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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight	By : Serena_Hawke-Theirin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 13108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Anders muttered potions formulas under his breath as he rocked back and forth against the frigid stone wall of his cell. The quiet sound of his own voice echoed back from the blackness surrounding him. Had it finally happened? Had he finally plunged off the deep end completely?

Sometime before…was it hours? Days? Weeks ago? It was so difficult to tell...he could have sworn he heard the sound of Solona's cries penetrate the void of his prison. He had thought to jump from the pile of filthy straw on which he lay and call back to her. Instead, he closed his eyes to will the noise away. It wasn't real. It couldn't have been. Deep down, he knew it was only the longing for her in his heart and the madness creeping into his head come to finally take over what little sanity he had managed to maintain.

A dim light shone from around the corner announcing the impending arrival of the templars. Anders dropped onto his side and closed his eyes to feign sleep. Maybe the Chantry soldiers would only deliver his food this time. His body hadn't yet healed from their last visit, and as frail as his bones had become since he had been imprisoned, he wasn't sure they could take another session from the templars so soon.

The straw beneath him moved as the mice attempted to scurry away from the approaching light. The number of vermin seemed to be increasing since the cat disappeared the last time the guards visited. The healer moved his large left foot away from a sharp piece of hay cutting into it and winced when he felt a small nip on his heel.

The sound of jangling keys and the lock of his cell's door clunking open compelled him to open one eye. Two templars accompanied by the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter entered the dungeon chamber. They stared down at him as he lay naked on his pile of straw. Anders chose to ignore the intrusion by rolling onto his side to face the wall in silence.

He didn't know why they were there. He didn't care to know. Since Greagoir and Irving were present, he assumed the templars didn't intend to dole out the usual beating. It didn't matter. He had no intention of speaking to anyone but himself until he was let out of that cell.

A year. That was his sentence for his last escape. A year in the cold, stinking dungeon with no contact with anyone aside from his templar jailors and the cat, Mr. Wiggums. He had no bed other than the straw, which had only been changed twice since his imprisonment. The blanket they gave him was no better than a large tattered rag which barely covered the trunk of his overly tall frame. There was no privy other than the floor of his chamber. The closest he came to a bath happened once every few weeks when his guards would enter his cell, beat him, and then douse him with cold water. Then, occasionally, when the odor became too overwhelming to enter the corridor, someone would sweep out the piles of excrement.

Quite often Anders would go hungry. The templars sometimes went days without feeding him, and when they did, they dumped spoiled food onto the floor so he would be forced to lap it up like a mabari hound. He couldn't count the amount of times he was driven to lick the moisture from the dungeon walls for water and eat the lichen growing there for nourishment.

Normally, the mage would have simply used a small ice spell and let it melt for water, but the manacles on his wrists and the wards in the dungeon rendered his magic completely infirm. That was also why his body was riddled with bruises and cuts. Although he was more than proficient with healing magic, his prison blocked him from his ability to heal himself. At least the templars were kind enough most days to hit him in places where no permanent damage could be done and no bones would be broken.

It wasn't as if Anders weren't accustomed to be being beaten. His father had been a cruel man with a volatile temper, especially when he was drunk, and he was nearly always drunk. Too many times during the twelve years spent with his parents, the young boy had felt his sire's wrath.

Unlike the templars, Wilhelm never pulled his punches, and Anders had suffered many fractured bones as a child. When the local physician would visit upon his mother's request and examine the boy's injuries, his father would simply make a joke about how clumsy "the little bastard" was. Then, when the physician would leave, both the boy and his mother would be subject to the old man's ire. It was a horrific childhood, to be certain, but it was also more than likely the only reason the man was able to hold onto some semblance of sanity for so long in that stinking dungeon.

"Anders," the healer heard the First Enchanter say with a grating, crotchety voice. "We need to ask you some questions…about Jowan."

The younger mage continued to lay in silence. He knew very little about Jowan other than the fact that he was a wholly untalented apprentice and Solona's best friend. Anders had spoken to the boy a few times over the years, but Jowan never said a word back. He wasn't going to tell Irving that, of course. He had no intention of telling Irving a Maker-damned thing.

It was Irving was who sentenced him, the one who locked him away. He wasn't sure how long he had been imprisoned, but by the growth of his long, bushy beard, he assumed the year was almost over. In all that time, through all the abuse and maltreatment, the First Enchanter had not even bothered to visit him once.

Anders hated that old bastard. Irving didn't care about the things the healer was being made to endure. The First Enchanter was supposed to be the one who looked out for the mages in the tower. Instead, he was a Chantry puppet, no better than the templars. Actually, he was worse because he pretended to give a damn when it was so obvious he didn't.

The imprisoned mage felt a boot land on the small of his back.

"Show some respect you worthless, filthy piece of shit," one of the templars growled.

"There is no need for such abuse, Lieutenant" Irving insisted.

Those words caused Anders to chuckle to himself bitterly before feeling the sting of hot tears forming in his amber eyes. He wanted to scream at the old man. He wanted to wrap his hands around the bastard's throat and choke what was left of his life out of him. Instead, he continued to lie there, as still and mute as a stone.

"He's not going to talk, Irving" the Knight Commander huffed. "This is a waste of time."

Irving crouched down next to the younger man. "Anders, you still have three weeks left on your sentence. However, if you agree to an interview, with full disclosure, you will be allowed to leave the dungeons today…right now."

After a few moments, the healer finally nodded before rolling over onto his back. Those were the words he had been waiting for. Irving stood and held out his hand for the other mage.

"I've got it," the blonde man croaked before struggling to pull himself up to his full height.

Even stooped a bit from the pain that wracked his body, at six and a half feet tall, Anders still towered over everyone else in the room. He pulled the greasy, matted strands of his long, dark blonde curls from his eyes and tucked them behind his ears. His nostrils flared as he attempted to display some sort of defiant dignity. The First Enchanter placed the raggedy blanket over the healer's shoulders to help cover his nudity, but the younger mage just shrugged it off. If anyone were going to see him in that condition, he wanted them to bear witness to the ordeal he had been made to suffer…to behold the full weight of Irving's leniency.

"Do you really think this is a good idea, Irving?" Greagoir questioned.

"It is only three weeks, Greagoir. I think the boy has suffered enough."

"Fine," the Knight Commander spat. "I will allow it, but under protest. You're too soft for your own good, Irving."

Anders bowed his head and sucked in a hard breath through gritted teeth. He had to keep his cool. He couldn't let any of them see his anger or frustration.

"You're concern is noted, Greagoir," Irving retorted in a passive aggressive tone.

"We could interview him here," the Knight Commander suggested.

The First Enchanter waggled his head. "No, I made a promise in exchange for his. I think the first order of business is a warm bath and some food."

"It'll take a week to get the stink off him. We don't have that kind of time. Every minute we waste puts more distance between the maleficar and the tower."

"A few hours won't make much difference, Greagoir. The boy can barely stand. He'll have a much easier time answering our questions if he's conscious."

"Just hurry up and do whatever it is you're going to do," fumed the Knight Commander. "I'll meet you in your office."

Once Greagoir had cleared the room, the two templars took Anders by the arm and led him from the cell and up into the main corridor. As the blonde mage was marched naked through the hall, the frantic whispers of those around him only fueled his contumacy. He held his head high, making a conscious effort to not reveal the pain he felt.

Irving ordered the manacles removed from the prisoner's wrists before shutting him in the apprentices' bathing room. There, he found two tubs next to each other filled with warm water. He slipped into the one farthest from the door and watched the water blacken as the filth began to dissolve from his body. Every inch of his skin stung from the water permeating hundreds of tiny pricks made from the dry straw on which he had slept. He called forth his mana to heal the cuts and any other wounds he had sustained as he spread the cake of soap over his emaciated arms.

Anders washed out his hair in the mucky liquid as best he could before moving on to the second tub. The water within greyed, but was cleaner than the first. He proceeded to scrub himself thoroughly for the second time before leaning back and closing his eyes. For the first time in nearly a year, Anders felt human again.

He wondered where Solona was at that moment. As he was being led to the bathing room, he scanned the gathered crowd, but didn't spot her among the rest. As much as he had hoped to see her face, he was glad she hadn't witnessed him in that state. He wanted to be at his best before he saw her again, at least the best he could hope for after spending nearly a year in that hole.

The healer had known the apprentice for many years, since he was twenty-four and she was thirteen. They were intimate the first time they met, but he had no clue of her age. She had lied to him about it, in fact. At first, he was angry with her when he discovered the truth, but she used her wiles and her hands to convince him that she was definitely not a child. He knew it was wrong, but he found he had no self-control when it came to her.

Despite her young age, Anders grew to love Solona, but deep down, a part of him resented her for it. For his entire life, he had felt trapped, forced to do things he never wanted. Solona's persistence in pursuing a relationship with him always seemed another example of him never being allowed to make his own choices. It wasn't until the day Anders discovered his lover, Karl Thekla, had been transferred to the Gallows in Kirkwall that he finally gave in.

Upon his fifth escape attempt, the First Enchanter convinced the healer his efforts were fruitless because the templars would always be able to use his phylactery to track him down. He was also told he risked tranquility if it happened again, and Irving wouldn't be able to stop it the next time.

It was then that he turned to Karl. The two had been best friends since their early teens, and they had been sexually involved for years. Anders supposed he loved Karl, in his own way. More than that, Karl never made demands for the healer's time or tried to turn their relationship into more than it was. Karl was safe. Safer than the alternative anyway.

Not five months later, the healer woke one morning to find Karl gone. No one knew what happened to him. Anders was frantic. When he finally stormed into the First Enchanter's office demanding answers, Irving informed him that Karl had been transferred to Kirkwall on the Knight Commander's insistence as punishment for the healer's escape attempts.

Upon hearing those words, the normally easygoing mage lost all control and began throwing books and furniture around the room before blasting Irving's potion shelves with ice and setting fire to the rubbish bin. It took four templars to subdue him by knocking him unconscious. When he finally awoke in one of the empty mage's dormitories, he found himself chained to a bed with manacles to repress his mana.

Distraught by the fact that Karl was moved to the worst Circle in all of Thedas, Anders turned to Solona. That was when he finally gave in and began to really allow her into his heart. He wanted to tell her how he felt hundreds of times, but chose to hold back. He told himself it was because feared she would be taken from him as well, but deep down, he knew better.

For the next few months, he tried to convey his feelings by at least placing a soft kiss on her cheek and whispering, "Hello, love" in her ear each time he saw her in the corridors. Immediately afterward, however, he would seek out another woman to flirt with, convincing himself it was only to prevent the templars from becoming suspicious of the true nature of his and Solona's relationship.

Then Anders received a letter from Karl, smuggled out of the Gallows and into the tower through servants outlining the conditions of Kirkwall's Circle, and it was much worse than he ever imagined it to be. He didn't know how he would do it, but somehow, he had to get Karl out of that bloody hole. It was his fault Karl was there, after all. He had to do something.

He should have told Solona what he was planning, he should have offered to take her with him, but something inside wouldn't allow it. He reasoned that with her phylactery right there in the tower, they would be more easily caught, that she would be safer within the walls of Kinloch Hold. Part of him was also afraid she might try to convince him to stay. She was the only one who could.

In the end, he chose to run. It was a terrible choice. He didn't want to hurt Solona, but he had to rescue Karl. He only hoped she would understand.

In that year of being tortured and abused, Anders finally realized he was out of options. He knew his last escape attempt would be the last. He would spend the remainder of his days within the confines of the tower, and nothing or no one could ever change that. They had finally broken his spirit, but at least he retained his mind. The only thing that got Anders through that time was the fact that Solona would be there when he was released. She would be angry with him for the way he left, but he knew she would forgive him in the end. She always did.

When the water began to grow tepid, he finally removed himself from the tub and dried his body with one of the towels which lay on a small, spindly-legged table against the wall. Anders moved onto the ewer and basin where he used a pair of scissors to cut away the long beard that had evolved during his year in the dungeons. A straight razor and soap finished the job, and he was clean-shaven once again.

Anders stared at his reflection in the mirror. There were deep, dark circles surrounding his close set, hooded amber eyes. The cheeks of the mage's long face were hollow, and his thin lips were cracked and peeling. He cringed at the looking glass that revealed the skeletal shell of the man he once was.

He ran his fingers through the damp curls at his shoulders before tying them back at the nape of his neck. He retrieved the scissors once more, gathered the length of his mane, and hacked through all but three inches, allowing the rest to rain to the stone floor below.

After donning the mage's robes which had been left for him, Anders left the bathing room only to find his two templar jailors waiting for him. Anders hated all the templars in the tower, but he hated those two more than the rest. The shorter, stockier one named Rolan had been the worst of his torturers. He always hit the hardest and laughed the most. The other one, Cullen, the healer despised for a very different reason.

Cullen had only been at the tower three months before Anders' last escape attempt. Within days of his arrival, the templar managed to become completely obsessed with Solona. The apprentice never seemed to pay much attention to the soldier, but Anders sure as hell noticed the younger man always skulking around, and it was quite obvious he had more on his mind than pinning her against a wall. Although the healer never revealed to Solona how he felt, was never entirely sure himself, her heart still belonged to him, and there was no room in her life for a love-stricken Chantry lapdog.

"I appreciate your concern for my well-being, gentlemen" he drawled. "But I think I can find Irving's office on my own."

"The Knight Commander ordered us to escort you," Rolan barked.

"A personal escort?" Anders snarked. "And here I didn't get him anything."

"The First Enchanter says we have to take you to the dining hall for food first," Rolan retorted as he shoved Anders toward the door. "I think he should just let your skinny ass starve. It wouldn't take more than a day or two."

"But then whose ass would you dream about tonight?" the healer asked with a wink and a saucy smirk.

Rolan landed a hard punch to Anders' jaw. "Dream about that tonight, princess."

Maker's ass, he hated being called that. It was the moniker his father had given him the first time the old man made the boy suck his cock. The chasm of rage buried in the pit of his stomach threatened to erupt, but he wasn't about to let Rolan have the satisfaction of seeing that his words and actions had bothered him.

Anders closed his eyes as he cracked his fractured jaw. He allowed mana to flow through his fingers to fuse the bone as best he could before grinning at his adversary again. "Truth hurts, does it?"

"I'll show you hurting," Rolan roared as he made to hit the mage again, but his fist was stopped in midair by Cullen.

"Come on Rolan. If anybody catches you, you'll go on report again."

Rolan straightened his armor. "You're right. This fucking princess isn't even worth my time."

Anders' smile widened as he motioned to the door. "After you, sweetheart."

Once he was finished with his meal, the healer was taken to the First Enchanter's office where both Irving and Greagoir were waiting. Irving gestured toward the chair sitting in front of his desk.

"Please, sit."

"I'd rather stand, if it's all the same to you."

Greagoir appeared as if he were about to say something, but Irving's hand on his arm stopped him. The First Enchanter sat down and steepled his index fingers beneath his chin.

"Anders, as I said before, we need to ask you a few questions about Jowan."

The younger mage arched a cavalier brow. "I don't know why you're asking me. That friend of his…Solona, I think is her name…she would know more about him than I would."

Irving's brow furrowed. Anders could see both sympathy and worry behind the old man's tired brown eyes. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could feel it in his bones. He drew a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes, bracing himself to hear the words he knew were going to break his heart.

"Anders," the First Enchanter croaked. "Solona is gone."

Doc was an arrogant bastard. There was never any getting around that fact. His two favorite subjects were medicine and himself, but the details of the tragedies of his life were the things he always tended to keep locked away. He seldom spoke of his childhood or of the year he spent in that dungeon.

On the rare occasions when he did talk about his imprisonment, his face would take on a haunted quality and his body would sway back and forth as if he were in a trance. He always said he was forever on the cusp of insanity, that only a thin line stood between reality and complete madness. I tend to agree with that sentiment.

Even with all that, even with everything he put Solona through, he was still one of the most giving and loving men I have ever known. He was a mad genius. A man who would lay down his life in a second for those he loved. A healer with no equal. He saved my life more times than I care to count, and he was a better friend than I ever deserved.

-G
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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight