You had been chasing the agents trail for hours, battling through Qunari and spirits alike. Cassandra had plowed through the forces, batting them aside with her shield. Vivienne had stood beside you, almost turning her nose up at the forces you faced (Knowing her, she probably had). Cole was as stealthy as ever, letting you know about forces ahead and things to avoid. With their help, you had somehow managed to make it this far. Make it to Solas. Your friend.

But as you approached, you could feel the Anchor starting to crackle and spit, and the pain raced through you again. Solas was speaking but your heart was too loud in your ears, and you could barely keep up with his words. Fen'Harel. Tearing down the Veil. You had trusted him, helped him, and now he wanted to destroy you all? Faintly, you could feel the Anchor acting up again, a metallic taste to the air around you making your teeth hurt.

Solas seemed not to notice, or if he did, he didn't care. You fall to your knees as a jolt of pain shoots through you, purple and green sparks flying from your hand. It's getting harder to breathe, now, as the pain becomes more unbearable.

"Take my hand."

Stabbing, shooting, blistering pain. Like the first time you cast lightning, the blots sparking off your fingertips like fire. His voice is so soft, even though he can see that the Anchor is tearing you apart from the inside.

"I'm sorry."

Hot, like burning metal scorching your skin, tearing up your arm. You look, and it is gone. All that is left of your arm is a pulsating mass of crackling green energy. Like a thousand burning knives stabbing into your arm, searing your flesh. You scream until your throat is raw and aching, heaving for air but only taking in ash. And then nothing.

His eyes snapped open and he pulled himself up, taking in the darkness of the tent around him. Panting quietly, he runs a hand through his hair, and looks around the tent, trying to make sense of it all. Where was Solas? Was this the afterlife? Shaking, he pulled the thin blankets up, trying to drown out the horrors in his mind. Oh Maker. He had left them all behind. Cassandra and Vivienne and Cole would never know about Solas and his plot. The world would never know what would be coming for them.

"Enchanter Trevelyan? Are you quite alright?" A voice he had not heard in years whispered across the tent. Flinching, he raised his head to look at his student. Luccia, one of his apprentices. Barely thirteen, she had died at the Conclave, along with his fellow members from the Ostwick Circle. He hadn't found out until weeks later. But Luccia was still looking at him, with that sort of honest expression of worry that only a child could have.

"I… am fine. Thank you, Luccia." He smiled at her, trying to hide his shaking. Luccia, although seemingly skeptical, nodded to him and went back to her cot. Her breathing slowed, and he sighed, watching her still form in the darkness. Maker, where was he?

That question had been answered by the next morning. Senior Enchanter Moore had spotted his frazzled state almost as soon as he stepped out of his tent. He had been allowed to eat breakfast, and then Moore had all but dragged him off somewhere private.

"Trevelyan, you look like shit." Moore said, their eyes piercing into him. "Did one of those Templars do something last night?" Their eyes darted across him, and he shifted slightly, trying to make himself appear smaller. Moore, although only a few years older than him, was a force to be reckoned with. Their presence alone commanded respect from the mages and templars alike. He had become so used to Moore being gone. So used to not having their leadership and guidance. Their death had been one of the more painful ones to hear about after the Conclave.

"I… No. They didn't" He replied, watching as Moore crossed their arms over their chest, a frown forming on their face. Swallowing, he kept his eyes to the ground, arms tightly crossed over his chest. He heard Moore sighing, and glanced up in time to see them running a hand through their hair, fire burning in their eyes.

"Roscoe." At the mention of his name, he flinched slightly. Moore placed a hand on his shoulder, and Roscoe felt himself relaxing slightly under the reaffirming pressure. "You know that you can tell me about these things now, right? If one of those bloody templars laid their hand on you ag-" Roscoe cut him off huridley.

"I-I'm fine, Moore. Really." He let out a shaky breath, before looking Moore square in the eye. "I had a bad night. That's all." Moore nodded, their body visibly relaxing as they let out a sigh of relief. "You don't have to worry about me that much, Jules." He spoke softly, Chuckling, Moore slung their arm over his shoulders, and becan leading him back to the main campfire.

"Well, you know. I worry about you sometimes, Ross." As the two of them approached the camp, Moore patted him on the shoulder. "Pack up. We've got to make it to Haven by sundown." Nodding, Roscoe watched them leave, a pang of regret in his chest. He should have made Moore stay behind, when the Conclave had exploded. Maybe they could have survived the blast. Maybe they could have survived the assault on Haven.

Roscoe shook his head slightly, and pushed the flap of his shared tent aside, relishing in the protection from the wind. Those thoughts could not be allowed to fester. It would only make it hurt more.

There was a few days until the Conclave actually began. Roscoe remembered this as he chatted with his other mages. He knew this. Knew this journey, and what would happen at the Conclave. His compatriots did not, and they speculated what it would be like at the Conclave with the templars there. Through their conversation Roscoe felt an ache growing in his chest. He has missed this. Missed the way Luccia and Clement teased each other, and how Vera kept all of the apprentices in line. Moore watched them all with careful eyes, meeting Roscoe's and giving him a warm smile. It hurt, being around them all again.

Drawing his cloak tighter around himself, Roscoe shivered. The Inquisition had had furs and leathers made with warming runes, and boots lined with fur. Now, he was a simple mage again. The only thing that made him really believe that all of this wasn't some twisted demons creation was his left hand. That was the hand that had been affected by the mark; Now all that was there was a splash of pale skin on the palm of his hand. To others, it would seem like some long healed scar. But he knew what it was. A remnant of the Anchor, of his old life.

Roscoe straightened up, rubbing at his numb nose with his scarred hand. It would do him no good to continue reminiscing about his other life. He would have to make sure that the orb was picked up, and that Corypheus was stopped. That was his duty.