SANCTUM AND HEALING (34/?)
anonymous
December 2 2011, 22:12:33 UTC
‘And here I was promised lampshades and dancing,’ Hawke murmured over the rim of his glass. The words echoed along the hollow, whistling against the curve, heat from his breath misting the lip of the goblet. Anders took another drink, more of a gulp, also inadvisable, and was spluttering already by the time he realized he’d swallowed too much too fast.
This time, Hawke did clap him on the back, steady between his shoulders. Anders set the glass aside to rub his eyes and fan his face, feeling his cheeks flush red.
‘What do they put in this?’ Anders asked.
Hawke finally chuckled, a burnt sound, like the flakes of white bark turning to ash in the bottom of the hearth. ‘Better not to ask, I’ve found, when you don’t really want the answer to a question.’
‘Well,’ Anders said, ‘I can’t wear the lampshade if my tongue’s on fire.’
‘No,’ Hawke agreed. ‘You’d ruin the lampshade, first of all.’
‘Ruining a pretty lamp is a crime in Orlais, so I’ve heard, and I wouldn’t want to do hard time this close to the border.’ Anders stared into the depths of the liquor, easing into a state of inebriation inch by inch, unable to relinquish the sense of wariness he felt from Hawke in order to indulge in any other comforts. His muscles had relaxed and his ass felt less sore, but little pains kept reminding him of where he was: the pinch in his lower back, the tension in Hawke’s body, the distant throb of his own twisted ankle and the blisters on his toes from the mountain trail. He wiggled those toes in his boots with the accompanying creak of the floorboard and the scuff of bootheels on thick carpeting, the clink of glass on glass as Hawke poured himself another drink. ‘Should we…toast to something?’
‘To Orlais,’ Hawke said, lifting his glass.
‘To lampshades,’ Anders agreed.
‘To Isabela,’ Hawke added, with the barest twitch of his lips.
‘Sounds like a nice enough woman, even if she is trying to poison us,’ Anders concluded.
‘Don’t worry.’ Hawke leaned closer, the couch’s overstuffed cushions giving way beneath the hard lines of his body. Even solid furniture was no match for a man like Hawke; Anders might not have minded determination, but he did take issue with scruples. ‘If Isabela really wanted to kill someone, she wouldn’t choose poison. Too impersonal. She prefers knives-and you still won’t see her coming.’
Hawke illustrated with a flick of his own blade, firelight dancing along the sharpened steel length. There was a bit of green cord wrapped around the grip for ornamentation, frayed at the edge but knotted tight, like a string saved from somebody’s patchwork quilt or an ugly old coat.
Anders had never known a mage who liked daggers so much. It seemed obscene somehow-or, perhaps more accurately, paranoid.
‘What part of that was supposed to stop me from worrying, exactly?’ Anders asked.
Hawke shrugged. ‘Wildervale’s safe enough. Barriers from dusk until dawn, mage patrols on the city walls-doesn’t it just make you feel cozy and snug?’
‘No,’ Anders said, because it didn’t. It made him feel like he’d missed something important, the world changing in the blink of a drowsy eye.
All the things he thought he knew about Thedas had been turned on their heads, like a well-shaped Antivan hourglass full of white Tevinter sand. Anders could feel that sand rushing below his feet, seeping into his boots and getting all gritty between his toes.
Maybe it was the Rivaini spirits talking, but Wildervale still seemed like a happy accident-a construct of the Fade, something created by a lonely sloth demon, a trick of darker magics and of darkness-on-light. The Warden Commander had been snared in one such pretty trap during his time, a story he told with a shake of his head and a heavy sigh, as though some part of him still yearned for the lie to continue because living it had been that pleasant.
This time, Hawke did clap him on the back, steady between his shoulders. Anders set the glass aside to rub his eyes and fan his face, feeling his cheeks flush red.
‘What do they put in this?’ Anders asked.
Hawke finally chuckled, a burnt sound, like the flakes of white bark turning to ash in the bottom of the hearth. ‘Better not to ask, I’ve found, when you don’t really want the answer to a question.’
‘Well,’ Anders said, ‘I can’t wear the lampshade if my tongue’s on fire.’
‘No,’ Hawke agreed. ‘You’d ruin the lampshade, first of all.’
‘Ruining a pretty lamp is a crime in Orlais, so I’ve heard, and I wouldn’t want to do hard time this close to the border.’ Anders stared into the depths of the liquor, easing into a state of inebriation inch by inch, unable to relinquish the sense of wariness he felt from Hawke in order to indulge in any other comforts. His muscles had relaxed and his ass felt less sore, but little pains kept reminding him of where he was: the pinch in his lower back, the tension in Hawke’s body, the distant throb of his own twisted ankle and the blisters on his toes from the mountain trail. He wiggled those toes in his boots with the accompanying creak of the floorboard and the scuff of bootheels on thick carpeting, the clink of glass on glass as Hawke poured himself another drink. ‘Should we…toast to something?’
‘To Orlais,’ Hawke said, lifting his glass.
‘To lampshades,’ Anders agreed.
‘To Isabela,’ Hawke added, with the barest twitch of his lips.
‘Sounds like a nice enough woman, even if she is trying to poison us,’ Anders concluded.
‘Don’t worry.’ Hawke leaned closer, the couch’s overstuffed cushions giving way beneath the hard lines of his body. Even solid furniture was no match for a man like Hawke; Anders might not have minded determination, but he did take issue with scruples. ‘If Isabela really wanted to kill someone, she wouldn’t choose poison. Too impersonal. She prefers knives-and you still won’t see her coming.’
Hawke illustrated with a flick of his own blade, firelight dancing along the sharpened steel length. There was a bit of green cord wrapped around the grip for ornamentation, frayed at the edge but knotted tight, like a string saved from somebody’s patchwork quilt or an ugly old coat.
Anders had never known a mage who liked daggers so much. It seemed obscene somehow-or, perhaps more accurately, paranoid.
‘What part of that was supposed to stop me from worrying, exactly?’ Anders asked.
Hawke shrugged. ‘Wildervale’s safe enough. Barriers from dusk until dawn, mage patrols on the city walls-doesn’t it just make you feel cozy and snug?’
‘No,’ Anders said, because it didn’t. It made him feel like he’d missed something important, the world changing in the blink of a drowsy eye.
All the things he thought he knew about Thedas had been turned on their heads, like a well-shaped Antivan hourglass full of white Tevinter sand. Anders could feel that sand rushing below his feet, seeping into his boots and getting all gritty between his toes.
Maybe it was the Rivaini spirits talking, but Wildervale still seemed like a happy accident-a construct of the Fade, something created by a lonely sloth demon, a trick of darker magics and of darkness-on-light. The Warden Commander had been snared in one such pretty trap during his time, a story he told with a shake of his head and a heavy sigh, as though some part of him still yearned for the lie to continue because living it had been that pleasant.
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