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The sky was falling over Vigil’s Keep. Tiny pinpoints of light danced and whirled, leaving thin trails in their absence until those too disappeared. On the roof, curled into a makeshift nest of a couple of bedrolls and blankets, Theron Mahariel watched in grateful silence.
It was a bad night, one that reeked of claustrophobia and paranoia. One where he felt too little like the Warden-Commander and too much like a small, frightened child. One where the thought of stepping through the threshold to his suite of rooms made the walls close in. One where the frustration of having been able to kill an archdemon, yet still feeling unable to sleep inside was so palpable that he wanted to scream. But he swallowed and withdrew, climbing the narrow stairs to the roof to find his senses again.
The air was crisp and smelled like smoke. It was a relief to notice it—to taste ash instead of panic as he sunk back into himself, again becoming comfortable with his skin.
He heard the mage before he saw him. One ear quirked as he picked up the easily distinguishable sounds of soft boot on stone, short strides and swagger, and the breathy rustle of robes. Theron hovered between “I was hoping you’d join me,” and “I’d rather be alone.” Neither statement held more truth than the other. As was often the case, he chose neither, preferring to hold his tongue.
“I knew you’d be up here.”
Theron sat up, half-untangling himself from his cocoon of blankets, shifting, pushing one of the bedrolls out from underneath him, making room for Anders to join him. “How so?”
“Well, you weren’t anywhere else, were you?”
A smile small crossed over Theron’s lips. He had genuine affection for Anders when they were out of context together, on a roof instead of on the battlefield, eyeing one another in Vigil’s Keep when they passed with winking acknowledgement and hinting smiles. He glanced over his shoulder at the mage, who was more than used to not being answered.
“Got you something,” Anders said, sounding pleased with himself as he dangled a dark, long-necked bottle into Theron’s field of vision. “Authentic Dalish wine, not easy to come by in Amaranthine, I might add.” He settled next to Theron, close but not uncomfortably so.
“You’ve probably been had.” Theron turned the bottle in his hands, looking for marks from a Dalish craftmaster. He saw none, but the Dalish rarely made their own glass, so the absence of the marks meant little as to whether or not it was genuine. “The Dalish don’t trade wine with shem-” Theron paused, wrinkled his nose, and sighed. “I mean humans.” Anders had gone quiet, as he often did when Theron spoke more than a few words at a time, so Theron pulled the cork and put the bottle to his nose.
Sour apples. Green grass. Tamlen grinning and Merrill giggling as they run through the forest. Bonfires and dancing. Marathari telling stories. The rough, silky brush of a halla’s nose. Master Ilen curving strong wood. Cedar, pine and silk of the aravels. Camphorous elfroot on wounds. Clear, endless water. Blood and ink. Births. Deaths. Bonds.
Theron took a deep, shuddering breath and gently rested the bottle in his lap, holding to the neck with a kind of desperation. Right then, he wasn’t the Warden-Commander or the Hero of Ferelden or a Grey Warden, even. He was a Dalish orphen, a red haired young man with sage green eyes, lying on his back, fine needles in his cheeks, staring at the blue Ferelden sky.
“How did you…?” Theron asked and turned to Anders then, finding the mage watching him as if that moment had passed over his face as well as through his mind.
“A good mage never reveals his secrets,” Anders said with a lofty wave of his hand, looking just on the self-aware side of smug, grinning slightly, watching Theron as if he were expecting something. Theron put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull, sighing when he was done, licking off the dregs.
“Thank you.” Theron closed his eyes as the warmth spread through him, floral, bitter apple on his tongue. “You can’t have known how much I needed that.”
“What else am I here for other than knowing when people need a pick-me-up?” Anders put a hand up in refusal when Theron offered him the bottle. “No thanks, that’s all yours.”
“I wonder what I’ve done to deserve that,” Theron said before taking another pull. Stars were still falling, and he watched them in a comfortable haze. “I’ve been…cruel.” Anders raised an eyebrow. “To you. I ought to have…done something other than ignore your advances.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d even noticed,” Anders said with good humor. “Thought I might have to send an official letter through the post to get your attention.” He turned to Theron, shifting, pulling a knee up and resting an elbow on it. “You can say you’re not interested; I’m pretty sure I’ve survived worse.”
“I don’t like to lie.” Theron’s lips curled into a slight smile as color rose on his cheeks. His head felt beautifully clear as he propped the bottle against his crossed legs, and brushed his knuckles against Anders’ cheek. He found a loose lock of hair behind his ear and rubbed his thumb across it, pushing it away from his skin. “I’m bad at this,” Theron warned. “Talking, explaining myself.” Theron brought his forefinger to Anders’ lips, stroking the lower one. “But I think I could kiss you just fine.” Anders slid a hand behind Theron’s head and pulled him in, barely grazing their lips at first, then earnestly pressing them together.
Weeks later, every kiss still tasted like sour apples and shooting stars.