"I… I guess I'm not even entirely sure how to begin this conversation," Anders muttered. "Maybe it was naive of me to assume that we would be picking up exactly where we left off. Not that I'm even entirely sure where we left off," he confessed. "And I can't imagine how strange all of this has been for you, and I'm certainly not making it easier, with… all… this…" He motioned toward himself with his free hand, and in that sweeping motion indicated himself, Justice, and the Blight.
"It's not that, Anders," Mahariel admitted.
"Then what?" he asked, deliberately keeping his voice soft. He didn't want to interrogate her, despite his longing for answers.
Mahariel tugged at her mouth, scratched her ear. She didn't know, and she told him so. In her head, she tried to divine it. It wasn't Fenris, as much as that was an easy excuse. It wasn't the time that they had spent apart; they'd been apart for almost a decade and had fallen back together as easily as they would have if they had let themselves the first time. But maybe Fenris had spoken truly. Maybe she felt responsible for Anders. Perhaps that was why now, after having spoken to him, spoken to Delia, she found herself growing closer to him again. She was helping undo the damage she felt she had done.
She squeezed her eyes shut. How horrible. How shallow. How meaningless.
"Mahariel?"
"I said -" she snapped, but then slowed down and paced her voice more gently; she was upset only with herself, "I said, I don't know, Anders. I want - I want…"
"Do you want me?"
"I want to want you."
Anders narrowed his eyes, but his expression was playful. "Well," he said slowly, "it's a start."
"I don't want to make you any promises Anders. But I can promise that I'll try."
"Whatever happens, happens?"
She nodded.
"That seems fair. I'll take it." He squeezed her hand in his. "Let me talk to Delia."