Author's note: The mage dilemma in Dragon Age: II has always struck me as being about incarceration and policing, an issue I care very deeply about and part of why I am so drawn to that game and Anders specifically. With current events around these issues in the U.S. very much on my mind, writing this chapter was in part a way for me to process difficult grief, anger, and fear, trying to find some hope for what can come of it all. I view Anders' actions at the end of the game as abhorrent, but also feel great compassion for the desperate conditions from which they emerged. He is a character that has my sympathy always, even as his actions chill me. If you are still struggling with the recent events regarding police and violence and the conversations around those events, this chapter may be unsettling or it may (I hope) offer some useful processing. I wish everyone peace in these difficult times.

The Siren's Call II was crowded. With Hawke's remaining companions, a few stray allies, and the mages they'd managed to rescue from Kirkwall before their escape all on board, there was hardly a corner not already occupied by two or three people. But either out of deference, contempt, or discomfort, the passengers were inclined to give Anders his space. He kept below deck, claiming as his own a table, stool, and lantern he'd dragged from the Captain's quarters into the cargo hold. And in the warm glow of the lantern, trying to ignore the nauseating smell of salted fish, pork, and vinegar, Anders wrote. It seemed all he could do in the wake of everything. He pulled the scattered threads of his thoughts and tried to wrangle them into sense, hoping that they might serve a purpose, a counter-narrative to the propaganda the Chantry and Order were almost certainly already spinning. He would be the villain of their story, no doubt. He could accept that. But what needled him as his quill scratched tirelessly against the parchment was the fear that his purpose would be gutted from the telling. Would he be painted the insane mage who senselessly slaughtered priests in a mad vengeance, proving the necessity of the very thing he protested? Or would he be recognized as a man desperate for change, patience worn gradually to dust by the eternally deferred promise of change? Anders' head throbbed against the nagging possibility that he might be both.

Justice was no comfort. Satisfied that his will had been heeded, the spirit kept his peace, leaving Anders to work through the fallout of their actions alone. Whether that was a mercy or not, he wasn't sure; Justice was as likely to assure Anders that they had acted rightly as he was to turn his judgment against them, raging at the impurity of their ideals in action. Isabella's words from months ago flitted repeatedly through Anders' mind: "Justice is an idea. It makes sense in a world of ideas, but not in our world." Maybe she was right. Maybe Justice, the idea and being, could never had made sense outside of the fade. When idealism failed them, when the crushing reality of the cruel, ruthless, unjust world was too much to endure, Justice wavered, and vengeance was all that remained.

Anders shuddered, thinking of the monster he had made of himself. What else might he do in service to the lost cause of justice? But no. He could not give in to that dark version of himself. If not for his own sake, then the sake of the mages he had pulled, willingly or not, into the head of this conflict. Many still had the patience to wait, believing that reform would come if they just endured. Others thought that resistance could only make the Templars all that much harsher. There were, of course, also some who saw his actions as vital; as much as they feared the retaliation that would undoubtedly come, it was preferable to the slow quiet death of being caged or branded while the people of Thedas remained comfortable in their neutrality. Whatever his fellow mages felt about Anders' actions, he had a responsibility to them. He needed to do what he could to make sure the battle at the Gallows and what preceded it did not fall flat, his purpose dismissed as delusion. If his cry for justice was heard only as ravings of an abomination, the rebellion would end before it had even truly begun.

So he wrote, wanting desperately to find the right words to make sure the spark they had struck in Kirkwall would not die there. If he could compose something persuasive and well-reasoned that could appeal to the hearts and rationale of good people, then perhaps the breaking of the Circles would not be just the pipe dream he feared it was. When the ship would arrive in Llomerynn Anders could seek out avenues to print and distribute his manifesto, send copies to every country in Thedas. The revolution could spread! But Anders, for all his conviction, was not as persuasive in writing as in speech and thought. The edge of his words dulled as they passed from mind to pen to paper, scratching across the parchment in a stilted prose. Every page ended its life balled up on the floor. And as the pile of discarded parchment grew, so did Anders' dejection.

After two days of nearly constant writing, without a halfway decent paragraph to show for it, the frustration over the inadequacy of his words become more than he could bear. Anders threw his quill from him in a huff, shaking his head at his inadequacy. Perhaps a walk around the ship and some fresh air would clear his head, or at the very least loosen the cramps that were building in his back and legs. Heading for the stairs to the upper deck, he paused by the doorway of the barracks where Varric sat scribbling away at his own stack of parchment. The other passengers in the room—some mages from Kirkwall—hurriedly got to their feet and left the room upon seeing Anders approaching. He ignored the jab of self-loathing their response raised in him and focused on Varric's hand, moving quickly and without pause across the parchment. Anders shook his head enviously at the ease with which the dwarf filled page after page with barely a line crossed out or word smudged.

"How do you do it?" he asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

Varric looked briefly at Anders before returning his gaze to his parchment. "Do what?" he asked flatly.

Anders entered the barracks and took a seat on the bunk beside him. "Write. You sit down, pick up your quill, and the words just come!"

Varric rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "It doesn't always come this easy. But it's just a first pass. Taking down… what happened, keeping track of the details, the who-said-whats, while I can still keep it straight. Later, I'll make it good. Take out a lot of it. Add some fire, an extra abomination here and there…"

Anders bristled. "You'll lie, then? You'll take the truth and…"

"Turn it into a story," Varric said, his voice hoarse. He was quiet for a minute and shook his head before adding, "Changing the color of Hawke's armor and making the monsters more… monstrous doesn't make it any less true."

"Of course it does," Anders snapped. "If you make the mages sound more dangerous than they really were…"

Varric looked at him, brow heavy and nostrils flared. "Don't worry. I write fiction and tall tales. I'm not in the business of propaganda. I don't want to see the word burn."

The implied accusation stung. "You think I do?" he said, eyes wide. He hadn't expected Varric to understand, but he'd been counting on his friend's ability to see the best in people. Even if he couldn't understand why Anders had acted, he would at least recognize that he was acting out of convictions that mattered in the best way he knew how. But now Anders doubted. "I don't want destruction, Varric," he said, desperation and anger mingled in his tone. "But Meredith made it clear. the Grand Cleric's inefficacy made it clear. A decade of waiting while conditions for mages only worsened made it clear! There could be no peaceful solution or half measures. Can't you see that?"

Varric folded his arms and studied Anders face. "What do you want, Anders?"

"It's 'Anders' now?" he said with a forced smirk. He couldn't remember the last time Varric had called him by his name. "No 'Blondie?'"

Varric frowned. Anders noticed the heavy bags under his eyes and the rounding of his slumped shoulder. "'Blondie' just doesn't seem like a good fit anymore," he said in a low voice. "Maybe it never was."

It struck Anders for the first time that Varric was hurt. It wasn't just that he disagreed with Anders' strategy; he had taken it personally. Anders felt instantly ashamed for not recognizing it sooner. After all, Varric had lived in Kirkwall his entire life, and now he'd been forced to leave it, at least until things calmed down, because of Anders. "Varric," Anders said, deflated. "I'm sorry you got caught up in this. If I'd been able to spare you and Hawke and the others from having to be a part of it, I would have. But you were all already involved." There was not a person in all of Thedas who was not involved, Justice said silently from the corners of his mind. Everyone person living played a part in furthering the Templars' power and the subjugation of mages. If they did not stand against the Templars, they stood with them. Anders pushed Justice aside and refocused on Varric. "In time you'll be able to return to Kirkwall. People will recognize that you only acted to limit the harm the Templars would do."

Varric snorted. "Return to Kirkwall? What's left of it, maybe," he grumbled.

"It will take time to rebuild, I know. Just as it did after the Qunari attacked. What with the looting and fires…"

"And giant explosion of a chantry?" Varric said caustically. "Never mind the people killed when the blood mages went off the rails."

"Their deaths are the fault of the Templars!" Anders snapped. "If the mages hadn't been driven to fear and desperation…"

Varric held up a hand. "I've heard this song before. It's got a nice melody, but the final cadence falls flat."

Anders seethed. "You might be tired of hearing it Varric, but mages are even more tired of living it."

"Yeah, I get that. But you were the one who brought that fear and desperation from a simmer to a rolling boil, Blondie." He uttered the nickname with more contempt than Anders had ever heard from Varric.

"A simmer?" Anders said, gaping. "Are you joking? Meredith and Orsino were at each other's throats! She was branding new Tranquil every day! Where there wasn't blood magic, she imagined it, and branded them malificarum for nothing more than passing notes or sneaking out for a tumble at the Hanged Man!"

"And you made it worse," Varric said firmly.

Anders stood up and loomed over Varric, livid at the accusation that he feared could be true. "If I hadn't acted, Meredith would have quietly sundered the minds of every mage in Kirkwall. The mages, all over Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches, we've been tortured for centuries, desperately trying to be heard. But no one listens! They all bury their heads and pretend that it's not their business, leaving it to the Templars to decide what's best," he scoffed. "Our pain and lives don't matter to them!"

Anders turned from Varric, unable to face his friend's judgment while his own agony wracked his body. "They will listen now," he said, voice shaking with anger and grief. "They might still kill us, but it won't be a quiet death. Not anymore. Everyone in Thedas will have to face their complicity in our subjugation and abuse."

Ander walked for the door, not wanting to see the contempt he feared he would find on his friend's face, but Varric spoke just the same. "Maybe," he said gruffly. "On the other hand, they might work that much harder at keeping their heads buried. It would be easy enough for them to call you crazy and not ask any more questions about why you did it."

Anders froze. "I know," he said in a choked voice.

He heard Varric stand up and lean on the table. "Or they might decide that the Templars were right about mages all along. And all those people who didn't want to get involved before are suddenly getting geared up and declaring a personal war on anyone carrying a staff."

Anders turned halfway toward Varric. "You can't let that happen."

"Me?" Varric asked, laughing wryly. "This is on you."

Ander shook his head as the reality of his predicament settled in. "The people who aren't already allies to my cause, they won't listen to me. Anything I say will be heard as the words of an extremist and murderer. They won't have the compassion to look for the meaning behind the violence, the desperation that bred it. But you, Varric…" Anders faced him, hope sparking as a plan took shape in his mind. "You have the perfect distance from it all. You were there, but not strongly allied with either side."

Varric shook his head, but his expression had softened. "Thanks to you and Hawke, I'm a known sympathizer. No one's going to believe I'm neutral."

"Maybe not," Anders said, optimism building. "But you are critical of Templars, despite not being one of us. And you see mages as people, not martyrs. You detest violence, but use it when you must. You're exactly the sort of person people would listen to! Neutral, except when it counts. And now it counts!" Anders pointed emphatically at the stack of parchment on Varric's desk. "You want to write a story; write one that makes people understand!"

"Sorry, Anders," Varric said shaking his head, "you're going to have to find someone else to write your propaganda. You're no hero, and I'm not the writer to turn you into one."

"Then don't," Anders said throwing his hands up. "Paint me the villain, if you want. But at least show the context from which my actions arose. Make clear that I did what I did in desperation, not random madness. And ensure that Meredith, the Templars, and the Chantry get their share of the blame. What I did, whether you support my actions or not…"

"I don't," Varric interrupted. "Just so you're clear on that point."

"What I did," Anders continued tensely, "did not emerge from a void. There was cause, and you know that. You needn't have any love for me to be plain in your account of what I suffered, what all mages suffer."

Varric still looked doubtful.

He had to do this. The more they spoke, the more certain Anders was that Varric was precisely the hesitant ally their cause needed. Varric's voice could achieve what Anders could not. If the mage rebellion were to become anything more than a flash in the pan, it was people like Varric who could help that happen. Without him, Anders was certain the worst would come to pass. "If you won't do it for me," he said, intensity rising in his voice, "think of Hawke. She could spend the rest of her life a fugitive if people don't understand the plight of mages and her involvement," Anders winced internally at the way he was using Hawke to gain Varric's alliance. Just the same, it was true; she could well end up as reviled as Anders if this was not handled well. He leaned close to Varric and said softly, "The less sympathetic I look, the harsher people will be in their judgement of Hawke. If they can understand why she supported me up to the end, Hawke and the others will be forgiven, even if I'm not. The best thing you can do for Kirkwall and her right now is to tell the truth."

Varric rubbed the stubble of his jaw, considering. Anders had hit a nerve. Whatever he may think of mages and Templars and the rebellion Anders had seeded, Varric would not lose Hawke, not if it was in his power to protect her. "I don't know," he said after a while. "I guess I could try. Don't have much experience with non-fiction, though."

"You tell stories about Hawke all the time."

Varric laughed through his frustration and exhaustion. "Have you heard the stories I tell about Hawke? I keep them light, heroic, thrilling, occasionally sexy, and pack them with a hell of a lot more fiction than fact." He shook his head. "Would people even want to read this crap?"

"Seriously?" Ander asked, smirking. "It's not like I'm asking you to write about a day in the life of Seneschal Bran. This is Hawke, Meredith, and a mage uprising! If that's not thrilling, I don't know what is."

Varric shrugged. "You're not accounting for how much folks hate politics. Bring up mage rights and people's eyes gloss over on reflex."

"I have absolute faith in your talents for adventure and intrigue as a means to balance out the dull matter of mage oppression," Anders said flatly.

Varric slumped and shook his head again. "Shit," he said in resignation. "I guess I better get writing."

Anders smiled and a wave of relief washed over him. He reached out to grasp Varric's arm in thanks, but the dwarf pulled away.

"Let's be clear," Varric said, "You and me? We're not okay. I'm not helping you clean up your mess for your sake. And you have no say in how I write this."

Anders took a step back, recognizing the justice of Varric's contempt even as it cut him deeply. "I understand," he said softly. "I know you'll do what's right. And if that means leaving me out to dry for the sake of innocent mages? So let it be."