Notes: Since work on this series is going so well for now, here is a prompt update. And I felt bad about leaving an Anders-centric story with one Andersless chapter. Heh. Special thanks to the people who are following this story above-board (all three of you!) and a wave to any shadow-readers out there.
Happy New Year to all!
Chapter Warnings: Non-graphic physical abuse.
Nameless
Wynne was in the infirmary when the news came that Anders had returned. No one, as of yet, had discovered how one twelve-year-old boy had managed to both escape the tower and stay hidden from the templars for three days out in the world, but Wynne had no doubt that Greagoir would get it from him eventually. The Knight-Commander had no tolerance for foolhardy escape plans and dreams of freedom.
Speak of the demon, and he shall come. The infirmary double doors burst open and two templars came in, dragging a limply struggling bundle of torn robes and matted blonde hair in with them.
"Senior Enchanter," the taller one began, voice echoing and muffled by his helm. "The Knight-Commander wishes your staff to see to it that this boy gets healed and cleaned up before we escort him back to the apprentice quarters."
"I'll see to it myself, gentlemen." Wynne straightened up from where she'd been rolling bandages and smoothed her skirt. At her gesture, the two armored men dropped their burden and stepped back just out of arm's reach.
The boy looked up to peer at her through limp, messy bangs with wary brown eyes. "You're not gonna hit me, too, are you?"
Wynne raised a brow in surprise and tilted the boy's chin with a finger, hissing as she saw the purpling bruise across the boy's left cheek. "Who did this to you?"
Anders, as he called himself, shrugged. "Bucket-head. They all look the same."
Wynne hummed to herself thoughtfully and walked off, beckoning for the boy to follow her. With a glance at his templar shadows, he followed silently. Wynne led him into a private room and gave the templars a pointed look. Grudgingly, they stationed themselves outside, and she shut the door.
Wynne bustled him over to a cot and sat him down, running a diagnostic spell through him and tutting.
"When's the last time you ate, child?"
There was a pause, and when she looked, Anders looked surprised.
"You actually care?"
"Of course I care. Why wouldn't I?"
Anders was still eying her as if afraid she would suddenly lash out at him. "Nobody cares in this place. The templars just smack me around and the mages all tut and shake their heads at me." He lowered his head, hair hiding his eyes from view. "I hate it here."
Wynne sighed inaudibly and moved to heal the bruises on his face and body. Anders watched her hands with interest.
"You never answered my question."
"Day before yesterday. I stole some fish. And before that, I found some mushrooms in the forest."
"You shouldn't eat strange plants, and stealing is a sin. Well, it isn't if you are starving and have no other option, but you should not have been in that situation in the first place. We'll get you something to eat after we're done here." Wynne sat down heavily on a stool in front of the cot, taking one of his hands in her own. "Now, Anders, was it? I have a serious question for you."
Anders eyed her guardedly. "What kind of question?"
"Was it… Who –" Wynne closed her eyes and reordered her thoughts. "Do you know who gave you those bruises?"
He shook his head. "No. They all wear helmets, and they were pissed when they caught me."
"Watch your language," Wynne snapped out of habit. "Did you report them to the First Enchanter or the Knight-Commander when you got back?"
"No. I shouldn't have to, anyway. They saw the bruise on my face, at least, when they weren't too busy yelling like I'd lit their stupid skirts on fire. What's your point, old lady?" He asked belligerently.
Wynne reached out and grasped his other hand, looking earnestly into his eyes. "My point is that no one has the right to hurt you, Anders. Not even the templars. So if one of them hits you, you should report it to an adult. Will you promise me that, Anders? If you get hurt again, will you come find me?"
Anders looked away uncomfortably. Wynne gave his hands a little shake.
"Promise me?"
"Maybe."
That would have to do for now. Wynne stood up and brushed her skirts free of wrinkles and gestured for Anders to get up as well. He did, pulling up his sleeves to admire his now bruise-free arm.
"Come, Anders. I'll see you to the nearest bathing room and get you some clean clothes."
Anders squinted at her suspiciously. "Why are you being so nice to me? What do you want?"
Wynne's heart gave a little lurch, and she looked away so he couldn't see the emotion on her face. "I don't want anything from you, Anders. It costs me nothing to be kind. Now, let's go get you cleaned up so that you can get something to eat."
That was all the encouragement a growing boy of twelve needed, and soon enough they were off, flanked by the two twitchy templars. She left them there with stern orders not to leave until she came back and marched off to a storeroom. Some shuffling about unearthed an apprentice robe of about the right size and some clean smallclothes. Satisfied, Wynne returned to the bathing room.
"Give these to him, if you please, ser." She handed the clothing to the shorter templar and folded her arms, waiting patiently for the armored man and the boy to emerge from the room. When they did, Anders was red in the face and refused to meet Wynne's eyes. She was puzzled for a moment before it dawned on her. She lifted a hand to cover her smile. Ah, to be young and embarrassed about having one's underwear handled by old ladies.
"Are you ready to go?"
"Senior Enchanter," one of the templars spoke up. "We were ordered to see him cleaned and healed and then escort him immediately to the dorms."
"Did Irving or the Knight-Commander specifically include starvation in his punishment? No? Then I'm taking him to the kitchens and getting him something to eat. You may accompany us, if you wish." With that, she touched Anders' shoulder and guided him to the nearest staircase. After a second, the clank of armor resumed as the templars marched to keep up.
Anders kept quiet for a moment, before he finally voiced what he was thinking. "Who are you?"
"Hm?" Wynne looked down at his skeptical face and couldn't help but laugh. "I never introduced myself, did I? I am Senior Enchanter Wynne, head of the Creation and Spirit Healing branches of the tower."
"So when you're a senior enchanter, you get to boss the templars around?"
"No, no, no, child. I do not boss anyone around." She ignored his disbelieving snort. "I am merely a valuable and well-behaved member of the Circle, and that grants me certain liberties that scruffy, runaway apprentices do not have."
Anders huffed rudely. "If you're so important and powerful, why are you still here? If I was a senior enchanter, I'd knock this whole tower down and run off into the Wilds, or become a pirate, or do anything, really, besides sit in this stuffy tower all day."
"It is rather stuffy," she agreed mildly. "But you must understand, Anders, that we are here for our own protection. Out there, in the world, there are people who would like to harm us because they are afraid and do not understand what we can do. Here we are safe to live and study and practice our magic in the sight of the Maker to benefit His children, and the Templar Order exists to keep us safe."
"Keep us from getting away, you mean," Anders grumbled. "I thought, for a minute there, that you might be all right, but you're just like the rest of them. Have you forgotten what the sky looks like?"
"No, I haven't, as a matter of fact. Until a few days ago, I was managing an outbreak of the wasting sickness in Gwaren. When you are a Harrowed mage, and if you keep yourself out of trouble, you will be able to take excursions into the world, as well."
"That's ridiculous! We're people, too, or have you forgotten that? I never did anything to deserve being locked in a tower for the rest of my life."
Wynne sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You will settle down in time, Anders. Here we are, the kitchen."
She nudged the door open and gestured him and his templars into the warm, well-lit room. Several elves were busily washing the day's dishes, and the hired servants on staff mostly ignored the small group as they continued making preparations for the next day's meals.
"Wait here," Wynne said, heading for the larder. A scullion hastened to her side, smiling nervously and offering to help. Wynne waved him off and dug through the stored food herself, coming out with an extra loaf of that morning's bread, a good-sized wedge of cheese, and several links of smoked sausage.
"You're going to have to use the pump to get some water yourself," she said as she emerged before grinding to a halt.
Anders had managed to wander off in the minutes she was in the larder, though the templars had dogged his heels. The odd trio now stood around something in a shadowed corner of the sleepy kitchen, Anders on his knees and the templars standing with their arms crossed. Wynne crept forward, curiosity winning out over impatience.
Anders sat on his heels, facing slightly away from where Wynne stood. In his lap sat a large, muscular cat in the prime of its youth, dangerous yellow eyes slitted with pleasure as the boy moved his hand back and forth in rhythmic strokes through its fur. Occasionally his other hand would snake around to tickle and pet at the cat's chin and ears, earning him purrs that rivaled the worst Rivaini earthquakes. Even more incongruous than the feral-looking beast sitting tamely in the hands of a young boy was the expression on Anders' face.
Anders was focused totally and wholly on the animal in his lap. Though his brow was furrowed slightly in concentration, his mouth was stretched into the first genuine smile she'd seen on his face. It instantly took several years of bitterness and worry off of his face, and he looked like a twelve-year-old again, instead of a grim fugitive. It was a relief to see.
Wynne hated to interrupt the scene, but they couldn't stay in the kitchen all night. She cleared her throat.
"I have food."
Anders looked up, still caught in the simple joy of holding the cat. "Oh, good. Say," he turned and hailed the nearest servant. "What's this cat's name?"
The elf paused in the act of scrubbing a countertop just long enough to shrug. "He's just the mouser. Mean bastard."
"You're not mean, are you?" Anders asked the cat. "And you can't go through life without a name. That's just unfair. How about I give you a name? Would you like that?"
The cat meowed, which Anders seemed to take as affirmative communication.
"Excellent. I shall call you…" He hesitated for a moment, face scrunched in thought. "Mr. Wiggums."
Wynne exchanged a dubious look with the templars through the slits in their helmets.
"Mr. … Wiggums?" Wynne asked.
Anders nodded. "Yes, it's perfect. All right, Mr. Wiggums. I have to go eat now, but I will see you very soon, okay?" The cat meowed again as Anders stood, carefully depositing the mouser on the floor before brushing at the fine carpet of cat hair now adorning his robes. "Dinner, Wynne?"
"Here." She handed him the bundle of food and led him to a stool, where he began tucking into it with all the unbridled enthusiasm of a teenaged boy. Carefully, she sat on another stool next to him. "Speaking of names, what is yours?"
Anders looked up to give her an arched eyebrow. "You're really going to try that? Really, you people have done almost nothing else since I got here. 'What is your real name, Anders? What kind of magic do you use, Anders? Why do you hate your life so much, Anders?' Like I'm going to confide in you lot."
"Well, you can't blame us for wanting to get to know you better, can you?"
"Actually, I can. Why is it you assume, for instance, that Anders isn't my real name?"
"Well, why would a woman from the Anderfels name her son Anders? That's ridiculous."
"Maybe she was homesick." Anders shrugged unconcernedly. "And even if it's not my real name, it is what I am, at least. The poor Anders locked away in a Ferelden tower, oppressed by bearded old men and old ladies with sausage."
"I hardly think feeding you is a form of oppression." Wynne unsuccessfully fought a smile.
"You have a point. Unless it is, in which case, yes, continue to oppress me, please."
"You are a strange child." Wynne shook her head bemusedly. "I still don't see why you can't tell us your name. You are setting an unfortunate precedent. Next thing you know, we will start naming new apprentices things like 'elf,' 'brunette,' or 'Rivaini.'"
"Then you'll be racists and Maker-cursed mages. Bad combination." The shadow of a templar fell over him, and Anders looked down, frowning. "Well, it looks like I've finished eating."
"Time to go back to the dormitories, apprentice. Your punishment starts tomorrow after breakfast." The templar reached down and dragged him to his feet.
"Floor-scrubbing. I can't wait." Anders rolled his eyes.
"Anders," Wynne felt herself compelled to say. "Do try to follow the rules, please? I would hate to see you make yourself miserable for no good reason."
Anders smiled, and it was a hard, brittle thing that had no place on such a young face. "Oh, dear Wynnie, I always have a good reason."
He'd marched off before she could begin to formulate a reply. Wynne sighed and went to poke through the larder, claiming the last remnants of a pie for herself. She sat down to eat it, tuning out the quiet bustle of the scullions as she allowed her thoughts to drift. Tomorrow, she would talk to Irving about the boy and harangue Greagoir about controlling his templars, but for tonight, she sat still, remembering the smile on Anders' face as he pet the cat and a girl so like him who'd thought to flaunt the rules of the Circle. She'd seen how that had turned out. She could only hope that Anders' path wouldn't be as mired in misery as hers.
