#pcg writes

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.”