Author's Note: In which our party begins their trek across Tevinter and Anders begins to build himself anew.
Thank you to the inestimable Paula, without whom this story would have dissolved into a string of fight scenes, in-game jokes and politics.
Warnings: .Angst. Also the author exploring ideas of how Anders would react in certain situations, with events that really have almost no impact on the story itself. I just like to play.
Playlist Recommendations:
Two Steps From Hell
The A Team – Ed Sheeran
Wicked Game – Chris Isaac
Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe
Chapter Thirty-five
They stepped from the Island Queen's gangway to the rough dock in the Caimen Brea harbour and Anders immediately remembered, Oh yes, this is what Tevinter is like. Eyes, dozens of pairs, stared past him at the two heavily armed elves.
"I feel that we will get a lot of practice between here and Vol Dorma," Zevran commented quietly.
"It is not worth it," Fenris replied. "There are so many dense skulls waiting to dull your knives, we would spend all our time sharpening them."
Anders hid his smile at the elves' dark humour, knowing that Zevran didn't appreciate anything but depression on his face. He didn't want to provoke the assassin any more than he did merely by existing, and cause a fissure between Fenris and the man who made him so happy. Bad enough that Fenris had wasted so much of his night with Anders while Zevran awaited him.
Not that I minded, Anders pondered wistfully. That long conversation had done much to clarify his thoughts, as painful as it had been. Surprisingly, he woke this morning somehow refreshed, perhaps even cleansed, as though confessing his fears and guilt to Fenris purged him of it. Now, in the clear morning light, he looked on Fenris with as much of a desire to keep him safe and content, as he did with desire for the elf himself. Despite how it pained him to see Fenris happy with someone else.
Ahead of them, Isabela negotiated the docking price with the harbour master, heaving her large, supple assets under his nose to convince him that her ship deserved a lower price and better service. Eventually, the man stuttered over an agreement, stamped her papers without taking his eyes off her chest, and allowed the pirate and her crew to tie off.
"One more thing, love," Isabela said before the harbour master made his stumbling way back to his office. "Where's the best market for horse flesh?"
Following his directions, with a half dozen of her meanest Antivans at their backs, they wound through the tidy streets from the harbour to the northernmost market. Again, Anders felt the heat of resentful stares at Zevran and Fenris. They stood out distinctly, drawing human ire and elven jealousy, as though they were as much abominations as Anders himself.
The noisy market carpeted a wide square otherwise dominated by a massive Old God statue. At the foot of the statue, iron cages held emaciated prisoners—Caimen Brea's thieves and murderers. Anders averted his gaze, all too aware that only one out of the many figures was human. Isabela led them to one side of the square, to the semi-permanent stalls and corrals that contained livestock. Too late, Anders realized that this would take them directly past the Imperium's other form of livestock.
Dull-eyed, waxen-skinned elves filled the corners of their pens, sitting in clumps like leaves blown in by the wind. One or two Dalish hunters paced back and forth, back and forth, their spirits undaunted despite the abuse to their faces and bodies. Prospective buyers stood at the edges of the pens, discussing the virtues of this or that specimen, the uses they could fill, their value versus their upkeep.
Anders felt guilty, stabs of it in his stomach and chest, simply for being a human mage. Fenris escaped this, he reminded himself. And I sold him back into it. I should feel guilt.
Discretely, he cast a glance back toward Fenris and found him staring straight ahead, his features twisted into a stony grimace. Beside him, Zevran glared from one side of their path to the other, and Anders caught the assassin's hands hovering near his knives.
This is wrong, all of it is wrong. Justice shifted and took notice, looking beyond his myopic obsession with his own failures to the terrible circumstances they slogged through. The place stank of fear, hopelessness and decay. It had to stop. It had to end. I can end this. That power lies within me.
For a moment, anger and injustice blinded him. He called heat into his palm, ready to cast it out and wipe this place off the face of Thedas with so much violence that the world would tremble and know: This is evil and it will be punished.
The sensation triggered a memory of other cities, of another voice calling him to rain down fire and punishment. He hurriedly quelled the desire, shaking his head and rubbing eyes that suddenly stung, as though from smoke.
No. No, not again. It is not your choice to make.
He tried to banish the thoughts, but the pens of helpless elves and the humans swollen with greed crowded around him, drowning out his attempts at reason. Finally, he slowed his step and latched onto the only solid, quiet presence he could find.
"I can't bear this," he murmured to Fenris, falling in on the side opposite Zevran. "Justice wants me to destroy it all."
Fenris' expression changed only minutely, taking on an aspect of narrow-eyed speculation as he briefly appraised the mage. "I am tempted to agree," he admitted. "But that will not actually help matters."
"It will help," Zevran interjected sarcastically. "These people will feel no pain when they are little more than ashes."
Anders flinched. "I know. These innocents would be caught. That's why I don't want to do it."
"That never stopped you and your vengeance before," Fenris pointed out. The words hurt, but the tone seemed more thoughtful than challenging. Fenris stared at him, his hard, green eyes tracing over Anders' face, as though searching for something.
"I may not be as blind as I once was," Anders replied quietly. "I catch the occasional glimpse of reality through the illusions of justice and revenge. I think I can safely say that destruction isn't entirely adequate to encourage social and political change."
"That is where assassination comes in." Zevran grinned wickedly. "There is no greater encouragement for political change."
"Ah, enlightenment," Fenris sighed. He shook his head and regarded Anders. "We will keep Hawke from destroying the world, abomination, and then think about changing it."
"Yes." Anders breathed the word, mostly to himself. Fenris' logic rang true, chasing away the destructive need, at least for the moment. "Yes, of course."
With Isabela doing most of the talking, much to Anders' relief, they found six hardy mounts and enough supplies to last them for weeks. She paid with Antivan coin, then sent her crew back to the ship with a long list of instructions and what was left of her purse.
"Buy some elves with whatever's left over," she ordered lastly. "The weakest and sickest. We can save at least a few of the poor sods from blood magic and the glue factory."
"She is a gracious and merciful queen," Zevran commented warmly.
"We'll see," Isabela replied, lifting a brow. "If they can't find jobs, they might not thank me."
"Then Antiva has gained herself some more beggars." The assassin shrugged with a jingle. "Can we ever have enough?"
"Better to beg as a free man than live in luxury as a slave." Fenris glowered into the distance, his gaze focused on the past. "I know that well enough. Thank you, Isabela." His expression softened as he regarded the pirate.
"My pleasure. Though, if you'd really like to thank me..." She trailed off, eyebrows lifting suggestively.
As the sun sank toward the west and the distant humps of forested foothills, the party passed under Caimen Brea's northern gates and directed their mounts onto the first leg of the Imperium's roads.
"We ride hard," Fenris began, urging his beast forward. "Hawke may be delayed, but not for long."
"I can divine where he is," Anders offered. "I'll need a few hours and some ingredients, but we would know his movements."
"What ingredients?"
"Eh, basic things. A map, a silver bowl, tea, a crystal, silver chain, strong alcohol. The usual."
Fenris nodded shortly. "Very well. If we stop in one place for that long, you can work your spell."
The fact that Fenris hadn't hesitated before agreeing brought warmth to Anders' heart. He smiled happily. "Good. I think it might help."
Zevran snorted. "That is yet to be seen, abomination." He sidled his mount closer. "One last thing. I have a gift for you."
Anders turned, surprised and briefly excited at the hope of reconciliation. "What—?"
Pain split across his face and struck deep into his head. He lost his grip on his saddle, felt a moment of panicked vertigo, then slammed shoulder first into the road.
He lay in a groaning heap, trying to catch his breath and clear the ringing from his skull. When the darkness faded from his eyes, he brought his hand down from his nose and saw a smear of blood in his palm. His face throbbed.
"Fenris may have forgiven you, but I have not." Zevran sat his horse, glowering down at him. "Until the time comes to end your life, I will give you gifts instead. I have many for you." He turned his horse and trotted ahead, a golden figure in the evening sun. Over his shoulder, he called, "That was only the first!"
Anders pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulder and wincing as more and more aches leapt to his attention. He blearily looked about for his horse and hurried toward the mare before he realized that Fenris held her reins, preventing her from running off.
"You could heal yourself," Fenris rumbled as Anders clung to the saddle and tried to breathe past his nausea.
"Why would I?" Anders asked against the warm leather. Gritting his teeth against the agony in his shoulder, he pulled himself up. "A broken nose is the least of what I deserve."
Fenris searched his face again, his expression inscrutable. Anders submitted to the stare, resisting the urge to hide his bloodied and swollen nose. Then he tossed the reins back into Anders' hands and turned away.
/.\./.\
Hawke stared into the sandstorm howling its rage only yards away from his officers' encampment, erected on the southern edge of the Silent Plains. His face bore no expression beyond cruel intensity, his dark eyes narrowed and his lip lifted in the slightest sneer. Next to him, General Alexander maintained a strong barrier against the storm with the help of three mages barely clinging to life. On his other side, General Malice deftly poured wine into two glasses. She passed one up to the Viscount.
"We lost twenty regiments at least," she commented lightly, as though talking about a card game. "And most of the undead forerunners."
Hawke grunted. "They'll claw themselves out. Now that they're awake, nothing will keep them buried for long. What of the Magisters? How many did they lose?"
"They sent ten infantry, two mounted, and two of their covens. I think I saw a few of the bastards themselves out there in person, too."
"The storm may have caught them off guard and flayed them for me. At the very least, it took a chunk out of their army." Hawke scratched his beard and sighed. "Takes a bit of the fun out of it." He glanced to General Alexander. "Tell me again why you didn't see this coming."
"It is...no natural storm, lord." Alexander replied, his voice strained. The barrier around their camp crackled. He jumped and stood straighter. One of his mages cried out and collapsed. "It was sent."
"Obviously," Hawke snorted. "I can taste Anders on the Blighted wind. But why did you fail to catch that scent?"
"I..." The barrier crackled again. Alexander paled. "I scried the weather over the desert, but he sent it...a...after. Lord, may I recommend a retreat?"
"You may recommend it," Hawke murmured. His dark eye glittered with amusement as he regarded his mage General. Turning back to Malice, he asked, "I suppose this means the Tevinters won't cross. Not through this."
"No, lord. They'll wait on the other side for it to finish, most like."
"And all that work, softening up Nevarra and the Free Marches for them." He smirked at his dwarven General. "At least it was fun."
"And excellent practice, lord."
The barrier crackled loudly and shrank by a few feet before Alexander, groaning and slaying another of his apprentices, strengthened it against the wind.
"Are you having trouble, Alexander?" Hawke purred, sipping his wine.
"N-no, lord."
"Anders would have dispelled the entire storm by now."
Alexander's jaw bulged as he grit his teeth. "Anders would be a burnt out husk by now," he spat. "He's just a walking hole in the Fade." His barrier expanded as he growled the words.
Hawke chuckled warmly. "Jealousy strengthens you." He stared into the storm again. "Always remember how much I would rather have Anders by my side. Remember how inferior you are."
Alexander's last apprentice shrieked and died, drained of her magic and her life. Alexander angrily straightened and pushed the barrier even further, until they could see the remains of some unfortunate human infantryman buried in the sand.
Hawke drained his glass and tossed it aside. "Time is short. We will not retreat. The undead will march through the storm well enough. Imagine the Tevinters' surprise when my dark army lurches out of the sand." He laughed, shaking his head at the thought.
"Lord, may I request more apprentices?" Alexander asked.
"You may." Hawke jerked his chin over his shoulder. "Take all of them. We won't need them for much longer. We regroup tonight and leave in the morning." To Malice, he ordered, "Gather our best. Ready some wagons, no more than Alexander's inferior barrier can protect."
"Lord." Malice turned and started away.
She stopped.
Her head lifted. Her normal eye pointed forward, but her lyrium eye began to roll. It rolled backward, then sideways, and then it stopped, staring directly upward.
"Lord," she said again. "We are being observed."
Hawke folded his arms, shifted his weight to cock a hip out, and tilted his head back. His eyes, once a warm brown, had become a solid, oily black. He glared at the obscured sky. "I know," he murmured. Then, in a mere whisper, he added, "I miss you, Anders. Come back to me and I'll give you the world."
/.\./.\
Anders gasped and jolted with such force that his scrying bowl upended, splashing herb-infused liquor all over the map.
"My map!" Isabela cried, diving forward to rescue it.
"My whiskey," Zevran added, frowning at the puddle expanding over the earthen floor of their shelter. He lifted a pack out of the way of a finger of liquor as more of the clear fluid dripped from Isabela's sodden map.
"Sorry," Anders breathed, his chest and throat tight. He couldn't chase the image of Hawke's eyes—terrible, black eyes—out of his mind. They had stared directly at him, and Hawke had smiled and whispered such a sweet entreaty... He lifted a shaking hand to his face, wiping the cold sweat from his brow and upper lip.
"Can't even hang it out to dry," Isabela complained, shaking her map. "It's raining fit to drown a fish. And now I'll want a drink whenever I plan a route."
"You always want a drink anyway," Fenris remarked dryly. He sat next to Zevran, cross-legged and straight-backed, his expression inscrutable.
Anders looked to the Tevinter elf, hoping to find...something. Sympathy. Understanding. Some kind of commiseration. They had all seen Hawke's cold evil, but only Fenris would understand what it felt to be touched by it, to feel it under the skin, wrapped around the beating heart.
Fenris met Anders' anxious gaze for a mere heartbeat before he turned his face away. "At least the whiskey will keep the ants away," he said.
"True," Zevran sighed. "I would rather drink it, though, than waste it on the earth. You owe me a bottle, abomination."
Anders nodded jerkily. He tried to make a witty response, something to both amuse and appease the assassin, but when he opened his mouth no sound emerged. He flushed, angry and embarrassed and frightened, and stumbled to his feet. He had to duck to fit under the sloped tent wall. Suddenly, the tent seemed to close in on him. The heat and smoke from the small fire near the entrance burned his eyes and throat. The stink of the spilled whiskey turned his stomach. The glares of his companions made him small, worthless, hated.
"I will give you the world."
But Hawke, black-eyed and evil not-Hawke, would give him the world.
And that makes me even more of a monster.
Choking on a lump of emotion, Anders pushed past their low fire and out into the storm.
The rain hammered down at him, immediately plastering his hair to his skull and beading on his oiled coat. Eyes closed, he lifted his face to it, savouring the cool touch and the obliterating force on his skin. Here, in the wet darkness, his thoughts soon dissolved into the simple physical experience of the storm, chasing the image of not-Hawke out of his mind.
After some minutes of this, Anders retreated to the lean-to they had erected for their horses, using a faint aura to find it. After two days of hard riding, the beasts stood in weary silence. They barely wuffled at his approach, even when he wedged in between them to get out of the rain.
From this calm place, Anders could consider what he had learned with a clear mind.
The storm worked, but not completely. Hawke's undead army would still forge a path for the Viscount through the Imperium. Chances were good that the Tevinter Magisters, or at least some of them, would side with the Viscount. If they let him pass, he would allow them to strike at Nevarra and the Free Marches. Anders could easily imagine that a number of young Tevinter mages were eager to carve out their own land and legend from the suffering southern nations.
Try not to think of them, he told himself. I did what I could. Perhaps the storm will rage long enough that Nevarra, the Marches and Kirkwall will stabilize before Tevinter strikes.
This may have been wishful thinking, but Anders clung to it. He had to believe that there was something left worth fighting for. Something to rescue from Hawke's hunger.
His mare snorted. Anders stroked her neck and turned to see what had alarmed her. A piece of the night detached from the rest and Fenris paced into the small shelter. Anders' faint aura glowed green in Fenris' sodden hair and huge-pupiled eyes, glimmering off of his armour.
"Zevran thinks you are going to run back to Hawke," Fenris rumbled, his voice as low and rough as the rain on the canvas shelter. He gently scratched Anders' mare.
"Does he?" Anders replied hollowly.
Fenris stared over the mare's arched neck, his claws idly combing her mane. His hard expression, or what little Anders could see of it, silently demanded an explanation.
"I have to admit," Anders began slowly, "the temptation is there. I was happy with Hawke, living in that dream."
Fenris' hand stilled.
"And here I have only pain, grief, guilt and...and loss." He turned his head, overwhelmed by the sight of Fenris and the memory of a deeper relationship. "But I won't go back," he asserted quietly. "I won't run. I owe you that much. I owe myself that much."
"That is what I thought," Fenris commented after a moment. "And I... Am glad. I do not want to face him alone."
"Neither do I." Anders wanted so badly to touch Fenris' hand, if only for the comfort of knowing the Tevinter stood with him. He fought the inclination, knowing Fenris would not appreciate the gesture.
Fenris patted the mare's shoulder and shook his pale head. "You should come in from the rain. A sick mage is worse than no mage at all. And once the rain has passed, we ride again."
"As you wish, mesere."
Fenris' answering snort and half-smile chased most of the chill away.
/.\./.\
The party tore north across the Imperium, following the narrow roads which, despite the weeds and encroaching forests, allowed them to cover great distances whenever the light and their mounts permitted it. They stopped only to rest the beasts or when the weather fouled and forced them to take shelter under hastily strung canvas.
On one such evening, five nights after leaving Caimen Brea, they found a small town, a mere crossroads with a tiny Chantry on one side and an inn on the other. Fenris directed his horse toward the bulk of the inn, barely visible as a few specks of light through the barrage of wind and rain. In the meagre protection of the stable yard, they dismounted.
Two androgynous young elves slipped out of the darkness to take the horses. They shivered with cold, their eyes wide and shining, too much pale skin showing under too little clothing.
"Thank you," Anders uttered wearily as he passed his reins over. As always, his voice drew Fenris' attention. He watched the mage dipping into his coat for coins. "Here," he began.
"Don't." Fenris reached back and caught his wrist before he could pass over the money.
Anders frowned. "What? Why? Look at them!"
"Their master will only take it from them." Fenris jerked his chin at the two thin, trembling figures. The smaller one nearly cowered behind Anders' horse, his frightened gaze intent on the mage's startled expression. Fenris could read the terror in his eyes, knew that he expected Anders to smite Fenris, and him, down for his apparent disobedience, for daring to physically assault a human. "Give them nothing of value, nothing that can be stolen."
"Right," Anders agreed slowly. "Right. Sorry."
Fenris released his arm and strode away to join Zevran and Isabela at the inn door.
For all his savvy awareness of the Imperium's social status quo, in his fatigue Fenris forgot to wait. The wet chill had sunk into his flesh, so he eagerly pushed through the door to lead his companions into the light and warmth. He realized his mistake when two dozen Tevinters lifted their heads to stare and two dozen hands found weapons.
Fenris paused, mind racing as he scrabbled for something to say or do.
Then Zevran shoved him from behind, crowding in toward the heat. His armour and the hilts of his blades gleamed in the lamp light as he shook his head with enough vigour to spatter rain water on the nearest table. "Wetter than a whore in the morning. A real bed will be—"
He cut off, grunting as he deflected the swing of a club. The farmer wielding it snarled and swung again, moments before the rest of his table surged up and attacked the two elves.
"Hah!" Zevran danced sideways, keeping his back to the wall, his narrow features suffused in glee. "Finally! You will taste steel, dogs!"
This is not the way to a hot meal and a warm bed, Fenris thought woefully. He ducked the swing of an axe and cracked a gauntleted fist into his attacker's jaw while the farmer tried to liberate his weapon from a support post. He spotted a dagger slicing in from the side and phased part of his torso, letting it pass through harmlessly. A soldier tackled from his other side; Fenris gripped the man's wrist and shoulder and sent him spinning into a merchant.
"They're well-trained," laughed someone further back in the crowd. "Must be expensive! Get some ropes, Gavis! We'll split the finder's fee!"
The man with the dagger, still looking at his weapon with a stunned expression on his face, called back, "I don't know. I don't know about this."
"There's only two of them!"
"Get the filthy knife-ears!"
"Bring 'em down!"
"Is that lyrium?! Bloody hell!"
Fenris managed to throw a rather large specimen of a farmer into a table, sending a group of his cohorts flying. He drew his axe, realizing that their only way out of this was on a river of blood, that no Tevinter would allow them to simply walk away.
He felt a prickling rush of magic over his skin an instant before the dirty inn floor flashed. Bright arcane runes burned into existence in a large circle encompassing the entire common room. As one, the Tevinters froze, paralysed. Fenris, about to swing Bloom into a merchant's skull, stayed his hand.
In the sudden silence, the creak of the door seemed unnaturally loud. Fenris and Zevran, the assassin with a blade to a pale-faced soldier's throat, turned.
Anders, his chin lifted, his expression cold and hard, strode in. "Would someone," he began, his voice pitched low, "tell me why I shouldn't have you all skinned?"
The men nearest Fenris whimpered, but not a one could move more than their widened eyes.
"Well, then," Anders murmured, barely above a whisper. He lifted a hand. Indigo electricity crackled around his fingers, up his arm, and flickered through his eyes. "Let's get started."
Briefly, Fenris felt shock that this cruel version of Anders had hidden inside the desperate shell of the man. Even Zevran eyed the mage with wary scrutiny.
A high-pitched cry of "No!" came from an open door at the back. A woman sagged in the doorway, her hands clasped in supplication. "Don't kill them, lord! Please! They thought your elves were runaways!"
"Runaways," Anders repeated dangerously. The light on the floor and in his eyes brightened as he barked a laugh. "Hardly. Look at them. Do you think they must run from anything?"
"N-no, lord. We didn't know. Please!" She fell to her knees, sobbing.
Anders paced deeper into the common room, considering each frozen Tevinter as he passed. He gave no indication that the continued paralysis glyph cost his strength, though Fenris could feel the hum of magic, could sense how the Fade drew nearer, lured by the powerful mage.
"What will you do to repay us?" he asked. He stopped in front of the one man wearing an apron over his corpulence, a bundle of ropes hanging from his hands. "I expect meals. A bed. Baths. If you cannot provide, then I will kill you and tack your remains to the walls as a warning to other imbecile innkeepers. Is that clear?" He let his hand, wreathed in electricity, drift close to the man's face.
The Tevinter released a gasp and crumpled to the floor. "Yes! Yes, lord! A thousand apologies! A million! We had no idea they were yours! All of our service is yours. Command me, lord, and I will obey!"
Anders nodded. "Of course you will." He looked around the room. When his gaze passed over Fenris, he winked. "To the rest of you," he added, "I suggest you leave." He snapped his fingers. The glow of the glyph vanished, though the runes remained, scorched into the wood.
Moments later, the inn sat empty.
Later, when the four travellers had eaten their fill in the deserted common room, they retired to their private sitting room and discussed their next move.
"We should avoid the highway," Fenris said, considering the thick white coil across their whiskey-scented map.
"It might cut a day from our journey," Anders returned. He leaned back in his chair, rolling a small brass ring between his fingers. "Every road we find out here is a blessing. It's luck. I don't think we can rely on that to take us all the way to Vol Dorma."
"The highway means patrols," Fenris reminded him. "Patrols with mages of their own and soldiers who know the difference between a Fereldan Circle mage and a Magister." He nodded toward the bulk of the inn. "This was luck. Running into the Imperium's inbred hicks."
"I like to think there may have been a smidgeon of skill involved as well." Anders smiled faintly, keeping his gaze locked on the ring. "We survived and got our room and board for free. What more could we ask for?"
"I would have liked more blood," Zevran muttered. "You should not have interfered. These fools deserved our blades, not our mercy."
"And how quick a journey would we have if the Magisters caught wind of us? Could we go fast or far with the army dogging us?"
Zevran frowned.
"He makes a valid point," Fenris admitted, nodding to the assassin. "Though I wish the same. These are cruel and stupid people; they should be ended. But discretion may be the wiser course. For now."
"Feh." Zevran abruptly stood and strode to the suite's cabinet. "For now." He retrieved a bottle of something, examined it critically, and began digging the cork out.
"Your thoughts, Isabela?" Fenris asked, glancing toward the pirate.
Isabela smiled like a contented cat and shrugged. "I'm happy that I'm not the captain of this mission. You know my blades are yours, Fenris. Any treasure we find, on the other hand...that's debatable."
Fenris chuckled. "You can have it. I want nothing from this tainted place."
"Nothing but revenge," Zevran interjected. His cork emerged with a loud pop! He sniffed at the contents, sighed his satisfaction, and swallowed a long draught.
"Is it revenge?" Anders asked. He finally looked away from his ring to consider Fenris thoughtfully. "Or is it mercy? I keep feeling that Hawke is in there somewhere. Or, perhaps, elsewhere. And that we may be the only ones who can stop him from doing these terrible things."
"Definitely vengeance." Zevran sauntered back to their circle of chairs and perched on the arm of Fenris'. He offered the bottle to Fenris, but his dark leer remained on Anders. "The beast has much to atone for. And he is not the only one."
As he did whenever Zevran attacked, Anders only bowed his blond head and accepted it.
Fenris stifled the urge to say something in Anders' defence. Thus far, the mage had been a staunch ally, uncomplaining, quick to cast spells of protection and healing. If anything, he made a better companion now than he had in Kirkwall, with none of the secretiveness, none of the caterwauling on mage rights, and none of the jealous clinging to Hawke. He seemed...broken, but rebuilding. Building himself anew.
Not for the first time, Fenris wondered what the last months had been like for the mage. What his own actions had done to him. If Fenris had had to choose between two lovers and chosen wrong, if his error then resulted in such violence, would he have survived? Or would he have given in and let himself disappear under Hawke's will?
He nearly did, though, he reminded himself. He nearly dissolved. Until you woke him. And now he is your ally. He recalled their conversation after Anders' scrying, and Anders' admittance that Hawke's offer had tempted him. If the mage contemplated rejoining Hawke, would he admit to the temptation? Unlikely.
Fenris mulled this over as he drank and felt discomfiture at his conclusions. He did not want to trust the mage, but his reasons not to dwindled the longer they travelled.
He cleared his throat. "So we avoid the highway," he declared.
"And hope for good roads," Anders replied quietly. He glanced up, then dropped his gaze back to his ring. "As you wish."
Fenris pressed his lips together, abruptly irritated and not entirely sure why. Do not oblige me, abomination! Do not appease me! Anders' obeisance made him feel like a tyrant, like he had made a foolish choice but was too much of a bully to argue against.
As though echoing his internal irritation, his skin began to itch. He scratched his ribs, the back of his neck, and his chin, and then glowered more heatedly at Anders. "You are doing magic," he accused.
Anders jumped guiltily. "A little bit," he demurred. "Only a small protective enchantment." He focused on the ring. His lips moved and the brass briefly glowed with more colour than the lamps would warrant.
Fenris scowled, jerked upright and stalked toward his own room, scratching his lower back. "Get some rest," he called over his shoulder. "We leave at first light." Without waiting for an answer, he firmly closed his door on his companions.
The frightened innkeeper had given them the best suite in the house; Fenris' room had every luxury available in the backwoods of Tevinter, from the silk sheets on the canopied bed to the gleaming wood of the furniture to the basin of water and collection of soaps and perfumes. He glanced over them blandly, his only enjoyment coming from the strong belief that no elf had ever been the room's master before.
A knock sounded on his door. Fenris' brow twitched in a frown. He didn't want to answer; he felt like he needed years of quiet contemplation to sort through the havoc of his mind.
The knock came again.
Sighing, Fenris drank and yielded. He swung the door open enough to see Zevran's casual stance and easy smile.
"Amore," the assassin said, nodding toward Fenris' hand, "you brought my drink with you."
Blinking, Fenris glanced down. "Oh." He shook it, surprised to find it half-empty already.
"I thought it may have been an invitation." Zevran edged closer. "So I brought another one." He lifted a second bottle, even dustier than the first, but apparently the same vintage of rich red wine.
Fenris considered it, considered Zevran's handsome features and sly smile. He swallowed heavily and enjoyed the sensation as his body quickened to the gleam in Zevran's eye. Those nights of cold abstinence in their rugged tent suddenly seemed a small eternity, and Fenris' desire for quiet contemplation swiftly reversed. He needed heat, friction, pressure and smooth, spicy skin.
So he nodded shortly and allowed the assassin entry, carefully not letting his gaze stray past the door to the suite proper.
/.\./.\
Grey predawn found Anders in the sodden courtyard, engaged in a conversation with the two elven children that mostly involved pantomime. They spoke a kind of pidgen-Arcanum, when they spoke at all. Mostly, they said "mesere" and "thankyouyesserah," which Anders found somewhat disconcerting.
"Always wear this," he said to them, mostly focusing on the girl. She seemed older, her expression seemed to hold a stronger edge of comprehension. He held one of his two rings up. It didn't look like much, made of tarnished brass, but magic trembled in its fibres. "It will keep you healthy. Well, healthier. Protect you from extremes of heat and cold. Help you heal faster. Do you understand?"
The girl nodded tentatively. "Thankyouyesserah?"
Anders' shoulders sagged. "You don't understand."
"Mesere?"
He drew in a breath. This wouldn't be so difficult, but he wanted to ensure that they didn't let anyone else see them. It would take only a minor mage to notice that they bore magical enchantment. "I want you to wear them on your feet," he said slowly, pointing at his own boots. "Because of the protection. Yes?"
The girl immediately dropped to her knees, disregarding the wet mud, and reached for Anders' feet.
"N-no!" Anders danced back. "Not my feet!"
"Mesere?" The girl snatched her hands back as though burned. She practically trembled as she stared up at him, her eyes huge and pointed face pale, her expression stricken.
"Maker," Anders sighed. He cast a glance toward the inn, ensuring the windows remained shuttered, and crouched down. "They're for your feet, little one." He reached out for her slender foot. She and the boy wore thin slippers, the soles as scarred as their spirits. He sent up a brief prayer of thanks that they, at least, didn't go barefoot.
When he grasped her ankle, she stiffened and nearly pulled away. Then she made a soft, helpless noise and he could feel her force herself to relax. She slumped into the mud, lying back on her elbows.
Anders nearly choked on his horror. "Oh, little child," he murmured. "No. No." He worked hurriedly, desperate to banish her expression of stony despair. With a deft touch, he slid her slipper off and fit the brass ring over her second toe. "There," he said as he replaced the garment. "That's all. Do you feel different?" He stood, straightened his coat, and held out his hand to her. When she hesitated, he nodded encouragingly. Finally, she placed her thin fingers in his palm.
He concentrated and felt the faint hum of his own protective spells limning her fragile skin. As he pulled her to her feet, he allowed himself a small sense of satisfaction. And Fenris told me not to give them anything. If he could see me now. Immediately following the thought came an image of Fenris and Zevran, no doubt wound together and deeply asleep.
Anders shook his head, dispelling the depressing thought. He had more important things to worry about. He smiled at the little elven boy. "This one is for you," he said, holding out a twist of copper he had begged from Isabela. He pointed at the child's foot. "Put it on. Never take it off."
The knowledge that he had helped those innocents bolstered him against the blow when Fenris and Zevran came down the stairs to the common room, deep in some intimate discussion, their heads close together. Anders lifted his gaze to them and suffered a deep pang of regret, worse than the old bitterness of seeing Hawke and Fenris together. At that time, thinking Fenris a murdering, psychotic man, Anders could indulge in his hatred as much as he indulged in his pining for Hawke. Now, though, he had no one to despise but himself, and nothing to indulge in but memories of a passionate flame that burned brighter than his longing for Hawke ever had.
He dropped his attention back to the breakfast the elven children had brought, trying to escape those heated memories. The thick honey and warm scones, though, lost their flavour, and he could only push them away.
"Mesere?" the elven girl asked softly, appearing at his elbow and pointedly staring at his plate.
Anders smiled gently. "It was very good," he told her, knowing she could understand none of it. "But I lost my appetite." He flicked it toward her. "You can have it."
She seemed to catch some of his meaning here, for she turned and nodded toward the door to the kitchen.
Of course, her masters would not allow her to indulge.
And aren't I an all-powerful Magister? He glared toward the kitchen. Magic has brought me nothing but trouble, but, by Andraste's chest freckles, I can do someone some good. So thinking, he reached out, snagged the girl around the waist, and pulled her onto his knee.
Again, she resisted at first, then he felt her melt into submission.
"Just eat the scones," he muttered next to her delicate ear, hoping it looked intimate enough not to raise questions. "Then you're free to go." He twitched the plate closer to her.
In the shelter of their bowed heads, the girl ate in quick, tidy bites, until the plate sat empty. She dabbed her mouth with a ratty handkerchief that lived in her sleeve, then glanced with obvious embarrassment toward him. He chuckled and released her.
With renewed confidence, Anders turned to find his companions. They sat at a corner table, well away from him, now with Isabela in their midst. The elven boy stood near them, waiting tensely on the balls of his feet. Anders studied them for a moment, caught in a sudden rush of nostalgia for the days when he could join them, and their other friends in Kirkwall, for a meal or a drink without these feelings of immense guilt and sadness.
Those days are gone. You must move forward. Be stronger. Be better.
Fenris seemed to hear him. His green eyes flicked up from his plate and met Anders' blatant stare. The elf's hard expression became a challenge, like a mountain to climb or a river to cross, like he dared Anders to win his favour.
So Anders stood and drew near, determined not to flinch from his responsibilities.
"You like them young," Zevran drawled when Anders straddled the chair the elven boy brought for him.
"Always the healer," Fenris interrupted before Anders could even attempt an explanation. "I hope she remembers your kindness as a blessing, rather than a memory that makes all the pain that much worse."
Anders leaned away, unsure of how to take this. Was it praise or recrimination or simply a friendly reminder? At least he made it clear that he didn't believe Anders took his pleasure from children, which could be counted a blessing. "I want to make it better," he protested softly.
"Sometimes you cannot."
"I refuse to believe that."
"Believe what you would like. That is every man's right."
This echoed the conversation they had on the ship, but Fenris' tone made Anders feel lonely instead of understood. He wondered if it could be the presence of the others; perhaps Fenris did not want to understand him while Zevran looked on with his smug sneer. So he let the topic drop and consoled himself with the fact that, at the very least, Fenris hadn't accused him of molesting the child.
The children opened the shutters, allowing the silver dawn light to filter in from the east. The plump innkeeper and his wife blinked out at the party from the kitchen, perhaps wishing that the night's events had been a nightmare and nothing more, but faced with the reality of the two armed elves, a pirate wench and a human mage breaking their fasts.
Fenris gestured toward the elven boy and said something in Arcanum. The child bobbed once and hurried away. He snagged his sister as he passed her and the two disappeared out the front door.
"Finish up," Fenris told them, nodding at Isabela and Zevran's plates. "We ride."
"I do love it when you say such things," Zevran commented.
Fenris, instead of scowling as Anders had hoped, smirked slightly. "I'll keep that in mind."
"I'll wait outside," Anders muttered. He pushed away from the table and tromped back out to the courtyard.
Anders didn't need to wait long, fortunately for his flagging optimism. The children brought their mounts, ready for travel and docile, and Fenris led the two rogues out of the inn proper. Anders didn't look at them. He mounted and directed his mare out onto the road.
We didn't pay for any of this, he realized as he glanced about at the small village, wet and gleaming after the night's rain. Not that it matters, but I hope we don't have to come back this way. Briefly, he worried that the locals might send a highway patrol after them, but soothed himself with the thought that most of the Imperium's military still cluttered the northern edge of the Silent Plains.
Because he had nothing better to do, he urged his mount to the Chantry board, curious about what he might find. When he heard another horse behind him, he read aloud, "Someone has rats in their basement; there's an escaped slave at large, armed with a kitchen knife; and some pilgrims went missing west of here."
"We do not have time to waste on errands," Fenris rumbled.
Anders twisted in his saddle, surprised. He looked past Fenris to the inn, where Isabela and Zevran seemed to be arguing about something. "I'm aware," he said. "If we were with Hawke or the Warden, though, we would be able to do all of these jobs." He couldn't help a tiny smile, recalling Hawke's strange ability to do everything he set out to do, helping every poor soul along the way, without once missing an appointment.
"Hawke and the Warden are—were—different people from us," Fenris replied, his head tilting thoughtfully. "Where we floundered in life, directionless, making mistakes at every turn, they strove forward and saved the world." He sighed and frowned. "And now we must save Thedas from him."
"I'm sorry," Anders murmured, desperate to ease the sadness on the other man's face. He groaned a moment after. "Ah, flames, I said I'd stop saying that."
Fenris shook his head and his lip may have twitched. "I know," he said.
Anders' chest eased, some of the pain leaking away. "Yes you do," he agreed. "And for that I thank you."