Chapter Twenty-Four: At Odds with Oneself

"Fuck…" Hrodwynn remarked to herself, amazed at how things could go downhill so quickly.

She knew she shouldn't be surprised; she was with Hawke, after all, and he had a way of making even simple jobs turn hairy in a heartbeat. Yet this job hadn't been simple from the start. It had been Anders' suggestion, his plea, his final attempt to convince the others that his fellow mages still trapped inside the circles were in mortal danger—or worse. Years ago he'd described to her what it meant to be made Tranquil, and she shuddered over the memory—not so much what he said, but how his voice sounded when he said it. '…a fate worse than death…'

Few of them had agreed to help Anders and Hawke, especially after he said they would have to break into the Gallows, the very heart of the templar stronghold, to find evidence of this supposed plot. She had been for it from the start, almost before Hawke had agreed, still feeling the need to assert her loyalty towards Anders after admitting her love for another. Fenris had reluctantly volunteered, but she suspected it was more to disprove Anders' theory than confirm it. Sebastian, too, seemed of the same mindset as Fenris. No one had else wanted to risk their neck for such an improbable delusion. That had suited Anders just fine; the smaller the party, the easier it would be to sneak into a heavily guarded complex overrun with templars.

She swallowed, thinking back over the past few hours. The job had been trouble right from the beginning, starting with finding the entrance to the tunnel leading from Darktown to the Gallows. Anders had neglected to mention that the tunnel was used by lyrium smugglers, not until after the ambush, anyway. That hadn't won him any points with Fenris, who almost turned around right then and there. But Hrodwynn wasn't about to abandon Anders, and Fenris wasn't about to abandon her, so he had stayed.

After that fight, they continued down the tunnel until they reached a small chamber-like area, some of the roof having caved in long enough ago to dapple the room with shafts of sunlight, and allow grass and wildflowers to find purchase amongst the boulders. Yet the pastoral beauty was lost on her, being too busy trying to keep body and soul together. They had stumbled across this Ser Alrik that Anders was after, along with a squad of templars, all armed to the teeth and clothed with full armor and zealous fervor.

And Justice had swiftly taken over her friend.

The inevitable fight had ensued, but Hrodwynn's focus had tunneled down to her immediate surroundings. While the others had strode into battle in various fighting stances, Sebastian had stood up straight and tall and square to fire his arrows, oblivious to the fact that he had made himself a tempting target. She had been forced to remain by his side, fighting the urge to curse the faith that made him trust blindly to some uncaring Maker who supposedly would somehow keep him from dying. She had quickly lost track of Fenris, and Anders and Hawke for that matter, and could only trust them to their fates while she did her best to keep the templars from flanking the Brother.

"What was that?" Sebastian asked, notching another arrow to his bowstring.

She almost blushed; of course the one thing he would have heard her say was a curse word. Not the cry of alarm, not the suggestion that they take cover behind a conveniently placed boulder, not the urging to adjust his stance, but the fucking swearword! "I said," she looked past his shoulder, giving up trying to reason with the bloody git. One hand pulled down his bow arm and threw him off balance while the other shifted its hold on her knife, "Duck!"

The metal missile flew from her fingers, end over end, flashing in the muted sunlight. Sebastian followed her lead, allowing her to pull him out of the way, twisting his body and swinging the bow and arrow around even as he fell, letting loose the arrow before he hit the ground.

"Nice shot," she grudgingly admired. The templar soldier was dead, one eye socket pierced by an arrow, the other by her knife.

"Could have landed better," Sebastian groused, gaining his feet and turning away from the body. "He broke my shaft."

She was very glad he had turned his back, her shoulders shaking with giggles while she drew her dagger from the dead man's head. Maker, but she must be exhausted, the adrenaline running out, if she was to the giggling stage. "What was that?"

"I'm running low on arrows," Sebastian explained, choosing to ignore the laughter he heard in her voice. "I could have reused that one, if he hadn't broken the shaft when he landed on the ground."

"That's what I thought you meant," she wiped the blood and gore off on her leggings, deciding then and there that a light tan was not the best color for her line of work, and returned to his side. "If you'd like, I could slip out and scavenge around for a bit. There are quite a few arrows out there that either missed their mark or bounced off of some hidden piece of armor. But I would feel better about it if you'd take cover behind that rock, while I'm away."

The suggestions was lost on him. "No need," he let loose his third-to-last arrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with a brief though satisfied smirk when it sank into the neck of another soldier. "I think the fight's drawing to a close."

She followed his gaze. The two of them had remained near the entrance, while the others had strode forward into the thick of it, Justice/Anders with his unearthly glow, Hawke with his mace-like staff, and Fenris swinging his greatsword while his markings shone. She could see them, now that only Ser Alrik and a single soldier remained, and a brief bout of anxiety slipped around her heart. Fenris was bleeding, half of his white hair soaked bright red, the life-sustaining liquid flowing freely down his shoulder and back. She knew it might not be as serious as it looked, head wounds tended to bleed a lot, but she would not feel assurance until she checked him over for herself.

"There, there, sweet lady," Sebastian patted her hand; somehow it had found it's way to his arm, gripping the edge of a plate of armor with claw-like fierceness. "I'm sure he's fine. He's still able to keep his feet. If it had been a serious blow to his head, he'd have been knocked out."

She made some sort of sound, a non-committal grunt or groan. She watched as Fenris' gauntleted fist sank into the chest of the soldier, past all armor, causing the man to turn pale and gray. The next moment, she all but screamed when the soldier brought his sword arm down in a killing blow. The blade passed harmlessly through Fenris' glowing body, however, striking the ground with a ringing force that wrenched the hilt from the dying man's hand.

Then it was over, Anders having killed the leader, Ser Alrik, himself. An abrupt, short end that left everyone panting for a moment in shock.

Hrodwynn was moving before she thought, her steps light and quick, her hair brushed back from her face by the breeze of her passage. She reached Fenris' side just as he moaned, just as the final drop of his adrenaline wore off, just as his knees began to buckle, just as the blood loss began to take effect.

She grabbed hold of him, ignoring the sting where a spike of his armor pressed against her arm. He felt her grip and reacted, or tried to, the lyrium tattoos on his body pulsing, but he was unable to fully invoke them, too weakened by all the fighting and too disorientated by the blow to his head, the concussion in full force now that the danger had passed. He blinked at her, his eyes not wanting to focus, but he'd know those Agreggio Pavali lips anywhere. "Amatus…?"

"Easy," she whispered, her voice for his ears only, "Easy, Fen. I've got you. It's over now. No more fighting. You can sit down for a moment, alright? Catch your breath? Doesn't that sound like a good idea?"

"My… breath…"

"Here you go, Fenris," Sebastian joined in, taking up Fenris' other side. Together they guided him over to a rock and made him sit down. "Do as the nice lady says. Let her take a look at your head. That's a good lad."

Something was overly familiar with that particular phrase, something Danarius used to say to him… He shook his head, attempting to push away the thought, but his skull exploded with pain. He grimaced, one hand reaching up to try to keep his brains inside where they belonged.

He came in contact with something warm and sticky.

Then he received a smart rap on the back of his hand, making him jerk it away. He tried to look over his shoulder to see who had smacked him, but a hand to either side of his head made him look forwards once more. So instead he stared at the red on his fingers, the pad of his thumb smearing it across the digits. He knew it was his blood, but couldn't make himself remember how it had happened. That was his last, self-aware thought for quite some time.

"Anders needs to heal this," Hrodwynn hummed.

"That… might be a while…" Sebastian warned.

Again Hrodwynn found herself following his gaze. She was usually more aware of her surroundings, but seeing Fenris injured had caused everything else to recede into the background. Now she paid attention to what was happening, to Justice still controlling Anders, to the heated discussion between them and Hawke, to the young mage woman cowering before them.

"Justice… answers to nobody!" He shook off Hawke'e restraining hand, swinging his staff back, preparing to deliver a killing blow.

"No!" Hrodwynn leapt forward before she had finished shouting. Not again, she prayed, in case there was a Maker up there who just might occasionally care or listen to puny mortals such as her self. She knew how Anders felt about innocents, about mages, and if Justice killed this young woman…

She knew he'd never be able to live with himself.

She reached their side just as they began swinging the staff, yanking on their arm with all her strength, pulling their blow off course. A clod of dirt burst apart just a few feet from the mage, but she remained unharmed. Justice spun around to face Hrodwynn, the full force of his wrath shining like sunlight from Anders' eyes, the unbridled energy showing through jagged cracks in Anders' skin. Justice's ire and rage rose up into the air like a dark shadow, shimmering like heat waves off Anders' body, making the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end. But she would not let go.

"You!"

"Anders, please," she begged, ignoring the vengeful spirit, trying to reach her friend locked away inside, "You don't want to hurt her. You don't want to hurt anybody. Please, Anders, not again. For my sake. Not. Again."

"Again…" Justice/Anders moaned… memory sluggish… Wynnie… his Wynnie… stepping forward into the path of his spell… his Wynnie… lying inert in another's arms… his Wynnie… injured by his hand…

Anders screamed in fear and pain and rage. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, taking hold of Justice, ripping control of their body—his body—out of the spirit's clutches, pushing and shoving and forcing the other entity back into its corner. It pained him, it physically pained him, causing every nerve ending to burst apart, every fiber of his being to thrum with agony. But he'd almost killed Wynnie the other week—thought he had killed her for a single, eternally torturous moment. He could not let Justice harm Wynnie again. He would not.

Not. Again.

It was dark. But it was not quiet. Anders could hear a woman whimpering in fear. There was the labored breathing of a man in deep pain. Closer to hand was the feather-soft rustle of supple fabric, followed closely by the gentle voice of his Wynnie.

"Anders?"

He pulled his hands from his face, coming out of the darkness and into the harsh light—the light of day, the light of reality, the light of truth. He blinked up at the people around him, the brightness making his eyes water, and felt an undeserved relief swell his chest. His Wynnie was unharmed. The mage was unharmed. He—Justice—whoever or whatever—no one had harmed them.

But Fenris was harmed; he remembered how, during the fight, the elf had stepped forward to block a blow that would have severed Anders' arm at the elbow, and for his trouble, had opened himself up to a glancing blow from a mace against his skull.

Hawke, too, was holding his side, deeply bruised if not bleeding internally from a cracked rib. He had received his injury at the hands of a templar whom Justice could have easily killed, but instead ignored because he wanted to get at Alrik. That made two people who had gotten hurt because of him, because of Justice, because of blind rage. His blindness.

Everything was falling apart. Everything was crumbling into dust. And the more Anders tried to make things right, the more things went wrong. Perhaps Fenris was right after all. Perhaps he was a monster, an abomination. Perhaps it was all his fault, all the hurt and evil and wrongness, all because he had allowed Justice to join with him. Perhaps he was weak, too weak, too inept to fight off the temptations of demons or spirits, and should have been killed long ago after his own harrowing.

He looked to Sebastian, but the Brother studiously avoided his gaze. He looked to Fenris, but his eyes were unfocused due to his injury. He looked to Hawke, but his face was tight with pain. He looked to Wynnie, but all he could see was the vision of her inert form in Fenris' arms from a week ago. He looked to the mage, but the young woman was curled in on herself, shivering in fear.

"No, I… I can't, I… Maker… please… forgive me…!"

Hrodwynn heard the pain in his voice, though she had no inkling of an idea of what excruciating torment he was enduring. She watched in awful amazement as he raced away.

"Hawke…" her voice was begging, but what could he do. She could tell as easily as Anders that the man was in no shape to go running off after him. He gave his head a gentle shake, seeming to confirm her suspicions.

"I could follow him," offered Sebastian. He was standing next to Fenris, trying to keep the elf from falling off the rock. Fenris seemed blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had nearly happened, and Hrodwynn selfishly felt thankful for that; she really didn't need Fenris' unswerving hatred of all mages right then.

"No, Sebastian," Hawke grimaced and stood up straight, dropping his hand to his side. "Thank you, but I should be the one to talk with him. Hrodwynn," he turned to her, daring her to tell him of his injuries, "I don't suppose you remembered to pack a healing potion or two?"

She made a sour face, "Didn't think of it. We had a healer with us."

He nodded, already having expected the answer and resigning himself to the inevitable. "Fenris is in bad shape, isn't he?"

It wasn't quite a question, but she confirmed it, "His skull is cracked, not busted thankfully, but there's probably some bleeding going on inside, judging by how much is going on outside. The sooner he gets to a healer or a healing potion, the better."

Hawke nodded. "Take him up the tunnel, towards the Gallows."

"Towards the templars?!" she countered, incredulous.

"Yes. It's closer than Darktown, and more likely to have a healer near at hand. Speak with a Knight-Captain Cullen. He's an honorable man; he'll help you. Sebastian, go with them; Hrodwynn's going to need your help keeping Fenris on his feet. You, too," he turned to the young mage woman, reaching his hand out to her.

"No," she backed away, shaking her head. She had started to think things might be turning out alright, now that the possessed mage had left, but this other mage seemed just as insane if he wanted her to return to the Gallows. "No… no, I… I won't… I can't… I'm a runaway… they'll punish me… make me Tranquil!"

"No, they won't," Hawke assured her, taking her by the arm and helping her to her feet. "Go with my friends here. They'll back up your story, how Ser Alrik tricked you into coming here, and was going to force the Tranquil ritual on you. Won't you, Hrodwynn? Sebastian?"

"Is that what was going on?" he asked. Hrodwynn's elbow in his side didn't hurt, but it did convey the message. Quickly he recalled Anders' version of events and recited, "I mean, er, aye, young maiden, we know Ser Alrik was forcing you, and other mages, into rebelling so he could legally make them Tranquil. We know you didn't mean to run. You were coerced."

"Truly?" she asked, starting to give in.

"Why else do you think we were down here," shrugged Hrodwynn, making it up on the spot, but damn if it wasn't making sense, "Right at the same time Alrik had tricked you into coming here, unless we knew what he was doing and were here to stop him. Now, come on," she smiled at the other young woman, her voice gentle, her eyes shining with confidence she didn't feel. She didn't like the idea of bringing this scared woman back to a place where she'd been tormented to the point where she felt she had to run away, even knowing she'd be made Tranquil if she were ever caught. But Fenris needed help now, and the Gallows was closest, and… "It'll be safer for you, back inside the Circle, than out there among the wilds, especially now that Alrik is dead. He won't be there to torture you any longer."

"But," she bit her lip as Hrodwynn took her hand from Hawke, "It'll be just my word, against Ser Alrik's. Even if he is dead, he was a templar…"

"Don't forget my word," Sebastian chimed in. "I am a Brother of the Chantry. If I say I was investigating something strange regarding Ser Alrik's actions, even the Knight-Commander herself will have to listen to me." He slipped Fenris' arm across his shoulders and stood up, bringing the elf with him and starting up the tunnel. He did have to admit, privately at the very least, that for once Anders' paranoia appeared to be true.

Hawke paused a moment to watch them go, listening to Hrodwynn talking calmly to soothe the shaking mage, making sure they could manage before he turned away. He had several things he needed to do before he could rejoin them. The first of which was to search Alrik's body for any evidence, just in case the Knight-Captain wasn't as honorable as Hawke remembered him to be.

Then, he'd have to try to save Anders before he did anything stupid.


"And just how did you get in here?"

Hrodwynn lifted her chin, her bright emerald eyes flashing at a pair of hard hazel orbs. "I'll explain later, but first we need medical attention for this man. Please. His skull's been cracked. He's bleeding. He needs help."

"I'll tell you all you want to know, and more," Sebastian offered, "But as the lady says, this man needs a healer quickly or he'll die. And if that happens," the Brother moved to stand squarely in front of the templar, "His death will be on your conscience."

The Knight-Captain stared at the Brother. Maker's breath, but he hated taking orders from a Brother or Sister of the Chantry, but it would be too difficult to determine just then who out ranked whom. Besides, the elf did look to be in pretty poor shape. "You, there!" he called out into the courtyard at random, hardly taking his eyes off of the foursome in front of him, "Recruit!"

"Ser!" a voice immediately answered.

Cullen nearly smiled to himself, having been fairly sure that there would be a green recruit hanging around nearby; the day was too nice for there not to be someone out here taking advantage of it rather than studying. "Show the young lady and her friend to a room where they can wait. And send one of the healers to them. Well, quickly, man. Move!"

The recruit jumped, slapped a hasty salute, and all but pulled the elf from the Chantry Brother's arms.

He allowed a brief moment of pleasure over the eagerness of the recruit's response, before he turned towards the young mage woman. "And you, what's your part in all this?"

"I'll be explaining that as well," Sebastian, free of Fenris' inert form, set his hand now on the young mage's shoulder, "But I give you my word, she is an innocent in this affair."

Cullen stared hard, first at Sebastian, then at the girl, but neither wavered. "Very well. Off with you, girl, get back to your studies. I'm sure there's a class or something you're missing."

"Yes, ser, thank you, ser," she bobbed and babbled, before racing away.

"Now, then," Cullen turned the full force of his hard stare at the Brother, who remained immune behind his merry, bright blue eyes, "What's this all about?"

Hrodwynn didn't hear Sebastian's answer, already too far across the courtyard and traveling further away with each and every step. She didn't like it, splitting up, but Fenris needed healing and she was not going to leave his side until he was whole once more. She didn't like the gray color to his face, or how his eyes remained unfocused, or his quick and shallow breaths, or his stumbling steps. He seemed unaware of his surroundings, despite being awake, merely going along with whomever was currently supporting and tugging on him, and this passiveness from him was the most alarming symptom of all.

She also didn't like it the further they went into the Gallows. Not that she had anything against templars personally, but she knew they would be after Anders if they knew where to find him. And SHE knew where to find him. Maker, if Fenris came out of his stupor and let something—anything—slip…

"Here we are, lady," the recruit paused outside a door, one of what appeared like hundreds of similar doors, stretching down an endless hallway. "This room's vacant, at the moment. You and your friend can use it until he's feeling better. I'll just drop him off and go and get a healer, if you could just get the door…"

"What? Oh, right, the door!" she fumbled for the latch and barely got it opened before she tried to enter the room. It was sparse, a pair of bunks along one wall, a pair of chests and a single desk along the other wall. The nameless recruit shifted Fenris around so he could settle him on the bottom bunk, Hrodwynn sitting on Fenris' other side. She was lost deep in her thoughts, barely hearing the templar excuse himself, barely acknowledging his closing the door behind him, barely feeling Fenris' unresponsive hand in her own unresponsive hand…

Anders had been right, she thought to herself, gnawing her lip as her eyes stared blankly across the room. Anders had been right. There had been a sinister plot, there had been a very real danger here, there had been templars purposefully making mages Tranquil. Now that they were out of the tunnel, now that Fenris would soon be healed, now that she had a moment to stop and think, it all came crashing down onto her shaking shoulders.

Anders had been right.

"…bloody shite…"

There was a knock at the door, a smart and rather loud rap that echoed in the sparse room. Hrodwynn jumped to her feet, Maker but the thought of being surrounded by so many templars was making her edgy. She swallowed and set Fenris' hand back on his lap, the elf not stirring, before turning and calling out, "Yes, who's there?"

"I was sent for," a calm voice answered, sounding muted and bored through the door, "I was told there's an injured man who needs tending."

"Thank the Maker," she breathed, assuming it was the healer outside the door. She wanted this done and over with, and not just because Fenris was injured. The sooner he was better, the sooner they could leave. And the sooner they left, the sooner she could track down Anders. She was getting stronger and stronger misgivings about Anders' state of mind; despite the fact that he'd been proven right—for once even Fenris would have to admit that—she could still remember the agony in his voice when he realized what Justice had nearly done. She needed to make sure he was alright, too; and she was not about to take Hawke's word for it—she would see Anders for herself. She yanked the door open and came face-to-face with a youngish man dressed in plain clothes, not the mage healer she had been expecting. "You're not a mage."

"No, I'm not," he agreed, affecting a slight smile. "I was sent here to tend to an injured man, clean his wounds, before the healer arrives."

"Oh! Right, he's, er, he's on the bed. It's his head's been injured. Cracked skull. Bleeding a lot."

"Yes, I can see that," the man answered mildly. He walked over to Fenris, who had remained on the bed, though now he was leaning against the frame. Carefully he set the basin full of water down on the bed before sitting down himself, taking hold of Fenris and turning his head so he could see the wound on his scalp. The man was neither hurried nor reluctant, but emotionless, staid, even…

No, no, nonono, Hrodwynn could not allow herself to accept the coincidence. Yet it was true. She ducked down, making it look like she was kneeling by Fenris' other side, taking his hand to offer him comfort. Truthfully, however, it was to check for, and find, the sunburst symbol on the man's forehead, all but hidden beneath a thick swathe of bangs.

He was a Tranquil.

"Head wounds do bleed a lot, don't they," he said by way of making conversation, while his hands gently dabbed at Fenris' hair, which was changing from dark red to dark pink as he washed away the blood.

"Yes, they do," she muttered an answer, trying to think. Too much had happened, too much was happening, too much needed to happen…

"It looks scary, I know," he wrung out the rag and went back to his gentle ministrations, "But everything will be alright. The bleeding's mostly stopped already. And as soon as Vera's here, she'll heal your friend and this will all be over."

Her mind couldn't form anything coherent, not with the Tranquil's prattling. "What?" she blinked at him, shaking her head, making no sense of either his words, or her own thoughts.

"I said," he answered mildly, unperturbed by either her short words, or shorter tone of voice, "As soon as Vera is here, your friend will be healed. She is one of our best healers. I suppose I should apologize. I only meant to soothe your fears, not upset you. I know my kind can make most people feel uneasy, but I assure you," he lifted his eyes from Fenris' wound to hold her gaze, "You have nothing to fear from me."

"Did…" she stopped herself as quickly as she started, not as fearful of the Tranquil as she was fearful of what she was about to ask. Yet the impulse was too strong, the words tumbling out, her will to stop them far too inadequate, "Did Ser Alrik make you Tranquil?"

He showed no surprise over her question, or anxiety over answering, or really any type of emotion other than to hand her the cloth and stand. "I should leave before Vera arrives; I know my presence, like the presence of any Tranquil, makes her uneasy, as she's still a mage. Excuse me," he bowed to her and started for the door.

She couldn't let him go that easily, not without some sort of answer, not without yet even more proof that what she and the others had done was, pardon the pun, justified. "I never got your name," she called after him, making him pause at the half-opened door, his hand on the latch, "To thank you. Properly."

He turned towards her. "Ruce," he answered. Then he turned back to the door and paused again, before turning back to her. His eyes were dead, not the lack-of-anything-living look that Fenris' eyes often took on, but the coldness and undemonstrativeness of someone who felt very little if any emotion. "And, yes."

"Yes, what? Oh!" an older mage had started entering the room, seeing as the door was open, but she stopped suddenly when she saw the Tranquil. She appeared flustered at the sight of him, her cheeks growing pink and her lips remaining shaped around her exclamation of surprise.

"I was just asking Ruce here if Vera was the best healer they had," Hrodwynn quickly answered, not so much because she thought Ruce might get in trouble for answering her question about how he was made Tranquil, as she feared she might get into trouble for asking it. "And that would be you, I presume."

"I…" Vera blinked, looking from Ruce who was now standing almost hidden behind the door, to Hrodwynn and the obviously wounded Fenris. Being reminded of the purpose for her being there helped her get herself back under control. "Er, yes, I am Vera. This must be the wounded elf I was told about. And you are?"

"Hrodwynn, and this is Fenris," she answered as Ruce slipped out and closed the door behind him. Maker, but that had been a close call. "So, um, you can heal him right? Fenris, I mean?"

"Of course," Vera hummed in a very maternal tone, already summoning her willpower.

Hrodwynn stood up to get a better view and watched her critically, not that the mage wasn't good—she felt Anders could have done a better job—but this was Fenris, her Fenris; she needed to know the job was being done properly.

The elderly mage didn't seem to mind, probably well-used to the scrutiny of templars, so it was Hrodwynn's turn to become surprised when she spoke. "I should tell you," Vera whispered, her voice barely floating over the sound of magic being performed, her lips moving so slightly she might not have said anything at all.

"Tell me what?" Hrodwynn asked, just as quietly.

"I don't know what happened to you, or why you two are here, or what the templars want with you, but…" she flicked her eyes towards the door, "You won't be leaving any time soon. Guards have been posted. Just outside. And ones not known for their… shall we say, niceness, if you get my meaning. Whatever you did, whatever sort of welcome you were expecting," she finished her spell and looked up at Hrodwynn, "You're prisoners, now."

Hrodwynn made a sour face and hissed, "I knew it! Hawke thought this Knight-Captain Curry was an honorable man, but I was afraid we couldn't trust him, any of the templars, not after Ser Alrik, it's too dangerous…"

"I wouldn't say Knight-Captain Cullen was dangerous, no," Vera stressed the correct name while at the same time trying to calm her, mostly so the templars outside wouldn't hear them. She gently settled Fenris down on his side, closing his eyes and letting him sleep on the cot, "Just… cold. Overly civil. Towards us mages, anyway. I wouldn't trust him. But I'm a mage, and you're not, are you?"

"No, I'm not. So…" Hrodwynn wasn't sure if she should press the issue, but she had to know, she had to understand what type of danger they were in, and just how much. She lifted Fenris' feet onto the bed and tried to innocently ask, "Um, this Captain Cuddly or whatever his name is, did he and Ser Alrik get along? Chum around? That sort of thing?"

Vera scoffed, short, and perhaps a little too loudly. "The Knight-Captain isn't chummy with anyone. But," she glanced over her shoulder at the door, "The other templars respect him, despite his rapid rise through the ranks. I think I should go. They'll be curious over what's taking me so long." She made to stand up, brushing off her robes and turning towards the door.

"Wait," Hrodwynn stood with her, still wanting a bit more information. She could allow that Hawke might have a good judge of the Captain's character—being an apostate mage himself, if HE trusted Cuddly… Curly… whatever his name was… And, sure, the Captain had sent a healer for Fenris, and the guards outside their door could be for their safety or benefit… But she had a sinking feeling the mage wasn't exaggerating. Especially if Sebastian told this Captain everything that happened in the tunnels beneath the Gallows. She felt the impulse, the need, just in case something were to happen to her and Fenris, to make sure the mages here knew they were safe, at least from Alrik. She wasn't sure if she could have told Ruce; she had no idea how a Tranquil might react to the news, especially one who had been made Tranquil by Alrik himself. But she knew she could trust a mage, particularly one who had just risked her own neck to warn them.

Hrodwynn took her arm and leaned in close to whisper, "Ser Alrik is dead."

The effect on the mage was incredible. Shock and surprise were the first to surface, followed swiftly by relief and an almost sinful joy. "How do you know?" Then there was a knock on the door, and one of the templar guards poked his head inside without waiting for permission. Quickly her features calmed, her emotions tucked safely behind a mask.

"I'm a healer myself," Hrodwynn answered, pretending the other woman had asked a different question while she tried to find a way to answer. "Oh, not a mage like you, but I dabble in potions and herbs and such. Learned from this guy down in Darktown, a healer himself, who helps the poor there." She paused to give a short, reassuring sort of laugh, "He's like a lantern in the darkness, he's so selfless of his time and his talents. You know what I mean?"

There was recognition in Vera's eyes; she knew exactly to whom Hrodwynn was referring. It had been a gamble, she supposed, but it did make sense that Anders had involved himself—perhaps even organized?—the mage underground. And Vera being a mage would probably know of the underground, and of the apostate mage in Darktown who heals the sick for little or no cost, and uses a lighted lantern to signal when it's safe to come to him. Hrodwynn had obliquely told her whom she could thank for Ser Alrik's death.

And right in front of a templar!

"Then, erm," the mage blinked and struggled a bit, trying not to let anything slip, "I'll leave the patient in your capable hands. He should sleep for a bit, and will be very weak from the blood loss upon waking, but other than that he will be just fine. Send for me, if you should need anything," she took Hrodwynn's hand and gave it a fierce squeeze, "ANYTHING at all."

And Vera had just offered to help them, should it come to that, right under the nose of the very same templar!

"If you're finished here," said templar finally spoke, "You should leave. The Knight-Captain wants them to get their rest. And you have other patients to tend to."

Vera didn't answer him, not verbally, but she did gracefully incline her head and turned away from Hrodwynn. The door closed after them, echoing loudly in the sparse room, leaving Fenris and Hrodwynn as recent and unwelcome additions to the decor. Letting loose a long sigh, she sat down on the floor and set her back against the frame of the bed to wait for him to wake up.

Alone again, Hrodwynn was left with nothing to do but worry. Worry about Hawke's ability to judge other people. Worry about what Anders might do to himself in the state he was in. Worry about what Sebastian was telling Captain Cuddly or, um, whatever-his-name-was. Worry about the templars just outside the door and what their presence could mean. Worry about Justice's apparently easy control over Anders. Worry about what the aftermath would be over the death of Ser Alrik.

Worry about how long it would be before Fenris woke up, and what he would remember, and what she should tell him, and what they would do then.

She turned to stare at the blissfully sleeping elf. Oh, Maker, but this was a mess. And so was his hair, still streaked and stained with red. She picked up the rag and began wiping away the last of the gore, using the task to keep her mind occupied and away from her worries.

At least for a while.


Anders stood in the shadows. He couldn't help himself. Garret had admonished him to stay near the boat, to keep out of the courtyard, to not go anywhere near the templars. Yet… Wynnie was there, somewhere, inside those Gallows. Surrounded by templars. And Garret—Maker preserve that man—he strode in there, as bold as brass, his staff barely disguised as a long-handled mace. Garret, a semi-open apostate himself, neither flaunting nor denying his talents as a mage, walking into the very heart of a Circle, standing toe-to-toe with a Knight-Captain, coldly and logically presenting evidence of corruption within their ranks.

Demanding an audience with the Knight-Commander herself.

Anders leaned his forehead against a stone column, biting his lip and muffling his groan of emotional pain. He was just on the edge of the courtyard not far from where the merchants set up their stalls, hidden from obvious sight, able to pass himself off as a customer perusing the wares, yet close enough to watch Garret meet up with that Chantry Brother and confront the templars. Over the noise and babble of the crowd, he could make out Garret's words—how his ears loved that voice!—and the Captain's high-handed replies.

Yes, their friends reached here alive.

Yes, he saw to it that their very best healer was sent to tend them.

Yes, he understood what the Brother said about Ser Alrik.

Yes, he was taking the allegations seriously and would look into the matter personally.

No, they very definitely could not have an audience with the Knight-Commander!

Anders wanted to laugh at Garret's demand, the bullocks that man had some days!

But he couldn't laugh, not right there, and not right then, perhaps never again. He couldn't laugh, due to the overwhelming anguish and guilt drowning his soul. It had been his fault, his plan, his responsibility, his paranoia, his desire, his choice…

A spark of color shone at the corner of his eye, something fleeting, something ethereal, something from a dream. But he knew—Blessed Andraste—he knew it was real. He slipped around the pillar to the other side, edging closer to the little party, wanting to hear more clearly. He knew he was risking exposure by pressing up so close, but he had to see her, he had to know she was alright.

There she was! Dark red hair glimmered like the deepest ruby in the bright sunlight of the courtyard. She turned her head slightly, and alabaster skin to rival any statue became a stark backdrop to a pair of flashing emerald orbs. That she walked shoulder-to-shoulder with that accursed elf for once was overlooked. Relief nearly swept his legs out from beneath him; Wynnie had not been harmed this time.

He steadied himself against the pillar and scrubbed a hand over his stubbled face, losing himself in thought for a moment. He hadn't been sure, couldn't remember clearly, his memories of that event wrapped in thick wool. He knew Justice had taken control of him again, and he had been helpless to prevent it. He had watched, from that tiny corner of his brain, while Justice killed with impunity. And nearly turned his Vengeance on an innocent, a persecuted mage, the very type of person he… Justice… they both wanted to help! Anders could still see her face. That poor mage, already threatened by templars, the evil she knew, she had come face to face with Justice, an evil she could never have imagined.

He had stared at the expression of horror and fear and resigned doom, remaining stained on her features long after he had wrested control back from the spirit. He had turned to look at Garret and the others, and thought he could see some of those same expressions on their faces. He couldn't help but imagine how they would look if Justice took his wrath out on them. And then he remembered—Justice already had. On Wynnie. His Wynnie.

The pain was unbearable. He could only do the one thing he always did when things got too unbearable; run away.

Yet no matter how fast he ran, or how far, or for how long, he knew he was doomed to forever bear the unbearable. His mistakes, his misassumptions, his fears, dogged his heels and barked at his conscience. Besides the near catastrophe from earlier that day, how many other tragedies lay on his shoulders, in his past but carried with him daily? How many more would he commit, before the final end of his days?

That's how far he'd gotten in his reasoning, by the time he reached his clinic. He knew then, he had only two choices: leave Kirkwall, or leave it all.

If only the Maker hadn't turned his eyes away from those who grew tired of life, of the struggle, of the injustices…

Yet if he were already doomed, for allowing a spirit to reside within him, then what did it matter? Hadn't the Maker already turned his back on him?

That was the state of mind Garret found him wallowing in, the indecision, to run away, or to run away.

What to keep, and what to throw away.

He had been searching through his things, discarding everything that didn't matter, everything that would not have left the slightest impact on the world a hundred years from now. Or a year. Or a month. Or even that day.

Yet Garret reminded him there were more things in this world, than those items he could physically touch. Like love. Love for Garret, obviously. Love for his fellow man, which drew him to opening his clinic. Love for those still suffering, still tormented, still trapped within their Circles, which encouraged him to develop the mage underground.

Love for Wynnie. Oh, what he felt towards her, was nothing like the love he felt for Garret. She was more like his little sister, a younger cousin, sometimes even like a daughter to him. She was his legacy, that part of him which would live on after he was gone. She was his impact on this world, an impact that would linger for a hundred years or more. And if he left her, if he did the unthinkable, such an act would hurt her deeply, far deeper than he could ever imagine, far deeper than he could ever have the right to. For her sake, he would endeavor to struggle on.

For her sake sake, he thought as he pulled his hand away and looked for her once more, for her sake he would risk his neck and sneak into a Circle courtyard just to make sure she was alright…

…and in chains! They had shackled her, the heavy iron attached to heavy chains, the weight throwing her off balance and making her stumble. How dare they! A surge of adrenaline, starting from his toes and swelling upwards towards his shoulders, falling down his arms to his fingertips as it filled his head and made his thoughts swim. Maker, the templars had her in chains! He'd kill them, destroy them, every last one, no matter the cost…

With a strength he never knew he had, he pushed Justice back into the recesses of his mind, maintaining control, pushing away the blinding rage. Garret was there. Garret would make things right. He would trust Garret. He had to. Using another pillar to block their view, he slipped close enough to clearly hear their conversation.

"Why the fuck are they wearing chains?"

"Not exactly the words I would have used," the Captain agreed dryly, turning to fix his hardest hazel stare at the pair of templars flanking Fenris and Hrodwynn, "But all the same, I would like to hear your answer."

Both guards swallowed, one of them shifting and volunteering to answer for them both, "But, ser… they came here… from the tunnels… and Ser Alrik was just found down there, murdered… we thought they were prisoners…"

"You what?" Cullen interrupted him.

Sebastian cleared his throat, "It seems you have some issue with discipline within the ranks."

Cullen gave a curt nod. "Indeed. Excuse me while I sort this out. You, soldier," he returned his attention to the pair of templars, "Both of you. Must I remind you, it is not your place to think. It is your place to follow orders. And I did not give the order for these two to be treated as prisoners, neither detained in the dungeon nor shackled with chains. In fact, I named these two guests. I sent a healer to tend to them. Does that sound like they're prisoners to you? Was there anything in my orders that would give you leave to treat them in this manner?"

"Yes, Ser! I mean, no, Ser!"

Cullen leaned in a little closer, but before he could dress-down the soldiers any further, a merry little laugh, something close to a giggle, rang through the courtyard. Anders immediately knew it was Wynnie, one of her staged laughs, but it reassured him just the same.

"Oh, don't take it out on him, Captain Curly, no harm's been done," she took half a step forward, more to draw everyone's attention to her and the little bit of showing-off she was about to do. "It's not as if these things were doing any good, anyway."

Quick as a lightning spell, she crossed her wrists before her, one over the other, her fingers fluttering slightly. There was a very distinctive metal clicking sound, and the next moment the shackles were off her wrists, dangling open at the ends of the chain she held. She pushed the metal towards the Captain and quipped, "Here you go. One slightly used pair of shackles, just like new."

There was a subtle flash of light blue, nearly lost within the bright sunlight unless you knew to look for it, and the shackles that had been around Fenris' wrists fell to the ground with a loud clatter.

"Oops. Suppose you'll want these back, too." She bent over to pick up the other pair, still closed and locked tight, and passed them, too, to the surprised Captain.

He examined the useless locks while he thought of something to say. "Quite an eclectic group of friends you have, Ser Hawke." He tried to act unconcerned as he passed the shackles to the red-faced guard.

"It's a hobby," he shrugged with affected unconcern. "Some people collect thimbles. Others collect spoons. I collect friends."

"Yes, well," Cullen cleared his throat, "If it makes you happy, I suppose."

"Now, Knight-Captain," Hawke turned on the charm, along with a dangerous undercurrent that would be lost on lesser men, "I trust that my friends and I are free to go. And that we can trust you to handle this investigation."

Cullen did not miss the implied threat. He straightened his shoulders, affixing his unyielding hazel eyes to Hawke's warm amber. "I have given you my word, Ser Hawke, something I do not do lightly. Ser Alrik's death will be looked into, as will his activities over the past several months. And," he paused to swing his glare towards the templars who had put the chains on Hrodwynn and Fenris, "And all those who may have assisted in any unsanctioned rites, or knew of said illegal actions and did not report them. If these charges are true, then there are more templars who need to be brought to justice."

Anders nearly blanched at the unfortunate choice of words. Fearing what might come next, fearing he might get caught eavesdropping, he turned and raced back to the ferry.

It seemed the others felt the same awkwardness. Fenris grew even more statue-like, Hrodwynn's smile faded from a glib grin to a tight grimace, Sebastian opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish, and Hawke's free hand felt for his staff as if seeking reassurance. "Ah, very good, then," he gave a slight cough. "Excuse me. Well, we shall leave you to it. Good day, Captain. Come along, everyone, let's stop pestering the nice templar and head back to the ferry. You might like to know, Hrodwynn, that your uncle," Hawke stressed the word as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and steered her away, "Came with me to collect you."

"My uncle…?" she repeated, confused for a moment. Then it dawned on her whom he meant, the only person he could mean, "Oh! You mean And—ah," she glanced nervously over her shoulder, but thankfully the Captain had turned his attention to his men, "…Andy! Uncle Andy! He's here? You, ah, you were able to find him? Is he alright?" Oh, Maker, all the things she wanted to say, to ask, to know…

"He's fine," Hawke told her gently, now that they were safely away from the templars, "A little upset, but nothing we can't help him through. He's waiting for us, down by the ferry. And… I'm talking to your back," he sighed, watching her race off. He supposed he should have expected the rudeness, but he did have hope that someday she'd learn to be nice to him.

He let her go and turned his attention to the quiet conversation, or half-conversation, Sebastian and Fenris were having behind him. The two of them were dancing around a subject without naming it, and without realizing how well their voices carried to Hawke's ears.

Sebastian started, "So, um, you didn't say anything about… um, anything… anyone…?"

"I was in chains," Fenris answered, "Do you think they would have believed me if I told them?"

"You could have been giving them information in exchange for your release."

"To what end, exactly," Fenris paused, his tone changing into something husky. "I'd be free, but at the cost of losing her love, and his trust. Besides, you had the better opportunity, talking straight to the Knight-Captain himself."

"Yes, well, er," Sebastian coughed, "I suppose it simply didn't come up."

"Really," the sarcasm dripped like thick syrup from Fenris' voice as he rolled his eyes. "Do you mean to say, he never once asked how you came to be in the tunnels, or how you came to suspect Ser Alrik…"

"I didn't want to give away too much," Sebastian interrupted him, fearing their conversation was getting too loud. "Some things are hard to believe, unless you learn them for yourself. Besides, he should be able to discover it during the course of his investigation."

Fenris scoffed, "And then you wouldn't have to feel guilty for betraying Hawke, or one of his friends."

Sebastian glanced guiltily at Hawke's back, but the mage seemed to be oblivious to their conversation. He gave a heavy, long-suffering sigh. "You know one of us… someone… some day… will have to out him. However much it might hurt Hawke and Hrodwynn. They cannot continue to deny it forever… the danger he is… to himself… to others…"

"He knows it," Fenris defended Hawke, also staring hard at his back, almost wishing he'd turn around the catch them plotting against the man he loved. "And I think she's finally starting to see what I've seen all along—what we've seen, that he's an abomination, a maleficar, and needs to be put down. And though I would gladly do the deed myself, I have no desire to see her hurt. And it would hurt her. Deeply. Hawke, as well."

They turned around the last corner and saw Hrodwynn and Anders, embracing near the docks, the woman fighting back the tears, the man holding on to too many emotions. Sebastian slowed their progress, allowing Hawke to pull ahead, "So what are we to do, you and I, trapped within this moral dilemma?"

"You may be trapped, but I am not. I know there's no need to turn him over to the templars, or even to destroy him ourselves." He was watching Anders closely, studying him, searching for any sign of Justice. The man's face was flushed, as if his heart was racing, which was quite understandable, considering how close they were to the Gallows. But there were emotions on Anders' face, emotions far too easy to read: the fear, the doubt, the anxiety, the rage, the hurt, the unquenchable need… "He will do that himself."

A/N: I know, I know, this was mostly an Anders' chapter, and typically speaking, Fenris fans are /NOT/ Anders fans, them being bitter rivals and all…

But he is very angsty, you gotta give him that. I just wanted an opportunity to explore his angst before, well, the inevitable *shrugs*

And—it was an excuse to slip Cullen into this story, however briefly :'D