Brineigh crept cautiously through the rocky underground passage. She may have succumb to curious impulsivity but she wasn't stupid… well, most of the time, she amended in her mind; there had, after all, been that occasion years ago when it seemed like a really good idea to try out her favourite lightning spell while swimming.
She did realized the distinct possibility that whoever smuggled lyrium to the Templars might still be in the dank, cavernous passageway, despite the time it took her to find the blasted trapdoor. But, up and down the rickety staircases and through the rough-hewn doorways along her route, Brineigh did not encountered a single soul.
Her path ended abruptly, stone walls closed together and a ladder extended upwards towards a small hatch in the ceiling, slightly illuminated through cracks around the edges of the wood. Brineigh drew in a hesitant breath. She was really going to do this. The thought provoked elation and trepidation in equal measure.
By the fourth rung of the ladder Brineigh dimmed her small wisp to almost nothing. No need to let them know I'm coming. She had a horrific, brief vision of whatever lay on the other side of the hatch; Ser Nickoll and his blade, the Knight-Commander with her golden helm, their faces illuminated by the eerie light streaming upward from cracks in the floor while lying in wait to spring their trap. A puerile, nightmarish idea, but the thought of being discovered on the other side gave her a moment's pause.
When she reached the top of the ladder she place her eye to a knothole in the wood. She could see nothing, hear nothing. Aside from the woody, earthy smell of the planks, it stunk like dirt and rubbish and urine. It was several minutes before her fingers grew confidant and pushed hesitantly upwards on the wood, the hatch sighing open with a quiet rasp.
It was…not what I expected. Brineigh's eyes darted around, taking in the shadowy, rundown vision of her surroundings. She pulled herself out of the hatch, wisp perched daintily above her shoulder, onto a platform that was little more than a wide balcony, a pair of stairs in front of her, one set leading up, another down. The immediate area was abandoned, the faint light Brineigh had seen through gaps in the planks originated from below the platform, little more than the flickering glow of a poorly lit fire, the dim light barely bright enough to illuminate the immediate area. Muttered voices drifted upwards, accompanying the crackling of the low blaze. Brineigh lowered the hatch as quietly as she could, jumping out of her skin when the wooden flap settled in place with a soft but creaking ache.
Down was not an option, she had no desire to see the source of the quiet, muffled conversation, so Brineigh went up. The wooden stairs groaned under her gentle footfalls, but, much to her anxious relief, no alarm was raised from the murmuring voices below the platform. She slunk into a narrow passageway after ascending the stairs, a second flickering fire beckoning at the end of a long hall. Pressing herself quietly into the wall at the end of the hall, she peered out from the edge of the rough-cut passage, her fingers tightly gripping a scaffold frame, the wooden structure creating a makeshift doorway separating the hall from a small room beyond containing an abandoned, but lit, campfire and small tent set beside it. Brineigh kept close to the walls of the room as she stealthily ghosted by, continuing her exploration into the unknown.
She hardly knew where was she going. She was, in spite of her spontaneous and desperately confident escape, hopelessly lost. Being outside of the Gallows was electrifying, Brineigh revelled in the knowledge that she had come this far; but she was still underground and her knowledge of Kirkwall was confined to the street plan observed from the high windows in the Tower. She longed for the sight of ripples as she pulled her fingers through salty waves, the resistance of the water against her ankles as she strode in the lapping brine, something familiar from her past experience outside the Gallows to inspire her progress in her current surroundings. This dirty, smelly place, filled with refuse and dust and worse, may be out of the Tower, but it was certainly not the freedom she imagined, the reprieve she craved. But people lived down here, the tent she passed had been evidence of that, and she could smell a faint waft of salt air as she moved forward. There had to be a way out.
She reflected later that her first mistake had been to not extinguish her spell wisp. Glowing balls of light tended to attract attention even inside the Gallows, outside of the Circle, they were certain to be rare accessories indeed. Her second mistake, she decided afterwards to forgive herself for; it came as more of a consequence of her lifestyle than any controllable error. Up until that afternoon, she had been an apprentice in the Gallows, her only possessions were several sets of ordinary robes and a standard issue apprentice staff. No one ever wanted her things; everyone had always had their own. Her experience with concepts like 'theft' and 'stealing' extended to pilfering extra quills and parchment from the Tranquil in the stockroom or perhaps copying the occasional answer from an oblivious apprentice studying beside her. Nothing could have prepared her for the blight on Kirkwall that was the Coterie gangs.
"Hello sweet thing." A lithe, blonde haired woman swept out of the dim, ambient firelight of the slum, inserting herself into Brineigh's path. "And where would a darling girl like you be heading in a place like this?"
"Uhhh…" Brineigh took in the woman, her drawn daggers and sneering expression all at once. This, she decided firmly, is not good. She crouched stock-still, mind racing, hands instinctively groping behind her back to grasp for the staff that had been left propped against her bed that very morning.
A stocky man, club in hand, materialized behind the blonde woman, his jeering face thrown in stark relief by her spellwisp. "Well," his leering expression spoke volumes. The man's eyes briefly left their errant wandering over Brineigh's robe to gaze lecherously at her upturned face, calling into the shadows behind him, "What do ya think Dirk? At least a silver for a robe like that, not to mention a couple sovereigns for the woman under it." Brineigh's hands flew from behind her back, abruptly raising a palm to her mouth, covering her shocked expression.
This is really not good.
The woman whistled. "Maker, have you ever seen such a ring?" Brineigh's upstretched fingers tore to her side, fists pressing into the folds of her robes, covering the silverite band given to her by Senior Enchanter Constance, a ring to improve her concentration the woman had said. Blessed Andraste, if only I could concentrate now! If only she could think and push aside her whirling thoughts, if only she could figure a way out of this mess.
"Never outside of Hightown and that's the truth of it." the stocky man responded, eyes once again resuming their roving gaze.
"You idiots," a second man, apparently the aforementioned Dirk, appeared behind the others. "She's an apostate, an escaped mage. Can't you see those robes are from the Circle? Are you both so daft and blind?" He continued in exasperation as his hands pointedly gesticulated at her spellwisp. "Women like her, especially those followed around by glowing globes don't come to Darktown by choice. You should have left her alone like I told you."
A third man, this one with large, corded arms and holding a very large battle-axe, approached Brineigh from behind as she pivoted her body to assess the new threat, his clomping steps alerting her to his presence before he spoke. "I dunno Dirk, I mean, don't Templars offer a reward for information about mages escaping the Tower. Think of how grateful they'd be if we actually went about turning one in." This was of course, the worst thing that could possibly happen. No one was supposed to know she was missing. Visions of confinement, possible punishment and worse, flashed through Brineigh's already chaotically rolling mind. She inwardly cursed her curiosity, her impulsivity, why did she never think of the consequences of her actions.
Two more men appeared out of the dark to stand beside the giant with the oversized axe, she heard footsteps add to the ranks at her back. Her already tense body went rigid as the voice of man named Dirk replied from behind, apparently buoyed by the addition to their ranks, "You know, I think you're actually right. The Templars would be mighty grateful indeed." She could palatably feel the narrowed eyes of the man appraised her form. "Poor gal looks exhausted too. What a shame. "
Brineigh quickly reflected that she did feel exhausted. After all, her afternoon had been spent in desperate battle against a demon, the survival of a mortal wound and exhaustive reflection. To round it out, she had attempted a rash escape from the Gallows. The events had compounded into bone-weary fatigue at exactly the wrong moment, her adrenaline drained during her tense exploration through the smuggler's tunnels and beyond.
"We should really take her back home to get a good night's rest, don't cha think. Declan if you'd be so kind…" The man with the overly large battle-axe took a step closer to Brineigh, slowly lifting his arm to reach a gigantic hand towards her shoulder.
"Oh fie, Dirk." The blonde woman pouted, Brineigh swung around in time to see the woman's plump lips pressed tight together, "I wanted to play with her first. I've never been allowed to try for a mage before." The woman appraised the weary magic-user momentarily before something flashed in her eye and she lunged, dual daggers directed at Brineigh's stomach.
Instinctively, arcs of lightning shot from Brineigh's fingertips, dropping the woman to the floor but not before the daggers found their mark. Pain spiked through her body, she unconsciously curled over in throbbing agony, a loud wail escaping her lips. The battle-axe wielding giant, reaching for Brineigh from behind, missed her shoulder and stumbled forward over her bowed form, tipping headfirst as he was thrown off balance.
The man named Dirk, obviously surprised by the sudden attack of his cohort, shrieked at his companions, "You fools! Don't bait the mage!" as Brineigh willed herself to look up and to the side, remotely observing that the men who had stood with the giant were approaching from behind, creeping closer, weapons drawn. Her shaking fingers traced a wobbling paralysis rune. She tossed the spell behind her, a weak attempt to stall the men, one of whom was currently lifting his blade in attempt to cleave her spine in two. A few muttered words and her body was encased in a thin husk of rock, just in time to deflect a downward swinging axe to her side. But oh Maker, rock is heavy, Brineigh slumped under the weight of the stone, the massive burden making her oblivious to her surroundings, feeling nothing but the bulk of the rock and the pain in her stomach.
A flash of heat, the smell of scorched flesh, whirled by Brineigh, blackening the stone she was encased in. The fireball exploded behind her, crashing through the men still held in thrall by her glowing green rune. Her stone skin froze, caught in a layer of ice, freezing the men in front of her and turning the ground around her into a jagged collection of frosty stalagmites. A succession of bright white bolts hit the entrapped men, illuminating the dark passageway Brineigh had been assaulted in and shattering their frost-coated bodies; their unconscious forms sank to lie broken on the ground, joining the blonde woman and axe-wielding giant whose clumsy fall had knocked him comatose. The last of her assailants was dispatched with a second fireball, the flaming sphere catching the man named Dirk full in the chest, pitching him against a distant wall and melting the ice from Brineigh's stone skin.
Brineigh's thin layer of rock armour dissolved, her dim spell wisp blinked out. Her body's energy was spent, her mana depleted, the pain in her gut unbearable. She heard hurried footsteps approach.
An anxious face, framed by dirty-blonde hair half pinned in a loose ponytail, hovered above her stooped form. "I heard a scream," was the explanation; confusion had bloomed in the eyes of the man, "but you're a…you're a mage?"
"I…I, uhh,". Words were too much, Brineigh's body collapsed to the floor. The man followed her to the ground, kneeling beside her, cradling her head in his lap. The air shimmered blue and healing magic swept over her form for the second time of the day. The magic soothed her. She felt the bleeding stop, the twin holes in her stomach knitting together. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice cracking with fatigue.
Liquid amber eyes took in Brineigh's form. Calloused hands gently stroked the puckered, angry flesh of her wounded stomach through the ripped holes in her robe. "They should heal cleanly."
Sudden concern etched the man's face as his eyes roved to her neck, his hands pushing away the fabric of her collar to reveal the new, pink tissue below. All but forgotten in the heat of the past moments, since in the hours spent in the deep cellars of the Gallows, was the fact that she had not changed her robes since fleeing the Harrowing Chamber. The ghost of a blade, the soiled fabric marred by her blood...
Oh.
"Who did this to you?" the man asked in a tight, clipped voice, intense molten eyes demanding an answer.
Words stuck in her throat, her lips moved as if mud. "T…Templar," was the most that could be managed. "H…Harrowing," she added in a conspiratorial attempt to explain.
"Those bastards!" snarled the man, eyebrows furrowing together in a furious scowl. Brineigh thought she witnessed his amber eyes flash to blue but she was too drained to be of what she saw. It was all too much, the blood loss, the fatigue, Brineigh's body gave up on her; her eyes closed as she lost consciousness. Her final feeling before falling comatose was the sense of strong arms gathering her up, lifting her, pressing her tightly to a warm chest.
Consciousness crept over Brineigh in stages. Her sense of touch came back first. Rough canvas rubbed harsh against the back of her neck; soft, thread-barren wool brushed the tip of her chin; her hands dangled in the air, her wrists resting against a solid, smooth surface. Wherever she was it smelled like…nothing; clean, sterile, unexpected.
Grey eyes slit open. The dark purple of a pre-dawn sky spilt through high windows above her as Brineigh tried to shift her vision, attempting to take in her surroundings. The sound of soft breathing turned her head towards a rock wall. She drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the man dozing on a crude chair beside her; alarm overtook her as the chaotic events of the previous day seeped to the forefront of her mind.
Her harsh intake of air woke the man, his dazed eyes rapidly blinked away sleep as Brineigh struggled lift herself from her prone position on the rough cot. Gentle fingers pressed her back down. "Wait here," quietly implored his drowsy voice. The mage, her saviour from the violence of the day before, unfolded himself from the chair, stretching cat-like as he walked to the far side of the room.
Vials clinked as Brineigh fretfully lay herself back down, head turned to the side, away from the wall. She registered several motionless forms on coarse canvas beds, much like her own, arranged in rows beside her. Yesterday had been apparently her lucky day. Somehow, from the repugnant slum she had collapsed in, she had been moved to a kind of infirmary, arranged differently from the one she was familiar with in the Gallows, poorer certainly, but recognizable all the same.
The man returned, handing her a vessel of red liquid, "Drink this, it will help with your injuries."
Brineigh raised the container to her mouth without protest, the familiar smell of crushed elfroot wafting from the vial a welcome relief in the foreign surroundings. She downed the tonic in a single gulp and braced herself up on her elbows, feeling immediate strength as the potion coursed down her throat.
"Now," the man seated himself back on the chair, stifling a yawn, hands rubbing over his eyes, brushing away the last vestiges of sleep, "I think you better tell me how someone like you comes to collapse in the slums of Kirkwall. It's not often now I see my fellows and you are certainly the first one I've had to rescue in a long while."
Brineigh lifted her eyes to the windows, buying time before giving into hesitant speech. The colour of the light caught her eye. Oh…drat. The expletive was not strong enough. The deep purple of pre-dawn was giving way rich, dark blue sky. The Gallows would be waking soon; she had less than an hour before the sun rose in a blaze of orange and red glory, summoning magi and Templars alike from their beds. She was sure her panic showed on her face, but how could she flee when she owed this man her life, when she did not even know where she was? She again, inwardly cursed her impulsivity of yesterday. But, she reflected cynically, her escape certainly had distracted her from the dark thoughts of the previous afternoon and in the end, had led her to this man. She bit back a cutting laugh at the thought that perhaps the Maker did work in the mysterious ways the Sisters always claimed.
"Thank you," she started, hanging her head, her mocking thoughts not reflected in her tone, "I…I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there to...to aid me. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to say that yesterday."
The man shrugged, "It's just lucky you've got a good set of lungs on you." He smiled, lines creasing the corners of his amber eyes, "I think you managed to rouse half of Darktown with that shout."
"But if you hadn't been there," she motioned at her stomach with a quick flick of her wrist, "If you hadn't been there to…to…" her sentence trailed off as she glanced to the side, unwilling to mention his spell with the dark shadows arrayed on cots beside her. Did this man help the others as he had helped her? Did he risk exposure as a mage for all of these people? She would not open her mouth and bring harm to him if he did not. Even apprentices, their movement restricted to the Tower, knew the rumours of how distrusted and feared magi were outside of the Circle.
The man observed her gaze, guessing at her thoughts. "My magic has helped them as much as it has helped you, we can talk of it here. My clinic is as safe as any place in Kirkwall, I would imagine. You need not fear betrayal to the Templars by my hand or any other in this room." He tipped his chair forward, closer to Brineigh's cot, the hint of a smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes, "At least, any more than I do. Now, please, I believe you owe me something of an explanation."
Brineigh scooted herself into a sitting position beneath the cozy blanket, her hands once again reaching for her ankles. The quick jolt of movement brought a slight pain to her stomach and left her feeling lightheaded, but only for an instant. The man's magic and elfroot concoction had patched her up better than she could have ever expected. Who could have thought she would avoid death twice in one day.
Her story did not take long to tell; it had after all, taken place over little more than a single, chaotic afternoon. She chose to withhold certain information, interweaving small lies with the truth. The man had saved her, had healed her, but she did not know him, could not trust him so quickly, especially with information about the smuggler's tunnels, her way back to the Tower. She whispered an internal prayer to the Maker, hoping her small fabrications would go unnoticed.
The mage's eyebrows pinched together by the time Brineigh finished her tale, deep lines of concentration furrowing his brow. Several seconds elapsed before he spoke. "Well, now that you're out of the Gallows, what is it that do you intend to do? I'd offer you sanctuary but unfortunately I'm already enough of a threat to these refugees as it is," the last was intoned with a sweep of his hand about the room. The dark forms on the rough cots had yet to stir at the sound of their voices.
She didn't need to think of the answer. She had never thought there might be a choice. Her impulsive decision to leave the Gallows had always been made with the caveat that she would return. Whatever her new feelings about the Templars, the grey worldview that had replaced the binary, childhood construction of black and white, the idea that she could leave her home had never really occurred to her.
"I'll go back." The response was said quickly, without a hint of hesitation in her voice. If she had suddenly started spouting lightning bolts from her ears the man could not have looked more shocked. She continued in an attempt to explain, "The sun hasn't risen yet. I can still make it back before I'm missed." From the bewildered expression he wore, her justification was clearly an inadequate reply.
"But," he sputtered, "You want to go back? You've escaped the Gallows! The Templars! After what they've done to you, what possible reason could you have return?" Blanket-wrapped forms stirred around them at the sound of the man's raised voice. His molten eyes flashed with scepticism, incredulity framing his features.
"I've just become a mage! I never intended for this to happen," she retorted angrily, jilted and caught off guard by his abrupt response, her quick words spoken without thought. His blatant disbelief irked her in a way she had not expected. Who was he to judge her? And there was no mistaking his tone; he thought her response ludicrous.
Brineigh continued, quiet accent forgotten in her quick ire, "I have no intension of being labelled an apost…" apostate. Because that was of course, what this man was.
She took in a steadying breath as she began again, trying to keep her voice to a tight whisper, noting the figures shifting around them. She reined her anger in, attempting to put some thought to her words. Had she misunderstood him? Did he think she meant to flee the Tower? Of course he did, she belatedly realized, what other reason would a mage have for gallivanting outside the Circle Tower; she didn't think curious 'exploring' would be the explanation most magic-users would come up with. Her outburst suddenly seemed ungenerous.
"Where would you have me go, what would you have me do? Even with everything that's happened, the Gallows is still my home."
His indignant eyes regarded her coldly, "Anywhere, anything!" was the quick response, "Do you know how many mages would die to be given the chance you have now?" The man's face pulled into a tight grimace.
She supposed she did. There had been those among the apprentices and mages whose jokes about their Templar jailers had been told in earnest.
"But, you don't understand, they have my phylactery…how far do you think I could run before someone caught me, dragged me back to the Circle or had me killed? Would you have me punished? Would you have me locked away?" Brineigh shook her head, throwing out arguments automatically. "No, I couldn't live like that."
The sentiments she expressed were mostly true. She didn't know how to convince the man so she invoked the imagery that scared her the most. She shirked at the thought of the Templars, of being hunted by them. But the truth was, she had never really considered running before; the thought of freedom was too foreign to her reality.
Her thoughts and words rambled on. His expression remained unchanged, a dark scowl and pinched eyebrows marring the otherwise striking face.
"Besides, I don't know the first thing about the world outside of the Circle Tower," she continued, a last ditch effort to erase the disgust from his features, "I don't think I'd survive very long." Her posture straightened on the cot as she gripped at the blanket over her stomach, hoping that the gesture would spark a memory of her desperate situation from the evening before, of how ill-equipped she was to manage with life outside the Gallows. The events of the past evening in the slums the mage had named as 'Darktown', had done little to reassure her about her sheltered life so far.
The mage looked about to retort to the contrary, but she cut him off and bowed her head, giving up the futile, one-sided fight. She may be impulsive, the curious spontaneity of her escape the day before a norm in her life, but she was always firm when resolved. "You don't know what you ask, I appreciate your help yesterday, but this…" she gave her head a second shake, firmer than the first, "I just…I just can't."
It was difficult to meet his eyes; she felt his abhorrence at her decision as a tangible thing. Brineigh ran a hand across the raven-black stubble of her hair. Her steely eyes were grave as she looked at him, changing the subject as quickly as she could. She did not want to argue with the man who had saved her, who had healed her. He deserved better than that.
"Those men, the woman from last night, what happened to them?"
"Coterie," he said, aversion with her still evident in his voice, "A thieves guild. A few died, the others ran back to their bolthole to lick their wounds. You made yourself easy enough prey. Though, I doubt they'd bother you again after their scare last night. For the immediate future anyhow."
"D…died?" Brineigh's voice shook; she looked at her hands as if they had betrayed her, the trace of her lightning spell a phantom on her fingertips.
The man's harsh countenance broke; his repugnance at her willingness to return to the Circle was momentarily put aside, his strained expression disappeared, replaced by one of compassion. He placed a light hand on her shoulder. "They would have killed you for the sake of a sullied robe. They came close too; with all of you'd been through, you had lost a lot of blood. You were only defending yourself, don't despise yourself over their loss."
"But…they were only going to take me back to the Gallows before that woman attacked." She mumbled thoughtlessly. "And now they're dead..."
"Yet, now you would return willingly." The pinched expression returned to the man's face, but he wiped it away with an exasperated sigh, pressing his hands to the corner of his eyes, obviously intent to start their fruitless argument anew.
A muffled moan timely sobbed forth from the front of the room, near the two doors faintly visible in the gloom. The mage turned from Brineigh, abruptly cutting their awkward conversation short and rapidly unfolding himself from his rough perch to stride over to the whimpering sound. Brineigh twisted herself from her seated position on the cot, swinging her legs over the side, standing slowly to ensure she was steady on her feet. Her robes felt stiff on her skin. Brineigh glanced downwards, observing the gory, ripped fabric at her stomach, feeling the blood-starched fabric at her throat with a raised hand. She was sure she made a positively grisly sight. How she was going to navigate her way back to the Gallows without being overseen was a mystery to her. Her appearance would certainly make her memorable to any who saw her.
Brineigh walked over to the man who now knelt before the cot where the groans had started, whispering hushed words to the woman underneath the blanket, blue orbs of healing magic extending from his raised palms. The spell worked within minutes. The woman breathed a deep sigh and sank back into fitful slumber as the mage rocked back on his heels to stand with Brineigh.
Quiet signs of stirring arose from the other side of the room. The light from the high windows continued to brighten. Brineigh inhaled a deep breath; she needed to go.
Brineigh broke the uneasy silence between the two mages, fully intending to take her leave of the man and his clinic. She gripped one of his hands, pressing it tight between hers. "Thank you…uhh…" her brow crinkled, she did not know his name. It was certainly embarrassing, she felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but she continued despite her pause, attempting to cover her blunder and express her gratitude for his rescue, "For everything, I…" she shook her head, unable to continue. In the end, the words were too little to articulate what she felt. She let her hands drop his as she pushed their earlier conversation from her mind; she did not want their argument to be her final thoughts of the man.
"Anders," the mage supplied with a wry smile.
"Brineigh," she replied with a quiet, tinkling laugh, realizing she had not given her name before. It was slightly ridiculous that the man knew her history without knowing the most basic fact about her. She stole another glance at the high windows. Royal blue sky had lightened to deep red. "If there is anything I can do. I….well…I'm not sure how much help I'd be, but you'd just have to ask."
It was an impossible promise she knew, but what else could she do? She had never owed someone so much before, even Orsino had hesitated during her Harrowing, busy in his argument with the Knight-Commander, he had let her come to harm. She admired this man, Anders, and his actions. He had acted selflessly, risking exposure of his clandestine magic and injury on her behalf, to come to the rescue someone he did not know.
Anders, shook his head briefly then stopped, cocking it to the side, amber eyes again meeting grey. "Are you truly serious about returning to the tower," Brineigh nodded her assent as he paused. "In that case," the mage continued, looking at her quizzically, "Perhaps there is a favour you could do for me."
"Anything," she breathed.
"Anything?" His features took on an amused expression, "Be careful of what you offer. You may not like what I have in mind. " Brineigh squirmed as the corners of his mouth rose at her discomfort, quickly covered by a hand stifling a tired yawn. "Maybe not anything after all then. The time was, I'd think of something suitably clever to say to that, but it's far to early this morning." He continued in a low, serious tone, "There is a man at the Gallows, a Ferelden named Karl Thekla, do you know of him?"
Faces and names swirled through Brineigh's mind, finally settling on a man with a greying beard and a strong face with piercing blue eyes. She nodded again, she did not know the man well, the enchanter had arrived relatively recently to help mentor the apprentices, but she could pick him out from the hundreds of faces at the Circle Tower if need be.
"Good," Anders strode to a cramped table, grabbing a piece of parchment and quill as Brineigh followed him. He scribbled a brief note, folded it up, and placed it into Brineigh's hand. "See that he gets this before the day after tomorrow." Soft groaning again came from the cot by the door. Anders quickly turned to the sound before shifting his gaze back to Brineigh. "Are you able to find your way back to the Gallows if I showed you where you were attacked last night? I'm afraid I cannot be away long. The chokedamp seems to be getting the best of her." There was no question as to whom he was referring to, the poor woman by the door was writhing in unconscious agony, the healing magic cast before apparently not enough to give relief from her ailment.
Brineigh was almost sure she could retrace her steps from the previous evening; mostly, she was itching to go. "Maybe," she shrugged her shoulders, "Probably, yes." Both mages spared a quick glance at the woman near the doors, her sleep wracked with quiet moans, as they hurried out.
The dried pools of blood and scorched earth at the dim battle site gave Brineigh a moments pause but Anders quickly lifted her chin in his hand, turning her away from the gory vision to meet his compassionate eyes. "This is as far as I can led you. I must get back. Are you sure you won't change your mind? Your chance for freedom may only come once." He turned his head and dropped his hand, when she whispered a quiet no. His fingers had left Brineigh's skin warm and slightly flushed.
Amber eyes darted back the way they had come, mind focused elsewhere, giving up his urging with a brief, unhappy frown. "Are you sure you can find your way from here?"
The passage behind his shoulder looked familiar so Brineigh bobbed her head, yes.
"Thank you again, Anders. For everything." There was little more she could say; the dark passageway was beginning to lighten, the day about to start. She reached for his hand again, squeezing it tight in wordless appreciation. The touch made her slightly breathless as she looked up at him, taking in the scruffy stubble, the short pieces of dirty-blonde hair falling from his dishevelled ponytail. The man was certainly attractive, even unkempt as he was.
"Of course." He replied. "You know, I never actually thought I'd help a mage return to the Tower." Brineigh dropped his hand as he stared at her intensely. "If you ever come to realize the Templars are the dogs that they are," he brushed a single finger over the scabbed pink flesh at her neck, "I can help you, I can help you adjust to life outside the Gallows. You would only have to ask."
With a final glace and a quick goodbye, the mage turned on his heels, striding rapidly away from Brineigh. She watched him for an instant before starting out on her own, returning through the gradually lightening passageways to the smuggler's tunnels that would take her back to the Gallows.
