Killing demons was very satisfying. He blasted them with magical force, encased them in ice, or called lightning down to jump from one target to the next. If his strikes were stronger than necessary, if his spells had more power behind them than would have been expected, neither Varric nor the beleaguered soldiers noticed.

The rift hung over the battlefield throughout the fight, and once he had burned enough of the anger out of his system to pay attention to anything other than destruction, he felt it tugging at his awareness. He had described the breech and these smaller rifts as "tears in the veil" to the humans to whom he had offered his assistance, but that explanation was so simplistic that it was nearly wrong.

The breech and the rifts were wounds in the veil; part of what twisted the spirits that were drawn through them into demons was the pain that pulsed outwards from the rifts. He could feel it washing over him as he fought; a constant, inescapable pain, like exposing a serious burn to heat.

Finally, he could stand it no longer, and aimed his magic at the rift. He was very familiar with the veil, and he could see how the wound needed to be healed. It wasn't difficult, he should be able to affect a rift this small.

He couldn't. His magic drained away, his spell falling apart as if it had never been. The rift pulsed and sent out another wave of demons, drawing his attention away from his attempt to close it in favor of protecting himself.

When the demons were finally gone, he tried again. As the soldiers and Varric slumped onto whatever rubble was closest and tried to catch their breath or attend to their wounds, he drank a mana potion and studied the rift. Finally deciding that his error had been in the strength of his spell, he gathered all his magic and built his spell without releasing any power. When the spell was complete, he released it all at once, his concentrated power hitting the rift with enough force to cause a muffled boom. The rift itself pulsed once, and spewed out another collection of demons.

This was insufferable. He fought the demons automatically, seething all the while. Those rifts had been created with his orb. The power had been twisted, yes, but it was undeniably his, he could feel it. It should respond to his will alone, let alone his will and all the power he could bring to bear on it.

All the power he could bring to bear. Yes, that was the problem. He no longer possessed sufficient power. And that was purely maddening. His own power stores were depleted, his orb stolen, and the only piece of his power that he had any access to lay bonded to some human lying beneath the Chantry, and had not responded to him despite all his efforts.

Feeling frustrated beyond measure, he yelled, and threw himself into the battle.

Any good trainer, whether of fighters, mages, or rogues, would have told their newest recruits that fighting in anger was stupid. It wore away your strength, and caused you to overreach. He knew this, and yet fought in anger anyway; it was either that, or call down a lightning strike that would leave everything around him a smoking ruin.

Which was how he found himself involved in melee combat, all his mana potions consumed, using his staff as a quarterstaff while firing off arcane bolts, unable to cast anything greater, and surrounded by lesser shades. He was beginning to be worried about this, when a form stepped between him and a powerful swipe from one of the shades. The soldier caught the blow on her shield and returned a sword stroke that finished the shade. She quickly moved on to the next target, but he had felt the familiar touch of his own magic, and saw the green flare of it on her hand.

Seeker Pentaghast had brought the prisoner out here? What in the Fade could she be thinking? There was no time to puzzle out an answer to that question, as he was still fighting shades and his mana was still dangerously depleted. He moved closer to the prison, where the flare of his magic - his magic, sitting uselessly on the palm of a fighter when he could be using it! - gave him a small measure of strength.

It was enough, especially with the additional help, to finish off the demons. Before any more could come through the rift, he grabbed the prisoners wrist. Feeding his will through the power she held, he worked the spell a third time. This time, a visible channel of magic poured into the rift, and sealed it.

He may have overdone things a bit, in his frustration; the force of the closing rift knocked the prisoner back, jerking her arm out of his grip. She stared at her palm, then raised baffled eyes to his face.

"What did you do?"

He felt giddily triumphant. He almost grinned, almost boasted proudly of how his power had so effectively closed the rift. Before he could speak, he caught sight of Seeker Pentaghast. She was watching him closely, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. He remembered suddenly that here, he was an apostate mage: a dangerous entity to be imprisoned and controlled, allowed his freedom because he might be useful, and because he had convinced them that he wasn't a threat.

Swallowing his first reply, he adopted a deferential expression.

"I did nothing. The credit is yours."

The words burned in his throat. He didn't have long to dwell on this though, because as the prisoner's attention turned away from him, he felt a flare of magic from the mark on her palm.

His magic had always been something he was deservedly proud of. He hadn't simply poured raw power into his orb; over the centuries, he had shaped it, guided it, until it grew and became something more. It wasn't sentient by any means, but it was adaptive. At the height of his power, his orb had possessed a rudimentary ability to learn from the uses he put it to, and predict what actions he would take in certain circumstances. He had kept this secret close, and gloated over it in private.

Now, he felt the mark using this ability. It remembered the shape of his will as he pushed it through the power of the mark, remembered the result, and would most likely repeat the spell at future rifts.

He tried to convince himself that this was a positive development, but mostly he found it annoying; his lie about who had closed the rift was about to become very nearly the truth.

He could only hope that the prisoner herself would not notice what was going on, before he could reclaim his magic from her.

A/N: I always wondered how a non-mage Inquisitor handled the power of the Anchor so easily and effectively. It makes sense for a mage to be able to pick it up quickly - they handle magic all the time - but for someone who has never had anything to do with any sort of magic before? And then, to have their ability and proficiency grow? It kind of stuck out at me, especially since I played a fighter on my first play-through, and never quite lost some of those first impressions.