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Chapter Text

I

Waking up in shackles was nothing new to Anders. Neither was waking up with a big part of his memory missing and his head feeling like he'd tried to bash through a Templar's shield with his skull. Nor was waking up and glowing, but waking up and glowing green, that was new.

“Huh,” Anders said, or rather tried to, because all that came out was a pitiful groan somewhere between 'that hurts' and 'what am I'.

Sadly, no one seemed to understand, so Anders settled for looking around until he could form actual words and found himself surrounded by four grim-looking guards staring him down with so much hate in their eyes that one could think he'd just killed the Divine.

Wait.

We did not, Justice supplied, always helpful, and Anders allowed himself to breathe a bit, even though Seeker Pentaghast's accusations did nothing for his headache, thank you very much.

“I don't know what that is,” Anders insisted, again, and winced when the mark on his palm shot sparks through his arm and set fire to his blood, making Justice purr like a cat in the sun. So it was somehow connected to the Fade, judging from Justice's reaction—then again, glowing cracks in someone's skin was an obvious tell. You didn't need to be an abomination to figure that one out.

It is a connection to the Fade—a key, if you will , Justice rumbled from the back of his mind, his presence reaching out through Anders's arm towards his hand. I have not seen its like in a very long time.

Anders wanted to ask him how to get rid of it, but was rudely interrupted by Pentaghast hauling him to his feet and dragging him out of the cold dungeons into the even colder Haven air.

“Well, that's disconcerting,” Anders mumbled as he stared at the sky. The Veil was cracked open and he could feel the Fade even from here, wrapping like a thin sheen of cloth around him, filling the air with pinpricks of energy that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. The mark in his hand pulsed, tingled, prickled and stung until there was pain that brought him to his knees, gasping.

“The Breach is widening,” Pentaghast said as she pulled him to his feet. “We must hurry.”

Shaken, Anders scrambled to his feet, eyes never leaving the giant rift, and nodded.

II

“Er, that's a nice crossbow you have there,” Anders said weakly, because he was not above using flattery when trying to get back into someone's good graces. Especially not when his life was on the line. One word from Varric, Anders was certain, and Pentaghast would have him on the gallows faster than he could say 'Andraste's flaming knickers'.

“She is,” Varric agreed and the as you already know went unsaid. Anders swallowed.

“Trevelyan, was it,”Varric went on gracefully after an eternity of staring, and Anders blurted, “what?”

Varric looked about ready to hit him. With a chair. Thankfully, none was in reach, and Varric would never abuse Bianca like that, so Anders was relatively safe. For now.

“Oh, yes, of course, I'm... Maxwell . Trevelyan, that is. Maxwell Trevelyan, yes,” he hurried to add, close to hitting himself to safe Varric the trouble.

“Varric Tethras, at your service,” Varric said, and Anders had to congratulate him on his Wicked Grace face because the corner of his mouth only twitched a little as he inclined his head in a bow.

Fate was a cruel mistress, it seemed, and she did not like Anders very much.

“So, what are you doing here,” Anders inquired carefully and glanced at Pentaghast to see if she had noticed anything odd about their exchange. She was glowering, but he'd barely seen her do anything besides that, so Anders was relatively sure she still had no idea who he really was. He only hoped it would stay that way until he could make a run for it.

Pentaghast made a disgusted noise that went beautifully with her irritated facial expression and said, “enough chatting. We have to close the Breach. You can talk afterwards.”

“You mean, if I'm still alive, then,” Anders said, but began walking nonetheless because Pentaghast was scary and he was sure she was not above knocking him unconscious and carrying him up the mountain herself if she had to.

“Yes,” she said bluntly and turned around to lead the way. Anders sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, certain his life would've been easier if he'd just stayed in Kirkwall.

You would be dead, then, Justice objected, but Anders thought that was rather the point, and how come he had spent so much time in Anders's head and still had not grasped the concept of irony and sarcasm yet, when he felt a rather alarming pressure at the small of his back.

“Listen here, Blondie,” Varric said under his breath, pushing what appeared to be Bianca's tip a bit harder against Anders's back to underline his demand. “I've not forgotten what happened in Kirkwall and I'm about one stupid speech on the injustice done to mages away from telling the Seeker who you really are. So you'd better keep your mouth shut and close that damn breach, and then we'll have a very long talk about how it comes that stuff keeps on blowing up around you. Understood?”

“Understood,” Anders ground out between his teeth and only allowed himself to breathe again when Varric took a step back and appeared at Anders's side, his smile as innocent as a newborn babe's. A newborn babe that was also possessed by a demon, that is.

There is no such thing as possessed infants, for they cannot give consent , Justice said. You should know that.

Anders bit back a scream.

“Move, Trevelyan, or I will make you,” Pentaghast threatened from ahead, leaping over a small wall with a grace that seemed to be at odds with her brash character. Anders sighed yet again and followed, carefully stepping over the remains of a Shade, Varric at his heels.

“You know,” he said before they caught up to the others, “I had rather hoped you wouldn't recognize me beneath all that hair.”

To prove his point, Anders rubbed a hand over his beard. He had let it grow in the hopes it would make it harder to be recognized, and also because between fighting and running from Templars there wasn't enough time to keep facial hair at a fashinable stubble. Also, after a decade of the Free Marches's merciless summers, Ferelden was rather cold.

Varric sneered and shook his head, slip-sliding down a slope towards a frozen lake.

“Lose the feathers on your shoulders next time you want to be inconspicuous, Blondie,” he said and brought up his trusty crossbow when another rift opened up in front of them and demons spilled out of it.

Art by perplexingly

Chapter Text

III

Anders was a mage, and mages hated demons—unless they were blood mages, or crazy Tevinter Magisters, or crazy Dalish blood mages who were naïve enough to think something good could actually come of consulting a demon, but Anders was none of these, so he hated demons with a vengeance (pun may, or may not be intended).

And what he hated most were Pride demons, because they were huge and had too many eyes and in general just looked like the love child of a Broodmother and a dragon and that was a really disturbing image that he would hopefully forget in the next few seconds. And apparently they had lightening whips now, too. Wonderful.

“Duck!” Pentaghast shouted and then shoved Anders to the side for good measure, making him stumble out of the way of said whips before they came crashing down on the place where Anders had just stood.

“Thanks,” Anders coughed as the dust had cleared a bit, but Pentaghast shook her head and scoffed, already turning towards the demon again, sword and shield at the ready as it lumbered towards them.

“Do not thank me before this is over,” she said and charged. Anders just stared, until Solas appeared next to him, throwing spells at the demon with a frightening ease that made Anders at least a bit jealous.

“You would do good to seal the Breach,” he said and threw Anders a meaningful glance inbetween spells without even hesitating or breaking a sweat. Anders was definitely jealous now.

“Now,” Solas reminded him sharply, and Anders nodded before looking for a way past the demon so he would be able to reach the Breach. In his mind, Justice stirred nervously right beneath the surface, desperate to break through and take over, the Fade's energy seeping out of the rift beckoning to him. It was a struggle for both of them to keep Justice hidden, and the distracting prickle of the mark did not help matters in the least. But Anders ground his teeth and squared his shoulders and ran.

The whips cracked and there were screams behind him, a yelled command, but Anders ignored it all even though years as a healer told him to stop and see if there was someone that needed his help.

The rift was right in front of him, and the mark hummed and pulsed on his palm, shocks of electricity making his arm twitch. So close to the Fade it was like standing in a thunderstorm, the air heavy with energy, making his hair stand on end and his skin tingle. Justice was restlessly pushing the boundaries of Anders's mind, begging him to step through the Breach and bring him home, back into a world he understood.

Anders raised his hand.

The mark's glow was so bright he could barely look at it and when a stream of energy burst from his palm, he gasped in surprise and pain. His arm jerked helplessly, and he brought up his other hand to steady it as more and more came forth and he was drained, the mark feasting on his own magic and Justice's as it tried to seal the cleft in the Veil.

There was pain; his blood was on fire, his lungs burned, he tasted copper on his tongue. Tears pushed into his eyes and made the world around him blurry, but Anders kept on giving, kept on pushing.

It was not enough.

Anders stumbled when the connection broke and fell to his knees, staring as the rift seemingly collapsed inwards. He could see it become smaller and smaller, felt it sucking the leaked energy back, pulling on his hair and his clothes, stealing the air right out of his lungs. There was a moment of deafening silence, leaving Anders alone with only his pulse a loud rush in his ears, but he could see the air shimmering, could feel the ground trembling, was blinded by the burst of green light as it erupted from the closed tear.

Anders was thrown back several feet and landed in an undignified heap of limbs on the hard ground, his head thumping against stone, a lance of pain piercing through his skull.

Then, there was silence only broken by his own ragged breathing, darkness creeping in on the edges of his vision, and Anders gave in and closed his eyes.

IV

“It wasn't me this time,” Anders blurted.

Varric did not seem impressed, and Anders dragged a hand through his hair in frustration, wincing when he felt how greasy and tangled it was. It had been, what, almost a week since his last bath? And then he had only managed to wash away the worst of Ferelden's mud in a small, icy stream a day's march away from Haven. Since then he had been in an explosion, had woken in a dank cell, had dragged himself through snow and mud to reach the ruins on the mountain only to be thrown around some more. He was pretty tired of all this.

Also, he could kill for a bath.

“Not helping your case there, Blondie,” Varric ground out and Anders realized he must've said that last part out loud. Well.

With a sigh, Anders turned towards Varric, pulling the blankets closer around himself even though it helped nothing against Varric's glacial look. To be honest, he could think of a thousand things he'd rather do than have this conversation—like fighting a Broodmother, or killing another High Dragon—but if he wanted to survive long enough to vanish into the night, he had to convince Varric of his innocence. Preferably before he ended up as a pincushion, thank you.

“What would be the point, Varric?” he asked and was surprised how tired he sounded even to his own ears. Still, he went on. “What I—what we did in Kirkwall was drastic but necessary. It's what the world needed to wake up, this war. The oppression of mages has been going on for too long, and I was not the first one to talk about it. Thousands of other mages before me spoke up, but they were silenced or ignored. But now—“

He gestured helplessly towards the window, where he could see the scarred sky, the Breach sealed, but still there, waiting for him to open it up again. It was a door that had been locked, not barricaded, and Anders was the only one with the key in his hand—literally.

“The Conclave should have been the turning point, a platform where we would finally be heard by the Divine herself. And she would have had no other chance but to listen. So many of us were there. I was trying to help the mages, what would I gain from taking away the only chance we got?”

Voices drifted in from outside, filling up the tense silence between them. A sister was singing the chant, a man bartered with a merchant. Someone talked about a herald with awe in their voice. Anders wanted to go back to sleep.

“Fair enough,” Varric finally said, although he looked like it actually caused him pain to speak the words. Nonetheless, Anders felt a weight lifting from his chest, allowing him to breathe properly again. Feeling lighter and kind of dizzy with relief, he opened his mouth to speak, “Varric—“

Varric silenced him with a shake of his head, looking exhausted himself.

“Save it, Blondie. I have the feeling sooner or later, this is going to come back to bite me in the ass. Just make sure nobody finds out, especially not the Seeker. Speaking of which,” Varric reached for the helmet resting on the ground next to his chair and flung it into Anders's lap.

“She wants to see you. You'd better put this on.”

“Do I look that bad?” Anders joked weakly, inspecting the heavy piece of mail.

Varric only flapped his hand dismissively.

“Stop complaining and put it on. You'll thank me soon enough.”

Chapter Text

V

“May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition's forces,” Pentaghast said and Anders almost walked into the table.

Templar, Justice hissed and Anders mentally congratulated him on his ability to state the obvious while also trying to hold him back like a Dog Lord his rabid mabari. Despite what Justice might think, letting him out to play Vengeance right now would be indeed not helpful. Not in the least.

“Such as they are,” Cullen said and blinked, confused. “What's with the...”

Trailing off, he raised a hand to gesture at his own head, and it took Anders a moment to understand what he meant.

“Oh,” he said. “That. Er... Precaution! You see, I've been banging my head against things an awful lot lately and I'd hoped this would help me avoid it for the next few days.”

Anders shrugged helplessly and chuckled, the sound bouncing off the insides of the helmet, making it sound even more awkward. Even though everyone was staring at him now like he'd lost his marbles, Anders was a bit sad that Varric wasn't here, since he felt congratulations were in order—after all, even after spending years sharing his mind with a brutally honest fade spirit, Anders had not yet lost the ability to bullshit with the best of them. That should count for something, right?

“Anyway,” Cullen finally drawled and steered the conversation back to more pressing matters. Anders only listened with half an ear as Leliana the Spymaster and Lady Montilyet the Diplomat were introduced and the three of them began debating about whether to ask the rebel mages (yes) or the templars (very big no) to help them seal the Breach, for he was too distracted by having a debate of his own with Justice on the benefits and consequences of smiting the present templar. That said templar was also one of only two people in Haven at this moment who could recognize Anders did not help his case.

“The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition—and you, specifically,” Lady Montilyet said and looked at him expectantly, the tip of her quill hovering over the parchment on her clipboard as if she was ready to write down his reaction.

Anders blinked and ignored Justice for a moment.

“Well, that was quick.”

“Some are calling you, a mage,” she explained, “the Herald of Andraste.”

She kept on talking, but Anders had stopped listening by that point, too dumbfounded to do anything but opening and closing his mouth like a fish inside the confines of the helmet.

They are wrong, Justice said, and Anders told him that he did indeed know that, but apparently the world had gone insane around him, because here he was, a possessed apostate, Grey Warden deserter, murderer of Grand Cleric Elthina and destroyer of Kirkwall's Chantry, with a key to the bloody Fade embedded in his palm and people were calling him the Herald of Andraste?

Anders stifled a hysteric giggle.

Then he cleared his throat.

And then he almost giggled again.

“You must excuse me,” he managed to gasp out, too preoccupied with holding back laughter to really care about being rude as he made his way for the door as quickly as he could.

He had just slipped out of the room when he heard Cullen ask, “is he all right?” And the concern and confusion in his voice made Anders guffaw all the way out of the Chantry.

VI

“They are still looking for you,” Varric informed him as he climbed the ladder to the roof Anders was currently hiding on. Since he had fled the Chantry this morning, he had switched hiding spots various times, since Varric seemed to have a formerly hidden talent for finding him. By now, he could barely feel his toes, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make to keep on avoiding the Frightening Four looking for him. He was pretty sure Cassandra was close to tearing the whole village down to find him, judging from the way she was yelling at the recruits.

Anders almost felt sorry for them, but he felt even more sorry for himself and since he was still selfish enough to value his life he preferred to stay out of the way of a Cassandra Pentaghast who was close to frothing at the mouth.

“If they're still looking then that means they haven't found me yet, which means I'll stay right where I am,” Anders told him and flopped back onto his stomach.

Varric only shrugged, getting comfortable next to him and balancing Bianca on his crossed legs. With what Anders had done, he could not hold Varric's distrust against him, but he also could not ignore how much it hurt that someone he had called a friend for almost a decade now looked at him with so much sharp suspicion in his eyes. Anders looked away.

“Ruffles gave me a list of tasks for you, should I happen to find you,” he said and reached inside his coat to withdraw a neatly folded parchment. “She says you should get acquainted with the Inquisition's quartermaster, blacksmith and apothecary and should see what you can do for them. And then you should go to the Hinterlands and talk to Mother Giselle, who's taking care of the wounded there. Apparently she can put in a good word for you with some of the Clerics in Val Royeaux.”

Anders hummed, finally understanding how Hawke must have felt back in Kirkwall where seemingly everyone wanted to talk to and/or send him on a quest of some kind, no matter that the man had had to take care of his family, the dragon-infested Bone Pit, Kirkwall's politics and an insane Knight-Commander.

“And why exactly do I have to do that?” he asked, cupping his hands to summon a small flame in his palms in the hopes that it would warm his fingers enough that feeling would return to them.

“Because, Lord Trevelyan, you were chosen and saved by Andraste herself, and therefore the heroic—and no doubt thankless—task of saving all of Thedas falls to you,” Varric said gravely, tucking the parchment back into his pocket.

“I'm not—“ Anders began to protest but was quickly interrupted by the flame in his palm hissing and swelling immediately into a flame as big as his head, almost setting his gloves on fire.

“Andraste's tits!” he cursed and quickly quenched the flame with a thought, shaking out his now stinging hands.

“Something you want to tell me, Blondie?”

Varric was staring at his hands intently, the hand around Bianca's hilt twitching with the urge to bring up the crossbow. Anders shook his head, confused.

“It must be the mark,” he said thoughtfully, pulling off his left glove to inspect the glowing crack in his skin.

“I didn't notice it doing that when we were on the way to seal the Breach.”

Anders shook his head, slipping his glove back on. “Yesterday I had a staff to channel my spells through. Today I only had my palms, the mark interfered when I lost concentration. It is a key to the Fade, the very realm of magic, the place every mage draws their magic from. It fed into the fire and made it grow.”

Your conclusions are reasonable, Justice noted.

“Justice agrees,” Anders told Varric.

Apparently, mentioning his little stowaway had been the wrong thing to do since Varric's face immediately darkened and he scrutinized Anders's face so intensely that Anders thought he might be trying to make out Justice's presence in his crow's feet.

“So he is still in there,” Varric said. “I had wondered, since he didn't take over when sealing the Breach knocked you out.”

Anders shrugged, trying to make it seem dismissive, but sure he had failed. From their perch on the roof they had a marvellous view of the sun setting behind the mountains, painting their snow-covered peaks in reds and oranges, making it look like the world around them was on fire.

“Since Kirkwall, he has been more silent,” Anders said softly, wondering if Varric even cared. “Although the problem is not solved, mages are fighting to end their plight. They are fighting for their freedom. For justice. I guess to him that is enough. For now.”

Varric snorted and shook his head, rubbing a hand over his stubble, hair scratching against the leather of his gloves.

“Let's just hope he won't decide it's not enough any more around the Seeker. For all our sakes.”

Anders chuckled, but it sounded weary. “And here I thought the Possession thing was the best of my party tricks. You don't think she would be entertained?”

Varric snorted. “Right until she knocks you down with her shield, I bet.”

“Sounds painful.”

Varric grimaced and nodded, rubbing his left shoulder. “You have no idea.”

Anders wanted to ask what had happened, then. Not only between Varric and the Seeker, but what had happened to Hawke and the others after Hawke had send Anders away. The questions burned his tongue and pushed against the back of his teeth, but Anders kept them in, swallowed them down.

Once, they might haven been friends, but now there was a giant rift between them, and Anders had been the one to carve it, had brought his staff down and split the ground.

So when he opened his mouth, what came out instead was, “thank you, Varric.”

Varric looked at him and then made as if too speak, hesitated, and shook his head.

“Don't thank me, Blondie. I have a feeling I'm going to regret this.”

Anders looked at his hands, tugged on his gloves, pushed the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left, noting the subtle hum in his bones with helplessness.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Aren't we all,” Varric answered.

They sat in silence after that, watching as the sun vanished behind the mountains and the stars came out, until Cassandra Pentaghast climbed the ladder looking like someone possessed by a rage demon and dragged both of them off to pack the supplies for their journey to the Hinterlands.

Chapter Text

VII

“Remind me again why we're walking all the way to the Hinterlands and not riding on horseback,” Anders said as he tried to pull his foot from the third puddle he'd stepped in since they had left Haven his morning. As it turned out, he had a knack for finding the deepest, muddiest puddles Ferelden had to offer and get his foot stuck in them.

“Because the Inquisition cannot spare any horses,” Pentaghast said, irritation making her words sound sharper than her blade. “As I have told you before.”

“Kind of sad, don't you think,” Anders grunted and wriggled his foot, nearly losing his balance when the puddle of muddy doom did not budge an inch. “Here we are, the mighty Inquisition, trying to save Thedas, and we don't even have four horses to spare. I'm sure in Val Royeaux they're laughing at us behind their hand fans.”

“With good reason, it appears,” Solas said drily as he watched Anders lose his fight against the boot-eating mud puddle until finally, Pentaghast pulled him loose with a disgusted noise.

“Thank you,” Anders said when his foot came unstuck with a squelch and Pentaghast had put him back on drier ground. She only rolled her eyes and turned away, but Anders thought he caught her saying, “Maker give me strength,” beneath her breath as she continued walking at a quick pace.

Varric walked past him, shrugging almost-apologetically as he followed her. Anders sniffed.

“You are testing her faith,” Solas observed as he fell in step beside him, his face blank.

“Already?” Anders asked cheerily. “Usually it takes people at least a week.”

Solas smiled softly, avoiding sharp stones and puddles with an ease that made Anders feel as if he was blundering along the way like a druffalo.

“It is not who you are but rather what,” he said and stepped over a particularly sharp-looking stone without even checking for it beforehand. “The chosen of Andraste, an apostate that openly supports the rebellion. She cannot help but question her beliefs now. What does it mean, she wonders, that her god chose you over the templars at the Conclave.”

“Good for her then that she doesn't know all of my dirty little secrets,” Anders mumbled. “Else she would run herself through with her own sword.”

Solas nodded gravely. “She certainly would not react kindly to knowing that you are possessed.”

Anders stumbled and barely avoided diving head-first into the next puddle with a surprised yelp, earning a glare and an irritated hiss from Pentaghast.

“I'm fine,” he called and waited until she had begun walking again. Varric looked from Anders to Solas with a questioning frown, but Anders waved him away with a hopefully reassuring smile.

“Will you tell her?” Anders asked silently as soon as there was enough distance between them and Pentaghast, and at the edges of his mind Justice was stirring restlessly with what appeared to be worry.

“I see no reason why,” Solas said. “As long as your possession does not interfere with our task of sealing the Breach.”

“Well,” Anders began and then stopped because he did not know what else to say. He had expected a lecture about the dangers of trusting any and all beings of the Fade, no matter if they were demons or spirits. “Thanks?”

Solas inclined his head gracefully.

“Maybe later you can tell me what spirit you have accepted into your body and how it came to be. For now I think we would do good to catch up to our companions,” he said with a nod towards Pentaghast and Varric ahead of them. “The Seeker seems to be close to strangling your dwarven friend.”

Anders wanted to protest and say that Varric was not his friend, not really, because they've only known each other for a few days, you know, but then Pentaghast started yelling profanities and Anders nearly got stuck in the next puddle as he hurried to save Varric from death by enraged Seeker.

***

“You are the one they call the Herald of Andraste?” Mother Giselle asked.

Anders grimaced. “Sadly.”

VIII

“The Herald of Andraste, eh?”

“No, not today. Today I am the Herald of Horses and they sent me to tell you that—ouch!”

“What the Herald means to say is the Inquisition needs horses. Are you willing to provide them?”

***

“Lord Trevelyan,” Cullen called and Anders cursed, jumping over Seggrit's booth with more grace than he had ever thought himself capable of, only upsetting one or two of the weapons on display.

We should have killed the templar when we first saw him, Justice groused. He will recognize you eventually.

Anders ignored him, because they've had this discussion already, several times in fact, and each time, Anders had tried to tell him that killing the Commander of the Inquisition right in front of the rest of the advisors would not help in the least, because he was pretty sure even if they succeeded in killing Cullen, they would not be able to run from Leliana and Cassandra.

“Lord Trevelyan,” Cullen said again, hesitantly, his footsteps drawing closer and Anders snatched the first piece of cloth in reach and wrapped it around his neck, hiding half his face behind it.

“Are you all right?”

Cullen's head appeared above him, his brows drawn together in a worried frown. Anders wanted to laugh, but in the last moment he turned it into a muffled cough, nodding.

“And the scarf?” Cullen wanted to know, apparently still not convinced.

Anders blinked and then chuckled, tugging the scarf up over his nose.

“I fell into a pond on my morning walk?” he tried and then chided himself for making it sound like a question, hurrying to add, “and I think I've caught a minor cold. Don't want to infect anyone else, you see.”

He added a cough, just for good measure.

Cease this childish game and show the templar the meaning of true justice! Justice demanded. He must be held accountable for his deeds in Kirkwall!

“Maybe you should talk to the Apothecary, then,” Cullen advised, looking even more concerned now. “I am sure he will have a potion for you.”

“Oh, yes, sure,” Anders said. “I'll do that right away then.”

With that, he scrambled back to his feet, turning to go, but Cullen held him back.

“Josephine has asked me to tell you to come to the war room as soon as possible. We need to talk about what we will do about the Chantry, and Mother Giselle has provided us with the names of the Clerics that could be convinced to help the Inquisition. We need to act before things are out of our control.”

Anders nodded, tugging awkwardly on the scarf, which was rather scratchy, and at the moment he wanted nothing more than make a run for it and hide somewhere until Justice stopped spewing angry speeches in his mind.

“I'll do that, but first I'll—“ he gestured towards the general direction of the Apothecary and Cullen nodded.

“Don't overexert yourself, Lord Trevelyan. You cannot help when you are bedridden.”

“Of course,” Anders agreed, and finally Cullen left, allowing Anders to breathe properly again.

“That was too close for comfort,” he said and then made for the Apothecary, but was this time held back by Seggrit's hand on his arm.

“Aren't you forgetting something, Herald,” he asked and held out his hand. Anders sighed and dug into his pockets for coins, because that was the truth of the thing; even when you saved the world from a giant rift in the sky spitting out demons, merchants would still ask you to pay horrendous prices for their wares.

***

“You're with the Inquisition, then? Are you the Herald of Andraste?”

“Oh, him? No, I'm not. But I've met him before. Handsome fellow. Charming, too—Ha! This time, I was prepared, Seeker, you'll never—ow!”

Chapter Text

IX

“How did Hawke do it,” Anders asked his beer. His head hurt, and so did his feet, and he swore that if anyone asked him to do any more stuff for them today, he would shoot lightening at them. He was not sure he would actually hit them, considering how much alcohol was currently running through his bloodstream, but it was the thought that counted anyway.

“What was that?” Varric asked from his seat opposite him, smirk firmly in place, looking to all the world like he wasn't halfway through his fourth refilling. Anders glared at him.

“I asked how Hawke did it.”

“How Hawke did what, exactly,” Cassandra asked, and Anders jumped in his seat, almost upending his pint. It was a miracle, really, how he hadn't heard her coming, considering how much mail she usually wore.

“How Hawke defeated the Arishok in single combat of course,” Varric explained smoothly. “I have been telling the Herald here a bit about my time with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Leaning in, he winked conspiratorially at her.

“As it turns out, Lord Trevelyan is another avid reader of Tale of the Champion and has been asking me questions about it the whole evening.”

“Is that so,” Cassandra drawled, arching one brow, and she pulled out the chair next to Anders and sat down, waving at the young girl behind the counter to bring her something to drink as well.

“Oh yes,” Anders said, the alcohol making him bold. “With the way Varric retells his misadventures with the Champion, it almost feels like I've been there myself.”

“Then I'm sure you want to hear about the time Blondie got so drunk he climbed onto a table in the Hanged Man and started dancing, too,” Varric said, his smirk sharp enough to cut diamonds.

“Lies!” Anders accused, spilling half of his beer as he gesticulated with his mug. Cassandra huffed.

“I am sure that's what he would say, were he here,” Varric said, arching one eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, the other patrons started throwing coins at his feet as soon as he began taking off his coat. Sadly, Hawke stopped him before he got any further.”

Anders almost choked on his beer.

X

“Behold, the so-called Herald of Andraste, claiming—“

“Let me stop you right there,” Anders interrupted the Revered Mother, drawing startled gasps from the crowd. Cassandra was already glaring, and Anders took a step to the side and out of her reach. “I don't claim to be anything but the person who's able to seal the Breach. Something we should all be concerned about, considering it keeps on spitting out demons all over Thedas.”

“It is true,” Cassandra agreed for once, and Anders was happy to take a step back and let her deliver a rousing speech. But all too soon they were interrupted by the arrival of the templars and the Lord Seeker, and Anders had to take another step back, because Justice was rearing his head and almost frothing at the mouth as he vowed to kill every last one of them inside Anders's head.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Anders said when one of the Lord Seeker's companions knocked the Revered Mother to the ground. This time, the gasp that went through the crowd was one of outrage and next to him, Cassandra protested, “Lord Seeker!”

“Still yourself. She is beneath us,” he said.

“Impressive,” Anders said and ignored Cassandra's glare. “For a moment, I thought she almost had you. But you got her in the end. Well done. Say, how will you celebrate your victory? By kicking puppies?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Varric chimed in. “Even Val Royeaux has urchins.”

“What a splendid idea,” Anders said. “Nothing better than celebrating punching the old and unarmed by kicking the weak and underfed!”

Some people in the crowd chuckled, and there were one or two who loudly made their disapproval known, but the rest was looking from Anders to the Lord Seeker, eager to see what would happen next.

The Lord Seeker bristled, Anders bit the inside of his cheek.

“I am not here to impress you,” Lucius sneered and then turned away.

Cassandra, never knowing when to stop, followed him, trying to speak to him even when Lucius made it clear that he wanted to have nothing to do with the Inquisition.

“You should be ashamed,” he spat.

“Says the one punching Clerics,” Varric quipped silent enough for only Anders to hear.

Jailers, murderers, rapists! Justice raged.

Anders curled his hands into fists, pushed the fingertips of his left hand into his palm until they hummed with the pulse of the mark. A tug on his sleeve made him turn and look down at Varric, who was staring up at him with worry in his eyes.

“Breathe, Blondie,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, squeezing Anders's wrist. “Your eyes are turning blue.”

Anders gulped down air, his lungs burning, and then exhaled long and slow, closing his eyes. When he blinked them open again, Varric nodded, letting go of his wrist.

“I can't believe I'm actually doing this,” Anders told him and pinched the bridge of his nose. With a deep sigh of defeat, he turned towards the Lord Seeker, who was still talking about the disgrace the Inquisition was.

Anders was tired of it all.

“Templars, you are welcome to join the Inquisition and help us seal the Breach,” he called and thereby cut off Lucius's rant about his destiny being the only one demanding respect.

Abusers, power-hungry degenerates, lyrium-addicted bastards! Justice bellowed in his mind, and Anders ground his teeth and fled.

Chapter Text

XI

Anders was sitting on the chantry's roof when Varric found him.

Haven lay mostly still, the only sounds coming from the small tavern, laughter and singing drifting out into the night whenever the door was opened. Guards were patrolling the wooden walls, staring out over the frozen lake spreading like a black looking glass in front of the village's gates, reflecting the eerie green glow of the Breach.

“How is the Iron Lady,” Varric asked as he sat down next to Anders, carefully laying down Bianca next to him to get more comfortable. Anders hid a smile behind his scratchy scarf.

“Scary, mostly.”

Varric chuckled, pulling a bottle from his coat and taking a sip before offering it to Anders. It was mead, and Anders took two big gulps before handing it back to Varric, savouring the warmth it spread as it made its way down into his stomach. Justice had not changed his view on alcohol and had developed a habit of making noises similar to those Cassandra made whenever she disapproved of something. Thankfully, Anders had learned to ignore them, or else this whole saving-Thedas-thing would feel far more dire.

“I saw her arrive this morning. Her luggage had to be carried by five of Cullen's recruits. Poor kids didn't even know what'd hit them when she started ordering them around.”

“First time I met her, she utterly destroyed some Orlesian Marquis's dignity,” Anders recounted, awe in his voice. “I'm certain he cried himself to sleep that night.”

He took another swig from the bottle when Varric held it out to him.

After a while he added, “Justice does not like her very much.”

Varric hummed and licked the last traces of mead from his lips.

“Not a supporter of the rebellion, I hear.”

“She believes the fear of magic is justified. Only more so after what happened in Kirkwall.” Anders chuckled, a trace of bitterness to it, and shook his head. “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Were she not so powerful, I'd call her every templar's wet dream.”

Snow began to fall, tiny flakes drifting lazily from the heavens to melt as soon as they settled on Anders's gloves, and he held out his right hand, palm upwards, summoning a tiny blizzard in his cupped hand, ice spreading over the leather covering his skin, magic prickling in his fingertips. Curling his fingers inwards, the squashed it into non-existence.

“Did I make the wrong choice, Varric?”

Justice must be served, Justice said. Sacrifices must be made so justice can be served.

Anders shuddered, and it was not from the cold.

“I don't know, Blondie,” Varric told him, almost regretfully, as if it really mattered to him that he couldn't answer Anders's question. Anders wanted to laugh. Or cry. He wasn't sure, really. This was all so confusing.

He had never expected to survive Kirkwall, had never dared to think of anything beyond that fateful night. He had pictured himself dying surrounded by templars, a warcry on his lips as he fell to the ground and took his last breath. A martyr for the mage rebellion, and his manifesto would guide the mages into a new era of freedom and peace.

Now, the thought left a bitter taste on his tongue.

The Hinterlands were full of rebels fighting templars, innocent people were accused of being apostates and executed, apostates suspected everyone of being a templar spy, mage apprentices, frightened and barely old enough to understand what was happening around them, clung to the robes of the Enchanters that had instructed them since they were brought to the circle.

Everywhere he'd went, the mages had blamed him for this war.

“You have been quiet since Val Royeaux,” Varric noted. “If I wouldn't know better, I'd think Cassandra finally went through with her threat and made you shut up for good.”

Anders shrugged and looked towards the Breach, the green-tinged clouds swirling above it, the tear in the veil at its centre like the eye of the storm. “I think Sera has been talking enough for the both of us.”

“Pretty much,” Varric agreed and offered Anders the bottle.

more art by perplexingly

Chapter Text

XII

“And the Spirit does not remember what happened at the Conclave?” Solas inquired as they picked their way through the Hinterlands towards Lake Luthias where Leliana expected them to find Warden Blackwall. Cassandra and Varric were ahead of them, keeping an eye out for templars, mages and the occasional angry bear as they made their way towards the Inquisition camp at the lake's shore.

“It's strange,” Anders said, frowning. “I remember running through something that could have been the Fade, fleeing from... something. But I haven't been there since I merged with Justice. He goes there when I sleep and my nights remain dreamless.”

“It is highly unlikely Justice would simply forget. Something must have interfered with his memories,” Solas mused. “But what would be capable of such?”

“I'm not sure I want to find out,” Anders said, squinting at the pair ahead of them. Cassandra had climbed the slope that led towards the lake and was now waving him closer, pointing at something in the distance. When Anders caught up to her, he saw a small cabin on the other side of the Lake, a few men practising swordplay in front of it, their grim-looking instructor intervening sometimes to correct their stances.

“That's the Warden?” Anders asked, frowning. Something was off, but he could not put his finger on it. Not that it mattered for long, because as soon as they had reached the cabin, they were attacked, because outlaws, monsters and bears had impeccable timing when it came to making Anders regret his life choices. Not that he didn't like shooting lightening at fools, but he could do without the whole having to dodge arrows and charging warriors thing. Especially since he did not look nearly as good as Solas doing it.

Also, he was pretty sure Cassandra enjoyed shoving him out of harm's way too much.

“I'm fine, if anyone's interested,” he said, picking himself off the ground and dusting down his coat, noting with a wince how ruffled the feathers on his shoulders were.

“Warden Blackwall?” Cassandra asked as soon as the farmers had been sent off with an inspiring speech and some weapons.

“You're no farmer. Why do you know my name? Who are you?” Blackwall wanted to know, suspicion audible in his voice and obvious in his squint. Cassandra turned towards Anders, but when he only shrugged, she rolled her eyes and began interrogating the Warden about the disappearance of the order, but Blackwall had no information to offer. Unsurprisingly.

“Well, it's been a pleasure, Warden Blackwall,” Anders cut in eventually, shifting his weight from foot to foot, eager to leave and coax Josephine into organizing him a hot bath. Maybe he could even throw in some extra flattery and get her to share some of her Orlesian oils. “But this didn't help at all.”

With that, he turned to leave but he only got about three steps away when Blackwall called him back, telling him, “if you're trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me.”

Anders opened his mouth, then hesitated. When he looked at Blackwall, he saw a seasoned warrior, able to handle a sword and shield, and if the little display was anything to go on, a decent teacher as well. Maybe there was some way he could help, even if that only meant he'd bring up his shield between Anders and any arrows coming his way instead of tackling him to the ground like Cassandra had gotten used to do. Anders's backside would certainly be thankful.

“All right,” Anders said. “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

Blackwall nodded gravely and then went to gather his things, promising to leave for Haven as soon as possible.

“I guess there's no harm in recruiting a Grey Warden,” Varric commented when they descended the slope towards the Inquisition camp. “Not that I see many dark spawn in our future, but if knowing Hawke has taught me anything, you never know what crazy shit Fate comes up with for you next.”

Anders worried his bottom lip and furrowed his brow.

“Oh, about that,” he said cheerily. “That was no Grey Warden.”

XIII

“Lord Trevelyan, a word!”

“Terribly sorry, Commander, but I'm in a rush. Breaches to close. Heraldy things to do. Orphans to save. You know.”

“But—“

“I'm sure Cassandra can help you, or if she can't, she'll find me eventually anyway, so. Nice talking to you.”

Running from your foe instead of fighting them is cowardice, Justice grouched just as Anders rounded the corner of the tavern at a sprint and dove for some crates to hide behind, and really, how was Justice still surprised? 'Run and hide' had been Anders's life motto since he'd been twelve years old. In fact, the two of them had had several discussions about it during their time as tagalongs of the Hero of Ferelden.

“Lord Trevelyan it is important that I—,” Cullen called as he came jogging around the corner with more dignity and poise than Anders would ever manage, and fell silent when he couldn't find Anders. With a look of confusion that could rival a kicked puppy's, Cullen looked around, sighing deeply and rubbing his neck when Anders kept on hiding.

“Well then,” Cullen mumbled and left.

Anders felt almost sorry for him.

Almost, he stressed when Justice bristled.

***

“What can I do for you, Herald,” Blackwall asked when the door fell shut behind them. He did not walk far into the room, staying close to the door, and the way he propped his arms up on the chair seemed too deliberately casual to be genuine; all traits of a man with a secret—Anders had been in similar situations too often to overlook them.

“First of all, you can stop calling me Herald,” he offered, scratching the side of his neck awkwardly. Blackwall nodded, then waited and finally spoke up, “I'm sure that's not the only reason you wanted to talk to me in private.”

“Not an enthusiast of beating around the bush, I see,” Anders murmured and cleared his throat. “But hear me out before you try to kill me and then make a run for it, yes? I like my head where it is.”

Blackwall furrowed his brows and stood up straight, one hand dropping to the pummel of his sword. Nonetheless—and to Anders's relief—he nodded jerkily.

“I know you're not a Warden, and no I haven't told anyone, so you can leave your sword where it is,” Anders hurriedly said, raising his hands in a placating gesture as soon as Blackwall made to draw his weapon and then sheathed it again.

“Well that's not completely true, I told Varric, but—wait, wait, wait!”

Blackwall had had his sword halfway out of its sheath when Anders stopped him again, ignoring the high pitch his voice had adopted on the last few words in favour of staring at Blackwall intently and saying, “Varric doesn't count. He's a compulsive liar. Half of what he says is made up and the other half sounds too impossible to be true anyway. So you're safe. As safe as one can be this close to a giant hole in the sky that occasionally spits out demons, but we're not splitting hairs here, of course.”

Blackwall held up one hand, successfully stopping Anders from rambling on, and asked, “how did you find out?”

Anders grimaced. “Let's just say I have a few secrets of my own and leave it at that.”

“All right,” Blackwall agreed and Anders nodded, walking towards the door. His hand was already on the handle when Blackwall silently said, “I'll leave tonight.”

Anders blinked in confusion before he realized what he meant, then chuckled to himself. Blackwall couldn't know that Anders had already known he wasn't a Warden when he'd first met him, of course. Turning around, he smiled.

“You're welcome to stay, if you want.”

Blackwall's eyes widened, and the question was so obvious on his face that he didn't have to voice it before Anders said, “I'm giving you a second chance. They're great. Second chances, I mean. I don't care what you did before all this, and I don't want to know. As long as you do your best to help us seal this Breach. Consider yourself conscripted to the Inquisition, Warden Blackwall.”

Blackwall nodded and—to Anders's horror—saluted, laying his fist over his heart.

“I won't make you regret this.”

Anders laughed, however, it was lacking mirth, and rubbed a hand over his brow.

“Hopefully. Although I'm not sure I'm not already regretting this.”

Then he stepped out of the door only to find himself face to face with a very angry Cassandra staring down her nose at him.

“Herald,” she said, and made it sound like a threat.

“Seeker,” Anders said, and ran.

Chapter Text

XIV

Anders chuckled.

Varric rolled his eyes.

Anders snorted and didn't even bother to try and turn it into a cough.

Varric sighed.

“I can't believe you're still laughing at that,” he said, a bit more grumpy than he had no doubt intended, and stole the bottle back from Anders. “Must be the alcohol.”

“Harding in Hightown,” Anders whispered, and laughed like he had not done in a very long time; throwing his head back, clutching at his stomach, his eyes alight and full of mirth, he almost startled himself with the volume of his laugh. Not far from them, an owl hooted in irritation.

Varric sighed with mocked annoyance and hid his smile behind the bottle.

*

“You look about as approachable as an angry cat,” Varric told him and Anders glowered, trying—and failing—to push wet strands of hair out of his face.

“An angry, sodden cat,” Varric added.

Rain fell in sheets at the Storm Coast, the wind blowing in from the sea throwing the icy droplets into their faces at an angle that made cowls useless, and barely two minutes after the rain had began falling, Anders was thoroughly drenched. Most of his companions fared equally well; Sera's teeth were chattering and Blackwall had risen his shield above his head, trying to use it as a barrier against the icy droplets, but with the way he kept on wiping his free hand over his brows, it did not help.

Only Varric did not seem in the least perturbed by the rain. His shirt was still open to display his chest hair proudly, and where Anders's ponytail drooped sadly with the weight of the water, Varric's somehow managed to look even more impressive and full, the strands that had come loose now clinging to his angular face in a manner that seemed almost too deliberate to be nature's work. Anders considered setting him on fire just to make him feel as bad as everyone else.

“Let's find this Iron Bull and get it over with,” Anders said and began to walk before the thought of raining down fire or ice or something equally nasty on Varric became too tempting.

Thankfully, the Bull and his Chargers weren't too far away from the Inquisition's camp and they only needed to reach the beach. Unfortunately, the fastest way still included descending a relatively steep slope, which Anders successfully did halfway and then promptly fell on his ass and slid down the rest of the way.

Sera laughed loud enough to be heard over the pounding rain, and only stopped when Anders threatened to turn her into a toad.

“I don't care that they call you the Herald of Andraste,” she told him then and patted her bow, “no funny business or you'll have an arrow in your ass faster than you can say 'what'.”

As always, there was fighting involved, since apparently all the thugs and villains-in-training of Thedas had taken a course on how to annoy their hero of choice with impeccably irritating timing. But at least Anders could work off some of his annoyance by throwing fireballs and shooting lightening.

“So you're with the Inquisition, huh?” the Bull asked once the fight was over, looking Anders up and down, gaze lingering on the mud clinging to his trousers and coat.

“Mudmonsters,” Anders provided.

“Right,” Bull drawled.

“Welcome to the Inquisition,” Varric said. “The only place in Thedas where the heroic leader bullshits more than the storyteller.”

XV

Anders did not like the rifts. They had an annoying habit of popping up all over Thedas to throw demons at everyone in reach and Anders was walking his feet raw trying to close them all. That in itself was irritating enough—but rifts that could manipulate time just took it too far, thank you very much.

“Blasted, bloody, blighted things,” he cursed, because trying to close a rift while the spirit possessing you scratched at your mental walls like a cat begging to be let out did not help to improve one's eloquence. The Maker had better make up for this in the afterlife. Anders was thinking virgins. A lot of virgins. Or, no, better yet, professionals. And cats. A pile of cats. There could never be enough cats.

Justice scoffed. The weakness of the flesh! Lust is a distraction from a higher purpose!

Anders thought that made him rather sound like a member of the Chantry, and Justice fell silent immediately.

His ears popped when the rift fell in on itself and Anders turned around, shaking out his hand to get rid of the tingling feeling of wrongness left behind whenever he used the mark.

“I don't like this,” he told the room at large.

“Neither do I,” someone agreed and Anders startled, having forgotten all about the mysterious Tevinter they had encountered once they had entered Redcliffe's chantry.

“Fascinating. How does that work, exactly?” said Tevinter asked, peering at Anders's left hand curiously.

“Magic,” Anders blurted. Somewhere behind him, Varric groaned, but at least the Tevinter chuckled after a moment of awkward staring. Anders counted it as half a success.

“Who are you,” Cassandra demanded, sword and shield still at the ready.

“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see,” the Tevinter said and bowed. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

Anders had the sudden urge to applaud.

“Watch yourself. The pretty ones are always the worst,” Bull said, and Anders silently agreed.

Useless distraction! Justice reminded him sternly.

Chantry Sister in training, Anders thought gleefully. Justice growled.

“Are you still there?”

Dorian waved a hand in front of Anders's face, frowning at him worriedly, and Anders snapped back to the present. “Yes, of course. Er...”

“Wonderful! Then we can talk about the matters at hand. Namely Alexius using the rifts to travel through time.”

“Delightful,” Varric said.

Chapter Text

XVI

“Dare I even ask,” Varric said as he ran into Anders in front of the chantry, looking up at him and shaking his head as if he was finally ready to give up. Anders clicked his tongue.

“I hear they are all the rage in Orlais,” he said and sniffed, looking down his nose at Varric. “But I don't expect you to understand, Ser My-Chest-Hair-is-more-magnificent-than-yours-and-you-know-it.”

Varric arched one of his brows, corners of his mouth twitching with the smirk he was trying to hold back. Anders adjusted his mask.

“Also, I have a war meeting to attend and a templar to hide from.”

“And an Iron Lady to run from,” Varric added, leaning to the side to peer at something behind Anders.

“My Dear, I feel we must have a talk about personal property,” Vivienne chided, the clicking of her heels against the ground a sound as dooming as the roar of a dragon. “Also, that mask clashes horribly with your robes.”

“Er,” Anders said, eloquently, and then ran.

*

There was a long list of things Anders hated. Templars were at the top of it, shortly followed by his time in Kinloch Hold and the Deep Roads. People that were mean to cats had been on position four, but travelling through time had just recently joined the list and taken its position. Rightfully so, because Anders found himself searching through Redcliffe Castle's dungeons (dungeons was number six now, followed by number seven: blood magic) for a way out.

Also, red lyrium was climbing the list's ranks quickly with every minute he spent in its presence, since Justice was almost going insane in his head as a result of its proximity.

“Are you all right, my friend?” Dorian asked in that cheerful way of his, idly poking his staff in a fallen guard's stomach to see if he was still alive. He wasn't.

“Splendid,” Anders said weakly and leaned heavily on his staff. “Nothing better than finding myself in a dank dungeon with no idea when I am.”

Dorian chuckled pleasantly, eyes sparkling. “Fear not, my dear Herald, for you shall not live through this ordeal alone. Fortunately, you have an incredibly talented, charming and handsome Altus mage with you to protect you from Alexius's evil schemes.”

“I would swoon so you could catch me,” Anders said with a smile and mocked regret in his voice. “But I'm actually scared I would not be able to get up again. Later, perhaps?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Dorian told him with a mischievous wink and then gestured towards the closest door. “But let's proceed, shall we? I fear the end of the world won't wait for anyone. Not even you.”

“Especially not me,” Anders added and then made his way for the door, finding more Venatori and—unsurprisingly—cells on the other side.

The Venatori were quickly disposed of and Anders was just about to make a comment about the endurance of Tevinter forces when he was interrupted by a breathless voice saying, “Lord Trevelyan!”

Anders whirled around quickly, finding Cassandra in one of the cells, hands gripping the bars tightly as if she was about to bend them sideways and climb through.

“Cassandra,” Anders said, relieved, but further words died in his throat when he saw her eyes, red with the blighted lyrium growing out of the walls. “What—“

“You've returned to us,” Cassandra breathed, voice so full of awe Anders winced. “Can it be? Has Andraste given us another chance?”

“I don't know about Andraste, but I'm relatively certain Alexius had a hand in this,” Anders said and withdrew the key he had taken from one of the Venatori earlier to open her cell. Justice pressed up against the frontiers of his mind, eager to seek Cassandra's proximity and the lyrium he sensed growing inside her body. Next to him, Dorian crowing triumphantly over having solved the riddle of their displacement in time, but Anders only caught half of it, too unsettled by the veins of red growing on Cassandra's skin above her collar.

“I have failed you,” Cassandra said and Anders stopped her quickly, shaking his head and tugging awkwardly on his sleeve. “Let's just go and find Alexius and undo all this.”

Cassandra nodded gravely, taking sword and shield from one of the dead Venatori.

“But first let us find Varric, I overheard the guards talking about him.”

Anders's heart stuttered in his ribcage, then picked up its rhythm, pounding restlessly against his sternum.

“Yes, let's do that first,” he said and told himself his breath had not hitched halfway through the words. “Good idea. Very good, in fact.”

And then he hurried out of the room, cutting down more Venatori with barely a thought as he made his way through the endless corridors of the dungeon until the sound of quiet humming drifted towards him through the barred window of a door.

Anders almost collapsed with relief when he reached Varric's cell, clutching at the bars much like Cassandra had not too long ago.

“Andraste's sacred knickers. You're alive?” Varric said and climbed to his feet quickly to stumble towards the door.

“Yes, I'm alive,” Anders babbled, digging one hand into his pocket to withdraw the key, but keeping the other hand tightly wrapped around one of the bars for fear he'd fall over if he didn't. “I'm alive. I'm all right. I'm fine. Are you fine?”

“I'm fine,” Varric said quietly, something like fondness in his red, red eyes. Then he added in barely more than a whisper, “calm down, Blondie. The Seeker is looking suspicious.”

Anders chuckled nervously and almost shouted triumphantly when the lock finally clicked open.

Varric smiled and patted his hand comfortingly, then turned towards Dorian, asking him the important questions, since he clearly thought Anders was in no state to answer them. He was right.

“Everything that happens to you is weird,” he finally said when Dorian had finished with his explanation and Anders grimaced.

“Don't make it sound like it's my fault.”

Varric raised his hands placatingly and shrugged, a crooked smirk on his lips. “I blame you only for about half of it.”

“How kind of you,” Anders said and rolled his eyes. And if he was still giddy with relief then that was neither here nor there.

*

“No, that's a stupid idea. We're not doing that,” Anders said and crossed his arms over his chest in what must have been his best impression of a disapproving Enchanter Wynne yet.

Leliana's eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips, looking about ready to do this Elder One a favour and get rid of Anders herself.

“Look at us. We're already dead. The only way we live is if this day never comes.”

“You're asking me to stand by and let you die,” Anders accused and looked beseechingly at Dorian, who grimaced.

“I'm not overly fond of this situation myself. But you know they are right,” he said carefully.

As if to agree with him, a demon's screech reached them from the depths of the castle.

Anders looked at Varric, who only shook his head.

“You know what to do.” Blondie, Anders heard, even though it wasn't said.

Feeling powerless, Anders stood back and watched as Varric and Cassandra left the room, the heavy stone door falling shut behind them with an ominous sense of finality.

Alexius will be brought to justice for this, Justice vowed, and Anders, for once, wholeheartedly agreed.

Chapter Text

XVII

“The apostate companion of your Champion sounds like an interesting fellow,” Dorian said and Anders perked up. He even stopped dragging his feet like a petulant child for the sake of letting Cassandra know that he still did not approve of walking all the way back to Haven, so that he could make out Varric's next words better.

“I am sure you two would have gotten along like a house on fire,” Varric said, amusement audible in his voice. “You've read Tale of the Champion?”

“Oh, I have certainly heard a lot about it,” Dorian told him and tutted. “It was all the rage in Tevinter, last I know. What better way to be validated in our belief that our Chantry and rulership is clearly superior than by reading that a former Circle mage declared war on the Templar Order by blowing up a chantry?”

“And do you agree?” Cassandra inquired sharply, bristling and apparently eager to show him the error of his ways should Dorian be foolish enough to admit he thought the Imperium superior.

“Calm down, Seeker Pentaghast,” Dorian laughed. “I love my homeland, but I am not blind to its flaws and the things taking place behind closed doors. Or else I would not be here.”

Cassandra huffed, but seemed satisfied nonetheless, even though Anders was sure she would never completely let her guard down around the Tevinter anyway.

“But I dare say the Order must see there is something wrong if someone feels themselves driven to such drastic measures,” Dorian added quietly.

Cassandra objected, “the apostate Anders was possessed by a demon of vengeance. You cannot possibly think him a suitable advocate for all Circle mages.”

Anders flinched and made to protest, Justice a voice of righteous anger in his mind. But to his surprise, Varric was faster.

“A spirit of justice,” he reminded her and Anders blinked, for once speechless.

“But he himself admitted the spirit was twisted into a demon.”

“The memories of a year in solitary will do that to you,” Varric said with a shrug that did not look half as nonchalant as he may have intended.

“A whole year in solitary?” Dorian asked somewhere between disbelief and outrage. “And your templars still wonder why their charges turn to blood magic?”

“Let's leave this discussion for later,” Varric said with a side-glance at Anders, successfully stopping any comments on the importance of a Circle and templars from happening, and thereby preventing Anders from losing control over a very upset Justice already rallying to make an appearance.

“And let's talk about something else. How about that one time Blondie had to wear a pair of thigh-high stockings and a skirt to help Hawke infiltrate a whorehouse?”

We would never! Justice protested, momentarily distracted, and Anders took a deep, fortifying breath, thinking that he would not be so quick to deny that.

It would depend on who'd asked.

XVIII

Anders inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, thumbs massaging his temples. The red lyrium's song was everywhere around him, unsettling and cloying like decay, joining the Breach's beckoning hum of power in a harmony of temptation. Justice was teetering the edge of madness in Anders's mind, unwilling to give in but so tempted.

The mark flashed and crackled, making Anders's hand prickle and his fingers twitch.

“If it's all the same to you, could we get this over with?” he ground out through clenched teeth, curling his hand into a fist and quickly opening it again when a jolt went through his fingers.

Cassandra nodded, a small wrinkle between her brows as she glanced at his hand.

Solas nodded and then turned towards the mages, telling them to assist Anders as he strode towards the Breach, the crackle in the air akin to a thunderstorm's.

“All right, then,” Anders whispered and reached out.

The humming in his ears swelled, making him deaf to anything else, the bright green light blinded him, and Anders closed his eyes, only feeling.

He could pinpoint the moment the mages brought their staffs down and began drawing from the fade, feeding its energy through Anders into the mark.

And Anders pushed and pulled, feet carrying him forwards and closer to the Breach. His lungs were burning and he was drowning in molasses, fighting against the suffocating feeling of wrongness as the rift refused to give in.

But Anders was a healer, mending wounds was his trade, and with a threat of magic he sealed this one as he had so many before, one stitch at a time.

Anders stumbled when the connection broke, falling to his knees and gasping, the feeling of sharp stones digging into his palms and knees a welcome distraction. Cheers rose behind him after a moment, sounding far away and muted to his ears and Anders blinked, tried to clear his head.

A hand curled around his neck, squeezed softly in reassurance and comfort, the smell of leather and expensive Antivan weapon oil sharply present.

“You did it, Blondie,” Varric said.

Anders nodded and chuckled, pushing back into the touch like a cat.

He'd done it.

Chapter Text

XIX

Anders was tired of people trying to rain on his parade.

He'd been promised a night of celebrating. There even was a banquet, and more barrels of alcohol than the Hanged Man had ever possessed in all his time at Kirkwall, and people were laughing and singing and cheering and dancing and getting drunk, and Anders really wanted to see Dorian climb onto the table and do that shimmy he had promised to do.

But of course, that was when everything went pear-shaped.

The alarm sounded and Cullen came running, bellowing orders, forcing Anders to dive for cover beneath the table, where he found a passed-out Sera he had to wake up with a spell Enchanter Wynne had liked to use on day-dreaming or even sleeping apprentices, fondly called the Wet Fish To The Face by its recipients.

Sera startled awake and headbutted Anders on accident, but he wasn't even allowed the time to moan in pain before Bull pulled both of them out from under the table and put them back on their feet. Then Cassandra dragged him off towards the gates and he barely managed to grab some poor sod's scarf and wrap it around his own neck before he stood before Cullen and listened to his report.

The gates shook as something heavy was thrown against them, light flashing in the gap between the wood and the ground. Anders swallowed and brought up his staff.

“I can't come in unless you open,” someone called from the other side.

Anders hurried towards the door, ignoring the warnings that it might be a trap, convinced he had heard someone in genuine distress and not an imposter.

He was greeted by the sight of some hulking warrior being cut down by a scrawny boy, face hidden behind a wide-brimmed hat. Around them, more soldiers lay prone on the ground, blood turning the snow around them into red sludge.

“I'm Cole,” the boy said. “I came to warn you. To help.”

A spirit, Justice exclaimed surprised and almost—happy?

“Huh,” Anders said.

*

“Samson, Corypheus, a bloody Archdemon and I'm walking to my death. Must be a Wednesday,” Anders quipped weakly, aiming the trebuchet, muscles in his arms burning, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Not funny, Blondie,” Varric said through his teeth, eyes on the night sky, searching for Corypheus and his tainted dragon.

“Really? And I thought it would make for a good inscription on my headstone. Silly me.”

“You damn—“

The Archdemon's roar cut Varric off, and Anders looked up hurriedly to find the beast coming right their way, wings spread wide as it dove for them.

“Move!” Anders bellowed, throwing himself to the side as the dragon spat fire at the place he had just stood in. Cassandra was running back towards the gates, followed by Bull, but Varric had stopped, looking back at Anders, face a grimace of indecision as his gaze moved back and forth between Anders and the dragon circling overhead.

“Go, you stupid dwarf!” Anders yelled, hastily climbing to his feet. The Bull stopped and looked over his shoulder, turning around when he saw Varric had decided he suddenly didn't care that much about saving his own behind and took the first steps back towards Anders.

“Maker damn it. Bull!” Anders shouted and gestured towards Varric, relieved when Bull seemed to understand and caught up to him with a few strides of his long legs, grabbing the dwarf and throwing him over his shoulder like he weighted nothing.

Distracted by the scene, Anders did not see the fireball aimed for him until it was almost too late and he was thrown to the side and rolled several feet over the cold ground before he came to a stop, body bruised all over and hurting.

Fire danced around him and Corypheus emerged like a looming shadow, striding towards Anders at a calm yet determined pace, claw-like fingers spread and reaching out. Anders leaned heavily on his staff when he brought his feet back underneath him, too tired even to flinch when the Archdemon came charging from behind him, its hot, rancid breath tugging on his clothes, giant teeth displayed like a promise.

“You,” Corypheus accused, eyes widening in shock before they narrowed to thin, blazing slits in concentration.

The onslaught of the Calling's whispers slammed into him like a charging bronto and Anders staggered, almost falling to his knees, his free hand clutching the side of his head as if he was trying to press through his skull into his mind and push the song out of it.

“You are tainted. Bending you to my will will be easy,” Corypheus said, and with the last remnants of his strength, Anders shook his head.

“Not that easy.”

And he let Justice out to play.

*

The snow was everywhere, spreading out around him like an endless white blanket burying the world beneath. He tasted blood when he licked his cracked lips and the icy wind cut his face, making him bury deeper into his scarf. After hours of walking through the snow, his clothes were wet, offering no protection against the wind and the low temperature, and by now he wasn't even shaking any longer.

He knew the symptoms of freezing to death.

There was no more magic left inside him, Justice and he equally drained from closing the Breach and all the fighting afterwards so that he couldn't even conjure a fire to warm himself.

The only option he had left was walking.

Where to, he didn't know.

His feet carried him on and on, one step at a time as he waded through the snow reaching up to his knees. There had been a dead fire some time ago, embers cold and half covered by snow.

Anders laughed and it was a pitiful sound, raspy and hysteric.

He had survived the templars, the Wardens, Kirkwall, the explosion at the conclave and even Corypheus and now something as simple as snow would kill him.

At least Varric would see the irony in that when he wrote his next book.

Tale of the Herald, maybe. Anders shook his head at himself. No, that wouldn't do. Swords and Shields and Hard in Hightown proved that Varric loved his alliterations. So maybe Blondie and the Breach, or Andraste's Abomination. Heroics of the Herald. Irritating the Inquisition.

Turning Trebuchets.

Bullshitting with Blondie.

Sodding Snow.

Anders stumbled and caught himself, certain he would not be able to get up again once he fell. Another fire, not far ahead. He made his way for it as fast as he could, pushing blue fingertips into the dead ashes. There was still a bit of warmth there and Anders wanted to sob in relief. On he went, staggering and steadying himself on the boulders to his left and right. The wetness on his cheeks had nothing to do with the snow.

For another eternity, he trudged through the endless white, almost believing the last fire he had found must have been a hypothermia induced hallucination.

And then, finally, “there! It's him!”

“Thank the Maker!”

Anders fell to his knees, laughter stuck in his throat, black creeping in at the edges of his vision. Never had he heard anything sweeter than the sound of people approaching through the snow.

Hands gripped his arms and pulled him to his feet, but when it became clear that he wouldn't be able to walk another step, his arms were slung over two sets of shoulders and he was dragged towards light and warmth. Almost as soon as he was laid down on something soft, Anders gave in to unconsciousness.

“Don't scare me like that again,” someone whispered and his hand was squeezed.

Then, Anders knew no more.

Chapter Text

XX

Anders was standing at the edge of the camp where Solas had left him, staring at the mark on his hand. An ancient Elven artefact, Solas had told him, and Anders had agreed not to tell anyone, understanding his fear of what it would mean for Elves should this secret ever come out. People were quick to fear what they did not understand and eager to find a scapegoat to blame.

Elves and mages both knew that.

Bits of conversation drifted over from the camp, and Anders was not eager to return to the fire, although it would be no doubt warmer than here. At least they had stopped singing.

Anders heaved a sigh and turned his back on the tents, trying to make something out, but all he could see was snow and more snow and the dark shadows of the mountains reaching towards the sky all around them. Solas had spoken of a place they could go, only three days of walking away from here even with the injured slowing them down. Whatever they were supposed to find in these mountains Anders wasn't sure. Maybe some ancient Elven ruins. Solas certainly seemed to like those.

“You're like me, and also not.”

Anders startled and bit back a yelp that would have been very manly and not at all like a little girl's, thank you.

“Andraste's knickerweasels, are you trying to kill me?” Anders choked out and looked at Cole, who had appeared out of thin air right in front of him. Justice, who had been quiet since their fight against Corypheus, uncurled in the corner of Anders's mind he had hidden himself away in and pushed to the front like a curious child pressing up against a window to stare at the people passing by.

Compassion, he said with something akin to awe.

“No,” Cole told Anders bluntly, blinking a little confused beneath the brim of his hat.

“So, you're a spirit?” Anders said conversationally. “Are you possessing this 'Cole'?”

“What do you mean?” Cole asked, cocking his head to the side, but before Anders could answer, he continued.

“Two sharing the space of one and he is neither one nor the other. So many secrets and they are all as dark as the black of the cell, doubt as loud as the trickle of water running down the walls. All these names and titles and none belongs to him. Did he make the right choice? He only wanted to help. I want to help, too.”

“I—what?” Anders shifted nervously where he was standing, wondering if Justice could make sense of Cole's words, but he remained silent, almost as cryptic as Cole.

“I want to help,” Cole repeated. “But I make wrong choices too—Someone help me, please, someone make this all go away, I want to die.”

“You're a spirit of compassion,” Anders said, his mind finally catching up.

“I don't know what I am,” Cole said.

“But I do,” Anders told him and smiled, daring to take a step closer. “You're a spirit like Justice, that's why we're alike.”

“Justice?” Cole asked and blinked, then nodded. “Justice. A virtue. Corrupted, twisted. A sin. What did I do to him? They deserve justice. A stone sets off a landslide and buries me beneath. His smile makes me believe I don't have to do this, if only it were true. Warm like the sun and the fire at night, callouses on his hands.

“I can help,” Cole said and reached out, touched Anders's cheek softly and cupped it like a lover would, but with so much more innocence. His hand was warm even though he wasn't wearing any gloves and his clothes looked not nearly thick enough to ward off the cold. Anders shook his head softly, but he didn't break away. He was weak like that.

“What are you doing?” he asked and ignored it when his voice cracked.

“Helping,” Cole said, and vanished.

“Lord Trevelyan?” Cassandra said from behind him and Anders whirled around. He must have looked as shaken as he felt, because Cassandra looked worried, the wrinkle appearing again between her eyebrows. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Anders said and rubbed at his eyes. “I'm fine.”

She nodded curtly, but it didn't feel dismissive any longer.

“You should come back to the fire. The others worry.”

Anders smiled softly and followed her.

XXI

Anders spent half a day of trudging through the snow trying to coax Justice out of his hiding spot until he was told in no uncertain terms to leave him alone. Giving up, he used the rest of them time looking for Cole, who was unsurprisingly nowhere to be found, and dodging admirers. Also, there was a lot of trying not to embarrass himself in front of the whole Inquisition by slipping, stumbling or sliding down the slope he had just climbed on his ass. There were a few close calls, but thankfully Varric, Dorian or Bull, and one time even Cassandra, were always in reach to grasp his arms with frightening speed and pull him back upright.

The only time he did fall face-first into a pile of snow, Sera had been close by, so he wasn't completely sure it had really been his fault.

Three days went by like this; walking and walking and walking and climbing on rocks to peer into the distance as if he could see anything there without Solas pointing the way, stopping to make camp in the evening and flitting from cot to cot to help the Sisters tend to the wounded. This way he was able to fall into bed and be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and before people began singing again.

Cole was still missing, but on the second day, Anders woke to a mug of still steaming tea right next to his bedroll, sweetened generously with honey. On the third day, someone had left him a pair of thick woollen and hole-less socks. Varric knew a lot of things, including how Anders liked his tea, but he doubted that he had taken a look at Anders's socks lately and knew that he was in desperate need for a new pair.

“Compassion,” Anders mumbled as he pulled on the socks and smiled.

They reached the fortress on midday.

Solas had beckoned Anders to walk ahead with him, climbing high until they could see it. Skyhold, built of stone in the middle of nowhere, its walls growing almost seamlessly out of the steep cliffs, a small bridge the only way to reach it. Unless one rode dragons or gryphons, of course.

“I'll be damned,” Varric whistled as he caught up to them. “And here I thought you'd lead us to some ancient Elven ruins, Chuckles.”

Solas frowned. “They are. In a way.”

“Doesn't look very Elven from where I'm standing,” Anders said, still gaping.

“Tarasyl'an Te'las, the place where the sky is kept. It was once a place my people used for rituals. Now it is the foundation this fortress was built on. A rather fitting place for the headquarters of the Inquisition, don't you think?”

Varric hummed and bowed, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.

“After you, Herald.”

Anders cuffed him on the back of his head in passing.

Chapter Text

XXII

“Amazing, isn't it?” Anders asked when Varric joined him on the battlements. Below, people were arriving at the fortress, some of them looking around for a moment before they ran up to one of those waiting for them, falling into their arms. Sisters strode from cot to cot to help the wounded, offering potions to those in pain and prayers to those who were beyond even Anders's help. Cullen was giving orders to his soldiers, sending them running this way and that with missives and tasks to clear rubble.

There was laughter and conversation and weeping, some of it happy, some of it with sorrow.

Skyhold was alive.

Varric came and stood next to him, peering at the courtyard below. “Well done, Blondie.”

Anders laughed and shook his head.

“You're giving me all the credit? That's just lazy writing, Varric. Andraste sent the Herald and the people followed, because no one ever asks questions,” Anders said solemnly with the air of a cleric reciting the Chant. “Single-handedly, he gathered troops and saved the world from the evil Magister-Dark Spawn, and they lived happily ever after surrounded by kittens and puppies, and all was good.”

Rubbing a hand over his stubble, Varric chuckled. “Not the version I had in mind.”

“Not exactly, I guess,” Anders said with a sigh and frowned, feeling tired. “But what else will you write? The Apostate who blew up the chantry in Kirkwall and played a major role in the Mage Rebellion continued his streak of bad luck and worse decisions and was caught in an explosion, which, by accident, gave him the power to seal the Breach, and then he stumbled through Thedas trying to survive while feeling guilty enough to actually make an effort to safe the world?”

He stared at his hand and turned it this way and that, curled it into a fist to hide the green glow. But it pushed through the gaps between his fingers, forever a reminder like the prickling in his flesh.

Quieter, he continued, “all these people look at me and see this Herald, this person chosen by the Maker and His bride to become something more. Someone good and honourable and fearless who'll save them all. And that's what you'll write about, because that's what they want to read.”

“I didn't do that with Hawke,” Varric objected calmly and Anders snorted.

“Because there was no reason to. Hawke is all these things, even if he tried hiding it behind bad jokes. And he's charming and witty and handsome. Also, he never blew up a bloody chantry!”

Silence, for a moment. Anders felt breathless. His hands were curled around the stone edge of the banister, knuckles white, fingertips hurting. Varric did not look at him but instead kept his gaze on the people below going about their business, oblivious to the pair standing on the battlements and their secrets.

Anders shook his head and took a deep breath, pushing away from the banister and turning to go.

“See that man over there?” Varric asked.

Anders stopped and turned slowly back around to find Varric pointing at a soldier limping towards Cullen, who greeted him with a companionable clap on the shoulder.

“That's Aric. Would've lost his leg if you hadn't healed him. And that one—“ Varric pointed at Seggrit, who was having a discussion with Josephine, gesticulating wildly. The skin of his face was still red and tender from the fire, but it would not scar, Anders had made sure of it.

“I remember cursing at you for climbing through the roof into a burning house to save the overcharging bastard,” Varric said and arched one brow, half in challenge, then spread his hands and shrugged. “Maker knows half of the Inquisition owes you their lives, Ser I'll battle Corypheus on my own so you lot can flee.”

Anders looked to the side. “It's still not enough.”

“But it's a good start,” Varric said and patted his arm.

Then he walked away, whistling.

XXIII

“Come with me,” Cole said and Anders jumped, dropping the stack of vellum Josephine had shoved at him just minutes ago.

“Maker's balls,” Anders gasped and clutched his chest, trying to coax his heart into returning to its usual rhythm. “One of these days you'll give me a heart attack. I'm not the youngest any more.”

“Yes. So young when they took me, hands too weak to hold on to her. Still not strong enough,” Cole said and then grasped Anders's hand, tugging. “Come.”

“Where?” Anders asked, but followed nonetheless as Cole pulled him out of the room into the open, over a pile of rubble towards the remains of the stables. Justice stirred, watching like a curious cat from the sidelines. “Where are we going?”

“To where she lives.”

“She?”

“She. Mice running along the walls, a bird in the branches. Sun on her coat, rumble in her chest. Her belly is thick with life, it's hard to move. Shh.”

Slowing down, Cole turned and raised a finger to his lips and Anders nodded bemusedly.

“Move slowly,” Cole advised and pulled him towards an overgrown corner of the courtyard behind the stables, urging him to kneel down in front of a shrub. Carefully, Cole reached out and bent the branches to the side. “Look.”

Anders leaned in and peered into the shade to find a ball of grey fur nestled in a set of what seemed to be scarves, a small bowl of milk next to it.

“Is that—?” Anders could not finish the sentence and instead leaned closer, almost knocking against Cole's hat.

“He brings me mice, maybe he thinks I will starve. His purr fills the cell and takes away the nightmares and the drip drip dripping of the water. A gift for me? What a brave little bugger. I should leave him in the keep, but his warmth makes the Deep Roads less dark. Fur against my palms, so soft. His heartbeat against my fingertips.”

“A cat,” Anders breathed and she raised her head, piercing yellow eyes alert and wary as she looked at him, whiskers twitching. Her coat was thick and patterned, white around her mouth, bouffant like a mane around her neck to protect against the cold, her tail bushy and tipped with more white. She was beautiful.

Cole nodded and disentangled their hands to wrap his fingers around Anders's wrist, guiding it slowly towards her so she could smell it. “You like cats. They take the darkness away and ease the pain. She will help.”

Curiously, the cat smelled Anders's hand and after a moment of consideration rubbed against it, spreading her scent. Anders felt the smile spread on his face as her soft fur slid against his fingertips. He felt giddy and warm all over, the tension in his shoulders easing away as he pushed his fingers through her thick coat and rubbed behind her ears.

“Thank you, Cole,” Anders said as he felt her plump stomach, sending tendrils of magic through his skin into hers and deeper where they found the kittens well and almost ready to be born.

“I help,” Cole said.

“You do.”

Chapter Text

XXIV

“Come with me,” Cassandra said, her hand between Anders's shoulder blades guiding him through the courtyard. For a moment, Anders considered twisting away and running off, but he was sure he would not get very far and so he resigned himself to his fate, sure he would have to sit through another war meeting with Leliana and Cullen bickering about which way was best until Josephine made them both calm down with a few well-placed words.

Now, he would just have to find a scarf or helmet somewhere and—

Anders stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up into the main building, staring up at the platform where Leliana was standing and holding a giant sword in both her hands like an offering, a gentle smile on her lips.

“I think, I—“ Anders said and pointed at the tavern at his back, grasping for an excuse. “Did someone just scream for help?”

Cassandra's eyes narrowed and her hand felt like a weight now as she pushed him on and onto the first step. “Do not make me regret this, Herald.”

Anders looked around hurriedly, looking for a way out, but the courtyard was empty and with every step he took, he felt like he was getting closer and closer to the execution block.

“The Inquisition requires a leader. The one who has already been leading it,” Cassandra told him solemnly as they reached the platform and Leliana.

“So, you?” Anders asked weakly, hoping against all odds that he was right.

“You.”

Leliana took a step towards him and the blade caught the light just right, turning it into white-hot fire erupting from the dragon's maw where it was curled around the hilt. Anders swallowed.

“You want me to take that,” he babbled and then looked helplessly from Cassandra to Leliana and back. “I can't even lift that. How will it look when I try to raise it above my head heroically and fall over?”

The corner of Leliana's mouth twitched as she held back a smile. “I think you'll find a way and keep your dignity. You're good at that, yes?”

“But I'm a mage,” Anders objected. “Nobody wants to see a mage at the head of the Inquisition. And I can't even use that thing.”

“I will not pretend no one will object,” Cassandra said earnestly. “But times are changing. Perhaps this is what the Maker intended.”

And when he looked at her, there was something in her eyes, something more dangerous than her anger—faith. Faith in the Maker and Andraste and in him.

Anders should say no. He should turn around and start running, and only stop once he'd reached the end of Thedas.

Whispering pulled his gaze to the side and beneath them, people were gathered; the soldiers and the workmen, the cooks, Cullen and Josephine, Bull and his Chargers, Dorian, Blackwall, Sera, Solas and Vivienne, Cole. And Varric in the first row, his head tilted back to look up at him, a smirk on his lips that was almost too small to see, missing all sharp edges. When their gazes met, Varric nodded, a movement so small Anders had almost missed it, but it was undeniably there, he had seen it, and with a deep, fortifying inhale, Anders turned back towards Leliana.

His hand shook as he curled his fingers around the sword hilt, but he did not drop it when he turned towards the crowd, his arm did not buckle beneath its weight when he thrust it towards the sky and cheers rose.

Justice was silent, but his presence spread in Anders's mind with a sense of satisfaction and determination that made Anders smile and feel like he had been reunited with a friend.

And then he laughed, because he felt hopeful and ecstatic and also scared and apprehensive and it all made for a dangerous mix of sentiments that went straight to his head and made it hard to think. All these faces were turned towards him, their mouths wide with their cheers, their eyes looking at him for guidance. And there was Bull, who was smirking, and Dorian, who looked amused but genuinely satisfied, and Vivienne with the regal and benevolent smile that fit her standing, and Josephine who was cheering so loud that it was almost undignified, and Cullen—

Cullen was squinting at him pensively.

The smile slowly slid from Anders's face and his heart stuttered in his chest.

Maker damn it.

*

“Leliana!” Anders called as he ran up to her.

“Inquisitor,” she greeted and waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

“A mission,” Anders gasped and she blinked.

“A mission?”

Anders nodded vigorously, peering up at her through wayward strands of hair from where he was bent over, hands propped up on his knees. “Please.”

“Well, there are still rifts in the Hinterlands, and I have received reports of a group of bandits—“

“Perfect, I'll take it! Thank you!”

And with that he whirled around and started running again, leaving Leliana to look bemusedly after him.

*

“Ha! Look at her! Isn't she a thing of beauty,” Bull laughed and rubbed his hands.

“I am looking at her. And her teeth. And talons,” Anders said feebly, taking a step back. “And at the tail that just destroyed a giant stone pillar.”

“I'm going to kill her,” Bull decided and charged.

“You're—Andraste's tits!”

Anders ran after him, swearing and shouting all the way, followed by Blackwall and Dorian, who said, “it appears the Qunari has a death wish.”

A fireball hit the ground right next to them and Anders jumped to the side, hurriedly throwing up a barrier as Bull shouted something in Qunlat at the dragon swooping over them.

“He could have just asked nicely,” Anders said through his teeth, dancing out of the way of the fire the dragon breathed down on them. “I have a few fireballs in stock for the occasion when someone asks to be burned to death.”

“And here I thought you were a healer,” Dorian tutted, purple magic gathering in his palm.

“I am a man of many talents.”

“And I hope they are not all limited to the use of magic,” Dorian purred with a lascivious smirk, somehow finding the time to look Anders up and down while throwing spells at the dragon. “It would be a terrible waste otherwise.”

Bull laughed and Blackwall cursed, and Anders brought down his staff with a complex twisting motion that was maybe a bit of showing off, but who cared?

They had a dragon to kill.

 Anders in Skyhold-pyjamas by maverikloki (who's also the wonderful person who came up with Inquisitor!Anders)

Chapter Text

XXV

Anders successfully avoided Cullen for half a day after they'd returned from the Hinterlads, until he tried sneaking past the stables at dusk and someone grabbed his shoulder none-too-gently.

“You have a minute,” Cullen bit out behind him, fingertips digging into Anders's collar bone until he winced.

“Is that a dagger at my back?” Anders asked carefully and slowly raised his hands.

“It will be in your back if you don't start talking soon.”

Justice raged and pushed to the forefront, throwing himself against the barriers of Anders's mind to be let out, and Anders ground his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to keep him in.

“I am waiting,” Cullen reminded him sharply, increasing the pressure on the small of Anders's back and Justice bellowed wordlessly, struggling against his confinement.

“For what?” Anders ground out. “Meredith's orders?”

He could feel Cullen flinch, the grip on his shoulder loosening before it tightened again, and Cullen's voice was sharp when he said, “you would do well not to antagonize me.”

“Or you will accuse me of blood magic and have me executed?” Anders asked bitterly and turned his head slowly to look at Cullen from the corners of his eyes.

“I'm sure what you did in Kirkwall is enough to merit that sentence anyway.”

“And what you did in Kirkwall? Which sentence would fit your deeds?”

As if burned, Cullen let go of Anders and he turned around, dropping his hands to his sides.

“What happened in Kirkwall is regretful. Meredith was mad,” Cullen said silently, his eyes not meeting Anders's. Then he shook his head and squared his shoulders, anger visible in the way his whole body shook with the urge to shout. “But your acts brought it all to the tipping point! After the explosion there was no turning back. I could have stopped her before she called for the Right of Annulment. Before it all escalated!”

“Really?” Anders said and there was an otherworldly quality to his voice, an echo from the Fade as Justice fought for dominance. “How often did you look the other way when your templars sneaked into the mage quarters at night? How often did you dismiss what they told you as lies when they sought your help? How often did you watch when mages that went through their Harrowing were made tranquil? How often did you follow her orders even when you disagreed? Rapists, torturers, murderers, abusers! Hiding their vile deeds behind the flaming sword!”

“I won't stand by and let that happen again! I am not that man any more!” Cullen bellowed, gripping Anders's shoulders and shaking him roughly. “I have changed!”

“And I haven't?!”

The words struck them both like a blow and the silence that fell was immediate and deafening, only broken by their harsh breathing as they stared at one another with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

“I can't forgive you,” Cullen silently said after a while and let go of Anders, hands dropping to his sides and curling to fists as if he had to stop himself from grabbing him again.

Anders took a deep breath and exhaled slowly in an attempt to calm his nerves and Justice alike, who was hissing like an angered snake still eager to strike. “I'm not asking you to.”

“Good,” Cullen said sharply, eyes hard and his voice low as he went on, “and I will be watching you closely. Inquisitor.”

A curt nod and he turned around, stalking away with his shoulders squarely set and an aura of doom around him.

Anders staggered towards the closest wall, his knees buckling beneath him, he sank to the ground and hid his face in his hands, taking deep steadying breaths.

Only when he had stopped shaking did Anders climb back to his feet and stumble towards the small corner behind the stables, hands itching to feel soft fur, and ears eager to hear the calming lullaby of a purring cat.

XXVI

“Hey, Boss!”

Anders looked up to find Bull waving him towards his table, patting the back of the empty chair next to him with a smirk. “Come, have a drink! You look like you need one.”

For a split second Anders hesitated, glancing towards the empty table in the corner which he had planned to use to drink himself into a stupor at, but Bull's smile was friendly and his voice was loud enough to drown out his bad thoughts.

“I hope you have something strong,” Anders said with a tired smile as he threw himself into the chair. Bull chuckled, pushing a tankard towards him and filling another for himself.

“Strong enough to knock you right off your feet.”

Anders raised the tankard to his face and sniffed, wrinkling his nose when it was assaulted by the strong, sharp scent of alcohol in it's purest form. He couldn't even make out any other ingredients. If there were any. Which wasn't bad, really.

“What am I drinking?”

“Maraas-lok.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means drink,” Bull said, and Anders decided that it didn't matter if he knew whatever Bull was trying to kill him with as long as it had alcohol in it. He drank.

Bull laughed when he coughed, his throat on fire, the alcohol burning a way into his stomach, his tongue feeling numb.

Anders gasped, “well. That's certainly something.”

“I know, right? Puts some chest on your chest.”

“I think I've lost all sense of taste,” Anders said and stuck out his tongue, pinching it with thumb and forefinger to get some feeling back. Thankfully, he noted the taste of salt and skin, and deciding that the poison was either not lethal or simply slow-working, he thought there was no harm done in taking another gulp. Bull seemed highly amused.

“You a lightweight, Boss?” he asked with an arched eyebrow and a smirk and Anders shook his head, blinking when the room spun a bit around him.

“You try drinking this after almost a decade of abstinence and not get a bit tipsy,” Anders told him earnestly, then belched.

Justice made a disgusted noise.

Anders ignored him in favour of squinting at the scratch marks on the table. There were some that looked like remains from a fight, some crude sketches of buttocks and breasts and a poem about wenches that looked like Sera's work. Anders grinned, fingers turning a ring of alcohol from the bottom of his tankard into a sun and setting it on fire with a spark from his fingertip. Bull cursed, looking around hastily for something to put it out, but Anders did so easily with a flick of his wrist, giggling.

“With the way you threw yourself at that dragon, one would think you weren't afraid of a bit of fire,” he quipped and leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing his work.

“Yeah,” Bull growled. “But dragons? Way easier to deal with than drunk apostates. Dragons are easy. They want to kill you and you do your best to kill them before they succeed. With people you never know.”

Anders contemplated that for a moment, then shrugged, sure he did not want to talk about that right now. He took another generous swallow from his tankard, satisfied when he discovered that it didn't burn that much any more and he only coughed a bit. “What did you say?”

“Huh?”

“Back when we were fighting that dragon. You yelled something.”

“Ah, that.” Bull laughed, a pleasant sound that was slightly at odds with the rumble of his voice. Anders decided he liked that and grinned. “Taarsidath-an halsamm. Closest translation would be, 'I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.'”

Anders spat out his drink.

*

“Oi!”

Anders twitched.

“Oi!”

Anders groaned pitifully.

“I said, OI!”

A slap against his stomach and Anders sat bolt upright, taking deep breaths as his stomach rolled. It took him a few long moments until he was relatively certain he would not retch in the next few seconds, and then he decided to look around and finally find out where he was. The world was blurry around him, but as it slowly cleared with each blink, Anders could make out the tap room of Skyhold's tavern.

“Sleep well?” someone growled. Anders looked towards the angry dwarf next to him, arms akimbo, a scowl on his face.

“Er,” Anders said eloquently.

“Whatever,” the dwarf said. “Get dressed and then get outta here. I'm about to open. And tell that Qunari friend of yours that's the last time I let him stay after closing time. Either he rents a room like that elf thief or he leaves when everyone else does. Understood?”

Anders nodded, regretting it in the very next moment when his stomach made clear that it did not agree with fast movements. Carefully and slowly, Anders removed himself from the table he had obviously slept on, squinting at the light pouring in through the windows. Just then, his head decided now was a good a time as any to start hurting. Anders groaned some more.

“Move it, man, unless you want to drink more,” came the dwarf's voice from the direction of the counter. Anders waved him off and stumbled a few steps towards the door until he was stopped by his trousers slipping down his legs to pool around his ankles. Sending a quick prayer to Andraste, Anders looked down.

Well, that explained some things, but also offered a lot more mysteries.

Anders was wearing Bull's clothes.

What, by Andraste's flaming undergarments, had happened last night?

Holding Bull's giant trousers up around his hips, Anders looked around the taproom hurriedly, but there was no coat and no feathers in sight, and when he glanced towards the counter, the dwarf was still scowling at him. Anders decided he might as well try his luck outside.

How Bull had survived that long without freezing to death was a mystery, Anders found when he stepped outside, immediately shivering, goosebumps spreading all over his torso. They were surrounded by snow and even more snow, and all Bull chose to wear was a pair of trousers and this skimpy harness that barely protected even his arm.

Anders considered going back into the tavern to wait there until someone found Bull or his clothes for him, but then he remembered the angry dwarf and Sera living upstairs and decided running around Skyhold in over-sized clothes was the lesser evil.

With one arm wrapped around his chest and one hand holding on to the waistband of the trousers, Anders began to look for Bull.

*

He found Bull more than half an hour later on the battlements, passed-out and wrapped in Anders's coat in a way that left barely anything to the imagination when it came to the question if he was well proportioned everywhere, with a group of guards surrounding him, some giggling and blushing, others staring with obvious envy, and some with blunt curiosity and interest.

Someone had drawn on his face with what appeared to be coal, and Anders was pretty sure that was a cock on Bull's cheek.

Of course, everyone stared when Anders pushed through the ring of guards surrounding Bull to prod at his side with his foot, and Anders did his best to ignore them.

“Come on, Bull. Wake up,” he begged. “If Cassandra finds us like this she'll force me to write an apology and read it out loud in front of everyone.”

Bull huffed, rolled onto his stomach, and began snoring.

Anders groaned.

Justice, thankfully, remained silent, but Anders was still certain that he was currently laughing up his sleeve smugly.

Chapter Text

XXVII

“Nobody's here,” Anders called after the third knock on his door. He was still hungover, his head was pounding, his stomach rolled, and the knocking had rudely interrupted the debate he'd had with himself about whether he should smother himself with his pillow or just jump from the balcony instead.

The lock rattled as whoever was trying to disturb his moment of self-pity tried to open the door.

“Leave a message,” Anders went on. “The Inquisitor will read it as soon as he's done dying.”

The rattling ceased and Anders sighed in relief, his eyes sliding shut again as he massaged his temples, carefully applying soothing healing magic through his fingertips to lessen the pressure on his skull.

“Blondie,” Varric said, the lock pick jingling in his hand. “I have bad news.”

“Can it wait,” Anders said, voice muffled by his pillow. It was big and fluffy and made from silk, and Anders was relatively sure Josephine would not like that he'd chosen this one to suffocate himself with. “Can't you see I'm not done wallowing in self-pity and regret, yet?”

There was no answer. Anders frowned, pulling the pillow off his head slowly to find Varric standing at the foot of his bed, his face wearing a grave expression.

“What happened?” Anders demanded, quickly forgetting his hangover as he scrambled off the bed and towards the wardrobe, hastily grabbing the nearest pair of clothes and throwing them on. “Who's wounded and how bad is it?”

Varric shook his head. “Not like that. You'd better sit down.”

Anders stopped, hand halfway towards the staff he had leaned against the wall next to his bed.

“What do you mean?”

“I wrote Hawke,” Varric told him, staring at something over Anders's shoulder. Anders hummed, pursing his lips and telling himself that everything was all right, there had not been a pang in his chest, his breath had not hitched, everything was fine, thank you.

“Well, I hope he is all right,” he said overly cheery. “I mean he's Hawke. Of course he's all right. Why shouldn't he?”

He trailed off into an awkward chuckle. “Right?”

Varric looked at him with pity and nodded.

“He's all right. And he's here.”

Anders sat down. It was hard to breathe somehow and he had to close his eyes and bury his face in his hands as the room spun around him. A hand squeezed his shoulder in reassurance, but Anders felt strangely removed from his body, the warmth and comforting weight of the touch far away.

“I'll just—“ he began and then stopped because he did not know how to finish the sentence. “I'll—“

“Take your time, Blondie,” Varric told him, voice low and quiet. “We'll wait for you on the battlements.”

The hand withdrew from his shoulder, leaving the cold to creep in on him, and Anders listened as the sound of Varric's footsteps receded and the door fell shut behind him.

A sob tore through the silence, followed by a shuddery exhale as Anders fought against the tears threatening to spill.

I tried to warn you. It was foolish to begin a relationship with Hawke, Justice told him, not unkindly—like a grim father trying his best to comfort his son and realizing that he was failing miserably.

Anders laughed bitterly and wiped roughly at his eyes.

“What do you care?” He asked out loud. “You got what you wanted.”

Justice did not answer.

*

Anders's knees shook on the whole way towards the stairs leading up to the platform Varric and Hawke were waiting on. He had seen them from one of the balconies adjoining his quarters, Hawke sitting on the low banister, gesticulating wildly as he told Varric a story that made him throw his head back and laugh wholeheartedly. Hawke had punched Varric's shoulder lightly, and Anders had felt as if they were back in Kirkwall, the two of them swapping good-natured insults and trying to one-up each other with witty responses at one of the Hanged Man's tables over a game of Wicked Grace as Anders watched from the sidelines, bent over a pile of parchments that he had tried to turn into a weapon against the oppression of mages.

Hawke had always felt Anders's gaze on his profile, had always known when to look back at him and offer him a smile of encouragement before letting him continue his writing, and when to wink at him and invite Anders to join their game, even before their first kiss.

Hawke had somehow always known when Anders hadn't eaten for some time, too distracted by all the people coming into his clinic, and had shown up with a sandwich for him. He had known when Anders needed to be cheered up, when he needed a break, when he needed to be left alone, when he needed someone to listen.

Hawke had known almost everything about Anders, and what he hadn't known, he learned quickly; how Anders liked his tea, how Anders liked to sleep on his stomach—one leg cocked beside him, the other stretched out, hand beneath the pillow—what books he liked to read, that his eyelid twitched when he was about to bluff during a card game, how he liked his eggs in the morning, that he did not like gruel.

Where Anders liked to be touched, where to be kissed, where he liked to be bitten and licked until his toes curled and his back arched.

How to make him forget the weight on his shoulders if only for a little while.

Anders could hear their voices even over all the chatter and noise of Skyhold's inhabitants around him, and he hesitated at the foot of the stairs, holding on to the banister as if to a lifeline.

He could still turn around and run.

Shaking his head and taking a fortifying breath, Anders climbed the stairs to his doom.

Hawke saw him first, laughter dying on his lips, grin slipping off his face as his eyebrows furrowed and Varric turned around, arching one brow as he looked at Anders.

“Greetings, Champion,” Anders said, his voice pitched as deep as he could manage, tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar lilt of the faux Orlesian accent.

“Welcome to Skyhold. The Inquisition is grateful for you assistance—and you already know who I am, don't you?” he asked meekly when Hawke looked at him as if he was stupid.

“Varric told me,” he said flatly and Anders scowled at Varric accusingly, who looked everywhere but at him as Anders ripped off the Orlesian mask, letting it drop to the ground so he could comb his fingers though his hair roughly.

“Well then,” Anders said, false bravado to his voice to hide how shaky he felt. “Don't hold back now.”

Hawke crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. New lines had appeared on his face since they saw each other last, most of them left by worry, one, running from his temple along his cheek towards his jaw, by a blade. His beard was scruffier than in Kirkwall, longer too, but his hair was shorter, cropped close to his skull, not the long inky strands that had curled around his ears and which Anders had loved to play with in the mornings when he had woken before Hawke.

The smear of blood was still there, a warning painted in red across the bridge of his nose.

“I guess I deserve it,” Anders said quietly when Hawke punished him with silence. He had expected—had almost wished for—sharp words and loud accusations, because it would have been so easy to face them with anger. But the silence only left him with his own guilt and doubt and no room to make excuses.

Hawke had always known him best, after all.

“Now, Hawke,” Varric said. “I know you're angry, and believe me when I say I understand, but—“

“I don't know if there is a Maker,” Hawke interrupted him, not even sparing Varric a glance. “Or Andraste. Or if they exist, then I don't know if they even care about us any more. Maybe they gave you this mark. Maybe it was fate. Maybe coincidence. Or maybe it was sheer dumb luck.”

Hawke got up and walked towards Anders, getting so close to him that there were barely two inches separating them, and Anders could smell him; a small trace of mabari, sweat, sun-kissed skin, the tang of ozone magic left behind, days on the road, grass and pine needles and wet earth, and Hawke—a mixture of smells he could not describe in any way, but which made him homesick for happier times.

“I don't know who or what chose you as Herald, and I don't care,” Hawke told him, voice low and words sharp. “But you'd better take this second chance, Anders.”

Anders flinched.

Hawke had said his name like a threat, and it hurt, it hurt so much he could not breathe, could feel it like a blade pushing through the gap between his ribs, tearing through flesh and lungs to pierce his heart.

“Don't make me regret this,” Hawke said, eyes like glaciers despite their warm colour of sunlit amber.

Funny, Anders thought, how this seemed to be what everyone told him these days.

Chapter Text

XXVIII

The sound of Hawke's laughter made Anders freeze, hand resting on the door to the tavern. He had meant to find Bull and another bottle of his mystery liquor to drown himself in, but if Hawke was here, that could mean only one thing.

As if on cue, Bull's laughter joined Hawke's, and even Sera's snorts could be heard next to Dorian's dulcet chuckles. Anders did not even need to open the door and take a look himself to imagine them hanging on to Hawke's every word eagerly as he told his story with Varric's help. It was Hawke, after all. The man had enough charisma to make a dragon swoon if he'd just try hard enough.

Defeated, Anders turned to go, deciding he'd grab a bottle of wine from the kitchens on his way to the bed and use it as a sleeping draught.

But just then, a new voice joined the crowd and interrupted Varric's detailed description of Kirkwall's late Knight-Commander's scowl.

“You have to go!”

Anders cursed colourfully, making a passing Sister gasp and tut in disapproval. She was already opening her mouth to give him a stern talk, but Anders pushed through the door before she could say as much as the Prophet's name.

“What? Hey, stop that, I—A little help here, Varric?”

A confused Hawke had been pulled out of his chair by Cole, who was now trying to drag him out of the room by his lapels. Around the table, everyone had risen and was watching with equally bemused expressions as Varric made his way towards the pair, hands raised as he tried to defuse the situation, “hey, hey, kid, calm down. What's gotten into you?”

“He has to go!” Cole insisted firmly when Hawke planted his feet, stopping himself from being dragged any further. The commotion had already drawn the attention of the whole taproom, and even the minstrel had stopped singing, the disharmony of the last chord hanging in the tense silence.

“I know you only want to help, kid. But—“, Varric began calmly, but was soon interrupted.

“His smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, warm and mischievous. I've always had a weakness for the cocky ones. So long since I've been touched, warm like the sun that couldn't reach us in the tower. I can't can't can't—can't look at him without seeing what I've lost, all my fault. The feeling of his beard against my cheek, his breath hot on my ear, broken whispers in the dark—I feel so cold,“ Cole said, hurt in his voice, as if he was the one who was left heartbroken.

“What the—“

“You're hurting him! Go away! Leave!”

“Cole!”

Cole turned his head around so quickly that Anders feared he might get whiplash, but then he was next to Anders, moving faster than even Hawke would ever dare to wish, leaving no doubt about his otherworldliness.

“You are my friend,” Cole said, staring at Anders from beneath his hat with so much earnest compassion in his eyes that it hurt just to look back at him. “I want to make it stop hurting.”

“I know,” Anders said softly and smiled, raising a hand to squeeze Cole's shoulder. “But even you can't do that.”

He shook his head with a bit of regret, steering Cole towards the door and away from the prying stares and gaping faces, leaving the task of dealing with them in Varric's capable hands.

“Let's visit the cats.”

*

“I can make you forget.”

Anders stopped waggling the piece of yarn for a second, hissing when a tiny paw hit his hand instead and equally tiny but nonetheless sharp claws pierced his skin.

“Bad Fuzzybutt,” he scolded the kitten without heat, watching her waddle back to her mother, who was sitting close by, eyes wary as she made sure her litter would not be hurt by the two humans.

Anders leaned back on his hands, looking at Cole sitting cross-legged across from him with Ser Purrceval trying to climb onto his lap and tumbling down when he lost his balance, landing in an awkward tangle of limbs to be quickly pounced on by his sister Sereda, the Hero of Furelden. Pawlistair immediately joined the skirmish to help her while Lady watched from the sidelines, her tail twitching with her disapproval.

Anders smiled, flicking a pebble towards the three kittens, and he chuckled softly when they tried to chase after it all at once only to fall over one another.

“Forget Hawke?” he asked, not looking away from the tiny balls of fur as they crouched closer towards the stone, batting at it carefully to jump away right after.

“Yes. Smiles and touches and sweet words. Broken promises and hearts bleeding the pain of disappointment. Lies upon lies. A house of cards blown away by my actions.”

Anders closed his eyes and sat up, rubbing at his forehead as if he could feel the memories there and wipe them away himself. Then he shook his head. “I know you mean well, but I don't want to forget.”

“I don't understand.” Cole frowned and then looked down when Purrceval butted his head against his fingers, asking to be petted with a high-pitched mewl. “The memories hurt you. But you don't want to forget although it would stop hurting?”

Anders smiled tiredly, picking up Sereda when she walked past, quelling her demands to be let down by scratching behind her ears until she began purring and settled in his lap, massaging his thigh with her paws, claws leaving small marks on his trousers.

“Not all the memories are bad, Cole,” Anders tried to explain, the feel of soft fur against his fingers and the calming rhythm of his movements soothing his frayed nerves. “There are good memories, too. When I was happy. When Hawke made me happy.”

“But those hurt, too,” Cole objected. “Their warmth leaves you cold. Remembering a time where you were not alone makes you feel more lonely.”

Anders chuckled softly, helping Pawlistair onto his lap so he could curl up against his sister. “Yes. It's bittersweet. But it's good to know that I was loved,” Anders said, looking at the kittens in his lap, resuming the petting until they both purred. “Hawke loved me despite Justice. I was still human enough to be loved.”

“So it's a good kind of hurt?” Cole asked, still sounding confused.

Anders laughed.

“Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes not. But it's worth it.”

Cole looked pensive for a moment and then frowned.

“I still do not understand,” he admitted and Anders reached over to pat his hand.

“That's all right. Sometimes I don't understand either.” He shrugged. "But that's what it's like to be human. Confusing."

"Yes," Cole said and Anders smiled, feeling a lot warmer than he had since Varric had come to his quarters this morning.

Chapter Text

XXIX

“Another one?” Anders did not whine, despite what Varric may later write. No, he did not whine, thank you, but he made his discomfort known, in a very manly fashion at that. And who could blame him, considering—

The dragon roared and Bull laughed.

“Can't we do this another time?” Anders asked, pushing wet strands of hair out of his face. “We just closed the rift in the lake and saved a village from the undead. And we rid that keep of the outlaws. Haven't we done enough for today?”

“Taarsidath-an halsamm!” Bull bellowed.

Anders did not whine. But he might have sobbed in desperation before stumbling after Bull so he would not have to scrape him off the ground later on.

*

“And what by the Maker's balls happened to you?”

Hawke was leaning against the cave's entrance nonchalantly, looking them over with an arched brow as they made their way towards him; Anders leaning heavily on his staff as he staggered along, Varric close beside him to save him from the worst should he decide now was a good time to pass out, while Bull was grinning from horn to horn despite the dried blood on his face, a spring to his step. Cassandra, on the other hand, looked like she was ready to kill another dragon solely with the power of her scowl.

“The Qunari has lost his common sense, that is what happened,” she said through her teeth, flicking a fleshy bit of—something Anders did not want to think about off her left vambrace.

“I thought you Pentaghasts are a family of dragon hunters?” Bull said cheerily, still holding his trophy in his hands; the dragon's curved horns. Anders could already picture them mounted on the wall above Bull's usual chair in the tavern's taproom. “Shouldn't that make you feel right at home?”

“No,” Cassandra growled.

“Can you two kill each other later? You're giving me a migraine,” Anders not-whined.

“I'm having a flashback to that one time Merrill tried to explain the benefits of blood magic to Fenirs,” Hawke said with awe, looking from Cassandra to Bull and back. Varric chuckled, steadying Anders when he swayed sideways.

“You all right there, Blondie?” he asked with a frown, hand lingering on Anders's side. Anders nodded, curling his left hand into a fist, trying to ignore the sting. The rift had been huge and it had cost him a lot of energy to close it, especially after fighting the mass of demons it had thrown at them beforehand. By now he was drained, exhausted and not above falling asleep right here, the lack of a bed, bloody clothing and saving Thedas be damned. He'd sleep standing up right if they'd let him.

Hawke grimaced, sounding sympathetic as he said, “that looked like it hurt. Is she supposed to hit him with her shield?”

Varric threw a quick glance at them over his shoulder and then shrugged, unconcerned. “Hey, for all I know he likes it. Judging from the grin at least.”

“Let's just talk to the Warden and then go,” Anders said, ignoring the meaty thump behind him.

“Are you sure he'll survive?” Hawke asked a bit worriedly as they made their way into the cave.

Varric tried to comfort him. “We're talking about someone who happily tackles dragons.”

“And I'm sure he'll bring himself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect,” Anders said, much to Varric and Hawke's confusion. He sighed. “Never mind, it's a Qunari thing, apparently.”

“Anders,” Hawke said, holding him back with a hand on his shoulder. Anders flinched, stumbling to the side, the only thing stopping him from falling to the ground being Varric's hands coming up to steady him. Anders and Hawke looked at each other with wide eyes, but then Hawke's face darkened and he straightened, squaring his shoulders, his mouth a thin line.

“You've met this Warden before. He might recognize you,” Hawke said and then walked on.

Anders exhaled, only now realizing he'd held his breath, and shook his head as he stepped away from Varric and followed Hawke determinedly, ignoring the spike of pain in his ribcage and the throbbing in his palm.

A bit further into the cave he found an open door, and as he peeked through the opening, he saw Hawke exchange greetings with the Warden, who did indeed look familiar. Anders frowned, walking into the room and squinting to make out the man's features so he could decide if he should run when the Warden turned and looked straight at him, eyes widening.

“Oh no,” Anders said.

“You're—“ Alistair frowned, squinted, cocked his head like a confused mabari. Anders could make out the exact moment when Alistair recognized him, because he knew pity when he saw it. “She's going to kill you.”

“I know,” Anders said. And this time, he did whine.

XXX

It was frankly concerning how quickly the list of things Anders did not like grew with each day he spent as figurehead of the Inquisition. For one, he had been rather indifferent towards sand, but walking for a day through the Western Approach had quickly remedied that.

Anders sat down heavily on a boulder not far from the camp, still close enough to be in shouting reach if any Venatori or Red Templars decided to pop out of the ground, yet far enough away to not be bothered by the Requisition Officer, who had been trying to get his attention since they had returned to the camp. There was only so much he was willing to do for the Inquisition, and after fighting mind-controlled Grey Warden mages and their pet demons, mining ores and picking flowers was not it, thank you very much.

Bending down with a grimace of discomfort, Anders unbuckled his boots and took them off, watching with satisfaction as he turned them upside down the sand that had been bothering him the whole day returned to its proper place; anywhere but inside his clothes.

The Inquisition is spoiling you, Justice informed him pointedly. In Kirkwall, your clothes were in a far worse state, and you did not complain over sleeping on a hard cot or on the ground. Now minor discomforts reduce you to a pouting toddler being denied his favourite toy.

“If that’s the worst change I have undergone since Kirkwall,” Anders said under his breath, a hand on his lower back to channel some warming magic into the twinging muscles to get them to relax, “then I can’t really say I’m sharing your sentiment, Justice.”

“And I thought you’d never come to your senses. Too bad it didn’t happen sooner.”

Anders jumped and nearly set his robes on fire when he lost control over the warming magic, almost conjuring a fireball as a result.

“Before you decided to blow up the Chantry, for example,” Hawke went on, sounding not in the least regretful that he'd startled Anders into nearly setting himself on fire.

Anders’s sarcastic response died on his lips when he looked up to find Hawke looming over him, eyes as cold and unwelcoming as the icy plains that surrounded Haven.

“I was wondering when that would come up,” Anders said as nonchalantly as he was able to—which was not much, sadly—and leaned down to put his boots back on, fingers fumbling with the buckles as he closed them. “But I had at least hoped you would wait until I had had the chance to take a bath and get a good night’s rest beforehand.”

“So you can hide behind your advisors at Skyhold? I can't believe Justice lets you run from your problems. He certainly didn't in Kirkwall.”

“People change,” Anders said with a shrug, sitting back up because there was really nothing more he could do with his boots without Hawke noticing he was avoiding looking at him.

“People change. Demons don't.” Hawke told him, and every word was a blow, carefully chosen to hit Anders where it hurt most. He laughed weakly, shaking his head and rubbing absentmindedly at his chest, as if he could soothe the pain beneath his ribcage that way.

“Have we finally reached the point where you call me an Abomination?” Folding his hands in his lap, Anders pushed a thumb into his left palm until it stung, pinpricks of Fade magic offering another, sharper kind of pain to counter the throbbing in his chest. “Fenris would be delighted. Not to mention Sebastian. I'm sure he would forgive you leaving me alive for hearing you call me that.”

Hawke crossed his arms over his chest. “What did you expect after what you did in Kirkwall? Didn't you say yourself there was no more Justice, only Vengeance?”

Justice bristled, eager to end this conversation with a well-placed fireball, but Anders held him back. Even though they were talking about him, this was between Hawke and Anders, and Justice had no place between them. He’d never had. It was just too bad that Anders had not realized it sooner. Or maybe he had and had just been too weak a man to stop lying to himself.

“I also said that there was no more Justice or Anders, only Justice and Anders. Call us Vengeance if you have to. He is no more the spirit he was when he left the Fade than I am the man I was when I met him. But you didn't know me then.” He sounded tired, incredibly so. It made him wonder when he had been this tired before. Not in Kirkwall, surprisingly, even though he spent more nights writing his Manifesto or guiding mages fleeing from the Circle through the city's sewers, than sleeping on his cot. He had been driven, then, by something larger than him, larger than life, by justice, not the spirit but the idea, the virtue, and it had given him the determination and energy to forget what made him human, draining him at the same time. “You don't know me now, either.”

It was a realisation that left Anders speechless for a moment. He blinked, dumbfounded, at Hawke, who seemed bemused as well, even though he tried to hide it behind a sharp, reproachful gaze, eyes narrowed to slits, brows furrowed, lips a pinched line.

The urge to laugh was sudden and unexpected. It was a relieved kind of laughter, tinged with the pain of an unwelcome realisation, one that stretched into two different directions, that wanted to say, I knew it, and, I can't believe it, at the same time. The effort of swallowing it down made Anders produce a sound halfway between a giggle and a sob. He felt lighter, somehow, while there was still so much weight resting on his shoulders, trying to drag him down as he made to fly.

“You only know what Kirkwall made me,” he said, and it wasn't an accusation. Nevertheless, the words hung in the tense silence between them, a truth that couldn't be denied.

“Maybe,” Hawke said after a while that felt like eternity. “Maybe you're right.”

And perhaps there was a trace of regret to those words, perhaps there wasn't. Anders couldn't be sure, because Hawke had turned around and walked back towards the camp, the sight of his defiantly squared shoulders and the tense line of his back something Anders was all too familiar with right now.

Heaving a sigh, Anders rubbed roughly at his eyes and dragged a hand over his mouth towards his throat to tug at his collar, hoping he would feel less breathless if he loosened it. When his finger caught on a leather band he frowned, pulling the cord free of his clothes. The Tevinter Chanty Amulet and the key jingled softly when he put them in his open palm. A memory pushed to the surface; gloved hands putting both items in his palm at different times.

'I found it and had to think of you,' the amulet screamed back at him.

'Here, so you don't have to walk all the way through Lowtown and Darktown to get to your clinic,' the key reminded him.

Anders curled his hand into a fist until the edges of both bit into his palm and left their marks.

The sound they made when they dropped to the ground was not as satisfying as Anders wanted it to be.