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The slope of Sundermount, evening. Red smeared across the sky, smoke and dust and the light of fires rising from Kirkwall in uneven, wind-tattered fingers.
Like hands reaching up to the Maker, thought Garrett.
Varric and Aveline were still down there, trying to put some pieces back together, trying to calm the storm. He wished them luck, hoped like hell that they would be alright. Isabela had hoisted anchor and set sail, Merrill and Fenris at her side. She'd offered him a berth, but he'd said no. Sebastian, of course, was long gone. He only hoped that when the Prince had raised his army he would learn that Anders wasn't in Kirkwall anymore, and would forswear his vengeance against the city.
"Garrett." It was Bethany, her soft brown eyes still the same as he remembered. For all Orsino had, at the end, been a monster, he'd kept Bethany safe under his wing, and for that Garrett would forever be grateful. He wished, so much, that he could have made Orsino see, made everyone see, that there was always another way, always something to hope for ...
"Garrett, he's ... I don't think he's well," said Bethany.
Garrett turned away from the city. It wasn't his problem anymore. He'd salvaged what he could there. It was time to move on.
Anders was crouched on his heels, looking at his hands. They'd made a small fire in the lee of an outcropping of stone, and the light of it played across his familiar features kindly.
"Love?" asked Garrett.
"I used to be so proud of my hands," said Anders. "I wore rings, and trimmed my nails and cuticles. I got reprimanded by the enchanters for my flourishing when I cast." He turned his hands over again, running his thumbs along calluses and dirt. "I liked healing especially, because of the slowness of it. Everyone watching. Maker, I was vain."
"You have beautiful hands, Anders," said Garrett.
Anders shook his head. "Not anymore." He looked at Garrett. "I don't regret it," he said. "He won't let me. But I don't think ... how can I heal after this? How do I ... I'm supposed to dead. I never thought past ... I thought, I'll be dead." He looked down at his hands again. "I don't know what happens now."
"How could you have believed that I would ... I would never hurt you, Anders."
"You should have," said Anders. "That's how it was supposed to go. Everyone would have seen you do it, and then you would have been free, and Justice would have been free, and I would have been free!" His voice rose on the last words into a shout. His beautiful, ravaged hands closed into fists. "Why?" he demanded. "Why couldn't you have just done what you were supposed to!"
Garrett, his heart aching, reached out and put a hand on Anders's shoulder. Anders flinched violently away, tried to scramble to his feet. Garrett lunged, caught him round the waist, pulled him back down. Anders flailed for a moment, his breath sobbing in his lungs, but Garrett was the stronger, the quicker of them, and gathered Anders, straining, against his chest.
"Stupid," said Garrett. His voice broke. "I was never any good at 'supposed to.'"
Anders pushed at him, eyes closed, head bowed. "Let me go."
"No," said Garrett. "No, I won't."
Bethany was standing on the other side of the fire, tears in her eyes, wringing her hands.
"I've let go of too much already," said Garrett. "And I still have faith in you."
Anders made a sound like a wounded animal, shaking his head.
"Yes," said Garrett. "Yes." He tightened his grip, laid his cheek down on Anders's hair.
Anders began, at last, to weep.