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Sirens

Summary:

“Why would a mortal ever allow such a thing?” Justice asks.

Nathaniel ponders the question. “For life,” he says finally. Thoughtfully. “For love. Perhaps together, you can do what they cannot do alone. If you gave instead of taking, I would consider you no demon.”

It is something to consider, Justice thinks. Somehow, he is far more preoccupied with the way Nathaniel offers a smile: like he is someone who deserves to be loved.

Chapter 1: Fine Dwarven Walls

Chapter Text

Because I trust you, you arsehole! 

Nathaniel's words echo in Anders’ mind for days after the argument. It shouldn't even have been an argument in the first place, but in all his time with the family he's found at Vigil's Keep, he's somehow still neglected to learn how to accept affection. Idiotic of him, really. 

He dangles his legs from the parapets and watches the newest batch of recruits in the courtyard below. Parts of the keep are still being rebuilt after the darkspawn siege, but day by day, the cracks and crumbles begin to vanish beneath freshly cut stone and clean mortar. The walls are patchwork now, ancient Avvar stonework standing side by side with precise dwarven construction. 

Fine dwarven walls, as they say. Straight from Orzammar and all that.

The wine bottle in his hand is getting lighter by the minute. He rolls that thought around in his head with a tiny chuckle and another long swig. He briefly wonders if he were to stand on a scale would the numbers balance out if he were to factor in the weight of said bottle— 

I shouldn't be drinking when there's yet work to be done. 

The thought careens through his mind, rough around the edges and charged with a static sort of itch. It's his, and also not entirely his, and he almost falls off of the parapet in alarm. 

I — we — you — us — 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he snarls to no one in particular as he swings his feet back onto the battlements and stands up abruptly. 

He doesn't want to think about Justice. He'd taken his friend by the hand, and in a single, blissful moment of euphoria, he'd felt more complete, more whole than he'd ever felt in his entire miserable life. 

And then the world erupted into a wash of static and blue and disoriented terror and too much, too bright, too loud, too much hurt and fear and anger, too much — 

He doesn't want to think about the three days he lost after, either. Or the fact that Tabris and Nathaniel found him unconscious by the river several miles away, clothing tattered and drenched in blood. Not all of it his. 

No, he doesn't want to think about any of that. He just wants to forget, to drink until he remembers what a vague semblance of contentment feels like. Nothing will ever touch the moment they'd merged, but he's long since begun to think ten seconds of bliss was absolutely not worth the horrifying, endless emptiness that came after. 

He should have known. Dammit, he should have known better from the way Justice spoke of Kristoff’s memories, startling in their clarity despite the fact that Kristoff himself was long gone. 

Should have known the barely contained chaos of his own mind would have been too much for a spirit to process all at once. 

Too much, too loud, too bright, too much— 

He drains the rest of the bottle in one swig and hurls it off of the battlements with a strangled yell, and as it shatters against the rocky courtyard below, he realizes those are tears rolling down his face. 

I didn't mean to harm you, he thinks, and he isn't sure if it's him or Justice doing the thinking, but the fact that it doesn't really matter anymore leaves him with a hollow ache in his ribs. 

He doesn't regret much in this life — who the fuck has the energy for that, really — but he's beginning to wonder if he regrets this, and the guilt from that thought nearly swallows him whole. 

 


 

A pounding on his door jolts him awake from a dead sleep. He squints at the blinding light through the window — he doesn't remember leaving it open, but there's a lot he doesn't remember these days, so it's a bit difficult to keep track — and tries to remember what being alive and functioning feels like. 

The pounding grows more insistent. “Warden Anders! Quick, you're needed in the infirmary!” 

Andraste's saggy bosom, he's too hungover for this. He chokes out an acknowledgement and stumbles around the room for a shirt. 

This is why he shouldn't drink, this is why he must remain alert and vigilant and— 

“Justice, please,” he begs under his breath. He doesn't even know if Justice can hear or understand him, but the conflicting trains of thought realign and he can finally hear himself think again. 

“Warden Anders!” the voice calls out again.

“I said I was bloody coming, didn't I?” he snaps. 

He hears footsteps retreating, and by the time he's dressed, gotten his boots on, and made his way through the door, the hallway is silent again. 

He doesn't know what he expected waiting for him, but an unconscious Nathaniel with a torso drenched in blood, skin barely a shade darker than corpse-pale, draped onto one of the cots was not what he was ready for. 

Tabris stands by, stony-faced, dark coily hair spilling unruly and disheveled out of a tightly knotted and bloodstained bandanna. Velanna paces angrily, her fingers worrying at the cuffs of her sleeves. “I told you the new healer needed more battle training. I told you we should have brought Anders and not that fresh-faced child.” 

“Velanna,” Tabris grits out. “I said that’s enough.” 

“If he doesn't come back from this, it's on your head,” Velanna hisses. She storms out of the infirmary, slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle it on its hinges.

“What happened?” The words feel foreign on his tongue, dry like ash, rattling in his mouth like loose, unbound parchment. He's only half aware of the sensation, his speech hollowing at the edges, the words slipping past his lips only partly his own. 

“Anders?” 

Sigrun, cautious and curious, and the way she says his name only pricks at his consciousness.

Tabris stiffens. “Bar the door,” she says. 

And then Anders feels himself being pushed back, back, back, vision blurring and tunneling before refocusing with everything a bit shimmery around the edges. Shimmery and blue tinted and— 

It isn't until he tries to move his hand that he realizes he's no longer in control. 

“Justice?” Sigrun ventures tentatively. “Is that — did you—”

“Yes.” Tabris’ face betrays nothing.  “It’s why he's — they've — been staying behind. Nathaniel and now you are the only ones who know. We...were trying to buy time until we had more of a plan.”

“You're not dead?” Sigrun breathes, and he'd — they'd — have expected maybe a slightly more alarmed reaction from a child of the Stone so far removed from the Fade, but the only thing written across her features is relief. 

“No,” he says. He marvels at the way his voice carries in this body. It is nothing like the frail, rattling sounds that once escaped the lips of his former vessel, decaying as it was into dust by the day. Where Kristoff’s body was the final fading vestiges of dusk, Anders is brilliant, golden sunlight; strength and radiance and vibrancy

Sigrun tackles him with a bone crushing hug. “I'm glad,” she sniffs. “Wasn't fair, you dying first. Can you — can you fix him?” 

Her watery gaze is wide eyed and hopeful. Justice steps forward and fights the deluge of demands threatening to pour forth from his lips: who did this, why, where is the one responsible, have they paid for their transgressions— 

Focus

The plea is faint and does not belong to him. He steps forward, runs his palms over Nathaniel's chest, and realizes his knowledge of the human body begins and ends with the small discoveries he's been making while comparing Anders to a walking corpse. 

Justice isn't supposed to feel fear. 

But he is afraid. 

Let go. Let me. It's the only chance he has.   

He doesn't know how. 

He closes his eyes and forces air into his lungs — he has functioning lungs now and somehow the business of letting them breathe is far more difficult a task than allowing decaying ones to remain quiet and still. 

“Justice? It's okay, sweetie. Breathe slowly.” Sigrun grasps his hands and gives them a reassuring squeeze. “You're having a panic attack. Bodies do that when they're alive and overwhelmed. But you've gotta let Anders come back. He'll know what to do. Trust him. He's done this a million times.” 

Pinpricks in his hands, starting at his fingertips and traveling through his bones, static sending the hairs on his arms standing on end. Sigrun’s voice shrinks, minimizing to something small and distorted like he's hearing her through a pool of water, and then— 

The world slams back into razor sharp focus. Anders blinks at his fingers, whorls of blue fire rapidly scurrying beneath the surface and vanishing under scarred, freckled skin. He is exhausted, feeling more drained than he's felt in weeks. The pulsing headache of his hangover is back and drilling war drums against the inside of his skull. 

He doesn't make eye contact with Sigrun or Tabris. He makes himself remember how to breathe, squeezes Nathaniel's hand as he reaches out with his magic to assess the damage.

His skin is clammy and far too cold.

I trust you, you arsehole

Anders grits his teeth and gets to work.

 


 

It's three more days before Nathaniel opens his eyes. He'd taken a poisoned hurlock dagger to the ribs, the rusted, tainted metal only barely missing his heart before ripping down through his stomach. The first day had been entirely spent holding the infection at bay with repeated cleansing spells before any actual healing could even take place at all.

Justice is silent through it all, a quiet, shimmering well of mana lingering charged and ready beneath the surface. They're running low on lyrium potions lately — negotiations for supplies have become more difficult with the bulk of the darkspawn beaten back — but Justice quietly and wordlessly offers aid without a single stir otherwise.

Nathaniel would have died in that first twenty-four hours without Justice. 

Anders doesn't like thinking about that either. There are so many things he doesn't like thinking about these days, and he buries them all beneath a veneer of busyness. As long as his hands remain occupied, he can turn his attentions to tasks and away from voices that are his but aren't, limbs that belong to him and are moved by someone else, thoughts that could be his brushing up against thoughts that may not be. 

Too much. Too much.  

“You're thinking far too loudly,” Nathaniel groans. 

Anders drops the bottle he's filling, and it shatters on the floor with a deafening crash. 

There is so much to say that rushes to his lips at once, but the only thing that makes it out is a stilted ‘I'm sorry’ that trails off into a barely choked back sob he conceals poorly with a cough. 

“That's something a man loves hearing from his healer,” Nathaniel rasps. Anders isn't certain, but he's pretty sure that awful rattling sound is supposed to be a laugh. 

His hands are shaking. There's glass on the floor, cracked and shattered like the lines sprawling down his arms and across the backs of his hands. 

Everything is heavy and he is so tired. 

Help. Help you. Let me help you. 

The invitation hangs suspended in his head. He is so overwhelmed. He wants to cry but he can't, the tears are trapped somewhere vaguely beneath the surface, and he doesn't know how to seek comfort without taking up space he can't afford to fill. 

“Anders?” 

Nathaniel's voice cuts through the fog, and he folds. 

Let me.

It's less violent this time, less like being physically ripped from his body and more like being slowly submerged into a pool of ice water. Still unpleasant, but gentle despite the heart stopping ache of the Fade weighing his limbs down. 

It would be easier, he thinks, if Nathaniel were angry. If Nathaniel were scared of him, if Nathaniel looked at him and saw what anyone else would see. A demon in a mage’s body, unstable, chaotic, reckless, dangerous

The problem with Nathaniel is that beneath the brooding, prickly exterior is a man with a heart far too big for his chest. And Anders is intimately familiar with too much of Nathaniel to shake the fear that there will come an unavoidable moment where he loses control and does irreversible damage. 

He should have been angry hearing about Justice, but Nathaniel was too understanding then and he's far too understanding now, and fuck it all, Anders actually misses the days when their tenuous friendship was nothing more than a stack of loosely piled stones on a foundation of terrible jokes and irritated sighs. 

He's exhausted, so he closes his eyes and lets the darkness wash over him.

“I am sorry,” he says. He means it as a murmur but it comes out far too loud, the faint echo of it making him jump. 

Nathaniel, to his credit, doesn't seem particularly fazed. He rolls onto his side with a labored groan and gestures to the water pitcher. “Don't mean to trouble you while you get your bearings, but if you don't mind—” 

“Of course.” Justice sweeps his gaze over the room and retrieves the pitcher and what he hopes is a clean glass beside it. 

“Is he — are you—” Nathaniel peers at him as he accepts the glass. “Can Anders hear me?” 

Justice thinks about that. “Sometimes,” he says slowly. He reaches out to find Anders, to brush against the thoughts that are somehow both familiar and foreign, and find them unsettlingly quiet. 

“Now?” 

He shakes his head. “I do not think so.”

Nathaniel struggles into a seated position and winces at the ache. Justice takes in the way Nathaniel meets their eyes, soft grey — like the sea, Anders sometimes thinks — and full of emotions he has yet to learn the names for. 

For all his time on this earth in a mortal body, he is only recently learning how far the depth of that spectrum encompasses. With Kristoff he had memories, muted and faded with time, lingering echoes in empty rooms full of dust and cobwebs and lost luster. He hasn't yet figured out if Anders is a rule or an exception, but this body feels so much with so much intensity, he is far too frequently caught off guard by it all. 

Joy, elation, pain, sorrow, fear — facing the world behind Anders so often feels like staring into the sun. Dazzling in its breadth and brilliance.

Blinding.

“How is he?” Nathaniel asks quietly. 

Justice blinks at the simplicity of the question. “Anders, you mean?” 

“No, I mean the other person whose body you inhabit.”

He doesn't understand, but Nathaniel coughs out a laugh at his bewildered pause. 

“Apologies, Justice,” he says finally. “I spoke in jest. Yes, I meant Anders. I —” He trails off and studies his hands with a frown. “He's been … avoiding me. Since we found you. I suppose, well. I suppose you know that, don't you?” 

He does know that. He's been present for every moment of the anguish Anders feels clawing at his chest at the sight of Nathaniel's face. He doesn't have words for how Anders feels about Nathaniel — sometimes he wonders if Anders even does — but he can recall with intimate clarity just how much Anders recoils at the thought of Nathaniel getting too close to them. 

He doesn't know what that means, too close. Doesn't know how one would even define that, or how to recognize when the threshold is being approached, but he knows it terrifies Anders all the same. 

He says as much, and somehow he manages to figure out how to lower his voice by the end of it. He finds despite the tiny, hollow echo lingering beneath his words, if he works at it he can almost sound ... human. He reaches out again and tries to gather how Anders feels about this development, but once again brushes up against silence. 

The absence hurts far more than he would have expected. 

Nathaniel pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes wearily. “Self sacrificing idiot,” he mutters. “Anders, I mean,” he amends. A weak smile blooms across his face. “You're not exempt from the accusation, though, Justice. I know you, too. Even if Anders forgets that sometimes.” 

Justice doesn't know how to respond to that. Nathaniel's easygoing familiarity is a comfort in the storm he's found himself in as of late, and as much as Anders recoils from it, he finds himself seeking solace in it instead. “You almost died.”

“And you saved my life.”

Anders saved your life,” Justice corrects. “I did very little of the work.”

Nathaniel smiles crookedly. “Are you saying if you were in control you'd have let me die?” 

He's teasing, Justice realizes. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, even if that smile is laced with pain, and he realizes with the way Anders has retreated into the back of their mind, his thoughts in this moment are entirely his own. 

“I'd sooner throw myself into the Void itself than let that happen,” he swears solemnly. 

Nathaniel's expression sobers. He reaches out and takes Justice by the hand — their hand, pale and freckled and marred with cracks of blue. “I know,” he says quietly. “And Anders, if — if you're listening, somehow…” Nathaniel squeezes their hand softly. “Don't shut me out. Please. I'd rather a short life with you by my side than a long one without you in it.”

Something stirs in his chest at those words, unfurls slightly like a dawn flower poised at the brink of sunrise before snapping closed again. 

“I think he may have heard you,” Justice says. 

Nathaniel smiles again, squeezes again, and tugs him closer before patting the side of the cot in invitation. “Stay?” he offers as he eases himself back down.

“I do not know if Anders wishes to come forth fully.”

“I was asking you.” 

Oh. Justice considers it briefly and does as he's bidden. He doesn't expect the way Nathaniel's arm curls around his waist and anchors them together. It's surprising but not entirely unpleasant. 

“Thank you,” Nathaniel murmurs. 

Justice lingers at his side until he slips into an exhausted slumber, and only then does he extract himself and coax Anders awake. He is fading, falling, slipping into a cloudy haze, and when he opens his eyes again, they're amber-gold in the mirror and the sun has passed an entire day through the window. 

His memories are hazy, but Anders feels a surprising amount of clarity for how little sleep he's gotten. He frowns. Nathaniel is asleep on the cot. He vaguely remembers hearing the man's voice through his self imposed mental exile. 

His stomach growls, and he decides those are questions he is going to tackle another time. 

 


 

“I'm going out today,” Tabris announces at breakfast. “Anders, Nathaniel, Sigrun — you're coming with me.”

Anders looks up in horror and opens his mouth to protest. He can't leave the keep, not yet, not when he still has no idea how or why or when Justice is going to surge forward. He seems to do it most consistently when Anders is panicked, and these days Anders is constantly panicked. His nerves haven't had a break since the day they merged, and every waking moment leaves him feeling ragged and wrung out. 

The look Tabris gives him is somehow more terrifying than the alternative. He stares at his plate in silence. He doesn't remember getting it, doesn't even remember sitting back down, actually, but he isn't sure if it's because Justice took hold of his body or if he's just so tired his limbs are moving on their own. 

He stands up abruptly, every nerve in his body screaming at him to get out, get out— 

“Suppose I should put on my fancy robes, then,” he hears himself say. Feels himself put on a cheery smile even as he checks his arms out of the corner of his eye. 

No cracks, no light, just freckles and scars.

Maker, he's losing his mind. 

He holds it together just long enough to make it to the hall, and then he all but sprints back to his quarters and slams the door behind him. He sinks to the floor and buries his face in his knees.

Actions have consequences. Haven't people been telling him that his entire life? 

It isn't until he hears the hinges creak that he realizes he forgot to lock the door. He leaps to his feet and stumbles back, and then Nathaniel is standing at the threshold with a tray bearing a steaming teapot and two mugs. “Should have knocked, probably,” he says sheepishly. “Didn’t think. Can I come in?” 

No , Anders wants to say. Don’t come in, everything is wrong, too loud too bright too much— 

“Sure,” Anders mumbles. 

Nathaniel sets the tea tray down on the desk and hovers awkwardly for a moment, wringing his hands with more uncertainty than Anders has ever seen in him. “Do you — the other day, in the infirmary, when we spoke — do you remember it?” 

He can’t respond. The words refuse to make it through his throat, so he just shakes his head numbly in self loathing. 

“Anders.” 

When he looks up, Nathaniel has stepped closer, concern and care written across his face more plainly than anything he’s ever seen. 

“I don’t know how to control it, Nate,” he whispers finally. “I thought I was doing the right thing, when Kristoff’s body fell. There was so much chaos. So much death. Losing another friend, after everything, I — it was selfish, but I couldn’t bear it, and now—” 

Nathaniel takes another step. Anders backs up, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of his bed as he folds down onto the mattress. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Nathaniel whispers. 

And then he’s sitting beside Anders, pulling him close, and Anders folds emotionally too. He buries his face into Nathaniel’s shoulder and finally allows himself to weep openly for the first time in weeks. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s crying about — so much has pent up since then, he can no longer unpack it all coherently — but he hasn’t considered how much he’s missed the touch of another person until Nathaniel wraps his arms around Anders’ shoulders and holds him securely while he shakes with shuddering sobs. 

He still doesn’t know what they are to each other. Whatever they are, they’ve vaulted over brotherly affection months ago, but he doesn’t know what any of it means, or how much of it Nathaniel reciprocates. They are fleeting smiles and casual touches and affectionate comforting in troubled times, but when he’s alone he catches himself fantasizing about more. He daydreams of it sometimes, before he can pull himself back. Of soft lips and warm embraces and skin-to-skin under blankets and the warm, welcoming cover of darkness, but then Justice happened and he can’t bring himself to quash the constant fear of going too far. 

Something flickers in him. He feels the tell-tale prickles of energy setting his hair on edge, and he recoils. 

No. Not here. Not like this. Not when Nathaniel is so close, too close, too risky, he can’t, he can’t—

“Anders,” Nathaniel murmurs. “Justice. Don’t — you don’t have to fight it. Either of you.”

“I can’t, I'll hurt you, Nate, I can’t—” 

Nathaniel kisses him. 

He freezes at the contact, forgetting everything in the face of chapped lips and the rough scratch of stubble on his cheeks. How long has he wanted this? Craved this? Talked himself out of the sheer intensity of his desires because it was never the right time or place or — or—

His lips part with a groan. Nathaniel deepens the kiss, tightens his embrace, slides his palms up Anders’ back until his fingers tangle in knotted and unruly russet-gold hair. He tastes like the spices he takes in his tea, like cinnamon and nutmeg and cardamom, like warmth and safety and home. 

His skin prickles again, but Nathaniel is whispering encouragement into his mouth, soft and pleading, and Anders lets himself be swept away into a haze of blue.

Justice has never been kissed before. The sensation is new and almost overwhelming, but something about the way Nathaniel holds their body is as grounding as it is exhilarating. There are a thousand words to describe how he feels in this moment, but only a handful repeatedly float to the surface: right, good, yes, please, yes

He feels Anders stirring again too, warm like honey, sweet like the bell-clarity of lyrium against his skin. 

He doesn’t know what this is, but it feels right. Good. 

Like home. 

Anders pulls away and gasps in a desperate, ragged breath. His hands have found their way to Nathaniel’s face, cradling his cheeks like the most precious thing he’s ever held. 

This. whatever this is, terrifies him, but now that he has it, he’s even more scared of letting go. 

“Then don’t,” Nathaniel whispers. 

“What?” He realizes in horror that his thoughts have accidentally slipped out loud. 

“You want this, Anders? So do I. I am here, with you, and if you’ll have me, with you is where I will remain. I’m not afraid. You shouldn’t be either.” 

“I don’t understand.” Anders feels his voice crack under the weight of his emotions even as he traces the curve of Nathaniel’s cheeks with his thumbs. “How anything could be worth this kind of risk. You were there when Tabris found me, I was — I still don’t remember what happened, what, or who, I killed. Justice doesn’t remember either, I don’t think, everything was so disorienting. What if that happens again? The warnings were right, Nate. Mortals and spirits were not made to coexist this way. We’re — unstable. Liable to trade places without warning, without even realizing sometimes.”

Nathaniel shushes him softly, smooths his hair, presses soft lips into his cheek, down his chin, across his neck. Anders tips his head back and shivers with a groan when Nathaniel finds his pulse point and sucks at it gently before laving his tongue across the tiniest sting. “Justice was afraid, too,” he murmurs. He kicks off his boots and tugs Anders down with him on the bed until they’re lying face to face on their sides. “We spoke of this, you know, he and I. Of the eventuality of him finding a new body. He feared he would become a demon in the process.” 

Anders is afraid to ask the question burning a hole in his mouth. “Has he?” he croaks. 

Another kiss, and Nathaniel rolls onto his back as he tugs Anders on top of him. “No. I can think of no demon who would show so much care and concern for his host. He worries, Anders. He fears he’s broken you, that you fear him as much as he fears himself. Such thoughts are not the thoughts of a demon.”

“What sort of thoughts are they, then?”

“Thoughts of life,” Nathaniel whispers. He rests his hands at the small of Anders’ back and studies his face. “Born of affection. Of love.” 

“Love,” Anders repeats numbly. 

“If you wish it.” 

Anders inhales shakily, flinches when Nathaniel tucks flyaway hair behind his ear. The gesture is impossibly, heartbreakingly gentle. 

“What of you?” Another question Anders is almost afraid to ask. A question that forces its way back out anyway. “Is it what you wish?” 

“It can be,” Nathaniel murmurs. He slides his hands up Anders’ back and tugs his head back down to meet him for another kiss. “For him. For you.” 

“You would love us both.” He doesn’t have the energy to form it as a question. The words fall exhausted from his lips and linger like shadows in the air. 

“I would,” Nathaniel says simply. “If you wish it.”

Chapter 2: People Who Matter

Chapter Text

He and Nathaniel are late meeting the others in the courtyard. If Tabris or Sigrun notice the relatively disheveled state in which they arrive, neither of them mention it. 

It isn't as though they've done much more than kiss. Anders doesn't trust himself enough to allow more than that yet, but it didn't stop Nathaniel from pressing him into the mattress and kissing him hard enough to make his head spin. He's still dizzy with it, still lost in the marvel of switching places with Justice and experiencing sensations from both sides. 

But wherever they'd stood with Nathaniel before, it's certainly not where they stand now. He chances a glance sideways, catches Nathaniel watching him intently, and immediately looks away. 

He can't handle the intensity of that look right now. He can't let himself think of where that could go. 

Tabris shoves the reins of a saddled and prepped horse into his hands. “We're tracking a nest of darkspawn some forty miles west of here,” she announces. “We'll follow the road until it veers north, and then we'll be relying on Nathaniel to find the trail.” Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “The … chevalier who so politely sought our aid claims there is an open and unguarded entrance to the Deep Roads at the base of the hills. We also received a missive three days ago from the local Bann requesting we destroy such an entrance and seal it closed. I suspect they may be one and the same. Sigrun, have you seen Dworkin yet?” 

“Three steps ahead of you, Tabby,” Sigrun chirps with a grin. She's already perched on her horse, and she gives the saddlebags an affectionate pat. “You should see the fuses on these,” she says gleefully. “Longer than my entire arm, and he's packed extensions. Distilled lyrium and some Qunari-crafted stuff from up north. He said the punch these pack will rattle the walls of every building from here to Amaranthine.”

Tabris lets out a snort. “Time to see if those new walls hold, then.” 

Anders swallows. Ever since Justice, every emotion feels magnified to an unbearable degree, and he can barely contain the shudder that rips through him when Tabris mentions the Deep Roads. He has almost as many nightmares of his eventual Calling as he does of the bloody Blight song, and quite frankly the former terrifies him far more. The thought of an entire world of earth above his head, dirt and stone closing in on all sides, dark and suffocating — it's enough to turn his stomach on the best of days. 

He has to get it together. He can't spend the rest of his life jumping at every sound, wincing at every fear, recoiling from the tiniest slivers of feeling. His grip tightens on the reins, the rough leather biting into his fingers through the threadbare palms of his gloves. 

He's going to hold himself together. He's going to get through this, he's going to—

The world shifts with a haze, and then his vision upends and his back slams into the dirt with a painful thud that knocks the air from his lungs. The horse has thrown him in a panic, he realizes vaguely. He wheezes and gasps for air, his vision tunneling into a blurry mess. He can catch flickers of light in the corners of his eyes. He tries to right himself and stagger to his feet and discovers he can't. 

Help me. It's a plea he whispers in the back of his mind, plaintive and small. He can't keep fighting this. He's so tired — so tired — 

Someone is pulling him to his feet. Arms on his shoulders, steadying and grounding. 

Justice forces a lungful of air down and focuses on the feeling of fingers gripping his biceps, of a faint voice through the roar of his heartbeat clawing through his ears — his, theirs, ours — 

Anders slumps against Nathaniel's chest and lets his cheek brush Nathaniel's shoulder wearily. The metal griffon on his leather pauldrons is pressing into his face something fierce, but he barely notices. He's too busy burying both his terror and relief in strong arms and freshly oiled Warden leather. 

Somewhere behind him, Tabris lets out a string of elvish curses. He hears her dismount, her boots hitting the dirt with a muted thud. 

“Hey,” she says softly. It's the kindest he's ever heard her speak, her usual brusque abrasiveness stripped away, nothing but worry and concern. “Are you okay?” 

No, he wants to whisper. We're unstable, unreliable, dangerous— 

“The peachiest,” he chokes out. 

“Perhaps it's too soon for this,” Nathaniel says quietly. 

“No.” The word slips out before he can mull it over, teeth gritted in determination. As much as part  of him wants to stay behind, to crawl back under the covers and hide and pretend like he hasn't colossally fucked everything up...

The rest of him can't bear the idea of being useless. A year ago he might have relished the thought of lazing about and ignoring his duties, but now? What good is he here if he can't be useful? How long before Tabris decides the liability of him has outlived his value, how long before she cuts him loose? 

She doesn't seem like the type to do something like that, but he knows better than to let himself get swept up in hope. 

“Sig, go to the stables, find Mistress Helena, and help her load up a wagon.”

“Sure.” Sigrun hops off of her horse with a surprising amount of grace for someone who learned how to ride one only months earlier. “Load it up with what?” 

Tabris shrugs. “Sacks of flour? Sacks of dirt that look like flour? Whatever makes it look like we have a purpose for using it. We'll load the tents and provisions on it too. It may slow us down slightly, but we haven't received reports of any raids against local farms or any immediate danger to people who mat—” She trails off and clears the obvious disdain from her throat. “In any case, I'm sure Ser Phillipe and his fellows are more than capable of defending themselves in our absence.”

Anders shoots her a questioning glance, mouth agape. “Why—”

She eyes him sharply. “Since when did you start complaining about being allowed to sit on your arse?” 

He blinks. She has a point, of course, but the statement sounds so absurd given the circumstances, all he can manage is a somewhat hysterical sounding chuckle. “You've got me there,” he says weakly. 

“Cheer up, Anders!” Sigrun calls from across the courtyard. “This means I can teach you guys a new Legion card game!” 

Whiplash. That's the only word that comes to mind for how he feels right now. Utterly disoriented whiplash. 

There's a conflicted tugging in his chest, twin threads of warmth and apprehension that are both his and not. 

He's still nervous, but the overwhelming, paralyzing fear has dulled to a muted clench in his gut, and he manages to plaster a cocky grin back on his face. “Well then,” he says brightly. He dusts off his robes and tries to piece his demeanor back together. “A leisurely trip to murder darkspawn it is. I cannot contain my renewed excitement.” 

Tabris snorts. “Always a pleasure,” she says dryly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a dead dwarf and a stablemistress to track down.”

 


 

Ser Phillipe turns out to be one of those men who has the potential to be incredibly fuckable until he opens his mouth. His armor is impeccably polished, he's got pretty brown curls that fall just far enough down his forehead to obscure his hairline, and the way his smile doesn't reach his eyes as he approaches from his camp makes Anders’ skin crawl. 

“Warden Commander!” he calls out, gesturing grandly at Nathaniel. “We are so glad to see you arrive.” 

Nathaniel's eyebrow climbs his forehead. “That title belongs to Commander Tabris,” he says flatly. 

Anders doesn't even have to look over to feel the way Tabris bristles in the man's presence. 

Phillipe sniffs dismissively. “I see.”

“Yes,” Tabris says, her tone steely. “I was unfortunately attending to other matters when you visited.”

Anders gauges from her tone that she was likely drinking brandy on the roof of the stables doing absolutely nothing important. The tension in the air thickens. She traces her fingers down the handles of her knives, the leather sheaths dangling menacingly from her belt. “Set up your perimeter,” she says finally. “Be ready at sunrise.” She lifts a hand dismissively when Philippe opens his mouth. “Go after the darkspawn now if you like, but my Wardens and I work on our own time. It has been a very long day, and I do not plan on coming to your rescue.” 

Phillipe gapes at her for a moment, mutters something in Orlesian, then adds, “Very well,” before stiffly turning to return to his camp. Tabris doesn't even wait until he's out of sight to kick at the ground in disgust.

“The fucking nerve of that sorry excuse for human filth,” she spits. 

“It isn't too late to leave them at the mercy of these darkspawn,” Nathaniel points out casually. “Or arrows that could have belonged to darkspawn. I'm sure there aren't many who can tell the difference.”

Sigrun cackles as she grabs the tents from the wagon and begins to set them up. “That would be a shame,” she agrees. “And we came all this way.”

Tabris snorts. “Don't tempt me. I'm trying to be a good person.” 

Anders sets about gathering wood for a fire, mage lights chasing his hands in the waning daylight. He builds it in silence. There is an agitated undercurrent of tension building in his chest that only seems to gain momentum whenever he remembers the way Tabris stiffened in the chevalier's presence. 

It should bother him, shouldn't it? He mulls it over thoughtfully as he takes in the ambient conversation around him. 

“What do you think they're doing in Ferelden, anyway?” Nathaniel wonders aloud. 

Tabris punctuates her sigh with the sharp sound of her whetstone. “Some poncy event in Denerim or Amaranthine probably. Does it matter? I almost didn't bother except our favorite Seneschal twisted my arm into at least pretending to give a shit. If it weren't for the ongoing risk to innocent lives that entrance poses, I'd have conveniently lost the missive myself.”

Sigrun lets out a contented sigh and stretches her legs out in the grass when Anders finally sets the logs he's stacked ablaze. “D’you think he'll miss this, though?” she pipes up. When Anders glances over, a gilded engraving of Andraste hanging from a delicate gold chain dangles carelessly from her hand.

“Sig, one of these days I will be getting a commemorative statue made of you,” Tabris promises solemnly. “Because that — where did you even nick that from?” 

She snickers and tucks it into her pocket. “You do not want to know.” 

Tabris throws together a stew out of dried meats and root vegetables. She has a gift for making even the most questionable ingredients edible, but Anders barely tastes his food, lost as he is in the chaotic swirl of his thoughts. 

Warden Commander. Wrong. He is wrong, he claims honor and wields none of it, wrong, the sound of his voice, wrong, has she not earned their respect— 

“Anders.” He jumps when Nathaniel brushes his arm. The logs have burned down into glowing coals, and Sigrun and Tabris have already retreated to their tent. He stares at his half-eaten stew and tries not to think about how much his head is pounding. “Set your wards and get some sleep.” 

“Right,” he mumbles. 

He forces his focus along as he traces warding runes in a circular path around their camp. His senses are on overdrive, every creak and rustle of the forest sending his nerves on edge. There are murmurs at the edge of his consciousness, the whispered keening of Blighted blood, too far to reach but close enough to make his skin crawl. Nathaniel is a familiar, comforting presence beside him, but there is something else heavy in the air that sets him ill at ease. 

Through the trees he can see the chevalier encampment, the Empress’ banner illuminated by moonlight and fluttering faintly in the chill early autumn breeze. He can't say he's looking forward to having to keep an eye on an extra contingent of fighters likely unused to working alongside a mage, and if he's being entirely honest he half expects Phillipe to attempt a knife between Tabris’ ribs in the chaos.

He thinks about the few months he'd spent hiding in plain sight at a fancy whorehouse in Denerim. He's entertained men like Phillipe before. The ones who aren't highborn enough to be bred nobility. The ones who've shed just enough blood to rise above their stations, who claw and cling to their positions in society relative to anyone who could stand beneath them. Cruelty born of both arrogance and insecurity, a double helping of the ugliest sides of mankind.

The memories stir at his agitation, unease swirling like stormy currents of muddy water. When the last ward is set, Nathaniel laces their fingers together wordlessly and leads him back to their tent. 

This part is familiar. 

He remembers the first night he and Nathaniel had to share a tent. They'd been Wardens for scarcely four days, and he'd spent all four of those days carefully pushing all of Nathaniel's buttons simply because he could. Childish of him, perhaps, but he was riding the high of his newfound freedom, and Nathaniel got the most adorable twitch in his cheek when goaded.

Nathaniel had complained about the arrangements, of course, but Tabris had simply told him, with all her endless charm, to fuck off and go to sleep. 

They'd begun the night with their bedrolls as far apart as possible, but neither of them had anticipated how much worse the nightmares would be in closer proximity to darkspawn. 

He'd at least dealt with horrifying nightmares his entire life. After a childhood of navigating the Fade every night with a proverbial sword dangling over his head, he'd eventually learned how to ground himself quickly upon waking. Nathaniel had no such training. 

They'd drifted back to sleep that night shamelessly tangled together, all pride discarded in the sobering reality of the lives they'd chosen. 

Freedom, they'd both learned that night, came at a price. 

He traces lights into the air, warm and shimmering as Nathaniel secures the tent flaps. They help each other strip out of their armor in silence. Nathaniel's hands linger on his shoulders this time, weighty and solid, soft touches and trailing fingertips. 

“You're always so warm,” Nathaniel murmurs. “Like fire’s made a nest beneath your skin.” 

“How romantic,” Anders teases. “Seducing me as though I'm made of birds and bees.” 

Nathaniel leans forward and catches his eye with a grin. “Did you not learn of birds and bees in that tower of yours?” 

He doesn't know why he's nervous. The kiss was just that morning, but it feels like a lifetime has passed in the hours between. He feels his breath catch in his throat. “There's never been anyone like you in that tower,” he finds himself whispering. 

The admission feels like stripping out of his skin and laying it out to dry. 

Love. If you wish it.  

He does wish it. Maker, he wants it, aches for it with a fearsome, all encompassing clench in his chest. He doesn't know at what point he'd gone from cheekily admiring the curve of Nathaniel's arse to fantasizing about just being held , but whenever he imagines them together he feels his heart split open at the seams. 

Both of you

Does he dare allow himself this? He feels poised at a precipice, one step away from leaping into open air with nothing beneath him but faith, faith in a man who promises him everything and asks for nothing in return but the core of who he is. With the spirit who shares his body, not in spite of it. 

He is giddy with how untethered it makes him feel. Fear tugs at his bones, but he's in far too deep to stop now, and then Nathaniel's lips are on his and he answers with a fire that wells up inside of him the second their tongues meet. He rolls on top of Nathaniel with a grunt, straddles him and grinds against him, presses him into the ground and swallows his gasp as he laces their fingers together. 

“Is this what you want?” he whispers against Nathaniel's lips. He drags his teeth across Nathaniel's jaw, scrapes them across his earlobe, and traces the shell of his ear with his tongue. “All of me? Of us?” 

“I crave it,” Nathaniel gasps. 

Anders reaches between them and tugs at the laces of Nathaniel's trousers. Ordinarily he's the type of man to take his time with his lovers, to draw out their pleasure to a fever pitch, but he's so overwhelmed with the intensity of wanting he can barely think clearly. 

Nathaniel digs his fingers into Anders’ back with a groan when Anders frees their cocks, wraps his hand around them both and pumps them together. He feels a curse slip from his lips at the sensation — good, right, together, yes, Maker yes

You, me, us.  

He feels his hair slipping from the tie, loose strands falling into his face as he presses their foreheads together with a groan. Nathaniel kisses him again, deeply, messy and needy, only partly catching his lips in haste, but it doesn't matter because there is only them and this moment together and every tiny spark of breath flaring to life between them. 

He's never needed something so desperately in his life. 

Nathaniel's breath catches in his throat and he comes with a muffled groan, and Anders follows shortly after, their spend mingling, pearly and glistening on sweat slick skin. 

Together.

He doesn't have a word for what this is, but it fills his lungs with sweetness, with sun-kissed warmth and heady ignition. 

So often he's buffeted about by wayward wandering thoughts and stray emotions rocking him about in storms of his own making, and with Justice on board he frequently finds himself careening wildly out of control. He doesn't have much in this life tying him to the ground, but this — he thinks for once he can hold onto this. 

It is a comfort he clings to as he drifts off in Nathaniel's arms, legs tangled together, heartbeats brushing together in contented stillness. 

Chapter 3: A Nug-Humping Clusterfuck

Chapter Text

Anders fucking hates the Deep Roads. Too cramped, too dark, too stifling, too much like the year he endured alone with only his own waxing madness for company. 

The thought makes him cringe but he can't stop it from rolling around in his head of its own volition. 

He grips his staff with sweaty fingers and follows Tabris into the dark, conjured light trailing lazily in the air behind their heads. His only consolation is the amusingly audible discomfort of the chevaliers who stubbornly refuse to be shown up. Tabris is a force of nature in battle, one with her knives in an unearthly display of speed as she slips in and out of the shadows and dispatches their enemies with ruthless precision. She makes the chevaliers nervous; it's painfully apparent in the way they regard her warily in the quiet moments in between. They whisper among one another in Orlesian with suspicious, uncomfortable glances. 

Personally, he hopes the survivors all walk away from this expedition with Blight sickness. He idly thinks he could slit their throats himself with zero qualms, but he'd settle for watching Tabris do it herself with what he'd assume would be unadulterated glee. 

Nathaniel looks behind him with a disgusted look on his face. “Consider yourself fortunate you do not speak the language,” he mutters darkly. “Truly foul.” 

Justice stirs at that, and Anders wonders if he isn't the only one benefiting from the boon of blissful ignorance. 

Sigrun is the only one unfazed by the oppressive atmosphere. At least outwardly. He sometimes suspects she’s just as fucked up over things as the rest of them and is just the only one of them who’s managed to keep everyone fooled, but he can’t say he’s complaining about the way her cheer whittles away at his foul mood. 

“Remember that ring?” she pipes up out of nowhere. 

Nathaniel wrinkles his nose in confusion. “What?” 

“The lyrium one! That we found in Kal’Hirol? Justice loved that thing. Whatever happened to it?” 

“It … was with Kristoff’s body,” Anders says slowly. He actually has no idea what happened to Kristoff’s body after Justice left it, and if Tabris had found anything worth salvaging. They’d presented his wife with a box of ashes, yes. Whose ashes they were exactly was … debatable. ‘The truth is what you make it,’ Tabris had once said to him, and he’d never quite met anyone who embodied that statement more than she did. 

The extent of her ability to lie with a straight face actually bothers him sometimes. He can never quite tell if the kindness she extends him is genuine. She isn’t the type to fake affection, exactly — in fact, often it seems she goes out of her way to be a prickly arsehole — but sometimes he catches glimpses of her skill at a long con that make him wonder exactly where he stands with her. 

A shrill keen from around the corner ahead yanks him back to his senses. He hears swords unsheathe as he flings a burst of white-hot light into the guttural, growling darkness. The air in front of them explodes into blinding, dazzling heat, earsplitting screeching, and pained shouts. Someone curses and cries out. Tabris lets out a string of irritated swears and throws out a hand to stop Sigrun from charging forward. “Let them fuck each other up,” she mutters. “I don’t get paid enough to babysit.” 

When the dust settles Phillipe and one of his fellows are dragging the body of their third out of the fray. Tabris signals Nathaniel, who looses three arrows in quick succession at the remainder of the darkspawn and mops up the stragglers. 

“Leave him,” Tabris barks. 

Phillipe blanches. “He yet breathes!” 

“He’s Blighted. Don’t think I haven’t noticed his eyes glazing over on the walk here, and even if he weren’t then, look at that gash on his head. He’s already got their blood crawling through his veins. Slit his throat. It’s the greatest mercy he has left.” 

“You cannot possibly know that!” 

Tabris whirls on him. “I can, and I do. There’s no cure. Do you know what happens to men with Blight sickness?” When he doesn’t answer, she continues. “I do. I’ve watched it happen. The lucky ones, the taint overwhelms the heart before anything else and stops it before the rest of the body can waste away. Most, though?” She toes at the body on the ground with her boot. “The limbs rot. The mind slips into madness. They become twisted creatures, blinded by agonizing misery, feasting on the flesh of their fellows until they’re torn apart in turn. If you give the tiniest rat’s arse about him, you’ll end his misery before it begins.” 

“There is no honor in such a death,” Phillipe whispers. He stumbles back, pale, a thin sheen of clammy sweat lining his forehead. 

“Even less honor in the alternative.” Tabris watches him intently. He doesn’t move. She heaves a sigh, draws one of her knives, and in one swift, fluid motion draws it across the poor bastard’s throat. 

The other chevalier’s expression darkens. “Pauvre Maurice, to die at the hands of a rabbit who has forgotten her place,” he mutters under his breath, but the caverns carry his voice in the oppressive silence. 

Everyone freezes.

Tabris stands slowly and levels her blade at him. “I’m going to do all of us a favor and pretend I didn’t hear that,” she says slowly, the steely edge to her voice growing with every word. “Retrieve whatever personal effects you want from the body. This section opens up into a massive cavern, and we’re going to bring the roof down in the next twenty minutes. Sig, set the charges. Nathaniel, watch her back. Anders?” He meets her eyes, deep liquid brown and glimmering in the flickering mage light. “Watch mine.” 

Without bothering to wait for an answer, she kneels and begins to slowly and methodically strip the blood from her daggers with a cloth and a vial of caustic smelling liquid. Anders eases into a ready stance, staff ready even as he leans on it casually and watches the two chevaliers approach their dead comrade. Tabris dampens a cloth with the same vial and tosses it at them where it hits the ground at Phillipe’s feet with a wet splat. “For your gloves. Keep them on if you don’t want to share his fate.”

Neither of them respond, and Tabris seems more than alright with that. 

 


 

It isn’t that Anders is used to things going catastrophically wrong. 

Alright, well maybe part of it is, but if he’s being honest, the knot in his stomach has been pulling tighter and tighter the entire trip, and it’s all but pulled taut when everything begins to fall apart. 

Sigrun had placed the charges in several strategic locations, bound all of the fuses together, and then dragged the excess as far as she could without compromising their functionality. All that was left was to light the thing and run the last few feet to the entrance. 

Tabris gestures for the chevaliers to exit first, and they are more than happy to comply. Anders isn’t sure, but he’s almost positive he hears her mutter something like, “So much for honor.” She gestures for Nathaniel to come with her and leaves Anders and Sigrun to pull up the rear. 

Sigrun is practically bouncing on her heels in excitement. “Time to bring the place down,” she cackles gleefully. “Ready, Anders?” 

With as turbulent as his nerves have been, he doesn’t know how to answer that truthfully, so he just shrugs instead and snaps a flame to his fingers. “No time like the present to make a mistake and go out in a blaze of glory, right?” he says cheerfully. 

“That’s the spirit!” She claps him on the shoulder. He lights the fuse. 

And then something sharp whistles through the air, embeds itself into his shoulder, and pins him to the cave wall. 

The pain comes after, when he’s still struggling to catch his bearings. “Anders!” Sigrun shouts. “Shit. Nate! Tabby!” She’s at his side in an instant. “Anders, tell me what to do.”

Footsteps crunch on dirt and gravel. Tabris shouts something in the distance, but the echoes render it unintelligible. Nathaniel rounds the corner and pales. 

“Break the fletching and drag me off of it,” Anders chokes. The pain is flaring to an unbearable degree, and he knows it’s only going to worsen soon, but if he passes out now, he’s done for. He reaches for Justice, feels them twist and thread together. It’s comforting, he thinks dimly. If he’s got to die, he realizes with a start that he won’t be dying alone. It’s a guilty sort of comforting, of course — horribly unfair, that Justice has to experience that — but there is something soothing in the idea that he can’t die alone now. 

More footsteps, more shouting. Nathaniel’s hands are on him. Sigrun is — where is Sigrun?

He strains to peer over Nathaniel’s shoulder, and his heart sinks. Sigrun is fending off three genlocks who had come out of nowhere to converge on them. 

“How much time do we have, Sig?” Nathaniel calls out. He grips the arrow shaft and deftly snaps the end of it off. 

“Not much,” she yells back. “I’ll hold them back if you can get him out.”

“Not happening,” he says firmly. “We’re all getting out of here together. Anders, can you still cast? Can you freeze them?” 

Can he — he thinks so. He raises a hand weakly and reaches for Justice again. He remembers the way Justice fueled his healing and feels the spirit stirring beneath the surface in tiny flickers. Nathaniel signals Sigrun to retreat, then Anders looses a flurry of ice towards the spot where she’d just been standing. 

His magic is weak — he is unfocused, and it shows in how clumsily executed the spell was. It doesn’t bode well for his ability to heal himself, but he forces that thought down the second it arises. 

One thing at a time. 

Something rumbles in the distance. Nathaniel counts to three, and then Anders’ world erupts into blinding pain as they grip him firmly and drag him off of the arrow shaft. 

He pulls at his magic and feels the hole in his chest begin to knit closed from the inside out. It’s clumsy, but he feels Justice guiding his efforts, and— 

“Nate, we’re out of time,” Sigrun says quietly.

“Go.” Nathaniel says it firmly. Decisively, in a tone that brooks no argument. “Run. Now.” 

Her eyes widen, but Nathaniel shakes his head before she can protest further. “I’m not leaving him here alone, but Tabris doesn’t need to lose all three of us. Go. ” 

Her jaw sets, but she nods and brings a fist up to her chest in salute. “I better see you two on the other side,” she says, and maybe her voice wavers a bit behind the smile, but Nathaniel returns her gesture with one arm, the other secured tightly around Anders’ waist. 

Anders doesn’t know how to tell him he’s okay. That maybe he can’t heal himself quickly enough to escape this, but he’s got Justice, he’s already bringing someone else down with him. He tries to speak, but his mouth refuses to obey, his limbs going numb despite the way he’s already begun to patch himself together, and his desperation becomes maddening. Leave me, he wants to beg, there isn’t a point to this, your life is worth more, go with her, please, don’t— 

The rumbling grows louder. Nathaniel holds him closer, holds them together tightly with both arms, face buried in Anders’ shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. 

Anders gives up. They’ve all made their choices. He forces air into his lungs, lets his face fall into the crook of Nathaniel’s neck, and braces himself for the inferno that rounds the corner.

The world explodes into a deafening roar of light and heat, but the pain he expects to swallow them both never comes. Blue cracks split him open, and beneath the pungent sulfur smell of Dworkin’s explosives, the sharp, lightning-charged scent of pure mana fills his senses as a blinding white light envelops them both. 

He has a singular purpose. He is purpose, he is will incarnate, he is raw essence and crackling energy and an endless well of desperate, protective fervor. 

He is Justice, he is Anders, I, we, you, us, hand in hand intertwined in every possible way, and he will not let him fall

The ground rumbles beneath their feet for what feels like both an instant and an eternity. He hauls Nathaniel to his feet, the magic of the Fade fueling his strength as the two of them stumble together towards the mouth of the cave. 

One foot in front of the other, they climb the path upward, walls and stones collapsing into impenetrable rubble behind them, and then he gasps in a mouthful of crisp forest air as the two of them collapse into a heap in the grass. 

He maintains the barrier around them until the last of the fire-red heat is swallowed up by the collapse too, and when he drops it, Anders surges forward and forces his eyes open. 

His fist collides with Nathaniel’s face. “You colossal arsehole,” he yells. “What were you thinking?

Nathaniel rubs at his jaw with a sheepish expression, and if there’s anger there, it’s swallowed up entirely by exhilarated relief. Anders collapses into his arms. He cannot hold him close enough, can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t let go. He doesn’t want to think about what just happened, doesn’t ever want to unpack just how close Nathaniel had come to a pointless and sentimental death for his sake. 

His breath comes in ragged gulps and shudders. He inhales leather and oil, sulfur and smoke, sweat and heady musk, this stupid, stupid man — 

“I’m with you,” Nathaniel says firmly, his voice gravelly and smoke-heavy. His hands are rubbing soothing circles in Anders’ back, and Anders wonders how the man manages to stay so fucking calm in the face of — of whatever the fuck just happened. Steady hands that always catch him, are always so willing to hold him in spite of everything. 

“With me,” Anders repeats numbly. 

He wonders dimly if this is what love looks like, and then he wonders how he (they, we) ever survived a single moment without it. 

 


 

Their camps are closer together tonight. Tabris isn’t pleased about it, but she mutters something sour about strength in numbers before grabbing a change of clothes and a bucket and shoving it at Anders expectantly. He fills it with conjured water and hands it back silently, and she disappears into her tent without another word. 

Sigrun sits at the fireside between the two of them and pokes at the fire with a charred stick. “Can’t believe you two made it out,” she says quietly. There is a waver to her voice again, and her hand shakes as she stabs agitatedly at the coals. 

“I’m sorry,” Nathaniel says quietly. 

“Yeah,” she says. “You better be.” 

Anders slings an arm around her shoulders in companionable silence as he nibbles at a handful of dried meat, and she leans into him with a sigh. “I’m glad you guys are okay,” she mumbles. She kicks the stick into the fire and spits at it. “Ugh. Today sucked. What a nug-humping clusterfuck.” 

Nathaniel mutters an agreement and passes over the bottle of liquor he’s procured from Maker only knows where. Sigrun takes an obscenely long chug from it before coughing and handing it to Anders in silence. 

He takes a drink too. He can’t recognize what’s in the bottle, but it makes his eyes water. It’s utterly vile. He remembers with vague amusement the first time Tabris had shared her flask with him. ‘Nothing burns like the first cup,’ she’d said cheerfully, clapping him on the back while he coughed and sputtered. This feels like that moment all over again, except he’s still far too shaken to give a shit what he drinks so long as it makes his skin feel less like he’s vibrating straight out of it. 

He’s had his share of near death experiences in the year he’s spent in Tabris’ service, but this is the first time he’s come so close to watching someone die needlessly with him. It bothers him, agitates him to the point of tears that refuse to find their way out anyway. 

He’s not worth it. 

There’s an odd sort of mental resistance when that thought tumbles free, like running his fingers against the grain of poor quality velvet. 

Everything. You are everything. 

He inhales shakily and takes another swig from the bottle before passing it back. 

Tabris empties the bucket when she’s done washing and throws it carelessly at their feet before retreating back to her tent again. She’s in a worse mood than normal, although he can’t say he blames her for it. Things had gone utterly tits up enough on their own without the two remaining chevaliers lingering a stone’s throw away. 

One more night and he’ll never have to see them again, he reminds himself. For some reason, that thought doesn’t quell his unease. 

He re-fills the bucket and hands it off to Sigrun before scooting closer to Nathaniel and twining their fingers together against the grass. “I have a selfish confession to make,” he says quietly. 

“You, selfish?” Nathaniel gives a low chuckle and closes his fingers affectionately around Anders’ hand. “Maker preserve us.” 

Anders swats at him with his free hand. “I was trying to be sincere, you arse. Nice job ruining the moment.”

“Mm,” Nathaniel agrees. “You know, that’s what I’m planning on having inscribed on my headstone?” He frees his hand and holds them both in front of his face. “Nathaniel Howe,” he gestures grandly. “Defiler of daughters and sons. Also a ruiner of moments.” 

“A worthier legacy has never existed,” Anders snickers. 

Nathaniel leans over and plants a tender kiss on his lips. “You have every right to be upset with me,” he murmurs. “I know that. I accept it.” 

Anders huffs. “Well now you’ve ruined the fun of being mad at you.” 

“Hmm.” Nathaniel snakes an arm around Anders’ waist and closes the last of the gap beneath them with a grunt. “Ruiner of fun, too, then, am I?”

Anders cups him by the cheek and eyes him intently before giving him another kiss, deliberate and deep as he drinks in the sour taste of questionable liquor on his tongue. “Is it awful of me to say you’ve likely ruined me? ” he murmurs. 

There’s a soft huff of breath as Nathaniel cups his cheek. “That is awful,” he says with a grin. “But I’ll let you have it this time.” 

Sigrun joins them again and dumps the bucket into the grass. “I’m assuming you two are going to want this next.” She passes it to Anders with a weary yawn, bids them goodnight, and retreats into the tent with Tabris before securing the flap shut. 

The rest of the night takes place in exhausted silence. Anders sets his wards, they go about their usual routine, methodically undressing, wiping down the dirt, blood, and grime. Nathaniel’s fingers linger on the newest scar on Anders’ chest, and Anders covers Nathaniel’s shaking hand with his own and promises he’s alright. 

They’re too drained to do much but curl up in each other’s arms. 

Anders is just a hair past asleep when he jolts up in alarm and shakes Nathaniel awake. “The wards,” he whispers, throwing his robes on and only bothering with every other button. He yanks his boots on and rushes into the clearing, staff in one hand, light flaring into the other as he strains to make out the muted voices. 

He catches two words — ‘elvish bitch’ — and feels himself fade into the background. 

“Anders—” Nathaniel begins, but they’ve long since forgotten how far too far is, and Anders has ceased to exist in the face of their shared fury. 

“Claude, see reason,” Phillipe is protesting. “They are Wardens. She is Ferelden’s Commander—” 

“She will pay for what she’s done to Maurice,” the other one hisses. “Maker help me, we should have killed more of them in Val Royeaux when we had the chance. Let go of me.” 

“Maurice brought it on himself!” Phillipe grips him tightly by the shoulder. “We have already lost one of our number. Nothing good will come of this—” 

Justice charges their staff and slams it into Claude’s chest with enough force the blade pierces through his ribs and skewers him clear through the other side. He reaches through the wood, energy rippling through the core of it, and twists, feels the energy expand and unravel, and Claude’s body explodes into a grisly display of bones and viscera. 

Phillipe trips and falls backwards into the grass as he scrambles away. “Mercy,” he whispers, eyes wide in terror. “I tried to stop him, I swear, mercy, please—”

“Justice!” Tabris’ voice rings across the clearing. “Stand down.” 

He cannot stand down . These men are not innocent. Everything about them reeks of injustice: their gilded armor, their fancy silverite swords, their pervasive airs of superiority. They would have tossed innocents aside without a second glance — have undoubtedly done so in the past with utter impunity.

“What are you?” Phillipe gasps.

 “I am Justice,” he booms, “and you will pay for your crimes.” 

Anders wakes covered in blood for a second time. His head is throbbing, his entire body trembling. He scrambles to his feet and almost falls over for the trouble.

He remembers bits and pieces this time, remembers lifting his staff, remembers impaling the chevalier — Claude, his name was Claude — 

There would be no body, he recalls dimly with growing horror as he eyes the carnage strewing the clearing. He staggers backwards, stomach turning at the scene. 

His boot squelches in something fleshy, and he doubles over and vomits into the grass. 

Was this how it had happened the first time? Bile rises in his throat. He was a fool, he thinks dimly, to hope he could have moved on, to think he and Justice together could have become someone anything other than monstrous. 

“Anders.” Tabris is at his elbow, her hand gripping his bicep, slim fingers dark against the silver trim. “Walk with me,” she says softly. She gestures at the clearing as Sigrun and Nathaniel approach. “Do something about this,” she instructs briskly, and then she’s leading him into the trees. 

She’s going to kill him, he thinks dimly. This is the moment he will undoubtedly discover he’s stretched her grace past the breaking point, and he doesn’t think he has it in him to beg for mercy even if even a piece of him thought he deserved it. 

Her strides come to an abrupt halt in front of him, and he almost stumbles over her. He braces himself for the knife between his ribs—

And stumbles back with a grunt when she catches him in a tight hug instead. 

“You are going to be the fucking death of me,” she chokes. 

“I don’t — I don’t understand —” he stammers.

“No, shut up.” She is slight in stature — the top of her head only comes up to the bottom of his chin — but she squeezes him with an iron grip and buries her face in his chest. “This entire trip has been one set of stretched nerves after another, and you don’t — you don’t understand the sort of fire I would have rained down on this place if we had to go back without any of you. If those Orlesian prats were the ones to survive.” 

He’s dumbstruck. There it is again, that dizzying sensation of whiplash leaving him disoriented and untethered. 

“You’re not going to kill me?” he blurts out.

Tabris smacks his chest with the flat of her hand. “If you say that shit again, I’m assigning you latrine duty at the keep for the next month.” He gapes. She shakes him. “As your Commander, I’m probably supposed to say some pretentious shit about discipline and the greater good, so let’s pretend like I’ve given you that entire speech and skip forward to the part where I say thank you, fuck it, and good riddance instead. We can figure out the rest later.” 

“That’s — that’s it?” he says, his voice shaky. “You’re not — you aren’t worried I’ll —”

“Worried you’ll what?” she puts her hands on her hips and levels a bemused stare at him. “Skewer me with that staff using those twig arms of yours? Pretty sure you’ll need Justice’s help for that I’m afraid, and he still owes me several games of Wicked Grace, so you can both shelve that self loathing. Get cleaned up and go back to sleep. I do not plan on stopping tomorrow until I am either in my own bed or tucked away at Bartholomew’s with a pretty girl on my arm. Have I made myself clear?” 

He nods in stunned silence, and she turns and beckons for him to follow her back to camp.

“Great. Good talk. Now let’s go the fuck back to sleep.”

Chapter 4: Such an Almighty Sound

Notes:

There's music for the final scene. I linked Spotify and YouTube embeds because I didn't know which one you preferred in your fics for background music purposes. Enjoy! :3

Chapter Text

Justice is finding he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He settles for wringing them agitatedly as paces their quarters at the keep and takes another concerted attempt at sorting his thoughts. 

Things aren’t anywhere near as straightforward here as they are in the Fade. He’s known that for a long time. Decisions require more nuance here, even the ones he’d have thought obvious. 

Somehow, he’s made a right mess of things. He can feel it in the way Anders recoils at his presence whenever he surfaces enough to direct a thought here or there, and it hurts. He doesn’t know what to make of that either, the hurt. 

He finds himself wanting to apologize, but he doesn’t know what it is he’s done wrong. Not really. Apologizing for killing the chevaliers feels wrong too, and apologies don’t bring back the dead, and part of him wonders if that sort of apology would even carry any weight at all. 

He sits at the desk and stares at the blank sheets of parchment thoughtfully. He cannot always communicate with Anders directly anymore, but perhaps if he writes a letter — 

He’s three lines into a greeting when the door creaks open. “Velanna said you were looking for me?” Nathaniel says softly. He pauses when he enters the room. “Oh. Hello, Justice. Is everything alright?” 

Justice frowns. “How does one handle matters of unclear morality?” he says softly. 

Nathaniel lets out a breathy laugh and looks away, a faraway expression in his eyes. “That — you’ve asked a question philosophers have been trying to answer as long as we’ve been able to ask questions.” 

He mulls those words over for a moment and tries again. “How,” he begins hesitantly, “do you handle such matters?” 

Soft footsteps sound on the floor. Nathaniel sets a hand on his arm. “This is about what happened with those chevaliers.” 

“Yes.” It isn't a question, but Justice answers it like one anyway because he doesn't know what else to say. 

Juggling his feelings hasn't gotten any easier since switching bodies; in fact, he is beginning to suspect the task is actually becoming more difficult with every day that passes. Mortals, he's learning, are beyond definition. For every possible rule, there are at least three exceptions, and he doesn't understand how anyone can possibly keep track of it all. 

“We've all killed people, Justice.” 

An answer that isn't an answer after the question that isn't a question. He is beginning to understand more and more the fickle and changeable ways of the mortal world. He tries again with a different angle that plagues him all the same. 

“Anders is unhappy with me.” 

Nathaniel presses his lips together thoughtfully. “Anders is … struggling. He doesn't — he holds himself in painfully low regard. He doesn't understand his value. He looks into the mirror in the morning and sees a man who is as easily discarded as a cold cup of tea.”

Justice doesn't understand. He blinks, frowns, and asks for elaboration. 

“Has he told you much of his life in the Circle? Have you seen his memories?” 

“Only fragments. He spoke frequently but casually of the injustices there. It was not until we merged that I began to understand the depth of his anger.”

Nathaniel nods. “I only know what he's told me, as well, but I imagine if you spend a lifetime being told how much you don't matter … you eventually begin to see truth in it.” 

It frustrates him, how much he can't tell Anders these things anymore. He is grateful, beyond grateful, to have a body to share, but sometimes he thinks if it were possible he would jump back into a corpse in an instant if it meant he could simply speak with Anders again. There are moments, he's noticed, when their minds merge; and these moments are filled with prismatic clarity and the most brilliant echoes. 

And then the moments pass and he's left with empty, lonely silence. 

He tries to defer to Anders in most things. He's a passenger in this body, a guest at most, and he strives to treat Anders accordingly. Sometimes he's present in the background, quietly watching without interfering, but lately even that hurts. 

The nature of the hurt fascinates him, too. It isn't pain in the way he's grown accustomed to understanding it from a mortal body. He thinks of the time he cut his finger — their finger? — on a sliver of parchment. Of the pinch, the sensation, the way the cut had felt as blood leaked from it onto the desk while he watched in curiosity. That, he'd gathered, was a sort of pain he'd never faced in Kristoff’s body. 

This is pain of a sort. He registers it as hurt, at any rate, as though someone has thrust a hand between their ribs and crushed the air from their lungs. He feels almost too perceived, and the chaos of company runs him ragged through those moments until he wonders how anyone can stand to hear another sound. 

“That's guilt, I think,” Nathaniel provides. 

“I should not feel guilt for righting a wrong.” Justice frowns. “Those men committed their deeds with impunity. It was not wrong to retaliate when they attempted further misdeeds.” 

“That probably isn't the part you feel guilty about.” Nathaniel thinks for a moment. “Let's imagine a game of perspective. Imagine if one of those men had a family. Children who no longer have a father, as vile of a man as he may have been. The victims of the man's misdeeds may be better off, but what of the child who relies on his coin to survive? Which is worse?” 

He shakes his head when Justice opens his mouth to respond. “There aren't clean answers to these questions, Justice. That is my point. What is right to one is wrong to another. Harm … is not always clear, in manner or direction. You are aware something you have done has caused Anders harm, and so you feel guilt for it, even if you feel as though your actions weren't wrong. There is no shame in that. No inherent blame.”

“How does one right such a situation?” Justice whispers hoarsely. 

“That's … that's the blighted thing about it all, isn't it?” Nathaniel says bitterly. “Sometimes? You don't. Sometimes you chip a teacup and decide you're going to keep using it anyway because it means something important to you. Sometimes you hurt someone, and the only thing either of you can do is — is talk. Apologize. Move forward. Hopefully together.” 

Justice is silent at that. He stares at the parchment where his own handwriting looks back at him, three lines of apology for a wrong he doesn't even fully understand. How does he move forward with Anders when such a critical step is fraught with so much difficulty? 

What have they done, that such euphoric proximity has been poisoned to something so profoundly lonely? 

“How am I any different from a demon?” he wonders aloud. He traces the skin on his arms with his fingers, connects freckles and scars with his fingertips and tries to figure out what about the question frightens him so when he is powerless to change a thing. 

“A demon would not be so preoccupied with whether or not he's injured his host's feelings, I'd imagine,” Nathaniel offers with a lopsided grin. “I don't particularly know much about demons, but that doesn't exactly seem like the sort of evil we're preached at about all our lives, does it?” 

“He's—” Justice pauses morosely. How does he begin to describe how he feels about Anders? He finds that it, like the rest of his experience, grows more complex by the day. “I admire him,” he says finally. “More and more by the day. I thought him fickle once. Complacent. I … told him apathy was a weakness.” 

“And now?” 

“It was never apathy. His indecision was born of this — this burden of choice you speak of. Faced with equally terrible choices. Which is worse, indeed? A heavy responsibility, to weigh the complexities thusly. I thought him a fool once. How thoroughly we have traded places.” Justice shakes his head bitterly. “More the fool am I.” 

“I thought similarly of him upon our first meeting, you know.” Nathaniel chuckles at the memory. “Pretty, but vapid. Far too mouthy. I thought, here is a man who thinks entirely too highly of himself; what an irritating arsehole. Did all I could to avoid him.” 

“What changed?” 

Nathaniel’s expression darkens. “He offered me compassion when I least expected it. That’s what he does , you know. He doesn’t ever do things for glory. If he goes out of his way for you, he does it because he cares, and half the time he will put twice as much work into hiding the fact that he did anything at all. I — we all misjudged him, Justice. He spends so much time trying to convince everyone around him of the same lack of value he sees in himself.” 

“I only wish I could speak with him again. That is — the worst part of this arrangement. The yearning.” He stares at his hands. “When we merged, it was — such an almighty sound. The most brilliant clarion call. I had never imagined such euphoria, such completeness. I did not understand what it felt to be lonely until I touched such a sensation and then found myself bereft once again.”

“You miss him.” 

“Yes.” 

“He misses you, too.” 

Justice looks up sharply. Nathaniel is watching him with that piercing gaze of storm cloud grey, expression betraying nothing. 

“The two of you are like—” Nathaniel laughs quietly. “Like watching opposite sides of the same coin revolve around one another. You are so much more alike than different. You speak of fear? Of becoming a demon? I’d wager you are far closer to human now than any manner of demon or spirit.” 

“Closer to … human.” Anders feels his consciousness clearing. The fog lifts, and the voice belonging to him speaking words that aren’t his begins to run in parallel with his own thoughts. He watches his hands in confusion, streaked with ghostly veilfire even as he bids it move with his own mind. “Nate? What’s happening to me?” 

“Justice is — he’s learned some things about you today, I think.” The smile is back in Nathaniel’s eyes, faint but glimmering. 

“Good things, I hope,” Anders chokes out. His chest feels simultaneously feathered and leaden. The memories trickle through in pieces.

Such an almighty sound. The most brilliant clarion call.  

More the fool am I. 

I should not feel guilt for righting a wrong. 

How am I any different from a demon? 

I admire him. Miss him.

Miss you. 

His throat tightens. He’s been fighting the same fear from the opposite side of the window, and he doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that the entity he’s spent so much time fearing is far more like him than not. But beneath the apprehension there is a heady sort of relief in it. “I’ve — I miss you too, Justice,” he whispers. “And I’m sorry.” Part of him feels silly when he says it aloud, but the veilfire flickers and envelops his limbs all at once, suffuses him with warmth, and he feels the memory of hands in his even as his heart begins to race. 

The sensation swallows him, wraps him in echoes of emotion: contrition, sorrow, joy, desire— 

Nathaniel takes him by the hand too, draws him into an embrace so tight he can feel the clash of their heartbeats against his skin. 

He is surrounded inside and out, but for the first time since all of it began, he is no longer afraid. 

 


 

He doesn’t know who began the kiss; he only knows that now he’s backing Nathaniel up against the bed, lips against seeking lips, hands to hands, heartbeat to fluttering heartbeat. He’s caught up in an exhilarating rush. He’s kissed so many people in his three decades of existence on this earth, but everything he shares with Justice feels as though he's experiencing it for the first time all over again. 

“I don't understand,” he whispers between kisses, voice breaking breathlessly under the weight of his emotions. “It feels different now, Nate. What did you do?”

Nathaniel drinks him in, returns his kiss with another that's all teeth and tongue and heady desire. “Nothing,” he gasps, tipping his head back to allow Anders better access to his throat as Anders begins to trail his lips down the pale column of his neck. “Perhaps I held up a mirror. Nothing more.” 

There is a thrumming in the back of his mind, stronger and more intense than any drumbeat. If he closes his eyes and focuses he can make out words in the hum. 

You — me — us — 

“I can hear him,” Anders whispers. He's swept up in giddy elation as it begins to sink in. “Nate, I can hear him.” 

The veilfire in his hands begins to ebb and flow in a rippling rhythm. He drinks it in, marvels at the way it outlines them both wherever they touch. He is overwhelmed with desire, desires plural — to touch, to be touched, to hold. To feel skin beneath his palms, to drag his fingertips across the scratch of stubble and the soft dusting of hair at Nathaniel's chest. 

He wants, Maker, he wants — 

And so does Justice, he realizes dimly. The disjointed intensity isn't madness; it's Justice, it's exploration and discovery and being swept up in the euphoric momentum of newness

Nathaniel drags him down by the collar and he is consumed by gratitude. He does not know whether or not Nathaniel is aware of the gift he's given them, but he — Anders — Justice — needs Nathaniel to know what he means to them. 

Let me, he hears Anders murmur. He cedes just enough control and watches, enraptured, as his hands deftly untie laces and undo buttons and trace shapes into Nathaniel's skin. 

Piece by piece, they shed every layer of clothing, and Justice is struck by the sheer intensity of lying skin to skin. He marvels at the intimacy of it, at every soft gasp and sigh as Anders works his mouth down Nathaniel's chest. 

Anders scrapes his teeth against a nipple and laughs softly with delight when Nathaniel arches off of the bed with a gasp.

“Fuck,” Nathaniel groans as Anders sucks bite marks down his chest and chases each one with the soft heat of his tongue. “If I'd have known this is how you'd thank me — ah — I'd have made the two of you talk weeks ago—”

He trails off with another gasp when Anders ghosts hot breath along the length of his cock. Anders laves his tongue across the tip and teases down its length before slowly taking it into his mouth, sucking gently with every inch he takes until he feels the weeping tip of it touch the back of his throat. 

His only regret with their night together in their tent is that he hadn’t taken his time, and he fully plans to make up for that now. Nathaniel tangles needy fingers in his hair, and he braces his forearm against stuttering hips as he works his other hand around the base of Nathaniel’s cock. He flattens his tongue against the shaft as he hollows his cheeks and bobs his head up and down the length of it, relishing in every hitch of breath, every muffled whimper. 

Anders draws magic to his fingers and traces warmth down Nathaniel’s chest, alternating tiny trails of heat and cold until his palms are splayed out against muscled thighs, and then he stops

Nathaniel swears at him and bucks against his mouth, but he doesn’t relent, just slowly builds a rhythm back up as he wraps magic-laced fingers around his cock again and sends the tiniest pulse of energy through it. He’s rewarded with another swear, another desperate thrust, and he lifts his head up with a grin as their eyes meet. 

“Everything you imagined?” he murmurs.

“Insufferable tease,” Nathaniel grits out.

Anders just pumps at him lazily and swirls at a bead of precum with his thumb. “I’ll let you fuck my mouth if you beg nicely.”  

“Define nicely.” 

There is the loveliest flush blooming on Nathaniel’s cheeks. It matches the color of his kiss-swollen lips, full of life, full of desire, and the sight of it fills Anders with a heady rush. He lets his head fall back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed as his hands grasp at the sheets. “I’d do it for a please,” Anders murmurs as he dips his head between Nathaniel’s legs again and begins to methodically trace his tongue around the base of his shaft. 

“Fuck, please,” Nathaniel hisses. 

Anders relaxes his throat as he lets Nathaniel thrust into his mouth. He waits until the motions become erratic and desperate before hollowing out his cheeks again, encouraging him with pleased hums and gentle sucking, and before long he feels Nathaniel twitch and spend into the back of his throat with a groan. 

They lay there for a moment, the silence punctuated only by their erratic breathing, and then Nathaniel grips Anders by the shoulders and hauls him up for a kiss. “Has anyone ever truly told you how beautiful you are?” he whispers hoarsely. 

Anders almost has a smart response to that, but somewhere between the desperate expression in Nathaniel's eyes and the electric hum of magic filling every inch of him with the sweetest sort of convergence, everything he could possibly say falls by the wayside. He feels his throat tighten again. 

“Just — just you,” he manages thickly. He can't remember anyone ever treating him the way Nathaniel treats him, with so much kindness and care and love and desire he wonders if it's possible to die from how much it fills him with giddy exhilaration. “Fuck, I want you,” he whispers. “You make me want, Nate. You make Justice want. You've shown him what desire can look like, when it's given freely. Do you know how that feels?” 

“You have me,” Nathaniel murmurs back. “I'm with you, Anders. I'm with both of you. I meant it then and I mean it now. I am yours.” 

Mine. Ours. The thoughts surge together in possessive harmony. Anders presses into Nathaniel's back as he draws oil to his hand and eases a finger against his entrance. “Mine.” The word falls from his mouth as he works Nathaniel open, hot open mouthed kisses trailing slowly up the curve of his back and along the muscle of his shoulders. He adds a second finger, crooks them, and thrusts gently. “Ours.”

“Yes,” Nathaniel echoes, and he pushes back against Anders’ fingers with a needy groan. “Yours.” 

Time melts into an instant and an eternity overlapped and suspended between them. Something shakes loose and unfurls in his chest. He's caught up in the euphoric ringing in his ears, in the sweet and gentle siren song of being wanted, desired, needed. 

Loved. 

He is ( they are ) loved. They have been loved, will be loved, are here and together, desperate and aching for more. 

He adds a third finger and Nathaniel meets him with harder thrusts, his gravelly voice dissolving into incoherent pleas as he grips the sheets with both hands. 

There are words falling from his lips but he can no longer tell if they're his or if they belong to Justice alone, murmured and possessive praises he can barely understand. 

He eases his cock into slick, tight heat, and it takes every ounce of his remaining self control to hold back from immediately fucking him into the mattress. 

He could. But he wants to take his time, wants Nathaniel to feel every movement, wants to press skin to sweat sticky skin and drink in every drop of sound. 

He wants every aching moment to last. To drape the weight of his emotions around them — all three of them — and wrap himself in polychromatic eternity. 

The cracks of light spilling from his skin deepen, brighten into a blinding wash of color. He's clinging to Nathaniel harder with every thrust, one arm around his chest, the other cradled around his waist, fingers wrapped around Nathaniel's cock as he chases their end with every maddening thrust. 

Mine. 

The hum fills every inch of space in his head, wraps lightning around his limbs, kisses every inch of their skin with veilfire; and he climaxes with a shuddering gasp he buries in Nathaniel's shoulder.

Ours.

They lay tangled together in breathless silence. Nathaniel gathers him into a sweaty embrace and plants soft kisses in his hair. “I'm yours,” he repeats. “As long as you wish it.”

“I do wish it,” Anders murmurs joyously. He reaches for Justice, feels the ghostly memory of a hand intertwine with his, and his breath catches in his throat. “I do. And so does he.” 

“Well,” Nathaniel breathes. “Then thank fuck for that.” 

Anders doesn’t know where this is going. Justice doesn’t either. But wherever it goes, it is the sweetest solace they've ever touched to know they will follow it together. 

Hand in hand in brilliant, Fade-touched hand: soft, honey-sweet, and kissed with the most exhilarating fire they've ever seen.