Chapter Text
They call it the Tower.
At least, that’s what they call it on the inside. To the rest of Thedas, it’s just another high security penitentiary. The Kirkwall Circle Tower is home to a variety of people, from petty drug peddlers all the way up to gang leaders. It’s located in a place called the Gallows; with high concrete walls that that do very little to hide the impressive towers that are built to house the prisoners. A fitting name, as very now and then, an execution takes place. Not that this is made a public show, though it had been once upon a time – hence the name. In truth, more people have died inside the walls of the Tower than there have been people on the death-row list.
The walls of the Gallows served as another barrier to keep the outside world away and the prisoners inside. The system had learned very early on from attempted escapes how to go about ensuring no one got out. That being said, no one got in without extensive permission from the commanding warden, Meredith. A decorated officer with a record for having kept Kirkwall’s streets clean for almost two decades. Recently, she resigned from her post to take up the vacant warden position. Having locked up most of the criminals there herself in her youth, she took it upon herself to see to their rehabilitation.
Anders wanted to throw up just knowing he would have to see her almighty self soon. His stomach lurched at the reminder that he’d have to listen to her yap about him being the scum of society and how his existence was a detriment to the peace she worked so hard for.
Blah, blah, blah…
The handcuffs on his wrists dug deep into his skin. Any tighter and a good jerk might just break the skin.
He sat with his head leaned against the window of the armoured shuttle bus that had been sent to escort him and several other criminals from the local holding bays. The world he knew vanished as the bus crossed the threshold of the outer gate and slammed shut when they were completely inside.
That sound made it official.
Whatever life he had before was over.
He was the property of the Tower now.
After being herded off the shuttle bus, Anders was marched into the prison, guards glaring at him with judgemental eyes with each checkpoint he passed. At the first guard tower, he had been strip searched – and then again at the second, just in case someone smuggled anything in to him. They almost seemed disappointed when he had nothing on – or in – him.
When the guards were certain he had nothing on him that was not allowed – which was technically anything aside the clothes on his back – he was escorted through the yard, where a whole new set of eyes would fall on him. Except they weren’t eyes of judgement. No sir, those eyes scrutinised him; the prisoners who huddled around in small groups and clichés smirked and hooted as Anders and several other new inmates were paraded across the barely grassed recreational zone. For a brief moment, he wondered what kinds of labels they were trying to apply to him and the others. Murderer? Thief? Rapist?
Only a few guess pyromaniac, and that’s only because they have enough smarts to recognise the faded scars on his hands from burns.
He’d done more than set a few fires in his short lifetime. The last one, the one he was caught for, was the infamous Courthouse Burning – coined by the media. It tells the story of how Anders, a misguided and psychologically troubled young man set fire to the building in a lapsed state of mind. This was also the story his lawyer had been able to peddle in order to get him a lighter sentence – whatever good that did him.
But that’s all it was: a story.
“Move it.” A rough shove to his back sent Anders tumbling forward, but he promptly regained his footing and straightened, glaring over his shoulder at the guard that was practically daring him to try something. Anders cursed under his breath quietly and turned his head, walking on with the others until they reached a building within the high walled compound.
There, the handcuffs were removed, and he sighed in relief as he rubbed his wrists. He looked around uncertainly for a moment, as did the others, and they were ordered to line up against the wall opposite what looked like some kind of storage room. Inside there were men sorting items intended for them. Anders followed suit with the others sluggishly, his eyes wandering curiously, taking in the sights of the sterile prison. After a brief moment, they were told about the process they would undergo. They would approach the room one by one, be handed a spare uniform to wear in between washes, and then sent down a hallway into the cell blocks to get aquatinted with their friendly new neighbours.
When his turn came, Anders looked at the dull, dark grey uniforms and was told by the inmate handing them to him that he was in cell forty-two, and an impatient prompt from the guard saw that Anders would shuffle off in the foulest of moods.
“Good luck, newbie.” The tattooed prisoner called, as he had with everyone so far, when Anders walked away. It was probably the nicest greeting he was going to get in the Circle.
And he was right.
Upon approaching his cell – after passing what could have been a legion of guards – he was a little surprised at his cellmate. A lean frame, although certainly muscled, that was not hidden by the uniform, and white hair, either dyed or natural he did not know, and sharp ears that gave a clear indication of his heritage.
An elf.
Inwardly, Anders hoped he wasn’t one of those so called Dalish – the superstitious renegades living on the fringe of society. He certainly had enough tattoos to match his imagination of the people; faded blue and extending in various patterns down his arms, and very likely along his chest given that he could also see the tattoos branching up his neck and under his chin.
Anders had obviously been staring for too long, or maybe he’d just standing in the doorway too awkwardly for his cellmate’s taste, and the elf tilted his head and glared up at him from his seat on his bed, as if Anders were a trespasser.
“What?” The inmate’s voice was low and dripping with animosity. Anders knew immediately he was more likely to get shanked than to become friends with that man.
But he wasn’t going to be weak in here, and he certainly wasn’t going to take any attitude from someone like him.
“Sorry, didn’t want to intrude on your whole brooding atmosphere in there.” A crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his lip as Anders spoke. He obviously sounded a little too smug for the elf, who stood and crossed the short distance between his cot and the barred doorway. Anders resisted the instinct to step back, but the elf wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.
In the split second before the elf shoved him out of his path, the intensity of those eyes fell on him. Light green, flecked with dark hues around the pupil, and more importantly, a coldness that sent a shiver up his spine. A calloused hand landed on his chest before he could raise his arms to defend himself, and was pushed aside with more force than he thought the thin elf capable of. The sound of his back slamming against the barred doorway resounded and caught the attention of others standing near by, who all but froze to watch in confusion and anticipation.
“Watch your attitude.” Were the icy words the elf spat as he left the cell, leaving Anders leaning against the barred doorway and a sharp pain radiating from his spine after having collided with it. Looking around, he took note of the humorous smirks being sent his way, and the wary eyes following after the elf.
“Good job, Blondie.” A deep voice sounded and Anders turned his head to stare at the person who had suddenly materialised beside him. The man was broad and built, with a snarky smirk but he had an unusually welcoming air about him. “You’ve only been here – what – five minutes? And you’ve already managed to piss him off. Usually takes an hour at most. But I guess I have to give you points for still being alive after meeting him.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Anders straightened, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the bearded man next to him. The man reeled back slightly, looking as though he had forgotten something important.
“Ah…right, right. Names Garrett, but everyone calls me Hawke, so you will as well.” The man – Hawke – established himself and turned his gaze away from Anders, pointing down the hall at the still retreating figure of the elf. “And that’s your cellmate, Fenris. Try not to piss him off. Again.”
“Fenris? What kind of name is that?” Anders gave Hawke a questioning look.
“He’s the Little Wolf of the Tower.” Hawke’s light tone dropped slightly as he announced the title. “Watch your step, Blondie. He’s been here a long time, and he’s not getting out in this lifetime.”
“What’d he do? Kill some people?” Anders had just about a million questions, but one sharp look from Hawke said that he really shouldn’t be asking. Not yet, at least.
“If you last more than a few days, maybe you’ll find out.” Hawke tapped his arm and ushered him to put his things down on his assigned bed. “Come on, newbie’s get a tour and then a lecture from the warden. Fun all around, trust me. I’d go back if they let me. Can’t get enough of having some witch-hunter call me a piece of trash.”
Not wanting to risk being throttled by a man who looked like he could snap someone neck with one arm, Anders tossed the spare clothes he’d been given onto the bed that he guessed was his – as the elf had been occupying the other earlier – and followed Hawke down the hallway.
Hawke’s tour as he called it was just that. Hawke led Anders and the new inmates – those that had turned up at least – around the facility under the careful watch of guards who seemed to take a little too much pleasure in watching the newbie’s fumble and squirm. One of the main points of Hawke’s tour was an alert as to ‘who you don’t want to fuck with’. The list was seemingly endless, and was not restricted to the prisoners alone. Hawke warned them especially of one of the guard-captains, a fiery woman named Aveline. While reasonable at times, Hawke explained she had no trouble beating the arse of anyone causing trouble on her watch. There were other names, one of them Alrik he thought, but Anders’ attention was slipping the more the list droned on.
As the welcome party drew to a close, Hawke ushered the new inmates towards a hallway where a few guards were standing at the ready to escort them to Meredith’s induction. Hawke had been kind enough to give them a heads up on what they expected, which was less than thrilling and more mind-numbingly boring, with a heavy application of colourful threats and labels for them. None of which they hadn’t expected, but were still reluctant about hearing nonetheless.
As Anders was walking with the group, almost all of whom grumbled under their breath about the whole ‘being in prison’ crap and how they shouldn’t be in this hellhole, Hawke called out to him – playfully as Blondie no less, a nickname he was certain would stick whether he wanted it to or not. Turning, he saw Hawke crossing his arms with a mirthful smirk on his face.
“Welcome to the Tower. Try not to die.”
Anders then realised, as bad as he thought this place was, he had yet to truly experience all that the Tower had to offer.