Author's Notes: Alright, I'm nervous about posting this. This is the first Dragon Age story I've ever finished writing (I wrote it all this morning, though) and I'm not sure if it isn't something completely hashed and overdone. In fact, I'm not sure the point I meant to make was made. Ugh. Is there a point beyond "Contort hates Justice, hated him even before he merged with Anders?"
I blame my new obsession with Anders on karebear and MsBarrows' stories. I thought I was only a Zevran junkie, not an Anders fan. They angsted me into submission and forced me to admit my adoration for tormented men with a sense of humor. What, will it be Fenris next?
The moon rose up beyond the Amaranthine hills as round and pale as a saucer of milk. The mage on the rooftop stared up at it with unfocused eyes as his hands stroked incessantly over the soft fur of the kitten in his lap. He knew, intellectually, that he should go back down and at least put a token effort towards sleeping, but between the new Warden nightmares and his own night terrors, he knew he had a slim chance of actually finding any rest.
He started and drew his magic instantly as he heard the door to the keep's rooftop creak open. The air around him warmed as he gathered the energy and cold into his hands to cast an ice spell at the first person to exit the doorway.
"Anders, it's just me."
He dispersed the spell and relaxed fractionally as the rogue slid out of the shadows – letting me see her, he realized – one hand resting cautiously on the short dagger strapped to her thigh. She approached slowly, not smiling, but at least not scowling.
"Commander," he said respectfully.
The elf woman snorted indelicately. "I've just got all the darkspawn blood out of my fingernails, and I don't have any more idiotic nobles pestering me; I'm officially off-duty for the night, so just Risa's fine. Commander's a bit of a mouthful." She sat down next to him on the slightly sloped tiles with all the caution and grace of a cat, but sat far enough away as to respect both of their unspoken physical boundaries. She stared out over the Arling, never looking directly at the mage.
Anders frowned. "I thought you didn't like being called that. Everyone here calls you commander – even Oghren."
Risa smiled, huffing out a laugh through her incongruously hooked nose. "Everyone seems to do that. I've been 'the Warden' for long enough. And Oghren's military; I'll always be his commander before his friend. You, however, don't seem to like authority that much."
Anders averted his eyes, staring instead at the sleeping kitten in his lap. "No, it's not my strongest suit. Anyway, what are you doing up here, Risa?" He deliberately threw her name in there, testing it out.
"I could ask the same of you." She waited for a moment, but when no reply came, she sighed. "I don't sleep well, most of the time, and I misplaced my dream catcher on the way here."
"Dream catcher?" He raised his brows at here, but she was still staring at the moon.
"Stolen by Crows," she explained before laughing softly. "An old joke, I'm sorry. I was supposed to have an extra pair of blades, but he was detained on the way. Once this business is over, I'll need to collect him from Antiva. Until then, I suppose I'll have to live without proper rest." She hummed thoughtfully into the quiet. "It's not just the Warden nightmares, is it?"
Anders sighed, not particularly surprised that she'd guessed. The woman was sharp and very persuasive. "No, it's not."
She curled her legs up, wrapping her arms around them. "Does it have something to do with what Oghren said today about big scary templars and swords?"
Anders stiffened and stayed silent. He wanted to deny it, to redirect, but Risa could smell lies a mile away. So he said nothing, letting the silence fill in the meanings. He was about to speak, finally, when the woman started talking.
"The Wardens always have to most interesting histories. Did you know, before I became the Hero of Ferelden, I was a pickpocket in Denerim?" She laughed with only a touch of mirth. "I got pretty good at it, too. I'm not sure if that was what my mother wanted me to do with the sneaking and fighting lessons she gave me on the sly, but after she was killed, someone had to bring in money for the family. I wasn't going to court disaster and become a house servant in some noble pervert's house.
"I got cocky, though, and started going after bigger fish. One day, the guard caught me with my hand in some rich man's purse. Not much I could say in my defense. Not that they would have let me anyway. Shem guards don't listen to dirty knife ears. They locked me up in Fort Drakon for a week before someone decided that a first time offense wasn't that bad. Still, the damage was done. You can imagine what happens to pretty elf girls in places like that."
She sighed, stretching out to lounge on her back. "After that, I started noticing – really noticing – how bad the whole cursed city was. The poverty, the constant scorn, the way anyone with any standing could abuse us and get away with it. When people are completely helpless, that's when the monsters come out. You know that."
Anders swallowed uncomfortably. "What are you trying to say?" His voice was a whisper.
"I'm just telling a story. You'll have to listen til the end to get the lesson." Risa flashed him a quick smile. "Anyway, I changed after Drakon. That's when I cropped my hair and found some Dalish immigrant to give me this tattoo." She traced the curves over her right eye and left cheek. "My own vallaslin, or so I thought of it. I wanted to hurt people, to make them suffer for what my people and I were suffering. Then my father arranged for me to get married and I thought that maybe this was my chance to have a little happiness. Maybe, if it had worked out, I'd have been content raising his children and helping my neighbors as much as I could. Things don't always work out, though."
Risa sighed, fumbling into her breeches pocket and pulling out a plain gold ring. "I didn't meet him until my wedding day, but he – Nelaros – he seemed like a good man, a decent one. He didn't even care about my tattoos or the hatred inside of me. He made this ring for me out of gilding scraps, see?" She handed it over to Anders and he began turning it about in his fingers. Her tone darkened "Then that shem came and took me and the other women to his estate. He killed a friend of mine and raped my favorite cousin. Soris and I cut through his guards, but they'd already killed Nelaros right in front of me. I slaughtered them all and saved that bastard Vaughn for last.
"It felt good, and Duncan recruited me into the Wardens, saving me from execution. I only found out later that because of me, they purged the alienage. Many of my friends and relations were killed because I'd been so stupid and murdered that noble's son."
Risa sat up and finally looked Anders in the eye. "I know that that damned spirit, Justice, has been talking to you, feeding your anger. I know the templars have hurt you, hurt people like you because they have power over you, but I'm telling you to let it go."
"Let it go? What are you saying? How can you be so hypocritical as to take revenge yourself and then tell me not to go through with mine?" Anders felt his magic crackling through his fingers and reined it in.
"I haven't finished my story." Risa drew he dagger and ran her thumb along the length absently, staring at the sharp edge. "I've done terrible things to end the Blight, Anders. I've killed people, slaughtered several nobles, made Alistair do things I can only pray that he'll forgive me for. Yet for all that, the end justified the means, as it were. The elves, though, could have been destroyed by my own private vengeance."
Faster than Anders could follow, she stabbed her blade into the hem of his robes, pinning him and startling his cat awake.
Risa leaned in and looked him earnestly in the eyes. "You have to make a choice, Anders. You have a new life here with the Wardens where you'll be safe from apostate-hunters as long as I have any say in it. You can either stay here and fight, beating down the darkspawn until our people can sleep safe, or you can move on as you'd planned and do something for the mages. Just don't listen to Justice. That fool would have you burn down a chantry or something and set all of Thedas against your kin. There are other ways to do things."
"How?" Anders tugged at the knife buried into the slate tiles fruitlessly before giving up and staring at his commander. "No one listens to mages. The Chantry's cursed us and made us feared. Everywhere. There's no escape."
"Then give them a voice. Did you know that the quality of life for an elf in Denerim has improved dramatically now that I've given them a seat on the council? Towns all over Ferelden are adapting to the idea, and I've heard that they're even taking our example in other nations. Revolution isn't the only way to improve things, Anders. You're in a position of power here, and you've got to have the balls to do something with it." She smiled sadly. "My Crow taught me that, taught me that the only way to get people to respect you is to turn around and face them. So damnit, Anders, face those thrice-cursed nobles and templars and show them that basic rights aren't something you can keep from people."
The night was silent again save for the rustling of the wind in the trees. Slowly, Anders reached over and handed Nelaros' ring back to his commander.
"I don't know," he said quietly, staring at his hands. "If I'm strong enough to help anyone other than myself. Running is the only thing I've known for a long time. You've given me something to think about. Thank you."
Risa stood up and yanked the dagger out to sheathe it once more. She stared at Anders, her brief moment of empathy swiftly passing from her features, leaving the calculating, often cold woman who led them into danger every day.
"Just don't be stupid, Anders. I've been stupid enough for ten people, and I've burned my city to the ground. Trust me: there's nothing left worth keeping after you've brought someone else's vengeance on the ones you're supposed to protect. Only ash and bile."
With that, she slipped away into the shadows, leaving the mage to his thoughts and the moon.
Within a month, the dust had settled. Amaranthine stood intact, safe from the darkspawn, the Mother and the Architect lay dead in two mushy heaps, and Vigil's Keep buzzed with craftsmen and healers fixing the damage of the siege. Anders found himself a hero, albeit a very drained and hungry hero, for felling hundreds of creatures in great storms of fire and ice. He wasn't sure how to handle all of the grateful soldiers and hearty slaps on the back, so he spent most of his time staying out of the way and healing the soldiers and townspeople.
Risa stayed long enough to see everything get settled back on its feet before saying something about hunting magpies. She left Nathaniel in charge of the Keep and the Wardens and took off. The next anyone heard was that a pale, tattooed elf woman was cutting a bloody swathe through Antiva's Crow population with the aide of her assassin lover/accomplice. Anders wasn't sure whether to be horrified or amused by this, so he settled with wishing her happiness and vowing not to cross her or her lover ever if they had anything remotely sharp nearby.
Nathaniel did a good job running things and rebuilding the Order, but he lacked his predecessor's uncanny ability to coerce people into his will. Soon, the Chantry had strong-armed him into accepting a few templars to watch over the mage recruits and Anders. Anders took offense, so when Justice proposed that they go improve things for mages, he accepted without really thinking through to consequences.
Flames and screams. That was his world now, the world he and Justice had built. No, not Justice. Vengeance. Whoever had said that vengeance was sweet had never tasted it. Commander Tabris was right. All he tasted was ash and the bile rising in his throat.
He could feel the horror of his companions, hear the satisfied purr of vengeance in his chest. Mostly, he just felt something in him withering away, leaving the mad shell of what he had become in his stead.
He should leave. He'd always been so good at running. He should run until no one would find him and hurt him again, until he could never hurt anyone else ever again. He should run before Hawke caught up to him and drove that greatsword through his chest, should run before word reached his ex-Commander and she and her assassin tracked him down and slipped poisoned daggers into his heart.
Instead he sank to his knees and thought, If they're going to kill me, they'll have to get there before I do it myself.