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justice_is_blond
When Nathaniel was a little boy, he started to dream about a long, vast tunnel. Its ceiling was higher than his house, its walls nearly as wide, and the light was eerily dim. He would walk, taking great strides, and hear this strange song, beautiful and timeless. Then, he would be faced with some monstrous creature, and wake thrashing and shouting as the light went black. His parents took him to doctor after doctor, then in desperation to a mage healer. None could give any answers or advice. Eventually he grew to a point where the dreams were no longer shocking or frightening--he knew the outcome, and could face it feeling somewhat more jaded. But he never got used to it. He still hasn't.
The wealthy district of Denerim has become spectacular, compared to what it was in previous ages. Before, it had a reputation for being brown, full of mud and dog shit--which spoke poorly for the less wealthy districts. It is no longer the time of the so-called dog lords. Now there is color and light, some of it gas and some electric. He walks away from it, feeling stifled and restless, into the old market district. One of the public houses has been in service since the Dragon Age, and Nathaniel has always felt comfortable there, as if whatever he is wandering for, he will eventually find there.
Music plays in the Gnawed Noble Tavern, no longer the haunt of nobility as the name implies, but far more diverse, reclaimed by the people of the market district. The food is decent, the drink gets you drunk, but the most important thing is that the environment is friendly. People here don't judge or look down on you. Artists, artisans, philosophers, and simply passionate people are here. Some writers' groups meet, as do any number of peaceful protest organizations. Nathaniel sits and orders peat whisky before catching golden hair out of the corner of his eye.
He doesn't know why he has always been drawn to blonds. Does anyone know why their type is their type? But it almost goes beyond having a type. He has felt like he is looking to recognize a face, though he hasn't been open to studying himself as to why. He isn't the sort to believe in mysticism. But this man he sees is...how does someone describe it? Beautiful, otherworldly, out of time. And oddly familiar. Like a celebrity might, like someone he ought to recognize. But he knows he has never seen this man before. He also knows he must see him more than once.
"Excuse me?" He stands by the stranger now, peering into his face with a tentative smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"
The wealthy district of Denerim has become spectacular, compared to what it was in previous ages. Before, it had a reputation for being brown, full of mud and dog shit--which spoke poorly for the less wealthy districts. It is no longer the time of the so-called dog lords. Now there is color and light, some of it gas and some electric. He walks away from it, feeling stifled and restless, into the old market district. One of the public houses has been in service since the Dragon Age, and Nathaniel has always felt comfortable there, as if whatever he is wandering for, he will eventually find there.
Music plays in the Gnawed Noble Tavern, no longer the haunt of nobility as the name implies, but far more diverse, reclaimed by the people of the market district. The food is decent, the drink gets you drunk, but the most important thing is that the environment is friendly. People here don't judge or look down on you. Artists, artisans, philosophers, and simply passionate people are here. Some writers' groups meet, as do any number of peaceful protest organizations. Nathaniel sits and orders peat whisky before catching golden hair out of the corner of his eye.
He doesn't know why he has always been drawn to blonds. Does anyone know why their type is their type? But it almost goes beyond having a type. He has felt like he is looking to recognize a face, though he hasn't been open to studying himself as to why. He isn't the sort to believe in mysticism. But this man he sees is...how does someone describe it? Beautiful, otherworldly, out of time. And oddly familiar. Like a celebrity might, like someone he ought to recognize. But he knows he has never seen this man before. He also knows he must see him more than once.
"Excuse me?" He stands by the stranger now, peering into his face with a tentative smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"
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"You like to make it easy for the templars," he says facetiously, the wording coming to him without a thought. "What a thing to have, in this day and age. I'm...woefully under-educated, it appears."
All thought of sex put aside, Nathaniel is now concerned. He glances away briefly.
"I...suppose I came on a bit strong, earlier," he says self-consciously. Sheepishly, even. His privilege must have been showing very obviously, as was his ignorance. "I apologize."
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"People are still afraid of us. It's not as bad as it was in Ages past, but I can't say we've exactly reached a good point just yet. I appreciate being able to study what I'd like, when I'd like, being able to come out to a pub, being able to have company, but unlike as is expected, I don't feel like it's enough. Yes, yes, there's always a risk of abominations, yes, they'd like to know where one might come from, but that's not all we are. We're not just vessels that will suddenly erupt into flames and tentacles and murder. ...But given my name I have to say such things more through minorly rebellious actions than actual words, because Maker forbid reports get out about a mage named Anders speaking out against the current order of things."
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That story, the tale of the Champion, had been remarkable and heartbreaking. He's not sure he ever agreed with the idea of Anders getting what he deserved. That's always been the saddest part, the reason he only read the book once and never again. There was something truly upsetting about it.
Belatedly he inquires, "Tentacles?" with a skeptical look.
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"The name likely wouldn't be much trouble if I wasn't very blonde, very flirtatious, and very prone to... slipping away," he admits. "There's another mage named Anders in Denerim too, but he's dark-haired and loves sitting and reading for days on end. The Templars are never worried about him."
His mother had admired story-Anders' resolve, even when it cost him everything. He thinks part of that might be because she had to find her own way when abandoned, and needed strength to get through everything on her own. Especially the raising of him - he's always loved his mother, but that hadn't translated to a great deal of behavior on his part.
"And yes," he says, wiggling fingers in Nathaniel's direction, "tentacles. Desire abominations can be very interesting."
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"I suppose I don't understand it," he says, going back to the previous subject. "Tale of the Champion is such a depressing read. Anders seems so...unutterably tragic. I read it once in school and found it too upsetting to revisit. To name a child after him? I can see wanting to honor who he was, if not what he did. It's still depressing, though."
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"Perhaps you'd need to be a mage to understand the naming. We're better off than we were in the Dragon Age, or many other Ages, for that matter, but there's still an inherent, mm, I'm not sure what word is good here. Awareness? Weight? Neither is quite right." He shakes his head, shaking off that particular matter. "The other Anders is the child of two mages, from a long line of mages, and he says they named him as a reminder of how far we've come but how far we've yet to go. My mother never said why she named me Anders, but my best guess is that he kept trying and never gave up."
"We're better off," he repeats. "But being registered, tracked, watched, from the moment your powers manifest, can be exhausting. And we've not a lot of mages to look to when it comes to endurance or strength, not when for so much of history mages have been deliberately kept out of it."
And now he gets to see if his habit of talking too much scares off Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome Protector.
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"Stigma," he offers. "That might be the word you're looking for, I don't know. I do know I've never been mind-controlled or sacrificed, and I don't think it's because of the measures you're talking about. But I'm afraid I'm hardly qualified to speak on the matter. Just to listen."
A flicker of a smile, and he meets Anders' eyes.
"Though I might rather talk about you."
What is it that he is searching for, here? Some connection between that unsettling feeling and how drawn he is to this man, certainly. And something else.
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Anders' smile softens and he reaches out to trace a finger lightly over the hand holding the whiskey glass.
"What would you like to know? I've not set any records for disappearing just yet, I've only managed it three times, I," and he laugh-coughs, shaking his head, "I am in fact a healer, I like both men and women, and I greatly prefer cats to dogs or mabari. I also may, emphasis on may have started a fire in the Templar barracks once but if I did do that, it was entirely an accident because the perpetrator was young and got startled by a giant spider that should not have been indoors."
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"Any hobbies?" he asks, utterly entranced, like he has found some manner of happy place to return to.
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He leans forward in his seat to continue the light touch of one finger on Nathaniel's hand and wrist. "But a date to a concert or opera has appeal. I've never been to either."
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"Really?" His parents have often wondered what they did wrong, that their boy turned out with such damaged self-esteem as to be surprised when someone who repeatedly showed interest him actually meant it all along. "I, um, I could get us seats for La Galatea on Friday. Probably not good ones."
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"Provided it's not too late I'd love to go with you." What the show is about he has no idea. He's also not entirely certain that matters. It's Nathaniel he's interested in. ...and also not missing his curfew. He's already missed it once this month and there's fifteen days left; the punishments started at three tardy marks.
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He has just the place in mind. He glances around for that templar.
“Do you need someone to walk you home?”
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"He won't hurt me," he says, following Nathaniel's gaze, "he's been too public about checking on me tonight." Nathaniel deserves the honesty. Anders is safe for the evening thanks to the Templar's interruption.
"But I'd not turn down the offer." The card gets gently tucked away in his pocket, something to treasure whether or not Nathaniel shows up on Friday. Anders gets up and smiles at Nathaniel while quickly leaving a tip for their server.
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"So under another circumstance he...might hurt you?"
It's not just Anders he would ask that question toward, when that statement was worded so specifically.
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Nathaniel gets a sideways look that becomes a very quick look away once Anders realizes he's being watched, too. He reaches up to push some hair behind his ear that was already there.
"There's... controls in place," he says hesitantly. "He can't actually... do much. It's not like the olden days. Inconveniences, that's most of it." Not all. But he's feeling very much put on the spot by someone showing genuine interest in his situation.
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They are passing a street advert for the opera; Nathaniel gives it a nod.
"La Galatea. You'll find it interesting. And maybe a little offensive. The story of the commoner who became Divine, then gave the Right of Annulment to the grand clerics. It's not portrayed positively per se, but. She is the hero and all, so there's the sympathetic angle required."
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"I'd ask about the ending and if it's good for mages, but maybe I shouldn't go for spoilers." They're nearing his apartment building now and Anders reaches over to gently pull Nathaniel into an alcove just before the door. With a very warm smile he leans in and kisses him soundly... and very briefly before pulling back.
"You've given me a preview of the show, so have a preview of what else might come."
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Nathaniel pulls away with a helpless grin. "Whatever you decide to give, it sounds like it'll be worth waiting for."
And before turning to leave, he reaches out to capture Anders' hand and give a kiss to the knuckles.
"I'll see you on Friday. Five o'clock."