One year later - 931 Dragon, Val Royeaux

1. Time, talismans, and promises.

Anders knew he lived in a time full of stupid people, who did many stupid things. Anders also knew that he and Fenris, walking unmasked and poorly dressed in the shipyards of Val Royeaux, were right up there with the best of them. Fenris, left hand clutching the beaten gold locket Anders knew he had hidden beneath his robes, and staring at the thin stream of blood that ran from his right wrist, had other concerns.

"She's not here."

"The Qunari aren't, either." Anders tried to shield the smaller man, moving through the daytime throng of sailors and tourists with a wary eye. "Which is a definite improvement."

Varania's blood had led them the breadth of the Imperium. From Minrathous, there had been a season in Perivantium; and on to Qarinus, Seheron and—for a week that Anders would do his best to forget—even to Par Vollen. Fenris was relentless, scars building upon scars as he used his blood to make a tiny link with hers, and Anders grew used to the lurch and electricity of blood magic even as he worried about the other man running out of skin. In Par Vollen, they had been close. Days, even hours close, as colour drained from Fenris's face and they pushed through rock-strewn fortresses that forced the elvhen man into boots. But frazzled, bleeding mages tend to be found, and the Qunari took exception.

With emphasis.

"This is useless." Fenris sagged against a warehouse, letting his arm drop and not flinching as the other mage pressed absent, familiar fingers to the wound. It was a shallow thing, and easy to heal. "I'm losing her. The blood is—it's a year old, Anders."

Anders looked at the man's ravaged arm. "Denarius hasn't exactly been private," he said. "Talk to the right people, and—"

"—do you know the right people?" Fenris glared at him, pulling his arm roughly from Anders's hold. "Were there many in your tower?"

It's blood loss. Anders closed his eyes. It's blood loss and the ship and bloody Orlais and—

"You are an ass."

"So you keep telling me." The other man's glare did not fade. "Leave and be spared it," he said. "You know you can."

Sarcasm did not suit Fenris. This did not seem to stop him from trying it out. Anders sighed.

"Here," he said. "In Orlais. The centre of a Church that wants to kill me for the crime of being born." He smiled. "You'd be killed twice."

Fenris was no longer looking at him. His attention was fixed on a woman at the other end of the dock. She leapt up onto a couple of large shipping containers and seemed to be holding a sailor near-twice her height off the ground. By his ear.

"Now, then, Sid," she said, ignoring the cheers that were breaking out around her. "Do you know what I do with people who try and give my crew snake oil?"

"N-n-n-n-"

"No?" Her voice was a light, pleasant drawl. "Neither do I, because no one's been stupid enough to try it." She shifted her weight, light catching on gold at her throat and the interesting shifts of muscle and skin that played out along arm and back and thigh as she threw him into the harbor. Anders saw Fenris's eyes widen. He bit back a laugh.

The woman—the pirate, said his memory, as onlookers whooped and cursed and he remembered a smoking fireplace, too much whiskey, and dark eyes laughing at him over cards in a brothel in Denerim—bowed from her stage of packing crates.

"Impressive," Fenris said, a low and slightly dazed exhalation.

"She always is."

"You know that woman?"

"A lot of people know Isabela." Anders grinned despite himself. "Hush."

"Right," said the sharpest blade in Llomerryn. "That leaves Siren's Call short on crew. Is one of you louts a healer?"

2. Relics of the past

Captain Isabela surveyed the two weary, underfed, and desperate looking pair who stood at her hull. They were really rather striking. The tall, scruffy one who seemed to be all cheekbones and anxious eyes looked almost familiar.

"So, you're a healer."

"No snake oil, eye of newt, or other dubious liquids required," he said, sketching a bow.

She watched a smile pass briefly over his face, and felt her own lips twitch. "And you're Fereldan," she said. "I do know you from somewhere, don't I?"

"The girl with all the griffin tattoos, at the Pearl?" he ventured. "Not me, I was there when you—"

"Ah, the Lay Warden." That was a memory to enjoy, sweet and almost weightless amongst the dark, inchoate mess that sent her into this bloated cesspool of a port. "She was a sweet thing. And you, now. You were the runaway mage with the electricity trick." Isabela's success showed in his blush. She grinned. "That was nice."

"I dare not ask."

This came from the elvhen man, all flyaway hair and skin only a few shades lighter than hers. He was just her height, glaring at the two of them and dressed in slightly tattered finery; a magister's deep blues and blacks. He was gorgeous.

She sighed. "There's no fun in that," she said. "I like daring. But—" here, she turned back to the healer, "Your friend looks awfully…magisterial, sweet. What was your name, again? Alan? Abernath—"

"—Anders—"

"—yes! That was it." Isabela shifted, making sure to look them both square in the face. "You see, Anders," she said. "I'm making a point of staying away from Tevinter, just now. And while I could use a healer on my ship and always enjoy a man with pretty eyes, you'd best be my only new cargo."

"Fenris hates slavers," Anders said, a hitch in his voice that was worth remembering for later.

"I can speak for myself." The elf was definitely bridling now. A faint, horrified tone lurked beneath the outrage.

"Glad to hear it," Isabela said. "You have such a pretty voice. Where are you heading."

"Away from Qunari," said Anders, while Fenris glowered. It was that final piece of ridiculousness made Isabela hold out both hands in welcome.

"Funny, that," she said. She rapped a gentle hand on the ship's rail. "Welcome to the Siren's Call. You'll have to bunk with the crew, but consider yourselves free to board."

Anders smirked, which made Isabela laugh even as she shook her head.

"You weren't that nice, sweet thing," she said, without rancor. "And you'll be working for two."

"Aye, Captain."

"Good boy."

Turning away from the ship's peculiar new additions, Isabela breathed deep. The air tasted metallic and heavy behind the salt and garbage of the dock. Her two new passengers now leaned heavily on the rail.

"Don't take too long to get settled," she said. "We leave in an hour. A storm's coming."

3. Sparkle

"So you escaped your Circle," Fenris said, eying Anders from the tiny ship's bunk he was to call his own. The human had to crouch to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. "And ran to a brothel. In Denerim. And met a pirate."

Anders grinned at him. The light was bad, but he caught the brief flash of teeth, could hear the warm humor in his voice. "So you don't know everything about me after all," he said. "I think I like that."

"Mage—"

"—I was sixteen, Fenris." Anders placed a cautious hand on the ceiling, as if to make sure that it truly was as close as he feared. "What would you have done?"

"I was sixteen when we met," Fenris said, baffled.

"Ah." Anders looked away, finally tucking himself into the second free bunk. "That's easy to forget."

4. The lookout

Sailing, Fenris discovered in the grey, brisk days that followed them from the Orlesian port, was surprisingly enjoyable. On the other ships they had taken since living Minrathous, passengers were expected to pay up and then do their best to keep out of everyone's way. The Captain—Fenris found that he wasn't quite up to the task of calling her Isabela—had watched him move about the boat, told him that he did a passable job of not falling over, and had him up in the rigging with Brand, a laughing First Mate who was adept at explaining how to cling, and shift, and keep his balance.

"You look like you scowl, if you're left standing about," Isabela had said. "My lot are superstitious enough without having a real Tevinter Magister giving them the evil eye."

He did scowl. The blood spell was thready—the talisman he had made from the stained scraps of his sister's letter barely responded no matter the power he put into it, and he had never been good at reading her dreams. The Captain simply laughed.

"You're proving the point right there," she'd said, and, because it was her ship and her word, he had found himself learning knots and taking lookouts.

The Waking Sea was was giant and live and strangely soothing. It filled the crew's dreams, one and all; it changed colour and mood, much like the Fade. And, as The Siren's Call moved towards the low, desolate edges of the Free Marches, Fenris's talisman, which had lain cold and unresponsive against his chest for months now, began a slow, insistent burn.

5. Manners at sea.

"Captain, we've a tail."

Isabela looked up from the maps littered about the desk in her stateroom. Brand, pinched and pale, looked back at her. "Qunari dreadnought," he said. "And it's on the right wind for it. If this weather keeps up—" He held out the spyglass, and she got to her feet, outpacing him to the deck and and taking Brand's usual place by the tiller. Glass to her eye, she looked to the north.

"Now, that's just rude."

"Course, Captain?"

Isabela carefully let the spyglass fold back into its lovely, brass self. She hefted it, and smiled, as she handed it back to him.

"Brand, we're sleeker, sweeter, and at least three times as fast."

"Aye."

"And so," she said. "Head straight. As straight, and true, and damn well fast as the old girl can. I want to keep so far away from those Qunari that no one even hears the drums."

Brand saluted. Both the pirates leaned to the north wind. It was a new, sharp thing that bit their faces and snatched at the bright scarf in Isabela's hair. Clouds that chased that wind, roiling and tumbling over each other as they massed and lowered, promising rain while lightening ghosted their edges.

Neither needed to speak.