I'm back! Turned out to be a lot more ill than I thought I was, and haven't been able to write much, but hopefully things should be about back to normal service.
So, Alistair and Morgana have finally been able to tell each other how they feel. The party are on their way to Orzammar. And, meanwhile...
OK, this chapter isn't altogether pleasant, and possibly the closest to an M I've ever had to write, so skip it at will, but I hope it explains a few things.
Let's say Uldred revolts shortly after Ostagar. Anders runs away sometime mid-point between Ostagar and Uldred's rebellion, after the former but before the latter (it explains how he'd have survived the Tower's events). He still doesn't know what's happened at the Circle.
This one's a bit of a surprise, I know, but we started with Jowan's POV, didn't we?
Lothering, Redux
Anders
He's still breathing heavily, feet pounding the dirt, and only slows once he reaches the trees, hands on his knees and bent over double.
He looks over his shoulder, relieved when he only hears the sounds of the forest around him. He still half-expects the clank of armour, the shouts behind him.
He's been running for... he doesn't know how long. He thinks it's been weeks now. Begging food, or stealing it, replacing robes with clothes stolen from villagers.
His stomach rumbles, loudly and ominously. How long is it since he's last eaten?
He looks around in disbelief at what he sees when he breaks through the treeline. This was a small trading post last time he saw it, poor but cheery enough. The people made do.
That was before the Blight, though.
The remains of camps are still smoking, and he winces as he walks through blackened canvas. He has to look away from the first corpse, speared like an animal sacrifice, and he wonders what would do this. The lucky ones have been killed quickly, without the gruesome ritual, and are shrouded in the remains of their tents.
His fists clench, his teeth gritting; this is against everything he wants, everything he knows he should do - he wants to reach out, heal, but there's nothing left, no-one to help.
He stops as he reaches it, has to stare; he steps quietly over armour-plated corpses, the crunch of his steps on the ground the only noise, and looks at it in disbelief.
The windows of the village Chantry have been blown out, half of the roof gone, the doors laid open wide like the mouth of a gutted animal. He swallows, steps forward, keeps going, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Blood stains the stone floors, a few bodies watching him unseeingly, and he fights the impulse to reach down and close their eyes. Too many, too little time.
Self-loathing rises as he drags the chests out from debris and ashes, things falling loudly around him, and his lips curl. If Karl could see him now...
A hollow ache fills his heart, and he shakes his head, fighting to rid himself of it.
The villagers' last possessions. Books, clothes - he takes a few that he thinks might fit him - and a half-eaten pie. It's enough.
He stands, walking through blood and black, sticky flesh, until he reaches the other side of the village. He breathes out, slowly, and turns to take one last look. It's ruined, a wasteland incapable of harbouring life.
He strides through brown, dead grass, manages to climb up crumbling stone onto the Highway, and begins to walk, eyes set on the horizon, praying he won't meet what met Lothering.
The signs of the black, sticky death lessen as he continues, and he wonders when he'll have to start taking the woodland trails again, hiding. For now, he stays on the road, hoping that his normal clothing will be enough to convince any journeying templars that he's no-one special.
He strays from the path to sleep as the sky begins to darken, gathers a few sticks from the woods to start a fire. Something catches, trailing on his foot, as he begins the trek back to the trail. Frowning, he glances around him and then summons a small wisp.
It's torn, animal-eaten blue cloth, the pattern faded and the careful embroidery he knows so well almost unravelled completely.
His heart speeds up. He crouches, putting the branches aside and gathering it in his hands, not caring about the dirt and the insects. A female apprentice's, a woman by the looks of it. It's heavier than he expected, almost as if...
He shakes it, and there's an answering clink. He looks down at it, eyes wide. Chiding himself for his stupid instinct, he turns it over in his hands, searching...
There. The hastily-sewn extra pocket in violet cloth, the yellow button...
Morgana. Maybe his instinct isn't so stupid after all. Mouth dry, he reaches inside it, and his hand falls upon something glass, round. He pulls the lyrium vial out, pockets it, and takes out the other item: a crumpled piece of paper. It's, like the robe, torn and eaten, water smudging the ink almost unrecognisably, but he makes out the words Lothe... and Re...
The rest of it's gone, but he recognises the names well enough. Planning a route, then.
He remembers who she was with, the legend spreading through the Tower. Amell, the Grey Warden. She'd left without goodbyes, after what that bastard Jowan did... Why would she be helping him, anyway? Since when was she a blood mage? She was supposed to have died at Ostagar with the others, he learnt shortly before he ran away, but this...
This was written afterwards, considering the route from the Tower to Ostagar. She must have got through the Wilds. How? Even he'd had to take a different route, not daring to chance trying to navigate the swamp.
He doesn't want to think too hard about why this would be here, why she wouldn't be wearing it...
He puts the small, useless little map into his pocket as well, then drops the tattered robe and ventures further into the forest, where his fire won't be seen. He doesn't expect to get much sleep.