Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a mistake, a careless mistake on his part. Anders always figured he would leave the world in some final act against templars or in the heat of battle during one of the many outings that Hawke continuously dragged him to. Not wheezing and gasping for air on the floor of his clinic in Darktown, his organs feeling shriveled and crumbly from a nick of a poisoned blade when a bandit got too close before Anders managed to cast Cone of Cold and shatter his would-be-killer into pieces.

It must have been a slow acting poison, designed more for assassinations than actual battle; slow to get the job done, but highly potent. And if he was able to move from his fevered haze of pain and lack of oxygen, Anders would have attempted to mix an antidote by now.

YOU ARE DYING

And there was his other half, stating the obvious as he always did. Anders would have said that out loud had he breath to do so. But he was sure Justice understood the scrambled thoughts Anders pushed at him.

YOU CANNOT MOVE LIKE THIS. HOW DO I HELP YOU?

His breaths were too shallow for hysteria, no air going in and out of his lungs making it impossible to scream in frustration at the helplessness he felt, that Justice felt.

He was going to die. He was going to die without even accomplishing anything. All that he had sacrificed, all that he had given up for this mad crusade was going to end with him dying like a fish without water. Anders had corrupted Justice with his anger and his hate, one of his friends for this, and now they had nothing to show for it.

The templars would surely have a laugh about this.

I WILL NOT LET YOU DIE.

Anders tried to send reassurances to the spirit, false feelings of contentment, of peace with the situation. For Justice would live, hopefully. He could leave Anders’ body and reenter the Fade, something the spirit longed for. He wouldn’t need Anders corrupting him, hurting him, ruining him, any longer. Justice could be free, free like Anders never could.

Any small bit of air that Anders could find was lost, trachea swollen to obstruct all airflow. Heartbeats fluttered, the diminishing beats the only sound echoing throughout his head. His sight dimmed, graying around the edges, all of his limbs stuck to the ground as if his body was covered completely by those blighted spider webs. Muted yells were a background noise as Anders lost all feeling and the world shattered around him into silence and darkness.

His eyes felt heavy and impossible to open; grit caked in the corners and his chest felt impossibly heavy. Air rushed down his parched throat in fitful bursts as Anders coughed and sputtered, his lungs taking in desperate heavy gasps. He lay on his back, the dirt from the floor rubbing into his neck and hair. It took him four tries to heave himself up to his feet, but he did it; his balance precariously tippy and legs wobbled as if made from thick goo. Anders staggered over to his worktable, potion bottles and pages of his and Justice’s manifesto scattered on all corners, his fingers gripping the edges hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

Everything was too silent. It had not been this quiet in years. He could no longer hear the faint scratching deep in his mind from close by darkspawn Anders had sensed since coming to Kirkwall. And Justice… the place where he could always find Justice was terrifyingly silent. The constant presence Anders had become accustomed to in the past four years was gone, a sudden empty hole in his head and Anders’ chest started to heave as the beginning stages of panic started to envelope him.

“Justice?” Afraid to speak louder than a whisper, Anders waited for the spirit to respond. To say anything in that disapproving voice of his, to send his feelings of annoyance at Anders lack of productivity for wasting time sleeping on the floor, for anything. The spirit had been there for him always for the past four years; a constant fixture, embedded deep within Anders that nothing short of death could separate the two, despite their disagreements about certain topics.

“Justice?” His voice louder, trembling, slowly fraying at the edges from the panic at not hearing the Fade spirit anywhere.

“Justice?!” Maybe it was the last remaining dregs of the poison that Anders could no longer feel swimming around his blood, maybe it was simply an inability to handle the sudden silence of his friend, or maybe it was Anders once again giving into his panic; air came in short bursts as a strange keening shriek left his lips, fingers clenched his hair tightly, and his kneecaps felt bruised as they hit against the ground.

He hadn’t moved when Hawke came sauntering in, daggers twirling in her hands so quickly, to anyone watching they would have been nothing more than a blur.

“Anders!” The usual singsong greeting, something that usually caused Anders to perk up despite the mutual annoyance the two held for one another, did nothing to change Anders’ position, except to let out a low whine.

“Anders?” Hawke peered over the desk, tucking the daggers back into their sheaths. “Well, you’ve certainly looked better.” Hawke vaulted over the desk, sending loose papers carelessly flying off to land on the floor. There was barely a sound as Hawke landed on the balls of her boots, knees bent automatically to reduce any chance of noise. She squatted in front of the mage, poking Anders’ shoulder in a typical Hawke fashion gesture of comfort.

“You of all people know how terrible I am at comforting, Anders.” Hawke muttered. “That’s one of Merrill’s perks. And yours when you’re not gripping about blood mages, Merrill, templars, Fenris, or how idiotic I am.” A hitch of breath was Anders only reply.

“No, no. Please don’t start crying. I can’t handle crying.” Hawke was absolutely lost when it came to people crying. Even as a child when one of her siblings burst into tears, Hawke’s philosophy was to punch it better. Which might explain why it worked better on Bethany than Carver; her sister would usually stop with the waterworks while her twin would simply cry harder.

Somehow, Hawke didn’t think punching Anders would help.

“Okay, no tears yet. You can do this, Hawke.” The rogue nervously placed her hands on Anders’ shoulders; fingers digging into highly prominent collar bones. “Um, hopefully these go here. Or maybe it’s on the face?” Hawke moved her palms to rest against the mage’s cheekbones, squishing his face. “I am so terrible at this.” She muttered.

A sharp exhale of air had Hawke pressing harder.

“H-Hawke?” The rogue didn’t think she had ever heard the mage’s voice sound that vulnerable before. Hawke hated hearing it.

“Yeah, it’s me Anders.” Note to Bodahn, face squishing is a highly effective tool to help emotional people. “I know this is probably a stupid question, but are you alright?”

Anders’ face scrunched up, and Hawke could feel his entire body start to tremble. “Don’t cry please, I’m sorry I asked that question. I said it was stupid!” In a panic to get those tears she saw gathering at the corner of Anders’ eyes to do something other than fall down, Hawke squeezed his cheeks even harder, his face now looking like some sort of puffed fish. “You don’t need to answer that question, Anders. Forget I even asked, just please don’t cry!”

“Hawke? Did you manage to make Blondie cry with your attitude again?”

“Varric!” Hawke craned her neck to the entrance of Ander’s clinic where her favorite crossbow-wielding dwarf lounged impressively against the door. “How do I get Anders to stop crying – he’s started actually crying, Oh Maker – I don’t know what to do, Varric!”

“Well first off Hawke, drop your hands.” Varric shouldered the strap that held Bianca to his back and walked over to the two crouched figures, Hawke immediately letting her arms dangle to her side. “Second, scoot over. Everyone in Kirkwall knows that comforting people just isn’t your thing.” Varric sat down on the floor, his shoulders pressing against the top of Anders’ chest. With one hand, Varric pulled Anders down, guiding the mage’s head to rest in the crook of his shoulder.

“There, there, Blondie.” Varric patted the back of Anders’ head, as hot tears landed on his skin. “Everyone deserves a nice good cry sometimes. And when you’re ready, you just tell me all about what’s been eating at you.”

Hawke shifted uneasily. “Should I go? You seem to have things well in hand, Varric.”

“Nah, sit and learn. Maybe next time you can even console someone.” Varric watched as Hawke tucked her knees up to her chin, arms wrapped around her legs.

“Justice…Justice is gone.” Anders whispered into Varric’s shoulder. “He saved my life, and – and I don’t know why, but now he’s gone. Maker, it feels so empty.” Anders pushed himself up, face splotchy and eyes red-rimmed.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Hawke switched positions, stretching one leg out. “Justice was becoming too much to handle anyways – wait what do you mean, saved your life?” Anders and she may never have gotten along very well, his opinionated nature causing her more than a few moments of frustration and annoyance, but damnit he was her healer. No one got to touch her healer without her explicit say so.  

Anders was silent as he wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Varric. I didn’t mean to ruin your shirt.” He said after a few long seconds. “I’ll go ahead and get you some sort of cloth to wipe-“

“Blondie, sit your ass back down here. The shirt is only there to frame the chest hair; it can wait. I want to know what you just said.” Varric glared at Anders until the mage slowly moved downwards, sitting across from Varric and Hawke.

“It…its really nothing.” Anders stared at the ground. “One of the blades from that mercenary group a few days ago nicked me and was coated in poison. I just didn’t realize it until I could no longer move. Instead of me dying from a slow and painful death, Justice – Justice died instead and took the taint with him. So I guess I’m no longer a Warden along with an abomination, just regular old apostate healer in the sewers of Kirkwall.” He gave them a shaky grin. “It’s like you said; I was loosing control of Justice anyways. It’s better this way.”

Hawke rolled onto her feet, a smile growing on her face. “It’s a good thing you’re still here, Anders. I wouldn’t know what to do without my favorite healer being available. I’m going to check with Isabela about that poison; if more bandits are using it, we’re going to have to think of a countermeasure.” She bounced to the door of the clinic, with a wave.

Varric sighed. “One of these days, I’m going to have to tell Hawke that it isn’t only her who knows how to spin a lie. Blondie, don’t think you managed to pull the wool over my eyes with all that nug shit of you being fine. I can’t claim to understand this whole possession nonsense, but you clearly aren’t all right with Justice, Vengeance, whoever your Fade passenger was, being gone. Anytime you want to talk, you know where my door is.”

“I’m fine, Varric.” His lips hurt being stretched out. “I can still get you that cloth, if you need it.”

“Nah.” Varric flapped a hand. “You’re a quiet one, Blondie. A little water never hurt a piece of silk for very long.” The dwarf strode off, with one last glance at Anders.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Anders let the terrible façade of a smile fall from his face and buried his face into his hands. No Justice, no more sensing Darkspawn with the Taint as unwelcome as it had been. But they had been a link to the Wardens, a link to the little family Anders found in the Order of the Grey for a short time, until they were all scattered.

“I’m fine, I am fine. I am fine.” Anders mumbled into his hands. Maybe if he repeated that often enough, he could manage to convince himself.

Chapter Text

Whoever the idiot was that claimed time healed all wounds knew absolutely nothing about healing. It had been months since the loss of Justice, since Anders found himself alone in his own mind, a large gaping hole all that was left of his friend. Because no matter how hard Justice pushed Anders, how violent they had become in some encounters, how less humane they had become, Anders could never consider Justice as anything but a friend. The Fade spirit had listened to him at the Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine, had saved him when Rolan reared his ugly Templar sword at Anders. And Anders not only corrupted the spirit, but got him killed as well.

He had always been terrible at maintaining friendships.

It had been weeks since Anders had last seen anyone who wasn’t a patient. The mages of the Mage Underground had all but completely been obliterated; Meredith’s foot soldiers had managed to kill enough of the cogs in the wheel that the rest of the Underground simply disappeared, most vanishing out of Kirkwall in the dead of night.

There was simply no way to get any of the mages out of the tower anymore. He had failed.

Perhaps if it had been Justice here instead of Anders, there would have been more progress.

Perhaps if it had been Justice instead of Anders, all the mages would have been free in Thedas by now. But no, it was just Anders. Failure Anders who was only good for running and getting caught by Templars. Who was only good for being stuck in cold, dark cells for months and months and months, his voice all but gone from screaming for days on end, nails scratched down to the bits from trying to climb the smooth walls to get away from the never ending darkness in the cramped space.

If it were Justice perhaps he wouldn’t have driven away all of those he considered companions with harsh words and insults.

It was for the best. He tells himself, not for the first time. None of them deserved to have to deal with him and his issues and inadequacies. Not even the preachy choirboy.

No one should be unfortunate enough to associate with him.

Eyes sought out a blue bottle on one of his top shelves, unlabeled and tucked out of the way from prying eyes. The refugees of Darktown were all mostly on their feet by now, Hawke taking over the Bone Pit lowering the high amount of patients Anders would need to treat. The chokedamp hadn’t been seen in a year; any other injuries or illnesses could be treated with the right herbs.

So what was Anders still doing in Kirkwall? He wasn’t needed, barely wanted, an utter walking catastrophe, and according to the Chantry, not tolerated anywhere besides the Circles. Hawke never visited, never needed his services. To anyone else in that little group of followers that Hawke gathered, it was like Anders never existed.

But it’s not like I go visit any of them. A weak stray thought that was immediately battered away. He was busy as a healer, he couldn’t go walk up to Lowtown or Hightown and just sit down for tea and biscuits.

Except he wasn’t. When Justice was with him, the clinic would be busy all times of the day; any free time was used to write the pointless manifesto that Anders knew no one ever bothered to read. If it were Justice still here instead of Anders, perhaps people would pay more attention to his arguments for mage rights. But it was only Anders and he could do nothing right.

Why was he still here?  

Before he could stop and think about his actions, the blue bottle was clenched tightly in his hands, the stopper already pulled halfway off. Anders paused to glance at the bottle, teeth grinding into his bottom lip. It – it would be terribly rude to not leave a letter. A farewell or explanation or something; one last message from the opinionated mage. If nothing else, then something for Lirene, the Fereldan refugee helper, who had helped him so much when he first got to Kirkwall. She deserved to know why he couldn’t keep helping the refugees any longer.  

One folded letter on his desk, the stopper was completely off the bottle of concentrated deathroot. Anders gazed into the contents for a few moments before swinging it up to his lips and downing everything in the bottle. The crushed deathroot left a bitter taste on his tongue, the poisonous weed dry and brittle.

Anders didn’t know how long it would take for the poison to start affecting him; compared to the concoction that Justice sacrificed himself for, it would most definitely be faster, and perhaps not as painful.

Because was else could be more just than ending his life the same way that his friend died saving him? Poetic justice that’s what it was.

The moments before his muscles started seizing were some of the longest Anders had experienced; time seemed to stop, even the rat in the corner seemed to be moving backwards. Then it passed and all Anders felt was relief as the ground came up to meet him.

Maybe I’ll see you soon, Justice. And you can glare at me for how useless I was in the end.

Blinking his eyes open was not an act Anders expected to partake in ever again. Neither was feeling his chest move from inhaling the familiar musty old smell of Hawke’s mansion.

Of course he had failed in trying to die; Anders couldn’t do anything right anymore. Not even spare the rest of Thedas from his uselessness.

“Well it seems the mage has finally decided to stop living in his own head and join the rest of us again.” Anders didn’t bother reacting to the familiar voice; he had heard Fenris’ gravely tone directed at him with ire often enough. He could hear the elf shifting, something metallic catching on the wooden floors of one of the guest rooms in Hawke’s home.

Probably the stupidly giant sword of his. Anders stared up into the canopy of the bed; maybe if he looked hard enough he could lose himself in there and never find his way back out.

“Bah! And now the mage doesn’t even speak. Apparently trying to end your life finally solved your wagging tongue problem.” Soft thuds indicated that the elf was moving, but Anders didn’t realize that Fenris was moving towards the bed until lyrium tattooed fists curled into shoulders and pulled him upwards. Without the support of the mattress underneath him, Anders rolled around, his neck far too tired to hold it up.

“You are pathetic, mage.” The warrior elf growled. “The second you loose your demon, you are too weak to keep deathroot poison off your lips! I thought you weak before when you decided you become an abomination, but now I see you for weak you truly are!” Anders started laughing.

“Fenris!” Heeled boots tapped towards the bed. Fenris let his grip on Anders go, and he fell back onto the pillows beneath him. “Sweetcheeks, I know you were worried about your resident healer, but shaking him until he breaks isn’t going help anyone.” Isabela peered over the bed and into Anders’ view, the giggles tapering off.

“Th-that’s hilarious.” Anders wheezed out. “I’m weak for letting a spirit into my body, but without Justice, I’m weak for trying to off myself. Say nothing of the fact that letting Justice merge with me is what saved my life before I decided to come to this cesspool of misery.” Anders forced him to sit up, leaning against the headboard of the bed, glaring at where Fenris stood, a few steps away.

“Fenris, why don’t you go tell Varric and Hawke, he’s finally woken up and I’m dealing with him?” Isabela sat on the side of the bed.

“No, let the mage-hating elf stay! Let him finally rip my heart out of my chest and display it for all to see, like I’m sure he’s been wanting to for all these years!”

“Anders, stop that.” Isabela swatted at his nose. “Don’t think I don’t recognize what’s you are trying to do. You’ve done enough goading and pushing people away these past few weeks, and getting Fenris enraged enough so you can use him to kill you isn’t going to work. So stop.”

Whatever hysteria Anders had managed to find when Fenris spoke crumbled at Isabela’s words. “Why? Why are you stopping me? Why did you not just leave me on the floor of that ridiculous clinic?”

Fenris had gathered up his two-handed sword and had headed towards the door, hesitating leaving the room. Isabela gestured for him to leave, one hand pointing to the door, while the other had wrapped around Anders. “I – I do not understand why the mage wanted to anger me into killing him.”

“I’ll explain it to you later, Fen-Fen. Go on now, I’ll be perfectly fine.” Isabela gave a grin to the elf, who stared at the pirate for a good ten seconds before leaving and closing the door gently behind him. There was no exasperated sigh from Isabela, just her sitting with one arm around his shoulders, her fingers carding a path through his hair.

“Your clinic isn’t ridiculous, Anders.” Isabela said softly after a minute of silence. “You know, you’ve done so much for the Darktown residents that they all panicked seeing you sprawled out on the floor like that, bottle still in your hand? One of refugees saw your note to Lirene and called her down and she sent a runner to Hawke’s place for help.”

“But why? I haven’t done anything worth –“

“You stop that sentence right there.” Isabela placed a finger over his lips, looking uncharacteristically serious. “You are a healer and a mage to be reckoned with in a fight. You stay awake for days at a time treating your patients.”

“But that was all Justice; if he hadn’t been with me I would have probably never stopped here, never stayed here after Karl. I would have never done any of the things I did without Justice to encourage me.” Isabela snorted.

“I sure as hell didn’t see Justice healing anyone or talking to someone for three hours to calm them down after an accident. Never saw him heal us all after every single scrimmage even though we are all pretentious mabari dung to you for the last couple of years and probably didn’t deserve it.”

Anders’ eyes were wide. “No, no I was the asshole. I kept insulting all of you these past few weeks; I even managed to make Merrill cry.”

“Yes you did.” Isabela nodded. “And if you ever do that again, I’ll knife you straight in your kneecap. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that we acted like you were some repulsive rat on the deck most of the time.”

“No, I –“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop talking? I’m not done.” Isabela swatted him again. “Look, I should have recognized the signs that you were heading down this path, especially after the loss of your blue friend. I did recognize the signs, and I did nothing because I am the sea’s biggest idiot when it comes to helping my friends. Instead of telling anyone, I ignored it until it got to the point where I had to listen to this stuttering child in Hawke’s home tell me that Lirene needed help keeping you alive because you swallowed something from a bottle. And then I had to spend hours with that lady, both of us forcing you to vomit everything you digested, as she accused me of being a terrible friend. And Maker-damnit, now I’m crying all over again!”

“You were doing a bit more than that last time I caught water leaking from your eyes, Rivaini.” Quiet as ever, Varric had managed to open the door to the room without the two occupants noticing, Merrill and Hawke hovering anxiously right behind the dwarf. White hair and lines of lyrium could be seen pacing back and forth in the hallway.

“Sorry that forcing my fingers into someone’s mouth over and over for them to spew lunch out instead of doing it for some fun experiences at the Rose horrifies me just a bit!” Isabela glared at Varric, who held up his hands in surrender, as Merrill darted forward to the bed, Hawke tiptoeing a few steps behind.

“Whoa there, Rivaini. Just thought I’d make sure the right details were told to our apostate healer.”

“Oh is that what you’re doing?” Isabela bounded up off the bed to argue with Varric on the fine mechanics of detail sharing.

The once Dalish elf wrapped her arms around Anders shoulders, jumping up on the recently vacated bed for a better grip.

“Ir abelas, Anders.” Merrill whispered in his ears. “I am sorry you felt the need to do such a thing, that I wasn’t there to help.”

Anders shook his head. If he weren’t trapped between the headboard of the bed and Merrill, he would have pulled away. “Why are you apologizing? You haven’t done anything wrong. I should be asking for your forgiveness from the way I’ve been treating you. Maker, I’ve been nothing but horrible.”

“Hush, what’s a few words between friends? They were nothing I haven’t heard before. And I would be so sad if you were to leave forever, no one else comes over to play with the kittens with me.”

A large lump in his throat made it difficult to speak without a waver in his tone. “Friends?” he choked out. He hadn’t dared…he’d never dreamed… Past experiences made it positively clear that Anders having any sort of happy relationship with anyone would end in tragedy. Karl, Nate, Sigrun, Oghren, Velanna, the Warden Commander, Justice. They were all signs that Anders couldn’t be selfish, couldn’t succumb to the desire of having companions – not without something happening.

If Justice were still here, he would have frowned at Merrill calling them friends; at anyone calling them a friend. Friendship was a distraction; it was dangerous. And for all of Justice being corrupted into Vengeance, turning into the very demon he claimed to never be, the Fade Spirit had continued to be fiercely protective of Anders in his own way.

Justice had loved Anders the only way he could and Anders had loved him as a friend. But now there was a Justice-shaped hole in Anders’ mind that would never be filled.

“Of course we’re friends, Anders.” Hawke had stepped lightly up to the bed, standing right next to his face. “Only friends continuously hang out with me to gut poisonous spiders on a weekly basis.”

“And loose all their coin on Wicked Grace nights to me!” Isabela chimed in from the floor, Varric squatting next to her as some sort of bag passed between them.

“Don’t think you’ll be leaving anytime soon, by the way.” Hawke prodded at his arm. “You scared the shit out of Bela and maybe me as well and clearly giving you some space didn’t help anything.”

“So you’re going to be staying right here in this stupidly large mansion with me, Bela, Bodahn, and Sandal. And no, you can’t say anything at all. Also no going to your clinic for at least two days; I have strict orders from Lirene to drown you with tea and hugs or else. That woman is frightening.”

Anders couldn’t help but smile through the sniffles. That hole would be there forever. But maybe he had found something else to hold on to in Kirkwall. Maybe he could find some sort of reason to stay with Hawke and the rest of her –of their- companions.