4. The Downside

Or, in which Anders has seriously misunderestimated how in control he is.

(Misunderestimated: like nuke-u-lar, not a word, but we can all dream.)

Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.

Anders, I'm going to kill them.

Anders can feel the rage, but Justice doesn't sound anything but decisive. A chill races down Anders's spine, and he closes his eyes, shoving the spirit into the back of his mind. No. Justice. This is their place; they can't see—

I'm going to kill this bastard. Justice is louder, angrier, his voice rising; Anders hears the spirit losing control. You son of a bitch! Don't you see what's happening? Look at him, Anders, for the Maker's sake, will you effing turn your head and—

Anders looks.

In front of him: the mage girl Ella as she drops to her knees, sobbing so hard that it shakes her body, her head shaking desperately back and forth.

Behind her: that bastard templar with eyes like tundra, cold and gleaming and devoid of sympathy.

"Plea—please! No! I'll do anything!"

"That's right. Once you're Tranquil, you will do… anything I want."

To his side: Hawke, never lost for words.

"Whatever you're doing," she spits, "you're going to stop. Now."

She's too late. Anders's eyes move over the girl, half-wild with fear, the smirking templar, and he loses the fight. In a moment he feels his hands trembling with anger, notes that without even realizing he has taken hold of his staff. Justice is striding forward on his legs, Justice has his mouth and hands, and snarls, in a voice that truly belongs to a spirit, "You fiends will never touch another mage again!"

He always forgets the extent of the power he agreed to take on—or, more simply, how Justice really is terrifying. His voice crackles with fury, and even Hawke takes a step back, her eyes flashing. Damn, Anders thinks, and he's tried so hard, too. She's never seen Justice since the first day they met, through no small effort on Anders's part. He doesn't want her looking at him like she did in the Chantry. Everyone else can think he's an abomination, but not her. He needs Hawke on his side.

Justice, no! he protests, but it's a lost cause. The spirit's not listening to anyone any more. He throws a hand out in front of him, and the templar flies backwards into the rock, splayed like a rag doll against the stone as he hits. His head cracks on granite; a streak of blood follows him down to the ground as he crumples.

Yes, Anders, Justice growls. I'm only doing what you're not brave enough to do.

I am brave! Anders shouts back, but it's lost beyond the howling in his ears. His whole mind is thrown into chaos, a hurricane swirling around him, and him trapped inside the eye and looking out. This is the only time he feels how Justice does, unable to move even his own eyes to look away—another swing of his staff, another templar, Justice roaring with satisfaction—and pray that Hawke's timing doesn't fail them now.

Then as fast as it began, it is over.

He waits a heartbeat for Justice to recede, letting go, giving Anders's mind back to the rightful owner. Nothing changes, and as the moment passes into the next he is suddenly, truly afraid.

Justice advances towards Ella, the girl on the ground. Tears are still wobbling on the edges of her eyes. "And you," he snarls, "you who cannot even fight for yourself? You are a scourge to your own kind!"

Justice! Suddenly Anders is on his feet, roaring at the top of his lungs, begging for the spirit to listen. He sees what's going on in Justice's mind, just like Justice sees him, and he needs control back before something terrible happens. Ella whimpers. You don't need her, Justice. Stop toying with her and let her go!

"Anders, the templars are dead!" Hawke's voice comes from behind, sharp and deathly serious. "Game's over. Give it up."

"No!" Justice roars, whirling on her. "Every one of them will feel Justice's burn! If you do not stand with me, you stand against me."

At just the wrong moment, Ella finds her tongue, words tremulous but still loud enough. "Get away from me, demon!" she blurts, cringing away from Justice, and Anders's stomach seems to drop into his feet. Justice turns abruptly to face the girl, drawing himself up taller, his face cracked with fury.

"What did you call me?"

"Stay away!" she repeats, but it's feebler now, her lip quivering. "I… don't come any closer!"

"Demon?" Justice echoes, his voice soft and dangerous. "Demon?" And a single thought breaks through his mind, their mind, crashing over all else wave, a single certainty about this girl, the absolute knowledge of what he must do.

No! Anders digs in his heels, fighting with every drop of strength he's got left, and Justice's hands freeze in midair. A few feet away, Hawke doesn't dare move; her gaze never wavers from the man in front of her, his eyes blurring brown and blue. Dammit, please, think about it, Justice, this isn't what we're meant to do! We're supposed to save them!

I am saving them, Justice hisses, and Anders recoils; the words hit him like ice against bare skin. They've already ruined this girl, Anders, can't you hear her? She's one of them. I can't save the mages if I can't amputate the diseased limbs.

You can't save the mages? Anders repeats. It's not you saving them, Justice, it's both of us. The second it stops being us, then I've become exactly what they expect of me.

Then stop trying. Justice's voice is flat and without pity. You already are what they expect. You don't need to sugarcoat it just because you want Hawke to like you. You are an abomination.

All in a moment, this exchange. Anders stops, shocked, his resolve slipping for a moment, and then realizes that that was all Justice needed. The spirit's in control, and Anders is beyond horror, beyond fear, and he can't control his legs or his mouth or his hands as they reach backward for his staff.

"Anders, don't hurt her. She's not the enemy."

Hawke's voice carves through the silence. She's standing behind him, and Anders can't see her face, can't read anything in her tone. Suddenly, desperately, he wishes she understood—this isn't Anders any more; Anders in his right mind would never want this. Justice's staff is out, pointed at the girl, its tip level with her throat. If she runs, it will be the last thing she ever does; if what Hawke says next is wrong, it will be the last thing this girl ever hears.

"She is one of them," Justice snarls. "Their taint is in them. There is no helping her."

"If you hurt her," Hawke breathes, "then you're going against everything you're fight for in the first place. When I met you, you wanted to save the mages." He hears the fury in her voice, the false composure and, underneath it, the fear. "Don't you dare turn your back on that."

"I haven't."

"Prove it." Her voice is deadly. "Let her go, Justice."

Not Anders, she says, but Justice. The spirit starts at his name, his focus broken, and it's what Anders has been waiting for. He surges forward, pushing Justice aside and away, even as the spirit shrieks in fury. There's a terrible, rushing moment where his hands won't move for either of them, and his face is torn in two creatures' desperation, and then Anders claws his way to the surface, and Justice is forced back. The tip of the staff drops to the ground with a hollow clatter.

Oh, Ariadne, thinks Anders, thank the Maker for you.

Ella stares at him, her eyes wide and wild, and as he meets her gaze, Anders suddenly can't speak. "Maker," he whispers at last, the word shaking on his lips. "Please, I'm so sorry…"

Abruptly, Ariadne's staff snags his arm, tugging him back. He stumbles, and she steps forward, level with him, pushing the tip of her staff into his chest. Catching on, he steps quickly away from her, but she doesn't set down the staff. He follows it up to her hands, white-knuckled on the wood, up her tensed arms and to her face. She's a study in light and dark, her face pale with rage and eyes dark and burning as he's ever seen.

"Pull shit like that again," she spits, "and I will effing disembowel you. Is that clear?"

Another 'sorry' is on his tongue, but something tells him not to speak. Instead he gives a single, rapid nod. Her eyes narrow fractionally.

"Varric, the girl," she says, and the dwarf strides towards the mage, offering her a thick, hairy hand that would make anyone feel better. Ariadne's eyes flicker back and forth between the sight and Anders, fierce and distrustful.

"Ariadne—" he begins.

She straightens her staff, breathing slowly in and out. "Anders, get out of here," she hisses, and she has never spoken to him so coldly; maybe no one ever has. He turns and goes, wordless, stomach turning with shame.

But seriously, after being nearly skewered by a Justice abomination, is there really anything more reassuring than a hand from a hairy-chested, crossbow-slinging dwarf?

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