#Somnia In Sanguinem

[arkadianpen]

Somnia In Sanguinem - 3

Ch 1 / Ch 2 / Ch 3

Promising silence

If he had known beforehand that Fenris was to be a part of the trip, Anders might have made excuses for why he couldn’t come after all. He had been more than halfway tempted to do so anyway - except Hawke had given him that look, blue eyes wide, projecting an air of innocence and the assumption that of course Anders wouldn’t leave him to face the risk of possible maiming and almost certain death without a healer.

Which was nonsense, of course - the only ones in imminent danger of maiming and death would be the bandits unfortunate enough to tangle with Hawke and his friends. Not that pointing this out to Hawke had ever gotten Anders anywhere; Hawke was a force of nature unto himself, and at some point along the way Anders had gotten swept off his feet by the tide of the man’s personality and charm and resigned himself to the knowledge that he may as well just go along with Hawke’s plans, as it was invariably the easier course. And helping Hawke usually entailed helping others who had been treated unjustly in any case; eliminating the bandits would make the coast safer for travellers on the roads, including those Ferelden refugees who chose to depart Kirkwall in search of a new life here in the Free Marches.

In many ways, Hawke reminded Anders of the Warden. He’d been swept along by the force of Beren Amell’s personality as well - both in the Circle and then later, after Anders owed him his life and liberty.

Beren had had blue eyes too, Anders mused.

Anders truly did need to replenish his stock herbs in any case, and at least with Hawke around he could do so without the risk of encountering the bandits by himself. There’d been rumours of slavers operating along the Wounded Coast recently besides the usual bandits, and he had no intentions of finding himself dosed up on magebane and handcuffed in the bowels of a slaver ship bound for Tevinter. Fenris had made it quite clear - repeatedly - just what he thought Anders’ chances would be in the Imperium; which was to say, pretty slim and likely unpleasant. Tevinter, it seemed, was the kind of place where a mage would thrive - if he were ruthless enough to trample on the backs of others and wasn’t too picky about blood magic; a Spirit Healer without ties to one of the noble houses, unprepared to resort to blood magic and keeping slaves, would soon find himself a slave - and pretty pennies were to be had for any slaver bringing in a mage.

Fenris had seemed to take almost a vindictive pleasure in regaling Anders with those facts, as though he relished the thought of seeing Anders in slave collar and chains. Anders wondered if the elf would take such pleasure if he only knew how often Anders’ nightmares featured chains and cold iron collars.

Many of Fenris’ statements about mages, Anders had attempted to ignore rather than be drawn into yet another fight (not that he’d ever had much success on that score), but the elf might have been surprised to learn just how much attention Anders had paid to his statements about Tevinter - and taken them very much to heart. It was purely enlightened self-interest, of course - or so he told himself. Anders had spent almost his whole life running away in one way or another, and when he inevitably would find himself having to flee Kirkwall in time, he had no intentions of exchanging slavery at the hands of templars for slavery at the hands of magisters.

(He tried to ignore the indignant voice deep within that protested the injustice of a society built upon slavery; he had enough on his plate with the mage underground and combating the injustices of the Chantry wherever and however he could. He was only one man, and combating an entire Empire was beyond him. Justice’s surge of righteous anger was hard to quell and even harder to ignore however.)

His attentiveness certainly had nothing to do with any unwitting feelings of kinship that the elf’s matter-of-fact mentions of his own treatment as a slave may have aroused in Anders, he told himself. After all, the elf evidently felt no such kinship - he certainly made that clear, whenever Anders mentioned the injustices done to the mages in the Circle. (The mage tried to ignore the nagging feelings of self-recrimination whenever he felt his irritation rising over that.)

Maybe it was sympathy for what Fenris had gone through in his past that was the reason why he hadn’t told Hawke and Varric just what had really transpired in his clinic when Fenris woke up; or maybe it was something else. When Anders had finally dragged himself to the Hanged Man, Hawke and Varric had both been aghast at his state of exhaustion

All these thoughts were running through Anders’ head as they made their way through the twisting paths that threaded through the shallow canyons above the cliffs along the coast. The air was parched and hot, and Anders thought he would likely drown in his own sweat beneath all his layers. Or melt. Or keel over from heat stroke. Likely all three, before they encountered any sign of these bandits they were supposed to be on the lookout for.

He glared balefully at Fenris’ back as the elf strode on ahead of the others. The white-haired warrior showed no signs of discomfort from the sun as he stalked along the dusty path, eyes and ears alert for any signs or sounds of threat, oblivious to Anders’ stare as the mage sweltered in the heat, Varric and Hawke both looking uncomfortable as well. The dwarf was evidently regretting his decision not to leave his leather greatcoat behind, and Hawke was sweating heavily in his leather rogue’s armour. Only Isabela seemed as comfortable and at home in the oppressive heat as Fenris.

“You know, you really would be more comfortable if you stripped down,” she mused conversationally as she strode beside Anders, glancing at him and letting her eyes trawl down his body.

“I’m fine,” replied Anders tersely. He reached for his water canteen and unstoppered it, then frowned as he realised only a small trickle of water remained. How had he drunk it all already?

“You don’t look fine,” pressed the Rivaini pirate. Just up ahead, Hawke halted and glanced back, Varric stopping beside him.

“Anders? Are you alright? You look very pale,” remarked Hawke. Beyond him, the elf halted and turned to stare at the mage.

Anders halted as well and leaned on his staff. “I told you, I’m fine,” he insisted stubbornly.

Fenris made his way back to the others. “There is a small spring just up ahead; it is shaded by several trees. I suggest we stop a while and refill out water canteens. Mine is empty.”

Anders blinked. It sounded suspiciously like the elf was being uncharacteristically considerate. But far be it for Anders to quibble whilst they stood there in the heat of the blazing sun.

“Lead on then,” nodded Hawke, gesturing for Fenris to lead the way. The elf eyed Anders for a moment with an inscrutable look before turning away.

“At least take your coat off,” suggested Isabela as she tugged at his sleeve. Anders scowled at her and stomped after Hawke and Fenris.

***

The shade beneath the trees was welcome relief from the midday heat - as was the refreshing, cool water. Anders had finally been persuaded to take off his heavy coat and sat with his back resting against the trunk of a tree, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his shirt unlaced at the neck to catch the cool breeze.

Isabela and Varric were whispering to each other as the Rivaini pirate peered over the dwarf’s shoulder at the leather journal he was scrawling in. Another of their little “friend fics”, no doubt; he idly wondered who was the unwitting protagonist in this one. Probably Hawke, from the way Isabela kept glancing at the rogue who was oblivious as he frowned at the loose binding on the haft of one of his knives.

He leaned back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes as he allowed himself to relax for once. It would be folly to chase after the bandits in the midday heat; they’d decided to rest for a while in the cool shade under the trees to while away the hottest part of the day, and Anders was welcoming the chance to do nothing for once. It was rare he had such an opportunity - and even Justice was silent for once, evidently recognising that there was nothing useful Anders could do at this particular moment.

He must have dozed off; he was startled awake by a hand lightly squeezing his shoulder and a low voice near his ear.

“Mage. Be perfectly still.”

Anders’ eyes flew open in alarm. Fenris was crouched beside him, his breath warm upon the side of his neck and his fingers tightening upon Anders’ shoulder, halting the mage’s instinctive flinch. Anders could see at a glance that it was far later now, and the others were nowhere to be seen. And in front of him, sniffing at Anders’ right foot, was the biggest feral mabari he’d ever seen in his life.

Anders swallowed hard and glanced to the side - to see his staff lying upon the ground just out of reach. A low growl drew his attention back to the mabari as it bared fangs, hackles raised, crouched ready to spring.

Even as it leapt towards his throat with a horrible snarl, there was a flash of brilliant blue-white light and then Anders grunted as the dog’s body slammed heavily into his chest. He glanced up with wide eyes at Fenris who stood over him, the mabari’s heart clutched in one bloodied fist for a moment before he threw it aside and drew his sword, leaping to meet the rest of the pack with a snarl of his own. Anders struggled out from beneath the still-warm corpse of the dead mabari and reached for his staff.

Between them, it took a few minutes’ hard fighting before all the mabari were down and dead. Panting, Anders leaned on his staff for a moment to catch his breath before he straightened and glanced at Fenris.

“That could have been nasty,” he gasped as he attempted to wipe ineffectually at the blood soaking through his shirt. “Where are the others?”

“They went to swim in the cove,” replied Fenris as he turned slowly. He made his way over to his pack and tugged out a cloth to wipe the blood off his blade with. “I felt it best not to leave you sleeping unprotected.”

Anders ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and stared at Fenris. “Then I suppose I owe you my life,” he remarked. Fenris glanced up at him.

“Yes, I suppose you do,” the elf agreed. “Though I would settle for an answer.”

“What?” said Anders, bewildered. “An answer? To what?”

Fenris walked slowly towards Anders, who backed away as the warrior drew closer. “You have not told Hawke or the others what transpired in your clinic. You have not told them what I am.”

Anders let out a small yelp as his back hit the trunk of a tree, unable to retreat further as Fenris advanced on him.

“Why have you kept silent?” pressed Fenris as he drew closer. “You were angry. Afraid. And yet you said nothing of what I did to you. Why?”

“You said you hadn’t meant to hurt me,” Anders blurted out. “I - I believed you. You could have killed me, but you didn’t.”

Fenris halted in front of Anders, mere inches away. “I could have,” the elf nodded. “But I did not wish for you to die.”

Though Anders stood several inches taller than the elf, somehow Fenris seemed to loom over him as Anders pressed himself against the trunk of the tree. His staff slipped from suddenly-nerveless fingers as he felt cold fear sheet over him. He swallowed hard, remembering the feel of sharp fangs sinking into his throat.

“I will not hurt you, Anders,” said Fenris quietly. “Why would I have stayed to protect you if I wished you harm?”

“What do you want, Fenris?” asked Anders nervously, hating the way his voice quavered slightly. “My silence? I’ve not breathed a word to Hawke or anyone else - I swear it.”

“I know,” nodded Fenris. “What I don’t understand is why. You have no love for me; you ordered me from your clinic when I tried to apologise. Yet you have kept my secret. I am grateful to you for that, but I have to wonder at your silence.”

“I know what it’s like to have to keep a part of yourself secret,” said Anders bleakly. “I’m sure you have your reasons for not sharing that part of yourself with the others. Maker knows, I have enough secrets of my own.”

“Just so,” nodded Fenris. “And now I must trust you to also keep mine.”

“I swear I won’t breathe a word!” Anders exclaimed, pressing his back hard against the tree trunk.

Fenris stared at him then sighed. “Anders, I do not wish you to be afraid of me,” he said quietly.

“Well, you’ve got a bloody weird way of showing it!” snapped Anders. “You scare the shit out of me, and this -” he gestured to the scant inches between them, “is not helping! I’ve told you I won’t breathe a word; what more do you want from me? More blood?”

Fenris recoiled as though stung. “Not that! I - no, I do not wish your blood!”

“Then what? What do you want from me, dammit?” exclaimed Anders.

“I-” began Fenris, then fell silent as they both heard the sounds of running feet. The elf turned abruptly away and stalked over to one of the dead mabari, turning it over with a foot as Isabela, Varric and Hawke stumbled to a halt and stared around at the carnage.

“Anders! What happened? Are you hurt?” exclaimed Hawke as he hurried over to the mage.

“I’m fine,” sighed Anders as he shrugged. “This blood’s not mine.”

“Let me just check,” said Hawke as he reached for the hem of Anders’ ragged and bloodstained shirt; resigned, Anders tugged the shirt off over his head so Hawke could reassure himself the mage was unharmed.

He was aware of Fenris’ eyes upon him as he turned away.

[arkadianpen]

Somnia In Sanguinem - 2

Ch 1 / Ch 2 / Ch 3

Lies and Half-truths

Anders drifted slowly awake to the smell of something savory drifting from nearby; even as he opened his eyes and blinked at the dirty, cobweb-festooned ceiling, he felt his mouth begin to water at the smell. He stared at a dark brown stain on the dirty grey expanse of plaster overhead. Old blood, he guessed, his thoughts still a little woolly and sleep-fogged. It looked like the ceiling of his clinic.

He was lying on one of the cots in his clinic, he realised; someone had tucked a blanket around him as he slept. No, several blankets; he was warm and comfortable for once. He felt strangely weak and a little light-headed; had he been ill? He didn’t remember getting sick - didn’t think it was actually possible anymore, in fact. Grey Wardens, as a rule, didn’t get sick; and being a Spirit Healer meant his immune system was stronger than most to begin with. His body healed fast, normally - always had, even before Justice, even before his Joining.

He wondered who had been looking after him; he didn’t remember falling asleep out here in the clinic, and he certainly wouldn’t have taken so many blankets - it would have felt wasteful. And he certainly wouldn’t have left food cooking unattended. Whatever food it was, it smelled really good, mind you. Maybe it was Lirene.

He sat up with an effort and turned towards the scent of food with the beginnings of a smile -

That died on his lips as the white-haired elf turned from the pot of stew he was tending to glance in his direction.

Memory came flooding back in an instant - Fenris pinning him to the floor, sharp teeth fastened to his throat, the horrible feeling of the very life being drawn from his veins as he weakened. Anders’ eyes widened as he scrambled up from the cot and backed away, lifting one hand up as though to ward Fenris off though the elf had not risen from his seat.

Anders pressed a hand against the side of his neck where he had been bitten. “You - you bit me!”

Fenris carefully lifted the pot off the fire and wiped his hands on a rag before rising to his feet slowly. Anders backpedalled until his back hit the wall and he could go no further.

“Peace,” rumbled the elf in what sounded suspiciously like a weary tone. “I will not hurt you.”

“You drank my blood!!” exclaimed Ander indignantly.

Fenris sighed, his ears drooping a little. “Very well; I will not hurt you again,” he amended.

Anders remained pressed against the wall of the clinic and stared at Fenris, his fingers still searching for the scabbed wound that ought to be there but finding nothing but smooth skin, beneath which he could feel his own pulse racing with the adrenaline of fear. Confused, he frowned, reaching inside to see with his healer’s senses.

No trace of the wound - but he hadn’t dreamed the attack; he had lost a lot of blood, which explained his weakness.

His eyes lifted to Fenris again, who seemed to guess at Anders’ discomfort. “You will not find a wound,” stated the elf. “I do not know how it works, but the wound heals over within minutes unless my... victim... has died.”

“Why aren’t I dead?” asked Anders quietly. “You would have killed me, wouldn’t you?”

“No!” exclaimed Fenris, horrified. “No, not - I would not -” He stammered as he tried to get the words out; as Anders stared at him, he found himself believing the white-haired warrior in spite of himself. Fenris really hadn’t meant to harm him.

“What are you?” whispered Anders.

Fenris’ shoulders slumped, his ears drooping. “I was not Danarius’ first attempt at...this,” he said quietly as he held out his arms to show his lyrium; distantly, Anders noted that  the elf had not dressed in his customary armour. It seemed strange to see the elf standing there in just tunic and pants; it made him seem somehow less intimidating - or might, if the elf hadn't come damned near to killing Anders the previous night. “I was merely the first to survive,” continued Fenris as he lowered his arms. “He deliberately infected me with... something, I know not what. Some foul concoction he forced me to drink before he began, perhaps, or some ritual of blood magic -" His lip curled in a sneer before he went on. "I do not know what it was he did to me; my earliest memories are of waking in agony as he carved the lyrium into my flesh  - and through the pain, such a hunger as I do not believe I could ever have endured before; an unnatural burning that was almost as painful as the lyrium. He brought other slaves to me and I....” His voice became soft with remembered horror. “I killed them,” he finished quietly.

Anders lowered himself to sit upon the nearest cot, shaken. “Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked softly.

“I came to my senses and realised what I was doing,” shrugged Fenris. “I did not wish to hurt you, much less kill you - particularly when I evidently have you to thank for saving my life yet again; for which, you have my thanks,” he added. “It was a poor way for me to repay you, I am afraid - and for that, I can only apologise.”

Anders blinked, then lowered his head to his hands as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He had no idea what to make of any of this; in general, interactions with the prickly elf had amounted to sniping comments and surly insults between them - the elf had never shown any signs of cordiality or friendship towards Anders that he could recall. And yet....

He lifted his head to glance at Fenris as his vision clouded over; he felt himself falling, dizzy.

Gentle hands caught him as he fell, wrapped around him comfortingly as they lifted him from the floor.  Gentle hands - and yet, as the ringing in Anders’ ears faded and his vision cleared, he could only remember how those same hands had pinned him to the floor as Fenris attacked him. He shoved the elf away roughly as he pulled away from him.

“Get away from me!” he rasped as he pushed himself to his feet in spite of his dizziness, and glared at Fenris. “Don’t touch me!”

“I only thought -” began Fenris as he stepped away.

“I don’t give a damn what you thought - haven’t you done enough? Or had you changed your mind and decided to have another go? Finish me off?” Anders backed away and reached for his staff where it rested against the side of the examination table.

He drew himself up and gestured towards the doors. “You’ve obviously healed enough - get out. Get out, and leave me alone!”

“Anders, I -”

“Get out!” roared Anders, a flicker of sharp electric blue briefly sheening over his amber eyes.

Fenris backed away, then turned and swiftly gathered his armour and sword. Wordlessly, as Anders watched, the elf let himself out and left.

The moment the elf was gone and he was alone again, Anders let himself collapse back down onto the nearest narrow cot, the staff slipping from his trembling fingers to clatter upon the floor beside him.

There was no way he’d be capable of healing anyone whilst he was in this state. He felt weak and cold, and all the internal mental castigation in the world couldn’t force him back to his feet again. Not that that could halt the hypercritical inner monologue that chased him back down into exhausted sleep once more as the stew slowly grew cold and congealed in the iron pot.

***

Fenris stared down at his cards morosely and reached for his glass of wine. He was glad that he had perfected a neutral blank expression long ago; it had always served him well during these weekly games of Wicked Grace in Varric’s suite, and it served him well now as the others - Isabela, Merrill, Varric and Hawke - wondered aloud what could be keeping Anders.

“You’re sure he was alright when you left this morning, Fenris?” pressed Hawke for the third time.

“As I told you before, Hawke - I did not see Anders when I left,” replied Fenris, not lifting his eyes from his cards even as he hated himself for the lie. “I awoke alone, I dressed, I left.”

“Likely he was sleeping still,” shrugged Merrill as she drew another card. “After all, he was pretty exhausted when we left him, and I don’t think he’s been sleeping at all well, the poor thing - did you see the shadows under his eyes, Hawke?” She stared at the card she’d drawn and pulled a face; Isabela chuckled.

“Kitten, I’d fold if I were you,” she advised the elf.

“Are my cards really that bad?” she exclaimed.

“Daisy, with that expression? They must be,” chuckled Varric. “Alright, come on kids - show your hands.” He spread his own hand face up and both Hawke and Merrill groaned.

Fenris tossed his hand down, his lip curling in disgust as Varric chuckled again and started to collect his winnings.

“It’s rare for you to lose so much Fenris - everything alright?” inquired Hawke as the dwarf gathered up the cards and began shuffling them once more.

“I’m fine,” replied Fenris with a shrug, then got to his feet. “I need more wine.”

“Tell Norah to send up another round of ale, Elf!” called Varric as Fenris headed towards the stairs down towards the common room; the elf raised a hand indicating he’d heard.

As he waited to be served, he couldn’t help but think about Merrill’s words - how the mage hadn’t been sleeping well recently. He had been so focused on what he’d done to Anders that he hadn’t fully taken in the man’s appearance - but now he thought on it, Anders’ face did look more gaunt of late, and his eyes shadowed. And now he thought on it further, Anders had been barefoot, clad only in a faded pair of grey pants - had Hawke and the others roused the mage from sleep to heal Fenris? The man must have been exhausted even before Fenris had repaid him so shoddily; no wonder he had been so angry.

He returned to the others with a fresh bottle of wine, Norah promising to bring the ale up shortly; to his surprise, Anders was sitting at the table between Hawke and Varric. The mage looked ill and exhausted; he was smiling wanly at some joke of Hawke’s, until his gaze drifted and fell upon Fenris, whereupon it disappeared.

Varric and Hawke glanced up and greeted Fenris as the elf took his seat once more. Fenris nodded to them as he uncorked the bottle of wine and busied himself pouring a fresh glass, his focus on the crimson liquid instead of the mage sitting opposite. The wine was doing little to distract him however; perhaps it was the proximity of the man he had so nearly killed the previous night, but as he stared at the wine he couldn’t help but recall the scarlet of blood upon Anders’ torn throat, the colour so stark and vivid against the blanched skin.

He took a hasty sip, almost spilling the wine down himself in his haste; he glanced up almost involuntarily as he lowered the glass and licked a stray drop from his bottom lip before it could run down his chin and found Anders was staring at him, his face pale, what little colour had returned to his cheeks drained away again - and Fenris suddenly realised he was not the only one at the table who had noticed how much the wine resembled blood.

Anders swallowed convulsively, and for a horrible moment fenris thought the mage was about to blurt out just what Fenris had done to him. Fenris held his breath, a nameless chill of dread running through him; but the mage lowered his gaze, shoulders slumping slightly as he reached for his cup of water.

“You alright there, Blondie?” asked Varric in a tone of kind concern. Anders gave him a small, wan smile.

“Sorry, I’m not really very good company tonight,” he shrugged.

“You look worse than usual, Anders,” exclaimed Merrill before she suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth then began apologising. “Not that I’m saying you usually look bad or anything! Just very tired! Are you not sleeping very well?”

“Merrill, I never sleep well,” Anders replied tiredly. “Part of that whole Grey Warden thing? Dashing uniform, lousy dreams. I don’t wear the uniform any more but the dreams are... not exactly optional.”

“You didn’t spend all day working in your clinic did you?” said Hawke with a frown. “Fenris says you were still asleep when he left this morning.”

Which wasn’t true, but then nor was what Fenris had actually said either; he opted to remain silent and instead keep his eyes on his glass of wine, even as he was keenly aware of Anders’ sharp glance.

“Did he now?” said Anders quietly. “I was aware of him leaving - it’s true I passed out again shortly afterwards though.”

Fenris felt a sharp, unfamiliar pang at the mage’s words; a stab of guilt that he had left the man in that state. And yet, Anders had ordered him to leave.

“No, I left the clinic closed today,” Anders was saying to Hawke. “I needed to take stock of what herbs I’m running low on. Speaking of which, were you planning on taking a trip out to the Wounded Coast any time soon?”

“Yes, as it happens, I was - Aveline tells me there’s been increased bandit activity up near the old slaver caverns and she asked me to check it out,” replied Hawke as Norah entered with a tray of mugs and a bowl of stew for Anders, who turned to Varric with a half-hearted glare before relenting and nodding his thanks.

Hawke waited until everyone had grabbed their drinks and Anders had had a mouthful of stew before going on. “The guard are overstretched as it is, and whilst the caverns are technically in the patrol area, she just doesn’t have the men to cover them right now. So, if you were wanting a chance to get out and gather herbs, I wouldn’t say no to having my favourite healer along as well.”

“Hawke, I’m your only healer,” Anders pointed out between mouthfuls.

“Then that settles it - I’m not going out to the Wounded Coast without my only healer - so you’re coming with us, Anders!” replied Hawke with a grin. Anders gave him a tired smile in return.

“Who’s ‘us’?” he asked as he turned back to the bowl of hot stew.

“You, me, Varric, Isabela - and Fenris,” answered Hawke.

Fenris didn’t need to look up to know that Anders was staring at him again.

This was shaping up to be an interesting excursion - and for all the wrong reasons....

[arkadianpen]

Somnia In Sanguinem - 1

Ch 1 / Ch 2 / Ch 3

The Beast

Anders jerked awake with a low cry as the pounding of fists on the doors of the clinic startled him from a nightmare. He sat up, chest still heaving as he panted, his body sheened with sweat as he ran a trembling hand through his dishevelled hair, trying to distinguish between what was real and what was merely the last vestiges of his dreams. Then a frantic redoubling of the pounding on the doors had him lurching to his feet, one hand reaching for his staff.

His mind was racing as he hurried to unbar the doors. The fists hammering from the other side were not wearing metal gauntlets; that plus the fact that whoever it was, they were hoarsely calling his name, meant it was unlikely to be templars then. The Darktown residents would not use his name either; to them he was merely “the Healer”. Which left only....

“Hawke!” he exclaimed as he threw the doors open to reveal Hawke and Isabela looking serious and worried, Varric and Merrill lingering behind. But his eyes went immediately to the bloodied form of Fenris between the two rogues, the elf’s arms slung limply across their shoulders as Hawke and Isabela held him upright.

“Get him inside,” he urged them tersely. He nodded to Varric as the dwarf paused just inside the door to help him bar it once more. “What happened?”

“Dragon in the Bone Pit,” answered Varric. “The elf took a claw to the chest that was meant for Hawke - tossed him like a bundle of rags. We brought him straight here.”

Anders nodded as he hurried to grab towels, bandages, a bowl of water; he set them on a small table which he dragged over next to the examining table where Hawke and Isabela had laid out the unconscious elf. Someone had already removed Fenris’ breastplate and gauntlets; Merrill hovered to one side, clutching them in her arms as she stared with large eyes.

Anders ignored her as he gestured to the water, heating it with a casual flick of his wrist before taking a cloth and beginning to sponge away blood from Fenris’ skin so he could see the wound more clearly.

“Maker, Anders, you look rough,” said Hawke as he finally took in Anders’ dishevelled hair and the sweat still beading his skin. “Bad night?”

“No worse than usual,” Anders replied tersely. “Now hush. I need to concentrate.” He dropped the cloth back into the hot water then laid his hands either side of the terrible wound and sank his senses down into Fenris’ body as his eyes closed. He was glad the prickly elf was unconscious; the last thing he needed was an argument over his using magic whilst he patched the ungrateful wretch back together yet again - and then he immediately felt a sense of guilty remorse as he inwardly chastised himself for such unworthy thoughts. The elf was gravely hurt and needed his skills; this was no time to dwell on petty irritations.

He wasn’t sure if the thoughts came from himself or Justice; it was getting harder and harder to tell, these days. He shrugged off that disquieting thought and turned his attention to Fenris’ wounds.

Healing Fenris always felt different to healing the others. It wasn’t just his elf nature; there was something about Fenris that was different even from Merrill or any other elf he’d ever healed. The lyrium, he supposed, or perhaps something lingering from whatever it was Fenris’ former master had done to him to ensure the elf’s survival. Whatever the reason, it was always as though something in Fenris’ body were drawing his magic in, almost inexorably draining him far more than it ever did to heal the others, even as it seemed to respond to his healing far faster than, say, Hawke’s body did. Something in Anders - Justice, perhaps - felt drawn to the alluring call of the lyrium even as it drained away Anders’ mana like water.

The dragon’s claws had raked across Fenris’ chest; the gashes were ragged but shallow, for the most part, but one claw had pierced through to Fenris’ lung, puncturing it, and three ribs on that side were cracked. Anders had his work cut out for him as he tuned out the worried murmurs of his friends. Someone pushed the cool glass of a vial into one of his hands; he had no idea who, but he caught the scent of lyrium and knocked it back gratefully. He’d need the extra rush of mana; the scant sleep he’d gotten hadn’t fully replenished his own natural store after a long day’s healing.

He lost track of time as he worked to stem the bleeding and patch the hole in Fenris’ lung from within, repairing broken blood vessels, steadily working from inside outwards, realigning chipped and broken bone, then weaving back together torn muscles and finally skin. He could feel the lyrium lines repairing themselves to flow unbroken through branded flesh once more; it was an unnerving feeling, to touch something so unnatural.

He could feel the last of his magic drain away as he opened his eyes and staggered; Hawke’s warm, strong hands - one splayed against his back, the other bracing his shoulder - checking his fall.

“Anders?”

“‘M alright,” Anders managed to slur as he leaned forward to brace himself against the edge of the examining table for a moment until the ringing in his ears faded and his vision cleared. “I’m alright,” he repeated, stronger, as he straightened.

“Blondie?” Varric was watching him with a worried expression, and Anders managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he ran a hand through his hair, unheeding of the smear of blood it left along the tousled blond locks.

“Just tired. It’s been a long day, and healing like this always takes it out of me.” He glanced down at Fenris, who was still unconscious. “He’ll be fine; he’ll sleep for hours now. Leave him here with me; he should be back to his normal mage-hating self in no time. I just want to keep an eye on him until I’m sure he’s OK to make it back to Hightown and that miserable heap of a mansion he calls home in one piece.”

“Are you sure?” asked Hawke. Anders nodded.

“Go on; he’ll be fine.”

“It’s you I’m worried about, Anders,” replied Hawke, still frowning. Anders chuckled tiredly.

“I’ll be fine too,” he shrugged. “I just need to clean up here, bandage him to make sure he doesn’t do any more damage to himself whilst his body finishes restoring itself, and then I’ll leave him to sleep it off whilst I do likewise.”

“As long as you’re sure....”

“Go, Hawke,” he smiled as he straightened and reached for the wet cloth to sluice Fenris’ blood from his hands before he walked them to the door to let them out.

“Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man tonight, Blondie?” asked Varric as they filed out.

“Assuming I don’t have any last-minute emergencies,” nodded Anders. He nodded to Hawke in farewell, then closed and barred the door behind them.

He turned and leaned against the rough wood with a sigh as he closed his eyes. The sound of a low groan had him straightening and pushing himself away from the door as his eyes snapped open. Fenris was sitting up and turning his head towards Anders.

“Fenris - Maker, you shouldn’t be sitting up yet!” Anders exclaimed as he hurried back to the elf’s side. Fenris was staring at him strangely, his emerald eyes dark and glittering. Anders halted just beyond arm’s reach of the other man, returning the elf’s stare uncertainly.

“Fenris? You're in my clinic,” Anders said slowly. “Do you remember what happened to you? The dragon in the Bone Pit?”

Fenris uttered a low growl as he swung his legs down from the table. Anders’ eyes widened as he raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “Fenris - you shouldn't be up yet!” he said in alarm. “Look - I know you despise me, but for once just - just stop being stubborn and listen to me - do you honestly think I'd harm you after I've gone to all the trouble of healing you?” He couldn't help the note of annoyance that crept into his voice.

Fenris was still staring at him with that strange look, a feral, hungry light in his eyes as he took a step towards Anders, the mage slowly backing away.

“Fenris?” said Anders uncertainly.

The elf lunged, and Anders cried out as Fenris bore him swiftly to the ground, his arms pinned to his sides as the elf snarled. “Fenris, stop!” cried Anders as he wriggled and thrashed, trying to free himself. He froze as Fenris bared long, sharp fangs, and his eyes widened. “What are you??” he gasped.

Fenris remained silent as he shifted slightly. Anders could only stare helplessly up at Fenris as the elf stroked his cheek slowly with one hand, then slid his fingers into Anders’ hair. Then abruptly he tightened his fingers and Anders’ head was yanked painfully to one side.

He screamed as Fenris bent his head and sank those gleaming fangs into the side of his neck. He began to struggle, kicking out his legs as he tried to buck Fenris off him; but the warrior was too strong, the weight of his body pinning Anders to the ground as he began to suck at the blood welling up from the wound. The blond apostate thrashed and struggled wildly, but to no avail; he desperately tried to reach for his magic, but there was nothing left inside - he’d expended it all upon healing Fenris. He was utterly defenseless.

“Fenris, stop!” he pleaded as he felt himself growing light-headed from loss of blood; how much had the elf taken from him?. His struggles were weakening. “Stop,” he repeated desperately; but if Fenris heard him, he said nothing - only continuing to suck greedily at Anders’ throat.

“Please,” Anders whispered, fighting to remain conscious. “I - I can't....” He felt a deep weariness creep over him, sapping the strength from his limbs as his life slowly ebbed away, drained; he struggled to keep his eyes open as Fenris lifted his head and stared down at him. As Anders lay there, dizzy and weak, a look of horror crossed Fenris’ face.

Anders closed his eyes, weary. As consciousness fled, he heard Fenris’ voice distantly.

“Venhedis! What have I done?”

Anders knew no more.

***

Fenris stared in horror down at Anders as the mage’s eyes fluttered closed and Anders went limp beneath him, face white. Hurriedly, Fenris sat up,then gently shook Anders. “Mage? Mage, wake up!” he demanded, but there was no response. Anders was unconscious, his head rolling limply to the side. There was blood on the side of his neck, and Fenris could taste it upon his lips even as the fog of hunger slowly cleared from his mind.

He hastily shifted his weight off Anders’ still form and moved to the side then lifted the unconscious man in his arms, feeling deep remorse and shame as he stared down at the mage. Anders was too light, too thin and pale in his arms, clad only in a worn and faded pair of pants, his hair tumbling loose and dishevelled about his face, his breathing shallow and weak. Fenris pressed a finger to the pulse point in Anders’ throat and felt the weak flutter. As the elf lifted his head and glanced around himself at the clinic, he realised what must have happened.

Hawke and the others evidently had brought him here to Anders for healing, disturbing the mage from his sleep. Fenris’ blood loss must then have awakened his unnatural hunger and clouded his mind once he had been healed enough for his body’s own preternaturally-fast healing to kick in, restoring consciousness only to a feral, half-aware state; he had only a vague memory of lunging at the apostate and pinning him to the floor. It was only too clear to Fenris what must have happened next.

Anders had healed him, and paid the price of Fenris’ bestial nature.

Fenris groaned. Though he had never gotten on with Anders - the abomination unnerving him and annoying him in equal measure - he had never harboured a true hatred of the man. Indeed, he had come to form a grudging respect for the apostate over the past few years he’d known him and fought alongside him as Hawke’s companions on multiple occasions. Despite his being possessed, Anders had rarely given in to his demon and had never struck out at Fenris or the others; and despite the antipathy between them he had never hesitated to offer Fenris healing. He knew the mage worked tirelessly in his clinic to heal all who needed it, often to the point of exhaustion - and Fenris had repaid that care by attacking him.

How much had he taken? He had no idea. He still felt a faint, gnawing hunger inside, but as he stared down at Anders he could only hope and pray that blood loss would not prove fatal to the man.

What to do? Fenris had no idea. He knew little of healing. Would a healing potion work? He felt helpless and full of remorse as he got to his feet, Anders’ limp form cradled in his arms. He laid him down gently upon a nearby cot, straightening the unconscious man’s limbs before he turned to cast about the clinic desperately.

He spotted a set of shelves over by a bench - Anders’ work area, he guessed. The shelves were filled with bundles of herbs, jars of powders and reagents - and various potion bottles. He hurried over and began to hunt through the bottles for a healing potion.

He couldn't read the labels properly, but he found a couple of potions that looked the right colour. Uncorking one, he cautiously sniffed. The scent of elfroot filled his nose.

Hoping and praying he'd found the right potion, he hurried back to Anders’ side. Prising the mage’s lips open, he set the rim of the flask against them and tipped the bottle just enough to trickle a little of the dark red potion into Anders’ mouth.

Anders coughed as the thick, almost syrupy liquid hit the back of his throat, then swallowed convulsively. Heartened, Fenris sat down on the edge of the cot and slipped an arm around Anders’ shoulders, lifting him slightly before carefully trickling a little more of the potion into the insensate mage’s mouth. Anders swallowed it, then gave a small, soft moan, his eyelids fluttering slightly. Fenris held his breath and watched intently, but Anders only gave a small sigh, his eyes closing once more.

Slowly, Fenris fed the potion to Anders, a small sip at a time, until it was gone. Then he carefully lay Anders back down again before sitting back and glancing around, at a loss for what to do next. There was more colour in Anders’ face now, for which Fenris was grateful - but he had no idea what else he could do for the man now. He could only let the potion and sleep do the rest, and hope it would be enough.

He clenched his fist in anger. He had kept his true nature hidden and concealed from everyone for so long, and now in a moment of weakness he had lost control and hurt the mage.Guilt gnawed at him - along with a deep anger and revulsion with himself. What was he to do? Anders now knew what he was, though in his current state he was in no position to go telling anyone else. Would he even remember what had happened to him when he awakened, whenever that might be? His secret was safe for now, but would it remain that way? He had no idea.

He couldn’t leave Anders in this vulnerable state. Fenris would have to stay with him until he awakened, and then try to explain himself. He could only hope Anders would listen.