He was still in bed, and that wasn’t going to do at all.
Hawke knew he was awake when she left the tent close to an hour ago to get breakfast--or, more accurately, to find whichever of their erstwhile charges was in charge of breakfast and then do her best to prevent them from ruining it. It wasn’t their fault, of course. Anyone who had known how to cook before they were taken to the Circle had long since forgotten. And it was important for them to have things to do; when they were left completely idle, there was too much time to think about how tenuous their futures were, how completely unsafe they were now. Work kept the panic attacks down. But there was a limit to how many mornings she could force herself to eat lumpy oatmeal without intervening. Maker, she’d thought they’d have an easier time with oatmeal.
She prodded the human-shaped lump of blankets on the tent’s floor with the tip of her boot. “Anders. Get up. We have a job to do.” Her voice was gentle, but she couldn’t coddle him.
She’d used a light touch in the past, back in Kirkwall. When she left him to his own devices, he’d barely gotten out of bed, vacillating between long naps and restless nights. It hadn’t helped then, and they couldn’t afford it now. She had to get him moving. “Anders. Look at me. It’s morning.”
He ignored her at first, but pulled his head out from under the blankets after the second, slightly sharper prodding. “I can’t,” he said wearily. “You know I can’t. I don’t know why you keep pushing.”
“Sit up, or I’m going to dump this coffee on you, and then we’ll have to spend the next week sleeping in smelly blankets.” She drank from her own mug, waiting to see if he was going to test whether or not she was bluffing. But after a moment, he did sit up, and Hawke felt immensely relieved. This wasn’t going to be one of the bad mornings, then.
She handed him the cup of coffee, and he drank it right away, another good sign. Once it worked his magic on him, he’d have at least a few hours of feeling close to normal, and that was something she could work with. Coffee beans were expensive, took up space, and they were risking exposure every time she went into a town to buy them. But the trade-off was worth it.
“What job do we have, then?” he asked her.
“Well, not a job yet. Just practice. But it might be a job soon enough.”
He groaned. “You’re a sadist.”
“That’s only true if you do as badly as you did last time.”
“And the time before.”
“And the time before,” she agreed. “But it’ll come back to you.”
He sighed, but emerged fully from the blankets and went to pull on his boots. “That sounds like something a sadist would say.”
She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. His short-haired brunette head, and wasn’t that surprisingly hard to get used to. But they couldn’t be too careful. “Keep it up, and tomorrow I’ll dump the coffee on you first thing.” He looked up at her and grinned, a genuine smile, and Hawke felt lighter than air. It was shaping up to be a really good day, then. Maybe he was about to turn the corner.
She grabbed his arm and helped him up, and they left the tent. Hawke picked up the bows and quiver she’d left just outside. The sky was overcast, but clear. They’d have plenty of light. “The clearing, to the north. I’ve got something set up.”
On their way out, the north sentry caught her approach before she was right on top of him, and gave her a short wave. A definite improvement. She waved back, and then gave him a quick test. She tapped her forehead twice with two fingers, then mimed drawing a small circle. Two leaving camp, for two hours, staying nearby. Fenris had taught her the hand signals, years ago, for use during any job where they needed to use stealth or spend the night in hostile territory. With a little modification, they could be greatly useful now, though her adventuring friends had never really gotten the hang of them. Too much giggling. The sentry’s face wrinkled for a moment in concentration, but then he nodded and signaled back, tapping his own head and then his ear. Message received and understood. She grinned at him. The sentry’s face lit up and he grinned back. Maybe this whole venture wasn’t hopeless. Maybe it was worth enduring a few more mornings of garbage oatmeal.
The little clearing was within shouting distance of the camp, but far enough away that a wild misfire wouldn’t end up buried in someone’s body. On the far side, perhaps fifty yards away, she’d modified their standard target. Instead of a red circle painted on the trunk of a tree at chest-height, she’d drawn a flaming sword. And above it, wedged into the crotch of the tree (slightly melted with fire magic to ensure it’d stay put) was one of their camp’s trophies--a templar helm.
Anders covered his mouth with one hand and closed his eyes, then shook his head. “Only you, Hawke.”
“I thought you needed a little extra something to encourage you. Might as well make this fun, right?”
“Well, if we absolutely have to…”
“We do,” she said firmly. They couldn’t carry staves anymore, no matter how much they tried to disguise them as non-magical weapons. And an arrow could scare off anyone who got too close to the camp or took too much of an interest in them when they were traveling on the road. They’d been ambushed early on, not by templars, just regular highwaymen. Killing them with magic had seemed like the natural thing to do, but then they were left with distinctly charred or frozen bodies that needed hiding before they could move on. And if anyone else saw them fight that way and escaped, someone they missed, they’d be in real danger. They needed conventional weapons. They had to, she had to, think of every possible problem and have a solution to it before it happened.
Anders shook his head, but he was smiling a little too, and his body language was relaxed. “Fine, taskmaster. Since we have to practice, this does make it a little more interesting.”
“I’m glad you’re coming around.” She helped him tie on his bracer, and he returned the favor. In truth, she wasn’t much better than he was, just a bit more determined. And back during his Amaranthine days, he’d gotten training from masters--apparently both the Hero of Ferelden and at least one of Anders’ Warden compatriots had been excellent archers, and Mahariel had been big on making sure everyone under her command had a backup weapon for their backup weapon. It was a mentality Hawke could appreciate.
They strung their bows, and Hawke took a few arrows from the quiver and stuck them head-first into the ground, where either of them could grab one easily.
“So, what’s the wager?” Anders asked, miming drawing an arrow.
“First one to ding the helmet gets…hmm.” She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Gets a forfeit. Dealer’s choice.”
Anders raised his eyebrows. “Anything? Even…”
She held up a hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. First, you have to beat me.”
He squared his shoulders and picked up an arrow. “Suddenly, I’m feeling very motivated.”
drerahv-moved replied to your link “Dunwall Rust, Tyvian Rot - Chapter 1 - palecrepegold - Dishonored...”
DO IT!!! REWRITE THE BAD BOOK!!!! SPITE FIX-IT FICS ARE ALWAYS MY FAVES. GOOD JOB W/ THIS
THANK YOU! May spite motivate me, as well as the deep need for something creative to distract me from spending 24/7 reading political tweets while my anxiety spikes through the fucking stratosphere.
Hi! I got into Dragon Age fandom (and fHanders fandom in particular) while you were away from tumblr and your stuff was among my favorite to backread through so I am excited that you are back! Don't let the anons get you down, f!Hawke is wonderful and so is Anders and they are wonderful together, and neither of them are any less bi for being in an m/f relationship!
I CLUTCHED MY HEART AS I READ THIS.
Thank you so much, this was an absolutely wonderful message to receive! I plan to have a shorter thing about the beginning of Hawke and Anders’ relationship up by the end of the three-day weekend here in the US--something to help me get my hand back in, so to speak. I hope you’ll read it and like it also! Maker willing, it won’t be too long until the next chapter of “More Fire Than The Sun” goes up as well.
hauntedfalcon asked “Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five...”
Aww fuck man this is so nice of you and I don’t even have 5 things online. I have 3, and two are big unfinished things that I haven’t worked on in a dog’s age. I think about the main one quite a lot, but the desire to write left for quite awhile.
But! Here’s what I have.
More Fire Than The Sun: this is the one I think about often. It’s end of DA2 to post-DA2 from the POV of my Anders-loving female Hawke, Cait. Just 4 chapters have made it to AO3; I got stuck on writing a transitional part to the next interesting bit of action and stalled out. However, just yesterday it occurred to me I could skip the boring parts of the transition, and I’m thinking about this one seriously again.
Dunwall Rust, Tyvian Rot: This is written from pure spite. After talking with @ominousdeer many times about how much we hated the official Dishonored novel, I set out to see if I could make the same basic plot actually in character and interesting. If I can pat my own back a bit, I think I did succeed in making a better prologue, and I’m very proud of the opening.
Slow Boat to China: A one-shot, which means it’s actually finished! My female Sole Survivor, Billie, thinking about her pre-war life and her new lover MacCready. This is the concept of the character I went into Fo4 with; she’s changed a lot since this.
And that’s fucking it! I need to re-orient myself towards writing, as I’ve felt very wistful about these projects just in typing this out.
mylittlechimera replied to your post “mylittlechimera replied to your post “If anyone thought I might have...”
we could take these 3 things and create way better plot out of them, than anything that book offered lmao
A secret (not a secret): I’m trying! At least a bit of it, because we all deserve a better story than the one we got. Here’s my opening paragraph, for interested parties:
Tyvia was a land of great natural beauty. He knew that this was true, knew that he had seen tall waterfalls and crystal caverns, had soaked in hot springs as soft rain fell above him, had eaten sun-warmed grapes off the vine and drank the wine that was made from them. He knew a land where the cold could be bitter, but the thaws would always come. The rivers would swell and grow dangerous, homes and lives would be washed away, but when the water receded the Tyvians would plow their silt-rich fields. They would grow round melons and bright carrots and grain that would rise taller than the man himself. He had walked through those golden fields. He had sung high, sweet songs with his fellow citizens as they swung their scythes at harvest, the children following behind to bind it up in sheaves. He had sung low songs to the the rhythm of the hand drums while those with the strongest arms beat the grain upon the threshing floor. He had drank dark beer on a tavern patio under the light of a friendly moon, and the laughing woman in his lap had kept him warm even as the night air grew chill. All of this he had seen, all of this he had done, and more. And yet he could no longer believe his memories. For in Utyrka, it was always cold.
It's before 6 a.m. and I'm already at work, so consider reading my f!SoSu x MacCready fic and brightening my morning? http://archiveofourown.org/works/5791726
