Anders looked around his small ramshackle clinic. It was late – he was late, in fact; he should have been at the Hanged Man well over two hours ago. He'd been hit by a last minute rush though; a man had come in at the last moment with a festering cut to the arm that he should have sought out the healer for at least a week sooner than he did. Why on earth he seemed to have decided to put that off until late dusk on Yuletide Eve of all days, Anders had no idea – but the man was fortunate; another few hours and he would likely have lost his life. As it was, healing the man's infected wound had been taxing, and it was after dark by the time Anders was able to send the man on his way, the wound cleaned and well on the way to healing, bandaged, and with instructions to keep the dressings clean and return in a couple of days.
Barely had he left than there had been the woman with the little boy suffering a dangerously-high fever. Anders had dropped the clean shirt he had been about to change into to throw himself once more into the role of healer.
And then, just when he had changed into the clean shirt and jerkin, doused the lantern and was about to be belatedly upon his way, there had been the desperate young woman in the throes of labour.
As he sat back upon his heels and ruefully regarded the mess down the front of his new jerkin and the bloodstains and birthing fluids staining the sleeves of his one good clean shirt, he sighed and shook his head. Mother and baby were doing fine and sleeping peacefully, but his outfit was hopelessly ruined and it was well after dark now. There would be little point in making his way to the Hanged Man at this late hour. A shame; he'd been looking forward to their little Yuletide Eve gathering, but his duties as the only decent healer in Darktown came first.
He felt Justice shift a little inside and express a stern approval; somehow that didn't take away the sting of disappointment as he made his way into his humble little room at the back of the clinic, slowly stripping off the ruined jerkin and stained shirt, letting them fall where they will as he made his way over to the small wash stand. He poured water into the chipped enamel bowl; too tired even to heat the water, he simply plunged his hands into the cold water and briskly began to sluice off the blood and fluids still clinging to his forearms.
He glanced up at his reflection in the small cracked mirror and grimaced slightly. He'd even bothered to shave properly for the first time in what seemed (and probably was) months, and his hair was neatly washed and combed and, for once, not tied back in its customary ponytail.
"Ah well," he sighed philosophically. "There'll be other Yuletides."
Shaking excess water from his hands, he turned to reach for the towel then paused as there came a sudden hammering at the clinic door. Groaning, he shook his head with resignation and went to answer. "No rest for the wicked," he murmured as he reached for the bolt and catch.
Three young lads pushed anxiously forward as the door opened, and instantly all three began babbling at him. It took him a few moments to get the story out of them; there had been a cave collapse in one of the deeper parts of Darktown, several huts and hovels had collapsed down into the caves below, and people were hurt and needing him right now.
All thoughts of Varric's Yuletide Eve gathering were instantly forgotten as he paused only to pull on his feathered jacket over his bare torso, stuff a couple of lyrium vials into a pouch and snatch up his staff before following the youths. He dispatched one of the three to appraise Lirene of what had happened, then gestured to the remaining two to lead the way. As he strode along beside them, he quizzed them closely about what exactly had happened, trying to elicit details of how many casualties he was likely to be facing, mentally tallying treatments and the likely aid that would be needed. He briefly considered sending one of the lads to Varric to enlist the aid of Hawke, Fenris and the others, then mentally discounted it. There was unlikely to be anything here that he couldn't handle, and Darktowners looked after their own. There would be plenty of willing hands to help, and they'd likely resent outsiders interfering. The Fereldens may be refugees, but they were a proud lot.
Besides, why ruin their evening?
As they made their way steadily down through the labyrinthine warren of huts, hovels, shacks and old stone buildings, they were joined by others who had heard of the cave-in; miners from the Bone Pit bearing their tools, women bringing towels and cloths to help treat the wounded, strong able-bodied men, anxious relatives and friends, fellow Fereldens and other refugees all joining the gathering throng, all hurrying to the aid of the stricken in the heart of their small community.
As they got closer, he could see easily what had caused it. Darktown had once been a Tevinter mine, but once exhausted the mine tunnels were extended out beneath the city to dispose of the sewage from the city's immense population of slaves. Now, built in the underground passages and sewers of Kirkwall, Darktown was a maze of old tunnels, some of which flowed with subterranean rivers, others with the outflow of raw sewage from the rest of the city; and there had been heavy rainfall over the preceding weeks. The water gradually dissolved away the more brittle areas of rock, and sadly cave-ins and the formation of sinkholes directly beneath inhabited parts of Darktown were an inevitable occurrence two or three times a year, particularly in winter and early spring when the heavy rains came.
The inhabitants of Darktown were well aware of the risks and dangers inherent in living here, but there was no choice; Kirkwall had no room for the likes of the refugees and other outcasts that were forced to take refuge in the lower-most depths of the City of Chains. It was as much a home to the human refuse of the city as it had been when it had sheltered escaped fugitives in its time as part of the Tevinter Imperium – the place people turned to when they were utterly desperate with no other place to escape to.
And for some of those people, it became a living tomb, much as had happened now. The heavy rains had washed away and eroded parts of the tunnel system beneath this section of Darktown, and abruptly without warning about an hour before, a large sinkhole had opened up, swallowing up about 15 shanty houses and lean-tos. Around the edge of the hole, a few more sturdily-built stone houses still clung stubbornly. As Anders arrived with the other rescuers, the sight that greeted their eyes was one of devastation, with rubble strewn across the narrow passages and alleyways leading into the swallowed sub-district before they abruptly terminated at the edge of a vast sinkhole. Dust still curled up lazily into the air like a ghostly mist, the whole scene lit only by the glowing lichens upon the walls of the tunnels and caverns and the inadequate light of the torches and lanterns born by the would-be rescuers. From the darkness of the sinkhole protruded the roofs of some of the sunken buildings; like the broken spines of dead dragons, lifeless and still.
It was quiet; disturbingly so. The rescuers were working in near-silence, listening for cries or sounds of movement from any that may have survived. People were working already, lowering ropes down to the sunken floor of the cavern, ladders, improvised ramps and bridges constructed of any debris that came to hand and could be lashed together. Miners were climbing down into the darkness with their tools to try and unearth any survivors from the wreckage of their homes.
And then they began to find the bodies.
Anders pushed himself forward as each new still form was carefully passed up to safety, hands outstretched only to fall uselessly to his sides as he realised the broken form held no life. Body after body was pulled from the ruins to be laid in still, silent rows, shrouded in whatever cloth or rags came to hand; some of them distressingly small.
Anders began to lose track of the time that passed until they began to discover survivors – and then he lost track of time altogether as he threw himself into healing. It passed in a blur of oblivion to everything but the body before him at that moment – broken legs, arms, ribs, contusions, damaged internal organs, concussions, fractured skulls, spines, crushed limbs that were beyond saving and had to be amputated, the stumps healed, pain and hurts soothed; men, women, children. Many he saved; some were beyond saving. He was beyond thought; merely a conduit for the magic that flowed, and flowed, the power pooling like cool liquid smoke in the palms of his hands before being directed down into broken, battered, bleeding forms. Names were unknown, faces all a blur; he existed solely in the here-and-now. He walled off emotions inside; they were a luxury he couldn't afford to indulge in, in the midst of crisis. Time to feel later. He was distantly aware of Justice's will overlaying his, helping to wall away the part of him that wanted to stop, cry out at the senseless deaths he couldn't heal, the ones he reached too late.
There was a lull; he looked for the next patient, but instead a woman pushed a mug of something warm and steaming at him. He blinked for a moment then took it gratefully, glancing up at her. He blinked for a moment before he recognised Lirene.
"When did you get here?" he asked as he pushed himself up off his knees and straightened, wincing as his back and knees complained. He took a sip of the hot liquid; cheap red wine sweetened by honey and spices. He was thankful for the way it warmed him inside even as it warmed his hands; he had been oblivious to the cold whilst healing, but now he was suddenly acutely aware of how chilly it was down here – and him without his usual accustomed layers – as he gradually became more cognizant of his surroundings, coming back to himself and the bone-deep weariness that always followed in the wake of such mammoth healing efforts.
"Not long after you did," she replied. She glanced around, her face grave. "There'll be little Yuletide cheer in Darktown tonight, I fear," she added slowly, staring out into the darkness where once there had been a busy, crowded neighbourhood. "I can't begin to guess at how many we've lost." Her face twisted into a disgusted grimace. "Not that I imagine the nobles in their fine houses will care one whit."
Anders remained silent. These days, Hawke likely counted as one of those nobles, though unlike the others, Anders knew Garret would care. No point in saying so and antagonising Lirene though.
The Ferelden woman turned back to the mage, her expression still dark. "I'm afraid I have more to ask of you, Healer," she said quietly. Anders merely nodded. She gestured towards the edge of the pit, and he fell into step beside her. "Some of the miners said they found a tunnel down there. They weren't sure where it leads, but two men went down to investigate in case any survivors might have tried to get out down that way."
"And, let me guess – they haven't come back, and you were wondering if I'd go take a look?" Anders finished for her.
"I hate to ask, but-"
Anders held up a hand to forestall her. "It's alright, Lirene. I'm probably the best person you've got down here right now." He tipped up the mug and downed the contents swiftly as he reached for his staff.
"Don't take any needless risks, Healer," warned Lirene. "If they're down there, and still alive..."
"I'll find them," he nodded, passing her the empty mug. "No heroics, no chasing dragons or darkspawn, and no getting my fool self killed. Hawke would never forgive me if I went having fun without him, anyway." He winked and gave her a roguish grin as he made his way over to the edge of the pit. Slinging his staff on his back, he gave her a last grin as he turned and disappeared down one of the rickety ladders that led down into the darkness.
"Shall I send for Hawke?" called Lirene, but he was already gone into the darkness.
As the dim light from the phosphorescent lichens and torches slowly died above him, Anders paused to cast a small ball of magelight onto the head of his staff to light his way before carrying on slowly down. He stared around himself as he descended deeper into the pit. "I'm going to regret this, I'm sure," he muttered to himself as he regarded the wreckage of broken houses and fallen rocks all around him. He stepped cautiously off the last rung of the ladder onto the rock floor of the sinkhole and grimaced as his foot encountered chill cold water. He should have expected it, he supposed; he should probably be thankful that the water at least didn't stink of raw sewage. He glanced around and spotted some torches wedged between fallen rocks and into the remains of stone walls leading further out into the darkness. In lieu of any better leads, he set out to follow them.
He fell unconsciously into the near-silent way of walking he'd learned in his time with the Wardens, his black boots causing few ripples as he paced quietly through the ruins. Unslinging the staff, he dimmed the magelight with a thought, holding the glow down to a faint glimmer as his eyes steadily adjusted to the dark. His other senses seemed to sharpen perceptively; ears attuned to the slightest small sound as he warily stalked through the dark.
From ahead he thought he heard a faint sound, as perhaps of a boot scraping on a stone, and instantly he quenched the magelight, dropping to a low crouch with his staff held before him as he let mana pool ready in his free hand, eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the near-suffocating darkness.
There it came again – that slight sound of an unwary step. Anders held still, and gradually the blackness resolved itself into shades of grey-on-grey – part of which was moving. Lips barely parting as he softly murmured the words of an ice spell, the words little more than articulated exhalations of breath as he shaped and focussed the power gathered in his hand, feeling the energies react under his will. Tendrils of ice-cold mist wreathed around his fingers as the spell took shape and form from his intent.
There. A movement; claws upon stone, a brief reflection of light from dark eyes betraying a position – and Anders' hand shot forth, casting the freezing energies and binding the deepstalker in ice. Anders' mouth twisted in disgust as he called up more power; where there was one deepstalker, there were usually be more. The foul things hunted in packs. Well, there was his answer as to what had happened to the miners; either dead or driven off in terror by the critters.
He smiled grimly as the rest of the pack came snaking out of the darkness, their sinuous necks weaving about as they squinted tiny eyes at him, fanged mouths chittering and clacking as they scurried around on clawed feet, pausing to rear up and sniff the air as they caught his scent, diminutive front claws clutched to their chests as they eyed him.
With a twist of his wrist and a muttered word, he focussed the mana in his hand then cast out a fan-shaped blast of freezing hoarfrost that snaked out towards the creatures; they attempted to scatter, but not swiftly enough as their feet became imprisoned in ice.
"Suck on a fireball," he muttered as he twirled his staff, concentrating as he crafted the energies he summoned into flame which he hurled towards them with a jab of his staff. The fire exploded over the pack of deepstalkers in a soft whoosh of incinerating flesh, the magic searing the hapless creatures where they stood. Slowly he straightened as the screaming and wailing of the creatures died, until only the conflagration remained. He walked slowly towards the dying embers as the flames guttered and went out. He poked the corpse of one deepstalker experimentally, then moved on, inured to the stench of the creatures' burnt flesh by his years in the Wardens – and, it must be said, far too long in the company of Hawke and his band of misfits. If a bare handful of years could be considered "too long".
It was reasonable to assume that the miners would have fled down the tunnel the deepstalkers had emerged from, he decided, as he ducked his head slightly to enter the low passage; there was no sign of any human corpses nearby, so they must have fled in terror rather than having been hunted by the ravenous creatures. He stared down the cramped confines of the tunnel and couldn't quite repress a shudder; it looked narrow and claustrophobic, looked as though it had born something unsavoury and liquid in the recent past and smelled worse. All in all, he could think of few places he would less like to be spending his Yuletide Eve – and considerably more where he would prefer to be right now. Somewhere warm, dry, and airy, with a good meal in his belly and a decent drink to hand would be top of that list right about now. In bed with someone warm, attentive and inventively creative would also be right up there. In fact, a decent meal, a good drink and then a good lay afterwards followed by a good night's sleep in a proper bed would be pretty much his idea of the perfect Yuletide at this moment, all things considered. If that bed happened to contain a certain two particular people then he would just lie down and die a happy man, thank you very much.
He sighed, then with reluctance he ducked his head and began to make his way cautiously down the tunnel, musing that he'd probably settle for a tunnel that didn't appear to have been dug by malevolent dwarves right about now. He inched along, his staff held out ahead of him, trying to ignore the way the walls of the tunnel seemed to close in around him. He was acutely aware of just how alone he was.
You are never alone.
He hung his head and nodded. True; with the constant presence of Justice he was never really truly alone. It wasn't quite the same thing as having someone else physically there though; another pair of eyes to watch your back. Another voice in the darkness. A comforting touch as the darkness closed in -
He had to stop, bracing one hand against the wall of the tunnel, the air feeling stifling and close around him. He swallowed hard and fought down the feelings of rising panic. He felt Justice stirring uneasily as Anders wrestled with unbidden and unwanted memories of another small space, long months in darkness, the silence oppressive; unaware of the passage of time, losing track of days, alone and longing for the sound of another's voice – even those of his captors a welcome change from the stifling dark and silence.
No. He wouldn't think of that. He was down here with a job to do. The sooner he got it over and done with, the sooner he could be out of here, back out where he could stand up straight and breathe properly. Maybe it wouldn't be too late to go drop in on Hawke. Or maybe Fenris; the elf would be more likely to still be up and awake. But either would be good. Just so he wouldn't have to sleep alone tonight; so he could fall asleep with comforting arms around him, a soothing voice in his ear, somewhere warm where he didn't have to worry for a few hours about being needed or fear the templars at the door...
He held to that thought like a talisman against the dark as he forced himself to carry on.
The faint glow of magefire upon the head of his staff barely lit up the tunnel beyond a few feet ahead; if anything it seemed to make the darkness beyond only the more impenetrable, but he didn't think he could bear to extinguish it and continue without any light – and if the two miners were still down here and alive, with any luck they would see the light and make their way towards it. He still hadn't come across any bodies or blood, which gave him hope that the men were both still alive. It would be good to come out of this mess with some good news, he thought dolefully.
He paused as he heard a distant rumble, and glanced back over his shoulder. The rock wall beneath his fingertips seemed to shiver, and dust began to rain lightly down from the low roof.
"Oh no. Andraste's flaming knickers, I do not need this!" he groaned as a faint breeze wafted back towards him from the mouth of the tunnel and the rumbling noise got louder.
The tunnel is collapsing.
"Yes, yes, tell me something I don't know, Justice!" growled Anders from between gritted teeth as he began to run, doubled over in the narrow confines of the tunnel. He could feel the floor shifting upwards; he didn't know if this was simply the natural incline of the passage or an effect of the sinkhole collapsing further behind him. He muttered a brief but fervent prayer to the Maker that Lirene had had the good sense to get everyone one well away from the pit and evacuate the nearest still-standing buildings in case of just such an eventuality.
Clouds of billowing dust were starting to fill the air, pursuing him as he scrambled desperately onwards as the rumbling grew louder behind him. He threw himself frantically onwards as the path abruptly steepened beneath his feet; cracks were appearing in the floor, and his heart was racing in sheer terror as he flung himself forward.
He was dimly aware of a yawning space opening up directly ahead of him before he tripped and stumbled, falling headlong down the slope that stretched away before him. He was sliding, scrabbling desperately with hands and feet down a smooth, slightly sandy slope, with rocks and dust rolling down and around him. Somewhere above the suddenly deafening sound of the passage behind him collapsing and the unnerving groaning of the rocks around him he was distantly aware of the sound of his own voice screaming in terror – and then as he slammed hard into an unyielding rock face hard enough to stun him, he was briefly aware of two other frightened voices raised in addition to his own as the rest of the stone roof began to crumble down upon them all.
Though stunned and disorientated, Anders retained enough presence of mind to thrust his staff upwards and scream to the two men to get down as he drew upon his last reserves of mana to throw up a shield over them all. As the rocks collapsed over them, two last thoughts raced through Anders' head.
The first was thankfulness that he'd found the two miners alive.
The second was, "Knicker weasels."
.
.
.
.
.
He came back to awareness slowly to the sensation of a hand gently brushing the hair back from his face. He blinked slowly, his vision hazy and blurred. He seemed to be surrounded by a soft, silvery light.
"I'm dead," he said quietly. A low voice rumbled with gentle laughter, and a pair of green eyes regarded him with amusement.
"No, though for a moment I did wonder, mage."
"Fenris?" queried Anders, a note of confusion in his voice. The elf nodded.
Anders pushed himself up into a sitting position and groaned as his back protested. He glanced around; they appeared to be inside a small pocket inside the fallen rocks, lit up by the glowing form of the elf. The two miners were sitting nearby, their eyes wide with fear. Anders glanced up; his shield spell appeared to still be holding, to his surprise.
"How did you find us?" asked Anders in wonderment.
"Hawke's mabari," answered Fenris. "When you didn't show up at the Hanged Man, we grew worried and decided to come look for you. We ran into a messenger Lirene had sent to Hawke, and when he heard about the landslide he decided it would be prudent to bring the dog. Fortunately for you, the beast picked up your scent and was able to track you to this pile of rocks."
"So there's a use for the great slobbering beast after all," remarked Anders, raising an eyebrow the wincing as the movement caused a stab of pain through his head. He pit a hand to his brow and was unsurprised to find he appeared to be bleeding from a blow to the head.
"We need to get you out of here," said Fenris quietly. "Your wounds need tending."
"Wait – how did you get in here?" asked Anders, confused.
In wordless answer, Fenris phased himself completely and stood up, stepping to one side and starting to phase himself through the wall of stones.
"Wait – wait!" cried Anders, a panicky note creeping into his voice. Fenris reappeared almost instantly.
"What is wrong?" he asked, kneeling back down beside the mage and allowing his arm to phase back into solid flesh once more as he reached out to gently stroke the side of Anders' face. Anders leaned into the touch gratefully.
"Please don't leave me alone," he whispered, his amber eyes imploring. Fenris inclined his head slightly.
"As you wish," he replied quietly. "Let me signal to Hawke first. I promise you I will not leave your side."
Anders nodded hesitantly as Fenris phased his upper body through the rock once more, his legs still standing beside the mage. Anders could hear muffled sounds of voices beyond the rocks, and then noises of metal tools against the stones as Fenris reappeared. The elf dropped gracefully down to sit beside the apostate as he phased back into solid form once more, though the lyrium lines over his body continued to glow, lighting up the interior of the stone prison.
Anders sighed and leaned against Fenris, who drew the slender man gently closer until Anders was slumped against him, his head resting upon the elf's shoulder.
"How long will your shield hold?" Fenris asked, glancing up.
In answer, Anders reached into his pouch and withdrew a small vial of lyrium. Downing it with a grimace, he reached for his staff and held it upright. Fenris stiffened as Anders closed his eyes and called upon his magic once more; the light shimmered briefly, then steadied as Anders relaxed back against the elf.
"Long enough," he answered, his eyes still closed.
Fenris regarded the mage thoughtfully, then simply held him gently as the sounds of tools chipping and digging at the rocks steadily got louder around them.
.
.
.
.
.
Anders was quiet and subdued as they emerged from the rocks. He seemed almost embarrassed by the effusive thanks of the two miners and their thankful families; he stood silently, head lowered as he leaned against Fenris, glancing up only when they fell self-consciously silent. He smiled wanly, and bade them goodnight, before glancing over to Hawke, Varric and the others. He glanced up at Fenris, then over to Hawke who took a step forward, paused, then swiftly crossed the short space between them and crushed Anders to his chest in a firm hug.
"I'm OK... really, I'm fine," protested Anders in a muffled voice.
"Love," said Hawke quietly, stepping back slightly and cradling Anders' face between his palms. Fenris pressed in close behind the apostate, his arms encircling Anders' waist as the mage shivered in the cool night air.
"Hawke, he is cold, tired and hurt," rumbled Fenris. "Further talk can wait until we are somewhere warmer."
Hawke nodded. Varric cleared his throat and Hawke and Fenris both glanced down at him.
"We, uh, wouldn't want to intrude on your moment, Hawke, but if you don't mind I think we'll all tag along and see you three home safe and sound," he suggested, gesturing at Isabela and Merrill with a jerk of his thumb.
"Are you all going to tuck me up in bed too?" asked Anders with a tired yet irrepressible grin.
"Kitten, you look just about dead on your feet or I might take you up on that," grinned Isabella with a wink. "I always say there's nothing like a good orgy to warm the blood."
"Isabela!" exclaimed Merrill with a shocked look. "What would Aveline say if she heard you?"
"She'd say I'm a tart and a floozy," shrugged Isabela. "So nothing unusual there. Personally, I think she just doesn't know what she's missing."
"I think Hawke and I can handle the 'tucking in' just fine, Isabela," replied Fenris, though he had a wry smile as he said it. Isabela threw him a mock pout.
"Oh, you're no fun," she retorted.
"That depends on your definition of 'fun'," replied the elf as he stepped to Anders' side, keeping a supportive arm around the taller man's waist. Hawke was stripping off his cloak and as Fenris spoke, he tucked it around Anders' shoulders then stepped to support him from the other side as they al began to move off towards Hightown.
"Home?" asked Anders hopefully.
"Home," agreed Hawke. "Where good food, a decent drink, a warm fire and then a decent night's sleep with agreeable company await you."
Anders began to chuckle. "Merry Yuletide to me!" he laughed.
"Indeed," agreed Fenris.
"Merry Yuletide, Anders," replied Hawke, and kissed him.
~ Fin. ~