Little Wolf, Twisted Justice

The nightmares were worse. Shackles and chains bound me, glimpses of faces split under a blade—mine—and I felt no remorse for it, but the cuffs linked around my wrists brought my last blow short, and the lone face left amongst the bodies grinned at me as its eyes flared in triumph. Its body rose and shifted underneath its skin, revealing the twisted form of a demon. It knew it had won. My blade quivered just a whisper from its throat as I pushed against my chains, cutting my wrists, wrenching my shoulders.

A voice behind me echoed in the darkness. "Failed again my Little Wolf."

I turned and met him. My hands were suddenly free, but my body was immobile. The darkness held me as firmly as any shackles. He smiled in amused pity as the demon rose behind my back. Shivers of revulsion took me, whether it was for him or the demon made no difference. He was before me, the demon behind. There was nowhere to advance, nowhere to retreat. He gripped my shoulders in light of my hate and traced his fingertips against the lines of lyrium, down my arms to the back of my hands. The blue lines in my flesh flared under his touch, lighting his face from beneath with the harsh colour, and he suddenly plunged his hand into the lyrium, yanking me towards him until I was chest to chest with my master.

He grinned. "Everything you are is mine. There is no place you can rest from me."

Sharp awareness flooded me, and I gasped in breath for the snarl that rose in my throat. "Never again will I be yours, Danarius." And my sword was back in my hands, through his gut, but there was no resistance as it passed through him. He smiled still as he crumbled, dissolving into the shadows, but the shackles had appeared again—severed, but crushing my wrists. The demon was still behind me. I turned to it and saw a glimmer of fear in its eyes as I swung my sword with all the rage and satisfaction of the kill that Danarius's empty body had denied me.

My sword poised at his throat. His skin grated against its edge and blood gave way under its pressure, a stream of red to trace the line of the blade. His eyes were wide brown circles with an expanded black hole as its cornea. The demon was speaking to me, but I would not hear it. I would not be tempted. I only wanted to see the fear in his eyes, to see him know I'd mastered him, before I sent him back to the darkness. But the blade was too quick a death. I let the sword clatter sharply to the floor in favour of a different weapon. The lyrium would serve just as well, and I would have the pleasure of crushing its heart with my hand.

Fenris washed the room in scalding blue light as he advanced. Blood trickled down Anders' throat, but he would not move and dare the sword at his throat again. Spells ran through his head but they wouldn't be quick enough. That blue hand was raised against him and there was nothing but pure, bloody intent in Fenris's eyes as he stood perfectly tensed. It was painfully easy to see how trained Fenris's movements were in the sweep of his muscles when he was standing five feet away in nothing but a pair of sleeping trousers.

Anders took one large breath against the heavy thump of his heart and let it out in a firm whisper. "It's just a dream, Fenris. Wake. Up."

Fenris's eyes flickered once at the sound, and some measure of wakefulness came to him. Still, the voice was familiar but out of place. The room gained more solidity around him, edges of walls, the smell of spilled wine, but the nightmare was too vivid, the threat too real, to toss it aside so easily. Fenris's eyes narrowed and fogged. "You have nothing to tempt me with, demon."

Anders clenched his hands, his patience erased with that word. "Maker's breath, Fenris, I am not a demon! Wake up!"

A blink. A glance of his eyes around his room. Surety of where he was came flooding back to him. Swallowing back the burning emotions of the nightmare, Fenris sighed around a clenched throat, and the tracery of blue faded to a murmur of colour. The room dulled into shadows and silence. The stare he turned to Anders was venomous, but the mage was near the last one to be cowed by that look. Fenris's words were low and dark. "You are a demon, Anders, but that's clearly besides the issue of you being here in my home. Leave. Now." Fenris could have had more to say, and hotter words to say it with, but the nightmare still clutched to the back of his mind like a cats claws dug into skin.

Anders put his fingers to his throat, swiping at the blood disdainfully. "Trust me, I wouldn't be here if I had another option. However, I'd be more inclined to explain myself after you put something decent on."

Fenris glanced disbelievingly from Anders' braced against his wall to his own half-clothed state. "You walk into my house, in the dead of night, into my room, and demand things of me? You have no say here, mage." He lifted his blade from Anders' feet and wiped the line of blood onto his pant leg with the cloth pinched between his fingers. "If what I said wasn't clear enough, maybe my sword should show you out."

"It nearly did."

Fenris exhaled sharply. "If only I lacked proper discipline it would have, and I wouldn't have to endure your continued chatter, only your head gaping up at me from the floor."

Anders grinned lewdly. "Yes, I'm sure your master drilled you well. Was it only swords you practiced with or was Isabella right about slaves and their masters?"

The nightmare was swept aside in that moment as Fenris growled, "You dare to imply that Danarius and I—"

"I'm ready to dare a lot of things tonight," he interrupted sharply.

Fenris checked his anger before it went too far and instead shook his head in disgust. "Enough, mage. Say what you disturbed my sleep for or leave." The sword remained in his hand, but pointed to the floor. A not-too-subtle hint.

Anders cleared his throat, started in his regular off-hand tone, then sighed, and a bit of fight drained from him. He settled his shoulders and tried again. This was too important. Damn was it humbling to ask for help. "I need you to…do a little acting. And it has to be tonight. Now, actually."

The complete lack of understanding on Fenris's face showed in his blunt question. "What?"

Anders swept his hand at him casually. "I just…I was doing a little project with Hawke, we ran into an unforeseen problem, and short story, Hawke's in a bit of trouble. A lot, actually."

The mage's vague answer both enraged Fenris and immediately set him on guard. "You placed Hawke in danger and then abandoned her?"

"I wouldn't leave her if I had no other option!" Anders looked like he was struggling for words, his eyes darting to the wine bottles on the floor to the paintings stacked in the corner. Finally he strung something together as time was a bit of an issue and he didn't have time to cushion it. "Maybe Hawke and I were dealing with some magisters from Tevinter, trying to rescue a slave shipment headed out tonight, and maybe Hawke was posing as a slave—just to tempt them, you know?—and maybe there was an accident and Hawke needs a hand. I just need you to…You have to pretend, Fenris. Be a magister, just for one night. Get me in so I can get Hawke back."

The words came out in a rush and Fenris took one moment before what Anders was asking fit together in his mind. "And why in any part of your deluded brain do you think I would do this? Pretend I'm a mage? Act like a magister?" He spat the word as if it would dirty him.

Anders shrugged then asked pointedly, "Would you rather be the slave and I play master?"

Fenris gritted his teeth and the pull of his breath deepened, noticing how Anders skirted his real question. "Obviously not, but you're missing my point. You're mistakenly under the assumption I would play out this ridiculous farce."

"I know you will because one," he ticked the points off on his fingers as he went, "no one else I know can pull off acting like a magister and would simply get Hawke killed, and two, you like her. And I know you noticed Sebastian's tried to catch her eye once or twice."

Fenris's reply was too terse and too quick. "The Chantry boy?"

He smiled innocently. "Ah, see you do care."

The scowl on Fenris's face made Anders chuckle knowingly. Fenris roughly cut into it his laughter before Anders could say anything more. "But you said Hawke was acting the slave? Would they not recognize you now in a different role and know something was wrong?"

"Well," he stalled, rubbing the back of his head, "…that is, we didn't exactly get too far before it fell apart. But, listen, if we're going to do this we have to get a move on before they fade into Kirkwall's lost faces on a poster. Trade me your clothes."

"What? Anders, if you're doing this out of some idea of petty revenge for calling you a demon, I—"

Anders held up his hands earnestly. "You don't have anything but that ridiculous mess of armour right? From what I've heard, magisters don't tend to wear that sort of thing. You take my robe and I'll…I'll borrow some pants or something."

Fenris realized Anders would not budge from his home without his agreement. The thought of doing this sickened him on so many levels that he had to choke down his disgust. But…the mage was right, in one sense. If Hawke and Anders had tried what he thought they had, it would take the presence of another magister to untangle the mess, and who better but someone who had served under their scrutiny for years? If had been anyone else, anyone, Fenris would refuse. The cost was too high. For Hawke however…Fenris blinked as he noticed Anders start to shrug out of his robe without preamble. "You better be wearing something under that, mage…"

"Relax." Anders tugged the robe over his head, and a long, dark tunic with loose leather laces hung underneath nearly down to his knees. He tossed the robe at Fenris who stared at it in his arms disgustedly. "It is clean. Maybe a little bit of blood at the collar now, but you'll have to excuse that as that was entirely your fault."

Fenris unfurled it and held it arms-length from himself, staring at the feathers on the shoulders, the bright, rich colours. If Anders had run here, barged into his home in the middle of the night, then Hawke was truly in danger. It wasn't like him, and it wasn't a prank. Her life was hanging on his willingness to play a role. Fenris shook it out. "It's not really my style," he muttered.

"What was that? Was that a joke?"

"No. Be quiet and get dressed. Hawke is waiting." Fenris sighed resignedly and started slipping the robe over his chest, gesturing to his left as he did so. "Pants are over there. Put them on."

Anders and Fenris quickly got outfitted with some minor adjustments. The robe was too large for the slighter elf but some clever alteration with the belts and how the robes hung fixed that. The pants were a little tight and shorter on Anders but the tightness with his larger shirt tucked in resembled style rather than sloppiness and his high boots hid how short the pants were. His grey shirt matched well with the darker trousers, but the materials did not mark him higher than what his new rank as a servant granted. Fenris looked between the two of them, trying to fit into their new roles.

"What a pair we make. Master and…"the rest of the statement fell to pieces in his mouth, and suddenly what he was doing hit him afresh as he felt the robes rustling on him, as if he could feel Anders' magic clinging to the fabric like a disease.

"Master and slave," Anders finished. "But we have to act the part. Can you do it, Fenris? Be a mage and a magister, I mean? I know…I know some of your past, but you're the only one I could think to ask, as much as that pained me."

Fenris stretched his shoulders and arms, feeling how far the cloth would move with him. It's not as if he was being forced into this, nor would he do anything like what he knew the magisters practiced or take part in any form of magic. There was a line. But as long as it was not crossed, this was for Hawke. He would pay that price. It was a nightmare that lingered in wakefulness and he had just donned its skin. Fenris glanced at Anders, ignoring his question. "Now your clothes finally suit your attitude, mage. Dark and dire."

A huff fell from Ander's lips. "Alright, I get it. Let's go."

They slipped out of Fenris's mansion and worked their way down through the streets of Kirkwall like a whisper slipping through lips in a rowdy tavern. Where the night did not part before them, they parted the night. A look at a pickpocket hiding in the shadows sent him skittering back into the darkness, and it was easy to keep a wide berth around lanterns hanging from businesses meant to draw in the stragglers from the street who didn't want to go return to a nagging tongue or sharp reprimands from deck officers. Anders led the way into Darktown, skirting trouble areas where he knew certain gangs gathered, but mostly they were ignored by the empty-eyed souls trying to sleep under tattered blankets.

Anders motioned Fenris to stop once they reached a set of rickety wooden stairs that descended down to the bottom levels of Darktown, dregs of spoiled water pushing against the docks attached to the shore. They could clearly hear voices from where they were poised, and if they descended now they would be in plain sight of the slavers who waited in the small clearing. The conversation was spoken in the quiet but urgent tone of those who were well aware of how easily voices carried at night; however, the argument sounded to be over nothing urgent that would require them to get down those steps as fast as possible.

Breathing carefully, Fenris leaned his head slowly around the corner for a sure glance at who was down there and where they were positioned. Anders was waiting with an eager expression when Fenris turned around.

"See, nothing we can't handle," Anders said nonchalantly. "Two stuck-up magisters, their complement of bodyguards, and a bunch of riled up slaves. They were already getting restless to sell them off and get down to the boats when I left, so Hawke doesn't have a whole lot of time to spare. We need to get down."

The smile stilled on Ander's face as Fenris scowled at him. "I don't see why I couldn't have simply taken a sword to each of them—slavers' lives are worth nothing. You've made this needlessly difficult for both of us."

Anders gritted his teeth and set his eyes as if he could see directly down the stairs and across to the clearing. "And while that might have been the easier option, it also would have meant all those slaves' lives as well. The magisters aren't stupid, Fenris. They know what they're doing would bring the entire city guard down on them, and if that happened, they've got themselves a nice little security measure." He motioned at Fenris to look again. "The bottom of the cages. Look closely."

His eyes peered through the dimness of the night, underneath the shifting legs and feet of terrified and sullen beings locked inside metal cages, to what lay beneath. Fenris clenched his jaw when he could identify it. "Magic runes. What are they for?"

Anders sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "As soon as one of those magisters gets a whiff of danger, all it would take is a whisper and those people die. The rune activates, fire roasts them alive. A city guard would think twice before interfering if it meant the lives of so many people."

"Their maliciousness knows no bounds, and their magic simply urges it to new depths."

"And you have to pretend to be one of them," Anders said. "Set aside your hatred for once or you're going to get Hawke killed."

Fenris and Anders' eyes met and held each other. Their gazes were as firm as their positions on that tender topic. Neither was willing to lower the barrier that held them too far apart for mutual understanding. But Hawke's life and freedom was held in the seconds left they had to move and intervene, and well did Fenris know the consequences if they didn't act. "Where is she?"

Anders hesitated only a second before turning Fenris's shoulder in the right direction. "There. At the back of the cage. The one managing to look completely disinterested."

Fenris easily caught the golden glint of her hair amidst the rest of the people in the cage. He blinked once to settle himself against the sickening image of Hawke serving the table of Danarius alongside him, her eyes empty with nothing but 'yes master' on her lips. With one more certain look at who was gathered below and where, he shrugged off Anders' hand, straightened his robe, and flicked non-existent dust from where Anders had touched him, reluctantly taking up his role. "A slave should know his place. You do not touch me, you do not meet my eye, and you do not speak unless directly asked of."

Anders sighed in exasperation. "I underst—" He immediately shut his mouth at Fenris's pointed look, and instead tapped his fingers to his forehead in acknowledgment. Fenris straightened his shoulders, set his head straight, and started down the steps like he'd walked them a hundred times with no thought to the man trailing behind him. "Now you're getting it," Anders muttered with a tight smile.

As soon as their feet hit the steps, heads swivelled, hands drifted down to swords, and lips thinned into cruel lines; however, no one immediately set upon them so they had to be acting on point. Anders nearly wanted to scream in frustration that he couldn't watch precisely what Fenris was doing, what expressions he held, or even to reassure Hawke that they were here for her with a passing wink, but if he wavered in any part of his act then Hawke's life could be forfeit. This had to be done right.

One of the men serving as a bodyguard stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his blade. "You stop there or you'll find you'll be stopping when my sword's embedded in your gut."

"Speak out of turn again and it will be your tongue skewered on your sword." The words out of Fenris's mouth chilled even Anders, and the bodyguard appeared less certain. Fenris immediately ignored the man and took a buyer's eye over the slaves huddled in the cages, only settling on Hawke long enough for her gaze to firm and give the slightest of nods before she settled back in readiness for any part she would need to play in her extrication. There was hope in her eyes. She was not lost.

The bodyguard flicked his eyes to the side to where one of the magisters stood, a tall woman in a delicate wrap of robes. "Do these men have leave to pass?"

The woman traded looks with the other magister, a man in clothing closer to what the guards wore rather than her elaborate getup, and then returned Fenris's gaze with an arched eyebrow of cold impassivity. "We have been waiting for a third to join us—and taking his sweet time with it as we were almost ready to start passing coin for these. Are you our late magister?"

"Who else would I possibly be? A curious passer-by interested in a little spectacle in the dead of night?"

The male magister harrumphed and a smile twirked his cheek. "He's got you there, Ceilia."

The woman, Ceilia, shot him a stern look and turned back to Fenris. "Yorick apparently didn't get to where he is with his intellect, but perhaps few of us magisters do, hm?" Anders didn't know what she meant by that last remark, but an idea of it finally crept through him slow as advancing ice as she spoke. "As I asked Yorick to prove himself, so I demand you prove yourself before I believe you are who you say you are. I want a demonstration. A little bit of the magic that enabled you to earn your title will suffice."

Anders could tell by Fenris's stilled motion that his mind was racing to come up with something to offer. It would be easy enough to show what he could do with his lyrium, but that would prove nothing if they started asking questions about its origin. It obviously was not magicly imbued. Before the silence merged into a state that could be read as uncertainty, Fenris whirled on Anders, and the mage remembered almost too late to keep his eyes to the ground and his body nearly perpetually lowered in a half-bow. Anders had the insane urge at that moment to chuckle to dispel the tension writhing in his stomach. It was a tightness he'd felt before, a stretching that came with the rise of Justice. Another reason he couldn't look at the cages of packaged slaves—mages some of them. Too easily would that be a trigger for him, and once that happened, everything here would fall apart within a second. Justice was not known for his subtlety.

Fenris's words were elegantly arched with an undercurrent of sharp malice, and it snapped Anders out of his thoughts. "You heard the woman. Demonstrate what you can do. Now, before I decide to leave you here for the rats."

Anders couldn't stop himself from swiping a quick glimpse at Fenris, but there was nothing in his expression to explain this. It wouldn't prove anything to these blood mages for Anders to do it. But, if he was playing the servant through and through then—

"I said now. Or did that escape you?" Fenris's words were harsher this time, his eyes narrowed into vindictive slits. He ignited enough of the lyrium on his hands that it made it look like he was about to cast a spell; an effective way to hint at Fenris's magic without revealing its faulty core.

So Anders did what he was told. He took a small breath simply to give him time to think of which spell to cast that would sufficiently satisfy the impatient magisters. It was one of the more elaborate spells that he ended up swirling into reality with his fingertips, an elegant use of ice that crystallized the air into patterns and shapes before fading into walls of swaying mist, but when Anders turned his attention back to the magisters as he finished, they looked entirely unimpressed. The mage swallowed and held his breath as Fenris turned back to them, seemingly unconcerned about the magisters' reactions.

Yorick waved his hand dismissively but with a gleam in his eye that made it clear he thought he was being clever. "That was your servant's magic, not yours," he pointed out.

Fenris kept his demeanour completely cold, superior. He was playing it right, and Anders knew he couldn't have pulled this off without the elf, no matter how much Fenris must be seething inside. "That is because you have no right to 'demand' anything of me; however, slaves have no such luxury." The bitterness in Fenris's tone made Anders cringe as he tried to subtly get a glimpse of the other magisters' faces, but after moments of silence Ceilia spoke.

"Too true. A man after my own heart." The woman chuckled, obviously interpreting Fenris's words as disgust for the slaves rather than for their treatment. "You're a clever one at that. Shall we get this sorted out then? I rather had my eye on one or two of them, but I really want to leave this disgusting port before I catch something."

Yorick seemed satisfied as well and rubbed his hands together. "And not to be calling dibs or anything, but that one in the corner is rather delicious, don't you think?"

He motioned to Hawke's grouping, and sure enough, his finger had singled her out. Anders wasn't sure whether to laugh at the look that spawned on Hawke's lovely face or to be sickened at the thought of this man having even a chance at her life in his hands. Instead, Anders kept his face neutral. Fenris though, could not keep his lip from curling in thinly veiled spite.

Ceilia put her finger on the corner of her smile. "Oh, had on your eye on that one too? Men are so quick to choose the pretty things. I would make sure they were useful before I was so hurried to jump on it."

Fenris's fingers curled as if they wished they held the pommel of his sword. He had the much enviable position of being able to openly seek Hawke if he needed to send her a quiet message, but apparently seeing her in that cage, with these magisters flippantly tossing her ownership around like she was a pretty trinket at market, was striking Fenris too closely. He breathed out in a sigh meant to sound huffy, and leaned his head to the side. "Where did they even come from? I'm not interested in buying before I know their stock."

Yorick's eyes were perusing his hopeful wares openly. "Oh, that was all arranged with one of the slavers here in Kirkwall. Discreetly, of course. Lots of mages in these hills around, what with them being disgruntled with their 'Circle.' Those nearly ran into their bonds as they ran from the Templars."

"And some simply are tasty little morsels meant for a little different servitude if you don't want to break the mages into a state where they won't think of competing with you," Ceilia said lazily. "Just normals for cleaning house, serving food, keeping the bed warm." She glanced back at Fenris. "The usual comforts."

Fenris nodded. "I know as well as you what they're used for." He had no need for the woman to spell it out. Long had Fenris worked his master's table, performed, and been paraded like a prize animal brought to heel. Fenris's muscles clenched, and he did not know how much longer he could keep this up. It far more than sickened him now that he was in it—it was a betrayal of his self to be a part of this in any way, to see these people's eyes doused in hopeless fear, or in acceptance, of something they could no longer bring themselves to fight against. They were already losing themselves in it. Fenris sharpened his gaze. This would end. "I have a boat waiting, and I have no desire to bicker all night," he said sharply.

"Fine. Let's make it quick then. We've already waited long enough." Ceilia looked annoyed with Fenris's temper, but she gestured to one of her men who held a ring of keys to step forward. "There are few enough here to pose trouble, but I'll keep the sigil up in any case. If they cause trouble as they exit, they all go up in flames. A loss, I suppose. But we can easily arrange for more."

"No," Fenris whispered in a low growl. He caught himself when the two magisters traded glances and waited for an explanation. Fenris shook his head as if they were naïve children before him. "No, there will not be more. There is not another like her across all of Thedas." Even though he spoke gruffly, the words behind it caught Hawke's attention. There was a gentle question in her eyes that threatened to break Fenris's poise.

Yorick finally broke his perusal to stare at Fenris. He cricked his knuckles one by one and shrugged. "Well then we're going to run into a problem, aren't we?"

Anders' took a quiet breath and readied himself to spring to action. Fenris had nothing to defend himself with except for his hands, and while he knew that made him far from defenseless, the magisters were sure to make the fight difficult…or simply threaten to extinguish the slaves entirely. In the rush of his sudden adrenaline, Fenris's threat of violence was a whisper from a dark place where still lurked the edges of a recent nightmare. "If you want to make this difficult, perhaps I'll demonstrate my own magic." Anders knew exactly what 'magic' Fenris had in mind. If he could get close enough, the magisters would understand too late exactly what the elf intended.

The shrill whisper from Ceilia told them she'd bought Fenris's warning. "Are you mad, elf? That'll bring the entire city on us!"

No one spoke. The sound of water slapping against the wood dock punctuated the heartbeats that passed between them. Anders didn't bother to keep his head bowed now; if his master was threatened then he guessed a servant had a right to feel offended. He passed a quick glance to Hawke. Her lips were thin lines, her sight locked on Fenris with…well, a concern she wasn't giving to Anders. Did that make him feel a little jealous? If he was being honest—

A man's sharp voice sliced through the air. "I won't have them roasted after all the effort I took to round them up. It's whoever pays the most coin gets the prize. You idiots should know that." The man speaking was sitting on a crate with his arms crossed disdainfully over his chest, a thick black beard cutting a square jaw line. He leaned his head lazily to the side as he looked from Yorick to Fenris. "20 sovereigns for the lady."

Yorick shot the man a furious scowl. "Why so high, you brigand?"

The man shrugged. "Demand just went up."

Anders' heart sank a little further into his chest. There was no way they'd have enough to coin. Not even for Hawke would they have that much on them. And now Fenris was here without his sword in desperate need of one. They were going to have to fight it out…or…

Or. I can break the sigil. Give me the authority. Anders swallowed. He knew exactly who spoke. Another part of him waking in the quiet. It is not right that these people be bartered and sold. Give me authority and I shall make this right.

"20 it is."

Anders blinked then stared at Fenris's back as his words sank into the clearing. Ceilia raised an eyebrow in new appraisal while Yorick's face darkened with a surge of hot blood.

Fenris gestured at the cages. "And how much for the rest of them?"

The man quirked an eyebrow then scratched at his beard as he thought. "Saves me the trouble of transport if there's only one buyer…I'd give 'em for 130."

This is when Ceilia looked affronted. "How dare you? You have no right to do cut us out like this!"

"You catch them yourself, miss, and you can do whatever your heart desires. As these are mine, I can sell however many I want and to whoever I want." The man pushed himself off the crate as the magisters sputtered behind him and held out his hand to Fenris. "You got that amount just kicking around on you, hey?" he asked dubiously.

"My slave carries it." Fenris motioned his head behind to where Anders stood nearly dumbstruck at what Fenris was trying to play at. "I make deals when I can. Surely you've heard something of me before? I usually buy in bulk."

The man pushed his lips in though and then snapped his fingers. "That's right! Didn't think he was an elf, beggin' your pardon, but slavers like myself trade tales of you like you're the Maker himself. Got a purse like your money comes up from a well."

Fenris nodded coolly. "Then you know I prefer to inspect what I'm buying before I lay money on the table."

Suddenly in sight of a true windfall of gold as the slaver rumours came to life before him, the man waved off Fenris's comment without pause. Anders felt the tiniest smirk hit his lips. If the slaves all piled out, the sigil would be worthless…

"Of course, sir, I can't go and simply turn the slaves out of the cage. I won't say I know how that magic works but only say that it does. Gotta' keep 'em in and out of trouble."

Fenris paused in his step toward the cages. How else could he remove them? It should be obvious to Anders that he didn't have that kind of coin, especially in their haste to get out of the mansion and down here, neither of them had money on them. It had been lucky that this particular slaver knew of the stories of the magister who often bought multiple slaves at a time—that got him onto his good side—but now what? Anders was also deciding whether to listen to the insistent urges in his mind, but time was ticking. A decision had to be made.

Before he could take back his decision, Anders quickly reached out his hand and gave the briefest of tugs on the edge of Fenris's robe. Fenris turned to it without thinking, and Anders watched the attention of the men in the courtyard stiffen toward them, but it was too late to take it back.

Anders sketched a hasty bow. "If I may have a quick word. Master."

"What is it?" Fenris demanded loudly enough that everyone could hear, disguising his uncertainty.

"I believe…that is. Your money, sir. I may have left it in your quarters."

Fenris's eyes questioned what message Anders was trying to send. "All of it? You fool, then you had best run to fetch it!"

He gripped the back of Anders' neck firmly so he could turn them both around back to the stairs, giving Anders a brief moment to whisper rapidly, "I can release the sigil. But I have to let Justice do it. I need to be out of sight or they'll know something's wrong."

Fenris swallowed quickly. He understood now: Anders couldn't be in view or it would be painfully apparent when Justice took over. There was no room to discuss. No time to say no to think about other options. Already the master and his servant had lingered together too long. Fenris didn't want to do it this way but…with their farce already concocted this was the straightest way to Hawke's freedom. He let go of Anders' neck. "Get out of here, and you had best be ready with it when you get back," Fenris snarled. Anders got the message.

Fenris turned back to the magisters, their bodyguards, and the man with gleams of money still hazing his eyes as Anders scrambled up the stairs, slowing when he was out of site. He took up a position where he could still see them through a slim crack in the wall and forcibly gave up his will to a willing and waiting Justice.

Fenris tossed his head as if disgusted with his servant's behaviour—which was not too hard an act—then sighed hotly. "While he fetches what should have been in his possession in the first place, I'll inspect one of them to ensure their quality."

Ceilia and Yorick still fumed in the background but could not do much against Fenris's promise of coin—an amount of money they obviously were not prepared to spend against this calibre of slave. The man gestured at the guard holding the keys, and then glanced at Fenris. "I suppose one'd be fine. You want a look at the girl right?"

"That would be preferable."

The key-guard strode to the cage and unlocked it with painful slowness. Hawke moved her way to the front with various looks of pity and apathy from the faces of the other slaves, waiting until the click from the lock was audible and the guard swung the gate open enough so she could squeeze through. He shut the gate behind her then made his way back out of the range of the sigil.

The slaver gestured her forward. "Well let him get a look at you in the light. Move, girl."

Hawke moved a couple of steps forward to stand in front of Fenris. He saw no concern there for herself, but the way she sent her eyes to the side, back where the cages still rustled with humans and elves, showed what her mind was truly set on. But Fenris had her close enough that he could whisk her to safety. They could leave if they wanted. Fenris could tell Hawke to run, and they could simply dash up those steps without a hope of the others catching up to them in this dark underworld. But Fenris had another foe to slay in this new nightmare. It would not end here if they ran. The lives of these people would continue in a foreign land, with foreign masters who would steal their memories, their hopes, even their fears. They would become nothing as their masters robbed them of everything.

If Fenris ran.

Understanding passed between Fenris's green eyes and Hawke's blue gaze. She was so close to him he could feel the heat off her body, but he pulled himself back from that thought. Now was not the time. He walked behind her, inspecting, gently lifting her hair away from her neck in a passing gesture then leaned in close beside her ear. "The sigil is broken. I can free them, but I'll need your help." That is, if Anders did manage it.

Hawke let her head dip a little to hide her trusting smile under the veil of her hair. To the others it looked like she had submitted to what future the cage held for her. Fenris glanced over to where Yorick stood, searching for the proper tool for Hawke; his mercenary outfit was complete with a beautifully fitted sword. It was perfect. Dismissing Hawke as suitable, Fenris angled towards the two magisters who stared with undisguised hatred at the elf who had stolen their goods. Their eyes narrowed as he approached, but Fenris put on a sickly sweet smiled and gestured Ceilia closer as Yorick was already near. Fenris held out his hands placatingly, and while his expression spoke peace, his heart burned with something else entirely. "Friend magisters, I know perhaps my deal was unfair for you to come so far and yet return empty-handed. Would two slaves a piece settle it between us?"

Ceilia sniffed in disdain. "It means little if we cannot choose ourselves."

Fenris smiled and gestured for them to precede him before the cages. This was the time. Now, as these would-be slaves looked on in placid fear, would new futures unfold. "Yes. If we are not able to choose—to choose who we are, what we do—then we are little more than slaves ourselves, are we not?" Ceilia turned back to him with puzzlement on her face. He leaned closer to them so his head was between theirs. "And I choose this," Fenris whispered.

Yorick was the first to fall, Fenris's blue-flamed hand ghosting out of his chest as the man's knees buckled under his weight, then his sword flipped from its scabbard and sailed across the clearing to land in Hawke's waiting hand. She wrapped the sword in her grip firmly and tipped its point to Fenris in mock salute as, sudden as a river sweeping away a fallen leaf, they had turned this little encounter on its head. Ceilia gaped open-mouthed before she found her voice and her first mistake was not ordering her men to attack.

"I'll kill them if you come near me!" she shrieked. Ceilia held her head as if by lowering it, the words to loose the sigil's power would follow as well.

"You've lost that choice, magister," Fenris said, his arrogant disguise stripped of all its finery till all that lay it its heart was righteous anger. And to punctuate his words the sigil that was supposedly under Ceilia's power suddenly boiled in the dirt, whirling in brighter and brighter colour until it was a blinding white, then flew apart just as a blast of wind would scatter a pile of leaves.

The point of Hawke's borrowed blade dipped for a moment and her eyes widened. "Anders?"

Fenris turned his head away for one moment from the magister to Anders descending the stairs in measured steps. Only, he knew it was not Anders. The demon was in control, and the blue wash of unearthly light like smoothed lightning arching over his body broke over the clearing and mingled with the haze from Fenris's markings. They studied each other, the elf and the man, each battling something inside they were too proud to admit. It was within a blink that they traded glances, and then each went back to their mark. The magister woman could not decide who held the greater threat, could not even understand what these two men were and how she would combat them. Her hesitation—her fear—cost her the last freedom.

The world to Fenris's right swirled in intense cold, the surprised yelps and spiteful growls of men who knew they had acted too late suddenly mellowed then silenced as ice closed over their bodies. Some of the slaves screamed in panic and confusion. But Fenris's only concern was the last magister standing. He was faster than her blood magic by far. Ceilia gasped and choked as he held her, her hands grasping Fenris's arm as her eyes seized his green gaze. "Now, you are a slave to death." Her eyes shifted in dark recognition at his words, then faded beyond where he could reach. Fenris cast her aside.

The clearing was deathly quiet. Not a thing breathed that would draw the attention of the elf and the man. Even Hawke was still, but her sight was locked on Fenris as he turned to her, the light of his lyrium still lining his tattoos as he let out one slow breath.

"Now your freedom is won," he said simply. There was a hint of satisfaction in his voice as the rest of him tried to expel the waking nightmare, the chains and the torture…the thought of that being so close to Hawke. The lyrium in his skin wouldn't rest.

Hawke tossed the sword aside. "Let's get the rest of these people out, and then I can say thank you properly." Fenris wondered at her words, but Hawke swung to Anders before he could ask. "Anders?" she questioned cautiously.

Just as Fenris could not so set aside the burning lyrium in his flesh, the jagged haze of Anders' vengeance lingered on him, his breath coming quick as his gaze shifted from them, back to the slaves, to the men in ice at their side.

With a small breath and a step forward, Fenris spoke slowly and clearly. "Anders, let it go."

A small smile tweaked his face and the mage spoke as if he had to push his words through a landslide above him. "Only if you will first."

Hawke looked between them and knew there was something there she was missing, but Fenris grasped it albeit not without reluctance, closing his eyes and diligently letting go of the edges of anger and spite that kept his lyrium from winking out. As the colour faded from his skin, back to silver traces in curving lines, Fenris brought his head back up to stare into the eyes of the demon…into what he feared. Anders' eyes met him for a moment, and he nodded in acknowledgment of their deal.

With effort that left him shaking, Anders quelled the other part of himself, his lips moving silently perhaps to urge it into stillness. He blinked and took a breath when it was finished. "I'm here. It's done." The words went to Fenris.

With a smile of relief for them that tugged Fenris's heart in a strange way, Hawke turned to search for the key-guard. She tugged the keys from his numbed fingers and worked her way through the cages until the loose straggle of humans and elves, tears glittering on many faces, dashed up the stairs with cautious words of thanks to those that had freed them. Hawke palmed the keys without pause and tossed it far into the depths of the docks, to rust and to rot. As the last stragglers hurried their way past, looking to be anywhere but there, finally the three of them gathered together. They looked at each other uneasily, Fenris suddenly itching in the robes under Hawke's gaze, Anders awkwardly tugging his boots up farther to try and hide the gap where his pants ended.

Hawke bit her lip and tried desperately to hide her grin, but with the adrenaline and too-close fear still riding with her, the grin escaped into an easy laugh that lightened the others' faces into chagrined looks. She loosely waved at each of them. "And who's going to tell me whose idea it was to play dress up?"

Fenris was the first to give in under her gaze. "It was the mage's excellent idea," he uttered with straight sarcasm.

Anders' waved the comment away as if it were a complement. "Ah, but Fenris was far better at making us still look suitably dashing for the parts."

Hawke chuckled in the silence between them, and there was a tiny glance set aside for Fenris that lit on him light as a whisper. "Good thing my rescuers remembered to look handsome for their roles before they decided to come back for me. I might not have left with them." She gestured up the stairs. "C'mon, let's get out of here, and then Anders is going to tell me exactly how he managed to recruit you to this failed mission of ours."

Fenris smiled down on her as they took the steps together. "It starts with me nearly taking off his head."

Hawke pursed her lips in mock thought. "A good start…"

Anders turned on them with a scowl. "It is not! Look at the cut he gave me! It's still bleeding."

"I like the way Fenris is telling it. Don't interrupt." Hawke led Fenris up past Anders and they turned the corner around the steps. Their laughter echoed off the empty streets as Anders embellished heavily the tale Fenris wove with much prodding from Hawke, but often as not, the elf and the man found their stories echoed each other, leaving the dark parts behind.

It was not an agreement to peace. It was an understanding. Anders understood the past slave named Little Wolf who was still learning freedom, and Fenris understood the man who had twisted Justice without intent into something darker, and though neither was justified in it, these things were aspects to consider.

And for a time, that was enough.