The sun had begun to dip on the flat horizon, splashing its colors against the sea and turning the world a vibrant canvas of orange and purple as Tiber Hawke passed the vacant lot that once acted as the headquarters of the Qunari. The place reeked of a thick, powdery stench of rotten eggs and the musk of labor. There had been precious few that would show even a passing interest in renting the lot that had been derisively titled the throne of the Arishok. Upon glancing at the oaken gates Hawke was almost certain he could make out the groove where the Qunari herald had stood for years, a silent grimace upon his features that would excuse one's confusion for him as a statue.
Despite the eerie glow of the setting sun washing over Kirkwall's harbor district it was perhaps the safest time in the day to wander its streets. The transition from day into night was like a changing of the guard, when the legitimate businesses and laborers ended their shifts and quickly made their way to families and beds, but before the guilds and bandits felt invited by the moon to tighten their chokehold on those ignorant of who ruled Kirkwall's nocturne.
The entire district carried with it its own rank odor of mud and human waste. As the epicenter of Kirkwall's economy it saw a countless number of bodies laboring with the city's lifeblood in its purest, raw state, fortunes hidden away in crates and boxes, handled by men who had just finished a month long voyage by sea, reeking of salt, sweat, and worse. Darktown may have been where the most unwanted dregs of Kirkwall's society fled to, but the docks were populated by their own entire breed of street rats, the poor and the desperate who wanted the leg up over other unemployed workers in the desperate rush for wages at the newly arriving ships.
Hawke had originally done his best to avoid this section of the city. Never too fond of men wanting to slit his throat or the smell of the sewage run off under the docks, he had given the docks a wider berth than even a fleeing pirate ship, but Isabela's fondness for disappearing into the shadows and rematerializing on the docks with the wide eyed wonder of a young girl had forced him to look at the district with an entirely new perspective. Suddenly in spite of the dangers and the filth, Hawke saw a beauty as unique as the setting sun.
That had been why he had told Anders to meet him here and though he did not doubt that the mage would heed his summons the man's punctuality had surprised Hawke. Waiting at the furthest end of the primary port Anders was already sitting, swinging his feet over the edge and humming a tune to himself. Hawke could not put a name to the song, but recognized it from his time in Ferelden.
Tucking the bottle of brandy under his arm, Hawke approached Anders, who was alerted to his approach by the metallic thunks of his armor that he always wore. Politically, it conveniently helped to reinforce Hawke's image as the champion of Kirkwall, but practically he shook his head at every man that would brave the seats without some sort of protection - especially now.
The eviction of the Qunari should have brought a sense of calm, sanity to the city, but Kirkwall's addiction to tension and danger meant that it simply replaced the threat of the foreign Qunari with the unrest of the Templars and the Mages. They each wore the gravity of the situation in their own way, he supposed, and where Hawke opted to lace and double lace his highly polished silver armor Anders instead wore the affect of the times on a heavy, unkempt face.
As the chief of the mage underground it seemed an odd thing how openly he would walk the streets, a strange confidence in his stride, the fear of most mages replaced by a scowl of contempt for every templar he passed. He was a keg of Qunari powder it seemed, and every taunt or jeer from a Templar seemed to only shorten the whick.
At first, Hawke had wondered if Anders was beginning to abuse his friendship with Hawke, becoming more and more certain that despite the flaunting of his existence in the face of the Chantry no harm would come to an associate of Kirkwall's champion. Now, however, that seemed to be incidental, Hawke thought to himself, a convenience that had no affect on Anders's confrontational disposition. The years had been desperate and hard to the mage and it was turning him to stone.
As Hawke unscrewed the top off the bottle of brandy and gestured it toward Anders the mage stopped humming and looked down at the liquor.
"I can't believe I had to drag you out of the Gallows before you tore Meredith's eyes out," Hawke said in an attempt to cut off any protest from Anders.
The other man did not pull his gaze from the brandy, his eyes narrowing as he stared long and hard. The wind was tugging at the edges of his jacket and pulling his hair with such a force that it threatened to break the lazy pony tail he had thrown together for himself.
"No," Anders said quietly, his soft voice broken and heavy. It was surprisingly easy for Hawke to detect even in spite of the short simple word. Hawke did not relent, however, instead shaking the bottle. Anders shook his head. "Justice doesn't let me drink anymore."
"Tonight I'm in charge, and if Justice has a problem he can take it up with me."
Anders's eyes dragged upward, a tinge of worry and futility hugging their edges in a war of emotions with his mouth that curled in a slight snarl.
"Hawke, please," he started, once again mouthing "no" silently.
Hawke did not relent. "I am not drinking this whole thing myself and we're not leaving until it's gone. Heavens could you imagine what I'd wake up to if I passed out drunk on the docks?"
"A reputation like Isabela's I'd wager..." Anders said quietly.
A moment of silence existed between the two, a thick pillar of calm before Hawke shattered it with a single, hearty laugh.
"A joke? From Anders? Andraste's knickers we should drink to that."
At first Anders showed no visible response, then a moment later his eyes widened ever so slightly in a rare show of mirth. His mouth twisted ever so slightly but before he could bother to let any further thoughts intrude on his irrational decision he swiped the bottle from Hawke's hand and swallowed two, then three gulps, each one expanding on Hakwe's already surprised look.
When the mage finished he let out a thick, wet gasp, followed by a painful series of coughs, covering his mouth with one hand as he thrusted the drink back into his friend's chest.
"By the Maker, maybe it wasn't Justice that made me give it up," he said in a broken grimace between sputters.
Hawke gave the man a gentle pat on the back.
"I'm proud of you," he said before swallowing his own gulp, burning at the edges of his mouth and sapping any sense of taste from his tongue with a brutal fury.
The light headedness set in almost instantly and a rush of euphoria overcame Hawke, though it was stricken almost instantly from him when he saw the glower that Anders bore. The man was a fight among himself, though somewhere in the maelstrom of emotions he also found himself glowering dubiously at the champion of Kirkwall.
"I trusted you Hawke," Anders finally said, catching Hawke off guard and setting him aback.
"It's just a drink, Anders..."
"No," Anders interrupted, sitting up straight and taking his gaze away from the champion and turning it back to the sun that, by now, had nearly completely dipped into the sea. "A part of me...maybe...can understand your support of Meredith over Orsinio. I can...understand your motives if not your methods. You wanted to save Kirkwall from the bloodshed that may have come that day. You wanted...to defer it to another time. But in the Knight-Commander's office..."
"You were going to start a war right there in front of me," Hawke interjected, "I had to do something."
"Did you?" Anders clenched his teeth at the thought, still refusing to spare a look at Hawke. "All my life I have always felt that when you are faced with injustice, when you see a wrong, there should be no other option for good men than to confront it and do everything in their power to do right. Meredith made us her blood hounds. You could not hope I would say nothing."
"I don't believe this is Anders talking," Hawke insisted, "I think these are your words, but not your thoughts."
Finally Anders looked at his friend, his face a blue lit gaze of intensity, but there was no agreement even in the man as to what precisely was so intense. He looked hurt, angry, saddened, altogether a mix, a blended stir that looked more like a storm than a man's true reaction. "I think you don't know what you're talking about Hawke." The words seemed forced, strained, and like before, not of Anders.
Rather than respond, Hawke took another long swig of the brandy, then placed it forcefully on the dock between them. "I think it would be easier for you to think that."
Anders frowned, then to Hawke's surprise grabbed at the bottle between them then swallowed a gulp that would put many a sailor to shame. The champion watched him with a curious intensity, but struggled to keep it from showing on his face.
"There's...a lot..." Anders was visibly struggling with the words, then shook his head and locked gazes with his friend. "Where do you stand, Hawke?"
"I sit," Hawke shot back in a failed attempt at humor. Anders did not seem to approve. "You keep asking those things. You keep wondering whose on what side, who is doing what, who is...it's silly Anders. You're trying to make a war where none exists."
"I-," Anders tried, but Hawke cut him off with a shake of his hand and a fierce gaze.
"No, listen for once. You talk, but you don't listen. Now you're going to."
Anders wore a scowl, but a silent one that indicated that, at least now, he was going to hear his friend out.
"You want a fight wherever you go. You see everyone as an enemy, I daresay, even those who would call you friend."
Anders wiped the remaining spittle and brown liquid that hung on his lips and seemed, if only for a moment, to consider Hawke's words. "We're in a perilous time," he finally said at length, "we have to pick a side. We can't just-,"
"I've heard this for six years," Hawke bit back, refusing to relent an inch, "you've seen enemies around every corner for six years. Has it ever occurred to you that you're making these enemies?"
Anders seemed as though he was going to respond, but instead swallowed another impressive amount of the brandy.
"You see much, Hawke," Anders started, a hiccup seeming to interrupt his thoughts, which he tried to shrug away with an embarrassed rub at his mouth.
"Perhaps more than...someone would like me to see."
That seemed to set the mage on edge, if only for a moment. He glanced down at the bottle in his hand, as though he was unsure if it were a truth or an excuse in the midst of their conversation.
"You're treading a dangerous path."
"Someone has to," Hawke insisted, a moment of clarity in the haze that was beginning to wash over him. "I've known you a long time now Anders and this isn't you."
"What if it is?" Anders asked, a half balk in his voice as he glanced down at the murky waters beneath his kicking feet. "Are you ready to accept that?"
"I can accept a lot of things, and I think you know that," Hawke refused to relent an inch."
"Is that why..." Anders started, trailing off, unable to place the words.
"In Meredith's office?"
Anders nodded.
"Among other things." Hawke took that as good a time as any to take another swig. When he finished het let a small hiss of air escape through his lips. "Meredith is a right cunt, telling her as much isn't going to change anything." He finally locked stares with Anders again, his own hazel eyes locked with the mage's blue. "I know about Justice, everyone here does. But...do you Anders?"
A flash of turqoise shot through Anders's eyes, a pulse that was so momentary and brief that Hawke wondered for a moment if he would have realized it if he hadn't had a few drinks of the brandy he'd brought under his arm. There was an equally quick flash of a sneer before Anders's face returned to its state of calm indifference it had before.
"I know what he's doing to me," Anders finally admitted, "and it's scaring me."
"That's why I'm here, Anders," Hawke pressed, as though he were gaining ground. "We've all seen what you're capable of, you're a bright, good man. That...thing inside of you is using you, he's not helping you."
The words rolled off of Anders's shoulders, not dismissively, but as though he had heard - perhaps even thought - those very same words before. He looked back out at the ocean.
"I knew a leper once," Anders said suddenly, "back in Ferelden. It's a terrible, disgusting disease and everyone that saw me called me an idiot for wanting to help him. But...isn't that the time for bravery? When everyone is running away, shouldn't you be walking forward? There's so many rumors about where leprosy comes from. It's a curse from the Maker. It's from Lyrium. It's sexual. No one really knows why some of us are afflicted and some aren't, but I could see the agony the man's eyes. But you know what's worse Hawke? I could see the regret.
"He begged me to cure him. He clasped my wrist and he begged me, pleaded with me. It's agonizing so I felt I understood why, but he finally admitted to me. 'Priest,' he said, mistaking my identity, 'I'm cursed and I'm sorry, just let me live my life.' He felt he had wasted his life and maybe he had. He was young, early twenties, but there was no tomorrow for him. He had only the agony until his insides gave out. He was so certain a demon of some sort had punished him for not going out and just doing something with his life and he was so regretful that he always thought he would have more time, that he could fancy himself a woman, that he could enjoy another drink. But as I clasped his rotted hand, we both knew there was no future after this. The disease would punish him and then the disease would take him. All I could do was provide him some soothing balm and hope that he wouldn't scratch his own skin off."
The revelation hung loosely in the air between the two, as tangible as the silence from before. Hawke grimaced at the story, though understanding its implications and looking down.
"Justice is your affliction..." Hawke observed.
"There's no doing anything about it now. I can feel him, daily. He's like a fire. At first he seemed so manageable." Anders shook his head intently. "No, helpful. The fire kept me warm, told me there was another day. But every second, every day that went on, I neglected the spread, thinking I could always just throw a bucket on the flame. But now here I am, no better than that leper, cursed with all my thoughts of playing the hero."
"You can stand up to him you know," Hawke pressed, a sudden plea in his voice.
Anders cracked a smile for the first time as he glanced at Hawke, his eyes suddenly full of life. "You always had faith in me Hawke, and I appreciate that." He suddenly climbed to his feet, Hawke emulating his movements as the mage took one last look at the sun before it disappeared into the ocean. "I know where this will lead me. I can fight Justice no more than that boy could fight his leprosy. But to whatever end, at least I will go knowing that I had friends that wanted to give me my own balm before the flames consumed me."
"Anders..."
"I have to go Hawke," Anders snapped a look at him suddenly. "I'm glad we had this talk."
He would not suffer another word, instead Anders placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and nodded slowly before taking a long, trembling breath. Hawke did not intrude on whatever moment had come over him, opting instead to watch as his friend walked away.
You're a leper are you? The voice was like a crackle of thunder, with the accompanying jolt of lightning rocking through Anders's body. He could feel it in every inch of him, an electrical pulse that burned every inch of him, inside and out. I'm a disease? Is that what this has come to?
"I can think of no other words," was the only thing Anders could find himself responding with, his own voice quivering against Justice's scrutiny, the spirit inside of him rocking with a childish fit of anger.
This is no game. Look at what we have accomplished, what we have accomplished. Justice remained relentless. Thanks to us, mages have hope. The Knight-Commander has been stalled before she can take power in Kirkwall, the blood mages are as afraid of you as they are of the Templars, justice is at hand.
"Whose justice?" Anders asked sadly.
There is only one justice. And you dare to doubt me? You dare to drink with that...
For the first time that Anders could remember, the spirit that dwelled inside of him was bereft of words. That man is a harlot's trophy and you would hold his words in esteem?
"I don't understand why you feel the need to justify your control any longer," Anders quipped, his voice full of regret. "It is over."
Nothing is over yet, my dear Anders. The mage's mind was suddenly pulled beyond his own volition and it felt as though he were being pulled a thousand miles at impossible speeds. All at once the disgusting, leprous face of the rotted man of Ferelden was before him. Yes, Justice explained, his voice booming in Anders's head, you remember how you felt when you saw him. You remember those words. You wanted to be a hero.
"I wanted to help..."
You said it yourself. You wanted to be a hero. I will make you a hero. I will insure that your name becomes synonymous with the justice and the vengeance that the mages of Kirkwall...and the world, deserve.
"I don't want this..."
You are a coward. You have always been a coward. I have been your courage. We shall not stumble now.
Without even realizing it, Anders had found himself stumbling in the opulent marbles of Hightown. Had Justice guided him here? A shake of his head and he realized that he was standing in the courtyard of the Chantry itself, the hum of prayers emanating from inside the halls.
Anders's face contorted suddenly. "No..." he said under his breath.
We shall make you a hero. And whether you trust me or you loathe me as some kind of plague, I shall make you legend.
Anders was powerless at that moment, even as the edges of his mouth twisted in a desperate attempt to protest he could feel the urges, the wants, the compulsion to do what Justice was demanding as thoroughly as though they were his own.