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Date & Time: Not too long after Martin's kaffeeklatsch with Delphine
Characters:

Anders, and

Nathaniel Howe
Summary: Anders is made of tact
Warnings: ~~None? I dunno~~ eta: Gross stories about blood magic

Anders still isn't sure what to make of Delphine's sassy comeback to his very tactful questions. All he knows is that this woman is somehow after his mage bro. It can't be anything good she has in mind, her hatchet face suggests very strongly.

One time, a woman was following Anders all over the place, and the woman was actually a Templar (Ser Rylock, if anyone's keeping track), and she just kept on dragging him back to the Circle, and Anders just kept on escaping, until finally it all ended in tears. And blood, lots of blood. And awkwardness between the Wardens and the Chantry.

Right, so Anders has reason to be suspicious of humorless women in dogged pursuit of mages. That's setting aside his original Oghren-esque hypothesis, mind.

Whatever it is, he figures he'd better have a chat with Martin and let him know that this woman's looking for him, and also that he, Anders, has not ratted him out. Also, he's curious as to what really is going on.

He makes some more cereal squares just to sweeten Martin's disposition a bit before prying into the man's personal life. As Martin crunches into the marshmallowy, wheaty goodness of frosted-flake treats, Anders broaches a delicate subject.

"How long's the average lifespan in Tamriel?"

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Martin, meanwhile, doesn't think there's anything afoot, aside from the usual questions Anders has about Tamriel.

After meeting Delphine, he didn't bother re-reading her entry. They had their chat, she confirmed that, indeed, he is the Martin Septim, while he gained a variable he isn't sure he likes all that much.

It was nice, not having anyone kiss your arse. Like Anders, who makes him cereal squares that are delicious. Their usual song-and-dance of mage solidarity and friendship lulls him into a sense of comfort and security, which is he doesn't pick up on the question's implications, the reasoning behind it.

"Provided they have a good diet, plenty of exercise and no bandits on the roads to their home, a human tends to live sixty or so years. Elves, the mer races, a longer lived. Wood Elves and Dark Elves live around two-hundred years, while the Altmer can go for three-hundred." Martin takes another bite of his cereal square, chewing carefully, then swallowing. "Of course, you can always increase your life span through magic. Many powerful mages have done that."

All that mage solidarity and friendship is real! That's why Anders cares!

"Ahh. So, being a very powerful mage, you've extended your life over two hundred years?"

Two-hundred years? That's a rather specific figure to throw around, thinks Martin. "No, I haven't extended my life span, at all." As a matter of fact, he looks older than the early thirties he is. Youthful years filled with debaucherous orgies (the booze, drugs and sex type) are harsh on the body, crow's feet and hard lines on his face a constant reminder of his idiocy. "Why would I?"

Anders shrugs. "I wouldn't presume to guess the reason a man might do a thing like that. Oh, there are lots of reasons I could imagine, most of them ... fairly unimaginative, come to think of it. But you don't seem much of a hedonist, not so far as I've known you." He takes a cereal square himself. Warden appetites are prodigious.

At the mention of hedonism, Martin chokes on his food. His hand dives for the glass of milk in front of him, downing it in a single go. Once that's done, he sighs. "I'm sorry, there's..." No, that's not the right thing to say. No point in lying to Anders. "...I thought I could get away from my past. I was wrong."

It's fortunate Anders' mouth is so full of crunchy snackfood; thus is he prevented from shoving his foot therein. He only raises an eyebrow and tilts his head in that manner which should universally convey do go on.

Martin raises his shoulders, inhaling, then lowers his shoulders with a drawn-out exhale. "A woman showed up in the network, asking for me." He won't give out her name, considering her paranoid nature. "In my realm, there's a group of warriors known as the Blades. They are the Empire's intelligence, in charge of protecting the empire and its emperors, the Septims."

Martin looks down, not sure if he wants to continue. He's said enough. "She's a Blade."

Edited 2012-03-26 00:32 (UTC)

Having chomped down half a cereal square in one bite, Anders is poised to finish off the other half when Martin stops talking. "Right. I talked to her a bit. Didn't let on I knew you, but she wouldn't tell me much of use anyway. She did accuse me of having potatoes in my ears. Nice woman." Anders studies Martin's downcast face, what he can see of it past the shaggy fringe. "Er, as a friend, I felt concerned for you, that all. She's only fifty. That's a bit young for you, yes? And she's awfully determined to hunt you down."

Divines bless Anders' unwavering loyalty and ability to miss the obvious. Unable to stop himself, he starts chuckling, deeply amused. "I'm not in a relationship with her, Anders." Certainly nothing to warrant being hunted so zealous, aside from the obvious. "She's hunting me down because my surname is hard to miss, being the emperor's and all."

Anders only gives him a Look. "Yes, well, it would be funnier if she didn't look so very serious. Did you skive off being emperor?"

Edited 2012-03-26 00:49 (UTC)

This entire conversation is so entirely Anders that Martin's sides are hurting. The subject matter might be a grim reminder of a past he'd rather ignore for a bit, yet Anders' carefree attitude towards all of this makes divulging his past a lot easier. "Anders, I've never seen her in my life until now." A pause to grab and nip at another cereal square. As cheery as the mood is now, Martin can't help but lower his tone into something more serious, factual. "I've been dead two-hundred years in Tamriel." Ah, yes, the number is suddenly familiar! "Before I found myself in this realm, I died in a war."

A long silence.

Finally, Anders says: "She did say you were dead. I thought it had to be a figure of speech."

"I'm afraid not," says Martin, quirking a side of his lip. "There's...a lot that happened before I came here." He looks down once more, smiling sadly. "I've been so sure I'd end up in Aetherius, the realm of spirits and magic. That I would see my father, the rest of the family I never knew I was a part of."

The mage's brow furrows. "You know, I've vanquished a lot of reanimated corpses and arcane horrors. I can tell you're not one. It seems to me you should be one." Not for a moment does he entertain the idea that Martin might be lying. He knows the other mage too well for that — which is part of why all this comes as such a shock.

"I've fought enough zombies and skeletons to know I'm not one," he adds, not sure if he's being complimented, or... "But I'm glad I'm not! Besides, I didn't leave much of a body to return to," unless a gigantic dragon statue counts, "so perhaps this is my afterlife."

Anders reaches across the table and pokes him in the arm. Yes, solid. No, not rotting.

For a number of reasons, Anders knows they're not in the Fade. Most of those reasons have to do with Justice. He contemplates the abyss of metaphysical questions that suddenly yawns before him, and swiftly decides: that way lies madness.

"Who can say? Perhaps you never really died at all. However, if that woman thinks you're dead, what in the Void can she want from you?"

Martin just stares, so comfortable around Anders that the poking doesn't faze him.

"No, I died. I turned into..." This will sound insane. "...a dragon wreathed in flames, which consumed my body. What she wants to know if I'm the real Martin Septim." as opposed to what? Anders wouldn't know why his name is so damned famous. "I...died protecting my realm against the daedric prince of destruction, Mehrunes Dagon. I fought him as the Avatar of Akatosh, and I won."

Sometimes Anders turns into a blue fiery version of himself. He can't find fault with others' unlikely transformations.

The story is your standard hero-sacrifices-self-to-save-the-world. It does not necessarily call for skepticism. The same kind of thing happened in Ferelden within Anders' lifetime, not so long ago at that, the Hero of Ferelden sacrificing herself to defeat the Archdemon and end the Fifth Blight. Only in that case, the dragon hadn't been the hero, it had been the villain.

What do you say to someone after he's saved the world at the cost of his life? My deepest condolences?

"What would she do if you weren't the real Martin Septim? Give you a good scolding?"

Anders' passive acceptance of his strange destiny baffles and pleases Martin. Baffling, because even in his world the last Septim's Pyrrhic victory is hard to swallow, and pleasing because it means no arse-kissing. "Being a Blade, she'd probably become very upset I'm usurping the name of such a great legend." Make a big deal out of his disrespect for the last dragonborn emperor, certainly. Denounce him through the network, scream 'phony' whenever he passed by. The possibilities are endless.

Anders frowns and takes another cereal square. "But she's probably the only person here who even knows what that legend is, let alone cares."

"You're right. But now that she knows who I am, I doubt it'll be as simple as telling her to leave me alone." No, their chat won't be the end of it. She's a Blade, which means (if she so chooses, likely, very much so) she'll guard him with all her life. "If anything, it's likely I just gained a guard."

"Hm." Anders is chewing. He needs a moment to conclude the chewing process. "If that's all it is ... that doesn't sound so bad. Any mage can use a warrior or two about, and you wouldn't be worse off with someone to look after you."

He sees nothing wrong with grandma stalking Martin as long as her motives are pure!

Admirable, how unfazed his mage roommate acts despite being told he shares a flat with a dragon-possessed, technically dead emperor. "There are no assassins seeking the glory of ending a dynasty anywhere in this realm. She's wasting her time. Besides," a bit insulted, "I'm thirty-three. I can take care of myself."

Edited 2012-03-26 03:46 (UTC)

Given the things he's seen happen in Thedas, Anders really shouldn't hyperventilate over one dragon-possessed, technically dead emperor. Now, show him a blood mage, and he'll flip the fuck out, but that's just on principle.

"We don't know what this realm has got. I doubt the Masked are the last nasty surprise we'll be getting." Anders shakes his head. He's not even going to touch the last sentence Martin uttered.

"I doubt it too." As of now, Martin isn't thinking of the Masked, or the nasty surprises in store for them in this war.

Can't even die properly. Isn't sure whether to laugh, or cry. "I should be thankful for this second chance at life, yet...I was looking forward to a nice, long rest. And meeting my father."