Eleven
Note: Equal parts drams and fluff in this one, also a good amount of smut, like serious smut, so if you don't like smut then COVER YOUR VIRGIN EYES FOR THE MAKER'S SAKE, GEEZ. Anyhoots, enjoy the fluff while it lasts…
*
The last time she was trapped in the Fade, Tavia had a clear-cut task: kill the Sloth Demon. Escaping was a matter of wits and brawn, pitting her intellect and her sword against the demon's intricate obstacles. But here there was no way out, no puzzle to solve, no shadowy monsters to slay and it was in no way an idyll meant to trap Tavia in complacency. It was not her physical body trapped in the Fade now, but her spirit, and as minutes turned to hours, Tavia realized there was no going back.
Tavia discovered that if she continued walking, never slowing her steps, her demon parasite could not detain her long enough to strike up another revolting conversation about cocks, which seemed to be the extent of the demon's conversation pool. And she was aware that the baby must have either died or left her body, because in a shimmering flash she no longer had her swollen belly and the landscape of the Fade changed completely. Everything became flat, a misty, unending steppe of screaming winds and chalky light. The color leached from the ground and the skies, and Tavia had to wonder if she was fortunate or cursed to have been locked out of her body for the act of birth. Not that it mattered. She was a prisoner of the Fade now, doomed to wander until she became nothing but a lost and lonely spirit and forgot her humanity altogether. In the mean time, the demon would take control of her physical self and continue the destruction Anora had begun.
She was surprised to feel the ground beneath her feet tremble. The quake quickly spread, shaking her until she feared the floor would open up and devour her. A thick cloud of purple burst to her right and the desire demon appeared, stepping out of what appeared to be a giant soap bubble.
"What's happening?" Tavia demanded, holding out her hands for balance.
"Rejoice, my pet," the demon purred, "I sense the Veil has thinned. I will soon join with your body and leave the Fade for good." She exploded with laughter, bending in half; she began panting to supply enough air for several rounds of hysterical giggling. "Shall I say hello to your husband for you?"
Tavia wasn't allowed the chance to respond. The sky brightened, blinding, and then it too began to shake, as if a god had picked up the entire world and begun rattling it like a snow globe. The demon's smile vanished. Her arrogance dimmed too as she glanced up and down, left and right, undoubtedly watching for the tear in the Veil, her chance to flee. As the tremors died down, a sound ripped across the sky, a shrieking like the sundering of long-hidden stone. It was an unnatural sound, one that filled the heart with terror and awe. Tavia covered her ears, clenching her eyes as she willed her brains to stay in place. She wouldn't have been surprised to feel her own blood leak from her ears with the noise.
Then two things happened at once. The clouds opened up, flapping like a torn piece of linen, and Tavia felt a sudden jolt of pain. She hadn't actually experienced pain in some time, having grown distant and detached from her body. Another blinding flash and two figures appeared on the horizon. They approached at a run, one slight and white-haired, wielding a gnarled staff, the other tall and broad and crowned with a head of thick, dark curls. The demon sizzled in her own skin, stamping her hooved feet and snorting like a bull.
"Here!" the man called. "She's here, Wynne."
Tavia rushed toward them, the demon close on her heels. She could hear the beast snarling, furious to have her plans unwound at the last minute. Bayard smiled as Tavia approached, bowing low in his customary way. Wynne raised her staff and then punched it into the ground, a shockwave rippling out in every direction. It did nothing to slow the demon, whose power in the Fade was palpable. Black shadows slithered up out of the ground, growing eyes and jagged teeth even as they watched. Bayard flourished his sword, stepping around Tavia, planting his body between her and the demon.
"Two more playthings," the demon said with a giggle, covering her mouth girlishly. Her twisted horns dipped as she sized up Bayard, yellow-gray eyes pulsing with hunger. "You are a satisfactory offering," she said, her silken sleeve fluttering as she pointed at the knight. "It will be a pleasure dismantling you piece by piece."
Bayard stabbed at the nearest shadow, which recoiled and seemed to sink into the ground. He looked at Wynne, communicating some silent pact, and the old mage woman nodded. Tavia watched this with wide eyes, wishing for proof that this was real and not another conjured trick. She reached out and touched Bayard's shoulder. He was solid. Present. Her heart began to thunder.
"Take my hand, Tavia," Wynne said quietly. Tavia did as she was instructed, delighted by another jolt of happiness when she found Wynne's hand was solid, too. "We must not hesitate," Wynne added. The demon sensed she was outnumbered and held up her glittering magenta hands in supplication.
"There must have been some kind of misunderstanding," the demon said, widening her eyes in a mask of innocence that wouldn't have fooled a blind man. "Let us talk so that we may avoid the nasty business of bloodletting."
"You have no blood to let," Bayard replied at once. "Mores the pity."
"Mercy more becomes a knight," the demon shot back, crossing her arms under her breasts and hoisting them so that Bayard could get a good look. When he did not react to her petty flirtations, the demon pouted. "Perhaps you prefer something a little stronger, mm? A little more… robust?" She shimmered like a mirage, covered in a thick dusting of diamonds, and then she was gone. The demon no longer stood before them, but Anders, naked as the day he was born. Tavia watched Bayard's throat dip as he swallowed.
"Witch!" Tavia screamed, shaking her head in desperation.
Anders smiled at them, cocking his hips to the side roguishly. "Do I not please you?" the demon asked, in Anders's exact voice. Tavia covered her eyes.
"Your tricks are meaningless," Bayard grunted.
"Are they?" Anders asked. Between her fingers, Tavia saw Anders fade, replaced by King Alistair, wearing nothing but a naughty smile, resplendent with golden light. Tavia recoiled; she had almost entirely managed to stamp out and forget the image of Alistair's naked body. Not that it was unpleasant, quite the contrary, but her memories of him were painful.
"How about me, ser knight?" Alistair teased. Then he too disappeared in a shower of diamonds, Ser Etienne taking his place. That was not someone Tavia needed to see naked. When this did not move Bayard, the demon tried again. This time Tavia gasped, horrified, as the demon turned not into another man, but into Tavia herself.
"Or me?"
"Now," Wynne whispered fiercely. "Destroy her."
Bayard nodded, but Tavia didn't miss the slight hitch in his breathing. Wynne began to inch Tavia backward, back toward the way she and Bayard had come. Tavia dragged her feet, whirling to look at the knight, who valiantly stood his ground even in the midst of half a dozen shadowy creatures and the desire demon itself.
"But Bayard…" Tavia protested.
"Will not be joining you," he finished. He bowed again. The Fade blurred her vision too much to tell if his eyes were tearing. The demon in Tavia's form was gaining on him. If he wasn't careful, the beast would strike before he had a chance to regroup. "It gives me great satisfaction, my lady, to serve as your champion."
"Behind you," Tavia called, reaching out her hand.
Bayard turned at the waist. The world was fading around her, dripping, as if the ground and Bayard and even the very skies were melting. Wynne clutched her hand, grounding her as the Fade evaporated around them. The last thing she saw was Bayard's back and the trajectory of his broadsword as he cut diagonally, giving a thunderous roar as he cleft the desire demon – Tavia - in two. She heard a scream, her own, before the Fade collapsed in on itself, obliterated.
Tavia woke at once, with a great, shuddering gasp for air, as if she had been flailing under water for too long and only now just found the surface.
Her eyes opened on a familiar face, inches from her nose, and two wide, golden brown orbs filled with concern. She hovered there for a moment, disoriented, shocked into the warmth of the tent and the sinews of her body. It was quiet, intensely quiet. Everything hung on her, she understood that, but reality was still dawning, working its way back into her mind. Then she smiled and threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Anders's neck. She felt his kiss at once, his nose against her temple, the wetness of his tears on her ear.
"Maker be praised," Wynne murmured. She was still catching her breath, standing to the side, her white hair mussed. Tavia wanted to ask for some air, please, Anders, but the lack of oxygen felt wonderful, intoxicating. She pulled away, suddenly exhausted, and reached up to cup Anders's cheek.
"What?" she whispered. "Were you worried about me or something?"
Her voice still ached from the smoke of the fire. She felt strangely bereft, empty. Anders laughed, wiping at his face with both hands. "Me? Worried? You're imagining things."
"It is good to have you back , tul - " Zevran stopped himself, "Commander."
"I see you've met Z," Tavia murmured wryly, nodding toward the Antivan. Anders glanced between them, his expression somewhere between astonishment and profound embarrassment. His cheeks flared. He scooped Tavia into his arms and squeezed.
"Well, surprise, surprise, I feel like an arsehole."
"A first," Zevran replied mildly, "I'm sure."
Tavia smiled up at Wynne and Krag, mentally doing a head count. Shouldn't Bayard be with them? He had been there in the Fade… There was an ominously empty spot next to her, where the blankets were conspicuously flat and rumpled. She flicked her eyes between Anders and Wynne, slowly making the connection. Tavia took her hands back from Anders and covered her mouth.
"I think this is a discussion best had privately," Krag rumbled. He took out his pipe and nodded solemnly to Tavia before ducking out of the tent. Zevran reached down to pat Tavia on the shoulder once before following Krag. Wynne dallied, shifting around as if she wanted desperately to stay and explain. But fear or perhaps reason won out, and she left them, briskly.
Tavia placed her palm on the blanket next to her. It was still warm.
"He's gone," she said quietly.
Anders continued to hold her close, sitting perpendicular to her legs, her knees draped over his thighs. He rubbed the small of her back, no doubt searching for the right words. Tavia felt a quiver in her lip, an uncontrollable urge to cry. Anders leaned forward and brushed his warm lips over her forehead.
"It was the only way," he whispered. His voice was ragged, strained. Somehow, that actually made Tavia feel a bit better. Sacrificing Bayard had not been easy for anyone, apparently. She wished they at least had a body to bury, something of his to honor for this incredible gift...
"He was a respectable man," Tavia replied, "In the end."
"It was his choice," Anders added in a very small voice.
"And yours, too, I'm sure. I know it's… It can't have been easy. Perhaps I should say thank you, but that doesn't feel right." She tore her eyes away from the empty blanket to look at her husband. It was almost too much to take in; Bayard dead, her body restored and the demon banished. And then there was her husband, holding her, his body nestled against hers, and…
"Maker's mercy, Anders," she muttered frantically, "Where's the baby?"
"Outside. He's perfectly safe. Shale's babysitting."
"What?"
Anders smiled, anticipating the retaliatory punch she threw at his shoulder. He caught her hand and kissed it. Tavia wanted to kill him just for planting that gut-twisting image in her brain, even if it only lasted an instant. "Leliana has him. He's fine. No, sod it, he's not fine, he's bloody gorgeous."
"Then he has his father's looks," Tavia whispered dreamily. Anders leaned in for a celebratory kiss. What a sucker. "Alistair will be so proud."
He froze. Tavia grinned, "That was for making me think Shale had our son." She pressed her lips to his, kissing him deeply, running her tongue along his bottom lip. Had he always tasted so sweet? "And that was for staying here, at the camp, and not getting yourself killed."
"It was agony," Anders whispered seriously.
"I know. And I also know you're probably furious that I called for Zevran, but I couldn't risk having you captured. Now you know who Z is," she said, "And it should be perfectly clear that he's not my lover. He's everyone's lover. It's just who he is. Watch, he'll have a pet name for you in no time."
"Oh Maker, he already does," Anders said with a groan.
"Which is?"
"Skirts."
Tavia chuckled, trying to imagine a nickname that would irritate Anders more, but she came up empty. She sighed, exhausted, and tucked herself into Anders's chest. She wanted to sleep for days, real sleep, where the Fade didn't haunt her and keep her conscious. It had been days since she had proper rest and her body was beginning to remind her that, not only was she crispy on the outside, she had also given birth. The pain was everywhere, dull in some cases, heart-stoppingly intense in others. Her feet felt like they were missing entirely. She physically craned her neck to look and make sure they were still there.
"I'll heal you," Anders whispered gently, "You'll be good as new by morning."
"Yes, I need to be. We have to strike at Anora while she's weakened."
Anders stiffened. Tavia was prepared for his resistance. It didn't matter. They had struck a blow at her plans and they had to advance while she was still scrabbling to make ground. Losing Tavia and Bayard would leave an opening. They couldn't afford to fall back; Anora was her father's daughter. She would deal with the setback and find another other ways to shake Alistair.
"You almost died, love, and there's the baby to think about. You can't ride into battle with our son on your back." Anders was pressing around her, as if hugging her tightly enough would stop her from making a rash decision. "I know you're angry," he continued, "but there will be time to deal with Anora later."
Tavia laughed bitterly. "I'm not angry, Anders. I'm murderous. I'm going to send her head to Alistair in a basket."
Their argument was interrupted by Nathaniel, who was careful to clear his throat and allow them a moment before he entered the tent. "Commander," he said with a wide smile, "It's a relief to see you well. I don't mean to interrupt, but we must move the camp. Krag informs me that the Warden Etienne was wounded in the rescue, but was not killed. His scouts will be combing the countryside."
"For pity's sake, can we rest for one night?" Anders asked.
"No, he's right. We can't linger." Tavia tried to reposition herself onto her knees, but found that her feet ached too much. Anders fussed, making an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. He wrapped his hands around both of her feet and at once she felt the pain lessen from his crackling healing powers.
"Krag's raven scouted an abandoned farm not far from here. It should be comfortable enough for a temporary stay." He straightened up, preparing to leave them. "Krag has offered to put a charm on the horses, to lighten their hooves and lessen your tracks. Shale and I will split off and hope that our tracks will confuse them. We will make for Prideux's estate. He entrusted me with his signet ring and a message for his wife. He seemed confident his people would be willing to aid us, after a little persuasion."
"Is that what Shale's for?" Anders scoffed. "Persuasion? Help us or he'll stomp your ladies into mush?"
"It's a good plan," Tavia said. She didn't want any more squabbling. Her adventures had made her hearty, tough to kill. A wildly uncomfortable sprint was preferable to dying in the night at Etienne's hands. They had to be sensible, even in the midst of their relief and joy, they had to maintain their wits. "The sooner we leave the sooner I can get some rest. Give Krag the word. I'm ready to go."
* * *
With only three horses to go around, it was decided that Nathaniel would take one for his gallop to the Prideux lands and Tavia and Zevran would be given the other two. Tavia was allowed a horse for obvious reasons and Zevran's horseback archery was far superior to Leliana's. They had to go forward carefully, putting their defense first and their comfort second.
They broke camp before midnight, Leliana and Nathaniel sharing a tender but soldierly embrace before he sped off with Shale. Anders had to admire their ability to separate with so little resistance. Their love was obvious but so was their devotion to duty. It almost felt like the old days, when he would troop all over Amaranthine with the gang, Tavia leading them into whatever trouble she could stir up. Which happened to be a lot of damn trouble.
Anders led Tavia's horse, glancing up rather more than he meant to, constantly distracted by the sight of her cradling their son in a makeshift papoose. She was wearing one of his robes for warmth, and looked absolutely tiny, swimming in the thing. But Tavia managed to preserve her dignity, looking far more like a queen in ceremonial dress than a young woman drowning in her husband's old clothes. With a crown and a sword she could've been one of the Tevinter queens of old, strong and beautiful and fearsome to behold. As it was, however, she was his wife and making up for lost time by talking goo-goo language to their son in an increasingly elaborate vocabulary of nonsense words. Ser Pounce-a-lot, surlier than ever, was relegated to pack duty, slung over Anders's shoulder and forced to endure yet another bouncy, rugged trip. Every once in a while, Anders caught Pounce peeking out of the pack, sending mutinously feline glares at the child, who was now the sole recipient of human attention.
"Sorry buddy," Anders whispered to the cat, "You've got a challenger for the cute crown."
Pounce meowed with resentment and dropped back down into the bowels of Anders's pack. Luckily for the cat, it was a relatively easy walk with minimal jostling. The hilly terrain was carpeted in lush grasses and wildflowers and there were an abundance of well-packed paths that carried travelers from one end of Orlais to the other. The air smelled of spring, noisy with bees and fragrant with buttercup flowers and clover. If they turned south they would be heading back toward Val Royeaux and, beyond that, home. But this seemed too obvious a destination, so Krag brought them west, deeper into hill country. He told them, in his stoic and gruff way, that they would make camp at the abandoned farm, recover, and send Kazimir to Denerim and then Prideux castle. Upon Tavia's insistence, Krag agreed to let her write the missive. Alistair knew Tavia's handwriting and she was familiar with the kind of rhetoric that got through to the King.
The kind where Tavia threatens to feed his balls to a pack of feral mabari…
It amused Anders to no end that his petite elven wife could so readily influence the King of Ferelden. It also amused him that her "I talk and you listen" relationship with Alistair was nothing like their marriage. Mostly, Tavia talked and Anders teased her until she threw a punch. And then they tumbled into bed and made up and arrived at a solution to their quarrel with whispers breathy from exertion. Anders glanced up at Tavia again, overhearing her describe the fat bumblebees trundling by as, "buzzy bumbos."
"You're going to regret that, you know," Anders said conversationally. Tavia smirked down at him.
"Why do you say that?"
"He'll be at school, playing with the other kids and he'll be all: 'Oh, look at that buzzy bumbo!' And the others will never let him live it down. He'll be scarred for life. And then he'll think his mum's either a liar or a dimwit."
"Well his father's already a dimwit so why not make it a matching set?"
Anders laughed and listened to her ramble to their son about "dada" being a "dumdum." Someone had replaced his screaming hellion of a wife with a jibbering cream puff, and it was adorable. It was also sort of arousing, which both disturbed and intrigued him. He was either sex-starved to the point of madness or motherhood was kind of hot.
He was coming around to the conclusion that it was the latter.
And Anders was also coming to the conclusion that he did not want to plunge back into danger so soon. He wanted a chance to enjoy this little family they had created before it was all threatened and menaced again. It struck him as idiotic to risk their lives again immediately after cheating death. It was like… like going into your house and deliberately setting your favorite possessions on fire and then just watching them burn. Insane. Diabolical. But part of him acknowledged that they wouldn't be truly safe until Anora was taken care of. And by "taken care of" he of course meant drawn and quartered and then used as a dance floor by drunken ogres. They had tried to run away from their pasts in Ferelden and now it was obvious that hiding wouldn't work. After this, Anders decided, they would have to pack up and leave Orlais. He liked their cottage and their vegetable garden, but other homes could be made. They would be involved in what went on in Ferelden from now on, if only to see the danger coming head on before it arrived. That, and he had a dark, wheedling desire to parade his son in front of Alistair and watch his dumb red face explode from jealousy.
Right, because that's the way to keep your family safe. Piss off the king. Brilliant, Anders. You are brilliant.
"If you think any harder, my dear, steam will start pouring out of your ears."
Anders started, finding that Wynne had fallen back to walk beside him. He shrugged and looked into the distance. Wynne lowered her voice.
"How did she take Bayard's passing?"
"In stride," Anders replied in a similar undertone. "I think she's still just trying to wrap her head around it all. She was abducted, burned at the stake, possessed by a demon, had a baby and then woke up from it all because someone gave their life for her. It's a bit of a mess."
"And you?" Wynne asked. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm alright, I suppose. I wish there could've been a better way, but I had to respect his choice." Anders didn't mention that he was thinking frequently of Bayard's haunting green eyes. He sincerely hoped those visions would fade with time.
"I'm proud of you, Anders," Wynne said softly. She smiled a little forlornly, lines crinkling around her eyes. She leaned heavily on her staff, using it as a walking stick. "From what I've heard, you gave the Circle plenty of trouble. Usually, those mages don't turn out so well. I've seen more than my share turn to despair and dark urges. And yet you… You are one of the few apostates I've met who use their freedom responsibly."
"Responsibly might be a stretch," Anders muttered. "If you'll recall, we did just perform blood magic."
Wynne nodded, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. "Irving would not have approved of what we did for Tavia. I don't want to say… I don't want to say he would have let her die, but…"
"But he would've let her die," Anders supplied. "I don't hate Irving, if that's where you're going with this. And I don't sympathize with blood mages, either. I would've cut off my own arm with a herring if that was enough to bring her back. Irving just lives in his little black and white Tower letting the templars make black and white decisions. But it's useless. I mean… Tavia's killed a lot of people. Is that good? No, but I'd defy anyone who says it's flat out evil."
Wynne smiled crookedly. "The Howe boy might not tease you so much if you spoke sense like that more often."
"Sense? But what fun would that be? Hang sense." Anders winked at her, deciding that she was one of the few Circle mages he could accurately call a friend. "No, I'll go on letting Nathaniel think he's some kind of unappreciated genius. It's always good for a giggle."
* * *
Abandoned was a cute way to describe the farm. But rundown, rat-infested and holier than old Lothering cheese were probably more accurate descriptors. Generously, Anders and Tavia were given the hay loft to use as their temporary quarters while the others searched and cleaned the farmhouse. It had once been a stately home indeed, built of rust-colored, rough stones with creamy mortar. But the thatched roof had long ago begun to rot and cave in, leaving the upper floors open to the elements and the ravages of time.
Anders was relieved to finally lie down. The hay loft smelled dusty and sweet, still retaining the scent imprinted into the wood and stone well after the last bales had crumbled and blown away in the wind. Before allowing Tavia to go up into the loft, Anders tested the ladder twice. Hidden inside the first floor of the barn, it had escaped the rotting effects of moisture and held his weight. He helped Tavia up the rungs, and he followed after with the baby in the sling around his neck. He excused himself to find blankets and pillows and to feed Pounce.
The house didn't have much in the way of linens. Most of the bedclothes had been eaten away to tatters by the moths and mice. There was no food left in the pantry or the kitchen except for the remnants of a few moldy vegetables, so old and black they looked like withered fingers. The whole place smelled vaguely of decay, as if the house itself were a body and not a series of lifeless floors and ceilings. It was creepy to skulk around someone's farm, taking their things, cavalierly ignoring the damage to possessions and walls that had probably meant a lot to someone. But their need was great, and Anders hoped whatever spirits watched the farm could feel their good intentions. He didn't like the idea of disturbing restless souls, especially when they intended to stay for a while.
After some serious searching, Anders uncovered a locked, dry chest in the downstairs hall and helped himself to a few woolly blankets, leaving several behind for the others. He could hear them creaking around upstairs, blasts of sound indicating when they had uncovered a bad infestation of rats. It would take weeks to make this ruin into something livable, but Anders chose not to think about that. After some food and a rest he might be able to stand the idea of hard labor. For now, he had a wife to heal and a baby to look after. He took a few cloth-wrapped packets of salted pork and dried fruit and returned to the hay loft. The barn was only a few yards from the house proper, and the roof was mostly intact, made of hard timbers and not thatch. He climbed up the ladder, wondering how many horses and pigs and sheep had once filled up the lower level of the barn. A few harnesses and saddles languished against the southern wall, almost unrecognizable as useful equipment.
Anders's shoulders complained and throbbed as he picked his way back up into the loft. He began to wonder if hard choices could actually manifest physically. Not twelve hours ago he had decided to end a man's life in favor of saving his wife. He regretted the choice, but not the outcome. And his regret sank further away the moment he saw Tavia nestled into his oversized robe, their son lying in her arms. He blushed, realizing he had caught them during a rather private moment. She was nursing, which was an intriguing idea, and one that Anders hadn't let himself examine too closely during the months leading up to this. He had, on occasion, silently thanked the Maker for the delightful way his lover's breasts were swelling, but other than that, he'd been painfully mute on the subject.
Now here it was, laid out right in front of him and he was reacting like a fucking teenager, as if he, a grown man and her bloody husband, ought not to look at her bare chest. Birds and the bees, Anders, did you think he'd come wrapped in rainbows and eat happy feelings? Boldly but still flushing, he padded over to them, presenting the found blankets as if they were a glorious kill and he the victorious, meat-providing hunter. Tavia smiled mildly at his offering.
"So we won't freeze to death after all," she remarked, her hand cradling the back of the baby's head.
Anders dropped down beside them, marveling at how quickly Tavia's skin had become pink again. He hated to think of her previous condition, her skin the color of ash, her face lifeless and waxy. That didn't mean she was perfectly recovered. Her feet still needed work, her voice rasped and her limbs shook as she tried to hold Tempest steady. Tempest. Weird. Anders was still trying to digest the fact that this was a tiny person they had, one that would eventually grow up to talk and make choices and, in all probability, infuriate them. He spread out the blankets, allowing Tavia the bulk of them and then made what he felt was a comfortable little nest for sleeping.
"He'll probably want to sleep when he's finished," Tavia said, nodding toward the baby.
Anders cupped his head around the child's warm little head. The hair there was soft, like wisps of raw cotton. Which reminded him…
"Your hair is awfully fuzzy," Anders said, looking at Tavia's scruffy mange of dark blonde. Usually it was so neatly shaved, just the thinnest layer of hair. But days of neglect had let it grow out into funny little tufts.
"I'll fix it for you," Anders added, "In a bit."
Tavia nodded, biting down gently on her lower lip. He felt it too. That giddy sensation. It was like some hysterical joke was floating around the room, just out of reach. They were alive. They had given death the finger yet again. Anders let out a relieved chuckle, his chest expanding with the effort. They also had a baby to raise. Maker, no pressure there.
Anders lay down quietly, not asleep and not totally awake. He would wait patiently until Tavia was ready to be healed. She never liked asking him to use his magic, and they never spoke much about his time in the Tower. It's not that he was embarrassed, it just seemed so foreign and ridiculous, like trying to explain to someone a complex idea while speaking an entirely different language. Her upbringing in the Alienage was nothing like his childhood in the Tower, but Anders had a feeling these things would work their way out, now that there was a child to bring those memories bubbling inevitably to the surface.
After a while, the baby decided he was done with her and dozed off in the soft cavern between her breasts. Anders knew for a fact it was soft and lovely there. He had fallen asleep in that very spot many, many times.
"Lucky little bastard," Anders muttered with a crooked smirk.
"You're jealous of an infant? I believe that's a new low, Anders, even for you."
"The rest of us have to eat boring old food," Anders replied. "Is life always so unfair?"
"I'm afraid so," Tavia said gently. Her eyelids were beginning to droop even as she spoke. There was a faint knocking at the ladder down below, as if that were a door or something.
"What is it?" Anders called, crawling on all fours to the edge of the hay loft. Leliana peered up at him, her hair glowing like a fire-fall of embers in the dusk light.
"Would you like me to take him for a while? I've found an old bassinet and gave it a wash. I thought you might like the chance to heal her in private, without worrying about him tumbling out of the loft." She smiled, proud of her own thoughtfulness. Anders was proud of it, too.
"You're a goddess."
He checked with Tavia, who seemed reluctant to let him go at first. But her hands were trembling and she was a smart girl. It was time to look to her own wellbeing, especially if they had a fight ahead of them. Anders climbed down the ladder with the papoose. The baby continued to sleep, gurgling quietly. I hope you're not always this cute or it'll be a bloody chore trying to discipline you when you're bad. Which you will be. No, don't look at me like that. I'm your father, I ought to know…
"I'll bring him back in a few hours. The bassinet, too."
Leliana gave him a wink and a smile, patting Tempest on the back as she whisked him away to the house. Anders wasn't stupid enough to miss the motherly tenderness she so effortlessly employed. If Nathaniel wasn't careful, Tempest would have a tiny redheaded playmate next year.
Tavia was already dozing when he hopped back into the loft. Shadows drifted across the walls, spilling in from the jagged holes in the ceiling. Dusk tinged everything warm pink, including Tavia, who looked rather like a fairy princess snuggled down into a bower. She stirred at his presence, unwinding like a cat. She stretched and reached for him, arching her back a little. Anders gulped, knowing he was a huge, terrible pervert for thinking about her in a sexual way when she was still weak and in pain.
He opened her robe – his robe – the rest of the way, helping her to slide her arms from the sleeves. In a moment of weakness, he shucked his robe too. There was nothing for it. He wanted to be naked with her, even if they weren't embracing. He needed that brush of her bare skin against his. He needed to remember how warm and pliant she was in his arms.
First, he tended to her feet, pulling them into his lap and licking them with magic until the skin no longer looked shriveled and charred. Tavia purred softly, half-awake, her heavy-lidded eyes watching him with rapt fascination. She was always intrigued by his magic, drawn to it, and Anders felt a smattering of gooey pride well in his gut. Anders worked his way north, casting gentle healing spells over her legs, just in case the flames managed to get her there. At the very least, it would relieve some of her tension. Blushing again – quit that, you idiot – he splayed his hands over her lower abdomen. He wasn't sure what state she would be in after the birth, but he considered the idea of pushing a baby out of his body and decided a healthy dose of magic was a safe bet. His hands warmed from the energy of the magic, sending curlicues of green light over his fingers. Tavia gasped, suddenly much more awake.
"Did I hurt you?" he whispered hoarsely.
"No," she ground out, "I just had no idea how miserable I felt until you made it go away."
Anders chuckled to himself and indulged in a brief sweep of his hand over her curling blonde pubic hair. She smacked at him ineffectually. "That's not healing," she whispered, "Not with magic anyway."
"Oh? My touch isn't magical?" he replied, smiling at her giggles. It was good to see her laughing again, even if it was in response to his lame jokes. A thought occurred to him as he gazed with unabashed heat at her flat stomach. He hadn't really meant to, but his healing spells had mended her inside and out, the slight puckering from her recently-bereft belly disappearing. He had read that elves rebounded faster than humans, survival in the wilds helping them adapt a natural ability to be up and hunting again almost immediately. Still, it seemed bizarre. Baby in, baby out. "Do you remember it?" he asked, hoping it wasn't too soon. "Do you remember it at all?"
Tavia shook her head, fixing her eyes on a point over his shoulder. "Not really. I felt suddenly empty and afraid, but otherwise, no. I don't remember."
"Some would call you lucky," Anders murmured, "Except for the whole disastrous brush with death thing."
"I am lucky," Tavia said, "What woman gets to feel perfectly healthy so soon after giving birth? Do you know - it usually takes weeks to get things back to… um… fighting trim?"
Anders laughed and shook his head. No, he hadn't known that. He sighed. He loved her. Maker's breath did he love her. She was so adept at doing that, switching the topic away from darkness and despair when he clumsily insisted on running headlong into it. She poked his shoulder, drawing him out of his thoughts. Anders touched her abdomen again, sending another little jolt of energy into her skin. It was probably not a good sign that she looked so perfectly flat and thin again. His face darkened instantaneously. They had starved her in that cell. Bastards.
"I'm coming with you this time," Anders said resolutely. His chest felt hot and furious, too compact. "When you go after Anora, I'm coming with you."
"Of course you are, dummy," Tavia said with a laugh. "Did you think I was going to make you stay home and babysit?"
"Just a reminder, darling, but you can't make me do anything," Anders growled, flattening out beside her. He made certain to press his legs against hers. She was so warm, so soft… How he had missed this. And he had put these very moments in jeopardy with his insane, jealous tantrum. Tavia touched his cheek, again extricating him from dwelling on ugliness. He draped his hand over her neck and conjured another trickling of energy, soothing her burned throat.
"Here," he said, pulling himself up further on the blankets, "Your hair is a mess."
"And this is why I love you, because you're so sensitive, so suave…"
Anders pinched the tip of her pointed ear.
"Ouch!"
"Be quiet or I'll pinch the other one," he muttered. Tavia stilled in his grasp. He opened his palms and held his hands over her head. Shortly after arriving in Orlais, he had perfected this useful little charm. He could run his hands over her head and more or less zap her hair to just the right length. Of course, it smelled a bit like burning, but she didn't mind so much. In truth, Tavia had been in fits of ecstasy when he unveiled this talent. Otherwise, she was forced to shave her head completely shiny bald every other week to keep it from getting too shaggy. She hated this and the constant itching and teasing. Anders liked this charm too. He had once, admittedly drunk, confessed to her that she was not only the first elf he ever fell for, but the first woman with a shaved head to make him feel that way and that he actually found it unbearably sexy. It was due to her exceptionally pretty face that she could get away with such a severe look, he decided. In bed, before falling asleep or while he read, he would absently rub his palm over her head. It felt like the softest, sweetest velveteen, and it tickled his skin.
"That feels so much better," she sighed, collapsing back against his thighs. "Thank you."
"I'm not quite done yet," Anders said, "Still a bit more healing to go."
"I'm all better," she protested, trying to turn onto her side. Anders prevented it. "One hundred percent."
"Oh I don't think so," he said gravely, pinning her with his best 'I'm the doctor here, madam, and don't you forget it' look. She struggled nonverbally for only a moment, realizing a second later what he meant. Anders would probably be struck down by the Maker with a blazing eruption of fire for doing this so soon, but she just looked too tantalizing in the dusk light. It wasn't totally his fault, he decided, sliding down beside her to cup and squeeze one of her breasts. She was staggeringly beautiful and his wife and for some weird, definitely-not-to-be-examined-reason he found the act of her breastfeeding unspeakably erotic. Tavia melted and moaned into his arms. Apparently she didn't think it was too soon.
Take that, Maker.
Anders slipped a blanket over them, not keen on the idea of prying eyes, especially prying Antivan eyes. For all he knew, that lecherous, pointy-eared philanderer was right down the ladder listening. Let him, I hope he dies from jealousy. Well, that wasn't a helpful thought. Anders was flooded with a primal urgency, thinking of all the other ways he could arouse jealousy. He grinned into Tavia's neck and nipped her skin, his chest flushing red at the thought of taking her on that oh-so-tasteful and virile bear rug on the floor just in front of the royal thrones in Denerim. Anders could all but feel the coarse fur beneath his grasp, Tavia moaning his name as he grabbed the royal throne for purchase… Thanks for trying to have me killed, Your Majesty, don't worry, I'm sure the stains will come out if you scrub hard enough…
Anders bit her on the shoulder, a little too hard. Tavia arched into him, her voice shuddering out in one, long ragged sound. "Why heal me at all if you're going to draw blood a moment later?"
He squeezed her by way of apology. She was laughing, not actually mad. Of course she wasn't, the artful minx. Anders tossed her onto her back, pressing her down into the blankets with feral excitement. He relished the feel of her breasts pillowing against his chest. He was sweating, hard, wet all over with the effort of restraining himself. There was so much more to do… He wasn't going to dive right in, not yet. Tavia clawed his shoulders, her head thrown back, revealing the porcelain architecture of her neck. He sought her mouth, his eyes wide open and watchful as she shuddered into his kiss. His tongue wasn't fast or big enough, he decided, not when he was feeling so greedy. He swept along her teeth, testing their sharpness, his breaths growing ever faster as he clutched her hips. His hardness settled into the slick valley between her thighs.
Not yet, not yet…
"Please, Anders," she wailed, "inside me… please…"
Anders squeezed his eyes shut. He had nearly lost her and now he held her, possessed her. Anders slid their bodies together, not quite entering her despite her futile pleas. Tavia's lips pursed - lush and pink - blossoming into a wicked, needy smile as she entreated him with her hips. Anders felt a warm, trickling dampness on his chest and he half-sobbed into her neck. Maker, that's not fair.
"Sorry," Tavia whispered, her cheeks flaming, her tawny eyebrows tenting with worry.
"Andraste's blood, woman, do not apologize for that."
Anders molded one hand around her breast and pinched experimentally, reassuring her that he was not, in fact, offended. Quite the opposite. He lowered his mouth, latching onto her nipple, sucking and biting until she shouted inarticulately into the back of her hand.
"S-sensitive," she whimpered.
"I noticed," Anders replied hoarsely, licking around her nipple in circles. He made a mental note that this activity warranted further study, as did the slight, unexpected sweetness brightening his tongue... Maker. He swayed, veins on fire; if his dick didn't explode his head definitely would. No point in spattering her pretty face with brains and bits of bone. Anders smiled wolfishly, kissing her again as he relented to his own furious desire.
He pushed smoothly inside of her, surprised and enraptured with her tight heat. Apparently, she really was completely healed. Ah, the perks of magehood. This spurred him on, the fear of hurting her vanishing along with the last shreds of his restraint. Anders wrapped her legs around his waist, hitching them up his sides until he at last found that spot that they both enjoyed so much. Watching her face never got old, but this time felt especially poignant. Her mouth opened in various iterations of an O, taller when he gave a particularly salient thrust and wider when he slowed and murmured her name. The way she held him, clutching, as if this was their last hour on earth together, almost ruined the mood entirely. If he didn't keep focused on ravishing her, he would burst into tears at the relief of holding her safely again.
Neither of them lasted long. He wanted to kill her for the horrible, delicious, naughty things she was whispering. Tavia managed to tear a fist-sized hole in one of the blankets when her orgasm came and carried her away. Anders heard the tearing fabric and dug his head into her shoulder, grasping for one last ounce of strength to keep his climax at bay. But there was no stopping it. It started down in his toes and then echoed in his stomach, stampeding down to his groin, not stopping or slowing until he groaned her name into her own flesh. He pulled her hips flush to his as he emptied inside of her. Relentless and sublime, it shook him hard enough to snatch the breath right out of his lungs. Anders collapsed, not bothering to roll off of her. He couldn't move anyway.
When he at last found the energy to coax his muscles into a response, Tavia held him fast. He wasn't sure which one of them was breathing harder.
"Don't," she murmured, "Stay like this for a while longer, please."
"As you command… tulip."
"I hate you so much right now," she muttered, pushing at his shoulders with trembling hands.
"No you don't. You lurve me." Anders chuckled, kissing the underside of her chin. He stayed put, as she commanded, and reveled in the sticky remnants of their lovemaking gluing them together. Tavia's hands tangled in his hair. The band had come mostly undone but she pulled it free, combing through his tangled and sweaty waves. Anders sighed, overcome by the familiar intimacy of her fingers on his scalp.
Tavia heaved a regretful sigh. "We should check on the baby."
"I'll get him," Anders said, nuzzling into her neck and fluttering a kiss against her slick throat. "Just give me five minutes more like this and I'll do anything you say."