Author's note: a take on the Anders-centered Manifestos Welcome group challenge themed: "Misguided."
Summary: Darktown rule nr. 1: keep your filthy paws off the healer. But some people decide that doesn't apply to them... Set during the earlier Acts of Dragon Age II.
Down in the Dark
It's never completely quiet, not even at night. There is always the noise of dripping moisture, the scrabbling of rats, the lone cries of pain and panic and the sounds provided by Coterie and Carta to top off the special blend that is Darktown.
Curled up in the vaguely Anders-sized shape in the straw-filled sack he tends not to notice anything at all. As soon as he has closed up the clinic and stripped off his clothes he just collapses into an exhausted sleep, protected only by the blanket Lirene has given him and the vigilance of the Fereldan refugees.
He doesn't trust them, but he relies on them to keep him and his secrets safe. So far it has worked; they defend the man who heals their wounds, delivers their children and treats their illnesses with a fierce devotion until the darkness claims them. A life is worth little enough here; those who dare harm the healer find theirs snuffed out in the blink of an eye.
In the pitch black Darktown night Anders is dead to the world as per usual when the shadows creep up on him. There is a hissed conversation and suddenly he finds himself dragged upright and slammed into the crumbling wall. The shutter is removed from a lantern and the clinic bathes in a yellow glare.
Anders has never been a very strong fighter, but he manages to avoid the swing of a rough wooden cudgel aimed at his head. With a snarl its owner twists one of the mage's arms behind his back in a way that leaves him gasping. In the haze of pain preventing his spellcasting Anders curses himself with each ragged breath. Despite his paranoia he has grown careless; not even in his days of running from the Circle has he forgotten to at least bar the door if he had one handy. He must have been too tired.
His attackers are Marchers both, neither of them more than twenty. The youngest, the one holding up the lantern, he treated for an ugly stab wound a mere night ago. "I see you've healed up nicely," Anders remarks coldly and winces when the grip around his wrist tightens.
"Shut up," the other man growls. "Where are your medicines? Potions. Salves. Herbs. We want them all."
"That must be some embarrassing personal problem you have."
Another vicious tug. "Watch your mouth, apostate," the young man spits. "We'll take all you have and we'll decide who gets what. No more free care for mages, doglord refugees, faithless men and loose women. Give them up now."
"Forget it."
Maintaining the wristlock the man shoves him roughly into the wooden examination table and slams the cudgel into the mage's back again and again with a ferocity that speaks more of hatred than greed. "It's the will of the Maker! His children... that's us. You are accursed in His eyes! Give up your supplies now!"
While his companion looks on anxiously he abruptly drops his makeshift weapon with a startled cry as if burned. Anders watches the blue glow dance over his naked skin as he straightens, his eyes blazing with blue fire. Lightning crackles around his fingertips. Now both would-be thieves are screaming.
"Andraste's sword, the apostate's a demon!" the younger man moans in a shaky voice. At the word demon the blue flames disappear from the mage's eyes and they revert to their natural shade of brown. There is little kindness in them however. When the intruders have stumbled and clawed their way out of the clinic, Anders falls to his knees, dizzy with weakness.
"This way, ser!"
The templar hunter's heavy footfalls echo in the narrow alleyway. It is daytime, but in Darktown it might as well not be. He follows the two youths through the suffocating gloom, gauntleted hand on the short blade at his side.
"The maleficar's in there!" The taller of the two points to a decrepit set of stairs that leads to the apostate's hidden lair. Neither of his guides seems to dare come any closer.
"Be careful, ser," the other one warns. "He's nothing human."
The templar nods gravely within his narrow-slitted helmet. His blade slides free of its scabbard with a sigh. He takes another step forward, then shifts his balance and plunges the dagger into the nearest man's heart without missing a beat. His companion barely has time enough to scream when the templar whips off his helmet to reveal a head full of dishevelled black hair and a pair of golden-brown eyes burning with something else entirely than religious fervor.
"B-but... he's a demon," the young man breathes in disbelief. "He's dangerous. He is death and destruction..."
Gaelen Hawke reverses his grip on the dagger and the words die in the young Marcher's throat. "He's not," he says softly, wiping the blade on the corpse's sleeve. "Sorry. That would be me."
