Chapter Text
Run!
Instincts long buried screamed at him. He had to get out of here. Turning, he took three shambling steps before doubling over, the contents of his stomach splashing on the ground in front of him. Dropping to his knees, he clamped his eyes shut as his body heaved until only yellow bile came up, and the world slowly stopped spinning. Finally he opened his eyes, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.
That is not my hand.
It couldn't be. His hands were for healing, slender and delicate and clean. Not red with gore, not bleeding from torn fingernails that had gouged.. oh Maker what was that? He didn't want to know. What he did know was that his hands could not be capable of .. this. And yet, looking around him, he retched again, his body trying to expel the deep knowledge that his mind would not accept.
You did this.
The campsite lay in disarray, equipment strewn about as if thrown by a truculent child. Off to the left, what remained of the tent lay in a pile, charred struts poking at odd angles from a mass of smouldering canvas, the surrounding trees blackened and smoking. Rocks from the fire had been kicked out of place, steaming and hissing in the dewy grass of early morning. And everywhere was blood and flesh, the sickening stench of ozone filling his nostrils as he coughed in the smoky haze and tried to comprehend what had happened.
It was a slaughter. Bodies lay all over the clearing - torn, rent bodies, some missing armour, some missing limbs, piled on top of each other as if torn down and flung aside in the act of fleeing. So many bodies. Three corpses in Grey Warden armour, charred beyond recognition, lay twisted where they had been thrown by a strong fire blast. There were over a dozen Templar bodies as well, identifiable by their flaming sword insignia and their scarlet skirts..
.. or by the stirring of white anger in the back of his mind when his eyes fell on them.
Willing that feeling down with an effort that spiked his head with pain, he stepped forward and forced himself to look more closely. This looked more like the work of a wild animal than a human. Some of the bodies had large gouges in them, the flesh missing. Rolan lay in the centre of the clearing, the last to fall, with his unique steel sword still in his hand and his lifeblood in a puddle on the ground where his head should be. Of his head, there was no sign. In a flash Anders recalled the taste of blood like wine in his mouth, and the sense of rightness, of justice as he had made the Templars pay for their betrayal, made Rolan pay for his betrayal..
He shook his head. Blood like wine? Where did that thought come from? Disgusted, he wiped his hand on his robe, then tentatively touched it to his cheek. It came away red again, and he realised that the metallic taste on his tongue was not just from the taint of blood in the air. There was nothing left in his stomach, but that did not prevent him from retching again. Andraste's flaming tits, this was not what was supposed to happen. How could he? This was all wrong.
This is not wrong. This is justice.
.. Justice?
One of the bodies wore different armour - black armour that seemed to absorb the light, with touches of glowing red on the chestplate. The body lay on its back, hands folded on its chest in an attitude of repose, not part of the carnage around it. Chilled by recognition, Anders squatted beside it and lifted the visor on the helmet. Dead eyes stared blankly at him from a rotting face as a miasma of pungent corruption washed over him. He reeled back and the visor snapped shut with a loud clunk. Kristoff's corpse had certainly been benefiting from Justice's tenancy, and now it.. wasn't. Justice was no longer there. Anders' head pounded harder as if to remind him of his new .. Visitor? Friend? Burden? He didn't know.
Cradling his temples in his hands, he drew mana and cast a small healing spell, diminishing but not completely removing the pain in his head. He suspected that he'd be living with it for a while - after all, Fade spirit possession wasn't a normal illness, and there were no guidelines for recovery. Recovery? There would be no recovery from this. For better or worse - so much worse, he thought, looking around him again at the carnage he had caused in his righteous anger - Justice and he were now one. And it was painfully clear to him that it was not going to be as simple as it had seemed when he had agreed to be a host to the spirit. Even now, in the aftermath of destruction so horrid that it made him ill, knowing it was at his hand, he was torn. Eventually someone would discover this scene and then Templars would hunt him down, yet his natural urge to get away from this place,to run to, hide, was battling with an equally strong desire to let them come, to feel their flesh tear under his hands, to show Justice to all who would lock him in a Tower because of their fear - he could feel the rage swell within him as the morning light began to take on a bluish cast.
No! Not like this. I.. we.. he couldn't just kill all the Templars. They would keep coming, and coming, until he was dead, and the more he killed the more he would have proved them right. They would use him as a reason to make things even worse, an example to silence all who support freedom for mages. There must be a better way, a way to heal things.
I am a healer.
I am a warrior.
If only he could think straight!
A gurgling groan came from across the clearing, breaking into his thoughts. Someone was still alive! Jumping up quickly, he hurried toward the sound, unconsciously gathering mana as he ran. Maybe he could save someone, maybe he could make this right somehow! Hope soared, then plummeted as he saw the torn Warden armour, the gaping hole in the man's chest, the blood spreading slowly across the ground beneath him. There would be no saving this man - magic could do much, but it could not replace blood already lost. Kneeling, he poured magic into the man anyway, knowing it was hopeless but wanting to ease his passing. Keeping one hand on the wound, he eased the winged helmet from the man's head. Eyelids fluttered open in a face he recognised.
"Arnaud?" The Orlesian Warden had accompanied him on his last mission with the Warden Commander. His skill with a sword had saved Anders' life on more than one occasion. "Arnaud, it's Anders. I'm here to help you. I can stop the pain... Arnaud?"
Blue eyes focused on his face, then opened wide in horror. The man's body twitched convulsively and he raised his arms, flailing weakly as he tried to push Anders away, legs kicking for purchase in a desperate attempt to escape. Fresh blood poured from his wound. Lips cracked open, showing blood bubbling at the back of the throat as he tried to speak.
"A.. a..."
"Yes, it's Anders. Don't try to talk." Anders leaned closer as the man's movements grew weaker.
"A.. " The hands sank back to the earth as the man took one last deep, gurgling breath.
"Arnaud, I'm so sorry. I..." Anders' voice tailed off as he realised there was no explanation, and no way of making this right. Suddenly the eyelids flew open again, and Arnaud's eyes looked directly into his own, clear and lucid.
"Abomination!"
The accusing word was accompanied by a gout of blood expelled with such force that it splashed over Anders' face and neck, soaking his robes and causing him to leap back, wiping frantically at his mouth and spitting to rid himself of the taste, which was not at all like wine. When he looked up again, Arnaud was dead.
Finally, Anders ran.