The list of things that could still render Hawke speechless numbered few, especially after this month. (This ...decade, really, but a point had come where he had stopped counting; if cataclysm had staggered his steps once, now it was life's normal rhythm. The day felt empty if things didn't casually stomp their way through gravity.)
So far he'd passed the time with thoughtfully rendered commentary, for anyone who would listen. As a for instance: was there literally nowhere he could go that blood wouldn't be in places it shouldn't? Didn't anyone just leave it in bodies anymore?
In theory, there were more pressing matters to contend with: the undercurrent from Travelers more veteran than he that their circumstances were unusual, that it was entirely possible their unseen directors just had no cause to worry about hunger, and as such those meager concerns had slipped their minds. He could judge he'd had more experience with that particular sensation than most, and so was less bothered. Equal parts knowing the feeling and adamant refusal. None of what had happened to him had knocked the earth out from under his feet, and he didn't intend to let it start now.
Someday, he would learn that intention counted for absolutely nothing in his life. Or at least, the lesson would stick, since it was certainly one that had been imparted to him several times already, and would be again today.
When two people spent long enough orbiting one another certain details embedded themselves, luminous and indelible against the background blur of the world. The smell of exhaustion, burnt low like blackened tea leaves, thick liquid sleep Hawke could coax out in slow trickling minutes. Lidded, sloe-eyed smiles no one else saw. The way a person's hands moved when he walked, an incline of the head, a flash of bright hair in the peripheral vision.
It was the last Hawke recognized, from the corner of his eye, although later if he thought about it he'd have put the rest down to--fate, maybe, even if the concept rubbed raw. Chance seemed too tenuous. His line of sight followed that familiar color up one far wall and along what he supposed was a stretch of ceiling, from where he was standing, Anders at a strange right angle from that perspective. For an instant everything else faded, even the constant murmurs of the others, and rushed back again in the lub-dub of his own heartbeat.
Some maneuvering was required to get from here to there, but it took less than that second for Hawke to start making the trip. Not his most graceful performance, but frankly anyone with criticism was welcome to navigate one of these staircases while wearing a staff taller than they were, and then they could talk. He didn't call out immediately, wanting to be within range that wasn't shouting distance first, and after what felt like an interminable, sloppily revolving eternity, found himself at the base of the stairs more or less directly over Anders' head.
Far from perfect, but it do for now. For now--another heartbeat passed with his throat sweltered shut, proving that just occasionally, he could still find himself without the facility for language he wielded like someone else would juggle. His tongue reasserted itself in the next second, though; there was probably some deeply filthy metaphor to be ascribed to its inability to stay down.
He'd think of it later. When he finally got his voice to cooperate it was, on the first two syllables, uncharacteristically soft (a memory, bounced like an echo: you're here--I wasn't sure you would come), "Anders." One corner of his mouth curled up like a ribbon, grin bright and errant. "I knew you'd get here."
And then, because he would never be anyone other than who he was, couldn't help the nigh-compulsory little kite-tail that followed. "But Maker's breath, it took you long enough."
... IT'S A MILLION WORDS LONG jfc
So far he'd passed the time with thoughtfully rendered commentary, for anyone who would listen. As a for instance: was there literally nowhere he could go that blood wouldn't be in places it shouldn't? Didn't anyone just leave it in bodies anymore?
In theory, there were more pressing matters to contend with: the undercurrent from Travelers more veteran than he that their circumstances were unusual, that it was entirely possible their unseen directors just had no cause to worry about hunger, and as such those meager concerns had slipped their minds. He could judge he'd had more experience with that particular sensation than most, and so was less bothered. Equal parts knowing the feeling and adamant refusal. None of what had happened to him had knocked the earth out from under his feet, and he didn't intend to let it start now.
Someday, he would learn that intention counted for absolutely nothing in his life. Or at least, the lesson would stick, since it was certainly one that had been imparted to him several times already, and would be again today.
When two people spent long enough orbiting one another certain details embedded themselves, luminous and indelible against the background blur of the world. The smell of exhaustion, burnt low like blackened tea leaves, thick liquid sleep Hawke could coax out in slow trickling minutes. Lidded, sloe-eyed smiles no one else saw. The way a person's hands moved when he walked, an incline of the head, a flash of bright hair in the peripheral vision.
It was the last Hawke recognized, from the corner of his eye, although later if he thought about it he'd have put the rest down to--fate, maybe, even if the concept rubbed raw. Chance seemed too tenuous. His line of sight followed that familiar color up one far wall and along what he supposed was a stretch of ceiling, from where he was standing, Anders at a strange right angle from that perspective. For an instant everything else faded, even the constant murmurs of the others, and rushed back again in the lub-dub of his own heartbeat.
Some maneuvering was required to get from here to there, but it took less than that second for Hawke to start making the trip. Not his most graceful performance, but frankly anyone with criticism was welcome to navigate one of these staircases while wearing a staff taller than they were, and then they could talk. He didn't call out immediately, wanting to be within range that wasn't shouting distance first, and after what felt like an interminable, sloppily revolving eternity, found himself at the base of the stairs more or less directly over Anders' head.
Far from perfect, but it do for now. For now--another heartbeat passed with his throat sweltered shut, proving that just occasionally, he could still find himself without the facility for language he wielded like someone else would juggle. His tongue reasserted itself in the next second, though; there was probably some deeply filthy metaphor to be ascribed to its inability to stay down.
He'd think of it later. When he finally got his voice to cooperate it was, on the first two syllables, uncharacteristically soft (a memory, bounced like an echo: you're here--I wasn't sure you would come), "Anders." One corner of his mouth curled up like a ribbon, grin bright and errant. "I knew you'd get here."
And then, because he would never be anyone other than who he was, couldn't help the nigh-compulsory little kite-tail that followed. "But Maker's breath, it took you long enough."