PART VII: A New Era

Too big... Too small... Just right! Ser Pounce-A-Lot sank his teeth into his latest lake conquest and ran up the sandy wet shore, over the ticklish garden grass and the scratchy stone courtyard, back into his taller-than-trees tower and up up up, UP its thoroughly scentmarked stairs. Round and round the staircase he went, tail waving proudly in the air at every step, avoiding the swinging doors, sidestepping heavy staves, darting around feet much bigger than a catpaw, swatting at the swishing robes, and whisker-twitching at passing breezes, until he reached the right room.

The right room smelled of musty wood and leather, and was filled with rustling, fascinating, forbidden papers stacked high, wall to wall. Ser Pounce-A-Lot snuck into its half-opened doorway, stepped silently across the soft rugs, leapt up on the nearest bookcase, pawed at the book to tip over and open the way up, and from the top shelf, reached the open window. He climbed across the arch, tail perfectly balanced, ears perked up, leaping from one sunlit parapet to another and another and made it to the first level of rooftop shingles. From there, it was not far at all to reach the topmost window in the tower, right above the sun-warmed shingles, right below the sparrows' nest, barely out of reach of his curious paw. There, in the small room at the very top, deep inside in the furthest corner, his human currently slept, curled around the furry-faced human, his mate.

Satisfied, Ser Pounce-A-Lot puffed out his orange fur in the warm morning sun, snuck across the floor, hopped up and peered from the vantage point of the headboard, and then deposited the still-dripping, gill-twitching, tail-flopping mackerel right between the two heads sleeping on a single pillow.

"GYAAARGH!" the furry-faced human bolted up to sit, flailing about even more than the fish. How rude! Pounce flattened his ears at the sudden racket. Well, at least, he thought smugly, my human is smart enough to laugh and pat the fuzzier one, to calm him down.

Though when patting turned to wrestling, Pounce sniffed and left them to it. Mating again! When I've just brought them a beautiful breakfast! As he stalked off, nose in the air, he consoled himself with the thought that they must be in heat. It would certainly explain the noise at all hours. How is a cat supposed to get a proper eighteen hours of sleep around here?

"Anders, you know perfectly well it's against the rules."

"Oh, come on, Owain!" Anders wheedled. "Lemme have a peek at your Book of Bets? I won't abuse it. Promise." After all, he just needed a harmless second to look at the start of the alphabet, at the 'A's. At 'Anders' to be exact. If he didn't find out what bets they'd been placing about him lately, he'd explode with curiosity. "It's spring!" he babbled by way of distracting the quartermaster, "Soon! Feel the spirit! The sparks! The undefinable, undefiable season of love!"

Owain's voice overrode him with the steady cadence of a clock measuring time, just before Anders' witterings got really out of hand. "Spring is perfectly simple to define. …As for the rest of your… monologue," Owain added with a dryness that almost sounded like the world's subtlest sarcasm, "My capacity to feel may differ from yours, but you also differ from all other beings."

"But!" Anders said, and repeated for emphasis. "BUT! That's the point. Love is not to be defined! It defies definition! It just is. Take the First Enchanter, for example. He walks into the room and he just… is. And when he walks out of the room…" Bright blue eyes glazed over. "…that's an arse that can make the world stand still, no matter how fast he strides."

"I daresay that is not the conventional definition of love… since this is the first time I have heard of the gluteus maximus as a yardstick of romantic attachment."

Anders beamed. "Then you haven't been paying attention. I can assure you that 'yardstick' is the perfect way to describe the results of looking at an arse as amazing as that!"

Owain looked dubiously at Anders: at a very particular point on Anders, to be precise. "Your accuracy leaves much to be desired. Or possibly your modesty."

"Modesty? Here? We're in the biggest, tallest, most upthrust tower in Ferelden!" And I'm currently spending my nights floating around the very top of it! "Around here, racks aren't for holding up staves. Thought I know a couple of particularly well endowed apprentices who tried that and… oh nevermind. And for your information, when apprentices mention 'some ass'? They're not talking about donkeys."

Owain gave him a perfectly blank stare. "But what else would they…"

"Exactly!" Anders emphasised. "But-t!"

"Stop teasing him," grumbled Garrett, as he rounded the corner and leaned against the doorway of the storage rooms, arms crossed and robes starched, the very picture of propriety. Only his stare spelled out what his lips did not: 'Come shag me.'

Only self-control intense enough to make Justice proud, kept Anders from bouncing up right then and there, with a leer on his lips, a sway on his hips and a cry of 'Yessir! Yessir! Three shags full, sir!' He settled for a comparatively sedate smile and a single "Yessir!"

Owain's stare shifted from Anders to Hawke. "May I say, First Enchanter, Anders has become much more obedient since you've taken to mentoring him."

Garrett beamed, slinging his arm around Anders, as if he was personally responsible for the achievement. As if this was an achievement at all! "Why thank you for the vote of confidence. As the old saying goes, 'Early to bed and early to rise…"

Anders grumbled, for show, and tried to shrug that arm off, while simultaneously reaching around behind Hawke to pinch the smug sod's arse. That ought to hurry him up! He'd better get us 'early to bed', before I show him 'early to rise' right here!

Hawke squirmed at the well-timed pinch. Haste-rushing the teasing Anders into the nearest storeroom closet sounded better by the second. He resisted, if only to remind himself that payback was sweeter if he made Anders wait for it.

"I wish you a restful night, First Enchanter," Owain replied evenly. "Before you go, would you care to place a wager?"

"On what?" Hawke prompted. It could've been on anything, from which first-year apprentice would put a classmate to sleep with a misdirected Entropy hex, to which professor would be the first to trip over the curly-toed slippers that were a new fashion. Owain had kept book for the whole Tower, for as long as Hawke had been there, and probably for as long as Irving had been there before him.

"Whether Senior Enchanter Levyn and Librarian Dagna will marry before Wintersend."

Hawke whistled and shook his head. "Nice try, Owain old son," he grinned, "but that one's a dead cert. I don't think anyone in the tower or the town would bet against it."

Owain inclined his head, unruffled as ever. "Right you are, First Enchanter," he replied, untroubled.

"Yeah, everyone knows about J- Levyn and Dagna," Anders grinned at Hawke. "If you thought Dagna was chirpy before, these days you have to hit her with all hundred volumes of the Encyclopedia Ponderosa to stop her singing in the book stacks. I heard it from impeccable sources that she was seen carrying one of the library's stepladders to Levyn's rooms, if you know what I mean. And you know what else? Yesterday," Anders' voice dropped to a portentous whisper and his eyes went round as saucers, "Levyn was actually caught smiling! In class!"

Hawke bit the inside of his cheeks to prevent himself from cracking a grin.

"Truly," he intoned with the full force of First Enchanterly Gravitas, "It Is A Sign Of The End Times."

Carver's curt reply to Garrett's letter full of Howe-innuendo arrived in less than a month, which was record time for Warden correspondence.

You're far too concerned with my love life.

What's the matter, old man? Jealous? Or are you too busy shagging a young and pretty apprentice - in your Fade-dreams.

- C.

Anders, always possessed of a sharp nose for gossip, poked said nose over Garrett's shoulder before Garrett even finished reading the letter himself. "Carver," Anders drawled, "Well, isn't he curious these days? Why do you even bother answering him? Clearly he has trouble with all your big words." Anders gave a sharp little smirk he must've learned from Ser Pounce-A-Lot. "I think I should draw him some pictures!"

Garrett snorted. "My darling brother's head is big enough as it is. Your idea of pictures would make his head explode!" Two guesses which head... "And then Howe would be even crankier than he usually is, and then where would the world be?"

They chuckled, and Anders circled round to lean against the desk, one hip propped on the edge. He bowed his head, looking down at his hands, and hair as rebellious as its owner escaped from the tie, drifting forward to curtain his face. Slim fingers picked at each other. "Speaking of letters…" Anders bit his lip. "Mum wrote this week. She, uh. Knows. About us. I've mentioned you too much, I guess. She wants to know…" his gaze flicked up, seeking Garrett's through a veil of tangled gold, "what your intentions toward me are."

Anders' fingers curled over the pale parchment marked with 'Lieber Huldiberaht,' and Garrett smiled. Anderfels mothers, they were so alike. He still remembered the embroidered handiwork of another Anderfels mother, which was Anders' only contribution - besides Anders himself and an occasional copy of his Manifesto - to their bed in the Amell estate. Garrett remembered it as clear as day. Stitched runes for 'Berahthraben' marked the corner of that pillow, a painstakingly hand-cleaned stain was almost nonexistent at candlelight, and the crowing silk cock in the center was still just as scarlet as if it had been stitched yesterday.

Garrett rose to his feet, reaching to still those slender, talented hands. "You already know what my intentions are," he murmured, quiet and certain, leaning in so that their foreheads touched, "You've known all along."

A slow smile curved Anders' lips, glinted in that clear-sky gaze. "Yes, I know," he breathed in tones warm with wonder, "I've known for as long as I've known who I really am." He tugged one hand from Garrett's, held it up in a warning gesture, "But before I write her back, you should know something else. If I do tell her it's serious," Anders' soft grin abruptly brightened and took a sideways turn into pure imp, "you'll never get away without your very own embroidered cock pillow."

"Really?" Garrett beamed. "Great! Just as long as it's the pillow that's got an embroidered cock. I'd rather not have my cock embroidered, whether it gets a pillow or not!"

Anders snorted. "Kinky! Even I don't want that many piercings." He reached out and squeezed Garrett's shoulder. "Fear not!" he grinned. "Mum may put a lot of pricks in her embroidery fabric but she'll love you. Who doesn't?"

"Templars?"

"They're not invited."

Garrett's wide smile wasn't a bit hidden by his beard. "They're also not around anymore."

"Handy how that works out, innit?"

"Coincidence is a beautiful thing."

Anders wrapped his arms around Garrett's waist. Memory glinted in that clear gaze, and the teasing look faded into a deeper happiness. "I prefer," he confided in a whisper, "to think of it as fate."

Anders fidgeted all morning with Freedom's Call; Garrett had taken down Anders' old staff from pride of place over their bed. Anders didn't normally use it, any more than he normally used Malcolm's Honor; both staves felt strangely heavy in his hands now, as if physically weighted with too many memories. But this was no ordinary occasion. He leaned companionably against the Liberator statue and fluffed up his human-sized pauldrons to match the feathers carved of stone, casting twin fluffy shadows on the grass.

"Should I go back inside? They'll never recognize me. I should give you some time to tell them…"

"Stay right here." Garrett gave him a reminiscent smile. "You look just like yourself … Feathers suit you like no one else. You look tons better than your statue."

"What? It's ten feet tall!" Anders sized it up, and made a show of crouching down to peek under the hem of the statue's robes. "And hung! You're blind."

Garrett chuckled indulgently, shaking his head. Of course he knew Anders' antics for what they were: cover for his nerves.

Where is that boat? Anders peered into the blue, shining surface of the lake. Come on, where are you?

They'll be here soon! The realization hit him, as startling as a stray swell of cold lakewater: making him breathe harder, like the lake's rambunctious waves always did when they slapped him wetly upside the head. Isabela and Fenris, and Varric, and even Merrill. They're all coming here, to see us.

Anders' heart was jumping in his chest. It skipped a beat at the far-off grate of the boat's keel against the shore, at the sight of the distant figures inside. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and grabbing Garrett's hand: that firm, reassuring grip felt like the only thing that could keep his jitters from bouncing him all the way off the ground and into the air like a balloon, lightheaded and giddy with apprehension and anticipation. He had no idea what would happen when he finally saw his old friends again. But with Garrett holding his hand - standing openly by his side beneath a sky as wide as freedom, as blue as Justice - this was already the best day Anders could hope for.

There was no subtle way to ease into news this momentous, so Hawke did what he usually did: squared his shoulders, marshalled his formidable resolve, and faced the problem.

He smiled and waved at the first shouts of "Hawke!" (Fenris, terse as ever) "It's been too long, you mad sod!" (Varric, his old exuberant self) "You look well, First Enchanting suits you!" (Merrill) and Isabela's inimitable greeting: "How're they hanging?"

"Juuust fine!" Anders drawled knowingly in pure reflex banter, and then froze the next instant when his brain caught up with his mouth.

"Ooh, hello! Who's your friend?" Merrill chirped at Hawke, before turning to Anders. "You look a bit like a deer. You know, that big-eyed look they get when a hunter spots them? Um, deer are very handsome," she added belatedly with an awkward smile, "don't you think?"

Hawke leaned into Anders' side and slipped an arm around his waist in a show of support (which was sorely needed, if the whipcord tension he could feel was any indication). "He's Anders." Hawke paused a beat, reading the expected dubiousness in their expressions. "Yes." he declared, in tones as steady as bedrock. "Our Anders." My Anders, the tightening of that arm into a sideways hug mutely declared.

Their friends were so startled by Hawke's declaration that shock was clear in every face. Even Varric, consummate bullshit artist that he was, was visibly shaken. "Anders, eh?" he replied slowly, gaze darting from Hawke to Anders in a rapid, almost hunted manner.

"Anders came back," Hawke stated in tones cool and flat and utterly serious.

"That's quite some story you've got there, big guy," Varric replied, slow and uncertain, as he fixed Hawke with a worried stare. "Not every day you get people, uh. Coming back."

Merrill piped up unexpectedly. "Not every day, no, but it happens." she assured Varric matter-of-factly. "Rarely, but it does. For all sorts of reasons. Sometimes it doesn't end well," she added judiciously, "but then, sometimes it does. Just like all sorts of things in life, I suppose."

"Hardly." Fenris' growl was so quiet, Hawke desperately hoped it didn't reach Anders' ears. "Any desire demon..."

Anders' shoulders hunched defensively; in the feathered pauldrons it made him look like a ruffled crow. "I'm not an abomination!" he growled.

"Oh I can tell you're not," Merrill waved off Anders' and Fenris' objections with an airy flick of one delicate hand. "Spirits have no patience at all for these sorts of discussions. They get all grumpy and forward when they have to deal with emotions they don't really understand."

Isabela's smirk grew even more suggestive as she sized up Anders. "Not to mention I'd know a desire demon if I saw one," she declared, stroking Fenris' arm soothingly, "and he's far too overdressed and not nearly horny enough."

"Right." Anders squared his shoulders, cracked his knuckles and marched up to Isabela, coming to a stop with his face a bit too close to the eyedazzling twin view, for Hawke's comfort. "Let's get this over with." As Anders reached out to press the tip of one index finger to the small of her back and the other to her navel, Hawke's blood boiled faster than he expected it to. He bit his tongue, and narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare of Fenris' lyrium tattoos as they lit up in sync with the faint zap of Anders' spell. "Ohh!" Isabela stumbled, knees going weak with the lightning-fast punch of magic-induced bliss Hawke knew all too well. Only her hand closing on Anders' shoulder kept her on her feet. "Sparklefingers! It really is you!" she laughed breathlessly, "I'd know that magic touch of yours anywhere!"

Fenris growled and looked poised to bite. Hawke entirely sympathised.

But instead of fleeing, Anders sauntered right up to a glowering Fenris. He extended one of the fingertips he'd just used to such devastating effect on Isabela, used it to trace a single curlicue of lyrium with a featherlight touch. "So glad to see you're not still wearing that red kerchief," Anders said sweetly. He lifted his hand away in a cat-quick blur of movement, just before Fenris would have slapped his hand away with a razor-clawed gauntlet; anticipating Fenris' strike with the split-second timing of practice. "Have you replaced it with one of Isabela's headscarves perhaps?"

Fenris snarled, green eyes narrowing to slits, pointed ears lowering dangerously. "And what if I have?"

"Good," Anders snapped, hard and sharp as ice, "because Hawke's mine!"

"That's enough with the pissing contest, boys," Varric grumbled, glancing from Anders to Fenris, to Hawke stewing off to one side. "Bianca's getting antsy. No one needs to take an arrow to the knee."

"He started it," Fenris growled, just like he always used to do in his squabbles with Anders, "I should finish it."

Anders eyerolled at Fenris but turned to face Varric, holding up his hands, palm out in a placating gesture, spiked with a lopsided, wry grin that was all too familiar. "Sorry about that, Vati."

'Daddy' in Anderfels, Hawke's memory supplied. Varric snorted, despite himself, at the well-remembered nickname: one he'd never heard Anders use when they weren't alone. Anders closed the distance, bent to whisper at length into Varric's ear. Varric started to grin slowly as the whispering continued, and even Hawke leaned forward in fascination. Anders straightened up, and he and Varric said the punchline in perfect unison, "Now we can ALL get some sleep!" They shared a reminiscent chuckle.

Hawke hadn't been able to make out what Anders was saying, and everyone else - except Varric and Anders - looked every bit as bewildered as Hawke felt. Even Merrill and Fenris looked nonplussed, and they probably had much better hearing than Hawke did.

"Long story," Varric didn't really explain.

"Yeah," Anders added with a grin, "You could call it a shaggy-mabari sort of story."

Varric nodded. "One of those tales best saved for the Hanged Man, or whatever the local pub's called." He looked expectantly from Hawke to Anders.

Hawke laughed. "It's called the Spoiled Princess," Anders chipped in, "But we've got even better drinks in our rooms." He linked arms with Hawke, waving the free arm in an inviting gesture toward the Tower's gates. "Shall we?"

"Good idea," Isabella grinned. "I haven't had nearly enough rum today to deal with one of Varric's riddles."

"Oh, one more thing," Varric added as Anders stopped in his tracks. "Welcome back, Blondie. It just hasn't been the same without you. You do know you've been missed?"

"So were you, you sly sod," Anders grinned at Varric. "And thanks for giving the credit" the irony in Anders' voice made it clear he really meant 'the blame', "to Vael. I'm sure he enjoyed the notoriety, and I hope he choked on it." And then Anders dropped to his knees, flung his arms around Varric's broad chest, and just bearhugged him, hard enough for even Varric's laughter to sound a bit breathless.

Much later, after one too many surprises for an unsuspecting traveller to handle without a stiff drink, and after far too many stiff drinks afterwards, even Varric eventually ran out of stories. For the moment, anyway. Bianca rested, gleaming, at his knee, Daisy's yawns turned into a quiet snore at his side, the bottle of whiskey was nearly empty yet still passed around the table. Varric lifted his hand from Daisy's soft eartip and waved emphatically to get Hawke's attention.

"So," Varric fired a knowing glance at Hawke, "We stopped by Amaranthine on the way here..." A smile quirked his lips. "Commander Howe says hello." He puffed out his chest and paused for good measure, watching Hawke's face grow redder in the magelight.

Isabela perked up right away, smirking at them from her seat on Fenris' lap. "You have to excuse Howe," she drawled. "He's far too busy these days to write long letters, in between all the buggering he and that brother of yours supposedly get up to."

Varric watched them carefully.

Blondie's eyes went wide and he tried - and failed miserably - to stifle a shiteating grin. Hawke gave a choked splutter. They traded stares.

Varric waited it out, enjoying a perfect pause. "Do you two happen to know anything about that?"

"Who, me?" Blondie spoke up far too quickly, cranking the baby-blue-innocent-eyes look just a bit too hard.

"No idea what you're on about," Hawke deadpanned. "Do tell."

Well, well, look at that. They're just handing me ammunition! I'd be an idiot and an ingrate if I didn't take it from such willing fingers. Before Isabela does it for me.

This ought to be good. All those forbidden rites and that Grey Warden stamina... Let's just hope by the time this story catches on and gets back to Howe, we'll be out of his territory and back in the Free Marches.

Varric kicked back, folded his arms over his chest, and prepared to spin yet another riveting tale.

Just like old times.

The End. (And the beginning.)