#karl thekla

[antifa-boyfriend]

*thinks about kanders* oh god oh fuck ...

[wildbasil]

they deserved to be happy

[storybookhawke]

Posts as Dragon Age Characters (part 1)

[miraculan-draws]

hello its been 11 years and im not over the fact that “tranquility” was Anders’ RECRUITMENT QUEST smh that shit hurted Karl Thekla as Patroclus--click for full res, the canvas is a big boy

[laniardraws]

A comic inspired by this exchange:

[libartz]

NOOO THIS CHAR HAS DIED (sad) vs

NOOO THIS CHAR HAS DIED (there was so much potential)

[makerscockandballs]

[Image ID: The first panel depicts Anders from Dragon Age running up the stairs of the Chantry. A speech bubble from someone behind him reads “No, little german boy! Don’t go into the Chantry!”. In the second panel, Anders is shown next to tranquil Karl Thekla, looking severely distressed and saying “Oh mein Gott! Zees ist ein Church full of Oppressionen!” /. End ID]

[pinkfadespirit]

Werewolf Karl and Vampanders? 👀

Just dug this years old prompt out of my backlog because I've been having a lot of vampire Anders thoughts lately and felt inspired to finally answer it.

Contains blood drinking and references to abuse.

But it's also quite fluffy.

For @dadrunkwriting

The night air tasted sweet after weeks of being locked in that stuffy old house. Anders had been planning his escape for most of that time. The elders of his clan had been especially vigilant or it wouldn't have taken so long to succeed. They'd had someone posted outside his door at all hours and only ever opened it to bring him the odd rat to feed on. Anders couldn't understand how they thought punishing him in such a way was going to help the situation or make him feel any more inclined to stay and abide by the rules of the clan. 

But that hardly mattered now. Something had come up. Anders wasn't sure what the commotion was about. Maybe Jowan had been caught feeding by a human again or something like that. All Anders knew was that this was his chance to slip away. He picked the lock to his room and kept to the darkness, making use of his keen senses to be sure he wouldn't cross paths with anyone roaming the halls before he could slip out of the nearest window.

The plan had worked and he was free. For now. Anders didn't waste any time putting as much distance between himself and the house as he could manage. 

He had only one destination in mind. Or one person: Karl. Anders yearned for him to a degree that was actually painful. Though that might have just been the result of feeding on rats for the past two weeks. 

He didn't care. He had to see Karl. They hadn't spoken in all this time and Anders didn't know if Karl had guessed why he hadn't returned, or if he'd thought Anders had lost interest in seeing him. He had to explain. Preferably before they figured out where he'd gone and sent someone to drag him back. 

Karl's pack lived in one of the old foundry buildings in Lowtown. They weren't any happier about the idea of Karl and Anders spending time together than Anders' clan were. When Anders reached the Foundry District, he had to hide in the shadow of a building across the street and put all of his focus into an image of Karl in his mind before sending out a deliberate thought, I'm here.

A minute later, the very face he'd been picturing appeared in a grimy window. Anders felt some of the misery of the past fortnight lift at the mere sight of him. He didn't step all the way out of the shadows but he made himself a little more visible and Karl's sharp eyes focused on him through the darkness. Anders sensed his relief. Then, a moment later, his worry.

Come down to me, Anders thought.

Karl hesitated, just long enough that Anders began to worry that he really had assumed Anders had stayed away from him on purpose. But then he nodded. Anders stepped back further into the darkness, further into the closest alleyway, where he waited for Karl to sneak away. 

When Karl reappeared a short while later and Anders had to restrain himself from throwing himself at him. Just the sight of Karl was enough to make him giddy, getting that much closer would probably lead to doing something inadvisable. But every part of Anders longed for it. Instead, he took a moment to steady himself and took Karl's hand. “Let's get out of here?”

“I'm not sure how wise that would be.” Karl glanced upwards and Anders followed his gaze, taking in the sight of the moon, just visible between the gap in the tall foundry buildings. It wasn't quite full, but it was getting there. 

“Oh. Shit.” After spending the past two weeks imprisoned in his own home, he hadn't given any thought to what time of the month it might be. He looked back to Karl and now he could make out the usual tension that took over his body in the days leading up to his transformation. It might be more fair to him to quickly explain what happened then send him back inside, but Anders couldn't stand the thought of letting go that quickly. “It doesn't have to be for long. I just needed to see you.”

Apparently it was the right thing to say. Karl's expression softened in a way that suggested he understood. Though not entirely free of worry, he nodded. “The usual spot?”

Anders grinned at him. 

The usual spot was an abandoned building by the docks. The doors and windows were boarded up but it was an easy jump to a ledge on the first floor and just a few more leaps from there to reach the rooftop. The view from there was of the harbour, which in Kirkwall wasn't exactly a pretty sight but the sound of the waves was a soothing one at least. 

Karl's company more than made up for all the rest.

“I didn't mean to stay away for so long,” Anders explained, finally. “They locked me up. The bastards.”

“Then they found out about your last visit. I was worried that was it.”

“Yeah… I'm sorry, Karl. I wouldn't have chosen to stay away.”

They were sitting at the edge of the roof, legs hanging over the side. Anders reached out to put a hand over Karl's. Karl turned to look at him, with a sweet smile just visible beneath his slightly scruffy beard. It had grown out a little longer than he liked it. It always grew too fast and on the days before the full moon he always felt too agitated to bother taking care of it. 

Right now at least, he looked at peace and it made Anders relax a little too.

“I'm glad. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Karl. You have no idea…”

Karl looked into his eyes as though trying to understand the depths of Anders’ longing. It made him wish for a deeper connection, to let all of his feelings spill over so there could be no doubt of how he had consumed his thoughts, his heart, everything.

All he could do for now was lean in and kiss him softly. Karl responded like he'd been waiting for Anders to do that. He sighed happily, despite the desire for more lurking behind it all. The urgency of his need was a little concerning. Coming here without feeding first definitely wasn't one of his better ideas. He wouldn't hurt Karl, though. He never could. Only when he was sure that his willpower would hold did he move in for a hug. The comfort of wrapping his arms around Karl and holding him close was probably about equal with the discomfort of ignoring the urge to bite down on the soft skin of his neck, where he'd tucked his face in close. Karl had the distinct smell of a wolf about him. It was a scent that probably should have been off-putting to a vampire but, on him, Anders rather enjoyed it. It just smelled like Karl and that was comforting in itself.

He drew back just a little, raising his head and rubbing his cheek against the soft bristles of Karl's beard. He whispered in his ear. “How would you feel about me having a little taste?”

“This close to the full moon? I'm not sure how well I can control myself if you bite me.”

It wasn't meant like a challenge but Anders smirked all the same. “I'm sure I can handle myself.”

Karl raised an eyebrow, but he was clearly at least half amused. “Are you sure about that?”

“I'm a lot stronger than I look.”

Anders proved it when, in an instant, he turned and straddled Karl's waist and pushed him back against the ground. He gripped Karl's wrists in his hands while at the same time trying to project an air of playfulness in the same way he'd sent his thoughts to Karl earlier in the evening, just so that he wouldn't get the wrong idea. He had no intention of trying to force him into it if he didn't want to. It seemed to do the trick in getting Karl to relax. His pupils grew wide. Anders could feel his desire radiating off him. Which just made this all so much more fun. He let go of Karl's wrists and trailed his hands lightly along his arms, giving him the chance to let Anders know if he didn't want him to keep going.

“Do it,” Karl whispered instead and Anders smiled.

His hands had reached the collar of Karl's jacket and Anders pushed it aside as he leaned forward and lowered his face towards Karl's neck. His other hand came up to cradle the back of Karl's head while he dragged his nose along the bared skin of his throat, taking in that strange scent he enjoyed so much.

He couldn't wait much longer than that. Anders was starving and Karl was everything he wanted.

In the moments that followed, the taste of blood on his tongue, the feeling of intense thirst being quenched at long last, all of this was nothing compared to the sense of connection he felt with Karl in that moment. He let that joy of being close to him spill over at last, while taking in how intensely the feeling was returned by Karl himself. Anders thought that feeling might prove to be as addictive as the blood itself. It would be so easy to lose himself in it. But it was important that he didn't. He loved Karl. He would never hurt him.

With that thought in mind, Anders drew back. 

“Karl,” he began, when he could bring himself to form words, "are you… was that okay?”

For a moment Karl just blinked up at him. Then he reached up and dragged Anders' mouth down to his. Even with the taste of his own blood fresh on Anders' lips, he kissed him hard. Anders returned the kiss with equal fervour. He had just enough of his wits about him to bring his fingers to Karl's neck; just a touch of healing magic so that he needn’t worry about Karl losing any more blood. 

Later, Anders lay with his head on Karl's chest, while they tried to hold onto the feeling of what they'd just shared for a little while longer before Karl had to return to his pack. 

“I know now isn't a good time,” Anders said quietly, thinking of the moon hanging over them and what it would mean for Karl in the next few days, “but when we can, let's get out of here. Somewhere far away, just the two of us. No more worrying about my clan's stupid rules, or ancient rivalries that say we can never be together. That shouldn't matter. What should matter is how we feel about each other.”

He looked up then to see Karl gazing warmly at him. “I couldn't agree more.”

“Then you'll do it? You’ll run away with me?”

Karl tugged him closer, so that he could kiss Anders' smiling mouth. “I will,” he whispered against his lips. “I don't intend to let them take you from me again.”

[daisymeade]

Kinloch Hold 9:26, colorized

[thiefbird]

Happy Friday! I'm not sure what pairings you're into but since I saw your blog title was Anders Trash, how about "[They] looked into my eyes and uttered four simple words. Those words changed everything." for him?

Happy Friday! This one is long and bittersweet: Kanders and pre m!Handers for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

Hawke had stopped in at the Darktown clinic on his way back from the Wounded Coast, as usual, pockets and pack filled near to bursting with threadbare scavenged clothes and herbs. He'd offered Anders coin, too, when he'd gotten his first profits from the Bone Pit, but the man steadfastly refused any pay but his cut of any work he tagged along for.

Hawke probably would have found his refusal irritating if he hadn't been head over heels in love with him, but he'd long since accepted that he was incapable of being objective where Anders was concerned, so he called it selfless, and chose to hunt down and carry pounds and pounds of elfroot, embrium, and orichalcum back from each journey out of the city.

It was a rare quiet day in the clinic; good weather meant that there were less illnesses, and less accidents from slipping on wet stone. Lirene was rolling bandages--made from previous selections of torn trousers--in the corner, and against the back wall, Anders was bent over a fire, stirring a small pot of simmering green liquid.

He looked back over his shoulder at the clank of Hawke dropping his helmet on a cot, and smiled warmly. "The wandering hero returns! How was the coast?" he asked, pulling the potion off the fire with his bare hands.

Hawke cringed, even as he recognized the pattern of frost protecting Anders' palms. "Less bandit-y than it was a week ago, at the very least. Less full of herbs, too: between myself and Merrill, I think we picked a tree's worth of elfroot," Hawke joked, slipping his pack off his shoulder and dropping it, exaggerating the effort it took to hold it.

Anders' eyes widened as he saw the bulging pack. "Tell me that's not all elfroot, Hawke," he muttered, setting his pot on a flat stone and moving to take a closer look. "I don't know if I have enough space to dry that much."

"No, not all. Found you some stuff to turn into rags and bandages, too, and the orichalcuk and embrium you needed." He paused, hand in his pocket as he debated with himself, as he had the entire walk back.

Merrill had been the first to spot it, crouching in thy grass to peer curiously at the tiny white flowers. "I've never seen these before!" she'd said, waving Hawke and Varric over. "Is it useful? It's very pretty!"

Hawke had recognized the white petals and red center from his father's botanical compendium, the one he'd stolen from the Gallows the night he'd eloped with Leandra. "It's Andraste’s Grace, I think. It, uh... it's not really useful for humans, but it can be used in a potion that can cure the Taint in mabari."

Merrill had looked a little disappointed as she slowly straightened up. "I guess we had better leave it, then," she'd murmured reluctantly. "If we can't use it."

Varric made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and deftly plucked one of the myriad blossoms. "Nonsense, Daisy. No one said you can only have useful flowers." He bowed dramatically, holding the flower towards her, and Merrill giggled as she took it from him.

"Thank you, Varric. Do you think Anders would like some? He spends so much time in his clinic, and i know it's in the nicer part of Darktown, not the very sewery bit, but I think some flowers would help."

And that was how Hawke came to be standing awkwardly in Anders' clinic, a bouquet of Andraste’s Grace oh-so-carefully tucked in a pocket, the image of a nobleman preparing to court a blushing maid. The idea was so ridiculous he nearly left, but...

No. He wouldn't back out now. He couldn't. Knowing his luck, Merrill would ask Anders if he'd liked the bouquet, and that would be worse.

"I also found these," he muttered, pulling the small, brilliantly white flowers from his pocket as he carefully avoided Anders' eyes. "Andraste’s Grace. I- we- Merrill and I thought they might cheer up the clinic."

There was a too-long pause, and Hawke risked a passing glance at Anders' face. The older man's expression was indecipherable, and Hawke felt himself flush. "If you don't like them, or you're allergic, or... I'll just leave. I'm sorry," he mumbled, turning towards the door. Maybe he'd forgotten some important meaning in the years since he'd read about them, and he'd just told Anders to go to the Void, or threatened to burn him like the flowers' namesake.

"No, no, wait. Hawke!" Anders called, voice cracking miserably on his name. "They're beautiful. I just..."

Another quick glance up from the floor revealed the unmistakable gleam of unshed years in Anders' eyes as the mage dropped into his rickety chair. "They were his favorite flowers. Karl's. He'd found a clump the day his magic manifested."

Hawke swallowed down the instinctive groan of self-loathing. Trust him to pick the most emotionally loaded bouquet in the all of Thedas. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be," Anders said after clearing his throat. "I've... I've never seen any in person. They really are beautiful...

"He always said he'd find a way to give me one, once we got out. Fanciful plans, realistic ones, they all had that in common: once we were free, really free, we would find Andraste’s Grace." He choked on a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob, and absently spun the lyrium-banded ring he'd taken from Karl's corpse.

Hawke stepped closer, setting the bundle of tiny flowers on the desk in front of Anders. "You were planning to run?"

Anders chuckled humorless. "I'd already run five or six times before that. They always caught me again; phylacteries are a crueler evil than any blood magic Merrill or Surana could ever wield. But this time, this time we were going to run together.

"One of the Templars thought it was romantic," Anders continued, spite tingeing his voice. "She said she'd leave a door to the outside unlocked for us. We'd go north, Tevinter or Rivain, somewhere the Chantry couldn't get us, and we'd be free."

Hawke didn't want to ask. He'd been there for the ending of this story, that horrible, heartbreaking night. But he'd never heard Anders talk about Karl before. "What happened?" he asked, barely louder than a whisper.

Anders didn't answer immediately, brushing his thumb back and forth over the petals. "Changed her mind. Told the Knight-Commander, the First Enchanter. Told them we were- that we planned to run. They sent him to the Gallows that night; he didn't even get to pack.

"She was the one who told me. The next morning; she woke me up, stood over me in my bed. She looked me in the eyes and said four simple words. 'Thekla's left for Kirkwall.' Those words changed everything."

Finally, Anders picked up the flowers, holding them to his face and inhaling their delicate scent. "We're free, Karl," he whispered, barely audible; Hawke felt like the intruding third wheel to Anders and his overwhelming grief. "We're free of them for good, and I have Andraste's Grace."]

[sulky-valkyrie]

at your leisure, of course

how about "hiding face in neck" or "hug around the waist" for Kanders?

happy Friday! for @dadrunkwriting

"Come on!"

The words had barely registered before Anders was tugging Karl from his chair, looping an arm around his waist, and dragging him off to Maker knew where.  He let himself be hauled along, perplexed but amused.  "Where are we going?"

"You'll love it," Anders non-answered excitedly, pulling harder.  "They haven't found it yet."

Oh no.  'They' could only mean Templars.  He shortened his stride, forcing Anders to slow down or let go.  "What's happened?"

"It's fine," Anders insisted.

Karl stopped dead in the hallway; Anders' momentum swung him around, nearly into the wall.  "It's not fine," he said firmly.  "They target you enough already, and I'm not letting you-"

Anders kissed him.

It was reckless, doing it out in the open, but that was Anders.  He was impulsive to a fault, a wild creature who refused to be tamed.  And Karl loved him.  More than was safe or wise: the only reckless decision he'd ever made.  Not in loving him - he'd never have been able to stop that - but acting on it. So he returned that foolish kiss, pressing him against the wall, praying it wouldn't end in Templar gauntlets dragging them apart.

They finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, and Karl tried to pick up where he left off.  "Too many risks, Anders.  It's not worth it, whatever you found."

"It is if you hurry."  With that, Anders grinned again and caught his hand dragging him up another floor to the senior mage quarters.  Karl sighed and let himself be led - he never could tell Anders no.  Not really.

They ended up in a tiny supply closet, but a quick burst of force magic shifted the bookcase, revealing a narrow winding staircase.  Anders released Karl's hand and scooted inside and up, bending over to avoid bumping his head on the low ceiling.  Karl followed him, now curious.

The stairs went up for at least two floors.  Perhaps more, since there were no windows or landings Karl could use to measure his progress.  All he knew for certain was that his knees were protesting by the time he reached the top and found Anders practically bouncing by a small wooden door.

"Ready?" he asked, still grinning.

Karl just nodded as he tried to catch his breath.  Anders grabbed his hand again, kissed it, the threw the door open.

It was a rooftop.  Wholly unremarkable. A no-doubt-stolen blanket was laid out on the stone, and next to it was a small basket.  Karl frowned in confusion.  "You shouldn't have -"

"Look up, ninny!" Anders interrupted impatiently.

He did, and gasped.  Stars.  Not drawings, not a complex illusion used in the more advanced astronomy classes.  Actual stars.  He hadn’t seen them in years.  Tears pricked at his eyes as he tugged Anders close, then buried his face in his neck.  "Thank you."

[lesetoilesfous]

“And I can hear the sirens but I cannot walk away.” For Kanders?

Aaaaaaah such a good quote (also hi!! <3)

(If you’d like me to write you a da2 fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Anders/Karl Thekla

Characters: Anders, Karl Thekla

Tags: urban fantasy AU, the circle is fucked, so police brutality, discrimination, traumatised people trying to stay alive

Rating: Mature

The problem with Anders is that he doesn't actually care if they kill him. Karl stares at the tall, wounded, beautiful, furious man in front of him. "What do you mean you punched him?"

Anders' teeth flash like lightning in the dark when he grins. "I mean I broke his fucking nose." Outside of the alley they're hiding in, traffic rushes with an oceanic roar like blood pumping through the veins of the city. Anders' hair pulls across his face in strands of bloody gold. Every muscle in Karl's body aches.

"On the street? In public?" He asks, dumbly, because there's nothing else to ask. It's so cold he can feel it in his legs through his jeans.

Anders is nothing but restless movement, bouncing on worn sneakers which are peeling apart at the seams like old scabs. "Well I wasn't exactly going to let him touch Brianna, was I? Not after what he did."

Karl's heart drops like a stone into his stomach. "What did he do?"

Anders snorts, and the sound is sharp through his long, thin nose. He waves it off with a flurry of long fingers, long since bent crooked through breaking. "What didn't he do? Templar shit, I don't need to tell you." And at that his brown eyes find Karl's, bright suddenly with unsettling sympathy. Karl looks away, swallows, steadies himself.

"No, I mean, what did he do to you?"

Anders shrugs, and his broad shoulders are a little too wide for his malnourished body. "Same as everyone else." But the wind falls out of him a little, and he shoves a hand into his stone-bleached, too-tight skinny jeans. His expression is furtive now, and he leans back into the shadows. He won't meet Karl's eyes.

That's enough of an answer. Karl isn't sure whether he leans forward or the world just tilts, understanding that in the story of this moment there is no law of reality that will allow he and Anders to be parted. Anders crumples onto and around him, half a foot taller than he is but far too skinny for it, and Karl carries him easily, as he has always done.

With Anders' long arms wrapped around his back like clinging vines, Karl feels his heartbeat settle. The cotton and sweat smell of his boyfriend has some chemical impact on his body, and the magic in it, and both ease feeling him here, warm and safe and alive. Karl cups his hand around the back of Anders' head, stroking his warm, dirty, tangled hair and pressing a kiss to his cheek. It tastes of salt.

Karl says, calmly, "I'll kill him, if you want me to."

Anders snorts again, this time muffled against Karl's hoodie, though his arms tighten around him. Then he turns his head, resting his cheek on Karl's shoulder but looking away from his face. "He really isn't unusual, you know."

Karl squeezes Anders' back, and imagines he can feel his scars through the patch-quilted fabric of his jacket. "That doesn't make it better."

Anders shifts, turning to face Karl. There's a grazing of light gold stubble scratched around the sharp-line of his jaw and shading down his throat. He opens his mouth, and goes to speak.

Sirens cut through the dark: different from the police, the fire department, even an ambulance. Whatever Anders was going to say dies in his throat, and he pulls himself roughly out of Karl's arms. Karl feels as if he tears something out of his body with him.

Anders bounces onto the balls of his feet, peering out at the street over Karl's shoulder. "I have to go, I can't be seen with you." He moves to start running and Karl stops him, pushing a palm into his chest. He can feel the thrumming of Anders' heart like a hummingbird beneath his skin, barely slowed by his touch. Anders' mouth pulls down. "Karl, this is dangerous."

Karl feels as if roots are spreading from his feet into the bones of Kirkwall itself. He feels as if he could stand in front of a hurricane and not let it move him. "I know. I'm not leaving you."

Anders blinks, and his eyes glitter like rhinestones in the half-dark. Then he leans forward, long, uneven, cold hands pressing tightly on either side of Karl's face as he kisses him. His nose presses stiffly into Karl's cheek, and his stubble grazes his chin, and Karl doesn't care because he's hot and sweet and wet with life, and when Karl breathes he breathes the same air that's filling Anders' lungs.

Time dilates. The traffic slows. Karl imagines the waves, far below them at the base of the cliffs, freezing in iridescent shimmers, caught in the act of shattering.

Then Anders shoves him, hard, away from him against the alley wall, and sprints. Karl stumbles, hitting his head on the bricks, and gasps, dizzy. By the time he's collected himself more than 10 seconds have passed, and Anders in all his long-legged glory has disappeared into the dark.

For a long moment, Karl just stares into the night: at the empty, trash strewn street and the cars parked along the curb. At the shops shut behind steel grilles and tattooed with old graffiti, itself covered over with more ink like layers of sediment. Discarded needles and canisters and broken glass glitter like snow beside the flecks of mica in the pavement. Karl's chest aches.

Headlights illuminate one of the cars, turning them alternately molten gold, and Karl presses himself back into the alley, heart hurling itself hard enough into his throat to make him gag.

A Templar patrol car cruises slowly down the street, engine purring like a big cat. Karl presses his palms to the bricks, and blinks rapidly against the sudden salt stinging of tears in his eyes. The car slows almost to a stop at the mouth of the alley, and Karl realises abruptly that he's trapped. He wants to throw up.

Then there's a chime, like a bell, a shattering and sudden huff of flame as a molotov cocktail explodes on one of the cars behind the templars. Anders' voice rings into the night, laughing, "Hey, assholes!"

The car screeches into pursuit, tires squealing against the road, and by all rights its engine should have drowned out the slap of Anders' shitty old sneakers on the tarmac. But Karl hears them, keeping time with his heartbeat, until long after the car's motor has faded into the night.

[storybookhawke]

when characters call each other "baby," "sweetheart," n other pet names

when Anders and Karl Thekla say "my love"

[vigilskeep]

if i had a nickel for every time in dragon age i met my character’s boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend who had alistair’s haircut and then we killed him by the end of the scene, i’d have two nickels. that’s not a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice

[meowmeowmage]

If Karl had lived. What do you think would have changed?

Presuming Karl was given the personality trait of being just as anti-Circle as Anders is (which would've been the only logical thing but bioware does love to write mages who're all too ready to lick their oppressors' boots so who knows) it would've meant that the narrative couldn't isolate Anders's voice and opinions anymore, nor treat him like he's delusional about them. Considering we only have him for the pro-mage side, yet we have 2 (+1 dlc) companions pushing the pro-templar side, Karl being alive would've made the separation of opinions a little bit more equal. Can't have that ofc..

On the less salty side of things - Karl's survival would've played a positive note for Anders. The rivalmance probably wouldn't have happened (it still boggles my mind that it can at all) if Anders had a close friend to let him know exactly how fucked up whatever he has going on with a templar supporting Hawke is. That is, presuming that Karl and Anders are not together. Also, I don't think Anders would've let Hawke be his judge at the end fo the game if Karl was alive. Karl would've been a safety net and support for Anders, which Anders desperately needs.

On the delicious side of things - Hawke pining for Anders and angsting that he doesn't have a chance with him (except he does). Him getting jealous. All things right up my alley haha

Peak deliciousness tho (which we wouldn't have ever gotten) - Hawke/Anders/Karl where Andere is taken great care of by his two supportive revolutionary boyfriends.

[midnightprelude]

Major Arcana: Hanged Man

Written by @oftachancer and I for the @30daysofdorian event!

Masterpost | First | Previous | Next

CW: Southern Circles of Magi; conversion therapy (aftermath); successful blood magic ritual; recovering from trauma

The Circles in the South were appalling. That was all Dorian could think, over and over, as he followed the novice away from where his father was amiably chatting with one of the elder scions of the Gallows. An apt name for such a cold place. Cold - in the air, seeping into the stones. Cold - in the study of eyes behind heavy place helmets. 

“And this is the library,” Karl Thekla said as he pushed a narrow door open into a dark and crowded room.

Dorian fought a sneeze. “Oh, yes, very nice.” He could have fit three of them into the library at Qarinus. “Your lamps seem to have gone out.”

Karl shook his head. He was a broad sort of fellow with soft blue eyes and an impressively well kept beard. “We had an ordinance from the Council. No more magelight.”

“…they want you to use… open flames… in a library?” Dorian asked slowly. “Does this ‘council’ know that books are typically made of paper and parchment and therefore are quite flammable?”

“Hm,” Karl answered him, smiling and noncommittal. “We have your paper on interdimensional temporal analogs. I’ll show you.”

“Gladly.” More than he expected from a glorified prison. The reason his father had thought to bring him to this dismal place was entirely unclear to him. They hadn’t seen the sun once since they’d set foot underneath those ominous statues in the port—men and women twisted in expressions of agony—and Dorian was wondering if he would return to Tevinter with a deathly pallor. “What manner of study do you conduct here, Karl?”

“This and that. I used to-“ He shook his head, drawing a long drawer out crowded with scrolls. “Mostly, I help the elders with their work. Keep the books organized. That’s a task that takes a fair bit of time as you can imagine.” He poked through the scrolls, checking labels by the flicker of a flame through glass. “What is it like?” he asked quietly. “Up there?”

It was the first time Karl had asked anything of the sort and it caught him off guard. How much was he supposed to say? Would it hurt father’s business if he confided in the apprentice? Dorian glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice. “In Tevinter, the land is so riddled with magic it seeps into the soil. It makes everything hum, feel more alive. I hadn’t noticed it until the first time I left. The world feels dead here.” He dropped his gaze, tucking his hands into his pockets. “No offense.” They had a mage, manually organizing scrolls. It seemed a dull, meaningless, unnecessary sort of task. “What do you mean: you ‘used to’?”

“Before they moved me here. I’m from Ferelden. I trained hounds and pigeons and hawks there.” Karl’s smile softened. “It was my home. I was in love.” He cleared his throat as one of the plate-clad Templars walked past them, lifting one of the scrolls. “Here you are, my lord.” And Dorian had a sudden rushing sensation that the man’s quiet, happy smiles since he’d met him that morning were largely for the benefit of the people guarding him. 

More like a prison than he’d believed. 

As the footsteps faded, Karl took the scroll back with a shake of his head. “You don’t want that. It’s a history of spoons. Actually, there’s an interesting little section on filigrees, but… One moment, I’ll find the paper. I had some questions actually. Quite a bit was censored before it reached us. Is your tour taking you as far as Ferelden?”

“No, not quite so far as that. Montsimmard is our last stop.” Ferelden was a backwater, his father had said, with little but fleas and rain. Karl had seemed pleasant enough, though. If he’d come from Ferelden, it couldn’t be that bad, could it? “Would you have me send a message to her on your behalf?”

“Him.” Karl bowed his head. “I’d be grateful if you would try. I’m not certain if they’re getting stopped on my end or his. Haven’t had word from him in months and the man’s a chatterbox. Ah, here we are.” He drew a scroll free with a gilded baton and a series of inscriptions on its sheath. 

Him? A man? 

“You see when we received the shipment, it had to go through a border station - all the scrolls from Tevinter do - and they’ve made a muddle of specifics in section four…”

Dorian blinked. He was staring at his own manuscript, but all of the details were wrong. Sigils misplaced, text blotted out. He winced, shaking his head. “Anyone who tried to use this would be incinerated, at best. It’s utterly useless as written.”

“We had gathered as much,” Karl surmised, gently touching the parchment as though it could be valued as anything more than kindling. “Terrence did try, despite my warning, poor man. Dreamers will dream. Still, the summary was inspiring. I had a theory…” He set the scroll down and glanced over his shoulder, drawing a long folded sheet of papers from inside of his robe and carefully shifting his broad shoulders to conceal them in a corner. “That this might be closer to what had been intended? I don’t see why they bother mucking about with these things. It’s not as though we’re likely to get ahold of the lyrium, let alone the ingredients required. Still. Makes them happy. I guess that’s something.”

Dorian studied the scroll, humming to himself. A bit of a brutalist approach, surely, but it was nearly there. He traced a few sigils with his fingertip, lines appearing burnished into the parchment. “Not a bad go of it.”

“High praise,” Karl breathed, casting a quick grin in his direction. “I’m a glutton for theory. Yes. That- I wouldn’t have thought of it that way. Thank you.”

“As am I,” Dorian murmured, ducking his head. It had only been a spell to harness energy from storms. Why in the world had it been fiddled with? Why had they banned magelight, of all bloody things? Why had Karl been taken from his home? Was it because of- A fog seemed to creep into his mind then, slow and opaque, making it difficult to think. Karl was rolling up a piece of parchment and stowing it away. “I apologize, what was it we were speaking of?”

“What weren’t we speaking of?” Karl asked with a little roll of his eyes, waiting again for the heavy footfalls of a Templar to pass. “Magic in the soil, you said? Anders would bloody love that.”

“Anders?” Dorian asked softly.

Karl nodded once, his smile warming, his eyes softening. “That’s one of his names. One of many. Too brilliant to have just the one.”

“…and you love this-“ Dorian blinked, something not quite making sense. “This Anders. From Ferelden.”

“From the top of my head to the tips of my toes. And the backs of my knees. Definitely those.” Karl ducked his head, nodding down the row of books. “Do you want to see- he does these drawings of cats that are amazing. I’ve them in my chamber.”

“Cats,” Dorian repeated, bewildered. This man has just admitted to a near stranger that he- Love. The death of duty, his father had said. A fool’s solace. Dorian nodded his head, too confused to protest. “Yes, why don’t you- I’d be interested in seeing them.”

So he followed the initiate down the hallway and around a corner, up a staircase and around another bend until they reached another narrow door. Karl ducked inside, waving at the door. “Shut that?” he asked, kneeling and pulling a board from the wall under the window to draw a pile of papers from the floor. “Just need a moment to find them.”

It took him more than a moment, untying ribbons and retying them, sorting the piles of papers into stacks around the floor like a squirrel with its hoard of nuts. Letters. Notes. Sketches of animals. Karl grinned, collecting a few deeply-creased papers that had clearly been folded and unfolded many times and held them out. “See. He can get all the poses. Impressive, yeah?”

Dorian stared at the paper in his hands, holding it like it was a priceless artifact. To Karl, it certainly was. There were five depictions of the same cat, with the inscription ‘Prince Fuzzybum’ emblazoned along the top in an inelegant scrawl. Sleeping peacefully, batting at a butterfly, lying on its back, curled into a ball, and licking its lips lazily, the chubby striped cat was caught forever on the tattered parchment. Something in Dorian’s chest ached. “Very impressive,” he agreed, feeling dizzy. “Why are you here, instead of there?”

Karl’s proud smile slipped as he took the paper back, carefully smoothing it with his thumb. “It’s safer this way. It’s supposed to be,” he added, the furrow between his brows deepening. “I thought it would be. I’m not so sure anymore. I suppose that’s not really a thing, up north, is it? Mages not being allowed to- Because the Chantry says we’re supposed to put Andraste above all else. I tried to, for a long time.” He laughed a little. “She can’t compete with Anders. Too bad for her.”

Family above all else. The Imperium above all else. Perhaps they weren’t so different, after all. 

A sharp pain shot through his temples and Dorian doubled over, reaching towards the other man for support. His vision blurred, his stomach lurching.

“What-“ Dorian muttered, feeling as though he might spill the contents of his stomach. “Where-“

Karl’s hands were steady on his shoulders. Warm. More slender than they’d seemed. “I’m with you. You’re alright.” The deep Ferelden accent was gone, replaced by clipped consonants from the inner lakes and rounded Carastes vowels. “You’re strong. Be in this moment.”

There was something so familiar in that voice, but the moment Dorian had the thought, it slipped away like sand through his fingertips. He leaned into the touch, his frame shaking violently.

“Which moment?” Dorian whispered, but his own voice sounded far away and warped. “Where am I?”

“He told you about the man he loves,” Karl said slowly in a voice that wasn’t his own, watching him. Something about the way he watched - solemn and steady - felt so familiar. Familiar like the voice. “And you told him. You told him- What did you tell him, Dorian?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian whispered, his voice catching in his throat. “I can’t- I don’t-“

“Skin like whisky?” Karl laughed, the Ferelden drawl returned with gusto as he leaned against the bed a few feet away. He had a few papers in his hands. “You’re a poet. You need to help me write something better. Mine are all: ‘your hair is good, I want to pull it’.”

Whisky?

Pull?

Dorian felt ill.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I can help you,” Dorian coughed, bile on his tongue. “I wish I could. I don’t- I’m afraid I don’t know how.”

Skin like fine whisky, eyes like mossy pools. He could spend an eternity studying the myriad shades in those irises and never grow tired. Trace the curve of that smirk with his fingertips and still never understand all of its facets. He could-

What?

What could he- 

Why couldn’t he-

Dorian wrapped his arms around himself, closing his eyes tightly.

What did you tell him?

What did he say? 

Where was he? 

Why was everything agonizing?

“He sounds,” Karl was saying, his voice fading in and out, lost in a conversation that Dorian couldn’t quite keep up with, “and I say this with the utmost respect for your lover, like a nerd.”

He-

Dorian doubled over onto the ground, his hands pressed onto the cold, unforgiving stone.

His lover. His lover.

My-

He gasped, crying out in pain, his insides feeling as though they’d been set alight. 

“He sees the world in color and light, hears his magic like music,” his own voice was saying, though his lips didn’t move. Burning, scorching his skin, searing his lungs. “He makes me feel whole, for the first time in my life.”

“Yeah,” Karl sighed, resting his head back against the straw mattress. “Yeah. That’s the stuff. That’s the whole thing. I miss him every minute of every day, you know? How long until you get to go back to yours?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian heard himself admit softly. “He’s training with a Rivaini spiritsinger. I haven’t heard from him in months.”

Who?

Who was he-

“You write my letter and I’ll write yours. Maybe we can confuse the blokes into actually answering,” Karl suggested with a wink. “Keep them on their toes.” 

How could he not remember? Why did everything hurt?

Dorian’s voice was a dim echo, as though heard from underwater. “Yes, why don’t we? Perhaps that will catch their attention.”

“You’re lucky,” Karl said, sprawling on the floor to write. “To love out loud. To see the clouds when you want. Don’t take that for granted.” 

“I won’t,” Dorian said, through another’s mouth, the vision fragmenting and shifting. Aloud. Somehow the word felt wrong. “I promise.”