Anders

"An Antivan party comes with plenty of insults, though, yes, none of them veiled." Orlesian intrigue, in the assassin's opinion, is so unbearably and agonizingly complex as to be boring. There is no good in an insult if the person you are insulting cannot even understand what you are trying to do. "And there are more murders, I suspect. Tradition and all."

But he wants to keep it light, or at least not blatantly depressing. 

“Do you think this will be more on the Orlesian end, or the Antivan one? I suppose people dying isn’t as much of a crisis here as it is elsewhere.”

Anders inclines his head, ready to let Zevran lead them- the first of many little indulgences for Zevran that benefit himself a tad too much.

Not much has changed since then. Hawke still favors action over abstraction, and all this talk of crisscrossed timelines and alternate worlds is beyond his ken. He’s at a loss as to what he could possibly do to improve their situation, let alone fix it. And because whoever brought him here hates fun, he can’t even make himself feel better by chucking fireballs at the nearest combustible object.

“So, then… There are two of me?” He tries to imagine himself without magic, but it’s no use—it’s like trying to imagine the world without color. His status as a mage has influenced nigh-on every aspect of his life. Without the constant need to hide, without the bone-deep, instinctual knowledge that he was different, what sort of man would he have become? 

Not a good one, if the note of bitterness in Anders’ voice is any indication. “No offense, but your Hawke sounds like a real prick. Probably an ugly bastard, too. Doubt he could manage a beard even half this impressive.” He tries to keep his tone light and irreverent, but there’s no hiding that the revelation has shaken him. Is his compassion for mages really contingent upon him being one himself? Is he truly that selfish?

Best not to dwell upon it. At any rate, Anders wastes no time in giving him something else to lose sleep over. “You mean you haven’t…” He mimes an explosion, complete with a rather tasteless ‘boom’ sound effect. “Well. That’s a relief.” He supposes it makes sense: if there are two Hawkes, then there must be two Anders. Anderses. Unlike the man he knew, this Anders apparently hasn’t been pushed to his breaking point. Not yet, anyway.

Probably best not to mention that they have the same face. It's just the weathering that's different- his Garrett has had less sun on his face, wears his beard a little shorter.

'Because he's always wearing that helmet out in the field,' Anders's mind uselessly supplies, as if he needs to collect fun little details to share. He doubts Hawke wants to hear anything else about his alter ego.

"Maker, Hawke." Anders scowls at Hawke's tasteless pantomime; this is a subject too close for him to take so lightly. "That isn't something you have to... to make a joke of. You saw what I- he did."

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding. He closes his eyes for a long, long second, then sighs. Shoves the roiling anger elsewhere—it has nothing to do with Anders, though it might be taken that way. "I met a spirit of compassion in the body of a young man. He was...kind. I also learned the Seekers of Truth willingly allow a spirit of faith to possess them, which grants them their powers."

A beat. "I cannot help you with that. I am sorry. But I can say this—demons and spirits are a lot less black and white than I used to think . And, somewhere in there, there's still hope."

"It's refreshing to hear, at any rate- that you are willing to consider the possibility that spirits aren't pure evil.”

Though the last few years has made it hard to see his own spirit friend in the best of light. 

He hadn't expected that compliment, not from Anders of all people. While it's nice to know his struggles, his commitment to change, isn't invisible to others, he hesitates to bask in that knowledge for too long, get too comfortable. "I, thank you." He coughs.

"I might know what happens, but that doesn't mean I know what you've been through, what you're going through. History is sterile—just the facts, but little on the people who wrote it, what drove them to do what they did, their hopes and dreams, their failures and regrets."

"But by all means, if you'd rather not speak to me of all people about this, I will respect your decision." Maker knows I haven't earned it.

"I doubt it's anything that you haven't seen or heard of during your training- I'm exactly the sort of mages your former order warned you about. It's just that I allied myself with a spirit instead of a demon."

Anders's mouth feels dry. He wets his tongue with his ale, grimacing at its taste. He curls a hand under Pounce 2's chin, feeling the soft rumble of her purrs.

"A spirit who served the Wardens, mind you. I wasn't digging around the seedy corners of Kirkwall just welcoming unfamiliar spirits into my body."

It feels like we just ruined each other.

He chuckles at Anders’ choice of name. “This friend must know you well, whoever they are. You know, I once proposed to Varric that we steal the du Launcets’ cat and bring her to your clinic as a surprise, but he vetoed the idea on the grounds that the refugees might eat her.” And Varric was probably right. The refugees of Darktown lived in a state of shocking deprivation that Kirkwall’s upper crust would have touted as a testament to the barbarity of the society that enabled it, had it been located anywhere but their own city. Most people were content to pretend the city-beneath-a-city didn’t exist—easier that way. Anders never turned away, never forgot about the suffering of his fellow Fereldans, and Hawke will always admire him for that, regardless of how he feels about certain…other things.

He tries to remain as still as possible as Anders examines his hand, recalling that the other apostate always scolded him for fidgeting. “Door code? Whatever happened to keys? Surely you must remember those. You know: they’re metal, they're jangly, they don’t require you to remember a bunch of arbitrary Maker-damned numbers.”

He might easily have continued his diatribe for another five minutes (at least), but he’s distracted by the sensation of Anders’ magic brushing up against the edges of his awareness. Instead of the expected tingle of healing magic, he gets the impression of appraisal. Anders is feeling him out, getting a measure of his abilities. It doesn’t make sense—the other mage should know exactly what he’s capable of by this point. 

It hammers home how little he and this Hawke know of each other. Perhaps both of the Anders he has met resemble each other closely enough that he could mistake one for the other- certainly Cullen had believed that they knew each other.

"It certainly seems so. I thought you, Cullen, and I were all just from different points in time, but I've been thoroughly corrected." Anders can't disguise the bitterness, the jealousy that began burning in his gut the moment that he felt Hawke's magic. To have a Hawke that supported him...

"My Hawke isn't a mage. He isn't even a supporter of our cause. It's crystal clear that we're experiencing different worlds." And because he can't stand to have Hawke misunderstand this either, "What you last saw 'me' do- I haven't done it."

"Oh, is that all it will take to convince you?" Of course that is the part the grabs the mage's attention. It's becoming more and more believable that Anders had, in fact, been around a few brothels like the Pearl in his younger years. Zevran had already guessed Anders must have been popular -- he hasn't been proven wrong, yet.

"No, we met in a different city. But we did spend a lovely night together in Kirkwall." Not one to be called a liar when he isn't actually lying, Zevran does deign to share some of the dirty details of that night together. Leaving out the fight, naturally, and all of the stuff about Spirale. He's still weighing whether saying anything about that is truly worth it.

The corpse's appearance stops Zevran short as he's come to the end of his tale. The shambling undead is, unfortunately, a sight the assassin has had some experience with; although it is still an unpleasant thing to see. He doesn't bother to hide his grimace.

(He doesn't have one, mind you, but it would be a funny thing to see someone try to lie about.)

"You must have heard of him already. He's a close friend of mine." Anders certainly doesn't make it sound as such- he says 'close friend' like he knows Justice will protest.

"You are so good for indulging me, amor." Funny how holding hands still seems more intimate than everything else the elf has ever done. Still, his fingers squeeze the other's affectionately.

"Let us have fun tonight, yes? We can play at being stuffy Orlesians."

Anders's hand is smooth against Zevran's and slightly cold- something that Anders has often called 'healers's hands'. Whether that's because healers are constantly washing their hands or because the feel of them is soothing by default, it's difficult to say.

Though age does play a factor, the attitude shift makes up the lion's share of Anders's change in appearance. When his face draws into something more contemplative and serious at Zevran's words, it's easy to see how Zevran could taken several moments to recognize the differences.

Anders was particularly excited to meet this apparent ex-lover, but the sentiment is gone far too soon.

Anders simply doesn't believe him. And he makes no great effort to hide that fact, offering a nearly condescending smile at Zevran's ostensibly delusional story. And yet...

But the smile on the mage's face irks him. It's becoming increasingly clear that Anders was an exasperating, cocky youth. (even more annoying, because it's so familiar) Zevran can only imagine what the Warden Commander had to put up with. The patience of a saint, that Hero of Ferelden.

"Go on and think me crazy. I take it you will not want to hear the details of our sordid love affair, then."

The fact that Anders seems to seriously consider what Zevran had said about leaving the wardens only confirms that he had been planning such an escape from the start. A man so hellbent on freedom that he could not suffer anything resembling a cage; one of the many reasons the assassin has grown so fond of him.

"Good thing I do not plan on speaking to any other grey wardens." Are there even other wardens here? Is there another living, human soul in this crude facsimile of Amaranthine?

He eyes Zevran as he drops his hand, not seriously considering reaching out to touch him. Tempting, but on the off-chance that the man is telling the truth, this is many times more important than flirting.

"Yes. Is that where we meet?" The fact that he takes on another lover doesn't spell well for Karl. Reuniting is his entire reason for setting eyes on Kirkwall in the first place.

Anders feels Justice long before he sees him. Possessing a body has done little to dampen the sensation of the spirit being a moving piece of the Fade itself.

A non-mage wouldn't have such a luxury. Zevran likely hears him not long after Anders recognizes his approach, but Anders knows the sight of him will be the real shock.

He could warn Zevran. He doesn't.

The good ones remember that mages are people.

They didn't hang you there, you can walk away.

Uldred marked you, but didn't make you. You stayed you.

"No, actually," his mouth is dry, but he forces out the words, feeling a tentative link between them, gossamer thin, that'll disappear if he does not reach for it, "I am thinking of Kinloch Hold, how difficult it was to let the demons pass through me, not shove me out and claim my body, mind and soul. Months in a prison of the blood mages' making, with only myself and the Chant as a bulwark against madness." And how hungry they were, using everything and anything in his mind as bait, clawing at the walls of his psyche to be allowed inside. "Still, I don't envy you, Anders. And while I cannot know what it's like to share everything I am with a spirit, for I refused that offer, I can tell you this—you are strong enough to endure."

"I must remind you of that place an awful lot." Anders murmurs, daring to look up at Cullen again. "The way that I met and merged with Justice wasn't through blood magic, I promise you that. For whatever that's worth to you."

To Anders, it still matters. A line he won't cross.

"You've changed for the better, by the way. In case the past decade or so has made that harder to judge." Maker knows he's familiar enough with the way that these past few years have brought his own development into question.

The more time that passes, the more desperate he has gotten, and the less tolerant the world around him has become. All those hours spent at the clinic- the people who he made well again, the limbs he saved, the babies he helped deliver- will someday mean nothing.

"Is that where we are?"

He cannot tell by their surroundings. Zevran has never been to Amaranthine, although he knows that is where the new Fereldan Grey Wardens had been trained. That would explain the colors Anders wears. He hadn't recognized the uniform at first, having seen it very little, but it is the standard garb of a Warden.

So this is Anders in his Warden years. Freshly recruited, perhaps. How cute.

It seems his demon theory holds less water, now. Or at the very least the memories this spirit is drawing on to shape the Fade are not his. Once again he finds himself faced with a man who cannot remember him, and once again he stands at the crossroad between an unbelievable truth and a face-saving lie.

"You are going to find this hard to believe," he begins, slowly. "but bear with me. I know you, but you do not know me, as such. That is to say, I know an older you. After you leave the Wardens."

Though age does play a factor, the attitude shift makes up the lion's share of Anders's change in appearance. When his face draws into something more contemplative and serious at Zevran's words, it's easy to see how Zevran could taken several moments to recognize the differences.

Anders was particularly excited to meet this apparent ex-lover, but the sentiment is gone far too soon.

Anders simply doesn't believe him. And he makes no great effort to hide that fact, offering a nearly condescending smile at Zevran's ostensibly delusional story. And yet...