Notably there are other parts of Hawke convinced he should be angrier about this; it's not like he got a choice coming here, after all. But the fact is that what he'd said to the Warden (...Neria, which is strange to say or think when for so long she'd been more symbol than person, especially to Fereldens) rings true: this circumstance, a rapid and compulsory impressing into the service of some faceless entity's idea of good works--well. It's exactly the kind of thing that happens to Hawke.
So here he is, as exhilarated by possibility as he is annoyed by the circumstances: hurtled into chaos he will, as always, fight. A wall at his back just means he has something to push off of.
In all the time he's known Anders, though--every ounce of energy he has has been devoted to one singular cause. Realization clips Hawke a sharp blow to the back of the head; Anders can't know how it ends. If he did there would be more than small differences; Hawke is more familiar than he wants to discuss with anyone how a person grieving looks. He remembers the difference between his brother and his mother; there were pieces ripped out of Carver he'd never get back, but Leandra--for weeks after she moved like she'd died with Bethany.
He can't see that yet, in Anders, when he studies him with all the indulgence 'how am I different' affords. "You look tired," he starts--dryly honest, this has always been true-- "More tired. If there's such a thing. I don't--"
How can he articulate this, how does he condense seven years into the kind of package one person hands another? "We looked out for each other," he decides, eventually, looking at his hands, "and you don't look like anyone's been doing that."
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So here he is, as exhilarated by possibility as he is annoyed by the circumstances: hurtled into chaos he will, as always, fight. A wall at his back just means he has something to push off of.
In all the time he's known Anders, though--every ounce of energy he has has been devoted to one singular cause. Realization clips Hawke a sharp blow to the back of the head; Anders can't know how it ends. If he did there would be more than small differences; Hawke is more familiar than he wants to discuss with anyone how a person grieving looks. He remembers the difference between his brother and his mother; there were pieces ripped out of Carver he'd never get back, but Leandra--for weeks after she moved like she'd died with Bethany.
He can't see that yet, in Anders, when he studies him with all the indulgence 'how am I different' affords. "You look tired," he starts--dryly honest, this has always been true-- "More tired. If there's such a thing. I don't--"
How can he articulate this, how does he condense seven years into the kind of package one person hands another? "We looked out for each other," he decides, eventually, looking at his hands, "and you don't look like anyone's been doing that."