Chapter Text
Fenris grumbles low in his throat when a spark flies at him from the fire, batting the air impatiently with his left hand before going back to his pack, digging for something. To his right, Merrill perches daintily on a found log, humming a tune softly to herself. In an unlikely harmony, Hawke snores gently from behind the two of them. Anders tries not to giggle when Fenris turns and shoots the man an unheeded glare.
“Is there something bothering you, Fenris?” Merrill chances, either hoping for a rare glimpse of civility or simply not caring that all the elf seems to have for her are bitter rebuttals.
“You’re bothering me,” he responds under his breath in typical fashion, then apparently decides to humour her. “Why should you care?”
“You seem grumpier than usual,” she suggests, and for some sadly endearing reason, actually looks concerned. Anders wonders for the hundredth time how someone who consorts with demons on a regular basis can be so sweet. “You cut a slaver in half today without so much as a satisfied grin.”
“Occasionally I bore of such things,” Fenris mutters dismissively, then throws his pack aside with a characteristic sound of disgust. Anders considers asking him if he’d be willing to add ‘pfaugh’ in cursive to his already extensive collection of tattoos, but thinks better of it at the last moment. Instead, he watches as the elf curls in on himself and stares into the flames that separate them.
“What were you looking for?” Anders asks eventually, curiosity winning out over logic.
“It’s none of your concern,” Fenris snaps, viridian eyes flashing impatience.
Anders rolls his eyes. “Maker forbid I offer to help you. I might have whatever it is in my own pack.”
Fenris speaks to the fire. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need them any longer.”
“Need what?” Merrill chimes in, and Fenris turns to share his glare with her.
“Hawke asked me for matches earlier. When I went looking, mine were gone. They must have fallen out of my pack.”
Merrill’s face goes suspiciously blank. “Maybe someone borrowed them,” she suggests awkwardly. Anders thinks there’s a reason why she owes Isabela and Varric so much coin.
“Someone?” Fenris asks through clenched teeth, rising to his feet and brushing unconsciously at the dirt that clings to his leggings. “What use would you have for my matches?”
“I only used a few of them,” Merrill mumbles, fishing through her pouches and presenting the matchbox back to him half-empty. “I was going to replace them, I swear.”
Fenris swipes the box from her open hand and marches hastily back to where his pack rests before throwing them down. “I don’t know what you did with them and I don’t care. Do not touch my things again,” he warns.
“I only lit a few candles so that people can see if they get lost in the caves!” Merrill protests, her argument falling on deaf ears. Fenris fastens his sword to his back as he strides angrily away.
For a moment she simply sits there, pursing her lips in frustrated contemplation. When she turns back, she looks proudly at Anders. “He’s angry now, but he’ll be grateful that he can see when he gets attacked by spiders.”