ataraxion | video | the hero begging change his sword across his knees

[Count on another ren faire escapee to trigger an accidental video (or...perhaps not so accidental, although he's certainly ignoring the device at first) as he wrecks electrical mayhem in the holodeck. It's an impressive lightning storm, if you go in for that kind of thing, the figure in the center of it blindingly illuminated as electricity arcs and scorches in wide blazing bursts, the triggered sprinkler system doing nothing to quell it.

Eventually, it dies down, and the man in the middle of it with a rather ragged beard takes a swig from a bottle.]

You know, [he says, conversationally; this isn't an accident, then] I think we ought to vote on a name change for this Maker accursed ship. My darling friend Isabela hinted to me once--pirate captain, lovely woman, would rob you blind in a flash--I believe hinted to me that renaming a ship and properly anointing it with--ah, 'dancing' and alcohol could shift a curse. What with all the murder and mayhem and general poor attitudes I believe we're overdue!

I say we call her the good ship Meredith. But that's only after an old friend. Absolutely mad and murderous. I think it's fitting--oh, oh, or The Death Trap! Something spooky and doom inducing, at least. Who's with me?

[He fixes the camera with his most dazzling (soaked, drunk) smile.]

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"It cost..."

But how many innocent mages have died for the Chantry? How many families were torn apart? Garrett grew up running and hiding, always aware one slip could end in him and Bethany captured or dead. The hatred of mages was part of what turned his own brother against him. How many times has mage been hissed or spat like a slur? How many times, worse, was Garrett told he was one of the good ones?

"I don't know what's right anymore," he admits, quietly. That's always been the trouble with him. Some things aren't easy to paint one way or the other, and they're always the ones closest to his heart. Perhaps he was naive to think it could have ended any other way. "All I know is that I'm tired--"

Of everything. Tired of it all. Garrett has never entertained morbid thoughts, but lately--the Void, he thinks, would be peaceful. Quiet. No more obligations.

"I'm tired of not having you with me. I love you. I want you here, where you belong. If you'll have me." Because he believes in that still. All his bitterness couldn't choke his faith--that Anders cares, even if Garrett is second to the cause. And it isn't like Garrett is in the way, is he?

Something inside Anders cracks and breaks. He has seldom seen Garrett Hawke truly defeated. Anders has never met anyone so confident. The man laughed in the face of a Qunari takeover. Even in the Deep Roads, he refused to accept that Carver might die; he shouted at Stroud when the Warden unit's leader started mouthing warnings more vague than dire. He simply would not be dissuaded.

And now ... Garrett is tired. His mother's death didn't destroy him this way. Then again, he had a city to take care of, back then. Politicians to wrangle, people to save. He'd been too busy to wallow.

Perhaps he needs another broken thing to fix, thinks a part of Anders dispassionately. That'll snap him right out of it.

"I love you too. You know that." Anders fairly squeezes him, not that it will make a dent in those broad shoulders. It's as though he thinks if he just hugs hard enough, he can press the knowledge into Garrett, emboss him like a blob of sealing wax. "But I can't promise I'll stay as I am now. Justice is different here. More ... active. As you saw."

"We'll fix you," Garrett says, instantly, because Anders is absolutely right. It puts steel in his spine and a light in his eyes--no instant repair, no, but a beginning of something that will burn through the fog. "We will. We've nothing but time--and what spirit has ever stood against the two of us, hm?"

Spirit again, not demon. He wants this so desperately to be all right that he'll ignore certain things if he has to. If there's harm in that he'll pay for it later. For now, he stands, sweeping back his hair and unzipping his jumpsuit to peel it off of him.

"--not to give you the wrong idea," he says, smiling crookedly, as he goes to collect one of the towels he keeps on hand in his room for convenience, drying his hair and body. He still has the strange short pants that pass for undergarments here on, but they're thin and will dry quickly. He's still unsteady on his feet, more drunk than sober, and it shows when he comes back to lean over Anders and cup his jaw to kiss him properly.

"Unless you want to get the wrong idea. I'm not, ah, sure I can perform, but I could...you must have been lonely."

He's not going to think of what if he wasn't? It's different for Circle mages. He knows that. He'd be an idiot to think otherwise. But he doesn't want to know.

Anders finds himself hard-pressed to parse that offer, if it is an offer and not some barb so over-sharp it's snapped off to a blunt stub. He has known Garrett to seek comfort in sex before, and Anders was willing to give that sort of comfort, under those circumstances -- very different circumstances indeed. Anders can't draw a parallel straight enough to make the present proposition work for him. He loves Garrett, he thinks Garrett is the most attractive man he's ever met (with one of the most magnificent of beards), and with all that, he's completely unable to find a shred of excitement in Garrett's suggestion. He allows himself to be kissed, sweetly enough -- no, he participates in the kiss, he reciprocates with a readiness that surprises him, like falling into the steps of a dance he learned so long ago he's forgotten he ever learned it. But that's all. He sits on the bed, hands planted firmly on his own knees, obdurate.

"You're drunk," he says flatly.

"...I am." Garrett smiles, hazily, and collapses into sitting next to Anders and nuzzling his shoulder. He isn't angry at all--relieved, really, because this is more like what they should be. What they are. Anders can scold him for being a fool, and Garrett can goodnaturedly accept that he is.

"And my beard looks awful. Not at my best at all. Another day, then." He kisses Anders' neck, not as titillation but as conciliation again, and burrows in somewhat scratchily. "Will you trim it for me? There's a sweet girl trying to fetch me a shaving kit."

With his frankly horrid ponytail (a far cry from the sleek specimen he boasted back in Amaranthine) and his constant shadowing of three days' stubble, Anders can hardly disparage others' personal grooming. "Your beard is lovely," he says loyally. And it is a splendid beard, even if it does need some serious landscaping. "Let the record show I decline your generous offer solely on the grounds of your inebriation. I wouldn't want to take advantage." He eels an arm between Garrett's arm and side, and squeezes him close. "But yes, I'll trim your beard for you, if only to keep you from trying to singe it shorter."

Garrett is not known for his patience.

"I would never," Garrett protests, mock-aghast, but then he laughs and pulls Anders down to the bed with him. It's nothing like the soft, ample thing they had in his old home, but also unlike the narrow, hard beds they'd both grown up with. Somewhere in between, like the two of them.

Drunk as he is, he doesn't feel any stirrings of anything except a desire to cuddle.

"I think I may fall asleep," he announces, after a moment's contemplation. 'Asleep'.

"In your soggy bed. And me with my coat and boots still on." Anders has to laugh, softly -- a genuine laugh, the first he's uttered in Garrett's presence in a very long time.

video | the hero begging change his sword across his knees

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