Anders (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onetrackminds) wrote2013-05-16 02:18 am
onetrackminds) wrote2013-05-16 02:18 am
(no subject)
[To say he was tired was an understatement; he felt like the energy had been sucked out of him, like someone had deliberately gone through every part of his body until they were sure there was nothing else. And he felt like he was still being sapped dry. He'd cast more spells today than he had since defending the Keep, and that time he'd had thick walls and further allies to rely on. This time he had barely had enough lyrium potions; and he'd still drunk too many, but the dangers be damned. After what had happened, he could give nothing less than everything, and he still owed so much more.
And yet, he was wired, on edge. The others were busy setting camp - they had finally found what looked to be a safe place, after fleeing Kirkwall - and for a change, no one was saying much. They must be as exhausted as he was, he realised. They glanced at him, occasionally, though he avoided looking back. Instead, he spread out a bedroll for himself, and then sat down, staring at the ground.
He knew he shouldn't be there, and he knew they didn't want him.
He also knew that once Hawke had made up his mind, there was no arguing. And he didn't have it in him, either; he never had. But he couldn't - couldn't face this. Them. Anything.
There was literally no fight left in him, and for a moment the old Anders was back, the one who just wanted to flee.
He rubbed at his face, then reached for his pack. It was nearly empty.]
I'll gather some herbs.
[It was an excuse, but a good one. They were all hurt, and he had nothing left for another healing spell, and all their bandages were used up. They couldn't risk any infections setting in. And he owed them that much, didn't he?
Not that he expected a response, or any acknowledgment, or an objection if he left without a word. He pulled himself to his feet, using his staff as support, and made his way towards the trees. It had been an excuse, but he should do this. They might not be his friends (he might not even like them), but--
But they deserved better. Maker, he'd made a mess of things.]
And yet, he was wired, on edge. The others were busy setting camp - they had finally found what looked to be a safe place, after fleeing Kirkwall - and for a change, no one was saying much. They must be as exhausted as he was, he realised. They glanced at him, occasionally, though he avoided looking back. Instead, he spread out a bedroll for himself, and then sat down, staring at the ground.
He knew he shouldn't be there, and he knew they didn't want him.
He also knew that once Hawke had made up his mind, there was no arguing. And he didn't have it in him, either; he never had. But he couldn't - couldn't face this. Them. Anything.
There was literally no fight left in him, and for a moment the old Anders was back, the one who just wanted to flee.
He rubbed at his face, then reached for his pack. It was nearly empty.]
I'll gather some herbs.
[It was an excuse, but a good one. They were all hurt, and he had nothing left for another healing spell, and all their bandages were used up. They couldn't risk any infections setting in. And he owed them that much, didn't he?
Not that he expected a response, or any acknowledgment, or an objection if he left without a word. He pulled himself to his feet, using his staff as support, and made his way towards the trees. It had been an excuse, but he should do this. They might not be his friends (he might not even like them), but--
But they deserved better. Maker, he'd made a mess of things.]