Anders (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
justice_is_blond) wrote2016-01-15 11:45 am
justice_is_blond) wrote2016-01-15 11:45 am
Inbox for Fade Rift
[Please leave a message after the beep that doesn't actually exist.]
[He's had a ridiculous few weeks, ups and downs all over the place, but this? This has been a definite up. Today's felt a little like finding... something, he's not sure he can put his finger on it, but he's not complaining.
Anders is especially not complaining as he's walking back to the Kestral House with both Nate and Zevran.]
So there's a plan, of course. Do I get told what the whole plan is, or do I find it out?
Anders is especially not complaining as he's walking back to the Kestral House with both Nate and Zevran.]
So there's a plan, of course. Do I get told what the whole plan is, or do I find it out?
Anders, would you like a ring?
[ This is obviously a proposal. Time to swoop Anders out from under Nathaniel's nose. ]
[ This is obviously a proposal. Time to swoop Anders out from under Nathaniel's nose. ]
[ He's — angrier than he's been in a long time, than he's let himself be in a long time. It's tiring. So is thinking about Anders, and the things that Korrin's said he's done.
Alan doesn't doubt Korrin. There's no one at Skyhold he trusts more. But he's trying to square the idea of Anders, and Anders' ideas, and that's something that he needs to come to his own decision on. So when he finally speaks, after the background scuffle of stones and wind, it's calm: ]
Hello. We've spoken before, about the idea of schools. Classes. It's, [ Has he given a name? He honestly can't remember. ] Alan.
Alan doesn't doubt Korrin. There's no one at Skyhold he trusts more. But he's trying to square the idea of Anders, and Anders' ideas, and that's something that he needs to come to his own decision on. So when he finally speaks, after the background scuffle of stones and wind, it's calm: ]
Hello. We've spoken before, about the idea of schools. Classes. It's, [ Has he given a name? He honestly can't remember. ] Alan.
[Just. Popping in and sitting down.]
Itching and burning and weird discharge, [she says promptly. She had checked up on him, shortly after his return, but it had been somewhat unsentimental. There had been a big archer in the way and Anders had seemed tired. This doesn't seem like a good way to start the sentimental part, but she has needs.]
Itching and burning and weird discharge, [she says promptly. She had checked up on him, shortly after his return, but it had been somewhat unsentimental. There had been a big archer in the way and Anders had seemed tired. This doesn't seem like a good way to start the sentimental part, but she has needs.]
My friend!
[He gave you time to honeymoon. Now he's here to loudly say hi. Well that and he has a question.]
I require a moment of your time when you have a chance. Or several I suppose since this might become an ongoing matter.
[He gave you time to honeymoon. Now he's here to loudly say hi. Well that and he has a question.]
I require a moment of your time when you have a chance. Or several I suppose since this might become an ongoing matter.
It's lovely, saying good-night and leaving the party to continue behind them. Nathaniel takes his husband's hand as they stroll toward their tent. The crescent moon is waning, but the sky is clear and the stars are bright. The light hits the snow and breaks into shimmering crystal over its surface. It's clean and bright, the purple shadow of the mountains and the black of the sky, the white of the stars and the blue of the snow. As they leave the noise behind, the whole of it belongs to them alone, two wayfarers alone in a sight out of heaven.
They have a tent with vertical walls now, atop a wooden frame with a fireproofed wooden chimney. Nathaniel holds the flap open, his hand clasping Anders' as he steps over the frame and enters, and he hesitates a moment, breathing the cold, taking energy from the stars. Then he follows close behind and ties the flaps shut. The fire is already built; it only needs flame, preferably from a mage, or else it will take some time before they can get around to enjoying themselves.
They have a tent with vertical walls now, atop a wooden frame with a fireproofed wooden chimney. Nathaniel holds the flap open, his hand clasping Anders' as he steps over the frame and enters, and he hesitates a moment, breathing the cold, taking energy from the stars. Then he follows close behind and ties the flaps shut. The fire is already built; it only needs flame, preferably from a mage, or else it will take some time before they can get around to enjoying themselves.
[James hates everything about his life right now.]
So I understand there was an ... incident? With Cade.
So I understand there was an ... incident? With Cade.
Alan isn’t a constant.
But he has a way of slipping in, sometimes, when Anders is on shift. There’s always work to be done, and much of it he knows how to manage: preparing bandages, chopping herbs, exchanging murmured verses of the Chant that — if off from the typical translations, perhaps misremembered — at least do a little to reassure the devout.
And in the free moments, then, he watches. Studies. Begins at his own small workings.
It’s been a bit longer than usual since he’s been in. A week, perhaps more. This time he’s a solemn presence; speaks little, moves quietly from task to task devoid of his usual questions.
Finally there’s a gap in the hours, a small lull of silent breathing room, and he’s pushing a cup of tea in front of Anders’ hands, warm and bitter. Alan settles against a crate. At last, "You’re angry with the people here."
A small, neutral comment. It’s not that Anders is angry right this moment, it’s that, well — he might just be the angriest person that Alan knows.
Maybe that means he knows how to deal with it.
But he has a way of slipping in, sometimes, when Anders is on shift. There’s always work to be done, and much of it he knows how to manage: preparing bandages, chopping herbs, exchanging murmured verses of the Chant that — if off from the typical translations, perhaps misremembered — at least do a little to reassure the devout.
And in the free moments, then, he watches. Studies. Begins at his own small workings.
It’s been a bit longer than usual since he’s been in. A week, perhaps more. This time he’s a solemn presence; speaks little, moves quietly from task to task devoid of his usual questions.
Finally there’s a gap in the hours, a small lull of silent breathing room, and he’s pushing a cup of tea in front of Anders’ hands, warm and bitter. Alan settles against a crate. At last, "You’re angry with the people here."
A small, neutral comment. It’s not that Anders is angry right this moment, it’s that, well — he might just be the angriest person that Alan knows.
Maybe that means he knows how to deal with it.
I've got some lotion I'm supposed to give you. Opened up the stuff and it's all sparkles in there so I bet that girl appreciates my name for you.
[He's so proud of himself.]
I'm putting it at your tent. Enjoy those sparkle fingers.
[He's so good at this sneaking thing.]
[He's so proud of himself.]
I'm putting it at your tent. Enjoy those sparkle fingers.
[He's so good at this sneaking thing.]
[After the Wardens' Kirkwall move has been announced, Nathaniel finds Anders in their tent. Without words, he wraps his husband up in his arms and brings him down into the bed with him. Then he just holds him tight, Anders' solid presence and scent keeping him grounded. Reminding him the whole world could be against him, but not Anders.]
Anders,
I hope this finds you well. I imagine hearing from me is not high on your list of present wants, but bearing in mind the tone of our most recent parting I thought perhaps I owe you some explanations.
You are well aware that I have difficulty expressing my thoughts when it comes to things I feel strongly about. For the most part I avoid doing so, because I hate a fuss, and there are few things that can't be dealt with by grinning and bearing them, but obviously this isn't always the case. Perhaps I've treated it as such for too long. If your patience with me has run dry, I can't begrudge you that, but my hope is that you have enough left to hear me out.
I was once very outspoken, and free with my heart, rather like you in many ways. That is not a criticism of you, but a hope that you never lose this quality, because to witness another such death of passion would be unbearable. It was through my own clumsiness that I learned to be quiet, to lie, to never take chances without having an ulterior motive: even love was a tactical choice, for all the good it did me.
And I did love, quite deeply. There was a time I would have done anything for Zerique, a time not so terribly long ago, and to be perfectly honest I don't know that I still wouldn't. A part of me still believes she holds onto what we had, the way I did for so long, but it's entirely possible that belief is why I was so easily manipulated, in both the distant and the recent past.
She and Mishka were everything to me in a time when it seemed there was no hope for a better life. Pike has been occupied and abandoned so many times by both Orlais and Nevarra that it has more or less always looked the way you saw it, a cesspool of hopeless people with no dignity or hope for improvement. I stood out there, for a reason I shall get to momentarily, and it was quite easy for Mishka to seduce me into his way of life by appealing to my vengeful streak and my desire for change.
We spied on Orlesian nobles, fed secrets from one to another, inciting feuds between them while infiltrating their homes as members of their staff. The idea was to chase the wealthy from the region, to stop them siphoning off the resources of the local towns, treating us as their servants, little better than livestock. I was so tired of the resignation of my neighbors. Of course, they still have it, and the plot has never worked. I'm not sure it ever could have.
I was a ladies' maid in one such house, collecting a dossier on the various sins of its patriarch, when we learned a Crow had been sent to dispatch him. Not wanting Monsieur to be martyred by his untimely murder, which would have rallied the households around him, we ferreted out which visiting dignitary was false (this was harder than it sounds-- damn the Game in its entirety) and moved to dissuade him.
Instead, through an incident I would rather not detail, the Crow found himself abruptly and unexpectedly dead with I, a maid, in this dignitary's bedchamber, drenched in his blood.
The last time I saw Zerique was through a cracked in the door of the servants' quarters as I was dragged away by the constabulary. I later learned, from Mishka, who always had a way of getting himself in and out of prison on petty crimes, that Zerique was implicated in plotting for the crime and couldn't be found.
I recall fairly little of what followed, apart from that it seemed like a thousand years in which every moment was pain. I was initially sentenced to hang for the murder, but once the Orlesians learned-- I'm not certain how-- of what we'd been up to, I became their source of details on my associates. Names, dates, motives: I can't even blame my loose tongue on youth, because it was fear that drove me. I told them everything.
The only part of this for which I can even somewhat forgive myself was that I fully believed Zerique was dead: if she weren't dead, surely she'd have come for me.
Mishka did, in the end. The same Mishka, who planted a knife in my back last we met, was responsible for my secreting away from the prison under the authority of Lady Thevenet-- Benevenuta's mother-- who had her own plans for my use. To absolve my charges in the eyes of the public, and to appease any further witch hunts from the Orlesians, I was forcibly conscripted into the Wardens and given up for dead by most.
I don't know why I never guessed that Mishka knew I had betrayed him. In truth, what you saw in Nevarra was me stepping back into a trap I'd lain for myself decades ago. There's little of it that I didn't deserve. But the lot of you deserved none of it, and I've suddenly found myself responsible for yet another batch of people damaged by my selfishness.
I'm ashamed to say I still miss Zerique. I will never forgive her for what she's done to Alistair, but she is nothing if not predictable. I suppose I was always a foolish girl to her, to be used and discarded when inconvenient. Perhaps I still am.
All this being said, I hope you can understand why it is, at times, difficult for me to lay out my honest thoughts. It's not because I want to hurt you, or because I don't trust you. I'm not a decent person, not even a passable one, and it shouldn't be my opinion that you seek in the first place; for that you have much more qualified parties, such as your Nathaniel or most of the other Wardens. Placing your trust in me is, historically, unwise, and I have no expectation of anyone doing so again, least of all you.
I hope we can try to be civil again, though I understand if this is too much to ask.
Yours,
Teren
A note on the back:
I nearly forgot. In the spirit of honesty: I was born wrong, and the speculation and study that resulted caused me to stand out negatively in my community. My mother suffered greatly for it, and I was permanently disfigured in a failed operation that still causes me pain fifty years later. Healers make me panicky. It's not personal. I don't like to discuss it.
I hope this finds you well. I imagine hearing from me is not high on your list of present wants, but bearing in mind the tone of our most recent parting I thought perhaps I owe you some explanations.
You are well aware that I have difficulty expressing my thoughts when it comes to things I feel strongly about. For the most part I avoid doing so, because I hate a fuss, and there are few things that can't be dealt with by grinning and bearing them, but obviously this isn't always the case. Perhaps I've treated it as such for too long. If your patience with me has run dry, I can't begrudge you that, but my hope is that you have enough left to hear me out.
I was once very outspoken, and free with my heart, rather like you in many ways. That is not a criticism of you, but a hope that you never lose this quality, because to witness another such death of passion would be unbearable. It was through my own clumsiness that I learned to be quiet, to lie, to never take chances without having an ulterior motive: even love was a tactical choice, for all the good it did me.
And I did love, quite deeply. There was a time I would have done anything for Zerique, a time not so terribly long ago, and to be perfectly honest I don't know that I still wouldn't. A part of me still believes she holds onto what we had, the way I did for so long, but it's entirely possible that belief is why I was so easily manipulated, in both the distant and the recent past.
She and Mishka were everything to me in a time when it seemed there was no hope for a better life. Pike has been occupied and abandoned so many times by both Orlais and Nevarra that it has more or less always looked the way you saw it, a cesspool of hopeless people with no dignity or hope for improvement. I stood out there, for a reason I shall get to momentarily, and it was quite easy for Mishka to seduce me into his way of life by appealing to my vengeful streak and my desire for change.
We spied on Orlesian nobles, fed secrets from one to another, inciting feuds between them while infiltrating their homes as members of their staff. The idea was to chase the wealthy from the region, to stop them siphoning off the resources of the local towns, treating us as their servants, little better than livestock. I was so tired of the resignation of my neighbors. Of course, they still have it, and the plot has never worked. I'm not sure it ever could have.
I was a ladies' maid in one such house, collecting a dossier on the various sins of its patriarch, when we learned a Crow had been sent to dispatch him. Not wanting Monsieur to be martyred by his untimely murder, which would have rallied the households around him, we ferreted out which visiting dignitary was false (this was harder than it sounds-- damn the Game in its entirety) and moved to dissuade him.
Instead, through an incident I would rather not detail, the Crow found himself abruptly and unexpectedly dead with I, a maid, in this dignitary's bedchamber, drenched in his blood.
The last time I saw Zerique was through a cracked in the door of the servants' quarters as I was dragged away by the constabulary. I later learned, from Mishka, who always had a way of getting himself in and out of prison on petty crimes, that Zerique was implicated in plotting for the crime and couldn't be found.
I recall fairly little of what followed, apart from that it seemed like a thousand years in which every moment was pain. I was initially sentenced to hang for the murder, but once the Orlesians learned-- I'm not certain how-- of what we'd been up to, I became their source of details on my associates. Names, dates, motives: I can't even blame my loose tongue on youth, because it was fear that drove me. I told them everything.
The only part of this for which I can even somewhat forgive myself was that I fully believed Zerique was dead: if she weren't dead, surely she'd have come for me.
Mishka did, in the end. The same Mishka, who planted a knife in my back last we met, was responsible for my secreting away from the prison under the authority of Lady Thevenet-- Benevenuta's mother-- who had her own plans for my use. To absolve my charges in the eyes of the public, and to appease any further witch hunts from the Orlesians, I was forcibly conscripted into the Wardens and given up for dead by most.
I don't know why I never guessed that Mishka knew I had betrayed him. In truth, what you saw in Nevarra was me stepping back into a trap I'd lain for myself decades ago. There's little of it that I didn't deserve. But the lot of you deserved none of it, and I've suddenly found myself responsible for yet another batch of people damaged by my selfishness.
I'm ashamed to say I still miss Zerique. I will never forgive her for what she's done to Alistair, but she is nothing if not predictable. I suppose I was always a foolish girl to her, to be used and discarded when inconvenient. Perhaps I still am.
All this being said, I hope you can understand why it is, at times, difficult for me to lay out my honest thoughts. It's not because I want to hurt you, or because I don't trust you. I'm not a decent person, not even a passable one, and it shouldn't be my opinion that you seek in the first place; for that you have much more qualified parties, such as your Nathaniel or most of the other Wardens. Placing your trust in me is, historically, unwise, and I have no expectation of anyone doing so again, least of all you.
I hope we can try to be civil again, though I understand if this is too much to ask.
Yours,
Teren
A note on the back:
I nearly forgot. In the spirit of honesty: I was born wrong, and the speculation and study that resulted caused me to stand out negatively in my community. My mother suffered greatly for it, and I was permanently disfigured in a failed operation that still causes me pain fifty years later. Healers make me panicky. It's not personal. I don't like to discuss it.
Nathaniel sees Anders when he returns to their room after dealing with Teren. He scowls for no apparent reason, then bursts out, "She's impossible. She is not possible."
He likes to make announcements without explanation sometimes, when he is feeling dramatic, and pauses to see if Anders asks who is not possible?
He likes to make announcements without explanation sometimes, when he is feeling dramatic, and pauses to see if Anders asks who is not possible?
[For once, James doesn't sound grudging. He doesn't sound tired. He sounds anguished. Agitated.]
Anders - before I go - I wanted to say that I am sorry. Truly sorry, for all the things you have suffered at a Templar's hand. I am sorry for what you witnessed, what you had to endure, what you had to see. I am sorry for our ignorance, our blindness, and the bloodshed that came from it. All the - all the innocent people who died at our hands....
[Hold it together, Norrington. His tone is a little stronger now.]
By following orders, we have committed the gravest of sins. My own sins were recently brought to light by Sam and -- I cannot bear the guilt of them. So I am going to go confess to the Seekers. I do not expect - I expect nothing from you. Not even an acceptance of this. Just know that I am - I will - honor their deaths with whatever punishment the Seekers see fit.
Anders - before I go - I wanted to say that I am sorry. Truly sorry, for all the things you have suffered at a Templar's hand. I am sorry for what you witnessed, what you had to endure, what you had to see. I am sorry for our ignorance, our blindness, and the bloodshed that came from it. All the - all the innocent people who died at our hands....
[Hold it together, Norrington. His tone is a little stronger now.]
By following orders, we have committed the gravest of sins. My own sins were recently brought to light by Sam and -- I cannot bear the guilt of them. So I am going to go confess to the Seekers. I do not expect - I expect nothing from you. Not even an acceptance of this. Just know that I am - I will - honor their deaths with whatever punishment the Seekers see fit.
It has been a long few days, trying to drown himself in work and get to sleep alone at night, but Nathaniel has managed. A ways through he became almost convinced that one person could not possibly labor for this long, but he hasn't been short with Anders on the crystal. But this is his second night in a row without his husband, so it has taken him frightfully long to get to sleep.
And yet, when the door opens, Nathaniel sits bolt upright before he's even fully awake.
"Anders?"
And yet, when the door opens, Nathaniel sits bolt upright before he's even fully awake.
"Anders?"
During the day, a young girl arrives at Anders' door, carrying a package and expecting a tip. She disappears immediately after.
Inside is truly a fine thing: a knit blanket, bright green-blue, lacy and intricate. The pattern recalls the look of a peacock's feathers, as does the color. The content of the fine yarn is a blend of wool and silk--stronger than it looks but soft as a cloud. Clearly someone poured heart and care into this, sparing no expense.
There is also a note:
Lethallin,
You saved my life. You saved me for my daughter. We will always be grateful and indebted to you. I hope one day I can bless your life as you have blessed mine. You are family.
Mythal Enansal,
Pel
Inside is truly a fine thing: a knit blanket, bright green-blue, lacy and intricate. The pattern recalls the look of a peacock's feathers, as does the color. The content of the fine yarn is a blend of wool and silk--stronger than it looks but soft as a cloud. Clearly someone poured heart and care into this, sparing no expense.
There is also a note:
Lethallin,
You saved my life. You saved me for my daughter. We will always be grateful and indebted to you. I hope one day I can bless your life as you have blessed mine. You are family.
Mythal Enansal,
Pel
[Okay there's an aaaaaaaaaaawkward pause before that gruff voice speaks up.]
You got a moment?
You got a moment?
[ this is why she doesn't take vacations. there are forests,
evenly: ]
I would beat about the bush, but what purpose, when they spring up overnight? [ he won't be involved. he's not quite that bloody stupid — she. she hopes. ] Your take on this, Warden?
evenly: ]
I would beat about the bush, but what purpose, when they spring up overnight? [ he won't be involved. he's not quite that bloody stupid — she. she hopes. ] Your take on this, Warden?
Why did you attack the Chantry?
[No preamble here. He's doing his best just to stay polite and pleasant without having to make small talk as well.]
[No preamble here. He's doing his best just to stay polite and pleasant without having to make small talk as well.]
a dream visit, timing is *handwave* just y'know whenever
minrathousian
2017-08-14 03:30 am (UTC)(link)
It's the strange holes in the dreamscape, like wounds that are struggling to heal, that capture Atticus' fascination and draw him in. They're beguiling in their complexity, and in their wrongness; there shouldn't be holes like this in the Fade, like some living thing had once been here, and now was no longer.
Just past the glittering edge of that scar is the fledgling foundation of a building, strange in its normalcy given the unaltered environment of the Fade around it. Bent at work laying stone is a blonde man with a grave face; the spirit the labors beside him isn't one Atticus recognizes immediately, but curiosity has him draw closer to them both. What sort of dreamer is this man?
Just past the glittering edge of that scar is the fledgling foundation of a building, strange in its normalcy given the unaltered environment of the Fade around it. Bent at work laying stone is a blonde man with a grave face; the spirit the labors beside him isn't one Atticus recognizes immediately, but curiosity has him draw closer to them both. What sort of dreamer is this man?
It's not long after dawn, but the Wardens are starting to move around. Teren would normally have long since turned in, but instead she's sitting in front of her tent with a bottle of whiskey, trying to sew patches into a pair of trousers but struggling to stay awake while doing so. Another clue to her less-than-ideal state is that her hair is normally in its immaculate bun by the time she leaves her tent, but at the moment it's still coiled down her back in a braid, the way she sleeps. It doesn't seem she's done a lot of that.
Boots is lowing nearby, oblivious. Having a stupid pet is the best.
Boots is lowing nearby, oblivious. Having a stupid pet is the best.
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