001.

[ofkirkwall]

Who: Marian Hawke & you.
Broadcast: Fleet wide
Action: MARSIVA, aww yeah.
When: Now, until shuffle.



[ Maker's balls it is cold.

Waking up in strange places isn't so unusual in Marian's Hawke's life, she's fairly to it by now, so she barely bats a sleepy eye when she rolls over and curls in on herself. Half mumbled words tumbling from her lips in a incoherently mess, fingers curling around whatever they can grasp in a desperate attempt to conserve heat. This continues for a good few moments until the woman manages to roll straight onto the cold metal floor. ]

─Aahh! [ There is no better way of waking someone up than a quick drop onto a cold floor - well... a bucket of water would have done as well, but thankfully there are no buckets to be seen.

It has her awake, alert as someone still gluggy with sleep can be, mope of black hair strewn about this way and that. Heart thundering in her chest a hand raises to rub the sleep from her eyes, jaw lock in evident irritation. ] Stupid Wardens, how is anyone supposed to sleep in a cot so small... [ The realization comes slow, the metal walls of the ship close enough to blurred vision to make her think she's still in Weisshaupt waiting for old men to pull their collective sticks from their asses. ] Never thought I'd miss camping out in caves─Hello...

[ Ah, there it is, that little light bulb that flicks on and says "This isn't Weisshaupt, Toto" - or it would if Hawke had any any who or what Toto was. Regardless she inhales sharp and reaches for her staff, smooth wood a comfort as she uses it to stands herself up. ]

I see we've gone to the Grey Wardens school of decor. [ A bit boring she has to say, rather bland. No dirt, no drunkard puking his guts out in the corner, no wet dog smell. Frankly it is kind of disappointing.

Once her bearings are gather it takes Hawke all of a few moments to start snooping, trying to find something - anything - to tell her where exactly she's managed to find herself now. Eventually her combings finds her a device, odd little thing that she promptly starts playing with legs across upon the very bench she woke up on. A few hours of poking has her come to a few conclusions, one; this thing is weird, two; she can swear she has seen something like this before, and three; she can talk to people on it. At least she thinks she can.

A wild guess as her flick the feed on, though the camera is at a slight angle, all smiles and more than obvious bed hair. You'd almost have no idea that she is perhaps a little rattled by all of this with the way she looks. ]

Good morning, or is it afternoon? Honestly I have no bloody idea, I tried to fun the sun but it seems that I have misplaced that alongside of almost everything else. No matter, I'm sure it'll all turn up somehow.

I'm Hawke, by the way - best to get introductions out of the way early - and I have two very important questions to ask you... [ Trailing off the screws up her nose slightly before shaking her head. ] Is there a bar nearby and how can I get there?

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[ofkirkwall]

[ Varric and Fenris are one thing, people she adores, people she misses with each staggering beat of her heart. She can deal with them, keep the cheer and painfully Hawke mannerisms in place without so much as batting and eyelid. Been doing it for years, after all, she's something of an expert at it now.

But Anders? It breaks, all of it, the smile and the cheer and the humor. Every piece of defense she has crumbles before he opens his mouth, before he starts speaking and she has to acknowledge he is actually there. Living and breathing.

She thinks of running, entertains the idea of switching off the device, it'd be easier wouldn't it? Ignore him, ignore the pain of how her heart broke amongst Kirkwall as it burned. But it's too late for that. Forces herself to breathe instead, unseen hand curling into a tight fist. ]

Isn't that kind of you.

[ It's impossible, she can't do this. Can't smile as if nothing had happened. Can't hate him but can't forgive him either. ]

[unconfines]

[He's had enough of these conversations already that he can usually tell within a few moments how they're going to go.

Not one of the few decent ones, then. (To be fair, he's never really had any good conversations like this.) Less like Fenris or Cullen had been, and more like Aveline or Varric at the beginning. Anger, but the muted kind, the painful kind, the stuff of loss and disappointment.

He's used to it.

This time it hurts, though. More than he expects it to. He watches the good humor shatter on her face, and his stomach twists until it feels wrung out and torn. He doesn't know why. Maybe it was easier to tolerate from the others because he never knew them in the first place, hadn't really thought of them as friends the way he had Hawke. Maybe he had certain expectations about how she would react, in which case: he should know better. He knows all about what it's like to be expected to be someone else.

There's a brief, hysterical moment where he misses Hawke, his Hawke, so much his whole chest aches with it. The pathetic irony of that in no way escapes him.]

Ooh, chilly. [His act he can keep up, though, even if it fractures in places: his chin lifts, somehow defensive and aggressive at the same time, and his smile dims only behind his eyes. For all that he's trying to be better, the keyword there is still trying.] We'll just skip the welcome drink, then, shall we? Go straight to the first twenty questions? Anders-but-not-as-you-knew-him, blah blah blah?

[ofkirkwall]

[ There is a difference, she can see it in his face and the tone of his voice. Not the mention the considerable lack of feather's amongst his attire. But she can see it, past the face of a man she adored like family, who she once laughed and joked with, who all but thrust a knife into her heart and twisted it. She wishes for that bar more now than she did before, for the drunken haze that saw her through the months and years after her mother's death. That part of her life where she stopped caring, stopped trying, stopped living.

Somehow she manages to laugh, the sound worn like leather than has been stretched too far, dried up paper ready to crumble at a moment's notice. Oh, he is making jokes! If she didn't realize it before she certainly does now. The Anders she knows stopped making jokes towards the end, he became glum and serious and dark. ]

No, no, no, I want that drink don't think you can ferret your way out of giving me that drink. [ By Andraste she is going to need it. ] But we don't need to do the questions. You still dress in colors, not in the dark shades of the dark brooding mages club.

[ Rationally she knows, rationally she can see it. Face looks younger, not as gaunt as Anders got in the end, not is stiff in places. She knows and yet the hurt remains. Bitter sting of betrayal and heartbreak and the inability to decide if she wants to hug him or punch him. ]

[unconfines]

[He hates that sound, the ragged, painful laugh, hates that he recognizes it despite the change of pitch and tone, hates that he'd ever be the source of it. He feels confusingly caught between two responses: wanting to smooth over the hurt, wanting her to think well of him, and wanting to brush her off, defend himself from the weight of her memories.]

Are those the only answers you need? "Less depressing, better fashion sense"? Maker, that one was easy. I could get used to this!

You'll have to wait for your drinks, anyhow, the welcome wagon on the Marsiva is embarrassingly sub-par. Gets better, though! There's confetti and little puddings and everything.

[The truth is, he'll do his level best to ferret his way out of anything remotely resembling in-person interaction, the inclusion of alcohol notwithstanding. It took a large amount of effort to not shy away from responding here in the first place, and at this point he's still not convinced that running away from it wouldn't have been the better course of action.]

[ofkirkwall]

I've danced the not-as-your-remember-them dance before, though it was more a just-like-you-remember-them-but-they-don't-remember-you-because-to-them-you-are-a-man sort of dance.

[ Not going to name any names or points any fingers and in truth much of Hawke doesn't want to deal with him now, can't bring herself to deal with him now. It's been years, the wound still feels raw and festering, left opened to the brutal elements of the world. A weakness to easily exploit. ]

I have never been much of a patient woman, Anders. [ She flinches without realizing, the sound of his name of her lips like a sharp blow. ] You could ask Carver, were he around, he has a good few stories to tell.

[unconfines]

Well! Suppose that puts us on an even field, then, doesn't it? As much as one can be with all this timeline nonsense, anyway.

[The Hawke he's looking for is not her, and the Anders she remembers is not him. He doesn't equate the two of them in his mind, the same way he shies away from equating himself to the future-him whose personality he hasn't ever been able to precisely pin down. Too many conflicting perspectives.

(What he's still working on accepting is that the future-him's personality is, in fact, his personality, just with weight in different places.)

It's a gulf, regardless. He wants to cross it and doesn't at the same time.]

Flattered that you think I could do anything about that particular delay, though. You could try writing a strongly-worded letter! They must have a suggestion box lying around there somewhere.

[ofkirkwall]

[ It's an uncomfortable feeling, the want to curl in on herself, but as he continues to speak and the conversation progresses she feels it more and more. She shifts without realizing it, making herself smaller upon her resting space but loose enough to spring away at a moment's notice. It's habit now, since Chantry, since they were all but chased out of Kirkwall - a habit that has only gotten worse.

Not that she can run from this, from him, now that she knows he is here. She has more chance of running from her own nightmares.

Difficult as it is she still attempts some level of normalcy, Hawke's version of normalcy, that comes up flat rather than anything else. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, her tone duller than it should be, even her laugh makes no improvement. ]

"To my mysterious and illustrious hosts,

it is with a heavy heart I must inform you that the facilities upon this mighty vessel are sincerely lacking. The decor is as about as interesting as a orge scratching his ass, and equally as blinding. For the sake of my ever fragile sanity and the betterment of my fellow passengers, please invest in a bar post haste. Or I shall be forced to start scorching drawings of Meredith's ass all over the walls.

Sincerely, Hawke."

[unconfines]

[He notices. He's hyperaware of all her body language, every glance and every flinch, and to be perfectly honest any Hawke without their spark is just, well. It's not something he likes to see.

He pretends he doesn't notice, and snaps his fingers instead.]

There you are! Now who could say no to a bid like that, hm?

[beat]

Well, it's more likely that they'll just ignore it completely, to be perfectly honest. But they say effort is its own reward, yes? Somebody, anyway. [his smile broadens, bright and brittle] Certainly not me.

[ofkirkwall]

[ How pathetic they must both look, with their pretending and attempts at a normal conversation. Ignoring the burning nuggalope in the room - or is it the burning city and the carter where the Chantry once stood. As if either of them could will things better, could smooth over the hurts and breach the cavernous distance between them.

Hawke scoffs. ]

I've heard wiser things come out of Sandal's mouth. Which isn't much, let me tell you, the boy is only good for simple sentences and "Enchantment", Maker bless his dwarven heart. [ Oh, now she is missing Sandal and Bodhan. What are you doing these days, she wonders? ] Besides all that effort is as about rewarding as listening to Meredith rant about blood mages for an hour. Ironic, really, now that I think about it.

[ Considering who she was standing before. ]

[unconfines]

[He's looked pathetic and foolish for most of his life. For all his experience, he's decided he much prefers that to the alternative, which he's fairly certain is being boxed out of her life entirely, in this case. Normally he's fine with that. This time he isn't.

The reality is, he doesn't actually know that many details about Kirkwall (he would, for example, still be bamboozled by the title "Champion," even after a spring and a summer spent sleeping with The Man Himself). For a long time the only person who had been present in Kirkwall during those years even remotely willing to talk to him about it was Hawke, and between the two of them navigating that topic had been— complicated.]

You're going to have to be more specific, you've just described [he pretends to think about it, counts on his fingers] oh, just about everyone I've ever met in my entire life, I think. Save for the blood mages, of course. But I hardly think they count, do you?

[ofkirkwall]

[ Complicated, it seems, is what her life has become. Long strings of complications, some not as bad as others but complications nevertheless.

Anders? Well, he just happens to be one the largest complications of them all. It's probably idiotic of her to want to keep him close by despite how he had hurt her, hurt them all, but Hawke has lost so many people over the years. Her sister, her mother, her brother both to the Blight and the Wardens. Losing one more? Even one she should rightly never want to see again? Maker, she just can't bare it.

So she chooses the more difficult route instead; a path covered in glass and eggshells. ]

I'm glad the only person I had to listen to was my mother. She was always scolding me for using magic inside the house, or sneaking the twins out late at night to go somewhere fun. [ Father didn't mind, he would grin and solve the problem with his sharp wit. ] Suppose they don't. [ Says the former blood mage. ]

[unconfines]

[One thing that never really goes away is that twinge of jealousy he feels any time Hawke (any Hawke) talks about their family. On the whole, he's glad too. Any mage outside the Circle is better than that same mage in it. But that doesn't stop the pinch of pettiness behind his sternum.

He smiles anyway.]

You'd think that magic inside would be more acceptable than outside. [A hum, idle.] Until you turn the drapes into ice sculptures, I suppose, hard to explain that one away.

[ofkirkwall]

[ Better, perhaps, but not perfect. At least mages in the Circle didn't have to run every time the Templar's got too close, at least they were able to practice magic without fear of someone seeing it. At least they had a roof over their heads, even if it was only apart of their iron barred cage.

And with how her family turned out... Hawke wouldn't suggest being jealous of them. Not in the slightest. ]

Not in my house, Mother always knew when I used it. That might have been because of the stupid grins Father and I would wear afterwards.

[ It aches, Maker how it aches. Her stomach twists, a sad glitter finding the corners of her eyes, but she keeps on smiling, keeps on acting as though it is easy to speak of them. ]