fic: all cages have keys
Title: All Cages Have Keys
Author: w0rdinista
Word Count: too damn many 4275
Rating: M, but a mild one -- still SFW
Characters: Anders, Cousland, Alistair (in name only)
Pairing: implied Alistair/Cousland, Anders/Cousland
Spoilers: Mild spoilers through Awakening
Summary: We don't always see when we're trapped, and sometimes we're free and don't even know it.
Notes: All right. So tarysande posted a fic yesterday, and blamed it on me. (I happily take all blame, btw.) HOWEVER, the meaniepants then wouldn't let me get out writing my own fic on the subject. So this fic is tarysande 's fault, even though I enabled her in the first place. Er. Or something like that. (Also, I totally failed in trying to write a fic without using Elinora -- I TRIED! I DID! Obv. not related to A Midwinter's Thaw, etc. etc.)
Duty weighs on her like armor.
Elinora isn't quite sure when it began feeling that way; so much had been thrust upon her shoulders the night she fled the burning silhouette of her home, but she'd never felt the weight of it so keenly as she does now.
Perhaps it is because the one she'd shared it all with is gone now, spirit and soul and horrible jokes and lingering touches, every bit of his heart burned away all at once in a blinding flash of light and sound. And yet she is the one who feels hollow, as if the Archdemon's essence had burned away part of her as well. She feels the ache of absence, and there is nothing left to fill it. But she cannot lie abed and linger in mourning; she must do something to feel useful again - to feel anything again.
But when she finds herself at Vigil's Keep, faced with both darkspawn and disrepair, nobles demanding her attention, peasants requiring her protection, without a familiar face or even her own hound to give solace, Elinora begins to think she might have been better off wallowing in grief and melancholy. She no longer has companions, but subordinates, and they present an altogether different set of problems.
Most specifically, the mage: Anders.
He reminds her of him, quite inconveniently so, and at the start, it's almost easy to ignore Anders entirely. Elinora never really looks at him, never quite meets his eye, and when she does think of the mage, she defines him in terms of all that he isn't - mage, not templar; long hair, not short; knowing, not innocent. There is also something frivolous in him, and she knows instantly that he is not the sort of man who would sacrifice himself for anyone. But these days she has no use for a martyr - and she is, as he so succinctly put it, pragmatic, after all; she needs a mage, a healer, and that is something he does well.
Whether he is simply grateful for her intervention and conscription, or whether Anders is simply that talkative all the time, Elinora doesn't know. She does know that he engages her in conversation on some of the most surprising topics. And she, despite her best efforts, cannot quite seem to discourage him. It doesn't escape her attention that he seems ridiculously happy to be free of the Tower, and it is on a bright morning in Amaranthine as he closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of a pie wafting tantalizingly on the cool, dewy breeze, that she feels a sharp, unexpected stab of envy:
He feels free; she feels increasingly trapped.
--
The more time that passes, the more Elinora doesn't want him there. Doesn't want his sly irreverence, his wit, his damnable knack for cutting directly to the moral heart of any matter. When he asks for her help in destroying his phylactery, she agrees partially because she assumes that, so unleashed, he'll leave.
Of course, it's not that easy. Nothing ever is. Strangely, Elinora feels like a traitor as she cuts down the templars, even though Ser Rylock's insufferable self-righteousness encapsulates everything wrong with the Chantry. When it's over, they're surrounded by dead bodies and no phylacteries to speak of and the only emotion she can summon is annoyance with the trap's clumsiness.
They walk back to Vigil's Keep in silence, and it isn't until the battlements creep up over the horizon does Anders finally say anything.
"You could have sent me off with them."
"I suppose I could have," she replied evenly.
"Why didn't you?"
She's silent a moment. "I need you here. We haven't got a healer and we've few enough Wardens as it stands. I cannot afford to lose anyone right now." A thoughtful pause. "And Ser Rylock rather got on my nerves." That, at least, is closer to the real truth of the matter.
He sighs. "She's always been that way, I'm afraid."
In the days that follow, Elinora can see Anders making an effort to be useful. Possibly he doesn't want her to come to regret her decision. Whether it's because he is in fact surprisingly useful, or because she's become an expert at looking at Anders without seeing him, she finds that he has found a niche among the other Wardens and his presence does not quite grate on her as it once did.
--
They are on the path to Amaranthine City, just the two of them. With luck, it will be a quick stop at the Crown and Lion before returning with another warm body. Clouds, thick and leaden, are churning on the horizon; she quickens her pace, but before long, fat drops start to fall, slowly at first, and then faster. Out of the corner of her eye, Elinora sees Anders close his eyes and lift his face into the damp breeze, a smile hovering around the corners of his mouth.
"I hope you're still smiling when you catch your death of cold," she mutters, glowering as the rain falls more and more steadily.
A ball of bright orange flame licks to life in his palm, and there is the sizzle of steam as it glows despite the gloom and rain. "I've a few incredibly helpful ways to combat that, as it happens," he says, grinning proudly as she glances at him and looks away. The flame goes out, and they continue on in silence for a few more steps, until:
"Have I offended you somehow?"
"Not at all," Elinora replies, moving forward - ever forward.
His look is one of skepticism, no matter how soggy he's getting. "You're quite certain?"
The ground has turned muddy, and her boots begin to squelch through the muck. "Quite."
The glance he sends her is a sidelong one. "And if you didn't want me here, you'd say so?"
"Of course."
Anders laughs, then, somewhat unpleasantly. "My dear, you're lovely and deadly and you've got possibly the nicest backside this side of Denerim, but you are a dreadful liar."
"I've told you-"
"Yes, I remember that quite clearly," he says, cutting her off. "You said I was needed here - my skills as a healer, and all that."
"And so you are." This is not a conversation she's interested in having now, or ever.
He's becoming frustrated, and pushes a lock of soaked hair away from his forehead. "Needed, yes, but--"
Elinora rounds on him then, rain streaming down her face, down into her armor. "Anders, if you have a problem with how things are, then by all means, feel free to leave." And in that moment, she means it - she wants him to go, to enjoy himself, his freedom somewhere else. She can barely stand the reminder of her own responsibilities and duties crowding in high around her.
And then, as they stand there in the rain and the mud, on the brink of an argument, a low growl grinds through the air: darkspawn.
There's only the two of them, and they're quite handily outnumbered, but Anders is flinging spells as she cuts them down, and the two of them, braced back to back, keep the attack at bay, if only just.
Perhaps it is the rain, perhaps Elinora is tired, perhaps - for a bare moment - she simply doesn't care anymore about this fight or any other. Perhaps she is truly and honestly outmaneuvered when she's wounded and her body slumps down into the mud. The hum of magic, the crackle of lightning, of fire, the shouts of battle fade away as the tendrils of unconsciousness tease and coax her in.
Hours later she still hears the crackle of fire, can feel its warmth - but the thick mud is gone and as she pries her eyes open, Elinora finds herself in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. She knows without looking that she's in nothing but her smallclothes and bandages.
The bandages, at least, are a new addition.
A soft sound to her left rouses her further, and when her head lolls to the side, Elinora finds Anders - perfectly dry - dozing peacefully atop the blankets. A glance at the window tells her it's dark out; the rain is still pounding mercilessly on the roof. When she shifts a little, propping herself up on one elbow, Anders starts awake, blinking muzzily and rubbing at his face as he looks over at her.
"Ah, good. You're awake. If you're wondering, we're at the Crown and Lion." He lets out a soft, amused snort and shakes his head a little. "You'd be amazed at how quickly they'll give out a room when you walk in carrying the Arlessa of Amaranthine and Commander of the Grey bleeding like a stuck pig."
"You... wait, what?"
Anders grins at Elinora, incredibly pleased with himself. "Defeated every last darkspawn and saved your charming neck? Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I did." He sits up a bit, leaning back against the headboard. "I healed you up as quickly as I could, given the rain and the fact that I didn't want to be around if more of the nasties came out to play. We were closer to town than the Keep, and you wanted to come to the inn anyway..."
"--You undressed me?"
"And thank you for zeroing in on that," he grumbles. "It's funny, but somehow I don't think they'd have appreciated your bloody, muddy armor ruining their bedding. There was also the small matter of a few wounds to attend to."
The truth and practicality of what he's saying sinks through. "Ah." Elinora places a hand on her midsection and winces. "...Thank you."
Anders is quiet for a moment, but the surprise at her words registers well enough on his face. "You're welcome," he finally says. "You probably ought to get a bit more rest. I've had a message sent to Varel to let him know you're all right; no one's expecting you back until the morning, at which point I'm sure you'll be bright-eyed and prickly-tailed."
She snorts, but settles back in beneath the blankets and closes her eyes.
"...One more thing," Anders says, after a moment of uncharacteristic hesitation.
Elinora opens one drowsy eye. "Yes?"
"I've... well, not that it matters terribly much, I'm sure, but I've decided to stay."
She's not quite sure she's following his train of thought, and she's sure her expression shows it perfectly. "...Stay?"
"Yes," replies Anders, arching an eyebrow at her. "Surely you recall our conversation before it was so rudely interrupted by some very uncouth darkspawn? You invited me to take my leave."
"So I did."
"Yes, well. I'm staying."
"I see." A pause. "Any particular reason why?"
And he gives the answer so simply, so openly: "You, Commander."
"Me?" Elinora starts to sit up and winces, opting instead to sink back against the pillows. "And what, pray tell, did I do?"
"You asked."
A beat of silence follows, vast as any ocean. "Beg pardon?"
"In the height of delirium and blood loss, you asked me not to leave you. Made me promise, as a point of fact. Now, perhaps it was the delirium or maybe just the blood loss talking, but I've decided to stay, so no going back on that now."
--
Elinora is sitting atop the battlements, watching the sun creep over the horizon. The breeze is sweet and sharp, carrying with it the promise of more rain, but for now, at least, the sky is clear. It isn't long before she hears quiet footfalls make their way up the wooden steps. She half expects it to be Nathaniel, who is astonishingly soft-footed, but when she turns, she sees Anders instead. He's carrying a steaming cup between his hands.
"You're up early," he remarks upon reaching the top step and catching sight of her. Elinora simply shrugs and turns her gaze back to the east.
Anders doesn't say anything else until he's come much closer. "On second thought, you haven't even gone to sleep yet, have you?"
"I tried. I couldn't sleep," Elinora said quietly.
"Still thinking about..." he trailed off, but he didn't have to say anything more. What had happened in the silverite mine seemed to be bothering him as well.
"I read part of the Architect's journal," she said, resting her arms along the top of the wall and letting her shoulders fall slightly as she slouched. "And those experiments..." she shuddered. "Those were our people down there, dead and-" Elinora's throat closed, cutting off whatever she might have said. "Sleep lost its appeal, I'm afraid."
He looks at her for a very long time, and she starts to feel her face grow warm under the scrutiny. "Have you ever slept well, I wonder?"
Something twists painfully in her chest and there is the sudden - and surprising - burn of salt-water at her eyes as she remembers nights camping upon the cold ground, both of them curled contently beneath blankets and around each other. Elinora swallows hard and tries not to blink, since that would surely spill these unwanted tears.
"I used to."
She feels something warm being pressed into her hands, and she looks down suddenly to see Anders wrapping her fingers around the cup he'd been carrying. It's tea, dark and fragrant, and when she dips her head to breathe in the steam, she catches another, subtler scent woven throughout. She looks at him, not certain why he's giving this to her at all.
"You look like you need it more than I do," Anders says with a shrug, adding, "And, yes, it's lavender," he adds, almost defensively. "Don't judge me; it's bloody excellent tea."
It is at that point she glances over at Anders and sees something in him she hadn't noticed before: he has a taste for fine things. Not just the tea - which he's right about, she thinks as she takes a sip: it's of exceptional quality - but everything from his robes to his boots to his earring, which winks at her in the sunlight.
She takes another sip. "Thank you."
They stand there in silence a moment before Anders speaks again. "I was from Highever, you know."
Elinora looks at him sharply, blinking. "No, I didn't know that."
"Well, surely you didn't think we sprung, fully-formed, out of Lake Calenhad."
"No-no, not at all," she says quickly. "I just... didn't realize..." she trails off - she didn't realize it because she'd never made a point of asking, or speaking to him at all, actually. "I never asked where you were from. It was rude; I apologize."
Anders shrugs and shakes his head. "It doesn't really matter, I suppose. Funny story: the summer I was supposed to squire for the Couslands was the same summer I started demonstrating an affinity for the arcane." His fingers gave a little wiggle for emphasis. "So, no squiring for me, that year or any other."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I, as it happens." He sends her a little smile. "I think I'd have been quite good as a part of that whole 'rescuing damsels' scene."
--
He likes cats, she thinks as she looks down at the scrawny orange kitten. She isn't sure why that thought occurs to her, nor is she sure why she's crouching down and offering the feline a bit of dried meat from her pack. The kitten takes it happily, placing the strip of meat between its tiny paws and chewing comically on it.
Elinora scoops up the ball of fuzz before she can talk herself out of it, and takes the kitten inside to be cleaned up.
She's fairly certain that somewhere among her things is a little leather collar with a tiny, tinkling bell.
--
They've stolen away to the city again, climbing up to the catwalks and looking out over all of Amaranthine. She has run the errands she needed to: Kendrick and Mervis are both happier men, and the mystery troubles of the trade route from Denerim to Amaranthine seem to be on the mend. She's smiling a little as she looks out over the horizon.
"Copper for your thoughts?" asks Anders as he carefully extricates the kitten from his pack. Ser Pounce-a-Lot purrs as Anders scratches him (her? Elinora isn't sure) beneath the chin, and after a few moments the kitten has crawled up to his shoulder and is nestled happily against the crook of Anders' neck, batting lazily at his earring.
"It was a good day," admits Elinora.
"Well, we had to get one sooner or later. Law of averages, right?"
Elinora laughs softly. "I can't tell if that's optimistic or cynical of you."
"Optimistic, I should hope," he says with a grin.
She looks at him for a long moment before realizing that she's looking at him at all - and that she's seeing him. Anders. No one else. Up here, high above Amaranthine City, there are no ghosts. Elinora clears her throat and looks at the cat instead.
"You look positively ridiculous with that cat on your shoulder," she says, reaching up to scratch the kitten gently behind the ears. Ser Pounce-a-Lot purrs louder in reply, and Anders lets out a convulsive little laugh.
"Sorry," he says, clearing his throat. "It's just… well, it tickles a bit, is all."
"You're ticklish?"
"Yes-and don't you dare get any ideas," he blurts, catching Elinora's hands deftly. "We're very high up, if you haven't noticed, and..."
He trails off, because Elinora isn't listening; she's looking at his hands, firmly holding hers. It's... different, she realizes. There's strength in those hands, to be sure; his fingers are long and straight and elegant, though that seems an odd word to apply to hands. There are no rough spots of skin, unlike on Elinora's hands, which are heavily calloused. The sudden flare of embarrassed self-consciousness floods her face as she tries to pull her hands away, but Anders' grip tightens slightly. He tugs, but just a little - enough to let her know she's welcome to come closer. And after a moment, she does.
The kiss, when it comes, is slow - cautious without being hesitant. When his tongue slips past her lips she makes a soft, surprised sound, startled for only a moment before she returns the favor. They break apart after a few moments, both flushed, both just a little breathless.
"Still a good day?" he asks, reaching up to touch her cheek.
Elinora's only answer is to kiss him again.
--
He's angry with her. Furious.
Elinora knows it the moment it happens, can see the shock, the betrayal in his face when she summons a column of white fire down upon the fleeing apostate. She hadn't realized until that moment she'd had no cause to use any of her templar skills in front of him. Not until now: supposed maleficarum in the city, and though she'd tried to speak with them first (she had), they'd still reacted with violence.
By now it is second nature to defend herself with the techniques Alistair taught her. She barely thinks about them any more than she might think about drawing her sword and shield.
Anders, however, sees this as the grossest betrayal. He barely speaks to her on the way back to the Keep, will not look at her. It isn't until hours later, long after she should have gone to bed, that he finds her sitting moodily in the throne room, staring at the fire.
He stalks across the room, coming to stand before her, bold, unafraid - challenging her. "You could have at least told me you were a templar."
She is tired, and her voice reflects that exhaustion. "I'm not."
"Oh, right," he spat. "Pull the other one, Elinora. Do I look somehow mentally deficient to you? I know a templar's skills when I see them. And I know the Chantry doesn't just let-"
"Anders, listen!" But he is hurt and angry, and not of a mind to listen right now. Magic is crackling at his fingertips, and she is unsure whether it's because he's so very angry, or if he's planning to attack her.
"Is that why they let me go with you? Is it?" Scorn is dripping from his tongue, but she can see in his eyes (they're a sharp, clear blue, not hazel) how hurt he is. "Well, bravo, you really put one over on me, I suppose."
"I fought Ser Rylock with you-for you!"
"Yes, and you said later that you didn't really like her anyway."
"Anders," Elinora begins, but her voice cracks. She stops, closes her eyes, tries to breathe. She struggles for reason, for patience. But she feels something coming undone inside her, and she realizes it has nothing to do with whether he'll attack her or not, and everything to do with whether he'll leave. "Anders," she says again, "please."
"Well, you've certainly had a grand laugh at my expense, haven't you-"
In a hoarse whisper, the words come out before she can stop them:
"Alistair taught me."
Anders does not know that name, and his puzzlement is enough to make him stop a moment.
"...Alistair?"
She tells him everything.
Everything.
--
The last time she'd been to the Deep Roads, she swore she'd never go back - not until the end, at least. And now, as she sits soaking in a bath that stopped being hot long ago, she wonders how many more times she'll break such a promise to herself.
She pulls her body out of the bath, her skin cold and wrinkled, drying off half-heartedly before wrapping herself in a robe and crawling onto the bed. She curls onto her side for a while, hating how she can still smell the stench of the Deep Roads, can still feel it on her skin, as if it's soaked in so far that she can never hope to scrub it away.
Suddenly, and with a force that is almost surprising, Elinora doesn't want to be alone.
She dresses quickly, throwing on a simple tunic and breeches, and pauses only to wrap a blanket around her shoulders before leaving her room. She navigates the corridors quickly and quietly - she knows where she's going, knows where she needs to be.
Anders actually looks surprised when he opens his door. He also doesn't look like she woke him.
They stand there a moment, neither saying anything. She wonders if part of him is still angry with her, and she braces herself for rejection.
Instead, he brings a hand to her soaking wet hair. "Elinora, what..."
"I..." She can't say it: I don't want to be alone. It is the truth, and a simple truth at that. She wants to say it, but what comes out instead is, "Did I wake you?"
Anders looks at her for a long while, then gently ushers her in, closing the door behind her. "No."
She looks around his room - she's never been here, she realizes. It's a nice little space: there are books stacked on a nearby table, and one lying open on the bed. Ser Pounce-a-Lot is curled up in an impossibly tight ball before the fire.
"Are you all right?"
She shakes her head slowly, feeling numb. "No. I don't believe I am."
Anders takes her hand and leads her to the edge of the bed where they both sit. His arm goes around her shoulders, and it isn't until she's stopped shivering that she realizes she started at all.
"I'm sorry," she breathes, staring at her hands.
"It's all right," he murmurs. "I... well, I was angry, but I'm not anymore. I... don't see how I could-"
"Not for that." She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I'm sorry for bringing you into this at all."
"It was either this or be brought back to the Circle Tower, Elinora. You know that. And I won't be caged anymore."
"It's still a cage, Anders. Just one of a different fashion." Warmth starts radiating everywhere they're touching; his fingers are startlingly hot when they brush her neck and she relaxes under the heat.
"Is that what you think?"
"Isn't it the truth?"
He laughs then, a soft, rumbling chuckle as he kisses her forehead. "So you think we're both trapped, and I'm too foolish to tell?"
Elinora doesn't answer; she wraps her arms around him, tucking herself closer.
"Hmm. No, I don't think that's it," says Anders as he pushes the blanket away from her shoulder. "What I think is that you freed me." He smiles a little, and it's charmingly crooked as he looks down at her. "You rescued me, in a sense."
She's already shaking her head, but he presses on before she can say anything.
"Which is kind of funny, when you think about it." His hands are passing over her, slowly - so slowly it's agonizing - pulling the shirt up over her head. The room and his touch are both so warm that Elinora can't even summon the memory of how it had felt to be so chilled.
She lifts her arms for him. "Funny?"
"That you could rescue me when you yourself were trapped." On her expression he let out a low laugh. "Oh, trust me: I can tell. You were. Trapped beneath obligation, responsibility... grief." He kissed the knuckles of one hand, then the other.
"So I... I freed you."
"And how, my dear lady."
"Now what?" whispers Elinora, watching as Anders makes short work of her trousers, leaving her completely bare before him.
"Now," he says, drawing her to him, all warmth and light and magic, "I return the favor."