The Storm Coast was miserable. Dorian was lucky not to be there. It rained constantly but somehow there was still salt crusted on everything he owned. The wind made his ears ache and for once he was actually happy to wear shoes because everything was gravel and mud and incredibly unpleasant. But they had hired an eclectic band of mercenaries that Aldaron was not sure what to make of yet, and found several signs that the missing Grey Wardens had been in the area. Blackwall had been excited about that. At least someone was happy.

Aldaron was happy to get back to Haven. It was actually starting to feel like home. Or more like home than anything away from his clan ever had before. Comfort and familiarity. It also had a change of clothes and the opportunity to wash the salt out of his hair and out of his ears. He did that before going to the chantry to find out what he'd missed while away.

"The last of the mages from Redcliff arrived the day before yesterday," Cullen reported. "They are ready to assault the Breach on your order."

On his order. What a daunting notion, but for once Aldaron thought they meant it. He was the one that could close it, after all. They couldn't do anything without him. Or without his hand, at least.

"Then let's get it over with," the Herald said, looking up from the map on the table. "Tomorrow. Can everything be prepared by then?" It was already late in the afternoon, and Aldaron had no idea what sort of preparations the others needed to make. He assumed a plan had been made and the mages and soldiers briefed on it. Presumably all Aldaron had to do was show up and stick his hand out. Wiggle his fingers, as Dorian had so aptly put it.

"Are you certain you're ready?" Cullen asked. Was that actual concern in his voice? "We cannot know how you will be affected."

Sitting around here any longer would not change that. The whole point of this Inquisition was to close the hole in the sky. Ready or not, Aldaron wanted it done. Maybe then this whole mess would be cleared up and he could go home. He really wanted to go home. He wanted things to be simple again. "I'm certain," the Herald assured him.

The Breach looked the same as he remembered, though there were no demons falling out of it this time, so that was an improvement. The mark on his hand throbbed and burned, bursting to light as he drew near. The same reaction it had to the smaller rifts, but magnified, intensified, by the size of the Breach. He was almost getting used to it; a frightening thought.

Behind him Aldaron was vaguely aware of Solas giving some kind of speech, last minute advice to the mages that had come to help. He was not listening, would not understand anyway. Magic. What was he doing here when a dozen people more suited than him had been at the conclave? The gods had a sick sense of humor, if this was indeed their doing.

He stared up into the Breach, felt his hand throb in reaction to its presence, or perhaps in anticipation.

Now or never.

I hope this works.

He stepped forward and held up his arm. Immediately the mark burst to life, pulling on the Breach, drawing it in, sealing it. The pain coursed up his entire arm. He grit his teeth to keep from crying out, clenched his other hand into a fist and willed himself to stand firm until it was done. The explosion of magic, or whatever rifts were made of, when the tear finally sealed knocked him off his feet, he fell to hands and knees, gasping and trembling and trying to pull himself together. His arm was on fire.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, looked over to see Cassandra's face. "You did it," she said, something akin to awe in her voice.

So he had.

The sky was clear. No more green light anywhere to be seen, although the clouds swirled in an echo of what had been there moments before. His hand still hurt, but mostly from the aftershock of using the mark to such an extent. If he focused on it, no easy task, the mark itself was not nearly as painful as before. But it was still there.

Aldaron staggered to his feet and stared up at the sky.

He did it.

They did it.

Celebrations were already starting by the time they returned to Haven. No doubt the people here had been watching the sky anxiously and knew the moment the Breach had been sealed. The throbbing in Aldaron's arm had faded on the walk down the mountain, and he was shocked to find that he could barely feel the mark on his hand at all. It was still there, of course, a faint ache like an old bruise or an overworked muscle, but after weeks of the stabbing pain that kept him up nights it was as good as numb. And a welcome relief.

When they saw him the people cheered. They shouted congratulations and thanks and praise to both him and the god he did not believe in. Aldaron tried to smile, but he worried it looked as forced as it felt.

Thankfully the revelers left him alone after their initial cheers, which Aldaron was grateful for. It made him uncomfortable still, all the praise and the bowing and the talk of Andraste and the Maker. He still felt like an outsider here, though admittedly he had made little effort to do otherwise. He kept to himself, spoke to few people other than the heads of the Inquisition and those he had recruited personally. Everyone else treated him too much like the prophet they believed he was and it was unnerving. It was no surprise, though, that he did not have anyone to celebrate with and found himself watching the revelry from the sidelines, too uncomfortable to even consider joining in.

That was where Cassandra found him, watching from the sidelines. He was not surprised that she was not joining in the festivities, she did not seem like the celebratory type. "Solas confirms that the heavens are scarred, but calm. The Breach is sealed." she reported, coming to stand beside him. Aldaron nodded absently. He did not need Solas to confirm that for him, the loss of pain in his marked hand had been enough to tell him it worked. "We've reports of lingering rifts," Cassandra continued, "And many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has already spread."

Heroism? If standing there and holding his arm up made him a hero then it was shocking that there weren't more heroes in the world. "Do they know I fell into this? Almost literally?" he asked. And he was still waiting for a sign that a god – any god – had chosen him.

"Perhaps you are too close to judge," Cassandra conceded. "We needed you. We still do."

Of course. It had been wishful thinking to dream it would be over now. The mark was still on his hand, there were still rifts scattered across the countryside that only the mark could close, and they still did not know what had caused the Breach in the first place. Whatever sort of magic could cause such a thing was incredibly dangerous. If it fell into the wrong hands... Well, it likely already had considering recent events. That sort of power should not belong to anyone. Even this mark was too dangerous if he ever figured out how to control it.

"We have yet to discover how the Breach came to be," Cassandra continued after a brief moment. "And that is only the most conspicuous of our troubles."

There had to be someone behind this. Holes in the sky do not open by themselves. If the one responsible had survived the conclave, unlikely as that seemed, they had to be found and stopped before they could strike again. Assuming they would strike again and that the destruction of the conclave was not their only goal. But Aldaron had no idea how to go about answering any of their lingering questions. Hopefully Solas would be able to. He seemed the only person who understood anything about the Breach. Perhaps Aldaron should go find him now to discuss it.

He didn't even get to finish the thought before it was cut off by the loud clanging of a bell and shouts of alarm. They were under attack. He followed Cassandra to the gates without question, and found Cullen already shouting orders. "It's a massive force. The bulk over the mountain."

"Under what banner?" Josephine was asking.

"None."

Josephine's shock mirrored Aldaron's own, but he was less concerned with who was attacking and more concerned with why and how to kill them. And with the knocking at the door. Someone was outside. Cautious of a potential trap, Aldaron strode up to the gate and pushed it open.

It was a young man, could not have been older than Aldaron himself, obviously agitated. He spoke of templars and the Elder One. What he said made little sense, but Aldaron was only half listening. He was staring up at the mountainside and the figures coming toward them. It did not matter now who was attacking, they had to defend themselves.

Aldaron was much better at following orders than giving them. And he much preferred throwing himself daggers first at attacking armies than standing back and telling other people to do it. The templars swarmed like so many red ants down the mountainside, across the bridge, across the frozen lake, and up toward the walls. Keep them off the trebuchets. That was the order, and that was what Aldaron would do.

And he did just that. With the ragtag crew that he had somehow assembled at his side Aldaron kept them off the trebuchets. But you don't keep a dragon off a trebuchet.

Aldaron had not been so terrified since his first encounter with a demon. A dragon. How was there a dragon? Why was there a dragon? Demons were one thing, he had almost gotten used to the demons, but this was completely different. For a moment he could do nothing but stare in horror as the creature winged overhead. And then he ran.

Even Cullen did not know what to do in the face of a dragon.

Or an Archdemon.

Haven was overrun and surrounded. There was no way out. Was there really no choice but to bury themselves alive and hope to take their enemies with them? That couldn't be the end. There had to be another way.

Yes, a passage through the mountains. A way out, they could still survive this.

Not Aldaron, though. He knew as soon as Roderick mentioned the path. He knew what he had to do. He had to protect them. He closed the Breach. They didn't need him anymore. They would find some other way to close the remaining rifts. If this Elder One wanted him then it could have him. So long as everyone else survived.

Protect. That was what he'd been trained to do, raised to do: protect the clan. This was not his clan, but they all looked at him as though he were their Keeper. Aldaron was no keeper, but he could fight, and he would have died in defense of his clan. These people here, they weren't his clan, his family, but they were something close. They were kind to him. They respected him, looked up to him. For all that he did not deserve it, for all that he was surely a constant let down, they glorified him. It was time he earned that respect.

"Cullen, get them out safely," the Herald said, and turned on his heel, heading for the door. His hand was on the wood when a voice stopped him.

"Leaving without me? I'd hate to miss all the fun."

Aldaron looked over his shoulder and there was Dorian, staff in hand and looking a little ragged around the edges. "What?" he asked stupidly.

"I may have been eavesdropping on your less-than-subtle strategy meeting. You need to be noticed? That's my specialty," the man said with a grin that did not befit the situation.

"And Archdemons are sort of a Grey Warden specialty," Blackwall added, stepping up beside him.

Aldaron stared between the two men, too stunned for a moment to even begin to protest. And then The Iron Bull strode up, war axe hefted over one shoulder and grinning with a slightly manic glint in his eye, "I hear we're fighting a dragon. Count me in, boss."

"It's a suicide mission," Aldaron protested.

"For one man alone, maybe," Blackwall said, "You'll need someone to watch your back while you get the trebuchet in place."

That was sound logic and Aldaron could not argue with it. "Alright," the Herald relented. "But as soon as it's done you all get out of there, understood?"

"Crystal clear, boss," Bull was still grinning and it was a little concerning. "What are we waiting for?"

Haven was overrun.

The templars were upon them as soon as they stepped outside the chantry. It was a struggle just to get to the remaining trebuchet, and from there it was a constant effort to keep the templars away long enough to aim the damned thing. Blackwall had been right. With three people at his back Aldaron could barely focus on aiming the trebuchet. He would never have been able to do this by himself. At least their distraction seemed to be working. It felt like the entire force was descending upon them.

The dragon was back only moments after Aldaron had gotten the weapon into position. Its roar was deafening as it swooped overhead. "Move, now!" the Herald ordered, frantically gesturing for the others to leave. He did not see them get away, the dragon, Archdemon, whatever it was, cut him off. It stared him down and he stared back, paralyzed with fear. He was going to get eaten by a dragon before he could launch their final desperate counterattack. There was no way he could get back to the trebuchet faster than that thing could snap him up. But it was not advancing, and soon Aldaron knew why.

The Elder One.

What was that thing? It was not human. Darkspawn? But Aldaron had never heard of any darkspawn like this. It spoke. Spoke as though it were human, spoke of the Breach and the mark on his hand. It had caused all this. It had opened the Breach and destroyed the temple.

The mark on his hand burst to life as though by this creature's command. No, he was certain it was by this creature's command. The pain lanced through him, burning, tearing, stabbing, the worst it had ever been. Aldaron staggered, fell to his knees. He could barely hear the creature's words through the pain, could barely focus on anything else. But he had to know, he had to know why this was happening. What was this thing? Why did he have it? Where did it come from?

"What is this thing meant to do?" he could barely get the words out.

"It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it."

What did that mean? Aldaron had no time to ask or even to think about it before the creature reached down and grabbed him, it took hold of his marked hand and lifted him bodily off the ground. Aldaron struggled for barely a moment before realizing it was futile. He could not fight this thing. So he listened, he tried to understand so that in the slim chance he managed to survive this he could explain it to someone who would actually understand. What this creature was, what it wanted, what was this mark on his hand? The answers he got only lead to more questions.

The creature threw him bodily across the ground. Aldaron collided violently with the trebuchet, gasped in pain and struggled to regain his senses once more. He had dropped his knives somewhere in the confusion of templars and dragons and ancient talking darkspawn. But there was a dead templar at his feet and Aldaron grabbed the sword out of its dead hands without even thinking about it and scrambled to his feet. What he was supposed to do with a sword he barely knew how to use against that thing he did not know, but at least he would not go down without a fight.

That was when he saw, streaking up through the dark sky like a beacon of hope, Cullen's signal. The people were clear. His job was done. Almost done.

This was where fairytale heroes always said something profound or witty or brave, but Aldaron had no words. Maybe Varric could think of something to put in the song they wrote about him. Assuming anyone bothered to write a song about him. Instead he just lunged toward the trebuchet and threw his entire weight against the lever, the counterweight fell, the stone flew and Aldaron ran and never looked back.

Cold. Pain. Those were the first things Aldaron was aware of when he woke. Everything hurt, his ribs most of all, and his hip where it pressed against the cold stone floor. And his head. For a moment he did not know where he was or how he got there, but then he remembered.

Cracking his eyes open slowly, Aldaron tried to take stock of the situation. All he could see was rocks and snow, the light was dim, coming through a small shaft above him. A cave of some sort? Or a basement? Whatever it was had saved him from the avalanche.

He tried to sit up. His ribs screamed in protest, he gasped in pain, bit his lip and forced himself to his feet. Once upright he wavered, one hand wrapped around his midsection, the other thrown out to the side for balance. He felt lightheaded, and there was a sharp pain at the side of his head. Carefully he brought a hand up to touch – damn that hurt – and his fingers came back red with blood.

He couldn't stay here.

Blinking and struggling to focus his vision Aldaron glanced around the cavern and then staggered forward. Every step jostled his ribs – definitely broken – but he clenched his jaw against the pain and continued forward. He had no intention of starving or freezing to death under an avalanche. Not before he knew whether that thing was dead or not. Besides, it didn't hurt any more than the mark – the anchor – did when it glowed.

He felt and heard the wind before he saw the end of the passage, and it spurred him forward until he staggered out into the snow. The wind was biting, cutting through his coat and straight to the bone. He gasped and shivered, breath fogging before his face. Snow swirled around him, obscuring everything in sight. Where was he? There was no sign of the village left that he could see. It was all buried. Squinting through the fog and the snow Aldaron tried to make out any landmark that would tell him where to head.

Was that a light somewhere? Yes. In the distance, up the mountain. Please be real. Please don't be an illusion, a trick of the mind.

He wrapped both arms around himself against the cold and began making his way toward the distant light, hoping it was anyone but the templars or the Elder One. The going was hard. Each step sunk into the snow up to his knee. The cold bit through him until it was all he could feel. At least he couldn't feel the pain in his ribs anymore. He also couldn't feel his fingers, or his ears. He walked for what felt like forever, hours upon hours, slowly, one small step after the other. He was shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering and gasping for breath. He couldn't feel his toes anymore. He couldn't feel much of anything.

The light was still in the distance, though, growing larger and brighter as he drew closer. It was definitely real, he was not imagining it. That was what kept him going. He came across a campfire, still warm. He was close now, he had to be. Just a little further.

"There he is!"

"Thank the maker!"

Aldaron did not feel his knees hit the ground as his legs finally gave out. He was unconscious before his head hit the snow.

Notes: Thanks for reading! This fic can also be found on Archive of Our Own, and you should go bother me on tumblr. Same username (Erandir) everywhere.