Author's Note:
Sorry for the wait! On the plus side, this chapter is 8500 words, so that's something, right? Right?!
Zevran took over. It's not my fault. He has pointy knives and a lot of poisons and a very, very nice smile.
Next time... Fighting! Magic! Tevinters! The power of friendship!
Many, many thank-yous to Paula (I wish I knew how to make pretty links, but here is the URL for her fic, which you should go and read, because I love it even though I barely know the fandom, it's that good: u/107408/paulaH-and-GJ), without whom I would be lost and afraid.
Warnings: Angst and some assassin love. All of a sudden, this fic is Fenris/Zevran. Who knew?
Playlist Rec:
Dionysus - Heart is Crying
Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe
Chapter Thirty-four
Zevran and Isabela met them at the bottom of the peak, the former with the bruised eyelids of a sleepless night. He paused mid-pace in the centre of their small campsite and his golden gaze flicked over Fenris, scrutinizing. His expression briefly softened, then he spotted Anders over Fenris' shoulder and frowned.
"And he is still with us," Zevran sneered. "I assume the spell failed."
"No," Anders panted behind Fenris. He used his staff to keep his balance as he scrambled down the last steep slope. Although his skin was pale and glistened with a sheen of sweat, he hadn't fallen behind.
Fenris fought the niggling sense of respect growing for the mage's perseverance. He should not push so hard, he scoffed, appeasing his need to criticize. He will be no help at all if he collapses.
"The spell worked," Anders continued once his boots found flat ground. He mopped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve. "It worked better than I'd hoped. After a day or two, I can perform a divination and show you."
"You wish to wallow in your superiority."
"No, no, of course not." Anders shook his head, his protests weary. "I could divine your favourite kill if that would make you feel better."
"No need to divine it," Zevran muttered darkly. "You will live it. Very briefly." His lip curled. He slid his long dagger from the sheath on his back and stalked forward. "In fact, why bother keeping the snake around?"
Fenris hurriedly intercepted, sliding into the assassin's path. "What are you doing?"
Zevran's glare snapped to Fenris. "We are done with him. He will bite you if we do not exterminate him now."
Fenris had proclaimed the very same to Hawke more times than he could remember. Now, though...
He glanced over his shoulder at the drooping mage. Anders made no response. He merely looked on. Fenris felt an absolute conviction that, whatever he chose to do, the mage would comply, even if it meant his own death. Isabela, too, stood back, her arms folded as she watched the scene play out. Fenris alone had to choose Anders' fate. He could no longer hide behind the excuse of Anders' spell to keep Zevran at bay.
"Zevran," Fenris began. He paused, wetting his lips, his mind scrambling to sort itself out. He felt so much anger, confusion and deep, terrible betrayal when he thought about Anders. Despite this, he balked at the thought of losing the man. They had shared a connection that Fenris hadn't even experienced with Hawke. The shared experiences under Danarius' Hawke solidified that connection even more; no one else could understand what they had gone through except each other. He didn't want to continue on without him, especially not with a confrontation with Danarius and Hawke waiting at the end of their journey.
"What is your choice?"
"I think we will be stronger with him," Fenris finally and carefully pronounced. "So far, he has proven himself useful and I will ensure that he has no chance to turn against us."
"Never again," Anders murmured under his breath. Perhaps he meant it for his own ears, for the words were too quiet for any human to overhear.
"And what of revenge?" Zevran demanded. "You suffered by his hand!"
"I did. And he suffered as well."
"And what of me?" Zevran slashed a gloved hand through the air and his face twisted into a grimace of rage and sorrow. "This serpent is the reason my lover rots in the earth! So what of my revenge, Fenris? I left his fate to you, knowing that what he did to you was worse than death, but now—" He paused, jaw working, his skin suffused in an enraged flush. "Now that you forgive him, I cannot stand by!"
"Fenris is wise not to throw away a powerful resource," Isabela interjected, her tone unusually serious.
"And is that all he is to you, Fenris? A resource? Nothing more than a sharp blade? A potent poison? A beast of war?" Zevran's voice dripped with disdain.
Fenris hid a flinch from Zevran's attack. The assassin had good reason for his anger; Fenris couldn't strike back. He stood in stubborn silence, unable to form a response. So rarely in the past had he been called on to explain his actions. So rarely were those actions of his own choice.
Then Anders spoke quietly. "Believe me, you would do me a favour if you sent me to the Maker."
"If you do not wish to live, then why are you here?"
"Because I've run from too many crimes already." Anders lifted his chin and gazed impassively at the furious assassin. "I refuse to run again. I will bear this guilt until the day I die." His attention shifted to Fenris and he smiled sadly. "But if I can spend the rest of my life fighting for what is right, at your side, then it will be a life worth living."
Fenris recoiled, taken aback as he had been by Anders' declaration that Fenris now formed the lode stone of the mage's moral compass. "I do not know what is right," he replied uneasily.
"Perhaps not, but between the two of us we might find some kind of balance."
"Pfah!" Zevran spat. "Such high ideals! All talk of what is right and what is wrong. How can you tell, in a world such as this? There is no right, no wrong."
"Says one of the heroes of Ferelden," Anders returned, smiling crookedly. "Why did you risk your life to end the Blight?"
"Loyalty," snapped the assassin. "The man I loved, the man who spared my life, pit himself against the Archdemon and every Darkspawn the Deep Roads had to vomit up. Love, you serpent, and loyalty. Two things I am sure you know little about."
Anders winced, but didn't drop his gaze. "I know very well," he responded quietly. "You and I aren't so different. But love made a monster out of me instead of a hero."
"Love?" Isabela chimed in. "Or obsession? I remember how you looked at Hawke. If anyone would join him on a rampage across Thedas, it would be you." She smirked at Fenris. "No offence, sweet, but I know you have more sense."
Fenris shrugged. "None taken. I think." He glanced from Zevran to Anders and back again, finding the mage's expression of raw devotion too difficult to look upon. Zevran's fury, at least, didn't leave Fenris with the sensation that a hundred panicky butterflies had gotten trapped in his stomach. "The abomination will remain with us until he proves himself a liability." Here, he had to swallow his own bitter anger, set aside the pain of betrayal. "I...do not believe that he was ultimately responsible for the Warden's death. Danarius is, and whatever Hawke has become. For which they will die."
"And if I refuse?" Zevran demanded. His eyes seemed unusually bright as he glared at Fenris. "You may forgive him, but I want his blood!" He stepped forward, his intent as obvious as the glittering edge of his enchanted blade.
Fenris grabbed Zevran's arms and ducked his head close to the other elf's. "Zevran," he murmured. "Stop this."
Zevran snarled and tried to wrench away, unsuccessfully. "Unhand me!"
"Please."
The assassin paused. He glared at Fenris through stray blond hairs, his expression angry and wounded.
"Anders hasn't lost the power he held with Hawke," Fenris continued slowly. "He could strip your flesh, burn you, freeze you, kill you in so many ways at the merest thought." As he spoke, he heard a tiny, distressed noise from Anders, but no objection. The man may be a healer, but he could not deny that Hawke had made him a killer.
"All the more reason to be rid of him," Zevran growled.
"And yet he has never retaliated against you." Fenris stared intently into Zevran's eyes, keeping himself between the assassin and his target. "He turned his back on Hawke to save your life, Zevran. He saved both of us. Now he's built a storm to stop Hawke's army." He drew in a slow breath and spoke as much to himself as to Zevran. "I can no longer see a reason to distrust him."
Zevran sagged in Fenris' grasp, his head bowing. He whispered something, a name, and his voice trembled with grief.
The Warden. Fenris' heart squeezed in sympathy and conjured reflections of his own deep loss. Hawke was gone. Worse than gone. Defiled.
Fenris paused. He thought of the thing that Hawke had become. Was that really Hawke or just a creation of Danarius' wearing Hawke's face?
He thrust the idea away, not willing to give himself false hope. Not even Danarius was that powerful. No, that was Hawke, but not the one he knew. His Hawke was gone. And he took the Warden with him, along with half of Thedas. Fenris had friends out there, in Ferelden and Kirkwall, people he had cherished and now knew nothing of their fate. Since waking in Morrigan's Thaig, he had locked those fears away. Now, though, he had to look at the face of them: a tired, broken assassin.
He stepped closer, shifting his grip from restraint to a firm embrace. "I am sorry," he murmured into Zevran's smooth hair. "Killing Anders will not bring him back. It will not bring any of them back."
Zevran's free hand clutched in the small of Fenris' spine and his brow rested against Fenris' shoulder. When he moved, shaking his head, the tip of his ear tickled Fenris' chin. "It would improve my mood," he muttered after a long sigh.
Fenris snorted. "I'm sure it would. Until we encountered some Magisters and they made a blood puppet out of you."
"And what a puppet I would be." Zevran squeezed him tighter, pressing the lengths of their bodies together, before releasing him. When he lifted his head, he seemed calm, though his eyes shone damply. "Very well. The abomination will not die by my hand. Not until he turns." He sheathed his dagger as he spoke and cast a glare past Fenris' shoulder. "I will be watching you, snake."
Anders nodded, his gaze locked on the sandy ground, his face set in a troubled frown.
Fenris turned away, feeling slightly more...stable. His relationship with Anders, as rocky and treacherous as the peaks around them, seemed to have reached a relatively safe plateau. Now that he had made a stand to Zevran and admitted his growing trust in the mage, he felt a bit more clear-headed.
Unfortunately, this did little for the fledgling resurgence of desire and affection. As Fenris fell into step with Zevran and they started back toward the river and their waiting ship, he felt a growing awareness of Anders trailing quietly behind them. Once they had been lovers, even locked in conflict over Hawke. Now Fenris worried that this attraction might lure him through the tortured landscape of their past and back into the mage's arms.
If Fenris could bear to forgive the mage, then what would keep him from seeking Anders out and claiming him again? What kept them apart? The mere possibility of taking Anders back sent a chill down Fenris' spine, all the worse because he felt as much desire as fear.
/.\./.\
His concern encouraged him to accept Zevran's invitation later that evening, when they returned to Isabela's ship. Anders retreated to the crew quarters, to a pleased outcry from his Antivan friends. Fenris did his best to ignore the happy reunion and his pang of irritated envy. What right did Anders have to pretend at friendship with the sailors?
"Dine with me," Zevran demanded when they ascended onto the main deck. The sun hovered over the western horizon and the scent of their evening meal coiled up from the galley. He tugged on Fenris' wrist, toward his own cabin. "Alone. I miss our time together. Do you remember?"
Fenris allowed a small smile and rumbled, "I remember, though I don't know how. I was so sick from the drink I could barely lift my sword."
Zevran laughed, expression changing from demanding to relieved. "See? We had great fun."
They retreated to the assassin's narrow cabin once Fenris had discarded his armour in his own quarters. Joining Zevran may be unwise, but the alternative seemed so much worse. He didn't want to think on Anders, their past or their future.
Unfortunately, Zevran didn't seem to realize what Fenris was trying to avoid. "What do you intend with the mage?" he asked after a quiet sailor had brought their meals and departed.
"I don't wish to speak of it," Fenris replied. He pointed his spoon at his chowder. "It will ruin my appetite, and this soup is difficult enough to eat."
"I feel I should know," Zevran countered. "I should know where I stand with you. And then I will work on getting to where I want to stand with you. Or lie, rather." He leered.
Fenris expected to feel uncomfortable with the assassin's unguarded affection, or the cool ambivalence he had experienced in Denerim, when his mind and heart still ached from the months with Hawke. Now, though, his blood stirred at the invitation. He leaned back on Zevran's low stool, resting against the wall, and propped his feet on the edge of the narrow bed close to Zevran's knee. He considered Zevran's relaxed figure, dressed down in leather trousers and a loose shirt, enough golden skin glowing in the lamplight to tantalize the most cold-hearted observer.
He is very attractive, Fenris pondered, allowing thoughts and emotions to rise that he had locked away for weeks. Attractive, skilled, powerful, influential...
More importantly, he wasn't Anders.
"Why are you interested in me?" Fenris wondered aloud. "From the beginning, you stood by me."
Zevran set his bowl aside, replacing it with a glass of amber brandy. He reclined, lifting his legs and stretching like a feline. For a moment, he stared down into his drink, giving Fenris the opportunity to examine his tattooed face, his slender neck, the curve of his collarbone as his shirt yawned open.
"Do you remember the night the witch and I stole you from Hawke?" he finally asked.
"I do." Those memories, at least, stood out brightly from the dark horrors lurking in Fenris' mind. He recalled the old farmhouse, the gentle sleep spell, and Morrigan herself, all pale skin, luminescent eyes and the click-click of spider feet. "You smashed a miasma flask in my face and dragged me through a magical gate."
Zevran smirked. "I carried you, my friend. I held you in my arms, against my heart, and carried you to safety. Then I held you down as Morrigan freed you from your collar. Finally, when you fell unconscious, I brought you to a warm bed and tucked you in. Do you know what this means?"
Fenris silently shook his head.
"I take lives, I do not save them. But when I watched you sleeping, I knew that I would fight to protect you. Your life became important to me, because I had saved it." Zevran briefly frowned. "This is difficult to put into words. I feel...responsible, perhaps. Connected to you. And I wonder if my Warden felt the same way about me. That, once he had saved me, he belonged to me and I to him." He sighed and drank. "Or perhaps not. He did save a lot of people. And not all of them found their way to his tent."
"You feel responsible for me?" A novel concept. He rolled the idea around, replacing Zevran and the Warden with himself and Hawke. Hawke had, on several occasions, stepped in to rescue Fenris in some way. Did he, too, feel responsible for Fenris' safety, even before they became lovers?
"I am concerned for your well-being, yes," Zevran agreed. "Though this may be due, in part, to the fact that I cannot bear the thought of your divine flesh coming to harm."
Fenris fought a smile and lost. "You are too kind."
"This is true. If I was not so kind, I would have had you in my bed." Zevran chuckled, shook his head and tossed back the last of his drink. "Now I fear I lost my chance."
"Don't give up just yet," Fenris murmured. He carefully watched the movement of shock cross Zevran's narrow features. Quick as a heartbeat, brilliant delight replaced the assassin's surprise. Fenris relished the expression, knowing Zevran's affection to be uncomplicated, somehow innocent, compared to the sticky webs binding Fenris, Anders and Hawke together.
Do not think of Anders, Fenris reminded himself. Trusting him not to turn on you is one thing, but... The thought trailed away, replaced by flashes of sensory memory: Anders' skin under his hands, the tremor and taste of magical potential, his low gasps...
Before this could banish the heat in his flesh, he pushed away all thought of Anders and focused on the elf before him. With almost frantic enthusiasm, he dropped his half-eaten dinner and lunged forward, reaching for Zevran's warmth.
Zevran's rich laugh, firm touch and eager lips welcomed him. He grasped Fenris' shoulders and pulled him down into a hot, liquor-sweet kiss. With artful confidence, he caressed twin paths from Fenris' shoulders, down his flanks, to his narrow hips. When he squeezed, Fenris' body burned with unexpectedly strong need.
Fenris tore into Zevran's clothing, eager to touch smooth, flushed skin free from the taint of suppressed magic. He stripped away Zevran's shirt and buried his face in the crook of the assassin's neck and shoulder, nipping the spicy flesh. Zevran's laugh trembled into a shaky groan and a breathless curse. He rose up between Fenris' knees, nudging against the throbbing pressure in Fenris' groin. His clever fingers quickly unfastened Fenris' under-armour. Fenris gasped at the sensation as Zevran found the lyrium coiling across his stomach and ribs.
"Sensitive," Zevran panted, his breath gusting across Fenris' ear and flooding chills down the side of his body. "I wish my tattoos were the same." He curled upward and brought his tongue to a river of lyrium meandering across Fenris' shoulder.
Fenris nearly choked. He stilled, eyes falling closed to appreciate the hot, slippery caress and the sparks it ignited in the nerves under his skin. "It...has its advantages," he groaned. He pressed Zevran down, covering the Antivan, grinding, panting at the rush, the delicious tightening low in his belly.
Zevran responded with a series of quick, hard thrusts, flicks of the hip like the flicks of his knives. He dug at Fenris' trousers, deftly tugging the laces free, and slid eager fingers around Fenris' swollen flesh.
Fenris jerked and groaned. He braced himself on shivering arms, hands clutching the fine linen on either side of Zevran's head, and gazed down at the assassin, at the blond hairs feathered across the dark pillows, at the expression like a contented cat, eyes heavy-lidded and lips curved.
"You are," Zevran husked, stroking Fenris' hardening desire, "ridiculously awesome."
Fenris snorted. "Can't you think of something better to do with your mouth?"
"I thought you would never ask." Zevran twisted and, with sudden agility and strength, wrestled Fenris onto his back.
Cold panic bloomed in his gut, rising up his throat in a pained grunt. He froze, paralysed by shock and the horror of lying prone under another's body.
Zevran slithered down. He hovered over Fenris' ankles and busily stripped Fenris' trousers away. If he noticed Fenris' panic, he didn't show it. He kissed a path down the Tevinter's tense legs, his warm breath and cool hair tantalizing every inch of skin. Fenris' perturbation faded, washed away by Zevran's skillful, worshipful ministrations.
By the time he worked his way back up, Fenris had relaxed into a quivering puddle, clenching the bedsheets and sighing at every caress. Zevran's liquid, uncomplicated heat engulfed him, so welcome after the long months of torture and battle.
/.\./.\
Anders stumbled up from the crew quarters, eyes gummy and head aching, his stomach trying to claw to freedom via his throat. After a mere day on land, his sea sickness seemed to have returned in full force. His unsteady legs carried him through the darkness to the nearest railing. He clutched the polished wood and let his head hang over the river glimmering silver in the light of the setting moon. The sun still lurked below the uneven eastern horizon and most of the sailors slept. Anders had found only despair in his own bunk, haunted by the distant cries of the Blight, Justice's weeping and the blank-eyed stares of the dead.
Where is Zevran when I need him? he wondered dismally. I could use a blade to throw myself on.
Thoughts of the assassin only worsened his misery and added a healthy dose of confusion. Fenris had stood up to Zevran in Anders' defence, surprising the mage and offering the hope of some kind of reconciliation between them. On their return to the ship, though, the two elves had promptly retreated into one of the cabins.
He's still in there, Anders knew, carefully keeping his gaze on the dawn-limned water below him. With Zevran.
He felt he had been transported back to Kirkwall, when he stood by as his beloved Hawke fell for the dark, brooding elf in the first place. Only now he longed for Fenris and had to watch love, once again, pull away from his grasp.
Is it me? he wondered. Maker, isn't it bad enough that you made a mage out of me? He palpitated his aching temples. No, I can't blame the Maker for this one. He gave me love and I threw it away. As miserable as he felt, he could not resent Fenris for accepting Zevran's affection. Fenris deserved every happiness the world could offer after his lifetimes of suffering. Anders would carry on, keeping his aching heart to himself. So long as Fenris allowed the mage to walk by his side, Anders would carry on.
This resolution suffered its first blow after the sun rose and the rest of the ship stirred to life. A handful of sailors, yawning and joking in their lilting tongue, scrambled into the ropes to open the sails and harness the morning breeze. Shortly after, Zevran and Fenris emerged from the cabins, staked out a spot on deck and began to spar.
Anders tried not to watch, but he would have had better luck trying not to scratch a bug bite. The sight of the elf hit him like a blow, making his breath catch and his heart lurch.
Fenris, stripped to the waist in a rare display, fought barehanded with Zevran. Like the predawn river, he rippled with silver as he moved. Zevran glowed golden, a small sun to match Fenris' moonlight. They wrestled, twisted and threw each other, parting and meeting again and again. Anders looked on, entranced by the poetry of their movements, their perfect symmetry, and could have cried. He couldn't imagine anything else so beautiful...and so out of reach.
"Pescado!"
Anders tore himself away from the sight of the elves and turned to see his Antivan translator climbing up from the crew deck. The youth sauntered toward him in his easy, rolling gait, a wide smile on his comely features. He carried a basket. As he approached, Anders spotted a familiar selection of herbs heaped within it.
"You need some potions?" Anders asked. He returned the youth's smile with one of his own, pleased by the distraction and the opportunity to perform a task that didn't involve the immense, destructive forces of nature.
The Antivan pushed the basket into Anders' arms and said something too quick for him to catch. The way he touched a scabbed scrape along his ribs provided the translation. Anders nodded and, in a foolish, automatic reaction to the Antivan's gesture, reached for the wound. He gently placed finger and thumb on either side and sent a tiny rush of healing energy into the damaged flesh.
The youth yelped and leapt away, tripped over a low crate and fell. Anders stared, shocked by his own actions and the Antivan's reaction. The sure-footed sailors never fell, no matter how the ship rocked.
For a moment, the youth sprawled on the deck and stared up at him, pale and wide-eyed. He vigorously rubbed the smooth brown skin over his ribs, as though he couldn't believe the wound was gone.
"A-are you all right?" Anders asked, starting forward.
The Antivan leapt to his feet, gaped for a heartbeat more, and then dashed away, disappearing back into the crew quarters.
Anders groaned, covering his eyes. He had done it again, used magic where he shouldn't have and ruined something good. He knew they didn't want magic on their ship. He even knew why, or at least a sketchy account of the legends from which their superstitions originated.
There went his friendship with the playful Antivans.
When he lifted his head, he expected a ship of angry, distrustful stares. To his relief, no one else seemed to have noticed the exchange. Fenris and Zevran continued to fight, the sailors worked or watched, Isabela had emerged and leaned over the rail of the stern deck, next to the helm, her delighted gaze fixed on the two elves.
They'll know by tonight, I'm sure, he thought, sighing. He'll tell them all about the deceptive Pescado, a mage incognito who brought the wrath of the river upon them, provoked by the use of magic on a ship.
Before he managed to make his situation any worse, Anders shuffled toward the galley. He would beg a mortar and pestle and the other tools to craft his potions, then make himself scarce. At least if he hid in the bow, he could avoid watching and yearning after Fenris. No amount of hiding, though, could chase the image from his mind, of the sun and the moon melding together in the belly of the Island Queen.
/.\./.\
"One more night on my ship," Isabela said. She leaned against the ship's rail and eyed Fenris where he rested in the shade. "Would you believe me if I told you a law on my ship is that the captain must be invited to all couplings at least once before disembarking?"
Fenris gazed up at the woman with amusement. "I would believe that it is a law on your ship," he murmured. "But not one I intend to obey."
The pirate shrugged unashamedly. "Well, I tried. This might be our last night with comfortable beds and a ready supply of oil and Antivans."
"I only need the one Antivan," Fenris replied, allowing a slight smirk. "Any more than that and I might strain something."
Isabela laughed, sounding startled. "Someone's in a good mood," she observed. "I'm glad to see it. Though, I have to admit...I'm surprised."
"Surprised?"
"I thought that you and Anders were, well, patching the hull, so to speak. Fixing the leaks. Darning your stockings."
"Isabela." Fenris pointedly stared down at his bare toes wiggling over the river. "I do not wear stockings. And no. That time is past." He said it as much to himself as to her, conjuring his night with Zevran as a strong reminder of just how happy he could be without Anders. He had slept well, in an exhausted stupor, and experienced only a brief moment of discomfort when he woke and the blond haired man next to him had resolved into Zevran.
"And I was so sure when you sided with Anders." Isabela hummed thoughtfully. "A pity. I was looking forward to a duel with Zevran. Or you. Or both. What kind of captain would I be to spend my last night on the ship alone? I'd be breaking my own rules."
"You could try Anders," Fenris muttered darkly. "He is...amiable."
"Maybe at one time." She smiled slightly, almost sadly. "He isn't interested in me. I tried."
"Really." Fenris quirked a brow and looked the pirate over. The Anders he remembered wouldn't think twice about indulging in Isabela's tanned and bountiful assets. He seemed to remember the two humans discussing their mutual experiences in their favourite brothels, in the long ago Kirkwall days.
She nodded. "He changed. I suppose that's to be expected, based on what you told me. Someone doesn't go through all that without changing. Or breaking."
"Hn." Fenris grunted a noncommittal response and set his gaze on the water passing below his feet. He had finally reached some internal equilibrium about the mage; he didn't need Isabela's comments to throw that off. He didn't want to know how or why Anders had changed. "It does not matter," he rumbled after a moment of silence, broken by the raucous calls of a flock of river birds. "Not anymore."
Isabela regarded him, arms folding under her breasts. The syrupy, evening sun gleamed off her heavy bronze jewelry. She scrutinized him for long enough that Fenris began to feel uncomfortable and wondered what, exactly, she saw. For all that she was a roguish pirate and a thief, she had enough world experience for several lifetimes.
"Well," she finally said. "Whatever you say, love."
She swayed away before Fenris could respond.
Fenris stared after her, then shook his head and twisted back around. Instead of dwelling on the pirate's teasing, Fenris let his thoughts return to the river and the passage of time. One night, he echoed her statement. Then hard, cross-country riding to Vol Dorma. If we get lucky and find horses. If Hawke doesn't already have the Eluvian. He pushed the thought away. If he considered it too much, he became lethargic and depressed. He couldn't not believe that they had a chance. If he did, he would just... give up. And in Vol Dorma, we find Danarius. Or at least pick up his trail and hunt him down.
Fenris allowed himself a few idle moments of simply imagining Danarius' shock, fear and slow, agonizing death. He had killed the man's doppleganger already, so his imagination was very, very good.
"It worries me when you smile."
Anders took Isabela's place at the rail, hunched over and face ashen. He glanced sideways at Fenris, a strained smirk on his pale lips.
Fenris looked him over, startled to realize that he hadn't seen or heard the mage all day. Anders had tucked himself away somewhere, wallowing in illness by the looks of him. Despite the sea sickness, Fenris noted his steadily improving condition—the new muscle under his golden, freckled skin, the sheen of his hair—and quickly looked away when he realized he was staring.
"And why is that?" Fenris asked, keeping his gaze and expression distant. He felt uneasy with Anders' presence, though he could think of no immediate reason to send him away. For now, he would cautiously hold a conversation with the man.
"Because I have years of intensive training in reading arcane signs." Anders carefully lowered himself to the deck and joined Fenris in dangling his legs off the edge. "To one with my vast abilities, your smile portends violence and the need to get my robes cleaned."
Fenris didn't mean to laugh, but a short chuckle managed to escape before he could clamp down on it.
"Maker help us all," Anders continued, the pitch of his voice rising. "Now you're laughing? When will the madness end?!"
"I will not deny that I may or may not have been thinking about violence," Fenris managed, lip twitching. "However, I believe that it is entirely within my rights to do so."
"Of course." The mage's tone became gentle and solemn. "Every man has the right to think or not think whatever they wish."
The words surprised the elf. He looked over and felt a lurch in his stomach. Anders' expression was unusually serious and thoughtful.
"Then we are in agreement," Fenris murmured.
A smile passed over the mage's face, then disappeared as though blown away by the wind, replaced by contemplation. "Where is Zevran?" he asked. "I thought he would be here with you."
Fenris' brow twitched. "And what does it matter to you?"
"Er." Anders busily began to pick something green out from under a fingernail. "It doesn't matter, not really, who you keep company with. I'm merely curious."
Liar. Fenris narrowed his gaze on Anders' down-turned face. He tried to summon comforting irritation at the mage's audacity, but it wouldn't come. Seeing the mage unhappy didn't make Fenris feel anything other than exasperation and that shadow of fearful desire. Anders had declared his intentions to fight at Fenris' side. The implications hung between them, strengthened by Isabela's confession that Anders refused her advances. Outwardly, at least, Anders' distress came honestly.
Fenris resolutely turned away. He called on the memory of Zevran's touch and used it to shield himself. Projecting nonchalance, he replied, "He is working with the ship's smith, sharpening his weapons and fixing his armour."
"For the journey ahead."
"Indeed. Are you ready?"
"As much as I ever will be. We're well stocked with Elfroot potions. There isn't much more I can do than that. All I can sharpen is my mind."
"And that will require more than a single night."
Anders chuckled. "I've been trying for years and I still have a dull wit."
Fenris snorted and failed to hold back a slight smile. The more they talked, the less he remembered not to smile, not to laugh. Surely, though, with Zevran protecting his heart, he could allow some small cordiality between himself and Anders. Nothing would happen.
The distant galley bell rang, announcing the evening meal.
Anders groaned. "If I have to eat more fish, I'm going to throw up."
Fenris climbed to his feet. "You are going to throw up, anyway, so just eat it."
The mage dropped his head into his arms. "I think I'll just stay here, actually."
Anders' shoulders were still sharp as blades, his spine like a craggy ridge. Fenris loomed over him, hesitant to touch, struggling with his concern over Anders' condition. After a moment and a firm reminder that this meant nothing, he placed his tattooed palm on the man's back.
The mage jolted, gasping and snapping his head up.
Fenris nearly recoiled. Touching Anders felt like touching fire or ice. Under his skin rushed magic, raw magic. Fenris' palm nearly vibrated with it, his fingers trying to curl and grasp. He did not feel this way before, he thought, wondering at the sensation. Is it the Fade? Is it still burning inside him? It crept up his arm, following the lyrium, like a warm finger or tongue—
He snatched his hand away, blinking rapidly, and coughed. "Think what you like," he said roughly. "You will eat."
"Yes. All right." Anders seemed dazed. He stood unsteadily.
The mage's obedience disturbed Fenris nearly as much as the lash of energy and his own reaction to it. He continued hurriedly, "Because we might need you. To do magic. With the Eluvian."
"Of course." Anders lurched toward him, movements wooden.
Fenris backpedalled, hands up to ward off the other man. I need my gauntlets, he thought urgently. Or else I cannot touch him.
Not that I want to touch him! His face felt hot and tight with embarrassment and anxiety. I do not want him, he protested weakly. He is a liar and a fool and I chose Zevran!
Just look at him, prompted a quite voice in his mind. Danarius killed armies of slaves for that kind of power. And here he is. Needing you.
Anders seemed confused. Or caught in a rush of sickness. His shadowed eyes were half-lidded, his cheek flushed and his skin shimmered with sweat. He looked on Fenris as though waiting for something, his hands hanging at his sides.
No. He could be a god kneeling at my feet and I would not take him. That time is past. There is nothing between us but bad memories.
"It," Fenris started. He cleared his throat and licked lips that had gone suddenly dry. "It isn't getting better," he asserted. "The Fade is leaking through."
Anders shook his head, blinking rapidly, and rubbed his temple. "Justice is still here," he replied quietly. "That won't change. After Hawke, though... He's closer to the surface, I suppose. Or I'm closer to the Fade. I'm getting stronger. For what that's worth." His smile was wry and humourless. "I don't think that will change."
"Then we both have one foot in the Fade." Fenris eyed the mage for a moment, then shrugged off the clinging webs of his thoughts. "Come on."
"Of course, mesere."
Fenris snorted and turned on his heel, headed for the galley.
Zevran intercepted him at the entrance to the long room, his warm smile failing when he caught sight of Anders. "What an unfortunate shadow you have, amore. You should send it back and ask the Maker for a new one. I recommend an attractive elven Crow." He tugged Fenris nearer and murmured, "I will happily follow you. Very closely, too."
Anders winced.
Fenris stifled a sigh. "Are you here to eat or taunt the abomination?"
"I can do both." Zevran's arm snaked around Fenris' waist, steering him toward the galley's far door and the cabins beyond. "Or we can go to my cabin and I will concentrate on eating." He grinned toothily. "Among other things."
Fenris began to yield, anticipating a heated evening with the assassin, then spotted Anders already halfway out the door, headed back to the deck. So he resisted. "He will not eat unless forced," he explained, shrugging away Zevran's clinging grasp. "And he will not be much use if he collapses the moment we step on land."
"Feh. Mother Fenris again." Zevran glowered at Anders' back. "Fine. But I will not sit here and watch you tend to him." He retreated and stalked stiffly away, brushing past his confused countrymen.
Fenris stared after him and considered following. Zevran wouldn't go far, though. Fenris would ensure that Anders had the strength to survive their first day of travel and then go after the assassin. He could probably figure out some way to appease Zevran's irritation.
"Anders," he called instead, before Anders could disappear up the narrow stairs to the deck. "Sit down."
He didn't expect to spend much time in the galley, but the room quickly filled with the crew and he either had to join a table or suffer their jostling. Fenris found himself tucked between Anders and an elderly Antivan woman with a face like a tree knot. All down the table, the sailors joked among themselves and passed around a thick chowder, bread and yeasty brown ale. Fenris kept watch on Anders' plate, expecting to need to force the mage to shove food down his gullet, but the Antivan crone beat him to it.
"Pescado," she shouted, leaning across Fenris and rapping her gnarled knuckles against the table. "Come tu!" Her bony shoulder jostled the elf, as though she had no concept of personal space.
"Si, madam," Anders muttered, blanching until he resembled the chowder.
"What do they keep calling you?"
Anders held up a spoonful of white meat and let it plop back into his chowder. "Fish Belly," he said sadly.
Fenris barked a laugh. He clamped down on it, but only briefly. He would go to Zevran for the night, so he could chuckle at Anders' ridiculous plight. He could allow this much camaraderie.
/.\./.\
They talked long into the evening. Long enough for Anders to wonder if he was dreaming again, as weariness mingled with disbelief.
But he hates me, Anders thought, watching Fenris' lips move. And he's supposed to be with Zevran and having exotic, elven sex. Yet, here they sat, alone at the galley's long table. The Antivans had devoured their chowders and quickly departed for their own revelry, leaving the two travellers to some measure of privacy.
"The Fereldan king is a strong man," Fenris commented thoughtfully. "That nation will survive."
"Of course," Anders replied warmly. "Her people have been through so much, one little Viscount will be easy. If you'd like, I'll show you. Well. Once we're on land." He frowned and scratched the back of his head. "I know the crew doesn't like it when I perform magic on the ship. So, um, you ate at the king's table?"
"Not only that, but he championed me against the Orlesians." Here the elf smirked. "And the Grey Wardens. If I live through this, I will have to make another journey just to give the people I harmed a chance to take their revenge. I promised more duels than I can count."
"You'll live through this," Anders hurriedly interjected. "And I'll come with you. In case anyone manages to hit you."
"Unlikely."
The mage chuckled, his concern vanishing with the elf's arrogance. "Of course, there are probably more people wanting to take their vengeance from my skin." He had meant it as a humorous comment, but it came out heavy and serious. His memories were dark and uncertain, fogged by Justice, and he cringed when he wondered, Just how many people? He pressed the sudden ache in his brow. Everything came in flashes of sensation, a background for Hawke's loving face and words.
"Do this for me, Anders. I need you."
"Abomination," Fenris said. He twisted on the bench and reached out, but didn't touch. His bare hand curled a few inches away from Anders' shoulder. "It is useless to think of it now."
"Is it?" Anders wondered. His stomach lurched, as though with the return of his sea sickness. "I can't remember them, Fenris. But I know that I destroyed so much. And even if... Even if I die tomorrow, if you get tired of me and throw me overboard or Zevran misplaces a knife between my shoulders, I should think of it." He sought out the elf's green eyes, searching for some understanding. "I should acknowledge it. I owe it to them. They suffered because of me."
"Then do you wish to know?" Fenris' dark face hardened. "I remember everything."
Anders flinched, but refused to look away. "I do," he murmured. "If you're willing to tell me."
"I will start with the Warden."
Fenris tossed back the last of his ale and began.
Anders wept for the Hero of Ferelden. He couldn't even imagine what it must have been like for the man, to have his friends turn on him. Like what you did to Fenris, he thought. That was one of the last, perfectly clear moments before Hawke's influence descended on him. Fenris' face, frozen in that moment of betrayal.
The elf continued relentlessly, listing the many occasions where Hawke used his two powerful Generals to expand his burning empire. Anders tried to remember, but he just heard Hawke, felt the Viscount's pleasure and love. Sometimes, too, Fenris had been there, pliant and affectionate, a different creature from the deeply scarred figure sitting before him.
"Enough," Anders finally had to beg. "I had friends in Amaranthine! One of them took my cat!" He crushed his bandana to his eyes, angrily soaking up the tears burning under the lids. Imagining Ser Pounce-a-lot in the violent inferno Fenris described tore his heart out.
Fenris fell silent. It was nearly worse than the even flow of his words. In the sudden quiet, Anders thought he could hear distant screams, desperate pleading.
"Maker," he coughed. "Enough." He pushed himself up and stumbled away, toward the stairs and the black night. He had some intention of going to the stern or bow for privacy, but he didn't make it. His numb feet carried him as far as the main mast and let him fall onto a coil of rope. He drew up his knees and hid his face.
I killed my cat, he thought. It was somehow worse than everything else. A cat doesn't understand politics and magic. A cat can't defend itself against a firestorm. A cat is a loving, scolding ball of fluff, claws and attitude. Ser Pounce-a-lot. I am so sorry.
Anders didn't realize that Fenris had followed him until he lifted his head and spotted the elf sitting on the deck across from him. Shadows hid his expression. He sat very still.
He's still here, the mage thought with fear, regret and relief. Quickly followed by, How can he just sit there and watch me? I destroyed everything good in the world. I'm the worst thing that ever lived. A monster. I killed my cat.
"I know," Fenris suddenly rumbled, as though he had heard Anders' thoughts. "I know this feeling. You must set it aside for now. Until we have set things right again."
Anders swallowed heavily. "Yes," he replied nasally. "You're right. Of course." He tried to laugh, but it came out choked. "I'll play pirate and hero."
"Is that what you call it?" There was a lifted eyebrow in the elf's question.
"Sometimes." Anders wiped the grit of tears out of his eyes. "I had to hold onto something. So I held onto that."
"Fish Belly," Fenris snickered.
"Shut up, elf. No one asked you." Anders was beginning to regret translating the nickname. Except that he had to fight a smile. "I can't brood like you do. Not for long, anyway. It gets really ugly really quickly."
"You get lonely."
Anders blinked, startled. "Well, I. I don't know. I guess so."
"And so you turn to whoever is around you and you try to join them."
That sounded like an accusation. Anders straightened and frowned. "That's bold. How would you know? Last I saw, you had the empathy of a rock."
Fenris snorted and shifted. "I had the opportunity to walk through your dreams, abomination. And then spent two days listening to your fever babbling. Whether I want to or not, I know you quite well."
"My dreams?" Fear drained the blood from Anders' face.
"It's how we woke you. You don't remember?"
"We?" Anders groaned and sank back. He thumped his head against the mast a few times before continuing. "Maker. How embarrassing."
"Zevran, Finn, Feynriel and myself," Fenris continued. "You were dreaming about the Circle. Sort of."
"Finn?" Zevran and Feynriel were, at least, either as depraved as Anders or somewhere far removed from his interest, but the name Finn sparked horrified recognition. "Do you mean Flora? From the Fereldan Circle?"
"The very same. He helped get you out. I left him in Nevarra City with Fawnley's butler. They were going to find a way out and back to Denerim." The elf paused. "I wonder, sometimes, if they made it out. That was a bad place for Finn."
"Wait. Fawnley? Lord Fawnley? The one we escorted Marilyn to?" He lifted a hand. "No. Enough. I don't want to hear anymore. Not tonight. I don't think my head can handle it."
After a beat, Fenris nodded his pale head. "It is late. And tomorrow will be the first of many difficult days."
Anders groaned pathetically, both at the thought of the journey and the idea of tossing around on his hard bunk. He would rather keep company with the elf through the night than submit himself to the inevitable nightmares. Fenris definitely had better places to be, though. "I'm sure Zevran is waiting for you."
Fenris shook his head. "Perhaps. Or he might be with Isabela already."
"No," Anders blurted immediately. "You're worth waiting for."
Frigid silence stretched between them.
"I'm sorry. That was, um, bold. Right. Well." Anders cleared his throat, stood and brushed himself off. "Off to my bunk. Close my eyes and wait for morning. Listen to the mutters of the Archdemon and Justice's laments. I never thought a Fade spirit could feel guilt."
"He ran me through," Fenris said flatly.
Anders stopped, his babbling cut short. "Oh."
"But you healed me," the elf continued. "That is when you woke."
He could think of no good response to that. "Of course," Anders finally murmured.
They stared at each other.
"I should go," Anders said. He could at least lie on his back for a while, until the sun rose. "Thank you, Fenris."
"For what?"
"For knowing me." He regarded Fenris, who cut such a small figure without his weapon and axe. How can I be lonely, knowing that you're here? Knowing that you've seen all there is within me?
Of course, so has Finn apparently.
That was a disturbing thought.
"Good night," Anders added before he could dwell too long on his red-haired school mate.
"To you as well, abomination," Fenris replied levelly.
Anders turned and shambled away. He was tempted to call an aura to his hand to light his path, but didn't want to risk any further exposure to the superstitious sailors. Somehow, his mistake from the morning hadn't come back to bite him and he didn't want to push his luck. Instead, he navigated by the glow of the stern lamp, feeling his way when the shadows became too deep or deceptive.
The crew bunks hummed with the snores of the Antivan sailors. Anders lightly trailed his fingers along the wood to keep his balance in the darkness.
A hand snaked out of a bunk and grabbed his wrist.
Anders jumped and nearly cried out, smothering the reaction with his bandana. Heart and stomach hammering together, he peered down at the faint glisten of eyes and the dark hand against his own pale skin.
"Pescado," came a whisper, a youthful male voice. "Bella pescado. Here. There is a place here with me."
Handsome fish? Anders struggled to translate. What?
The hand tugged him closer and a piece of the shadows in the bunk detached, resolving into Anders' young translator. A wiry arm went around the mage's waist and soft, warm lips moved against the skin under Anders' navel. The youth brought Anders' hand to his own soft black curls.
"A reward for you," he whispered, hot breath like water to Anders' parched skin.
Goosebumps erupted all over Anders' body. He shivered and reflexively clutched at the Antivan's hair, nearly bowing over the caress of his eager mouth.
Then he realized what he was doing.
"Wait," he breathed. "Stop." As gently as he could, Anders pushed the boy's head away. "No."
"Bella, bella," the youth whispered. He ran his fingernails up Anders' back and gripped the mage at the waist. He pulled again, fingers digging into the flesh.
Anders ignored his shivers and pushed harder. "No," he snapped more loudly. "Stop it." He wrenched away.
For a moment, Anders thought the Antivan wouldn't give up. Then the youth sighed and released him. He murmured something that Anders didn't catch and rustled back into the depths of his bunk.
Anders continued shakily to his own.
Just what I need, he bemoaned, staring into the darkness. Bad enough that his conversation with Fenris gave him hope for rebuilding a friendship, if nothing more, but the Antivan had sparked a rather hard, rather distracting ache between his legs. Another reason to lose sleep.