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Hawke knows she shouldn’t help him. She doesn’t know exactly what Anders is planning, but she knows it’s nothing good. But there is a distance growing between them, and sometimes she is selfish. She leaves the clinic angry--hurt that he won’t confide in her, insulted that he questions her loyalty and morals--but she’s agreed to do as he asks.
She thinks maybe, somehow, this will help stop the chasm forming between them.
She watches him, after that night in the Chantry. He gives her no sign of what might come next, and he withdraws even further. Her pride makes her think this of her own creation, but the knot of dread lodged in her stomach tells her otherwise.
She is watching, irritated, as Orsino and the Knight-Commander argue circles around each other when Anders steps forward. And she knows before he speaks that this is it, this is what she’s been waiting for; he is heading down a twisted path, and she can no longer follow.
Though she knew it would be bad--though she’s spent days in nervous anixety, waiting for the other shoe to drop--nothing could have prepared her for the moment when the Chantry falls, for the look of relief in Anders’ eyes when the sky opens up and changes everything.
She doesn’t kill him, though a part of her wants to, and she’s not sure which would be worse: the guilt of taking his life, or the guilt she feels now, as he follows behind her, for letting him live.
At the Gallows, they have a moment to stop, to breathe. Orsino disappears to speak with his mages, and her guilt flares again--unwitting or not, she helped make this happen.
Anders is sitting alone in the corner, a wide radius of empty space around him; no one wants to get too close to the Rebel Mage; the abomination; the man they thought they knew but didn’t know at all. He looks up as Hawke approaches, stands to meet her. For a moment they just stare at each other, apologies and questions and accusations in their eyes, and then Hawke asks, her voice breaking, “What the hell, Anders?”
He frowns, his mouth a hard line. He starts, “I think I’ve made myself perfectly cle--”
“No,” she says, cutting him off, her anger bubbling to the surface. “There remain quite a few points I find myself rather unclear on. At the top of my list would have to be: What the hell were you thinking?”
“You know very well--”
“No, tell me. Tell me what on the Maker’s green earth made you think that any good could come of this. People are going to die, Anders; good people have died. And for what? What is it that you think this will accomplish? Do you really think, when all this is over, that it will end well for anyone?”
“Anything is better than what was,” he says, his voice rising with his temper. Across the room, their companions cast worried eyes in their direction. “I know it must be hard for you to understand, having never been persecuted simply because you exist.”
She ignores the jab, as otherwise she might punch him right in the face. She spits, “And who are you to decide that? Do you think all the mages of Thedas are so desperate for the Circle’s fall, do you think none of them live lives of contentment and fullfilment?”
“Does it matter? Is the complacence--the indifference--of one worth more than the subjugation of another?”
“Do you think my sister wants this?” she hisses. “Merrill? Do you care about anyone other than yourself?”
She can see it, the moment before Justice steps in. Anders’ posture changes--tenses--and then the familiar blue glow cracks and breaks his skin. Merrill looks nervously over to Varric, who lifts Bianca off his back. He doesn’t know if Anders still has the vulnerable body of a man when Justice takes over, but he’ll find out, if he has to.
The air crackles with electricity around him, but still, the voice that answers is Anders’: “I have given my life for this cause.”
“And you have made that sacrifice worthless,” she says, trembling with a rage that roots in her heart and spirals out, tainting every part of her. “Whatever good you have accomplished, you have undone it all. It will take decades--centuries--to heal the wounds you have opened today.”
“So be it,” he says, and he isn’t Anders at all
“This is not what Anders would want,” she says, speaking directly to Justice. “The situation is bad in Kirkwall, we’re all in agreement on that, but things are not so dire outside the city. There was still room for debate, for reason. The man I knew was not so short-sighted that he would plunge a continent into war when peaceful alternatives still existed.”
“If you ever knew him at all,” Justice answers, and that is too much for her. Something snaps inside of her, and she leaps at him with a growl. Distantly, she hears Merrill cry out.
In the second before their bodies collide, Anders steels himself, fights the internal battle he has grown so weary of, and in an instant, Justice is gone--or buried, at least. The luminous tendrils recede all at once, and by the time they hit the ground, he is Anders again. And when her fist connects with his face, shattering the delicate bones of his nose, he doesn’t resist her.
Varric wraps a hand around Merrill’s wrist when she moves to run toward them, holding her still.
“We have to stop them,” she says, incredulous, trying to tug herself free of his grasp.
“Let them work it out, Daisy,” he says, a sadness creeping into his even voice. “This might be the only chance they get.”
And so no one inteferes as Hawke pummels Anders’ face, his chest, leaving him a bloody, broken mess. When she can barely see him through her tears, her punches slow, and she collapses forward, her forehead meeting his.
“Why did you have to do this?” she breathes, her throat raw.
He doesn’t answer, just very gently takes her hands in his and heals the torn skin, the bruised flesh. His magic flows into her, soothing and warm. He is careful, taking his time, and only when she’s fully healed does he move on to himself. Straddled across his hips, she moves back just enough to give him room, still close enough that she can feel his ragged breath on her lips.
“Why?” she asks again, her voice low and close. “I would have done anything.”
“No, you wouldn’t have; you couldn’t have.”
She leans in again, closing her eyes as she presses her forehead once more against his. His skin is warm and smooth. “Why didn’t you let me stop you?”
“It had to be done, Sam,” he says quietly. No one calls her that anymore, not even her sister--only him. “If I thought there was another way...” He shakes his head, and she moves away. “If there is, I can’t see it. I did what I thought was right, and I would do it again. That’s not Justice talking, that’s me, Anders.”
“This won’t end the way you want it to.”
“Maybe not, but how could I live with myself if I never even tried?””
How can he live with himself knowing what he’s begun, knowing how many lives will be lost, cities raized because of what he started? How can he say that when she can see no way for this to end in peace? The world is about to come crashing down around them--should they live so long--and he would do it again.
“I’m sorry,” she says, moving to her feet. Anders follows, confused and uncertain.
“Sorry for what?”
She shrugs, helpless, and shakes her head. She lets herself think that she might have had the power to stop this, stop him, because the truth is too painful to bear.
“Everything, I suppose.”
He’s about to say something more, but she doesn’t let him, turning on her heels and stalking across the stone floor. Their companions immediately find something else to occupy their attention, averting their eyes as though they weren’t watching the whole thing. Everyone except Merrill, staring at Hawke with a look on her face that the rogue doesn’t care to decipher.
The elf moves forward as Hawke grows nearer, intercepting her before she reaches the others. She frowns, looking up into the taller woman’s eyes, and lays a delicate hand on Hawke’s cheek.
“Are you alright, emma vhenan?”
“Not even remotely. How about you?”
“No, not particularlly.” She hesitates a moment, then asks, “Do you want me to kill him?”
Hawke laughs, wrapping her arms around Merrill and burying her face in the elf’s short, dark hair. “No, not just yet. Though I appreciate the offer.”
“Oh good; I don’t especially want to, but I would, if it would make you feel better.”
And then the Templars are at their door, and there is no more time for the luxury of anger.