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makinglies2016-08-18 11:44 am
apurrstate) wrote in makinglies2016-08-18 11:44 am
Entry tags:
Hindi Sad Diamonds
When he woke up this morning, it was to an aching back and a cold hard cot stuffed away in the back of his master's home. The sun had barely turned the morning air blue and purple and already the streets were alive with merchants setting up shop for the day, Master Irving included.
Hours later, his life had turned upside down.
The chill of the evening was already setting in even with the sun dipping into the horizon, but Anders could feel it all too well against his bare skin and, what little clothing he was wearing, was hardly protecting him from the air. The sleeves of what could barely be called a shirt when it really only covered the top part of his chest and left his abdomen open to the air, were so sheer his arms were clearly visible in them. The long stretch of bare skin was only interrupted by the wrap artfully tied low around his hips, his legs encased in some sort of thin but stretchy material that showed off exactly how long they were. The clothes themselves were in rich shades of blue he never could have afforded for himself in all his life, but the most ostentatious part of the entire outfit were the strings of small pearls artistically string through his tied up hair.
He felt like a show animal and, he supposed, that was exactly what he'd become.
Anders tried not to stare at the opulence of the room he'd been left in and instead focused on poking into every nook and cranny to see if there might be a way to escape. As he searched, his mind drifted over his insane situation and questions of just how exactly he'd managed to end up here.
Being bought to be the palace's potion maker and healer seemed like a dream come true and the women who'd picked him up seemed nice enough and certainly beautiful enough to have come from the palace themselves. But then he'd been brought in through the back and put through what could only be called luxurious torture. They'd shoved him into the longest and most fragrant bath in a tub he would have sworn was as big as the entire hovel he'd just come from. Isabela and Merrill (as he'd come to learn) had stayed with him every step of the way, even as other servants came and went to help with various stages of his 'cleaning,' trimming his hair and nails and waxing him in a way he swore was actually a new torture technique used by the rich, all finished off by the two women dressing him up like he now was and dumping him in this room.
Isabela made it very clear very quickly their intent for bringing him here wasn't simply to make potions and heal ailments, he was meant to be a courtesan to none other than the Maharajah. He'd lost his breath in that moment. Few had even seen the man, much less knew much about him. His presence was more like that of a distant god to those in the town, affecting their lives but rarely visible. Perhaps it wouldn't seem so utterly terrifying if the two women hadn't filled his head with images of some large quiet brute with the sexual prowess of the very god citizens painted him to be. At least, that's how Isabela painted the picture. Marrill's side of things was much more vague, but tried to highlight the good things like how the lord Hawke had a very nice smile when he used it and had a lovely voice that was smooth as silk. He'd had to bite back the sarcastic retort about how that was sure to make him feel better when the time came.
On top of all of that, he knew well what was expected of a courtesan, he'd known plenty of women who dismissed the notion and many who longed for it and Anders knew he really wanted no part of it, he had no interest in 'satisfying' whatever lords or ladies the Maharajah decided he would 'lend' Anders to. He might be dressed and painted to be some show horse, but he wouldn't be treated like one.
Which was why he needed to find an escape route. Even if this first night couldn't be avoided, he would find a way out and finally gain the freedom he'd thought he'd been stepping into this morning. He should have known there'd be a catch.
The sound of the chamber's outer door opening had Anders scrambling away from a somewhat promising view of the balcony and the wall beside it to avoid his intentions being found out. He stood, heart pounding in his head and chest, in the middle of the grand room, eyes fixed on the doorway. This was it, he was only seconds from meeting a man rumored to have an iron fist and unflinching dedication to break whatever got in the country's way. He would surely be a terror of a man.
Hours later, his life had turned upside down.
The chill of the evening was already setting in even with the sun dipping into the horizon, but Anders could feel it all too well against his bare skin and, what little clothing he was wearing, was hardly protecting him from the air. The sleeves of what could barely be called a shirt when it really only covered the top part of his chest and left his abdomen open to the air, were so sheer his arms were clearly visible in them. The long stretch of bare skin was only interrupted by the wrap artfully tied low around his hips, his legs encased in some sort of thin but stretchy material that showed off exactly how long they were. The clothes themselves were in rich shades of blue he never could have afforded for himself in all his life, but the most ostentatious part of the entire outfit were the strings of small pearls artistically string through his tied up hair.
He felt like a show animal and, he supposed, that was exactly what he'd become.
Anders tried not to stare at the opulence of the room he'd been left in and instead focused on poking into every nook and cranny to see if there might be a way to escape. As he searched, his mind drifted over his insane situation and questions of just how exactly he'd managed to end up here.
Being bought to be the palace's potion maker and healer seemed like a dream come true and the women who'd picked him up seemed nice enough and certainly beautiful enough to have come from the palace themselves. But then he'd been brought in through the back and put through what could only be called luxurious torture. They'd shoved him into the longest and most fragrant bath in a tub he would have sworn was as big as the entire hovel he'd just come from. Isabela and Merrill (as he'd come to learn) had stayed with him every step of the way, even as other servants came and went to help with various stages of his 'cleaning,' trimming his hair and nails and waxing him in a way he swore was actually a new torture technique used by the rich, all finished off by the two women dressing him up like he now was and dumping him in this room.
Isabela made it very clear very quickly their intent for bringing him here wasn't simply to make potions and heal ailments, he was meant to be a courtesan to none other than the Maharajah. He'd lost his breath in that moment. Few had even seen the man, much less knew much about him. His presence was more like that of a distant god to those in the town, affecting their lives but rarely visible. Perhaps it wouldn't seem so utterly terrifying if the two women hadn't filled his head with images of some large quiet brute with the sexual prowess of the very god citizens painted him to be. At least, that's how Isabela painted the picture. Marrill's side of things was much more vague, but tried to highlight the good things like how the lord Hawke had a very nice smile when he used it and had a lovely voice that was smooth as silk. He'd had to bite back the sarcastic retort about how that was sure to make him feel better when the time came.
On top of all of that, he knew well what was expected of a courtesan, he'd known plenty of women who dismissed the notion and many who longed for it and Anders knew he really wanted no part of it, he had no interest in 'satisfying' whatever lords or ladies the Maharajah decided he would 'lend' Anders to. He might be dressed and painted to be some show horse, but he wouldn't be treated like one.
Which was why he needed to find an escape route. Even if this first night couldn't be avoided, he would find a way out and finally gain the freedom he'd thought he'd been stepping into this morning. He should have known there'd be a catch.
The sound of the chamber's outer door opening had Anders scrambling away from a somewhat promising view of the balcony and the wall beside it to avoid his intentions being found out. He stood, heart pounding in his head and chest, in the middle of the grand room, eyes fixed on the doorway. This was it, he was only seconds from meeting a man rumored to have an iron fist and unflinching dedication to break whatever got in the country's way. He would surely be a terror of a man.
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Hawke sits among the cushions of his golden throne, wishing desperately to be almost literally anywhere else. One would think being the ruler of an entire city state would mean he would never want for anything, but right now the young Maharajah felt as trapped as a fennic in a snare. His overstuffed magistrate goes on and on about taxes and... other things - he's not entirely sure, he'd stopped listening when the room grew hot enough that he'd shed his opulently appointed brocade coat and laid lazily to the side in just pants, hat, and sash of office. Hubert had stumbled over his words a bit, which had been fun, but continued moments after on about foreigners or whatever other bee had gotten in his trousers.
It's not that Hawke doesn't care to rule, it's just that the day to day minutia isn't his forte. He prefers to be involved, elbow deep in whatever trouble comes up, though he hasn't been that either for so many years. Not since Bethany...
With a sigh, Hawke finally just holds up his hand for Hubert to be silent. Which of course is ignored because Hubert barely ever notices anything over the should of his own voice. Hawke grumbles a moment, then barks "Hey," to get his attention.
"That's enough for today." Hawke frowns in dismissal, though the effect is somewhat lost as he interrupts his stern expression when an enormous beast of a dog comes trotting in and up the stairs to the throne platform as if he owns the place. With the amount of immediate devoted affection he receives the second he's in reach, the dog might as well be maharajah.
"But I--" Hubert sputters, eyeing the dog with distaste.
"I said enough. Just take care of it. I can't hold your hand for everything." He shoots Hubert an annoyed look, fingers still moving behind the dog's ears.
"Yes sire." There's too much bluster in it for Hawke's liking but the next moment Hubert is out the door and that's all Hawke really wanted. With another ridiculous face at the dog, Hawke rises and stretches, meandering down the steps with hands in pockets.
"You've got another guest, you know." Varric, palace scribe and resident adviser, looks down his nose from his desk in an unassuming corner of the throne room. Amazing how he can do that when he's at least half of Hawke's height.
Hawke gives a theatrical groan, turning his gaze skywards as if to ask the very heavens why he should be treated thusly.
"Not another audience, don't worry." Varric chuckles, putting quill to inkwell and dabbing off the excess. "Well, not this kind anyway. Isabela put 'em in your chambers"
"Oh." Hawke stares at Varric for a long moment, blinking. The realization hits and he repeats himself in a much smaller voice. "Oh."
"Yeah. She was pretty excited, and Merrill seemed to be pretty on board too. We think you'll like this one." We he says, not They, implying he also approves of whoever is waiting for Hawke in his bedroom, at least superficially. It counts for something, but not a whole lot, not when Hawke has repeatedly told them all that he's just not ready.
"Varric, I'm just not-"
"Ready, I know, I know, but at least go talk to him, alright? To get your mother to stop breathing down my neck about it? She worries about you."
"I'm doing fine, she doesn't have to-"
"She's you're mother."
"...Yeah. Well." He doesn't have a real response for that.
--
Crickets were always one of Hawke's favorite sounds but tonight they grate on him. Everything's grating on him as he heads for his chambers, knowing that he won't be alone when he gets there, not able to just curl up under his canopy with his dog and his grief blot out everything else.
I'll just tell him sorry no thank you. That Isabela made a mistake. He can have whatever payment for the inconvenience and that'll be the end of it. Hawke decides, adjusting his jacket against his shoulders - still hanging open, even if he is wearing it; the night is relentlessly hot - and fiddling with the door. Blasted handle, this one always sticks...
Finally he gets it open all at once, all but stumbling into the room and sending his hat askew. He reaches up to fix it, grumbling dourly. "You'd think being ruler of this place they could fix a damn sticky door hand-"
His eyes catch the company he knew would be in the room and all language falls out of Hawke's head, tongue numb and frozen mid-word. Maker's Breath they should have warned him about how his 'guest's hair caught the moonlight in a myriad of burnished tones, how his long arms tapered to slender wrists and supple fingers, how the clothing Isabela had found for him hugs his narrow hips and how he looks so... so...
He can't find a word. Just gapes until finally something clicks and he picks his jaw up from the floor.
"Um. Hi."
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Just from the moment he'd heard that voice, it wasn't what he was expecting. Even in a complaint and riddled with clear irritation, it sounded like the smoothest, richest thing Anders had ever heard. He could imagine how it must sound gentle and caring but also how it might sound when angry and dangerous...and a traitorous part of him wanted to hear both first hand.
More treacherous still, his eyes lingered far too long on the man's visible chest and the defined muscles there. What would it be like to run his tongue along those sharp planes? No, he shouldn't...but that endearingly awkward way he'd stopped in his tracks, mid-sentence and the way he bumbled out a reply...it made Anders actually smile.
Don't laugh at the damn Maharajah, you idiot!
His mind berated him, but a playful smile had already lit his face and crinkled the corners of his eyes. His heart wasn't listening. He knelt low, his head hung in respect as he tried to tamp down on his grin. "Hello, your highness."
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"You're... Isabela brought you today, did she?" He can all but hear her laughing at him, winking and leaning back with that 'I told you so' grin. He regrets ever telling her anything, that he still mourns his sister but he's still lonely. It was a fit of weakness, not something he feels all the time. Or rather, it's usually a solitary loneliness, sending him through fits of not leaving his room for days at a time out of willful grief. Sometimes it's less, and he misses being in the world, being hands on, being... well, alive, instead of the ghost of himself he feels he's become. Bethany died, but it's Hawke who turned to a listless spirit.
Isabela, as is her way, took a pragmatic approach and Anders isn't the first person she's brought to attempt to please her so-called master - really the women and sometimes Varric run the palace, that much everyone can see - but each attempt before had ended in dismissal. She looked too much like Bethany or he was too broad, or he actually turned out to be an assassin and Hawke was forced to kill him while going crosseyed from poisoning.
Fourth time is apparently the charm, though, and all of Hawke's wishes to similarly dismiss his guest vanish into the ether and in their place come quite vivid imaginings of figuring out just how the fabric is wrapped to hold up on such narrow hips...
"Tell me your name?" It's not quite a command, more a question that was intended to be one but jumped up right at the last second into a questioning lilt. Blast it, he's all tied in knots already.
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At least...for now. He would still look into escaping, this simply meant this first night might not be so bad.
"My name is Anders, your Highness."
He paused. He should hold his tongue, keep quiet until he found his way out so he wouldn't draw too much attention or suspicion.
Unfortunately, he'd never been very good about that.
"Forgive me, but Isabela...painted a particular picture of you for me. It wasn't very accurate, I have to say. You've caught me off guard."
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Nope. Nope nope. Nu-uh. Not even though he hasn't felt a stirring like this since Bethany died, he still can't do it. He's in mourning, it would be disrespectful to say the least. To say the most, he'd just... He can't. He even hates that he wants to.
"What did she say?" He looks at Anders curiously, rolling the name around in his brain and then doing the mental equivalent of slapping himself. The question is at least genuine. He has no idea what that woman says to anyone about him, only that it hasn't landed him in trouble yet at least.
Until now.
Maybe.
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"Without going into...too much detail, she painted you as a large brute of a man, a cruel dictator in the bedroom and without. To be perfectly honest, I wholeheartedly believe she was simply having me on."
He took a chance, dared to look up before he was allowed to and let some of that smile shine back through. "You seem nothing like that, my Maharajah. If I may be so bold, you seem better." Kinder.
And bold he was being. He hadn't been permitted to look upon his lord, nor permitted to offer his own opinions. He liked to walk on that edge of authority, however, see how far he could push on the boundaries.
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"Better?" He echoes in bewilderment, trying to imagine himself as this massive warlord. Scimitar in hand, standing over hordes of fallen foes with his jacket flowing open and his shoulders three times as broad as he is. A veritable mountain of a man, grabbing who he pleased to sate his deep lust. Grabbing Anders, maybe, the slight man swooning in his comically burly arms as he leans over and latches lips to his neck and--
Damn this brain, he flails mentally, looking unfocused at some spot behind Anders as he tries to master himself and praising whatever had possessed him to wear loose pants today. At length he chuckles, sounding just a little beside himself with his utter lack of knowing what he should be doing with all this. He knows if it were Isabela she'd urge him to just give in to that particular fantasy. Hell, Varric might too at this point. Even his mother. It's a conspiracy against him, he's sure of it. They went and found the most handsome man in the entire country just to get Adalwolfe to loosen up.
Maybe he should. Maybe he should listen to what the man is telling him, or had been coached to tell him. That's right, it could just be coaching. All part of the plan to get Hawke out of his funk. Only he's not sure he's ready to get out of it and he keeps looking at this gorgeous man who's been anointed in oils and dressed like a prince and all he can think is what would Bethy say, what would she think of him, would she have been in on all this if she was still here?
Hawke's heart sinks and his eyes refocus, as disappointed in himself as he's sure everyone else will be.
"I'm..." He clears his throat, tries again. "I'm sure you're a lovely person Anders, I'm just not--" he sighs heavily, running a hand back through his hair and moves past him to the curtains on the other side of the room, beyond which he knows lies his expansive balcony, overlooking the entirety of Kirkwall. Bethy loved that view.
He pauses at the drapes, hands on the edges. He looks aside for a long moment, wrestling with himself. He doesn't exactly want Anders to go, he just doesn't want to do this right now. Someday, but right now is too much. Far, far too much. "You're welcome to stay, and tell Isabela whatever details you like in the morning. Or you can leave if you like. I understand if you want to."
With that pronouncement, he disappears through the gap in the drapery.
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Kirkwall was indeed a darker place for her loss.
But a sadness to the people was nothing compared to the sadness of a brother. He found his heart aching for the man. He found himself wanting to help.
He was a healer, wasn't he? Some hurts went too deep for potions, they needed something more.
But this was his chance, he'd been told he could simply go! If he left, surely no one would stop him. His eyes drifted to the brilliant expanse of stars he could see through the window. Freedom was at his fingertips, he simply needed to snatch it for himself. Freedom, a chance to make his own life and rule his own decisions, maybe travel to Ferelden to find someone long gone. A pair of kind silver eyes in his direction.
But maybe he could get a different pair of silver eyes to look at him that way. What would it look like to see his Great Lord smile?
Anders looked away from the stars outside and swept out of the Maharajah's expansive rooms.
And back to his own.
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Yes he'd started the morning that way, tangled unhappily in his sheets, awake and lamenting it with not even will enough to actually go back to sleep. After an hour though his thoughts drift, settling teasingly on Anders.
He was gorgeous. Wherever Isabela found him, she's a genius for even looking because he's exactly everything Hawke fantasizes about on his own. Freckles for Andraste's sake. Freckles dotted so lightly across the man's face that he's not sure if he imagined them, but if he did then he has a damned good imagination. He wants to know where else is freckled. The back of his neck, maybe? Covered by the curtain of gold that grows from his head? He wants to touch that too. It had looked so soft in the dim light of his chambers last night. He must be a supreme idiot for telling the man to leave. And he's the Maharajah so... Anders must have gone...
He adds that to the pile of things to mourn too, feeling silly for missing what he never really had. But could have had. It would have been so easy to run fingers up under the jacket cropped just short enough that it hadn't covered Anders' nipples. In his mind's eye they were pert, standing at attention in the chill room. Perfect to run his thumbs over and hear that little breathy noise he can imagine the blond would make. He's getting hard just thinking about it and Adalwolfe has to roll over onto his back to keep from growing too uncomfortable.
He'd blush, Hawke thinks. Anders looks like the type to blush furiously, turning red up and down his neck as well as his face and the picture is so lovely Hawke lets out a quiet groan to himself, imagining the heat off of the courtesan's face radiating against his own cheek as he leans in to kiss Anders' neck, breathy pants coming from the both of them as His Majesty's hands roam from nipples down lower, hooking in the cloth slung low on those narrow hips and unwrapping it slowly and letting the silks fall away so he can see his prize in full. Strawberry blond fluff and his shaft already hard just from the attention paid to his nipples and neck...
Adalwolfe's frustratingly hard himself at the image, groaning as he slides his own hands down, instead imagining they belong to Anders instead, the courtesan taking initiative with that coy smirk flitting across his mouth, eyes uncertain but still hungry enough not to care. After all, Hawke started this.
He imagines long fingers, longer than his own, curling one by one around him and he moans sideways into one of the many pillows as he does the same to himself, slowly starting to pump, to coax. In his mind, Anders grows more bold, moving closer to return those kisses Hawke left on his neck with ones of his own, his other hand snaking around to grab a handful of Adalwolfe's ass and the Maharajah groans again, louder, though still muffled by the pillow as he thrusts into his own hand, unable to control his hips at the mere thought.
Anders, he pants, rolling the name on his tongue like a rich sweet, the blond looking at him again with a coy expression as he sinks down to his knees. Anders...
Hawke's imagination can't even get that far before his body takes over. The moment he imagines Anders even opening his mouth near him, the explodes into his hands with a stifled shout, making a mess of his bed, hand, and stomach in ropey tendrils, his heart beating such that he can see how rabbits die from it.
It takes him some time to calm down. He hadn't come in months, had absolutely no desire to, and yet just the mere thought of that sinewy blond was enough to make him light headed and need a change of sheets. A moment later he laughs helplessly, his clean hand against his forehead and one eye in utter embarrassment despite no one else being there to see.
Someone who finally could potentially pull him out of his funk and he'd sent him away.
What an idiot.
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He didn't have very long to think it over again, however, before Isabela swept into the room like she was the true Maharajah. She bombarded him with questions, gossip about how the night went, how was he, did Anders have any bite marks, could she see them? His head practically swam. Once he could finally get a word in edge-wise, he told her everything. Much to her disappointment.
It was there again, a layer of concern in Isabela's eyes as she looked away. She was worried for His Majesty. Anders hand't been wrong, then.
He told her his decision, finally locking it into stone for himself. His heart felt ready to choke him.
That night, as the sun was setting and the Maharajah retired for the evening, Anders went back to that large door that stuck and pushed it open himself. The fact no one even looked at him as he headed to the royal chambers told him Isabela had already had a word with a few people. It would just be him.
He paused as he shut the door behind him and took a steadying breath. He swept into the room almost as Isabela had done this morning, but lacking the fine finesse of being used to the action. He was dressed finely tonight as well, his hair done up differently and in a rich deep purple instead of the blue from last night. The jacket was open, exposing a line of his chest and still came just shy of his hips, leaving another strip of skin visible and there were no sleeves, but the pants still clung to his legs and hips. This time he wore the same lighter slippers Isabela and Merrill wore, a proper indoor shoe for the courtesans who had no need to step off the grounds.
He strode to the same curtains the Maharajah disappeared behind before without even looking at the man in question. He slid them aside easily and let the moonlight shine in before turning to finally face His Majesty with that same smirk from last night. The one that came with that push on Anders' boundaries.
"I heard you'd gone to bed, so I came to visit. I hope you weren't expecting to spend your time alone with oh-so-important thoughts."
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Only he does, and the moment Anders strides past his bed like he owns the place and throws the curtains open to bathe the entire room in the diffused silver glow is the moment that Hawke's eyes shine and he rolls over in he bed to keep them on his courtesan, tangling himself in the blanket in the process in his elation.
"You're still here!" He's so pleased to see the blond that it doesn't even occur to him to be annoyed at the sudden entry and bold opening of his curtains. "I'd have thought you'd have taken your stipend and gone after last night."
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"But even if that weren't the case, it didn't feel right. I..." He hesitated for the first time since he'd burst in. "I don't want to go." His voice softened now, lost the bravado of charm and confidence and instead held promise of gentle caring and safety. His 'healer's voice.'
"They're worried about you, you know. They're right to, just as you're right to react the way you are. But I believe you need something more than a body to warm your bed and serve your needs."
He wasn't just nudging the line, he'd stepped fully across it and kept going. It wasn't his place to say these things, much less act as he was. But he wouldn't stop. This was who he was, a rebel, and he'd either charm His Majesty or find himself thrown out. Or beaten for his insolence, but the Maharajah didn't seem the type, now that Anders had met him.
He crossed closer to the bed so he stood only a couple feet from his lord.
"I think you need someone away from that." He waved to the door. "Someone who will listen without judgement, someone who doesn't necessarily need to see those airs you put on all day. If I'm wrong, I'll accept whatever punishment you see fit and I'll simply fill the role I'm supposed to. If I'm not, I'd like to show you something different."
His speech ended he waited, breath caught in his throat as he looked to see how far afield his judgement might have strayed him.
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Hawke sits up in bed, blanket falling from around his head and shoulders and settling in a nest around him. He's naked to the waist, the rest of the blanket covering what it should for propriety's sake, but that's purely coincidental. Still, he has no care for his level of undress, instead mulling over Anders' word, mulling over that soft tone, that smile.
"I know," he answers quietly. "I know they're worried, I know I'm supposed to be getting on with life, but how do you move on from losing your baby sister? Parents, yes, fine, children are supposed to outlive them but..."
He hangs his head. "What could you possibly tell me differently that I haven't already heard?"
Maybe it's a test, maybe he's just tired of having this over his head and Anders is in the right place at the right time. Or maybe he's just the right person.
Hawke looks up, a wry but sad smile pulling at his lips. "Don't be so nervous. Unless you're actually here to kill me, I'm not going to punish you just for talking."
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"I didn't say tell, I said show. Nothing I say will make anything better, that's time's job. I'm here to make things easier."
Taking the Maharaja's words at face value, Anders closed the distance between them and kicked off the light shoes. He slid into place behind His majesty and gently laid his hands on the man's back.
He set to work, long fingers betraying their strength in how he banished knots from muscles and found pressure points to release the tension riddling his lord's back and shoulders.
"Do you have a favorite animal?"
A random question plucked from his mind, something he suspected hadn't been asked in a while. Who asked the Maharajah something like that when there were border disputes, trade agreements and diplomatic affairs to attend to instead?
Anders didn't want to hear anything about any of that. He wanted to know this man.
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Which doesn't make him any less afraid of her thighs. Anders' thighs though...
"What are--" He doesn't want this man to feel as if he has to service Hawke in order to stay, despite that literally being what Isabela bought him for. He doesn't much like that either, that Anders was 'bought.' People are people, not commodities. All protest is silenced immediately the second Anders' hands are on his shoulders, instead the Maharajah going stiff as a board at even the lightest of touches to start. Slowly, though, the movement of Anders' talented fingers force his muscles to relax and he swallows down a groan that he knows would give all the wrong implications.
Luckily Anders asks a question over it too.
"Dogs," he says automatically and emphatically. "It has to be dogs, for real animals. They're perfect balls of love and sunshine, fiercely protective and entirely dopey all at once. I love dogs."
He rolls his neck a bit, already feeling less tense than he has in months despite starting this with every muscle at attention. It doesn't even cross his mind what else Anders can do with those talented fingers of his. Or, well, except now it does. Stupid overactive imagination.
"What about you?" He sounds a little more high pitched, licking his lips.
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"Cats. They're sweet, self-sufficient and amazingly soft." Less slobber too, but he kept it to himself.
His massage turned a tad deeper on problem areas, but he didn't want to cause too much discomfort, either, so he never lingered in one spot too long.
"How about your favorite color?" Maybe he'd have to wear it some time...
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He said something. What was it. Color...?
"Blue. That.. uh... what you were wearing yesterday. That shade." He's silent for a long moment, all outward appearance that he's simply concentrating, which isn't far off, but while it's a handsomely stoic and thoughtful expression outwardly, inwardly he's trying to remember how to talk. He just knew a moment ago, but then Anders' hands wander and so does his brain and what are words again?
"Your turn," he finally says, congratulating himself silently for getting over that hurdle.
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Anders spies a bit on His Majesty's face, a pleased expression crossing his own as he caught a glimpse. His hands are beginning to get tired, but he's nearly finished, he returns focus to those problem areas, determined to work them out before he stops.
When that's finally done, his hands turn more gentle, rubbing soothing circles into the Maharajah's back to rub away the soreness. "How do you feel?"
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"I could get used to this if you do it every night." There's a soft grin in his voice, more relaxed for all the attention. "Where did you even learn that? It's wonderful."
He wants to spread out on his stomach, let Anders continue those slow circles along the planes of his back, down his spine, maybe even... well, he does have very supple fingers, deceptively strong for someone so slight. He could probably-
Welp. Now he needs to lay on his stomach for a different reason. Damn his imagination.
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Anders moved a bit away, his smile as honest as his promise. He suspected a nightly visit might loosen his lord up a bit and hopefully lift his spirits a little at a time as well.
His smile turned into a playful smirk and he waggled his fingers.
"Did Isabela not tell you? I have the magic touch. I'm good with other parts of the body as well..." A very intentional pause. "Like the legs and feet, should you ever need that as well. I have many uses."
Lucky for the Maharajah, noticing any problems he might have wasn't one of those uses. Or he was at least pretending very well.
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Neither Leandra nor Carver had ever been very physically affectionate. All the hugs, the light touches of understanding, leaing on each other when sitting together, those had been his sister. When she'd died, no one else touched. Varric never had, not really short of a hand on his arm occasionally, but Isabela and Merrill had been put off, not wanting to cross through Bethany's ghost that hung over Hawke like a shroud. Anders, though, he hadn't hesitated, he'd just reached over and laid on hands.
Whatever problems it was causing for him, Hawke didn't want the courtesan to stop.
He's so wrapped up in his thoughts that he nearly misses that pregnant pause. Nearly. Maker is he glad for the blanket bunched up in his lap. He knows he shouldn't bother to hide it, that this is another part of why Anders is even here in the first place, but somehow it feels like forcing. He doesn't want to force this beautiful creature that's somehow decided of his own volition to stay. Maybe he's some kind of miracle cure embodied, Adalwolfe doesn't know, but he does want to find out and not spoil everything in the process as he's wont to do.
Adalwolfe swallows thickly. "R-really. What else can you do?"
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Especially when he wasn't even sure he was ready to actually do anything yet. Last night was different, he'd expected it as a precondition to his escape. But now he wasn't escaping...and...and he didn't know what he was doing. Playing games with the man who owned him? Not his brightest move ever.
But the Maharajah had shown a side of him Anders hadn't expected, one that he clearly showed those he was close to. Selfishly, Anders wanted to be in that circle. But that was a pipe dream. Royalty didn't, well, shouldn't get attached to their servants. Especially not Courtesans. He'd surely be ordered off to someone else once the time came, he wasn't going to end up some lap-pet. Did he even want to be? How demeaning was that?
But he'd be safe and cared for and know more freedoms than he'd had with Irving. Maybe that was why he was playing this game, selfishly seeing how long he could stand just out of reach before this man came to him. What an awful person he must be to be entertaining these thoughts while the man was grieving.
No, Anders would help him through this grief as he deserved and then vanish into the night. It would be better in the long run.
Anders crawled up behind His Majesty and reached a long arm out to gently coax him into laying back so his head was pillowed in Anders' lap. Long fingers softly ran through soft white hair and Anders smirked, burying his thoughts so they couldn't surface. "I can make remedies for headaches, insomnia, close wounds and make sure they don't get infected...the rest you'll have to discover, my lord."
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Which it doesn't, of course. He knows what will, and hates himself for it.
"You don't have to--" He clears his throat, eyebrows furrowing, almost pained for saying what he's about to, and sits up, resolving to be forthright. "You don't have to stay. You're a wonderful... You're wonderful, but I don't want to just. Use you to make myself feel better. I can set you up as palace apothecary; you wouldn't want for anything and you'd be free to come and go as you please."
He wants to discover what other talents the man has, he sorely does, but this is too much. Were they to continue, he's afraid of what he might do. Or maybe just afraid of how much he'll enjoy it.
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"I'm offering to help. I want to help. You're a beautiful and, honestly, surprisingly kind person who's suffering. That isn't right. You want to make me apothecary, officially or not, fine. Whatever else I'm offering can be simply bonus, if you'd rather."
He sighs and considers his words for a moment, eyes glancing away and then back up. "Don't think you've stolen me from some amazing life, I hated where I was before, Isabela showing up was a blessing. You-" No. Nope. He bit the inside of his lip again, worrying it between his teeth a moment.
"To be perfectly honest, when was the last time someone took care of you? Not the Maharajah, the man you were before the title became yours. Prince Adalwolfe." The name rolled off his tongue like silk and he couldn't remember the last time he'd said it, some time before the previous Maharajah died, he supposed. The Hawke royal line was well loved in this city-state, but that didn't spare them from gossip of the commoners any more than any other noble was.
"That's who I'm here to help, if you'll let me."
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Love has always been paramount in the palace since Adalwolfe has known it; not just love for each other but love for their subjects, love for the common folk, the poor and downtrod. He'd never wanted for anything, but Malcolm and Leandra had always impressed upon him in those days that it could just as easily have been them in the street, eking out a living as best they could. They took him walking in the markets, showed him normal folk, taught him that they are all the same, that as royalty they did not have just privilege, but obligation to serve. Which sometimes meant making the harder choices for the greater good, but relations were good with most neighboring countries and Kirkwall hadn't seen war in nearly a half century.
He'd not forgotten that, never when he's face to face with people, listening to their problems at audience or hearing of events in the country. He's always tried to put himself in their shoes. Never once had he come face to face with someone who was willing to try his on and see beyond the gilded embroidery.
Hawke feels vulnerable now, and the blanket that he'd been using to hide his mostly receded problem gets pulled up around his shoulders again like a mantle, albeit one he's half hiding in instead of using to appear regal. "It's my job to take care of my citizens. I have servants here that tend to my needs, but it's not as if anyone has a cure for heartbreak. She may have been loved by everyone, but she was my sister."
He swallows hard around a lump in his throat. "My baby sister. I don't know how to get passed that, or even if I should. It feels... Wrong. I shouldn't be coddled, I should do my duty." A duty he knows he's been shirking. With a heavy sigh he turns away, feet clapping the tile as he puts them to the floor. But he doesn't get up, instead rubbing his face with his hands.
"I'm glad the palace is an improvement but I don't know what you can do to help. Back rubs only go so far, as good as that felt. No potion in the world can bring my sister back."
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His 'healer's voice' was back, cool and calm and coercive in his attempt to have his lord see reason. "I don't have a miracle cure to offer, your heart will ache for the rest of your days with her absence. That's what it means to love someone and lose them. All I'm offering is someone who's willing to help you for you and not for the good of everyone else or the crown. I want to help you find peace again, that is as much my job as a healer as making potions."
He sighed quietly and moved off the large bed to stand to the side of it. "If I've overstepped a line and you'd rather I leave, however, I will. But if I stay, I will keep trying to help you." His heart hammered in his chest and his throat felt dry. This shouldn't matter, it shouldn't be a big deal, he shouldn't be hanging onto the empty air with bated breath.
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"I'm not going to hurt you, Anders. Not for talking, even if it's... hard to hear. I just really don't understand." It's an improvement in his life, that he gets, but Adalwolfe offered a place without having to do with him and his problems. He would take care of this gem that Isabela offered him and ask for nothing but perhaps the occasional sleeping draught or rheumatism tonic for his mother. Yet he's not content to just take that and go and Adalwolfe's heart races with what it could be.
He believes in love at first sight, maybe, but he's not sure that's what this is. There's too much confusion in it, too much unknown. He barely even knows this man or why he's offering to help him, in particular, not because he's the maharajah - if that was so, he would have taken the offered position without strings - but because he's hurting? Who does that? Who just helps people they barely know because they don't want to see suffering?
Maybe it is love at first sight, because he could love someone for that gentleness.
"...Tell me about yourself?" It's not a command, just a question, innocent and tentative but heavy with the decision to offer that proverbial hand and allow Anders in on the courtesan's terms.
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Irving wouldn't notice or mention if the elfroot stock was one short here and there so Anders could heal the strays who came across less friendly folks. Acts of kindness for the simple fact of wanting to help make someone's life a little better were all around, you just had to look up and notice them.
Maybe Adalwolfe hadn't been able to look up in a while.
Anders quietly sat back on the large bed, near the foot this time instead of the middle, and turned to the Maharajah. "Okay. But face me. Sit with me as a person. Remember: you're not the Maharajah now. You're Hawke; the only person who gets to know is him."
Anders offered a gentle smile. "Let's see, you know my favorite color and that I prefer cats...what other earth-shattering revelations can I offer? Hmm...I can't play the lute, so I hope that wasn't a dealbreaker, but I do love music and the arts. I used to sneak out of my master's house late at night to go see the street performers whenever they came out. Everything looks more beautiful in firelight than it does under the sun."
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"I can play, but not for lack of trying to worm my way out of it. Amateur at best but my mother used to trot me out when I was young to play for visiting dignitaries and the like. She did it to my siblings too until Carver broke the damned thing. Then he wasn't allowed near an instrument again. Genius move on his part." Adalwolfe grins a little in spite of himself. For all his troubles with his brother now, he still loves him and would still get into all sorts of trouble when they were young even with their seven years age gap. It just meant Wolfe could get them in worse trouble when Carver was younger.
"Bethany played too. She was quite good even if she hated it just as much as we did. She was just more willing to continue in order to please our parents. Father would sing, sometimes. She stopped playing when he died." It hurts to talk about, but somehow it's not terrible to bring those memories out to Anders. It feels closer to relief than it ever has, and Wolfe's smile turns soft. "I'm sorry, I asked you about yourself and then I go walking off down memory lane."
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His face lit up with another bright smile as he thought of something better to talk about. "I know the royal family sometimes walked the streets like the rest of us, teaching...you, if I remember correctly." They must have been around the same age back then. It hadn't even occurred to him so young that the prince everyone whispered about could be a boy like him.
"Was it just you and your siblings, then? Were there no other children for you to play with when you were younger?"
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"Oh, yeah, they did. I mean, my father was a-- He wasn't royalty to start." He's not going to say 'peasant,' that just seems rude. "There were kids in the palace a lot when I was little. Guards and servants children, but they didn't stay really. I'd sneak out to the south wing to play with them sometimes but once I got caught that was sort of it. At least by then I had the twins to play with, even if they were a lot younger. Once Carver was old enough we'd sneak out."
They'd get in so much trouble, the captain of the guard retrieving them each time with more and more harsh threats from telling their mother to keep them from supper to physically locking them in their rooms. Of course, their parents never did any of that so it was all a game to the two boys. Until Carver had gotten kidnapped that is Adalwolfe had been fifteen and Carver only seven. The kidnapper had lead them all on a harrowing chase and was killed by a young guard in the end. She'd saved Carver's life. Carver though but blamed Adalwolfe for the whole ordeal, as did his mother, saying he was old enough to know better than to take his small brother out where it's not safe. By then he was too old for games regardless, or so he was told. It just sort of started falling apart from then on.
"I miss those days."
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He tried to make his smile encouraging. Maker damn him, but he just wanted to find a way to put a smile on this man's face. He thought, maybe, if he could just see that, it would be enough. He could leave and find that freedom he'd longed for, knowing he'd brought some happiness to someone who more than deserved it. "Surely there's a few hours in a day where the Maharajah can be set aside."
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He loves the idea instantly, that thought of escape even if he knows he'll need to come back before sun-up. They'll send out a search party otherwise, hassle people trying to find him, maybe even start up a massive witch hunt to find out where he'd been taken. They might even blame Anders, and that thought puts an incredibly disappointing damper on the whole thing. "Well, maybe it's not the best idea..."
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He leans forward, his hand falling close to the side of Hawke's hip, still only covered for the grace of the blankets. "No, don't go down that route, wherever your mind just went, it's not allowed. We can make this work, I'll take you out of here and, for a couple hours, you can just be Hawke." Bright Amber eyes searched the pure silver of his lord's. "Give me two days, the night of the second day, I'll have a path and a plan and we'll be back before the dawn. I swear it to you." The air was still between them, Anders just close enough to feel Wolfe's breath against his skin, but clearly waiting to hear the maharajah's answer.
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Least of all you, he adds silently, very aware suddenly of how close Anders is to him, how he can feel the subtle heat from the other man's presence, how he knows he's allowed to just take him if he feels like it, just suddenly overwhelm the blond with his own physical weight and the weight of his station both. But he finds that's not what he wants. He does want Anders over him, beneath him, around or inside - he can hardly admit that but the thought does linger as a tantalizing formless thing in the back of his head - but he wants it with permission. He wants it on Anders' terms. Strange for the maharajah, he knows, but he won't be seen as a licentious monster.
"Alright," Adalwolfe whispers, mouth dry and eyes alight with the danger of it. He can't help but be excited at the prospect too, however dangerous. Freedom, if just for a little while. A chance to stretch his legs and do something new, and with company far better than magistrates and bureaucrats. "Let's escape."
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He brings Hawke's hand up and brushes his lips to the knuckles as one might to show reverence to the jewels normally adorned there, but there was only pale skin beneath Anders' lips. He pulls all the way back and put a small amount of distance between them. "I should let you rest now."
Part of him toyed with the idea of an invitation to stay, what it might be like to drift to sleep in this man's arms, the finest silk surrounding them as they were lulled to sleep by each other's breathing. It was a very romantic fantasy, one tempered by another one that scared him more, one where he stayed and found out not just what good might come from a sweet night like that, but also whatever else there might be to learn. Was Hawke the snoring type? Did the grand Maharajah steal the covers at night? Did he talk in his sleep? They were more intimate details a true lover might know instead of a dalliance. Yet Anders wanted to know them.
Regardless, he slid off the edge of the bed and took a step back, offering a simple bow and a wink before heading for the door. He certainly shouldn't stay if it still wasn't his intention to truly 'warm' his lord's bed, it would send...a message if he stayed. He just couldn't figure out if it would be a bad or good one.
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He's not sure he would have, even had his voice been found. There's no knowing if a request to stay would be taken as an order; so high is Adalwolfe's authority that he never knows if anyone - save his family, Varric, or Isabela - is doing as he asks out of will or obligation. He finds he doesn't want Anders to do anything out of obligation laid on him, intentionally or no. He just wants this man to be himself, and that's the man Adalwolfe wants to know better. Perhaps even intimately. (Definitely intimately, as guilty as that makes him feel for so many other reasons.)
His stomach does a fully little flop for a moment at that wink and then Anders is gone with the sound of rustling silk. Hawke is alone, again, but somehow it's not the same oppressive loneliness that it was before. The air smells of violet and vanilla and spice, the things Isabela has all his courtesans wear because she knows he likes the scent. But there's something else to it as well, and Hawke lays back and lets his memorizing the smell of Anders send him to sleep.