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“Let me see if I understand this.”
It was cold atop Vigil’s Keep. Nightfall had brought a chill wind from the north, but the empty bottle of wine sitting near Theron and Anders ensured that the Dalish was feeling none of it. He was out of his armor for once, wearing a pair of ill-fitting trousers and a large shirt had been unlaced at the collar when the flush from the wine had begun to creep over him. They were half laying together, Anders propped up against a bedroll and a wadded up blanket, Theron comfortably wedged between his legs, the back of his head resting on the mage’s shoulder. Often he seemed embarrassed or uncomfortable with affection, but right now it was pouring out of him in such a flood that Anders was almost afraid to speak, lest he break whatever spell had come over Theron.
“Your Chantry takes every mage child to the Circle of Magi, because, what, they could possibly, maybe be possessed by a demon?” The melodic Dalish lilt in Theron’s voice was more noticeable now that he was speaking in long sentences rather than two-to-three word bursts. “That seems like a poor excuse.”
“It is. Andraste said that magic exists to serve man, not rule him, but every mage I’ve ever known just wants to live a life, not rule over anyone.” Anders tightened his arms around Theron’s chest, pulling him in a little closer. So few people were willing to listen and understand. The genuine interest and sympathy from Theron was new, strange, and he needed more. He needed all of it.
“The Dalish have always had mages. Keepers all know the old magic, and I have heard of no Dalish being possessed by demons.” Theron frowned, tilting his head up to look at Anders. In his half-drunken haze he missed and pressed his nose into the mage’s throat. He blinked blearily, then nuzzled in a bit more, content with the result. “What they’re doing…whatever your religion says, it’s wrong.”
“You’re not just saying that, are you?”
“Tch.” Theron wrinkled his nose when he turned away from Anders’ neck. “If it was Dalish they were trying to lock in a tower for the rest of their lives…” He shook his head, inarticulate. “I’m glad we killed that Templar.”
“Maker’s breath, that’s a romantic sentiment. I’ve never had anyone say they were happy to kill a Templar for me before.” Anders’ tone was lightly teasing as pressed his lips to Theron’s hair, lifting a hand to cup his warm cheek, feeling that slight shiver of inexplicably delicious magic when his fingers touched the vallaslin. He could stroke those tattoos forever, trying to suss out why they felt like the smallest fragment of the Fade. “If I could marry you, I’d be on one knee.” Theron made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a laugh, but leaned fondly into Anders’ hand as he traced the long, curled pattern on one cheek. “You really think mages should be free?”
“Everyone should be free,” Theron said, as though it were a simple truth, something everyone should understand. “What your Chantry says has no bearing on what I believe, and I do not care what some human prophet said about mages.”
“You’re making it very difficult to think about letting you go,” Anders said in a thick whisper as he dragged his hand into Theron’s hair, stroking his ear from base to tip, feeling it twitch and warm under his fingers. Theron was tender, lifting a hand to the one on his ear, bringing it to his lips and kissing an elfroot-stained fingertip, lightly touching it with the tip of his tongue.
“Then don’t.”
“I seem to recall you having objections about my failure to be an elf.” Anders trailed that hand over Theron’s chin, down his throat, and into the open shirt to rub his thumb across his collarbone. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re not just humoring the poor, needy apostate?”
“You don’t think that.” Theron shrugged off Anders’ grasp so he could turn around, awkwardly kicking over the empty bottle as he straddled Anders, propping himself up on his knees, wild strands of hair hanging in his face. He dangled his arms over his shoulders, drunk, affectionate, and bemused. “Maybe it’s strange for me, but I’m happy.” Speechless, Anders worked his jaw, swallowing hard. He carefully brushed the back of his hand against Theron’s cheek. “I don’t talk about this. I know. I’m bad at words. I’m bad at…I don’t…” Theron waved a hand dismissively. “Just believe me.” Color was rising on Theron’s ears as he spoke, and he reached up to rub at one, annoyed. “Okay?”
“Yes. More than okay. So much more.” He kissed him, warm wine on Theron’s tongue, and settled them backwards onto the bedroll, running his fingers through thick, red hair, until Theron drifted off into an uncharacteristically peaceful sleep.
To think that
he
made someone happy.