I totally get folks' anger at people equating being French Canadian with being a POC, but I also want to say that French Canadians (by which I mean francophones who aren't from Quebec) DO face discrimination and oppressive policies. Not on the same level--I'm not trying to invalidate others' struggles. But in Ontario, our institutions are constantly threatened by budget cuts, my grandparents don't get adequate healthcare because most doctors they see are anglophone, and ESL education often isn't sufficient to prepare kids for anglo-only universities/workplaces, putting them at a disadvantage, to name a few examples.
Yeah, I’m aware that francophone minority communities outside of Quebec do face some discrimination. I have francophone relatives in Alberta and there are some issues.
The entire topic was about Quebec, that’s what I was solely speaking about.
But even in those cases I still wouldn’t qualified most of that as oppression compared to systemic racism, and other forms of discrimination that are so widespread in this country.
In the past there was very real francophone oppression and I’m not denying that it was a major issue in the past.
There are cynics and believers and then there are youngsters, who don’t know which category they fall in. I don’t know if I should believe in what they told me in Vaishnodvi temple, whether all these folk tales about gods are true or not. My mum says all these incidents might have taken place but not the way people tell us; they exaggerate. I visited Vaishnodevi temple on 7th of Jan with my academy group, Vipin sir planned the whole tour and I was the who managed all the expenses.
We had been planning this tour from 2 months and now finally we made it but unfortunately Susu couldn’t. His parents denied at the very last moment saying Omnicron is at its peak and we can’t take any risk. After the trip when I visited his home I could see how sad he was while seeing our tour photos, he wasn’t making eye contact because he was at the verge to cry. Oh poor Susu!! When I got the news of him not joining us for the tour, I, too, didn’t want to go. He is the only friend who understands me and maybe even if he doesn’t, at least he tries. I knew when everyone will make fun of me he’ll be there as silent as me and I can talk to him about how I am feeling without the fear of being judged.
In Katra (Town in j&k), we arrived at around 9 a.m. We had booked dormitory beds in Trikuta Bhawan by Shrine board.
Sir has been here several times so he has complete knowledge of everything around. He knew more than any tour guide and he was kept telling us about this place and its people and all the folk tales. That place and its people are poetry.
Our 12km climb from katra to vaishnodevi’s bhawan started at 1 p.m and as it began rain welcomed us. I am so thankful of my father for buying me a rain coat that saved my dry ass. Earlier my only concern was the winter of j&k but it didn’t bother me, however, rain did. We all were drenched from head to toe. I thought it’d be very easy to climb walk 12km but trust me it wasn’t at all. We chose stares to save time but those 2000 stairs fucked up our legs. Ashu and Sir were walking bare feet; Sir always does so but Ashu chose this because he wanted to save his shoes from getting drenched (which ofc didn’t workout well). At the end both of their foot got swelled up and may have gotten blisters. I first time in my life saw snow fall when we reached Bhawan and man, I was really happy in that moment.
Oh falling snow, you are like my soul today! My hands and foot were numb and so was my face; I couldn’t move my lips properly while speaking and Ashu told me my skin has gotten a bit fair which made me happy. Some people were looking at me maybe I was looking beautiful idk or maybe they were looking because I was the only one in a proper rain suite. I don’t know, I was in ecstasy there and when I got back I was in complete agony.
Susu’s father getting half of his salary since the first covid out break and now he is not financially that well which ofcourse everybody understands. Susu had bought 6 cricket balls from Ashu and said he’ll give him the money in a month or two. After getting back from Vaishnodevi we visited Susu’s place (his mom was constantly around us and she was concerned whether we got corona with ourselves or not) so Ashu asked him for his money in front of his Sister which I think he shouldn’t have done and Susu’s sister considered it as a joke and just laughed (thank god). Later, while we were leaving Susu come with us to the main exit gate and their argument got intense and I was worried what if anyone from Susu’s family heard us. I mean we do not argue with a friend over money in front of their house. Ashu’s point was to make Susu ashamed so he would give him his money out of embarrassment or his family would hear us and they would give it to Susu out of the same reason but he does not understand that this would affect the friendship so much. Ashu was in complete rage and when I tried to stop him he snapped me like “I’ll talk to you later on this” and as we left he said “Stop taking his side for his sister’s sake”. The thing about Susu’s sister is I like her just a bit, okay? Just a bit! (She does not now that, no harsh feelings) The fact that I was sad when she was laughing at Ashu’s joke and kept on asking him about the tour and did not say anything to me. Sometimes I think she likes him maybe just a maybe. I and her used to talk on snapchat ( alot), then her exams came so she stopped being active (she’s a nerd) and now it has been a month since we had a word. Maybe I am one of those souls who are created only to give love they’ll never receive. Anyways, back to the topic, Ashu made me upset and I couldn’t tolerate that rest of the way to his home we barely talked and he asked me what’s wrong and OI didn’t say anything because I know saying anything wouldn’t change him. I want him to acknowledge that his anger is un-fucking-justified, I want him to know that I am tired of his trials where he always claims to be the judge. I want him to understand that not everyone will satisfy his fucking ego and he needs to stop acting like someone who does not understand the reality of this wicked world.
“Hold my hand for a second. It won’t kill you.” + a Zevran ship of your choice
Hey, thank you so much for the prompt, I really hope you enjoy it!!
(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)
@dadrunkwriting
Pairing: m!ZevWarden, Zevran x m!Mahariel
Characters: Zevran Arainai, Tal'en Mahariel
Tags: post canon, the Sabrae clan is ok if I say so, Zevran-typical reference to prostitution and murder, self-esteem issues, angst and fluff
Rating: Mature
“Hold my hand for a second, it won’t kill you.”
Above and around them, the trees of the Brecilian forest are tall and misted green with moss. Tal’en knows he’s walking faster than he needs to, but he can hear the familiar musical creak of Aravels and the sound of Sabrae elvhen. It has been too long since he has heard his native tongue in his own dialect, and his chest aches for it as his eyes scan the golden pillars of the trees. Next to him, Zevran clicks his tongue and grabs his hand quickly, the soft leather of his Dalish gloves covering the warmth of his palms.
“I am well aware of exactly which kinds of physical touch might kill me, mi amor.”
There’s something in his voice that makes Tal pause, his boots sinking in the familiar mulch of the forest floor. Every shadow in the breeze makes him think he’s seeing werewolves, but it’s been a decade since he and his lover had broken that curse for another clan, and Sabrae has wandered the Free Marches since then and lost both their First and their Keeper. He wonders who’s taken the clan now, and the old bone deep anxiety for his people wars with his worry for his lover. Zevran isn’t looking at him, brown eyes brass and copper in the late afternoon sunlight as it filters through the trees. His blonde hair is braided neatly behind his head in a series of intricate ties that he’d knotted and re-knotted three times this morning. His armour smells freshly of leather polish, and his tanned, dark body is strong and clean. But he shifts from foot to foot in a show of nerves more blatant than Tal’en has ever seen from him, including facing down an archdemon and defending the Fereldan throne.
Tal squeezes Zevran’s fingers in his own and steps closer, careful to leave Zevran enough space if he needs it. “What’s wrong?”
A muscle jumps in Zevran’s cheek a fraction of a second before he speaks. “It is nothing, my warden. Only that I keep looking at these trees and expecting a wolf to jump out of them.”
Before Zevran had given him his earring, he’d been able to meet Tal’en’s eyes when he lied to him. He hasn’t been able to since, and it’s a vulnerability that makes Tal’en feel more protective of his lover than seeing him naked. He decides not to call him on the lie, gently tugging him forward again. The forest isn’t quiet - it never is, loud instead with the streams, the birds, the trees and distant, rarer creatures. But Tal’en feels the discomfort in Zevran’s body as if it is his own, and makes an effort to fill the busy silence.
“I can’t wait to introduce you to Fenarel. The mischief we got up to, honestly, it feels childish now. But I admit I’m rather proud of the time we caught a hunting party with their pants down and washed their clothes down the river. They insisted the forest was haunted for so many years that the next time we visited Nevarra, the innkeeper warned us of small-stealing fairies. Some bard had made a bawdy song about lecherous tree spirits nicking fair maiden’s robes, not that any of those hunters’ saggy arses were much to write home about.”
They climb together up the track, and then at last Mahariel sees them. Zevran’s hand in his own feels like a physical rope lashing him to the Wardens, and the Blight, and everything they’ve seen together for these past ten years. In front of him the achingly familiar sigh of his clan’s aravels is enough to bring tears to his eyes, and when he hears the soft braying of halla Tal’en feels tears tickling down his cheeks. Tal moves to start tripping down the slope towards his clan, sucking in a breath to call out to his friends - and a broad, blonde man with a soft belly that he think might be his old hunting partner.
Zevran’s hand tugs him backwards, and Tal looks back to see Zevran standing still and uncharacteristically tense. Zevran starts to let go of Tal’en’s hand, and Tal frowns, stepping back up the slope towards him and kicking dead leaves aside as he does so. Zevran shakes his head, mouth twisting. “I cannot do this.”
Tal’en’s frown deepens, his stomach turning somersaults as he looks between the man he loves and his people, close as a half-remembered dream. “What do you mean?”
Zevran pulls back, again, and again Tal’en holds onto him, seized by the irrational notion that if he lets go then his lover will be swept away above the canopy and away from him, to a place he cannot follow. Zevran’s mouth twists, and he pushes a free hand over the side of his head, smoothing an already perfect braid. He gestures with a quick, sharp movement towards the elves milling to and fro about their camp. Tal thinks he can smell frying halla cheese and roasting nuts. His mouth waters. Zevran clicks his tongue. “I am not one of you. I am not built for places or people like this. This was stupid, I shouldn’t have come.”
He pulls again, harder on their joined hands, and Tal’en’s frown deepens as he squeezes Zevran’s hand back and steps toward him. “What are you saying? You feel like they won’t like you? Zev, you’re the most charming, beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
Zevran shakes his head, the corners of his eyes tight with frustration. “I am the most charminging murderer you’ve ever seen. I am not made for frolicking in the woods.”
Tal’en’s smile curls into a bitter grin. “A lot more of us killers than frolickers, despite what the shemlen might think.”
Zevran sighs in a sharp, bitten off gust of air and shakes his head again. “But not like me. You said - your hahren,” Zevran’s accent curls oddly around the word, but Tal knows how hard he’s worked to learn its shape. “Paivel. That he is unusually insightful. What will he see when he looks at me? A killer? A whore?” Zevran’s voice cracks and he bites the inside of his cheek. Tal’en steps closer, resting a hand on his cheek that Zevran leans into briefly before pulling away. “I am not worthy of these people. Nor have I ever been worthy of you.”
“Now that we’ve finished listening to the Crows that live inside your head.” Tal’en begins, softly, resting his hand lightly over the thick tattoos on Zevran’s cheek. Zevran huffs a laugh that tickles his palm. Tal’en goes on, stepping close enough that their interlinked hands brush the leather of Zevran’s skirt. “I’ll tell you what they’ll see when they look at you. They’ll see the love of my life. They’ll see a hero. They’ll see an elf. They’ll see a man who has wandered lost for far too long, and has finally come home.” Tal’en rests his forehead lightly against Zevran’s, and Zevran shuts his eyes, swallowing in the dark between their lips.
“How do you know that?”
Tal’en moves his hand to cup Zevran’s chin, and lift his face so that he’s looking into his eyes. The sunlight sends dappled shadows across Zevran’s hair like a mottled golden crown. Tal grins at his lover, and meets his eyes, letting him see the honesty there. “Because it’s what I saw when I met you.”
Then he kisses him.
When the furore has died down over Mahariel’s long-awaited return to Clan Sabrae, and celebrations have begun and ebbed in earnest, Maren parts from the crowd to approach Zevran. He greets her stiffly, his hand squeezing Tal’en’s so hard it almost hurts. She smiles. “Anetha ara, brother. Welcome home.”
"That was unexpected." + Hawke & whoever you'd like. welcome to DADWC!!
thank you for the prompt and your patience! @dadrunkwriting
After the smoke clears, Hawke coughs and mutters: “Well, that was unexpected.”
Anders peeks his head over the table where he and Sandal had both ducked to shelter from the minor explosion, taking in the burn marks across Hawke’s worktable and the way one of Hawke’s eyebrows is still faintly smoking.
Even standing before the Maker himself couldn’t make Anders bite back a snort, his fear and worry for Hawke’s safety brushed to the wayside by the sight of Hawkes’ ash-coated face and robes.
“Not enchantment,” Sandhal says, disappointed after a long look at the shattered glass and potion residue everywhere. An acrid smell hangs in the air.
Another snort slips free against Anders’ will, and soon he’s laughing so hard tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. Hawke coughs once, twice, then prods the remains of his experimental potion with a pair of steel tongs.
“C’mon, Anders, it wasn’t that funny!” he says plaintively, which just sets Anders off again. He laughs until his sides hurt, finally winding down but still grinning at Hawke’s put-upon expression. Justice churns in the back of his mind, mostly present in a sense of confusion – the spirit doesn’t grasp what he finds so hilarious about the situation. It isn’t the first time he’s laughed in the face of a danger quickly passed, but Anders has never been able to explain why, only that sheer relief sometimes sets him off.
Finally he gets up off the floor, following Sandal around the table to get closer to the wreckage.
“It was a little funny,” Anders asserts. “What did you think was going to happen when you added lyrium dust to that vial? We’re lucky the explosion wasn’t bigger.”
“I’m learning from experience, what can I say? Oh, Sandal, don’t worry about the glass! It’s my mess and I don’t want you to cut yourself,” Hawke says, turning to shoo the young dwarf away from where he’d bent to pick up half of a charred-looking vial. Sandal obligingly hands the piece he’d picked up over to Hawke.
“Thanks. I think that’s the end of experiments tonight, though. It’s just clean up from here.”
“Enchantment,” Sandal sighs, sounding forlorn, but he shuffles out of the mansion’s workroom, no doubt to meet Bodhan in the hall, anxious to tuck the boy into bed.
It’s only when he’s finally vacated the room that Anders sighs.
“Let’s try to keep the explosions to a minimum this late in the evening? The neighbors will complain and then you’ll be fending off Aveline again.”
Hawke scoffs, but moves to grab a broom. He picks up a broom and treads back to where Anders stands.
“Sorry for scaring you,” he says, turning as if to lay a kiss on Anders’ cheek. Anders gets a hand up to intercept Hawke before he can come too close.
“You have ash all over your face, love. You’ll have to clean that up before I let you near me. And I wasn’t scared, just… startled.” He chooses to ignore Hawke’s snort of disbelief. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it, since this is ‘your mess’,” he continues, further ignoring Hawke’s dramatic pout highlighted by the protrusion of a pink bottom lip from his ashy beard.
“Not going to help your poor lover clean up glass and scrape burnt decoction off the table? You wound me.” Despite the drama, Hawke’s already attending to the task, shards of glass scraping across grey flagstones.
Anders doesn’t leave the room in spite of his earlier words, watching appreciatively as the man bends to sweep the last of the detritus into a pile. He even generously retrieves a dustpan and stoops to hold it in place when Hawke asks for it, dumping the glass in the refuse bucket for Orana to collect later.
It’s when Anders straightens that Hawke catches his hand with his, no doubt leaving ashy smears on his skin, but Anders can’t bring himself to protest when Hawke grins at him – the lines around his mouth and eyes delineated in black.
“Come, I’ll clean up the last of it tomorrow.” He squeezes Anders’ hand gently. “Let’s head to bed.”
-
“Be careful washing your face, I’m not sure how much of your left eyebrow you have left.”
from question prompts: “How are you still alive?” (in a more jokey than angsty way) + Fenders (or one/both of them and friends)
I had so much fun coming up with a fun story for this one, I hope you like it! Thank you so much for the prompt, it was a little bit of a challenge and I really enjoyed it! 💛
for @dadrunkwriting and @rainwolfheart
“And then,” Anders drawled, swinging his beer bottle wide. He leaned a bit too far, and bumped shoulders with Fenris, who sat with his first glass of wine nearly drained in front of him. Fenris leaned back into Anders good-naturedly, propping up the slightly tipsy doctor.
“Then,” Anders continued. “I said to Fenris: ‘I don’t usually do in-home visits, but I’ll make an exception to give you a thorough checkup.’” He giggled. Merrill giggled in response.
“How are you still alive?” Isabela asked, leaning in and taking a long sip from her brightly colored cocktail.
“I very nearly punched Anders in the throat,” Fenris recalled, turning to Anders. “It was very unprofessional of you.”
“I thought you were going to rip my heart out,” Anders admitted, shifting so he could flop an arm over Fenris’ shoulder.
“I must have still been in shock from the accident,” Fenris said, reaching for his wine. “In my right mind, I think I would have.”
“I’m doubly lucky, then,” Anders said. “You didn’t kill me, and I got a date out of the deal.”
“If I remember correctly, the date was rather ill-gotten.”
“It was only a small stretch of the truth,” Anders said. “I’ve exchanged numbers with patients before when I was really worried about them.”
“And you were worried about Fenris?” Isabela asked.
“I was worried...that I’d never see him again,” Anders said, rolling his head so he could look over at Fenris.
Fenris snorted, but a faint blush was visible on his dark cheeks.
“Did you ever give him his thorough in-home checkup?” Isabela asked, which only made Fenris blush harder.
Anders hummed dramatically. “I think we may be due for another one soon, don’t think think, Fen?”
Fenris grasped at his wine, nearly spilling some in his hurry to bring it to his lips and hide his face behind the glass.
“Did I tell you the story of how Merrill and Isabela met?” Anders asked Fenris, who shook his head, still savoring his last sip of wine. “It’s adorable,” Anders assured him.
“It was my Life Drawing class,” Merrill said, eager to help tell the story. “We were having a live model come in!”
“I do that now and then,” Isabela said, “I mean, a body like this, I get to be a little bit proud of it.”
“I kept dropping my pencil!” Merrill said, grinning brightly. “And I think my face was turning bright red!”
“You really did look like a blooming flower,” Isabela said. “And your portrait was still the best of all of them.”
Now Merrill was blushing as well, but she made no attempt to hide it.
“Who made the moves?” Anders asked.
“I bet it was Merrill,” Fenris said.
“Yes!” Merrill said, grinning. “I asked her if I could meet up with her again to finish my drawing!”
“Very clever, kitten,” Isabela said. “I thought you were serious, too.”
“Well, I sort of intended to work on it more later,” Merrill said, “but I guess we just got talking every time we met up.” Isabela laughed and pulled Merrill in for a quick kiss.
“Don’t I get a kiss too?” Anders asked Fenris, pouting.
Fenris turned to him, smirked, and kissed the tip of his nose. “How about when we get home?” He said, and continued in a whisper, “while you give me that inspection you promised.”
Anders swallowed the rest of his beer and set the bottle down with finality.
“I think I’ve had enough to drink,” he said. “Anyone mind if I go pay up?”
“Go right ahead,” Isabela said. “Kitten and I have a date down on the beach after this.”
“We’re going skinny dipping!” Merrill whispered dramatically. “Do you two want to come?”
“Kitten!”
“I think our plans are best conducted inside,” Fenris said, as Anders was already on the way to the bar. “But thank you. I think Anders would like that another time.”
“Next time it’s our treat,” Isabela said, draping Merrill’s sweater over her shoulders for her. “And don’t let Anders drive.”
“Do not worry,” Fenris said. “He is a doctor, and would never let anyone drive in an intoxicated state, especially not himself. I already took the keys from his pocket anyway.”
“Fenris! I think I lost my keys!” Anders came running back, wide-eyed. Fenris simply held up the key ring and grinned.
“Just as eager to get home as I am,” Anders said, leaning in and stealing a kiss from Fenris, who returned it just enough to give Anders a small taste of his eagerness. The night was only just beginning.
how about "Shelter from Thunderstorm in Cave" + either Iwyn & Branwen or Elohir & Rhuwen? siblings getting into trouble is always fun :)
Thank you so much. It was so fun writing some kid shenanigans - I haven’t done that too much, but I should! For @dadrunkwriting
Fandom: Dragon Age. Words: 609
Elohir and Rhuwen Lavellan | Future / post Trespasser | gen? kidfic?
Rating: G. Original Solavellan children, background Iwyn Lavellan x Solas, Lavellan family, magic head canons
Practice
“This is boring.” Rhuwen kicks a stone. It bounces off a cliff, ricochets, and lands in the waves with a small splash.
“Be patient,” Elohir says.
Rhuwen sighs, rolls his eyes, and kicks another stone. This one ricochets in the other direction and hits his brother’s shin.
“Elgar’nan’s ass!”
“Don’t swear. I’ll tell mamae.”
“She’ll just have papae tell an actual story about Elgar’nan’s ass. And it’ll be weird.” Elohir makes a face.
“Whatever. Are you done?” Rhuwen looks up at the grey spring skies. “You’re not going to be able to do it. You’ve seen uncle Branwen do it, like, twice. I wanna go find the nug babies.”
“Of course I can do it.”
“Magic takes determinatiad practice.”
“Determined. Stop sounding like papae, and let me try this.”
“Once more and then I’ll go look for nugs without you.”
Elohir looks over the sea again. He plants his feet apart, and calls his magic. Breathes it in, and out, and pulls the sky towards him. It looks darker above him, and he does it again.
A big, fat raindrop lands on Rhuwen. Then another, and another.
“You did it!” Rhuwens grins, and Elohir grins back.
“I did it!! Just like uncle Branwen!”
The boys high five, rain pouring over their faces. Above them, the sky grows darker, and the rain falls heavier.
“So, now you stop it, right?”
“Um. Sure.”
Elohir concentrates again, this time trying to pull the clouds apart. That’s harder. He’s seen Uncle Branwen do it though, scattering the rain and letting the sunlight through. It wasn’t like this though, just a tiny controlled demonstration. Elohir pushes again, and the clouds rumble. It’s not working.
Lightning strikes the ocean.
“Eli…” Rhuwen pulls on his arm. Lightning strikes again, filling the sky above the ocean. Rhuwen yelps and clings to him.
“We need to get cover. Come. Let’s go.”
Elohir pulls on Rhuwen’s arm, leading him away from the short and into the forest. Don’t be under the trees in a lightning storm, he once heard, but the cliffs and the beach are scary. It’s pouring and cold, no trace of warm spring left.
“We should go home,” Rhuwen says.
“It’s too far. I know there’s a cave here.”
Rhuwen nods and Elohir keep going, holding his brother’s hand. He knows it here, up to the left from the cove. There were here last summer. It looks different now, though, in the rain and the budding trees.
“The cliff, that way,” Rhuwen says, and he’s right. The cave is in a cliff and it’s over that way. Lightning flashes, and the thunder rolls right on top of it. Th. e boys look at each other, and starts to run, scrambling through the underbrush.
“I see it!”
They run for the cave and dive inside. It’s dark and a little damp, but the ground is dry. Elohir sinks to floor. What if the rain continues? What if no-ones finds them, what if they have to spend the night here, and it’s cold and it’s his fault, and –
A light flashes, and Rhuwen’s magic sets fire to some old wooden crates. Someone must have used the cave, leaving debris. The fire is warm and nice, and Rhuwen grins.
“You’re going to get in so much trouble.”
Elohir hides his face in his hands.
“I am.”
Rhuwen pokes him.
“It was also totally cool.”
“Thanks. It was, right?”
Safe and warm, the boys grin at each other. They’ll get some lecture, but Elohir doesn’t regret it. He can do anything. Next time Uncle Dorian is visiting he’ll have to ask about necromancy. He bets he can do that too.
(this is from @rainwolfheart who was having trouble getting asks to send) i'm happy to give prompts for m!Handers! :D How about a rainy day stuck indoors & purple!Hawke/Anders ... and if you feel like using my custom hawke (my blog /hamish for info) that would be cool
(Copy-pasting this on anon from last week’s @dadrunkwriting prompts, as @rainwolfheart was having trouble submitting it!)
Thank you so much for letting me play with your excellent Hamish Hawke! I really hope I managed to do him/them justice - and thank you for the opportunity! I didn’t really succeed with the whole ‘indoors’ part of the prompt, but there was a lot of rain and m!Handers, so... 2/3rds is still good, right??
The sky turned grey as a bruise in the early afternoon, whilst they were still some distance from Steelbridge. Normally that wouldn't be a problem - they'd walked through worse weather to find a berth for the night - but, well, this wasn't a normal situation.
"Exactly what we needed," said Hamish with a put-upon sigh. "We should stop for tonight. This is bandit country, there's got to be some good caves to hole up in somewhere around here."
Anders didn't say anything, and didn't slow down either. He walked with a kind of grim head-down determination, his shoulders tense and his grip on his staff white-knuckled.
Hamish nudged him. He didn't fall over, which was probably about as good as it was going to get. "It's a nice cave for an evening," Hamish tried. "Or could be. If we stopped. Which we should."
"Steelbridge isn't that far away," Anders said, and his voice was hoarse and thin.
"Eight miles," said Hamish cautiously. They could do that in a day, if the road was good and they'd had a good breakfast. But the path was dirt, the sky said rain, and breakfast had been a wonderful onion and cabbage stew boiled with some leftover bones from the rabbit they'd had for dinner, which was alright in a flavourless, Fereldan sort of way but wasn't doing much for his motivation to trudge through a thunderstorm.
Well, that and the bounty hunters that had attacked them not an hour ago, stabbing Anders in the belly with a magebane-laden dagger. He'd ripped the would-be stabber's head clean off in a shocking display of gratuitous (but sort of sexy) violence and then healed himself with the last of his dwindling mana, but Hamish personally thought it a good reason to stop and recharge. Not even Justice could completely eradicate a poison like magebane, and Anders' gait had slowed and his skin had taken on a waxen, ashy look, and Hamish wasn't the world's best healer but he also wasn't its worst. Anders didn't have that much further left in him.
None of which Hawke would say out loud. The thing about Anders - which was also the thing about Hamish, really, which just went to show why they were suited for each other - was that he was a terribly contrary man. Say to him, 'you've been poisoned and you're falling-down-tired' and he'd trudge 500 miles and then he'd trudge 500 more - or try to, anyway, before he fell down. Hamish had loved Anders for too long not to know his weak spot, which was this: he caught Anders by the elbow and covered the back of his hand with his own until Anders looked at him, and then tried to put everything into his gaze - his relief that Anders hadn't died; his fear that Anders still might; his love that would make losing Anders more than he could bear -
Anders' eyes softened, and some of the stubborn set to his shoulders loosened in the face of Hamish's naked emotions, which was of course the moment when Hamish kicked him behind the knee and knocked him flat on his arse.
"What," said Anders, from the floor. He looked, and sounded, the same kind of shocked and betrayed Hawke had last experienced from Otis when he had given his mabari a surprise bath. Neither of them would probably appreciate the comparison.
"Cave," said Hawke. He held out a hand, and it was a testament to how fiercely the poison ate at him that Anders accepted it. "Come on, before the low-lives around here claim all the good ones."
Anders shut his eyes tight. The veins in his pale, clammy skin made his eyelids look blueish, and Hamish gently nudged a thread of creationism at him through their shared clasp. "Technically," said Anders, "We are the low-lives around here."
"Not according to our wanted posters! We're medium-to-high-lives, and proud. Go big or go home, as Mother used to say. Otis!"
The sound of something heavy and unwieldy crashing through a lot of shrubbery came from the shrubbery at the side of the path, followed a second later by a heavy and unwieldy mabari mostly made of muscle and drool. Anders wrinkled his nose. Otis, seeing the two of them standing there, wrinkled his muzzle. They were practically twins.
"Find us a cave, boy," said Hawke. "We're overnighting."
Otis barked, wagged his tail so fast it almost seemed to blur, jumped in place, span in a circle, barked again, and then finally left much the same way he'd arrived, with a smashing noise that Hawke could only hope was just innocent flora being demolished under dinner-plate paws and not a large dog colliding face-first with a tree. He squeezed Anders' hand. Anders squeezed back. He looked tired, and thin, and Hamish... would prefer for him not to look like that.
"Hal," Anders said, "We need..."
"I know." There were mages waiting in Steelbridge for the letters they carried. They could wait another night. The storm wouldn't. Even as he thought this a fat raindrop fell, striking Hawke on the cheek like a tear, like a warning. He brushed it away - contrary, always; like always called out to like - and instead stepped into the lee of Anders' body, where he was warmed. Anders folded his arms around Hawke's shoulders and it felt like safety, and so he tipped his chin up a fraction to kiss him; Anders was shivering with tension but it faded as he met Hawke halfway. Equals. His lips were dry and cracked but he tasted like bland Fereldan stew and his tongue - well, the thing Anders could do with his tongue, and perhaps would, if he was rested...
Anders broke the kiss first, resting his forehead gently against Hawke's. The dusty old road was filling with the dark spots of oncoming rain, pitter-patter; Hawke's hands were on Anders' hips. "Alright," said Anders, his words barely a puff of air against Hamish's face. "A cave."
"Never say I don't take you anywhere nice," said Hawke, and felt a moment of victory when Anders smiled. They kissed again, because they could - because it was raining and they were alone, would-be assassins be damned, and there were no Circles to stop them. Because of the things they had done, together, hand in hand, so that an elfblooded mage and an escaped apostate could stand there in the road and be themselves, however foolish they were.
When Anders brushed a strand of damp hair from his face, his eyes burning with that intense, fierce energy he reserved for Hamish and Hamish alone, it felt like victory. His thumb traced a line from Hamish's cheekbone to the shell of his ear and then further, caressing the point; and the sky opened up in full and Hamish couldn't care less. A water droplet rolled smoothly from beneath Anders' hairline and down the line of his long, proud nose, and Hamish kissed it away.
Two men, a dog and a thunderstorm. Bounty hunters could go fuck themselves - this right here, this was the real reward.
Thank you for the @dadrunkwriting prompt! This is the next bit after the previous installments [1] [2] of Fenris, the bounty hunter.
At Sunrise
Anders blinks against the early sunlight. He isn’t an early riser by far and working at Madame Claré’s etablissement keeps him up for most of the night, but the market isn’t quite so busy in the early morning and he needs the freshest elfroot for his ointments. He pulls his wide-brimmed hat deeper into his face and lets his long hair fall forward at the sides. It’s dyed black now, and he makes a mental note to buy some new pigments too.
A short while later — his basket is filled with elfroot, honey, and beeswax — he studies the table of a cosmetician for dye for his hair. Black is easy to find, but black hair makes him look even paler. Maybe a reddish brown would look good on him.
The sound of clanging armor has him flinch. He carefully glances over his shoulder, peering through his curtain of black hair. Antiva-City has a Circle and templars, just like any larger city in Thedas. Antiva is very andrastian, mages don’t just run around in the city. The templars will lock up any apostate they can find.
Anders puts his hand on the dagger at his side. He can’t carry a staff here and but nobody has to know that his dagger carries an enchantment.
The templars march over the marketplace, their faces hidden behind helmets. Anders turns back to the table, picking up tins with salves and powders to study them closely. The clanging of armor comes closer and stops right behind him.
“Serah.”
One thing that Anders has learned in his years in the Circle, is to identify the core of a templar just by their voice. He knows to listen for the tremble of doubt, for that gasp of insecurity of a fresh recruit. This voice has none of that. This voice barks with arrogance and viciousness. It swells with the knowledge of the power of the flaming sword on the armor.
Anders ignores the word, pretending to be engrossed by the tins of pigment on the table.
“Serah!”
Anders turns around slowly, putting on an expression of boredom and annoyance. He wipes the hair away from his face and sighs. “Were you talking to me?”
“Yes, serah.” The templar looks down, their voice dropping low. “That’s a lot of elfroot in your basket.”
Anders looks into his basket and takes out a bushel of elfroot. “Are you allergic? Maybe the elfroot reacts with the iron in your armor?”
Even without seeing the face of the templar, Anders can practically feel the sneer behind the helmet.
The templar pulls their sword, setting the side against Anders’ chest. “What do you need all that elfroot for?”
“I don’t have to answer that.” Anders stares into the dark slit in the helmet, jutting out his chin. He will not back down, not here, not now.
“Yes, you do,” the templar leans forward. “I can ask you whatever I want because you might be a mage.”
“I’m not, I’m just making salves and ointments.”
The templar laughs, the helmet making it sound hollow. Anders presses his teeth together so that he says nothing stupid.
“Ah, there you are, Madame Claré is waiting for her things,” a familiar voice says right next to Anders.
Anders slowly turns his head. His eyes fall on Fenris, looking ridiculously beautiful once again and also as if he can barely stop himself from cutting someone’s head off. Fenris stares at the templar. “Do you have a reason to hold up Madame Claré’s apothecary?”
A twitch goes through the templars at the mention of that name. “No.” The templars turn their heads from Anders to Fenris and back and then stomp away without another word.
“All bark, no bite,” Anders mumbles to himself. “Typical.”
Fenris grabs Anders’ arm and drags him away from the table. “Come with me.”
“Yes, alright, no need to rip my arm out.” Anders waves at the cosmetician and stumbles to get his footing as Fenris drags him to the other side of the market.
The marketplace is busy now, lots of people shoving, inspecting and haggling. Fenris finds a tiny alleyway, not even large enough for a donkey cart to pass through, and drags Anders into the shadow.
“Are you insane?” Fenris hisses out. “Every templar in Thedas is looking for you and you just have to provoke them?”
Anders pushes Fenris away from him. “They have no right to ask people why they buy elfroot, no right!”
Fenris steps back to Anders, his face just a handwidth away from Anders’. “This is Antiva, templars have every right here they want. And this is also the home of the Crows, the best bounty hunters and assassins you can find. You honestly think you’re safe here?”
“Know your enemy, as they say.” Anders shrugs. “Being in Crow territory keeps little bounty hunter upshots away, and so far they’ve ignored me. I just have to keep my head down around the templars.”
“It’s still not safe!” Fenris yells. His eyes widen and he looks around if anybody heard his outburst, but the market is too busy for people to notice.
Anders shakes his head. “Why do you even care? This is not any different from any other time of my life.” He brushes his hair back, his fingers tangling in the long strands. “I guess you’re here for the contract, I saw they doubled the price on my head. Just too good to pass by, huh?”
Fenris stares at him, the tattooed lines on his throat and arms glowing softly.
Anders holds his head up high, he won’t cower for anybody, not anymore. “I told you already that I won’t go back to the Circle, you have to — “
Soft lips press against his own, cutting off whatever he meant to say.
Fenris kisses him.
Anders’ brain needs several cycles to grasp the situation, and he wouldn’t be surprised if steam comes out of his ears.
Fenris kisses him, presses him against the wall with wild urgency. Something pokes into Anders’ back and he doesn’t care. He wraps his arms around Fenris and kisses him back.
