Notes: This chapter is sweet, innocent, and... sad in light of what is coming.
I have occasionally used references to song lyrics in stories (particularly my huge Harry Potter Norman Conquest AU story), but generally anything categorized as "songfic" is not my wheelhouse. I write first and then, later, may perhaps see some comparisons between the writing and lines/themes of songs—and that's what is going on here. Several chapter titles—not all, but some—are going to be taken from music that I felt was fitting in some, usually vague and attenuated, way with what happened in the chapter. I'm a Xennial: I'm into grunge, alternative, and metal, so this one is a lyric from the Blind Guardian song "The Maiden and the Minstrel Knight" on the album A Night at the Opera.
Chapter 2: Come and Take My Hand
Anders was eager to help around the Hawke cottage while they all waited for the weather to improve and the immense snowpack to melt.
"You're putting me up," he explained as Mistress Leandra protested that "guests should not do housework." "And besides, I'm not a real guest. You didn't invite me."
"But Malcolm did invite you," she argued. "It was not well in advance, certainly, but he invited you into our home..."
"He offered me shelter from a snowstorm," said Anders. "Please, Mistress Hawke—I don't feel right about having you wait on me."
Over the course of that first full day, he learned the history of this family from Malcolm and Caitlyn. Twenty years ago, Mistress Hawke had been Leandra Amell, the doted-upon daughter of a noble Kirkwall family. She had given all that up to be with an apostate mage of Ferelden. It must have been a big sacrifice for a wealthy person to make, Anders had thought—but he could not particularly blame her. He realized he barely knew any of them, but he still found himself developing a strong admiration for Malcolm Hawke. His own father had not wanted him due to what he was, but Malcolm seemed to have taken an almost paternal interest in him immediately because of the similarity of certain circumstances. Anders did not think that was his imagination. Malcolm had patted his shoulder several times, offered advice in a way that made Anders think he truly cared about Anders' well-being, and... well, admittedly, he did think this might be imagination, but he thought it possible that Malcolm wanted him to befriend, or even pursue, Caitlyn. But whether that part was true or whether he just wanted it to be true, Anders did not think he was imagining the rest of it. Meeting a mage who had created a normal life for himself and his wife and children—two of whom were also mages, whom he had taught himself rather than sending them away—was special enough. Having this man take a fatherly sort of interest in him was, even after just half a day, already awakening a deep need for belonging that he had known was there, but had suppressed for years because it seemed impossible he could ever fulfill it.
If I have to stay here long enough, he thought after having that realization, I may have second thoughts about making for the Chasind.
Malcolm had not stated it outright, and Anders had not commented, but he could do arithmetic, and he realized that Mistress Leandra had already been pregnant with Caitlyn when they had eloped twenty years ago. Malcolm had managed to get free of the Circle for good due to a Templar within the Circle itself who was sympathetic to his situation and got his phylactery out so that he could live with his wife-to-be and future child. That was stunning for Anders to comprehend. There were no such Templars in the Circle today, or at least none that he had met.
If I change my mind about continuing south, he thought, I'll just have to trust that he was right and the Templars won't be interested in looking for me ever again if they can't get a signal from my phylactery after this storm clears.
Caitlyn tried to be nonchalant about him for the first two days. Bethany did not tease her any further in the morning when they got out of their bunk beds, and she emerged from the bedroom to find that Anders was already up and about. She was relieved; she had been nervous about the prospect of seeing him curled up in front of the fireplace, still asleep. The image had formed in her mind overnight, and it was oddly appealing—which was why she didn't want to see it. But he was staring out the window at the enormous accumulation of snow, which—to be fair—impressed Caitlyn as well. Living in Lothering, she had plenty of familiarity with heavy snowfall, but this was quite a storm, and it was still going.
That, of course, meant that Anders would be staying with them through the day, and very likely quite a bit longer, since this mountain of snow would have to decrease somewhat before it would be a good idea for him to leave. She was not sure when the temperature would rise above freezing or the sun would come out. Her father had been an elemental mage long enough, in tune with the elements, that he had a certain knack for predicting the weather, but even he could not make a guess about that. This was an incredible blizzard even by his standards. Anders would be at the cottage for at least a few more days. Caitlyn found that... she was glad of that.
He is leaving, though, she reminded herself as soon as she realized that. He won't be here. He's safer with the Chasind anyway. Father may reassure him that the Templars won't be interested in his phylactery if he's gone and it's "dead" long enough, but I would not be so sure of that. He said himself he has escaped many times. If he were to stay here, he would have to stay inside this cabin and never leave to truly be safe, and that's not what he wants. That's little better than the Circle itself. He will leave for the Chasind, so I cannot let myself get attached. She told herself this over and over.
Still, she wanted to make a good impression, though she couldn't exactly say why, given that line of reasoning. For however long he was here, she didn't want him to think her some kind of blushing, innocent, awestruck peasant... even though I am, in a way, she thought. Not awestruck, but... well, there was no point in pursuing this line of thinking. She had kissed a couple of Lothering boys before, and one girl, but as an apostate mage who had to keep her abilities secret from outsiders, she simply deemed it too dangerous to risk pursuing a serious relationship with anyone, and those curious, unromantic, idle kisses were the extent of her experience in that regard. However, this mage did know her secret—in fact, he was in much greater danger than she was. The danger of breaking up with someone who would then report her to the Templars as retaliation would not be an issue with Anders.
He wasn't going to be around, she told herself. And yet...
Although she was twenty years old, she felt like a girl now. It was absurd to be awkward around him, but she had to struggle not to be even though she repeatedly told herself that it was stupid and didn't even matter, since he would be gone as soon as he could. However, while he was here, it would hardly do to let her embarrassment become apparent to him, which it absolutely would if Caitlyn avoided him and stumbled on her words while speaking to him. The entire situation was frustrating to her because she didn't know what she thought, what she ought to think, or, especially, what she ought to do. She wanted it to end—but also didn't, because if her self-consciousness about this ended, that meant he would be gone. Didn't it?
With all her anxieties and frustrations with herself, she would have been relieved to know that, in fact, Anders regarded her as the more experienced one in the ways that mattered most. She had lived with her family, in the wider world. She knew basic life skills, which he'd had to stumble into during his escapes. He was the one who felt like a hothouse flower—after all, she had had to rescue him.
On his third full day in the Hawke cottage, after the storm had at last ended, he finally opened up to her when they had a quiet moment.
"I have noticed that you've seemed uncomfortable around me," he said, his voice strangely stiff and serious to his own ears—but he knew this was necessary. "I wanted to apologize for anything I did the night you rescued me that made you feel awkward talking to me—and you did rescue me, so it's not right that I should make you feel awkward after that." He hated to apologize for being flirty with her, but in the cold light of day, he realized that it wasn't the right time for it, and that it had made her a bit skittish around him. That was the opposite of what he had intended.
Caitlyn stared back at him. "I haven't been uncomfortable around you. What makes you think that?" As soon as the question left her lips, she regretted asking it, because she knew he would tell her.
"You're doing it right now," he said with a grin. She harrumphed, but he continued. "When we talked about our pets... when I brought out my last few belongings... you were comfortable. But since then, you've been very... stiff. I don't know how else to say it. But whatever I did to cause it, I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention to make you ill at ease in your own home." He gazed determinedly at her. "I enjoyed those two conversations. I would like to talk freely with you, one mage to another. We've had such different experiences... and I'd love to hear more about yours."
She drew up. "I am not ill at ease," she stated, though it sounded like a lie to her own ears, and sure enough, Anders had to stifle a grin. "I just don't know what to make of..." She broke off, reddening briefly, before deciding to take the plunge after all. Directness was her nature, as it was her father's. She got answers, real answers, that way. "All right, you wanted to know what you did? You flirted idly with me," she declared, though she felt her ears flaring hotly at the very words. "I saved your life, and you did that. Now, I am sure that in the Circle, there were plenty of attractive female mages and that they knew you and didn't mind—because after all, none of you would have had any expectations of anything coming of it, since you weren't supposed to leave or get married or—"
Anders' face crumpled at that, and she realized she had wounded him with those words. But she did not like apologizing to people—well, anyone except her father; it made her feel weak when it was anyone else and somehow especially so right now, talking to Anders, so she barreled ahead. "But you said yourself that you meant to seek the Chasind, so I just don't think it's right for you to do that to me. I'm not a Circle mage. I may be fated to be lonely because I am an apostate, but that doesn't mean that you can play with me." The blush had faded from her face as she glared at him. "You're leaving soon, now that the storm has ended. The cottage may be buried in snow nearly to the rooftop, but it will melt, and then you'll be gone. It's best that I should be formal with you."
He turned aside, a deeply pained look on his face, and stared out the window that was inches away for a few moments. He took a couple of deep breaths, staring at the snow, before turning back around to face her. "You're right. I shouldn't toy with you, no matter what. But... that really wasn't what I was trying to do."
"Then what were you trying to do?"
"I don't know! If you're talking about the comment about my magic that I made in the snowstorm, I just... thought I was going to die, and then suddenly I'm rescued by this beautiful red-haired fire mage—"
She scowled. "And there you're doing it again."
"What I just said is all true," he said pointedly. Her scowl deepened, but he continued. "I just wanted to show my appreciation, I guess. I didn't mean anything by it."
"That's exactly it. You didn't mean anything by it. That's what 'toying with someone' means. You are going to go to the Korcari Wilds, to join the Chasind whenever you can—what's the matter?" she asked, for he had turned aside abruptly again. He did not turn around, and she felt bad, as she inevitably did when she ended up taking her aggressive bluntness too far. "Anders?" she asked, using his name and noting the slight twitch of surprise in his form as she did. "What's the matter?"
"My father turned me in when I was a child," he said, still staring out the window. "My own father. I was twelve, and suddenly, my father didn't want me because I was a mage. I wasn't even a baby who never had the chance to know him, to be hurt by that rejection. I was twelve!" he said again, finally turning around to face her, pain filling every inch of his face as he clenched his fists. "I had friends in the village, and then suddenly... I was never going to see any of them again. I never saw my mother again." He closed his eyes as if to blink away tears, though she saw none. Perhaps he was too proud to cry, or perhaps he had shed all his tears long ago. "They let me keep one thing, that pillow. I'm astonished they didn't confiscate the ring when she died. She had it sent via a priest, though... this old lady who always liked me... she's gone now... she gave it to me furtively and told me to keep it secret, so yes, it would've been confiscated otherwise and added to their bloody funds. Something tells me Andraste wouldn't like theft." He breathed heavily, trying to control his anger and grief.
Caitlyn felt guilty—and, too, this was the horror of nightmares for her, the fear that someday anonymous people in slotted helmets would take away her father, Bethany, or her despite the fact that they were all perfectly trained in magic, didn't do anything evil, and posed no threat to innocent people. She didn't have the courage to touch him, but she knew what she did have to do. Swallowing her pride, she took a deep breath and said the words that were so difficult for her: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring all that up in your memories. I can't imagine what it must be like to be rejected by a parent."
His face softened at her words. "Thank you," he said, his voice gentle. "I'm glad you can't imagine that. I mentioned it because... well... going to the Chasind is an option of last resort, not an aspiration. I think I would be safe and protected with them... but what I really wish I could have is a normal life again. A normal life like I was used to, not a barbarian's version of a normal life," he added, somehow managing to crack a smile and add a touch of humor in spite of everything. Caitlyn cracked a brief smile too, which seemed to encourage him. "Your father is a good man. I... respect him. I really respect him. If he..." He trailed off.
"If he what?" she said. The praise of her father made her feel happy, and somehow, a bit... bonded... with Anders. She loved her mother, but her father was her role model, the exemplar of what she thought she should be as a free mage.
Anders shook his head. "It's presumptuous. I shouldn't."
"Well, you have to tell me now. And I'll decide if it's presumptuous," she added, a smile remaining on her face despite her resolution to be formal with him. "He's my father, after all."
He resisted for another moment before finally speaking, though his voice was very low. "If he would take me on as an apprentice... I haven't been Harrowed yet."
"Do you think I have?" she said wryly. "It's not the done thing in a family of apostates, inviting a demon to take over the body of one's child and holding the threat of death over them."
He managed a chuckle. "I didn't mean that. I just... if he would have me here—if your family wouldn't mind—I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can continue with my original plan, but I'm not dead set on it."
"That is presumptuous indeed," Caitlyn decided, though her eyes were dancing with amusement as she spoke. The truth was, she didn't want him to leave, and this made her happy to hear.
"What is presumptuous?" Malcolm Hawke himself asked, emerging into the common room where they were standing in the corner. He eyed them. "Don't tell me I need to put this fellow in his place for you, Caitlyn. Give him a fireball if he's offended you. He looks pretty flammable with all those feathers."
She muffled a laugh; her father seemed perfectly aware that she was not actually offended at anything Anders had said, and was going along with whatever the joke was. Feeling bold, she pushed Anders toward him, noting that the other mage was visibly startled that she touched him. "He hasn't offended me," she explained. "He can tell you himself why I said that."
Malcolm raised a reddish-brown eyebrow at the blond mage, who suddenly wanted to cower. But that would do no one any good, least of all himself. He squared up and faced this man whom, though he had just met him a few days ago, he very much wanted to be the father figure that his own father had failed to be.
After Anders made his request, Malcolm considered, briefly meeting his daughter's green eyes with his own matching pair. "You'll need to do your part around this house if we do that, of course."
"I will," he assured the older man. "I have been asking to help out..." He trailed off, not wanting to speak against Mistress Hawke to her husband.
"But my wife has treated you as a guest," Malcolm finished wryly. "Which you have been. If you become an apprentice, you won't be; you'll be part of the household. But yes, I have noticed that you've wanted to help out." He smiled. "I would have you help out by clearing tunnels through this mountain of snow except for the fact that you would have to go outside my wards to do it—so Caitlyn, you get Bethany and the three of us will work on that."
"She casts better fireballs than I do anyway," Anders offered.
"Hmph. Whether you're saying that to compliment her or to get out of doing work, I will want to know what your specializations are. You mentioned being a Healer, of course."
"That's my main specialization. I'm also pretty good at casting lightning. Well, electrical magic in general," he said with a touch of cockiness.
Malcolm nodded. "I used to have a staff that was great for that... left it in... well, never mind. Anders—if you really are serious about this, you'll have to do magical tasks indoors until... well." He broke off abruptly, frowning, as he looked away and gazed into the distance.
"Until...?"
Malcolm glanced back in surprise; the speaker was his daughter. "Until we can be utterly certain that no one will be able to find him even if he goes outside," he said to her.
Anders wondered about that. If Malcolm expected to find a sympathetic Templar who would smuggle a phylactery out of the Circle, Anders wished him luck with that—because luck was what they would need. He hoped he had not used up his quota already.
As the snow gradually disappeared and the Hawke family returned to their typical wintertime habits, Anders found himself growing restless indoors. It helped that the surly brother, Carver, was out hunting most of the time. He seemed to regard that as his duty, since his mother could not hunt at all, and the mages of the family did not know how to use a bow and either scorched or frost-burned most game that they killed with magic. Carver seemed to regard the presence of yet another mage in the household as a personal insult—or perhaps, Anders thought darkly when the young man was off hunting deer, he just didn't like him. But Carver would just have to deal with it. Anders was Malcolm Hawke's apprentice in primal and elemental magic—as it turned out, he was a better Healer already than Malcolm himself was—and that was that. That definitely helped.
Malcolm had tried to teach Anders some of the entropic school, which Caitlyn could do respectably well herself, but it was completely opaque to Anders. Something about his specific connection to the Fade made it very difficult for him to do magic that, ultimately, was the reverse of healing. Of course, the elements could certainly kill and maim, but it wasn't their fundamental purpose. Decay and degeneration were the purpose of the kind of magic that Malcolm had tried to show him, and it had gone no better than it had with the senior enchanter at the Circle who had specialized in that and tried to teach him. He just wasn't cut out for it.
"Well," Malcolm had finally said, giving up on it, "it's very, very rare to find a mage who can specialize in everything. As I said, you're a better Healer by far than I am." He patted Anders on the back encouragingly. "We'll play to your strengths. Those lightning bolts you can cast are indeed impressive. They may have saved your life just by being bright enough that we could see them."
Anders did not dare tell Malcolm what else he could do with electricity magic. He doubted he would ever be at that comfort level, and he valued this too much. It was thrilling, in a deep, serious, meaningful way, to live this way, as a member of a magical household—to be trained in his Maker-given gift, certainly, but to just live an ordinary life in every other respect, not to be stared at as if he were about to blood-sacrifice everyone in the Tower to enter the Black City.
For a decade, he had missed it. That he had known, but it was still somewhat of a surprise to him to discover, now, just how much.
Talking openly with Caitlyn that third day was also helpful, and she had been much friendlier and warmer toward him since then. He believed he understood the situation: She was inexperienced with romance, believed that he was accustomed to dalliances and flirtations that both parties knew were meaningless, and had not trusted her emotions to remain cool and calm if he had persistently flirted with her, even if she knew he was leaving. He had not yet told her, but... there was a grain of truth to that. He hadn't bedded Circle mages; they were so closely supervised that it would be a furtive, uncomfortable coupling, probably not in a bed at all, and if he got a girl with child, the Chantry would take the baby away. They were too closely supervised even to make the herbal potion that could terminate a pregnancy early. It was just a disaster waiting to happen, and he had made sure that he had never gone beyond heavy petting in the Circle. In a couple of his prior escapes, he had made it to Denerim—to the Pearl, specifically, determined to lose his virginity and confident that prostitutes, of all people, would certainly know how to "take precautions." But the plain truth was that he was just as inexperienced in love as Caitlyn herself seemed to be, and he was only accustomed to meaningless encounters. That didn't mean that he didn't care about hurting her—quite the opposite—but he wished he could tell her that it was all right, that he was unsure too, not some sort of carelessly cruel rake.
He wanted this to change. A committed, loving relationship was another part of normal life for which he realized he had a marrow-deep longing. He wanted to have that too, and for the first time ever, he was imagining a specific person. Now that he had hope, his imagination did not care how early it was; it ran wild. Bethany Hawke was a sweet girl, but she wasn't his type, and she was too young. He felt dirty and wrong even thinking about that. Caitlyn, it turned out, was two years younger than he was, but she was an adult. It wasn't a yawning age gap. And, more critically, he found himself much more drawn to Caitlyn's fierce personality, her stubbornness, her boldness. He had a stubborn streak himself, and strong convictions, but her fiery nature complemented his tendency to defuse situations with levity and flippancy. It was so fitting, he thought, that fire was her best element. It matched more than her hair.
She wasn't ready, of course, and he was not going to jeopardize his situation by pushing her beyond her comfort point while he had just started training under her father. But now that she knew he didn't mean to go anywhere, she was much more receptive to his attentions than before. He reflected on this as he went to bed one night about a week and a half after the blizzard. He was still sleeping on the dog bed, but they had cleaned it thoroughly.
Caitlyn and Bethany had come into the house after thawing the pump at the well. "I think I threw out my back doing that," Caitlyn complained as she stepped through the door.
"Oh poor you," Carver drawled from the kitchen, where he was plucking a game bird for dinner. "Let me guess, something else that the big muscular 'mundane' has to do now for you fragile mages?"
"Don't call yourself that," scolded Leandra from across the kitchen.
"I'm not going to ask you to do anything," Caitlyn snapped, sitting down—collapsing, really—in the nearest chair and rubbing her back. "But I don't know how it happened."
"You were bent over too long and shouldn't have pushed so hard to test it," Bethany said. Her sister scowled.
Anders could not stay out of this any longer. He rose and walked over to Caitlyn to stand behind her chair. She made to turn around in surprise but groaned in pain from the muscular pull. Without asking, he cast a powerful healing spell at her back.
"Oh," she moaned. "Thank you Anders. That's much better." She rolled her shoulders to stretch them, her long, almost waist-length hair streaming down her back.
He found himself transfixed by that sight and decided, in a bit of recklessness, to be bold. "I could also massage you if you'd like."
She was absolutely still for a moment, and he felt a pang of fear that he'd done it now, he'd gone too far—but then she laughed. "I don't need that now, but that idea almost makes me want to pull a muscle again."
It was the first time she had unquestionably, without a doubt, flirted back. Elated, he had replied that she didn't have to pull a muscle, that all she had to do was ask if that was what she wanted. She had laughed and said no more, but it was more than enough. He had smiled goofily, grateful that she couldn't see how giddy he must look. Bethany could, though, and she had given him a pointed smirk, well aware of what was going on—and clearly happy with it and not jealous of her sister at all.
Anders realized that some of his restlessness was impatience with the progression of this. Sometime soon, he thought as he drifted off. It won't be much longer.
Caitlyn also realized what was happening, happening rather quickly in fact, and she felt turmoil about it. On one hand, it was unsettling because it was unfamiliar. When she had experimented with kissing, there had not been much associated with it except the recognition that the other person was attractive to her, someone she vaguely fancied. Beyond that, it really was mostly just curiosity—and a certain degree of defiance and rebellion. She knew how dangerous it was for an apostate mage, a secret mage, to get too close to anyone outside her trusted family, but that had been a way for her to run up to the line without quite crossing it. What seemed to be happening right now was very different. Anders, of course, knew her secret from literally the first moment she ever saw him. He was now part of their household, learning advanced magic from her father. Her father, in fact, clearly approved of his interest in her. She wondered if he saw some of himself in the younger mage and wanted him, her, or both of them to have the kind of happy story that he'd lived.
But although it was unfamiliar and a little frightening, it was also something she couldn't bring herself to stop because it felt so nice every time something new happened, some new barrier was broken. When she had finally flirted back with him that one time, and he had said that she only needed to ask, she had almost taken him up on his offer to massage her right then and there. Afterward, she had thought for hours about the idea of it, of his hands rubbing the tension out of her shoulders, shooting little bursts of healing magic into her all the while, as he murmured calming words to her... She had gone to her bed thinking of it—and once she blew out the candle, her thoughts had gone a great deal farther than that. Maker, if she could kiss the bloody constable's son behind the Lothering Chantry last year, couldn't she kiss him?
But the fact that he wasn't the constable's son was the entire issue. Anders was not going to the Chasind; he was staying here. Any affections between them had meaning and promise now.
Isn't that what I wanted? she thought, frustrated with herself and the twists and turns of her thoughts. Before, she had been afraid of getting attached to him and having her heart broken because he didn't feel the same. Now, she was afraid of beginning something that could be very, very serious indeed. Isn't that what I wanted? Caitlyn thought again in her bed. I couldn't have it with anyone except someone like him, someone who knows our secrets—my secret—and maybe even who shares it himself. Isn't this what I wanted to have? Why am I afraid of it now?
She was afraid, but intellectually she knew it was because it was unknown to her. She would have no idea what she was doing, and... oh. She closed her eyes. She was not absolutely certain of it; she certainly hadn't asked him, but she would have been willing to bet her favorite staff that he had experience rather beyond what she had. What if he decided she was just a benighted rustic peasant? What if he thought something was wrong with her? Maker, maybe something is wrong with me, she thought as her fear snowballed out of control. Normal people don't fret over it like this... do they?
She stilled her breaths and tried to focus her thoughts. Get a grip on yourself, she thought. You're not going to—just think it, acknowledge the thought and don't be embarrassed—jump in bed with him immediately anyway. You want to kiss him, so do that. That's a step, and it's not a step too far. Make it normal to be affectionate with him, not an unacknowledged anxiety or barrier between us. It's scary because of what it might lead to, but deal with it. You'll feel worse if you push him away because of these fears and he thinks it means you aren't interested after all.
The thought of having a plan, a plan that wasn't that intimidating to her, made her feel better.
Privacy was not easy to find in a small cottage. Her parents had the largest bedroom; she and Bethany had a tiny space that barely had room for their bunks, their shared wardrobe, and a chair; Carver actually slept in a loft above the common room. However, when Bethany and Carver left with their mother early the following morning to go into town for some purchases, she realized that she had the opportunity at last—as long as her father had something to do. He might approve of their budding relationship, but that didn't mean that she wanted him to see anything that should be private.
Malcolm took a seat on the side of the common room nearest the kitchen, opposite the bedrooms, but he was still... in the common room. Sighing, Caitlyn decided that she had no choice but to give the game away to Anders and hope that he kept his trap shut in front of her father. She rose from the table and went to where he was standing, leaning against the wall, reading a book of her father's.
"I have a question for you," she said.
He raised his gaze to hers silently.
"It's... about healing magic. Something I read."
His eyebrows instantly peaked in confusion. "I didn't think you studied that school of magic."
"I just read something in a certain book and I wanted your opinion of it," she said, making this up as she went along. "Could you come back to my room so I can show it to you?"
She felt herself grow heated as his face changed, his eyebrows drew back apart and rose knowingly. "All right." He closed the book he was reading and walked slowly behind her.
Malcolm gazed up from his own work, gave a brief, satisfied grin at their retreating backs, and returned to his woodworking. She did not see, but Anders caught a quick glimpse. Of course this sly old fox knows, he thought. It's not like she's subtle about it. But he knows and he approves.
Caitlyn closed the door behind them quietly, without making it snap. He stood by the wall opposite the bunks, gazing out knowingly at her, an asymmetric smirk on his face. "All right then," he said, "what's this question about healing magic?"
She was determined not to be bashful, but stared back even though she knew the color of her face right now must be clashing atrociously with the color of her hair. "It's... not about healing magic."
"Oh?"
Suddenly her courage failed her. "It's... about the feathers on your coat," she said wildly. What in the Void? she thought. What am I doing? He'll think I'm insane—
"The feathers on my coat." He fingered them idly. "They're special, yes. They have magical power." He smiled broadly. "Would you care to touch them and feel it yourself?" He met her gaze determinedly with his. "I'll show you what to do," he said, his words pointed.
She was pretty sure that was an invitation and a reassurance, and anyway, he seemed to have a better grip on himself right now than she did. She took a deep breath and walked over to him, raising her hand to reach for the feathers—
Her fingers had barely brushed the soft, ticklish tips of them when he wrapped one arm around her waist to close the gap between them. She gasped, but this—actually being in his arms, that line crossed, that boundary down—was just what she needed to let go of her anxiety. She breathed deeply and reached for his head at the same time that he threaded his other hand into her hair, massaging the back of her head.
"Is this what you wanted?" he whispered.
Her breath caught in her chest. "Actually, this is." With that, she lunged for him, rising on her toes and pulling his head down to meet hers.
Not to be outdone, he pulled her into a crushing embrace as their lips met and parted to grant each other access. His fingers on his other hand tangled in her hair, tugging slightly, as she gasped for breath again right against his mouth and tried to deepen the kiss. Now that she had done this, kissed him, she wanted more, more—
She realized that she was moving—that he was moving her, her feet fumbling in a vague circle, but she trusted him and surrendered to his steering. In a moment, he pushed her against the wall with a soft thump. Momentarily she wondered if her father would hear that... but she didn't care, because in the next second, he was using the wall to brace her and himself as he intensified his affections aggressively, grinding against her down to their waists. He nipped on her lower lip as he slipped his hand out of her hair to caress the side of her face. A strangled moan escaped from him as she retaliated by tugging on his hair with both hands, both of them plundering each other's mouths all the while.
Finally they parted. He kept one arm around her waist and trailed his other one tenderly down the side of her face, her neck, her side, finally to rest around her waist as well. She let her arms rest around his shoulders, smiling as he breathed heavily.
"I really hope this is a good idea," he whispered, suddenly looking fearful himself.
"It is," she said—and how very odd, she thought, that she should be the one to reassure him now. "This is why you stopped in the woods so close to us that night. You just didn't know it yet."
"You really think so?" He looked strangely vulnerable.
"I do. You belong here," she said, believing it absolutely.
He pulled her close again and rested his head on hers, his cheek against the soft hair on top of her head, holding her as if she might be taken away from him at any moment. A shudder escaped him, traveling down his entire body. "It feels like belonging," he finally said. "It feels... real."
When he finally lifted his head, she couldn't resist; she kissed him again. He pulled her close and returned it. This one was different; it was much more innocent and did not last as long, but it was sweet and somehow a fitting coda, she thought. "I suppose we'd better go back out before my father figures out why we really came in here," she muttered.
"Oh, he knows why."
She glanced up sharply at him, but he merely laughed. "Your father is smart. He knows, and he doesn't have an objection."
She shook her head in amazement. "Well, I guess that's one less thing to worry about."
"Worry about?"
She sighed. "We can talk later about that." She caressed his cheek one last time, smiling, gazing into his amber eyes.
He did not overlook her affectionate gestures. "Talk?" he said wryly. "Or 'talk'?"
"Both?" she rejoined. Her heart felt light and happy, and in truth, she was not that worried right at this moment. She was sure that the anxieties would return later, but for now, she was happy. She felt this much more comfortable with him now. Of course this was the right choice, she thought. I knew it would be.
End Notes: This experience of having a true father figure—however brief—is going to be very important for Anders and will have an impact on his character. Of course, the flip side of that, and of Caitlyn's own close connection to her dad, is that it's going to be utterly brutal to both of them to lose him.
The thing about Caitlyn not wanting to apologize for hurtful things she says is going to be a problem later on. She's a blue-red Hawke, more red than blue, though very pro-mage, being one herself. But she is red in part to compensate for insecurities of various sorts—her ever-present fear of her family being divided, her lack of romantic or sexual experience, and later on, her "illegitimate" child, her broken heart, (in Kirkwall) her poverty, her status as a Fereldan refugee, and, yes, her magic—whether she admits that last or not. It's a way for her to feel stronger, but the thing about not wanting to apologize—especially to Anders—when she has been inconsiderate of somebody's feelings is going to be an issue.
