literature

Sine Tranquillus ch. 14

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Anders became aware of three things simultaneously when he finally awoke.

His head was splitting.

His stomach was twisting itself in knots.

And he desperately needed to pee.

He managed to open his eye slowly, and instantly regretted it. A lance of pain shot through his head, the light in the room blinding. He shut his eye instantly and whimpered as the throbbing in his skull intensified. His stomach gave a rebellious lurch, and he realised dismally that he was about to throw up.

A warm hand rubbed reassuring circles on his back, then shifted to brush his hair away from his face.

“There is a bowl here.”

He didn't question the voice or how the speaker seemed to know what he needed. He opened his eye, saw a large, slightly chipped white enamelled bowl held by a dark lyrium-lined hand, and managed to lever himself up on one arm enough to hang his head over the bowl. The next few minutes were filled with the unpleasant experience of his stomach doing its best to turn itself inside out, his mouth and nose filled with the taste and scent of bile and regurgitated wine. He could barely draw breath between each spasm of retching, his feet pushing uselessly against the tangled blankets as his stomach heaved and his guts clenched even after there was nothing left in his stomach and he was only bringing up bile and phlegm.

He became distantly aware of the hand gently stroking his hair back out of his face and a quiet rumble of murmured soothing sounds as he finally slumped back down onto the bed, wrung out and spent, shivering and exhausted. He must have moaned or made some other pitiful noise; the hand stroking his hair shifted to gently brush his cheek.

“Easy there. It's over, it's done. Just breathe.”

That voice. He should recognise that voice. he couldn't think straight for the throbbing agony in his head. He was aware of a fiery itching in the scarred empty socket of his missing eye.

He felt the mattress lift and made a weak, protesting sound.

“Shh, easy, mage. I will be back in a moment.”

“Nnngh... n-not a mage,” he managed to moan. His head ached too much to even think straight. There was something he'd forgotten, but he couldn't focus beyond the hollow emptiness of his stomach and the lancing pain in his skull.

The mattress dipped again, and then the gentle reassuring touch of a hand in his hair briefly before a cool, damp cloth was laid across his brow.

“'M dying,” he managed to groan. There was a soft rumbling chuckle.

“No, mage, though doubtless you wish you could. When did you last drink that much?”

“Can't remember,” Anders moaned. “Kill me.”

“After all the trouble I've gone to for you? No, I think not.” There was amusement in the voice that chastised him. The voice was very familiar; it sounded like Fenris, but that couldn't be possible. He couldn't imagine Fenris being this gentle and caring, stroking the hair back from his face and trailing fingers lightly down the side of his face and oh, but he was kind of liking this, but if it were Fenris then this had to be a dream because Fenris wouldn't -

“Why wouldn't I?” asked Fenris.

Anders' eye opened wide as he realised that yes, it was indeed Fenris stroking his hair.
                 
He flinched without thinking and then cried out as the incautious movement made his head throb anew.

“Calm yourself, Anders. I mean you no harm,” said Fenris quietly. “Wait one moment; I have a healing potion here somewhere.” The elf rose and moved away.

Anders blinked. Healing potion. He had called for a healing potion... when? Why? Something on the edge of his memory.... He frowned. He couldn't think straight, but it seemed somehow important. Something about having run out of healing potions.

He sat up gingerly as Fenris returned to his side and held a small flask out to him. Anders accepted it with a grimace and downed it, then lowered the empty flask and stared at it as the pounding headache at last began to recede. He frowned as he hefted the glass bottle. There was something... a reason he'd needed a healing potion, a reason why he'd gotten so drunk to be this hungover -

Mae. He couldn't save her.

He felt Fenris' hands upon his shoulders; was dimly aware of the elf calling his name above the sudden roaring his ears as his vision greyed. It took him a few moments of blank-minded grief before he realised the high-pitched keening he could hear was coming from his own throat.

“Mage - Anders! Venhedis, please, calm down and breathe!”

Fenris' words finally registered, and Anders drew a deep, shuddering breath. He managed to focus his gaze on the elf and realised that Fenris was regarding him with concern and worry. Anders drew another breath, then another, and then belatedly realised he was clutching the front of Fenris' tunic, the fabric twisted and bunched in his white-knuckled grip. He managed to disengage his hands with difficulty, and was unsurprised to find his hands were trembling.

What did surprise him was Fenris, who released his shoulders only to take Anders' shaking hands in his. Anders dropped his gaze to their joined hands, staring dumb-founded at his own pale fingers in the sure, warm grip of Fenris' sword-callused yet gentle lyrium-lined fingers.

“I-I don't understand,” he faltered.

“You need understand nothing, Anders; only this: that I would care for you, if you will allow me?”

Anders lifted his gaze to meet Fenris' green eyes, uncomprehending. Fenris sighed.
                 
“But....” Anders began, shaking his head slowly in bewilderment. “But why? I don't understand any of this. Ever since I lost my eye, I've been unable to figure you out.” He dropped his gaze back to their hands again. “Since I lost my magic,” he added, a bitter note creeping into his voice. He suddenly lifted his head, narrowing his eye. “Is that it? Suddenly I'm more tolerable now that I'm not a mage any more? Or is this just pity?” He tried to pull away suddenly but Fenris' grip upon his hands tightened.
                 
“There is nothing pitiable about you, Anders,” said Fenris quietly. “I do not think many would have handled the loss of their eye and – yes, the core of their identity – half as well as you have. You are resilient, and stubborn, and resourceful. You took down half the slavers by yourself, then four templars unaided.” He lightly shook Anders' hands; Anders glanced up at him, startled. “Anders, do you not understand why I returned to the clinic to aid you?”

Anders shook his head slowly.

“You have no further need of my training, but I have... grown accustomed to our time spent together, and I found that I missed it. Missed you.”

“You missed me?” echoed Anders. Fenris shrugged; a small, sheepish smile played across his lips.

“Strange, is it not? We spent so much time bickering that we never realised how alike, perhaps, we are. We have both spent a long time running away. And we have both found ourselves struggling to find a new identity for ourselves. And, yes, over the past few weeks I have grown accustomed to spending time with you – to look forward to it. When I accidentally caused you to drink that tainted lyrium and thought you might die...!”

He drew a shaky breath, and this time it was Anders' fingers that tightened on his.

“I'm not dead,” Anders pointed out quietly. “Though you were right – after throwing up like that I certainly felt like dying. Maker, I haven't drunk that much since the last time I tried to drink all the new recruits under the table with Oghren's special brew back at Vigil's Keep.” He pulled a face. “You'd think that experience would have put me off for life.”

“You seem to learn lessons the hard way, Anders,” smiled Fenris. Anders smiled back, ruefully.

“I do learn them eventually,” he said with a small shrug. “Sometimes I just need reminding.”

“And what do I need to do to remind you that I respect you as a valued companion, a skilled healer, a resourceful alchemist, and a fellow warrior? And as a friend, a -” Fenris broke off, his face colouring.

Anders blinked. “As...?” he echoed.

Fenris glanced away, and Anders stared at him. “Fenris?” he prompted softly.

“I missed you. And I feared for you. I thought....”
                 
“You thought what?” Anders' voice was still soft. Fenris glanced back at Anders, and then wordlessly lifted a hand to gently cup Anders' cheek. Anders held still, his one good eye widening slowly in dawning comprehension mixed with disbelief.

“Fen-”

“Hush,” whispered Fenris quietly as he leaned in, and silenced Anders with a kiss.
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Dromso's avatar
Hihihiiiiiii! XD