[Anders very wisely does not cut in with a barb about how miserable the very concept of infinite Fenrises is, but he thinks it. More than one? And by that logic, infinitely more His Royal Prickness of Starkhavens? More Avelines? Maker, he's going to bury himself in the sand.
But he doesn't interrupt. He listens, and besides sitting here on some impossible beach and looking at this Hawke who appears just different enough for his words to maybe make sense...
Maybe he could ease into understanding that. Maybe he could politely excuse himself and go be existential alone somewhere else, like the bottom of the ocean or the goddamned moon, but "the exalted Champion helped carry out the Right of Annulment." It hits like a blow, his entire body freezing up at just the words while the rest of what Hawke says fades into a dull buzzing. No, that isn't—
That wouldn't— Surely no Hawke could ever do that.]
Shocking.
[He croaks it out and finds that not only can he move again, but he's already shoved himself away, feet digging grooves in the sand. Confusion and terror and rage churn in him white hot and he really cannot do this right now, apparently.]
I should go. I need to— I have to go.
[And he moves to stand, because the options are get on his feet or be sick right now, and he doesn't want to upset his cat. Still, he has to know--]
no subject
But he doesn't interrupt. He listens, and besides sitting here on some impossible beach and looking at this Hawke who appears just different enough for his words to maybe make sense...
Maybe he could ease into understanding that. Maybe he could politely excuse himself and go be existential alone somewhere else, like the bottom of the ocean or the goddamned moon, but "the exalted Champion helped carry out the Right of Annulment." It hits like a blow, his entire body freezing up at just the words while the rest of what Hawke says fades into a dull buzzing. No, that isn't—
That wouldn't— Surely no Hawke could ever do that.]
Shocking.
[He croaks it out and finds that not only can he move again, but he's already shoved himself away, feet digging grooves in the sand. Confusion and terror and rage churn in him white hot and he really cannot do this right now, apparently.]
I should go. I need to— I have to go.
[And he moves to stand, because the options are get on his feet or be sick right now, and he doesn't want to upset his cat. Still, he has to know--]
How can you be sure? Did you go to the Gallows?