SANCTUM AND HEALING (24/?)
anonymous
November 30 2011, 22:04:33 UTC
The people he was trapped with, this group of confused individuals living hard lives for no clear reason, hadn’t tried to kill him-and they’d had so many opportunities to shove him off a cliff-side or slit his throat in the night, to truss him up and leave him where they’d found him for wayward templars to find, or for birds of prey to pick out his eyes-but there were a few fates still worse than death. Anders knew that now, having seen what he’d seen, learned what he’d learned and lived what he’d lived: lightless days spent in damp tunnels, trawling the darkness not for hope or peace but for dire, deathly battle.
Broodmothers changed a man’s perspective on everything. They were worse than imagination could offer-and that implied there were other things out there possibly worse, dangers and fates more awful than slimy tentacles and the chitter-chatter and bite of childer teeth. Once a man came to talking darkspawn, flaming golems and possessed dragons made of bone, entire towns disappearing into the Fade and haunted by violent beasts addled with arcane influence, it became clear that bad endings were more than just grisly murders or lives cut tragically short. Torture lasted-and Anders knew his curiosity was being used against him, alongside his confusion, his lack of understanding, his precarious place in a world he’d only barely begun to grasp.
These people weren’t normal. Keran might have been the closest to it, a few crumbs on his downy chin, the sort of man who never grew a proper beard no matter how old he was-but that was the long and short of it, the others an unbelievable collection of the disturbed and the disturbing. Varric was capable of sounding calm and smart and trustworthy, but this Bianca development said it all.
There was no one Anders could trust.
‘I hope Bianca gets a nice cozy bed, too,’ he said, still smiling, cheeks hurting as the cart finally drew to a halt. Keran snorted awake, then looked shy about it, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand; Varric gestured for Anders to get out first.
‘And don’t think you’re letting the elf help me down this time, either,’ Varric told him, while Anders prepared for another awkward dismount, grabbing his staff away from Hawke’s. The little bits and bobs of fur and leather cording tied around the head of the latter tickled his knuckles. ‘I might be the glue holding the binding of this whole operation together-and it might be my laid-back attitude and generally loveable demeanor that helps me get along with everyone-but I’ve got pride and dignity, same as anyone else.’
You’ve also got a bow with a name that you keep touching inappropriately, Anders thought, but he didn’t stop smiling as he hobbled out into the late afternoon sunlight, careful not to put too much pressure on his bad ankle.
‘You ready for me?’ Varric asked from within.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Anders replied, holding his arms out.
No one died-no one was crushed beneath anyone else, either-and it wasn’t a miracle so much as it was a farce. Varric managed to make it down, but at the cost of Anders’s pride and dignity, as well as his ankle. It twinged beneath the added weight before Varric’s feet touched down in a cloud of dust; Anders bent to heal himself after, warmth spreading through the bone and the joint, a long, slow pulse that made him feel better physically, though it couldn’t mend the rest of his worries.
He didn’t have the chance to straighten before something heavy and warm settled over his shoulders. It smelled of wood chips and spring rain and soap-and a little sizzle of something arcane as well, especially when two brusque hands arranged the folds of a hood over Anders’s head and around his face.
It was Hawke, and Hawke’s cape; it was warm, and possibly a warm gesture, but Anders didn’t know what to make of it as he straightened, adjusting the fall of heavy fabric so it didn’t crush the feathers at his shoulders.
‘For me?’ Anders asked. ‘Oh, Hawke. You shouldn’t have. Is it because I’ve been complaining so much about the cold?’
Broodmothers changed a man’s perspective on everything. They were worse than imagination could offer-and that implied there were other things out there possibly worse, dangers and fates more awful than slimy tentacles and the chitter-chatter and bite of childer teeth. Once a man came to talking darkspawn, flaming golems and possessed dragons made of bone, entire towns disappearing into the Fade and haunted by violent beasts addled with arcane influence, it became clear that bad endings were more than just grisly murders or lives cut tragically short. Torture lasted-and Anders knew his curiosity was being used against him, alongside his confusion, his lack of understanding, his precarious place in a world he’d only barely begun to grasp.
These people weren’t normal. Keran might have been the closest to it, a few crumbs on his downy chin, the sort of man who never grew a proper beard no matter how old he was-but that was the long and short of it, the others an unbelievable collection of the disturbed and the disturbing. Varric was capable of sounding calm and smart and trustworthy, but this Bianca development said it all.
There was no one Anders could trust.
‘I hope Bianca gets a nice cozy bed, too,’ he said, still smiling, cheeks hurting as the cart finally drew to a halt. Keran snorted awake, then looked shy about it, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand; Varric gestured for Anders to get out first.
‘And don’t think you’re letting the elf help me down this time, either,’ Varric told him, while Anders prepared for another awkward dismount, grabbing his staff away from Hawke’s. The little bits and bobs of fur and leather cording tied around the head of the latter tickled his knuckles. ‘I might be the glue holding the binding of this whole operation together-and it might be my laid-back attitude and generally loveable demeanor that helps me get along with everyone-but I’ve got pride and dignity, same as anyone else.’
You’ve also got a bow with a name that you keep touching inappropriately, Anders thought, but he didn’t stop smiling as he hobbled out into the late afternoon sunlight, careful not to put too much pressure on his bad ankle.
‘You ready for me?’ Varric asked from within.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Anders replied, holding his arms out.
No one died-no one was crushed beneath anyone else, either-and it wasn’t a miracle so much as it was a farce. Varric managed to make it down, but at the cost of Anders’s pride and dignity, as well as his ankle. It twinged beneath the added weight before Varric’s feet touched down in a cloud of dust; Anders bent to heal himself after, warmth spreading through the bone and the joint, a long, slow pulse that made him feel better physically, though it couldn’t mend the rest of his worries.
He didn’t have the chance to straighten before something heavy and warm settled over his shoulders. It smelled of wood chips and spring rain and soap-and a little sizzle of something arcane as well, especially when two brusque hands arranged the folds of a hood over Anders’s head and around his face.
It was Hawke, and Hawke’s cape; it was warm, and possibly a warm gesture, but Anders didn’t know what to make of it as he straightened, adjusting the fall of heavy fabric so it didn’t crush the feathers at his shoulders.
‘For me?’ Anders asked. ‘Oh, Hawke. You shouldn’t have. Is it because I’ve been complaining so much about the cold?’
‘Right,’ Hawke replied.
Reply
Leave a comment