After many years of study, Anders had concluded that he was immortal.

Not in the literal sense, of course. He bled and slept and got older as quick as the next man, but for some reason or another, despite the many sins of Anders' life, the Maker had decided, This one. This one has not yet suffered enough.

It wasn't due to any great effort on Anders' part. He had reached for Death with both hands more times than he could count, and every time it slipped through his fingers like water through sand. He had escaped the Ferelden Circle a half dozen times fully expecting to be executed for one of them, because dying free had always been better than life in a cage. He had joined the Grey Wardens and drunk from the chalice, fully expecting to be one of the ones who didn't make it. When the Kirkwall Chantry went up in smoke and rubble, he did not run; he instead bent his head for judgment, fully believing that if Hawke killed him, she would escape the Templars' wrath. Even the invitation from Divine Justinia, stamped with the holy seal, had smelled like a trap. Peace talks? With him involved? He'd almost thrown it away, convinced it was some elaborate ruse to get him on the executioner's block.

And then, after all that, the Calling came knocking twenty years early. He woke up one morning and felt it like a leash, crawling in his skin and turning shadows into archdemons. Alone and unknown, Anders had no senior Wardens to ask and no clue where to find them

But a quiet end in the Deep Roads was not for him―for us?―for the tattered creature which called itself Anders. Though he could not explain why, it seemed almost unjust when weighed against his thousand sins. The sulking urge which had once been a creature called Justice could not accept such; an executioner's block would serve him better. An executioner's block, he could choose.

But after all this―after all this―the Maker had decided that Anders was still not allowed to rest.

Anders pondered his immortality as he came back to consciousness, running through his past mistakes and almost-deaths. His mind returned faster than his body; he remembered the Breach, he remembered demons, he remembered Varric running to him as he collapsed from exhaustion.

Don't you dare die, the dwarf had hissed. She'll never forgive either of us.

Once again, despite a world that seemed bent on killing him, Anders was alive. He was breathing and warm, the air bitter with the familiar sting of herbal medicine; he used it as a lifeline to drag his eyes open. His lashes cracked with crust and his head pounded, but he was safe and inside a building.

The roof was thatched and crossed with rafters, each hung with bundles of dried plants. A hearth burned in a corner, sending shadows dancing across the wall. Someone else moved in the hut, soft feet upon hard floor. The Chant of Light, muttered by a thin, feminine voice. Hands on wooden dishes, water poured into a cup―the scent of broth in the air.

Anders' stomach rumbled. He snaked his arms out of the blanket, stifling a groan; his limbs were heavy, and his throat was dry. Dehydration, most likely, the sort that only came after several days of unconsciousness.

On the other side of the hut, the Chant of Light halted. Someone gasped, and a bowl clattered to the floor.

"Mmrph." Anders rubbed his eyes and looked around. "I'm not dead, I suppose. Did we win?"

Against the wall cowered a young elven woman. Her hair was short and red, her eyes green and wide with―terror? Amazement? She looked at Anders, looked at the bowl on the ground, and fell to her knees.

"I'm so sorry, Harold!" She nearly dipped her hair on the soup she had spilled on the floor. "Please, forgive me!"

Her guilt clawed against the part of him that was Justice, doubly so because she'd done nothing wrong. Few things remained of the spirit's powers, but self-punishment still drilled into Anders' head like a fly in his ear he couldn't swat away.

"Easy there," Anders soothed, slipping on his healer's-voice like an old coat. "No harm done. I'm sure there's more soup somewhere around here." He struggled to sit upright, coughing at the way his body protested.

"Harold, you must be careful!" The elf rushed to his side, almost as if to help him, but her hands stopped just short of making contact. Her fingers hovered over his skin as if it might burn her.

"What, am I that ugly now?" Anders smiled as softly as he could. "I knew the demons did a number on me, but I didn't realize it was that bad."

He did realize, however, that he was shirtless. When the blanket fell to his waist, it uncovered a single massive black bruise across his entire chest.

"Harold," whispered the elf. "What must I do?"

Anders cocked his head. She said it so strangely. "Nothing for this; I can fix it myself. What's your name, friend?"

"I-I…" She lowered her eyes to the ground. "I'm Jadia, Harold, no one special at all. I'm so sorry for spilling your soup."

"Oh dear, that soup was going to close the Breach, wasn't it?" Anders dragged his legs over the edge of the bed. At least his pants were still on. Or, a set of pants. A much cleaner, softer and fancier set of pants than he'd collapsed in. "Maker, it's been too long since I was in a fight like that. I'm not used to this sort of punishment anymore."

His magic was slow to pool in his fingers, and slower to sink into his chest. Jadia gasped and leaped back, then watched with wide eyes as the bruise shrank away to unblemished skin.

"Now, I don't suppose you'd know where my shirt is?" Anders stood, one hand on the wall to keep his balance. "Or what happened at the Temple? I'm not chained up, so I'm guessing I won't be walking out that door to a hangman's noose."

"I don't rightly know, Harold." Jadia stumbled to a side table, which held a shirt and jacket much finer than Anders had worn to the Conclave. She brought them over with trembling hands. "I'm just the healer's servant, no one important."

"The healer's servant?" Anders took the clothes and donned them, noticing his boots by the door with clean socks stuffed inside. "That's plenty important. Maker, if I had an assistant when I was in―" He stuttered. "―my clinic, I'd have done twice as much good. Over there, is that the soup on the fire?"

Anders took the fallen bowl, wiped it off, and made for the cauldron hanging in the hearth.

"I―I must tell the others." Jadia edged toward the door, keeping her body turned toward Anders. "Commander Cullen and the Seeker asked to know as soon as you were awake."

Anders sloshed the soup a little too hard. "D-did they, now? Er, did they sound angry?"

"I don't rightly know, I swear, I was just told to tell him."

Anders sighed. "Best get to it, then. Hopefully they treat you better than they've treated me."

Jadia slipped out the door, feet crunching on snow. Through the wood, Anders heard her cry out: "Harold is awake! Harold is awake!"

"Andraste's ass," Anders muttered to his soup. "What did you tell them, Varric?"

If his soup had answers, it did not tell him. It had been months since he'd had real meat; Anders slurped down the bowl in moments, followed by a second.

Knock, knock, knock.

Anders tensed, realizing he had no staff or even a knife to defend himself. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Blondie. You decent?"

Anders sighed in relief. "Thank the Maker. Come in."

Varric opened the door and closed it behind, looking very hurried as he strode toward the fire. "We don't have much time before the higher ups send someone to come get you. I need to get out of here before then."

"Shit." Anders finished his third bowl of soup, wiping his mouth. "But I'm not executed. Or chained up. Why?"

"The story is you're a Grey Warden I met in my brother's expedition―you were one of Stroud's men, and it's been so long I don't remember your name but you remembered mine because I'm just so good looking. You took Carver away to join the Wardens, and that's the last time I ever saw you. Got it?"

"Wait, wait." Anders found socks stuffed in his boots and slipped them on. "Cullen's got to have seen me by now, surely? You're telling me he hasn't recognized me?"

"He's nearsighted as shit, Blondie. Weren't the two of you in the Ferelden Circle for what, years?"

Anders nodded. "Four. He helped catch me twice, actually."

"Yeah, remember how he didn't recognize you in Kirkwall? Just keep your mouth shut and the story straight and Cassandra won't kill either of us."

Anders pulled on his boots. "Thank you, Varric. I… know you said you didn't do this for me, but do you…?"

"I don't know where she is, Blondie, and I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"But she's alive? She's alright?"

Varric paused. His gaze softened. "Yeah. She's alright."

Something loosened in Anders' chest. He had never really believed she was even capable of dying―the Maker had it out for Hawke as much as He did for Anders―but he hadn't realized how much he needed to hear someone say it out loud.

"You've seen her," Anders whispered. "Just―just tell me you saw her healthy."

"Healthy. Eating fine. But we don't have time to open old wounds; you've got your boots on and you need to head to the Chantry. By yourself. Don't want to give the Seeker any more reasons to be suspicious."

"One more thing." Anders stepped up to the door. "Why in the world did you tell them my name is Harold? That was really the only thing you could come up with on short notice? That's an old man's name."

Varric blinked. "Why did I―oh. Oh." He laughed. "You're going to have fun outside."

"Why?" Anders demanded. "What's out there?"

Varric yanked open the door and grabbed Anders' jacket. "Nah, it's funnier this way."

Anders was shoved out of the hut and into daylight. The sun on the snow was nearly blinding; Anders winced and covered his eyes. Cold mountain air slapped the sleepiness right out of him, needling his lungs with ice.

A gasp spread from all sides, the sort of gasp that can only be done by many people at once. As his eyes adjusted, Anders slowly made out figures standing around the hut, looking at him. Too many figures. Far too many. At least thirty of them, men and women, elves and humans, armored and unarmored. A few children peered out from behind their mother's skirts, trembling as if Anders might explode.

Only once before had Anders been stared at by so many people at the same time, and last time had been intentional on his part. He shrank back under the weight of all those eyes, but met the hard door of the hut. He couldn't go back inside and risk anyone discovering Varric; he had to move forward. Somehow.

Anders pulled his coat up on his shoulders, trying to vanish into the collar. He took a step into the sun. Two. Four.

"Harold," someone whispered.

Anders muttered, "Excuse me," and kept his head down. There was a gap in the bodies, framing a muddy footpath which led up the hill to the distant Chantry; he approached this path, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Harold." A human woman stepped out of the crowd and grabbed Anders' hand as he passed by. She pressed his fingers to her forehead, then let him go. "Blessings upon you, Harold."

"Um. Thanks. You too."

Anders walked faster. Further up the road, a pregnant elven woman also caught his hand and placed it on her swollen belly. "Harold."

"Er, yes. That's me."

A man reached out and touched his shoulder. "Harold."

"Good morning." He walked even faster.

"Harold." "Can you see him?" "Harold." "The Harold, he hasn't a scratch." "That's because Andraste herself was watching him come out of the Fade." "Maker, it's the Harold." "He's handsomer than I thought." "I can't believe I'm alive to see this." "I want to touch him, too."

Anders only barely restrained himself from running. The crowd closed behind, and some of them even followed him up the hill; it was the first time in his life Anders actually wanted to be inside a Chantry.

Two soldiers stood guard at the door; they both bowed their heads and put their hands over their hearts. Reverently, they whispered, "The Seeker awaits within, Harold."

"Good morning," Anders said through gritted teeth. "Thank you. Excuse me."

He threw open the doors of the Chantry and dashed inside. The darkness blinded him again, but in due time Anders could make out candles and windows, wood and stone, a vaulted ceiling, and the sounds of an argument from behind a heavy door.

"This is madness, Seeker!" came the unmistakable voice of High Chancellor Roderick. "You are going against all Chantry precedent―just because the Divine is dead does not give you freedom to spurn her memory."

"I spurn nothing," Cassandra answered. "There is no telling when a new Divine will be chosen, and the Breach poses a threat today. You will not take the prisoner to Val Royeaux. That is final."

"Do you truly believe he is innocent, Seeker? After all that's happened?"

"I do. And you certainly don't have the evidence to prove me wrong."

There were other worshippers in the main hall of the Chantry; Anders could feel their eyes burning into his back. As much as he wanted to eavesdrop, all those eyes made him twitchy; he knocked on the door only once before letting himself in.

The room beyond was made of stone and candlelight, centered by a large wooden table. Around the table stood five figures: Cassandra, Leliana, High Chancellor Roderick, an olive-skinned woman dressed too finely for a place like this, and a very shiny, very exhausted former-Knight-Captain Cullen. All of them fell silent when he entered the room.

Anders' heart pounded in his ears. He fixed his gaze on the empty wall across the room, because otherwise he would either stare suspiciously at Cullen or sprint out of the room.

"Throw him in the dungeon!" Roderick shouted at the two men guarding the door.

"Ignore him," Cassandra said. "Leave us."

The two guards bowed their heads and left without a word.

Roderick rounded on Cassandra. "This is religious treason, Seeker."

From the corner, Cullen's sigh made Anders jump. "Chancellor, the legal ground of this operation is rather moot. If you feel compelled to tell the demons, Templars, apostates and every other problem in the world to hold off until a new Divine is chosen, you are well within your rights to do so. Elsewhere. And try to have at least some care; this man closed the Breach at no small risk to his own life. It nearly killed him."

Hearing Cullen ask for empathy on his behalf was even more bizarre to Anders than the crowd outside.

"Nearly." Roderick scowled. "Remarkably convenient that it did not."

The part of Anders that was Justice could not stand the man; his righteousness ran foul enough to curl Anders' tongue. The mage shrugged, and for the first time in years, his mouth pulled away from his common sense and had its way. "You can always let it kill someone else if it's more convenient, Chancellor. Though since no one in Haven listens to you, I don't imagine the Breach will, either."

Five sets of eyebrows arched in unison. Roderick's anger was quicker than the others' surprise.

"You are too dangerous to walk free," he hissed. "For your churlish tongue, if nothing else."

Justice surged up Anders' throat; Anders only barely managed to bite him back. Something about corrupted righteousness, Roderick's desire to be praised, the fact that he didn't even think Anders was guilty―a dozen things which an ordinary man was not supposed to know.

His survival instinct kept Justice at bay. Barely.

"Chancellor." Cassandra stepped between the two men, her eyes hard. "Mind your place."

Leliana stepped to the Seeker's side, further cutting off the Chancellor from Anders. "We saw enough at the Breach to know this man did not kill the Divine. If we are to have any hope of discovering the true cause, we cannot waste time on infighting."

Cassandra produced a heavy leatherbound book, slamming it down so hard the table rattled. "Look at this, Chancellor. Do you recognize this seal? This is the will of Divine Justinia, commanding the rebirth of the Inquisition of old, written and sealed by her own hand. It is a command to stand against the chaos, with or without the support of the Chantry, and neither you nor any other cleric, Mother, Sister or Brother can refute it. Your presence here is no longer necessary."

The Chancellor gaped. He leaned close, examining the seal on the cover, and needed several more moments before he could gesture at the Chantry around them. "Do you truly believe you can fix all this, Seeker? By yourself? With that in your number?" He gestured at Anders.

Cassandra crossed her arms. "Someone has to. I repeat, your counsel is no longer needed, Chancellor. I suggest you find more religious things to do with your time, elsewhere."

"You think you can dismiss me?" Roderick snarled. "You are little better than a common thug."

Cassandra sighed, reached out, and grabbed the High Chancellor around the arm. "And a common thug is perfectly capable of dismissing you through other means, if your own legs cannot move."

She dragged the shrieking Chancellor to the door, opened it and tossed him into the main chantry. "Guards, this man is forbidden from the war chamber."

Justice rippled under Anders' skin. The sight brought satisfaction to them both.

With the dramatics complete, Cassandra closed the door; the 'war chamber' fell into a relieved calm.

"He will make trouble," said the olive-skinned woman, scribbling something down on her clipboard.

"He already has." Cassandra took her place once more at the table. "Nothing we do will stop him, short of locking him in the dungeon."

He would deserve it, whispered the part of Anders that was Justice. "Turnabout is fair play." The mage shrugged. "He might understand others' perspectives a bit better if he's been in their place."

Leliana cracked a smile; the other three did not. Tiredly, Cassandra gestured for Anders to sit; Anders did so.

Cullen leaned forward, and the movement made Anders jump. "You will not be seeing any more dungeons, if that's your concern. Many people are already upset in hindsight that we imprisoned the Herald of Andraste once."

He truly did not recognize Anders, then. "The… Harold of Andraste? Oh, the Herald. Yes, that makes more sense, actually. The Herald of Andraste. Quick question―What?"

"It is what the people have decided." Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. Anders could see the symptoms of sleep deprivation dragging the Templar down like a physical weight. "When things are too big to explain, many find it easier to call it divine intervention. There are many who believe the woman who reached out to you in the Fade was Andraste herself."

"Me." Anders would have felt like laughing if it wasn't so terribly real. "They think I was chosen by Andraste."

The olive-skinned woman offered a charming smile. "We did not start these rumors, but neither have we tried to stop them. If nothing else, they have given you a measure or protection; no one has tried to kill you in your sleep since the Breach was closed."

"The Herald of Andraste." Anders shook his hand. "Really? Of literally anyone else in the world? I'm an apostate."

"Every mage is an apostate these days," Cassandra said. "Being so does not change the fact that you are exactly what we needed, when we needed it. I cannot believe it is a coincidence."

"Come on," Anders chuckled. "You can't seriously think I was sent by the Maker?"

Silence.

"... Ah. Well. This is awkward."

Cassandra cleared her throat. "The Chantry has denounced you, of course; anyone believing in your divinity is labeled a heretic. The High Chancellor has no doubt sent scathing reports back to Val Royeaux, but once the Inquisition is made public, so too shall Divine Justinia's approval."

Ander's breath caught. He knew the histories―the Inquisition. The seed of the Templars themselves, uncorrupted by all the horrors that followed.

Something like hope and desperation and relief together blossomed in Anders' chest; he couldn't tell if it was Justice or his own desires begging to stay, to leap full-force into changing the world forever. He could help. He could shape. He could save.

But if he was discovered, he would die. There was no scenario in which he wouldn't.

"If the Divine wrote this," Anders said, "it wasn't meant for the Breach. She couldn't have known what would happen."

Cassandra cast a curious look his way. "That is correct. She originally intended the Inquisition to find peace between the mages and Templars, and put an end to the bloodshed."

She made an odd choice to invite me, then. Anders couldn't tell if the thought belonged to him or to Justice. "And now I assume the Breach is the main concern."

Cullen cut in. "You say that as if it is something separate. Ferelden and Orlais are bloodlocked in this war. The Chantry is rudderless and will never give us aid; tactically, we are little more than a camp of civilian refugees with enough swords to fend off a small ground assault. According to the other apostate, I believe his name is Solas, we could not even attempt to control the Breach without allies and resources far greater than what we have. If we were to gain the alliance of the Templars, the magic of the area could be suppressed, but we have no stance from which to negotiate."

"The Templars are unnecessary." Leliana made her first addition to the conversation. "The aid of the mages would serve just as well, if not better. And making an alliance with either one would no doubt alienate the other."

There were also those among both groups who could recognize Anders far better than Cullen.

"And here I am, the only one who can close rifts." Anders folded his hands on the table, studying the green glow under his left palm. "I don't suppose I can very well leave, then."

Silence fell around the table. Glances passed between the four heads of the Inquisition.

"You are no longer our prisoner," Cassandra said eventually. "Else you would have woken up in a cell. We believe your innocence, and we acknowledge the danger you faced in closing the Breach."

Anders raised an eyebrow. "So if I walked out this door and decided I wanted to go to the Hinterlands, I would not be stopped?"

"You may do as you wish," Leliana answered. "You are free to leave, if you so choose."

"But if you go to the Hinterlands," Cassandra added, "your aid would be priceless to us. We know of a cleric there, Mother Giselle, but she has refused to join our cause because of how many refugees are trapped by the fighting. I saw you on the mountain―you pulled two soldiers from the jaws of Death itself. Mother Giselle is desperate for medical help, and if the Hinterlands is where you wish to go…"

"Yes." It slipped from Anders before he'd even formed the thought. "I want to help. I'm no politician or negotiator, but if I can ease just a little suffering in the world, I will. And I know the Hinterlands well―metal, lumber, resources and the like. A lone apostate doesn't have much use for those things, but I can show your people where they are. After that, I make no promises."

"That would already strengthen us greatly." Cassandra nodded across the table. "And lucky for us, we already have a negotiator with a less 'churlish' tongue than yours. I suppose introductions are in order. Josephine Montilyet, the Inquisition ambassador."

The well-dressed woman bowed in her seat, smiling brilliantly. "The conversation went so many places, I wasn't able to say how glad I am to see you in good health, messere… what is your name? I believe that was overlooked."

Multiple sets of eyes flicked toward Leliana, who remained pointedly silent, and then those eyes flicked back to Anders.

"Me. Yes. My name." Anders squirmed in his seat.

"We can keep your name off our documents if it would make you more comfortable," Cassandra said. "But we will not keep calling you Prisoner."

"My name is Harold," Anders blurted.

Silence. Then Leliana laughed out loud, and Josephine stifled a chuckle behind her hand.

"Really?" sighed Cassandra. "That's the best one you could come up with? She meant your real name."

"That is my real name," gulped Anders. "Harold. H-A-R-O-L-D."

"I'm no spymaster," Cullen groaned, "but even I know you'll have to pick a better alias if you want anyone to take it seriously. Whatever crime you're trying to escape, it cannot be worse than what people already think you've done."

Want to bet? "That would be an excellent point if I were trying to escape a crime. Good thing I'm not doing that. I am Harold…" Who was that annoying one apprentice who could never get shields right? "... Travelyan."

"Travelyan?" Cullen frowned. "I feel like I've heard that name before. Were you ever in the Ferelden Circle?"

"Indeed I was not, I am from the Ostwick Circle."

They all exchanged incredulous glances.

"I can work with it, no need to worry." Josephine grinned as she said it. "No need to push this man's goodwill farther than necessary. This Harold Travelyan." She swallowed a giggle.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "And I don't suppose your departure from the Ostwick Circle has anything to do with the Grey Wardens? We still know nothing about where they've gone."

"Ah." Anders cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, either. I haven't been associated with the Wardens for quite some time."

Leliana took interest. "Oh? I seem to remember that becoming one is quite permanent. How exactly does one stop being a Warden?"

"If you're talking about that sweet little drink full of darkspawn blood, then yes, the Taint is still on me. But they don't exactly have a pile of phylacteries anywhere, and since I stopped showing up to work, no one's yet written me a strongly worded letter."

The room looked to Leliana. She shrugged. "The Joining is a secret. If he knows how it works, I am convinced he is a Warden. If a… non-practicing one."

Cassandra sighed, dropping her head. "Then it's too much to hope that you would know where they've gone."

"I'm sorry." In this, Anders was genuine. "I truly wish I knew."

"There's nothing to be done." Cassandra pushed away from the table and stood. "But the work ahead of us is long and difficult. I will speak to the quartermaster and see what preparations are to be made for the Hinterlands."