SANCTUM AND HEALING (16/?)
anonymous
November 28 2011, 22:04:46 UTC
He wanted to heal it, but the trip down would just hurt the soft skin all over again, and if he never let himself callus, he’d be in some kind of pain forever.
There was a life lesson in that-Anders wasn’t in the mood to figure out what. He stole a few sidelong glances at Varric, who finally caught his eye and lifted one heavy brow.
‘You’re gonna give me a complex with all those meaningful looks,’ Varric told him.
Anders tugged a feather loose from his shoulder and held it up, watching the fluffy spines shiver in the shifting breeze. ‘You’re so handsome,’ he replied. ‘I can’t help it.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ Varric said. ‘Especially with a storyteller. You’re pretty good-for a demon.’
‘And you’re pretty smart,’ Anders countered. ‘…For a dwarf.’
Varric stroked his palm over the length of the bow in his lap, over all the cogs and gears and finicky pieces that were probably as deadly as they were confounding. Something ticked, a lock being drawn, polished metal shifting and grinding. ‘The thing about stories is, once you let ‘em go, people know who you are. Demons, too. The stories we tell, how we choose to tell ‘em-well, I’m no master of the Fade, of course, and I don’t want to get into some debate on demons and spirits and all that nug-wash, but I’ve seen enough to make me wonder why it is you’re asking.’
‘Because I don’t know what you’re talking about?’ Anders’s voiced raised on the question and he dropped his feather, cursing as it blew away. He reached after it, then realized it’d been carried across one of the narrow passes between cliffsides, and he could see it caught on the air for a few, brief moments before it snagged against a sharp slant of shale, stuck on the other side of a small ravine. It fluttered, then stilled. ‘I don’t know what game you and your friends are playing here, but the wardens aren’t rich. They won’t pay you. The Warden Commander will take offense, though, and he has slain his fair share of archdemons-just one Archdemon being enough for anyone, but I’m pretty sure a couple of high dragons are part of the number, as well, and you don’t want to annoy a man like that. He has principles. He has too much time on his hands. He kills ogres before bedtime and he likes me enough to give me pretty gifts.’
‘Sounds like a good story,’ Varric said.
‘Well, hopefully you’re not a demon,’ Anders replied. He wiggled his fingers and made a noise to go with it, a desperate ooh like a keep-cellar ghost. ‘Because if you are, I just gave you my life story. I never thought I’d finally be tempted by a dwarf with no beard and too much chest hair, but there you have it. If only I’d listened to your sage advice.’
Varric snorted; it took Anders a few moments to realize he was laughing. It didn’t sound cheerful, just a dry, gallows chuckle, not the same nervous humor Anders sunk into whenever he was frightened or angry or backed into a corner with a whole phalanx of sun-shields lined up in front of him. It sounded tired, the same huff huff of an empty wine-skin being stepped on.
Anders remembered the twitch of Hawke’s shoulders beneath his pauldrons, the scar on his cheek, the dark shadows under his eyes. He remembered the cracks in Fenris’s armor, the dust and blood streaking their pauldrons. Maybe it hadn’t been as noticeable as the gleam of the weapons, the fine staff Hawke wielded or Varric’s golden bolt-monster, but it was there: the weariness travelers sunk into when there was no destination in mind.
‘You’re pretty funny,’ Varric said at last.
Anders sniffed. ‘Charming,’ he corrected. ‘My best quality.’
‘The humor’s appreciated, Blondie-don’t get me wrong.’ Varric shifted, easing back into a more comfortable posture. ‘I’d tell you the whole story, but you’ve already got the gist of it, don’t you?’
‘It has to do with Starkhaven and this mysterious Choirboy,’ Anders replied. ‘And you keep hinting at a big horrible something I’d rather you’d outright say so I can get this feeling of dread over with and it can all be-’
There was a life lesson in that-Anders wasn’t in the mood to figure out what. He stole a few sidelong glances at Varric, who finally caught his eye and lifted one heavy brow.
‘You’re gonna give me a complex with all those meaningful looks,’ Varric told him.
Anders tugged a feather loose from his shoulder and held it up, watching the fluffy spines shiver in the shifting breeze. ‘You’re so handsome,’ he replied. ‘I can’t help it.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ Varric said. ‘Especially with a storyteller. You’re pretty good-for a demon.’
‘And you’re pretty smart,’ Anders countered. ‘…For a dwarf.’
Varric stroked his palm over the length of the bow in his lap, over all the cogs and gears and finicky pieces that were probably as deadly as they were confounding. Something ticked, a lock being drawn, polished metal shifting and grinding. ‘The thing about stories is, once you let ‘em go, people know who you are. Demons, too. The stories we tell, how we choose to tell ‘em-well, I’m no master of the Fade, of course, and I don’t want to get into some debate on demons and spirits and all that nug-wash, but I’ve seen enough to make me wonder why it is you’re asking.’
‘Because I don’t know what you’re talking about?’ Anders’s voiced raised on the question and he dropped his feather, cursing as it blew away. He reached after it, then realized it’d been carried across one of the narrow passes between cliffsides, and he could see it caught on the air for a few, brief moments before it snagged against a sharp slant of shale, stuck on the other side of a small ravine. It fluttered, then stilled. ‘I don’t know what game you and your friends are playing here, but the wardens aren’t rich. They won’t pay you. The Warden Commander will take offense, though, and he has slain his fair share of archdemons-just one Archdemon being enough for anyone, but I’m pretty sure a couple of high dragons are part of the number, as well, and you don’t want to annoy a man like that. He has principles. He has too much time on his hands. He kills ogres before bedtime and he likes me enough to give me pretty gifts.’
‘Sounds like a good story,’ Varric said.
‘Well, hopefully you’re not a demon,’ Anders replied. He wiggled his fingers and made a noise to go with it, a desperate ooh like a keep-cellar ghost. ‘Because if you are, I just gave you my life story. I never thought I’d finally be tempted by a dwarf with no beard and too much chest hair, but there you have it. If only I’d listened to your sage advice.’
Varric snorted; it took Anders a few moments to realize he was laughing. It didn’t sound cheerful, just a dry, gallows chuckle, not the same nervous humor Anders sunk into whenever he was frightened or angry or backed into a corner with a whole phalanx of sun-shields lined up in front of him. It sounded tired, the same huff huff of an empty wine-skin being stepped on.
Anders remembered the twitch of Hawke’s shoulders beneath his pauldrons, the scar on his cheek, the dark shadows under his eyes. He remembered the cracks in Fenris’s armor, the dust and blood streaking their pauldrons. Maybe it hadn’t been as noticeable as the gleam of the weapons, the fine staff Hawke wielded or Varric’s golden bolt-monster, but it was there: the weariness travelers sunk into when there was no destination in mind.
‘You’re pretty funny,’ Varric said at last.
Anders sniffed. ‘Charming,’ he corrected. ‘My best quality.’
‘The humor’s appreciated, Blondie-don’t get me wrong.’ Varric shifted, easing back into a more comfortable posture. ‘I’d tell you the whole story, but you’ve already got the gist of it, don’t you?’
‘It has to do with Starkhaven and this mysterious Choirboy,’ Anders replied. ‘And you keep hinting at a big horrible something I’d rather you’d outright say so I can get this feeling of dread over with and it can all be-’
‘One big misunderstanding?’ Varric asked.
‘Exactly,’ Anders said.
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