His first thought is that he's hallucinating. He's still reeling and dizzy from draining himself healing; it's been a long, hard day and he's been on the go since before dawn when he was awakened by hammering on the doors of the rudimentary little clinic he's been able to cobble together down here in Darktown over the past few months, with help from Lirene.
This morning it was several families carrying children and elders affected by chokedamp; then it was four miners carrying in a friend who'd been caught in a tunnel collapse; then a pregnant woman who took a tumble down the stairs from Lowtown (and Maker, but he's fairly certain she was pushed - he's treated her four times this month already, but she won't say anything and all he can do is make sure the baby is OK, patch her up and send her on her way again, helpless to do anything further; and the worst of it is, her problems aren't even that unusual here in Kirkwall - he sees far too many eyes blackened on doorknobs, bruises from tumbles down stairs, and worse), and finally the boy fished half-drowned out of the harbour.
And this is what passes for 'normal' for him now. Never knowing where his next meal is coming from, sharing what little he gets with his patients, refusing their coin, often healing until he drops from exhaustion. Sometimes he manages to make it to the bed in the curtained-off alcove that serves him for a bedroom; often he merely sprawls upon the nearest cot in the clinic. A couple of times, he's woken upon the floor of the clinic itself. But he doesn't complain. He's finally doing good with his magic; helping those even worse off than he is.
He's grown used to waking exhausted each day; he barely even notices the hunger pangs any more - much as he did in his year in solitary.
He blinks, but Fenris, Hawke, Varric and Bethany are still standing there in his clinic. They're staring at him aghast. He's aware he probably looks as disreputable as the people he treats these days; the coat he wears is shabby - a cast-off from a grateful patient. The feathers - a whimsical touch - are another cast-off, from one of the girls at the Blooming Rose; whenever the templars conduct one of their rare patrols through the slums, he takes up Madam Lucine on her offer of a bed for the night - the only fee he's ever charged for keeping her girls and boys free of disease. He generally has his pick of which room to sleep in amongst the cheaper whores - all of whom are glad to share their bed, as all he's ever really interested in is sleeping.
He's generally too exhausted to do much anyway.
He blinks again. Maker, he must be more exhausted than he thought; lost in his thoughts for a moment, and now they're looking frankly worried.
"Mage -" begins Fenris.
Something inside Anders snaps. He can't even bring himself to use my name! He points past Hawke at the elf.
"You - get out! Get out right now, and don't come back!" He is glad his voice doesn't shake as he glares at Fenris.
"Anders..." says Hawke quietly.
"I'll talk to you, Hawke, but not him. Not after what he did," he says quietly as he draws himself up straighter.
Hawke glances at Fenris, and the elf looks stricken for a moment then lowers his gaze to the ground, ears drooping, and goes outside.
"Maker, Blondie... what happened to you? Have you been down here all this time?" asks Varric. "You're half-starved!"
"The refugees don't have much by way of coin," Anders shrugs as he leans his staff against the wall. "What is this about, Hawke? You came here looking for something. You weren't expecting me - your reactions told me that much."
Varric and Hawke exchange glances.
"You're right," the woman says as she steps forward. "We had no idea you were here; if we had, we'd have come found you much sooner. We've been hunting for you all over Kirkwall -"
Anders snorts derisively. "Not all over Kirkwall, evidently," he points out.
"You're right," she nods. "It never occurred to any of us that you might be down here."
"Of course it didn't," says Anders as he glances away. "People come down to Darktown to be forgotten."
Hawke sighs. "Anders -"
He glances at her. "What did you come down here for, Hawke? What were you expecting to find?"
She huffs in annoyance. "Alright. We'll do it your way," she shrugs. "I'm after maps. A little bird told me you have maps that show the nearest entrances to the Deep Roads."
Anders fights the urge to swear. How did Hawke learn about that? He'd stolen those maps from a Grey Warden several weeks ago. He is certain there must be an exit into the sewers below the Gallows or the Chantry; he needs to get back inside to find someone.
Karl had taken a huge risk by stealing the templar's keys and setting up a diversion to allow Anders to escape. He has no idea how he found out Anders was being kept in the dungeon below the Chantry, but it's entirely all thanks to Karl he managed to make it out as far as Fenris' mansion. He needs to know Karl is alright - and to break him out if at all possible. When he overheard the Grey Warden talking about the Deep Roads beneath Kirkwall, Anders had figured perhaps they might show him what he needed, but the maps were useless, and he is no closer to getting in than before. He's managed to get a couple of notes to Karl, thanks to a couple of contacts, and he's had replies - the most recent last night, telling Anders to come meet him in the Chantry tonight. He's been thinking about it all day, but he can hardly just stroll into the Chantry alone.
Unless...
"Tell you what," he says slowly, regarding Hawke thoughtfully. "A favour for a favour. You help me, and the maps are yours."
"What kind of a favour?" asks Hawke.
"A... friend helped me break out of the Circle. He needs my help now. Come with me to the Chantry tonight, and I'll give you the maps." He smiles.
"Done," says Hawke.
Anders nods, and turns away. The others glance at each other, worried, before slowly heading towards the doors. Just as Hawke reaches for the handle, Anders calls back over his shoulder.
"Oh, Marian?"
The use of her name isn't lost on Hawke. "Yes, Anders?" Her tone is quiet, conciliatory.
"Don't bring Fenris."
His heart is racing; he feels queasy and nauseous. His palms are damp with sweat. He'd doused the lanterns outside a couple of hours ago and he should be on his way to the Chantry right now, but he feels sick with nerves.
What if it's a trap? What if Karl's not there?
What if Fenris is?
He paces and bites his lip. He can't not go. What if Karl is there, waiting? Needing him?
It's no good; he has to go. It's not as though he'd be going alone, after all - Hawke will be there, and Bethany, and Varric.
Not Fenris though. He'd told her not to bring the elf. He'd never known Marian Hawke to go back on her word.
He swallows hard. He'll have to walk through Hightown, risking templar patrols, but this is for Karl, and he knew Karl would risk just as much for him. Already had.
Maker, hadn't they both already risked so much just for each other? He loved Karl. This was no mere are we or aren't we fooling around as it had been with Fenris; Karl Thekla had been his first lover, and despite the danger they'd been lovers for nearly ten years before he was thrown in solitary. He'd tried to persuade Karl to come with him on that last escape, but he'd refused. I'm too old for such antics, love, he'd said softly. I'd only slow you down. Go, love; at least one of us should have the chance to be free.
"And look at me now, love," Anders murmurs to himself absently. "Nearly a year this time. And this time you're coming with me."
He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and picks up his staff.
It's a trap. Of course it's a trap. He should have known.
But oh, the sick feeling when Karl turns and he sees the sunburst brand upon his lover's pale forehead...
He doesn't really remember much of what happens after that. Templars, shouting; he fireballs the first man in armour he sees, and after that it's all a hazy nightmare of blood and fire and screaming, and then somehow Karl is down on the floor bleeding and Varric is apologising, even though it wasn't the dwarf's fault.
"He stepped in the way of that templar's sword before the templar could run you through - I'm sorry, Blondie, I couldn't take the bastard down before he hit him."
"It's alright, Varric," he hears himself saying, even as he cradles Karl and watches the light die behind his eyes. His vision swims, and he realises he's crying.
"Anders, we have to go," says Hawke urgently. "We have to get out of here."
He lets her drag him away; there's nothing here for him now. Karl's blood is on his hands - in more ways than one. It may have been a templar who took Karl's life, but he is dead because of Anders.
"He was trying to protect you," Bethany tells him. He looks up. Somehow, they're all back in the Hanged Man, and Isabela is there, pushing a glass of something into his hand. Bethany's words don't make any sense; Karl was Tranquil. Anders had no longer meant anything to him. He just happened to blunder in the way.
Anders ignores Bethany and knocks back the drink in his hand. It burns on the way down and he coughs, but he's glad of it because it's something he can actually feel, and he's been numb inside since he saw the brand upon Karl's forehead. Nothing feels real.
"Who was he?" asks Varric, and Anders smiles sadly.
"My first," he answers, and then suddenly he's crying, his whole body shuddering with the sobs, and he can't catch his breath and his chest hurts, almost as much as it did when Fenris had had his hand around his heart.
He should have torn it out, Anders thinks dully. Maybe Karl would still be alive if he had. It couldn't have hurt any more.
"Don't say that," says Hawke fiercely, and Anders blinks through his tears, unaware he'd even spoken aloud but she's shaking his shoulders, those fierce blue eyes staring into his. "Don't you ever say that. Templars are all bastards - don't blame yourself for what they do! You're a good man, Anders, and what happened was not your fault."
He tries to speak but he can't even seem to catch his breath between sobs. How can he make her understand?
There's a hand patting his back, and Hawke staring into his eyes, and it's all too much.
He pulls away, lurching to his feet. "I'm sorry. I'm - sorry," he manages, and then he's running.
Running away again. Always running away. But that's all he knows how to do anymore.
Hawke drops by the clinic a few days later on her own. Bartrand's expedition to the Deep Roads is in a week. She's finally got the coin she needed, and between that and the maps, Bartrand has agreed to make her a partner. And she wants Anders to come along with her.
"Will Fenris be there?" he asks, not glancing around as he continues rolling up bandages.
"Ye-e-es?" she ventures tentatively.
"Then no," he says tersely, turning away.
"Anders...!"
"He tried to kill me!" snaps Anders, throwing the bandage down and turning to glare at her. "The slavers would have killed him so I risked my own life, fighting to help him and healing that ungrateful bastard and he tried to kill me!" He glares at her.
"Anders, he's sorry -"
He laughs, disbelievingly. "He's sorry? And that makes it all better, does it?"
"No, but -"
"No. If he's coming, then I'm not." He turns away and folds his arms, not even making a pretence at rolling up bandages now. He's hurt and angry that she should even ask him after what that bloody elf did - what he nearly did. I trusted him. I cared for him. "I was a fool to ever think -" He snaps his mouth shut, refusing to give further voice to his thoughts.
"Anders," says Hawke softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Anders, I need you. I can't do this without you."
"And him?"
"I need him too," sighs Hawke. "Anders... please look at me..."
He turns, unwillingly. He knows. But he lets her turn him around, and he looks down into those piercing blue eyes.
"I need you, Anders," she repeats.
He hates himself. But he goes.
