It's when they run out of things to explore in the dusty, mildewed, empty, and forgotten rooms of the estate and return to the relatively small percentage of house that Leandra has claimed, cleaned, and recoccupied that Anders remembers why people prefer this type of place to Darktown, backstabbing nobles and politicians aside.
The bedroom Hawke has given up to sleep on collapsing cots with moth-eaten blankets that smell of vomit no matter how many times they're washed, for example, is approximately the size of the entire ship he took to get here from Ferelden. And the bathtub - there's a bathtub! Just for her! - he's certain could hold the ocean they crossed.
But when he points these things out to Hawke, she only shrugs. It's obvious she's uncomfortable here, almost... embarrassed? And afraid to touch anything. She's dwarfed by the size of this place. It makes her seem small, young, lost and vulnerable.
And he is suddenly struck by a memory - a young girl, wide-eyed and trembling but stubbornly determined not to cry. Swallowed by the vast grandeur of the main entrance hall of Kinloch Hold. He didn't even realize he remembered that, the first time he'd seen Rhyanon, weeks before they really met.
He'd hated that room because the acoustics of it were such that he could feel the gates slamming shut and locking, echoing and reverberating and surrounding him, the sound clinging and following him long after it should have faded away.
He's glad when Hawke insists that they go somewhere else, gives him an excuse to keep moving.
The house is a maze - all winding staircases and endless corridors. The mabari leads the way, sniffing and barking and nudging at doorways that seem interesting.
Hawke follows close behind the dog, gently pushing open the door to the room he's chosen this time.
"Wow," Anders breathes as they take a few steps into the small but comfortable library.
There are only a couple of bookshelves, but they are crammed full of books. And a library of any size is rare outside of a Chantry.
He reaches out and snags one of the books off the shelf, not bothering to check its title or cover. He just wants to flip through the pages, savor the feeling of old parchment under his fingers, the way the colors of the ink fade and bleed, the smell - like warmth and dust and old things.
"One of the few things I do miss about the Circle," he murmurs.
He tries to remember the last time he read a book. It's not something he does in Darktown, and there was even less opportunity when he was on the run.
Amaranthine? Probably.
He's got plenty of stories memorized - long passages from every kind of book. But he doesn't like calling them to mind because of the reason he has them memorized. Repeated recitations in a solitary cell, talking just to hear any voice, even if it was his own.
Snap out of it, moron!
He glances down at the book in his hand because it gives him an excuse not to look at Hawke. He can feel her watching him. He doesn't even have to look to see her worried frown.
He shakes it off, smiles. "Adventures of the Black Fox." He used to read it to the kids in the apprentice dorms, much to the chagrin of the Chantry people and the less fun older mages, who figured it was inappropriate for innocent ears, what with all the blood and sex and dashing heroism. Which, of course, only made them love it more.
"I used to love it when my father read to me," Hawke says quietly. "Just hearing his voice, I think. It made me feel... safe."
At their feet, the dog barks in happy agreement.
"I should take this to the clinic. Read it to the kids. You think I could?"
"Anders, as far as I'm concerned, if this stuff really is all mine now... it's pretty much yours too. Take all the books if you want. Or you can come in here and read all day long, if you feel like it."
He nods, imagining what it might be like to curl up in that huge stuffed armchair, with a warm fire crackling and dancing in the fireplace. To allow himself to really relax, to drift into imaginary stories where the good guy always wins... and to do it with Hawke nearby, close enough to touch, to hold.
In the Circle, his comfort in the library was always temporary and shallow. The templars were always close, and there were those who took any excuse to harass him specifically, waited for him to be alone...
But this place is different.
This place is safe.
"I might take you up on that offer," he tells Hawke, reaching for her hand.
She smiles, aware maybe even more than Anders is that she's never seen him this... calm, before.
"Good," she replies, snuggling against his chest, letting his arm wrap around her, warm and comfortable and protective.
Maybe there is something to this nobility thing after all.