Anders stared up at the mountain path, his breath streaming white upon the bitter wind. There was a quiet mew from inside his hood.
"Hush, Pounce," he said soothingly. He took a firm grip on his staff and began to make his way up the mountain.
He'd been this way only once before; he'd worn Warden blue back then, not dusty black swathed under a heavy grey cloak. Pounce had been with him then, too; it seemed fitting they were making this journey again together.
Hawke had argued with him over this. He refused to let Anders go. There had been shouting.
"What about Fenris?" Hawke had shouted. "Are you just going to walk off without a word to him?"
"Garrett, I have no more idea of where he is than you do. He's chasing slavers on the Wounded Coast - it would be impossible to track him down in time. You know this." Anders had stared at him until Hawke shook his head and turned away.
"Garrett. Love," he'd said quietly. "I have to do this. Don't you see?"
"No, I don't see." His voice low, belligerent with hurt. "I don't want to lose you again."
He'd slipped out in the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, as Hawke slept on. He couldn't ask Hawke to do this with him. His pack on his back, his staff - plain ash, merely a walking aid - in his hand, Pounce resting comfortably in the hood of his grey travelling cloak.
He'd thought of leaving the cat behind, but somehow Pounce had known he wasn't planning on coming back. He'd jumped into Anders' hood, just like old times. As the blond apostate made his way up the mountain path he was glad of the company, truth be told.
He wouldn't take Pounce all the way to the Temple of Ashes; there was an inn up by the pass in the small settlement of Haven just ahead. He'd look for some kind soul there to look after the elderly cat.
Just in case he didn't make it back.
He arrived at the inn just as the sun was going down. He ordered a bowl of stew; the landlord's wife was enchanted with Pounce and brought him a little dish of meat cut-offs and scraps which the elderly cat polished off quickly, purring happily. The landlord's wife made a fuss of Pounce, plainly enamoured with him; when Anders left the next morning, it was alone. The woman had promised to look after the cat "just until you get back." Anders bade the cat a gentle farewell; the tears didn't come until the inn was out of sight. He didn't expect to see Pounce again.
He walked for two days until finally he rounded a corner to see the Temple of Ashes up ahead. Marshalling his courage, he took a deep breath and headed towards it. He'd passed several groups of pilgrims along the way; he slipped in unnoticed with another group just before they passed into the temple. With his hood up, he was just one more Andrastean pilgrim amongst many; the Templar guards barely even glanced at him as he entered.
He was in. Time to seek a way into the Conclave.
Pain. He hurt all over, but worst was the blazing agony in the palm of his left hand. He staggered a few paces forward then fell to his knees. He was aware of the stench of burning flesh and smoke; as he lifted his head a little, he saw booted feet coming towards him. He collapsed onto his face and knew no more.
He came back to consciousness slowly. He was slumped against a stone wall, his wrists manacled. He knew even before he opened his eyes that they were enchanted to deaden his magic; there was a grey nothingness inside where his magic should be. He wasn't cut off from the Fade; he could feel it lingering just the other side of the emptiness, out of reach.
He half-opened his eyes and kept his gaze on the floor before slowly lifting it to look around himself. He was surrounded by guards.
What had happened? He tried to think, to remember, but it was a blank. He vaguely remembered entering the temple with the other pilgrims, but then... nothing. It was a blank. No matter how hard he tried to remember, nothing came to him.
No... wait. There was something... running, and a woman. A glowing figure, holding her hand out to him... then blinding light and pain.
The cell door suddenly flew open; he lifted his eyes slowly to stare at the woman in Seeker armour who glared at him.
"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," she hissed as she leaned over him.
"I...I..." he stammered as she straightened and began to prowl around him.
"The Conclave is destroyed!" she growled. "Everyone who attended is dead." She turned and glared at him. "Except you."
A second woman stepped in; hooded, he caught a glimpse of red hair as she turned to stare at him, and his eyes widened a little. He knew her. Leliana.
From the way her eyes widened at the same time, he knew she had recognised him also. Oh Maker, he thought. Please don't say anything. Don't give me away. It wasn't me! Not this time!
"Explain this!" the Seeker demanded as she suddenly reached down and grasped his left wrist in a vice-like grip. She wrenched it up, and the mark in his palm suddenly flared with bright green light. He cried out as it sent a jagged lance of pain through his hand, licking up his arm.
"I can't!" he cried. "I don't know any more about this than you do!" He gritted his teeth; the pain was fierce and insistent. It was a relief when the bright actinic green light died down, taking the pain with it. He threw a desperate glance at Leliana.
"I believe him," the former bard said softly.
"What?" exclaimed the Seeker. "Leliana, you can't -"
"Look at his face, Cassandra. He is speaking the truth. He has no more idea of what's going on than we do." She glanced back at Anders. "And we need him."
"Whatever you think it is you think I did, I didn't do it!" cried Anders desperately.
Leliana crouched down in front of him. "Do you remember what happened? How this began?" she asked him gently.
"I remember running," he said slowly. "And... a woman."
"A woman?" asked Leliana.
"She... she held her hand out to me," he said quietly. "I... don't remember much after that. My hand hurting... and then waking up here."
"What is your name?" demanded the Seeker - Cassandra, Leliana had called her.
"Trevelyan," said Leliana. Anders' eyes widened; Leliana gave a slight shake of her head. For whatever reason, she wasn't going to give him away. He gave her a grateful look.
"You know him?" said Cassandra, surprised.
"I met him once, at the Circle in Ostwick. The Warden went there to recruit mages for the Wardens," replied Leliana, the lie flowing easily from her lips.
"I see," said Cassandra. "Then you vouch for him?"
"I do," replied Leliana. "You can trust him. He is a talented mage, and a healer."
"Ah. He will be useful then," replied Cassandra. "We have very few healers."
"And if he is a healer you can be assured he is not a blood mage," added Leliana.
"That is true," pondered Cassandra.
Anders could only watch as the two women discussed him. He had no idea what was going on; his mind still reeled over the news that the Conclave was destroyed, everyone dead. The two women withdrew for a moment to speak. He heard something about a forward camp and a rift, and then they were coming back to him.
"Come with me," said Cassandra as she unlocked his manacles.
"What did happen?" asked Anders.
"It will be easier to show you," she replied.
He stared at the rift. He wasn't sure exactly what to make of it; it sparked and glowed brilliant green, like the Breach in the sky - and the mark in his hand; every time the rift pulsed, his mark sent an answering flare of pain through his hand.
"Quickly, before more come through!" exclaimed a voice, and suddenly a strange, bald elf was grabbing his wrist and yanking his hand up and out, palm facing towards the rift.
There was a flash from his mark, and suddenly a flare of power that shot out to strike the rift. He could feel the mark drawing upon something - a draining of his energy, it seemed = and then with a last bright flash, the rift was gone, and Anders felt a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over him. He staggered and would have fallen if not for the strange elf's hand around his waist.
Behind him he could hear Cassandra talking to Varric - and wasn't that a surprise? Of all the people he would have expected to run into, he was the last. The dwarf's eyes had lit up in recognition, but at Anders' bare shake of the head the surprise was replaced by a look of comprehension.
"Got a name, Blondie?" Varric had asked, and Anders had to hide a smile at the old nickname.
"He is Trevelyan, from the Circle at Ostwick," Cassandra had replied as Varric's eyebrows crept up.
"Trevelyan, eh? Glad to make your acquaintance," replied the dwarf.
Now they stood around and eyed each other. Anders straightened and turned to the strange elf.
"How did you know the mark would close the rift?" he exclaimed.
"I didn't; I merely theorised," he replied. "It seemed I was correct. The mark in your hand and the rift in the sky are of the same energy. The one can close the other."
The elf, it transpired, was a mage called Solas; he and Cassandra seemed to know each other. As the elf and Seeker led the way to the forward camp, Anders dropped behind with Varric.
"Good to see you again, Blondie," murmured the dwarf. "Where's Hawke and Broody?"
"I left them behind," replied Anders softly. "Fenris is somewhere on the Wounded Coast, fighting slavers."
"They know you're here?" asked Varric quietly.
"No," replied Anders tersely. "And I prefer to keep it that way for now. I don't want them getting involved. Cassandra is the Seeker you warned us about - the one who was looking for Hawke, isn't she?"
"The very same," agreed Varric. "She dragged me here in irons all the way from Kirkwall to the ass-end of nowhere."
"A long way from Kirkwall," said Anders softly.
"That it is, Blondie, that it is," replied Varric. "But it's good to see you again."
"You too, Varric," replied Anders.
There were several small rifts to be dealt with, scattered around the mountainsides about Haven. Each one took a little more out of Anders until by the time they reached the Breach itself, he was staggering. Solas and Varric helped keep him upright. He was glad to see Leliana there, with her men.
She slipped him a vial of lyrium when Cassandra's back was turned; it helped revive him somewhat. He stared at the Breach in dismay. They expected him to close that?
There was a hard fight against the demons spawned by the Breach, and then he was standing before the glowing green column of swirling rift energies that reached towards the Breach itself. He drew a deep breath then raised his hand.
It hurt; Maker it hurt, but he gritted his teeth and held on, feeling the energy slowly draining out of him as the mark in his hand flared and spat, each pulse driving jagged shards of pain down his arm.
The column of energy flickered then flared brilliantly before it was gone.
"Well done," said Solas as he steadied Anders with a hand on his shoulder. "The Breach is not closed, but it is, at least, stabilised for now."
Anders nodded, exhausted. "Well, that's something," he said.
"Blondie, you OK?" said Varric, concerned. "You've gone white as a sheet."
Anders tried to speak, but his vision was clouding over. He felt his knees give way, and then he was falling.
He opened his eyes to shouting. He lay there for a few minutes, trying to work out where he was. He remembered Cassandra leaping forward, Solas' hand on his shoulder as he fell, and then it had all gone dark. He supposed he must have fainted.
"And I tell you that man is Anders, the wanted apostate who destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall!"
Anders sat bolt upright. Maker. Someone had recognised him - a very angry someone, and he thought he recognised that voice.
Cullen.
Andraste's tits, what was the templar doing here? He could hear Varric's voice trying to calm the templar, Leliana talking over the top, Cassandra exclaiming in outrage. Other voices too - a woman's voice with a cultured Antivan accent. Underneath it all, Solas was trying to be heard in a calm, reasoned tone.
Anders swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet, then stared down at himself. Maker's breath, what was he wearing? Some sort of lilac tunic affair, fastened by a double row of shiny buttons down the front, and matching pants. Well, at least they hadn't stolen his boots. He tugged them on hurriedly and got to his feet.
He followed the shouting voices until he found a room with a large table and Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana, Varric, Solas and a dark-skinned woman in Antivan dress and black hair in a neat yet elegant updo who held some kind of portable scribe's desk, all arguing around it. The moment Cullen spotted him standing in the doorway, he grasped Anders by the arm and dragged him in, throwing him hard against the table. Anders had a brief moment to appreciate the hand-painted map spread upon its surface before Cullen was spinning him round and the templar's sword was at his throat.
"Give me one good reason why I should let this murderer live!" snarled Cullen, pressing the edge of his blade against Anders' throat. The blond apostate closed his eyes as his breath came in frightened pants.
"Because he's the only one who can close the rifts!" shouted Leliana. "If you kill him then we have no way of closing that Breach, Cullen!"
Anders could feel Cullen's breath hot on his face, and then Cullen abruptly shoved him back hard against the table and whirled away with a curse. Anders sprawled upon the table and clutched at his throat as Solas and Leliana came forward to help him to his feet.
"Glad to see you too, Cullen," he muttered as he turned back to face the templar.
"What are you doing here?" snarled Cullen. "Was killing Elthina not enough for you? Thought you'd add Divine Justinia to your tally, along with every other soul at that Conclave?"
"It wasn't me," Anders said. "I swear it."
"I believe him," said Leliana.
"As do I," added Solas. "Not even a mage would have had the power to destroy the Temple of Ashes so completely, or cause the Breach. Whatever your past with this man, Commander, he is innocent of this. And he holds our only means to close the Breach. He is our only hope of salvation."
"Salvation?" exclaimed Cullen, glaring at Solas. "Don't talk to me of salvation! Not from him."
"Cullen," said Anders quietly. "Please believe me. I didn't want this any more than you did. I don't have the power to do something like this anyway, even if I had wanted to - which I don't."
"How did you even survive?" exclaimed Cullen. "When last I saw you, you were dead on the stones of the Gallows with Hawke's dagger in your back!"
"It's a long story," said Anders.
"And one that can wait," added Cassandra. "Commander, whether you like it or not, this man holds the only means we have to close the Breach."
"Though we yet lack the power," added Solas. "I believe a second attempt to close it will succeed - if the mark has more power. The same level of power that was used to open the Breach in the first place."
"That won't be easy to come by," said Anders.
"No, indeed," agreed the elf.
"Anders, Curly here is Commander of the Inquisition's forces and troops," said Varric.
"You already know Sister Leliana," added Cassandra. "She is our spymaster."
"Yes, thank you, Cassandra," said Leliana with a touch of asperity. "Tactful as ever." She waved a hand at the Antivan lady. "This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our Ambassador and chief diplomat." Josephine inclined her head and gave Anders a reassuring smile.
"Now introductions are out of the way, to business," said Cassandra. "As Solas has said, your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good."
"Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help," added Leliana. Anders turned towards her, his curiosity piqued.
"The rebel mages?" he echoed.
"And I disagree!" snapped Cullen. "I still say the templars could serve just as well!"
"What do you expect from a templar?" drawled Anders.
"Ex-templar, actually," Cullen growled. "I am no longer part of the order." That surprised Anders. He glanced to Varric then Cassandra; both nodded their heads.
"Oh," said Anders. He wasn't entirely sure what to say to that. "Then... well... good?"
"We need power, Commander," said Cassandra. "Enough magic poured into that mark could -"
"Might destroy us all," interrupted Cullen. "Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so -"
"Pure speculation," interjected Leliana. Cullen glared at her before turning back to Cassandra.
"I know what templars are capable of," growled Cullen.
"Unfortunately neither side will even talk to us yet," said Josephine smoothly, as though Cassandra and Cullen weren't visibly bristling at each other over the table. "The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition - and you, specifically," she added, turning to Anders.
"If word has gotten out about my real identity then I'm not surprised," said Anders with a shrug. "They'd love to get their hands on me and put a noose round my neck." He dropped his gaze to the floor. "After what I did in Kirkwall, I can't blame them."
"Do you expect me to believe this - this show of regret?" said Cullen in disbelief.
"It doesn't really matter if you do or not," replied Anders. He stared at Cullen, and felt the familiar old grief welling up. Ever since Hawke had brought the news of Hossburg it had lain there, just below the surface, waiting to break free. He felt his throat tightening. "But for what it's worth, I do regret it. I regret the death of every single person who has died as a result of what I did - not just in Kirkwall, but elsewhere. Every innocent who has died - in Dairsmuid, Hossburg, and every other casualty of the whole damned bloody war." He closed his eyes. "I wish I could take it back. Sweet Andraste, there isn't a day that goes by when I don't wish I could take it back." He lifted his head and opened his eyes to stare at Cullen. He could feel the prickle of tears in his eyes, hot and stinging. "If by dying I could bring back even one of them, then I'd die willingly - by your hand or by the noose. But I can't." He buried his face in his hands and wept.
Cullen stared at him; they were all staring at him. He could feel their eyes on him as his shoulders shook with every shuddering sob that wracked his body. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "So sorry."
He felt a hand on his shoulder; he didn't know whose. He leaned into the touch. "I don't have the right to beg forgiveness, but... forgive me. Please forgive me!"
There was an arm around his shoulders now; a soothing hand rubbing his back gently as he wept against soft wool that overlaid chainmail; a distant part of his mind identified his comforter as Leliana.
"Perhaps we should discuss this later?" said Josephine a little uncertainly. Anders pulled away slightly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"No...no," he said. "Go on. If this mark on my hand is our only chance to close that Breach then I want to know how we can do that." He glanced at Cullen, who was giving him a strange look. "I know I can never atone for all the lives I've taken, both directly or indirectly. But if I can be of use in closing this Breach, then you may use me as you see fit." He glanced back at Josephine. "Please, go on. You aid the Chantry has denounced me."
"Yes, though I do not think they know who you are," answered Josephine. "They only know that a mage survived the destruction of the Temple. Some are calling you - a mage - the Herald of Andraste. That frightens the Chantry."
"They're calling me what?" exclaimed Anders. "Oh Maker. No. No, this is - it's too ridiculous!"
"I agree," said Cullen heavily. He was still giving Anders that strange, almost speculative look.
"The remaining clerics have called it blasphemy, and we heretics for harbouring you," Josephine added.
"Hang on - they're more bothered by that than a breach in the sky that spawns rifts spewing demons everywhere?" exclaimed Anders.
"Oh, they're worried about it alright; they just don't think we can close it," replied Cullen, still staring at Anders. It was making the blond apostate very uncomfortable.
In the end, they agreed that it would be best to approach Mother Giselle, a chantry cleric who was tending to the wounded in a refugee camp near Redcliffe. They agreed that Leliana's cover story - that he was Trevelyan, a refugee from the disbanded Circle of Ostwick - would stand; the Chantry did not yet know his true identity, and the longer that was the case then the better. It would do great harm to the fledgling Inquisition if it was known that the so-called Herald of Andraste were the destroyer of the Kirkwall Chantry. The meeting had broken up; as Cassandra moved away, she referred to Anders without thinking as "Herald". It brought Anders up short; he stood leaning against the map table as the others filed out, lost in thought.
"You'll be fine, Blondie; it'll all work out, you'll see," said Varric as he patted Anders' arm.
"Do you really think so, Varric?" asked Anders as he glanced down at his friend.
"Well-" began the dwarf, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
"A word if you will, 'Herald'," said Cullen; Anders jumped. He thought the commander had left with the others. He stared at the former templar warily.
"You want I should stick around, Blondie?" asked Varric in a low voice, eyeing Cullen distrustfully.
"That won't be necessary, Varric," said Cullen. "I'm not going to hurt Anders. I just want to talk."
"It's alright, Varric. You can go," said Anders, as he turned to face the former templar. Varric nodded slowly as he made his way reluctantly out.
Cullen turned and leaned on the map table with one hand whilst he regarded Anders intently.
"So. Tell me what happened in Kirkwall," the commander said.
Anders swallowed hard, then nodded.