He wanted to sleep; Maker, his head was aching and he felt sick and dizzy. He knew he had concussion; the last thing he should be doing was attempting to co-ordinate the magic from a large group of mages through the mark in his hand and wielding that amount of raw power in an attempt to do anything, much less close the Breach. He remembered what had happened the first time he tried to close it and how he'd passed out afterwards.
He took a couple of steps into the room then stopped as he felt dizzy again. He swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to throw up; after a moment he was able to make it to his desk where he knew he had a couple of elfroot potions. He unearthed them from the drift of papers, notes he'd jotted down after discussions with Solas and Dorian, and downed one swiftly before staggering to his bed and collapsing onto it to wait for it to take effect so he could concentrate enough to try a little healing.
He stared at the ceiling, wondering what would happen. Supposing he managed to close the Breach - what then? Would the Inquisition have any further use for him, or would he find himself being strung up to hang, or worse - Tranquility? He shuddered at the thought.
Maybe he was getting ahead of himself though. He might not even survive this attempt to close the Breach; simply sealing it before had knocked him for six.
He got up and managed to get to the desk, dropping into the chair and drawing ink, quill and a clean piece of paper to himself.
He frowned, trying to concentrate past the aching of his head, then carefully wrote out two letters; one for Hawke, and one for Fenris, and then he returned to the bed and sprawled upon it, rolling over onto his back to stare at the ceiling.
The elfroot began to take effect and he quietly groaned in relief as the pounding in his head and the dizziness receded a bit. He slid his fingers into his hair and tugged the hair-tie loose, then pressed his fingertips lightly against his skull as he channelled a little healing to relieve the nausea and the lingering ache. He let his hands fall to the pillow either side of his head as he felt his eyes drifting closed; suddenly very tired. He felt Pounce pad slowly up the bed to curl up under his left arm, purring; the sound was comforting.
He must have slipped into a light doze; he was startled awake by a knock at the door. He sat up, disoriented for a minute, then got to his feet and crossed to the door, pulling it open.
"You OK Boss?" asked the Iron Bull. "You look kind of pale."
"I'll be fine," replied Anders, stifling a yawn with his hand. "Give me just a moment; I'll be right out."
"You took a knock to the head; are you sure you want to do this now?" asked the Bull. "I can go tell Solas and the Commander that you need to rest."
"No," replied Anders, shaking his head. "I want to get this over with." he turned back into the cabin, leaving the door open as he pulled on a leather jerkin then grabbed the hooded tunic. Pounce sat up and gave an interrogative "mew?".
"No, Pounce, you can't come with me this time," he said as he pulled it on. "You stay here where it's warm." He pulled the warm cloak back on then reached for his staff.
"OK, let's get this over and done with," he said.
They headed towards the chantry, where Cullen, Cassandra, Dorian and Vivienne were waiting for them; Solas was already at the ruins of what had been the Temple of Ashes with the recruited mages. Anders was glad to see Varric there as well; he headed over towards the dwarf.
"Heya Blondie; all ready?" Varric asked.
"As I'll ever be," replied Anders, then dropped his voice. "There are two letters on my desk; if something happens to me, would you make sure they get delivered?"
Varric stared at him. "Yeah, sure," he agreed, nodding. "Blondie, are you alright? You don't look so good. Maybe we should talk to Curly and Chuckles, tell them to put it off for a day or two?"
"No," replied Anders. "I'd rather just get on with it."
"Are we ready then?" called Cullen. "Trevelyan?" It took Anders a moment to realise Cullen was addressing him.
"Uh, yes," he replied. "Well, as I'll ever be."
They headed off together towards the ruins; as they went, Anders managed to elicit a further promise from Varric that he'd make sure Pounce was taken care of if the worst came to pass. The dwarf seemed to grow more and more worried as they headed towards the ruins, though thankfully he chose to keep his worries to himself. Anders wasn't sure he could have handled too many questions. His head was starting to ache a little again, and as they drew closer to what had once been the Temple of Ashes, the mark in the palm of Anders' hand began to pulse painfully in time to the throbbing of his head.
The mages were lined up in two long rows, along what had perhaps been staggered raised galleries before the temple's destruction; Solas stood in the empty space near the base of the rift. As Anders and Cassandra walked to meet him, the mark in Anders' palm erupted into green flame as he held it up; Solas turned and eyed it, then glanced to Anders, who merely nodded his readiness before striding a few paces forward alone. He stared up at the rift, and drew a deep breath.
Behind him, Cassandra's voice rang out. "Mages!" she called, drawing their attention.
"Focus past the Herald!" Solas ordered. "Let his will draw from you!"
Anders unslung his staff and braced himself against it as he lifted his hand, turning his palm towards the rift as he slowly walked forward, the mark blazing even brighter. Suddenly he felt it: the mana of the serried ranks of mages behind him, opened up and channelled towards him. Without thinking, he found himself drawing on it, channelling it through him and the mark in his hand as he hurled the force of the mark's energies towards the Breach. A beam of bright green actinic light shot from the mark to strike the rift, and it answered with a corruscating spray of lightning energies of its own. Anders gritted his teeth as the power burned through him, the warring energies dancing across his skin and intensifying with every slow, halting step he took towards the rift, forcing the power into the void to turn it, close it, seal it - just as he had with the smaller ones only much, much harder, the energies so much more powerful.
He could feel it starting to respond, the energies twisting and turning, writhing within his grasp, and then he felt it close just a split second before the released energies abruptly exploded outwards, snapping back through him and outwards. He tried to scream as the energy whiplashed through him but nothing came as his vision whited out and he felt himself falling.
He found himself lying on his back, blinking dazedly up into Cassandra's face as Cullen, Dorian, Vivienne and Solas gathered around him. The Seeker had her arm around his shoulders; as he opened his eyes, she smiled down at him in relief. "You did it!" she exclaimed.
"I did?" he said. But looking up into the sky he could see for himself it was true; where the Breach had hung like some vast scar across the sky, now there was only the swirl of clouds, harmless and benign.
As Cassandra helped him to his feet, cheers erupted from the gathered Inquisition troops, and from the mages as they pulled themselves to their feet.
Anders glanced apprehensively at Cullen, but the Commander was smiling warmly, as was Cassandra. He dared to hope that perhaps he might make it out of this alive after all.
There were celebrations in Haven that night; there was feasting and dancing around the camp fires, with the smell of roasting meats and good food drifting across the town along with the strains of music and singing.
Anders stood outside the chantry and looked down upon the town and encampment, watching. He could hear Cassandra's footsteps crunching in the crisp, freshly-fallen snow as she approached him.
"Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm," she reported without preamble as she came to stand beside him. "The Breach is sealed. We've reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain, but this was a victory."
"So you still have a need for me yet then?" said Anders quietly. "I need not fear to feel a noose about my throat for a little while longer, hmm?"
She gave him a sharp look. "Did you think we would execute you the moment it was done?" she asked, frowning.
"The thought had crossed my mind, yes," replied Anders.
"Dismiss it then," she said. "The Inquisition has need of you still, and you have a place here now. Whatever you may have done before, you are now the Herald of Andraste."
"Do you believe that?" asked Anders quietly. She stared at him, measuringly, then nodded.
"I do," she said simply.
Anders turned and stared out across the town, stunned, uncertain what to say to that.
"Word of your heroism has spread," she went on. He shook his head.
"I couldn't have done it alone," he argued. "Not without the mages - and not without your efforts, and those of Cullen, Solas, Dorian and the others to secure their aid." He shook his head. "Luck put me at the centre."
"A strange kind of luck," she replied, frowning slightly. "I'm not sure if we need more or less. But you're right. This was a victory of alliance, one of the few in recent memory." She glanced out across the town. "With the Breach closed, that alliance will need new focus."
An alarm bell in the town suddenly started to ring; they could see figures milling around the gate in the wooden palisade.
"That's trouble," said Anders. "Come on, we'd best go see what's happening."
"Forces approaching - to arms!" called Cullen as they approached. Soldiers were running around scrambling to close the gates and man the barricades as townspeople fled screaming.
"Cullen?" called Cassandra.
"One watchguard reporting," replied the Commander as he turned towards them. "It's a massive force, the bulk over the mountain."
"Under what banner?" asked Josephine; Anders blinked - he hadn't seen her join them. He stared around; as they'd run through the encampment to get to the gates, quite a sizeable number of people had joined them. The Herald's dash through the camp had drawn followers; many of the mages they'd brought back from Redcliffe, quite a number of the soldiers who'd watched his sparring match with Krem and Dorian, and quite a few of the Chargers with their commander, the Iron Bull along with Dorian, to Anders' surprise; as the Tevinter mage slipped through the crowd to come and stand alongside them, he gave Anders a nod, and Anders nodded back, glad of his presence.
"None," replied Cullen tersely.
"None?" exclaimed Josephine, surprised.
There was a sudden hammering at the door, and then a desperate voice called, "I can't come in unless you open!"
"Open the gates!" Cullen ordered; he ran alongside Anders, drawing his sword as they sprang out to find a young man standing there, facing them. His clothing was mismatched; from beneath a ludicrously overlarge hat with a wide floppy brim, his almost colourless eyes stared at them.
"I'm Cole," the young man said. "I came here to warn you, to help. People are coming to hurt you." He stepped closer to Anders, one hand coming up to lightly brush the front of the blond apostate's tunic. "You probably already know."
Anders jerked away. "What is this? What's going on?"
Cole stepped closer and brushed a forefinger down the front of Anders' tunic, almost as though to try and reassure him. His voice dropped. "The templars come to kill you," he said quietly.
An icy shard of fear struck deep into Anders; for a moment, he couldn't breathe.
"The templars?" exclaimed Cullen as he strode forward; Cole flinched away. "Is this the Order's response to our talks with the mages? Attacking us blindly?" He held his sword defensively between Anders and the strange young man.
"The red templars went to the Elder One," answered Cole. "You know him?" He leaned in towards Anders. "He knows you. You took his mages." He turned and pointed up to the ridge along the skyline where countless torches could be seen in the dusk. "There."
As he spoke, a man in red armour stepped up onto the ridge, next to a tall, strange, eldritch figure.
"I know that man!" exclaimed Cullen. "But this Elder One..."
Anders stared at the figure, his mind blank with shock. He knew that figure. He had heard its voice in his mind, long ago; remembered all too well how it had whispered to him until he had thought he was going mad.
He also remembered Hawke slaying that figure. Remembered.
"Corypheus," he whispered, horrified. "But... how? It can't be...!"
"He's very angry that you took his mages," said Cole quietly.
"You know that creature?" exclaimed Cullen.
"Get everyone inside," said Anders. "Now. I'll explain later - just get everyone inside now!" He turned to the Commander. "Cullen, give me a plan! Anything!"
"Haven is no fortress," replied Cullen. "If we are to withstand this monster, then we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force, give it everything we've got."
"The catapults," said Anders. Cullen nodded.
"Mages! You - you have sanction to engage them!" he called. "That is Samson. He will not make it easy!" He turned to the soldiers; more troops were massing around the gates. "Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!"
Anders' later memories of that fight were dim. He remembered fighting alongside Dorian and the Bull against templars whose eyes glowed red, strange red crystals growing over their bodies and armour - red lyrium, like that which had covered Cullen in that horrifying future. The red templars fought like demons; it was a nightmarish experience.
He remembered their catapults firing; remembered the avalanche that hurtled down the mountainside to block the path of the oncoming army.
He remembered the dragon; how at the moment they thought they had victory in their grasp, suddenly there was a roar of hellfire and everything was screaming, the smell of burning flesh, terror and fear. A frenzied retreat to the chantry, the only building in the whole town that might hold a chance of holding against that beast; fighting off red templars every step of the way as the dragon swooped overhead. Little by little, they yielded up the town, herding frightened people towards the chantry as Haven began to burn.
Remembered feeling the last of his mana trickling away as he tried to keep people on their feet, keep running; one more spell, one more breath, one more step.
The Chancellor of the Chantry, wounded. Cullen, his face pale. "Herald, our position is...not good."
"I have seen an archdemon," said Cole. "I was in the Fade, but it looked like that."
An archdemon. Anders' heart sank.
"I don't care what it looks like - it's cut a path for that army. They'll kill everyone in Haven!"
"The Elder One doesn't care about the village. He only wants the Herald," said Cole.
"Of course he does," said Anders quietly. "That's why I'm going back out there." He hadn't realised until he said the words, but they felt right. Corypheus should be dead. He wasn't. They had unfinished business.
"He wants to kill you," said Cole. "No-one else matters, but he'll crush them, kill them anyway. I don't like him."
"You don't like...!" exclaimed Cullen, staring at Cole, then shook his head and turned to Anders. "Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining catapults and trebuchets, make one last slide."
"We're overrun," Anders pointed out. "To bury them, we'd have to bury us too."
"We're dying, but we can decide how. Many don't get that chance," the Commander answered.
Cole stared back into the Chantry, then at the Chancellor. "He can help. The path. He wants to show you, before he dies. Won't be long now."
"There is a path," Chancellor Roderick nodded. "Many wouldn't know it, unless you'd made the Summer Pilgrimage, as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me... Andraste must have shown me, so I could... tell you." Cole helped the old man to his feet; there was a growing, spreading bloody stain on the old man's robes. Anders stared at it. His mana was slowly returning now they weren't running and fighting for their lives, but not quickly enough to save the Chancellor; he knew the most he could do would be to prolong the inevitable.
Cullen was staring at him; as Anders met his gaze, the Commander shook his head, and Anders knew he'd come to the same conclusion.
He'd sent them away. All of them, away. A handful of soldiers had remained, along with the Iron Bull, Dorian and Cassandra, to help him load the trebuchets and turn them.
Scarcely had the last one been turned, than Anders glanced up in time to see the archdemon whirling around in the sky to bear down on them.
"All of you, get out of here, now!" he ordered them. "Move!" They turned and ran towards the Chantry; he saw Dorian stumble, Cassandra pulling him back to his feet; the Bull holding the doors open as he bellowed at the soldiers to shift their arses; Dorian and Cassandra making it safely inside as Anders glanced over his shoulder.
There was fire, red lightning; a force blast that knocked Anders off his feet and threw him several yards. He lay stunned for a moment before he managed to slowly get up, rubbing the back of his head where it had hit the ground. He glanced around and saw Corypheus walking towards him.
He scrambled to his feet and felt for his staff and realised he must have lost it when the dragon hit. He backed away from the Elder One slowly, and then staggered to a halt as the archdemon swooped in to land directly behind him; it reared over him, and hot, fetid air reeking of sulphur and rot wafted over him, making him gag as it roared.
"Enough."
Anders turned to face Corypheus, his blood like ice in his veins as he stared at the ancient Tevinter magister, terrified.
"You... you were dead, we killed you!" he exclaimed. "You shouldn't be here - you can't be here!"
"Foolish child. You toy with forces beyond your ken. Think you that I am mortal? As you are?" Corypheus chuckled quietly, a disquieting sound. "No more."
"You died once," said Anders, straightening. "I know who you are, and I'm not afraid."
"Are you lying, or merely foolish?" smiled Corypheus. "No matter. I have seen into your heart before, child; I know how full of fear and darkness you are. Know me. Know what you have pretended to be." Corypheus fixed him with his stare. "Exalt the Elder One," he ordered. "The will that is Corypheus!"
The Elder One stalked slowly towards Anders. "You will kneel." he lifted something in his left hand - some kind of orb that lit up with dark red energies. "I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins now."
Corypheus gestured with his right hand, a bolt of red lightning firing from his palm to engulf Anders' left hand as the mark suddenly blazed with brilliant green light; Anders cried out as a jagged shard of pain tore down his arm from his hand. He felt his hand being drawn slowly towards that of Corypheus even as he clutched his wrist with his other hand and fought it.
"It is your fault, 'Herald'," said Corypheus. "You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose."
Anders took an unwilling step towards the creature, gritting his teeth against the pain racing down his arm from the palm of his hand.
"I do not know how you survived," continued Corypheus."But what marks you as 'touched', what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens."
The mark flared brighter and the pain sent Anders to his knees with a ragged scream. He doubled over, clutching his wrist as agony licked up his arm. He could hear the archdemon shifting around him, even as Corypheus continued.
"And you used the anchor to undo my work! The gall!"
"Why...did the Divine die?" Anders managed to choke out from between gritted teeth, lifting his head in spite of the pain. "For this chaos?"
"The 'chaos' will empower me," answered Corypheus. "And ensure we no longer beg at the feet of the invisible." The Elder One closed the distance between them, and then suddenly Anders felt bony, taloned fingers curl vice-like around his left wrist as he was hoisted into the air, feet kicking helplessly above the ground, forced to stare into the eyes of the monster as Corypheus glared at him. "I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more."
Anders kicked his feet desperately, but he may as well have been held by stone. His arm was screaming in agony, between the pain of the mark and the burning in his arm and shoulder from being wrenched up by the wrist.
"I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world," continued Corypheus. "Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the Gods, and it was empty!"
Abruptly, Corypheus hurled him away; Anders' back struck something hard, and he cried out before collapsing to the ground. His back was spasming in pain now, and he felt dizzy and sick from the wrenching, burning sensation in his hand. He managed to lift his head with difficulty to stare at Corypheus as the Elder One approached.
"The anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling. So be it; I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation - and the god - it requires."
Anders stared around himself blearily and realised that Corypheus had thrown him against one of the remaining catapults.
"And you. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die."
"I don't think so," said Anders with a grunt as he managed to haul himself to his feet. He turned and kicked hard at the catapult lever then leapt down as it fired. He began to sprint away as fast as he could, as high above he heard the rumbling of an avalanche starting to tear its way down the mountainside towards the vulnerable town below.
He ran desperately towards the treeline; the snow overtook him as he ran, and within a few steps he was swept off his feet and all was a dull roar of white and cold. It stole his breath and then his consciousness, and then he was falling.
Consciousness returned slowly. He was lying on his back, hard-packed earth and stones beneath him. It was bitterly cold. He opened his eyes and stared around himself.
He seemed to have fallen into some kind of vaulted chamber; possibly part of the chantry's cellars. The mark in his hand still flickered with fire, but it no longer burned as painfully; now, it was merely a dull throbbing ache in the palm of his hand.
As he slowly sat up, his back and shoulder protested painfully and he swore. He felt his shoulder with his right hand; thankfully nothing was broken or out of place - just badly wrenched. His mana had been restored somewhat whilst he was unconscious; he channelled a little healing into his shoulder, then his back, before getting slowly to his feet and looking around. He spotted a passageway leading out from the cellar; in lieu of any better ideas, he headed that way.
After a little wandering, he found another passageway. This one seemed older, the stone more worn; one end was closed off by snow and fallen rocks. He turned and started walking the other way, away from the rockfall. If he was lucky, maybe he'd discovered the passage the others had taken to flee.
He began to reconsider his luck - or rather, lack of it - when he stumbled out of the tunnel onto the snow-covered mountainside to find a blizzard blowing.
There were dim tracks as of a large number of people having passed this way; the snow was steadily filling them in. Clutching his cloak tightly around him, he tugged up his hood and bowed his head against the storm, and set off to try and find the others.
The snow was deep; it was over the top of his boots, and often he found himself floundering in drifts up to midthigh. The wind howled incessantly, driving the snow sideways then lashing it back into his face; the snow felt like pinpricks against his skin. He tugged his neck scarf up over his nose and mouth and pushed on.
He could barely see perhaps a few feet ahead, and the tracks left by the fleeing refugees from Haven were being rapidly lost beneath a deep layer of snow. All he could do was keep trudging onwards and hope he was going in the right direction. It was night; looking backwards, he couldn't even see the tunnel he had come out of.
He didn't dare shout in case enemies were around. All he could do was just keep going, putting one foot after the other, half-deafened by the scream of the wind.
He was beginning to grow chilled, even with the cloak on. The hem was becoming caked with snow, and the legs of his pants were soaked through; the wet fabric was wicking heat away from his body that he could ill afford to spare. He stood still for a moment to draw on his mana a little, tapping into fire magic enough to warm and dry his trousers and warm the fabric of his tunic. The heat wouldn't last, and he couldn't keep doing it for long - but it would keep him warm for a little while.
He couldn't see which way he was going; it was pitch dark now, the clouds overhead hiding the stars and moon from view. He called up a small globe of magelight. It cast a glowing white light that was reflected off the driving snow that still whipped all around him. He glanced back; the snow was swiftly filling in his tracks. He turned and headed on. To stand still would be to die; if he kept moving, he still might yet have some chance of finding the others. He wouldn't let himself think of what would happen if he didn't find them.
His world was reduced to a wall of white, the scream of the wind; one foot after the other, the cold biting through him.
He lost track of time out there in that blinding whiteness; deafened by the shriek of the wind, it took him some time to realise it was gone. He'd been staggering forward, one foot in front of the other, not looking up; now, as he slowly lifted his head, he realised the wind had dropped, and he was trudging through a stone-walled canyon, the snow drifted here high enough to make it more of an effort to force himself onwards. He was shivering hard, his body shuddering spasmodically, and his teeth were chattering. His toes felt numb; his hands weren't much better, for all he'd tucked them beneath his armpits.
And he was so, so tired. He thought he could see light ahead. Was that torchlight? He couldn't say. He was so cold, he couldn't even think straight, and Maker but he was so tired. He knew that he shouldn't lie down; if he did, he'd die there. But he wanted to; sweet Andraste did he want to.
He forced himself onwards, staggering through drifts that reached his waist in places. His foot caught on something, and he sprawled in the snow, breathless and chilled. It took him a little while to pull himself together and get back to his feet and stagger on, even more chilled before.
It took him longer to get to his feet the second time. The third time, he lay there, chilled to the bone, so cold he wasn't even shivering any more. A distant part of his mind knew that was bad. Dangerous. But he just wanted to lie still and rest. He felt snow settle on his face, and it didn't even feel cold anymore.
"There! It's him!" called a voice; it sounded like... Cullen?
"Thank the Maker!" That was Cassandra. They sounded almost frantic, but he was so tired, and it was so nice just lying here in the snow. It was like a soft, fluffy blanket covering him; it didn't even feel cold any more, and wasn't that so strange?
Arms around him, lifting him up; he opened his eyes to see Cullen staring down at him, worried.
He wanted to tell Cullen not to worry, but that would take more strength than he had left. He closed his eyes, and sank into darkness.
