Chapter Text
It had been nearly two years.
Anders still hated the fucking Tevinter Imperium.
It wasn’t a full month after he arrived that he’d begun turning his hovel of a home into a makeshift clinic, the first patient an elven slave – anywhere between her teens and her thirties, it was always so hard to tell with elves. She’d been thrown from a magister’s carriage as it passed, covered in gashes and nearly drained of blood, too close to death to bother healing.
To anyone but the soft-hearted mage, of course. He’d spent the next three days laboring over her, taking minute-long breaks to regain the barest amount of mana necessary to keep her heart beating. His last sovereign went with her as well, to buy her passage from this hellish place.
Apparently, she’d spread the word; a mage who was kind, a healer, and suddenly his small, one-room home was crowded with poor, some slaves, some simply those that had no magic and weren’t nobles. Free healing was popular, it seemed.
Now, he traveled to his regular market, an entire sovereign scraped together from donations to spend on medical supplies, perhaps some bread if he could manage it. He’d become better at ignoring the injustice he knew he couldn’t stop – and blocking out Justice’s cacophony of protests. He politely took his usual bag of medicines and bandages from a friendly merchant. Nearly free, since he’d healed the man’s nephew from a jaw broken so severely he would have died of starvation, unable to eat.
He was delighted; he had money for food! Perhaps he’d treat himself to something. His mind roamed the pastries of the nearby baker, the warm scent taunting him. It was near enough that in the morning, when the fresh bread was being baked, his home filled with the smell. It drove him nearly mad.
If he focused on the small things – healing every broken bone that came his way, the delight of having a little extra to spend on sweets – it became easier to forget the tragedies that had occurred, what felt like so recently. Justice had calmed since then, and his own rage was quelled with sorrow. He still couldn’t be sure what of his actions were his own, from that time, and he’d decided long ago he didn’t want to know.
Distastefully, a slave auction was being held just across the street from his bakery. He wouldn’t make the mistake of looking, or listening-
“This one goes for a sovereign! He might not look much, but there’s a fortune in ‘im, you might as well be stealing from us!” A thud sounded, and Anders betrayed every rule in his surviving-Tevinter-with-your-neck-intact guide by turning and sparing the crowd a glance.
As expected, he greatly wished he hadn’t.
Silver lines etched skin that was splotched with purple and red, a face that was eerily blank, with the same proud lips and arched brows. The anger that had contorted that face when Ander’s knew it was currently replaced with pain, kneeling in the muddy cobbles with one leg that twisted sickeningly, an arm that was swollen and likely fractured, bruises covering the skin.
Well. Fenris looked like shit, and almost more disappointingly, he knew his almost-full sovereign was no longer going to be spent on sweets.
He’d almost forgotten about Fenris, the elf that Hawke had never quite liked, the one that he’d returned to his master. His stomach curled at the memory of his reaction when Hawke told him in his clinic the next day – he’d crowed, laughed, kissed Hawke with a smirk on his face.
His own betrayal came later, when Hawke decided that he wasn’t worth keeping around after destroying the Chantry. His heart had broken, his soul, and Justice was the only thing that kept him alive long enough to reach Tevinter. He grew to feel horrible shame for his actions then. Shame that was returning full-blast as he struggled hurriedly through the crowd. Shockingly enough, no one was bidding for a slave that looked too broken to fix; they must not have been mages, or they would recognize the lyrium in his skin for the treasure it was.
The man ‘nudged’ Fenris – kicking him in the ribs, hissing between his teeth, “Get up!” and Anders’ expression hardened. Fenris was barely conscious – kicking him wouldn’t help that. Of course, trying to talk sense into any of these blighted idiots was hopeless.
“Here! Not a full sovereign, but it’s more than you’ll get for him otherwise.” Anders shoved his money towards the auctioneer, who called a few times before sighing and tucking it away. He pulled Fenris roughly to his feet, shoving him into the mage’s arms with a disgruntled mutter – it seemed he wasn’t used to getting so little for his…wares. There would have been more fuss, but this wasn’t exactly an official auction – held on the side of the road, with slaves that hardly looked better than Fenris.
The trip home was fun. Short, and he supposed it was easier than if Fenris had been a human. He was heavy for an elf, but still lighter than Anders himself, and the healer managed to drag him to his shack. He closed the door – if anyone was in dire enough need, they’d come in anyway, but hopefully that would keep most of them out – and spread a now fully-unconscious Fenris out on the blood-stained mattress he used as a bed.
Now. To get to work.
He began by assessing the elf’s general condition, spreading hands that emanated a soft glow over his torso. Two broken ribs. Bruised lung. Several other, more minor injuries, but the one he was most concerned with was the damage the ribs might have done.
After an hour-long healing session, he was drained of mana and had gotten Fenris stable. He would have been worth more, if any of these bloody Tevinters bothered to learn magic that could actually be used for good. Perhaps it was a punishment from Danarius; perhaps he wasn’t supposed to survive. The last he remembered of the cruel magister, he’d sent Hawke a letter. He couldn’t remember the contents of it, his mind swirling with thoughts that were neither his nor Justice’s.
He started when he realized that Fenris’s eyes were open, staring straight ahead as though he were entranced. But he was clearly cognitive; why was he making that face? Why wasn’t he looking at Anders? The mage almost missed the familiar scowl that he saw no sign of, the derisive, sneering tone, anything familiar from his time in Kirkwall.
But Fenris simply stared, and finally Anders decided he would be the one to break the silence. “It’s…been awhile, Fenris.”
The elf didn’t respond, other than the slight tensing, a swallow moving his jugular up that long throat. “Fenris? Are you alright? Sit up.” Perhaps the damage was worse than he’d been able to sense? He shouldn’t have anything more severe than a few bruises and cuts, at this point.
The elf did so, quickly enough that Anders nearly stumbled back. “Maker, Fenris! And I was actually worried for you, for a moment there.” He stumbled over the words, a nervous laugh forcing its way out of his throat.
Fenris’s eyes flitted towards him, not going any higher than his chest before he fell to his floor, onto his knees. Words left his mouth, his tone strange and not sounding like…Fenris, at all, a quiet, pleading whisper.
“I apologize, Domine.”