"They let him go?"

Irving nods.

Rhyanon's stomach clenches into a tight knot. She can feel a jittery sense of tension, the old instincts that make her want to squirm – or run. But she just tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She forces herself to remain outwardly calm. She isn't sure if it's enough to fool Irving, he knows her too well. But it's easier now, after all these years, to hide things.

"Rhyanon, I am sorry," the First Enchanter says softly.

Rhyanon nods. She wipes her arm across her face, although she isn't crying.

"Why didn't he find me?" she whispers.

Irving sighs, and studies her. Rhyanon watches him too, noticing how confused he looks, how tired and guilty and old. She traces her fingers across the smooth surface of his desk. "I'm sorry I yell at you all the time," she murmurs.

Irving grins – the first time Rhyanon can remember seeing him smile in a long, long time. Maybe ever. He shakes his head, and quiet laughter shakes his whole body.

Rhyanon can't help it, she smiles too.

The First Enchanter clears his throat, and grows a bit more serious. But there is still a lightness to his features, and the way he moves. It makes Rhyanon feel calmer. It reminds her, a little bit, of the way things used to be, before she was scared all the time.

"Rhyanon, it's not uncommon for apprentices to grow apart, as they grow older."

"Not me and him," Rhyanon demands. As though she could make it true just by saying it.

"I know you're scared -"

"Of course I'm scared!" She swallows hard, shutting down her outburst almost immediately. "I don't know what to do," she whispers. She doesn't look at Irving. She can't trust her ability to keep her emotions contained if she does. "He used to talk to me about everything and now he doesn't and he only stopped because..."

"Because we took him away from you," Irving fills in. Rhyanon has to strain to hear him. She closes her eyes, and nods. "I can't pretend to know how alone you must be feeling," Irving continues, in soft, comforting tones. "But you're not alone, Rhyanon."

"But Anders is."

"I know."

"Is he okay, Irving?"

The First Enchanter sighs. Rhyanon holds her breath, and breaks his gaze, because she's afraid of the answer. She can feel the tension as Irving gathers his thoughts, trying to decide how much to tell her. Trying to protect her, still. Even after all this time. "I think that he will be," he finally says. "And I think that he's very lucky to have you as a friend."

"Okay," Rhyanon mutters. What else is she supposed to say? She trusts Irving, she has to believe in him. But it still feels like there's this wedge between them. There are things that she can't say to him, because he's the First Enchanter. But there's nobody else she can talk to either.

She hovers uncertainly at the threshold of Irving's office door, but the First Enchanter doesn't look up. She knows he's aware of her watching him, because he's always aware of everything, but he just clears his throat and pretends he doesn't see her. So Rhyanon keeps walking. She moves, whisper-quiet, through the halls, skipping her fingers along the stone walls as she follows the gently spiraling curve upward toward the mage quarters on the upper floors. Her footsteps echo through the stairwell. She hurries between the patches of light that the torches on the wall throw onto the floor, looking over her shoulder the whole while.

She finds Anders "room" - really just a mattress supported by a rope bed, wedged into a corner against the unused bookshelf serving as a divider to separate him from the other mages nearby. Rhyanon pushes her way into the space. Anders lifts his head, but doesn't move aside from that. He sits on the edge of his bunk, and from what Rhyanon can tell, she hadn't interupted anything. She sees no books, no clothing or scattered personal possessions, or any sign at all that there's someone living here. But why would there be? He hasn't lived here in months. Her stomach constricts when she realizes that when Anders thinks of the tower, he must be as likely to think of the locked and warded basement cells as the apprentice dorms or classrooms. This place isn't home, not for any of them. But she can't remember anything else.

Without a word, she slips into place beside him, just like she'd done when they were kids. He shifts position to accommodate her. He wraps his arm around her, tucking her close to his body. She curls up, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat, even through all the layers of clothing they're both wearing.

"What if they kill you next time?" she whispers. She doesn't bother pretending there won't be a next time.

"They won't," he replies, immediately. He sounds so damn certain that Rhyanon knows there's no arguing with him. She tries anyway.

"You can't know that," she mutters.

"They won't kill me. They'll lose the best healer they've ever had."

Rhyanon frowns. She studies Anders, forcing herself to really look. He looks exhausted, as tired as she feels. His muscles are tense. His eyes are sunken and shadowed. "Anders..." she murmurs.

He holds her gaze for a long moment, then lets his eyes slip closed. He bites his lip. Rhyanon can feel the humming tension inside of him. "Never mind, Rhyanon, it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," she whines.

Anders sighs. He traces his thumb gently over her skin, stilling the motion as she winces and bites her lip. He lets his mana flow into her, working to close the broken rip in her skin. Rhyanon looks into his eyes as he does it, she doesn't try to stop him. They still look the same, those pools of liquid amber. They flicker with guilt and shame and Maker knows what else, and she doesn't know what she's supposed to say to him, how to fix this space between them.

She closes her eyes as she fixes up the lingering aftermath of brutal war training, pain she's stopped trying to catalogue, figuring it's all just a constant part of her life now. She understands the bitterness in Anders tone. They won't kill him. They can't afford to lose somebody that useful. And, Maker help her – she's glad for it. She can't stand the thought of losing him, not forever. She can't let herself imagine a time when he might not come back. She knows that his healing spells are supposed to make her feel better, but it's him, and it's been so long since she's spent any time at all with him that it just hurts. It feels like she can't even breathe. She pulls away – breaking their connection – before he can finish the job. She takes a deep breath, fighting the tears that are threatening to fall, and she kicks the bookshelf across from her with surprising vehemence. "You just leave, Anders. You don't even talk to me anymore."

"Melly..."

"Don't call me that!"

"Okay..."

She wraps her arms around her knees and huddles into a tiny ball. She no longer bothers trying to hide the tears. She's safe here. With him, in this space. Anders has always been good at finding the safe spaces, the little corners where they can hide, and tell the truth. Her shoulders shake, and she wipes her eyes, pissed at herself for losing it so easily. Not only is it dangerous, but she's supposed to be better than this. Stronger. She's supposed to have potential.

"You don't have to do what they tell you," Anders says softly. It's the kind of thing he used to say with a smirk on his face, teasing. But now he sounds absolutely serious.

Rhyanon glances up. "Really?" she asks, and her voice is cutting and cruel. "And what am I supposed to do instead? Run away?"

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? Maybe you don't care about what happens to you, but I do! This isn't a game!"

"Don't you think I know that?"

"I don't know what you know!" She turns her back on him, wraps her arms around herself. "I just... I can't do this anymore."

"So... what? You're... breaking up with me?"

Rhyanon can't help it. She snorts. She shakes her head and wraps her arms around her knees and she can't tell if she's laughing or crying. "I can't," she spits. She makes it sound like an accusation. Like it's his fault.

"Melly, come here." Anders reaches out a hand, and Rhyanon moves closer to him. She crawls into his arms, lets him hold her. "Stay," he whispers. "Just... be here. Okay?"

She nods.

Neither of them sleep, not really, but she feels better than she has in a long time as they slip into the kitchens in the early pre-dawn light. Anders nicks a few battered apples and presses one into her hand.

"What're you doing?" she hisses, as he pushes open a little-used door that leads outside – to the tower's small gardens, and eventually, the thin bar of sand where the ferry sits, unused through most of the winter.

"I'm not escaping," he promises. "Just trust me. Come on."

He leaves the door open behind them and stops just a few feet from it. Rhyanon follows him, though she keeps looking over her shoulder. She licks her lips and wraps her arms around herself – it's freezing out here. Her feet crunch over the frost-covered ground.

"Sit down," Anders tells her. His voice is so soft that Rhyanon can barely hear him. He's huddled in the shadow of the tower, and he looks afraid. He barely moves. Rhyanon remembers when he couldn't sit still for a second. It looks like he's been cured of that.

She sits down, so that he won't see the tears in her eyes. She sits on a decaying log, surprised that it holds her weight. She shifts over to give Anders some space, and he takes it, but he doesn't look at her. He takes a bite of his apple and sits in silence. And watches the sky.

Rhyanon sits there too, shivering slightly in the cold. More than anything, she is aware of the space between them. His fingers just barely don't touch hers, and she could reach out to close that gap. But she doesn't. She's holding her breath, and waiting for Anders to hear it.

He does, somehow, she'd known he would. He always does. He always has.

Anders reaches out and runs her fingers through her tangled hair. His touch feels hesitant, as though he might pull away at any time. But he doesn't. Rhyanon wants to relax, but there's something inside her that won't let her. It's like she's forgotten how.

"Look," Anders whispers, and she does. The sky is streaked with color: purple and pink and orange and even in the cold, she feels something spark inside her. She starts to weave her fingers through the air, trailing sparks and light between them. Her breathing grows deeper and more calm as she concentrates, shifting the colors to match the sunrise around them. "You're really good," Anders tells her. She looks up, to meet his eyes. Anders brushes her hair out of her face. "Rhyanon, you are. You know that, don't you?"

She shrugs. "Yeah. I guess," she murmurs. Everybody's told her that. Except for him. He never has. She pulls away, and Anders lets her. He stares into the blinding sun and gives her space.

"I don't just mean good at magic, you know? I mean you're a good person. A good friend."

"You are too."

"You really think that?"

Rhyanon nods. "Yeah," she answers immediately. There's no question. He's always taken care of her. She grabs his hand, runs her thumb over his knuckles. "Don't you?" she asks softly.

Anders sighs, and runs his other hand through his hair. He gives her hand a squeeze. "I don't know, Rhyanon."

"So just trust me, okay?"

Anders nods. "Yeah. I trust you."

"Good. 'Cuz I trust you too."

Anders smiles uncertainly, but it's the first time Rhyanon's seen it in a long, long time. "I miss you," he admits. "When I'm out there, you know? I think about you all the time."

"Really?"

He nods. "Yeah, really. 'Course. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the promises I break and I'm sorry I'm such a fucking screwup."

"I don't care about that," Rhyanon tells him, honestly. "Anders, I don't care."

"I know."

"Come on." She scrambles to her feet and leads him back into the tower. The templars edge closer to them, getting all up in their face, and Rhyanon can feel Anders tensing up behind her but she leads the way, pushing past the patrolling guards. She grins, and almost runs through the halls. For a minute, it's like she's a little kid again. And she pulls Anders behind her, keeping his hand intertwined with hers, as she slips into Irving's office for her class.

The First Enchanter doesn't even look surprised to see Anders. He just lets him hide in the corner of the room while he teaches Rhyanon. She looks over her shoulder and catches his eye whenever she can. He doesn't look comfortable – why would he, in here? - for Anders, the First Enchanter's office has never meant anything good. But he still smiles when he catches her watching, and it feels real. It feels like those secret, encouraging smiles they'd shared in Nolan's class. And just like back then, Anders digs out a scrap of paper from somewhere, and loses himself in drawing. The afternoon hours disappear more quickly than Rhyanon can remember happening in a long time. She can feel Irving watching carefully as she and Anders leave the room together, after several hours. It's almost time for dinner. She sits at a table with Anders and Jowan, and though the dark-haired boy is clearly suspicious – they haven't done this in years - somehow they still fall back into the old rhythms. It's easy. It feels safe.

They retreat to the library after the kitchens empty out, if only to steer clear of the suspcisions of the templars and senior mages who are always watching. Rhyanon consults the shelves, not looking for anything in particular, but just waiting for something about a book to catch her eye. She grabs a few at random and carries them to the table where Jowan and Anders cluster close together, each absorbed in their own work.

Rhyanon settles in next to them. She watches them while pretending she isn't. Anders is drawing – pictures of things she's never seen, and never will. Jowan is noticeably frustrated, shifting in his seat, uneasy. He scowls at the complex arcane dialogues in front of him, and she knows he doesn't understand any of it, and won't, no matter how patiently she tries to explain the old theories that their instructors demand they know.

"Hey come on, let's do something fun," Anders announces suddenly.

Jowan looks up with a look of incredible disbelief on his face. "Here?" he asks incredulously.

"We used to," Anders whispers.

Jowan holds his gaze for a long time, and then nods. "Yeah. I guess we did."

They slip into the kitchens after curfew, and Rhyanon watches nervously as Anders digs up a bottle of wine that he swears won't be missed. They certainly aren't the first mages to sneak down here to get drunk – everyone does it, it's one of the very few broken rules that are consistently overlooked. So although she's familiar with this routine by now, it still doesn't feel safe. She taps a quick beat on the stone wall behind her, letting it absorb her need for motion. Anders hands her a bottle, and she takes it without hesitation. Even Jowan, who always protests everything that might get them in trouble, doesn't protest. They huddle in a corner among the crates of fruit and bags of grain, and Rhyanon lets herself relax a bit. It gets easier as the time passes. A lightheaded warmth slowly fills her as she passes the bottle of stolen wine back and forth with Anders and Jowan.

"You okay?" Anders asks, and she nods, before she realizes that the question isn't directed at her.

"Yeah," Jowan replies, unconvincingly, after a pause that lasts for several heartbeats too long. Rhyanon frowns. She sits up a little straighter, suddenly serious again. She sets the bottle down, and stares at it, watching the way the curvature of the glass catches the flickering candlelight.

"You're thinking about Esther," she whispers. Her eyes lock onto Jowan's, and she understands immediately why he's so worried. They can't predict when they will be chosen for the Harrowing, but he is almost certainly running out of time. Esther was a quiet girl, a few years older than Rhyanon, maybe a year or so older than Jowan. Despite the age difference, Rhyanon knows that she and the other girl had arrived at the Tower at pretty much the same time – Esther manifesting her true nature some time during the long weeks when Rhyanon was hauled here from Kirkwall. They'd all been in classes together when they were younger, but Rhyanon struggles to remember much about her now. If the rumors mill is right – and it usually is – the girl was born and raised in a Chantry orphanage. She didn't even have a family to be taken away from. It bothers Rhyanon more than she wants to admit – this possibility of failure, the ease with which this girl has effectively disappeared. The whispers about her among the older apprentices died out within days, stamped out by harsh reprimands and urgent reminders to concentrate on their own studies. They're not allowed to remember 'before.' They never are.

Rhyanon had attempted to light a flickering candle in the chapel in the girl's memory – it seemed like the right thing to do. But the Tower's bitter old Revered Mother blew out the flame. There's no forgiveness for mages.

"They'll kill me if I fail," Jowan says softly, and Rhyanon's stomach hurts, because she can't even deny it.

Anders grabs the bottle from where it sits in front of her, and holds it in a tight grip, without drinking. "You're not gonna fail," he insists.

Jowan only glares at him.

"I'll help," Rhyanon murmurs.

"You can't help with this," Jowan snaps.

"I bet I could."

Anders shakes his head, and drinks, straight out of the bottle, the only way they ever drink. "You can't," he says flatly. "But that's okay, because Jowan isn't gonna fail."

"And you know that for a fact?"

"I passed."

A brief spark of hope flashes in Jowan's eyes. "Can you tell me what to do?"

Anders shakes his head. "You'll know," he promises. "Just... trust me, okay."

Jowan shrugs. "Yeah. Sure." He reaches over, and grabs the bottle back from Anders. Rhyanon frowns. She settles back against the wall and watches the two boys. Jowan offers her the bottle wordlessly, holding it out within her reach But she just shakes her head.

"I'm tired," she tells them both. "I think I'm just gonna go to bed."

Anders frowns. "You sure?" he asks carefully. Rhyanon nods.

The next time she sees Anders is in Chapel. He only sits with her sometimes, but she's surprisingly okay with that. Maybe Irving was right, about people growing up and growing apart. It's enough that when she does see him, he still feels like her friend.