Hawke stared around the large cavern with a pleased expression as he wiped the blood from his blade. He glanced around at the rest of his companions as they moved around the cavern. Merrill was turning over bodies with Isabela, the pair of them crowing as they looted various "shinies"; Fenris stood to one side, glowering with distaste as he watched them. He was lounging near the passageway Anders had darted down a few minutes ago, claiming he'd "felt" something. He probably ought to go check everything was alright with the mage.
"Hawke! Come and take a look at this!" called Varric. Hawke glanced over at the dwarf, who was staring intently into a small chest. As Hawke wavered, Varric added, "This looks kinda important, wouldn't you say? Not to mention expensive."
Curiosity piqued, Hawke crossed the cavern towards Varric even as Isabela straightened, the pirate's ears practically pricking up at the word "expensive". "Fenris, go check on Anders," Hawke called back over his shoulder as he peered over Varric's shoulder and let out a low whistle.
"I am certain the mage can take care of himself," drawled the elf darkly as he straightened, his face twisting in disgust. Hawke stared back over his shoulder with a warning glare even as he reached for whatever was in the chest. "Fenris..."
The elf threw up a hand in resignation and turned away without a further word as Isabela craned her neck to see over Hawke and Varric's shoulders. "Oooh, pretty..." she crooned as Merrill came to join them. Shaking his head, the elf turned to the stone passage, hefting his sword as behind him the rest of the party admired the contents of the chest.
The elf could not help but continue scowling even as the stone passage led him further and further away from the cavern. How typical of the mage to dart off on his own after firefly dreams; the apostate was ridiculously impetuous. It was a wonder he'd survived this long, really. He shook his head, then paused as the sounds of shouts and fighting distantly echoes to him from somewhere ahead. It sounded like the mage had, indeed, succeeded in finding some sort of trouble.
Smiling grimly in anticipation, he hefted his blade and began to run.
As Fenris rounded the corner, Anders swung his staff in a wide circle, forcing back a group of darkspawn; around him lay the fallen bodies of many more.
Darkspawn? Here? But they were miles from the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads...
Shaking his head uneasily, Fenris swung his blade about his head and charged into battle. He may not like the mage, but he was damned if he were about to abandon him to the less than tender mercies of darkspawn.
Even as he reached the apostate's side, Anders cried out in dismay as he desperately tried to cast another spell only to have the magic fizzle and die upon his outstretched fingers, mana depleted. Fenris' blade neatly bisected the darkspawn as it leapt for Anders' throat; he pushed the mage aside as he moved swiftly to deal with the last two creatures, unheeding of Anders' brief cry as he stumbled and fell.
Fenris rose from his graceful crouch and began cleaning blood from his blade as he glanced around, confirming that nothing else moved in the cave apart from himself and the mage. He turned to gloat over having saved the apostate's hide... but the words died on his lips.
Anders lay sprawled on his back, one hand weakly clutching at the spear that protruded from his abdomen; a spear doubtless discarded by some other unfortunate in a previous battle. Fenris recalled thrusting the mage away; Anders stumbling, that brief cry... all too easily he could recreate in his mind's eye how it had happened. The mage's heel catching upon the fallen body of a darkspawn, his fall - the exposed point of the spear piercing his back as he fell, driven through his slender body by the force of his fall.
Fenris dropped to one knee beside the fallen mage, who plucked weakly at the spear, his amber eyes glazed with pain as he rolled his head to stare up at Fenris dully.
"Always knew... you'd be the death of me," he tried to grin.
The elf eyed the mage, raising one eyebrow. "I...apologise," he said slowly. "I did not intend..."
He fell silent; saying sorry would not change the situation. He waited for the inevitable sarcastic quip, but the mage was uncharacteristically quiet. Anders' eyes had fluttered half-closed, his breath shallow, face pale, skin waxen under the flickering light cast by those corpses still burning from his earlier spells.
Fenris reached for the spear shaft. "You should heal yourself," he said tersely as his gauntleted hand encircled the blood-slicked wood and he began to twist it free. The mage threw his head back and screamed in agony, clutching weakly at the elf's wrists as the shaft came free and fresh blood began to pump from the gaping wound in his stomach. Anders' scream tailed away to a hoarse sob as he pulled his hands back to clutch at the hole, twisting around until he lay upon his side, gasping and desperately trying to stem the blood that was soaking through his robes at an alarming rate.
"Why do you not heal yourself?" demanded Fenris, his eyebrows furrowing in a frown.
"No... no mana..." breathed Anders, closing his eyes and biting down upon his lip as pain bored through his body.
The elf stared down at the dying mage. How easy it would be to simply sit back and watch the apostate die... and yet.
And yet. It was not the bloodied hand that suddenly grasped his wrist that stayed him; nor was it the look of desperate pleading in the soft amber eyes. Was that, perhaps, a twinge of guilt he felt?
"Help me," whispered Anders softly. "Please."
"I... don't know how," replied Fenris quietly.
Anders groaned. "Lyrium?" he asked hopefully. Fenris shook his head.
"I have no need of it," he replied simply.
"M-my pouches...maybe..." He groaned in defeat as Fenris' unusually-gentle questing hands produced only shards of glass, what remained of the precious blue fluid dripping from his fingers. Fenris gestured with his wet hand towards Anders, and willingly the mage's lips parted to suck greedily at the scanty fluid. Fenris felt a strange thrill race up his arm at the sensation, stirring something inside. He turned his face away to hide the dark flush that suffused his cheeks, unbidden; Anders was oblivious however, as his eyes closed, tongue darting out to lick the final traces from his lips. A brief flare of blue light glowed around his hands as he pressed them to the wound, and Fenris drew a silent breath of relief as the bleeding slowed.
All too soon however, the glow flickered and then died and Anders groaned. "Not enough," he breathed.
"I should fetch Hawke," decided Fenris, but Anders clutched at his wrist again.
"No! Please... don't leave me alone," he begged. "There are more darkspawn down here; I can feel them."
"But there is nothing more I can do here!" protested the elf angrily.
"Bandages," replied Anders, jerking his chin to indicate his discarded pack. "And elfroot powder. Should be enough to hold me together until we get out of here."
Fenris dragged the pack over to himself and began to root through it. He lifted out rolls of neatly-wound white cloth and stared at them. "I have no idea how to apply these," he confessed.
"I'll... direct you," replied Anders, his voice quieter and slightly slurred. Fenris paused and stared at the stricken mage as his eyelids fluttered.
"Mage?"
There was no answer.
"Anders?" he asked, voice quieter.
The only answer was a faint moan.
Frowning, the elf took hold of the fainting man's shoulders and shook them, none too gently; failing to rouse the mage, he pulled one spiked gauntlet off then slapped Anders hard on the cheek. Anders' eyes flew open as he cried out in protest.
"Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired," he managed hoarsely, somehow managing to grin in spite of his pain.
"Perhaps you prefer I leave you to bleed to death?" suggested the elf dryly. Anders glanced down at the torn, ichor- and blood-spattered mess his robes had been reduced to and grimaced.
"I fear I would be a less than beautiful corpse," he mused. He caught Fenris' wrist once more in his fragile grasp, the lightness of his words belying the desperation in his eyes. The elf stilled.
"I will not leave you," said the elf quietly.
Anders sagged back against the stone floor with a look of relief as Fenris picked up the bandages once more, his expression one of mild perplexity. "I am unfamiliar with the healing arts," he confessed. "It was... not a skill my master felt I needed."
Anders gestured at the pack. "There are herbs and ingredients in there... show me the packs..."
Obediently the elf began pulling small packages out from the pack; Anders indicated the ones he needed with a gesture of blood-stained fingers, the other hand still clutching at the wound. "Elfroot, yes... no, not the deep mushrooms...yes, that flask there..."
"What is in it?" asked the elf, holding up the small flask and peering at the clear, slightly-green liquid.
"Heatherum and Foxite," explained Anders, closing his eyes as the pain of the wound flared insistently. "Helps increase the efficacy of other stuff. Maker knows I need all the efficacy I can get right now."
Under the mage's direction, Fenris carefully mixed elfroot with the liquid in the palm of his hand. Anders frowned at the resulting mixture; it didn't look quite right - not the right colour, and there were too many lumps, but the elf was unskilled and he himself in no condition to do better. It would have to do. That brief burst of healing magic had not been enough; he knew that if he tried to move or fend for himself, the wound would simply rip open again. He could feel himself steadily weakening even just lying here upon the floor; the cold of the stone seemed to be sinking into his bones with each passing minute.
Fenris paused as he smeared the poultice onto a wad of clean cloth, and Anders glanced up. There was an unfamiliar expression upon the elf's face as he regarded the pale mage.
"What?"
"Why does the demon inside you not do something?" he asked, curiously.
"Justice is not a demon!" retorted Anders, levering himself up onto one elbow before falling back with a gasp. The flare of anger helped drive back the bleak feeling of hopelessness that had began to grow within him, but the brief burst of energy it gave him was short-lived, and already he was paying for it as pain racked his body. "He can do nothing when my mana is so depleted," he finally managed to gasp out when he could draw breath again against the pain.
Fenris peeled aside the folds of the ruined robes then lifted the hem of the blood-soaked shirt beneath as Anders hissed softly. Fenris raised an eyebrow at the bloody mess thus revealed; what little magic Anders had managed to draw from the lyrium had barely begun to knit the rent flesh back together inside, and the wound still gaped open.
"This will hurt," the elf said tersely in forewarning before pressing the poultice into place.
Anders cried out, his voice a hoarse sob as his body shuddered against the flare of renewed pain. His hands flew to grasp at Fenris' hand as it applied pressure steadily to the wound, and it was the elf's turn to gasp as their skin touched, the lyrium in his brandings instantly flaring into white light at the contact.
Again, the elf felt that strange sensation within as the lyrium sang within his skin, even as Anders' eyes glazed over with a fierce blue haze and spirit energy danced crackling over the mage's waxy, pale skin. Fenris instinctively tried to pull back even as a blue glow enveloped the hands clutching his, but the inhuman glare seemed to transfix him as the lyrium sang in a way he had never felt before.
Then within a few moments, the blue glow faded, the eyes fluttered then rolled back into Anders' head, and the mage slumped, unconscious, his limp fingers releasing Fenris' hand at last and falling away as Anders' head rolled bonelessly to one side. Fenris reached out a tentative hand to brush away the dishevelled blond hair which had come loose from its tie, and carefully feel for the pulse at the throat. After a moment he drew a breath with a faint sound which might have been relief as he felt the thready fluttering of life beneath the pale, clammy skin. The mage was alive, at least.
He cautiously peeled back a corner of the poultice; the bleeding had stopped, and the wound looked a little better. Not fully healed, but he no longer feared the mage might expire in his arms the moment he tried to lift him. He replaced the poultice and began to wind bandages awkwardly around the unconscious man's torso, reflecting that this part of the job would likely have been easier had Anders still been awake. He managed to haul the slender man up to rest his head upon the elf's shoulder, limp arms draped loosely about Fenris' neck and out of the way whilst he knelt and bound the wound as firmly as he could. He was aware he was doing a less than neat job, but all that mattered was that it kept the mage in one piece till he could get him back to help.
As he laid the mage down, it finally occurred to him to wonder what the hell was keeping Hawke and the others.