justice_is_blond | Inbox for Fade Rift

No need.

[Pel squints at the man, and her memory doesn't provide his name. The main point is that he's apologizing for looking at her. That's messed up.]

I'm Pel. Usually it's Sina working the gardens, but she's ill. Is something the matter?

No, no. I'm sorry. I'm simply trying to stay out... It's all right.

[It would have been nice to find Sina, to see if she would still care to hang out with him and a cat, but he doesn't know how she feels on the topic of his existence so he doesn't want to risk it.]

Can I... Will I bother you if I sit on the bench there?

[He nods to one just past the elfroot. The bush will mean he's fairly well out of sight of most people, and he can simply lean back and breathe and let Purrelden climb on him or chase butterflies.]

[Oh. OH RIGHT. Detlef. Which means Anders. Which means another person angry as shit with the Chantry.]

Doesn't bother me. If it bothers anyone, they can live with it. No law says you can't sit on benches.

[There's a flash of something in his eyes - relief mixed with gratitude - before he's taking a seat and gently easing the kitten out of his belt pouch. He doesn't have very many options right now. Staying in his room makes him feel like the walls are closing in on him, he's a little too nervous to approach the healing tents just yet, the tavern is most definitely out... this is about it. And at least he's found someone his presence doesn't bother.

Purrelden wastes no time hopping down and poking at what looks to be a gopher hole. Anders, on the other hand, glances at Pel.]

Could you use a hand?

[It would be nice to not be entirely useless and hiding, but his voice still betrays his nerves.]

[Almost nobody besides Dalish knows Keeper magic. Pel hesitates for a few seconds, lingering on "you can't help," before giving in.]

Come here, I'll show you.

[There are still people in this world who will show him kindness, beyond his current group of friends. It feels like a weight has been lifted as he kneels next to her. Purrelden is suddenly interested in climbing up his back, but that's all right. Anders knows how to focus with magic even with a cat climbing him. Heck, he's been fine casting spells with spiders climbing him.

For a given definition of fine.

That is: yelping and jumping but still casting correctly, at least.]

It's fascinating, the difference between nurturing a body and plants.

[The nerves are mostly gone, replaced by curiosity and oh-so-dangerous hope.]

I've known people who were sort of uncomfortable, as if I'm bringing life where there is none. But the life is already there, even in a nut or seed.

[Maybe he understands. Maybe he is a healer at heart. Maybe Varric's book painted him crazier than he is. But it's not for her to judge, if he really wants to help.]

Here. [She reaches out to place an acorn in his palm.] Try sprouting this. The life is already inside it, you just...coax it to peek out.

[He takes the acorn and looks it over, trying to gently feel life like he would in any living being. It takes a moment. He's never tried with plants before. Then, then he feels it, a little tendril of vitality, a small, sun-seeking instinct. Feeling it doesn't tell him how to coax it out without hurting it, though, so he's cautious.

Anders extends the smallest thread of creation magic to entwine with the tendril. When it catches he smiles faintly, but the task isn't done yet. In fact, the first time he tries to guide it out he slips and loses contact. It's the second when he manages to ease it out and is left with the smallest sprout in the palm of his hand.

He looks back up at Pel with a raised eyebrow, smile gone as quickly as it had come now that he's back out of the realm of casting and returned to the real world.]

Perfect.

[Pel cups her hands to take the sprout, then seems to change her mind.]

Keep it. Maybe plant it somewhere. Or just...have it on-hand to remember. Mages spend so much of our time concerned with possible death that we sometimes forget our purpose is life.

[And now he has a tiny sprout. Anders blinks down at it, shifting it into one hand a moment later and using the other to retrieve the kitten that's currently climbing over his shoulder on a heading for the sprout out of a clear case of jealousy.]

Will it live long without being planted?

[He's a healer. Life should have been his purpose, but nothing had gone according to plan, or hope, or anything, and now death is what he's known for. Sometimes he accepts this. Sometimes he doesn't.]

I'd prefer not to kill it.

[She looks faintly surprised. The expression is faint, not the surprise she feels.]

I didn't think you'd...be the sort of person who cares whether a sprout lives. [Not the most tactful way to put it, but.]

[And just like that, the defenses are back. Anders' expression goes as blank as he can ever manage as he stiffens. There's no wonder in his eyes anymore, and not a trace of the smile is there. Relax his guard, breathe for a moment, and this is what happens.]

Right. Because I'm a killer, and that's all.

[It stings and reminds him of how much of a mistake it is to think anyone sees him as more.]

Excuse us.

[The kitten is gently gathered up and Anders stands. He'll plant it and hope for the best, and if it dies, well. Then that's proof for her, right?]

I didn't mean--

[she trots after him, angry with herself for messing it all up again.]

I'm sorry! I meant you taught me something, not--Mythal'enaste. At least let me show you how to plant it!

[Negotiation. Trying to chase after a swiftly fading connection instead of letting it die. She's growing.]

[It would be easy to simply wrap himself in his anger and keep walking. He's done it a thousand times before, listening to Justice's condemnation of whomever it was that time. But he's trying to live here. He can't stalk away from everyone.

Anders stops and takes a breath, trying to refocus his frustration while not letting his guard down too quickly again. Balance is not something he's good at anymore. He closes his eyes and turns, opening them only after the move is complete.]

I would like to know how to plant it.

[He's still stiff, but he's trying not to be. She'd apologized. There's really no way to help what's being said about him, or what impressions have been made by rumor and people who weren't there.]

I didn't do it for the sake of killing, [Anders says after a short beat, in a quieter voice.]

[She comes a little closer, eyes averted.]

If...if it was an elf who did it, I would have understood immediately. Wouldn't have been surprised or even blamed them. But I've been a free mage all my life. I never felt like I had to hide from shems for being a mage, just for being an elf. And Sam makes Circles sound like ivory towers where you can gorge yourself on knowledge and take hot baths every day and have food delivered to your door and cooked for you. I can't...I don't know what it was like for mages, so I can't dictate whether you were oppressed enough to murder a cleric. I just know shems are capable of that level of oppression, and they do worse things than you did every day. But nobody's calling for their heads.

[He exhales, shaking his head.]

They did cook food for us, in Kinloch Hold. I've even got a rather refined palette from that. For instance, freshly-waxed floors have a coating that lingers on the tongue for a time, but it's a more reassuring sensation than you get from the taste of outside-patrol residue.

[The bitterness in his voice is impossible to hide, as much as he's trying to make the conversation lighter.]

Sam was in the Circle known for being nicer than the rest, and even they had vanishings. Mages who disappeared for unknown reasons, simply forgotten and stricken from the records as if they'd never been there, lost. Likely dead from a little bit of Templar 'fun' that went too far. Kinloch Hold wasn't even the worst. That was Kirkwall, and every mage knew it. Where there was a daily death toll, a daily threat of Tranquility.

[He exhales again, kneeling to let a wriggling Purrelden return to poking bugs.]

I don't know what all they do to Elves, the Dalish. I've heard of some. Slaughters, hunting. It doesn't seem too dissimilar at the end of the day, except that there's no fear directed at the Dalish. Pure cruelty drives it, and it's the cruel who are in power. But because they've the power, they don't tend to face consequences.

[And wasn't that really a large part of why the upper class was upset? One of their own had died for being callously indifferent to the point of cruelty. If that could happen, they were all endangered.]

Inbox for Fade Rift

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject