My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  The boy's wide eyes honed in on the five bags Anders unearthed from the larder. As much as he loved Hawke she was not the kind of person one wanted to leave in charge of cooking and especially not baking. The time required to keep an eye on say a boiling pot of water, or reach a precise measurement was too much of a tax upon the woman who'd rather be moving at all times. When counting, her mind had a habit of leaping to five before she even reached three.

  She once offered to take on Satinalia dinner, only for Anders to wander into the kitchen and find a live duck sitting on the counter while Hawke fed it corn. They wound up eating sausages for that holiday and then adopted the duck for years until it passed away due to old age. Hawke was and would forever be her own woman.

  Happily, the boy reached for a bag, then his eyes shot up to his favorite auntie and worry rose in them. The question was obvious, Was he right? Hawke twisted it around to spot the label in the Warden Commander's tight hand. "Yup," she smiled at the boy.

  Gavin returned it, his lips stretching to reveal almost all of his bright white teeth. Funny to find such a happy soul created in part from the always sneering templar. Perhaps that was his mother's influence, or the bliss of childhood, though it was hard to imagine the templar ever happy or a child.

  Scooting onto the counter, Gavin placed one shoe into the floured mess and then hefted the bag of baking soda up. With a little tongue caught between his teeth, he tipped the bag over and dumped a good cup's worth into the bowl.

  Anders moved to try and stop him, but it was too late. Those striking amber eyes darted up to the strange man that was always with his auntie. Sighing, Anders said, "Well, that's gonna be one interesting looking and tasting cake."

  "Too much?" Hawke asked, her own mischievous eyes wide in wonder. It was almost impossible to tell who was enjoying making a giant mess of the kitchen more, the six year old or the grown woman. When they first opened the bag of flour, dust shot out which Gavin called snowflakes! This led to the woman attempting to catch some on her tongue. She was both the best and most terrifying babysitter.

  Sighing, Anders scooped a cup through the mass of baking soda in an attempt to try and salvage this. After dumping it back into Gavin's bag, the boy watching closely, he gave a little wink. That caused the child to laugh, his fingers reaching for the scoop as he began to try and take more out of the bowl. Anders could fight him on it, but thanks to his childlike dexterity most was falling off back to where it came from. And it was rather adorable to watch.

  An arm slid around the back of his waist and Anders turned just in time for Hawke to plant a kiss to his lips. He smiled, surprised that she'd be acting affectionate around her nephew, when he tasted the blasted flour. Trying to spit the mess off his tongue, Hawke cracked up, her white stained cheek straining to full apples from this glee.

  Wiping off his tongue with a finger, Anders shook it at her, "I'll get you back for that."

  Fingers pinched into his right asscheek, and Hawke murmured, "You damn well better."

  "Right!" his voice climbed too high a moment, and he had to shake it back down. "Right, now to the sugar. Think you can do that part Hawke?"

  "Aye Aye, Captain!" Hawke saluted, picking up the bag and adding way too much. She slowed up at first, when Gavin began to reach his little fingers towards the cascade of sugar grains. When Hawke tipped the bag down to add even more, he laughed at the sugar pinging against his skin and folding into the creases.

  Carefully cupping it, he brought his palm to his chin and tried to lick the loose sugar up. A lot of it scattered back to the counter, but he must have gotten some in as he loudly proclaimed, "Yummy! That's a yummy cake."

  "It's not a cake yet," Anders interrupted. "Got to bake it first to become a cake."

  "I dunno," Hawke smiled at her nephew, then sure enough, scooped a bit of sugar into her mouth, "if it's all the components of a cake, doesn't that make it one? What's a bit of fire going to change?"

  "Everything," Anders turned towards her, about to launch into the old alchemical debates about if it were possible to unbake a cake. When he caught the glimmer in her eye, his tongue dried up worse than the flour caused. Maybe she knew, maybe she was playing with him, or Gavin, but mostly it didn't matter.

  "What's next?" Hawke gently smoothed down the boy's back, both pairs of Amell eyes burning through the mage put in charge of directions.

  Sighing, Anders spun back with a separate bowl of eggs, "The wet part of the equation."

  He feared that there'd be a dozen eggs thrown around the room, but Hawke took over the more complicated parts. It was surprising how gentle the giant woman could be when she was of a mind. Anders shifted on his toes, drawn in by the charming picture of the woman he adored softly knocking an eggshell against the side of the bowl. When it cracked open, Gavin clapped as if she performed magic, the golden yolk sliding in to join with the rest. They didn't make their visits often out here, never as often as Hawke liked, but they came at least twice a year. It seemed to be more as Gavin grew. The Champion could finally make good on her word of teaching the boy how to fight, or at least hold a stick and growl menacingly.

  "Now we need the butter," Anders announced, shaking himself from the cozy sight.

  "Got it," Hawke nodded. With all the ladylike grace he came to expect, she reached down her shirt and yanked the paper wrapped stick out from between her cleavage. "All softened up for you."

  "Thanks, love," Anders smiled, well used to her butter softening ways. By the time they got the wet and dry merged together, Hawke stirring through the goop, he began to suspect this might turn out okay after all.

  He folded his arms together and leaned back upon the wall to watch Hawke first sneak a little taste of the batter. Smiling, she turned to her nephew. She picked up his tiny hand and then dipped it into the yellow liquid. Eyes wide, Gavin jammed it quick into his mouth. "It's yummy!" he declared his voice striking throughout the entire kitchen.

  "Maker's breath, what are you doing in here?"

  Anders' head shot up to catch the dark specter of his old Commander hobbling through the doorway. The voice always caught him first; so many nights he lay in Darktown wondering if he'd ever hear it again, if she'd find him. If he'd have to sit and listen to her tell him "I'm so disappointed in you."

  But when Lana crossed into view, her hair massive mounds of curls, her clothing simple and held together with patches, and the cane striking the ground instead of a staff, he calmed. At least he would if she wasn't staring dagger eyes at the messy ceiling, then her boy who looked almost as white as his father. After finding the same smeared across her cousin's cheeks, the Lady Amell honed in on Anders who gulped and tried to slink towards the door.

  "We're making a cake, mommy!" Gavin declared, his hands spread wide as if it was a big surprise.

  "Are you?" she sighed, clucking her tongue at the mess. Lana tugged up an old towel and tried to wipe the flour off of Gavin's face. "You're whiter than a ghost, young man."

  "Wooo!" he waved his arms up and down not like a spooky ghost but as if he was trying to dance away from his mother's grooming.

  "Gavin," she paused, her eyes darting down to his feet. "Do we stand on stools?"

  "No," his bottom lip stuck out far, the head dropping down.

  "And what are you doing?" she continued, pointing to the stool.

  He blinked and in a soft voice said, "Making a cake."

  Lana tipped her head back and sighed, "Blessed Andraste. That's fine, but you need to sit your bottom on the seat. If you cracked your head your father would...let's not find out how worried your father would be. It's a wonder he doesn't already require you to wear a helm around the abbey."

  "Yes, mummy," he mumbled, whomping down into the stool until only the top of his head and those amber eyes could be seen over the counter.

  "Here, kiddo," Hawke scooted him closer until he was practically flush against it, his hands pawing through the few tufts of flour.

  "Anders," the Hero tipped her h
ead to him and he tried to shake off his stand-off stance. The templar was never welcoming, but she tried to be. Lana glanced over at Hawke who was trying to balance a spoon on her nose. "Please tell me you were in charge of this cake creation."

  "Ah," he smiled, "more or less."

  "More or..." Lana plucked the tip of her little finger into the batter and took a taste. When she puckered up and blinked like mad at no doubt an over sweetness combined with the mouth drying baking soda, Anders braced himself for what was to come.

  But the fearsome Warden Commander didn't attack or insist they try again. Scooping her hands around her boy, she pressed a kiss to his knot of curls and then said, "We'll give this cake to Daddy when it's done."

  Gavin laughed, either catching on to the prank or just happy to hear that his father existed. The boy was the child of a templar and a mage, and yet...he didn't have to grow up on the run or live in fear. He could sit in a kitchen his parents owned and slap at piles of flour to his heart's content. How many other mage born children out there could do the same thanks to the rebellion? Maybe it didn't go how he hoped, how they both imagined it would when they set the chantry on fire, but the world changed and sometimes it was good. Not for the best, but nothing ever was.

  "So," Lana caught that old, obstinate mage she pulled into her warden fold's eye. Tugging the bowl before her, she asked, "What do we do next?"

  #

  7 Years Old...

  Reiss whipped her hat off with one hand and tossed it right onto the stand. It rolled in a perfect circle before coming to a stop upon the hook. She shot her eyes up to, of course, find the agency completely dark. The one time she managed it without having the hat miss, fall behind a desk, or boomerang back at her and no one was here to see her triumph.

  "Lunet?" she called for her second in command, but save a flicker of firelight dancing from under the door there was no answer. "I got word back from our second office," Reiss continued, easing through the half door and sliding around a separator wall. It gave the illusion that they were more professional than the often half naked dwarf jogging through the front waiting area did.

  "Seems that Qimat's gotten some information on..." her words died as a streak of blonde hair dashed through the final backroom door.

  It paused long enough to form into the shape of her daughter who was full of smiles. Reiss instinctively braced herself. "Hi Mom," Myra waved her fingers, then suddenly dashed forward to hug her. "How's the case going?"

  "Fine," she broke off the hug, eyeing up her daughter. Myra was dressed in the same outfit she left her, so it was unlikely she tried to dye her clothes a new color again when her mother wasn't home. Her hair wasn't whacked off to her ears, so she hadn't let the Princess attempt to style her or talked the girl into it. But there was a chocolate stain on her cheek and her eyes were wild from Maker only knew how much sugar coursing in her veins.

  "Good, good," Myra nodded her head, but she kept glancing back towards the room they set up for her. It wasn't surprising that the one room apartment wouldn't last too long for a growing girl. There wasn't really any space to expand upstairs, so Reiss had to reconfigure options down below. All of which Myra was allowed upon proof she could behave herself a full staircase away from her mother. It'd been an entire month since the move and Reiss was on pins and needles for the innocent act to crack off.

  "Where's Lunet?" Reiss asked, glancing around the darkened office. They often switched who worked where as much to keep their employees on their toes as to get access to the better chairs. The ones at the second office had fancy backs that could tip.

  "Oh, she's back there with all of..." Myra slapped a hand to her mouth and her eyes shot open wide.

  "All of who?" Reiss narrowed in on her daughter who was doing her best to try to waft her damning words away with her hands.

  "No one, Mom," she chuckled while twirling her blonde hair around her finger. From what was supposed to be her room came a cacophony of girly giggles, sounding way too much like mice racing through the pipes. "Um," Myra gulped at her mother's glare, "Not entirely no one. A few of my friends."

  Reiss stomped across the gap towards her daughter's room, Myra frozen in place but no doubt her brain churning for ways to get out of whatever she did. Reiss quickly eyeballed up her office, but it looked mostly in tact. The sword was on the wall, and no one had stolen all the ink bottles. Things were a mess but that could be as much her doing as her daughters. When she grabbed onto the door latch shaped like a wyvern, Reiss paused at the sound of girls trying to shush each other. Counting the number was impossible as the voices covered over each other and hands slapped against mouths.

  Hurling her shoulder into the door, she opened to find five girls camped around an office chair in the middle of Myra's room. Three humans, and two elves, all of them had pink and purple streaks in their hair regardless of what the natural color was. When two of the girls looked back at the woman standing in the doorway, Reiss spotted stars made out of glitter stuck to their cheeks.

  "Myra," her voice pitched low and she turned to her daughter that went from trying to slink in to standing proud.

  Her spine snapped straight and she stuck her chin out. "What?"

  "No, what, missy. Are you supposed to...?" Reiss caught sight of Lunet perched upon Myra's tiny desk, the lip of a wine bottle to her mouth. She tugged it away and then raised it as if in a toast to the fuming mother. Why did she think Lunet would be a source of discipline? Myra could run circles around the Grand Cleric in such matters. Twist a finger in her blonde hair, bat her big green eyes, stick out her lip and most people fell over themselves to let her do whatever she wanted.

  The only one holding back the potential tyrant was Reiss and... "Where's your father?"

  "Er," a voice rose up from in between the mob of girls. Slowly, the chair spun around to reveal Alistair who looked as if he'd head butted a clown and nearly all of the makeup smeared back upon his face. Bright purple lipstick circled around his lips, while a neon pink filled in the thin mouth. He had three stars on his cheek, and the shiniest blue eyeshadow Reiss had ever seen. To finish, the girls tucked a dragon braid into his hair and then dusted it all with more glitter.

  "Sweet Maker," Reiss had to turn around to hide the laugh turning her face red as a cherry tomato. Unfortunately, her daughter was standing right behind and a far too familiar snicker rose on her lips. She knew she was safe if her mother found whatever she did hilarious.

  "Alistair," Reiss squawked out, trying to shake the laughter out of her voice. Once she felt composed enough to dole out punishment, she turned back to the man who looked like a bard's fever dream crossed with a unicorn. "What's going on?"

  "Well, um, we were all sitting around telling stories and then Ellen," he paused in his story to jerk a thumb at the elf that was presumably Ellen, "seems she had a new makeup kit she was itching to try and then..."

  "And then you let the girls cover the Ki...you in-- Oh, Maker's breath," she couldn't hide the snort rising in her nose. It burned the thin skin while trapped against the swollen bump from her old break. "And you did nothing to stop this?" Reiss glanced over at her supposed friend and confidant.

  Lunet chuckled, "Are you shi...kidding me? You think I'd stop this? Oh, girls, you missed a spot on his forehead. Got to contour that caveman brow down."

  Two of the girls grabbed onto a gigantic makeup brush and dabbed it into a pile of pink blush. Chalky powder erupted into the air as they attacked the King's forehead as if it was their duty to the crown. Alistair sat there blinking from the assault until the girls stepped back to reveal what appeared to be a giant welt rising off his forehead. He looked as if he walked smack dab into a low bar.

  "Good job," Lunet raised up her thumb in praise, earning more of Reiss' scorn.

  "Myra," she turned to her daughter, the apple of her eye, and often thorn in her side. Those mischievous green eyes blinked and focused on her. "How many of your friends here know who your father is?"

  Her daught
er snorted and pointed at the crowd currently trying to place stickers to Alistair's nails, "All of 'em. Duh."

  "That isn't what I meant," Reiss narrowed her eyes on her daughter. It was surprising how few people would recognize their King outside of the castle walls and with a half-blood child skipping around him. Many of these children's parents were elven or so poor they had to live in the alienage. If any of them learned that their child covered the King's toes in sparkly purple nail polish and then topped it off with a happy face sticker, they'd probably have a heart attack on the spot. It was a fact Reiss was often trying to drill through her daughter's particularly obstinate skull.

  Myra shrugged, "It doesn't matter." Sure, to her it didn't. She knew him as Dad; even when he was sitting on the throne, she was the only one who could run up to the man and cover him in sticky stains. To the rest of Denerim, however...

  "Madam Sayer," one of the girls turned to her. Juniper, quiet as a chantry mouse and respectful to the point it unnerved Reiss. "I'm hungry."

  "So...?" Reiss turned on a copper and glared at her daughter. It was pitch black out, the sun having left the horizon hours ago. What in the Maker's name were all these kids still doing in the closed down agency? "Myra?" she folded her arms, "Why are your friends here?"

  "I told you, we had to make Dad up for the big ball later."

  "Big ball?" Reiss spun back to him, momentarily confused. As far as she knew there were no high engagements on his social calendar.

  "Nothing so fancy, just a little meet and greet for the new ambassador. But," he waved his hands around at the pre-pubescent girls. Anything that involved the palace or wearing nicer clothes was equivalent to poofy dresses, clocks striking midnight, handsome princes, dancing, and losing your footwear.

  Secure in the knowledge she wasn't going to have to dig out her finery or find something for Myra who kept growing like a weed, Reiss turned back to her daughter. "Smart," she had to compliment her even as she swallowed the "ass" while staring at her bright daughter. Too much time surrounded by professional criminals, when it came to answering her mother's questions she always only gave the bare minimum in order to never incriminate herself.