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How often did he get the chance to slip away from his duties to steal a moment of peace (as peaceful as one could get in the tavern)? Anders exhaled as he moved to open the door to the Herald's Rest. The fading, splintering wood groaned distressfully when he pushed against it with even just a fraction of his weight. Upon opening, the bell dangling above the frame rang with a tinny chime.
Yet another thing to add to the list for repairs - really, this was the Inquisition, was it not? How was it that they could, in good faith, operate out of an aging keep with holes in roofs and crumbling walls?
Lest you forget Darktown.
And what of it? Justice, of course, had to offer his opinion, making Anders snicker under his breath.
So quick to forget the rot and chokedamp in what was little more than a shell of an establishment.
It was a struggle for Anders to keep the incredulous expression from actually reaching his face as he politely greeted Cabot before finding a table as far from the door as possible. Better to sit where he could not be seen immediately upon walking in if he wished to enjoy this little break for more than a passing minute. Knowing his War Council, there would be something requiring his attention before long, and this blessed reprieve would be short-lived. Surely no one would accuse him of hiding, shirking his job—
You are only mortal. It is good to stop and rest.
Yes, well, I'll be sure to tell that to Corypheus.
This was not a discussion he wished to have with the Spirit, not now when all he desired was to put his feet up and have a drink. For once in what felt like ages.
Garrett was out in the field with Blackwall, that bear of a man who liked to claim he was a Grey Warden. Anders didn't understand why someone would ever willingly maintain such a charade; few of his fellow Wardens had ever chosen the life, and those who had did so to escape a worse fate. Yet even still, being a Grey Warden had its consequences because Maker forbid there exist any real options for a man to live free or redeem himself beyond pledging himself to an early death—
Well, now he was getting grim and fatalistic.
Turning his eyes to the room, Anders took stock of the characters within. It didn't matter what part of Thedas you found yourself in, the universal language was always the same: coin. Sovereigns and silver always got one further than talk, which had never been a problem for Hawke in Kirkwall after the expedition and his family's rise to nobility. Anders himself benefited from his lover's fortune after he finally agreed to move into the estate. Yet, he always felt guilty for letting the man take care of him after so long of subsisting on rations. Any donations to the clinic had gone right back into caring for the people of Darktown. Then later, after Kirkwall, the fugitive lifestyle didn't exactly come with a regular salary, and Garrett had been cautious about carrying too much coin on his person, fearing it would attract bandits. So funds had been far more limited. On rarer occasions, they were fortunate to meet someone willing to trade whatever commodity for services rendered. Such usually resulted in Hawke performing other tasks involving manual labor or magic if their patron was sympathetic and such talents were needed.
He pulled himself out of his head to once more scan the taproom of the tavern. His tavern? Hawke’s? Regardless, circumstances had changed drastically yet again, and Anders still couldn't believe it.
Flissa caught his eyes and flashed him her trademark smile, bright and full of warmth. She'd been nothing short of kind to him from the very start when so many others seemed wary, if not reticent, of associating with him. "Look at you, finally got a moment to breathe love?"
He returned the smile, though Anders could bet his was guilt-ridden and tired. "Would seem so, yes." Her supportive pat on the shoulder didn't make him bristle the way it used to, and he procured a few coins from his purse to hand to her.
"I'll get you something warm that sticks to your ribs then, howsit? And drink? Cabot's got something new on tap today, he's always changing it up, keeps it interesting for the soldiers. They seem to appreciate it."
A good stew sounded terrific if he was honest. Anders bobbed his head, and she turned quickly on her heel to bound off toward the front of the bar. Some yards away, the Chargers were deep in chatter, while Sera was perched on the table in the middle of their group. A small part of him was tempted to sneak away upstairs with his meal and enjoy it in the relative peace the top loft offered, even with Cole lurking about. The boy was strange at best but fascinating. A spirit who manifested a physical form through sheer will. Justice had been more than intrigued but trying to find an opportunity to sit and discuss, well, anything since Haven had been nigh impossible.
Flissa returned with his order before long, and Anders realized how much time he spent in his own head. "Here we are, this should see you through the day my dear." She set a bowl and tankard down in front of him with practiced ease and departed with a wink.
He mumbled his sincere thanks all while fishing his journal out of his pack. Toiling away at his notes always brought him a sense of peace. Even as the Inquisitor (or one of them in their case - it was easy to forget that he and Garrett shared the responsibility), Anders could not pry himself away from his calling as a healer. It was far too ingrained within him to stop now, and thus he often oversaw the workings within the infirmary, only adding to his own growing list of responsibilities. Garrett often (lovingly) admonished him for it, letting no opportunity pass to remind Anders that he needed to be kinder to himself, that his was a position of authority for once. Hawke effortlessly saw through his altruistic act, calling it for what it was: a play at redemption. Clearly, Anders thought if he poured every ounce of himself into this, that would give the likes of Cassandra or Cullen to question his usefulness and call for his removal.
As usual, Garrett had been right. He was often right, naturally. That man knew him so intimately, a statement that was both literal and figurative, of course. If anyone around him saw the color rise to his face at the very thought of those strong hands mapping every inch of his body, of how much he struggled to contain himself with every touch against his bare skin, it wasn't obvious. Several other thoughts sprung to mind unprompted, all of which some varying degree of lewd. He could vividly see his lover's face, dark eyes burning with unbridled hunger for his cock, and how he gasped and panted with each thrust. His ears could hear the deep rumbles of his moans as Justice took command and beckoned him to release after edging him to near hysteria. Anders briefly considered removing himself from the table back to his quarters if this was how his afternoon would play out.
Really, Justice? I'm trying to finish my lunch, you know.
I do not see how this interferes with your meal.
Was that sass? From Justice? Or, at the very least, it was something of a similar nature. Anders snorted as he helped himself to another spoonful of stew before lifting the pen to his notes. He ran through the past day's events, jotting down shorthand across the page in a series of short bursts. His penmanship was haphazard at best, and Garrett was about the only one who could decipher it. Before long, he lifted the quill again to read back what he'd just written. Anders murmured in a low voice, reciting the first few lines.
Patient taking well to treatment. He appeared calm and responsive to stimulation when checking his vital signs. Cough should continue to dissipate with continued use of the elixir when mixed with his morning tea.
He is breathing more comfortably after just a week but is advised to continue treatment until the elixir runs out, and he has been nearly spent. We shall have him begging to be properly fucked, and I will satisfy his whim-
His tongue tripped over the inappropriate passage. Anders cursed, cutting himself off before anyone could hear. "Oh Andraste's flaming fucking knickers—" Heat crawled up his neck, and he ducked his head with a groan.
Andraste's tits, sometimes you're worse than I am. Can it wait?
We were informed that Garrett would not return until the evening.
Oh, for — alright. You win.
Stealing one last glance at his notes, Anders closed the book and returned it to his pack. He left some coins on the table for Flissa as he stood up, feeling guilty for leaving his bowl behind but knowing she would have insisted he let her handle clearing the table.
Despite being Fereldan born, Karl had spent far too long inside the Circle tower of Kinloch Hold to truly remember what his fair nation’s winters were truly like. The journey to Skyhold had been eye-opening, but relief had been granted to him upon finally reaching the gates. Though he might have thought it better to blend in with the other pilgrims, or even the mages, his parched throat pulled him toward the tavern first. A bell dangling above the tavern's door frame rang with a tinny chime that alerted all those within to his entrance even before it shut behind him. Immediately, Karl was assailed by a wall of musty and unmoving air thick with the smoke of a wood-burning stove, highlighted with the briny stench of ale, things he certainly wasn't accustomed to. Yet despite the unsavory fragrances clinging to the air within, he drew in a deep breath to fill his lungs and promptly exhaled.
He was home.
By the Maker's grace, he was finally home and nearly dropped to his knees at the gate after an exhausting journey. Of course, Skyhold itself was not really home per se, but he'd dared not stop for anything once he set foot on Fereldan soil again, wishing to keep out of the fighting happening as much as possible. News of the Inquisition, one not simply sympathetic to mages but led by a mage, had reached his ears well before returning to his nation of origin and had been the entire catalyst for attempting the journey south.
There'd been a whirlwind of other rumors to come out of the Frostback Mountains — few of which he dared to put stock into yet — but in quiet moments, he did have to wonder.
Adjusting the hood of his cloak just enough that he could make eye contact with the barkeep, he searched the dwarf's face for any hint of suspicion, but Cabot's expression remained utterly unmoved. "What'll it be?"
His first instinct would have been to simply order cider or water, something without spirits or hard liquor to keep from dulling his senses, but such instincts were born from years of the same old habits, ones deeply ingrained into him by the influence of others. Ones he had no choice but to quickly adopt under threat of punishment otherwise. “The strongest ale you have, good ser." Bristling at the sound of his own voice, warm yet tentative instead of lifeless and monotone, he hardly recognized it after so long.
The dwarf behind the bar grunted in brusque acknowledgment, but his face still didn't change from neutral indifference as he shoved a tankard under the nearest cask and let it fill to the rim before he passed it across the counter. He sifted through his measly coinpurse but found himself surprised by the barkeep. "Nah. On the house today. Y'look like you need it." And that was it. That was all he said before he addressed his other customers waiting eagerly at the other end of the counter.
Torn between grace and paranoia, anxiety twisted in his chest and hovered there tentatively until something in the back of his mind stirred to life again.
There is no way he can know. Rest easy, Karl. He is a good man who sees you are weary from travel.
Ah. Wisdom. Living up to their name yet again.
Karl let his shoulders relax and fall from their hunched position as the tension fled him. He hadn't realized how tightly wound he was until Wisdom came to call, bringing it to his attention. "Yes, I see that now," he murmured under his breath low enough that none would hear over the chatter in the tavern. There was no sense in trying to thank the dwarven barkeep now that he was well inundated with patrons clamoring for his attention, though the guilt still niggled at Karl. He was far too used to cowing to the whimsy of the Templars and Senior Enchanters, too used to minding his manners at every step and putting forth a submissive, scholarly demeanor, of just some mild-mannered bookworm with aspirations to become a First Enchanter in his own right, like it were some grand feat to lord his authority over others—
Anger will do you no good, Thekla. Be mindful to remember that. You're safe here. You are free now.
Sound advice. Karl acquiesced to the Spirit's urging and drew in a steadying breath through his nose. Yes, it wouldn't do to lose his temper or get overly worked up. Not here. Even with a mage at the helm of all this, there was still something of a Templar presence. They didn't appear to be in any position of power over the mages here, but in the eyes of the Chantry, that meant very little. Especially not to a mage who should have been Tranquil. Who was Tranquil even, but no longer. The moment they suspected anything was amiss—
Karl gathered the tankard into his hands, letting the chilled exterior seep into the flesh of his palms as a means of grounding himself. He'd done extensive work on regulating his emotions since the restoration of his full conscious awareness and his connection to the Fade, developing various techniques and methods by which he could calm the turbulent storm in his heart and mind. This was but one of many. The sensation tethered him to the here and now, and Karl carried on taking controlled breaths in and releasing them calmly.
Shall we go sit and make ourselves comfortable then?
Wisdom had no words by which to reply, but their agreement came in the whisper of a pleased hum. Karl turned away from the bar to face the taproom of the tavern, still clutching the frothing mug in his hands like it were his only lifeline, when a flash of wheat-blonde hair crossed his line of sight. Were it only that, and not the hint of light-brown eyes and sharp nose that made his heart jump into his throat as his head whipped around. The distraction cost him and as he crashed into another patron crossing through the maze of tables to reach the counter. Panic set in momentarily, and with his heart thundering in his ears, Karl scrambled to yank the hood of his cloak down over his face to conceal the angry red brand that marred the skin of his forehead. In his fumble to hide, he made no attempt to stop the slosh of ale from spilling over the top of his tankard. Any words or sounds of protest from the patron he ran into were muffled, dull, overshadowed entirely by his own quickened breathing and racing pulse. Karl muttered something, an apology perhaps, but he couldn't be sure, and fought the genuine urge to break into a sprint out the door.
Fortune was in his favor when the man-shaped wall of muscle patted him on the shoulder and helped him find his footing. "You okay there? I didn't break anything did I? I wasn't paying attention, my sincerest apologies. I'm happy to spot you for a refill."
That —that was not the reaction Karl had been expecting. Wisdom pushed closer to the surface of his mind, and he could sense the Spirit's curiosity, but they were notably silent. It was up to him to pull himself together long enough to react appropriately. So far, it didn't appear that the man noticed anything unusual. He wore a lopsided grin barely concealed by a dark beard, and his eyes were far from harsh, looking at him with what appeared to be a genuine concern for his well-being. Karl cleared his throat and gathered his wits about him, "No, no I'm quite alright, thank you—" but before he could protest the offer, the stranger with the messy black hair and friendly smile was already digging through his coin purse. "Here," he stated, pushing a few coins into Karl's hand. "For the trouble."
Something about him struck a chord of familiarity, but it was merely a niggling feeling that didn't bloom into anything more. Wisdom had nothing to say on the matter and simply retreated, leaving him mostly alone in his thoughts. Shaking his head, he tried to offer a polite smile in exchange. "Many thanks, Serah." He didn't even have to reach for the term, it flowed far too naturally into his speech, but there was no point in correcting himself.
"No thanks needed, it was my fault for stumbling into you like some kind of oaf. Maker, where the Void are my manners. Can’t say I've seen you around before, so welcome to Skyhold. Don't worry, you're safe here." There was something charming in that grin of his, a twinkle much too alluring in those dark brown eyes. Karl did not know what to make of him but had little time to ponder it before the stranger passed with no more than a clap on his shoulder.
Finally, after a period of silence, Wisdom crept closer and hovered just there at the forefront of his conscious mind. His hand. He is touched by the Fade.
What?
Karl cast a long glance over his shoulder, not so much that he was obviously looking but enough to keep the dark-haired stranger in his peripheral vision. Sure enough, the sickly green glow from his left palm was practically a beacon, a tether to the world beyond the Veil. It was the very thing that marked him as the Inquisitor; Karl blanched, feeling blindsided that he'd nearly barrelled into the Inquisitor himself. Just as bloody well, wasn't it? With his head swimming, reeling both from the crash and close proximity to that thing on the Inquisitor's hand, Karl adjusted his cloak and carried on out the door. It hadn't taken the former Enchanter long to figure out the Keep and its grounds were under some sort of enchantment to maintain a stable climate, one that kept the snow from the Frostbacks at bay. Though there was a chill in the crisp mountain air, it was far more pleasant than in the basin where it was cooler, wetter, and sank deep enough into tired old bones to awaken new aches and pains with every frozen sunrise. The magic at work here was unlike any he'd known before — it was older, hearkening to a far gone age where people like him were revered, even the norm...
Speaking of old aches. Karl had been neglecting the reprisal of a ghostly reminder he had once been close to departing this mortal coil. It was the reminder that the blade which should have ended his black-and-white, insufferable monotonous existence as little more than a Templar puppet… failed in its duty. At first, he was frustrated or at least knew even in his Tranquil state that he ought to have been such. It was only after they found him, called out to him, touched his mind, and freed him that he understood it as a second chance.
Karl drew a steadying breath and cast his eyes to the Keep grounds. There was a building nestled between the castle proper and the tavern that served as the infirmary. Such was made evident by scouts, soldiers, and civilians coming and going in varying states of injury and ailing. Yet his feet refused to do his bidding in carrying any further than the front door of the aptly named Herald's Rest.
You would be wise to go.
Of course, he would; it did not take a spirit of any virtue to know it would be wise to have the wound looked at if only to ensure he skirted around infection. His own patch job notwithstanding, he was no spirit healer and did what he could to keep himself on this side of the Void long enough to escape his circumstances. Kirkwall. Still, his knees quivered at the very thought of someone seeing his face, seeing the brand and calling into question who or what he was — for he did not act like a Tranquil ought to, and Karl had no desire to play the part.
Nothing but praise fell from the lips of those around the Keep regarding the master healer in charge. It stirred up fond memories of the ebb and flow of gentle magic washing over him as it soothed a particularly nasty burn following his brief foray into elemental magics. Karl never quite had a knack for the offensive schools, preferring more tactical and scholarly avenues. Ghostly reminders of nimble fingers touching the skin, cleaning, mending, and pretty golden eyes filled with concern lingered both in mind and body.
The moment his thoughts betrayed him, Karl chased them away and focused on crossing the courtyard finally. Perhaps if the infirm was a mage, they would understand. It was a risk, but Wisdom's gentle but notable urging would not cease until the matter was addressed.
As he approached and saw the door partially ajar, Karl was torn. He felt like an intruder by simply walking in unannounced, but his voice fled him at the thought of saying anything. So he rapped on the interior wall and gently nudged the door open further, at least revealing himself to any within the building before stepping all the way inside. Not even a medic was someone you wished to startle.
"The door is open!" Anders bellowed from further inside the infirmary, head half-buried in a trunk sitting just beside his desk, before turning to the desk itself. He was in something of a frenzy, turning up stacks of paper and books strewn across the surface in search of his notebook. After taking it out of his pack and setting it down somewhere, Anders swore it had to have sprouted legs and walked off.
If Garrett saw this mess —well, if he saw it, he'd only chuckle to himself and start tidying it up without prompting and only a gentle scolding. At least until they were alone in their quarters where he could adequately dole out a different sort of punishment, the kind that made Anders shudder and chew on his bottom lip. Justice had been greatly concerned the first time he and Hawke engaged in that sort of rough but passionate play. It took some rather thorough explanation for the Spirit to come around to understanding. Still, once he felt satisfied that Anders was not coming to harm, that it brought him no small amount of pleasure, Justice had surprised him by showing curiosity and eventual interest in partaking. Unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome.
Footsteps shuffled closer, over the threshold, and Anders cursed inwardly at his own failure to keep his workspace organized. Maker's sake, he needed to get this place in order, but that would just have to wait if he had a patient. "I'm so sorry, just a moment," he called again from beneath the desk —one final attempt to locate his notes. A soft gasp made him jump and hit his head squarely on the solid wood. "—Bloody, knickers!" The mage scrambled out to greet whoever it was he'd startled, having seen the ridiculous display of him crawling around under his desk most likely.
There was no helping it then he supposed, and brushed himself off, trying to ignore the stinging pain and how his head throbbed already.
"A-Anders?" Came the breathy, masculine voice.
It didn't register at first, not as he emerged from the back room into the infirmary proper. "My sincerest apologies for making you-"
Time did not stop; it slowed to a deliberate, painful crawl as the stranger drew back the hood of his cloak. It wasn't the gentle waves of stormy grey hair that made all words die in his throat, nor the meticulously groomed beard or heavy brows that sat low over cornflower blue eyes. No, Anders fixated on the haunting image of the angry red scar branded into the man's pale forehead, and he could not tear them away as if they were held by some unseen force. He struggled to find his voice, to speak, but all that came out was a strangled sound of disbelief. Anders staggered backward, steadying himself on the frame of a nearby bed. "I must have hit my head harder than I thought…" he muttered in a hoarse voice finally, though his throat was still tight and every nerve was alight, screaming at him to move, to run, or to wake up from what certainly had to be some vivid dream.
A dream, not a nightmare, for he had desired nothing more in the days and weeks to come after that night in the Kirkwall Chantry than for Karl —his Karl —to walk through the clinic doors and tell him he was alright.
The shade of a man he once loved so fiercely stepped forward with a frown and knitted brows. "I know how this looks but I promise you, it's real, Anders. It's real, I'm here."
He speaks the truth; he is no demon nor trick of the mind or the Fade.
That doesn't help, Justice!
It didn't. It didn't help because that meant Karl was here. Alive. Not dead, and not Tranquil!?
That Justice had gone quite beyond that initial observation had Anders' stomach turning over on itself as his racing heart lept into his throat, making swallowing nearly impossible. "Karl?" The name left his lips in a strained whisper, lacking all of his usual strength. The world shifted, tilting; his vision swam, and nothing made sense anymore.
Anders pressed his lips tightly together as a whimper slipped out, but Karl, seeing his distress, quickly swept in. He crossed the room in a single brisk stride and wrapped Anders up into his arms. No sooner after did the flood dams break. Though he crumbled, he made no effort to curtail it, the breaking of his heart again as old wounds opened to bleed once more. Sobs racked his chest, and while Anders struggled as if to free himself from Karl's embrace, his efforts were perfunctory at best. "Shhh, shh. It's okay, it's alright. I'm here."
He is not alone.
Justice. Anders didn't care to listen to what the Spirit had to say even as he pressed, urged him to pay attention, to focus. "But how, I killed — I watched you d— You were dead, Karl! I saw it! I did it! With my own two hands," He protested, voice tight and twisted with newfound agony.
For a moment, the past rose to swallow them whole, and Karl drew him closer, tenderly rubbing a much younger Anders' back in soothing circles. He'd just returned from Solitary and learned of the soul-crushing news regarding Karl's eventual transfer to Kirkwall. They were sending him away because of Anders. Because they had gotten too comfortable, too close, too reliant on one another. In the Circle that was the line you were never meant to cross. Yet they'd done it and hoped beyond all hope that this would be different, that they could one day escape and be together for the rest of their lives…
"It's... it's a long story. One I'd like to share with you, if you're willing?"
Finally, Anders pried himself away, apart from Karl just enough to look at him and meet his eyes —those same gentle eyes possessing all the Wisdom and maturity of a man twice his age. Shaking fingers crept up, reluctantly reaching for the brand on his former lover's forehead. Karl intercepted his hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each fingertip. Anders shuddered and frowned as he withdrew again. An ache snaked around his heart and squeezed. "Karl, I— I can't," the words were clumsy on his tongue. Had he ever been able to tell him no before? They sat heavy in his gut, and he watched Karl's eyes widen for a moment before realization settled in. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't think. Maker's grace, Anders I apologize I wasn't thinking, of course you've moved on."
Ever the gentleman, he let go and took a step back, as apologies fell from Ander's lips now. "I'm so sorry Karl, I'm sorry —you were gone and I — I was—"
"No!" Karl protested soundly. "Please don't apologize. It's only fair. You couldn't have known and I was the one who told you to move on and find happiness without me."
It was true. His last letter had said as much.
["There is and never has been another like you. Please don't go where I cannot follow. Move on, find peace and happiness somehow, and know that you have enriched my life by simply being in it…"]
Anders faltered and spent a moment in quiet contemplation before speaking again. "I have. Yes. He—" a sigh passed between them, and he smiled awkwardly yet not without fondness. "His name is Garrett. Garrett Hawke, and I fear without his unwavering dedication all these years, I'd have been lost. To the Void, the Templars, whatever other force that seemed to wish me miserable and without agency, or simply dead."
"Then I am grateful he has been there for you."
There was a hint of something in Karl's eyes, not jealousy, no that was never his character. Even when Anders had initially sought out his affections, years ago in the Circle and Karl rebuffed him for want of obeying the rules and keeping a clear reputation. He was no loyalist mage but wise enough to know that fleeting pleasure gained of trysts mattered less than one's own survival. The Circle, for him at least, provided stability and consistency. It was a roof over his head, regular meals, warm clothes, and access to reading material, both for study and simple intellectual stimulation. Anders, being the rebel he was then and even now, had never seen any of that nor wanted it. At times he dared say he didn't even need it. So he'd sought out play with others more receptive to his charm and whimsy. Yet none of it stirred Karl, and it frustrated him to no end, enough so that he ultimately ceased his attempts and resigned himself to pining from afar…
That had lasted a week before he fixated on the older mage once more, this time doubling his efforts to pry an iota of care from him. The memory of it stirred to life old flickers of flame, and though it felt cruel to stamp them down, Anders had little choice.
Still, he stepped forward to meet Karl again, this time with a gentle hand on his cheek and a somber smile. "So it is real then?" His fingers twitched as they crept upward, not quite touching the sunburst brand on his former lover's forehead. "I know that—" he swallowed, hesitating before continuing. "In the Chantry that night I had broken your Tranquillity. Somehow I reversed what those bastards had done to you however temporarily, but now, its as if—"
He has become like us. I can sense the presence of my own.
Justice was loud and persistent at the forefront of his conscious mind, and Anders could focus on little else.
How do you know?
"I mentioned it was a long story but, in truth, Anders—"
"A Spirit? Karl—" he had turned his head away to shake off Justice's urging but snapped up to meet the mage's gaze once the realization dawned on him. "Karl are you possessed?"
Clearing his throat, the former Enchanter appeared sheepish, guilty even. "Yes. I know how it sounds, but—"
Anders shuffled backward as he stumbled into a nearby cot, a bark of incredulous laughter spilling out. He stifled the sounds with a hand over his mouth in shock and carefully sat down. "I cannot believe this. I — You —we have all but accidentally found the way to reverse Tranquility. Andraste's frilly knickers, Karl."
"Wisdom." Karl stated plainly. "I believe. They came to me in my darkest hour."
Justice pressed forward, stretching his consciousness out as if reaching to greet this Wisdom, which Karl carried with him. The Maker had the most unusual sense of humor or irony. He had to, for them to be in this situation right now seemed only to suggest that his hand was at work here. For so long, Anders wrestled with his faith, and while this was no re-awakening, it was certainly enough to open his mind to many questions. "I might have excepted Compassion, or Mercy perhaps but Wisdom?" He laughed again, the sound airy and tight and not at all genuinely humorous but befitting the impossibility of their circumstances.
The infirmary door creaked as it opened, and Karl immediately bristled, reaching for his cloak. Anders stood up with a suddenness, startled by the sudden intrusion, and moved toward the door to intercept whoever it might have been. "I'm with a patient!"
"Oh," came Hawke's warm tenor, followed shortly by a head of mussed dark hair. The smile he wore beneath his neatly trimmed beard faltered, "Sorry! Saw the door open and thought I'd peek in to say hello to my favorite healer."
Breathing a sigh of relief, Anders' shoulders slumped and allowed Garrett to grab at him. It was a subconscious thing, and he forgot about the other body in the room for a moment. "It's fine, love, I — oh. Oh Maker I —er," but hearing Karl shuffling behind him jogged his memory. Reluctantly Anders withdrew from Hawke and scanned over his shoulder to see the other mage. "There's something I need to tell you. Or, show you, rather."
Not picking up on the change in tone, Garrett reached for him again to nuzzle his bearded chin into the crook of his neck and nip at the skin just beneath Anders' chin. "Oh? You know, Anders. If you wanted me to play doctor, you only had to ask." His lover's broad palm slid down his waist and to his backside, gripping his rear possessively. The healer whined high in his throat, and his body responded instinctively, arching his pelvis toward the bear-like mage. At least, before Anders corrected himself and pulled back with a disparaging moan.
Bloody Void, the man was too good at getting him riled up. Even Justice had been alert and consciously reaching out for more until they stopped.
Now was not the time.
"Later, my love. Please just come here. It's important…."
There was a snort from Garrett, but he relented. "Alright. But after this, you. are. mine." He rumbled, practically growled, and it took an act of sheer will to keep Anders from turning into a quivering mess right there on the infirmary's threshold. His body continued to betray him, despite his mind focusing on the awkward situation he'd found himself in…
"Shut the door." He instructed and returned to the treatment space where Karl —who had been waiting patiently —now straightened his back and stared at the newcomer with wide, nearly unblinking eyes.
"You!" The two men spoke in unison, and Anders blanched.
"Wait," Garrett blinked away the surprise and stared at Karl with recognition in those soulful brown eyes of his. "We ran into one another in the tavern a short while ago, but I recognize you. From Kirkwall! Karl?"
"Yes." The two mages spoke, but Anders stood beside Hawke, reaching for his hand as a sign of assurance, not that he expected any jealousy from him either but still. It felt important. "It's, well it's quite a story, a shock to both of us." He was grateful for how Garrett's facial expressions changed from shock to curiosity to something akin to happiness.
Karl appeared to study them quietly for a few passing heartbeats before he broke into laughter, much like the way Anders had before after coming to terms with the new revelation. "Of course. It makes sense. Your Hawke here is the Inquisitor and you, you're the Master Healer everyone has been chattering on about."
There was a glimmer of something in Hawke's eyes as he crossed the space to meet Karl, offering a hand to him. "I'm sure you'll both explain to me in time what's happening, but for what it's worth, I'm glad to see you're well, Karl. It's a pleasure to meet you officially."
The former Enchanter accepted the handshake and lifted his chin at the man in front of him with every ounce of his old self, and Anders nearly felt dizzy. Everything in this moment felt surreal, hazy, dream-like, as though he'd somehow passed out from exhaustion and crossed over into the shallows of the Fade. Any moment, he expected the dream to turn for the horrific, for Garrett's beautiful face to twist and contort to form the ghoulish gaping maw of a Hurlock. Or maybe he would wake and find himself somewhere else, in a place far from here. Senses inundated by the clean, biting astringent of herbs and disinfectant, he latched onto something that had been muddled by the passage of time and sucked in a breath.
Eventually, the dirty straw-laden floor gave way to clean, hard stone polished to perfection, and the haunting wails of Darktown's denizens were now mercifully absent.
The atmosphere shifted with a shake of his head, chasing away the past that he might focus on the present and the voices that called him. Gone was the musty, aging warehouse from a decade ago, barely able to keep out the undercity chokedamp. In its place was a structure befitting the fortress and its Inquisition and there standing before him with worried glances were the two greatest loves of his life.
“So you’ll be staying then, yes? Good.”
What?
Again, Anders was abruptly pulled out of his head and back into reality, although he might have protested that this was even real and actually happening. Karl too even appeared to be surprised by Garrett’s easy acceptance and his friendly smile. His whole demeanor was casual and relaxed as if there was nothing strange about any of this.
Karl’s lack of response had Anders on the knife’s edge in the span of time it took him to remember how to breathe. “If you insist, Inquisitor.”
Hawke’s smile curled tighter becoming a touch smug, but it was still no less genuine. “Perfect. As I said before, you’re safe here. I think we have much to talk about, but if you’d prefer, we can take it my chambers within the Keep.”
When Karl’s silvery brows arched high towards his hairline, Garrett laughed away his response, “I hope you don’t take that as a put on,” and ultimately turned on Anders. “Unless you’d prefer it to be.”
Silence. Utter silence from Justice, for once. Anders suddenly swallowed hard to avoid choking. The collar of his coat suddenly felt too tight, the heavy leathers too warm and his throat raw. “What?” He asked, nearly sputtering, uncertain if he genuinely heard that or if it were a simple case of his overly tired mind filling in the blanks.
Hawke’s face pleaded innocence or indifference at the very least. “I offered Karl to stay with us unless you were uncomfortable with that. It hardly seems fair to send him shuffling off to the mages’ quarters.”
It is a fair arrangement.
He’d gone daft. Anders briefly considered if he hit his head on something or had mixed the wrong ingredients for a potion and inhaled the fumes to the point of mental disorientation.
You are well, I would know if you were not. Will you not agree to this choice?
Karl had been the first one with whom he’d shared his heart and his body. To say that he hadn’t left an impression on him in ways that weren’t visible would be to deny everything they shared. Judging by Karl’s expression as he looked up, Anders could surmise he too was reminiscing of days past. The Spirit’s prodding was giving him a headache and Anders shook off the confusion. Naturally, the words came spilling out before he could think to say something else. “Yes. Yes of course, I could want for nothing more.”