A/N: The healing scene of this chapter is dedicated fully and without reservation to Julian May's Grandmaster Redactor, Elizabeth Orme.

Chapter 3

"Anders, do you ..." The voice - vibrant, penetrating and so damnably enticing, echoed dully off the stone walls.

Wanting to grin in spite of himself, in spite of the fatigue and strain of this particular healing, the mage merely shook his head slightly and poured more of the blue healing energy dredged from his soul into the working. The girl-child on the cot before him stirred, legs moving randomly in a futile attempt at escape, mouth pulling down in anguish. He ached to see her pain, but he could also see the growth distorting her neck was starting to shrivel, shrinking in on itself. Finally, with a last surge of effort that left him trembling, he cut off the flow of light and warmth and slumped against the cot's side, fingers clenched on the rough canvas in an attempt to keep himself upright.

"Once more, next week, should see it done," he said faintly. "In the meantime, keep her quiet, and keep applying the poultices - hot as you can make them..." Annoyingly enough, his voice just stopped in his throat, and the whole chamber shifted at a sickening angle. He heard the mother gasp, felt the father lunge towards him as he started to fall, but then a bony shoulder was there, digging uncomfortably into his ribs and bearing him up with surprising strength.

"You silly ass," a voiced hissed in exasperation.

Moving in a parody of a staggering, drunken dance, and keeping up a running diatribe of vile threats to his person, his patients and even to his cat - if he was ever lucky enough to have one again - Hawke supported the reeling mage to the rickety stool set behind the cot at the chamber's wall.

"Maker's shriveled dick, Anders! Are you actually trying to kill yourself?" With a grunt, Hawke shifted the mage's weight from her shoulder and practically dropped him onto the seat. She steadied him with a hand clasped on each shoulder, fingers ruffling the feathered pauldrons of his robe, lowering her head to stare at him accusingly. "Every time I come here, it seems you're running yourself into the ground. Or is it that you just don't want to work with me anymore?" she continued shrewdly.

Anders just groaned tiredly and slumped back against the wall. "Close it up, please, Hawke?" he whispered.

She let go of his shoulders and stood back, appraising his condition closely for a few seconds. Satisfied that he wasn't in any immediate danger of falling off the stool, Hawke turned to the shocked parents and tried her best to smile reassuringly.

"Here, now, let's get your little one bundled and warm, shall we?" Suiting action to words, she pressed the shawl draped over the foot of the cot into the father's hands and gestured for the mother to pick up her toddler. While the parents attended to their girl's needs, Hawke looked under the cot and found a couple of poultices already tied together. "I'm guessing these will be what the healer wanted you to use, no doubt."

When they started to make vague noises about wanting to thank the healer properly, she shook her head and began shooing them towards the doors. "I'll make sure he knows, my friends. But right now he must rest," she said through a fixed smile that began to feel more like the bared teeth of a mabari.

Hawke stopped just short of actually shoving them out of the clinic space, and immediately began to tug on the massive door before anybody else could intrude. "And just how many of you can he heal if he's dead?" she muttered under her breath, sighing in relief as the hinges creaked and the latch dropped into place. Those doors should be closed more often, she decided. But then where would the needy go? What would happen if there was a true emergency and the lanterns weren't lit?

Scrubbing her fingers along the top of her scalp in frustration, Hawke started to walk back to Anders. It just seemed suspiciously wrong that there was no other mage in all of Kirkwall, Circle or free, who was trained in the healer's arts. Except Bethany, her mind whispered. She was starting to learn, at least. Was that why Bethany had been taken? Was Meredith seeking a monopoly on healing as a way to further her power in the city? Hawke knew, from overheard complaints and conversations with Lady Elegant, that the prices charged by the Gallows tranquil for even basic healing potions were vastly inflated.

Or - bloody Maker - had Leandra seen it as a way to further her climb up the social ladder? Dear Knight Commander, I offer my apostate daughter as a sign of contrition. No, she decided uneasily. As much as her mother seemed to have reverted to the casual cruelty and entitlement of so many Hightown denizens, Hawke could not seriously contemplate Leandra condoning such a blatant betrayal of her youngest daughter, or her husband's memory. Could she?

Shit. Anders isn't the only one who needs to get out of this poisonous place for a while, was her grim thought as she stopped in front of him.

She was unsurprised to see that he was already asleep, lips slightly parted and a gentle snore escaping them with each deep breath. She was also unsurprised at the familiar way her muscles clenched, from her rib cage all the way down to her toes, when she looked at his face. Every time she saw him, it was the same.

Careful not to wake him, she leaned forward to brush her fingertips through the feathers on his shoulders, smoothing them where her earlier grip had rumpled them. This close, she could simply breathe in his exhalations, grateful for even such a small sense of connection to him. No wonder they all see me as a child, she thought ruefully. Pining for him like an Orlesian milkmaid swooning over the handsome Chevalier as he rides past.

True - the hollowed, unshaven cheeks, the too sharp blade of a nose, even the dirty strands of hair that straggled across his forehead - none of them matched the immaculately turned-out hero found in Orlesian courtly romances. But to her eye, those so-called flaws, when combined with the strength of his soul, made him all the more desirable. He was imperfect, and that meant he was perfect for her.