Solidarity

*WARNING* This contains violence, some language, and Fenris/Anders SLASH. If any of that bothers you, feel free to click away.

POV switches.

It's also a companion piece/sequel to "Empathy", so you may want to read that first.

Dragon Age II and all the characters belong to Bioware.

Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated (I wrote most of this with very little sleep). I tried to do the final scene longer, but I wasn't sure if sexytime fit with the tone of the rest of the piece. So I may rewrite it, once I get some rest.

Arcanum translations are at the bottom

…

The human was afraid; he could see it in the wideness of his eyes, the trembling of his blade. Fear was a weakness. Pity was a weakness. But anger…anger was a strength. Fenris pressed forward, a slight smile on his lips as the Tevinter shrank away. Twelve men already lay dead around them, but Seheron's oppressive heat was taking its toll. He would have to make this last kill quick.

These men were vultures, carrion birds that preyed on those who dared seek freedom. Most bounty hunters would not dare venture this far into Fog Warrior territory, but for some, greed made them bold. After the fall of Alam, many slaves managed to escape to the trees only to be tracked down and killed, if they were lucky.

He owed his life to Drei, and the others, a thousand times over. They saved him, back when he was little more than a broken, master-less dog, crawling his way through the jungle. He had to protect them, to show them he was worthy of their investment, of their respect.

The slaver held up his arms, a gesture of surrender, "Noli me tangere. Te precor."

Fenris paused. It was…possible the bounty hunter had information. "Exarmari," he ordered. The man complied, dropping to a crouch and lowering his sword to the ground.

Then something hard struck him between the eyes.

Years of training took over and he slammed down his blade, deflecting a killing blow to one side. Adrenaline barely kept him on his feet as sword ripped through flesh. He staggered, off-balance, then dove left. The man was sneaky, but Fenris was trained. He smoothly parried the next, blundering strike and thrust forward into the Tevinter's throat. Blood and sweat dripped off his chin as the bastard crumpled to the ground.

Cowards. All cowards.

He stumbled forward, propping himself up with his blade, and spat out a mouthful of blood.

Void take them all.

Strong arms caught him as he sunk to his knees, gently rolling him on his side. An olive-skinned manned glared down at him, his accented voice dripping with annoyance, "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Fenris grimaced, avoiding Drei's dark eyes. Things were not supposed to go like this. "Would you rather I let them live?"

"I'd rather you not venture out alone," he replied. The Fog Warrior peeled the leather from his skin, working to bandage him as best he could. Fenris winced at the touch, but fought the urge to pull away. The pain he could manage, he had endured far worse, but it was difficult to think of contact as something other than violence or control.

At last, Fenris pushed his armor back into place and struggled to sit up, "Thank you. I…I am fine now."

Drei shook his head, hoisting him to his feet. "Reckless to the point of suicidal is not fine," the human said. "You are one of us now, my friend. You do not need to fight alone."

…

Mages were dangerous.

They were selfish.

They were prideful.

They were weak.

So it should come as no surprise that one mage in particular was late.

Fenris finished off the last dregs from his glass and slammed it down, gesturing to Corff for more of the Hanged Man's swill. A group of patrons were gawking at him, but he ignored them; he was used to his appearance getting unwanted attention. He did not hide the markings when Danarius was alive, and he certainly would not start hiding them now.

Oddly enough, Anders seemed to have a fondness for lyrium. Or, at least , the demon inside him did. A disturbing fact, but one that had its…uses. The mage was still infuriating, of course—if it were up to him, maleficarum would run rampant in the streets—but that did not mean he deserved Fenris' anger. The man, abomination or not, understood the desperation of being a fugitive. And he was altruistic to a fault.

Such a strange twist of fate, that the man he now desired was a man he once despised.

He sighed, grabbing the fresh tankard from the bartender. This concern he had was foolish. Anders was a healer—it was not uncommon for an emergency to crop up last minute. Still, the mage usually would have sent word by now.

Fenris brought the drink to his lips, only to have it snatched from his grasp. "You've had enough, I think," a haughty voice said from behind him.

"I'm sure you are an expert in such matters, Isabela, but three glasses is hardly abuse" he replied, decidedly not making room for her on the bench. Her presence was unlikely to improve his foul mood. Not that this dissuaded her from planting herself next to him.

"It's not the drinking, sweet thing, it's the brooding," she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a throaty whisper. "You're worried about him, aren't you? How cute."

"I do not know what you are talking about," he dismissed.

"Oh? So you're not watching for a certain feather-pauldroned apostate? Honestly, the way you two keep sneaking around, even Merrill could see what was going on." she said, lips curling up into a smirk. Damn that woman and her knowing smiles. "Just do yourself a favor and go after him, will you?"

He relented, making his way to the door. She was probably right. All he had to do was go to the clinic and check that the mage hadn't worked himself into oblivion again.

The ground became colder under his feet as he made his way down to Darktown. And more wet, too, with what he prayed was mere rainwater. He didn't know how anyone could stand to live down here for any extended length of time, much less for almost a decade. Not that his living arrangements were hardly any better.

A group of Templars marched past, talking in hushed tones. He crept deeper into the shadows, following. Listening.

Seething.

"But he's one of Hawke's. Meredith said—"

"I don't care what Meredith said, this is our duty."

Fenris clenched his fists.

…

…..

…

Maker, he just wanted water.

Five months had passed since the last, pitiful rainfall. Three weeks since the water-sellers gouged his parents out of every copper they owned. Other villagers had been lucky enough to flee the Anderfels, but his family had nowhere to go, and no coin to get there. The young man knelt and pressed his palms to the arid dirt, praying that the darkness concealed him from any helmeted eyes.

He could not keep doing this. People were getting suspicious, now that his family wasn't dying of thirst. He was terrified of being exposed, of his parents being punished for hiding him, but he had little choice.

His hands shone blue as he concentrated his magic. Focus. He needed to focus. There were water pockets beneath the earth—he just had to coax them to the surface. The water was close. He could sense it. With one last flare of magic, a small spring bubbled up from the ground.

And that's when he heard it, the ring of metal on metal. Of sword on sheath.

No. Maker, please…

His body seemed to move of its own accord, sprinting into the night and blindly shooting lightning over his shoulder. A muffled yelp confirmed at least one bolt found its mark. Panic overwhelmed his senses: there was no thirst, no exhaustion, just the need to get away.

The first smite hit, a wave of fire that blurred his vision and split his head in two. He staggered but kept running, setting the dry grasses behind him ablaze. The heavy footsteps were getting closer. He had to slow them down. He called on another burst of lightning, only to be choked off mid spell. Negative energy clasped around his throat. He couldn't cast. Couldn't breathe.

The next smite hit and his vision went dark.

…..

At long last, Anders shut and locked the clinic door behind him, using a small ice spell to quench the lantern's flame. The sun had set hours ago, not that you could hardly notice. But that wasn't the point. He was late. Again. Andraste's armored petticoat, Fenris was going to murder him. He redoubled his pace, hoping to get to the Hanged Man before the elf became intoxicated enough to start stripping. A pleasant sight, for sure, but one he'd rather keep all to himself.

Anders stopped in his tracts. He heard something, a slight chime at the edge of his hearing, a song soon drowned out by shouting and clashing swords. Of course, this happened tonight of all nights. Anders rushed towards the fighting—the people respected him here, maybe he could stop it. Darktown was bad enough without grown men killing each other over nothing.

But this was no bar brawl: normal people didn't fight like that, normal people didn't wear armor like that. But Templars did.

Fear gripped his heart like a vice. Seeing them in action reminded of every instance they had caught him, of ever abuse he had suffered at their hands. For a moment, he almost let Justice take control. Almost let the spirit do what he feared to do alone.

Then he saw Fenris in the middle of the fray, and he needed no influence from the spirit to charge in. He stood and fought beside his lover, back to back. It was like a dance, the way they worked together. A casual familiarity that came from years of battle, a steadfast resolve that came from trust. Anders would freeze a man in place so Fenris could smash him down; Fenris would stagger a man so Anders could blast him with lightning. One by one, they destroyed their opponents, until their last enemy fell.

In the aftermath of the battle, Fenris glanced up at him curiously. Almost…apologetically. Truth be told, he was rather confused as well. They had fought Templars together, not because of Hawke's influence, but because... he didn't really know. "What the hell just happened?" he asked.

"Clinic, mage. Let's go."

…..

…..

…..

Fenris removed the scabbard from his back and let it clang against the wall. "You should relock the door," he said.

"What if there is an emergency? People could need me—"

People could wait.

"They can knock, if their need is great enough." He pulled the mage down to eye level, catching a faint scent of soap from the blond hair, "Lock it. Now."

The human brushed past, too exhausted to fight with him, "As you wish, Fenris."

Click.

"So," Anders said from behind him. "Are you going to tell me what's going on now? Why did they attack you?"

"They did not attack me," he replied curtly. "I attacked them."

"But you've always said—"

"The Templars can take any other mage they wish." He turned to face the man, sliding the gauntlets off his arms. "But not you."

Fenris cupped the mage's chin, kissing the stubble and letting the lyrium flare.

Amber eyes rolled back at his touch, closing in pleasure. The tattoos were on fire in his skin, but it was worth it to see the human so enraptured. He settled himself against the side of a cot, pulling the mage close and claiming the man's mouth with his own. Clever hands made short work of their armor; feathers and metal were quickly dropped to the floor. Anders kissed a trail of blue light along every swirl of the markings, traveling up his arms, along his neck, and down his chest. The magic felt good, as loath as he was to admit it. Like the first breath of air after diving far too deep.

Slim fingers edged along the inside of his leggings, then slipped them off his feet in one swift movement. He hissed as cold air hit his arousal, painfully aware of how naked he was before the man. Fenris bit the soft flesh along Anders' neck, grabbing at the laces of his trousers, "You seem to have me at a… disadvantage, mage."

"Do I?" he grinned. "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

Fenris returned the smile and pushed the man down onto his back, tearing the boots and trousers from his legs. Settled between the man's thighs, he took a moment to appreciate the way his pale skin reflected the lyrium's light. Anders was handsome, for a human. Well-toned without being huge. Gentle features without being feminine.

He took his time in making love to him, saying in actions what he could not say in words: that Anders belonged to him. That he, in turn, belonged to Anders. And that whatever challenges they faced, they would face together.

Utterly exhausted, Fenris melted into the mage's arms.

His lover's arms.

Anders' arms.

…

ARCANUM TRANSLATIONS

Noli me necare- do not kill me

Te precor- I beg you

Exarmari- disarm (an order)

*side note* The Seheron city of Alam is not necessarily where Fenris was left behind, that was just my best guess since it's so close in proximity to Minrathous.