Two

Note: A huge thanks to Zute for The Wanket ™ idea. A truly inspired portmanteau… Thanks for the favorites and reviews, I'd love to know what you all think of this chapter and those to come!

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Krag met them at the gate.

No matter the weather – cold, rain or fine – Krag donned his heavy maroon robes and cloak. He moved like a droplet of blood in water, oozing across the clear sky toward them, favoring his right leg and leaning hard on a knobby staff.

Krag draped himself over the unfinished wooden fence that marked the border between his land and theirs. A shaggy, dark form wiggled around on his shoulder. After a moment, a beak emerged, materializing out of the mass of black feathers it was preening. Like its master, Krag's raven wore a scar over its right eye, but unlike Krag, the raven had lost that eye altogether. In Krag's case, the scar followed the line of his pale eye, drooping down like a fleshy teardrop.

"Leaving," Krag observed. He was chewing on something, tobacco or the end of breakfast, Tavia couldn't tell. She raised her hand in greeting, swaying a little in the saddle. They had outfitted their one pony for the journey to Val Chevin, where they would meet up with Leliana and Nathaniel before continuing on to the spring fair.

Anders led the pony. Ser Pounce-a-lot sat in the roomy saddle bag on Tavia's right. He poked his furry head out now and again to investigate the butterflies and bees that zoomed by. At the sight of Krag's crow, the cat hid again.

They stopped at the gate. Krag was their one neighbor and the closest thing to a real acquaintance they had made since moving to Orlais. He was not, in anyway, an Orlesian. His accent was not familiar to Tavia, and when questioned, Krag was vague. "I come from the north," he would say, "where there is snow or mud, never grass." He was spotty on the details, which suited Tavia just fine. She wasn't about to delve into her past for him, either.

"Good morning," Anders said, extending his hand. Krag drew his weathered hand out of his sleeve just long enough to shake once. Then his hand disappeared again, vanishing inside his voluminous red sleeve. Watching Krag and Anders interact reminded Tavia of their journeys throughout Amaranthine. Krag employed the same steely, monotonous speech pattern as Justice. Anders never seemed to know what to make of the Spirit of Justice, and similarly, he never quite knew how to behave around Krag.

"Fine weather we're having," Anders continued cheerfully. "Taking your crow for… a, um, stroll?"

"Stroll?" Krag tested the word as if he had never heard of such a thing. "No," he said gruffly, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "I saw smoke rising from your chimney early this morning. Then I saw the pony. You intend to travel?"

"To Val Chevin," Tavia said, swooping in to help Anders. "We're meeting friends. We might be gone a few days, actually. Would you mind very much checking in on my apple trees? I'd be heartbroken if the deer got to them."

This was a safe topic. Krag knew plants, soil, hard work… When they first took the cottage, Krag had been the one to suggest they plant a vegetable garden and trim down the apple trees that had grown wild. Their initial meeting had been tense, since he had a way of sneaking up silently. Startled, Anders had nearly blown the man's head off with a rolling ball of flames. But thanks to Krag, they had a respectable orchard in the works, and in a few short months they would be pressing apples for cider and using the mash for pies.

"I will stop in, yes."

"I've hung pouches of soap in the trees," Tavia continued. She watched Anders shift anxiously between his feet. He wanted to get a move on. That, and Krag made him uncomfortable. "Just like you said, the deer are staying away."

"I could kill them for you," Krag said bluntly. Anders made a soft, strangled sound. "For the meat," Krag added.

"Oh, that's alright," Tavia replied, laughing. "They're so gentle. I couldn't. I think it's a mother and her two little ones. The soap should keep them away for now."

"As you wish." Krag bowed slightly at the waist.

"Be well," Tavia said. Anders took the hint, clicking his tongue at the pony and reaching for the gate pin. "And thank you for looking after the trees."

Krag bowed again and moved aside. He and his crow watched them pass through with identical expressions. Anders guided the pony down the worn dirt path leading away from the cottage gate. Krag's house was the only other farm visible from the winding road. His cottage looked like little more than a brown smudge against the pale blue horizon. Anders had spoken truly. It was fine weather, especially for travel – a mild wind, good coverage from the sun and no threatening clouds waiting to be swept in.

They were silent until they reached the hill top overlooking their cottage. The path led straight down, plunging into a valley of tall grasses. From there, it would be an easy five mile walk to the outer villages of Val Chevin.

They crested the hill and began the slow, careful descent.

"I don't know how you tolerate that creepy git," Anders muttered. "If I catch him peeping in the windows, I swear to the Maker I'll set that feathered friend of his on fire."

"He's not so bad. I think his… conversation skills are in need of a polish." Tavia watched as Pounce emerged from the saddle bag, two tiny paws braced on the lip. He cast a curious glance in every direction, probably checking for more crows. Despite Anders's sincere attempts at training Pounce to become, in his words, "a vicious attack-kitten," the lessons in barbarity never took. Pounce wasn't even a very good mouser. Tavia often found tiny, tell-tale trails of droppings in their pantry. He was similarly frightened of crows, like the one that followed Krag everywhere.

"Krag must be an exile," Tavia said thoughtfully. "He never speaks of his home land or of any family. And yet I do not sense he is bitter… Perhaps his exile was self-imposed, like ours."

"I would hardly call this exile," Anders said with a scoff. He dropped back to walk closer to her, his free hand molding around her calf through her skirt. "Isn't exile supposed to be nasty and depressing? I mean, if we'd sent ourselves off to row on some smelly pirate galley, or confined ourselves to a one-room sty in Denerim… Or better yet! We could've remained at court and waited hand and foot on King Arsehole until he murdered one or both of us..."

Tavia kicked his ribs gently. They reached the bottom of the hill and quickened their pace, the valley flattening out before them, the fields on either side of the road vibrant with wildflowers. "You're right. This isn't exile. It's… well, what is it then?"

"No, let's call it exile. It sounds so exciting and mysterious."

"Very well. Exile it is."

Tavia took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, meadow scent that floated up out of the grass. It was a perfect day. There were many days like this one in Orlais. Leliana had been telling the truth after all; it really was like a dream. Tavia rarely caught herself reminiscing or wishing for more time in Ferelden. The climate here was unbelievable, mild and accommodating, with just the right amount of romantic stormy nights. So far she had enjoyed fall and winter, and spring was turning out to be a delight, too. If too many Fereldans wandered over, she mused, they would start another war of conquest simply for the pleasure of Orlesian summers.

"Hey. Are you day dreaming?" Anders asked, poking her ankle.

"Indeed, I am... Was."

"Of?"

"Oh, you know, the single life, romance…. Do you think there will be handsome chevaliers at the fair?" She grinned, knowing that any second she would see an angry flush creep around to the back of his neck. Anders whipped his head around, his ponytail bouncing against his cheek.

"I do hope so. The prettier the better. Handsome lads are always the most fun to burn to a crisp." As if to demonstrate his eagerness, a tiny puff of flame erupted in his palm. "It's an incredible smell – flesh broiling in red hot armor. Like a pig roast! But with more screaming… Ahh, the screaming…"

"You'll put them all to shame, ser mage," she said gently. "But let's keep the screaming to a minimum, eh?"

It was only fun to tease Anders until he rewarded her with an outburst. If she continued the game for too long he became sullen and irritable. Besides, the way Anders responded to flattery was just as cute as the way he responded to ribbing. He threw his head back to look at her, beaming, preening, his eyes closed as he waited for her to stroke his hair. She did, and he nuzzled into her palm. Sometimes, it was like being married to a peculiarly witty peacock.

"But what if they're really, really handsome?"

"It doesn't matter," Tavia said with a shrug. She followed that with a sincere sigh. "I've had more than enough of the big, armored and dimwitted type."

"Really? I can't seem to get enough of it." Anders smirked up at her. She was tempted to draw steel, knowing her swords were tucked behind her, secured to the saddle, easily reachable. Instead she returned his smirk, albeit with a touch more ice.

"I'll grant you big," she said, patting her rounded belly, "and – usually - armored, but dimwitted? Hm… Perhaps you're onto something there. I did marry a skirt-swishing apostate…"

"Low blow, elf. Low blow."

"Truly?" She laughed. "Maybe I'll show you the real meaning of low blow," Tavia said suggestively, nudging him again with her boot. Anders looked up at her hopefully. "Later."

"Are you sure?" Anders whined. "This grass looks awfully comfortable."

"Certainly, if you enjoy sustaining bug bites to your – Ah, look! Val Chevin."

Anders followed her pointing finger, bringing the pony gradually to a stop. For a moment they looked on in silence, appreciating the view. Tavia tipped her head back, the sun tickling her chin and neck. A day like this one could go on forever and she'd be perfectly happy. Perhaps taking the trip to Val Royeaux wasn't such a bad idea after all.

The pony began walking again, its hooves pattering gently on the dirt path. The distant village wall spread out like a banner unfurling. In a few hours they would make the inn and Tavia could rest. She was already so very tired. It appeared she would have to take her excitement in doses, so as not to exhaust herself or the little life she carried along for the ride.

* * *

This wasn't at all how he imagined their first night on the road.

It bothered Anders for several reasons that, despite their relocation and isolation, letters from Amaranthine managed to find their way to Tavia anyway. Some were not even from Amaranthine and came embellished with elaborate postmarking from places he had never even heard of. The letters never came by rider, which was a relief, but by tenacious little birds that arrived droopy and hungry, scrolls tied to their craggy feet.

Anders returned to their suite at the inn with a tray of food for them. He had asked for enough to feed four people, which amused the cook and the serving girl. They said nothing outright, however, having glimpsed Tavia and her particular state when they first arrived. They made the inn in good time, tethering the pony outside Le Liège Bleu, Val Chevin's most out of the way inn and tavern. The name of the place referred to the blue corks they used to cap their rather excellent wine. Anders had a bottle of said wine tucked under his arm, and was in the process of lamenting that he would be drinking alone when he opened the door to their room…

There was his wife, invitingly beautiful in her determination and focus, and before her was a spread of letters, which was not nearly as inviting or beautiful. Anders sighed to make his distaste known. Tavia smirked, but did not look up from her work. She would need to light some beeswax candles soon, as dusk was not far off. Leliana and Nathaniel would arrive any moment and Anders hoped she would at least have the courtesy to finish her business before they came to dine.

Anders deposited the tray of food at her elbow, making damn sure it covered up the letter she was reading. He pulled the cork free of the wine and sat down hard on the bed.

"Look what you're doing, woman. You're driving me to drink."

Absentmindedly, she pushed the tray aside slightly and then reached for a grape.

"You'd drink anyway," Tavia remarked distractedly, "Letters or no letters."

"Fine, but now I'm drinking to drunkenness, and that's definitely because of the letters."

"Listen to this," she said, ignoring him and sitting back in her chair. She had changed out of the sturdy riding skirt and tunic and into a softer, more romantic gown. Anders would never tell her that he was thrilled to see her wearing more dresses… She couldn't exactly slip into her tight riding breeches and plain leather corsets with her stomach. That suited Anders just fine, since he liked to have her bare legs so delectably unadorned.

"'Commander,'" she read, and then paused, rolling her eyes, "He still addresses me that way, even though he is the Warden Commander. Can you believe it?"

"Absolutely."

"'Commander,'" she read again, "'The Keep is taxed to its limits by the King's demands. We have not the men or resources to properly come to his aid. He pushes our soldiers to their limits in the Deep Roads. I fear he has gone mad, pursuing an enemy that does not exist...'"

"Poor Varel," Anders said, meaning it. He took a swig from the bottle. Incredible wine – rich, swirling, tart with just a hint of blackberry sweetness. Too bad he wouldn't be able to enjoy it, Tavia was working herself up, approaching that all-too familiar "on the warpath" look. He didn't need to see her face to anticipate that mood; the back of her neck was perfectly visible with her shaved head. He could see the tension mounting in her muscles.

On more than one occasion, when Anders saw how these missives tortured Tavia, he was tempted to write a letter of his own - one to Varel and one to the King...

Hello,

LEAVE HER ALONE.

That is all,

Anders

But it never happened because these were her letters, her affairs. Nobody was asking Anders to come back. He really was a hopeless fool. He had expected these annoyances to disappear completely once they were free of Amaranthine. But no, this was Tavia's punishment for defying the King. Alistair might not know her exact location, but he knew Varel's, and hurting Varel was the perfect way to indirectly get to Tavia. Anders shuddered as a hideous truth reared up to taunt him: It didn't matter where they went or what they did, they would never be free of the King's wrath.

Anders sat up straighter. He wasn't about to let Alistair torture her from afar. Anders was her husband now, and it was his job to protect her from these threats. He wouldn't have her swept back into their old life, their cluttered, busy, dangerous life. There was a child to think about now, and Maker help them if Alistair ever found out about that little detail. He set the wine bottle down on the floor, a bit sad to be parted from it, and went to their packs. They stacked them against the window, to be dealt with later or not at all. He could hear Tavia's quill scratching across a piece of parchment. She wrote impossibly fast. How a city elf with little education and no formal training could write like that, he had no idea. It probably had something to do with her voracious appetite for books. He would ask her about it sometime, but right then he needed to ponder less and act more.

It only took a second to find what he was looking for. Anders had packed it underneath his clean robes, mostly as a joke, but now it seemed utterly essential. Amazing, how handy this dingy old thing managed to be. He carefully pulled out the folded blanket and shook it out. It smelled like their cottage, gauzy and floral and familiar. Smirking, he tiptoed over to Tavia's chair and draped the blanket - lovingly rechristened the wanket - over her shoulders.

"Thank you, love," she said quietly, still writing. "It is a bit chilly in here."

"You're welcome," Anders said, trying hard not to betray the amusement in his voice. He kissed the side of her head and retreated to the bed. He took up the wine bottle again, settling in for the show, knowing from experience that it would only take a moment or two for the enchantment to kick in. The tension seemed to smooth out of her shoulders and her hand, gradually, began to slow. Her head perked up a bit as the full bent of his prank became clear and realization dawned. Anders grinned into the bottle, watching her sway a little in her seat.

Outside, Anders could hear Nathaniel's booming voice as he called to the groom. Their friends had arrived.

"Oh goodness," Tavia whispered, staring blankly out the window, "I can't for the life of me remember what I meant to write."

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Note: We're getting to the meat of the plot, I promise, just takes a bit to get there. :)