Archive of Our Own

Art by: Horns-of-Mischief

Templars and mages toppled before him, felled like so many dead trees. Red sprays and harsh cries barely pierced the haze through which Fenris saw them. Men and women whether of sound mind or abominations born of demons and red lyrium -- it didn’t matter. It was Anders who had taught him to see the people behind the magic. Without him, every mage now fell into one of two categories -- things obstructing his way to his mage and those who stood aside -- those who died and those who lived.

The fatigue had him too bone-tired to think beyond the drive to seek. Venhedis, when had he last slept? For weeks he’d been falling into an exhausted heap wherever he found a patch of dirt free of muck, waking after only a few hours, dawn not yet broke before he pushed onward. Any food or drink his body required to continue the search was taken through stolen mouthfuls on the road. There was no time to stop. He couldn’t even remember the last hot meal he’d consumed.

He and Anders had stolen from the Chantry at Kirkwall together, sneaking off in the chaos and hiding. When sleep did take him, it was with that memory at the forefront. Bodies wrapped around one another, sharing warmth on frigid hedgerow nights, dirt for a bed and Anders’ chest for a pillow. Those days on the run had been his happiest in a long, long time.

Nearly a fortnight had passed since they’d become separated, the rebellion becoming ever more violent, gaining vitriol and support by the hour. Eventually, it had come down to a decision -- divide up or die together. It had not been an easy choice, Anders had balked. His stomach turned with guilt as he remembered what he had done. A crack over the head and his mage was unconscious. He threw him in a covered carriage, threw some coin at the driver, and left a trail for their pursuers to track him.

Every waking moment since, he’d spent on this long hunt. Little, practically no, information to go on meant it was slow-going but now he was close. He could feel it.

He had to be.

More than once, he had cut through the carnage, making his way to a motionless collapsed figure in mage’s robes, red-blonde hair peeking out through blood and filth. Each time his heart seized as he reached out to roll the body over, nausea making his stomach roil until the lifeless face revealed unfamiliar features.  

When he did have dreams they were consumed by the horror of what he might find, of what would be worse. They tormented him with images of the cold, empty stare of his lover, alternating with the eerie blue glow that ripped Anders’ flesh in its attempts to escape. Nightmares of finding his mage only to reveal Justice had taken him completely, Anders as dead as if he’d been run through, set him waking with a jolt nearly every night.

The worse of them pitted him against Justice, forcing them to battle until Fenris had cut him down. As soon as the killing blow landed, the blue light would vanish, awareness would return to his lover’s soft amber eyes and he was forced to watch, helpless, as the life drained out of them. It spilled onto his hands in red so dark it was almost black, words of betrayal and longing on Anders’ lips. When he woke from those he didn’t bother to go back to sleep. He stood and pressed on. The dreams were worse than the searching.

After weeks of enduring the dreams, he decided to fight them, pushing himself on the trail until the black of exhaustion took him to the detritus of the forest floor wherever he happened to stop walking. No room for the colorful flickers of light that tore his heart from his chest and made him choke on his pain. It was taking its toll. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to go on.

It was with those aching, tumultuous thoughts, Fenris came upon a field full of churning bodies. He’d heard it, distantly as he moved closer, now searching out any place Anders might have fallen into the fray. And he would have. There was no chance his lover wasn’t helping mages wherever he could. Seeking battles was the best way to seek Anders out, Fenris was sure of that, but they were everywhere now. If they really did find their way back to one another it would be miraculous. Regardless, he couldn’t stop looking.

Fenris was small and fast, it was easy to dart between the bodies of Templars and Mages too engrossed in killing each other to bother with him. More than once his seeking eyes spotted robes that looked familiar, or a flash of red-blonde hair, or heard a call that sounded almost like Anders. Each time he changed direction closing the gap only to find a stranger. Someone he could fight for, or against but did neither. Let them have each other, he cared only for one soul in this mill of flesh.

The slough felt like it took hours, days, his weariness ran bone deep.

And then, through the haze and din of the battle a great blue-white flash caught his eye as a ring of bodies went flying into the crowd, moving outward from a central point. It could have been any mage, really, but something tugged him forward, daring to hope the search was over.

Another dance through the crowd and Fenris arrived at the perimeter of the blast. All around the circle lay Red Templars, most motionless, some moving weakly, trying to crawl away. But a glance was all he spared them. His gaze moved to the center of the cleared area where, squatted down and hunched into a ball, there was a lanky man in mage’s robes, hair dirty and sweaty, but so clearly the strawberry-gold he’d been searching for that his heart ached, hoping against hope, against better judgement. The man lifted his eyes, amber, and saw him. A familiar lopsided smile blossomed just as Fenris’ attention was pulled to the Templar charging from the opposite side. His blade, long and glowing with that sickly crimson, was aimed for the middle of Anders’ back.

He didn’t have time to warn, no time for words, only action.

Fenris was fast but not fast enough to cross the space he needed to. His lips curled into a dangerous snarl, teeth showing in a flash of white sharpness that only a fool would mistake for mirth, and let the lyrium in his body flare to life, curling white lines glowing against his copper skin. He poured it into his movements, running across the cleared circle swiftly enough that the Templar seemed to slow in comparison, moving as if through winter sap. It bought him more than enough time to get up close and dash past, lifting the sharp metal claws of his gauntlets and ripping the Templar’s throat free of his neck with a low, rumbling roar and two quick swipes.  A few drops from the arterial spray fell across his right cheek. The Templar tumbled forward, dying with a gurgle, and Fenris wiped at the blood with the back of his hand, already turning away.

His mage had moved, standing and turning to face him, smile blossomed into a grin so beautiful it stopped him in his tracks. He stood, gaping, hardly daring to believe the sight before him. Dirty, sleep-deprived, dark circles under his eyes and skin lacking its usual luster, but it was him, Fenris realized. Somehow, he’d found him.

That was when the rain started falling. Huge drops, like tears, soaked the ground in a matter of seconds and blurred his line of sight. He charged forward before the earth could turn into a mud-slick beneath him and reached out for Anders.

Somewhere between where Anders had stood and the dead Templar lay, their bodies came together. Fenris wrapped his arms around his mage, right hand coming up to grip the high collar of the robes Anders wore, tugging his face down even as he tilted his own up. “Anders,” he breathed.

The moment their lips touched everything slipped back into place. All the uneasiness of the past weeks evaporated and he felt right again. He couldn’t be bothered with the background knowledge that his gauntlet was getting blood on his mage, or that they were on a field of battle, or that another Templar could be lurking. It was too absorbed by the smell of Anders and rain and the wet slide of their lips, the taste of them mingling with rainwater in desperate kisses that he urged on until his lungs screamed for air.

Finally, they pulled away, only enough to bring faces into focus. Rain ran in rivulets down Anders’ face, rerouting their path around the quirk of his lips. Wet, heavy drops dripped from his lashes as he blinked them back. If he knew his mage, some of that water was his own, tears of relief and joy he felt welling in his own eyes. Fenris’s tears, however, lingered, unshed. “I found you,” he whispered, noticing for the first time that the heavy rainfall was washing away the blood and dirt of the battle.

Anders’ smile turned into an affectionate smirk as he pressed their foreheads together. “I never had any doubt,” he rumbled in a low voice, barely audible, even with his keen elvhen ears, over the torrential rain. The moment, as beautiful as it was, was a fragile one and all too soon Anders was untangling himself from the elf. “We can’t stay here,” he said, looking around. Eyes seeking egress and finding only the white blur of falling water.

He pulled one of Fenris’ gauntlets free and spun him about to tuck it into the sack on his back. Fenris opened his mouth to object, they were, after all his weapons, but then Anders was slipping his fingers between his own, tangling them together and gripping firmly. “Don’t argue, Fen,” Anders smiled, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Nothing in the whole of blighted Thedas is going to make me let go of you now.” Before he could reply, heart leaping in his chest, Anders was tugging him forward, pulling him into a jog, and leading them to safety.

***

They ran until the light died, slowing only to catch their breath and take a swig from the drinking skin. When they lost the light, they walked in silence, not daring to give away their position. But all that time their hands remained clasped. More than once they heard voices and ducked out of sight, fingers aching and knuckles white for how desperately they held on. It was well past mid-night, the moon starting to make its slow descent, yielding to the sun when Anders finally spoke. “I know somewhere we can stay near here,” he whispered. “It’s abandoned for now, but there’s blankets and wood. It’ll be more comfortable than any night since… Kirkwall.” Fenris could hear the guilt tugging his last word down until it was barely audible.

“Blankets, fire, and you?” Fenris asked, lips pulling into a smirk. “You sure you’re not just a very handsome desire demon?” It was an oft used joke between them and it coaxed a smile back to Anders’ eyes.

“When you smell me,” he quipped, “you’ll realize I’m not.”

“Likewise,” Fenris grumbled. The rain had been more bath than he’d seen… since the last rain.

They crept into the one-roomed shack to find it was, indeed, empty. There was wood stacked next to the hearth, dry logs he would replace when they left, a heavy iron kettle, and several chests. When he was satisfied they were safe, he lifted Anders’ hand to his lips and brushed them across his knuckles. “I saw a water barrel out front. I’m going to fill the kettle. With any luck, there’s a bowl and I can at least make an attempt to clean the blood off me. Will you stoke the fire?”

Anders nodded, though there was something sad in his eyes as Fenris let his hand free. “I know,” he whispered, reaching up to touch Anders’ cheek. He didn’t want to be out of his mage’s sight any more than he did, but they didn’t have time to be joined at the hip. They’d have to move on at dawnlight. Anders nodded curtly and Fenris set about his task with swift determination. Just because they needed to work separately, didn’t mean he had to languish in it.

Three trips with the drinking skin to the barrel, to the kettle, and back and he was done. A fire was crackling, caught easily with a minor casting from Anders, and they were rummaging through the meager contents of the chests.

“How is this even here?” he asked as he pulled several woven wool blankets from the top of the chest and set them aside to reveal the bric a brac and assorted goods beneath -- bowls, utensils, preserved food, bandages even soap. This wasn’t some random abandoned cabin. This had been set up deliberately.

Anders shot him a smile and a wink. “The rebellion has been building for years,” he explained. “Tensions have been running high and unchecked for too long. We knew something was coming. So we started hiding these caches all over Ferelden. Shelter and basic supplies, cloaked by magic. If you aren’t actively looking for them, they’re near impossible to find. It was one of Hawke’s more brilliant ideas.” His face lost some of its good humor then and Fenris’ fingers itched to reach out and touch it.

Instead, he continued sorting through the chest, suddenly feeling awkward now that they were safe and warm and along for the first time… since before the Chantry. They had shared precious few moments of solitude and safety since Fen’s first stumbling confession that he had grown to like the mage. The running, the danger, those were their normal and he was beginning to wonder if they had any chance of being together without them.

He shook the thoughts from his head. They were foolish. For a number of reasons but the foremost of them was that Anders was a wanted man. There was a bounty on his head as far as the Chantry could reach. They’d be running for the rest of their lives -- however long that turned out to be. A smooth wooden bowl, plain but sturdy, felt grounding in his hands as he pulled it free. He’d finally found Anders. That was all that mattered.

He grabbed a few rags intended to be bandages and put them in the bowl. “These will do for washing,” he grumbled, getting up off his knees and moving to the fire. “I’ll boil them when I’m done.” He could feel Anders’ eyes on his back as, piece by piece, he began pulling his armor free. He placed them on the floor to the side. The shack really was quite small, maybe long and wide enough for he and Anders to lay across the expanse of it, but not much more than that. Given such limited space, he tried to stretch out his rain-soaked belongings as much as possible. They stood a better chance of resisting water damage if they dried completely.

A shuffling behind him caught his attention and he looked over one bare shoulder to find Anders unfastening the clasps on his robes and shrugging them free. He quirked that smile at him and Fenris’ knees felt a little weak. He’d missed that smile. For a moment, as Anders moved toward him, his heart stopped, but then the mage was passing by, examining the walls until he found a couple of jutting nails in the rough walls. He hung his robes across them. As big as they were, they would have taken up most of the floorspace. Fenris found himself smiling grudgingly at the cleverness of his mage. A little thing most people wouldn't have bothered to think of, yet there Anders was, now clad in only his boots and legging, finding the most efficient way to use their limited lodgings.

Gooseflesh erupted over Fenris’ skin as Anders bent down and began working the wet laces of his boots free. It pulled his skin tight, exposing the slide of lithe muscle, shaping the curve of his backside in a way that had his breath catching again. is own leggings were doing little to hide his sudden erection and he turned his back to the mage. It ripped his eyes away from the pleasant display, but his mind was still full of it. He set about washing himself with the warm water just to give his hands anything to do that wasn’t ripping the rest of Anders’ clothing off and fucking him up against a wall.

It had been a long time. Anders could be injured, or dehydrated, or exhausted. And as much as he wanted to feel him again, he cared more that he was okay. So physical activity would have to be limited until he had more information. He focused on cleaning himself, willing his arousal away and watching as the water slowly tinged a brick red from the grime and blood of his journey. When his top half was as clean as it was going to get, he tossed the water out the only window, a hole covered by a hinged flap of wood, and refilled it.

“I apologize,” he said slowly, voice still rough, “but the next part of the cleaning is going to be a little less delicate.

The tinkle of Anders’ laugh drew his eye and he found the mage at the blankets, beginning to pull them free and spread them out on the floor. “I’ll just enjoy the show,” he purred, voice dripping with intent. “And when you’re done, you will sit.” he gestured to the stack of blankets he was slowly, but surely, making for them to bed on. Heat flickered in his eyes and Fenris felt his groin clench, inspired by that smolder. “And then I’ll return the favor.”

“I--” Fenris cut of clearing his throat. “I have no intention of putting on a show,” he said finally. “I will clean my self sufficiently and then I will climb under a blanket to conserve warmth.”

“As you say,” Anders snarked warmly. Fenris rolled his eyes and began the arduous process of removing boots and peeling leggings off, all the while hearing Anders’ efforts with the supplies and feeling his gaze on every inch of flesh he revealed.

He did, indeed wash as quickly and effectively as possible, not bothering with delicacies or entertaining his mage. He washed, rinsed, and washed again, until the tang of travel and musk of battle were nearly gone. Nearly was as good as he was going to get, even with the soap, until he could take a proper bath.

The soap, however, had been a luxury he hadn’t expected, and he found some pleasure in lathering it in his hands and smearing it over the dirtiest parts of his body. It was with this effort he may have, accidentally, entertained Anders. He didn’t realize it at the time, but he had used it to clean his undercarriage and now that he was rinsing it free he could hear the labored breathing that particular task had inspired.

Fenris tossed that water too, refilling the bowl for Anders, before doing as he promised and sliding under the two topmost blankets. It seemed like there had been about a dozen of them and Anders had stacked them up into a kind of makeshift bed. He supposed, if one had to, one could fit twelve people in the cabin, though not lying down. It was well-appointed, it seemed.

Warm and tucked into a bed, boots and leggings already laid out beside his other belongings, Fenris noted how homey the shack felt. Still room to move, even with the two chests and clothing about, and a bed in the center. The fire, he decided, was largely to blame, illuminating the small room with warm light that moved over Anders’ lovely pale skin like so much sunshine.

Boots already removed and set aside, Anders moved to pull free his socks and leggings and spread them out beside Fenris’ own clothing. Seeing their belongings mingling sent a delighted thrill through him, entirely different than the instinctual arousal from before. It was something, intimate, something shared and it made his heart feel just a little too big in his chest.

Soon enough, however, his eyes were drawn back to his naked mage -- a little worse for wear, but every bit as beautiful to him as he’d ever been. His thoughts flickered, briefly, back to a time where he’d only just realized his attraction to the mage, his appreciation for his form a precursor to what would come soon after -- the undeniable truth of his feelings. Even now he was kicking himself for wasting so much time hiding them away. They could have had so many more happy safe moments than the few they’d managed before everything.

He’d blamed Anders for their need to run at first, thinking his actions foolish and unnecessary. But the longer they ran, the more he saw, the more he realized the tensions had been building to this moment. It had been unavoidable. If it hadn’t been Anders it would have been someone else. Maybe someone who delighted in the action, someone who would go around again and again killing in the name of their cause. Someone who felt no remorse.  Now he saw the hard truths, had heard that the right of Annulment had already been intended, understood the plight of the mages. It had been hard-earned, that realization, given how much he despised every mage until Anders. But now he couldn’t deny the shift in his perspective.

Blinking, he forced the thoughts away. The fact that they kept slipping back in was proof of his exhaustion, his mind unable to focus on a single thing, but he doubted he’d find sleep. He was too afraid when he woke Anders would be gone again.

So he turned his eyes back to the mage, enjoying the curve of his spine and the shift of muscle under skin. For all his promises of putting on a show, Anders was moving just as deliberately as Fenris had. All his movements were directed toward cleaning himself properly, not making a scene. And as gorgeous of an image the mage cut, naked and bathed in firelight, Fen found himself inspecting that flesh for damage.

Anders was a gifted healer, so his body could have been entirely free of hurts. But he knew the mage would not spend energy he could use to help someone else on himself. It was likely he had healed any major injuries he’d endured but his flesh was covered with the angry blooms of bruises in all states of healing -- deep purples all the way to yellow-greens -- new and old alike. There were scars too, wounds he could have healed perfectly but only healed enough to survive. Fenris knew most of them, could read them like a map, but there was a new one, still angry and red. He must have received it not long after they had lost each other.

The lithe body moved to the window, tossing the water, and back to the fire. He placed the rags in the kettle, still half full if his estimate was correct, and swung the steel arm back over the fire to boil it. Then Anders was moving toward him, silent and almost shy before he slipped under the blankets.

Fen’s brow furrowed when he kept his distance. They were both sitting up on the makeshift mat, blankets pulled up to their necks, saying nothing and looking anywhere but at each other. He felt confused, worried. “Fasta vass,” he grumbled, scooting across the space between them until his thigh was pressed up against Anders’, their warmth mingling. He let his fingers reach out and touch the red mark across his pale collarbone. “Is this one okay?” he asked. Anders chuckled, and he scowled. “You have a bad habit of not taking care, Anders,” he grouched. “Just answer the question.”

“It’s fine,” the mage said softly. His hand reached up and gathered Fenris’ before pulling it to his mouth and kissing his fingertips. “I’m fine.” He set the hand down, but didn’t let go and Fenris found he was grateful for that reassurance.

He rested his head on Anders’ shoulder, trying to think of what to say, what to ask, what to do. So much time apart, hunting and worrying and now that it was over he didn’t know what came next. He felt the weight on his crown as Anders tilted his head to the side and rested it there.

Time stretched out until he wasn’t sure if minutes or hours had passed. Fingertips touched his chin, silently requesting something. He felt Anders’ head move and tilted his own to follow the pressure of that touch until his head was tilted back. He saw Anders’s lovely eyes, almost a burnished copper in the firelight, a moment before his lips alighted and Fen’s eyes fluttered closed.

He indulged in the warm slide of their lips, slow and cautious, letting it stoke the embers that had been glowing since the mage’s robes came off. It built gradually, like kindling under logs, until it caught all at once, bursting into proper flame. He moaned into the kiss and shifted, no longer content to sit pressed close beside. He gripped Anders’ shoulders and turned, refusing to break the connection of their kiss as he threw a leg over the man’s lap and straddled him, wrapping his arms about his neck and pressing as close as possible.

Everywhere their skin could touch he willed it to be so, shuddering when Anders’ palms smoothed up his back and into his white hair, fisting in the strands of it and tugging him closer. Fenris, for once, had the upper ground, if only by an inch, and he pressed the advantage, opening his mouth and slanting it more completely over Anders’, deepening the kiss. Darting his tongue out to taste the sweet flavor of his mouth as it mingled with his own.

A low growl escaped him when Anders let loose a low sound of want, his hips shifting upward, rocking against Fenris’ backside and the want in him burned hotter, becoming need. A need to feel him, to know he was real, to hear his name on those lips in a desperate keening. He pressed back against the roll of Anders’ pelvis and delighted in the whimper the mage poured into his mouth as the cleft of his as slide along the quickly stiffening length of Ander’s cock. The head nudged at his backside and he let free a little gasp of his own.

Hands grabbed great fistfulls of Anders’ hair, kiss becoming desperate, as the steel of his own erection slid against Anders’ stomach. Fenris had already lost control of the action of his hips and he knew the rest of his body wasn’t far behind. He tore his lips away, panting, “I can’t wait,” he confessed, his body continuing its constant undulations. “Grab my belt.”

Long arms made short work of the task and soon Fenris was rooting through the pouches on his belt, seeking the oil he always had on hand. Granted it had many numerous uses, purposes far more mundane and less pleasurable than this, but just now he was glad he had it, no matter what the reasons were.

Triumphantly, he snatched it free, uncorking in and coating his hand before replacing the stopper and setting the vial down between them. He reached behind him, slick hand seeking, and finding, Anders’ arousal and wrapping around it. His mage moaned loudly, tossing his head back and thrusting up into the touch. The blankets fell away, pooling around them, but Fenris couldn’t feel the chill of the air over the heat under him.

“Such pretty sounds my mage makes,” he whispered, lips brushing over the curve of Anders’ exposed Adam’s apple. He felt the shiver the possessive words and slow stroking of his hand, inspired in the man under him. “Any other time I would be content to sit here all night and listen. But tonight,” he pulled his hand free and pressed his oiled fingers into the cleft of his ass, slipping them inside and coating the tight ring of muscle. His words cut off with a gasp as he rode his hand for a few long seconds. Anders’ big hands settled on his hips, guiding their rocking as he prepared himself.

Finally, he slid them free and reached back, fingers eagerly grabbing up Anders’ cock as his legs lifted him up. “Tonight,” he continued, holding the hard length steady as he lowered himself around it, “I need you, Anders.” Their sharp cries mingled as the pressure broke and the flared tip of Anders’ cock slipped inside him. He couldn’t summon the will to ease slowly, too desperate to be filled by his mage and so, with one swift slide, he seated himself to the hilt.

For a moment, they sat there, foreheads pressed to the curves of neck and shoulder, panting, pulling greedy breaths of air as their bodies twitched, overwhelmed by sudden sensation. But only for a moment. Soon, Fenris was rising up on his knees, capturing Anders’ lips and drinking his moans. He slid his body up, gripping the shaft, clenching as he went, only to relax and slam back down, riding Anders with a desperation that was going to see them both over the edge in a matter of heartbeats.

He felt Anders’ hold tighten, thumbs slipping into the sockets of his pelvis. The pressure felt… almost primal, the grip so firm, as if claiming “this one is mine.”

“I am,” Fen whispered, hardly aware he was speaking at all, never mind knowing what he was saying -- words that were secret, words he would have hidden if he’d any mind left. Instead they wriggled free and revealed themselves to his lover. “Yours. Don’t let go.”

“Never,” Anders promised through broken little gasps. “Never again.”

The quiet of the night enveloped them, words now as unnecessary as their clothing. Slipping over like silk in the crackle of the fire, and the wind over the chimney, and the smell of the rain evaporating from their belongings. It was to that music their bodies moved, a dance of soft sounds and anguished writhing, twirling closer to the crescendo. Need born of long nights apart, and dark dreams, and endless searching pushed them until their minds were lost.

Fenris grabbed a handful of Anders’ hair, pulling his head down and claiming his mouth as he felt the his climax dancing with the edge. Even as the passion coiled tight in his stomach, driven ever upward by the snug, full feeling, and the stroke of Anders’ cock inside him, he refused to let go. He was breathing the mage’s breath more than he was breathing air, and he used it to let out a final, desperate cry.

His hips, still in the grip of those large hands, bucked wildly. The head of his length, slick with clear viscosity, slipped across the ripples of his mage’s abdomen, adding sensation where there was too much already, toppling him over the precipice. His body seized, his ass clamping around the cock inside him, and he was freefalling. Hot white ropes of his seed spilled between them, some on his chest, some on the lovely pale skin wrapped around him.

Hungrily he drank down a cry from Anders’ kiss-bruised lips, and revelled in the sensation of his mage spasming, filling him with his own arousal, claiming him after too long apart. Though he was empty, his cock twitched in answer, longing for more when he had none to give. As long as he felt that pulsing inside he kept rocking, drawing out Anders’ climax until he was swallowing whimpers instead of cries -- until his mage’s entire body was trembling.

White hair fell on a creamy shoulder, Fenris finally pulling his lips from Anders’ to rest his head there. They held on to each other as tightly as possible, not daring to move or speak until long after the sweat on their skin cooled. His hands wandered where they pleased, too blissed out and content to give them direction. It wasn’t long before those fingers felt the rise of gooseflesh on Anders’ arms. He sighed, resigned, and pressed a kiss to a sharp jut of collarbone before gently climbing free.

They lay down and pulled the blankets over them, finally settling in for the night. Fen burrowed closer to Anders’ warmth, languishing in it as the mage wrapped around him. From its place on Anders’ chest, his ears could hear the steady thump of his heart.  Sleep pulled on him, dragging his lids closed, but he fought against it, opening his mouth to speak instead. “Anders?” he said quietly, just in case his mage had already drifted off.

“Hm?”

“What do we do now?” his voice sounded so small. He had ideas but he wouldn’t make any decisions without Anders. Not anymore. A soft rumble of contemplation reverberated against his cheek.

“Not a lot of options for a wanted fugitive,” Anders admitted.

The skin under Fenris warmed, the heartbeat quickened. He cursed himself for bringing anxiety where there had been peace. “I have had one idea,” he offered. “We could keep running, and I would run with you. Anywhere, everywhere, forever, if that’s what I had to do. But I have the feeling you don’t want to keep running.”

Anders’ shoulders moved in a shrug, feigning disinterest. Fen smoothed his palm over the flat plane of the mage’s abdomen. “I think you should turn yourself in.” He let it out all in a rush and Anders’ body went stiff.

“Are you about to tell me that’s the honorable thing to do?” Anders asked slowly, a hint of teasing in his words as his fingers carded through Fenris’ white fringe.

“No,” he chuckled gently. “It’s the stupid thing to do. But if half of what I’m hearing about the Inquisition is true then…”

“I’ve heard too,” Anders whispered. “Siding with the mages in the rebellion. Taking them on as allies instead of conscripting them. The Inquisitor has even handed out his share of sentences.” He laughed lightly then, jostling Fenris’ lighter form. “Not as many executions as I expected. That’s a good sign.”

Fen smiled, pressing the curve of his mouth to Anders’ ribs. “Precisely. I think you should turn yourself over to the Inquisitor and ask for judgement. I think it’s the only chance you’ve got at eliminating your fugitive status.”

“And if things don’t go our way, Fen,” Anders asked, considering the option but scared -- he could tell. “What then?”

“Then I get you out or I die trying,” he growled. His mage jumped, strong arms reaching down and tugging Fenris up until their faces were close. He nosed into that red-blonde hair and breathed deep, the scent of Anders thick on the air.

“I think you’re right,” Anders said finally as the backs of his fingers brushed Fenris’ cheek. “It’s the only chance I’ve got. I’ll go to the Inquisition.”

“We,” Fen corrected, dropping little pecks on the pale slope of neck all the way up to the corner of Anders’ lips. “You’re not going anywhere without me.” Anders’ smiled, closed the gap and kissed him properly.

Soon they were both too tired for even those soft affections and, tangled about each other as entirely as possible, they drifted toward sleep. Fenris fought it, cataloging everything about this moment, the smell of them on the blankets, the warmth where his skin met Anders’, the cool, smoke-scented air in the shack.

As the world went dark, and slumber took him, Fenris’ lips quirked into a small smile -- the rain had started again.