One of the fun conceits of writing the very post-game RH is the somewhat meta treatment of Anders, Hawke and Fenris as level-capped characters in a non-level-capped world. I guess taking the Varric-really-wasn’t-exaggerating-these-guys-are-machines route does make combat somewhat less dramatic which is why I’ve been either skipping over the fighting bits in-story or have had them narrated by outside observers (Carling, Penrod).

Also: I really suck at writing combat.

Nonetheless, I hemmed and hawed a lot over whether to put the Estate showdown “on screen” or not. In the end I didn’t, mostly because it was going to be another 4-7,000 words that weren’t going to be adding anything to the plot of an already overly long fic (it and the “templars escape from the Pit” chapter both got cut for time, basically). And yeah, that’s a huge hint: Renard wasn’t the “end boss” of RH.

Which isn’t to say that no important things happened at the Estate, just that killing Renard wasn’t actually one of them.

Also: Spirit Healers are like the Wolverines of Thedas. It’s true.

… man I need to finish this thing.

The stench here is overpowering. Not a smell like mortals smell, vapours and gasses and other insubstantial things. This smell is sharper, it has weight and size and colour. Like a stiletto behind the eye socket and, truth be told, it’s not really a smell at all. Mortals have no sense for what this is, and so Anders has no word for it. Justice senses it all the same, and so they think of it as stench because it is close enough.

It is a foul thing, and they have smelt its like before. It ran from the highest parts of Kirkwall and into Darktown like puddles of brackish rain and the Chantry was clogged so thick with it they could barely breathe. And now it is here, and so are they. And so is Hawke.

They cradle him, not in their hands but with their magic. Compared to the rest of this place he is fresh and clean. Burnt and blood-washed, but soft and warm all the same, and they lift him higher from the ground in a futile attempt to save him from the taint of this place.

He doesn’t understand, they don’t think, but nor does he ask to be put down. Up here, he sees them but he sees something else, too. There are other men in the room — templars or things like it — and Hawke is speaking to the strangers. They listen to him, because Hawke’s words are honied and comforting, even when they hurt. Maybe especially then. At some point Justice becomes aware of Fenris entering the room, humming with the rawest parts of the Fade, and behind him the boy-templar that brought them here.

The space is getting crowded. Moreso when Hawke says something about the floor. The clash of the boy-templar’s sword as it hits the ground is blue and jagged in the murk, and pools of yellow-green fear begin to form around the feet of their enemies. They hear mutterings, questions. And then: “Enough of your lies, maleficar. We serve the Maker and his Bride. You cannot tempt us.”

Justice — Vengeance — wants to tear the speaker asunder, but Hawke merely sighs. He gestures as if he wants to be lowered so they do so, keeping close behind, wary and watching. Fenris approaches until Hawke is flanked, and the two mortals ready their weapons.

“This ends now, Renard,” Hawke says.

“Yes,” the templar agrees. “You cannot win, we outnumber you five to one.”

Hawke looks around. Renard’s numbers are optimistic, but not by much.

The battle goes their way. Mostly. Previous plans foiled by Hawke’s perceptiveness, Renard — or perhaps just him men — fight this time like they mean it. Attacking in unison, in formation. Well-trained in the templar arts, both martial and magical. But they are heavy and they are slow. Fenris darting between clanking walls of steel in a haze of lyrium, Hawke chasing the confusion with slamming attacks of force that send the armoured men spinning across the flagstones. And, when they’re down, hands and claws reach up from underneath to pin and hold while Vengeance feasts.

“Maker forgive me,” they hear the boy-templar mutter as he fights at their side. He does not try to kill or wound his former colleagues, only to push them back. They do not show him the same courtesy, and Justice deflects more than one blow that would otherwise have taken the boy’s life.

And then, the reckoning.

One moment of distraction is all it takes. A flare of bight scarlet in the very core of them, and when they look down they see the point of a sword withdrawing itself from where it protrudes from the left side of their chest.

Anders’ heart stutters, and for a moment the world is strange. They have been dead before, and they feel life guttering inside them now like a candle in a storm.

Hawke is crying a name — one of theirs, it doesn’t matter which — and on the edge of perception they feel the wail of a thousand darkspawn, buried in the earth deep below, as they mourn the impending death of a brother.

No. Not like this. The thought is unmistakably Anders’, as are the half-formed flashes behind it.

(Sanding on a balcony, looking down on where men and women dance in the streets of Kirkwall. Hawke at their elbow, grey streaks through his beard and the circlet of the Viscount atop his head.)

(Aveline, face lined and worn, a fat and balding Donnic at her side as they both smile proudly at a young woman with freckles and a mage’s staff.)

(Penrod and Tobias standing before a cheering crowd, flowers in their hair and tears in their eyes and smiles on their lips.)

Not long ago, Anders looked to death and saw release. Now, however, there is so much more to do.

Renard’s sword is true and sharp but the man is arrogant and he is cruel. No sooner has the blade struck home as he pulls it back again, readying another swing. They feel it as it slides free from Anders’ chest, the sundered muscle of his mortal heart convulsing as the surge of magic twists around it. Flesh knits. Blood flows. Magic holds them as life returns, and when the sword returns for its second blow they catch it in one twisted claw.

“Not. Enough.” They snarl, second claw striking out to catch around the fragile eggshell of a human skull.

It breaks easily enough, their thumb sinking wetly into one eyesocket even as shards of bone are driven up into their closing palm. Blood to blood.

A second eye looks up at them, warm and brown and bright in pain and betrayal in one moment before turning glassy and rolling upwards. And when they release their grip the head that falls away belongs not to the hated templar Renard, but rather is ringed by soft brown hair and the sharp brown beard and bright red warpaint of—