[ the last time he had done this, he had fought justice out of the way, pushed his way back to control. to make sure he did it himself. to offer to hawke the only act of love remaining to him. a mercy for a mind too far gone, the same as once had been provided for him.
the eerie blue light seems to fade out of anders as well, leaving him stumbling - barely staying upright as he makes his way over to stand by boothill and whatever remains of his broken body. it's not as if anders is doing much better. his body is made to do none of these things, not made to withstand that heat of the primal fade, or use itself as a shield. it feels pain and regret and fear. he shudders as he summons the dredges of his mana to heal just enough to stay awake, alive. keep the body moving long enough to end it.
he remembers asking boothill, what feels like forever ago, what he would prefer if he were to suffer this fate again. he hopes it is better, this time. that the indifference of justice to the plight of one man is cold comfort, but the only type of mercy he can provide. there's an impulse there - that he could pour what's left of his mana into trying to repair whatever this is, to put back together what he's torn apart, to do what it is a healer is supposed to do instead of whatever this is. the only thing he knows how to do. to take more life, leave more things wretched and broken, and fight the nauseating tide of what feels like elation at the carnage.
instead he nods, fumbling with his one remaining hand at the back of his belt for the knife he keeps there - hand slick with blood and struggling to grasp it. ]
I'm sorry. It's too late for us. May you see justice in the next life.
[ collapsing to his knees and driving it right into the beating heart. ]
no subject
the eerie blue light seems to fade out of anders as well, leaving him stumbling - barely staying upright as he makes his way over to stand by boothill and whatever remains of his broken body. it's not as if anders is doing much better. his body is made to do none of these things, not made to withstand that heat of the primal fade, or use itself as a shield. it feels pain and regret and fear. he shudders as he summons the dredges of his mana to heal just enough to stay awake, alive. keep the body moving long enough to end it.
he remembers asking boothill, what feels like forever ago, what he would prefer if he were to suffer this fate again. he hopes it is better, this time. that the indifference of justice to the plight of one man is cold comfort, but the only type of mercy he can provide. there's an impulse there - that he could pour what's left of his mana into trying to repair whatever this is, to put back together what he's torn apart, to do what it is a healer is supposed to do instead of whatever this is. the only thing he knows how to do. to take more life, leave more things wretched and broken, and fight the nauseating tide of what feels like elation at the carnage.
instead he nods, fumbling with his one remaining hand at the back of his belt for the knife he keeps there - hand slick with blood and struggling to grasp it. ]
I'm sorry. It's too late for us. May you see justice in the next life.
[ collapsing to his knees and driving it right into the beating heart. ]