Chapter 29
"I am justice. I am vengeance. Blood can only be repaid in blood."
—Spirit of Lady Vasilia
Anders
Anders studied the tunnel that had once led to the Gallows, his irritation at the Underground abating. This certainly explained why he hadn't heard from them in weeks.
The tunnel had been walled over.
Given the extent of the work, several someones had been involved in the process. Heavy stones had been used, with mortar in between to hold them solidly in place, leaving fewer gaps to exploit. Anders scraped his fingers over the mortar—rough, but dry, and therefore set. He rapped on the stone with his knuckles. Solid. They'd filled it and then walled it, and no longer was it any sort of feasible escape route.
They would have to find another way.
More mages will suffer.
I know, but there's nothing we can do about it until we find another way out. Or in. In or out.
If it did not exist, one would not need to escape it.
Stop talking like that. You're worrying me. There's a peaceable way. Enough have died. We don't need to add to it.
If it results in permanent freedom for all mages, those lives would be considered worthy sacrifices.
No. Everyone gets a choice. That's what freedom is. We don't get to take away anyone else's agency when we're trying to secure our own.
When he returned to his clinic, Isabela awaited him, perched on one of his exam tables. The salty air from days at sea accompanied her, a scent painfully clean compared to the miasma of the sewers that he swore had followed him. "You're back, I see," he said to her as he walked in. "How'd it go?"
"Docked with the first tide, had a drink at the Hanged Man, and then arranged for repairs to my ship that require being in dry dock. Dry dock! Can you imagine?" Before Anders could ask, Isabela went on. "We were attacked off the coast of Estwatch on the way back. It's like these baby pirates thought a few years without a ship meant I wasn't Queen of the Eastern Seas." She crossed her legs and scoffed. "Please."
"Then why such extensive repairs?"
She rolled her eyes. "Andraste-crotch wanted to try it his way."
Anders winced, easily seeing the unfortunate direction Sebastian's methods would take. "He tried to negotiate, didn't he?"
Compromise with criminals is wrong. There are no compromises.
More like pirates aren't so good at negotiation and it's a waste of time to try.
"Oh, yes," said Isabela. "Except the only thing negotiated was damage to my ship wreaked while he bloody talked. Nearly scuttled us, and then he wouldn't let me scuttle them back."
"That almost sounds dirty."
"Not this time. They tried to scuttle my ship. And, to top it off, Light of the Maker Vael wouldn't let me take their cargo as recompense."
"Starkhaven footing the bill for repairs?"
"Damn right they are."
Before Isabela could turn the conversation to things that would outrage Justice more, Anders asked, "How'd it go in actual Starkhaven?"
She heaved a dramatic sigh. "Hawke and Sebastian seemed to have made progress on the Prince of Starkhaven thing. I know they told me details, but they're a little fuzzy. The most I can remember is that they'll be taking over soon. If you want more than that, you'll have to ask them yourself."
"That sounds good, but why did you, in particular, bring me the news? Marian lives above me, in case you've forgotten, so it would make more sense for her to give me the news herself. Instead, I get you."
She smiled widely at him and arched a mischievous eyebrow. "You complaining about the view?"
"Not at all. Was I on your way, then? Or the destination? Maker, don't tell me you picked up something again. I told you to come back for more herbs if you ran out, that way you wouldn't pick up anything in the first place." He sighed and headed to where he kept wax paper packets of herbs for several different remedies. Prevention was far better practiced than a cure, but no one ever seemed to listen to him about it. "Here, I'll give you more." And to think he'd believed Isabela to be keen on the idea. She was far from stupid, and had seemed to see the reason in it. Yet, here she was.
"No burning nethers, so I don't think I've picked anything up."
He paused in his gathering. "Then why?"
"Merrill asked to see us, so I came to get you."
And obviously she knew. How could she not? News traveled a lot faster than he'd liked, but she had been to the Hanged Man. Even if it'd been early morning, she'd have heard. "I think it would be better if she saw you." Not him. Not the man who'd killed her entire clan because he couldn't control Vengeance.
We share the blame.
It doesn't change what happened.
Isabela slid down from the table and onto her feet. "She was insistent that it be both of us. So," she said as she strolled over to him and snapped up the packets he'd counted out, "I'm bringing you down to the Alienage with me."
"I doubt I'm someone she needs to see. You go. You'd be better at providing whatever she needs."
Isabela crossed her arms, somehow managing to appear imposing while emphasizing her breasts at the same time. "Now, you can either come with me voluntarily, walking on your own two feet, or I can tie you up and drag you down there. My preference is to tie you up and do other things that don't involve the Alienage or Merrill, yet do involve a lot of rope and possibly some dragging, but you're free to choose." Her smile turned salacious. "If you choose right, we could do the other thing later. Maybe we'll do the other thing anyway. But she wants to see both of us, and so we're both going."
He'd seen Isabela like this before. Arguing would do him not good. He'd just pay for it later, if he did. "I'll go. Just…" He glanced toward the back room, where his small bed and his personal belongings were. The halla he'd taken from the Mahariel camp was in there, and since he'd been avoiding Merrill since the deaths of the Mahariel, he hadn't had the chance to give it to her. Since he wasn't sure when his guilt or Vengeance would let him see Merrill again, he needed to bring it with him this time. "Wait a moment. I have to get something."
As Anders fetched the halla, Isabela tapped the packets on the smooth wooden counter Anders used for mixing potions. By the time he came out of the room, Isabela was slipping the packets away, perhaps between her breasts, but he couldn't be sure because he couldn't see the packets anymore.
"Did you just put the—where would they even go?"
"Maybe I'll let you find out later."
I do not wish to discover where she has hidden the herbs.
Too bad.
"Journey got to you, did it?" Anders asked her as he locked up the clinic behind him and doused the light above it so people knew he wasn't there. Early on, he'd learned the hard way that locked doors were only minor obstacles to finding the healer if his light was still on.
"There are times I question my decision to never sleep with my crew. I had several of those times on board." Her light tone darkened just a little as they headed for the lift to Lowtown. "Marian and Sebastian were of no help whatsoever."
Anders chuckled. "Wouldn't let you join in, would they?"
Isabela raised her arms to express her discontent. "No! Can you imagine that? After all those years of subjecting the rest of us to their unresolved sexual tension, they resolve their sexual tension and leave the rest of us out in the cold. Besides, I did a lot of the work in getting him to change his mind. Well, Leandra helped, but it was a job well done on both our parts. With Sebastian's history, you'd think he'd be open to all sorts of adventures, but he said no. Marian said yes, in case you were wondering. Andraste-crotch said no. Still some Chantry we need to get out of him."
"Probably stuck up his ass. I really thought Marian would've solved that problem."
"I thought the same."
They'd reached Lowtown and stepped out of the lift before either of them spoke again. Anders knew it was uncomfortable and awkward, how the conversation didn't flow between them like it had before, but he couldn't think of how to fix it. Conversation used to be easy. Something he could pick up and use anytime he needed to smooth over an awkward moment, but the ability had disappeared, even when it came to Isabela.
She cleared her throat. "The clinic was looking good."
Well, he hadn't expected that. "Are you making small talk? If you are, I think we should go back to my clinic and give you a full exam."
"I would love for you to give me a full exam."
"Oh, it was a lead-in. Well done." Then he desperately tried to recover the Anders he used to be. The fun, light-hearted, full of life Anders that he'd lost somewhere near Sundermount. Yet, like every other time in recent years, he reached for something that no longer seemed to exist, and came up empty.
"That was happenstance. I was trying to be serious and I'm terrible at it. Look, there's a thing you do. It's a good thing."
"What thing would that—wait, is this sexual innuendo or not? I can't tell anymore."
"The electricity thing is good too, don't get me wrong, but I wasn't talking about that."
Anders had lost his footing somewhere in the middle of their conversation, and he was fairly certain Isabela was somewhat lost herself, but he kept playing. "Which one, then?"
"The healer one. You're a healer. You heal people. It's what you do. What you've always done. And you should keep doing it. That's all."
He scowled. "It isn't 'all,' not anymore. You've been to the Hanged Man already, so I know you heard about Merrill's clan. I did that. A healer would never have done that and yet I did. If I could go back and change it, I would, but—"
"No, you can never go back and change anything. The world doesn't work like that, and there's no point in wasting your time wishing it did. You accept what happened and move on."
"That's how you deal with everything? Really?"
"Absolutely." Isabela projected every hint of confidence in her declaration; she really did live her life according to that tenet.
It was something Anders couldn't understand, not with how events doggedly stuck with him even when he desperately wanted to forget. "Is there nothing you regret? Nothing that you'd do anything to go back and fix?"
She shrugged as they headed down the steps to the Alienage. "Our mistakes make us who we are."
He stared at her for a moment. "That was almost profound."
A smile quirked her lips and sparked in her eyes, chasing off the seriousness. "You're right. After we talk to Merrill, I need to find someone to scuttle me." Her eyes slid to him as she finished her statement, her intentions clear.
Do not volunteer.
You're no fun.
"I thought you said scuttling wasn't dirty."
"I lied." She brushed her fingers across the painted bark of the vhenadahl as they rounded it to bring themselves to Merrill's door. "It means I haven't been laid in a while, that's what it means. This is a travesty that must be righted." She raised her hand to knock, but Merrill had already pulled the door open.
"What travesty?" Merrill asked as she peered up at her friend, and then looked over at Anders. "I thought Justice righted travesties."
"Anders might be needed to right mine," said Isabela.
Do not volunteer.
You heard them. It's a travesty that must be righted. You're all about righting things. Things such as travesties. Travesties of justice, like this one.
Do not sully the concept of justice.
If you don't want me to sully justice, then you should let me sully something else.
Someone else. The pirate is not a thing. She is a person and must be respected as such.
Of course you get it now.
"I always thought it would be fun to be a pirate," Anders said out loud.
"Oh!" Merrill clapped her hands together. "Me, too!"
Then they made their way inside Merrill's home, which felt different to Anders, but he couldn't put a finger on why. As he usually did, Ser Pounce leapt to Anders' shoulder once he was inside and nuzzled the side of his cheek. And, like always, the action never failed to calm Anders.
Merrill offered them water and not much else, then offered them seats that did not exist, and then frantically looked about for something she could offer that could be accepted. But when her eyes lit on the carving in Anders' hand, her roving stopped.
"What do you have there?" she asked him.
It was a heavy thing, and he couldn't explain why, because it wasn't a large carving, and the weight didn't let up even after he handed it to Merrill. "I found this… after. It made me think of Ava. She still has that halla you sent her. After I thought of it, I couldn't just leave it there. Maybe you could give it to her the next time you see her."
Merrill gave him a confused look. "I don't see why you couldn't."
"I think you're more likely to see her sooner than I am. And it's a Dalish gift. I'm not Dalish."
"Well, no. You're far too tall. You'd bump your head on the ceilings of the aravels and have nasty bruises all the time." There was a smile behind her words that Anders wished he could share. Then Merrill set the halla on the bookshelf. She started to turn back toward Anders and Isabela, but halted, the brightness in her eyes fading. "I've been thinking," she said slowly as she faced them, "about what happened with my clan."
Anders shot Isabela a look telling her he had no idea what to say to that.
She frowned at him for not knowing before she tried to address it with Merrill. "What for, kitten?"
"How they acted. Fenarel, especially, has been on my mind. He was never… he was always mean, even as a child. It was just who he was. But he wasn't violent. He wasn't vile. Not with anyone of the clan."
"He threatened Líadan," said Anders.
"I bet that went over well," said Isabela.
"From the story Arian told me," said Anders, "she was letting his behavior go, up until he threatened the child she was carrying. In the blink of an eye, she had him shoved up against an aravel and the tip of her dagger at his throat."
Isabela made a soft sound of amusement. "That's about how I imagined it going."
"That isn't like him." Merrill winced. "It wasn't like him. He might have yelled or shouted or argued, but the Fenarel we grew up with, the Fenarel we knew as an adult, he would never have threatened a clan member."
"I thought Líadan wasn't a member of the Mahariel anymore," said Anders. She'd certainly pointed out enough that her clan had become the Wardens. There was even a Dalish Keeper in the Wardens, who had been approved by the Arlathvhen. The same Arlathvhen had exempted Dalish Wardens from the traditional rules of the Dalish, because of their unique situations. It meant that they were allowed to bond with non-elves—even possibly have children—if they wished, and would not be exiled for it.
It was a point of fact that'd bothered Anders for a while when it came to Líadan, because she'd said more than once in their many conversations that she did want more children. He'd asked why she'd prevented it, since with the new Joining potion, infertility had largely become a non-issue, and over the past few years, more Wardens had been having children of their own. Her answer had pointed right back to the Dalish aspect, the rules she'd been raised with, and the guilt she couldn't seem to escape. While he couldn't pretend to understand, he'd had to accept her answers for what they were, even though he could see it bothered her either way: either she chose to have another child or two and dealt with the guilt, or she chose to prevent more children, and dealt with accepting an outcome that wasn't entirely what she wanted. "That her clan is the Wardens," he said out loud.
"It is, but Keeper Marethari never named Líadan an exile, nor did the rest of the Dalish. They never even said she wasn't a Mahariel. So, for all Fenarel's anger, she was still a clanmate, even in his eyes. Perhaps that's why he got so angry, really." Merrill's eyes went distant. "I'm starting to think spirits had been taking my clanmates from the beginning, as soon as we arrived at Sundermount. That their staying so long at the base of Sundermount made them easy targets for the wandering spirits there. When the Keeper broke that statue, it took her and the rest of them who hadn't been taken already."
"Which means no blame rests with you," said Anders.
We both know Merrill is not to blame.
Right, but she doesn't believe it.
She must believe the truth.
Her truth is different from ours.
Merrill gave him a tiny, rueful smile. "They stayed because Keeper Marethari was waiting for me to come home. In a way, it was my fault."
"If she'd just believed you, she'd have left it alone and gone on her way with the clan."
"But she didn't. And they didn't. Because of that, they're all dead." As she'd talked, Merrill's voice had been strong with its certainty as she tread lightly over the deaths of her clanmates. When faced with the stark reality of their deaths, her voice turned frail.
"They chose not to believe you," said Isabela. "And they chose to stay. Those were their choices, not yours. You've no need to take responsibility for them."
Merrill didn't look the least bit convinced.
Isabela sighed. "Hawke is better at these things. Have you spoken with her since we got back?
"No, I haven't seen her."
"She has to know by now. Maybe Lady Man-Hands told her, or Varric. He told me." Isabela sighed again, sat in one of the wooden chairs at Merrill's table, and then pulled Merrill into her lap.
It wasn't sexual at all, which struck Anders by surprise even though he knew he should know better by now. Isabela was perfectly capable of normal interaction that wasn't laced with innuendo, and mostly capable of maintaining friendships, though she'd be hard-pressed to admit it. Over the years, she'd watched over Merrill like one would a younger sister, and now she was comforting her as best she could with actions, because words had failed her.
Merrill only looked somewhat comforted, but it was a step. "Or maybe she's heard already, from rumor."
"Maybe, maybe not." Anders shrugged. "What I've heard spread around Darktown is that the Dalish clan at Sundermount just up and left."
"Why would they think that?" True surprise brought liveliness into Merrill's voice. "All the clan's belongings are still there, even the aravels. When a Dalish clan moves on, we take everything and leave the campsite looking like no one had ever disturbed it."
"Most humans don't know that," said Isabela. "Just like they don't know that the Dalish bury their dead and plant trees on the graves. And even fewer would be observant enough to recognize a new grove of trees in a place already full of them."
Merrill's eyes turned to the halla on the shelf. "I haven't heard from Líadan. I thought she'd have said something, or maybe visited. I don't know. She's the only Dalish clanmate I have left."
"I thought we were your clan, now?" asked Isabela.
Merrill offered a genuine smile. "Oh, you're my clan. You're not Dalish, but that's fine." Then her smile faded again. "I just thought…"
"It's my fault," said Anders, unwilling to let her believe that her last Dalish clanmate was ignoring her. If Líadan had, it would've surprised and saddened him, too. He couldn't see their friend doing anything less than coming to Kirkwall herself to help Merrill, or at least see her. "I haven't sent word yet. Aveline told me to, since I'm a Warden, but I haven't gotten… I haven't been able to do it."
"You think it's still your fault they died," said Merrill.
"Well, it isn't yours, and because Vengeance got loose and killed them, it is my fault. And it's stopped me from following through with a responsibility related to it, which only makes it worse. But every time I've sat down to write it, my hand wouldn't move."
"It's all right." Merrill slid off Isabela's lap and picked up the halla. "I haven't been able to tell her, either. I can't get to Denerim, and it seems wrong, to send a letter after…" Instead of finishing her sentence, she traced a finger along the halla's back.
"After my ship is repaired, do you want me to go get her?" asked Isabela. "I don't mind. I'll bring her family, too. Maybe I can finally convince them to take up piracy. And you can come with us!" She shifted her look to Anders. "And you. We'll have you to heal when you're you, then if we run into other pirates who aren't as scrupulous, we can throw you over to their ship so Justice can take care of them! It works out beautifully, if you think about it. People should use my ideas more often."
Anders found himself chuckling, even through the upwelling guilt, which he knew had been Isabela's intention. Though, there really was a strong possibility that she was entirely serious about the lot of them joining her in piracy on her ship.
Piracy is wrong.
Not when you do it right. Piracy or a pirate.
Whatever you meant there, it is wrong. The pirate sets a bad example.
A bad one for you, maybe, but a good one for a pirate.
"Varric did say you're making a killing on the serial about a Dalish princess and a Fereldan prince who take to piracy over ruling their lands," Anders said out loud.
Isabela's grin was positively sinful. "You've no idea the gold mine it's become."
"I'm not sure I'd want to be around when they find out about your friend fiction, though."
She scoffed. "Líadan will be practical and ask for a cut of the profits, and Malcolm will be too embarrassed to be angry."
"You know she's right," Merrill said before Anders could object. It only made him laugh again, and having gotten him in good spirits, Merrill turned to Isabela. "No, don't get them. Not yet. I want her to see the finished eluvian, and—"
"It's done?" asked Anders. That's what felt different. The sense of wrongness that seeped from eluvian had disappeared. He'd assumed she'd moved it. Maybe she had, or maybe she really had fixed it.
Excitement chased out any vestiges of Merrill's somberness, and she grinned. "Yes! That's why I asked you to come. I wanted to show you. It's finished, but it's not working properly. I mean, you can sort of tell that it's working, but it's… stalled or something? Like it's waiting, but I don't know what it's waiting for." She motioned to the back room. "Let me show you."
The eluvian still stood in the corner of what served as Merrill's bedroom. The vines holding up the glass had been moved to stand only at the bottom, and then woven into pedestals for the statues they'd found in an aravel at the Mahariel camp.
The sense of wrongness had been replaced by an energy Anders could only describe as potential. The electric feel of it raced along every surface, including through the bodies of anyone standing nearby. It was exhilarating and suffocating both.
"It's beautiful, kitten," said Isabela.
Merrill beamed. "I just hope it'll work whenever it's done waiting."
Anders wasn't sure if he wanted it to or not. Neither was Justice. Vengeance didn't level an opinion, and they were both happier for it.
"It will. I have every confidence in you." Isabela straightened from her study of the eluvian. "All right, this calls for a drink. Varric'll buy."
"Does Varric know this?" asked Anders.
"He will eventually."
Justice decided to put in his opinion on the matter of the abuse of Varric's tab as they made their way through Lowtown from the Alienage.
You're stealing.
No, we're not. If Varric wanted us to pay, he'd get the coin out of us. Since he never asks and he knows who's charging his tab, it isn't stealing. Besides, it isn't like he doesn't get it all back and then some after cards.
I concede your point.
Finally.
Lirene greeted them as they crossed through the market. Anders returned it, making a note to check with her later about the status of her store's poultice supply.
"She wants you, you know," Isabela said from beside him.
"She does not."
"Care to make a wager?"
"Would I ever. Let's see, how about—"
A shout from further ahead in the marketplace cut her off, and the answering shout had them running for the confrontation. Merrill wasn't generally one to raise her voice unless in combat or incredibly angry, and one usually led right to the other. While Merrill wasn't incapable of defending herself—she was more than capable, often to the detriment of her would-be attackers—neither of them wanted Merrill to have to resort to magic of any kind. The templars had been more alert than usual lately, and just the hint of magic in an open area would lead to their appearance.
Anders and Isabela pushed and shoved through the growing crowd to find Merrill in the middle of it, hands gripping one end of a wooden bow, while a man in leathers held the other end and refused to let go.
"You've no right to this!" Merrill shouted at him.
"I've every right! I paid good coin for it!"
"It has nothing to do with coin! It's a Dalish bow and it isn't yours!"
"I know it's a Dalish bow, you daft woman! Why do you think I bought it?"
"It isn't just any Dalish bow—I know the man who made it!"
"Oh, shit," said Isabela. Then she glanced over at Anders. "Easy way or hard way?"
"Easy way is faster. Either Sebastian or Varric will reimburse you for it. I'd spring, but I haven't the coin."
Isabela sighed. "Fine. You'd better be scuttling my ship later if you aren't letting us fight now." Then she sauntered from the edge of the crowd to stand between the two people playing tug of war with the bow. "All right, whatever you paid for the bow, I'll pay double."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Double? It's a fine bow, but—"
"Clearly it has some meaning to my friend here. Double, and you can pick up another bow. Two, if you wanted."
"If it's worth that much, maybe you should offer—"
"Take or leave it," said Anders. "If you leave it, you won't like what happens. The story ends with our friend getting the bow. How the rest of it goes is your choice."
He let go of his end of the bow, and Merrill practically hugged it. "Thank you," she said to the man. "Really, thank you."
Isabela tossed him a small pouch filled with coin. "That should cover it. If it doesn't, find Varric in the Hanged Man and tell him. He's got more coin than I do, and he's her friend, too."
"All right." He pocketed the pouch, and then looked between the three of them before settling on Merrill. "Do you really know who made it? If I could track him down, I'd love to buy a bow off him. The work is truly exquisite."
"I do, but…" Merrill brushed one of her hands along the length of the bow. "He's dead."
"The world is worse off for it then, a fine craftsman like that." He inclined his head toward Merrill, and then disappeared into the crowd before anyone changed their minds.
Still clutching the bow close to her body, Merrill joined Isabela and Anders as they continued toward the Hanged Man. After they'd covered more than half the distance without an explanation from Merrill, Anders finally gave in. "You went to all that trouble to recover something Master Ilen made?" he asked her. "There were bows of his near his aravel, but you didn't take them."
Merrill shook her head. "It isn't just any bow of his." She pointed at a small symbol near the grip. "Ilen's mark is there, but it isn't the only one." Then she rotated the bow and pointed out another symbol, one that Anders recognized. "The other one is a griffon. This is Líadan's bow. The one Master Ilen had Malcolm help make. The one Malcolm gave to her as a bonding gift." Her hand tightened on the bow's limb. A grip like that on her stave would've meant summoned magic. "Why would he have it?"
"Maybe she sold it?" said Anders.
Isabela shot him a withering look before Merrill had a chance to.
He waved them off. "I know, I know. Not a chance."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Isabela rubbed her finger along her lips, and then played with the piercing just below them. "I did hear rumors while I was gone, and more of the same when I got back."
Anders frowned. "What rumors?" Obviously he'd been holed up in his clinic and Darktown for too long if he hadn't even kept up with rumors.
"I haven't heard any rumors," said Merrill.
"You never do, kitten. That's why the rest of us listen for them. And this one is… I really am a little surprised neither of you had heard it, because it took me by surprise at first. Some of the Fereldan refugees told me they'd heard that Prince Malcolm's wife had taken both the children and left him to return to the Dalish."
"Ava," said Anders.
Isabela pointed at him. "Exactly, which was why I wasn't surprised for long. Sad that they didn't take me up on my offer, but not surprised once I thought about it. So, maybe she did sell the bow, to sell the rumor, so to speak, because we all know she'd never leave him."
"No, she wouldn't," said Merrill. "But she wouldn't have come through here. She'd have gone to her grandfather's clan, not the Mahariel." She stopped short. "Unless she came here for me."
"It's not without possibility," said Anders.
"Creators, I hope it's not true."
Isabela put her arm around Merrill's shoulders. "Or maybe it's just a coincidence. Either way, good on you for getting her bow. Hold on to it. When you see her again, I'm sure she'd appreciate getting it back."
Anders couldn't shake the discomfort that took him at the idea. Not getting her bow back, but the rumor, what he knew had to be the truth about the rumor, and reasons why her bow would turn up in a Lowtown market. None of the reasons were good, and some of the reasons were frightening.
The templars must not have her.
If they did, we'd have heard about it by now. Varric's contacts, remember? He hears about everything.
If they have her—
Justice surged, and then another force surged right behind him, threatening to overtake them both. Vengeance sought control, and Anders fought him the entire way to Hanged Man. Thankfully, seeing Marian there chatting with Varric brought in enough normalcy that Vengeance retreated.
She sat at what had become Varric's table, happily regaling her tale of what she and Sebastian had been up to in Starkhaven. Her cheeks had just started to warm with ale, and her excitement over the future lit her eyes in ways Anders hadn't seen once in all the time he'd known her. A proper marriage to Sebastian must have done her some good.
"Goran practically hugged Sebastian when he saw him," Marian was saying to Varric as the others took various seats at the table. She greeted them with a little wave, but kept talking. "Not that we didn't expect him to be enthusiastic, but his letters underplayed it. He'd been set up and blackmailed by the Harimanns, and when they were dead, he never heard anything from Sebastian or Meghan, so he kept ruling even though he didn't want to."
"What would make him do that?" asked Varric.
"Apparently he possesses some of the Vael sense of responsibility to Starkhaven. He didn't want to just ditch the city, not when the Vaels were supposed to guide it."
"Huh." Varric sat back, leaving his full mug of ale on the table in front of him. "He have any idea what he wants to do?"
"University, actually. In Val Royeaux. Sebastian offered to pay."
Anders laughed. "Of course he did."
Marian grinned at him. "That's what I said! Turns out, Starkhaven's coffers are as full as ever. Goran's been playing the fool since he was a boy. He said people expected less of him that way and stopped comparing him to Sebastian's brothers. He's truly capable of ruling Starkhaven, as he's proven, but he wants nothing of it and is absolutely thrilled to be turning the city back over to the main Vael line."
"You'll be leaving Kirkwall, I assume?" asked Varric.
She nodded. "In a month or two. I have some things I need to wrap up before we go."
"You mean convincing your mother to go with you," said Isabela.
Marian sighed. "I need to get Carver out of here, too."
"You should probably go sooner rather than later," said Varric. "There's something funky going on in Kirkwall, and you probably don't want to get caught in the middle of it."
"Varric," Marian said slowly as she lounged against the wall behind her bench seat, "I thought that when there isn't something funky going on in Kirkwall is when to take notice."
"All right, point goes to you. Still, this is weird, even for Kirkwall."
On hearing Varric's reluctance to dismiss the topic, Marian straightened, resting her elbows on the table. "I'm listening."
Isabela slid in next to Marian, while Anders and Merrill found other seats at the table. When Varric got spooked, it spooked the rest of them, because Varric rarely seemed truly overtly bothered by anything.
"What I've managed to figure out is that, whatever it is, it's centered on the Gallows."
"Which really isn't unusual," said Marian.
Anders frowned, recalling conversations he'd had with Varric while Marian, Sebastian, and Isabela had been in Starkhaven. "I thought you said you hadn't heard anything from the Gallows."
"Exactly!" Varric threw his hands in the air. "Exactly! I never hear nothing."
"It's unheard of, is it?" asked Marian.
Varric winced. "Stick to jokes that aren't puns. You're good at those." When Marian didn't crack another one, he nodded before going on. "The lack of gossip has me thinking there's a whole lot of gossip locked up in there that needs to get out before it explodes."
"Gossip doesn't just build up until it breaks out, does it?" asked Merrill. "That would be terrible! No wonder everyone gossips."
"Only if you haven't heard the best gossip," said Isabela.
"Try this one," Varric said to Marian. "Have you heard anything from Junior?"
"Mother's gotten a few letters from him, bitching about how boring his assignment is, but that's about it. No clue as to when he'll be home again. Why do you ask? Was he your source in the Gallows?"
"Ha, please. I've got more sources in the Gallows than you've got fingers and toes. One of them plays cards with me on the regular—at least, he used to. I haven't seen him in ages. He was out on the same assignment as Junior, but came back right after his daughter died. Not once has he been in the Hanged Man."
"Maybe giving up cards was his daughter's last wish?" It sounded weak to Anders, even as he said it.
"No, he'd have told me, if it was. And it wasn't. Sudden death. I haven't seen him since he gave me the news. Maker, it's been weeks since I've seen any templar regulars in here. Yesterday, it was Macha saying she hadn't heard from her brother in weeks. Something's going on up there and I don't think Meredith wants anyone to know it."
Marian took her elbows off the table and rolled her shoulders, signaling that she was finally taking Varric seriously. "All right, that does sound strange."
"Gets better." He inclined his head toward Merrill. "You've got this—Daisy over there, walking in with a bow, and I doubt she's taking up archery. Now, why would Daisy be in possession of a bow, and why am I hearing rumors of a scene in the Lowtown market?"
It was Anders' turn to straighten suddenly in his seat. "How in the Maker's name did you hear about it that fast? It happened practically right before we got here."
"I hear about everything, sooner than everyone else, and I pay good coin to make that happen. But that isn't my point." He motioned toward the bow. "That isn't Daisy's bow. That's Princess' bow."
"It is," Merrill said quietly, and then gingerly laid the bow on the table. "That's why I took it. That man had no right to it."
Varric nodded. "There's something else." Then he reached under the table and came up with a sword that he placed next to the bow.
Merrill gasped. "Where did you get that?"
"From another human merchant who had no right to it, like you said. Except I paid them immediately, more for not making a scene than for the sword itself, unlike some people."
Anders reached out and put his hand on the sword's grip, feeling the same familiar tingle he'd felt when its owner had let him hold it. "It's Líadan's, isn't it?" But he knew the answer already. They all did.
As soon as Anders let go of the grip, Merrill swept her fingers along the scabbard, tracing detailed engravings that resembled those of the Dalish vallaslin. "It's a Dalish relic," she said after a moment, her voice nearly as frail as it'd been in her home, when she'd spoken of her dead clan. "Keeper Emrys gave it to her after she had Ava. I remember her complaining that he didn't give it to her directly. Just left it for her to find and returned to his clan so that she couldn't ask questions about it." She gave Varric a crooked smile. "Neither of them were ever good at farewells."
"I don't think there was any farewell, in this case." Varric sat back in his chair again, pulled a folded piece of paper out of his coat, and then smoothed it out on top of the table. "This is a manifest I recently procured based on a tip from one of my esteemed associates. It's from one of the stables near the city gates." He tapped his index finger on one of the inked entries. "A month or so ago—the date's smudged because the writer was left-handed, but the stableboy thinks it's been about that long, give or take a week or two—someone in a hurry paid an absurd amount of coin to board a horse and two ponies. The gold will cover another month at least, that's how much it was. I told them I'd be checking on them to make sure they keep up their end of the agreement. Why? Because those horses would bring an equally absurd amount of coin if they were sold."
Cold dread seeped into Anders, starting at his fingertips and spreading through his body. "Varric, what is it you're thinking?"
He shook his head. "I don't want to tell you yet. I want you all to know everything I know so I can see if you get the same thing I did." Then he stood again, taking Bianca with him this time. "Come up to my room. There's one more thing, but I'm not bringing it down here."
Anders exchanged uneasy looks with all three of the women walking with him, and it did nothing to help his dread, not when he could see they were arriving at the same conclusion he was.
In Varric's room, there were three packs and several saddlebags spread out on one end of his long table. On the other end rested three saddles, one normal-sized and two smaller ones, meant for children. The larger one and most of the saddlebags had a griffon imprinted on them—the emblem for the Grey Wardens. The rest of the saddlebags were unmarked, but stamped in the leather of the other two saddles was a shield bearing two mabari rampant.
"Shit," said Isabela.
Marian's hand reached out to touch one of the packs, and then she quickly retracted it. "Varric, do you want me to store these at my place? You know, in case anyone in the Hanged Man is stupid enough to try to rob you. Or because I've got a lot more space than you."
"That would be for the best," said Varric.
Anders kept staring at the items on the table, willing Vengeance stay away.
"They have them, don't they?" asked Merrill as she went straight for the table, placing both the sword and the bow next to the other items. Her hands drifted over each thing, every pack and saddlebag, and then the saddles before returning to the packs. "She's locked up in the Gallows. That's why no one's hearing anything." Merrill opened one of the smaller packs and drew out a one-horned halla. Her hand covered her mouth and she sat down.
"I'll have to speak with the Grand Cleric." Marian had taken a few steps away from the table and did not approach it again. "Sebastian will come with me. We should be able to convince her to intervene—"
"I wouldn't count on it," said Anders. "She hasn't before. What makes you think she will this time?"
Anger darkened Marian's expression as she focused on Anders. "This is different. She knows them. She'll know it's wrong."
Anders scoffed. "She knows most of the mages held prisoner in the Gallows, and she's done nothing for years. Nothing! She knows practically everything Meredith has done and she's done nothing to stop it. What makes you think she'll do anything now?"
"Because she has to!"
"Does she? I'll tell you what'll happen—she'll hide behind her idealistic and useless method of keeping the peace, leaving Meredith to solve whatever problem present in the Gallows. Meredith won't see it as a problem, and nothing will be done."
Marian stared at him. "You're glowing blue."
He didn't have an answer to that, not while he was pushing Vengeance back into his little box of wrath.
"Her parents died protecting her from the templars," Merrill said quietly, one of her fingers stroking along the halla's back. "Yet to be captured by the templars while protecting her own children, I can't imagine how she must feel—
"No need to worry about that," said Isabela. "We'll break her out. Anders has the Mage Underground, so we'll use them and have her and the children out tonight."
"Escape tunnel's filled in," Anders said more to his feet than his friends. "I checked on it myself today. It was walled up weeks ago, but I got the bright idea that it might be hollow behind the wall. It wasn't. The Underground hasn't been able to help a mage escape in weeks. None of our contacts inside the Gallows has sent out a message for weeks. Aside from the Grand Cleric, I really don't know how we can get them out."
Their imprisonment is wrong.
No one here disagrees with you.
You must do whatever it takes to correct this injustice.
Isabela kicked at the floor. "Balls."
"You should send a message to the Wardens in Ferelden, Varric," said Merrill. "Isabela could take it."
"I can't bring a message to Denerim quick enough without a ship." Isabela shot a glare at Marian for good measure.
She held up her hands in protest. "I tried to talk him out of trying to talk them out of it!"
"No need," said Varric. "Since you all came to the same conclusion as I did, I'll send out messages today using my usual methods. They'll get there. I'm not sure how long it'll take since trade routes and messaging have been dodgy lately, but the messages will get there eventually." He glanced in the direction of the Gallows, even though the wall blocked their view. "Hopefully in time."
"The Grand Cleric should intervene." Anders frantically tried to keep Justice from creeping into his tone, but he failed as Justice gained more strength from Anders' outrage.
Marian gave him a level look. "After we're done here, I'll get Sebastian and he and I will go speak with her."
"I'm going with you."
"Blondie, I thought you wanted this to be a successful negotiation. You go to the chantry all glowy like you are and it'll be a quick trip to the Gallows for you."
"Then probably the brand," said Marian. "Then again, Meredith might just kill you outright if she thinks you're an abomination."
Justice surged and Anders couldn't keep his head above the roiling energy of the spirit. "I will make the Grand Cleric see justice is done."
"No! Absolutely not! You'll fuck it up and our friends will never be free—"
"They will be freed." Anders tried to pull Justice down as the argument continued, growing louder in volume, but he couldn't. He couldn't stop Justice from exerting his will, even when reason was being spoken by others. He couldn't even make Justice hear him, because he wasn't entirely sure it was Justice in control. If it was, it was just barely.
Then in the realm of his mind, Vengeance shoved Anders and Justice into a dark box, denying them their voices. When he slammed the lid shut, he robbed them of senses and memory.
When Anders came to, he was in the chantry, a few steps inside the door. Apparently, Vengeance had realized, just in time, that entering the chantry as he was would end in death. And, apparently, Vengeance wasn't quite ready to be dead yet. Anders approved, because he wasn't quite ready to be dead yet, either.
Raised voices in the gallery caught his attention. After an initial peek to confirm what he suspected, Anders kept his head down and went up the side set of stairs. Instead of getting their attention and joining them—as Vengeance would have wanted, and Justice still encouraged—Anders slid quietly into one of the pews. He could hear what was going on and that would be enough, because if anyone could sway the Grand Cleric into action, it was Sebastian.
To Anders' surprise, Sebastian sounded as frustrated as Marian, which he'd never thought he'd hear from Sebastian when it came to the Grand Cleric. "You must realize who she is, Your Grace," said Sebastian. "Though it be a rumor, the Knight-Commander could be holding her on false grounds. It's your duty, it should be your duty, to find out if she's being held. And, if she is, where the children are."
There was no need to take any of them. Especially not the children.
I know! But we have to do this the right way or we risk making everything worse. And you can't talk like that because Vengeance will come out instead of you and then everything will be worse than worse. There can be compromise. We just have to find it. If we can just get—
There can be no compromise.
That had been Vengeance, and it took the combined efforts of both Anders and Justice to hold him off.
Meanwhile, Elthina answered Sebastian. "I admit that I do not understand the inner workings of the templars in the Gallows. While I can ask Knight-Commander Meredith about your claims, I cannot dictate how she runs the Gallows. I lead the Chantry here in Kirkwall, and she leads the templars. We are separate entities united under the Maker and Andraste, bound by the Nevarran Accords to work together. Our peace is fragile. To break it now would mean lives lost."
The tone Marian took did nothing to hide her frustration. "To allow them to remain—"
"You forget that I have known Knight-Commander Meredith for many years. Direct confrontation will bring about nothing but strife. Allow me to investigate this concern as a gentle mother. Maker willing, I will find the answers you seek. It will take patience, but this course will yield the better results."
"All the while, they could be held prisoner in the Gallows," said Marian.
"Patience, child," said Elthina.
"Your Grace, what she's done is wrong," said Sebastian.
"I cannot take sides. We are all the Maker's creatures, but magic allows abuses beyond the scope of mortals. For now, I counsel patience. This will be resolved in time."
There was the shuffle of feet and the beginnings of Marian voicing another objection, then a harder step, and Sebastian said, "Yes, Your Grace."
Anders stood and walked away as Vengeance simmered underneath. To distract him, Anders left the chantry and went back to the sewers, to see if he'd been wrong about the tunnel or to try to find another one. Surely the Gallows didn't have just one secret way out, not with its history. As he knocked on various stones and listened, Justice brought up his own suggestions. After a few days of using the same method of distraction, it became habit—a final expression of hope.
Invariably, each time he went to the sewers, searching for a way to help, Justice would suggest his most alarming method, which involved using lyrium like Anders had done in Kal'Hirol, and blasting through the wall and whatever lay behind it to re-open the tunnel.
Vengeance agreed, which frightened Anders even more.
Anders disagreed, because it would cause more trouble than it was worth, because he wasn't quite sure how to accomplish it anyway, that Kal'Hirol had been an accident, that they could bring the entire Gallows down because they didn't know what supported it, and Justice seemed swayed by some of the reasons.
Vengeance was swayed by none but his own.
As the days went by and the Grand Cleric said nothing whatsoever about Líadan, the templars allowed to patrol the streets of Kirkwall grew bolder and more heavy-handed. Suspected mages were dragged out of their homes or whisked off from marketplaces, and members of the Underground slowly disappeared. To where, Anders could never figure out. They'd either fled Kirkwall or ended up in the Gallows. Either way, he never heard from them again.
Soon after, Anders started to wake up in strange places, his body worn out, his mind drained, and left with only dregs of his magic. Most of the time, he was left alone to recover enough energy to go home, only to return to the clinic and discover it'd been days, not just a few hours. Sometimes, others found him. City guards he'd only known in passing, but he'd healed a child of theirs, or their mother. Coterie members who only had both hands because Anders had healed the injury that nearly severed one. A dock worker caught him from stumbling into the harbor. Isabela found him other times and brought him back to his clinic. Some of those times, she stayed. Others, she rushed away before he realized where she'd brought him. Varric found him other times and brought him to the Hanged Man. Leandra found him once, in the estate's cellars, clucking over his appearance before she brought him to the kitchens and fed him. Sebastian came across him in Hightown, and carried him to the Amell estate with a reluctant Fenris' help.
He remembered nothing in between, yet the memories of the care of his friends surrounded him when his mind was his own. It helped a little, but he worried about them, just as they worried about him.
Each time Merrill found him, she tried to reach him, even through her own concern about her last remaining clanmate, now currently locked away in the Gallows.
This time, she wrapped a blanket around him after she'd made him sit at her table, and then gave him a hot cup of tea. When he didn't say anything, she filled the empty silence between them.
"Long ago," she said, studying her own tea, "a clan lived on the Silent Plains. It was a terrible, lonely place where the sun was forbidden to shine. The Keeper had a coursing hound. They had run down deer and hares and wolves together when they were young. But they had grown old together, Keeper and hound, and now only dozed before the campfire, dreaming of hunts.
"But then the Dread Wolf came, for the Keeper was wise and kind—the things Fen'Harel hates above all else. At night, he tried to steal into the Keeper's dreams, to twist his mind and turn him against the People. But even in dreams, the courser guarded his master. He caught the Dread Wolf's scent and gave chase across the Beyond.
"Fen'Harel tried to shake his pursuer, but the hound ran as coursers can only run in their dreams. Even the wind couldn't have fled that hound. He ran the Dread Wolf down and grabbed him by the tail. Fen'Harel howled, so loud that the Veil shook and even the stars scattered in fear. But the hound wouldn't let go.
"Neither the hound nor the Wolf gave in. Finally, Fen'Harel bit off his own tail to escape, and away he fled."
Anders looked over at her, eyebrows raised. "Why that story?"
"I wonder which one you are in the story—the Dread Wolf, the courser, or the Keeper. And… I worry about the answer."
He let out a rueful chuckle. "I wouldn't know the answer, either. But I never thought you one to worry much, not over the serious things. You just find solutions, instead."
"I worry, Anders. I just don't let anyone see."
Since he hadn't seen evidence of her worry aside from her constant search for a way to get her clanmate out, and constant pestering of Marian and Sebastian to pester the Grand Cleric, then she must have been carrying a great deal of worry.
He wished he could help, but he couldn't heal within her something he couldn't heal within himself.
After a moment, Merrill asked, "What happens when an apostate is brought into the Circle?"
Her question let him focus on memories that were still his, memories filled with facts from things he'd witnessed. "Assuming they're brought in alive, they're healed of any injuries and then immediately put through a Harrowing. If they won't submit to the test, they're made Tranquil. If they fail the test, they're killed. But Líadan's already passed things far harder than a Harrowing. I wouldn't worry about that part."
Merrill's shoulders stiffened and Anders had to strain to catch what she whispered.
"We are the last of the Elvhenan, the last of the Mahariel, and never again shall we submit."
He frowned; Merrill should've had more confidence in her clanmate. "What is it?"
Her eyes flicked over to the two halla she had on the table near her door. "If a mage with little power is put through Tranquility, would it change them as much as it would another mage?"
"Cut off from the Fade is cut off from the Fade, I suspect. Even non-mages wouldn't be themselves if they were made Tranquil, because unless you're a dwarf, it isn't normal not to go to the Fade when you sleep. Why do you ask?"
Merrill dragged her eyes from the halla to look at Anders, and they were bright with fear. "She won't submit. It isn't in her nature—in a Dalish's nature—to submit. How can she pass the test if she won't submit to it in the first place?"
Anders stood up, the blanket falling from his shoulders, the cup of tea falling from his hands to shatter on the floor. Then he forgot who he was, and so did Justice.
Later, when he remembered, he came to sitting with his back against the wall of the closed tunnel, his fingers bloody and torn, streaks of blood painted on the stones behind him. Before he realized he was doing it, he began to heal his hands, but it took longer than a moment. He had to concentrate. He had to force the healing instead of merely controlling the easy flow of it.
And it hurt.
Healing had never hurt before. Not to heal, and not to be healed.
His desperation to find what had once been himself led him through the late night hours to the chantry. Though he reviled what the man-made institution stood for, there were those within who never lost faith. If he could understand how they maintained their faith in the face of all the injustices done in the world, perhaps he could find a way to hold his faith in himself.
The chantry was understandably empty, given the hour, but its doors were never locked, not when Andraste's house was eternally open to all—or so he'd been taught. Anders stole a glance up at Andraste as he stood before her statue, and then found that he couldn't look at her. Not as unfaithful as he was. Andraste had fought for good things for the right reasons and had won, and he'd done nothing of note and scoffed at the institution formed in her wake.
Then he spoke, so softly that he could scarcely hear himself. "You preached freedom and ended slavery, but do you know that your religion collars mages just for being who we are? Or there's the Harrowing. Have you heard about that? We're forced to fight demons or be made Tranquil. In case no one ever bothered to tell you, that cuts us off from the Fade for good. It means we're cut off from you and the Maker, so we can't even be redeemed after death. When our way to you is cut off, how are we supposed to seek our own paths to the Maker?"
No answer came, not that he expected one.
He held in a sigh, approached the base of the statue, and picked out a taper from the small bucket used to hold them. The movement of his shadow along the carved folds of Andraste's robes caught his attention, and then his eyes were drawn to the donation box. While donations weren't technically required for one to make use of the candles, it was expected. He frowned at the idea of supporting the Chantry, but scrounged in his pockets anyway. In for a copper, in for a… copper, as that was all he had.
As he went to drop it in, a hand covered the slot in the top of the box.
"Use whatever coin you have to spare to help heal those who need healing," said a voice Anders was well familiar with yet rarely conversed with, and probably never one-on-one. He truthfully found it more than a little intimidating.
"Grand Cleric?" When he looked at her, he couldn't keep his surprise from showing on his face. "It's rather late, you know."
She chuckled quietly. "Is that your way of asking why a woman my age is up at this time of night? Very well, I shall tell you. I suffer from occasional bouts of insomnia. Tonight is one such night."
He frowned again, because he knew such a thing was an easy fix. "There are potions you could take, if you wished."
"I can bear a night or two. These times never last longer than that, but thank you for your offer."
"I didn't say I would—"
She smiled at him, a smile that made him recall his mother. "You do good work, Anders. The Maker's work, in healing the sick and wounded as you do, all without asking for compensation. I have heard your generosity spoken of many times by grateful patients and their families."
"So you know who I am." He made his statement flat, composing his features into a neutral expression as he braced for the condemnation.
"A healer?" Elthina raised her eyebrows at his challenge, but kept her answer level, approaching warm. "Yes. There is nothing wrong and everything right in using a Maker-given gift for the good of others."
She sounded so sure. So sure that the Maker did all this for them, the Maker gave them talents and faults, abilities and inabilities. He stared at the flickering candles, but they offered no answers. Then he asked, "How can you have so much faith? The Maker left us to our own devices generations ago. He's never going to step back in, start listening to our prayers again. He's gone."
Even still, there was no rancor in her voice. "The Maker never turned His back on Andraste, and She still listens to us. In turn, the Maker's prophet gives us hope. Perhaps," she said as she looked at him, "you could ask her for some of your own."
Anders was about to ask what she meant by that—how much did that old woman know?—but he was stopped when the doors opened with far more force than necessary in the quiet night. A young man dressed in leathers bearing the Sword of Mercy strode purposefully inside, heading directly for the Grand Cleric. He paid no mind to Anders at all, aside from briefly noting he was there.
"Grand Cleric Elthina?" the templar asked in a light Orlesian accent.
She nodded. "You are speaking to her."
He returned the nod and then rummaged through his pouch before coming up with a sealed letter. "Message for you, from Val Royeaux."
Elthina's brows drew into a frown, but she accepted the letter. She cracked the seal and read it, and her eyes immediately darted back to the templar. "You're certain this is authentic?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Do you know of its contents?"
The young templar nervously licked his lips. "That the College of Enchanters was massacred at the White Spire? Yes, Your Grace. All the Grand Clerics have been sent the same message as you."
Without acknowledging his answer, Elthina dismissed the messenger, and then turned to face the array of votive candles.
Anders couldn't move, hoping he'd misheard. If the College of Enchanters had all been killed, that meant every First Enchanter in Thedas was dead, and for no reason at all.
Justice began to awaken.
Anders ignored him.
Though her hands shook horribly, Elthina rolled up the message, lit the end on a burning candle, and used it as a taper to light a candle. Then she lit another and another, as many candles as there were Circles of Magi. As she lit them, she recited lines from the Chant often used when funeral pyres were lit. Then she doused the end of the makeshift taper in the small bucket of water kept nearby for that very purpose, and then let the letter drop fully into the water.
She took a step back, glanced up at Andraste, and then bowed her head.
Her prayer were possibly the sincerest plea Anders had ever heard.
"Andraste, Mother of Sorrows, we mortal children will never have peace unless we try to understand one another, yet we do not try to understand. Andraste, Prophet of Mercy, please guide our minds and hearts to be open, so that we may understand, so that we may experience peace in our lifetimes."
There is no understanding.
Justice's comment startled Anders enough that he almost looked around him to find the source.
I think there can be some. There's a gray area here. We just need to walk in it more. People can learn. People can learn and compromise for the betterment of all.
There is no compromise. Many mages have died. Justice cannot abide more deaths.
More than a bit frightening, that pronouncement. It's got a bit too much finality.
Anders left before Justice did anything to the Grand Cleric. No. Before Vengeance did anything to the Grand Cleric. He strode quickly across Hightown until his energy left him, then he stumbled into an abandoned alley cluttered with empty, rotting barrels and draped in the shadows that so kindly hid faults. His struggle with Justice robbed him of the last vestiges of his physical strength, and he slumped down one of the walls, the cold from the stone making him shiver inside his coat. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Like his breath was being stolen.
Justice will be done.
They don't need—
Vengeance will be had.
Sudden light from the Fade burned behind his eyes. His sense of self, who he was, the person, the Grey Warden and friend and healer, was shoved aside. He was pressed against the edges of his mind as he scrabbled for a way to hold on. Then the light surged and seared everything within, sapping his entire will, and he tore, the edges fraying before they ripped apart and he could no longer heal and he would never heal again and he wished he'd healed more, before—
Vengeance did not mourn Anders.
Others did. Anders, most of all.
And then he was gone.