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Anders was somewhere in Nevarra when he realized he’d missed Satinalia.
The first snow had been hovering for weeks while he slowly made his way west – not towards any particular destination, but simply to get as far away from Kirkwall and civilization as physically possible. With Ferelden and Tevinter right out, it was a good of a direction as any.
When the snow finally struck it started out as an occasional snowflake early in the day when he made his way through the thick forest, and ended as a howling storm that tore through the air. The wind shook the walls of the little shack he’d found as he managed to get the door closed with some effort.
Shivering and pulling his ratty cloak tighter around himself, Anders the briefest spark of magic to create a magelight that hovered under the creaking ceiling. The shack seemed like something meant for hunters or shepherds during the warmer months – there was a low bed, a simple furnace, a small bench and a stool.
It would have to do.
Anders slung down his pack and leaned his staff against the wall before starting to get the room into a somewhat livable state.
Before long there was a fire crackling in the fireplace, his coat and boots spread out before it to dry off after sloughing through the storm that was still beating against the wall. Now slightly more comfortable,
Anders sat down on the musty bed and opened his journal, a chewed-down pencil stub held in one hand to mark down today’s progress. A few days had passed since he’d been able to sit down and write properly – something had been on his tail, and he had only just managed to shake it in the oncoming storm.
Anders wasn’t entirely sure what it was, or who it was, but he knew it was better to stay away.
Opening the journal, he started counting days, drawing out the path he’d taken. One, two, three, four days on the go landed him on… the second day of Firstfall. The day after Satinalia.
An odd lump began growing in his throat, and he did his best to swallow it down. It wasn’t as if it was the first time he’d missed the holiday – or as if he’d really celebrated it properly through the years. The Circles had been stuffy and boring, the Wardens mostly drinking, and Kirkwall…
Darkness. Surrounded by soft warmth, eyes closed even as he woke because he was safe here. A body pressed close – naked skin against naked skin, the scent of lyrium and elfroot filling his senses. Arms around him, a kiss pressed to his sternum.
“Happy Satinalia, amatus.”
Anders closed his eyes, biting back the tears he no longer had any right to shed.
Kirkwall was best left not remembered.
The snow was shining brightly in the dark, reflecting off Fenris markings as he made his way forward. It had been snowing for a while, and it didn’t seem as if it was going to let up any time soon. He cursed under his breath, eyes straining through the dark to find shelter.
He had been tracking a mage for several days now. The man had, according to the last gossip he’d heard, had blond hair and a tall stature. It was a good a lead as any, these days.
So he had gone after him, straight into the snowstorm. Now the track was lost, and Fenris was shivering out in the snow. He looked around desperately for something, anything that could shelter him – knowing full well how dangerous it was to be stuck out in a storm like this.
Seeing a dim firelight through the trees, he let out a relieved sigh and set out.
Ever since Kirkwall, Fenris had been searching for Anders, anger and betrayal fueling his flight. It had soon been clear Anders was not on board Isabela’s ship along with the rest of their small group fleeing the city. He had lost a few precious days there.
They had landed in Starkhaven to resupply and left soon after, right before Sebastian could return in anger. Fenris had been glad to see his friend. The offer to join him had been tempting – going after Anders with an army at his back would make things simpler.
But the anger he felt was more personal than that – The betrayal cutting under his skin. Instead of waiting for the prince to settle, he had set out himself.
Tracking the mage had not been hard, at first – following tales of a blond mage raving through the countryside, blue flickering under his skin as he kept to the outskirts of civilization.
The stories only confirmed what Fenris already knew – the demon had finally taken over completely. It was a bittersweet knowledge – He had no way to know how long his lover had been taken over by that creature. Had it just been since the Chantry? Or had this been going on longer than he had thought?
Fenris tried not to think of that. The implications were too painful, on top of everything else.
Lately though, something had changed. Gone were the tales of the blue abomination – and with them, his easy trail. For the longest time, he’d thought his search over. The thought of the mage, his mage, Anders, lying dead in a ditch, or worse, caught by Templars, made his anger falter.
It was only recently, as the nights grew longer and the preparations for Satinalia started showing in every village he passed, that he had once again picked up something.
Whispers of a soft-spoken blond man, long hair hiding his face, helping a young boy who had gotten his leg crushed under a falling tree. A deadly cough cured. A hard birth survived without a scratch.
The people were more defensive, now. Speaking of a dangerous abomination to someone who looked strong enough to kill it was fine. Doing the same about the person who had saved your daughter’s life was not.
Fenris tried not to get his hopes up. His rage had cooled along with the weather – now only the determination to find him remained, to make him explain what he had done. Why he had left.
And then this blasted snowstorm had come. Now the trail was all but lost, and Fenris needed to find somewhere to wait out the storm. The light he had followed proved to be coming from a small hut – likely something for servants watching the animals during the warmer months.
Someone else seemed to be taking shelter there already, but Fenris had no choice.
Pulling open the door against the accumulated snow was an entire task in itself, and closing it took some work, too. When Fenris finally stood inside the small hut, wind howling against the walls like despair demons, he was even more covered in snow than before.
A shifting in the air made him stiffen up, eyes locked on the seemingly innocuous walking stick leaning against the wall. But he knew better – the magic in the staff sparking against his markings.
The person sleeping in that bed was a mage.
Without a sound, Fenris pulled his sword from its sheath. He would not kill the mage outright – he had learnt that much during his time in Kirkwall. But it never hurt to be prepared.
Cautiously, he stepped closer, heart stuttering as he saw the straw-blond strand spread out against the pillow, glimmering in the flickering light of the fire. It couldn’t be.
Fenris almost tripped over himself stepping up to the bed, incapable of fighting the growing hope in his chest – yes, that was his hair, the same scruffy chin only slightly bruised and the same cheekbones he had traced so many times, closed eyes and above –
A sunburst brand, a stark and unhealed red against his pale skin.
Fenris fell back, his sword clattering against the wooden floor.
He was too late.
They had gotten to him first. And now all that was left of his lover was this… this empty husk, sleeping quietly in an abandoned shack out in the middle of nowhere. This wasn’t what he had wanted.
Not even when he was as most furious had he wished this upon Anders. The mage had explained tranquility to him, once, after Karl’s death. His low, serious voice had been Fenris’ first clue that there was more to Anders than he had first thought.
Anders voice from that day rang through his head, the image of Anders’ vivid gaze and trembling hands.
If I’m ever… Please, Fenris. Whatever you think of me… Don’t let me live like that. It is not life. Please kill me.
Fenris’ hand twitched to where his dagger was sheathed against his hip. He was too late to save his mage. This was the least he could give him.
The quiet clatter of metal against wood was what first woke him up, but it wasn’t until he felt the cold steel against his neck that he surfaced with a gasp, blindly throwing out a wave of force magic that had his assailant thudding against the opposite wall.
Anders cursed himself for not noticing earlier. Ice sprung up in his left hand, the fire in the fireplace roaring louder in response to his magic.
“I’ll show you – Fenris?” His snarled threat was interrupted by the sight of white hair and glowing tattoos. He faltered for a moment, the shock of seeing his lover again making the fire flicker.
The last time he had seen Fenris was after the Chantry had exploded – just before the Templars came and Justice took over. Fenris had been… angry. More than angry. Furious. Hurt at the perceived betrayal shining in his eyes as he told Hawke to kill him.
Had said that Anders wanted to die.
What really hit was how true the observation had been.
Anders had run, of course. It was what he did. He ran with Justice screaming about betrayal, about hate. The next few weeks had been a blur – Justice taking over as they fought for survival in a world that seemed more hostile than ever.
It was only a few weeks ago, when he had woken up in a Templar encampment with a sunburst brand burning on his forehead and a blank void where Justice had once been, that he had been able to slow down. Breathe. Find what pieces of himself that he could salvage, between Justice’s takeover and Fenris’ anger.
And here he was, now. Anders figured he should feel scared – the elf was more than likely here to kill him. But somehow, the only thing he could feel was how damn tired he was.
Tired of running.
Tired of being without Justice.
Tired of sleeping alone.
He let the ice in his hand dissipate, falling back on the bed with a sigh.
“I guess you’re here to finish the job, huh?” He scrubbed his face with his hands, wincing as he touched the still-healing burn on his forehead. The scoff that followed was expected.
“If I wanted to kill you, mage, I would have done so already.”
The words were less expected, but Anders was nothing if not flexible. The next time he looked up, Fenris had moved. He was now in front of Anders, weapons forgotten on the floor. The look in his eyes was… soft. Wondering.
“I… mage. Anders. The brand… I thought –“ Fenris looked down, hiding his face. “I thought you were gone.”
Anders didn’t hesitate. He slipped from the bed to kneel in front of Fenris, arms folded around him. The elf stiffened momentarily before relaxing, hands coming up to rest against Anders’ shoulders briefly before clutching harder, pulling them closer together. The tears he had fought back before was welling up once again, Anders finding no reason to stop them this time. He dropped a chaste kiss against Fenris’ shoulder, a smile forming.
“Happy Satinalia, Fenris.”