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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.]

[Well, it's certainly a raid. Closer to being back in Kirkwall with someone at his side in the midst of the fighting, not one mage against any number of enemies, and Anders will give Fenris that much credit: his skills haven't rusted at all since, well. The old days.

So the fighting is just fine; he hangs back when it's over, leaning against his staff to watch Fenris open the wagon and send the freed elves to him one by one. An apostate abomination is bad enough to most people, but to elves just barely escaping slavery on the Tevinter border, a human mage is a human mage is someone to be extra wary of, no matter who he's with. Anders can understand that, much as he'd like to object; he says little for once, while he tends to shallow cuts and wounds. The worst of it, at least physically, seems to be a fractured wrist on one and an ugly burn on another, which is...

Well, they can all walk. That's something. He takes care of them and hangs back again while Fenris sends them on their way, just watching. Fenris brooding in his empty house full of dead things in Kirkwall had not been so, ah— not soft, no. Guiding? Responsible? Three days ago Anders had found Fenris crouched on the ground, miserable with magic and afraid of himself, and no, he's no proper mage now, but helping the elves seems to straighten his spine, as it were. A little spark of authority Anders hadn't expected.

It's not any of his business, though. He still keeps most of his quips at bay as he looks down at Fenris' arm at last, frowning.]

Get it out of the way, then.

[Look, he understands only having so many shirts, but cutting it clean off is the most efficient way, so deal with it before he does. It isn't, at least, the worst injury he's ever seen on Fenris.]

You'll be sore for a few days no matter what I do to it, but you'll be able to swing a sword and rip it open again as many times as you like.

[Somehow, he has a feeling this is what's going to happen. He looks back over his shoulder.]

We should have checked the wagon for supplies.

I doubt they had anything useful. They rarely do.

[Almost certainly no medical supplies. But all right, and he'll trust Anders to keep watch while he tugs off this bit of armor and that. Is it worth all the effort just to avoid losing a sleeve? Almost certainly not, but now here they are, and he's settling down on a nearby tree stump, holding his arm out. It's started bleeding again, which is just fantastic. His shirt lies in his lap, his sword not far.

Don't stare at his tattoos! But ah--]

Do you have enough supplies to do this nonmagically?

[Whatever, who doesn't like a good wagon looting? Never mind it now. Anders waits for this whole production, leaning on his staff again while Fenris wastes even more time protecting the sanctity of his already torn and bloodied sleeve. Alright.

And oh- he scoffs.]

Oh, is that what you wanted? I don't, but I've just killed a bunch of people and then put someone's bones back together, so you'll have to make do with the touch and go healing for a while.

[He's... exhausted! That was a lot of magic! He hardly has a first aid kit in his pack; a few bandage rolls and some herbs for pain and infection, maybe, but this is a magical mobile clinic, bud.]

Don't tell me you're going to refuse a spell or two now.

[He scowls intently. He might refuse! He really might! He nearly always had in Kirkwall, preferring to weather out his injuries than see them magically tended to if he could. But ugh, fine, he supposes he'll--

--well. Allow Anders to heal him, as it were. Hmm.]

Then tell me what you are doing.

[Not that he's going to specialize in healing. Not that he's going to specialize in anything with magic, because Plan Suppression is still on. But at least he can appreciate it a little more now.]

Graciously encouraging your arm to hold itself together.

[It's probably the most accurate description of how healing magic works, actually, albeit delivered with his usual impatience for Fenris as he lifts glowing palms to hover over the wound. The bigger injuries are always more uncomfortable to have healed, he's learned over the years, mostly for the time it takes and having to sit through it.

But he can stop the bleeding with the stamina he has left and work on it more a little later, when their situation is less urgent than having to stop at this stump at the side of the road. His gaze is on the wound for most of what he's doing, until he can't help chancing a glance up at Fenris' face.]

You may think me a monster all the way down, but I'm not going to flip out and flay your arm down to the bone because you took the last piece of bacon at breakfast.

[He is not, alas, all that quick to reply with an assurance that no, he doesn't think Anders is a monster-- because really, the fact is, he does. He certainly had in Kirkwall; the fact that Anders most certainly did lose control of Justice at the end is only proof that Fenris has been right all these years.

(Will that happen to him? He wonders. Certainly he has the potential for it now, and-- mm, there was that time in the Fade with that desire demon, remember when all of Hawke's companions straight up sold him out, so really, it seems inevitable. But that's a thought for another day, frankly, and another set of nightmares).

But there's a distinction between Anders the man and Anders, fueled and possessed by Justice-- and it's that distinction Fenris thinks of.]

I'm aware. I would not have sent those captives over if I thought you were that irrational.

[He shifts, squirming just a little in discomfort.]

I fear the demon you allowed to bond with you, and ways in which that abomination has twisted your mind.

[Anders looks down again, not nearly quick enough himself to insist that Justice was never a demon. That isn't precisely the issue, he thinks; there is no separation of the two of them anymore, and whatever that makes him is what he'll have to be for the rest of his life. He's accepted that, but hah, he's not fool enough to think Fenris will care about his reasoning.

So: nothing. He focuses on the healing spell until the fatigue of magic overuse starts to creep in and then steps back, shaking his hands out as the glow from them fades. The slice to Fenris' arm has stopped bleeding, the flesh closed enough to hold for a while. It's incomplete but serviceable, which will have to do.]

I—

[Would have done it anyway? Would have cracked eventually as long as the Chantry and the Circle still exist? A lifetime ago, without Justice, he might not have— but what's done is done, now. He turns, waving at Fenris to put his shirt back on and come on.]

We shouldn't linger out here.

[He wonders what he was going to say. What justification he'd offer, if any, or if the exhausted resignation he'd expressed after the Chantry's demise still holds strong. If he regrets it, frankly, because the changes it's brought might not be entirely what he'd envisioned, but they're still changes.

But it's odd, not having Anders rise to the bait. Odd to see him crumple tiredly instead of bite back. He stares after him, frowning faintly, before doing as bid. His arm is sore, and he winces as he stands, tugging at the straps of his armor.

Hmm. He turns, heading for one of the bodies. It's the work of a moment to rummage through it and pocket whatever he finds; task done, he straightens up, following after Anders.]

Can you not imagine why I would be reluctant to be healed magically, regardless of healer?

[It's not that he feels guilty-- he doesn't. But he can be vaguely self-aware, when he tries. And while some of his discomfort does come from it being Anders, Local Demon Hotel, it's also magic itself being applied to his being. So call this... call it a vague peace offering, perhaps, for his temporary teacher: it isn’t you.]

Edited (Wordz, ignore me) 2020-06-09 16:31 (UTC)

[Anders sighs, sparing Fenris a glance. They're doing this now? Alright.]

You're hardly the first person to hate mages in my presence, Fenris. Likewise, you're hardly the first person to think I'm a monster.

[And it's not like— he didn't think they'd become friends in three days, or anything. Hardly. He isn't so foolish as to think Fenris owes him something for teaching him to light candles (besides cheese), but as he'd said that first night: sometimes, it is so, so exhausting to keep defending himself. He's never once in his life been welcomed with open arms; it is always, always with a side glance, with a warning, with a look up and down that tells him at once what any given person thinks of him, whether they're polite to him or not.

This he imagines Fenris can relate to, considering. That doesn't mean he wants to talk about it, now or anytime soon.]

I don't make deals with demons. Justice was my friend.

[Anyway, time to go. There's an evening of sullenly ignoring each other to get to, and he would hate to miss it.]

Shall we get a move on, finally?

Was?

[Nope, they're still doing this! But he'll compromise, at least setting off in the right direction. Isn't this better than sullen silence?]

[No, this is much worse, he wants to go back to the wagon and kick some corpses.]

When I agreed to the— merging. Not a demon, because I don't deal with demons. [Clearly, it bears repeating.] I know it doesn't matter to you.

[An abomination is an abomination, that's a fact. It doesn't matter to him. And yet--]

How did you know the difference between spirit and demon?

[And yet he asks anyway, because now he ought to know. Because sooner or later, he'll have to deal with that aspect of magic, too, and he shouldn't go in blind. Certainly that's the only reason; it's nothing to do with Anders in the least.]

They look different.

[It's actually quite convenient, demons being so wholly ugly and spirits just being kind of glowy people. He is not, ahem, an expert, so this is the best he can do...]

You've seen demons. You'd be able to tell.

That's it?

[He'd thought there'd be something a bit more complex than that, good god.]

I don't know if that lowers or raises my opinions of mages.

[Wow! Don't give him shit for the easiest solution!]

I didn't realize your opinion could change.

[He can and will, thank you.]

I am not incapable of it.

[He says, grudgingly, in face of all known evidence.]

Can you truly imagine the two of us making a trip like this ten years ago? At the very least, you must have noticed that.

[Hmm, that is a point, but is it enough for Anders, this very minute, while he's getting a head start on the sullen thing? Hmm.]

To be fair, you weren't going to give me a choice, were you?

[You know, back in the woods, etc. Which makes him think, and so at last he must ask:]

Why me, if you're so afraid of what I might do? Merrill would have been easier to find.

You aren't a blood mage.

[He says it curtly. There's something he'll literally never change his mind on.]

And I knew there was no risk of you offering me cloying pity in the guise of empathy.

[the one thing they agree on]

She is a little difficult to stomach after a while, isn't she?

[Full offense, Merrill, wherever you are. Blood magic: no excuses.]

I've never pitied you.

I'm aware. It's one of your few charms.

[It really is, honestly. He'd been braced for mockery and scorn-- honestly, he's still braced for that, half-expecting Anders to eagerly leap on the chance to grind salt in the wound. But never pity. He's not so damp as that.]

Never mind the fact I wasn't eager to spend even more time back in Kirkwall.

[He'll find something to scorn later, he's sure. If he must pick between two radically different views of magic, derisive fear is somehow still more palatable than idiotic blood magic demon summoning—

He probably shouldn't have wandered this close to Tevinter, he's realizing. Ah, well.]

I don't think I'm legally allowed in Kirkwall anymore. [which, fair, so anyway--] So here we are.

You think.

[Please. But yes, here they are, and while it's far from ideal, it's . . . hm. Less painful than he'd steeled himself for. Anders is less in-your-face about mage rights and mage persecution and mage mage mage (to borrow one of his ticks), and that makes it easier. Perhaps that's awful to think, given how tired Anders seems-- but on the other hand, Fenris is tired too. Perhaps they all are, after Kirkwall, and maybe that makes it easier. A petty fight takes a little too much sometimes.

They go a little further, but it's not too long before he's prodding tentatively at his arm.]

It's bleeding again . . .

[Maybe. Maybe it's because he's prodding at it, who can say, but either way: it hurts, damn.]

Maybe they hung my picture up at the Hanged Man. You don't know.

[Ha— but maybe they earnestly did, maybe he wouldn't even be welcomed by the people in Darktown anymore. Even the escaped Circle mages had insisted he set out on his own eventually, so, you know. It's been one thing after another until he settled not so comfortably into wandering homelessness.

At least they saved some mages today, as much as confused elves who acquired magic not even weeks ago are mages. That counts for something.

Anyway, Maker--]

Stop touching it, why don't you? [sigh!] Let me see it again.

[He's going to run out of magic entirely because some people can't resist picking at scabs.]

I wouldn't touch it if it was healed properly.

[Grumbled out, ignoring the absolutely valid and vital fact that Anders has burnt through quite a bit of magic today. Still, he's yanking up his sleeve properly, nudging armor out of the way.

But ah--]

Here.

[He was saving this for camp, so he could offer it and hten dramatically retire to his bedroll, but here: the most miniature bottle of lyrium ever. Pocket-sized, for his convenience.]

From the wagon.

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