SANCTUM AND HEALING (15/?)
anonymous
November 28 2011, 22:04:05 UTC
‘Sure sounds like the story of Hawke’s life-and I should know, since I’m the one who keeps trying to write it.’ Varric rubbed his leather glove against his broad jaw, mouth easing into a smile. The tension in Anders’s lower back eased with it, soothed away by bluff fingers and broad hands. Varric-unlike other dwarves Anders had known-had a talent for setting a man at ease with the twinkle in his eye, the furrow in his blond brow, the smile on his face. The fact that he didn’t buffet friend and foe alike with blasted belches helped to foster his healing aura. ‘But I can’t lie, Blondie-that kind of mix-up’d make for a better yarn than the usual fare. Royalty hiding out in an apostate camp in the Vimmark Mountains? The king being an apostate himself? You could ride down there, sign a treaty and end the war, neat as you please. It’s not the sort of thing you could wrap up in one novel, though. …Maybe a series.’
Wind glanced off the rock at Anders’s back, whistling through the crags and cracks. He was sheltered, but the chill still seeped into his skin, beneath the delicate fabric of his robes, gooseflesh creeping over his bare arms and naked calves. The Warden Commander had given him this set of robes as a gift-immediately after he’d pulled them off some lonely old skeleton, moldering away in a secluded crypt.
Anders usually filled them out better than a bag of bones, but now he felt as bare as that skeleton and just as brittle, breezes singing straight through his ribs.
‘The war?’ he asked, swallowing to wet his throat.
‘Mages and templars,’ Varric said. ‘You might have heard of it. Don’t play coy with me, ‘cause I invented it. I still think it’s a big dust-up between a lot of angry people in skirts, but things have gotten out of hand in a big way. Ever since…well, you know.’
Anders took a deep breath, cold sweat dampening his brow where the hair wisped free from its knot. He felt like he was back in the Circle again, Karl Thekla staring at him over the edge of a musty tome and expecting Anders to provide the answers to a question he’d just posed, a test he wasn’t expecting and couldn’t pass and didn’t want to fail.
You know this, Karl would say, and Anders would practically writhe in his seat, until the obvious blanks in his knowledge became too large to cover up.
‘No,’ Anders said. He tugged at a loose thread in his sleeve, fingers rolling the cotton into a knot. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh boy.’ Varric seated himself on a hard, round boulder, boots digging into the gravel under his feet. ‘I’m almost not sure which to hope for, Blondie-that you’re lying, or that you’re actually telling the truth.’
Anders perched beside him, not too close that he got the crossbow sight shoved into his ribs for his efforts but not too far away that he wouldn’t be considered companionable. Overtures meant nothing if no one ever made them, and high up on the mountainside, with no one to hear Anders scream, was the perfect place to start.
Varric was nicer than Fenris. That much was obvious. Anders couldn’t cozy up to a murderous elf, but a storytelling dwarf was a better bet-even if wagers were never Anders’s strong suit.
‘If I was lying, it’d be less obvious,’ Anders admitted. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing here or what you want from me. When I complained about anything being better than shoveling broodmother guts out of Kal’Hirol for days, I didn’t mean this.’
‘Sometimes you’ve gotta be more specific about what you wish for,’ Varric said.
Anders sighed. ‘You’re telling me.’
The quiet that followed was something other than silence, no less oppressive but no more dire, just Varric shaking his head and patting his crossbow and letting loose with the occasional, simple sigh, the scritch of his stubble as he scraped his thumbnail over the side of his jaw, toward the corner of his mouth. Anders poked his boot toes together, then winced when the movement pinched a fresh blister.
Wind glanced off the rock at Anders’s back, whistling through the crags and cracks. He was sheltered, but the chill still seeped into his skin, beneath the delicate fabric of his robes, gooseflesh creeping over his bare arms and naked calves. The Warden Commander had given him this set of robes as a gift-immediately after he’d pulled them off some lonely old skeleton, moldering away in a secluded crypt.
Anders usually filled them out better than a bag of bones, but now he felt as bare as that skeleton and just as brittle, breezes singing straight through his ribs.
‘The war?’ he asked, swallowing to wet his throat.
‘Mages and templars,’ Varric said. ‘You might have heard of it. Don’t play coy with me, ‘cause I invented it. I still think it’s a big dust-up between a lot of angry people in skirts, but things have gotten out of hand in a big way. Ever since…well, you know.’
Anders took a deep breath, cold sweat dampening his brow where the hair wisped free from its knot. He felt like he was back in the Circle again, Karl Thekla staring at him over the edge of a musty tome and expecting Anders to provide the answers to a question he’d just posed, a test he wasn’t expecting and couldn’t pass and didn’t want to fail.
You know this, Karl would say, and Anders would practically writhe in his seat, until the obvious blanks in his knowledge became too large to cover up.
‘No,’ Anders said. He tugged at a loose thread in his sleeve, fingers rolling the cotton into a knot. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh boy.’ Varric seated himself on a hard, round boulder, boots digging into the gravel under his feet. ‘I’m almost not sure which to hope for, Blondie-that you’re lying, or that you’re actually telling the truth.’
Anders perched beside him, not too close that he got the crossbow sight shoved into his ribs for his efforts but not too far away that he wouldn’t be considered companionable. Overtures meant nothing if no one ever made them, and high up on the mountainside, with no one to hear Anders scream, was the perfect place to start.
Varric was nicer than Fenris. That much was obvious. Anders couldn’t cozy up to a murderous elf, but a storytelling dwarf was a better bet-even if wagers were never Anders’s strong suit.
‘If I was lying, it’d be less obvious,’ Anders admitted. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing here or what you want from me. When I complained about anything being better than shoveling broodmother guts out of Kal’Hirol for days, I didn’t mean this.’
‘Sometimes you’ve gotta be more specific about what you wish for,’ Varric said.
Anders sighed. ‘You’re telling me.’
The quiet that followed was something other than silence, no less oppressive but no more dire, just Varric shaking his head and patting his crossbow and letting loose with the occasional, simple sigh, the scritch of his stubble as he scraped his thumbnail over the side of his jaw, toward the corner of his mouth. Anders poked his boot toes together, then winced when the movement pinched a fresh blister.
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