undwarfy | Open post

Well, any time you feel like revealing all of your deepest, darkest secrets.

[ Anders pats him on the back as he pulls away, stretching again as he slides to the edge of the bed. ]

...Or if you just want to talk. I'm here. And you're done. Unless you're still hurting anywhere?

[Varric takes a second - the quickest moment - to breathe in, appreciating the relief and relaxation flooding his body. And, perhaps, to remind himself that being disappointed that the massage is over is stupid, because hell- it did what it was supposed to do, right? Right.

He sits up, rolling his shoulders experimentally.]

Fucking ancestors, that's incredible.

[At the offer of "hurting anywhere else", though, he pulls off a glove... revealing a nasty-looking patchwork of burns. It looks as if it was partly seen to with a health poultice- but not a very strong one.

Varric holds his hand out, looking sheepish.]

[ Look, there are only so many overzealous praises Anders can handle in one sitting. He's quiet, this time, considering his boots instead of brushing Varric off once again.

He doesn't get quite so far as reaching to put them back on before he notices Varric reaching out to him - or offering his hand, as it were. ]

What— [ His confusion is short-lived, as starkly as those angry, red burns stand out against Varric's skin, and the quick succession of emotions that chase it across his face are perfectly predictable. Shock, disapproval - more disapproval, and frankly it looks for a moment as if he's readying to read Varric to riot act.

But then he remembers what he's doing here, as he takes Varric's hand carefully between his own, the pale blue glow of mana already building between his fingers, and softens again.

If he's been sitting with a burnt hand stuffed into a leather glove this long, already, Varric already knows he messed up. Not that that's going to exempt him from all of Anders' disdainful concern, as he heals the nasty burn. ]

You know, next time, perhaps you should lead with the open wound.

[He shrugs his other shoulder.]

Funny thing about those poultices from Solivitus- they kill all the pain, even if they don't heal everything.

[In other words: the damn thing was pretty much numb, and he sort of forgot about it- and/or it wasn't bothering him as much as everything else was.]

No poultice will do that, on its own. A wound needs proper tending. Especially a burn.

[ Now he does sound chiding, in spite of himself. ]

Covering it up is practically the worst thing you can do, you know.

[ ...Not that it matters, now. The skin is whole again and no longer such an angry shade of red, when Anders lets go of his hand. ]

[Varric pulls his hand back, rubbing at it with his thumb restlessly.]

I- look, I felt stupid, okay?

[He may actually burst into flames from the trauma of admitting such an undignified thing. Varric Tethras does not feel stupid- he's not the kind of person who ever feels such things, or lets on that he does.]

[ Anders is almost stricken by that admission. No - there isn't really anything almost about it.

Varric admitting he's ever once felt anything less than perfectly confident is like... Isabela admitting she's capable of feeling shame. (Only apparently a lot more likely.) ]

I'm sorry. [ Not for his concern, but for forgetting the things that have brought them here, even so briefly. Anders shifts closer, to sit next to Varric again on the bed. ]

You did what you could. That's more than most do.

[Varric shifts a little closer, too. Something in him craves... craves proximity. The simple, quiet presence of another person, someone calmer than Daisy and smaller than Hawke and gentler than every single one of those sods out in the bar. Anders, for all his many flaws and probable eventual journey over a cliff, has one of the softest, gentlest hearts he knows.

It's why he's able to keep talking.]

Too bad it wasn't enough.

[A look over his formerly-injured hand.]

I threw something out that I shouldn't have.

[On the mantle, nearly unnoticed, is a ring covered in ash. A Tethras signet ring.]

[ Anders doesn't look to the mantle; he looks toward the fire, where the dark, twisted shape of the knife is barely recognizeable, now. But only for a moment, before his gaze drops back to Varric's hand, now absent of burns.

He won't ask, even if he's curious. It feels too much like prying, and prying feels too much like judging. He's going to do his best not to slip back into that, for at least a few minutes more.

He asks something simpler, instead, folding his own hands together in his lap. ]

You got it back, though?

Sure did.

[He sits in silence for another minute, before something just sort of bursts out of him.]

How did you feel after Karl? Was it anywhere near this shitty and pointless?

[Varric doesn't know the full extent of Anders's relationship with that mage - that Tranquil - from the first night they met, but he'll never forget the absolute heartbreak evidence in Blondie's face when they all saw that Tranquil brand.]

[ There's plenty of heartbreak evident in his expression, now, when Varric says that name. No matter how much time he has to come to terms with Karl's death, he doesn't think he ever will. He was the one who was too late; he was the one who failed. ]

Maybe. I don't know.

[ It's not like he really knows what Varric is going through, to begin with. A point he tries to elaborate on— ]

I never had a brother. And Karl wasn't... that, to me.

[ And after they'd been apart for so long - it's different, even if the final tally came to the same. ]

[He's never asked-- he never felt the need to pry. Which could itself be called miraculous, were it not for his instinct for when an issue is too sensitive for casual nosiness.

He's never asked and Anders has never said, but there's pain in his eyes and heartbreak on his face, and Varric can add two plus two and get four. The unspoken story tells itself.]

I'm sorry, Blondie.

[How strange, to think back on that chaotic day and see Karl Thekla through a closer lens: the midnight stalk through Hightown, long shadows thatching the hallways, that terrible moment when familiar eyes met and saw only a stranger. How the brief sunspell of clarity seemed only to sharpen the sorrow afterwards, and that moment of begging- begging, in a voice meant for close talking and secrets, pleading for the relief of death.

Maybe it relieved them. For the poor bastards left living, there was only emptiness, and the memory of metal parting flesh like butter. Only questions and the collapse of a body now empty.

For the first time, he thinks he understands Anders. If Bartrand's fate had been caused by a single person, with malice and forethought, Varric thinks he would have torn down all the world to carve out his pound of flesh.

When their eyes meet, there's something undefinable in Varric's expression.]

That "mercy" line... did it ever stop feeling like bullshit?

[ He doesn't talk about it. He probably wouldn't have, even if Varric had asked, before. Because talking about it brings back the memory, sharp and clear as if it were only moments ago, mere instants since the last time he could conjure to mind the memory of a man who was once his only comfort in the world and not also be reminded of the warmth of his blood spilling, or that broken, empty stare.

It's a wound he'll never stop picking at, a hurt that doesn't go away, and saying the words aloud makes it that much more real.

So he doesn't say any more, only tilting his head in a slight, barely-there gesture of acknowledgement when Varric offers the obligatory condolences. At least in this case, the sympathy there feels genuine.

Though it's little consolation, really.

It's only when Varric speaks up again that a little bit of life is breathed back into Anders' listless expression - though it's in the form of a spark of affront. ]

I never thought it was. Karl and I didn't speak of it often, but we both knew without at doubt we'd never want to live that way - with our minds sundered, no will of our own.

What I did for him was what I hope he'd have had the strength to do for me, had our positions been reversed. What I hope you or one of the others will, should I ever wind up with the same brand.

[At some point during that little speech Varric's gaze drops. Easier to listen when not looking- at least today. Things filling his vision makes room for people to fill his mind.

Anders as a Tranquil. Varric never really feared it - not when he apparently has an angry glowing Tranquility cure crammed up his keister - but the thought still brings a shudder. When the mage invokes him or "one of the others" he looks up again.]

Of course, Anders. [Solemn.]

You're right, [not just about Karl] but that didn't stop it from being the single worst moment of my life.

[And he's had some doozies.]

I don't imagine anything will.

[ Nothing has changed that for him, and Anders has no shortage of unpleasantness behind him, either.

But there's little more to say to that, and he lapses into pensive silence again, looking out across the room but not seeing any of it. There are some things you don't walk away from, never really. That's just the simple truth of it. ]

[After a couple minutes of pensive silence he gets up and pours them more drinks, beckoning Anders over. No words, but it's clear Varric wants him to stay.

Once the wine buzzes in his fingers and he's refilled Blondie's cup at least once, he speaks.]

So, Blondie, how's that manifesto of yours coming along?

[He's never asked before.]

[ Well, drinking isn't preferable, but it isn't trying in vain to continue this line of conversation. So Anders gradually acquiesces, making his way back to the table - which still seems so much further away than the bed was.

The silence is definitely preferable, when he hears Varric speak again. Anders pauses with his mug halfway to his mouth, again, and sets it down without taking a drink, instantly wary.

No one asks, really. And when they do bring it up, it's never really because they want to know. ]

It's... fine, I suppose. Listen, you don't have to feign an interest. I know the plight of mages hardly bothers you.

It always bothered me.

[He says peevishly. His usual, easy, languid manner has abandoned him tonight.]

You think anyone can grow up in Kirkwall without losing a few friends to the Gallows?

[But... but. But Kirkwall is also a city rife with blood magic, and Varric has spent his whole life hearing, seeing, and feeling the horror of that. The average Kirkwaller sees more blood magic than the average non-Kirkwall Templar. So there was always that clouding the issue. And the issue of how to do anything about it without bringing down the whole damn world around their ears, or causing an Exalted March so furious it makes the Dales look like a friendly disagreement.

He had his own shit to deal with. He never understood Anders's single-minded hatred, or his inability to simply relax and enjoy his freedom. They've had plenty of conversations to that effect.]

It's... listen. If what happened to Bartrand had been somebody's fault, done on purpose? I'd- I don't even want to think about what I'd do. It wouldn't be pretty.

[It's a glimpse into the why of Anders. A sudden, sharp shock of empathy for the man's unwavering crusade. Varric always understood the plight and the injustice of it, he just didn't have this connection- this insight that could outweigh the powerful allure of the status quo.]

[ Anders pushes away his mug. It's only going to give him a headache, anyway. Even now, he doesn't feel any of the liquor's more pleasant effects - although that could just as easily be due to the burgeoning anger he's already tamping down, at least as much as Justice's strict temperance.

He doesn't want to argue; this is neither the time nor the place for it. But he still has to bite back another bitter remark.

It's not about placing blame, or having some personal stake. It's so much more than that. But— ]

It's... fine, Varric.

[ Anders straightens the sleeves of his coat, sitting back in his chair and not managing to look less sullen than he imagines he does. ]

Why not just read it, sometime, if you really want to know how it's going?

[A halfhearted shrug.]

Alright, bring it over next Wicked Grace night.

[He reaches for Anders's mug and slides some water down Blondie's way instead. If the mage isn't gonna drink it, then Varric can give that ale a good home.]

I'll think about it.

[ Equally as halfhearted.

He shakes his head when Varric passes the water his way, as well. ]

I should probably get going, soon. Any later, and it'll be safer to wait until dawn before trying to walk back to Darktown.

I hope you do.

[That wasn't halfhearted. He really did want to see the manifesto- even felt a bit shitty for never having asked about it before.

His movements were halfhearted: taking the mug, moving the water. Anything involving physical motion. That was halfhearted. But the words? No.]

Stay safe, Blondie. Thanks for- you know.

Don't mention it.

[ It's almost a wan smile on his lips, as he finishes setting himself to rights again and nods, taking up his staff and heading for the door. He doesn't relish the long walk back to the clinic, but at least the fresh air might help clear his head. ]

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i super hope this is coherent

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