The mage made his way slowly back up the beach towards the cave, his mind awhirl with confusion.
Though he had no memory of the elf – Fenris, he reminded himself – it was obvious there was something between them; he could not deny that he had felt the thrill of a strange chemistry between them from the moment Fenris first spoke. The way he behaved around the mage, he would have to be blind not to see that the elf was attracted to him – and as far as the apostate was concerned, the feeling was very much mutual. Fenris said they were friends; his behaviour said they were something more.
So why did they come so close just now, only for the elf to pull away?
Surely Fenris must have seen that he was more than willing for the elf to take things further. His body language (not to mention the uncomfortable tightness of his pants thanks to the elf's close proximity during the healing) must have made his attraction obvious, surely? And he could tell from the way the elf's pupils dilated, his breathing quickening, that Fenris wanted it too. If the warrior had decided to take the apostate right there and then on the beach, he would have found the blond man more than willing.
Did he do something wrong? Fenris had said no, and yet the mage could not help but feel rejected and like he'd taken a misstep somehow.
His hands still hurt appallingly, but it was bearable, and he knew it would soon pass. The wound in his abdomen still needed attention however, and he didn't think the sheen of sweat still covering his skin was entirely due to the exertion of healing or the close encounter with Fenris.
People were stirring as he returned to his bedroll beside the fire. Despite the sweat, he felt chilled, and he huddled into the blanket as he sat down. The Rivaini pirate made her way around the fire with something hot and steaming in a mug which she set down beside him before hunkering down companionably next to him. He took the mug gratefully with stiff hands and nodded his thanks, sipping slowly at the hot tea.
"You're looking a lot better this morning," she remarked.
"Did I look that bad yesterday then?" he replied lightly. She snorted.
"Worse. Like something Hawke's mabari dragged in backwards through a hedge after a month in a ditch somewhere."
"That good, huh?" replied the mage with a wry smile. He took another warming mouthful of the tea, then set it carefully down before pulling open the blanket and lifting up the ragged hem of his shirt to inspect the wound.
It still needed healing; the edges were only barely knitted together, the edges red and inflamed. The healing potions Hawke and the others had forced down his throat upon returning to camp had done most of the lifesaving work, but the mage could feel the infection that would slowly spread if left unchecked. Placing his hands over the scarring, he concentrated and started to direct healing magic into the wound.
"Well, there's a long face," observed the pirate drily, nodding towards Fenris as the elf stomped into the cave, making his way towards the back and away from other people. He was scowling darkly.
"I swear, Fenris could curdle the milk in a cow just by looking at it sometimes," she remarked, then glanced at him sidelong as though expecting him to reply. He remained silent however, concentrating on seeking out and eliminating the last traces of infection. The slight fever might linger a few more hours, but finally he was satisfied that the infection itself was dead and purged. As he lifted his hands away from his skin, they revealed a smooth, pale scar where the wound had been. He let his shirt drop, and reached for the mug once again.
"You're... different," remarked the Rivaini pirate.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Quieter. Not as angry as before, but... Withdrawn."
"I have no idea what I was like... before," he replied quietly. "Right now, I don't really have a lot to say. There's a lot to take in. It's like I'm a blank slate, just learning who I am. Who my friends are. What I'm doing here."
"And is it just Anders in there?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow. He blinked.
"What do you mean?" he asked, a small frown creasing his brow. "Who else would I be? Some abomination perhaps? I think you'd have noticed by now if that were the case – a certain lack of monstrous appearance, absolutely zero bloodthirsty rampaging – oh, and no blood magic." He held out his arms, pushing back his sleeves. "I have scars aplenty – I've obviously seen plenty of fights – but none of them are self-inflicted; I can see that quite clearly."
The pirate admired his toned arms openly and appreciatively, running a hand up his forearm then up over his bicep, pushing the shirt out of the way to reveal a griffon tattoo upon his right shoulder. "This ring any bells?" she suggested.
He stared at the tattoo, eyes widening. "I'm... a Grey Warden?" He stood up and pulled the shirt off over his head then held out his arm, twisting it so he could better see the griffon indelibly inked into the flesh. "Andraste's flaming knickerweasels, I'm a Grey Warden?"
"Ah. You didn't remember that bit either then?" replied the pirate. "Which means you don't remember the Pearl, the Lay Warden, or me either?" She gave him a little mock pout.
"I told you-"
"-Isabela," she prompted.
"-Isabela," he nodded, "I don't remember anything! I'm obviously a mage, and equally bloody obviously an apostate – but beyond that, I remember nothing! Not even my own name! I don't remember you, or Fenris, or Hawke, or anyone else – and I certainly don't remember being a Grey Warden!" He put his hands to his head, clutching at his hair as he stared around wildly. "What else don't I remember? Who am I? What am I?"
"Anders-" began Isabela, stepping towards him with one hand outstretched. He backed away from her.
"Who am I? Tell me!" he shouted.
The pack was stirring restlessly all around them, all eyes on the mage as he turned around in a circle, desperately trying to make sense of everything. Hawke was pushing his way through the group, Varric following in his wake, Cersei and Carodan a step behind. As he turned to face Isabela again, the look of pity in her eyes struck him forcefully like a slap.
"What aren't you telling me?" he said, voice dropping almost to a whisper. "There's more, isn't there? Not just an apostate, not just a Grey Warden. There's something else, isn't there?"
"We don't know," said another voice. The mage spun round as Fenris stepped out from the shadows into the firelight.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" he demanded. Fenris glanced to Hawke, both men loath to be the one to speak. Behind him, Isabela shifted slightly, uneasily.
"You do know," breathed the apostate, staring at first Hawke, then Fenris, before his gaze roved over Varric and then Isabela. "All of you. And it's something terrible, so terrible you're actually afraid to tell me."
"Hawke, he has to know," said Varric quietly. Hawke nodded, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Fenris stepped forward.
"You were... an abomination," he said quietly. "During your time with the Wardens, you took a... a spirit of Justice into yourself. You-"
"No," whispered the blond man brokenly. "No, no, that's not true. That can't be true. That's not possible. I'm not a blood mage. I'm not an abomination!"
"Anders," said Fenris, stepping towards the mage.
"I'm not an abomination!" screamed Anders, before turning and fleeing from the cave.
Fenris sighed.
"No. You're not. Not anymore."