When he looks back on it later it’s going to feel ridiculous that Fenris didn’t notice him sooner. Didn’t somehow sense his proximity through some innate rage-imbued radar that might’ve prepared him somehow for exactly the scenario he’s imagined a thousand different ways, especially in the past months, each and every indulgent fantasy ending with Anders’ heart slowing as it beat heavily in his palm, removed cleanly from his chest.
Of course it doesn’t go this way though, because the Maker is apparently fond of jokes and Fenris doesn’t expect to come across him so casually, standing in the library like he has every right to be reading and breathing and occupying the same space as everyone else who isn’t an Abomination who single-handedly caused devastation on an scale bordering unfathomable. He's avoided Anders for some time, impotent and resigned in his fury out of respect for the Inquisition's law and Hawke's decision, or so he tells himself as much as it's a constant unscratchable itch under his skin.
He doesn’t see him at first. Instead he’s looking down at the books he’s chosen to smuggle out of the library with plans to steal them back to his room to boggle over for a few days in attempt to riddle out the secrets of written language. It’s his own fault too when he all but collides with the man, an easy smile and a quick apology at the ready before he sees exactly who he has nearly toppled.
Eyes narrowing, Fenris bristles like a cat, a silent hiss curling his lips instead. “You,” he says, low and pointed.
Library [oh lort here we go]
Of course it doesn’t go this way though, because the Maker is apparently fond of jokes and Fenris doesn’t expect to come across him so casually, standing in the library like he has every right to be reading and breathing and occupying the same space as everyone else who isn’t an Abomination who single-handedly caused devastation on an scale bordering unfathomable. He's avoided Anders for some time, impotent and resigned in his fury out of respect for the Inquisition's law and Hawke's decision, or so he tells himself as much as it's a constant unscratchable itch under his skin.
He doesn’t see him at first. Instead he’s looking down at the books he’s chosen to smuggle out of the library with plans to steal them back to his room to boggle over for a few days in attempt to riddle out the secrets of written language. It’s his own fault too when he all but collides with the man, an easy smile and a quick apology at the ready before he sees exactly who he has nearly toppled.
Eyes narrowing, Fenris bristles like a cat, a silent hiss curling his lips instead. “You,” he says, low and pointed.