Fenris had not thought to ever see the mage again, after they'd all parted ways in the wake of events in Kirkwall. Apparently the Maker had other ideas, however – and a cruel sense of humour – for he came across him again some eight months later, in a street market in Lydes.
He had not even recognized the mage at first, merely stepped aside out of the road as a group of templars walked by, leading a short coffle of men and women, captured apostates mainly, an increasingly common sight as the templars cracked down with especial vigour on all mages, apostate or otherwise. It had only been the height of the man and the unusual amount of restraints on him that drew his attention to the emaciated figure stumbling along at the end of the coffle; not just the collar and hobbles that all of the prisoners wore, but also a set of branks strapped around his head, and his hands locked into cuffs at either end of a heavy iron bar that was welded to the back of the collar. Even then he had not recognized the mage; not until the last minute, as the man walked by, when his glance met familiar honey-brown eyes for a brief moment. Eyes in which there was not the slightest recognition, just the blank stare of a trapped and suffering creature.
Fenris might have hardened his nerves and ignored him even then, had even resumed walking, intending to do just that - but he glanced back after a few steps, and saw the bloody stripes that criss-crossed Anders' back and upper thighs, disappearing beneath the filthy rag of a loincloth that was all the clothing the man wore. Saw the bruises standing out dark against the prison pallor of the mage's skin. Marks of fists. Marks of fingers. Signs of abuse he would have been hard-put to wish on even his worst enemy, much less a man who'd once been a companion, even if not quite what he'd call a friend.
He stood there for several long moments, there in the sun-lit street, and then finally cursed tiredly, and turned back, following in the wake of the templars and their prisoners, already wondering just how he was going to rescue the damned mage.
It took him more time, bloodshed and bribes than he liked, but three days of considerable effort later saw him crouched in a ruined cottage high on a hillside halfway to Jader, undoing the straps holding the branks in place as gently as he could. Bloody spittle drooled down Anders' chin as Fenris carefully manoeuvred the spiked gag out of his mouth; the mage seemed not to notice it, nor care. He didn't seem to notice anything; he'd just stood there silently while his templar escort was killed, the other mages set free and urged to flee. He had come along without resistance when Fenris lifted the end of the chain still attached to the collar around his neck and led him off from the scene of carnage. He had said not a word in the several hours of travel it had taken for them to get far enough away that Fenris felt it safe to stop long enough to free him from his multitude of restraints, he'd just followed along on his chain like a horse on a lead rein, or a dog on its leash.
He didn't react at all as Fenris freed his hands, removed his collar, and took off the cuffs from around his ankles, all that remained of the hobbles. Didn't even react when Fenris called his name, when he touched his face, when he slapped him, hoping for any reaction at all.
Nothing. As empty as a long-abandoned house.
Fenris let the two of them rest for a few hours, then as the sun began to lighten the sky he roused the mage. Anders ate, at least, when food was put in his hand, and drank when a cup was held to his lips, but otherwise was as silent and still as one already dead. By the time the sun rose they were on the road again, Anders now dressed in sandals, leggings and smocked tunic like any peasant might wear, Fenris stalking along at his side, ill at ease and wanting only to get out of Orlais, and into Ferelden, where templars were much less tolerated since the Blight Year. There was a Grey Warden outpost somewhere there, he recalled, and Anders was at least technically a member of it; he would take the mage to them, he decided, more of a rescue than the man was owed.
It was days before Anders showed any sign of awareness, a slight frown crossing his face as he looked at Fenris one day when they were stopped to each lunch somewhere in the mountains southeast of Jader. Just the briefest of expressions, there and gone again, but it gave Fenris hope that perhaps the mage was not entirely broken. Anders began watching his footing on the steep trail by himself after that, instead of needing to be constantly watched, constantly guided – a relief for Fenris, considering how much rough, high trails they had yet to traverse.
They were making their way down from Gerlen's Pass to Lake Calenhad a few days later when the mage finally showed a real sign of returning awareness; "Fenris," he said, just once, just the name, and then fell silent again. But he was looking around more often after that, like a man slowly awakening from sleep. Or a nightmare; more likely that than any pleasant dream.
When they reached the lake the next day Fenris set camp, though it was only mid-afternoon yet. Days of constant travel had taken its toll on both of them, though as poor condition as Anders had been in when their trek had started, his health had actually improved compared to at the start of it, his lean form looking not quite as distressingly gaunt any longer. But they were both tired, and sore, and they reeked, Anders even worse than Fenris did. Here there was a gently shelving beach and a good clean lake, with plenty of driftwood for a fire. It was with considerable relief – and a certain amount of self-consciousness – that Fenris dug soap and a washcloth out of his pack, stripped out of his gear, and ordered the mage to do the same.
He was washing Anders – the mage having shown no inclination to do anything more than sit motionless in the shallows and stare out over the lake – when Anders' eyes slowly tracked over to his face, a faint frown furrowing his brow.
"Fenris?" he said, sounding puzzled. Puzzled, lost... uncertain. But aware again, however briefly.
"Yes," Fenris said, quietly.
The mage lifted a hand, touched his arm gingerly, as if expecting him to vanish, then his face. Fenris paused in his ablutions and sat quietly, tolerating the mage's touch.
Anders swallowed thickly, looked around. "This is Ferelden," he said.
"Yes."
"How...?"
"All I know is that I rescued you from templars two... no, closer to three weeks ago now. How you came to be in their hands... you tell me. What happened? I thought you were with Hawke?"
Anders just sat starring at him for a while, as if trying to make sense of Fenris' words. His expression was blank again. "They killed her," was all the mage managed to finally say, voice flat and empty, and then his expression shattered, showing only terrible pain, and he was crying, great heartbroken sobs, all tears and snot and gasping breaths, shuddering and wrapping up in his own arms as if he was shaking apart and trying to hold himself together all at once.
There was nothing Fenris could do; nothing but gingerly put his arms around the devastated mage, and hold him while he wept. When it became clear that the tears were not ending any time soon, he rinsed Anders off as best he could, and helped him to his feet, half-carrying him out of the lake. He wrapped him in blankets, and held him, until the mage finally fell silent again, having cried himself to sleep.
A good sign, he thought, once the storm of tears had passed; Anders was still in there somewhere.
