"If it was, it sounded like you in Kirkwall." He turns fully onto his side to face Anders. "Proof maybe you haven't changed as much as you might have thought?"

He smiles gently; it's a prodding observation but one made out of love. And it's much easier to voice than his other thought. His wondering at the Harrowing, at how it's this coming of age for mages and he'd never had something like that. No test as a young man to point to and say that's when he knew he was ready. He doesn't want to be Harrowed, not in so many words, but there's still something missing for him and he has to wonder if that's what it is.

It's a stupid thing to think, though, and he doesn't want to voice it, so he'll instead focus on Anders as a young man, full of righteous fury, writing as if his life depended on it. Anders in Kirkwall, writing with the same fervor as Hawke watches him from his bed - their bed - and Drools snores by the fire, unaware that those long fingered hands, stained with ink, are the most beautiful sight in all the world.

Adalwolfe reaches over and pulls Anders' fingers to his mouth for a kiss.