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Despite the claims of Antivans, Rivainis and others from warmer climes, not all Ferelden days are dreary, muddy, or cold. They do often smell like mabari, although most Fereldans tend to view that as a point of pride regardless of how outsiders feel about their prized purebreds. But there are many beautiful, worthwhile days in Ferelden, ones where sunshowers leave the trees heavy with cool, fresh rain, and the sky is so clear that you can see Denerim from Kinloch Hold. Occasionally, in the summer, there are heat waves that seem more suited to Seheron, where the Bannon dries out and the coastlines slosh with humidity.
Late Solace, long after the episode at Kal’hirol, one of those uncharacteristically tropical periods settled, snug and overwhelming, over Vigil’s Keep. The stonework stayed cool, but the air inside quickly became stagnant and saturated with humidity, plastering wet hair to foreheads and clothes to damp skin. Though it cooled enough at night to make sleeping on the roof a pleasant, welcome break, the increasingly oppressive heat of the day brought with it a pall of ill-temper. It was too hot to travel, too hot to train, and too hot for most of the Keep’s denizens to maintain a veneer of good humor.
Sigrun alone kept in genuinely high spirits, especially after setting up a bed for herself in the cool basement so that she could sleep through the hottest hours of the day in relative comfort. More rested than anyone else at the Keep, she used this enthusiasm to get to know her fellow Wardens, focusing heavily on sussing out the details of why the Warden-Commander fell to pieces when Anders was knocked unconscious in Kal’hirol.
“You two seem happy together,” she said to Theron, finding him outside at dusk, methodically making arrows. There was a full quiver at his side as he sat on the ground, leaning over Dworkin’s table, carefully using a sharp knife to separate the quills from the vanes of a large pile of feathers.
“Hmm?” Theron didn’t look up at her until one particularly fine feather was split, prepared, and added to the finished pile.
“You and Anders!” Sigrun sat on ground across from the table, smiling up at him as she picked up one of the untouched feathers to spin it in her fingers. Theron was quiet, turning his attention back to fletching while trying to ignore the tips of his ears coloring. The other Wardens had been either polite enough or disinterested enough to not say much, though the servants were constantly gossiping about “the Commander and his apostate,” and Oghren had jabbed him in the hip with an elbow while chuckling lewdly a few times, but it was hard to tell what that was all about with Oghren.
“I don’t really—” Theron cleared his throat and sat back, wiping sweat off of his brow with his sleeve. Though it was cooling, it was still humid and even with his long hair braided tightly and off of his neck, he was still sweltering. “I don’t talk about my private life, really. It’s nothing against you, personally.”
“Well what do you talk about?” Sigrun asked, picking up one of the discarded quills and twirling it absently in her fingers. “Darkspawn? Bandits? The daily allotment of grain for Amaranthine City?” She snapped the quill in half and put it down. “You should talk about the good things. Take it from a dead woman, they’re important while you’re still alive.”
Theron opened his mouth to speak, then paused, pressing his lips together as met Sigrun’s gaze, his cheeks hot, feeling far more shy than he ought to, given his rank. “Perhaps,” he said, picking up the broken quill to put it in the refuse pile with the rest, “you may be right. But I’m not good with words.”
“You’re better than Oghren.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“Well, no, but it’s something, isn’t it?”
Theron pushed the knife and the feathers across the table, sitting back and cracking his knuckles slowly, hands stiff from hours of tedious, precise work. “Why the interest? Did you run out of romance novels?”
“Oh, no.” Sigrun smiled, wide and open, shifting slightly onto one hip. “It’s just that the real-life stuff is so much juicer.” She changed her tone, softening it a bit. “I’m just curious because of how terrified you were for him at Kal’hirol, but I won’t pry.” Sigrun began to stand, using the table for leverage. “I was going to tell you all about how he looks at you when you’re not looking though, your loss!”
“I know how he looks at me,” Theron said, low, with a small measure of amusement, glancing away from Sigrun as a shadow of a smile crept across his face. When he did meet her eyes, it was with a brief, genuine shade of honesty. “We’re happy. I am, at least, and I think he is too.” He raised a hand as she started to question him again, shaking his head slowly. “That’s all you’re getting from me.”
It was, but when she found Anders the next day, bent over a mortar and pestle, grinding camphorous, sweet elfroot into a thick, grassy paste, she got a lot more. He was eager to talk, answering all of her questions, embellishing the story a little and confusing her with truthful, yet somewhat odd answers. She was pondering “sour apples” as an answer to “what was your first kiss like” weeks later.
But Sigrun’s curiosity only provided a small diversion, and the heat steadfastly refused to let up. After nearly two weeks of being cooped up in the Keep, going stir-crazy and realizing that the awful, unplaceable smell was actually coming from Justice, goodwill was in low supply. They only took meals together, sitting silently at the long table, barely looking at one another.
It was midday when Theron came up behind Anders at his seat at that table, put a hand on his shoulder, leaned into his ear, and whispered directly into it.
“I’m running away,” he said. “Come with me.”
Before Anders could answer, he was walking towards the exit of the Keep, a large pack slung over one shoulder, leaving Anders sitting stunned and red-faced, while Nathaniel raised one thin eyebrow and Sigrun giggled knowingly.
Anders caught up with him outside of the Keep, where he was leaning against the statue of Andraste, another bag at his feet. Theron slung the one on his shoulder off, handing it to Anders before bending to pick up the other.
“Running away?” Anders asked curiously, sliding on the pack and following as Theron began to walk with purpose, making it necessary for Anders to jog a few steps to keep up, despite having a wider stride. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere nice.” Theron wasn’t dressed for battle; he had no quiver or bow, and his step was light despite his burden, which Anders could now see had a bedroll, among other things.
“Are we coming back?”
“Probably not tonight.”
Anders fell into step with him, and for a time they walked in silence, out of the Keep and into the wilderness, Theron moving through the woods like a true Dalish, getting caught on none of the roots that tripped Anders up. He waited patiently for him when that happened, or offered an arm to keep him from falling. “You’re…different,” Anders said, once they had passed the worst of the undergrowth. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I’m just surprised.”
“Perhaps you’ve changed me,” Theron said, glancing up at Anders, looking far more amused than seemed proper in the heat. “I hope you’re ready to take responsibility for that.” The smile on Theron’s face was almost wide enough to be called a grin, and he actually laughed when Anders stopped, looking thoroughly puzzled. “Come on.” Theron urged him on. “I just…I feel better, lately.”
For that, Anders had no witty retort, so he followed wordlessly in Theron’s footsteps, trying to move as effortlessly through the trees as he did. After about an hour of traveling, they came to a clearing that opened up into a wide, grass-lined inlet full of clear, sparkling water smelling strongly of brackish ocean.
“This must lead to the Amaranthine Sea,” Anders said as Theron stopped and shrugged off the pack, doing the same and watching the water with a far-away, wistful sort of look on his face. “I’ve never seen the sea before.”
“Never?” Theron was spreading out a blanket on a nice, flat area that was so bereft of rocks and twigs that Anders suspected Theron had been out here earlier, preparing the spot. When he saw the fire pit, he knew for sure, and wondered how long Theron had been planning this.
“No, I’ve seen plenty of lakes, though.” He sat down on the blanket, pulling off his boots one at a time so he wouldn’t track dirt all over it. He was about to ask Theron to satisfy his curiosity, to explain why they’d come out there, but got tongue-tied as he watched Theron peel his shirt over his head. His throat felt thick as he stared, rediscovering the freckles on Theron’s back, the white scars on his light skin, and the cords of tight muscles in his shoulders and arms, all both familiar and new in the harsh sunlight.
“This was closer than a lake,” Theron said simply, folding his shirt, tossing it onto the blanket near Anders, “and I really, really wanted to go swimming.”
“I didn’t know you liked to swim,” Anders said absently, tracing the lines of Theron’s slim legs with his gaze as he stepped out of his trousers.
“I haven’t had a chance.” Theron crouched near his pack and pulled out another thin, leather strip, which he used to fold his braid in on itself and tie it tightly. “You coming?”
“No, I…think I’ll just watch,” he said, and he did, spending a few hours soaking in the cool breeze that was rising from the water, watching Theron dive and float, swimming until he was a dot on the edge of Anders’ perception, then back, with no discernible goal. Outside of those times when they’d share a bottle of wine and a prolonged snuggle under the stars, Anders wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Theron just enjoy himself like this before.
There was joy on Theron’s face when he finally returned, looking more exhausted than he did after most battles, dropping beside Anders and leaning on him, soaking his robes, slowly catching his breath. Anders put an arm around him, noticing that the skin on his back and shoulders was angry red, looking as though it had been badly burned from the few hours in the water. He now understood why, despite the heat, Theron had been walking around in long sleeves.
“You’re lucky you’ve got a mage around,” Anders said, lightly teasing. “You’d be peeling for days if I wasn’t here. Turn around and let me see your back, love.” Anders reached out and touched the Fade as Theron complied, feeling it shifting, tickling like spiderweb just outside of his grasp. He sucked it in, keeping it inside of him as he lifted his hands, holding them just above Theron’s skin, his fingertips going numb when he forced the cool stream of rejuvenating magic out of them, watching Theron get goosebumps as it ran over his body, red fading as the burn was soothed. Anders exhaled, feeling a tad drained, but glad to see Theron’s skin was back to its normal tone.
“What would I do without you?” Theron asked fondly, settling himself onto Anders, under one of his arms, leaning his considerably lighter weight against him.
“Peel?”
“Likely.” Turning, he wrapped a still damp arm around Anders chest, nuzzling his face into his cheek, loving the scruff, the scent and the warmth of his suntouched skin. “I want you to come with me,” he said quietly, conspiratorially.
“I did.” Anders absently began to undo Theron’s braid, setting aside leather cords and combing his soaking hair with gentle fingers. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?”
“After this is over.” There was familiar hesitation in Theron’s voice, an indication that whatever he was trying to say was too difficult for him to put into words, and it was going to probably take twenty minutes of questioning to get it out of him.
“This.” Anders said thoughtfully, trying to guide him. “The mess with the darkspawn?” Theron nodded into his neck as Anders finished his ministrations on his hair, letting it lay wet and dripping on his back. “You don’t mean to stay with the wardens?”
Theron barked a short, stifled, bitter laugh. “Creators, no.”
“Where would you go?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
“You mean to wander, like…like the Dalish?” Anders asked carefully, feeling an odd spark of excitement low in his chest, searching himself for what caused it, knowing it was different than the dull, aching throb in his belly from Theron’s roaming hands. “No cities, no Chantry, no Templars?”
“Something like that.”
“What if I don’t like camping?” Anders teased, gathering Theron a bit closer.
“Then we’ll stop at inns.” There was such a serious note in Theron’s voice that Anders swallowed hard, taking time to just think, petting his wet hair, trying to not get distracted by Theron fiddling with the clasp at his throat, unhooking it and sliding a hand under his pauldron.
This time, as was usually Theron’s habit, Anders answered with affection rather than words, tugging Theron into his lap and pulling him close, kissing him soundly, overwhelmed, letting Theron overwhelm him, falling back underneath him, holding him tight, and seeing something wholly unguarded and lovely in those fern-green eyes.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” He asked softly, cupping Theron’s cheek when he nodded. “Of course, of course.” He tilted back his head when Theron’s lips brushed his ear, giving him room to kiss his neck. “Why would I go anywhere without you?”
“Ma emma vhenan. I won’t go anywhere without you.” Theron said it like it was simple. He sat up, shivering lightly as Anders ran his hands down his sides, water rolling down his back, dripping from his hair. “I’ll take you to the sea.”
“So you can swim?” Anders rested his hands on Theron’s hips, just looking up at him, following the curves of his vallaslin, down his nose, across his cheeks, and under his chin.
Theron kissed Anders’ nose, just barely brushing his lips against the bump on the bridge. “I can swim anywhere that there’s water, but you can only say you’ve seen the ocean once you’ve been there.”
“Well, I could say I’d been…” Anders said with a smirk, laughing when Theron nipped him on the tip of his nose. “That actually hurt!” He reached up and rubbed where he’d bitten. “Okay, okay. No lying about visiting the seaside. Picky.” Fondly, he pulled Theron back down on top of him, sliding his hand down his damp back, resting it at the base of his spine as Theron cuddled in, burying his face in his shoulder. “You really have changed,” he said softly once he was settled, turning to place a kiss on Theron’s temple.
“Is that bad?” Theron asked, muffled and relaxed.
“Are you happy?” He kissed him again when he nodded, sighing, soft and content. “Then it’s wonderful, and I’m glad I can finally see you properly.”
“You’ve always seen me,” Theron said, his tone a bit far-away, but fond. “Other people…they look at me like I’m some curiosity. That’s the Dalish saved Ferelden, would you look at that.” He finished in a poor, mocking impression of a Ferelden accent, unable to shake the lilting Elvish vowels to make it work. “You see past that.”
Somehow, Theron always managed to say just enough to steal any comebacks that Anders had been saving up, leaving him with a dry mouth and a thick, unwieldy tongue. So he continued to play Theron’s role, quiet and affectionate, kissing him, feeling fortunate but sublimely selfish to think that this was all that mattered.
For now it was, and that too was wonderful.