They arrived in Amaranthine less than twenty minutes after Brand and Anders, both bright-eyed for some reason, rejoined them in the carriage. Alistair knew he'd been to this city before, but that was on a boat and blacked out on a horse and...
"Wait, how did the two of you get me to Vigil's Keep without waking me up?" The mage was helping Fiona down from her seat in the rear and Brand was securing a pack to Bryce that would allow him to carry Pounce through the city.
"I think I'll let you handle this one, Anders," Brand tugged at the straps on Bryce's bag. Bryce seemed curious to hear Anders' response, his auburn brows inching up his forehead as he reclined his head back to better listen.
With Fiona safely on solid ground, Anders brushed off the front of his trousers and frowned thoughtfully.
"You know how sleepwalking works?"
Alistair narrowed his eyes, "Yes, I am familiar with sleepwalking."
Anders smiled brightly, shrugged, and then went back to pulling overnight packs from the cab. The carriage would be guarded outside the city, so they would only carry the things they needed for the evening.
"And...that's it? You put a sleepwalking spell on me?" Alistair looked to Brand, but she feigned innocence. "Is that even a thing, or were you experimenting on me?"
"There is no such thing...Alistair," Fiona stood behind Bryce, her fingers absently raking through his hair. She offered her fellow mage a polite glare and then turned back. "What he probably used was a combination of a disorientation spell and a low-level sleep. So, experimentation but nothing dangerous."
"I save my big, scary magic experiments for Bryce," Anders winked at the boy, who smirked back proudly. "Before Feast Day, I think I was practicing something that would help me set a person's clothes on fire without actually harming them...was that it, Bryce?"
Bryce shook his head and skipped forward, one hand secure on Pounce and his other catching Anders', "No, you were making my hair grow fast. It was a trick on Brand."
"Of course, how could I have forgotten," he shot Brand a sheepish look. "He and I both find you fretting about the length of his hair to be terribly, and embarrassingly, amusing."
"Better that than setting his clothes on fire," Brand's demeanor was still decidedly euphoric as she led them away from the stables and towards the city gates.
The outskirts of Amaranthine bore scars from the darkspawn attack five years earlier, and smaller raids before that. Some of the small homes that had been destroyed were rebuilt and painted cheerful shades of blue and yellow and surrounded by dirt yards teeming with flowers and vegetable plants. It seemed a strange place to want to live, small pockets of normalcy against a devastated backdrop, but Alistair imagined there were worse places to make one's home.
The city itself was well-fortified, but Alistair was noticing how dirty everything seemed. Brand and her crew were like shining beacons in a sea of filth. Part of it was the livestock that lumbered just outside the walls, but even inside there was a thin layer of ancient grit on everything.
"There's been a bit of a drought this season, so the dust is winning," Fiona caught up with him, her staff, a length of pale dragonbone carved to resemble a twisted branch, serving as a walking stick. Alistair imagined that she did this to appear slightly less suspicious. As an elf and a mage, she had two points against her.
Alistair had been trying to place her age since he saw her. Since she was a Grey Warden, she couldn't be any older than her late forties. Her appearance, though, pegged her as younger while the shadows in her eyes indicated older. He did know that when she spoke, something inside him settled. It must be an elder mage thing, he decided. Wynne had the same effect on him. Whatever it was, he was no longer irritated with her for snapping at him yesterday morning. Maker, had it only been a day? She'd had a good point, after all. She'd been right.
"So, how disgusting were they?" The question was not what he had been expecting from her.
"Pardon?"
Fiona tilted the tip of her staff towards the trio ahead of them, Brand and Anders walking shoulder to shoulder, Bryce a few steps in front.
"I should have asked you to ride with me, after lunch. When I saw the looks he was giving her...I just hoped they spared you anything uncomfortable," Fiona seemed caught somewhere between happiness and frustration when she spoke of them. "I'll let you have the back tomorrow. I just needed some time to think."
She looked ahead to where Brand and Anders were waiting for them, heads close as they discussed something that involved a lot of smiling. They at least had the decency to put a few inches of distance between themselves when Alistair and Fiona caught up.
Brand's face settled into something serious as she eyed Alistair with a mixture of nervousness and regret.
"I need to see Constable Aidan, to ask questions about Eamon and decide what to...do," she realized too late that Bryce was standing right there, his head bowed over Pounce.
"Is Eamon here?" He lit up, and Alistair felt his stomach tighten. He'd not really pieced things together over the past few days. It had never occurred to him that Brand's son was Eamon's nephew, Connor's cousin...and Cailan's cousin, as well. How surreal it was to think about, the ties shared between the Guerrins and his own family. And now there was only Connor, a prisoner of his own magical abilities, and Bryce who, despite his knowing gaze, seemed incredibly far removed from the Guerrins that Alistair had known.
"No, Eamon's not here, Bryce. We'll talk about this later, ok?" The boy looked vaguely bothered by the brush off, but he returned to the mage's cat without another word.
"Alistair, I was wondering if you'd like to...come with me. To see the constable," her eyes met his to finish the sentence. To see Eamon's body, to say good-bye. "Anders and Fiona will take Bryce to the inn and secure our rooms. I'll go alone, of course, if you don't want..."
"No, I should go," he turned his attention to his feet. Both the mages were staring at him, one with sympathy, the other with an utterly unreadable expression. He wondered if either one of them knew who he really was, what Eamon had meant to him.
Not much if you'd run away without even saying good-bye.
"Stay with Anders and Fiona, Bryce," Brand planted a kiss on the top of his head and forced cheer. "Anders, keep him away from the f-r-o-g p-o-n-d-s. And Fiona, keep Anders away from the f-r-o-g p-o-n-d-s."
"That only happened once," he looked to Alistair as if the other man cared. "Oghren dared me. And I was drunk."
"You were also naked," Fiona started to laugh. "Didn't you spend most of that day naked?"
"And in an indescribable amount of trouble," Brand's lips curved in amusement. Then, unthinkingly, "At least he never ran through the Denerim market in nothing but a helmet."
She didn't name names, but Alistair's face grew so incredibly hot that she might as well have danced around him, pointing and singing about the night they'd found themselves in a seemingly deserted city and how a playfully escalating game of dare had ended with them unshod and chasing each other in the moonlight, tearing past booths that would be teeming with people within a few hours, the whole of it theirs for the time-being.
Actually, the game had ended with her pressed between him and a wall behind the Chantry, her helmet off so she could bury her face in his shoulder to better muffle cries of pleasure, and his own pushed up just enough to allow for kissing, looking like a madman a consideration secondary to his need for her.
"I'm sorry," Brand's cheeks were flooded with color. Alistair gathered himself, his gaze moving to Anders, who observed with interest.
"Don't be sorry, it was a fun night," Alistair let his voice caress everything it could and smirked when the mage's mouth twitched with barely concealed resentment.
"We should all get moving, the rain won't hold out much longer..." Fiona had gone pale and she tugged at Anders, who pulled at Bryce. "I'll keep your boys safe...and clothed, Commander."
For a few minutes, Alistair watched Brand watching her mages and her son head down a wide staircase that led to what looked like an open marketplace, bustling despite the heavy clouds overhead.
"They don't exactly blend in, an elf mage, a man mage and child carrying a cat," Alistair took a step towards Brand. "Are you sure they'll be all right?"
The woman nodded without looking back, then pointed to the battlements that ran along the inner side of the city walls. Alistair could barely make out a shadowy figure positioned to watch over the market, but he guessed it was Nathaniel. Brand confirmed this.
"Sigrun is stationed ahead of the Market, to follow their progress once Nate cannot," she spun back on her heel and began walking in the opposite direction. "This is just to prevent a sneak attack mind you, Anders and Fiona are more than capable of handling the situation on their own. The biggest concern is getting a shield on Bryce."
Alistair recalled the field Anders had placed on Brand the evening before, an impenetrable wall of magicked air. He'd seen them before, but never one so incredibly solid. Bryce would be well protected.
The route to the guard's quarters was circuitous and Alistair realized with a jolt that they were very near the open market, but the opposite side of where they'd started.
"It's to avoid notice, the shopkeeps know me too well," Brand pulled a key from her pack and let herself into a door that led to an enclosed stone staircase. Alistair could see light trickling in from somewhere far overhead and lit torches burned at regular intervals along the walls. Still, it was uncomfortably close here and more than a little creepy. Brand appeared immune, gathering her skirts and stepping lightly up the damp steps. She set a slightly slower pace than he'd expected and he noticed her favoring her left leg. Without thinking, he held his hand up in case she tripped or stumbled.
Less than an hour earlier, he'd have wanted to knock her over himself.
He tried not to think too much about how unstable he was feeling and soon they were letting themselves into a long, stone-lined room. High, barred windows allowed weak sunlight to pour in and the room was set up for the recreation of the guards and not anything else.
And there were guards, about ten of them, who all looked at the pair with surprise before settling on Brand and realizing that the woman in the pretty green dress was the Warden-Commander and,
"Apologies, my lady, I almost didn't recognize you," the guard smiled a mostly toothless grin and offered a hand that was taken with great hesitance.
"Yes, I was hoping to speak with the Constable, is he about?"
They were immediately ushered into an office at the back of the quarters. A blond man in elaborate chainmail sat behind a desk covered in correspondences and, from the shadows around his eyes, he'd not seen his bed for at least two days. Still, he seemed genuinely glad to see Brand and even allowed himself a curious glance at her companion.
"Commander Cousland, I am glad to see you," he stood immediately and summoned her to follow him to yet another chamber, this one empty except for a lone table upon which rested a featureless lump covered by a thick, burlap blanket. Brand and Alistair balked in unison at this, both of them well-aware that it was Arl Eamon under there, his body lifeless.
"Constable, you could have warned us..." Brand's hand went to her mouth and Alistair could not tell if her eyes were watering from the smell or if she was crying.
"I am most sorry, Commander. However, things have been abnormally chaotic over these past few days. Between the Arl and his men, the bodies we discovered in the cove and now... I won't worry you with those details."
"Will it make you feel better if I solved a couple of those murders myself?" Brand had regained control of her faculties and was moving further into the room. Alistair remained by the door.
The constable's eyes went light with please and Brand squared her shoulders.
"They were assassins hired to kill a man arriving on a boat from Antiva. The man was a Warden and I felt it in our best interest to protect him. Unfortunately, the assassins attacked us and were...defeated," she tilted her chin up slightly. "I take full responsibility, Constable."
The man nodded wearily and sighed with something close to relief.
"That explains the discrepancies between those murders, uh, deaths and...this," he jerked his thumb towards the body on the table. "The men by the docks were clean kills. I'm sorry to say that whoever went after the Arl was more like a butcher. That room...I can say that it was worse than when the city walls were smeared with darkspawn entrails. Despite the mess, however, there was no sign of exit. If it weren't for the fact that everyone there was hacked to pieces, I'd almost say it was one of the Arl's own men who did it."
"And this was at Marigold's?" Brand had her back to Eamon's body, her posture thoughtful.
"Yes, Commander. These were left behind," he reached into a small basket in the corner of the room and presented Brand with three polished stones, one black, one pale blue, and the third reddish. "They were placed quite deliberately on the body or we probably would've missed them entirely."
Brand took the stones, brows drawn in consideration.
"Alistair, can you explain these?" Her eyes were dark, her voice deadly serious. His heart had leapt when he saw the rocks, but now it was clamoring against his chest and his borrowed clothes seemed suddenly too tight and the frigid room sweltering.
How did she know?
"They can mean a lot of things," Alistair kept his voice level. "The guild, or order, or individual, assigns a different meaning to each color of stone and you hope that the only person who knows what your stones mean is the person you're leaving them for."
"So, it's a cipher?" Brand shook them in her hand; they clattered noisily in this somber, silent room.
"Exactly. They're used extensively in Antiva, less so in other countries," Alistair hated the way Brand was looking at him now, like he might be the enemy. "And it's not, it's not just assassins. Or criminals. Hired blades and inside men use them to send messages to their contacts in the law."
"Try not sound too guilty," Brand pocketed the stones and returned to Aidan. "Did any of your men seem interested in the scene? Or was there anything missing?"
The constable had watched the exchange between Alistair and Brand with immense concern and his face scrunched in confusion when Brand wheeled upon him.
"Uh, no. Nothing strange at all about the murder, except for the fact that it happened in the first place. There's been another like it, a collection of smugglers this time. They've been holed up just south of the city. Between you and me, I've been counting on, er, someone else to take care of them, but this doesn't seem like his work. Unfortunately, their den was cleaned out. Only bodies, and no one to care about them."
She nodded and pushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen across her forehead, her expression gone grim.
"What do you think we should do with him, Alistair?"
And it was time to deal with Eamon. Alistair closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the man as he looked when Alistair was young. Kind blue eyes, auburn hair, gentle smile. He'd never gotten angry at Alistair, nor had he been particularly proud or pleased or...anything. It was just a man and the bastard he fed, clothed and occasionally took out and about with him. There had been days when he thought that he deserved more, but those were long gone. Now he realized how good he'd had it. In a life full of disappointments, being cared for but not loved by a man who had no reason to do either was quite low on the list.
"Has Connor been told?"
Brand's eyes darted guiltily, "I couldn't bring myself to share this in a letter. So...no. I was thinking we might go to the Tower after we see Fergus. I haven't mentioned it to our fellow travelers, for obvious reasons. I was also considering lying. He took Teagan's death so hard, I'd hate for him to have any idea how similarly pointless and cruel his father's was."
Alistair stared at the floor in front of him, splintering wooden slats that fit uncomfortably alongside one another. The toe of his boot scraped along a crevice and he remembered a day when he was fifteen or sixteen, and the initiates gathered in a tight circle talking about storms and high seas and now pretty Prince Cailan would be king.
That's how he'd learned of his father's death, eavesdropping on classmates. It had struck him then as not being a terrible way to go, getting lost at sea. Drowning wasn't fun, he'd heard, but it was better than starving to death, or having a long illness, or dying ignobly in an inn waiting for your runaway ward to show his face, hoping perhaps that you recognized the man he'd become.
Alistair realized, with a start, that Eamon might not have.
Brand was watching him, concern turning the corners of her mouth down and he almost, almost, almost went to her because sometimes she recognized him and sometimes he thought if he could...touch her without guilt, or fear, or anger then he could reconnect with someone he wanted to be, or just always be whoever she saw when she looked at him like...this. Like they'd parted as friends, he off on a voyage around Thedas and she into the wonderful world of marriage, motherhood and mages.
"If nobody besides us knows how he really died...maybe we can say he went down at sea," Alistair's lips felt numb and this was all starting skew a bit unreal.
Aidan grimaced.
"Unfortunately, that's not the case. The clerk at Marigold's saw the body and a few of my men know as well. I wouldn't be surprised if word of his murder has spread to Denerim."
"Dammit," Brand drummed her fingers against her stomach. "Should we have a service?"
They should, Eamon deserved one, but if he was as bad off as the constable had indicated...
"Have his body blessed, cremate it and store the ashes. We'll...I'll...one of us will return for them after Connor has been informed," Alistair almost didn't recognize the authority in his voice, and was further surprised to see Brand's lips quirk in gratitude for making a choice that terrified her.
They excused themselves from the guard's quarters, with Aidan promising to hold the ashes and to keep his arlessa informed of any additional murders or odd happenings that might occur.
The trip down the stairs was hurried, both of them clearly needing to get far, far away from the dead body, but Alistair wanted to talk and this place seemed private, so he grabbed her elbow.
"What did Eamon think about you marrying Teagan?"
Brand didn't pull away, which seemed odd.
"You mean what did he think about his brother marrying the woman who sacrificed his wife and inadvertently exiled his ward, allowing the man who killed his nephew and poisoned him to walk free in the process?"
That was more effective. Alistair dropped her arm but she continued to stare at him, eyes glittering in torchlight.
"He was never anything less than kind to me, never anything less than grateful," it sounded like it hurt her throat to say this. "Even after Teagan died and he had no real reason to be polite, he invited Bryce and me to stay with him, if I ever wanted to leave the Wardens. I couldn't even ask for forgiveness, because he never blamed me. I still don't know if he was a saint, or the world's greatest manipulator."
She continued down the stairs, faster now, and Alistair felt his heart knotting inside his chest as he thought of Brand begging his forgiveness after allowing Isolde to die to save her son. He'd assumed that Brand could pull another miracle and manage to save everyone. When she didn't, he'd yelled at her, falling apart over what Eamon might say. Eamon and Connor, as it turned out, were just grateful that anything had been salvaged from the wreckage of poisonings and demon possession. If it weren't for his mouth, Brand might not bear that remorse. And if he hadn't left, she'd not be concerned about that, either.
Of course, there was Loghain, but he decided to just keep his mouth shut. One allusion a day was more than enough for him.
Pauvel was a good shopkeep, his nervous hands kept out of view because nervous hands on nervous shopkeeps made nervous customers, and nervous customers did not turn over copper or silver. They just shuffled to the next stall in search of someone less nervous.
The next stall was Fimora and he did not like her at all. He hated to see her take his coppers and silvers, so he hid his hands except to fold and refold the lengths of cloth on display.
But that was nervous, too, so he'd stop and endure the slight creases and uneven margins around the bolts on the table.
This evening looked like rain, and that made him...well, not happy. He'd not done much business that day, and he'd hoped to stay open later than normal, catch those he might normally miss. The rain would spot his silks, though, and ruin the delicate scarves that netted him the most coin.
There was one scarf in particular that, if he could sell it now, he'd be able to go in for the night. It was a gift from strange men, for being watchful. However Pauvel had no use for it, he hadn't a wife or daughters who might wear such an accessory. His sons were grown, married and back in Rivain with their families.
So he watched the dwindling crowds for any man or couple who looked as if they might have the purse to afford such a finely crafted item, ocean blue, leaf green and soft to the touch. Unfortunately, the men and women in Amaranthine today were rough sorts, itinerant sailors and the slatterns they attracted. They saved their coppers for cheap ale and cheap beds.
He'd almost resigned himself to a lost day when he saw the tall man with the long hair and earring. He looked one step away from cheap ale and cheap beds, but he kept respectable company and had surprisingly expensive tastes.
Pauvel knew him as a mage, and kept himself aware as he summoned him to his stall with a practiced wave. The man seemed hesitant at first, but his elven assistant urged him forward, her hand firm on the shoulder of the human child that traveled between them.
The child looked nothing like either of his adults, and held a pack against his stomach, out of which a small orange head appeared, keeping track of the activity around him. Pauvel noted this, in the hopes that he might get more rewards for being watchful.
"Are you married, my friend?" Pauvel leaned against the table, his weight keeping his hands still.
"Why, are you interested?" The mage hooked one long finger into a necklace that was three strands of green stone twisted together. It was a woman's necklace, Pauvel noted with joy.
"I have something that would make your wife very happy, it could get you out of much trouble," Pauvel tried to not look at the elven woman, but failed. She was obviously much older than the man, but Pauvel knew how some humans could be with their elves.
"I don't have a wife," he'd discovered the scarf, and pulled at it appreciatively. "But I do know someone who might like this."
It was too easy. The mage smiled crookedly, as if imagining his beloved's reaction to the gift, his free hand reaching for his coin purse.
"How much do you want for it?"
Pauvel balked. This really was too easy, it seemed almost a trick, a trap. Maybe the same men who'd asked him to watch? But the mage had gold and was willing, so Pauvel held up two fingers.
The mage threw down three sovereigns and indicated the torn canvas awning overhead. Pauvel took the coins greedily, his hands no longer nervous or shaking. The elf eyed the mage with suspicion as he folded the scarf into his pack and moved to walk away.
"Did someone get a raise in his allowance for good behavior?"
The child hung back, his interest caught by a cat shaped amulet hanging in Pauvel's stall. He poked at the feline, pointing and whispering excitedly, "Look, Ser Pounce-a-lot! It's you!"
"More like a raise for bad behavior..."
"Anders!"
The cry came as a shock, the cat suddenly clawing to get out of the child's arms and the boy completely unprepared for that, his green eyes huge with panic as the animal leapt away from him with a hiss.
The mage was at the boy's side, assessing small scratches at the base of his throat that disappeared with a subtle touch and tiny flare of blue light. His attention, then, was trained in the direction of the cat.
Pauvel realized, fear clutching his stomach and urging him to pack his wares as fast as his nervous hands would allow, that the mage had his staff drawn and so did the elf. The other people in the street fled away, skirts gathered and eyes narrowed at the couple and the boy between them who just did not belong.
"Did you steal that child?" Pauvel could not believe that he was accusing mages of anything, he should be fleeing before they set the entire city on fire.
Fire. Or worse.
Lightning erupted from the male mage's hands as he shot a bolt through the air towards the battlements. Until it landed, the space appeared empty. The white light revealed a flailing man with a bow, probably trained on the mages or the child. The cat was also up there, running along the railing towards the opposite end of the market; the female mage taking off in that direction, the man catching the child in his arms, doing something that made them both glow before following his partner at a low run.
Pauvel stared after in horror, no longer concerned about anything but his life and the three sovereigns earned for watching.
And not even he noticed the arrow buried in his chest until the mage with the blue lit hands had disappeared from earshot, his sovereigns hitting the ground seconds ahead of the dead shopkeep.
Things were falling apart again.
Brand stepped out of the guard's tower to a clutch of citizens gathered at the top of the staircase that led to the markets. Women clung to men, men looked angry, and she heard murmurs of magic and a stolen child and poor, poor shaky Pauvel.
Alistair must have heard, too, and caught her waist. Her eyes detected a shadow to their right that moved too quickly when they began to push through the crowd.
"Please tell me you're armed," the crush of people around them forced him against her back, so he spoke directly into her neck, his voice low in her ear. Even with her nerves steeling themselves for battle, tiny reverberations of him played along her spine and she'd also thought of their long-ago tryst against a wall, the feelings of tension and hurry strikingly similar to this situation.
"Here," she crouched for a second and came back up with the enchanted daggers she'd had during their first scuffle, handing them off without a second look before her hands disappeared within her cloak in search of the golden daggers given to her by the Messenger.
A sharp whistle sounded overhead, and Brand craned her neck to see Sigrun bouncing on the battlement, indicating an alleyway that intersected one of the supply tunnels within the walls. Brand dove sideways through the crowd, her blades hidden to avoid escalating the panic of the civilians around them.
Within moments, they were stumbling into the clear, now free to move but obvious targets for anyone who had the mind to attack.
A sharp twang from behind and a whizz past Brand's ear indicated that there were definitely those who had the mind.
She ducked, running towards the alleyway, hoping that the shadows there didn't hold more assassins as another arrow hit the ground just in front of her and then she heard Alistair cry out. Without thinking, she reached behind and grabbed his arm to pull him along with her.
Only steps away from their goal, a small figure flew out of a darkened doorway on Brand's left, and came at her with daggers flashing silver in the gathering gloom.
Brand was slow to react, her own weapons sheathed and her focus on Alistair, who'd staggered worryingly when she let go of him. The attacker's blade found her upper arm, biting easily through the cloak and the sleeve of her dress just as she found her awkward grip on the Crow's daggers and slashed out in retaliation, her arm surprisingly ok with everything.
Even wounded and frantic, Brand had done this enough times that her aim was perfect and her strike hard enough to knock the assassin off balance. With a quick uppercut that caught its target's jaw and sliced effortlessly through, the attacker was dispatched in a most grisly manner and Brand was able to return to Alistair, who'd found a wall to support as he stared in bemused shock at the twin arrows sticking out of his shin.
"Anders is going to be so pissed that you ruined his pants," she had no idea what she was saying, but Alistair laughed wildly and allowed her to tuck her shoulder into his armpit so they could limp into the alley where Sigrun stood waiting.
There was still something wrong, though, Sigrun less relieved than scared as she raised a finger to point behind them. Brand didn't even look, she just ducked beneath Alistair's arm and positioned herself at his back, barely fast enough to intercept the arrow that probably would have pierced his heart, but merely lodged itself a few inches above her own.
Anders had never been a very good at sitting quietly, his mind too jangly with thoughts about everything from how he looked, to how the air around him smelled, to who might be watching him and why.
Now that he'd gotten into the habit of truly caring about other people, especially other people who had a terrible tendency to wander into death, sitting quietly was just not possible.
"Where is she?"
And it was only the hundredth time he'd asked, each iteration finding his voice a little more desperate, his mind seeking beyond the walls of Nathaniel's sister's home for any inkling of her out there and wounded.
Because she would be wounded.
Bryce was in a back room with Fiona and Will, Nate's nephew. Besides his initial surprise that Pounce had hurt him to escape, he was viewing this whole thing as a grand adventure. Everyone in the house had heard the refrain of, "and Anders made lightning and we ran!" about ten times.
As for Pounce, he was waiting patiently by the door, his eyes trained on his mage.
"You probably think you deserve a treat, don't you?" Anders stopped twitching long enough to rummage through his pack, his hand brushing against the scarf. He drew it out, and allowed it to distract him, enjoying the way it felt against the skin on the back of his hand, imagining how it would look near her eyes, or around her shoulders, or entwined about her wrists, or draped over her bared breasts...
He really did have a thousand ways he wanted to be with her, but he'd get none of them if she was...
His heart stopped and he put the scarf away.
"Where is she?"
Closing his eyes he threw his senses out as far as he could. He'd realized a few years ago that the more he healed someone the easier it became to pick up on them, even if they weren't wounded. By Fiona's estimation, Brand was probably held together entirely by Anders' magic (even joking once that if he were to ever die, she'd just collapse, useless forevermore). But Brand was also able to bury her pain, and it blocked him completely when she did.
Nothing was coming back, which set him off again. This time, he couldn't wait. Grabbing his staff and tugging open the door he was immediately hit by it, a wave of agony and he could see Nathaniel and Sigrun moving towards them, Alistair hanging onto the dwarf and Brand...
"Maker, no. Fiona!" He tore out of the house so quickly he stumbled for a few steps, catching himself before careening towards his fellow Grey Wardens and his
"Oh, Brand. Maker, what happened?"
She could not answer from her place in Nathaniel's arms, her head hanging back, her eyes opened but distant, her breath coming in short gasps. Her body looked broken, but Anders could sense only pain coming from her chest and the arrow that protruded so very, very close to her heart.
He followed Nathaniel back into the house, where Fiona was waiting to grab Alistair, her eyes widening when she saw his leg. Anders forced himself to focus on Brand's injury and not his own rising dread, which would only make him hesitate when he couldn't afford to hesitate.
It didn't seem life-threatening, but she'd lost so much blood and she's lost too much these past few days and he needed to pay attention to what her body was telling him, and not how his heart was acting incredibly stupid. He bit his cheek and zeroed in on the arrow as Nathaniel and Sigrun sat Brand on a nearby bench, supporting her upright.
"Nate, can you clip the shaft?"
Nathaniel had already brought forth a set of cutters and they went through the arrow as cleanly as could be hoped for. There was a small jolt however, and Brand cried out, an unexpected and uncharacteristic yelp of pain that dug into Anders. He wanted to do something now, but the arrow needed to come out first. As Nate braced his commander so Sigrun could yank the projectile, Anders, kneeling and holding towels in both hands, positioned himself to catch her, his fingers already tingling in anticipation of saving her.
Again.
Once Sigrun had done her part, it was up to him. He pressed his hands on either end of the injury and pulled her down towards him, holding her steady against his chest as he envisioned his magic tunneling into her, repairing her as it entered and met somewhere deep within her breast.
Nate and Sigrun had moved on to Alistair, who was being similarly fret over by Fiona, even though he seemed almost fine, considering. Anders tore his concentration away from Brand long enough to peer at the other man, whose eyes were unapologetically on her.
And Anders was not surprised when Sigrun explained that Brand had taken the arrow for Alistair. That's just what she did.
It was going to have to stop if she wanted to last much longer.
The pain was lessening, he could feel it dissipating beneath his palms as she relaxed forward against him, her head tucked beneath his chin.
"They attacked us right in the open. Brazen, Nan would say. Just brazen as could be," her voice was disconcertingly weak, so he offered a rejuvenation spell and she was so close that it spilled back into him.
"When this is over, we are retiring," he spoke lowly but not quietly. "We'll move to Highever, to be close to your brother and he can run off the templars when they start looking at me funny. Bryce can be around other children on a regular basis, and you won't almost die every other day."
"But whatever shall we do with ourselves?" he could feel her smiling against his chest.
"Well, we'll make love at least three times a day, that's a given. But we'll also sing songs, teach and train Bryce, learn to cook real food, and to clean up after ourselves. And we'll take picnics on the shore, and in the forest, and be disgustingly normal, and happy and," she was looking at him now, everyone was looking at him now, as he laid out these intimate and ridiculous desires that he'd kept buried for years. His face grew warm, and he stopped talking. Her mouth pressed against his neck, a notice of appreciation and gratitude, before she tried to change the subject to something less likely to embarrass him.
"Your pants are ruined," her head tilted towards Alistair, who'd turned away and was staring at Fiona's head as she wrapped his injured leg. Then Brand looked back at Anders, blinking in delirious confusion, "Oh, and so's your shirt."
He realized then that her arm was bleeding, and he'd been so focused on the arrow wound and her that he hadn't even noticed. "Why can't I feel this?"
She shook her head, brow furrowing, "I can't either, and I'm trying."
Leaning away so he could examine her more closely, she lost her balance and landed on the floor, slipping between his hands and making no move to sit back up.
"Fiona, something's...not right," he shifted forward, his hand running along her arm in search of a hint of the injury and it wasn't until he tugged the blood-soaked fabric away from her skin that he saw it, a deep gash already blackened, clotting and surrounded by a spidery network of darkening veins.
His heart stopped for what seemed like the millionth time that evening and Fiona gasped beside him.
"She's been poisoned," Fiona gingerly pressed at a spot just above the cut and drew her hand back. "Her skin is like ice, it's numbing her."
Anders looked immediately to Alistair, who was watching the mages with obvious dread.
"Have you seen this before?" Anders was amazed his voice could sound so calm when everything inside of him felt displaced and the room was curling at the edges of his vision.
Alistair nodded, his fingers digging into his pant legs, his knuckles going white with the effort.
"Did the person survive?" This time there was a definite undercurrent of naked fear.
"No...not any of them." He at least had the decency to look as if he might cry when he broke this news.
Fiona went in search of her medical supplies, while Anders just sagged over Brand's motionless body.
Body...like she's already dead.
"What are you doing?" He didn't even bother to hide his anguish, or move from where he lingered protectively.
The other mage pulled out a case filled with vials and smirked at Anders, which seemed odd, to say the least.
"Giving us both permission to act like fools," she selected four vials and handed two to him. "I'm going to scrape out the wound, and clean it. You're going to heal like you haven't healed in four years, to stop the spread, and I'll provide back-up whenever you need a break. This could take all night."
Anders stared at the elven woman for several seconds. What had gotten into her? Normally he'd be suggesting this crazy plan and she'd talk him down with a list of reasons why it was stupid, dangerous and a waste of time, energy, and resources. And stupid.
"But...you don't think it's stupid? Alistair said..."
Fiona pushed him away, her dark eyes gleaming with purpose as she cut Brand's dress from her arm and settled down to scrape.
"I don't give a damn what Alistair said," something in her expression undermined that sentiment. "I honestly doubt that any of the men he saw poisoned had two Grey Warden healers who would do anything in their power, up to and including death, to save them. Or am I overestimating your devotion to the woman you love?"
That challenge, that acknowledgement, flared beneath his skin and was manifested in the pulse of magic that spilled from his fingertips into Brand's still and cooling arm even before he was able to position himself for optimal effect.
The two mages settled in to save their Commander, a silence stretching between them that remained unbroken for hours. Anders was so wholly focused on his Brand, that he never stopped to wonder why Fiona had suddenly come to agree that she was worth dying for.
The answer to a question never asked was watching from the corner, his face drawn in concern that he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve to feel.