mageunderground

[mageunderground]

(I think I did all of my replies/starters please stab me if I forgot a post I am so sorry)

[mageunderground]

Starter for @tainted-chains

People in Radiale tended to be even more fast-paced than in Kirkwall. You would think the population would be more understanding of those unfamiliar with the local customs and currency, but Anders had no such luck finding shops with patient employees. The cashier he was standing in front of only let him fail at the card reader once before she plucked his personal device between her fingers and set about making the digital currency actually go through. 

There was a nonzero chance that there was just insufficient credits in Anders’s account. He was having a hard time getting the hang of checking. 

Feeling awkward, he let his eyes drift toward the greener pastures outside of the store- at least the street was fairly straightforward. 

Anders rarely recognized people here. Anders even more rarely made a mistake about recognizing people here. He doesn't move a muscle, peering out the window into the crowd of people, a chill running down his spine. Could that really be her?

He only pauses long enough to snatch back his device from the cashier, and then he’s yanking it open with a loud clang of the bell. 

“Commander?”

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The mention of the Crow's 'lower rung' status causes a frown to cross the Anders’s face before he has the chance to stop it; it’s not that Zevran has particularly tried to gloss over all of the details of his time as a Crow, but any ‘confessions’ he has made on the topic have carried an air of nonchalance that Anders is sure that they do not deserve. 

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.

“I don’t know if I ever saw an actual party in the Free Marches. I think that would’ve required more than three people pretending they can stand each other.”

"Is that so? You may come to regret that thought before the night is over." Zevran can sense the slightest tension in Anders, knows that this is all a bit out of the mage's usual comfort zone, which is why such an indulgence is extremely touching to him. He has no intention of truly taking advantage -- unless Anders wishes him to, of course. But perhaps they will both be far too tired for such a thing. Or too drunk.

"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."

Is Antivan society truly so violent? Yes and no. It is entirely possible Zevran enjoys exaggerating for dramatic effect. "But I cannot say I have been to many. Rarely were the lowliest of us Crows invited. More often it was the higher houses and masters who attended and carried out their contracts."

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"Multiple Hawkes seems to be the working theory. It's the best one I've come up with, at least." Anders scrunches his nose when this man insults his Hawke. Having experienced his Garrett- as Hawke is a man who is 'experienced', more like a natural disaster than a person- doesn't really mean that Anders owes him an argument in his favor. "No offense taken. My Hawke and I have an... unfortunate personal history."

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."

He focuses on cleaning Hawke's cuts. "...You can berate me all you want, because I understand why he did it. Or at least Justice does." There's no hint of self-righteousness in Anders's voice- he sounds less like a freedom fighter and more like a man intimately aware of the inevitable. He drops bloodied gauze pads into the garbage.

Unlike his son, Malcolm Hawke had been blessed with a sharp, mathematical mind. During his lessons, the elder Hawke often attempted to explain the theory behind magical techniques before he allowed Bethany and Garrett to attempt them firsthand, much to the latter’s chagrin. Just give me a staff, he used to grouse. Enough with this theoretical stuff. Let me work through it with my hands and I’ll figure it out. 

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.

“I won’t berate you over something you haven’t done, but it didn’t… It only made things worse, Anders.”

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"I can't imagine a Seeker of Truth voluntarily accepting a spirit of faith," Anders drawls, curling the word ‘faith’ in his mouth like a curse. He’s trying not to sound too sarcastic, but his bitter edge is hard to soften. “I was under the impression it was against the Chantry's doctrine.” It's a little odd for Anders to be on the receiving end of a pep talk from Cullen, but he supposes it must not be entirely new to him now. Commanding soldiers to get along likely involved a bit of encouragement dashed with realism. It certainly sounds like Cullen’s familiar with it- despite Anders’s reservations, something about it seems sincere enough. Maybe it’s that air of religious confession in how Cullen is expressing what he has experienced in the last several years.

"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 has his own doubts.

So, like the Seekers of Truth. Yet another hypocrisy from the Chantry. Cassandra made it sound so serene (starve yourself until a spirit of faith fills you, until neither hunger nor thirst fills you, only your devotion towards the Maker, His words your only sustenance as he had done in that golden cage beset by demons so why had a spirit of faith not filled him, it was not fair it was not right it was not justice...)

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."

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Anders averts his gaze from Cullen quickly after the compliment sinks in, lest the (former) templar read his observation as anything like- Maker forbid- friendliness.

"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.

"But my friend is gone now. I corrupted him with my anger. I almost think his old vessel was preferable to what we did."

"Not completely," Cullen admits, reciprocating Anders' courage by staring back, "You're still you, despite your unfortunate passenger." And to Cullen it matters, a lot—it means Anders hasn't reached the point of depravity where forcing demons into people, turning them in abominations, is an option. There's still an Anders to salvage, still in control.

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.

[mageunderground]

( replying to stuff tomorrow

when will i stop being ill and sleeping 16 hours a day? who knows)

[mageunderground]

It makes him feel ill to imagine a Hawke that would go through the trouble of getting him a cat as an actual pet. It seems too impractical- a mouser was a possibility, but nothing that would just provide another mouth to feed when Anders was surviving off of donations.

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."

It's no guarantee that he won't. Just that he hasn't.

Hawke pouts. “Well, maybe I like my healers suspicious. Reminds me of home.” 

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. 

Then Anders drops a bombshell on him, and he suddenly understands the reason for the nervous tension that’s been hanging in the air since his arrival. “We… haven’t met?” He blinks, feeling earth-shatteringly stupid. “But that’s not possible. There can’t be two of you. Or two of me.” Maker, now there’s a terrifying thought. It’s so terrifying, in fact, that it’s probably yet another feature of this new reality that he’s been dropped into. “Can there be?”

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It isn't quite that Anders has a one-track mind, it's just that sexy delusions are more entertaining and less distasteful than hearing about the latest conspiracy or the other- blood mages making evil wine at the local tavern, for example. And this man's description of their time together has Anders fairly well convinced that he's telling the truth somehow. Anders has half a mind to ask about a birthmark in an intimate place just to verify it.

(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.

And he does, as if they are already connected. "I am a fellow Warden, and an ally. You are shirking your duties, mage." That last bit of mild irritation is directed at Anders, who holds his hands up with no effort to actually deny the accusation.

It's much more complicated than time magic, Zevran thinks, but that's a whole kettle of spoons he does not feel like getting into with this real but also probably not really real, younger version of the man he's supposedly gone exclusive with. Maker, things used to be simple once.

"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.

"So that is Justice."

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"I think you're overdue for some indulging," Anders confesses, though he does seem a bit overly conscious of the way that Zevran's semi-pilfered outfit traces the lines of his body. It's not nearly as layered as his usual clothing, though Zevran has done a good job of picking something that bridges the gap between Anders's comfort level and something that takes full advantage of the occasion.

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.

"I was more interested in Antivan parties, to be honest. Your nobles always sounded like they did more fun things with their money than just veiled insults."

It was only natural that when Zevran had heard about the ball that he would go directly to Anders to ask if the mage would perhaps be interested in being his date -- and, of course, he insisted he be the one to help Anders curate his ensemble the moment the man had said yes. No thrift store clothes for a fancy party, no matter how much his lover had complained at the money Zevran spent. If some of the pieces didn't exactly cost anything, due to a generous five finger discount, the assassin would not say. What matters is that now, tonight, Anders looks extraordinarily handsome, and Zevran is both happy to show him off and a little bit sad he has to share the sight with everyone else.

"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."

@mageunderground

[mageunderground]

(i am that "i'm bad, i'm doing bad" checking in meme thing so apologies for late replies! gonna try to write em today but sorry if the first ones are short, i'm really trying to get them all out)

[mageunderground]

(Sorry for the wait, working on replies some more)

[mageunderground]

(doing replies tomorrow 🫡 i worked out so hard i think i died a little bit

[mageunderground]

"I'm leaving my options open. I've never seen time magic, but I wouldn't be surprised to hear about it. And I'm sure that you can convince me by telling me all about that 'sordid love affair'. Spare no details, it could be important."

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.

"Any luck finding that Darkspawn nest, Justice?" Anders asks, not even blinking at the corpse emerging from the trees. Maker, he wishes the Warden Commander would make him wear a helmet.

"Near enough to it. Maybe a twenty minute walk, or whenever you start seeing the trees thin out."

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...

"That does sound like me." Anders offers, pursing his lips before he reaches past Zevran to tap at a tree. There's a diagonal notch in it at about eye level. He's been mapping out an escape route, whatever will get him to the Waking Sea fastest. "If you tell the other Wardens, I think you'll make a time paradox. Better not to."

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Anders rubs his face with his hands before placing them back on Pounce. That she hasn't run off at his display makes his eyes sting. Behavior better suited to a mabari, that. She should've left until she wanted something from him, like a proper cat.

"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.

"I don't know that you want to hear more about what I'm enduring, given you already know what happens later."

If it were not for Cole, if it were not for a decade plus between Kinloch Hold and himself, if it were not for Hawke, the knowledge this is one of Hawke's friends, then Cullen would've taken drastic measures due to what he's witnessing.

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."

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"Near enough to it. Maybe a twenty minute walk, or whenever you start seeing the trees thin out."

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...

"That does sound like me." Anders offers, pursing his lips before he reaches past Zevran to tap at a tree. There's a diagonal notch in it at about eye level. He's been mapping out an escape route, whatever will get him to the Waking Sea fastest. "If you tell the other Wardens, I think you'll make a time paradox. Better not to."

Amaranthine?

"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."

Maker, but the mage is going to think he's insane.

[mageunderground]

(Huge headache, will reply when I can 🪦