SANCTUM AND HEALING (36/?)
anonymous
December 2 2011, 22:26:56 UTC
Anders wasn’t sure if he was being addressed specifically, or if Hawke was simply remembering and confirming an old friend’s name.
‘There are a lot of those, anyway.’ Anders scooted to the far side of the couch at last. The fire in the hearth was still warm, but it wasn’t the same as sharing body heat, making a man sweat instead of easing his chills from the inside-out. The brandy was bracing, the firelight was heavy, and Anders observed the liquor in his glass, a softer reflection than light off the flat edge of a man’s hidden blade. ‘They’re not very imaginative in the Anderfels; too many mountains for that. In fact, if anyone can understand that frame of mind, it’s you.’
‘Because of the Vimmarks,’ Hawke agreed.
‘Exactly,’ Anders said. ‘No wonder I didn’t like it there. The whole ordeal must have reminded me too much of home.’
Hawke shifted, the legs of the couch creaking as he redistributed his weight. ‘Reminiscing can be dangerous. I’ll give you that.’
‘Which is why you should’ve brought a nice deck of cards with you or something,’ Anders said. ‘Or you could bring Varric in here to tell more of his outrageous stories. Claptrap, all of them-I had no idea dwarves were prone to such flights of fancy-but at least it passes the time.’
‘Oh, no,’ Hawke murmured, not moving to finish the contents of his glass. Anders felt the distance between them as though it were made of solid rock, both of them howling at each other from separate sides of a mountain, two opposite gusts of wind. ‘If Varric was here, we’d be up all night-and then we’d never get our beauty sleep.’
*
Hawke left soon after that, as clear an offer as any-the bed was Anders’s for the night, and he felt no pang of guilt at crawling into it, taking it freely and gladly, since by Hawke’s own admission the man didn’t sleep.
It was a comfortable bed, a simple frame and a half-curtain canopy, nestled into a corner near to the fire and far from the window. There was no good reason to let it go to waste. The sheets were clean and they smelled of soap, not animals and grass and sun-warmed dirt, and Anders pushed his face into the pillow and drifted off too easily, the Rivaini spirits helping him along his way.
He left his boots by the bedside for easy access. As an old precaution, a child’s stubborn neediness, he kept his staff on the mattress beside him, tucked through the crook of his arm. It wasn’t the cuddliest of bed-mates, some of the leather-and-feather strappings tickling his cheek while he snored lustily away, but knowing it was there and feeling its warmth-neither body-heat nor fire-heat but something else, primal and necessary as magic was for its mages-soothed him the same as a child’s favorite doll, as well-loved as it was well-worn.
The usual pitfalls of the Fade were as easy and difficult to navigate as ever. Anders was no sailor like this deadly Isabela, with her daggers and her boat and her smuggled brandy, but the texture of the Fade was neither land nor water nor even air. Sometimes Anders felt as though he was swimming through a bowl of soggy oats or gritty pudding.
Whether the Fade was thick and dark or misty and pale depended on the day, a mage’s peculiarities and proclivities, how troubled or how muzzy his heart and thoughts were on the hour of his dreaming.
There were times when those dreams meant nothing at all-just a collection of worries and emotions, a throw-away sentence from as far back as breakfast, an unexpected meeting or a niggling memory-but even the smallest of desires or disappointments could start as a pinprick, one lone drop of water that swelled into an outright flood.
‘There are a lot of those, anyway.’ Anders scooted to the far side of the couch at last. The fire in the hearth was still warm, but it wasn’t the same as sharing body heat, making a man sweat instead of easing his chills from the inside-out. The brandy was bracing, the firelight was heavy, and Anders observed the liquor in his glass, a softer reflection than light off the flat edge of a man’s hidden blade. ‘They’re not very imaginative in the Anderfels; too many mountains for that. In fact, if anyone can understand that frame of mind, it’s you.’
‘Because of the Vimmarks,’ Hawke agreed.
‘Exactly,’ Anders said. ‘No wonder I didn’t like it there. The whole ordeal must have reminded me too much of home.’
Hawke shifted, the legs of the couch creaking as he redistributed his weight. ‘Reminiscing can be dangerous. I’ll give you that.’
‘Which is why you should’ve brought a nice deck of cards with you or something,’ Anders said. ‘Or you could bring Varric in here to tell more of his outrageous stories. Claptrap, all of them-I had no idea dwarves were prone to such flights of fancy-but at least it passes the time.’
‘Oh, no,’ Hawke murmured, not moving to finish the contents of his glass. Anders felt the distance between them as though it were made of solid rock, both of them howling at each other from separate sides of a mountain, two opposite gusts of wind. ‘If Varric was here, we’d be up all night-and then we’d never get our beauty sleep.’
*
Hawke left soon after that, as clear an offer as any-the bed was Anders’s for the night, and he felt no pang of guilt at crawling into it, taking it freely and gladly, since by Hawke’s own admission the man didn’t sleep.
It was a comfortable bed, a simple frame and a half-curtain canopy, nestled into a corner near to the fire and far from the window. There was no good reason to let it go to waste. The sheets were clean and they smelled of soap, not animals and grass and sun-warmed dirt, and Anders pushed his face into the pillow and drifted off too easily, the Rivaini spirits helping him along his way.
He left his boots by the bedside for easy access. As an old precaution, a child’s stubborn neediness, he kept his staff on the mattress beside him, tucked through the crook of his arm. It wasn’t the cuddliest of bed-mates, some of the leather-and-feather strappings tickling his cheek while he snored lustily away, but knowing it was there and feeling its warmth-neither body-heat nor fire-heat but something else, primal and necessary as magic was for its mages-soothed him the same as a child’s favorite doll, as well-loved as it was well-worn.
The usual pitfalls of the Fade were as easy and difficult to navigate as ever. Anders was no sailor like this deadly Isabela, with her daggers and her boat and her smuggled brandy, but the texture of the Fade was neither land nor water nor even air. Sometimes Anders felt as though he was swimming through a bowl of soggy oats or gritty pudding.
Whether the Fade was thick and dark or misty and pale depended on the day, a mage’s peculiarities and proclivities, how troubled or how muzzy his heart and thoughts were on the hour of his dreaming.
There were times when those dreams meant nothing at all-just a collection of worries and emotions, a throw-away sentence from as far back as breakfast, an unexpected meeting or a niggling memory-but even the smallest of desires or disappointments could start as a pinprick, one lone drop of water that swelled into an outright flood.
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