First Flight

[wolfehawke]

Adalwolfe Hawke's eye's snap open not to the metallic ceiling and dim artificial light of the Twin Roses but instead to a low burning sun. His mouth tastes like sand and his limbs feel heavy and cramped, as if he's been asleep for a very long time without moving. It puts him in mind of the weeks after his fight with the Arishok, confined to bed with little to do but sleep. Granted that's really all he could do for that first week, Anders somehow there every time he opened his eyes, even if it was only for a few moments. The others were there too sometimes, minus Isabela but including Fenris if his mind at the time hadn't conjured the ornery elf from nowhere, but Anders was a constant presence. Always mumbling a healing spell or just sitting. Once he'd caught the spirit healer asleep with his head near Wolfe's hand, careworn even in dreams. Adalwolfe had rested his palm against the side of his head and dozed once again.

He sits up, looking to each of his sides in turn, hoping that somehow Anders would be there at his side. He's not, of course. This isn't the drift fleet and Adalwolfe had put that together in the heavy, sand-covered moments after waking. His staff is here though, the enormous red spinel that comprises the Hawke's Key's focusing crystal glittering against the setting sun. It's reassuringly cold to the touch, confirming that it hadn't gone dormant in his long absence. Nearly a year by his count.

Or... not. No. That doesn't make sense if he's still here at the edge of the Western Approach. This is his meager campsite, one he'd put together at the height of the the sun's journey in order to conserve his energy and not have to walk under the infernal glare in armor and fur. He'd used his magic to surround the area with an awning of ice, a strange fixture in a desert but one that kept him cool and allowed him to rest. He'd dozed off, and then...

But he's back now, and the awning's melted away, so some time must have passed. Not a year, he surmises, otherwise his possessions would hardly still be here. Not only his staff but his pack too. Bedroll still laid out underneath him, rations, his father's journal, all of it a bit sandy as would be expected of desert travel but not buried or stolen as would be expected if he was gone for as long as he thought. Here too, though, is the pendant Anders had gifted him after he'd regained his memory in the fleet, a comforting weight against Adalwolfe's chest under his shirt. And here is Anders' feather that he'd stolen, one of three. Two he'd tied to the temporary staff he'd had crafted in the fleet but this one he'd tucked in his belt pouch, sentimental as he is. One simir feather with its iridescent sheen and hint of magical energy. A tiny bit of what Anders feels like to his senses. On his more fanciful days back in Kirkwall he'd considered dropping a large sum to replace the fur of his mantle with one made of the very same feathers but he'd never gotten around to that.

He doesn't have the luxury of mounting into freneticism at Anders' absence while he's alone and so he has to think logically. Yes, his love had been miraculously by his side in the fleet - whatever strange dream of the Fade that might have been or some otherwise fantastical out of body experience, he's not sure - but its entirely possible Anders is still there, separated from him by the entirety of the Void. It's also possible that this is part of his own hallucination that he's not certain he ever stopped having from his trip into the physical Fade. Ever since he second guesses when he lets himself think on it too long, wonders if everyone he meets isn't just a desire demon showing him something else he no longer can reach in the world of men. Somehow that seems less likely here, with sand inching its way into his boots as the wind picks up just a bit in the dying light of day.

The explanation he likes best is that Anders is just on his way. They'd been drawn from separate parts of Thedas, Anders still presumably safe in their little cottage until the letter Varric was to send immediately after Adamant. He'd have left at a different time, from a different place, and therefore would have been put back there if Hawke has any luck at all.

Sometimes he has to wonder about his luck. Being back at all isn't exactly a blessing.

With a grunt he finally gets to his feet, bracing himself with his staff as his joints click back to where they're supposed to be. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon now and thus marks, if not the best time for traveling, at least a better one that in the fullness of day. Adalwolfe packs his few belongings and scans his surroundings for the direction of the road; it has been a year and he has to remember where he left it.

There's really nothing for it but to complete his journey to Weisshaupt. He'd been heading there before the strange journey and there isn't much of a choice but to press on, whether time has passed or not. Someone has to tell the Wardens what happened, it might as well be him.

---

Morning sees him in greener surroundings, or at least soggier. As it turns out he hadn't been far from Nahashin Marshes, the outskirts of which play host to a small village of folk eeking out an existence where they can. The place is on stilts with wooden walkways connecting places people need to get to frequently and small boats for ferrying to less visited outskirts. Right in the middle is an inn. Someone probably thought they were being clever with naming it 'Frogswallop' but in what way Hawke couldn't begin to guess. He was just grateful to be out of the elements and have the chance for an ale and a bed that didn't fit in a roll on his back.

Even if its a lonely bed.

He's not recognizes when he slides his silver across the bar for room and board but he really didn't expect to be this far out from the Free Marches. He's notorious he knows, but the illustrations in Varric's book are symbolic rather than literal and so the chances of anyone knowing who he is on sight at slim. Still, he uses the name Garrett Amell to book his room, just in case. Its his little joke to himself, a nod to other versions of himself he's not even sure really existed. He would have used Marian but that would have gotten him weird looks.

He bides his time at the bar, putting off facing the prospect of once again going to sleep alone. He hates that. He'd rather take another run at the Bone Pit than sleep alone, but as the sun climbs higher and he starts to doze in his cups, he's not sure he can put it off much longer.

Comments

[apurrstate]

Anders wakes slowly, his senses seeming to come back to him one at a time. His mouth tasted dry like he hadn't drank in a while, his back ached from the thin bedroll doing a poor job of softening the unforgiving ground, but there was something soft on his chest that left a pleasant weight and for just a moment, he thought it might be Wolfe's head. The sound of purring reaching his ears told him that likely wasn't the case. He finally opened his eyes and his vision cleared to see the sleeping face of Pounce turned toward him, the cat's nose buried in his tail.

Anders took a moment to wake the cat with gentle strokes and scratches behind the ears as his mind finally caught up with everything as though he'd been sleeping an age. It was a familiar feeling, like when he woke from one of those comas on the Fleet...only he certainly wasn't on the fleet any longer, the lack of a comfortable bed beneath him and a warm body beside him could tell him that much.

Sitting up showed him the familiar sight of his 'campsite' nothing more than a small shelter at the base of a large rock to protect him should the weather turn for the worse. As it was, the lack of a fire had left a sharp chill in his bones as the sun hadn't even risen yet. Maker, it likely was barely even past midnight. But there was his pack and his staff within reach, the only thing out of place was the small orange cat now taking a moment to clean himself.

And yet, they were both out of place, weren't they? This was hardly the first time he'd come back to thedas since arriving in the Fleet, and yet this time he remembered. He remembered Marian and Riona...Riona who wasn't...but then maybe that was just it, there'd been another Warden in the fleet for a bit, hadn't there? And another Anders and another Hawke that wasn't even Marian or Wolfe, Riona was another Hero of Ferelden...he'd just somehow known and the young mage who'd once followed him around the Circle and then single handedly saved him, had simply fled his mind as though he'd never existed for Anders. Maker, what was he even to think of that?

But it hadn't simply been a dream, Pounce himself being there with Anders was proof enough, but the healer only had to look within to know the truth, Justice remained separated from him. But the fade was just within reach again, so perhaps, too, was his friend. It was too much to consider.

Anders got up and started packing, knowing sleep was too high an ideal at this point, no matter the hour, and started on the road north again, Pounce snugly asleep and warm on the inside of Anders' cloak, the hood pulled up over his head to hide from any possible notice and the late night cold. He'd been an hour on the road before his steps slowed to a halt and all the thoughts he'd been going over in his mind finally produced something he hadn't considered yet: What if Adalwolfe wasn't back?

The first time he'd left, Adalwolfe was ostensibly on the fleet the whole time Anders had been living through that ten year discrepancy between them, during that time, he'd been asleep in the clinic while also walking Thedas, what if something had gone wrong with his augment and the same thing was happening now, but he was aware of it? Aware of where he'd been and where he might one day wake back up in?

And what if Wolfe didn't? By all rights, Wolfe should still be heading to Weisshaupt as he'd been last Anders remembered, but was his Wolfe still in the stars having adventures? Was he sitting by Anders' prone body? Or was the reason Anders now remembered because he was truly back, kicked out of the Fleet for bad ratings or drama or something, but Adalwolfe wasn't? Would he still be heading to Weisshaupt?

Either way, did he even remember as Anders did? Maker, if he didn't...he was still Anders' Wolfe, he knew that logically, but something still ached in him to think their time together in the Fleet, the conversations and revelations they'd shared would be erased just like that.

Anders moved forward again, heading impossibly north to, likely, the last place Anders wanted to go. Whether Wolfe waited for him or not, whether he knew of their additional time together and how nearly perfect life had been in a different world, Anders needed to keep going. someone needed to tel the Wardens of what happened at Adament and if he met with Wolfe and his love didn't remember...well, he supposed it would just end up a secret he'd take to his grave. How in the name of Andraste would he explain anything anyway?

Although, how would he explain suddenly waking up without Spirit or Taint? He supposed he still had several hours to come up with something.

Anders didn't sleep the rest of the night and only managed a couple hours the next day when he'd come across a merchant with an ailing child, sick from eating something poisonous and on the brink of death. Anders healed the girl and half expected his reward to simply be a chance to leave without facing animosity since there weren't templars to call on mages anymore, instead, he was surprised when the merchant offered to take the healer some of the way north as his path went that way as well. Anders accepted and slept fitfully, his mind almost seeming to refuse to connect with the fade even once asleep. But it was better than nothing and when the merchant and his family stopped, Anders was much further ahead than he could have hoped to be by this time on foot.

He thanked the family and accepted only enough from them to feed to Pounce before heading off into the wilds again, this time with the sun just beginning it's path towards the horizon. It had been set a while by the time Anders' boots began to squish and squelch in a disturbingly familiar way.

'Beermarsh. Kitthenmarsh. Nope, still awful.' A tired smile strained on his face as the old conversation trickled through his mind. At least it wasn't the Blackmarsh again. No, if he remembered his old geography correctly, he was likely just stepping into the border of the Nahashin Marshes, either just inside or very near the border of the Anderfels.

He'd have to use a different name while in the Anderfels, 'Anders' was sure to get him some strange looks. It was a thought that barely processed as his boots hit solid wood instead of soggy marshland, it seemed a small town was making some sort of living out here, and once again all he could think of was the haunted Marsh where they'd first met Justice. At least this town seemed to be fairing better.

He debated on cutting through it and find some place to make camp off the road instead, but he could feel the cold and exaustion in his very core and even Pounce seemed road-weary between running about on the road himself and sleeping somewhere on Anders' person. Perhaps tonight he could splurge and settle at an inn for a night.

A flash of light and sharp crack of thunder peeled through the dark clouds that had snuck in at nightfall, the lights of the lanterns along the street revealed the rain that started to fall with increasing speed and severity only seconds after. It was certainly enough to make up Anders' mind for him; a soggy cat was not good company and catching cold on the road while alone seemed a poor idea.

---

The inn door finally latched with the help of another patron, the wind briefly ravishing the small tavern on the first floor. Anders muttered his thanks in Ander from under the cover of his hood to uphold the made up story in his head of being a simple traveler from his father's homeland. He suspected he was too far another for anyone to recognize him, but the Anders people were a very religious bunch and it was entirely possible the story of a man who was once a warden who blew up a Chantry had made it up here and stuck. It was likely better to be on the safe side.

He went to the man behind the counter and asked for a drink to warm him, a small cup of milk and a room. He'd just dug his coin purse out when Pounce decided to leap from inside his cloak to stand on the bar and indignantly dry himself off.

"You could have waited until we got into the room, at least." He muttered quietly to his companion."

[wolfehawke]

"We have the whole estate to ourselves..." Wolfe replies vaguely in his dreams, having heard Anders' mild chastisement through his subconscious and unwittingly incorporated it into the memory of long ago and far away. Balmy Kirkwall nights in summer when he'd dismissed the staff and foregone modesty. A time when just the two of them was a choice and not an imperative to keep everyone else safe.

He mumbles again, unintelligibly this time as he shifts against the hard wood of the chair beside the fire. He hadn't slept much or well on the road here, sand in too many places, and then boggy water to replace it. Or perhaps he'd just grown soft again sleeping in the fleet's bunks for too long. He remembered how difficult it was to get used to sleeping on the run post Kirkwall after so many years of feather pillows and Orlesian satin sheets. The fleet had hardly been as nice as all that, but it was still a far cry softer than trying to find comfort among rocks, roots, and uneven ground.

Someone clears their throat near his ear with the pointed urgency of a person who's been doing the same thing several times and waiting for their subject to notice and jolts Wolfe from his heavy doze. He looks blearily up from his slouch to see a broad woman with raven hair holding two swaddled children and looking at him with a high arch to one of her brows. He only has to blink at her stupidly once before remembering his manners and scrambling to his feet so she can take the chair by the fire. With the weather outside being what it is, fireside real estate is hard to come by and far be it from him to deny the needy even if he was there first.

Wolfe sighs, picks up his mug to take a draught and then sighs again in finding it empty. Really he should just stop putting off the inevitable and retire to his room, resign himself to another lonely night. He's tired enough that maybe he won't think too hard about his singularity until the morning. A third sigh is cut short as he turns and spots a ginger cat washing itself on down the bar daintily. It puts him in mind of Pounce and any hope of his avoiding that ache he's becoming all too familiar with vanishes like smoke in the wind. He smiles quietly to himself, a bittersweet little quirk, and turns to head up the stairs.

Then turns again and heads for the bar instead, sidling up so as not to startle the cat and pulls back his hood to ask if perhaps there are any smoked fish to be had for the little tabby. It doesn't even occur to him to look aside at the man the cat arrived with, only that anyone having just come off the road would be hungry, even a feline.

[apurrstate]

Anders gives the innkeep the name of Aiden easily enough, but his brain stutters when the burly man gives him a pointed and expecting look. Right. Last names. "Amell." He mutters in chagrined response. It was likely safer than 'Hawke' and Maker knew what, if any, weight his old family name held this close to the Anderfels. Better safe than sorry.

The mug and saucer were brought out to him just as someone to his left asked in a slightly sleep-worn but warm and achingly familiar voice about smoked fish. Anders slid the saucer to Pounce who eagerly began lapping at the cream. The soaked man took a drink himself, pleased at the warm and burning feeling sliding down his throat, before turning his face slightly in the unseen stranger's direction. It sounded like Wolfe, true, but there was no way it could be him, the chances were far too slim and Anders was positive his mind was simply making up the association and familiarity because his heart yearned for it.

When he spoke, it was once again in stilted and rusty Ander, colored by his normal Ferelden accent, to thank the man for his intent, but to urge him not to spoil Pounce too much. Smoked fish wasn't a luxury he could afford on the road once they'd left here. Anders' face was still mostly covered by the overly large and deep hood, but he hoped his words carried the sincerity of his tone over the low chatter of the inn.

But even as he had the thought, he sighed to himself and felt a sting of anxiety as he swept the hood back. It was wet, his hair was wet and he was far enough north he could probably risk being seen for a few moments while he attempted to dry off and warm up. He ran long fingers back through his hair ad caught the tie to pull it out as he went; the leater band needed a chance to dry too, after all.

As he brought his arm down again, something white and soft caught in the edge of his vision. It sent that deep ache of familiarity through him again and forced him to turn and look at the person. He hated himself for doing it, even as he looked over and his head tried to process the face there, he hated himself for doing it. The man looked like Wolfe, sounded like him, even had his cadence and Anders was convinced exhaustion had muddled his vision into seeing who he knew it couldn't be.

But he blinked and scrapped his hand across his eyes and the vision didn't change. The impossible man beside him was still there. His breath caught and he could barely muster enough of a voice to address the daydream. "Wolfe...?"

It most certainly couldn't be, there were too many factors, too many things would have to have gone right for this to actually be happening. It couldn't possibly be real.

Maker, let this be real.