Written for a reblog meme on Tumblr, where rebloggers wanted short fics posted in their 'Ask' in-box. In no particular order, these are most of the ficlets I wrote in response to it, apart from a handful that the recipients never posted. All of these particular ones fall with "Eye of the Storm" precursor headcanon territory.

Anders felt a rare smile lifting his lips as he watched Merrill, spinning in circles under the Vhenadahl with her arms outspread and face turned up to the sky. She was so childishly delighted by the rare snowfall that he could almost forget, for a moment, that she was a maleficar. He looked to one side, to share his joy in her delight with his companions. Hawke was watching her as well, smiling too. Fenris was standing on one leg, like a lanky stork, frowning down at the sole of one lifted foot.

Hawke looked up as Isabela stepped over to his side and dropped gracefully down to sit cross-legged beside him.

"This is good," she said, spooning up a mouthful of the rabbit stew from her plate.

"Yes, it is, very good," Merrill agreed, from where she sat on the other side of him. "I'm surprised you're such a good cook, Sebastian," she added.

Sebastian looked up from where he was sitting on the far side of the fire, and smiled wryly. "I learned a few things in my youth. Some worth remembering."

Hearing raised voices, Sebastian came to a stop. They were arguing again, as they always did. More angrily than usual, by the sound of it. He bit his lip, considering intervening, but knew they would not thank him. He eased forward, in time to see the argument end, the two part. He watched them both admiringly, the white-haired elf stalking away, the apostate slumping before turning and wandering off, back down to Darktown. He followed the warrior; at least that one he could safely call friend.

Sebastian looked along the table, forcing a smile. It was nice of Hawke to occasionally invite him for these gatherings in Varric's rooms at the Hanged Man, but he never felt quite comfortable at them. Perhaps because he could never escape the feeling that, apart from Fenris, most of Hawke's companions merely tolerated his presence here because Hawke had invited him. He'd rather have stayed in his room at the chantry. Or perhaps gone to visit Fenris, for good wine and intelligent conversation.

Fenris watched the mage walking away, frowning angrily. As he watched the slumped shoulders and lowered head of the man disappearing into the darkness, he felt a brief irrational desire to follow the apostate and apologize for his harsh words. Instead he spat a curse and turned away.

He found Sebastian still standing nearby, watching him guardedly. "Sorry," Fenris said. "He brings out the worst in me."

Sebastian nodded understandingly. "And you in him," he agreed. "Come. Past time we went home."

Fenris leaned against the wall, arms crossed, an angry frown on his face. He ignored the worried or furtive looks the people leaving the clinic were giving him.

Finally the apostate came out, alone, to put out the paired lanterns. He froze as he caught sight of Fenris standing in the shadows nearby. "What do you want," he asked warily. Fenris straightened up, and limped a few steps closer. Anders frowned down at the bloody footsteps he was leaving behind. "Come in, then," he said, and sighed.

Fenris threaded his way through the crowded bar, wanting only to reach the door and get outside, to head back to the solitude of his own home. He shouldn't have come to the Hanged Man, not when his memories of their recent battle with Danarius still had him feeling so unnerved.

"Fenris! Wait!" he heard Sebastian call from behind him.

He would have ignored him, but he crashed into someone at the door; another elf, tanned and blond. He snarled a curse, an apology, and turned to glare at the prince.

Seeing the orange-red glare reflecting off the clouds overhead, he felt as if a great weight had lifted off of him. It was done. Finished. Or just begun; the light a rallying cry that no mage could fail to ignore, nor any man who believed, as he did, that the chantry was a tool of oppression. He turned to Hawke, a wide smile on his lips. And felt his smile falter in the face of the look of horrified disbelief on his lover's face.

"What have you done, Anders?" Hawke asked, voice a hoarse whisper.