It was her. Anders would recognize her anywhere, helm or no. The small frame, encased in black armor, double-headed axe that should be too large for her strapped to her back, the easy, commanding gait, the casual power of her walk…it was his former Commander, his former Queen, strolling about Kirkwall's Hightown as if she belonged there, as if her armor was no more out of place than an aristocrat's dress.

He remembered the day she handed him a kitten. He'd come by her room, hearing the mewling and the frustrated cursing of a woman at her wit's end. Upon entering, he'd found her covered in superficial claw marks, holding a shredded pillow that smelled strongly of feline piss. Her startled, guilty look at Anders had only ghosted across her face momentarily before the anger had seeped back in.

Anders had laughed at her, and she'd recalled his story about the mousers in the tower well enough to foist the small thing off on him. He'd thought it rather callous of her, at first, until he'd found her sneaking it fish, good fish, later. Or when he'd collapse in exhaustion down at the infirmary, she'd tuck him in and bring the brute down to sleep on his lap, never mind that it still couldn't stand to be touched by her and clawed her fingers to ribbons.

But what was she doing here?

She couldn't be looking for him. No, the Hero and Queen of Ferelden surely had more important things to be doing than gallivanting all over Kirkwall, chasing down his murdering hide. And if she had been looking for him, he trusted her intelligence enough to know that he would never be able to stay in the gaudy luxury of Hightown. No, she had to be here for some diplomatic mission, or to recruit, or vacation…though he had never seen her even contemplate vacation, to the point where he had often sneakily dosed her with magic to make her drowsy and turn in earlier.

Besides, if she had been here on some sort of recreational visit (which he doubted, given the current state of Kirkwall), her husband would be with her. And she wouldn't be in armor. Or carrying such an enormous weapon. And have guards.

Maker, he really hoped she wasn't here for him.

He owed her. She had given him a 30 year lease on life where before he had been looking at death, executed for a crime he, at least then, had not committed. She had trusted him and made every effort to free him. She had tried to improve the land of Ferelden for mages while fighting darkspawn and co-ruling a kingdom. She had only known him a week, and had fought to keep him free when the templars came calling.

Anders had violated every bit of that trust, now. He had allowed himself to be possessed by Justice, had gone ballistic and killed, eaten, wardens and templars alike. He had run away, abandoned the wardens, abandoned Ferelden, and was now set on tearing the world down around the chantry, before his time was up. She had urged him to wait on the delicate ministrations of politics, to not do anything rash. She had seen firsthand what revolutions in the mage world could do to mages.

He hadn't listened, and now he was repeating their mistakes.

Fear gripped him then, fear and confusion and something akin to care. He couldn't call it love, because he had never loved her. But Justice had, with all his confusion and innocence and naiveté, he had fallen in love with the Commander. Anders remembered when she had left them, after everything, to return to her husband. That was when the change had come over Justice, and Anders, too.

She was turning towards him now, and he should have run, ducked into the shadows, called for Hawke, anything so that he could escape the woman. Anything to have missed how she halted, how graceless the action was in comparison to her sweeping strikes and noble's step. Anything to miss how the gauntlets clenched and how her body shifted into that stance he recognized but had never been on the receiving end of. Anything to miss the flare of holy power that danced around her fingertips, a smite uncast. He was only grateful that her helm was on, for he could not see her face.

He could not move, he could not run, as she stalked forward. If she had tried to smite him then, she would have succeeded. In her black armor, face masked, axe at her back, she seemed like his executioner. The highlighted dragon face on his chest mocked him, murderer.

And then she stopped, only a few feet between them; enough space to swing an axe and cleave him in two. He wanted to explain, to defend himself. You don't understand, they assigned a templar to me, he was going to kill me, they set me up… But nothing came out. Nothing passed his lips as she raised her hands up. He flinched, but no smite came. Instead, the helmet came off, and he found himself staring down into icy blue eyes.

He saw pain, and anger, hatred and betrayal etched into those eyes. Eyes that had stared down templars until they yielded. Eyes that had bored a hole into his soul and pronounced him worthy of friendship. Eyes that had looked at him and seen a person first, a mage second. Eyes that had cried in mourning when she thought he was dying, in joy when he recovered.

She took another step forward, and he could see her shaking. Still he couldn't move. He didn't move when she pulled forth her axe. He didn't move when she slid into position. And he didn't move when she swing it.

When it bit into the ground next to him, he finally moved. One step back, two steps, then three and then he was running away, running as fast as he could manage. He could still feel her eyes on him, her condemnation, her pain, her loss. As he ran, Anders knew then that he could never go back.

There were no more second chances.