SERENA

The common . . . smell of Darktown burns my nostrils. Reeking of weeklong sewage and rot, like it does on the daily.

Even after all these years of visiting, I still can't get used to it. The Alienage is bad, certainly. But this . . . This is a whole other level.

It takes everything I have to just hold in my breath and try not to sprint to the steps leading to Anders's clinic. By the time I reach its front door, my chest almost caves in on itself, desperate for an intake of air.

I inhale a quick gasp as I step inside. Lungs gratefully soothing their clenching, burning feeling in exchange.

Anders sits hunched over his desk in the back, scribbling away at one of many dozens of surrounding piles of papers, as usual. A position we often find him in lately, over the past few months or so, while he works tirelessly on his 'manifesto', and one I'm constantly having to interrupt for either healings or our weekly magic lessons.

No patients occupy the clinic's outlying cots. Something that's probably more of a result of the mage's lack of allies at the moment than lack of actual injuries in the city at the moment.

The thought puts a bitter taste in my mouth.

I trudge over to Anders, who doesn't even look up at me, when I try to make my footsteps loud enough to hear.

When that still doesn't work, I clear my throat.

Nothing.

"Anders," I say.

Still nothing. Just continued muttering and frenzied scrawling.

"Anders!" I grasp his shoulder.

That snaps him out of it. He jumps up and grabs my hand, eyes wide open. His amber eyes bore deep into mine in a daze, recognition slowly clawing its away to his brain's thawing surface.

"Oh, Serena. It's you." He wipes a hand over his face, the dark circles in his hollow cheeks even more apparent than my last visit. "When did you get here?"

"I've been here." I snort and twirl around to sit on the nearby cot. "Have you even eaten or bathed today?"

I scan him up and down. The Warden in me from Amaranthine wouldn't recognize him.

Back then, he was always on top of his appearance, being careful to maintain his beautiful blond hair, outfit, and fair complexion. But ever since a few years ago, it's like that habit of his has vanished. All that looks back at me now is a haggard husk of a man I once knew.

Pallid skin. Unkempt, dirty hair, probably unwashed, left in tangles for days. And dark, exhausted eyes, lacking all soul and energy.

If someone insisted, I might believe him to be a resurrected zombie.

Anders turns away to reface his desk. "No time. I was reaching a major breakthrough in my writing."

"I think you need a break from your writing," I scoff, crossing my arms. "You've been cooped up in here nonstop, Anders."

He doesn't answer that. Just keeps skimming over one of his recent papers, everything else in the world drowned out. Inconsequential.

I can understand his desperation, I can. His need to feel like he's being productive, that he has even an ounce of control over a terrible situation. I was the same during the blight, and also when I lost Tamlen, then Zevran. And even now with my secret lessons and research on the taint, the latter of which I've only confided in Nathaniel about.

What with the mage underground all but destroyed, Meredith essentially naming herself Viscount, and the few remaining mages left in our midst resorting to blood magic, it's a wonder Anders isn't a panicking, curled up, paranoid mess on the floor. Although he's got the paranoid part down, from what I hear from Aveline and the others. Something that has only seemingly got worse with time.

I can't even imagine if I tried to add my so far unsuccessful research on cures for the taint to the mix. Although, the help from someone who could actually understand the topics would be greatly appreciated with our looming time limit.

Time quite literally is of the essence.

"Why don't you come outside with me for a bit?" I offer, standing up again, shaking that dreadful issue off, lest it sour my own mood, making the perfect brooding pair of the two of us. "We can go to the market. Get some of that sweet bread you like. Hm?"

I walk up beside Anders to peek at him.

He's still toning me out. Reading his paper.

"Anders!" I elbow him in the side.

"Please! Not now!" He whirls toward me in a fluster. "I don't have time for carelessly running around! This," he waves the paper in his hand, "this has to come first!"

I scowl at him, my anger heating me to my core. "Your health should come first!" I snap. "Have you looked in a mirror lately? Can't you see how worried we all are about you?"

"I'm fine." He turns away with a disrespectful roll of his eyes.

"No! No, you're not!" I shove him back to look towards me. "When was the last time you ate? The last time you slept? These aren't optional things, Anders. You need them to survive. You won't help or save anyone if you're dead!"

My voice echoes off the clinic walls. Reverberating in the subsequent heavy silence that falls between us.

I huff and glare at him, determination at my point unyielding, unwilling to step back now, when I can see him spiral.

Anders stares back. He blinks once. Twice. Then his gaze turns dour, unwelcoming. His shoulders relax, and he lowers his head, while glowering down at me.

"Sometimes . . . drastic measures are necessary. You know this," he snarks, then pivots towards his desk.

My heat twinges.

The cruel, spiteful undertone cuts me to the bone.

Anders doesn't look at me again. His dismissal: clear. Conversation over with.

He's not going to listen to me. At all. No matter how much I plead or try to push, even under threat of force. He's not going to budge. Not one inch. Regardless if it means the potential death of him.

"Fine. Stay in here for all I care." I spin on my heels and stomp out of the clinic, holding back tears.

He wants to act like a spoiled, tantruming da'len? Let him.

He'll learn someday I was right.


HAWKE

Negotiator for the Peace. That should be my true title, not the Champion of Kirkwall—although, it still has a nice ring to it.

I groan and wipe some cool sweat off from across my brow, not slowing my hurried pace, as I make my way through the dusty Darktown warrens towards Anders clinic.

Serena told me the other night that the two had gotten into a fight. Something that pushed her to empty a full bottle of one of my finest wines, without hesitance or remorse. So, to say I was surprised when I received news Anders wanted to see me, me of all people, now, would be a bit of an understatement.

Typically, he just locks himself up when they argue. Choosing to get lost in his work until one of them breaks and goes to see the other. But now he wants me to get involved?

Why must I be summoned into the ring?

Was their fight really that bad? More than Serena let on?

I thought it was just a minor come to blows, triggered from all the stress. We're all a bit overburdened at the moment from the city's mounting tension. Our numbers divided, with Fenris and Sebastian believing Meredith's the only thing holding back the madness in this city, while Anders feel like she's 'howling at the bloody moon' (or so he says).

But is it more than that?

Did something else happen?

Something I don't know about?

Maybe about the mage underground?

But why wouldn't he or Serena come to tell me in person right away?

Worry swirls in my gut. My steps grow faster.

I'm all but sprinting by the time I slam through Anders's clinic door.

Anders peeks out from his room immediately and walks out to meet me. From his timid fidgeting and scratching at his tunic, I take it as a clue I should shut the clinic door behind me to prevent any potential trespassers or eavesdroppers, so I do.

Glancing off to the side in the flickering candlelight, Anders nears until he's standing right in front of me.

I watch him cautiously, eyes narrowed in confused suspicion.

"I'm . . . going to be trying something," he whispers, "and I thought you'd want to be part of it."

He pauses and finally looks at me again.

"We've both been wrong. What I did with Justice was unnatural. It should never have happened."

" . . . Is there . . . some way to undo it?"

"I've spent the past three years researching the methods of Tevinter magisters. They're the only ones who have ever sought to reverse spirit possession, not just behead the victims. I believe I have a formula for a potion that can separate Justice and me. Without killing either."

I cringe inwardly at the idea. This already isn't seeming like a good start.

At least Fenris isn't here to hear it.

"Is it dangerous?" I ask, crossing my arms.

"There are always dangers with magic," Anders shrugs. "But I believe this will be worth the cost."

He avoids making eye contact with me again, instead choosing to glimpse around aimlessly at the nearby cots and floor, the angling giving me an event better view of his jaw line's increasing stubble.

"No blood magic?" I raise an eyebrow at him. The question necessary, if Tevinter magic is really involved.

"No blood magic," he promises, staring straight at me.

"Surely that's worth any risk it entails then."

Anders smiles. The kindness and relief reaches his eyes. "I knew you'd stand behind me in this. Even if . . ."

He cuts off. A horrified, haunting look fills his widening gaze.

"What?" I scowl and tilt my head at him.

Anders stares down at the ground a moment. "Nothing," he says. "I've gathered most of what I need, but there are some . . . outlandish ingredients I was hoping you'd help me collect. A powder the Tevinters call 'sela petrae' and a small amount of drakestone."

"Is it just a potion? Is there anything more to this ritual?" I persist, something still not sitting right with me, based on his uneasy behavior.

"No, no ritual. Just mix the ingredients up and . . . boom. Justice and I are free. And we can take our rightful place among free mages." He maintains his focus on me this time. The certainty in his voice firm. Unwavering. Comforting.

But why?

Why does it feel like there's more to that still?

Like he's hiding something?

I gulp and swallow the feeling down. Maybe he's not the only one acting paranoid.

We're friends. He wouldn't lie to me, after all.

"I suppose we should coordinate with Serena and Zevran then." I sigh, combing my fingers restlessly through my hair. "They're good with this kind of thing."

"No!" Anders raises his hands so fast I flinch. "No, I-" He gulps, hard, and licks his lips.

I squint at him, not understanding his strong, objective outburst.

Anders relaxes and recomposes himself. "Serena would be too worried about the risks," he insists, expression blank.

That worried feeling from before escalates within me again.

"Should I be?" I ask.

"No. But you know how Serena is."

I glare Anders down.

It's true. Serena is a bit of worry wart. Always has been, for as long as we've known her. But still . . .

Anders looks up at me with his pleading, abandoned cat eyes. The same he always gives me when he's feeling trapped and useless.

Maker have mercy.

"Fine. I'll help." I relent with an agitated ruffle of my hair.

Anders grins. Something that should calm me. Relieve me. But deep down, watching him smile in pure, obvious relief, at what I can at best call a scheme, all I feel is suspicion, continuing to eat away at me.