The Consequences

Chapter 1

Long past midnight, Anders stood alone in the clinic. He was bent over the washbasin, had been scrubbing his hands vigorously, but now he stood still, staring. A dot of blood dropped into the water. Slowly it dissipated, and before long it was joined by another.

He touched his lip. He'd bit through it without even noticing.

"Anders, please," she'd urged him, her voice steady and calm, despite the horror that surged up inside him. "You must not."

He'd cried out, something guttural and strange that could have been a scream, and clutched her against his chest, cradling her head as though she were a child, as though she were the one screaming.

He wiped his mouth, finally tasting it.

A chill furrowed through him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Goosebumps rippled over his arms. He didn't have to see to know that a cold blue light reflected off the basin. He exhaled as though he could empty himself of air. The chill subsided for the moment.

"I left him there," she'd said, as Anders gingerly applied medicine to the lacerations on her neck. "Twitching." She'd swallowed hard.

His eyes had burned then and he'd squeezed them shut, turning away so she wouldn't see.

Anders went over it now, just as she'd described it in careful, measured words. How she'd whispered an incantation with her fingers dripping blood, how she'd shaken with fear that he would hear her, lying so close to her. But Fenris had been drinking, she'd told him, and if he'd heard anything at all, he hadn't the time to react: she'd turned over just as the convulsions began. Wet choking sounds gurgled from his throat, his eyes wide and staring, staring directly at her with knowing accusation, and as the tremors ripped through him she'd thrown herself from the bed and run.

Cold behind his eyes now, sharp and piercing. Anders wiped his lip again and dried his hands.

"You musn't," she'd said as he held her, rocking back and forth. Laying a hand on his arm to cover a flicker of blue light. "You musn't."

Anders knew that she had not been addressing him.

#

She was sound asleep in the straw-stuffed bed in the clinic's back room. Anders sat down beside her, relieved at the lack of tension in her expression. No nightmares tormented her. Twice he'd already changed the bandages on her neck, and he leaned down to inspect them now.

Dark bruises, eggplant purple and murky green, blossomed beneath the linen. He bit his lip. The image of Fenris — of that wild beast — closing his fingers around her throat . . . no. Even just the thought was too much.

He whispered it as quietly as he could: "I'm sorry, my love. I'm sorry. But he will not listen to me."

He reached out with one hand, a hand that was his but not his, and, wreathed in a cold blue glow, his fingers ran through her hair.

#

Fenris stumbled as he rushed down the foyer stairs. He seized the railing to keep from falling. His balance was off — had been off since he'd awakened in a stupor with bloody spume on his mouth and late sunlight slanting through the windows. He'd had no idea how much time had passed, and disjointed memories of the previous night were slow to return. But in a shattering moment of sobriety he recalled the agony of every single muscle in his body contracting at once as Hawke had looked on, terrified.

He hadn't taken much — didn't have much to take with him, anyhow — and raced now for the mansion's rear exit. It was time to leave this place for good.

He traveled the back alleys of Hightown, keeping close to the shadows, glancing about at every corner. He grasped the handle of his greatsword, ready to draw it at any time. Tied around his wrist was a scrap of red — a knot of torn fabric that he'd snatched from the bedchamber floor in a dizzying moment of partial consciousness.

#

Anders left the clinic, walking a path he did not know, seeing without seeing, and seeking out a purpose that was not his, that he had promised Hawke he would not pursue, and he was a shade moving in steadily-illuminating darkness, a passenger now in his own skin.

#

A tempestuous wind howled across the Wounded Coast, stirring the waves into a frenzy. Fenris picked along the jagged cliffs and shielded his face. The wind whistled through his gauntlets and tore at the sword on his back. Numerous times he nearly fell, and he stepped gingerly, feeling along the rock with his bare feet.

Because the wind whipped so, and the wild sea was roaring, he did not notice the veneer of blue light flicker from the rocks, and could not anticipate the arcane projectile that slammed, full force, into his spine.

He was thrown to the ground so suddenly that he didn't even cry out. He heard the crunching footfalls of someone running through the gravel. He flipped onto his back, reaching for his sword. But a second enchantment knocked him backwards, and he groped empty air.

His markings ignited. He tore from the ground, a blinding shock of silver on the night-black coast, and charged his attacker. A robed figure towered against an outcropping of rock, and for an instant his mind flashed to Danarius, though he knew who it must be, for it could be no one else.

Anders raised a staff, shouting an incantation.

Fenris splayed his claws, streaking forth and spouting hot silver light.

Anders's eyes blazed ghostly blue, and echoes of a deep and powerful voice rang out against the cliffs, and just as Fenris reached him he was struck by a final spell, collapsing at the mage's feet, the gritty shore rushing up to him, and the last thing he saw before blacking out was the wild spectral stare of those two blazing eyes.

#

From deep within himself, Anders watched the preparation of the ritual.

He walked a wide circle, counting his steps, while he drew a glyph in the sand of the cavern floor. He unpacked vials of lyrium and rolls of fraying linen. Fenris lay prostrate against the cavern wall, stripped of his chest plate, the steel gauntlets with their pointed claws.

When all was ready Anders moved him to the center of the glyph. He wondered how so slight an elf could fight with such ferocity. He bound together Fenris's wrists and ankles, and blindfolded him, knotting the linen tightly behind his head. Tiny crescent-moon cuts and scratches marred the dark face. Anders grit his teeth as he stood back up.

From the heap of Fenris's belongings, he produced the scrap of scarlet fabric. He'd recognized it immediately, and wound it now around and around his fingers, pulling it tight. He paced back and forth across the cave, then rolled the fabric into a tight ball. He went back to the glyph and knelt.

He dug his fingers into the soft flesh beneath Fenris's jaw, coaxing his mouth open. With two fingers Anders pushed the ball of fabric deep into the back of his throat. He secured it with a length of linen between the teeth, knotting it with a fierce jerk.

The Waking Sea crashed against the outer wall of the cavern. Anders rose. He collected the glass vials and sprinkled lyrium dust over the glyph. With the pads of his fingers he pressed dust into the silver looping pathways of Fenris's tattoos. He began to whisper, knowing well that the linen would not hold, should Fenris awaken.

He was leaning over Fenris when he caught sight of a white cloud of breath — Fenris's breath, escaping from his nostrils in a visible stream. To Anders, the world was steadily growing darker. He knew how he must be radiating cold, could see the goosebumps emerge on Fenris's flesh. He worked quickly, and stood over him at last, emitting a ghostly vapor that illuminated the room.

"To the Fade," Justice whispered, and Anders plunged into the frigid shadows.