Conversations With Dead People.
Nov. 1st, 2015 10:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fate_or_chanceHawke awakens to the sound of somebody rubbing sticks together.
He'd been exhausted when he'd rented out a room and collapsed into one of Milliways' beds, but now he's wide awake, sat up and alert, one hand reaching for his staff. But the figure hunched by the fire, rubbing sticks until he gets a spark, is a familiar one.
"You could just use magic," Hawke says, a little flatly.
Malcolm Hawke snorts. "Maybe I like spending hours rubbing sticks. Leandra always used to say I was exceptionally - ..."
"Please," Hawke says. "Spare me my Mother's thoughts on your rubbing talents. Come on, let's get this over with. You can offer me an easy life, I can refuse, you'll turn into a shambling pile of abstract shapes, I'll shoot lightning at you until you go away."
The older Hawke turns his head towards Hawke a little, raising an eyebrow. Hawke catches a glimpse of something neon. "Well, aren't you suspicious. Does this feel like the Fade to you?"
"Lately I'm starting to wonder if I'm at all able to tell," Hawke replies immediately. "It's been that kind of week."
Malcolm laughs. "I'm no demon. Or a spirit. You should be able to tell that, you always had a knack for the Fade."
"Much to your chagrin, as I recall."
Malcolm barely reacts, which Hawke knows is never a good sign. "Yes. In the best possible world, neither you nor Bethany would have been mages. You would have been lion tamers in the most decadent traveling circus in the world. I did suggest that to Leandra, but she said it was undignified. But the fact that neither of you ever set me on fire from sheer irritation is a testament to your self restraint, at least."
"I don't know how you did it," Hawke admits. "It's been three years and it hasn't become any easier.
"Finding a balance between making sure as few people know as possible, and making sure the ones who do don't think they can do without you. Hiding indoors for days whenever there are Templars passing through. Lying to people every day. I think Bethany thinks that if she goes to the Chantry often enough, the Maker will make her normal. I think Mother wishes she could be anywhere other than a tiny house in Lothering. Carver's always angry, and he hates me. He packed up and went to Ostagar to find glory stabbing darkspawn."
"It sounds like you haven't been doing too badly," Malcolm says. "None of you have been killed by Templars yet, after all. It's a low bar, but we have to start somewhere."
"It's no way for Bethany to live. She never asked to spend her life hiding. And Carver, Maker help him, never asked to spend his life lying and covering for us," Hawke snaps. "I don't know why Mother agreed to leave with you. Sometimes I wish she didn't."
"Garrett - ..."
"Maybe things would have been better at the Circle."
"Garrett," Malcolm said firmly. He turned his head entirely towards Hawke. Sat atop his thick black beard was a bright pink fake moustache. "I've been wearing this for the entire conversation and you haven't commented on it once. I am extremely offended."
Hawke bites back a short laugh despite himself and, apparently satisfied, Malcolm peels off the moustache, wincing a little.
"I am proud of you. All three of you," Malcolm says. "Stay strong. Don't let Carver get eaten by an ogre. Try to stop Bethany from becoming a Chantry initiate."
There's a spark from the twigs, but by the time it's blossomed into a fire, Malcolm is gone.
He'd been exhausted when he'd rented out a room and collapsed into one of Milliways' beds, but now he's wide awake, sat up and alert, one hand reaching for his staff. But the figure hunched by the fire, rubbing sticks until he gets a spark, is a familiar one.
"You could just use magic," Hawke says, a little flatly.
Malcolm Hawke snorts. "Maybe I like spending hours rubbing sticks. Leandra always used to say I was exceptionally - ..."
"Please," Hawke says. "Spare me my Mother's thoughts on your rubbing talents. Come on, let's get this over with. You can offer me an easy life, I can refuse, you'll turn into a shambling pile of abstract shapes, I'll shoot lightning at you until you go away."
The older Hawke turns his head towards Hawke a little, raising an eyebrow. Hawke catches a glimpse of something neon. "Well, aren't you suspicious. Does this feel like the Fade to you?"
"Lately I'm starting to wonder if I'm at all able to tell," Hawke replies immediately. "It's been that kind of week."
Malcolm laughs. "I'm no demon. Or a spirit. You should be able to tell that, you always had a knack for the Fade."
"Much to your chagrin, as I recall."
Malcolm barely reacts, which Hawke knows is never a good sign. "Yes. In the best possible world, neither you nor Bethany would have been mages. You would have been lion tamers in the most decadent traveling circus in the world. I did suggest that to Leandra, but she said it was undignified. But the fact that neither of you ever set me on fire from sheer irritation is a testament to your self restraint, at least."
"I don't know how you did it," Hawke admits. "It's been three years and it hasn't become any easier.
"Finding a balance between making sure as few people know as possible, and making sure the ones who do don't think they can do without you. Hiding indoors for days whenever there are Templars passing through. Lying to people every day. I think Bethany thinks that if she goes to the Chantry often enough, the Maker will make her normal. I think Mother wishes she could be anywhere other than a tiny house in Lothering. Carver's always angry, and he hates me. He packed up and went to Ostagar to find glory stabbing darkspawn."
"It sounds like you haven't been doing too badly," Malcolm says. "None of you have been killed by Templars yet, after all. It's a low bar, but we have to start somewhere."
"It's no way for Bethany to live. She never asked to spend her life hiding. And Carver, Maker help him, never asked to spend his life lying and covering for us," Hawke snaps. "I don't know why Mother agreed to leave with you. Sometimes I wish she didn't."
"Garrett - ..."
"Maybe things would have been better at the Circle."
"Garrett," Malcolm said firmly. He turned his head entirely towards Hawke. Sat atop his thick black beard was a bright pink fake moustache. "I've been wearing this for the entire conversation and you haven't commented on it once. I am extremely offended."
Hawke bites back a short laugh despite himself and, apparently satisfied, Malcolm peels off the moustache, wincing a little.
"I am proud of you. All three of you," Malcolm says. "Stay strong. Don't let Carver get eaten by an ogre. Try to stop Bethany from becoming a Chantry initiate."
There's a spark from the twigs, but by the time it's blossomed into a fire, Malcolm is gone.
