At some point, Fenris must have fallen asleep; he awoke with a start. At first he was uncertain what had stirred him from his slumber (and he was chagrined to have succumbed to sleep so easily; he must have been more tired than he had thought), but then it came again - the sound of a faint whimper from beyond the curtain that hung over the doorway of Anders' small room.

He rose from the low cot where he'd fallen asleep sitting up with his back against the wall of the clinic, and approached the small room on silent feet. The sound came again; a low, desperate sound, half-stifled, not quite a cry. He hesitated beside the curtain; this was Anders' private domain, and he was loath to invade it. Anders had closed the curtain behind himself; Fenris did not think the mage (no, Anders, as he had pointed out to Fenris repeatedly every time the word "mage" had slipped from the elf's lips) would welcome his invasion.

Then Anders cried out - a hopeless, fearful sound, full of old hurt and pain and loss, and Fenris found himself thrusting aside the curtain and hastening into the small room.

A single candle was burning on the shelf, and in its scant light Fenris could see Anders had been restless in his sleep; his head had slipped from the pillow, the thin blanket pooled about his waist as he tossed and turned. Anders turned his face away and made that plaintive cry again as one hand clutched spasmodically over his bare torso, directly over his heart, and he shuddered before rolling his head back towards Fenris, eyes closed. In the light of the candle, Fenris could see the glisten of tears upon his cheek from beneath the closed eyelid of the unconscious man's good eye; the ruined left eye was dry. His brow was creased in a small frown, and his breath was coming fast and frantic. He was lost within a dream, and whatever his dreaming unconscious saw, it terrified him.

Fenris knew all too well what it was like to be trapped in a nightmare; he had had many of his own - both in his time as the slave of Danarius, and ever since he had fled. He was haunted often by his past; things he had suffered, things he had done, his fears tormenting him. He could not help but feel sympathy for the former mage as he tossed and turned. Without thinking, he crouched down beside the cot and tugged off a gauntlet before reaching out instinctively to run his fingers gently through the tousled dark blond hair and murmur soft reassurance to Anders.

Anders turned his face blindly towards Fenris' hand, and the elf felt the man's breath ghost warm across his palm as Anders made a faint half-articulated and incoherent plea Fenris couldn't quite make out. He gently stroked Anders' face, careful not to touch the scar tissue around the ruined eye. Anders' skin was smooth; surprisingly so; the light golden stubble covering his lower cheeks and jaw was light and tickled Fenris' palm as he lightly let his hand caress the sleeping man's face.

Anders gave a faint sigh as he nuzzled his cheek against Fenris' palm briefly, and then his body relaxed into a deeper sleep, silent once more.

Fenris gently carded his hand through the soft hair, so unlike his own in texture, then gently withdrew.

When Anders awoke late the following morning, he emerged blinking and rubbing his good eye to find Fenris crouching over his small stove, stirring a pot of what smelled like porridge. At the scent of food Anders' stomach gave a low yet audible rumble, and Anders could hear the smile in Fenris' voice as the elf called over his shoulder, "Good morning, Anders."

The use of his name was not lost on Anders; he paused in the act of washing his hands to glance at the elf, but Fenris' back was to him.

"Good morning," he answered back. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Some," admitted the elf as he straightened. "Where do you keep your bowls?"

"The cupboard behind you. They're, uh, a bit battered and chipped, but serviceable." He felt a flush of embarrassment creep across his face, but Fenris seemed unconcerned as he turned back with two bowls and began to ladle hot, steaming porridge into them.

"Thank you," said Anders as Fenris handed him one bowl then carried the other over to Anders' small rickety table that served him as his dining table. Anders grabbed a couple of spoons and the small jar of honey he generally kept for making tisanes for coughs and sore throats and joined Fenris at the table.

"Only crates for chairs I'm afraid," he apologised.

Fenris merely inclined his head and drew up a crate as Anders did likewise, and then they ate in silence.

Anders was full of questions but held his tongue, turning his attention instead to the porridge. It was rather good porridge, he had to admit; certainly as good as anything he himself could have made - if he'd had the ingredients, he amended to himself.

After breakfast, Anders pumped water into a bucket and put his hand into the water without thinking and then gave a low cry that caused Fenris to look up from where he sat with a look of polite concern.

"I forgot," Anders grimaced. "I can't just heat the water with magic the way I used to." He sat back and then kicked the bucket in frustration, heedless of the water that slopped over onto the floor.

Wordlessly, Fenris took a large pot - the biggest one Anders owned, the one he used for sterilising bandages in - and set it over the fire before bending to retrieve the bucket. He poured the water into the pot then set the bucket aside.

"It will take some time for the water to heat. The washing up can wait a little while. Come; it is time for your first lesson." He held out a hand to Anders, who glanced at it then up at Fenris from his position on the floor. The elf appeared unperturbed by his little outburst.

Anders took his hand and allowed Fenris to tug him to his feet. "Lesson?" he echoed.

In answer, Fenris tossed his staff to him before taking up his own sword then grinning at Anders ferally.

Fenris worked Anders hard, attacking him from several angles and forcing the former mage to bring up the staff to defend himself. he used only the flat of the blade (he was not trying to kill him, after all); Anders was a quick study, and towards the end he was even managing to get in a few attacks himself. But at the end of a punishing work-out, he still sported several bruises whereas Fenris was completely unscathed.

"This is going to be a painful process," Anders remarked ruefully afterwards as he smoothed salve over his purpling bruises.

"And one you will master," replied Fenris.

"Tomorrow then?" asked Anders.

"Tomorrow," agreed Fenris.

The elf left Anders to wash up and prepare for the first of his patients that morning. As Anders worked, treating his patients with salves, poultices, decotions and tisanes, dressing wounds and dispensing advice, he reflected on the morning's activity. Thankfully most of his patients were not seriously ill or hurt; in the general course of most days in the clinic he'd only rarely needed to call on his magic for the more serious cases. Only one case came in that required more than herbs and lotions could deal with; a nasty supporating wound that had turned septic. For that he resorted to one of his healing potions - part of a large batch he'd brewed a few weeks ago, before the ill-fated trip to the coast.

If his patient thought it strange that the healer gave him a potion instead of healing with his magic, he said nothing of it, merely thanking Anders effusively as he left. Anders extinguished the lamp once he had gone, and set about tidying up.

Fenris returned as he'd finished setting the clinic to rights, bearing with him a pot of stew sent by Orana, Hawke's servant. They ate in companionable silence, and Anders retired to bed shortly afterwards. The following morning, they sparred again.

The days passed thus for several weeks. Each morning, Fenris would cook breakfast; they would set the large pot of water over the fire to heat then begin the lesson, breaking off only to remove the boiling water from the fire. Once the lesson was concluded, Anders would treat his bruises as Fenris explained where he had erred in the lesson, making suggestions as to how Anders could improve as he washed up.

Then Fenris would depart before the first patients began filtering into the clinic, returning with food in the evening which they would share. After a while, they began talking over dinner; Fenris talking about some of the lands he had passed through after escaping Danarius, Anders sharing stories of his own escapades on the run from the Circle in Ferelden. As if by unspoken agreement, neither spoke of their past - Fenris of his time as a slave, Anders of his time in the Circle or the Grey Wardens.

And they never spoke of magic or the plight of mages.

Then Anders would retire to his small room as Fenris took up guard once more.

They were becoming - not friends, precisely. But a certain respect and camaderie was beginning to grow between them.

And then one afternoon, on a day when Anders had kept the clinic closed so he could do some washing (both of his own clothes, assorted bandages and rags he used for dressings - and himself), Fenris arrived unexpectedly with Hawke and Varric in tow - and they had brought gifts for Anders. Varric had brought a book on alchemy.

And Hawke had brought a new staff.