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He abandons the Fade and does not dream for fear of losing himself completely, but, for a time, when Anders closes his weary eyes and hovers at the edge of sleep, he cannot help but see Karl's face, darkly silhouetted by the storm of sparks and shadows that never cease to plague his rest. It is an image recalled from the depths of his own frayed memories, he knows, though for once he wishes that it truly was just a terrible lie, a ruse, an illusion born of some demonically-twisted manipulation of his fear rather than the harshness of cruel reality, a reality where Karl's dull and soulless eyes effortlessly drill yet another black, empty hole into his heart, immediately filling it to overflowing with fear and guilt and shame before Anders can blink or think or offer anything at all beyond empty apologies and broken regret.
The shadows do precious little to hide his view of the angry sunburst brand on Karl's forehead, a mark that proves his terrible failure, a mark that screams a silent accusation inside Anders' head that he cannot block out, a mark that glows like a beacon in the darkness, a beacon that shines even more brightly as one final burst of life and light and love disappears from Karl's eyes, as one last frightened, impassioned, desperate plea dies on his lips, ripped from existence in just the few moments' time it takes Anders to draw a half-dozen short, panicked breaths into his lungs, and let them out again.
Anders has no excuse, no defense against the condemnation, silently offering the same scant resistance that Karl offers him. A sharp flash and piercing bloom quickly spread through his chest even though it is Karl's flesh that gives way beneath the point of his knife, and even hearing Karl's pleas for death echoing sadly in his ears serves only to push the invisible wound deeper, rather than lessen the pain.
His lungs are filled to bursting as Karl breathes his last, not just this once but again and again, night after night until he no longer even tries to fight it, until he welcomes it as a reminder, not only of his own failures and limitations and of the templars' corruption and cruelty, but as evidence of the giant tug-of-war into which he has placed not only himself, but the lives of everyone in Thedas--all for the sake of life, love, and liberty.
That had been the intent, at least.
He was not in love with Karl; It had never been romance between them, only kinship and understanding, and yet, in some ways, Anders felt that in the end, that fact only made the loss that much greater. He had known for long enough that love and romance were things best not even considered for someone like him, but he had been young and foolish and still a little hopeful, and meeting Karl had made him believe he had finally found something that the templars could not take away, that as long as he kept the most vulnerable part of his heart out of reach, everything would turn out all right.
But he had been wrong.
Now, even that tiny sliver of hope is gone--trapped somewhere dark and cold and far beyond his reach--and while he knows he can repeat an insistent mantra inside his own head that what happened was not his fault, while he can blame the Chantry and the Circle and the templars in perpetuity for taking Karl from him, while he can scream and cry that it was not what he wanted until he has no voice, no breath, no life left within him at all with which to go on, the fact remains that no matter how many times he relives that night inside his head, the hand gripping the knife stained dark with Karl's blood will always be his own.