Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed or followed me! Also, this chapter is a little shorter than normal, since otherwise it would've been very much longer than normal. The long portion will probably be following in a day.


Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine

The courtyard bustled with activity. The number of people surprised him. Every able-bodied person must be out to greet the king. Not that he had anything against the King, per se. All told he seemed to be a good king, as kings went. He had even raised a glass to him at some of the taverns, especially after hearing the man wasn't above having a pint or two himself. They'd also toasted to the Hero of Ferelden, the elven mage who slew the great dragon and stopped the blight. It seemed strange now, that he'd been toasting to Auria and hadn't even known it. His eyes kept returning toward the doors of the Keep, but she hadn't appeared yet.

He could've left now, he supposed. Slunk out while everyone was busy and before the king's outriders arrived. The thought had crossed his mind, as he had made his way down the cold, empty corridors of the Keep. The warrior woman (her name turned out to be Mhairi) had rushed off immediately after Auria. He could see hero-worship there already. It made him feel weary. Oghren had made no move to leave the roof, instead staring out into the distance as if he could see something Anders couldn't. He'd contemplated asking the dwarf about Alistair, but he didn't really want to hear the answers. The large belch Oghren gave after taking a long swig from his flask wasn't too inspiring, either. Had any darkspawn survived their onslaught, the waves of stench would've killed them.

It actually surprised him that there were no surviving darkspawn. He'd expected the creatures to jump out of the shadows at any moment, falling on them again when they were unaware. But he only passed the dead on his way down to the courtyard. Dead darkspawn, dead soldiers, dead men and women. Dead children. He closed his eyes as if he could shut out the sight, but it was still there, filling his mind's eye. No matter how much death he'd seen, and he'd seen more of it than he cared to remember in the past couple years, he could never get over seeing the crumpled, lifeless bodies of children. A spasm of anger ran through him.

"Aiyy!" the man he was healing yelped in shock, as Anders lost control of the spell, sending a surge of healing into the man's arm.

"Umm, sorry about that," Anders smiled, his mouth cocking to one side. "But see, all healed. Good as knew. Better, in fact." He demonstrated by bending the man's arm back and forth.

"You were brought in by the templars," the man said, his voice trembling, in fear or relief, Anders wasn't sure. The man was wearing what must've once been clean and sturdy clothes, plain, but serviceable. Now they were rent with tears, blood blackening in streaks down his left side.

"I was? Oh yes, I was. Great times. I'll miss them," Anders pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

"They're dead?" the man, probably a servant, whispered, backing away and almost tripping over another man lying prone behind him.

"Not by me," Anders exclaimed, and wondered how often he would have to repeat that.

"Sorcery and darkspawn!" The man drew some type of warding symbol in front of him, "You made them talk!"

"Wait till you see what I do for my next trick!" Anders replied, "It's a real showstopper."

The man turned and ran.

"That's alright, no need to thank me. I'll be here all week, giving free healing to the poor and ungrateful," Anders called after him.

"What'd you do, lift your dress?" Oghren's gruff voice chortled from behind him.

"I told him you were on your way down, and he just ran off. I can't imagine why."

"Heh. So funny I almost pissed myself."

"Is Auria here yet?" Anders heard himself ask, and wanted to snatch the words from the air.

"Oh, Auria, is it? Not Commander or Warden, but Aurrrria." Oghren sidled up close, giving him a belligerent glare as if he was the one with the towering height, "Don't think I don't know who you are, mage."

"I…What?"

Oghren gave a laugh that veered into drunkenness, "You're the one in the sodding skirt, that's what." He laughed again, wobbling a little. The laughter abruptly cut off. "I'm watching you." He glared with what Anders was already staring to think of as "The Berserker Stare" and then stomped off into the rain.

Anders watched him go, perplexed. Maybe the templars had killed him. Maybe he was having some sort of strange hallucinatory dream. This couldn't really be happening, could it? He'd woken up this morning in a reasonably normal world – chained and cold and hungry, expecting to be dragged back on the road in the all too familiar trek back to the circle. Now the templars were dead, the darkspawn were talking, Auria was back from the dead and he was being threatened by a drunken dwarf.

"Does this make any sense to you?" he asked the unconscious man he was healing. "No? Me either."

There was something wrong in all this. If the blight had been put down and there was no Archdemon, then where had that talking darkspawn come from? And how had he led the others so successfully, slaughtering or stealing away all the supposedly unbeatable Orlesian wardens? Anders shook his head. He really didn't want to be involved with this. He had other things to attend to. Urgent things. The thought of his phylactery being so close made his fingers twitch. What if they'd moved it already? What if he never made it back? Thoughts of the Free Marches came to his mind; warm hazel eyes, the soft scent of lavender, the fall of a tear as carefully sewn robes were pressed into his hands. No, if he was smart, he would've stolen some dead man's clothing and be off through the fields at this very moment.

Anders sighed. Today wasn't his day for being smart. Instead of saving himself, he'd gone straight to the makeshift infirmary set up just out of the rain and ruckus of the main courtyard. He'd never been able to walk away from an injury. Just one of his many failings, he thought wryly. A dog whimpered nearby, and Anders eyes searched through the driving rain. There. A mabari hound was dragging itself valiantly through the muck, an ear torn away and its back leg twisted. Anders ran to it with that strange twisting hope the blight had woken in him – that either none of the blood was the animal's, or that all of it was. Strange how he could find himself wishing for great gaping wounds. But better that than a small wound, with darkspawn blood leaching poisonously through the body. The dog whined and lay its large head on his shoes. Anders sighed. A little more muck and saliva to add to today's gore. He lowered his staff, letting the awareness of each wound flood into him. No, he couldn't walk away from an injury. Not even a dog's. That was how it all started, really.

His earliest memory was that of being coddled on his sister's lap. It was a happy memory, with a glow of warmth and the distinct feeling he could do no wrong. Sometimes he would still trot out that memory, like an old friend or a bottle of whiskey, to warm up lonely nights.

It had been night, he remembered, thick curtains drawn against the dark, and there had been singing and the scent of something delicious in the air. He had three sisters, but at that moment in time they were indistinct from one another, just images of softness and long curls and laughter. One of them – he'd never know which one – set him on the floor to go into the kitchen. As she left the room, she'd called out to Ms. Wilhelmina Longbottom (he also never knew which sister named her, although he supposed it didn't matter – the dog did have a particularly long bottom), but the dog didn't respond.

He liked to stop the memory there, or begin it again, trying to catch just what song they were singing, or pluck the exact fragrance that wafted from his sister's swirling skirts. But the memory didn't really end there. It carried on, his sister leaving the room, and he, himself turning toward their dog where she lay by the fireplace.

There was a feeling circling just out of reach, a current of something he didn't have a name or a word for at that age. It was as if the dog whined, but not out loud, or even in his head. The whine was on some other plane, an echo of it vibrating across his skin from the direction of the dog. He remembered everything about that moment; the plushness of the rug with its myriad of colors, the whining cry of his older brother complaining of being sent to bed when Anders was allowed up, the stomp of his father's boots on the stoop outside the door. All of it combined and froze as he reached their mabari. He stretched out his still chubby hands and rested them on her leg, the fur was coarse and the limb hot. He didn't know what he did, or what was wrong with her. He only knew that she hurt, and he wanted her not to hurt, and he wished with all of his four year old heart that she not hurt.

The moment broke; the front door opened, his brother pounded angrily up the stairs, and Ms. Wilhelmina Longbottom stood up and raced into the kitchen, yapping for her dinner. Anders was swooped up into his father's arms, laughing.

He didn't know what he'd done was different or miraculous until many months later, when he felt that tug for a second time. Only that time it wasn't a gentle current, but an overwhelming tide that threatened to wash him out to sea. Everything changed then, as if the ocean really had washed over his life and when it flooded back, nothing was as it had been. They'd left the clean, beautiful home he known all of his informative years, and moved to a feral place, with forbidding forests on one side and craggy hills that led to the sea on the other. Andraste's tits, but he'd hated that forest.

The dog licked his hand, its wet, warm tongue dripping saliva over his fingers and snapping him out of the memory.

"Thanks for that," Anders told it.

The dog barked and ran a circle around him.

"Properly grateful, and you don't care that I'm a mage," Anders paused. Hoofbeats. The dog leaned against his side, warm in the cold rain. It was probably getting fur all over his robes, but he supposed it didn't matter now, what with the rain and the blood and the dirt that covered him. He considered. Maybe Auria knew a spell to get blood out of clothes. He hadn't been able to perfect one yet.

The sounds of an approaching army were clear now. They must be miserable, riding through this weather. He wondered if they knew yet what awaited them here at the Keep. Welcome! Death, death and more death. Help yourself.

Although – with the King present they'd be sure to have a feast of some kind. Anders' stomach rumbled. It was mandatory, kingly protocol and all. The seneschal was probably ordering the cook about at this very moment. Or maybe a scullery maid. There must be someone left who knew how to cook, Anders thought optimistically. And the darkspawn wouldn't have hurt the foodstores, they didn't do that. Of course, they didn't talk either. Maybe he'd check for poison, just in case.

The outriders sloshed through the gates, the clopping of their horses' hooves sending showers of mud and water over the few people waiting eagerly for a look at the king. Anders hid a laugh. The man who'd run off was among them. The dog left him to race over to the horses, barking excitedly.

"Oh hound, how fickle thou art," Anders said dramatically. He looked around. There was no one there to hear him.

Just then a horn blared with what only Fereldens could think of as any kind of musical anthem, and impressively, the King rode in on a large horse, its black mane striking against its dun coat. The color of the horse set the King's golden armor off nicely. He wondered if the horse had been chosen for just that reason. The King dismounted before anyone could run to help him, but then just stood there, stock still, as if the rain had rusted the joints of his armor together. Anders followed his line of vision. Auria.

She stood, as if rain weren't pouring down soaking her, back straight and face somber. Her intricately carved staff was in her hand, the bottom planted firmly at her feet, like a walking stick. Somewhere along the line she'd taken the time to re-sling her sword, the scabbard now hanging at her hip. She stood out from all the eager people milling about, like some exotic elven queen. Awaiting her king, Anders thought, surprised at the bitter flavor of his thoughts.

The seneschal and a few servants were wading out into the rain to greet the King, but moments before they reached him, Alistair began to walk forward. His strides quickened, becoming a trot and then almost a run. Anders eyes went to Auria. He couldn't read her face, not at this distance. But he could see the moment she decided to move, some emotion breaking through the implacable expression she wore. She ran forward and was embraced in the King's arms.

Anders felt a wave of nausea roll over him that had nothing to do with the stench of bloodied, maimed bodies strewn around him. He turned away, toward his patients.

"You!" he motioned to a man a few lengths away, staring opened mouthed at the King. "We need to get these people inside, out of the storm."

"But, but, the King!" the man motioned.

"Yes, there's the King. I doubt he's going anywhere in the next ten minutes. You can stand around and gawk at him then. Unless you think he'd like to know his subjects died, just because you wanted a good look at royalty."

The man looked around, as if trying to seek someone to get him out of the task. Instead the only surviving medic pinned him with a glare. "You heard the mage, get some men together and get the injured inside."

Anders and the medic shared a nod, healer to healer. People needed him here. At least he could ease their suffering. He closed his eyes, focusing on the job at hand.

He didn't see as Rylock rode in through the gate, her eyes fervently scanning over survivors.