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So familiar and overwhelmingly warm
This one, this form I hold now
Embracing you, this reality here
This one, this form I hold now, so
Wide eyed and hopeful
Wide eyed and hopefully wild
We barely remember what came before this precious moment
Choosing to be here right now
Hold on, stay inside
This body holding me
Reminding me that I am not alone in
This body makes me feel eternal
All this pain is an illusion
- Tool, "Parabol"
The mortal world is chaotic.
Kristoff’s dead mortal shell almost prepares him for the realities of the world, though he exists in a state of undeath. He can still talk and fight and live among the Grey Wardens but he is not one of them, he does not know their pains or loves or joys or fears. He can only observe them and their illogical behaviors, try to glean understanding with his questions, serve as a capable warrior against the enemies they face, and offer the Warden Commander his opinions when asked.
Anders is glorious and golden, ostentatious and unapologetic. Justice watches Anders with a sense of wonder at every scoff and smirk and grimace, emotions written plain on his face for those he trusts and held back by the safety of sarcasm for those he doesn't. Anders is alive, wild, lustful, angry with the cruelty and injustice he has experienced in the Circle, fearful of what can await him if he embraces the call in his soul for vengeance. He lives for the moment and throws himself into danger, he flings fire and healing light with equal ferocity, he carries a cat around his shoulders and feeds it bits of his dinner, he flirts with everyone in the Keep, and has long conversations with Justice that leave him solemn and shy.
Anders is chaotic, but Justice can see the order beneath it. The chaos comes from Fear, from Despair, from Rage, the demons of his past both real and symbolic. There is eventually respect between them, then trust, then friendship. Some days Anders does not speak, and some days Justice can only listen as the words flow from him unrestrained and manic; it does not matter how they spend their time, only that they are together.
At the first sincere smile Anders gives him, Justice feels dull embers coming to life inside him, but cannot understand what it means. Justice wants to raze the Circles to the ground and wring templars apart with his bare hands for what they have done to mages, to Anders. But he cannot do it by himself, and Anders cannot bring himself to fight for a cause that he is afraid to believe in, and the Wardens have need of them.
So Justice waits, and watches, and guards, and counsels. It is all he can do.
Until the day it is not enough, nothing he has is enough to stop what comes, and Justice watches from Kristoff’s broken and unresponsive form and cannot guard Anders from Rolan, and then he is straining, reaching, yearning for Anders with every fiber of his existence and exploding at the Injustice of the sword, and there is Fear for once in his existence,
and then there is Rage,
and then Anders looks to him, dulling eyes wide and wildly hopeful, and his form materializes without conscious thought and they are reaching for each other, and then there is a spark and a We that thunders so loudly it flattens the copse of trees around them,
and then there is Vengeance.
When they recover they flee, struggling against each other for control of Anders’ form until Anders relinquishes out of exhaustion.
Inhabiting a living host is nothing like inhabiting Kristoff, everything is sharp and loud and vibrant in ways that Justice could never have thought. The scents in the air are harsh, a breeze against his skin enough to make him gasp at the sensations. How Anders is able to tune out such an onslaught of sensory information is beyond him. He is forced to feel everything, all at once, the pulse of blood in his veins and the crash of the underbrush beneath his feet and the wet taste of his own blood in his mouth and the ache in his stomach and throat from ragged breaths.
And all along it feels as if his head is splitting apart, as if someone is pounding on a closed door that he cannot find to open. He can no longer hear Anders, they cannot communicate beyond flashes of sorrow or anger or regret. The embrace they shared at their merging was the closest they have ever come to true understanding together, and Justice fears again that he will never be able to embrace this new reality, this duality of Spirit and Man.
Justice discovers the way to open the door and let Anders regain control, hours later, and Anders surfaces and gasps for air and promptly vomits. This mortal flesh, this living body is beyond his scope of understanding, and Justice watches inside, as if through a pane of glass, while Anders heals and hurts and breathes and prays. This way he can study, can focus. The Fear eventually fades as Anders realizes he is safe, far away from everything they knew, but at least they have each other. Even if they cannot communicate, they are alive and breathing, and that must count for something.
It is hard to remember what it was like before Rolan’s sword, but Justice clings to the memory of wide, hopeful eyes and an unspoken plea for help, a surrender, a consent for justice. It is the foundation they will build on.
The mortal world is overwhelming.
Every emotion is heightened in Anders’ body. Justice seethes with Rage at the plight of mages, at what the rich do to those less fortunate, for every slave forced to work and every child left to starve. He naively thinks that logic alone would be enough to right every wrong in the world, that once people see the error of their ways they will relent. Viewing the world through Anders’ eyes and Anders’ memories teaches him of Sloth, Desire, Envy; despicable acts done in the name of faith or pride or stubbornness. He has to refrain from charging forth at every vision of Injustice, strain against Anders’ will to keep him hidden lest they be executed for possession.
It takes more from his host than he realizes.
Justice understands that Anders’ mortal form has physical requirements, tasks necessary for survival. Food, Water, Sleep, Safety. He did not understand that he has mental needs as well, the need for peace and quiet and calm, and it takes Anders having a near breakdown upon reaching Kirkwall and seeing his own reflection for the first time in ages (ragged and filthy and exhausted, nearly as gaunt as Kristoff’s corpse) to realize the severity of his neglect. Anders is exhausted from the battle of wills, straining against Justice's constant urge to right the wrongs of this world, paralyzed by his own emotions that Justice did not understand and could not feel.
I am sorry, he pleads when Anders weeps, curled in the dirt and clutching at his tattered robes, yearning for his former friend to finally hear his words. Tell me how to help. I will fix us.
Anders hiccups and wipes his face, though there isn’t water enough in him to form tears. “Justice?” he whispers through cracked lips.
A wave of elation, relief, guilt: he knows how to make himself heard. He only has to be louder than Anders’ own fears. Anders. Rest.
Anders sobs and touches his fingers to his lips. It is a gesture he will start unconsciously repeating after their mental communications, though neither he or Justice understand the significance.
Recovery is a process that takes longer than he would like, but Justice waits. He learns patience. He learns that his frustrations only give Anders further anxiety, that a mortal cannot be fully driven for a cause until they are well fed and rested. Forcing obedience through exhaustion would lead to madness. They have both seen enough of that to last any mortal lifetime.
When Justice urges them to write one more paragraph though their stomach rumbles and eyelids are heavy, Anders finds the will to shake them out of their focus, eat the crust of bread left from their breakfast, and lay in their rickety cot for a few hours.
When Anders bleeds himself raw of mana to help the sick in Darktown and startles at shadows and nightmares, Justice is there to soothe him and tell him Rest.
Justice does not approve of Hawke.
Hawke is a mage that has never experienced the injustice of the Circles. He is brash and loud and makes inappropriate comments that he believes are attempts at humor. He flaunts his strength and draws attention to himself, despite knowing that templars are on every street corner. The man even brushes aside observations that he’s carrying a staff by proclaiming his finesse with big spears and winking at anyone who makes eye contact.
Justice does not approve of such audaciousness, especially when it could draw attention to his apostate host as well. Hawke is arrogant and dangerous. Hawke is Pride.
Anders appears to also have hesitations about Hawke. His heart rate is consistently elevated around him and he cannot keep his eyes off the man. Even in the Deep Roads with the Darkspawn whispers clawing at their mind, Anders' main focus in on Hawke. Justice is pleased with Anders’ sense of caution and his ability to memorize Hawke’s fighting and magical abilities, until he realizes that many of these mental images are focused on specific parts of Hawke’s anatomy while he’s casting or swinging his staff. This makes no sense; he doesn’t know how Hawke’s biceps flexing relate to ensuring freedom for all mages, or why Anders’ body feels so heated after Hawke smiles in his direction. He feels Anders’ embarrassment at his curiosity and the heated feelings vanish like a doused flame.
Justice now realizes what is happening and Does Not Approve of Hawke.
Mortal lusts are not new to him; he spent enough time in Vigil’s Keep trying to ignore the sounds coming from Anders’ and Nathaniel’s quarters at night, even before the Warden Commander’s crude commentary made it abundantly clear what was going on behind closed doors. Kristoff’s own faded memories of his wife had also been available to him, though in much quieter and gentler tones than what had gone on next door.
He cannot mask his disquiet around Hawke, and Anders can feel it. “Justice does not approve of you,” Anders says one night, when they are alone in the clinic and their glances linger, bodies nearly touching as Anders resists Hawke’s gravity.
“Maybe he just needs to get to know me,” Hawke responds. He pats Anders’ shoulder before he leaves, the warmth remaining in Anders’ mind long after they retire.
Anders shifts uncomfortably in the bed. He is restless; this city saps the life from him until his bones ache like a man twice his age, but he cannot quiet his mind. There is little that works, short of Justice forcibly taking control and forcing Anders to rest quietly within himself.
But Anders does not ask for this tonight. Instead, he shivers, touching his skin, and whispers “Justice, please,” as if in apology, as if looking for permission. Justice would growl if he could. Justice does not approve of Desire. Justice does not approve of Anders’ desire for Hawke. Hawke is a distraction from their cause, a distraction from Anders’ duties, a disruption of their life and the plans that they are making.
But Justice cannot deny Anders his own bodily needs, and so he slinks back, into the recesses of Anders’ mind. He can feel Anders’ hands on his own skin, the way he strokes his cock hard and fast and the muffled breaths he pants against his fist, eyes shut to let himself imagine Hawke’s strong form pressing him down into the bed, entering him, claiming him, taking Anders for himself.
But Anders is not his to take, Justice thinks, with a ferocity that he cannot understand, and he knows Envy. He remembers the moment they joined and became one, and they gasp together with the surge of heat that shudders through them at the memory; Anders has already been claimed. Anders is his.
“Justice," Anders moans, and then they are We again. Their hand works their stiff cock, the raw ache of pleasure and heat so exquisite their toes curl, cock leaking against their fingers as they imagine physically uniting and twisting around each other and kissing and fucking and taking and their body seizes with their orgasm and they groan in twin voices, blue light spasming across their skin as their release coats their body.
In the aftermath of the euphoria of Desire, Justice knows Fear at what this means for them. There is nothing that can be said in words or in thoughts. There is too much. There is not enough.
There is only Anders kissing his sticky fingertips and Justice shivering in his mind, and they are content. For now.
It takes three years for Anders to find his way to Hawke’s arms, to Hawke’s bed, to Hawke’s heart.
Justice knows Envy, but he also knows Despair. He feels the ache in Anders’ blood for this man, this physical mortal being that burns brighter than the sun, and he knows that not all Desire is demonic. Desire can be the antidote to the poison of Despair. Desire can be Love.
And Hawke loves Anders; it is impossible not to see it. Every look, every smile, every touch is full of reverence, as if Anders is something holy to be worshipped and protected.
Justice approves of Anders being worshipped and the ways in which Hawke worships him.
There is Love in their ferocity when Hawke takes Anders roughly from behind, twisting a fist in his hair and grunting as their skin slaps together, as Anders begs for more and harder and cannot get enough of the raw sensations that Hawke forces him to feel in these moments, when Justice basks in Anders’ pleasure and marvels at his surrender. When they stand next to each other in battle and the Fade flows like a conduit, Anders with Justice inside him brimming with mana and Hawke pulling fire and force against their foes with practiced ease.
There is Love in their gentleness when Hawke holds Anders after his nightmares subside, when Anders strokes Hawke’s hair and soothes him when he can only think of those he lost. When they move together slowly on lazy mornings with hands intertwined, touching and twisting and panting as Hawke is the one taken and filled and moaning Anders’ name on his lips as he comes and Justice wants to know what Hawke’s skin tastes like and how Anders’ smile would feel against his.
Justice feels like he is an intruder in these moments and he is careful to hold himself back. He does not deserve this softness and this love, this passion and this fervor. This alone is for Anders, and only Anders is worthy of it.
Hawke can give Anders everything that he deserves; his love, his embrace, his protection, his strength.
There is Love, and that is more important than Envy.
The bandit ambush comes in Lowtown, where they should know better than to be unprepared, especially with Anders exhausted and Hawke inebriated from their evening of Wicked Grace. But Hawke had been urging Anders back to the mansion, promising lascivious rewards and groping him under his coat to punctuate his urgency, and in their distraction they were attacked.
Justice knew better than to let Desire cloud his judgment, and now they pay the price in a flurry of blades and magic. Anders lets him come forth to use the power of the Fade made physical: lightning crackling and blood splattering as the mace end of Freedom’s Call makes contact. Justice is proud to wield Anders’ power and augment it with his own, his veins singing with magic and senses sharp.
So sharp they hear Hawke’s gasp, and everything stops in a moment,
And Justice and Anders are both watching the blade sink into Hawke’s stomach, and it is Rolan all over again,
And then they are reaching, straining for Hawke and howling at the Injustice of the blade,
And then they know Fear,
And then they know Rage,
And they are united again perfectly in this moment, this We that hurtles forth and incinerates flesh and blade alike until they are nothing but ashes and twisted steel, vengeance against such an atrocity as Hawke being threatened.
He is theirs, and no one else can have him.
“Holy shit” Hawke says, shaking, and they move to him and their mana is brimming and the energy of the Fade heals the sacrilege of the wound until all that remains is torn leather and Hawke gripping the glowing hand pressed against his skin. “Justice? Anders?”
“Yes,” they say, their jaw clenched, every muscle taut and body burning with Rage, with Desire, with Fear, “We are here.”
It is the first time that they have merged so perfectly together in Hawke’s presence, and the man’s reaction is as reckless as he always is; he presses his lips to theirs and fists their coat in both hands, pulling them close, so close, and they surge forth in unity to press Hawke bodily against the alley wall with the dead around them as silent witnesses.
And Hawke is so warm, and so alive, and they can do nothing but embrace this moment despite the pain of their wounds, despite the sharp points of Hawke’s armor digging against their skin. The pain is an illusion, the only thing that matters is that they are Here in this body, together, and Hawke is alive and breathing.
Their thrusts are savage and uneven and hurried and frantic, and Justice can barely think of where he ends and Anders begins, and Hawke is groaning and urging “Harder,” cocks rubbing under leather and fabric and the heat is too much, too intense, and they come together with their mouths sharing breath and their teeth on Hawke’s lip.
Hawke shudders through the aftershocks, still holding them close, and when their eyes meet Justice sees an earnestness behind the familiar smirk. “I never knew you cared, Justice.”
“Reckless,” is all he can muster as a reply. Justice can feel Anders’ contentment, his reassurance, but the Fear of losing control and overstepping is too great, and he withdraws to let Anders come forward and sag against Hawke’s chest.
“I never knew he did, either,” Anders murmurs. Hawke kisses his forehead. Justice cannot feel it and does not attempt to reach for it. It is not meant for him, after all.
That night, when Anders is secure in Hawke’s strong arms and about to drift to sleep, he presses his fingertips to his lips and whispers “Thank you,” and Justice knows that, at least, is meant for him. It has always been for him. An impossible kiss for two people to share in one body, and a reminder that he is not alone.
And sometimes blue flickers beneath Anders’ skin when he and Hawke make love, when Anders’ pleasure peaks and Justice can feel the echo of it, and Hawke says nothing, just lingers a kiss on the spot where Justice tries to reach for what he cannot have, to be a part of something so pure and so primal.
And sometimes Justice hears We love you and he does not know if Anders speaks the words aloud or if it is his own desires surfacing in their mind, and he is too frightened to know which is the truth.
Hawke wants to speak to him, and so Anders steps aside willingly with a mental nudge of reassurance that does more comfort than Justice expects. They are in the bedroom. There is warmth from the fire, the scent of spice from a mug of tea on the bedtable, and a dull ache in his muscles that Anders constantly refuses to heal lest someone happens by with more need of his mana. Hawke's hair is still damp from bathing and his house robe is tied around his broad form. He is glorious and his eyes burn like the sun. Justice averts his eyes to the triangle of hairy chest uncontained by fabric, and he momentarily bristles at Hawke's chuckle. "Distracted?"
"You are a distraction," Justice says, without malice.
"It's not always bad to be distracted," Hawke replies, and closes the distance between them to rest his hand on Justice's shoulder. He can feel Hawke's warmth through Anders' tunic, saturating him, radiating across his skin. "Anders enjoys my distractions. Even a spirit of justice could use a break from constant vigilance."
Justice runs his tongue over his lips, searching for moisture. "I have witnessed Anders' enjoyment." There is a subtle feeling of amusement in his mind from his host, a comment: That's putting it mildly.
"I've witnessed yours, too," Hawke says, pitching the tone of his voice low in that way that always makes Anders shiver, but with Justice it feels soothing. Reassuring. Right. Just. Hawke feels Desire, and Justice is the cause. A Desire not born of demons but of respect and trust, as it is with Anders. As it is with Hawke. As it is with Justice.
Even so, there is Fear. Apprehension. Nervousness. "What do you wish?" he asks finally.
"Touch me," Hawke growls.
Touch him, Anders urges.
And so he does.
Justice is not Anders; what he and Anders want from Hawke are not the same. Anders would have himself be pinned, opened, fucked, until he cannot speak in coherent words. Anders would relish the power of having such strength underneath him, Hawke's muscular thighs around his waist, controlling Hawke's pleasure and feeling him submit to his magic. Justice has seen the ways in which Anders desires Hawke and though glad to witness them, he would have more. Justice wants to be overwhelmed, to overwhelm, to take, to be taken, he wants everything from Hawke that he can possibly have and he would have Anders with him to witness it and share in their Desire together.
With Hawke, it is easy to be united. Anders assists him mentally when needed, offering encouragement. He wants you to tell him what to do, so Justice positions him where he wants: on his back across the bed, robe pulled apart, thick body on display for his viewing pleasure. He likes it when there's pain, so Justice rakes his nails across Hawke's chest as he sits across Hawke's broad thighs, and the two fingers thrusting inside of him become more earnest as Hawke groans. He is yours tonight, all yours, so Justice grits his teeth and growls "Mine," as Hawke's cock stretches him wide, as he takes it all, everything Hawke can give him.
Nothing exists outside of this room, this moment, this experience, and Justice is overwhelmed and overstimulated in the best ways. The sharp panting of breaths and the wet sounds of sex and the blue light burning in the room from the Fade against Justice's skin and the fullness inside him driving pleasure into his very core as he fucks himself on it and his cock is bouncing against Hawke's abdomen and Justice has lost himself, has let go completely, it is glorious, it is holy, it is too much and never enough. Hawke's hands clench firmly, nails digging into skin, keeping him stable as the bed creaks and the canopy shakes as if caught in a storm, and Hawke is so beautiful underneath him, damp and flushed and dazed and looking at Justice the way he looks at Anders, with adoration and lust and he's panting "Don't stop, please, Justice, yes!" and it's finally enough, Justice shudders and screams as he comes, soaking Hawke's chest in it, clenching on Hawke's throbbing cock and feeling Hawke's release as it slicks out of him.
Beautiful, Anders sighs in satisfaction.
Justice can only fall forward into Hawke's arms as they enfold him, so strong, physically holding him while Anders mentally soothes him, reminding Justice that he is not alone. He will never be alone again. He finds Hawke's mouth and there's a slow, satisfied kiss that makes him shiver, and he presses two fingers to Hawke's wet mouth and then his own, a heat that is not all his own rekindling his body. Anders comes to the surface but Justice does not diminish; they rise up enough to reach behind and ease magic into Hawke's spent cock to renew his stamina for more, their lover gasping out a surprised chuckle and gripping their hips again for support.
"I love you," Hawke says.
"We love you," Justice says, Anders says, and takes.