Chapter Text
The ship swayed gently in the swells. The creak of wood and burlap and hemp rope played a soft symphony, a never ending song hummed in the background. This song told the tale of their flight, of Kirkwall burning behind them. Of the clatter of steel against steel as Hawke and Aveline embraced on the docks, their armor crashing between them. She'd run from devastation once before, leaving a husband behind in the carnage – she refused to do so a second time. Besides, she'd said, somebody needs to keep the people safe from “what he's done”.
She wouldn't even mention his name.
Nor would Varric.
Hawke sat on the floor of the hold, hammocks swaying around him. They were empty, or contained equipment hastily dumped in them to keep it out of the way. But he wasn't alone. Anders slept curled in his arms, head pillowed on the red scarf of Hawke's armor, exhaustion keeping him under despite the awkward angle, despite the hard steel, despite the constant sound.
Anders hadn't slept in days, not really, not deeply like this.
Hawke ran gauntletted fingers through dirty blond hair, every ounce of awareness kept open as he kept watch over the sleeping mage. Nobody stayed below decks while Anders slept, all of them fearing what would happen if Justice awakened. Only Hawke willingly kept watch, to keep the others from tossing Anders overboard for what he'd done.
Aveline stayed behind in Kirkwall, refusing to leave Donnic or her adoptive home.
Fenris was dead, killed by Hawke's own hand after his refusal to see Meredith's insanity.
Sebanstian had stormed off in a rage, vowing to retake Starkhaven and bring an army to raze Kirkwall for the Grand Cleric's death.
Varric sat on the deck above them, likely missing his throne in the Hanged Man. Or the drinks. Or both.
Merrill dangled gleefully from the crow's nest, safe in the knowledge that the eluvian sat packed carefully away in the cargo hold below. Magic in her hands bade the wind to blow, pushing them through the calm sea ahead of any pursuit.
Bethany leaned over the railing facing stern, watching behind them and mourning the Circle. It was a prison but it was the first time in her life she didn’t have to run. Now was just running away again, a return to life as she’d always known.
Isabela stood at the prow of her own ship, traded fair and square in exchange for Castillon's life, a new hat perched on her head. Of all the others, she had what she wanted most. She had the sea, she had her ship, and she had Hawke at her side as First Mate. Even if he had no idea how to sail. Yet.
The crew were all people Isabela knew from somewhere. Hawke knew he’d seen some of them in the Hanged Man, he could have sworn he’d seen several in that warehouse when Isabela held him back from killing Castillon. The thought did not fill him with confidence.
Anders stirred in his sleep, the first deep sleep he’d had since the Chantry explosion. Such deep sleep, such deep dreams into the Fade, always gave Justice the outlet they needed to explore the world. But Hawke knew he didn’t want to face Justice so soon after everything that had happened. He just knew that all of it had been the spirit’s idea. Only a spirit could have the gall, the idiocy, the single-minded stupidity to believe…
…any of it.
Hawke felt the moment Anders’ body awoke with Justice’s presence and he went still. Justice took over, slowly coming into awareness of the body they inhabited. It was a familiar exploration, muscles tensing and relaxing as they awoke inside the body they’d inhabited for over half a decade now. Fingers and toes wiggled, fists clenched and unclenched, spine arched and then relaxed.
Before the Chantry, Justice would have looked around at their surroundings, gotten their bearings, and then turned their impossibly strong focus on Hawke. But this time they didn’t dare look at him, instead going still in Hawke’s arms as though they could pretend to be asleep. As though this could be avoided.
Justice’s eyes didn’t glow, nothing so trite or obvious. No abomination started that way, spirit possession instead taking a subtle insidious approach. No blue cracks of light spread over his skin like some sort of fairytale story. There was almost nothing to indicate the difference, only the sensation of magic that Hawke had taught himself to feel. It itched, brushing against his arms like a paddle covered in tiny spikes. But even without the sensation Hawke would always know the difference between them. They were two different people, different mannerisms, a different voice, they carried themselves differently. Justice still treated the mage staff like a spear, charging into battle and using the staff blade to its full potential while forgetting all of Anders’ battlefield control spells. They still couldn’t appreciate the tactical benefits of staying out of the battle, of striking from distance, of letting a warrior like Hawke descend upon the horde with his massive sword raised high.
Hawke couldn’t let himself be caught up in nostalgia now. Justice had asked something terrible of him and he’d yet to forgive the spirit. He wasn’t sure he ever could.
“Why?” Hawke asked, unable to stop himself.
“It was necessary,” Justice said, murmuring in his own voice two octaves below Anders’ own. And yet the throat was the same, the structure the same. The accent may be different, the tone and depth different, but it was still Anders’ body. Justice was the invader here, invited and then unable to leave. “There was no room left for compromise. The Knight-Commander would suffer nothing more than our deaths, every single mage in Kirkwall. There is no compromise against something that will only be satisfied with your death.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Hawke snapped. “I understand the Chantry. Why didn’t you trust me?”
Now Justice did look at him and the carefully neutral look did not help them one bit.
“You didn’t trust me,” Hawke accused. “Instead you lied to me. You claimed this was a potion to separate you and Anders. Or, worse, you had Anders lie to me on your behalf! You knew you could come to me with this, with anything! We could have come up with something that didn’t involve destroying half of Hightown!”
“There was nothing–”
Justice tried to say something but Hawke cut them off. Over the years Hawke had defeated or defused enough plots against the Templars that he knew a few plans that would have worked, that almost did. “We could have picked up where Tahrone left off,” he insisted. “And don’t balk at blood magic, Merrill’s a blood mage, you’re an abomination! A templar in Meredith’s ranks to assassinate the Grand Cleric on the steps of the Chantry could have done just as much as this. Or why not simply kill Meredith, have a new Knight Commander installed. Cullen was her Second, you can feel the weakness in him, he’s been tempted before, it wouldn’t take much to turn someone like him. We could have come up with SOMEthing, anything, some plan that wasn’t this wanton destruction.”
Justice at least had the decency to look ashamed.
“And if there was nothing, truly nothing that would have worked, then I would have helped you! I would have distracted the Grand Cleric, waded waist deep in sewage for sela petre, cleared the Bone Pit for you. You know this! So I ask why, Justice. Why did you lie to me? Why did you make me mourn you when you told me to my face that this mixture would have freed you and taken you from us both? Why did you hand me the knife and all but demand I kill you both as the Chantry burned? How could you do this to me?!”
The shame had left Justice’s face, leaving them with an empty expression. They wouldn’t even look at Hawke, instead staring at a spot on the wall. Hawke had no way of knowing if anything he said broke through to them, or if they even cared. But he had to say it, he had to admit the depth of his broken love for the both of them. Anders was first, Anders was easy to fall in love with, but over the years Hawke realized he’d come to love Justice as well. Anders had been delighted to hear it and they both willingly shared him, often both at the same time. Hawke never knew what exactly a night would bring until he saw who was in control of Anders’ body. If Hawke had had his way he never would have given that up.
Instead, this.
Instead Justice came to him with this “Tevinter potion” to split them apart. Hawke had agreed because Anders assured him it was what they both wanted. And then Hawke had retreated to his estate and a room in the basement where he screamed his anguish to the uncaring beams. If the potion worked he was losing someone he loved. Again. If it didn’t work he expected he’d lose both of them.
Again.
He was tired of losing people he loved.
Now that he knew it had all been a lie, a ruse, a falsehood meant to protect him, he was furious. He was nearly furious enough for his pain to bleed through, wrenching agony from everyone on this ship. But he wouldn’t let it, not yet. Not now. Not ever.
He was better than that.
“I didn’t want you to know,” Justice admitted.
“Why?!” Hawke pleaded. “You know I would have done anything for you! At least I hope you know, haven’t the past three years meant anything?!”
“You’re a templar,” Justice said, refusing to look at Hawke to see the agony on his face.
You’re a templar
Hawke remembered the first time Justice snapped at him with those very words. Three years ago, after Leandra's death, Hawke had stolen the Templar's secrets from an irreputable source and begun to use them. Never again would a blood mage steal a member of his family. Justice had smelled the lyrium on his breath, under his skin, and wrested control from Anders in Hawke’s bedroom and spat those words at him, hand on their staff, daring Hawke to dampen the area around them. Daring Hawke to render Justice mute, unable to act within Anders’ body, forced to watch and hear and feel everything and able to do nothing, to prove Justice’s point.
Instead Hawke had pushed the staff away and slid a hand up Justice’s face and did not deny it. Yes, he studied the skills of a templar but he’d stolen them. He studied the skills from a book he found in the Black Emporium, stealing the Templar’s secrets even as he refused to bow to their authority. Instead he would use these skills against them, to protect himself and those he loved from them. Including Justice.
This had shut Justice up then and usually had every other time. But not this time. Now Hawke stood up, leaving Anders to sit on the deck of the rocking ship. Armored footfalls paced the hold as Hawke fought to control his thoughts. He thought they’d dealt with this!
“How could you,” Hawke whispered. “You trusted me. Anders trusted me. Or was all that a lie as well?”
“You are the very creature that I am sworn to fight against,” Justice protested weakly.
“The Fade is a place of ideas,” Hawke snapped. “So tell me, spirit, when did I buy into the idea behind the Templar’s indoctrination? When did I EVER agree with their ideas! When did I bind myself to their service? When have I ever done anything that didn’t in some way advance your cause or keep my family safe or fight against the looming injustice of what those bastards do!”
Justice opened their mouth but no words came.
“How many blood mages have we fought?” Hawke demanded. “How many saarebas have tried to rip me apart? Tell me, spirit, how many emissaries have combed through my mind and turned me against you! You in particular! What happened the first time, hmm? I came to with my head in your lap, Varric babbling how I’d turned on you all and tried to kill you after the emissary grabbed my head and and–” Hawke still didn’t want to remember what the emissary did to him next, the sense memory of its lips was enough to make his stomach roil. Instead he fell into the comfortable lie he always told himself. “I still don’t remember it. All I remember was screaming and then nothing and then you. Not even Anders, you. Why wouldn’t I seek to learn to defend myself from losing myself like that again? How often has it served us? How often has a blood mage drawn on your blood and mine and pulled and the only reason we survived is I denied them that power. How many saarebas turned the air to flame around us. How many emissaries, Justice, how many? ”
Justice stared at the deck, still kneeling in a heap. They didn’t even bother to stand, unable to mount a defense against the words turned against them.
“You told me once, a weapon is just a weapon. It’s a tool, nothing more. Whether it is Just or Unjust is dependent entirely upon the idea, upon the intent of the wielder. Tell me then, spirit, am I a Templar? Or do I merely use their weapons.”
Justice sat quiet, refusing to answer.
That more than anything terrified Hawke. Justice always had an answer, a defense, a word to explain or justify or demand or deny. Those words were often simplistic, built around the single Idea that made Justice who they were, that kept Justice from falling into the demon that Anders had named Vengeance. But they were words. This refusal to answer meant one thing, Justice had been disarmed. Justice was vulnerable, but to what? To falling permanently? Or to collapsing in on themself and bleeding out of Anders entirely?
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Justice said.
“Clearly,” Hawke agreed.
“You were supposed to kill him. And then I would be free. We agreed.”
“Who agreed?” Hawke demanded.
“I didn’t lie to you,” Justice said, their voice low and dull. “It was a potion meant to separate us both. We spent time in research and contemplation and found the only two ways to separate us. Tranquility or death. I wouldn’t suggest subjecting either of you to Anders’ tranquility so we chose death.”
“Why me, then. Why this. Why not wander Darktown until some desperate bandit stuck a shiv in your kidney?”
Justice shook their head. “Not just any death. His death needed to be a ritual in and of itself. Death at the peak of my strength, my power uncontested. Justice for the mages, all of them, all at once. The Grand Cleric was just collateral.”
“You needed to be killed for destroying the Chantry,” Hawke realized. But his stomach churned as he realized there was more to it than just that.
Justice nodded. “Anders needed to be killed by the hand of a Templar taking justice for his actions. His death needed to be earned. I needed his death to be Just. And what would be more Just than destroying the greatest symbol of the oppression that mages face?”
It was worse. Much worse. Hawke slowly shook his head, unable to speak.
“I needed it to be you,” Justice said sadly, finally looking up at Hawke. “But now it’s too late. My strength has waned again and Anders’ death would no longer be Just. If anything, we’re bound closer than ever now. There’s nothing I can do to separate us, not anymore.”
“And somehow Anders agreed to this,” Hawke whispered. He couldn’t even feel pain anymore, instead overcome with a terrible numbness. It stripped from him every word he had except one. “Why?”
Justice didn’t answer. Instead they looked away, focusing again on the deck.
Hawke backed against the wall and slid to the deck, his armored boots scraping the bare wood as he slid. The spurs on his boots dug furrows in the planks and he couldn’t bring himself to care. All they could do was watch Justice sitting there and silently beg, plead, scream for Anders to wake up and regain control of their shared body. But Anders didn’t wake and Justice stayed there, too ashamed or despondent or broken to move.
They stayed like that for far too long, the boat swaying more times than Hawke could count. There was no sun or moon or stars to count the hours. He didn’t even have Anders in his arms anymore, the man’s body instead sitting in a meditative pose as Justice sat in thought.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Justice finally said. “You were supposed to be a Templar. You would have killed Anders for what we did. It’s the only way to destroy the connection between a mage and a possessing spirit. You would have killed him and I would be free. Justice would be done for the mages, then taken again by you for Kirkwall and everything would be all right. Why didn’t you kill him? Why weren’t you the Templar I thought you’d be?”
“Because you were wrong,” Hawke said.
“But you’re–”
“You’re wrong!” Hawke shouted. “Anders didn’t agree to this, you decided for him! You decided for all of us! Well, you were wrong. You were wrong then and you’re wrong now and you’re still so incapable of understanding humans that you don’t comprehend where you went wrong!”
“I wasn’t wrong, I–”
Hawke couldn’t take it anymore. He refused to listen to the spirit’s circular arguments, not when those arguments seemed designed to hurt him. Instead he pulled at the vestiges of lyrium in his system, gathering its power to re-enforce the Static around him. He Cleansed the area, the magic bleeding out of the hold and the beams and the very air itself. Light and color seemed to fade, draining from the hold to leave the world a dull brown and gray.
It was a terrible way to banish Justice, momentarily severing their connection to the body they shared with Anders. It was an act Hawke had once promised he would never perform, a promise he had never intended to break. Hawke couldn’t bring himself to care, not when it was the only way to get Justice away from him.
Anders slumped over onto the deck, sprawled out in sleep that was now shallow and fitful. Hawke gathered him up into his arms and returned to his silent vigil over the sleeping mage as Anders began to wake.
Anders culled up against Hawke and slowly awoke with a lurking headache. He scrunched his eyes closed, the feeling reminiscent of Kinloch Hold and the oppressive dampening the Templars did to suppress his magic during yet more solitary confinement. A sudden terror struck him, was he still trapped in that tower?! But then he saw Hawke’s haunted face and knew he was safe. Or as safe as he could be on a ship of fugitives and malcontents after blowing up the Chantry with likely an entire Templar Armada chasing them down.
“What happened, love?” Anders asked.
Hawke looked away, his own headache burning. He’d been rationing his lyrium since Kirkwall, a thin ration, and banishing Justice like that took a lot out of him. But he refused to feel guilt, not after everything Justice had said.
Anders reached up to scratch his fingernails though Hawke’s growing stubble. “What happened,” Anders asked, this time much more serious.
“Did you agree?” Hawke asked.
“What?”
Hawke reached up to grab Anders’ hand and pull it from his face. “Justice’s plan to separate you both. Manipulating me into killing you. Did you agree. ”
Anders seemed to curl in on himself, making himself small as he looked away to avoid judgemental eyes.
That was a ‘yes’.
“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” Anders admitted.
Hawke stood up, leaving Anders on the deck. He almost stormed out of the hold but couldn’t bring himself to do it, not now.
Not yet.
“Tell Justice he’s never to speak to me again,” Hawke said, refusing to look at Anders.
Then he left.
Merrill dangled from the crow’s nest, hanging from where her knees hooked over the railing. Her hands held the magic that controlled the wind, playing with it like a mother toyed with a toddler. There was a delight to it all, a carefree command over the basic elements that harnessed the wind to push their ship ahead of any pursuit.
And then the magic died and Merrill grabbed at the ropes to keep herself from falling. “By the Dread Wolf!” she swore. “What happened to the magic?”
“That felt like a Templar,” Bethany called. “We don’t have one stowed away, do we?”
“Just your brother,” Varric said.
The hatch below slammed open and Hawke pulled himself up onto the deck. The red and steel Champion’s armor glowed dully in the setting sun. The massive sword he carried on his back was new, he didn’t often carry it on-ship. Something had happened.
“Brother,” Bethany pleaded. Her Circle robes shone green in the light, dark in the setting sun and yet still so vibrant next to her brother’s red. “Is everything alright? How’s Anders?”
“Anders is fine,” Hawke said.
Anders climbed onto the deck behind Hawke, and most telling was how Hawke didn’t react. He didn’t smile, he didn’t reach for him, he didn’t even look. It was as though Anders wasn’t even there.
“Well one of you disrupted my spell,” Merrill called down as she re-summoned the power to harness the wind.
“Try not to interrupt her,” Isabela scolded. “I’d like to sight the cliffs of Amaranthine before the sun sets and the real wind isn’t cooperating.”
Hawke made a noncommittal noise, one Bethany had heard for years as her brother’s wordless apology after doing something unwise. But it still worried her as she glanced back at Anders.
Anders wouldn’t meet her eyes.