SANCTUM AND HEALING (17/?)
anonymous
November 28 2011, 22:06:01 UTC
‘I’m not good with short stories.’ Varric’s fingers found a stick resting against his boulder, and he dragged the tip along the ground, through the trail dirt and small, broken rocks. ‘Leaving out the details-what took us from point A to point B in the first place-just seems wrong, especially when you consider the bigger picture. And this one’s not exactly the kind of heartwarming tale you tell around a campfire to reassure the new guy, but…’ He gave a shrug, as though to say his hands were tied. As though Varric was the one who’d been taken prisoner.
Anders wasn’t about to fall for that.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘For you,’ Varric continued, ‘I’ll make it short and sweet. No fuss, no mess. Clean as it can be, under the circumstances. Here’s the thing-about ten years back, we knew this mage with a mission. And he had this…spirit of Justice in him-I swear to you on the dirty thaigs of my ancestors, that’s not some kind of a euphemism. Now, camp’s pretty equally split on whether or not that made him an abomination, but this isn’t one of those morality stories. Not this time. Lucky for you-cause if it was, we’d be here until sundown, and it gets bone cold in these mountains at night.’
‘I…see,’ Anders said, even if he didn’t, folding his arms over his chest. When the wind started up its howling again, tossed against uneven, time-beaten stone, he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see the abomination in question shambling over the hills toward him.
‘Not yet, you don’t.’ Varric’s attention fell once more to the stick in his hands. ‘Let me try to spell it out better. Our friend with the spirit of Justice-he had a bit of an obsession. Some of us tried to distract him, and some of us almost succeeded, but in the end he was too far gone. Too dedicated to his cause, I mean, and I guess I can’t fault him for that. He did what he could with the tools he had-the tools we helped him gather-and one night, neat as you please, he blew Kirkwall’s chantry sky-high.’
‘-Beg pardon?’ Anders asked, throat dry as the crumbling shale beneath Varric’s stick.
There wasn’t a single Circle mage who didn’t dream of exacting some kind of revenge on the chantry-or the tower that kept them locked up, or the templars who stood guard at the door-but they never got past the idea, the inspiration, the half-dream and half-nightmare. Fantasy worked best behind closed eyelids, wild fits that passed quickly as a summer storm. The promise of swift retaliation, broadswords and sun-shields and templar armies, was reason enough for privacy and caution and enough to keep those daydreams where they belonged: somewhere secret and silly and more private than the Fade.
‘Yeah,’ Varric agreed, like he was an underground dwarven blood mage who’d just embarked on the sticky business of reading Anders’s mind. ‘You think that’s bad, you should’ve been there to see it. Tried to put it down on paper too many times to count-do it justice, as they say-but it was the color of the sky I can’t quite get, the taste in all our mouths… Anyway, like I said, that was ten years back. The Circles rose up against the chantry-I guess they figured they were never going to get another signal like that one-and that’s how Kirkwall saw its very first Exalted March, led by the prince of Starkhaven. Better known as Choirboy, in certain company, and Sebastian Vael, in others.’
Anders licked his lips, poking at the sore spot where the chapped skin had been chafed into an outright cut. He tasted the tang of dried blood and sucked his lips between his teeth, which only served to make the sting worse. ‘So this Choirboy fellow is a prince? Maybe you should have led with that, Varric. Otherwise it’s a deceptive nickname.’
‘‘Crownboy’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it,’ Varric said. ‘Aw, who knows. Maybe I’m just a creature of habit.’
‘And the elf-I mean, Fenris was in Starkhaven.’ Anders shook out his arms, attempting to coax some warmth back into his limbs, chafing his elbows with his palms. The chill in him went deeper than the simple cool of the mountain air. ‘…Spying on the prince?’
Anders wasn’t about to fall for that.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘For you,’ Varric continued, ‘I’ll make it short and sweet. No fuss, no mess. Clean as it can be, under the circumstances. Here’s the thing-about ten years back, we knew this mage with a mission. And he had this…spirit of Justice in him-I swear to you on the dirty thaigs of my ancestors, that’s not some kind of a euphemism. Now, camp’s pretty equally split on whether or not that made him an abomination, but this isn’t one of those morality stories. Not this time. Lucky for you-cause if it was, we’d be here until sundown, and it gets bone cold in these mountains at night.’
‘I…see,’ Anders said, even if he didn’t, folding his arms over his chest. When the wind started up its howling again, tossed against uneven, time-beaten stone, he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see the abomination in question shambling over the hills toward him.
‘Not yet, you don’t.’ Varric’s attention fell once more to the stick in his hands. ‘Let me try to spell it out better. Our friend with the spirit of Justice-he had a bit of an obsession. Some of us tried to distract him, and some of us almost succeeded, but in the end he was too far gone. Too dedicated to his cause, I mean, and I guess I can’t fault him for that. He did what he could with the tools he had-the tools we helped him gather-and one night, neat as you please, he blew Kirkwall’s chantry sky-high.’
‘-Beg pardon?’ Anders asked, throat dry as the crumbling shale beneath Varric’s stick.
There wasn’t a single Circle mage who didn’t dream of exacting some kind of revenge on the chantry-or the tower that kept them locked up, or the templars who stood guard at the door-but they never got past the idea, the inspiration, the half-dream and half-nightmare. Fantasy worked best behind closed eyelids, wild fits that passed quickly as a summer storm. The promise of swift retaliation, broadswords and sun-shields and templar armies, was reason enough for privacy and caution and enough to keep those daydreams where they belonged: somewhere secret and silly and more private than the Fade.
‘Yeah,’ Varric agreed, like he was an underground dwarven blood mage who’d just embarked on the sticky business of reading Anders’s mind. ‘You think that’s bad, you should’ve been there to see it. Tried to put it down on paper too many times to count-do it justice, as they say-but it was the color of the sky I can’t quite get, the taste in all our mouths… Anyway, like I said, that was ten years back. The Circles rose up against the chantry-I guess they figured they were never going to get another signal like that one-and that’s how Kirkwall saw its very first Exalted March, led by the prince of Starkhaven. Better known as Choirboy, in certain company, and Sebastian Vael, in others.’
Anders licked his lips, poking at the sore spot where the chapped skin had been chafed into an outright cut. He tasted the tang of dried blood and sucked his lips between his teeth, which only served to make the sting worse. ‘So this Choirboy fellow is a prince? Maybe you should have led with that, Varric. Otherwise it’s a deceptive nickname.’
‘‘Crownboy’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it,’ Varric said. ‘Aw, who knows. Maybe I’m just a creature of habit.’
‘And the elf-I mean, Fenris was in Starkhaven.’ Anders shook out his arms, attempting to coax some warmth back into his limbs, chafing his elbows with his palms. The chill in him went deeper than the simple cool of the mountain air. ‘…Spying on the prince?’
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