DELUMINATE
the glass face is shattered, the metal handle warped from years of constant use. fenris holds onto it, just in case.

...

I.

He smells like Darktown.

"How do you know Darktown doesn't just smell like me?" Anders teases, which makes Fenris growl and pull his head down, uncovered hands curling around the nape of his neck with surprising gentleness.

The healer laughs sparingly, but he chuckles now and presses chapped lips to the elf's brow like a blessing.

II.

The feather pauldrons always reek of fester, of dried blood and things that Anders could not save. Fenris pulls those off first, and throws them across the room.

It's not about aesthetics – the scent is unappealing, but Fenris does not mind it so much when he considers the state of his own dwelling. It's for the fact that Anders so rarely seeks him out, and when he does it usually means that something has gone wrong; something to make the clinic unbearable.

III.

Anders doesn't cry anymore.

He used to, but today he simply folds himself up and leans into the warmth of Fenris' arms. "He was just a little boy. I could have fixed it in a minute if he'd come last week. Instead it got infected, but his father wouldn't come earlier because he didn't want magic touching his son." He trembles, and the Tevinter elf isn't sure if it's anger or disappointment or shame.

His amber eyes are hollow-looking, but dry.

Fenris doesn't know how to feel about that.

IV.

The little hollow between sharply-jutting clavicles tastes like sweat and elfroot, but more disturbing is the flavor of lyrium that stings Fenris's tongue.

"How much have you had?" he accuses, gripping Anders's shoulders. His skin has always been dark against the healer's, but now it is worryingly so, sickly-pale milky white flesh just barely wrapped around his skeleton.

Anders looks down at trembling palms.

"Not enough."

Not strong enough, not good enough, not yet.

V.

In the ruins of the Chantry, Anders tastes like dust, like the ashes of a man burned completely away. Fenris buries his face against the mage's neck, hair blindingly white against the oil-black feathers. (They smell fresh, not a thing like rot or death. He can't help but think it unfair.)

"I'm sorry."

VI.

Varric never writes that line, that moment.

Nobody remembers which one of them spoke.

VII.

"Come with me to Starkhaven," Sebastian offers.

In the aftermath, Fenris no longer has a reason to stay in Kirkwall. He agrees.

He buckles on his armor and straps his blade to his back. He gives the little tabby kitten that had made a habit of curling up on his windowsill to Hawke and leaves a neat pile of feathers, un-charred, in the pit of his fireplace.

He does not take the jacket, or the staff. He leaves them for the rebels, for the ones who want symbols, and did not know the man they call their martyr.

"Your lantern is broken, Fenris," the prince points out one night. "It must have gotten jostled in your pack. We'll buy you a new one at the next market we pass –"

"No need."

VIII.

Refugees in Darktown know, to find the healer, look for the lit lantern. If you have need enough, Anders will be within.

Fenris waits for the rest of the camp to turn in before trying, foolishly, to start a spark.

The light sputters and then rises, flickering like a toddler unsure on his feet.

He has never been religious, and doesn't know the right words. Sebastian could do it better, but the former Brother would never pray for this.

"Anders," Fenris whispers into the night, and says the mage's name like one might say Andraste.

If you have need enough-

A strain of long gone laughter floats by, accompanied by a sweep of breeze that blows out the flame.

Written for the Dragon Age Valentine's Exchange on Tumblr for tambobill.