They stared at each other, wide-eyed. Fenris could feel the pull of magic upon his brands, unmistakeable and undeniably coming from the mage before him.

"Anders..."

Anders laughed, disbelieving. "It's back! My magic is back! Oh Maker, it's – I can't describe how it feels, I-"

"Mage."

Anders broke off and nodded. "Yes. Right. Intruder first, celebrate afterwards."

Fenris nodded and rose to his feet, but as he turned away Anders gave a strangled cry. Fenris turned back, bewildered; the mage knelt at his feet, looking stricken.

"Fasta vass, mage, what is it? We do not have time to dally!"

"It went away!" Anders choked. "When you stood up, it... it's gone, it went away, I don't understand!"

Fenris stared down at Anders, then at his own glowing hand. Slowly he extended his hand back towards Anders again. "Take my hand."

Uncomprehending, Anders reached out and grasped Fenris' hand, then gasped at the surge of power within his veins once more as the elf hauled him to his feet.

"Your lyrium!" he suddenly realised.

"Evidently," nodded Fenris. "This is... awkward. You are still a mage – but only so long as we are touching and my markings are lit, it seems."

"And you cannot fight properly whilst holding my hand," nodded Anders slowly. He stared down at their joined hands, then swallowed hard before reluctantly releasing Fenris' fingers.

It was like being smothered, half his senses cut off. The singing in his blood was silenced, and without it he felt numb. Suddenly the air in the room felt too thin; he couldn't breathe properly, his head swimming.

He was distantly aware that Fenris was talking to him, had asked some question. He looked up, distracted. "Hmm?"

Fenris had pulled on his leather cuirass and his sword was in his hand; he paused and regarded Anders with worried eyes. "Nothing," he said finally. "You should stay here. It is likely only looters. I will be back shortly."

Anders nodded slowly and sank down on the edge of the bed. He stared at his hand, flexing his fingers slowly, feeling that numb empty space inside where his magic ought to flow.

Sounds of shouting and screaming echoed up from the foyer, stirring him out of his reverie; Anders stood up and grabbed his pouch belt from the pile of his clothes laid neatly on a chair, buckling it on about his hips. He grabbed his staff and ran to the door, flinging it open and racing over to the bannister rail to stare down at the hallway below.

It wasn't looters; he could see that as a glance even as he grabbed a couple of flameburst capsules from his belt and hurled them down into the melee below. He rapidly identified the Tevinter mage who stood, seemingly untouchable, hurling damage spells at the lyrium ghost that was devastating the ranks of the mage's lackeys.

Slavers. Anders' lip curled in a snarl. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" he yelled as he leapt down the set of stairs that curved to the left of the hall, away from the knot of fighting clustered around the swearing figure of Fenris and towards the mage, pulling more capsules from his belt pouches.

The paralysis bomb exploded at the mage's feet, the green energies writhing about the mage's robed legs to pin him from the knees down. Realising the danger from this new, unexpected direction, the Tevinter mage gestured arcanely towards Anders and a bolt of purple-black energy shot towards him.

Anders raised his staff and the arcane bolt was attracted to the blade. Without missing a step, Anders twirled the staff overhead then levelled the blade at the mage's chest, slinging the bolt straight back at the surprised mage. It hit him full in the chest and he screamed, transfixed in place by the paralysis gripping his legs even as the energies roiled through his body. Anders closed the gap between them in a couple of long strides as he brought the staff around in a sweeping arc that slashed open the mage's throat in a spray of bright crimson blood. He followed it up with another capsule that shattered against the mage's chest, spraying him with magebane; Anders wanted to take no chances on the possibility the man might be a blood mage.

As the man clutched at his throat, Anders drove the blade of his staff through the mage's heart then threw his strength against the haft. It twisted in the wound with a sickening crunch as the blade ripped free and the mage dropped to the floor, dead before his body hit the ground.

Anders was already turning to face the elf's assailants, who were staring at him with some trepidation. Anders merely grinned savagely as he flicked blood from the blade of his staff and reached for more capsules.

Between them, the blond apostate and the white-haired warrior soon made short work of the remaining slavers.

They stared at the fresh bodies strewn around the hall, blood pooling here and there, smeared across the cracked marble tiles and splattered across the walls. Fenris toed one corpse impassively, then glanced at Anders. "You terrified them," he remarked quietly.

"I?" exclaimed Anders. "But – how -"

"You should see yourself in a mirror," replied Fenris with a shrug.

They returned to Fenris' room, and the elf nudged Anders in the direction of a full-length glass that stood propped in a corner, mostly intact apart from a crack across one corner. Anders stared at the bloody apparition that returned his stare. He was clad only in his faded grey pants, barefoot, the belt pouch slung around his hips and wet blood spattered across his body; his arms were red from hands to elbows, and his eyes stared out from a mask of dark crimson splashes, his hair plastered flat. He grimaced, remembering how he had grinned at the slavers; no wonder they had been afraid after what he'd done to the Tevinter mage.

Fenris gave a pained grunt behind him, and hurriedly Anders pulled his eyes away from his own gruesome reflection. "You're hurt?" he asked, laying aside his staff as he made his way to Fenris' side.

"It's nothing; one of them got in under my guard – it is a scratch, nothing more," shrugged Fenris then grimaced.

"I'll be the judge of that," replied Anders tersely. "If you'll provide..." He gestured at Fenris' lyrium brands as he laid a hand lightly over the ragged cut that ran down Fenris' bicep.

Wordlessly, Fenris lit his brands, and Anders couldn't restrain a low sigh of relief as his magic came flooding back. He sank his senses into the wound and began to heal it. It felt so good to be able to do this again; to be able to draw torn flesh together, reweaving sinew and tendon, regrow new muscle, clothe the healed cut in new skin until not even a trace of a scar remained. Then he drew on a little more mana as he felt throughout Fenris' body for any other lingering wounds, healing up old strains and bruises before sending the rush of an Invigorate through Fenris.

Keeping one hand upon Fenris' arm, he then turned his attention to his own body, feeling out all the little niggling injuries he'd been forced to endure and heal slowly without the benefit of his magic.

Something made him shy away from the old head wound and scarred eye socket however. He realised he wasn't quite ready to confront that – not just yet.

He pulled his senses slowly back out of awareness of blood, bone, sinew and flesh to find Fenris was regarding him strangely. Anders drew a long, slow breath, and then reluctantly let his hand fall away from the elf's arm, closing his eyes as he felt the magic deaden inside once more. Suddenly he felt incredibly tired and weary and he sagged.

Fenris caught him as he swayed. "Come, mage; let us get you cleaned up, and then rest I think."

Anders did not protest the name for once.