Part IV

I hear you moved that apostate boy into your house. You really are your mother's daughter. - Gamlen

Everything hurts.

Anders is slammed back into consciousness, as sudden as a thunderclap and just as furious. Magic, denied to him since being stabbed with a poisoned blade, courses through the blood in his veins. He reaches deep down into the Fade, feels the power surging within, even in his weakened state.

And suddenly Justice is back, having never completely left, wanting control, demanding that Anders cede to him. Anders resists - he must resist - for Justice cannot heal this body, he can only destroy. Precious moments are lost during the struggle, seconds that Anders could use to heal himself, to repair damaged blood vessels and broken bones and torn muscles. As Justice finally gives in, Anders feels a weak prickling sensation sliding across his skin. He recognizes Hawke's pitiful attempts at healing magic at once.

Hawke.

"What have you done?" The words come out of Hawke's mouth like a snarl. He has never heard her sound so angry, not even after her mother's death, when she hopelessly raged against him, demanding to know why creatures like them should be free. Anders struggles to open his eyes, seeing a light blue tinge, letting him know that Justice is still aware and around.

Hawke is not looking at him but at Merrill, who is clutching a knife. The smell of rust and salt and a hint of sweetness that he only associates with blood magic tickles his nose. He takes the time while they're distracted to cast a healing spell on himself.

His magic grabs her attention at once. "Anders," she breathes, the reverence in her voice astounding him. Over their three years together, she's said his name a thousand, ten thousand times. He's heard her cry out his name in passion and as she wakes up, tenderly pressing her smooth cheek against his stubbled one. He's heard frustration in her voice as she asks him to stop ranting in front of their friends, and in anger when they are alone and can safely talk of mages and the wrongs committed against them.

But never, never, has he heard her say his name like this, as if she is lifting him up in prayer. He is not worthy of Hawke's devotion, of Hawke herself really, not yet. Soon, when the time is right, he will set Thedas on fire and though he expects the resulting blast to reduce him to ashes, he will finally prove himself worthy of her.

He will set Hawke free and never again will she be threatened with a cage.

Anders reaches out his hand, suddenly desperate to touch her, to feel her fingers wrap around his. Her fingers are calloused and rough, like his, and while she might use creams and lotions to mimic the hands of a noble, it's these hands, the ones that she places in his, that grip a staff or spins at a wheel that he loves so much.

He tries to speak, but his throat is parched and just thinking about water makes him realize just how desperate he is for something to drink. Thankfully, Fenris of all people hands a skin to Hawke, who carefully brings it to his lips. She pours just a mouthful which he promptly spits out, before helping him drink a little more. "Not too much," she warns and Anders nods, understanding the danger of gorging after more than a day of no water. While the water is not cold, it is not warm and his throat feels better at once.

"Potion?" she asks and he nods. Varric hands her a potion and he drinks it down with Hawke's help. Already he's feeling better, though by no means is he out of danger. His healing instincts take over. They need to get out of this tunnel and he needs to have his side bandaged, his broken arm set. Within a week, he'll be fine, but not if they don't get out of here before more templars come.

Hawke takes the empty phial and places it in a pouch at her belt. "Can you stand?" she asks gently. He nods once. "Walk?" Anders evaluates his injuries. Walking without assistance will be impossible. Fenris will have to help him, to Anders' shame, but at least it isn't that far of a walk to his clinic. He shakes his head and Hawke squeezes his hand. "Fenris and I will help you, then."

"I don't mean to rush," Varric says, Bianca in his hands, his careful eyes looking for any sign of trouble, "but we're standing right next to two dead templars and Hawke, I'm pretty sure you and Blondie are already on Meredith's shit list. We don't need to add to it."

"Good point," Hawke says. "The sooner we get out of here, the better."

Fenris takes over then, throwing one of Anders' arms over his shoulders and lifting him to his feet like he was a rag doll. Hawke starts to support his other side but wound on his torso is too delicate and opens up when she does. "Dammit," Hawke mutters as takes away her hand, coated in blood.

"I have this, Hawke," Fenris grunts as Anders and he start to walk. Anders casts one more healing spell to stabilize his side for the journey and hopes they make it out of the tunnels soon.

They walk in silence, Anders ignoring the hostility radiating from Fenris and only focusing on the step ahead of him. Even Varric has no quips or words of wisdom and is walking ahead, scouting, while Hawke paces at Anders' side.

"Merrill."

A pause. "Yes, Hawke?"

"You used blood magic to save him," Hawke says and Anders can hear the war brewing in her words.

Merrill walks a few paces behind them and he cannot see her face, but he can hear the righteousness in her voice. "And I'd do it again. We were there in time, not like with Pol."

Anders turns his head to look at Hawke. Her shoulders are slightly hunched and there is an emptiness in her eyes that he has never seen before. She glances up at the same time and give him a rueful smile, making him wonder just how tempted she was to do the same. No doubt demons plagued her before he woke, all offering her the chance to save his life in exchange for a foothold, just a tiny foothold in this realm. But Hawke refused, leaving Anders to wonder if he would do the same if their roles had been reversed. He lets out a small sigh when Justice rumbles, saying they would have; even for their Champion there are lines they may not cross.

"Thank you."

He can hear the smile in Merrill's voice. "You're very welcome."

The next two days pass in a blur of potions and healing magic. Finally he is strong enough to make the trip from his clinic to Hawke's mansion, technically his mansion as well, though he's never been able to call it that. Ever since he was sent to the Circle, home is not a place to him. At first, home was where ever his mother's pillow resided, whether in the Fereldren Circle or a barn during an escape attempt or Vigil's Keep in Amaranthine. Now Hawke is home. With her, Anders is granted a measure of peace he is sure he will never find in a place.

He sits up in bed, sipping at a cup of tepid water while Hawke lies on top of the covers on her stomach, bare feet swinging in the air as she writes in her journal.

Anders takes one more sip of water before placing the porcelain cup on the nightstand before turning his focus on Hawke. She wears a simple linen night shift, bunched up at the waist, revealing her smalls. Reaching out, he rests his hand on her bottom and notices the small upturn at the corner of her mouth.

But then Hawke turns to her side and takes his hand. "I don't think so." She fluffs up her pillow before resting her head, and Anders sees her trying to keep the smile from her face. "After the duel with the Arishok you wouldn't touch me for a week." She kisses the inside of his wrist and his heart clenches. Times like this he loves her so much he thinks he will burst. "No matter how nicely I asked."

His movements are slow and ungraceful, thanks to his still healing injuries, but he mirrors her position, laying on his side, pillow under his head. "You were convalescing."

They stare at each other, their fingers gliding together, not quite entwining, but always touching. "Anders," she says and he is reminded of how she said his name in the tunnel though he hears grief in her voice now. Her tongue darts out of her mouth and wets her lips as she blinks, once then twice. "You died."

He doesn't remember death. He remembers pain and fear and saying over and over in his mind 'not yet, Maker, please, not yet.' "Only for the briefest moment," Anders says, trying to put a bit of levity in his voice but fails miserably.

Perhaps now is the time to discuss what exactly happened to Justice during that moment. Anders knows Justice was in her head, only for a few seconds, but the time might have been enough to lay out their cards, like the final reveal of a hand of Wicked Grace, and tell her everything they've worked for, but purposely kept her from discovering.

Her fingers leave his and curl up into a fist, which she raises to her mouth. She closes her eyes. "He was there, for just a second," she says, her voice soft, a breath on a pane of glass. "I don't think he left you completely, because I felt only a fraction of his power and his anger and then…" She uncurls her fist and places her hand back in his and just like that, the glass cracks. "And then he was gone. And I felt so empty."

One of his fears is just that. If he were ever to find a way to separate himself from Justice, how alone would he feel without the constant presence in his head? It wouldn't be fair to Justice, not unless they could get him back into the Fade. "Thank you for being willing," Anders says softly. "It meant a lot to us."

"Justice wasn't in my head long enough to tell me your plans," Hawke says, meeting his eye, her gaze seemingly burning into his soul, revealing everything he is to her. "And I know you aren't telling me everything on purpose." Anders lowers his head, but Hawke lifts it back up with two fingers under his chin. Her face is as set and determined as he's ever seen. "Just know whatever it is, I am with you."

His wound be damned. Anders leans forward and wraps his arm around Hawke's waist, bringing her as close to him as possible. It's never enough, she can never be close enough. His mouth claims hers and he lets himself get lost in the kiss. Even though her words are the exact opposite of what he wants; everything he's done is to keep her out of the blast radius, he can't help but feel a hint of triumphant. Hawke has chosen him and their cause no matter the cost.

Breathing heavily, Anders pulls away and looks at her. Hawke's hair is down, tousled around her shoulders and her lips are red from his kiss. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and he will keep her from being singed if he can. If she must burn, let her be a phoenix, rising from the ashes, deadly and magnificent. Let her live. Kissing her brow, Anders whispers, "Thank you."

They are still for a moment, the only sound the cackling of the small blaze in the fireplace and their breathing. This time of night, the household is still busy. Orana is prepping food for tomorrow's meals and Sandal is working his enchantments while Bohdan manages the accounts. Even Baker, Hawke's mabari, works, patrolling the gardens for any possible intruders. But to Anders, he and Hawke might as well be the last two people in all of Thedas.

"As soon as you're well enough, I'll talk to the Grand Cleric," she says. Her voice is strong and sure and Anders feels Justice roar deep in his chest in exaltation. The final step and when the city stands on precipice, with Hawke in the middle as always, the time will come to shatter the illusion of peace.

He nods, seeing the world in a blue tint, but Anders pushes Justice back. This moment is not for him, it is for Anders and Hawke. She smiles and runs her hand through his hair, not bound for once, but loose, and mouths, "I love you."

"And I love you," Anders says, resting his forehead on hers. Such simple words, yet they are everything. Growing up they told him over and over in the Circle that he had no right to love anyone. That no one would ever love him. To be with Hawke, to know without doubt that the words spoken to him in the Circle were an absolute lie… He's suddenly weary, Hawke's proclamation sapping what little energy he has.

"Now we just have to figure out what to do with your coat," Hawke says, her voice bright. Anders is glad for the change of subject. "The pauldrons are a lost cause, I think. It will be near impossible to get that much blood out of the feathers."

Anders' brow furrows. He hadn't given his armor any thought. He loves that coat, having broken it in perfectly. It fits him like a second skin and the last thing he wants to do is break in another when war is so close. But the gash in his side soaked his coat in blood. "I liked that coat," he says, hearing himself sound like a petulant child.

Hawke's lips purse. "Perhaps we could dye it," she says, propping herself on an elbow. "In fact, I'm sure we could. We'll dye it black."

"A little morbid, don't you think?" Anders says.

"It's the only color that will cover up the blood," Hawke says. She laughs easily and it lifts his heart to hear it. "Without dyeing the coat, no one will want to go to your clinic. Would you want a healer who wears a coat soaked in blood?"

She stretches her back and Anders takes the opportunity to press his lips against her throat. "Fine, we'll dye it black." Another kiss. "What about my pauldrons? Dye those, too?"

"Best to start from scratch there, I think," Hawke says, sliding her hand up the curve of his shoulder before settling on his neck. "We have all those raven feathers we've collected. I'm sure there's enough to make you a new set of pauldrons."

Anders thinks it over. The more he does, the more he likes the idea, of wearing armor she helps him create, of looking down and seeing raven feathers, knowing she is the one that sewed them there. And then when the moment comes, the magic they will weave into his armor would give him strength to start the war.

"It will be a change," Anders says. He's never liked to wear black, the color always felt too morbid and depressing for a healer. But perhaps it is time to try something different. Perhaps the new color and pauldrons of raven feathers will help ease him into his role as self-proclaimed harbinger.

Hawke skims her thumb over his cheek and he leans into her touch, as he always does, as he always will. "Everything will change soon," she says, certainty laced in every word, as if she could no more stop the upcoming storm than she could keep a bud from sprouting or a caterpillar bursting from its cocoon.

Pressing his lips chastely against her own, Anders turns to lay on his back, ready for sleep. Hawke curls up next to him and lets out a contented sigh, warming Anders' heart. They have so few moments of peace left, he wants - no, needs - to enjoy every one.

For Anders has already spread tinder throughout Kirkwall. All he needs to wait for is the spark.

Author's Note: And we've reached the end! Thank you for reading and I would love to hear what you think. Cheers!