Unschooled Hands 5

Something heavy was pinning him down. He tried to roll over, but the weight upon his legs held him firmly. He ached all over from myriad bruises, and his right arm and side of his face stung as though scorched. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the darkness. His eyelashes were caked with dust. He lifted a hand and tugged his gauntlet off with his teeth then wiped his eyes. He concentrated a little, and his lyrium markings slowly flared into life, bathing the area with their soft silvery white glow. He glanced around.

Anders was sprawled beneath him, unconscious. Blood was matting his blond hair and had trickled down the side of his face, and fresh blood was staining his bandages. Fenris pressed two fingers against the side of Anders' throat and relaxed a little when he felt the pulse, steady and slow. At least he wasn't dead. Fenris rested back upon his elbow and considered their situation.

As the ball of flame had exploded in the tunnel, the back-blast had washed back towards them even as Anders had started to slowly crumple to the ground, drained and exhausted beyond the point of collapse. Fenris had grabbed the fainting mage around the waist and bodily dragged him backwards as he fled back down the tunnel. He hadn't been quite fast enough; the flame had rolled over the top of him, scorching the side of his face and his arm as he lifted it to protect himself as he threw them both to the ground, protecting the unconscious mage with his own body.

Then the tunnel behind them, weakened by the blast, had collapsed inwards, sending boulders and rocks hurtling and bouncing down the narrow path. They had been trapped in the rock fall.

He could see no sign of Anders' staff, but he still had the backpack and his greatwsord – not that either were much use at this point, hemmed in by rocks as they were. Their legs were pinned down by several boulders and a tumble of smaller rocks and gravel. By kicking and wriggling his legs, Fenris was able to slowly dislodge them, and he gradually worked himself free. Then sliding his hands under Anders' shoulders, he began to carefully pull him free until he had the mage safely cradled in his arms, battered and bloody but still alive. Then he looked at the wall of fallen rock blocking the way back.

They certainly wouldn't be able to return that way, but at least the darkspawn wouldn't be able to pursue them down that path either. He wondered how many Justice had managed to destroy with his fireball.

He stared down at the unconscious man in his arms. Anders looked to be in a pretty bad state, but in the poor half-light from his lyrium markings and the glowing green mosses along the walls he couldn't make a proper examination of him. He would have to hope for the best and keep going, trusting that the tunnels would lead back to the main cavern and not straight into another horde of darkspawn. He set off carefully, the apostate a limp dead weight in his arms as he inched his way sideways through the narrow passageway.

He tried not to think too hard about the warm dampness he could feel seeping through the mage's bloodied and tattered robes.

---

Hawke doubled over coughing as he stumbled out into the fresh air, Isabela just behind him and not faring much better. A glance back reassured him that Varric had Merrill well in hand and they were both alright – or as alright as they could be, considering the roof of the cavern had dropped on them and very nearly crushed them.

He made his way to a nearby treestump and sat down, pulling out a rag and starting to clean the gore from his blade. If sheathed it in that state, it would glue itself to the leather and the ichor would pit the metal. He set to work.

"What in the name of the Maker's blue balls happened back there?" growled Isabela, spitting to rid her throat of rock dust before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"The roof fell in," replied Merrill simply as she sank down onto the cool grass then ran a hand through dusty hair.

"I know that," said Isabela in exasperation. "I mean, why did it fall in? That must have been one hell of an explosion to cause it to shift like that."

"Well, I guess it answered the question of whether Blondie is still alive," observed Varric, unslinging Bianca and starting to wipe her down.

"Or was, at any rate," replied Hawke quietly. He stared back at the cave mouth, where dust still billowed like grey-brown smoke, the haze curling in lazy tendrils in the late afternoon sun.

"D'you think they'll make it? Fenris and Anders?" asked Merrill quietly. Isabela shrugged. Varric bent over the stock of Bianca, saying nothing. The elf glanced up at Hawke, who stared down at the blade across his knee, hands stilling upon the rag.

"We'll stay till dawn," he said quietly.

"And then?" she asked, her voice hushed.

Hawke shook his head but did not answer. After a while, his hands began to work cleaning the blade once more, obsessively polishing out every last speck of dirt even though the blade already gleamed.

Merrill drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, turning her gaze back to the empty mouth of the cave.

"I miss Anders," she said quietly.

---

Fenris paused as he inched cautiously along the passageway. From somewhere up ahead, he thought he could hear the sounds of running water; the tunnel seemed to grow lighter, too, though that may have been his imagination. It was hard to be sure of anything in these labyrinthine tunnels; sound carried oddly, and the strange light from the moss cast uncertain shadows. Several times he had thought he saw something moving out of the corner of his eye, only to realise it had simply been his own shadow.

Anders had not stirred once, not even to murmur a protest when Fenris had stumbled, catching the mage's limp hand roughly against the rock walls. More than once the elf  had paused and held his own breath, listening to check that Anders still lived.

If forced to admit it, even if only to himself, Fenris was beginning to find a grudging admiration for the tenacious way the mage still clung to life. He was no longer entirely sure it was his sense of duty to Hawke and the burden of his own guilt that kept him going instead of abandoning the apostate to his fate. Everything he had ever known or been taught screamed that mages could not, must not be trusted; everything they touched turned to ruin and regret. And Anders was an abomination; he had willingly accepted a spirit into himself in an unholy bargain.

And yet....

Fenris shook his head stubbornly. No. He only tolerated the mage to live because Hawke found him useful; no other reason. Were he not under the man's protection, Fenris would have ripped the mage's heart out without a second thought or regret long ago.

Wouldn't he?

He faltered, and stared down at the deathly pale face of the man he carried. The man he should, by rights, hate merely for existing. The man who- no, the abomination who should not be tolerated to live. Would it not be a mercy to end his life? To sever the unholy tie between his soul and that of the demon that inhabited his flesh? He had seen, spoken with that entity; seen its alien nature with his own eyes. He had seen it possess the slender mage; witnessed the carnage it could wreak. It would be a kindness to liberate the man's soul from such servitude.

And yet....

He had seen those soft brown eyes regarding his patients with compassion as he healed them. He had watched the man selflessly toiling in his clinic, working himself to exhaustion and yet never turning away any who needed him. He had seen the mage throw himself in the path of danger to heal Hawke and their companions, time and time again. Even he, Fenris, had been the recipient of the apostate's healing talents, in spite of the derision and hatred Fenris had shown him.

He stared down at the unconscious man in his arms for long moments, listening to the faint rasp of his breathing.