Chapter Text
The polished streets of Hightown were quiet, almost silent, in the early hours of the morning. The ornate streetlanterns that illuminated Hightown's stone paths had been extinguished moments ago by a Lantern-lighter (and Extinguisher, he noted, but that would've been a mouthful) making his rounds through the neighbourhood. For a city bloated with refugees, gangs, and petty thieves, that such stillness could exist in the wealthy neighbourhood was unusual. Even the usual bellow of the airships are muted, their powerful engines muzzled in the airfield near the Docks. If one had the time to stop for a moment, they might even think it to be peaceful.
The Lantern-lighter did just that, pausing in front of the Chantry streetlanterns, the last of his night. With their warm glow extinguished, the square appeared dark, almost eerie - but then his eyes adjusted, and he could see the ivy climbing up the aged stone columns, outlines of wrought iron finials against the clouds. In the distance, the Bell began to toll. It seemed to rouse the city with it - the pitter-patter of footsteps started echoing in the distance.
The Lantern-lighter nodded to himself, then started down the stairs. Time for rest.
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Fenris ran.
He ran past darkened windows, imposing doors, street benches decorated (almost cruelly) with sharp iron spikes. Ducked into the shadows behind columns. Sprinted past the streetlanterns that were lit when he'd arrived, that have been put out, that indicated that there are people around, that implied that he could be seen. The roar of his pounding heart pulsed in his ears as he turned, twice, sprinting through the market square. He took the stairs three at a time, through Lowtown, past the Docks, down below.
His foot slipped then, skidded on some slimy thing that grew where the air is damp, where ships of all sorts unloaded their precious and worthless cargo into Kirkwall. Gasped as he crashed into unforgiving stone, felt the slam reverberate up the hand that he'd hastily thrown up to break his fall. A sharp sting told him that it was likely injured, but that wasn't important now, not when he's on the run, not when his life is in grave danger. He could hide on a ship, stow away, maybe-? But the sailors have woken at dawn, he could hear their hoarse calls echoing down the Docks as they prepared to sail, and how would they not notice his striking appearance? No- no ships- Fenris turned frantically around, looking for another route, when he spots the dark corridor hidden in the stone.
He runs into a fetid passageway that slopes downwards, not caring about the darkness or the stench or the groans of the wretched, the people Kirkwall likes to forget about.
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Fenris didn't stop running until he felt like he'd crossed the entire Undercity. There were people here now, scores and scores of them, calling from the shadows for money or help or sex, or all of the above. The refugees of Kirkwall come from all over, from countries so mired in conflict that a wretched existence in Darktown was preferable. The invention of the steam engine had been an amazement - a machine powered not by humans or beasts, but by mere water - and it was those machines that sparked the roar of conquest. It's counterpart, the explosive fire of Gaatlok powder, stoked the flames of strife, turned the lands of Orlais, Ferelden, and more into a lethal battleground, driving their people into the bloated cities of the Free Marches and into the slums of Darktown.
Fenris stopped against the wall in the warren of Darktown, gasping for breath. The ragged people and silent children barely stirred in their corners. This close to the sewers, the stench was overpowering.
The hand that had taken his fall twinged in pain. Lifting his arm, Fenris stared at the bloody scrape on his palm, at the swelling beginning to form at his wrist. He won’t be using that arm to fight for a while. He suddenly remembered his gun and sword, lying uselessly on the table next to his bed. His coin pouch was not with him. The empty sheath where his dagger used to sit is heavy at his side.
The panic that had tore through him this morning emerged again. He was alone, weaponless, and without coin.
He shut his eyes, willing himself to breathe. They might not think it's me, he thought desperately. Maybe, maybe they -
One of the children, ragged and glassy-eyed, turned their eyes onto him.
Fenris thought he saw their eyes widen, as though in recognition.
He turned and fled.
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The problem with Darktown, Anders thought, was less to do with the air or the damp. A place where the sewers are located could not be expected to smell pleasant all the time, and its location next to the sea made it bound to take on the characteristics of its sodden neighbour. Anders couldn't begrudge Darktown for it.
No, the problem with Darktown was in its name. Darktown was dark. Despite being centuries past the Dragon Age, it was never developed like the rest of Kirkwall. Centuries of wretched people lived in the old mining tunnels, a ragged blanket to call home, in passages that were never mapped, paths never cleaned of sewage. The dark that made disease grow and criminals audacious wrecked the people living in it, and Anders was here to help.
The lack of proper lighting was downright dangerous, Anders thought, as he gingerly made his way down stairs, holding a Mage-light lantern in front of him. He had slipped before, fallen into something slimy and smelly in his formal Healer's suit. Lirene had almost cried in dismay when she saw his sheepish, smelly return, and insisted that he wear "durable work clothes, Anders! You'll get yourself mugged if you wear a suit in that Maker-forsaken place!" Well, Anders thought sourly, one says the Maker giveth and taketh away, and it seems like the Maker has taketh his ability to wear comfortable clothes in Darktown, and giveth him an awfully itchy coarse work shirt to tolerate while he heals the poor.
To be fair, the Maker has giveth him something, too. Lirene's comment about the Maker made him think of the Chantry, which led to thinking about their reform, which inevitably led to him musing about how it had given mages the freedom they asked for, and also taken away their ability to harm. Of the fact that mages could never be taught any spells that could conceivably be used for any form of offense. The only form of elemental magic he knew was the spell for Mage-light.
The flame - his own - flickered within its glass confines.
He's glad that mages are free, for sure. Definitely much better than the barbaric Circles of old. He's glad that mages are known for their abilities now, for the good they can do.
It's just. Sometimes, he'd just like to learn how to throw fireballs at people. Perhaps at the people accusing-
Anders shook his head. Surely, he must be breaking some a code somehow. What kind of healer thinks of throwing fireballs at people?
He turned, headed down and up another flight of stairs. Darktown is a little brighter here, next to the seawall.
Arriving at a mouldy door, he knocked loudly.
"Mus' be the healer!" A woman's coarse voice rang out from within. "Come in!"
Anders pushed it open. "How did you know it was me?"
The owner of the voice was a dishevelled middle-aged madam in a stained dress. She snorted.
"You're the only one who knocks that loud and proud. And you come every couple weeks or so." Her voice takes on a warmer tone. "Thank you. No one else helps but you. Coralie's not feelin' good."
"What's wrong?" Anders said in concern as he set his lantern down at the makeshift consultation area. A small queue of raggedy people in various states of undress shuffled towards him. The first person in the queue - Coralie, probably - appeared sickly, and her threadbare clothing was torn.
The madam shook her head. "Customer was rough. Also probably had somethin'. She's been sayin' it hurts all day."
Anders sighed. Prostitutes were subject to more abuse than most, and Darktown prostitutes most of all.
"I'll see what I can do," he said kindly to Coralie, whose eyes shone with grateful tears. "Please, lie down here…"
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It felt like the queue would never end. Word that a healer was around had spread, and before long, what felt like the whole of Darktown had filled the area. The madam is not pleased when this occurs, but on the account of Anders, she holds her tongue. Anders spent most of the day healing patients (well, as best as he could, until the miasma of Darktown catches them again), until finally, finally, he was down to just one. And thankfully, it was an easy case.
"I've reduced the inflammation as much as I can. Try not to put weight on it for a while - no running or standing too long. The bandages will help to keep it in place," Anders explained as he bound the man's sprained ankle.
"I will. Thank you, healer," the man's voice was filled with gratitude. "Maker bless you."
Anders smiled and nodded as the man shuffled off the cot, passing rows of moaning curtains. Seems like the prostitutes had speedily taken advantage of the quiet to restart their business.
"That's the last of 'em", the madam said. "A great many people came. Thank you."
"Of course. A healer's work never ends." He stood up, stretched his arms, then stretched his back. "How are you, Lucina?"
"Could be better." Madam Lucina shrugged. "Gettin' colder now. Times are hard. Less customers. Guards comin' round more often, but they leave us alone."
"Yes, winter…" Anders sighed. "Well, I best be go-"
The words died on his lips.
There was a figure huddled in the corner of the area that Madam Lucina had claimed for a whorehouse. Anders had initially assumed that it was a pile of rags, but that dirty white hair-
Madam Lucina looked at where he was staring.
"Ah, that one." She shook her head. "Came here ‘bout two weeks ago. Seemed like a fancy Hightowner, but he had no coin. Fallen on hard times, he says. Asked to trade his things for food and water. And shelter." She clucked her tongue. "Well, his things are all gone now. I told him he'll be a whore or he'll be out."
Anders felt as if the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. "Is - did he-?"
Madam Lucina looked surprised at his response. "Say yes to whoring? Not yet. I told him tonight's the last night if he still says no." She looks shrewdly at him. "You know him?"
"I- possibly." Anders swallowed. "Let me talk to him. Will you give us some privacy, please?"
Madam Lucina raised her eyebrow. "In a whorehouse without doors? That'd be a miracle." She shook her head. "I'll try and gather them to the other side."
"Thank you." Anders tried to remind himself to breathe, to stay calm, Anders, this is a very precarious situation! as he watched Madam Lucina shuffle some idle prostitutes away from him.
After making sure no one was watching him, Anders carefully made his way to the corner.
"Fenris?" He whispered.
The rags did not stir.
This close, Anders could see that it was indeed a person hidden underneath the dirty rags. He was curled into himself, leaning against the wall as rags hid the shape of his body. The few toes that stuck out were caked in mud, while a lock of grimy white hair protruded from a filthy cap smeared with dirt.
I mean, it might not be him, he doesn't have a monopoly on white hair, Anders thought wildly. He might already have escaped, fled on a ship, far away from Kirkwall. He was from Tevinter, he's been on the run before, he would've escaped, run far from the city, from Hightown, where Merrill had screamed and Hawke had died.
"Fenris?" Anders whispered softly, urgently, carefully placing his hand, gently, on where he supposed a shoulder would be. "Fenris, is that you?"
In a blur of rags, an elf emerged, poised to attack. Anders felt his arm painfully gripped as he stared into a pair of wild green eyes, sunken into a sharp, pinched face. Gaunt as he is, the hand that gripped him was shockingly strong. He hissed in pain. "Fenris!"
"Mage?" Fenris rasped. "You- are you here to capture me?" His voice caught on the last word, sending him into a racking, coughing fit. Anders could hear his chest heave.
"No, I'm not!" Anders gritted his teeth. "I swear to you, I'm not! I've been- I'm worried about you! It's dangerous- Could you please let go of my arm?"
Like a waiting wolf, Fenris pinned him with his gaze. His grip did not loosen. "How did you find me here?"
"Maker- I volunteer my services here every few weeks! The people here need a Healer, and I do it! I didn't know you were here, or I would've come sooner - I was looking for you! Everyone's looking for you, well-" Anders stopped himself. "In a way," he said evasively.
"Looking for me, for Hawke?" Fenris shook his head. His glare contorted into something more like self-hatred. "It was not me. I know what it seems like. But it was. Not. Me." Fenris said fiercely, shaking. "I would never - I wouldn't."
"I believe you," Anders breathed, willing himself to ignore the grip. "I know we never really got along-" he chanced a reassuring grin, "but even I know as much. You're angry, bitey, feral - but you wouldn't do that to Hawke. That's why I'm looking for you. Fenris, the whole city's looking for you. There are wanted posters everywhere. The guards are everywhere! You- this is not safe, you're not safe here!"
Fenris stared at him. "You… believe me?"
"Yes." Anders placed his hand on the elf's vice-like grip and tries to pry the fingers loose. "Maker that hurts - yes, I believe you! What are you doing here? How - what happened?"
For a moment, Fenris just looked - lost. Then he loosens his grip.
"Oh thank you." Anders sighed as blood rushed into his arm. "My circulation almost died. Look, I was trying to rouse you as calmly as I could without speaking too loud, you know. I was trying to be gentle. Especially when almost all of Kirkwall doesn't want to be gentle with you right now."
He winced when a spasm of grief crossed the elf's face. Hawke. Right.
"Fenris, what happened?"
Fenris shook his head, pained. "I… before… it, Hawke and I… I didn't…"
"Hawke and you - before? You saw him before he was-" Anders snapped his mouth shut. "What am I thinking? You're a wanted elf, Fenris, you need to get out of here and get somewhere safe. I really, really want to know what happened but you have to move, we have to go, right now!" Anders tries to pull him up, away from the wall, but the elf curled in even more. "Fenris!" He hissed.
The elf gave a broken laugh. "There's nowhere to go, mage. I have no weapon, no coin. The city is guarded. Escape by ship is impossible."
"Not nowhere," Anders glared at him. "I have a house and I know a shortcut from here. I can get you there without being seen."
"If you think I'll hide in a mage's house, you are-" Fenris's retort was cut off by a coughing fit, throwing his body into spasms. Anders heard the distinct sound of a wheeze.
"Uh-huh. Be stubborn all you want, but your lungs aren't going to last out here. As a Healer, I can tell you that what's in there could kill you in a week," Anders gritted his teeth. "Let me heal you. Please. You can do whatever you want, after. But please come with me. I have a guestroom with a warm fire. There's no one in the house except me and Justice and Lirene, and none of them will speak of this. I swear. Fenris, don't you want to clear your own name?"
He shook the arm that Fenris is still holding on to. In response, Fenris pins him with an inscrutable gaze.
"This puts you in great personal danger. Why are you doing this for me?"
"Because it's- because I believe you didn't do it. That you didn't kill Hawke." This close, Anders could see the despair in his eyes. "We've had our differences, and Maker knows you are downright feral sometimes, but you wouldn't do that. The entire Kirkwall is hunting you for something that I don't believe you did. That's why I want to help. It's- unjust."
"You sound like Justice," Fenris grumbled.
"Yes, well, it's very fitting for this situation here!" Anders tried a light smile. "I promise, I just want you rested and healed. Nothing more. Healer's duty."
Finally, finally, Fenris nods. "I will take you up on the offer. I- thank you." He gives another broken laugh. "I don't have any other choice."
"You can talk about choices after you're not coughing your lungs out," Anders said firmly as he carefully lifts Fenris to his feet. Maker, he's light. "Fenris, can you walk?"
"Do not coddle me-" Fenris tries to glare, but the effect was ruined by yet another coughing fit. "Venhedis - yes."
"Could've fooled me," Anders snorted. He pulls the elf's arm over his shoulder, ignoring his sputtering protests. "Your legs are trembling like saplings, Fenris, don't complain. Let's go- can you hold the lantern? We'll walk carefully."
They made their way to the door, passing Madam Lucina and her appraising stare.
"Taking him away, are you? 'Tis probably for the best, with that cough. Don't want him infecting us," she sniffed.
"Yeah, that would make me very busy," Anders said casually. "I'll see you next time, Lucina. I'd also really appreciate it if you told no one about this, in return for my continued services. Deal?"
Madam Lucina blinked. "O-Of course, Healer. Wouldn't dream of it." She gave an awkward half-bow. "We are… thankful for you."
Anders smiled. "Thank you."
Chapter Text
Anders retraced his steps through Darktown with Fenris in tow, taking care to avoid any potentially injurious rocks. For his part, Fenris tried to walk, but the illness had taken a toll on him. He staggered when it came to the stairs, and more than once, they had to stop for him to catch his breath. At times, Anders’s assistance was the only thing that kept him going through the countless tunnels, breathless and coughing as he was.
They had reached a wooden panel in the wall. Fenris couldn't see what was so special about this - they had passed countless panels in varying states of disrepair - but Anders had sighed with relief.
"Mage?"
"We're here," Anders said. "Fenris, could you stand by yourself for a bit? I need to-" Anders rested him against the wall, then turned to the panel, feeling its surface. "It's… here. There."
Anders must've pressed something, a catch of some sort, because the panel creaked open, revealing even more darkness in the gap behind. This close, Fenris could see that the panel was sturdy, made of solid wood.
"Here, where?"
"Here, my house. This leads to my cellar." Anders pulls the panel fully open, revealing another passage. "A lot of the Hightown houses were linked to Darktown as part of the sewer system back then. They don't use it anymore. Most of the snooty Hightowners don't want to think about how close they are to Darktown, but for me, it's a great shortcut. All the noxious Darktown air, whenever I want!" He grinned at Fenris. "I told you, I could get you here without people noticing."
"There were some people along the way here," Fenris muttered. "They might have noticed."
"Most people in Darktown are used to people moving in and out of the passages," Anders said. "The ones we passed didn't even look at us. Besides, I've healed a lot of them now - I sure hope they continue to remember that. Let's go in."
He pulls Fenris's arm over his shoulder again and guides them into the passage, pausing only to lock the panel.
"This is the cellar," Anders said, as they moved into a basement lit by a flickering lamp. "Lirene would've prepared my dinner. I'll get her to make you a share and run the bath, too. Maker, Fenris, you're in bad shape. Lirene!"
A patter of footsteps, then a woman appears. "Yes, Anders- Oh!" Her hand flies to her mouth. "Isn't that-?"
"It's not," Anders said sharply, as Fenris shrank into his side. "Also, Fenris didn't kill him, and also, he's gravely ill. Lirene, could you make dinner for him, and draw a bath in the guest room after? Something light, please, I don't think he can eat much. And- " Anders looked seriously at her. "I know I can count on your discretion."
The woman nodded. "Of course. I'll get to it right away."
"Thank you, Lirene."
Anders led him through the cellar and up the stairs, into the cozy Hightown house. It was small, smaller than Hawke's - Fenris thought with a pang - but the lamps adorning the walls had a soft warmth to their light, and the cream carpet tickled his abused feet as Anders helped him through the hallway.
So unlike Hawke's, Fenris thought. Hawke liked his mansion dark, with dark wood furnishings and dark red rugs. It's mysterious, he had said-
He would never be able to step into Hawke's mansion again.
They passed the drawing room, where Fenris briefly saw plush armchairs and a warm, crackling fire, before Anders guided him into the kitchen, and the smell of delicious stew hit his nose.
Fenris groaned as his stomach gurgled, spasming in pain.
"Are you alright? You must be hungry. Here, sit here-" Anders said concernedly as he guided him into a chair. "That stew's a bit rich for you, but Lirene's making another. Oh, I'll get you some tea."
"It won't be long," The woman, Lirene, said, as she stirred a pot on the stove. "Ten minutes, maybe."
"Thank you," Fenris said hoarsely.
Even in his state, Fenris did not fail to notice that the Anders had kept him away from the windows on the way in, and Lirene had drawn the kitchen curtains.
Anders soon returned with two mugs of warm tea. "Here," he said, passing one to Fenris, before sitting down opposite him.
Fenris chanced a sip. The warm tea bloomed in his chest, down to his toes, sating the thirst that he didn't even realize he had.
"Good, huh?" He must have sighed without realizing, because Anders was smiling at him. "It must've been bloody cold in Darktown. No wonder you were coughing- oh! Let me have a look at your lungs."
Fenris looked suspiciously at him.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Anders huffed. "I told you, I only practice healing magic-"
"Danarius said it was only healing magic, too," Fenris growled. "Yet somehow, the people he 'healed' do not seem very well afterwards-"
"Because that's a farce, Fenris, what Tevinter does-" Anders retorted, then stopped himself. "Ugh. This is not the time for this, Fenris. You're ill. I can treat you without magic, I won't use it without your permission, but you'll take a much longer time to recover. And, I will need to touch you to treat you. Do you understand?"
"I prefer that," Fenris grunted.
"Right. Fine. Let me get started, then."
Fenris sat in undignified silence as Anders proceeded to knock his back, use a funny tube contraption to listen to his chest, peer into his eyes and ears and mouth, then stick a glass rod under his tongue, carefully manoeuvre his injured wrist, then finally, finally, sit still and stare right at his chest. Fenris felt his face grow warm under the undivided attention Anders paid to his chest, and as the seconds ticked by, he became more and more convinced that this was some kind of practical joke.
"'age, wha' are you 'oing?" Fenris growled as he tried to speak around the rod.
"Don't open your mouth, I need that for your temperature!" Anders snapped. "You wanted the non-medical way, so that's what I'm doing - I'm counting your breathing right now, so ignore me and breathe normally, please!"
Easier said than done, Fenris grumbled internally, as he tried to remind himself to breathe, imagining that there was no mage intent on staring a hole through his chest.
"Alright, done," Anders looked down at a pocketwatch while Fenris heaved a sigh of relief. "It's fast, Fenris. And your temperature-" Anders pulled the glass rod from his mouth. "-Is high. Yep. I'm quite sure you've got pneumonia. Right. And you sprained your wrist. You are going to be resting a lot this week. Maker, it's a good thing I found you when I did."
"Soup's ready," Lirene called. "Shall I bring it over?"
"Yes, thank you, Lirene," Anders said, and Fenris stares as the most divine bowl of soup he's ever seen came to him in Lirene's hands – a pool of clear dark brown with a light sheen of oil on top, the most fragrant scent of onion and beef in an open porcelain tureen. How long has it been since he’s eaten anything more than stale crumbs? He can’t remember.
"He'll need soup three times a day tomorrow. After that, slowly increase the meat until its a normal stew. Oh, and some bread, too."
"Of course." Lirene set the tureen in front of him. "I'll go run the bath. Yours, too."
"What would I ever do without you, Lirene?" Anders said fondly. Lirene snorted.
"You'll have to ask Justice to cook. And, because he thinks meat is unjust, you'll never eat meat again."
Anders gasped as she leaves the room. "No! That's awful! That's it, she can never leave this house."
Fenris coughed slightly. "Mage- I will eat now."
"Oh, Maker, yes, please! I will join you."
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Lirene, Fenris thought fervently, is a mage. She must be. There could be no other reason why a bowl of soup could taste this good. The soup was simple, straightforward, salty broth with a bit of meat and onion, but cooked to perfection. Surely, if she lives in a house with a mage, there must be some magic involved.
Opposite him, Anders was slurping his stew like a starving man.
"Maker, the woman is a marvel," Anders said faintly, setting the empty bowl down. "Ferelden cooking is hearty enough as it is, but she manages to make it even better. I need to increase her pay."
"Please give her my thanks," Fenris mumbled. "I am… full."
"I'm glad to hear that. You're thin enough as it is, it's almost unhealthy," Anders sniffed. "And hiding in Darktown, no less-"
"Mage. I wish to tell you what happened."
Anders blinked. Fenris had gone from comfortably full to uncomfortably intense in a matter of seconds.
"Oh. I mean, yes, I want to know. With a burning passion! But you're still ill, and you haven't rested yet. Don't you want to rest first? Get some beauty sleep, or…"
"No. It needs to be said." Fenris shook his head slightly. “Hawke was… my friend, and I am a fugitive. I am not proud of how we spent his last night-“ here, Fenris’s face twisted in grimace, “-but if this truth could uncover his murderer, I want it known to someone besides myself. The punishment for murder is death. I do not know if I will live to see it.”
"Fenris…" Anders swallowed before he nodded tersely, clasping his hands. "Okay. Yes. I'm listening."
"The night before. Before Hawke- died." Fenris said quietly. "That day, we had - Danarius had come for me, and we had killed him."
"I heard about that from Varric," Anders said in hushed tones. "He was here to capture you."
"He did," Fenris growled. "He also thought I would run back to him with my tail between my legs. I ripped his heart from his chest instead."
"Right. Good riddance."
"Afterwards- Hawke and I. We went to his mansion. I was… not thinking well. Danarius was dead, but I did not - I could not feel free. Before he died, Danarius had insulted me. He told me-" Fenris gripped his mug. "He told me that my sister had been the one who led me into his employ. I was young. I had not known. She had sought him out and led me to him as his servant, and then joined him a short while later. She never told me. And when she died, I mourned her. I did not know she was the cause of my torment." The elf's face twisted in pain. "I would not have known."
Watching the elf’s turmoil, Anders felt his own chest fill with dismay. They hadn't exactly gotten along, but even he was aware of Fenris's history. Tevinter had (ostensibly) abolished slavery a few decades ago, but when he'd brought that up to Fenris, the elf laughed bitterly in his face and told him that it goes by a different name, now.
Indentured servitude was bad enough, but to find out that your own dead sister was the betrayer…
"I had spent so long believing that Danarius and the people he led were the cause of my pain," Fenris said quietly, staring into the table. "When Varania was alive, I wanted nothing more than to set us free. I would have given everything. We had been at his estate since I was a child, and I lost count of the elves that died for his experiments. I almost died from the pain of the lyrium markings. And now I know it was Varania who led me there."
"Fenris," Anders murmured, "I'm really sorry."
"I do not know why I am talking about this part," Fenris rubbed his forehead. "I was going to tell you about Hawke. But… this seems fitting. Perhaps it explains why I reacted the way I did."
"Reacted to what?"
"Right after I'd killed Danarius, my mind was reeling. Hawke was worried. He asked me to stay at his mansion so he could keep an eye on me," Fenris said heavily. "I was… not thinking well. He tried to encourage me. I was angry. We both drank heavily."
"Did you stay at his mansion that night?" Anders asked. "The night before he- Fenris, did you see anything?"
"Not exactly," Fenris said, staring at his mug. "We… were not sober. Hawke was an affectionate man. He… kissed me."
Anders felt his jaw drop. He quickly snapped it shut, schooling his expression. "Ah."
"I kissed him back."
Anders felt his jaw drop again. He quickly picked up his mug and pretended to take a sip. Maker, get a grip on yourself! Hawke's a flirt and they're both good-looking men – was, in Hawke’s case – it's not unexpected!
Fenris, who was looking down, thankfully had not seemed to notice. "We did not stop. I went to his bed that night. Merrill was not home, she was at the Hanged Man meeting a friend. Hawke was… kind. It was… better than I had dreamed."
"Well," Anders croaked, "That's… good."
Poor Merrill, he thought.
"I believe he was hoping that it would distract me," Fenris said. "It did, for a time. But the thoughts could not leave my mind. Everything was flooding back. All the times that Varania had stayed quiet, when I asked her about freedom. All the strange moods she had. Now, I know why." He shook his head. "Hawke did not understand. He tried, but I could not focus. He was not happy with me. We had an argument."
"Fenris…" Anders whispered. "Did you-?"
"No," Fenris said vehemently. "We did not come to blows. I returned to Lowtown, to my dwelling that night. Hawke was alive then."
"Right," Anders said delicately. "Well… I'm not sure if you've heard, being on the run, but they found your dagger…"
"Lodged in Hawke's chest," Fenris whispered. Anders nodded mutely. "Hawke had pulled it out when we were… undressing, that night. I'd left in a hurry. I did not realize it wasn't in my sheath until later. I went back to retrieve it, and saw." Fenris closed his eyes. "He was lying on his bed, with my dagger in his heart."
"So you didn't do it," Anders murmured. "Did you see anyone? Why didn't you stay? Aveline would've listened to you."
"I was blinded by panic. Our actions were noisy, and our argument was… explosive. To have my own dagger used for murder… even I know how incriminating that looks." Fenris sighed. "At that point, I also thought that Danarius's men had come to finish me off. It was possible that they'd tracked me to Hawke's manor. It seems foolish now but- I simply reacted. I ran."
"It's not foolish," Anders said. "You were a fugitive."
"It seems like it is the only thing I know how to be," Fenris laughed brokenly. "I fled for my freedom, and now I am a wanted man. A cosmic joke. I am a fool."
"Fenris," Anders said. "You didn't do it. You didn't kill Hawke. It would be unfair for you to hang for a crime you did not commit."
"To Kirkwall, it appears I did. I didn't see anyone else. In the absence of another culprit, I will be the one to pay the price for Hawke's death."
"Then we’ll just have to find the culprit," Anders said fiercely. "Maker knows you didn't run here all the way from Tevinter and kill Danarius just to die! That's a stupid waste of a trip. If Kirkwall doesn't believe you, then we need to start investigating ourselves. You're a victim now, like Hawke. We need to find the murderer and set you free."
Fenris was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at Anders, his eyes inscrutable.
Maker, his eyes.
"We, mage?" Fenris said quietly. "I thought you wanted me here for healing. I still do not understand why you believe so strongly in me."
"Well, I know we never saw eye to eye," Anders coughed. "Magic had not been kind to you. But you said, once, that you would rather die than lose your freedom. That's one thing." Anders took a deep breath. "I've also seen the way you look at Hawke, when you think no one's looking. That's the other."
"Mage-"
"Don't deny it, Fenris," Anders said quietly. "Even before you told me of your night with Hawke, I knew. You hide it well, but not entirely. You would not kill Hawke."
Fenris opened his mouth, but did not speak. He closed it again. Anders could seeing the emotions warring in his eyes.
"Perhaps," he finally said. "But it doesn't matter now."
"Helping you is the right thing to do," Anders said. "I know an injustice when I see one. We’ve known each other for years. Maker knows we weren’t exactly friends, but we met and played cards and adventured and talked and had, well, very lively debates.” His mouth quirked of its own accord, and the responding huff of air from the elf was, despite his own turmoil, clearly an amused mix of incredulity and begrudging acquiescence. “And somehow, that went on for years, and I never really thought about it, but…”
Here, he hesitated, unsure how it would be received. But Fenris was staring at him, eyes rounded in mild confusion, not narrowed, open in a way that Anders had never seen before. And the words start tumbling out. “I don’t know how, but I grew used to you being there. Your broody, stubborn ass was as much of a part of it as Hawke was. As Varric, and Aveline, and all the rest. You weren’t at Hawke’s funeral. No one was glaring at me while winning my coin in that last Wicked Grace game we had in his honour. It was…”
Too maudlin, Anders, he admonished himself.
Anders took a deep breath. “The point is, I want to help you. Let me help you, Fenris."
Fenris stares at him for a long time. Anders tries not to fidget under his gaze.
"I would be grateful for your healing," Fenris said, at long last. "As for the rest… we shall see."
"Of course," Anders chanced a small smile. "That's what I'm good for. Let's save the rest for next time, shall we? Lirene must be done with the baths by now, and you need rest and medicine- Maker, I forgot about your medicine!"
Anders jumps up and runs out of the kitchen, much to Fenris's bemusement. A few moments later, he returns with bandages and two small bottles in his hands.
“You have to drink these every day for one week,” Anders said, gesturing to the bottles. “And these-“ he held up the bandages, “Need to go on your wrist. You need to give it time to heal properly.”
Fenris stared at him until the mage made an irritated noise.
“Your wrist, Fenris.”
Grunting, he shoved his arm at him, and watched as Anders placed his hand on his forearm before wrapping the bandage once, twice, three times around his wrist, pulling it tight.
“There,” Anders said, tying up the final knot. “That should immobilize it for a while. Don’t put any pressure on it.” He looked pointedly at the bottles. “Drink.”
Fenris uncorks the bottles with his teeth and downs them together, grimacing at the bitter taste.
"Done."
--------------------------
A short while later, Fenris decided that, yes, it had been the right decision to come with the mage after all.
He was still dangerous, of course. All mages are. Fenris knows that, and he had been wary of him since the time they first met, even though Anders had been very, very friendly. He is a Healer, he said, but Fenris knew what it was like for mages to say one thing and mean the other. Unarmed as he was, he would have to remain careful while he was here.
No, it was the right decision because Fenris was currently washing off weeks-worth of grime in a hot-water tub, in a guest room of his own, while a crackling fire bathed the room in warm, gentle light. The fire illuminated the unbearably cute wallpaper of gambolling cats, and although Fenris would've normally gagged at the decor, the extremely comfortable room and the thought of Anders's disappointed face somehow made him hold his tongue. After all, after weeks of hiding in the cold and damp of Darktown, this abrupt change of circumstance was almost too good to believe. He'd hated the grime, hated how it reminded him of Tevinter, hated how him and the other elves had been chained and beaten and neglected until Danarius had decided that the appearance of his lyrium investment should befit a man of his stature. Even his hygiene was the result of a decision made by Danarius.
Stop thinking about him, Fenris thought viciously, scrubbing his toes. He's dead.
He has more pressing things to worry about now.
With effort, Fenris pulls himself out of the bath tub, and shivers violently despite the fire. Earlier, he'd rejected the mage’s offers of help, had insisted on bathing and drying and getting himself to bed… but now, feeling the tremble in his arms and his rapidly pounding heart, Fenris is forced to admit that Anders may have been right. It took all of his energy to dry himself and pull on the prepared set of sleeping clothes, and it took some more to get him under the covers, which Lirene had blessedly warmed up.
It was odd, Fenris thought tiredly as he pulled up the covers. He seems to be agreeing a lot with the mage today.
The moment his head hits the pillow, Fenris falls asleep.
--------------------------
In another room, in another bath tub, Anders is deep in thought.
Weeks ago, when Hawke was discovered dead in his mansion by his wife, Merrill, there'd been a public outcry. Kirkwall had loved Lord Hawke. The newspapers dedicated a whole section to Hawke after the murder, describing everything from his humble arrival to his reclamation of the Amell family estate to his defeat of the Qunari invasion. The Viscount arranged a state funeral. The Guard had searched the murder scene, found "damning pieces of evidence" that linked Fenris to the murder, and sent posters of Fenris's scowling face to almost every corner in Kirkwall.
Hawke was many things, and perhaps not all of them are good, but he was Anders's friend. Anders remembered the anxious day he'd spent in Hawke's kitchen, watching as Merrill and Lady Leandra cried. Varric had looked grimmer than he'd ever seen him, while Aveline twitched like she wanted to stab something. He remembered Fenris's absence, wondering if someone had forgotten to tell him. He remembered the shocked gasps and swearing when Merrill told them that she'd found Fenris's dagger in his heart.
And yet… now that Anders had heard his story, it seems that Fenris was the victim of unfortunate coincidence.
Anders sighed to himself. Of course, Fenris could be lying to him. There's always that possibility.
Unlike Varric and the others, Fenris was never keen on his friendship. Anders didn’t expect that an elf from Tevinter would instantly become best friends with a mage, of course, but he'd tried his damndest to show Fenris that mages were different in the South. At the beginning of their acquaintance, he’d explained that no mages were taught any harmful magic, that standard operating protocols had decreased the rate of demonic possession among mages to less than 1%, that the Chantry wouldn't have allowed them their freedom if they were still dangerous (with proper registration of course), that almost all mages are Healers and Engineers now, damn it, Fenris, we help people, people literally come to us for help!
But Fenris had scoffed, replying with a cold Not me, mage.
And after that, well. It had been difficult for Anders to maintain his calm around the elf.
Despite the rockiness of their relationship, however, they’d continued to meet – sporadically in the beginning, (and Anders had to admit that if it wasn’t for Hawke dragging them on his various adventures, his acquaintance with Fenris might have died right there), but increasingly often as the years went by. Hawke had become busier in recent years, so it was often that Anders found himself playing cards with Varric, Fenris, and Merrill instead. And Fenris was still as prickly and stubborn as a bronto, but the explosive anger that had accompanied his earlier years had mellowed somewhat; though Anders could never get him to recognize his views, their interaction was more debate and less argument in recent times, much to the relief of everyone around them.
But Fenris was still adamant about the inherent dangers of magic, on the necessity of registration, believing that mages should be reined in even more-
Well, whatever it is, he's thrown his lot in with him now, Anders thought sternly to himself. Thrown his lot in with a mage-hating, grouchy, coughing, prickly, malnourished elf, who's hiding in the guest room-
Anders gasped, then speedily hauled himself out of the tub. He'd been so lost in thoughts that he'd forgotten to check on the elf - he shouldn't be bathing for so long in his state! Maker, Anders, what kind of Healer forgets this!
Hurriedly drying himself, Anders pulls on his robe before padding over to the room opposite his door.
"Fenris?" Anders said, knocking on the door. "Fenris, are you alright?"
There was no reply.
Did he fall and crack his head? Don't tell me he's fallen asleep in the tub! Cursing, Anders gingerly opens the door and cranes his neck in.
His eyes caught the tub first, which seems devoid of sleeping elves. The carpet was similarly empty. Where is he?
Squinting hard, Anders finally spots a mop of white hair at the bed. Fenris was safely in bed, it seems, and he was sound asleep.
Anders sighs in relief. Quietly, he shuts the door.
Notes:
PSA: A fast heart rate and shortness of breath are signs of pretty bad pneumonia btw - if anyone ever experiences that with a flu, get thee to a doctor ASAP!
Also I realized I forgot to add some tags! I've corrected it now, but if I've missed out anything else, please let me know!
Chapter Text
Fenris spent the next week resting in bed. He was not used to it - his skin itched with the desire to move, to flee, and he startled whenever the front door opened. Anders had reassured him countless times that he does not get any visitors ("Well, my only visitor is dead, now"), that Lirene and Justice are very discreet, that the guest room window faces a private garden owned by some rich Orlesian family who rarely uses it, and the window is covered with bushes, and the guest room curtains are always drawn anyway. But Fenris, who was used to being on the run, did not find these assurances very satisfying.
Unfortunately, despite his misgivings, Fenris had to concede that his body was in too poor of a condition to run elsewhere. He found himself tired most of the day, his limbs weak, and despite Lirene's magical cooking, his appetite was poor. He spent most of the day sleeping, emerging only at night.
A knock sounded on the guest room door. Fenris flew into a hunched position, ready to pounce.
"Messere Fenris, your breakfast is here. May I come in?"
It's Justice. The butler. Fenris forced himself to relax. The sudden change in position had sent his head spinning.
"Yes."
The door opened, and Justice appeared with a tray. He was tall and imposing as always, and persistently serious, though his face changed to one of concern when he saw Fenris.
"Ah-" Justice frowned. "Did I scare you?"
"No," Fenris croaked, though he knew the spooked tension in his body was evident as day. "I'm fine. What is it?"
"Lirene made beef broth today, along with some bread." Justice set the tray at the small table where he took his meals. "There are seconds, if you wish."
"It is unlike that I can stomach it," Fenris grimaced, getting gingerly out of bed. "My appetite is poor. But please thank Lirene for me, still."
Justice inclined his head. "Of course, Messere Fenris. Is there anything else I can get for you?"
"Anything else… ?" Fenris was confused.
"Books, maybe? The papers? Or perhaps, you may wish to paint?" Justice suggested. "Anders explained your situation to us. Rest assured, we will not breathe a word to anyone. But it seems… cruel, to keep you here without entertainment. You are a fugitive, not a prisoner."
"I am not used to having entertainment," Fenris said as he sat down at the table. "I also do not wish to draw attention to myself. And books would be of no use to me."
Justice inclined his head. "I could play cards, if you wish. Anders says it's a common past-time of Lord Varric's."
"You… know how to play Wicked Grace?" Fenris stared at Justice.
"Anders insisted on teaching me. I confess, I do not see the appeal," Justice sniffed. "Lirene beat us handily. However, I can attempt to play with you, if you'd like."
"No, thank you," Fenris felt a strange curve to his mouth, a lightness in his chest. He was amused, he realized. "I am grateful, Justice, but I shall rest today."
"Of course," Justice nodded. "Please rest well. I will be back at noon with lunch."
Fenris spends the morning imagining Anders losing to Lirene at cards, crying out in overdramatic dismay while Justice stares stoically at him. He drinks his broth with something akin to merriment.
--------------------------
Anders made it a point to check on Fenris every night. The elf was recovering slowly, but at least the rest and food seemed to be working their magic. Fenris was able to walk on his own now, and his face was not as gaunt as it'd been when he found him in Darktown. Justice and Lirene kept an eye on him while he was at work, and he'd been pleased by their reports that Fenris was trying his best to eat and rest all week.
He was still as jumpy as ever, though.
"Are you sure you want to eat down here?" Anders stared at the dark, draughty cellar that Fenris had insisted on meeting in. "Seriously? How on earth are we going to see anything?"
"It's the only place in your house without windows that will fit us, mage," Fenris growled. "Unlike the guest room, sound is muffled there. You also possess lanterns."
"I- argh, fine, okay, we'll eat down there," Anders threw up his hands in defeat. "I'll get Justice to bring a table and chairs. And a lantern. Didn't think I'd be having a romantic lantern-lit dinner tonight…" he mumbled.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Before long, they were sitting at a table in the cellar, tucking into dinner. Justice had outdone himself - not only had he brought a table, chairs, and lanterns, he'd also lined the chairs with warm blankets, and set a disused rug on the cold floor. Anders had to begrudgingly admit that the final effect was indeed somewhat cozy, and not as dreary as he'd imagined.
Anders chewed on his roast and potatoes, savouring the flavourful meat. Opposite him, Fenris was making progress through his bowl of stew.
"I think you're eating a little better now, Fenris," Anders said. "How do you feel?"
Fenris considered.
"I am less tired," he said finally. "I cough less now. I feel some strength returning in my limbs. My heart no longer beats as fast."
"That's great," Anders beamed. "I think the rest and medicine are working well! Just think, soon you'll be back to your usual strong, grouchy self. "
"I do not like sitting around, mage. I am a wanted man. I intend to restart my sword drills in the cellar, to regain my strength."
"The cellar again?!" Anders heaved a deep sigh. "Fine, but you can't jump right back at your usual intensity. You're still recovering! Start with walking and climbing the stairs a few times first. If you start trying to stab people right away, I'm worried your heart will give out."
"Do not-"
"Coddle me, yes, yes, I know," Anders mimicked him, rolling his eyes as Fenris glowered. "No one's coddling you. You're recovering from an illness that could've been fatal if I hadn't spotted you! It's only been one week, and you should still be resting. Besides, I need to tell you about the investigation in Hawke’s case.”
The cellar fell silent. Anders watched as Fenris’s hand clenched around his spoon, then relaxed.
“What did you hear?” Fenris said, belying a calm he clearly did not feel.
"I heard from Aveline that one of the key pieces of evidence is a letter found in Hawke's room," Anders said quietly. "Apparently, what's on the letter is the reason behind why you wanted to kill him. Now, I know that you didn't do it, but can you think of any such letters like that? Did you see anything?"
Fenris frowned. "I do not remember seeing a letter that night. The next morning… I left from the window. I did not notice."
"Maybe someone placed it there after you left," Anders mused.
"Whatever it is, I need to have this letter," Fenris said firmly. "Only then can I refute what is on it. Or find out who is behind all this."
"You want to stroll into the Keep and demand to have it?" Anders said in disbelief. "Well, look, why don't we sneak in and take a look at it? Then we'll know what's on it-"
"No," Fenris growled. "I intend to steal it. I need time to… decipher it."
"No, you will not," Anders hissed. "The moment they notice it's missing, every guard in Kirkwall will on be even higher alert than they are now! If they start searching houses, you'll have nowhere to hide!"
"Then what do you suggest we do, mage?" Fenris said heatedly. "I need to see that letter myself, and unlike you, I won't be able to just sneak in and see it and get out because-"
"Because what?" Anders snapped.
"Venhedis- Mage, I cannot read!"
There was a beat of silence.
Fenris seemed stunned by the confession that slipped out of his mouth. He was frozen in his chair, his green eyes wide as he stared at him - then his anger returned, contorting his face into a snarl. He stood up, stalking towards the stairs, and Anders has no doubt that he intended to leave, to hide somewhere away from Anders, because he had clearly, inadvertently, forced out something that Fenris felt extremely embarrassed about.
"Fenris, wait, please!"
Fenris stilled, but he did not turn around.
"I didn't know!" Anders said in a rush. "I swear on Andraste's arse, I had no idea. I wouldn't have insisted on that if I'd known, Fenris, I swear. It's just, I know you want to have a look at it yourself, but please believe me, it would extremely dangerous if we try to steal it!" Anders was talking very fast now, hoping that whatever he was saying was getting through to the elf somehow. "Hightown's been on edge ever since the murder - they hired guards that are bigger and meaner than ever, they patrol three times as often, and people are scared to come out at night! We need to be very careful about this, and, and stealing it and escaping afterwards without being caught was already difficult before, but almost impossible now. We need to think about this, Fenris, we need to have a plan!"
Fenris remained frozen in place. After what felt like an extremely long silence, he turned.
Anders winced at his glower.
"What," he said, "is your plan."
"Well." Anders swallowed, "Okay, well. I think. We can both sneak in. I have an idea of where the evidence room is. We can get in, find the letter, and I will copy it. You can watch me. Then we replace the letter, and get out with the copy. The guards will be none the wiser."
Considering the stress he was under, it wasn't a half-bad plan at all. Wow, Anders, who knew you had it in you?
Fenris looked consideringly at him.
"You're able to write with speed?"
"I'm a Healer," Anders chanced a grin. Fenris seemed to have calmed down slightly. "Writing prescriptions fast is what I do. Of course, the question then becomes whether they're legible or not, because everyone's a critic - but I'll try to make my words clear for this. Does that sound good? Better than stealing a key piece of evidence that will make Kirkwall even more dangerous for you, surely?"
"It sounds… acceptable," Fenris said gruffly. "I will go with you."
"Well, I'd better prepare a quill and ink bottle then," Anders frowned. "I don't remember if the evidence room has them, though I do remember seeing a table. I'll need small ones, small enough to hide in my jacket. I think there's a window… we might be able to enter there, but I don't know if it's locked…"
"Mage," Fenris interrupted his thoughts. "How are you so familiar with the evidence room? I have joined the guard on some missions, but even I have not been in there."
"Oh, you can thank Aveline for that," Anders said, as Fenris moved to sit back down. "One of her guards thought it'd be macho to show the evidence room to a pretty young trainee. He also thought that she'd appreciate his proficient handling of a strange, double-jointed baton of sorts - I'm not sure where it came from - then proceeded to slap himself in the eye, drop the baton on his foot, fall backwards into a shelf, then drag down half the evidence there. One of which was a Combustion Grenade." Anders laughed at the elf's face of incredulity. "Which detonated, of course. It destroyed half the room and knocked them both out cold. Aveline was furious. Maker, I don't think I've ever seen her that angry."
"How did you even come to know about this?" Fenris asked.
"She called me in to fix them up, of course. I work in Hightown, I was the closest Healer. But not before a lot of yelling. And believe me, that woman can yell." Anders shuddered. "They stored the dangerous things in another room after that. But I'm quite sure the letter will be there."
Fenris looked down. Anders could see his jaw working, as if chewing over words.
"I… would find it difficult to decipher the letter," Fenris said stiffly, after a while. "After we get the copy, I would ask for your assistance in reading it to me."
"Oh, sure," Anders said in surprise. "No problem. I could teach you how to read too, if you want."
It was Fenris's turn to looked surprised. The offer seemed pleasant to his ears – in the raise of his brows and the brightness of his eyes, Anders glimpses a Fenris rarely exposed to the outside, one still curious and hopeful about the world. For a moment, he seemed younger than he was.
Then he collected himself.
"I would like that", he said carefully, "But I do not know if I have the talent for it. Hawke had tried, but he was always busy. I did not make much progress beyond the alphabet."
Anders did not miss the way his ears drooped when he said it.
"Well, fortunately, I'm not as popular as he is," Anders grinned. "All I do is see patients all day and go home at night. Well, unless some rich noble suddenly decides that they must be seen at two in the morning because their runny nose is a critically important problem…” he muttered darkly, remembering the demanding Count So-and-so from last week. “But! That happens not too often. And, you're living in the room next door - it would be extremely easy for me to teach you. Seriously. Lessons after dinner, practice all day. I'm sure you'll pick it up in no time."
Fenris inclined his head. "I would be… very grateful for your assistance. Not to mention the healing and shelter. Right now, I do not have the coin, but-"
"Oh, pssht, don't worry about that." Anders waved it off. "Lucky for you, the person who found you in Darktown happens to be a very magnanimous mage whose wealthy Hightown clients are very generous with their money, who is also pure of heart and believes in justice. You can repay it next time- Oh, I know! You can repay me by admitting that mages aren't all bad, for starters! What d’you think, fair payment?" Anders grinned.
Fenris glared at him again. Anders winced internally. He just revealed something incredibly personal! Maker's breath, control your mouth, Anders!
"I'd rather pay you back in coin tenfold," Fenris scowled at him, turning back to his stew. "And then some."
"You are so stubborn," Anders muttered under his breath.
Chapter Text
True to his word, the mage started teaching him to read. The nights found them huddled in the cellar, Fenris painstakingly trying to differentiate a cat and a hat while Anders explained their sounds. It was not ideal - Fenris knows that the mage would've much preferred to do it anywhere else in the house - but Fenris could not shake his anxiety that someone would notice their shadows. With Lirene’s steady supply of hot soup and tea, and Justice's addition of even more lanterns and rugs, however, the cellar grew to be a comfortable place. The mage was a patient teacher, correcting his mistakes gently while praising his achievements. Fenris would never admit it, but Anders's teaching style suited him much better than Hawke's did.
It had been a fortnight since the mage found him in Darktown. Even for a person with as many changes to his life as he had, Fenris found it hard to comprehend the firestorm of changes that led him here. In a little over a month, he had gone from watching out for Danarius and spending time with Hawke, to being a fugitive, to being extremely ill in Darktown, to being nursed back to health by the mage, to planning a Keep break-in with him while he taught Fenris his letters.
Fate really was strange.
The mage had not gone to work today. Fenris had come down to the cellar this morning to find him dressed in shabby work clothes - "I go to Darktown every few weeks, remember?" He had also taken the opportunity of daylight to pull him to the kitchen, where he examined Fenris from top to toe before declaring him "back to perfect health now, and yes, you're welcome, and also remember to practice your letters" before departing for Darktown.
The mage was also strange.
Fenris ate his breakfast in the cool safety of the cellar, then shifted the furniture to make space for mock sword practice. It had taken him more than a week, but as he hefted and swung with a spare fireplace poker – the only passable sword substitute in the mage’s house – he noticed, with satisfaction, that his body no longer protested. Slashes, followed by a parry and roll, no longer made him pant or tremble. Even jumping didn't cause him any dizziness. Unfortunately, his injured wrist still ached, and he’d had to swap to his other arm at times – but it no longer throbbed like it did before, and Fenris was gratified with the progress. He was almost back to himself, he thought in grim satisfaction - this is the body he knows, with its fitness and flexibility, the body that brought him all the way from Tevinter to this cellar. This is the body that will find Hawke's murderer.
Hawke.
A dark spiky something unfurls in his chest. Pain. Touch. Large, warm hands, holding him, teaching him to hold a quill. Crinkled eyes and playful smirk. Slack, face empty, blood pooling on the bedcovers.
He pushes it down. Hawke is dead, and dwelling on it serves no one. Fenris will find the man who killed him.
He owes him that.
--------------------------
Fenris was working on his writing exercises in the cellar when the sound of a creaky wooden panel interrupted him.
From the end of the passageway that leads to Darktown, Anders appeared. He moves slowly, a lantern dangling from his hand as he made his way towards the table. His work clothes looked much grubbier than this morning. The tawny hair that caught the lantern-light was dishevelled, as though he'd mussed it in frustration, and Fenris could see a splash of dirt on his tired face.
The mage fell into the chair opposite him and gave a long, loud groan.
"Maker," he mumbled. "That was a bad day. Seems like the infection you caught in Darktown wasn't a fluke. There's a cough going around, and the queue of sick people stretched on for miles."
"That is an exaggeration," Fenris said, as Anders flopped his face into the table.
"An exaggeration? Me? I never exaggerate," the mage turned his face up, pouting at him. "You malign me."
Fenris rolled his eyes. "I will inform Lirene to prepare dinner. And also your bath."
"No need, Fenris, I'm here," Lirene's voice echoed from the entryway to the kitchen.
Fenris had never gotten used to being called ‘messere’, so Lirene had taken to addressing him directly, much like how she did with Anders. Remembering Danarius’s annoyance at ‘impertinent servants’, his accompanying demise, and Lirene’s obvious loyalty to Anders, Fenris enjoyed a brief curl of karmic satisfaction as Lirene stared at Anders’s bedraggled form. "Anders, you look like a steam-machine rolled over you. What happened?"
"A cough happened, Lirene," Anders groaned as he sat upright. "And if that cough is in Darktown, well, it spreads like wildfire. I haven't had a chance to eat or drink anything all day." He rubbed his face. "Have Justice inform the patients that I'm not working for the next few days. I need to sleep."
"I'll do that," Lirene said. "Would you want dinner now? I made meat pies."
"Maker- yes, please, Lirene, you're a lifesaver."
Dinner was a messy affair. The moment Lirene set the food down, Anders dove for the pie. While Fenris was still making his way through his first, Anders went on to inhale three of the pies, eat most of the mashed potatoes, then drink all the contents from his mug before pausing to let out a loud belch.
Fenris wrinkled his nose.
"Hey, I saw that," Anders grumbled, reaching for a fourth pie. "I'm the one paying for this, alright, and I haven't eaten all day. I'm starving. You and your prissy table manners will just have to accept this barbarian mage today, seeing as I just healed at least three dozen people in eight hours.” He brandished his mug threateningly at Fenris’s unimpressed face. “Besides, I have some news about our plan."
Fenris perked up. "Tell me."
"One of the urchins I treat in Darktown is a fairly proficient thief," Anders said, chewing. "I have no idea where he learnt it from, but from what his mother tells me, he's nicked everything from coin to underclothes." Anders frowned. "Anyway, since neither of us are skilled in thievery, I asked Brennard to help with the lock on the evidence room window. He will unlock it tomorrow night."
"He does not sound reliable."
"Not really, but he's the best chance we have," Anders sighed. "I gave him two silvers upfront, and promised him another four if he gets it done. The guards patrol Hightown every hour now, so he'll unlock the window at five minutes past twelve. We're about fifteen minutes away from the Keep by walking, so if we avoid the guards and get there at the same time, that should give us about... half an hour to find and copy the letter." Anders chewed his lip. "If only Isabela were still around. I'd much rather trust her."
"She might think I killed Hawke, too," Fenris muttered.
"Given what happened to her, she might not mind," Anders snorted, "but that's all dealing with hypotheticals now. What do you think? We go tomorrow night?"
"It's as good a time as any other. I have already waited weeks inside this house," Fenris growled. "We should be prepared for a fight."
"I really, really, really hope not," Anders winced. "That is the Keep, you know, the place where all the guards live, so getting into a fight there would be a momentously terrible idea. Rather, I think we should sneak as much as we can. We get in, get it done fast, get out and come back here. Okay?"
"We do not have better options," Fenris said. "I will take it."
--------------------------
Anders was no stranger to terrible ideas. He'd dabbled in a great many during his youth - releasing mice into the templar office at Kinloch Hold, for example, or hooking up with that apprentice with a blood kink, or coming to Kirkwall in the first place. They generally make great stories to charm people with, which sometimes gets him a little fun somewhere. And Anders liked fun.
This, however, was shaping up to be those terrible ideas that don't lead anywhere.
Their Keep break-in ran into obstacles right from the start. The moment Anders stepped out of the door, he'd bumped into a group of guards unexpectedly patrolling his doorstep. Hastily shutting the door on Fenris's face while pretending (loudly) that a patient of his had requested a late house call was not what he'd planned, and when the guards finally left, he'd found Fenris standing in the hall, looking distinctly unimpressed.
"I thought you said the guards patrol every hour," Fenris growled, glaring at him from under the loose cap hiding his luminous hair and elf ears. They were cutting across the square, heading to the Keep via a shortcut through the alleys, trying to save time. "That was dangerous."
"They shouldn't have been there!" Anders hissed back, as they turned into the dark alley. "You've also been observing their patrols - they should've arrived at my house five minutes after we left! It's not my fault they're-"
Anders yelped as he saw, almost too late, a leg-
He felt his shirt being jerked backwards, and Anders stumbled, almost falling, and the grunt he heard must have meant that Fenris bore the brunt of his weight when he'd pulled him, just in time, before he fell onto a man leaning against the alley wall.
Clutching his chest, Anders tried to calm his racing heart. He stared at the unconscious man – a drunkard, it seems, judging from the various liquor bottles littering the ground at his side. Based on his ratty work clothes, he was probably one of the labourers called upon for odd jobs, some poor refugee who’d turned to drink as escapism. In his liquor-addled stupor, he hadn't noticed their presence, but he would definitely have noticed if someone kicked his leg.
"Venhedis, mage," Fenris growled behind him. "Be careful."
"Sorry!" Anders whispered back, before he gingerly stepped over the legs and bottles. "I'll shut up and focus now. Pinky promise."
As such, it was almost too much for Anders when they arrived at the Keep, fifteen minutes past twelve, to find that the windows to the guard barracks and evidence room appeared completely untouched.
"Noooo," Anders whispered in despair as they neared. "I'm sure this is the right place, did he not come-?"
They approached the windows carefully. All of them looked securely locked. He turned to Fenris, who was staring at them with a deep look of concentration.
"I'm not sure why-"
"Wait."
Taking care to stay out of sight, Fenris crept up to one of the windows. He reached the latch and gave it a quick pull.
The window swung open.
"How did you-"
"That is the evidence room window," Fenris murmured. "The latch was slightly crooked. We should stop talking now."
Anders watched anxiously as Fenris deftly climbs in. Carefully, making sure not to knock his bigger frame into the glass, he follows suit.
Once he entered, they spring into action.
Fenris quickly pulls the window almost shut before removing a piece of dark cloth and several pins from his jacket. While he worked at blocking the view of their activities, Anders lights a small mage-light in his palm and speedily examined the room.
The evidence room was about the size of his bedroom, a space filled with rows of shelves like a macabre library, complete with a small desk alongside. There was probably a time when this room was part of the barracks – Anders could see the faint marks of yesteryear’s bed bunks on sections of empty wall – but with the increasing population of Kirkwall, wrongdoing grew alongside, much like the kingdom of rats that call Lowtown home. He imagined that the Aveline of a few ages prior probably tried storing all the evidence in her office before getting almost pushed out by the deluge.
Anders scrutinized the shelf closest to him. The wooden expanse was sectioned into cubbies, each labelled in small, spidery writing, describing the various crimes that their contents were associated with. Looking closely, they seem to be arranged by the date of their events.
A few moments later, he'd found the cubby labelled "4 Solace 18:05, Lord Hawke - murder". Taking a deep breath, Anders leaned in.
The cubby was empty except for a piece of folded paper and an item wrapped in cloth. Shifting the mage-light closer, Anders sees the shine of metal.
It was a handle. Fenris's dagger.
Well, we can't steal that for sure, Anders thought grimly.
He retrieved the paper and turned around. Fenris was tense, watching him as he made his way to the table, even as he listened for footsteps outside. His eyes dropped to the piece of paper in his hand.
Setting the paper down on the desk, Anders pulled out a quill, ink bottle and paper. Taking a deep breath, he unfolded the letter.
Danarius,
Thank you for the prompt shipment. It should last me for the next few months or so - I will contact you when I need more. The documents were useful as well.
Do you remember Fenris? I have information on him.
Garrett
The rest of the paper was blank.
The words, written in Hawke's distinct hand, burrowed into his mind like spiders to a kill. Distantly, Anders hears a loud roaring, blood rushing, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He realized that Fenris had moved to stand next to him, and was staring incomprehensibly at the letter.
They had no time to waste. Dipping his quill, Anders started copying the words as they were written, with the same spaces, while Fenris watched. The air was still, the Keep silent. The sound of his moving quill was the only noise in the room.
The contents of the letter had shaken him - his hand trembled as he wrote. The mage-light in his other palm flickered as he tried to press the papers down with his elbows.
A quiet huff, then Fenris moved forward. Leaning across the table from Anders, he pressed the papers down with his hands. Anders had scarcely looked up to thank him before Fenris lit the brands on his arms, suffusing both pieces of paper with a brilliant blue glow.
Fenris gazed at him. Hurry up.
Swallowing hard, Anders gave him a nod of thanks before speedily copying the rest of the letter. Once done, he re-folded the letter, placed it back into its cubby, then quickly blew on the ink of his copy before folding it up. It'll smudge for sure, but Anders was reasonably certain that most of the words will be readable. Stuffing the paper, quill and ink back into his jacket, Anders took a quick glance at his pocketwatch.
Thirty minutes past twelve. They need to leave now.
Fenris had already removed the cloth and opened the window, and his impatient stare told Anders that the coast was clear. Carefully, Anders manoeuvred himself out, landing quietly on the grass. Fenris followed moments later. He shuts the window, and the latch catches with a click.
Together, they walked back the way they came. Fenris paused them at every turn, listening for footsteps, and Anders patted his jacket countless times, fearful that he'd left something. They stepped over the drunkard, cut through the deserted square, and finally, finally, they reach his front door. It was slightly ajar, just as Anders had instructed Justice to do so.
Pulling it open, he immediately ushers Fenris into the safety of the house. Taking a final glance outside, Anders steps in and shuts it, locking it resoundingly with a click.
--------------------------
Once inside, Fenris rounded on him.
"Cellar. Now."
"Right," Anders said feebly, as he followed the elf downstairs, wondering how the Void he was going to explain it to Fenris without getting his heart ripped out. "Sure thing. No tea or anything..."
Soon, they were at the cellar. Fenris had sat down at the table, staring at Anders with such an intensity that his heart started racing.
"Mage. The letter."
Wordlessly, Anders sat down opposite him and pulled the paper out of the jacket. He unfolded it and showed it to Fenris, who squinted at it. The wet ink had left an imprint on the other side of paper, but the words were legible, standing against the pale background of the paper, displaying its sin.
"I will read it to you," Anders said quietly. Maker knows he would rather do anything else at this point, but he had agreed to interpret it for the elf, and he would keep that promise.
He looked at the letter, using his finger to point out the words as he read.
"Danarius,
Thank you for the prompt shipment. It should last me for the next few months or so - I will contact you when I need more. The documents were useful as well.
Do you remember Fenris? I have information on him.
Garrett."
The cellar was silent. Anders slowly looked up.
Fenris sat silently, unmoving. There was a contortion on his face, creases and lines pulling his sharp features into a mask of disbelief. His hands were clenched, biting into the table, and his eyes were gazing at the piece of paper as though he couldn't see it, like he hadn't heard what Anders said.
Fenris turned to look him. His eyes were full of anger, and anguish.
"You lie."
Anders shook his head. "I would not dare."
"No, you- you lie, you must be lying," Fenris snarled, shaking his head. "There is no reason for this. Hawke asked me about Danarius. He did not know Danarius was coming. He- he asked to come with me! He defeated Danarius's men while I crushed his heart!"
Fenris was shouting now, splintering the wood beneath his fingers. He was shaking, glaring at him with more vitriol that he'd ever seen in the elf's face in his life, curled, ready to leap at Anders's throat for conveying what had shaken Anders's own world barely half an hour ago - that Hawke appeared to have worked with Danarius, had thanked him for it, had told him about Fenris, his erstwhile slave and Hawke's friend. His eyes were full of pain and fury at an injustice that Anders did not commit.
His eyes shone, and Anders felt his heart ache.
"Fenris," Anders said quietly. "I do not know why. But I swear, that is what the letter says. On my life, my work, everything I am as a person. I recognize Hawke's handwriting. He wrote this."
Fenris recoiled, as if Anders had struck him, before standing up abruptly. Snatching the paper from his hand, Fenris stormed up the stairs. Moments later, Anders heard the guest room door slam.
Pulling his own cap off, Anders ran his hand through his ponytail, and sighed.
Chapter Text
Upstairs, Fenris stared at the supplies he'd amassed.
The paper copy lay on the table. Next to it sat a small pile of books - all the books that he could find in the guest room, along with all the books the mage had used to teach him to read. He'd even found what the mage had called a dictionary, which could be used to understand words.
Fenris stared the paper copy. The number of words was not many - most of the paper was blank.
The mage had said that the letter was from Hawke to Danarius. The horrifying incredulity that had seized him as the mage read its words sits within Fenris even now, twisting him, ensnaring his mind with wild implications. That Hawke had communicated to Danarius without him, that he was getting items from him. That Hawke seemed to know him…
… Fenris could neither understand nor accept it. The mage must have lied.
Tonight, he would decipher the letter himself.
Setting his jaw, Fenris opened his books, and started with the first word.
What was it the mage had said? At the start of a sentence, the letters look different. Capital letters. So was that a... A P? A D? He wasn't sure if the little spike at the end of the letter was deliberate. Or was it an O?
The mage had started with "Danarius".
Fenris flipped open his books. He found the page on "D", which had examples of words that started with it. There was a picture of a dog on the page, along with what looked like soil, a glass of water, and a man almost falling off the edge of a cliff.
He peered closely at the page. The picture of the precarious man had a word printed on the bottom, but he had never seen it before.
He compared it to the paper. The front three seem to match.
"D-a-n," he mouthed to himself. "Da...?"
The man with an imminent death stared up at him, frightened. His foot was slipping, there were stones rolling off the cliff.
"Da... dan-ger?"
It certainly seemed like it.
"Danger. Dayn," Fenris frowned. His former master pronounced his name with a "dern". Not "dayn." Could the mage be wrong?
But that depended on accent. Danarius had visitors from foreign lands, and some had pronounced it differently. "Dayn"-arius did not seem off the mark.
Fenris stared at the paper in despair. He didn't know how accents were written - how did one write them? Would an Orlesian pronunciation of Danarius be written differently from a Tevinter one? The mage hadn't taught him that part yet.
The words sat on the paper, unmoving and unmoved. Open for the world to understand, but not for him.
Fenris slammed his hand on the table. "Venhedis."
Sighing, he turned his attention back to the page on "D". Perhaps, if he assumed that it is indeed the start of Danarius's name, he could move on.
There was a knock on the door.
"Fenris? Can I come in?"
The mage.
His first instinct was to say no, to reject. Fenris wanted his time to himself, because deciphering the paper copy would take a lot of it.
Besides, perhaps the mage would lie again.
Fenris shook his head, cognizant of the flaws of that thought. The mage had spent hours teaching him using the books that he had. Given him the skills that he was using to decipher this. Unless the mage was making up an entire reading system just to mock him...
The knock came again.
"Fenris?" The mage sounded anxious. "May I please come in? I just... I wanted to-"
Fenris growled. "Come in."
The mage entered. He looked frustrated, worried. Still dressed in the clothes that they'd broken into the Keep in - a functional, respectable set, dark enough to blend into the night, yet formal enough to deflect the guards in case they were spotted in Hightown. The tip of a quill was sticking out from his jacket. The only thing he’d taken off was his cap, revealing his messy ponytail.
"Fenris, I know the letter was a shock," the mage began hesitantly, moving towards him. "It shocked me, too, when I first saw it in the Keep. Please believe me when I say that I would not lie about it. I swear." His eyes fell on the books spread open in front of Fenris, and widened in surprise. "Are you... trying to read the letter?"
There was no point denying it. "Yes."
"Would you like my help?" he offered.
Fenris stared at him.
The mage was looking back. Open, expectant, his eyes warm, his face free of guile. He had not been kind to that face. When the mage had read the letter to him downstairs, he had not trusted his words - he had shouted at him, accused him of lying. And that was after he'd broken into the Keep with him - a feat that put him at great risk of danger.
And still he came, offering his assistance with this very important letter.
Shame burned in his face, his chest.
"Yes," he said to the table.
Anders moved forward, standing next to him. This close, Fenris could feel the warmth of his body.
"Where were you at?" he said kindly, as though he didn't know that Fenris was still at the first word, as though he didn't know that Fenris could barely read.
Fenris swallowed hard.
"I was here," he gestured at the first word. "D-a-n."
"Ah," the mage leaned down next to him, pointing. "Yes, that is d-a-n. The full word is Danarius. Dan-ay-ree-us. The D-a-n, "dan", makes up the front of his name, that letter 'a' in the middle is pronounced "ay", and the last part is r-i-u-s. The 'i' makes a sound like "eee", because it's next to an "us". That would've been tricky for you, actually, because we don't come across words that end with i-u-s very often."
"I did not get very far," Fenris said quietly, staring at the word. D-a-n-a-r-i-u-s. That was indeed his name.
"Names can be tricky. Sometimes, how they're spelt is not how they're pronounced." The mage pulled another chair next to him and sat down. "Maker knows there are many names that people find difficult to read, even though we know our letters. Shall we move to the next word?"
"Yes."
It was difficult work. The words that were written were very commonly used terms, but written in ink, they could’ve been Dwarven runes, standing coldly on the paper as he tried to differentiate the 'e's from the 'u's, shaping his mouth around letters that refused to sound like how they appeared. The appearance of something called punctuation marks added another layer of complexity. When Anders explained that the unfortunate appearance of 'l' in "should" is silent and can be ignored, Fenris scowled.
"Why is it there, then?" he demanded. "It is a waste of ink."
"I agree entirely," Anders sniffed. "Unfortunately, I don’t know who did it. There are other words like it - would and could also end with u-l-d, and the 'l' is also silent there. Oh, but there's a word - mould - it's spelt almost entirely the same, m-o-u-l-d, but it's pronounced differently."
Fenris would not have figured that out by himself.
They continued with the rest of the letter. Eventually, they reach the end.
"G-a-r-r-e-t-t," Fenris murmured. "Ga.. 'r' makes a "rrr" sound so it's Gar... and there are two 't's at the end. "Gar-t"... Is it... Garrett?" Fenris stared at the word, its incriminating presence invoking the dawning horror he'd felt downstairs. "Garrett... Hawke?"
"It is," the mage murmured sadly. "It's Hawke."
Fenris stared at the paper copy. A few lines of words on a mostly blank piece of paper. He had watched Anders copy the words himself just a few hours ago in the Keep, stared at him as Anders deliberately reproduced the letter with shaking hands. He had heard the letter read out loud to him. He had even been taught how to read the words on the letter himself.
It didn't sound like the mage was lying to him anymore.
It was Hawke. Hawke had wrote this letter, had addressed it to Danarius.
Was it sent? Did Hawke leave it in his room, safe in the assurance that Fenris could not read it? Did someone else bring it to the room afterwards? Or was it a ploy, a deliberate trick, intended to sully Hawke's memory?
Had Danarius followed it?
The words stared at him, coldly ignorant of the revelations they brought.
"Fenris," the mage said quietly next to him. "What are you thinking?"
How does he even begin?
"I do not know what to think," he said tonelessly. "If this letter indeed came from Hawke, it destroys everything I know."
A clunk, as Hawke pulled off his vest. Lips, mouthing at his neck. A sigh. Fingers tracing his lyrium, a small ache, a small price to pay. Hawke grins at him, and Fenris felt his heart flutter, even as he batters down the guilt he feels, trusting him like no other. Years by his side, a night in his bed. He’d pulled him down, and he went with him, willingly, gladly.
The mage shifted. "Before his death, did Hawke ever mention Danarius...?"
"No. Never." Fenris clenched his fists. "He had never mentioned his name. When I first met him, I was a fugitive from Tevinter. I was the one who told Hawke about Danarius. We fought against the men Danarius had sent to capture me, when I very first met him." Fenris glanced at the mage. "You were there."
"I remember that," Anders said. "You called them slavers. They fought to kill."
"Hawke helped me immeasurably over the years." Fenris stared at the fireplace, watched as the flames flickered over the logs. "He found me my room in Lowtown. He brought me along when he needed my skills, and rewarded me for it. He helped me kill Hadriana and Danarius." Fenris shook his head. "I do not... I cannot understand it."
There had been a fire that night in Hawke's room, too.
"When I heard about the letter being strong evidence for your murder, I didn't think it would be this," Anders murmured. "That is how the guard would see it. Everyone knows Danarius was your pursuer. The letter showed that Hawke liaised with him. They would think that you saw the letter that night, and you got angry, and you stabbed Hawke."
Fenris curled his fists. "The case against me is ironclad."
"It is not," Anders said. "You didn't do it. That alone makes it not so."
Fenris snorted, then. What came out was a brittle, despairing noise, closer to a sob. "Even with this, you still believe me?"
"I do, unless you are the best liar in Kirkwall," Anders said heatedly. "And even if you were, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have agreed to break into the Keep just to copy the letter and break out. You wouldn't have shouted at me downstairs. You didn’t know what was on the letter. Your actions absolve you more than the evidence, Fenris."
The mage was angry. In the darkness of night, fire shone in his honey-brown eyes, pinned on Fenris with an intensity that he had only ever seen during their arguments on mage rights. Conviction alight on his face, his jaw set, even as the signs of late-night weariness exposed itself in his messy golden hair and growing stubble. The mage was tense, leaning out of his chair, staring at him with a ferocity that Fenris could not understand.
"Why are you doing this?" Fenris asked, almost in a whisper. "This is beyond you. The more you help, the more danger you're in."
"You did not kill Hawke, and you are being framed for it," Anders said sharply. "That is reason. And now that we have seen the letter, I'm quite convinced that there’s something going on. At first, I thought someone had simply killed him and made you the scapegoat. Honestly, I just wanted to find the murderer so that you could be free, and Hawke could rest in peace. Now, I want to find out what in the Maker is happening." He shook his head. "Hawke is - was - my friend. I need to know why he was writing to Tevinter."
The room was still, the world asleep. There was a strange quality to this madness, Fenris though, borne of late night convictions and offers of help. Anders was sitting next to him, here, still, and quiet. In the hearth, the fire spat and crackled, warming the room and curling around his heart, if he chose to believe that it was the fire that did it.
His wrist no longer hurt.
"I am grateful," Fenris murmured. "Thank you. For the Keep. For the letter. All of it."
"You're welcome," Anders stifled a yawn. "It's... Maker, it's really late. We should sleep." He stood up, stretching his sides with a crack. "It's been an incredibly long day. I'm exhausted. We’ll call it a night, then?"
He walked to the door, opened it, ready to leave.
"Good night, mage."
He turned, giving Fenris a quick, surprised smile.
"Good night, elf."
Notes:
A shorter (but hopefully sweeter) chapter today!
Acerbiko on Chapter 3 Wed 03 Sep 2025 09:52AM UTC
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