AN: This chapter takes place immediately after the events in Basorexia. You can find Basorexia in my profile.
Nearly a fortnight after returning to Kirkwall with what might be called a bang, Anders trudged down into Darktown, tired, bloody, and strangely distracted. That he was tired and bloody was easily explained by the fact that he had spent the past four days on the Wounded Coast killing Tal-Vashoth with Hawke. In fact he had taken a leg wound so severe that his trousers were one blood-caked ruin and even with magic, he would have a lasting scar on his right thigh. He shrugged that off without a second thought, his body was a roadmap of scars and he had earned most of them. As long as they weren't on his face, what little vanity he had left could accept the cost.
The distraction was another matter, having largely to do with one white-haired, lyrium-tattooed elf.
Fenris had kissed him.
Anders had difficulty wrapping his mind around that fact. It hardly helped that no sooner had it happened, Fenris denied it. You are mistaken.
No, he bloody well was not mistaken, and for the past two days since it had happened, it had bothered him, perplexed him, and haunted him. He had even dreamed about it, although in his dream they were back in Vigil's Keep, and it was he who kissed Fenris first. There were other details that followed that – Fenris' voice – but if he dwelled on those, he would be distinctly uncomfortable trying to walk.
He felt obsessed in a way he hadn't experienced since he was a teenager and had pursued an older man named Karl Thekla. For days, weeks, months, his thoughts had been focused on Karl to the exclusion of most things around him. He couldn't afford to act like a lust-struck adolescent around Fenris.
Justice disapproved.
He snorted to himself as he felt that from Justice yet again. What else is new? Justice needed to learn the art of compromise – Justice couldn't be human, but Anders could not be an ideal made flesh. Together they might not be only a man, but there was still a man in there somewhere, and that man had wants and needs unrelated to the eternal pursuit of justice.
He descended the last set of stairs before the flight up to his clinic and considered that Justice was as much part of the problem as anything else. Fenris thought poorly of Merrill because she was a blood mage – rightly in Anders' opinion – but he thought highly of Bethany Hawke. If Anders didn't have Justice….
He left that thought to hang because someone waited outside his clinic door. He took her measure at a glance – human, perhaps in her early to mid-twenties, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, her eyes were brown or perhaps dark blue in Darktown's uncertain light. She had lightly-tanned, or perhaps just naturally dark skin, wore a dress that looked formal enough to be some kind of servant's uniform, and she was holding a covered tray in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. She was utterly incongruous in Darktown, both because of the quality and cleanliness of her clothes, and because she looked to be healthy and well-fed.
Anders slowed his steps up the stairs until he reached the landing and she bobbed a nervous curtsey his way.
"You're Messere Anders, aren't you?"
Her accent was light and hard to place, perhaps Antivan, he thought. "Just Anders will do," he said. "Messere never much suited me."
"Oh." She dropped her eyes and bit her lip before seeming to remember what she held. She raised the tray and bottle for him to see. "You took care of my sister last week. Mimi? She came to you—"
"For a personal matter," Anders said before she could finish. Mimi had come to him for a distinctly private matter resulting from a disagreement with her boyfriend. Anders had healed her bruises and broken arm before he, with Justice riding just behind his eyes, had gone to have words with the boyfriend. The man had chosen to leave Kirkwall that same night. Anders had not healed his bruises.
"Just so," the woman said. "I… don't have any more money than my sister does, but I work for a rich family and, well," she held out the tray just a little more, "they won't miss just one dish from their table, or just one bottle from the cellar. Will you let me thank you, Mes—Anders?"
A lifetime ago, Anders would have suggested other ways she could thank him if she were so inclined, but Justice did provide a modicum of common sense where Anders had once lacked it. He didn't proposition her, but if anything was welcome after days on the Wounded Coast with Fenris, Aveline, and Hawke, none of whom were particularly accomplished cooks, it was the prospect of a real meal.
"Let me just open up here and I'd be happy to take your thanks, but you'll have to join me and tell me your name. Mimi didn't mention she had a sister." He pulled the heavy ring of keys from his pack and smiled when she moved aside to let him unlock the door. "And if you don't mind that I'm too filthy for decent company."
"My name is Nives, and I don't mind."
Considering that he stank of smoke, sweat, and blood, her tolerance raised her mightily in Anders' esteem. He got the door unlocked and stood aside with a flourish of his arm to allow her in. "Welcome to my humble rat hole. You can set those things down on the table."
While Nives set the bottle and tray down, Anders closed and barred the door before he scrounged together a mismatched mug and tumbler, a plate, and his only cutlery – a knife, fork, and spoon. "If you don't mind, I'll go change into something less disgusting."
"Of course, Mes—" She caught herself again. "Anders. I'll open the bottle."
Anders left her to retreat to his tiny closet of a bedroom, stripping off his road-worn clothes. Maker, those trousers were so caked with his blood they could practically stand on their own. He dumped everything on his bed before he pulled on a soft, and only slightly tattered pair of trousers and a loose tunic that had more than a few unsavory stains but was at least clean. After a moment's consideration, he pulled his coat back on. Winter in Kirkwall merited respect and warm clothing.
A moment's magic warmed the near-frozen water in the basin in the corner, and he took a few minutes to scrub the worst of the blood and dirt off his face and hands. He left his staff in the corner and went to see this wonderful woman who had brought him a real meal.
Nives had used the time while he was gone to open the wine bottle, but the tray remained covered, presumably to retain whatever heat might be left from its transport. He saw her look him over and shrugged ruefully. The days when he might have lured a woman in with his fashion sense were long gone.
"So," he said, dragging two stools over to the table where Nives had set the food and drink, "what have you brought me? Not that I'd turn up a bowl of nug dumplings at this point, but I do like to know what I'm eating."
"Will you pour?" She asked, pushing the wine bottle toward him. "My employers are Antivan. I hope you don't mind Antivan cooking?"
Anders shook his head and sniffed the wine before pouring a small measure for himself and a fraction more for Nives. He couldn't drink as much as he would like, and she should not if she was to leave Darktown safely. "Beggars can't be choosers. I'll eat what you bring me and I'll say 'thank you, Messere, may I have some more?'"
She laughed softly and lifted the lid off the tray, letting Anders see a plate heaped with flat noodles, and some unidentifiable chunks under a heavy red sauce. The scent that hit him almost immediately was thick and redolent of tomatoes, onions, spices, and some kind of seafood.
"It's an Antivan specialty. Translated it just means 'fish stew with noodles.' There was so much that I knew that no one would miss it if I took some to bring to you." She tipped the dish to push the lion's share onto Anders' plate. "Tell me if you like it."
Anders' stomach growled and he half-expected there to be echoes from its hollow interior. "I'll like it. Thank you, Nives. You didn't have to do this, but I surely thank you for it." He raised his rough ceramic tumbler and tapped it against her mug before taking a sip of the wine. After that, he said nothing as he wolfed down every bite of the food on his plate and most of what was on Nives'.
While he ate, Nives watched him, stared at the ramshackle clinic, and picked at the food on her own plate. Finally, Anders pushed his empty plate away, covered his mouth to muffle his belch, and then muffled a jaw-cracking yawn.
"Sorry." He yawned again and blinked heavily. "It's been a long few days. I don't think I'll be very good company."
His stomach was wonderfully full and the wine had gone perfectly with the Antivan spices. All he wanted was to drag himself off to bed to sleep for a day before he got up to start all over again.
Nives watched him so expectantly that he wondered if he had said something wrong. "Was it something I said?"
She shook her head and said, "Are you feeling alright? You look a little…."
A little what? Anders yawned again, but his eyelids were slowly adding tiny little eyelid weights to them. He felt them droop more and more with every tiny weight. "Mm… Nives, I need to go to bed."
He waited for her to take the hint, but she only took a sip of her wine.
Maker, now it wasn't just his eyelids but his head. It was growing heavier and heavier and…
Nives moved his plate and caught his head before it hit the table.
"I am sorry about this," she whispered, lowering his head to rest on the table's rough wood surface. "You seem like a good man, but I'm not paid to care about that. If you live through this, don't blame Mimi. She doesn't have a sister."
He knew he should feel something about what she said, but he was just… so… tired. He fought to keep his eyes open, seeing Nives pass through his field of vision, walking to the clinic door and opening it to admit a handful of men in armor and a grey-haired, bearded man in robes.
He could still hear them when he finally lost the fight with his eyelids.
He recognized Nives' voice. "One apostate, docile but unharmed, as you requested."
He did not recognize the man's voice. "How long will he be like this?"
"If what you say about his being a Grey Warden is true, I cannot say." Some corner of his mind – Justice – recognized that her accent was thicker now, distinctly Antivan. "There are rumors that Grey Wardens are not like ordinary men in many ways, but that is not my problem, he is yours."
The man spoke dismissively. "Payment has already been made to your guild. Get out."
Nives said nothing more. The man spoke again, so close that even in his near-sleep Anders' body jerked in response. "The bindings. Get them on him now."
He felt someone take his hands. Maker, he wanted to open his eyes and see these people. Justice clamored at him that he had to respond, but his body… he was so tired.
Just a little sleep.
No!Justice was adamant that they could not be complacent, but Anders could not rouse himself above the thick layer of sleep that stood between him and action.
He felt his left hand pressed down on some cold, flat surface before it was encased in more cold that held his fingers splayed apart. His other hand was pressed to a similar surface, but he heard someone say, "Wait."
The words grew more distant, losing most of their meaning. "…coat…" "…deliver…" "…wolf…"
He felt his coat roughly removed. Justice clamored still more, but the Fade beckoned. Dreams would be better than this, wouldn't they?
The last thing he remembered before the Fade welcomed him into its embrace was the feel of someone lifting his right arm and roughly twisting the cuff he wore there.