A/N: Thank you to all of those who are lurking, reading, subscribing and especially those taking time to review this story. I truly appreciate it.
Huge thanks to super awesome beta, lisakodysam. She is amazing.

What We Tell Ourselves

Bleak and grey, the dawn refused to chase away the gloom. Clouds, violet and fat with rain, scudded across the sky. The few trees in the courtyard below were bending and swaying under the fierceness of the wind. Anya was not looking forward to sailing in stormy weather. She was an indifferent sailor on the best of days. She shivered as she packed the last of her gear and prepared to leave the warmth of the inn. Opening the door, she found Stroud leaning casually against the wall. He looked up with a slow smile.

"Good morning, Anya. You should stop frowning. It does terrible things to your face."

"Maker's breath, Stroud, don't you have somewhere else to be today?"

"Now, now. If I had somewhere else to be would I be here?"

She suspected Nathaniel had arranged her visit from Varric the night before as well as Stroud's company. A spark of anger flared briefly. She was a commander, a grown woman and an able fighter. She didn't need to be coddled, nor did she want to be. Nathaniel should know that by now. Her anger was tempered by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. It was so like Nathaniel to quietly arrange protection for her without saying a word about it. She would, however, discuss the matter with him when she returned to the Vigil. He needed to trust in her ability to look after herself. Not that she had done a very good job of it in the past. That thought sat in her heart as sharp and heavy as leaded glass.

"So your duties are to play watchdog to the helpless commander?" she asked, her tone far more acerbic than she'd intended. Stroud took no offense, laughing heartily.

"Helpless? You? Your tongue is sharp enough to protect you from any attackers."

"I see your time in the Free Marches hasn't curbed your sense of humor."

"Just as I see that your time in Ferelden has not mellowed you," he replied dryly.

Stroud shouldered her pack and picked up her valise before offering his other arm to her. She took it, tucking herself closely against him, her cloak pulled tightly against the brisk morning air.

"If you see Charmoir, tell him he still owes me a bottle of Orlesian red. Niggardly bastard has owed me for over a year."

"One would think you'd learn not to make bets with him. Getting him to pay up on any bet is like trying to wring moisture from a rock."

Despite her best efforts to tell herself she didn't need help or want the company of her old friend, she was grateful for his solid presence. It was the rawness of the day, and not her emotions, she told herself. She almost believed it.

They talked all the way to the docks; small talk, shared memories of old friends that invariably led to laughter and teasing. They avoided talking about her injuries, the rise in darkspawn activity in the Free Marches or anything even remotely meaningful. It was the way of the Grey Wardens. Everyone knew the harsh realities of their life; they didn't need to be constantly reminded of them and instead chose to focus on laughter and ordinary, mundane matters.

The Hesperus, a carrack sitting as low and heavy as the clouds in the storm-tossed sky, was ready for departure. Sailors were scurrying across the slanted oak decks and the air rang with orders and acknowledgements. Stroud walked her up the gangplank and then handed off her gear to a young sailor. As soon as his hands were free, he picked her up, swinging her around in his arms, his brown eyes warm and lively.

"Keep safe, little Anya. And come back for a longer visit soon. I've a few more bottles of whiskey hidden away."

"Put me down, you overgrown child!" she laughed, breathless. "It is high time you came to Vigil's Keep for a visit. You need to see how the nobles live," she added with a feigned gentility.

"Maker's ass, I'd rather kiss a genlock."

"Be careful what you wish for, friend."

He dropped a light kiss on the tip of her nose and then leapt back onto the dock with a wave before striding off without a backward glance. The Grey Wardens didn't waste time on long farewells, either. To do so meant acknowledging how short life was, how brutally it could end. That did not diminish the sincerity of a brief farewell. Theirs had been as they always were, affectionate and quick and his presence had soothed her nerves. She stood at the rail, listening to the sounds of the crew getting ready to cast off, her mind calm for all that a storm was gathering.

Anya spied Anders just as the unfurled sails of The Hesperus caught the wind and began to glide out of the harbor. He stood on the dock she had so recently stood on, his face a mask of misery and grief. His hands hung lifelessly at his sides and she had never seen anyone look so utterly alone. Her instinct was to raise her hand, to let him know she had forgiven him, but she wouldn't do that because it would be a lie. Some small part of her wanted to punish him even though she denied it. She told herself she wasn't so petty but she made no move to acknowledge him.

Instead, she clutched tightly to the rail and struggled to keep her expression neutral, all the while trying to get her thundering heart under control. She resolved not to respond to his presence in any way, but Maker it was difficult. She stared at him, allowing herself to take in as much detail as the distance between them permitted. Holding herself still, not showing the swell of emotion within her, was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

He had lost weight and nowhere was it more evident than in his face. His chin was more pronounced, jutting away from the sharpened angle of his jaw. His eyes seemed sunken, dark shadows like ink smudges beneath them. His cheeks were gaunt and his once broad shoulders seemed shrunken and stooped. He had dyed his hair; a dirty light brown color with hints of red in it and he wore it differently. The Anders she had loved was well and truly gone. Her inner voice whispered words of gratitude. The last small sparks of hope for his redemption flickered and were extinguished.

With strength she didn't know she possessed, she let go of her death grip on the rail and turned her back on him, moving as quickly as she could to her small cabin. In the safety of her room, she leaned against the door, eyes closed. Myriad emotions swirled in her heart, throwing her normally well-ordered thoughts into chaos. Rage. Sorrow. Pity. Regret. Fear. Hate and love were gone but the other emotions continued to try to erode her newfound peace.

He'd looked as though he was wasting away from an incurable disease. He'd looked tormented, as if the ghosts of the Void were chasing him. He'd looked frightened, a little boy lost; bereft. Sympathy tugged at her again and she ruthlessly thrust it out of her heart. She would not feel sorry for him. He had chosen to merge with Justice. He had chosen to throw her away to do so. A sob welled up and she choked it down. He would not get another tear from her. Not one more.

Pushing herself away from the door, she made her way to the narrow bed that was bolted to the wall. She sank onto it and, still wearing her boots and gloves, she pulled the blankets around her and curled into a ball, closing her eyes against hot tears that stung and burned her eyelids in their need to fall. She blinked them away, angry at their insistence on falling. They did not.

Anya concentrated on the gentle rocking motion of the ship as it continued on its way to the deepwater channels of the Waking Sea. She concentrated on Nathaniel and the new joy her heart had discovered in his arms. She focused on the tasks before her. She focused on the stories she had heard from Varric and the surprising side of Nathaniel she had not known existed.

Varric was, she had discovered, a natural storyteller. The cadence and timbre of his voice drew her in and his colorful words and innate charm held her spellbound as he talked late into the night. He loved a good audience, he claimed, and she was exactly that. He took to calling her Blue Eyes and warned her that he was already spinning yarns about her in his head:

"You know, Blue Eyes, I think you'd make for some interesting tales. I'll bet there are things about you even Naughty Nate doesn't know. You might as well tell me what they are. Otherwise, I'll be forced to make them up."

Anya chuckled, setting her glass aside before speaking. "I think you would be better served making them up, Varric. I am a very boring person."

Varric snickered. "Nate said pretty much the same thing about himself, but dig a little deeper and you'd be amazed what you learn about a person."

"You are, no doubt, a very persistent man. However, I am a very stubborn woman, as I'm sure Nathaniel mentioned. You would do yourself a great favor if you gave up trying to wrestle information from me. Besides, I believe you owe me an explanation of how Nathaniel came by his nickname?"

Varric laughed, loud and hearty, his eyes brimming with humor. "You know he'll come back here and make sure I don't tell anyone else his secrets."

Anya raised her brow. "Of all the things Nathaniel told me about you, he didn't mention you were so cautious."

"Cautious? Madam, you have once again wounded me. You have also forced me very neatly into a corner, I might add."

There was a pause, as Varric eyed her once again, his face thoughtful. "You aren't easily offended are you, Anya? I mean, riling Nate's one thing. Riling you might be more than I can handle."

Anya shook her head. "No need to worry, Varric. I've been around soldiers my entire life. It takes a great deal to offend me, but thank you for asking," she replied with a grin.

He rubbed his chin and then sat back, smiling at her. "I mentioned my first meeting with Nate, but there's much more to the story. He was sent to Kirkwall by Lord Maslan, the man he was squiring for. That man was as sadistic a son of a bitch as you'll ever meet. The rumors were that he ate kittens for breakfast. Blue Eyes, I'm here to tell you that he had a side of eggs with those kittens. But in my position I'm forced to work with all types of nasty.

"Nate came to Kirkwall to look after Maslan's…business assets. I was supposed to help him and I only agreed to watch those assets to get him off my ass. Some men are too unsavory even for me.

"I expected Nate to be just like the surly bastard. I was prepared to deal with him as quickly as I could and then walk away. Instead he was broody and dark, two things women seem to find irresistible, although I think charming and short are much more irresistible. He wasn't half bad, but didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor.

"Who would have guessed a strapping young noble of twenty would still be a virgin? I'm telling you, Blue Eyes, I was sure he'd already ploughed his share of fields so imagine my surprise when I suggested a trip to The Blooming Rose and he flatly refused. Said he was saving himself for a special someone. Once I stopped snickering, I asked him if he had someone special he was saving himself for. He didn't. What can I say? I took his virginity as a challenge."

Varric looked at her, gauging her reaction to his story but Anya was enraptured, leaning forward in her chair, anxious for the story to continue. Varric didn't disappoint her.

"A week later, having discussed Nate's unusual state with several of the ladies of The Blooming Rose, I brought Naughty Nate there after we'd shared a few pints at The Hanged Man. As soon as we settled at a table, a group of gorgeous women draped their scantily-clad selves over the man. His face was as red as a ripe strawberry and he glared at me with those steely grey eyes of his. I started to get a bit nervous at that point. I mean, I'd seen the man fight. I started inching away when he finally opened his mouth.

"Anya, I'll never forget what happened next. I was sure he was going to tell me off in very cold, colorful language or maybe pop me in the mouth. Instead, he started singing. Yes ser, he belted out the bawdiest song I'd ever heard. And I'd heard quite a few by that point in my life. He had the whole place busting up. Maker, that man can sing! Launched into another and then with a shrug, chose the three prettiest ladies in the group and headed upstairs.

"The sounds that came from the room had most of the men green with envy. Not me, of course. I know my way around the women just fine, thanks, and they don't complain. Two hours later he came down the stairs, grinning like the cockiest son of a bitch I'd ever seen, and ordered a round of drinks for the entire place. On my bloody tab! Said I owed him that much.

"After that, he was a regular. Once a week, he'd go to The Blooming Rose, belt out a risqué song or two and take a few choice women upstairs for a few hours. Those ladies fought for the honor but never would say what went on up there. And naturally Nate wouldn't say. Claimed no real gentleman would ask or tell. Who the hell wants to be a gentleman if that's the case?"

Anya was laughing by the end of the story. When she finally caught her breath, she asked, "Are you making this up? Nathaniel sings? Knows bawdy songs?"

"Madam, if I'm lying may the Maker himself come down and squash me like a bug!

"He returned to Maslan a few weeks later and it was four years before I saw him again. Spent a year in Kirkwall that time and then went back to Ferelden to avenge his father. I didn't think I'd live to see Ser Untouchable so willing to be touched by only one woman but I've never seen the broody bastard look happier. You're good for him, Blue Eyes. Damned good."

A blush painted her cheeks as she listened to his words. "I love him," she said simply. Varric chuckled.

"You don't say?"

Anya rolled over, blinking. The need to cry was gone. The sense of failure, of despair, had left her. Swinging her legs off the bed, she padded over to her pack and searched it for the oatcakes the innkeeper's wife had kindly offered her that morning.

~~~oOo~~~

Anders, you do us a grave disservice.

I need to see her, to beg her forgiveness. Her ship leaves within the hour, according to Cricket. I want to be there. I need to do this.

What you have done cannot be undone. Begging serves no purpose.

You call yourself a spirit of Justice but what justice was there for Anya? You are as responsible as I am for her injuries and I won't let you forget that just because you don't like to hear it.

Justice fell silent. Anders wondered how long before the pain would stab at his head but, to his surprise, there was no retaliation. A fleeting sense of triumph found its way past the apprehension. It didn't last long, however, before the deep, resonant voice spoke; Vengeance, the 'he' that Justice had warned him about. But it was no separate voice; no third entity lived inside him. It was merely the reflection of anger and bitterness within both Anders and Justice and no matter how little Justice wanted to admit it, Anders knew it was true. He refused to be cowed by the spirit in that moment, intent on his mission.

You are weak and that weakness infects Justice. I will not tolerate it.

You are Justice. You're also me. You can't do anything about it. There is no 'he', there is only 'us' and that 'us' includes the creation you call 'he.' You're just afraid to admit you have those twisted emotions inside yourself but denying it doesn't mean it isn't true.

A bitter laugh escaped Anders before he continued. Kill me if you won't tolerate my behavior. Destroy me if I am infecting Justice. Do you really think I care if I die?

The symbiotic relationship between them was slowly devouring them both. Vengeance spoke as much for Anders as for Justice, as loath as Anders was to admit it. But he was learning how to navigate the labyrinth created by the threads that bound him and Justice together. In small ways Anders was beginning to exert control. A part of him believed he would soon master Vengeance and he vowed to strive for that goal at any cost. He felt the gradual shift of power and his belief in himself was beginning to return.

Anders left his clinic, determined to maintain control. He was not going to keep giving in to the darkness that swirled around his soul. Once he had believed himself a good and loving man. He still was somewhere deep inside. He would find that man again. He had to if he hoped to stay in control of Vengeance.

Stepping off the lift, Anders made his way along the streets, hurrying as the sun tried and failed to break through the wall of clouds that gathered above the city. The morning was cold and raw and he knew Annie would be apprehensive. She hated sailing, especially on stormy seas. As soon as he arrived at the docks, doubts began to flood his mind.

You ever were selfish, Anders. Even I saw that. I fail to understand how Anya could not have seen it as well.

Something inside Anders squirmed at the seed of truth in Justice's words. He had been selfish but not in a mean way. He ignored Justice and continued walking along the wharf's lower levels, remembering Annie as she had been when they had first discovered they loved each other. She had told him, more than once, that he held too much of himself back, only pretending to be open. He had vehemently denied it. He'd been stung by her words, but he knew now how true they were. He would not make the same mistake again should he be given a second chance.

She is with Stroud, do not approach her.

Anders blinked. He had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't realized they'd arrived at the ship. Without thinking, he slipped around the corner of a building and waited for Stroud to leave, hoping he would do so before the ship set sail.

Maker, she looked so small and vulnerable, standing on the deck, wrapped in her cloak. She clung to the rail as she watched Stroud disappear around the corner of a warehouse. Her hood was back, and Anders saw again the white patch of hair, shorter than the rest. In some indefinable way it made her seem exotic and even more beautiful. He felt the ache in his chest expand. He missed her. He missed her touch, her warmth, her lilting Orlesian voice, her counsel. She had tried to make him a better person, tried to encourage him to strive for loftier goals but he had believed he was content.

He stared at her, trying to get up the courage to wave at her. He knew the instant she caught sight of him. The delicate pink roses that bloomed in her cheeks withered away, leaving her as pale as parchment. Her eyes widened and he saw her hands on the rail flexing as if she was unable to loosen her hold on it. Then she simply shut down.

Of course she was shocked to see him appear out of nowhere. A moment's shock that would abate and then she would grace him with one of her radiant smiles and he would be able to breathe again; to live again; to set down the terrible burden of his guilt. Instead, she turned and walked away without any acknowledgement at all. His heart felt frozen; his mind was numb.

She has not forgiven us. She has no reason to. Let us leave her in peace, Anders.

Justice's words were filled with heartbreak, so human and fragile sounding that it shook Anders to his core. A bitter laugh broke from him and settled heavily in the air. He turned on his heel, furious and hurt. In those moments, as his mind slowly recovered from the shock of her complete rejection, he felt as though he was the demon and Justice was the sympathetic and injured human. He tried to deny it and he almost succeeded.

Anders shivered as the cold wind swept in from the sea.