The Things That Are Needed
I am feeling all sorts of tired and I really ought to be sleeping instead of not sleeping and I definitely shouldn’t be attempting to write any sort of ficlet, but that’s what I’m doing, because blast it, tiredness can be inspirational!
No warnings really. Just Anders, Cecilia Hawke, and platonic comfort snuggle things.
This is a jumbled, awful mess that I will make less of a jumbled, awful mess later.
It was nice to be needed.
Of course, there were so many instances in which he was needed because it was particularly necessary or dire rather than specifically nice. A healer with no expectations of coin to be gained didn’t come along every day, after all, and Kirkwall scarcely lacked for sick patients in need of his aid. He wanted to help, to heal, to use his magic both for the sake of those who lacked his power and for those who did not. His hands had a purpose and there were always wounds to mend, words to write, other mages to guide from the chains unjustly binding them.
Oh look. I wrote a goofy fic when I ought to have gone to bed.
Forgive me, Varric, but I’ve yet to develop a knack for writing you.
A Hawke By Any Other Nickname
~ * * * * *
“Your turn to draw, Hawke.”
Cecilia had never had a particular knack for card games. Or drinking for that matter. Fighting, working persuasive charms, and whittling a block of wood in to a Mabari tended to be her strong suits. Wicked Grace with the addition of ale, no matter how watered down, more often than not left Kirkwall’s esteemed Champion a bit at a loss and typically a little unpredictable, even to a dwarf with keen skills of perception.
Isabela’s grin could usually be taken as a sign of imminent victory or a mask for a less than stellar hand and the pirate was more often than not a worthy opponent when cards and coin were on the table. Merrill, never with much concern for winning and more eagerness to simply play the game with dear friends, often let her tongue curl over her teeth when it was nearly her turn to pick up a card. Their expressions were as familiar as the wrinkle forming across Cecilia’s brow, a sign of her determination to win a game for once. Or at least such had been Varric’s impression for the moment.
Warmth and Promises
Under the Blue Sky
I dunno if it was trolling or not, but an anon prompted me for Cecilia stabbing Anders and rather than ignore it since Ceci most certainly did not kill Anders after the Chantry explosion, my brain ended up running to sad territory. So I’m rolling with it. ;_;
This takes place well after the events of DA2 and was sort of painful to write.
Under the Blue Sky
“The nightmares have been getting worse.”
He said nothing for a time, as if the words had hardly reached him, blocked out by the sound of the breeze brushing past their ears, dancing across the grass in the field. He had heard her, however, and she knew it, knew that he couldn’t have missed the remark when they stood side by side, elbows faintly brushing. He was near enough that she could smell the soap he’d used to wash his face that morning even when the scent of grass and wildflowers threatened to overpower it. A sideways glance, even while brief, let her see the hasty stitching of a recently mended sleeve and the circles laying dark beneath his eyes. His exhaustion was as clear as the sky that day.