Note From Surely: In the course of writing this chapter, which was ostensibly supposed to span the time from a few days after Anders' Joining to the present, I realized that I was having a rare amount of fun with it. So instead of one chapter, there will be two.
This is, obviously, the first and is mostly mindless fluff (you've been warned!) and starts immediately where Interim: Run ends.
Thanks again to Sandtigress for being my best girl and a special thanks to Jenn, Mel, Addai, Zyanic, Ria and Lady Jess for their general awesomeness. Also, as there is some dialogue lifted straight from Awakening, I have to give credit to BioWare for that (and their characters and their world, both things that I can't seem to leave alone). Also also, thank you all for reading and/or reviewing!
Fighting a proud smirk as he walked, half-naked, from his commander's chamber, Anders was entertaining the idea of bypassing his room altogether and heading straight to breakfast. Despite what should be a delicate state of affairs in his stomach, and never mind the sheer quantity of food he'd eaten last night, he was starving.
Then he remembered the dwarf's smart comment about his manliness and figured that showing up in a silk dressing gown wouldn't leave the best of impressions to that end, so he ducked into the room to which he'd been assigned yesterday morning.
He had to admit, it was strange to think of his room. In the tower he'd shared a room with some bumblefuck named Hammond. That guy was the reason why escape attempt number four had failed so spectacularly. Hammond claimed it was all retaliation for the fact that he'd awoken, on more than one occasion, to Anders entertaining some nameless woman beside him, having fallen into the wrong bed.
But Anders knew he was just jealous.
His room in the Vigil was small, the single bed barely fitting lengthwise along the far wall, but it had everything he needed. Like a bed. Too bad it's not bigger. He pulled the door shut behind him and leaned back, his hand finding itself twisting into the fabric of his silk dressing gown.
Not his silk dressing gown, but the one he wore.
He pulled the fabric; it was smooth against his mouth and smelled vaguely of soap and roses. Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure a very specific image- his Commander's breasts bared as she slid this garment down her arms. It had been a fleeting glimpse, but he was a creative man. All he needed was an idea and he could reconstruct the rest. Reconstruct and augment and perhaps even come up with a personal history and names.
But for some reason, he wasn't seeing her breasts. Or her legs. Or her backside. It was the same as it had been since the night she'd arrived- a smile that flashed with lightning quickness and brilliance to illuminate a face that went from arresting to gorgeous with that simple curving of lips.
"How disappointing," he began pulling the robe off, ignoring the way that it was less disappointing than it was distressing. What kind of man thought of a woman's smile just minutes after he'd seen her almost entirely naked? "A bumblefuck like Hammond, that's who."
Despite what she might have said, being a Grey Warden was fairly awesome so far.
Sure, the walking was getting old. And the getting lost. And the hours wasted to looting.
"Does she really expect to find anything worthwhile in there?"
The Commander was crouched and poking her sword in the nooks of a recently deceased genlock. She'd asked Oghren and Anders to start on the other bodies, but they'd chosen to prop themselves up on a nearby fence and watch her instead.
Watching her was the best part of the job.
He'd told her he would, until she had weaned herself off of that trick with the pain. And at first he'd only been watching to learn her body language in battle. Then, even after he'd realized that she favored her entire left side, stood with her bottom jutting out just so, and gritted her teeth when something was seriously wrong, he kept watching because it pleased him to do so.
She was graceful, surprisingly so considering the amount of brute force she used in battle. He'd never seen anyone fight the way she did. The templars he'd seen in action were ponderous and depended as much on their shields as they did their swords or maces. Brand was incredibly fast, slicing through whatever got in her way with her twin blades and, when confronted with multiple targets, she would really go, spinning and dodging and sometimes even jumping over attempted strikes. It was an intensely physical way to handle things and she regularly emerged with more cuts and bruises than the rest of them combined.
And he then he would heal her while she stood patiently, embracing the waves of magic that overtook her. Sometimes she even smiled while he did it, her clear green eyes bright in appreciation of his services.
Maybe that was the best part, the smiles of appreciation instead of sneers or annoyance. Or it would be, if it didn't require she be injured in the first place. Truth be told, he was starting to think she allowed herself to be hurt more because he was there. He tried to not contemplate it too much, telling himself that it worked out well because being indispensible to the commander could only be a good thing for someone who wanted to keep his current position and the freedoms that came with it.
Those freedoms were endless. Walking outside, running on the roof at night, drinking in taverns, sleeping wherever he wanted (his commander's bed excluded), sleeping with almost whoever he wanted (the taint made him desperate on that front), telling stupid jokes all the time and being obnoxious about the Circle and how much it sucked and with no templars there to give him grief for any of it.
He also had the freedom to lounge on fences and chat with smelly dwarves who were proving to be more complex that they might appear at the outset.
Not that he liked Oghren. For one thing, smelly, and for another, belchy. He also had a terrible tendency to interfere with moments that Anders would prefer be Oghren-free. Like with the redhead wench in the tavern in Amaranthine, and with the commander earlier that day on the road, when a loud declaration of By the tits of my Ancestors, I could take a shit had interrupted what was proving to be a rather illuminating conversation about the mage rebellion during the Blight.
Illuminating because Brand was totally on the mages' side. Openly, even.
"Hold that thought," Anders wasn't really paying attention to what the dwarf had been saying. Probably something about ale or screwing or the misery of being married. Anders went over to where Brand had moved on to an emissary, her swords slicing easily at its primitive robes to reveal a small satchel full of potions and a handful of gemstones.
"These are worthwhile, I think," she dropped the gems into Anders' outstretched hands. "Consider them your pay for keeping the fence upright."
"Oh, sarcasm. Very nice," he followed her to the next darkspawn corpse. "Don't you have a husband who can afford to buy you these sorts of things?"
She didn't look up, her focus on a pale bone dagger that the hurlock kept tucked in its boot.
"This doesn't look like darkspawn craft..." she examined it for a few moments before tucking it in her boot."We need money. If we're going to have enough to rebuild the keep and not suck our vassals dry with taxes, this is one way to earn it."
The hurlock ended up having almost 10 sovereigns on him. Brand kept those to herself.
"You'll have to do more than hold up a fence if you want that much gold."
"My lady. Little did you know but doing is my specialty. All you have to do is ask...or just show up with a smile," this came out incredibly right, and he braced himself for a slap that would have been inevitable were this the tower. Brand just laughed, tossed him a single coin, and walked back to where Oghren was still yammering on to himself about something called a bronto and why would you want to grease one up?
Anders' fingers curled around the gold and he watched her go.
Her laughter was definitely the best part of the job.
He had not remarked on the way her cheeks went pink when he asked, jokingly, if she was jealous of Namaya. Because, if she really was jealous of Namaya, it certainly wasn't because of looks.
So now he was really watching her, looking for other signs of jealousy or attraction.
"Did you know you chew your lip when you're thinking?" They were sneaking into the warehouse Namaya had directed them towards, a dank and dusty place full of crates that he knew Brand would be compelled to rummage through. Not that he cared. He was still giddy over the fact that he'd somehow tricked her into helping him destroy his phylactery.
Actually, and this was the weird part, he hadn't tricked her at all. She'd just...wanted to do it. She was an odd one, to be certain. Not that he was complaining.
"Do you know you named your kitten Ser Pounce-a-lot?" Her eyes sparked at him and he smirked back.
"What a terrible insult. I expect better from you. Besides, you know you love my pussy. Or is it the other way around?"
She flicked him smartly on the forearm, and he was very close to handsy retaliation when they heard it- the sound of plate on plate. It didn't echo here the way it had in the tower, but Anders knew and before any more fun could be had, she was lumbering in front of them, lumbering despite the fact that she was almost a head shorter than Brand, her dark eyes shining with self-righteousness.
"And here I almost believed the infamous Anders wouldn't take the bait," Rylock's mouth curled in smug satisfaction.
She could afford to be satisfied, she had three templars with her, while he only had Brand.
Also, infamous?
"Yes, I suppose I should have known it would be you," he kept his voice mocking, not wanting to betray many things like concern and disappointment. Four against two...those odds are good if four is wolves or darkspawn, or drunken bandits. But when four is templars and half of two is a mage? Bad. Very bad. Incredibly bad.
The worst, to be honest, because he could be rendered useless in a heartbeat.
He almost missed Brand compliment him, but he couldn't possibly miss Rylock's sneer as she calmly ordered his arrest.
Wait, maybe that was the worst.
"What? No! You can't arrest me. Queen Anora allowed my Conscription!" He hated the desperate edge that found its way to his outcry but, Maker, this could not be happening.
"The Chantry's authority supersedes the crown in the matter. You cannot hide within the Grey Warden's ranks," the smug had grown to almost unbearable levels. He turned to Brand, not bothering to hide the fear that she might agree.
"As the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, I didn't need the crown's approval to Conscript him," Brand glared down at Rylock in defiance. "And the Chantry certainly has no authority over Grey Wardens. Especially Grey Wardens who have committed no crimes. Unless poking around a warehouse that is the property of my arling is a crime...which would be strange."
"Please don't antagonize her," he laughed nervously. Brand's face went fierce.
"He stays with us. And that's final." Nothing in her tone suggested she was open to further discussion, and Rylock staggered back in rage.
"I do not know how you inspire such loyalty Anders, but it will avail you naught," the templars behind her had already drawn their weapons. Andraste's ass, there were so many weapons in this room and all he had was a staff and Brand. "Now you come with us."
Brand grabbed his arm and began to back up, "For the love of the Maker, stay out of it. No offensive spells. Just heal me whenever you can and keep your distance from them."
Before he could respond with this is insanity, she was letting out a scream that never failed to turn him to ice on the inside and diving back towards the stunned templars, her blades a blur as she thrust them into any opening she could see, each strike more ferocious than the last.
The fight was brief, but brutal. Two of the templars went down quickly, but Rylock kept landing blows against Brand's ribcage, her mace eliciting the unmistakable crunch of bones breaking.
I could have this over with in two seconds. Heal. A fireball, a lightning bolt, an explosion of templar because we know how fun those are.
Crack.
The mace caught again and Brand was down, but so was Rylock. And Brand's head was fully attached, while Rylock's...not so much.
Oh. That's disgusting.
"Are you insane?" He was at her side and trying to remove her cuirass, so he could see the injuries that should be screaming at him but weren't even whimpering.
"Just heal me," blood dripped from her mouth and he caught her face between his hands and searched.
Nothing.
"You are insane," magic engulfed her. "What were you thinking?"
She remained silent for a few long moments, staring at him contemplatively through the haze of his spell.
"I was thinking that it would be safer this way," she winced as he poked experimentally at her side through her armor. "You had no hand in killing those templars, there will be no signs of offensive magic having been used. If the Chantry decides to come down, they'll have to come down on me, which..."
"Good luck with that," he finished for her and pulled his hands clear, for safety's sake. "Thank you. You stood by me, and I appreciate that."
Thank you was possibly the lamest thing he could have said, and so pointless in the face of what she'd really done.
He found his feet and offered his aid in getting her to hers.
"I wasn't lying when I said that you've made an excellent Grey Warden. And you're my friend, Anders," she smiled crookedly. "Friends stick up for each other."
He watched her for a moment, trying not to see how awkwardly she stood, or hear the way her teeth ground when she wasn't talking.
"I..." want you to know that you can share your pain with me…you don't always have to bear the brunt. "I...guess they do."
He chastised himself for his cowardice as she began her rounds of corpses and crates, helping her with some of the heavier items. They'd exhausted every corner of the place, coming away with some well-preserved robes, which she immediately changed into, and other magey bits. No matter how long they looked, there was nothing resembling a phylactery to be found. Damn it all, this was a waste of time and energy.
"I'm sorry, Anders," she began rifling through their loot. "Here. This might make you feel better."
She was offering him the ugliest cowl he'd ever seen. And, having lived in the tower for over ten years, he'd seen his share of ugly cowls. But this was a special offender, quilted with pastel fabrics, adorned with tassels and...
"Is that a bird skull?"
"Put it on, I bet you'll look smashing."
"Of course I will, I look good in everything," he tugged it on, grinning as widely as he could and probably appearing quite demented in the process.
"Ha, ha…ow," she wrapped her arm around her side and cringed. "Brilliant."
"I'm so going to win a prize on silly hat day," they pushed out of the warehouse, the Market Place in front of them almost empty as dusk settled over Amaranthine. "Your stupid helmet has taken its last trophy, my lady."
"See, the helmet is awesome and not silly. I also have Wade at my beck and call. I could get a new helmet made with bigger horns. Oh! And the horns could have horns!" Her hands were up by her head, fingers splayed to indicate all the horns.
"Then you'd officially be the horniest woman in Ferelden!" It shot out, like so many things, and Anders expected retribution. Not only for saying it, but knowing that bit of business in the first place.
But she just laughed again and shrugged it off.
"This 'months away in Amaranthine' gig would have been better if Amaranthine had a decent brothel. Maker, when Sigrun and I cased the joint a few weeks ago, she likened the whole place to a bronto den, and that was the truth," she shuddered, ignoring the way Anders was regarding her with...interest.
"You would go to a brothel?"
"Well…probably not now, but I've been to a brothel."
"Lies. I'm going to ask Oghren," his eyes ran the length of her and she stared back, eyebrow cocked.
"Be prepared for quite a tale. The encounter with Isabela is actually funnier, but he really likes the one where he gets to shout, 'She needs at least two more elves!'"
Anders felt his jaw go somewhere around his ankles. She is lying. She has to be lying.
"Then let's go now," he grabbed her elbow, forgetting all about his phylactery and her injuries in the excitement. His mind was lost to thoughts of her in a whole series of compromising positions, some of which were with him. "I don't care how skanky it is, I just want to see you in action."
"I don't think that would be terribly appropriate...do you?" There was the faintest gleam of uncertainty in her eyes, a pinprick of and we're probably not the best pair to make even that call. "I mean, I did just kill a few templars. To go out celebrating at a whorehouse with my best mage probably wouldn't go over so well were it to get back to my husband. Or to anyone with a shred of decency."
"Like me? Because I love the idea, myself. But I'll settle for an ale on your copper instead, before we meet up with the others at camp."
They meandered towards the tavern, enjoying the early evening as it settled over them. He realized, with a jolt, that his hand was still holding her elbow. Now that's not suspicious. He tried to remove it in a casual way, a way that wouldn't signal how guilty he felt, mostly because of his not so innocent thoughts only minutes ago. Instead of doing it right, he just dropped his arm, allowing it to flop so that the side of his hand knocked firmly against her backside in the process.
"I'll gladly buy you an ale, Anders," her tone was light when he'd expected admonishment. "But maybe hands off? Unless you're healing, of course. And my ass is fine, thanks for the concern."
His cheeks grew warm under her gaze and she smirked in triumph. This has to be revenge for the Namaya thing. He felt the corners of his mouth pulling up and she was already deflecting his comeback with a roll of her eyes and a you're so predictable.
Not so predictable, actually. He allowed her to get a step or two ahead so he could really smile, and where she couldn't see him.
Because Maker knew that it was one thing for her to think he was going to grope her at the slightest provocation, but quite another for her to have any idea how much he just enjoyed her, even beyond her insanity and the fineness of her ass.
Velanna was an attractive woman but she was as strident as anyone Anders had ever met. Strident and mean. She'd also led them into a trap that had resulted in their capture and imprionment by an incredibly spindly mage thing that wore a mask which had to be covering all manners of complexional weirdness.
There may have been hooks in flesh involved. Anders really was not in the mood to think about it.
He wasn't in the mood to do anything but fret about his commander. He, Velanna and Nathaniel had been stripped of their belongings and forced into coarse and poorly made clothes that smelled like rot and made Anders' skin recoil at every point of contact (and this would happen on a day that he'd decided against throwing on some manner of smallclothes.)
Brand, however, was not with them.
Anders paced the length of their cell, his hand running along the rusting bars. He and Velanna had been warned to not use their magic and Anders was willing to heed this suggestion. As long as that thing had their commander, they'd have to be careful to not do anything that might risk her safety.
After what seemed like forever, the mage drifted back and suspended in the air in front of him like a creepy, human sized marionette, was Brand. Without even having to be told, Anders and his companion prisoners moved to the back of the cell so that Brand's body could be deposited in a heap on the floor just inside the door.
They'd not even bothered to give her clothing, so she was naked and in a heap on the floor. Because she was just dropped there her limbs were strewn oddly, one arm behind her head and her hips twisted so far that her lower half was practically backwards and it was all so exposed...
Anders realized that Velanna and Nathaniel were both looking very deliberately away, and realized that he should, too.
But he couldn't because watching her was his thing. And her smile and her laughter was his thing and, he realized as he tried to look away, she was entirely his thing.
Which was bad. She wasn't his at all, so he shouldn't be feeling like this- worried for her and protective and angry at the bastards who would treat her so inhumanely.
Without thinking, he shuffled forward to kneel beside her, his shirt coming off quickly and eliciting surprised noises from Velanna and did she really think I would do that, much less with people watching?
Being careful to not jostle her, he slipped his shirt over Brand's head and maneuvered her arms in one at a time, settling her in a more comfortable position in the process. It took some finesse to get past her breasts without inadvertently brushing against one, but he managed to work the garment completely on so that it covered the important parts and kept most of her skin out of contact with the cold floor. If they'd been alone, he may have even held her, or propped her bare legs on his own, or...
If they'd been alone was a dangerous path right now and it scared him how easy it was to take the first few steps and how much he wanted to be heading down it.
As he came away, he saw Nathaniel watching him, his brows pulled together in consideration. If he didn't know better, Anders would almost guess that the other man was impressed that he could be so thoughtful.
Anders wished it was just thoughtfulness but, even as his thoughts ordered themselves and the bad Anders faded, he knew better than that.
Anders ate with Oghren because, in addition to finding the dwarf increasingly companionable, he would occasionally talk about Brand before and while most of his stories were ridiculous, there were some true gems.
And she hadn't been lying about the brothel stories.
When they were on the road, he'd try to lure information out of them both. It made their endless marches go a faster until Oghren would say too much and Brand's eyes would narrow slightly and they'd stop because she'd asked them to.
Sort of. With her eyes.
Now Nathaniel was working with his eyes, watching her at the opposite end of the dining room table where she was going over arlessa-y things with Varel.
"I remember Bann Teagan," Howe turned to Oghren, who was drowsing over what had to be his sixth tankard of ale since they'd sat down. No stories would be forthcoming that evening, not anything remotely comprehensible, anyway. "He and Arl Eamon went hunting with my father every now and again. I…can't picture him with the commander."
Oghren snorted.
"Commander can't picture him with the commander," he started running his tongue along the inside of his empty mug, the accompanying slurping noise too much for Anders to bear at the moment.
"Andraste's flaming sword, dwarf. They'll bring you more ale," Anders' hand went up and the mug was instantaneously coated in ice, Oghren's tongue securely frozen in place. "Don't worry," the dwarf's eyes were dark with drunken concern. "Everyone here knows that one unintelligible grunt means 'more ale' and two unintelligible grunts means 'I just wet myself'."
Oghren grunted twice, loudly, and Brand's head shot up, a frown creasing her brow.
Behave, that look said. All of you.
Anders returned to his dinner, but Nathaniel kept looking.
"Planning your future together?" Howe's pale eyes shifted towards Anders in silent acknowledgement. "I imagine family gatherings would be awkward."
"You know, if we're lucky the new commander will have a dim view on those such as you, Anders."
What new commander?
"Those such as me? What do you mean? Smart? Handsome? Fantastic in bed?" He said that last part quite loudly and offered Brand a broad smile when she glanced up, her expression bemused.
"Mages," a sneer curled Howe's lips. "Or incurable smartasses who can't even deal with imagined competition, never mind the futility of their affection."
Now that stung a bit.
"What do you have against mages? Besides the fact that we're inherently superior in all ways."
Oghren, having been freed from his mug through the miracle of his own hot breath, opened his mouth to speak and Anders' hand went up again, paralyzing him on the spot.
"See? It comes in handy."
Howe stood down, his face falling into a more neutral expression.
"I'll admit that it does."
"I think I'll advise my replacement to be wary of all three of you," Brand rolled her eyes as she called at them down the table, not seeing how the casual way she said my replacement landed on Anders like a punch to the throat.
The Chantry was full of sorrow.
Amaranthine was at the mercy of a darkspawn seige and, even though they'd won this battle with minimal casualties, more would arrive by dawn. The residents who were here, some injured, most mourning the loss of their homes or someone they knew, had no idea how close they'd come to being burned to the ground, razed with the rest of the city.
Anders had gotten hit by an arrow that went clear through his forearm; it was by far the most painful injury he'd sustained since he'd become a Grey Warden but he was able to close the twin wounds well enough and Nathaniel had helped him dress it before they moved on to help the rest of those injured in the fighting.
With that done, all they could do was wait. Anders chose to roam the Chantry, trying to not give in to the despair of those around him, or get trapped in the corner by an elder or laysister who just wanted to tell him how very much the Maker's work he was doing as a Grey Warden.
After tonight, with the waves of vicious darkspawn and men like Garavel ready to walk away from innocents, Anders was starting to think the Maker was not an entity whose work he cared to be doing.
He wandered through the doors he knew would take him to the Revered Mother's quarters. The Wardens had been given the space to rest, a row of bedrolls set out on the floor for them. Brand had been offered the bed proper but she refused, unwilling to sleep in more comfort than her men.
"I think it's because you know that there might still be poisoned herbs on her sheets," Anders took a seat next to her on the floor, their backs against the wall. "I can't imagine it would be fun to fight darkspawn with a rash."
"I imagine not. Of course, we could just ask Oghren...," she shook her head, and he noticed the exhausted concern that shadowed her eyes- worry that could not be masked by jokes. "No...I think we best not ask. How's your arm?"
He shifted closer and held it out, "Fine, fine. It hurts a little and hasn't been fully attended to as I've done a lot of healing on others," his gaze went pointedly to her leg, which had been clipped by a shriek. "But I'll survive."
He wrung some drama out of the last and she let out a small chuckle before settling back to thoughtfulness.
"Do you think it's as bad as all that?" He nudged her. "It can't be as terrible as the siege at Denerim, can it? You handled that with no problems...besides being nearly broken in half, of course."
"But I had more armies," her fingers began kneading against her forehead and her jaw twitched. "And I felt better prepared, I guess."
"Well, if you're that worried, maybe you need a distraction," he poked her shoulder. "How 'bout a song?"
"Too loud."
"Dance?"
"Injured leg."
"We could...look for banned books tucked beneath the Revered Mother's mattress and act out scenes...from the filthy ones, of course. Not the ones about dragon cults and ritual sacrifice and whatnot," his brain caught on this idea. "It sounds like fun, some 'we could both be dead tomorrow so we might as well enjoy our last night with mindless debauchery' sex."
For a moment she was silent, her face unreadable.
"You...," she bit her lip. "You really don't want to have sex with me."
This was not a question. He responded by pressing his fingers to her throat.
"Well, you have a heartbeat and you're obviously female...," he leaned a little closer and felt a wave of triumph when she didn't move away. "So...yes. I really do."
"I feel so special," she frowned and looked towards her hand, at the plain band she'd worn every day since the night he'd met her. "And that's the sort of thing that led to me being married."
"See, it's already awesome just because we can't get married! However, if you're going to sit here and make excuses, then I'll just take my offer to someone else," he bumped his knee against hers, praying that he hadn't crossed a line with his joke that wasn't really a joke. Maybe.
"If they're inoffensive enough, I might not be opposed to being in the same room," she bumped back and offered him a wry half-smile. "Live vicariously. It seems more appropriate, anyway."
He didn't comment, or ask who she wanted to live vicariously through. Instead he stayed with her, talking about all the nasty things the Revered Mother probably had stashed in that very room, under loose stones in the floor and inside hollowed out books on her desk. They were very near giddy when Nathaniel and Sigrun rejoined them and they all four settled down to get some rest before the next swarm arrived.
Unable to fall immediately asleep, Anders could sense her in the darkness beside him, barely a foot away and restless.
"Are you sure you won't reconsider? I'd hate for the last thing you thought before you died to be "Maker, I bet it would have been incredible.'"
"If it makes you feel better, I'm imagining it right now...," he could hear the smile in her voice. "Only you have a tattoo...and a small scar on your cheek. And maybe a tan."
"Well, I know what I'm doing if we survive this."
She laughed into the darkness and it was a sweet something he could take with him, if it should come to that. And very appropriate.
Sex, though, would have been better.
"Heh. You can speak Antivan, can't you?"
Maybe.
"I still think this is a bad idea," he was pacing madly around her office while she wrote the letter.
That her office now had a hole the size of a genlock in the wall directly behind her desk was the only immediate sign of what had happened here over the past month.
"We've barely accounted for everyone...Oghren needs major rehabilitation and only you can do that," Anders spun around. "And, again, what if the First Warden decides to assign someone who's anti-mage? It'll be back to the tower for me."
Please don't let me be sent back, especially now that I know again what freedom feels like.
"Don't worry," she folded the letter carefully and slid it into the already prepared envelope. He watched as she poured a small amount of dark blue wax onto the parchment before pressing her signet ring against the already cooling blob. "I'll be sure to pin a note on your robes. KEEP, in big block letters."
Ser Pounce-a-lot mewfed insistently.
"And I'll even make a small one for Pounce's collar," she smiled. "You'll be fine, Anders. You're safe with the Wardens."
"No, I'm safe with you," he blurted this out and, despite being over the line, it seemed like the right thing to say. "You need me, too. To keep you alive so you can be reckless all over the place. We're a team."
"We're a team in battle," her eyes were clouded by something he couldn't quite identify. "I think my battling days are behind me now. Teagan will be here in a few days, and I'll go back to Rainesfere with him."
"To spend the rest of your life overseeing kitchen staff and deciding what color floral arrangements to put out in the foyer?" He didn't care how bitter he sounded. "Sounds like an excellent use of your talents. Maybe you'll pop out a few children and you can tell them stories about how you used to be a Grey Warden and an arlessa, and you were able to make a difference in peoples' lives beyond, you know, food and flowers."
Brand frowned, her entire face darkening.
"That's not fair, Anders. I don't want to go," she said this as if talking to herself. "I found a purpose here that I didn't think I'd ever find again. And I..."
She paused for several seconds, trailing off while her gaze grew distant and indescribably bereft.
"I have a husband, Anders," her voice was steady when she spoke again. "I can't just say 'I quit being your wife.' It doesn't work that way."
He nodded, realizing that he'd said as much as he was going to be able to say without potentially burning a bridge he truly wanted to keep intact.
"I'll be standing by the door on your way out, waiting for my sign," he scooped up Ser Pounce-a-lot and settled him on his shoulder. "You best not forget his, or the curse of mackerel breath will follow you wherever you go."
Her lips twitched, but her eyes remained empty.
"Is the curse that I have mackerel breath, or someone around me does?" It was a concentrated effort to smooth over the tension.
He tilted his head and regarded Pounce closely.
"We'll have to think about that. I might even tell you...if you're lucky," he reached forward to touch her desk. "Good night, Brand."
"Hmm? Sorry," she shook her head. "Good night, Anders. I'll see you at breakfast."
He left her distracted, her thumb idly running over the wax seal on the letter that would end her association with the Grey Wardens. Whatever it was that had turned her so suddenly haunted had taken her someplace not even he could reach.
Anders hadn't planned on being in the yard when the Bann of Rainesfere rode up and, technically, he wasn't. He was actually tucked behind a pile of sandbags on a side porch, his hands exploring beneath the skirts of one of the newly hired maids...
"What was your name again?" He kissed her neck, or tried to, but she pulled away with an indignant noise.
"Harper. I've told you like five times now," irritation flashed in her brown eyes.
Harper had curly blond hair, an upturned nose and pert little breasts that reminded him of his favorite fling from his apprentice days. He actually could have just stopped there, not being that desperate at the moment. But she was pretty and he didn't want to be in the yard so he moved his left hand just so, letting his fingers get a little warmer, and...
"Oooh," she collapsed against him with a delirious grin and he was back in business.
Back in business until the sound of horses running into the yard distracted her, which was a small blow to the ego.
"Is that the bann?" There were shouts from the knights, including one calling for the Warden-Commander. Anders knew that she was with the others, just inside the inner courtyard.
He should have been with them, but then...he glanced at the girl who was rearranging her skirts to look like she hadn't just had him roaming around under there and what was her name? She grabbed his hand and pulled him up. He followed without really wanting to, curiosity getting the best of him.
How bad could it be, really?
He stepped out from behind the sandbags and was only a few yards away from where his fellow Wardens stood behind Brand. She wore a green dress, plain but flattering, and her hair was down, falling around her shoulders in dark waves that caught red in the sunlight as she walekd forward to greet her husband.
"He's handsome," the girl who should have just let him continue to grope her had her cheek resting dreamily on the wall of sand bags. "I wanna marry a bann...or an arl."
"Why stop there? Why not shoot for the queen...I've seen her. She's a looker," but girl was too busy swooning as Lord Manlybeard caught Anders' commander in his arms and planted quite the kiss on her.
And...that made him feel a bit odd, to be honest. Lightheaded and maybe like he'd eaten too many eggs at breakfast and shouldn't have jammed that last spoonful of hash on top.
Brand went up on her toes, her arms around her husband's neck, and he could see the way she was pressing against him and his hands ran the length of her back towards her hips...
You can stop watching her now.
He turned away, the small cresting of jealousy, because that's exactly what it was, still building in intensity even when he couldn't see them. His brow twitched and he realized that his commander and her husband had parted. Now Bann Teagan was addressing the other Wardens, including Anders.
It was a polite thank you, his voice low and sincere, for their protection of Amaranthine, and the Keep and a declaration that he and Ferelden were honored by their blah blah blah.
Anders wanted to point out that it wasn't really a sacrifice to get to do pretty much whatever he wanted when the alternative was incarceration or death.
But the bann had already found Brand's arm and they were sweeping by to run upstairs. Ironic, really that he would make such a speech when he was coming to take their leader away from them. It was perfectly fine for a disgraced lordling, an apostate and a couple of wayward dwarves to devote their lives to the Wardens, but another thing entirely for his blushing bride to do so.
Girl tugged at his robes.
"You wanna finish?" She grinned and pushed her chest towards him.
"Tell the truth, you're going to be thinking about Bann Teagan the entire time, aren't you?" She was already pulling him back to the corner.
"Maybe. Would that bother you? I betcha can't even remember my name."
He kissed her hard, ignoring how off it felt, and when they parted she looked annoyed.
"It's not like it matters, anyway. You're not the only one with a healthy imagination. Sometimes names just ruin the illusion."
"You're an ass," she was pulling at his robes, trying to unfasten one of the belts and doing a tediously bad job of it.
Sigh. "I do my best," and he took over for her, giving himself over to her fumbly hands and hard breasts for ten minutes of what turned out to be far from his best.
As they recouped he shook off the inkling of pathetic. You have to start somewhere, Anders. Maybe this will be as mediocre as it gets.
Starting was a strange way to think about it, honestly. But things would be different now, and he'd just have to live with it.
And he should probably make a note to quit it with the watching.