dumbshow | highly new, slightly improved open post

[Wow! Don't give him shit for the easiest solution!]

I didn't realize your opinion could change.

[He can and will, thank you.]

I am not incapable of it.

[He says, grudgingly, in face of all known evidence.]

Can you truly imagine the two of us making a trip like this ten years ago? At the very least, you must have noticed that.

[Hmm, that is a point, but is it enough for Anders, this very minute, while he's getting a head start on the sullen thing? Hmm.]

To be fair, you weren't going to give me a choice, were you?

[You know, back in the woods, etc. Which makes him think, and so at last he must ask:]

Why me, if you're so afraid of what I might do? Merrill would have been easier to find.

You aren't a blood mage.

[He says it curtly. There's something he'll literally never change his mind on.]

And I knew there was no risk of you offering me cloying pity in the guise of empathy.

[the one thing they agree on]

She is a little difficult to stomach after a while, isn't she?

[Full offense, Merrill, wherever you are. Blood magic: no excuses.]

I've never pitied you.

I'm aware. It's one of your few charms.

[It really is, honestly. He'd been braced for mockery and scorn-- honestly, he's still braced for that, half-expecting Anders to eagerly leap on the chance to grind salt in the wound. But never pity. He's not so damp as that.]

Never mind the fact I wasn't eager to spend even more time back in Kirkwall.

[He'll find something to scorn later, he's sure. If he must pick between two radically different views of magic, derisive fear is somehow still more palatable than idiotic blood magic demon summoning—

He probably shouldn't have wandered this close to Tevinter, he's realizing. Ah, well.]

I don't think I'm legally allowed in Kirkwall anymore. [which, fair, so anyway--] So here we are.

You think.

[Please. But yes, here they are, and while it's far from ideal, it's . . . hm. Less painful than he'd steeled himself for. Anders is less in-your-face about mage rights and mage persecution and mage mage mage (to borrow one of his ticks), and that makes it easier. Perhaps that's awful to think, given how tired Anders seems-- but on the other hand, Fenris is tired too. Perhaps they all are, after Kirkwall, and maybe that makes it easier. A petty fight takes a little too much sometimes.

They go a little further, but it's not too long before he's prodding tentatively at his arm.]

It's bleeding again . . .

[Maybe. Maybe it's because he's prodding at it, who can say, but either way: it hurts, damn.]

Maybe they hung my picture up at the Hanged Man. You don't know.

[Ha— but maybe they earnestly did, maybe he wouldn't even be welcomed by the people in Darktown anymore. Even the escaped Circle mages had insisted he set out on his own eventually, so, you know. It's been one thing after another until he settled not so comfortably into wandering homelessness.

At least they saved some mages today, as much as confused elves who acquired magic not even weeks ago are mages. That counts for something.

Anyway, Maker--]

Stop touching it, why don't you? [sigh!] Let me see it again.

[He's going to run out of magic entirely because some people can't resist picking at scabs.]

I wouldn't touch it if it was healed properly.

[Grumbled out, ignoring the absolutely valid and vital fact that Anders has burnt through quite a bit of magic today. Still, he's yanking up his sleeve properly, nudging armor out of the way.

But ah--]

Here.

[He was saving this for camp, so he could offer it and hten dramatically retire to his bedroll, but here: the most miniature bottle of lyrium ever. Pocket-sized, for his convenience.]

From the wagon.

[Of all the unexpected gestures, Fenris handing him a vial of lyrium is so unexpected it didn't even make the list. What is this? Who is this and what happened to Fenris?

Anders does take it, make no mistake, but he doesn't at all hide the extreme disbelief he feels over it. Whomst...]

You— you're really handing me a shot of lyrium like it's nothing. Are you going to run me through the second I pop the cork?

[Is this a test? Harrowing.......2!!: Fenris edition??]

Shut up and say thank you.

[He scowls at him. Is nothing easy?]

I'm not unaware of the toll today took. There was no need for you to heal those we rescued, but you did. And for that, I am grateful.

Take it. I'm not putting up with you whining about how exhausted you are all night.

You brought me along to help!

[Is healing not helping! Why would he not heal them!! Whatever, he's got the thing, but he's not going to tip it back in one go just yet. Frankly, he hasn't gotten his hands on any lyrium in ages, and if the Veil is having some kind of... episode, who knows if he's in for an actual second Harrowing if he isn't careful--

But that's nobody's business but his own, because Fenris will be dramatic about it, so he simply sighs and nudges Fenris' injured arm up, setting the same healing spell as before to the injury and frowning.]

Don't pick at it all night and I won't have to say a word.

[Including thank you, which he has still not said, but whatever. He can make only so many concessions in a single day.]

Heal it better and I won't either.

[How long can a conversation go on before one of them allows the other the last word? It doesn't matter. He's scowling fiercely in another direction, glaring at the horizon as though it's personally offended him. Impatiently, he shoves up his sleeve again.

And look, is this the pettiest point ever? Yes. Should he let it lie? Also yes. However, it's either speak or ruminate on his thoughts, and fuck that.]

Are you really not going to say thank you?

[He's not offended. He's mostly just picking a fight just to talk, honestly.]

I'm trying to concentrate, if you don't mind.

[So no, he's not, shut up. They can both be big, stupid children over this; that's a dynamic Anders is accustomed to, whatever unflattering truth that says about the two of them. Whatever.

Still, staring at injuries in grumpy silence is... very boring... He will make a different concession: having a conversation, just not one thanking Fenris for generously looting a body after he told Anders they wouldn't have anything useful on them. Prick.]

Now what's next? Are you going to check up on those elves?

[This is, admittedly, a far better topic of conversation. Perhaps someday they'll develop to a point where he can say so.]

Not personally, no.

But the place I sent them will have food and shelter, and give them a few days to decide what they wish to do next. I imagine most won't wish to return home, in which case they'll direct them either to the nearest city or Dalish encampment.

[A beat, and then he amends:]

Mage friendly Dalish encampment.

[Which means he needs to either suffer through the painstaking process of writing a letter or hiring someone to do so, just to be sure the woman running the safehouse (which is a barn, really, but a pleasant one) knows. Damn.]

They rarely wish to be reminded of their narrow escape. I doubt they'd wish to see my face again.

[Shirallas had written to them sometimes, but then he'd gone and gotten himself enslaved and driven-- mm, not mad, but delusional. So. It's just him, now.]

Oh.

[Mm, and there's a pang of familiarity again; to become the grim reminder of hardship. The Kirkwall mages had been, ah, quite clear that they resented Anders' hand in making them live out their lives as fugitives, and so he'd gone. The elves would rather not remember their time in captivity, and so Fenris disappears.

Great choice of topic, Anders. Really killing it out here.]

And in the meantime you, what... lurk in taverns? Until someone whispers in your ear about another wagon?

[He does want to know, actually, because that's a lot of time to be shut up in a room not allowed outside, if he's going to stick around and teach more magic.]

Going to switch careers?

[He make little joke. Fenris shifts his weight, considering how he wants to answer. It's odd: he wouldn't say he trusts Anders, because that would be trusting- -well, a man consumed by a demon, frankly, and he's seen how that ends too many times to trust one fully.

And yet he does, because there's no doubt in his mind that Anders won't abuse this knowledge. Trusts him, too, enough to fall asleep in his presence; trusts him not to go running to the nearest slaver just across the border, despite the fact even now, Fenris would fetch a fairly high price.

It's nothing new. But it is vaguely interesting.]

Hardly.

There are a few people I pay to keep me informed on such matters. Slavers are careless, especially near the Tevinter border. And despite what precautions they take, they aren't particularly clever. Moving elves takes a particular set of supplies and preparations. It's easy to spot the patterns once you learn them; from there, it's down to simply picking a lonely spot and ideal time.

[Varric maintains what he jokingly calls a spy network, but truthfully, what Fenris has isn't far from that. Except it's not really a spy network, that sounds so pretentious. Just a group of people he can rely upon for certain information delivered honestly.

It's not enough. It's picking off little wagons when the slave trade continues on in earnest. But it's what he can do, and so it's what he does. Six free elves are better than none.]

They've caught on these past few years. I stay on the move and target different companies-- there's a few main ones. Today was a more minor one.

[Better plan: blow up Tevinter--]

I'm sure there's some lurking in taverns involved.

[There has to be, what kind of old friend of Hawke doesn't lurk in a good tavern every now and then? But hm— spiriting away elves in slaving caravans is not quite as, ah, openly embraced and welcomed as the templars stomping on every mage they come across, but now that elves are becoming mages all at once...

Anders frowns again; at himself, because he knows that despite all better judgment he's going to offer to help Fenris more than just this once. It is, frankly, inevitable, and if he can take a few detours to kill a templar here and there, all the better for it— but he still has some of his pride, and so he must quip irritably for a while yet.

Fenris surely understands that particular kind of pettiness. Anders reaches for his pack, this time to wrap an actual bandage around Fenris' arm so he won't pick at the wound like a child. Hold still.]

I have a question for you.

[A beat.]

And keep in mind that if you decide to tear my throat out for asking questions, your arm is going to hurt a lot more for much longer. I'm not— well, just so you know in advance, I'm not suggesting anything. I'm only curious.

[Which he feels he should probably specify, considering his question is:] If you had the opportunity to do something like I did in Kirkwall, for the elves, would you do it?

[His first instinctive reaction is indeed to tear Anders' throat out, which is why it's good he tugs particularly sharply at the bandage the second Fenris opens his mouth. A grunt of pain slips past his lips instead, which is for the best. It forces him to think for half a second.]

Do not mistake me for Merrill. I don't go to the alienages and weep over the elves and their lost glory.

[It's slaves he's concerned with, not elves as a whole, despite there being an overwhelming overlap. Anders knows that, surely, but still: it never hurts to clarify. It also buys him a few extra seconds.]

. . . no. But not for the reasons you imagine.

[He stares steadily ahead. What Anders had done to the Chantry was barbaric, frankly, and horrifying in its enormity. It killed not just the guilty, but the innocent too, and what was the use in that? Admittedly, it sent a statement, but Fenris still isn't convinced it was the right one. And maybe Anders the man would have known that, but it was Justice-- or Vengeance, whichever-- that pushed him into it. Which just goes to show that spirits and demons are really one in the same, but that's far from the point.

Besides: Anders might have no love for the Chantry, but Fenris had. Awkwardly, uncertainly, but he had. So no, the thought is still repugnant to him, frankly.

But that isn't what Anders is asking.]

I have thought of it. Of slaughtering all those who keep slaves in Tevinter, every last one of them. Wiping them out to a man, watching the streets run red with their blood . . .

[He did not dream of it until he was free, is the thing. Not til Kirkwall. He wouldn't have dared in captivity, too focused on the desperate present, half-brainwashed through sheer abuse, so desperate to please that even the thought of minor disobedience was unthinkable. Even with the Fog Warriors-- well.]

Your mages did not want you around afterwards, did they? The Circle mages you saved. They resented you for taking away the one point of stability they knew.

If I were to do that-- to blow up the slave pens in Minrathous, or the seat of the Magisterium-- nothing would change. There might be a few slaves who would rebel, but most would be desperate to return back to what they knew. The mages would reestablish order, and come down even more harshly upon them. And nothing would change.

[Inhale, exhale, soft and steady. It's a time that's over and dead, but maybe he'll never be able to talk about it without feeling some quiet panic.]

I was desperate to return back the first time I had a taste of freedom.

[Why is he telling Anders this? Perhaps because Anders has never understood that kind of mentality. He has always been driven towards freedom and escape, so far as Fenris understands.]

When all you know is one thing-- when you have grown so used to the abuse that you look forward to the moments when it isn't so prominent, when you have been taught that your master's mood is all that matters, when you know that if you please him well enough, the next hour may be peaceful, when you have someone who will guide you and, in theory, keep you from being hurt-- you wish to keep things stable. The hell you know is better than the hell you don't, and at least in one, you are not alone. He even--

[Anyway. Comparing templars and masters won't help, and it's not the point. The point is:]

So no. I would not.

[. . .]

But I . . . I understand the urge.

[...Well.

It's true, is the thing: not for the first time Anders is struck by the dim realization that he, indeed, is the odd one out when it comes to relentless pursuit of freedom. Sure, there have been other mages who have fought for their rights, but even before joining with Justice there has been something left burning deep within him that refuses to take the abuse with his head down. Escape attempt after escape attempt, and even after being thrown into the cold and dark of solitary for a year, he'd come out quipping about the cat.

So. When he thinks of the look in the eyes of those mages sprung from the Gallows, uncertain and fearful of the future he'd engineered for them— it is him who is the exception, in that sense. Not every person is equipped, he supposes, to trade the banal cruelty they know for the looming uncertainty of other, of something else entirely.

That, he understands. Sort of. Conceptually, he does, he's never been first to claim that the life he chooses to lead is relaxing and without its many stressors, but it is free.

But.]

Someone had to.

[Change for mages— or elves or just the slaves or whoever else— doesn't happen overnight, but nor does it happen with polite requests and handling the oppressors with kid gloves for fear of undue retribution. Years of peaceful attempts at discussion while Kirkwall continued to deteriorate around him taught him that much.

He tugs on the bandage again, letting an extra healing spell seep through it to the wound, just in case.]

I don't— The mages from the Circle are free to resent me. I don't blame them. How could I possibly blame them?

[Don't answer that. Just know that he is aware, much as he might have disapproved in the past of Circle mages insisting that life in the Circle is good; not the lesser of two evils, not tolerable as long as you learned early which templars would sooner kick you in the head than anything else, but good. That's just ridiculous. Those few mages resent him for the wrong reasons.

Anyway.]

I was twelve when the templars took me away in shackles. Six months later was the first time I escaped. I kept doing it, too, aside from— [and just thinking about Karl even now is like a knife to the heart, so he falters, but,] Aside from when I had someone to stay for. Nothing the templars did to me could stop me from leaving, in the end.

[He shrugs, tying off the end of the bandage and stepping back, done with it; will telling Fenris his life story miraculously change his mind? No, but giving him at least a little does feel fair, after Fenris'... explanation.]

I know that mages won't be rightfully free in my lifetime. I didn't do what I did to the Chantry for me, but for every child over the years whose father loves them until suddenly he doesn't, because the Chantry decided that a circumstance of someone's birth makes them guilty in the eyes of the Maker.

[So fuck the Chantry, sorry, but fuck the Chantry. He's not changing his mind on that particular point, ah, ever.]

For what it's worth, I do see where you're coming from. [But hey, what's going to make this better? More idly curious but still piercing questions!] Do all the elves you free this way stay free?

[He listens, which is rare enough. He doesn't really think about how mages are taken to their Circles in places outside of Tevinter, truth be told. He had a vague idea, sure, but there's something about the image of a child in shackles that's, hm, distressing, even to him. Even Fenris doesn't fear a mage child; he just fears what it will grow up to become.

What I may become, he remembers with a jolt.

He barely notices when Anders finishes tying him off; he's too absorbed in this conversation. It may be the first one they've had that hasn't immediately devolved into sniping. Why? Because Justice is no longer present? Because Fenris has a slightly better appreciation for being on the other side? Both, maybe. He'll figure it out later.]

Those who were only recently taken and sold still tend to dream they can return home, and often so do. Those who were sold by their families are . . . less enthused. They have no desire for slavery, but nor do they know what to do with themselves.

Some assisted me for a time.

[Others fled to the Dalish, or took their chances on the road. He isn't responsible for them once they're freed, for his sanity's sake.]

Their spirits aren't yet broken. That, I think, is the deciding factor. You were twelve when you were taken. Perhaps you knowing what freedom was pushed you into constant escape. Those bred into slavery, those who are enslaved for over a year and have had the horrors of what attempting escape will bring beaten into the forefront of their mind . . .

Yes, those return. And so I rarely bother to try and free them.

[There's a quiet implication stitched in there, and one Fenris certainly hadn't meant. But it's notable, comparing Anders' plight with that of slaves within the same sentence.]

You don't?

[It comes as a surprise if not a shock, although Anders supposes there is a logic in it. If they would return anyway, if it would be worse for them upon said return... Being thrown into solitary at the Circle had been the worst of his punishments though not nearly the only one, and he can objectively acknowledge that a, hm, weaker mind wouldn't last through so much cruelty.

Still. To simply leave them puts an uneasy pit in his stomach, pitying; perhaps if Thedas would just invent therapy, instead of killing or making Tranquil anyone who dares to defy the latest arbitrary laws of wherever they are—

It's exhausting, to step back and be faced with just how many uncertainties there still are. Instead he shakes his head, looking down at the ground and then back at the road, into the distance. Hmm.]

I wanted to go home, the first time I escaped the Circle. If only to see my mother again— to see if she was alright. I hadn't said a word since they took me away and the first thing I ever said to the First Enchanter was some blubbering, wailing gibberish about my mother. He told the templars to be kinder to me, so that I wouldn't try it again.

[He's quiet a moment, then shrugs. A childhood free of templar shackles and constant supervision did spoil him, then, sure.]

After that I just wanted to escape.

[What does he know of mothers? Very little, frankly. He has faint memories of a hand brushing through his hair, a warm presence, but even that might not be real. And yet some part of him must remember, because his stomach twists sickishly as Anders describs that.

He can almost imagine it. To be so traumatized that one goes silent-- oh, he knows that feeling well. It's common, never mind in a child. So take that feeling, yes, and apply it to someone small and blond and-- and a mage, yes, someone who needed to be taken away for both their and the world's own good, but still.

It's a story that's discomfiting. It's nothing he hadn't known about in theory, but still. It's different to hear it applied to someone he knows. Different, too, in the wake of seeing those freed slaves stumbling away, fleeing from horrors unknown.

Hmm. Anders has been asking piercing and yet idle questions to both their success-- so you know what, it's time for him to return the favor.]

Would you ever go back?

[It's not as if he has anything tying him down to their present location. Besides: the Anderfels are right up against the Tevinter border-- and far be it for Fenris to suggest a roadtrip, but still, he's just thinking, it wouldn't be the most inconvenient thing in the world if they gently headed in that direction.]

For your mother. Just to see her again.

[It's not a question that takes him by surprise, even coming from Fenris, who surely does not have any real investment in Anders seeing his mother again. It isn't the first time he's been asked, either, although years and years ago in hushed voices in the Circle tower, it carried a different weight than this.

He thinks about it, though not for very long.]

I wouldn't even know if she's still there.

[His parents were farmers and so she is either still there or she's dead, and it's been a lifetime, it's been actual decades, and he's— well. He still carries her pillow, faded and nearly flattened with age, and the same part of him that longed to see her again for so long also fears, in the small way of a child, that he would find her with a new life, another son who isn't a mage and still has parents who care for him, or something. It would sting.

...He did also blow up a Chantry, which surely wouldn't endear him to anyone back home.]

No. I wouldn't. The risk would be too much, besides— well, besides. The templars took everything from me time and again. If my last memory of my mother is to be her anguish so that the templars won't darken her doorstep again, then so be it. For her sake.

[And would it press on something dark in him if he were to return, anyway? If his father still lives, if he looks him in the eye all these years later and sees the same resentment and fear, if the bitterness stirs itself up to a frenzy, then what?

No, it's better this way.]

Maybe I'll write. [but probably not,] That would be one hell of a surprise, wouldn't it?

highly new, slightly improved open post

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