Unschooled Hands 6

Hawke stared down at his hands. The blade had passed the point of clean hours ago, but still he mechanically buffed the polished steel which glinted in the light of the fire. From time to time he glanced up at the cave mouth, eyes narrowing beneath the fierce frown that had not left his face since they had emerged from the cave without the mage and the elf. Not for the first time, he berated himself for having sent Fenris.

He had been aware of the others regarding him quizzically as the afternoon had given way to evening, but as they'd set camp he had remained seated on the treestump, polishing his sword and watching the cave mouth, silent and brooding. Merrill had brought him a bowl of broth which sat on the ground near his feet, untouched and long since cooled.

"You're not fooling anyone, kiddo," remarked Varric quietly as he came to stand next to Hawke.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Varric," replied Hawke coolly, his eyes on his sword as his hands continued to polish nonexistant specks of dirt from the gleaming blade.

"You may fool Merrill with all your gruff talk and growling, but I can see you're worried sick about Anders."

"He's our only healer. Of course I'm worried."

"It's more than that, kiddo." The dwarf's hand came to rest on Hawke's shoulder, and the man's hands stilled on the blade. Hawke lowered his head and was silent for a while.

"How long have you known?" he finally asked Varric quietly.

"Long enough," Varric replied. "You've tried to hide it; I guess in your own way you were trying to deny it to yourself. But I recognise the signs of one who's head over heels kiddo."

"I tried to keep my distance," replied Hawke quietly.

"For what?" asked Varric, seating himself companionably on a nearby rock. "So you can make the both of you miserable instead of just yourself?"

"What do you mean?" asked Hawke, dropping his rag.

"Why do you think Blondie is always willing to drop everything at a moment's notice to come with us? Even when it means you dragging him away from his clinic?"

"I...." Hawke's voice faltered and then he groaned. Dropping his face to his hands. "I've made a mess of things, haven't I?" Varric's hand tightened upon his shoulder in sympathy. "Do you think Anders guessed?"

"You've been turning a cold shoulder to him and doing your damnedest to give the impression you're oblivious to his existence, but it doesn't seem to have put him off. You should see the puppy-dog eyes he gives you when he thinks you're not looking."

Hawke glanced back at the cave mouth. "I'm not leaving here without him and Fenris."

"Oh, you remembered the elf then," remarked Varric. "I was beginning to wonder."

"Fenris can handle himself just fine," replied Hawke tersely.

"Oh, I'm sure he can," remarked the dwarf with a wink. Hawke rolled his eyes.

"Anders has only his magic. If he's out of mana... Fenris can defend himself fine."

Varric nodded. "So that's why you sent the elf, even though he hates the mage's guts?"

Hawke snorted. "Fenris tolerates Anders well enough when he needs his healing."

"Here's hoping it's not the other way round then, because I doubt the elf would know what to do with a healing kit," replied Varric. "So, we're going back in there at dawn?"

Hawke nodded. Varric clapped him on the back. "Good lad. Now eat your broth." He gave the armoured shoulder a last pat before making his way back to the camp.

Hawke stared at the cave entrance for a while. Then he picked up the bowl and slowly began to eat the cold stew.

---

Fenris eased Anders gently down onto the stone floor next to the underground stream before shucking the pack, letting it fall to the ground as he knelt down by the water's edge. He glanced around the cavern as he stripped off his gauntlets. The rock chamber was empty, lit by sunlight from far above that filtered down through crevices in the rock. Fenris bent low over the water and scooped up a handful of water before cautiously tasting it. The water was clear and cold, with a faint metallic tang of minerals but otherwise seemed fine, so he drank deeply before unslinging his leather water canteen and filling it.

Then he turned his attention to the mage. The side of Anders' face was caked in dried blood, his hair matted with the stuff. Fenris pulled a handful of cloth bandage out of the backpack and dipped it into the stream, then set to work carefully cleaning the blood and dirt off the unconscious man's face. He let the water soak into the dirty blond hair then tried to clean out the blood as best he could, combing his fingers through the long silky strands. He turned Anders' face to one side so he could get a better look at the head wound. The cut seemed quite small, but the flesh around it was bruised and swollen. He carefully probed the area around it, trying to ascertain if the skull were broken; it seemed intact. He frowned and shook his head. All his training had been in myriad ways to kill someone, not how to heal them. He was painfully aware that he was out of his depth. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from Anders' closed eyes, then paused, his palm cupped against the stubbled cheek.

He stared down at Anders, and reflected that he had never really looked at the man before. He turned Anders' head gently and regarded his face thoughtfully. He'd never really considered Anders, the man, before; he had always been "the mage" or, more frequently, "the abomination", and Fenris had looked upon him as little as possible, frequently with feelings of disgust and revulsion. He represented everything the elf hated most, and he just would. Not. Shut. Up.

And yet now he was silent, unconscious and vulnerable, Fenris felt an unaccountable sense of loneliness. He would have welcomed the mage's barbed quips and sarcastic wit, even his whining and complaining. To see him in this state, broken and near death... once, Fenris might have bee pleased, satisfied, to see his hated enemy brought low, yet now he felt no animosity towards the apostate – only frustration at his inadequate skills to help him.

"Wake up," he murmured quietly. "Open your eyes." He cradled the pale face almost tenderly between his palms, staring intently down at the closed eyes. Anders made no answer, though his eyelids shivered and flickered briefly, revealing a glimpse of white before closing again.

"Anders," Fenris called softly. Anders slowly opened his eyes, his amber gaze unfocused as he blinked slowly.

"Where am I?" he murmured hoarsely.

"We are still underground," replied Fenris quietly. "I found a stream. You should drink; you've lost a lot of blood."

Anders blinked again and tried to focus on the elf. "Fenris?"

"Yes, Fenris," replied the elf. He slid an arm around the mage's shoulders and helped him to sit up; Anders blinked dazedly as he slumped against the elf. Fenris took a small drinking cup out of the backpack; he dipped it into the cool running water then brought the cup carefully to Anders' lips.

"Drink," he ordered, and Anders obeyed, sipping slowly. When the cup was empty, Fenris set it down. Anders sighed faintly and leaned his head back against the elf's shoulder as his eyelids drooped closed.

"Anders?" Fenris reached up and tapped the mage's bloodless cheek lightly. "Stay with me, Anders."

Anders made a small sound of protest but opened his eyes wearily. "So tired," he whispered. "Hawke?"

"Hawke is waiting for us," replied Fenris with a certainty he didn't entirely feel.

They sat in silence for a while, the mage encircled within the steady, sure embrace of the elf. After a while, Fenris gently called Anders' name; then again, a little louder and more insistent when the apostate didn't respond.

"Anders, wake up!" he ordered, but Anders' eyes remained closed, his breathing harsh and loud in the otherwise-silent space. Fenris felt for the mage's pulse;  it was slow yet steady. Laying Anders down, Fenris peeled back first one eyelid and then the other. He frowned; the right pupil was wider and darker than the left. He shook his head; he had no idea what this meant and cursed his lack of experience. He had no way to diagnose what ailed the mage; he had no doubt the mage himself would have known at a glance what was wrong, but Fenris himself was utterly baffled. He slapped Anders' cheek again, a little harder this time, and called Anders once more, but the blond man was utterly unresponsive, his breathing noisy and slow.

Fenris sat back on his haunches and huffed white hair out of his face. He was at the limit of what he could do. This was a battle he did not know how to fight. His fingers itched to do something, but he was helpless to know what.

He bent low over the mage's still form and took Anders' face once more between his hands.

"You will not die," he declared, voice low and insistent. "I will not allow it."

Then he slung the backpack onto his back once more before carefully gathering Anders back up into his arms once more. Glancing around the cavern, he picked the left of the two exits which seemed to lead back uphill again, and began to follow it.