The Art of Lying
"I was just talking to her!" To Portia's father, Benjamin Smith, the largest man in highever and handy with a hammer. Anders trembles in his boots but lifts his head and fixes the man with his most innocent gaze. He's brushed his hair and ironed his shirt and even cleaned his boots - the very picture of a neat and eligible teenager. He knows he looks several years younger than the man's daughter (he is) and he also knows Portia will sell him out as soon as look at him despite the heady and steamy moments they'd been stealing everywhere around the town for the past month. He has to make the man believe him or there is a very real chance he'll be flogged in the square for assault.
He has learned to be very good at lying. But he avoids Portia from then on. Sometimes it's better to sidestep danger.
"You're charms won't work on me, woman!" To the Warden Commander, Miranda Cousland, as she jokes about his claustrophobia in the deep roads. She has a way with her, of distracting him from his troubles. Distracting him from them, or beheading them, the way she had with Rylock and her cronies. It's incredibly sexy. Thinking about sex in the deep roads is far preferable to thinking about how dark it is. And heavy. And dark. Breasts and hips and night-dark hair and grey twinkling eyes... these are far, far preferable.
Although sometimes they make walking difficult.
"It's not the size that counts, Velanna." In this case, it is.
"Of course I don't mind." Through gritted teeth to Nathaniel Howe as he smoothly invites his sister to dinner in Amaranthine. His sister fixes him with her cheerful dark gaze, a slight smirk on her lips as she contemplates her half-brother. There is no way Maeve could know him that well - they've only been reunited recently. He grins at her, then at Nathaniel, trying with all his might to convey his thoughts to the dark haired rogue.
If you touch her I'll freeze you solid.
Nathaniel simply raises an eyebrow.
"Nothing can tie me down." To Neria one morning after they return from Orlais, changed, certainly. Older, definitely. More free. She smiles that quirky little smile of hers and shakes her head. She can always tell when he's lying.
"You'll be all right." To his mother. To a dying warden, in the deep roads. To a child in the elven Alienage of Highever, wracked with fever. To an old carthorse, a wounded bird, a beloved, ancient, ginger cat.
To himself in the morning, imagining the mottled grey of corruption spreading across his skin, or worse, hers.
He's very, very good at telling that lie. It's a shame it's always the hardest to believe.
Modifié par Miri1984, 12 novembre 2010 - 10:20 .
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:crying:
. I SOOO tried to make it funny. What is it about one shots and Anders that make themselves tragic?
