Note: This story is a 'spiritual prequel' to the rest of "Tree of Life." The events in this section take place before the conclusion of Dragon Age 2, while the events of subsequent chapters take place in the months following the conclusion of the game. This story is a slight re-interpretation of how I personally feel "The Last Straw" questline should have gone, should you decide to make one very specific decision regarding Anders should you choose to side with the templars.

(Edited 4/15/11. Minor narrative tweaks. I edit compulsively, sry.)

It was a Hanged Man kind of night.

Heavy rain lashed the Lowtown hexes, cementing in place years of accumulated filth and grime and blasting residents with a fierce wind that rendered coats and cloaks more hassle than protection from the elements. It was part of Kirkwall's charm, Varric once said. Some days the storms rolling in off the Waking Sea decided you were going to marinate in your own sweat and rain water, and there was nothing you could do about it.

From his place at the table their usual band of rag-tag misfits had claimed near the fireplace, Hawke watched the barmaids as they strategically placed buckets around the common room to catch water drizzling in through the holes in the roof. Varric joined him and offered out a second mug of beer. Hawke took it and asked, gesturing around them, "Is it just me, or does it sound as though we're surrounded by a company of soldiers relieving themselves all at the same time?"

Varric barked with laughter, grinning. "Elf, human, mage or templar—everyone's got to take a piss sometimes. Even the Maker."

"What about dwarves?"

"We're far too genteel a people to discuss something that unsightly in mixed company, Hawke, you should know better."

Hawke smiled crookedly and lifted his mug. "To knowing better, then."

"A worthy toast if ever there was one. I'll drink to that." They clinked their mugs together and drank deep.

"So tell me, in all seriousness," the dwarf asked and reclined in his seat, a surfacer prince on his throne. "How's Blondie doing? And don't try to doll up your lies behind roguish wit, that's my shtick and I can see straight through you when you use it." He twirled a crossbow bolt idly between his fingers, then used it to skewer a piece of burnt fish sitting on Hawke's tin plate.

Hawke caught the offending bolt with his fork and gave Varric a warning look. "Now's really not the best time for this conversation, Varric."

Varric grudgingly surrendered the sliver of overcooked fish. "If you'd quit being such a shut-in, I wouldn't have to nag. Can't a dwarf demonstrate a little friendly interest in his favorite human and, uh." He shot a glance down the length of the table to where Anders sat, face in his hands, having just lost his third consecutive round of diamondback to a very smug-looking Isabela. "...his favorite human's mostly-human partner?" The dwarf paused, watching them. "Actually, you might want to intervene. I think I glimpsed the deed to your estate changing hands."

"I'll just win it back later." Hawke glanced at Anders, who appeared too busy trying to snatch a scrap of paper out of Isabela's nimble fingers to overhear their conversation. "He has his good days," he intoned to Varric quietly. "Like today. Today was good. We discussed Bethany's work with the apprentices in the Circle without his luminescent lesser half joining in on the fun."

"I'm agog, messere," Varric chuckled. "You two managed a civilized conversation about the Circle? No flinging of priceless antique crockery, no hurling of insults or flesh-scorching fireballs?"

"I never said that."

"Oh." Varric's playful smirk faded. Hawke took advantage of the spell of quiet resting between them and drained half his beer in one slow gulp. The dwarf studied him. "You know, sometimes it helps me to find the funny in all of Bartrand's crazy. You should give it a try sometime."

"I'll take that under advisement, thanks."

"Maybe I'm out of line here, but are you okay? Your rugged appeal looks more... rugged, than appealing tonight."

Hawke made a noncommittal sound, studied some of the dirt under his finger nails, and nursed his drink in silence. After three years of digging in his heels and holding the line against Anders' unending barrage of templar conspiracy theories and wild accusations, it was difficult to muster up the mental fortitude required for outrage and indignation even when grousing to friends. His fatigue bit straight to the bone, an old ache that never throbbed, but never went away either. It squeezed joy out of nights like these, when he didn't have to beg Anders to stop writing his asinine manifesto and come to bed, to quit fishing for an argument and just finish his dinner before it got cold, to shave his face and wash his hair, to change his clothes, to remember he was more than a vessel for a poisoned virtue. There were no good days and bad days anymore, not really. Just time spent watching a decent man struggle under the weight of what his own ambitions had wrought.

Fenris had asked him once, forthrightly, why he didn't leave. "This twisted thing inside his soul has consumed him completely, whether he recognizes it or not. What he brings down on this city will land at your doorstep. You have to know this."

"I know it."

"Then why do you stay?"

There was no easy answer to that question. "I have to," he'd said. Fenris had let it slide.

He doubted Varric would do the same. The dwarf's eyes were still on him, searching and considering, fishing for a story. The strength of his sudden resentment took Hawke by surprise, but he seized on it. "My personal life won't become fodder for your tall tales, Varric," he muttered with more rancor than he'd intended, swilled down the contents of his mug dispassionately. He grimaced through the sour taste. "I'm sorry. Don't ask me about this again."

Varric held up his hands in defeat. "All right, Hawke. Have it your way."

He and Anders left together during a break in the weather intending to beat the storm back to Hightown, but the black thunderclouds sprawling ahead of them had the advantage of height and speed, and began bucketing down steely sheets of rain before they even reached the market. Hawke made a vain attempt to haul his cloak over both their heads to keep them dry, but gave up when Anders purposely pulled away from him to stand in the middle of the street, his face turned up into the rain and his arms held out to his sides.

Hawke stared at him. "Are you mad?"

"I wasn't aware you were still deliberating that point," Anders replied. His face carried a pleasant flush from drink, a rare indulgence given Justice's intolerance for vice.

"The jury's still out for the moment," Hawke said wryly, "but why this... odd diversion?"

"Because I've never done it before. Never just stood in the rain for no reason." Anders pushed his fingers through his soaked hair, then held his hands up to watch the water rushing over his skin in swiftly moving rivulets. He looked at his fingers like he'd never seen them before. "Because I want to."

"And there's a sudden pressing need for you to do this now?" Hawke vacillated between anger and apprehension, shied away from the ominous note of finality that wound its way through Anders' voice. The mage never could inspire simple, easily identifiable or separable feelings. He had to leave everything mired together in gray ambiguity, like a bad dream forgotten upon waking. "I hate it when you get like this."

A low rumble of thunder in the distance seemed to pull Anders back to himself. He dropped his hands to his sides and looked over his shoulder at Hawke. "Let's race back."

"Race?" Hawke repeated in alarm. "Anders, it's pissing with rain, I don't think that's a very good-"

That was the extent of the protest he was allowed, before the mage trapped his heart with a smile and took off in the opposite direction. Hawke startled, then tossed his cumbersome cloak into the gutter. "Anders, wait-Anders!" he shouted and tore after him.

The realization exasperated him beyond measure but he couldn't deny the unexpected thrill that overtook him, sprinting recklessly through the deluge as though he and Anders were just a pair of idiot boys headed towards an unseen and arbitrary finish line. It yanked laughter out of him in a gasp mid-stride. He hadn't done anything this patently stupid and pointless in years; maybe that was why Anders wanted to do it. Maybe they both needed it. He tailed the mage down narrow alleys, up slick flights of stone stairs, startled a guard from his nap by cutting a corner too sharply, and finally staggered out of breath into the Chantry courtyard. His blood was still rushing hotly in his ears when Anders took hold of his arm and hauled him bodily into a dark alcove just out of view of the square and grand Chantry staircase, pinned him to the wall with a kiss, fingers gnarled in his wet hair.

Hawke gave himself over to their momentary passion hungrily, shocked by the ferocity of his own need. He gripped the outside of Anders' thigh and pulled their hips flush together. "I want you," he breathed raggedly into their kiss, "right here."

Anders had already shrugged free of his coat, let it fall wetly to the ground. "Then have me."

The estate's outer lamps were doused by the time they crept, half-dressed and soaking wet, through the front doors. The dwarves and Orana had turned in hours ago, leaving the house quiet save for the sleepy crackle of the banked fires in the hall and bedroom. Hawke still rode the high of his release when they fell naked into bed together, his thoughts and anxieties muted for the first time in months. How pleasant it was, he remembered, to think of nothing at all.

Anders lay beside him and smoothed his tousled brown hair tenderly. He kissed his brow, let his lips linger. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, breath warm against his skin, but Hawke barely heard him. He slept dreamlessly.

He was alone in bed when he woke in the morning.

The storm had passed during the night and sunlight streamed unchecked into the room, illuminating the mess of parchment that now littered the floor like autumn leaves. Orana must have come in at some point to draw the curtains. Why hadn't she tidied up? Hawke sat up slowly, squinting, and fumbled for his housecoat. "Anders?"

"I'm right here." Mid-stretch, Hawke looked to the hearthfire, then grew very still. Anders sat cross-legged and naked on the carpet in front of the fire, leafing through page after page of his manifesto. His eyes skimmed the writing, his lips pressed into a thin line.

It took him a moment, but Hawke remembered how to move his limbs. He picked up his robe and slid it on, a mechanical motion. "I was going to see about bothering Orana for a cup of tea," he began. "Would you like-"

"I don't remember writing some of this." How long Anders had been sitting there on the floor organizing his manifesto into distinct piles with such single-minded focus, Hawke had no idea. The cup of tea beside him, brought in by Orana at some point undoubtedly, had gone cold ages ago. The mage ran his fingers over his handwriting, then covered his mouth as he read, gripped his jaw in an effort to still the tremor in his fingers. He shook his head tautly. "Hawke, I don't remember this."

Hawke knelt beside him and covered Anders' hand on his chin with his own. He tried to turn the mage's face towards his, gently but with purpose. "Look at me. Anders, look at me." With reluctance, Anders cut his eyes up to Hawke's face and met his stare, his brown eyes shot with streaks of red in their whites. His fatigue and anxiety were nearly palpable. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

Anders frowned. "I—no, I didn't. I couldn't. Listen—" He pulled his face from Hawke's grasp and rifled backward through his work, flipping pages in a desperate search for something he'd probably been staring at for hours already. "Where is it..."

Hawke dropped his hands down into his lap and stared at the smoldering embers in the fireplace. His gut felt leaden. "You should eat some breakfast, at least," he said, then started to heave himself to his feet. "I'll check with Orana, see what's available."

"Here it is." Anders seized his arm tightly and pulled him back down. Hawke grunted and caught himself on a stool. "This—I remember writing this part, because I presented this same argument to one of the senior enchanters back at the Circle after I passed my Harrowing: 'If magic is meant to serve man and never to rule over him, as the Maker ordained, then does the Chantry's institutionalized imprisonment of men and women possessing His gift not directly violate this covenant? A person who demonstrates magical tendencies is unjustly denied that most basic of human rights, self-determination, and is instead condemned to a life of servitude to his own gifts, and to those who hold the end of his leash. His magic becomes his manacles, his sanctuary a gallows.'"

Hawke had begun to lose feeling in his wrist from the strength of Anders' grip. He grimaced and tried to pry his lover's fingers loose. "Please," he begged. "Don't do this now. You're just going to upset yourself. You're exhausted."

"But this part," Anders went on, shaking his head, "I know I didn't write. I know it. It doesn't even sound like me, listen."

"Anders—"

"'If the stewards of the faith deliberately choose to follow a path that leaves them blind to the suffering of their flock, then the task of righting the injustices done to mages and their families throughout Thedas falls to those with the means to enact change. This mantel must be taken up, and retribution shall be a cold and unwavering sword wielded against tyranny.'" Anders lowered his work and looked back at Hawke. The sheets of parchment rustled together in his unsteady hand. "This is Justice talking, not me."

"So, what?" Hawke stared back at him. "What do you want to do about it?"

"We need to go through each chapter," Anders said with conviction, "and figure out which parts are my doing, and which parts are his, if we can."

We. Hawke stared at the massive body of Anders' work that spread itself messily across their bedroom floor, then curled his fingers into fists. His insides had bound themselves tightly as coiled steel again. He wanted to rip everything off the mantelpiece and tear the carpet with his hands, to bash in the windows and scream until his throat bled. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet and breathed out slowly through his nose, dragged on a fresh set of clothing to give his hands something to do. "You've become quite the prolific writer since taking over my study to construct your masterpiece," he pointed out too harshly, but his bitterness, its teeth sunk in deeply, had remarkable staying power. He crossed the room to pick up the scattered bits of paper on the floor and resisted the frustrated impulse to tear it all to pieces. "You can't expect yourself to remember every individual word, given the rate you churn them out."

"Yes, yes, remain intentionally obtuse." Anders dropped the sheaf of parchment onto the rug and braced his forehead in his palms. "I'd forgotten how good you are at doing that, reducing my work to a nuisance that embarrasses your templar-sympathizing dinner guests. You never listen."

That accusation dragged a rough laugh out of him. "Inever listen?" he demanded incredulously. "I do nothing but listen to you. Maker's breath, put some clothes on." Hawke snatched up Anders' robe and chucked it at him. He waited for the mage to put his arms through the sleeves before forging on. "And when do I throw these dinner parties, exactly? When I'm not helping Varric buy off the exceedingly friendly templars who wonder what causes that healer in the Undercity to glow in the dark from time to time, or when I'm not jeopardizing Aveline's position as Guard Captain by begging her to bend the law to keep an eye on you? I've put the security of this household and the lives of our friends on the line to keep you out of the Gallows, Anders, or worse—or have you conveniently forgotten about that while wallowing in your own self-pity?"

Anders snorted. "The breadth of your sacrifice will inspire a legion of bad poets. What was I thinking? My experiences with loss and sacrifice couldn't possibly compare to the sovereigns you've gone without."

"Oh climb down off the pyre, Andraste doesn't need the company."

The mage pulled himself to his feet and shot Hawke a wounded glare. Helplessly, Hawke spread his hands to either side. "What more do you want from me? What more can I possibly do for you that I'm not already doing as we speak?"

"You could support me," Anders spat back. "You could at least pretend you care about my cause. Right now this burden is a bit much to shoulder on my own."

"No, you will not lay that on me." Hawke strode towards him, the last vestiges of his patience gone. He jutted a finger in Anders' face. "Your piss-poor judgment is what got you embroiled in this mess, and I've stuck by you for three years because I love you. But you chose this path, not me, and I refuse to be your enabler while you destroy your life." He clenched his teeth. "Our life."

Anders stood rooted to the spot, like a force stronger than his own considerable stubborn will had taken hold of him. There was passion and anger and outrage in his eyes, and a flicker of blue-white that seemed to diminish the light in his own soul with every passing year. Hawke ached with despair to see it. "There has only ever been this path, Hawke," Anders said. "Justice for every mage in Thedas demands I see this through to the end."

Justice for every mage in Thedas at the cost of one man—this one very specific man—was too steep a price for Hawke. He seized the front of Anders' robe and jerked him close, stared searchingly into his eyes, but there was no sign of where Anders stopped and Justice began. They blended into each other seamlessly, a piece of the Fade with indomitable ambition feeding off the hopes and dreams of a man who lost pieces of himself to one simple idea every day. Would Tranquility have been so terrible an alternative, if it eased this slow death of the soul?

His throat constricted tightly, moisture rushing to his eyes. "There is no justice," he accused bitterly, "in what you've done to him." Anders' brows drew together slightly, and Hawke glimpsed something quicken in his stare, a flicker of recognition.

The mage reached up and brushed the backs of his fingers across his cheek. Hawke closed his eyes and tilted his face into the gentle caress, his anger leaving him in one pained, ragged breath. He loosened his tight grip on Anders' robe and slid his arms instead around his waist and shoulders, let his forehead rest against his lover's. He felt winded, like he'd run a mile in chains. "Please," he whispered, "just have some breakfast. Please."

Anders pressed his lips together and nodded. "Okay."