[They leave. It's as simple as that. It's the third Circle he's seen from the inside, and the third he's walked away from; an impossible feat for any mage, to be certain. Though maybe not as much anymore.
He feels as exhilarated and terrified as he did when he was thirteen and sliding down from one of the Circle's tall windows for the first time, open sky and shifting horizon and the heady promise of freedom right in front of him. The instinct to bolt is strong, and comes as soon as he feels salty wind on his face. He knows the term Inquisition from old Chantry texts, knows their origins and misplaces their resurgence—he has no interest in a revival of that organization, and no trust in the people who work for it.
He has Varric's letter tucked away, the vellum already crinkled from nervous hands folding it up and spreading it back out again. It bothers him that both Varric and Hawke seem to have thrown their lots in with this new Inquisition, but more than that, he dreads having to look Hawke in the face again. She should have killed him the first time, should have left him to rot the second. He doesn't know how much of him is left to meet her anger.
Perhaps it's Fenris they came to retrieve, and Anders they came to pass judgment on. That would be all right, he thinks. Anders sticks to him like a shadow during their entire flight from the city, always circling back, never far enough away that they couldn't reach out to grab each other.
The first safehouse is on the outskirts of Antiva City, and it's late in the night before they reach it. It's a ramshackle thing, by anyone's standards—except maybe for theirs, after so long spent in the cold and filth. There's food and clothing and water—for drinking and bathing both. It's magnificent and overwhelming, for all its simplicity.
(He shaves in a clouded mirror over a bowl of water, and his hands shake so badly the first time he sets the blade against his throat that he has to set it aside before he can try again.)
In the end, he is damp and clean, dressed and fed. It's a strange, foreign sensation, after he'd accepted so long ago that he wouldn't taste freedom this way again, that his life was going to end with the templars, the way it was always supposed to. He feels disconnected from himself. He wonders if that will go away with time.
But first things first: he's exhausted. There is nothing he'd like more than to sleep, and they'll need it, with the journey they have laid out in front of them. But he hovers regardless, hip braced against the footboard of one bed while he eyes the rough-hewn sheets of the other.
There are two. Another small luxury afforded by the Inquisition.]
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branchandroot
swoons
Date: 2015-02-25 04:57 am (UTC)He feels as exhilarated and terrified as he did when he was thirteen and sliding down from one of the Circle's tall windows for the first time, open sky and shifting horizon and the heady promise of freedom right in front of him. The instinct to bolt is strong, and comes as soon as he feels salty wind on his face. He knows the term Inquisition from old Chantry texts, knows their origins and misplaces their resurgence—he has no interest in a revival of that organization, and no trust in the people who work for it.
He has Varric's letter tucked away, the vellum already crinkled from nervous hands folding it up and spreading it back out again. It bothers him that both Varric and Hawke seem to have thrown their lots in with this new Inquisition, but more than that, he dreads having to look Hawke in the face again. She should have killed him the first time, should have left him to rot the second. He doesn't know how much of him is left to meet her anger.
Perhaps it's Fenris they came to retrieve, and Anders they came to pass judgment on. That would be all right, he thinks. Anders sticks to him like a shadow during their entire flight from the city, always circling back, never far enough away that they couldn't reach out to grab each other.
The first safehouse is on the outskirts of Antiva City, and it's late in the night before they reach it. It's a ramshackle thing, by anyone's standards—except maybe for theirs, after so long spent in the cold and filth. There's food and clothing and water—for drinking and bathing both. It's magnificent and overwhelming, for all its simplicity.
(He shaves in a clouded mirror over a bowl of water, and his hands shake so badly the first time he sets the blade against his throat that he has to set it aside before he can try again.)
In the end, he is damp and clean, dressed and fed. It's a strange, foreign sensation, after he'd accepted so long ago that he wouldn't taste freedom this way again, that his life was going to end with the templars, the way it was always supposed to. He feels disconnected from himself. He wonders if that will go away with time.
But first things first: he's exhausted. There is nothing he'd like more than to sleep, and they'll need it, with the journey they have laid out in front of them. But he hovers regardless, hip braced against the footboard of one bed while he eyes the rough-hewn sheets of the other.
There are two. Another small luxury afforded by the Inquisition.]