#but I have such a vivid memory of cracking my knuckles and launching into the (redacted) at the start of the next chapter

[eskawrites]

Actually we are now well into the part of the celebrity fake dating au that I wrote in one delightful blur of a weekend and it is genuinely so weird spacing it out over weeks

[saeyoungs-sunflower]

As Sweet As It Is Bitter (Jumin Han)

I personally feel that this part of Jumin’s story doesn’t get talked about enough. So I wanted to give my interpretation of it.

Warnings / Notes:

Spoilers for the Secret Endings

Alcohol abuse, grief, general sad times. Big ol’ bag of angst here.

Brief mentions of violence/injury.

This isn’t intended to be Jumin x V, but if that’s how you wanna read it then go for it. It’s down to your interpretation/what floats your boat.

Playlist:

Before You Go - Lewis Capaldi

Say Something - A Great Big World

Saturn - Sleeping at Last

Bridge Over Troubled Water - Simon & Garfunkel

Artwork also helped inspire me when writing this, especially art by the absolutely incredible @sikuzxxx​ . They are ridiculously talented and I encourage you to check out their art if you haven’t already. Here are the pieces that inspired me most: 1 / 2 / 3 / 

It was straightforward, really.

Unlock door. Enter. Shut door. Hang up coat. Take off shoes.

It was routine, the same as it was yesterday and the same as it will be tomorrow. Yet, it couldn’t feel more wrong. Something as simple as unlocking a door became foreign to him when a steady hand was replaced with clumsy fingers, and a quiet mind became swarmed with static.

Jumin loosened his tie and undid the top button of his black shirt. He stepped into the centre of his penthouse, a bouquet of chrysanthemums under one arm and his head reeling. He stood motionless, staring out into the city through the large glass panels. He couldn’t understand.

He couldn’t understand how it was that, despite everything they had, this was the way it ended. After every family dinner, every walk home from school together, every bottle of wine shared, this was the way God had planned their friendship to come to a close. Before, he would have guessed that it would end in a hospital, with silver hair and cracked skin, fond memories and shared joy in abundance; but instead it ended with bullets and screams and whatever it is that nightmares are born of. It was no place for the end.

Jumin surveyed the room, a dark and hollow space only visible by the illumination of nearby buildings. He was completely and utterly alone.

Therefore, for the first time in his twenty-seven years of life, Jumin Han let himself break.

He took out a bottle of red wine, pouring himself a generous glass. And then another, and then another, until he gave up on the glass all together, instead opting for strangling the neck of the bottle as he emptied it of its poison. With every drop that passed his lips, the scene that played in his head grew more vivid as reality began to blur.

The scene started with him sprinting through the building, guards on either side of him as they rounded the corner, stopping in their tracks when they spotted the intimidating doors that lay ahead. He had made one step towards them when he heard the gunshot, and then did not hesitate to charge towards the doors, bursting through.

He can see his body now, limp and resting in a pool of rich red. He could literally see the life flowing out of V with every passing second as he merely looked on, utterly helpless. He couldn’t help, he was too late.

He didn’t say goodbye.

With a frustrated grunt Jumin stumbled towards the bedroom but stopped himself halfway, his eyes landing on the bunch of flowers that he had brought back from the venue, already starting the wither and the petals starting to fall. That was the first crack.

It started with a single drop gliding down his cheek, that rested on the tip of his chin before falling onto his dark tie. He impatiently wiped his face, standing tall and looking straight ahead, but it all in vain. Without warning nor control, every tear that had remained unshed had surfaced and poured.

He should just go to bed. Leave this day behind him. He had his closure now, it was time to move on and to be the man he was before all this chaos. To be Jumin Han again.

Then why did he remain where he stood?

Jumin dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets hard enough to see stars as his knees buckled beneath him, his frame crumbling to the floor. He was renowned for his stoicism, practicality, and his unwavering ability to keep whatever pain that threatened to bite to only get as far as barking at his door. But tonight, he let himself entertain the torturous idea of the hypothetical, the ‘could have’s and the ‘should have’s that may have saved the life of the only man, the only human being who he wanted to be by his side until his last breath. The one who stayed with no conditions attached, who loved Jumin truly and effortlessly. A companionship, a bond like no other; Jumin and Jihyun. The rich kids. As similar as night and day, but just as perfectly matched. Friends, brothers.

What if he had tried calling him an extra time? What if he had gotten into his car and hunted him down himself? What if he called the helicopter five minutes earlier? Was that all it took? Could he have done it?

But he still couldn’t understand. His door had always been open, his light always left on, waiting for V to come to him. To ask for his help, to tell him where he’s been hiding away, and why he thought that the darkness was more forgiving when walked through alone.

He wanted to scream, not realising that he already was until his voice broke and died out.

He just simply couldn’t understand how V didn’t realise his own worth. How he didn’t know the extent to which the world needed his kindness, his warmth. How he could let his life be thrown away like that, a life as rare and giving as his was.

Maybe it wasn’t that Jumin couldn’t understand, perhaps he just wouldn’t. If this was the bliss of ignorance, then what kind of hellish agony did knowledge feel like?

Jumin’s hands trembled as he grasped the empty wine bottle so fiercely that his knuckles turned white, contrasting the red of his blood-shot eyes. His impulses took over as he launched the bottle at the wall, droplets of red wine scattering across the cream walls as shards of glass showered around him.

He rested his forehead against the icy floor and slammed his fist against it, hardly registering the sharp pain of glass piercing his flesh. He intertwined his fingers whilst he desperately prayed. Not to God, but to whom he had lost.

Please, V, not yet. Don’t let go yet. Tell me it’s not true.

We were going to grow old together. You were going to be my best man, and I yours. What about all the laughs, smiles, memories, that now we’ll never have? We were meant to have longer than this. I’m begging you, Jihyun. You always believed in magic, please believe in it one last time. Come back.

For the love of God, don’t leave me here alone.

Minutes, maybe hours past in that position, until his tears ran dry and his voice grew rough. Jumin tried to move, but the dizzying effect of sitting up meant it took him a moment to become steady before he dragged himself to the wall. He rested his back against it, elbows on his bent knees and his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Grief was a funny little thing. It gnawed at you from the inside, feeding on everything that had any flavour of regret or devastation. But, in a twisted sort of way, it was such a beautiful thing to love so deeply that the wound was just as deeply felt. Unfortunately, the love Jumin felt during his grief also ate away at him, since it was left abandoned with no place to go when the one person it would run to was gone.

Perhaps God saw how tired and wounded his friend was and showed mercy on him by letting him rest, by bringing him home. In that case, was Jumin not home? Did Jihyun not have a home on earth at all? What a tragic life, if the only home you have to go back to at the end of the day is Heaven. But at least Jihyun had peace now, even if that was something that Jumin couldn’t provide.

Jumin used these ideas in an attempt to convince himself that grief was bittersweet. He only wished that the taste which lingered on his tongue was as sweet as it was bitter.

He didn’t know when he fell asleep, but he did recall the flashing images of Jihyun’s lifeless and icy body as it laid frozen before everything went black, and he slowly began to slip into the realm of a dream.

A warm light pierced through the darkness, revealing a tall figure as they made their way towards Jumin, and his eyes pricked when he identified the burst of mint-coloured hair.

Jihyun embraced Jumin and his tears resurfaced, streaming down his face before floating away into the oblivion. Jihyun pulled back, looking into the eyes of his oldest friend, his voice soft as he spoke.

“You’re okay, Jumin. You’re not as alone as you’ve tricked yourself into believing you are, alright? I’m never too far away, but you’ve also got to take a look around you. Stop being afraid now. Stop letting your emotions run just below the surface. If you open up your heart, you aren’t going to bleed out; you’re going to set yourself free.”

Jumin’s lips curled into a faint smile, “Always so cheesy.”

“That’s me,” Jihyun chuckled. “Be brave. For me.”

“If it’s for you, I’d do anything.”

“Then live. Please, for Christ’s sake, Jumin. Just live.”

“…Alright. But,“ he had to ask, he had to know, “Jihyun, what could I have done-“

But Jihyun faded away before Jumin had a chance to finish, before he had time to ask what could have saved him, and to say everything that he didn’t get to say the day he left. To say thank you for everything he taught him, to ask where it went wrong; to say goodbye. But he disappeared, just like he did before. Without warning, without explanation. As if he was never there at all.

The light of the morning sun blinded Jumin when he pried his eyes open the next day, a pounding in his head and every movement sending a wave of nausea through him. He found himself lying in fragments of glass, the ringing in his ear returning as he sat up straight. He checked the time.

8:17am. He would usually be at work by this time-

His thought was interrupted by an incoming call, every ring feeling like a strike against the head. Jumin squinted as he read the contact name before answering.

“Assistant Kang.”

“Mr. Han, is everything alright? You are scheduled to have a meeting in less than an hour, would you like me to cancel it?”

“No need, just push it forward by an hour. I’ll be there soon,” Jumin croaked, his voice coarse and weak.

“…Mr. Han, if I dare to make a suggestion, I think you should rest today. You must have had a rough-“

“Jaehee.”

The woman on the other side was caught off-guard, which was evident by the pause before her response, “Y-yes?”

“Move the meeting,” he attempted to say sternly, but it came out with a tinge of desperation, “Please.”

“…Okay, sir. I will see you soon.”

“Yes, see you soon.”

Jumin hung up, prying himself off the floor when his gaze once again fell on the bunch of white flowers, some now stained with red wine. He reached for the only pristine one, extracting the flower and moving towards his desk, taking out two pieces of parchment paper and the heaviest hardback he could find on the bookshelf. With careful hands, he placed the flower in the middle of the sheets of paper, before slipping them between the pages of the book. Lastly, he rested a paper weight on top and stepped back. Jumin never used to be overly sentimental, but he had experienced a lot of firsts recently, so what was one more?

He showered, he ate, he dressed himself. He fed Elizabeth the Third and brushed his teeth. There was a knock at the door as he was fixing his tie in the mirror, and he told them to enter as he smoothed down his jacket.

“The car is ready when you are, sir,” said Driver Kim.

“Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Yes, sir.”

When he heard the door click shut, Jumin peered out the windows, looking out into the sky where the clouds gathered and the sun shone. He smiled. An unconvincing one, but a smile nonetheless.

It was a pleasure, old friend. Rest well now. I will see you again, but not soon. I have some things to do before I join you.

One day he would be able to start afresh. One day he could fulfil Jihyun’s wish. To seek help, to open up his heart, to set himself free of his threads. To live.

But today was not that day. Today he had to be the Jumin Han that everyone knew. Executive Director, heir of C&R International. Leader of the RFA.

It was routine, the same as yesterday and the same as it will be tomorrow.

Put on shoes. Shrug on coat. Open door. Exit. Lock door.

And yet, it couldn’t feel more wrong.

He let his mind wander on the drive to the office as he watched out the car window, letting the sun’s rays caress his face. It was a comfort, a gentle and constant reminder that his friend was, indeed, never too far away.

I miss you, and I won’t forget you, but I’ll let you go now. In time, I’ll do what you’ve asked of me. Be patient, have faith.

I will live. For you.

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 17

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles​)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: FINALLY HARRY SPEAKS A LIL. This chapter is a bit different but I hope y’all enjoy it anyway. Please, let me know! When you’re finished reading, please consider donating to the Black Covid Relief Fund!!! Black people are often disproportionately affected by medical emergencies. If you can’t donate, find some petitions to sign or another way to continue helping! Xx

Harry had barely slept. He watched the sun rise, painting the west wall of Melody’s room in rich pinks and golds, unwilling to leave the bed. He didn’t know how she’d feel if she woke and he wasn’t next to her. In fact, he didn’t know how she would feel when she woke and he was.

The answer came not long after he began to wonder.

Melody blinked her eyes open, facing the wall beside the bed. Her head felt weighted, like she’d had too much to drink. And she probably had, now that she thought about it. She usually rationed herself with wine.

The memory of wine triggered the memory of the events at dinner’s end. Melody had hoped, at first, that she’d had an incredibly vivid nightmare. But the wine was still sweet on her tongue, and the blood spattering the restaurant’s floor was not something that would come in dreams. She blinked again at the wall, dreading the day. But eventually she turned onto her back.

Harry was studying the marks in the ceiling when Melody shifted beside him. She watched his eyes begin to drift toward her face before snapping skyward again. He stiffened, wondering if she would speak to him. Wondering if she might climb right over him and pretend he didn’t exist.

“How could you do that?” she asked, the first words of the morning. Her voice was soft. Harry was suddenly grateful that this conversation had not taken place the night before.

“I...” Harry closed his eyes. It was ironic that now the pull of sleep threatened to keep them shut, when he needed to be alert. He fought to stretch them open and then looked down at the bruises dotting his knuckles. “I didn’ do it to upset you,” he finally answered. “Can yeh believe that?”

Melody sighed. “I believe that you don’t try to hurt me intentionally, yes.”

“‘M frustrated. I’ve already told yeh that, but ‘s like there’s this buzzing in my whole body and I can’ get rid of it unless I hit someone.”

“Sean is not some stranger you can knock around, Harry.” Melody sat up, bending her legs to hug her knees. “He doesn’t deserve that. I don’t deserve this. You accused me of sleeping with him. And I know that it was just a fucked up excuse to fight, but what if I hadn’t? What if I hadn’t known that? Do you understand how it feels to hear you say that?”

Harry’s heart leaped. Out of place, somehow, closer to his stomach than in his chest. He shook his head slowly. “I didn’ mean it,” he murmured.

“You keep saying things you don’t mean, Harry.” Melody released a short laugh, but it was the most humorless sound Harry had ever heard. “Do you think there aren’t consequences for that? You’re sorry for it after, so it’ll just go away? It doesn’t go away. I still remember you saying those things.

“And I keep forgiving you,” Melody continued, looking at the west wall, which was fading into a magnificent yellow as the sunrise ended. Her voice cracked and Harry worried that she was close to tears again. “And my heart fucking aches every time you do something like this without thinking about me, about how I might feel. Because I do think about you. I think about you in almost every single thing I do. And it’s not fair.”

Melody wiped the silent tears from her cheeks, relieved by her own honesty, apprehensive of Harry’s response.

Harry rubbed his eyes. Melody looked fully at him for the first time this morning and noticed how tired he appeared, the dark circles rimming his eyes, the drawn look of his face. She almost sympathized, remembering his gentle caresses when she had trouble sleeping.

“‘S not fair,” he agreed, swallowing thickly. “‘M so sorry, Mel. If I could take it back this time, I really would. And not just so yeh wouldn’ be angry. I fucked up.”

“I’m not angry, Harry,” Melody said, turning away when he looked back at her. “I’m not. I can’t be angry anymore.”

Harry struggled to pull himself up, leaning against the windowsill. His heart hammered within his chest as she avoided his eyes again. This felt like anger.

“Well, I am angry.” Melody’s gaze finally flickered to meet his. He found that he couldn’t hold it. “I’ve been angry for a long time and I don’ know how to let it out any other way. It shouldn’ have been Sean, but—Christ, at least he can hit back.”

Melody watched him lift a hand and prod at the edges of his nose. She pressed her lips into a thin line. “He shouldn’t have to hit back, Harry. You are out of control.”

“‘M not just—”

“You need a therapist,” Melody said, and Harry fell very quiet. He waited a few breaths to absorb what she’d said.

“I don’ need—”

“You do,” she insisted, sitting up straighter, as if it might lend her words more weight. “This is the most you’ve talked to me since I’ve known you, Harry, and it didn’t come until after you attacked Sean, after you said...what you said.” She drew in a deep breath. “You need to work out whatever’s going on in your head, and you won’t let me help. I’ve tried. So you need to talk to someone else.”

Melody watched Harry’s expression close off. She glanced at the greenery above his head and noticed the brown edges protruding from one of the pots. Her favorite plant was dying and she hadn’t noticed because she’d been so caught up in everything else that had been going on around her.

She waited for another minute, allowing Harry to form some type of response. But the silence persisted. And when she grew sick of waiting she unfolded her legs and lifted herself over him to leave the room.

***

“So Harry, what brings you here today?”

Harry still had his jacket on, zipped to his chest, prepared for a quick getaway. He scratched at the leather of the armchair he sat in with one fingernail, a nervous tick. Nervous was not an emotion familiar to him.

“My…my girlfriend,” he answered, low in his throat.

“What’s her name?”

“Melody.”

The therapist smiled, scribbling over the notepad she held in her lap. She glanced up when she’d finished, watching Harry scratch and tap at the arm of his chair, bounce the ball of his foot on the floor.

“Did Melody ask you to come?”

Harry nodded, now drawing his ankle up and over his other knee. He glanced out the window and watched the light at the next intersection shift from red to green, listened to impatient horns sound.

“Would you like to tell me about her?” the doctor prompted. Harry had already forgotten her name. Bidel or Beetle, something like that.

“What about her?”

“Well, how did you two meet?”

Harry breathed out a dry laugh. He pressed his lips together, but fought the part of him that wanted to keep silent and launched into a retelling of middle school, the bullies and his brother and Melody, and his first boxing class.

“You’ve been dating since sixth grade?” she asked. Beutel. Her name was Dr. Beutel.

“No, tha’s just when we met. I met her again a little over a year ago.”

Dr. Beutel scribbled feverishly. “It’s hard for me to believe you’ve lived in the States since you were that young. Your accent is rather distinct.”

“I moved back,” Harry informed her. “We moved back to Cheshire that year. I got kicked out of school.”

The therapist frowned, laying her pen down flat on her notepad. “For fighting,” she said, unquestioning.

Harry nodded.

“Do you fight professionally?”

Harry’s lips puckered. “Not anymore.”

“And how did...” she gestured to his face, scabbing cuts and yellowing bruises.

Harry sighed. “Uh, tha’s why she wanted me to come here. I kind of fought Sean. He’s my...my friend. Well, he was my trainer, really. And now he’s not. Now he’s her trainer.”

“Melody’s.”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Beutel shook her head almost imperceptibly. She stroked the pendant on her necklace once and then crossed her legs, pulled her notepad closer.

“Okay, how about we start from the beginning? Your family.”

Harry drew a hand over his face, carefully avoiding his nose. “Not my favorite subject.”

“So I’ve guessed.” She smiled wanly. “You’ve talked a little bit about your brother. Half-brother, right? What about your parents? Do you get along?”

“With my mum. Haven’ talked to my dad in almost six years.” Harry was surprised at his own bluntness.

“And why’s that?”

“Because he doesn’ give a fuck about me. Instead of protectin’ me he let Colton live in our house.”

“And do you think Colton would hurt you?”

Harry barked out a laugh. He’d forgotten that this woman didn’t know about the strangest parts of his life yet. She only had snippets.

“He shot me last year,” he deadpanned, “in the head.” He pulled back the hair brushing his left ear to reveal the pockmarked scars in his scalp. “And I was in a coma all summer. Sorry, I should’ve led with that.”

Dr. Beutel froze, staring at him, her fingers hovering over her pen.

“Oh, also my mum has brain cancer. She’s been in and out of hospitals since we moved back to Cheshire.”

Harry waited while his therapist began to reconcile this with what she already knew about him. The seconds ticked by. She wrote in her notepad without speaking another word to him and then she glanced at her watch and gasped.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry. We’re over time for today. Can you come back next week?”

Harry sighed. He didn’t want to come back. Today had felt like a joke. It didn’t make him feel any better, it hadn’t even tapped into the restlessness sizzling just beneath the surface of his skin. But he nodded as he left.

“I look forward to seeing you,” Dr. Beutel said as he closed the door.

***

A week and a very meager amount of progress with Melody later, Harry sat in the same chair, somehow more relaxed. Melody had barely spoken to him since the morning after her birthday, not that he blamed her. But if he felt lonely before, now even Bea paid him the slightest mind. And Josie was still pissed that he’d put her leftovers at risk.

“How are you doing?” Dr. Beutel asked.

“Peachy.”

“You sure you didn’t mean cheeky?”

Harry grinned for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He tipped his shoulder up. “Not completely sure.”

Dr. Beutel smiled back. She slid her feet to one corner of her armchair, twirling the pen she held between her fingers.

“Just before our last session ended, you told me about your mother. She has recurring cancer?”

Harry nodded, his smile slipping faster than the changing traffic light outside the window.

“Are you close with your mother?”

“Well,” Harry began, stalling for a moment to ponder the question, “I guess yeh could say that. I haven’ seen her in almost two years but I talk to her a lot.”

“Has Melody spoken with her?”

Harry felt his own face contort. “Uh, no. I call my mum when she’s not around.”

“Why is that?”

He huffed out a thoughtful breath. “I dunno, really.”

Dr. Beutel began to write. Her pen twisted slowly across a clean page of her notepad. “Do you think,” she asked, without looking up, “that it might be because you separate your life into two categories?”

“What?”

“Your life in England, your family, I think that you might compartmentalize them. Separate from Melody, I mean. And even boxing. I think that Melody feels outside of that space for you, and that might be why it bothers you so much—her fighting and you not. It might seem like she’s bleeding across the borders that you’ve put in place.”

Harry didn’t know how to respond. He glanced down at the ugly scabs that spotted his knuckles, still pulling at his skin every time he stretched his hand.

“You live with Melody?”

Harry nodded, still not meeting the doctor’s eyes. He was worried what else she might see if he were to look fully at her.

“And did you live with her before? Before your injury, I mean.”

“No.”

From this angle, he could still see Dr. Beutel nodding to her notes.

“So, Harry,” she began, piecing together the information that she’d gathered, “did you have any girlfriends back in England?”

Harry shook his head, clearing his throat. “No, ‘m not really one for relationships.”

“Well, maybe you weren’t before, but I think you are now.”

“What?” He looked up at last and Dr. Beutel was smiling at him, her head tilted.

“Melody asked you to speak with a therapist. Would you ever have done that before? Would you talk about yourself this much with a stranger if it wasn’t for her?”

Harry was quiet again. This was something that had worried him for nearly a year. Half of the things he’d done since he began seeing Melody, he never would have dreamed of doing before her. This wasn’t the person he’d grown used to being.

“I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you,” the therapist said, when he didn’t return the conversation. “You’ve experienced a lot in your life. A lot more than most people could claim to have experienced in an entire lifetime, but I think you’re in a good place right now. It sounds to me like Melody cares very much for you. And even if it hasn’t been a conscious thought, you feel like you don’t deserve it.”

“I don’!” Harry nearly shouted. He paused and sat back in his chair, collecting his emotions and lining them up. He knitted his fingers together over his stomach. “I don’. It was her fuckin’ birthday and I hit her trainer—”

“Your friend,” Dr. Beutel corrected. She hadn’t even flinched at his outburst. “You hit Sean, your friend. These two areas of your life—fighting and Melody—they’re blending and he’s a large player in that mix. Do you think you don’t deserve Melody because you picked a fight with Sean, or do you think you picked a fight with Sean because you feel like you don’t deserve Melody?”

Harry’s mind spun. “What, you mean like ‘m tryin’ to fuck up on purpose?”

“Perhaps,” she answered with a nod. “Perhaps some part of you is trying to find a way out.”

Harry sighed and sifted a hand through his hair, fingertips brushing his scars. “What should I do?”

The therapist laughed gently and shook her head. “I mean, I’m not a fortune-teller, Harry. I don’t know what will help you patch up your relationship and I don’t know what will let you out of it. But I do think you need to put in some positive effort if Melody means something to you. Try to redirect your aggression. Maybe go to one of her matches?”

The suggestion was quiet, soft, a mere idea. And Harry’s heart ticked uncomfortably at the sensation of being seen. Would anyone else have been able to untangle the complex knots of his life with the information he’d given Dr. Beutel? Would Melody? Harry wasn’t sure, and he didn’t know if he wanted anyone else to examine him this meticulously. But he said his thanks before he left, anyway, and the entire way back to the apartment, he felt like he was studying his own thoughts from a new perspective.

Chapter 18

[alamobeers]

some garbage from 2014

Winter had reached the Wilds early. The cold had crept northwards and the vivid plumage of the autumn trees had thinned out, red and yellow and orange giving way to brown and bare.

 The chill snaked its way through gaps in clothing and Merrill considered wearing shoes, ones with soles this time. Perhaps furry boots, ones shemlen are fond of in the winter. The bitter sting of the cold sank into the bottoms of her feet and numbed her toes. She wiggled the big one first, then the others. Merrill worked the feeling back into her exposed feet as she propped each one up on her knee, frozen toes pointed upward.

 Anders started a fire in the hearth. The sun was slipping under the horizon, painting the sky in deep orange, mauve, blue, fading into the dark. It wouldn’t be long until it disappeared, sleeping until morning.

 Merrill immediately sat down in front of the fire and her hands hovered close, caressing the warmth, fingers scantly from the flame. She could play with little sparks, let them dance in her palms, off the tips of her fingers and then they’d dissipate into sprinkles of energy, unnoticeable to the unaware.

 She wondered what it would be like to manipulate others’ magic. It was a subject she never touched on, preferring to focus on her own. How would it work, how it would feel, and how each others’ elemental magic felt from their own. Anders’ flame burned hotter, the color was richer. Sometimes little ribbons of bright blue rose from the center, adorning the branches of the hearth fire. Masterfully controlled. Her flame smelled more woodsy, hints of pine worked in. Was it wise to think about? Maybe. Maybe not. Curiosity can go either way, good or bad.

 Anders warned that the fire had to go out sometime. “I am not about to burn down the shack due to carelessness.”

 Merrill nodded. The fire had consumed one of the larger logs in the hearth, ashed over, spilling into the bottom.

 Anders had to be cold. Patchy in places, his coat would not last another couple of seasons. The feathers that rested on his shoulders were now a mixture, black mixed with blue, smatterings of white. They weren’t as full as they used to be, and birds did not linger in the winter. It wasn’t enough to cover up a hole on the back of his shoulder, one that she noticed had become larger over the months. Fabric had worn thin, threadbare in places, and little holes threatened to spring up from the worn parts.

 As she rubbed her hands together, Merrill could see him shiver, just a little, enough for her to offer a spot beside her. He shook his head, claiming that there were things to do before nightfall.

 Merrill yanked on his arm and pulled him downwards. When he conceded and sat down beside her, she beckoned him to take off his boots. Those too were in disrepair, and surely wouldn’t last past the winter.

 In seven years, not once did he think to purchase a new pair, ones that would keep feet dry or warm. Maybe when the winter faded into spring, when the birds fly back and the first hints of green start appearing and life returns from hiding, she’d convince him to forego them all together. No more dirty, ragged strips to hold the sides together to his calf.

 As the fire burned down, their feet were outstretched, flames close. An old book in Merrill’s hands, a paper in Anders’.

 He examined every line word for word and frowned at a particular selection. It was out of place. Unnecessary. Another line gained his disapproval. These were  bombastic ideas from months ago, that like the largest creatures that might be lurking underneath the sea, should stay there. Underwater.

 Or burned in that wreckage of a city.

 The city that was never truly his home, more of a tomb. Just like being locked up in a tower. He shouldn’t have looked at this again.

 Merrill contently read. It was a book she had already read many times over, but the words on the pages never lost their comforting impact. Dalish short stories, ones with ancient lore, adventures, and a very romantic one in the back that never failed to make her blush. Anyone could see it creep to the tips of her ears, so she would not turn to this page. Today.

 Anders looked more troubled. He furrowed his brows and exhaled a sigh caught between frustration and sharp disappointment. The paper was set aside, and he debated between stuffing it away, where the light can never reach it, or to feed the fire.

 Words that would only go up in smoke.

 Like so many other things.

 “Don’t let the fire burn out.” Merrill softly said.

 Those six words were less of a suggestion and more of an encouragement to Anders. The paper, full of corrections, with scratched and blacked-out lines, letters that gradually became harsh, jagged, taller, narrower -- folded into itself. It was a mass of crinkles in his palm. Furious and driven paragraphs were kissing others with mistakes and aberrations.

 The ink had dried on it almost a year ago.

 It was time to let them go. Start anew.  

 The flames would eat every idea and keep him warm.

 Out with the old, into the fire.

 “I really think another log would make it warmer. But paper works too.” Merrill observed.

 In with the new.

 “Was that your writing? Oh, I’m so sorry. You didn’t have to let it burn to keep the fire going.”

 Anders breathed in, sighing out the tightness that was there.

 “I did. I’m not going to let it go dark.”

 Perhaps Merrill missed something, but the sound of relief that hung on his lips couldn’t have come from the fire burning a minute or two longer, until the last embers burned out before rest. Tonight was her night to sleep on the floor, and the warmer the creaky floorboards could be, the better.

 She gathered a battered pillow, a pale green blanket that was showing its age, and she wrapped herself in it. She’d rest by the hearth, cling to the last warm ashes -- and then a draft came in through the cracks in the door. There was an uncommon scent behind it, crisp and bitter and cold and yet, alluring. This was magic Merrill used when she was fresh into her talent. She created spots of flurries for the young children and loved to see the look of enchantment in their eyes. Snow. That’s something Merrill hadn’t touched in a long time.

 Something Anders hadn’t touched in a long time. Those were days when he first discovered himself. Discovery led to imprisonment. Snowballs were thrown between groups of the village children, playing “war”. The adults said that was nothing to joke about. He remembered launching a fat snowball at this one kid’s face, and oh, he laughed it when it smacked him in the face and fell apart. Bits of melting snow drooled down the kid’s cheeks as he scowled. Anders thought, that’ll teach you to make fun of my hair.

 If only things were so simple now, like making fun of a young boy’s long hair.

 Later on he found his skill in magic, and used an extra sprinkling of frost on his snowballs for shock and surprise. He’d kept it hidden for so long.

 “Do you smell it?” he asked, purposefully shaking himself out of a long-gone memory.  

 Merrill affirmed him with a hum and a nod. “Tonight’s going to be chilly. Have you ever seen snow? It looks so beautiful when it’s thick and fluffy. But you sink down in it, your clothes get wet!”

 “I’ve seen the snow.” Anders left it at that. A couple of seconds of silence passed, and she sank further into the covers, head peeking out beneath them.

 “It will be cold,” he continued. Sometimes he’d make that clump of snow so frigid that his antagonizers cried. He think he left a burn once. Guilt on the outside, revelry on the inside because that kid deserved it, too. And then he went home, had a bowl of warm mutton stew, and then he felt a chill that could have very well hit him harder than his childhood arsenal.

 He smacked his disastrous path of thought with a firm don’t go back there and he righted himself.

 “You shouldn’t sleep on the floor. If you lay there freezing for too long, you’ll catch sick.”

 Merrill cocked her head. “I’ve seen the way you sleep, lethallin. You toss and turn and toss and once when you were sleeping on the floor I thought you were a wild animal that had gotten in. I do believe I almost hit you, but I’m glad I didn’t. That would have been bad.”

 “I’ll thrash towards the wall. If I wake you up, nudge me. I’ll be able to fully fall asleep, don’t worry.”

 Or he’d stare at the ceiling until dawn broke. Against the wall, the draft wouldn’t come in and amplify his nightmares. Anders tolerated the cold a lot more on the outside, when on the inside it touched every nerve. He could have sworn he felt an ache in one of his finger joints, probably as a result of popping his knuckles one or fifteen times too many.

 No, tonight was going to be fine because he was going to be up against the wall and he’d be warm with the covers tucked in. If he got a good night’s rest, it would be the first in a few days.

 “You look tired.”

 Thanks for pointing out the obvious.

 The last flickers of light burned through and dimmed in the hearth and Merrill shooed the tall mage to bed.

 “Staying awake for too long makes you sick too, you know.”

 Anders returned a sleepy, vacant look and he was fading fast. She didn’t know how long he was up, but the last two mornings he made breakfast and normally he thrived only when the moon and stars shined. He shirked his overcoat, draped it over the headboard, and squirmed into the blanket. He pulled the covers up past his shoulders, long hair trailing out when he lazily flipped it away from his face. When Merrill tried to speak to him again, he was unconscious.

 She was going to remind him that sometimes she kicks in her sleep.

 With her extra blanket, it just might be warm. When she laid back-to-back with Anders, she was assured of this. The blanket slowly became twisted between her hands and her arms and the further from consciousness she traveled, the more she’d pull. Merrill cocooned herself in the covers and Anders, in his sleep, fought to keep part of them around his own shoulders.

 The elf cooed in her sleep, made babbly, bubbly noises that translated to something understandable in the realm of dreams. The sounds that Anders made became more strained and the sounds of rumpled covers intermingled with his tossing about from one side onto his back and back over.

 This time, he heard the same whispers that normally pass through in his dreams. Hisses of doubt, regret, failure. His surroundings were a wasteland of blight, and the stench clung to the simple roofs and down the walls and through the doors. It was void of life, from the trees to the people -- they were all gone.

 What are you going to do now, child? a voice cackled, shrill and wicked. Aaaaaaall gone, it mocked in song-song tone and the towering beast behind the voice seemed to draw on the mage’s fear. The creature hissed and stepped from shadow, revealing five heads. They took shape with familiar features and each one roared a litany of insults and slander.

 Anders then felt a sharp pain in his lower back, and his vision blurred. The monster went quiet and he was staring at the wall with Merrill’s feet digging into his back. He sighed a half-breath of relief, turned over, and nudged her awake.

 Merrill’s eyes were half-open and she whispered thick with the fog of sleep, “Oh? The sun...” she paused as she deeply yawned, “isn’t out yet.” She sunk her head further into the pillow.

 “You didn’t need to kick so hard.”

 “Oh, I meant to tell you but you fell asleep. I didn’t mean to.”

 Merrill nestled her pillow closer to her face, one arm under it for leverage. Moments of quiet passed, her eyes closed and the last thing she heard before she went under was a calm thank you from her companion.

 For the first time in Anders’ life, he was grateful to be kicked awake.

 The monster did not rear its head again. To Anders, a solid night’s sleep without being plagued by nightmares was a dream.

 And tonight he dreamed.

 Anders turned over on his side in his sleep, no longer facing the wall with its scattered cracks and fault lines. The ones that he counted many times over in fits of frequent insomnia or after such a nightmare, clammy and startled awake. One. Five. Thirteen. Twenty-two in all, from the long one that ran from the ceiling to just barely touching the top of Merrill’s head to the one with many branches on the opposite wall. Six branches, and Anders didn’t have to count them once.

 He murmured gentle, unintelligible words as he wriggled against Merrill’s back, wrapping his free arm around her side, drawing her close. She babbled as his hand rested on her midsection. Cozy under the covers, Anders’ fingers smoothed over her tunic. Her lips turned upwards and she squirmed before her head fell in the crook of his neck.    

 The two mages were lost in dreams, and while frost and flakes collected on the windows, they shared the same feeling.

 Warm.

   Merrill blinked her eyes open, first laying them upon the snowy sight past the window. The inviting light of the sun reflected off the wintery fluff, bathing the cabin in a glow. A lone bird chirped outside, but with the snow clinging to the trees, where would it perch? She saw a flutter of bright red wings as it flew in and then out of sight. The bird would likely be hungry, and she noted to throw it some crumbs later once she got out of bed.

 She dipped a foot outside the covers and immediately retracted it. Creators, but it was cold! It met Anders’ partially uncovered leg when she swung it back. Sleeping next to Anders was like taking a nap on a summer afternoon. The sun at her back, stomach on the firm ground, fingers combing through strands of grass. Hand on her pillow, sun toasting her back, and...

 Oh.

 Merrill lifted the covers a pinch and peeked under it. What she felt were two hands on her waist, tunic rumpled underneath his long, slender fingers. Anders, ever the fitful sleeper, slumbered like stone. Fingertips gently pressed into her covered flesh. His knees rested against the back of her own, her bare foot brushing against his fuzzy leg.

 She felt warmness spread from her flushed cheeks outward, and she let go.

 “Poor dear,” she soothingly whispered, moving her hand from the pillow to her waist. Delicate fingers brushed against his own, lingering before she pried his fingers from her, one by one.

 Merrill considered staying. The battered mattress, flattened by age and wear, could have been a ball of fluff for how she slept. She’d always prefer the bed over the floor, where she rested on the bedroll every other night. There was a lump in the middle of the mattress that prodded at her back unless she slept on the edge, and Anders often complained of it poking at his side. It must have been caught between her and her slumbering companion, smoothed out by their combined weight and mass.

 Yes. That’s the word, isn’t it Merrill?

 Companion.

 She gently rested his right arm on the mattress in a similar position before forcing herself to step out of bed. A squeak through chattering teeth clouded the air in front of her mouth, and she quickly shuffled to the hearth to start a fire.

 When the first sparks of a fire rose from her fingertips, questions sparked too.

 If the lost bird outside could peck and nibble at them like little seeds, she’d throw them out in the snow bit by bit. A small, hungry creature could eat the questions that popped up from underneath like worms after a downpour. It would be better than the questions eating at her.

 She sat cross-legged with her back towards the hearth, dividing her attention between admiring the snow-covered branches outside and where she lay minutes before. Maybe her spot would still be warm. She could crawl back in, huddle close, perhaps let her fingertips trace the ones that were pressed to her.

 Merrill forced herself to get up and gathered food to feed the birds.

 She opened the door and when her toes touched the first flakes of snow on the ground, she yelped and tossed the crumbs in one haphazard motion as she flinched back. Perhaps if she went back into the cabin and sat by the fire again, the birds wouldn’t be afraid of her tossing it all suddenly.

 This time, she sat with her feet towards the fire, facing the flickers and flames crawling up the hearth.

 ___

 There was a dream, wasn’t there?

 Miniscule flashes of half-second motions, scenery and a few fleeting words swam in Anders’ semi-consciousness as he slowly arose to face a new day. His fingers grazed the mattress as he noticed his arm was outstretched, him in a position he did not normally lie in. Bare feet slowly dragged up the mattress and his fingers moved across a swath of warmth within an indent that belonged to his bedmate.

 It was the best he’d slept in a long time.

 He nuzzled his pillow, capturing the last bit of warmth before lifting himself up. There was a chill that hung in the air, the slightest of drafts coming in through those little cracks, and rather than putting on his ragged overcoat, Anders wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

 The tail of it hit the back of his thighs as he slowly made his way to the hearth. A wonderful smell lingered in the air. Something was different and sweet in the morning porridge this time. The distinct taste of his was burnt, owed to little experience of cooking on his own. Anders’ stomach growled, and he unwrapped himself long enough to wipe the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.  

 Hard at work, Merrill spooned two large helpings from the pot.

 “Oh, did you sleep okay? I decided to let you sleep because you weren’t thrashing around like you usually do.”

 Anders had a mouth full of porridge and could not respond.

 “Well, you know. You make a lot of sounds, you flail around a lot... I thought for certain I was going to be hit in my sleep! Well, except for that one time. And I hit you.” Merrill trailed off with a nervous, barely audible laugh.

 “No, no. It’s fine.” Anders let the spoon rest in the bowl and he looked up from it with a smile, the faint lines around his eyes crinkling. “I... slept well.”

 He was in a place where no demon could tread. That place was outdoors, far away from the places he had been accustomed to, places of evasion. This outdoors lacked marsh, mud, the pervasive smell of dog or death, and instead freedom carried on its wind. The sun on Anders’ bare skin was warm and pleasant, and he wiggled his toes, sand between them.

 Anders looked down at his feet, bare as in the dream. Instead of embracing the warmth of the sun, he embraced the blanket, shifting it from his upper half to his lower.

 Merrill motioned towards the hearth as she noticed the chill nipping at him, and once sitting by the fire, he cast the blanket aside and perched the bowl between his torso and his thighs. Whether still in a haze from sleep was questionable, but he cast his mind back to where he was hours before.

 Through the sand, through the salty and refreshing breeze was the ocean, larger than he could have ever imagined. Nothing else lay on the horizon, maybe a ship in the distance if he squinted right. Anders walked to the edge and let the rolling tide lap at his feet. The water was clear and cool and the sun reflected off of its surface, creating ripples of light.

 A strange bird with a long neck and shimmery black feathers plucked a small fish out of the water and flew across his field of vision. For the little time he had been around the water, he associated it with frantic escape, be it slipping out of the tower or through busy ports with the discordant sounds of drunken sailors and ships unloading cargo. This escape, this time, there was nothing at his back.

 Anders waded further into the ocean and heard a giggle in the distance, becoming more audible in the span of a simple, short movement of stepping forward.

 And then he fell face-first into the water.

 “Shit!”

 The bowl of porridge landed on his tunic and it dribbled down the side of it. Immediately he shirked his tunic and rummaged through a chest to pull out another one.

 As he bent over, Merrill noticed marks on Anders’ back that were similar to the backs of seasoned hunters in her clan; scars here and there, scrapes from attacks, mostly from beast, some from man. There was one she could not ignore however, and it was the long, broad one situated to the left of his spine. He mentioned the circumstances, but would not go further into it. She didn’t realize the scope of how bad his escape from the Wardens was, and how a mortal being could survive an infliction so deep could not have been possible without his unique set of skills.

 Anders grunted as he pulled on his spare tunic. “It’s kind of tight.”

 The dark grey tunic he had come to favor over the years in Kirkwall bore those same years of wear -- tatters on the sleeves, ink spills on the cuffs, and patches of loose weave where his overcoat rubbed the most. It was also too small now, nipping in around his waist and under his arms.

 Merrill heard the same profanity after she heard fabric ripping. Anders sighed deeply, and then threw on his overcoat. It was like nothing happened after he spooned himself another bowl. “Still hungry.”

 Anders eating was a good thing, despite the jagged rip in the pit of his shirt. If she could touch his ribs, she wouldn’t feel as many places where they would stick out.

His appetite had increased over the months, filling out the hollows in his cheeks, his ribs, hips --

 If Merrill had a cellar, she would have stuffed that thought in it.  

 In many clans, such as hers, one had to prove themselves to another. Dalliances were frowned on, but certainly not forbidden. In all clans, da’len were taught from the time they’ve taken their first steps and said their first words to respect and revere their heritage. Children come into age, begin to manifest their talents, and slide into their role within the clan. Some inherit a whole new one.

 Some see their destiny as great. There is always something to prove, be it archer with bow or a master craftsman with his work or even bound for something greater. However, some aim for the stars only to land in the mud.

 Everyone still has something to prove, including her. Including him.

 Merrill saw the bird’s bright red plumage stick out amongst the snow, and it drew her back to things that were tangible.

 __________________________

 “There he is!” Merrill chirped, pointing at the creature that has garnered so much attention in the bare, leafless tree.

 Anders took a look upwards. Perched contently, the bird probably didn’t feel out-of-place and lonely. It responded in kind to Merrill’s sounds of bird mimicry, releasing three cheerful chirps. Then another bird joined the bright bird, smaller and auburn-colored. She perched beside him and snow fell off the weak, dead branches.

 “Aw!” Merrill cooed. “I think they’re mates!”

 She cleared a small spot of land using fire magic, and the birds flew off. She momentarily frowned before they circled back around, and she threw a handful of crumbs and seed onto the muddy ground.

 Strange, that a temperate bird such as the fiery red cardinal and his mate would be this far south when winter broke free from the skies. Mating season was nowhere near; when the trees start blossoming, love does as well. Did birds fall in love, as humans and elves do? Perhaps they walked another path.

 No, they flew another path. Merrill giggled softly into her cupped hands, and stopped abruptly in the middle. The birds had soon had their fill, and they chirped as gratefully as a bird could and flew northward.

 “Maybe they were just late.” Anders observed. Something caught his eye on the ground. Two bright red feathers rested underneath the tree. He plucked them from the snow and put them in the inner pocket in his coat, patting it. Anders’ feathers were molting. A collection steadily grew over the months in the vanity drawer with feathers of many colors. Black had been replaced with blue, white, grey, brown and now red.

 In time, enough for a new coat.

 “Maybe they’re right at home.” Merrill looked towards the sky. They disappeared from sight, but she felt like they would return sometime. This was their home as much as theirs.

 Was this a home? It started to feel like one. She looked up at Anders. Was that?

 Anders was smiling.

 “Of all the things... you have me bird-watching now. There’s a certain... peacefulness about it.”

 Merrill blew into her hands again.

 “You know, you can use magic for that.”

 “I know.” Merrill answered with a smile, one reserved for pleasant daydreaming. Moments rolled by with a comfortable silence.

 Then she reached up and touched his face with the back of her hand.

 Anders flinched back. “Merrill! Your hands feel like death!”

 Merrill shot him a playful grin. With Anders distracted, she shaped a snowball in her bare hands and threw it into his chest, running on contact.

 “You can use magic for that too!” he said, giving chase.

 Merrill counted on her lean athleticism, ducking and evading volleys of snowballs. Not a single shot landed. Once again, she disappeared from view. He looked left, then right, then down. Merrill could hide in tight places sometimes.

 “Anders!”

 There was one direction he didn’t look. Before she came into view, a snowball smacked him in the shoulder.

 “Too slow!” she yelled from atop a tree branch.

 In a flash, she was gone.

 It was on.

 These skills were rusty, unemployed for quite some time. They gathered dust, but there was no time like now to brush them off. He became eerily quiet with his back to the tree. Listening intently to the little sounds around him -- twigs falling, rustling, even the direction of the wind, he pinpointed the elf.

 He made as little sound as possible, and slowly shuffled through the snow as he scooped up a large ball in his right hand.

 With one quick motion, he released it into the back of Merrill’s head.

 “Ow!” Merrill exclaimed. “Well, I mean, that didn’t hurt or anything.” She shook the lingering snow from her hair. “It’s sure cold though.”

 Anders let out an amused, monosyllabic chuckle and stood proud, hands on his hips. “Got you.”

 A handful of snow was playfully shoved into his chest. “Oh, I don’t... I don’t think so yet.” She rubbed the tip of one of her ears, red from the biting chill, and ran.

 She didn’t get far. One, two, three snowballs launched at her back, landing in quick succession.  

 “Hey!” Merrill shouted, whipping around. Anders expected her to object. Instead, craftily obscured from his view was a snowball. It hit the front of his chest and crumbled, scattering snowy bits that clung to his face.

 “Truce?” He laughed again, hand outstretched in concession.

 Her hand met his to shake on it. Clasped around hers, his hand was warm and soft, with no evidence of having picked up a single flake of snow. One shake, two seconds, and Merrill thought, just maybe, that was three seconds. Suddenly, his hand shot back toward his side.

 “Um. Merrill. Your hands really are frigid.”

 Her expression neutralized. The full sensation of cold didn’t set in until Anders pointed it out. She shivered, and ran her fingers up and down the length of her upper arms.

 “Let’s get a fire going. I should brush up on my techniques, after all.” A nervous laughed followed, and Merrill looked over it. Instead, she attuned to the sensation in her cheeks. The cold must have nipped at Anders’, too.

 _________________________________________________________

 The next thing he remembered, he was lying on his back on the beach with the sound of gently rolling waves in the distance. With eyes closed, he dug his toes into the sand. A seabird made a shrill, distinctive call in a high pitch, and the voice next to him waved it off, citing necessity for her food. A whoosh flew by his head followed by the sound of something soft making contact with the ground.

 “There. That ought to take care of him. Well, at least for a bit. I made sure to throw it far.”

 Then the sound of a body settling into the sand, within arm’s reach.

 Rays of sunshine hit his face. Accustomed to the darkness, it was a bit of a shock to see vibrant colors and feel the radiating warmth on his skin. Even with his eyes shut, there was less shadow than in the belly of the Undercity. Broad daylight would mean he was open to the elements, open to capture.

 Not this time.

 A hand reached out to meet his, beckoning him to rise to his feet. He opened his eyes and it took a moment to adjust to the light. Blurs of orange and yellow mixed with the natural color of the environment, initially harsh and blinding. His free hand shaded his eyes and his surroundings came into focus.

 His feet picked up pace with the body in front of him, small and lithe. Adjoined at the hand, he then kept it until the sand under his feet became moist and water hit his ankles. A splash of water hit his face, and then he heard a small giggle.

 “Fight back!” the playful voice chimed in, and he wiped the water from his eyes.

 He knew that voice.

 He absolutely knew that voice.

 Anders felt the surroundings around him, intangible, unthreatening. Convinced this was an actual dream and not the machinations of a demon, he could let go, or break it and wake up.

 He decided to let go, and fought back with a splash in return.

  Today, those hands were tangible. This was not a dream, he was pretty sure he was awake. Anders zapped himself to make sure.

 Yes, he was awake, more than he has ever been.

 He flinched and shook the hand that received the minute jolt.

 “Oh, I hate it when I do that. It happens sometimes, I do it when I daydream.” Merrill quipped, and Anders wondered if he gave himself away completely with one gesture. He went still, then blank, fighting the urge to give away himself further.

 When she did not comment on it, his breathing relaxed and he grabbed his journal, where he began to write frantically.

 Merrill shrugged her shoulders and returned to the world of a book, falling into the pages. On the other side of the page she was on was the last story in the book. She hesitated, reading the page thrice over. Her finger twitched at the back of it, rubbing the coarse paper over it. It was then shut with a slip of parchment sticking out.

 One by one, the flickers of light were blown out and the hearth fire extinguished for the night. Anders’ candle on the desk was singled out, a glow half-concealed by a wall from where she lay. The book lay at her side, and by the way he was writing, he wouldn’t be in for a while. That is, if he decided to share the bed again.

 She threw the covers over her head, summoned a glow wisp, and opened the book to the last story. Her world was lit in a soft pink and she concentrated on the words in front of her in secret, hidden under warm layers. They fell into paragraphs and distinct ideas, each painting a picture of a steamy romance between a headstrong Keeper and a shy hunter. Crawling up her face was a genuine blush, red and tingly and she praised the Creators that she camped under the blanket.

 With each page, Merrill blinked more, fighting off both sleep and her own thoughts, drifting towards danger. She shimmied up and rested her head on the pillow, and each blink became longer than the last. Anders was still hard at work, with the sounds of a quill scratching on parchment. Merrill allowed the sound to lull her to sleep, with remnants of hands on hips, sweet sensuality from the Keeper whispered to her lover, and invading translations from print to the real world.

 _______________

 Anders fought with quill in hand, using the art of writing to convey the jumble and conflict within himself. Discouraged by past endeavors, he hesitated, with entire lines scratched out, partly out of frustration. Those endeavors went up in smoke, he reminded himself, and started anew. He crumpled the parchment up and threw it behind him. It landed shy of the hearth, and no doubt it would be tomorrow’s kindling.

 He tapped the feathery plumage of the quill on his nose as he was dissecting and deciphering and deliberating his inner thoughts and how they would flow. What he had wrote before were manifestos, treatises, documents that weren’t valued. Painstaking hours went into them, only to be thought of as a joke. Trampled by passersby, ridiculed by those around him, pages cast into campfires and hearths without regard. He growled, and each tap became more forceful.

 What he had picked up from his time spent here was the power of storytelling. It didn’t have to be falsified, like many of Varric’s accounts were. In the right hands, a story can be remembered for many ages, millenia even. Merrill demonstrated that with each story she told. It was to be her role, after all.

 He peeked at the slumbering Dalish elf, a traveling companion and friend. There was something that felt out-of-place about those words, like they didn’t sit on the tongue or could be transcribed into print quite right. She turned over and groaned, kicking her legs a couple of times before resting deep within the covers. Anders returned to his task with vigor, brimming with ideas.

 They were not frivolous and throwaway, and he contemplated each word before he let ink glide across the paper in deliberate, measured strokes. A story was to be told, and he started from where inspiration led him to.

 Before long, empty pages became full and brimming with barely-contained ideas. He felt sleep tug at his eyes, and Anders decided to call it quits.

 For now.

 He shoved the draft face-down in the drawer and killed the candle fire.

 Anders folded his hands in front of his abdomen and his attention drifted inward as he propped his feet on the desk, with only one hand in the present.

 The other was in the future, uncertain but promising.

 He could have fallen asleep with imagination taking the reins if it wasn’t for a piece of the backboard cutting into his back. Casting it off, he vigorously shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. Making as little sound as possible, he nudged the chair back into place and shuffled to the end of the bed. Time crawled slowly as he sat there, staring at the little cracks in the ceiling. One. Two.

 No, he didn’t have to count them tonight. There were other things that he could count. The slow rise and fall of his eyelids, with a haze behind them that beckoned him to seek warmth within the sheets. Thoughts he couldn’t quite shake. Occasionally Merrill would shift and he felt the covers rumple underneath him, a stray foot nudging his bottom.

 There were decisions to make, and the cabin soaked in more of the outside chill as the minutes passed. Merrill felt it and she said it would be another harsh winter night. Through the window, he saw the fall of snow resume.

 One option was crossed off when Anders slipped under the covers, next to his... friend still wasn’t the word for it.

 Companion?

 Closer, but it still didn’t quite fit.

 He fumbled for the words as he fumbled with the adjustment of his clothes.

 A source of comfort?

 Anders pressed his face into Merrill’s shoulder, and she squirmed, scooting against his body. He contently sighed, and sleep claimed him as he let his fingers gently fall on her side.

 He’d find out the word sooner or later.

 ___________________________________

  On most days, especially in these cooler months, the cabin took on the scent of pinewood and various burned manuscripts from Anders’ collection, these times at his own behest. This morning, the odor of charred food clung to the air.

 “Shit!”

 A spoon clattered to the floor, and he let out a series of profanity underneath his breath. He kicked it, and it landed underneath the short table. He crawled on the floor to retrieve it, and as he was getting up, he whacked the top of his head on the hard wood.

 “Fuck!” he yelled frustratedly.

 “I think you need some help there.”

 Merrill stood above him, all five feet and a scant couple of inches, with her arm extended and palm out, ready to help him off the floor.

 “I don’t need...” he growled before his face softened and his rage dissipated into the wafts of lingering smoke, blowing it out through the corner of his mouth. “...Thank you.” he sheepishly replied as he took her hand.

 It was the one that clung to his tunic when the sun crested. Minutes passed as he lay there, allowing himself flesh-and-blood contact. It was something he missed dearly, being held, feeling...

 He rattled the concept in his head, struggling to come up with the correct words to describe it.

 Secure? No, that was a label he had never owned. Safe? Maybe that was it.  

 Loved.

 Taken aback, he froze in place and the gaps between blinks shortened.

 “...Is something wrong?” she asked, concerned, as she quickly pulled her hand away.

 “No, not at all.” Anders replied with a lie.

 He suddenly had a lot to take in.

___

 The warmth receded as she pulled back, a twinge of a dismayed frown trying to tug at her lips. She pulled for distractions -- she could feed the birds once more. No, there were none out today. They had moved on, and so should she.

 “Well, you know, it does smell awful in here.” Merrill nervously laughed.

 “You don’t need to point out the obvious.” Anders retorted, irritation in the fine lines of his face.

 Without hesitation, Merrill wove a spell that dissipated the air in the room, cleansing it of the smoke.

 “Oh no. No, I didn’t mean it like that. I messed it up, didn’t I?”

 Her hands wanted to move over her mouth, her fingers were twitching, but the motions never came. Instead, they held her other hand, thumb coarsely rubbing over her index finger.

 “No, I meant I could teach you. You know, not to mess it up as much? I’m hoping I’m not getting this wrong again.”

 What she expected was an emotional flare-up. But all she received was the barest hint of a smile. For that, she was grateful.

 “I...” and he sat on that syllable for what seemed like minutes, and she collected her next words, carefully and tactfully. “I think I could use the lesson.”

 Merrill took the spoon from Anders’ hand and opened the door, sticking it into the snow.

 “Merrill! What are you...”

 She then blasted fire on it. “It was on the floor, Anders. It’s dirty.”

 Anders looked bewildered. “Huh. Magic serving man.”

 “Magic does the dishes, too. Sometimes.” Merrill smiled, a clean spoon now in her grasp. “All it takes is practice, once you know.” She repeated the process for the scorched pot, and set things anew.

 He scooped the oats into the pot and she carefully eyed the amount. She opened the door to the outside again, and he shivered, moving towards the fire. With two large cups of snow in hand, she then melted them, strained the water, and poured it in the pot.

 “It helps having the right amount. Have you ever eaten something really mushy and it doesn’t sit right in your mouth? That’s because there’s too much water there.”

 Anders chuckled. “That’s what the food at the Circle tasted like!”

 “Did... oh no, I shouldn’t mention that.”

 “Mention what? About how templars can’t cook?”

 Merrill giggled. “Did they grab for the sugar or the salt? That’s important, too. Was your porridge really salty, too?”

 “Ha! They might as well have had a templar cook!” Anders replied as he dumped the oats into the pot. “Probably cooked with their helmets on, probably couldn’t see a cookbook, tasting things was out of the question. The smell from the Circle kitchen was enough to knock over a full-sized dragon.”

 Merrill scooted behind him and gestured for him to sit. Anders looked perplexed but took a seat, and the petite elf started moving her fingers through his hair, manipulating it to her will. He hummed contently as strands of golden hair were woven quickly into a single braid, barely touching his shoulders.

 “It’s always good to do that. Tie your hair back, I mean. At least for me, hair in your food is not a nice surprise.” She tapped her fingers on the opposite hand’s fingerpads, a silent rhythm of nervousness.

 Anders, with spoon in hand, stirred the mixture occasionally with Merrill’s prompting. He blew at a flyaway strand, then tucked it in. A few moments later, it wriggled its way out. Like him, it never wanted to be tamed, held in place or trapped. Years ago, young and careless, he would have considered this punishment, another trap. Yet, this was a place where he felt free. Lost in a daydream, imaginations running wild and far away into new and undiscovered recesses, he stared blankly into an unseen spot.

 Merrill tapped her foot, not out of impatience but out of... well, maybe impatience. Just a bit. Anders was awfully quiet, staring into the miniscule sprinkles of dust that swam in the daylight from the window. They moved in tandem, it seemed, traveling upward with the air. They scattered and swirled when she drew out a long breath. When they lost their pattern, she let herself fall away with them.

 It was only with the first signs of something wrong did she flinch.

 “Anders, I think...” and she hesitated, then grabbed the hand that held the spoon, “I think it’s starting to burn. Just a little bit.”  

 Anders quickly stirred it, muttering a profanity or two as he slipped back in to reality. Merrill worked at the fire, tempering its heat.

 “If the fire’s too hot, it burns. But like this, it’s perfect.” She smiled at him, took the spoon from his hand and laid it down. For a moment there, she swore he looped his pinky finger into one of hers as his expression eased. “Leave it there for a few minutes. You’ll see what happens.”

 Those minutes were spent at each others’ side, barely a word between them but there was something unspoken that felt like a rich and complicated conversation. Fingers brushed against hands, each wondering if what they sensed through touch was a mistake.

 Merrill admired his slender fingers as they wrapped around the handle of the spoon and the upward curve of his lips as he lifted the lid off the pot. Perfectly cooked oats rested in the pot, with no burns, blemishes, or glue-like porridge sticking to the sides.

 “See? You did great!” Merrill encouraged, then slipped into a ramble. “But, there’s one more step, if you want it to taste really wonderful. I know I do, although I’m not sure if you’d like the things I top it with and I’m just not sure you’re used to it and --”  

 “Merrill. I’m looking forward to it, it smells delicious.”

 “Oh, you did it all, not me.” If he didn’t have his back turned towards her, he might have seen the flush crawl up her neck, in her cheeks, all the way to the tips of her ears. One breath in, a long one out, and she willed away physical telltales with a few quick and shallow shakes of her head. She reached for a jar and dipped in a smaller spoon, and she motioned for Anders to pass her a bowl. Drizzling the sticky, gooey substance onto hers, she then moved to his.

 “Honey, but only a little though, it’s not good when it’s too sweet. Oh! What’s good about it is that it keeps a very long time, so you don’t have to worry about it going bad. Sometimes it’s hard to get, because not many people want to work with bees and get stung, but once you get it...”

 “I... is this the stuff that you put into your tea?” Anders asked.

 Oh no. What if he thought that was bad? “Well, honey can be used for many things...”

 Anders cut her off. “If it is, put more of it on mine. I like my things a bit sweet.”

 “And since you have honey, you really don’t need sugar. I like berries on mine too, it works really nice with it.” Merrill said, punctuating it with a lifted, cheerful note and a smile. She partially mashed the berries in the bowl before she suddenly stopped and passed the bowl to Anders. “I should be showing you how to do this, not doing it myself. Although I already did most of it.”

 “I’m sure I can figure it out next time.” Anders said, as he spooned a bit of mash and juice into his bowl. Without hesitation, he sampled his... hers... their handiwork.

 And it was delicious.

 “Incredible.” He looked up at her with a smile, devouring the contents of his bowl in a flash. Seeking seconds, he made himself another. With a jovial laugh, one that hadn’t escaped his lips in what felt like years and years, he sat down at the table. “This skill is very dangerous, Merrill. In the wrong hands...”

 He suddenly had hers in his with a blink of his eyes. With a swelling of pride, she looked into those attentive and contented brown eyes and firmly held his hands.

 “You know me.” Merrill nervously giggled, “I always took interest in the dangerous things.”

 She leaned in and laid the gentlest of kisses to Anders’ pressed lips. A flyaway strand caressed the top of her forehead as she pulled away, and when those eyes turned to wide-eyed surprise, she felt like crumbling away.

 Apologies were rapidly fired without discernible gaps between words. Seconds passed like days as she tried to explain her mistake, her folly, that this was just a gesture of happiness, a gesture of what she knew what felt like what could be more but no, it could never happen, how could she ever think it could ever happen. She exhaled deeply, trying to fight the seeping discouragement that tinged her voice.

 “Anders, I’m sorry.”

 Ever so close to reciprocating, Anders hesitated. She had changed her mind, after all, likely a good decision on her part. He sighed, a huff of air without a trace of emotion, or at least he hoped it didn’t carry the tune of a letdown. Keeping composure, he squeezed one hand, then let go.

 “It’s okay, Merrill.”

 When he accepted, it felt like a lie beating him at the base of his skull. Anders quieted, and a sudden chill took the warmth out of the room. Even though the fire was roaring, it might as well have been an illusion. If he put his hand to the window and touched the glass with the back of his hand, the grip of cold would have been the same.

 Merrill huddled by the fire, with no more words between the two. She could have run out of the cabin and taken cover amongst the thick cover of trees to hide her shame. If she had wings, she’d take flight and fly away just like yesterday’s birds, for they had no business here. She had no business doing that, encroaching on his personal space, something he tended to value. Instead, she sat there, trying to capture what little warmth the fire held.

 She berated herself extensively; how could she have been that foolish? This was just one more mistake to add to her extensive tally, and she had lost count of how many marks would delineate every one of her mishaps. There were permanent tallies she would tote with her for the rest of her life, hopefully fading as the years went on. Others, she would carry the burden of until the day the world decided it was time, thicker and darker marks but less advertised. This was only a scratch in the scheme of things, but no one said that a scratch couldn’t hurt.

 Perhaps he’d still be okay with being friends. There was nothing harmful about wanting to have a friend around, was there? Over the months, they had grown close, closer than she ever thought would ever be possible. Anders was difficult to know, with an intricate personality that made more sense the more she unraveled him. Determined, fierce and caring, three qualities that would stand out when... no, she had to set that aside. They were wonderful traits of a friend too.

 Anders broke the silence. “Merrill, I’m not mad at you.” He exhaled, dodging the rush of emotions and internal debate thrumming in his head. “I just... just bear with me.”

 He didn’t think he could love again, he almost didn’t want to, for it always seemed to begin and end as a disaster, a mistake from the very start. The last, he never wanted to recall again. He severed the memories of Hawke one by one until only a name and a sequence of events were left behind. Years of poor choices left marks, once tallied on the side of a prison wall and now in the thoughts and hands of himself and in the minds of everyone else. Merrill and him had those things in common, to try and try and try only to find desperation staring back at them, offering a way in or the exit out.

 When he made his peace, or thought he had, the copy of his manifesto that he personally handed to her still rested on her table, folded neatly in two. It had been read, judging by the smears on the sides left by damp fingers. Not a single nasty criticism had been written in the spaces between lines, no crude doodles had been drawn on it, and no flames had licked and devoured the sheet of paper. It was the most respect he had ever been given for it. Normally oblivious to details, Anders then saw Merrill in a new light since the defensive slaughter of her clan. Despondent, alone, and very much sober, Merrill might have picked up on what his future held.

 When the ashes fell, she gave him nothing but support and strength.

 More than he deserved.

 In the Wilds, they found much more than a respite from being hunted, chased and shamed. While Merrill found healing spells difficult to master much less maintain, there was one thing that she could patch up quicker than he ever could. Those mistakes, holes in a blanket, puncture wounds to the gut -- Merrill helped him come to terms with a few of them, firmly and amicably. He saw the resolve in her, all those years ago, balked at it, considered her dangerous.

 But so was he.

 He sat down at his desk and rapidly wrote once more with intense focus, not pausing or hesitating a single time.

 He wasn’t about to let it slip away.

 ____

 Merrill sought a distraction. Many distractions. Bundled up in her tattered and worn winter coat, she shuffled in and out of the cabin. Firewood needed to be brought in.

Tiny armfuls were placed by the hearth, one by one. With each gathering, she lingered by the pile. The cold air made her nose chilly, and the tips of her ears even more so. A stinging sensation was packaged with the cold, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The longer she stood there, the more acclimated to it she became, and she treasured the snow crunching beneath her feet and the solitude.

 She didn’t know what Anders meant. Numerous things touched her mind, and each one set her nerves aflame. Perhaps if she stayed outside longer, the sting and numbness could take her mind away from them.

 Faced towards the wind, she let it smack her. Soon the chill couldn’t take all those thoughts away. She scooped up snow and balled it up in her hands, then launched it at a tree, making contact with the center. Out flew a bird with bright red feathers, a familiar bird.

 Their bird.

 A small detail like a bird would probably skip the attention of many. Birds were in trees everywhere, unless the land was diseased and nature receded into nothing. The earth beneath her feet, while slumbering, was very much alive.

 The bird chirped, signaling that hope was on the wing. In even the toughest times, the harshest of weather, it could persevere and even thrive. Merrill took a deep breath and marveled at the water vapor fogging the air as she exhaled. She smiled, and some of the more prickly thoughts faded as surely as the vapor did.

 Bending down, Merrill retrieved an object of interest on the ground. After cleaning it with a touch of snow, she slipped it in her hair. She was on the cleared path back to the cabin, back to a place she could consider home. The glow in the window became closer with each step, and her nerves flared up once more.

 It wasn’t a mistake, was it?

 She took the feather out and played with it in her hands, rubbing the edge back and forth with her thumb. The human tongue was a curious one, with words that had double and triple meanings. Anders was certainly fond of them, and had to explain things a few times -- sometimes crabbily, sometimes softly.

 Bear with me.

 Oh.

 This was a plea for patience.

 The stars begun to shine through the veil of dusk. Oranges and pinks grazed the horizon, and the sunshine gave way to the moon. Clouds blended bright with dark, and Merrill stared in wonder of the sky. Soon the only things that lit the way were a partially-obscured moon and the beacon of the cabin, and she caught her breath.

 Merrill wasn’t afraid of the dark. Well, maybe sometimes. She could always light the way herself somehow, through mana or perseverance, sometimes both. There were other matters that were more frightening than shadow, and one of those lay in the obscurity of the heart. That wasn’t something a wisp could cast light on, nor the sun to shine through.

 Treading carefully is probably wise when you can barely see the way. But if you never move, you’ll never finish your journey.

 Exhaling slowly, she spilled silent gratitude for the wisdom she sought.

 _________________

 Snow fell for the third straight night. Anders sat by the hearth with his lanky legs outstretched, looking out the window. Light from the moon reflected off the thick blanket of snow and through the cover of the clouds, creating an illusion of dawn.

A cup rested in an ink-stained hand, steam rising from the top.

 Merrill brewed a fantastic tea, with a special ingredient he added to his mug. Three of these he downed in succession, with his ideas flowing more freely with each sip he took. Tingles and warmth touched his cheeks, and if the ingredients in the mug weren’t the cause, he’d say he’d been charmed.

 There was an underlying element that bit at him, but as the contents disappeared, so did his hesitation. They were nearly lost in the soothing haze, and soon silence was the first thing to fade entirely.

 Stark black fingerprints were left on the mug’s handle, and a stack of papers rested by his side, neatly arranged, not a single corner out of place. Nerves in his buttocks tingled, a sign he’d been sitting there for far too long, and he moved, knocking the stack down. Sheets of paper flopped to the ground in a messy array, and normally he’d shout an agitated curse or two before collecting them.

 Tonight, he let them sit in place. He let them sleep naturally on the floor like Merrill once did, and he’d arouse them in time.

 Once did.

 He laughed to himself, or at least he thought he did. Apparently that internal laugh became vocal, as Merrill sauntered over to his side with her lips turned upward and a responsive giggle in return.

 “Oh! I’m glad you enjoy the tea! Most humans don’t appreciate this kind. It’s an acquired taste, sure, but once you being to truly appreciate it, there’s no other kind quite like it --”

 Anders silenced her with a smile. “Then I believe I’ve acquired it!”  

 He showed the contents to Merrill, nothing but a dark stain at the bottom. “That’s what I feel about it. Delicious.” He enthusiastically shook his mug. “I think I want more. Much more.”

 Merrill motioned to take his mug, but he lifted himself to his feet, slightly wobbling. She held him steady, both hands on his right arm.

 “No, I think I can get it. Rest your pretty little feet, you’ve done enough.”

 He poured the remaining contents of the kettle into two mugs, his stained one and its clean, unstained partner. Grabbing an amber-colored bottle with a red string tied to its neck, he poured a generous amount of its contents into his.

 “Thank you. I failed to mention that.” he said, a warm, lifted tonality to his voice. “Thank you. For everything.”

 He handed the other piping-hot mug to her.  

 “I think you should try this! A friend in the Wardens loved this stuff. In everything.”

 She took a sip and her face scrunched. “Anders, that’s... really strong.”

 “I guess you can say it’s an acquired taste.” He smirked.

 Merrill decided to sample the concoction again, for good measure. It stung in her mouth and her throat, but this time she could taste the complimentary notes of the tea mingling with... whatever it was. She swallowed it in two parts, the second half lingering on her tongue.

 “Whiskey, supposedly the best. I’ve... been saving it. For a special occasion.”

 “A special occasion?” Her curiosity was piqued.

 “I haven’t exactly had reason to celebrate before now.” A solemn phrase, turned upside down. Anders’ face was beaming, and he rested his head upon her shoulder.

 Merrill’s face reddened. “You know, your smile is so pretty.”

 “Is it? Perhaps I’ll be smiling more, then.”

 He nuzzled her neck, his pronounced nose hitting a sensitive spot. Goosebumps formed on her arms, hidden by her tunic, and a hum of approval barely escaped her lips.

 “Very special, indeed.” he said, his hot breath centimeters from her bare skin. An arm snaked around her, a hand rubbing her shoulder in circles. “Perhaps... perhaps I shouldn’t assume. But I’d consider this special.”

 Merrill eased into his touch, and her voice quivered, “What’s so special? About this night, I mean? I.. I.. I’m glad you think things are special, I was afraid you had lost hope in the little things... I’m glad to see you happy.”

 With her heartbeat pounding, the touch migrated from her shoulder, slowly grazing down her arm, and down to her own fingers. Short met long, and he gently moved a finger on each before loosely tucking them between his own.

 Honey-brown eyes gazed into hers, soft yet secure, strong but gentle. A finger touched the bottom of her chin, beckoning her to look upward.

 “Merrill? May I try something?”