#ch. anders

playlist . / meme

there is perhaps a moment, a flicker quick to pass - an almost there in parted lips as if he’s ready to tell a story. dead. gone mad. wiped off the face of the earth. he’d heard the rumours in his wake, both cheers and cries and hope. he’d heard of monsters, of a threshold passed and the promise that mercy would not be given. but that, he did not care for.  

the relax of his spine, a stretch much like a cat, and there returns that nonchalance ( perhaps a glimpse there of an anders once before ). closed eyes, neck exposed, as if now, and once again there is the tease for weakness shown. a blade may cut and a hand may take the life so many would desire for.

he doesn’t tell of the smell of blood, the taste of salt water, burning herbs and incoherent words. he doesn’t tell of the quick flash of memories. homes and prisons and gilded cages and a spear and shield and question. he doesn’t tell of how knees buckled and there before him in a twisted place was both vengeance, justice and a set of chains so willingly worn. he doesn’t tell. 

lying is easier. 

--- well...that could have certainly gone better. a mission success of sorts, information and a location gathered. onwards and ahead, and he sees a raven in the sky familiar. ( doesn’t speak of it, but the relief in the sigh remains there ). anders begins to speak, frustration pent, ready to burst remains with the need to fill the silence. 

“ --- i never told you, did i? ” rare was the opportunity / words better left unsaid. too much turmoil - too chaos comes with the binding of a spirit and man. his is a story of the break that never comes. re-grip: the flex of fingers at the memory kept, but twice now the once-called champion had seen the setting of jaw and straightening of spine, twice now he had felt the tension between him and those clad in blue. twice now was the opportunity to finally speak some truths.

not all, of course - for some scars remain with a permanence in injury and the well of anger far too deep. 

“ -- hawke. ” an unexpected turn of events, and another blow here to the already beaten body. crestwood is not doing him any favours. he’s stiff, swallows though his throat his dry, and he feels the reflexive movements of his anchors by his side. danger comes in what’s unknown - here they stand on opposing sides of a crumbled friendship. he’d lied, he’d run, he’d disappeared to leave the world on fire; and now he’s here... no sense of redemption, no need to repent, he’s here. because of one need, and one always that seemed to come: to fight. “ --- i wasn’t told - ” 

it was better when they had the helmet on. monstrosity hidden makes itself known in the crooked curve of lips and eyes cold. no need for spoken words, for there’s familiarity in it all, no need for the rough touch where metal digs and punctures against the thin fabric of robes. you’re a dead mage walking. 

you aren’t safe here.

( ease comes with the bloom of mottled colours against skin. pain strikes and there’s a hunger that pierces. you’re bound. tied like an animal ready for the slaughterhouse - but you’re safe, you see it in the anger and irritation, you see it in the way they speak, the way they know that you’re merely being brought back home ). 

chill continues, sharp seep like needles that slip beneath your skin, it forms in mind: flaming sword and metal. shift of helm and there you see the demon’s eyes and there is a single word: consume.

wake with a start - if you can call it that. you can’t sleep well. not with the way their hands fall so naturally to their sword. not with the way they seem to stand, to walk, to pace. to circle you like a predator. watch and wait and there’s disgust that comes with healing hands.

justice helps, but he feels it too. 

quiet, spirit - don’t let them hear you nearly say where you sense the lick of anger that wells with questions asked of mage’s plight. this is the real world, spirit you tell him - though your smile does not hide the anger you have. he sees it in the way you tremble ever so slight, the way your fists curl and brows knit and a snarl is merely pulled back. 

i can help you, he offers. 

demon. monster. abomination. your heart near stops and familiarity comes in the ache of your head. stagger and stumble and three words flash hot: judge. jury. executioner. 

today you die, they tell you but strength wells within. because you are not a brother. you are not a warden. you are maleficar - always and forever. permission to live denied and the sword comes as follow through. 

no. 

stand because you must defy. fight, because you know nothing else. 

no.

soft angst / @theharellan

familiarity is a murmur of sorts - no, perhaps better to call it the familiar burble of water that comes from a river at a place once called home - a thing bittersweet, a memory that comes with a time not...quite...his. justice and i are one in the same, he had once said / two parts that make the whole - fit in form and set in stone and yet...