Anders staggered through the forest, barely able to see through his tears, retching whenever he started to remember, though there was nothing left in his stomach to bring up. He'd killed them, killed all of them. Not just a simple zap-you're-dead bolt of lightning or fairly instant icy death either, but horribly, horrendously dead, their torn flesh reeking as it sizzled from the heat of the fire magic that had finished any who'd survived the storm of magic that had destroyed them, the stench of broken bowels and emptied bladders underlying it all.
He missed his footing at the top of a slope, tumbled down it, air woofing out of him as he bounced painfully off dirt and rocks and rolled through a scrubby patch of brush before ending with a splash in a stream of water, still icy cold with spring runoff. The cold at least roused him, shocking him out of his hysteria. He pushed himself to hands and knees, sputtering, then drew a deep breath and just crouched there, shivering and sobbing.
Something stirred deep inside him. The wordless sense of Justice's presence, Justice's confusion over his reaction to what he – they – had done, in escaping Rolan and the templars with whom he'd sought to entrap Anders. Justice's certainty that what they had done had been right, regardless of how ugly the aftermath might have been. What did it matter how the templars had died, so long as they were no longer able to threaten or torment mages?
He retched again, weakly, then forced himself to not think of it, to sit back on his heels and scoop up handfuls of the cold water to splash over his face, washing away the worst of the tears and snot and trails of vomit.
He struggled out of his pack, tossing it to shore, then stripped off his heavy over-robe, dunking it into the stream and swirling it around to clean it as best he could. He rose on unsteady legs afterwards, wringing the robe out before making his way some distance upstream, carrying his pack and the bundle of wet fabric in one hand, his staff held in the other and used much like the walking-stick it resembled to help keep his balance. Only once he began to feel he could walk no further, his feet like blocks of ice from wading through the cold stream, did he finally step out of it and onto the bank. He spread out the robe over a boulder to dry before crouching down to drink his fill of water; better he have something in his stomach if his nausea returned.
For a long moment he just crouched there, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on his water-chilled skin, still not-thinking about what had happened, but instead thinking about what had to happen now. Running; escaping again; leaving. A painful thought; he'd thought he was done with leaving places, with leaving behind people he'd liked.
North-west, he decided. He'd have to avoid Amaranthine – his face was known there – but if he went north-west, there were all sorts of little fishing villages along the coast, and surely there must be smugglers working out of some of them. If all else failed, he had at least a rudimentary knowledge of how to sail one of the little one-man sailing boats that were common on Lake Calenhad, and doubtless in use along the coast as well. The Waking Sea wasn't all that wide; he could head north to the Free Marches, perhaps.
He took inventory then, of the few belongings he still had. His over-robe, looking rather the worse for wear as it dried in the sun, its blue-and-grey colour and griffon heraldry too recognizable in any case. He'd need to get rid of it, and soon. Thankfully, unlike the under-robe of a Circle Mage's robes, the garments worn under a Grey Warden robe would pass as regular clothing – a long loose shirt of unbleached linen, and leggings that had started out dyed black but faded over many washings to more of a charcoal grey colour. Apart from that he had his staff, and the contents of his pack – a few changes of undergarments, some trail rations, a notebook, a handful of coins, and his bedroll.
He'd ran with less, in the past.
He would rest, at least briefly, he decided, and then move on.
He dreamed.
He dreamed and knew it was a dream, knew he was in the Fade as he walked along a forest path. There was someone walking beside him, someone he could not see. He would hear their voice but not their words, and look that way and see only trees, leaves, light. He felt so alone, despite the feeling of being accompanied.
He knew before it came in sight that there was a clearing ahead, a clearing where the unseen person would suggest they stop for the night, though they could easily have kept travelling for another hour or two. He didn't want to stop there. He wished to keep going. He stopped walking, only to find he was no longer on the path, but in the centre of the clearing, where he hadn't meant to stop. He turned around, looking for the person, wanting to say that no, he would not stop here, he wished to continue on, but there was no one there to say this to. So he turned his face up to the clear blue sky and shouted his denial instead, startling silent the songbirds in the nearby trees. When he turned to leave the path onwards was gone. He turned, and turned again, not able even to find the path by which he'd entered the clearing; just trees, leaves, light, in any direction he looked.
A person was there, standing close to him, when he turned around again, someone dressed in Grey Warden blues. Rolan, he thought in disgusted recognition and growing dread, and turned to walk away from him, but the trees were right there behind him, no room to move away. He began walking around the edge of the clearing, feeling more and more desperate as he looked for a way out, Rolan trailing alongside him, visible now as he – it must have been Rolan – had not been visible earlier. Irritated, he turned to shout at Rolan, to drive him away, only to see they were no longer alone. Templars; templars in the clearing, walking toward him, swords already drawn, eyes glinting in the darkness and shadow behind narrow helmet slits. Rolan's face was split by a grin, not a cheerful one, but one of triumph.
"Abomination. Even the Grey Wardens won't protect you any longer."
He wanted to wake up. He didn't want to re-live what happened next, what he knew had happened. His panicked attempts at spells, the coarse laughter of the templars as they silenced him and closed in, his desperate wish for help, their shouts of sudden fear the last thing he heard over a roaring in his ears... their bodies, when he woke to himself some time later, lying scattered around the clearing, the torn vegetation of the clearing smoking with scorch marks and glittering with ice, the drops of blood like scattered jewels, wealth beyond measure that once stolen could never be returned.
It was worse, in the dream, the bodies not just torn and mangled by the force of magic that had killed them, but torn apart, eviscerated, mangled and mutilated, throats torn open, looking more like his memories of darkspawn brought down by the Commander's mabari than the aftermath of any purely human attack.
Anders started awake, heart pounding wildly in his chest. He felt Justice's questioning and worried presence, and sent soothing thoughts toward the spirit. It had just been a dream, a nightmare, no current and present danger. He was safe, or at least as safe as he could be until someone found the dead templars and warden, and a manhunt was started.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, ignoring the aches of his body. The stream provided more water, his pack a trail ration made of roasted grains mixed with nuts, dried fruit and honey. He stood a moment, hesitating over the robe, now no worse then damp, then reluctantly picked it up and drew it on. The night would be cold, and even damp it would help him to keep warm. And best, perhaps, that when he did get rid of it, it was somewhere far from here and well-hidden, not left out for anyone to trip over and wonder about the provenance of.
North-west, he reminded himself, and studied the night sky overhead before setting out, picking his way slowly through the darkened forest. North-west, and then north across the Waking Sea, to freedom. He was glad that in this escape he at least had some form of companionship, the weight of Justice stirring in the back of his mind. Never alone again; that had been their covenant.