- Some Will Seek Forgiveness, Others Escape -
TevinterSlave (Fenris) & Gone-Batty (Anders)
Anders stared up at torn tapestries that hung lifelessly above him- strung up from the rafters of his darktown clinic long before he had arrived to claim the space. Idly he began to imagine what the worn pieces of fabric looked like from above. The thick dust which must have collected. Dirt and filth, possibly dead bugs or even…dead rats. Mummified from years of rotting- perhaps that explained the deep, greasy looking stains?
The wooden cot protested as the mage lurched to his side, his face twisted into a disgusted scowl. Perhaps it best he not wonder about such things, lest he lose more precious sleep over it.
Sleep that he was currently unable to attain.
Air huffed as it escaped the mans nose- the cot creaking again as arms positioned themselves under his strawberry blond head, cradling a worn pillow. Rest was never this hard to come by… until very recently. Until the arrival of Fenris.
A flush of color found its way to the mage's cheeks, hollow need writhing within his chest.
Anders eye-lids tightened as he mentally scolded himself for coming back to this well over-thought topic. Of all the things he should have on his mind, no one could have guessed that Fenris would consistently be in the top three… right next to the plight of all mage kind and the constant struggle of containing his now radically disproportionate emotions.
Shame shot through him, and he wondered if it was his own- or in fact the spirit's that took up residence within him. At this point, both seemed applicable.
Fenris was a gruff, venomous thing- a wild creature bestowed with the deceptive guise of a rather handsome Tevinter elf. It was not the ex slave's appearance that had first attracted Anders' attention however- but the lyrium that had been branded into his tan, lithe flesh. Without a doubt, the mage had known what those winding white patterns were before the elf ever revealed their true nature. He FELT them, deep within himself. Tugging softly at his bones. Singing wryly to the very depts of him.
To Justice.
A pang of annoyance hit him squarely in the chest, and he knew that he had struck a chord. He imagined it was quite embarrassing, even for a spirit of the fade, to be so swayed by a mere elf.
Anders chuckled under his breath, and then lay silent for a long moment. The clinic was utterly deserted, and thus only silence rang back at him from it's dark corners. Slowly, he pushed his mind away from the lyrium laden elf, if only to alleviate the feeling of longing that had begun to take residence within his breast.
There were other matters that could occupy his thoughts as he groped desperately for sleep, preferably something he found pleasant or soothing.
Aimless thoughts settle at last on memories of his mother, singing one of many gentle lullabies passed down through the generations.
Her voice was that of an angel. He'd never heard another like it.
Slowly, consciousness slipped from Anders, sealing him within the fade as he dreamed.
Another night.
"I'm just wondering how your master didn't kill you."
Nothing helped.
"He seems less a man to me than a wild dog."
Despite all his efforts.
"Did you ever think about killing yourself?"
Every word, every movement.
"He has let one bad experience colour his whole world."
Replaying in his head.
"Perhaps they should start making slaves Tranquil!"
So vividly.
"I'll prove to you that I'm not weak."
Fenris let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, a thin puff of mist in the freezing air. Kirkwall nights were not kind to a dilapidated mansion with cracked walls and loose boards for windows, and with no wood to make a fire he knew it would only get worse. It always did.
But that was only one reason why he couldn't sleep.
Him.
He shut his eyes tight in a grimace. No. Not him. He did not stay up at night plagued by thoughts of him. Him of all people.
If not for Hawke, he'd have killed him already. He was so much like the magisters. Arrogant, selfish, boastful, able to justify the most outrageous examples of their power-lust by falsely claiming the moral highground. It was ridiculous; infuriating, even. He had escaped a land of dark magic only to have it follow him at every turn. The torture of nearly two decades was not enough, evidently — for nine more years, he had suffered it. Perhaps true freedom was a lie.
Fenris pulled the threadbare sheet up over himself. It was the first night he had slept without full armour. Sometimes he convinced himself it was for what little warmth it locked in, but in the back of his mind he knew the truth. Fear. Lying restless, waiting, listening, almost expecting a band of slavers to burst through the doors at any moment. It didn't seem far-fetched, and so he would sleep in his plate with his sword in hand, if he slept at all.
He could blame the paranoia again, couldn't he?
He could.
…No, he couldn't.
Well, if he concentrated…
No.
Those were not slavers invading his thoughts at this hour and he knew it. If it were, he'd have bound to his feet and strapped his armour on again at the mere thought. But he didn't. His hand slipped under the sheet.
Him.
That idiotic, arrogant, foolish scum of a mage… He mulled over a thousand curses in his head, horrid declarations of sincere hatred, some eloquent and others not so much, while his hand worked out of sight. How could he let such filth gain this much control over him? How was it possible for one man, one disgusting wretch of a man, to tear away the small hours of his sleep and poison the minutes of his wake? He worked faster, the scars along his skin glowing dimly in the dark.
His lips parted with a gruff breath, and he fell still.
"…Anders…"
He wiped his hand on the sheet.
Another sleepless night.
Anders awoke with a start, chocolate brown eyes flying open, only to be greeted by still darkness. He listened for a moment, unsure if his eyes had actually opened, willing himself to speak.
'Hello?' he whispered daftly, nearly expecting a reply that he was certain would not come.
What was that? A dream perhaps? He had the distinct feeling that someone was calling to him. A far off whisper that now faded from his mind as it recovered consciousness.
Discomfort crawled up the mages spine as he became aware of clamminess within his robes, despite the chilled air that crept through the vacated clinic. It was unusual to sweat this much during a cold Kirkwall night, his robes generally insulated him well enough to be contented sleeping in them, as they were not uncomfortable or restraining.
The shabby wooden cot announced itself to the darkness, as well as the scuff of two light feet. A barely audible skritching, as the groggy mage rubbed his own stubbly chin absently. Anders peered into the darkness surrounding him, attempting to make out the shapes of various furniture within the room, to gain a bearing on what he was looking at.
Ah, there it was.
Straining eyes finally gain purchase on a rickety table a few feet from him. The entire room seemed to illuminate- his eyes able to reconstruct the clinic from familiarity and the minuscule light from the high windows of the dilapidated building.
How long had he been asleep? It felt like ages, but the night seemed somehow deeper than it was when he could last recall it. Anders straightened his torso, the vertebra in his back replying with several relieving pops. He grunted softly in the darkness, then sighing as he settled, elbows to thigh.
Someone had woken him from nearly dead sleep. Called to him, though he could not remember their voice, only a crushing feeling of need that still resounded within his ribcage. Anders wondered vaguely if he was still within the fade, asleep- as such an experience hardly seemed real. A sudden twinge of annoyance reminded him otherwise, as Justice had apparently also been stirred. There was no Justice in his dreams. Just him.
Just plain Anders.
A dull ache took residence in his chest, coupled with an odd sort of frustration that nagged at him benignly, cementing wakefulness into his eyes.
He would not be able to get back to sleep, of this the mage was almost certain.
He tried tossing, he tried turning, he tried just laying there with his eyes glued to the windowed ceiling that opened up to the starless sky, but the cold got the best of him before his weariness could even come close.
Fenris sat up on the edge of the old, stained bed and put his numb feet on the floor. It had been years, but the memories in this house lingered even so. No, he had never lived here during his slavery, but the tattered banners and chipped tile brought back faint memories of some place similar. He tried to focus on the fleeting images as he pulled on his leggings but like sand held in cupped hands, they slowly escaped him. Perhaps it was better this way.
Who knows what he would find if he dug too deeply, if he struck below the unsettling surface of his memories.
Yes, much better this way.
But as the elf pulled on his tunic, closed the latches on his vambraces, he could see marble floors beneath his feet. He could feel the acrid burn of incense in his throat. He could smell Danarius's pipe. He could hear mutterings in a language he no longer spoke. He could taste the lyrium in his blood under his tongue.
The last buckle strapped his breastplate firmly against his chest and his hand found his sword leaning against the wall.
He... needed some air.
For all the good it would do, he deadbolted the front door behind him as he left. It wasn't as if he had anything worth stealing and anyone who truly wanted inside could break down the splintered door if it meant that much to them. Still, it seemed somehow calming to lock those memories tightly away inside the dark recesses of the estate.
Not that it wasn't any less dark outside. The moon was barely a sliver, if it could even be considered that much, and the stars were entirely doused in the vast expanse of black that hung over the city. But with elven eyes that cut through the shadows, he made his way out of Hightown to roam the lower streets where eyes glanced out from hidden places and whores skinned their knees for their copper. He kept his hand on his sword.
A relieved sigh huffed out his nose as the placard of The Hanged Man came into view. A drink, or several, sounded better than anything else in the world at that moment. There was a piece of parchment nailed to the door, but he could only make a face at the jumbled symbols as he tugged on the door handle.
Locked.
Of course.
Two large black boots shuffled absently across the dirty clinic floor, sand and grit protesting under the hardened soles.
'Damn..' Anders voice rang out in the darkness, annoyed.
No amount of sweeping was going to make an impact on the state of these aged floors, and complete cleanliness was a goal he had long since given up on. The healer often wished there was a way to at least make it decent, if not for his benefit, then for his patient's. Treating their ailments with his magic was fine and good, but if he could also give them a real refuge- a place to escape the filth of their everyday lives here in Kirkwall.. well.. that was healing which required virtually no magic at all.
'Wup!' a loud staggering sound, and the yelp of scraping wood across the floor. Anders cursed himself for not pushing in his writing desk chair as he struggled to re-center himself, arms flailing ridiculously through the darkness. Maker be praised, he was alone in his clinic tonight. The mage found his graceless activities were nearly deafening against the still dark of the large open space he inhabited. It was a wonder if the entirety of Kirkwall was not privy to his insomnia-induced blunderings.
There was a indignant metal skreek and the soft mutterings of a fire incantation before the room was showered in soft golden light. Tiny shadows from all across the room skittering away to the remaining darkness. It appeared as though a kitten might become a necessity after too much longer, the idea brought a smile to the mans lips.
Anders carefully lit one of the hanging metal lanters near his writing desk, scarcely concentrating as flame took to wick. It used to take everything he had to conjure such a small flame- and just a little more to keep it burning without it blowing up in his face. The control he now possessed seemed like an impossible goal back then, but now he found himself taking such small feats of magic for granted.. or at least he used to when he lived in the Fereldan Circle.
Now, if he were to use magic in his everyday life he would be exposed, captured, and likely made tranquil- if not instantly put to death for his past transgressions.. or worse, sent back to the Grey Wardens.
Anders swallowed hard, his throat tightening slightly. Darkspawn blood had a taste he never could quite forget.
The mage lit another lamp, driving the shadows back further- before heading to the clinic doors to light the lamps outside. He saw little sense in laying awake, driving himself mad thinking of absent persons or places long lost to him. Although his clinic had been relatively uninhabited for the last few days, there was always the possibility that someone could need his help at this hour.
He concluded it was too dark for a lone walk, lest he be ambushed by roving riff raff in some dark lowtown alley. Risking a situation where he would be revealed as an apostate was foolish at best, especially without Hawke to act as the responsible party.
There was a long, slow creek as one large wooden door carefully swung open, its hinges beginning their first demands for fresh oil. Anders made note of this as he reached for the lamp, bringing it within the clinic to light out of sight. He replaced it on its hook before taking a several deliberate steps beyond the threshold to stare out into the darkness beyond.
Just enough moonlight streamed in from outside to illuminate the immediate area. The blond apostate found himself a bit anxious as his eyes scowered the gloom for signs of life. There was a mild, frustrating tug at the edges of his mind, luring him another step from his domain. Whispering sweetly.
Strange.
The mage smirked to himself, eyes rolling caustically. He felt juvenile in a way, being so harassed by a simple dream that he couldn't rightly remember having. Reluctantly turning his back to the inky shadows of darktown, shuffling back into his sanctum, the door mewling for oil as it swung shut.
With nowhere to go, Fenris found himself wandering lower into the city, past vacant bazaars and boarded shops, dilapidated townhouses with scarce windows betraying the light of a dying candle or lantern. He kept near the walls as much as he could, wary of the open path but even moreso of the alleyways. However many bandits might have been hiding there, he had no doubt he could take care of them all if need be, but it would be best to keep as much blood off of his hands as possible. Keeping this in mind, he silently stepped down the stairs that led to the darkest and grittiest part of the city.
Moans, coughs, whimpers. They pervaded this place. Vagabonds and invalids were scattered around the makeshift pathways like so many ragdolls, half-steeped in their own trash, no doubt. Fenris scowled as he nearly slipped on a particularly grimey patch of filth on the floor that he dared not guess the identity of. The notion of turning and leaving immediately came to the forefront of his thoughts, but he reasoned that he had few other choices and that, relatively speaking, he would attract the least attention here as an elf.
As he roamed the din, he idly noticed that far beneath the cacophony of lamentations, there was something not entirely unpleasant: the sea. He could barely the hear the waves as they broke against the borders of the city, barey smell the wet salt amidst the putrid stench of Darktown. It reminded him vaguely of something, though he knew not what.
Feeling more with his feet than seeing with his eyes, which seemed to him a somewhat good thing, Fenris made his way up a short flight of stairs that led to the upper level. He looked out over the top step and thought he might have seen a light glowing a ways away, but he was not given the chance to look any further when his foot caught on a pile of trash at the top of the stairs and the ground suddenly rushed up to meet his face.
On instinct, he braced his gauntlets beneath his face as he hit the floor.
"Venhedis!"
The elf pulled himself up onto his elbows. Something warm was running down his face from a long, stinging line in his cheek that spread towards his nose and lip. He touched his bare palm to it and hissed at the sudden pain. He pulled it away abruptly and looked down at the dark splotch that covered his hand.
Cursing at himself in his head and now thoroughly regretting ever leaving his cold, dark solitude, he scrambled to his feet with the intent of leaving.
Anders had just begun to oil the decrepit hinges on one of the two large entry doors to his infirmary when a sudden loud thud broke through the silence, startling him. Nearly jumping from his skin, Anders gasped aloud, despite himself. Thick oil spilled with the abrupt jolt, thoroughly saturating the hinge as well as the applicator's hands.
'Blood of Andraste!' Anders hissed under bated breath, shaking the offensive substance from his now jittery hands. As if he'd never heard random bumps in the night before? This whole evening was slowly driving him mad with exasperation!
And then he heard it.
Something like a low, spitting growl- perhaps an exclamation of some kind? The mage froze, his ears straining for more information, yet none came. Generally Anders considered the relatively sound tight doors a blessing, tonight however they left much to be desired as they muffled the sound, distorting it beyond all possible recognition.
In one smooth motion he stood, wiping the excess oil on the front of his heavy robes automatically. There was no time to be bothered with it. Reaching for his staff and the door simultaneously- he prepared himself for what he might find on the other side.
A overwhelming eagerness blossomed from the mage's chest as a still slippery hand found purchase on the latch with a white knuckled grip. Trembling breath lodged itself within his now painfully tight throat as the door soundlessly opened with a gentle, calculated push.
Initially Anders saw nothing, his eyes appraising the situation before his brain could even cohere what he was looking at. Relief washed over him then, before he truly knew whether or not he faced any danger. Justice seemed a keen observer, but Anders was not one to blindly trust. In one seamless movement he readied his staff firmly before him, calling out boldly into the dark.
'Show yourselves!'
He heard the heavy wooden door swing open with a quiet creak just as he had turned on his heel to make his way back to his mansion with all due haste, but the yell that burst into the darkness afterward was enough to freeze him in his tracks.
That voice.
He knew that voice.
Far, far too well.
He cursed himself vehemently as he spun around to glare at the mage he already knew stood there in the doorway. This was the absolute last person he wished to see at that very moment, but his luck seemed to have an odd habit of running out whenever he needed it. He was a fool to come here, but he could still make it out with his dignity.
The elf raised his hand to gingerly cover the gash in his cheek and took a step backward into the shadows. He practically snarled, his breath low and venomous.
"Keep your distance, mage."
The blond apostate froze, staff still held defensively before him. His once resolute grip seemed to slacken as realization struck his heart with an anxious pang, empty stomach instantly filling with overly enthusiastic butterflies.
Taken aback by a strange mingling of relief and shock, Anders could honestly say the deep, feral voice that answered was the last he expected. Sadly, he had little time to choose his words- the elvhen warrior appeared as though he might take flight at any moment if the silence was not broken. The deep set corners of the weary mage's mouth turned down into a feigned grimace.
'Fenris?' his voice did not crack, nor waver..which he was exceedingly grateful for as he continued on without missing a beat. 'You blighted elf! What are you doing sneaking around darktown at this hour? Don't you have your own dilapidated haunt to occupy?' A loud thunk issued from the floor as the end of the staff met hard against it, completing the short outburst of questions.
Despite the annoyance he strove to convey, Anders felt intrigue slowly bubble up from within him as he dared to take a step closer to the notably disheveled looking elf. One cruel metal gauntlet was raised to the others own face, which appeared extremely odd until a jarring mental kick knocked him into cognition.
'Are you… bleeding?'
Fenris sneered at the mage as he went on, his voice an insulting bark in the quiet, vacuous place.
"What I choose to do is no concern of yours, abomination."
It was easy enough to forget everything else when he was actually faced with the mage. Easy enough to forget the way he stole away his sleep and his sanity, clutched his chest in a vice grip of desire, made him need that familiar tyranny again more than anything — so very easy to forget. The epithets helped it along, and he took care to spit them out as he could.
There was… something nagging at him, but he shoved it away into the deepest, darkest part of his core that he knew of. He would never allow it to see the light of day — or of night, as the case may be. The idea of running away was so very, very tempting.
For now, Fenris took another step backward, entirely forgetting that there was nowhere left to step. His heart skipped a beat as his foot missed the stair, but his reflexes were quick enough to save him from taking a tumble down the stairs. He tripped forward to catch himself, and scowled deeply. A curse came out under his breath for being so idiotic and careless in front of someone. Not that he cared what the mage thought, of course.
"No, I'm not, and I told you to keep your distance."
Instinctively Anders jerked forward when the elf stumbled, but quickly halted himself before any noticeable gesture was made. Free hand falling away to his side the stoic mage quickly collected himself.
That spontaneous gentleness was one thing he was never quite able to shake. The humanitarian portion which reached helping hands out to complete strangers, a little piece of innocence yet surviving in a wasteland of saturating vengeance. The mage was not sure if it was a remnant to be embraced or cast off, and thus it remained tenuously.
Seamlessly the elf hissed another warning, hostility lining his icy words like bits of broken glass. Anders crinkled his nose.
Should he take another step forward? The darkness concealed Fenris well enough, but the faint smell of fresh blood betrayed his secret. Looking upon him now, it was hard for Anders to seriously acknowledge just how dangerous he knew the Tevinter was, especially when the hollow pull of his lyrium burns silently serenaded the spirit within.
Should he offer aid? Would the warrior even accept it if he had? Or should he continue in the way that felt most natural between them? The undeniable opportunity to volley when the ball had been so clumsily served into his court, was extremely tempting.
A twinge of morbid anticipation flickered through him it was decided. Anders was well aware of the ramifications of his next words before he even spoke them, he simply could not resist.
'It's a wonder your former master kept you around, clumsy as you are..I thought elves were supposed to be the pinnacle of grace?'
There was nothing about what the mage just said that didn't make Fenris want to hurt him. Badly. He took a menacing step forward into the moonlight, his heel hitting the ground surprisingly hard given that it was bare. Thick tendrils of blood were still streaming down his face from the slashes, but he ignored it even as it trickled over his scars and dripped off his chin.
He felt the abrupt urge to lunge at the mage, to grip him by the throat and slam him against the wall for daring to refer to Danarius in his presence as if he had the right. But no. He wouldn't give the mage that satisfaction.
"You know as little of elves as you do of me," he bit back in a seething hiss. "Do not speak as if it is otherwise."
Anders cocked his head to the side, appraising the now visible wound that adorned Fenris' livid face. Heart pounding within his chest, he became light headed as the lyrium sang within the furious warrior's veins. He ached to be closer- to touch the smooth tan skin and the intricate markings that adorned it.
Throughout their many adventures, Anders had always found it difficult to focus in the immediate vicinity of the lyrium adorned creature, especially during the heat of battle. Often times he felt lulled into a frustrating distraction as the fury those burns held unleashed upon their enemies. That aspect alone had greatly endeared the elf to him over the years they spent fighting alongside Hawke and the others, despite their formidable differences.
Too bad they detested each other down to the very core. Or more appropriately, too bad Fenris abhorred him. Anders' true hatred was reserved only for Templars, of late.
The blond apostate's face remained remarkably impassive as he waited for the seething elf to lash out at him, yet the attack never came. Instead, Fenris pressed one threatening step forward, retorting viciously.
On the point of knowing little of Fenris, Anders was inclined to agree- yet elves in general..
'Ah, not so! In fact I knew many elves in the Circle, and I can personally attest their grace, and also.. flexibility.' Anders allowed himself a devious smirk, then casually turned his body, disregarding the smaller man's aggression entirely.
'Before you frolic off, let me treat that gash. Chances are if you acquired it here, your face will slough off by sunrise.'
Fenris opened his mouth to toss back some sarcastic comment - wait... flexibility? The elf's scorn was quickly and utterly derailed. It wasn't like he was sensitive to.. comments of that nature in general, nor those coming from this mage in particular, but in the middle of an otherwise venomous exchange... well, simply put, he was caught rather off-guard.
Stuck between a cough and sigh, he let out his breath in a huff.
He would have refused the offer of treatment on matter of principle, if only to keep the dignity that he had planned to retain a few minutes ago. Would the mage care to ask what happened, if he had not already pieced it together? Fenris doubted it, which was reassuring.
And then there was something deeper when he listened to the offer. Something that seemed to flicker inside his gut for a fleeting moment, but which he couldn't name. Or maybe he just didn't care to. For the briefest instant, he remembered the cold dark of his room and the thoughts that had haunted him there for years, reminding him how very weak his willpower could be.
All of it was enough to force a curt nod from him.
"...No magic."
A rush of satisfaction washed over Anders so completely that he had to hold his breath to retain the surprised gasp attempting to escape his lips. Justice cooed within him, eager to bask in the elf's presence. Internally he wished that he could claim not to share such delight with his resident spirit, however there was little they did not have in common these days.
The mage was positive that his last comments would send the elf off in a rage, but it seemed tonight held many surprises for him. Hopefully this would turn out mutually beneficial for both parties. The gashes on the warriors face looked quite bad- and Anders was looking for something to entertain his insomnia. He hadn't quite planned for this, however.
Anders nodded once in reply, his eyes reluctantly tearing away from the elf before him as he turned towards the still open entryway; lamp flickering lamely from his subtle movements.
Instantly Anders dreaded the impending 'awkward small talk'. Small talk that would likely be cast off in favor of silence, which may then devolve into bickering; and then violence.
Why did he have to feel so frustrated around that sodding elf? Perhaps they'd be able to have a normal conversation if the tension was not always on high, rather than verbally beating on each other every moment they sensed the opportunity.
Anders wanted to sigh, but withheld it, conscious of the elf behind him as he entered his shabby clinic; now cozy from the previously lit fire. Spying a chair near the entrance he reached for it, dragging it along with him until it came to rest near the fire. He motioned to Fenris politely, and then crossed the room to a tacky wooden cabinet- filled with his collection of poultices and salves.
That strange, strange second of silence before the mage nodded made him immediately second guess his decision, but Anders had already turned to lead the way into the clinic before Fenris could protest. Why did he follow him? ...He didn't know. He convinced himself it was to clean up the blood plastering the ends of his hair to his cheek.
It was certainly a relief to be out of the freezing cold, at the very least. He glanced around as they walked in and Anders pulled a chair near the fire. He had never come here voluntarily before, only when Hawke had forced him to accompany him when fetching the mage, and had never really taken the time to inspect it. It was rundown, dirty, mostly in shambles... rather reminiscent of his own mansion.
Fenris absent-mindedly grit his back teeth together as he sat down and watched Anders walk off to begin rummaging through the cabinet on the other side of the room. His eyes lingered on the mage for a moment, knowing that he couldn't see it, but he forced his gaze away to stare at some idle spot on the floor. The last thing he needed was to be caught staring.
Better able to see by the light of the fire than of the moon, he looked down at the smear of blood on his palm and gave a faint grimace as he tried to wipe it off on his leggings. It proved a difficult task with his glove still on, so he slipped both off and dropped them down on the floor beside the chair before trying again. Much better.
Delicately, Anders sorted through various crystal vials contained within the battered cabinet, fingers slipping on bottlenecks from the remaining oil on his hands. He listened intently to Fenris's movements, his back seemed electrified with tension and tingled with the gravity of the elf's presence, making the blond painfully alert.
The search for a simple health poultice seemed to take forever, his hand sifting over the same vials absently. Finally, after he could delay no further, the mage retrieved the last health poultice he had- just as a loud metalic bang rung out from behind, closely followed by the delicate shatter of crystal meeting rock.
His very. Last. Poultice.
Anders turned to his guest rigidly, eyes shifting from the now soiled floor, to the discarded gloves and then finally Fenris' face. 'Well then… that-' he points to the mess of glass and viscous red liquid, 'was the last poultice.' He very much wanted to blame the elf for his blunder, to recover a shred of pride, but he could not.
'Err..' he began awkwardly. One hand reached up to run through his unkempt hair before he realized, still oily, and stopped himself. His hand floated ridiculously next to his head for a fraction of a eternity before tucking behind his back.
Andraste have mercy, this was slowly becoming the worst night of his life.
Fenris's eyes darted up as he heard the crystal shatter on the ground. He was confused for a moment, but then he saw the crimson liquid spilling over the dusty floor and knew what he had dropped. He knew it quite well, actually. Dozens of those bottles littered the forgotten corners of his mansion, drained and then tossed aside to make room for more. He had long since lost count of how many he would down in those mornings when the pain would return - pain that would fade to agony, and agony that would fade to misery, until eventually the lyrium would be silenced by the tortured numbness in his skin. Yes, he knew poultices quite well.
He looked up at Anders with a lofted eyebrow. He had been that startled by the simple sound of his gauntlets hitting the floor? He had thought him normally more collected than that.
"Well then?" If the choices were now magic or nothing, he would choose the latter.
'Ah..' Anders began, turning back around. He thought quickly, though he wasn't entirely sure why keeping the elf within his clinic was so vital to him. Brown eyes narrowed suspiciously, glittering with abrupt cognizance.
Damn you Justice… he cursed, withholding an dissatisfied growl. An abstract memory unexpectedly flicked through his mind.
Green smooth glass, with a long narrow neck; his face looking back from the lusterous surface, warped slightly by the shape of the bottle.
Not that…
Anders hand drifted to one of the top most latches of his cabinet, slowly opening a small wooden door to reveal the bottle from his memory; a gift from a grateful patient. A thin layer of dust had collected upon its surface over the course of its year long storage. The mage relented to Justice's wishes, reaching hesitantly for the wine. The intention to drink it himself had always been there, but wine, as well as all other alcoholic beverages, seemed to have mysteriously lost their appeal..making them barely palatable.
Anders was sure he had Justice to thank for that as well.
Turning on his heel Anders strode over to the elvhen warrior, bottle in hand. Pausing mid stride, he evaluated the bloody mess before him. 'I'll need to fetch water for that.' the mage stated plainly, motioning to Fenris' face with his free hand; offering the alcohol with the other.
'Here. This should take the edge off.'
The elf watched Anders curiously as he returned to the cabinet and pulled down another bottle. Hadn't he just broken the last poultice? Then what was he- ... oh.
Now there was a medicine that worked.
Fenris reached out to take the bottle as the mage handed it to him, more than a bit of eagerness in his movements. He had long since exhausted what had remained of the mansion's abandoned wine cellar, now only able to buy a bottle here or there with what little coin he could make, or steal. He didn't know when or why he had acquired a taste for it. Maybe it had started off for the sake of irony alone after being forced to pour it for so many years. But now it was undoubtedly something that he truly enjoyed, both for the taste and for its uncanny ability to wash all the pain out of his body.
"I..." he cleared his throat as he tried to find something suitable to say. "It is appreciated."
He was surprised the mage had such a thing just laying about, and moreso that he would offer it to him, but it was a simple enough gesture that he could accept.
The corner of the blond apostate's mouth twitched in amusement as his guest fervently reached for the precious sacrifice; offered up in return for his continued presence. Even as the chilled bottle slipped from the mans grasp he felt the first stirrings of regret creep within his belly.
Fenris thanked him, somewhat uncomfortably it seemed. Anders nodded briefly in acknowledgment. 'Drink it all if you'd like- I have little use for it.'
The woman who had given him the bottle boasted saving for nearly a year to secure it. He'd saved her daughter's life during a particularly bad outbreak of the flu, though later found out the girl died some months after, at the hands of a blood mage no less.
Yet her mother brought him the wine anyway.
Fitting that it should now pass to Fenris. And ironic.
'There's a cauldron over in the corner there,' the mage pointed to the far corner near his sleeping cot. 'bring it over to the fire so we can get your face cleaned up.' The cauldron was old, but clean, and would serve its purpose perfectly.
'Err.. please..' Anders added crudely, suddenly conscious of his tone as he turned for the door. Maker forbid the ex-slave get the impression he was issueing orders. Up until now things had been relatively civil between them, and although somewhat new to the idea, the mage was not about to reject it entirely.
Bowing out of the building before the elf could respond, Anders stepped out into the cool night.
Fenris turned the bottle over in his hands, running his thumb over a fault in the glasswork and wiping off a line of dust in the process. It had no label to give away its worth, but even the cheapest of wine was by no means cheap and he knew that the mage's coin purse wasn't as heavy as another. Odd that he would buy it and then leave it collect dust.
He listened to the instructions, sparing an unnoticeable small smirk at the added "please" that faded just as quickly as it came, and glanced up at Anders after he had turned his back. When he saw him disappear through the door, the elf stood and sat the wine bottle down on the chair.
Vishante canavarum.
How did he go from holding back the urge to break the mage's neck to contently standing by the fire in his home? No, he was not content. He wouldn't allow himself to be. But as he looked around, his feet carrying him over to the corner to carry the cauldron back over near the fire, he found very little to be upset with.
Fenris set the cauldron down and took up the wine again, twisting the cork out of the neck. He sniffed it. Not vinegar. Good enough. He brought it to his lips and took a swig, savouring the warmth it left in his throat.
Everything in this place seemed so bare. Had the mage no personal affects? Though he supposed he himself was not one to talk. Idly, he walked over to the desk he had passed on the way in. Parchment, ink, a few envelopes here and there. He picked up a paper on the top of the pile and held it up in front of him. Jumbled symbols. Fancy jumbled symbols. It reminded him of the magisters' handwriting. For that reason, he set it back down and took another drink as he made his way back to the fire.
Anders squinted out into the inky shadows for a long moment- the corners of his eyes crinkling along the lines that would one day become wrinkles. The spirit within him seemed moderately sedated, as he offered little insight on the safety of the area.
Cautiously Anders made his way over to the closest of the large open windows withinin the fortification of Kirkwall's darktown district. A decaying metal barricade was all that prevented one from meandering off the edge of the city, effectively meeting their untimely demise as they fall several hundred feet to the ominous waters below.
The man's hand reached out for the rusting metal guard in the failing light, eyes scouring for something familiar until he spied it.
A thick rope, woven between two sturdy rails, barely noticeable against the supporting post. Anders bent to the task of reeling it in carefully, brow furrowing with exertion. Slowly, carefully, the object of his efforts came into view, swaying weightily and it rose.
A soft grunt escaped the man as he hoisted the wooden bucket; freeing it from the rope once it's safely inside. Fresh water was hard to come by, so he had to be a little creative with his collection method. Unconventional, but nevertheless successful.
Gingerly tucking the rope away, he collected the handle of his bounty, and shuffled heavily towards the open door.
Anders face illuminated with firelight as he crossed the threshold into his clinic, the long shadow of his guest stretching ominously across the wall adjacent to him. Bucket sloshing lazily, he made his way across the room to the makeshift hearth; the hungry flames would need a fresh piece of tinder shortly.
Deftly the mage went about his task of preparing the water without use of his magic. He had been quite practiced at preforming such tasks traditionally, often times alleviating any suspicions about his 'normalcy' while he was amongst common folk.
Painfully aware of the elf as he placed the now full cauldron into the hot coals, he broke the silence for the first time since his return. 'It shouldn't take long to boil…' he stood, eyes assessing his simple handiwork one last time before realization dawned on him.
He still had oil down his front…
Clearing his throat a bit louder than intended, Anders wandered away to his sleeping area- seeking the meager amount of privacy a support column could afford him as he sought to change out of the soiled robe.
'Soo.. how's the wine?' he inquired awkwardly, automatically reaching for the fastens of his robe to undo them.
Fenris watched Anders go about his task with meager interest, taking yet another drink. Nearly a quarter of the bottle was gone, soon to be a third. He hardly felt anything yet and he could only hope that would change quickly enough - the scars were beginning to ache again, the dim sting throbbing with his pulse. With any luck, the wine would drown it out before it started to visibly affect him.
He glanced sideways at the mage without turning his head as he walked off towards the other side of the room, but quickly averted his eyes back towards the fire.
He needed to stop doing that.
It was just the mage. The same mage he'd always been. The same arrogant, petulant wretch of a mage.
Yes. Of course.
So just.. ignore him.
The wine was sour in the back of his throat. He brought the bottle to his lips again as the mage spoke.
"Mm," he grunted in response. "A refreshing change from the vinegar they sell at the Hanged Man." He ran his thumb over the rim of the bottle to keep his eyes occupied.
Anders snerked quietly to himself at the elf's words as he tossed his belt casually to the cot, digits then busying themselves with the robe. He'd once attempted to drink the vile stuff himself without much success; it seemed the influence of Justice was not to blame for fouling the drink after all. 'And here I thought it was just me…'
Anders carefully shrugged the heavy, multi-layered robed off in one complete piece, laying it on the cot before him oiled side up. He'd have to wait until the elf left to take care of it. No amount of conventional scrubbing was going to cleanly remove all of the viscous substance, and this was his best and favorite- not to mention only robe.
A chill tickled across the mage's now bare shoulders as he searched around for a replacement shirt, hands running subconsciously over his chest to smooth the hair that grew there.
If it hadn't been for company he may have opted to remain without, as the fire warmed the air to a tolerable temperature. It felt nice to get out of his robes every now and again.
Anders huffed lightly to himself as he racked his brain for something to cover his nakedness, having found not one of his spare shirts. Brown eyes cast across the room, resting upon a chest he was certain contained something clean to wear.
He suddenly felt very.. exposed..
'How's the water coming?' he asked idly as he nonchalantly started across the clinic, hoping to preoccupy the warrior's gaze for most of his journey.
The elf lightly touched the center of his breastplate. It was growing uncomfortably hot from facing the fire all this time, as steel is wont to do. He hesitated for a moment, but reasoned that the chances of being attacked in this place were relatively slim. With a prolonged breath, he unlatched the buckles under his arms and quietly laid the piece of armour on the ground beside his gloves. As an afterthought, he stood to pull his sword out of its holster and lean it up against the wall.
He saw the mage begin to move somewhere else behind him, but he adamantly turned his back entirely to him and sat back down. No. He said he was going to ignore him as much as he could. That meant no looking.
Jolted out his thoughts by the question, Fenris leaned forward to hover his fingers a few inches above the steaming surface of the water. Loathe as he was to admit it, his past.. training in such menial tasks had stuck with him. It probably always would.
That dark, dark stain.
"Nearly boiling," he replied. He paused for a moment, then added: "Shall I remove it?"
Anders stole a tentative glance over his shoulder as he made for the chest, just as the elf extended his hand over the steaming cauldron. An odd, even pleasant feeling crept into his breast; he tore his eyes away to focus on the task at hand.
Kneeling to the chest as the elf responded, the shirtless apostate carefully lifted the lid, it's soft creek nearly muddling the question which followed.
'Let it boil a bit first.' he answered absently, eyes trained on the now exposed contents. Parchment, extra quills, bottles of ink, crumpled versions of re-edited pages. This manifesto really was taking over his life, wasn't it? Soon he'd be wearing clothes made of parchment to save space.
The mage flared his nostrils in annoyance as both hands delved into the unorganized mess. There was a shirt in here- he remembered seeing it, he was almost positive.
Almost.
Anxiety levels slowly rising as he dug to the bottom, Anders nearly hissed in victory when one finger touched something that felt like fabric. He grabbed ahold, towing it to the surface of his writing supplies. The mini victory was sort lived; Anders face fell visibly.
Pink? Since when did he own a pink shirt? Anders held the dainty looking garment out in front of his scrutinizing gaze. Pink wasn't a bad color he supposed, but it always made him look so… cheery.
Cheery was not the air he was looking to put off exactly.
This, or nothing.. he told himself darkly.
With a sign, Anders pulled the chest shut, giving the shirt one powerful shake to clear out any potential crawlies seeking refuge within its folds. Delighted to find that was not the case, Anders stood, holding the garment out before him and giving it one last look over.
Actually… he rather liked this article of clothing. The tailoring was simple, and if he remembered correctly, fit him quite well.
Pink it is.
Pulling the shirt over his head Anders made off towards the cabinet he had picked over earlier, this time in search of a clean rag and soap. Once he had found both items he made his way back to the fire.
The elf was still filling his gut with the dark red wine as the apostate shuffled around in the din somewhere behind him. He held the bottle up in front of the firelight. Barely half-full. And he was pacing himself. Hawke had lectured him on that a few months ago. There's no reason to inhale an entire bottle in an hour, he had said. He didn't understand.
At least Anders had been right; it did take the edge off.
For now, he set it down by his leg and wiped another drop of blood off his chin. The cut was stinging in the open air laced with smoke and the blood was beginning to itch but it wasn't anything unbearable. He had endured far worse in battle over the years.
If anyone asked, he would say this was a battle wound too.
He felt the mage approach from behind and looked towards him, the corner of his mouth threatening to pull upward.
"Pink, mage?"
'I thought it added to my bedside manner..' was Anders lighthearted reply as he came to a stop in front of the Tevinter elf, looking him over.
The blood had started to dry on the smaller mans cheek, cementing a few silvery white locks of his hair to the side of his face. Blood had run down his pleasingly angular jaw to his pointed chin, where it dripped from the base of one of the lyrium tendrils present there. Anders eyes lingered for a moment; Justice gnawing at the inside of his ribs with a jolt of enthusiasm.
And lose my hand? I think not.
Anders managed to look away a fraction of a second before his gazed crossed into the realm of blatant staring. This really wasn't the time to be appreciating his rival's facial features, lest he find his next task all the more difficult to bear.
Twisting his body he looked behind himself for a seat; quickly spying a nearby bench. Resting the soap atop it, he then doubled up the rag, using it to protect flesh of his palm from the blistering hot cauldron handle. He pulled the vessel from the fire and set it aside; water boiling turbulently within. He'd have to wait a few minutes before it was cool enough to use without scalding.
Pulling the bench closer, Anders seated himself in front the elf, his brown eyes scanning over the clotting blood. 'You might want to take another drink before we start, this isn't going to be pleasant.'
The longer Anders stared, the higher Fenris's eyebrow raised itself. At first it was something to be expected - the mage surveying the wounds, deciding what to do... but it dragged on. Far too long. He could see his eyes lingering everywhere except for the wound. He was about to clear his throat in annoyance just as the mage turned his gaze away on his own.
The elf watched him move the cauldron off the embers and sit down in front of him, giving his quick warning.
Eyes narrowed in a very unamused but not particularly poignant glare, Fenris raised a hand to point at his neck.
"Perhaps you missed the part where I was inhumanly tortured," his voice was equally unamused. "I believe I can handle your treatment."
Still, he didn't refuse the suggestion and picked the bottle back up to swallow a few more mouthfuls.
A snort of amusement escaped from Anders before he had time to stop it. 'Believe me, I wasn't referring to the pain.' he took the rag in hand, finding the edge and ripping it in half unceremoniously.
'I'm going to have to scrub it to make sure theres nothing stuck in there; that wine should help it bleed freely.' he carefully placed one half of the bisected rag on the surface of the hot water, prodding it down cautiously with his finger. 'If you have a poultice handy later on I'd suggest taking it to help with scarring.'
Using his foot to scoot the rain bucket closer; Anders reached for his soap plunging both hands into the remaining cool water to washing them thoroughly.
After he was satisfied with the job, the mage lifted the rag carefully from the steaming water. It hung soggily from his hand for a brief moment as the excess dripped away, then he used it to wipe his hands clean, hissing slightly from the heat. Nearly perfect temperature, perfect- if he wanted to be a little cruel.
The other rag quickly found its way into the cauldron, Anders watching it intently to keep himself from stealing another glance at the brooding elf before him. After a moment he retrieved it, wringing it out safely and brought it to Fenris' face.
Brows furrowing intently the blond mage moved to dab at the blood caked cheek.
The elf narrowed his eyes at the mage as his advice drawled on. As if he had never taken care of his own wounds before. As if he wouldn't drink half a crate of poultices before noon the next day.
Fenris sat up a little straighter carefully looked away as Anders began to wipe away the blood, trying to find something to distract his attention from the mage in front of him. It was more difficult than he had anticipated. Not only was the mage right there in front of him, but it suddenly occurred to him that he had never really looked at the mage before. Despite his feeble efforts, he found his gaze continually flickering back to the apostate's face as he worked.
He had brown eyes.
He.. never noticed that before.
And his eyebrows knotted together so closely when he concentrated that it looked like they might overlap at any second.
He was gaunt. And dusty. And there were creases along his eyes that betrayed his youth.
...He didn't know how old the mage was, did he?
Frowning as slightly as he dared, Fenris lowered his eyes and settled his gaze on some spot off to the side. He would try his best to look interested in everything but him.
The thought crossed his mind to say something, but empty talk was pointless. In light of that, he chose to stay silent.
Anders found it surprisingly easy to keep his eyes from roving over his patient's face. Unseeing, they fixed upon the wound; gentle hands working autonomously. The proximity was intoxicating to the fade spirit with whom he was hopelessly merged, and thus he found himself struggling to concentrate.
He'd been this close to Fenris before of course, but only for a moment before the elf shuffled away uncomfortably or he could no longer stand it and moved away. Temptation always flirted with him in those moments, egging on thoughts which he'd rather recall, lest his cheeks flush scarlet. Unfortunately fleeing was not an option afforded to the apostate this night.
He was hardly in a position to complain however. Fenris' skin was deliciously warm under the reddening cloth, which caused Anders hand to tingle with anticipation as he doctored the emerging gashes. The pleasant smell of wine tickling across his nose with each breath the elf exhaled. Wine, and something else, something alluring and warm that called to the mage from deep within the lithe body before him.
He attempted to ignore all of this to best of his abilities, which yielded relative success…
…until the mans thumb accidentally slipped over a band of lyrium at the Tevinter's chin.
The elf was doing rather well keeping his gaze fixed on some grimey stain on the floor as Anders continued to wipe the blood off his cheek and jaw. The cut must have bled more than he realized. It was probably a very good idea to have it cleaned, if that was the case. He was.. grateful. Yes. The word was sufficient.
All was going better than he had originally anticipated; awkward, yes, but not entirely unbearable - but that's when it happened.
The magic in his blood stirred the lyrium from dormancy as the mage's thumb brushed across his chin. Immediately, the scar flared up in a blaze of white where it had been touched, a wisp of ethereal residue falling away like mist.
Fenris went rigid in his chair, the fingers of one hand curling into his palm.
It was an odd sort of a pain, something that stung and burned and ached all at once. The wine helped a great deal, as did his natural tolerance. He did not wince, nor hiss, nor make any noise at all, really. He just sat there, rigid as he felt the scar searing in his skin. It was not as if it would be a new sight to the mage.
Anders nearly yelped in surprise as the brief contact shot a lance of excitement straight through his arm and into his heart; the resulting palpitations leaving him short of breath. Mind racing, he looked to the elf imploringly for some kind of reaction, anything to help him understand what had just transpired.
Fenris' chin glowed faintly, but he seemed otherwise uneffected, save for the tightness that was now set hard within his jaw. His pupiles were the size of pinpricks.
Pain..very intense pain.
Anders took a deep, haggard breath- guilt cutting through the feeling of elation that still lingered within him. Many times he had suffered the wrath of the warrior's acid tongue for much, much less; yet the elf remained silent before him.
Say something, damn you!
'Fenris.. I..'
Venhedis... An inexplicable feeling settled in his gut as Anders drew back to look at him searchingly. Annoyance, impatience - something along those lines. Whatever the emotion was, it was tinged with shame that he would never admit.
He let out his breath as he felt the sting begin to subside, the glow dimming little by little until it was entirely doused and all that remained was the dull, white scar.
Fenris shook his head, slowly.
"You know what I am," he said simply.
Fenris' words bit into Anders as they rung in his ears, cracking his resolve.
He'd heard similar many times before, not from the elf's lips, but from his own.
What… am I?
A monster, with no place in the natural world? Something wrong, twisted beyond recognition by magic, hatred, and unknowable pain.
Abomination.
The fundemental difference was, he had chosen this for himself. Perhaps that was truly the most inhuman part of it all. The real farce behind his entire campaign.
A sudden swell of rage lodged itself within his throat. No! It wasn't the same! He and Justice sought to protect life, not pursue petty revenge! He was nothing like the creature that sat before him.
Right?
It scared him that he was no longer certain.
Fenris…
Forever altered by magic and abuses untold, twisted into something strange, something wild, something… sad. The last surviving innocence within Anders fragmented soul cried out softly, resounding within his weary heart.
Help him…save him..
…as you can no longer save yourself.
Hate was the poison that slowly whittled away at both of their lives; the one thing they seemed to share above anything else. Their greatest strength, and yet most failing weakness.
Anders rose slowly from the bench, drifting listlessly to the center of the room. 'I do..' he turned to the white haired elf slowly.
'You're me.'
You're me.
Fenris blinked.
I'm him?
A shred of anger began to boil in his thoughts.
How could he possibly think that? Of all the insolent, idiotic things he had ever said, this was the most outrageous.
Had he been a slave? A pet? A decoration? A living piece of irony? A hunted scrap of meat?
No.
What had he been?
A mage. An abomination. A liar. A hypocrite.
And now he had the sheer audacity to compare himself to him.
…But that nagging, gnawing feeling returned to his gut as he turned to look at Anders standing in the middle of the room. Standing there without purpose, without malice, without judgment. Standing there like he had just spoken some deep-seated truth that expected neither support nor rebuttal.
Fenris rose from his seat. Emotionless for fear of emotion.
"You honestly think that?"
Anders bit back an automatic yes before it had the chance to escape him.
He'd really done it this time, hadn't he; talked himself into a corner. And for what exactly?
Pity?
For this wretch of a man?
How was pity serving him thus far? Well, let's see…
Arguing with some broken shell of an elf in deepest recesses of a corrupt, rotting city; the injustice of the Circle continuing on unchallenged as he nattered on like an indignant child about his irrelevant personal grievances…
Crushing anxiety forced it's full weight down upon him, and he suddenly felt very ashamed for even allowing the elf within his clinic. Harboring the very filth that cried out for the imprisonment-nay- eradication of his kind. Good honest people taken from their families for being different. For being special. For being mages.
End this… Anders mused angrily, attempting to reign himself in.. only.. he wasn't sure if it was actually him.
How could he ever be sure again?
He couldn't.
'No..' he croaked finally, brown eyes shifting dismally to the floor.
Whatever had been building up in his chest now sunk all the way to the bottom of his being and twisted up into a cruel knot. It was.. good that Anders didn't actually feel that way. It was good to know that the mage would stay away, far away; that no one would ever get too close to him. He was a fool to think that anyone could understand or care to try. It was good to know just how alone he was.
He dared to look at Anders for a long second before he turned around to face the fire. No, he still had an enemy. That was more than he could ask for.
It was good to know he would never sleep again now.
Festis bei umo canavarum.
Fenris crossed his arms over his chest as he watched the embers slowly die.
"Tell me to leave and I shall."
Conflict began to rage within the apostate's breast. Only a moment ago he had been tending to the elf, admiring him.. fighting the urge to be closer to that slender frame. Then, as if some frail string snapped within him, he despised every fabric of the warrior's being.
Their gaze met for a brief moment before the elf turned away, arms knitting across his chest.
Anders stomach reeled as he felt his emotions begin swing back; felt light pour into him, freeing him from the anxiety that had threatened to spur him into open hostility.
A part of him, a small.. dying part, clutched desperately at the the elf's words as he spoke them. Fenris' body language was betraying something within him.. something that sang to the tiny, innocent shred that remained of Anders as the lyrium sang to justice.
I don't want you to leave… I want to know you.
Within his minds eye Anders could see himself approaching the elf, embracing him gently from behind.. his face burying into the tufts of unkempt silvery hair behind one delicate pointed ear; in reality, his feet remained stubbornly cemented to the floor.
Whiplash. Emotional whiplash.
'I… can't….'
Anders suddenly sprung into action, his feet again mobile. In a hurried, desperate motion he darted for his staff, then fled from his own clinic into the night.
The heavy, frantic footsteps that fled the clinic forced Fenris to turn back around almost as soon as he had turned away - but Anders was already gone.
Alone.
He had expected a simple and resolute command. Leave. Go. Get out. A finger pointed at the door. And just as surely as he had said, he would have obeyed. It would have been easier that way. It would have been easier if he had never ended up here at all. He could still be laying in his tattered bed, staring up at the black sky, freezing, aching, thinking - certain. Certain of what the next hour, day, month would bring.
...No. Lying wouldn't fix this. He had never been certain about anything, and that wouldn't change whether he were here or there or anywhere else.
But standing here like a fool in the middle of the mage's empty home wasn't going to fix this either. Just letting things happen to him didn't get him out of Tevinter. If he was no longer a slave, then he needed to act like it.
Despite his better judgment, Fenris made his way out of the clinic and looked around to see where Anders went.
The echo of frantic breath and footsteps reverberated through the sewers of Kirkwall, scattering the rats and degenerates that dwelled within.
Anders ran.
He ran faster and with more purpose than he ever thought possible; the various passages easily recognizable, as he had traversed them countless times before.
What are you doing! He felt a stirring of doubt that threatened to slow his frenzied pace.
NO! Anders set his jaw. I'm not stopping Justice, not until I run out of ground…
Or perhaps not even then. Anders was a strong swimmer, perhaps he could make it all the way back to Fereldan with a little luck?
A wave of sick amusement crashed over him, and he began to laugh…
…and laugh….
He forced the laughter from deep within, louder and louder as it went on. Lungs burning for air, legs beginning to protest from oxygen starvation, he could not stop himself. The mage's head began to swim, feet tripping every few steps with the first signs of exhaustion. Everything in him pleaded for him to concede, begged for his mercy.
Anders didn't care. Didn't even acknowledge it.
He just kept running, laughing manically as he fled the city of Kirkwall.