dumbshow | highly new, slightly improved open post

highly new, slightly improved open post

assorted morons

optional prompts/ideas

☆ caught in the rain meme
☆ little steps meme
☆ affectionate physical contact meme
☆ picture prompt also acceptable but link them so it's tidy
☆ AU ideas: soulmates AU, reincarnation AU, Bad End AU, canon divergent/roleswap AU, dorky college AU, crossover AU, super indulgent high fantasy AU
☆ melodrama is ultimate tier
★ SHIPPING AND FUCC:
☆ non-fluffy relationship types I'm down for: codependent, master/servant power imbalance type ships, "we're bad for each other but worse for anyone else," other things I am failing to think of tbh
☆ things I am not into: noncon (includes "dubcon"), incest, tsundere shit if your tsundere is just verbally abusive, gratuitous torture porn, you'll probably have to ask me about harder kinks and they will vary by character
☆ I don't have a kink list so pitch me an idea if u thirsty
☆ if you would prefer a locked post I can also make that happen

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[His head snaps up at that delighted little exclamation, absolutely unsure if it's genuine or mocking. He can't read it, and so decides on the latter, because why wouldn't it be mockery? Except it hadn't sounded like it, so . . . hm. Best not to think about it.

There's a long few moments of silence, ostensibly dedicated to eating, before he says:]

Much as it may shock you, my thoughts don't linger on how I hate every mage.

[Not right now, anyway. No, his thoughts linger closer to home. He doesn't . . . it isn't hating himself, but perhaps hating this part of himself. Hating the fact he has to even acknowledge that it is a part of himself. He'd ignored the implications of the lyrium in his skin, how much it forced him into being magic already, never mind this.

His head tips up, his eyes darting over Anders' face.]

Did you ever resent it?

[Anders gives him a look, eyebrow raised, less disbelieving and more wondering what Fenris would like him to think he thinks about, given what the majority of their interactions have been like since they met. They've known each other for how many years? It isn't as if Anders has put in the effort to be Fenris' friend, either, so it's more of a... fact, that he wouldn't know what's on Fenris' mind, anyway.

Whatever. He makes another face down at his food, a touch irritated. Irrationally, perhaps, but it's now that Fenris wants to talk about this... Fine.]

No. This is who I am.

[There are tertiary things he resents: the Chantry, of course, the templars, his father— but his own magic? No.]

Sometimes I resent having to keep telling everyone else that not every mage is a horrible hive of demons. Danger this, evil that, mages mages mages... I can usually fix that, though, by feeding a few stray cats. Or writing a manifesto.

[This is about one-half joke.]

[Of course not. Of course not, and Fenris doesn't know what he expected. He ought to be irritated at himself, but instead finds himself vaguely disappointed.]

You can get the food tomorrow, then.

[A half of a joke back.]

Is that all you've done these past few years? Feed cats and write pamphlets?

What, did you want me to do more?

[Shall he trek off to find the nearest Chantry? It might be a bit of a hike from this nowhere town.]

I do what I can where I'm able. For the mages, I mean. You know what it's like to need to keep a low profile sometimes, although most of us keep our heads down in tents in the woods.

[Sigh!]

It was a good tent.

It was a tent. You needn't mourn it. I hardly meant to set the damn thing on fire.

[He will never feel guilty about the tent.]

And it was a question, not a critique. I've heard rumors about you for the past few years; I wondered how true to life they were.

I only had one tent!

[Show some respect, thanks. This is a real grievance and he won't give it up, but- ah. Aha. He sits back, plucking at a bread crust. Hmm--]

In any case, that depends on which rumors you heard. I made most of them up to see what would stick. The one about taking on a whole army of darkspawn got especially popular before I left the Free Marches.

[Which is clearly ridiculous, because Fuck Going To The Deep Roads, but it makes him sound very cool and badass, so he'll allow it.]

[Despite himself, he snorts. Even he knows that Anders wouldn't go to the Deep Roads willingly, so frankly, anyone who believes that is an idiot.]

I had a difficult time even pinning you down. There's rumors you fled to-- oh, everywhere, all at once. From Seheron to the Anderfe--

[Oh my god he literally just realized that Anders from Anderfel is probably not his real name. Either that, or he had the stupidest parents alive, and honestly, who knows? He won't point it out just yet-- after all, he's no stranger to renaming oneself-- but still.

Things you only realize after, like, a decade of knowing someone. Goddamn.]

. . . in any case. I heard you had stolen a ship with the remnants of Kirkwall's Circle and crossed the sea. Whether you were acting as pirate or merely escaping depended on who was telling the tale, though I had a hard time believing either.

[Possibly because the whole thing sounded just a little too much like Isabela's tales for Fenris to buy it.

Honestly, in the end, he tracked him not through rumor, but simple word of mouth: tales of a healer mage who wouldn't take payment nor stay for long, but whose work was particularly good. It was his kindness that was his downfall, and Fenris really doesn't know how to feel about that-- especially since most of those helped were those who'd never see the attentions of a healer otherwise.]

[Oh? To the where? Don't worry, he can hear that moment of realization, but there's no reason to talk about his name now - it was decades ago, anyway. He only raises an eyebrow briefly, because ah yes, the pirate rumor. An old classic.]

I might have embellished the swashbuckling, in fairness. I'm better at stowing away than stealing a whole ship.

[He shrugs; it worked, didn't it? It took Fenris this long to find him, and Fenris (kind of, sort of) knows him. Anyone else who might have pieced together who he is and what he's done has never spoken about it, or at least, hasn't to anyone who'd come down on him for it— likely those same people in need of a healer who weren't going to get to one somewhere else.

So: he does what he can, where he's able. It's not enough, even Kirkwall wasn't enough, but it's... steps.

He sits back, reaching for his pack again to find that hair tie.]

Shall we try the candle again?

[He'd really rather not, frankly, but it has to get done sooner or later.]

Show me again.

[It's not a problem with his hands, but who knows? Maybe it'll help.]

[After he gets his hobo chic hair tied back, hold on--]

If I had any of my books, this would be easier. Too bad fugitives can't keep bookshelves, huh?

[Haha... no, okay. Hair tied, now back to the candle; he picks it up, removing the ice that hasn't melted off by hand so nobody gets fussy about him casually doing basic magic twice in a row. It's a much smaller candle now... sigh...

Anyway, it's the same concentration and gesture as before, candle lit and flickering a moment later despite the wick being iced over, and everything.]

Don't fight with the magic. Let it come to you.

[He could grumble about how impossible an instruction that is. Actually, he could fill the rest of the evening with snarled, sullen comments, some of them more valid than others. But complaining, while cathartic, won't get things done.

It's a candle. Anders can do it with one hand. And despite all his protesting, despite his self-loathing, despite his very real resistance to delve into this world--

--well, he does know something about how to let magic course through his veins. He'd never be able to control his tattoos otherwise.

It still takes a while. But the flame, when it appears, is small and bright, just as it should be. Not a blaze, but a simple spark. He isn't proud, how could he bear to be, but at the same time . . . he relaxes a touch, satisfied for at least a moment.]

There.

[They could argue, Anders has a few rants ready to go about how it's hard to teach someone something he's been able to do almost as long as he can remember— children understand acting on instinct better than adults, it seems, at least when it comes to magic. Look: he gets it. If someone put a sword or a bow in his hand he would have no idea what to do and toss it away in frustration after ten minutes, if that, but there are only so many ways to teach someone a thing like magic, that takes place mostly in the mind...

Oh, but he's done it, so that's a nonissue. For now. Anders blinks himself out of his distraction, looking at the tiny flame- oh, it's so little- and if he spares the flame a brief, tiny smile, it's completely for the candle and not for Fenris at all.

Ridiculous.]

Third time's the charm? Technically, you've been doing magic on purpose since we got here.

[Just... poorly...]

I suspect I've been doing magic on purpose for many years now.

[So, there. So he's said that out loud, now, and perhaps if he says it casually enough it won't matter.]

Lighting a candle or utilizing my markings . . . it's the same focus.

[Which isn't a shock, not really. He's suspected it for years now. But it's one thing to suspect it in the back of his mind, easily dismissed; quite another to have hard confirmation. Experimentally, he flexes his fingers, vaguely trying to make the flame bigger.]

I always wondered if you just knew something the rest of us didn't.

[Well, maybe. Sort of. There are only so many times you can gloss over lyrium-made tattoos that glow and do magical things as not actually magic, but honestly? He didn't care about Fenris enough to ask. Now it's been years, and there's a part of him that wants to smugly rub it in his face, make no mistake- ha ha, he was a mage all along!- but.

Most of him is tired. Belatedly he reaches for the last bit of cheese on the plate, nibbling at it while Fenris plays with the flame, or tries to.]

You haven't burned a hole in the floor. Or the ceiling. That's progress.

[Anders doesn't rub it in, and Fenris makes note of that. Honestly, he's being far more gracious about this than Fenris had been bracing himself for, and he doesn't know what to do with that, either. There's just a whole heap of things he's got that he doesn't know what to do with, feelings and thoughts he's far too tired to sort through right now.

So: stay in the present, and think only of this conversation.]

Of a sort.

[The flame isn't getting any bigger, but it hasn't gone out either, so we'll call it even. Although-- he glances over with a frown.]

Did you eat all the cheese?

[Anders, the last crumb of cheese raised, mouth open, about to eat it— just pops that sucker right in his mouth, hell yeah he ate all the cheese. Be mad about it.]

It's the cost of my teaching services. Help yourself to the rest of the bread.

[The plain, plain bread... He hasn't inhaled every bit of sausage, at least. That's mercy.]

I bought it, you don't have to tell me to help myself.

[It's all his, technically, and Anders is an asshole. But he takes the bread, chewing on it almost spitefully.]

The cost of your teaching services is that I won't allow you to be killed or captured for the time being. Anything beyond that is you taking advantage of my hospitality.

[Enjoy that hate bread, prick!! Anders shrugs, crossing his arms and pulling his knees up to his chest to lean on them. Sitting on the floor is just as uncomfortable as sitting on the bare ground, he'd almost forgotten. Luxury...]

Oh good, we still don't get along. I was starting to get worried.

[For the time being, Maker— he shakes his head.]

I wasn't getting killed or captured before you turned up, so really, all you've given me is some cheese and a headache.

And yet you stay.

[It hasn't been one full night, so maybe he's counting his chickens before they hatch, but, eh. He does enjoy his hate bread, thank you, and once he's grabbed another slice, he adds:]

Truly: I'm surprised you agreed to join me at all.

Hah. Don't tempt me.

[He'll be gone by morning, duh, this was clearly all a plot to get a free meal of mediocre cheese out of Fenris. Which, to be fair, is better than what he's been eating lately...

Anyway, he looks down at the candle, watching it for a moment in silence before his gaze flicks back up to Fenris' face.]

We don't have to be friends for me to help you. You came to me on purpose, and don't get me wrong, I've never liked you very much. Still, I won't turn you away.

[There's a long few seconds where it seems as if Fenris might not say anything at all. But then, quietly and not without some reservation:]

There are not many who would act the same. I, ah . . . I appreciate it.

[. . .]

Thank you.

[Never ever ask him for anything ever again, this has used up literally all of his reserves.]

[Ew, gross.]

I've barely taught you how to light a candle, don't thank me yet.

[Yes, yes, it's for the gesture, but god— desperate, often weeping thanks from strangers who need his healing, he's very used to. This other thing - awkward, bumbling thanks from someone he actually knows and has to spend time around? Mmph.

But, as he sighs and shifts around again, staving off the awkwardness with fidgeting:]

Don't worry about it.

Believe me, it's already forgotten.

[They're just moving past the moment, both of them equally awkward and uncomfortable. His fingers flex impatiently, extinguishing the flame deliberately.]

Can you conjure yourself a blanket, or must I steal one for you?

[Let's ignore it to bed, it's been a long day of tent burning and uncomfortable feelings.]

Edited 2020-06-08 06:12 (UTC)

I— uh.

[He doesn't say it, realizing at the last moment how emblematic it is of how he's yet again homeless and sleeps in the woods most of the time, but he glances down at his coat in a way that is difficult to misinterpret. Is this not... linens...]

You're already harboring a fugitive; you might as well let him keep warm.

[Go do some crimes, sure. Three minutes to not have to look at each other would hit the spot right about now, anyway.]

Right.

[It sure would be nice to have some space, so off he goes. Where does he find extra blankets? Don't worry about it, the point is, he finds two, so Anders can at least not sleep directly on the floor. Not that he seems to care all that much, he sees that look, Anders, but whatever. Now he has the option.

Three days pass. They're . . . hm. Well, they don't outright kill each other, so that's something, honestly. It's more than Fenris thought them both capable of, frankly. Anders teaches him more, or at least tries, and when Fenris tires of it he goes into the tavern, listening with half an ear to the gossip around him. There's all kinds of chatter right now-- about human mages dying in droves; about an elvish force rising and the cultists who flock around it . . .

But nothing about Anders, so at least there's that. One sliver of good luck amongst all this change.

Three days, and then the raid happens. By all counts, it's a complete success. Not that he'll ever say this to Anders, but it's a lot easier having a second pair of hands to help him again. They fall into sync as they used to, moving fluidly, killing the guards without a moment of hesitation from either of them. There's more than Fenris had expected, but even then, it isn't much of a fight. Only one of them gets a proper hit in, his blade cutting deep into Fenris' arm-- it hurts badly, make no mistake, but it's far from fatal. He ignores it until they open the wagon and unshackle the six locked in back.

Tend to them first, he says; obviously, Anders replies, and it annoys him that he knew to do that.

They are elves, and five of them had never used magic until a few weeks ago. Each of them has their own little version of the same story: accidentally lighting something on fire, shattering something when they got too angry, and each of them found and captured by templars not a day later. Three of them had been sold directly into slavery; the rest were kidnapped.

It's an uncomfortable twist in the usual tale, and he ignores Anders' eyes on him as he directs them to halfway houses where they can rest for a time. Makes sure at least one of them is armed-- they only have a few miles to go, but it's better to at least have a knife just in case.

Only once they're heading down the road does Fenris finally turn his attention to his arm. It's clotted stickily against his shirt, which is going to be a bitch when he finally strips it off, but at least he's not actively bleeding out, so.]

Don't cut the sleeve.

[He's got, like, two shirts. It's easier just to try and roll up the sleeve-- or, failing that, take the damn thing off, but either way, he has so few clothes, don't ruin this one.]

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