"Places do not heal us. Places only hold us; they only let us in. Places only hold us close enough that we can finally see ourselves reflected back."
- Kerri nì Dochartaigh, Thin Places
It hadn't yet been a full day since Garrett and Fenris had left Kirkwall, but felt like weeks had passed. Emerging from the trap door that led to Darktown, the quiet was striking. No doubt the underground's had taken advantage of the previous night's chaos to loot and riot, and were now resting to do more of the same once the sun went down. Vaguely, Garrett wondered how his estate had fared. Likely the Marchers had taken everything that hadn't been nailed down. Bodahn and Sandal would be all right, and he could only hope they would watch out for Orana as well. Kirkwall would eat her alive.
Garret reached down to the ladder and offered Fenris his hand. The elf took it, pulling himself up to the surface. "Let's not linger here, Garrett."
"No." Garrett pulled in a breath. There was no chance of them blending it with the residents of Darktown. The celebrated Champion and his elven companion were too well known. It was best to move quickly, keeping their heads down and staying close to the shadows. They couldn't remain totally invisible, but the few that noticed them let them alone, with only a frightened whisper or a surprised gasp to mark what they'd witnessed.
Garrett found himself looking towards the grimy series of rooms that made up Anders's clinic. The lanterns were unlit, the doors bashed in.
How many hours had Garrett spent there with Anders? Planning schemes, healing those who needed it, and more than once, talking Anders down from his dangerous rages. Trying to bring him back from the brink of madness.
Garrett bit his lip. Anders had been more than a struggling apostate. He'd been a friend. More than once, Garrett wondered if he could have loved him, if not for Justice.
Somewhere past the clinic's broken doors, Garrett hoped there was something left to salvage of Anders: the Anders who healed those in need without question, who sang bawdy songs after drinking too much and drew sketches of cats. The real Anders that Garrett only saw in glimpses between Justice, and madness.
But that Anders was gone. He'd been gone for some time. Long before Garrett ever realized it.
"We need to move on." Fenris's voice nudged Garrett out of his reverie.
"I'm sorry," Garrett apologized, bashful. "Can you wait here? Just for a moment."
Fenris narrowed his eyes. He knew exactly what Garrett was asking. "No. We cannot afford to waste time."
Of course Fenris didn't understand. He and Anders had never been friends. "I won't be long," Garrett assured him, and started towards what remained of the clinic.
"You're going to get us both killed," Fenris muttered, but followed Garrett's lead.
"Not if I have you to protect me." Garrett forced himself to smile, a charming grin that had won him so many friends. It was an old trick now, one that Fenris now saw easily past.
"Garret, no." Fenris planted his hand on the mage's shoulder. Trying to pull him back. His deep voice rumbled, like a hammer striking an anvil. "Whatever you're looking for, you won't find it in there."
"I just..." Garrett's eyes fell on the broken doors of the clinic. Through the splintered gaps he could make out some of the familiar space: an overturned bed, and ransacked drawers pulled from cupboards. He turned back to Fenris, his thumb lightly touching the elf's cheek. "I need to find something. Please."
Fenris relented with a small sigh. "Fine. Be quick. I'll make sure no one distrubs you."
Garrett kissed Fenris on the cheek. "Thank you." He easily stepped over a door that now hung only on its lower hinge, and into the clinic.
Broken glass crunched underneath Garrett's boots: vials once used for potions. Anders's sparse furniture had been destroyed, wooden frames smashed and feathers torn out of the only real pillow Anders owned. The scrolls he'd written – manifestos and treatises – were gone. The smell of smoke hanging in stagnant air told their fate.
Anders once brought hope and healing to one of the darkest corners of Kirkwall, but that meant nothing in the face of what he'd done. Looking around the wreckage, there was no indication that someone called Anders had ever lived here.
Garrett swayed where he stood, overwhelmed and fighting the urge to weep. Fenris was right. There was nothing left for Garrett to save. Turning to leave, he saw a flash of white hair, the gleam of a blade, and electric blue.
"Fenris!" Garrett yelled, trying to run to his lover.
The world exploded around him.
There was no time to react. A bottle glowing with orange and red flame as it flew past him. The fire bomb smashed against an overturned table. It ignited it at once and filling the enclosed space with heat. Smoke rose, thick in the air.
Garrett vaulted over the rubble, eyes stinging from smoke. A second fire bomb sailed into the clinic, smashing just to his right. Flames leaped towards him, licking at Garrett's robes. He quenched the flames with a blast of frost before they engulfed him.
He had to get out. Garrett pushed his way through the now-empty door frames, away escaping the burning clinic.
Fenris was gone, and a riot had taken his place.
The people of Darktown finally crawled out of their holes, baying for blood. It no longer mattered whose blood it was.
Eyes streaming, Garrett searched the mob for Fenris, but he'd disappered. Escape was his only option; he couldn't afford to use his precious reserves of mana to fight a crowd of dozens.
Garrett's throat burned and he struggled to catch his breath. There was no way to go but forward through the sea of furious rioters. They saw him as he emerged from the clinic, and were on him in seconds. Hands tore at his burned robes. Garrett felt the edges of knives trying to slash into him. He sent out a shock of psychic energy as he fell, stunning his assailants. He had only a few seconds to get to his feet before the crowd around him would be at him again.
Garrett shoved past them, racing away from the clinic. "Fen—" He started to call, only to be cut off by a fit of coughing.
Garrett saw him. Fenris, sword in hand, blood splattered across his armor. Bodies of his slain foes were at his feet.
Garrett let out a relieved gasp. Fenris was alive. That was all that mattered.
Fenris saw him and lowered his sword. "Garrett—"
"Get the elf!"
"No!" Garrett cried out. It was a painfully familiar scene: men trying to reclaim Fenris. Not again. Garrett would not allow this to happen again.
Surrounded, Fenris raised his greatsword. Garrett thrust his staff forward, ready to call on fire or ice or all the powers of the Fade itself if he had to.
Fenris's markings glowed blue. Garrett directed a blast of fire toward the men slashing at his lover-
The mage let out a gasp of pain; the flames died out. Coldness enveloped Garrett, like ice running through his veins. His knees buckled. Somewhere, he could hear Fenris call his name. Garrett fell, head lolling backwards. His vision blurred, and then he saw himself looking into the face of a Templar.
The Templar's sword had nearly run him through, and blood dripped from his sword as he withdrew it from Garrett's side. The Templar raised his sword high. Garrett closed his eyes. He didn't want this man's face to be the last thing he saw.
"No master but the Maker!" Another voice called. One that Garrett didn't know. There was a crackle, the smell of ozone, a yelp of pain—then nothing. The killing blow never fell. Garrett didn't know how, but he was still alive. Still breathing. He dared to open his eyes.
"Champion? Champion!" A stranger's face hovered over him. "Come with me."
"Fen—" Garrett started.
"You're badly hurt." The stranger, an elf with auburn hair, was trying to help the taller, heavier mage to his feet. "I know someplace safe, but we need to go now." He threw Garrett's arm over his slim shoulders. The bulk of Garrett's weight pressed into him.
"Wait," Garrett croaked. "I need—"
"To get out of here," the elf hissed. "Or we'll both be killed."
A wave of dizziness hit Garrett as he looked back to where Fenris had been fighting for his life.
He was gone.
Garrett had had his mana drained by Templars before, though never to this extent. Those were minor cuts compared to the wound he'd been inflicted with. The tingling sensation that danced on his skin told him that the elf had healed the most severe damage, but it would be some time before he returned to full strength.
Garrett's stomach roiled with each shaky step he took. It was hard to stay focused. There was too much going on around him: yelling, the sound of swords and armor clashing. The elf guiding him was trying to tell Garrett something, but all his words blurred together.
Fenris. He needed Fenris, need to make sure that he was safe. But if Fenris was somewhere out there still, among the mob, Garrett couldn't find him.
He was only vaguely aware of being pulled out of the chaos of Darktown, and into someplace cool and dim.
"Maker's Breath, Galen!" Garrett heard the voice before he saw its owner, a dark-skinned woman with her hair shorn just above the ears. She had the same look as so many others in Darktown: Hard, tough, and hungry. "What in Andraste's name are you—" She stopped at once, taking in a small breath. "The Champion."
"So I've been told," he replied weakly.
The elf - Galen, apparently — ducked out from underneath Garrett's arm. "He's hurt, Madira." He spoke quickly, not giving her a chance to respond. "There was a Templar. He needs help." As though on cue, Garrett wavered where he stood. He grasped on to the wall, leaning against it for balance.
Madira cleared her throat, loud enough for both men to look up at her. "If there's one Templar out there, there'll be more. Do what you need to, but make it fast."
"Thank you," Galen said in a breath. "I'll be as fast as my magic will allow."
Garret sank onto a pallet in a tiny windowless bedroom in the rear of Madira's house."I'm sorry I didn't have more time," Galen apologized, shutting the door behind him. Garrett instincitvely reached for his staff. It would do him little good in his current state, but he'd long since learned to never let a stranger come between him and an escape route.
"You're a mage," Garrett said.
He nodded. "My name is Galen. I escaped the Circle last night. Madira's no friend of the Templars, but she's never been known for her patience. Please, Champion. Let me finish the healing I started."
Garrett reached inside himself for the magic he relied on, and found only an ember. He couldn't waste it on healing, not if Galen was willing and Fenris was missing. "Very well."
"If you could just…" Galen made a couple vague gestures, a warm tinge appearing on his cheeks. "The healing is more effective if it's against bare skin, Champion."
"Of course." Garrett's hands felt large and clumsy as he worked the buttons and clasps on the front of his robe. "And it's just 'Hawke'." He pulled the loosened robe down, revealing shoulder blades criss-crossed with scars. The robe fell to his hips, exposing a pastiche of scars and healed-over burns. It was a kaleidoscope of wounds and pain, of battles won and lost.
Galen paled and swallowed the lump in his throat. He drew his eyes back to the newest wound in a long line. His emergency healing had stopped the bleeding, but it wasn't enough to heal internal damage. The blood had clotted quickly, but Garrett's skin was still stained a rust-colored red.
Galen knelt raised his hand to the wound, a ball of blue light forming in the palm of his hand. The elf drew in a breath, and held his hand over the wound. A tingling, icy sensation fell over Garrett's skin. It was uncomfortable, but only for a few seconds.
"There was someone with me," Garrett said, trying to remain still. "An elf, with white hair."
"I didn't see anyone else."
Garrett winced. Muscles and sinews were knitting back together, and the pressure of such a healing could be painful. Then it faded, leaving only a chill on his skin.
"I see." Garrett tried to hide the fear in his voice. The feeling of the healing spell left him, and he sat slowly. "Thank you." He pulled his robe back on over his shoulders.
"You can't just go!" Galen had his hands out in front of him, as though he were about to push Garrett back on the bed.
"I can't stay here, either. I'll put both of you at risk." And Fenris. He had to find Fenris.
"Champ—Hawke—"Galen corrected himself. "I know the damage Templar swords can do. For a wound that deep, you'll need hours, maybe days of rest."
"Fenris doesn't have days!" Garrett snapped, his voice harsh. "He may not have hours." His hands clenched into fists.
If Fenris was still alive.
"Then I'm going with you," Galen declared.
Garrett stood up at last, sizing up the elf. No doubt he'd spent the majority of his life in the Circle, but still had contacts outside of it. He was a talented healer, which would be a boon during this chaos. But Anders had been a healer, too, and…
No. Garrett wouldn't let himself think about Anders right now.
"You'll be in danger. Even moreso if you're with me," Garrett told him.
Galen's eyes met Garrett's, the elf's bright blue challenging Garrett's amber. "There's no where else I'd want to be."
"Good." Garrett nodded. "Let's get moving."