Chapter Text
Fenris had once heard a saying: That which does not kill you, makes you stronger. He was inclined to agree. Anders preferred to alter the adage slightly, saying: That which does not kill you, bloody well hurts.
Fenris had to accede to that; it was often true. But, he’d also found the greatest strength grew from that which was most painful. When Danarius had ordered him to kill the Fog Warriors, his complicity had been his greatest shame, and greatest heartache. Yet, it had also brought him the strength to finally run from his master, and forge a life of his own.
Certainly Anders, after having felt the pain of his greatest loss, found the strength to build a new life, as well as recover the life which had been taken from him, so long ago. He insisted it was Fenris who had given him the strength to do so, but the elf knew better. Strength came from within. It was Anders’ own doing; his pain, his strength, his revival. Fenris had just been along for the ride. Not willingly, at first. In the beginning, he’d been a reluctant passenger.
For, Fenris was no nursemaid. He’d played many roles during his time as a slave, but healer was not among them. Yet, there he’d found himself, with no recourse, save to deal with the problem set before him.
It had been Hawke’s fault.
Hawke had been preparing for his trip to Chateau Haine. He’d chosen his group, and neither Fenris nor Anders were among those debarking on the extended trip. Not that Fenris minded. Staying in Kirkwall was certainly preferable to spending that long in close contact with the mage, had they been asked to go. What he minded was the favor Hawke asked of him.
“Keep an eye on Anders, while we’re gone, will you? With Varric away, his contacts in the underworld may decide the clinic’s open game.”
“Have someone else do it. I’ve no mind to pay visits to that mage.”
“Who? Merrill? Sebastian? Merrill will get herself killed walking through Darktown alone, and Sebastian would likely turn Anders over to the templars while I’m gone. Come on, Fenris. Consider this repayment for helping you kill-off Hadriana.”
In spite of the barb he felt in that statement, Fenris relented. “Bah. Fine. You ask much of me, Hawke.”
“Great! Just look in on him each evening. You’ll be going to the Hanged Man anyway, won’t you? Swing by the clinic, make sure everything’s fine, and be on your way. I’m not asking you to sit in vigil. Just make sure he’s alive.”
Fenris kept his promise. He didn’t know why Hawke was so concerned about the mage. He rarely took him on missions, anymore. Hawke rarely needed more than himself to manage the magic side of things. When he did, of late he chose the blood mage. For whatever reason, Hawke had begun seeing Merrill, and seemed deeply enamored of the witch. Fenris bridled at the thought, but tried to put it out of his mind.
So, each evening, he cruised through Darktown, peeked in the door of the clinic, and headed to the tavern. It was more than a ‘swing by’. The clinic was a good distance out of his way. But, to be honest, Fenris had little else to do. When not working with Hawke, his days were free. Going to the Hanged Man in the evening was quiet. With Varric, Aveline, and Isabella gone with Hawke, it was a small gathering. Sebastian or Donnic was usually there. Anders might show up on the odd occasion. Merrill tended to be scarce, which suited Fenris just fine.
When Anders did put in an appearance, he was surprisingly subdued. He seemed distracted, picking at his food or drink, and seldom joined in the conversation unless spoken to directly. Fenris didn’t care for Anders’ company, but at least he was less offensive in his new reserve.
Fenris had expected that particular evening to go much as the previous week’s had. As the sun set, he’d descended into the darkness. The under-city was filthy and fetid, as always. Summer in the Free Marches was muggy, and one might think it was cooler in the underground. It wasn’t. Fenris strode through the camps and shanties, the sight of his armor and blade enough to keep thugs at bay.
Then, it all went awry. As he approached the last staircase up to the clinic, he paused. The sound of fighting could be heard, echoing from one of the secret entrances into the deep sewers. More worrisome, the reverberating voice of Anders’ demon carried clearly.
“YOU SHALL NOT HAVE HIM! FEEL THE BURN OF JUSTICE!”
Sprinting to the open entrance, he dropped through. Immediately, he saw three templars facing-off against Anders. Justice advanced on them; eyes glowing, light flaring through rents in his skin. In a blaze of light, the men screamed in pain and terror. Their cries abruptly cut-off as their flesh melted from their bones; their armor turned to molten metal.
The demon turned toward Fenris, his movement catching the glowing eyes. Before either could make a move or speak a word, a figure appeared behind Anders’ glowing form. A remaining templar rushed forward, arm raised to strike at the abomination’s turned back.
Fenris leapt forward, blade swinging, as the templar thrust a slim wand at the back of Anders’ neck. Justice’s light blazed blindingly as he screamed. Even as Fenris clove the templar’s head from his body, the demon’s light snuffed, and Anders collapsed to the ground, unmoving.
Carefully approaching the fallen abomination, Fenris nudged him with his foot. Anders didn’t move, but he was breathing. The elf looked for the weapon the templar had held. It looked like a branding iron, though cool to the touch. The business end was imbedded with lyrium. He recognized the brand; it was in the shape of a small sunburst.
“Venhedis....”
Fenris used a clawed finger of his gauntlet to brush aside the long hair at the back of Anders’ neck. Clearly emblazoned on the fair skin, just below the line of hair-growth, was a Tranquil brand.
“Fasta vass!”
The brand was usually placed on the forehead. Did it matter where it was administered? When the mage awoke, would he be Anders, or an emotionless puppet? Fenris’ gut churned. He would not have wished this on the mage, regardless of their rivalry. He tried to rouse him, but no amount of slapping or pinching had any effect. He remained unresponsive.
What should he do? What could he do? There was no cure for Tranquility. Fenris had no one to whom to turn. No one could do anything any more than he could. He couldn’t leave him here. Leaving him in the clinic was no safer. Odds were, more templars would come looking for these four... three of whom were now puddles of liquid flesh and metal. And, he’d promised Hawke he’d look out for the mage.
He sighed. He really had no option other than take him back to his mansion; at least until he woke. After that... well, he had no idea. After that would depend on what, exactly, Anders awoke as. If he awoke, at all.
Fenris looked at the carnage surrounding him. He’d seen the aftermath of many battles, with many foes. But, this... this was gruesome. Kneeling beside him, he pulled the unconscious man over his shoulder in a rescue carry. He was surprised how little he weighed, for his height. Fenris bundled the mage out of the sewers, across town, and into his mansion.
Once he had Anders lying on a bed in an empty room, he was at a loss. The mage didn’t look injured or ill. Except for the Tranquil brand on his neck, and being completely unresponsive, he seemed fine.
Did mages who were made Tranquil lapse unconscious, like this? If so, for how long? If Anders wasn’t Tranquil, was the demon still inside him? Would he burst forth into a full-blown, mindless abomination when he woke? That question gave him pause. The image of liquified templars filled his mind. Leaving the room, Fenris searched through the many crates still stacked throughout the mansion. It had been used by Danarius’ slavers, after all. Sure enough, he found a box with restraints.
He cautiously removed the mages’ boots and outer robes, and locked a cuff to a wrist and an ankle, chaining him to the bedframe. It was then he realized just how underweight Anders was. Whatever he did with his time, eating wasn’t it. He rubbed his face. He didn’t particularly enjoy slapping slave cuffs on the man, but liked the idea of Justice running amuck in the mansion even less. He stood listlessly, wondering what else to do. He decided he’d done all he could. There was nothing left but to wait.
He dragged a crate next the bed and sat. He sighed irritably. This was not what he had envisioned when he’d agreed to look in on the damned mage. This should be Hawke’s problem, not his. Hawke was the one who actually liked the apostate. He scowled. Hawke seemed to like too many people.
There had been a time, a couple years past, when Fenris had thought Hawke particularly liked him. Indeed, there had been a single night when Hawke had seduced the elf to his bed, after helping Fenris defeat Hadriana. Overcome by the emotions of the day, and beguiled by the thought Hawke found him worthy of interest, Fenris had followed the man’s lead. In spite of the fact Hawke was a mage, in spite of the near-rivalry that crackled between them, Hawke had given Fenris a night such as he’d never imagined.
And, the very next morning, had ended it. Never mind Fenris had done the same. He'd been simply overwhelmed by the intimacy, by the memories that had surfaced during the night. It seemed Hawke had not placed the same significance on their night together as he had. The mage, capricious as always, had simply wanted a good time, and that done, had moved on.
Fenris watched the unmoving mage, idly smoothing the length of fabric wrapped about his right wrist. He’d kept it, and the Hawke family crest at his hip, as a sign of his continued devotion. Somehow, it comforted him. It reminded him that, for one night, Fenris had warranted his attentions. He couldn’t deny the feelings Hawke engendered in him.
As the evening became night, and the mage showed no change, Fenris threw a moth-eaten pillow on the floor, and lay across the doorway. Hopefully, if worse came to worse, should Justice emerge and attack, the chains would give him time to either escape, or put the demon down.
After a long night on the hard floor, Fenris awoke to find Anders had not moved. Fenris repeated his actions of the day before, slapping and pinching the mage to elicit a response. Nothing. He needed to wake, to drink, to eat, to leave Fenris’ home and go back to his filthy hovel. Fenris grumbled. Unless and until that occurred, he was duty-bound to ensure the mage’s well-being.
This was not his arena. Fenris didn’t make people well, he made them dead. He’d only known one healer in his life, and he was currently chained to the bed. Should he be doing more? He was of no mind to coddle the mage, but he wouldn’t want Hawke to think he hadn’t done whatever was in his power. He thought of what Anders himself had done, when caring for members of their party.
Varric had once taken a hefty dose of venom from a giant spider, and spent the better part of a day paralyzed. Potions and healing magic could only do so much. Making camp on the Wounded Coast, the group had waited while Anders attended the dwarf. He'd had made a point of repositioning him every so often. He’d said it prevented fluid build-up in the lungs, and skin sores. And, even though Varric had seemed to be completely unaware of his surroundings, Anders had spoken to him. In a calm, casual voice, he’d explained what he was going to do, talked of inane topics. He’d explained that people who seem unaware, often hear and feel perfectly well.
Fenris shrugged. It couldn’t hurt, and he was stuck here until the mage awakened, anyway. Feeling mildly foolish, he spoke to the unconscious man, explaining what he intended to do. Maker knew he, himself, had been manhandled and shackled without warning or consent. Carefully sliding his arms under him, he shifted Anders to lie on one side. Fenris checked the skin at the back of his neck for any changes in the brand. None, so far. His skin was cool. The mansion often felt chilly, even in the summer. Fenris gathered blankets from his own bed, one for the mage, and one for himself.
He spent the day sitting beside the mage’s bed. He ate the bread and cheese he had on hand. He told stories Donnic and Sebastian had relayed over dinner and cards. He thumbed through the book by Shartan Hawke had given him. He couldn’t read it, but he enjoyed the drawings sprinkled throughout the pages. Every few hours, he changed the mage’s position; Anders remaining unresponsive.
As the sun began to lower in the afternoon, a ray crept past the curtained window. Fenris had run out of things to talk about, and sat in a pleasant haze in the afternoon warmth. When the sunbeam fell on the mage’s hair, it lit a myriad of colors in his tousled tresses. Primarily reddish-blonde, it was a veritable palette of color; copper, gold, russet. Fenris had never noticed, before. It was rather appealing.
The shape of the brand showed through the colorful hair. He remembered once, asking Anders why his friend had been made Tranquil. The mage had replied with an angry retort. Fenris had truly only been curious. Of course, it ended up a small spat, as most of their interactions did. Both Hawke and Anders said death was preferable to Tranquility. Anders had even given the death-blow to his friend, rather than consign him to life as an emotionless puppet.
Fenris would not take on that duty, himself. If Anders awoke Tranquil, he’d simply have to wait for Hawke to return to make that call. For all his dislike of the man, he preferred it not come to that. He’d rather the irritating mage woke as his irritating self, and went back to his irritating life, far from Fenris’ mansion.
Another night spent on the hard floor, waiting for Anders to stir. Waking at dawn, Fenris stretched the kinks out of his spine, and made his way to his patient's bed, ready to begin another day of sitting, talking, and turning.
“It’s morning, mage. Time to turn over.” He slid his arms under Anders’ body, and stopped in surprise. Anders was awake, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Fenris looked at the open eyes, both relief and concern coursing through him.
“Mage?”
Anders' voice, barely audible, replied. “What’s happening to me?”
Fenris leaned over him, face to face. He gazed into the light brown eyes below him. “Mage... are you... you?”
Anders frowned. Fenris thought that was a good sign. Tranquil didn’t frown, he was certain. The subdued voice answered again.
"Who else would I be?”
“Perhaps, your demon? Or... Tranquil?”
“Tranquil?” Anders' face filled with confusion. Another good sign, Fenris hoped. “Am I Tranquil?”
Fenris sat back, and began unlocking the cuffs on Anders’ wrist and ankle. “You tell me. What do you feel?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must feel something. Search yourself.”
The mage frowned, again. “I feel like I need the loo.”
He led him from the room, and pointed to the door. No matter what trauma life produced, bladder and bowel always reigned supreme. When Anders emerged, Fenris directed him into his own room to sit on a bench before the fire. He began assembling bread and cheese for them both.
“Do you feel your demon?”
“He’s not a demon....” the mage’s voice was faint, confused.
“I don’t care. Do you feel him?”
Anders’ face showed intense concentration. “No.”
“Do you remember anything before waking here?”
“Your voice.”
“Before that.”
“Working in the clinic?”
“You were overwhelmed by templars. Justice emerged. He killed three, but the fourth put the Tranquil brand on the back of your neck before I cut him down.”
“The brand?” Anders’ hand tentatively felt his neck. “Is there a mirror?”
“Wait here.”
Fenris found the pile of broken mirror-pieces in a room further down the hall. He brought back two, handing a smaller one to the mage.
“Hold that up, you can see the reflection in this one.”
Standing behind him, Fenris held up his piece of mirror, and swept aside the hair covering the brand. He watched as Anders stared in perplexed disbelief at the Tranquil brand on his skin.
“Mage... your hand,” he warned. Anders’ grip on the mirror cut the sharp edges into his palm. Blood ran down his arm. “Better heal that.”
Putting down the piece of mirror, he went through familiar healing gestures. Nothing happened. With a frown, Anders tried again. Still nothing.
“Is your mana drained?”
Anders shook his head slowly, clearly confused. “No... it’s... not right....” Again, and again, he tried to call up his power. He began sweating with the effort of it. Fenris saw him tremble, confusion turning to panic.
“No... no... no... Maker, it can’t be....” he whispered.
Fenris couldn’t follow. “What is it?”
“Maker... my magic... I can’t feel it....” He tried again. Hands shaking, he gestured, muttered, strained.
Fenris watched, confused. The mage was clearly not Tranquil, he was working himself into an emotional fit. Yet, he couldn’t feel the tug of power in his markings proximity to even passive magic normally caused.
Anders stilled, breath ragged. "Maker preserve me... they took my magic."
Trembling violently, he stared into his cupped palms, one dripping blood; his face a mask of horror. When his head dropped back in a long, mournful wail, chills ran down Fenris’ spine. He’d heard such a cry before. He’d made one, himself, on the worst day of his life.
Only reflex stopped the shard of mirror plunging toward Anders' throat.
“Mage! Stop!”
With no small effort, he wrested the glass from Anders' hand. Distraught, the mage was flailing, struggling against his hold. Finally, Fenris simply wrapped his arms about Anders’ upper body, pinning his arms to prevent him trying again. Giving up, Anders began to sob, quickly building to howls of sorrow.
Fenris held onto him, unwilling to let him go, lest he harm himself. The mage... no, not mage, any longer... continued his lamentation. Despite his feelings about magic and mages, this outpouring of grief could not help but touch him. If there was one feeling Fenris knew well, it was misery.
Eventually, the weakened man’s strength gave out, and he wilted in Fenris’ embrace. Sweeping him up, he carried him to the nearest bed, his own, and lay him upon it. He’d need to dress the bleeding wound, and prevent him trying to harm himself, again.
He’d promised Hawke. It was his duty to keep Anders safe. Even from himself.
