Children of the Revolution
"Children are innocent and love justice, while most adults are wicked and prefer mercy." - G. K. Chesterton
This world is changing, albeit slowly.
Such is the way of things, for prejudice cannot disappear overnight, and it will be years still, perhaps hundreds, before a mage will ever be judged purely by the content of their character, and not their capacity for magic.
Time brings clarity; purpose subjected to extremes, rock molten and molded anew under pressures that come with a mortal world and mortal form - a volcanic fury which cools, steadily, to polished obsidian, and purpose endures, although in different matter, with an acceptance of what-is that brings semblance of patience, and a measure of peace.
The war has long been over, future seeded amongst its ashes, in new life, in new laws, and in new values imposed on the children of the revolution, in the hopes that the next generation - the first tenacious sproutlings - will flourish and survive.
It is not perfect, but nothing in this world is, and, in this, justice is served.
It is enough.
Anders heads homeward, after another day of paying lives forward until the final payment Calls, and marvels, as he often does, at the precious freedoms that have been afforded to them. Nobody seeks to stop him, no one gives a second look but then, nobody really knows the truth outside their identity of the village healer and his family that they have carefully crafted.
Small blessings for Varric's stories - people remember the myths, not the men.
"Ow! Ow, Mo-om, stop it. That hurts!"
A child's cry that shatters the fragile illusion, fears that will never fully fade casting haste to feet, and, heart racing, they run the rest, the cats springing clear from their path. Hawke sits on the porch with their youngest (if only by a few minutes), the boy chafing under her examination, his twin looking on behind.
"Maybe you should have thought of that beforehand... and it wouldn't hurt as much if you stopped squirming." She dabs gingerly with a cloth at the boy's lip, piercing eyes that glance up, marking their approach, and adds quickly to Anders, "It's fine. Everything's fine, love. Just a schoolyard row. Carver used to get into scrapes like this all the time."
Thank the Maker. Anders exhales painfully, weak with relief, and sweeps up his daughter in a hug before he joins his wife's side. "You've been fighting? With who?" Malcolm deliberately avoids his eyes, avoids the question, lip busted and skin covered in many minor cuts, leaves and clods of dirt tangled in dark hair.
Elke pips up, helpfully, "It was Henri and Franz," leaving her twin to scowl at her, hissing, "Tattle-tale."
"La Roux's boys? Both at once?" Anders reaches to his son's face to mend the wounds, torn between furious disapproval and a odd sense of pride; that his son would fight even when outnumbered and outmatched.
"You know how that family feels about magic." Hawke chides quietly. Not that it stopped the La Roux patriarch from coming to Anders last winter, after breaking an arm from a bad fall, spouting how his case was 'different.' Prejudice may die slowly, but hypocrisy, it seems, will always exist.
"I just tackled them - s' not like I shot lightning or anything at 'em."
"But you could have," Anders replies heatedly, scales tipping into righteous anger, lines between himself and Justice blurring further, as they always do, when this family is threatened. "I know you don't have magic yet, but that doesn't mean you never will. I was far older than either of you before I showed signs. It could come at anytime. Especially if you're angry or scared. You could have seriously hurt someone. You could have hurt them, or worse - hurt yourself or your sister - "
Malcolm's eyes widen slightly, more out of curiosity than fright as his father breaks off sharply, and opens his mouth to speak before closing it quickly, as if he thought better of it. This is not the first time the children have met their father's 'grumpy blue friend,' but the occurrence is by no means common.
"You may have jeopardized this family unnecessarily." Justice stares at the child, sternly, unblinking. "What cause did you have to quarrel?"
"Daddy's glowing again," Elke titters uncontrollably, her little fingers following the lines of blue along their skin with great interest, and Justice shifted her carefully, so that she might not become unbalanced in her exploration.
"Yes, sweetheart. We talked about this last time, remember?" Hawke shushes her gently, and places a hand on their arm, looking encouragingly to her awe-stuck son. "Answer your father."
Malcolm stares back for a moment, then looks downcast, mumbling, "They were calling us names. Calling you and Mom names."
"There will be many that might call us names in your lifetime. It does not lend any more credence to your actions."
"But they started it! What they were saying, I - That's not right!" The boy protests, his father's amber eyes snapping up passionately. "That's not fair."
"No. It is not." Justice replies, forlorn, for the spirit knows that he, too, once possessed that same childish innocence, the same blind certainty about this world, whilst being completely unable to see his own shortcomings. "But you can be. You must strive to be. Do you understand, little one?"
Malcolm shrugs, non-committal.
"You will, in time," Justice assures, something like a half-smile flickering across their face, and with that, the spirit retracts completely. Anders presses one palm against his forehead, sighing heavily.
"Dad?" A beat.
Anders shakes his head, sickened with that old self-hatred, the knowledge that his children must understand this as well, whispering, "I'm sorry," as he pulls his son close.
"It's okay, Daddy," Elke hugs her father's neck; her namesake, her grandmother, in miniature. "We know your friend was worried, too."
The world is changing, and they, even ideas, change with it.