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Yours always, Z.
Theron smiled at the letter in his hand, as he nursed his cup of tea. The dim kitchen was currently empty, thank the Creators. He’d sorely needed a minute alone to himself. All the cooks were asleep, as it was the middle of the night. Only a single candlestick kept him company.
Ever since he’d come to Vigil’s Keep, there was just so much responsibility to shoulder, and no time to rest. But at least he had his ragtag band of new Wardens he’d picked up, a little found family to share the burden with. And to think, the unlikeliest one to take to Wardenhood was now his second in command! Perhaps it was no surprise, for the two of them were exceptional archers, and once the animosity had died down, they’d bonded over their talent for the bow. Nathaniel Howe had a natural authority Theron sometimes thought he lacked, though it was mostly to do with how the shemlen perceived his androgynous features, musical accent and slight build, more than his ability to lead. Imposing, that was the word. Nathaniel was imposing, and he was not. He was an elf, and having to fight through the prejudice to earn the respect of his own soldiers was tiring. At least people had stopped assuming the rogue was the Warden-Commander whenever they walked together. It was galling, even if the Howes did used to own the place.
The Warden-Commander sighed, staring at the page of vellum in his hands until the words blurred, not quite seeing it any more. At quiet times like this, when sleep escaped him, the letter was the only thing that would bring him solace. He had been separated from his husband for so long, but it was unavoidable. Zevran had unfinished business back in Antiva that would dog their heels if he did not return to tie up his loose ends, and he’d refused to let that danger from his past haunt his husband. He’d promised to send word of his success as soon as possible, but communication had to be kept to a minimum, for security’s sake.
Theron’s long ears perked up when he heard conspiratorial whispers in the stairway leading down to the kitchen. He tucked the letter away quickly. There was a small orange glow, probably from another candlestick. He was suddenly quite aware of the fact that did not have his bow, only a single dagger Zevran had left him. He’d made Theron promise to take it everywhere he went, even the privy. But as he listened, he relaxed, for the voices were quite familiar.
“There won’t be anyone, silly, and besides, the head cook likes me! She wouldn’t mind, she knows us Wardens get hungry all the time-”
“Hush, you damnable mage! We’re not alone!”
“It’s probably just Sigrun getting a sna- ooh!” Anders squeaked in surprise, clutching his companion. “Er, hullo, Commander!”
Two men stood in the darkened doorway of the kitchens, shirtless, their breeches unfastened and hanging loosely around their hips. Both their long hair was loose and messy, as if they had just woken from a long night of restless sleep. Their expressions made them look like two guilty schoolboys caught out of bounds. Theron could not help but smirk.
“Hello, Anders, Nathaniel. Please, join me.” Theron sipped placidly from his teacup. It was a blend of loose leaf tea Ashalle had given him, before he’d left, along with a handsome teapot and set of cups. It had been their wedding present from her.
“Commander,” Nathaniel greeted stiffly, and was not one to disobey a direct order, no matter how polite it sounded. He took a seat at the large wooden table, across from his superior, while Anders raided the larder.
“Would you like some Dalish tea? It is meant to calm the nerves, for sleep,” the elf offered. Nathaniel could not refuse, and was poured a cup of greenish tea. He tried it. It was earthy, in a most pleasant manner, with a hint of floral sweetness.
Anders came back with half a carved ham, some bread rolls, and a wheel of cheese that would make Alistair sit up and take notice. His face brightened at the sight of the Commander’s teapot.
“Ooh, could I try some?” Anders sat next to Nathaniel, oblivious to his companion’s discomfort and Theron’s amusement.
“Of course, Anders. Would you hand me some of that honey-baked ham? I didn’t quite get my fill at dinner.” Anders obliged, and Theron reached over to carve a slice or two. “That sweet crackling is a work of art, is it not?”
“Mmm hmmm,” Anders hummed in agreement, his cheeks stuffed full of ham and cheese he’d jammed between a bread roll. Nathaniel continued to delicately sip his tea.
“So, what’s gotten you gentlemen down here in the dead of night? Strenuous activity has made you peckish, by my guess.” Theron eyed the two of them, bare-chested and glistening with sweat in the candlelight. “Wrestling, perhaps?”
“... Yes,” Nathaniel conceded, reluctantly. “We couldn’t sleep. So we were sparring. That is why we are hungry.”
“Adding hand-to-hand combat to your skill set, Anders? Very important for a mage.” The Commander winked at the apostate. “I am sure Nathaniel is an excellent instructor, being an archer and all.” He let the two of them squirm a little before asking, “So, who won?”
“Well, considering I spent most of the first round pinned under Nate, I’d say he did,” replied Anders, with an airy tone, but a cheeky grin. Meanwhile, the rogue looked as though he’d like nothing more than for the stone floor to swallow him whole. “Just you wait ‘til I refuel, though! I’ll be on top this time.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Nathaniel muttered under his breath.
“So what are you doing down here so late, Commander?” Anders asked, washing his food down with swigs of Dalish tea. “Not those darkspawn dreams, was it? We didn’t sense anything.”
“No,” Theron sighed, and unconsciously rubbed the gold ring in his ear between his fingers. The rogue caught his gesture. Anders was too busy helping himself to more ham to notice.
“Commander,” Nathaniel began, in a unusually gentle voice. “You once said you considered us friends. May I ask you something?” Puzzled, Theron set his teacup down and nodded for the archer to continue. “Do you know what a tell is?”
“A sign that gives you away in Wicked Grace, is it not?”
“Not just in card games.” Nathaniel shook his head. “It’s just that I’ve seen you touch that earring you’re wearing, every now and then. More so lately than before. You did it just now, too.”
Given the proclivities of his two trusted comrades, Theron felt he could confide in the two of them. “That,” he sighed, more heavily this time, “is from my husband.”
Anders nearly choked on his second bread roll.
“I see.” The elf had never seen his second look so surprised before. “I did not know you were married, Commander, let alone to another-”
The mage, who had finally swallowed his large mouthful of food, cried, “You have a husband? ”
Nathaniel shot his comrade a chastising look, but Theron chuckled. “I do. He proposed to me with this very earring, in fact. Our bonding ceremony was shortly before I took up the post of Warden-Commander here. Oghren and Alistair were there.” Their Commander gave them a wistful smile, then continued, “He is away on business, and I miss him greatly. It is why sleep eludes me tonight, I’m afraid.”
Nathaniel found it strange, hearing the Commander refer to their monarch in such casual terms, but it was well-known they had fought together during the Fifth Blight and defeated the archdemon side by side.
“Handsome Dalish elf as well, is he?” Anders cooed, and immediately received an elbow in the ribs from his companion. Pouting, Anders rubbed the tender spot. “What? I’m just asking.”
Laughing, their Commander refilled their cups of tea. “He is an elf, but he was not Dalish. Caused quite a lot of controversy, indeed, when our union was announced to the clan.”
“I’m sorry you miss him.” Anders reached over the table and held his Commander’s hand in sympathy. Theron squeezed back, heart full of gratitude. Anders had never been shy about things like physical affection, despite their different stations in the Keep. The Dalish elf appreciated this about him. Theron had always privately thought that the mage’s past social isolation made Anders more inclined to reach out and touch others, to feel their presence in a tangible way. Nathaniel was less comfortable with affection by touch, given his militaristic background in the Free Marches as a squire, where such things were a forbidden luxury. The rogue had confessed to Theron that Arl Howe sent him there as a punishment for his ‘leanings’, which his father had disapproved of. And judging by the way Nathaniel flinched when his comrades would even so much as pat him on the back, that was not the only punishment he’d received.
Anders chewed thoughtfully for a moment before adding, “I could lend you Ser Pounce-A-Lot for a cuddle?”
“I would appreciate that.” The Commander smiled, but it turned sly as he added, “I see the cat has been quite busy upon your back! It is covered in scratches.”
“Oh, yes,” Anders replied, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “He’s quite the feisty one. That’s how he wakes me up in the morning.”
Beside him, Nathaniel groaned, a hand pressed to the exasperated look on his face. “Ugh, Maker, is everyone aware?” the rogue grumbled.
The Commander sniggered. “It is not a secret at the Keep that you two share a bed, Nathaniel. Your friend here is not the most subtle of creatures, even if you are.” Nathaniel glared at the mage, who shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I will not keep you any longer.” The elf stood, collecting his tea set to clean it himself. His fastidious nature would not let anyone else wash such important items of his. His Wardens followed suit, rising as well.
“Thanks for the tea, Commander,” Anders piped up. “You’re welcome to join us if you fancy - owww!” The mage whined and rubbed his upper arm, as Nathaniel had smacked him.
“Don’t be rude!” Nathaniel hissed. “The Commander is a married man. Behave yourself, for once.”
Theron laughed. Zevran would not have minded if he had taken Anders up on the offer, but right now, the idea of sharing a bed with anyone other than Zevran did not appeal to the Dalish elf. To tell the truth, he was quite jealous of the pair of them, as he had not felt his husband’s touch for months.
“If you want him to behave, a few swats across the arse will do that one good,” the Warden-Commander suggested, with a crafty grin. “As his instructor, you ought to take him in hand properly, Nathaniel.”
By the looks on his comrades’ faces, he had given them some interesting ideas for their next ‘sparring’ session. And by the hastiness of their exit, it appeared as though the two could not wait to put these new ideas into motion.