●● ` ANDERS
Musty, rotting, dirty, confined, collapsing, close spaces leaning in, darkspawn claws dragging down rock, voices itching inside and out. The caverns are too small, too reminiscent of prison walls and the darkness of a year’s long solitude. Anders can practically smell the old cell in its moldy, dank stonework and wrinkles his nose when the ghost of a stench prickles up his sinuses. But if he can swallow down tainted blood, he can soldier through the unpleasantness. It helps push away the pressing gloom when a very small hand clutches tight to his. She has one of the sturdiest grips in Thedas, he thinks. Might give a Qunari a run for their silvers.
He laughs and it sheds some of the tension in his bones. He doesn’t want his commander to fuss too much, even if it is nice having someone in his corner for once (a warm change, a pair of arms to catch him where he once fell flat - she says it would be a shame to lose him). “It’s so terrible being forced to hold hands with such a lovely lady. Honestly, I don’t know how I’ll cope,” he sighs dramatically with his free hand draping over his face like he might fall faint. But his lips bend into one of his haughty smiles that teases right along with her. He owes her his life, after all. There’s no one he’d rather be lost with in a labyrinth of darkspawn and death. Except, perhaps, three of his favorite girls from The Pearl. At least that’d take his mind off the way his heart is climbing up his throat.
His grip squeezes hers without meaning to and he swallows the anxiety, even if it’s hard going down. Not as hard as dwarven whiskey, but almost as bitter. “So which way do we go?” Faiye seems confident they’ll make their way back in one piece. It’s a feeling that washes over him in soft ripples, trying to coax his cynical gaze into something a little more sunny. He’s reluctant, but he doesn’t want to strain his fellow healer’s good intentions. “Probably the path with less blood stains. Seems promising.”
He's not alright, but he's trying to be and she isn't about to fault him for an attempt at such; it's her FAULT he's down here in the first place ( warden or no, she could have let him stay behind this time -- selfish desire, a want to have a dear friend at her side ) and it is not her place to JUDGE whatever reaction he may have. The man could throw himself on the floor in a fit of HYSTERICS, cursing gods of his religion and others and beating the ground 'til knuckles ran red and still she would bear no ill thought toward him; cruel would it be, to tell another to walk it off, get over it, when it was HER mistake that brought him there.
Not that she isn't grateful he isn't doing that. Faux calm is preferable to a MELTDOWN now & always.
Apologetic smile is thrown over shoulder and she holds his hand tighter ( not enough to break bone nor send muscle SCREAMING -- sturdy, however, a vice of flesh and comfort ) as if scared he'll run now that their set path is more clear, the very direction he does not wish to go. She'll carry him through it if need be, cover his eyes and persuade mind to believe 'tis not but a bad dream but she hopes it will not come to such; trust me she pleas wordlessly, perhaps hollow given the way she asked for such earlier and now they're here, but this time she'll prove worthy of trust -- hopefully, anyhow, and gut twists & knots.
❛ You're welcome to scream yourself hoarse at me once we've gotten back, if that'll make you feel any better. But we do have to, first... go... through exactly where you don't want to be. ❜ A pause, laugh bubbling up in throat that isn't quite warm but isn't entirely hollow either, ❛ Don't hate me too much, yeah? ❜
