It works. He's quiet for a moment, feels himself steadied even with anxiety still winding through every inch of him. "No," he says softly. He reaches to follow the touch, grounding and calming as it was, and runs his thumb over Hawke's knuckles. Soothing himself, rather than the other way around. "I know."

All of this: they're excuses, fear, not real arguments. Maybe there never was a real argument to be had anywhere with this. Just a choice to be made.

"I don't know what will happen." He can't hold eye contact anymore, not with the real source of all his agitation rising to the surface. His eyes drop to their hands, and then close altogether. "To him. To me. I hardly think they've designed their ritual with a case like this in mind, do you?"

He can't be the man he was before Justice anymore, of that he's certain. And the line between them— Anders and Justice, Anders or Justice— has blurred so much in the years since that he really and truly doesn't know how much of either of them would be left if you tried to peel them apart.

But maybe he's reached the point where that can't matter, anymore. A chance to give his friend his life back, his self back— he's owed Justice that much, for far too long.

"Even knowing that, I— Maker." His whole expression pinches painfully, even with his eyes still closed. "I'm not sure I could live with myself if I didn't try."