said you’d be at cards.”

Fenris rolled his eyes and Hawke gave a quick wave good-bye. He waited until Hawke had rounded the corner, then another few moments to ensure the rogue wasn’t coming back.

He glanced at his surroundings, then, steeling himself, finally headed over to Merrill’s home.

He took a few steadying breaths and knocked firmly on the door.

Merrill answered almost immediately.

“Did you forget someth- Oh! It’s you, Fenris.” Merrill peered up at him, “Do you need something?”

Fenris shuffled on the spot, trying unsuccessfully to appear casual. Merrill was looking expectantly at him.

Deciding to simply abandon pretext, he said “I wanted to know a few things about the Dalish.”

Merrill looked delighted, then stepped back from the door, ushering him in. “I’d be happy to talk with you, Fenris.” She said.

Fenris stepped into her home and she closed the door behind him. Merrill started bustling about, pulling out a chair and indicating he should sit.

“Do you want anything to drink?” She asked, “I’ve got water and… water.”

Fenris smirked but managed to force it into a smile at the last second.

“No, thank you.”

“Alright then,” Merrill said, sitting in the seat opposite him. She gave him a bright smile, “What do you want to know?”

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

Fenris settled himself stiffly in the seat at Merrill’s table and debated for a few moments on how best to get her talking. His hope was to get her started, then steer the conversation around to bonds without making it obvious he was doing so. The real challenge would not be how to get her talking, it would be how to get her talking about something he actually cared about.

“What do the Dalish do with their mages?” Fenris began. That was all the prompting Merrill needed.

“Oh, well, we Dalish only have a few mages in the clan at a time. We have a Keeper, and then there’s the Keeper’s First and sometimes a Second who all have magic. The Keeper’s First is who takes over the clan after the Keeper passes, so they study under the Keeper to learn how to lead the clan. Clans don’t keep too many mages with them because magic can be dangerous… as you -ah… already know. That, and having too many mages draws too much attention from human Templars.

“If there’s too many elves with magic in one clan, we send them to other clans who don’t have any. That way every Keeper has a successor. That’s what happened to me, actually. I was born in the Alerion clan, but we already had too many gifted elves, so they sent me to clan Sabrae to be the first to Keeper Marethari.”

Fenris had to stop himself from making a comment about Merrill’s haste to give away that position, reminding himself that, for once, he wanted Merrill to keep talking to him.

“What do they think of demons?” Fenris asked instead.

“Well, we don’t differentiate between them like humans do, calling them demons or spirits depending on if they think they’re good or bad. We believe all spirits are dangerous, if treated improperly. They have to be handled very carefully.”

Fenris rolled his eyes internally. This was getting him nowhere. He was just going to have to risk asking more direct questions.

“Do Dalish have families?”

“Oh! The whole clan is considered family, of course! In a way, all Elvhen are family, which I suppose would make us siblings.” Fenris just stared at her in response to the beaming smile she gave him, “But I think I know what you mean anyway. If one elf fancies another member of the clan, they’ll usually exchange gifts. Of course, you have to be of age, have your Vallaslin, and have the Keeper’s blessing, to bond.”

Fenris sat up in his chair, remembering only at the last second to keep his face impassive.

“Bond? As in soul bonds?”

Merrill tipped her head to one side, studying Fenris, and for a moment he was certain she’d figured him out. He tried not to let the relief show on his face when Merrill elaborated of her own accord.

“Well, yes and no. What humans call ‘marriage’ we Dalish refer to as ‘bonding.’ The stories say that in the days of ancient Arlathan -when the People were immortal- all elves formed soul bonds with their partners. Actually, that’s where the term ‘bonding’ comes from. It’s rare nowadays for pairs to form a soul bond, but it does happen, and not always with another elf.” She smiled and it was clear she was thinking of her own bond with Hawke.

“But no, most ‘bonded’ elves are not actually bonded as most people know it. They choose their mates and spend their lives together; much the same way humans do -at least according to Hawke.”

“What do the Dalish know about soul bonds? Do they know more about bonds than humans do?” Fenris asked with what he hoped was only mild curiosity in his voice.

“Oh yes, most definitely.”

Fenris waited for her to expand on the subject, but when no information was forthcoming, he caved.

“Such as?”

“Why the sudden interest in bonds, Fenris?” Merrill asked suspiciously. Fenris cursed inwardly.

“I…admit to some curiosity,” Fenris said slowly, carefully, “I had never met a bonded pair before you and Hawke, at least not one I could speak with. As a former slave, there are gaps in my knowledge I’d like to remedy, such as with the Dalish.” He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. Merrill frowned slightly but seemed to accept this as a valid motive.

“Well, the Dalish know that bonds are formed between an especially compatible pair of people, two people whose souls were meant to be together.” Fenris almost scoffed aloud but contented himself with another mental eyeroll. “It seems to happen more commonly with mages… probably because they already have a strong connection to the Beyond, which is where bonds are formed,” Merrill continued.

“The Dalish believe Mythal guides the pair together, and when they find each other, she blesses them with a spiritual connection so deep it cannot be broken by anything other than death.”

“And is that true? That death is the only way to break a bond?” Fenris asked. He’d slid to the edge of his seat in his earnest, leaning over the table, fixated on Merrill’s every word.

“Well, not exactly,” Merrill looked slightly disturbed. Clearly the conversation was not headed in a direction she found desirable.

“There are… methods that some people use to break bonds, but all of them are horrible and cause terrible pain for both bondmates. I’ve heard it’s actually a form of torture in Tevinter.”

Fenris sat back in his seat, his hands clenching into fists, forcing down the bile that rose in his throat. He’d never heard of these specific ‘torture methods,’ but he knew from all his time spent in the Imperium that it was undoubtedly true. Frustration rose in him like a tide and he had to press it back down again, knowing any sign of it appearing on his face ran the hazard of tipping off the elven mage. He wasn’t sure he’d succeeded, but Merrill didn’t acknowledge it if he hadn’t.

“Anyway, there’s no good way to break a bond, I know that much. And besides, it would be a terrible waste to throw away such a gift.” Merrill said, giving herself a little shake. Fenris clenched his jaw against his disappointment, knowing that he needed to direct the conversation away from breaking bonds if he wanted more information.

“You’ve mentioned before that you can block your bond with Hawke,” He said, redirecting the topic. Merrill nodded, evidently relieved to be done with the topic of severing bonds.

“Yes. With practice, a bondmate can temporarily block the connection.” She squinted slightly. “It’s difficult to do, and if the connection is blocked for too long, it becomes very...uncomfortable.”

“Meaning what?” Fenris asked.

“Well, even after just a few minutes blocking the bond, it begins to feel stifling. The best way I can phrase it is it’s almost like holding a thick cloth over your mouth and trying to breath. It gets worse the longer you block the link, so I don’t do it very often. Hawke can do it too, but not as well as I can.” She grinned. “I think mages have something of a head start; something about the mental aspect of magic makes it easier for us.”

“Interesting,” Fenris said in a hollow voice. Merrill looked at him and he tried to shrug it off, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced.

“Are you alright, Fenris?” Merrill asked keenly.

Fenris nodded, suddenly weary. This interaction had not delivered the desired outcome. Indeed, it had all but confirmed his fears that the breaking of a bond was nigh impossible.

“I’m merely tired, is all.”

“You look a bit sick.” Merrill sounded concerned. Standing, she fetched a cup of water and set it in front of Fenris.

“Thank you,” he made himself say, taking a halfhearted draft.

“I think the topic got away from us a bit, but I hope that answered some of your questions,” Merrill said, watching him carefully. Fenris nodded, swallowing.

“Indeed.”

Merrill was watching him with almost studious intensity, as if Fenris was an unusual bug she discovered crawling in the grass. His fingers twitched in irritation.

“What more can you tell me about Dalish custom?” He asked, trying to draw the other elf’s attention away from himself. He didn’t care in the slightest about Dalish rituals, but in the interest of keeping up appearances, he let Merrill prattle on about celebrations and coming of age ceremonies for a bit, nodding occasionally and asking questions in what he hoped were the right places.

By the time Merrill had finished her long-winded explanation of Vallaslin and what each type of blood writing meant, his patience was nearly worn through. He glanced behind him at the light shining through the gap in the door and realized the sun was beginning to set.

“It’s getting late,” Merrill said, noticing his gaze.

“Yes. I do not wish to overstay my welcome,” He said, getting to his feet. His bones ached with weariness and, though the headache from his hangover was gone, the long night spent hunched over on the mansion’s cold, stone floor was weighing on him. He rubbed a hand over his brow.

“Are you sure you’re not ill, Fenris?” Merrill watched him through eyes bright with concern.

Fenris saw an opportunity and seized it. “You…may be right,” he said, “I am not feeling well. It would be best if I did not come to cards; it would be prudent not to spread whatever illness I have to the rest of you. Let Hawke know for me, if you would.”

Until now, he’d been avoiding the fact that attending card night meant he would be forced to spend time pointedly ignoring Anders and endeavoring not to give their situation away. He’d almost resigned himself to staying for a round or two of cards before calling it an early night, but Merrill had provided him with the perfect excuse for avoiding it entirely.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t worry.” Merrill gave him a small smile, then added, “Would you like me to walk you home? If you’re not feeling well-”

“No,” He said quickly, “Thank you. I will be fine on my own.”

“If you’re sure… and Fenris? If you have any more questions, you’re welcome to visit anytime,” she said graciously.

Merrill crossed the small room and opened the door for him.

“Thank you for sharing your knowledge with me, Merrill.”

“Take care, Fenris.”

~*~

Fenris climbed the steps out of the Alienage, combating the swell of frustration that had been growing ever since Merrill had informed him that he was, for all intents and purposes, stuck with the bond. He grit his teeth, forcing back a growl.

He’d known it would not come easily, of course, but he had hoped his conversation with Merrill would yield better results. Part of him clung to the idea that breaking the bond was possible, and he reasoned that if the situation ever grew desperate enough, he would inquire after the methods Merrill had refused to discuss.

It was not a total loss, however. He now knew that, with practice, he could block the bond, keep the mage out of his mind. That was some comfort, at least. If only he knew how to do so now.

The bond had been almost dormant for most of the day, but Fenris had felt the mage’s exhaustion in addition to his own. However, there had been an instance when he could feel it glow with warmth and even a brief moment of amusement. Fenris had done his best to ignore it, but he’d caught himself idly wondering at what had the mage in high spirits.

By the time he reached Hightown, the light from the vanishing sun was merely a glow on the horizon. He let himself into the mansion, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Fenris dragged himself into his bedroom, propped his greatsword against the wall by the bed, and began to remove his armor with fingers made clumsy by fatigue. By the time he’d doffed the last of his armor, he could barely keep his eyes open. Fenris slumped against the pillows, dragged a blanket over himself and immediately fell asleep.

~Anders~

Two days after Anders had visited the old man, the sun dawned behind an overcast darkened sky, the air bitterly cold and damp. It hadn’t rained yet, but it would soon, if his creaking joints were anything to go by.

Anders cracked an eye open, bracing himself for the headache that had met him the morning prior; a lovely gift from Fenris who seemed incapable of drinking water or otherwise taking actions to combat his own hangovers. He was pleasantly surprised when no such headache manifested; Anders had half expected the hangovers to be a daily occurrence.

He had briefly considered that perhaps Fenris was intentionally drinking enough to cause hangover merely to torment Anders, but he’d dismissed the thought almost immediately. It was true that Fenris had a petty streak, but assuming his alcohol abuse was only for Anders’ ‘benefit’ was complete dismissal of the pain he knew Fenris was enduring, not to mention dangerously close to narcissism.

He yawned hugely and stretched his arms over his head. Anders was woe to leave the warmth of his cot for the brisk, morning air and delayed doing so by blearily rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes and pawing at his face. He’d managed to snag an hour or two of restless sleep during the wee hours of the morning, but weariness still dragged at him. His sleepless nights hadn’t been improved by his bond with Fenris; whereas he used to only have his own insomnia to deal with, he now dealt with the elf’s atop his own.

Anders groaned as he rose from the bed and shuffled over to the wash basin. The cracked mirror reflected an image of a pallid man with dark circles and bags under his eyes so large that they were more akin to suitcases. He rinsed his mouth out with cold water and gave his hair and face a quick wash. It didn’t do anything to improve his reflection and instead of just looking exhausted, he now looked wet, bedraggled and exhausted.

The comb beside the basin was missing so many teeth, he may as well have been using his fingers, but he dragged it through his hair, gathering the damp strands in a tail and fastening them with a leather tie, shivering as the cold water from his wet hair trickled down his back.

Anders slowly pulled his feathered coat on, grabbed his staff and went to light the lantern.

~*~

It appeared there was to be no rest for the weary and it seemed that within moments the clinic was full.

Anders gave a few elfroot potions to an elf who said his daughter was in bed with a fever, but who hadn’t wanted to drag her all the way to the clinic in the cold, damp weather. To a farmer with wetfoot, he gave instructions to change her socks and keep her feet dry to ensure the skin didn’t rot. For a group of sheepish dock workers complaining of “rash,” Anders sighed and directed each individually to a private screening room, then firmly told each of them to avoid sleeping with people who couldn’t stop itching themselves long enough to do the deed.

Throughout the day, the bond in the back of his mind had intermittently burned with determination and boiled with irritation, only serving to sap his lagging energy farther. By the time he’d snuffed out the lantern, Anders was beyond ready to turn in for the night.

But as he was turning to head back into the clinic, he belatedly remembered it was card night and he was obligated to make an appearance, lest Hawke come hounding after him.

Anders closed his eyes, let out a long-suffering sigh, and rather than collapsing into his cot as he so desperately wanted, he closed the door to the clinic and wearily climbed the steps out of Darktown.

He was already halfway to the Hanged Man before his beleaguered brain realized that this would be his first time seeing Fenris since that disastrous night when Anders had revealed they were bonded. The comprehension that he was going to have to face the elf while maintaining a façade of casual indifference almost made him turn right around and go back to the clinic, consequences be damned. He paused momentarily to consider doing just that, but he knew he couldn’t avoid the elf forever and reluctantly continued toward the tavern.

Moments after he’d reached his decision, the rainclouds that had been threatening Kirkwall all day finally broke open with ferocity and Anders put on as much speed as he could muster, tipping into a run as the downpour began in earnest. By the time he reached the tavern, he was soaked to the bone and so dreadfully tired, he thought he’d drop to the floor as soon as he made it through the door. Only the sight of the brown sludge consisting of (presumably) mud and vomit that eternally coated the floor of the Hanged Man prevented him from doing so.

Inside it was blissfully warm; the outside chill kept at bay by the fire roaring in the hearth. Anders lifted a weary hand in greeting to Norah, who pretended not to see him, then slouched across the main floor of the tavern to Varric’s suite.

He opened the door and was surprised to see that he wasn’t the last to arrive. Fenris was conspicuously absent, as were Aveline and Sebastian.

Varric and Hawke were sat at the table, up to their necks in a game of Diamondback. Hawke was concentrating so fiercely on his hand he seemed not to notice Anders as he entered and Varric looked up only momentarily to wave before returning to his own cards.

Isabela and Merrill were curled up together on one of Varric’s love seats in the corner. Merrill sat cross-legged with her back against one arm of the sofa, Isabela’s head resting in her lap, and they were speaking quietly to each other in friendly tones while Merrill’s hands idly braided the pirate’s hair. They both looked up when Anders entered, and Isabela raised an eyebrow.

“I see the storm broke,” She said, smiling wryly at the dripping apostate.

“I barely made it out with my life. Another moment out there and I’d have drowned for sure,” Anders said weakly.

Anders removed his sodden coat and hung it up on a hook by the hearth to dry, then sank to the (much cleaner) floor of Varric’s suite with his back to the fireplace in an attempt to dry his only slightly less saturated clothing.

Isabela made an off-color joke about Sebastian’s armor that Anders didn’t entirely catch, but which made Merrill giggle and Varric snort with laugher.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be playing cards,” Hawke groused at the dwarf as Varric took a huge swig from his tankard of ale.

“I am playing. You’re losing,” Varric chuckled.

Hawke scowled and looked back down at his cards, determined to make Varric eat those words.

Anders tipped his head back to rest it against the stone of the hearth, grateful for the heat of the fire as it slowly pulled the cold from his bones. He let his eyes slide shut and the sounds of the crackling fire and companionable conversation washed over him.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Varric said mildly, turning his head and looking down at Anders where he was slumped on the floor. Anders grunted in response.

Varric narrowed his eyes, looking concerned.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Isabela quipped.

“More like ‘sleep for a week,’” Anders muttered, eyes still closed, but between the relaxed atmosphere in Varric’s suite and the warmth from the fire, he was fighting a losing battle with his exhaustion and before long he’d drifted into a doze.

What felt like moments later, he was resurrected by the harsh scent of alcohol. He opened his eyes to see Isabela crouched in front of him, holding a glass half filled with some kind of dark liquor under his nose.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” she smirked. Isabela grabbed his wrist and pressed the drink into his hand. “Now, be a good boy and take your medicine.”

Without hesitation, Anders tossed the drink back, downing it in three gulps and fire twisted its way down his throat as the alcohol reached his stomach. The mystery liquor turned out to be whiskey -or at least the Hanged Man’s best approximation of whiskey. Still, the alcohol did its job and the lingering cold at his core evaporated.

“Thanks,” Anders rumbled, clearing his throat. Looking around the room, Anders saw the rest of the crew had yet to arrive; he must have not been out for long.

As if the universe had heard his thoughts, the door swung open and Aveline walked through, Sebastian following on her heels. It was obvious neither of them had escaped the wrath of the rain either -both of them were dripping wet. Aveline seemed to barely notice it, but Sebastian was grimacing down at the state of his armor.

“Merciful Andraste, I’ll never get dry," He complained to nobody in particular. “You really should get that cat, Anders; it’d be nice to have forewarning the next time Kirkwall floods.”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you believe that old wives’ tale,” she said as she stripped off her gauntlets. She set them next to where Anders was sat by the fire and wrung her braid out, flicking the water gathered in her palm into the fire, causing it to hiss and sizzle.

“When the cat washes behind her ears, we’ll soon taste the Maker’s tears,” Anders grinned and recited.

“Cats can tell the future?” Merrill looked confused.

“No, sweet thing, they can tell the weather,” Isabela smiled, “Or, at least some people think they can.”

Merrill let out a little ooh of comprehension.

Sebastian sat down at the table to wait for Varric and Hawke to finish their game while Aveline and Isabela disappeared momentarily on an ale run before joining him.

“Wrap it up you two,” Isabela said, taking her seat at the table, now clutching a pair of tankards.

“I’ve almost got him,” Hawke said, grinning.

“No, you really don’t,” Varric replied before laying several cards down one after the other. Hawke’s grin slid from his face like it had been washed away by the rain.

“How do you do that!?” Hawke asked incredulously.

“You really should learn your own tells, Hawke,” Varric chuckled. He took another drink and then pondered aloud, “The weird thing is that you’re only bad at bluffing when we’re playing cards. You could tell a group of smugglers that you had a dragon in your pocket, and they’d believe you, but when it comes to Diamondback, you’re completely obvious. What’s up with that?”

“Cheer up, sweet thing,” Isabela said, passing a morose Hawke one of her tankards. “You can get him back at Wicked Grace.”

Hawke brightened at that.

“Yes! And now that everybody’s here, we can finally start!” Hawke said, clapping his hands together. That pulled Anders out of his reverie.

He glanced quickly around the room again to double check.

“Fenris isn’t here.” Anders said it as a statement, but the question was implied.

“He’s not coming,” Hawke said, grabbing another, larger deck of cards. He passed half the stack over to Varric to shuffle.

“He wasn’t feeling well,” Merrill elaborated.

“Oh.” Anders was quietly relieved, but an unexpected pang of disappointment met him halfway. He took a moment to examine the link at the back of his mind.

There was, of course, the omnipresent frustration -though it simmered quietly beneath the surface. Above that rose the distinct impressions of determination and concentration, as if Fenris was trying (and repeatedly failing) to accomplish something. Anders didn’t know what that something was, but he was certain Fenris was most assuredly not ill.

Curiosity bit at him. What was Fenris doing that required so much focus? And why was he pretending to be ill?

The second question could be answered easily enough: Fenris was skipping out on card night to avoid Anders, just as Anders had nearly done himself by staying at his clinic. The thought rankled, though Anders knew the emotion was hypocritical. He tried to push the elf from his mind, intent to enjoy the company of his friends.

He rose from the floor and shuffled over to where Varric was now dealing out the cards. He’d intended to take his usual seat next to Isabela, but she was pointedly sitting between Hawke and Merrill.

“You’re not getting away with it again,” She said referring to the bondmates’ cheating, “Not if I can help it.”

“You wound me, Isabela,” Hawke said, dramatically throwing a hand across his chest.

“I might if you keep that up,” Aveline said from her corner of the table.

“Two on one is not fair play,” Hawke said plaintively.

“It is if you pay extra,” Isabela winked.

That earned a round of laughs from the table.

Anders smiled and picked up his cards.

~*~

‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’

The loud knock on the clinic door had Anders jolting upright out of bed, grabbing his staff, and aiming it at the entrance of his quarters. When no attacker appeared, he breathed deeply and leaned heavily on his staff for support.

It was early in the morning, the sun just over the horizon. Card night had turned into something of an event and he’d only arrived back at his clinic a few hours ago. Isabela had challenged Anders to a drinking contest, (“C’mon, sweet thing! Your famous Warden stamina against my liver of steel!”) and after several bribes, taunts and much coercion, Anders had given in.

He’d lost, of course.

It had been fun, but Anders had resolved to sleep in, catch up on however many hours he could. As per usual, he had not been asleep when the knock came, but he’d been trying damn it. This early morning visitor better have a damn good reason for pounding on his door when the sun was barely up.  

Anders shuffled to the door of the clinic and pressed his face to the hole in the door. Hawke stood there, impatiently shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Anders sighed exasperatedly and opened the door.

“Hawke, if this is about anything other than a life or death scenario, I’m going to set you on fire,” Anders grumbled as he opened the door.

“You’re a saint on four hours of sleep, truly,” Hawke teased.

“You think I caught four hours? That’s cute.”

“I like to think I’m closer to ravishingly handsome, but cute isn’t bad either.”

“Hawke-”

“I haven’t seen Fenris in a few days,” Hawke digressed. “He visited Merrill a few days ago -I know right, that was my reaction as well- and she said he was ill. That’s why he didn’t come to cards last night.”

Anders had to stop himself from saying ‘The only thing he’s sick of is me.’

But if Fenris had actually gone to visit Merrill of his own free will, he must actually be ill.

“Would you mind coming with me to check on him? In case he is actually too sick to leave the house? I’d feel better if I had my favorite annoyance with me.” Hawke gave him his best pleading face, complete with puppy-dog eyes.

“It’s not typically recommended to insult somebody when you want something from them, Hawke.”

“Aw, come on! I said you were my favorite!”

Anders sighed.

He knew Fenris wasn’t any worse off than he had been the last time he’d seen him, the bond confirmed it, but it wasn’t as if he could exactly tell Hawke that.

Hawke was looking at him expectantly.

“Ah… I don’t know if that’s… a good idea,” said Anders slowly.

Hawke’s face fell and his brow creased in confusion. “Why not? You’re not actually hungover, are you? I thought that couldn’t happen to Wardens.”

Anders fidgeted on his feet, avoiding Hawke’s gaze. He wasn’t keen on visiting the elf at his mansion when Fenris was clearly avoiding him, but how was he meant to explain that to Hawke?

‘Ah sorry, Hawke, I can’t go with you to see Fenris. We’re avoiding each other because we’ve suddenly formed a soul bond that neither of us wants to be a part of. Oh, but he’s fine by the way; I can feel his thoughts in my head now.’

Not bloody likely.

For half a moment, Anders really did consider telling Hawke; a split second wherein he imagined spilling his guts to the rogue, getting everything off his chest. It would be nice to have everything out in the open, and perhaps Hawke knew of some way to break the bond that didn’t end in death for either himself or Fenris.

But there was no way; Fenris would maim him and Hawke would be incessant in his teasing. Truth be told, if Anders hadn’t been too close to the situation, he’d completely understand why Hawke would be find it so funny -a distant portion of his brain pointed out how hilariously ironic it was that the person who he’d routinely wanted to light on fire was now his bondmate.

So instead Anders sighed and nodded. “Okay, Hawke, we can go check on him.”

Hawke looked at him suspiciously for a few more moments, but then seemed to disregard it and move on. He clapped his hands and smiled.

“That’s what I like to hear!”

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Hawke stepped into the clinic to wait while Anders grudgingly packed a bag with elfroot potions and herbal mixtures. He already knew Fenris wouldn’t need them, but Hawke would think it suspect if he didn’t maintain the illusion of ignorance. Anders muttered a few curses under his breath as he shoved another potion into the satchel.

The bond in the back of his mind was giving off sparks, still fraught with that same mixture of determination and frustration Anders had felt the day prior. Anders was curious, he’d admit, as to what Fenris was attempting to do, but though he tried to come up with ideas, his sluggish mind just wasn’t up to the task.

He rubbed at his head, willing the mental fog to go away, but his mind was strained from lack of sleep, and the clouds over his consciousness stayed stubbornly put.  

“Are you okay, Anders?” Hawke asked.

Anders turned to see Hawke watching him closely, eyes searching his face with intent.

“You woke me up at the crack of dawn after we both spent half the night drinking. I’m tired, Hawke,” Anders groused, turning back to the bag he was packing.

“And you expect me to believe you were sleeping when I knocked on your door?”

Anders grunted but didn’t say anything.

“You weren’t, were you?” Hawke challenged, and it was then, Anders realized, Hawke suddenly showing up at the clinic wasn’t solely for the purpose of taking him to see Fenris. Hawke was worried about him too.

“You were ‘tired’ last night, and when we went to Sundermount,” Hawke said. “Shit, you've been absolutely ragged since the Templars swooped your clinic, maybe even before then.” Hawke sounded agitated. “Varric’s right, Anders: you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Anders chewed his tongue as Hawke ambled over to stand in front of him with his arms folded over his chest.

“I know you’re bad at the whole ‘sleeping’ thing in general, but this…” Hawke made a sweeping gesture from his face, to his toes then back up again. “This isn’t the average ‘Anders sucks at sleeping’ anymore. This is… something else.”

Anders met Hawke’s eyes. “And just what do you propose this ‘something’ is?” Anders asked, scowling.

Hawke narrowed his eyes, searching for the information on Anders’ face. “You’re the healer; you tell me."

Anders met the challenge in Hawke’s eyes with a hint of bared teeth. 

“I’ll get right on that -once I figure it out myself.”

“Mhmm. You do that.” Hawke was obviously not convinced in the least.

“We’re picking up Merrill on the way there, if that’s alright with you,” Hawke continued, as Anders wearily slung the bag over one shoulder. He let out a breath, relieved that Hawke had dropped the topic of his sleeplessness.

“Come on, it’ll be good for you to get some fresh air.”

“Fine. I should stop by Holly’s place and let her know I’ll be out anyway,” Anders said as he locked the door behind them.

~*~

Hawke let him set the pace as they traipsed across Darktown, and Anders walked slowly, not even to think or ponder, but because Hawke was right: his level of exhaustion was now reaching unprecedented levels. Even in those days he’d spent with the Wardens, he’d never been so sleep deprived. The only time he’d gone this many days without rest was…

…was after Thesa had been made Tranquil.

Painful memories leapt to the surface of his thoughts, unbidden and threatening. Anders hurriedly shoved them down, forcing his thoughts in another direction, trying to divert his attention.

He was all too aware of where those memories would lead, and a public panic attack in the middle of Darktown was the last thing he needed.

As Anders and Hawke reached the unmarked border between Darktown and Lowtown, where the hovels and shacks of the destitute shifted gradually to small houses and cleaner streets, Anders looked up at the sky. The rain had finally stopped overnight, and around them children played in the large puddles left behind. They splashed and giggled, jumping in and out of the standing water.

Hawke slowed to a halt beside him.

When Anders turned to ask him what the matter was, it was to see his friend watching one of the children -the smallest of the group- with a fond look on his face.

The toddler, a girl of perhaps two or three years of age, was timidly crouching to investigate one of the smaller puddles, her tongue between her teeth in concentration as she fought to maintain her precarious balance.

Under the watchful eye of an older boy, presumably her brother, the girl reached out a hand to touch the surface of the water. Her palm dipped into the puddle, and she pulled it back quickly, shaking her hand and squealing in delight as the cold water spun away from her fingertips.

The toddler ran back to her brother on unsteady legs, her short, black hair bobbing with her clumsy gait. She threw herself at the boy’s legs, hugging them and giggling, high and sweet and utterly carefree. The boy, who was perhaps ten or so, crouched down and hugged her back with a smile on his face.

“She looks like Bethany.”

Anders turned when Hawke spoke, but the man’s eyes were still affixed to the sight in front of him, and at that moment, he seemed a thousand leagues away. Looking back at the kids, Anders was surprised to find he could see the resemblance, not in the girl, but in her older brother, who was watching his sister carefully as she ran back toward the puddle.

He recognized the protective look on the boy’s face. It was the very same look that Hawke had worn the first few years Anders had known him, when Bethany was still with him, before Hawke had disappeared into the Deep Roads to find their fortune. Bethany had stayed behind at Hawke’s insistence, and without her brother’s watchful eye to keep her safe, she’d been captured by the Templars, and forced into the circle.

Another family torn apart by the Chantry.

“Hawke…” Anders started, but the rogue shook his head wordlessly. Hawke started walking again, uncharacteristically quiet, and Anders fell into step at his side.

~*~

It wasn’t until they reached Holly’s door that Anders broke the silence. The house was small, part of a large complex of buildings; modest, but big enough for Holly and her brother, Mattius, to live comfortably.

“This’ll just take a moment,” Anders said as he drummed out a coded pattern on the door to let Holly know it was him. Holly had given him a key years ago, in the case a situation ever arose where the clinic wasn’t safe -if he needed a place to hide from the Templars.

Anders thought it more polite to knock.

“Come in!” rang Holly’s voice from inside. Anders opened the door into the apartment and closed it behind him, leaving Hawke to wait outside.

“Hey, Holly. I just came over to let you know that I’ll be-”

The words died in Anders’ throat as he entered the living room, and his eyes latched onto the telltale, sun-shaped brand of a Chantry Tranquil.

“Hello,” said the Tranquil in Holly’s living room, nodding passively at Anders.

It felt as though the air had been stolen from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. The memories Anders had fought down only minutes earlier flooded over him now, refusing to be fought back again, overwhelming his senses.

Thesa turning to face him, that terrible brand laying stark upon her forehead. The monotone voice he’d come to dread hearing. Her eyes -once full of joy and laughter, sorrow and fear- now blank and dark and empty .

“Is something the matter?” asked the Tranquil.

Anders tried to regain his control, but his exhausted, emotionally ravaged mind had no recourse against the intrusive thoughts. As if a spear had lodged itself under his ribcage and yanked him back in time, Anders was pulled bodily into memories that refused to stay buried.

<<< >>>

He’s in Kinloch Hold, searching high and low to find a cure, to save his only friend, to free her from Tranquility’s cruel grasp. Looking and searching, staying awake for days, all while knowing that the circle would never be so careless as to keep the answer around captive mages -if the answer even exists at all. Continuing to search despite that knowledge, desperately hoping one of the innumerable books in the library holds a passage that has been overlooked, an entry that has been missed. Never finding the answer.

Years have passed, and now he holds a letter from Karl in his hands, dread eating its way into his heart as he reads Karl’s pleas for help, feeling the tangible fear that emanates from the written words, “They’re going to make me Tranquil, Anders.”

He’s going to lose Karl too. His first lover, his only other friend in the circle, is going to be stolen from him just like Thesa.

His iron resolve to save one of his only remaining friends from the same fate that befell his first, the crushing despair when he realizes he’s too late as Karl turns to face him, the Chantry brand upon Karl’s forehead, a mirror image of Thesa’s, the words reverberating in his mind, “No, please, no. Maker, not again. Not Karl too.”

Justice’s rage is all consuming, the spirit driven to action by the anguish of its host and the injustice of Tranquility. Justice assuming control over his body, sundering the Veil, and allowing the Fade to touch Karl’s mind one final time.

There, in the Chantry, surrounded by the bodies of Templars felled in the wake of Justice’s power, Karl’s eyes find his own, whole again -if only for a moment- as the choking grip of Tranquility is held at bay.

The panic in Karl’s eyes as his brief reconnection to the Fade slips away, Justice’s voice in his mind, ‘The reprieve is only temporary.’

Granting Karl’s final request to end a hollow reality, his knife under Karl’s ribs, in Karl’s heart, the blood on his hands as yet another of his friends is lost.

Launching another search for the cure in the aftermath, but this one is hampered by an unshakeable feeling of futility. With even less resources than he’d had while imprisoned in Kinloch Hold, the hunt is doomed at its inception.

Watching the funeral pyre from the Gallows gate, tears running down his face, whispering goodbye to yet another friend.

<<< >>>

The torrent of memories ended abruptly, leaving Anders gasping for air.

He’d somehow wound up on the floor, but at least he could see again, could feel the sting in his eyes, the tears on his cheeks, the pain in his chest. Holly was knelt at his side, gripping his arm, asking him something, her bright, green eyes frantic with concern as they searched his.

“Anders, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I know how you feel about the Tranquil, I shouldn’t have told you to come in-” she stammered, nearing panic.

Anders coughed and tried to clear his throat, but his breathing was ragged and raw, like he was sucking air through a pinhole.

He rolled off his back and propped himself up on one elbow, then reached out a hand to comfort her. His voice was hoarse. “It’s ok,” he said. “I’m ok, Holly. I’m fine.”

“What is the matter?” asked the Tranquil again in a serene voice, but Anders didn’t look at his face again -didn’t look at the brand on his forehead. “Are you unwell?”

Anders turned his eyes on the floor as he said, “No, no. Everything’s alright.”

But Holly wasn’t buying it.

“Ah- here.” She looked back at the Tranquil who was still standing patiently off to the side. Holly stood and bustled over to a pouch on a small table, pulled out a few silver pieces and pressed them into the Tranquil’s hand. “Thank you, Heinrich. That will be all.”

“You are welcome,” Heinrich the Tranquil said blithely. Holly hurriedly led him to the door, casting anxious glances back at Anders all the while.

Anders slowly sat up, tucked his legs under him, and focused on getting his breathing under control. As Holly saw the Tranquil out, he drew the sleeve of his coat around his palm and dabbed at the tears on his cheeks. He’d never had a flashback that strong before; his chest ached from the potency of the visions and he rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart, wincing.

There were voices coming from the entry, but he wasn’t listening; his ears didn't seem to be working very well anyway.

Anders made himself take deep breaths in and out, closing his eyes and trying to find his balance. As he fought to center himself, he looked inward.

In his introspection, the bond in the back of his mind drew his focus. He flinched away from it, expecting to again be enveloped by Fenris’ anger or disdain, maybe even his cold apathy… and Anders wasn’t sure which one would hurt the most.

But he felt none of those things. Instead, the bond was twisting with confusion, anxiety and perhaps… a touch of concern. Clearly the strength of his vision had affected Fenris too, though Anders wasn’t sure to what extent.

The voices from the entry grew louder, then Hawke was there, kneeling in front of Anders and gripping him firmly by both shoulders.

He gave Anders a little shake. “Anders? Anders, are you alright?”

Hawke released his shoulders and lifted his hands to place one on each side of Anders’ face, cradling Anders’ head. “Are you with me?” he said, eyes searching the mage’s for recognition.

Anders raised a hand weakly in protestation.

“I’m fine, Hawke. Really. I’m ok.”

“You’re ok?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“No damage at all? No injuries?”

“None. I promise.”

“Good,” Hawke said, then he slapped Anders firmly across the face.

“Ow! Hey what-”

“What is your new obsession with scaring the last Maker-forsaken breath out of me!?”

“Well I wasn’t trying to! What -are you Fenris now? Slapping me like that?” Anders complained, rubbing his stinging cheek and looking at Hawke reproachfully.

“You earned that,” Holly said shakily, nodding with her arms crossed over her chest.

Hawke’s expression had shifted rapidly from relief to anger. “Holly comes outside, whiter than a spooked Halla, and tells me you collapsed and stopped breathing!” he said scathingly.

“Whiter than what?” Anders managed to say.

“Don’t change the subject,” Hawke snapped, looking furious. “You stopped breathing, Anders.”

“Ah, is that not supposed to happen? I have to keep breathing all the time or something? That sounds exhausting-”

“Anders,” Holly interrupted. “What happened? What was that?”

Anders sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I just… I had a flashback, okay? It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Hawke curled his lip and shook his head. “No, you are clearly not ‘fine.’”

“None of your flashbacks have ever ended with you on the floor in respiratory arrest, Anders.”

“Holly, it’s not like-”

“Enough, Anders.”

“Hawke-”

“No,” Hawke cut over him in a voice that rang with authority.

“Come on, Hawke. Just let it go; it’s not important, really!” Anders tried to reason, attempting to wave a hand dismissively. Hawke caught the hand and held it in an iron grip.

“No, no. You know what? I’ve had it,” Hawke said through gritted teeth, tightening his grasp on Anders’ hand. “I’m not ‘letting it go’ again. I let it go this morning and you almost died, Anders. Again. I explicitly told you to stop doing that!”

“Actually, you said, ‘take a break from near death experiences,’ so technically I did as you asked. And I passed out! That hardly qualifies as almost dying,” Anders said reprovingly.

“No, see, you’re not getting it,” Holly said, a slight waver in her voice. “You didn’t just hold your breath for a few seconds, Anders. You collapsed to the floor unconscious and stopped breathing for almost half a minute. I was just about to start breathing for you when you woke up.”

That brought Anders up short. 30 seconds without breath wasn’t all that much in the grand scheme of things, but when the only apparent cause of his collapse was being surprised by a Tranquil… well. He was forced to admit Holly had a point.

“I’m sorry I worried you, Holly,” Anders said in another attempt to move past the issue. “You too, Hawke.”

Hawke looked incredulous. “You really think that’s what this is about? You worrying us?”

“Is… is that not-”

“Anders, have you seen yourself recently?! Can you even remember the last time you slept?” Hawke asked tersely.

“Or ate?” Holly added. “The only thing you’ve eaten in days is an apple!”

Anders spluttered, shaking his head. He was tempted to say, ‘Not true, I ate half a nectarine at the old man’s house!’ but the thought sounded stupid, even in his head.

Was that really all he’d eaten in… -Anders did some mental math- four days?! He tried to think back on it, but aside from the two pieces of fruit and the alcohol from last night, nothing came to mind.

‘No wonder I lost that drinking contest…’ Anders thought, but instead he said, “That’s what this is about? My insomnia? My diet?”

“Insomnia? Anders, these aren’t just your typical, run-of-the-mill sleepless nights anymore!” Holly’s voice cracked. “This isn’t one of those times you pulled an all-nighter to write your manifesto. It’s not like you just slept poorly for a few night in a row.”

“Look, I know I look a bit rough-”

“You look like a bloody corpse, Anders!” Holly cried, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. She swung her hands down to her sides, each one balled into a fist in frustration.

“Ouch, my self-esteem,” Anders said reproachfully.

“This isn’t a game!” Hawke’s expression was raw with fury now, a look that had only been directed at Anders a handful of times; it was as disquieting now as it had been each time before.

Hawke was a scary bastard when he was angry, and though Anders knew rationally that Hawke would never hurt him (much), it was hard to remember that fact when he could see the barely tempered inferno behind Hawke’s eyes.

“Okay, okay. Andraste’s ass, I’m sorry,” Anders said, holding his hands weakly in front of his face as if to stop their emotional onslaught.

Holly spun on her heel and stomped out of the living room, returning shortly with an old, metal trimmed mirror in hand. She dropped to her knees in front of Anders, sending her wild mane of red curls flying. Hawke was still seething next to her.

“Look!” Holy said, flipping the mirror so it faced him. “Look at yourself!” she ordered, shoving it forward until Anders was confronted by a stranger’s reflection.

Wait….

That couldn’t really be him… could it?

“Your cheeks are so gaunt I can see the outline of your teeth.” She shook the mirror in front of him. “Your hair is dull from vitamin deficiency, your eyes are sunken with dehydration, and you’re so pale from anemia that it looks like you’ve been locked in a basement for five years!” Holly ranted.

“If this man walked into your clinic, you’d tell me he had the Wasting -that he had only weeks to live -that we could try to make him comfortable.” Tears ran down Holly’s face as she shook the mirror again. “Tell me that I’m wrong, Anders! Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t look like a walking husk!”

Anders touched one of the deep blue circles beneath a bloodshot eye, pulled at the greyish skin on his hollow cheeks. He didn’t want to admit it, but Holly was absolutely correct: If the man in the mirror had walked into his clinic, Anders would have quarantined him for fear of spreading the disease to other patients.

“You’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, and now this…” Holly’s voice fractured on a sob. “You’re wasting away before my very eyes and you don’t even realize it!”

Anders was at a loss for words. The levity and wit that usually came to him so effortlessly were completely out of reach. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, trying to wrap his head around what Holly and Hawke had been seeing these last few days.

“I…”

Hawke stared at him, stone-faced and serious while Holly pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs.

“Holly, I’m sorry,” Anders said honestly, putting as much sincerity into the words as he could. “I didn’t mean- that is, I wasn’t trying to-” He trailed off, frustrated as the words evaded him.

“You weren’t trying to kill yourself?” Hawke asked abruptly, and it caught Anders so off-guard that he just stared at Hawke for a moment, mouth hanging open. Holly was watching him too through red-rimmed eyes, listening for his answer.

“You… You both thought I was trying to…”

“Holly came to the Hanged Man last night to check on you,” Hawke said solemnly, “while you were trying to out-drink Isabela. She didn’t want to interrupt, and neither did I for that matter -not when it looked like you were finally cutting free of whatever weight it is that you’ve been carrying around for the last few weeks. We stepped outside to talk for awhile, and she told me what she’s been seeing at the clinic, the way you’ve been acting.”

Holly looked nervously back and forth between Hawke and Anders, like she was worried Anders was going to be angry with her. “She told me you’ve not been sleeping, markedly less than even your usual, and I agreed with her, because I immediately knew what she meant. Then, she told me you’ve nearly stopped eating too, and for the rest of the night, all I could see when I looked at you was skin and bone.”

Hawke paused for a moment to glance at Holly comfortingly, then turned back to Anders. “Holly told me she was worried that you were passively suicidal, that you weren’t actively trying to kill yourself, but that you seemed to have just… given up. I told her I’d ask you about it, and when you shut me down this morning… Anders, I was scared, because I thought she was right.”

Hawke’s eyes were boring into Anders’, and all Anders could do was gape like a fish out of water. He looked at Holly, and she flinched ever so slightly away from him, unconsciously bringing the mirror up a little as a shield.

“Holly…” Anders’ voice came out as a croak as emotion threatened to overwhelm him.

“Please, don’t be angry with me, Anders, please!” Holly cried, a fresh wave of tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. “I didn’t know what else to do, or who to ask, or- or-” She broke off as another sob wracked her chest. “I don’t want you to die.”

“Holly,” Anders interrupted his friend’s desperate explanation, “what did I ever do to deserve you?”

It was Holly’s turn to look dumbstruck as Anders tugged the mirror out of her hands and pulled her into as tight a hug as his exhausted limbs could muster.

“You’re a treasure, Holly,” Anders whispered as he hugged her, his face buried in crimson curls. He took a deep, shaky breath, and he could smell her shampoo -honey and holly blossoms, just like her namesake.

“You’re not mad?” she asked hoarsely, and the vulnerability in her voice broke Anders heart. He hugged her tighter.

“No, I am mad. I am absolutely furious, but not with you, sweetheart. Never with you.”

He pulled back and Holly’s eyes searched his for reassurance.

“I’m furious with myself, because I’ve been so unforgivably fucking dense that I couldn’t see what I was putting my friend through.”

“Oh,” Holly said, “Well, Hawke’s a good man, I’m sure if you ask nicely, he’ll forgive you.” Holly let out a watery laugh and wiped her eyes.

“I meant you, Holly.”

Holly’s eyes widened and she stammered, “M-me? I-I’m just an aide, I just help you around the clinic. I’m not-”

Anders held a hand up.

“Holly you’ve never been just an aide. You’re a healer and a beautiful woman, and you are -most assuredly- my friend.”

Holly’s face crumpled and she pressed her hands against her eyes like she was trying to stop the flood of tears from escaping.

“I thought I was too late, when you stopped breathing; I thought you were gone,” Holly sniffed. Anders curled his fingers gently around one of her wrists, pulling it away from her face.

“I’m not going to die, Holly. I was never planning on it,” Anders said. He took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Then why did you stop eating? Why did you do this to yourself?” Holly asked, gesturing to Anders as a whole.

“That is an excellent question that I don’t have an answer to,” Anders murmured, trying so, so hard to keep thoughts of Fenris and of his adamant rejection of their bond behind his eyes. “But I intend to make it up to you somehow, starting with a lot of food.”

“You’d better,” Hawke said, breaking his conspicuous silence with a growl.

“Down boy,” Anders laughed.

But in the wake of Holly and Hawke's confessions, Anders thinks.

While Hawke tries and fails to make them food, Anders cracks a joke to hide the cracks in his heart and Anders thinks.

While Holly saves the ruined meat by making it into stew, and while Anders eats his first solid meal in weeks, Anders thinks.

And before they head out again, Anders knows why he looks this way -what has driven him to this state, and he still doesn't know how to fix it. 

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

The past few weeks had been a formidable stretch of Fenris’ reserves, both mentally and physically. The paltry amount of sleep he’d been getting had been disturbed and fitful, and -more often than not- he’d awoken each morning feeling even more drained than he had when he’d finally fallen asleep. Fenris knew the mage was responsible for his restlessness, which is why he felt his current task was so vital.

For the last day and a half, Fenris had been fruitlessly attempting to block the bond, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his eyes closed for hours on end. It had been grueling work from the start, having no focal point or experience with which he could begin puzzling out the mechanics of blocking a bond, and the difficulty of the challenge was further exacerbated by his exhaustion and the resulting headache.

He’d surmised that the back of his mind was where the bond itself was located -that was where the mage’s emotions seemed to flow from- but he did not know how to go about shutting off the ‘tap,’ as it were. Anders’ side of the bond had been suspiciously quiet; a fact which left Fenris simultaneously thankful and irritated. He was grateful for the mental silence that he’d sorely missed since the bond had formed, but also frustrated because -for once- he needed the flow of emotion from the bond to pinpoint its location.

Fenris was certain the reward would be worth the effort; he craved the independence and privacy he’d previously taken for granted, but the fact that he had made no progress whatsoever was sapping his already flagging motivation.

Currently, he was in the middle of some stretching, trying to clear his mind and mentally preparing for another attempt at blocking the bond.

Seated on the floor, bent double at the hips, his hands wrapped around his left foot, he pulled long, deep breaths into his lungs, reveling in the stretch of muscle and sinew. But as he straightened to switch to the other leg, the back of his head suddenly pitched with silent horror.

It felt as if the mental connection he shared with the mage had iced over, as though northern winds had phased through the bond -cold, harsh, and unforgiving- to flood his mind with frigid fear.

But before Fenris even had the chance to react, images began to flit through his theatre of mind, preventing him from seeing anything but the visions that poured through his head.

A young woman stands in front of him. She wears the robes of a circle mage and her back is turned, but a steady, reassuring warmth blossoms in his chest when he looks at her. Being in her presence is calming… soothing…safe.

But now she turns to face him and a horrible, sinking dread smothers his heart. She is looking at him, her eyes staring into his, and they are empty– a desolate, lifeless blue like stagnant water. Her face is devoid of all expression and her lips move silently around words that he can’t hear over the striking sun-shaped brand on her forehead.

Fenris gasped in shock and instinctually drew himself inward, bringing his legs to his chest and putting his hands over his head as if they could do anything to stop the mental assault. Anders’ side of the bond seemed to recoil from the image, flinching away from it as if it were physically painful.

He had only a moment to flounder with incomprehension before the world around him went dark, and his consciousness was inundated with memories that didn’t belong to him.

<<< >>>

Books. Rows and rows of books as high as the vaulted ceiling that yawns above his head -more books than Fenris has seen in all the years since he fled Tevinter combined. He’s frantically pulling down volume after volume, rifling through them, carelessly throwing them to the stone at his feet.

Now there is a desk before him, dozens of candles burned to stumps and piled high with so many opened tomes he cannot see the wood beneath for them. He doesn’t need to understand the careful script to know each volume holds naught but bitter disappointment.

The image changes; there’s a letter in his hands. He cannot read the words, but the parchment radiates a fear that strikes his heart like an unseen weapon.

Then he is face to face with a man. His brown hair is short, tidy, and he too wears the robes of a circle mage. A shaft of light from a window falls upon his brow and the fresh, blood-red brand upon it is lit aflame. Fenris feels the heartbreak as if it is his own, “No, please, no. Maker, not again. Not Karl too.”

The world abruptly turns blue, everything is lost in a haze of crackling energy and suddenly he is surrounded by the bodies of a dozen templars. Hawke is there, Merrill and Varric beside him; each of their faces bears an expression of pity.

The Tranquil is pleading with him now and Fenris is bewildered; Tranquil don’t beg. Tranquil aren’t supposed to have emotions, and they most certainly aren’t supposed to plead with Fenris to end their lives.

A deep, resonant voice booms through him as if it comes from within his own mind, ‘The reprieve is only temporary.’

There is a dagger in his hand now. He’s walking toward the Tranquil. He knows what is going to happen a mere second before it does, but he cannot stop his hand as it swings of its own accord. He hears the blade enter the Tranquil’s chest, feels the hot blood flow over his hand. He meets the Tranquil’s gaze and watches the life fade from his eyes.

Now there are books in front of him again. Fewer books, fewer candles, but still open and in disarray as he pours through them desperately -hopelessly- searching for a solution that he will never find among pages that never held the answer.

The ink bleeds where drops of water hit the pages.

A pyre in the Gallows, viewed from a distance. Thick, black smoke and the familiar scent of burning bodies.

“Goodbye, my friend.”

<<< >>>

When the flood finally stopped and his mind returned to him, Fenris found himself on his side, curled into a ball, his face cradled in his hands. He scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily, whipping his head around to search for anything that had changed in his surroundings.

Everything was exactly as it had been. The sun still hung low in the morning sky; the mansion was just as empty, just as silent.

Whatever had just happened, it hadn’t been through any fault of his.

In his mind, Fenris could feel the bond pulsing with a deep, profound sorrow. The mage’s sorrow, not his own…

So why did he feel the need to do something?

He tried to calm his breathing, tried to corral the thoughts that had been scattered to the winds. He blinked a few times to clear his blurry vision, then brushed a hand across his cheeks. It came away wet.

What just transpired had nothing to do with him; it was the mage’s problem. It had nothing to do with him.

So then why did he feel as though he had to act? Why did the instinct to help claw at his chest, commanding him to move?

He fought stubbornly against the urge, ‘This does not involve you, leave it be,’ he told himself, ‘This is not your responsibility, nor is it a matter for you to resolve.’

He made himself sit on the floor again and forced his eyes to close.

Fenris had no trouble locating the bond now; he was hyperaware of the deep chasm that was Anders’ grief, laying agape in the back of his mind, flooding him with potent distress. He tried to shove it back, to block the pain that echoed through his chest, but it was like holding his hands against a torrential river -rushing, raging; there was no blocking it.

His legs ached to move -not just from their crossed position- but up, out. Out to wherever the mage was. To find him and quell his suffering. To help him.

Fenris bit out a growl of frustration and made himself ignore the instinct.

~*~

An hour later found Fenris pacing back and forth before the vertical, rectangular window on the second floor of the mansion, eyes flitting between the people listlessly strolling the streets below. He was on edge, restless, incapable of stopping the motion of his legs for longer than a few moments before they began to itch with the need to move again.

The few Kirkwall citizens milling about the Hightown market didn’t hold his interest in the slightest, but he was too strung out to do anything other than wait for something else to happen. His mouth was set into a grim slash and his hands were clenched into fists. The muscles in his back and neck twitched uncomfortably, knotted and strained from stress and tension.

He tried to keep his thoughts neutral, but they kept drifting to the mage of their own accord. The emotional tide from the bond had slowed to a trickle, barely a fraction of what it had been immediately following the vision, but Fenris could still feel the mage’s regret -though regret for what Fenris didn’t know.

A few moments after the incident had occurred, Fenris had felt a touch of warmth through the bond. It had not been as strong as the grief, but it was pure, and it lingered alongside the regret, confusing the mix of emotion that Fenris felt through the mental connection. He tried not to speculate on its origin, but his mind seemed drawn to it.

Movement in the street below pulled him from his flimsy contemplation as a group of familiar faces rounded the corner into view. He immediately snapped to attention as Anders’ figure caught his eye.

Hawke and Merrill were there as well, and -curiously- so was Holly. What was Anders’ aide doing with the rest of them? Fenris had never seen her outside the clinic.

From his vantage point, Fenris could see Holly and Hawke, both looking tense and unhappy. Merrill was fluttering anxiously around Anders, not quite touching him, but looking as if she wanted to pull him into a hug.

And then there was Anders.

Fenris could see, even at this distance, that something was wrong. Even if he’d not experienced the mage’s peculiar flashback firsthand, even if he’d not had the mage’s presence in the back of his mind, he’d have been able to tell there was something wrong with Anders. The man moved sluggishly, almost with a limp.

And they were all heading toward the mansion.

Fenris watched until they disappeared between the buildings, then he dashed down to the front door. He stopped just short of wrenching the door open before Hawke’s group had even made it to the steps. He sidled to the window, watching through a tear in the curtains as the small group approached his house.

There was definitely something wrong with Anders. The rest of the group kept glancing nervously at him as if they expected him to burst into flame at any moment. He leaned heavily on his staff as he walked, and his brow was deeply lined with tension.

Fenris moved away from the window to stand in front of the door. He made himself wait, though the desire to jerk open the door and race outside was nearly overwhelming and Hawke’s fist against his door was jarring, despite Fenris being prepared for it.

Fenris yanked the door, stepped forward and froze on the threshold, his eyes immediately finding the mage’s…

And Fenris’ heart nearly stopped.

Because Anders looked like he’d materialized at Fenris’ door straight from his deathbed.

The mage wasn’t just skinny, he was gaunt. Every inch of skin Fenris could see was a sickly pale, save the deep purple bruising under the mage’s bloodshot eyes. Anders was hunched in on himself, like his own reduced weight was too much to carry and he squinted up at Fenris as if even just the weak sunlight was painful to endure.

As he stood there, taking in the mage’s haggard appearance, something inside Fenris’s chest fractured and broke -a tiny fissure in the steel walls around his heart.

“Hawke,” Fenris tried to greet the rogue, but his voice came out as a hoarse rasp. He cleared his throat to try again, but-

“Not you too,” Hawke said, surprising him, and Fenris managed to tear his gaze away from the mage to see Hawke looking back at him with something approaching despair.

Hawke looked at Anders behind him, then exchanged a significant look with Holly at his side.

“We’re coming inside; don’t even try to stop us,” Hawke said forcefully, stepping past Fenris and into the mansion. Merrill followed him, giving Fenris a sad, sympathetic look.

Fenris did not try to stop them. Instead he watched as Anders braced himself with his staff, then climbed the steps at a halting pace. It was clear that every step he took required effort -too much effort. Holly was behind him, watching him closely as if she worried Anders was going to fall.

Fenris couldn’t help but think she had the right of it.

Anders climbed the last step, and though he was trying to muffle it, Fenris could hear the exertion in his breathing. Fenris stood frozen by the door as Anders crossed the threshold. The mage’s eyes flicked over to meet his -glassy and dark in their sunken state- then looked back to the floor, as though he couldn’t bear to hold Fenris’ gaze.

It hadn’t even been a week since he’d last seen the mage; how had he come to be in such a state in such a short amount of time? He looked like a plant that had been severed at the root, cut off from the sunlight. Neglected. Lifeless.

Was Anders…

…dying?

Fenris felt his heart clench in sudden terror. He couldn’t even find it in him to be upset that he was allowing the bond to manipulate his emotions because the thought of Anders wasting away -of Anders dying- was so utterly overwhelming to his already frayed nerves.

Fenris watched, dumbstruck as the mage hobbled past him into the mansion.

His eyes were affixed to Anders’ shrunken form and it wasn’t until he realized Holly was stopped next to him, staring at him, that he was able to look away from the mage.

He met Holly’s gaze. She’d been crying, the skin around her eyes puffy and reddened. His heart sank even further.

“Is… is he…?”

He couldn’t make himself say it. He couldn’t give the thought voice for fear he’d make it real -for fear Holly would confirm his terrible suspicions.

All this time he’d been trying to block the bond… he’d thought it wasn’t working, but Fenris hadn’t felt even a hint of the suffering Anders was clearly enduring. How had he not seen this? How long had this been going on without him even noticing?

Holly was still watching him, waiting for him to finish his thought. When the rest of his sentence went unspoken, she looked at the floor and sadly shook her head.

What did that mean? What was wrong with Anders?

Finally, Holly moved past him too, and Fenris shut the door behind her.

Fenris forced himself to take a few deep breaths, trying to quell the panic rising in his chest. He knew it was the bond making him feel this way, he knew in any ordinary circumstance that Anders looking the way he did now would invoke nothing more than pity.

But at the moment, it was all he could do to maintain his tenuous grasp on his composure.

He followed Holly’s retreating figure into the hearthroom.

Hawke was pacing back and forth in the back of the room, muttering curses under his breath. Merrill stood off to one side, looking at him anxiously.

Holly was coaxing Anders into one of the chairs by the unlit hearth. It was the same chair, Fenris noted, in which the mage had sat what felt like months ago, telling Fenris about his friend in the circle, Thesa.

An image appeared in Fenris’ mind -the mage smiling gently as he told a story. The very same image that had interrupted him mid-swing the night Anders had told him they were bonded. The same image that had prevented him from destroying the chair in which the mage was now sitting, hunched over and feeble.

Fenris could not reconcile the image in his mind with the man sitting there now. It was as if they were entirely different people. The man in his mind was grieving, but still very much alive -the proof of which had stained his cheeks. Corpses didn’t cry. The dead do not grieve their fellow lost.

But the being sitting in the chair before him could not be that same man. They were as alike as fire and water. The man in the chair was a mockery of the vibrant mage that had laughed and cried and drove Fenris mad with incessant arguments.

Fenris drifted forward in a daze, shock plain upon his features.

‘How? How did this happen?’ He wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come. He was in front of the other chair now, staring down at the mage’s hunched figure. He knew rationally it was the same Anders he’d seen only a few days ago, but it didn’t add up. The man in front of him had been starving in a crypt somewhere for weeks, not days. How could he possibly look this way?

“How long?” Fenris demanded of nobody in particular in a cracked voice, “How long has he been like this?”

There was a heavy silence and from the corner of his eye, Fenris could see Holly and Hawke trading grimaces.

“Several days, though not quite to this extent,” Holly said quietly. Fenris couldn’t stop staring at Anders. A distant part of him pointed out that he was being far too obvious about his investment in the mage’s well-being, but that distant part of him was buried under the much more immediate fear of the mage dying.

“Tell me.”

Hawke’s abrupt command startled Fenris out of his daze. He looked up from Anders to see Hawke staring at him expectantly.

“There’s something happening here… something that involves both of you,” Hawke’s tone was curt.

They were all looking at Fenris now. All except Anders who it seemed didn’t have the strength to even lift his head.

“I… I do not…” Fenris’ thoughts were scrambled.

“Something is going on; I want to know what it is.” Hawke’s arms were folded over his chest and, while he appeared stern, Fenris could see the tension and stress in the rogue’s posture and furrowed brow. Hawke was beyond worried.

“You may not look as bad as Anders, but if I’m right, it’s only a matter of time before you do. Whatever it is that’s happening with the pair of you, I need to know about it.”

“You think Fenris is going to get as bad as Anders?” Merrill asked fretfully. Anders moved then, straightening from his slouch to look up at Fenris. The mage’s eyes were horrorstruck, and Fenris could feel his fear flowing through the bond.

“If things keep going the way they are, yes, I do,” Hawke’s voice was almost as tense as the line of his shoulders.

“But Anders is…” Merrill trailed off, biting her lip hard as she stared at Anders’ back.

“He’s dying.”

Fenris jolted at Holly’s terse admission. His eyes flashed to her and locked onto her face like he was trying to rip the information from her brain.

“Whatever is killing him, it’s moving quickly. It’s building on itself exponentially; it started fast, and it’s only gotten faster. This morning wasn’t a one-off event; it’s going to get worse without intervention,” Holly delivered the lines with a clinical tone, clipped and emotionless. She’d switched into the mode healers used when their patients were bleeding out -brusque and detached, remaining above the situation in order to see it clearly.

“Just during the trip from my house to here, his status has decayed significantly. At this rate he has days left to him before we’re building his pyre,” She whipped her head around to glare at Hawke. “I told you we should have taken him to the clinic.”

“No,” Hawke didn’t even look at Holly, his eyes still boring into Fenris’ with apparent accusation, “Fenris needed to see this.” Holly’s eyes narrowed as she added up Hawke’s tone with his words.

“You think Fenris is causing this?” Holly asked. Her tone didn’t sound accusing the way Hawke’s did, maintaining her emotional distance the way she was.

“No,” Hawke said, “But I think he knows what is.”

“Fenris has nothing to do with this.”

Every head in the room snapped to Anders as he spoke for the first time since arriving at the mansion.

“But he’s-” Hawke started, but Anders interrupted with more vehemence than Fenris would have thought his brittle form capable.

“No. Leave him out of this.”

 “Then what-”

Anders’ forceful defense of his innocence left Fenris feeling unexpectedly moved. But it didn’t last longer than it took for Anders to deliver his next line.

“Unless I’m much mistaken, the spells that hit us on the Wounded Coast are to blame.”

Anders was… well not lying per se, but he wasn’t telling the entire truth. His words would lead the rest of the group’s suspicions away from Fenris, pinning the blame on an unknown third party. But Fenris knew what the mage was really saying. Fenris alone knew what those words really meant.

Anders was saying that the bond was causing this. That Fenris was causing this.

Anders was saying that Fenris was responsible for the state he was in.

Fenris was killing him, Anders knew it, and he was protecting him.

“The spells on the Coast? You think they’re still affecting you two?” Hawke asked, successfully diverted from his suspicions about Fenris.

“Yes, they must be. I didn’t think it was possible, but now that I see Fenris is affected too, it can’t be anything else.”

“So, you think that these spells are somehow… draining you? How do we stop it?”

“I could ask the Keeper if she knows…” The rest of Merrill’s sentence was drowned out by the ringing in Fenris’ ears.

They were still talking, despite the fact that the ground had opened up under Fenris and swallowed him whole. They were still discussing and debating, unaware of the fact that Fenris had long since dropped out of the conversation. They were still arguing over theories, even though it felt to Fenris as if his life had begun to spiral uncontrollably, robbing him of what little sway over the situation he’d had.

Anders knew that Fenris was causing his death and was protecting him despite it.

He had to come clean.

It was the only course of action left to him. His only remaining option was to tell Hawke and the rest of them about the bond and hope Hawke or Merrill knew how to salvage what was left of the situation.

But as he opened his mouth to speak, Anders voice rang out in his mind.

‘Whatever you’re planning on telling them, don’t.’

Fenris looked down at the mage. His eyes were closed, and his brow was creased in concentration.

‘I know you have that look on your face. Just stay out of it.’

Anders hadn’t used the bond to communicate with him since the night he’d used the link to prove to Fenris the bond did indeed exist.

‘I can handle this,’ The mage insisted stubbornly.

Fenris looked up at Hawke. The rogue was still deep in conversation with Merrill and Holly, unaware of their mental exchange, though he would notice they were quiet before long, Fenris was sure.

He didn’t know exactly how to speak through the bond, but Fenris was nothing if not determined. He wasn’t going to let his inexperience stop him from trying.

‘You cannot ‘handle it’. You are dying, mage,’ Fenris aimed the thought at the space in his mind he’d felt Anders’ presence earlier. When he was met by a jolt of surprise from the bond, accompanied by Anders whipping his head up to stare at him in shock, Fenris knew he’d been successful.

‘That’s my problem.’ Anders recovered from his surprise well.

‘Your problem?’ Fenris thought back at him incredulously, ‘Need I remind you that we are- that you and I are…’ Fenris stumbled over the word.

‘Bonded?’ Anders asked, wryly. ‘Maker, you can’t even allow yourself to think it.’

An unexplained pang of sadness echoed through the connection.

‘They might know of a way to break it,’ Fenris thought back, ‘You should not have told them I am not involved.’

‘Andraste knows I can’t make you do anything, Fenris. If you want to tell them, I can’t stop you. But don’t do it because you think you owe me a favor for covering your arse.’

The notion took Fenris aback; the mage thought he was planning on telling the rest of them about the bond out of some misplaced sense of chivalry.

‘Just wait a few days. Then it won’t be an issue,’ Anders continued, and he must have felt Fenris’ confusion, because he elaborated.

‘A few more days of this and I’ll be out of your hair.’ Even Anders’ thoughts were tired, ‘You’ll have your freedom again. Just make sure Holly is ok after I-‘

“NO!” Fenris hadn’t meant to snarl the word aloud, but the word was torn from his throat against his will.

Hawke, Merrill and Holly, who’d been discussing possible ways to break the effects of a spell, all snapped up to stare at Fenris’ abrupt vocalized denial.

But Fenris wasn’t looking at Hawke. He was still staring at Anders’ startled features. Anders’ casual acceptance of his own death went against every fiber of his being. It grated against Fenris' consciousness like a serrated blade.

‘It’s the bond making you feel this way,’ said a small part of Fenris’ mind, ‘The bond is the only thing that has changed here.’

“Fenris, I know you don’t like magic, but a counterspell is the only thing I can think of that would break this thing,” Hawke was saying, his voice somewhat annoyed, presumably by Fenris' outburst.

“It sounds promising.” Anders was ignoring Fenris now, falling back into the deception with ease, “A counterspell might work. I’ll take a look through my spell books when I get back to the clinic tonight.”

Hawke was nodding, “What say you, Fenris? A simple spell could free you from whatever this is. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Fenris grunted noncommittally. It was all he could do. His mind was still reeling, the only thought left to him was the abject denial of Anders’ death.

“Great, then we have a plan! Merrill and Anders will consult their Keeper and books respectively, and I’ll be day drinking! Maker knows I need it,” Hawke muttered the last sentence, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly.

Holly walked over to Anders in the chair and offered the mage a hand.

“Up you go,” She said, looking brighter than she had since arriving at the mansion, now that she was confident they had a way to save her friend.

‘Get some rest, Fenris,’ Anders told him through the bond as he struggled to his feet, using Holly’s hand as leverage.

The group shuffled to the door, the atmosphere significantly lighter at the prospect of a solution, despite the unseen turmoil in Fenris’ mind. Merrill opened the door and Holly exited first, prepared to catch Anders if he fell. Anders cast a quick glance back at Fenris, his expression unreadable, then followed Holly out with Merrill on his heels. Hawke paused on the doorstep.

He faced Fenris, then placed a comforting hand on the elf’s shoulder.

“It will all be over soon,” Hawke said with a kind smile, “Just hang in there for a few more days.”

‘A few more days…’ Fenris thought hollowly.

It was all Fenris could do to nod in response.

He watched as Hawke rejoined the group at the bottom of the stairs. Hawke was laughing, clapping Holly on the shoulder. Holly was smiling back at him and looking relieved, while Merrill babbled to Anders about Keeper Marethari’s apparently bottomless wellspring of knowledge, about how she was sure to have a quick fix to their problem.

Anders was smiling too, but Fenris was the only one who saw the strain that lay under it. Fenris was the only one who saw the grin fall as soon as none of the others were looking. They disappeared around the corner, leaving Fenris framed in the doorway.

‘This will kill them, as surely as any blade or arrow,’ Fenris told Anders through their bond, ‘They will wonder what else they could have done to save you. They will blame themselves.’

‘I know,’ Anders told him.

‘They will think of you. Long after the smell of smoke from your pyre fades from their skin, they will think of you. Long after your ashes cool and are spread by the wind, they will think of you. They will notice your absence every single day they outlive you, and they will think themselves the cause of it. Because you will be gone, and they will not be, and they will remember you.

‘That was very poetic, Fenris.’ The mage’s thoughts were wry with amusement, but Fenris could feel the sorrow that they tried to bury.

‘How do you want to be remembered, Anders?’

Anders didn’t respond, but the grief that stained his consciousness told Fenris he’d been heard.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

Fenris stood there in the entryway of the derelict mansion until long after Hawke’s group had vanished from his sight. His mind was still churning with the realization that -not only did Anders know he was dying- the mage had apparently all but resigned himself to the fact.

A steady flow of despondency was all Fenris could gather from the bond; Anders didn’t say anything else and Fenris wasn’t inclined to break the silence. After all, what more could he say?

Would Anders even bother to listen if Fenris tried to make him see reason? What use was it to argue logic with a man who’d already accepted his fate?

Really, Fenris knew he should be angry, if anything. He knew he should be disgusted by the fact that Anders seemed content to throw his life away without even a purpose to justify it. At least if the mage met his end in pursuit of an enterprise he believed in, his death would have meaning.

But this? This pathetic wasting away? This slow, lingering death? It would accomplish nothing, save sorrow and regret for those close to him. It would not further a cause, it would not deliver justice to innocents harmed, it would not avenge a cherished friend... what good could come of it?

Fenris shook his head and took a small step back, then another, until finally he was inside the house. He closed the door with stiff, automatic movements, staring at the iron rivets imbedded in the wood without truly seeing them as the fresh memory of Hawke and Holly, smiling and laughing with relief, replayed itself in his mind.

They didn’t know.

They believed that, within just a matter of hours, Anders would be on the road to recovery, when in reality he would be anything but. They believed this counterspell -this false hope that Anders had given them- would save his life, and it would only make his death all the more painful for them to experience when it did come to pass.

Holly had seemed certain that the mage would be dead in a few days’ time if his situation remained unchecked, and Anders had agreed with her. Fenris didn’t know enough about healing or medicine to contradict that prognosis, and, indeed, even his own limited medical experience told him that their assumption was, in all likelihood, an accurate one. The mage did entirely appear to be dying, and if the rapid rate of degeneration was anything to judge by, he didn’t have long.

All because somehow, without even the intent to do so, Fenris was killing him.

Or… at least, that was what the mage had insinuated. Anders had never outright told Fenris that he was, in fact, responsible.

Fenris could not begin to fathom how any of his actions could have caused the mage’s diminished state; he’d done nothing more than attempt to ignore both Anders and the bond, unless one counted his feeble attempts at blocking the connection.

Yet, if what the mage had implied was true, neglecting that Fenris had never (legitimately) planned to kill Anders, he was. In fact, if judged on his actions alone, empirical evidence suggested Fenris was very much attempting to keep the mage alive; he’d saved Anders’ life numerous times in the last few weeks.

‘So, why stop now?’  

The thought sprung into Fenris’ mind before he himself had even resolved to act. He had made no conscious decision to do anything at all; he was still sifting through the information and putting the pieces together.

But once the sentiment had made itself known, it would not be disregarded. It burrowed down into his brain and wedged itself there like a piece of meat caught between his teeth, obstinately refusing to be ignored.  

The little voice from earlier asserted that this was nothing more than the bond interfering with his actions again, but Fenris didn’t have the time to vacillate between action or passivity. Anders didn’t have the time.

And as Fenris mulled it over, it became blatantly obvious that preventing Anders’ death was the most logical course of action he could take.

An intervention, not only because it would spare Hawke, Holly, Varric, and the rest of those close to Anders the anguish of his loss, but also to ensure Fenris’ own hands remained unbloodied.

If he were indeed culpable in the matter of Anders’ drastic decline, he would do all in his power to reverse the effects. Whether or not he’d meant to cause the mage harm was ultimately irrelevant; one must assume responsibility for their actions, irrespective of their intent to take them. Ignorance does not absolve one of guilt, just as classifying a murder as accidental does not cleanse the blood from one’s hands.

All that notwithstanding, Fenris would not have the weight of yet another undeserved death on his conscience, laden as it already was with the hundreds of innocent souls he’d taken under Danarius’ command. He would not tolerate the weight of yet another life taken unjustly by his hand, however disagreeable he found the man to whom it belonged.

Thus, Fenris decided he would intercede.

After all, he never had been very good at inaction.

~*~

Fenris set to developing a plan, plotting as he paced the entry hall. He did not know what had to be done, only that he had to do it.

He would be acting alone, at least until such a time there was something in his path that required additional aid. It was not for Anders’ sake that he opted not to reveal the bond to anybody else, but for his own; Fenris still had no desire for the rest of the world to know he was tethered to the mage in such an inexorably permanent way. He attributed his earlier conviction in divulging the bond’s existence to temporary insanity via shock at the mage’s state.

But the path before him was shrouded by the unknown, and Fenris was at a loss as to what his course of action should be. Uncertainty clouded his mind, and doubt began to worm its way into his resolve, opening the door for questions Fenris had neither the time nor the resources to answer.

Centering himself and letting his eyes slide shut, Fenris drew a deep breath into his lungs, held it for a few moments, then released it. He paused with his lungs empty for a moment before inhaling again. He repeated the exercise until his mind quieted and the intrusive thoughts were routed for the time being.

Then, his conscience still as the unbroken surface of a winter lake, Fenris opened his eyes and allowed instinct to take over.

He was strapping his greatsword to his back before he’d even decided to leave the house, as if his actions were dictated by some outside force with no input of Fenris' own to interrupt it. He did not stop to question the movements, wary of indecision and doubts that threatened falter his conviction.

He pulled open the door, stepped through it, and shut it behind him.

There was no sign of Hawke’s party as Fenris strode through the lackadaisical crowd of Hightown shoppers, but Fenris made the conscious effort to walk slowly. He knew that with Anders setting the pace in the state he was in, he would catch up to them rather quickly, and Fenris had no intention of Hawke's group becoming cognizant in the matter of his pursuit.

Fenris didn’t need to see them to know where they were going. Even if Anders had not mentioned that he was returning to his clinic, Fenris would know where he was headed. It felt like there was a string connecting him to the mage, and all he had to do was follow the mysterious tugging at his feet. 

By the time he reached Lowtown, Fenris had caught up to Hawke’s group. He could see Anders still hobbling along, clutching his staff for support. Hawke, Holly and Merrill were in deep discussion, though Fenris couldn’t hear the topic of their conversation from this breadth. The three of them were still keeping an eye on the mage, however, glancing over at regular intervals to ensure he wasn’t about to collapse from exhaustion.

Fenris hung back, tucking himself against a wall to allow their party to move ahead.

This sequence repeated itself several times: Fenris inadvertently catching up to them, ducking out of sight to ensure they didn’t see him, then reemerging and following again at a more discreet distance. His pace kept quickening of its own accord and he had to remind himself to slow down frequently.

By the time they reached the clinic, Fenris still hadn’t solidified any plan of action. He knew he had to be there, but he didn’t know why. For reasons unbeknownst to him, his mere proximity seemed the subject of most import.

He watched from among the shadows of a Darktown alleyway as the group reached the clinic door. Hawke and Merrill seemed like they were preparing to leave immediately; they did not enter the clinic as Holly and Anders had.

The group exchanged friendly, lighthearted farewells, then Holly shut the door to the clinic and Hawke and Merrill turned back the way they came. Fenris moved deeper into the alley as they passed his hiding place, then began to climb the steps that would take them out of Darktown. When their silhouettes had disappeared from sight, Fenris stepped from the shadows and strode to the alcove outside the clinic.

He quietly approached the run-down building and listened for movement coming from the other side, but while he could hear Holly’s delicate accent and Anders short replies, he couldn’t make out their words. Fenris cautiously positioned himself in front of the hole in the clinic door and peered through it, scarcely daring to breathe for fear that the clinic occupants would hear past the thin, wooden walls.

Anders was sitting gingerly on one of the patient cots while Holly bustled around in the small kitchen area, ducking into the pantry briefly and reappearing with a small tin in hand.

“The usual?” Holly asked, shaking the tin. She set a kettle on the battered stovetop.

Grinning, Anders replied, “You’re a treasure, Holly.” Fenris could see the genuine warmth in the mage’s smile, as well as feel his affection through the bond; it seemed easier to decipher the mage’s emotions when Fenris could also see his expression.

After lighting the small rune under one of the burners and setting the kettle on the fire that appeared, Holly turned to look at the mage. That same, genuine smile was on her lips as well.

“Although, I don’t know that I should be enabling your sleeplessness; Earl Gray is full of caffeine.”

Anders let out a pfft of exasperation, “As if a bit of caffeine is going to make a difference. Besides, it’s my favorite.”

“I know it is. Maker, healers really do make the worst patients,” Holly rolled her eyes and Anders chuckled.

There was silence for a bit as both Anders and Holly just regarded each other with fond expressions. Eventually, Holly spoke again.

“You really scared me, you know,” she said softly and there was a twinge in her voice. She leaned lightly against the wall by the stove and appraised Anders, her smile turning melancholy.

“I know, and I am sorry,” Anders replied, having the good grace to both look sheepish and sound sincere, “How have you managed to put up with me for all these years?”

“Ah, well, what’s a little high blood pressure and the occasional heart attack between friends, eh?” Holly shrugged, grinning. “Besides, there was that time with the Orlesian girl; you really saved my hide there. It’s not all bad.”

Anders waved a hand dismissively, “I pretended to be your lover for like five minutes -it wasn’t exactly a trial.”

“She threatened you with a guillotine!”

“Being menaced by a scorned Orlesian noble is a small price to pay for the pleasure of pretending a stunning woman is mine, even for only five minutes.”

Holly’s eyebrows shot up, “Oh ho! Flattery! You must really be desperate for forgiveness.”

Anders sobered slightly and ducked his head, “I am, but I know I haven’t earned it.”

“I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it up to me,” Holly smirked, but Anders was serious now.

“I mean it, Holly,” Anders insisted, “I’m sorry I couldn’t see what I was putting you through; you deserve better than that.”

“It’s not a matter of me deserving anything, Anders,” Holly replied, lifting herself off the wall to walk over to him. Taking care not to jostle him, she sat beside Anders on the cot, “Friendship isn’t about who takes and who gives, it’s about being there for each other when times are hard.”

Anders was turned away from Fenris now, twisted in his seat to face Holly. He couldn’t see the mage’s expression, but Fenris watched as Anders took one of her hands in his and stroked his thumb across the back of it tenderly.

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right,” He said softly, and his voice was almost too low for Fenris to make out the words, “But it seems like I take more than I give in this regard.”

“You give enough of yourself to the people of Kirkwall. Don’t mistake me for somebody waiting on you to doll out scraps of kindness, Anders. I’m not a neglected puppy begging for attention.” The words were firm, but not unkind, and Anders seemed to take them as such.

“A puppy? No. You’re more of a full-blooded Mabari. I’m just worried that one day I’m going to wake up and you’ll be eating my boots.”

Holly laughed loudly and whacked his shoulder with an open palm.

“Oi, don’t you start with that too!” Anders pretended to complain though he was laughing.

“But you just make it so tempting,” Holly was grinning widely.

“Between Hawke and Fenris I’ve got enough bruises to make a convincing assault charge,” Anders muttered.

Holly’s smile faded a bit when next she spoke, “I can tell them to lay off, if you want.”

“No, no,” Anders said, giving a quick shake of the head, “It’s fine, really.”

“You know neither of them would hurt you intentionally,” she murmured, sounding sure.

Even with his face turned the other direction, Fenris knew the mage was raising an eyebrow skeptically, “Hawke? Sure, I’ll give you that one. But Fenris? That’s rich.”

“Oh, come on,” Holly said, giving Anders a look. “I saw that look on his face today when he first opened the door -all scared like he thought you were dying. And… well, I mean, you sort of are at the moment, but that's not the point.”

“That would be a dream come true for Fenris. He wouldn’t even have to get his hands dirty; if I went and keeled over tomorrow, he’d be rid of his biggest headache, just like that.” Anders snapped his fingers on the last word.

Fenris’ heart gave an uncomfortable twinge in at the resignation in Anders’ voice, but Holly wasn’t finished.

“I don’t think he actually hates you as much as he wants you to think he does.”

Anders scoffed, “I sincerely doubt it,” and Fenris could feel the mage’s side of the bond twist with sadness at his words.

“You seem rather sure of that…” Holly said, and there was an unmistakable edge to her voice. Fenris could see her searching Anders’ face for some hint as to what he was hiding, but before she could ask him again, the kettle began to whistle shrilly.

Holly stood swiftly and walked over to the stove top. She pulled the kettle from the burner, the whistle hushing as it was removed from the heat.

“Why do you think he hates you? You’re convinced he does, but…” She trailed off, unsure.

“He hates mages, you know that.”

“Yes,” Holly said, busying herself with the pouring of hot water into a pair of mugs and filling woven linen sachets with loose leaf tea, “But why do you think he hates you?”

Anders let out a humorless bark of a laugh, “I… am… a… mage... Holly,” He said slowly, emphasizing the words like he was speaking to a child.

“And I’m holding hot water,” Holly warned. She raised both a cup of steaming water and her eyebrows in Anders’ direction threateningly.

“Have I told you today how beautiful you are?” Anders said innocently, laying it on thick.

“I believe you said 'stunning', actually, but it never hurts,” She hummed primly, turning back to the stovetop. She tied the sachets off and placed one in each mug. “And you still haven’t told me why you’re so sure he hates you.” Holly added a few spoonfuls of sugar and turned back to Anders.

Anders sighed as she walked over to him and sat beside him on the cot again.

“You mean besides the fact that I’m a mage? Is that not enough?” He asked, taking the proffered cup from her and cradling it between his hands, embracing the warmth.

“Well, what about Merrill?”

“I don’t think it’s possible for anybody to hate Merrill,” Anders mused, “But if there was somebody out there who could, it’s Fenris. I mean, she is a blood mage.”

“But he doesn’t,” Holly pointed out, “He may not like her, sure, but he doesn’t hate her. And he doesn’t hate you either.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Anders seemed as much at a loss as Fenris was as to just how Holly was so assured.

“Fenris doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who would willingly work alongside somebody for years if he hated them, regardless of how close he is with Hawke.”

“You don’t know the effect Hawke has on people,” Anders chuckled, “He could make a dragon play nice with a nug if he put his mind to it.”

Fenris smirked at Anders’ words. The mage was right about Hawke and how much sway the rogue had over their merry band of misfits, but Holly let out a little snort, unconvinced.

“Well, even if there’s aspects of you he doesn’t like, there must be something in you he does, because the way he was looking at you today is not the way somebody looks at a person they hate.”

“And how was he looking at me?” Anders sounded offhand, but there was an underlying current of desperation, like he was drowning, and Holly was throwing him a lifeline. You wouldn’t hear it unless you were listening for it, but Fenris had a window into the mage’s mind, and he could tell just how badly the mage wanted Holly’s words to be true.

“He was looking at you like you were…” Holly struggled to find an accurate comparison, “Like you were leaving on a long trip without saying goodbye. Like… like you’d just told him his spine was shattered and that he’d never walk again.

Anders didn’t respond. He was turned away from Fenris again, so the elf couldn’t see the look on his face, but Holly continued anyway.

“He looked at you like you were telling him the saddest story and he didn’t want to listen anymore.”

The feelings flowing through the bond were confusing and Fenris couldn’t make out each one because his own churning emotions were making it impossible to understand the mage’s. There was a lump in his throat, and Fenris didn’t know how it had gotten there.

Anders remained wordless, but this time Holly didn’t interrupt the pensive silence as it thickened in air between them. She was studying Anders’ face with a crease in her brow that hadn’t been there before. Fenris’ back was starting to protest the awkward bend of his spine necessary to look through the hole in the door, the muscles cramping uncomfortably, but nothing short of a rampaging high dragon could have pulled him away now. He couldn't even spare a moment to be irritated with himself that Holly had picked up on his overt dismay at Anders' diminished health.

Eventually Holly spoke in a low voice, “He was scared for you, Anders.”

“No, he was scared for himself,” Anders bit out rather harshly, “Sure, maybe he was afraid, but just for his own neck. He thought the spells were going to kill him too, just like they're killing me -he thought that he was going to wind up in the same state I'm in. He wasn't scared for me.”

Holly frowned, looking irritated. “Why are you being so stubborn about this? How can you be so convinced that Fenris hates you? Is your opinion of him really that low?”

Fingers clenching around the mug in his hands, Anders looked away from her to stare at the ground in front of him, once again bringing his expression into Fenris' sightline. There was a dark look on the mage's face, and it wasn’t hard to figure out where it stemmed from.

Anders didn’t just think Fenris hated him, he was sure of it.

And mulling it over, Fenris was forced to acknowledge the very uncomfortable fact that it was a perfectly rational assumption for Anders to make.

Because Fenris realized that he had all but told Anders he did, indeed, hate him.

The night the mage had revealed the two of them were inextricably linked by a soul bond, Fenris had snarled at Anders, called him insufferable, demanded that he sever the spiritual connection that bound them together, heedless of the terrible pain that it was like cause them both. He'd told Anders that if he couldn't figure out a way to break it, that Fenris would, as if Fenris would rather endure a potentially chronic and unbearable agony than be bonded to Anders for even a moment longer.

And moreover, as if his words hadn't been enough, there was another reason that had Anders so utterly convinced.

Anders was so far beyond the shadow of doubt because he could feel the extent -the depth- of Fenris’ revulsion through their bond, and he’d logically assumed every iota of that loathing was for him and his existence.

And it was that knowledge -that his hatred for Anders was an unquestionable fact in the mage's mind - that Anders was so absolutely certain Fenris despised him and everything he stood for- that made Fenris’ heart clench in his chest with painful, wretched guilt.

“I just know he does, alright? I can tell,” Anders muttered, still staring at the ground. He set the mug of tea down at his feet.

“What do you mean-?” Holly started but Anders cut her off.

“Look, I really don’t want to talk about Fenris anymore.”

Holly narrowed her eyes and observed Anders’ profile with a piercing gaze, cataloguing his tone of voice and body language.

“Hawke is right, isn’t he? There’s something going on between you two,” she declared. 

“Why?" Anders grit out, his shoulders suddenly tense, "Because I know that Fenris wants nothing to do with me? That’s not exactly a new development-” 

“No, but the fact that you suddenly care so much about it is,” Holly said shrewdly.

“What do you want me to say, Holly?!” Anders burst out, leaping abruptly to his feet and whirling to face her where she still sat on the cot, “That-that I’m miserable? " He threw his arms out to the side, "That I’m upset over the fact that Fenris hates me?” Anders almost yelled in a scathing tone. Holly recoiled at his unexpected explosion of fury, but Anders wasn’t finished.

“Huh!?" His hands slapped down at his sides, then shot out again, "Do you want me to say I hate him too? Or do you want me to say that I wish he didn’t? Do you want me to break down in tears and wail about it? Do you want me to say that it hurts-?” Anders cut himself off abruptly, but to Fenris’ shock, the rest of the sentence the mage had refused to speak aloud careened through the bond and into his mind with staggering force:

‘-It hurts that not only would my own bondmate welcome my death, he would celebrate it?’

Fenris flinched away from the door as if struck. The words had stung to be sure, but it was the wave of devastating anguish accompanying them that had felt like a gauntleted fist to the gut.

“Anders…” he heard Holly’s voice, shaken and small, but Fenris couldn’t bring himself to look through the hole in the door again -couldn’t make himself witness the raw pain he could feel through the bond all over again and see it stark on Anders’ face. He wanted to turn and slump against the wall in defeat, but despite his unrest, he was still wary of the pair in the clinic hearing him, so instead he stood there and waited for it to pass.

Did Anders even know Fenris had heard him? Fenris could tell the mage hadn’t intended for the words he’d left unspoken to phase through the bond -that he hadn’t meant for Fenris to hear them. With another pang of guilt, Fenris realized Anders hadn’t meant any of his words for Fenris’ ears; Holly was the only anticipated recipient of his raving.

Initially, Fenris had felt that his eavesdropping was perfectly justifiable -he was trying to save the mage’s life (again), after all- but he was rapidly becoming aware that this was nothing more than intruding on conversations to which he was never intended to have been privy.

Finally, after a long, heavy silence, curiosity got the better of him and Fenris looked through the door again.

Holly, looking stricken, was gaping up at Anders from where she was still seated on the cot, her mouth half open in shock. Anders was breathing hard, staring at the ground with unseeing eyes, and Fenris could feel the vast tide of suffering the mage was struggling to suppress. The bond was awash in powerful distress, and for the first time, Fenris could hear the mage’s unfiltered thoughts alongside his emotions.

‘Why did this have to happen? Why did I tell him? I should have just kept my mouth shut about the bloody bond- should have just let him go on believing it was a spell-’

Another line of Anders’ thoughts interrupted the first, layering the mental tirade into a confusing litany, ‘He would have figured it out eventually; Fenris isn’t stupid. And then he’d never believe another word you said because you’d have kept the truth from him.’

‘So, what? My two choices were ‘I tell Fenris, he hates me, and I die,’ or ‘I don’t tell Fenris, he figures it out anyway, he hates me and then I die?’ What a variety of options that is -so glad I have the freedom to choose my own destiny,’ The first voice replied sardonically.

‘Get a grip!’ the second, more logical of the two voices hissed fiercely, ‘You’ve put Holly through enough already! She doesn’t need to see you like this.’

‘Right,’ the first voice was hollow with defeat, ‘Wouldn’t want her last few memories of me to be the ravings of a lunatic.’

The mental flood tapered to a dull roar, and Fenris could see Anders taking a few deep breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Anders finally sighed aloud, “I’m sorry, Holly. I- I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just… I don’t want to talk about Fenris. He drives me mad on a good day, and well…” He looked up and met Holly’s eyes as he trailed off. “Let’s just say it hasn’t been a good day.”

Holly was still looking at him with wide eyes, but as she met his gaze, her face softened.

“The lack of sleep is really taking its toll, huh?” Holly sounded sympathetic, the kind voice of a healer whose patient is lashing out in fear or stress. Anders nodded, and Fenris could feel a small measure of relief pass through the ragged bond as Holly readily forgave his outburst.

“Yes, it is. Plus, the whole flashback at your house and then at the mansion…” Anders sat back down on the cot and immediately slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He rubbed both hands over his face roughly, then raked his nails through his hair. He looked over at Holly again and Fenris couldn’t see his expression, but the weak grin Holly gave him made Fenris think Anders had tried his best to smile reassuringly at her.

“And to think -it’s not even noon.”

Anders released a hoarse bark of laughter and pressed his face into his hands again, shaking his head back and forth.

“Ahh, yes. Ever a beacon of optimism, you are Holly,” His voice was muffled by his hands, but he sounded lighter, and he was met by Holly’s laughter -bright peals of a beautiful bell that rang with tension’s respite.

“That’s me; eternal sunshine and rainbows,” She smirked then, fixing him with a semi-stern look, “Try not to stress yourself too much though, alright?" She rubbed a hand across his shoulders, "Wouldn’t want you to give up the ghost before we get that counterspell going, would we?” She pulled him into a one armed hug.

A spasm of heartbreak lanced through the link he shared with Anders, smacking into Fenris’ battered and still woefully under-prepared heart.

Fenris winced and his face twisted into a pained grimace. Shouldn’t he be used to this by now? Shouldn’t he have built up some sort of tolerance? Why did each fresh spasm of pain from the bond strike him with just as much power as the one that came before?

“No,” the mage mumbled finally, “No, we wouldn’t want that.”

Anders was looking at the floor and biting his lip. Hard. Hard enough to bruise.

‘This is cruel.’ The morose thought found its way into Fenris’ mind, and the elf trained his attention inward again, concentrating on the bond once more and letting his eyes drift out of focus.

‘Fenris was right, this will break her heart. This will kill her. What kind of monster would do this to their friends? What vile, disgusting creature tricks the people they care about like this?’ Anders’ brutal self-depreciation was hard to witness, and not for the first time, Fenris found that he didn’t want to listen anymore.

‘No wonder Fenris hates me; he’s the only one who sees the cruelty I’m capable of.’

Fenris realized his eyes had screwed shut of their own volition, and he had to deliberately refrain from putting his hands over his ears. He wanted to shut it off, to block it out, to arrest the wretched guilt that threatened to choke him.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop listening, and Anders next thought was a scalding brand of iron against Fenris’ heart.

‘Why did he even bother to save my life? He should have just let me die.’

‘Stop.’ Fenris hadn’t made the decision to speak to Anders, but in his desperation, the word phased through the bond of its own accord, ‘Please… stop.’

His plea was met with deafening silence. Where there had been overwhelming penitence and self-hatred from the bond, there was now an utter lack of noise, as if a metaphorical door had been slammed shut. Fenris was finally able to open his eyes again, and he stifled a gasp of relief. Breathing deeply, he peered into the clinic.

Fenris couldn’t see Holly, but he heard rifling coming from the pantry, and he assumed she was searching for something. Anders was still sitting on the cot, staring blankly ahead, eyes wide. His mug of tea was in his hands again, presumably returned to him by Holly, but he was holding it loosely in his lap, like he’d already forgotten about it.

Eventually, with distress plain upon his face, Anders closed his eyes.

‘How much of that did you hear?’ Anders enquired, and there was an unusual note of formality to his mental tone.

Fenris didn’t know how to respond, but it seemed his silence was answer enough.

‘My apologies. I’ll endeavor to keep my thoughts on a tighter leash-’

‘Do you truly think me so callous?’ Fenris wondered, ill-content and unwilling to let the mage work under such pretences. ‘That I would wish death upon you out of mere spite?’

Anders was frowning now, eyes still closed. The bond was mercifully quiet, barely a hint of the earlier tempest registering on Fenris’ conscience. It seemed Anders’ ability to impede the flow through the bond had developed. Either that, or he had a considerable measure of emotional control.

‘I have never wanted you dead, mage.’

And it was true. Fenris might have spent the last three years nursing a growing resentment in his gut, but Hawke’s influence wasn’t the only reason he’d spared the mage a killing blow, and nor had his hand only been stayed by his own heavy conscience.

‘I have seen no shortage of cruelty in my life, especially by those who wield magic-’ Fenris began, but Anders interjected.

‘If you’re going to start in again on the whole ‘mages are evil’ bit-’

‘However,’ Fenris continued, doggedly ignoring the mage’s interruption, ‘regardless of my opinion on mages in general, I can acknowledge the advantages of magic. I would not proclaim any to be my friend, but that doesn't mean I deny the existence of mages who are capable of doing good. As it stands, I have met more than one mage with redeeming qualities. You seem to be operating under the assumption that I blindly detest anybody who wields magic.’

‘Well…’ Anders let the word stand on its own. From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw movement and he watched as Holly reappeared from the pantry, clutching something in her hands.

‘Your assumption is incorrect,’ Fenris stated firmly. ‘Magic is as dangerous as it is unpredictable, and I do not wish to see innocents harmed by a careless disregard for that fact. It does not follow that I hate all magic or every person who uses it.’

Anders was quiet now, no longer trying to interrupt Fenris as he spoke. Distantly, Fenris heard Holly’s questioning voice, but when he looked up, Anders’ head was still bowed and his eyes still shut, listening.

‘As it stands, I have seen the good magic can bring about when used responsibly. I have borne witness to your own beneficial applications of magic, and I am mindful that while you have the capability to use your power to harm, you instead use it to heal. Do not think that fact is lost on me, Anders.’

As he finished, the bond faded into near dormancy. Fenris had not expected the silence. Rather, he had fully expected the mage to make one of his signature quips, something along the lines of –

‘My, oh my, was that a compliment, Fenris? I’ll have to mark the occasion on my calendar.’

A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. ‘So predictable.’

Fenris realized that Holly was walking over to Anders now, and he could see the concern in her features.

‘Holly is trying to get your attention, by the way,’ Fenris informed him. He watched as Anders shook himself, then turned to Holly, mouth open in preparation to reply to her, only for realization to dawn and his head to whip back around to stare in furious outrage at the door.

Fenris chuckled softly, unable to completely repress his mirth. He ducked away from the door, out of the mage's sight, but he could still feel the burn of Anders' wrothful gaze through the clinic wall.

“Anders?” Holly asked uneasily, presumably worried that several of her questions were met with silence, fixated as Anders was on what Fenris had been saying through the bond, “What is it?”

Fenris could hear Anders mutter something indecipherable, then, “Just thought I heard something.”

“Want me to go and check?”

“No, it’s fine. It was probably just a scheming little rat.” Fenris almost burst out laughing at the aggravation in Anders’ tone.

“O-kay?” Holly sounded confused. “Well, like I said, all you have to eat is stale bread. And by ‘stale,’ I mean you’d crack your teeth on it if you tried.”

Anders grunt was muffled by the wall, “Well... at least there’s tea?”

Fenris didn’t even know Holly all that well, but he didn’t have to; her exasperation was palpable even with the wall between them, and he was positive the woman was rolling her eyes.

“Oh yes. Tea. A perfectly acceptable meal replacement… for an Orlesian on a diet! Not for a skeletal apostate -especially not one who is supposed to be making things up to me!”

“Alright, alright, just let me put my coat on-”

“No, you sit. I’ll go get us dinner.”

“Us?”

“Yes, us. As if I’m about to leave your sorry hide alone overnight in the state it's in,” Holly scoffed. “What kind of healer are you?”

“A scrappy yet adorable underdog that you can’t help but love? One of those, maybe?”

“Maker help me.”

There was the jingle of buckles and the clink of coins as Holly donned her coat in preparation to leave, and Fenris hurriedly searched for a place to hide. He quickly ducked out of sight behind an abandoned mining cart and he only just managed to settle on his haunches before the door opened.

“Behave yourself,” Holly growled "I'll be back with Murna's, and if you're good, you can have the third dumpling." She shut the door with slightly more force than necessary, not waiting for a reply. A moment later, she arrived at the top of the alcove stairs, coming within view of Fenris’ hiding spot. She began to descend the stairs, quickly disappearing from sight again, grumbling to herself. Fenris caught a few words; something about “Idiot,” and “No sense in his damn, fool head,” and “Lucky he’s funny, because he didn't survive childhood on his smarts.” Fenris had to press a fist between his teeth in order to hold back another laugh and keep from giving his position away.

Grateful that Holly hadn’t turned around and caught him crouching there, Fenris grinned to himself. He didn’t know Holly well, but he was beginning to like her.

After he was sure he was in the clear, Fenris straightened from his spot behind the abandoned minecart and stepped out of hiding. He rolled one shoulder and rubbed at the back of his neck, uncomfortably aware of how long he’d spend hunched over, spying on the mage and his friend. Fenris gripped the side of the minecart, twisting around to stretch the ache from his back, reveling in the sensation of the joints of his spine popping. But as he pressed a hand to his chin to crack his neck-

“You know, for once Sebastian is right: I really should get a new cat. These bloody rats are getting entirely too bold.”

Anders was standing in the clinic doorway with his arms folded over his chest, appraising Fenris with an expression that looked for all the world to be amusement.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

Fenris froze as he met the mage’s accusing stare. 

He hadn’t even heard the door open again, yet there was Anders, looking at him expectantly, arms folded and awaiting an explanation.

“Any particular reason you’re skulking around outside my clinic? Or was eavesdropping on private conversation the by and large of it?” Anders asked in playful reproach. His words had no bite to them, and Fenris could detect only mild amusement from the bond.

It was no simple matter to maintain a straight face as Anders stared him down. As such, Fenris wasn’t entirely sure that he’d managed it. Mirth and embarrassment in equal parts fought to twist his expression, jeopardizing the cool ambivalence he meant to project and threatening to give him away.

Not that it mattered at any rate, Fenris ultimately realized, as it was likely the mage could feel both sentiments radiating though the bond. Anders would feel any deception coming a mile away, and it seemed to Fenris that -at least in regard to one’s bondmate- lying was out of the question.

“You and I have matters to discuss,” Fenris said shortly, avoiding the pointed reference to his spying.

Anders raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. “Such as?”

Fenris sobered. “Do not play coy with me, mage. The others may not have understood your deflection, but it was not lost on me.”

“I’m entirely sure I don’t have any idea what you-”

“You think the bond is killing you.” Fenris cut to the chase.

Anders let his features slip back into a semi-neutral formation as he abandoned pretense. He sighed quietly, then beckoned for Fenris to follow him as he headed back inside the clinic. Fenris tossed a glance over his shoulder and entered the dwelling after him.

Anders allowed Fenris to pass, then shut the shabby, wooden door behind him.

“As you please.” Anders gesticulated to the rows of cots that lay interspersed throughout the clinic, offering the elf a seat. Fenris walked a few paces inside but didn’t sit, choosing instead to study Anders as the mage set to putting away the tea and sugar Holly had retrieved earlier. He was still moving slowly, hobbling around the clinic as a man far beyond his years would.

Reemerging from the pantry, Anders looked around the clinic as if trying to find something else he could use to busy his hands. Coming up empty, the mage reluctantly met Fenris’ eye.

“We do have a bit of time, but just a bit. Holly went to Murna’s for dinner. The trip takes about ten minutes each way, then another five to get the food. It’s worth it though; Murna makes a damn decent stew. Cheap too. Although I’m not entirely sure what the meat is, and at this point I’m too afraid to ask.”

Fenris could tell the mage was stalling, employing this rambling tangent to evade the topic at hand. Anders was uneasy and Fenris didn’t need the bond to know it; he watched as Anders crossed and uncrossed his arms, shifted his weight from foot to foot. He let the mage agitate for a moment while he gathered his thoughts.

“This…” Fenris gestured to Anders’ wan, pale face, his excessively thin body. “You agree with Holly’s diagnosis; you believe it will get worse. You think you are dying.”

“I don’t just think I’m dying, Fenris. I mean for Andraste’s sake, look at me -look at yourself,” Anders said, waving a hand weakly at Fenris.

“And you believe I am causing it.” Fenris’ words did not hold a challenge. They were not spoken in anger, nor in apology. They were merely fact, stated as one would the weather or the time of day.

“I don’t know,” Anders admitted, and the truth of his words permeated the bond.

“Explain your reasoning,” Fenris requested, folding his arms.

Anders gave a humorless laugh and spread his arms helplessly in front of him. “What else could it be?”

“Depression?” Fenris asked for the sake of argument.

“You sound like Holly,” Anders grumbled, “I’m not depressed, elf.”

Fenris cocked his head to one side. “You are not without reason to be. Is the concept truly so farfetched?”

Anders stared at him, his arms still held out to the side as though he’d forgotten about them.

“Being separated from your… spirit, being permanently tied against your will to somebody you believe hates you, being confronted by your own demise; any of these would suffice on their own, but you face all three.”

Lowering his arms to his sides, Anders’ brow creased, and he stared at Fenris with his mouth slightly ajar as if perplexed by the elf’s reasoning. Then he ducked his head, pretending to examine the floor, his face twisted into something that may have been sadness… or perhaps wistfulness. A dull ache began to creep through the bond as the mage’s exhaustion caught up to him, manifesting in a headache.

“Right, well…” Anders muttered, “I’m not depressed.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed as he tried to understand the emotions phasing through the bond. The feeling of guilt was rapidly becoming familiar, as was the overall tension. Both of these made sense, but there was another emotion that Fenris could not place.

“Well, if that is the case, and if -as you believe- no other matter is at fault, the only remaining variable would be the bond,” Fenris stated, and it wasn’t a question. He was only confirming what Anders had already told him.

“I just… I don’t know of anything else it could be,” Anders mumbled. “But I also don’t know enough about bonds to say for certain whether or not it’s the culprit.”

Walking over to the cot on which he’d sat while talking to Holly, Anders again picked up his abandoned mug of tea. The mage must have seen something unpleasant reflected in the liquid’s depth because his face folded into a grimace as he stared at it. Nevertheless, he took a halfhearted drink, studied the murky depths again, then drained the rest of the mug.

Fenris fought the urge to pace as he contemplated the mage’s words. “So, you believe the bond is somehow… draining you?”

Anders raised his shoulders weakly, still not meeting Fenris’ gaze.

“How do we stop it?”

“I don’t know, Fenris! I don’t even know what exactly is happening!” The mage scoured his face with both hands and the back of Fenris’ mind convulsed with pain as Anders’ headache spiked with his anxiety.

For the first time since Anders had arrived at the mansion, Fenris fully took in the mage’s appearance. Anders’ posture was tense with stress and, while his health didn’t seem to have deteriorated any further, he certainly didn’t look any better than he had earlier that morning on Fenris’ doorstep. Fenris almost winced in sympathy, understanding just how difficult it could be to function on little-to-no sleep for days on end.

“I don’t know how, I-I don’t know why,” Anders stammered. “I can’t even begin to think of ways to fix it.” The mage rubbed a hand across his brow, face crumpled with pain. “Maker, my head is killing me.”

His uncertainty sketched Fenris an image -the mage adrift in a sea of confusion; no landmarks or stars by which to navigate. Anders was lost and scared, staring into the void of his own mortality with nobody to guide him to the other side.

“Be calm, mage.”

“Be calm?” Anders spluttered, “I’m staring down the shaft of an arrow aimed directly at my heart! And, aside from you and myself, everybody thinks I’ll be back to hale and hearty in a few days’ time!”

In spite of the tense situation, Fenris was almost relieved. The mage had not, in fact, accepted his death; he was appropriately terrified, just doing his best to hide that fact from Holly and the rest of his friends.

Anders slumped onto the cot, the headache that accosted him leeching through the bond and making Fenris’ own head throb with pain. He looked small and frail, almost child-like in his withered state, and again Fenris found himself with the desire to help the mage.

But there was no enemy to be fought here, no corporeal form to dispatch with a blade. Nothing to do but watch in impotent silence -just a dying man and an elf to behold it.

Anders half-fell, half-lay down in the cot, head thumping gently onto a ragged pillow, as if suddenly too weak to hold himself up. The relief Fenris felt had flickered out as quickly as it’d come. When he’d left the mansion, he’d had no plan in mind, no path to follow, save the tugging at his feet. He had relied on instinct, but instinct can only take one so far.

Is this what his feet had pulled him toward? Was this the purpose he’d followed? To simply bear witness to Anders’ passing?

Through eyes half-lidded and watered with pain, Anders surveyed the elf before him.

“Oh, don’t give me that look; I’m not giving up yet. I’m just tired.” And Fenris could feel that it was true. The mage’s exhaustion was dragging at the link in his mind. “And this headache… ugh.” Anders rubbed at a temple with one hand. “Maker, this is no way to live.”

“Then, I suppose it is fortunate you are dying,” Fenris mused wryly, despite his unease.

Anders chuckled, sounding surprised at the elf’s unexpected joke. “I thought gallows humor was for the man about to hang.”

“You are not dead yet, mage. Time remains to solve this.”

“Excellent idea,” Anders sighed. “Let’s do that. You start.”

Fenris wanted to grind his teeth in frustration at the mage’s words, but he resisted. Anders’ headache was a distracting nuisance. If Fenris was to brainstorm solutions, it would be beneficial to alleviate the mage’s pain -and his own by proxy- so he could concentrate.

Fenris strode to the mage’s small kitchen area where he found a handful of glass vials filled with clean water. Searching a cabinet, he also found a few sprigs of relatively fresh elfroot. Fenris plucked a couple leaves from a stem, lay them on the counter, and set to mashing them with the flat of his dagger. He then gathered the pulp on the edge of the blade and slid it along the mouth of one of the bottles, adding the pulverized leaves and juice to the flask of water. He replaced the bottle’s cork and shook it vigorously, mixing the concoction.

He turned to see Anders watching him with a curious expression. He brushed off the self-consciousness brought about by the mage’s scrutiny and walked back over to Anders.

“Drink this.” Fenris held the bottle out.

Anders propped himself up on an elbow and took the proffered flask. He examined the bottle’s slightly green-tinted liquid, then removed the cork and drank a few mouthfuls.

“Excellent vintage,” the mage quipped, holding a pinky out and swirling the bottle with mock pretentiousness. Fenris rolled his eyes. Anders was silent for a moment, looking into the bottle as though it held secrets untold. He took another long pull from the flask, then peered at Fenris.

“Why are you doing this?” Anders asked, abruptly serious.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Your headache was worsening.” When Anders’ expression became slightly confused, Fenris gestured at his own head. “It was becoming distracting.”

“No,” Anders shook his head slowly. “Why are you doing this.” The mage waved to the clinic as a whole, then Fenris himself. “Why are you here?”

Fenris looked away, eyes growing distant.

“Your death would cause unnecessary grief. Hawke is my friend; I do not wish to see him pained by your loss.”

“And?” Anders prompted, inferring correctly that there was more to it than Fenris was telling him.

Fenris met Anders’ gaze. “And I refuse to be responsible for that grief.”

Suddenly overtaken by a need to justify his actions, the elf stepped closer to Anders’ cot, his voice lowering with ardor. “Under Danarius’ command, I was accountable for the deaths of countless innocent lives. Men, women, children… any that hindered Danarius’ ceaseless quest for power met their end at the edge of my blade. I was too weak to resist his demands, too cowardly to do anything other than obey.”

Fenris shook his head, gritting his teeth and averting his gaze. “I will not be responsible for another unnecessary death.”

Anders didn’t respond to this revelation, and, eventually, Fenris met the mage’s gaze again. Anders was observing him through narrowed eyes, studying the elf with an intensity that made Fenris want to cross his arms defensively.

“I see,” the mage said finally. He took another deep pull from the flask.

For a moment, the silence extended between them, neither knowing what to say. Fenris studied his hands, as though checking them for blood.

“I spoke with Merrill a few days ago,” Fenris eventually said. Anders’ eyebrows shot up.

“Willingly?”

A smirk pulled at the corner of Fenris’ mouth briefly, then fell away as he elaborated. “After the night you came to the mansion. The night you told me what you knew about the… bond.”

“Oh.” A small twinge of sadness entered both Anders’ voice and the mental link.

Fenris continued. “I asked her about ways to break the connection.”

“But Merrill doesn’t know the two of us are bonded… how did you manage that?”

“I told her I wanted to know more about elven culture.” Fenris let a sneer color his last words.

“Clever.” Anders sounded mildly impressed. “Hawke mentioned that she’d talked to you, but I didn’t know…” Anders trailed off, then continued in a different vein, “I take it you didn’t find what you were looking for?”

Fenris weighed his words. “She told me there exists no… simple way to break a bond, and no options that would not result in death or egregious pain.”

“How ‘egregious’ are we talking?” Anders asked, sounding resigned.

“I do not know. I did not press her for information.”

Anders looked surprised. “Oh?”

A hint of annoyance colored Fenris’ next words. “It was obvious she did not wish to discuss it further.”

“But if there’s a way to break the bond-”                                                                                                   

“Merrill’s unwillingness to part with the information told me all I need to know regarding the amount of pain we would suffer. If you are so keen on breaking the bond as to cause the both of us enduring agony, you may enquire after the information yourself,” Fenris growled.

“No, that’s not- I only meant I’m surprised you didn’t press her yourself.”

“I have no desire to see either of us suffer unduly.”

A note of doubt trickled through the bond. “And you’re okay with that?” Anders asked dubiously.

“I have resigned myself to our situation,” Fenris stated, realizing as he said it that it was true. “It does no good to refute the inevitable.”

“Right…” Anders still sounded unconvinced. He studied the flask in his palms for a moment. “Well, in any case, Holly will be coming back soon. We need to come up with a plan for tomorrow.”

Fenris stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Ah, I forgot. You don’t know,” Anders said, “Hawke and Merrill went to talk to Keeper Marethari. They’re going to ask her to visit, to perform the counterspell.” The mage paused for a moment to drain the rest of the bottle still clutched in his hands. “Hawke’s going to cash in the favor she gave him when we rescued Merrill’s clanmates from those slavers.”

“She’ll be here tomorrow afternoon if she accepts,” Anders finished.

Fenris mulled this over. “It is likely she will be able to tell the situation is not as we say.”

“In all likelihood, yes.” Anders nodded in agreement. “What happens after that is anybody’s guess.”

“Perhaps she will be able to tell what has caused your deterioration.”

“Our deterioration,” Anders corrected. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re in the same boat I am.”

Fenris grimaced, accepting the truth in the mage’s words.

“You should leave,” Anders added, setting the empty flask on the floor at his side. “Unless you want Holly to catch you here, that is.”

Wanting very much not to be discovered, Fenris nodded and headed for the door. But, as he reached the exit, he turned to look at the mage.

“If you are wise, you will eat your dinner. It would be rather unfortunate for Keeper Marethari to make the trip out here if she arrives only to find Holly standing over your strangled corpse.”

He closed the door to the sound of Anders’ quiet laughter.

~*~

The next day dawned warm and clear. The sun was out, birds chirped melodies to one another, and Hawke had a skip in his step as he walked alongside Fenris on their way to Anders’ clinic.

The rogue had arrived at the mansion approximately 20 minutes earlier, and -though Fenris had been expecting him- the elf had pretended to be surprised when he opened the door. Hawke had (unnecessarily) explained that he and Merrill had visited the Keeper the previous day to ask for her help, and that she’d agreed to come to Kirkwall in order to lend assistance. Fenris had met these words with what he believed was the appropriate level of reserve, and the two of them had set off together toward Darktown. 

“Merrill left this morning to get the Keeper, so they’ll probably arrive at the same time we do,” Hawke said cheerfully as they entered the Darktown Warrens. The man seemed positively giddy, and Fenris understood that he was eager for the return of his friends’ health.

“As soon as you’re both back up to snuff, we have some work to do,” Hawke continued. “I’ve heard whisperings about some Carta operations and Varric thinks we should look into it.”

Fenris tried to smother his doubt as to whether or not he and Anders would ever again be ‘up to snuff.’ Instead he grunted an affirmative. Fenris was slightly apprehensive, unsure about what the Keeper would say upon discovering they were not, in fact, under the effects of a spell. If Hawke noticed his less-than-eager attitude, the rogue didn’t mention it, and the pair of them reached the clinic a few moments later. Hawke gave the front door a quick rap of his knuckles and let himself in.

As it turned out, they had beaten Merrill and the Keeper to the clinic. The only two occupants, Anders and Holly, were seated on the same cot, engaged in casual discussion. It appeared Holly had indeed spent the night at the clinic; she was wearing the same clothes Fenris had seen her in the day prior.

Anders and Holly looked up from their discussion as they entered.

“Glad you could make it,” Holly smiled, and Anders gave the pair of them a brief wave. Hawke and Fenris strode forward to meet them.

“Let’s hope the Keeper has good news for us.” Hawke still sounded cheerful, but there was a note of apprehension in his tone now.

As though his words had summoned them, there was a polite knock on the door and Merrill entered with Keeper Marethari on her heels.

“Andaran atish’an, Keeper,” Hawke said formally, his tone flexing over the Elvish greeting with practiced grace.

“Ma serannas.” Keeper Marethari looked somewhat impressed. “Your inflection is very good.”

“Ir mirthadra dar dirthara. Mir hahren lasa ghilan.” Hawke shot Merrill a wink at this. Her cheeks turned pink, but she beamed at him all the same.

The wise elf nodded with approval. “And taught you well she has.”

“Ma serannas, Keeper,” Merrill said, glowing with pride at the praise.

Marethari strode farther into the clinic, making her way toward Fenris and Anders. “It is my understanding you two are under the lingering effects of a spell.” Her voice was calm and rang with authority. The Keeper seemed to command a subtle aura of power that made one sit up and pay attention.

As she approached the group, she looked first at Fenris, then at Anders. She inspected both their faces for a moment, eyes narrowing as she absorbed their condition.

“It is good you came to me when you did,” the Keeper said, looking away from them to glance at Hawke and Merrill. “They are as ill as you described.”

“Yes,” Hawke nodded seriously. “And thank you for coming. We were running out of options.”

“I have seen many spells that can wither a man like this, but none that endure so long after the initial cast.” She faced Anders then. “If you are ready, I will perform an initial examination to determine the extent of the damage.”

Holly stood from the cot and moved to stand beside Merrill and Hawke. Anders exchanged a quick glance with Fenris; not only did the magelook nervous, Fenris could feel the bond shiver with trepidation. Nevertheless, Anders took a deep breath. “I am ready.”

Without hesitation, Keeper Marethari placed a hand on either side of Anders’ head and closed her eyes. As she began to murmur incantations in a voice too low for Fenris to catch, a soft, green glow emanated from between her palms, illuminating Anders’ face. The mage’s eyes were also closed, and he breathed steadily as the elf before him probed his mind with magic.

As she continued her assessment, Marethari’s brow knitted with consternation. She looked troubled, as though the extent of the damage was greater than even Anders’ haggard visage suggested. Gradually, her hands moved to the back of his head, tracing along the ridge at the base of his skull, and to his shock, Fenris felt his own side of the bond burn with painless heat. He only just managed to keep himself from recoiling.

Marethari let out a soft gasp and pulled her hands away, the glow of magic fading abruptly. Her eyes flew open and she looked between Fenris and Anders, astonishment plain upon her features.

“Mythal’enaste,” the old elf breathed, placing a hand over her heart.

“Keeper?” Merrill had taken a step forward, concern twisting her features. Hawke and Holly both looked alarmed at Marethari’s reaction as well.

“A moment, Da’len.”

She turned to Fenris. “Sit,” she commanded him, pointing sternly to the same cot Anders was still seated upon. Fenris quickly did as she bid without argument, and Anders scooted slightly to the side to allow him room. Ordinarily, he would have refused outright, ever wary of any strange magic coming within range of his person. But the elder’s tone had brooked no argument, full of both gravitas and authority, and Anders had come out unscathed besides.

Marethari’s hands encircled his brow, resting lightly on his temples, and Fenris closed his eyes automatically. He could see the green glow resume through his eyelids, and the unfamiliar warmth of the Keeper’s magic enveloped his mind. Her hands moved around to the back of his head without hesitation this time, as though she knew what to look for, the heat of magic moving with them. Upon reaching the bond, the magic coalesced around it, seeming to prod and measure.

No sooner had she ascertained Fenris’ mind was the same as Anders’, her hands withdrew and Fenris opened his eyes to see the Keeper glaring between the two of them with what appeared to be accusation.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” This from Hawke. Marethari did not answer him.

The Keepers’ eyes continued to flick between Anders and himself. She glanced over one shoulder briefly, then back to the two of them seated on the cot. She raised one eyebrow and gave a discreet tilt of her head in the direction of Merrill, Hawke and Holly.

In his periphery, Fenris saw Anders shake his head very slightly. The Keepers’ eyes narrowed further. She seemed to contemplate something, unconsciously chewing her tongue behind weathered lips. Eventually, it appeared she reached a decision.

“The spell has done more damage than I realized,” Keeper Marethari said, her voice grave. She turned her back on Fenris and Anders.

“Oh no…” Merrill sounded dismayed. Fenris shot Anders a quick look. Anders winced.

‘I think she felt the bond,’ he told Fenris telepathically. Fenris was forced to admit he was probably right, remembering the touch of magic as it had probed their mental connection.

‘Yet she maintains the illusion,’ Fenris wondered.

“Da’len, do you still have that bundle of Fen’haminan?” Keeper Marethari asked Merrill.

“Yes, Keeper,” Merrill replied, confused. “Why?”

“Would you fetch some for me?” The elder’s voice sounded tense, as though she was under a great deal of stress. “The cleansing properties may help with this.”

“What?” Hawke looked completely lost.

“Fen’haminan,” Merrill repeated. “Literally translated, it means ‘Wolf’s Den,’ but that’s a long story. I believe your people call it Prophet’s Laurel?”

“We had some here,” Holly said, seeming to finally regain her voice, “but the Templars ruined all of it during the raid.”

“I do have some, but I’ll have to go to my house to fetch it,” Merrill fretted.

Marethari added, “I also need a length of twine and two strips of Halla leather.”

“Oh, I know somebody who might have Halla leather!” Holly announced, seeming relieved to be of use.

“Good,” The Keeper nodded sagely. “That is good. Once you return with those items, we can begin the process of counteracting and reversing the spell that has taken root in their minds.”

As Merrill and Holly headed toward the door, Marethari leveled her gaze at Hawke. “Perhaps you should go with your bondmate, child.” Hawke looked confused. “These streets hold many who are hostile to our kind.”

“Keeper, I will be fine,” Merrill protested, seeming embarrassed.

“Da’len, I say this not because I believe you incapable of defending yourself,” Marethari’s tone had a fond note in it, “but because you are capable. We need the herbs quickly, and Hawke’s presence may discourage any fools who think to take advantage of you being alone. We don’t have enough time for you to spend it teaching Shemlen to respect the People.”

Hawke headed off any further discussion by raising a hand. “Ma nuvenin, Keeper.” He strode over to Merrill’s side. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Ma serannas.” Marethari nodded gratefully to them. The three of them disappeared through the door, shutting it behind them.

A moment passed wherein the three who remained in the clinic listened to the group retreating. But no sooner had the sound of their footfalls receded from hearing range than Keeper Marethari whirled to face Fenris and Anders, still seated on the cot, her eyes aflame with sudden fury.

“By all the Gods and Creators, what have you two done?!”

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Disconcerted, Anders flinched away from the abruptly enraged elf, feeling the cot move as Fenris leaned backwards in accord.

“When the Creators formed you two in the Beyond, did they forget to include a pair of brains?” Keeper Marethari fumed, incensed.

“I-” Anders tried to interject, but the Keeper silenced him with a hiss and a bladed hand.

“Be silent. Not a word from you -from either of you.” Marethari’s anger was carefully controlled; she did not yell nor snarl, and nor did she have a need to. Rather, Anders found she was all the more intimidating for having not raised her voice.

The Keeper paced back and forth before them -once in each direction- before rounding on them again. The set of her brow was severe.

“I was under the impression the pair of you possessed at least a modest level of intellect, but Mythal’s mercy, I can see now I was mistaken!” The diminutive, aged elf was practically giving off sparks. “What were you thinking?”

Anders shot a glance at Fenris who was scowling reproachfully, but neither of them attempted to answer the question, correctly assuming it was rhetorical.

The Keeper glared at them for another long moment before she pulled back again, having expended the worst of her fury. She closed her eyes and folded her hands over her mouth with exaggerated calm. “Gods, grant me patience.”

Finally, she looked at them again, and while she appeared more composed, the inferno behind her irises continued to smolder.

“Have you any idea of the harm you have caused yourselves?”

“Ma’am- ah… Keeper Marethari,” Anders began hastily, nearly stumbling over his words in his haste to get them out before she started berating them again, “we’re not even sure what it is that we’ve done.”

The Keeper glared between Anders and Fenris, searching for the truth in their faces.

“By the Dread Wolf,” she said, the corners of her brows lifting to give her a look of perplexity. “You don’t, do you?”

Anders shook his head insistently while Fenris gave a single, quick jerk of dissent. The Keeper let out a long, exasperated exhale through her nose.

“Your spirit has been severely weakened. It is badly injured, presumably by clumsy, mental assaults against it.”

Anders raised a hand, still confused. “Ah- sorry, which spirit?” he asked, gesturing between Fenris and himself.

“The Spirit.” Keeper Marethari held her hands out to indicate both of them. “The one that connects you!”

“You believe we share a spirit?” Fenris asked dubiously.

Marethari seemed confounded at their complete lack of understanding. “Do the Shemlen teach you nothing?”

“Apparently not,” Fenris muttered, obviously annoyed at her air of superiority, and from the back of his mind, Anders could feel the elf’s irritation simmering through their bond.

Raising a hand to her chin, the Keeper was silent for a moment as she considered something. “There is not enough time before the others return for me to explain the depth of the situation to you,” Marethari said. “Unless, of course,” she leveled a skeptical look at them, “you wish your friends to be made aware of your circumstances?”

A distinct feeling of unease twisted through Anders and he didn’t need to look at Fenris to know the elf was still scowling.

“It would be better if we kept it to ourselves for the time being,” Anders said slowly, not meeting Marethari’s gaze.

“As I thought.” She nodded as if expecting this response. “Very well, is there a place we may meet later tonight -perhaps somewhere secluded where we’ll not be interrupted?”

“My mansion is empty, save myself. That would be the most opportune place to resume,” Fenris said. “If you are willing, we may meet there after the others return and you perform this… ‘counterspell’ of yours.”

“Then it is settled. We shall reconvene at your dwelling this evening. In the meantime, I will tell you what I can. At least until Merrill and the others return with the herbs.”

“What were the Prophet’s Laurel and Halla leather for, anyway?” Anders asked, unable to quell his curiosity.

Surprisingly, Marethari’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. “For getting rid of them, of course.”

Fenris chuckled low in his throat and Anders’ heart jumped at the sound. It was the first time he’d heard Fenris laugh since he’d told the elf they were bonded, and Anders hadn’t known it was possible for one to miss a sound they’d heard only a handful of times.

Marethari folded her hands behind her back. “The two of you, as I’m sure you are aware by now, have formed what the humans call a ‘soul-bond.’ The name is not unapt, but it does not convey more than a superficial understanding of what a bond truly is.”

She met the two of them with a steely gaze. “Even from the brief glimpse I witnessed during my examination, I could feel the strength that lies in your connection. Mythal has blessed you with one of the most powerful bonds I have ever seen,” she said solemnly. “In fact, it is, without a doubt, the strongest bond I have ever come across in all my many years of life.”

Anders shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, but Fenris seemed not to notice.

“What exactly do you mean by the strongest?” Fenris asked, picking up on the sense that there was more to it than just what the Keeper was saying.

“All will be made clear to you when I can more thoroughly describe what a bond is composed of, but, in the simplest sense, a bond is a gift from the Creators that blesses a connected pair with several benefits. One of such benefits is unmatched battle prowess through the deepest possible understanding of another being.”

Even without their mental connection, Fenris’ curiosity was palpable now. Anders could feel the bond ignite with his intensity as the elf leaned forward in interest.

“Battle prowess?” the warrior asked.

Marethari nodded. “A soul bond grants a level of insight unseen elsewhere in the natural world. Each bondmate gains the ability to determine exactly how the other will react to the enemy’s movements, their capabilities and the severity of any injuries, as well as the position of enemies through a second point of view.”

“A bonded pair are able to transmit all this and more through their mental link immediately, all without the need of outward communication. This method is not only faster than speaking verbally, but it gives them the distinct advantage of keeping their enemies unaware of their strategy.”

Anders glanced at the elf at his side and the hunger in Fenris’ gaze was unmistakable.

 Yet, as anybody could see, there was a glaring problem with this explanation.

“Forgive me, Keeper,” Anders said, looking back to Marethari, “but I fail to see how this condition benefits us in battle.” He waved a hand wearily to his own worn face and overly thin body.

Marethari sniffed. “You seem to believe the bond itself is the cause of your deterioration, but this is not so.”

“Then what is? Why do we look like we’re on the verge of becoming ghouls?” Anders asked desperately.

“Because you have not accepted the gift!” Marethari sounded pained, like she was personally affronted by their actions. “You thrash about like wounded animals in your ignorance, harming both yourselves and the bond nearly irreparably!”

Fenris snorted and leaned back again, crossing his arms over his chest. “I, for one, have done no such thing.”

‘If looks could kill, you’d be a pile of ash on the clinic floor,’ Anders told Fenris as Marethari’ glared daggers at the younger elf’s dismissive posture.

“Do inform me, then, what actions you have taken to consummate the bond since its manifestation.”

Anders eyes widened and he choked on air. “Consummate?!” He spluttered, feeling blood rush to his face.

Marethari lifted an eyebrow at him, a hint of amusement coloring her anger.

“Were you under the impression a bond’s formation was not merely the first of many steps required to ensure its healthy development?”

For a moment, Anders could do nothing but gape wordlessly at Marethari. He shot a look at Fenris whose arms were still crossed defensively over his chest, and when Fenris spoke, it was through clenched teeth.

“You may need to clarify precisely what you mean by ‘the first of many steps.’”

Marethari took a deep breath as she prepared to explain, but as she opened her mouth to speak again, there was the sound of hurried footsteps and suddenly Holly came hurtling through the clinic door like a charging druffalo.

“Well, that was fast-” Anders started, surprised to see her back so soon, but the words died in his throat as he saw the bright red blood that coated Holly’s hands.

Both Anders and Fenris were on their feet before a word had even left Holly’s mouth, and they were at her side to catch her when she dropped to her knees.

Anders vision dimmed briefly at the edges as his exhausted body protested the abrupt speed of his movements, but he stubbornly pushed it aside and called healing magic to his hands.

“What happened?” Fenris asked brusquely as Anders began a perfunctory search for injuries. While the fabric of her shirt was stained with blood around her abdomen, there was not enough to suggest a serious injury. Nevertheless, Anders pressed the glow of healing magic into Holly’s skin, anxious about the amount of blood coating her hands.

“Not…me…” Holly gasped raggedly, her lungs starved for oxygen. “Hawke!”

Anders looked up to meet Fenris’ eyes. They were serious but calm, unbothered by the familiar scent of blood in the air.

“Go,” Anders said, jerking his head toward the door. Fenris straightened immediately and darted through the door without another word.

“Are you hurt?” Anders asked, turning back to Holly and tracing his eyes over her once more. When Holly shook her head insistently, he placed a hand under her arm to help her up and over to one of the cots. “Where are Merrill and Hawke?”

“At the edge…of the Alienage,” Holly panted as she sat, still fighting for breath.

‘Head for the Alienage,’ Anders told Fenris through their bond. Fenris responded with a quick mental acknowledgement.

“What happened?” Anders asked, “Who attacked you?”

“Carta!” Holly said, coughing, “Jumped us just as we were coming out of Merrill’s house. Andraste’s ass, I hate running…” she muttered as an aside. “Hawke took a knife to the gut. I was trying to stop the bleeding, but he told me to run and get backup instead.”

“And you’re sure you’re ok?” Anders repeated, but before Holly could wave him off again, there was the sound of soft footsteps, and he turned to see Marethari approaching.

“Go, child. Find Merrill and Hawke. I will tend to her.” The Keeper’s face was solemn, but she looked entirely unshaken. No doubt in an age of caring for a clan of younger elves, it would take more than a bloody, gasping human to rattle her nerves.

Anders hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding, reminding himself that Marethari was an accomplished healer in her own right. He wearily got to his feet and made to follow Fenris, but the Keeper took several quick steps toward him and pressed two fingers against his forehead.

“This will help,” she said, as her fingers lit with an alarmingly vibrant shade of blue magic, and from their point of contact against Anders’ brow, there spread the most incredible sense of vitality.

“It will not last, however. Take care of whatever it is quickly, because when this wears off, it is likely you will fall unconscious,” Marethari cautioned.

Anders couldn’t tell if it was just the first time in a long time he’d not felt entirely exhausted, or if her spell was just some kind of magical adrenaline shot, but whatever it was, Anders was brimming with more energy than he’d had in weeks.

“Wow, that’s incredible-” Anders started.

“Go!” Holly and Marethari said in unison.

“Right, on my way,” he said, then he was sprinting through the clinic door, hot on Fenris’ trail.

‘Carta,’ he told Fenris as he sprinted down the steps from the clinic. ‘Aim low. They’re short.’

~*~

So potent was Marethari’s energy spell that it saw Anders catch up to Fenris as they reached the Alienage. It had taken him several minutes to reach the slums, but to Anders’ surprise, the skirmish wasn’t over.

Fenris had drawn Lethendralis from its scabbard and was holding it at the ready, but as Anders moved to his side, Fenris held a hand out, indicating he should wait rather than jump directly into the fray. Both of them had paused on the Alienage steps to watch the spectacle unveiling before them.

From their vantage point atop the stairs, Anders could see Hawke and Merrill standing back to back, surrounded by Carta dwarves in some kind of standoff.

Merrill’s staff was alight with the crackling energy of storm magic, purple light warping the air around the glowing crystal at its head. At her back was Hawke, blood pooling on the ground underneath him. His customary cocky grin was in place, but Anders could tell it was strained; both his stance and the way he was guarding his left side belied just how badly he was hurt.

‘What are we waiting for?’ Anders asked, worriedly observing Hawke’s abdomen and the amount of blood he’d lost.

‘Just… hold a moment.’

Despite Hawke’s injury, several dead dwarves were scattered across the hard-packed ground, and the remainder seemed hesitant to approach, though their daggers were out and primed to attack.

“What’s wrong? Nobody wants to dance?” Hawke shouted with bravado. “If you want, I can teach you the moves!”

In response, one of the Carta feinted and made to duck through Hawke’s guard, aiming for Merrill. There was a sharp sound like the crack of a whip, and suddenly the ground where the dwarf had lunged was blackened and charred as though struck by lightning.

“Oh! He tries for a Quickstep, but steps not quick enough!” Hawke taunted the twitching dwarf at his feet, but his eyes were affixed to those still standing. He twirled a dagger. “Come on! Find your rhythm!”

Another two Carta rushed Merrill. Without missing a beat, Hawke’s dagger pierced the eye of one while the blade of Merrill’s staff burned a hole through the other’s chest.

“He looked more like a ballet guy anyway,” Hawke proclaimed with a grin.

“It’s like they’ve got eyes in the back of their heads!” cursed one of the dwarves.

Hawke chuckled darkly. “All the better to see you with, my dear.”

At this, Anders shot Fenris a glance. The elf was still holding Lethendralis and looking alert, but Anders could tell he wasn’t looking for an opening. Rather, Fenris appeared to be cataloguing the way Merrill and Hawke worked together against a group of enemies that vastly outnumbered them.

“Some time tonight would be preferable!” Hawke announced, and Anders could tell he wasn’t speaking only for the Carta’s benefit. Fenris let out a grunt and crouched low, readying at Hawke’s invitation.

‘I’ll take Merrill’s side, you cover Hawke.’

Anders nodded, selecting his targets visually. ‘Ready when you are,’ he replied.

On silent feet, Fenris embraced the element of surprise, and before the Carta had even the chance to notice the reinforcements, Lethendralis was buried in one of their backs. The telltale light of lyrium lit the Alienage grounds as Fenris activated his brands.

A shout of alarm went up from the ring of dwarves at the eerie glow, and there followed several flashes of magic as both Merrill and Anders let loose attack spells. The ring of Carta broke, collapsing inward as the dwarves spun to face their new opponents.

Making it a point to hit Hawke with a strong bolt of healing, Anders spared a moment to thank Marethari for her boost of energy, barely feeling the healing spell’s drain on his reserves.

‘On your left!’ Anders warned, spying one of the dwarves attempting to flank Fenris. The elf spun instantly, and opened the Carta member from stem to stern, felling him with a spray of blood.

Anders loosed two more bolts of magic at one of the dwarves trying to hamstring Hawke, and Hawke finished him off with a dagger to the neck. Noticing Merrill’s flagging movements, Anders sent another wave of healing magic her way, and she perked up again, proceeding to smash a fist of stone into one of the dwarves’ chests, crumpling him.

“I thought dwarves liked rocks,” Merrill’s voice carried over the din of battle and Hawke let out a guffaw of laughter.

“I think I’m starting to rub off on you!”

Dancing away from a dwarf’s dagger, Hawke countered with one of his own, and Merrill summoned some kind of grotesque vines that shot from the earth to ensnare her nearest opponent in a cage of thorns. Fenris spotted the trapped dwarf and lunged forward with Lethendralis to finish him off.

One of Fenris’ lyrium lined fists phased through a Carta member’s ribs, there followed a shriek of agony as the dwarf was effectively neutralized.

‘Oof, liver shot. That definitely hurt,’ Anders winced. Fenris didn’t reply, but Anders could feel amusement color the bond through the battle fever.

Anders cast about for another target, but abruptly, the Alienage was empty. Still riding the high of Marethari’s spell, Anders quickly descended the rest of the steps and picked his way over dead dwarves to Hawke’s side.

“Well, that was bracing!” Hawke grinned, turning first to Merrill to ensure her safety, then to Anders at his side.

“Is anybody hurt?” Anders asked the party at large. He couldn’t see anyone limping, but he thought it best to double check.

“I’m fine, and so is Merrill.” Hawke looked over his shoulder at her to double check and Merrill nodded. Then, as the haze of battle faded from his vision, Hawke’s brow furrowed, and he peered at Anders as if noticing his presence for the first time.

“How did you make it here so fast? And more importantly, how did you manage to heal me in your condition?”

Shrugging, Anders replied with a smile, “Marethari hit me with some kind of energy spell; I feel great! I’ll have to get her to teach me that sometime.” He turned to watch Fenris as the elf took on the grizzly task of throatcutting, using the glow of his brands to ensure none of their fallen adversaries were lingering in life. “Although,” he said, thinking back, “She did say it wouldn’t last very long.”

As Fenris walked back toward the party, slinging his greatsword over his back, Anders let out a nervous chuckle. “For some reason, she seemed to think I’d pass out after it wore off…”

Lyrium brands still glowing blue, Fenris drew nearer, and suddenly, sweat broke out across Anders skin. He wiped a hand across his brow.

“Is it hot in here, or is that just me?” Anders asked. “And by that, I mean ‘are any of you warm,’ not just ‘I’m very attractive-” His rambling tangent was cut short as Fenris finally reached the group.

The proximity of the active lyrium set Anders’ heart galloping, and before he’d had even the chance to draw breath, a roaring tsunami of desire careened through him, knocking any residual air from his lungs. Within seconds, Anders smallclothes were unbearably tight as his racing heart shunted blood downward.

Vision blurred, his lungs aching, Anders had to steady himself on his staff as suddenly his equilibrium was stuffed into a barrel and shipped down the river.

“Okay…” he gasped, “I think… maybe the Keeper… was… onto some…thi-”

‘Mage?’ Fenris’ mental tone sounded concerned. There was a pause as Fenris put the pieces together, then, ‘Kaffas! The lyrium-’

And then Anders’ knees gave out.

“Anders!” Hawke exclaimed as he crumpled to the dirt with jarring force.

The last thing Anders saw before blacking out was the look of alarm on Fenris’ face.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Weightlessness and the feeling of being carried by strong arms. The rustle of fabric. Tense muttering.

Holly’s voice. “Lay him on the cot.”

Settled on rough canvas.

Blackness.

~*~

“Go home and rest, Da’len. The clan will do without me for another day.”

A weary sigh, followed by a reluctant, “Ma nuvenin, Keeper.”

“All will be well. He just needs time to rest.”

Warmth. Comfort. Familiar smells of elfroot and embrium, and the softness of a pillow beneath his cheek.

Blackness.

~*~

The sound of somebody pacing nearby. Anxious feet on packed floor.

“Should he not have awakened by now? It’s been hours-”

“Peace, child. His body is weakened and needs time to recover. You would do well to rest in kind.”

Silence for a time.

The pacing resumes.

Blackness.

~*~

When Anders finally shook off the oppressive cloud of incoherence, it was to darkness interrupted only by a handful of candles. He could hear humming from somewhere nearby, as well as the distant sound of the wind that always seemed to fill the Darktown Warrens, but otherwise all was silent.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Anders sat up and took stock of his surroundings. He was back in his clinic and, based on the complete lack of light from the windows, it was the dead of night. He was on a cot in the main room, his staff was propped against a wall nearby, and around his lap was a patchy blanket -one of those he used for patients staying overnight in the clinic. Somebody had removed his boots.

He looked around for the source of the humming and found Keeper Marethari sitting cross legged in the middle of the room, her staff at her side, weaving a bundle of herbs together.

"Blessed ash, how long was I out?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt… well… not rested per se, but he felt better than he had in weeks, discounting Marethari’s energy spell. His body had that unfamiliar heavy feeling -the kind one gets when they’ve slept very deeply for a long time- and, truth be told, Anders couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had that feeling. Likely sometime during his pre-Warden days.

“As long as your body required in order to recover some of its strength.” Marethari didn’t even look up from her weaving.

“Uh-huh, and how long was that exactly?” He tried to shake off the grogginess.

“Several hours.” Her smile, when she finally looked at him, was serene. “Though I imagine you could do with a few more. I trust the last few weeks have held little in the way of rest for you two?”

The grunt Anders gave in reply could be universally translated to mean, ‘You have no idea.’

“Where is everybody? What did I miss?” he asked instead.

“Merrill and Hawke left approximately an hour after your group arrived back at the clinic. Your friend… Holly was it? She took some convincing, but, eventually, she too acquiesced and proceeded home -though only after I gave her my word that I would not leave before she returned in the morning. That was little more than an hour past.”

“And Fenris?” Anders asked, pulling the blanket back and goading his strangely heavy limbs to sit on the edge of the cot.

In response, the Keeper merely nodded toward a cot adjacent to his own. Anders looked in the direction she had indicated and saw an unmoving lump in the shape of an elf curled on their side.

Fenris was sleeping.

Getting quietly to his feet, Anders shuffled over to Fenris’ cot, his bare soles making very little noise on the clinic’s worn floor.

“He stayed awake much longer than I expected him to. The call of the Lover’s Embrace is quite powerful, but it seems his willpower is even more so.” Marethari sounded amused.

Staring down at the elf’s resting face, her words didn’t immediately register on Anders’ conscience. Fenris’ typically tenebrific features were relaxed in sleep. He looked at peace. Quiet, both in body and mind, the stresses of life held at bay by the depths of unconsciousness.

Anders had never seen Fenris like this. The elf was usually brooding, occasionally snarling in the face of slavers or blood mages. A smile was a rare treat -a laugh even more so. But completely lax? Devoid of the stormcloud-scowl he wore so frequently? That was a sight Anders was certain very few people, if any, had ever seen. He almost felt as if he were observing something he had not been given permission to see. Something private.

As such, Marethari’s statement took a moment to make an impression on his scattered thoughts, but when it did, he turned to face her, brow furrowed in confusion.

“’The Lovers Embrace?’” he asked, trying to repress the feeling of embarrassment the phrase evoked.

Marethari was already looking at him, watching his observation of Fenris with a twinkle in her eye and smiling that same serene smile at him.

“A name given to the improved level of rest one is prone to receiving when sleeping in proximity to their bondmate,” she explained.

“And when sleeping apart?” Anders asked, wondering just how much of his insomnia could be blamed on the bond.

“Most report it as markedly less satisfying than sleep experienced even before a bond’s manifestation,” she said. “Although… What is the human expression? ‘Have a grain of salt?’”

“Nearly. It’s ‘take it with a grain of salt,’” he shrugged, “whatever that means.”

“Yes, well. Their assessments may be skewed due to their experience with bonded sleep. Others have reported their sleep returns to their pre-bonded level when separated from their bondmate. It’s possible that it varies from pair to pair, or that there are other factors at work.”

“Hm,” Anders hummed noncommittally and turned back to Fenris. “And how long has he been out?”

“In terms of how long he likely needs: not long enough,” she said quietly, her voice taking on a slight edge. “Both of you should have slept through the night, but with the state your bond is in, I suppose it is better than one could hope for.”

“What exactly is wrong with the bond?” Anders asked, matching her quiet tone.

“As I said, it is damaged, and quite severely at that. Only once before have I seen a bond in such a poor state, but even the deterioration of your spirit bond cannot begin to match the condition of… that one’s.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

The Keeper’s gaze grew shadowed and distant, and she bowed her head slightly, the herbs she’d been plaiting together falling slowly into her lap as she lowered her hands.

“Something terrible.”

The tone with which she said this -nearly in a whisper- as well as the look on her face, called forth a feeling of cold dread that slithered over Anders’ heart. There was a story behind those words, and despite his inquisitive nature, Anders wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear it.

The Keeper read the wary curiosity on his face and headed off the question Anders couldn’t bring himself to ask. “A story for another time…” she murmured. “If ever.” And then, her voice full of hidden, disquieting portension, she added, “Some stories do not bear repeating.”

Anders’ nervous swallow was audible. He couldn’t place it, but the aura surrounding whatever Marethari had chosen not to say was dark enough for even its veiled mention to set him on edge.

The silence that fell between them was nearly stifling, and desperately Anders searched about for another topic.

“Er, how did you convince Holly to leave? That couldn’t have been easy to do.” His voice sounded strained, even to his own ears.

Marethari took a deep breath and gave herself a shake, as though trying to free herself from haunting memories.

“While she was rather anxious, all told, I was quite impressed by the ease with which she handled your condition. She must have significant experience as a healer.”

“This clinic couldn’t run without her,” Anders said simply.

“She works here then?” Marethari asked, taking a moment to look around the clinic. Anders nodded.

“She does -and thank the Maker for that. She’s irreplaceable.”

‘And she does it for a pittance. She should be earning triple what I give her,’ Anders thought to himself.

The funds for the clinic came exclusively from donations, and as his clinic catered to the destitute, the donations Anders reluctantly accepted barely scratched the surface of what should have been required to keep the doors open. Several factors went into the precarious balance Anders had managed to maintain over the years, including careful spending, foraging for his own herbs, and, unfortunately, paying Holly a mere fraction of what her assistance was worth.

For years, the topic had been a major source of stress for Anders, and Justice’s disapproval hadn’t been easy to cope with either; the dilemma had proven to be a stressor for the spirit as well. Justice's understanding of money had been somewhat limited. Though he’d grasped the concept of compensation easily enough, it was more difficult to explain to the spirit that Anders was unable to appropriately provide Holly what she was due while also managing to properly care for their patients. 

Holly never complained, but that didn’t stop the issue from becoming one of the many that kept Anders awake at night.

“You have clearly trained her well,” the Keeper said, breaking Anders from his reverie.

“She had plenty of training before she started here, actually. Her father was a healer, and she worked in his clinic as a girl.”

“I see. Well, for one not blessed with the gift of magic, she seems quite capable. I must admit, I expected her to ask for my assistance in healing you immediately, but she only did so after she’d ascertained you were otherwise uninjured.”

“We frequently see multiple patients at a time. She’s used to functioning on her own when I’m otherwise occupied. During mass casualty accidents and the like.”

“And what of times when you are injured?”

Anders had to laugh at this. “Ah ha, well … I’d like to say that it’s only been the last few weeks she’s had to come to my rescue, but that would be a lie. I do have a… reputation,” he chuckled.

Marethari smiled. “That does explain her quick uptake upon your arrival.”

A thought occurred to Anders then.

“Wait, how did I make it back to the clinic?”

“I carried you.”

Anders nearly jumped out of his robes as Fenris spoke behind him.

“Blighted bloody broodmothers!” Anders yelped, whirling to face the suddenly conscious elf. “Give a man some warning!”

Fenris was standing from the cot, adjusting his breastplate, and raising an eyebrow at the shocked look on Anders’ face.

“Don’t you moan and groan a bit when you wake up?” Anders demanded, glaring accusingly at Fenris. “You know, stretch and yawn? Something?”

The elf gave him a blank look. “No. I do not.”

Forcing his breathing to resume a normal rhythm, Anders returned to the topic. “So, wait- you carried me? Why not Hawke?”

“Hawke was injured, as you may recall,” Fenris reasoned.

“Ah. Right… Okay. That does make sense. I healed him, but I never got the chance to follow it up. He is ok, right?” Anders asked, abruptly concerned.

“Holly cleared him to go. Merrill is with him,” Fenris said, almost placatingly.

“Alright,” Anders huffed out a breath of relief. “Holly wouldn’t have sent him home if she had any concerns. And… thanks, by the way. For carrying me home.”

Fenris shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly, but Anders could feel a mix of conflicting emotion through the bond, consisting chiefly of embarrassment, it seemed.

Anders hesitated then, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. “And… you- er… I mean, are you ok?” Anders almost cursed himself aloud, both for his stammering and for the unnecessary, awkward question. Of course Fenris was ok -he would have been able to tell immediately through their bond if that weren’t the case. Damn his accursed, unreliable, pointless manners.

Fenris studied him for a moment, his deep, green eyes flicking back and forth between Anders’. “I am well,” he finally replied.

“Great… er- yeah. Good. That’s- ahem.” Anders cleared his throat, flustered.

They both turned to face Marethari then, avoiding each other’s gaze, only to find her watching them with interest. She didn’t speak immediately, allowing the quiet to gather. Eventually, feeling rather like he was under a magnifying glass, Anders couldn’t take it anymore.

“So…” he said pointedly.

The Keeper stared at them for another long moment, then she gracefully stood, holding the completed braid of herbs in hand. She strode over to the table Anders used to mix herbs and poultices, took the pestle out of the mortar where it rested on the table, and returned to stand before them, mortar in hand.

Placing the stone bowl on the ground at her feet, Marethari straightened and called a small, magical flame to her hand. She held the end of the braid to the fire and let the herbs burn for a moment, then snapped her fingers, extinguishing both the flame in her palm and the fire that blackened the stems. The smoke that rose from the embers was soothing in its scent, and she loftily moved it through the air, wafting the smoke around her.

“Sit,” she ordered, nodding at the cot Fenris had been sleeping in.

Wordlessly, both of them moved to the cot and sat in the middle, not close enough to be considered friendly, but not at opposite ends either. The Keeper placed the smoldering herbs in the mortar on the ground before her.

Finally, after another moment of deliberation, Marethari seemed to reach a decision. “You are not of the People, so typically this would be discouraged, but, given the circumstances, I feel that an exception can be made.”

Anders exchanged a look with Fenris and felt reassured that the elf looked as lost as he was.

‘I don’t suppose you have any idea what she’s talking about?’ Anders asked through the bond.

‘From what I know of the Dalish, either something sanctimonious or regarding ancient history. Quite possibly both,’ Fenris replied with a smirk as he turned back to the Keeper.

Marethari gathered herself, took a few long, deep breaths, and folded her hands neatly behind her back. When next she spoke, it was in a methodical, storied voice that hummed with the generations of wisdom she had been entrusted to carry.

“Long ago, before the fall of Elvhenan, the People were all but immortal. They did not age, nor did they suffer illness. They did not know the pain of hunger, nor fear, nor loss.”

‘Full marks,’ Anders mused wryly, and Fenris’ smirk grew more pronounced.

“The Creators -they who brought life to our world- gazed upon the young Elvhen, first with curiosity, then interest, and finally with a sense of protective affection. After a time, the gods spoke to the People, offered them guidance and wisdom, and for this, the People loved them.”

Marethari spread her arms wide, palms up, as though welcoming the two of them into an embrace. Anders could practically feel Fenris’ eyes roll, but if the Keeper noticed his flippancy, she ignored it.

“The elves of old spent their endless lives learning and discovering the magnificence that existed in the eternal beauty of the Creators’ designs. They showed their gratitude to those that had gifted them paradise through song and dance, ceremonies and feasts -often holding gatherings that lasted for weeks or even months at a time.”

The Keeper began to trace her hands through the air, her movements graceful and languid. As she gestured, small sparks of shimmering, green magic flowed from her fingertips, lingering in the smoke-filled air, forming shapes that illustrated her words. Anders watched in amazement as the sparks coalesced into the unmistakable shape of dancing elves, twirling and gliding as if in flight.

“They praised the splendor of the gods’ designs, and for centuries the People knew nothing but peace.”

Curious about the display of magic, Anders started to ask, “How did you-” but Keeper Marethari continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Yet not all were to be content with peace," she said. "The trickster god, Fen’Harel, began plotting against the Creators. Some believe he was jealous of the love the Creators had come to bear the mortal Elvhen; others say he sought to rule over the Beyond alone -that he coveted the power of the heavens all to himself. Still others believe it is simply in his nature to trick and deceive -to leave chaos in his wake.”

The glowing embers of magic rearranged themselves at a flick of Marethari’s wrist, turning an angry scarlet and taking the shape of a menacing wolf’s head, its jaws open in a snarl.

“Alas, for whatever his reason, The Dread Wolf schemed. He devised a cunning ruse with which to lure the rest of the gods deep into the Beyond, and no sooner had the Creators withdrawn into the heavens, than Fen’Harel sprung his snare, locking the Creators away.”

The Keeper slapped one palm into the other and the red wolf’s jaws lunged forward, snapping shut and exploding into a shower of cinders that drifted over the pair of them. Both Anders and Fenris recoiled, anticipating the burn of magical fire, but the pain never came. Instead, the harmless, flickering sparks dimmed as they fell across their skin.

After a heavy pause, Marethari spoke again, and her tone was softened by a hint of melancholy.

“The Elvhen mourned, believing the silence that told them their beloved protectors had abandoned them, for though the gods spoke, no longer could the People hear them. Though the gods reached, no longer could the People feel their guiding hand.”

She extended a finger alight with magic and slowly traced a horizontal line in front of her, bringing the sparks to life once more. Now blue in color, they sprung upward from the line she had drawn, the magic outlining the shape of weeping elves, some prostrate against the ground, others wailing at the sky and clutching at their heads as though in agony.

Closing her eyes, Marethari bowed her head and clasped her hands in front of her, giving the impression that she shared the ancient elves’ grief. The image of the despairing elves began to disintegrate, the magical sparks dissolving and crumbling like sand in an hourglass. Whether that was intentional or not, Anders didn’t know, but it only added to the effect, evoking the feeling of loss he was sure Marethari was trying to convey.

As the rest of the sparks faded and fell back to the line she’d drawn in the air, the Keeper lifted her eyes to Fenris and Anders in turn.

“Where before there existed only joy and contentment, the People were now overwrought by emotions they had never experienced: fear and anger over the loss of their cherished protectors. The spirits of their world -who previously had offered only kinship and knowledge- became cruel, twisted by these adverse emotions, and without the gods to protect them, the People were besieged by the spirits they had unwittingly corrupted with their discontent.”

An unexpected thorn of heartbreak snagged between Anders’ ribs. The Keeper’s words had been a shout into the void of his lost connection with Justice, and he’d received not even an echo in return. Marethari’s voice had taken on an otherworldly quality as she continued her tale, flowing fluidly from one sentence to the next, and Anders tried to listen to her -tried to avoid thinking about the likelihood of him ever finding Justice again.

“Locked in the gilded cage of the heavens, able to do naught but watch the Elvhen suffer, the Creators sorrowed.”

Blue gave way to gold as the sparks lit anew and shot upwards, taking the shape of a dozen golden pillars. Behind these golden pillars, the ones Anders understood to be the bars of the Creators’ cage, appeared a hazy, glimmering shape. It was vaguely elven in appearance and had few discernible features, save the horns that curved backwards from its brow.

“Most especially of the Evanuris, the Great Protector and All-Mother, Mythal, was beset by fear for the Elvhen, for long had she considered them her children. Imprisoned in the Beyond by the Dread Wolf’s snare, Mythal sought to protect the People in the only way still remaining to her: imbuing them with the ability to help themselves."

“While Fen’Harel giggled madly to himself over the success of his wicked scheme, Mythal withdrew further into the Beyond, planning a scheme of her own as she went. Once she stood deep within the dreamlands, The Great Protector reached out and seized the power of the surrounding heavens, drawing it within her, and shaping it into a design of her own creation.”

The golden pillars drifted away, and now the sparks that formed Mythal began to pulse like a heartbeat. With each beat, more sparks flickered into life in the air above Mythal’s outstretched hands, creating a steadily growing cloud of gold that drummed a familiar rhythm.

“Mythal had thought herself hidden from the rest of the gods, but unbeknownst to her, she had been followed. Andruil, the Goddess of the Hunt and Mythal’s first daughter, had tracked her mother as she moved through the Beyond. The Huntress lay hidden from the All-Mother’s sight, watching and waiting, observing as Mythal bent the heavens to her will.”

Anders watched as a smaller, equally hazy elven shape appeared in the image. This one wielded a glowing bow, and the sparks that composed her were skillfully obscured by the smoke from Marethari’s burning herbs, as though the Huntress was hiding from his sight as well as Mythal’s.

“As she watched, she learned, and soon Andruil understood what Mythal was planning. You see, like the rest of the Evanuris, Andruil was furious with Fen’Harel for his trickery, but her rage was for more than just her entrapment. Where Mythal acted out of concern for the Elvhen that she’d claimed as her own, Andruil agitated over the idea that, due to both the Dread Wolf’s appearance and his duplicity, the young and naïve Elvhen would come to fear and resent one of her most magnificent creations: the wolf.”

“Thus, Andruil stepped from hiding and approached her mother with a proposal.” Marethari’s hand stilled briefly as she inclined her head. “A proposal that Mythal accepted.”

Resuming her motions, the Keepers’ magical display changed again, the golden sparks now showing the two Creators shaking hands.

“For three days the goddesses worked tirelessly to bring forth Mythal’s vision. Ensuring that the Dread Wolf was not looking, Andruil quietly reached from the heavens through the bars of her cage. From the most jagged peak of the All-Father’s tallest, strongest mountain, she hewed sturdy bones, shaping them with well-practiced hands. From the gods’ own starry sky, Mythal fashioned pelts, cutting down ribbons of darkest midnight with which to form their hides.”

“For their paws, Andruil harnessed the wind, instilling them with the twin gifts of silence and swiftness, and to form their teeth, she took the longest winter nights -for the jaws of baren cold cut deeper than any blade.”

“Next, Mythal carved gleaming shards of light from the first moon to craft their clever eyes. Even now, you can see the craters she left on Satina’s surface,” Marethari said, her arms drifting upwards as though gesturing to the moon above them, hidden from view by the clinic ceiling.

As she spoke, the sparks blossomed, gleaming gold fading away to be replaced with brilliant blue again, first forming bones, then pelts with which to cover them, a set of four paws and teeth that burned like frozen fire, and shining, white eyes -unmistakably aglow with the light of a full moon.

“Lastly, to breathe life into her creations, Mythal pulled from within herself all that she felt for her Elvhen children. All her hope, all her love, all the protective fury of a parent whose children have been threatened -this was the blood that the All-Mother poured into her creations’ veins, imbuing them with wisdom and strength and purpose. So great was her love for the young Elvhen, Mythal had to give each spirit guardian two hearts with which to hold it all.”

“And finally, after their work was complete, the goddesses gazed upon what they had wrought with pride. Before them stood a legion of spirit guardians, borne of Mythal’s own essence and given the form of Andruil’s graceful wolf. Each wore a pelt of blackest midnight, each had eyes that glowed with the light of the moon, and each had two hearts -both wholly devoted to Mythal’s adopted children, the Elvhen.”

As the Keeper spoke, the sparks burst into motion, multiplying and rearranging themselves faster than Anders could follow their movement. Then, before his eyes, there stood an army of enormous, radiant, blue wolves, arrayed from one end of the clinic to the other, bright with the brilliance of the Keeper’s magic. Marethari paused to let the weight and beauty of the goddess’ creations resonate, and in the lull, Anders managed to look away from the depiction to glance briefly at Fenris.

The sight made Anders do a double take.

Illuminated by the blue glow of the Keeper’s magic, Fenris was resplendent.

Each strand of his sleek, white hair seemed to seize the light for itself, creating an ethereal halo that encircled the elf’s brow and lay upon his temples. In beautiful juxtaposition, Fenris’ brands caught the light, then hurled it outward in a million different directions, as though the lyrium veins were shards of fragmented glass under his skin.

And his eyes.

Maker, his eyes.

Fenris was still watching Marethari’s projection, and the light from her arrangement was having an undeniably spectacular effect on his already salient gaze. Rather than swirling together, the gleaming, azure glow of magic held its own among the native green as Fenris’ stare reflected each individual spark of magic that composed the spirit wolves.

In the depths of his eyes rested the clearest night sky; the dancing lights had made him the home of a galaxy.

…A galaxy that was currently staring right back at him.

‘What about my eyes?’

Anders blinked a few times, dazed, realizing too late that some of his thoughts had phased through the bond. Fenris had turned his head and was raising an eyebrow at him. Had he always been that close?

‘Nothing,’ Anders thought back hurriedly. ‘They just… look… nice.’

Talk about the understatement of the era.

Fenris’ other eyebrow joined the first, both cocked in an expression that couldn’t have more clearly said, ‘you have never made sense before and apparently don’t intend to start now,’ if he’d said it aloud.

Tearing his gaze away, Anders forced himself to look back at Marethari’s spell, and a short breath of relief escaped him when he saw Fenris do the same out of the corner of his eye.

Pulling his consciousness inward, away from the bond, Anders cursed himself for both the slip of his thoughts and his clumsy recovery. ‘Honestly,’ he thought to himself, ensuring Fenris would not hear this time,‘they just look nice?’ How utterly prosaic. You’d think I’d never held a book in my life, much less memorized poetry.’

The entire exchange had taken place in less than 20 seconds, but it was long enough that Marethari had resumed her story while Anders had been internally reprimanding himself. The Keeper was in her stride now, her cadence reflecting the decades she’d spent as clan Sabrae’s Keeper. The clinic was completely silent but for her powerful voice.

“As the Elvhen slept, their spirits visited the Beyond, coming just within reach of Mythal’s power.”

In his periphery, Anders saw a flicker of motion, and turning his head to the side, he saw that a dozen Elvhen conjured of twinkling, green sparks had knelt at his side, their eyes closed as if in a deep sleep. Twisting to his left, Anders could see another set of sleeping elves had formed on Fenris’ side of the cot. The two of them, Anders and Fenris, were sat in the midst of the silent beings, as though they belonged within their ranks -as though they themselves belonged to the ancient Elvhen.

“While she dared not speak for fear of drawing the Dread Wolf’s attention, Mythal reached for the Elvhen through the bars of her heavenly cage. The All-Mother caressed her beloved children, embracing them tenderly for the last time. In so doing, she gifted to all those within her reach a benevolent spirit guardian of their own that would guide and protect them.”

There was another whirlwind of movement as the first rank of spirit wolves in the legion leapt outward, landing at the sides of the glowing Elvhen, each one filling the gap between two elves. One such spirit wolf landed directly between Anders and Fenris.

It was huge, easily large enough to ride and even just the spectral image of it radiated power. Anders scooted to the edge of the cot to give it room, then immediately felt ridiculous as he realized he could be inside the damn thing and it would make no difference -it was just an illusion. An incredibly real looking illusion, but an illusion nonetheless.

“Conceived of the Great-Protector’s very essence, these wolf spirits were pure, unfettered by the tumult of the People’s unfamiliar fear and anger. Incorruptible, these spirits were meant to grant the Elvhen with the courage and strength they needed to protect themselves by standing at their sides through even the most difficult trials.”

Anders looked up at the massive, ghostly wolf spirit beside him, and found himself unable to resist the urge to reach out and touch it. While his hand phased right through the magical rendition, Anders could have sworn he felt the cold, yet strangely comforting feeling of its stary fur, and when the shimmering wolf looked down at him -when those bright, crystalline eyes pinned him in place, he felt no fear.

Instead, for perhaps the first time in his life, Anders felt completely and entirely safe.

“But the Elvhen had not understood the wolves’ purpose. While Mythal had intended her children to gain the courage to fight -to defend themselves with the wolves at their side- the Elvhen instead shouted their thanks to the heavens, both for the end of their Creators’ silence, and for their new protectors, believing the wolves were meant to fight for them rather than with them.”

The sparkling elves at Anders’ side threw up their empty hands in gratitude, appearing to praise the gods for their benevolence. In unison, each of the spirit wolves tipped back their heads and howled along with the cries of Marethari’s illustrated Elvhen.

“The spirit wolves fulfilled their purpose and successfully defended their Elvhen charges against the corrupted spirits that had lain them siege. Once it was over, the Elvhen believed that they were safe, but when Fen’Harel inevitably learned of what Mythal had done, he became enraged. The Dread Wolf was furious that the gods had yet managed to subvert his wicked trap and help the People.”

In the large, empty space to Marethari’s right, there manifested the same crimson, snarling wolf’s head from earlier…only this time it wasn’t just a head. Embers streaked downwards from its neck to form massive paws, each with four gleaming, deadly claws at the end. More magical lines shot backwards, forming the Dread Wolf’s body, its hind legs, and an absurdly long, whip-like tail. So tall was the Dread Wolf Marethari conjured that it nearly brushed the clinic ceiling. The sparks flashed angrily, burning red-hot, and Anders had to repeatedly tell himself that, no, there was no heat coming from the illusion, that it was just that- an illusion.

He still wasn’t fully convinced.

Turning his head to glance again at Fenris, Anders realized that, despite himself, the elf had unconsciously leaned forward during the course of the Keeper’s story, his ears pricked forward intently. One of Fenris’ hands seemed to be unconsciously drifting through the wolf’s “fur,” despite it having no physical substance, and so keen was he on Marethari’s words, he seemed not to even notice Anders’ gaze. Turning his attention back to the Keeper, Anders listened as she continued the tale.

“Fen’Harel descended upon the Elvhen, and while they fled in terror, Mythal’s wolf spirits rushed to meet the Dread Wolf, determined to protect their charges.”

Marethari clapped her hands again, but this time when her depiction of the Dread Wolf lunged forward, the spirit wolves on either side of Anders and Fenris lunged too, colliding with the Dread Wolf in mid-air. 

A small but unexpected feeling of loss echoed through the bond, and Anders turned to see Fenris -ears drooping ever so slightly- slowly lower his hand from where it had absently drifted through their spirit wolf’s “fur” until it had leapt to defend them against Fen’Harel.

Anders was torn between amusement and sympathy; after all, he’d liked their wolf spirit too.

“The Dread Wolf was fearsome, but Mythal’s spirits were strong. These were spirits of Valor and Justice, of Honor and Courage. These were spirits of Compassion and Purpose and Faith and Love. These were the guardians of the Elvhen, given form by the Great Protector herself, charged with the custody of that which she treasured above all else.”

“So, while Fen’Harel slashed and clawed and snapped at the spirit wolves, despite all his cunning, he could not land a single killing blow. Every rent he made in the spirits’ stary hides with his sharpened claws disappeared as quick as he’d torn it. Every bite he sank into their bodies with his deadly fangs was wiped away as though it never existed.”

“Fen’Harel howled with rage, and he snarled with fury, but try as he might, he could not destroy the spirits.”

The image of the burning, red wolf, Fen’Harel, was easily three times the size of the smaller blue spirit wolves, but they were many in number, and determined besides. Sparks flew in every direction as the spirit guardians flew at Fen’Harel. Each was batted aside effortlessly, but for every guardian that was knocked away or slashed at with razor-sharp claws, another took its place.

“The Dread Wolf began to grow frantic as the relentless spirit wolves outwitted him, until finally, in his desperation, Fen’Harel pinned one of the guardians between his enormous, heavy paws, and seized its body between his teeth.”

Anders was on the edge of his seat as the colossal, scarlet wolf before him lowered its jaws to surround the smaller spirit.

“And then, with a ferocious roar, the Dread Wolf yanked back his head and ripped the spirit in two.”

Jaws dripping red, the image of the Dread Wolf reared back exultantly, rivers of blue sparks trailing from his maw. Anders sucked in a quiet breath as the story got the better of him, and he could feel Fenris’ tension through the bond as the elf too was swept away by the tale.

“With a toss of his mighty head, the Dread Wolf threw the half of the spirit guardian in his mouth across the battlefield where it came to rest, unmoving.”

The magical embers composing Fen’Harel and the rest of the wolf spirits faded into a blurred mass as the image of the lone, sundered spirit wolf took over the depiction’s foreground. It was heart-wrenching to look at, this once powerful spirit now broken and incomplete, and Marethari’s tone seemed to echo Anders’ sentiments, turning soft and forlorn.

“Yes, the wolf spirits were strong, and while the guardian did not die, this was a wound far too grave for it to heal on its own. When the Dread Wolf saw that the guardian spirit did not rise, he gave a great howl of triumph, for he had found the guardians’ weakness.”

“Fen'Harel grabbed another spirit between his jaws, then another, and another, until the battlefield ran with the guardian's blood, and he had torn nearly all the spirits asunder.”

Mercifully, Marethari’s magical display did not sharpen from its obscure amalgam of flickering reds and blues. Anders knew what was happening -even the hazy, blurred shapes were enough to get the point across, but he was all too willing to sacrifice the details.

Eventually, the Keeper swept her hand out. Most of the sparks shifted only slightly at her gesture, but the telltale red of Fen’Harel disappeared entirely.

“Mythal watched powerlessly from the heavens as her last chance to save her Elvhen children crumbled in the Dread Wolf’s jaws. Jubilant over his success, Fen’Harel leapt into the air and danced across the sky, giggling madly to himself once more as he went, ever so pleased that he had thwarted yet another of the Creators’ plans."

Keeper Marethari closed her fist and the sparks sharpened again. Where there had once been a bloody and vicious battle, now her magic showed a field of broken spirits, and Anders was incapable of repressing the despair he felt for the loss of such majesty. Gazing sadly across the meadow of defeated spirits, Anders couldn’t help but wonder which sundered body had been the wolf that had sat on the cot between Fenris and him.

His heart gave a sudden lurch as the shapes of the spirit wolves started to dissolve.

Surely this was not the end? Surely the spirit wolves were not left to die alone on the field of battle?

The Keeper fell silent as the spirit wolves gradually disintegrated, the sparks composing their broken, battered bodies flickering out one by one until nothing remained.

There was a long moment where Marethari said nothing, where none of her magic lit the clinic walls, and Anders nearly broke the quiet to demand to know what happened next.

Then, finally, Marethari reached her hand out and opened her fist. There bloomed a spark of magic on her palm, and from this spark grew a fractured spirit wolf, its shredded pelt of the blackest midnight, its single eye a dim glow -soulful and entirely, unfathomably deep.

“When the Elvhen heard no more howling, save that of the wind, they crept from hiding and saw what Fen’Harel had wrought.”

Green sparks twisted from the Keeper’s palm, taking the shape of several frightened elves. Around a broken wolf spirit, the Elvhen gathered, green both in color and in life -unbloodied, for they had never cause to know the fever of battle.

“The Elvhen stared, grief-stricken, at their pure-hearted companions -these beautiful, compassionate souls that had readily given everything they had for a people they’d never even had the chance to know.” The Keeper’s voice was patently sorrowful now.

“Only a handful of wolf spirits had been left unscathed -those who’d stayed with the terrified elves to protect them whilst they'd hid from Fen’Harel. The five remaining, unbroken spirits raised their heads to the sky to howl for their lost brothers and sisters, and it is said that the sound was so full of genuine pain, that it touched the very heavens, and caused the Creators to weep.”

Marethari arced a hand over her head and a mirage of rain filled the clinic. In the center, their heads thrown back and arranged in a ring, sat the shapes of five spirit wolves, their outlines obscured by the rain.

“And though the shattered wolves heard their siblings call for them, they could not return their cries.”

Anders had not been prepared for this. His hold on his emotions was suddenly tenuous at best, and he tried to disengage from the story, regain some of his grip on reality.

Yet, as Anders made to close his eyes, the single, broken wolf spirit caught his eyes with its own, once more pinning him in a moon-bright gaze, and Anders could not look away.

“As the young Elvhen knelt at their side, the fallen guardians gazed upon their faces and despaired, for the Elvhen were crying, and Mythal had bade the spirit wolves prevent her children’s suffering. But though they wanted nothing more, no longer could the wolves protect their charges, not only from those that sought them harm, but from their own grief. The guardians’ power had been ripped away with their other halves.”

Anders forced himself to swallow over the lump in his throat. His eyes were bright, and even had he not been trapped in the gaze of the broken spirit wolf, Anders would not have had the ability to make himself look at Fenris. If he saw even a hint of the pain he could feel through the bond on the elf’s face, he would, without a doubt, lose what little control he had left.

“And yet, even cleaved in two, devoid of power, the spirit wolves could not return to Mythal’s side in the Beyond.”

If Anders leaned forward anymore, he was likely to fall off the cot.

‘What do you mean they couldn’t return?’

In his desperation, the thought slipped through the bond. Anders was about to apologize for interrupting the story, but Fenris’ consciousness responded to his thought with a feeling of agreement, and Anders took that to mean he was off the hook for the time being.

Unaware of their brief mental exchange, Marethari continued her tale. “For although the Creators had skirted the Dread Wolf’s trappings by sending the spirit wolves to the Elvhen as they slept, their resourcefulness would also become their downfall. Tragic and unforeseen complications in the spirits’ design ensured that the moment they left the realm of the gods, they would be forever trapped in the mortal plane.”

“You see, the goddess, Andruil, accustomed to using whatever material she wished to construct her creations, had drawn from the mortal realm whilst creating her gifts for the spirit guardians. For yes, the All-Father’s mountain rock made the mightiest bones, and yes, the wind was quick and silent, and yes, the cold of the longest winter nights cut deeper than any blade, but these were blessings of the earth, not the heavens, and as such, they belonged to the earth. With Fen’Harel’s trap barring entry to the Beyond, the gifts Andruil had bestowed upon Mythal’s spirit wolves soured from blessing to curse, and they tethered the guardians to the mortal realm.”

“Thus, while the spirit wolves lay powerless and broken, they could not return to Mythal’s side, and nor could they heal their grievous wounds.”

Horrorstruck, Anders’ thoughts ran haywire, picturing an innocent spirit, lying perpetually broken outside of the Fade, as wholly unable to return to their plane of creation as they were to heal their own wounds. And it wasn’t mere imagination that fueled these thoughts as, once again, Justice sprang to the forefront of Anders’ mind. He didn’t have to conjure up an image of a helpless, benevolent spirit trapped outside the Fade; Anders had seen it firsthand.

“No longer could the spirits rely on the bones that Andruil had hewn from the All-Father’s mountain, broken and shattered as they were by the Dread Wolf’s jaws. No longer were the wolves fleet of foot, abandoned as they were by the wind. And even had their winter-forged teeth not been shattered, the guardians could not tear into their foes without the ability to chase them.”

Marethari waved a hand and suddenly the lonely spirit wolf was whole again. The massive guardian settled before her, unblinking and otherwise unmoving, solemn in its protective duties.

“But Andruil was not the only goddess to grant the guardians their power. Indeed, it was Mythal who’d breathed into these spirits the gift of life.”

“Though all seemed hopeless, the spirit wolves still had Mythal’s gifts, for the sky from which she’d taken their pelts, and the moon from which she crafted their eyes were both of the heavens, and therefore unbreakable by even the Dread Wolf’s powerful jaws. Most importantly, at their core lay the very essence of Mythal herself: two hearts, each unshakeable and full of purpose.”

At a nod from Keeper Marethari, her spirit wolf, vibrant blue and glowing bright, stood from its post at her feet, stepped forward a few paces, then resettled onto its haunches. A small point of light sprouted from between the guardian’s ears, then rapidly extended into a line, tracing from the center of the wolf’s head, down its back and chest between its forepaws.

“As such, even when the guardians were rent asunder, each half had an eye carved from the moon, and each half had a pelt made of midnight, and each half had one of the two hearts Mythal had bestowed them that still thrummed with all the love she had poured into their veins.”

From the glowing line erupted a dazzling white light so bright as to be nearly blinding, and as Anders watched through narrowed eyes, the spirit was divided in two, each half given one eye, and one ear, and one heart.

“Mythal’s wolves were borne of her essence, and while they did not hold all her wisdom, they held enough to know that there remained only one way for them to protect her children -to do as the All-Mother had bade them.”

With another flick of her wrist, a pair of young elves, green and flickering, manifested on either side of the divided spirit guardian. Their eyes were closed, just as they had been upon first receiving their wolf spirits from Mythal.

“As the fractured spirit wolves gazed up at the weeping Elvhen, they saw what they must do. When the heart-broken elves bent to touch their fallen guardians in an attempt to comfort their beloved companions- the broken guardians surrendered.”

“No, Da’len, the spirit guardians did not give up," Marethari said, breaking into a reluctant smile upon seeing Fenris’ scowl and the open shock on Anders’ face.

“As the Elvhen buried their hands in blackest midnight fur, the wolf spirits gave all of themselves to those they had been created to defend. They surrendered all they had left, and in so doing, they became part of the Elvhen, bonded to them -not just housed within their souls, but of their souls, entirely inseparable from one another. One could no more part the wolf from the elf than they could separate themselves from their own heart.”

The image of the divided spirit wolf closed each of its moonlit eyes, bowed each half of its head, and dissolved into a cascade of sparks that flowed into the pair of elves at their sides as if carried by the wind. When the conjured Elvhen opened their eyes, each had a single, moon-bright eye of their own.

“The Elvhen who took these broken spirits within themselves became known as the Wolf Guardians.”

Marethari drew her hands together, and her depicted elves were transformed into fierce warriors, one with a bow, the other a sword, and both with looks of fierce determination.

“These Wolf Guardians were more than the mere sum of their parts, for each had a partner: the Wolf Guardian that housed the other half of their spirit.”

“Through the spirit wolf’s ears, each could hear the other’s thoughts, through the spirit wolf’s twin hearts, each could feel the other’s emotions, and through the spirit wolf’s eyes, each could view the world as their other half would.”

The flashing embers that comprised the Wolf Guardians shifted again, and now the pair of warriors stood back-to-back, weapons at the ready.

“From her cage in the heavens, Mythal looked down upon the spirits she’d created, and her Elvhen children for whom those spirits had given their all, and she smiled. Though the Elvhen had erred, and though she mourned for both their suffering as well as that of their broken wolf spirits, she rejoiced, for as one and the same, they would be safer together than they could ever have been apart.”

Marethari waved her hands in a wide arc, gathering the sparks within her hand once more.

“And so, when Fen’Harel returned from his dance across the sky, it was to find a band of Elvhen had drawn swords, had loaded bows, and at their side -their midnight fur bristling, their moon-bright eyes glowing with righteous fire- Mythal’s remaining wolf spirits snarled. Together as one, the Wolf Guardians and their spirit wolves charged at the Dread Wolf.”

As the Keeper threw her handful of sparks into the air, completely entranced by the story, Anders’ nearly whooped with jubilation, and if the satisfaction from Fenris’ side of the bond was anything to go off of, he was rather invested in the tale as well.

The embers Marethari had thrown into the air rematerialized once more, this time taking the shape of the glimmering, green Wolf Guardians, side by side with the remaining blue spirit wolves, all of which were leaping into battle against the scarlet and bloodied Dread Wolf.

“At first,” Marethari said, “Fen’Harel was not afraid. He struck out at the nearest Elvhen, knowing the weakness of the mortal realm, but where his mighty paws struck, there lay no wounded body. Confused, the Dread Wolf tried again, lunging, and snapping at another warrior, but again, his jaws closed around only air.”

“The Dread Wolf lunged again and again, snapping and snarling at the Elvhen and their spirit wolves, but where his blows had once sliced wounds into their hides only for them to heal quickly, now he could not so much as touch them -neither the wolves nor the Elvhen warriors.”

The gleaming, red wolf in the air before Anders struck out over and over to no avail, for while each time it seemed the Dread Wolf had caught one of the Elvhen, not a spark of blue or green shone between his slavering jaws.

“No matter how fast he moved, he could not catch them. No matter how many times he struck, he tasted naught but air, and all the while, the Wolf Guardians and their spirits hacked and cut, and sliced at the Dread Wolf with unmatched coordination.

“It was this that broke the Dread Wolf’s siege, for each Wolf Guardian alone was strong, but together they were indomitable."

One last time, Marethari gathered all her sparks within her grasp and scattered them across the last vestiges of smoke from the bundle of herbs in the mortar. As the sparks fell, they began to flicker, gradually winking out as the Keeper finished her story.

“Fen’Harel fled the battlefield, hiding away from the Wolf Guardians in the Beyond, whimpering and licking his wounds. It is said that ever since, the Dread Wolf prowls only in the shadows, acting only in subterfuge, never in plain sight and only through trickery and deception, for he fears the return of the Wolf Guardians.”

For a long moment, Anders could do nothing but sit there and marvel at the Keeper’s storytelling ability, at her displays of magic, and at the story itself.

Ever a beacon of wit, the first thing Anders said at the conclusion of Marethari’s tale was, “Wow.”

Marethari graced him with another small smile, amused at his incredulity.

Anders was buzzing with questions. “What happened to the Wolf Guardians?” he asked quickly, too keen on the answer to be embarrassed by how desperately he wanted to know.

Marethari raised an eyebrow at him. “Apart from the descendants who live among us today? Those who are lucky enough to be one half of a spirit bond, you mean?”

Anders colored, realizing that his question had made it seem like he’d failed to make the very obvious connection between the Wolf Guardians in the story and soul bonds in the modern world. “Yes, I did get that part, I swear. What I mean is ‘what happened to the official order?’”

“While no one truly knows what happened to the original order of the Wolf Guardians, we can see traces of them in history as recent as the Emerald Knights, although by that time, the actual requirement of a spirit bond had long since faded. Tell me, child, what do you know of the Emerald Knights?”

Anders desperately cast about his memory for anything he knew about the famous Elvhen warriors. “They… had trees planted in their honor, right? In the Dales?”

Marethari nodded. “Very good. Did you also know that each Emerald Knight had a wolf companion that followed them to battle called the Knight’s Guardians?”

Anders’ eyes widened, but before he had the chance to launch another question, Fenris shared his thoughts on the matter.

“I fail to see how a fictitious tale helps us,” Fenris said bluntly.

Anders whipped around to gape at him, aghast at his blatantly dismissive candor.

But Marethari did not seem upset by his words.

“Perhaps it is nothing more than a story. Perhaps it is not. Nobody can truly say for certain. You are not the first to say as much, and you will not be the last.” The Keeper smiled sagely at him, almost affectionately, as though Fenris were a brash adolescent, eager for action rather than words. “But stories help us make sense of an illogical world. They connect us to our past, and they teach us lessons in a way we can understand.”

Fenris was quiet for a brief moment, mulling over the Keeper’s words.

‘You’ve heard Varric say much the same,’ Anders reminded him privately, recalling a time when the dwarf had ardently declared a sentiment similar to the Keeper’s -that stories held power, that history is written by the man with the fastest quill and the best publisher.

Fenris lowered his eyes slightly at that, considering. Eventually, he inclined his head to the Keeper. 

“I take your point. I suppose it is ultimately irrelevant whether or not a story is true, so long as it is a good one.”

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

In the moments that followed Fenris’ judgement, Marethari smiled, then bent to pick up the mortar that contained the vestiges of the herbs she’d burned.

“I am glad you enjoyed it,” she said, dipping her hand into the bowl and delicately retrieving a pinch of the ashes. “Let us hope there was also a lesson learned in the process, hm?”

Her voice was almost teasing, but with a steel lining that let them know she wasn’t entirely joking. She began moving through the clinic, scattering the ashes around the floor as though this was a completely normal action for one to take.

“Thank you, Keeper, but we do still need to know a few details,” Anders said, somewhat wryly. “How to stop this from killing us, for starters.” He sounded tired again, Fenris noted, and appraising the mage, he could see the weariness beginning to creep back over Anders’ face.

Marethari did not answer immediately. Instead, she took her time in gracefully spreading the powdered remnants around the room, and when the bowl was empty, she returned it to Anders’ table wherefrom she’d retrieved it earlier.

When she finally turned toward their cot again, Fenris could tell her mood had shifted. In his time spent bodyguarding Danarius, he’d learned how to pick up the subtle shifts in stance and expression that foretold a swift decline in situational stability. Even with the distance between them, Fenris could see her demeanor had changed, and as the Keeper approached them, it was with a slight frown tugging down the corners of her mouth.

Fenris felt himself tense automatically.

“Indeed, and time is somewhat of the essence,” Marethari said slowly. “But first, there is something I must know.” She looked down at her folded hands for a time, and when again she turned her gaze on the pair of them, it was stern. “Tell me: why is your bond damaged so severely?” Her eyes were narrowed, her lips pursed.

“Well, we don’t know what’s causing it,” Anders said evasively, but Marethari paid him no mind. Her eyes bore into Fenris’.

“Do you not? Truly?” she asked, pointedly. In his periphery, Fenris saw Anders’ brow knit, and the mage followed the Keeper’s gaze to where it was affixed intently to Fenris himself.

“We are not privy to all the experience you claim to have. Perhaps you would be kind enough to share some with us,” Fenris said in a low, scornful voice, his hackles rising at her critical gaze.

Marethari’s eyes narrowed further and Fenris met her glare head on. They remained that way for several seconds, neither backing down.

“Alright, enough. Really, this isn’t helping,” Anders broke into their contest of wills, knuckling his eyes in frustration. His voice was impatient. “Please, Keeper Marethari, we just need to know how to-”

The Keeper didn’t break from her eye contact with Fenris as she interrupted. “It cannot have escaped your notice that one of you appears much the worse for wear while the other is in comparatively good condition.”

“Yes, of course we’ve noticed,” Anders said, sounding annoyed. “What’s your point?”

But Fenris had picked up on her meaning immediately.

“You are not the first to point the blame at me for the mage’s deteriorated state, regardless of the fact that I have done nothing to harm him,” he growled defensively, referring to both Hawke’s suspicions, as well as Anders’ own.

“Oh, indeed! Then, I suppose the grievous injuries your bond has sustained were not through your own misguided attempts to break it?” Marethari’s voice was a whip now, lashing across Fenris in accusation.

“Break it?” Fenris echoed, baffled. “I had been led to believe such a thing was wellnigh impossible -”

“Ah, so you’ve enquired about this topic before?” Marethari seized on the information as though she’d found an opening in Fenris’ guard.

“Yes. I have ,” Fenris barked sharply, and his matter-of-fact tone seemed to throw the Keeper, as though she’d expected him to deny it or to backtrack. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened a fraction in surprise.

“You genuinely wish the bond to be broken?” she asked him in a horrified whisper.

“Given the option, I would have preferred it never formed in the first place!” Fenris snarled without thinking.

At these words, a shard of referred pain bit deep into his heart, and too late Fenris remembered who he was sitting next to on the cot. He’d been so involved in his spat with the Keeper that he’d spoken out of hand, coming across as completely irreverent of Anders’ opinion on the matter, as well as arguably cruel to boot.

Moreover, Fenris saw that, once again, he’d failed to clarify that his biggest grievance about the situation was not in being bonded to Anders, but rather in the fact that he was simply bound in any sense.

He grimaced, feeling abruptly ashamed of his immature outburst, and part of him immediately leapt to apologize.

While it was true that he wished the bond had never formed in the first place, he had meant it when he told Anders he didn’t want it broken now -not if it was going to cause them both unspeakable, lasting pain.

“I see.” Marethari’s voice was clipped, her jaw tensed with suppressed anger. Fenris thought it odd for her to be so invested in their predicament -to the point of an emotional display, no less- but he didn’t care enough to investigate.

“Alright. So, how do we break it?” Anders bit out suddenly, voice strained.

Thrown by the stark change in the mage’s tone and stance, Fenris turned his head sharply to stare at him. The sight that arrested him was one Fenris hadn’t seen in so long that it had nearly become unfamiliar. Where mere minutes ago the man had been open and animated with the excitement of Marethari’s tale, his drawn, weary face now looked closed off and unreachable. Anders’ usually expressive features had hardened into an immutable, granite mask.

Disconcerted, Fenris opened his mouth, but whether it was one of the many questions ricocheting off the inside of his skull or an apology on his lips, he never got the chance to find out.

“Mage-”

“It’s clear neither of us want any part in this,” Anders cut him off in a voice of frosted iron. “Tell us how to break it and let’s be rid of the bloody thing.”

The sudden fervor with which Anders’ spoke was unexpected, but even more so was the sting of betrayal that pricked Fenris at the mage’s assertion. He studied Anders, attempting to decipher the mage’s thoughts through any changes in his expression. When Anders’ stony countenance revealed no information, Fenris turned his intention inward. The bond was thrumming with the familiar feeling of anger, but underneath it lay the pain Anders was trying to bury.

Growing increasingly bewildered, Fenris fought to untangle the source behind Anders’ unusual behavior. He would never claim to understand the mage -he’d never bothered to try until he’d been forced to as a victim of circumstance- but they had always resented and mistrusted one another. It was only logical to assume Anders would want the bond broken as well -presumably almost as much as Fenris himself did. And the mage had said as much besides, had he not?

So, from where came this abrupt fury of his? Was it that the mage had been invested in using the bond? To what end? To leverage control over Fenris? Once, Fenris would have accepted this explanation with no further evidence necessary, but in light of recent events, he now felt that could not be the correct assumption. Perhaps the mage had been looking forward to the increased battle prowess the Keeper had spoken of. Fenris himself had to admit that it was an intriguing concept.

Marethari’s spoke in a layered voice once more, pulling him from his reverie, but this time her tone was glaringly disparate to the resonance of her voice whilst storytelling; now it sounded almost hollow.

“To throw away that which precious few ever have the opportunity to experience -to intentionally destroy a gift that should be cherished above all else-” she cut herself off, shaking her head back and forth slowly. “No. I will not aid you in this.”

The Keeper strode across the clinic and retrieved her staff, snatching it off the floor. “If severing your spirit bond is truly what you wish, find another to instruct you. I will have no part in it.”

Without further explanation, she turned her back on them. Anders said nothing; just sat there fuming as she prepared to leave.

Trying to regain his bearings, scattered as they were from the abrupt change in atmosphere, Fenris nearly let her go without voicing even a weak protest. It wasn’t until the Keeper had reached the clinic door that Fenris finally spoke up.

“Wait.” He stood from the cot, feeling Anders’ guarded gaze follow him. “You misunderstand me.”

The Keeper stopped at the threshold. She did not turn around, but Fenris knew he had her attention.

“I said I wish the bond had never formed,” he stated, firmly, and his voice, now that he’d finally found it, was strong and sure. “That does not mean I wish to break it.”

Marethari half turned, and while she still did not look at him, she waited, listening.

Fenris looked down at Anders where he remained seated upon the cot. The mage’s mask of stone was slipping, likely without his intent to do so, and Fenris could read some of the emotions he felt through the bond in the mage’s face once more. He looked warry, as if he were readying for another emotional blow, but there was a glimmer of what appeared to be hope in his eyes. “And, despite what he says, I do not believe Anders does either.”

Turning his gaze back to the Keeper, Fenris saw that Marethari had finally pivoted to face them properly.

“What I said is true; I do wish the bond had never formed,” Fenris said. “But it has done so, and I refuse to waste any more time bemoaning that fact. All told, I had already abandoned the notion that breaking the bond was a possibility before you came to Kirkwall, and I had no intention to pursue the topic further. I will not sit idly and play the victim while all else moves on.”

Fenris took a step toward her. “If you agree to tell us what must be done to stop this connection from leading to our deaths, I will do whatever you deem necessary to accomplish it.”

And then, sensing that his declaration may still have not entirely convinced her, Fenris added, “In this, you have my word.”

Marethari looked pensive now, her brow furrowed as though she were calculating, considering his words.

As the Keeper deliberated, Fenris turned to face the eyes he felt on the back of his head. Meeting the mage’s stare, Fenris was relieved to find the cold, implacable mask had gone from Anders’ face to be replaced by a look of confusion. He seemed not to know what to make of Fenris’ statement, but the corners of his mouth were also tilted up in the beginnings of a hesitant smile.

“Very well.” The Keeper’s words pulled his attention away from Anders, and Fenris turned to face her again as she voiced her decision. Marethari was walking back toward them, her stride measured, her expression neutral, and she did not stop until only a foot remained between herself and Fenris. Head tilted back just a fraction, she gazed up at him, her unreadable eyes flickering between his.

Though he was slightly uncomfortable with her proximity, Fenris held still, not permitting himself the step back from her he wanted to take. He held her gaze, waiting for her to speak.

“Have you or have you not taken actions against your spirit bond that have resulted in its injury?” she asked, her voice just as neutral as her expression.

“No,” Fenris answered truthfully, “none that I am aware of.”

She examined his face for a moment, then nodded, apparently having read the truth of his statement in his eyes.

Fenris felt some of the tension leave his shoulders as she nodded at the cot, indicating he should retake his seat. He did so, taking a quiet, relieved breath.

“Before we continue, I’m going to reexamine your bond.”

“Haven’t you already done that?” Anders asked. Marethari shot him a look and he held up his hands. “I-I’m not protesting, I’m just -I just want to understand.”

“I have,” she confirmed, “but spirit bonds are complex. I need to ensure everything is as it seems, and that I do not overlook anything that could lead to further complications.”

“I see. Thank you.” Anders bowed his head and Fenris watched as, once again, the Keeper took a few steps forward to encircle his brow with her hands, her thumbs resting on his temples, her fingers arrayed across his crown. Magic lit in her palms and turned the side of Anders’ face green with magic.

The Keeper’s brow furrowed in concentration as she navigated Anders’ side of the bond, and Fenris could feel her magic as it alighted on their connection. It felt unusual, though not unpleasant. Where before she’d been brief, this time around Marethari was thorough, examining every inch of the connection, and it wasn’t until a minute or so had passed that she gave a soft hum of concern.

“There is… something,” she said distractedly, her eyes still shut. Fenris could scarcely feel the touch of her magic now, and as such, he couldn’t tell what it was the Keeper had found. He concluded that whatever it was must be on the mage’s end of the bond.

“The bond itself is damaged, but there was already a wound here before it had formed.” Marethari sounded mystified by whatever it was she was appraising. “There are… fragments. As though something has been torn from you.”

Grief, painful and clear in its strength, flooded through the bond. “Yes.” Anders’ voice was quiet and sad, and Fenris looked closely at his face, trying to get a read on whatever it was that had sent the mage spiraling so quickly.

And then it hit him. This was a familiar grief -one Fenris himself had never experienced, but one he’d felt secondhand through the bond before. The mage was remembering the demon that had possessed him… his spirit.

“Justice,” Fenris said, and Anders’ eyes snapped open.

Marethari’s hands fell and she turned to look at Fenris, eyes puzzled.

“What was that?”

“Justice,” Anders repeated, drawing her attention back to him. “He is- was- a spirit. I was his host.”

“You were possessed by a demon?” The Keeper’s voice was appalled, but there was also a note of curiosity in her tone that suggested she was perhaps not as outraged about it as one might expect her to be.

“I was possessed by a spirit, once… not anymore.” The mage was looking at his hands now, the strong aura of defensiveness he usually projected when being confronted about his status as an abomination was conspicuously absent, almost as though Anders was simply too tired to defend himself any longer. “When the bond formed, both Fenris and I experienced a few rather… significant effects. One of them was the loss of Justice.”

“Effects,” Marethari said slowly, dissecting the word for information. Apparently finding none, she turned to Fenris.

“Pain. An abundance of it,” Fenris said, shuddering at the memory of the Surge. Even the recollection of the now distant event was enough to make a shiver of anxiety crawl down his spine and raise gooseflesh across his skin.

“Pain? What do you mean?” There was a note of frustration in her voice now, as though the Keeper was not used to being out of the loop and didn’t find the state of ignorance to her liking. Fenris spared a second to smirk, allowing himself a small amount of petty satisfaction that a Dalish elf had been given a taste of their own cryptic medicine.

“Perhaps you should explain,” he said, rolling his head slightly toward Anders.

Anders let out a long, heavy breath, then rubbed at his face harshly. His eyes were rimmed red and watering with exhaustion.

“We were out with Hawke on the Wounded Coast, clearing out some bandits that had been robbing caravans,” he began. “We’d just finished setting up camp when the aforementioned bandits jumped us, catching us off guard. My staff was across the camp, so while the rest of them set to hacking, I conjured a fireball to cast at the archers.”

“I don’t often find myself in a position to cast offensive spells without my staff, so the fireball I summoned was… big. Too big.” Anders rubbed at his neck. “It knocked me for a loop, so I didn’t see exactly what happened-”

“One of the archers shot an arrow at you,” Fenris supplied. Anders glanced sideways at him.

“At me?” he asked, confused. “But...”

Belatedly, Fenris realized that he’d never told the mage that the arrow he’d taken in the chest hadn’t been meant for Fenris at all.

“Yes,” he said, meeting Anders’ eye. “Your fireball had taken out the majority of the bandits, but you missed one. While you were dazed from your excessive use of magic, the archer saw an opportunity and took it.”

“Then how-”

“I was in a position to intercept the arrow, so I did.”

Anders' mouth was hanging slightly open, but he seemed not to notice. “You…” he swallowed. “You took an arrow that was meant for me?”

Feeling uncomfortable at the intensity in the man’s gaze, Fenris raised his shoulders slightly. “It was only logical. You possess the capability to heal; I do not. Small matter to determine who best to take the blow.”

“I… I don’t- I didn’t realize…” For once, Anders seemed at a loss for words. “Thank you, Fenris.”

Rather than openly accepting the mage’s gratitude, Fenris inclined his head, but internally he wondered at what their situation would be had he not stepped in front of the arrow -if he’d allowed the projectile to reach its intended recipient. Without Fenris’ need of healing, the bond wouldn’t have formed, and thus they’d not be left with their current conundrum… but the mage would, in all likelihood, be dead.

Would that be an acceptable trade off, he wondered? Unbound, unbonded, but free… at the cost of Anders’ life? Mere days ago, Fenris would have answered a resounding ‘yes’ without hesitation… but now…

These were thoughts that could drive a man to insanity.

Fenris looked up to see the mage studying him with a kind of awed expression on his face, but as soon as Fenris’ eyes met his own, he shook himself and cleared his throat.

“Ahem- where was I?” Anders coughed. “Ah, yes, Fenris got shot… by an arrow… meant for me.” The mage shifted slightly on the cot, repositioning himself. “Well, of course, as soon as I noticed, I ran over to him.”

From there, Anders explained the rest of the events, utilizing Fenris’ input on what had occurred during the period of time Anders had been unconscious. He told of the Aura and the Surge in vivid detail, and by the time he’d finished describing the pain they’d both experienced, Fenris was grimacing with the recollection.

“Fascinating,” Marethari said when the mage was through. She turned to Fenris then. 

“I owe you an apology, child. I seem to have erred in blaming you. If Anders’ spirit was already damaged by this prior connection, it is likely the bond is plagued by the festering vestiges of this old connection. I suspect that the majority of the ill effects your current bond has suffered stem from this initial injury. Perhaps not all of them,” she added with a pointed look, “but enough that I now realize my initial assumption was hasty.”

Fenris, folded his arms, but accepted the apology with a nod and a raised hand.

‘Not even an ‘I told you so?’ Not sure I could have resisted the temptation,’ Anders commented through their bond.

“So,” Marethari said, returning her attention to Anders. “Do you know what happened to your spirit?”

“During the Surge, Justice was trying to tell me something. He said something was tearing.” Anders took another deep breath. “I think the tearing he spoke of was his own consciousness -the pain Fenris and I experienced was him being ripped from my mind.”

“You believe the agony you both endured was caused by the spirit’s severed connection?” Marethari interjected. “Then, how is it possible that Fenris felt this pain as well?” she asked.

“Oh, we feel each other’s pain,” Anders said, as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Marethari was blatantly agog. “You- you what?” she stammered, her aura of calm indifference bucked by the revelation.

“We feel-”

“No, I heard you, I simply do not believe it possible.”

“Is it really that unusual?” Anders asked, and he sounded almost nervous.

“Unusual? Child, it is unheard of!”

“Ah. Well then.” He shot Fenris a glance. “I guess there’s a first time for everything?”

Marethari turned on her heel and began pacing slowly before their cot.

“What other abilities has this bond given you?” She sounded distant, as though lost in thought. “I trust you can communicate with it?”

“Yes,” Anders nodded. “Although that didn’t come until later.”

“How much later?” The Keeper demanded.

Anders shot another glance at Fenris as though asking him to verify. “I suppose a week or so after the bond formed?” Fenris inclined his head in affirmation.

“Truly? That ability does not typically manifest for months after the bond’s formation,” Marethari said, then she stopped, a question apparently coming to mind. “How old is the bond?”

Anders shrugged. “A month, give or take a couple of-”

“Ma harel!” The Keeper exclaimed sharply.

There was a moment of silence in which the three of them just stared at each other.

“What?” Fenris said eventually, his voice deadpan. It wasn’t really a request for translation so much as conveying the general feeling of, “Are you having some sort of fit or is this typical behavior?”

“That is impossible!” the Keeper declared. “This bond is several months old, at least!” she insisted.

“I may be off by a couple of days, but the formation of it was rather… vibrant, as I told you earlier,” Anders replied calmly. “I can assure you it was no more than five weeks ago, at the far end.”

“There is no precedent for a bond to behave in such a fashion.” The Keeper was shaking her head again. “This bond is -in nearly every aspect- unique.”

“Hear that, Fenris?” Anders turned to him, a cheeky grin brightening his tired face. “We’re unique!”

“That is certainly one way to put it,” Fenris muttered.

Marethari bowed her head and took several deep breaths, apparently forcing herself to regain her calm. She stayed like that a while, but when she opened her eyes, she was herself again.

“I do not understand, but perhaps, in time, the Creators will grant me clarity. For now,” she said, taking her place before them once more, “I will simply accept that the situation is what it is.”

There was another moment of silence where she studied the two of them seated on the cot before her.

“Keeper,” Anders started, hesitantly. “Why do the Dalish believe bonds form?” When she did not answer immediately, Anders elaborated. “Is it really as humans say -that bonds only form between those most… compatible with one another? Because, I have to tell you: I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

Fenris nodded. For once, he was in total agreement with the mage.

The corner of the Keeper’s mouth quirked up slightly. “I have noticed you two seem to bear each other some level of animosity.”

Anders chuckled at that, and Fenris himself gave a soft huff of laughter. “Ah -let’s just say we have a few… irreconcilable differences.”

“Is that so? Perhaps they are not as irreconcilable as you think,” she mused, but when Anders opened his mouth to argue, she didn’t give him the chance. “Nevertheless, you may be misunderstanding what is meant by ‘compatible.’ One hears the term and immediately assumes romantic compatibility, no?”

She proffered a hand, palm facing up. “Instead, I suggest to you that the term refers to the way a pair of individuals leverage their collective strengths in order to achieve their goals.” She gestured to each of them. “Consider your abilities. One a mage, the other a warrior. Both determined, yes, but with entirely separate points of view through which they see the world. Imagine, if you would, all the ways each of you might tackle a given obstacle. The humans use the phrase ‘two minds are better than one.’ This applies quite literally to a spirit bond.”

“So, all that talk about couples who form a soul bond being bound for eternal romance is -what? Sappy nonsense?”

It was Marethari’s turn to laugh. “No, it is true that most couples who share a spirit bond do wind up romantically involved. Understanding another being so intimately … well. It often leads to other, more physical forms of intimacy.”

Anders grimaced. “Has there ever been a bonded couple that was just... friends?” he asked, a note of desperation in his tone.

“Oh, certainly. Platonic spirit bonds are not as common, but they have happened on numerous occasions. In many such instances, bonded pairs have been known to pursue romantic interests outside of their connection, should they feel the desire to. In fact, I have even heard tell of a spirit bond manifesting between a set of twins.” Marethari smiled. “So no, child, a spirit bond does not necessitate romantic overtures.”

“Oh. Okay, well. That’s… good.” Anders let out a breath.

The Keeper studied them both for a moment, then she drew a breath and held it briefly, as though deciding whether or not to ask the question on her mind. After a pause, she spoke again.

“Forgive me; perhaps it is not my place to ask, but I am curious as to the reason you both are so diametrically opposed to your bond.”

Anders brow furrowed and he looked down at his hands. “It’s… complicated.”

Fenris watched the mage fidget for a moment, then caught Marethari’s gaze with his own.

“Until I escaped four years ago, I was enslaved by a Tevinter magister. I won my freedom through blood and fury, only to once again be bound to a mage against my will.”

Anders winced slightly but did not look up to meet Fenris’ eye, instead staring morosely at his hands where they were held tightly in his lap.

“It is small comfort that he did not lock the shackles himself; the shackles exist and therefore I am once again prisoner -only this time, there is no freedom to be gained.”

Marethari said nothing, her grey-green eyes dark and intense as she listened.

“However,” Fenris said, “I also recognize that the mage did not ask for this anymore than I did, and I am certain he feels similarly.”

But though Fenris looked down at Anders, and though he knew the mage could feel his gaze, Anders still did not meet his eye.

“I see,” Marethari said, carefully. “You resent being forced into this arrangement against your will. I understand how trapping this must feel.”

Fenris opened his mouth, a challenge of the Keeper’s ‘understanding’ on his breath, but at the last second, he decided to let it go. Marethari faced Anders then.

“And what of you?” she asked. “Is he correct? Do you feel the same?”

There was a moment where Anders didn’t reply, but eventually he looked up from his hands. “Freedom is a right,” he said. “A right that too many, including myself, have been denied. That, at least, is something Fenris and I have in common.”

“You were never a slave,” Fenris argued, hotly.

“Not all forms of subjugation lie in collars and pet names!” Anders snapped. “Some are in the dirty looks you get on the street." He rose to his feet. "Some lay upon the foreheads of Tranquil mages whose very souls have been stolen from them.” His voice was increasing in volume and Anders’ last line was delivered nearly at a yell.

“And some are in the stones of a tower cell that hold you in solitary confinement for a year!” Anders' voice fractured on the last word, and he pivoted, turning his back on Fenris, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders.

Fenris got to his feet as well, breathing hard, his temper flaring. He was burning with the desire to heat an argument of his own at the mage, but from the back of his mind came the most wretched sense of vulnerability, and it doused the fire in his veins as effectively as a blast of icy water.

“If I might,” Marethari interceded, calmly. “There was a point I was trying to make here. It may help bridge this divide.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Anders turned to face her. Neither one of them sat back down, but nor did they interrupt.

“The way you perceive this bond is half the battle.” The Keeper bent to rest her staff on the ground once more, then spread her hands before her as she had while telling them the story of the spirit wolves. Between her hands was a thick, heavy chain, composed of the same glowing, red sparks that had made up her illustrations of Fen’Harel.

“If you see it as a fetter, that is what it will become.” The image of the heavy chain poured from her hand, pooling on the ground at her feet. As the last link fell into the pile, the entire projection collapsed in on itself, and the sparks died out.

“However,” she said, extending a single finger. “If you see it as an opportunity, it need be no more restrictive than the air.”

The thinnest thread of blue magic tied itself delicately around her finger like a reminder. It was the same color the spirit wolves had been, and Fenris knew this must be intentional.

“Nothing in your lives has to change,” The Keeper stated earnestly, letting the magic fade once more. “Change, if it comes at all, will be on your own terms.”

In spite of himself, Fenris found himself relaxing as the calming melody of her voice wrapped around him. He shot a glance at Anders to find the mage already watching him. His face was still lined with tension, but Fenris could feel the bond shift as Marethari’s persuasive words swayed him as well.

“The reason your bond has driven you both to the state you are in is because you keep fighting it. You lash out in anger and desperation like panicked Halla caught in a snare.” She spread her arms wide. “The difference is, in the case of a spirit bond, there is no snare. There is no trap that binds you.”

“Every effort you make in an attempt to free yourself serves only to injure you further. You hack at the bond as though you would vines wrapped around your leg, but in your ignorance, you accomplish nothing more than relieving yourself of a limb.”

She met both of them with a fierce gaze. “What you are fighting is nothing more than yourselves.”

Anders let out a little ‘oh’ of comprehension, and Marethari turned to face him.

“The reason your health has decayed so much faster than your bondmate’s is that your spirit had already been fused to another before your soul bond manifested. In the process of this new connection vying for dominance with the one already in place, your spirit sustained injuries. This left behind fragments of your old link, and these decaying fragments have been festering since the bond’s creation.”

“Like an infection,” Anders supplied. 

“Precisely,” Marethari agreed. 

“However,” and at this she rounded on Fenris, “these vestiges were not the sole cause of the bond’s damage. During the course of my inspections, I sensed smaller, bruise-like marks on the other end of the link -the one connected to your spirit. These are less serious injuries, and in a normal circumstance they could all but be ignored, but as it stands, they did not do your already faltering connection any favors. Though you may not have intended to harm the bond, I can discern that these small bruises were made by your hand. Or spirit, as it were.”

“I haven’t-” Fenris started, jumping to defend himself.

“Peace, child,” Marethari said, holding up a mollifying hand. “The time for blame is past. I can sense that you meant your bondmate no direct harm, but some action on your part did cause the bond to suffer -perhaps an attempt to block the connection, rather than sever it?”

Fenris’ silence was confirmation enough for Marethari, but as promised, she did not seem accusatory.

“They, too, will mend in time.”

“How?” Anders asked. The Keeper faced him once more.

“The cure for what ails you is simple,” she said. “Firstly: Stop. Fighting. It.” 

She affixed them with a pinning gaze. “Any other actions you take will be in vain if you do not relent this dreadful, pointless struggling.”

Anders nodded, readily agreeing to her demands. Shortly, Fenris gave a similar acquiescence, then added, “Am I correct in assuming there is more to the mage’s recovery than a mere cease and desist?”

Marethari arched an eyebrow at him. “Yes, but nothing so dire as you may think. The most effective way for you both to regain your strength, is time.”

Fenris rolled his eyes with exaggerated dismissal, and this time Marethari did not excuse his flippancy. She snapped her fingers smartly at him.

“Dirthara-ma athim, da’len! Your insolence is unbecoming!” she flashed, her voice thorn-sharp.

Fenris, whose eyes had widened briefly at the snap of her fingers, set his face in a scowl and crossed his arms. Marethari watched him for a second more through narrowed eyes, and to his increased aggravation, a touch of amusement danced through the bond as Anders delighted in seeing Fenris scolded like a child.

“Now,” the Keeper continued, “when I speak of ‘time,’ I do not suggest you simply go about your lives as usual. Rather, for the next several weeks you must spend time near each other in order to regain your strength. Bonds thrive on proximity, and while healthy bonds do not suffer over great distances, yours is most assuredly not healthy at the moment.”

Anders’ mouth dropped open, and Fenris was so appalled he forgot to stay angry.

“W-weeks!?” Anders stammered. “We can scarcely tolerate each other in Hawke’s presence!”

“Proximity is more likely to result in the opposite of recovery,” Fenris added, his voice tight. 

Marethari’s expression was exasperated, but it also contained a hint of laughter.

“Mythal’enaste!” she marveled, bemused. “One would think I’d asked you to walk barefoot across a patch of Felandaris!”

When there was no change in either Fenris or Anders strained expressions, the Keeper sighed, and held up both hands, surrendering. 

“You need not spend more than a handful of hours with one another daily. And,” the small smile she offered them could almost be described as mischievous, “if you can manage it, sleeping near each other provides not only an improved level of rest, but it will also speed you along the road to recovery significantly.”

Anders blanched, Fenris grimaced, and Marethari laughed.

“You should be grateful,” the Keeper chuckled. “It could be much worse.”

“How?” Anders croaked.

“I once knew a Keeper who insisted the best treatment for most ailments was to stand naked under the moonlight in a heap of Halla droppings whilst singing hymns.”

And Fenris was so blindsided by this that a laugh burst from his chest before he could stop it. Judging by the look on Anders’ face, he’d not succeeded in his attempt to cover it with a cough.

“Now,” Marethari clapped her hands together lightly before she touched Anders on the shoulder, guiding him toward the cot once more. “Let’s clean out that infection so you can start healing, hm?”

Anders allowed himself to be guided by her gentle touch and settled himself on the cot once more. This time, when Marethari’s hands encircled his brow, the magic that blossomed from her palms was a calming, familiar blue. The blue of cleansing water. The blue of a spirit wolf. 

Though the majority of the damage Marethari was purifying was on Anders’ side of the bond, some of the magic swirled through the connection, and Fenris could sense the refreshing feeling of it as it washed away the festering remnants of Anders’ bond with Justice. 

“This will hurt,” Marethari’s voice almost didn’t reach Fenris’ ears, lulled as he was by the soothing magic. “Breathe through the pain,” she said, and no sooner had Fenris’ eyes snapped wide at the mention of pain, than there was a terrible burning sensation through the bond and Anders sucked in a hissed breath. It was as though the water had suddenly heated to boiling, scalding the raw, inflamed spirit bond. Mercifully, this lasted only seconds before the magic was gone, leaving their minds as quickly as it’d come.

“Andraste’s knickers, that hurt,” Anders gasped, looking up at Marethari accusingly. 

“It was necessary to remove the decayed fragments from your bond. I had hoped a simple cleansing spell would be enough, but, unfortunately, it was not.” She tipped her head toward him slightly. “I did warn you, however.”

“Fat lot of good that did me,” Anders grumbled, but there was no heat in it. Fenris knew from the state of his own bond that the spell’s lingering effects were no more painful than a mild sunburn.

“You are welcome, da’len,” the Keeper said, pointedly.

“Thank you, Keeper Marethari,” Fenris replied sincerely, though he’d not been the one she’d spoken to. “You have done more for us than we had any right to ask.”

Anders glanced at him briefly, then, bowing his head to the Keeper, he said, “Fenris is right. We are not members of your clan, but you still put up with us long enough to knock some sense into our heads. Thank you.”

Marethari treated them both to another small smile. “The sense was not going to knock itself.”

A shaft of sunlight brightened the clinic walls as dawn made its appearance then, and Marethari appraised the light. “It is time that I returned to my clan. I trust you are well enough for me to take my leave?”

Anders and Fenris both nodded and Marethari bent once more to retrieve her staff.

“Your aide, Holly, was rather insistent I remain until she arrives this morning,” the Keeper said.

“So you said,” Anders grinned, wanly. “I think, now that I am conscious, I can assume responsibility for my own care.”

Marethari gave a crack of laughter. “Ha! And how has that worked out for you thus far, da’len?”

Fenris smirked at the slightly miffed look on Anders’ face as they followed the Keeper to the door. 

“Remember what I told you,” she said, pausing on the threshold. “Proximity.”

“As though we could forget,” Fenris muttered, wincing slightly.

“Will you be alright making the journey back to the clan yourself?” Anders asked.

“Child, were I to take you with me, I’d not reach the aravels before the sun set again.”

“That is… probably accurate,” Anders admitted. “Thank you again, Keeper.”

“Dareth shiral,” Marethari said, and at a nod of farewell from Fenris, they shut the door behind her. 

And then they were alone. 

Fenris turned and walked a few paces back into the clinic. The rising sun highlighted the dustmotes in the air, and he spent a moment watching them drift lazily through the shafts of light. When again he turned to face Anders, it was to find the mage already looking at him.

Anders raised a hand and pointed it at his own haggard face. “You see this? At least partly your fault.”

“There are many things people have framed me for in the past, but I do not believe anybody has tried to blame me for their own unfortunate appearance yet,” Fenris said, coolly. “I suppose there really is a first time for everything.”

Anders crumpled his face into an oof shape, sucking in a mock hiss of pain, but he recovered quickly and countered.

“No, you’re right. Clearly you had nothing to do with my dazzling good looks. This right here was by the Maker’s own hand.”

“It’s true then: the Maker has a sense of humor.” Fenris cocked his head to one side. "And a cruel one at that."

“As if we didn’t have ample proof of that fact, considering that you and I are… ah-” Anders gave an exaggerated peek over Fenris’ shoulder, then his own, as if to ensure they would not be overheard (in the very empty clinic) before he continued in a stage whisper, “Ya’ know…”

Anders pinched the thumb and forefinger of each hand together and interlocked the loops.

Fenris’ eyebrows shot up. “You and I are what?” he asked incredulously.

Misreading Fenris’ reaction as sarcasm, Anders rolled his eyes. “Haven’t we already been over this? I can’t believe you’re going to make me do it again -you really are a ruthless bastard.” The mage took a melodramatic breath. “Fenris, I don’t know how to tell you this, but we’re bond-”

“No, that gesture you made.” Fenris pinned Anders with a look, searching the mage’s gaze for signs of duplicity, trying to work out if the mage was having him on or not.

Likewise, Anders’ own brow creased in confusion, trying to interpret Fenris’ meaning.

“What, this?” He interlocked his thumbs and forefingers again, holding the digits out for Fenris to see. 

Fenris pursed his lips. The situation was fast approaching absurdity, and it was now a strenuous test of his self-control to merely reign in his disbelieving amusement.

“What do you believe that symbol means, mage?” Fenris asked, and he was legitimately curious as to Anders’ answer.

“Isn’t it obvious? They’re rings!”

Fenris lost it. He ducked his head to avoid eye contact with the mage as his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“What?” Anders asked, completely lost, “Are you actually laughing? What in Andraste's name is so funny?” Anders seemed desperate to be let in on the joke, but there was definitely a touch of levity in his words.

“Rings,” Fenris managed to get out, covering his eyes with one hand and fighting to regain control.

“Yes, rings!” The mage sounded a little miffed now. “Like wedding rings! Because we’re bonded?”

But this only served to amuse Fenris further, and the elf dissolved into poorly suppressed heaves of laughter. Finally, after several moments, he managed to reign himself in and met the mage’s perplexed stare. 

“Is that a common hand sign in Ferelden?” Fenris asked him, though he already knew the answer.

“No, I just made it up,” Anders said, glancing down at his hands. “I rather like it though; do you think it will catch on?” He made the gesture again and Fenris had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep the tenuous grasp on his control.

“No, mage, I don’t think it will ‘catch on.’”

Anders’ face fell slightly. “Oh… why not?”

“Because that symbol already has a meaning -or at least it does in Tevinter.”

Anders looked surprised. “Oh! What does it mean?” he asked eagerly.

“Rings,” Fenris just managed to cough out again before he was overtaken by another fit of hysterics. The feeling was almost unfamiliar to him; Fenris could not remember ever having laughed so much in his life. The sensation was odd. He felt punch-drunk.

“That’s what I said! ” Anders was well and truly annoyed now, and Fenris was finally able to smother his joviality.

“In Tevinter, that gesture is performed by one who means to discreetly ask-” Fenris had to close his eyes to avoid looking at Anders. If he saw the confusion on the mages face again, he’d never finish the explanation. “To discreetly ask a potential partner if they are into a particular… sexual idiosyncrasy.”

When his revelation was met with silence, Fenris opened his eyes to see the mage’s mouth still ajar with incomprehension. Fenris was readying himself to spell it out for the man, but just as he drew in a breath to speak, miraculous enlightenment broke across the mage’s face. The bond flooded with several emotions, not the least of which was embarrassment.

Anders, the picture of eloquence, replied,“Oh.”

Fenris pressed his lips together again, trying not to grin. “Oh, indeed.”

“Oh, so you thought that- you thought I was asking-” Anders stammered, and Fenris could see the heat rising in the mage’s cheeks.

Mirth kept threatening to bubble up within him and he had to repeatedly force it back down to keep from grinning. Despite all that had happened today, Fenris felt almost… giddy, and he hadn’t a clue as to why.

Eventually, Anders awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Tea?” he asked.

And Fenris nodded, smiling.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Making tea had always been more of a chore than a passion for Anders. It wasn’t that he necessarily disliked the process; he was simply indifferent to it. It was just something he had to do to reach his goal. He had to heat the water, put the tea in a linen, pour the water, let it steep… none of it was something he actually looked forward to, it was simply what had to be done in order to get what he did want: the tea itself.

However, this time Anders found that he was meticulous about the whole ordeal. Whereas any other time he’d just estimate the amount of leaf to add to the sachet, this time he carefully measured it as to not oversaturate the water. He picked out the least-chipped mug in the cupboard, ensured it was clean, and set it on the counter. Then he heated the water until it was boiling, and even allowed it a moment to cool before pouring it as to not scald the leaves.

None of this was his usual fare; none of it was how he normally acted. He wasn’t under any illusion as to why he was being overly cautious; he knew full well that the only reason he was being so precise was because he wanted to impress Fenris.

After all, if he was to be in the elf’s company for the next several weeks, and, indeed, bonded to him for the rest of their lives, he thought it best that he at least attempt to undo some of the negative impression he’d left on Fenris for the first several years they’d been acquainted.

‘Naturally, the best way to start is with… hot leaf juice,’ Anders thought, lamely.

But when Anders poured the water into each mug and added the sachets, he watched as the clear water lift the dark swirls of flavor from the tea with interest. The rest of the process may have been mere tedium, but this, at least, was something he always enjoyed. The eddies were there for scant seconds before they blended together to form the familiar, uniform color of black tea, but they were truly beautiful while they lasted, however brief a time.

Letting the tea steep, Anders turned his back on the stove to face the room. He scanned the clinic for Fenris, but his eye-level sweep was pulled toward the ground. Fenris was on the floor, and it took Anders a solid few seconds of perplexed staring before he could be sure the elf wasn’t having some sort of fit.

Fenris was contorted into a strange position, his eyes closed, and his breathing measured. The elf’s legs were folded, the heel of one foot brought close to his core, the other stretched behind him in a position that looked like it should cause one rather copious amounts of pain. Anders opened his mouth to ask the elf what he was doing, but closed it again after a moment, deciding that perhaps this was something he shouldn’t interrupt.

As he watched, Fenris shifted from his seated position to one with his hands planted on the floor in front of him. Then, displaying a truly impressive level of balance, the elf took all his weight onto his hands, his legs held out in midair before him. Fenris held this pose for several moments, air passing easily through his nose, eyes now open and focused on some invisible point in the middle-distance. Finally, after several more seconds had passed, Anders couldn’t resist; he had to ask.

“What are you doing?” He kept his voice neutral, trying to come across as innocently curious. Fenris didn’t answer immediately, apparently choosing instead to finish the pose and shift into one requiring less focus. He tucked his legs in and settled his weight onto his feet once more.

“It is referred to as sanvesh,” Fenris said simply, folding his legs in and grasping at his feet to stretch the muscles in his thighs. The elf pulled his shoulders back and bowed his head.

“Sanvesh,” Anders repeated, rolling the unfamiliar word off his tongue. “What is that, exactly?”

“It is a type of meditation that primarily involves preparing both the body and mind for battle.”

“Are you expecting trouble?” Anders asked.

There was a soft gust of breath as Fenris let out an amused huff. “Of a sort,” he said wryly.

The elf gave one last final stretch followed by a long exhale, then rose gracefully to his feet. He met Anders’ eye.

“In addition to readying oneself for a fight, it is common practice for Fog Warriors to perform sanvesh each morning as the sun rises to reflect on one’s past actions and future goals,” he explained.

“So, it’s a kind of morning ritual,” Anders clarified, to which Fenris nodded in confirmation. “Interesting. Are the particular poses significant?”

“Only in that they stretch different muscles. They can be performed in any order, and it is not necessary to perfect each stance. The key component is clearing one’s mind of crowding thoughts.”

“I’ve never been able to do that,” Anders murmured distractedly. “The only time I ever come close is when I’m healing, and even still there are usually a half dozen thoughts chasing themselves around my head.”

Not expecting a response, Anders turned back to the tea and went about removing the linens from their cups, but again, Fenris spoke.

“Perhaps you should try the stretches for yourself,” the elf suggested calmly. “It may clear your restless thoughts.”

“If I tried what you just did, I’d probably disintegrate. I’m mostly scar tissue at this point,” Anders said with a half-smile, emptying the soggy leaves from the linen sachets into a compost bin.

“Further reason to try, in fact. The exercises aid in making scar tissue more flexible.”

“Flexible,” Anders snickered as he reached for the cannister of sugar. He glanced at the elf over his shoulder with a smirk. “Yes, I did notice that.”

Fenris seemed more than willing to drop the topic of conversation there.

Anders added a spoonful to his own mug, and he almost added one to Fenris’ through force of habit; Holly took her tea with two scoops of sugar. However, knowing Fenris as he did, Anders guessed that the elf likely took his tea black.

“Sugar?” he asked without turning around.

“Black,” Fenris replied.

The corners of Anders’ mouth lifted in a self-satisfied smile. “So predictable.” He turned back around to see Fenris eyeing him suspiciously.

“Predictable in what way?” the elf asked, bristling ever so slightly.

“In that way,” Anders chuckled, nodding at Fenris’ defensive expression and hunched shoulders as he held a mug of steaming tea out to the elf. Anders half expected him to refuse it, but Fenris took the cup, glanced at it briefly, then returned his gaze to Anders.

“I could have guessed you liked your tea black based on your personality alone,” Anders continued with a shrug.

“You believe you can guess the way one takes their tea based on their disposition?” Fenris asked, doubt clear both in his voice and his raised eyebrow.

Anders hummed and nodded, then shuffled over to sit on one of the cots again, leaning on his staff as one would a walking stick. Fenris stared back down into his own mug for a several seconds before following slowly. As Anders settled himself, Fenris sat on a cot adjacent to his and fixed him once more with an interrogating gaze.

“Aveline takes hers black as well,” Anders asserted as he settled his staff next to him on the cot. “And Sebastian likes his with one sugar.”

“Are these assumptions or do you actually know?” Fenris challenged.

Anders ignored him and continued. “Varric doesn’t have a preference because he doesn’t drink it enough to know one way or another, and Hawke takes his tea not only sweetened, but with milk as well. Merrill probably drinks just a dash of tea with her sugar.”

“And Isabela?”

“I’m not convinced Bela drinks anything other than the swill at the Hanged Man,” Anders chuckled. Fenris considered this.

“I suppose we’ll see.”

Anders gave him a withering look. “You’re going to ask them how they take their tea just to prove me wrong, aren’t you?”

The corner of Fenris’ mouth hitched up, but otherwise he didn’t answer.

Rolling his eyes, Anders took a large drink of his tea without stopping to test the temperature, wincing immediately as the water scalded his tongue. At the same time, Fenris’ empty hand flew to his mouth in an instinctual pain response.

Anders forced himself to swallow the mouthful, his eyes watering as the burning liquid scorched all the way down to his stomach.

“Sorry,” he coughed as Fenris shot him a reproachful look through narrowed eyes.

“Must I so frequently suffer for your reckless behavior? This disregard for your own health is no longer a mere inconvenience, mage; your actions now have consequences for me as well,” Fenris snapped, but his voice held little heat. It was more of a chastisement than an actual display of anger.

“Hence why I already apologized,” Anders retorted. Fenris held his glare for a moment until Anders let out a dramatic sigh and waved a hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll try to be more careful.”

“Do not overstrain yourself in the endeavor,” Fenris grumbled dismissively.

The sting of his burned tongue prompted Anders to let healing magic blossom in his mouth, and again Fenris reacted, flinching slightly, and sucking in a hissed breath.

“What?” Anders asked, abruptly anxious. He peered closely at the elf, wondering what he’d done to upset the elf this time.

Rather than an explanation, Fenris just gave a quick shake of his head and averted his eyes, but even so, Anders could still see the slight flush on the elf’s cheeks in addition to the arousal that filtered through the bond. Recalling the time Fenris had reacted similarly to his healing magic on their trip with Hawke to Sundermount, Anders put two and two together: his magic was affecting Fenris much the same way the elf’s lyrium affected Anders.

“It’s the magic, isn’t it?” Anders verified, and after a slight hesitation, Fenris nodded brusquely, shifting in his seat. 

“I believe it is specific to your magic, particularly healing spells,” Fenris growled, his voice terse and patently uncomfortable.

“That’s going to be a problem,” Anders sighed, rubbing at his face. “Not to mention the fact that we’re supposed to spend the next several weeks together without anybody noticing. Wonder why Marethari never said anything about-"

A quiet knock on the clinic door made both of them jump.

“Come in!” Anders called in a strained voice, beginning to rise to his feet, but when Holly’s freckled face poked itself through the clinic door, he resettled himself on the cot.

‘We can talk about it later,’ Anders sent through the bond. Thankfully, the elf’s pupils were already returning to normal; doubtless the fading of Anders’ magic and the appearance of Holly had effectively put a stopper in the desire that had spiked so suddenly.

“You’re awake!” Holly exclaimed, closing the door, and hurrying over to them. “I mean of course, you’re awake,” she repeated, this time sounding slightly annoyed.

“Good morning to you too, Holly,” Anders said, trying to hide his semi-flustered appearance. To his relief, rather than staring at him too intently, Holly looked around the clinic.

“Where’s Keeper Marethari?” she asked, scanning the room for signs of the elder.

“I sent her home.”

Holly’s brow knitted and her lips folded into a pout. “She promised she wouldn’t leave until I got here!”

“I feel fine, and she’d been gone from her clan for long enough,” Anders said, his voice soothing but firm. “And don’t you go getting angry at her for it, either. If you should be angry at anybody, it’s me.”

The look on Holly’s face made Anders immediately regret his choice of words.

“Oh, I am angry at you, make no mistake,” Holly growled, a clear threat in her voice. “Just how do you get off-” before she could really hit her stride, Holly glanced sideways and caught sight of Fenris sitting on the cot, apparently actually seeing him for the first time.

“O-oh, Fenris,” she said, her voice deflating a bit, “you’re still here.” Her eyes dropped to the cup in his hands and then over to Anders’ own mug. “And you’re drinking tea together. Wait- you’re drinking tea together?”

Anders groaned. “Why must you say it like that?” he fussed as the bond curled with Fenris’ defensiveness. Holly looked around the clinic again, eyes scanning the floor for something.

“What are you looking for?” Anders complained exasperatedly.

“Nothing,” Holly replied lightly. “Just the pools of blood and broken furniture that usually appear whenever you two are left alone.”

“Hey, what exactly are you implying?”

Holly stopped pretending to look around the clinic and put her hands on her hips. “Blood and broken furniture usually mean one of two things. Whichever would embarrass you more, that’s the one I mean.”

To cover said embarrassment, Anders pretended to be shocked at her.

“Holly, I’m shocked at you.” His tone was full of mock-offense. “Fenris and I are more than capable of having a civil conversation with one another, thank you very much,” he said primly.

“Empirical evidence suggests otherwise.”

“We’ve never even been in a physical fight!” Anders declared ardently.

“Well, I would have said that it’s only a matter of time, but apparently you two are bosom buddies now.” Holly glanced between them, a teasing smile on her lips. Anders gave a dismissive pfft and turned away from her, but Holly was looking keenly at Fenris.

“Why are you here, Fenris? I’m assuming it’s not just for Anders’ superb tea making skills that you stuck around?”

Anders jaw went slack as he searched for an explanation, but before he could do more than stammer a few incoherent words, Fenris’ cool voice interrupted his panicked thoughts.

“The Keeper refused to break her promise to you unless there was somebody else to watch over the mage in the interim. I was grateful for her assistance with the counterspell, and I offered to stay so she could return to her clan,” Fenris lied easily.

“Wait, the Keeper performed the counterspell already?” Holly asked, successfully diverted from her interrogation by Fenris’ skillful distraction. Anders turned from where he’d been staring at Fenris and nodded to Holly.

“Yes, just before she left.”

“What about the herbs and leather? I thought she needed them for the spell.”

“I guess she didn’t need them after all.” Anders gave her what he hoped was a convincing shrug, then smiled tentatively at her. “Looks like I’m on the mend.”

“That’s great!” Holly beamed at him. “And, frankly, not a moment too soon. If you were dying for too much longer, I’d have a full head of grays.”

“You’d pull it off,” Anders tipped his head. “I could see you starting a trend.”

“Actually, I think I’d be behind the times,” Holly grinned, nodding at Fenris’ stark, white hair pointedly.

Fenris, who’d been quietly drinking his tea and watching their exchange, snorted.

“So, if too much stress turns your hair gray, it must be too much brooding that turns your hair white,” Anders jabbed.

“No, it’s dealing with insolent mages that turns one’s hair white,” Fenris shot back.

“And I suppose all these insolent mages are handsome and charming?”

“Not a one.”

“Ahh, a return to normalcy,” Holly sighed, still smiling brightly.

~*~

Fenris left a few minutes later with a reserved nod to both Anders and Holly, begrudgingly acknowledging through the bond that he and Anders would need to decide on a time to meet the next day. Neither had bothered to mention the fact that it would be difficult to manage meeting every day without rousing suspicion, obvious as it was, but it hung over Anders’ consciousness like an oppressive, dark cloud. He hadn’t the first clue as to what he was supposed to spend several hours a day doing with the elf, much less keep the rest of Hawke’s crew from noticing, but Anders shoved the thought aside and tried to pay attention to what Holly was saying.

After she’d made herself a cup of tea, Holly and Anders had set to work planning out a temporary schedule for the clinic while Anders was recovering.

“I think that you should take at least three more days off,” she said, tapping the parchment before her with her quill thoughtfully. “And I mean ‘off’ off, not just staying in the clinic rather than going out with Hawke.

“How about until lunch?” Anders suggested. “A compromise?”

“Three days was compromising,” Holly muttered, staring at him balefully. “You need to rest, Anders.”

“One day?”

“Two, and that’s all I’ll hear of it,” Holly growled.

“Two it is,” Anders said with a grin.

She let out a long-suffering sigh. “Honestly, how you made it through childhood is a mystery to me.”

“Before or after I set the barn on fire?”

“Case in point.”

~*~

Having agreed that Anders would take another two days off to rest and recover some of his strength, the two of them had decided to spend the time getting some work done around the clinic, rather than opening it to the public.

However, barely two hours had passed before Anders had started chomping at the bit.

“I’m so bored out of my mind, Holly, I think I’m about to lose it.”

“You can’t lose something you never had,” Holly taunted impishly without looking up from her sorting of herbs.

“I probably had it before I started this,” Anders groaned, gesturing dramatically to the washbasin filled with linens and blankets in front of him. The cots in the clinic had been stripped bare, and each set of bedding was undergoing vigorous washing at Anders’ hand.

“I don’t think these blankets will ever be truly clean; I could scrub them until the return of the Maker and I’d still never get all the Darktown off.”

“No, probably not,” Holly allowed, “but they desperately needed a real wash; just look at how brown the water is!” Her voice was bright, as though she were perfectly content with doing mundane chores as a way to pass the time.

“The water was brown when I started.”

“Yes, but now it’s extra brown.”

The blanket Anders had been scrubbing against a washboard fell back into the basin, splashing murky water over his knees. He threw his hands up in frustration. Holly laughed.

“You’re bad at this,” she teased. Anders glared at her.

“Oh yes, I hate doing chores, how absurd.” He glowered and picked the blanket up once more, scrubbing it harshly against the washboard. “I will never understand how you enjoy this kind of stuff.”

“It’s calming,” Holly replied, plucking a few decaying leaves from a sprig of otherwise healthy elfroot. “It lets me focus my thoughts, ya know? Sorting out the things around me, organizing them… it’s like it helps me organize my mind as well.”

Anders was brought up short by a memory from earlier that day.

“Have you ever heard of sanvesh?” Anders asked her suddenly.

“What?”

“Sanvesh? I think I’m saying that right.”

Holly looked over at him. “I’ve never heard of… whatever that is,” she said, and Anders hummed in contemplation. “Why do you ask?”

“I guess Fenris has this morning ritual. What you were saying just now… it sounded a lot like how he described it.”

“Oh?” Holly said, one eyebrow quirking up, and Anders didn’t quite like the way mischief seemed to ooze from her smile. “You know Fenris’ morning routine now, eh?”

“Shut up. This morning, before you got here, he was doing this weird… stretching thing. I guess it was a morning meditation ritual he learned from the Fog Warriors, but honestly it just looked painful to me.”

“Well, I suppose we all need a way to clear our minds.”

“I don’t have one,” Anders grumbled.

“I bet you do, and you just don’t realize it.”

“Hmmph.”

Holly nodded at the basin of bedclothes Anders had apparently forgotten about. “Those blankets aren’t going to magically wash themselves, you know.”

There was a suspicious silence for a moment, then Anders opened his mouth to speak and Holly immediately cut across him.

“Nah-ah. Don’t even think about it. You are not going to try and wash them with magic while you’re half dead.”

“I am not half dead,” Anders insisted.

“Well, you were yesterday, and I swear on Andraste’s flaming smallclothes, if you try some half-cocked spell to wash these blankets and wind up passed out on the floor, the next time you wake up, I’ll be the one to knock you out again.”

~*~

By the time Anders had finished “cleaning” the bedding and hanging it up to dry, he was about ready to jump out of his skin. Sitting over a washbasin had rapidly gone from a mild annoyance to nearly unbearable torture. He was so restless it felt like there were bugs crawling underneath his skin.

Luckily, by that point, there was little else to do in the clinic that didn’t require money. When Anders had suggested they open the clinic for a few hours, however, Holly put her foot down.

“No, Anders! You are not about to skimp on your allotted recovery time just because chores are done!”

“Holly-”

“And why are you pacing like that? Sit down for Andraste’s sake!”

“I can’t,” Anders groaned.

Holly cursed under her breath. “Maker, preserve me,” she grumbled.

Anders was walking back and forth across the clinic at a slow pace, too exhausted to move faster than a limp and too restless to stop long enough to recover the strength that would allow him to do so. He felt almost… itchy. His skin did not prickle with the need to scratch, but the feeling in his head could be described as little else.

Healing itch.

The thought offered itself up to Anders tired brain, and immediately everything clicked. It was the bond recovering. After Keeper Marethari had removed the festering fragments of his bond with Justice, his new spirit bond was healing, and as such, it was itching.

‘Are you as miserable as I am?’ Anders asked Fenris through the bond as he paced back and forth as fast as his tired legs would allow.

‘The fact that we are linked ensures that I am,’ Fenris replied almost immediately, his mental tone aggravated and bitter, presumably due to Anders’ own restlessness.

‘I think it’s the bond healing. It’s like the itch of a scabbed wound.’

‘If you were expecting my thanks for that mental image, I can confidently inform you that you will not receive it.’

‘Prick.’

Fenris didn’t justify that with a response, but the mild annoyance through the bond sparked slightly, and though that was somewhat satisfying, it worsened the itch in Anders’ mind.

Holly’s growl of irritation brought Anders back to the real world.

“Have you considered the benefits of sitting down? I have to say, it’s an appealing idea to me.”

“You’re already sitting,” Anders muttered.

“No, I mean you sitting down is an appealing idea. Here, I’ll list some of the positives for you,” Holly began dramatically counting on her fingers. “One, you’d stop annoying the living breath out of me. Two, you might actually -oh, I don’t know- get better?”

“Perish the thought,” Anders deadpanned.

“Anders-”

“I’m going for a walk,” He announced suddenly. Anders strode across the clinic, grabbed his coat off the hook, and put it on.

“Great,” Holly said with a roll of her eyes. “Work off some of that energy. You know, energy you don’t actually have.”

But as Anders picked up his bag, stepped out of the clinic and started to close the door behind him, Holly caught it, forcing him to wait. He looked down at her curiously.

“Just…” her anxious gaze caught his, “be careful, will you?”

With a fond smile, Anders reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder.

“I will.”

~*~

Anders let his restless legs wander, and it wasn’t until the smell of brine and fish hit him that he realized they’d taken him to the docks. He nodded to himself, finally understanding what his subconsciousness had known all along. A few more minutes and he’d reached his unplanned destination.

The alleyway was dark, despite the midday sun as Anders let himself into the old man’s house, calling out a greeting as he did so.

“It’s just me,” Anders said, bracing himself against the wooden partition with one hand and removing his boots with the other. He walked past the divider and saw his old friend, seated as usual in the red armchair by the window. The man’s one remaining eye crinkled slightly in a smile, and Anders leaned his staff against the counter in the small kitchen before approaching.

“How are you, my friend?” Anders asked, following his standard routine of taking the old man’s left hand in his own, and gripping it gently. The man returned the squeeze with two of his own.

“Okay?” Anders confirmed as he retrieved ink and parchment from his bag.

The man blinked two times. ‘Yes.’

“That’s good,” Anders smiled, “I’m glad.”

He placed a loaded quill between the man’s fingers and parchment under his hand, then went about removing his own coat and grabbing the jar of healing salve from the nearby pantry. Anders dragged his sitting stool to the right side of the armchair, then leaned over to read what had been written on the parchment.

‘You are ill?’ the parchment read.

“I was ill,” Anders corrected. “I’m getting better. Oh, and don’t worry, it’s not contagious,” he added, mentally shuddering at the thought of the effect even a simple cold could have on his frail friend. Anders held the jar up questioningly, and the man blinked twice in acceptance.

‘I am glad,’ his friend scratched out, mimicking Anders’ typical response, and Anders smiled.

They sat like that for a while, Anders gently kneading the healing salve into the old man’s skin, enjoying the scent of elfroot and dawn lotus, the man in the armchair slowly scratching questions and responses into the parchment.

Gradually, the unconscious tension in Anders’ posture began to ease. The residual stress from the chaotic events comprising the past six weeks seemed to fade, and the burden on his shoulders grew lighter and lighter until Anders could almost pretend it wasn’t there at all. Even the stress of what the future held seemed manageable when looked at through eyes softened by the setting sun.

And it was then Anders realized that he’d been mistaken; he did have a way to clear his mind. It was just as Holly had said -he’d simply never realized it -never recognized it for what it was. This was his meditation.

Here, in this tiny, one-bedroom shack on the waterfront was where Anders felt at ease. Here, with his friend, sharing poems and stories of another time, he was at peace. This was his sanvesh.

An idea occurred to him then, and Anders met the old man’s eyes with a smile, knowing with a certainty that had eluded him until this moment that he was on the right path.

“How would you feel about meeting someone new?”

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

‘I know what we’re going to do today!’

Fenris was lying in bed, somehow both very awake and very tired, when the mage’s jovial thought echoed across the bond. It was still quite early; the sun had yet to even breach the horizon, and Fenris’ sleep the night prior had been fitful, disturbed by unfamiliar nightmares. He couldn’t remember much of the dreams that had plagued him, and what little he could recall was fading rapidly with the rising sun.

There had been the feeling of his panicked heartbeat drumming against his ribs, the inability to catch his breath -both of which were typical for nightmares, but the only other thing Fenris could remember was a total, oppressive darkness, and the sound of heavy breathing as it echoed off walls that pressed too close around him. The elf rubbed at his weary eyes.

‘Are you aware of the hour?’ Fenris eventually grumbled in reply, preemptively annoyed at the prospect of spending even one day in the mage’s company, not to mention the dozens more to come.

‘Oh, please. I know you weren’t sleeping, so don’t go making it out that I’ve inconvenienced you somehow,’ Anders said dismissively.

Fenris waited for further explanation, and when it grew obvious that none was forthcoming, he let a measure of irritation phase through the bond as a prompt for Anders to continue.

‘Alright, keep your pants on… or whatever those things you wear are called. I swear, they’re so tight, I keep waiting for your legs to fall off due to lack of blood flow.’

‘They’re leggings, mage, and they are not as restrictive as you apparently think. That would defeat their primary purpose in allowing freedom of movement during combat-’

‘Ok, whatever. The point is they’re tight and I know what we’re doing today.’

‘Are you ever planning to impart the details or are you waiting for me to begin guessing?’ Fenris shot back, the mage’s infuriating banter getting the better of his temper.

‘Just meet me at the clinic in an hour! I’ll tell you on the way.’

Fenris forced himself to stay calm, despite Anders’ evasiveness. As far as he could tell, there was no reason for the mage to withhold the information, and Fenris was all but convinced Anders was simply trying to annoy him.

And succeeding at it.

But half an hour later, Fenris reluctantly did as instructed, strapping on his greatsword, and heading out the door.

~*~

The sky was dark, heavy storm clouds approaching from across the sea, and Fenris could smell the oncoming rain in the air. As he approached the stairwell leading up to Anders’ clinic, he saw the mage was already waiting for him, sitting on a step with his staff balanced across his knees and fiddling with a blade of grass. The mage was holding the strand between his thumbs and blowing on it, attempting (rather unsuccessfully) to make it whistle. Concentrating as hard as he was, Anders seemed not to notice Fenris’ approach until he’d reached down and plucked the grass from the mage’s hands.

“Hey!” Anders protested.

Fenris ignored him, positioned the blade of grass between his own thumbs and blew on it, effortlessly creating a high, melodic whistle that rose and fell in perfect pitch.

“Show off,” the mage muttered as Fenris dropped the grass, smirking. Anders hauled himself to his feet with the help of his staff and dusted off the back of his robes.

“Alright, let’s go. Now that you’re finally here, I have something to show you,” the mage said in a matter-of-fact tone, but the sparking bond betrayed his excitement at whatever was to come.

It was clear that Anders was eager to set off, but before he could do so, Fenris’ attention was caught by something flickering at the edges of their mental connection, and he took a moment to study the man through narrowed eyes. The state of Anders’ health certainly hadn’t improved since Fenris had left him in the clinic the previous day, and while he knew that recovery didn’t happen overnight, the red that rimmed Anders’ eyes was telling. It seemed that Fenris hadn’t been alone in his lack of sleep.

Though whether or not Anders’ typical, rampant insomnia was to blame remained to be seen.

“Should you not be resting, mage?” Fenris asked, probing for information. “Unless the recommended course of action for one recovering from an illness has changed since last I heard, I believe sleep is a key part of the regimen.”

Anders’ gaze grew shadowed, and the traces of his enthusiasm faded. The flickering thing that had caught Fenris’ attention grew stronger, morphing into a miasma of something dark and shapeless that loomed over the bond.

“No,” the mage shook his head quickly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Mage-”

“Look, just come on, I don’t want to be late.”

With a sigh, Fenris chose to let the matter drop for the time being, but for some reason, the bond rankled at this decision, as if it had a mind of its own. “You still have not explained where it is that we’re going.”

“You’ll see when we get there,” Anders dodged, trying to sidestep Fenris.

But still Fenris did not move. He planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and crossed his arms meaningfully. Anders huffed with impatience.

“Fenris, think about this logically. Would it make any sense for me to lead you somewhere potentially dangerous? Like you said yesterday: our actions have consequences for each other. If I were leading you into a trap, I’d also be leading myself into a trap.”

“You realize you’re building a case for doing anything other than following you, yes? You injure yourself with alarming frequency.”

Anders paused for a moment, then allowed, “Alright, fine. You have a point. But look, just trust me on this, okay?”

And with that, Anders stepped past the elf and began leading the way out of the Darktown Warrens, knowing without the need to look that Fenris was following.

~*~

The path Anders traced to reach their mysterious destination apparently necessitated passing though Lowtown briefly. Young as the day was, the cobbled streets were mostly empty as they strode through a quiet market, but a few early risers were already opening their stalls in a bid to catch the morning rush.

The appetizing smell of fresh bread wafted through the air, and Fenris’ mouth watered at the scent; he’d forgone eating breakfast before leaving the house in favor of completing his morning meditation. Already knowing the source of the delicious smell, Fenris’ eyes landed upon a familiar stall run by a dwarven woman with a flour coated apron. Her stand was piled high with golden-brown rolls, as well as a variety of preserves and fromages.

The stall itself was well-crafted; short and sturdy, much like its owner. Made from the same wood as the bulk of the stall, the sign above it boasted the large, proud letters of a short word, helpfully accompanied by an equally large depiction of a bread loaf. Fenris would have bet coin that word was “bread,” but he wasn’t about to subject himself to the derisive looks his illiteracy would earn him by asking passerby for confirmation. The idea to ask Anders occurred to him, but he pushed it from his thoughts, embarrassed by the notion alone.

Fenris looked away from the baker and retrained his sights on the path ahead of them, making a mental note to stop by and grab a few loaves on his way back to the mansion, but the pair had only made it a few steps before Anders’ stomach gave a ludicrously loud snarl of hunger. Fenris turned his head to appraise the mage at his side, lips pulled up into an amused smirk.

Anders looked away and tried to hide the mortified blush that lit his face, but when Fenris raised his eyebrows questioningly, Anders just shook his head, hunched his shoulders, and determinedly stalked past the baker’s stall.

Confused by this reaction, Fenris followed at a slower pace. It would be redundant for him to ask Anders if he were hungry after the noise the mage’s stomach had made, and aside from that fact, Fenris could feel the hunger pangs that tightened the mage’s gut as they transmitted through the bond.

Moreover, it was obvious to anybody who gave him more than a passing glance that Anders was half starved. The evidence of it was brazen in the hollows of his cheeks, in the thinness of his neck, in his pallid skin and darkened eyes, and Fenris was certain that, were the mage to remove his robes, he’d be able to count each and every one of Anders’ ribs.

The thought weighed unexpectedly heavy on his heart.

The illness, or “bond-rot,” as Anders had come to call it, had robbed the mage of every bit of fat he could spare… and then some he could not. Now that he was healing, however, Anders should be ravenous, his body more than ready to gain back the weight he’d lost. Based on what Fenris could feel through the bond, it was obvious Anders’ appetite had indeed returned, so why did he not…?

And, as the bond spasmed painfully with guilt, Fenris understood the reason behind the mage’s strange behavior: Anders couldn’t afford the food he both wanted and desperately needed to regain his health. The damnable fool poured every copper of his meagre earnings back into his clinic, saving nothing for himself -not even the coin he would need to buy a decent meal.

Without a word, Fenris reversed course and approached the dwarven woman’s stall.

“Oh, good morning, messer Fenris! Your usual?” the baker asked, spotting him. Her kind face was turned up to look him in the eye, and her rosy cheeks were highlighted by a warm smile.

“Twice over,” Fenris said, pulling the money from his coin purse and passing it to her carefully, wary of the sharpened tips of his gauntlets.

The dwarf nodded succinctly and turned away, bustling about next to the small cutting board in the back of the stall. Moments later, she spun to face Fenris again, and the wrapped loaves she pressed into his hands were still warm.

“Here you are, ser! Two Topsiders, extra meat.”

“Thank you, Cordyline.”

Upon hearing her name, the baker beamed at him. “You are most welcome, messer Fenris. Have a good day!”

“And you as well,” Fenris replied, inclining his head and returning her smile with a small one of his own.

Circling back the way he’d come, Fenris let his eyes rove across the steadily growing crowd, looking for Anders. He found the mage, hovering at the edge of the market, apparently having walked several paces before realizing Fenris was no longer with him.

He closed the distance between them, and upon reaching the mage’s side, Fenris held out one of the wrapped parcels to him. Anders stared.

“What-?”

“Here,” Fenris said, shaking the food slightly as an invitation for the mage to grab it.

Still, Anders did not take the package.

“I didn’t ask you to buy me anything.”

“Then I suppose it is fortunate I do not require your permission.”

“Fenris-”

“Be quiet and eat it, mage. The sooner you get your strength back, the sooner life can return to some semblance of normality.”

At his words, there was a brief sting of hurt through the bond, and Fenris, feeling ashamed, instantly wished he could take them back. The motive behind his actions was not as selfish as his callous statement had suggested; he wanted Anders to get better, and not just because it was a requirement the pair of them had to meet in order to return to their daily lives. Rather, the image Fenris’ mind had conjured earlier -the mage’s translucent skin stretched over too-visible ribs- was nearly painful in its recollection.

Instead of protesting further, Anders finally accepted the proffered food.

Fenris watched him for a moment, then he turned to look back at Cordyline’s stall. A line had formed in the short moments between Fenris’ departure and his exchange with Anders, and the squat, cheerful woman was now focused fiercely on trying to help each new customer as quickly as possible. Despite that, every person who left her stall received a wave goodbye and a beaming smile from the dwarven baker; most even returned it.

“Thank you,” Anders said quietly, avoiding Fenris’ gaze as the elf turned back to face him. Then, in a baffling course of action, Anders lifted the flap of his satchel and tucked the wrapped parcel away.

Fenris stared at him, bewildered.

“You were meant to eat it, mage,” he said slowly, sounding as though he were either trying to puzzle out exactly why Anders hadn’t eaten the food, or as though he were explaining it to a very young child.

“I know what bread is for,” Anders snapped defensively.

“And yet you place it in your pack as though you’ve forgotten how to chew.”

There followed several seconds of sullen silence as they stared each other down, each too stubborn to be the first to break eye contact. Then, something happened that surprised them both.

“Can we not do this-” Anders started.

“I am sorry,” Fenris said at the same time.

The ghost of a smile crossed Fenris’ face as Anders sat there, apparently stunned, mouth agape. It wasn’t until Fenris prompted him to continue that he snapped out of it.

“You were saying?”

“Ah- was I?” Anders shook his head as though dazed. “Oh, right.” He rubbed tiredly at his face. “Okay, look, we both know I’m not your favorite person -that’s been quite established, but… well...” And at this, Anders heaved a long, heavy sigh. The bond hummed in the back of Fenris’ mind, and the same dark, looming presence he’d detected earlier seemed to grow a fraction.

“I’m tired, Fenris,” Anders confessed quietly. “I mean, ‘to-the-bottom-of-my-very-bones’ tired.”

Fenris met the mage’s stare, and -not for the first time- he noticed just how dull Anders’ once honey-colored gaze had become. It was as though the faded hue of his eyes was a gauge one could use to measure just how much of his vitality had been sapped by the bond-rot.

“I just…” Anders shook his head distractedly. Apparently collecting his thoughts, the mage turned and swept his gaze around the market. Fenris made a sweep of his own and saw a few onlookers were shooting glances at the pair of them, some just watching curiously, others with nervous hands resting upon their sword hilts.

It didn’t take much to understand why, either. One of them would have drawn attention based on their strange appearance alone, but the two of them together would be nigh-on impossible to miss, even had they not been engaged in a heated discussion in the middle of a market corridor.

Having noticed their audience as well, Anders tossed his head in the direction of the docks, and the pair departed the market in the interest of avoiding an incident. Once they’d left the questioning stares behind, Anders resumed the discussion, but they both kept a watchful eye out as they strode through the streets.

‘Let me put it this way,’ Anders continued, utilizing the bond to communicate in favor of the privacy it provided. ‘Arguing with you before the bond manifested was frustrating, but there was always the possibility of “winning” the argument -insofar as anyone can win a bickering contest, I suppose.’

“Should I have been keeping score?” Fenris quietly asked aloud. He was less confident in his ability to multitask -to communicate telepathically while also watching both their surroundings and where he put his feet.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Anders replied with a smirk, casually shrugging one shoulder. ‘I’ve kept a running tally. I’m beating you, by the way.’

“I sincerely doubt it.”

‘Fortunately, the tally doesn’t care a whit for your ‘doubt,’ serah.’

“I recall this discussion having a purpose, once.”

‘Right,’ Anders smirked. ‘Change the topic because you’re losing, eh? Tally for me.’

“Mage.”

‘As I was saying, the arguments we used to have weren’t good for much, other than irritating the living breath out of one another, or the occasional, fleeting ego boost. Still, at the end of the day, we both walked away from our squabbles none the worse for wear, perhaps save wounded pride.’

‘But recently,’ the mage continued as they descended the steps that would take them out of Lowtown and into the shipyard, ‘I’ve noticed a change. Don’t suppose you’d happen to know the one I mean...?’

Fenris tipped his head noncommittally, indicating that Anders should continue.

‘Well, I’ve noticed that the fights we’ve had since the Wounded Coast have been…’ There was a pause as Anders searched for the right word. ‘Different,’ he eventually decided on, feeling that the word was appropriately vague.

‘I’m not talking about the petty bickering or butting heads type where we just knock sparks off each other; those are still the same. I mean the actual, legitimate, ‘If you weren’t my bondmate, I’d punch you in the face right now, but I won’t because I’d practically just be punching myself in the face,’ fights.’

As they reached the bottom of the steps, Anders turned left and started walking along the dock-line. Without making a conscious decision to do so, Fenris shifted his position, placing himself so he walked between the mage and the steep ledge that rose above the water. If Anders noticed his instinctive protectiveness, however, he didn’t mention it.

‘It’s like ever since the bond…’ Anders shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment. ‘An argument isn’t just an argument anymore. Now, whenever we’re at each other’s throats, it feels absolutely exhausting,’ he finished, shooting a sideways look at Fenris.

“Could you not be simply mistaking this for the lethargy brought about by the bond-rot?”

Anders shook his head, clearly sure of himself. ‘No, this is in addition to the lethargy, and besides, it’s not the same feeling.’

Slowing, the mage looked over his shoulder before gesturing toward a shady alcove off the main path where they’d not draw unwanted attention.

‘The fatigue is bad, I’ll admit, but now when the two of us start in on it… it’s like the bond starts physically draining my willpower. One second, tempers are flaring hot, the next I can’t even work up the energy to care -not about the fight, not about pride, not about any of it.’

Once they were out of sight from passersby, Anders turned to face Fenris, his eyes searching the elf’s intently. ‘Have you felt anything like that?’

Fenris considered it for several seconds, thinking back to the handful of legitimate disputes he’d shared with the mage since the incidents on the Wounded Coast. The most notable was, by far, the night Anders had made the revelation of the bond’s existence.

The memory of his fury being snuffed out like a candle the moment he’d tried to swing at the one piece of furniture in the mansion that Anders had touched. The sound of Lethandralis clattering to the floor as he dropped to his knees in despair. The abrupt shift from rage to ruin as Anders’ grief had suffocated every last thought in his mind, save the desire to make it stop.

Some of the memory must have found its way through the bond because Anders was nodding now.

“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Anders shifted from communicating through the bond to speaking aloud, now that he was confident that they would not be overheard.

After a moment’s hesitation, Fenris bowed his head.

Anders let out a gust of breath, apparently relieved this was not a one-sided issue. Looking up again, Fenris caught his eye, then made a nuanced gesture that said, ‘Okay, so what?’

“Look,” Anders said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “The truth of the matter is that I just don’t have the energy to fight you anymore, Fenris. Not right now. Not like this.”

“If and when, Maker willing, I recover my strength, we can renegotiate, but for the time being…” Anders’ eyes flicked back and forth between Fenris’, appearing to search for something within their depths.

“Can we put a pin in it? All of it? Just… stop fighting and try to get along, at least until it’s a fair fight?”

If Fenris hadn’t possessed a sure-fire way to know whether or not Anders was casting a spell, he’d have thought the mage was putting him in some kind of magical trance, because at that moment, he couldn’t think of a single reason not to agree with Anders’ proposal.

So, lacking both an argument and a purpose for one, Fenris nodded.

“As you wish.”

~*~

They’d only been walking for a minute or so after leaving the alcove before Anders turned away from the dock-line once more and led the way down a damp, narrow alley between two rather unremarkable buildings. Fenris hesitated at the mouth of the shadowed corridor, his ears pricked forward, listening for the sounds of anything moving within, but he could hear only the ‘scuff scuff clack’ of Anders’ shuffling gait accompanied by his staff, and the occasional drip of water.

“Fenris?” The mage asked, turning to look at the elf still hovering outside the alleyway. Fenris didn’t answer him. Instead he was mentally observing the bond, looking for any sign that there was more to this dark passage than what registered on his senses. If there was, however, Anders knew nothing about it; the bond did not belie any apprehension or stress -or at least none that had not already been there. Indeed, if anything, the mage seemed more relaxed with every step he took into the alley.

Taking a deep breath, Fenris followed the mage into the shadows.

Anders was already at the door when Fenris reached his side. The mage knocked, and, without waiting for a reply, he let himself into the building. Fenris entered after him reluctantly, alert for signs of an ambush.

“It’s just me- er, us!” Anders called, removing his boots. “I brought the… ah- acquaintance I told you about.”

The mage disappeared around a thin, wooden wall, moving deeper into the room, and before following him, Fenris took in what he could see from the doorway. The apartment was small, but while it was clear the tenants had little in the way of coin, the house felt cozy... comfortable.

There was a series of coat hooks on the wall to the left of the door, and the floorboards were well-worn but clean. The shack itself was surprisingly well-insulated, yet not so warm as to be stifling, and the air carried the scents of sea salt and elfroot, as well as another familiar smell he could not immediately place, try as he might.

Fenris moved further into the apartment, eyes roving over the modest art on the walls, noting that it all appeared to be pictures of landscapes. The furniture was as worn as the floorboards, but sparse and well cared for; a wooden stool, a side table, a mostly empty bookshelf housing a small and strangely out-of-place collection of books.

This was most certainly a long-term dwelling, but there was something… odd about it. Looking around the room, Fenris could see no heirlooms, no portraits of family, no knickknacks as one could expect to see in such a lived-in home. It felt almost… stilted, like the person who owned it had never intended to stay. Formal. Impersonable, like a military barracks, or a guest room in somebody else’s home.

He rounded the corner and saw Anders kneeling next to a man in a dressing gown, seated in an armchair. He was old, but not ancient, and despite the wasting of his limbs that suggested the man had lost his ability to walk, Fenris could tell he’d once been a man of large stature. He was seated next to the room’s only window which had been cracked to let in the breeze, and the armchair was positioned so he could look out over the ocean.

Fenris noticed all these things, but none were as salient as the awful, extensive mass of scars that climbed the right side of the man’s face like ivy, leaving the tissue mottled and contracted and pockmarked. The wrath of whatever had caused these horrible wounds hadn’t stopped at his skin either; one eye was completely gone, and the right side of his face drooped as though at least partially paralyzed.

“My friend, I’d like you to meet Fenris. He’s an… acquaintance of mine. Fenris, this is… my friend.”

The distinct lack of a name piqued Fenris’ interest, but he could tell, based on Anders’ hesitation, there was a reason for the unusual introduction. Deciding to question the mage about it a later time, Fenris bowed his head in greeting, but didn’t break eye contact.

The old man’s single, remaining eye was trained on Fenris. Though wariness haunted its clouded depths, there was strength there as well; a defiance that dared Fenris to look down on him for his injuries. This was a man who had neither a want nor a use for pity. He was proud. Unbent.

Admiration for this old warrior took root in Fenris’ chest. Whomever he’d been before, this man still commanded respect without even having to speak.

The man was staring at something over his shoulder, and it was then Fenris realized he still had Lethendralis strapped across his back. Glancing back at the greatsword, Fenris unstrapped the blade’s harness, then strode back to the entry to lean it next to Anders’ staff.

The man in the armchair relaxed slightly, but there was still tension in the tendons of his neck and around his eye. Anders seemed to realize something, and he took the old man’s hand in his own.

“You’re in pain?” Anders asked, quietly, and Fenris could see the man grip Anders’ hand with all the strength he possessed. Anders nodded to himself and shifted so that he was closer to the old man, placing one hand on his shoulder. But as the mage took a deep breath and prepared to heal the old man, something seemed to occur to him.

“Er- I need to heal him. If you’d like to, I don’t know… wait outside, perhaps?” Anders suggested awkwardly.

Understanding immediately what the mage was trying to avoid, Fenris gave a brief nod and headed for the door.

“Magic makes him nervous,” he heard Anders explain as he left the house to wait in the alley. Several moments later, Anders gave him a nudge through the bond and Fenris let himself back inside.

The man’s posture had changed significantly. Whereas he’d been strung tighter than a loaded bow before Fenris had left the apartment, he now sagged in his chair, his face relaxed and his eyelid drooping in obvious relief. Anders was smiling down at him gently, almost affectionately. It was obvious to Fenris that the mage cared a great deal for this friend of his, even without the warmth that pulsed through the bond.

Anders fished around in his pack and retrieved a quill, a bottle of ink, and a piece of parchment. After loading it, the mage pressed the quill between the old man’s fingers, and placed the parchment under his hand.

“This is how we usually communicate,” Anders explained. “Well, this, plus the blinking. Two blinks means ‘yes’, three means ‘no’." he shrugged. "It’s worked out pretty well so far.”

“I see.”

“Are you hungry?” Anders asked his friend, pulling the wrapped parcel of food from his bag, and moving toward the kitchen. As the mage began portioning out the food, Fenris finally realized why Anders hadn’t eaten it in the market.

Anders moved through the kitchen with a familiarity that suggested he was quite used to feeding the old man, and Fenris wondered how long he’d been coming here on these visits.

“Here we are,” Anders said after he’d divvied out the food. He set two plates on the side table next to the armchair, then dragged a stool across to sit beside the man. Fenris shuffled awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself. He still had his own sandwich to eat, though, so he settled himself on the floor and unwrapped it, watching the other two men interacting with curiosity.

The sandwich was Cordyline’s specialty; a loaf of her signature bread sliced horizontally and stuffed with cheese, meat, and some kind of orange-flecked sauce. As Fenris bit into his own meal, he saw Anders help his friend take small bites of the sandwich, and though he knew the mage must be agonizingly aware of how good the food smelled, he didn’t touch his own portion until he’d helped his friend finish eating.

Eventually, after he’d painstakingly assisted the old man in eating as much as he wanted, Anders picked up his own sandwich. He stared at it, as though dissecting it with his eyes.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Bread, as previously discussed.”

“Oh, of course. I see it now. How did I miss that?” Anders gave him a withering look. “I meant what’s on the bread.”

“Calories,” Fenris said. “Of which you need a great deal.”

“You’re just trying to fatten me up so you can eat me, aren’t you?” Anders teased, winking mischievously.

“Insolent mages are not a recommended part of a balanced diet.”

“Well, we all need a cheat day every once in a while, don’t we?”

 “I see now the reason you’re so skinny: you don’t stop talking long enough to eat.”

“What, and ruin my girlish figure? Perish the thought.”

“Eat, mage.”

“Fine, but that’s a tally for me,” Anders said, smirking while Fenris rolled his eyes.

Finally, the mage took a bite of his sandwich.

“Mmf-!” he exclaimed, mouth full of food, eyes going wide. “This is really good.”

Fenris just nodded knowingly. “It’s best enjoyed fresh, but alas…”

“Quiet you,” Anders mumbled. “I’m having a moment.”

“Should we give you some privacy?” Fenris glanced at the old man in the armchair and saw that he’d been listening to their banter with a smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.

“And leave him alone with you? He’s done nothing horrible enough to deserve such a punishment.” Anders declared.

“Indeed. He is obviously a saint. Who else is capable of the patience required to put up with you for so long?”

“Hawke!” Anders asserted.

“Are you referring to Garrett Hawke? The man who willingly ventured into the Deep Roads? Or the Garrett Hawke who habitually engages with the Arishok, head of the Qunari military? Or the Garrett Hawke who has sustained numerous traumatic head injuries? Or-”

“Alright, fine. So maybe Hawke isn’t the best character witness.”

“His judgement is rather questionable,” Fenris agreed. “And I believe that qualifies as my tally.”

“No!” Anders looked at the old man in appeal. “That doesn’t count as a win, right? Back me up here.”

The man, still smiling his little half-smile, blinked twice.

“Thank you,” Fenris said as Anders threw his hands up in defeat.

“Traitor,” Anders grumbled, taking another bite of his sandwich as the old man shook with quiet laughter. The man began writing something, and Anders chewed while he waited for his friend to finish. When he’d done so, Anders checked the parchment.

“My choice today, eh?” the mage mused. Fenris stared between them blankly, at a loss as to what this could mean.

Choice of what? Topic of conversation? Tea flavor?

“He’s going to make fun of me, you know,” Anders said lightly.

The man in the armchair shot Fenris a warning glare. ‘He’d better not,’ the glare said.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” the elf said, raising his hands as though surrendering.

“My friend has a fondness for poetry,” Anders explained. “Although, truth be told, I think he just suffers through it for my sake.” Anders grinned sheepishly as the old man turned his glare on him.

Fenris’ interest was piqued. Since the night Anders had confessed to him his latent love of poetry, the concept had been a niggling curiosity, and it had never been far from his mind. Now Fenris was finally going to hear some of it.

“Alright, alright. Let me think.” The mage fell silent, chewing on his sandwich as he deliberated over which verse he wanted to recite.

Anders finished his meal, but he stalled for time, chewing the last bite until it couldn’t be more than pulp between his teeth. Fenris couldn’t help the impatience that twitched at his fingers, but he made himself wait, wary of saying anything that would cause the mage to shut down.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Anders cleared his throat. Fenris almost missed the quick, nervous glance the mage shot him, but without further hesitation, Anders began to speak.

Quake and crash of thunder rolling
Stemming not from sunlit sky
A sea of solemn soldiers
Bravely belt their battle cry

As they march to the beat of a war drum

With every able-bodied soul
Must fighting forces fuel
For clashing kings and tyrant lords
Deal not in dauntless duel

They will order the beat of a war drum

Each and every marshaled soldier
Mere fodder for the fire
For heedless eld, or man, or boy
Will ash upon the pyre

Bodies burn to the beat of a war drum

The ring of steel, the wordless screams
Would that they were forewarned
There is no glory to be had
In dying slowly, unadorned

The dead spurned for the beat of a war drum

At night they rest, let bow their heads
But hold fast their heavy hearts
They will need them, come the 'morrow
When again they play their parts

Their hearts share the beat of a war drum

Grass grows green upon the graves
Lit by summer's sun, unsleeping
Another piece of history
While their widows still lie weeping

As they recall the beat of a war drum

Anders finished the poem, and it wasn’t until the mage stole another glance at Fenris that the elf realized his jaw had fallen open. He snapped it shut.

“Did you write that?” Fenris couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“I did, actually, yes,” Anders replied, raising his chin.

There followed several seconds of silence as Fenris tried to think of something to say.

“It was… very good,” he said haltingly, displeased with how plain the complement sounded. Fenris knew his statement was so much less than what the mage’s words deserved, but at the moment, he could think of no other way to phrase it.

But Anders didn’t seem to mind, and a thrill of surprised pleasure swept through the bond.

“Oh, ah- thank you, Fenris,” Anders said. “I’m… I’m glad you liked it.”

The old man was nodding slowly in his chair, a satisfied look in his eye as the quill in his hand scratched roughly against the parchment. After he’d finished writing, Anders read his message.

“It’s called War Drum,” Anders replied. “And thank you,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. Anders fell silent, clearly unsure of what else to say and awkward with the sincere praise.

Fenris took pity on him.

“So, tell me. How did you and your friend meet?” he asked.

~*~

They sat like that for a long while, Anders telling the story of how a stray ball, kicked at just the right time through just the right window had led him to a new friend. He told Fenris about how he and Holly visited, how they brought the man books, and how they read to him, and suddenly the haphazard pile on the bookshelf made sense.

Anders talked, and talked, and talked, and Fenris had to wonder if it were possible for the mage to run out of things to say.

But though he’d never admit it, Fenris found the mage’s voice rather pleasant to listen to. His accent was interesting -lilted and so very different from the voices he was used to. Anders responded to the old man’s questions eagerly, and each prompted memory he scribbled on the parchment had Anders off on another tangent, another story.

Hours slipped by, and Fenris found himself recounting a few brief tales of his own. He told of his time with the Fog Warriors, (though he left out the way it had ended) as well as an account of a particularly amusing job he’d been on with Hawke that had Anders nearly in tears by the end of it.

Half-way through one of Anders’ stories, the storm Fenris had seen approaching that morning broke open with a vengeance, and the gentle pattering of rain on the roof quickly became a downpour of thick, fat droplets that pounded against the tiles. Fenris had leapt up to close the window before the house had a chance to flood, and he earned a pair of grateful looks from the old man and the mage in return for his trouble. Anders resumed his tale.

The insulated walls muffled the sound of the wind and rain, and when combined with a full stomach and the mage’s calming voice, Fenris found himself being lulled into a relaxed, drowsy state. This served only to pass the time faster, and Fenris knew that the day was slipping buy at a rate that should alarm him, but inside the cozy, quiet home on the waterfront, time seemed of little consequence.

By the time Anders realized just how late it had gotten, the storm hadn’t relented in the slightest, and despite their mutual reluctance to make the trip home in such terrible weather, Fenris and Anders both admitted that it was time to leave.

Anders stood and retrieved the dishes they’d used for their meal, then carried them across the apartment to the kitchen. Fenris joined him, only adding his own plate to the pile at Anders’ insistence. Anders hummed quietly to himself as he began washing the dishes in the large basin, scrubbing a cloth over the scratched surfaces. When he finished rinsing the first plate, Anders reached over to place it in the drying rack, only to find Fenris waiting, towel at the ready.

“Your friend is rather remarkable,” Fenris murmured as he dried the plate and put it away in the cupboard. He meant it, too; the old man didn’t ‘say’ much, but what little he’d scribbled on the parchment spoke of a lifetime filled with extraordinary experiences.

That Fenris approved of his friend was clearly something that meant a lot to Anders, for when the mage turned to look at him, the smile on his face was one of pure, undeniable happiness. Fenris’ heart stuttered over a beat.

“He is, isn’t he?” Anders said quietly, still smiling as he looked over his shoulder at the man in the armchair. Fenris followed his gaze and saw the man scratching something into the parchment, too focused on his writing to pay them any mind.

“Thank you for bringing me to meet him. He seems a decent man.”

“He’s an old soul; that’s rare enough to find as is,” Anders said. “In a city like Kirkwall? It’s a bloody miracle.”

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

It wasn’t until they opened the front door to leave that Fenris and Anders realized just how late it was. Though they could not see the sky for all the rain, it was obvious that the sun had long gone, as it had taken nearly every vestige of light with it.

The dark alleyway whistled with the threat of biting wind, and mist sprung up from the raindrops that pulverized themselves against the cobblestone, dampening the pair of them as they stood in the doorway.  Fenris suppressed a shiver at the promise of a long, cold journey home.

For a while, they vacillated on the threshold, gathering the courage to leave the cozy shack. Eventually, after exchanging a grimace with the mage, Fenris steeled himself, then stepped into the alleyway… and sunk into approximately four inches of icy water. Calling one last farewell to the old man over his shoulder, Anders stepped out after him… directly into the same, deep puddle.

“Well, this sucks,” Fenris barely heard the mage complain over the din of pounding rain.

Anders tried to fluff his collar up against the cold, but the feathers of his coat immediately became sodden and useless, and Fenris shuddered as rainwater trickled down the back of his neck. In an attempt to stay dry, Anders tried using his staff to test the depths of the puddles as they made their way back onto the main road, hoping to avoid soaking his other boot.

It was entirely pointless; within seconds of being out in the downpour, the pair were soaked to the skin and shivering.

“Should we make a run for it?” Anders called, squinting at the darkness ahead. Fenris grimaced at the idea of the mage trying to ‘run’ anywhere in the state he was in.

“Not until we’re away from the docks,” he replied instead. “And stay away from the ledge!” Fenris warned as they began to slosh through the street.

“What?” Anders yelled back, proceeding to walk exactly where Fenris had told him not to.

‘I said,’ Fenris replied telepathically, firmly pulling Anders by the sleeve into a safer position, away from the churning, black depths he’d nearly fallen into. ‘Stay. Away. From. The. Ledge.’

‘…Ah.’

~*~

Rainstorms weren’t all that uncommon for Kirkwall; they frequently rolled in from across the sea, especially during the height of summer, but this one was powerful -even by Kirkwall’s standards. The wind roared and the rain lashed at both the streets and their unfortunate occupants, and something told Fenris that they had yet to see the worst of it.

By the time they neared the Lowtown stairs, Anders was shivering nonstop, rubbing his palms together and trying to generate heat through friction. Having lost so much of his body fat to illness, the mage had precious little insulation against the cold, and the frigid water had soaked him through to the core. Fenris was faring slightly better, but even still, his lean, elven frame wasn’t built for the cold. Moreover, a chill had begun to leach through the bond from Anders’ side, making Fenris keen on the idea of getting him out of the elements as quickly as possible. He clenched his hands against the cold.

“F-Fenris,” Anders hissed through chattering teeth, “my b-balls are going to f-f-fall off if we s-stay out here much l-longer.”

There followed several seconds of nothing but the sound of wind, heavy rain, and their water-logged footsteps. Anders glanced at the elf.

“F-Fenris?” he asked.

“I was trying to decide which insult I wanted to use based on such an opportunity-laden comment. There were simply too many options.”

“Don’t t-take too long,” Anders chattered. “If they f-fall off before you pick, the j-joke won’t be t-topical anymore.”

But Fenris didn’t respond, for as the long, steep staircase that would take them up to Lowtown entered his sight line, a sinking feeling in his gut came with it. His fears about the storm’s severity had come to pass: the Lowtown staircase was nothing short of a waterfall.

‘Well. Shit,’ Anders said, frowning up at the water that cascaded down the steps. Both Fenris’ mansion and Anders’ clinic lay beyond the top of that staircase.

On any other given night, Fenris would have carefully picked his way up the stairs and continued on his way, but tonight he had more than his own safety to be concerned about, and he warily eyed the mage at his side. Weakened as Anders was, Fenris was decidedly trepidatious about chancing the climb. The rushing water and unpredictable gusts of wind would make for treacherous footing, and there were no handhelds for the entire length of the staircase. Were Anders to lose his footing, it would be a long way down, and the slippery stone at the bottom wouldn’t be the least bit forgiving.

Fenris was in the process of navigating his mental map of the city, searching the layout for a detour that would circumnavigate the Lowtown staircase, when Anders broke into his thoughts.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve had it with this bloody rain.’

He turned to see Anders striding away from the staircase.

‘You know of an alternate route?’ he asked the mage’s retreating form.

‘Not unless you fancy a swim through the sewers.’

‘Then where are you going?’

Anders tossed his head and Fenris followed the gesture with his gaze. In the distance, through the sheets of rain, he could make out the candle-lit windows of a tavern.

‘Fancy a drink?’

~*~

As the pair picked their way to the dockside tavern, the sound of raucous laughter reached them over the howl of wind and rain. Drawing nearer, Fenris could see several men clustered beneath the tavern’s awning, some with drinks in hand, others taking long draws from stout pipes.

Unconcerned, Fenris continued toward the door, the warm light drawing him in like moth to flame, when abruptly, he felt Anders freeze in his tracks. Turning to investigate, Fenris was met by the sight of Anders’ face set into an intense, scrutinizing glower, and he looked back at the group of men, studying them, trying to determine what exactly the mage had seen to elicit such a response.

‘Templars,’ Anders hissed through the bond. ‘Is there anywhere in this city that these bastards don’t infest?’

‘Templars?’ Fenris asked. ‘You’re certain?’

‘I recognize the one on the left; I got a pretty clear look at those two missing teeth of his right before he sucker punched me in the gut. One of Veres’ men. He was there when my clinic was razed.’

‘Would he remember you?’

‘It’s possible… I’d rather not risk it.’

‘Should we then turn back and attempt the climb?’ Fenris wasn’t happy with the prospect, but if the mage believed it likely they’d come to blows with a group of Templars, he’d take his chances with the flood. The two of them against a group of Templars with Anders in his current state did not lever the odds in their favor.

Anders chewed his lip for a moment, deliberating.

‘I’ve only been here once before, but if I remember correctly, there’s another entrance around the back. Once we make it inside, we can blend in with the crowd. With any luck, they’ll leave soon.’

Fenris gestured for Anders to take the lead.

‘These alleyways should connect…’ the mage said, turning down the darkened path.

The further they went down the corridor, the darker things got, and the slower Anders moved. By the time they’d finally turned down the alley that would take them to the back entrance, Anders was moving at a snail’s pace, his hand stretched out to the side and his fingertips tracing the wall as though using it as a guide.

“What are you doing?” Fenris asked.

“F-feeling for the door, of course,” Anders said, as though it should be obvious.

“It’s three steps in front of you on your left.”

“How did- wait, can you see it?” The mage sounded shocked.

“Can you not?”

“It’s pitch-bloody-black! How can you s-see anything in here?”

“With my eyes,” Fenris deadpanned.

“Oh, is that how you do it? And here I’d been using my earlobes all this t-time,” Anders said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“It may interest you to know, then, that it’s common practice to speak from one’s mouth rather than one’s ass.”

The mage pivoted in the alley to stare blindly at him -or, rather, a foot to his left- and Fenris had to bite back a laugh at the expression of incredulity on his face.

Pretending to be deeply offended, Anders laced his tone with dramatic enunciation. “Wow. O-kay.”

“I believe that’s a tally for me, yes?” Fenris smirked, brushing past the mage.

“I’ll show you a tally,” Anders muttered nonsensically. “Smart-arse, elf-eyed git.”

Fenris opened the door and, after ensuring no one was around to witness their unorthodox entry, motioned for Anders to follow him.

The inside of the tavern was mercifully warm, even here where the light from the fires barely reached them. Listening carefully, Fenris strained his ears for a sign they’d been noticed, but he could hear nothing over the loud conversation drifting from the main room. He let himself relax a fraction.

Moving to the end of the hall, they hovered in the shadows, looking out over the sea of bodies.

“I only s-see the one table of them, and they’re on the far side,” Anders noted, still shivering. “We s-should be ok.”

Fenris gave the group of Templars a once-over. They were clustered around the table nearest the front door, laughing and drinking heartily, paying no attention to their surroundings.

“Shall we?” the mage asked, and without waiting for a response, he casually shuffled out of the shadows. Fenris followed, forcing himself to walk evenly, eyes flickering around the room for potential threats. He’d never liked crowds, and he liked bodyguarding somebody in the midst of a crowd even less.

‘Would a table not be more inconspicuous?’ Fenris asked tersely as Anders made a beeline for the bar.

‘No, that’s just it!’ Anders argued. ‘If you want to look like you’re hiding from somebody, you pick the seat at the far back, in the shadows. If you sit in plain sight, nobody will look twice.’

The mage’s logic was sound, but it grated against Fenris’ instincts for Anders to place himself in such an exposed position while he was so vulnerable. Still, in the interest of choosing a seat quickly, Fenris begrudgingly followed him to the bar.

It took Anders three attempts to hoist himself into the barstool. His second attempt nearly sent him crashing to the floor as his boot, still wet from the puddle, slipped off the runner bar. Fenris’ heart lurched, muscles bunching in preparation to catch Anders, but the mage had managed to steady himself on the bar’s ledge.

When he finally succeeded in his goal, Anders spun the stool around to face him, and the overly cocky smirk he gave Fenris almost made him smile past the strain on his nerves.

Almost.

The bartender -a thin, balding man of middling years- lazily drifted over to them. He leaned on the counter and waited, staring at them through bored, heavy-lidded eyes. Fenris ordered immediately.

“Mulled wine if you have it. Rum if you don’t.”

Without any acknowledgement that he’d heard Fenris, the barkeep turned his stare on Anders.

“Er-” Anders hesitated, apparently not having anticipated being served alcohol at a bar.

“Whiskey,” Fenris cut in. “Double.”

The bartender sluggishly straightened from his slouch, then turned to the shelves behind him and began pulling down bottles.

‘My, my, Fenris. Ordering for me?’ Anders teased through the bond. ‘If you’re not careful, people will think we’re together.’ He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

‘Do you take me for a person who frets over the opinions of strangers?’

‘Strangers, no, but you do care if Hawke and the rest of our group find out.’

Fenris was momentarily spared having to respond when the bartender turned back around, depositing their drinks before them. Fenris slid a silver across the bar.

For the first time, the man showed a modicum of emotion and raised a single eyebrow at the generous payment. Suspicious of the coin, he placed it between his teeth and bit, testing the strength of the metal. Upon discovering the metal did indeed hold up under scrutiny, the barkeep nodded slightly at Fenris, dropped the coin in his chest pocket, and moved down the bar.

‘You’re even paying for my drinks!’ Anders groaned internally.

‘Repay me by drinking it, as is courteous.’

‘What if I don't like whiskey?’

‘You do.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’

Fenris shot him a sidelong smirk as the mage picked up his drink.

‘I look with my eyes, not my earlobes.’

‘Right,’ Anders snorted into his glass, ‘I should try that sometime.’

Fenris took a swig of his own liquor, mildly disappointed to find that it wasn’t the mulled wine he’d been hoping for.

‘Why rum?’ the mage asked, looking at the amber liquid in Fenris’ glass. ‘The wine I get, but why rum?’

‘This is a pirate’s bar. Rum is a pirate’s drink,’ Fenris said matter-of-factly.

‘Are we pirates?’

‘We are trying to blend in with pirates.’

‘And Templars,’ Anders grumbled, shooting the group in question a glance. Fenris did the same, trying to remain surreptitious.

It seemed their luck was holding: the group of Templars seemed not to notice anything other than the bottom of their own cups and each other’s company.

Fenris took a swig of his rum, swirling it in the glass and watching the small whirlpool it made.

‘So, this friend of yours…’ Fenris began, changing the topic.

‘Yes…?’ Anders replied hesitantly.

‘Does he have a name?’ The thought had been at the back of Fenris’ mind since the mage’s unusual introduction.

‘Dunno. The only time I’ve ever asked, he just shook his head.’

‘And does that not seem strange to you?’

Anders shrugged and took another drink.

‘Have you considered that he may be a fugitive?’

‘He wouldn’t be the only one,’ Anders replied with a pointed incline of his head. He and Fenris were fugitives themselves.

‘Perhaps he is wanted for heinous crimes -maintaining anonymity to subvert the consequences of his actions,’ Fenris persisted, ignoring the remark. ‘Does the idea not trouble you?’

‘Look,’ Anders rubbed a hand over his face. ‘He needs my help. Were I to question everybody I healed about their life history so that I may judge their misdeeds and deem them unworthy, I’d be a very poor healer indeed. If, in the course of my life, I help a few bad apples, so be it, because refusing to help somebody on the basis of what they have or have not done would say more of me than it ever could of them.’

Fenris mulled that one over, staring into his goblet.

‘It is better to save the sinner than to shun the saint,’ he mused.

Anders turned to look at him. There was a flicker of something in the mage’s eye. Something warm.

“Well said,” Anders murmured. The mage looked at him for a moment, almost as though he wanted to say more, but there was the loud scrape of chairs behind them, and Fenris automatically looked toward the sound.

The Templars were getting up, pulling on coats, and saying loud farewells. One of the men clapped another still seated at the table on the shoulder.

“Don’t get soft! You’ll need that armor again before you know it -best if you fit into it, eh?” the first Templar guffawed. The man sitting at the table waved him off with a grunt, then took a long draft from his tankard.

Fenris turned back to the bar. Anders was still staring over his shoulder, and Fenris elbowed him in the ribs. The mage looked forward again, brow furrowed.

‘They’re leaving. Do not press your luck.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I got it.’ Anders shook himself, then glanced at Fenris. ‘Look with my ears, not my eyes.’

‘Nor your earlobes.’

Anders rolled his eyes and drained his glass. It did not escape Fenris’ notice that the mage’s hands were still white with cold where they wrapped around the cup.

Fenris looked down the bar for the barkeep and raised a hand. This time, when the bartender approached them, he moved with less apathy, his step no doubt quickened by the memory of the silver Fenris had paid him with.

“If you’ve something hot to drink, there’s a pair of silver in it for you,” Fenris said, holding two coins in the spaces between his fingers. “If you’ve something hot to eat…” A gold coin flashed between the silver before disappearing back into his palm.

The barkeep’s eyes greedily followed the gold, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“See wha’ I can do,” the man said. “Mind you, we dun norm’ly sell food this late, so it migh’ take me a sec.” He shuffled down the bar, then disappeared through a door at the back.

‘I hope that’s not for me,’ Anders said drily, though there was a note of defensiveness in his words as well.

‘A fool’s hope,’ Fenris replied. ‘You did not eat but half the bread I bought you.’

‘That is half a bread loaf less to owe.’

‘Shelve your pride, mage.’

‘Be decent,’ Anders mouth twisted in a half-smile, ‘I have little else.’

Lip curling slightly in annoyance, Fenris said, ‘Then keep it, if you must, and consider it a debt repaid.’

‘What debt?’

Fenris grumbled something unintelligible, looked down the bar, then dropped one of silvers from his hand. The coin rolled across the worn, wooden surface past Anders, and the mage reached out a hand to stop it before it could fall to the floor. He turned the silver once over in his palm, then passed it back to Fenris.

‘Thank you. I am in your debt, let me repay you with a meal,' the elf quipped.

Anders let out a sudden, loud guffaw of laughter. He stared at Fenris with playfully accusing eyes.

“You cheeky little-”

“YOU!”

Before the mage had time to react, Fenris was on his feet, standing protectively between Anders and whatever threat had appeared. The snarl had come from behind them, but there was no mistaking who it was meant for.

There, standing beside what he'd thought was the Templars’ vacant table, was Ser Veres.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Fenris had reacted so quickly that he’d knocked his stool over and sent it clattering to the wooden floorboards behind him. The hard line of his shoulders blocked Anders’ sightline, but he didn’t need to see past Fenris to know what lay on the other side of the elf’s tense posture.

The ex-Templar, Ser Veres, was standing next to the empty table that had hosted a dozen of his former comrades when Anders and Fenris had first entered the bar. The man’s complexion was beet-red, either from anger, drink, or a combination thereof, and his breath came in great huffs, reminding Anders quite succinctly of a bull about to charge.

“You lost me my job, you fucking curr!” Veres roared, fists clenched with rage.

The tavern had gone dead silent, and rather than making it seem less crowded, the number of eyes now trained on their spectacle made Anders feel like the room had doubled its occupancy in the blink of an eye. Fenris’ apprehension was palpable through the bond.

“From what I heard, you were already on thin ice,” Anders said, glad that his voice sounded strong and steady. “One too many unsanctioned assaults on the populace.”

Anders struggled out of his chair and made to move in front of Fenris, but the elf cut him off with a sidestep, clearly intent on keeping the mage behind him. He scowled at the back of Fenris’ head, but the elf remained a silent wall in front of him.

“Fenris-” he started, intent to fight his own battles, but Veres interrupted.

“You didn’t get half of what you deserved, mage. ” He spat the word at Anders like a curse, much the same way Fenris had done on several occasions before he and Anders had formed their uneasy truce.

“Deserved!?” Anders scoffed in disbelief. “For what crime!? Or is my simple existence enough to warrant constant abuse?”

At Anders' response, the tension rolling through the bond cranked up another notch, and he could see Fenris eyeing the front door over Veres’ shoulder. The elf was looking for an opening they could use to make their escape.

But Veres wasn’t about to let them leave without a fight.

The ex-Templar took a few steps toward them, and the closer he got, the worse he looked; his eyes were bloodshot, any skin not flushed with anger was sickly pale, and his veins seemed overly dark in contrast to the flesh that surrounded them. Anders recognized the telltale signs of lyrium withdrawal. Obviously, after losing his Templar status, Veres’ supply of lyrium had run dry, and he’d yet to find a back-alley dealer.

Veres stalked forward, closing the distance between the three of them. “The punishment for blood magic is death, and if I had my way,” he growled, “it would be slow, and as painful as I could make it.”

There was a deep hatred here, Anders realized; deeper than any action of his had ever warranted. He’d done nothing to Veres, yet the man hated him with a vehemence that bordered on utter abhorrence.

As Veres drew near, Fenris moved to intercept, taking a step forward of his own. Barely a meter separated the elf and Veres now.

“I am not a blood mage-” Anders leapt to defend himself, but Veres cut him off again with a sneer.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you from back there,” the man jeered. “Can’t even face me on your own, can you, coward? You need your guard-bitch to protect you?” he taunted, his voice harsh and graveled like he’d gone days without water.

Anders tried to step around Fenris again, but the elf wasn’t having it, and he blocked Anders yet again without even a backwards glance.

Veres looked Fenris up and down, recognition glimmering in his gaze. “You even kept the same one, eh? First the raid, now a dockyard tavern? You must grow quite attached to your pets.” He smirked derisively at Fenris. “Did he buy you from one of his magister friends up north?”

Anders had kept his cool thus far, Veres’ blatant threats washing over him without much effect, but the jab he’d made at Fenris had Anders’ insides contorting with fury. Fenris himself seemed outwardly unbothered, his composure intact save the subtle tightening of his jaw, but Anders could feel the elf’s anger simmering through their mental link.

Still, neither Fenris nor Anders answered, staring down the disgraced former Templar with stony expressions, and when Veres got no reaction, he switched tactics.

“You can’t actually be working for him willingly,” he scoffed with an incredulous shake of his head. “Alright, let’s have it then! He must have done something to deserve it. Tell me, elf: what did he do to earn your services? Did he free you from your master? Or, perhaps, take you in off the streets like a lost pup?”

Even as his fury smouldered at the edges of the bond, Fenris kept his silence.

“No?” Veres bent to Fenris’ eye-level, his face mere inches from the elf’s. “Then how much is he paying you, slant?”

Through narrowed eyes, Fenris steadily met the man’s taunting gaze.

“Or maybe,” Veres hissed, “his cock is enough to keep you loyal.”

Fenris’ fists clenched in anger and his lips turned up into a snarl.

Sensing he’d finally struck a chord, Veres redirected his assault. His sneer turned lecherous.

“You are awful pretty for a rabbit. I can see why he’d keep you around. I bet you make all sorts of sweet little noises while he fucks you,” he jeered, making a show of looking Fenris up and down like a piece of meat.

“I bet you beg for it, don’t you, knife-ear?” he whispered.

Fenris’ temper flashed through the bond, but Anders barely felt it. His own rage had ignited like a torch to oil, nearly blinding him in its strength. He finally shoved past Fenris and glared up at Veres through eyes gone red with ire.

“Watch your fucking mouth, scum.”

Veres let out a disdainful snort. “Or what? Huh? What are you going to do about it, mage?”

Without a thought, Anders cocked his elbow back, and punched Veres square on the nose with all the limited force he could muster.

The crack of his knuckle breaking was made all the more painful by the fact that Veres barely seemed to feel the blow. The former Templar gave a shake of his head, then let out a disbelieving roar of laughter.

“Was that supposed to hurt?”  Veres howled. “My ma could hit harder than that, and she’s dead!”

Though his instinct was to cradle his aching hand to his chest, Anders forced himself to lower it to his side instead, determined not to show weakness.

“Awe, what’s’a matter, sweetheart? Does it make you mad when I insult your pet rabbit? Wait, wait, let me guess: he may be trash, but he’s your trash, right? Pathetic.”

It took every last bit of Anders’ self-control not to hurl a fireball right into the man’s vulgar mouth and down his gullet. Veres took advantage of his hesitation.

“Why don’t you make me eat my words, mage? You looking to defend your bitch’s honor? What say you and I go one-on-one, eh? Fight this out like real men.”

Despite the angry, red-hot coil of rage that goaded him to accept the invitation, Anders knew he’d be no match against the man before him. Even under the effects of lyrium withdrawal, Veres cut an imposing figure; he was easily the tallest person in the building, and bulky even without his armour. In addition, though the withdrawals would have sapped some of Veres’ strength, Anders had no hand-to-hand combat training whatsoever, and was desperately weakened besides. He had no intention of getting into a physical fight.

“You talk a big game, but I can see your hands shaking. How long has it been since you’ve had a fix?” Smirking scorfully, Anders nodded at the ex-Templar’s trembling fists and darkened veins. “Do you miss having somebody to hold your lyrium leash?”

The sneer on Veres’ face vanished to be replaced once more with a snarl.

“How long have you got, do you think?” Anders hissed. “Before you go insane?”

‘That’s enough, Anders.’

Hearing Fenris speak his name sent a jolt through Anders. The elf’s mental tone was surprisingly calm, perhaps even warm, and Anders had to admit that he rather liked the way his name sounded in Fenris’ voice.

But before Anders had a chance to respond, Veres lunged, a roar of outrage tearing from his throat.

Fenris’ movement was little more than a blur of motion. There was the sickening crunch of bone, a muffled grunt of pain, and then Veres was on the floor, blood pouring from his now twisted and broken nose.

“You talk far too much,” Fenris said calmly, his voice completely neutral.

For a few moments, nobody said a word. The only sound was an occasional groan from Veres as the ex-Templar pawed at the blood flowing from his face. Eventually, he jerked his head up at Fenris and Anders poised above him through watering eyes.

“I’m goin’a gut you like a fuckin’ fish!” he howled, his voice turned nasal by an unmistakably smashed nose. Yet anybody in possession of two brain cells could tell the threat was entirely baseless. Studying the man’s face, Anders could see that, aside from the shattered nose, Veres’ lower lip had been split wide by the impact. Additionally, the sharpened metal of Fenris’ gauntlet had sliced deep cuts around his mouth and even flayed part of his right cheek. Those wounds would take months to fully heal, and they would most assuredly leave scarring in their wake, especially if left to heal on their own.

Veres gave a gagging cough, crimson spraying from his mouth and nose as he choked on his own blood. In an effort to clear his airway, he propped himself on his hands and knees, more blood spattering the floor of the tavern.

And suddenly, as though plucked directly from his memories, a vision appeared in Anders’ mind.

A bright spatter against the sand, blood in stark contrast to pale lips, hacking coughs and groans of pain, turned recumbent in an effort to clear an airway. 

It was the day Fenris had been shot on the Wounded Coast -when he’d taken an arrow to the chest that had been meant for Anders. It was the day Anders had healed him in an attempt to save his life -the day his magic had accidentally become a catalyst for the manifestation of their spirit bond.

All that was missing was an arrow.

‘Let’s go.’

That was Fenris. The elf had already turned his back on the prostrate Templar and was heading for the door.

But Anders couldn’t move. 

The image of Fenris in his mind -choking, desperately trying to breathe as his punctured lung filled with blood- would not dissipate. It clung to Anders’ consciousness like a parasite.

Without giving himself permission to do so, Anders unwittingly took a step closer to Veres. Then another. And another. Before he knew it, he was standing over Veres, staring down at the trembling man with something approaching pity plucking at his heartstrings. He knelt slowly at the man’s side.

“Can you breathe?” he heard himself ask.

Behind him, Fenris had halted in his tracks at the sound of Anders’ voice.

‘What are you doing, mage?’

Anders didn’t answer; he himself had no idea.

Veres, seeming not to have heard his question, let out another hacking cough, more blood spraying from his mouth and nose. The tavern floor would bear a permanent, red stain.

‘Have you gone completely mad?’ Fenris asked, blatantly agog.

‘You said it yourself,’ Anders replied, glancing at the elf. ‘It is better to save the sinner than to shun the saint.’

He turned his attention back to Veres, but not before catching the withering look on Fenris’ face.

‘How little you must think of the saints that you would consider Veres worthy of a place among them.’

Anders had no rebuttal for that.

“Veres, can you hear me? Do you need help?” he asked instead.

This time, it seemed, Veres did hear him. The man twisted his head to the side.

The marred, bloody ruin of his face was warped with hatred.

“The only thing I hear are the last words of a dead man. I know where you live, maleficar- I know where you sleep. I suggest you do so with one eye open.” Veres’ voice was dark, tainted by a vow written in his own blood.

“Watch your back, blood mage, because I swear before the sight of the Maker, one day my blade will be buried in it.”

For a moment, Anders held his gaze.

Eyes flicking back and forth between Veres’, he searched for some semblance of reason -for any explanation behind the outright revulsion that had so thoroughly stained his heart and leached into his blood like venom.

He found only the blackest loathing in their depths.

Calmly, Anders stood, turned away from Veres, and went to meet Fenris at the door.

He didn’t look back.

~*~

They left the tavern to hoots of “Good show!” and hollers of “Bloodied him up real nice!” from the rest of the patrons -none of whom appeared to have overheard Veres’ promise of Anders’ destruction. Well, either that, or they simply didn’t care.

The barkeep had returned from the back room just as the two of them had reached the front door, holding a plate of steaming food in each hand, but Fenris and Anders had not stayed to explain the blood now coating his floor, nor the man still crouched over it, moaning. Rather, Fenris had tossed a gold piece on the bar to make good on his word before they beat a swift retreat from the building.

Thankfully, the rain had let up some, though a steady drizzle still fell and clouds still darkened the sky, hiding any light the moon might have granted them.

“I have serious reservations about your judgement," Fenris growled once they’d made it outside.

“What do you want me to say, Fenris? I’m a healer,” Anders replied. “It’s in my nature to help people -even utter bastards like Veres.”

It wasn’t a total lie: he was a healer, and it was in his nature to help. However, Anders knew that wasn’t the reason behind his actions. Though he’d made no conscious decision to do so, he had, spurred on by the vivid recollection of Fenris impaled by an arrow.

In all honesty, Anders knew he’d never have offered Veres so much as a piss if the man were on fire and needed to be extinguished. 

He also knew Fenris wasn’t convinced by his explanation -likely because the elf could feel some of Anders’ deception through the bond. Nevertheless, Fenris didn’t challenge him on it.

“How is your hand?” the elf asked instead, flexing his own hand and nodding at the arm Anders had tucked against his ribs. “It feels broken.”

“Oh, it is,” Anders confirmed, turning his head to glance sheepishly at Fenris. “Wasn’t really worth it, considering it did absolutely jack-shit all, eh?”

Something occurred to Anders then. “Hold a moment, my hand was broken, and you felt it. So then, did you punch Veres with your left hand?”

Fenris nodded slowly, as if not understanding the surprise in Anders’ voice.

“I didn’t know you were a leftie!”

“I am ambidextrous.”

“Well, that’s… convenient,” Anders muttered, somewhat bitterly.

“The way you delivered that blow, you are lucky to have broken only a knuckle. Your form would lead one to think you’d never been in a fist fight before.”

Anders let out a noncommittal, “Eh…”

“Truly?” Fenris asked.

Anders gave a pointed shake of his staff. “This isn’t just a fancy walking stick you know -no matter what I tell the city watch.”

“Even mages should have combat training,” Fenris insisted. “To be entirely dependent on your magic is to tempt fate.”

“Ah, yes,” Anders muttered sarcastically, “perhaps I should have attended the plentiful and readily available combatives lessons they provided in the Circle!”

“You were also a Grey Warden, were you not?”

“Sure,” Anders shrugged, “but not for long. And besides, the Wardens play to their strengths. I suppose, had I stuck around a bit longer, I may have made it to Weishaupt for some real training, but alas. In actuality, the only real base of operations the Wardens have in Ferelden is Vigil’s Keep, and... well… “ He trailed off, grimacing. “Let’s just say it wasn’t fully functional during my time there.”

Fenris went quiet for a moment, his rain-damp hair falling in front of his eyes. Eventually, he seemed to decide something.

“I will teach you.”

Anders did a double take.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, ‘I will teach you,’” Fenris repeated.

“Yeah, I heard that bit, thanks. But why?”

“I will not always be around to deal with the alarming number of enemies you insist on making, mage.”

“Look, I’m not sure what crawled up Veres’ ass, but it wasn’t me. I’d never even met the guy before he raided my clinic! You can’t pin this one on me.”

“Nevertheless,” Fenris continued, “I have already seen you at the mercy of a magebane potion once in the time we have been linked. Should that happen again, you would be defenseless.”

“Alright, alright,” Anders conceded, “I take your point.”

“Then it is decided. After you recover your strength, I will teach you how to fight.”

“It might be for the best, anyway,” Anders mused. “Hawke has been trying to get me to spar with him for a while. I’ve managed to wriggle out of it so far, but that man is more persistent than a squirrel that’s spotted a bird feeder.”

Fenris chuckled, and Anders couldn't help but grin like a fool.

~*~

For a while, they walked in silence. Anders had long since resigned himself to having soaked boots, and was only half-heartedly avoiding the puddles that littered the cobbled streets.

They’d successfully made it up the Lowtown stairs before Fenris spoke again. 

“Thank you,” the elf said, his voice low.

Anders looked sideways at him. “For…?”

Fenris pursed his lips, flexing his pseudo-broken hand absentmindedly. Anders felt a measure of guilt that Fenris was forced to deal with the pain of his broken hand, despite knowing how to correctly throw a punch.

“I did not expect-” he stopped himself, clearly frustrated with the words. He flexed his hand again.

“You didn’t think I’d stand up for you?” Anders guessed, hoping he was correct in his interpretation of the emotions he read through the bond. 

To his relief, Fenris nodded.

“Don’t mention it,” Anders said, waving his free hand without thinking, wincing as he was painfully reminded of its fractured knuckle. He’d not risk healing it out in the open, even in the middle of the night -not when he could just as easily wait until they reached the clinic.

“You had no obligation to,” Fenris said, sounding puzzled. “It would have been justifiable for you to say nothing, but instead…”

“I broke my hand on an arsehole’s face?” Anders laughed, slightly embarrassed.

“While the blow lacked skill, and the fracture was no doubt unintentional, the motivation behind it holds merit.”

“Thanks,” Anders said drily, then paused for a moment, considering.

“I must say, I’m a bit surprised,” the mage eventually continued. “I’d have thought you’d be… averse to the concept of a virtue defense. Many would find it patronizing, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you can be a bit of a touchy prick.” He held his breath, hoping that his luck would hold and Fenris wouldn’t take offense.

Miraculously, he didn’t. To the contrary, the elf even chuckled again.

“In most circumstances, no,” Fenris agreed, “I would not welcome it.”

“What’s different about this one?”

Fenris looked at Anders, then slowed to a stop and tapped one long, slender finger against his left temple.

‘Intent,’ he said through the bond. ‘I could tell your objection did not stem from a place of perceived superiority -or, rather, not your own perceived superiority. Veres feels, as do many other humans, that elves are inherently lesser based on nothing more than superficial appearance and a pervasive cultural expectation of subservience.’

Anders could feel his mouth falling open and hurried to snap it shut again.

‘While you share his race, you do not share his belief, and though I do not praise you for meeting what should be the minimum standard, I do appreciate the… spirited protestation. So, yes, while a virtue defense is, by its very nature, somewhat condescending, I believe your intent and motivation behind such an action can excuse the negative connotation.’

For several moments, Anders could do no more than stare, stunned into silence by both the length of Fenris' exposé, as well as its eloquence.

‘You could tell all that from the bond?’ Anders eventually asked, once he'd finally regained the capability of speech.

‘Almost entirely, yes.’ Fenris nodded, then gave Anders a small, twisted smile. 'Though your actions themselves did lend context.’

‘Well, then,’ Anders said, somewhat thrown, ‘Thank you. Or, ah- You’re- You’re welcome?’

Fenris gave him a tilt of the head, and they set off once more.

~*~

A few minutes later, Anders turned down the street that would take him to Darktown, only to come up short as Fenris turned the other direction.

However, as he was trying to figure out the appropriate way to bid the elf farewell, Fenris interrupted his thoughts.

‘Where are you going?’

Anders turned to look down the corridor, then back at Fenris, wondering if there was an aspect to the question he wasn’t getting.

‘...My… home?’ he said haltingly.

Fenris gave him an exasperated look.

‘Tell me, mage, if you will: why would that be a bad decision?’

Anders wracked his brains for something he’d missed.

‘Well, it is in Darktown,’ he mused. ‘But, er, it’s always in Darktown, right? Sort of the nature of buildings -they don’t typically do a whole lot of relocating on their own.’

‘Mage,’ Fenris affixed him with a pinning stare, ‘no more than half an hour past, you had a man vow to kill you, including several graphic descriptions of bodily harm and a warning to sleep lightly. Either your mental faculties are less robust than I previously surmised, or you have severely underestimated the validity of Veres’ threat.’

For a moment, Anders didn’t respond, uncertain of Fenris’ point.

‘Do you not believe Veres would kill you at the first given opportunity?’ Fenris asked, tilting his head slightly to the side in disbelief.

‘Of course I do,’ Anders said growing slightly annoyed, ‘but I don’t see your point. What does that have to do with me going home?’

‘He knows where you live!’ Fenris exclaimed, gesturing with both hands toward the Darktown staircase.

‘So, naturally, I should immediately gather all my generous wealth and move to Hightown to avoid his wrath, yes?’ Anders said cynically. ‘Shit, wait. I don’t have generous wealth. Home to Darktown it is.’

His temper short from the pain in his hand, hunger, and the perpetual, freezing rain, Anders was preparing to immediately spin on his heel and slosh back to his clinic, regardless of whatever point Fenris was trying to make, when the elf spoke again.

‘Your clinic is not safe, mage.”

‘Ah, right you are! Obviously, it would of greater benefit to sleep out in the pouring rain in some back alley-”

‘Anders,’ Fenris interrupted. The annoyance had gone from his voice; now he just sounded somewhat amused.

I’m inviting you to stay at the mansion with me.’

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

For a moment, it seemed all Anders could do was stare uncomprehendingly at Fenris.

The mage’s brow furrowed, and he blinked a few times, opened his mouth, then shut it again, all while looking at Fenris through a haze of confusion. Fenris was torn between amusement and annoyance; surely his offer did not warrant this much incredulity.

“You’re… asking me to stay at your mansion? Willingly?”

“I do not believe it wise to leave you alone moments after Veres has declared his intent to ‘gut you like a fish’, and the mansion has the distinct advantage of him not knowing its location.”

“Yes, but-”

“Mage, this is not a difficult concept. Veres wants to kill you, he’s raided your clinic once before; surely you can grasp that?”

“I understand that. It’s just… well.” Anders shuffled uncomfortably in place for a few seconds as though trying to find a reason the suggestion was illogical. “Holly was going to stop by tomorrow morning, and if I’m not there, she’ll be worried. I should at least leave her a message.”

Fenris considered this for a moment, glancing around once more at their surroundings. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, he inclined his head and waved a hand toward the clinic.

“Unless you’d prefer to linger in the elements any longer…”

~*~

Though Anders maintained that the clinic looked exactly as it had when they’d left it that morning, it didn’t stop Fenris from insisting he be the first one through the door. Indeed, there was little chance (if any) that Veres had somehow managed to put his flayed face back together and take an alternate route to beat them there, but Fenris was certain Anders’ luck would put strain on even the most weighted of statistics. As such, it wasn’t until Fenris had ascertained the clinic was, in fact, empty that he allowed the mage to enter.

Anders, exhausted by the days’ events, sleep loss, pain, hunger, and the vast amount of walking they’d done, plodded slowly to his quarters at the back of the clinic, muttering irritably under his breath. As soon as the mage had put a wall between them, Fenris could see the glow of healing magic through the door, and the pain disappeared from his hand as, at last, Anders fixed his fractured knuckle. A soft groan of relief sounded from the mage’s quarters, making Fenris’ ear twitch toward the sound, and he found himself agreeing wholeheartedly with the sentiment; he hadn’t even realized how tense the bond had grown from the mage’s pain response until the strain eased.

While Anders set to packing a spare change of clothing, Fenris milled about outside the clinic, surveying their surroundings and keeping watch. In his idling, his foot accidently knocked against something next to the door: a small, empty bowl -the bottom of which was coated in a white residue.

Fenris bent to pick it up and examined the dish curiously. He traced a finger along the bottom, and rubbed the residue between two fingers, but it wasn’t until he remembered Anders’ love for cats that he figured out what it was.

Milk. Anders was still leaving milk out for the strays, trying to tempt one in so he could gain its trust. Shaking his head with amusement, Fenris set the dish back on the ground, and wandered back inside the clinic.

Anders, who’d emerged from his quarters, was busy jotting down a note for Holly, leaning heavily on hands braced against the rough-hewn table. He didn’t look up when Fenris entered, fatigue causing his untidy scrawl to utilize more than its typical allotment of focus. Absentmindedly, Fenris moved to stand next to him, eyes moving pointlessly across the parchment spread upon the table.

Apparently noticing his presence for the first time, Anders twisted his head to look up at the elf, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you mind?” the mage asked, slightly piqued. “I don’t like it when people read over… my…” Anders trailed off, voice faltering as he met the elf’s gaze. Fenris’ eyes slid sideways, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Right… Sorry.” Anders cleared his throat awkwardly.

Finishing his letter in a rush, the mage straightened, folded the parchment in half, and shuffled across the room to place the note under the tin of tea on the counter.

“What did you write?” Fenris asked quietly as Anders turned to face him, unable to quell his curiosity.

“I told her that she shouldn’t stay in the clinic by herself, that I’d be staying with Hawke for the night, and that I’d explain everything tomorrow.”

“But you won’t be at Hawke’s, mage.”

“No, I won’t, but Holly doesn’t know that.”

“I see no conceivable way this could backfire,” Fenris said sarcastically.

~*~

Once Anders had grabbed all he needed from the clinic, the pair of them turned their sights toward Hightown. Anders was quiet as he removed the lantern from it's hook beside the front door - a gesture he used to let patients know he would be out for a few days, such as when he was on a longer mission with Hawke. Before shutting the clinic door, Anders took a long look around the main room, almost as though trying to memorize its layout.

“Run, little one, run.”

Fenris just barely caught the words Anders muttered under his breath. He opened his mouth, intending to ask for clarification or context, but an uncomfortable sense of shame leeched across the bond, and Fenris hesitated. Studying Anders’ face, he tried to pick out both the meaning of his words and the source of his disquiet, but while the mage’s grimace and hunched shoulders lent credence to the bond’s discomfort, Anders didn’t seem inclined to share its origin. He avoided eye contact with Fenris as he shut the door, obviously restless with the weight of the elf’s gaze upon him.

Deciding it was best not to pry for the time being, Fenris altered course.

“Have you not found a stray to take in?” he asked lightly, nodding at the empty bowl of milk next to the door. “They accept your offerings willingly enough.”

Anders grunted, glancing at the bowl. “They’re always gone before I check. Haven’t seen a hair of ‘em near the clinic,” he muttered.

“Perhaps there aren’t any cats, and the rats grow fat on your bait,” Fenris suggested, attempting to distract the mage from whatever melancholy thought had taken hold of him.

“Only if dead rats drink milk,” Anders replied as they set off toward Hightown. “Rat corpses everywhere. Not little rats, either. They’re positively massive -bigger than most any cat I’ve seen.”

“But you believe the local strays are killing them, yes?”

“Local stray,” Anders corrected. “I have a suspicion it’s just one cat causing all the carnage.”

“What brought you to that conclusion?”

“Well,” he began, “every dead rat I’ve seen in and around the clinic has been killed the same way: a single, deep bite to the back of the neck, and all with the same pattern of teeth. The thing is,” Anders continued, “the punctures are tiny. ” He held up a hand, thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart to demonstrate. “They look like cat teeth, but this cat must be unreasonably small. We’re talking kitten-sized.”

“And you’ve seen no such cat in the area?”

Anders shook his head.

“Not only haven’t I seen a cat that small, I haven’t seen so much as a whisker of any cat since I’ve been leaving milk out.”

In spite of himself, Fenris was growing curious.

“Have you seen fur anywhere? Perhaps some ripped out in a fight with one of the rats?”

“No! That’s the thing!” Anders said, earnest now. “There’s never a sign of a struggle! This cat -if it is actually a cat- must get the drop on the rats somehow, because I’ve only ever seen claw marks from the rats in the dirt. Either this cat can fly, or it’s so light, it doesn’t even leave pawprints.”

“So, we’re looking for a cat assassin,” Fenris said wryly.

Anders grinned. “A feline fatale.”

“An Antivan Claw, perhaps?” Fenris suggested.

“That was a -paw- ling.”

“ And that was significantly worse.”

Anders was smirking now. “Look what you’ve started. This is a cat- tastrophe.”

“No, this is indecent,” the elf complained.

“I see that when it comes to puns, I am sup -purr- ior.”

Fenris shot Anders a pained grimace as Anders tried and failed to suppress a grin.

“I will accept your surrend-fur.”

“You have it. I yield.”

“That’s a tally for me,” the mage said, still smiling widely. “Or… should that be tail-y?”

Fenris groaned and Anders laughed.

~*~

By the time the pair of them had left Darktown, the light-hearted banter had petered out, both too tired to do more than plod along the cobbled streets. Anders had begun shivering again, the chilled night air leeching the warmth from him through soaked clothing. His teeth chattered, his gait slowed steadily until it was barely more than a crawl, and there was a wobble to his steps that Fenris didn’t like. Clearly, the day’s strain had taken its toll.

They were halfway up a long, gradual incline in the heart of Lowtown when Anders slowed to a standstill, breathing heavily, and bracing against his staff.

“Just… give me a moment,” Anders asked, heaving for air.

Fenris gritted his teeth, on edge at being out in the open with the mage looking like a prime target for any of the gangs that prowled the dark of Kirkwall. In the silence of the night-empty streets, the mage’s labored breathing was deafeningly loud, and Fenris was convinced the entire city could hear it.

When, after several moments passed and Anders looked little better, Fenris reached out a hand and pressed two fingers to the inside of Anders’ wrist. Beneath cold, clammy skin, the mage’s pulse hammered. Anxiety ratcheting up another notch, Fenris looked down the incline, back the way they’d come, then forward again at how far they had still to go.

Without stopping to deliberate, Fenris swooped low, knocked the mage’s knees out from under him, and caught the startled man in his arms. He’d been prepared for a heavier weight, and was shocked to find how light Anders was, despite the mage’s water-logged robe and larger frame.

Anders spluttered in shock at the sudden loss of equilibrium, and for several seconds, he could do no more than flail for balance. Finally, he looped one arm around Fenris’ neck, clutched his staff to his chest with the other, and glared up at Fenris accusingly.

“Why would you- what are- put me down!” the mage stammered, face flushing crimson in embarrassment.

Fenris bounced Anders once, repositioning him more securely in his arms, then set off at an easy jog. He kept the pace slow, not due to the mage's added weight, but so as to not jostle Anders overmuch by breaking into a run.

“And here I thought the time I accidently asked you for kinky sex in Tevinter hand language was humiliating,” Anders muttered.

And Fenris, despite the tense situation and the disturbing lack of weight in his arms, chuckled.

~*~

It was still dark as they finally approached Fenris’ mansion, dawn still a while off, and though the rain had finally stopped, it was with fingers numbed by cold that Fenris fumbled with the door handle. After setting Anders back on his feet, Fenris had instructed him to wait at the bottom of the stairs, warry of the mage falling while his back was turned.

Once he’d finally coerced his fingers into opening the door, Fenris descended the stairs once again, prepared to carry Anders up into the house, but the mage held out a hand and walked forward on his own.

“I think I’ve had about all the mortification I can take for one day.”

Fenris didn’t argue, but he waited on the landing, watching closely should the need arise to catch the mage.

“I’m perfectly capable of climbing a singular set of stairs, elf,” Anders grumbled, noticing Fenris’ watchful eye. Fenris wasn’t convinced; the mage was leaning heavily on his staff, exhaustion was dragging at the bond in the back of Fenris’ head, and the labored breathing Anders’ tried to suppress as he summited the last stair had taken on a concerning rattle. Fenris could tell the mage was embarrassed about his lingering weakness, not to mention being carried like a babe in arms through the city, but Anders’ emotional state wasn’t Fenris’ priority. Right now, what the mage needed more than anything, was food and rest.

He cast his eyes about the courtyard once more, ensuring nobody had followed them, then shut the door behind them.

Once they were inside, Anders’ mood seemed to improve. Though it couldn’t be described as ‘homey,’ or even ‘clean’ for that matter, the mansion did have an appealing lack of rain and standing water, and that seemed to be the one factor Anders cared about most at the moment. It was cold inside, but Fenris knew that once he lit the flame rune under the hearth, the manor would heat quickly.

Keen on getting the mage warm, Fenris strode briskly into the hearthroom ahead of Anders. His eyes scanned the shadows out of habit, but when he found nothing out of place, he knelt to light a fire in the hearth. Reaching behind a stone in the fireplace, he pressed the rune key, and after a short delay, the flames sprung merrily to life. As the fire built, the heat already licking his skin and fending off the cold, he heard the mage shuffle into the hearthroom behind him.

For several moments, there was only the sound of the fire, crackling quietly and throwing shadows against the wall… until the metallic clink of buckles sounded behind him.

Fenris twisted his head toward the source of the noise, only to see Anders inexplicably removing his clothes. The mage was attempting to pull his robes over his head, the fastenings jingling as he fought to free himself from the sodden clothing.

“What are you doing?” Fenris demanded, nonplussed.

“Trying to get this bloody thing off!” Anders replied, grunting as he struggled with the weight of his bulky, water-logged robe. “What else?”

“The question of ‘why?’ is implied here, mage!”

“A few reasons,” Anders said, managing to extricate one arm from the ensnaring garment. “For starters, it’s absolutely soaked, and the worst thing you can do when trying to get warm is wear wet clothing.”

Yanking his other arm free, he continued, “Secondly, because of said soaking, it’s rather heavy, and I am but a humble mage -not some big, strong warrior who’s weapon of choice is the approximate size and weight of a small child.”

“Humble?”

Anders finally tugged the feathered mess over his head. “And lastly, these feathers do not have the most pleasant odor when wet. Bit of a design flaw, I admit.”

Bundling the robe up under one arm, the mage let out a tired huff.

“Does that answer your question of ‘why’?” he asked.

But rather than answer him, Fenris stared.

He’d been wrong.

That morning in the market, thinking about how underweight the mage must be based on his pallor and dull eyes. In noticing how light the mage seemed while carrying him to the manor.

He’d been wrong.

Because it was so much worse than he’d pictured.

Now that Anders had removed his robe, he was standing there in just a pair of breeches and a thin, linen tunic. Both articles were saturated, rendered sheer by the moisture, and not even the shadows of the mansion could mask the undeniable truth of Anders’ frailty. The fabric clung to him, the flickering firelight throwing into sharp relief the prominence of his hips, of his ribcage and his collar bones, and making it look for all the world as though the mage’s skeleton were entirely hell-bent on ripping free of his body.

“Based on your staring, I feel like I should be asking if you see something you like, but this is you and me we’re talking about,” Anders commented wryly.

Expression turning troubled, the mage added , “Also, that look on your face is… disturbing.”

Fenris felt as though a lead weight had been dropped into his stomach, yanking it toward his feet and driving bile up his throat. When Fenris didn’t manage a response, Anders’ brow creased in concern.

“What is it?”

Fenris couldn’t have spoken, even had he words to say. The air was suddenly too thick to breathe, and there was a band around his chest that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The bond in the back of his head was clenching painfully, and the longer he stared at the mage, the worse it got.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Anders took a step toward him, peering into his eyes. The closer he got to Fenris -the further he moved into the firelight- the more of Anders’ wasted visage was revealed, and Fenris had to sink his teeth into the meat of his tongue to hold back an involuntary groan of anguish. The mage wasn’t just malnourished, he was emaciated, and Fenris realized that the single loaf of bread he’d bought Anders in hopes of helping him recover was nothing short of laughable.

With every passing second that Fenris spent staring at the mage’s gaunt form, the bond grew increasingly more agitated, and before long, it was writhing in agony. Fenris forced himself to look away -to look somewhere besides the stark jut of Anders’ hips and ribcage -to look anywhere else.

His desperate gaze cast about for a safe haven, and it alighted upon the single, soft fragment in a graveyard made of jagged bones: soft, honey-colored eyes.

The worry that lay in those eyes… so unguarded, so casual, like it had every right to be there. Like it had no reason to hide. Like it was only natural for Anders to worry about him, even while the mage’s own condition was so poor. Even when he was little more than skin and bone.

Anders had suffered both physically and mentally for weeks at the hands of a bond he never asked for -had been harassed and threatened by a Templar on more than one occasion -had even been driven from his home…

And despite it all, Anders was worried about him.

“Fenris?”

Something in his chest fractured at the concern in Anders’ voice -something solid and cold and implacable -something Fenris had built long ago to protect himself: the steel walls around his heart.

A crack had formed what felt like a decade ago, that day Holly and Hawke had shown up on his doorstep with the mage in tow, looking as though they’d dragged him there from his deathbed. Now, that crack widened, prized apart by worried eyes and a soft tone.

Fenris opened his mouth, words he couldn’t find laying heavy on his tongue, emotions he couldn’t fathom laying heavy on his heart. Anders waited patiently, his eyes still searching and intense.

But several seconds passed, and Fenris was no closer to finding the words.

So, he closed his mouth, shook his head, and broke from Anders’ gaze.

And when he spun on his heel to head into the house proper, Anders didn’t press him.

~*~

Fenris stalked out of the hearthroom and to the end of the hallway, raking his hands over his face, and taking deep, shuddering lungfuls of air, trying to compartmentalize the aggressive emotions that had rendered him speechless.

Having such a visceral reaction to the mage’s appearance was disconcerting, and with the evidence presented, Fenris could only surmise that the soul bond was the culprit behind it. As if it weren’t enough that the bond interfered with his thoughts, his emotions, and his life, apparently it now had to seize control over his physical reactions as well.

For a moment, Fenris studied the link in the back of his head.

It twitched, shaking as though frightened, and Fenris could have sworn the bond whimpered as he mentally observed it. It was strange, but the bond almost reminded him of a young Mabari that had been spooked or startled by something, and he felt an instinctual urge to calm the pitiful thing -to reassure it.

How one went about soothing a spirit bond, however, he hadn’t a clue.

Gradually, the band around his chest loosened, and he was able to take some calming breaths. He would have liked to meditate, but Fenris had a feeling that it would be ultimately pointless. Until the mage was taken care of -until Fenris had done all that was in his power to help Anders- the tight knot of anxiety in his chest would remain.

So, gathering his resolve, Fenris straightened, pulled his wits together with an iron grasp, and set to work.

~*~

“Here,” Fenris said, unceremoniously dropping a pile of blankets on the unoccupied chair in front of the hearth.

Slouched in what was becoming his typical fireside seat, Anders had been staring into the flames, his eyes glazed and unfocused, but the sound of the blankets thumping into the chair made him jump. The mage sat up hurriedly, his face whipping up to look up at Fenris, expression shifting rapidly from distracted to anxious.

“Sorry, what-?” he asked, blinking confusedly.

“Bedding,” Fenris said, avoiding eye contact and nodding toward the pile. He’d allowed himself ten minutes to regain his composure, during which he’d changed out of his own soaked clothing, doffed his armor, and gathered as many blankets as he could find around the mansion before forcing himself to return to the hearthroom.

“Oh. Thank you, Fenris,” Anders said, shaking himself roughly and rubbing a hand over his face. The bond was churning with a muddled mix of emotion, but the mage’s exhaustion had made it sluggish, and barely a trickle of what Anders was experiencing made it through to Fenris’ side. Even still, Fenris was too focused on his own inner turmoil at the moment to spare any effort in deciphering the mage’s.

He was preparing to leave again, intending to scrounge up something edible for Anders to eat until he could leave for the market the next morning, but-

‘Are… are you ok?’

Anders’ mental voice was timid as it interrupted Fenris’ brooding, and the anxiety that accompanied his question did nothing to assuage Fenris’ own.

Fenris couldn’t bring himself to even glance at Anders as he nodded. He couldn’t make himself look at the mage -not when the proof of Anders’ suffering was still so blatantly displayed.

Obviously misinterpreting Fenris’ unwillingness to look at him as anger, Anders started to ask, ‘Did I… did I do something-?’ but Fenris cut across him, almost harshly.

“No.” Fenris gave a jerk of his head, teeth clenched. “It is nothing you did, mage.”

“…Okay.”

There was silence for several seconds, but for the crackling of the fire.

Eventually, Anders shifted, and Fenris’ eyes were automatically drawn to the movement.

Hauling himself out of the chair, pushing his weary legs to stand, Anders shuffled the few steps over to the other sofa and reached for the first blanket on the pile. The mage unfolded it with jerky movements, then wrapped it tightly around himself and sank back into the armchair, breath forcing its way out of his lungs in a huff. It was painful to watch, and Fenris felt his temper flare as, once again, the bond twisted in discomfort.

Tense as he was, when Fenris snatched a blanket off the pile to begin making Anders’ a bed, it was with more force than strictly necessary, and it made Anders flinch. He could feel nervous eyes upon him as he set to laying the blankets out in front of the fire, and the mage’s apprehension grew until it was palpable, not just through the bond, but in the air.

“You don’t have to do that,” Anders said quickly, recognizing what Fenris was doing. “Really, don’t worry about me.”

‘If only it were that simple,’ Fenris thought bitterly, gritting his teeth.

The hazy concoction of emotions that filtered through the bond was suddenly punctuated by a stab of distress, and Fenris realized Anders must have heard his petulant thought.

And, abruptly, Anders’ vague emotions weren’t so vague at all. The fading sting of hurt, the still growing anxiety, a lingering embarrassment, an overhanging cloud of uncertainty… Fenris felt all these things as though they were his own, and the only sense stronger than these feelings, was his own feeling of wretched guilt.

Anders wasn’t responsible for his starvation, nor was he to blame for the way Fenris’ side of the bond had reacted to it. Moreover, rather than helping solve the situation, Fenris was making it so much worse, behaving like a tantruming child.

Stop. Fighting. It. Any other actions you take will be in vain if you do not relent this dreadful, pointless struggling.

Clear as day, Fenris heard Marethari’s words ring through his head, as though the wise, old elf were standing in the hearthroom, glaring sternly between them. If the Keeper had been there to see Fenris’ behavior since arriving back at the mansion, he felt sure her seemingly endless patience would finally give out, and she’d cuff him over the head in frustration.

Fenris closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe and center himself. He'd been selfish, heinously so, and that selfishness had done nothing more than deteriorate their situation. He'd allowed himself to accept the role of the victim, despite bountiful evidence that it was Anders who'd drawn the shortest stick. All things considered, the mage had acted admirably, handling each new problem with more grace than Fenris would have expected.

Fenris, on the other hand, had not, lashing out over and over again, allowing his defensive nature to rule his actions. Until this point, he'd granted himself leeway, stubbornly holding up his history with mages as a weapon with which to keep Anders at bay. Now, however, he was coming to grips with the reality of the situation: not only was Anders not his enemy in this fight, he was Fenris' only ally. 

Prior to now, his attitude toward the mage had ranged from outright hostility to a cool, detached politeness. One could even say he’d been cordial to Anders since they’d formed their uneasy truce, but now the result of his “cordiality” was sitting before him, emaciated and drained of vitality, and he’d done nothing to prevent it. 

Admitting these facts to himself, Fenris recognized that the time for excuses had long since passed. It was time he took responsibility for his actions.

Raising his head, he saw that the mage was looking into the fire again, but now Anders’ teeth worried at his lip, and his brow was creased deeply in consternation.

“I am sorry,” Fenris said softly.

Anders’ head snapped around to look at him, mouth slightly open, face unguarded.

"I won't attempt to excuse my behavior," he continued, holding eye contact with Anders. "And I ask that you don't excuse it either."

Anders, who'd opened his mouth to do exactly that, reluctantly closed it.

Fenris moved closer, still holding the mage's eyes with his own.

"You sit here in my home, not through any desire of your own, but at my request, and I repay it by acting callous and immature."

"You don't-" Anders started, but Fenris held up a hand.

"Please," he said, "allow me to finish."

Anders closed his mouth again, swallowed and nodded slowly. Buying time to think, Fenris strode to the other armchair and settled himself in it, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"The day our bond manifested, after the Surge occurred, I held a knife to your throat and accused you of blood magic, but you'd done nothing more than save my life." Fenris clasped his hands together and stared down at them. "When Hawke brought you here last week, ready to accuse me of being linked to your illness, you defended me -told him I had nothing to do with it, even knowing it might eventually lead to your death. And when Veres hurled petty insults at me this evening, trying to goad me into a fight, you broke your hand attempting to stop him -in an effort to protect my dignity of all things."

"Well… yeah," Anders said, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"And you have never once asked anything in return."

Anders looked up to meet Fenris' gaze once more, and when Fenris searched his eyes for an explanation, he found them guileless and honest, but they held no answer to his question.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Anders asked.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Fenris said, his eyes roving over the mage's too-visible ribs once more. "Why did you not ask for help?"

But even as he said it, he knew it was an unreasonable question to ask. He already knew Anders would be loath to ask anyone for help, especially somebody who'd made it clear they wanted nothing to do with him. 

"You had enough on your plate to deal with," Anders muttered, looking down.

"While you had nothing on yours," Fenris countered, gesturing firmly to Anders’ ribs.

Anders didn't meet his eyes, and again Fenris realized he was blaming the mage instead of helping him. He grit his teeth in frustration, then let out a heavy breath and sank backwards into the chair.

"I was attempting to apologise, but it appears I am rather inept at it," Fenris sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Anders let out a chuckle, and Fenris’ eyes darted up at the noise.

"Happens to the best of us," Anders said, a wry smile on his lips.

"The point I was attempting to make was that, should you require assistance, I am willing to provide it. It benefits neither of us for you to starve when I am capable of ensuring you don't." 

“Yes, well…” Anders replied noncommittally, looking away again to study the fire.

Frustrated, but intent on keeping his temper in check, Fenris considered his next words carefully so as not to sound accusatory.

“I realize that accepting aid is a matter of pride for you,” he said. “In this, the matter of independence, you and I are of the same mind.” Fenris pursed his lips before continuing. “I also recognize that I am not... that you and I have… how did you phrase it? Irreconcilable differences?”

Anders didn’t look away from the fire, but he nodded.

Exhausted by trying to dance around the issue, Fenris decided to cut to the chase.

“All this to say that, if you should find yourself in need of help, and you do not wish to involve me, I ask that you consider allowing Hawke or another friend to provide it. Many of those around you are invested in your wellbeing, and...“ Fenris hesitated for a handful of seconds before finishing.

“... and I do not wish to see you suffer, Anders.”

Finally, Anders met his eyes again, and this time, the mage held them. The expression of surprise on his face was likely not intended to make Fenris feel guilty, but nevertheless, it did. That the mage was startled to learn that Fenris did not wish him ill was an uncomfortable feeling.

“I’ll…er- I’ll take that into consideration,” Anders said haltingly, thrown by Fenris’ declaration.

“Please do,” Fenris said quietly, then he stood from the chair, and set off in search of something edible with which to bury a graveyard full of jagged bones.

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

It didn’t take longer than a few minutes of rifling through cabinets and storage crates for Fenris to reach the conclusion that he subsisted on air. There was no other explanation for it, because aside from a small jar of jam and a few burlap sacks of what could have been potatoes in the distant past, it was as though neither the kitchen nor the pantry had ever held anything one could consider food.

Surrendering the fight to find something stashed away under the pantry shelves, Fenris rose to his feet, and knocked the dust from his leggings. Regretfully, he remembered the steaming plates of food the barkeep had brought out to them as he and Anders were fleeing from the tavern, wishing he’d had the forethought to bring the meals home with them.

Technically speaking, it wasn’t much of a mystery as to why the house was so devoid of food: Fenris typically bought meals only a few days in advance, and only enough to last a few days at a time. It was a habit borne of years on the run, for when one may find themselves ambushed and in need of a quick get away, it’s prudent to travel light. As such, Fenris carried most of his food on his person, or else ate it immediately after purchasing it, as was the case with Cordyline’s Topsiders.

Nevertheless, he searched on, ill at ease with the idea of calling off the hunt before he’d investigated every area that could conceivably be used to store food. Sighing, Fenris descended the steps to the wine cellar, resolving to give it at least a perfunctory sweep before he admitted defeat.

The cellar was dark and cool, and pervaded by the heady scents of wine, oak and resin. Most of the casks stacked along the back wall were still sealed; Fenris had only ever opened one of them, and had quickly realized that drinking an entire cask of wine before it spoiled was easier said than done. He’d left the rest sealed after that.

Scanning the familiar, gradually-dwindling rows of bottles, he briefly considered bringing one upstairs, but he ultimately discarded the idea. Anders didn’t need alcohol, he needed calories, and as loath as Fenris was to return empty-handed, giving a starving man wine was an irrevocably bad idea.

He was just about to call it quits and resign himself to waiting until the market opened at dawn, when something at the back of the cellar caught his eye. Curious, Fenris strode over to it.

Nearly obscured behind a series of empty, wooden shipping crates, a small, white box lay forgotten. As with most of the items in the mansion, the box was ornate, and covered in a thick layer of dust. Measuring approximately a foot across and equally as wide, the sturdy, wooden container was painted white, and traced with gold filigree. Words were proudly embossed across the surface of the lid. 

All too familiar with Denarius’ penchant for cruelty, Fenris was wary of traps, but after careful inspection from a distance with a broom handle, it did truly appear to be just a box. Unable to suppress his curiosity, Fenris lifted the lid using the handle of the broom. It fell to the floor unceremoniously to reveal the gleam of something gold.

Inside the box was a pair of ornamented wine goblets. They were elaborately decorated, each embellished with two proud-looking dragons who were borne aloft by a pair beleaguered elven slaves.

Fenris felt his lip curl in disgust, and he was moments from knocking the goblets to the floor in a fit of pique when Anders broke into his thoughts.

‘Everything alright?’ the mage asked.

Fenris was still getting used to Anders having a window into his mind -still getting used to being deprived the privacy of his thoughts, but he refused to let himself sulk about it.

‘Yes,’ Fenris replied calmly.

‘What did you find?’

‘Wine goblets.’

‘And what’s wrong with the goblets?’

Rather than explain, Fenris picked the lid up off the floor, placed it back on the box, and carried it upstairs.

Anders was still seated in his chair before the hearth, but he was already turned to watch Fenris enter when the elf returned to the hearthroom. The mage appraised the box in Fenris’ hands curiously.

Fenris set the box on Anders’ lap, and Anders extricated his arms from the blanket to examine it. He brushed a hand across the letters on the lid, muttering to himself, then lifted the lid and leaned it against the leg of his chair, eyes fixed on the box’s contents. 

For several moments, Anders stared at the wine goblets, and the grimace that pulled at the mage’s mouth did not escape Fenris’ notice.

Anders lifted one of the goblets from its velvet lining, turning it over and examining the carvings. The other side of the goblet was adorned with a spiderweb that connected the wings of the dragons, linking them together.

“It’s like they’re proud of it,” the mage wondered in a low, aggravated tone.

“The dragons?” Fenris asked, not piecing together the mage’s meaning.

“Slavery!” Anders growled, shaking his head with disgust. “They tediously carve it into wine glasses as though it’s an accomplishment to be celebrated.” His thumb smoothed over the carvings of the elves that buckled under the weight of the dragons on their shoulders. "I mean for the love of Andraste, I think these carvings are bloodstone and dragon bone. They must be worth a small fortune."

“They are proud of it,” Fenris said.

“Revolting,” the mage grumbled, but he continued his examination of the wine glasses curiously, as though there were more to see.

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“There’s an enchantment on these,” Anders replied, turning the goblet in his fingers. “I’m just not sure what kind.”

“What do the words on the cover say?”

Anders glanced up at Fenris, as if remembering the elf couldn’t read, then retrieved the lid from the floor.

“There’s only one line of Common,” Anders said, holding the lid aloft. “'The Taste of Victory.’ The rest is in Tevene.”

“Read it aloud,” Fenris suggested. “I can translate.”

Anders made a face as he glanced sideways at him.

“Alright, I’ll give it a go,” the mage said. “Just… don’t laugh if I butcher it.”

Fenris nodded, but made no such promise.

“I think the first line here is a title,” Anders said, tracing a finger under the large print on the surface. “It says... Manaveris Dracona?”

“Long Live the Dragons,” Fenris translated. “Tevinter’s maxim.”

“Ah.” Anders moved to the next line down. “This is the line that’s written in Common, ‘The Taste of Victory.’”

“And the last?”

Anders hesitated, eyes scanning over the line.

“Tebenefe Vishanteborium?” he said after a brief pause, looking up at Fenris. “Mean anything to you?”

Fenris’ brow furrowed.

Anders started to apologize, “I’m rubbish with languages-” 

“Your pronunciation was fine, mage,” Fenris interrupted. “I am merely unfamiliar with the term itself.”

“You don’t know what it means?”

“I know the parts, but not as a sum,” Fenris elaborated. “The beginning describes something as ‘good’, or otherwise beneficial in some manner. For the user, at least. The end is… more complex.”

“Complex how?”

“Vishanteborium,” Fenis murmured, rolling the term around, dissecting it. “Vishante most often translates to ‘tongue’ or ‘mouth’, but it can also mean ‘voice’ depending on context. As for ‘borium,’ I’ve scarcely heard it used, and never prefaced by Vishante. It’s ancient Tevene, not part of the current lexicon, but I have heard it before…somewhere...”

Fenris set to pacing, trying to remember where he’d heard the term.

“So, Long Live the Dragons, The Taste of Victory, and then… good tongue?” Anders recapped, raised an eyebrow. “Either something was lost in translation, or this goblet is offering me mind-blowing sex.”

Fenris was caught off guard by his own bark of laughter, and he shot a glance at Anders who was grinning from his seat by the fire.

“I think this is the first time I’ve been propositioned by a goblet,” Anders said wryly. “I can check that off the list.”

“I am uncertain which aspect I find more disturbing: that you have a ‘list,’ or that receiving sexual gratification by means of enchanted drinkware is apparently on said list.’

‘It was on the list,” Anders corrected with a smile. “I just checked it off.”

Fenris shook his head exasperatedly. Returning to the mage’s side, he put the lid back on the box, then lifted it from the mage’s lap, and set it on the small end table between the two chairs in front of the fire.

“I wasn’t able to find much of substance to eat,” Fenris said, changing the subject. “I plan on visiting the market when it opens. In the meantime, you can eat this.”

Fenris held out a small pouch containing some dried berries and nuts, followed by a waterskin. The preserves were the last of his rations; he’d planned to visit the market the following day to stock up on meals, but he was regretting that decision now, wishing he'd not put it off for so long. Given the circumstances, Fenris was more than willing to go without dinner if it meant Anders got something to eat.

Anders opened the pouch and shook some of the berries into his palm.

“Thank you, Fenris, but what are you going to eat?”

Fenris pursed his lips. He’d been hoping the mage wouldn’t ask. Anders noticed his hesitation and immediately understood its meaning. He began to shake his head, trying to pour the handful of berries back into the pouch.

“No, I’m can't-”

“I can afford to miss a meal,” Fenris said sternly. “You cannot.”

“Fenris-”

“It isn’t up for debate. Eat, mage.”

Anders’ mouth folded into a pout as Fenris turned away from him, ending the argument before it could truly begin. Fenris could hear the mage grumbling to himself as he returned to his previous task of spreading blankets in front of the fireplace, but to his relief, Anders didn’t argue further.

The next few moments passed with Anders quietly chewing his food as Fenris lay blanket after blanket down, until finally the last of them had been draped over the pile. Fenris stepped onto the nest of bedding, checking his handiwork. He frowned.

“What is it?” Anders asked, noticing Fenris’ discontent.

Fenris didn’t answer, instead pressing his foot into various parts of the blanket pile, still frowning. Then, wordlessly, Fenris strode from the room, leaving a confused mage in his wake.

“Wha-?” 

A minute later, the elf returned to the hearthroom, hauling a giant, luxurious mattress with him.

Anders stared openly as the elf pulled the blanket pile out from in front of the hearth, dropped the mattress down in its place with a whoosh of air that made the fire splutter, then dragged the blankets back over the top of it.

Fenris climbed back onto the bed, bounced up and down a few times on the balls of his feet, then nodded to himself with a satisfied look on his face.

“I swear, if you took that from your own bed-” Anders began.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fenris snorted. “This house has multiple guest bedrooms. I took the mattress from one of them.

“Amazing what you find lying around in a mansion,” Anders said wryly.

“Indeed.”

There was a moment of quiet where Anders studied the bed Fenris had made for him.

“You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” the mage eventually said, his voice low.

Fenris turned to see Anders poking at the berries cupped in his hand, avoiding eye contact.

“I may not have much experience with it, but I believe a key aspect of freedom is doing whatever the hell one wishes to do, whenever the hell they wish to do it.”

Anders chuckled and looked up to meet Fenris’ eye, a lopsided grin on his face.

“Something like that.”

~*~

After Anders had finished eating, Fenris left the room to allow the mage a chance to change into the clean set of clothing he’d brought with him from the clinic.

He stood outside the doorway, arms folded until Anders gave him a nudge through the bond.

When he reentered the room, it was to see the mage sitting in the same chair he’d left him in, albeit in a new change of clothing.

“Why are you not in bed, mage?” Fenris asked, puzzled.

Anders gave a halfhearted shrug, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders rising and falling with the gesture.

“I’m not tired,” he said.

“Amusing,” Fenris replied. “Now get in the bed.”

“I’m serious,” Anders insisted. “I’m wide awake!”

Fenris regarded him through narrowed eyes.

“I cannot recall ever hearing a statement so patently false,” Fenris said, “to include anything Isabela has ever said on card night.”

“Do you mean to tell me you're letting her win?”

“Don’t change the subject, mage.”

“You brought it up…” Anders said petulantly. “And regardless, I’m really not tired.”

“The dark circles under your eyes name you a liar.”

“Don’t listen to them, they’re just for the aesthetic.”

“Does memory loss and death by heart failure also beg the aesthetic?”

“Careful with the melodrama, you'll drive Varric out of business."

Fenris glowered at the mage in annoyance, but if Anders noticed, he pretended not to. 

"Why are you so intent to deprive yourself of the sleep you so desperately need?" Fenris asked, staring at the mage. 

Anders bowed his head and refused to look at Fenris, shrugging again in response.

Fenris pursed his lips, trying to grasp the reasoning behind Anders’ determination to stay awake. Anders was lying, but to what end? He must know Fenris would never be convinced by such hollow protestations. Was the mage so ill at ease in Fenris' home he'd not allow himself to let down his guard? And, if so, was it the unfamiliar environment he didn't trust, the threat of Veres discovering his whereabouts as he slept... or Fenris himself? Perhaps, it was none of those things. Perhaps Anders was driven by guilt, and he was punishing himself in an attempt to atone for some transgression he was sure he'd committed. The mage did seem the type to punish himself over actions that warranted no punishment.

However, when Fenris looked to the bond for clarification, he saw nothing to suggest that he had the right of it. He could detect no trace of guilt, nor any mistrust aimed at his person. Rather, Fenris could detect only one thing.

A looming, oppressive darkness.

It was the same darkness he’d noticed when he’d met the mage at the clinic the previous day, the last time he’d questioned Anders about his lack of sleep. At the time, it had only hovered at the edge of the connection, noticeable only upon inspection. Now, however, it was all-consuming, stifling even through the bond, and the only thing worse than the darkness itself, was the stench of fear that infested it.

“Mage?” Fenris asked, brow creasing in concern.

Anders still had his head lowered, so his face was cast in deep shadow, but upon hearing Fenris’ voice, he sat up, shaking himself vigorously. Some of the blackness retreated from Fenris’ mind, as though Anders had yanked it back through the bond the way one would an aggressive dog on a leash.

“Hmm? What?” Anders said, glancing up at Fenris halfheartedly, only to avert his gaze again a moment later.

“What was that?” Fenris asked.

“What was what?”

“Do not play coy, mage. You know what I refer to.”

“I assure you, I don’t.”

Fenris grit his teeth. He took a breath, girding for a fight, but before he could open his mouth, Anders was moving.

“Alright, alright. I’ll get in the bed,” Anders said, holding up his hands in surrender. “What must I do to get you off my back? Fetch you a ladder?” 

Fenris watched as the mage shrugged the blanket from his shoulders, chewing his tongue. It was clear Anders didn’t want to talk about the darkness, and while Fenris knew this wasn’t something he was going to let slide for a second time, it could wait until tomorrow. Perhaps, after a night of rest, the mage would be more open to talking about whatever dark thoughts held him hostage.

Anders didn’t so much as climb into the bed as he did fall into it. It was lucky that Fenris had picked the spot between the chairs and the fire for Anders’ bed, because he wasn’t sure the mage would manage more than the step it took him to reach the pile of blankets.

Reaching for the blanket he’d had wrapped around his shoulders, Anders dragged it over top of him, then looked up at Fenris accusingly.

“Happy?” he asked, voice sharp.

“Not my area of expertise,” Fenris deadpanned.

Anders stared at him, realizing the elf had made a joke in response to his barbed comment, and Fenris could tell the mage wanted to laugh by the press of his lips. Only his pride stopped him from doing so.

“I’ll say,” Anders said instead, but there was no heat in it. “And I never agreed to sleeping. You’ll have to content yourself with my being in bed. That is what you asked for, after all.” The mage held his gaze, a challenge in his eyes.

Fenris didn’t rise to it. He knew he needn't bother with trying to order the mage to sleep. He’d tested the bed himself, and when compared to the cot he knew Anders slept on, the makeshift nest may as well have been the lap of luxury. Combining that with the exhaustion that dragged at the bond, Fenris was convinced the mage would be out like a candle in a heartbeat.

Striding to his typical seat by the fire, Fenris propped his greatsword against his armchair, settled himself in the seat, and leaned back against it, folding his fingers and stretching out his legs so his heels rested on the end of Anders’ bed.

Anders looked at Fenris’ feet, then up to his face, then back to his feet again.

“I trust the bed is comfortable enough?” Fenris asked, the picture of relaxation.

“What are you doing?” Anders demanded.

Fenris looked down at himself, pretending to evaluate his own behavior, then looked back at Anders.

“I believe the term is ‘sitting’.”

Anders shot him a withering look.

“I hadn’t noticed,” the mage said sarcastically. “Though, pray tell: why are you sitting?”

“I find it more comfortable than standing,” Fenris smirked.

“Bleeding Andraste- I swear, elf-”

“I, too, possess the ability to give evasive non-answers to questions that are posed to me.”

Anders’ face reddened slightly, and Fenris could feel the annoyance bubbling under the surface of the mage’s scowl.

“I am sitting here because I am keeping watch for the man who threatened you with slow and painful death,” Fenris relented. “Should Veres have managed to learn of our whereabouts, either by following us or some other method, I should not like us to be caught with our pants down, as the saying goes.”

“Well, I’ll keep my pants on if you promise to do the same,” Anders grumbled, then added, “but I don’t need a babysitter. You can go to your room and sleep.”

“I had planned to keep watch by the fire; the rest of the mansion has a rather unpleasant draft. I’d not deprive you of privacy, should you prefer it, but I will be keeping watch, whether I do so here or in the foyer,” Fenris said, and his tone left no room for debate.

Anders muttered something under his breath.

“Fine. Have it your way, elf.”

~*~

For a long while, only the sound and light of the fire crackling in the hearth interrupted the silent darkness.

Intermittently, Fenris’ eyes would flicker from the fire to Anders’ face, only to find the mage’s eyes open each time. Whether he was impressed at the mage’s ability to resist what must be painfully tempting by this point, or vexed at his stubborn willfulness, Fenris was overall no less surprised that Anders had managed to stay awake.

He looked away from the fire again to glance at Anders, but this time the mage’s eyes met his own.

“If you’d asked me a few months ago who I thought my next slumber party would be with…” Anders mumbled.

Fenris felt his shoulders shake around a silent laugh, and he looked at the fire again.

“Indeed.”

“Although,” Anders continued, “I must say that this slumber party is rather different than the ones we had in the Circle.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

“That was allowed?”

“This may come as a shock, so stay seated,” Anders said, voice lowered to give his words the illusion of weight, “but I didn’t always follow the rules.”

“I would never have guessed,” Fenris said, feigning surprise.

“It’s true,” Anders nodded seriously, “I was quite the rebel in my youth.”

“Well, you’ve certainly grown out of such behaviour.”

“That’s right,” Anders grinned. “Now I’m a law-abiding citizen of Kirkwall with absolutely no need to hide from Templars in a dilapidated mansion. Oh, how I’ve grown.”

Fenris shook his head, amused smile playing at his lips.

“No apostasy. No shooting lightning at fools. Definitely no secret underground healer’s clinic,” Anders continued, his eyes losing their focus. He sighed, and his smile grew melancholy. “It’s the quiet life for me.”

Anders’ mention of his clinic brought a memory to Fenris’ mind.

“You said something earlier,” Fenris said, trying to remember, “as we departed your clinic -something I didn’t understand.”

Anders met his gaze with a puzzled look and shook his head uncertainly.

“I don’t…”

“‘Run, little one, run?’”

“Oh… that.” Anders muttered. “It’s nothing... just a line from a story.”

Fenris lifted his head off the back of his chair to stare at Anders.

“A story?”

“More of a tale, really,” Anders explained.

Fenris waited for several moments, but the mage didn’t continue. He cleared his throat.

“I should like to hear it,” Fenris said, then added, “if you’d not be opposed.”

Anders looked at him, searching his eyes.

“It’s a children’s tale,” the mage said, as though that would deter Fenris from wanting to hear it.

Fenris nodded to show he was listening. Anders sighed.

“Alright, but I’ve only heard it told once, so the details are a bit fuzzy. You’ll have to excuse the poor storytelling; I’m no Varric Tethras.”

“I judge that to be a good thing, else the sun would rise before you finished it.”

Anders grinned in agreement.

“How he manages to turn five-minute events into epics, I’ll never understand.” The mage shook his head, then he shifted himself among his blankets, settling in.

“Alright. So. Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Orzammar, there was a little dwarf named Davrick. Davrick was an adventurous boy, always wandering off from his parents, getting into trouble, and poking his nose in places a nose ought not to be poked. Such was his naughtiness, Davrick’s mother used to joke that a Genlock had stolen her real son and replaced him with a baby nug, because never before had there been a dwarven child capable of such mischief.”

“‘You had better stop running off, little Davrick, or one day you’ll get lost, and you’ll wind up on the surface!’ his mother would warn him over and over again, ‘and then the sun will burn you up!’ but little Davrick would just laugh and laugh, because that’s what little dwarves named Davrick do.”

“One day, while Davrick and his family were on a walk through the city, Davrick spotted a nug hole.”

“Nug hole?” Fenris asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A hole for nugs,” Anders supplied. “Yeah, I’m not really sure.” He shrugged. “Dwarves.”

“Anyway, little Davrick had always wanted a pet nug, and he was sure that his future partner-in-mischief-making was going to be found in that hole. So, he waited until he was sure his parents weren’t looking, then scampered his way over to it, and crawled inside.”

“‘Come back here, little Davrick!’ his mother called, but before she could reach into the hole and grab him, Davrick had crawled deep into the stone, out of his mother’s reach. The little dwarf grinned from ear to ear, celebrating his successful escape.”

“For a while, Davrick crawled, then he crawled some more, and he crawled some more, until he started to think that maybe he should turn around, when all of a sudden, he heard a squeak from up ahead.”

“‘It’s a nug!’ Davrick thought to himself, and he followed the sound until the tunnel opened up into a big, wide room. Looking around the dark cave, Davrick saw a bunch of little tunnels leading off in a bunch of different directions. “Which one do I pick?” Davrick wondered to himself.”

“‘Well, any old tunnel will do!’ squeaked a voice behind him, and Davrick turned around to see none other than a nug staring at him from the mouth of one of the tunnels. The little dwarf let out a shout of delight and tried to pounce on the nug, but nugs are quick, and before Davrick could reach it, the nug had turned tail and scurried down one of the tunnels.”

“‘Come back here, little nug!’ Davick yelled, crawling into the tunnel after it, to which the nug replied with a squeak, ‘You’ll never catch me!’”

“Davrick crawled as fast as his little arms and legs could crawl, following the curly tail in front of him. He crawled, and crawled, and crawled, until his knees hurt from the stone, then crawled some more, until finally the tunnel ended. Little Davrick climbed out of the nug hole, looked around, and noticed that he was in the biggest cave he’d ever been in -even bigger than the big cave of Orzammar. Davrick looked up, and far, far above his head, the ceiling of the cave glowed with tiny, twinkling lights, and there was the sound of rushing water from an underground stream somewhere nearby, but the nug was nowhere to be seen.”

“‘Come back here, little nug!’ Davrick yelled, but the nug just squeaked a laugh and ran away. ‘I didn’t come all this way for nothing,’ little Davrick declared, and he started to chase after the squeaks again.”

“Davrick ran and ran until he couldn’t run anymore, and finally, he had to stop to catch his breath. He puffed and panted, and looked for the nug, but instead of the nug, Davrick noticed a glow coming from behind him. He turned around, and way, way in the distance, he saw a light.”

“‘What’s that?’ little Davrick wondered to himself, watching the light grow brighter. Davrick had never seen anything like it, and he wondered what kind of plants grew in dirt instead of on stone, and he wondered why there were so many of them, and he wondered what kind of cave he had wandered into.”

“It wasn’t a cave,” Fenris interrupted, grinning slightly.

“Hush!” Anders insisted, glaring sternly at the elf.

“The nug Davrick had been chasing noticed that Davrick wasn’t chasing him anymore, and he backtracked until he found the little dwarf staring off into the distance.  

“‘Why’d you stop chasing me?’ asked the nug, ‘We were having so much fun!’”

“But before Davrick could ask the nug about the light at the edge of the cave, the light suddenly flashed like a mining charge. Davrick gasped and looked around, and realized that it wasn’t a cave at all! He’d accidentally crawled all the way to the surface, and now the sun was rising!”

“Oh no,” Fenris said wryly.

“Oh no,” Anders agreed with a nod.

“Davrick remembered all the times his mother had warned him about the sun, and about how it would burn him up, and Davrick got so scared, he forgot all about the nug. As fast as his legs would carry him, little Davrick started to run away from the sun.”

“The nug chased after Davrick. ‘Why are you running away?’ asked the nug. ”

“‘The sun!’ Davrick shouted, ‘it’s gonna burn me up!’”

“‘Well, then I guess you’d better keep running,’” the nug said to Davrick as he and the little dwarf raced the sun across the land. ‘Run, little one, run!’”

“So Davrick ran, and ran, and ran, and it’s said that even to this day, little Davrick is still running away from the sun that rises on the horizon, never stopping for fear that if the sun catches him, it will burn him up the way his mother always told him it would.”

Anders finished his story with a dramatic flourish of his hand and a bend at the waist.

Fenris inclined his head to the mage, and for once, he didn’t try to hide his smile.

“Thank you for the story,” he said. “I enjoyed it.”

“Don’t mention it. It is a slumber party, after all.” Anders said, winking and returning Fenris’ grin with a twisted little smile of his own.

“Might I ask why you quoted that story in particular as we left your clinic?” Fenris asked.

The smile disappeared from Anders’ face as fast as the little dwarf from his tale had disappeared down a nug hole. He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, and Fenris could feel the stress that weighed on the mage as it ebbed across the bond.

“I’ve been running my whole life,” Anders muttered eventually. “Or, most of it at any rate. I was never really happy at the Circle, but I didn’t try to escape at first. It wasn’t until after Thesa…well.” The mage bowed his head and cleared his throat roughly. “It wasn’t until I had nothing to keep me there that I tried to make a run for it. And once I did, I never stopped running.”

“Everytime they threw me back in the Circle, I’d just start plotting, planning my next escape, and when I finally broke out for good, I swore it was the last time. When I made it to Kirkwall, I swore I was done running. I set up a clinic in the darkest corner of Darktown to help some of the people I came over with from Ferelden, and people just… kept coming. There’s no shortage of suffering in a place like Kirkwall, and Justice insisted we could be of use there. So, I just tried to help as many people as I could, thinking every day would be my last, and the Templars would finally come for me.”

“I’d already resolved to never see the Circle again, so I knew that when they finally tracked me down, I was going to die fighting to keep my freedom. But they never came. My clinic drew more and more of the needy, and eventually word spread that there was somebody trying to help. ‘The Lean-to with the Lantern’ they called it. That’s where they’d tell people to go if they needed help. I didn’t ask them to, but a few of the people I’d healed organized a watch to make sure I would know if Templars were in the area. A few more of them brought me furniture for my patients, and others spread the word. The street kids would bring me herbs they found, the locals would keep an eye out for me, made sure nobody messed with the clinic when I was out. I didn’t intend it, but it became a sort of… home. My home. It’s not pretty or pleasing to look at, but it’s the only one I’ve got, and I swore nothing was going to drive me away from it.”

Anders looked up at Fenris, and Fenris could see the determination in the mage’s eyes.

“I said “run, little one run,” because despite my convictions, I was running yet again, being driven from the one place I swore I’d never be driven from. The difference is, I won’t be kept away from it forever, and Veres has another thing coming if he thinks he’s run me off.”

Fenris didn’t respond immediately, allowing himself a moment to think.

“Your clinic would survive a few days of your absence,” he said slowly. “Closing for a week to allow yourself time to heal would be of greater benefit long term.”

Anders’ eyes narrowed, and Fenris could tell the mage was readying himself to argue, so he held up a hand and finished his thought before Anders could hit his stride.

“Should Veres make another attack on your clinic tomorrow, you are in no position to stop him, and I believe your patients would agree that a few days without a healer is better than no healer at all. My understanding is that Spirit Healers are rare, and I imagine there aren’t many who would ply their trade for free in a place like Darktown.”

“I’m not a Spirit Healer anymore… not without Justice,” Anders mumbled, and Fenris could hear how much it hurt him to admit it.

“And yet you stay to help those who need you.”

He searched Anders’ eyes with his own, trying to make the man see reason.

“I am in no position to stop you from doing what you choose, Anders, and indeed, I would not do so even if I were. I can only advise caution.

Anders held his gaze for a few more seconds, the fire of denial still burning behind his irises, but eventually, logic won out. He seemed to deflate, a heavy breath passing through his lips, and he lay back against his pillow.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “Damn you.”

Fenris had to purse his lips to keep the smile off his face. That Anders had listened to reason was a noteworthy event unto itself. That Fenris had been the one to speak the reason he listened to was just short of a miracle.

“Depending upon your recovery, that week could be shortened significantly,” Fenris said placatingly.

Anders grunted, but otherwise didn’t reply, and Fenris could feel the mage’s attitude souring through the bond. He knew Anders didn’t want to stay away from his clinic, but Fenris could see no way to remedy the situation other than ensuring Anders had time to recover. Leaving the mage to his own devices while he was so weak would be too perfect a target for Veres to ignore.

Fenris frowned at the fire, thinking, looking for options.

It rankled that Anders had been deposed from the place he could most help those in need -the one place he called his own. Moreover, Fenris was certain that the mage wouldn’t listen to reason for long, and eventually, Anders would go back to his clinic -whether a killer waited there with a knife to open his throat or not. 

Fenris chewed his tongue. He did not want to risk leaving Anders alone in his weakened state… but perhaps he didn’t have to. Perhaps, there was another way.

“I may have a compromise,” he said after a moment.

Anders had been staring morosely at the ceiling, but as Fenris spoke, the mage’s eyes flitted downward to meet his. Fenris took a deep breath in through his nose, then let it out in a rush.

“Until you recover, I can keep watch for Veres at your clinic.”

Anders lifted his head, staring openly at Fenris as though he’d sprouted wings.

“You-”

“On the condition that you make your recovery your highest priority,” Fenris interrupted in a voice of iron.

Anders was eager now, obviously keen on the idea of returning to his work. He sat up.

“You’re saying you’d stay at the clinic so I can keep working?”

“No, mage, I’m saying that I know that you will continue to work whether it is in your best interest or not, and that if you agree to my terms, I’ll do what I can to ensure it doesn’t result in your death.”

“Name them.”

“First, you will only work within the limits of your ability; you will not push yourself to the breaking point or anywhere near it. You will sleep as much as you are able, and you will eat as much as you can stomach.  You will only use your magic in the most dire of circumstances, and you will not see patients outside of emergencies until you are fit to do so,” Fenris said sternly. “Are we in agreement?”

Anders was beaming now, and Fenris had the sinking suspicion that the mage was scarcely listening. Nevertheless, Anders nodded quickly.

“I accept your terms.”

“Then it is settled.” Fenris nodded at the mage’s make-shift bed. “Sleep. I’ll wake you when I think you’ve slept enough.”

Anders hesitated, his anxiety suddenly worming its way through the bond again, and Fenris could see him start to chew his lip. He waited for the mage to argue, but instead, Anders lay back against the bedding, pulled the blanket up around him, and closed his eyes.

Fenris watched him for a moment, studying the crease in the mage’s brow, the tense line of his jaw, and again he wondered why the subject of sleep was so contentious for Anders. The dark cloud was back, hovering over the mage’s consciousness like a shroud, and Fenris resolved to find the answer to that question as soon as Anders woke.

~*~

Perhaps half an hour later, Fenris could tell the mage still did not sleep. Though Anders didn’t break the silence, it was evident by the apprehension creeping through the bond, crawling along Fenris’ spine, and making his fingers twitch. A large part of him insisted that cutting to the chase and questioning the mage directly was the only course of action, but the grounded part of Fenris could already tell that dredging up the origin of Anders’ anxiety would do anything but help him sleep.

Not for the first time, Fenris wished he had something of substance to feed the mage. It was easier to sleep when one did not have hunger clawing at their insides, but there was nothing to be done for it, and though he racked his brains, Fenris could not see a way to ease Anders’ strain without knowing its origin.

Even still, the mage’s restlessness was contagious, and Fenris felt seconds away from crawling out of his skin. So, he decided to do what he normally did when plagued by stress with no solution: he decided to meditate.

Fenris rose from his chair, taking care not to jostle the mage’s bed, and moved away from the fire. Folding his legs under him, Fenris placed his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, and took deep, calming breaths in through his mouth, and out through his nose. He repeated this several times until he was able to separate himself from the stress at the back of his mind -not smothering the anxiety, but allowing it to flow past his consciousness without the two blending together, as oil and water.

He changed positions, stretching his legs before him and bending at the waist, feeling the stretch and burn of muscle, willing the heat to be a distraction. His breath left him in a quiet hum, the tone rising and falling in a subdued melody, and he allowed fonder memories to replace the bond’s disquiet.

‘The earth takes what we give her without complaint, for all energy has its place,

and that which can no longer be borne by her children, should be returned to her embrace.’

Shifting again, he planted his hands against the ground, and the hum of his voice raised slightly, the song accompanied by the voices of the Fog Warriors in his memory. With practiced balance, Fenris used the constriction of his core to lift his feet from the ground, feeling the press of his palms against the stone.

‘The earth takes what we give her without judgement, for all energy has its place, 

and that which can no longer be carried by her children, must be returned to her embrace.’

Fenris’ hum traced the mantra in his head, the melody solemn and peaceful. He lowered himself to his forearms, breathed, then kicked his legs upward in a fluid, seamless movement. Body curved like a bow, he closed his eyes, and hummed the final stanza.

‘The earth takes what we give her without reproach, for all energy has its place, 

and that which can no longer be endured by her children, will be returned to her embrace.’

The last note passed his lips and Fenris fell silent. He held the pose a moment longer, then slowly lowered his feet from over his head, and resumed his initial position. He breathed in through his mouth, and out through his nose, feeling the familiar peace of sanvesh fill his mind. 

Not allowing himself to hesitate, Fenris steadied himself and looked inward to evaluate the bond.

It was quiet -more quiet than Fenris had experienced in all the time he’d been bonded to Anders. All trace of the mage’s anxiety had gone from the connection, and now the only thing that remained to betray the bond’s existence was a wisp of energy that felt inexplicably like the color blue. Fenris let out a soft, relieved breath. 

Standing, he moved back to his chair, bare feet brushing over the cold, stone floor, and he sank into the seat slowly, careful to avoid bumping the mage’s bed. As he peered down at Anders’ face, Fenris was half convinced he’d find the mage awake. 

Instead, for the first time ever, Fenris saw the blank, open face of Anders in deep, untroubled sleep. 

He let his eyes rove over the mage, cataloging the differences in Anders’ features -the vast changes to his appearance wrought by illness- with an iron grip around the last of his sanvesh -given peace to ground him. Guilt rose like bile in his chest, stemming not from the act of looking so closely at the changes in Anders’ face, but from having done not a thing to prevent them.

Fenris couldn’t have looked away from Anders now if he’d wanted to, and he didn’t even try to summon the willpower necessary to consider why that was. It was all he could do to take in Anders’ face, illuminated by the flicker of firelight, vulnerable in the cradle of unconsciousness.

Stubble adorned a strong jaw and hollow cheeks, wrapped around pale lips, trailed down a sallow throat. 

Tousled hair, still damp in places from the rain, patches of dark brown hidden amongst the gold. 

Freckles bridged across a hooked nose, and cheekbones that should never be so prominent. 

Breath that came slow and steady, measured, and mercifully unlaboured. 

Closed, honey-colored eyes rested in a bed of deep purple bruises.

All these were details Fenris had seen many times in the past,

But somehow, he had never truly noticed them before.

And now, as the man to whom they belong slept,

Fenris was left awake to wonder

If they had always

Been 

So beautiful.

Chapter Text

~Anders~

<<<<< >>>>>

He's sitting in a hot, stuffy room lit mostly by candlelight, immersed in the scents of sweat, old books and new parchment. The room's only window is open as far as it will go, but the breeze let in by the three-inch gap isn’t nearly enough to cut the heat. An enchanter is standing at the front of the class, droning on and on, his monotone voice detailing the magical properties of an alchemical ingredient. Wyvern venom, Anders recalls easily, though not because he’s paying attention to the lecture.

Anders knows he is dreaming. Mages often find themselves lucid in sleep owing to their close connection with the Fade, and Anders is no exception to this phenomenon. He’s had this dream many times before -this dream of a boring class in Kinloch Hold. 

It used to bother him. Now... he welcomes it with open arms. 

It had to happen eventually, he supposes; one cannot evade sleep forever, even one as determined as Anders. He remembers fighting against the blackness, the warmth and crackle of the hearth, and the soothing weight of the soft, heavy blankets Fenris had collected for him pressing down his anxiety. He’d been fighting a losing battle to stay awake from the start, his exhausted body demanding rest he was unwilling to give it, and when Fenris had started to hum that little tune of his? Well. 

Anders hadn’t stood a chance. 

The scratch of a quill against parchment reaches him. He already knows the source of the sound, and as Anders looks to his right, he is met by the sight of Thesa, bent over a half-finished drawing. She has her tongue between her teeth and is also most-assuredly paying the lecture no mind. A small, wistful smile plays at the corners of Anders' mouth, and he allows himself to stare openly, taking in the details of her profile while he can. 

Every time he has this dream, his old friend seems to grow a little bit younger... a bit more carefree. Anders knows it’s just the masque of relativity that makes her seem so different; she is unchanging, forever unweathered by the years that have etched themselves into Anders’ skin…. sheltered by her fate from the lifetime of sorrows his heart has already borne witness to. The differences he perceives lie in nothing more than the passing of hours -of linear time, relentless, dragging them apart. And as the distance between them widens, so too does the contrast between their faces, each day growing ever bolder. 

"Ms.Cardith," the enchanter says loudly, predictably, from the front of the room, "list two of the properties wyvern venom shares with Felandaris, seeing as you're paying such close attention."

"Paralysis and hallucination are the primary properties shared between Felandaris and wyvern venom,” Thesa recites effortlessly, looking up at the enchanter, and while she manages to keep the insolence out of her tone, the look on her face isn’t fooling anybody. “However, they do have a secondary trait of curing warts when small doses are combined, diluted with elfroot extract, and administered via poultice," she finishes drily. 

The enchanter does his best to temper his frustrations behind a stern scowl, disappointed that, as usual, Thesa has managed to answer correctly despite her obvious distraction. "That is correct," he says curtly before returning to his lesson, already concocting a more difficult question to spring on her later.

Anders watches all this happen, letting the words flow in one ear and out the other; he could have recited the conversation from memory so frequently had he had this dream. When Thesa turns to him, a smug smirk on her face and a twinkle of mischief in her eye, emotion floods his chest, and as every time before, Anders wishes he could reach for her, pull her into an embrace, and find her solid and warm against his chest. To save himself the bitter disappointment, he just smiles back as she returns to her drawing.

He’d tried before... to hug her, to talk to her, to simply leave the room. Once, he’d even tried to hurl an inkwell at the enchanter in frustration, goaded on by the temptation of seeing what the droll mage looked like in a set of ink-splattered robes. If this had been a real dream, it would have worked.

But it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a vision crafted in the Fade. It wasn’t subject to his whims. It was a memory, and therefore as immutable as time itself.

Time rewinds for no one, regardless of regrets. 

And so, as the room darkens around him, as this memory of a class in Kinloch Hold comes to a close, Anders settles for watching his old friend sketch the outline of a mighty wyvern across her notes. 

When the familiar storm of apprehension over the approaching unknown starts to build at the fringe of his consciousness, Anders focuses on the little line of concentration between her eyebrows.

And as the sound of Thesa’s quill fades back into the past, Anders closes his eyes, braces himself, and tries very hard not to remember her future.

~*~

When the sound of birdsong reaches his ears, Anders’ eyes snap open in surprise. For a moment, he thinks he’s awake, his senses registering the smell of green, growing things and the feeling of dirt beneath him. Even his most convincing dreams aren’t this detailed. It isn’t until he sits up and looks around him that Anders accepts that this is a dream, albeit an incredibly realistic one.

Around him is a vast, open meadow of wildflowers, the blooms dancing at the behest of a breeze under the warm eye of a midday sun. His skin is bare, save a pair of breeches, and he is seated on a comfortable hummock of grass.

This is a far cry from what he’d been expecting.

A quiet huff alerts him to another presence, and Anders twists to see the blue glow of a spirit wolf settled in the grass at his side, its head on its paws. It has the same overall shape and size as the one Marethari conjured during her story, but this one is whole, corporeal, and Anders can tell that if he were to reach out and touch the wolf, his hand wouldn’t phase through like it had with the Keeper's beast of transient sparks. Anders doesn't spare more than a few seconds wondering why there's a spirit wolf in his dream, (it is a dream after all,) and as the beast rests quietly beside him, unobtrusive and calm, Anders finds he is glad of its company.

On the wolf’s other side, stretched out on his back and trailing a hand lazily through the wolf’s fur, is Fenris. The elf wears a pair of linen breeches and a patched tunic, but the material looks soft and comfortable, appropriate for the mild weather. The elf’s eyes are closed as though in sleep, but as Anders watches, they open and stare up at the sky. Fenris sits up slowly and studies his surroundings, his face clear of all emotion, save mild curiosity. Upon spotting Anders, the elf’s eyes drop down to trace over his chest, seemingly without leave to do so, and a look of contentment crosses Fenris' face. Following his gaze, Anders looks down at his own chest, and instead of the ridges of bone he’s become accustomed to recently, he sees his ribs are once again padded with a healthy layer of fat. 

‘This is a dream,’ Fenris states after a moment, and Anders looks up again to see Fenris’ smile fading as the elf takes in the spirit wolf between them and realization settles in. The elf's mouth doesn’t move as he speaks; Fenris is speaking through their bond... even in dreams. 

‘Yes,’ Anders answers through the bond in return, though it hadn’t been a question.

‘Pity,’ the elf says quietly, absentmindedly, and an unexplainable twist of wistfulness winds its way through the bond. Anders wants to ask him what he means by that.

Fenris runs a hand through the spirit wolf’s fur again, and the great beast turns to press its head against his torso. The wolf is so large, its head takes up the entire breadth of the elf's lap. Despite the melancholy Anders can feel from the bond, Fenris’ mouth twists into a smile as he scratches behind the spirit wolf’s ears fondly.

Abruptly curious, Anders appraises the elf across from him openly. He can't recall a time Fenris has ever featured in his dreams before -or at least not as the laid-back elf before him now. Even so, Anders realizes Fenris' presence in this dream feels entirely natural. In fact, he senses that the elf is an innate part of the meadow itself, and that if Fenris were to leave him here alone in this vast, open field, much of the meadow's splendor would go with him. It’s better with him here, somehow. 

And besides, Anders supposes that It's nice to see Fenris looking so… dare he say it? Happy?

He doesn’t comment on it, but the thought brings a smile to Anders’ lips.

‘Do you know where we are?’ Anders asks instead, looking around them at the meadow again. In the distance he can see snow-capped mountains, and somewhere nearby, a brook babbles melodically as water splashes over unseen rocks. It’s a magnificent place, and while Anders can’t remember ever seeing anything like it before, it feels intrinsically familiar, like the home he’s never had.

‘No,’ Fenris answers, eyes roving over the wildflowers. ‘...But I feel as though I should.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Anders says, and Fenris nods in agreement.

They sit there for a while, enjoying the sun, quiet but for the sounds of their breathing. In their silence, the birdsong fills the meadow, reaching any shadows missed by the warmth of the sun, filling tiny gaps left between the sweet scents of wildflowers. The melody is soothing, and as Anders listens to it, he realizes it's also one he recognizes. The birds are singing the same tune Fenris was humming as Anders fell asleep.

A heartbeat after he's made the connection, a whistled harmony joins the birdsong. Turning toward the sound, Anders is met by the sight of Fenris, thumbs pressed to his lips, utilizing a tall blade of grass as his instrument. The elf's pitch is impeccable, rising and falling over the gentle notes, first shining in a solo, then easing back under the birdsong, and Anders wonders how a single blade of grass in the right hands -in Fenris' hands- can outperform the whole of the Grand Cathedral choir.

It only takes a few moments for Anders to be lulled into serenity. This is about as far from what he’d been expecting as possible, but he isn’t inclined to look a gift griffon in the beak. Anders lays back against the grass, letting the melody of Fenris’ music wash over him, relishing in the cool breeze and the dirt between his toes. 

As his eyes slide shut, Anders finds himself wondering if it’s possible for one to fall asleep inside their own dream.

His own gentle snores answer his question.

~Fenris~

In the waking world, a blade of grass only works as a whistle for a few minutes before becoming filled with ragged holes and refusing to produce a note. As such, Fenris is surprised to find he is able to finish his song using just the one, and even more so that upon whistling his last note, the blade of grass looks as pristine as it had when he’d plucked it.

This was a peculiar dream indeed, though certainly not an unpleasant one. That the mage was here as well did not detract from the beauty of the scenery as it might once have done, and rather, Anders being here in the meadow with him feels as natural as the warmth of the sun on his face.

Turning to look at the mage, Fenris is amused to find the man has fallen asleep, his head resting on the cushion of a bent arm. He looks healthy: no trace of the lurid purple bruises linger beneath his eyes, his ribcage one again away hidden from sight, and Fenris feels his heart clench in his chest, knowing that once he wakes -once this brief respite ends- so too will this illusion of Anders’ good health. 

Before the bitter thought has a chance to take root in his mind, however, the mage lets out a loud snore, effectively stonewalling Fenris’ melancholy before it can take root. Anders shuffles over onto his side, blocking out the light of the sun with a free hand and murmuring in his sleep, and Fenris can’t help but smile. He forces the negative thoughts away. For now, Anders is resting. Fenris lets himself be content with that. 

As he watches the sleeping mage, Fenris becomes aware of a prodding in the back of his mind, like a thought or memory he can’t quite recall. Something he was supposed to be doing… something he was responsible for. He presses his tongue between his teeth, trying to remember that which hovers just out of reach, but the serenity of the meadow makes worry difficult, and after a moment, Fenris lets the feeling go. There is little point in worrying about something when surrounded by such beauty, he supposes, eyes casting about the meadow before returning to the sleeping mage.

The spirit wolf between them lifts its head from its paws once again, and Fenris meets the beasts’ eyes. He reaches out a hand to brush along the wolf’s starry muzzle and the wolf presses against his touch encouragingly. 

Fenris scratches beneath the wolf’s chin, and soon he hears the thump of the beast’s twin tails against grass.

“All your magnificence does not make you immune to the power of chin scratches, does it?”

The wolf lets out an unmistakably indignant huff and nudges Fenris with enough strength to send the elf toppling backwards into the soft grass.

Laughing, Fenris pushes himself up and ruffles a hand between the wolf’s ears fondly. Its behaviour could only superficially be compared to that of an ordinary canine's. Even mabari that display intelligence far surpassing a typical hound’s can't quite match the wisdom that shines from the spirit wolf’s eyes. The aura it gives off is much like that of the meadow itself -relaxed and at peace, but it’s more than that, Fenris knows. A hidden depth rests in those bright, solemn eyes. 

“Yes, I understand. You are the mighty ruler of this meadow and won’t stand for mockery in your kingdom,” Fenris chuckles. “As true as it may be…”

The wolf, whose eyes had initially closed in agreement, gives a grunt of annoyance and glares at Fenris sternly. Fenris raises his eyebrows in a playful challenge.

Pretending to ignore Fenris, the wolf turns its gaze idly toward the distant mountains. As soon as the elf follows its gaze, letting his guard down, the wolf gives him another firm nudge with its snout and sends the elf sprawling once more.

“Alright, alright,” Fenris says around another laugh from his spot among the wildflowers. “Truce.”

He stays like that, spread out on his back facing the sky. His thoughts wander without direction, flitting from one topic to the next without lingering longer than a few seconds at a time.

‘This is a good dream,’ he decides, eyes drifting across the sea of clouds that meander across the sky.

<<<<< >>>>>>

Sunlight warming the skin on his cheek and shoulder was the first thing that filtered through Fenris’ haze of sleep. For a moment, he thought he was still in the meadow, relaxing under the warm sun, but the crick in his neck rudely informed him otherwise. Well, that, and the mansion did not smell even a fraction as nice as the wildflowers. Alas, it wasn't until he was blinking sleep from his eyes that his wits returned to him.

Kaffas! He was supposed to be keeping watch!

Fenris jolted awake, hand automatically clamping around the grip of Lethendralis next to him. His eyes flew around the sunlit hearthroom, ears straining to pick up the sound of anything amiss, convinced every darkened shadow held a deadly silhouette, poised and ready to run him through with a blade. Instead, he found the room empty, save Anders and himself, and the only sound that met his ears was the mage snoring lightly at his feet.

Attempting to quell the startled gallop of his heartbeat, Fenris took several deep breaths, forcing his fingers to unweld themselves from the haft of his sword. He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes, chasing the vestiges of sleep from his mind. Fenris begrudgingly admitted the mage wasn't the only one who needed sleep; he himself had been in desperate need of rest as well. Though dozing off when one is supposed to be keeping watch is as big a blunder one can make.

Fenris hadn’t meant to fall asleep, determined as he was to watch for Veres through the night, but he hadn’t even noticed himself drifting off -hadn’t even been given a chance to avoid it. One moment he'd been watching Anders, studying the mage’s face and trying to remember what he'd looked like before the bond-rot had stripped the life from him, and the next he was startling awake. How long he'd sat there, staring at Anders as he slept, Fenris couldn't say. It could have been hours that he watched the mage, or it could have been mere minutes, but at some point during the course of his observations, he’d surrendered to sleep’s embrace without even a token protestation. Marethari had mentioned something about bondmates sleeping better whilst next to one another. Fenris suspected this may be the culprit behind his drifting off at his post, and he wondered how to prevent it happening again in the future.

Looking down at Anders again, Fenris realized the mage was still asleep, and judging by the height of the sun, he’d done so until at least midday. The mage’s deep, slow breaths were calming, and Fenris felt satisfaction and relief sweep over him in equal measure. Now, finally, Anders could begin to recover. The only other thing he needed was food.

This left Fenris in a bit of a predicament. On one hand, the market was open now, and if he were going to stock up on food, he should leave soon, lest it close before he got there. On the other hand, he was wary of leaving the mage alone and vulnerable, even for a short time, and Fenris was far from keen on the idea of waking the mage now -not when Anders was finally asleep.

Weighing his options, Fenris estimated that while Veres’ strong suit was clearly not his intellect, the man was at least intelligent enough to forgo staging an attack in the middle of a bustling, sunlit Hightown without an accompaniment of Templars to back him. That was even assuming the man knew where he and Anders were hiding.

Anders should be safe enough for the moment, Fenris decided.

Having settled on a course, Fenris retrieved his armor and readied to leave, strapping on his breastplate and gauntlets, and slinging Lethendralis over his shoulder. He looked down at Anders once more, debating whether or not he should rouse the mage to tell him where he was going.

Anders looked better already, Fenris noted. Much of the weariness had gone from his face, some of the bruising under his eyes fading. The sunlight slanting through the window washed over the mage as Fenris watched, turning Anders' hair a brilliant golden color.

And when Anders burrowed deeper into the blankets to escape the daylight just as he’d done in Fenris’ dream, Fenris found himself smiling.

~*~

The market was crowded with shoppers by the time Fenris arrived. He did not like crowds, but he did find them useful; it was easier to blend in and maintain anonymity when surrounded by dozens of people.

Having already visited Cordyline’s bustling stand, enduring the long line to purchase several loaves of her signature dark bread and a pair of Topsiders, Fenris was now perusing a stand of fresh vegetables, mulling over the ways he could make them more appetizing. When somebody tapped him on the shoulder, Fenris had to suppress the urge to reach for his greatsword, and it wasn't until he turned to see none other than Holly standing at his shoulder that he relaxed. She was pink in the cheeks from the sun, and Fenris could see she clutched a piece of parchment in her hand.

“Fenris,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, “I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Holly,” Fenris replied casually, “what is it-?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Anders recently? I went to the clinic this morning, but he wasn’t there. He left this note…” she unfolded it and held it out to him. “It says he was going to stay with Hawke for the night, but I’ve just been to Hawke’s house, and he hasn’t seen Anders anywhere,” Holly finished in a rush.

Fenris didn’t take the proffered note; even without the ability to read, he knew it was the same paper Anders had left in the clinic the night prior. He repressed the urge to sigh; somehow he’d known that note was going to backfire. How was he supposed to explain to Holly that Anders was perfectly safe, and that he’d be back at the clinic soon without revealing to her that the mage was staying at the mansion? Besides wanting to keep their relationship secret, Fenris had no desire to broach such an awkward subject with somebody he barely knew. 

Well, Anders would just have to explain to her himself. The mage had gotten himself into this mess, and Fenris wasn’t about to undertake the uncomfortable conversation for him.

Holly was still looking at him, awaiting his answer.

“No, I haven’t seen Anders-” Fenris started to lie, but before he could finish, his eyes went wide as the back of his head was abruptly awash in a terrible, all-consuming dread.

Anders! 

Without even a backward glance, Fenris dropped the parcels of food and took off at a dead sprint back toward the mansion. Thoughts of Veres, breaking down the front door, striding to the defenseless mage, slitting his throat as he slept crowded into Fenris’ head, driving his feet against the paved stones at a blistering pace. He could hear Holly calling after him, the angry voices of Hightown shoppers he shoved past, the blood thundering in his ears; he ignored them all. 

He’d left the mage alone, knowing full well that Veres was waiting for an opportunity; he’d practically served Anders up on a silver platter. Fenris cursed himself. 

‘Anders!’ he shouted through the bond, ‘What is it?! Who’s there!?’ 

His only response was terror.

~Anders~

<<<<< >>>>>

Shackles around his wrists. Cold stone. The sound of his own breath reverberating back at him. He can’t move. He can’t see. Darkness perpetual. Darkness implacable. Darkness that smothers the very last of light’s pathetic, feeble memory.

Anders tries to calm his breathing -knows the overwhelming panic is his own and thus must be controlled by him -must be contained by him. But the shadows are laughing now, and the sound echoes off the stone -off the bars of his cage -off the ceiling so impossibly low. 

They won’t come for him again. This is it. They won’t let him out again. He's going to die down here. This will be the rest of his life.

Nothing but the laughing shadows to witness his death. Nothing but the merciless stone of a tower cell and the ghosts that walk it to remember his bones.

<<<<< >>>>>>

Anders is yanked back to consciousness by a panicked grip upon his shoulder, claws of sharpened steel digging into his skin, a familiar voice...

“Wake up!” demands the voice. “Wake up, mage!”

Anders jolts upright into a sitting position, his face nearly smacking into Fenris’ own in his haste. He heaves for breath, scrambles backwards away from the elf. The light of the sun drags Anders level with reality. He’s awake, he’s in Fenris’ mansion, he’s in the bed Fenris made for him.

A dream. Just a dream.

Anders clutches his chest and breathes, wills the adrenaline to fade.

Fenris is staring at him, eyes wild, panting as though he’s just sprinted all the way from Ostwick.

Right, time to act normal.

“Ah- sorry to bother. How long was I out?”

This was clearly not the right thing to say, however.

“How long-” Fenris looks at him as though he’s gone mad. “How long were you out? Have you any idea-”

Fenris stood from his crouched position among the nest of blankets to pace, apparently working off some of his own adrenaline. Anders could feel the bond going haywire at the back of his mind, Fenris’ distress echoing loud and clear in his own head.

“Oh,” Anders realized, putting the pieces together, “Oh, I see what happened.”

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” Fenris hissed, raking his hands through his hair.

“Er…” Anders started, “Sorry?”

“You will be the death of me, mage, I swear it.”

“I... “ Anders cleared his throat. “I’m… ah- sorry for waking you?”

“Waking me?! Vishante Kaffas! No, you blasted-" Fenris' hands clenched themselves into fists. "I leave the house for scant seconds to find you something to eat, and suddenly my head lights up like a Satanalia lights display. I thought you were- I thought Veres-"

“Anders!”

Holly, red-faced and panting, appeared in the doorway, juggling a set of packages in her arms.

“Ah, yes. Holly is searching for you, by the way,” Fenris said through gritted teeth.

Holly set her armful of parcels down on one of the armchairs, then shot Fenris a downright nasty look full of accusation.

“So, you 'haven't seen him', huh?" Holly shook her head in disgust, then turned back to Anders. "Your note said you were staying with Hawke! Ya know, it's funny ,” she said, looking around sarcastically at the mansion walls, "but this doesn't look like Hawke's estate."

“Fancy that,” Anders said weakly.

"Start talking, mage," Fenris' snapped, but even as Anders opened his mouth to reply, Holly interrupted.

"No, hold it right there. What gives you the right to be barking orders at him like that? I ask you if you've seen him recently and you have the gall -the nerve - to lie to my face and say you haven't! Just who the hell do you think you are?" Holly growled in a display more hostile than Anders thought her capable of.

"Holly-" Anders started awkwardly, but she didn't let him finish.

"No, Anders, I asked Fenris a question, and by Andraste's blazing bush, I will have an answer."

Fenris' eyes glittered coldly, and if the bond sparking with his indignant fury wasn't clear enough, anybody could see the elf’s anger in the set of his jaw and the curl of his lip.

"An excellent question. One deserving of an answer." At this Fenris' turned toward Anders, and it didn't escape his notice that the elf's gaze softened ever so slightly when he met Anders'.

"Well, Anders? Who am I to make such demands about your safety?" Fenris asked, his tone acidic.

Anders sighed, then met Holly's eyes with a resigned air.

"He's my bondmate."

Chapter Text

~Anders~

The range of expression Holly’s face went through was truly a sight to behold. 

First came incomprehension in the form of a blank stare, followed closely by the knitting of her brow in confusion’s wake. She shook her head slightly, eyes flitting between the two of them, and a corner of her mouth lifted as though she’d decided they must be joking, only to fall again as she realized neither he nor Fenris was smiling. Eventually, there came the stammering, “I- you- but…” and finally, her expression settling on bewildered, “What!?”

Anders opened his mouth to reply, but Holly was still in the midst of processing this new information, and she did so vocally.

“Wait- so, when did- why are you- how long-?” Holly couldn’t even finish asking a question before another took priority over it, but eventually she managed. 

“What in the 17 bloody voids do you mean he’s your ‘bondmate?!’”

Anders looked over at Fenris pleadingly. ‘A little help?’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Bastard.’

Meanwhile, Holly continued. "Fenris? You mean this Fenris? This guy right here?" she asked, gesturing ardently at the elf opposite her. "The one you swore up and down hates your guts?"

Anders winced slightly. "I didn't phrase it exactly like-"

"You're telling me he's your bondmate . As in you’re soul-bonded. As in your spirits are tied together inseparably for the rest of your lives.” Holly shook her head again. “Here I thought Keeper Marethari cured you, but if you're having delusions then I guess we missed something."

A tinge of pink had crept into Anders’ cheeks at this point, and he knew Fenris could feel his embarrassment. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Ah… Surprise?”

"This is a joke, right? You two're just havin' a laugh, yeah?"

"Holly-" Anders tried. No such luck.

"I mean you should at least smile if you're not gonna give us the punchline, but that’s a good one! You really had me going for a second there."

“Holly-”

“You’ve got an excellent Grace Face. I couldn’t even tell you were bluffing-”

“Holly!” 

Patience finally wearing through, Anders gave into baser impulse and shouted over Holly’s rambling, cutting it short. At last, his friend paused long enough to let him get a word in edgewise.

“I get it, alright? I understand. The very thought of Fenris and I being bonded is very funny. It’s hilarious , and ironic , and so terribly outlandish that it may as well be one of Varric’s tall tales, but it’s true.” Anders continued without pause, not giving Holly a chance to start in again.

“A lot of things have happened over the last couple of months -things that even we don’t fully understand yet,” Anders said, gesturing between himself and Fenris. “We’re still figuring this whole situation out -how things are supposed to work between us -how to just… exist in each other’s company without each of us wanting to rip the other’s heart out. We’re stumbling around in the dark, tripping over shit, trying not to step on each other’s toes, and Maker, Holly, it hasn’t been anywhere close to easy.” 

Anders could feel his hands shake with tension and he wound them into the blankets bunched around his waist in an effort to conceal it. When Anders glanced over at Fenris and met the elf’s eyes, he knew he wasn’t alone. He saw the stress in Fenris’ posture, his crossed arms, and he could feel the bond that was wound tighter than a loaded crossbow.

Anders let out a heavy sigh. He knew what he had to do, but the idea alone made him feel ashamed. He turned to face Holly again, gathering his resolve.

“I know you have questions -believe me, you’re not alone; I’ve never had so many questions in my life. I promise I’ll answer them as soon as possible, but for now- at the risk of sounding like the biggest arse this side of Orlais…" He took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. "I have to ask you to leave.”

Holly had never been very good at hiding her emotions, though Anders suspected it was due to the fact that she’d never so much as tried . How she went about speaking her mind would change to fit the topic, but her face was always an open book, and right now he could read the confusion, curiosity, and hurt clearly written on its pages. 

For a moment she did nothing but search Anders’ gaze, and he tried wordlessly to communicate his regret at asking her to go, asking for her forgiveness -for her understanding. Eventually, she looked away from him, appraising Fenris through narrowed eyes. She raised her chin defiantly, obviously noticing the elf’s unwelcoming posture. 

“Just tell me one thing,” she said, giving Fenris one last hard stare before returning her eyes to Anders’ own. “Are you going to be okay?”

A question with many different meanings, and loaded no matter which taken.

Are you going to be okay alone with him?

Are you getting better?

Are you safe?

Anders made an attempt at a laugh, but the harsh, bitter sound he ended up with didn’t quite meet the mark.

“Do I have a choice?” he said, hating the hollowness in his voice.

“You always have a choice,” Holly replied, unusually solemn. 

Anders bowed his head for a moment, and two sets of eyes followed his movement. Unconsciously, his eyes flicked over to meet Fenris’.

Not always.

~*~

Holly left quietly.

The murmured farewell she offered as she closed the door behind her spoke of a heavy heart, and Anders felt guilt rise in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to send her away, and already he missed the feeling of having somebody on his side. In the end, this was simply a discussion he and Fenris needed to have alone.

When the rattle of the front door stopped and the mansion was once again quiet, Anders sagged under the weight of the stress on his shoulders, a long breath escaping from his lungs. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Fenris’ heavy stare, though he felt it burning against the back of his neck. The silence stretched between them, neither willing to be the first to break it.

Eventually, Fenris let out a frustrated growl.

“Enough of this! If we are ever to see this issue resolved, you must tell me-”

“They’re nightmares, Fenris.” Anders finally forced himself to say, though his eyes didn’t meet his bondmate’s. He stared at his hands. “They’re just… really bad dreams.”

For a long moment, Fenris didn’t respond, and finally Anders looked up to see the elf watching him carefully, his expression reserved. 

"I’d had nightmares before, of course, but they got worse after I became a Grey Warden. They're one of the first things you're told to expect after you undergo the ritual. Apparently, during a blight, the dreams connect us with the darkspawn, give us insight into how the horde moves, their plans…” Anders scrubbed a hand across his face.

“But when there’s not a Blight -when there’s no archdemon to rally them- the darkspawn don’t have much cohesive thought. Just echoes of small groups and their hunt for a new archdemon to lead them. What the Wardens don’t tell you is that the nightmares don’t go away in the meantime. They just... shift subjects.”

“These are not new dreams, then? You have had them before?” Fenris asked.

“Yes,” Anders sighed. “It’s just... been awhile.”

“And this is what’s causing your unwillingness to sleep?”

Anders gave him a sidelong glance. 

“Picked up on that, did you?” he asked drily, shooting for levity, but Fenris didn’t laugh. 

“It has been difficult not to,” the elf murmured. His tone was gentle, and sounded almost… sad. 

Before Anders could puzzle out the mystery behind Fenris’ tone, he was brought up short by the potential implication of his words. Anders' eyes unfocused for a moment and he stared down at his blankets, unseeing, processing. A question had occurred to him, but Anders was reluctant to give it voice. For a time, it simply ricocheted around his brain as he tried to think of a way to phrase it. There was little point trying to keep it from Fenris -he knew that. The elf would figure it out eventually, if he hadn’t already, but even as Anders took a breath to ask it, he hesitated.

“Can you…?” Anders started, then trailed off, chewing his tongue.

“Can I what, Anders?”

Anders’ breath audibly caught at hearing the elf speak his name. Fenris so rarely called him anything other than ‘mage’ that it was noteworthy when it happened, but it was the tone he used that had struck Anders speechless. He looked up at Fenris from among his blanket nest, lips parted around the question that had effectively been driven from his mind. The elf was watching him with interest, a burning intensity behind those emerald eyes that nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. For several seconds, Anders could do no more than return Fenris’ stare, immersed in a gaze of green and sun-caught gold.

“I… ah-” Anders stammered. “I- uhm… what? Sorry?”

The elf raised an eyebrow.

“You were asking me a question,” Fenris supplied, “or, perhaps, making a request?”

“I was?” Anders shook his head, dazed. “Sorry, I- ahem.” Anders cleared his throat and forced himself to look away from the elf, attempting to corral his scattered thoughts. "I don't remember…" he lied. "Head's still foggy." 

Fenris’ feet were almost silent on the stone floor of the mansion as the elf moved a few paces away, and Anders heard a rustle as he dug for something among the parcels Holly had dropped in the armchair. A moment later, the strong smell of spices hit him like a canon, and Anders’ mouth watered involuntarily. The package in Fenris' hands was wrapped in a familiar brown paper.

“I am glad Holly had the wherewithal to retrieve these,” Fenris said, gesturing to the packages in the armchair before turning back toward Anders.

The mattress shifted under Anders as the elf stepped into the mess of blankets, and without ceremony, lowered himself gracefully to sit beside Anders. Anders could do no more than stare, blatantly agog that Fenris had not only chosen to sit next to him, but to join him in bed. The elf, apparently thinking nothing of it, unwrapped one of the parcels in his lap, then gathered the bundle of wrappings and passed it to Anders. Still gawking openly, it wasn’t until the elf made eye contact that Anders snapped out his daze and took the food. 

“Oh, ah- thanks. Thank you,” he stammered, rushing to take the food from Fenris. His hand knocked against the elf’s as he clumsily took the sandwich from him, and the contact appeared to jolt Fenris back to his wits. As though realizing where he was, the elf froze, his eyes darting from Anders to the bed they were both now sitting in, then back to Anders.

Where once Anders would have bristled at the elf for invading his space, the very thought of doing so now made Anders’ heart clench. Quite to the contrary, he welcomed the elf’s proximity, and not only because it meant Fenris trusted him enough to grant it. Still, Anders could tell from the elf’s rigid posture at his side that Fenris was readying to bolt up and retreat to his usual safe distance.

Rather than ask the elf to stay - rather than acknowledge the awkwardness or clear a space for him, Anders pretended like nothing at all unusual was happening. Instead he directed all his attention away from Fenris and honed in on his sandwich.

“Mmmmm…” Anders hummed, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply before setting the wrappings in his lap. “I knew I recognized that smell!” He rubbed his hands together and lifted one half of the Topsider to his mouth. “Come here, beautiful,” he cooed, then took an enormous bite from the sandwich, savoring the flavor as it rolled over his tongue.

Fenris was watching him now, and Anders could tell the elf was wavering, apparently still trying to determine whether Anders noticed his proximity or not. Anders continued to pretend the only thing he cared about was the sandwich.

“What is in this sauce?” Anders groaned around another huge mouthful of his food. Amusement filtered through the bond, and Anders let himself celebrate a small victory as Fenris slowly relaxed next to him, the elf apparently having concluded that his position on the bed had escaped either notice or interest.

They sat like that while they ate, Anders reveling in the taste of the food and, privately, the elf’s closeness. He added the cost of the sandwich to his mental tally of how much coin he owed Fenris, but otherwise didn’t protest, knowing the elf would take exception. He ate the whole of his portion before flopping back onto his pillow with a contented sigh, settling with one knee pressing against the elf’s folded legs through the blankets. Fenris didn’t object to the contact, and nor did he move away. Anders felt a thrill race through his chest. 

‘That was delicious,’ Anders said through their bond, willing his heartbeat to return to a normal pace. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are welcome.’

Fenris collected the wrappings from their meal and set them beside the bed. Anders felt sleepy and relaxed. His stomach full for the first time in ages, the fire warm, Fenris sitting next to him… before he knew it, his eyelids were drooping dangerously. Upon recognizing that fact, a jolt of panic went through Anders and he sat up hurriedly, only to meet Fenris’ troubled gaze as he did. He opened his mouth, scrambling for a convincing excuse, but Fenris was shaking his head.

“Do not waste your breath on a lie,” he said. “These nightmares you face… this darkness. It keeps you from restful sleep, even before you close your eyes. It haunts you.”

Anders bowed his head, emotions churning through his chest. He brought his knees up as a barrier in front of him and crossed his arms atop them. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“I could sense it. The specifics were lost, but the bond belied an impression of what troubles you.”

“So you know, then,” Anders said, looking to confirm his suspicions. This was the question he’d been reluctant to ask, but now it seemed he wouldn’t have to. Fenris already knew. “You can tell what the nightmares are about.”

“Not entirely,” Fenris murmured. “I know your surroundings are dark, and I can feel your panic. As for the cause of it and your location... I can only speculate.”

Anders sighed, then filled in the blanks. “It’s the tower. Kinloch.” 

Fenris let out a laden breath. “The year they imprisoned you in solitary confinement.” He delivered the line as a statement, his voice heavy with understanding. Danarius had used solitary as discipline sparingly, preferring to punish his slaves in other, more physical ways, but on occasion, he’d had the errant elf thrown into an empty crypt for a week. Slaves that emerged from the darkened pit had been near manic with their desperation not to be thrown back in. Fenris suppressed a sympathetic shudder.

“I’ve never experienced it firsthand. Not… to that extent.”

When Anders looked at the fire, his gaze was unreadable, but Fenris didn’t like the flat, empty look in his eyes. When the mage finally replied, it was in a whisper.

“I hope you never have to.” 

~Fenris~

They made the trip to Anders’ clinic a while later beneath a sky cluttered with clouds, and Fenris was relieved that they did not appear heavy with rain. Their journey to Darktown was slow, but when compared to the haggard slog of the day prior, it was clear that even one night of sleep had done Anders a load of good. Fenris’ eyes scanned the alleys they passed by. While most of the city scum wouldn’t try anything on the busiest streets, you could never be too careful. Anders was still slower than Fenris would have liked, but he didn’t rush the mage, and knowing Anders wouldn’t appreciate being carried again, he forced down his impatience and made himself feel grateful that Anders could walk at all.

In addition to the food they’d be eating for the next few days, the small rucksack slung over Fenris’ back contained a few changes of clothing and a bar of soap. Fenris didn’t have many possessions to begin with, and not even the clothes in the pack belonged entirely to him -he’d taken half of them from the mansion. Before they’d left, as Fenris was packing the wrapped food in amongst his clothes, Anders had eyed the knapsack curiously and asked, “That's all you’re bringing? Thought we agreed on a 5 day stint.” Fenris had tipped his head to the side and replied, “It is all that I own.” Anders’ brow had furrowed, and his mouth twisted like he wanted to say something more, but he kept his silence and simply nodded.

‘With your permission, I’d like to look inside first,’ Fenris told Anders through their bond upon reaching the alcove outside the clinic. He glanced at the mage beside him to find Anders looking surprised, but he recovered quickly.

‘Ah- sure. Yeah. Go ahead.’

Fenris made to set his pack at the top of the steps, but Anders grabbed one of the straps and pulled it over his own shoulder before it reached the ground. Fenris nodded in thanks, then approached the door to the clinic on silent feet. He listened intently for sounds coming from the other side, his ears pricked forward, and almost immediately he heard something. There was a rustling noise, but it was too quiet to make out what was causing it. Then, without warning, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching the clinic door. 

‘Get down!’ Fenris shot through the bond, hand closing around the hilt of his greatsword. He heard Anders move just as the door opened. He raised his blade-

“Wha- AHHHHHH!” Holly’s startled shriek split the air as Fenris halted the swing of his blade a foot from her face.

“Holly!” Anders exclaimed, rushing forward.

“Andraste’s flaming fanny, what the hell are you two doing here!?” 

“Er- well, I sort of live here…”

“Listen sasshole, I’ll make you “sort of” die here in about two seconds-”

Fenris snorted and sheathed his blade.

“You say the sweetest things, Holly,” Anders said with a grin, stepping inside. “We’ll be staying here for at least the next few days, but I’m under strict orders not to open the clinic for-” Holly’s derisive snort cut him off.

“Orders, huh?” she said, lip curling as she turned her glare on Fenris. “Whose orders?” 

“Common sense’s” Anders replied firmly, drawing her wrath off Fenris.

Holly folded her arms doubtfully. “All this time I was certain you’d never heard of her, and now you’re following her teachings. Maker, how times change.”

Fenris closed the door behind them and retrieved his pack from Anders. 

Anders shot her a wry grin as set his staff against the clinic wall and started to remove his coat. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”

“Well, I can’t say it’s a bad idea -you certainly need the rest, but I’ll believe it when I see it,” Holly said, making for the tea kettle. She held it aloft and Anders nodded. When she turned her gaze on Fenris, it was reserved, but she arched an eyebrow at him and Fenris nodded, accepting the offer.

“Thank you,” he said and Holly hummed noncommittally.

“So what are you doing here?” Anders asked, settling himself on one of the cots to remove his boots.

“Well, if you tally up the number of hours I spend here, you’ll find that I too “sort of” live here,” Holly said. “Besides, for all I knew you’d moved in with Fenris, and somebody has to run this clinic, so-”

“What?” Anders said, his voice shooting up an octave. “Move in with- no no no, it’s not-”

Having put the kettle over the flame, Holly turned to face Anders, brows raised skeptically.

Feeling like this was a conversation he shouldn’t be a part of, Fenris adjusted the strap of the bag on his shoulder.

‘Where should I put this?’ he asked Anders telepathically. Anders paused in his stammering to glance at Fenris, then gestured to the private quarters at the back of the clinic.

“My room’s back there,” Anders said aloud. “Just put it wherever.”

Fenris nodded and set off toward the back of the clinic. ‘I will take my time… and endeavor not to eavesdrop.’

Behind him, he could hear Anders chuckle, followed by Holly’s indignant voice, “Wait, was that-? He just said something to you, didn’t he? What did he say? Why are you laughing?”

Chapter Text

~Fenris~

Fenris pushed aside the curtain that separated Anders’ quarters from the clinic and emerged into a cluttered, dimly lit room. The mage’s quarters were small, but not quite as small as Fenris had imagined. One of the four walls was made of dark, stone brick, instead of the mismatched wooden boards that made up the rest of the room, as though the clinic was nestled up to the side of another building’s foundation. There was a noticeable draft, but the sunlight filtering through a crack in the roof granted him enough light to observe and navigate his surroundings. In one corner of the room sat a cot covered with a plethora of tattered, patched blankets, and the squat nightstand next to it held a small stack of books with worn bindings, as well as a candlestick nearly burnt through. In the corner opposite the cot stood a desk piled high with various papers, books, quills, and inkwells, and next to it, several crumpled pieces of paper. At the back of the room there was a dilapidated wardrobe with a missing door, and inside hung several sets of shabby robes.

Fenris could hear the murmured voices of Anders and Holly in the main room of the clinic, but true to his word, he did his best to tune them out. Setting his pack on the foot of the cot, Fenris meandered to the writing desk and surveyed the disarray of parchment and thick, heavy tomes. The one on top was hardbound, and when Fenris idly flipped the cover open, the writing desk beneath it wobbled. Glancing down, Fenris saw that the legs of the desk were uneven. He rolled his eyes. The mage must spend hours writing at this desk, yet he could not be bothered to fix what must be a distracting annoyance as long as he was physically able to ignore it. Leave it to Anders to suffer through a minor inconvenience he could fix in seconds were he not so fixated on the task in front of him. Fenris felt a mix of exasperation and begrudging admiration for the mage’s single-minded intensity in his endeavors. 

After unstrapping his greatsword and leaning it next to the door, Fenris knelt beside the writing desk for a closer look, then reached for one of the crumpled pieces of paper Anders had thrown to the floor, and smoothed it flat. Several lines were written, then several more crossed out. It looked like the mage had written and rewritten the passage repeatedly before discarding the whole draft in frustration. Fenris folded the paper several times, then wedged it neatly under the stunted table leg. He placed a hand on the desk to check his handiwork, and when it remained steady, he stood from the floor, satisfied.

Looking around the room again, Fenris’ eyes alighted on the nightstand beside the cot. He wandered over to it and picked up the book resting on the top of the stack. It wasn’t a large book, but judging by the supple leather of the cover and the well worn binding, this was a book Anders had read many times… One of his favorites.

Flipping open the cover, Fenris saw the front page had been appended  - someone had added a couple scribbled lines of text in hasty handwriting, and below them, a detailed sketch of a cat, unmistakably smiling.

“She’d show me drawings that she’d done -she was a brilliant artist- and in return I’d read her horrible poetry I’d written.”

Anders' words came to his mind automatically, a memory of the night the mage had sat by his fire in the mansion and told him about his friend in the circle, Thesa. This must be her work, Fenris guessed. Anders was right about her being an artist - the ink sketch was blotched as though done hastily, yet still remarkably detailed. Fenris turned the page.

The title of the book was scrawled across the top. Curiously, it, too, was handwritten. Thumbing through the rest of the pages Fenris was interested to see the entire tome was penned by hand. The pages were soft and yellowed, and the text was spaced neatly apart. A book of poetry, perhaps? As Fenris flipped through the pages, he could see annotations somebody - presumably Anders - had made in the margins. Curiosity nagged at him, and not for the first time, Fenris wished he could read. 

He wondered what the mage had written beside the text, what thoughts had demanded their addition to the page. Some were short -  just a single word - but others were long enough that they’d had to be continued on the next page. One entry had been particularly severe, written in such anger or earnest that the quill had torn right through the page.  Several of the pages had been dog eared, and the binding would yield more readily on certain entries, laying open as though used to doing so. Fenris smoothed a thumb over the soft paper, lips turned down as he fought to quell his curiosity over what the mage had written, and the accompanying bitterness at being unable to find out.

“Knock knock?”

Fenris jumped at the sound of Holly’s voice behind him, and he turned to see the young woman ducking past the curtain that separated Anders’ quarters from the clinic’s main room. He hadn’t heard her approach. 

“Sorry,” she said, smiling slightly, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Holly paused, as though waiting for an answer, but when Fenris only met her eyes in response, she didn’t seem put off. She walked forward to stand next to him, and Fenris saw she was holding two mugs of tea. She offered him a cup, and he took it with a small nod of thanks, setting the book back on top of the pile.

“I see you found one of Anders’ poetry books,” Holly said, nodding toward the book Fenris had just replaced. Fenris shifted in embarrassment at the twinkle of amusement in her eye, but when she moved to stand beside him, picking the book up off the pile once more, he realized it was at Anders' expense, not his. “This one is his favorite,” she said fondly. “I’m fairly certain he’s got the whole thing committed to memory.” The redhead flipped a few pages before landing on a shorter entry and holding the book slightly to the side so Fenris could see. “I’m not big on poetry myself -at least not compared to Anders, but I do like this one.”

Fenris gave the page a cursory glance, scanning over the lines and Anders’ penned annotations, but when Holly looked up to see his reaction, he merely met her eyes silently once more. Holly’s brow furrowed slightly and she shook herself. 

“Nevermind. It’s not important…” she muttered, closing the book and setting it down again. “Poetry’s not everybody’s… cup of tea.” She held up her steaming mug and laughed awkwardly to herself.

“What does it say?” Fenris suddenly found himself asking, though he hadn’t meant to. Holly looked up at him again, mouth slightly open, then back down to the book, confused. There was a moment of silence between them as Holly apparently put together the fact that Fenris was illiterate. She cleared her throat.

“Oh, well-” she said, setting her mug of tea down on the side table and picking the book up once more. “It’s about the sunset.” She flipped back to the poem in question. With one more quick glance at Fenris, Holly read aloud:

I’d like to thank the arsonist

Who lit the sky ablaze

For this hue of vibrant scarlet

That now rests upon my gaze

We have something in common

This arsonist and I

For that which burns inside my heart

Now dances across the sky

But today I feel tired,

This fire takes a lot to feed

And after eating what it's given

It burns my soul to sate its greed

So I’d like to thank the arsonist

For their art I do admire

But tomorrow I’ll show them what it means

To light the world on fire

Fenris nodded appreciatively as Holly closed the book, and gently placed it back on the stack one last time.

“I can see why it made an impression,” Fenris murmured. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Holly said, but instead of retrieving her mug of tea, she turned to face Fenris fully, her shoulders squaring as though girding herself. It was as though her whole demeanor changed in the blink of an eye. “But listen, Fenris, I didn’t come in here to awkwardly read you poetry over tea.” 

Fenris raised an eyebrow at her.

“I actually came in here to apologize. Not for the way I acted, at least not entirely, but I should have waited until I had all the facts to start accusing you of anything.” Holly’s voice was firm, and held no trace of her earlier awkwardness. “Anders is a good friend of mine, and he deserves better than what this blighted world has handed him. Sometimes…” She paused for a moment, chewing her tongue. “Sometimes I forget that not everybody wants to see him fail, or to drag him back to the Circle. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.” 

Fenris nodded once, accepting her amends. All told, he hadn’t expected an apology, nor did he feel Holly’s actions had warranted one. Moreover, he didn’t disagree that Anders had been treated unfairly; Fenris’ very presence in the mage's clinic being necessary for his safety was ample proof that Anders hadn’t exactly been given a fair shake. Indeed, Fenris was coming to understand just how difficult life could be for a mage outside the Circle, though it was certainly true that Anders did not help his own situation by being so outspoken. Although Fenris doubted there would ever come a time when he trusted mages entirely, he was beginning to accept that the way they were treated outside of Tevinter was often overtly cruel. Magic, as dangerous as he knew it to be, was viewed as a curse in the southern lands, and those stricken with it were to be shunned, locked away, and - preferably - forgotten about altogether. Fenris needed to look no further than Anders’ face, haunted by the echoes of his time in the Ferelden Circle to know it as truth.

His voice level, Fenris replied, “Anders is fortunate to have a friend who cares so much for him.”

“Yes, which brings me to my next point,” Holly said, her spine straight as an arrow, staring up at Fenris with a steel gaze. “The issue you two were dealing with a few weeks ago - when Hawke dragged Anders up to your mansion half dead… It can’t happen again.” She held up a hand, as though waving off a protestation that Fenris hadn’t voiced. “I’m not blaming you or anybody else for it; I don’t even know what it was or why it happened but it doesn’t matter. As far as I’m concerned, that wound is already wrapped, and I’m not about to peel off the bandage to figure out whose sword made the cut. As long as it doesn’t happen again, it can stay a mystery for all I care,” Holly huffed.

Fenris just watched without interrupting, knowing that she wasn’t finished by her furrowed brow.

“Look, Fenris…” and the weary breath that escaped her spoke of a deep stress. “I don’t know much about bonds, and I don’t know much about the relationship between you two,” she said before looking up to search Fenris’ eyes intently, “but I know that he trusts you. Don’t… don’t make him regret that.”

~*~

When they reentered the clinic, it was to see Anders seated at the table, pawing through an assortment of herbs, muttering to himself. The mage didn’t look up as they approached, but he stopped muttering and instead raised his voice so Holly could hear him.

“Holly, are we out of-?”

“Spindleweed, yes, but I already have a runner on it. You remember Jack?”

“I hope you mean “Jack the Tracker” and not “Jack the 10 Year Old.”

“How do you always manage to forget that Little Jack is the one who comes through for us? And this so-called “Tracker Jack” couldn’t track an army of qunari if they were following a dirt road in the rain,” Holly said, then added, “assuming you’d want to follow an army of qunari, that is.”

Anders leaned back and pushed a hand through his hair. “Maker’s breath- yeah, one day I’m gonna remember that. How did that turnip even wind up with a nickname like ‘Tracker’ anyway?”

“He gave it to himself.”

“Knobhead.”

“Mmmhm.”

“Alright, so spindleweed is on its way, what about amrita?”

“We gave the rest of it to that family of elves who were heading south.”

“Right, right. The twins with barkeye. Well, at least it didn’t go to waste.”

“I think that was the first time we’ve had elven twins in here before,” Holly mused. “Don’t see that too often.”

“No, it wasn't,” Anders shook his head, “there was the handmaid.”

Holly winced slightly. “Ah. I was half hoping to forget. That was… bad.”

Anders let out a dark grunt of agreement.

“Well, let’s hope we can manage without it for a while. Haven’t a clue where we’re going to get more now that Kepha’s gone.”

Holly grimaced. “I can ask around, but… well...” Doubt was clear in her tone. “Let’s hope we don’t need it anytime soon.”

“We’re low on dawn lotus as well, but that’s not as pressing. We still have burn salves.” Anders leaned back from the table, rubbing a hand over his face. “All in all, not too shabby. I’ll have to ask around if anybody knows where we can get some amrita vein. Who knows, maybe Varric has somebody.”

Fenris, who’d watched this entire exchange with mild curiosity whilst sipping idly from his mug, met Anders’ eye. The mage stared at him for a moment, then shook himself and made to stand, as if just remembering Fenris was still in the clinic… and that he himself was supposed to be resting.

“Right -Fenris… ah-” Anders looked around the room, but finding nothing at which to aim the conversation, he slumped slightly. “What do you want to do? We could… we could play a game?” he suggested weakly. “I spy with my little eye..?”

Fenris arched an eyebrow incredulously.

“Okay, okay. I admit, I’m not much practiced in the art of entertaining house guests, on account of never having guests to entertain… or a house.”

Fenris chuckled at this, and for some reason, that seemed to perk Anders up, the mage’s face breaking out into a smile.

Holly, apparently having suffered through the awkward fumbling long enough, cleared her throat. “How about Diamondback?”

~*~

It was late afternoon, the sun was slipping down the sky, and the trio were up to their elbows in their third game of Diamondback. While Holly and Fenris shared a cot, Anders had one to himself, and he took full advantage of the fact, sprawling out on his side like a cat sunning itself.

“And I do believe that’s my round… again,” Holly announced drily.

There was a poorly-suppressed grumble of frustration (Anders), followed by a quiet chuckle (Fenris), and a toothy, shit-eating grin (Holly). 

“I don’t get it!” Anders fumed as Holly retrieved the cards and began shuffling again. “Surely my luck can’t be utterly atrocious at every card game!”

“Hey, you know what they say: lucky at cards…”

Anders scoffed dismissively, but Fenris didn’t miss the twinge of embarrassment through the bond. “That’s just what people who never win say to make themselves feel better,” Anders muttered.

Fenris caught Holly’s eye, his face questioning. Holly elaborated.

“The whole phrase is ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,’ but I figure the reverse must be true, right?” she reasoned with a half shrug.

Anders shot her a sour look. “And I figure you’re full of sh-”

Holly raised a pillow threateningly.

“-unshine and rainbows- is what I was going to say!”

Holly lowered the pillow, eyes still narrowed in a warning glare, and Anders met her gaze innocently. No sooner had Holly fanned out her cards again than Anders caught Fenris’ eye.

“ Touchy, touchy…” he complained to the elf under his breath.

Holly threw the pillow.

~*~

By the end of the fifth game, the cards were a mere sideshow to the antics that had taken over the clinic. 

“How do you expect me to play like this?” Anders grumbled from under a ridiculously large pile of blankets. He’d started out with one, but upon voicing a comment about the omnipresent draft in the clinic, Holly’s eyes had taken on a decidedly mischievous glint. Five minutes later, every blanket in the clinic had been heaped atop the mage, and Holly was doubled over with laughter at the look on Anders’ partially obscured face.

“You look… like… a cocoon!” she wheezed between breathless giggles, tears of mirth in her eyes.

Anders, who was trying (and failing) to look indignant, replied, “You are a menace.”

Fenris had contented himself to silently watch the tomfoolery, the occasional grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. As the afternoon had worn into evening, the atmosphere in the clinic had grown more and more companionable, and now, with a twinge, Fenris realized he felt more at home here after merely half a day than he ever had in Danarius’ empty mansion, though he suspected the bond had something to do with that. Though he had no way to prove it, Fenris believed that -because Anders felt perfectly safe in the clinic (despite the obvious threat)- Fenris’ subconscious was satisfied that it was, in fact, safe. 

Not that Fenris was relaxed enough to ever be more than an arm's length from his greatsword. He was, after all, there for a reason. 

“Maybe you’ll turn into a beautiful butterfly!” Holly cajoled, drawing Fenris from his musings.

“That’d be nice. I could be up and away from your mischief with a flap of my pretty pink wings.”

“You’d be back by dinner. You’d miss me too much.”

At Holly’s mention of food, Fenris quietly got to his feet and strode to the small kitchen area off the clinic’s side. He’d been in and out of the pantry several times in the last few hours, each time returning to the card table with a small portion of food. An apple, some dried meat, a small loaf of Cordyline’s dark bread… Anders had eaten it all without complaint- a fact that had brought Fenris no small amount of relief. The mage wasn’t out of the woods yet, but Fenris was determined that he would be soon- even if it meant he had to drag Anders out by the ankle.

“Actually… I take it back. I hope I turn into a cockroach. One of the big ones that can fly.”

Holly let out a shout of disgust. “Ew! Absolutely not! And besides, roaches don’t even come out of cocoons!”

“Yes they do! Fen, back me up here!” Anders called across the clinic to Fenris’ retreating figure as he struggled to free himself from his quilted prison. “Roaches hatch from cocoons, right?”

Fenris almost tripped on thin air. 

Fen?

“You are both gross and grossly incorrect," Holly scoffed.

Anders' reply was muffled as Fenris ducked into the pantry, but it didn’t matter: Fenris hadn’t heard anything after Fen. Anders had called him by a nickname. 

Danarius had called him “Little Wolf,” a memory that made Fenris want to spit in disgust every time it surfaced. It had never been a term of endearment; it was a pet name, meant only to denigrate and belittle him. And as far as an actual nickname… Aside from Varric, he’d never been familiar enough with anybody to earn a nickname, and he couldn’t truly count the dwarf: Varric compulsively assigned a moniker to anybody he spent more than five minutes in the barest proximity of. Even Hawke, who Fenris considered his closest friend, had never called him anything other than Fenris.

And while "Fen” was hardly creative as far as nicknames went, the way Anders had shoehorned it into a sentence as though it was just another word - as though it was as natural as breathing- made something warm twist in Fenris’ chest.

‘Did you get lost? Fall though a tear in the Veil?’ Anders asked playfully through the bond, interrupting Fenris’ thoughts. ‘Devoured by a werebear, perhaps?’

‘I was looking for my sense of humor,’ Fenris replied wryly, grabbing the ingredients he needed off the shelves, and from the clinic there came a whooping bark of laughter.

~*~

Dinner wasn’t an elaborate affair, but anybody would have thought it was a 10-course feast based on Anders’ reaction. Fenris prepared the meal whilst soundly ignoring the mage’s protests (“We’ve already established that I don’t know how to entertain visitors, but I’m certain there’s a rule against the guest doing all the cooking!”). Holly had offered to help, but didn’t push when he declined, which Fenris was grateful for. The meal didn’t take long to cook; black rice, chicken breast, and seasoned vegetables were all standard fare for Fenris, but when he passed a heaping plate over to Anders, the mage gaped up at him from his seat on the cot, eyes wide. 

“You can’t be serious-”

“Mage.” Fenris narrowed his eyes - a not-so-subtle reminder to Anders about his promise to eat as much as he could. Anders grimaced, and Fenris knew he was uncomfortable with the charity, but the mage didn’t argue further. Instead, his lips folded down into a slight pout, Anders picked up his fork and speared the chicken breast with it.

“How do you do that?!” Holly demanded of Fenris, managing to sound both awestruck and annoyed at the same time. “I have to nag for hours before he’ll take a bloody 15-minute nap!”

Fenris smiled ruefully at Holly before turning back to the kitchen. “Contractual obligation.”

“Don’t get 'uthed to it!” Anders told Fenris’ retreating figure through a mouth full of rice.

Holly followed Fenris over to the kitchen to make herself a plate. She surveyed the simple array, the spices Fenris seemed to have conjured from thin air, the high quality ingredients, the frying pan still full enough that they were guaranteed to have leftovers. After she’d plated her portion, she held out the shabby, wooden spoon to Fenris, but even as his fingers closed around the handle, Holly didn’t let go. He met her eyes.

They were bright with unshed tears. Her voice soft enough that Anders would not hear, Holly murmured,

“Thank you.”

~*~

As the sun neared the horizon, the trio had started to wind down. Anders was stretched out on his back, partially buried in the blanket heap, nearly comatose from the amount of food he’d eaten. Holly, at her own insistence, was putting away the leftover food and cleaning the dishes. Fenris had offered to help clean up, but Holly hadn’t entertained that for a heartbeat.

“You cooked, so I’ll clean. It’s only fair,” she’d said decisively, and Fenris hadn’t pushed her on it.

Seated on the edge of a cot, Fenris was honing Lethandralis, smoothing a whetstone across the blade over and over again, letting his mind wander. The routine motion was calming, and though he’d expected Anders to complain about the repetitive sound, he hadn’t said a word. To the contrary, a calm sentiment had drifted idly across their mental link, and Fenris took that to mean the mage enjoyed the background noise. 

From the kitchen, Fenris could hear Holly idly singing to herself in a soft alto, the whistle of the wind through the cracks in the walls, Anders' easy breaths as he drifted on the border of sleep and wakefulness, footsteps…

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Fenris had whirled Lethendralis and was poised to strike before the sound of the clinic’s ramshackle door banging against its housing had faded into silence. Anders had sat bolt upright, and Fenris could practically feel the mage’s startled heartbeat through their bond. Holly and Anders exchanged a brief glance, but before any of them truly had time to formulate a plan, a familiar voice reached them through the door.

“Anders? Anders, are you in there?” Hawke called loudly, followed by another jarring set of knocks. “Holly? Anybody? Hello?”

Fenris turned to head into the mage’s quarters, not keen on attempting to explain why he was at the clinic, when he heard Anders let out the breath he’d been holding in relief. Then, apparently without thinking, the mage shouted a reply. “Come on now, Hawke, I don’t think all of Kirkwall heard you! Once more, with feeling!” 

Fenris turned a pointed, somewhat accusatory glower at Anders as the door opened, letting the point of his sword droop, exasperation clear in his movements. The realization dawned on Anders’ face just a moment too late as the clinic door swung wide and Hawke stepped over the threshold.

“So you are here! Then I take it Holly found- wait. Fenris? What are you doing here?”

‘Oops,’ Anders said sheepishly through their bond.

‘Fasta vass, mage,’ Fenris swore. 

To make matters worse, Hawke wasn’t alone. Merrill, Varric, and Isabela stepped through the door into the clinic on Hawke’s heels, and there was a long, awkward silence as Fenris and Anders just stared blankly at the rest of the crew.

‘Ideas?’ Anders asked, mental tone strained.

‘Time travel,’ Fenris replied sarcastically.

Hawke strode over to the trio of cots that were still ringed around the side table, hands falling to his hips as he stared between the two of them. 

“You’re having a slumber party and you didn’t even invite me!” the rogue whined, pretending to be hurt.

“Or me!” Isabela added. “And you aren’t even drinking! Honestly, a girl has to wonder why you would even bother having one at that point.”

Varric surveyed the cards that lay forgotten on the little table. “Look, they’re even playing Diamondback without their favorite card-dealing dwarf!”

“Ooh! Can we please join! I’ve always wanted to have a slumber party!” Merrill added.

“Well clearly,” Anders said dramatically, “mistakes were made.”

Fenris grit his teeth. “Clearly.”

Hawke let out a huge breath. “I have so many questions that I don’t even know where to start,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Actually, wait. Yes, I do.” The rogue made a big show of clearing his throat before bringing his hands together in front of him and tilting them downward. “What the fuck?” 

Anders raked a hand through his hair, and Fenris could feel the mage’s thoughts going haywire as he fought to come up with an excuse, but just as he began stammering out a half-assed lie-

“Hawke. Ease up.” 

Everybody turned to face Holly who had wandered over to join the group unnoticed. She was drying her hands on a dish towel briskly before flipping it across one shoulder.

“Oh, Holly, thank the Maker! A voice of reason,” Hawke said dramatically.

“Not sure you’re the soundest judge of reason, but I’ll take it,” Holly said with a wink.

Hawke put a hand to his mouth in a silent gasp of outrage, only to promptly reconsider and nod in agreement. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“Let’s start with why you’re here, eh?” she said.

‘She turned the question back on him to play for time,’ Fenris thought. ‘Very clever.’

‘If she gets us out of this, I’m giving her a raise,’ Anders replied.

Hawke, however, didn’t appear thrown by the question. “Remind me, Holly: was it you who knocked on my door this morning holding a vaguely-worded note from Anders that said the clinic wasn’t safe and that he was staying with me, despite that being demonstrably false, or was that the ghost of Saturnalia past? My memory’s a little foggy…” Hawke said, laying the sarcasm on thick.

Holly rolled her eyes, aiming for exasperation, but Fenris knew that she was masking the lightning-fast mental recitation of a dozen different arguments she could use in order to find the one that would get them out from under the magnifying glass. Moments later, Holly flicked a lock of hair out of her face and folded her arms.

‘She’s got an idea,’ Anders said. ‘That’s her tell.’

And what an idea it was. 

“I trust you remember Ser Veres?” Holly said, brushing off Hawke’s sarcasm and digging straight into the heart of the matter. Hawke’s brow furrowed, and his eyes darted to Anders as though scanning him for new injuries.

“Unfortunately,” Hawke said, tone immediately souring. “What did he do?”

“Well,” Holly’s eyes flicked over to Anders briefly before returning to Hawke, “Anders had a run in with him last night, just outside the clinic.”

Hawke’s head snapped around to look at Anders again, eyes tracing the mage from head to toe, as though certain he should be black and blue, and perhaps missing a limb or two.

“That son of a-” Hawke cut himself off with a growl. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Hawke,” Anders said, sounding annoyed, though Fenris could feel how moved he was by the rogue’s concern.

Hawke wasn’t satisfied with a partial answer. “Okay, good, but how-?”

“Luckily,” Holly interrupted, “Anders wasn’t alone at the time.”

Hawke cocked his head to the side as though hoping the answer would roll into place if he got the angle right. Slowly, he turned to look at Fenris… and raised an eyebrow.

Fenris scowled, knowing exactly where Hawke was headed with this.

“T’was you, Fenris?” the rogue asked innocently, which only served to deepen Fenris’ scowl. 

“Yes, Hawke, I was there,” Fenris said frostily.

Hawke looked like he was about to spontaneously combust with the effort required to not say what he was thinking. He brought his hands together as though praying, then pressed them against his lips as though the pressure of his index fingers would keep the words from exploding out of him.

“And, pray tell, Fenris… why were you at Anders’ otherwise empty clinic late at night?”

Fenris’ jaw was clenched so tight that it ached. He glared pointedly at Holly. 'Now would be a great time to interject,’ the glare screamed.

Holly pressed her lips together into a thin line, then cleared her throat for attention. Hawke turned back to her eagerly. 

“He wasn’t there to meet Anders, Hawke.”

Holly’s eyes flicked over to Fenris’ once more, and she held the elf’s gaze for several heartbeats. He might have imagined it, but Fenris could have sworn her eyes looked apologetic. 

And, a heartbeat before Holly spoke, Fenris understood.

“He was there to meet me. Fenris and I are lovers.”

Chapter Text

~Anders~

Anders’ jaw dropped. 

‘What did she just say?!’ he demanded through the bond, blatantly agog.

Fenris didn’t respond, mentally or otherwise. The elf held Holly's gaze, his cool countenance giving nothing away, and belatedly, Anders realized that his own behavior most assuredly was. He snapped his jaw shut just as the spell broke, the silence rended by an uproar of voices as everybody began talking at once.

“Wait- what?” Hawke exclaimed, brow knitted in bewilderment. “Since when?!”

Varric seemed impressed. “Shit, Broody, you really do have one hell of a Grace Face! I’d never have guessed!” 

“Oooh!” Marrill squealed delightedly, clapping her hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’m so happy for both of you! You have to tell me everything! Or, well,” she added as an afterthought, “maybe not everything, but as much as you're comfortable with sharing.”

Isabela was conspicuously mute on the subject at first, only raising a dubious eyebrow in response. Eventually she turned to Varric, “I was closer.”

“Not on your life, Rivaini,” Varric shot back immediately, almost as though he'd been expecting her comment.

Before Isabela could argue further, Hawke silenced the group with a quick slicing gesture. “Hey!”

The clamor died out almost instantly, and Hawke turned back to Holly. “So, you and Fenris are -what? Together? Seeing each other?” Hawke looked uncharacteristically serious, his brow furrowed and his eyes calculating.

Fair skin reddening vividly, Holly glanced at Fenris again. “Well, yes- I-”

“When did this happen? I assume Anders knew about it? Is it serious?” Hawke fired question after question at her without giving her time to answer. 

Holly, looking overwhelmed, started stammering. “Uhm, well, we-”

“Hawke.”

Every head turned to stare at Fenris as the elf finally spoke, his icy tone cutting through the air like cold steel. Holly's eyes were wide as she looked at him, as though silently praying that Fenris wasn’t about to throw her - and her proffered lifeline - to the wolves. The elf’s face was stony but otherwise neutral, revealing none of the tumult Anders could sense churning at the other end of their bond.

“I realize you have a tendency to involve yourself in matters well beyond your own sphere of influence," Fenris grit at Hawke, his words clipped, "but the nature of our relationship isn't open to interrogation."

For a brief moment, Holly's face reflected her relief openly, but luckily Anders was the only one who caught it; everyone else was focused on Fenris or Hawke. Anders turned his own gaze on the rogue just in time to see Hawke's face darken with anger, his mouth twisting briefly into a scowl. The rogue's expression shifted as he reached for his typical cavalier attitude, and it did work for the most part, but looking closer, Anders could see something glint in Hawke's eye… something hard.

“Believe it or not, I do know how to respect people’s privacy,” Hawke said lightly, his tone aloof.

“You have a strange way of showing it,” Fenris countered, sheathing his greatsword with deliberate movements, then folding his arms across his chest. 

Hawke's eyes narrowed. Try as he might to hide it, the practiced inscrutability the rogue usually wielded with ease was slipping: Hawke was not happy about being stonewalled and everybody could see it. The druffalo in the room went unaddressed, but the tension was thick enough to cut. Even Merrill was in the loop for once, thanks to her bond with Hawke, and the smaller elf's eyes were flitting between the confrontation anxiously.

“You’ll have to forgive me - I thought a dear companion of mine had gone missing for some reason. Perhaps injured or abducted?” Hawke didn’t bother toning down the sarcasm. “Strange, that. What in Thedas could have given me that idea?”

Anders had to hand it to Fenris - the elf did not scare easily. The look on Hawke’s face was icy, but it seemed to wash right over Fenris without effect. 

“You can see that he is not,” the elf replied, jerking his chin at Anders. “Or do even your own eyes merit disbelief?”

Hawke fell silent as he briefly assessed Fenris through narrowed eyes. He flicked his gaze over to Holly, who shifted under the scrutiny, but whatever he saw in her expression apparently didn’t merit closer inspection, and Hawke turned to Anders. The rogue’s dark brown eyes were intense, but gave no indication as to what the mind behind them was thinking. Uncomfortable, Anders had to force himself not to look away, but eventually, Hawke turned back to Fenris. 

“It’s not my eyes I doubt here, Fenris.” 

Anders felt his stomach sink. It was obvious Hawke knew they were lying - though to what end, Anders couldn’t tell. Fenris didn’t rise to the rogue’s last comment, maintaining his stony expression, and the air thickened around them until Anders felt he was going to suffocate. Just as he was readying to say something - anything to break the silence, Hawke straightened, the tension leaving him in a wave. 

“Okay, well, that's good enough for now,” he said. “Clearly, there was just some kind of… miscommunication here.” The rogue let out a worn chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck, and the atmosphere in the clinic lightened considerably at the sound. Isabela, who’d watched these proceedings with a sharp eye and a hand on the hilt of her dagger, now shook her hair out and gave Merrill a calming pat on the shoulder; the diminutive elf looked like you could have knocked her over with a feather. Anders was certain Isabela wouldn't have drawn the weapon -it seemed more like an automatic response to tension than anything else.

“I am happy for you two, of course,” Hawke continued, “now that I know you’re both safe, I mean.” This last line was marked by a pointed stare at Anders that said, 'I’ve had it with you and your renewed habit of scaring the living daylights out of me.'  There was still a hardness to Hawke’s eyes that said the rogue knew he was being lied to, though he'd decided not to call them on it. 

“Next time you decide to go missing for an evening, be a dear and tell us where you’re actually going, eh?” 

Anders tried to make himself smile, but the anxious somersaulting of his gut was threatening to give Fenris’ cooking an encore, and Anders knew he ended up with a grimace instead.

“So?” Isabela said, feigning a casual tone of voice. “You two gonna spill the details, or are you gonna make me drag it out of you?” She placed her hands on her hips and shifted her weight over one leg, staring between Holly and Fenris expectantly.

“Oh, don’t start, Rivaini. Didn’t you see Broody almost bite Hawke’s head off for being nosey like 30 seconds ago?” Varric was rolling his eyes with good-natured exasperation.

Isabela opened her mouth to protest, but Hawke cut in. 

“He’s right, ‘Bela. There’ll be time for all that later.” Hawke started ushering his party toward the exit with slow underhand waves. "It is card night tomorrow, after all. We should give the lovebirds time to get their story straight before we run them through the gauntlet," he said, looking first at Fenris… then slowly, deliberately, at Anders.

‘Shit.’

"We will see you at cards, I assume?" Hawke threw over his shoulder as he opened the clinic door. "Best bring your A-game, Holly,'' he added as an afterthought, throwing a wink in her direction. Varric, Isabela, and Merrill left ahead of the rogue with a smattering of farewells. Hawke turned on the threshold to give those remaining in the clinic a jaunty wave. “See you tomorrow night!"

The door clattered shut behind him, and then the clinic was quiet again.

It was fortunate that Hawke hadn’t waited around for a reply before leaving: Fenris clearly hadn’t been inclined to offer one, and Anders didn't trust his own voice to it - his knees were decidedly unsteady all of a sudden, and he was certain his voice would fare no better. Before his legs had the chance to forsake him, Anders stumbled to the nearest cot and dropped into it, fingers immediately raking through his hair.

'I take it Hawke saw through the deception.’ 

It was a statement, not a question, but Fenris’ mental tone was… gentle.

Anders could only nod weakly in response, his head cradled in his hands.

‘Worse,’ he groaned internally, ‘if I read him correctly, he knows about us as well. I’m not sure to what extent, but…’

A slight discomfort found its way to Anders through the bond, but otherwise Fenris didn't react.

‘Blight and damnation!’ Anders cursed inwardly, pulling at his hair. ‘You can be sure Merrill already knows thanks to their bond, and between the two of them, all of bloody Kirkwall will know before sundown! I had to go and open my big mouth-’

A comforting hand alighted on his shoulder then, stemming the mental tirade. It was warm and the pressure was grounding, hushing the increasingly distressed thoughts before they could spiral further. Anders reached up to place his own hand over the one on his shoulder, thinking Holly had made her way to his side, only for his hand to rest upon rough, calloused knuckles.

Anders’ heart leapt into his throat at the gesture. He didn’t look up for fear the elf would move his hand away, and instead pressed down against the hand with his own, wanting to take it and squeeze with all his strength, but knowing instinctively that Fenris wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, he did his best to send Fenris gratitude through the bond, thankful for the elf's comfort.

‘I’m sorry…’ Anders told him. ‘I know this is my fault- you being here in the first place, my stupidly inviting them in… it was a foolish thing to do, and now they’re all going to know. Fenris, I’m sorry-’

‘So be it.’

Now, Anders’ head snapped up to stare at Fenris, agog.

‘You- you’d be okay with that? With them- with everyone knowing?’ Anders asked in disbelief, his eyes searching the elf’s, all but forgetting about the hand he still pressed against his shoulder. 

Fenris shrugged lightly.

‘I see two possible outcomes. Assuming you read the situation correctly, Hawke will either inform the others of his suspicions, or he will not. Our actions cannot change that now.’

‘And that… doesn’t bother you?’

‘Perhaps not as much as it once would have. It is not ideal, but they will know eventually, will they not?’

‘...Yes.’ Anders let out a sigh. He’d been hoping that their bond would stay a secret at least long enough for their personal relationship to stabilize, but he’d always known that sooner or later, the rest of their group would find out.

There was a pointed clearing of the throat from across the clinic, and the pair looked up to see Holly watching them, her face nearly as red as her hair, practically bubbling over with nervous energy. Embarrassed, Anders quickly released Fenris’ hand and the elf withdrew it.

“It’s really nice that you two can communicate telepathically now, but I’ve always been rubbish at charades, so for the love of Andraste’s toasty tits, please spare me the guesswork and tell me what you’re thinking!”

Fenris chuckled, “My apologies, Holly,” and Anders gave a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, sorry. I guess it’s become a sort of.. habit,” he mumbled, ducking his head awkwardly. 

“Anders was just informing me that he believes Hawke was not fooled by our deception.”

Holly groaned, her shoulders sinking. “So I did all that for nothing?!” 

“We do not know for certain, but it is possible, yes,” Fenris said slowly, sounding a touch sympathetic.

Anders raised his head to catch Holly’s gaze. “Why did you do that, anyway?” At Holly’s questioning expression, he elaborated. “Tell Hawke and the others that you’re seeing Fenris, I mean. He’s… well, not exactly your type, eh?”

Holly tried and failed to suppress a snort, and Fenris looked from Holly to Anders and back as though searching for context in the air between them. Anders took pity on Fenris and explained, “She’s what Orlesians refer to as a 'thezpian’. You know, like a thespian, but…quirky.” When Fenris’ look of confusion deepened, Anders elected to discard innuendo. “She doesn’t like men.”

“I’m bent like a bad nail,” Holly quipped with a grin, “I mean have you seen women? Phwoar!” She gave a low, approving whistle. “Still, Hawke and the rest of your crew don’t know that, right?”

Anders turned back to her. “No, probably not, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

Holly raised an eyebrow teasingly. “Why? You’re not jealous are you?”

Anders scowled, his ears burning. “No, I- Of course I’m not!” He could feel Fenris’ eyes on the back of his neck. “It's a perfectly reasonable thing to-” he broke off as Holly doubled over, giggling. 

“Alright, alright! Don’t get your knickers knotted,” Holly laughed. Anders willed the flush to leave his cheeks. Sobering, Holly twirled a lock of hair between her fingers as she thought about how best to answer Anders’ question.

"It just seemed to be important to you, I guess. You wouldn't go out of your way to keep it a secret unless it mattered to you, and…" Holly let out a breath. "Well, it's just that you've had a real rough go of it recently. I'm glad that you're starting to feel better, but… you had me worried for a minute there. Anything I can do to lighten the load, it's worth the effort. You're worth the effort, Anders." 

Anders was momentarily caught off guard by the sincerity in Holly's voice. Likewise, Fenris was also quiet, watching Holly with a bemused expression.

“You’ve helped me out of tight spots before, and I want to help, and- just- you’re my friend, dammit!” she finished in a rush. 

Anders let out a hoarse laugh, throat slightly choked with emotion. "I truly don't deserve you, Holly." 

"We've been over this already," Holly replied, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "Friendship has nothing to do with what we deserve. It’s not a business transaction. Besides," she added, a mischievous smirk stealing over her face, "little do you know that this was all just part of my grand scheme to get invited to card night.” She rubbed her hands together. “Hawke won't know what hit him."

Fenris chuckled. "Now that is something I look forward to seeing. It's about time somebody other than Isabela gives the dwarf a run for his money."

~*~