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Charred flesh wafted its way up into Anders’ nose. His hand slapped down fiercely onto his mouth and nose, trying desperately to block the smell of his sin. He attempted to reach for Justice, to reach for his friend. But the spirit was absorbed into him now, part of his very being. 

Or was he the spirit? 

Even now, he felt dizzy-- dazed and confused as he looked at carnage all around him. One of those bodies was Rolan, he knew it was. But the others remained faceless in his daze. Fear crashed through his blood in icy waves. What if one of them had been Oghren, Nathaniel, Velanna, or Sigrun? Had he left Oghren’s child fatherless? Left sweet Delilah without a brother? Finished what the darkspawn could not with the elvhen sisters? Finally fulfilled Sigrun’s premature funeral?

No, he decided. No, he insisted. None of them would let it get this far. They were not here. His friends were not among the bodies that lay at his feet. Lay at their feet. His feet. There was solace in that. Rolan he would not mourn, templars he would not mourn, Wardens who stood by urging Rolan to kill him-- kill the abomination -- he would not mourn, but his friends were different. 

Their friends. His friends. 

That did not change the fact that littered among these bodies were Wardens. People who had passed their Joining, his brothers in arms, lay dead by his own power and not by the weapons of the darkspawn. There would be no forgiveness for that. Especially with the Commander gone, off on her wild goose chase to find Morrigan. By the time she returned, he would either be executed or forced to deal his sentence out herself. He knew how she dealt with those who killed Wardens-- Loghain had faced nothing short of her wrath. 

There was no place among the Wardens for him anymore. Ser Pounce-a-Lot was safe at least, that was a comfort. When they had tried to take him, Anders had smartly whisked his cat to Amaranthine. At the time, he had thought it would be temporary. Isadora gave him that cat herself. She would be loath to see him part with his beloved pet.

Tears broke through the corner of his eyes as he gagged, the scent still lingering around him. Vomit bubbled at the back of his throat. Justice did not know what it was, to be sick. Anders stumbled through confusion at the sensation and memories of hangovers. How long would this last? This in-between state as he fled from the scene of his crime? 

Isadora would not see him executed. Every inch of him adored her, could not bear to see the anger in her eyes when she discovered what he had done. He had no shame in fusing with Justice, but the loss of life, even if they were Wardens who would have willingly killed him, there was a part of him that he was certain came from Justice that felt a hot, sickly shame. 

And maybe Anders felt it, too. 

Mercy was not something he would beg her for. She had already lost so much-- her family, her home, Alistair . Thinking he was dead would be better than making her kill him. At least, away from the Wardens, he could find something to do with who he was now. Maybe do something selfless for once in his life, do something that could help others. 

Maybe he could help as many lives as he just took away, more even. Justice had not taken away his ability to be a gifted spirit healer. In fact, he was certain having a spirit residing within him might enhance it. All he had to do was keep moving, get to Amaranthine, and steal away on a ship. Where, though? The Free Marches were certainly an option, or he could go back to the Anderfels. He still spoke the language well despite all these years in Ferelden. Anderfels would be his goal then, unless he found another calling along the way. 

Wind whipped at his hair, falling out messily from his ponytail. Despite being easily a few miles away from the burned smear of bodies, the smell haunted him as if it clung to his very clothes. He should burn his Warden robes the first chance that he got. He remembered when Isadora had first given him the beautifully crafted robes of blue and silver, each thread sparkling with its strength. Justice had awoken in his Warden armor-- Kristoff’s-- but both had bore the colors and griffons with pride. That had made her smile. 

To say Isadora Cousland was not like other women would do her and other women a disservice, speaking as if one could be compared to another as a monolith. Yet, no one loomed quite as tall or smiled quite as bright. When Nathaniel had said she was ten feet tall, he was exaggerating, but only by three feet. She commanded in the way she walked, moving with purpose across any terrain they passed. People cowered before her with just a look. Oh, but, if she liked you… 

One time, they had been separated in battle. Anders had lost his way, drawn away while trying to keep distance from an Alpha Hurlock that had given chase. Hours had passed as he fended off Blight wolves, genlocks, and those Void-taken grubs while too afraid to call out and attract more attention. When auburn locks had finally run past a tree, searching frantically with Nathaniel and Oghren on her heels, Anders had called out to her, drained of mana, leg injured, limping, and with Pounce yowling pitifully in his pack. 

Not only had she rushed toward him, she had scooped him up in her arms to swing him around, kissing his forehead as she laughed with relief. No one could ever say she didn’t hold her friends dear. Even with the blood loss, Anders had blushed bright red. Memories still swirled within him as he tried to hold on to clearer ones like that. That was how he wanted her to remember him. 

“Anders?!”

At first, he thought it was the wind. This body still was not well. This body. Their body. His body. Sickness was coming-- a need to purge all of its contents once he was safe while it adjusted to the newfound power. Hallucinations were a common side effect of most things magical, he found. His eyes watched his feet in order to keep from tripping. The wind’s voice did not let up.

“ ANDERS? ”

Its howling sounded frightened, fearful… Desperation tinged in its unseen gusts as it caught in the new leaves of Bloomingtide. Night had fallen quite dark into the wee hours of the morning. Cold chills pressed into his body. That wind was their, no, his only companion. Each time it called in its false whisper, it sounded sad, sounded upset, sounded like--

“ ANDERS! ”

--Isadora . 

Anders finally snapped his head upward. Just over the hill toward Amaranthine, in a silver that caught the moonlight, standing as tall as a giantess was Isadora Cousland. At her side was a mabari, looking out toward him and then back to her. Was this Hercules? She had told tales of her own loyal pet, home safe and warm in Highever with her brother Fergus. With a simple nod toward the dog, he bounded forward until he could catch up to the mage, Isadora running behind him. 

He kept thinking Pounce would start hissing, smelling the great beast and his coat of kaddis. But Pounce was not here, only Anders. And Justice. Whatever that meant now that Isadora saw the man before her and could recognize the body, but not that she greeted two friends who had become one. 

Unable to stop her, she barreled into him, her arms pulling him close. The metal of her gloves dug painfully into his back. Had she been worried about him? How? She had no idea of what had transpired tonight. Her great-sword would sooner lob his head from his shoulders the minute she learned of what he had become, of what he had done to their numbers. 

“I was so worried,” she said, “Has that bastard Rolan hurt you? You look like shit.” 

A wretched sob wracked his body. Even his bones shook with the force of it as he felt his legs give out from under him in despair. She was never supposed to find him. He had hoped she’d still be on her quest to locate Morrigan. Instead, she was catching him as he nearly fell, pressing him close as though he might disappear if she let him go. If only she knew… If only she knew. Words reached his ears, but he could not understand them. Questions were spilling from her lips but he was growing weaker, dizzier, and more confused by the minute. 

Through harsh, muted weeping, the only words he could repeat, as if he were praying, were, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”         

First Warden, 

As of today, I have had to make a difficult decision. You were previously informed that I would be taking a temporary step away from my post for a dire personal matter. Leadership was seemingly inadequate while I was away. Warden Rolan had been, for some time, at the throats of our Acolytes, as a former templar. This issue had been addressed with him before under my watch, but was left unsupervised in my absence.

During this absence, Senior Warden Anders thought it wise to allow a spirit into his person. This entity is a spirit-- one we have known for some time. Justice had been functioning as a Warden using Senior Warden Kristoff’s corpse as a host. Under the desire to return the body to Kristoff’s family, he had begun to search for a new host as he wished to still aid our cause. Anders, with some convincing, agreed. 

As I understand it, Rolan discovered what had occurred, and brought both Wardens who sided with him and templars to kill his superior. This included the Orlesian Warden-Constable you sent to act as Commander in my stead. Unfortunately, this attack came at a deadly cost. Recently fused, Anders released the might of his new spiritual abilities and all present except for himself were killed. Out of desperation, he attempted to desert for fear of his own life. 

Normally, any such slaughter of our men would result in an execution. However, these were no normal circumstances. Do not believe I approve of the actions of any Wardens involved, including Anders and Justice. Avernus has been informed and is looking for a way to remove Justice safely to a new host. I will remind you that Wardens are not templars; we do not execute abominations nor make mages Tranquil. Avernus was a maleficar under Commander Dryden, if you recall. 

Senior Warden Anders has been henceforth stripped of his rank and will be under my personal watch as he attempts to atone for the murder of his brothers-in-arms and desertion attempt. Only myself and a few select Wardens will function as a personal watch until he once more proves himself trustworthy. In that time, I will also keep him from field work. Anders is a gifted spirit healer and will serve well as personal physician to the Wardens of Vigil’s Keep. 

I understand that this punishment may seem light, but Warden Anders despises nothing more than a lack of freedom. Prior to his conscription, he escaped Ferelden’s Circle seven times. After hearing his case, I deemed what happened a necessity out of self-defense even if I am saddened by the loss of life. If you draw an issue with the sentencing, I suggest you come and see me yourself. 

In addition, I will be promoting Senior Warden Nathaniel Howe to Warden-Constable. I believe he is fully capable of acting in my stead should the Keep require it again.

I’ve taken the liberty of attaching the names of the dead along with this letter. 

Respectfully, 

Warden-Commander Isadora Cousland

Perhaps, one day, she would learn to stop sticking her neck out for people. Yet, looking around the clinic shouldn’t couldn’t help but think that was a bad idea. She had come to check on Anders, relieving Sigrun of her post as his watchmen for the day. Three years had passed since she had found Anders in the dead of night on the road to Amaranthine, reeking of fire and ozone. At the time, she had been so relieved to see him, unaware of what destruction he and Justice had wrought. 

Once upon a time, such a thing might have churned her stomach. Everything the Chantry preached was against possession and its danger to mages. Isadora didn’t hold much love for it from her youth, enraptured with the Avvar legends that she would listen to at her father’s feet when she and Fergus were children, but Eleanor had been rather devout. Isadora respected the Chantry to some extent in her memory.

Nothing prepared her for Kinloch Hold. Atrocity to atrocity from one room onto the next. Yet, never once could she find she blamed the mages. Wynne proved that many could stay strong. Others proved that they resisted the temptation. Mages were people , ones that Isadora could not sentence to death based on the ravings of a tortured templar. 

Then came Anders. Speaking to him, candidly, about his time in the Circle. Solitude sounded like a horrible pyre to bear. Still, the mage always insisted that others had it far worse than him. Templars, at least, held no love in her heart anymore. (Except one, of course, but he had not lived long enough to hear Anders’ story). Still, she could not expect to return home from chasing Morrigan to a magic fucking mirror of all things, to dead templars and a number of her Wardens dead at Anders’ (and Justice’s) hand. Hands? Either or. 

Anger had seeped out of her as he pitifully led her toward the site of the massacre. Rolan was going to kill him, but she knew he regretted that so many got caught in seeking his defense. Just as she regretted the words of anger she had thrown at him as she looked at burned bodies seared into the ground. She regretted knocking him out with the butt of her sword so she could throw him in the brig until he could more coherently tell her what had occurred. 

Nothing prepared her for the full truth. Worse even than that was the empty, hollow sound to Anders’ voice when he spoke. There were echoes of Justice in there, fused together into an odd amalgamation of his serenity with Anders’ unique quirks. He didn’t flirt with her once. It was off-putting. 

Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to execute him. He had been attacked , killed the bystanders who were present, but attacked nonetheless. If he wanted to be a beacon of Justice, then justice he would serve. Stay at Vigil’s Keep, heal the sick and injured, and remain even when you want to run. Ser Pounce-a-Lot made it easier, she supposed. Discovering that he had had to take his beloved cat to Amaranthine while she was gone on some daft idea that it was making him soft had been infuriating to her. 

She’d watched that cat revive people in the heat of battle! Soft, indeed!

Yet, things had not been the same between them since. During her watches, he spoke as little to her as possible, his gaze cold. Once upon a time, they would swap raunchy jokes that could have made Oghren’s ears pink, trying to outdo each other with meaningless flirting. Before this happened, Anders had meant a world to her. Her first conscripted recruit whom she had simply clicked with in a way she had not felt since the Fifth Blight. Anders wanted freedom? She would let him travel the world if she could. 

The minute she was gone, it looked as if he had thrown it all away. 

He did not joke with her anymore. Any gifts she collected for him (there was a chest full now), he denied. There were plenty that she had watched him look at with sparkling whiskey eyes that always told her that what she had handed to him meant something. Yet, he turned them all down. At one time, he saw her as a friend and commander. Now, the title ‘Warden’ had taken on its other meaning: she was nothing short of his jailer. 

She traded pleasantries with Sigrun, who stretched before bidding her temporary charge good-bye. Anders was knelt down by a patient, blond hair dipping gently behind his ear and down to his chin. A new recruit-- a lithe elvhen man, no older than she was at the beginning of the Blight-- had his fingers wrapped tightly around the stone slab Anders used as an examination table. His ankle was twisted and she could tell Anders was setting it before fully healing it to avoid a limp. 

Pounce weaved about her legs, so she squatted down, lifted the cat who rubbed against her cheek, demanding attention. She scratched his cheek, watching Anders’ magic light up the space between them all before sighing. His fingers pressed and prodded at the ankle before he stood, sliding his hands against each other as if to wipe them. 

“Go easy on it,” he instructed, offering the man his hand to come off the table, “For at least a day, preferably two. Let Nathaniel know, first, so he doesn’t, I don’t know, throw you headlong into the Deep Roads or something.” 

“Aye, ser! Thank you!” said the man, attempting to salute both Anders and then Isadora when he saw her before bounding off. 

“I said easy on it! ” he called after him before scoffing, shaking his head good-naturedly, before looking toward Isa, “No Hercules?” 

“I know you don’t like him in here.”

“Never stopped you before.” Anders dismissively walked past her, onto the next patient. This one was laid up in a cot. They were not a Warden, but someone from the neighboring farms. Isadora figured opening up a free clinic at the Keep to the arling would do them some good. She was right. Trust in her was better than ever. 

Except she was still staring at the backside of a man that she had once called friend. A man who she had once picked up out of sheer relief as she had been overjoyed to see him stood before her despite swearing she barely recognized him sometimes. She plopped Pounce gently onto a table, following Anders as he carefully spooned some medicine into the person’s mouth before beginning to gently hover his hands above his patient, casting silently. Anders used to smile when he healed. She had broken her arm one and he had tweaked her nose while he set to distract her. Now, he was friendly, but impeccably serious. 

She had done that. Maybe not entirely, she was certain Justice had something to do with it, but she had made him a prisoner in a place she had wanted him to call home. Not that there shouldn’t be punishment… But even his solitary confinement had only been a year in length. 

“Are you busy?” she asked, shifting her auburn ponytail. 

“No more so than normal,” he replied, curtly, “Why?”

“...Come to Amaranthine with me. Sten’s coming in a day or so and I want to get him cookies. You can look for stuff for the clinic. Maybe a new collar for Pounce.” His old bell collar was growing a bit worn, due for a replacement. 

Anders paused, lips parting ever so slightly, “You… I mean, I suppose you can make that call. You trust me not to run away?” 

She wasn’t sure if she did. Maybe he would paralyze her and duck off toward the docks the first chance he got. That was always a possibility. Isadora would always have brute strength, but that meant nothing against a spell that could immobilize her. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to play it safe. Recklessness suited her just fine. 

“I do,” she informed him, “Besides, I think it’s high time you get out of the clinic for a bit.”

The soft smile that washed over Anders’ face was worth every copper she would spend in Amaranthine. Everything had a beginning. This would hopefully be the beginning of them being friends again. Isadora missed having Anders close sorely.

Amaranthine was warm this time of year-- everything was in summer, but the high walls of the city trapped the heat and exacerbated the smell. More than once she had avoided trips here by handing someone more interested in going, a shopping list while she ducked out to hunt or scour the woods for any wayward darkspawn. Usually, she did both. She remembered the day she had stood before the city as people all around her told her saving it was useless. 

Except, of course, for Anders. He had been there, staff strapped tightly to his back as he protested the very idea of leaving the city behind. They understood each other-- people were worth saving. Even if it was just a single old soul, Isadora would have moved the Void itself to drag them out. Even if Nathaniel and Oghren had to be convinced, Anders had stood by her side, encouraging her to make that choice. Looking around at the city now, she felt that she had made the correct one. 

Hercules barked, plunging ahead down a street after some chickens. Isadora whistled, pulling the large Mabari back to her. She stroked his head, careful not to smudge his kadis. At night, she usually washed it off when they were at the Keep, but it was safer to keep it on when they were traveling. No one ever knew what fool would throw themselves at her next. 

She busied herself watching as Anders picked around the healing supplies from one of the merchants. He was skilled at herbalism, Isadora knew, but it was sometimes easier to simply pay for things than to guess how long it would be until they could find a merchant who sold flasks. She found that he had grabbed a supply of them as well. A light frown crossed her lips. 

“Have you not been receiving flasks to the Clinic?” she asked. 

“What?” he replied, blinking as he finally registered her words. “Oh. No. Not really. I just prefer to be prepared. They’re glass. Break easy. You get an Acolyte in there who doesn’t know what they're doing and suddenly a health poultice is staining the floor.” 

That got a laugh from her. All the Acolyte Wardens who wanted to learn Spirit Healing and herbalism went to Anders. They set up in the Clinic, observed him until they were well trained enough for the field and left. By all means, he was their Senior Warden, but in action only. And only a few foolish recruits dared ask why one of the Hero of Ferelden’s inner circle had to be with him at all times.

“Right,” she agreed, nodding, “Let me know if we need to increase the order of flasks then.” 

“No,” he mused, “If you do, they might get the idea that the flasks are something expendable. They’re really not. Sure, you can make a health poultice without one, but the trouble comes when you need to hold it. Or for mixing it together.”

A smile crossed her face, detecting the hint of wry humor in Anders’ voice. She missed that, his easy-going humor, his needling at the party they traveled with. Today it was just Hercules, herself, and Anders. Isadora preferred traveling with at least three other people, but she wanted to give time to her old friend. Just letting it be the two of them with a war hound who once took practically a whole squadron of darkspawn by himself was enough. 

Well, and Ser Pounce-A-Lot who occasionally poked his head out of Anders’ pack to look around before slipping back inside. Such a peculiar thing, that cat. At this point, he and Hercules were probably blighted and Grey Wardens in their own right. Any other animal might have succumbed with how many they fought. Those two remained, however. 

Anders scoffed softly, “I sound like Wynne.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” laughed Isadora, “I’ve always liked Wynne.” 

“You didn’t have her as a teacher,” he reminded her, idly as he examined a selection of deep mushrooms, “She onced made my friend and I learn how to make poultices from memory by going off taste alone to teach us the importance of following the recipe.” 

“Yuck.” 

“She took no small delight in watching the two of us get ill,” he added, “Face of a kindly grandmother, personality of Witch of the Wilds.” That sent Isadora into splutters of laughter, imagining what Wynne and Morrigan would think of such a comparison. Next time she was able to visit, if she was, Isadora would have to ask about it. 

They walked along, Anders losing interest in the deep mushrooms and the rest of that table so Isadora could look at a few weapons stalls. None compared to what Wade could make her with the right material, but she enjoyed the window shopping. As she walked, her armored hand brushed against Anders’ own. It hurt to watch him flinch away. 

Trust was important to her. She had earned the trust of everyone that she traveled with, even with difficult cases. Once, Zevran had described her as a very adept gift-giver. Buying friends was not something she liked to say she did, but it opened gateways to conversations where she could actually get to know the various people who kept her company. Now, if only Anders would accept any single one of her gifts. 

“...You have not asked how Justice is,” he said, sounding far away. 

She frowned, “You always tell me that it’s not as easy as there being two of you. I was trying to be respectful.” 

Anders snorted, “Perish the thought.” 

A muscled elbow hit him in the ribs, harder than she meant to, but not enough that Anders’ would bruise. Still, he clutched suddenly at his side, making fake noises of pain. 

“Madame! You wound me! You giantess, you’ve killed me where I stand!” he exclaimed, voice littered with false drama. Isadora laughed again, pleased with the response. It didn’t take long before Anders joined her in harmony, their laughter attracting the attention of a few onlookers. 

Quiet settled over them as they tried to gain themselves again. Anders was smiling and Isadora felt her heart melt upon spying it. He was a handsome thing-- curse her taste for funny blond men-- who had a face that glowed when he smiled. Friendship was really all she craved from him. She missed the closeness, the affection that the two had shared once. As long as she had that again, she could be satisfied. Even if him fusing with Justice still stung like betrayal. Even if he had tried to run instead of wait for her. All of it hurt, but the events were three years ago now. 

Having Anders back in her life as a friend and confident, not just as a Warden prisoner, was far more important. 

They would talk about it all, she knew. Neither of them were the type to let sleeping dogs lie, but she wanted to make sure it would not tear them apart again. Acting as Warden-Commander and not as his friend was what had put them here. Would she change what she did? No, probably, not. But, were the two of them to reach a peace, she would be eternally grateful. 

“Have you spoken to Avernus lately?” Anders asked. 

She shook her head, “No letters. Last one said he was looking into a way, but it might involve blood magic. I told him to exhaust all the other options first.” 

A shaky breath escaped Anders, “...Thank you for that.” 

“He is the maleficar, not you.” 

“No,” hummed Anders, “I’m the abomination.” 

Anger sparked in Isadora. She had disciplined Wardens for saying the very same thing about Anders. None of them in particular liked the scoldings Isadora could wield. They were almost as scary as her approaching with her great-sword in hand. 

“Two of my friends made a bad choice,” she said, holding back a reprimand, “The man I see before me is hardly an abomination.” 

“Isadora--”

“Do you think Justice enjoys being referred to as such?” 

That did bring Anders to pause. Despite Anders attempting to explain it when it had initially happened and many times after, both of them knew Isadora struggled to speak of them in the way he described. Part spirit, part man all mixed together into one person. They were more than the sum of their parts together. Yet, Isadora still felt like part of Justice lingered like a ghost within Anders, as if a part of him could not be wholly incorporated.  

“I suppose not,” he admitted. 

Isadora nudged him gently, knocking their shoulders together, “Mistakes are in the past. It’s what we do after that matters.” 

“Did you get that from a book?” 

A sheepish smile appeared on Isadora’s face, “Wynne, actually.” 

That got a chuckle out of Anders as he walked along. A warm breeze whipped at their hair as they watched Hercules pad ahead of them. All in all, it had the makings of a wonderful day. Isadora had plans to stay at The Crown and Lion for the night before they headed out the next day. There always seemed to be trouble in Amaranthine. It was better to hedge their bets that they’d be there late. 

“It’s foolish,” Anders said wistfully, “I thought we could balance each other out… Use it to help the mages.” 

That was what it always seemed to come back to. Even before Justice, Anders knew how to drop the topic into conversations. However, she knew it had become worse especially after his initial fusing with Justice. They wanted to fix something unjust. Isadora could respect that. In fact, she would help him if he had ever given her the chance. If they had only waited…

“Then let’s do it,” she said. 

A blank slate of surprise took over his face, “...What?” 

Before Isadora could reply, Hercules let out an excited bark before taking off down the street. Even when Isadora whistled, he merely skidded to a stop, looking back at her with perked ears and barked again before taking off. Anders shared a brief look with her before taking off after her mabari. The run wasn’t exceptionally far, but they still had to dip down one of the side streets to even catch up as Hercules stalled in front of a house with a little pen set up front. 

As they approached, a broad smile crossed over Isadora’s face. In the makeshift pen, a litter of mabari puppies were yipping and play-fighting with each other. Such a sight warmed her heart as she immediately squatted to ruffle Hercules’ ears as the two of them observed the mabari. One of the puppies immediately rushed up to them, starting to bark as though it was trying to talk to Hercules.

“See one you like, Warden-Commander?” asked the woman doing laundry by the pen. 

“They’re yours?” she asked.  

“M’husband’s. But I told him we can’t keep all the pups as much as he likes to. Bad business, after all,” she said, rubbing her hands on her apron as she came up behind the gate. Isadora reached a hand in, slowly, allowing the puppy to sniff her hand. 

Anders groaned, “You can’t be serious. You have one.” 

“As if you'd say no to another cat.” Anders huffed at her quip as she rubbed a finger against the puppy’s forehead. It toddled around her hand, trying to decide between playing with it or accepting her pets. Isadora smiles, “Besides he wouldn’t be for me .” 

Anders’ eyes slid judgmentally to look at her, exhaustion with this charade of dogs evident, “ Nathaniel doesn’t need a dog.” 

“Yes, he does,” she said, dismissing him teasingly, “Nathaniel could use a loyal companion.” 

“He has Velanna.” 

“I want you to compare her to a dog to her face.” 

Anders cringed at the idea, but didn’t reply. The simple idea of it was enough to send shivers down his spine. Sylvans running rampant through the Keep to trap Anders in roots was hardly his idea of fun. Maybe she’d be kind and just curse him out or roughly smack with her staff. 

“How much for him?” asked Isadora. 

“That one’s a bitch, actually,” the woman said, “Does that change your mind?” 

Anders immediately snapped back to attention, “ No. ”

In comparison, Isadora’s face lit up like lanterns on Satinalia, “It doesn’t. How much for her?” 

She knew Anders’ misgivings. With Hercules about, once the mabari came of age, Isadora and Nathaniel would be the proud “grandparents” of a litter of mabari pups of their own. Instead of griffons, the Ferelden Grey Wardens would just have a small army of mabaris. That could certainly scare the darkspawn. Anders rubbed his hands over his face. Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot. Hercules already liked to chase him; a puppy was going to be so much worse. 

Still, there had been no stopping her. The little pup bought and paid for; both of them started heading back toward The Crown and Lion. They usually didn’t mind Isadora bringing Hercules-- she had saved the whole damn city after all. While keeping the pup within eyesight added a new element of difficulty to their trip, it remained surprisingly peaceful. Still, even an extra sovereign didn’t please the innkeeper. Isadora agreed that they could move to a smaller room that lacked one of the inn’s nicer floors. Leaving this late could work; they had the set up for the tents, but they wouldn’t get far before they would have to stop for the night. 

As they entered, it became ever apparent that something was… amiss with this room. It had all the usual amenities-- chamber pot, fireplace, a few trunks for belongings, even a very small writing desk. But, instead of two normal sized beds, one single bed sat in the middle of the room. Isadora didn’t flush easily. Even now, she merely let out a huff. 

“I’ll go get our money back,” she told Anders, “Damn. Camp it is then.” 

Anders paused, frowning, “No, it’s fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

“You will not . If anyone is, it’s me. We do have the mats,” she replied. 

Anders crossed his arms, “You’re the lady.” It was a pitiful excuse if there ever was one. 

“And you’re the frail mage,” she replied, voice lilted as she shrugged, not even bothering to hide a cat-like grin. 

He huffed, “Well, I’m not leaving this room or letting you sleep on the floor. So, we’ll have to decide before we sleep.” 

They managed to leave it at that. Isadora had shared plenty of beds in her lifetime-- both for pleasure and in passing. The tents when she traveled during the Blight always seemed to rotate with people. Close quarters sleeping wasn’t something that bothered her. Did it bother Anders? Mages seemed to sleep in a communal area, but in their own bunk beds from what she remembered of Kinloch.  

Despite any concerns, they didn’t breach the issue until they were both ready for bed. Isadora popped her lips. Hesitation? Didn’t know her. 

“Do you care if we share the bed?” she asked. 

Anders shrugged, “Not really.” 

“...I know I’m not really your favorite person.” 

Anders straightened, shaking his head, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t act dumb,” she huffed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall, “We haven’t exactly been close in the past three years.” 

“Isadora…” he murmured, before regaining a bit of his usual composure, “You know I understand, yeah? Justice and I made a decision. It killed our comrades. We’re paying for it. You were lenient .” 

“Don’t feed my own bullshit back to me,” she snapped, “No one who escapes the Circle seven times wants to be held down.” Anders shifted uncomfortably.

“The punishment was Just. Even if I hate it. If you hadn’t found me when you did, who knew the person I might have become,” he told her, “My-- my anger. It’s like a drug to him. Killing Rolan wasn’t Justice , it was Vengeance .”

“Sometimes the two are more similar than you think,” Isadora said, oddly calm, “Killing Rendon Howe was just as much justice as it was vengeance. At least for me.” 

“But you don’t have a spirit who can be perverted by… volatile human emotions,” muttered Anders, “If I had known what I could do to him--” 

He was cut off, by Isadora grabbing him roughly and pulling him into a hug. Once more his body shook in her arms, fearing he might sob again. Instead, she gently pushed him onto the bed with a thump and joined him there, wrapping him up tightly in her hold. His arms snaked around her to press her close. She always smelled faintly of sword polish, but for some reason the undeniable aroma of cinnamon always seemed to overpower it. Even now, it was a comfort. 

It reminded him of when she had scooped him up after they had been separated. Even though the memories were foggy, he still recalled that horrible night three years ago, where she had consoled him long before she knew what he had done. But there were other times too. Once, when they had been drinking, she had lifted him to prove that she could to Sigrun. Though, he suspected that Sigrun knew Isadora could, but had wanted to watch Anders scramble to cling as Isadora hoisted high in the air. 

Her fingers ran up and down his back, easing him. Perhaps they were encouraging him to cry, but he didn’t need to. Perhaps, right before she had left, he would have dreamed of pressing his face to her bosom, and teased her about how it would be his great honor. Now, it was just a comfort. Her heartbeat thudded softly like a lullaby. 

“...How can you stand it?” he asked. 

“What?” she asked right back. 

“To know what I did, to see what I’ve become,” he muttered, “To know that I’ll never make up for until we can free Justice. Maybe not even then.” 

“I’ve lost too many Grey Wardens over the years. Duncan and the ones I didn’t know at Ostagar, Riordan and then Alistair to the archdemon, and even though I mourn the ones that fell by your own hand, I’d have mourned finding you Tranquil by Rolan’s hands just as much… more, even.” 

“Doesn’t excuse a damn thing…”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, “But I don’t see a monster, either. You’ve become the man you always were-- a good man. Good men don’t have spotless pasts. They’re stronger, wiser than the squeakiest Chantry boy.” He laughed at that, though it was hollow, empty. 

“You spoil me with praise,” he said, trying to sound coy, “Are you trying to court me? Shall I swoon now?” 

Isadora scoffed, quickly pulling away to grab a pillow and plop it on his face to pretend to smother him. He immediately started to guffaw with bombastic laughter. She shook him gently. 

“Nevermind, you are a monster. I take it all back.” 

He laughed, shoving the pillow off, “You don’t mean that! I’m sorry, please, continue bearing your soul.” 

Isadora was over him now. His back was pressed against the bed, her arms on either side of his head as she stared down at him, her head tilted ever so slightly, her auburn hair tumbling down her front like a veil. It was so rarely out of her ponytail, but she usually only took it out right before she climbed in bed. Despite everything, his heart beat loudly in his chest. There were no glowing pinpricks that signified the spiritual pull of displeasure. Even when she cupped his cheek, he felt fully himself. 

“You said something earlier,” she said, “About doing this to help the mages.” 

Shame flushed his cheeks as he looked away, “Yes... Foolish. My anger is too much for Justice. We never could have helped anyone.” 

Her thumb slid along his cheek, brushing his stubble, he leaned into the touch. Despite everything, even with some sadness in her voice, she said, “We could still do that.”

A bitter scoff, escaped him, “How?” 

“We’re two relatively smart, capable people. And I did help save the world. I’ve got some sway,” she told him, her smile wiry and smug, “We’ll think of something.” 

His eyes moved to stare up at her once more, “Why are you so good to me? After everything? You don’t have to do that.” 

“I want to,” she told him, “Before Kinloch Tower, I never knew what it could be like for any of you. I had never even seen a Tranquil in person before Ostagar. And then I met Wynne and you. Learning about it all… I don’t want people to keep suffering like that. It's...” Her voice trailed off softly, mournfully. 

“Unjust,” he completed. Her smile was warm; he felt the heat of it reach through his chest and spread through his veins. 

“Unjust,” she agreed.

Isadora never could abandon those in need. Even with the Keep in danger, she didn’t want to abandon Amaranthine. There could have been one, sole survivor. He knew that she still would have rushed in. And he would have followed her. Even if the others thought leaving the city was for the best-- Nathaniel and Oghren certainly had-- that was not the way either of them thought. Even when he said he was selfish and self-centered, she saw through it all. 

There had always been something in him that cared about others. In these moments, he remembered that she was good at bringing out the best in him. His heart swelled a bit, until he thought it might burst. 

“...I should have brought you out sooner, punishment or not,” she whispered, “I’m sorry it took so long. To be honest, I didn’t even do it because I thought it out. I just missed seeing you smile. I missed having you around, having you talk to me.” 

It was a rare event to see Isadora cry. Not because she wouldn’t do it out of pride, but because she insisted she had to look strong for the Wardens. She wasn’t now, but Anders could see the water glazing over eyes as she held them back. Droplets clung in her lashes. His hand reached up, wiping the bit of water that gathered at the edge of her eye. Others might have lost their faith to see her so close to tears. Yet, Anders felt nothing of the sort. Isadora was human. Larger than life, muscled, and all smug smirks and swagger, underneath all that she was still someone who cried.

“I’m here now.” 

When their lips touched, Anders hadn't expected it. More than once, he had thought about it, especially when they had first met. How could he not? She was a beautiful woman and Anders loved to partake in beautiful things. Now, he realized no fantasy compared. His hand moved, letting his other arm stretch up to wrap around her neck and pull himself up to meet her fully. At first the kiss was soft, almost chaste, as they pressed together. By the end of that stage, it felt as if their lips had molded together. 

Anders went to open his mouth to say something, but Isadora had other plans. Her fingers curled up into his hair, guiding him with a firm but painless grip into the position she wanted as she let her tongue slip inside his mouth. For a moment, he felt frozen as she explored. Was this happening? Her leg pressed down heavily against his hip bone which said that it was. A shudder passed through him, electrifying him in an instant, bringing a part of him he thought dead since Justice back to life. 

Immediately, he began to reciprocate with fervor. He moaned  into her mouth, loud and vying for her affections, urging her to continue. It had the desired effect, as he felt them meet tongue to tongue, letting her direct him through the kiss.   

Two small yips and then a loud boof echoed throughout the room. Isadora and Anders looked up to see Hercules and the puppy looking up at them, tails wagging. Anders glared at the two of them for interrupting. Not that the glare lasted, however. Laughter soon covered the barks as Isadora’s body shook with it. Her head resting in the crook of Anders’ neck. His hands wandered her back slowly. 

Maybe they didn’t need to go back to what they were. Maybe they could be something better. 

Warden-Commander Cousland, 

I regret to inform you that the mage in question has been made Tranquil due to unforeseen circumstances. 

Regards, 

Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard

Zev, 

As a favor to one of your dearest friends (me, I mean me), please look into the mage Karl Thekla at The Gallows in Kirkwall. If he has been made Tranquil, I would like that reported to me. Anders and I will decide what we want to do from there. In addition, I want a message sent to Meredith Stannard, Knight-Commander of the Kirkwall Circle. Don’t kill her, but make sure she knows that someone is displeased. I trust your artistry in your craft. 

Leliana is going to have her monitored. This may not be the last time we deal with her. 

Thanks,

Isa 

P.S. Oghren and Hercules are well. Oghren wants you to visit so we can all go drinking and I agree. 

P.P.S. If you want juicy details of my love life, I suggest you come see me in person. 

Dear Sister, 

I want you to know that this plan of yours is insane, irresponsible, and completely and totally dangerous. I love it. Once you are able to get this scheme operational, Highever will open for any apostates to get help starting new lives out of the Circle. I’ll make sure the staff is stocked with sympathizers. 

Conditionally, you must bring this Anders fellow here sometime. I want to meet him and life is dreadfully boring here without you. 

Your Faithful Brother, 

Fergus

Warden-Commander, 

I believe I have found a possible method for releasing the spirit from the possessed Acolyte. Details on my research are attached for him to read. 

-Avernus

Another three years passed in the blink of an eye. Isadora had a thick bundle of letters pressed under her arm while Hercules plodded faithfully at her heels. Her face was all smiles and barely contained excitement as she headed toward one of the Highever sitting rooms-- the one that had a window that overlooked the Clinic. Even when he was told to take breaks, she knew Anders worried. He could blame Justice all he liked, but this was still the man who had vouched for saving the innocents of Amaranthine. It was hard to believe that was six years ago now. 

She found Anders sitting in a cushioned chair, hunched over a letter while his tea got cold. On the back of the chair, Pounce reclined leisurely. At Anders’ feet sat a runt of a mabari pup, the smallest of Hercules and Megara’s latest litter. Only just over a month old, when it looked like the pup wouldn’t make it, Anders had helped nurse him back to help. Because of that, however, the pup had taken a shine to Anders, much to the mage’s chagrin. 

Mabari would always pick their masters, after all. Since he clearly wasn’t getting rid of the dog any time soon, Anders had taken to calling him Admiral Barkspawn. She thought it was a big name for such a small mabari, but hopefully he’d grow into it as quickly as he did his paws. Upon seeing his father, Barkspawn yipped and ran over to him clumsily. Anders looked up from his work, smiling at Isadora. 

“Everything alright?” he asked. 

“Better than,” she replied, putting the letter down before him, “That’s from Avernus.” 

Anders looked up at her, eyes both excited and nervous as his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. He put his own writing aside-- writing to that Champion again, no doubt; Garrett Hawke had a tremendous help in setting up the Free March branch of the Mage Underground, being an apostate himself. His fingers carefully, gingerly, as if they would somehow burn the massive document by his touch, lifted the letter to open it. His eyes scanned Avernus’ letter a few times. 

“Did you read his notes at all?” he asked. 

Isadora shook her head, “Took a look at the first page. Doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. Looks like it needs a dangerous amount of lyrium, though.” 

“Doesn’t surprise me,” hummed Anders, flipping through the notes, “...But from what I’m seeing, I think I understand. More or less, we are recreating the incident that put Justice in Kristoff. 

“You will read all that and explain it to me, right? You’re better at explaining things.”

A smirk crossed Anders’ face, “Am I or do you just like hearing me speak?” 

Her hand rested down on the back of the chair, effectively trapping him there as she loomed over. Not that he minded, especially when being trapped came with so great a gift. Isadora leaned down as he tilted his head up to kiss her. In the three years since he was first allowed back to Amaranthine, this had become normal for them. He didn’t think it was love at first-- love was a game most mages played at. The two of them were friends with a little bit more. 

Yet, that respect and admiration for each other progressed into something more.  It had felt unavoidable, yet natural. Teasing words paired with unabashed affection had seemed their perfect match. Of course, the others had all seen it first. Both of them were surprised to find a betting pool on when they would finally be together. Oghren, of all people, had taken home that large sum of money. Anders suspected it was because he knew Isadora almost as well as she knew herself. 

“Can’t it be both?” she asked, smirk still painting her face, eyes all but glowing with affection. 

The way she looked at him always made Anders melt. To think someone could see him-- someone like Isadora Cousland, Warden-Commander, Hero, survivor-- and see someone worth saving, someone worth loving, it made Anders buckle under the affections. How could he not feel the same way back? Of course, she had her flaws-- she was stubborn, foolhardy, reckless, but it made her all incredibly human. Though, he had known that since he met her. He loved her for them, anyway, just as she loved him for his. Fools, really, the both of them were. 

But better fools in love than fools looking at a shattered glass of friendship, ruined by duty to command, by duty to one's people, by decisions and choices that were both good and bad choices, the right ones and mistakes. Life was gray after all, nothing would truly ever be good or bad. Sometimes they were bad choices made for good reasons or good choices made for bad reasons, a constant coin flip that spun in the air only to never land. They were Grey Wardens, though. Both of them would always exist in between. 

Better to shoulder each other’s load and grow, no? 

Isadora scooped him up out of the chair before plopping herself down in it, settling him on her lap. Honestly, she was too big for her own good. In his youth, Anders would have imagined himself with a small woman, curvacious, with a rounded face and plump lips whose supple flesh he could knead between his fingers. Now, he found himself in the arms of a tall woman, broad shouldered and muscular with her ancient family’s firm chin-- she had those plump lips, though, and she knew how to use them. 

“I’m busy,” he told her, as he adjusted himself on her lap, “I’ve got to finish this letter to Hawke and now Avernus’ notes to read.”

“They’re not going anywhere,” she soothed, fingers tugging out his ponytail to thread her fingers through his hair, “You can finish them now, if you want. But I’m not moving.” She was evil, this woman, he swore it. He leaned over, placing a kiss to her lips, quick, chaste-- the kind of kiss he could never afford back in the Circle. There was no time to be lazy with affection there. Now, he had the luxury. 

“Fine,” he said, barely able to contain his own lopsided grin, “But do not distract me.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she lied. 

Still, she let him work. A storm was brewing outside, new Warden recruits milled about the Keep getting things tapered down and ready to weather it. Isadora’s thumbs pressed into Anders’ hip, massaging away a knot that had formed while he sat, hunched over the table. Time wasn’t on their side right now. Isadora would inevitably get up, he knew, to throw on armor to finish helping the recruits. That was simply the kind of Commander she was. But he would have her come nightfall. They would fall into bed and see where it went from there as they always did. Neither of them planned that part of their lives unless it was a special occasion. Their bed was where they shed all they were until they were just Isadora and Anders, two people who had come very far in six years time. 

Even if Hercules and Admiral Barkspawn seemed determined to ruin that blissful setting. Anders was glad Isadora’s size afforded them an overlarge bed since the mabari loved sleeping with them and he knew how happy it made her that her dog slept at her feet. Perhaps, if it was someone else, he would have asked for an end to it. Yet, he knew, if not for Hercules’ presence on a fateful day long before he met her, Isadora would not be alive to tell the tale at all. So, he tolerated the dogs. 

Love was worth any inconvenience for they made them no inconvenience at all. 

Avernus, 

I would like to congratulate you on your research. Anders and Justice have been separated without injury. Justice now resides in the corpse of a Senior Warden who offered himself up when he lay dying. Anders is well, though he is getting used to the lack of Justice’s presence after six years. I will send you reports of their progress. 

Regards,

Warden-Commander Cousland

First Warden,

As of today, Warden Acolyte Anders has been separated from the Spirit of Justice possessing him. Over six years of service has been put into the clinic at the Keep and he has been going on short-range field missions for three years. Due to these factors, I would like to petition for his titles as Senior Warden to be restored. A restoration needs approval from you,  as I am to understand. 

Anders has not only saved more lives than what were taken, both of the Wardens and civilians, he has put forth actions that have allied us with The Champion of Kirkwall-- soon to be Viscount-- and Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven. Both have signed treaties that they will offer aid in times of Blight just as we once did with the dwarves, Dalish, and the mages, without whom the Fifth Blight would have raged far past Ferelden. 

The Champion’s own brother has expressed interest in becoming a Grey Warden as well. 

I hope this will all be taken into consideration upon your decision. That being said, Anders has acted as Senior Warden in all but name for several years now. People look to him for guidance and I cannot control the will of the people. 

Respectfully, 

Warden-Commander Isadora Cosuland