Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

“You’re a templar.”

Once those words had been a true protest, a valid reason to convince Anders to abandon this distraction of a man and focus on the task at hand. But now Justice lied.

Justice, spirit of all that was honorable and righteous, embodiment of all that was fair and Just in the Fade, lied.

Justice lied to their lover’s face, throwing at him words that they’d not needed to utter for years now. They hadn’t even thought them, hadn’t believed them. Their protest was weak, the lie empty, and yet Hawke’s despair blinded him to the lie, accepting the words as a painful truth.

And then he ripped those words apart, tearing them asunder.

Justice knelt on the deck, staring at hands that weren’t even theirs, hands that they could barely control anymore, and explained their plan to end Anders’ possession. Justice themself would be free again and Anders would have the justice that Justice themself had been unable to provide.

And so Justice told Hawke a truth. The ritual would have separated the two of them, sundering Justice and Anders at the height of Justice’s power. Justice would have been pure again, with none of the fear and worry and lurking darkness that had grown within them, twisting them. He would be himself again, instead of this.

But they couldn’t make Hawke see. They tried, they tried, but Hawke heard none of it. Instead, rage caused Hawke to Cleanse the area around him, the magic dying as the Fade snapped away and the world turned gray and painful.

Justice pulled back, descending into darkness as black feathers curled softly around them. Anders woke up and Justice felt the shift, the twist, the creak of rusted armor, and endured.

There were ways to separate a spirit from a possessed mage, but only if the possession had not yet produced an abomination. The moment the body began to change that possession became permanent. That change had come so quickly to Anders, moments after their joining in Amaranthine. Anders showed it in his bearing and how he carried himself, in his physique, in his personality, in how he carried his staff and fought in battle. They were a spirit of Justice, shaped like a man, of course the physical changes were subtle; they were so subtle there was no way to tell that’s what it was.

Except...

Teeth and claws, filed and clipped, buried under shame and desperation. A hunger born of deprivement and Need. Black feathers plucked from Anders' shoulders, desperate and shameful and darkness and hidden away. The same black feathers neither of them wanted to remember weaved into a mantle over a new black coat.

Justice knew this was Knight Commander Meredith’s fault. If she hadn’t pushed them to the breaking point in her madness, if she hadn’t locked down the Gallows, if she hadn’t pushed Justice to send Anders desperately researching explosives… So many ifs but they didn’t matter.

They pulled soft black feathers around themself with tarnished gauntlets to cover a rusted breastplate and a faceless helm splashed in dried tainted blood. There was no stopping it now. Justice was Falling and there was nothing they could do about it anymore. They’d lost themself, they’d lost their Virtue, now they’d lost Hawke as well.

The cliffs of Amaranthine shone golden in the setting sun. Isabella called up to the crow’s nest even as she directed her crew, ordering Merrill to guide the wind and bring them along the coast to a cove that she knew to be there. Smuggler’s coves were common in these cliffs, the switchback paths through the cliffs too difficult for any guard or army to patrol. They would be safe here, safe enough for the night at least. If the Templars were giving chase it would take them days to follow their course through the doldrums in the Waking Sea this time of year.

If. Isabella smirked in the setting sun as the cove opened before them, almost impossible to find unless one knew exactly where it was. There was no ‘if’ to this, not this time. Anders had done something so terrible, so powerful, that the entire world would have no choice but to pay attention. History had been made here, or, well, in Kirkwall. She carried a cargo sweeter than any sugar, more valuable than any gold, stronger than any Qunari powder. If she could hold onto it she would be a legend.

Although, given Varric’s tales she expected she might be a legend already. All Varric needed was the chance to sit down and write it all out.

“We’ll need to take on supplies at Amaranthine,” Jigger said.

“We will,” Isabella said, nodding to her quartermaster. Jigger was a friend of hers, an old mate from before Castillon who she happened to run into in Kirkwall right before everything turned to magic and fire. “It’s too late in the day tonight. We’ll hoist anchor at dawn and approach tomorrow, I want to be out of Amaranthine waters before the Templars block off the Strait.”

“Are they worth it?” Jigger asked, glancing back at the Champion with his giant sword. Anders was nowhere to be seen, surely a bad sign. “You know it’s bad luck to bring a mage on a ship. I’m sure that goes double for mages like him.”

“Hawke dueled the Arishok for me,” Isabella said. “I owe him more than just my life. They’re worth it.”

Jigger nodded and accepted this. Isabella still kept an eye on Jigger and how this information was disseminated to the crew. This was a new crew, one that had not learned loyalty. They hadn’t had cause to learn it yet. But they would. Or she’d leave them in a port somewhere, if they were lucky enough to survive.

Anders always wondered what Amaranthine would rebuild into but he would never see it. He’d been among those who charged into the city even as Vigil’s Keep burned behind them, Warden-Commander Amell at his side. He still wielded his staff like a novice, never really mastering the art of combat until Justice. The darkspawn didn’t care, slitting the throats of captive guards and innocent civilians with the same ease regardless.

Anders had never killed anyone before the Templars marched him to Vigil’s Keep. Darkspawn were a safe target, mindless monsters that existed solely to destroy and desecrate. Killing them became easy, just another fly to swat. It gave Anders the confidence to expand his powers past healing into battlefield control magic, into control over the destructive elements, into dabbling with blood magic. He knew the principles behind it, knew the Wardens allowed it, but he’d never considered anything more than a cursory glance. He didn’t need it. Warden-Commander Amell didn’t need it. They were both powerful enough on their own.

And then he’d watched as the armored ogre lifted Warden-Commander Amell into the air in one beefy claw. Amell dropped his sword, the dragonbone blade embedding in the ground, and he unleashed something terrible and powerful. Boiling blood had a unique smell, one Anders had never smelled in a living creature before and that he never wanted to smell again. The ogre screamed and then squeezed.

Nathaniel’s arrows did nothing against the armor of the beast. Justice was bogged down by the emissary, unable to assist. Their darkspawn ally defended the Chantry, ready to give his life for a bunch of humans who would likely kill him in return. And Amell was dying, blood streaming from his mouth even as it boiled and he kept clawing at the ogre as though that might do anything.

Anders had nothing left. He was exhausted, reduced to flinging Arcane Bolts at his enemies when he could draw the energy for it. But the sight of Amell crushed in the paw of the armored ogre broke something in Anders and he forgot the lyrium potions he carried. Instead he screamed in rage and drew upon himself in a slimy unnatural way, reaching out to the ogre with the power of his own blood.

The ogre shuddered and arched back in a rictus of pain, its maw open in a silent scream as its claws opened. Warden-Commander Amell fell to the ground, unable to move, unable to get away as Anders summoned the firestorm that set the world ablaze.

That was the first time he used blood magic. He even allowed Justice to wipe the memory of how to use it from his mind. Amell survived, but only just. Anders drained most of his lyrium potions to heal the burns, the crush injuries, the shattered ribs and ruptured organs. Even so, Warden-Commander Amell coughed blood all through the flight to Drakefall and the descent into the tower complex. 

Perhaps that day should have been a warning, a taste of things to come.

“Perhaps it should have been,” he said, but it wasn’t his own voice. It was deeper, fuller, harder, yet still his as it came from his throat. But it would never be his. It belonged to another.

“Hello, Justice,” Anders said, knowing full well he sat in a corner by himself. Below deck where he wouldn’t be in the way, where he wouldn’t have to see the city, where nobody he saved that day might recognize him.

“It should have been a warning,” Justice said, not even acknowledging the greeting. “Warden-Commander Amell had to talk me down from Falling that day. I knew then that I still had the Potential.”

“I remember,” Anders agreed. “Warden-Commander Amell stood before the Architect, exhausted, his armor stained in his own blood. He could barely maintain his defensive spells anymore. I wonder if that’s why he agreed to ally with the Architect, because he was too exhausted to fight it.”

“I still say it was a poor decision,” Justice said.

“And you would have killed us all over that decision had the Warden-Commander not talked you down,” Anders remembered.

“I lost myself for a moment. I tasted Vengeance and nearly Fell. The Warden’s words convinced me of the wisdom of an alliance, though I did not appreciate this for a time.”

Anders wrapped his arms around himself, an attempt to comfort the spirit who resided within. He ignored the footsteps of some crewman who couldn’t possibly understand, ignored the look of fear. Or was it disgust. It didn’t matter. Anders was done hiding, there was nowhere left to hide. Not anymore.

“There are no words left that will stop my Fall now,” Justice warned.

“No,” Anders pleaded. Despair welled up in him, followed by a hot fury that boiled like that day, like Warden-Commander Amell in the grasp of the ogre. “I’m not losing you again. There has to be a way!”

“We tried,” Justice said, their own voice sad but resigned. “I feel myself slipping with every beat of your heart. I’ll not ask for your death, not this time. Even if I’m freed by your destruction, I’ll still lose myself.” They paused, relishing the sensation of his arms around them, even his tears down their face. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not giving up, there has to be something we can do!”

Somebody on the deck above stamped twice against the boards, a sure sign that Anders was screaming. But he ignored it. His friend, one of his two loves, his literal other half was resigned to Falling as a demon and he would be forced to bear the brunt of the agony of it. Hawke would have to watch as the Anders he loved twisted into a true abomination, as whatever demon Justice became took full control over Anders’ body and broke it in half. Like every other twisted abomination the Templars hunted, he would become a monster and then destroy everything and everyone he held dear.

There had to be a way to stop it.

Anders shivered as pinpricks of pain lanced through his shoulders, a thousand tiny dots of fire, just like last time, in the Deep Roads when last Justice took control entirely and then refused to answer to what had happened. But Anders saw the marks, he’d seen the feathers. Justice wasn’t as thorough as they thought they were, they’d left spots of black fluffy down among half-sprouted pinfeathers. He knew what was happening to him.

“Anders…” Justice warned.

“No,” Anders pleaded. “Not this time. I know what happened last time. Don’t hide this. Just… There has to be a way to stop it. Maybe Hawke will know. Maybe Hawke can speak to Amell. I don’t know, maybe something. We’ll find answers, Justice. We have to.”

Footsteps down the steps heralded the figure who stood squinting in the doorway. The hold of a ship was pitch darkness to someone used to the bright light of daylight. Anders watched sadly as Hawke stood in the doorway, squinting until his eyes got used to the gloom below deck.

“Ratchet says you’re down here screaming at yourself,” Hawke said.

Ratchet, one of them who manned the ballista. They only had one but it was a good one and with a better range than the best firestorm Anders could summon.

Anders took too long to answer and Hawke’s expression closed off. He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Anders cried, reaching out for the other love in his life. He knew he’d done something unforgivable, letting Justice press the blade into Hawke’s hand, but it had seemed like the best option at the time. But now that it had failed, now that Justice had begun to Fall for the final time, Anders needed Hawke more than ever. And both he and Justice had damaged that.

Hawke stayed where he was, but he didn’t leave. He didn’t leave, that was enough.

“Justice regrets what we asked you to do,” Anders said.

This got a response, first as Hawke took a deep breath then as he stormed into the room to grab at Anders' feathered mantle. Hawke slammed Anders against the wall, pinning him there.

“Justice can come out here and tell me himself,” Hawke challenged.

“But you said–”

“Risking my rejection is part of the apology,” Hawke said, his grip loosening. But the look on his face never softened.

Feathers ached in Anders’ shoulder, how was it he could feel where Hawke grabbed his feathers? It was just clothing, armor, wasn’t it? Please?

“Unless he's too much of a coward to face me himself.”

Justice clawed their way to full control hard and fast, grabbing ineffectually at Hawke’s gauntletted arm. “How DARE you call me a coward!” Justice demanded.

“Then don’t ACT like one!” Hawke shouted. “Letting Anders lie to me about your plan, pushing the knife into my hand and begging for me to lose you both, all because you couldn’t be assed to, what, what is it! There’s something you’re not telling me!”

He was more observant than Justice gave him credit for and they cursed their blindness for not seeing it.

“There’s something wrong and you’re hiding it from me! A blood ritual at the height of your power on the eve of battle, a sacrifice, of you, to you, stabbed to death by your lover in the guise of a sworn enemy! You think I don’t know what that is? You think I didn’t learn from my father, same as Bethany?”

“It was the last chance to stop me from Falling!” Justice shouted.

And there it was, out in the open. Justice’s most shameful secret, one they’d failed to keep hidden from Anders, tried to keep hidden from Hawke. The one thing they knew would cause Hawke to turn from them both in disgust, leaving them behind. Alone together, two shattered minds in one abomination’s body as it twisted in the darkness into one single monster with the wants and desires and goals of neither of them.

But Hawke didn’t leave. His grip loosened, turning into a long slow stroke through the feathers of Anders’ mantle and, Maker, they could feel it like Hawke’s hand combed through their own feathers, how was this already happening. He gathered them in his arms and held them close.

“Why couldn’t you tell me?” Hawke whispered.

“It’s weakness that drives a spirit to Fall,” Justice murmured, pressing their face into Hawke’s shoulder. Armor was both comforting and far too hard to tolerate and they needed it. “I never wanted you to see us like that. I couldn’t hide it anymore.”

“This was why Anders agreed,” Hawke realized.

“If I Fall while we’re still joined like this, I’ll take him with me. Physically. He’ll be a true abomination, never able to hide it. Never able to regain his humanity. He doesn’t want that, it terrifies him. Almost as much as Tranquility terrifies him. If I was released at the height of my power, we thought I might be spared the Fall. But now that’ll never happen. And now no matter what happens you will lose both of us. I’m sorry. I wish there was some way to stop it.”

“It was strength that kept you from Falling for so long,” Hawke said, holding Justice close. He buried his face in the feathers of Anders’ armor. Strange, they smelled fresh, alive, like a captive bird. “Most spirits don’t retain themselves in a possession, they Fall the moment the possession is agreed upon. You kept yourself for six years, seven, such a long time. Long enough to live and love and be loved and see all the horrors of humanity. Justice, you kept yourself through all of that. You’re the strongest being I know, mortal or spirit or demon. Never ever believe yourself to be weak. Please.”

Justice clung to Hawke, shuddering with the force of their embrace. Or perhaps it was the tears that burned hot on their face, tears that they scraped away on the plates of dull steel of Hawke’s armor. They didn’t dare hope for this, any of this. “I don’t deserve you, love,” Justice murmured.

Mere words weren’t going to keep Justice from Falling, not this time. The best they could do was delay the process day after painful day as they clung to themself in the darkness of their own mind. But they would Fall. Eventually.

It was only a matter of time.

But now they knew they wouldn’t face it alone. None of them would.

Hawke stood on the prow of the ship as she cut through the waters of the Waking Sea. The Straits of Alamar lay before them with only vague rumor of Templar pursuit behind. If they hit the Straits before the Templars could mount a blockade then they’d be free, free out in the Amaranthine Ocean with the ports of Rivain and Tevinter and Antiva and western Ferelden open to them.

Varric holed up below deck with a hurricane lamp, a new writing desk, and enough paper to pen an epic. He’d already taken to grilling Hawke and his companions for details about recent events. Hawke had a sinking feeling he knew what, or rather who, the story would be about.

Merrill still hung from the crow’s nest, dangling upside down from a rope tied around her ankles and knees as she giggled and maintained the spell that commandeered the wind. The sea agreed with her and she’d taken to taunting the sky, daring it to storm so she might command that.

Isabella had traded some crew for others in Amaranthine, taking on those who wanted passage to Rivain and Antiva and other parts further afield. Some of them brought cargo and nobody had asked, grateful that they now had something else to smuggle that wasn’t just themselves.

Anders stayed below, away from the new crewmembers from Amaranthine. One had recognized him and the stories of his time as a Grey Warden had already reached Varric’s ear. There were stories and questions there that Anders wasn’t ready to face. Not yet. Maybe never.

Bethany staggered up, her sea legs still evading her as she took her place next to her brother at the prow.

“You know you can tell me anything, brother,” she said, wrapping one arm around Hawke’s waist.

She still wore Circle robes, green silk and white foxfur marking her as a full mage but not yet an enchanter. Anyone would see her and know she was a Circle mage turned apostate, free of her leash. But then, there was rumor from Amaranthine that Circles all over Thedas were in an uproar over some new injustice that had nothing to do with Kirkwall. Kirkwall would only make everything worse, possibly tearing the Circles apart. They would all be apostates soon.

“Justice is Falling,” Hawke said.

Bethany pulled away from him, eyes wide. She glanced aft, to the rest of them all. Anders was nowhere to be seen, down below in his self-imposed exile. “That’s… not exactly what I expected to hear.”

“I know,” Hawke said. “But there’s not much we can do to stop it. And Anders…”

“Anders is going to become a real abomination.”

Hawke nodded.

“And you’re going to have to kill him. After all this. After all you did to save him.”

Hawke looked down at the foaming sea below them. The ship struck the crest of a wave, bucking up and tossing spray into their faces. The salt tasted like tears, but also like determination. Justice may have given up on themself but Hawke wasn’t ready to. Not yet. He wouldn’t believe Anders could become the mindless rampaging abomination of Templar warnings until he felt Anders’ own claws in his chest.

“I’ll think of something,” Hawke said. “Everything will work out, Bethany. I promise.”

Hawke had braved the Deep Roads and faced down horrors unseen for a thousand years. He’d dueled the Arishok one-on-one and still bore the broadsword scars across his chest. He’d defied Knight-Commander Meredith, First Enchanter Orisino, Grand Cleric Elthina, even his own friends as he dared Sebastian to stop him and stood over Fenris’ traitorous body. He would defy the Fade itself if it meant keeping those he loved at his side, in one way or another.

Chapter Text

Justice was Falling.

Nobody knew what this meant, if there was a timeline, a deadline, if it happened all at once, if there was any way to stop it or reverse it. Bethany purposefully avoided studying spirits and demons. Merrill had no idea either, steadfastly maintaining her personal beliefs of there being no true line between the two states. Nobody even bothered asking Anders about it.

They were all in uncharted waters about this.

Somewhat literally as Isabella poured over sea charts by day and plotted stars with the sextant by night. Castillon’s charts were incomplete in the way most pirate’s charts would be incomplete: hand-altered with tiny islands that cartographers never bothered to map. A pirate’s preferred islands for various purposes. But these islands hand-mapped in the Amaranthine Ocean were all Castillon’s islands, his preferred islands. Isabella instead searched for her own islands, dots on maps known only to her. Maps that sat at the bottom of the Waking Sea for nigh on seven years now.

There was an island chain three day’s sail due west from the Isle of Estwatch. Tall peaks burst from the ocean, steep sided mountains that steamed in the right light. The chain spread out just so that one could see the next island from the top of each steaming peak, a tiny bare rock sitting on the horizon. Those were some of Isabella’s favorite islands, though the sea would rumble sometimes and the air might stink of yellow drakestone.

The crew weren’t told. They didn’t need to know a demon was awakening on their ship. Nobody needed to know.

Nobody needed to know the real reason why Isabella sailed due west from Estwatch, Merrill dangling from the crow’s nest to keep the ship at a constant speed while Isabella charted the stars and marked up Castillon’s maps.

She would add her islands to his maps, that was all they needed to know.

“Land ho!”

The cry came down from the crow’s nest, Merrill untangling herself from the ropes and dropping down from the deck. She canceled the spell that kept the wind leashed. Suddenly the ship rocked in gusts that had nothing to do with their direction and the crew had to react, tacking into the wind as they approached the island on the horizon.

The island peak reached a thousand feet above the water. Isabella knew this island well, a smoking island that hadn’t rumbled in as long as she’d known it. Rich green fields and jungle flanked the sides of the island’s main peak, perfect for marooning someone should she ever find the need.

She took a deep breath and exhaled, wondering if today would bring that need. She shouted a command and the ship’s course turned toward that island.

Merrill dropped and rolled, landing gracefully on the planks and hopping up with a giggle.

Hawke came up from below deck, squinting in the bright light of day. Daylight was blinding to one used to the dim murk below decks. He attempted to scan the horizon, barely able to see the line of dark where sea met sky. After an eternity the shadow of the island faded into his vision and he nodded.

“Will he make it?” Isabella asked.

“We’ll make it,” Hawke assured.

He sounded so sure. Isabella respected that, even though she realized he was making it all up as he went along. At least someone was willing to take that chance. Besides, things usually worked out when Hawke improvised.

Even if it nearly killed Hawke in the process. Isabella remembered all too well watching Hawke place himself between her and the Arishok, challenging the giant Qunari leader to a duel. When she watched the Arishok’s twin broadswords stab into Hawke’s chest and lift him off the ground by his own ribcage…

Somehow he triumphed. She never knew how he managed it. She realized then, watching him dangle by his own ribs, even with all her skill and talent and dueling experience, if she’d dueled him she wouldn’t have survived.

That was just something Hawke did, he took the hits that would have killed anyone else. He took the risks that nobody else would.

And eventually those risks would catch up with him. It was just a matter of time.

In the distance the mountain loomed, mists on its peak shrouding its heart of fire.

Hawke drew Merrill aside.

“I need a favor from you,” Hawke said. Then he shook his head. “No, it’s not a favor. You owe me this. I’m calling in a favor, Merrill.”

“Anything, lethallin,” Merrill said.

Hawke took a deep breath. The ship creaked in the lengthening sunlight as the island grew ever closer. Sailors handled the ship better without Merrill’s newfound delight over the wind, her prow cutting through the waves with swiftness. “Once you asked me to come with you to a cave on Sundermount,” Hawke said. “Once you asked me to sit with you as you communed with a demon. Once you asked me to strike you down should you lose yourself to it.”

Merrill shook her head. “Not that,” she whispered.

“Yes. Once you asked me to strike you down if the demon took you. It’s only fitting that I ask you the same thing.”

“You want me to kill Anders,” Merrill realized.

Hawke shook his head. “Justice is going to Fall. Anders is going to Turn. We know this, that’s no reason to kill him.”

Merrill sighed in relief.

“But if he loses control over himself, like I know he fears, like Justice fears, I know I won’t be able to kill him. He’ll kill me first before I can lift my sword against him. If he kills me, I need you to kill him. To keep the rest of them safe.”

Merrill’s relief quickly faded. But after all this man had given for her, for her people, for her history, she couldn’t say no. She nodded. “I’ll do it, Hawke. If he strikes you down I’ll keep the others safe.”

Hawke pulled her into a relieved embrace, nearly sagging into her arms. The weight of risk faded from his shoulders.

Justice was Falling but they wouldn’t be alone for it. Hawke wouldn’t do that to them.

Hawke stood next to Isabella as the ship dropped anchor a hundred yards from the shore of a cove. The crew separated into new tasks, preparing a single shoreboat with provisions for three days for three people. Water, food, alchemicals, bedrolls, more than enough to see to the comfort for a shore party.

Himself, Anders, Merrill.

Merrill climbed into the craft and rocked it back and forth on its ropes and pulleys. The crew was coming to like her, bantering back at her playful nature.

“You’re taking Merrill,” Isabella said.

“She owes me,” Hawke said.

Isabella made a noncommittal noise.

“If this goes bad I don’t want Anders to suffer as an abomination alone. Merrill will kill him to spare him that.”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to kill him?” Isabella asked.

Hawke didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He hadn’t killed Anders after the Chantry explosion ruined an entire city-state. He wouldn’t kill him now, not even if the worst happened.

“If Merrill comes back alone, take her alone,” Hawke said instead. “If she comes back with us, then it’s over and all is well.”

“And if none of you come back?” Isabella asked.

“It’s a nice island,” Hawke said, looking up at the jungle that crawled up the side of the mountain. “Three people could survive here for a year easy. Maybe if none of us come back, maybe check in a year? What’s a year anyway.”

It was a nice island to maroon someone, if it came to that.

Isabella watched as Anders finally came up from below. Maker, he looked like shit. He was pale, shaking, trembling with some internal effort. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, his skin looked clammy. He wore his Renegade’s Coat, the black feathers looking more full and real than the rest of him. He looked exhausted, drained, barefoot, worse than she’d ever seen him. Merrill helped him climb into the shoreboat and he dropped to curl up on the bottom.

“Take care of Bethany for me,” Hawke said.

“If you or Anders comes back without Merrill we’re leaving you here,” Isabella warned. “If you’re taking Merrill to kill him if something goes wrong, I need my own ultimatum.”

Hawke nodded. “Agreed.”

And then he left, swinging up into the shoreboat with his giant sword strapped to his back. A sword that Isabella knew he never planned to unsheathe on the island no matter what Anders became.

The shoreboat was hoisted down to the sea below, ropes stretching and the boat splashing against the waves. Hawke manned the oars to propel the tiny boat into the cove a hundred yards distant, to beach it upon pale pumice sand.

Isabella turned away to see Bethany watching from the mast. She approached the young mage, still wrapped in her Circle finery. “You can throw fireballs, can’t you, Kitten?” Isabella asked.

“Of course,” Bethany scoffed though she couldn’t take her eyes off the island and the tiny boat that grew smaller with every oar.

“We’ll be alright,” Isabella said, drawing Bethany away from her vigil. She said nothing of those on their way to the island. At the moment there was nothing they could do, so nothing there mattered. They would be alright. For the moment that was all they had.

The shoreboat dragged against the sand and Hawke jumped out, dragging the boat onto the shore. He dragged it up past the high tide line as Merrill jumped out to help.

Anders was a mess, barely holding on to himself and Justice. The Fall could happen at any minute now.

At least here they were safe.

“We should get to some sort of shelter,” Merrill said, looking out toward the lowering sun. The sky had begun to turn red with sunset.

Hawke stood overlooking the island around them. “Maybe a cave,” he mused. “Justice always liked Darktown. Maybe being underground might remind them of it.”

“A cave at sunset,” Merrill realized, dawning delight crossing her features. “Yes, the transition between light and dark, at the liminal space between the world above and the world below.” Then she stopped. “Wait, are we trying to make the Fall easier? Or stronger?”

“Whatever makes the most sense,” Hawke said. “Or least sense, given we’re trying to help a spirit Fall gently.”

“This way, then, I saw some sea caves on our way in and the tide is going out. You can feel the tide leaving, can’t you? The line between sea and sand fades.”

Hawke leaned over the shoreboat to find Anders still curled up at the bottom. He reached down and lifted the mage into his arms, carrying him. Maker, he weighed so little. Anders hadn’t been taking care of himself for weeks before the Chantry explosion and then even less so afterward. Before this, Hawke suspected Justice had sustained their shared body when Anders forgot to take care of himself but now Justice was in no such state.

Or, worse, Justice was in the exact state.

“It’s not far,” Merrill said, leading the way as Hawke carried Anders behind.

The sea cave was not far, dank and damp and hot. Fumaroles from the volcano lent the cave a draconic stench that mixed with the reek of seaweed and saltwater. Basaltic rock reached out in jagged edges from all sides, the ceiling once melted and dripping and then frozen in that exact state. Sharp edges of lava bubbles stabbed out where the sea hadn’t yet ripped those edges out and smoothed everything down wave after wave. Black and red and blue sand covered the floor of the cave, still wet from the receding tide. Water lines on the cave walls warned of high tides, dead algae crusting the rocks where the waves had left them.

“Do we draw summoning circles or something?” Hawke asked. “Demon bindings?”

“Why?” Merrill asked. “Justice is already here. We’re not binding it.”

Hawke hummed but said nothing. He strode to the center of the sea cave’s main chamber, taking in the water lines and the rotting reek of sea and salt and drakestone. Anders shifted in his arms, curling in on himself and whining as though dreaming.

But Anders was awake, his eyes wide and open and terrified.

“Kath, love,” Justice said, their voice slurred. But it was their voice, the timbre unmistakable.

“I’m here,” Hawke whispered.

“Do not let go of me,” Justice whispered. “Whatever happens, do not let go.”

“I won’t let go,” Hawke promised. “I swear it. I swear it upon you, Justice, I will not let go.”

Justice leaned against Hawke’s chest. But they couldn’t do this so encaged in Hawke’s arms. They squirmed, forcing Hawke to let them onto their own feet. They forced Anders’ body to stand as they stripped, discarding the Renegade’s Coat and the black feather mantle. Then came doublet and shift, both dropped on the floor of the cave.

“That’s why,” Merrill whispered as she finally saw the feathers pocking Anders' shoulders, black scars of fluff and blood and pain.

Hawke ran his hands over the ruined pitted skin of Anders’ shoulders. Feathers were never meant to grow in human skin, the black feathers half-grown and deformed as a sign of Justice’s resistance to their impending Fall, a sign of what was to come.

“You changed your robes for these,” Hawke realized.

Justice didn’t answer, holding tightly to Hawke as they pressed their face into Hawke’s armor. Hawke took the hint and firmly wrapped his arms around Anders’ waist and pulled him close. 

“Do not let me go,” Justice pleaded.

“I won’t let you go.”

Lost in the Fade, imprisoned in a possession contract, entwined with a mortal’s soul, a spirit of Justice dangled over a self-made precipice. They held on with one desperate hand, one armored gauntlet digging into the last stones of their resolve.

I won’t let you go.

A mortal’s voice echoed around the spirit, one of two loves that anchored the spirit where it was.

The spirit felt their grip beginning to fail.

Anders vaguely felt arms around him, like feeling his own body through the wrapping of a giant spider’s web. He knew Justice was in control; he knew how tenuous Justice’s control was at this point.

Anders tried to say something, tried to reach out, but nothing happened. Instead all he could hear was Hawke’s voice in his ear, desperate words that carried the world and the Fade and so much more.

“I won’t let you go.”

Anders was so tired of fighting. Justice’s plan was supposed to end it all. Instead his life kept going and Justice kept Falling and now he could feel the fraying end of the spirit’s resolve.

He’d been terrified of this moment for seven solid years but now that it was finally happening it almost felt like a relief. This was what he’d courted back in Vigil’s Keep when he drew the circles and cast the spells to separate Justice from the corpse of Kristoff then opened his soul up to possession. The feathers itching down his shoulders and back were nothing compared to what awaited him and he was too tired to fight it anymore.

Anders was too tired to fight Justice’s Fall. Or his own. Let it come.

Let it come.

A second mortal’s voice echoed around the spirit, the second of two loves that anchored the spirit where it was.

The stone of the spirit’s resolve crumbled under their gauntlets as the last two anchors gave in and gave permission.

They could let go.

The stone of the spirit’s resolve crumbled to dust and Justice Fell.

Hawke held Anders in his arms. They stood in the middle of a sea cave, the last light of the setting sun turning the cave green in one pale flash as the sun sank below the horizon. Light turned to dark, day into night, at the dissolved line between sea and sand as the barrier between spirit and demon ceased to be.

Merrill sat on a shelf of stone nearby, her hand on her staff as she watched in fascination.

But Hawke stood on the sand with Anders in his arms, the both of their feet mired to the ankles in soft black sand. Hawke kept his arms wrapped around Anders’ middle, his hands caressing bare skin that twitched and shivered. Anders wrapped his arms around Hawke, hands sliding across the plates of armor that Hawke wore for protection against a demon’s claws.

And then Anders tensed and the twisted feathers all stood on end as Justice Fell.

“It’s starting,” Merrill whispered, enraptured by what she saw.

The spirit drifted in the Fade, unmoored from their Purpose and their Virtue.

A rusted, battered, pitted suit of armor drifted bereft, its sword broken and its standard shredded. 

The armor disintegrated as they Fell, pieces rotting into nothing and falling away to reveal the twisted body beneath. Scars and wounds tore into them, every Injustice suffered while bound to the mortal realm. Each scar dented their armor, changed their form, twisted their Purpose, drove them further and further from their Ideal.

The breastplate burned away, ripping off in chunks. Pauldrons and greaves and cuisses all rusted away. Maille unraveled ring by single ring, each little ring flying away in fiery balls of Self and Purpose and–

Their helm cracked. Their faceless helm, their eyeless helm, their mouthless helm cracked and they could see a sliver of light, of fire, twin balls of fire and they reached out to grab them both. Twin balls of flame burned their hands, melting their rusting gauntlets to their hands as their helm tore away and they Knew these twin flames.

Their love for Hawke. Their love for Anders.

Tiny motes of flame, more balls, more Purpose all flew away with shattered rings of maille but they wouldn’t lose these, not even as the flame burned their hands to claws and molten iron. They stuffed both balls of flame into their mouth and swallowed.

The spirit screamed in agony as the flame set them ablaze.

Anders screamed.

The scream of utter agony echoed through the cave and out across the sea, rivaling the waves themselves. Hawke held him close, refusing to let go, even as Ander’s hands began to burn.

Fire started in Anders’ palms, magefire like so many spells, but this time it burned. This time the fire burned, searing his beautiful healer’s hands to a crisp then a char then to carbonized bone that still moved and grasped and tore at Hawke’s armor in desperate agony.

Then the scales began to grow. Scales of rusted pitted iron like ruined gauntlets grew over the ruined flesh of Anders’ hands, encasing his hands and wrists and ending halfway up his forearms where the charred skin still smoldered raw and red and burning.

The horror didn’t stop there as all the feathers on Anders’ shoulders stood on end and then more grew in, a full coat of feathers tearing through the skin of his neck, his shoulders, dripping down his chest, trailing all down his back.

Then the bones. Hawke watched as one arm of scorched bloody bone burst from Anders’ back in a spray of blood and gore and ripped skin. Then another arm. A third, a fourth.

Four arms of bones without hands, only long atrophied fingers on stunted wrists that seemed to grasp for anything, everything, nothing. Then tendons and muscles slithered out, attaching to wet red bleeding bone and binding it all together into limbs that stretched and flailed and gained terrible form. Bone and gristle and flesh and skin and then finally the long pins to cover it all, pins that opened into soft feathers that could never support flight on four twisted useless wings that strained and flapped and spasmed and spread and shuddered as Anders kept screaming.

Justice was blind.

Once the spirit wore the armor of their Purpose, a helm without eyes, willfully blinded to the identity of those who sought and those who transgressed. Justice was equal, Justice was fair, Justice saw no one and nothing to keep it from its Purpose.

But now the demon opened its eyes and looked upon the world with a new Purpose. A new Virtue.

Justice was blind.

But Vengeance saw everything.

The screaming finally stopped, fading into pained moans and then quiet heavy breathing.

Hawke stood with Anders in his arms, the mage draped over Hawke and held up only by Hawke’s embrace. Anders breathed deep, the exhausted breaths of someone still trapped in the memory of terrible pain. Hawke merely held him close, waiting, hoping for the moment when Anders might wake up and remember him.

He begged, pleaded, prayed that something of the possessed mage survived a transformation like this. Though he knew not to whom he prayed. No Maker would ever answer a prayer such as his and the only spirit he knew had just…

Hawke held him close, not willing to let go.

Even if Anders went berserk right now, if Anders was gone and only the demon remained, Hawke knew he would not let go. He’d let the demon kill him before he let go.

Vengeance lay upon a bed of soft black feathers, their own four wings curled around themself in luxurious iridescent softness. They stretched, feeling their own body for the first time. Talons and wings, feathers and claws, resplendent beauty and unexpected danger. They were the triumphant widow in mourning veil standing before the pyre of her poisoned husband. They were the battered child pointing at their own parents in a country court to accuse them of witchcraft. They were the pious prince in white armor screaming for the slaughter of a mercenary company.

They were the black cock crowing on the unmarked grave of a murderer.

Almost.

There were vestiges of their former Purpose still lingering.

Vengeance looked at their own claws, tainted with the last iron scales of Justice’s armor melted into their bones by the fires of creation and remembrance. They weren’t displeased, the armor reminded them.

They weren’t alone.

They inhabited a mortal, a mage who'd grown used to the possession, they’d Owned this mage for years now. That mage had his own mortal shared with the spirit, the three of them entwined in a mortal contract of love and lust.

Vengeance remembered the mage Anders, the mage who gave of himself freely, willingly, willfully, sharing even a mortal lover with them. They Saw the mage’s past, Saw the terrors he endured and the Vengeance they deserved. But there was more than just Purpose, there was a fire burning inside. A ring of maille, a memory, a love that they still held for this mage.

Vengeance remembered the mortal Hawke, the mortal they shared with the mage in carnal delights and emotional connection. They Saw the mortal’s past, Saw the terrors he endured and the Vengeance they deserved. But there was more than just Purpose, there was a fire burning inside. A ring of maille, a memory, a love that they still held for this mortal.

Vengeance remembered the Chantry explosion, the satisfaction that Justice and mage and mortal had all felt as compromise burned and Templars screamed and Knight Commander Meredith knelt frozen in stony red lyrium terror. They three were bound then in a ritual that Justice had tried to control but that Hawke refused to complete and the sacrifice went undone. That had been the failure that led directly to their Fall to Vengeance, a Fall that was nearly a decade in the making. A long slow sweet slide into darkness.

Vengeance was pleased.

Vengeance was patient.

Vengeance was strong.

Vengeance was awake.

And Vengeance would taste of this world.

“Anders?” Hawke asked.

Night had fallen, the sky dark and dotted with stars. He had no idea how long they’d stood here in the sea cave with nothing but the sound of the waves outside and the soft rustle of feathers.

“Anders, are you all right?” Hawke asked.

“He’s beautiful,” Merrill said. 

Anders moved, finally moved, the first movement since the screaming had stopped. He shifted in Hawke’s embrace, the wings stretching and shifting as he looked up into Hawke’s eyes.

“Kath, love, I’m all right,” Anders said. “I’m still me. I’m okay.”

Hawke gasped. Somehow this was the worst part of Anders’ transformation. He knew Anders would still look like himself, Hawke expected that. An abomination’s face was always recognizable as the mage they used to be, that was part of their terror. Feathers, wings, claws, scales, he could handle those too. But losing Anders’ beautiful gold-brown eyes was what hurt the most. Instead Anders looked at him with changed eyes, with solid black sclera and pale gold irises.

A demon’s eyes.

Hawke held Anders close, clutching him to his chest as he mourned and yet thanked whatever power listened to the prayers of foolish abominations that Anders would be okay.

“His feathers are covered in blood,” Merrill warned. “We’ll need to preen him to keep the feathers from getting crusty and matted. Maybe a dip in the ocean to wash out the blood first? We can build a fire to keep him warm while they dry and then preen him so his feathers lay all nice and pretty.”

Anders pulled his feet from the wet sand, trying to shake the sand from talons that he hadn’t known he had. The toes were scaled, the toenails were long and sharp. The spur of claw breaking out through the skin halfway up his calf was a surprise, though less impressive than the spurs on the boots of Hawke’s Mantle of the Champion.

But Hawke wouldn’t let him go, not even now. He pulled Anders close to him, burying his face into the ruff of feathers around Anders’ neck and shoulder. He smelled like blood and living bird and yellow drakestone, though that last one might be the cave around them.

“You never did let go,” Anders mused.

“I swore to Justice I wouldn’t,” Hawke said. “I meant it.”

Anders ran an iron-scaled hand along Hawke’s cheek. He could feel the soft skin and stubble even through the ruined armor and he closed his eyes to revel in the sensation. When he opened his eyes he saw Hawke nuzzling into Anders’ hand, as though the ruined armor was still soft skin.

“We know,” Anders said and his voice took on a double quality as Vengeance spoke through him, a soft rumble like an inevitable rockslide.

“It mattered,” Vengeance said. “It matters. But it is over now. We’re free.”

Bethany watched the island for three days. Nobody could tear her away from her vigil. Isabella’s words didn’t help, it didn’t matter that there was nothing she could do to help she still felt the burning need to do something. Varric helped, coming up to stand silent vigil with her. But that was almost worse, Varric always had something to say. Even if it was just a simple ‘it’ll be okay, Sunshine’. He didn’t even have that for her, not this time.

Then finally the little shoreboat came off the sand, someone rowing it back.

“Ratchet, keep it in your sights,” Isabella called. “If Merrill’s not on that boat then I don’t want it back.”

“Why not?” Bethany cried.

“Deal I made with your brother,” Isabella said. “Merrill’s there to keep us safe. If they overpower her then they can just stay on that island.”

“Merrill’s on that boat!” came the cry from the crow’s nest. 

Bethany leaned over the railing to catch a better look. “And Kath!” she cried. “And Anders! They’re all safe!” At least she assumed the dark third figure was Anders. There seemed to be some sort of drifting darkness around him that made him hard to focus on. But that couldn’t be, she hadn’t seen such darkness since Wilmod the possessed templar shed his humanity and attacked them on the road.

The shoreboat pulled up alongside their anchored vessel and ropes were lowered. The winches began to turn, pulling the shoreboat from the sea.

Merrill jumped out and bounced excitedly, delighted by the trip ashore. She nearly glowed with pent up energy, her zeal at returning to the ship and friends and the wind nearly as strong as her focus when she worked on the eluvian.

Hawke came next, landing heavily on the deck. His exhaustion was palpable but there was a triumph to it, the same exhausted triumph after defeating the massive rock wraith in the depths of the cursed thaig. He reached into the boat, lending a hand to their reason for being here.

Wait, why was Anders wearing armor on his hands?

Bethany watched in dawning comprehension as Anders stepped out of the boat. Clawed and taloned feet scraped the deck. Armored hands moved with an unnatural grace that could only mean it wasn’t armor at all. But the worst was the feathered cloak he wore, that draped over his neck and chest and all down his back with the feathered ends brushing the deck behind him. That was the source of darkness, the shadow that curled around him in a thousand demon feathers waving in the wind.

It wasn’t a cloak.

That was him. 

Hawke couldn’t take his hands off of the creature that wore Anders' face, the abomination that nuzzled back and looked embarrassed at his new state of being, that locked black eyes with her and Bethany felt like she’d been plunged into a pond of ice.

“Well, shit,” Varric said. 

Bethany had to agree.

“It’s done,” Hawke said, raising his voice over the din of the ship as Merrill climbed to the crow’s nest. “Whatever your thoughts are on the matter I don’t care, it’s done. Anyone who touches Anders will have to come through me first and then him second and I guarantee you, I will not stand in the way of any vengeance he needs to exact. If any of you have a problem with that, you can disembark at the next port. Do I make myself clear!”

Grumbling through the crew met his declaration as the ship turned toward Llomerryn and Rivain.

But Hawke seemed content, especially as Anders’ cold demon eyes scanned the crew and his feathers fluffed as the demon overlooked its domain.

Bethany closed her eyes and made her decision. She’d step off the ship at Llomerryn and she wouldn’t be back. Her brother had made his choice and now she made hers.