Anders swirled his spoon around the bowl, carving swathes of ridges and channels in the thick, brown, decidedly Ferelden stew. By all rights his thin frame and gaunt cheeks should indicate his hunger but he just can't bring himself to tuck heartily into something that tastes like over boiled Brussels sprouts; he hates Brussels sprouts and enough too to override the Grey Warden tendency to devour anything. The movement however is oddly comforting; sending his weary eyes into an unfocused semi meditative state and his mind harking back to the events of yesterday.
He'd made quite a nice existence for himself in the bowels of Kirkwall; if by nice one meant precariously putting one's life into the hands of complete strangers, gambling on their continual greater need for him outweighing their fear and any sense of civic duty. Well at least the downtrodden and poor Marchers are akin with their Ferelden refugee cousins in that. But he had had a merchant down here the other day; stab wound to the groin, the man's mistress had missed his manhood by a hair's breath. So now it seems that unspoken blackmail was just added to the list, though who was blackmailing who was uncertain. Then again the volunteers that Lirene sent down knew about as much as he did, if not more. Silence was a lot cheaper than paying off scores of people to keep something quiet; Anders foresaw that his little clinic here was going to see more of that merchant's ilk.
That he was becoming known outside the sick and injured Ferelden refugees and other such inhabitants of Darktown was made even more apparent by the arrival of the armed quartet. He hadn't really seen them; rather he sensed them, readying him to strike if they did indeed pose a threat. As one of the women stepped forward and spoke his attention focused on her veneer of calm and reassurance, mirrored too in the timbre of her voice; he had lowered his staff.
A dwarf, a female guard and two other young women were going hunting for treasure in the blighted Deep Roads; can you define suicidal, was his first thought, the second was of The Mother. As the words denying them the maps formed on his tongue, that other part of him had a thought. Help Karl. And despite the fact that Anders would not aid unsuspecting women to such a fate, no matter how well armed they appeared, he had found himself offering an exchange; a favour for a favour.
What had followed was of equal measures soul wrenchingly painful and surprising.
Her difference to most everybody else was what was surprising, and it started to become apparent on the heels of his explanation of their end of the bargain.
Some part of him wanted her to turn it down upon learning the detail, hearing his words; 'the Templars learnt of my plans to free my mage friend from the Gallows'. However she didn't and instead asked about his plan, Karl, and what the Templars knew, like she was enquiring about the finer points of a merchant's contract. Anders almost decided that her principles didn't run any deeper than any other coterie thug so as not to inconveniently get in the way of making or appropriating coin. But when he had exposed his philosophy that 'It goes against no will of the Maker for mages to live free as other men' he had seen it was a businesslike facade; emotion flooded her voice and expression.
"Forcing mages into servitude is not the way to prevent the rise of another Imperium."
Those words, and said with such feeling was truly unexpected. Had he not spied the twin daggers on her hips he would have sworn she was a mage, for who else would hold such sentiments? He had been too busy concentrating on her as they spoke that it didn't really register until after they had left; the alarming look the other young woman gave her at the mention of the risk of meeting Templars. It wasn't too far of a stretch to see it now; the shared deep brown hair, similar height and build, the familial ease with which she was at her side as they retreated through his clinic doors.
However his musings about the source of her distinction ceased soon after as the rest of his afternoon and early evening was spent delivering yet another premature baby to yet another malnourished mother. Having not seen either since, he maintained what he knew deep down was a false hope; that the father had succeeded in appealing to the Chantry for relief.
Anders' hand paused its hypnotic stirring of the fast cooling and congealing food.
He is sure she, they all, must have been taken aback and scared when he lost control to the wrath and all consuming force of vengeance; and he feels even weaker because he's glad he didn't see those looks.
His grip on the warped wooden spoon tightens.
"My sister calls being tranquil a fate worse than death."
There was nothing in her face but sympathy and it stayed reflected there in her eyes whenever she looked at him during their furtive walk back to his clinic, although she had kept her daggers drawn, and Anders isn't sure whether it was in preparedness for more Templars or him. It was such a relief when she did sheath them, he is in no doubt what would have happened to her and her companions should she have taken a different path.
And then she just stood there, passively looking at him as he explained, and she didn't pass judgement or cast accusations. She just listened and asked a few questions of clarification. It was not what Anders had been expecting, was still expecting; something between being attacked on the spot or having the Templars called down upon him for being an abomination. Not 'Is there anything I can do to help'.
Everything she had said was enough to bring out the differences between her and most everyone else in clear relief.
He hates the blighted Deep Roads but not enough to let her and her sister walk into them without him.