Fic: A Dead Man's Heart, Part 2
Title: A Dead Man's Heart, Part 2
Character/Pairings: Justice/f!Hawke, Anders/f!Hawke
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It is emotion that changes a spirit from what they are, and love warps just as much as anger and hate. Trapped within Anders' mind, Justice sees a world he is not a part of and loves a woman who he can never touch.
A/N: Originally written for a prompt on the kmeme, this is mostly an exploration of Justice as he exists within Anders and how he is changed by this. Details about Hawke are kept fairly vague as much of this is how Justice sees her and not necessarily how she really is.
In such moments of despair and loss, what is he to do?
He has not felt this before, not this same sense of loss and hurt. Before, he could have lived with just viewing Hawke through Anders, accepting that he would never be able to speak more than a few words to her. He would not have been content, not happy, but he would have been all right.
But this...this is too much. It is not the physical closeness that Anders and Hawke now share, it is how their feelings shine bright and beautiful between them, no longer tucked away in the deep recesses of their minds. He sees and hears and feels, but is not the subject of Hawke's affections.
And that hurts more than he thinks it should.
Justice does not know where it comes from, whether it is from him or Anders, or something that has arisen out of their joined minds, but there it is an almost possessive desire to be the one she cares for. It is a strange feeling, something that is not befitting of a spirit - but then, what feelings beyond the need for justice are?
Damn love and the pain it brings. He wishes now that he had never longed to experience it. Had remained content with the memory of Kristoff and Aura and the beauty of a dead man's heart.
But in his mind there are only two things, Hawke and mages. And so it is to the latter that he turns. He has some control over that, pushing Anders' thoughts towards this cause of theirs. He can do little more than whisper of injustices and watch as these spiral from Anders' mind onto paper, manifestos scratched onto parchment in fervent words and phrases.
In these moments of writing, the late nights where this body of theirs refuses to sleep, Justice finds that he is sometimes able to slip into control, so focused on the manifesto that they are interchangeable. They are not much, but they are little moments of freedom, brought about with harsh lines of writing etched into parchment with a heavy hand.
It almost does not matter what he writes, just that he can. His thoughts are given form on paper, and he can be free for a time. The words that he writes, ink scratched deeply into parchment, are his own.
Hawke worries. Justice sees this and, in turn, Anders worries. More than once, she comes to their side and removes paper and quill from their hands, running fingers over their ink-stained skin. Sometimes, as she reads over their writing, they find her glancing at them with such a strange expression on her face, one that seems lost, confused. And, sometimes, she steps close to them, takes Anders' face in her hands, and looks at him, searching for something in his face.
She is worried, but he does not stop writing. What else can he do? He must do something to keep his thoughts from ever dwelling upon her. She cannot be his entire purpose.
*
A letter comes one morning, one that Hawke reads over and over. A letter which begins things, the sort of letter that changes everything.
They go to the alienage, and this is where apprehension overtakes Anders, overtakes Justice. There is a boy - a boy they know, the half-elf who has the power to dream - and they must help him.
And it is like the time Hawke asked them to follow her into the Deep Roads - they cannot let her go into this - into the Fade - alone. They can deny her nothing when she asks, though they both inwardly quake at the possibilities of what could happen.
He has not returned to the Fade since being torn from it, so many years ago, only catching glimpses of it as Anders dreams. He does not know what will happen, if they will be so intertwined that Anders' mind will remain the dominant one, or if they will separate once there and he will be free.
There is something melancholy in that thought. If he returns to the Fade, he will lose this world. And regardless of what pain this world might have brought him, he does not know if he wants to lose it entirely.
But Hawke asks them to come with her, and so they will.
Justice is going home.
*
It is the strangest thing, to be back in the Fade. Everything feels right, for the first time in years, and yet there is something very wrong about it.
He has been changed too much by the outside world, he thinks. He cannot go back to this. Not forever.
Oh, but the clarity here! It is a different sort of life, one born of dreams and magic, and it is in those moments that he realizes that, here, he is Justice. Not Anders, not the creature of vengeance that they have become together.
Justice.
Himself.
“Anders?”
And yet it takes nothing more than a simple word from the dream-form of Hawke to remind him that there is something new to himself. He still feels, and being called by that name.
“I am Justice,” he tells her, voice deep and harsh, more so than he intends. “Anders has told you of me.”
“Well, yes,” she answers, and he looks at her then, standing beside him in the Fade. She gleams, sparks, a living soul among the architecture of a dream. “And I have met you.”
It is something about how she says it, or perhaps it is simply that this is the first time that they have spoken without him having to strain to remain in control, but he feels as though he cannot speak. For all that he wants to, has wished to, he does not know what to say to her.
So, instead, he focuses upon what they are here to do. He can feel this dream around them, knows there are demons lurking, knows where this dreamer they are seeking is.
“Come,” he says, instead of anything else, instead of taking this moment for himself. “Feynriel is this way. He does not have much time.”
He looks away from Hawke, steps forward towards where he feels the dreamer's presence. The Fade welcomes him back, enfolds him, the dream familiar and comfortable. Deep within him, he can feel Anders, still there, but so, so far away.
There are others here as well, companions that have followed Hawke here. The pirate woman and the lyrium-etched elf are with them, barely flickers in the corner of Justice's eye. Their grip upon the Fade is tenuous; they do not belong here. They are not meant to walk the Fade, not as he is. Not as Hawke is, the mage a presence that burns through the dream beside him.
These two, they do not understand the traps within this dream as he does. They will not be able to withstand the wills of the demons around them.
This is something that he knows without a doubt.
They step through the dream, past things half-formed, the imaginings of the subconscious mind. Here, things are transparent, edges blending from one thing to the next. There is not the same definition that is found in the waking world. Beside him, Hawke's form blurs slightly as she passes a hand over the stones of one of the walls, fingertips dissolving away into the dream only to reappear moments later.
He has missed the dreams, the Fade. Missed this.
Then there is a demon, spinning words of honeyed sweetness, lies and falsehoods and promises of power. He feels Hawke's companions waver, and, to his horror, feels the same in Hawke. For a moment, she speaks as though she is considering it.
“It is a demon. It deals in lies and empty promises. Do not listen to it.”
If there is some spell holding Hawke, his voice breaks it. She looks to him, the edges of her form growing more distinct for a moment. She reaches out to him, her fingertips ghosting over his hand, and that slightest touch within the Fade is so very different from one in the mortal world.
“I know, Justice,” she says, and then her fingers no longer touch him, and lightning blooms before her.
The demon dissolves before her, as though it had never been part of the dream to begin with.
*
There are more demons, of fire and flame, of pride and desire. The pirate leaves them, unable to understand the dream for what it is. The elf, for all his words of how weak mages are, how terrible, is unable to stand before the demon of pride that takes him.
They turn on Hawke, attack her, and he strikes them down before they can touch her.
This is his domain, and they have no power here.
But the demons themselves, they give him more trouble. They are not so weak that he can dismiss them with little more than a touch.
The pride demon, it laughs at him as he fights it, taunts him, revels in how far a spirit of justice has fallen. You are just like us, it tells him. It knows better than to tempt him, knows far better than that, and it can do more harm with words than anything else. Because there is more truth in those words than he wants to admit.
The desire demon is worse, evading him, dancing out of the way of every spell that he casts. It giggles and laughs, whispering things that only he can hear. A spirit of justice, desiring a mortal woman, it says. I could make her want you. Desire you. But why would she want a former spirit of justice? For a moment, it takes on her form and presses close to him, a mocking smile and a touch that stings.
But it is a demon, and demons only lie.
And Hawke is behind him, her magic flaring brilliantly around her, and the desire demon is caught within a cage of light, the illusion breaking, and its laughter turns to screams until Justice casts with Anders' magic. Then the demon turns to nothing within the fire.
“Well,” she says, and he is struck by the fact that it is just the two of them now, the pirate and the elf's spirits no longer within the Fade, “that went...terribly.”
“I no longer sense any demons here,” he says, the demons' words and attempted trickery having shaken him. “We must make our way to Feynriel.”
And he is wasting this opportunity, he knows it; Hawke is right there, and he can speak fully as himself for once, and yet he cannot find a word to say outside of the task they have come here to perform.
“Justice, wait,” she says, and she touches his arm again to keep him from moving past her. It is a touch different than that of a desire demon, different than anything he has felt in those brief moments he has touched her outside of the fade. “When Feynriel leaves the Fade, we will as well. Yes?”
He inclines his head slowly, not understanding why she is asking this. “Most likely. This dream is constructed by him; should he leave it, it will shatter. Unless we make a great effort to remain, we will wake when he does.”
Even within this dream, Hawke's form acts as she would, her features moving as he has seen them do so in the mortal wold. She worries at her lips, catching it between her teeth and looking away from him, out at the shifting dreamscape around them.
“Anders says you think I am a distraction,” she says, and while there is something about the way she says it strikes him as odd, he cannot tell why.
He does not know how to respond to this.
“You...distract him from his cause,” he says, and this is both a truth and a half-truth. Yes, she distracts Anders, but she also distracts Justice. But how can he tell her this? “You draw him to frivolous things and away from correcting the injustices in your world.”
It is strange how, despite knowing her for years, he does not know her. Cannot speak to her as one who has done so before.
“I remind him that there is more to life than manifestos and fighting Templars,” she says. “I remind him of the things that make him human.”
“You are a distraction.” It is all he can say. He does not want to speak to her of Anders, does not like the dull ache that settles into what serves for his heart. But Anders is all that links them to one another, isn't he? Hawke only knows of him as the spirit who resides within the man she loves, and no small conversation within the Fade will change that.
Justice may love her, but she does not love him. She cannot possibly love him.
“You dislike me,” she says, and, again, there is something odd in the way she says it. He wishes that he knew all the nuances of how humans speak, but while he has learned some he can simply not comprehend all of the subtleties. But, even without knowing exactly what is so strange about how she is saying these things, he knows what it is she has said.
And she...thinks that he does not like her.
And while she might not love him, it somehow hurts to think that she believes he does not care for her. That he dislikes her.
“I do not dislike you,” he says, the words falling slowly from his mouth. “You are compassionate and just, and are everything a mage living free should be. You risk yourself for those you do not know, simply to save them from what others have suffered at the hands of the Templars.”
Hawke is silent for a long moment, not looking at him. He wonders if he has said something wrong.
“You glamorize what I am,” she finally says, looking up at him, her features blurring for a moment in this dream. “I am not as good a person as you imply. I'm not...you give me too much credit. I am more selfish than you think.”
This is strange, for he does not think of her as a selfish woman. He wonders at this, at how she could think such a thing of herself.
But he thinks of Anders and he thinks of Kristoff. He thinks of how much Kristoff sacrificed to be a Grey Warden, of his actions there, how he had given of himself until his life had been taken from him. Kristoff had been a good man.
Yet he had not been a selfless man, not in everything.
And then there is Anders, who had not been selfless when they had first met. He had put his own survival above all else, had not sought to help others at a high cost to himself. But he, too, had been a good man. He might not have given his all for the betterment of others, but Justice had seen him do better things than Anders himself had thought he could do.
And, in the end, he had given up his own individuality and merged with a Fade spirit so that he would have the ability to help those around him, to make it so that those born with the gift of magic would never suffer through the things that he had.
“Being selfish does not mean you are not a good person,” he tells her. “And I have seen nothing of you to make me think you are not a good person.”
Her smile is tinged with sadness, he thinks. “You haven't been watching very closely, then,” she says.
“Why are you here?” he asks her then, and she gives a start at that, gaze snapping to meet his eyes.
“To save Feynriel from the demons that plague him,” she says, her voice calm and steady, confident in her answer.
“But why?” he asks her again, and her brows draw together in confusion.
“Because I was asked to help.”
Perhaps she cannot see things as he does. Perhaps she does not understand.
“This boy,” he says, “this mage. What is he to you?”
“I - what?”
“What is he to you?” Justice insists. “He is not tied to you through blood or through a debt. You owe him nothing. Why do you come to save him?”
Again, she is silent, a long moment stretched between them.
“Because,” she finally says, slowly, deliberately, “he is a friend. A friend who suffers for his magic, and yet who should not. Because not every mage is a danger, and not every mage seeks demons of their own volition. Because I might be able to save him, even if I cannot save every other mage who falls to demons.” She lifts her head, looks straight at him. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
“You do more than you think you do,” he tells her. “And, for that, I cannot dislike you. Not as you think I do.”
He takes a step towards her, so uncertain of what to say. He should tell her now - he might never have another chance. And he wants to tell her, of how she has given him a living memory of love. But he does not know how.
Another step, and she stays still before him, even as he reaches out to her as he did so long ago in the clinic, in that brief moment that had been his. Does not flinch as he cups her face in his hands. This might be the Fade, only a dream, but this is what has always been real to him, this world, and he can feel the flutter of magic beneath her skin.
“I cannot dislike you,” he repeats, and this is yet another thing that he does not know how to do. But he has memories of this, has experienced this through Anders. He tips her head as gently as he can, almost afraid that this dream-state will shatter around them, and dips his own head down until his lips are pressed to her.
And he does not know what to do. All his memories tell him of things, but to put any of them into use seems an insurmountable challenge. To do anything more than hold her as he is, his lips pressed so softly to hers, seems impossible.
There is a moment in which everything is still, where it seems as everything has come to a stop. There is a breath between them, a stillness in this place where even movement is an illusion.
Then her lips move against his, soft and sweet, and it feels like he has been shocked by some spell, warmth running through him. This is only a dream, and things within the Fade are not as they are in reality, but, still, he savors the feel of her against him, the way her hands come up to tug at his jacket, how he finds his own lips moving against hers, clumsy and unskilled as she angles her face and how he tangles his fingers in the mass of her hair, little threads of a dream around him. Even here, everything created through thought and magic, it is less than perfect and yet far more so than he would have ever thought. Her mouth parts ever so slightly before his, and all he has are the memories of others to make sense of this, but he cannot do this correctly and his teeth click against hers.
He does not think that is how kisses are normally supposed to go.
She draws back at that, and her eyes are bright, the smallest of laughs falling from her lips and a smile upon them that he dares to hope is for him.
“What was that for?” she asks him, that little smile on her lips. He does not fully notice the tone of her voice or the way that she is looking at him, focusing more on the words themselves. And he is struck by the sudden thought that he has done this wrong, that a kiss does not have the meaning he had thought it to, that he should not have kissed her then, that he has already messed this up completely.
“It is...a means to express affection,” he says, his words unsteady and halting. “A kiss...that is what it means, is it not?”
“Sometimes,” she tells him. “And sometimes it can mean different types of affection. What did you mean by it, Justice?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but then he takes a moment to think about what all she has said, and how she has said it. She has asked questions of him, but something about how she has worded them, something about how she has said them makes him think...makes him think that she had already know - or, at least, suspected - what the answer was going to be.
“You...already know what I will say,” he says to her, and she looks down and away from him, biting her bottom lip.
He does not know how she could know. He has never before had a chance to speak to her, to tell her anything. Never kissed her before, never held her.
“I think I do,” she says, looking up at him again, and her smile is very soft, very tentative. “But that's not the point. The point is that you're able to tell me, face to face. Isn't it?”
“How can you possibly know?” he asks her, and it shakes something within him to think that this secret that he has kept locked inside, unable to express, has been found out by her, without him realizing it.
“Because Anders figured it out,” she tells him, and that...makes sense. It's entirely possible that Anders had realized Justice was in love with this woman, just as he had realized Anders' feelings for the same woman long before they had ever been voiced aloud. “It took him a long time, you know. And he didn't piece it together until I showed him what you had written in those manifestos.”
“What I had...written?” He cannot remember everything he has written, those moments having been him and Anders bleeding together, some of the words written by him, some by Anders, and some by that twisted being of vengeance that the two become in their worse moments. Panic rises - have they done something, again, that is beyond their control? “What did I write?”
Hawke's mouth opens a bit in surprise. “I...well, I had thought that was you. Anders assured me it wasn't him, and, well, it didn't seem particularly vengeful. Most of it. There was all that stuff about mages' rights and the like, but that's not...did I just get this terribly, horribly wrong? Maybe Anders was just playing a joke on me and it really was his writing...but he normally doesn't write about lyrium in his love notes, it's more about kittens and things like that -”
“What?” And it is a somewhat terrifying thought, first that he might have written things in those manifestos that he hadn't meant for another to see, and second because it meant that there were things that he does in those moments when he takes control of this shared body that he cannot fully remember, and does that mean that this creature of vengeance that the two of them has become stronger?
“Songs of lyrium,” she says, and she's not looking at him then. “It's not a very...Anders thing to say. It is very pretty, but I don't know what it means.”
He is struck silent for a moment. Something he has thought so often, that she is like the songs of lyrium, and it has somehow made its way onto paper. A small piece of his feelings for her, and she has seen it.
“It means that you are...that you are beautiful and perfect to me.” And there, he has said it. He watches her eyes go wide and her mouth open slightly. “Is that what you expected me to say?”
She sets a hand over her mouth, giving a small laugh. “Oh, what is it with you and Anders and being overly dramatic?” she says, half to herself. “I expected...well, you kissed me, and Anders was so adamant about...so I expected something, but...perfect? That's worse than calling me a good person.”
“Is it the wrong thing to say?” he asks her, worried, again, that he has said something that will drive her away. “I have no experience in these matters; I do not know what is...appropriate to say.”
She moves her hand from her mouth and touches his shoulder, and just that touch makes him feel as though magic has flooded through him, burning a path along his skin. “Oh, Justice,” she says, the words barely more than a sighed breath. “It is a fine thing to say. Buy you have a better opinion of me than I do of myself.”
“Perhaps you simply cannot see yourself as you are.”
Again, laughter. “I doubt it,” she tells him, then raises herself up on tiptoes and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his mouth. When she pulls back, it is his turn to stare at her, for he did not expect her to initiate a kiss of her own.
“What...was that for?” he asks, not quite willing to believe that it means what he thinks it might.
She gives a small shake of her head, her hand sliding down his arm to join with his. “It means that I care for you, too, you silly spirit.”
It takes a moment to sink in, for him to understand what it is that she says. It has taken so long, far too long, and at this realization he feels something from Anders. The mage is buried so deeply within their joined minds that he can barely tell he is there, but he can feel...relief. And a bit of annoyance.
She cares for him. Cares for him.
“You...care for me,” he says, repeating it as though it cannot possibly be true without saying it aloud.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
He wants to ask her why, ask her how she could possibly care for him, but there is such a feeling of elation, the place within his chest where a heart should be feeling tight, that he can do nothing more than dwell upon this thought.
She cares for him.
Justice does not know how to express this feeling that wells up within him, only certain that it must have an outlet. A memory surfaces within his mind, one from Kristoff, of a beautiful woman who catches his hands and says of course I love you, you silly man, and he thinks this sudden swell of happiness is something like what the Warden had felt then.
So he takes his cue from the memory of a long dead man and again presses his mouth to Hawke's, wrapping his arms around her until she is held tightly against him. And still he is not so certain of what to do, his lips moving clumsily against hers. A spirit has no instinct when it comes to things such as this, has no need to know these things, and the memories that swim within his mind tell him what he might do, but he does not know what is appropriate. Again, he is surprised when her lips part, her fingers tangles in his hair, her mouth sweet and soft against his. And then he feels the brush of her tongue and that startles him, though he does not draw back.
He does not know what to do with his tongue, with his hands hands, does not know what to do with any of himself. He tries to mimic her actions as best he can, but all he can think is that he is clumsy, that he has no idea what to do outside of what his memories suggest, and there is this...this terror that he is going to do something that will push her away, shatter this little illusion of happiness.
Her lips leave his, and he think that this is it, he has ruined this. He's done something wrong and -
And then she presses kisses along his cheek, along his jaw, and his eyes fly open, the touch yet another thing that is unexpected, and yet not at all unpleasant or unwanted. It feels like magic sparking upon his skin at each touch, and he wonders if that is her, or the Fade, or if that is simply what a touch is supposed to feel like.
His arms tighten around her, hands pressed along her back, and he holds her as though loosening his grip would cause her to disappear. Her hips are pulled tight against his, and he feels warmth run through his entire body.
Her mouth returns to his, her kisses still slow, and yet there is a sort of restrained urgency to them, the press of her mouth against his harsher than before, and he responds in kind.
There is something in the back of his mind, something pressing at the edges of his awareness, and he pauses, draws away from her slightly. And then he realizes what it is he is sensing and he thinks he understands now the mortal need to curse.
“Demons,” he says, and he can feel them more strongly now, their presence an unwelcome intrusion into this moment. “They are still seeking the dreamer. We...cannot linger here.”
Hawke releases a breath and there is an expression that looks like it might be disappointment upon her face. “All right,” she says, her hands lingering on his feathered shoulders for a long moment before she allows them to drop.
“This way,” he tells her, and he begins to take a step when he is stopped by the feeling of her hand slipping into his. He glances down, confused, as she twines their fingers together.
“Come one,” she says as he hesitates, and she tugs on their linked hands, urging him forward.
And just that small point of contact between them is enough. For all that he has enjoyed the kisses shared between them, he had never expected any of this. In a way, simply being able to walk at her side, her hand caught in his, is enough.
*
They find the boy - the dreamer - soon enough, before another demon has tried to enthrall him. He looks at them with large eyes, and when Hawke speaks to him they learn that he can now feel the threads of the Fade, understands better the way that it moves and changes.
Hawke smiles then, at the boy, and she looks happy.
And then the boy pulls upon something with the Fade and the dream changes, begins to dissipate around them. Hawke turns to him then, and he thinks that this is it, they are out of time.
And he has not said enough.
He has only moments before the dream is gone completely and he is trapped once more within a mortal body, able to see her and yet never speak to her, never hold her.
There are words he could say - that he loves her - but they seem inadequate. They are Anders' words, not his.
In those last moments, the dream falling to pieces around them, he catches up both her hands and presses them to his chest, holding them there above where his heart would be, if a spirit had a heart.
“This,” he tells her as she begins to go transparent and fade away, “this is yours. For always.”
And then the dream is gone.
*
The single taste of freedom, a single moment to be truly himself again, and Justice finds his place within Anders' mind more of a prison than ever. There are walls there, boxing him in, and he is more aware of them than he ever has been.
And yet...it is not as bad.
In those moments after they wake from the dream, blinking away sleep and magic, Hawke looks over to them and she smiles, the smallest smile and yet it reaches all the way to her eyes, a warm look that she gives only to them.
They are somewhat disoriented from the excursion in the Fade, and Anders tries to rise unsteadily to his feet. To their feet. Hawke is able to stand before them, and she steps to their side, offering a hand that they take, pulling them up. There is a brief, unsteady moment where they place a hand to her shoulders to keep their balance.
And Hawke looks at them, that small little smile on her face, and she takes their hands and holds them for a moment before she presses them to her chest, above where her heart is, and they feel the soft, steady beat against the palms of their hands.
“And this is yours,” she tells them, and Justice thinks that she is speaking to both of them, to both him and Anders. “Always.”
*
Epilogue
There is little space left between them now, the gaps between what is Anders and what is Justice having closed to the point that it is hard to tell where each ends and each begins. They are not the same, not yet, but that barely matters.
Soon, it will not matter at all.
The world is broken, and they cannot fix it. They can only lay the ground to work to try.
They have broken the fragile peace in the city, for it was never peace. They have torn the Chantry to the ground, to force the conflict that has festered there for so long.
There can be no peace, not until the world has changed.
And, for this, they will die. For this, they will forsake love and life, because their own happiness cannot come before that of every other mage.
And just as Anders has grown so far beyond the selfish man he had met in Amaranthine, so has Justice change. He is still Justice, but twisted, warped by humanity, and he cares so very much for this world, seen so much beauty and suffering, and he knows that he cannot sit idly by in a world where every day is shadowed by the Templars and the Chantry. Where even Hawke, with her power and sway within the city, cannot stand against Meredith for the threat that she poses to those the mage cares for.
The world is broken, and they have done as they must.
They sit upon a crate, the wreckage of the Chantry around them, ash is the air, rubble at their feet. Behind them, they hear the sound of shouting - the angry voice of the archer and the harsh sound of Hawke speaking - but they do not listen to their words.
There is nothing left to say, and now they wait for the end.
They have hurt her, this they know. Lied and coerced and made her all but their partner in this crime. And it has hurt them, both of them, to do it. They love her, and yet they cannot hold that love above the rest of the world.
It has been good to be happy, for a time.
They should have simply left her out of this, never asked for her help. But all those choices are now in the past, and now all they can do is wait.
There is more yelling from behind them, the angry rise of voices, and from the corner of their eye they see Hawke turn to them. But they cannot look at her, cannot bear to see the hurt and anger in her eyes. At the end of everything, perhaps they are nothing more than a coward.
They have already told her why; there is nothing more to explain. She does not need to ask who is to blame for this, does not need to ask if this is Anders or Justice, because she knows. She knows them far too well, the intricacies of them. Separate, neither of them would have done this. But together...together, they are dangerous. Together, they are capable of such things.
She stands behind them, and there is silence for a long moment as ash floats through the air. They look before them, at a point on the ground, and while they expect this to be the end, there is some fear left at the thought of death.
“Do it,” they tell her. “Make it quick.”
She makes a sound, a broken little sob, and they hear her footsteps as she walks forward. And this is what they expect: a knife in the back, or a spell that falls upon them and strips them of life.
But she moves and it is neither, her arms coming around them, her face pressed to their shoulder, and they look up in shock, head turned so that they can just barely see her from the corner of their eye.
“No,” she tells them. “I won't. You can't just walk away from this, not now, not what it's all just begun. This is your fight, and I won't give you the easy way out.”
And it is so unexpected, the feel of her arms around their thin shoulders, the fact that they are still alive when they had expected death.
“Hawke...”
“No,” she says, her voice muffled by the feathers of his coat. “You're not going to leave me with this mess. You're going to help me put this right, and then we will figure out what to do next.” Her arms tighten around them. “And. I will not lose both of you. Not now.”
“You...you will allow me to stay at your side?” they ask, surprise heavy in their voice.
There is another moment of silence, and they fear that she has changed mind, that the hope that has flared into life will be for nothing.
“I told you for always,” she says. “I meant it.” Her arms leave them and she steps before them, hand extended. “Come on. We have to get to the Gallows.”
They look at her for a moment, and then reach out and take her hand in theirs. Her fingers curl around theirs and she tugs them to their feet.
“Come on,” she says again, and they follow her out in to the streets of Kirkwall.
This world is broken, but, perhaps, at her side, they can try to fix it.
Character/Pairings: Justice/f!Hawke, Anders/f!Hawke
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It is emotion that changes a spirit from what they are, and love warps just as much as anger and hate. Trapped within Anders' mind, Justice sees a world he is not a part of and loves a woman who he can never touch.
A/N: Originally written for a prompt on the kmeme, this is mostly an exploration of Justice as he exists within Anders and how he is changed by this. Details about Hawke are kept fairly vague as much of this is how Justice sees her and not necessarily how she really is.
In such moments of despair and loss, what is he to do?
He has not felt this before, not this same sense of loss and hurt. Before, he could have lived with just viewing Hawke through Anders, accepting that he would never be able to speak more than a few words to her. He would not have been content, not happy, but he would have been all right.
But this...this is too much. It is not the physical closeness that Anders and Hawke now share, it is how their feelings shine bright and beautiful between them, no longer tucked away in the deep recesses of their minds. He sees and hears and feels, but is not the subject of Hawke's affections.
And that hurts more than he thinks it should.
Justice does not know where it comes from, whether it is from him or Anders, or something that has arisen out of their joined minds, but there it is an almost possessive desire to be the one she cares for. It is a strange feeling, something that is not befitting of a spirit - but then, what feelings beyond the need for justice are?
Damn love and the pain it brings. He wishes now that he had never longed to experience it. Had remained content with the memory of Kristoff and Aura and the beauty of a dead man's heart.
But in his mind there are only two things, Hawke and mages. And so it is to the latter that he turns. He has some control over that, pushing Anders' thoughts towards this cause of theirs. He can do little more than whisper of injustices and watch as these spiral from Anders' mind onto paper, manifestos scratched onto parchment in fervent words and phrases.
In these moments of writing, the late nights where this body of theirs refuses to sleep, Justice finds that he is sometimes able to slip into control, so focused on the manifesto that they are interchangeable. They are not much, but they are little moments of freedom, brought about with harsh lines of writing etched into parchment with a heavy hand.
It almost does not matter what he writes, just that he can. His thoughts are given form on paper, and he can be free for a time. The words that he writes, ink scratched deeply into parchment, are his own.
Hawke worries. Justice sees this and, in turn, Anders worries. More than once, she comes to their side and removes paper and quill from their hands, running fingers over their ink-stained skin. Sometimes, as she reads over their writing, they find her glancing at them with such a strange expression on her face, one that seems lost, confused. And, sometimes, she steps close to them, takes Anders' face in her hands, and looks at him, searching for something in his face.
She is worried, but he does not stop writing. What else can he do? He must do something to keep his thoughts from ever dwelling upon her. She cannot be his entire purpose.
*
A letter comes one morning, one that Hawke reads over and over. A letter which begins things, the sort of letter that changes everything.
They go to the alienage, and this is where apprehension overtakes Anders, overtakes Justice. There is a boy - a boy they know, the half-elf who has the power to dream - and they must help him.
And it is like the time Hawke asked them to follow her into the Deep Roads - they cannot let her go into this - into the Fade - alone. They can deny her nothing when she asks, though they both inwardly quake at the possibilities of what could happen.
He has not returned to the Fade since being torn from it, so many years ago, only catching glimpses of it as Anders dreams. He does not know what will happen, if they will be so intertwined that Anders' mind will remain the dominant one, or if they will separate once there and he will be free.
There is something melancholy in that thought. If he returns to the Fade, he will lose this world. And regardless of what pain this world might have brought him, he does not know if he wants to lose it entirely.
But Hawke asks them to come with her, and so they will.
Justice is going home.
*
It is the strangest thing, to be back in the Fade. Everything feels right, for the first time in years, and yet there is something very wrong about it.
He has been changed too much by the outside world, he thinks. He cannot go back to this. Not forever.
Oh, but the clarity here! It is a different sort of life, one born of dreams and magic, and it is in those moments that he realizes that, here, he is Justice. Not Anders, not the creature of vengeance that they have become together.
Justice.
Himself.
“Anders?”
And yet it takes nothing more than a simple word from the dream-form of Hawke to remind him that there is something new to himself. He still feels, and being called by that name.
“I am Justice,” he tells her, voice deep and harsh, more so than he intends. “Anders has told you of me.”
“Well, yes,” she answers, and he looks at her then, standing beside him in the Fade. She gleams, sparks, a living soul among the architecture of a dream. “And I have met you.”
It is something about how she says it, or perhaps it is simply that this is the first time that they have spoken without him having to strain to remain in control, but he feels as though he cannot speak. For all that he wants to, has wished to, he does not know what to say to her.
So, instead, he focuses upon what they are here to do. He can feel this dream around them, knows there are demons lurking, knows where this dreamer they are seeking is.
“Come,” he says, instead of anything else, instead of taking this moment for himself. “Feynriel is this way. He does not have much time.”
He looks away from Hawke, steps forward towards where he feels the dreamer's presence. The Fade welcomes him back, enfolds him, the dream familiar and comfortable. Deep within him, he can feel Anders, still there, but so, so far away.
There are others here as well, companions that have followed Hawke here. The pirate woman and the lyrium-etched elf are with them, barely flickers in the corner of Justice's eye. Their grip upon the Fade is tenuous; they do not belong here. They are not meant to walk the Fade, not as he is. Not as Hawke is, the mage a presence that burns through the dream beside him.
These two, they do not understand the traps within this dream as he does. They will not be able to withstand the wills of the demons around them.
This is something that he knows without a doubt.
They step through the dream, past things half-formed, the imaginings of the subconscious mind. Here, things are transparent, edges blending from one thing to the next. There is not the same definition that is found in the waking world. Beside him, Hawke's form blurs slightly as she passes a hand over the stones of one of the walls, fingertips dissolving away into the dream only to reappear moments later.
He has missed the dreams, the Fade. Missed this.
Then there is a demon, spinning words of honeyed sweetness, lies and falsehoods and promises of power. He feels Hawke's companions waver, and, to his horror, feels the same in Hawke. For a moment, she speaks as though she is considering it.
“It is a demon. It deals in lies and empty promises. Do not listen to it.”
If there is some spell holding Hawke, his voice breaks it. She looks to him, the edges of her form growing more distinct for a moment. She reaches out to him, her fingertips ghosting over his hand, and that slightest touch within the Fade is so very different from one in the mortal world.
“I know, Justice,” she says, and then her fingers no longer touch him, and lightning blooms before her.
The demon dissolves before her, as though it had never been part of the dream to begin with.
*
There are more demons, of fire and flame, of pride and desire. The pirate leaves them, unable to understand the dream for what it is. The elf, for all his words of how weak mages are, how terrible, is unable to stand before the demon of pride that takes him.
They turn on Hawke, attack her, and he strikes them down before they can touch her.
This is his domain, and they have no power here.
But the demons themselves, they give him more trouble. They are not so weak that he can dismiss them with little more than a touch.
The pride demon, it laughs at him as he fights it, taunts him, revels in how far a spirit of justice has fallen. You are just like us, it tells him. It knows better than to tempt him, knows far better than that, and it can do more harm with words than anything else. Because there is more truth in those words than he wants to admit.
The desire demon is worse, evading him, dancing out of the way of every spell that he casts. It giggles and laughs, whispering things that only he can hear. A spirit of justice, desiring a mortal woman, it says. I could make her want you. Desire you. But why would she want a former spirit of justice? For a moment, it takes on her form and presses close to him, a mocking smile and a touch that stings.
But it is a demon, and demons only lie.
And Hawke is behind him, her magic flaring brilliantly around her, and the desire demon is caught within a cage of light, the illusion breaking, and its laughter turns to screams until Justice casts with Anders' magic. Then the demon turns to nothing within the fire.
“Well,” she says, and he is struck by the fact that it is just the two of them now, the pirate and the elf's spirits no longer within the Fade, “that went...terribly.”
“I no longer sense any demons here,” he says, the demons' words and attempted trickery having shaken him. “We must make our way to Feynriel.”
And he is wasting this opportunity, he knows it; Hawke is right there, and he can speak fully as himself for once, and yet he cannot find a word to say outside of the task they have come here to perform.
“Justice, wait,” she says, and she touches his arm again to keep him from moving past her. It is a touch different than that of a desire demon, different than anything he has felt in those brief moments he has touched her outside of the fade. “When Feynriel leaves the Fade, we will as well. Yes?”
He inclines his head slowly, not understanding why she is asking this. “Most likely. This dream is constructed by him; should he leave it, it will shatter. Unless we make a great effort to remain, we will wake when he does.”
Even within this dream, Hawke's form acts as she would, her features moving as he has seen them do so in the mortal wold. She worries at her lips, catching it between her teeth and looking away from him, out at the shifting dreamscape around them.
“Anders says you think I am a distraction,” she says, and while there is something about the way she says it strikes him as odd, he cannot tell why.
He does not know how to respond to this.
“You...distract him from his cause,” he says, and this is both a truth and a half-truth. Yes, she distracts Anders, but she also distracts Justice. But how can he tell her this? “You draw him to frivolous things and away from correcting the injustices in your world.”
It is strange how, despite knowing her for years, he does not know her. Cannot speak to her as one who has done so before.
“I remind him that there is more to life than manifestos and fighting Templars,” she says. “I remind him of the things that make him human.”
“You are a distraction.” It is all he can say. He does not want to speak to her of Anders, does not like the dull ache that settles into what serves for his heart. But Anders is all that links them to one another, isn't he? Hawke only knows of him as the spirit who resides within the man she loves, and no small conversation within the Fade will change that.
Justice may love her, but she does not love him. She cannot possibly love him.
“You dislike me,” she says, and, again, there is something odd in the way she says it. He wishes that he knew all the nuances of how humans speak, but while he has learned some he can simply not comprehend all of the subtleties. But, even without knowing exactly what is so strange about how she is saying these things, he knows what it is she has said.
And she...thinks that he does not like her.
And while she might not love him, it somehow hurts to think that she believes he does not care for her. That he dislikes her.
“I do not dislike you,” he says, the words falling slowly from his mouth. “You are compassionate and just, and are everything a mage living free should be. You risk yourself for those you do not know, simply to save them from what others have suffered at the hands of the Templars.”
Hawke is silent for a long moment, not looking at him. He wonders if he has said something wrong.
“You glamorize what I am,” she finally says, looking up at him, her features blurring for a moment in this dream. “I am not as good a person as you imply. I'm not...you give me too much credit. I am more selfish than you think.”
This is strange, for he does not think of her as a selfish woman. He wonders at this, at how she could think such a thing of herself.
But he thinks of Anders and he thinks of Kristoff. He thinks of how much Kristoff sacrificed to be a Grey Warden, of his actions there, how he had given of himself until his life had been taken from him. Kristoff had been a good man.
Yet he had not been a selfless man, not in everything.
And then there is Anders, who had not been selfless when they had first met. He had put his own survival above all else, had not sought to help others at a high cost to himself. But he, too, had been a good man. He might not have given his all for the betterment of others, but Justice had seen him do better things than Anders himself had thought he could do.
And, in the end, he had given up his own individuality and merged with a Fade spirit so that he would have the ability to help those around him, to make it so that those born with the gift of magic would never suffer through the things that he had.
“Being selfish does not mean you are not a good person,” he tells her. “And I have seen nothing of you to make me think you are not a good person.”
Her smile is tinged with sadness, he thinks. “You haven't been watching very closely, then,” she says.
“Why are you here?” he asks her then, and she gives a start at that, gaze snapping to meet his eyes.
“To save Feynriel from the demons that plague him,” she says, her voice calm and steady, confident in her answer.
“But why?” he asks her again, and her brows draw together in confusion.
“Because I was asked to help.”
Perhaps she cannot see things as he does. Perhaps she does not understand.
“This boy,” he says, “this mage. What is he to you?”
“I - what?”
“What is he to you?” Justice insists. “He is not tied to you through blood or through a debt. You owe him nothing. Why do you come to save him?”
Again, she is silent, a long moment stretched between them.
“Because,” she finally says, slowly, deliberately, “he is a friend. A friend who suffers for his magic, and yet who should not. Because not every mage is a danger, and not every mage seeks demons of their own volition. Because I might be able to save him, even if I cannot save every other mage who falls to demons.” She lifts her head, looks straight at him. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
“You do more than you think you do,” he tells her. “And, for that, I cannot dislike you. Not as you think I do.”
He takes a step towards her, so uncertain of what to say. He should tell her now - he might never have another chance. And he wants to tell her, of how she has given him a living memory of love. But he does not know how.
Another step, and she stays still before him, even as he reaches out to her as he did so long ago in the clinic, in that brief moment that had been his. Does not flinch as he cups her face in his hands. This might be the Fade, only a dream, but this is what has always been real to him, this world, and he can feel the flutter of magic beneath her skin.
“I cannot dislike you,” he repeats, and this is yet another thing that he does not know how to do. But he has memories of this, has experienced this through Anders. He tips her head as gently as he can, almost afraid that this dream-state will shatter around them, and dips his own head down until his lips are pressed to her.
And he does not know what to do. All his memories tell him of things, but to put any of them into use seems an insurmountable challenge. To do anything more than hold her as he is, his lips pressed so softly to hers, seems impossible.
There is a moment in which everything is still, where it seems as everything has come to a stop. There is a breath between them, a stillness in this place where even movement is an illusion.
Then her lips move against his, soft and sweet, and it feels like he has been shocked by some spell, warmth running through him. This is only a dream, and things within the Fade are not as they are in reality, but, still, he savors the feel of her against him, the way her hands come up to tug at his jacket, how he finds his own lips moving against hers, clumsy and unskilled as she angles her face and how he tangles his fingers in the mass of her hair, little threads of a dream around him. Even here, everything created through thought and magic, it is less than perfect and yet far more so than he would have ever thought. Her mouth parts ever so slightly before his, and all he has are the memories of others to make sense of this, but he cannot do this correctly and his teeth click against hers.
He does not think that is how kisses are normally supposed to go.
She draws back at that, and her eyes are bright, the smallest of laughs falling from her lips and a smile upon them that he dares to hope is for him.
“What was that for?” she asks him, that little smile on her lips. He does not fully notice the tone of her voice or the way that she is looking at him, focusing more on the words themselves. And he is struck by the sudden thought that he has done this wrong, that a kiss does not have the meaning he had thought it to, that he should not have kissed her then, that he has already messed this up completely.
“It is...a means to express affection,” he says, his words unsteady and halting. “A kiss...that is what it means, is it not?”
“Sometimes,” she tells him. “And sometimes it can mean different types of affection. What did you mean by it, Justice?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but then he takes a moment to think about what all she has said, and how she has said it. She has asked questions of him, but something about how she has worded them, something about how she has said them makes him think...makes him think that she had already know - or, at least, suspected - what the answer was going to be.
“You...already know what I will say,” he says to her, and she looks down and away from him, biting her bottom lip.
He does not know how she could know. He has never before had a chance to speak to her, to tell her anything. Never kissed her before, never held her.
“I think I do,” she says, looking up at him again, and her smile is very soft, very tentative. “But that's not the point. The point is that you're able to tell me, face to face. Isn't it?”
“How can you possibly know?” he asks her, and it shakes something within him to think that this secret that he has kept locked inside, unable to express, has been found out by her, without him realizing it.
“Because Anders figured it out,” she tells him, and that...makes sense. It's entirely possible that Anders had realized Justice was in love with this woman, just as he had realized Anders' feelings for the same woman long before they had ever been voiced aloud. “It took him a long time, you know. And he didn't piece it together until I showed him what you had written in those manifestos.”
“What I had...written?” He cannot remember everything he has written, those moments having been him and Anders bleeding together, some of the words written by him, some by Anders, and some by that twisted being of vengeance that the two become in their worse moments. Panic rises - have they done something, again, that is beyond their control? “What did I write?”
Hawke's mouth opens a bit in surprise. “I...well, I had thought that was you. Anders assured me it wasn't him, and, well, it didn't seem particularly vengeful. Most of it. There was all that stuff about mages' rights and the like, but that's not...did I just get this terribly, horribly wrong? Maybe Anders was just playing a joke on me and it really was his writing...but he normally doesn't write about lyrium in his love notes, it's more about kittens and things like that -”
“What?” And it is a somewhat terrifying thought, first that he might have written things in those manifestos that he hadn't meant for another to see, and second because it meant that there were things that he does in those moments when he takes control of this shared body that he cannot fully remember, and does that mean that this creature of vengeance that the two of them has become stronger?
“Songs of lyrium,” she says, and she's not looking at him then. “It's not a very...Anders thing to say. It is very pretty, but I don't know what it means.”
He is struck silent for a moment. Something he has thought so often, that she is like the songs of lyrium, and it has somehow made its way onto paper. A small piece of his feelings for her, and she has seen it.
“It means that you are...that you are beautiful and perfect to me.” And there, he has said it. He watches her eyes go wide and her mouth open slightly. “Is that what you expected me to say?”
She sets a hand over her mouth, giving a small laugh. “Oh, what is it with you and Anders and being overly dramatic?” she says, half to herself. “I expected...well, you kissed me, and Anders was so adamant about...so I expected something, but...perfect? That's worse than calling me a good person.”
“Is it the wrong thing to say?” he asks her, worried, again, that he has said something that will drive her away. “I have no experience in these matters; I do not know what is...appropriate to say.”
She moves her hand from her mouth and touches his shoulder, and just that touch makes him feel as though magic has flooded through him, burning a path along his skin. “Oh, Justice,” she says, the words barely more than a sighed breath. “It is a fine thing to say. Buy you have a better opinion of me than I do of myself.”
“Perhaps you simply cannot see yourself as you are.”
Again, laughter. “I doubt it,” she tells him, then raises herself up on tiptoes and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his mouth. When she pulls back, it is his turn to stare at her, for he did not expect her to initiate a kiss of her own.
“What...was that for?” he asks, not quite willing to believe that it means what he thinks it might.
She gives a small shake of her head, her hand sliding down his arm to join with his. “It means that I care for you, too, you silly spirit.”
It takes a moment to sink in, for him to understand what it is that she says. It has taken so long, far too long, and at this realization he feels something from Anders. The mage is buried so deeply within their joined minds that he can barely tell he is there, but he can feel...relief. And a bit of annoyance.
She cares for him. Cares for him.
“You...care for me,” he says, repeating it as though it cannot possibly be true without saying it aloud.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
He wants to ask her why, ask her how she could possibly care for him, but there is such a feeling of elation, the place within his chest where a heart should be feeling tight, that he can do nothing more than dwell upon this thought.
She cares for him.
Justice does not know how to express this feeling that wells up within him, only certain that it must have an outlet. A memory surfaces within his mind, one from Kristoff, of a beautiful woman who catches his hands and says of course I love you, you silly man, and he thinks this sudden swell of happiness is something like what the Warden had felt then.
So he takes his cue from the memory of a long dead man and again presses his mouth to Hawke's, wrapping his arms around her until she is held tightly against him. And still he is not so certain of what to do, his lips moving clumsily against hers. A spirit has no instinct when it comes to things such as this, has no need to know these things, and the memories that swim within his mind tell him what he might do, but he does not know what is appropriate. Again, he is surprised when her lips part, her fingers tangles in his hair, her mouth sweet and soft against his. And then he feels the brush of her tongue and that startles him, though he does not draw back.
He does not know what to do with his tongue, with his hands hands, does not know what to do with any of himself. He tries to mimic her actions as best he can, but all he can think is that he is clumsy, that he has no idea what to do outside of what his memories suggest, and there is this...this terror that he is going to do something that will push her away, shatter this little illusion of happiness.
Her lips leave his, and he think that this is it, he has ruined this. He's done something wrong and -
And then she presses kisses along his cheek, along his jaw, and his eyes fly open, the touch yet another thing that is unexpected, and yet not at all unpleasant or unwanted. It feels like magic sparking upon his skin at each touch, and he wonders if that is her, or the Fade, or if that is simply what a touch is supposed to feel like.
His arms tighten around her, hands pressed along her back, and he holds her as though loosening his grip would cause her to disappear. Her hips are pulled tight against his, and he feels warmth run through his entire body.
Her mouth returns to his, her kisses still slow, and yet there is a sort of restrained urgency to them, the press of her mouth against his harsher than before, and he responds in kind.
There is something in the back of his mind, something pressing at the edges of his awareness, and he pauses, draws away from her slightly. And then he realizes what it is he is sensing and he thinks he understands now the mortal need to curse.
“Demons,” he says, and he can feel them more strongly now, their presence an unwelcome intrusion into this moment. “They are still seeking the dreamer. We...cannot linger here.”
Hawke releases a breath and there is an expression that looks like it might be disappointment upon her face. “All right,” she says, her hands lingering on his feathered shoulders for a long moment before she allows them to drop.
“This way,” he tells her, and he begins to take a step when he is stopped by the feeling of her hand slipping into his. He glances down, confused, as she twines their fingers together.
“Come one,” she says as he hesitates, and she tugs on their linked hands, urging him forward.
And just that small point of contact between them is enough. For all that he has enjoyed the kisses shared between them, he had never expected any of this. In a way, simply being able to walk at her side, her hand caught in his, is enough.
*
They find the boy - the dreamer - soon enough, before another demon has tried to enthrall him. He looks at them with large eyes, and when Hawke speaks to him they learn that he can now feel the threads of the Fade, understands better the way that it moves and changes.
Hawke smiles then, at the boy, and she looks happy.
And then the boy pulls upon something with the Fade and the dream changes, begins to dissipate around them. Hawke turns to him then, and he thinks that this is it, they are out of time.
And he has not said enough.
He has only moments before the dream is gone completely and he is trapped once more within a mortal body, able to see her and yet never speak to her, never hold her.
There are words he could say - that he loves her - but they seem inadequate. They are Anders' words, not his.
In those last moments, the dream falling to pieces around them, he catches up both her hands and presses them to his chest, holding them there above where his heart would be, if a spirit had a heart.
“This,” he tells her as she begins to go transparent and fade away, “this is yours. For always.”
And then the dream is gone.
*
The single taste of freedom, a single moment to be truly himself again, and Justice finds his place within Anders' mind more of a prison than ever. There are walls there, boxing him in, and he is more aware of them than he ever has been.
And yet...it is not as bad.
In those moments after they wake from the dream, blinking away sleep and magic, Hawke looks over to them and she smiles, the smallest smile and yet it reaches all the way to her eyes, a warm look that she gives only to them.
They are somewhat disoriented from the excursion in the Fade, and Anders tries to rise unsteadily to his feet. To their feet. Hawke is able to stand before them, and she steps to their side, offering a hand that they take, pulling them up. There is a brief, unsteady moment where they place a hand to her shoulders to keep their balance.
And Hawke looks at them, that small little smile on her face, and she takes their hands and holds them for a moment before she presses them to her chest, above where her heart is, and they feel the soft, steady beat against the palms of their hands.
“And this is yours,” she tells them, and Justice thinks that she is speaking to both of them, to both him and Anders. “Always.”
*
Epilogue
There is little space left between them now, the gaps between what is Anders and what is Justice having closed to the point that it is hard to tell where each ends and each begins. They are not the same, not yet, but that barely matters.
Soon, it will not matter at all.
The world is broken, and they cannot fix it. They can only lay the ground to work to try.
They have broken the fragile peace in the city, for it was never peace. They have torn the Chantry to the ground, to force the conflict that has festered there for so long.
There can be no peace, not until the world has changed.
And, for this, they will die. For this, they will forsake love and life, because their own happiness cannot come before that of every other mage.
And just as Anders has grown so far beyond the selfish man he had met in Amaranthine, so has Justice change. He is still Justice, but twisted, warped by humanity, and he cares so very much for this world, seen so much beauty and suffering, and he knows that he cannot sit idly by in a world where every day is shadowed by the Templars and the Chantry. Where even Hawke, with her power and sway within the city, cannot stand against Meredith for the threat that she poses to those the mage cares for.
The world is broken, and they have done as they must.
They sit upon a crate, the wreckage of the Chantry around them, ash is the air, rubble at their feet. Behind them, they hear the sound of shouting - the angry voice of the archer and the harsh sound of Hawke speaking - but they do not listen to their words.
There is nothing left to say, and now they wait for the end.
They have hurt her, this they know. Lied and coerced and made her all but their partner in this crime. And it has hurt them, both of them, to do it. They love her, and yet they cannot hold that love above the rest of the world.
It has been good to be happy, for a time.
They should have simply left her out of this, never asked for her help. But all those choices are now in the past, and now all they can do is wait.
There is more yelling from behind them, the angry rise of voices, and from the corner of their eye they see Hawke turn to them. But they cannot look at her, cannot bear to see the hurt and anger in her eyes. At the end of everything, perhaps they are nothing more than a coward.
They have already told her why; there is nothing more to explain. She does not need to ask who is to blame for this, does not need to ask if this is Anders or Justice, because she knows. She knows them far too well, the intricacies of them. Separate, neither of them would have done this. But together...together, they are dangerous. Together, they are capable of such things.
She stands behind them, and there is silence for a long moment as ash floats through the air. They look before them, at a point on the ground, and while they expect this to be the end, there is some fear left at the thought of death.
“Do it,” they tell her. “Make it quick.”
She makes a sound, a broken little sob, and they hear her footsteps as she walks forward. And this is what they expect: a knife in the back, or a spell that falls upon them and strips them of life.
But she moves and it is neither, her arms coming around them, her face pressed to their shoulder, and they look up in shock, head turned so that they can just barely see her from the corner of their eye.
“No,” she tells them. “I won't. You can't just walk away from this, not now, not what it's all just begun. This is your fight, and I won't give you the easy way out.”
And it is so unexpected, the feel of her arms around their thin shoulders, the fact that they are still alive when they had expected death.
“Hawke...”
“No,” she says, her voice muffled by the feathers of his coat. “You're not going to leave me with this mess. You're going to help me put this right, and then we will figure out what to do next.” Her arms tighten around them. “And. I will not lose both of you. Not now.”
“You...you will allow me to stay at your side?” they ask, surprise heavy in their voice.
There is another moment of silence, and they fear that she has changed mind, that the hope that has flared into life will be for nothing.
“I told you for always,” she says. “I meant it.” Her arms leave them and she steps before them, hand extended. “Come on. We have to get to the Gallows.”
They look at her for a moment, and then reach out and take her hand in theirs. Her fingers curl around theirs and she tugs them to their feet.
“Come on,” she says again, and they follow her out in to the streets of Kirkwall.
This world is broken, but, perhaps, at her side, they can try to fix it.