Odd, how the Fade seems so much more foreboding now than it had a scant few minutes ago. Sometimes he forgets just how powerful loss can be, the way it knocks the entire world off its axis. He feels dizzy, as though the earth has literally shifted beneath his feet, but he knows it’s just in his head.
Emmrich’s consideration is touching; honestly, Hawke isn’t sure whether he deserves it. He flashes a watery smile, desperate to convince the other man (and himself) that he isn’t about to fall apart. The ground lurches again, dangerously close, and he’s forced to admit to himself that perhaps the shock and fatigue are taking their toll. He lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the sandy swell of the riverbank. “Sit with me a moment?”
“You’re putting yourself in danger by visiting me here,” he continues, gaze sweeping aimlessly over the pebbles that litter the water’s edge. Among them are small fossils of odd-looking shelled creatures. Funny, he thinks, how life once flourished even here. “I won’t disrespect the risk you’re taking by sitting here and crying into your apron. I just… need a minute or two.”
Or five, or ten. His vision blurs once again, and he desperately searches for something, anything to focus his numb, dizzying grief into something useful. “Solas. You said Solas killed him.” Hawke saw little of the elf during his brief collusion with the Inquisition. From what he remembers, Solas was a soft-spoken, intelligent man who largely kept to himself, which probably had something to do with the fact that he was an apostate living among a bunch of Chantry zealots. At the time, Hawke sympathized. Now? He could throttle the bastard with his own hands.
“Surely he’s not really an elven god. That’s…” Impossible, he wants to say. Nothing he’s ever seen in his thirty-odd years has ever given him the slightest faith in the existence of any higher power, Andrastian, elven, or otherwise. But when seemingly impossible things keep smacking one square in the face, there comes a time to reconsider one’s beliefs. “...Fucked up. How do we stop him?”
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Emmrich’s consideration is touching; honestly, Hawke isn’t sure whether he deserves it. He flashes a watery smile, desperate to convince the other man (and himself) that he isn’t about to fall apart. The ground lurches again, dangerously close, and he’s forced to admit to himself that perhaps the shock and fatigue are taking their toll. He lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the sandy swell of the riverbank. “Sit with me a moment?”
“You’re putting yourself in danger by visiting me here,” he continues, gaze sweeping aimlessly over the pebbles that litter the water’s edge. Among them are small fossils of odd-looking shelled creatures. Funny, he thinks, how life once flourished even here. “I won’t disrespect the risk you’re taking by sitting here and crying into your apron. I just… need a minute or two.”
Or five, or ten. His vision blurs once again, and he desperately searches for something, anything to focus his numb, dizzying grief into something useful. “Solas. You said Solas killed him.” Hawke saw little of the elf during his brief collusion with the Inquisition. From what he remembers, Solas was a soft-spoken, intelligent man who largely kept to himself, which probably had something to do with the fact that he was an apostate living among a bunch of Chantry zealots. At the time, Hawke sympathized. Now? He could throttle the bastard with his own hands.
“Surely he’s not really an elven god. That’s…” Impossible, he wants to say. Nothing he’s ever seen in his thirty-odd years has ever given him the slightest faith in the existence of any higher power, Andrastian, elven, or otherwise. But when seemingly impossible things keep smacking one square in the face, there comes a time to reconsider one’s beliefs. “...Fucked up. How do we stop him?”