"Wait, wait. What was that you did, just now?"
There was something in Anders' voice that made Amelia turn her head to look back at her first recruit. First living recruit anyways. A mixture of surprise and wariness and just a touch of indignation. "What do you mean? I just cleansed…" Oh.
"You're a templar! Andraste's tits, you're one of them. Is that why the templars let you conscript me?" The mage was backing away now, though he hadn't lowered his staff in an aggressive stance. Probably wise, seeing as how she could nullify any attack he threw at her. But then Anders, who had escaped seven times from the Circle and been caught seven times by templars, would know the drill by now.
Amelia raised her hands in what she hoped was a placating gesture. Placating as long as raised hands wasn't something templars usually did before they smote a mage, anyways. "I'm not a templar. It's just something my husband taught me during the Blight."
"Your husband? That king fellow?" For a moment, it seemed as if all would be well, then Anders' eyes grew wide again. "You mean to tell me that the bleeding King of Ferelden is a templar?"
Amelia grimaced again. She would have rubbed her hands across her forehead had they not been encased in steel gauntlets. As they were, that would likely make the headache worse, not better. And there in front of her was a spirit healer mage. "He's not a templar either, exactly. Alistair was recruited into the Grey Wardens before he could take his final vows."
Anders was not appeased yet. "Official templars or not, it certainly is rather convenient for a wanted apostate to be conscripted by a templar-ability wielding Warden-Commander, don't you think? Is that why Rylock let me go?" She could see the thoughts whirling in his head, wondering if this was some new prison designed by that templar woman, a trick to always keep him under Chantry eyes.
"I don't think she knows," Amelia admitted. "Alistair was sworn to secrecy by the Grand Cleric when he was conscripted – I'm not supposed to know anything about the templar arts. I doubt Rylock even knows he trained with the templars."
"Ooo, a royal secret. Well that's valuable information," Anders returned, with just a touch more cheer and slightly less suspicion in his voice now.
"Going to hold it against me, are you?" she ventured, hoping that she was reading him right and that he had gone back to the snarky humor that reminded her so of her beloved.
"I suppose that depends on you and how likely you are to smite me for telling," he replied, a hint of his usual smirk returning to his lips.
Amelia smiled back. "And if I told you that Alistair never got as far as teaching me how?"
"Well, in that case, I suppose your secret is mine to tell!" he announced triumphantly.
"My husband can though, so watch yourself." Amelia said with a grin. "I'll make you a deal though, Anders."
"Oh? I'm listening." He raised an eyebrow, just like Alistair often would. Maker, she missed that man.
"You keep our secrets, and I'll make sure the templars never take you again." She said it as seriously as she could, wanting Anders to know once and for all that he was safe now as one of her Wardens. He studied her for a moment, weighing her sincerity and her ability to keep that promise.
"You know, I think you have a deal there, Commander," he said finally. "Out of all the people in Ferelden, I think you're the one who could actually keep that promise. Alright then, you keep the templars, the real templars away, and no one will learn from me that Ferelden's rulers lie to little old ladies."
"The Grand Cleric is hardly a 'little old lady', Anders," Amelia replied with a laugh.
"And keep secrets from the Chantry!" the mage continued dramatically. "If the people of Ferelden only knew what kind of people ruled over them, there would be chaos. Rioting in the streets even."
"Learning templar secrets is the least of my transgressions, I think," Amelia said mildly. The people of Ferelden, after all, knew nothing about deadly darkspawn blood or dark rituals in the night that created Old God babies.
"Ah, but all weighed against one rather large virtue," he countered. "The woman who stuck a sword in the archdemon could probably spit in the Revered Mother's tea and get a medal for it." He paused for a moment to regard her soberly. "In all seriousness though, Commander, thank you."
She tilted her head at him. "For what, Anders?"
"For backing me against the templars. And, you know, for not smiting me. Or getting your husband to smite me."
Amelia grinned at him. "Well, there's always tomorrow."
He sighed dramatically. "Yes, well I'll need to be on my best behavior then, won't I? We should get back to it then, I suppose." He shouldered his staff and turned to follow Nathaniel back into the woods.
A Howe and an apostate mage. She could have no two unlikelier companions, Amelia thought as she turned to follow her Wardens with a smile, and yet nothing could be more perfect.