Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It shouldn’t have surprised Anders that it was Hawke who started it, because starting things was what Garrett Hawke did best. A general rule of thumb, Hawke could serve as a scapegoat for almost anything.

Still, it had seemed like an innocent enough conversation. That is, the conversation between Hawke, Anders, Isabela, and Fenris. And the only reason all of them had been together— especially Anders and Fenris, as it was common knowledge that Fenris was a bigot who had unfairly maligned Anders since their first meeting; Anders; of course, hated Fenris too, but for completely justifiable reasons—was that Hawke had asked them to trek halfway up Sundermount for a fucking plant.

Predictably, things went tits up the moment they made it to the foot of the mountain. Slavers, ten to start, but then somehow twenty more came from the bush.

“Where do they keep coming from?” Hawke yelled as he buried his sword into a man’s spine. The blood sprayed in a graceful arch, dappling Hawke’s chin and beard.

"I would say the same hole in the ground all other rats and refuse come from," Anders said, "but that would be an insult to rodents."

He lifted his staff, whipping it over his body, about to bring it down in front of him to cast a spell that would freeze the slaver to his left in place so that Hawke would have an easier time bisecting the fellow, when Fenris stepped in the way.

"Fenris," Anders yelled across the dirt road as he hurried to lower his staff to the side of him, interrupting the spell. "Get in the way of my casting again and it'll be your balls I freeze!”

"Touch me with your blighted magic, mage! See where that gets you," Fenris shot back, voice full of venom. The slaver taken care of, he flitted across the path, his body little more than a lyrium streak.

Anders fought the urge to roll his eyes, remembered that it was just Fenris and he didn't care, then rolled them anyways. "You don't seem to mind my magic when it's keeping your small intestine in place," he muttered after the elf.

"Now, now, boys. You're both pretty.”

Isabela twirled a knife before slitting the throat of what was hopefully the last slaver they would see. As the man gurgled on the ground, drowning in his own blood, Isabela sheathed her daggers.

“And that lads, is how it’s done,” she said. Anders scoffed.

“Show-off,” he said, voice warm with affection. Isabela pouted, sauntering over to him. Yes, he thought, observing the way her hips swayed when she walked, definitely showing off. She wrapped her hands around Anders’ neck, pressing their bodies flush together.

“You used to like it when I showed off. Remember when the Lay Warden bet I couldn’t fit my whole fist up my—”

“Camp!” Hawke, who had definitely not been listening with some interest, said. “Fenris, you’re, er, outdoorsy. Help me find a place to set up camp.” He ran off after Fenris, who looked more than a little confused.

“Now why did he run off? I was only going to say ‘pussy.’”

Anders smirked. “You’re going to give Hawke a heart attack if you keep on like that. Why do you insist on tormenting the poor man?”

Isabela smiled and stepped back. “Because the seduction is the second best part.”

“Second best?”

Isabela winked. “After the actual deed, of course. Now, did you bring them?”

She looked up at him expectantly.

Anders grinned. “Sandwiches are in the first pocket of my pack. And yes, I did remember to use mustard.”

Isabela squealed and went after his pack. “I knew you wouldn’t forget! What kind did you make this time?”

The problem with your mercenary coworkers' various levels of parentless backgrounds was that no one knew how to cook.

Early on, when it became clear that this arrangement wasn’t a fluke, and that they would be spending the foreseeable future traipsing after Hawke for coin, Anders had asked if anyone would be bringing lunch on their next outing to the Bone Pit during a round of Wicked Grace. Eyebrows had shot up around the table, as if his fine, very intelligent friends had forgotten that they needed to eat.

“Seriously?” Anders asked their shocked faces, “Nobody? Hawke, you grew up without servants. Surely your parents taught you something.”

Hawke shrugged sheepishly. “Mother was a terrible cook. Grew up nobility and all that. Never had to wipe her own ass. And Father grew up in the Circle. You know what that’s like.”

Anders nodded. “Another lock on the door to freedom for mages. Hang on, I should write that down.”

“Honestly, Carver was the best cook in the house. And well.” Bethany got that sad look she often did when she was thinking about her twin. “I can put together a passable stew, if you like the texture of glue. Aveline, how did you feed yourself?”

Aveline shook her head. “I didn’t. Westley kept me fed. And when he was away, I had a neighbor. I paid her for extra portions, bought her ingredients. That sort of thing.”

“Isabela then.”

Isabela looked up from her cards. “Oh yes, I can cook.”

“Excellent! Do you mind teaching-”

“As long as it’s fish,” Isabela stretched in her chair, reaching her arms above her head. “You bring me any fish, I’ll clean it, descale it, and roast it. Pretty much worthless with anything else though.”

Hawke made a face. “I don’t like fish.”

Bethany ignored her brother. “Wait, bring you a fish?”

Isabela nodded. “Oh, I can’t fish to save my life. Well, not that kind of fishing anyways. If you’re talking about pu—”

The table shuddered under the massive weight of everyone groaning at once.

“We get it,” Aveline said, cradling her head in her hands.

Isabela flashed Aveline a smile as sweet as syrup. “Just making sure you understand. Sorry, lovely. If it swims like a fish, breathes water like a fish, and is a fish, I’m your girl. Anything else—” She turned her thumb down and stuck out her tongue.

“Doesn’t anyone want to know if I know how to cook?” Merrill piped up. Anders had almost forgotten the Dalish witch sitting across from him. He wondered what blood mages ate for supper. Blood pudding? Kidney stew?

"Can you cook, Merrill?" Bethany asked, more than a strictly polite amount of surprise creeping into her voice.

"Er…no. Didn't really have a chance to learn after I set half the camp on fire trying to cool down our frying oil. But I know better now! You can't use ice water to cool down everything!" Anders tried to imagine Merrill without eyebrows. Then tried to decide if it made her less terrifying. It didn’t.

“Why not?” Varric asked. “If I could wiggle my fingers and freeze water, I’d use ice to cool down everything.”

Anders grimaced. “Well, the question of whether or not Varric knows his way around a kitchen is answered.” He turned to look at the last (and, in his opinion, least) member of their party. Fenris had said nothing, but he had finished half a bottle of wine, if the smell was anything to go by. Lovely.

“Do you even eat?” Anders asked, a normal amount of disdain in his voice. “Or are you as pickled and preserved as your wine?”

"Fermented," Fenris said.

"What?"

"Wine isn't pickled, it's fermented. Pickles are pickled. That's why they're called pickles." Anders could feel a blush blossoming on his cheeks.

"What's the difference?"

"Pickling involves acid. In fermentation, little organisms react to sugar and create more organisms," Merrill supplied helpfully.

"Merrill," Fenris said, his voice as dry as his wine, "are you an idiot?"

"She's right." Great, now he was defending the blood mage. "There are tiny imps that affect food. How do you think bread rises? Or milk becomes spoiled?"

Fenris looked at him like he had grown three heads. Anders could almost see his thought process as Fenris decided that listening to Anders was a surefire path to madness and that it was just best to ignore him. He frowned. Anders had been curious to see if they could get a proper frothing rage going.

“Well, do you?”

A vein throbbed in Broody’s temple. “Do I what, mage?”

Anders smiled. “Cook. Surely you’ve had to. Or did your ex-master have servants for his slaves?” Fenris, the beast, bared his teeth. Oh, that had done it. It was a cheap shot, but earlier that day Fenris had asked what Karl had done to deserve the brand. Some things were really just retribution.

“If I had I wouldn’t do it for you, mage,” Fenris shot back, “Or perhaps that’s what you want. Someone to peel your grapes and feed you by hand. Is that what the Tranquil are for?”

For one glorious moment, Anders imagined climbing across the table and ripping those dancing green eyes out of their owner’s face. Instead, he took a deep, deep breath. “No, they aren’t. And unlike everyone else at this table, I actually know how to cook!” Okay, so knowing how to make sandwiches and add water to cracked wheat was hardly cooking, but it’s not like he’d ever have to cook for Fenris.

“Anders, you know how to cook?” Hawke said. Anders had forgotten he and Fenris weren’t actually alone. “That’s great. Do you mind bringing lunch to the Bone Pit tomorrow?”

Five hungry (and one brooding) faces stared at him expectantly. “Hold on, I’m not really sure…”

Fenris scoffed. “A liar and an abomination. Hawke, you’re better off taking stew from Corff’s to-go.”

“That I can make something truly spectacular in my stove is what I was going to say. It’s—er— old. But I can bring egg sandwiches.”

So he made them egg sandwiches. And next time, when Bethany had shyly asked him to make jam sandwiches, “with blackberry jam, like father used to make,” he scoured Kirkwall until he found some blackberry jam to trade for. After that, it became a habit. Whenever they were expected to be out of town for longer than a couple of hours, Anders brought lunch.

It was nice, knowing that he was taking care of their little group in this way. Sure, healing was also taking care, but he could often heal with a wave of his hand. Now, he had some use he could provide outside of his magic. Food was something they could enjoy together, and proper nutrition was a form of healing on its own.

Hawke and Fenris had found a sandy spot of land near some half-dead bushes and fallen leaves. By the time Anders and Isabela got there, the two warriors had nearly finished setting up camp. It was twilight now; the sky had turned to a dusky orange and the first stars of autumn were just starting to dot the sky.

Isabela started gathering brush and fallen branches for the fire and Anders got out dinner. He’d used ham this time, thick and cold, with a good amount of fat, and paired with thin slices of Tantervale cheese he’d found in Lowtown’s market. The bread was a crusty country loaf that crackled and sang as he’d sliced it, a donation from an Alienage resident in exchange for helping her arthritis.

“Isabela, this is the one with extra mustard—Hawke don’t take that one, I’m experimenting with onions, that one's mine, this one’s yours—and that leaves…Fenris.” Anders turned to Fenris, who was already biting into an apple. The elf had a little halo of snacks around him, an assortment of dried meat and fruit. Anders thought he spied some berries Fenris would have gathered from the trail.

“Fenris, do you want your sandwich?” he asked, though he knew what the answer would be.

To no one's surprise, Fenris responded by staring at Anders, taking a handful of the berries and popping them into his mouth. Anders sighed.

“Hope none of those are poisonous,” Anders muttered. He viciously took a bite of his own sandwich. The bread had some bite to it and he enjoyed the soreness forming in his jaw while he chewed.

“More for you anyways. Maker knows you need it,” Hawke, the eternal placator said. “At this point, he’s doing you a favor.”

Anders audibly scoffed. “Favor”, right. “Thinly veiled insult," more like. Better to eat mysterious berries he found next to a dead slaver than to eat the food an abomination had touched. He knew Fenris didn’t like him, and the feeling was entirely mutual, but such pettiness hurt. Countless fights watching each other's back, more free healing than he could remember, and Fenris still thought Anders could taint something through touch?

Still, his Warden metabolism did mean he needed more food than the average man, and it wasn’t like he had the coin to start wasting good food. As Isabela and Hawke finished their sandwiches with relish, he reclined and started his second. After so long knowing Fenris wouldn’t touch the food he made, Anders had just started making Fenris’s sandwich to his own taste.

And as the night wore on, it was hard to stay annoyed over something so small. The fire was warm on his face, the night air cool, but not intolerable, and he lounged there, comfortably full.

Isabela and Hawke were laying together, close but not quite touching, staring up at the night sky and coming up with new constellations.

“I don’t know,” Hawke said, pointing to an unknowable collection of stars, “I think that one kind of looks like a cake.”

“You and your stomach,” Isabela said. “Always thinking about food.”

“Can you blame me? Food is just…it’s food.”

Anders agreed. Too many hungry nights in Kinloch, too many memories of his mother’s cooking to tide him over. Irving used to joke that they had gotten Anders too late to assimilate him to life in the Circle and damn him if the old bastard hadn’t been right.

“Come on then,” Hawke turned over on his side, propping his head up on one hand and gesturing to Isabela to do the same, “what's your favorite food in the entire world? Something you could eat every day and never get tired of.”

Isabella put her finger on her chin pondering for a moment. “Everyday for the rest of my life? I’m not sure. I’ve never been very good at denying myself.” She winked at Hawke, who turned red.

“Just pick something,” Fenris piped up from across the fire, “and put Hawke out of his misery.”

Isabela laughed, “Mango. Ripe, juicy mangoes. So fat you can really sink your teeth into it. And when the juice runs down your fingers and you’re rushing to lick it up….” She trailed off, a soft smile on her face.

“I think I’ve had the mango she's talking about,” Anders stage whispered, leaning over to Hawke. “And I don’t think she’s talking about fruit.”

Isabela twisted around back to look at him. “If you’d had a proper mango, sweet thing, you’d know. There’s really nothing quite like it.”

Fenris huffed. “I’d kill for a mango right now.”

“What about you then, Hawke? You’re so particular, I can’t imagine what’d it be.”

Hawke liked the plain Ferelden fare that Anders recognized from the boys in his childhood village, but adjusted to fit Hawke’s taste. Fluffy Mackerel Pudding, hold the mackerel and onions. Lamb and Pea stew, hold the peas. Turnip and Mutton Pie, but replace the mutton with chicken, if you would be so kind. The kind of food that stuck to your ribs and didn’t upset your humors.

Perhaps because he was so particular, Hawke had his answer ready. “Antivan Gouda.”

Anders snorted. “A Dog Lord to his core, I see.”

“What would being Ferelden have to do with Antivan Gouda?” Isabela asked.

“Cheese may be smoked in Antiva, but it’s true home is in Ferelden. Fereldens import more cheese than anyone, I think. We certainly eat a lot of it.” To punctuate his point, Anders pulled the slice of cheese off his second sandwich and ate it in one bite.

“Damn right we do. According to my mother, King Maric ordered a giant wheel of cheddar to celebrate the end of the Orlesian occupation. Apparently it took all of Denerim a year to eat it.”

“No!”

“It’s true,” Anders said, “Well, at least it’s what people say. I think the only thing Fereldens love more than cheese is their mabari.”

“And I, as a true Ferelden, love both,” Hawke said, nodding along.

“You certainly smell like both,” Anders said. Hawke threw a pebble at him. Anders laughed as it bounced harmlessly off his full stomach.

“What about you then, Anders? Would you also eat nothing, but cheese if your bowels allowed it?” Isabela asked. Anders shook his head.

“No, not at all. My answer is bread.”

“Bread? That’s it?”

“Mm. Bread, with a layer of butter so thick you can see your teeth marks when you bite into it.” Anders’ mouth watered at the thought. “Fresh yellow butter. A pinch of salt, sprinkled on top. And drowning in honey. Justice has something of a sweet tooth.”

“Still,” Hawke said, “hundreds of dishes to choose from and your favorite food is bread.”

“What can I say? I am a free man and a free man eats what he chooses. I choose bread.”

“That you are, and that they do,” Isabela said. Anders smiled at her and Hawke. Fenris gagged.

“What’s yours then?” Anders asked with prejudice, “Rotten grapes and tannins?”

“No. For the last time, I do more than just drink wine!”

“All right, what is it then?” Isabela asked, “No offense, but I have a hard time imagining you enjoying food.”

“I have a hard time imagining you enjoying anything,” Anders pitched in. Hawke shushed him.

Fenris rolled his eyes and sat up. “I eat and enjoy food. If you must know, it’s Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce.”

There was a moment of perfect silence as the humans processed the words Fenris had just said.

“A Flamenco Braised in Date Sauce?” Hawke asked.

“What’s a flamenco?” Isabela asked.

“What’s a date?” Anders asked cynically.

“A flamingo,” Fenris corrected, “And they aren’t native to the Free Marches, I’ve already checked.”

“But what is it? A type of fish?” Isabela asked.

“No, it's a type of large bird,” Fenris sat there for a moment, eyes turned to the fire, as if lost in a memory. “They’re pink,” he added distantly.

“Pink?” Anders mouthed at Isabela. The pirate shrugged.

Fenris stood up, walking away from the fire for a moment, before returning with a long stick. He placed one tip of the stick in a sandy bit of dirt near their fire.

“Hold on,” Fenris said.

After a couple of minutes, Anders, Hawke, and Isabela crowded around the spot where Fenris had drawn this large, pink bird.

“Er…” Hawke started. Anders cackled.

The flamingo, or Fenris’ interpretation of a flamingo, was a small oval stacked atop a drawing of a long noodle which itself was resting on a larger oval. There were two curved triangles touching, which Anders supposed was Fenris’ attempt at a beak. Noticeably, Fenris had forgotten one of its legs, as it was balancing on one. Anders thought he might have less of an understanding of what flamingos—and indeed all birds—looked like than before.

“Not much of an artist, are you,” Anders said, bracing one arm behind him as his laughter forced him back. “Does the Maker hate this bird? Is that why he only gave it one leg?”

Anders thought he could fry an egg on Fenris’ handsome face. To be fair, the elf only seemed to have two modes whenever Anders spoke: annoyed and enraged.

“I don’t know mage; that’s just how they look when they stand in their rivers.” Fenris looked back at his drawing, considering. “Perhaps they only balance on one leg.”

“Right, and perhaps I’m the next Divine.”

Fenris turned away, kicking up sand as he did. It scattered onto Anders’ coat and he shot up, brushing the dirt off with his hands.

“Very mature! I just cleaned this!”

“Where, in a sewer?” Fenris said, his tone droll, “Well, it’s filthy now.”

Anders scowled. “A storm sewer. And that’s rich coming from the man who has corpses for roommates!”

“Don’t talk about Darcy like that. Unlike you, he pays rent.”

Hawke leaned over to Isabela and dramatically whispered. “Should we remind them we’re still here?”

Isabela crossed her arms. “Oh, let them have their fun.”

“Fenris,” Hawke said, deftly pivoting away from brewing storms, “Tell us more about the—er—Flamingo Braised In Date Sauce. Where did you have it?”

Fenris retook his spot next to the fire, and by the firelight Anders could just make out a familiar expression. It was one he usually wore before bringing up Danarius.

“Where else,” he said after a moment, “but in Tevinter?”

Everyone sat in silence, and for a moment Anders thought he wouldn’t speak again. But then—

“It was a dinner party. In Danarius’ honor.” Fenris’ tone told Anders everything he thought about that. “Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce is a very expensive dish to make. Flamingoes are wild birds and they aren’t farmed like chickens and pigs. And they’re rare, even in Tevinter. With Danarius as the guest of honor, no one would have dared to make anything else.”

The fire had burned down to embers, but Anders could still make out Fenris’ face. Underlit by the dying fire, it was carefully devoid of emotions.

“When you serve Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce at a dinner party, the tongue is set aside to serve to the guest of honor.”

“The tongue?”

Fenris nodded. “It’s considered a delicacy.

“While the guests were dining and the next course was being prepared I was making my rounds through the estate. Danarius was always paranoid—concerned that he was being targeted for assassination. He wasn’t wrong, of course; Danarius is many things, but sadly he is not a fool. Most outings, I stayed by his side to intimidate his political rivals and remind his allies of his power. That night was different. I cannot tell you why.”

Anders shivered. He would not like to have his tongue eaten by such a man.

“When I was making my way through the kitchen, I saw it—the flamingo’s tongue. It was going to be presented still in the bird head, laying on a bed of dill. There was no one else around.”

Fenris smiled, teeth bared and sinister by firelight. Never had Anders seen the elf display such manic joy, but he recognized that smile. It was the same one he had worn seeing his Templar jailors killed by darkspawn in Vigil’s Keep.

“So I ate it,” Fenris said, still grinning wild, “Plucked the bird’s tongue right out of its mouth and swallowed it.”

Fenris’ glee was contagious. Isabela whooped and Hawke laughed. Anders felt himself matching Fenris’ mad grin.

“I would pay to see Danarius’ face when the host walks out with a bird’s head—and no tongue!” Hawke said.

Anders frowned. “And he never found out who took it?”

Fenris smirked. “He blamed the host. Some Altus kissing up to Danarius in hopes of becoming a magister. Danarius thought that the whole party was set up as an insult. Said he was trying to make a fool of a magister. Well, he was half right. Someone certainly was.”

“Here, here!” Isabela stood and raised her water canteen. “To Danarius! May he look like a fool for the rest of his days!”

“And may those days be cut short!” Hawke added, taking a swig from his canteen as well.

The fire properly dimmed, Anders stood up to relight it. Reaching for his matches in his pack, he saw the elf standing up to grab his sleeping bag.

“So,” Anders said, “What did it taste like?”

Fenris seemed surprised Anders was asking him, but for once didn’t question it. Instead, he looked thoughtful for a moment.

“It was…sweet.”

Anders waited for Fenris to say more. When it was clear the elf wasn’t going to, he gestured for Fenris to continue.

“...And tender.”

Anders made a frustrated noise. “That’s it? ‘Sweet and tender’?”

“What do you want me to say? It was good, but rich. After I ate it I felt sick for a whole day and still I’ve never tasted anything half as fine since. Now leave me be. It’s been a long day and I would do well without your inane questions.” With that outburst, Fenris grabbed his pack and stalked away, leaving Anders in the dark.

Later, as Anders struggled to sleep, the autumn stars winking above him and Hawke snoring to his right, he gazed at Fenris. The only time Anders had ever seen the elf at anything approaching peace was when he was asleep, and still Fenris was ready for a fight. The line of his body was taut and his brow furrowed.

Fenris’ mad grin. His teeth bared. Anders could almost see him, alone in that Altus’ kitchen. Taking something so that Danarius could not have it.

Fenris, who wouldn’t eat what Anders cooked even after years of—well, hatred, but not murderous hatred. Hadn’t Anders been there, risking his own life, when Fenris had ripped out Hadriana’s heart? Hadn’t Anders healed Fenris from his battle wounds, killed slavers by his side? Played Wicked Grace at the same table?

Fenris in the kitchen. Fenris ripping the tongue out from the dead bird's skull. It would have been hot, Anders decided. Maybe too hot to touch. He’d have eaten it quickly. He probably barely tasted it.

I could make Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce, Anders realized.

He had never braised anything before, but he knew it was not so different from stewing. And while it might be hard to find some of the ingredients, Kirkwall was a port city—it shouldn’t be impossible.

And when he presented it to Fenris—after all, Fenris would have to try it to test for authenticity—the elf would have no choice but to taste it. Anders’ cooking. Something Anders had made. No, Fenris wouldn’t deny his favorite food. Even if it had been made by an abomination's unclean hands.

The only ingredient he couldn’t get was the flamingo and that was certain. Before tonight, Anders had never heard of one. And if they were as rare and expensive as Fenris said—such a thing would be impossible. Still, it didn’t have to be a flamingo, did it? What had Fenris said? A large wild bird? There were other wild birds in Kirkwall. Anders could substitute one of them.

As Anders slipped into the Fade, he thought of pink birds and the look on Fenris’ face when Anders presented him with his version of Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce.

Chapter Text

Anders had always considered himself to be above average intelligence. Hardly the smartest person he'd ever met, but he was an accomplished writer and a talented spirit healer.

Look, people didn't survive the Circle if they had dung for brains.

But here, knee-deep in a lake, about to confront a Free Marches Goose, he wondered if he wasn't the biggest blighted idiot in the South.

"You remind me of someone I used to know," Anders said, "A templar. Big. Loud. When I was fourteen I led him on a delightful jaunt through Lothering—now that was a sight. Imagine a knobbly teenager running through a busy market dressed in a periwinkle frock and a red-faced lunatic in armor screaming the Chant of Light, trying to catch him. His name was Ser Herbert."

Anders shivered in the chill air. Did all geese have such evil in their eyes? His parents had raised geese. Anders had tied a bit of string around a gosling and named it Miss Featherington. He didn't remember Miss Featherington being evil.

Anders took a deep breath. Keeping a tight grip on his staff—and not panicking, definitely not panicking!—he stepped forward.

"I'll call you Herbert if that's alright. Try not to take this personally. It's just if I squint my eyes and turn my head, you kind of look like an abstract interpretation of a flamingo."

Herbert hissed.

Anders hissed back.

The goose stopped mid hiss, probably surprised Anders had answered in kind. He imagined grown men of six-two didn't normally show up at lakes to hiss at geese.

Another tentative step.

The goose hadn't shown any sign of retreat, but he also hadn't shown any sign of advancing, which was good. Why hadn’t he borrowed a bow? Or at least seen if Varric was free.

"Anders," Anders muttered, "you're a Warden. A deadly battle mage. You've faced darkspawn, and Bone Dragons, and rock demons, not to mention every morning you wake up in this Maker-forsaken city. You can handle one little goose."

Herbert the Goose raised his wings and started flying towards him, half skittering across the water.

Anders remembered why he hadn't asked Varric for help. It was so no one could record what happened next. As the goose raced toward him, Anders screamed, a high pitched sound, annoying even to his own ears. Dignity forgotten, staff nearly forgotten, he made it to the edge of the shore. Unfortunately, the water had slowed Anders down, and as he felt Herbert nip at his right arm, tearing the sleeve of his coat and leaving a nasty welt behind, Anders blindly reached out his hands, prepared to push Herbert, to drown him if need be.

His fingers grazed a handful of feathers, and he felt, rather than saw, that Herbert lunged forward, ready to take another bite, but stopped. Wasting no time, Anders clambered onto shore and turned around, wondering what had saved him and stopped Herbert from taking a chunk of flesh out of his arm.

The lake, a small one just outside of Kirkwall and popular with a few cow farms that dotted the road to Starkhaven, was now frozen. If not for the panicking goose and the fact that it was early autumn, the scene before him would have been picturesque for Wintersend

Anders approached the edge of the lake. Apart from a light cover of frost that obscured parts of the surface, the ice was crystal clear. A trout was frozen in place, little bubbles of air held perfectly still, as though Anders was viewing a painting inside a fancy Hightown home. He looked towards Herbert.

Herbert was perched at the edge of the lake, webbed feet trapped in clear glassy ice. His wings flapped uselessly against the frozen top of the lake. Herbert thrashed against the ice, but try as he might he could not break free.

"Well," Anders said, and really thank the Maker no one was around to see this, "shit."

Herbert honked in agreement and bit Anders’ right leg as he walked past him.

—

"Well, this is…hm. What happened, again?"

Merrill surveyed the scene, taking in the goose, the frozen lake, and Anders himself, who was sheepishly looking around, wondering if there was a way he could blame Herbert for what happened.

Anders sighed. Merrill might have been a blood mage, but he couldn’t deny her talent. And more importantly, if Anders asked her to keep this between them, she would. Discretion was one of her finest qualities.

But if Merrill found out he was looking for a goose to cook for Fenris? Disastrous.

“I was going on a walk when this,” he flapped his hands towards Herbert, “goose attacked me. I don’t know if you’ve ever been attacked by a goose, but they’re vicious creatures. He attacked, I defended myself and—well, you can see what happened.”

Merrill walked forward and gently tapped her staff against the ice. “Frozen solid?”

Anders nodded. “Seems like it.”

“And it’s because you were defending yourself against this goose?” Herbert seemed to know he was being talked about and snapped at her. Anders considered thwacking him solidly on the beak, but he didn’t trust the beastie not to mangle his staff.

“That appears to be the case.”

“Now you need my help thawing the lake out so we don’t hurt the farmers and attract attention from the templars, who may wonder why a lake suddenly froze solid?”

“I believe that accurately sums up the situation.”

Merrill walked a little ways onto the lake, poised as if she had been walking on frozen lakes all her life. Considering the Dalish’s nomadic lifestyle, maybe she had. She tapped the end of her staff against the ice again, this time about two feet away from the shore.

“Solid here too,” she muttered, “Wow, when you panic Anders, you really panic! It’s a good thing it doesn’t happen often, otherwise we’d be in trouble!”

With a little less grace, Anders joined her out on the ice. “Enough about that,” Anders said, fairly certain that Merrill was attempting to compliment him, “my only question is, how do we fix it?”

Merrill waved off his concern. “Oh, but that’s easy. We’ll apply Poe’s Derivative to a larger surface area so we melt the lake without harming the fish. The only problem is unless we’re very careful someone’s going to get very wet—”

“You know Poe’s Derivative?” Anders blurted out. “Er – I mean…”

He’d realized his mistake, but it was too late. Merrill's face fell. “It’s just—I thought maybe your Keeper called it something different,” Anders said, digging himself deeper into his grave.

“I know what you meant. It’s fine,” she said, stalking back towards the shore. Herbert, who had tired himself out, perked up hearing her. “Let’s just get this taken care of so we can get out of here.”

Anders followed her, his footsteps shameful. He’d sworn to be nicer after hearing of her clansman’s death on Sundermount, especially after the compassion she had shown him after Ella’s near death. He shivered to think of how close it had been.

“Ow!” Merrill had walked a little too close to Herbert and he’d rewarded her by attacking her shin with his one free wing. “That hurt! Hunter Brisa hadn’t been joking. Geese are nasty creatures aren’t they? Although, I suppose if I were frozen in ice I would be upset too. You didn’t mean to bite me, did you? You’re just mad at the mean mage who froze the lake.”

“Merrill, don’t empathize with him, he doesn’t deserve it. And geese are bastards. I have a theory they’re descended from high dragons.” Despite herself, Merrill giggled.

“Sorry,” she said, bracing herself on her staff as she laughed. “I’m just imagining this goose fucking a dragon!”

Anders grinned. “I wonder who’s the sword and who's the sheath. Either way, poor goose.”

Merrill doubled over in laughter. “Either way, poor dragon!”

“It’s quite the image isn’t it?” And perhaps it was the absurdity of the situation, or the welts that still throbbed on his forearm and thigh, but Anders felt laughter take hold of him too.

He lay down on the ice, allowing the coolness to seep into his body. He was glad for his mistake, for autumn, for his decision to try and catch a goose.

Anders' reasoning had been sound at the time. When he had been trying to collect the ingredients for his recreation of Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce, the first hurdle he had run into was finding a reliable recipe. He couldn’t ask Fenris, obviously, but no one else in Kirkwall had ever heard of it.

But braising he had heard of before, and there were several recipes for braised whole chicken, which Anders thought he might be able to adapt to fit Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce. The recipe called for broth as a braising liquid, but using fruit juice instead would be simple enough. The bird would be resting on a collection of greens, some of which he actually recognized as herbs that grew in the wild on Sundermount. Even better.

But the second hurdle had come shortly after finding the recipe. Dates. Anders had learned that dates were a fruit, one that was common in Tevinter, Antiva, and even—he was surprised to learn—the Anderfels, but not the Free Marches. Certainly, he had never encountered them in Ferelden or Kinloch Hold. And it was hard to substitute an ingredient he had never even tried.

Sweet, Fenris had said. And tender. So the fruit was sweet. But in what way? Sweet like a crisp apple, or the bittersweetness of cranberries? In the end, he had asked one of his patients, a sailor who often worked on merchant ships.

“Sweet like candy, Healer,” the young woman had said, after Anders had sewn her guts back into place—apparently it had been a bar fight gone wrong. “And jammy. I'd never had a fruit that was so soft. Except for ripe peaches."

"So it's like a peach?"

She shook her head. "No, not at all."

Well, that hardly cleared things up, Anders thought, but supposed he wouldn’t rightly remember the taste of a fruit if his kidney was perforated. Sweet like candy, and jammy. Soft like a peach, but really not at all like a peach. In the end, he went with raisins, which were jammy and sweet and had a taste that was not unlike candy, but something in the back of his mind told him that he wouldn’t risk his hide for any dish made with raisins.

That left him to handle the final and most important component: the bird. Anders stewed on this. Spent many hours pacing his clinic, muttering about birds with long necks. Scoured books for images of flamingos—to the point that he wasn’t sure Fenris wasn’t just having him on.

But then about a week ago Anders had been walking the market in Lowtown, listening to Varric talk out the plot of his next book, a simpering romance about two rivals who eventually fell in love after being forced to fend for survival in a frozen shack, when a discordant squawking noise came across the sky. Anders looked up and saw a massive flock of geese making their annual trek north to Par Vollen for winter. The coloring was wrong—no one could mistake their brown, black, and white plumage for pink—but otherwise they fit the criteria.

And it was that decision that led him to Herbert.

“Should we release the goose before we unfreeze the lake? You know, let him fly away to terrorize someone else,” Merrill said.

Anders sat up. "Don’t, he’ll try to bite us,” Anders said, resigned. ”I’ll just put him to sleep.” With a wave of his hand, Herbert fell down from his half sitting up position with a solid thunk.

Merrill looked down at the goose, now peaceful against the lake’s surface. “Oh. Why didn’t you just do that to begin with?”

“Well, like you said. I was—er—panicking,” Anders lied.

The truth was he suspected that Fenris would be able to sense any spell he’d used, like a dog hunting a fox. Anders had never used magic before in cooking. It was a complicated waste of energy, and besides, he enjoyed the mundane processes of cooking. The chopping of herbs, the sweating of aromatics. The most he ever did was light his small stove with a thought and a few hand gestures.

But what if Fenris could taste magic? Anders had never heard of such a thing, but before Fenris he had never met anyone lined with lyrium. Is that why he had refused to eat what Anders’ hands had made? Because he suspected the mage was using magic to make his meals?

No matter how determined Anders had been to hunt a goose without using magic, it was too late now. He’d just have to hope that his theory was wrong, or that Fenris would eat his favorite dish anyway.

And if he did refuse, Anders could always shove it down Fenris’ throat. This was going to be a meal made with spite, after all.

“Over here!” Merrill was pointing to a spot on the ice near the middle of the lake. “If you stand here, we should be able to apply Poe’s Derivative to a wide enough area that it melts the ice without hurting the fish and pond weed.”

Anders nodded and took his place on the ice. Merrill stayed on the edge of the lake, standing near the unconscious Herbert. In unison they started to cast the complicated spell.

“It’ll melt from the bottom up, so you may hear the ice break,” Merrill called from shore. “You can swim can’t you?”

“Yes,” Anders yelled back, “why?”

But before Merrill answered, Anders heard a great crack underneath his feet and he was dunked into the freezing water below.

Sputtering up lake water and quillwort, Anders swam to join Merrill on the shore. Wringing dirty lake water out of his hair, Anders started steaming himself dry.

“Feel better?”

Merrill beamed.

—

“Andraste’s tits, why do I never think things through?”

By the time he had assured Merrill that he wasn’t upset with her impromptu lake-dunking, tucked the unconscious Herbert in a blanket and lugged him to Hightown—attracting many odd stares from Kirkwall’s highborn citizens—it was midday and the sun was still streaming. He was standing in front of Fenris’ door, hand poised to knock, when his mind started to buzz and his breaths started to quicken. Maker, what was he doing?

Standing at the doorstep of his most hated rival, sweating from the exertion of lugging a goose up from the gates of the city, covered in lake moss and dill weed and Maker knows what else, ready to offer to cook his rival’s favorite dish and for what? To be turned away again?

And why should he make an effort? Anders had done more for Fenris than Fenris had ever done for him, and still the elf hated him, that mage hating fool, so bigoted he couldn’t even see what was right in front of his eyes—

The door opened and Fenris was there.

“Oh,” Anders said intelligently, nearly dropping Herbert in surprise, “it’s you.”

Fenris looked shocked for a moment, but recovered quickly.

“That’s my line,” he said, cocking an eyebrow and leaning against his door frame.

Anders looked down sheepishly. “Right,” he said, “of course. I only mean, I didn’t knock.”

“I’m elvhen,” Fenris said, as if that explained everything. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, you see, it’s actually kind of funny—”

Fenris huffed. “I doubt that.” Then, as he noticed Herbert for the first time: “Mage, what is that.”

Anders heaved Herbert up a little. “It’s a goose.”

“A goose? What—? No. I won’t be dragged into your foolishness. Go about your business, just leave me out of it.”

Fenris moved to close the door, but Anders stopped him, putting his body in between Fenris and the front door. Still holding onto Herbert, it was a tight space and Anders could count Fenris’ individual lashes.

“Mage—”

“I can’t stop thinking about Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce,“ Anders said, the words spilling out before he could stop himself. “How it tastes. What it looks like. The tongue. Any of it.”

Fenris didn't say anything. Anders was aware that at any moment someone could pass by and see Anders and Fenris, standing uncomfortably close with a goose between them. He barreled on.

“It’s all I’ve wanted to eat for days. So I collected the ingredients and fought a goose—they’re cruel little bastards—and now I’m here.”

For a moment, Fenris looked like he was doing some quick calculations in his head. Anders held his breath, only for Fenris to do something unexpected. He started laughing.

“You’re laughing at me? I just told you I fought a goose, and you’re laughing?”

Fenris’ laugh was deep, from the chest and a much happier sound than Anders expected. It was mocking, but also strangely joyful.

“Of course I’m laughing at you. Once again, your stupidity is good for nothing but my entertainment.” Fenris grasped Anders shoulders and rotated him so that Anders and the goose were once again outside the threshold. “Thank you for that, truly. Goodbye.”

Anders stuck his foot by the door just in case. “Wait, a minute. I just showed up here, with the ingredients to your favorite dish—ingredients that cost a pretty copper, by the way—and you don’t even want me to try?”

Fenris stopped laughing. “I don’t care what you do, as long as the only person you hurt is yourself. Use your own kitchen.”

“My kitchen is little more than a pan and a fire pit. I couldn’t roast a goose in my wildest dreams.”

“Hawke’s then. He likes to encourage your madness.”

Anders shook his head. “But Hawke hasn’t tried it. How will I know I made it correctly? Or as close to the original as possible, considering I’ve had to make adjustments.” He lifted Herbert up to make his point clear.

Fenris shrugged. “Now I have to suffer your poor cooking too? I’ll pass. Remove yourself from my doorstep, or I will remove you.”

“No.”

“No??”

Oh, Justice would be haranguing Anders about his sense of self-preservation later, but his arms were starting to ache again, and he was tired. He’d closed his clinic for this. Anders wasn’t going to be turned away, denied again.

“No. Fenris. I have been up since dawn. I was attacked by this goose. I have been bit and hissed at. My welts have bruises. I was dunked in a freezing lake. I have lake moss and fish shit in places I don’t want to think about. Herbert could wake up at any minute. Now, I know this mansion has a kitchen that would make Andraste weep. And if it pleases you, I want nothing more than to cook this goose, slather it in sauce and serve it to you on what is almost certainly going to be a platter that is chipped and streaked with blood. Do you mind moving aside, or did I fight this goose for nothing?”

Again, Fenris stood there with a puzzled look on his face, as if he were doing some quick calculations. He crossed his arms, looking unfairly attractive, while Anders stood there, covered in sweat and lake gunk.

“Herbert?”

Anders nodded to the goose. “It’s his name.”

Fenris moved and gestured for him to come in.

“Thank you,” Anders sighed and started to lug Herbert inside.

—

Fenris moved quickly through his front room, stepping gracefully past the rotting floorboards and cobwebs. Anders had only been inside Fenris’ stolen home once before, and the first time he had been preoccupied with shades, rage demons, and the prickly elf that was now guiding him to his kitchen. Not really enough time to take in the decor.

Now Anders could stare openly. It looked similar to other Hightown homes, but Anders could still see the little touches that made it Fenris’. A large red stain on an otherwise white wall—whether it was blood or wine, Anders couldn’t tell—and furniture that had been destroyed by his oversized sword.

But there were other, softer touches too: an armchair turned to the fireplace, a small pile of books on the floor, the one on top still open to the page Fenris had left off at.

“Hey!” Anders said after a moment of observation, “Where did all the corpses go? Last I heard the house was still littered with them.”

Fenris barely paused his long strides. “They were starting to smell, mage, I got rid of them. Besides, if I ever do get caught squatting by the city guard I don’t want to be accused of murder.”

“Aveline would never let that happen,” Anders said absently, “I’ve got to stop listening to Varric.”

“The dwarf is more interested in a good story than the truth.” Fenris turned around, startling Anders, only to grab him by the forearm and pull him away from a board that creaked and shuddered under Anders’ weight. “Watch where you step. I won’t explain to Hawke that our healer sprained his ankle because he wanted to cook a goose.”

“This house is a nightmare. It should be condemned,” Anders pulled his arm from Fenris’ grip, “And next time just ask. Don't manhandle me!”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Then pay attention,” he said, continuing towards the kitchen

The kitchen was spacious, possibly the largest room in the house. Several wide windows allowed a steady stream of sunlight. There were not one, but two long tables that in another house would be overladen with food and drink. Anders spied a stove in the corner that looked as though it had seen better days, as well as a fireplace that needed the ashes shoveled out. Other than that and a fine layer of dust that seemed to coat every surface of the room, Anders was surprised to see it was one of the cleaner, well-kept rooms in the house—though he suspected this was more due to disuse than regular cleaning.

Anders moved Herbert to one of the tables and took off his pack, leaving it next to the sleeping goose. He’d need a knife, a bucket to bleed out the goose. Anders wondered if Fenris had ever butchered a bird before. Anders spied the sword still strapped to Fenris’ back—seriously, did he carry that thing everywhere?—and imagined that it could cleave Herbert’s neck from his shoulders quite easily.

Fenris stepped up to join Anders at the table. He looked uncertain, as if this was the first time he’d ever been in his own kitchen. Fenris rested a hand against the back of a chair, then drew it back.

How sad, Anders thought, to be a ghost in your own home.

Taking inventory, Anders realized something was missing: food. None of the normal trappings, but Anders could see no sign of the little snacks Fenris brought on the trail either. He knew Fenris didn’t cook, but he’d expected something. A dirty teacup, a half-masticated loaf of bread. Not an empty cupboard. Hightown had no shortage of fine restaurants, but it was hard to imagine Fenris, decked out in full armor, eating the delicate dishes that were both too expensive and unfulfilling.

Maker, what does he eat?, Anders thought as he started pulling out ingredients from his pack. Nothing, apparently, though he never looked underweight. Anders tried to think back to his anatomy classes in the Circle. Did elves need to eat less? That didn't make sense. The elves in the Circle seemed to eat the same as anyone, though it never seemed to be enough. Anders even remembered the time little Surana stole Ser Badger’s Name Day cake and ate it all in one sitting.

"Why Herbert? Why not 'Viscount Honks' or one of the other foolish names you give to pets," Fenris, who had been observing Anders pull ingredients out of his pack with great interest, asked.

"Herbert is not a pet. And believe me, the name fits." Anders glared darkly at the still unconscious goose. “Well, I suppose we have to butcher him first. Have you got a knife or…”

Fenris gestured to a cabinet set against a wall near the middle of the room. “Second drawer on the left. Mage, what is this?”

“I told you, I had to substitute some ingredients. You can’t find flamingos in the South.” Anders noted the cabinet and the wall around it. The kitchen was decorated in a deep red tile, with a ring of painted tiles. From a distance, the painted tiles looked charming and seemed to depict children playing a game, but as he came closer he saw that in actuality the children were mages and the “game” they were playing was a rabbit hunt.

Each tile depicted a different stage of hunt. First the chase, mages in rich robes, staffs lifted and ready to cast. Then the trap, the rabbits left with their legs broken and bleeding. The killing, the mages bleeding rabbits by their necks, their faces grotesque and their eyes bulging. Finally, in the last tile, the creature would be skinned and put in a pot to boil. A hunt set in stone.

Anders shivered. He never wanted to meet the man who directed the design of this house.

“You couldn’t find dill in Kirkwall?” Fenris asked.

Anders opened the second drawer. “Of course I could find dill. Ask any alienage gardener, they’ve got loads of the stuff. It should be on the table. Fenris, when I asked for a knife, I meant a chef’s knife. Not a drawer full of daggers.”

“That’s all Danarius left, take it up with him. Mage, I’m looking at your herbs, none of these are dill.”

“What am I supposed to do, hold the herbs at knifepoint until they chop themselves? Bring what you have here.”

Fenris came over holding a bunch of dill. Anders plucked the bundle out his hands.

“Fenris, this is dill.” He waved the herb in front of Fenris’ face.

“Oh,” Fenris said, mouth making a perfect circle. “Well, it was a different herb then.”

Anders’ heart sank. “What? You said it was dill.” He imagined throwing the dill onto the elf’s chest and watching it fall to the floor, but he didn’t have anything else. “The only piece I could find and you’re telling me it’s not the right one?”

Fenris huffed. “I didn’t ask you to come here, did I? I didn’t ask you to make a dish you’d never seen—”

“Wait,” Anders hushed him, “what was that?”

There was a creaking noise behind them.

“Mage,” Fenris said, his voice dangerously calm, “did you bring a live goose into my house?”

“Technically it’s not your house—”

Herbert hissed behind them. The pair turned around to see him standing on the table, feathers ruffled and wings cocked back. Fenris, not to be outdone by a bird, sounded off a great cry of frustration and drew his sword.

“Watch it,” Anders said, jumping back, “Don’t cut me!”

Fenris said nothing. He drew back his sword with a swing and launched himself at Herbert.

“Don’t break the table!”

But it was too late. Fenris brought down his sword in a flurry of feathers and wood as the table splintered and Herbert went down. When the dust settled, Fenris was still standing, sword buried two inches deep into the chest cavity of the bird.

The wrong herb. The wrong fruit. The wrong bird. And now that bird was mangled and resting in a pile of firewood and dust.

Anders sighed. “I’ll make it work.”

—

“Mage, what are you doing?”

“I’m butchering the bird.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“In Tevinter it’s braised whole.”

“Well, in Tevinter, they don’t have to remove chunks of wood from its sternum.”

“Hm.”

“That’s what I thought.”

—

“Is that its tongue?”

“You mean the pink thing inside its mouth? Did you think geese kept their tongues somewhere different?”

“I didn’t think their tongues had barbs. Maker, why is it like that?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“Well, I’m not eating the tongue, that’s for certain. Fenris, you can have it.”

“I’m not eating it!”

—

“It wasn’t dill.”

“Yes, Fenris, I know.”

“You don’t have the right herb.”

“I can’t read minds. I have no idea what you’re talking about if it's not dill.”

“It's a long vegetable with a while bulb at the bottom and a green stalk. It sort of tastes like an onion.”

“Like an onion? Do you mean leeks?”

“...Maybe.”

“Fenris, dill and leeks look nothing alike!”

“I know that now.”

—

“It’s—”

“What now?”

“It’s not the right color. The skin should be darker. And stickier.”

“Stickier? Should I thicken the raisin sauce? Brush it over the skin maybe?”

“I think you’re supposed to baste it in grape juice.”

“Do you have grape juice?”

“I have wine.”

—

“It’s—”

“Don’t say anything. Please, just – just don’t.”

The Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce, or the adapted Herbert Braised in Raisin Sauce was out of the oven and presented on Fenris’ unbroken table. The bed of dill Fenris had described had cooked down to ash in the oven. The skin was a mottled brown, the coloring uneven. The meat was cooked well, but the tongue, what Fenris had described as a delicacy, looked like something from the deeper recesses of the Fade.

In short, it was a disaster.

Anders sat down in front of his dish and rested his head on his hand. He was developing a headache.

“Fenris, you don’t have to eat it.”

“Good, because I’m not going to.” Fenris sat next to him looking over the dish. Clearly what he saw was not to his liking.

“You can still try it. It doesn’t look like it will make you sick," Fenris said, not unkindly.

“I’ve lost my appetite," Anders pouted

He must seem pathetic. A whole day wasted. And he’d spent good coin on this! All he'd gotten was a ragged bird for his attempt. He might as well throw the whole thing to the dogs.

Sighing and with a resigned look on his face, Fenris picked up one of the goose's legs. It dripped bits of raisin sauce into the slick grease cooling in the pan. With a grimace, Fenris slowly brought the leg to his mouth and bit.

"It is…not bad," he said after a few moments of chewing.

"But it doesn't taste anything like the original dish, I bet," Anders said.

"Perhaps not." Fenris laid the leg back down. He stood up from the table and gestured for Anders to follow him.

"What? Going to murder me at last? Dump my body in the harbor for war crimes against a goose?"

"Mage, when I kill you I'll have a much better reason." Fenris led Anders to his front door and opened it. Night had come, but not so late that couples weren't milling about, sweethearts walking hand in hand, whispering sweet nothings to each other. Fenris watched from the shadows until it seemed no one was observing the little porch that led to his home.

"I may know a way for you to try Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce, if you're still interested." Fenris looked annoyed, as if it pained him to even make this suggestion. Anders grinned.

"Fenris," he said, faux shock dripping from his voice, "are you about to do something nice for me? A poor little abomination?"

"If it shuts you up, yes. Are you coming?" Fenris said in a huff.

"Where are we going?" Anders got no answer. Fenris had left him at the threshold and was making his way towards the square.

"Andraste's bountiful bosom, save me from strange elves!" But he stepped out of the doorway and followed Fenris into the night.

Chapter Text

Anders didn’t like Hightown at night.

He barely tolerated it during the day, but during the day there were at least people—not the nobles that were strolling about now, on their way to some play or The Rose, or the guards making their lazy rounds about the nearly empty square—but people like Anders. People with jobs, and responsibilities. Who worried about their next meal, but always had enough for their neighbor’s youngest. The kind of people who came to his clinic when they were sick, who spent their extra coin at the Hangman, and whose work and bodies lined the pockets of the rich and privileged.

At night it was as though the very soul of the city traveled with its citizens to the lower levels. The only bright spot, as far as Anders was concerned, was Hawke, and even Hawke preferred Isabela’s rooms.

Besides, it wasn’t like wandering around Hightown at night brought back the most pleasant memories. As Fenris led Anders past the road to Viscounts Way, Anders spotted a bit of cobblestone that was cracked. A year and a half earlier, Anders had cast a Mind Blast on a group of Qunari that was so powerful one of them fell to the ground, shattering his skull. Anders still remembered the crunch of bone, the way his brains had scrambled on the pavement. Eurgh.

And the time before that had been when Karl—when he had—

Fenris stopped near a wall just on the outskirts of Hightown’s Rose District. Anders steadied himself against a pillar and took a deep breath.

“We’re nearly there. Fasta Vass, mage, keep up. How did you ever outrun those Templars?”

Anders huffed. “Not all of us are freakishly fast, elf. And you wouldn’t believe how much templar armor slows you down.” He studied Fenris’ fine form, which was tastefully dressed in his usual black armor and gauntlets. “Or perhaps you would,” Anders said with a final sweep of his eyes. Fenris grunted and beckoned Anders to follow.

In a short time they made their way past the Blooming Rose to a little collection of restaurants that Anders had passed by but never stepped in. He assumed the portions were too small and too expensive, and he rarely had the coin for anything finer than Corff’s fare. Was Fenris planning on taking him to dinner? Surely not.

The thought was almost absurd. Cooking for Fenris was already the stuff of fantasy, but at least cooking gave them something to focus on, so they didn’t have to talk. In a restaurant, with some poor elf waiting on them hand and foot, what would they talk about? What would they do?

Probably fight. Physically, Anders thought, somewhat miserably. And then Aveline would have to come sort it out.

Anders was so distracted by the idea of Aveline Vallen coming to break up a fight in some prissy restaurant, he hadn’t noticed that Fenris had stopped. He bumped into Fenris’ back.

“We’re here.”

“I gathered,” Anders said, still touching the elf. Blushing, he took a step back. Fenris had the dignity not to react and instead lifted his hand to the garishly painted pink and orange sign that was dimly lit up by the lamplight.

“Vi…vaycis?” Anders said uncertainty.

“Vivazzi’s” Fenris said, his lips puckered as though he had just eaten something particularly sour. “It’s named for Vivazzi Plaza, in Minrathous.”

Anders' jaw dropped. “You’re telling me that this is a Tevene restaurant? In Kirkwall?”

"You don't have to sound so pleased about it," Fenris said.

Anders ignored the elf and openly gaped. The restaurant seemed humble enough, though he knew it must cost an arm and a leg for even dessert.

In Kinloch he had dreamed of places like this, restaurants that served great feasts. Places where he could eat his fill, no templars or Chantry Sisters chastising him for his gluttony.

Anders had known hunger as surely as he had known satisfaction, and of the two he'd known hunger better. They were fed in the Circle, but it was never enough. Always the same plain slop day in and day out, because somewhere along the line some Chantry mother had become convinced that rich and well spiced foods would overexcite the mages and led them to becoming maleficarum and abominations. And feeding so many—more and more every year, the templars told him, their meaning clear that more and more was too many—was very expensive.

A little hunger might stunt an apprentice’s growth, but it wouldn’t kill them, the Chantry had reasoned. In a way, that hunger was a type of penance as well, righteous punishment for the crime of being born a mage.

As a consequence, Anders had grown up a little hungry and a little tired. The worst had been the year in solitary, when food was scarce and at the discretion of the templars. Solitary was a kindness, Irving had said. Better than tranquility. Better than being beaten. Better than death. Kindness. Well, templars’ kindness didn't look all that different from their cruelty, and at the end of the year Anders wasn't sure he could tell the difference.

So if he dreamed of a life in Tevinter, a life where he was the one strolling arm in arm with a lover, where he could dine openly with them, then who did it hurt? But the answer was right next to Anders, standing with his arms crossed and glaring at the pink and orange sign. And as much as he enjoyed their games, the way they picked at each other to see one another bleed, Anders thought he might not wish to hurt Fenris in this way anymore.

“They have Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce?”

Somehow, Fenris glared harder. Anders weighed the idea of telling him that if he kept glaring his face would get stuck, before dismissing it. Contrary to popular belief, Anders did have a sense of self-preservation.

“I have it on good authority that they make something like it,” Fenris said through gritted teeth.

“‘On good authority’? You mean you don’t know?” Fenris said nothing to that. “Are you going to stop glaring and tell me what we’re doing here, or are you hoping you’ll catch this building on fire with your eyes? Did you forget who’s the mage here?”

Fenris redirected his glare to Anders. “No, I did not. You wanted Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce. This is the closest you are going to get. You can stop your incessant whining and I can put this goose incident behind me.”

“I didn’t just want to eat it, I wanted to make it.”

Anders inspected Vivazzi’s. It looked not all that different from other Hightown buildings, except more…more. Little green and purple vines were painted around the door. Between the windows were painted white and gray columns, each one standing perfectly tall, except for the one farthest from Anders, which was leaning, painted to look cracked and decrepit.

But what intrigued Anders most wasn't the outside of the building, but the inside.

The smell of warm spices, most of which Anders wasn't sure he could place, seeped through the door. Looking through the window Anders could see a dessert, some cake that appeared to be drenched in syrup and topped with some kind of green nut Anders had never seen before. The serving girl—an elvhen woman named Eliana who Anders recognized from his clinic—placed it in front of a well-dressed man, who made a great show of sniffing the cake before picking up his fork and taking a bite. Anders' mouth watered.

“Very well. I hope you know you’re buying, by the way. I spent the last of my coin on raisins and dill.”

Anders was at the door, hand at the handle, when it opened and revealed a mustachioed man on the other side.

The stranger was dressed in a red doublet, with matching breeches, and a ruff so white it nearly glowed. He looked like one of those fellows who was always kissing some noble’s backside. Anders hated him on sight.

“Messere,” the man started, his smile slick as oil, “are you lost?”

Anders frowned. “No, Serah. In fact, I believe this is where we’re meant to be. Right, Fenris?”

He turned to look at the elf, who had resumed his glaring, this time at the man. Fenris grunted.

“I see,” the man said, stepping out of the threshold and closing the door to Vivazzi’s behind him. His voice sounded strange, and Anders realized he was affecting the worst Antivan accent he had ever heard.

“And will Messere be dining in…that coat?” Anders looked down at his green and teal coat. It was a little worse for wear, feathers clumping from his impromptu lake-dunking, and there was still lakeweed matted in his sleeves.

Anders laughed. “Well, you see—it’s kind of a funny story. I had to fight a goose—”

“Riveting,” the man said, his eyes sweeping over Fenris, who still hadn’t said anything. “And will your companion be joining us?” Fenris shuffled a little behind him.

“Look, if we can’t eat here because of some dress code, it’s fine, if we could just see a recipe—”

The man held up his hand. “Messere, even if he changed clothes, your—ah—companion could not eat here.”

“What?” Anders turned to look at Fenris again. He looked as he always did. “If it’s about coin, you’ll want to talk to him. I haven’t got a copper to call my own.”

“He won’t serve me because I’m an elf,” Fenris said to Anders, and then a little louder to the man, “Is that it?”

For the first time the man addressed Fenris, still smiling. “Messere understands. Though I wouldn’t have put it so crassly.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. Let’s go. This man is no help to us.”

“Hold on,” Anders said, placing his hand on Fenris’ shoulder to keep him in place. “He has the coin. He’s well dressed. And he’s not covered in fish shit. He should be allowed to eat.”

The man’s smile grew wider. “I’m sorry, Messere, but that’s just not possible. Our owner would not allow it.”

"Your owner sounds like an idiot."

The man's smile stretched so wide Anders thought his face might crack.

"Perhaps," he said, "but it does not change anything." And with that, he let himself back inside, shutting the door behind him and leaving Fenris and Anders out on the street.

They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the door. Anders could faintly hear the man inside, telling some guests not to worry and that there was nothing amiss.

“What a pleasant fellow. I’m sure his mother is very proud,” Anders said after a moment.

Fenris scoffed.

“You don’t think so? I don’t know, I thought I’d invite him to my Name Day party. Fenris? Wait!”

Anders turned back to see that Fenris was leaving, stalking back in the direction of his home. He reached out, blindly, grabbing Fenris’ arm before the elf could get too far away.

“What are you doing?” Fenris said, wrenching his arm out of Anders’ grasp. “Do not touch me.”

Anders released him and lifted his hands in surrender. “But we can’t leave! We’re no closer to eating than when we started.”

“‘We’. This was your idea, mage. I should have slammed the door in your face when you showed up this afternoon.”

“Hang on! You can’t blame this all on me. You wouldn’t have let me into that plague-pit you call a home if you didn’t want this as much as I did.”

Fenris turned towards Andes, face red. “I opened the door for you because I knew your foolishness would be entertaining. Don’t trick yourself into believing there’s some kind of camaraderie between us!”

Anders laughed bitterly. “No risk of that! And who’s the bigger idiot? The fool who showed up with a goose, or the egg who let him in?”

Fenris stopped. “That—that doesn’t even make sense!”

“It makes more sense than anything else you’ve done tonight!”

“For once, we agree. I’m clearly addled. How else would you explain letting an abomination in to—to play house,” Fenris said, his voice steadily rising.

Anders shushed him forcefully, glancing around. They were still alone, but who knew what templars could be slinking around Hightown’s alleyways. He really did loathe the place.

“Keep your voice down! And I’m the one who should be worried! You could rip out my heart with a thought.”

“As if I could get close enough without you siccing your demon on me!”

“Justice is not a demon!”

Anders was about to stalk off, to leave Fenris in Hightown’s streets and pretend this never happened, but he stopped. They were close, standing almost nose to nose. A whole street to themselves, no one to see them for most had gone to bed and new gangs hadn't started roaming the streets, and still Fenris crowded Anders, away from the lamplights and towards a dark corner.

The elf was determined to get in his face, his body an arrow, straining and failing to match Anders' height. And there was this look in his eyes—this mocking thing.

He was baiting Anders.

And with that knowledge, Anders’ anger deflated. He smiled, a grin that was not too dissimilar to that of the man from Vivazzi’s.

“It doesn’t change the fact,” Anders said, like a cat who’d caught the canary, “that you want this just as much as I do.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, seeing who’d break first. Anders smirked.

Fenris sighed. "It doesn't matter anyhow. You heard Messere Toad. They will not serve us."

Anders snapped his fingers. "A toad! He does look like a toad, doesn’t he?"

Fenris smirked. "He certainly croaks like one."

Anders chuckled at the thought. "It only adds to his charm, I'm sure."

Fenris nodded, and slid toward Anders, so that they stood next to each other. He rested against the wall.

Equilibrium restored, Anders looked toward the little restaurant. If he closed his eyes, he could almost taste the food he'd only smelled. Cinnamon. Meat—some type of bird certainly. Flamingo perhaps? And something sweet too. And spicy.

"Mage, why did you decide to make Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce?"

Anders opened his mouth, but stopped. He'd almost said "spite", but that didn't seem right.

“It was something to do," he said finally, "Why did you let me in?"

Fenris shrugged. "As you said. It was something to do."

A moment of silence passed between them, but it was not hostile silence. Just quiet. Peaceful. It was nice.

"Maker, look at us! The one time we’ve managed to deescalate one of our screaming matches and no one is around to mark the occasion. Hawke will never believe us."

"If I hadn't lived it, I'm not sure I would believe it," Fenris said.

A thought suddenly occurred to Anders. The way Fenris had stood in front of that restaurant, glaring at it, as though he could set the building on fire with his mind alone. He'd thought it had been because it was Tevene, but now…

"Did you know that they didn't serve elves?" Anders asked, the words tumbling out of him.

"Yes, I knew," Fenris said.

"Then why did you take us there? Did you think I was going to leave you and go eat by myself?"

The look on Fenris' face told him everything: yes, that was exactly what Fenris had expected Anders to do.

And of course that’s what he would do. It’s not as though he actually wanted to share a meal with Fenris. Hadn’t Anders already come to that conclusion? This whole thing had started out of spite—because he had spent years feeding his friends, only for Fenris to spit on every effort. He’d wanted to make him eat every disdainful look, every upturned nose, every snide comment—and he’d failed. This whole affair had been for nothing.

Why not take something for his efforts? Anders worked hard, day in, day out, for very little. He deserved a nice meal. The idea of eating something so exotic made him salivate. It wasn’t as though Fenris wanted to eat with him, anyways. He’d made that perfectly clear.

But now Fenris was looking at him—not with disdain or malice—shocked. And perhaps that should have offended him more, but it didn’t.

Surprise looked nice on the elf’s face, Anders decided. He wanted to keep surprising Fenris.

He stood up straight. “Right. Let’s go steal a flamingo.”

“Mage, you’ve finally gone mad,” Fenris said, his voice flat. “Vivazzi’s is not importing flamingos. They’re using some other bird.”

“A recipe then,” Anders suggested. “I recognized some of those elves from the clinic. They’re not from Tevinter, but I’d bet half my clinic that they’re the ones doing the cooking.”

“No one would take that bet,” Fenris said.

“Because I’m right?”

“Because half your clinic is not worth winning.” Fenris frowned. ”But you’re probably right. Some kind of recipe book.”

“I’ll have you know my clinic is prime Darktown real estate!” Anders protested, “And that’s perfect! Let’s steal their recipe, get the ingredients and try again—properly this time.”

“Mage,” Fenris started, but stopped. “Neither of us are rogues.”

“True, but we’re hardly incapable,” Anders said. “I bet it’s not even locked up. They probably just have the book sitting out somewhere. We could just sneak in and take it.”

The elf was close to agreeing, Anders could tell. Fenris was grinning—the same bitter grin he’d worn the night this had begun.

“It would be almost easy,” Anders continued. “Not to mention, deserved. Just in and out. Twenty minutes, tops.”

Finally, Fenris nodded. “Twenty minutes?”

Anders grinned. “Probably less.”

—

“Mage, you’re stepping on my foot.”

If Anders had been feeling generous, he’d have called the place where they were standing a room. His generosity was spent, so he called it a closet. A small coat room for the serving girls to leave their cloaks and gloves. So small, he and Fenris were nearly standing toe to toe, their breaths mingling so that they weren’t smothered to death by coats.

There was—blessed Andraste, wreathed in light and fire—a small sliver of light creeping through the door frame, which was—was good. Couldn’t be solitary when there was light right there, so close he could almost touch it.

If he thought about it, there were many small details that made this different from solitary. The light, obviously. But also—the size of the room. His cell had been much bigger. Also, no templars. He strained his ears, listening outside their door. No, no armor. Only the gentle shuffling of serving girls, cooks calling out orders, pints of ale sloshing around as steins were filled and set aside.

Had the air seemed so oppressive in solitary? Mustn’t have. He could hardly breathe—it was the cloaks, Anders decided. He’d always hated feeling crowded.

Justice rumbled in the back of his head. Anders could feel his concern bleeding through Anders' mind and that often meant that concern was going to be bleeding through blue cracks in his skin.

Not now, Anders thought.

He was still breathing. That was something. Shorter now, hiccupy little breaths that came in quick staccato, but still breathing.

But were they coming from him? It didn’t sound like him. Anders had always been quiet when he needed to be. It was the templars who announced their presence with noise, heavy steps and heavy breaths—one in particular, a Templar named Ser Edmund, who’d enjoyed throwing Anders’ daily slop through the small opening of the bars, so—Justice, stop— so that Anders—so that he had to crawl around, scooping bits of gruel up from the floor, sucking his fingers clean, grime and all—

“Mage?”

Once though, Edmund had made Anders eat from his hands and he knew—he knew what Edmund wanted, what this meant, but nothing happened and somehow that was worse—

“Anders?” Fenris whispered, worry etched into his tone. His name, what an odd thing for the elf to say.

“Yes,” Anders said, and he was wildly impressed with the calmness of his voice.

“You’re stepping on my foot,” Fenris said. So that was what that fleshy part of the floor was.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping back as much as the space would allow.

“I don’t like the dark,” Anders continued, mildly. He felt distant, like he was only half there, the rest of him floating away. It was an odd feeling, but better than panicking. His breath had evened out and his eyes had adjusted somewhat. He could just make out the concerned outline of Fenris’ face.

And seconds later, Anders could also make out the concerned outline of Fenris’ eyebrow as it arched in disbelief.

Anders cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

Good thing too, because Justice had been pressing again. He didn’t know how else to describe it. Justice wanted to protect Anders from all harm, even the harm inside his mind. Justice loved Anders, loved him more than anyone ever had, and Anders loved Justice back, but sometimes that love felt like drowning.

Anders felt the slight shift of fabric and the rustle of Fenris’ hair against the wool coats. He supposed that was a nod.

“Good,” Fenris said. “Because this is your fault.”

Anders sputtered, his voice dropping to an angry whisper. “My fault? Who insisted we come in through the back door?”

Fenris huffed. “Who dropped the platter?”

“Who pulled us into the closet?”

“Oh, would you rather we’d be caught? Dragged out and handed over to the guards?”

“No,” Anders admitted. “Though I don’t know why we didn’t just go out through the back door and try another way.”

A pause. Then, in a slightly pained voice: “There was a back door?”

Anders nodded, and wondered if Fenris’ elf eyes were good enough to make out Anders' exasperated expression. “Right next to the closet door.”

Anders heard a soft rumble emit from Fenris’ chest. He supposed it was a growl, but it sounded more like a kitten’s purr. Anders smiled.

“Perhaps talk of who’s at fault is foolish then,” Fenris whispered, somewhat magnanimously. “How are we going to sneak out?”

“Finally realized we have more important things to worry about?” Anders said, “I don’t know…the Circle wasn’t keen on teaching us spells to help us escape. What about you? Your markings…could you phase us through the wall?”

Even in the dark Anders caught Fenris’ look of shock and disdain. Anders slapped his hand over his mouth to choke back a laugh.

“Sorry—your face—”

“No,” Fenris interrupted him. Anders shook his head, hair brushing the coats pillowing his head.

“It was a suggestion,” Anders said, “Just wondering if it’s possible.”

“It’s not! Imagine if you got stuck. Foolish mage, ” Fenris exclaimed, his voice heightened with offense. Anders thought he should remind him that they were stuck in a closet and technically hiding and that the elf should keep his voice down.

But he didn’t. He felt comfortable, a kind of ease he didn’t know he could still feel in the dark.

Karl, who used to say the most hilarious things with dry understatement, had called them his moods. Periods of time where Anders slipped into a panic attack, followed by a deep depression that sometimes lasted days. Anders called these moods “the pit” in his mind. The pit could be brought on by anything—the smell of polishing oil, mealy foods, the wrong tone—but since solitary, the dark was the most common trigger.

Because the closet did remind him of that awful year in solitary. Anders had been on the edge of panic, a bog he had fallen into many times and usually took time to recover from. And maybe his mind would punish him for it later, but now he felt fine. Better than fine. Happy. Even though they were no closer to their goal, even though there was every chance they would get caught and have to very awkwardly explain to Aveline what they were doing, Anders felt positively giddy.

It was like Fenris had pulled him out of the mire and into the sun.

And he’d done it with an argument.

Anders pitched his voice low, though he could never hope to match the elf’s burly baritone. “I think you’ve never tried. I think you don’t know if you can.”

“If you wish to risk your hide for an experiment, be my guest.” Fenris grabbed Anders’ hand, and just as he was about to light his markings, they heard someone approach.

“I’m off, then. Don’t forget to take out the butter to soften, otherwise Messere Pompous will yell at me tomorrow.” The voice belonged to a young woman and sounded familiar, but Anders didn’t have time to place it, as the voice was getting louder, her every step bringing them a little closer to doom.

“Don’t panic,” Anders said and still he was surprised by the calmness of his own voice, “I have an idea.”

“So do I,” Fenris said, “We get caught, apologize, and give up.”

Anders rolled his eyes and desperately wished Fenris could see him do it. He let go of Fenris’ hand and slowly brought it up to cradle the back of his head, his other hand encircling Fenris’ waist. The elf immediately noticed and stiffened against him.

“Where’s the fun in that? Don’t panic,” Anders said again, gently turning them so that his back was towards the door. “I’m not going to kiss you in a coat closet.”

“Who’s panicking?” Fenris asked, and relaxed. He seemed to grasp the gist of Anders’ half-baked plan and held onto Anders’ arms, drawing them closer together, tilting his head up so that to an outsider it would look like they were kissing.

Before, they had been standing close, now they were flush against each other, so close Anders was sure Fenris could feel his furious heart, threatening to beat out of his chest. Fenris’ words were all confident bluster, but his eyes were half-lidded and Anders could feel the heat from his cheek. So Anders wasn’t the only one blushing.

“Don’t rip my heart out,” Anders said. It would be nothing to kiss him. To twist the lie into something frightfully honest. He’d barely have to move.

“Don’t rip out mine,” Fenris said. Anders started to draw back, to ask him what he meant by that, when the door opened and light spilled into the room.

Anders heard a surprised gasp from the young woman who opened the door. He turned his head, prepared to play the entitled noble, someone who dallied in closets with strange and confusing elves, when he realized where he knew that voice from.

“Eliana?”

“Healer?”

“What are you doing here?” Anders asked, before remembering he had seen her through the window serving some Hightowner. “You work here?”

“Healer, what are you doing here? Some of the girls back here heard whispering and thought—oh my!” Eliana covered her mouth, her tan cheeks darkening to a rosy pink as she realized what she had caught the healer doing. Or at least, what it looked like the healer had been doing.

Blinking from the sudden light that flooded the closet, Anders was able to take in Eliana properly. Pretty, plump Eliana was an elvhen girl Anders had met when he’d first come to Kirkwall. She’d been a teenager then, dragging her brother Elias behind her everywhere they went. Anders had taken care of Eliana and her family for years now, always making sure to give the siblings a piece of honey candy whenever they came to the clinic sick.

Anders knew that Eliana was something of a firebrand around the Alienage, never afraid to get in the face of human boys who mocked Elias or called her vile names, but she had always been shy around him—Anders suspected she had a little crush.

Now she looked harried, her dark hair escaping from a messy ponytail. She was wearing a pale pink muslin dress and cream-colored apron and she was brandishing a frying pan like a weapon, the pan frozen in mid-air, ready to hit Anders on—considering the fact that Eliana was much shorter than him—his shoulder.

“It’s a long story,” Anders said hurriedly. “Is that a frying pan? Were you about to—to beam me in the head with a frying pan?”

“I didn’t know it was you, Healer!” the poor girl said, sounding as if she wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole. “I thought you were a pervert!”

“You thought a pervert was hiding in the closet and you decided to confront him with a frying pan?”

Eliana lowered her arm, bringing her hands, and the frying pan, down in front of her shamefully. “It’s worse than that, Healer. I thought there were two perverts in the closet and decided to confront them with a frying pan. Maker, am I glad it's just you! And your—er—friend.”

At the mention, Fenris decided it was his turn to talk.

“Mage?” He was extracting himself from Anders’ grasp. If Anders missed the feel of his hands, who needed to know? “Can we get out of the closet now?”

“Oh, right.” Anders stepped out, letting Fenris move past him and into a small alcove. There was an open doorway that led to the kitchen, which—while chaotic from dinner service—was blessedly empty.

“Eliana, this is Fenris. He’s—he’s a friend. Fenris, I know Eliana from the clinic.”

Fenris glared at the poor girl and Eliana squeaked. Anders frowned. They were lucky it was someone Anders knew, otherwise the guards would have already been called, he was sure of it. Anders cleared his throat pointedly. Fenris ignored him.

“Don’t mind him, Eliana. He’s—um—shy.”

Eliana stared at the glaring elf. Fenris was taller than her by at least half a foot, and had turned the full force of his brooding on her. It must have been quite intimidating.

“Right, shy. But Healer, what are you doing here? And why were you in a closet? Shouldn’t you do…do that sort of thing at home?” she asked, and the full force of her blush came back.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Anders said. Quickly, he explained the pertinent facts, somewhat embarrassed to admit to stealing in front of a girl he’d known and cared for for years. Still, needs must and Fenris was right—the jig was up. No point in prolonging things any longer.

But when he explained to Eliana what they were really doing, she looked thoughtful.
“You’re the degenerates Frank sent away tonight? I overheard him telling some patrons about it.”

“Degenerates?!”

“Who’s Frank?” Fenris asked.

“My boss. He’s the one who you talked to outside. Maker, he’s a piece of work! Always haranguing the serving girls for this and that! You know, resting our feet and eating a piece of bread here and there. The pay’s good, but my dignity’s taken a hit.”

“He seems like a piece of work,” Anders agreed.

“I can’t believe his name’s Frank,” Fenris mumbled. “I bet he’s not even really Antivan.”

Eliana giggled. “Oh, did he do the accent? Yeah, he’s a Marcher, as far as I can tell. But he puts on this accent sometimes. It’s very strange.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Ayla—that’s the cook—goes outside to smoke elfroot when dinner service is done. She’ll come back to clean up in a little bit.”

“I suppose we better leave then,” Anders said, “Damn! I really did want to see that recipe!”

Again, Eliana looked thoughtful. She had thick dark eyebrows that met when she was thinking, like a caterpillar. It was adorable, Anders thought.

“Frank is pretty protective of the recipes. Ayla had to memorize them, but he has to keep copies somewhere,” Eliana reasoned, one finger tapping her chin. “Perhaps in the kitchen?”

She crossed her way into the kitchen and beckoned for Fenris and Anders to follow. The kitchen was everything Fenris’ kitchen wasn’t—it was used.

Where Fenris’ cupboards had been bare, here there was an abundance of food—odd fruits Anders had never seen before, the strangest one a pink fruit, with green spines. An array of birds, butchered and hanging from the ceiling—none of them pink, Anders was disappointed to see. Little jars of spices lining the shelves, each one labeled and well used.

On one counter, Anders spied the cake identical to the one he had seen Eliana serve. Anders couldn’t help it—he dipped his finger into the cake and watched as the honey pooled around his finger. One of the crushed nuts—the strange green ones he’d never seen before—stuck to his finger.

He licked his finger. He tasted honey of course, but the green nut was salty, a good balance counterbalance to the sweetness of the syrup. There was something else, a floral element he couldn’t quite place. And a sharpness to cut through the sweetness. It made his tongue buzz almost pleasantly.

“That's for a patron! You can't just stick your hand in it!"

"It was one finger, Eliana! And besides, I'm a healer, I keep my hands very clean. I think the last thing I touched was"—his arm around Fenris' waist, his other hand threaded in the elf's hair that had no business being so soft, Anders' breath hitched, his heart pounding, or was that Fenris' heart, they were too close, Anders couldn't tell them apart—“on second thought let's take the cake with us."

Eliana’s mouth twisted, but she went to wrap the cake up as Fenris and Anders conducted a quick cursory search. They found several interesting bits—including a spice jar that made Fenris sneeze, which was so adorable even Eliana giggled nervously—and several bits of paper—-apparently Ayla was a bit of a gambler and owed some money to a bookie named Littlefinger, whoever that was—but no recipe books anywhere. They were running out of time.

“Is he hiding them with Andraste’s Ashes? Why such secrecy?” Fenris huffed. Anders was inclined to agree. He imagined the recipes locked away in a vault, far away and out of reach.

“He would want to protect them,” Eliana said. “Perhaps he keeps them in his bedchambers?”

Anders groaned. “And those might as well be in Tevinter.”

“Tevinter?” Eliana was grinning. “He lives in the restaurant! We can check right now.”

Both Anders and Fenris perked up.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Fenris asked.

“I was caught up with the whole, you know,” Eliana’s voice dropped to a whisper, though the three of them were the only people around, “kissing in the closet thing.”

“That’s not—we weren’t—” Fenris started, looking as though he were about to have a heart attack.

“Nothing happened, Eliana,” Anders stepped in, and the words came smoothly, though his heart stuttered. “It was playacting. A distraction technique.”

Fenris caught his eye and nodded. “A very effective distraction technique,” he said, and Anders felt a bitter relief course through him.

“He’s just down the hall then.” Eliana pointed to a door near the cupboard. “Just be gentle when you walk under the hanging herbs.”

Fenris stalked off towards the door and Anders followed, but stopped when he felt Eliana tug on his sleeve. She shook her head, and half dragged Anders to the stairs.

“This way, Healer. That leads to our pantry.”

“Shouldn’t we—”

“Please, he’ll be fine. Ayla should still be on break for another minute and he looks like the type who can take care of himself.” At the top of the stairs was a green door, which Eliana pressed her ear against before opening. “Just a minute, please, Healer, I want to talk to you. Alone.”

She dragged him through the green door and into a very tidy apartment, covered in Tevinter Imperium art, most of which Anders didn’t recognize, but all of which was deeply illegal.

“I feel like I’ve stepped into a different world. This is Frank’s apartment? Where did he get this stuff? Why does he have all this?”

“Says he collected them from trips, sailors and such.”

Anders wandered around the room, taking in the greatest collection of Tevinter paraphernalia he had ever seen. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or disturbed.” A bit of both, probably. “Is Frank an apostate?”

Eliana shook her head. “No, just a fan of the Imperium. Why else would someone open a Tevene restaurant? Says he wants to move there one day. Wishes he could have seen it in its glory days.”

Anders looked away from a tapestry depicting a snake eating a vole, disbelief painting his face. “Its ‘glory days’? As in, when it was an empire enslaving everybody? Those glory days?” The rest of what Eliana said caught up to his brain. “Wait, he’s the owner? I called him an idiot to his face.”

“Oh, he didn’t like that. Did he smile really big after you said it?” She demonstrated the smile, her mouth splitting open alarmingly wide.

“He was smiling the whole time!”

“He only smiles like that when he’s angry. Or when he’s being cruel,” Eliana said, wringing her hands together. “He smiles a lot.”

Justice flared up and he wanted nothing more than to go downstairs and wring Frank’s neck.

“Healer?”

Anders closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no reason to worry Eliana, or scare her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Ella hadn’t done anything wrong either. Anders wasn’t dangerous. He could control Justice. He could!

After just a second, he opened his eyes. “Sorry, just imagining Fenris removing Frank’s head from his neck.”

Mentioning Fenris made Eliana even more nervous, perhaps deservedly so, Anders reluctantly admitted. The elf cut a striking and intimidating figure, even when he wasn’t trying to scare the wits out of a poor girl.

“About him…I know he’s your friend, but…have you noticed how he looks at you?”

For the second time that night Anders opened his mouth in denial, before stopping. Six hours ago, if you had accused Anders and Fenris of being friends, he would have denied it in a court of law. Could he still say that, adamantly?

“‘How he looks at me’?” Anders said, weakly. “Like a bug he wants to squash?”

Eliana, damn her, shook her head. “Like he wants to eat you. It’s very intense.” She lowered her voice and her eyes darkened. “Unsettling. Like he has plans for you, Healer.”

Now Anders had to laugh. “You’ve been reading too many of Varric’s romance novels. Fenris does not have any plans for me.”

Eliana looked at him like he was the naive girl. “Oh, Healer. You just don’t know anything about the ways of men.”

“I think I do. Seeing as I am a man,” he squawked like an offended bird.

“Of course you are,” Eliana said sympathetically, with a wizened air. She reached up on her tiptoes to put a sympathetic hand on Anders’ shoulder.

“Should we be—shouldn’t we be looking for this recipe? And not be concerned with men’s affairs?”

“Oh, Healer, I have to go home! Elias will be expecting me ages ago. But I’ll tell Fenris where to find you.” Eliana hugged him rather suddenly, pinning Anders’ arms to his side and only managing to come up about midway to his chest. “I’ll always…I just want to say. You are one of the best men I’ve ever met. And—and I’ll always. I mean. I know I may seem silly, but I've always—I mean, I know when I've been beat.”

Anders prayed for death. “Eliana—”

“That’s all, Healer. Thank you. I’ll never forget you.” She sniffed, a little too dramatically in Anders’ opinion, and walked back to the green door leading down to Vivazzi’s. She put her hand on the handle and in one sweeping motion turned back to him. “I’ll see you next Thursday, Healer? For my checkup?”

Anders smiled, and wondered if this was how he’d been with Karl. “Yes, Eliana. I’ll see you then. Thank you, for everything.”

She nodded, gave a small bow, and left, leaving Anders alone in Frank’s apartments.

They were, thankfully, a small set of rooms, just a kitchen and moderately sized bedroom, washroom, and living area. Anders wondered where Frank had gotten the capital to open a restaurant in Hightown. He began his search where he was standing.

“If I got caught with anything in this room, I’d be on the hangman’s block before nightfall,” he muttered to Justice as he walked past a bust of an Archon Anders didn’t recognize. He resolved to find the recipe book so that they could leave.

He was crouched and looking under the settee when the door swung open and Anders flinched. Fenris must be angry Eliana had tricked him—he wondered if Fenris had run into trouble—but when he stood up again, it was not Fenris who greeted him.

“You,” Frank said, and he was no longer smiling. “I knew I heard a rat scuttling around upstairs.”

Anders reached for the staff strapped to his back, one hand held up in surrender. Briefly, he imagined himself flicking his hand and flinging Frank out the window, but stayed his hand. He could talk his way out of this.

“I know what this looks like”—okay, maybe he couldn’t talk his way out of this—“and you pretty much have the right idea of it, but if you’d let me explain—”

“Explain?” Anders didn’t know a human face could turn that distinct shade of purple without strangulation. “What I spy is a thief. A miserable little worm, jealous of my collection.”

Anders took a step back, hand still outstretched, staff arm still raised. He bumped into a small table, and, turning around, saw there was a small portrait propped up: a portrait of a smartly dressed man. Anders had no idea who the man was, but he could guess—his stately robes, his ridiculous hat. The man was the Black Divine.

Anders remembered the tiles from the kitchen. An endless hunt, starring a rabbit and a mage—play-actors whose story they could not escape even if they tried. This man worshiped that hunt; more than that, he wished to take part in it.

I cannot let Fenris near this man, Anders thought. I cannot let Fenris into this room.

He took a breath to calm his stuttering heart.

“Of course. My fondest wish: to collect castoffs from slavers.” Frank was angry, but the angrier the better—if Anders could focus that anger on him, he’d forget about Fenris.

Besides, it had been a long day. Anders was itching for a fight.

Frank opened his mouth to protest, but Anders cut him off.

“Do you serve them?” Anders asked with more calmness than he felt. “The slavers? Does it give you some thrill to know that they’re dining at your tables, while their victims sit in chains in Lowtown?”

Frank smiled. “Messere—”

Anders gave him no purchase. “Messere, there is no slavery in Kirkwall? Is that what you were going to say?”

He looked out the window. Even in the darkness, Anders could make out the Chantry, the roof so white it gleamed, even in the dead of night with only the moon to light it.

“What I don’t understand,” Anders said, “is why? They'd never accept you. The Imperium doesn’t just collar elves, you know.”

The magisters do not hesitate to collar their own… Fenris had said that to him, years ago. Anders was such a fool, a cruel, malicious fool.

Frank’s eyes were bulging, his face red. Anders thought smoke might have come out of his ears, if he were a mage. As it were, his rage was impotent, and he gaped like a fish.

“Well? I’m waiting.”

“You wish to know why? Why do I long to return to the most technologically advanced nation in the world at the height of its power? The question is, why don’t you?”

“You think you would be a magister?” Anders laughed and it sounded hollow even to him. “They would eat you alive.”

Frank rushed Anders, his nostrils flaring, his finger jabbing Anders in the chest. Anders had several inches on the man, but Frank didn’t care. Dedicated to defending his precious Tevinter.

“My ancestor was a magister! I would have been a prince!”

“Serah, get out of my face.”

“Why wouldn’t I want just a piece of that power? Why shouldn’t I have it? I walk around this blighted city and do you know what I get? Nothing! Not even disdain.”

Again, Frank jabbed his finger in Anders' chest. Justice took notice and Anders shoved him down.

“Don’t touch me, Frank,” Anders said, his voice dangerously low, Justice vibrating just beneath his skin. He wondered if he was glowing.

Apparently not, because Frank barreled on.

“But in Tevinter...I wouldn’t have grown up a nobody from Tantervale. My mother told me stories. Some nights that's all we had.” Frank finally stepped back. He picked up the portrait of the Black Divine and gazed at it wistfully. “I’d do anything to capture even a sliver of that glory.”

The man was mad and Fenris still hadn’t found him. Gripped by panic, Anders wondered why he hadn’t come looking for him.

It was time to leave.

“I don’t care about your reasoning, keep your relics,” Anders said, with more confidence than he felt. “My friend and I are leaving. I warn you—we are not to be trifled with. It would be in your best interest to let us go and forget this ever happened.”

“You think I’m afraid? Of you and that elf? Hah! Apostates in this city cower like dogs—they don’t know anything of real magic!”

The shock must have shown on his face, because Frank laughed bitterly, waving his hands wildly as he spoke.

“Oh, yes. The templars in this city may be blind, but I’m not. I know enough to call a staeve a staeve.”

Out of instinct, Anders drew back. He brought his staff protectively behind him, an old habit from his Circle days, where even perceived aggression was met with a gauntlet to the nose. Frank took it as surrender.

“I recognized you for what you were the moment you threw yourself at my door. Pitiful isn’t it? How badly you wanted just a taste of what Tevinter offers—no matter. I’ve sent my cook to call the Templars. They’ll drag you out of here and you won’t be my problem anymore.”

The color drained from Anders face. “Templars?”

Taking advantage of Anders’ momentary shock, Frank picked up the portrait of the Black Divine and smashed it across Anders’ face. Anders fell to his knees, warm blood streaming down his face. Frank had broken his nose. And more than his nose—the thin skin around his eyes stung. Glass, Anders distantly realized. Little bits of glass were cutting his skin.

”It’s such a short trip to the Gallows, you know,” Frank continued casually, as if he hadn’t just struck Anders across the face. “Too short for you I imagine. Will they—what do mages call it?—give you the brand?" He smiled wistfully. "Maybe I’ll see you out in the courtyard.”

There was a pit in Anders' mind.

Anders fell into the pit.

Justice pulled them out.

Chapter Text

The problem was, there was no one around to ask after the fact. The problem was, there was no one around to ask after the fact.

The templars at Vigil’s Keep? Dead—some nights Anders could still taste their honeyed blood. Ella? Anders hadn’t exactly stuck around. Frank? Unlikely to be more than a smear of blood on the floor in a few minutes.

And if he were entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit he didn’t want to ask. After all, after asking one has to contend with knowing.

Still, it bothered him. Every time, in those moments when he ceased to be Anders and became greater than himself, he wondered.

What was it like, to be caught in the eye of the storm? What was it like—one moment standing next to a man, a mage, but still a man as any other, only in the next to have that reality ripped away—to stand before an idea given form?

If the look on Frank’s face was anything to go by, it was terrifying.

Blood was still running down their nose and their temple still stung from the glass that had embedded itself in their skin. Delicately, they lifted one shaking hand to their nose, touching the warm rush of blood that still ran down their face in a steady stream. They flicked out their tongue, catching a little bit in their mouth.

They tasted copper and the bitter burn of fresh blood, but more than anything it was sweet.

This man—this worm—had meant to hurt Anders, wanted him made tranquil. They loved Anders—they were Anders. They could not allow any harm to come to him.

“You.”

Frank whimpered.

“You declare yourself magister, you call yourself a prince. Yet you spend your days genuflecting to the rich and powerful of this rotted city, wielding what little power you have over those you think weaker—you are nothing.”

Summoning a paltry amount of their magic, they sent several of Frank's trinkets careening to the floor. Vases smashed, tapestries tattered and Frank stood, mouth agape, as his illicit idols were destroyed in a matter of moments.

To the right of their foot laid the small table portrait of the Black Divine. In his shock, Frank must have dropped it. They crushed it underfoot and imagined it was Frank’s head. Frank wailed.

"P-please! Please don't kill me," Frank begged.

“You stand in the grave of a dead empire—you wish to see it reborn. But that will never happen. I would not allow it.”

Frank was not listening. He was frozen in place, still standing, but only just, his knees quaking, his breathing labored, his eyes wide and wet. He must have soiled himself, as there was a damp spot growing on his perfect red trousers and the smell of it reached even their bloodied nose.

"Only the vile would set other men in chains for their comfort and amusement. You are unjust."

They raised their hands—prepared to wipe Frank, no, this whole cursed restaurant off the planet, prepared to walk out of the burning funeral pyre, the only survivor, victorious—when Fenris walked in, brown sack in one hand, frying pan in the other. Without hesitation, Fenris dropped the sack, crossed the room, and walloped Frank solidly across the head. Frank dropped to the ground, unconscious.

They froze, hands still lifted, unsure of what to do. Fenris, for his part, said nothing, He fell back into what they recognized as a fighting stance, frying pan drawn out like a sword, feet spaced and weight distributed back, ready to run.

Oh. He was scared of them.

They swallowed around a lump in their throat. The look in Fenris’ eyes…it was like he was staring at a stranger.

But they were the same man Fenris had been with all evening—the same one who had shown up on his doorstep, had fought and subdued a goose, who’d been so close to kissing him in that closet. They were Anders, only more, and Fenris had nothing to fear.

They reached out their hand and Fenris stepped back. They stopped.

“You should not be afraid,” they said. “I will not hurt you.”

Fenris didn’t lower his arm—but he did not reach for his sword either. The moment stretched wide between them, a river becoming an ocean, with Fenris on the other side.

“I will not hurt you” they repeated, their voice softer. Fenris relaxed ever so slightly, but he did not drop his hand.

“Prove it,” Fenris said. “Let me talk to Anders.”

“No. Frank sent for the templars. They could be here at any moment.” They had planned for the templars to arrive at a restaurant in smoldering ruins, but this was better. They would cut them down on equal footing. It was perhaps fairer that way.

As fair as any fight between an abomination and a mortal man could be, anyways.

Fenris, his voice tight, rushed to the window. “Templars? Coming here?”

“They mean to turn Anders tranquil. I will not allow it.” They set their staff in front of them like a blade. They would not go back. Justice had sworn that no templar would take another mage—not while they stood together. Even now, they could feel Karl’s blood on their hands as they finished what Alrik had started; even now, they saw the look in his eyes as awareness faded and they were left a shell—a puppet, a slave. Justice had sworn then—and he’d meant it. No one would take Anders. Not the way they'd taken Karl. They’d die first.

“I see no one.” Fenris, never taking his eyes off them for more than a second, went to the door and pressed his ear against it. Silence for a moment, other than their soft breaths, as Fenris listened.

“There’s no one coming,” Fenris said. “What did he say? His exact words.”

“That he had sent his cook to call the templars. That they were coming. He wondered if they would give Anders the brand.” They remembered the fear, the way Anders' throat had tightened, the way his mind had broken.

“The cook?”

“If you do not wish to stay and face them, then leave. We do not need you.”

Fenris turned away from the door, for the first time approaching Anders with the frying pan down. Still, he treated them as though they were an animal, giving them a wide berth.

“He said the cook?” Fenris asked again. They sighed.

“Yes, the cook. Now, tell me elf—will you keep asking these inane questions? Or will you stand with me and fight?”

“Anders,” Fenris said, slowly. “He couldn’t have sent the cook.”

“What? How do you know this? Speak quickly.”

“Let me talk to Anders, de—Justice.”

“I am Anders. Tell me how you know.” They had been so scared—

“I was looking for you. The patrons left, most of the serving girls had gone home, but there was no sign of Ayla. I checked the alleyway and she was passed out in the bins.”

“Another cook then—”

“No one who left seemed like they were hurrying to the Gallows and I saw no other cooks,” Fenris said. “Anders, he lied.”

“No. This is not—no.” Anders’ staff fell to the ground with a clatter. They clutched their head. “No! You are lying.”

“I am not lying. I…wouldn’t do that.” Fenris said as if it were a realization he himself was coming to. They could not believe him.

“You have hated Anders for years! You believe in the Circles. You once said you would see our mouth sewn shut and under the yoke of the Qunari. Tranquility is not so different. No longer a danger—you would be safe from us at last.”

At last, they would get to the truth of the matter. The air was thick with anger. Fenris stood there, his face calculating as he considered their words. The elf thought he was clever, that they didn’t know what he was doing all night—but he was not the only one who could poke and probe and test to see what would happen when they broke. He was not the only one with something to fear.

“Answer us, Fenris. We are tired of waiting.”

“I have no answer. I ask that you trust me.”

“We cannot. Answer us, elf. You must.”

Fasta vass, must I?” Fenris said, his words striking like a hot iron. He started pacing back and forth, with the same furious quickness they’d come to expect. “I must trust that you will not hurt me, but when I ask you to do the same, you throw it back in my face? Is it not enough that I haven’t run screaming from the room? I have known you—what you are—for years and never once have I reported Anders to the Templars, or anyone who would hurt him!”

“I…you are right.” It must have been remorse that gathered in the corner of their eyes. “I am…sorry”

Fenris didn’t seem to know what to do with a spirit’s apology. He stopped his pacing and sighed, running one hand through his hair.

“Fine. If you must know, it’s Eliana.”

That was not the answer they were expecting. “I see.”

“Do you?” Fenris asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“No,” they admitted.

The corner of Fenris’ mouth quirked up. “I suppose I am not making much sense. She…trusts you. Knowing what you are. And she was never afraid. Not once.”

“But you cannot look on us without fear?”

“That is my answer, spirit. Take it or leave it—I do not care. But the others— Eliana, Hawke—they need you.” Fenris swallowed. “I would not take you from them. I—I would stop anyone who tried.”

After their merger it had taken them a while to get used to the normal functions of a living body—Kristoff had been dead after all. Breathing, for example, was something that had taken some practice. More than once Anders had nearly collapsed because they had forgotten the simple function of pushing air into the lungs and through to the heart. They would never forget those early days—the lightheadedness, the strange little staccato of the human heart as it skipped a beat, the realization that despite the time they had spent with mortals, they still had so much to learn. Still, as they got used to the living world, that feeling had dimmed and they hadn’t felt that way in a long time.

They felt it now.

“Anders,” Fenris said, and for all the world he looked as if he could not believe he was still talking, “No one is coming. We are alone in the restaurant. Frank told you he sent for the templars to scare you. You are with me and you are safe.”

Silence ate at the air between them and then, after another moment in a series of terrible moments, Justice retreated and Anders collapsed.

The process of unbecoming was always simpler. Justice was there, pressing, bleeding through his cracked skin, his nose, his throat, his lungs filled, the feeling of drowning, drowning, drowned, and then he was gone. Anders was still there.

Anders thought he should move, but his body had found the one clean spot on the floor, and the wood was cool and smooth against his cheek. He thought he should say something, but what was there to say? Any explanation sounded pathetic to his ears, any excuse would be just that—an excuse. He thought he should do something to save the friendship he had just expertly turned to kindling, but there was nothing to do.

Fenris should have left. Anders should tell him that. But shame had torn out his throat and when he opened his mouth he could not speak. And, because Anders was a terrible person, every bit the dangerous mage the Chant had always said he was, Anders didn’t want him to leave. Fenris would walk out that door, and tomorrow, or the next day, or next week, or next year, Hawke would come to call on them and Anders would go because Anders always went. Fenris would be there, and he wouldn’t look at Anders with pleasant surprise. He wouldn’t look at Anders at all.

Fenris hadn’t moved. Why wasn’t he leaving? Or perhaps he had left. Quick and silent, Fenris could be gone and Anders wouldn't know.

Slowly Anders opened his eyes. Fenris had moved, but he hadn’t left. He’d moved so he was standing right in front of Anders—so close that Anders wasn’t sure he could stand up without hitting him.

Even his toes are lined with lyrium, Anders thought, admiring the delicate lines that curled around Fenris’ feet.

He should say something. Damn his throat—Anders needed to say something. Fenris was still here, so he should say something. Anything would work. If he just opened his mouth and said anything then perhaps—

“I like your toes,” Anders said.

Anders screwed his eyes shut. Perhaps he should never be allowed to speak again.

Or maybe he could learn to melt in the next five seconds and escape through the floorboards. Was it possible for mages to melt? It sounded like something out of a fairytale.

Hesitantly, he creaked one eye open. The toes hadn’t moved.

“Here,” Fenris said. Anders looked up.

At some point, while Anders had been a puddle on the floor, Fenris had put down the frying pan. Anders could see it out of the corner of his eye, lying innocently on the couch. He had retrieved the brown sack, cradling it in one arm, like a child.

In his other hand was a small brown lump, perhaps an inch or two long and about as thick as Anders’ thumb. It looked like a raisin someone had enlarged. Fenris was offering it to him. He didn’t look upset or put out, though only moments ago, he had been very animated. Instead, he looked—unassuming. Nonchalant.

“What is it?”

“It’s a date,” Fenris said simply.

"That's a date?" Anders said incredulously. "It's nothing like a peach!" In fact, it looked like someone had inflated a peach pit and given it a shine.

Fenris wrinkled his nose and looked confused. It was—well, ‘cute’ wasn’t a word he associated with Fenris often, but there wasn’t another word for the expression. It was cute. Something loosened in his chest and he smiled.

“It was—there was this sailor who told me…you know what, never mind,” Anders said when Fenris’ confusion didn’t abate. Anders stood up.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the date. It felt waxy and weighed nearly nothing in his hand.

“You are…welcome,” Fenris said. “You probably shouldn’t eat it now.”

“Why? Oh, right.”

His lips were dry and caked with blood and the skin around his eyes still stung. He looked like a mess. With a wave of his hand, the damage repaired itself. Anders rubbed the back of his hands over his lips. The blood smear was black and nearly dry. Eurgh.

“Would you like to clean your face?” Fenris said, droll. “You look…disgusting.”

“It’s not like I asked to be beaned across the face!” Anders whined, and wasn’t this a familiar rhythm? A dance that was easy to settle into. If Fenris was insulting him that meant he was talking to him and there was something to save.

And Anders expected Fenris to banter back, perhaps to commiserate that hitting Anders across the face was something Fenris wished he, but he frowned. He was staring at Anders’ face— no, not just at his face, at his lips.

A bloody nose always looked dramatic, the way the blood ran down his lips, and even though it was healed, it must have looked alarming.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Stay here.” Then, creeping carefully around the destruction they had caused, Fenris made his way further into the small apartment.

Left alone and exhausted, Anders settled onto the chaise, knocking Frank lightly with his feet as he did so.

“Maker, Fenris knocked you out cold, didn’t he?” he asked Frank’s body. “Er—you’re not dead, are you?”

Anders kicked him until he was laying flat on his back. Frank’s chest rose and fell, and other than the goose egg on the back of his head, it appeared he was fine. Small blessings. Or small pities, considering what a vile man he was.

His cloak was a mess. Still matted from the lake—how was it possibly that whole affair was only hours ago— it had now collected a heavy layer of dust.

“You know,” Anders said, brushing out his feathers, “For a man dedicated to preserving all these artifacts, he didn’t seem very invested in cleaning. This place is filthy.” Carefully, Anders picked up the table portrait of the Black Divine, taking care to avoid the glass. Anders didn’t know the man’s name, or if this was even the current Black Divine, but judging from his sneer he seemed like a deeply unpleasant person.

“Well, I suppose it is a grave—of sorts,” Anders continued. He winced. You stand in the grave of a dead empire Justice had said. Had Fenris heard them?

Anders wanted to ask if he had and opened his mouth to do just that, but nothing came out. He couldn’t. What if Fenris refused to answer?

Or worse, what if he did?

“Fenris?” Anders called out. Nothing.

Anders frowned. There was no way Fenris hadn’t heard him. He hadn’t had much time to explore Frank’s apartment, but it wasn’t so large and Anders could be loud. Leaving Frank’s unconscious body on the floor, he went searching.

He didn’t have to look far. Fenris had found a small washroom and seemed to be in the process of collecting a rag and water so that Anders could clean up. It seemed that he had frozen mid-collection—the elf was sitting, turned away from Anders, clutching a rag in his white-knuckled hands. Anders could see his gauntlets removed and laying harmlessly against the washroom wall.

“Fenris?” Anders called again, gently. “Are you alright?”

But Fenris clearly wasn’t. He looked deep in thought, and whatever he was thinking about brought him some distress—his face was paler and he had this look in his eyes. Anders realized, belatedly, that it was fear.

Of course. Justice. Fenris must have been terrified.

Anders' heart sank like a stone. Of course, he was afraid. Fenris had single-handedly talked down an angry spirit. He’d saved them from doing something terrible—not only had he saved Frank, but possibly all of Hightown, considering the way Justice seemed ready to burn the restaurant to the ground.

You are with me, and you are safe. The way those words had felt. They’d pierced through the chaos and touched something in Anders he didn’t know still existed.

Anders was never safe. Anders protected Anders, and when Anders couldn’t protect Anders, Justice protected Anders. Varric and Hawke protected Anders, in their little ways. The care they showed him—Anders would never deserve it. Fenris didn’t protect Anders. Fenris couldn’t protect Anders even if he wanted to.

But oh—how those words had touched some soft childish chamber of his heart. The boy that Anders had buried at Kinloch Hold was still there. That child cried out, reached for someone, anyone, to care for him, only to be shoved into a deep, dank hole. Those words tasted like honey candy on the tongue.

Still, it was a foolish sentiment. Sweet, but foolish.

And what was worse, Anders couldn’t return it. You are safe, Fenris had said. Safe with me. But Fenris wasn’t safe with Anders. With Justice. With an abomination.

Shame turned tacky in his gut. Anders reached out a hand to grasp him then stopped. Fenris wouldn’t want him touching. These hands, hands that so recently had been controlled by an angry spirit, would be the last thing Fenris would want to see.

Second to last thing. Anders probably wasn’t a welcome sight right now, either.

“Fenris, I—”

Another apology didn't seem right. Taking a deep breath, watching Fenris' face carefully, he started again.

"I wouldn't use Justice to hurt you." Fenris opened his mouth, but Anders held his hand up.

"No. Please. I wouldn't—he does it—he comes out when he thinks I'm in danger. When I'm angry or scared. But you don't scare me, Fenris. I would never do that to y—to any of our friends," Anders said quickly.

Fenris gave him an odd look, but he wasn’t gripping the sink anymore and his breathing had evened, minutely. He looked oddly touched. "Did you mean what you said about Tevinter? '...Only the vile would set other men in chains for their amusement'…did you mean it? Or was it only your…spirit?"

The room shifted—no. They shifted. The room was thick with anticipation, the energy between them just as electric as it had been when Fenris had talked Justice down. Anders thought an earthquake would be appropriate for how he felt right now—he thought perhaps the moon could shatter, the Chantry could topple, and still, it wouldn't change Fenris and Anders the way his answer would right now.

"I meant it, Fenris," Anders said, his eyes holding Fenris’ gaze. "Every word."

Fenris gave a little breathy hiccup at that and for a moment Anders thought he might cry, but when nothing happened, Anders continued.

"You're my—look. I know we haven't exactly gotten along, but after this, I'd like to think of you as my friend."

"Friend?" Fenris' brow furrowed, his dark brows connecting into a single line. He frowned, and Anders frowned in turn.

"I mean, I know we haven't got the best history, but I—truly, I've always thought we had quite a bit in common. And you aren't completely intolerable. I mean. Don't tell anyone," Anders dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "but I've always liked you more than say…Meredith, perhaps." Anders winked.

That got the desired effect. Fenris started laughing. But it wasn't the small, gentle laughter his antics deserved. It was strange, almost bordering on hysteria and Anders was afraid Fenris had finally cracked.

"Er…Fenris?"

Fenris laughed even harder.

"Fenris!" Anders said, genuine offense coloring the name. “Oh. You’ve gone mad.”

"I must be, to be friends with you," Fenris said, as he chuckled, half doubled over the bucket, barely clinging to the sopping wet rag. "Fasta vass, friends with the mage. Let's be friends, mage."

Anders colored. "Well if the idea of being my friend is so funny to you—"

Fenris waved him off. "No, no. It's not that. Varric is going to have a field day with this. Isabela will not be able to stop laughing for a month."

"Why? Because we're friends? Is it so hard to believe?" Anders brought a finger to his chin as he recalled the length of their acquaintance. “It may be a little unbelievable.”

"Fasta Vass, it's not—perhaps it is related. But it is not why you think. Do not let it concern you. Clean your face, mage." Fenris threw the rag and caught Anders square in the chest. Anders watched the rag plop onto the floor, as if in a dream. "You promised to feed me today and now it's near midnight. I'm starving."

Anders scrambled to pick up the rag. "Hang on a minute—"

"There is a full kitchen downstairs. I expect tea. And cake."

"Wait just a second—what was that about?"

But Fenris was already headed towards the door of Frank's apartment, a bag of dates in hand, frying pan still on the couch, and Frank still unconscious on the floor. "We can threaten him later. I want to eat."

He turned to Anders, who was wondering if Fenris was possessed. Perhaps this whole thing was a dream and Anders was the one stuck in the Fade.

"Are you coming?" And with that, Fenris strutted out the door, frying pan and bag of dates in hand.

Alone, in Frank's ruined apartment, Anders pinched himself.

"Ow." Not a dream then.

The date was still in his hand, with its waxy skin and its insignificant weight. It was warm and slightly sticky. He inspected it. The side had been ruptured, torn open and it almost looked like something had been dug out.

A pit, Anders realized. The fruit must have a pit. Fenris had removed the pit. Taken it out. For him.

You are with me and you are safe.

Anders brought the date to his mouth and let it rest, for a moment, against his lips. The skin was smooth where it hadn’t been cut, and Anders enjoyed the warmth from his hands. It was still warm from his hands. Delicately, he bit into the fruit.

Sweet, and jammy. Like candy, as the sailor had said. But it was more complex. It stuck between the ridges of his teeth, and he felt Justice, safe within his soul, rumble with satisfaction.

And there was something else—his father carrying him on his shoulders, his mother saving the best of the deer shank for him, Karl peeking out of the cupboard to make sure it was safe to leave, Justice defending him from every perceived threat—it was all there, hidden in the flavor of this date.

"Do you have any idea what he was on about?" Anders asked the room.

Frank snored in response.

—

The kitchen smelled of lemon and brewing tea when Anders came downstairs. At first, he’d thought the lemon had been another thing pilfered by Fenris, but then he saw the mop bucket in the corner, noted the clean floors, and put two and two together. A shame. He liked lemon tea.

Fenris was at the fireplace, fiddling with a teapot and coaxing the fire’s dying coals back to life. Anders took a seat at the food table and watched. Fenris was only half turned away from him, his head was bowed in concentration. Fenris’ hair, normally stark white against Kirkwall’s grey-black backdrop, took on the red, pinks, and oranges of the growing fire and—there was no other word for it—glowed in the dim light.

Maker, he is a slip of a thing. Where does he hide all his muscle? Probably under his armor. Anders thought. Fenris’ face was flush, his cheeks darkened as the fire grew and grew.

“Anders?”

“Yes!” Anders said, standing up a little too quickly, banging his knee against the table in the process.

“Is there cake?”

There was. The cake Eliana had wrapped up for them was sitting where they’d left it, undisturbed. The paper it had been wrapped in had a large dark stain on its side from the honey seeping out of the cake.

Anders found a knife and went to it. He was shaking and the hunger he felt was bone-deep. He would have eaten mud if it meant satiation, but for once there was no need. Ripping open the wrapping, he took a semi-clean knife, wiped it off on his sleeve, and cut two large pieces.

Stacked in a neat little row, near where the cake had been sitting were saucers, barely bigger than the palm of Anders’ hand. He retrieved two, noting the swirling red pattern that weaved around the rim of the plate. It didn’t look similar to the way blood drew from a wound—the design was too branched and rigid—yet Anders couldn’t help but think that the plates had been handpicked by Frank as a subtle reminder of Tevinter’s terrible power.

“We should kill him,” Anders said, gripping the plate so tight he thought the porcelain might crack.

Fenris hummed.

“I’m serious. Fenris, you didn’t hear the things he said—the way he talked. We should kill him. We can—look if you’re worried about getting caught, we can dump his body in the harbor.”

“You want to kill a man, then drag his corpse all the way down to the Docks? Is that your plan?” Fenris was staring at him, one eyebrow cocked, looking at Anders as though he’d suggested they invade Starkhaven.

“We’re more than capable enough!”

“I remember you saying that about the recipe book,” Fenris said dryly. “And look where that got us.”

Anders scowled and brought the cake over to the table. Fenris had poured him some tea in a cup that matched the saucers and set it down between two of the strange pink spiky fruits. Anders placed the cakes down next to it.

“Why are you fighting me on this? I would have thought you more than anyone would want to kill him. You saw what he has up there! The man worships Tevinter!”

Fenris sat at the table and sighed. He was cradling his own mug of tea and glaring at the cake.

“Oh…here.” Anders retrieved two small dessert forks and handed one to Fenris. They looked comically tiny in his hands.

“Is this man a magister?” Fenris finally asked, taking one small sip of tea.

“Er…no.”

“Is he a slaver, or in the pocket of slavers?”

Anders frowned. “I don’t think so. Though he serves them.”

“Everyone in Kirkwall serves them,” Fenris said, blowing on the tea and gesturing for Anders to do the same. “Except you. Should I raze the entire city to the ground?”

“Yes,” Anders said, his voice as weighted as stone. “Wait, how do you know I don’t heal slavers?”

“Hawke told me. He said you killed a slaver that was hiding in your clinic.”

Anders remembered, though the incident Fenris was talking about happened nearly five years ago. Hawke had been clearing out a slaver den when one had escaped and somehow made his way to Anders’ clinic. His patients had sat there, unsure of what to do, when the bear of a man had started screaming at Anders to heal him, lest he fall under the slaver's whip. Fenris and Hawke were wrong about one detail though—Anders hadn’t needed to kill him. The blade had snipped an artery. The slaver had bled out in minutes.

And perhaps he would have lived if Anders had healed him. But then, perhaps he would have lived if he hadn’t become a slaver. Life was funny that way.

Anders hummed and didn’t correct Fenris. So he hadn’t wielded the blade that killed him—he’d certainly cast the final blow through his inaction.

“I didn’t know Hawke had told anyone about that.”

“I believe he was trying to force me to see the good in you,” Fenris shrugged. “A misguided attempt to meddle in our affairs.”

Anders winced. He’d been on the receiving end of a similar conversation about Fenris—a story about a time Fenris had defended Merrill of all people from an errant templar. At the time, Anders thought he’d been making it up, but now Anders could almost picture it. Ser Fenris, sword drawn, defending poor, smited, Merrill from the slash of a templar’s blade.

“Is it hot in here to you?” Anders asked, waving his hand in his face to try and cool down. “Fire’s burning a little too strong.”

“Anders,” Fenris said. “Frank is a toad, yes. But he is one unimportant toad among much larger, more dangerous fish. He could not even properly call on the templars. He is no threat to us.”

“But he—but the room—”

“You mean, the room you and your de—Justice destroyed? Those artifacts? They are relics of a dying empire, Anders. They cannot hurt me anymore.”

Fenris took a large bite of cake and popped it into his mouth, eyes bulging. He coughed, nearly choking. Anders reached forward and awkwardly patted him on the back.

“Swallow, then try breathing.”

Fenris did, and after many seconds, he got his breathing under control, drinking tea.

“The cake is sweet.”

“Yes,” said Anders, with no small amount of amusement. “It’s cake.”

“It’s too sweet.”

“Mm,” Anders acknowledged, taking a bite as big as Fenris. He chased it down with the tea.

By the amber color, he thought he’d been served a simple Free Marches black tea. He’d been surprised that it wasn’t. In fact, it was well-spiced. Anders could taste notes of burnt sugar and citrus peel, as well as clove and cinnamon. He closed his eyes, taking in the richness of the tea.

And the cake was more wonderful than he could imagine—soft and airy and perfectly sweet. Justice hummed in the back of his mind. He was satisfied.

“What kind of tea is this?”

“A Tevinter blend, popular among the Soporati. It’s called Fescenni’na.”

“It’s good,” Anders said, taking another long sip. “What—too plain for the magisters?”

“I believe it’s out of fashion to drink due to the legendary figure it shares a name with.”

“A Tevinter legend beloved by the Soporati, but loathed by the Magisters? This I need to hear,” Anders said, smirking in the firelight.

“Later,” Fenris said, finishing his tea, but leaving the cake. Anders finished his own slice in another three bites, then happily took Fenris’ off his plate. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But we didn’t find…” Anders trailed off, as Fenris reached below the table and pulled out a small withered journal. The binding was red and it looked like it had been leafed through many times.

“Didn’t we?” Fenris asked with a smirk.

—

They couldn’t stay and eat cake forever. There was still the matter of Frank to take care of.

“Wait,” Fenris said when they made it to the door leading to Frank’s apartment. “Let me do this. Stay here.”

Anders bristled. “What? Why?” Fenris had the decency to look sheepish, and his intent dawned on Anders. “Because—because of Justice?”

Fenris seemed to realize his misstep and held up his hands. “I mean no offense. Only that I did not want to spend the remainder of my morning talking an angry spirit down. Again.”

Anders gaped like a fish. “He threatened me with Tranquility, Justice thought the blighted Templars were about to storm in—”

“I am not saying your spirit was not…just in his anger.” Fenris closed his eyes, as he belatedly realized his unfortunate wordplay. “But I cannot risk it. We were lucky before. Someone may come.

“I…fine. We’ll stay here,” Anders said, then, after a nudge from Justice, “He can hear all this, by the way.”

“I know,” Fenris said.

“He’s very hurt that you don’t have faith in him,” Anders said, which was a lie. Justice had been simmering quietly since his little light show and seemed more in awe of Fenris than anything else.

Anders was suddenly struck by the distance between them, which is to say, there was barely any distance between them at all. The stairway up to Frank’s apartment was narrow, and Frank, being of middle height, wasn’t concerned with the low ceilings. Anders, at six foot two, was.

So he half-crouched, standing side by side with Fenris, nearly equal in height. For the second time that night, and the third time that day, they were huddled together, practically touching, though, blessedly, they weren’t as close as they had been in that closet. At least then, there had been no light. Now, he had a close-up of Fenris’ face, the ridges and peaks as plain to him as words on a page. This close, Anders could count each of Fenris’ lashes. They were long, framing his eyes like feathers. They were black, as dark as his eyebrows, not white like his hair. It contrasted nicely with the green of his eyes, which now that Anders was gazing into them were—

Oh. There was a crumb of cake, just there, near the corner of his mouth. Fenris could have swiped out his tongue and eaten it if Anders had told him to. Instead, Anders was tangled in the insane desire to drag his thumb across his lip and cheek.

“Could you step back a little bit please?” Anders asked, redirecting his vision to the ceiling. There was some lovely wood up there. “It’s getting hard to breathe.”

He chanced another quick glance at Fenris’ eyes. “Besides, your face is unsettling.”

Fenris’ head jerked back, and he grimaced, the lines of his face deepening. “My face is unsettling? Your nose is broken!”

“It’s not! I healed it!”

“A poor healer, that can barely take care of a bloody nose.”

“I’ll bloody your nose!” Anders sputtered, his voice rising.

Fenris opened his mouth to respond, and Anders was barely listening, preparing another comment about his stupid eyes or his unsettling face. Still, neither of them had a chance to speak, for on the other side of the door was a slight shuffling noise and the sounds of someone navigating their way through the glass and broken artifacts. At the same moment Frank started shuffling around, Anders had a terrible thought.

“Wait,” Anders said. “This isn’t some misguided attempt to protect me is it?”

“Perhaps,” Fenris said, not meeting Anders’ eyes. “This is some misguided attempt to protect me.”

His voice held the cadence of an apology, if not the words, and there was nothing mocking about his face—Fenris was serious. For a moment, Anders thought he might become truly enraged—that he should defend Justice and storm out of the restaurant, giving Fenris exactly what he wanted. But wasn’t Fenris just being honest with him? Hadn’t Anders himself come to the very realization earlier that Fenris wasn’t safe with him?

And perhaps it would be fine, or perhaps the sight of Frank would send Anders and Justice into a rage, send them back into that pit. Even as he acknowledged the rightness of it, Anders could not deny that it hurt.

Letting out a shaky breath, Anders laughed. “I suppose if you can’t handle Frank by yourself, we really are in trouble.”

Fenris nodded once, a short nod that only highlighted the awkwardness he had invited into the hallway with them. “This will not take long.”

“I’ll wait right by the door, just in case,” Anders said. Fenris shook his head and blocked the door leading to the stairs. Anders sighed. “I’ll wait here”

—

All in all, Fenris was only upstairs for five minutes.

The worst of the night was over, Anders tried to remind himself, as he cradled his now-cold tea with its long name and popular, unpopular legend. This was just cleanup and barely any clean up at that.

On more than one occasion Aveline had come and banged on his doorstep at the crack of dawn, dragging him out of bed so he could blearily blink at her. At the same time, she explained that she knew what their little rag-tag group of dogooders and criminals had done last night to the Sharps Highwayman, and she was appreciative, but that wasn’t going to get Anders out of body disposal duty.

Once Hawke had asked him if he could learn necromancy so that next time, the bodies could walk themselves onto the pyre. Anders had snapped at him, telling him that Spirit Healing and Necromancy were diametrically opposed schools of magic and that he’d be better off asking Merrill. Merrill, who’d been collecting the blood into little floating spheres had laughed, lost concentration, and dropped the blood and when it landed it had splattered all over Fenris who’d—

Fenris had been there, Anders remembered. He’d nearly forgotten. The morning in question had happened years ago, when his acquaintance with his new little group of comrades was still just forming and Anders had felt like a raw nerve whenever he was around them. The blood mage and the broody, murdery elf. Whenever either of them said anything, he’d snap and if he couldn’t yell at them, he yelled at whoever was stupid enough to stand nearby.

It was easier than dealing with the truth—that he was lonely, that he was foolish, that merging with Justice had been the disaster the Chantry had always said it would be, and if the Chantry was right about that than what else could they be right about?

Fenris is gone for a couple of minutes and you start to spiral? Anders, that’s pathetic, he scolded.

How had Fenris reacted? Not well, if he recalled correctly. He was particularly grumpy that morning because the messiest corpse had been his work and they’d all agreed that Fenris should be the one to clean it up. The poor bastard had been in pieces. So Fenris had spent the morning trailing around the square in Lowtown, looking for bits of leg. It was sort of funny, in a very dark way, to think on now, but at the time he had been terrified.

That was the first time he’d ever seen Fenris stick his fist in a man’s gut and pull his sinew out. It was unlike any magic Anders had ever seen before and for a moment, he had forgotten Fenris wasn’t a mage, as he’d reached into the man’s stomach, the lyrium on his arm flashed like lightning. Such violence, Anders remembered thinking at the time, on a man who could have been killed cleanly, with nothing more than a blade—a man who, as far as Anders was aware, Fenris had never even met.

“Oh, Maker,” Anders said, standing up with such force he knocked the chair back. “Fenris is going to kill Frank.”

Anders was nearly to the edge of the stairwell when he stopped. Fenris was going to kill Frank. So? He’d been advocating for his death all night. But something was pulling him up those stairs, and as he was arguing with himself, the door at the top of the stairs opened.

He looked up, expecting to see Fenris with his bloodied gauntlet, and was shocked to see that it was Frank. The man was red-faced, still dressed in the clothes from earlier, holding a small bag and barreling towards Anders.

“Move,” Frank said, and Anders did so mouth agape. “Blighted elves and—and fucking apostates! Burn this city to the ground, for all I care!”

Frank stormed through the kitchen, grabbing some of the fruit and stuffing it into his bag. Anders noticed he was carrying a decently heavy coin purse. It was tied to his bag and the coins clacked together. If Anders had to guess, it was all Frank had.

Delirium gripped his heart as he wondered what had happened. “Stop! Where’s Fenris?” Anders cried.

“I’m here, Anders,” Fenris called from the top of the stairs, and Anders turned to see him, and though he was frowning, Fenris looked fine.

Anders couldn’t help it, he smiled. “You’re not dead!” he said, and Fenris scoffed.

“Of course not,” Fenris said. “If Frank had somehow managed to kill me, I would have deserved to die.”

That had Frank squawking. The restaurateur’s face was truly vermillion now, and Anders was given the impression of a toad, voided of its venom and puffed up in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to scare them off.

“I’ve had it! I’ve had it with this blighted city!” Frank cried as he started shoving his way through the door. He was halfway out when he turned back. Shoulders squared, eyes alight, he jammed his finger ahead of him, pointing at Fenris.

“This isn’t the last you’ve seen of me, knife ear! You and your friend aren’t safe! When I return, I’ll see the both of you in chains!”

Fenris rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, leaning against the door frame. He looked entirely casual as if the two of them had just been discussing the weather. “Yes yes, I am sure we’ll rue the day we decided to cross you. Be quick. You do not want to miss your boat.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed and Fenris shrugged, though he didn’t break Frank’s gaze. For several seconds they sat there, staring at each other. They both refused to blink and Anders got the impression he should say something.

“What boat?” he asked intelligently.

Fenris and Frank ignored him. “There are people in this world—people more powerful than you can ever dream of.”

“When you meet one of them, bring them back here,” Fenris said. “We’ll be waiting.”

Frank harrumphed and left, closing the door so hard the windows wobbled,

“What,” Anders said, staring at the door Frank left through, “was he talking about? What boat?”

Fenris shrugged. “He says he knows people who can get him to Tevinter. I say if he’s fool enough to go, so be it.”

“What? What did you say to him?!”

“You know what I said to him,” Fenris said.

He did? “I do?” Anders asked quizzically as he wracked his brain. Fenris talked about Tevinter quite a bit, but nothing he’d ever said had made Anders want to move there.

If anything, after tonight, Anders didn’t want anything to do with Tevinter ever again, though considering the way Kirkwall seemed to attract slavers like flies to honey, that was yet another wish that seemed wholly impossible.

“I told him what life was like in Tevinter. That, no matter what he believes, he would not be a magicless prince; that his non-mage status would regulate him to, at best, a life similar to the one he had here.”

“And what—he told you to fuck off and that he was hopping on the next ship headed to Minrathous?”

“Not in so many words, but yes. Though first, he wanted me to examine his hands.”

Anders frowned. “His hands?”

“He wished to know if they were in the likeness of Magister Agorian. I told him no.”

“Nothing like the old bastard's hands?”

Fenris shrugged. “I do not know who Magister Agorian is. Nor have I ever seen his hands.”

“Oh.” Anders considered Frank’s parting shot, how he had sworn to see Fenris enslaved, the way he had threatened Anders with tranquility—it seemed when the fool was backed into the wall he only had one move. “Do you think he’ll make it?”

“It’s possible, though if he has any sense, he’ll leave town and forget Tevinter entirely.”

“What do you mean? You said his life would be like the one he has here except—well, he’d be safer, wouldn’t he?”

“Anders,” Fenris said gently. “I said that was his best hope. I suspect he will be on the slaver’s block in a week’s time.”

“What?!” Fenris had relayed the information simply, as though it were a fact of life. As if people willingly walked into their enslavement with arms wide open all the time. “And he’s—did you tell him? Does he know?”

Fenris sighed. “He doesn’t believe me. He seems to think he’ll be the exception.”

Fenris stood up from his causal lean and walked to look out the kitchen windows, into the streets of Hightown. It was nearly dawn, and already there were laborers walking about—servants milling their way to their respective lords’ and ladies’ houses so that they could prepare things for the morning. Even now, Frank could be at the docks, or on a ship, barreling towards his new life—one that Fenris believed would leave him in chains.

“And perhaps he’s right,” Fenris continued. There was that bitter edge that was always there when he spoke of Tevinter. “Perhaps he will be the exception in a long line of exceptions. But I suspect he will find that throwing himself on a slaver's mercy will hardly do him any good.”

There was a moment of silence and Anders thought Fenris was perhaps done, but then he spoke again and there was a sort of gentleness to his voice, a kind of terrible gentleness that only reminded Anders of pain.

“I tried to tell him,” Fenris said. “What Tevinter was like—he seemed so—pleased when I told him what I was. He wanted a firsthand account from—from a slave.”

Fenris beat the wall with a closed fist. The herbs drying above them shuddered.

“But when I told him, he dismissed me. Said that I was lying. That it could not be that bad.”

That frustration Anders knew well. He could scream about mage inequity until he was blue in the face—to those in charge it did not matter. There was a lump in his throat. Blessedly, he found it difficult to speak. At least he could not point out that on more than one occasion, Fenris had been one of the people to doubt Anders.

He swallowed and the lump became manageable. “We should find him. Stop him.”

“He is set on his path. We can do nothing for him.”

“It’s wrong. We should have just killed him.”

Fenris turned to Anders. He held his gaze, his large eyes searching for something, searching still even when he spoke.

“You cannot save everyone, Anders. Especially if they do not want to be saved. You would do well to learn that.”

Oh, but you want to be saved badly, don’t you Fenris? Anders thought. And who says I’d save Frank for Frank’s sake?

“Perhaps,” Anders said instead. “Perhaps.”

—

In the end, Anders and Fenris took the small red book of recipes, the dates, one of the pink spiky fruits that were, Anders was absurdly pleased to find out, called dragonfruit, and a bottle of wine, though Fenris smashed the bottle on the door once they left it.

"Feel better?" Anders asked. Dawn was creeping over the horizon, and he was bone tired. The aches of the previous day and night were on him, threaded through his bones.

"Hm."

They left a note to explain the pertinent details to Eliana and the other workers and made plans to ask Varric to quietly take control of the restaurant. It was, for the moment, the best they could do.

“What’s next?” Fenris asked. There was a good amount of sunlight now, and Anders realized, living and working in Darktown, that he hadn’t seen a sunrise in months. It was bright and glorious and Anders realized just how badly he missed the sun.

And there was something to be said for the way it framed Fenris. Here, in the empty street, holding a sack of dates, slung over his shoulder, the wine sinking into the dirt between the cobbles, Fenris looked like a god.

This is getting out of hand, Anders thought. So Fenris was attractive? That wasn’t news to Anders, who had known Fenris for years and had eyes the entire length of their acquaintance. Besides, in Anders’ experience, he was only attractive until he opened his mouth.

“Sleep,” Anders said with a yawn.

“Oh. I thought—”

“That we would go straight to cooking?”

Fenris’ lip curled. “I’m hungry.”

“So eat something.”

“I want Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “Wait a couple of hours. Aren’t you exhausted?”

“No,” Fenris said. Then he yawned; a giant yawn that Anders was used to seeing from cats. He thought about poking his finger down Fenris’ throat, but then, he was rather attached to all ten digits.

“Well, I’m tired. If you’re so awake, go grocery shopping. I provided the last bird,” Anders said, as he started walking to Darktown. “And get an actual chef’s knife!”

“Fine,” Fenris said. “See you in two hours.”

“Four.”

Fenris nodded. “Four hours then. But do not blame me when I start without you.”

—

Alone, in the quiet dark of his clinic, on the little threadbare cot that passed for his bed, Anders did not sleep. He thought.

The day seemed—strange. Impossible. Like some untapped, undiscovered Fade-plain that threatened to make him fall into—he didn’t know.

Everything had changed. That much he’d expected. Nothing lasted forever, not Karl, not Hawke, not Kirkwall—even the Chantry would one day crumble into ash. It was how he knew they were going to win.

Though more and more it seemed that such change would not come without significant cost. It was a cost he’d pay. Of course, he would. He’d do anything, anything for the mages. Anders just didn’t know what it was yet. Some selfish part of him hoped it wouldn’t cost him his friends. His clinic. Hawke.

When he met Hawke, years ago, he’d never believed that the wisecracking mercenary would one day become a Champion. Many nights he’d spent in that little Lowtown apartment, making plans and swapping stories, and not once did Anders think Hawke would actually win back the Amell estate. He’d done it. And it’d only cost him his sister.

He thought he’d fall in love with him. He very nearly had. Hawke was so easy—easy smiles, easy jokes, easy, easy, easy. But as the years went on and Kirkwall became more and more troubled, and Hawke started spending more time with Isabela, whatever was there waned.

Anders wasn’t upset. He had spent his youth dancing in and out of a million little dalliances, each one a fun distraction from the Circle, from the Deep Roads, from the pit. Maker willing, he’d have a million more dalliances before he died.

Was that what this thing with Fenris was? Perhaps, Anders thought. Perhaps.

“Justice?” Anders said to the cool air. “Are you alright?”

There was a rumble in his chest, as Justice acknowledged his words. It was meant to soothe him.

I am here, Anders Justice whispered.

“Fenris tonight…he was very brave wasn’t he? He didn’t—I mean. He could have left us. Waited until we’d”—and now Anders was choking on his words; he took a deep breath to calm his panicked heart—“calmed down.”

Fenris had walked in there so sure, brandishing his frying pan. He’d looked like a knight. Ser Fenris, who protected Merrill and now him.

You are with me and you are safe.

“Justice.” Anders paused. He didn’t want to ask. Asking meant living with whatever was answered. Asking meant having to contend with the knowing.

“Justice,” he started again. “Do you think it’s possible—that Fenris—that we—that we might—”

I think, Justice whispered, the rumble of his tone conveying a sense of sweet resignation. it is possible we are both doomed.

“Well,” Anders whispered, to no one, to the Void, to the Maker and Andraste, and anyone else who might be listening. “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Fenris, in fact, did not get started without him. When Anders showed up at the mansion six hours later, he spent several minutes pounding on the door. When there was no answer, he broke in.

Well, “break-in” was a bit strong for what he actually did. “Jiggling the lock until the door practically fell open” was probably a better descriptor.

The mansion was spectacularly under-defended. He could see at least five points of escape, which he supposed could double as entry, from the front of the house alone.

There is such a thing as overconfidence. Even my clinic is better defended than this! he thought.

Resolving to nag Fenris into replacing his lock with something proper, Anders made his way through the entryway, stepping carefully, trying to remember which boards creaked a little too much under his weight. He finally found Fenris by the fireplace. The fire had been neglected for hours and Anders imagined it was because Fenris was sleeping in his armchair, legs splayed before him, arms clutching the red book of recipes like a stuffed Halla toy.

He looked young. Impossibly young. Younger than Anders, certainly. His face had thawed, the line of his body wasn’t taut with fear, but soothed in a way that Anders didn’t know was possible.

Completely unbidden, Anders considered last night’s revelation. It had been one thing to admit it—and he wasn’t even sure what it was—to himself and Justice alone in his little cot, but quite another thing to be faced with the object of his musings. It was horrifying. Anders’ palms were sweating and he didn’t have sweaty palms. Steadiest hands in Kinloch Hold, that was him, not this quivering mess.

You sound ridiculous. Like one of Varric’s damsels, Anders thought.

“I hate you,” Anders said, scuffing his boot along the floor. Fenris, the bastard, didn’t wake up.

“You’re really not very attractive, you know,” Anders tacked on for good measure.

Feeling more settled, Anders decided he should wake Fenris, but as he lifted a stack of books to drop on the floor so that the noise would violently rouse him, Fenris snorted and burrowed deeper into the chair.

After gently setting the books down, Anders carefully extracted the red book from his arms and headed into the kitchen.

The broken table was still there and Anders could see bits of Herbert’s plumage scattered around the mangled wood. Somehow there was less food in it than there was when they’d left. Fenris must have cleaned up their first failed attempt.

But there was a chair and a little coffee, and Anders had the ability to summon water and fire with the snap of his fingers. In no time at all, Anders had a fire going, with a little cup of coffee and no milk or sugar, because apparently, Fenris didn’t like things that tasted good.

In the quiet crackling light of the fire, with a warm cup of coffee in his hands, Anders settled down with their prize, leafing through the little red book of recipes.

The pages were well-worn, almost soft under the tips of his fingers, and the recipes had been written in a crisp hand, then marked up and annotated by several different hands—suggestions for substitutions, corrections as recipes were tested and adjusted, and so on. Half of these foods, he had never heard of—Lucanian Sausage, which required the sounder be fed with thirty bayberries over the course of thirty days so that the meat would hold the most delicate sweetness; something called “The Date’s Delight,” which required a date be hollowed and stuffed with honey and almonds. It was a prank, the book told him, that when employed correctly would make the eater believe he was about to break his tooth on the date’s pit.

“Figures magisters can’t just eat a meal. It’s all tricks and buggery, even with food,” Anders said to Justice. The spirit hummed in agreement.

On and on the little book went, detailing recipes fit for the Magisterium. The cake they’d eaten earlier was there. It was named Archon Crustulum and had been a favorite of Archon Danarius. It was a honey-orange flower water cake, which explained the slight buzz of floral favor Anders had picked up.

Finally, tucked away towards the back of the book, was a recipe for Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce. It was more or less what he imagined—a large fowl left whole, resting on a bed of leeks and other greenery, brushed with grape juice and drowning in a sticky–sweet date sauce made with dates, water, and whatever spices the cook had on hand. One annotation suggested that duck would serve as a suitable substitute.

Oh, right. Ducks exist, Anders thought to himself. Ducks were not only prevalent this time of year, they were also sold in the market, and were easy enough to acquire if a little pricey. Well, he wouldn’t be fronting the coin for it. He had already resolved that Fenris was paying for their second attempt.

“And if he refuses, we can always go back to the restaurant and steal one,” Anders said aloud.

“Steal one what?” Fenris asked, coming into the kitchen, out of his armor and in plain clothes. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, good morning,” Anders said, grinning as he enjoyed Fenris’ bedhead. “Or afternoon rather. After I woke up from my nap, I came here, as promised, so that we could finish what we started, only to find you sawing logs in your foyer, dead to all decency. Want some coffee?”

Fenris frowned. “You were here while I was asleep? You saw me sleeping? I was not pretending?”

“Not at all," he said cheerfully. “You were sleeping like a stone in the river. I could have shimmied through the living room naked with an Orlesian quartet and I don’t think I would have woken you.”

Fenris made a face as if he couldn’t imagine anything more offensive than Anders shimmying naked through his living room with even an Orlesian duo. Anders’ grin grew wider.

“I almost woke you up by dropping a load of books on your head. Day’s wasting—but you looked like you needed the sleep, so I was merciful.”

“How long have you been here?” Fenris said, frowning. His arms were crossed.

“Not long, perhaps half an hour. Why?”

“Because, mage, I do not ‘sleep like a stone.’ Only Hawke has been able to successfully enter my home while I was sleeping and not wake me up.”

Anders made a silent “oh” as he considered the implications of what Fenris was saying. He could sympathize. Living in the Circle had certainly imparted to Anders the value of sleeping like a feather.

He looked at Fenris, who was now stubbornly avoiding his gaze. The firelight warmed his cheeks, and they looked red, though now Anders wondered if the elf was blushing.

“Oh,” Anders said. “You trust me.”

Fenris frowned. “I have always trusted you. I would not fight by your side if I thought you’d let me die.”

“Yes, but I mean, you actually trust me now. It’s more than defending each other in a fight. You know even at my worst I wouldn’t hurt you.” Anders beamed. The whole thing was hilarious to him now, an amusing tale to tell Varric over cider next time he was at the Hanged Man.

Another thought occurred to him. He slapped his hand against his forehead and laughed. “Oh, Maker. We really are friends, aren’t we? I mean, properly, actually friends. Not just ‘I’ll get your back if you get mine,’ but actual, honest friends. With feelings of…friendliness.” Anders wiggled his fingers, to indicate the friendly feelings they felt for each other.

Fenris sneered. “Does this mean we have to like each other now?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Anders said, placing a finger on his chin in thought. “I would say I don’t like half of my friends and we get along just fine.”

“I…see,” Fenris said, though he looked distressed at the idea.

“Look,” Anders said, setting his hands in front of him. “We could try to go back to the way things were before, but I don’t think we’d succeed. Unfortunately, the past twelve hours have been nothing but poking at each other and seeing the worst in one another, and then waking up and making plans to get dinner. You know who does that? Not bitter enemies.”

Fenris was still frowning. Anders sighed. “But if it makes you feel better, we can still sort of hate each other in front of Varric.”

“That is not…no.” Fenris walked over to where Anders was sitting, standing over him still in the chair. Placing his hands on either side of Anders, he leaned until they were eye level, Fenris’ face merely inches away.

“These friends you ‘hate’, do you crowd them in closets?” Fenris asked. His voice was quiet and his eyes were alight by the fire. Anders swallowed. “Or do I alone garner such special treatment?”

“No...that was—I—”

“Do you tell all your friends you won’t kiss them? Tell me, how did Hawke respond? Did he blush? Did he stutter? What about Merrill? I imagined she squeaked like a dormouse when you nearly kissed her.”

“I didn’t—” Anders was trying to say something. Something intelligent, that would explain to Fenris that he was joking and that the closet was just—just a lark, that he’d been caught up in an impossible moment, but to expect anything more was folly. But Fenris was crowding him, so close that Anders could smell the sweat, could feel the heat from his cheek, could almost taste his teasing. And everything about him, from the danger in his eyes to the line of his mouth, to his words, was sending Anders’ blood rushing straight to his cock.

“Oh? You didn’t push Isabela against a door and embrace her? You didn’t tease Aveline with something more?” Fenris leaned forward so that his lips were brushing Anders’ ear.

“I suppose I am special,” he whispered. He moved back, but he was close, still so close. Anders’ heart was battering against his ribs, he wasn’t sure he was breathing, his cock was starting to strain against his smalls and all he could think about was how Fenris was looking at him as if he really wanted Anders to kiss him when it must have been obvious to him, as obvious as it was to anyone that such a thing was impossible.

It was too much, all too much, so Anders did the only thing he could do. He braced himself against the arms of the chair, leaned forward, and kissed Fenris.

It was not a good kiss. It was barely a kiss at all; more the desperate clacking of teeth and lips that was meant to scream Get away! Anders had completely misjudged the distance between him and Fenris and so when he surged forward, he did so with too much force, which sent Fenris falling. He just managed to catch himself before landing directly in front of him. Mood thoroughly ruined, Anders stood up.

“What—what was that, you insane—”

“There!” Anders spat, wiping his lips. “I kissed you, are you happy?! Now, will you stop being so—so strange and help me cook?!”

Fenris looked at him for a long moment, rubbing his jaw as he did so. Anders was sure he was a sight. Red-faced and panting, Anders started breathing to cool the fire in his heart. His cock had calmed down. Smashing your face against someone else’s chin would do that.

“Very well,” Fenris said, his expression unreadable. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” said Anders, reaching out a hand to help Fenris up. “Now get your coin. We need to go shopping.”

—

Two hours later and they returned to the mansion with nearly every ingredient they needed, save a couple of spices they would have to do without.

“We would have gotten the rue if you hadn’t insisted on haggling,” Fenris reminded him as they surveyed their ingredients.

“I will accept many terrible things in this world,” Anders said. “But twenty-three silver for a plant is too far.”

He looked down at the spices and herbs they managed to get. It was nearly everything, including a green leafy plant that Anders had never tried before, that had a strange clean smell. Fenris had called it cilantro.

“It doesn’t even have any medicinal properties,” he moaned.

“How dare it be simply delicious,” Fenris said dryly.

They’d acquired a duck with very little trouble at all. The fowl was a good size bird, nearly ten pounds, and had been raised on a farm outside of Kirkwall.

“This bird ate better than some of my patients,” Anders remarked.

“And now it will feed us.”

“Yes.” Anders’ mouth watered. He’d been planning and dreaming of this dish for weeks. “Who wants to chop?”

Fenris retrieved for them two knives—daggers, Anders thought—and set to work. There were leeks to slice on the diagonal and herbs to break and crush. They were in luck, as the kitchen had a mortar and pestle and the dish called for many spices that needed to be ground into a fine dust. Anders had recognized salt and pepper, but cumin, coriander, asafetida were all new to him.

“They smell strong,” Anders said as he ground the cumin down into practically nothing. “Will they overpower the bird?”

“Not if they’re employed properly,” Fenris said, observing Anders’ work. He bent low over Anders' shoulder, smelling the cumin. “I have not smelled anything like this in a long time.”

“Not a lot of cumin in Free Marches dishes.”

“The people of the Free Marches, and, as far as I can tell, Ferelden, appreciate meat, and lots of it. Every meal is served as if it was your last, and it is seasoned with little more than salt and, occasionally, pepper.”

“Well, salt is expensive,” Anders said. “I have some, but I mostly use it for poultices. I’m not wasting it on meat”

Meat was meat, Anders thought. It tasted how it tasted.

“And you wonder why I do not trust your cooking,” Fenris said, eyebrow raised.

“That’s—my cooking skills are not up for debate!”

“I'm eating your cooking twice in two days. I must have a death wish.” Anders scowled and Fenris laughed, another full belly laugh that Anders was quickly becoming addicted to hearing. To causing. He picked up more cumin seeds and threw them into the pestle with force.

“Anders?”

“Yes?”

“That is not cumin. It’s coriander.”

“Oh.”

After they prepared their herbs, Fenris took care of the date sauce. The dates had to be pitted and chopped and set to boil with enough water to cover, and the spices they’d just carefully prepared.

The work was simple enough. There was one minor issue.

“If we keep eating them, we won’t have enough for the bird,” Anders pointed out around the dates in his mouth. He’d eaten two in quick succession and was a little disappointed to find out that every date didn’t taste like comfort and safety. Just the ones fed to him from Fenris’ hand, apparently.

Still, the sticky sweetness made up for it.

“We should start growing them here,” Anders said. “Tell me, could you grow them from a pit?”

“Do I look like a gardener, mage?” Fenris asked with some bite, though the effect was hampered by his chewing.

“I bet Merrill could grow them.” Merrill was always doing terrifying things with plants. “We should get Isabela to ask.”

“Isabela doesn’t like dates.”

“Isabela doesn’t like dates?!” Anders cried, nearly choking. “How? They’re perfect. A perfect food.”

“They get stuck in her teeth.”

“More for us then.”

They did manage to stop eating long enough to make the sauce. It smelled wonderful and thickened beautifully so that when Anders dipped a spoon into the pot the mess coated the back.

It smelled of spices. Boiling it down to a syrup had deepened the sweetness so that the dates tasted caramelized, the slightly burnt aroma tickling Anders’ nose.

Finally, it was time to deal with the bird. Anders sliced off extra fat, setting them aside to render for toast and roasting potatoes. Next, he tied up the neck and set it to boil for ten minutes to soften the skin and prepare the braising liquid.

The kitchen had one pot large enough for the bird—a disused cast iron oven with a lid that had been dinged by its previous owner. They rested the bird on its bed of greens, drizzled the whole pot of date sauce on it, and moved it over the fire.

“Maker, shit!”

“Don’t burn yourself, mage!”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Anders murmured, bringing his thumb to his mouth to soothe.

“The more time we spend together, the less I am sure you have ever stepped foot in a kitchen,” Fenris said, though his tone was gentle. “Wait here.”

He stepped out of the kitchen, leaving Anders alone with the bird, and broken table, and the mess of ingredients and dishes that had been left strewn about.

It was late in the day and they’d be lucky to eat before nightfall, but as Anders tidied up their unused herbs and set aside the daggers for cleaning, he found he was content. He was warm, the sounds of cooking were making his mouth water and that he had made it, with Fenris, that he had truly earned his meal with his hands somehow made the idea of eating it even more appealing.

This is what your life would have been like a tiny traitorous thought whispered in the back of his mind, if you weren’t a mage.

It made him queasy, but once he’d thought it there was no unthinking it—it was simply true. A terrible little truth that fluttered in the air like spider silk, that he would never say aloud, but knew down to his marrow to be true.

He would still be in Ferelden if he’d never gone to Kinloch. A farmer’s son would grow up to become a farmer. To take a wife and give her children and pine after men from the village and love his wife and children until the day he died.

I would have died in the Blight, Anders countered furiously.

Or you would have lived, that little voice whispered in the back of his mind. And you wouldn’t be here, trying and failing in this shithole city, with an elf that barely tolerates you, yearning for the mud.

His thumb was throbbing, and suddenly that warm kitchen seemed so far away. If I weren’t a mage then I couldn’t do this.

Anders reached for a wisp, barely bigger than a dream. The wisp pressed against the veil, so gossamer thin in Kirkwall that the little ghost was almost fluttering out of the Fade. With that little wisp, he healed his thumb. It felt the same as it always did. It was a kiss without warmth.

“Anders?” Fenris called. He was holding a small kit and a book. “What are you doing?”

“Healing my thumb.” Anders waved his hand. “And shutting someone up.”

“Your—Justice?”

Anders shook his head. “No a—it’s hard to explain. It doesn’t matter. What have you brought me?”

“A healer’s kit and Soporati Tales for the Downtrodden. It should have the Fescenni’na’s legend in there. Oh, and this.”

Fenris had a folded-up piece of paper that looked like it had been torn from a book.

“I found it the other day,” Fenris said as he unfolded it. “I was going to show Hawke. I did not expect you to show up on my doorstep with a goose.”

“He had a name, you know,” Anders said wryly. Then he looked at the sheet of paper in Fenris’ hands.

It was a drawing. A one-footed bird, with a long neck that looked like it had been folded over so that the bird could rest their head on their body, which was, Anders could admit, vaguely oval shaped.

“Ha!” Anders laughed. He took the paper from Fenris. “So they do exist!”

“You had no cause to doubt me,” Fenris murmured, taking back the drawing from Anders. “I have never lied about Tevinter before.”

“I know that,” Anders admitted. “I was only…teasing. Fenris—”

“Crueler than teasing, I believe,” Fenris said. “Though you were not the only one.”

“No,” Anders said. “I suppose not.”

Anders was tired. He wanted to eat. And now there was this awkwardness between them. Of course, it wasn’t as simple as “We stole together, let’s be friends.” One night of petty breaking and entering did not erase the past five years. It would be, as it always was with them, an endless cycle of back and forth, a struggle they’d never be able to let go of. Anders could not ask Fenris to let go of his hatred of magic, any more than Fenris could ask Anders to abandon the mages.

Anders should tell him. Acknowledge it.

But then Fenris opened his mouth and spoke.

“Anders, I have not eaten Flamingo Braised in Date Sauce. I have not had a flamingo tongue. I do not know what it tastes like. I can only guess from what I have been told,” Fenris said, his eyes darting to the floor as he spoke.

“I lied. I cannot tell you why,” Fenris continued. Anders had only seen him babble like this when mages were involved, never with this kind of nervous twitching, as he admitted to lying. “No, I can. I can tell you why. I do not wish to. I won’t tell you.”

Anders nodded. “Okay.”

“Yes, it is okay,” Fenris agreed, nodding with him. “I did not think it would matter. That you would care so much. Then you showed up at my door with your goose and I don’t know what possessed me to let you in. If I didn’t know your position on blood magic, I would believe you bewitched me.”

Anders bristled and opened his mouth to object, but Fenris put up his hand and he stopped. He was respecting Fenris’ wishes quite a bit these days.

“I’m not sorry. I lied because I had to. Perhaps that is no longer true. But it was easier than explaining.”

“Explain what?”

Fenris threw back his head and laughed, a cruel, cold sound. “That I am still a slave, of course. Haven’t you noticed? You stand in my master’s house. We are cooking in his kitchen. I am here because he allows it—for what purpose I do not know. When he finally comes I will kill him. Maybe then things will be different. But until then, I cannot be anything other than what I am.”

Anders swallowed. “Fenris—”

“That man knew. He looked at me and named me for what I was. Do not tell me you cannot see it too!”

He stopped and gulped in air as if he had just finished a fight. Perhaps he had. He didn’t have his sword and for once, he wasn’t wearing his armor—just a plain sage green shirt and simple black trousers. For once, Anders was better protected than Fenris was. He resumed his staring contest with the floor.

“So there,” Fenris spat. “You have the truth of it. Make of it what you will.”

“Fenris,” Anders started carefully. “Are you an idiot?”

His head jerked up. “What?” he asked, as if in a stupor.

“I asked if you were an idiot. You know, an imbecile. A fool. A moron.”

“I know what idiot means!”

“Really?” Anders crossed his arms and clicked his tongue. “Everything you just said was nonsense, so I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m—I am not an idiot, Anders!” Fenris snapped. His nostrils were flaring and Anders could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears.

“Then why are you acting like one?” Anders snapped back. “What—because of Frank? Fenris, when we met the man, he was pretending to be Orlesian. I bet every night he wanks while lying back and thinking of Minrathous. He’s not exactly the sort of fellow I’d look to for an opinion.”

Fenris was seething now, baring his teeth. Anders smiled.

“You couldn’t possibly know—”

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” Anders asked, holding Fenris’ gaze. “You feel like you don’t deserve your freedom. You wake up every morning and wonder if this isn’t some cosmic mistake. That you won’t end up back in chains. But selfishly, you know you can’t go back. You’d die first.”

“Yes,” Fenris gritted out.

“You’re so angry, you don’t know what to do,” Anders continued. “You didn’t think it was possible to live with this much rage inside of you, is that it?”

“Yes!”

“Then you are not a slave.”

Another bitter laugh. “If only I could believe you.”

Anders snorted. “It hardly matters to me if you do. I am not asking for your opinion, it's a statement of fact. You would rather die than end up back in Tevinter, so you are not a slave.”

“You can’t just say that!”

“Can’t I? I’m a free man, Fenris, I can say what I want. And the fact remains, you are a free man.”

“That’s not something you get to decide,” Fenris cried.

“And Danarius does? Maker, Fenris, you’d think the bastard was already dead the way he haunts you!” Anders exclaimed.

“Oh? And are you any different? Or was I imagining you shaking in the dark like a frightened child last night? Tell me, were you afraid of small spaces before you went to the Circle? Some childhood fear you were never quite able to shake?”

Anders faltered. “That’s completely different—”

“You’re right, it is, because when I kill Danarius it will be over, but you will never kill enough Templars to feel safe!”

As soon as he said it, Fenris knew it was too far, for he looked horrified at his own words. “Anders—”

“No,” Anders said. “You’re right.”

“Still I shouldn’t have—”

“You were wrong about one thing. About Danarius.”

“How?”

“You will kill him. I believe that, I really do. But when you do, it won’t be over, Fenris. You’ll carry him with you for as long as you live.” Anders pointed to the lyrium line exposed on the hollow of his neck. “He made sure of it.”

“Truthfully, I do not know who I would be,” Fenris said faintly. “Without Danarius.”

Damn him. Just when he’d resolved to hate the elf forever, he said something so sad and pathetic, Anders just wanted to wrap him in a blanket and feed him tea and cookies, or whatever he really liked to eat, considering he’d lied about what his favorite dish was.

And then strangle him, Anders thought, furiously. with the blanket.

“I know exactly who’d I’d be,” Anders said aloud, thinking back to the voice earlier. In a kitchen with someone who loved him, not an elf who—who seemed to—

Anders didn’t know anymore how Fenris felt about him, and at this point, he wasn’t sure how he felt about Fenris. He only knew that it had been a long day, the kitchen smelled of sweet things and spice, and he was hungry.

“Fenris?”

“Yes?” Fenris still looked awkward, as if he expected Anders to scream at him. It was odd to think that he might let Anders yell at him and not fight back.

Anders licked his lips to wet them. He needed to ask Fenris about some water. "When you lied about the tongue, why that story?”

Fenris frowned, shifting sheepishly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you could have said anything. Or just said your favorite was I don’t know—beef or apples or something like that. I mean—obviously, I believed you. But Hawke knows your past better than I do. Isabela too, I’m willing to bet. If you didn’t want questions or people doubting you why this whole”—Anders waved his hand, gesturing to the duck that was sizzling in its pot—“flamingo story.”

Fenris exhaled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

“Because,” Fenris said slowly, standing straight. “It’s something you would have done.”

Anders felt his face warm and his heart thuds loudly in his chest. “Oh. I didn’t realize that you held me in such high regard.”

He expected Fenris to insult him, perhaps comment on his foolishness or something. Instead, Fenris considered for a moment before shrugging. “You are single-minded in your pursuit of freedom. There is clarity to your actions I am jealous of. Even though I think it is misguided—”

Anders bristled, the feathers of his coat ruffling slightly. Fenris continued, quickly.

“—I respect it. I have always respected it, even as I feared it.”

“And you fear it now?”

“I am trying now too, but one night is not enough. Ask me again in six months, perhaps my answer will be different.”

Anders laughed and Fenris smiled, as he glanced at Anders sideways. “I am sorry, Anders, truly.”

“I know,” Anders said, sobering. “I am not upset—no, I am. But I should not be upset with you. You are not the Templars, any more than I am a magister.”

Fenris nodded, but he was silent and Anders followed suit.

“I should check on the duck,” he said finally.

“And I should find an—er. Table.”

Fenris left and Anders was alone again.

“If we have one more revelation or conversation that isn’t about duck, dates, or eating, I might scream,” Anders muttered.

—

“It’s burnt,” Anders said, frowning as he looked over the duck. Indeed, its skin was crispy and brown, but a little browner than Anders had expected, and he worried that the meat was dry.

“It’s not,” Fenris said.

“Look at it! It’s practically blackened!”

“That’s the de fruité,” Fenris calmly explained. The last step in the recipe had been to baste the duck with grape syrup. They hadn’t been able to find any, and in the end, had settled for reducing wine until it was glossy and sticky.

“I’m not sure,” Anders said.

“Either way, I am eating it. You are welcome to join me.” Fenris gestured to the table he had managed to move into the kitchen, replacing the one Fenris had broken. “Or you can fret about coloring. Your choice.”

“I’ll eat,” Anders said quickly. “You think I’ve spent all this time cooking and sourcing ingredients and stealing recipe books and hiding in closets to not eat?”

Fenris nodded. “Next time, let’s choose something simple. Soup, for example.”

“Next time?”

“Well, I will need to eat tomorrow,” Fenris said. “And you said you would make a meal for me.”

“Yes?” Anders gestured to the duck. “And so I have!”

Fenris shook his head. “You did not make this for me. I put quite a bit of effort into making this happen. That does not count as cooking me a meal.”

Anders sputtered. “What, so I owe you another duck?”

Fenris shrugged. “If that’s what I fancy, but I don’t know that after today I’ll feel like duck. Perhaps I will desire roast pork and apples. Or chicken pie.”

“What—but—that’s—I’m not your personal cook, you know! I have a job!”

“And I would never take you from it,” Fenris said, as he retrieved plates and glasses to set the table. Going to the armoire, he took out another dagger, then handed it to Anders so that he could carve the meat. “But you have to eat dinner sometime. When you cook, you can cook for me.”

“You know, all of this could have been avoided if you just started eating my cooking ages ago,” Anders sulked.

Fenris stuck out his tongue. “No, thank you.”

“Ah! You’re impossible.”

“And hungry. Carve the damn bird, already.”

“And demanding,” Anders complained but did as he was told.

The meat was tender as he sliced through it and perfectly pink. It was not dry, he was pleased to see, as juices gathered on the edge of his dagger and Anders had to try very hard not to lick them off. The bird smelled divine.

“Should we pray?” Anders asked as Fenris poured them wine. The elf stilled and Anders laughed. “I’m kidding.”

“It is not a ridiculous suggestion. You're Andrastian, if I recall correctly.”

“But you’re not,” Anders said. “Besides, I’m starving.”

They hadn't considered any side dishes, so they just had the duck and leeks, and Fenris hadn't scrounged up any non-bent silverware so they ate with their hands. Anders waited for Fenris to take the first bite.

"Is it good?"

"It is," Fenris said, mulling over the food. "Better than I could have dreamed of. It is perfect."

Anders dug in. It was perfect. Sweet and well-spiced, the meat perfectly tender—and salt! He now saw the benefit of salt. It was unlike anything he'd ever tasted.

The dates had been transformed. Though they'd been delicious before here they were more. Sticky, sweet, thick—they were delicious.

"Fuck bread," Anders said in between chewing. "I want to eat this forever."

As he polished off a duck leg and tried a leek, he closed his eyes. Food this good was shameful, in a way.

And there was more than just the taste of the food itself. When he closed his eyes he could taste the satisfaction of a hard-won day, of a battle well fought. Like feeling the sun again after months underground.

Together they picked through the bird until there was little but bones and cartilage. Anders leaned back, stuffed, and rested his hands on his stomach.

"I feel like I'm about to pass out," Anders said, resting his hands on his full stomach. "I don't think I could eat another bite."

"How fortunate for me," Fenris said, reaching for the platter. "As we still have the tongue."

That's right. The tongue. The most prized piece of the bird, Anders recalled from Fenris' story.

"You eat it."

"Truly?"

"Just trying to make you an honest man." Fenris blushed and Anders grinned, teeth full of duck fat.

Fenris considered it for a moment, one hand on the platter. "Let's split it."

"No, Fenris, it's alright—"

"I want to."

"Alright," Anders said, grasping the duck's tongue with his hand. It was still warm. Delicately, he ate the meat from the bone, then handed the rest over to Fenris.

It was—

“How is it?” Fenris asked. The sun had set on them now, and they were only illuminated by the dying fire and a candle Fenris had found. His face, half in shadow, was open and golden.

“It’s sweet,” Anders said. “And tender.”

Fenris nodded. Without a word, he sucked the bone clean. Fenris closed his eyes, then lifted his head and he seemed to be in ecstasy.

Doomed, Anders thought. So very, very doomed.

“Well? What did you think?”

In the dim light, Fenris grinned.