Chapter Text
One foot in front of the other, that was the entirety of his focus. Everything that he could manage at the moment. It was a dangerous lapse in awareness for a place like Darktown, to be sure, but a necessary one, for Anders just now. He could not think about the blood on his hands, nor the calamity that was tonight’s scene at the Chantry. Could not and did not, by grace of the Maker, or perhaps with the help of Justice. He neither knew nor especially cared, only walking through the bowels of Kirkwall, past greasy cook fires and huddling refugees, Hawke and company at his back. And, despite this long walk from Hightown, none of them spoke nor asked questions of him, and for this, Anders was grateful. For had they done so, had they demanded explanations before he could, at the least, wash his hands, he was not entirely sure he would have made it back to the clinic.
But here they were, now passing between his lanterns, usually aglow with welcoming light to guide the needy to his doorstep, now dark, as was the room beyond the sturdy door to his little sanctum. He paused just inside to light a lamp, then went to the wash basin. Sounds of the others stepping in behind him echoed in the dim little room, but he focused on pouring water. The vessel rattled softly against the basin as a tremor passed through his hand. Despite the feculent nature of the Undercity, the healer always ensured he had fresh, pure water onhand, and was dually grateful for it, now, splashing into the chipped bowl. Finally, he submerged his hands and scrubbed them together, working loose the drying blood from the creases in his hands. Karl’s blood. No. That was not Karl any longer… Anders drew a shaking breath and turned around to face his guests, grabbing a rag to dry his hands.
Hawke stepped forward, his broad frame seeming to fill the little room as he jerked his bearded chin at the apostate. “So, let me guess,” he drawled darkly, “This when you tell me you’re an abomination?"
"You’re wrong.” Anders answered wearily, tossing the rag aside and rubbing at his eyes with finger and thumb. “But not far wrong. I…” He hesitated a moment, dropping his hand and peering at the others. “This is hard to explain.” He took a deep breath and tried his best to do just that. “When I was in Amaranthine, I met a spirit of Justice who was trapped outside the Fade. We became friends. And he recognized the injustice that mages in Thedas face every day.”
Hawke appeared utterly dissatisfied, with his folded arms and narrowed eyes. “So, I wasn’t so far off with that ‘abomination’ thing?"
Anders shook his head slowly, lowering his eyes for a moment. "To live outside the Fade, he needed a host. I offered to help him… We were going to work together,” he lifted his eyes to Hawke’s own, willing the man to understand, “bring justice to every child ever ripped away from his mother to be sent to the Circle. But…” His brow furrowed and he glanced away again, feeling an unpleasant shadow of sorrow stirring. “I guess I had too much anger. Once he was inside me, he… changed.”
“That didn’t look like a happy, benevolent spirit from where I was standing,” Hawke challenged, his chisled features set in stony lines. Maker’s Breath, but the man was fairly bristling. Anders wondered if Hawke hadn’t already counted him a lost cause.
“The templars will think the same,” Hawke’s brother, Carver, added. “We’re friends with a monster.” Friends…Well that was something at least, wasn’t it just? But - monster?
“Since when is justice happy?” Anders asked of them, voice hardening with the frustration rising within. “Justice is righteous. Justice is hard.” His tone softened then as he felt that sadness inside him stir again. “But my anger… when I see templars now, things that have always outraged me, but I could never do anything about… He comes out. And he is no longer my friend Justice.” He grimaced a bit, the telling bitter as the sorrow inside. “He is a force of vengeance. And he has no grasp of mercy.”
Hawke raised a hand, forstalling any further discussion. “I just need your Grey Warden expertise, not a diatribe on your strange personal habits.”
Anders winced, and pulled a packet from his coat pocket. “Here. These are all the documents I have for this area.” He handed them over, adding, “I can understand if you would rather me not join you personally. I cannot control my need for vengeance. I would ask no one to take on the danger of traveling with me.”
Hawke glanced at the packet in hand, then nodded once, turning away. The others began to file out the door, before him.
“I will be here in my clinic if you need me,” Anders said softly to the man’s back, disappointment and loneliness joining the sorrow inside him. So much for friends.
Hawke paused, for just a moment, glancing over a shoulder at him. Their eyes met for perhaps a trio of heartbeats, and then he left, closing the door behind himself.
Alone, Anders felt his face crumple as the tide of emotions Justice had held at bay came crashing in upon him. He turned to drop unceremoniously onto his cot, burying his head in his hands. It was going to be another long night.