A/N: Blood and mild violence.
Chapter Seven: Into The Dark
Naoya rubbed his long fingers together tensly. "What happened to my friends?"
Alastor paced in short bursts, hands nestled tightly behind his back. The air was growing cold, and Naoya's breath fogged in swirls.
"None of us are bending over for Reaver!" The objects resting against the dressers of the room rattled as Naoya's insides coiled. Alastor stopped, golden eyes watching the teenager. "Just tell me what happened!"
Naoya watched Alastor pace. The white giant's emotions were finally slipping through the facade - but not yet, was the feeling Naoya got most from him.
"You need to learn to listen, especially if you want to get out of here with your friends. Else they might die, and you'll be stuck here with myself and Reaver. Until you die. Because he won't be willing to let you leave. And listen when I say that Reaver is certainly the shorter end of that deal."
The EGO's brows furrowed as he vaguely frowned, the glint in his haunting amber eyes almost saying that he'd known worse.
Alastor locked eyes with the teenager and froze, mid-step. He grunted, deeply, as if he were trying to stave off a headache. "Stop that," he sharply commanded in his inhuman balverine voice, and Naoya blinked a few times, confused, as he shook his head like he had been daydreaming. "The balverines have an order-a natural order. If Reaver weren't in control we'd be governed by our own pack leaders - purer breeds, what-call-yous."
"And let me guess, it doesn't work on you because you're super-snowflake special?"
Alastor rolled his eyes, his gloves crackling with ice as he rigidly flexed each of his fingers. "In the furthest sense of the word, yes. I am the only member of my breed in this Hive: we are called Frost balverines, ranked very close to the top echelons of the entire balverine species and the closest relatives to the ancient balvorn. I am immune to Reaver's influence because my breed is older than the magic he abuses." He held up his hand, before Naoya had a chance to say something else to get on his nerves. "I do not know what the wizard told you of our meeting, but all you need to know is this: Reaver's cane. The head of it is a relic from our world. More than several millennia old, which all of the breeds - outside of my own - fail to precede. Help me get that cane and in exchange I'll tell my people not to slaughter your band during your escape. I will lead you out of this Oasis."
Naoya scrunched his nose, confused. He blinked, dark amber eyes searching the floor as he thought. "That doesn't tell me why Reaver took my compatriots. And what the hell do you mean by, 'Oasis'?"
"Did you not think it odd that this city should appear out of nowhere in the thickness of the forest?" Alastor snapped, growing impatient. "In this wretched universe, there are places - cursed places, that take on the image of whomever rules over them. This entire city is one. All of this - the mansion, the buildings - it exists as this solely for Reaver. It is a prison as much as it is a miracle: so long as he is ruler, Reaver is unable to leave this Oasis and so it bends to his tastes in order to placate him."
"Why don't you just kill Reaver yourself?"
"There is a reason," Alastor half-growled and half-explained, his demeanor commandingly fierce, "why I do not simply tear out his throat. If he dies, here, by my hand - I take his place, and I do not wish to be imprisoned like he is. Reaver took your friends, because he wants someone to do that very thing. Someone who is willing and that he can't control. He's tainting them. He's tainting we balverines. He needs removal. You're the only one left who can do it."
"So you want me to help imprison him... in his own prison," Naoya cupped his hand over his own delicate chin in thought. "If this 'Oasis' exists based on what it thinks will placate Reaver, what's to say that it won't change to help him escape?"
"He does not have as much control as he pretends to flaunt."
"No kidding." Naoya looked back up at the balverine, an apologetic look on his young face. "I'm… sorry your people are enslaved. I'll try to help to the best of my abilities."
There was a curt knock at the door. Alastor turned and glanced at it, but not before eyeing the psychic to see if he would make another break for it. Deciding the youth possessed no desire to, he opened the door to be met by a tired-looking man and a reddish-colored balverine who perked up at the sight of Alastor.
The man was densely built, but not out of shape. He cleared his throat, his round golden eyes uneasy. "Nadine and I, uh, got some news, sir. From the dungeons."
"Out with it, then," Alastor replied, his own eyes flickering to the red balverine. She replied by wiggling her way in front of the human-formed balverine. She made a few chirps, awkward grunts, and throaty cooing noises. Alastor's brows knitted, giving him a perplexed look unusual for his features. He slid something out of his breast pocket, entrusting it to her. "Give this to him. Let no one see."
A gentle hiss and a nod was all that the blooded breed gave before vanishing into the dark of the hallway.
"Very well." He looked to the human-formed balverine. "See to it you find me later." And with that, he closed the door.
"Friends of yours, bringing news of mine?" Naoya asked. He was right behind the tall man.
Alastor gave a small jump, ears perking and body tensing. He leered down at the sunny, innocent smile the boy wore.
"Yes. There are still some who have just enough wits about them to respect the Order over Reaver," Alastor replied, nudging the teenager a few steps away from him. Clearly the child had never heard of personal space.
Naoya frowned. "Just what is it you want me to do, exactly?"
Alastor opened the door to the hallway, indicating Naoya should follow. "I need you to get Reaver's cane from him."
From the way Alastor was speaking, Naoya could only guess that the balverine had no idea of his inability to control his powers just then - or, at least, the precision of control. Naoya was still weak, and his abilities were misbehaving; it was all he could do to control the one power he could, the most important one - the one he didn't dare use, not even on Reaver.
Far from the boy and the balverine, another man battled a far different monster.
Time. Time ticked forever forward, and for werewolves, the greatest enemy of all was the passing of every second. The thing about lycanthropy, the thing about full moon, was that it worked in a cycle. It always came back around.
The thing about Remus was, he always tried to forget. But with everything else in his life, his time revolved around his affliction. He could never truly forget, not for a second. After all,
It's only a matter of time, isn't it?
Reaver's words stung. All the fire in his belly couldn't burn them and they blazed in the back of his mind white hot and so vivid. And he could only clench his fists, palms dissolving in red as his fingernails bit into the skin. He could only wait, holding in the angry screams that threatened to break his ribs. It was because the realization stung like molten sand: the realization that those words were absolutely right.
The cries of the balverines had intensified as the day wore on, their shrill shrieks and howls blending into a demon's song that caressed is eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. It was nearing sunset now, and they were almost savage - like they sensed what was coming. The moon beckoned. Remus was trying so hard not to see them, curled into the farthest corner of the dark, hollow cell. A headache pounded behind red eyes as he sat, knees drawn up nearly to his chest, arms clutching his stomach as if that would somehow alleviate the pain that was already coursing through his body. His back gave a twisted jerk as his muscles cramped, and each time such a spasm shook his form a small panic —this is it, this is it—would rise and fall, as everything in him waited to be ripped apart.
It began in the joints days ago. An ache, like the nightmare of an arthritic old man, set in slowly a few days before the Moon, as it always did. It was easy enough to hide from the others, but as the hours until moonrise slid into the single digits he found that he could hardly bare to walk without great effort. The pain bloomed with the waxing of the moon, eventually enveloping his whole body in an incesant flame. There was nothing he could do to stop it, he knew from experience. He could lie down flat, he could force his body to relax; it didn't matter. His eyes were clenched shut and his mouth was a hard, thin line. He wanted to banish the pain, to force it out of his thoughts. But he focused on it, letting it envelop his senses in a whitewash of fury because if he drowned in this pain, he needn't think about what was to come. He didn't need to feel the weight of what he had done.
But the thoughts still came, unbidden. Hatred was an unnatural thing for Remus, although if he cared to think back on it, he would conclude that was by no means the boy he'd been only a few years prior. He had suffered through war, he had seen friends die - and the hate he carried from those events still lingered, greeting him like an old friend on cold, dreamless nights. He tried to squash it from his being, knowing people did not care for bitterness on his tongue. He tried to sever it from himself, but it was something he found he could not do. In a flood of pain-tinted thought, Remus felt hatred surge deep within him, from some nameless burning pit.
Remus hated the balverines. He hated them being here, their beastly nature mocking him in his most vulnerable moment. His very identity would be stripped bare, replaced by something no better than these abominations. Remus would become feral and savage, incapable of rational thought and—he swallowed—incapable of stopping himself if Reaver were to use him as a weapon. And why not? It was the perfect plan, a satirical humiliation. Involuntarily, the words he had rehearsed in his head six or seven thousand times reverberated again: his confession to Anders and Naoya, about his innermost secret. But he had failed to tell them. He'd failed to be honest about Alastor's so-called plan because he was afraid of coming clean about what he was. And now, everything that was about to happen to all of them was entirely his fault.
Remus was a coward. In the short time since arriving in this godforsaken world, he had managed to ruin everything. The guilt he felt was almost as strong as the pain. But in the growing darkness Remus hid his face in his hands: he should never have come with them in the first place. He should never have endangered them so. To bond with them in so short a time - he didn't deserve them. He didn't deserve their kindness, he didn't deserve their trust. But his face grew hot, and Remus realized there was a part of him that needed them. Anders and Naoya, they had grown on him. Years spent wandering in the cold and the rain flooded back into his memory and the pain of loneliness swallowed him like the dark. Remus realized that he needed them desperately, and he hated himself more for being so needy.
His palms grew wet and the cuts from his fingernails stung. Silently, Remus wiped his eyes.
The door at the end of the hall slammed open once more, admitting some new horror into the hall. But instead of boots climbing the stone steps towards his cage, the soft slap of—no, that couldn't possibly... But along with that, a persistent tic, tic, tic—
A balverine, clawed paws coming to rest at the doorway of his cell. Remus took a shaky breath, inhaling the stench of dog and the wolfsbane that had slowly overtaken the floor of the cell. It crunched beneath the balls of his feet as he pushed himself up, disbelief and confusion contorting his throat.
"You—I know you," he half croaked, and the balverine's ears perked up. "Nadine."
The auburn balverine exposed her teeth in what Remus could only assume was a horrible imitation of a smile, for she nodded at him as she did so. Remus swallowed. Could it be that—perhaps it wasn't after all—
"Alastor?" he ask her as soon as he reached the limits of the cell. But he stopped, kneeling down and letting himself rest. His legs burned and protested, cramping up and twisting, snakelike. He gripped the bars as he slid down to the floor, letting out a frustrated grunt as his knees made contact. Nadine gave a concerned snort, and Remus could hear her nostrils working overtime as she leaned in and took in his scent. She waited for him to look her way once more before huffing at him.
"I'm fine," he said, pressing his forehead against the cold metal. Another wave of cramps hit him and Remus was drawn into the pain, dwelling so deeply on it that he couldn't feel the hair sticking to the back of his neck in cold sweat. There was a part of him that he didn't want to acknowledge - a part of him that knew he deserved this. But again, he let out a slow, concentrated breath and clenched his hands into fists once more, trying to calm a mind that only wanted to scream. He spared a glance out the tiny brick-sized window, horrified by the lateness of the day. He had less than an hour, if he was any judge of his own body.
"Alastor?" Remus asked again, more urgently this time, and Nadine gave a low whine. She held out a massive forelimb, extending her human-like hand enough to drop something crumpled she held in her grip. Although initially folded with care, the note had clearly been abused by the canine messenger before delivery. Opening it carefully, the lettering inside was long and tall, strangely almost runic in shape. It looked as though the author had taken time to form each letter with great care.
THIS WAS NOT ANTICIPATED. NADINE WILL SEE TO YOU. I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN THE ARRANGEMENT.
There was no signature or identifying mark, but the origin of the note was very clear.
"You're here to get us out?" Remus asked, but when Nadine shook her head he could only gawk at her. "You can't just leave us here—Anders and Naoya, they—they have to escape!"
Nadine's shoulders heaved as she let out a cloying breath. An ebony claw scraped along the muck covering the floor of the hall.
YOU.
"Me?" Remus paused, considering. "You're—only here for me?"
Nadine nodded, and Remus frowned. "That doesn't make any sense—I can't leave now, the moon is nearly risen!"
Nadine shook her head even harder, growling at him. With a hind paw she wiped the mud slate clean and etched into it again.
AFTER.
"After I transform," Remus whispered, realization cold in his blood. "That's—Merlin, that..." He paused again. "You think it will work?"
Nadine gave no outward sign of anything at this point. She merely blinked at him, her golden eyes fixed on his green ones. Perhaps she was studying him just as he was her, trying to decide for themselves whether they were both mad.
"Alastor promised to keep the others safe." The statement was simple, but loaded. Remus was helpless to do anything once he transformed. He needed to know. He needed assurance. "He'll take care of them while I stay with you?"
Nadine's ears gave a twitch and she turned, glancing around the balverine pens for something Remus couldn't see. But she turned to him again and looked him up and down, before sliding her hind legs beneath her and squatting down beside the bars. Sitting beside Remus, Nadine gave a slow, toothy yawn. She was going to wait with him. Just like Alastor was going to take the others.
"Please keep them safe," he said, repeating himself until the words were nothing but a mantra. "Please keep them safe."
It was half prayer and half begging. Remus' mother was a devout Christian for the longest time, but it had been many years before her death that Remus had last heard Hope talk of God. Wizards like Remus and his father were forced underground by Christianity many centuries ago, and Remus wondered sometimes if the culture shock of marrying such a man had made her begin to question her faith. He would never know, now, but even though he didn't believe, sometimes in the darkest nights Remus found himself whispering small things into the air and hoping that just maybe there was something, someone. Even if that someone was just a balverine, pressing herself to his cell and promising that he would not be alone.
Remus could feel her fur through the gaps in the bars, and for reasons he didn't quite understand he raised his palm to rest it against her back. She was soft, and although he was careful to avoid the occasional quill neither seemed to be bothered by this contact. Nadine twisted her neck to sniff at his fingers before laying her head down beside his knees. She looked at him out of the side of her eyes, ears swatting her skull quickly.
"Not long," Remus frowned, surmising impatience from her behavior.
Eventually, he worked up the courage to strip, ignoring the pain and shutting out the thought of the balverines watching - not that they were, and nobody else had come down this way for hours. He wanted to be embarrassed, especially with his strange companion, but there was just no point anymore. There was no denying what was about to happen, and this was one way to ease the transition. In the fading light, he could still make out the scars that adorned his flesh like the story of his suffering.
A shudder passed down his spine and he grit his teeth as he felt his legs give way in another massive cramp. He was suddenly aware that the sun had set, suddenly aware of just how few the minutes were until -
Panic gripped him. He had always been afraid of his transformations, but never like this. An untold number of things could go wrong. Betrayal, blood, murder—fangs, images horrific and grotesque screamed across the claustrophobic landscape of his mind and—Oh, God, - the thoughts sent a wave of nausea through his gut and he curled up even tighter, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth. He didn't want to think about those things, but they were uncontrollable and violent, like flashes of nightmare punctuating the horrible pull of the moon at his bones, bending and twisting and pulling them into grotesque shapes. His breathing was rapid now, and the air had an electric feel like a storm was brewing. His heart pounded in his chest; it thundered in his ears.
There was no thought when he began to turn. Nothing but a horrible instant of pure terror and self-loathing - and then he was on the ground, no longer trying to hold in the cries as his flesh crawled and he was torn apart from the inside out.
Something slapped against his cheek and Anders stirred. And then again, harder this time. It was not violent, but urgent and precise. The voice that accompanied the unwelcome touch was silk venom.
"Good morning," Reaver purred, pressing the end of his cane a bit heavier against Anders' cheekbone. He dragged it down across the mage's cheek and placed it gently under his chin, lifting Anders' head to meet his eye. "Have a good sleep, did we?"
Anders blinked furiously, wishing for the innumerable stimuli to begin to make sense. His mouth tasted like he had spent the last week with something slimy under his tongue, and he had to take the worst piss of his life.
"Maker..." he breathed, still quite groggy. But the demands of his body pushed him into acute consciousness. And he glared up at Reaver, suddenly realizing his place once more.
"Wrong again," Reaver grinned. "But I daresay you must be feeling rather foggy. You writhed and screamed in your sleep all day long. Perhaps it can be forgiven."
Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, Anders pressed his head against the back of the chair, crushing his half-pony and letting it dig into his scalp. The pain would help him come back to his senses, to be in the present moment. He could still feel something toxic flushing through his system, and Justice was—gone, still nothing. Nowhere. He was still present, somewhere, though the thought was only of slight comfort. Anders was still alive, and therefor Justice was still with him. And yet the emptiness in his head was disturbing indeed, and Anders let out a nasal sigh. His throat was dry and sore from screaming, hours of hallucinations and nightmares having ripped the flesh apart. Even his eyes burned and mere blinking was taxing, as what felt like days of sleep deprivation pulled, chain-like, on every muscle and fiber. His limbs felt useless and heavy, and he lay half-limp against the body of the chair, supported only by the straps holding him in place. His body trembled involuntarily, and as Reaver replaced his cane in his belt loop to approach him Anders could not summon a proper protest.
"Have you thought over your situation, dear Anders?"
Maker, if Anders could only blow the smile off of that bastard's face. But he couldn't do anything. He was powerless. Old rage filled him again, clutching at his throat with a panicked frenzy as the situation made itself clear.
"I won't let you free," Anders tried to say boldly, but it was dry and scratchy and meek, so meek. "You won't keep your bargain. You won't let them go."
"Oh, contraire!" Reaver smiled at Anders, and the latter man wanted to vomit. "I have issued not a single lie since you first arrived in my lands—merely half-truths, as I'm sure a man of your... caliper, is sure to understand. Nay, I offer you a show of good faith: accept my offer and I will personally see to it that you are there to witness their release and exit from this land. Do this teensy, tiny thing for me, and your friends will never have to worry about this ever again."
Reaver paused, fumbling through his many pockets and seams to reach for something in his coat. "And," he said with a sly smile, "I shall even return this stolen contraband to them." He slid the rough parchment out of his sleeve, opening up the map of the forest fires. "I suspect they'll be needing a guide through the woods, after all.
"So," he finished, "what say you?"
Reaver watched Anders with a haunting expression of hunger. Anders sensed his options were painfully limited. But he was used to working with broken bits at best. To be a Grey Warden, after all, was to know and understand sacrifice absolutely. Wardens gave up their families, their futures—and in return, they received only an end guaranteed to be soaked in blood. Heartache was as much a part of the lifestyle as heroism. But no matter how great the deed, no matter the number of lives saved, the only thing waiting for the Grey Wardens were the ancient tunnels of the Deep Roads and the perpetual darkness of the Blight. Even if you no longer wore the uniforms, a Warden's time would still come. Their greatest Calling: walking into the depths, to their deaths among the darkspawn they were bred to kill. There was no avoiding it: Anders' destiny circulated in his blood. It was a part of him. As much of a martyr as Anders was, the sacrifice was being forced on him. And Reaver's offer was no different. Just like with the Taint, Anders was backed into a corner. But now, he knew the names and faces of the people he would be saving. They were his friends. And though they had met only days prior, Anders discovered that meant everything to him.
But it could still be another trick. Anders wanted to call Reaver out, to scream and demand the whole truth. But there was still that chance that he was right; that Remus and Naoya could go free, if only Anders would would do this one little thing. It was manipulation that the Templars could only dream of. Shifting aginst the straps of the chair, Anders's cold fingers curled and clenched, his nails biting half-moons into his palms. The idea that Remus and Naoya could go free was—miraculous, wondrous... It clung to him.
And more than that, what if he said no? Supposing that the three of them did somehow manage to get out of this situation alive, where would Anders go? Home, to Kirkwall? Back to the mage underground, smuggling frightened apprentice mages out of the city before the Templars made them Tranquil? The image of Hawke with the lyrium brand pressed against her forehead returned, haunting him. Anders blinked it away.
Anders was nothing of not an advocate for freedom. It meant everything to him that a man should be able to walk as he pleased and live as he was intended to. With this simple gesture, he could guarantee freedom to two more people... he could save two more... Calmly, Anders sighed quietly and listened to the sound of his pulse rushing in his ears. A kind of sadness came over him as he slipped into acceptance, already trying to distance himself from the memories of Naoya and Remus, if only so that their absence may hurt less. When the lump formed in his throat, he swallowed it.
"Nothing that you ask of me could be worse than knowing that they're still here."
Reaver's eyes lit up, positively full of delight. "Excellent," he said, clapping his hands together. "It will take time to arrange, though—weather, supplies, what-have-yous. Your Mr. Lupin won't be able to travel for some time. When I last left him, he was paler than moonlight."
Reaver chuckled softly to himself, thumbing his chin as he considered what would need to be done. But it was then that he paused, a serious expression coming over his roguish features. He whirled on his heel, the white tails of his coat splaying, and faced the cell door - where a silent Alastor stood standing, arching over slightly in the doorway that was too small for him. "Alastor, you have a charge. Why are you here?"
Alastor's s cold expression shifted slightly, awkwardly huffing his shoulders. "Something has come up," he spoke clearly and coldly. "Something that needs your immediate attention."
Reaver's eyes narrowed, a displeased frown spreading across his face. He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers still gripping his cane, and headed for the door. "Of course there is. Why send a balverine to do a Skill Hero's job?" He issued a frustrated growl. "Give us a minute would you, Anders…"
Alastor stepped into the room to let Reaver pass. When Reaver rounded the corner and disappeared, there was a very familiar: "Hi!"
A low blast sent Reaver toppling backwards and rolling down the prison corridor.
The familiar voice was accompanied by a familiar figure in a black jacket with white stripes - Naoya appeared in the doorway before ducking inside the prison cell in time just as a bullet ricocheted off the metal door frame.
"I thought you were getting the gun," Alastor grunted.
"I'm working on it!" Naoya snipped. "I'm having a little trouble with not getting shot!"
For a split second, Anders considered the possibility he had been drugged again. "Andraste's sword!" he cried to Naoya, "what in the ever loving flame are you doing here? You know what? I don't want to know—just get me out of this—!"
Reaver's form lashed into view in the doorway, far less manicured than before. Rage boiled beneath his skin and burned his eyes, and he—
With a heaving grunt, Naoya slammed the thick wooden door of the cell shut, right in Reaver's face. The Lord pounded against the door with the head of his cane, spewing obscenities even as he locked the cell shut. Alastor glanced at Naoya, his expression a mix of annoyance and disbelief.
"What?" Naoya rubbed the back of his neck. "I panicked, okay? At least he's on the other side of the door."
"Yes," Alastor grumbled, striding purposefully to Anders' side and undoing each strap holding the mage in place. "But now we are trapped inside this cell."
"No," Anders said. "We're not."
It took him a moment to find his strength and another still to find his balance. After his ordeal, Anders found his limbs stiff and his neck gave an audible crack as he flexed for the first time in who knew how many hours? He cursed as his body began to scream various needs to his brain, not the least of which was the stab wound in his leg, and Anders' first order of business was to make certain he could walk. His hands shot to his thigh, and Anders grimaced as he dug into his deepest reserves of mana. Muscle fibers began to sew themselves together, the process more painful than it should have been with such a limited reserve of mana. Pain was not as important as damage. When he finished, the wound was not healed, but rather mended 'well enough.' Anders could walk on it now, at any rate. And so he took full advantage of that fact by making for the corner and allowing himself a long overdue piss.
"You have a plan?" Alastor droned, and Anders looked over his shoulder at the balverine to soak in the look of disgust. It felt almost as good to see that bastard butler like this as it did to orgasm—almost. Finally through, Anders turn back to them. Although Reaver no longer pounded on the door, Anders could sense him out in the hall. His malace was palpable, and it stunk to high reaches.
"No, I don't have a plan," Anders frowned, but his hands gave a pleasant twitch. "But I'm damned good at escaping."
Throwing everything within himself, Anders let out a heated cry as a fireball exploded from his palms, rocketing towards the wooden door splintering the block straight from the hinges. The door slammed into the wall at incredible speed, cushioned by the only thing standing in it's way: a human body. White coat tails could be seen covered in soot beneath a heaping pile of splintered wood, unmoving.
Anders' limbs shook with the effort and he was suddenly out of breath. He leaned against the chair that had held him, momentarily winded. But he drove himself forward and stepped carefully over the debris in his path, glaring at it with each move of muscle. "He's lucky I'm weakened," he spat. He turned to Alastor and Naoya, both of whom were staring at him. "Let's go! Let's get out of here!"
"Not yet, where's the cane?" Alastor insisted.
"No cane, no exit," Naoya paraphrased, making for where he saw the shiny black end of Reaver's cane sticking out from under the door. As soon as he grasped the smooth metal, he immediately jumped back - narrowly avoiding Reaver kicking the door off of him.
"There's already no exit," Reaver stated, pushing against the wall as he stood up. He eyed the three of them through the black curls that hung down in his face. In one hand he held his bejeweled revolver, using his other hand to steady himself against the wall. "Well, well," Reaver mused, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Dirt smeared his white ensemble, but he was otherwise unscathed. "It's been a while since I've been this… this angry." His attention then focused on Alastor, and he dryly muttered: "It's always the butler, isn't it."
"You were the one who was so sure that you could not fail," Alastor replied.
Reaver frowned, as if he were aggressively disapproving of a selection of new curtains. "How cliche." He then straightened, cocking his gun and aiming it at Naoya. "You'll return that to me now."
Naoya wearily eyed the end of Reaver's barrel.
"Return it to me now!"
"You're just going to shoot us anyways!"
The Lord glowered at the boy. "You're right."
BANG!
The air in front of Naoya rippled, as if it were a calm pond that someone had thrown a stone into, just inches from the teenager's face - and Reaver's bullet ricocheted off of the psychic's barrier, reflecting back and striking his weapon from his hand. Reaver cried out in surprise and held his arm close to him, shaking his fingers free of the shock.
"You rude little mutant," Reaver snarled in a teetering but crisp tone, flashing his perfect white teeth.
It was a white, cold shadow that rushed past Anders and Naoya and slammed Reaver to the ground. Claws poked through the ends of his gloves as he repeatedly slammed Reaver's face into the stonework, any words Reaver had objecting to his attacker were lost in the cacophonous roar Alastor let out. Alastor wrestled with keeping Reaver pinned underneath him while trying to maintain his human form; but his concentration was failing him, and his face elongated as his jaw distended to reveal a maw of mangled teeth and his eyes enlarged to yellow orbs full of malice and rage. Anders looked away and shielded his eyes, and Naoya clenched his eyes shut; both of them flinching slightly every time they heard the dull thud of flesh meeting rock.
Finally there was no fighting back from the Lord, and the alpha visibly forced himself to cease mauling the man underneath him, lest he kill Reaver. Alastor, his hair a mess and his chest heaving, let out one last deep growl, before dragging Reaver's unconscious form away to a cell that still had a door.
"So what is this?" Anders demanded as they walked, both humans struggling to keep up with what was a steady stride for the Alpha. "What in Andraste's name are we doing here?"
Anders was glaring at Naoya, something the psychic didn't need to be looking at him to feel. He thought the mage would at least be pleased, being out of Reaver's prison. "We're getting out of here," he replied, curbing the urge to follow up with a, "I thought it was pretty obvious."
"Where's Remus?" Anders asked, struggling to talk and keep pace. "Where are our things?"
"Here," Alastor said sharply as they came to the end of the hall. "Did you truly think I would lead you out of here and leave you defenseless?"
"I don't presume to know anything about a man who drugged us," Anders snapped.
"That was—not anticipated," Alastor growled.
"He's on our side, Andy," Naoya assured the mage, ignoring Alastor's sharply dipping frown. Naoya knew that it was only half true. But Anders didn't need to know the whole, complicated affair so long as they got out in one piece, right?
Alastor reached for the iron door knob, his brows knitting tighter—as though they had much farther to go, but Naoya wondered. "The door is locked," the balverine stated flatly.
"No," Anders gasped in mock horror. "The very important supply closet is locked!"
Alastor was looking murderous now.
"Just break it down," Naoya suggested with a peacekeeping shrug.
"Do try to avoid a cave in," Alastor said quickly. His expression was flat, but his voice betrayed his annoyance.
Anders said nothing, approaching the door with single-minded determination. During the short trek from his cell, Anders had begun to feel a familiar sensation from within. Small, though, and perhaps uncertain. Now that the poison had finished circling through his system Justice had begun to awaken, and the spirit was disoriented. The drive to escape was strong within him, though, and Anders wasn't sure which of them was pushing him forward now when they both craved it like a drug. Wrapping his fingers around the iron door handle, Anders' breath fogged in his face for a flash of a second as he reached both for the crippled mass of mana struggling to reform, and for his dearest friend. Both of them were weak. But, it was enough. It was enough for now.
Anders leaned his weight against the handle of the door, biting his lip as the searing cold stabbed into his skin as he froze the lock inside the handle. The mechanism cracked and groaned as the ice forced joints apart, and Anders turned to Alastor and, with a quick jab of his thumb, indicated for the other to move in. With a heavy kick, Alastor's powerful strength saw the door fly open on it's hinges. Anders's staff was leaning against the wall, too long to lay on the shelving littered with long forgotten belongings. Ancient swords, strange boots and foreign insignias mixed with the more modern wear. The stench of balverine and blood was very strong here, and nobody stopped to wonder what had happened to the people the items once belonged to. Anders snatched up his staff and exited the room as quickly as possible.
Immediately, Alastor lead them down a spiraling set of stairs. The stonework around them seemed to change from set bricks and shapes to natural basalt, the stairs underfoot had been crudely carved and claw marks decorated the space around them.
"Remus is down here," he explained as they descended, "But you might not find him... well."
It finally let out in a corridor which was, for at least part of it, fitted to look like the dungeon above; doors lined either side, and clawed fingers reached out between the bars in the small windows. Some of the doors shook as the balverines inside rammed their full weight against them. Growls and howls and chattering, horrible, mutated, and throaty noises filled the air. Naoya cringed as he set foot down, the primal emotions hanging in the air grabbing for his senses. He held his head and frowned, averting his eyes from the dim torchlight as his headache returned in force.
"Enough!" Alastor barked, and immediately the large majority of the beasts grew silent. All except one.
She emerged from the darkness, her red fur distinct in the firelight and her quills threatening. Her yellow eyes glowed, Cheshire-like. Nadine approached Alastor slowly, her shoulders sunken.
"Then it has happened," Alastor said, to which the female nodded. "Perhaps it is... safer, this way. For them," he added. "We must move quickly, though."
"What is this place, why are they all here? Shouldn't they be on the surface?" the questions tumbled out of Naoya's mouth before he could think about it.
"No. These are the Ferals. In the old days, they would have been kept with the rest of the hive. But there's too many of them right now. My kind spend seven years in a mindless, animalisitc state before - if - we regain setience."
"So these are baby balverines," Naoya unsurely muttered.
"Remus is down here?" Anders said, ignoring the psychic. "With the feral beasts? Where is he?" Tight spaces. Dark, tight spaces, full of monsters. Anders did not like this place. But he remained firm. He was dizzy and not sure he was entirely here, but Maker, he was going to keep going. "Where is he?" he asked again, when Alastor hesitated to respond.
"He is... this way," Alastor pointed with a lengthy digit. "But I warn you: he will not be as you remember him."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Anders demanded. "Let's just get Remus and get out of this blighted place!"
Alastor stared at Anders for a moment, unblinking and expressionless. Perhaps deciding his response was best kept to himself, he indicated for Nadine to lead and the others to follow. "I do not know what you will find," he said slowly. "I have never met one of Remus's kind before now."
Anders' skin prickled at the words. Kind? What in blazes did that mean? He was sick of riddles—sick of games! All he wanted was to see the sky again, to be in the wood and, yes, even be chased down by the reptilian creatures again—anything, if it meant getting out of this wretched place! He just wanted out! How long had Remus been trapped down here with these things, he wondered? Was he subjected to the balverine's venom as well? Anders tried to imagine what it may have been like, having to listen to these bloodcurdling howls and the snapping jaws while deep in some toxic hallucination. He only shuddered.
"Why did Reaver put him down here? There were plenty of other cells, you saw!"
"When you see him," Alastor said, "you will understand."
"Bullshit!" Anders slammed his boot into the closest set of bars, but the noise was drowned by the resurgance of the feral howls. Over the roar, Anders bellowed: "No more riddles! No more hints, no more games! I want to get my friend and depart from this nightmare place!"
Nadine's ears pinned to her skull and she growled, but Alastor put his hand up. He was calm in the face of the flickering of blue lights gracing Anders' exposed skin.
"He is here," he said, pointing to a cell not far away.
Approaching the barred door, Naoya and Anders grew silent and uncertain. Spread out across the floor in the linear gaps between stones, the first thing either of them saw clearly were the royal purple flowers. In the moonlight streaking in from the window, the wolfsbane shuddered and snapped as the occupant of the cell crushed them with careless haste, only for more to try and regrow with it's every step. It was a wolf. Big and gray with a thick body on sturdy legs, covered in fur from the tip of his tuftedtail to the tip of his wide nose. Naoya jumped back as the wolf inside lunged for the door, for their fragile skin and bones. The wolf's pain flashed across his empath senses, and anger - and a strange, distant fear; a fear that was altogether wrong and out of place.
The psychic let out a drawling whistle. "I never would have guessed it," he said, hands on his hips.
Anders glanced from Naoya, to Alastor, and to Nadine. "I—don't understand," he said. "What's going—"
But he could see it now: beside the wolfsbane seedlings scraping by across the floor, there lay a pile of clothing long torn apart. Clothing Anders recognized. "Remus is—?"
"A werewolf," Naoya confirmed. "Kinda small, though. At least for the ones I know of."
A werewolf. Anders swallowed, taking in the new information. His head had begun to pound, the intense noise splitting his eardrums. His thoughts were small, perhaps from shock but perhaps from the beasts. He tried to speak, but found his tongue dry.
Anders turned away from the cell. He didn't want to see the snarling wolf inside it's bounds. He didn't want to see the feral creatures in the cell block gripping for their loose clothing and any exposed flesh through bars of black iron and steel. Anders felt a strange numbing sensation inside him: denial. It couldn't be Remus, he told himself. He wasn't even sure what it was, if not just a giant animal. It wasn't a Blight wolf, nor was it a wolf possessed by a demon. Werewolves of Thedas were men bitten and infected by such loathesome creatures and this—whatever this was—was not Remus.
Anders brought his hands to his chin, scraping his fingers against his stubble and breathing hard. He stayed like that for a long time. Reality sunk in slowly, and when Anders turned back once more, he pressed his hand up against the bars, illiciting an immediate and rabid response. Once again, the werewolf hurled it's bulk against it's prison, this time barking in pain. But it would not be dissuaded, and it watched them with perked ears as it waited for them to make another foolish move.
Anders stepped back and away, suppressing the sudden urge to hollar and scream again. But not out of rage or horror, but defeat. There could be no escape without all three of them—there was no justice in leaving a man with the enemy. They were defeated, and not even by the Lord—no, they were lost to their own curses and their poor judgement.
"What are we to do now?" he asked, eyes still fixed on Remus. "We can't leave him. Not like this, not... not as he is." Anders was visibly pale. The man he knew was gone, replaced by this monstrous perversion.
Naoya folded his arms over his chest, pouting indignantly, his eyes tired but alite. "Remus is still in there. I can sense him, a little." He held up a finger, trying to make a new point. "He's a werewolf, right? They only do this once a month. Come sunrise, he'll turn back into Remus." He turned to look up at Alastor, confident smile on his face as if he knew exactly what he was talking about. Werewolves were Darklore; Naoya's best friend back home was a Darklore. He mentally kicked himself, he should have known more. "I can either go in there, or we can wait it out. How long until sunrise?"
Alastor closed his eyes, giving a heaving sigh. "Eight hours. The night is still young, and my kind are very restless on the full moon. Balverines don't all turn for the moon, but you've got more than just Remus to be worried about down here." He opened his eyes, full golden orbs before a few blinks settled them back down into a humanized form. A gloved hand ran through his flared white locks.
The psychic stared at the balverine, then to the mage, then back to the balverine. "Was that a threat?"
"It was a statement," Alastor replied dryly. "Perhaps you have noticed that I do not have control of these Ferals. I cannot use the Crystal, nor do I dare. And so the last influences of Reaver are still upon them. They listen to me, but only to a point. They will seek to avenge their false alpha. We are all in danger. Time is short. We must go," he added strongly. "Nadine will see to Mr. Lupin. But you must come with me, now."
"No," said Naoya. "We all go together! I can do this."
None of them looked convinced, and Naoya scratched his head, displacing silken hazel locks. He thought of something smart to say, but decided against it. Now was not the time for charm. Now was the time to try to ignore the headache. Now was the time for focusing what he could muster of all his hallucination-causing abilities. Naoya had once made a man think he'd been hugged to death, kinda. An extra-dimensional werewolf wasn't that far off from some clanless Arayashiki, was it? Okay, it was, he objected to his own thinking, species and faction alignments and magic and blah blah.
Before Anders or Alastor could object further, Naoya had pressed himself to the cage bars. "If this doesn't work, then we'll try some other way," he quickly said, kneeling down to face the monster within.
Naoya let out a quiet breath, bringing his focus to a single point. He needed to find it: the piece of Remus that was still inside. He cast his thoughts out towards the werewolf, feeling only primal need and anger. It was not content to be trapped here, it never was. Though always it is trapped, and it brings no rest to the fury inside and—
Naoya quickly leaned back as the werewolf tried for the bars again. It's snout was bleeding, but if it knew it certainly didn't care. A burst of rage and fear hit Naoya in the gut, and he watched helplessly as the wolf began to take to it's own skin. Long, wet fangs dug into meaty thighs and hind claws scratched at the underbelly and shoulders. It was a self-destructive outlet for untamed emotions, and the pained shrieks dug into their ears.
"Remus," Naoya tried again, once more bringing his thoughts to point, "I know you're in there. I know you can hear me!"
The werewolf stopped, ears perked and green eyes watching. It was breathing very heavily, and Naoya could almost feel the pain it was in as it tried to alleviate it's turmoil. Naoya placed his palms on the bars of the cell once again, watching the werewolf as it stared at him, confused and unmoving. It tilted it's head to the side, puffing out of it's black nose.
"Remus," Naoya said, a little louder and clearer now, "you need to come back. You need to come to the surface. Can you do that?"
The werewolf shifted it's weight, beginning to pace back and forth. More wolfsbane grew in the muddied soil between stones as it walked, and in the chill of the underground it's breath fogged in heated clouds of dragons' breath. It gave no sign that it understood anything Naoya had to say.
"Well?" Anders asked, impatient and restless. "Is he... still in there?"
"A little," Naoya frowned. "Buried, though. It's not so much that he's gone, just that he's..."
"What?"
"...I don't know. Like, I can sense Justice inside of you, and I know you're two different people. But it's not like that now. Remus is still there, but the thing is, the werewolf is not a seperate personality. As much as the real Remus is buried, this is still Remus right here. His behavior has just... changed. Different parts of him got swapped out for others. He knows what he's doing, but he can't stop. Does that make sense?"
"Nothing makes sense anymore," Anders said with an exhasperaged shrug, and he ran his fingers across his face, leaving red lines down his cheeks. "Just tell me whether this will work so we can leave!"
Naoya said nothing, because he did not know himself.
"Well, there's only one way to know for sure" he whispered to no one. "I guess I have to pet the doggie."
It was a joke no one but him appreciated. Reaching his right arm inside the cell, Naoya needed to be as close as he could to make the connection. He pressed his shoulder and chest to the cold beams, wishing his jacket were warmer as the chill bit underneath his layers. He focused again, struggling with a pounding headache that warned him how much effort he was giving. Damn the drugs, damn Reaver.
"Remus!" Naoya had the werewolf's full attention now. "Please, I know you can hear me. Just listen! If you can, please come here."
"What?!" Anders barked. "You've gone and lost your mind!"
"I need to be in physical contact to get through all the way," Naoya returned without so much as a look. His eyes were fixed on the beast, whose paws clicked against the stone as massive claws lead the way in a very slow approach.
"There," said Naoya, "That's it. Very good. Nice and calm, okay?"
Part of him debated on whether to tell Remus he spoke to him like a dog in the morning, but the idea was probably not one of his better ones. But there was a sudden, strange stirring in the animal's mind, and the werewolf stopped. Whining to itself, it pressed it's powerful muzzle into the earth and pawed at it's face. Confusion, Naoya sensed. What was taking place in it's mind? The werewolf gave a quick shudder, almost panting now, and it gave a hideous, barking howl. Rushing the bars, Naoya screamed as a snarling set of fangs barely missed his outstretched hand. The werewolf screeched as it hit the bars again, and Naoya struggled against the two pairs of hands wrapped around either shoulder to drag him away. But when a searing pain broke through his awareness, Naoya's eyes widened to see blood flowing down his middle and his black jacket sticky with muted red.
Naoya screamed, not unaccustomed to pain by any means but shocked nonetheless. The wound pulsed with every beat of his heart, and the hands on his shoulders dropped him to the floor with an unfriendly jerk, pressing him against the stone. "What are you doing?!"
"Stop moving!" Anders exclaimed, ripping Naoya's swatting hands away and reaching for the collar of his jacket. "How does this—" Anders cursed, struggling with the zipper. It didn't take long to figure out, and swift fingers immediately splayed the jacket open across the floor to examine the wound.
"I can—" Naoya began, but his head spun and the pain was incredible. Naoya paled as he pushed the older man away with his limited strength, trying to sit up and then immediately regretting the decision. He groaned, pressing his head to the floor. "My species heals fast, I'll be fine once the bleeding stops," he explained, but his voice was a near whisper. "Has the bleeding stopped?"
"No," Anders warned. "You need to—"
"I'll deal with it," Naoya grunted. He forced himself up, sliding his coat off and pressing it to the red stain in his abdomen. "We need to move."
"You can't go far like that! Give me your arm if nothing else!" Anders shouted, bending down to swing Naoya's arm over his shoulder. "Lean on me," he demanded. "Press the shirt to the wound, and don't you dare stop!"
Alastor had already made his way to the end of the hall, which was growing more and more like a tunnel than a civilized structure as Anders and Naoya struggled to follow. On either side, feral balverines howled and barked at them, reaching their unnaturally long limbs through the bars to try and snatch anything they could grab of their potential prey.
"They can smell the blood," Alastor's voice broke over the waves of noise.
Swarms of the creatures pressed themselves to the edges of the cells, and as the walls turned into more and more rock than brick, Anders could see the stone beginning to crack under the combined pressure of a thousand hungry eyes. Chips fell to the floor near the failing hinges, and Anders repressed a shuddering swallow.
"Faster," he hissed to the teen. Naoya's brow was dotted with sweat, and Anders bit back a desperate shout.
Forward. Forward, came the first clear thought in days.
Justice, Anders thought back. Maker, what a sight for—
We must continue, the spirit urged. Do not stop!
"Yes," Anders huffed aloud, half carrying the psychic now. Though the wound in his thigh burned, it was not bad: it was surprising how light Naoya was for a lad his age, and Anders comforted himself with the thought that he would pester Naoya about it once this was all over. He felt his own side grow wet with the teenager's blood, but he daren't look down.
"Keep going," he urged, his words coming faster than his breaths could carry them. "We have to move! Keep going!"
Beside him, he could hear Naoya's labored breathing. The teen offered sparse grunts in reply. Anger drove Anders' heels forward: anger at the fool teen for bleeding to death beside a healer, anger at Remus for endangering their lives, anger at Reaver, anger at the universe—
"Here," Alastor implored. He stood before set of crumbling stone stairs leading to a locked trap door in the ceiling. "We will need to reach the master bedroom. The only way out that does not take you through the city is through that room."
Anders turned to Naoya as their soles slapped against the stairs. "Can you make it that far?"
Naoya didn't respond to Anders's query. His voice was quiet, but his words piercing: "It's not healing," he whispered, his eyes searching the empty air for an answer. "Why isn't it healing?"
Anders bit his lip. "He won't make it if we don't do something immediately," he said, coming up behind Alastor as the other man reached for the latch on the door.
The old joints groaned in protest as the door was pushed open, slamming into the stone on the other side and bathing the three men in a column of light. The smell of bread and sugar wafted down, and already Anders could see firelight dancing across what appeared to be a brick-faced hearth.
"This is the kitchen," Alastor verified. He took Naoya's other hand and together he and Anders lead the boy up the remaining steps. Alastor threw his arms across the heavy wooden table in the center of the room, smashing the plates and jars across the floor without care. "Place him here."
Naoya opened his mouth to protest, but Anders swung his feet out from beneath him and immediately laid him down across the prep surface. "It's still bleeding," he said, slowly lifting a corner of the jacket from the wound. There was no scab or clot forming, and so Anders took the rest of the fabric away. The gash was deep, cutting diagonally across the center of the boy's chest near the diaphragm and ending almost below his bellybutton. In the firelight it was hard to glimpse for certain, but Anders thought there was no visible fat or muscle inside the glaring red. A serious gash indeed, but not mortal—unless they waited to treat it much longer.
"Water," Anders demanded, pressing a palm to Naoya's forehead. In swift fashion Alastor obeyed, handing Anders a bowl and cloth. Anders took up the bunched fabric and wrung it out over the wound, clearing away a portion of blood. Running it along the outside of the wound, Anders' brow was furrowed as he muttered to himself.
Anders ran his hands along Naoya's prone form, touching, sensing. Pale skin, clammy. Thready pulse and shallow breaths. Blood-drenched clothing. He'd lost so much blood.
Anders' free hand unclipped the staff from his back and it clattered to the floor beside him. Mana. He needed mana, but he was nearly spent. It felt as though his cells were drying up, as though his blood was made of sand. He had the tricks to cause explosions and freeze doorknobs—little, futile things. But healing required a focus he simply did not have after everything they had been through. And yet he reached into his deepest reserves, tapping into the Fade and begging Justice to steady his hand as it traveled over the wound, splayed fingers glowing with the pale blue light familiar to his spirit healing technique. But when the bleeding did not slow, Anders hissed aloud.
He cursed again, head reeling. His muscles seized and panic slapped in waves against his ribs, and for one agonizing moment Anders realized he did not know what to do. He closed his eyes, thinking back to all the things he had done to become the healer he was today. Most mages never learned the healing arts. Many cite a fear of blood to cover their true lack of aptitude. A deep grasp of magic is necessary, and most mages never wanted to learn anything past protecting themselves from demons. They never wanted to use their gifts when it was burnt into their minds from birth that magic is a curse for mankind's sins, and Anders tried not to blame them. But it took more than any talent to be a healer. Objectivity was not an easy thing, but it was absolutely necessary to work on the dying. With a steady exhale, Anders let himself go cold. He went hollow—no room for anything but logic and thought. His mind raced: Wardens, darkspawn, field medics, blood and—
"Oh—!," he blurted wildly, spinning around on his heels, "—I need something—something strong, cloth—"
Alastor's eyes lit up as the request clicked inside his mind. "The wine cellar," he said, vanishing out of the nearby archway.
"Naoya," Anders said, leaning down to the psychic's level, "I need you to put your shirt in your mouth."
"The blood's coming from my chest, Andy," Naoya responded weakly.
"Naoya," Anders snapped, "just do it."
Anders wrapped the driest parts of the black jacket into a rough ball, pressing it into Naoya's face. The teen gave him a spiteful glare as he took it, giving the jacket a mournful squeeze. "I guess black doesn't hide everything," he sighed.
Alastor returned then with a glass bottle shaped like the body of a violin or cello, with a lengthy neck and rich color to disguise the vile flavor within. Anders liked his liquor as much as any man, though he had learned from several youthful experiences—not the least of which ended with him in Templar chains—to avoid the strong stuff. This, however, was a situation requiring the hottest fire.
Naoya had picked up his head, growing paler than Anders believed possible given the blood loss. As Alastor popped the cork and slid the bottle to Anders, he swallowed hard. "Aren't I supposed to get a sip first?"
"No time," Anders said, nodding to Alastor whose hands wrapped around Naoya's arm and leg opposite the mage. "Hold onto my arm," he said, offering the arm not holding the bottle. "And put the shirt—right. One. Two. Three!"
Just a small spill of brandy dripped smoothly across Naoya's exposed chest, but it was enough to cause him to kick out with his last free limb as a muffled scream escaped his writhing form. Tears welled behind his eyelids and trickled angry lines down the sides of his face. The hanging utencils over the brick oven rattled alongside every bit of glassware in the room. Pots and pans trembled on the shelves, and the water bowl shattered as Naoya's cries of pain were echoed out through his mental powers.
"Finished," Anders breathed, wincing as Naoya tore his slender fingers from the mage's arm. There would surely be bruising.
"There was time!" Naoya spat. "There was time, you bastard!"
"That's the spirit," Anders nodded, a crooked, ghostly grin working his exhausted expression. He wiped sweat from his brow, frowning.
Naoya was still bleeding some. Deep in the wound, something Anders couldn't place worked beneath the inflamed tissues, keeping it open as much as possible. Now that he had a spare moment to breathe, he could sense it. He visualized the blood surging through veins, mixing with black quill ink drip by ever slow drip. There was something magical inside the wound, preventing it from healing. Something venomous left behind by the werewolf. There was no telling what it would mean for Naoya.
The journey skywards from the underground kitchen was much slower than any of them liked, but with Naoya wounded and nearly out of breath at every step, his pale form half draped across Anders' shoulders, they didn't dare go faster. They met no resistance as they walked in total silence, though the lack of other living persons was not entirely a comfort. Whether there were balverines in the rooms lining the halls, watching them with their sickly yellow eyes through cracks and shadows, Alastor gave no outward indication. But Anders' insides burned and Justice did not have to whisper to bring the paranoia they both felt to the surface. The mage's eyes darted this way and that, then to Naoya, and back again. His own footing was scarecely given the attention that perhaps it deserved, and Anders did not consider his luck that he had so far remained standing.
"How much farther?" Anders barked, a little more cross than he intended. He apologized in low tones.
"Your concern is valid," Alastor said with a wave of his hand. "We are nearing the master bedroom."
From beside him, Naoya's head lifted. "The tunnels would have been quicker."
"The tunnels would have been infested with the Ferals shortly," replied Alastor from ahead. "And you are in no condition to do anything but die."
Naoya gave a weak smile and a thumbs up. "Die young, leave a pretty corpse."
Anders looked apalled. "Naoya, for your sake, you had better be joking-!"
"We are here," Alastor said loudly.
They had come to the end of the hall, where the walls appeared to be consumed by an overly large and grandiose door. The ebony wood was bold in contrast to the brown shades of the rest of the wood work, and the knob was set with highly polished, gold plated finish. From under the door, the sickly sweet smell of dried poppy wafted up with unnatural potency. The scent was thick and strangely musky, and Anders detected undertones of citrus and something very earthy, something immediately familiar to him.
"Elfroot," he whispered to himself, but Naoya gave him an odd look.
"Marijuana," he said. "This is a drug den."
"The boy is not wrong," Alastor spoke over his shoulder. "Perhaps you should cover your noses."
Alastor withdrew a small key from within his inner breast pocket, quietly sighing to himself before opening the door with a steady swing. Immediately, the source of the smell was self evident in the tendrils of suffocating smoke that oozed into the exposed hallway like poison seeking to contaminate water. Anders' nose curled and he coughed-only a little, but enough to shake Naoya and cause the teen to wince. His white shirt was still wet in places, but per Anders' instructions he pressed his jacket into his middle in the hopes of stemming the bleeding. With his other arm wrapped around Anders' shoulders, Naoya was helpless against the smoke.
"Try not to cough," Anders instructed. "You'll only exacerbate your wound."
Naoya's tilted expression was sarcasm enough for Anders. "Can't you do something? I thought you were a magic healer!"
"I am," Anders frowned. "But I used the last of my mana on more important things like escaping from Reaver! I need time or a good poultice and some bandages, and given that we have none of those I suggest we take it slow."
"Hmph," Naoya pouted. But he was fooling no one: the pain he was in was written in the sweat dotting his brow and in the gentle tremble of his limbs.
The three men eased their way into Reaver's private chambers. The massive room was the size of a small ballroom, lined with round paper lanterns that gave out a low, amber glow-lighting better suited for seducing a lover than reading before bed. The same red overtones as the rest of the mansion dominated the decor here as well, only the ruby was swathed with checkered black tiles across the floor and black silk hanging from the lanterns. Hanging from the ceiling, the tiny eyes of rabbits stared widely down at them, and from somewhere in the dark a chicken could be heard clucking. Beside them as they entered, a stretch of shelves traveled the length of the wall split only by the occasional love seat or expensive chair. Paintings of voluptuous maidens and well endowed men gathered along the walls, guardians of the chains, straps and whips sitting expectantly upon the shelving beneath. Ball gags, masks, a colorful arrangement of toys-Anders likened the inside of the Lord's bedroom to one of the more expensive hideaways at the Blooming Rose brothel. He gave a quietly impressed whistle.
The incredibly lush and exaggerated bed stood proudly in the center of the room. The canopy was silk and the bedding was made of stitching so fine that Anders paused to give it a rather lengthy run between his fingers after laying Naoya down across the emblazoned quilting. The Lord's insignia would be marred with the blood of his victims soon, and Anders found that rather poetic.
"Right," Anders finished, turning to the frost balverine and watching him pace the borders of the room. "We're here. Now what?"
"Now we must find Reaver's escape tunnel."
Anders blinked. "I'm sorry, did you say find?"
"Yes. Did you truly think Reaver would tell any of his subservients where his personal escape route would be located?"
"And what, did you think I'm magic?" Anders frowned, his arms splaying out beside him in frustration. "I may be a mage, but I'm no miracle worker!"
"That's true," Naoya grinned from the bed, sensing Anders' scathing stare.
Alastor sighed, his heavy shoulders heaving. "I am lucky to know it exists at all. I tried to spend as little time in here as possible, for obvious reasons."
Anders rubbed his fingers together, tasting something sour. He was reminded of the time he started a rumor about a secret escape tunnel while he was trapped in Fereldan's Circle. Then, he'd gotten a good laugh at the Templars pressing their noses to the walls for weeks and months with nothing to show for their efforts. Now that he was on the other side of things, Anders debated whether he would do it all again.
In fact, he would, he decided with a self-satisfied nod-because the Templar bastards deserved it. But too long spent dwelling on the past made the future impossible.
"Let's not waste any time then," he said. "If I were an egomaniacal, manipulative sycophant, where would I hide my evil escape hatch?"
Together, the two able-bodied men scoured the room. Anders shifted paintings mounted to the walls to search for cavities and checked the lamps for any unusual switches or buttons. Not that it would scream, 'Hello, secret tunnel,' but maybe there was something they weren't seeing right in front of their faces. Meanwhile, Alastor tended to the more discrete things: Reaver's writing desk, his night stand, and the fireplace. Several tense moments passed without a sound, and Naoya was helpless to do anything but lay across the bed and watch. The whole scene was like something out of a poorly directed movie.
"Hey," he said through a sideways grin, "did anyone check the big bookshelf over there?"
"Why would we do that?" Anders called from somewhere behind him.
"Because," Naoya replied, "that's how it always is in the movies. Wouldn't it be funny?"
There was a pause.
"Movies?"
Naoya rolled his eyes, muttering, "I hate this dimension... time...place..."
Anders pursed his lips, tugging at a dry bit of dead skin with his teeth. It was a nervous habit he picked up as a child and hardly noticed until he pulled living tissue. His strode to the bookshelf to assist the butler, neither of them apparently willing to let the joke of a severely wounded, possibly delirious teen go to the wayside. At random, fingers slipped between spines and pressed the books apart. Anders rapped his knuckles against the back of the shelf, unsurprised to find it solid wood.
"There's nothing," he said, but no one responded. They had reached a dead end.
"Reaver's in prison now," came Naoya's small voice. "Maybe we could just stay here. Get Remus in the morning."
A bloodcurdling howl came from the somewhere down the hall.
Alastor made his way to the door, squinting into the darkness. "You will not make it that long."
"Ferals?" asked Anders, coming to stand by Naoya's bedside.
"No. Bring your weapon to bear, mage. Kill them only if you must. I will return for you both."
"Wait, you can't just-!"
Too late. Alastor had already been enveloped by the darkness. The lock on the door clicked as it was set, and half of Anders thought for the briefest of moments that this was an elaborate trap. His boots were heavy on the floor as he made to examine the bookshelf again. He snatched up the first book he could, determined to sift through every single one if that's what it took to break free. But suddenly Anders gave an incredulous snort, his eyes widening with disbelief.
"Reaver on Reaver?" he read aloud, thumbing through the pages without looking. "This is-Reaver's autobiography!" A quick glance at the spine told Anders everything he needed to know: written in gold letters were the words, "Volume 1 of 50." Anders immediately replaced the book and wiped his hands on his robes.
"I would hurry."
"I'm trying, Naoya," Anders replied. "How's the wound?"
"I think it stopped bleeding. Mostly."
"Just keep pressing on it until we can get you proper bandages."
"Or until you fix it," Naoya said, his voice hopeful.
"Whichever comes first," Anders agreed. They just needed something, and soon. Anders could treat infection if he had to, but the alcohol and the press would help in the meantime. The wound exposed was an invitation, and the last thing he wanted to put Naoya through was cauterization. His mana was returning. If they could just wait a little longer...
THUD. An angry lurch rattled the bedroom door on it's hinges, and both occupants turned to look.
THUD. THUD. The sound of claws tearing at the wood bounded across the open floor.
"Shit." Anders took up Freedom's Call, bolting for the door. The metal staff hummed once again, the familiar channel working to funnel his magic. He knelt in the doorway, leaning against the weapon as he slid a dagger from a hidden pocket beside his belt. Grunting with the force it took, Anders cut a circle directly in front of the door. And then a star inside of the circle, forming points of a compass around which he drew another intricate design. Normally, glyphs could be brought into existence with magical will alone. But as Anders finished, he felt splinters fall against his hand and looked up to see the snout of the balverine exposed in the gaping hole. He couldn't waste the mana he did have. Not even on the balverines. Naoya was too important.
Anders withdrew his blade and returned it to it's secret home, pressing the now empty palm to the center of the design carved into Reaver's polished floor. "This had better be worth it," he muttered, allowing the only mana he could think to spare to flow from his fingers and into the glyph that had begun to glow a fierce, summery green beneath his skin. It faded to a searing neon purple and then disappeared almost completely from view. The only thing left to do now was wait.
"Naoya," said Anders once again, coming to the bed where the boy had propped himself up on a mass of Reaver's pillows, "take this." Anders took his dagger out again, holding it out.
Naoya accepted the dagger with a bewildered expression. "Are you sure you want to give sharp objects to the injured minor?" he half grinned, even as he glanced up and down the length of the blade with a concerned brow.
Anders didn't answer him.
With a final, gargantuan heave, Reaver's bedroom door gave way, cracking and splintering onto the floor. The balverines moved as swift as shadows, two of them hurling their bulk high into the room. A massive explosion shook the paper lanterns and several fine oil paintings dropped to the floor as the entirety of the room was rocked by the blast. The poor beast that triggered the glyph to go off was no more.
Anders whirled about as a massive set of fangs plumitted towards him from high near the ceiling, bringing Freedom's Call up in time to see the balverine's jaw snap as it's own force pushed it's teeth and maw around the hardy steel. Pushing out with a cry, Anders flung the wolf beast across the room and into one of the velvet chairs where it crumpled into a heap and clawed at it's own disfigured face with pained cries. The other balverine howled at Anders from across the room, hissing at him and pawing at the floor.
"Look out!"
Naoya's warning came too late and Anders felt his skull smash against the hardwood. Pressure built as the balverine pressed it's weight on Anders' head as if hoping to pop him and Anders' hands worked furiously to find a piece of the balverine to grab onto. Saliva dripped against his ears as Anders' fingers finally made contact with wirey hairs, and with a flash of heat the balverine retreated, screaming and howling as a blistering orange inferno enveloped it's body. Shielding his face from falling cinders, Anders rolled onto his back and thrust out hard with his legs, kicking the balverine with enough force to topple it.
The last balverine launched itself towards the bed, and Naoya yelped as he rolled onto the floor in time for the sheets to be ripped apart by powerful claws.
Just as quickly as the balverine lunged to sink its fangs into the psychic, it was snatched up in a much larger maw. The balverine screeched and swatted at Alastor's white snout, but the frost balverine violently shook his head - before finally biting down on the other and silencing it with a sickening crunch.
The sleek form of the largest balverine in the room turned to the wall of yellow eyes that watched baitedly from the doorway, making sure the dead body of the Reaver loyalist was on display for even the balverines who looked in from the skylight above.
I AM IN CHARGE, came the mental wave that went with Alastor's snorts. It wasn't a loud command, but it was authoritative and overwhelming. ME. It was a warning, and - with the limp body of the Reaver-loyal balverine dangling from his jaws - a very viable threat. Alastor whipped his great white head to the side, tossing the dead balverine into the bookshelf, a cascade of various narcissistic books toppling down, save for one book that stuck fast to the shelf.
Naoya glanced to Anders, unsure if it was something the mage would have picked up on, but Anders looked upon the scene as if he were witnessing a fight of animals and not a delicate display of authority and balance. Humans, Naoya dully thought.
"Tha's th' one," Naoya slurred to Anders, weakly pointing a bloody finger at the lone book on the shelf. He pressed his hand to his chest, wincing at the pain the small motioned caused him. He then started sliding closer and closer to the ground, his eyes blinking in confusion.
"No!" Anders' staff dropped to the floor as the mage rushed to Naoya's crumpling form. "Naoya, stay awake! You need to stay awake!"
But Naoya only continued to blink, his eyes unfocused and far off. Anders repressed the urge to shake him, fear welling up when he saw the renewed gush of red blood soaking through the thin shirt.
"Naoya!" Anders' voice grew louder and he began to slap his hand against the teen's cheek. "Naoya! Naoya!"