The result is comic, if rather lost on the participants: Hawke, who had the axe raised over her head prepatory to the next swing, starts so hard that the axe misses its stroke entirely, burying itself in the stump that serves her as a chopping block. The log she was intending to cut in half falls over from the impact; she actually loses her balance for a moment, catching herself on the stump.
So she's bent over the stump, holding it with both hands for support, as she looks up to see what she already knows she'll see. It's not entirely a surprise. Not just that part of her wanted to see him again, wanted him to find her someday, even though she made it as difficult as she could given the resources she had at the time. More that it always seemed inevitable. Anders was never one for letting loose ends stay loose. Or turn the analogy around: they've been inextricably tied together for years, never quite able to get free of each other even when they did try.
It's not as bad as the time in the Bucket. Neither of them is drunk, for one thing. Teo's not handy to act as an icebreaker--he's in the house--but Hawke has that bit of practice with unexpected Anders thanks to last time. The shock then was how much the same he looked. The shock this time is how different. Like one of the locals, or anyone from the Anderfels, any wanderer. Nothing screaming apostate in not-very-convincing-disguise, no notes with ask me about mages. He looks like anyone who's been on the road a long, long time.
"You know how it is with me," she returns as he draws nearer. "Always at least one thing that needs doing, and more usually four or five."
One other thing is different about her, if he notices. The restless uncertainty that never quite left her on-station is gone. She's startled by his sudden appearance, oh yes, and moved by it; there's no disguising that and she doesn't try. But the old determination is back, the internal compass point with a fixed direction. If there's wariness or discomposure at his appearance, or any other strong emotion too fleeting to identify, there's also an iron core underneath it. Hawke knows what she's doing, what she's done, what she intends to do. It's all there in her stance, for those who can read it. Which Anders always could.
She stands up and brushes her hands together to shake off the sawdust and sweat, waiting for him to approach. He came this far, after all. He can manage another few yards.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-01-22 01:45 am (UTC)So she's bent over the stump, holding it with both hands for support, as she looks up to see what she already knows she'll see. It's not entirely a surprise. Not just that part of her wanted to see him again, wanted him to find her someday, even though she made it as difficult as she could given the resources she had at the time. More that it always seemed inevitable. Anders was never one for letting loose ends stay loose. Or turn the analogy around: they've been inextricably tied together for years, never quite able to get free of each other even when they did try.
It's not as bad as the time in the Bucket. Neither of them is drunk, for one thing. Teo's not handy to act as an icebreaker--he's in the house--but Hawke has that bit of practice with unexpected Anders thanks to last time. The shock then was how much the same he looked. The shock this time is how different. Like one of the locals, or anyone from the Anderfels, any wanderer. Nothing screaming apostate in not-very-convincing-disguise, no notes with ask me about mages. He looks like anyone who's been on the road a long, long time.
"You know how it is with me," she returns as he draws nearer. "Always at least one thing that needs doing, and more usually four or five."
One other thing is different about her, if he notices. The restless uncertainty that never quite left her on-station is gone. She's startled by his sudden appearance, oh yes, and moved by it; there's no disguising that and she doesn't try. But the old determination is back, the internal compass point with a fixed direction. If there's wariness or discomposure at his appearance, or any other strong emotion too fleeting to identify, there's also an iron core underneath it. Hawke knows what she's doing, what she's done, what she intends to do. It's all there in her stance, for those who can read it. Which Anders always could.
She stands up and brushes her hands together to shake off the sawdust and sweat, waiting for him to approach. He came this far, after all. He can manage another few yards.