"Maker's breath - you look like a drowned alley cat! What happened to you? To your clothes? Is that your blood? Why are you all wet? You stink of dead fish! We were worried about you…" Shianni's face paled, the words tumbling from her lips as she leapt to her feet. Her hands pulled at the filthy tatters of Zoya's clothes as she searched for injuries.
Zoya gently pried herself from Shianni's grip, slumping into a battered chair at the table. Her cousins waited expectantly as she poured herself a mug of hot tea and crammed a chunk of sweet bread into her mouth, licking her fingers clean as she decided how to respond to Shianni's interrogation. Even to her own ears, the exhaustion in her voice was obvious, the words hollow as she related her tale in the simplest way she could. "I went to the docks last night. There were Templars. They chased a mage, ran him through, and dumped him off the docks. I took him to a safe place and healed him, or at least healed him as much as I could before I exhausted my magic. I don't have much time before I need to go back there - he'll need food, clothing, blankets, and medicine. Can you cover for me while I deal with this?"
Soris stared at her in disbelief, his eyes and mouth agape. "What? You did what? Zoya, are you insane? What if the Templars come looking for him? Why would you help this mage? You know nothing about him! For all you know, the Templars tried to kill him for a reason!" Horror at what she'd done was clear on his face.
Zoya sighed heavily as she stared into the dregs in her mug. "What do you want me to say, Soris? It's done –there's no changing it." Zoya's throat tightened as tears burned in her eyes. "You know as well as I that the Templars pursue any mage – it doesn't matter if they're good or bad. It was like mother all over again - I was helpless to stop them when they dispelled his magic and unleashed their smite. They dumped him off the docks like garbage. I had to help him." She searched her cousins' faces, tears cutting channels through the filth on her cheeks as her eyes pleaded for understanding.
Shianni knelt before Zoya, grasping her icy hands. "You know we'll do whatever you need. Right Soris?" Shianni gave him a stern glare, daring him to refuse. Soris stared at her defiantly for a moment before dropping his gaze to his hands and nodding in resignation. She turned back to Zoya, reaching up to wipe a tear way. "What do you need us to do?"
Zoya pulled Shianni into a tight embrace. "Thank you for trusting in me. Maybe you could go to Alarith's and pick up enough food for a week or so, and maybe a few health and mana potions? You can tell Alarith to put it on my tab. If you bring everything back here to the room, I'll be able to retrieve it." She looked Soris up and down; he was reasonably tall and well-built for an elf, but not nearly as much as the human. Sometimes you couldn't afford to be picky – it would raise suspicion if her cousins purchased garments that would fit a human. "Soris, you have a spare set of clothing here, right? Shirt, pants?"
Soris raised an eyebrow and ran his hands roughly through his hair. "Yes… Oh Maker… Fine…" Soris' voice was strained and he wouldn't meet her eyes as he spoke. "But where will you be?" His anxiety was clear on his face.
Zoya could tell he was worried about her being alone with the mage. But beyond that, there was something even more troubling that everyone in the room knew but no one was willing to acknowledge openly. If the humans discovered that an apostate was being harbored by someone in the Alienage, the consequences could be dire, and not just for Zoya.
Zoya wrapped her fingers around Soris' calloused hand. "Thank you, Soris. I owe you one." She tapped a finger against her chin as she considered her cover story and how much information to share with her cousins. "You can tell everyone I've secured some short term work in the city and will be staying there until it's done. But it's best if you don't know where I am. Now please, hurry."
Shianni and Soris rose to their feet, hugging her tightly before leaving the room. Zoya grabbed a crate and packed it with food, water, blankets and Soris' spare clothes. She quickly stripped out of her torn and bloodied clothing, using the discarded garments and water from the basin to scour most of the blood and filth off herself. A long, hot bath appealed, but that was a luxury she was not likely to enjoy any time soon. Her skin tingled from the cold water and rough scrubbing; once finished, she pulled a fresh tunic and leggings on over reddened skin. The bedrolls against the apartment's wall called out to her, and she regarded them longingly before grabbing the crate and hurrying back to the storage room and the tunnels beyond.
~oOo~
Zoya picked the door's lock and quietly entered the cell, thankful the mage was still unconscious. Stowing the crate against a wall, she knelt over him, laying her ear to his chest. His heart beat rapidly, his lungs crackled with every shallow breath, and his skin was hot and dry against her cheek. It really wasn't surprising that he was feverish after his open wounds had been exposed to the filth-ridden waters of the docks. This was a complication she would have to address before she could finally rest.
Her magic sputtered in protest when she called it; she would just have to use mundane means to deal with his fever. She tore a strip from his robe and dipped it in a basin of water, feeling a bit guilty about the damage inflicted on the garment. It might have been well-made once, but now there wasn't much left to salvage. Well, at least she had managed to save his boots; enchantments tingled against her fingers as she touched the well-maintained brown leather. She plucked blonde strands of hair from his forehead and away from the dark stubble on his cheeks before pressing the cool, wet cloth to his face, neck and chest. He flinched and let out a small gasp when the compress contacted his skin.
She continued her ministrations, taking the opportunity to study him. He wasn't destitute if his jewelry was any indication - a gold hoop glittered in his ear, and the pendant around his neck and rings on his fingers were marked with runes, likely to augment his power. He was attractive enough for a human - his thin, angular face was given character by a slightly over-long nose and wide, generous mouth. The lack of scars and calluses on his hands marked him as someone unaccustomed to hard labor or combat. Perhaps this human was a mage from a Circle - escaped, maybe, which would explain the Templars' pursuit. Other than her mother she'd never met another mage, let alone one from the Circle; her head spun with all the questions she wanted to ask him.
Once his temperature had lowered, she dropped the cloth back into the basin and leaned against the cell wall. Her eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion, and before long she slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.
She awoke some time later with her neck and back screaming at her for falling asleep upright against the uneven stone wall. Weary fingers massaged the knots in her neck as she yawned and attempted to stretch muscles stiff from the recent abuses inflicted on them. The distinct feeling that someone was watching her shivered over her skin; she sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. Intense brown eyes pinned her to the spot, freezing her as effectively as a mouse spotted by a hungry cat. Goosebumps rose, though there was no malice in his gaze - only mild concern and open curiosity.
His voice rasped weakly, "Would you mind terribly if I asked you who you are, where I am, and why I have no clothes?"
Zoya was uncharacteristically tongue-tied; she wondered how long it would take for her heart to descend from her throat and her tongue to start working again. Her hands ran through her hair self-consciously, nervously twisting it into a tight knot at the base of her neck. She hated to admit it, but what if Soris had been right? She had locked herself in this cell with a strange human, a potentially dangerous mage, and no one knew where she was or expected to see her for at least a week. Her imagination ran wild with all the things that could befall her before anyone suspected foul play. She pulled her feet up under her in case she needed to flee.
The human continued to watch her as she silently fidgeted, rubbing at the stubble along his jaw before gently probing at his chest where he had been run through. "Not very talkative are you? You're obviously not a Templar." His eyes narrowed as he studied his surroundings. "And I don't recognize these cells, which is odd since I've probably visited every dungeon in Ferelden over the years." He struggled to sit up, but was wracked by convulsive coughing.
Zoya poured water into a cup and moved cautiously toward the human, keeping both hands in clear view. Reason told her he was likely harmless in his current state; she took a deep breath, releasing it slowly as she got her fear under control. "Please… I only want to help you."
"Even if I wanted to hurt you, which I don't, I don't think I have it in me right now." He smiled at her weakly. "There's something about being run through with a sword that makes you less feisty."
The tightness in Zoya's chest eased and she chuckled softly. "It was a pretty big sword. And if you add being nearly drowned… well, I think that would just about take the fight out of anyone." She knelt beside the mage, helping to prop him up so he could comfortably drink. After he'd had his fill, she gently lowered him back to the platform. The fever radiated from him in waves; she moved to retrieve the basin and cloth, hoping to once again lower his temperature.
The mage shivered, goosebumps rising as the cold cloth swept over his bare skin. "I should at least know your name if you're going to insist on spending time with me while I'm in nothing but my smallclothes."
Zoya blushed and bit the inside of her cheek, chastising herself for the sudden impulse to let her eyes linger over his lanky length. She cleared her throat before speaking. "Zoya."
His lips quirked into a soft smile before he closed his eyes. "You may call me Anders, my dear lady." As she continued to run the cloth over his skin, she unfocused her eyes and emptied her mind to allow her healer's instincts to take control of her hands. Under her gentle touch, his breathing slowed as he relaxed into a deep slumber.
Zoya was desperate for sleep, but she knew she should return to the apartment for her supplies. A health potion would go a long way toward reducing Anders' fever, and a mana potion would help support her magic. The head injury that she had been trying to heal when her magic failed was still of concern, and with her magic restored she could endeavor to heal it. With one last forlorn glance at her still-unused bedroll, she ducked silently out of the cell.
~oOo~
When Anders woke some hours later, he didn't immediately recognize his surroundings. The only light came from a low fire in the brazier near the center of the cell. The firelight reflected off a thick tangle of red hair; someone was lying on a bedroll against the opposite wall. Memories flooded his mind - a red-haired elf with a melodious voice and gentle hands lulling him to sleep. What was her name? For a moment, all he could recall was her exotically pretty face, luminous skin, emerald eyes, and the feel of her deft fingers. Zoya - she'd said her name was Zoya.
His eyes traveled the small room, noting that there were sufficient supplies for the two of them for several days. He cursed under his breath as he spotted the remains of a robe, his favorite one, hanging near the brazier. This wouldn't be the first time he'd woken with a splitting headache in a strange place with an unfamiliar woman in nothing but his smallclothes, but usually he didn't feel like he had been thrown from a building and impaled on a pike first. His hand rubbed his chest as the memories came back in flashes – the emptiness as the Templars cleansed the docks of magic, the unbearable pressure of their smite, the sickening sound as the sword punched through his chest, the cold darkness of the water. Other than a sensitive patch of skin where he'd been run through, some sore ribs and a splitting headache, he seemed to be on his way to a full recovery. He reached within himself for his healing magic but came up empty. The unanswered questions added to the pounding in his head. Where was he? How did he end up here? Who healed his injuries? Who was this lovely elf and what did she want with him?
Anders cautiously pushed himself into a sitting position, pausing to let the dizziness pass. Simple linen clothing was stacked next to his boots on the edge of the sleeping platform, and he dressed before slowly standing. The clothing was ill-fitting but in good repair; obviously made for someone more gracile than him, it was tighter across his shoulders and chest and shorter in the arms and legs than he would have preferred. But then, he was used to wearing mage's robes; he chuckled to himself as he struggled to remember the last time he'd actually worn pants. He stretched his arms across his chest, hoping the fabric would give enough without tearing to be more comfortable. While he appreciated the simple garments, he couldn't help but wish for a robe.
Once he was sure he wouldn't fall over, he walked to the cell door, testing it on the off-chance it had been left unlocked. No such luck. He continued his tour of the small room, pausing to sniff two empty potion bottles - the remains of healing and mana potions lying among the supplies stacked against the stone wall. It was becoming clear that he wasn't imprisoned by the Templars. They wouldn't have given him a cellmate or left any potions in the cell. And the mana potion hadn't been for him - if he had been given it, his magic would have returned. Perhaps the elf had used it and was the one who healed him.
He rifled through the supplies for more potions but didn't find any. Grabbing a chunk of bread and a cup of water, he returned to the sleeping platform; even these simple actions set his head to pounding. Two books lay next to the platform and he picked them up, sliding back until he was supported by the cell wall. The well-worn bindings and dog-eared pages were proof that the books were well loved and that his cellmate had a taste for adventure and tragic love. He read quietly as Zoya slept, listening for any sign of her waking. All in all, things could be worse - he had food, water, reading materials and a beautiful woman to keep him company. But he was still in a cell, and he itched to be free of it.
He must have dozed off while he was reading because when he awoke, his head was resting on something soft and gentle hands were stroking his head. A feminine voice sang a pretty melody in a language he didn't understand; he wondered if it might be Dalish. Something about the elf's voice and the softness under his head turned his thoughts for a moment to the embroidered pillow his mother had made for him; besides his memories, it was the only thing he had from his life before the Circle. He wondered if he would ever see it again.
Not wanting Zoya to stop what she was doing, Anders lay motionless with his eyes closed. She must have sensed that he was awake as she suddenly went still and quiet. He cracked his eyes open, looking up at her as light from the brazier highlighted her delicate features. "That was a lovely song - please don't stop on my account. It's been a long time since I haven't felt like my head was a drum."
Zoya shifted slightly under him and laid a hand on either side of his head over each temple. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, her eyes unfocused, "You were mumbling and shifting around in your sleep – I thought maybe you were having a bad dream or your fever had returned. "She paused, her expression pained as she swallowed hard. "My mother used to sing that song to me when I had bad dreams or was sick. She never told me what the words meant – perhaps she didn't know." Her eyes refocused as she searched his face. "So your head still hurts?"
"Yes, but not as much as earlier." He raised his hand to his forehead and reached for his magic, but it was the warm glow of her healing powers that drifted over his head. "So you're a mage? An apostate, I'm guessing?"
Anders felt her tense, but the flow of her magic continued, shifting in purpose from exploration to repair. "As are you." She spoke in a flat tone.
"No need to fret, dear lady. I've no intention of turning you over to the Chantry." He lay quietly, enjoying the blissful feel of her hands, unable to recall the last time he'd been so relaxed. After some time, curiosity won out and he spoke again, "I don't recognize you from the Ferelden Circle."
"Is that where you're from?" Zoya deftly shifted the discussion from herself.
Anders played along, "I've spent most of my life there. So, I have you to thank for bringing me back from the dead? Your healing technique is different from anything I've seen - where did you study?"
Zoya's eyes searched his. Her face was a blank mask, but he could nearly read the thoughts behind her expressive eyes. She was wondering how much she should trust him, how much she should tell him, weighing the potential consequences of any information she shared. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she nodded, seeming to reach some sort of decision. "My mother taught me; she was also an apostate. I did as much as I could to heal you, but you were in pretty rough shape - I had to use magic and potions. Even so, there were some moments when I wasn't sure if you would make it. You've been in and out of consciousness and fighting a fever for a couple of days, but I think you're past the worst of it. Those Templars nearly did you in - they left you for dead, you know. What did you do to get them so angry?"
As curious as Anders was about Zoya's mother, he had learned at the Circle not to press his fellow mages to discuss their parents; the stories were often tragic. Anders shrugged, "They don't like it when you keep escaping from the Tower. But they're generally not so rough. Usually, they just haul me back to the Circle dungeons so I can serve my time until I'm ready to escape again." Anders paused to rub pensively at his chin. "I wonder what made this time different."
Zoya's eyes widened in surprise. "How many times have you escaped?"
"Well, let's see… I guess this was the fifth, or was it the sixth. I lose track." He gave her a lopsided grin.
Zoya shook her head, her expression incredulous. "And you were never concerned that they would execute you or make you Tranquil?"
"They can't make you Tranquil if you've passed your Harrowing. And they're not supposed to execute you unless you're a danger to others or you use blood magic."
"So they're not big on following the rules then?" Zoya's fists clenched into balls and the muscles along her jaws twitched.
Anders sat up, turning to look at her with concern. So much venom filled her tone, and he wondered what had happened to her to make her detest Templars so much. It was true that he didn't really care for them himself, but the animosity that darkened her voice was different than the contempt that fueled his desire for escape. He ran his fingers through his hair, wishing he had something to tie it back. "I meant to thank you. I would have been dead without your help. I'm not sure how I'll ever repay you." He reached out and placed his hand over Zoya's, giving it a gentle squeeze.
She flinched but didn't pull away from his touch, searching his eyes for a moment before squeezing his hand in return. "Just don't get caught by the Templars again."
~oOo~
The silence woke her, bringing her back to fuzzy awareness. Hours had passed as she rested, and now she finally felt like she was recovering from the massive expenditure of power used to heal Anders. How had her mother done it without giving up so much of her own reserves in the process? The mage had said that he was skilled in healing magic; perhaps he would be willing to share some of his knowledge?
Suddenly she realized why the quiet in the cell had woken her – the mage was no longer there. She called out for him, holding her breath as she waited for a response that never came. Damn him! She'd warned him not to wander far. The tunnels were dangerous, a labyrinth filled with dead ends, cave-ins, and traps set over the years by herself and Adaia. She leapt to her feet, hoping the mage would stay out of harm's way until she found him.
It wasn't difficult to track him through the tunnels; his boot prints left a clear trail along the dusty corridors. She cursed under her breath when she realized where he was going. What sick twist of fate would take his feet in that particular direction? Maybe it was the residual magic there that drew him.
The light from a glowing orb hovering in the center of the chamber spilled out into the tunnel. She crept forward on silent feet, watching the mage make his way around the room. His eyes grew wide as he took in the scorched and battered fighting dummies dressed in makeshift armor, the splintering targets peppered with throwing knives, the heavily patched leather bags hanging from the ceiling on chains, and the racks holding a hodge-podge of arms and armor. He paused before a rack of staves; his doting hand tracing their delicate lines. One in particular caught his attention, tipped with a crystal orb clutched in a dragon's stylized claw. His hand wrapped around it to pull it free just as she called out. "Anders! Don't move!"
Zoya should have expected that he would whirl to face her, the staff held defensively in front of him. And she certainly wasn't surprised to hear the mechanism of the trap trigger. Anders yelped in surprise as his feet were yanked out from under him and he was pulled upward toward the ceiling of the chamber.
Throwing him a scowl, Zoya skirted the swinging mage as she moved to retrieve the staff and reset it on the rack. "Told you not to move," she muttered.
"True enough," Anders replied, the annoyance on his face obvious even as he tried to cover it with a polite smile. "Now, would you be so kind as to get me down from here?"
"Maybe I should leave you dangling there for a bit? Use you for target practice? It's a good thing you're not in your robes, or I would be getting quite a show." Zoya strode to a nearby table, her hand caressing the well-worn, leather-wrapped hilt of a dagger. "I warned you not to wander into the tunnels. You're lucky I found you so quickly and that this was the trap you triggered – there are far worse to be encountered here."
Anders threw his arms up to cover his face as she drew back her hand, releasing the blade in a quick and graceful movement. As the dagger zipped past him, he let out a startled yelp; it sliced through the rope that held him aloft before burying itself in a wooden post. He groaned as he crashed to the floor in a heap, rubbing the shoulder that took the brunt of his awkward landing and looking up at Zoya with a lopsided grin. "You should be so lucky. If I had a silver piece for every time a pretty girl asked me what mages wore under their robes, I wouldn't need to run from the Templars - I could just bribe the Chantry into leaving me be. I guess I'll have to keep the dangers of these tunnels in mind the next time I decide to take a stroll." Wincing, he stood and brushed himself off. "So what is this place?" Anders' eyes combed the room, his feet carrying him slowly throughout as he further explored. Elegant hands reached out to touch the books and items dispersed around the chamber as he passed them, but then hesitated, likely recalling his lesson of only moments ago.
Zoya perched on the edge of a nearby platform, running her fingers over the furs strewn on it. Her voice was barely more than a whisper when she finally spoke. "These old slaver tunnels are scattered with rooms such as this - filled with odds and ends left behind - but this one is special. My mother and I came here often to train and study before she died. Most of these things were gathered by her over the years." What she didn't share with Anders was that often it wasn't just the two of them using the space or adding to the collection. The ghosts of her memories shifted throughout the chamber.
She sat on the edge of the sleeping platform, a book open but forgotten in her lap as she watched Adaia and Duncan spar. Their blades glimmered as they circled each other, striking and blocking in a dance that only looked deadly. Zoya watched them with a critical eye, storing away what she was seeing for her future use. So far, her mother hadn't allowed her to train with any sort of weapon, and Zoya was anxious to start. Adaia's fighting style was quick and acrobatic, her hands and feet equally fast as she lashed out. Somehow Duncan always knew where she would strike, never failing to block, and Adaia likewise always managed to spin out of reach, avoiding every counter.
Zoya wondered how long they could continue to spar like this before someone was hurt; she couldn't remember ever seeing them injure each other during these training matches. Her thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of one of Duncan's daggers hitting the stone floor. Adaia stepped in to press her advantage, but Duncan grasped her arm as she lunged, squeezing her wrist to make her drop her blade before pulling her tight to his chest. She squirmed in his grip as he lifted her from her feet, but she quickly ceased her protests as he dropped his remaining dagger, gently brushing red tendrils of her hair from her face as he bent down to claim her lips with his own.
Zoya felt her ears turning red; she had never even seen Adaia and Cyrion kiss this way. Not sure if she should be mad or embarrassed, she let out a small gasp and the book tumbled from her lap. Adaia turned her head to meet her daughter's eyes with a reassuring smile and blushed prettily before gently pushing with dainty hands against Duncan's chest.
Duncan gave Zoya a sheepish grin as he set her mother gently back on her feet. "Ah… my little magpie, I nearly forgot… I have something for you." Striding across the room to his pack, he retrieved a linen wrapped bundle and beckoned her to him. She moved toward him on hesitant feet, thinking she should be angry with him. Scowling up at him, she opened the package with wary fingers. Seemingly unphased by her response, he smiled at her gently. "I made those for you, so you could learn how to fight with daggers like your mother."
Zoya quickly forgot that she wanted to be angry with Duncan as her fingers traced over the carved wood of the practice daggers and wrapped around their hilts. "They're so pretty. Thank you, Duncan. But won't I ruin them if I use them?"
"You don't need to worry about that. Would you like me to show you?" He looked to Adaia for approval, and Adaia smiled at them both as she moved to sit on the edge of the sleeping platform.
And with a simple nod, a fierce grin and a bow to her teacher, her first lesson began.
Zoya's thoughts returned to the room and her present company. Her eyes rested on Anders, standing at a long wooden table and absently paging through a book. There was something strangely comforting about having him here with her in this place.
Anders' gaze shifted to Zoya when he realized she was watching him. "So, do you know how to use all of these weapons?" His arm swept the room.
Zoya nodded, "Yes. My mother felt it was important for me to defend myself without magic. You never know when a Templar might swoop down on you and dispel your magic, right?" She moved around the room, her hands drifting over the familiar objects on the stands and tables. "Have you ever learned to fight without magic?"
Anders swallowed hard and shook his head. "No, although I'm seeing the wisdom in learning."
Her fingers wrapped tenderly around the wooden practice daggers, and she hugged them to herself as she approached Anders. "I would be happy to teach you."
A hungry light illuminated the mage's eyes. "How long would that take?" he asked.
Zoya couldn't help the saucy grin that tugged at her lips. She tossed him a dagger, snickering when he fumbled the catch. "One way to find out."