Fenris was a wreck, even an untrained blind genlock could see that.

It had been months since he had seen the elf, but Anders was both surprised and heartbroken at the changes in what had once been a fetching warrior…who had about as much personality as a cactus, and twice as many spines. Even with all his hatred for mages, and anything magic related, Anders had never hesitated in healing the prickly bastard; it just wasn't in his nature to let a living creature suffer needlessly.

Yet, now when Fenris probably needed him the most, he paused.

It wasn't just the extensive injuries, the shrunken form, or the slowly paling skin that stopped him; it was the thought of what now that drew him to a halt.

If he healed the elf, it would mean possibly months of care and attention…which, while he himself didn't mind doing, someone else might. It could push everything he had planned back by an undeterminable amount, and would ruin what precious little information he had learned in his time here.

If he didn't heal the elf, the elf would die.

Anders growled, and with a small flash of light, returned to his human form. With efficient movements, he picked up the unconscious man, deposited him on his only bed, and set to work preparing a few potions, heating some clean rags, and mentally tallying what he had in his cupboard to feed the other man when he finally awoke.

If he awoke, Anders amended silently, glancing over Fenris' still form. Where once eye-catching lyrium scars darted and skittered over skin, now yawned open wounds that were infected, some even oozing out yellowed pus. The skin near the cuts were red, hard, and hot. The elf was breathing lightly, fast, and irregularly. The mage quickly checked his pulse; fast, too fast. And on top of all that, the elf had obviously not been fed enough. Fenris had always been thin, lanky even, but now he looked near skeletal.

"You know, the first time I saw you, I had two thoughts," Anders said conversationally as he drew closer, hands already glowing with energizing healing magic. "The first was how adorable you looked, and the second was what an adorable, blood thirsty pain in my arse you would no doubt be." He situated himself at the elf's side, intent on the marks (obviously new and not infected yet) on his thighs.

Anders glanced up at the other man's face, half-expecting to see green eyes open and livid and a sneer on those lips. 'How dare you,' he would say. 'How dare a mage think such thoughts of me!' and he would then glow like the little broody firefly he wanted to be, chase Anders out of the room, and sulk until he either died from his wounds, sought out Anders' help, or just forced himself to live through his injuries with sheer willpower. That was the Fenris Anders had come to know and expect.

Instead, the elf remained unconscious, and still looked utterly helpless. The markings, though gone, might have left enough residual lyrium in the skin that he might still glow- if he had the energy or will to try to light them.

Anders waited another long moment, giving Fenris one last chance to awaken, chastise him soundly, and then chase him away. Instead, he continued to lie there, not moving save for the shallow rise and fall of his thin chest.

"Damn it."


The first few days after rescuing Fenris, Anders had brought the elf back from the brink of death no less than four times. His body was trying to shut down, exhausted and spent, and the festering wounds and the fever did the elf no favors.

Being a Healer of any sort meant that you would eventually come across a patient that you couldn't save, no matter how much hope and manna you poured into them. Anders had seen it before, and if he lived long enough, he had no doubt that he would once again see the light leave someone's eyes.

After what he had endured under Hawke, the Templars, and Sebastian, Anders refused to let someone he secretly ached for (and had not so secretly fought with on multiple occasions) leave him that easily. Whether he liked it or not, the elf had become an important figure in his life. Fenris might not have liked him, but he'd be damned if he let the elf die without doing everything in his power to save the angry bugger.

Fenris was not in good shape. Whatever he had been up to before Anders' unplanned rescue, he had barely made it out alive. Anders held no illusions that Fenris would have survived at all if he had turned around and left the elf tied around that tree.

The first problem was Fenris' cut up body. The old lyrium brands were gone, and replacing them were open wounds that resisted even the best of Anders' healing abilities. It only seemed to prove his theory about remnant lyrium that resided in the elf despite most of the stuff having been removed. Some things, especially when magic was involved, never truly left. The lyrium, though in a much smaller amount, was still in the elf.

So, Anders focused instead on trying to heal the infection that caused them to swell and spew puss. Healing magic and a practical application of a toned down fire spell cleared that up nicely. After that, all he could do with his magic was supply the energy needed to heal. There would be scarring; there was no helping that, and scars were a natural part of the healing process. Fenris, if he survived, would undoubtedly have them for the rest of his life, even if the complications with the lyrium weren't added to his woes.

The second problem was trying to get the unconscious elf to take in liquids and nourishment. For this, Anders already knew how to deal with it, though it wouldn't last the warrior long. Simple stews, broth, and water, always water, were poured and massaged down Fenris' lax throat. He watched over the unconscious man closely during this time, in case his body rejected the food. He had the elf on his side in what healers liked to call the recovery position, where he would be able to breathe more easily than on his back. Luckily, Fenris kept his food all down for the time being, so that was one worry off of Anders' plate.

The last problem, and probably the worst, was the fact that the elf refused to awaken, and his dreams were certainly not pleasant. For the first few days, Anders didn't worry about this: when the body was stressed, wounded, AND feverish, it was expected to take a few days rest to try to recover.

But the days stretched on, and Anders began to worry when Fenris started a rather jarring ritual; though he slept like the dead, he would end up more often than not screaming at odd hours. Anders was jarred awake more times than he could count by the thrashing and panicked screaming from the elf. What made it even more surreal was that while the elf could not awaken from these nightmares, he seemed to calm if Anders touched him; nothing major, just a hand on the shoulder or a palm against his sweaty forehead.

"This is ridiculous," Anders groaned after the umpteenth time being awakened by Fenris' unearthly shrieking. "You are utterly ridiculous," he grumbled under his breath, padding over to the bed and glaring down at his patient. The mage cracked his neck; it was not comfortable to sleep at his desk, but Fenris had needed the bed more than he did.

It was when he was gently stroking the elf's face, calming him back into peaceful slumber, that he got an idea.

Once Fenris had settled back, Anders sighed, and was enveloped in a flash of light. He yawned, mouth opening wide to reveal long canines. His tail flicked as he glanced back at the elf, and it was with a rather haughty huff of annoyance that the mage, now in tiger form, climbed into bed next to the elf. Anders curled up on one side of the bed as much as he could, but given his size, he couldn't avoid touching Fenris.

The elf shifted, curling closer towards the large magical entity, and letting out a soft sigh.

If only Varric were here, Anders thought sleepily. No way he would believe this.