A/N: My deep appreciation to lisakodysam for being a wonderful (and quick) beta. She rocks, as does her writing!
My continued thanks to all those reading and especially those taking the time to review. I appreciate it very much.

Visitors

Anya curled up in the overstuffed chair, book in hand. She should be tired; she had slept very little the night before, but her mind was alive with the possibilities of her new and unexpected future with Nathaniel. She was sure she wore a dazed and giddy smile. For the first time in seven months she felt alive. More than that, she felt hopeful, as though she could take flight.

There were so many things that she needed to do, so many tasks at hand, but her thoughts kept returning to her leap into the raging sea and the surprising peace she had found in its depths. And in Nathaniel's arms. It seemed improbable and unreal, these gossamer threads of her new life, yet for all that they were fragile, they were also resilient. She would persevere, her love for Nathaniel would continue to grow and she would finally be able to move forward.

With those thoughts came a new awareness of Anders. He was out there in the ocean of night, in the shadows that clung to the city. Was he happy? Had he found peace as well? Or was he still tormented, plagued by demons both real and imagined? Her happiness drifted away from her grasp momentarily as she was struck by a wave of grief for the man she had once loved. No matter what else happened in her future, Anders would always be with her in some fundamental way. He was in the pain of her hip on cold nights, in the limp she would carry for the rest of her life, in the ache of failure that lay just beyond her conscious thoughts. And, too,in the love she felt for Nathaniel; she would never have found him had Anders not pushed her over the edge.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts and she jumped as her memories scattered into the four corners of the room, lost in the gloom. With an effort, she pulled herself out of the chair and went to the door. A hint of apprehension crawled along her spine before it joined her thoughts. She slipped her boot knife into her pocket and leaned against the door.

"Who is it?"

"We have a mutual friend who asked me to check up on you."

A friendly voice, calm and confident, with a hint of humor tracing along the words. She opened the door and looked down at the dwarf standing in the flickering light of the hallway lamps. He had dark blonde hair and light brown eyes. An easy grin rested comfortably on his face. He was the one Nathaniel had been talking to in the square. The dwarf sketched a bow

"Varric Tethras, at your service," he said, his grin growing until it bordered on cheeky. She found herself smiling in return.

"Our mutual friend would be Nathaniel?" she asked, opening her door wider to admit the dwarf.

He wore a finely-made leather duster, unbuttoned. His dark silk shirt, richly embroidered and open nearly to his navel, revealed a thick furring of springy light brown hair on his chest and a heavy gold chain. In fact, he appeared to be wearing more jewelry than she owned.

She eyed his crossbow with an appreciation she had not possessed before her lessons in archery. It was beautiful. The red cedar tiller glowed brilliantly in the firelight, attesting to years of lovingly-applied wax and the brass and silver cocking ring and fittings were gleaming in the firelight.

"Ah, you have your eyes on my Bianca."

"She's as fine a weapon as I've ever seen."

With a jaunty tilt of his head, Varric studied her with the practiced ease of a man long accustomed to sizing up his friends and foes alike. "So, you're the woman who finally captured Ser Untouchable."

"Ser Untouchable?"

"Naughty Nate."

Anya's laughter caught her unawares, trilling along her lips and sailing into the room. "Naughty Nate?"

Varric eyed the bottle of Nevarran whiskey sitting on the table between two chairs. "Shall we get acquainted, milady? I've a few stories to tell about that man you seem rather fond of."

"Yes, I'd like that, Ser Tethras."

His brown eyes widened in mock horror. "Please don't ever call me that again. I'm Varric to my friends. And you, lovely lady, are most definitely going to become a friend."

She poured them each two fingers of whiskey and raised her glass to him. "Here's to new friends."

She trusted him implicitly. He was Nathaniel's friend, how could she not? There was something utterly charming about him that inspired trust.

Tipping her head back, she let the fiery liquid slide down her throat to warm her stomach, shivering in appreciation as the warmth spread through her entire body. "You must tell me how Nathaniel came by such a strange moniker. Naughty is not a word one usually associates with Nathaniel."

"I'll drink to that. The first time I met Ser Untouchable he was fighting off three attackers. Those poor sods couldn't touch him. One minute he was there and the next he was hidden in the shadows, striking with the precision of a snake, before disappearing again. I was so impressed I didn't even wake Bianca up, just stood watching."

Refilling the glasses, she listened with rapt attention as the man began to weave a tale of derring-do that would make Nathaniel blush if he heard it. "After that, he was known as Ser Untouchable. It was the ladies of The Blooming Rose who named him Naughty Nate."

Anya frowned. "The Blooming Rose?"

"You provincials. You've never heard of The Blooming Rose? It's only the most famous brothel east of The Paradise in Val Royeaux."

Color swept into Anya's cheeks, warming them much as the whiskey had warmed her insides. She hadn't considered the possibility that Nathaniel would visit a brothel, let alone earn the nickname of Naughty Nate in such a place. She realized how reticent he had always been when speaking of his past

"Indeed? Will it make me blush even more to learn how he came by such a name?"

"Undoubtedly," he replied with a chuckle before launching into the tale.

~~~oOo~~~

The thick curtain of clouds parted, revealing the night sky. Hawke, face upturned, drank in the heavenly display, letting her tumultuous thoughts seek solace in the silent beauty that stretched before her; a whirlwind of emotions made calm by a crown of stars. She breathed deeply, aware of the profound stillness, moved by it.

Anders had lied to her, yet she couldn't find it within her to be angry with him. One unselfish act had led to the loss of everything he'd held dear; his friends, his lover, his self respect. It explained how emotionally raw he often appeared to be. It explained how lost he looked when he thought nobody was watching him. While she wasn't angry with him, she was wary. How much did he remember of the events before he fled Ferelden? How much control did he have over Justice? Or did Justice no longer exist? Had the spirit become the demon of Vengeance?

A delicate shiver ran through her as the wind began to dance with the treetops. The soft song of branches brushing against each other broke the silence; a susurration of leaves mourning the coming winter.

She missed the harshness of a Ferelden winter, the cold mistress of snow and icy winds howling disconsolately across the frozen land. It was the only aspect of Ferelden she missed. People thought her mad to say so but now, with winter just a few months away, she envied Carver. Out at sea, on his way back to his homeland just in time to prepare for the first snows.

She wondered if he would miss her or if he knew how much she loved him and admired him. Had she told him? Had she taken the time to let him know that his sacrifices for the family had been appreciated? Would he ever be able to return to Kirkwall? Surely he would be granted time off on occasion? She should have asked Anya for more details.

Anya Caron had been a surprise, not at all what she would expect of a commander or of an Orlesian. Hawke had been raised to hate Orlesians, to despise the former occupiers of Ferelden, but she had been drawn to the woman, had found her charming and forthright. Hawke could appreciate why Anders would fall in love with Anya but, as hard as she tried, she could not understand how he could have hurt her so badly, not just in body but in mind. It went against everything he was as a healer.

Did Justice have such tight control of Anders that he no longer had any free will? She had seen with her own eyes how powerful Justice was and how easily he was provoked. Had he tricked Anders into merging? Had Anders not learned that spirits were almost as dangerous as demons? Did they not teach that in the Circle of Magi? Her father had drummed it into her from the time she was first coming into her power. Speak with spirits, but do not trust them. If they wish to assist, let them do so in the Fade.

Sighing, she closed her eyes against the gathering clouds. Soon, the stars were once again swallowed by the thick fog. The wind died away and the branches, no longer swaying, reached dark fingers to the sky that hung just out of reach.

"Hawke."

She startled, already powering up a spell before she realized who had spoken from the shadowed recesses of the garden. She felt a curious combination of dread and hope.

"Fenris."

The elf moved closer, his white hair and lyrium markings ghostly in the ambient light. He came closer still until Hawke could make out his features and the grim expression on his handsome face. He bowed his head slightly and crouched down beside her on the grass.

"I wanted to apologize. I know I seemed ungrateful for the gift."

A wry smile crept out. "Did you?"

"Very well, have your fun and be done with it," Fenris groused but not before his own smile flashed briefly, a gleam of white teeth there and gone in seconds.

"Haven't you ever received a gift before, Fenris? You thank people for them, you don't bark at them as if you are an angry mabari."

"No, I have never received a gift before."

"Well now you have, although I'm not sure I'll ever have the courage to give you another."

"You don't understand how magic enslaved me," he began but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"I understand better than most. When we were children, my father often asked us if we could be anything we wanted, what would it be? Bethany always said the same thing: she wanted to be normal. Carver vacillated between wanting to be a general and wanting to be a farmer. Mostly, he just wanted to have his own life, I think. And what do you think I wanted?"

"Must I play guessing games?" he finally asked after several moments of silence.

"Free. All I ever wanted, all I still want, is to be free. To live my life on my terms without fear of being captured by the templars, enslaved in a tower. We are all slaves in some form or fashion, if we allow it."

"But you are free," he argued.

"As are you. You are as free as you allow yourself to believe you are."

Silence, broken only by the sound of his body settling more comfortably beside her, filled the walled garden. Hawke was content to let it engulf them both and she sat, hands folded in her lap.

"I will think on what you have said."

Perhaps she could allow herself to hope after all.

~~~oOo~~~

"Yes, what is it?" Nathaniel asked, staring at the tall young man who stood on the other side of the threshold.

"I wanted to apologize for being so out of line. I know I have a big mouth and it starts working long before my brain does. I'm a soldier. I don't think. I act."

"Perhaps it's time you learned to be a Grey Warden and not a soldier."

Nathaniel was not in the mood for more lip from Carver Hawke. He was trying to sort through the paperwork Stroud had sent with him, at Anya's request. The expeditions into the Deep Roads, in search of the ancient Grey Warden prison, had been fruitless and had cost two Wardens their lives. Both Stroud and Anya were concerned that the prison had been built under the Waking Sea, much deeper than anyone had suspected. The ancient maps leading to the prison were coded and in poor shape, the copies of them even more illegible. It amazed him how foolish the Wardens were regarding some of their secrets.

"That's why I'm here. I want to talk about the Wardens."

With an ungracious sigh, Nathaniel beckoned Carver in before turning to the maps strewn on the desk. He began to fold them, his back to the young Warden. "What do you want to know?"

"What's to be expected of me? The Blight is over and the darkspawn seem to be returning to the Deep Roads. What do we do in between Blights?"

"We stay vigilant. We train. We map out areas of the Deep Roads. We fight the small bands of darkspawn that attack on the surface. We assist the dwarves in Orzammar when they ask for help, which isn't often. We recruit new Wardens. We pray that another Archdemon doesn't rise up."

Carver grinned; a self-deprecating expression that made Nathaniel feel a tug of sympathy. In some ways, Carver reminded him of the young, bitter man who had returned to Vigil's Keep determined to avenge his father and reclaim the lost glory of the Howes. Carver was lost and seeking his own identity, something Nathaniel related to on a deep level.

"So, no greatness, just grunt work."

"If we do our jobs properly, people live. That's not grunt work. We sacrifice a great deal in order to keep the darkspawn at bay. An early death, no children, a battle that seems eternal, and precious little recognition, but it's compelling work. Honest work."

"Huh. How early a death?"

"Hard to say, Warden. The Commander has been a Warden for seven years. She probably has twenty left, if the 'spawn don't kill her first. The average is thirty years from the time of the Joining but it can be less or more, depending on how your body adjusts to the taint."

He didn't want to think about how little time he and Anya had together. Twenty years if they were lucky, none if they weren't. But he would rather have the time they had already shared than none at all and it was that thought he chose to focus on.

"How did Commander Anya get that limp? I mean, what did Anders do to her?"

Nathaniel ran a hand through his unbound hair and sighed heavily. No matter how much Anya wanted to sugar-coat what Anders had done, he didn't have it in him to do the same. "He tried to kill her. He nearly succeeded. It was weeks before she regained consciousness."

"Why? Why would he do that?"

Why indeed? Nathaniel wondered if he would ever have a satisfactory answer to the question that had dogged him for seven months. He supposed it shouldn't matter. She was alive. She was herself again, and in some indefinable ways, she was stronger than she had been before. More importantly, she had finally moved beyond the reach of Anders and she had given herself freely to him. What more did he need in order to leave the past behind him?

"Because he's like any other animal when it's cornered; vicious and mindless. He disobeyed the Commander and when the templars tried to capture him, he lost control. He killed the other Wardens in his party and the templars as well. Somehow he managed to stop himself from killing her or maybe he thought she was dead."

Nathaniel blinked away the unwanted image that arose. The carnage, the brutality of the attack was still so vivid in him mind. He remembered the smell of burnt flesh and the coppery tang of blood that had clung to everything. He remembered Anya, broken and barely alive, lying amidst the rubble. A shudder passed through him and he blinked again.

"If he harms Margaret I don't care what the orders are, I will find him and kill him," Carver vowed, his voice a promise of steel and resolve.

"Your sister knows what he's capable of now. I doubt she's in any danger."

Easy words, but no comfort came with them. Carver shook his head. "I've spent my whole life trying to protect her. It's not like I can just stop because I'm a Grey Warden."

Nathaniel smiled coldly. "If he harms her, you'll have my permission to leave your post and seek him out," he promised.

~~~oOo~~~

Anders paced the small confines of his living quarters, if such a small, shabby room could be called such a thing. The room contained very little of his previous life and even less of his new life. A narrow cot filled one half of the room. He looked around the room and his jaws tightened. He lived in squalor. It seemed fitting, all things considered.

He continued pacing, concentrating on keeping his mind calm. It seemed an impossible task. Somewhere in the city of Kirkwall was the woman he had loved, still loved. His Annie. Crippled because of him. He wanted to see her, felt a desperate need to beg her forgiveness, to atone in some measurable way for what he had done to her. Perhaps he could do something to correct her limp? And what had made that swath of hair go completely white, as if the color had been stripped away? What had he done to her that would have caused her lovely red hair to turn white? Why couldn't he remember more about the attack?

In his agitation, he smashed his fist into the thick stone wall. He heard a loud crack and felt several bones give way, breaking the skin. Blood began to trickle along his fingers and drip onto the floor. He stared dumbly at the damage to his hand. It seemed less than he deserved but the healer in him was already casting spells to repair the damaged bones.

A flicker of memory stirred. Anya had been dangling from his outstretched arm like a rag doll before being tossed carelessly aside. But a clump of hair and scalp remained in his hand. His stomach heaved. Maker's breath. How could she not want to kill him for what he'd done, what Justice had done? Why was she not demanding his head?

Stop this, Anders. These thoughts serve no purpose.

Shut up. I'm tired of listening to you. I'm tired of being controlled by you. You have no self-restraint. No compassion. No mercy. You would have killed that mage. You would have killed Anya.

No! I would not kill Anya. I could not kill her. Even now, I cannot.

Anders frowned, a new awareness emerging from the chaos of his thoughts. Could that really be true? It made sense. It brought logic to the inconceivable. A smile formed on his lips and he straightened his shoulders, sure of himself and the knowledge that now rested in his heart.

You love Anya. YOU love her, Justice. You learned about love from Kristoff's memories and you fell in love with Annie. That's why you were so insistent on the merging. You wanted to experience what love was like as a human.

No! You need to believe such lies because it is easier to blame me than to admit your own fault, Anders. But I am no demon. Do not blame me for your own selfishness.

You are the one who is lying, Justice. It's a lie you have to believe because to admit otherwise means you were envious; jealous of what Annie and I had. Such envy and jealousy would make you a demon, not a spirit.

No! I am a spirit of Justice!

You are a demon of Vengeance. You were a demon of aaugh! Stop it!

Anders fell to his knees, head in his hands as the pain grew more intense. He shook his head, focusing on remaining in control. A moan escaped and then he struggled to stand, to ignore the pain.

Cease these accusations immediately!

You can't stop me from speaking the truth, not if you truly are the spirit of Justice. To do so would go against your very nature.

You will cease or you will pay the price, Anders!

Anders felt laughter bubbling up in him, the laughter that comes with relief. He was almost giddy, his heart lighter than it had been in seven months. He had been tricked and he was to blame for that but now he knew how little he'd ever been in control of the merging and the subsequent events.

You can't control me now that I know the truth.

I cannot, Anders, but he can.

The laughter that had bubbled up died as suddenly as it had started.