Title: A Treatise on Spirits and Corruption
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: PG
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: None
Summary: Fenris returns home to find Anders contemplating the nature of corruption.

When Fenris got home that night, Hawke was nowhere to be found. He climbed the stairs to the bedroom only to find the bed untouched, the desk unoccupied. The bath stood empty before the fire. He looked around a moment more, as if she might be hiding behind one of the curtains, then descended the stairs again.

Anders was the sole occupant in the library. For once, he wasn’t sitting at the small desk by the wall, scribbling furiously at his so-called manifesto. Instead, he was sitting in a chair in front of the fire, a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He looked up when Fenris entered.

“You’re back,” was the extent of his greeting, then he returned his gaze to the book.

“Where is Hawke?” Fenris asked.

“Helping Merrill with something,” Anders said, and his mouth quirked towards a frown. “Not hard to guess why she chose not to invite us along.”

On this one issue, Anders and Fenris were surprisingly in agreement. The brief sense of camaraderie propelled Fenris forward. He moved closer to the fire and stood there, warming himself in the cool Autumn evening.

“Is there more of that?” he asked, nodding towards Anders’ wine glass.

Anders looked up at him from where he sat. It was one of the few times that Fenris was able to look down upon Anders, and he was surprised to see thin threads of silver in his dishevelled hair, shining in the firelight. For a moment, Fenris thought that Anders would not respond but then he slowly put his book face down on the floor and stood before walking over to the liquor cabinet. He found another glass and filled it, before walking back over to Fenris and offering it to him.

Fenris took the glass and inhaled the aroma of the wine as Anders sat back down in the chair and picked up his book.

“Antivan?” Fenris asked, and Anders nodded without looking up. Fenris swirled it around in his glass then took a sip. Antivan wine tasted gravelly compared to the full-bodied fruitiness of Tevinter varieties. He still preferred the wine of the Imperium, but Antivan was a close second. Anders was still head down in the book, and Fenris bent his neck to get a look at the title. The book was bound in thick leather with elaborate scrollwork, but he couldn’t read the title, despite the lessons he had been receiving from Hawke.

Anders’ brown eyes met his over the top of the book. “It’s a philosophical treatise on the nature of spirits and demons,” he said.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Inquiring into your own nature?”

Anders ignored the jibe. “There have been very few instances of spirits successfully melding with a mortal,” he said. “This author posits that abominations are the result of mortals corrupting spirits, rather than demons corrupting mortals.”

Fenris frowned. “Are there no demons within the Fade, then?”

“Of course there are. But mortals visit the Fade all the time in their sleep, bringing with them their own visions and desires. Spirits model themselves and their environment on these dreams.”

“So you are saying that it is mortals’ fault that there are demons? That we corrupt them?”

Anders shut the book, briefly holding his place with a finger, before sighing and putting it down, closed, upon the floor. He stood up and joined Fenris in front of the fire. He stared into the flames. “It is not a matter of fault,” he said. He looked for a moment like he might say something more but remained silent.

“Are you saying that you… or Justice… have been corrupted?” Fenris asked.

He tensed as Anders turned to him, afraid that he would see the supernatural flash of blue in his eyes, but they were just Anders’ normal brown. “I don’t know,” he said. He took a deep breath, looked back towards the fire. “How would I know?”

Fenris looked at Anders. His eyes were circled with dark rings, his silvered hair was falling from its restraint, and his robes were rumpled and stained. He raised a hand to rub at his eyes, and his sleeve slid down to reveal his pale arm speckled with golden hair. He did not look like an abomination, at least not yet.

“We can only judge each other on our actions,” Fenris said carefully. The wine must have been getting to him, with nothing else in his stomach. That must be why he didn’t move when Anders took a step closer, and Fenris had to bend his neck to look up at him. Fenris breathed in deeply through his nose. He smelled the heady vapour of the wine in his glass and the scent of herbs and soap that seemed to be ingrained in Anders’ robes.

“You wouldn’t have said that once,” Anders said. His voice was low and soft, and Fenris was suddenly seized by the realisation that he could reach out and curl his fist in the front of Anders’ robes, pull him down towards him, and Anders would probably not resist. That Anders would perhaps welcome it if Fenris were to lean forward and...

Fenris abruptly stepped backwards, and the moment was gone. He lifted his wine glass and drained the remainder, turning his face towards the fire to hide the flush that he felt.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, his voice rougher than normal. He stalked to the liquor cabinet, placed the glass on top, then turned and left the room without saying goodnight.

Later, much later, Fenris was awakened by Anders walking into the bedroom. In the dim light coming through the windows, he saw his silhouette as he stripped off his robes and slipped beneath the covers. Fenris slitted his eyes as Anders turned towards him on one elbow, and so couldn’t see his expression as he looked at him for a long moment. Then he rolled onto his side, facing away from him.