Happy Sunday, my dears! A huge thank you to all of you for your continued support; it truly means the world. And a giant thank you to the epic AnnaLucia for beta-ing.

Anders felt consciousness stirring within him, like new life awakening under deep winter snow. He held his breath for a moment and focused on the distinct sensation of warmth and feeling comfortable. Wherever he was, he couldn't remember the last time he felt so safe and relaxed: Justice was so relentless, driving him on and on—

Justice. He usually would've chided him for such thoughts, criticized his sloth by now, and yet the spirit was eerily silent. Anders furrowed his brow.

"Where are we?" he croaked, voice rusty from disuse. No matter how he plumbed the depths of his mind, there was no sign of Justice: simply a hollowness that shook him to his core. Anxiety pent up inside him like a wave.

'Alright,' he told himself, 'let's think this through rationally. Retrace your steps.'

His palms sweated as he racked his brain. There was a black hole in his memory where the last few days should've been. Why couldn't he remember? What had happened to him? Where was Justice?

A field of white greeted Anders, once he opened his eyes. He was in a modest, whitewashed room, a cheery fire crackling in the tidy fireplace. A cold lump settled in his stomach: he didn't recognize anything there.

"We must do something, Hawke," he heard in the other room, "I can't tend him, I have my clinics to care for." Anders shot up in bed, dizziness setting in. Was that... Merrill? What was she doing with 'clinics?' Had so much changed in the half a year he'd been gone?

"Go ask yer assistant," Hawke replied, "what's her name? Annie? She can watch him 'till he wakes."

"It's Aggie, and she's busy helping me with cases; I can't spare her. Besides, she's with child, she can't be overworking." Receding footsteps thumped on the wood, as though someone was pacing. "Lethallan, he's perfectly safe now; I sense only him—"

"He tried to kill me, Merrill, I can't be alone with him. I won't, don't make me—"

"I'm not 'making' you do anything, but remember that was Justice, not Anders. Anders would never harm you, Hawke."

Anders fell back against the wall, stunned. He had... gone after his Marian? When? Why? She was the love of his life; he could never harm her—Justice would know; he always did.

"Justice?" he whispered, stomach clenching from fear. "Justice, what happened? Where are you?"

Silence greeted him, and Anders gasped. No. No, no, no, this wasn't right: no matter how he centered himself and searched the corners of his mind, he sensed nothing. He was hollow inside, a tiny kernel rattling around a cavernous shell. Utterly alone in the sea of his confusion. Anders haphazardly threw back the covers and tried to stand, falling back onto the cot. The bedside table rattled.

The voices outside hushed. The patter of bare feet on wood contrasted greatly with the characteristic heavy boot-fall he grew to know over the years.

"Creators!" Merrill cried, rushing across the room to settle him again, "you can't be up and around, yet; you're too weak. Lie down—"

He craned his neck around Merrill, eyes fixing on Hawke. "Marian?" He called. "Marian, it's you, you're here! Marian?"

Even from across the room, he could tell she stiffened at his words, eyes shining in the firelight. She turned on her heel and bolted. Anders tried to pursue her.

"Leave her be," Merrill said, "She needs to settle herself, yet. She'll come around."

"What happened? Why is she like this?"

Sadness stole over her features as Merrill launched into her pathetic tale. Anders's eyes widened. He had no recollection of the events detailed, mere wisps of sensations that resembled vivid dreams and not the harsh reality they were. It frightened him to no end.

"I need to see her," he said, "I-I have to explain—"

"She's frightened," Merrill replied. "Anders. That demon—We've battled them for years, but never have dealt with such a... I…I can't imagine what it was like, having to wrestle with that every day. I'm so sorry for you."

The air burned out of him at those words. A thousand emotions swirled inside, confusing and turbid. He was… angry to lose Justice, such an integral part of him now taken away without his consent. He felt betrayed, disillusioned. Ashamed. Justice was more than just a spirit, to Anders: he was his closest friend, who witnessed his struggles, triumphs, and pain.
He was his support, when the memories and nightmares were too much. Justice assisted him in healing the sick and poor, sculpted his life and gave it meaning, and now he was gone…

Anders was plummeting down into the abyss, with nothing to hold on to. He felt sick.

"Let it out," Merrill said, patting his shoulder and offering a handkerchief. "You're safe now, Anders."

He scoffed a laugh through his tears. That wasn't even his real name, 'Anders:' he'd been the 'Anders boy' most of his life, since his parents were from the Anderfels to the west. The only one who knew his true name—his true self—was Justice. His removal robbed him of it, of the unconditional acceptance he'd so desperately craved all his life. The sorrow was so raw inside, he felt numb.

Time slowed to a crawl, then. His world shrunk, leaving no room for anything but his pain. Two arms held him tightly as he sobbed; he assumed they were Merrill's, from the quiet Dalish melody hummed in his ear. Marian would never do such a thing; she wasn't the sort for embraces or affection. He let Merrill stroke his hair, whisper that everything was alright despite his trepidation. When she offered him a mug of tinctures, Anders accepted gladly, recognizing the recipe just from the smell; he'd used it often at his clinic for upset.

Anders drew the covers up around his ears, staring at the wall as he waited for the tinctures to kick in. Perhaps, if lucky, he would wake up and all this would prove a nightmare, and the ache in his chest would stop. He could feel whole again… He'd thought the same thing, after his parents had sold him to the Templars all those years ago. No one had come to save him then, and he highly doubted any would come to save him now.

It was some time after nightfall when Anders woke. The low fire cast long shadows on the whitewashed walls, the dim light highlighting a body in the armchair by the fire. He blinked, eyes acclimating to the darkness. Much to his surprise, it was Marian, hands clenched around her knees, coiled and ready to flee at a moment's notice. She was staring at him, he realized, no doubt deciding if she ought to stay, like a feral cat he'd once tried to bring into the clinic.

'She's afraid,' Merrill's words came back to him. 'She'll come around.'

Anders smiled to himself. As a man of many talents: being charming was one of the best among them. He stretched, letting out an obvious yawn to announce his waking. Marian tensed, but did not leave; Anders considered it a small victory.

"'Bout time," Marian said, "I'd have to wake ye just to make ye drink something."

He scoffed; his lips were chapped and split, now that he felt them. "You know me," he said with a cheerful tone, "once I get involved in something, I never come up for air… or water."

His joke fell on deaf ears. Marian merely crossed the room to his bedside, offering him a tankard of water. "Here," she said, "there's soup I can heat, if ye're hungry—"

"Thank you." His hand 'accidentally' touched hers as he accepted the tankard. Much to his delight, she gasped ever so slightly, expression shifting when he reached and caressed her cheek.

"…Marian, I've missed you so—"

She flinched away, swatting his hand. "Hands off," she muttered, rushing from the room.

Anders fell back onto the wall behind him with a disappointed sigh. His eyes must have drifted closed, because the next thing he was aware of was Marian clearing her throat.

"It's hot," she warned, "just took it off the hearth. Watch ye don't burn yerself."

Anders nodded thanks, the room sinking into an inevitable silence as he ate. It was a simple leek and onion soup, thin ribbons of egg lending creaminess and body. Being hungrier than he realized; half the bowl was empty in a few minutes.

"…Why didn't ye say anything?" she asked, after a moment. "All those years, why did ye shut me out?"

The spoon clacked against the earthen crock when he dropped it. "I…" what could he say? "He wasn't a monster: Justice helped me make a difference in the world. He understood me better than anyone living or dead—"

"Bullshit," she spat, shaking her head, eyes glimmering in the firelight. "…I saw that thing ye trusted, Anders; I could taste its hatred on me tongue, it was so strong. And that's what ye favored over me. Me." She pointed to herself in emphasis, blinking hard. "The 'love of yer life,' ye called me: yet ye hid that from me. It nearly killed us in the Fade, and ye dealt with it alone all this time, sayin' nothing. How could ye?" Her tears spilled over, her fist beating the mattress. "Damn it to the feckin' Void, Anders, why?"

The violence of her grief stunned him. "Because, I…" His words died on his tongue, unsure how to proceed. "I-I wanted to save you the pain knowing you could do nothing—"

"Ye think I'm blind? I saw how it changed ye: I barely recognized ye anymore."

Anders threw up his hands, "Did it matter? You only had eyes for that wild dog, anyway; I was merely a stand-in."

"Don't ye dare call Fenris that," she said, voice low and dangerous. "He is not a dog—"

He scoffed. "Do you know how much it hurts, knowing you still love him? That I've been just a tool you use to make him jealous, one you threw away once you didn't want me?"

She had the gall to look outraged, "I never did—"

"You left me for dead." His voice cracked, unused to such volume. "I-I woke up in a ruin on the Wounded Coast, surrounded by wolves and half-eaten corpses, and where were you? Hmm? Where were you when I needed you most? With him?"

Her expression shifted. "I was glad when those mages kidnapped ye, all those months ago.
I was glad Merrill didn't know the counter-spell, Anders, because at least it meant I'd be safe from the likes of ye." Her stare became uncomfortably intense. "Yes, I went to him. His Vint witch threw me out and nearly killed me for it. But ye didn't care about that, did ye? Ye were already in Kirkwall by then, yet ye never came to visit me sickbed."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I-I couldn't come out of hiding, what with the Templars searching the Undercity—"

"Them 'Templars' meant nothin' when ye broke into me house and stole fifty sovereigns," she said, words measured and tight.

Anders gulped, gripping the blankets. She knew everything; her words stripped him bare and exposed him for what he was, and Anders didn't like what he saw. "I never wanted to do that," he began, "but it was my last resort—"

"Had ye asked, I'd given it freely," she interrupted. "I'd have bought whatever ye wanted."

His mind's eye went to the kegs of black powder in the Chantry storage room, to their purpose, and he shivered. "Not that," he murmured, "you wouldn't buy that."

"What was it me money bought, hmm? A new life in Tevinter?"

"I…" the hurt in her eyes wounded him deeper than any blade. No more lies, if he could help it; he owed that much to her, at least… "Sela petrae," he replied. "Made from rotten cow dung."

Just as expected, she grimaced. "Eugh, that's disgusting."

Anders laughed, "I told you."

"And ye use that shite?"

"For diuretics, yes, among… other things." He forced himself not to look away. "I… words cannot express the sorrow for the pain I caused. I'd sacrifice myself a thousand times to keep you safe, you know that, lo—" he stopped short. Perhaps 'love' was too familiar a term for whatever they were now. He was so taken by how beautiful she looked, with the shadows casting over her face like a soft veil, he nearly didn't hear her.

"…We both made mistakes," Marian conceded. "We both hurt each other; for that, I'm sorry. And I'm sorry ye suffered for so long, for me sake."

His eyes filled at that, the ache in his heart fading in the warmth of the loving fondness blooming there. "Thank you," he whispered, "that means a lot to me."

Was it the firelight or was she blushing? Marian lowered her eyes, thrusting the spoon in his hand. "Finish before it goes cold; I'll set some tea on." With that, she left, her step just as brisk as he remembered.

He leaned his head back, a smile creeping across his face. "Well, that went better than expected," he whispered. "She didn't murder me with my soup spoon, at least." Perhaps there was some hope for them, after all.

Marian rounded the corner and leaned against the wall, eyes wide in shock and confusion. Anders was proving himself a complication, a risky problem she might have to eliminate, before it was too late. Five minutes, and she'd gone all ridiculously warm and gooey from his yearning gaze. What would happen if she had to take care of him, like Merrill had suggested?

Marian pounded the plaster with her fist in frustration. She ought to hate him, for what he'd done to her in the past. She ought to sell him to the Templars and be done with him, once and for all, yet she couldn't chase away the visual of how he looked at her. His molten honey eyes, flecked with gold from the fire, the hope and earnestness in his gaze: there was a pang in her chest, a flutter she hadn't felt since seeing Fenris last. Why? She didn't understand it—

Marian Alessa Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, was many things: a convincing liar wasn't one of them. She groaned, head thudding against the wall in exasperation.

"Well? How did it go?" Merrill asked, jostling her shoulder. Her quilted velvet housecoat spoke of Hightown elegance, so out of place here in the Alienage. Obviously a gift from that detestable Vint Witch; the mere thought of Rana soured Marian's tongue.

"He... touched me face," she replied, voice flat, "caressed me cheek, like how he used to. All lovin'-like."

Merrill blinked. "And? Did you push him away?"

"Course I did; don't want none of his lovin'," Marian said, face growing hot. Her coarse accent thickened in her fluster. "Liar that he is: he'll say anythin' to get what he wants, ye'll see. He always used those tricks: if we quarreled, he'd whisper sweet nothings till I'd forgive him." She viciously stoked the fire to hide her face. "I'm not a fool; don't want none of his pretty nonsense. He can't talk his way out of this one."

"Hawke," Merrill sighed, "I do believe he loves you, has for a long time. But Justice got in the way—"

"Blame all his faults on the demon, then? Ye're standing up for him now, after he gave ye such a hard time for yer blood magic? Merrill, really. Never thought ye'd let a pretty face turn yer head."

"You saw what Justice was like in the Fade: the strength that man has, to withstand such a force day in and day out, Hawke..." she reached over, hand covering Marian's around the poker. "You never saw how he would look at you when you were busy. He had such love in his eyes, like you'd hung the sun in the sky just for him. And you...I saw it in your eyes, too, when we were caring for him earlier. You still love him."

Marian jerked away. "I love Fenris, always have."

"And Anders," Merrill added. "Both of them."

Marian huffed. "I do not—"

Merrill laughed. "Creators, you're like a petulant child! I'll have to take away your sweets, next." She fell silent for a moment. "He's a good man, Hawke: it takes a special heart to be a healer, and to help the poor for as many years as he has. He had good intentions, to want to make a difference; even if you don't love him like you do Fen, do Anders the courtesy of giving him a chance to prove himself, without Justice."

Merrill chatted about other things while she mixed tinctures: the gossip in the market, the news around the Alienage. Marian paid it no heed, mind swirling with apprehension and uneasiness. If Anders was, indeed, telling the truth, why had he spent fifty sovereigns on sela petrae and stored it in the Chantry? Kegs upon kegs of…diuretics? Did it even make sense? There would be enough there for the whole of the Free Marches, if that was the case; what else was he hiding from her?

'Do Anders the courtesy of giving him a chance to prove himself, without Justice,' Merrill's words came back to her. 'He's a good man, with a special heart.'

All Marian could see was that horrible demon on the end of her sword, wearing Anders's face, reaching for her with love in his eyes and a dagger pointed to her throat.

Alain Trevelyan heaved a sigh, stirring his stew with dissatisfaction. He couldn't enter Starkhaven undisguised, for fear of Drummond's men recognizing him. And their count was numerous—if the Teyrn's spies were to be believed, Drummond's followers numbered among the city guard, the river port authority, and roamed the streets in plainclothes. To safely enter the city, the Teyrn specifically stated he was to connect with the Ostwicker spy network in Starkhaven. He couldn't move forward without their blessing, and yet...

Something was awry, he was certain of it. It'd been two days of waiting at the Portside Inn, and his contact still hadn't shown. Anxiety churned his stomach, hypothetical scenarios and doubt harassing him. Was his contact late, and Alain was simply impatient? Could there be another Portside Inn in Starkhaven, and he had been staying at the wrong one?

"Just me luck," he muttered into his mutton, "this trip has been wrought with nothing but misfortune, why not one more thing—"

"Have ye heard?" A merchant whispered to his companion the next table over. "The city guard hung a spy off the city wall today: from Kirkwall. Rylen, his name was."

"Sweet Andraste," the other replied, "that's the third this week."

"Aye, not to mention all the Ostwickers they caught last month. All the foreign spies in Starkhaven were dealt with to cripple Sebastian Vael's campaign, I hear..."

"Shh! Dinnae say his name: ye want to bring the Prince's men down on us? Mind yer tongue."

Alain fell back in his chair. His contact...was dead? All of the foreign spies were gone, had been for weeks? How did the Teyrn not know this? Why would he tell Alain to seek out that contact—The realization hit him between the eyes.

This wasn't a quest to preserve Cecily's reputation and reclaim his honor: this was a meticulously contrived scheme the Teyrn had concocted to end him.

Alain shivered, spoon clattering into his bowl. "C-Calm yerself," he whispered, eyes wide. His heart pounded, his mind raced. He had to leave this place. Now. Before Drummond's men found him and hung him from the parapets...

Alain hurried across the common room and up the stairs, gripping the hem of his doublet to keep his hands from shaking. What could he do, where could he go? Drummond's men would be seeking him out; now he was the hunted… His boots thudded on the worn wooden floor as he paced up and down the corridors, brows drawn. No solution of great note came to him, no matter how intensely he considered options—

He accidentally bumped into a laundry hamper sitting on a chair, the clothes spilling to the floor. "Damn it," he muttered, stooping to collect them. Two petticoats later, he froze.

Drummond's men wouldn't be looking for a woman, would they?

Alain bit his lip, considering the brown wool skirt in his hands. He habitually kept himself clean-shaven, and his hair was well past his chin, now. Indeed, he was of slight frame, shorter than his strapping cousins. Perhaps, if he wore a hat and kept his head down while passing through the gate...

He glanced down the hall for prying eyes, bundling any articles of female clothing he could find in his arms before stuffing the excess back into the hamper. He hurried into his room, barring the door with a chair before plopping his disguise onto the bed.

Alain's face went hot—he had barely any experience with women, let alone women's clothing. He held up a kirtle, eyes widening. Maker, what was he doing with this? What if this wasn't enough to fool the guards? He forced himself not to think on it while shimmying into petticoats and fumbling with buttons and laces.

He kept adding things to his ensemble until he resembled one of the palace maids in Ostwick. Alain inspected himself in the mirror, biting back the laugh. A knitted cap pulled over his hair, and Alain was satisfied. He packed his things and departed, slipping downstairs and rounding the corner.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Three men walked in, hands on the pommels of their swords as they surveyed the common room. The brocade of their doublets denoted their merchant status, yet Alain knew better. His blood ran cold at the sight of the oversized pins on their cloaks—he knew that pin, it haunted his nightmares: it was Drummond's crest.

Alain's hand trembled so badly, he nearly dropped his valise. He gulped and slowly backed away, reaching for the dagger in his belt. He wasn't the best with a blade—one assassin, he could handle, but three assailants at once? No, that was hopeless—

He learned the hard way that day that neglecting to button on one's ill-fitted petticoat was a careless mistake. He'd figured, since it was too big in the waist, he would wear it atop of a smaller one to keep his legs warm. There was no reason to secure it, especially if it was only to get him into the city and to an inn. His petticoat shifted on his narrow hips and found its way under his boot. Alain went flying backwards into a serving girl bearing a platter of cleaned pewter, landing with a cacophonous clang.

"Shite," he cursed, scrambling to his feet and gathering his things.

The three men were already crossing the common room towards him. Alain rushed down the hall, wild eyes searching for an exit among the many doors. He shoved a servant bearing a waste pail out of the way and ran out into the alley, hands shaking and blood rushing in his ears. The crowd. If he could blend into the crowd, he'd be alright.

Alain slowed his sprint down to a brisk walk once he reached the main thoroughfare; a glance over his shoulder confirmed that he'd wormed his way into the crowd of passersby just in time. The men from the inn emerged from the alley, splitting up in different directions in search of him.

"M-Maker, preserve me," Alain prayed, craning his neck to search for the familiar face in the crowd. Damn that he couldn't walk any faster; any pushing or shoving would garner unwanted attention and attract his pursuers. He let the current of the crowd sweep him past the giant marble fountain in the central square and onto the famed causeway connecting the city of Starkhaven to the mainland.

No matter how many times Alain visited Starkhaven, the views of the Minanter River from the causeway always took his breath away. Thanks to the surrounding rock formations, the powerful Minanter encircled the stone outcropping that supported the city in a wreath of waterfalls, a plume of mist always visible no matter the time of year. 'The Bride's Veil,' the locals called it. Now, in the winter, it left the stone causeway slick underfoot from a crystalline layer of frost. Alain switched from a walk to a waddle, to ensure he didn't slip again.

"Inspection," he heard a guardsman call at the end of the causeway, "step aside for inspection. Cannae have spies enter the city." Carts and wagons pulled over just inside the gate while merchants lined up before clerks, showing their travel papers. Alain's eyes widened.

Travel papers. Shite.

Alain drew up his hood, scrambling for a plan. His contact was to provide him with fake travel documents and smuggle him into the city; he was not prepared for this. A guardsman herded him towards a queue; there was nothing he could do but comply. Alain craned his neck around a tall wool merchant: there was no obvious way forward, except either feigning to faint or attaching himself to someone's entourage—

A familiar green cloak appeared in his periphery, silver pin gleaming in the sunlight. Alain whipped his head back around to the front, gulping. The man joined his queue. The man joined his queue, standing just three people behind him. He screamed so loud inside his head, it ricocheted around his skull.

"Name?"

The question startled Alain, now face to face with the clerk. "I-I—"

The man rolled his eyes. "Name, lass. I havenae got all day."

Alain opened his mouth to lie, when a shout of outrage sounded farther down the line as his pursuer shoved his way forward. Alain gasped in horror. Either he acted now, or he'd not make it out of this alive…

It all went so quickly. Alain threw himself forward onto the table, upsetting the clerk's inkwell and causing confusion as he shoved the man behind him in line with all his might, knocking him backwards. He dodged the incoming guardsmen, hiking his skirts up as he sprinted towards a small caravan of carts making their way into the city post-inspection. He weaved between mules and baskets of beetroot, throwing a glance over his shoulder. Drummond's man was still in pursuit, rushing down the causeway. Alain turned the corner and ran down an alley, ducking into the first open door he found on a side street.

"What in the—Sweet Andraste!" the woman exclaimed. Alain pressed his finger to his lips, fishing a sovereign from his purse.

"I'll give ye this, if ye don't scream," he said in a falsetto.

The woman brandished a fire poker at him. "What are ye, a ruffian? I'll nae stir one inch till ye talk."

"I'm a—" an idea came to him. "Please, milady, have mercy on a poor servant." He knelt and grasped the hem of her skirt, like he'd seen penitent chambermaids do back home. "Me lord wished to give me to his bondsman, milady; all fat and pimply, he was, with stinking breath and blackened teeth. I ran away afore the wedding, I did. Ye wouldnae send me to the guards, would ye, if I give ye me whole dowry? Please? Please, milady, have mercy on a poor lass." Alain wore his most pitiful look as he lowered his hood, praying the woman was as blind as she was silent. Eventually, her poker lowered.

"Ye're a homely one, I'll give ye that. Ye'd nae have a high dowry, with that face," she said, narrowing her eyes. "What's yer name, lass?"

"Al—" He stopped himself. "A-Aili, milady."

"A good, sensible name," she nodded in approval. "What can ye do? Mend, cook? Clean?"

"Aye," he lied, "and I helped me Da keep the lord's books."

The woman seemed surprised. "Ye can do figures? A bright one, ye are: ye'd be a useful lass to have about, that's certain." She tapped her chin. "Alright. I'll let ye stay on if ye help with deliveries to the palace: me old bones cannae make the trip, these days."

"The… palace?" The woman nodded to the huge tubs in the corner, along with neatly folded linen on the table.

"Aye. Lord Drummond pays well for his laundry done special. Doesnae trust the palace staff, ye ken: too many cases of poisoned powder making its way in the sheets."

Could it be any more fortuitous? Alain nodded, dropping his valise next to the cot the woman set up for him in her tiny bedroom. He sank onto the wool blanket, falling against the wall with his eyes wide. Seemed the Maker was smiling on him, after all.