Chapter Warnings: None!

Disclaimer: The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

Temper, Temper: Epilogue

The Warden stares out at the sea for hours when they let her.

Anders has teased her about it, dropped pointed questions, even asked Nathaniel to filch the piece of parchment she sometimes clutches tight in her armored fist. Nathaniel refused out of respect, and Anders's other methods have failed miserably. He can only guess that she lost a sweetheart at sea, though the thought of Fynnea Tabris with a sweetheart of any sort seems more horrifying than romantic. She's volatile and sometimes cruel and often childish. But, he reminds herself, she's also the Hero of Ferelden and the slayer of the Mother, and she is beautiful, in a terrifyingly pint-sized sort of way. And she's good with Ser Pounce-a-Lot.

She makes a horrible Arlessa, though.

She still has the nobles locked in the Keep, for one, and Amaranthine is still a gutted ruin. At least it's stopped smoldering.

They're returning now from their most recent survey of the city, trying to salvage what they can and scheduling sections for demolition to clear the way for rebuilding. Fynnea, as always, spent much of the time staring out at the distant sea instead of concentrating, Nathaniel picking up the slack. It's been nine months since Fynnea killed the Architect, nine months of slow rebuilding and strained patience. A year of Fynnea ruling the Arling. Nathaniel's been taking the brunt of it. His politician blood is helping him hold up under the weight, but even he is restless.

They reach the Keep near sundown, and it's quiet. They slump in through the front gates, and they're tired enough that only Nathaniel looks around with a small frown at the silence. The guards are still there, though, and the merchants. They're just nowhere near as active as they usually are, shouting to each other across the courtyard.

When they reach the steps up into the Keep proper, though, their erstwhile private pulls them aside and whispers, "There's somebody waiting for the Commander."

Fynnea sighs. "Another merchant who used to have holdings in Amaranthine, come nine months later to complain and demand recompense?"

The Private shakes her head. "It's- my lady, I believe they're Crows."

Fynnea straightens at that, eyes widening, then narrowing as she smirks. "Oh," she says, simply. And gestures for Nathaniel and Anders to follow.

"Why would Crows be here?" Anders whispers, eyes darting around. "And- why would we know they're here?"

"They want us to know," Nathaniel says, shrugging. "Perhaps they are here to offer their services to you?"

"Perhaps," Fynnea agrees. She still has that wicked grin, and Anders can't figure out why.

"Don't you dare say 'This will be fun'. You always say things will be fun when they really, really aren't," he complains, and she just laughs at him.

She always laughs at him.

This time, though, it's Nathaniel who says, "This will be fun." Anders sighs and shakes his fist at the (out of sight) heavens.

"You two have a warped sense of entertainment, you know that?"

Fynnea motions for him to be silent as they near the double doors into the main hall. She doesn't unsheathe her weapons. She just smiles a small little smile, as if to herself, and pushes open the doors.

Stationed around the room are men even Anders can recognize as assassins. They lean against pillars, obviously not making an attempt to stay hidden. Sitting draped over Fynnea's throne is a lithe elf with tanned skin and sun-bleached hair, the side of his face traced with tattoos that seem to echo, just a little, the tattoos of the Warden. He looks up as they enter, eyes fixing on Fynnea. Fynnea quirks a brow.

"I," the assassin says, "have been waiting for a year, now! And I find you still here. There have been many ships from Ferelden to Antiva, my Warden. I am disappointed. What has been keeping you?"

"Politics," Fynnea says with a shrug, and Anders thinks he can see her trembling. He frowns. The Warden, scared?

"Politics!" the elf scoffs, sitting up. "Well, my Warden, we are both in luck. Dealing with politics is a specialty of mine, yes?"

"Making a tidy living at that?"

He nods, grinning and standing. He stretches, crossing the room towards the central fire, then moving around it so he can keep his eyes on her face. "Very. I've carved out a little spot for myself. Theft, murder, blackmail- oh, and kidnappings. I do believe I've just added kidnappings to my list of services! What do you think?"

Now Fynnea's just grinning her wicked little I'm-having-fun grin at the assassin, and Anders is twitching, feeling spells at his fingertips. Nathaniel shakes his head, whispering, "I think they have some history."

"I," Fynnea muses aloud, "think you'll have to fight me for that privilege. Let's see if Antiva's softened you - all that sun and good food and those nice leather boots." She draws her blades. The Crow's lackeys tense, but he holds up a hand.

"But of course, my Warden. I'd have it no other way." His grin is almost as joyously wicked as hers. "Just the two of us, yes?"

Fynnea crosses the ground between them, leans in to whisper, and Anders can just make out, "Going to assassinate me properly?" before the assassin laughs and unsheathes his own weapons.

"Later, my Warden. Once I've won the privilege, yes?"

He's almost a mirror of her, but he carries the more traditional sword and dagger pair to her twinned longswords, and when they begin to move, he's faster, more evasive, more acrobatic. They both tumble, but he tumbles better in his leather armor, and they both strike, but she strikes harder. Watching it is like watching a dance, the performers moving through known steps, intense in their concentration but knowing the outcome already.

He wishes he knew the outcome already.

There's a moment when he thinks it's over, when the Crow slips beneath her defenses and manages to grab her right wrist and disarm her, but instead of moving in for a kill or a knock-out blow, he lets go of her wrist before she can respond and leans in and- Anders can't entirely see it, but it almost looks like he's kissing Fynnea's cheek, and then she's laughing and dancing away, picking up her blade and saying, "Best two out of three?"

And then they're dancing again.

It's clear they've fought before, and that there's more to this than a kidnapping attempt, but Anders can't parse it out. Their feet are moving too fast and this time she's the one tripping him, managing to hook his ankle with her toes as he goes into a tumble, and it sends him splaying out on the floor. She follows through to the point of pinning him down, one leg dangerously high between his, but then she definitely kisses him, and Anders just groans in confusion.

Because they're dancing again only a few seconds later.

"History," Nathaniel says again, and there's heavy footsteps behind them. Oghren, Anders can tell without turning, because he knows the sound and he knows the smell.

"Well, yeah," Oghren grunts. "The man's practically her husband. Was wondering when he'd show up."

"Oh," Anders says, simply, staring as the two move across the room, swords flashing but always stopping just before an injury. They know each other, know how they move, how they dodge, how exactly they tense when a blade is close. It's amazing to watch, and he feels like he's seeing a different Fynnea, a different Hero.

He watches as the assassin pulls her into a hold and laughs, "Does it still get the blood pumping, my Warden?" before she breaks away, watches as she pushes blade against blade for just a brief moment, leaning in to respond, "Of course- I wouldn't be a deadly sex goddess otherwise, hm?"

Anders thinks his mouth might be hanging open.

"Yeah, obnoxious, right?" Oghren grunts. "At least they can put on a good show, sometimes. You wouldn't believe the things he does to her-"

Both the elves are laughing now, and it looks like sheer luck when the assassin manages to throw her onto her back and come down on top of her. She's panting and he's grinning, and then he leans down and kisses her forehead, her nose, her lips. "Well," he says, sitting back on his heels. "Shall I kidnap you, then? Take you back to Antiva, show you off to all the bastard princelings? Perhaps one will give you a rose."

"Perhaps I'll punch one in the face," she responds with a strange little smile, and her lover laughs.

"I would have it no other way, my Warden," he says, and helps to pull her to her feet. His fingers find the nape of her neck, and in a brief moment where her hair parts, Anders thinks he sees the outline of a leaf bright against the red flush of her skin.

A/N: And that's all, folks! (Though I may write one-shots about them, when the mood strikes.) A Story Not About Wars or Heroes is plodding along - two chapters written. But it's moving much more slowly than Temper, Temper.

But just because my templar/blood mage extravaganza is taking a while doesn't mean there isn't more fic on its way. I'm currently editing a Sten/genderqueer!Brosca one-shot (Trust me, it makes sense!), and I have a Cauthrien/Zev fic that's threatening to turn into a multi-chapter adventure. So, be on the look out for the two of those. :) There's also another Jane Amell/Anders fic on the way, if you've read Whispers in the Dark, but I've put it on hold until I can see what they've done with Anders in DA2. :)

As always, reviews and comments are always appreciated! I don't bite, I promise - and I love getting to know my readers.