Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Act I - Old Wounds

Any resident of the undercity knows well the horrors that plague the sewer streets.

Kirkwall, the city of chains, would be better named the city of stairways, and her people know this well; the higher that one climbs the city’s steps, the happier one may live, but the lower one stumbles… In Lowtown, citizens strive for nobility, for success, or, at the very least, for coin enough to feed and clothe their loved ones. They reach for those higher places where the sun shines more brightly and the stench of the sea is wafted away by clear winds.

But not the people in Darktown.

Any resident of the undercity knows well the horrors of the sewer streets, but that does not mean they know them all.

Secrets to curdle the blood are sold at low prices that many Darktown residents fear to hear. If the Coterie speak dark, hidden truths, then it is better to keep one’s head down; to hear the Coterie’s secrets means to become one, and in Darktown, survival is all.

Dead litter the streets, and though few men know their stories, they do not need to. Another sorry fool is dead in the sewers, whether by Coterie blade or Tevinter slaver or young mugger. That’s all anyone needs to know. To discover the dark plots of the undercity is to become a pawn in one, and in Darktown, survival is all.

The closest thing to light that has ever touched the lowest steps is the glowing lantern of the Grey Warden’s clinic. Darktown residents know this place means survival. No horrors linger here, as far as they can tell; a man brings his horrors to Anders so they may be healed, touched by the rare light of dawn.

Any resident of the undercity can tell you that, and now, too, can a resident of Hightown.

Right now, below the city of stairways, Fenris is flying high.

His skin is sore and he feels raw, right down to his bones, like he’s been turned inside out and back again. But, no - that isn’t quite right. Looking down at the flush-lined white scars swirling around his arms, his legs, his abdomen, he thinks, I have been turned outside-right again. He has been made what he was meant to be, what he was before Danarius soiled him. He is finally natural, no longer a man-made monster. He is no longer the lyrium ghost.

He is himself.

He is free.

His body aches in a way so different than it used to. The fire that used to touch his skin, Prophet’s burning fingers upon him, is no longer there, left instead by a feeling that pulls like a scab and aches like a bruise. The abomination says it will heal in time and that soon he will feel no pain at all.

He will finally be normal. Closer to the man he used to be before magic ruined him.

Fenris doesn’t know what that is like. He can hardly even imagine it. He has been this thing for so long,  this animal built and sewn together like some monster of myth. This pain has defined him. This pain has made him who he is, whether he consented to become that person or not.

When the pain is gone, what will be left of him?

This entire ordeal sounds like a dream; terrifying and yet too good to be true. It has since the first moment he willed it to be true. It feels so even know, looking down at his marred-yet-unmarred flesh.

As he always has and always will, he awaits the inevitable. The world as he’s come to know it will fall around his ears and shackle him again to the cruel truth. He knows this. Danarius will take ship to Seheron once more, as he did in life. He will return for his property.

Slouching heavily on the most comfortable cot in the clinic, his body and mind exhausted, feeling stranger than he ever has, thinking I will never be free - that is when the abomination comes to him.

“So!”

The abomination claps his wash-damp hands together, startling Fenris with his entrance, and then startling him more with his continued presence. He is grinning like a child’s drawing of a mabari, face wide with joy and teeth seemingly ready to bite. Fenris’ heart stills and then leaps with familiar fear.

“Good news, Fenris. Well, for me. You see, I have discovered something very interesting - very interesting! - and I think you will be absolutely delighted to hear it.”

Fenris has never seen the mage in such good spirits, even during their latest nights at the Hanged Man. It is… alarming, and that is the least of it. The hairs on the back of his neck raise and he stares, eyes burning holes through Anders’ grinning face, wishing desperately he was not too sore for a jerkin or tunic to cover his exposed (vulnerable) chest. His lips hurt when he opens them to speak, the muscles of his throat and chin protesting painfully. That is fine enough; he doesn’t know what he would even say. He waits instead for the abomination to continue.

Anders understands. Instead of waiting, he sighs dismissively, almost dreamily. Fenris can almost imagine Anders making the same noise in his youth over another Circle mage, thinking forlornly of a love that could never be. If for vindictive reasons alone, he may find it almost laughable, if not for the cold fear gripping his blood. Fenris knows the sound should not be applicable here, no matter what the situation, no matter what the terrible news.

“Oh, Fenris, you’re not going to believe this. This news is almost too good. I may check again, just to be certain. After all, nothing this good could ever happen to me.”

Fenris feels a cold sweat break through his skin, his fear finally turning physical. Only mere moments ago, he was thinking the same thing; I could never be free . Now, he thinks, if there is a Maker at all, then the Maker is proving him right.

Anders reaches forward as if to grab him then and Fenris cannot even jerk away from the touch for the ache in his flesh. Luckily, the mage doesn’t touch him, only holds his hand two inches from Fenris’ naval, steady fingers spread wide. “I’m going to check again to be sure. This will only take a moment.”

There’s an odd tickle as magic courses through Anders and thus through Fenris - a strange and familiar touch behind his gut, seemingly physical but not quite. It doesn’t hurt like magic used to, at least not physically, which is another incredible shock. The markings are truly lyrium-free. The markings are gone. The agony is gone.

There’s no time to celebrate.

Anders laughs joyously, amusement coloring the sound so thickly that Fenris shivers at the implication of it. The mage’s eyebrows pull together, high in the middle, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile. The smile, however, doesn’t seem to touch his eyes. The mage’s pupils are small, hysterical, like an animal.

“Oh, Fenris, congratulations! You-” He stops to wipe away tears of happiness. “You are a mage, you blighted bastard!”

And then the abomination is walking away, snorting with laughter that shakes his feathered pauldrons, still wiping at his eyes.

Fenris feels cold.

When he speaks, it pulls at the scars under his lip painfully. “That is a cruel joke.” His voice is rough, the scars on his throat burning as his adam’s apple shakes them. It gives him a fright - for a panicked moment, he fears a demon is speaking through him.

Anders is still laughing. Fenris can’t sense any lie in his tone when the abomination shouts back, the way Varric shouts delightedly to a playful Isabela, “I’m not joking! Here, give your hand over and I’ll show you.”

The pain is blistering when Fenris moves his arm, but he obeys - you always obey. He opens his palm for Anders to see, and luckily, Anders is gentle when he puts his own hand under Fenris’, both palms facing up to the clinic’s decrepit ceiling.

“Alright,” says Anders. “Now, could you feel that odd pull when I checked your abdomen?”

The place behind his naval. Fenris whispers, “Yes.”

“I want you to focus on that spot very hard and then very gently… try to tug that feeling up through your chest, down your arm, and into the palm of your hand.”

Fenris does so, even as it frightens him that Anders knows how. That is how Fenris would activate the lyrium brands. What the abomination says is a magister’s will, a magister’s instructions. This is how Danarius taught him how to control them.

When he tugs, the scars that mark the brands old paths do not glow. The feeling persists despite this, unfamiliar in the way it travels through him, like an often-made trek taken in reverse for the first time. The pull remains in his gut, but a strange, cold snake of sensation travels up through his chest, down through his arm, and into his-

Frost covers his palm. Like a sickly spider’s web, it stretches across his skin to overtake his hand and wrist. It moves like the tainted rot of the blight.

It is anathema.

Fenris jumps away, his leg bumping the cot backwards as he throws himself to his feet, his entire body flaring in unfamiliarly familiar pain. As if reacting to his fear, the frost in his hand jumps too, and a cone of ice is shot from his palm to fly past the abomination and shatter against the far wall.

Shards of ice scatter across the floor, before going still. There they remain, accursed, unnatural, and very, very real.

Fenris’ insides are frozen. Frigid. He shakes and sweats and is faint from the pain and the shock. He has performed magic.

The world grows suddenly, blessedly, dark.

-

When he wakes, the mage is leaning over him, red-gold hair falling around his face. The thing has the gall to look apologetic. His brown eyes stare down at Fenris, deceitfully warm and worried.

Abomination. Behind those eyes lies a demon.

“I suppose I should have waited until you were a bit more well-rested before dropping something like that on you.” The abomination averts its eyes. “It… It seemed funny. At the time.”

Fenris doesn’t speak. He glares as best he can, although the mage’s visage occasionally swims oddly, his vision blurring around the edges. His head feels light. He feels like he’s floating and yet he is as heavy as a stone.

In his mind, the ice he summoned grows and grows, contagion, until it melts, flooding the clinic. Movement feels slow and sound travels strangely. This is the sea.

He is in Seheron, drowning on the shore, bathed in blood.

“You need more rest.”

The world shakes and shivers. The clinic is on stilts and the wind howls through like ill-kept wolves.

“You overexerted your mana, not to mention your body. It’s really best not to move so quickly after a surgery, so try not to do that anymore. I’d give you a lyrium potion to help your mana, but I’m not sure that’s wise either until the brands heal completely.”

Fenris will never take a lyrium potion. Mages take lyrium. Templars take lyrium.

Fenris is neither. Fenris is a warrior and that is all he is. He’s a bodyguard and a pet and a pretty thing to entice and intimidate party guests.

He is a mage.

He still doesn’t speak. His lips cannot move, and he doesn’t remember he must move them to communicate.

He glares at the abomination. He wonders, briefly, if the demon glares back at him from behind the healer’s face, but no blue glow shines in those sad, amber eyes. Only pity.

“Would you like some water, Fenris?”

Fenris would very much like some water.

“I’ll be right back. Just sit tight - no more getting up!”

Before the healer’s footsteps even begin to sound through the clinic, Fenris’ eyes slide closed. By the time the footsteps begin to fade, he is asleep.

-

It’s days before Fenris is well enough to speak, and when he does, he yells.

“I am no mage!” His thoughts fill with Danarius’ cold eyes and warm smile. He remembers Varania - his sister, that foul affliction touches even his blood - a foolish girl believing herself a magister’s apprentice. Elves are not magisters. They are incaensor. They are slaves. “Magic has ruined everything it has ever touched.”

For what it’s worth, the abomination yells back, no longer laughing and eyes no longer full of false care. “Are you serious? This is what you bloody get! All this hatred in you - all of this ugly, rancid hate - and now you are the one thing you hate the most. This will teach you. You deserve this, unlike the rest of us.”

No. No. Danarius holds the whip, a rare occurrence. He is in the clinic. Darktown. He is in Tevinter.

The markings ache, although he feels no pain.

“No,” he growls. Danarius is dead. The whip hits his back, again, again, again, again,

The abomination stands before him, the growl escaping him rivaling Fenris’ own. “Yes! You are a mage, Fenris! You know what this means?” His face turns feral, and he grins like a hissing cat. “You are an apostate.” He laughs again, a shrill sound. “You always have been, for as long as I’ve known you, and no one had any idea!”

Maleficarum, thinks Fenris. Danarius killed that little boy and so have I.

He could kill Anders right now. Freeze him and cut his body to icey chunks. Set him aflame and watch him burn, hear him scream as the stench filled this healing sanctum and stuck to its walls. He could cut the abomination’s flesh and control the blood streaming out of him to gain his power. He could own Anders, body and mind.

Fenris doesn’t remember ever crying before. Crying was never permitted. Master so hates the mess.

The whip hits his back again, again, again

That little boy takes his last breath with Danarius’ knife in his throat. He only gurgles. He can no longer scream.

Anders grows very still. “Shit.” He says. “Shit, Fenris-”

The mage doesn’t look so feral now. He looks as afraid as Fenris feels, as afraid as that little slave boy looked as Danarius bled him, shaking all the way to his tiny pointed ears. Even as his vision still shakes, now blurred by his own wet tears, blinked away rapidly, he sees the odd expression on Anders’ face. Fenris doesn’t know the line between compassion and pity, but it can be seen before him plainly.

“You… You look like-” Fenris struggles to breathe. “Oh, Fenris. I know it’s frightening.”

“No,” It leaves his throat like he is choking on gravel. Maleficar. Abomination. Apostate. “You do not.”

“I do, Fenris. When my magic manifested, I-”

“You have not even begun to see what magic can do.” Fenris dry-heaves, chokes on ragged sobs. He cannot breathe. He is in Darktown. He is in Tevinter. He is in Seheron, the salt of the sea on his tongue, blood staining his sword.

Why would you betray us? The little elven boy screams as Danarius steals his life.

“You do not- You can not-”

Fenris vomits. His markings ache. He feels no pain.

“Shh, hush now, hush. It’s alright.” The abomination touches him. He recoils, but the hands don’t leave his flesh. They never leave his flesh. “Breathe, Fenris, breathe. Can you breathe with me?”

Fenris can only sob.

He thinks of the Templars he has spoken to - he thinks of the blood mages he has hunted and killed for them and the laughter he shared with them when he came to collect his coin. He can never step foot in the gallows again.

I am not a mage . They would laugh. They would clap him in irons. He is incaensor . He is Varania. He is an abomination.

Who was Leto? Incaensor. Bas-Saarebas, led on a leash like a Qunari mage by a magister who found it funny. Danarius knew - Danarius knew.

He heaves, but his stomach is empty. Nothing leaves him. He is empty. Terrified.

The place behind his naval tugs again, and he heaves. It is too warm, suddenly. Burning, burning. He screams.

The healer puts out the flames with practiced ease, snuffing it with a wave of his hand, barely even sparing it a glance.

“Fenris, please.” His voice is soothing, but can barely be heard over Fenris’ own screaming. No more, dominus. No more, please. “Please, Fenris.”

Danarius never begged him anything. Fenris’ nails dig hard into Anders’ wrists. He didn’t realize he was holding them.

“In for 8. Just breathe in and hold it. I'll tell you when you can exhale. Alright?”

Fenris follows his orders. He doesn’t know what else to do.

-

When he comes to the third time, he won’t meet the abomination’s eyes. He stares down at the burnt cot in disgust and dismay. He feels unclean.

“I’m sorry, Fenris.”

Fenris doesn’t reply. What is there to say? He is an abomination. They both are. They are unnatural. They are incaensor. The Maker has cursed him, and like Danarius, He laughs a cold, empty laugh, knowing He is in complete control of his pretty, elven puppet; His Saarebas on a leash, his magic removed with a fancy lyrium collar.

His whole body is shaking.

“Shh,” the abomination soothes again. Slowly, Fenris turns his glare to him, lip curling in a slow-burning anger. He shakes. The world shakes. Everything is wrong. “It’s going to be alright. I swear to you.”

The anger reaches a boil, and like the whistle of a kettle, his voice leaves him in a rage-filled hiss, “Oh? This no longer funny to you, caenis?”

Anders swallows and averts his eyes. “It’s-” His face falls. He looks like a man ruined. “No, Fenris. It isn’t.”

But Fenris knows that in His ruined, golden city, the Maker laughs.

Chapter Text

Sister Dear Va

To Varania

I apologise in advanse for any lapses in my gramar. My letters before this were writen to you by my frend Varric. I have bin learning to write for some time now and Im ready to take the pen to paper myself. I refraned from saying so in my previus letters because I was embarassed but I no longer want to be. I hope this is legible enouf for you to read.

I admit I was very exsited to hear from you. Despite my lack of memorie I still feel fond of you in a way that feels familiar. I often find myself smiling upon reseeving your letters even if the day was long. It looks like your doing very well for yourself as a tailor. Im very happy to hear that. Hawke often tells me I aught to get new clothes sinse mine are supposedly unfashionable. I find Im often to tall for elf clothing and to short for human clothing. Perhaps one day I can pay you for a new set of clothing.

The reason Im writing this myself is not because I have stopped being embarassed about my lack of skill but because Varric isnt around to write for me. Im replying imediately myself so that 

In your last letter you seemed interested in visiting Kirkwall. I grew very exsited upon reading that. Would you truly wish to see me? We havent bin writing very long and the trip will be exspensive. I hardly beleve myself worthy the journy but I must admit Id like to see you. I don't know your budjet but I am happy to help fund the trip if you were serius. We could meet in

Fenris crumpled the letter and began anew.

-

It was the moment Danarius hit the ground that he made the decision. Feeling his master’s blood run down his arms, smelling the red-hot gore of slaver flesh that would fill the Hanged Man with a terrible stench for days, the epiphany came, striking him like lightning.

Fenris knew he had to be rid of these awful markings.

Danarius’ heart gave its few last pitiful pumps in his closed fist. When it stilled, Fenris dropped it to the ground like a used tissue, watching as it rolled away, leaving a small trail of blood in its wake. This is what these brands were for, and this alone - killing Danarius and watching his worthless heart roll to a haultering stop.

The job was done. His master was dead.

Now, all he needed to truly be free was lose the brands marring his skin. A man living in chains will be a slave all his life, no matter how free he feels or how far he runs. Here, surrounded by Tevinter blood, Danarius dead at his feet, Fenris does not feel free.

He wants to feel free.

He turns to Varania, sees her face contorted with fear and hope and fear. Like the dog he was trained to be, the lyrium wolf, he snarls at her. An animal. A beast created from flesh and magic stone.

The way she shakes in fear, cowering against the wall… He wouldn’t be surprised to smell piss. Stronger foes have wet themselves when coming face-to-face with his fury.

Hawke tells him not to kill her. Varric agrees. They stare at him with such sad eyes. They look half as fearful as Varania does and the sight of it makes him ill.

He lets her go.

Again, Varania cannot simply accept that she has been spared. Like so many years before, she looks back just to spite him. Just to spit in his face.

Varania tells him these brands were a boon. In her eyes, Danarius’ constant abuses and manipulations were a gift to be treasured and freedom was not.

She says Mother like it’s someone he's meant to know.

Fury grips his heart, agonizing, like his own fist has been plunged into his chest - like Varania has her own lyrium brands, ones she would beg for even after Fenris gave up every piece of what he’d ever been to free her. He thought he would never hate anyone as much as he hated Danarius. For one brief, startling moment, the world feels white-hot, and he hates her more. He hates her.

Fenris has no family. This was all a lie.

Fighting. Killing. Being used. Being destroyed and built again as a monster.

It was all a lie.

He suffered for nothing. He suffers now, pointlessly.

When she leaves, running from this place where Fenris has taken refuge with the few friends he has kept - tainted bitch magic has tainted me ruined this place it has ruined me every stone in this haunted city tainted with blood and magic and - it takes everything he has not to run after her and slowly tear her apart.

His markings hurt to touch. His skin is in constant pain, whether it is a dull ache or a blistering agony, and they are her fault. He received these markings for her.

His mother is dead and he does not know her. Varania didn't share her name.

When night falls, he struggles to sleep. Danarius, dead, bleeding, wide-eyed, rotting, haunts his eyelids, haunts his flesh. His dreams are half memory and half tormented fantasy.

The next day, he travels to Darktown.

-

At first, the abomination appears hesitant. He doesn’t understand why Fenris needs this. He can’t understand. For all he moans about the injustice of the templars’ actions, no mage has ever been as beaten, as broken, as collared and kept and ruined, as Fenris. Not even the cruelest thing a templar has ever done could hold a candle to what a magister does on his best day.

That demon, too, inside him (the thing that claims to be the embodiment of justice), cannot comprehend the differences, and so blinds the abomination to all things that suggest they may be wrong.

Perhaps the closest thing to slavery Anders has ever faced is the thing that demon does to his mind. Fenris finds it hard to pity an abomination, but harder not to.

Still, the healer is kind, possessed or not. He has enough control over the demon to keep it from harming Fenris, and he’s not going to say no to performing the operation. Fenris would not have asked if there was a chance the healer would refuse.

“Alright, fine,” Anders finally relents after far more time passes than Fenris has ever wanted to spend in Darktown. The entire undercity reeks, not just in way of scent, but in way of despair. Destitution is everywhere. The streets here are cruel to the people on them and because of them. “I’ll try to find a way to remove them. I’m still surprised you came to me, but I suppose when I’m your only real choice, there’s little else to be done.”

Fenris shrugs. He could have used Varric’s connections to find another healer, or asked Hawke to use their Champion influence to find someone skilled and trust-worthy. That all seems pointless, however, when one of the best healers in Ferelden is here in Kirkwall, and Fenris already knows him.

“You are a talented healer, regardless of our past or present disagreements. Although the operation will be painful, I know you will not cause me any undue harm.”

If Fenris were a templar, that would be another story entirely. But he is not - he is the lyrium ghost of Tevinter and he is tired of being bound to his pain. He will be free.

No matter the cost.

The mage’s eyes flutter in surprise, stubbled jaw falling slack. “Oh,” His mouth remains round for longer than necessary, his eyes still blinking. “Well, of course not. You may be a git, but you’re Hawke’s friend.” He pauses. “And it wouldn’t be nearly as fun playing Wicked Grace without watching you lose.”

Fenris allows a small quirk of his lips, although the mindset he’s fallen into makes it difficult to feel amused. “Varric cheats,” he says.

“So does Isabela,” Anders shoots back with ease. “What’s your point?”

Something in Fenris relaxes, and he uncrosses his arms, letting them fall to his sides uselessly. Anders is not his friend, but he has long since come to be a familiar face. They are shield brothers, if little else, with many mutual interests even if those interests are not very well-shared. Anders cannot be trusted in all things, Fenris knows, but he can be trusted in this.

“I-” All the breath leaves Fenris at once. He feels as though someone has sat on his chest. Without thinking, he drops his eyes to the ground, feeling forlorn and vulnerable. “I’d like them to be removed as quickly as possible. If given time, I can provide you with coin-”

The healer clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “This is a free clinic.”

Fenris looks up at the healer through his white fringe, surprised. “...I’m sorry?”

“I said, this is a free clinic. I’m not going to demand you pay me, especially not for something this important.” He seems so sincere, but Fenris supposes he always does.

That’s the sort of man he is, who he has been since Fenris met him. His beliefs become all he is, his emotions overtake his very being. How much of that is Anders and how much of that is the demon, Fenris does not know, and does not particularly care to learn.

For now, he feels… grateful. “Thank you.” It comes out quiet, a murmur that sounds almost petulant, but if he spoke even an octave louder than that then his voice may break.

Anders stares back at him with eyes that are wide and kind, almost compassionate. A healer’s eyes, not a dangerous apostate’s. Not an abomination’s .

I understand, he seems to say.

“No need to thank me,” he says aloud.

Fenris knows he cannot understand, that he never truly could. For the moment, however, he allows himself the fleeting thought that Anders understands as much as he can.

He doesn’t know how to respond, so he instead gives Anders a small, rare smile, and bids him goodnight.

-

Days pass.

Fenris does not hear from Varania. He does not track her down.

His friends force him out of the mansion. They play at Hawke’s estate instead of the Hanged Man. He loses more money to Varric. He lets himself drink.

The healer approaches him after. He tells him he may know how to do it - remove the lyrium without killing him. “The markings will remain,” he says. “Scars, at least, though I may be able to heal those, too, given time, depending, you know. But you will no longer have the lyrium abilities.” Fenris is too drunk to properly respond.

The next morning, Fenris is at the clinic before the lantern has even been lit. His head aches. His throat burns. His stomach churns. Soon, he will be free. For now, he is hungover.

When Anders opens the door, looking equally disheveled, Fenris says do it.

“Today?”

“Today.”

Anders blinks at him in worry, but invites him in without lighting the lantern.

“Today, then.” He says. “Let me get Lirene.”

-

The operation is not agonizing.

There is no carving of his flesh.

Lirene gives him water in the few instances where he wakes. His entire body is numb, but she helps him to swallow. Her hands are cool and gentle, occasionally carding through the hair on his scalp like a gentle reminder of you are alive.

No molten lyrium is poured into the bleeding divets left behind by ritual daggers.

Before the operation, Anders shows him a few of the tools he would use - thin, sharp pieces of metal, things Fenris recognizes as regular surgery tools, plus one he knows to be used for runecrafting. Anders names each tool, telling him what they are for as well as how they would be used, all in a kind and even voice. Well into the operation, Fenris wonders when Anders will begin to use them, unknowing that he already long since had.

There is no cruel laughter, no amused and violent chatter between Danarius and his Dwarven associates as they clamour about their tormented creation.

He drifts in and out of focus, sometimes hearing Anders absent-mindedly singing bits of the Chant. It’s different than the way Sebastian sings it. Sometimes, Lirene joins in, or they aren’t singing at all, instead speaking together in low tones as Anders guides his associate through difficult parts of the operation.

For both the creation and the removal of his lyrium brands, Fenris lay nude.

Danarius bound him to the work table, chaining him splayed open and flipping him painfully when the other side needed completing. He remembers every agonizing moment, sees these first memories in his dreams, his nightmares, even now, years after the fact.

In the clinic, in the present, Fenris is not bound, although he cannot move his body, and although he is nude, he does not feel vulnerable. Anders and Lirene treat him with great respect, moving him carefully despite his inability to feel their touch in most places. He feels no pain. He drifts in and out of consciousness, knowing they will not harm him. Once, he wakes to Lirene speaking to him while they operate on his rear side. She is already well into a story of some personal anecdote, telling him about her weekend as if to distract him from the care being done to his body. He will not remember what she tells him later, but he hangs on to every word she says the way a devoted Brother of the Chantry listens to the word of His beloved Andraste.

When he comes to enough to look around the clinic, he does not know how much time has passed, but Lirene is gone, and he is in pain, though far less of it than he has ever known.

He hears Anders bustling about the clinic, but cannot see him - he can barely move his neck for the way the flesh pulls. Still, he imagines he can glance downward, and so he does.

When he looks down at his body, his neck protesting weakly, he sees not the blue of lyrium, but the light tan scarring of magically healed flesh. He is red-raw and sore in some places, numb still in others, but it is over. It’s all finally over.

He is free.

For the first time in his life, Fenris feels this to be true. It lifts him in a way he cannot put into words, will never be able to put into speech, no matter the tongue. This place, this crumbling hovel of a clinic in the sewers of a wretched, rot-worthy town…

When he cries, the bustling goes quiet, as if Anders has grown very still at the sound of it. But, for once, Anders says nothing. That itself is a blessing - one amongst many.

To be shown so much respect and kindness, here of all places, by this man of all men. Fenris nearly laughs through his weeping. For a moment, Kirkwall becomes a paradise. Salvation.

And then the world falls around his ears, like it does every single time.

-

Fenris is coping.

More accurately, Fenris is drinking.

Anders is here, too. He sits nearby while Fenris drinks and drinks and drinks. The Aggregio Pavali has long since run dry, but whoever’s stocked the wine in this mansion’s cellar did not stop there; the bottle Fenris is on now is a fine Antivan one, made by cloistered sisters of the Antivan chantry, and it is amazing.

Fenris hiccups now between sips. When he tries to gulp it, it spills from his mouth. This usually would not bother him, but his houseguest has long since begun to appear… judgemental.

“Fenris,” Anders tries again.

Fenris shushes him loudly. He takes another sip of wine. He’s not sure what the flavor is, but it’s very good. Best wine ever. Antivans make the best wine.

He nods to himself, head lolling a bit too hard. That’s okay, though. Because he knows Antivans make the best wine.

He points the open bottle over to Anders. Maybe he wants some.

But, the abomination shakes his head slowly. “No, Fenris-”

Fenris shushes him again. So loud! Anders always wants to talk, but he never says anything. He just cries about how life is hard. Anders has no idea. He’s always talking and talking about templars like they’re evil, but he never wants to talk about how the chantry uses them, too, the same way they use the tranquil. It’s like he does not even know they do that. Anders doesn’t know his face from his own ass. He probably doesn’t even know how good Antivan wine is.

He points the bottle towards Anders again.

The sigh that leaves Anders is so long-suffering, it almost rivals Fenris’ actual life. A long life of suffering. “You’ve had enough, Fenris.”

Fenris’ mind is still on the suffering thing. “Yes, I have.” The words are kind of hard to make out, but that should be just fine. Anders can hear him. “Try this wine. It is very good.”

If Anders tries this wine, then maybe he’ll know how good it is. Knowledge has to start somewhere. If Anders drinks, then he will be on the road towards knowing all mages are evil and Fenris cannot be one because Fenris does not want to be evil or have slaves or do blood magic.

Fenris is very drunk.

He was drunk ages ago, after barely a few mouthfuls. The shadows of hunger on his face are dark as bruises and answer enough for his sudden inability to hold his liquor.

Anders takes the wine, and Fenris sends him a smirk, saying see?, but Anders corks it and sets it aside.

Fenris’ smile falls. “Drink it! The wine is good and mages are bad.”

For a second, it almost looks like Anders is trying not to laugh. But, even Anders cannot laugh in the face of the truth, so it is likely just the firelight playing shapes across the healer’s face. “Okay, Fenris. I’ll take your word on this one.”

Fenris huffs. He is supposed to drink it. At least he admits that Fenris is correct. That is a small victory, although it seems pale and sad amongst such great defeats.

The bad feelings are rising up again - the same ones Fenris began drinking to escape to begin with.

He points at the wine desperately. “Please,” he says. His voice is ragged with emotion, but he’s too far gone to truly notice it. “Please.”

Anders looks very concerned. “Fenris, I don’t want to drink-”

“Give it to me, mage.”

The concerned look doesn’t quite leave, and is instead joined by annoyance. “You’re a mage, too.”

It cuts as deep now as it did the first time, and the second time, and the third time that Fenris was forced to realize it. Every second that’s ticked by since discovering this has hurt just as much as the last. He almost wishes for his brands back. At least that was a physical hurt. He could drink that away, at least.

But now Anders has the wine and he is using it to be cruel.

Fenris chokes back tears. “Give it to me.”

Anders hesitates for a moment, but quickly pushes the bottle behind him. “No, Fenris. You have to come to terms with this. Every mage in Thedas has this moment right here-”

“No, they do not.”

“Yes, they do-”

“No, they do not! In Tevinter, magic is celebrated. To have a child of the Fade is a great gift. Magic makes you powerful.” Fenris swallows hard, willing his tongue to either be still or be less sluggish. “Here, magic does not bleed an innocent dry in front of his family. Here, magic does not burn the flesh of everyone you hold dear while it laughs and laughs and laughs. Here, magic is a curse; but it is a curse that teaches your child how to read. It is a curse that puts them in a building where they are safe. Perhaps not happy, but safe.”

A moment of silence passes. A fire burns in the abomination’s eyes, a stewing anger. But, for once, the man bites his tongue. He listens.

“I would give anything to be born a mage in Ferelden.” Tears fall down his face. He ignores them. He cannot look away from Anders’ eyes. “Anything. You cannot even fathom what I have been through. You cannot even imagine what it is like to be an elf in Tevinter.”

They stare, eyes locked, but the fire in Anders’ eyes has died. He looks down to the floor, and Fenris watches his face fall.

“I-”

“No. You have no idea what magisters have done. I have heard you venerate them, try to build Tevinter into something great. I trusted you. I thought you could help me take my body back. But you made me a mage. You turned me into one of them.”

The fire crackles loudly in the hearth. Fenris can feel it, but it feels differently that it did before. Before - before what?

Everything is just a little too out of focus. Perhaps he did drink too much.

He doesn’t know any other way to cope. No one has ever taught him.

“That’s not how it works, Fenris.” Anders’ voice is so quiet now that even though his words anger Fenris, he feels no need to shush him.

“I know,” he whispers back.

Varania is a mage. Danarius was a mage. Anders is a mage. Perhaps, Fenris’ mother was a mage as well.

He remembers the look on Danarius’ face every time he would place the Sarabaas collar around Fenris’ neck. The pleased smile that would carve itself across his face while he carried Fenris’ leash at the knowledge that the elf could not speak or run. That’s what Fenris had assumed it meant, up until now. But he was wrong. Apparently, it had all been a cruel little joke meant just for dominus.

That was not Master mocking Qunari custom. That was Master being a proper Arvaarad, holding the evil that is incaensor.

He tells Anders, “I feel ill.”

That doesn’t cover even half of it. Danarius’ hands haunt his skin again, as they so often do. Varania’s hate-filled eyes follow him, mirroring how he feels for her, for Danarius, for magic, for himself. And Anders is simply here, an unwanted guest in his home, keeping him from his wine, telling him awful lies like you are a mage.

The pain tugs at Fenris’ gut and he unconsciously  responds.

The fire in the hearth flares up to the ceiling like great licks of a dragon’s tongue, threatening to consume the entire wall. The fear that rises with it is so intense, Fenris nearly blacks out.

The floor is hard and scratches unforgivingly against his hands and feet as he scrambles backwards, throwing himself against the wall not consumed by flames. He curses in Tevene, in Qunlat, begs for forgiveness from the Maker, from dominus, from anyone. Please.

Anders doesn’t even look back. He sighs and brings his hand up again, like he did in the clinic, and puts out the flame like it’s nothing.

“Calm down, now,” he says, only somewhat unkindly. “It’s just a little accidental magic. Happens to all new mages.”

Fenris is shaking. “No.”

Anders hasn’t stopped looking tired and sad since the first time Fenris fell into a fit like this, back in the clinic all those days ago. “Yes.” He licks his lips and sighs again. “Do you want to do the breathing again?”

Fenris doesn’t know how to say yes please, so he breathes in deeply for 8 seconds and holds.

Anders smiles, just a little. “And exhale.”

He does. Over, and over, he breathes in, and he breathes out, but it’s never quite enough. Fenris is tired of holding his breath. He is tired of watching his tongue and watching his breath and being so, so afraid.

He wants to exhale now.

He wants to be free.

Chapter Text

The days pass by at shocking speed and yet every moment that passes drags like skin on rough stone.

Fenris knows his behavior is graceless - shameful, really. But he is a shameful thing, has always been, and he doesn’t see the need to behave any other way.

He drinks. It's all he can do while he recovers from his surgery - and, the healer reminds him, over-exerting his mana. He withers away in his mansion, eating only when Anders forces soft cheese into his hands that he's too cowardly to refuse. Once, Anders makes him a heated broth, but to Fenris’ horror, it grows cold on his tongue and when held in his mouth, turns to icy slush.

“This is good. Means you're already in tune with your abilities.” The abomination's attempts at reassurance are not well-received or terribly appreciated.

Fenris’ head swims constantly, from drink and from fear. He tries to throw himself into books, if only to pass the time, if only for some blessed distraction, but all reading seems to do is give the demons new ideas.

And those demons… Oh, what terrible ideas they thread through him. He doesn't sleep. He can't. When his eyes force themselves closed and the Fade swallows him whole, demons find him. They torment him. They tempt him.

The first time he wakes and attempts to throw himself bodily into the roaring fire in the hearth, Anders begins preparing him magebane potions to take before bed. They're painful to drink - make his navel ache and his throat burn and his head throb - but he feels… safer. His connection to the Fade dims after that; his hands no longer grow cold and his breath no longer fogs. But Anders will only give him such small doses just before bed.

“There's a membrane between our world and the Fade,” Anders tells him one morning. “It's very thin here in Kirkwall. Demons often take advantage of this.”

And if that isn't an awful thought. He can hardly leave Kirkwall - this is the only place he knows anymore. Before he learned of his affliction, he believed he'd built a home here; a home he hoped, even, to share with his sister.

Now he feels he has nothing. Nothing but cold cobwebs at his fingertips and ice churning in his chest. When he breathes, he exhales frost-color clouds, like he's standing in the chill of the Ferelden winters Hawke tells him about, not in an over-warm Marcher mansion.

He feels unnatural.

The days pass by so quickly, but every moment is a wretched purgatory. And throughout it all, Anders will not leave his side. Whether or not this is a comfort, Fenris does not know.

-

“Gah!” Leaning back in her chair, Isabela throws her cards down good-naturedly. “Serves me right playing against such a handsome elf.”

It’s nineteen nights after Fenris’ surgery and Hawke and friends are meeting again for cards in Varric’s Hanged Man. Although a few friends have already visited the mansion to check on his progress as well as to share their sweet words, Fenris gets many more congratulations on the successful operation from the entire company, with Anders beside him getting claps on the back as well this time. Drinks are bought for them both, the men’s already high debts waved aside jovially for the moment.

Isabela has even let Fenris win the first round of cards, putting on the dramatics as she pushes her coin his way.

“Oh, my jolly sailor bold,” she says, her voice strange and amused, like she’s making fun of herself. “Looks like ye’ve got a firm hand - hook! - on all me booty!”

She knows Fenris finds ‘pirate talk’ amusing - made funnier with her often-present and truly shameless affinity for innuendo. Even Sebastian, who normally only smiles and shakes his head, allows a few audible giggles, as if he’s hoping his friend will hear it and laugh along.

Fenris wonders if it is that obvious that something (everything) is bothering him.

Days ago, when Hawke visited the mansion to invite him out on a job, he’d quietly declined. He gave them no reason for it beyond a stiff apology that likely stunk of too much wine.

The face Hawke had given him then still sticks to the skin of his eyelids, patiently kind, almost compassionate - and distinctly pitying.

“I know you don’t have your lyrium abilities anymore,” Hawke told him. “But you’re still an incredible warrior, Fenris. And you’re a free man, now,” - Ha! - “in every way. Don’t just hole yourself up in here to rot.”

If Hawke only knew the truth, that the rot is already spoiling Fenris’ blood, that it has been for as long as he has lived. But Hawke doesn't know - and neither do any of their friends, which Fenris can only be grateful for. He doesn’t want them to know. He wishes he could have stayed in the dark himself, left unaware of the magic that curses him.

He couldn’t stand to hear them mock him, or worse, show their “sympathy” (pity in their eyes, so much pity ).

He’s surprised that the abomination hasn’t told anyone. When he’d given Fenris the news, he’d gloated like it was the best thing he’d ever discovered in his life. The mage had laughed then, uproariously, violently, but now he gazes at Fenris with a kind of pity and sadness he has only ever received from large eyes flicking up from the floor to watch him pace proudly behind his master.

It is disconcerting to remember those kitchen slave glances, and more so to feel that gaze now, when so much is different (and so much is the same).

“Stop looking at me like that.” The usual bite that would have colored his words is gone and it has been for some time.

Varric’s wide eyes glance between him and the abomination, but Fenris can’t find it in himself to be bothered. He feels like all his teeth have been pulled. He is a declawed cat, a wolf that can hardly howl. Words that sounded so harsh before fall flatly from his mouth, passing through ears that struggle to recognize the man before them.

Anders nods his hanging head and looks away, earning another befuddled look from their friends. Apparently watching Fenris waste away into a shell of his former self has made the abomination’s hatred just melt away like so many Fade-touched snowflakes.

A bitter taste fills Fenris’ mouth.

The mage’s complacency shocks all of them equally, although the blood mage looks happy.

“Good to see you two getting along,” she titters amicably ( sarcastically? , Fenris wonders), blood-red nails bright and alarming against her dealt hand. One of her cards is facing the wrong way and she stifles a gasp when she notices.

“Witch,” he mutters, venom gone, the word spoke as if out of habit alone.

One must keep up appearances, little wolf.

Perhaps the ghost of Danarius is right. This is all just appearances, is it not? Coming to cards, drinking tavern swill, pretending that Fenris differs in any way from a blood mage. Really, he thinks, what is the difference between Merrill and himself but a few years’ time?

It’s almost enough to make Fenris laugh and for the first time in a long time he very nearly does. Hysteria rises in him and fogs his mind, making his tongue feel heavier than even the liquor he’s struggled to sip at all night.

It is the magic, he thinks. It stains his blood and ruins his mind. Soon, a demon will catch the scent of his hysteria and succeed in tempting him. He and Anders will match then. He and Merrill can trade blood ritual secrets - who is better at summoning demons; a Tevinter flatear or a proper Dalish elf?

Fenris puts his cards down on the table and walks out of the Hanged Man without saying anything. He does not look behind him. He needs air. He needs to breathe. All the sound in the tavern falls into one terrible cacophony of white noise, shaking him and itching at his new scars in old, familiar ways.

It is only when he takes a step into the crisp outdoors, tavern doors swinging closed behind him, that the world rights itself again.

Standing there breathing does little. All of this - all of this does so little.

Everyone visiting him, giving him bits and baubles, telling them they can’t wait to see him out again… It doesn't mean anything. He's a stranger to these people. He's a stranger to himself. Those fearful eyes haunt him again, so like his own, and he finds himself questioning again if he was right to let Varania go. Should he have let her leave that Tavern with her life? Should he have left the Hanged Man with his own?

Demon whispers echo in his mind again. He can no longer tell if they're real or only his imagination.

He thinks to walk the familiar path to the mansion, but when he hears the healer’s familiar pace chasing behind him, he waits. He’s only barely managed to just make it past the entrance; the Hanged Man himself swings above them not yards away, swaying macabrely in the light evening wind.

Around them, Lowtown is peacefully still; a rare sight even after Hawke has made work of the late-night street gangs. The sky above is expansive and dark blue with the light of the moons.

For a moment, he feels calm.

“Fenris.”

Be quiet, Fenris wants to tell him. Or you will ruin this like you have ruined everything else.

“You can’t go on like this forever.”

“Why not?” He turns to face the mage, but cannot bring his eyes from the ground. He stares at Anders’ boots instead, trying to will them from becoming Danarius’ house slippers. “What is stopping me? Hm? I have nothing.”

“You have everything! You absolutely stubborn, pig-headed- ” A cold breeze blows through, shaking the hem of Anders’ mage coat. “You’ve finally, finally got it. You can keep it, Fenris. You can have this.”

The sincerity in his voice gives Fenris pause. If he did not know any better, he might guess the abomination is close to tears; the tremor in his voice is from the cold, he tells himself. No one would shed a tear for you.

Chancing a look up to the healer’s face, he sees Anders staring back at him earnestly. Indeed, unshed tears touch his gaze, and some odd fear, too. Fenris hates how familiar that feels. He hates that he understands.

He hates.

“The operation worked, Fenris. And Danarius is dead .”

Will Danarius ever truly be dead, while he yet haunts me? But he can’t find the strength to speak those words aloud.

“You are a free man now. Being-” The abomination glances side to side before stepping closer, his voice falling to a whisper. “Being a mage won’t stop any of that from being true. You are struggling. I cannot say I know what you are feeling, but I know you are struggling. I cannot just watch that anymore, Fenris.”

Fenris looks back to the ground before closing his eyes entirely. “What do you plan to do?” The question is almost entirely rhetorical, something a child might sneer at their sibling.

And what are you going to do about it, huh? You’re a ruined thing, too.

“I want to teach you.” Fenris does not open his eyes. “I want to teach you magic.”

Fenris does not reply. He keeps his eyes closed tight. He wishes for magebane. In some odd part of his mind, he wishes for Varania and the mother they shared that he no longer remembers.

“Fenris, please. You’re a danger to yourself and all around you. Let me at least teach you how to protect yourself from demons.”

“No.”

“ Fenris!”

“What do you want from me?” Fenris’ eyes open and glare daggers into Anders. His shout reverberates off the tall stone walls around them, the hung strings of wind-shaken flags jumping amidst the noise. “What do you want from me? Everything I knew myself to be is gone, replaced with everything I have ever known to fear.”

“I’m afraid, too.” It’s cold out, suddenly - too cold. Frost clings to Fenris’ hands and crawls under his armor. He trembles. “I’m afraid of what will happen to you if I leave you alone.”

Fenris doesn’t want a caretaker, but he would be lying if he said he was not afraid of the same thing. He doesn’t trust himself. He doesn’t trust anything. The ice on his fingers burns just as much now as the first time. If he could throw himself off of the docks right now, let the choppy dark waters drag him to the bottom, he would do it. If Anders hadn't been there that night, those nights, then Fenris would have gone up in flames already.

“What do you want to teach me?”

Anders relaxes by a small margin, and Fenris imagines him as a string of twine, moments from snapping down the middle - Fenris is on one end, the demon on the other. Like dogs playing tug-of-war. It’s almost funny.

“Just enough to stop you from hurting anyone by mistake. Or getting possessed. Which is usually rare unless you speak to a demon on purpose or get really lost in the Fade, but-”

“Stop. Stop.”

“Alright.”

The only sound is the distant chatter of the Hanged Man. Fenris almost fancies he can hear Varric’s laughter. It makes him think of Aveline’s smile, Hawke’s cheeky grin, Isabela’s delighted little smirk. Even the witch’s startled expression upon seeing her backwards card.

You can keep it, Fenris.

You have everything.

Not everything, he thinks. But some things have to be enough.

“Alright,” Fenris whispers. The sounds of clinking mugs and drunken singing drift through the windows. He feels foolish for walking out, now.  The frost is melted and his hands are his once more. “Teach me, then.”

All of that exhaustion seems to leave Anders’ shoulders at once. The string of twine is sat sweetly upon a side-table. He still looks tired, his hair untidy from lack of care and his face drawn and sleepy, but he also looks... pleased. Almost hopeful.

“Thank you, Fenris. I know this is hard for you.” The white shine of the moon sticks to Anders’ smile, plays across his tangled hair. “I will do everything in my power to make it easier.”

“Please, do not.”

Fenris follows the mage back into the tavern, glad to be back in candlelight.

As soon as they sit again, Isabela teases, “Lovers’ spat?”, and Varric chokes on his ale with laughter - at Isabela’s joke or at Merrill’s exclamation of what, really?, Fenris cannot say.

All he knows is that he will not be a danger to these people. Not if he can help it.

-

Hawke does not like Fenris to walk home alone, what with all the slavers in this blighted city.

We kill so many, Hawke says, sounding proud for a moment, before deflating. But, more always come.

I will not let them take you, Fenris.

So, after they have drank and made merry all through the night, Hawke walks Fenris home.

Fenris does not stumble, but he sways a bit, much to Hawke’s own ale-driven amusement. Neither are as drunk as they have been, but they drank far more than they ought to have; Varric was buying, because Varric will spend any amount of money to put a smile on a friend’s face.

Fenris is smiling now.

“I can walk myself,” he says to Hawke, who snorts.

“You can barely walk at all!”

“Oh?” Fenris raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Watch in awe, my Champion.”

He stumbles on purpose, miming a man struggling down a tightrope. Hawke laughs, snorting in the way they only do after night’s fourth bell, and Fenris watches in pure joy as they bend and smack their knee.

“Fenris!” Hawke gasps. “Fenris, you’re falling over!”

Perhaps Varric ought to have saved a bit of his coin, Fenris thinks, grinning. The muscles in his cheeks begin to ache, unused to the act.

After a long moment of gasping, drunken laughter, Hawke straightens, sighing in happiness, “I’m so glad to see you in better spirits, Fenris. You’ve been so sad.”

Fenris huffs. “That’s not your business.”

“It is! You’re my friend and I love you.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. “You barely know me,” he says in wonder.

“I know you are mean and hilarious and so strong …” Hawke sniffles. “I love you! I love you, Fenris!” Then, much louder, “Do you hear that, Hightown?! I love my friend!”

Fenris shushes them quickly, laughing. “Okay, alright. You’re going to get us into trouble! But I… I care for you, Hawke. Meeting you was probably the most important moment of my life.”

Tears stream down Hawke’s face - it is then that Fenris realizes how truly drunk both of them are.

Maybe, if he tells them now…

“Hawke, there has been a reason for my- sour mood, as of late.”

Hawke’s face grows as serious as it can, flushed with drink as it is. “Yes? I’m here, Fenris.”

“When Anders removed my markings…” Fenris swallows. “I- We discovered that… The lyrium in the markings, it was stopping- It. I'm.”

A hand finds itself to Fenris’ shoulder, gripping tightly. “Get it out, my friend. It’s alright.”

He can only whisper, “I am a mage.”

That horror freezes through him again and he hears Hawke gasp, the rogue’s hand flying back in shock. The champion’s fingers are covered in frost. Fenris nearly sicks right there in the street.

“Hawke, I am- so sorry, I-”

“Oh, Fenris,” But Hawke isn’t looking at their hand - they’re looking at Fenris with eyes so full of care and sorrow it nearly breaks his heart. “This must be so painful for you. Be honest, are you afraid?”

It’s easy sometimes to forget why he let Hawke in so quickly. In times like this, it is so much harder.

Fenris nods. “I’ve felt ill ever since the abomination told me. I’ve drank and drank and drank but it will not leave me.”

“Fenris, may I hold you?”

“...Please?”

When Hawke pulls him into a tight hug, it feels for a short, blessed moment as if everything is simple.

Chapter Text

Act II - New Flesh

It is morning.

Fenris wakes earlier than the sun, sweating and Fade-soaked from his routine nightmares, shaking from the thin sheen of ice that has claimed his skin. He sighs at the frost now, only distantly sick, and bathes it away in warm water, as is his new routine. 

Afterwards, he goes through the forms he learned on Seheron, stretching and breathing to calm his mind. He does so until he can no longer feel ice under his fingertips, contorting his body into odd shapes to feel the warm pull of his muscles, to let that heat touch every bone and every blood cell. It feels good. It feels calming.

When he is finished and feels certain in his control over his mind as well as his… magic, he washes again, more thoroughly this time, and dresses in his armor for lack of anything else to wear. This armor is as much his skin as the lyrium was - scars remain of the stone, but the consequences of going unarmored remains unknown.

I am a warrior, he tells himself. Somehow, all the way from the belly of Darktown, he can feel Anders' disapproval. Absurd. I am a warrior.

His hands shake in his gauntlets, little stones jostled by the rushing ravine of thought, so Fenris grabs his sword, throws it on his back more carelessly than one should, and leaves towards the Chantry.

Fenris doesn't much like the Chantry, not after his experiences with it, but he wants to see Sebastian. It's been weeks now since he last he saw the man - weeks now since he saw any of his friends, besides Hawke. And even those visits are brief, lasting only as long as Fenris will allow.

The shame of what he is fills Fenris and he struggles to look anyone in the eye, struggles to leave his home. He does it anyways. He tries, at least. He just never gets very far.

But not today. To go to the Chantry, he must make his way through the richer parts of Hightown, something he loathes to do while daylight shines, but it is early enough still that most others on the street are elvhen as well. He sees them as he walks, the stone of the street familiar and strange beneath his feet. He sees them bow their heads and scurry to where they have been ordered to go - to the water pump, to the market, to the recipient of a letter. They do not look at him as he passes.

Servants, Fenris thinks with disgust. People who are spat on like Hadriana spat on him. People trapped in the debts of living by humans who no longer comprehend the cost.

The orange glow of morning makes the white stones that build Hightown glisten, but all Fenris sees are shadows. 

Fenris walks faster.

When he makes it up the Chantry steps, his legs are sore, still struggling from the loss of the lyrium's strength. He is no longer tender from the surgery, not physically, but he feels its effects every day, like ripples in the water. Like a hurricane beating the shore and all the days that come after.

The Chantry doors are heavy. Fenris opens them and hesitantly enters the building, searching for familiar brown hair, listening for that Starkhaven accent.

He hears it, up near Sebastian's room, woven into the now familiar lilt of Southern prayer, and quickly makes his way up yet more stairs, careful to avoid the eyes of Chantry sisters. They are all human and, not unlike the sisters of the Tevinter Chantry, they do not like to see him here. He is a trespasser.

"Bitter is sorrow, ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill…"

Sebastian's door is open, cracked just enough for Fenris to stand and gaze into the room. Light is peeking through the window, a soft yellow glow that illuminates the sadness on his friend's face as he kneels and prays. Fenris thinks suddenly that he looks like an oil painting.

"Such a dark verse," Fenris says. Sebastian looks up in surprise, rising from his place before the small altar like a story hero from the sea. The light's effect is not broken. "Are you feeling well, Sebastian?"

"I think I should be the one asking you that, my friend."

My friend. Will he still call you that once he knows? Will he speak those words so kindly, so caringly?

Fenris wishes he knew. Fenris does not want to find out.

He sighs and steps closer to Sebastian, closing the door behind him. Already, he is beginning to take off his armor, led by the motion memory of past visits. Here in this space, Sebastian wears comfortable clothing, a simple shirt and simple trousers instead of the robes of a Chantry brother. His own armor is on a stand by the door and Fenris places his on the stand beside it.

It's been too long for him to answer now. Still, he murmurs, "I asked you first."

Running a hand over his hair, Sebastian huffs a quiet laugh. "Fair enough. I…" He sighs and the sound is so sorrowful that it makes Fenris' brows pull together in sympathy. "I was thinking of my parents, if you must know. Their plan for me… I grew so angry, so distressed, I had to turn to the Maker."

To a stranger, Sebastian looks calm and content, but Fenris has known him too long. Fenris can see the strain around his eyes, the way he swallows when he should be breathing easily. Fenris isn't good with words, not with this - the death of Hawke's mother proved that to him. He can only try to appear empathetic, try to show Sebastian his care. "I'm sorry…"

But Sebastian shakes his head with a small smile. "No need - prayer helps me. I… feel better now. Especially in your company."

The warm smile, the kind words - how long will they last? Fenris feels a part of him relax to see Sebastian well, but another part of him tenses. He cannot stop the thought invading his mind: Is this friendship as unconditional as Sebastian makes it feel?

Does even Sebastian know the answer?

"Your turn, Fenris," Sebastian teases. Now that Fenris is divulged of armor, left in his leggings and vest-like tunic, he gestures to his thin bed for them to sit on.

His stomach in knots, Fenris does. He cannot, however, will himself to speak.

"Is it… about Danarius?"

Yes. No. "It's… complicated."

"Life often is."

Fenris laughs mirthlessly. He wonders if that was Sebastian's intention, to make him laugh. "Yes. I am beginning to understand that more than ever."

He sighs then, letting his eyes wander the familiar confines of Sebastian's private space. It is intended to be humble lodgings, but it is half the size of Merrill's entire house and three times as nice. Despite his status as a prince, Sebastian sleeps in the smallest of all the Chantry's rooms. The others are the size of Merrill's house and all of them reek of wealth.

"The surgery was more complicated than I had anticipated," he says finally. "More than anything in my remembered life has ever been before."

Sebastian is quiet, perhaps contemplative, then he nods. "I see. You've been keeping to yourself more than ever, Fenris - we've been missing you. I have missed you, my friend."

Despite himself, Fenris smiles, his face hot. "I have missed you as well," he says honestly.

"These… complications. Are they causing your extended absence?"

"Yes." He cannot say more. He cannot.

"Do you wish to tell me about these complications, Fenris?"

Yes. No. There will never be a correct answer. There will never be another Sebastian if he leaves now. There will never be another friendly chat or religious debate or gentle embrace while the other cries for his pain. He wants Sebastian to know him, but to be known is to be abandoned. To share the curse inside him is to become a curse.

It would be safer for Sebastian if he went, but Fenris can't bear to see him go.

Sebastian is the only person closer to him than Hawke. He cares for Aveline, for Isabela, for Donnic, for Varric, but they don't know him like Sebastian does. Where the rest were willing to give him space, allow himself to hermit himself away with only small instances of intruding upon his territory, Sebastian had pushed . No, that isn't right. Sebastian had reached out with both hands and goaded him into jumping.

Like the Fog Warriors, Sebastian has been free with his affection, and as a consequence, Fenris cares deeply for him. Like the Fog Warriors, Fenris feels his phantom blood on his hands. That this has yet to come to pass doesn't assuage the guilt or the loss; indeed, he feels the loss of Sebastian like the loss of a limb. He feels it as keenly as a full-body scar.

"Fenris!" The man is suddenly in front of him, kneeling like he does before Andraste, his blue eyes wide in alarm. "Breathe, my friend. You are safe here."

"You aren't," he chokes. He didn't realize he'd stopped breathing. His inside grow cold, the exercise from this morning seeping out of him like autumn melting into winter. "You aren't safe, Sebastian."

Sebastian is bewildered. "Pardon? Did you… hear something? I can't imagine anyone wanting to assassinate me. Are you well?"

"I'm sick. An illness burns through me, Sebastian, and it will burn through you if I allow it. I cannot allow it."

"What? Fenris, you aren't making sense. Lie down - I will fetch a healer."

"No!" A healer would learn his secret. More than ever, Fenris is not safe in the Chantry. He should not have come here. He will never be safe again. "No. No." He cannot live in irons.

Sebastian lies him down on the bed and his body shakes in habitual fear. The man above him sees his shivers and carefully ignores them. Fenris is grateful. He doesn't want Sebastian to pull away yet.

"No healers, Sebastian, please," he gasps. "I beg you!"

"Alright, Fenris… No healers." He looks unconvinced. Worried. "But won't you tell me what it is that pains you so? I would know your sickness, so I may either weather it with you or beside you."

Hot tears find Fenris' eyes again. He had not thought his tired eyes capable of any more tears, but tears rise with certainty anyways, building and burning and searing their way out of him. He is wracked with their violent escape, shaking and shivering and gasping when they close his airways. Sebastian hushes him, speaking oh so soothingly, but he cannot make out the words.

Where will this love be when Sebastian knows? What will become of these gentle words, this tender friendship?

Fenris lies in Sebastian's bed and misses him, even as the man beside him begins to sing, serenading him a lullaby of some well-tread verse of the Chant just to see his tears subside.

"I am a mage," Fenris whispers.

Sebastian stops singing. A tight coil constricts around Fenris' chest, crushing his lungs. "Yes, Fenris?" His voice is so soft, softer than sheep fleece or the downy fluff of a baby chick. Softer than the growing light of morning that illuminates his face. "I could not hear you, my friend."

"The stain is in my blood," he says again. Louder. Voice breaking. "Like Varania. I'm-" a monster . "Magic stains me."

Sebastian soothes his hair back quickly. "No, Fenris-!"

"Yes. It cannot be changed. I can't escape this." I've tried.

"You have escaped! You are not what has happened to you, Fenris. You are a free man, a-"

Frost covers Fenris' hand, cobwebs left by something venomous. He presses his fingertips to Sebastian's lips, watches them grow so quickly pale and still. "I am a mage."

Sebastian's eyes are wide in horror. He looks behind him to the door in some rare show of fear. "You should not do that here," he whispers. "The Templars keep mainly to the Gallows, but-" He turns forward again, sudden and jerky. " How . How did you-?"

"The lyrium kept me from my magic. Danarius never told me. Varania didn't say…"

"Now that they're gone…" Sebastian runs two fingers over the scars on Fenris' arm. "You… You're a mage. I can hardly believe it, Fenris. You!"

Fenris presses his hands into fists, willing the frost away. "Yes." He cannot hide his misery, not when it still rains down from his eyes to slide from his chin and onto his chest. He lies his head back, defeated, and tears trickle to his ears instead.

They're quiet for a moment. The moment isn't what Fenris feared - it is gentle, though charged, and Sebastian has not flinched away. He looks uncomfortable, but so does Fenris feel. They are together in this. Sebastian doesn't leave, not yet.

Instead, he turns to Fenris with large, sad eyes. "Fenris, did you come here to ask me to… help you turn yourself in?"

"No!" Fenris flinches. "I… I ought to. It would be best. But Sebastian…"

Sebastian's eyebrows meet in the middle. He looks upset, but not severe. Not yet. "You have been the greatest friend of my life. I'd be a lousy one in return if I did not suggest this. Go to the Circle ."

Fenris opens his mouth in rebuttal but Sebastian does not allow it.

"Look at how this hurts you, Fenris. The Circle is meant to protect people like you, to protect people like me from you."

Like a maul to the stomach, the words hit him. He chokes on it. Fenris has to close his eyes and breathe.

"You're a good man," Sebastian whispers. When Fenris opens his eyes again, he sees Sebastian's are shiny, twin moats with dark towers in the middle. "But to say that I am not afraid would make me a liar."

Fenris bows his head like the chattering sisters downstairs, half in prayer and half under the weight of the Maker's gaze. "I finally had a life. A life I built. I didn't ask for this."

"The Maker rarely gives us what we ask, my friend." And then Sebastian is pressed again his side, warm and solid and real. There isn't room for both of them on the bed, but he lies beside Fenris anyways. "This is your decision, Fenris. The Maker has placed you at a crossroads, but the rest is yours. I love you still. I will not tell the Templars without you beside me, ready to go forward."

The urge to kiss Sebastian has raised its head before, but it does so now greater than ever, only for Fenris to push it down resolutely. He feels bizarre. He feels disgusting. He feels safe and knows it to be a lie.

"Sebastian?" Fenris whispers.

"I'm here, my friend."

" Why? " And then he's crying again, weeping like the babe he never was.

Sebastian's hand grabs his tightly. "Oh, Fenris- May I hold you?"

Fenris opens his wet eyes and sees Sebastian's arm raised in question. Waiting. He opens his mouth then closes it then opens it again. Finally, "Please."

Sebastian lies him down properly again, curling beside him and wrapping his arms around him. He sobs into Sebastian's chest for an immeasurable amount of time. Eventually, he runs dry, and falls into a fitful sleep. He wakes to an empty bed, cold for Sebastian's absence.

When he leaves the Chantry, the sky is orange with approaching nightfall.

Later, locked away in his stolen mansion, Fenris lies in his own bed, just as cold, just as empty, and tries very hard not to think of the bronze slaves hanging over the Gallows.

He fails. When he dreams, it's of demons.

-

He wakes shaking, tired and aching all over. Despite some twenty-four hours of sleep, he has not found rest.

He can't tell if his nightmares are simply that of terrors of the mind, fantastical, or the temptations of Fade creatures, but he does not give in either way. Not when Hadriana's likeness touches his cheek and tells him, "I'll let you eat , if you only-" or when Danarius rolls the tip of his ear between bejeweled fingers and asks, "Don't you want to love me, my pet? Don't you want me to love you too?"

He doesn't reply. He doesn't give in. He can't.

He can't.

When he wakes, he is wrung-out, Fade-touched, cursed. Beastly.

When he wakes, he drinks.

-

The lesson is going terribly.

“This is going wonderfully!” shouts Anders over the roar of the fire. “No, really, it’s-”

He is interrupted by Lirene throwing a large pail of water on him.

“Oy, shit, ” she says.

“On the fire , Lirene! Not me!”

“Sorry, healer!”

Fenris watches her run out the door to get more water. They're lucky the spigot is nearby - and for that matter, well-oiled.

Although Anders had easily put out the fires the other several times Fenris has rendered something aflame, he does not do so now. Instead, he attempts to throw the measly few blankets he has in the clinic over the fire, hoping to choke it. 

The way he tosses the raggedy cloth , thinks Fenris. He looks like he’s playing Antivan bullfighter.

A drowned cat throwing a blanket over a raging fire. He looks ridiculous and all Fenris can do is watch the entire ordeal in dismay.

It takes only two more visits from Lirene to put out the fire; thankfully, volunteers follow her the second time, bringing their waterskins - and in one bizarre case, a full wooden tub that Fenris thinks is filthy bathwater. That or laundry. Fenris recognizes these faces as regulars of the clinic. 

These are all people Anders knows, he realizes. People who care for him.

They throw their own water over the fire with gusto. When it is put out, they all cheer, Anders along with them.

“Thank you!” He tells them, a large smile on his face. “Everyone, thank you, thank you. ”

As he goes about to shoo the healthy and uninjured from the clinic, smiling and laughing with all these people he knows (Fenris knows so few people, he realizes, for all his years in this city), the creator of such arson steps forward, lurking towards the damages.

He tries to take note of what he has destroyed here. There is so little in the clinic even on a good day; meager furniture, a few supplies. And now Fenris has taken an entire supply of health potions away with his accidental magic. Bandages and poultices lie in cinders. One of the two dressers he has destroyed held not medical supplies, but extra clothes for the people of Darktown who needed them. Children's dresses, a dozen different shirts, and trousers with elastic waistbands, designed to fit as many sizes as possible.

What a bad little wolf you are, my Fenris. Look at what you’ve done.

As his eyes survey the ash before him, Fenris shivers. So much ruin - and to think, he was only meant to be meditating . Anders had set him to task feeling for the edges of his mana pool, clearing his mind of distractions and becoming acquainted with his new ability while the healer went about doing what he did best. It was something Fenris did every morning, sitting and stretching and clearing his mind, and he- 

He had done this .

Fenris feels himself begin to slouch like a well-chided dog. Danarius’ voice is loud. “I… will pay for the damages.”

Closer than Fenris thought him to be, Anders huffs an easy laugh. If he notices the way Fenris starts, he says nothing.

“Well, alright. I’ll charge you for that, but nothing else!” Anders’ hand on his shoulder causes him to flinch. The healer removes his hand easily, and it hangs by his side, his fingers resting a natural, relaxed curl. “I know it doesn’t seem so, but this is good , Fenris. It’s just accidental magic. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I nearly burnt down your clinic.”

“Well…” Anders scratches at his stubble before reluctantly nodding. “Yes, but it’s not like there’s much to burn down - you can only do so much to the stone. No one was hurt...” His voice drops, quiet so Lirene by the door won’t hear him. “And really, you did me a favor. Now we have an excuse to let Lirene handle the clinic for a day.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow warily before deciding to take the bait. “You’re going to test her?”

“Why not?” He replies, shrugging his shoulders casually. The feathers on his coat move stiffly with him. “I may not always be able to handle the clinic. I’d rather be nearby if we discover she can’t lead the volunteers on her own. Better than finding out the hard way during an emergency.”

Fenris watches the woman wave out the rest of the helpers, smiling and talking with them. When she is done, she turns to a little boy waiting on a cot, and tends to him immediately. 

She was there during the operation. He does not know her well, but he knows she is kind. 

“She handled the emergency quite well today.”

Anders smiles, a hint of pride lighting up his face. “That she did. I think she can handle herself a while longer too.” He rolls his shoulders, the movement bringing Fenris’ eyes back to those feathers. “Market day tomorrow?”

Fenris nods once. “So it seems.” It's the least he can do.

Despite the fire, Anders suggests they continue the lesson. Fenris finds this ridiculous, but accepts with only a token protest.

The days leading up have been wobbly. Fenris feels he grows and regresses in equal measure - one day he will be casting a proper cone of ice or holding a flickering heartbeat of flame in his palm, and the next… Fenris looks at the damages again, ash and soot lingering like the touch of a rage demon. It really is best that his lessons continue.

Anders helps him this time, bringing him behind the privacy screen and letting Lirene and a few other volunteers take care of patients. Though the healer's hands never truly touch Fenris, he finds them to be warm. Heat radiates from Anders' palm when he turns it towards Fenris' core, tugging behind the navel.

"Fight against it," Anders says. "Don't let your magic control you - you control it ."

This time, when something strange and electric pulses through him, Fenris fights against it and wins. It is a small victory, but it is a victory still.