SANCTUM AND HEALING (35/?)
anonymous
December 2 2011, 22:18:14 UTC
A Free Mage outpost carefully guarded in the Free Marches-it was all too good to be true. But then, Anders had always imagined that a demon’s offer would be just that amount of alluring: something that made him so happy he never suspected what he was being forced to accept.
‘You’d like Isabela,’ Hawke said. His face was stark in profile; Anders could see the rough edges of the fading red streak over his noise, dim light dappling the hidden shadows of his face. ‘You…he always did.’
‘We’re going to need a name for ‘him,’ you know,’ Anders replied, in what he hoped were tones as decisive as he felt. He leaned over Hawke to refill his drink, the bottle’s neck slipping against the rim of his glass with a clack. Hawke’s hands were there to steady him at once, one wrapping warm over the back of Anders’s knuckles to retract the bottle. It was a surprise-not the touch but the heat that came alongside it. Anders had been convinced that Hawke was cold and hard as the mountains they’d met in, so it was strange to think of him as just another man, someone with soft skin and dirty, broken nails, with blisters forming along his palms where they hadn’t yet callused from manning the cart’s reins. ‘…The statue, I mean. This apostate…person, the one I remind you of. Otherwise things are just going to be awkward forever. You there and that fellow and all-it’s too clunky.’
Hawke swallowed. From so close, he couldn’t hide the gesture beneath his tarnished gorget, nor the bristling wolf pelts he chose to adorn his back and shoulders. The scent of mud and rain lingered along his skin, something so distinctly Fereldan that Anders could have closed his eyes and been transported back to Amaranthine’s rolling countryside, smelling the spring air and the dirt and the darkspawn blood. He even tried it, but the effort turned into a long, sleepy blink.
Being drunk was another kind of magic, chiefly used for healing. Lulling someone into a false sense of security by numbing the senses always made for a relaxed patient, and bones snapped less easily when a man wasn’t braced for impact.
Still, Anders hadn’t known how badly he needed this particular salve until it was settling into his belly, pitching and rolling like the Waking Sea even as it settled his nerves.
‘His name was Anders,’ Hawke said.
‘There’s your problem,’ Anders replied.
It would have been a good idea to crawl away from Hawke in that moment, for Anders to remove his knees from the side of Hawke’s thigh and his hand from his shoulder where the fur tickled his wrist. Safe retreats were often considered the wisest tactical option, although the Warden Commander had never been much for tactics when there were broodmothers to extinguish.
Leap into the fray, wait for your mages to freeze a few tentacles, and start hacking away-no time for planning meant no time for fear.
Similarly, Anders had never met a conversation he liked to wade into halfway. It was all or nothing, and the more dangerous the territory, the more eagerly he pushed on, enjoying all the treacheries of words and tongues and banter, a different sort of skirmish from the usual melee.
‘I mean, that must be why you’re having such trouble telling us apart,’ Anders continued, before Hawke could say something sensible and spoil his momentum. ‘If I’m Anders and he’s Anders, it’s only inevitable that you’ll be getting us all swirled around in your head like the dregs in that bottle. We should call him something different-like Boris, or Frederik, or Mister Wiggums. Don’t you think that’s better?’
‘You’d like Isabela,’ Hawke said. His face was stark in profile; Anders could see the rough edges of the fading red streak over his noise, dim light dappling the hidden shadows of his face. ‘You…he always did.’
‘We’re going to need a name for ‘him,’ you know,’ Anders replied, in what he hoped were tones as decisive as he felt. He leaned over Hawke to refill his drink, the bottle’s neck slipping against the rim of his glass with a clack. Hawke’s hands were there to steady him at once, one wrapping warm over the back of Anders’s knuckles to retract the bottle. It was a surprise-not the touch but the heat that came alongside it. Anders had been convinced that Hawke was cold and hard as the mountains they’d met in, so it was strange to think of him as just another man, someone with soft skin and dirty, broken nails, with blisters forming along his palms where they hadn’t yet callused from manning the cart’s reins. ‘…The statue, I mean. This apostate…person, the one I remind you of. Otherwise things are just going to be awkward forever. You there and that fellow and all-it’s too clunky.’
Hawke swallowed. From so close, he couldn’t hide the gesture beneath his tarnished gorget, nor the bristling wolf pelts he chose to adorn his back and shoulders. The scent of mud and rain lingered along his skin, something so distinctly Fereldan that Anders could have closed his eyes and been transported back to Amaranthine’s rolling countryside, smelling the spring air and the dirt and the darkspawn blood. He even tried it, but the effort turned into a long, sleepy blink.
Being drunk was another kind of magic, chiefly used for healing. Lulling someone into a false sense of security by numbing the senses always made for a relaxed patient, and bones snapped less easily when a man wasn’t braced for impact.
Still, Anders hadn’t known how badly he needed this particular salve until it was settling into his belly, pitching and rolling like the Waking Sea even as it settled his nerves.
‘His name was Anders,’ Hawke said.
‘There’s your problem,’ Anders replied.
It would have been a good idea to crawl away from Hawke in that moment, for Anders to remove his knees from the side of Hawke’s thigh and his hand from his shoulder where the fur tickled his wrist. Safe retreats were often considered the wisest tactical option, although the Warden Commander had never been much for tactics when there were broodmothers to extinguish.
Leap into the fray, wait for your mages to freeze a few tentacles, and start hacking away-no time for planning meant no time for fear.
Similarly, Anders had never met a conversation he liked to wade into halfway. It was all or nothing, and the more dangerous the territory, the more eagerly he pushed on, enjoying all the treacheries of words and tongues and banter, a different sort of skirmish from the usual melee.
‘I mean, that must be why you’re having such trouble telling us apart,’ Anders continued, before Hawke could say something sensible and spoil his momentum. ‘If I’m Anders and he’s Anders, it’s only inevitable that you’ll be getting us all swirled around in your head like the dregs in that bottle. We should call him something different-like Boris, or Frederik, or Mister Wiggums. Don’t you think that’s better?’
‘Anders,’ Hawke said.
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