They left him, one by one.
Everyone had always been leaving him, it sometimes seemed, since father's death back in Ferelden onwards. Bethany, shortly after they left Lothering, fleeing for a safety that she never reached. Carver, later, in the darkness of the Deep Roads, ending his life on a cold stone floor. And mother, worst of all... mother, killed and yet still living, a patchwork mockery of life. Her final words spoken from cold lips, and then a long silence until the body in his arms – not hers, only the face was hers – had gone limp and still, her spirit at rest at last.
This was almost as bad, making up for in numbers what it lacked in familial attachment. Sebastian first of all, furious and heart-broken and swearing vengeance. Aveline next, face and back almost equally rigid, speaking of how she needed to go see to her guards, and do what could be done for the stricken city. Then Merrill, eyes glistening with unshed tears as she turned away, going to the alienage to do whatever she could to protect the elves. There would be rioting; there would be more deaths. Elves were always targets in such times.
Fenris stayed with him, though his tense posture and angry-eyed silence spoke of how unhappy he was with the situation. Isabela stayed as well, hovering anxiously near the elf. And Varric, lips pressed tightly together but cradling Bianca in his arms, ready for whatever came next.
And Anders. He stayed, though his eyes seemed as empty as if Hawke had done as he'd wanted. As if he was already dead, even standing there and still living and breathing as he was. But silent, so silent, as he almost never was.
"Well, we might as well head to the Gallows," Hawke said, voice somehow only a little unsteady. "It sounds like that's where all the fun people will be."
Isabela faded into the shadows somewhere along the route to the docks, and did not reappear until afterwards. After Orsino had turned on them. After Meredith had revealed the depths of her insanity. After so much had happened, so many people had died.
"I can get you all out of here," she told him coolly. "But I have my price. Merrill."
So back into the city they went, after the elf. And found her, standing alone at the barricades blocking the alienage entrance, her hands bloodied and the elves keeping their distance from her. Her face was cold and mask-like until she saw them, and then it crumpled. Isabela hugged her, once and fiercely. "Wait here," she said, then the rogue stalked across the square to the door to Merrill's small house, disappearing inside. She re-emerged a few minutes later with a bulging bundle made of what looked like the sheets from Merrill's bed, all her belongings tossed haphazardly into them and then knotted closed. They left, taking Merrill and her things with them.
They made only one stop on the way back. As close as they were to Gamlen's house, Hawke could not in good conscious leave without seeing if his uncle wished to flee with them. Someone or something had been there before them; the door was smashed in. There was nothing inside that was recognizable as a body. The aftereffects of a walking bomb spell, perhaps, but not a body as such. Gamlen was either dead, or already fled. They moved on.
Varric stopped once they reached Isabela's ship. "I'll be staying," he said flatly, and stood there, Bianca resting on his shoulder, watching as they climbed on board and cast off. He was there as long as the docks were in view, a silent figure watching them leave Kirkwall.
Fenris spoke only once, a few quiet words to Isabela as they turned eastwards after exiting the neck and reaching the open sea. His only words all that hideously long night and day. She said nothing, just nodded, and a few hours later, when they were far enough eastwards along the shore that the cliffs were gentling, no longer unclimbable, took the ship in close. He jumped overboard, into chest-deep water, and waded ashore, shaking the water and sand off his feet like a fastidious cat as he climbed the beach. He did not look back. Doubtless going off in search of Sebastian, Hawke guessed, the two of them having been close friends for some years. Hopefully he'd let Vael know that there was little point in returning to invade Kirkwall some day, neither Anders nor Hawke being there any longer.
Not that Hawke much cared, after all he had lost in Kirkwall, after all that city had cost him.
"Where do you and Anders want off?" Isabela asked Hawke once the elf was out of sight, her tone of voice making it clear she didn't intend to keep Hawke and Anders on her ship any longer than absolutely necessary.
"I don't know. Anywhere that's convenient," he said tiredly, and went off to check on Anders, the mage sitting slumped on a coil of rope in much the same posture as he'd sat on that blighted crate earlier. Hawke sat down beside him, studying his face and worrying. After a while he reached out to touch the hair an Anders' temple, brushing back loose strands to tuck behind his ear. There were silver strands among the gold, he knew, though hard to see unless you looked for them.
Anders said nothing, but after a little while he sighed, some subtle tension leaving his body. Hawke put one arm around him, and they sat like that watching the sky fade to black and the stars come out, one by one, as the ship glided on through the night.
Convenient turned out to be a small fishing town half a day's sail beyond Ostwick. Too small to have its own chantry or templars, the news of events in Kirkwall unlikely to reach it for at least another day or three yet. Isabela dropped them off, traded for a few supplies, and then sailed away, taking Merrill with her. She did not say where she was going. Probably safest that way, Hawke supposed.
There was a tavern near the docks that rented rooms; small and dingy, smelling of old fish and the soured dregs of beer. Hawke rented a room for the night, and left Anders there, sitting silently on the edge of the bed, while he took himself off to the small market square and bought supplies for them, backpacks to carry the supplies, new clothing.
He was, he admitted to himself as he shopped, beginning to worry about Anders. The other mage had barely spoken since Kirkwall, and that mostly monosyllabic answers to direct questions. It was as if he'd left some vital part of him behind in Kirkwall; as if some fire in him had gone out. Hawke couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had; there'd been no sign of Justice at all since then either.
He returned to their room, his arms overflowing with purchases, to find Anders just as he'd left him, still sitting on the edge of the bed and staring off into space. A shell of the man he'd been just a few days before. Packs, bundles, bags, he let them all drop to the floor, forgotten, and walked the few steps to the bed, reaching out to touch Anders' shoulder, waiting until the mage's eyes slowly refocused, seeing him instead of whatever memory he'd been lost in.
"You're starting to worry me, you know," Hawke said, aiming for a light-hearted tone, but his voice cracked on the words.
Anders blinked, slowly, the faintest of wrinkles crossing his forehead. "Why?" he asked, his voice creaky with disuse.
Hawke blinked back tears, dropping to one knee before Anders, looking searchingly into his face. "Because you're here with me but you act as if you don't even see me. You don't talk. You don't... you don't seem yourself anymore. And I miss you," he added, the words torn painfully from some deep place.
Anders' eyes studied his face, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. "I don't know what to do any more," he said, voice thin and tired-sounding. "I didn't plan..."
A long silence. "You didn't plan to live beyond destroying the chantry," Hawke said, voice uneven, as he took Anders hands into his own, holding them lightly, gently, though he wanted to clutch tightly to them, to not let go.
"Yes. I thought..." He broke off again. Looked away, swallowing, eyes glinting as they filled with tears.
"You thought I'd kill you," Hawke said, voice flat.
"I thought there'd be an end," Anders said, and closed his eyes. "That I could finally... stop."
It hurt. Hawke lowered his head, staring at the hands in his. So pale, next to his own darker hands, the tendons and veins standing forth under the skin, backs dusted with a scattering of tiny freckles. Skin surprisingly smooth and soft, he knew, except for a few places where callus had developed, from wielding a staff, from grinding things with mortar and pestle. Hands he loved, for the strength in them, the gentleness, the way they touched a body when healing it, or when loving it.
"Is that what you want?" he asked huskily. "To end? To stop?"
A very long silence. "I thought it was."
Hawke cried then, something he rarely did. Tears of mixed anger and sorrow that he had not been enough for Anders; that loving and being loved had not been enough to make the mage want to live. Relief, as well, for that single significant was. He did not think he could lose Anders and remain alive himself, not when everything else had been taken from him. Family, friends, home...
Anders' hands withdrew from his after a while, reaching to cup his cheeks, to tilt his head back. Lips touched warmly against his forehead, both cheeks, then brushed against his mouth, gently. Thumbs wiped at the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Anders' eyes searched his face again, but more attentively now. Seeing him.
"I'm sorry," Anders said, huskily, then did not speak again, at least not with his voice. With eyes, yes, with the touch of his hands, the touch of his mouth, the arch of his back and the fall of his hair, there on the narrow bed in the dingy room.
This, Hawke thought, as Anders took him apart and then put him back together again, piece by piece. This was enough. As long as he had this much, he could go on. They slept, at last, limbs wound about one another, clinging tightly to each other.
He knew when he woke that something had changed. Anders was not in bed with him, but instead standing by the window, staring out its small and dirt-caked panes at the rain pouring down outside. There was a feel in the air like a thunderstorm, but not from the clouds outside.
"Justice," Hawke said.
Justice turned and looked at him, face impassive, eyes a familiar honey-brown though the faint light from the window seemed to reflect blue from them for a moment. "Yes," he said.
Hawke swallowed. "Anders?"
"He is resting," Justice said, then turned back to the window. "We should go. Word will be spreading. We should not be here when it comes; we are too memorable."
"In the rain?" Hawke asked peevishly, then sighed. "I suppose better wet than on my funeral pyre."
They washed as best they could with a single pitcher of lukewarm water, and changed their clothing. Justice put Anders' too-recognizable robes away in the bottom of one of the packs, and drew on the outfit Hawke had bought for him; a plain white shirt, leggings and coat of good brown wool. He looked like a minor merchant when he was done, while Hawke, dressed in a mish-mash of leather and metal armour, resembled a mercenary, or a guard, one armed with both a sword at his belt and a glaive strapped across his back, though it was the glaive that was his real weapon, and it wasn't actually a glaive at all. Anders' staff looked like nothing more exotic than a walking stick, minimally carved, and both capped and shod with metal; something that could double as a weapon in a pinch, though the long knife at his belt seemed the more obvious weapon.
"I feel like we should do something else, perhaps... dye our hair, maybe. We still look too much like ourselves," Hawke said worriedly.
Justice did not bother replying. He rarely did. But when he'd lifted his own pack to his back and turned to face Hawke, he look different somehow, his hair more a faded brown than its usual red-blond tone, eyes a darker shade, honey turned to mud.
"How did you do that?" Hawke asked, fascinated. "Can you change me too?"
"I already have," Justice said, then walked out the door.
Hawke drew a strand of his hair forward to where he could see it. Brown; dark brown. He wondered what colour his eyes were, then decided it hardly mattered since he couldn't see them himself anyway, and hurried after Justice.
Walking in the rain was hardly one of his favourite activities. He didn't know which he hated more, the way he felt sodden and cold with dribbles of rain getting everywhere, or the thickening, sticky mud underfoot. It wasn't as bad once they got beyond the farms that surrounded the small town, and up into the forest hills beyond, the foothills of the Vimmark mountains. The roads were more gravel and small stones than dirt there, and drained better, being on a slant. On the other hand it meant walking uphill, which he could do for hours on end after living in Kirkwall with its endless slopes and staircases, not to mention all those trips up Sundermount or to the Bone Pit. But it still made his legs ache.
Lunch was eaten standing in the dubious shelter of a tall pine beside the road, its layered needles shedding most of the rain away from the trunk. Hard tack and dried fruit and a little jerked meat of some kind, so heavily spiced and smoked that he couldn't even begin to guess what animal it had come from. They ate silently, Justice never having been one for small talk, then continued on their way, higher into the hills.
"Do we have some destination?" Hawke asked, as the cloud-darkened sky began to darken further, either the clouds thickening or it being just that late in the day. "Somewhere we're going?"
"There is a circle at Markham. We will go there first," Justice said.
"And do what?"
"Whatever seems necessary," Justice said, and would speak no further on the subject.
It was only when the sky was getting too dark to see properly that the spirit led the way off the road, winding his way between the close-growing trees to a rock face some distance back from the road, a scatter of boulders at its base, ranging from some as large as a cottage to many much smaller than that. Cracked off by winter frosts, overgrown with lichen and mosses and tufts of grass, a few scraggly bushes and saplings. They found among them a place where boulder leaning against boulder left a small cave-like opening, not even as big as a tent, but dry-floored and smelling of nothing worse than damp soil. Hawke wished it was dry enough that he could gather grasses and ferns to pad the floor with, it being an uneven and lumpy layer of smaller sharp-edged rocks, but had to settle for them spreading out their bedrolls over top of it, which made it only slightly more comfortable than the bare stone would have been.
Supper was cold – much the same food as their lunch had been – apart from their tea, Hawke risking enough magic to heat water directly in their cups. They needed the heat, after a full day of walking in the cold rain. They ate, and then, Justice being in no mood to talk and the two of them having nothing better to do, they slept.
Anders was back in the morning, sneezing and shivering and cursing his cold, it being one of those things that magic could do little against. And cursing Justice as well, for not having thought to change to dryer clothing before sleeping. And Hawke, for the same.
"At least the rain has stopped," Hawke pointed out blearily, doing a certain amount of shivering himself, though thankfully without any sneezing. He was glad of that; the way his head was pounding, a sneeze would have been a very painful thing.
Anders snorted, and stalked off into the surrounding trees, returning a short time later with a handful of bark strips. "Willow," he said tersely, and heated mugs of water to steep it in. Foul-tasting stuff, Hawke knew, but it made his headache fade to a more tolerable level, and the heat of it at least ended the shivering. They changed into dryer clothing, after that, and packed up their things and continued on.
Anders was at least in a talkative mood, though they kept to safe subjects; the beauty or lack of it of the passing increasingly mountainous landscape, the tastelessness of the hard tack biscuits – "Better than tasting mouldy, or full of weevils," Anders pointed out – and speculations as to just what meat the jerky was. Hawke favoured over-aged venison; Anders felt pig or goat was more likely.
Their bed that night was as makeshift as the one the night before, though somewhat more comfortable, the ground under their bedroll this time being a bed of gravel, rather than of rocks, and Anders in a mood to ignore their aching heads and fevers – other than brewing more willow bark tea for both of them – and engage in some activities that brought a warm flush to their skins for an entirely different reason. Hawke, at least, felt considerably better when they curled up to sleep, even if his head did still ache.
It was mostly Anders around after that for the remainder of the walk to Markham, seeming almost his old self, most of the time. But given to more silences, to brooding, than he had ever been, and less to smiles. It made Hawke treasure them all the more, those few times when something made Anders' face soften, his lips curl, his eyes grow warm for a moment.
He got used to seeing Anders' duller hair and darker eyes. The face around them was the same, the touch of his hands and the taste of his mouth. The feeling of him in Hawke's arms. The important things. "How do I look?" Hawke asked one morning, a day out of Markham still, legs spread comfortably around Anders' narrower flanks. "Is it much of a change?"
A smile, for that, warmly amused. "Not too much different. Brown hair instead of black; and your eyes... the colour changes, with the light."
"What colour are they now?"
Anders leaned close, his nose almost touching Hawke's. "Light brown, with flecks of green and gold around the middle. They looked more green yesterday. And gold the day before."
Hawke laughed. "Yours stay the same. Dark brown."
Anders smiled again, and kissed Hawke, then abruptly pushed himself up and rolled out from between his legs. "We should be going," he said. "With luck we'll be in Markham by tonight."
"And what will we do there?" Hawke asked.
Anders shrugged. "Whatever Justice thinks necessary," he said.
Hawke frowned, but stayed silent as they cleaned themselves up and dressed, packed their things and moved on. Only later that morning, when they'd stopped to rest, seated on a moss-covered log beside the road, did he finally, hesitantly ask.
"Whatever Justice thinks necessary? Does that mean that you and he think differently now?"
Anders shot him a look, then shrugged and resumed nibbling at the hard tack he held in one hand. "Sometimes. After Kirkwall..." He paused again, and sat staring off into the distance for a few seconds, jaw set. "After Kirkwall, I worry over whether or not what we did was the right thing. What happened in the Gallows," he shook his head. "Neither of us expected anything like that. Not me, nor Justice. I'd known things might not work out as well as Justice wanted them to, but... that was far worse than anything even I had imagined. Not just Meredith, but Orsino."
Hawke nodded slowly. "It was," he agreed. "If I'd known earlier that it was Orsino who..." He broke off, shook his head as well. Continued, voice rough with emotion. "I'd have killed him myself, with my own two hands, long before. For what he and that friend of his did to mother."
Anders nodded jerkily. "I can't say I'd blame you if you had," he said, and looked away. "I'd thought he was one of the good mages. Too enmeshed in the system, perhaps, to do as good a job at protecting the mages as he might have, but with the right ideas; mage rights. Mage freedoms. The wrongness of the system of oppression under which the mages are forced to live. It worries me; if he could go so wrong in the end and think he was doing the right thing; how can I be sure that I'm any better?"
Hawke frowned, blinked, then reached out and grasped Anders' wrist. "You haven't turned to blood magic, which is at least a start."
Anders gave him a cool look. "Merrill did."
"Yes, but..." Hawke frowned, then shrugged helplessly. "Merrill is Merrill. I trust that even if I don't like her methods all the time, that her reasons are usually good. Intent matters."
"Intent matters. Did Orsino's intent make his actions any less vile?"
Hawke opened his mouth. Closed it.
"Did mine?" Anders asked, voice a hoarse whisper, then abruptly rose and resumed walking, half-eaten hard tack falling forgotten to the ground behind him.
Hawke sat and stared after him for several minutes before slowly finally rising and following after him. He let the distance between them remain, for now. Unsure of what answer he could give to Anders' question. Of if it even could be answered.
Markham was a nightmare. Word from Kirkwall had reached the city before they did; the citizens were rioting, in a frenzy of fear that they could be next. Hawke was tense as he followed Anders through the seething crowd, the other mage's face even paler than usual. If anyone here recognized them as mages, they would die, he knew. There was only so much two mages, no matter how talented, could do if they were swarmed by an entire mob of frightened, angry people. Especially when he had no particular wish to hurt someone unnecessarily, even if they were trying to kill him at the time. It was their fear that was his enemy, not themselves. Though that could be hard to remember at times.
Anders seemed to know where he was going, at least, though as far as Hawke knew he'd never been in Markham before. He turned back to look at Hawke once, eyes widened in fear, the flames of the bonfires in the market square behind them reflecting eerily in them. "This way," he said, voice harsh with strain, and led the way down a side street, and then turned down a narrow laneway.
It was much quieter here, the roar of the crowd in the square reduced to a distant noise, a surging sound like the surf of waves, or a high wind blowing through trees. Anders had his head turned, counting the houses they passed. "Fifth door, the blue one," he muttered, so quietly that Hawke almost missed it, then moved a few steps forward, to a blue door. He knocked, and waited, then knocked again, louder this time, beginning to look worried.
"Who is it?" a voice demanded; female, and suspicious.
"It's me," Anders said. "Feathers."
Hawke's eyebrows rose slightly. There was a brief silence from inside the house, then the sound of a wood scraping against wood; a bar being removed, Hawke judged. The door opened a crack, then swung wide, a frightened woman stepping back and gesturing at the darkened hallway beyond her. "In. Quickly. Does anyone know you're here?"
"No, no one," Anders assured her as he hurried in, Hawke following close on his heels.
"Who's this?" she asked, eyeing Hawke suspiciously, then suddenly smiled, looking relieved as she quickly closed the door again. "I remember you. You're the Champion, aren't you?"
"Yes," Hawke agreed, and helped her lift the heavy oak bar into its brackets, sealing the door again. "Or at least I was. I'm not much of anything any more."
She smiled slightly at his words, though mostly she looked confused, then turned to Anders. "Why are you here? It's too dangerous..."
"We'd hoped to reach here before word of what happened in Kirkwall did," Anders told her. "Though I can see we failed. What's been happening? Are the other mages all right?"
"I don't know, I've mostly been too frightened to leave the house," she said, tightening her hands into the cloth of her apron. She abruptly turned away, walking further into the house. They followed after her. "As soon as word reached here yesterday, it was like the city went mad. It's worth your life to be known as a mage now. Even a powerless mage; there was an old tranquil storekeeper in the market, she's worked there for years... they dragged her out of her shop and beat her to death. And a healer that was out, returning to the tower after tending a sick noble, they tore him away from his templar guards, and... oh, Maker, it was terrible. That poor, poor man. They've all gone mad with fear that Markham will be next; that if the mages aren't gotten rid of, they'll destroy this city too," she said as she led the way into a kitchen, then abruptly turned to look at Anders, eyes filling with tears. "Why? Why did you do it? They're killing us now, and it's all because of you!"
The blood drained from Anders' face. "They were killing us before, too. It's just more public now. Or have you forgotten what happened to Trevor?"
She made a choked sound. "No. No, how could I ever forget that? But this is different..."
"No, it's not. This is the same thing, Kath. They lock us up and abuse us and make us tranquil and kill us, for the crime of being born mages. And because it took place mostly out of public view, people accepted it. Accepted what was done to you, to me, to Trevor, to Karl, to so many hundreds and thousands of others. How many have died, and we don't even know their names to mourn them? How many have died, and no one but their murderers knew, and no one cared?"
Anders turned away from her, his face twisted in anguish. "I know that even more will die. But it's out in the open now, it's public, and people can't just pretend it away. They have to see the deaths and hear the screams and know that there's blood on their own hands. Or things are never going to change."
Kath stared at Anders, face gone white with shock and grief. "I can't... I can't think like that. That shopkeeper was someone I knew. That healer was someone I'd seen, even talked with once. How can you forget that they're people, and use them as a weapon? Use their deaths as just a lesson for other people?"
Anders turned back to her. "Because if someone doesn't, then nothing will change. Mages will remain locked up. The abuse and deaths will never stop. And everything that happens to us will continue to count for nothing, because no one cares enough about it to try and stop it."
She turned away. Her shoulders were shaking. After a while she drew a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was flat, on the edge of hostile. "Why did you come here?"
"To try and prevent as many deaths as I could; I don't want people to die. I'd hoped to get the mages out, before word reached here..."
"Out!?" She spun around, a look of disbelief on her face. "How on earth could you even hope to get them out? It's a tower. There are stone walls, templars, locks.. they'd silence you and capture you, and then kill you themselves. Or make you Tranquil. Or were you planning to blow up the place, like you did the chantry in Kirkwall? Oh, but wait, that would kill them too, wouldn't it?"
Anders spoke stiffly. "I wasn't sure how. But I knew I had to at least try."
"Oh, you... you idiot!" she screamed, and then flew at Anders, hands fisted, flailing at him. "They're going to be annulled because of what you did! They're all going to die, and it's all your fault, you stupid, stupid man! Why did I ever listen to you? Why did I ever think you knew what you were doing!?"
Anders' face went ashen as he fended her off. "They're going to be annulled?" he asked, voice flat with shock. "But they had not part in it..."
"Yes, you fool, you simpleton!" she exclaimed. "As soon as word arrived from Kirkwall, people started heading to the chantry and demanding it. They're not going to just sit around and wait forever for the chantry to make up its mind, either; those that aren't busy hammering on the chantry doors demanding the circle be annulled are camped out around the tower. They're going to work themselves up to the point of taking matters into their own hands, sooner or later. And once they've broken down the doors and killed any templars who tried to stand between them and the mages instead of joining them, once they've raped and slaughtered their way through the tower, do you really think they'll care any more that they have blood on their hands? They'll all be convinced that they did the right thing; that they saved their city from the evil, dangerous mages. Or they'll all be dead, because you know at least some of those mages will give up and give in to demons in their fear and pain. Which will only prove to any survivors that mages aren't to be trusted," she said bitterly, voice breaking on the words as she turned away again.
Anders stood frozen, motionless. Hawke watched him worriedly, not sure how Anders would react to the woman's angry words. And then Anders straightened slightly, back stiffening, colour flooding back into his face, eyes going blue and power crackling across his skin. "I must stop this," he said. Justice's voice.
"How?" she asked, sounding tired now. "You against the entire city of Markham? There is no way."
"I will find a way," he said, voice echoing oddly in the room, and filled with an inhuman certainty. The woman spun around and gave him a startled look, then frowned in consternation. Justice ignored her, turning to Hawke. "Are you with me?"
"Always," Hawke said, voice rough.
The woman watched them leave, a look of equal parts fear and wonder in her eyes.
It had been late when they reached the city; turning to evening when they reached the woman's house. It was dark by the time they reached the part of the city where the tower stood, centre of a broad square, the surrounding buildings set well-back from it as if to avoid some contagion it held. A poor part of town, the buildings around the square mostly the dingiest sorts of manufacturies and shops and only the most dilapidated of houses, the vhenadahl and tenements of an elven alienage looming beyond a row of particularly shabby warehouses along one side.
The square was packed tightly with people, lit red with bonfires, loud with shouting and singing and screams. There was a dull, repetitive booming sound, and as they made their way slowly through the heaving crowd, Hawke could see that it came from the tower door, where a group of people were using a length of log as a ram, trying to break down the gates. They were well made, of metal-reinforced oaken slabs, but they could not hold forever against such abuse, and were already misshapen and splintering. Worse, this tower was not designed as a stronghold; there was no simple way for the people inside, templars or mages, to hold off anyone trying the gate. Hawke supposed the assumption had always been that there was more danger of rebellious mages needing to be winkled out of it than of terrified citizenry trying to break in.
There was a feeling like an approaching storm in the air; gusts of cool, moisture-laden wind, the smell of rain, the feel of suppressed energy building. That last was in part due to Justice, Hawke was certain. The blue glow that was the surest sign of his angry presence was not visible, but he felt sure that was only because Justice was muting his presence somehow, aware that such a display of power would attract entirely too much of the wrong sort of attention just now.
They were still some distance from the Tower itself when a wave of excited shouting broke out. "They've breached the tower," Hawke said quietly, seeing the darkness of the now-open gate ahead of him.
The tone of the shouting and screams changed further. "Worse," Justice said, or it may have been Anders, or both together as it sometimes was. "The templars are surrendering the mages."
Hawke stepped up on a tipped-over market cart, putting one hand on Anders' shoulder for balance, so that he could see properly, and swore softly. Anders was right; the Templars were moving out of the tower, marching in a block with the centre of their formation filled with mages. Mages all tied together, with the dazed looks of the recently-silenced, helpless to protect themselves. The templars had their swords out, keeping the crowd back from their charges, but Hawke didn't doubt that Anders was essentially correct; they were being brought out to die, either at the hands of the templars or the mob.
A trumpet blew; a helmless templar stepped forward, signalling for silence. The hush spread outwards from where he was, the square falling silent as people paused to listen to his words. His words did not carry far, but people closer to the source repeated them for those further back.
"Annulment," Hawke said dully, and felt the change pass through the shoulder under his hand. He tightened his grip. In a crowd this large, even Justice would be helpless; he might be able to fight one man, ten, even several dozen, but against hundreds he could do nothing but be torn down and die under a flood of bodies.
Hawke watched, as the templars spread out, clearing a space. A cold drizzle began to fall, forerunner of the coming storm. The crowd fell back reluctantly, those further back trying to push their way forward to have a better view, preventing those at the front from moving back as the templars wished. It was, perhaps, inevitable that a mishap would occur, someone being pushed from behind and stumbling forward onto the swords of the templars. Shouts and screams rose again, the neat block of the templars quickly falling apart as the mob surged into motion again.
Then higher, more fearful screams, and the feel of the fade as one of the mages, even powerless and drugged half-senseless as they doubtless were, succumbed to a demon.
"The fools, the fools," Hawke exclaimed, already pushing his way toward the commotion, though by any sane thought it should have been away that he moved. But as the demon broke through, the shoulder under his hand had dropped out from under his grip, and he knew there was only one direction here in which Justice could move.
It was like being trapped in a nightmare, like being back in Kirkwall again, with mages randomly exploding into abominations and wrecking havoc on those around them. He heard Justice's bellow of outrage, felt the pulse of his magic as the spirit moved to counteract the demons, as much his natural enemies as the injustices of the world were. He spotted him, far ahead of him already, lost sight of him again as a surge of terrified people fleeing the mayhem at the centre of the square almost knocked him off his feet. He cursed and drew his staff, and channelled energy into a rippling shield, forcing his way through the crowd, easier now that people were as terrified of him as of what was at their backs. Finally he caught sight of Justice again.
Anders had always been a tall man. With fade-energy crackling through his skin and glazing his eyes, his staff spinning in one hand as he used it to toss balls of energy at emerging abominations, he seemed ten feet tall, something too powerful and terrible for the men swirling around him to touch, like a mabari besieged by mice. Yet Hawke knew just how false that appearance was; how fragile the man actually was. He screamed a warning as he saw a templar taking aim at Anders' back, even though he knew he was too far away for the mage to hear. Saw the blow hit and stagger Anders, spinning the mage around with the force of it, felt the flare of energy as Justice healed the body he wore.
Justice's eyes met his across the intervening crowd. "Stay," thundered wordlessly into his head, a command he could not disobey. He halted where he was, then dropped to one knee, hands braced on his staff to keep him upright as energy abruptly drained out of him; the templars, draining the area of all magic. His bubble faded away as if it hadn't been, and he would have fallen if he wasn't already down.
It had no effect on Anders; he could be silenced when Justice wasn't active, but the templars would have had to drain the Fade itself to silence Anders when Justice was already fully manifested. Energy blasted outwards from him instead, knocking the templars and nearby people back from him, clearing a space around him. A brief silence fell, broken only by the sound of the rising wind, by the cries of the injured.
Another mage gave in to terror, began to burst forth in abomination.
"No!" Anders shouted, or Justice did, in a voice loud enough to echo off the surrounding buildings. Energy crackled from his fingertips; the thing died still only half-transformed. He turned, facing the watching crowd, drawing himself up. When he spoke, it was in that same unnaturally loud voice. "It is fear that causes this. Fear that you have engendered. Fear like what you yourselves have been feeling this day. You came here seeking their deaths, out of that fear; are you surprised that these mages' own fear is any less great?"
For a moment things seemed balanced on a knife-edge. Hawke began to have hope, brief fluttering hope, that for once people might listen. Short-lived hope, dying as a blossom of blood appeared on the breast of Anders' clothing, the shaft of an arrow standing forth from him. The mage stood as if frozen. A second arrow appeared in his flesh, just inches from the first.
Energy flared again, Justice drawing forth the arrows and healing the wounds they'd caused. But even as he did so, another arrow sunk into his arm, and a pair of templars advanced on him with drawn swords. He looked up, looked at the forces closing in on them. His eyes met Hawke's, the blue glow retreating for a moment, beloved honey-brown gaze meeting his. He knew, then, that sparing Anders' life in Kirkwall had not saved him. He would have protested, risen, gone to Anders' side, but something held him locked where he was, on his knees, unable to move. Justice, most likely, preventing his interference.
Swords rose and fell, cutting into the mage. He staggered backwards, bleeding, then the wounds healed. Another arrow pierced him, then a spear flew out of the darkness, piercing him through. He fell to his knees. The templars ringing him began to close in, swords lifting again.
Another blast of magic, the templars blown backwards , revealing Anders on his knees, bleeding from multiple wounds. He tilted his face back, eyes dropping closed. "MOTHER!" he shouted, in a voice as loud as thunder, everything seemed to stop, for just a moment.
A moment was enough. Mist curled upwards from the damp pavement, swirling up into a looming shape, amorphous at first and then settling into a shape well-known to everyone there; a woman in robes. Andraste, forming out of mist and bending down to look at the bleeding mage kneeling at her feet.
Hawke could only stare. He'd seen Anders do such magic before, with smoke from a campfire; but that had been only little figures, not even as tall as his hand, amorphous, easily blown apart by a slight breeze, the brief show of magic leaving Anders drained and shaking. This... this was a figure as tall as a house, as tall as Her statue in Kirkwall had been, but far more detailed, the weave of her robes visible, the slight creases at the corner of her eyes, the wrinkled brow. Gusts of wind moved Her robes, but as wind would move cloth, not as it would dissipate mist and fog. She straightened, looked around, one spectral hand rising to hold her wind-blown hair out of her face. Throughout the square people were sinking to their knees in wide-mouthed awe, fervent prayers rising.
She spoke. It was not Anders' voice, nor Justice's, but a female voice. A mother's voice, warm and loving, and concerned over what she saw. "Who harms my children?" She asked, and looked around, then down at the gathered templars. "Was it you?"
One of the templars must have said something; their voice lost on the wind, but Her response was heard by all. "Magic is a blessing of the Maker, not a curse," She said, and turned a full circle, looking at the stunned and injured mages, the fearful crowd, many of them injured as well. "Mages are as much the Maker's children as any other. There has been too much harm done here. Let there be healing," She said.
Another surge of power, a wave of healing energy spreading outwards, closing wounds and soothing hurts throughout the square. How Anders and Justice were sustaining it, while also creating the illusion – because it had to be an illusion, there was no way Hawke could believe that the figure of mist was a true miracle – he could not understand. Justice must be all but tearing the veil open to feed Anders enough power for this. More power than a mortal man could hold; more power than any one mage could summon forth, even with... blood magic? Hawke looked at Anders' seeping wounds, and felt a brief surge of terror.
"No," Justice's voice whispered in his head. "Not that."
"I require a Champion," the mist-woman said, and looked around, then pointed. "You. Champion. Come forth."
The force holding him in place vanished. Hawke rose unsteadily to his feet, aware of the hush of the watching mob. Aware, too, as he walked forward, of the whispers and soft cries in the crowd. Someone had recognized him; word of his identity was spreading quickly.
"Hawke, that's Hawke!"
"The Champion of Kirkwall."
"He saved Kirkwall."
"No, he destroyed it. He killed..."
"He saved..."
"Andraste's Chosen..."
He had no eyes for the mist-woman as She raised a hand for silence, only for the man slowly bleeding to death at Her feet, having healed others but not himself. He sank to his knees again, took Anders' hand in his. It was cold, cold as ice, colder even than the drizzle still falling around them, but he felt it tighten on his, saw Anders' lips curve just slightly in a faint smile, felt the buzz of Justice's power filling Anders' body. "I cannot do this alone," he told the pair of them, voice cracking.
His voice carried, startling him, filling the square.
"You will not have to do it alone," She said. "I will always be with you."
He looked up. The mist form bent down, growing smaller as it did so, becoming denser, a heavy white fog, looking almost solid as it reached to cup his up-turned face in long-fingered hands. Solid enough for him to feel the cool touch of lips to the skin of his brow, to each cheek, and finally to his own mouth.
Something passed into him. The mist-woman vanished. The hand in his was still.
He stayed on his knees for a long moment, listening to the silence, the sound of the rain on the stones, the mutter of approaching thunder, then slowly rose to his feet, leaning on his staff for support. He looked at the mages, their eyes filled with both fear and awe. Turned and looked at the templars gathered nearby, half of them down on their knees praying, certain they'd been witness to a miracle, the other half looking stunned or fearful, not sure just what they'd seen.
He had never been good with words. Action, yes, but never words. Yet he found words now, easily, effortlessly, welling up from some place inside him, and knew he was not alone.
"Magic is not a curse," he began, echoing Andraste's earlier words. "It is a blessing from the Maker, much like good aim, a strong body, or a bright mind. It is the use to which magic is put by its wielder that makes it good or evil, not the magic itself. The magic itself just is. As a sword is. As a plow is. As any tool is."
Things were balanced on a knife-edge again, but this time, he felt a deep certainty that he could direct which way things would fall. The three of them would do it, together.