undwarfy | Open post

[ 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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