It's a relief to see Anders gets it. His shoulders sag.

"I tried avoiding him," But. "There’s someone who wanted us to talk. Thought it would make it — better, somehow."

"I thought I’d be fine. It shouldn't have mattered, it happened. I can't change it. He can't. But then he was talking and there were all these," Excuses, he wants to say. Instinct forces moderation — "Reasons, and they were saying he wasn’t wrong for having done it, and,"

"And then I was hitting him, and then he took it away." He doesn’t have the words. Doesn’t really think that Anders will need them. "I’d never. I knew they could do that, but I hadn’t ever felt it. It was like,"

All the breath gone out, if breathing were that Other sense. His hand opens and shuts on empty air.

If Alan stopped to think about it rationally, he’d understand why Alistair had done it. Understand that what he is owns the power to frighten.

But he’s not thinking like that. He’s thinking like a scared kid in the snow, staring down a problem with the knowledge that if he doesn’t work this one out, there won’t be any more after. And that’s the way it’s always going to look, as long as he’s looking at Alistair.

It’s different now. His hands are strong, he’s grown, he’s alone. No one is going to take anything from him, because he has nothing for the taking. Nothing except his own magic, except the solace of another soul to run to; nothing except the sureness of capability, of survival.

(Nothing except a friend, he’d thought, perhaps —)

Alan hates him for it. Hates it like he hates the first loss, the second. My family, my god, my magic,

(She’d called them friends.)

He’s done the wrong thing here, he knows. Anders is right. Kindness — it’s the right decision to make. For everyone. For himself, even if he doesn’t feel it.

It’s the right decision. It’s not going to be the easy one.