This world is very beautiful. Like the amaranth plant for which the city was named, the splendor on this side of the Veil seems unfading and everlasting. A land of no absolutes, and full of intriguing contradictions, Justice would be content to watch it, ever in wonder, with all the confusion and curiosity of a newborn child. But Kristoff's body rots, slowly, growing more rank by the day, and like most mortals, Justice soon learns of what limitations come with a physical form.
Perhaps that is part of why he proposes it, though his offer to the healer is primarily out of genuine friendship. Too much injustice has been dealt to mages, their noble plight going unheeded for so long rankling at his being, and the Howe son is right: Together, they could accomplish what one could not do alone. Yet underneath it all, buried deeply beneath his purpose, there is also this sense of... self preservation. Life, it seems, is addicting; it becomes easy to understand why mortals do not wish to give it up.
Justice offers his strength in Anders' struggle; Anders offers a way for him to remain in this world.
Neither of them could have predicted this error, however.
Their fusion begins well enough, after the initial disorientation and adjustment to the presence of one another. Justice is even starting to enjoy what a remarkable difference it is between a decaying corpse and a living host - the act of breathing in itself is a marvel - but that Templar guard-dog is standing over them, smugly.
The wellspring of Anders' anger and hatred towards all the offenses brought against him flares up under Rolan's scrutiny, it distorts and supplants all focus, all control.
Have they not proven themselves to be of impeachable character? Did they not stand with the Warden-Commander in defense of the city they've loved so well?
But no, no. A mage is never trusted, a mage is always unknown - never allowed his freedom, never allowed his family, barely even allowed his life - Burning emotions of wrath wreck and warp him, and mold him anew, until his perspective becomes thoroughly stained. Black and white are not as clear now, with perception sharpened to a knife-point, and the world becomes painted in a patina of rage.
Justice seethes and surges forward, and there is nothing at all just in the massacre they leave behind in Amaranthine.
This mortal world was very beautiful, once - Still is, Justice admits, lingering in the shadows of Anders' consciousness as they cross the Waking Sea.
But the pursuit of justice often requires sacrifice, and there is no time or place for beauty in vengeance.