Even in the deepest part of the night the Vigil was not entirely silent. Just in the guest room that was theirs for the night he could hear deep regular breathing, the occasional shift of a body under blankets, the dog's stretch and yawn, the slow hiss of a knot of wood releasing its trapped moisture in the fire before letting go with a sudden pop.
Beyond the room the Vigil breathed its own night breaths, air soughing down the halls when a door was opened and closed, footsteps scraping, the occasional hushed exchange between guardsmen on their night watches, even the near-inaudible grind of stone settling into its own rest, cooling as the day's warmth bled out into the chill night.
Justice remembered nights in the Vigil more now than he had since joining with Anders. Remembering was a tricky thing for a being ill-accustomed to the labyrinths of physical memory, or even more so to the tricks that a human mind played on itself when it painted a picture that it labeled "truth" but was so heavily colored by perception and perspective.
Lying in Anders' body in the depths of a Vigil night, Justice was more himself than he had been in years, and even that – perceiving "Justice" as a being that could be assigned gender – pointed to the trickiness of his situation.
Seeing his old companions, his old friends, through Anders' eyes as a silent passenger made him chafe at his situation in a way he had not since his earliest days in Kristoff's body. He had not thought it would be possible, but he missed them, and in missing them was once again acutely aware that he had discovered desires, had found that he had wants that were irrational but compelled him despite that.
He wanted to talk to Widald Amell again as they had in the past. He wanted the man to listen to him as he explained why he and Anders had made the choices they had made. He wanted to speak with Nathaniel, to feel his attention, undivided, as he thanked him for showing him that he did not have to be a demon.
He paused at that thought. He wanted to tell Nathaniel that, but another lesson he had learned along with desire was doubt. Vengeance lurked within them – within Anders and Justice, bound together as they were – and Vengeance was no spirit. Vengeance was a demon.
It felt good to be Vengeance.
Perhaps Nathaniel could counsel them. Nathaniel had sunk himself in his quest for vengeance and had clawed his way to the surface before hate drowned him. Nathaniel wanted to speak to him. He resolved that they would speak when this was ended, when he could speak through Anders' lips and move Anders' hands without bringing humiliation to Fenris.
Merely thinking of Fenris made the low hum of the song from the elf's lyrium rise in his consciousness. He could feel Fenris against Anders' back and he could feel the lyrium that painted a shield down Fenris' spine pressed against their skin.
His desire to press Anders' body against the full length of Fenris' body and tongue every line of lyrium that both decorated and defaced his skin and soul shamed him. It was another, more insidious way to birth a demon than the rage that nursed Vengeance.
He needed Anders to be strong for them, and Anders failed them both. Out of desperation Justice tried to push him to hate Fenris – if Anders hated him, he could not want him. Was that not logic?
Not for the human body or the bizarre double-edged blade that was the cutting edge of the human mind. Anders could both hate Fenris and at the same time have that hatred stoke his lust. Worse, the more his lust was inflamed, the more Justice felt Anders struggling to justify it to himself, trying to tell himself that Fenris had suffered too, that he had reason for his rage.
Anders would not admit that to himself, but Justice was a more impartial observer. Except that merely telling himself that he was impartial showed that he had learned human hypocrisy more astutely than he had realized.
He was not impartial. Not at all.
Gently rocked by the motion of Fenris' breathing, he could feel their body stirring with lust.
Their body? Anders was gone for the moment, away in the Fade where Justice could not follow. Did that not mean that it was his body? Did that not mean that this ache that grew in his groin was his and his alone? Did that not mean that the lust for more than just the touch of lyrium…
…was his?
Call it cowardice, but Justice retreated deeper into Anders' mind. When Anders returned from his dreams, he would know what to do.