The Book (Dragon Age II)

Everybody's a Critic

Anders was miserable.

Fenris' rage had continued, unabated, for weeks, regardless of how many times Anders apologized, or how many impromptu bonfires the mage had lit in front of the Tevinter Fugitive's estate to burn the pages of Varric's story and Isabela's illustrations.

There had been no answer from the cold, dark facade of the estate. Anders imagined that the hollow windows were the eyes of his lyrium-tattood Tevinter lover; now empty of any emotion.

You really did it this time.

The mage could barely function, he was so distraught. At the clinic, half of his patients had to remind him of what he was doing partway through his operations. ("There you are, little one," he said to a tiny mite of a girl elf. "You're now completely resistant to elemental attack." "But I have a toof ache!" the girl complained. "You said it hurt to eat cold things," Anders protested.)

His manifesto sat, gathering dust, on the table in his quarters. How can I fight for mage-kind when I can't be trusted to have a single relationship?

Even Hawke and the others had noticed his distraction. (That vein of silver reminds me of his skin, the mage thought longingly, hands idly tracing the length of his staff. "Anders!" Hawke howled, "I'm on fire!" Anders watched the flicker of flames against the silver and the dark rock, lost in memories of candlelit love-making. Nearby, the dragon roared and Anders smiled. Just like his voice. "Anders!" Hawke screamed.)

It wasn't long before Hawke started to leave Anders out of his missions. This suited Anders well enough; he couldn't bear Fenris' coldness toward him, or the way Hawke had nervously explained to the mage that Fenris no longer wanted healing or enhancements. That had hurt. Restraining himself from casting on the Tevinter was an immense trial of willpower. When Qunari blades had descended on the lyrium warrior, Anders had forced himself to turn away, sweating from the strain of self-restraint.

I can't do this.

"I'm sorry, Anders," Hawke had finally said. "Maybe you should take a break for a while."

Right. A break.

This left Anders to his own devices. He couldn't even stay at the Hanged Man and talk to Varric, knowing that Fenris might appear at anytime.

So the mage wandered the streets of Lowtown and Darktown until he had worn himself away, before finally retreating to his cold, empty clinic.

In his depression, he did not notice the eyes that followed him, or the strange aura hovering over Kirkwall.

**

Fenris felt a difference in the air when he woke. He slept very little, so the great change in such a little time was startling. He went to his window and looked out on the shadows of Kirkwall looming out of the opalescent, early-morning fog.

He first noticed Anders' conspicuous absence. The mage had set himself up at a small fire pit for the last few weeks, consistently, every night. Fenris had watched him burning sheets of paper, presumably the blighted pictures or the story itself. As if that makes a difference, the elf had sneered. All it did was make the guards nervous. Aveline herself had approached Fenris and asked him to do something about the mage.

"People are complaining," she had said. "Hightown residents."

"Let them," was his response. "Or arrest him."

"Oh, Fenris," she sighed. Her bright green eyes were sympathetic.

He hated it; both the sympathy and the fact that she knew what was going on. It was embarrassing. And dangerous.