He hadn't planned on staying with the Wardens long enough for the holiday season to roll around, but he had to admit that it wasn't the worst place to be - if you could overlook the Darkspawn and frequent Deep Roads expeditions.
Which was a difficult thing to do, though Inara's leadership makes it a bit more bearable than it could be if she were anyone else.
Coming from the Circle, gifts weren't something Anders knew a whole lot about. It was difficult for the mages to get their hands on anything worthy of the word. Most made due with making something themselves or sequestering crafting ingredients during lessons. It had been almost a full year since his escape and subsequent conscription and it frequently felt as though he were something alien attempting to acclimate to proper human society.
It was rousing, though; to peruse the Amaranthine shops knowing he had the coin enough from his stipend as a Warden to buy something for once. Coin earned with his own hands, not stolen off a farmer's belt, to acquire anything properly, without needing to pilfer it behind a distraction.
The only difficulty was... he had no clue what anyone would want. He thought himself intelligent, because he was. Well read, studious, a scholarly Circle mage. Yet people were more than just things to study, more than just words on pages or concepts reduced down to sweeping statements.
To describe Inara was a challenge he would not endeavor upon, because she was quite contradictory and frankly, he did not think he had the words enough for the task.
And thus he spends the better part of his day, walking up and down the Amaranthine shops. By the time he purchases his Commander's gift, he's earned an earful from her for his tardiness.
"Yes, yes, I'm late, I know, but you're possibly the hardest woman I've ever had to get a gift for." He tosses her a small parchment wrapped box, no bigger than her palm. "Now, give me just a minute to grab my staff and then you can drag me wherever your heart desires."
Anders bustles off to the quarters, leaving her alone with his gift; a ribbon, cobalt blue as their uniforms, crafted finely yet sturdy enough to endure combat. Embroidered upon the cloth is an intricate and elegant pattern in white thread.
Anders is late, again. She should, perhaps, be used to it by now, but after the lengths she went to to tell the "senior" Wardens how very important it was to be prompt in their work on Wintersend so that the recruits could be relieved and enjoy a day of relaxation for their hard work all year.
After she stresses again that he needs to be an example for them all, he gives her... a gift.
She stares at it for a while after he's rushed off. People don't get her gifts. Well, not people she cares about. Nobles send gifts. People who want something send gifts. But those aren't really for her. They're for the Grey Wardens. They're for political power.
This is for her. When she opens it, her heart swells. A beautiful blue ribbon, embroidered and lovely.
Her heart thumps sideways against her ribs. So often, she must choose between woman and Warden. So often, she must sacrifice beauty to seem fearsome.
The ribbon in her hands reminds her that, perhaps, it doesn't always have to be so. She swallows thickly, and holds the ribbon against her chest for a long moment, her eyes closed.
