Hold Back the Tide ~~ Part Two
"You want me to be a test subject? You have no idea where I'll end up!" Zevran protested. "I am no coward but neither am I a fool!"
"That is debatable."
At Morrigan's caustic remark, Zevran raised a brow but remained silent as he studied the elven artifact that looked like nothing more than a mirror in an ornately carved frame. If he wasn't desperate to relay his news, he would laugh at the notion of the mirror, but he had seen enough mysterious things in his travels not to dismiss the idea out of hand.
Finally, she spoke again. "Wait for a ship then. 'Twill take no more than three days."
Zevran eyed the murky surface of the mirror suspiciously. "Have you traveled anywhere using this Eluvian? Have you communicated with anyone using it? I believe you require green lyrium for its use, no?"
"My, my, such a brave assassin you are. All those questions. Shall I assume you wish to travel by ship, then?"
"I wish to travel by dragon but since you are not able to accommodate me, I will use this Eluvian and hope that you know what you're doing."
All hauteur fell away and Zevran once again saw the younger, more vulnerable Morrigan emerge. "'Tis safe, Zevran. You have my word on it."
"Keep Anora here until I return for her and don't let her speak to anyone."
"I shall see it done."
With a nod, he forced himself to step up to the Eluvian, aware now of a low humming sound. He looked more deeply into the gray mist and thought he saw a dimly lit room. With a sigh, he stepped into the mirror.
Falling through a swirling darkness, he bit his cheek to keep from crying out. The sensation of being utterly alone in the dark was suffocating, even as the whirling mass threatened to crush his chest. He struggled to remember how to breathe, arms and legs flailing helplessly.
He continued to fall, reaching out for some kind of handhold to slow his descent but there was nothing except the dark fog. A high, thin wail permeated the darkness, the rushing of wind through and around him as he seemed to hurtle down the long, dark shaft.
Until he landed with a bone-jarring thud on a dusty wooden floor.
His head snapped back and he tasted blood where his teeth had clamped down on his lip. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he looked around the deserted room.
Instantly taking in the shabbiness of the poorly constructed hovel, he realized he was in an Alienage. There was no mistaking the dilapidated and warped wood or the underlying odor of years of accumulated filth and despair.
He scrambled to his feet, brushing off the dirt as he continued to peruse the room. His eye caught the Eluvian, now just an ordinary-looking mirror with a foggy surface. Touching it produced no movement or sound but it was disconcertingly warm under his fingertips. He withdrew his hand.
"As transportation goes it may be quick, but I don't altogether recommend it," he muttered, shaking his head as the last of the wooziness left him.
He had taken only one step into the adjoining room when he was thrown onto the floor by a blast. In the moment it took him to gather his scattered wits and stand up again, he knew was too late to stop whatever Flemeth had planned.
"Braska!" he growled, dashing out of the building and into chaos.
~~~oOo~~~
A curious silence followed the initial explosion, as if the very air had been sucked up into the heavens, leaving a vacuum in its wake. An utter cessation of sound that was both oppressive and unearthly.
It truly wasn't silent, Anya realized, merely the effect of the explosion's concussive wave on her eardrums. Just as the slowing down of all motion was not real but a distortion created by shock. As she watched the scene she felt as if she had somehow stepped out of synchronization with the world around her, an observer of a distant scene. It was, she thought slowly, as if the world had been plunged into a deep ocean and she was reminded of the time she and Nathaniel had jumped into the sea to save themselves.
"A n y a!"
She blinked, aware now of a steady drip of blood from her forehead and what felt like a thousand small stings. She shook her head and swiped at the blood, inadvertently dragging a small splinter of glass across her skin. She looked down dumbly to discover a sliver of the shattered window imbedded in her palm and reached to remove it.
Distortion warped her sight as she watched Fenris struggle to stand, his movements exaggerated and painfully slow. His markings were flaring … blue flickers of light that seemed to blur his skin and she felt the bite of panic begin to gnaw at her.
"A n y a!" an unrecognizable voice, muffled and distant, called to her. She felt as though her limbs and mind were disconnected from each other and she blinked, trying to bring the room into focus.
With a disorienting snap that left her feeling nauseous, sound and movement coalesced and went forward at a normal pace. Her stomach lurched and her head cried out in protest. And with that sudden clarity, she realized everyone in the room was yelling.
"Quiet!" she shouted, struggling to stand.
Voices fell silent as she surveyed her uncooperative brace, but it was a temporary silence. Orsino, carefully picking glass from his robes, cursed Meredith in surprisingly graphic terms. Meredith remarked bitterly that such an explosion could only be the work of mages.
To her surprise, Bran's voice cut through the vitriol, clipped and calm. "Margaret and Flynne, you are to restrain these two by any methods necessary. I have a city to protect and I won't have these two fomenting hate and hysteria when what we need is order and reason."
Without a word, both mages created glyphs around the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter that seemed to freeze them in place, effectively silencing them. The silence was broken by the sounds of a city in shock, a low thrum of noise that ebbed and flowed like a tide coming ashore.
"I am sure I heard a secondary blast," Fenris said into the sudden silence. "Mere seconds after the first. Farther away," he added quietly.
The door opened and Aveline entered, her face as pale as chalk, her eyes wide and blank. It was a look Anya was familiar with; she had seen it often in her capacity as a commander. Shock.
Anya's heart immediately went out to her as she remembered that Donnic had been in the chantry, as had several of Margaret's friends.
"Oh, Maker," Aveline murmured, reaching out to take Anya's hands. "Oh, Maker, I'm so sorry, Commander," the guard captain whispered. "And Varric. Oh, Maker," she repeated in a dazed manner.
Confused, Anya shook her head. "I – I don't know what …" she trailed off and tried again, comprehension filtering in through the shock. "Where was the explosion?" she finally asked around a mouth gone dry.
"My aide told me that they'd gone to search the … I … the first explosion was in the marketplace but there was a second explosion … another one … how could we have … I … the templar barracks at the Gallows is gone but it was … the explosion … I don't see how anyone even near the Gallows could have survived."
Her mind felt as fragmented as the shattered windows, as disjointed as Aveline's speech. From the strength of the concussive shockwave she had been convinced that the chantry had exploded. The market and the templar barracks wouldn't create martyrs but murderers. Meredith wouldn't need to declare the Right of Annulment, the citizens of Kirkwall would demand it.
And then her brain began a litany of denial and a low thin wail of fear that coursed through her, like the burble of water flowing in a rocky streambed. "No," it whispered as it gathered speed and volume inside her.
Maybe Nathaniel and Varric hadn't made it that far; they had probably gone by way of the Hanged Man. Yes, surely they were there, enjoying a pint before going on to the Gallows. A tightness in her chest grew until she was unable to expand her lungs. Breathing seemed impossible, her heart refused to beat in any sort of rhythm.
"Guard-Captain Aveline, put all your troops on the streets to calm the crowds. Send as many as you deem safe to the Gallows. Send someone to the chantry. I want Elthina here immediately," Bran instructed, moving to stand by Anya. "Send as many non-mage healers as you can spare to the market. Let the mages take care of the templars."
Crouching down beside her, his eyes not without sympathy, he spoke directly to her. "I need your assistance, Commander Caron. We are still only a hairsbreadth from a war between templars and mages."
"Howe. It's Commander Howe," she corrected around the stinging pain of unshed tears, while inside the whispered voice of denial continued relentlessly.
As one part of her denied Nathaniel's death, another accepted her duty with a preternatural calm. She allowed the viscount to help her to her feet. Her eyes traveled the room before resting on Margaret, who was as pale and shaky as Anya felt. Varric had been everyone's friend, but more so Margaret's. Fenris had an arm firmly around Margaret, his voice a soft ripple of comfort.
"I am at your command, Viscount Bran," Anya managed. "I would prefer to go directly to the Gallows. We'll need to stem any unrest, search for survivors, and find healers. We can't afford to keep Flynne and Margaret here to babysit these two," she said, indicating Meredith and Orsino, still held in some sort of magical stasis.
Numbness was seeping into her, deadening the pain and allowing her thoughts to clear. It came to her that she was two separate people at that moment. One was a woman who thought and felt and the other was one who spoke and acted. She heard her voice and felt a stranger to it.
"I recommend draining Orsino's mana, putting manacles on his wrists to prevent any use of blood magic, and throwing both of them in the keep's dungeons where the only damage they can do is to each other's egos," she said, sending a contemptuous look in their direction.
"Perhaps gagging them would be a good idea," Margaret added quietly. She offered Anya a watery smile. Anya gave a slight nod, unable to smile, unable to blink, afraid to allow her tears to form lest they never cease.
She hobbled in the direction of the door, trying to find the strength to open it and confront her worst fears. Flynne stepped in front of her and she felt his healing wave slide across her nerves, softening the pain in her hip and leg, soothing the rough burn of the cut on her forehead. He wound a bandage around her hand and cast another healing spell. She felt the torn flesh mending as he whispered his magic.
"Bloody oath," Carver hissed as he centered his greatsword on his back. A deep gash on his cheek was already scabbing over from the healing his sister was performing, his hair dark against a white bandage. "Was everything we did for nothing?"
It felt that way and the sense of loss, of hopelessness, flooded through her and turned her knees to water. She wanted to sink onto the floor and kick and scream her anger and grief.
"It doesn't matter what's happened, as long as we can prevent an outbreak of violence," she said, trying desperately to believe it, but inside she was dying one heartbeat at a time.
Outside the streets were seething with people streaming out of their homes and businesses, a low thrum of voices growing louder as Anya pushed through the growing crowds. The air was thick with dust and smoke and discontent.
Surveying the scene, she could only hope that the city guard quashed the voices calling for death to the mages before the sea of angry people swept across the bay to the Gallows and started a war they could not hope to win. She plucked her bow from her back and wished she had put more arrows in her quiver than the dozen or so she normally carried.
Two events occurred simultaneously that chased her thoughts away. Elthina, immaculate in her habit, her face serene, walked through the crowds, her hands blessing all those she passed. Behind her were Donnic and the others, their faces pale with shock.
Before Anya could move forward to implore Elthina to placate the crowd, a voice spoke to her, whispering in her ear. "Please tell me the Eluvian didn't cause this," Zevran said, seeming to materialize out of the dust-laden air.
~~~oOo~~~
Morrigan surveyed Anora's body with no surprise. "I suppose this is Leliana's work. Such a foolish notion, Mother, that you can control knowledge of the green lyrium. The more you try to suppress it the more the information will seep out. How many do you think you can kill?"
Flemeth materialized from the darkest corner of the room, her eyes glowing with humor. "As many as necessary, my child."
Anger tightened in Morrigan's chest and her eyes narrowed. "Arrogant to the bitter end. I cannot imagine why I have feared you for so many years."
"You fear anything you can't control, Morrigan, just as your dear mama does."
"'Tis not control I want, Mother, 'tis merely freedom. Away from you, away from this," she added with a sweeping gesture.
Gold eyes met gold eyes, the air charged. Morrigan felt the hair at her nape rise and she repressed the shiver that wanted to ripple through her. Any sign of weakness on her part would be ruthlessly exploited by her mother, she had no doubt.
"And let all past injustices be forgotten?" Flemeth taunted, shaking her head with mocking disappointment. "I truly thought you cleverer than that, my dear. You have both the right and the talent to seize whatever you choose yet you choose … nothing. I can only assume that's your father's weakness coming out."
Words. They were just another wave of words splashing over her and nothing to cause the hurt inside her. With a casual shrug, Morrigan turned away. "'Tis of no concern, Mother. Kill whomever you like for whatever reasons you like, but do not involve me."
A harsh shout of laughter burst from her mother. "Oh, you are delightfully more me than your father. Haven't you any desire at all to know who he was?"
Without turning around, Morrigan shook her head. The dark lace of her gown shifted as she walked away, a delicate swish of silk against her legs. There seemed nothing more to say.
"Events are in play that can't be stopped, Morrigan. Whatever you choose now will be permanent. Do you understand?"
"Enough, Mother! I have chosen."
"But so unwisely, my child, as ever you do. Such a waste of talent."
Morrigan paused, the prickle of unease dusting her neck again, like fingers from the past. Then she quietly shut the door and continued down the dark hall in search of Raoul.
And what she hoped had been the right choice.
~~~oOo~~~
Varric hadn't meant to moan. He knew it would hurt to open his eyes and he was right, but he certainly hadn't meant to moan. He blinked, staring up at the sky, which had become oddly red in hue. And he didn't understand the notion of being as deaf as stone, but perhaps that was the dwarf in him, because stone definitely made more noise than the soft, flat sound of a moan. He'd heard that. Hadn't he?
He meant to sit up and search for Bianca, who was, strangely enough, not on his back where she belonged. Shit, his face hurt. It felt as if he'd run face first into a gooseberry bush. He struggled to sit up and finally made it, only to feel a hand curled around his shoulder. Without hesitation he reached for the wrist attached to that hand and twisted, surprised to hear the weakest little grunt. For emphasis, he twisted until he felt a sharp point nestled between his shoulders.
"Unhand me at once, Serah Varric, before I am forced to violence."
Shit. Why was Cullen whispering to him? Where was Bianca? He blinked. And where was Nate? He blinked again, frustrated by the red haze in the air that made everything appear bloody. And why the hell did his face feel like raw meat must feel after it went through a meat grinder?
"You must remain calm," Cullen said slowly, in that maddening way people spoke to the old, the deaf, and the infirm. As he was none of those, he felt more than a little offended.
"I am calm, you tin-plated idiot!" Varric yelled in response, although he did note how oddly hollow his voice sounded, like he had a head cold.
Repulsed, he realized he was tasting the coppery tang of blood and took a swipe at his mouth, spitting in disgust.
"Mage! See to this man!" Cullen commanded, waving his sword at an older woman in the robes of a tower mage. "Healing magic only."
That was definitely odd. Hadn't he come to the Gallows with Nate on some clandestine intrigue of some sort? Varric felt a flicker of magic whisk across his cheek and then his nose.
He looked around the damp cloth now brushing along his face and stared up at Knight-Captain Cullen, whose face looked a lot like skimmed milk. "What's going on?"
Cullen frowned down at him as if he was some kind of blithering idiot, which he admitted to himself he certainly might be. He blinked and looked around again, fighting the odd urge to yawn and yawn. He finally gave in and when he did, his ears were suddenly assaulted by what he had thought was the murmur of wind through the Gallows but was actually about a thousand people talking at the top of their lungs.
He looked around now that the red haze was gone and felt his stomach try to change places with his boots. The Templar's Hall was a smoking ruin, charred and gaping open. He wouldn't have wanted to be in there when the bomb went off, he thought, wondering if there was a god somewhere he should thank.
Or there, he thought dazedly, looking across the teaming courtyard where the Mage's Tower listed badly, its windows obliterated. He heard the high thin wail of grief and the sound of stone hitting stone, of metal grinding, and farther away he heard a voice calling for help.
Varric was uncharacteristically silent as memory leaked into his battered brain. "Where's Nate?" he asked suddenly, panic looming inside.
"Be still, friend, until the healer is finished," Cullen replied with enough sympathy in his voice to chill Varric's blood.
He pushed the healer aside and stood on shaky legs, his eyes darting around the courtyard. Bianca was thirty feet away, atop a small pile of stone, looking battered but unbroken. He strode over to her and picked her up gently, caressing the smooth wood, now covered in a composite of ash, soot and pulverized stone.
His eyes continued moving but other than another large pile of stone, he saw only a few sheet-covered bodies and the detritus he'd expect to see from an explosion.
"Nate?" Varric whispered, throat gone dry and scratchy. "Nate!" he yelled, knowing there would be no answer.
"I have someone digging him out now but we hold no hope, my friend. The mage's healing spells will not penetrate stone."
"Where?" Varric demanded, moving on wobbly legs to his beloved Bianca.
He knew when he saw the leather scrap that whatever they found could not possibly have survived the blast. He should not have let Nathaniel enter the guardhouse. Damn it, he should have done it himself. Tears washed the soot from his eyes and he blinked them away as he knelt down beside a templar who was pulling away small chunks of the façade of a building.
"A little more help!" he cried out but knew everyone else was doing exactly what he was … hoping beyond hope that they would find survivors in amongst the rubble.
~~~oOo~~~
Elthina's expression was both serene and resolute. "Viscount Bran, I implore you to release Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino immediately. Their talents are sorely needed in this troubling time."
Bran glanced at Aveline, who was assigning a contingent of guards to the Alienage where fighting had broken out between the elves and a group of Low Towners who were using the chaos as an excuse to fuel old prejudices. She gave a minute shake of her head before turning her attention to Donnic. She sent him to patrol the eastern edge of the Alienage and the adjacent corner of Low Town, ordering Sebastian and Merrill to follow him.
"Keep the crowds from the docks and from here. We need to get a handle on this," she instructed. And again she shook her head, an almost imperceptible signal that neither Meredith nor Orsino should be allowed to leave the keep.
She was right. There was enough confusion and disorder at the moment. The last thing they needed was to add to it by letting those two rabid agitators out into the masses. "I regret I am unable to do so at this time, Your Eminence," he said quietly. "We must restore order first."
The templars guarding Elthina moved toward him, hands on the hilts of their swords and Bran's heart slammed into his ribs. "I must insist," he said firmly, willing his feet to hold their ground.
"Alas, I must also insist," Elthina said and her warm grey eyes became cold and implacable, sending a frisson of fear along his spine.
"I cannot allow that, as much as it pains me, Grand Cleric Elthina. Now, if you will excuse us, we are trying to minimize the –"
"But I won't excuse you. Such ill manners," she chided and with a nod to her escort of templars, she moved inexorably toward the keys hanging from the guard captain's waist.
Aveline drew her sword and backed away, her eyes swinging between Bran and the grand cleric. "Do what you must. You have my full support," he told her and she nodded, her sword coming to bear on the grand cleric's chest.
"How foolish of you, Bran dear," Elthina said in a voice gone treacle sweet. "You leave me no choice."
Pain exploded in his head and he fell to his knees, his stomach immediately rebelling and his eyes blurring. Aveline's low-pitched scream was a jarring note in a room that was otherwise quiet. He blinked, trying to clear away the encroaching darkness and then blinked again as he saw Aveline fall to the ground, her eyes wide and sightless, a look of shock still registering, even in death. It was the last thing he saw before the darkness overwhelmed him.
~~~oOo~~~
"Are you implying there is someone here in Kirkwall whose task it is to cause trouble?" Anya's fear ignited and she struggled to control it before it took control of her thought processes. "So, there is Flemeth, the Divine and a third person, at the least?"
"So Morrigan claims. It makes sense, yes? So much unrest here, so many plagues visited on the city over the past few years," Zevran replied with a shrug.
An echo of Anders's shout about the triumvirate blasted through the numbing fear. Had he been right? Or was it a coincidence that he had claimed to be controlled by an unnamed trio? Her voice was a paper-thin whisper when she voiced her thought. It seemed impossibly diabolical and far-fetched. But there was a ring of truth in it.
"Perhaps Anders was an easy conduit after he allowed Justice in. Maybe he did corrupt this spirit into that raging Vengeance demon. Or maybe not. With his death went the answer to that question, no?" the assassin continued, urging them forward.
To her dismay, the unrest seemed to be growing steadily worse as they pushed through crowds demanding retribution for the destruction of their city. A growing swell of anti-mage support grew with it. Anya's fervent prayers for the safety of Nathaniel and Varric were augmented with prayers for the safety of the citizens of Kirkwall. Any control they had striven for was unraveling as they made their way towards the docks for a boat across to the Gallows.
"So you're saying Flemeth and the Divine are in some crazy plot to harvest green lyrium? What has that got to do with Kirkwall?" Carver asked, his voice unnaturally loud in a sudden lull of noise.
They had paused in the back allies of Low Town to let a mob surge past them. Anya silently cursed their slow progress. Even with the men clearing a path, there was sporadic fighting that hampered their advancement and she was half hobbling, half hopping with odd little skips as she tried to force her hip and leg to a faster pace. And all the while she listened to the fantastical plot Zevran was explaining.
"Feels like we're just bloody puppets to some damned witch and her cronies," Carver interjected, a low rumble of anger and discontent reverberating in his voice.
Anya silently agreed. Beyond the despair of being played for fools, though, was the bleak cold that chilled her blood at the thought of Nathaniel. She had hoped to catch up with him by now, safe and making his way back to Viscount's Keep, but so far they had found only the flowing masses of the angry mobs.
"It was the perfect city to start a mage rebellion," Margaret said as she started forward again, urging them to follow. "The history, the number of blood mages and demon infestations and possessions."
"Or were those all part of Flemeth's plans?" Fenris asked. "She was uncanny and frightening when we encountered her on Sundermount."
Anya limped along, hopping and skipping to keep up with the others, her cane and brace discarded in the hope that she would be faster without them.
"Bloody oath! Hang on, Commander," Carver growled and scooped Anya up in his arms.
He set off in a bone-jarring jog, a vanguard for the others as he pushed his way through the crowds. He didn't stop until they were at a dock with several small boats bobbing in the water.
"Hey, lookit! Thems is mages!" someone shouted and the crowd inched forward.
Carver stood Anya on her feet and withdrew his greatsword in one fluid movement. Taking her bow from her back, she nocked an arrow and aimed it at the small man in front who'd spoken. She felt the others around her preparing for battle as the crowd pushed relentlessly towards them. She didn't want to hurt anyone but neither would she allow her people to be hurt.
"Stand back or you will die," she ordered, glaring at the man who was egging the crowd on. He shifted, his dark eyes flicking from Carver's glinting sword to her arrow to Fenris's sword. She felt, rather than saw, Flynne and Margaret move silently behind Carver. Zevran had already merged into the shadows.
"We kin takes 'em right 'nough!" the man boasted, drawing a knife and passing it from one hand to the other as he crouched. "C'mon boys, let's get us some mages!"
Quickly lowering her aim, she released her arrow and watched as it narrowly missed the agitator's foot. He danced back and she quickly pulled another arrow from her quiver, this one aimed at his gullet. "Stand down or die!" she shouted, drawing back on her bowstring.
His howl of dissent was cut short as Zevran appeared behind him, knife in hand. He grabbed the man's greasy brown hair and pulled, exposing a grimy neck. "I believe she means what she says, my good man."
The leader's voice shook slightly as he licked dry lips and muttered, "Aw, they ain't werf the trouble. Let's us go somewheres else."
"I implore you to return to your homes. It is too dangerous to be out on the streets!" Margaret called, stepping out and approaching the crowd. A hush settled over them and then a whisper became a roar as she was recognized.
"It's the bleedin' Champion!" someone in the back shouted. "She'll settle this right quick, she will!"
Within moments the horde dissipated like fog beneath the glare of the sun. The rush of adrenaline that had fueled Anya evaporated and she found herself shaking. "Maybe you need to return to the keep, Margaret, and help Bran control the mobs in Hightown."
The mage raised a golden brow before shaking her head. "No, the city guard should be able to handle it. There's no telling what we'll find at the Gallows and you may need my healing."
How had the crowd known there were mages in her group? Neither Margaret nor Flynne wore the customary robes of a mage. Margaret wore an ordinary, if richly embroidered, gown of blue silk and Flynne wore leather armor. Were there minions of Flemeth in the crowd to ensure unrest? Her mind felt as if it had tumbled into a whirlwind. Was anyone who they seemed?
Unable to speak around tightness in her chest, Anya instead knelt and began to untie a small boat. A sailor ran forward to help and then they were pushing away from the dock, heading for the Gallows.
Smoke rose in a ghostly haze, making it impossible to determine how much damage had been done. As they neared the Gallows docks, she heard the low keening cries and the sounds of metal ringing on stone. She shivered, terrified to discover what was hidden by the shroud of smoke.
Behind her came a rousing shout that sounded like a battle cry. She glanced over her shoulder to see an armada of ships moving away from the Lowtown docks and streaming towards the Gallows. She urged her boatman to greater speeds, knowing the futility of such urging. How had the crowds managed to secure so many boats?
A glint of sun striking metal shimmered like a signal flare and then another caught her eye, and another. Her breath caught in her throat and her vocal chords felt paralyzed. She grasped Zevran's hand and he looked at her and then followed her gaze. A templar's banner fluttered and caught the wind, unfurling boldly.
"My old friend Sten would say this is a good day to die. I, however, disagree," he stated.
His courage fired hers, burning away the wisps of fear that had tethered her tongue. "Hurry!" she yelled and then reached out for the sailor's spyglass. It took precious seconds for her to focus as they bobbed across the water.
"Meredith! What was Bran thinking?" she exclaimed, handing the spyglass to Zevran.
"Let us hope, my dear Anya, that Bran is still able to think, yes? Look who stands beside her."
She took the proffered tube and held it to her eye. "Elthina?" she gasped, disbelieving.
"Well that bloody figures. Didn't she always have a hand in everything?" Carver said with a low growl of disgust.
They were rapidly approaching the Gallows docks and Anya's brain was feverishly sorting through strategies. "Carver, as soon as we land, find a templar your size and take his armor by any means necessary. Fenris, you do the same. Stay close to Elthina and Meredith. If you get close enough and think you can do so, kill them."
And with that, their craft bumped into the dock and they climbed out, Carver lifting Anya out and then sprinting away to do as ordered. She moved forward through the hazy smoke and dust, calling out for Nathaniel as she went.
What she found was Varric, with a gaping wound that slashed across his nose and one cheek. He was covered in soot and blood and dust, clawing through a pile of debris. Beside him was a healer trying to staunch the flow of blood on his cheek and Cullen, who was directing mages and a surprising number of templars in relief efforts.
"Champion! Commander! Thank the Maker! We are in desperate need of help!" Cullen exclaimed, waving a gauntleted hand around the courtyard. "We're fortunate that most of the templars were out on training maneuvers when the bomb was detonated."
But Anya wasn't listening, she was down on her knees beside Varric, helping to remove the debris. "Nathaniel?" she asked, her voice hoarse and choked. She quickly took off her quiver and bow and then her steel reinforced leather gauntlets.
"I'm so sorry, Anya," Varric muttered brokenly and then he shoved at the mage's hands as the mage began a spell. "Stop, already! Just put a bandage on it and go away!"
Without a word, the mage did as she was told and then stepped back. Margaret knelt beside Anya, her voice calm and bracing when she spoke. "You need to explain to Cullen what's happening, Anya. And quickly. The others will be here soon."
"Zevran can do that, just help me! Please," she begged, her heart splintering.
"Anya, we need you focused on the task at hand. Zevran, tell her," Margaret pleaded.
"She's right, my dear. As trite as it sounds this is bigger than one man. Come, now, and command us," he said compellingly, his hand on her shoulder strong.
She shook his hand off and returned to her task, tears mixing with ash and dust to form muddy tracks. Help me, help me, Maker. A litany, a liturgical appeal to a creator she wasn't sure existed, but the thought of Nathaniel crushed beneath the rock was more than she could bear.
She redoubled her efforts, commanding others to help, unaware that in her haste that she'd ripped off several fingernails, oblivious to pain. And still her prayer droned on in her head. Help me, help me, Maker.
Her breath came in panting little sobs and she threw her head back and howled at the inequity of it, of the injustice of Nathaniel's death. And through the melody of her prayer was the ever-present counterpoint: No, no, no, no!
Zevran lifted her away and demanded that the healer do something about Anya's bloody hands. Anya blinked and looked down at them in surprise, unaware of any pain except that of her heart breaking. Zevran's arms came around her and held her tightly even as she struggled to resume her digging.
"Leave it! Meredith and her warriors have arrived!" he commanded and shook her until her head ached. "Look at Cullen, Anya. He's confused, he doesn't know who or what to believe." He gave her another shake. "You know that if Margaret casts any spell in Meredith's direction she will be struck down. Now focus, my dear. No matter how much it hurts to do otherwise, you must stop the bloodshed."
She kept forgetting to breathe and she sucked in a deep breath now, her heart racing, her mouth dry, her mind reeling. Finally she cleared her throat and spoke quickly, hoping the urgency in her voice compelled Cullen to help them.
"These bombs were not the work of the mages here, Cullen, nor the Mage Underground. There is a bigger plot at hand, one that reaches across Thedas, from Weisshaupt to Nevarra to Orlais and beyond. Meredith, Elthina and Orsino are all involved in it."
She fought an urge to laugh, hysteria so close to the surface she felt it oozing from her. Who could believe such a tale? She met his skeptical gaze and redoubled her efforts, reaching deep inside herself for the calm, resolute commander. She took a deep, steadying breath and recited everything she knew and by the end of it, Cullen's pallor had increased until he appeared as white as a chantry taper.
"But she's my commander and more importantly, Grand Cleric Elthina supersedes her. I cannot turn my back on an order issued by either one of them. I am a templar, above all other considerations, Commander, and I will do my duty."
Desperation fueled Anya's words. "Cullen, you were at the mage tower in Ferelden when it fell to the corruption of demons because the templars threatened the very existence of mages. If you fall into line with Meredith, you will have a catastrophe of greater proportions here. How can you possibly want that again?"
Behind her she could hear Meredith's metal sabatons striking the stone steps as she made her way up from the docks to the courtyard, as well as the resounding echo of marching soldiers.
Margaret spoke now, her voice surprisingly calm and almost sweet. "Cullen, you know the men here think the world of you and will follow your orders. They know you are fair and honorable. We all know Meredith has become more and more unstable. Please be guided by Anya. She is telling the truth."
As the troops moved closer, panic skittered and scrabbled through Anya, leaving her cold and shaky. She cast a silent appeal to Cullen and saw that he was processing what she said before he finally spoke. "I must at least hear what she has to say, so I can make no promises, Commander Anya. But I will not allow the Right of Annulment to be carried out if she orders it. I will not be a party to such a slaughter."
"Ah, Champion. I might have known you would be here. Come to see what your mage friends have done?" Meredith asked, voice dripping with contempt.
Anya stepped in front of Margaret, her eyes fastened on the deep blue eyes of Meredith. Madness stared back at her and she reached for her ceremonial sword, the snicker of metal sliding along her scabbard loud in the sudden silence. She allowed her gaze to flit from one templar to another as they gathered around their commander, spotting both Carver and Fenris immediately.
"You know, it occurs to me that neither you nor Orsino brought your weapons with you to the keep today. And your sword, a gift from the Divine, has a quantity of red lyrium in it. Red lyrium is highly volatile, is it not? I will assume that Orsino received a similar item." Anya remarked, flexing her sword as she waited for an answer.
"What has that to do with anything?" Meredith asked, her eyes narrowed in surprise.
"What indeed? We found Anders's bomb and disarmed it. Before he died, when he had no reason to lie, he confessed to that one bomb, but said there were other, more powerful people involved. Who could be more powerful than Elthina or you?"
"Are you mad?" the woman screamed, her face flushed with fury. "Cullen, take her into custody, and the Champion as well. I will tolerate no more interference from civilians! Once that's done, prepare the troops for the Right of Annulment. Grand Cleric Elthina agrees with me that it is the only way to prevent more bloodshed."
Anya's grip on her sword tightened and she took a step away from the group. "There will be no Right of Annulment on these mages. They are innocent and under my protection," Anya claimed, nodding to Carver and Fenris. The men stepped forward, one on either side of Elthina.
"I am sure the Grand Cleric will reconsider her decision," Anya said calmly, moving closer again. "Margaret, can you and Flynne assist with the healing?"
"Of course, Commander."
"Belay that! I won't have mages running loose! Seize them!" Meredith shrieked.
As several templars stepped forward, so did Cullen. His expression was apologetic but his voice reasonable and confident. "Let them go, Knight-Commander. Their services are sorely needed. They are not a threat unless we drive them to it."
Her eyes swung to her second in command and she let out a scream of fury, her sword point wavering as she retrained it on Cullen. Before she said anything, Orsino moved through the crowd, his hands still cuffed, his eyes awash in tears.
"Stop, Meredith, and consider what we have already lost this day. Do not add to it, I beg you."
Anya opened her mouth to speak but Elthina, her arms raised, shouted, "To the Void with you all! Martyr the mages!" As she spoke, she raised her arms and began to chant, her voice oddly mellifluous as she conjured up a fireball and sent it hurtling into the crowd of mages and templars.
Immediately the air filled with the smell of charred flesh and the screams of the dead and dying. Before she could cast again, Margaret and Flynne each aimed a spell at the grand cleric, sending her staggering back and then Carver's sword was slicing through the woman. She fell to the ground and writhed for several seconds before stilling, her eyes staring into the distance, unseeing and lifeless.
"You see? The mages must be purged!" Meredith screamed and raised her sword in the direction of Margaret. Anya stepped forward, bringing her own sword to bear. "It's over, Meredith. Whether you were part of the plot or were used, it is over and so is the killing. Stand down."
Orsino put out his manacled hands, an entreaty that the knight-commander ignored. "Please, Meredith. Let it end," he pleaded, his eyes flicking to the wounded and dead, his face a mask of anguish.
"No! No! Mages are responsible, don't you see! Blood magic used on Elthina! It's not to be borne!"
She swung her sword wildly and Anya jumped back, narrowly escaping the sweeping arc of it. She raised her sword again and moved close once more. "Enough! Cullen, disarm her and take her into custody!"
Once more, Meredith swung her sword, aiming for Anya's head, and then Cullen shouldered Anya out of the way and brought his own sword up, pushing the tip into Meredith's throat.
"And all for naught," Fenris decried, stepping over Meredith's body to clasp Margaret to him.
"We may not have stopped the war, but we stopped the carnage. Sometimes that is the best we can manage," Anya said, tears pooling.
Dropping once more to her knees, she scrambled over to the guardhouse rubble and bent to help Varric, who had not ceased his efforts during the encounter. "I knew you and Hawke would settle it," he said and gave her a bleak smile. "Damned fine work."
She shrugged off his words and worked on the pile of stone, tears splashing unheeded onto the debris, unaware of the others around her as they began the arduous tasks ahead of them.
The noise was faint, no more than a whisper of a murmur, but her heart leapt in her chest, buoyant as her blood acknowledged the presence of another Warden. Of her Warden. Of her beloved Nathaniel, still buried in the debris, but alive.
She renewed her efforts, smiling through her tears.
A/N: The epilogue is with my beta, the awesome Oleander's One, and I hope to post it within the next day or two.
Oleander's One, you rock and are all things wonderful!
Thank you to all of you who continue to read and follow and favorite this very long and winding story.
