It was dark by the time Cortland found the courage to seek Anders out, and by the time he felt calm and rational enough to do so.

The Dalish scout who had carried Hawke's letter hours earlier had refrained from commenting on the mage's state of mind on receiving the missive, and so Cortland had little idea of what to expect from the man when he found him.

As he neared the river running alongside the small encampment, and as he passed a handful of expectant tribe members who had taken it upon themselves to guard Anders's retreat, Cortland let the strength of his own decision flood through his body and tried to push any pre-notions from his mind. He had fought his memories, his anger, his fears for too long. It was time to move on, one way or another, and it fell to Anders to tell him how. See how the bastard liked it this way around, damn his eyes. The mage deserved whatever torture that letter had inflicted upon him…
Cortland shivered, gave his upper arms a rub, and checked once more that his twin blades were firmly in place at his back.

Whatever Anders's decision, he was ready for it. Whatever was left between them was for another time…should they live to see it.

What he found at the river's edge was a hunched figure on a log, gazing out at the dark waters in a manner all too reminiscent of that fateful moment when the world had changed. Suddenly Cortland was staring at those same shoulders just as he had when Kirkwall had burned around them. Only this time they both knew what was coming.

"You read my letter?", he asked.

"I read it."

"And?"

"And you're a manipulative bastard, Hawke."

"I learned from the best."

Anger from Anders he could deal with. Anger felt good. Anything but that blank, dead stare he had seen on the mage earlier in the camp; anything but the word 'sorry' falling from those lips. Cortland's breath hitched as Anders turned slowly and stood to his full height, the letter falling in a crumpled ball from his right hand. His hair fell loosely around his face. His features were gaunt, haunted; his eyes red-rimmed and with a glassy sheen. But the expression…the expression contrasted so vividly with the resigned sadness of those features that it rooted Cortland to the spot where he stood. It was fire and hatred; venom and ice. He knew it for what it was because he had worn it himself since the chantry's demise.

"I need a decision from you, Anders."

He saw a flash in those amber eyes, a spark in the mage at hearing his own name that threatened to melt the defences Cortland had built up inside of himself. Then the eyes grew sad as they accepted and understood what was being asked. Hawke stepped forward, closer to the body that he had held in his arms so many times. It was a body that had been his once. He breathed in its closeness and absorbed its scent, drinking in every detail of that face as he slowly and carefully drew his blades. The first he placed at Anders's throat, and the mage didn't flinch; only glared back at Cortland from eyes that seemed to be doing some drinking in of their own. The other he placed at his own throat, feeling something close to relief as the cold steel made contact with his skin. An ending or a beginning, either way he'd know now. He was calm as he spoke. A calm born from knowing the choice was out of his hands.

"Do you choose life or death? I will gladly join you in either, but I can't watch you suspended between the two. Not any more."

Anders let his eyes flick briefly from Cortland's face to the second blade. With a husky voice and an attempt at a smile he said "You realise I only need a moment to throw that blade at your neck aside?"

Cortland levelled a gaze "Maybe. But it would be pretty hard to do it again once you're dead, and I thought you might rather we go together."
At that Anders's eyes changed and grew darker still, his brow furrowing into a frown as he spat out "Damnit, Hawke, are you serious about this?"

"I have made my decision, Anders. I have come to terms with it and I am ready. Now I need yours. So choose. Live with me or die with me, I have nothing else."

"I can't just…"

"Choose!"

For several moments Anders held Cortland's gaze as his eyes screamed out all of the things his mouth could not make itself say. His jaw locked and released as emotions scrambled for dominance on his features. Finally and slowly, he brought a shaking hand to the blade at his throat. He closed long, white fingers around Cortland's own grip and slowly, slowly lowered it down, eyes closing as he whispered the words "We truly are bound, you and I. And I'm sorry for you. I would never, never allow someone like you to die for someone like me."

Cortland felt a breeze move his hair. His nose caught the hint of blossom in the trees. His ears heard the world begin to spin again. He was alive. For better or worse, he was alive. He wasn't sure at what point he had closed his eyes, but when he opened them now he saw that Anders was crying. The mage scrunched his eyes closed and bowed his head, both hands now enveloping Hawke's own, and Cortland felt hot tears splash his skin as he lowered the second blade in silence.

"You win. What time I have left on this world I pledge to you, Hawke." In a beat, the eyes opened again and penetrated, that fire and ice returning "I am yours. In hatred and in love, I am yours. I always was."

Before Cortland could respond, an impatient Dalish scout pushed through the trees, bowing low towards the pair in a gesture that Anders could not have failed to see.

"The people would hear the Hand's words. How long will they wait?"

Cortland dismissed the lad with a low wave, stating "A little more time, but soon now."

With a hesitant nod, the scout turned and left the clearing, and Hawke watched the mage opposite him allow a question to form on his face before it even reached his lips.

"What did he call you?"

"Not me." Cortland shook his head and pulled his hand away sharply. "Come on. It's time for you to see what you changed the world into."

Dumbly, Anders followed Cortland out of the clearing and into the Dalish camp.

Anders looked so small up there, Varric considered; one, solitary, scruffy man in front of hundreds of hopeful and expectant faces. His blond head was lowered and his neck stiff as his mind presumably took in the scene before him, absorbing the gravity of what he had begun.

Beside him, Varric was aware of Cortland Hawke standing stock-still. The Champion's face was stone, arms folded and eyes set solely on the solitary mage as if Anders were about to speak to an audience of one and one alone. Varric breathed deeply and hoped that the revolutionary's words would be enough not only to appease the crowd, but to convince Hawke that living had been the right choice. The dwarf stole a nervous glance towards Fenris. Another critical audience member, though one whose eyes had lost their murderous gaze, and this was a step forward, surely. The three of them waited along with the crowd, as the man in the feathered coat flexed and unflexed his hands, and Varric's heart went out to the courageous fool.

"I've…never given a speech before."
It was a small opening line. Not strong and hardly ground-moving, and yet those few words felt like they were crackling with raw power for the response they received. Varric had thought the crowd silent before, but as Anders's faltering first words reached out to all of them, the hush became almost ethereal.
"Truth be told, I probably never would have been allowed to."
Anders's chin lifted, and as he looked for what seemed the first time at his audience, Varric breathed in and held that breath without realising it. The mage's expression was unlike anything the dwarf had seen before. That hopelessness he'd seen just minutes earlier seemed to have blossomed into something harder, stronger. Fear rode high, but it seemed to have been backed up by defiance, and a small flicker of hope was kindled in Varric's heart.

"You see, for all my life, if I opened my mouth to speak, it was closed for me. If I raised my hands to reach, then they were bound. And if I dared to be true to myself…this world would threaten to remove my very dreams from me."

Ander's licked his lips and Varric saw his eyes flick towards them momentarily. Not towards Varric, but towards the auburn-haired statue next to him. Then those eyes were back to the crowd at large before the blond head dropped. Before him, slaves and freaks and outcasts watched as the mage's long fingers slowly drew themselves into fists. "Like all of you, I have learned to be quiet and speak only in whispers. But several days ago, as you'll know…I raised my voice. And I used words that they could not silence and I used hands that they could not bind. Believe me, I am not proud for the lives that I took, but I cannot regret my action. I DO not regret my action."

Ander's eyes raised back towards the crowd, the expectant hush almost unbearable, an unseen coil winding ever tighter around them all as the mage spoke. Varric could only watch, entraced, as this man who he had thought he'd known weaved a spell over all of them, his own determination seeming to grow with every syllable uttered. "Because for too long the underdogs of Thedas have rolled over at the feet of their masters. For too long, this world has been built on the backs of slaves. On stolen lands. On threats and on warped justice. Not so long ago, I raised my voice and expected to be dead by the time the echoes had faded. But, looking at you all now, I can see that from this day on, Thedas has a chance to change: From this day on, we take back our pride, our lands, our families and our dreams. From this day on we have no masters. From this day on the underdogs of Thedas will bite back!"

The forest around Varric erupted into sound, and he was powerless to resist the urge, the need to erupt right along with it. Voices shouted as arms were waved and bodies danced and weaved around each other. Cries of 'Anders, Anders, Anders' mixed with 'the Hand, the Hand, the Hand' and Varric's heart felt that it may well explode. Anders was strong. So much stronger than any of them had realised. Well, stronger than all but one of them had realised, at least.

In a moment, the dwarf's eyes found Hawke. The rogue was rooted to the spot, his posture unchanged. His eyes had not left his former lover for the duration of the speech. His expression had hardly changed and he continued to gaze steadily at the mage as the crowds plucked at their new leader's coat, touched his sleeves, stroked his hair; Anders himself panting and laughing and seemingly unable to grasp the enormity of what he himself had achieved. At a glance, the champion seemed to take all of this in, unmoved. But as Varric looked more closely at the red-head, he saw the twitching jaw, the flaring nostrils and, perhaps more importantly, the slow tears that coursed the man's cheeks. And beside Hawke, Fenris stared, open-mouthed at the heaving and cheering crowd, his eyes burning with the same fire that all of them present could now feel rising in their souls.

They were going to war.

And just for this night, none of them would consider the friends, allies and lovers who would oppose them. Just for this night they would focus on the prize.

Freedom.