It was her. Anders would recognize her anywhere, helm or no. The short but thick frame, encased in black armor, double-headed axe that should be too large for her strapped to her back, the easy, commanding gait, the casual power of her walk it was his former Commander, his former Queen, strolling about Kirkwall's Hightown as if she belonged there, as if her armor was no more out of place than an aristocrat's dress.
He remembered the day she handed him a kitten. He'd come by her room, hearing the mewling and the frustrated cursing of a woman at her wit's end. Upon entering, he'd found her covered in superficial claw marks, holding a shredded pillow that smelled strongly of feline piss. Her startled, guilty look at Anders had only ghosted across her face momentarily before the anger had seeped back in.
Anders had laughed at her, and she'd recalled his story about the mousers in the tower well enough to foist the small thing off on him. He'd thought it rather callous of her,