SANCTUM AND HEALING (13/?)
anonymous
November 28 2011, 22:02:31 UTC
Hawke waved a hand more quietly. ‘As my good friend Varric always says-when it rains, it pours.’
‘A charming sentiment,’ Fenris said. ‘And, like so many of the rest: it explains nothing.’
‘Nothing we can figure out for ourselves, you mean,’ Hawke replied. He shrugged, broad muscles in his back beneath the fall of his vestments, and the only reason Anders knew there was a twinge of pain hidden there was because he was a trained and seasoned professional. Not even Hawke’s companions noticed it.
Other people’s discomfort-in the midst of his own-made Anders feel not better but at least not worse. There was camaraderie in agony; it was why so many people accepted that misery loved company at the best and worst of times, no matter who or what you were.
‘Still,’ Hawke continued, ‘there are other ways to learn whether our new friend is who he says he is.’
Fenris snorted again, deep in the back of his throat. ‘What he says he is.’
‘That, too.’ Hawke glanced over his shoulder, face hidden in half-shadows behind the fall of his cowl-mussed hair. The scar on his cheekbone was easier to see from this angle, the way the skin pulled against it as his face moved, the way one eyelid twitched at the corner, dark lashes and brows untouched by the same gray streaked at his temples and through his beard. One of his furred pauldrons tickled his jaw and his nose wrinkled, just before he shrugged the feeling away. ‘What do demons dream about, I wonder? We’ll soon find out. I take it you weren’t followed here, Fenris?’
‘I was not,’ Fenris replied, with a bit of pride to color the statement. ‘Not as you were followed, by…this.’
‘I have a name,’ Anders mumbled, but no one heard him or listened to him or cared. He was just a shadow in the room they all felt but refused to acknowledge feeling. ‘Not that you’ve asked for it, but still-’
‘Believe it or not, elf, but Hawke wasn’t followed,’ Varric said. ‘The way I hear it from Keran is that he picked Blondie up along the way.’
‘As though he were an old scarf or a forgotten clanspin-or a stale biscuit.’ Fenris’s expression soured. ‘Why am I not surprised? These things have power, Hawke. Should you invite them in, they will not leave. It is a trick-it is a tactic. And this creature that wears this face-’
‘I’m starting to think you have the wrong person,’ Anders said, louder this time, not hysterical, but too shrill for everyone to keep ignoring it. ‘I have one of those faces, actually-do you know that the Warden Commander once told me I reminded him of Alistair Theirin? Yes, the Alistair; I don’t see the resemblance myself, but that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Someone thinks you’re someone they know, or a demon they don’t want to know, but it turns out it’s all one big misunderstanding-and I get put on the next boat back to Amaranthine with a pat on the back and an apology and maybe a note explaining my absence to the wardens, since they can be picky about that kind of thing. When you’re supposed to be clearing out broodmothers and instead you’re being kidnapped.’
‘Not kidnapped,’ Hawke said.
‘Not a demon,’ Anders countered.
‘They…have not done their research,’ Fenris added. ‘This is some shade of the man, but the man himself-’
‘Why don’t we get some fresh air, Blondie?’ Varric suggested. Hawke twitched again. The weapon Varric carried glittered like a temple idol, an ancient treasure, and he touched her with distinguished reverence as he stood, the chair groaning at the loss of his low weight. ‘Seems to me like you need it. Don’t worry, Hawke, I can take care of myself against one itty bitty mage-demon-and the two of you can discuss where we’ll head next, and where we’ll meet up with Feynriel, if I took your carefully coded meaning right before. You look after all the things you usually look after, and I’ll do the same, and nobody gets too worked up. What do you say?’
‘This cannot be summarized like one of your…stories,’ Fenris warned.
‘A charming sentiment,’ Fenris said. ‘And, like so many of the rest: it explains nothing.’
‘Nothing we can figure out for ourselves, you mean,’ Hawke replied. He shrugged, broad muscles in his back beneath the fall of his vestments, and the only reason Anders knew there was a twinge of pain hidden there was because he was a trained and seasoned professional. Not even Hawke’s companions noticed it.
Other people’s discomfort-in the midst of his own-made Anders feel not better but at least not worse. There was camaraderie in agony; it was why so many people accepted that misery loved company at the best and worst of times, no matter who or what you were.
‘Still,’ Hawke continued, ‘there are other ways to learn whether our new friend is who he says he is.’
Fenris snorted again, deep in the back of his throat. ‘What he says he is.’
‘That, too.’ Hawke glanced over his shoulder, face hidden in half-shadows behind the fall of his cowl-mussed hair. The scar on his cheekbone was easier to see from this angle, the way the skin pulled against it as his face moved, the way one eyelid twitched at the corner, dark lashes and brows untouched by the same gray streaked at his temples and through his beard. One of his furred pauldrons tickled his jaw and his nose wrinkled, just before he shrugged the feeling away. ‘What do demons dream about, I wonder? We’ll soon find out. I take it you weren’t followed here, Fenris?’
‘I was not,’ Fenris replied, with a bit of pride to color the statement. ‘Not as you were followed, by…this.’
‘I have a name,’ Anders mumbled, but no one heard him or listened to him or cared. He was just a shadow in the room they all felt but refused to acknowledge feeling. ‘Not that you’ve asked for it, but still-’
‘Believe it or not, elf, but Hawke wasn’t followed,’ Varric said. ‘The way I hear it from Keran is that he picked Blondie up along the way.’
‘As though he were an old scarf or a forgotten clanspin-or a stale biscuit.’ Fenris’s expression soured. ‘Why am I not surprised? These things have power, Hawke. Should you invite them in, they will not leave. It is a trick-it is a tactic. And this creature that wears this face-’
‘I’m starting to think you have the wrong person,’ Anders said, louder this time, not hysterical, but too shrill for everyone to keep ignoring it. ‘I have one of those faces, actually-do you know that the Warden Commander once told me I reminded him of Alistair Theirin? Yes, the Alistair; I don’t see the resemblance myself, but that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Someone thinks you’re someone they know, or a demon they don’t want to know, but it turns out it’s all one big misunderstanding-and I get put on the next boat back to Amaranthine with a pat on the back and an apology and maybe a note explaining my absence to the wardens, since they can be picky about that kind of thing. When you’re supposed to be clearing out broodmothers and instead you’re being kidnapped.’
‘Not kidnapped,’ Hawke said.
‘Not a demon,’ Anders countered.
‘They…have not done their research,’ Fenris added. ‘This is some shade of the man, but the man himself-’
‘Why don’t we get some fresh air, Blondie?’ Varric suggested. Hawke twitched again. The weapon Varric carried glittered like a temple idol, an ancient treasure, and he touched her with distinguished reverence as he stood, the chair groaning at the loss of his low weight. ‘Seems to me like you need it. Don’t worry, Hawke, I can take care of myself against one itty bitty mage-demon-and the two of you can discuss where we’ll head next, and where we’ll meet up with Feynriel, if I took your carefully coded meaning right before. You look after all the things you usually look after, and I’ll do the same, and nobody gets too worked up. What do you say?’
‘This cannot be summarized like one of your…stories,’ Fenris warned.
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