A tall order, but it gets Hawke out of bed. He showers (just to make certain all the blood is gone), dresses (long sleeves and well worn boots for comfort), and goes to see Amelia. They text Chris a photo as proof, lazing in the yard with his head in her lap and one hand on his lute as he holds the phone up, her face a bit blurry for moving and his smile genuine if diminished, still crinkling the corners of his eyes. He texts Chris a few more times over the course of the hours, mostly just to check in. Hearts or a wish goodnight that don't need responses. He's pleased if he gets one, but the contact is for himself. Just knowing Chris is there, reading the messages, is enough.
He sends a message in the morning, too. Early, especially compared to the day before. Going for a run. Let me know when you're free.
Physical activity feels good, the weight of his feet on the sand as he runs the length of the beach. It could never be mistaken for the Wounded Coast, overcast and misty as it always is, especially in the wee hours, and he's glad of it. Home is the last thing he wants to think about right now. If he never sees it again then... maybe that would be fine. A guilty and grim thought, but an honest one. He misses people, very specific people, but everything and everyone else? He'd been dreading going back to that. Waking up on the road to Weisshaupt with a sense of loss he'd have no name for. But he has no doubt he'd feel it. The heart remembers, even if the mind forgets. Though even that he fights, as the vial on a leather thong around his neck attests.
Attention turned inward, it takes Hawke a moment to notice the figure flying overhead, out past the beach and a little past the lone buoy that bobs aimlessly on the choppy pre-dawn surf. He stops running, panting and watching as Chris comes to a stop midair, drifts back almost as if floating in zero-g, and folds his wings in to fall.
Hawke expects him to unfurl them and swing back towards shore but a moment passes. Two. Three, and instead of an outstretch of pinions there's a cloud of feathers, leaving behind a falling silhouette. And then a splash.
Charging into the sea, Hawke doesn't even stop to take off his trainers. He just begins swimming frantically for where he'd seen Chris hit the water. His heart is in his throat as he kicks as hard and fast as he can, arms moving in alternating arcs until he gets far enough and dives. Thankfully, he doesn't have to dive far.
Eyes stinging, Hawke reaches out and grabs Chris' arm in a white-knuckled grip, pulling him up back towards the surface, back towards air, with a single mindedness only brought on by desperate fear. When they break back up into the pre-dawn light, Hawke clutches at Chris, half trying to keep him afloat and half trying to look at his face in a panic. "What happened?! Are you alright? Flames, are you hurt?"
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He sends a message in the morning, too. Early, especially compared to the day before. Going for a run. Let me know when you're free.
Physical activity feels good, the weight of his feet on the sand as he runs the length of the beach. It could never be mistaken for the Wounded Coast, overcast and misty as it always is, especially in the wee hours, and he's glad of it. Home is the last thing he wants to think about right now. If he never sees it again then... maybe that would be fine. A guilty and grim thought, but an honest one. He misses people, very specific people, but everything and everyone else? He'd been dreading going back to that. Waking up on the road to Weisshaupt with a sense of loss he'd have no name for. But he has no doubt he'd feel it. The heart remembers, even if the mind forgets. Though even that he fights, as the vial on a leather thong around his neck attests.
Attention turned inward, it takes Hawke a moment to notice the figure flying overhead, out past the beach and a little past the lone buoy that bobs aimlessly on the choppy pre-dawn surf. He stops running, panting and watching as Chris comes to a stop midair, drifts back almost as if floating in zero-g, and folds his wings in to fall.
Hawke expects him to unfurl them and swing back towards shore but a moment passes. Two. Three, and instead of an outstretch of pinions there's a cloud of feathers, leaving behind a falling silhouette. And then a splash.
Charging into the sea, Hawke doesn't even stop to take off his trainers. He just begins swimming frantically for where he'd seen Chris hit the water. His heart is in his throat as he kicks as hard and fast as he can, arms moving in alternating arcs until he gets far enough and dives. Thankfully, he doesn't have to dive far.
Eyes stinging, Hawke reaches out and grabs Chris' arm in a white-knuckled grip, pulling him up back towards the surface, back towards air, with a single mindedness only brought on by desperate fear. When they break back up into the pre-dawn light, Hawke clutches at Chris, half trying to keep him afloat and half trying to look at his face in a panic. "What happened?! Are you alright? Flames, are you hurt?"