AN: Again, re-post from the kinkmeme.
"Stand down, creature," the bounty hunter was saying, with one wicked looking dagger drawing just enough blood to trail in a single dark rivulet down Clara's throat. "Or I bleed this bitch like—"
Anders never finds out like what. He doesn't even think to fight against the tight, fiery pressure building under his skin. This filthy, greasy son of a bitch has his hands on Clara, is hurting her—
The world goes black, and for once, Anders welcomes the sickening jolt of being thrust to the back of his own consciousness. His mana is nearly drained, his lungs are burning and muscles screaming, and
Concerns of the body are secondary. This fiend has no conception of the trespass he has committed, or of the retribution that awaits him. Clara is the greatest of them; she represents all that is good and virtuous in this mortal world. She is their hope—
Stretching his power beyond the limitations of flesh, he is a vessel of righteous vengeance. Armour is no hindrance; leather and steel tear asunder, and it is not unlike his memories of the Fade, where reality could be shaped by his will alone. Flesh and bone rend just as easily, and he feels blood and other fluid sizzle against his skin.
They dare to touch Clara. They dare.
"Justice!" Yes, this is Justice. This is right, to lay punishment upon those who would do such evil.
"Please, Justice! Calm down!" It is her, her, standing safe and whole before him. She commands him to calm, and though it takes immense strength of will to do so, to quiet the raging force of his entire being, he complies. He will not risk doing her harm.
"You are injured," he says when he is able to speak again, and reaches for the wound on her throat before he remembers that his own hands are drenched in blood. He falters, fingers curling back towards his palm before he can further sully her, and he feels himself begin to falter as well. Anders is pushing, struggling to assert control once more, but then Clara's hand is a weight against his cheek, sliding through slickness, and he is grounded by the touch.
"I'm fine," she says softly, but that is untrue; he can see the thin, angry cut across her neck, and the swollen lump beneath her eye that will no doubt become a livid bruise if it is not tended. He cannot heal her— his powers in this mortal realm are so achingly limited— and he is about to relinquish his dominance when Clara moves towards him, brushing her mouth gently against his.
It is a brief kiss, and Justice cannot help but compare it to countless others: between Kristoff and Aura, between Clara and Anders. There are more— other kisses, other names, other loves— in the endless layers of memory from both hosts' minds, but these are the most familiar. These are those Justice feels, keenly and with slowly abating confusion.
He had thought he understood love, enough to envy what Kristoff had known with Aura. Now, through Anders, he has realised his experience was only a reflection, the lingering phantom of a dead man's care. This… what he feels for Clara…
It is still beyond his understanding, but he is helpless against its pull. Her very presence sings to him, not the same song as pure lyrium, but no less magnificent.
When she withdraws, leaving him trembling, he sees the smear of blood across her lips, and the filthy hand he has tangled in her hair, painting tawny curls with streaks of red. They stand amid a massacre, a sea of entrails and sundered limbs, and he does not doubt the horrific sight he makes in the midst of it. Yet, Clara is smiling.
"Thank you." She wipes her mouth on the cuff of her rough-hewn coat, only one of many concessions they have been forced to make, living as fugitives. "Both of you."
"We would die for you," he replies, and it is a burning relief to be honest in all things once again. The Circles have fallen and justice has begun to assert itself; his purpose now is her protection. Through her, freedom will be won.
She is surprised by his fierce sincerity, and makes little attempt conceal her reaction. Blinking at him, her hand strokes along his jaw, and he feels the blood beginning to grow tacky.
"That's sweet." Her smile returns, but it is smaller and sits crooked on her face. It is an expression Anders has a deep fondness for, as well as for the wit that usually accompanies it. "But let's try to keep all dying to a minimum. Call me greedy, but I rather like having you around and breathing."
"I have not known you to succumb to greed." There is a part of him that recognises she is joking, but the declaration comes regardless. Then he pauses, reaching up to catch her hand before she can respond. "I… I prefer to inhabit this body as a living host." Some feeling stirs in him, warm and not entirely unfamiliar. It is not the fire that blazes in his core, nor the simmering poison that twists around his essence, but something… affectionate. "Our death would distress you greatly, and we have no intention of causing you such grief if alternatives exist. We— I care for you." Gently, he presses his lips to her knuckles, lingering there in an attempt to gather his thoughts.
She steps closer, and while her proximity does nothing to alleviate his confusion, he takes pleasure in it nonetheless. "You'd miss me," she murmurs teasingly, and he glances up to meet her eyes again.
"I would," he agrees, and the warm feelings of affection intensify to a blinding radiance. "And on the day I return to the Fade, I will. Eternally."
Stretching up, she kisses the very tip of his nose. "I always knew you were the charmer."