"Fall back!" Cullen was the first to recover. He was in motion, gesturing with his sword, eyes on the sky, before most could pick up their jaws. "Everyone, into the Chantry! Now!" He dodged a wave of the deep red flames, but many weren't so lucky.
Harry did not ask questions; he propelled Anders in the right direction and lunged for Pavus. Smoke burned their lungs. Between the acid clogging the night, the people running in the confusing flickers of torchlight and the burning homes, it was impossible to see.
Harry threw his hands forward, summoning a gust to clear the air. It allowed some measure of visibility. It also fanned the flames, sending homes blazing, but really, at this point the town was lost, and they could use the extra lighting.
The townspeople clamoured to get into the Chantry. Cullen raced for the gates, a few soldiers on his heels. The Herald was out there, somewhere.
Above, a different battle raged. The strix rallied; the horde of owls dived from the cloud cover and descended on the low flying dragon, colliding in a confusing mass of dark feathers and scales. They screeched, clawing at eyes and leathery wings and scrabbling ineffectively against its hide.
Clearly furious to anyone with ears, the dragon twisted within the churning ball. The swirling black mass lit up from within, the fire punched a hole through the legion. The flames destroyed swathes of owls instantly.
It was futile, but each breath of flame that hit the owls didn't hit the town, each time the dragon threw them off, roaring in irritation, it wasn't taking its anger out on the people below.
The soldiers kept the doors open on Cullen's orders, far longer than anyone else dared. Then Lavellan, Cassandra, Varric and Solas appeared, looking at little worse for wear but alive, and the doors sealed behind them.
Pinned down by an army, a dragon… Harry turned his gaze around the Chantry and it didn't resemble a church any longer, it looked like a mausoleum.
Josephine worked her organising magic, people huddled underground in the cells and in barricaded rooms. Dishearteningly few soldiers stood between them, swords and heads hanging low with despair.
Harry should really reinforce that ceiling so it didn't entomb them all, but each breath ached, his vision was beginning to blur around the edges, and his hand was locked around Pavus's shoulder and he didn't know if he could release it. He felt almost concussed. The other mage didn't appear to care, if he was even conscious enough to notice. Pavus led them to a corner and slumped against the wall.
Anders spotted them and hurried over, twisting his hands in distress. This must be maddening for him, Harry realised. He'd built a life as a healer out of above average skill and an extraordinary amount of compassion, and that feeling didn't go away when he was suddenly unable to help.
Despite it all, the tension bled out of Harry's frame. Now that they'd paused, the adrenaline was wearing thin. He'd never felt so boneless and keyed up at once. It was rest, at least. It might've felt like a respite, but the noise didn't let them forget: the screeches, the bangs, the crying. Harry winced at every slap of heavy wings.
"How're you feeling?" Anders asked, and that was strange; he usually skipped straight to the diagnosis and healing.
"Suddenly, painfully sober." Ha. He wished. His mind was whirring, but he could still feel the effect of the alcohol on his limbs. He was a bit numb. Maybe it was shock. The entire night felt a bit like a hallucination. Because, really. He just had his magic pulled out of him in a crazy ritual to plug a metaphysical hole in the sky, then two armies too many appeared out of bloody nowhere and now a Blighted dragon wanted to roost here?
Harry jumped when Anders pushed his jacket off him, exposing his shoulders and arms. Harry quirked an eyebrow questioningly and pretended to have been paying attention.
The fur was matted with his blood. The healer tsked, laying a hand on a deep cut he'd acquired when an axe skated off his scale-plated forearms.
"Ow," Harry called by reflex, more surprised than anything else. It stung, now that he noticed it.
Anders' hand lit up with blue light and the cut sealed – not completely, but enough to stop the bleeding. He turned to patch up Pavus, next. The mage smirked and flirted, trying to brush it off, but he was too tired to fully conceal from anyone how taken aback he was by the kindness.
Leliana was speaking with Blackwall nearby. They were not subtle.
"Was that an Archdemon?" she demanded.
The warrior looked shaken, "It appeared to be. But that doesn't make any sense. I don't rightly know."
"Could this be a Blight?"
He shook his head; either resigned or confused. "That doesn't explain why the Wardens up and vanished, or the crazy cultists at our doorstep instead of a horde. Half of us here remember the last Blight, and this is nothing like that."
Harry did not want to listen to this. He needed five - just five minutes without more problems piling up, thanks. He got to his feet, shrugged his clothes back into place (sticky and sweaty, just lovely) and crossed to where Cullen stood.
"Commander, do we have any lyrium?"
The blond man levelled him with a stare. "A few vials," he allowed, and led the way to a chest. Five little vials. So much for that. Harry alone would need three for it to make much of a difference.
He handed them out; Vivienne, Solas, Pavus, and he pressed the last two into Anders' chest when he refused the first offer. "Take them." The owls had stopped screeching. "We're going to need a healer."
…
"They really don't like your Herald." There was that pale boy again. Harry had forgotten about him. He was supporting a grumpy cleric.
There was talk of burying Haven and everyone in it, some sort of last ditched attempt to rid the world of the threat. If they were nearing that point, Harry knew it was time to apparate his friends out of there, whether they came willingly or not.
"Giving up, are we?" Pavus snorted, his nose scrunched in disgust. "No, by all means, decide on our behalf that sacrifice is the way we want to go. We're all in this together, as my father would bury me alive for saying."
Cullen and the Herald glowered in unison. It was perhaps a touch too soon to use black humour to combine magister mentality and avalanche jokes.
The boy startled Harry. Again. "No, there is a way out. Chancellor Roderick wants to speak."
Then there was talk of secret paths and escape, and it all came together into a brave and stupid plan that still sounded a lot like sacrifice.
"Oh for Merlin's sake, let me! I'm the immortal one."
"It's not you he wants." Lavellan made a good point. That was probably why the advisors ignored Harry entirely.
"Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the treeline," Cullen ordered, mouth a harsh line. He didn't think Lavellan would make it back either.
"What am I? Chopped liver?"
"You're not coming, Potter," Lavellan sighed. "We're going after the trebuchet, not the dragon. If that lizard goes after the townspeople, they'll need your help."
Harry wasn't in any shape to put up much of a fight. Still, he could be really aggravating if he put his mind to it, but that was now a moot point. The Boss was not changing her mind.
"I know," he said dryly, "I'm going to make you fireproof, but you can walk away stoically if you want. Anything for the heroic image, right? I'll be hurt, but I'd understand."
The only sure way to be fireproof was to brew a good potion or charm some dragonhide, but that was so far from being an option that it wasn't even worth considering. The flame-freezing charm, however, was a different story. Its use in medieval witch burnings made it all the more fitting, really.
"This will last for half a minute of sustained fire – no more," he warned. It wasn't the most reliable, but metal conducts heat like nothing else, so it was really much better than nothing.
He added strengthening and lightning runes to her armour. They were crude, and so not terribly useful. He ignored her pointed looks and cut runes in her vambraces to help her strike truer and faster.
Lastly, Harry summoned the Invisibility Cloak and hoped it didn't return to his side too soon. "This thing is mostly spell proof and when you put the hood up, you can't be seen. The dragon will still smell you, but it should help you fight through to the trebuchet. I want this back, you realise."
There was a fierce look in her eyes. "I'll hand it to you myself."
"I'm holding you to that," he agreed more solemnly than he'd been aiming for. He swallowed thickly, gripped her arm tighter.
This was supposed to be her day. She'd given up everything she was to fix their problems, and instead of freeing her from that burden, they condemned her to this.
Word spread and eyes were falling on them, mouths open with awe and pity. Harry knew that look. Up against odds so indomitable that she might as well already be dead, they looked at her like a martyr.
The whole Saviour shtick sucked.
"You're going to get her there?" Harry asked, spotting Solas, Bull and Blackwall - well, he wouldn't say gathering themselves because the Qunari looked eager and Solas appeared entirely unconcerned, but their intent was obvious. "Hold a moment." He gestured for their armour.
…
It was brutal going and dark clouds were rolling in with promise. The path was snowed over, they only risked a few meagre torches to light their way. There was a fine balance between having visibility and being visible: on one hand they risked losing people in the gloom, on the other they might accidentally flag down a dragon. To make matters worse, they wouldn't know exactly where that line was until they gave away the surprise.
At least navigating wasn't an issue – they just had to keep going up. The Chancellor tried to point them towards a pass over the mountains, but for the moment it was just up through snow. Damp snow, hard snow, deep snow, more snow.
A layer of ice had formed during the night temperatures; it posed enough resistance to make it heavy, backbreaking work to push through, but not enough to support the weight of a person. It sucked at their heels, concealed rocks and holes under every high, slippery step.
Hovering over all of them was the knowledge that time could not be spared. An avalanche was coming, and that could spell the end for them. Harry didn't think Lavellan would pull the trigger early, no, more likely, as the Herald occupied the enemy just a little longer, their tardiness would result in the trebuchet never firing at all. It would doom her, and with armies fresh on their trail, they'd soon follow suit.
What an all round miserable prognosis. Needless to say, Harry didn't want that.
Harry worked his way up the line – calves burning, back aching, Merlin, why did walking hurt so much? – casting feather-weight charms on heavy armour and the few bundles of supplies they'd held onto. He couldn't recall ever being more exhausted.
He spared warming charms for the few people that sat down and didn't want to get back up. It wasn't enough to revive some of them. The first was a young man, young enough that Harry regretted he'd ever had to fight. He had burns to half his body and could barely move from the pain.
Harry, with a quiet "mobilicorpus," levitated him. His magic twinged, straining to comply. The young man wasn't the last. They had too few mounts and many people too injured to even ride. Harry gathered them behind him in a morbid string. He grit his teeth against the sounds of their suffering and tried not to look back.
When the signal went up, Harry jumped. He'd scarcely noticed that the trees had thinned, gradually falling behind.
Cullen waited warily at the head, scanning the sky. His furred shoulders relaxed noticeably when, after a few tense seconds, the trebuchet fired. His frown eased almost entirely when the plan worked: the avalanche covered their escape, and the dragon didn't even show up to ruin things.
The Commander deemed it safe enough. "We rest here for an hour."
They were high above the valley where the town used to be, but the mountains still loomed over them. Without the trees, Harry could see the peaks reflecting dully in the moonlight. The distance was not comforting in the slightest.
Townspeople came to take the injured off his hands, grateful and wary. Harry barely noticed. Priorities changed; he cared about their lives, nothing more. Their comfort or issues with him registered just as well as the cold biting his sweaty skin: noticeable, but hardly noteworthy.
Anders was still on his feet, dealing with hurt patents and panicking children, handing out the strength to walk like he was born to do it, with a single-minded dedication.
The crazy bastard.
Harry admired him. From a distance. More or less where he'd stopped walking, in fact. He only made enough effort to settle himself comfortably into the snow behind a nearby bronto. It made an effective shelter against the wind, which was so much more noticeable away from the cover of the forest.
"Nice spot. Don't mind me," Pavus slumped down beside him, bearing food. That officially sealed his place in Harry's good graces. Because fighting beside someone wasn't enough - Harry had saved and been saved by plenty of people he couldn't stand - but care, company and good cheer? That was the ticket.
The wizard's mouth watered. "My hero." The dried meat was just what he needed. He may have moaned a little. "You did good work back there, but this! This is above and beyond the call of duty."
Pavus - no, Dorian - smirked. "Is that how you thank someone for saving your neck?"
"I was working up to flowers and a parade," Harry assured solemnly.
"Bit gaudy, but for this far south I suppose it'll do."
Harry snorted. They shared a grin.
By mutual agreement, they let silence settle between them. It wasn't from lack of curiosity or willingness, far from it - the two simply understood that any proper conversation would be more enjoyable to partake in when both parties had enough energy to think and breathe simultaneously.
Besides, it was nice; the silence almost peaceful, for a time. But the weather set in and that was the end of that.
The wind tossed his hair, flicking it into his eyes with stinging force and riddling it with flakes that soon melted and trickled under his robes.
"So how're you liking Ferelden so far?" Harry raised his voice so his bitter mood could be discerned from the bitter cold, never mind that he and Dorian were huddle so close they could see each other turning blue.
The altus glared. "I have half a mind to let the south hang and live out the rest of my days, perfectly miserable, in a decent climate."
Harry smiled. Dorian hadn't left yet, though he'd rested enough that surely he could apparate by now. That counted for something.
"You should see it in the summer," Harry continued, cheered slightly. "That's when it rains."
Dorian became mouthier as the temperature dropped. The mage nursed a flame between them in his hands, for lack of wood, but it became more difficult to maintain as the wind worsened.
"Oh, they're alive," Dorian looked over Harry's shoulder. "Colour me surprised."
Harry turned more quickly than his ribs approved of. Three figures approached through the gloom. There should have been four. The smallest was missing.
Their voices were carried past the mages in the gale. Cullen weaved his way around miserable people. "Where's the Herald?"
"She sent us ahead. We barely escaped the landslide. Since then…" Blackwall drifted off.
"She did not follow," Solas finished bluntly, looking back down the path often enough to call it a twitch. Harry knew that look, and though Solas didn't wear it well, seeming too harsh and removed, that was the look of a man who wanted to overturn the town, by hand if necessary, and would have already if he didn't think it futile.
Something ached in his chest, and it was part sympathy, part shared. Harry called the Wand and it materialised on his palm.
Dorian started.
"Rine Lavellan revelio." The wood twitched, and that was all he needed to know. He shifted his grip to a more active one, and stood with a grin. "Bloody heroes," he muttered with relief, perfectly aware of the irony.
Yelling would do no good, but Harry was perfectly fine with marching over there, buoyed up with energy and hope. "She's alive!"
Solas' eyes scoured his face as if it were a trick, too good to be true. Then he turned back downhill with renewed vigour.
Cullen looked torn. "We must get to shelter before this storm gets any worse."
People had been known to survive worse than avalanches. But no one could survive buried under a mountain load of snow for long. She was alive, yes, but in what condition? The list of very likely hazards was practically endless: suffocation, sustained injuries, freezing, anything from wolves to archdemons now, apparently.
Cullen realised the chances of her remaining alive were low, and just as likely to doom anyone sent out after her. "Anyone who stays out here will freeze to death."
Well that sounded painful and likely. Harry cleared his throat, "I'll walk it off."
"You'll never find us again in this weather." It was a token resistance, spoken to prepare rather than dissuade. Even the most pragmatic couldn't ignore this chance.
"Keep them alive for me, Solas." And that was at once a plea to stay, and an unspoken promise: I'll bring her back to you.
He moved a distance from the camp, until the strange flickering lights weren't a distraction. His plan would be hard enough.
"Expecto patronum," and that hurt. It burned so bright and happy, it was a struggle not to let that pain overwhelm him and make that bright blue deer vanish. But the rest and the hope had done him good. He had enough fight left in him. "Find Lavellan, Prongs. Lead me to her."
Changing into a stag was easy in comparison.
The key concept therein being the relativity.
As a deer he struggled to maintain focus. His magic – the very thing that keep his human mind in charge – was a distant thing. The paradigm shift fixated on survival: get out of the cold, get away from people. He was tempted by every instinct to let all the pain from the human just sink down, flow away until the world was simple again.
A familiar trumpet echoed through the trees. It invoked a strange, calm feeling in Harry that he couldn't quite identify. Unbidden, the hart weaved through the trees, heading unerringly for the smaller red deer, shaking himself free of the last clinging packs of supplies as he quickly approached.
If Harry was at all reasonable, he would have hightailed it with a prayer, because there was only one way a clash between the stag and oversized elk could end. But he found he couldn't move, he was rooted in place by the same part of him that was entirely unsurprised when the hart bowed. Harry stood straighter, the hart averted its gaze.
The moment was broken when Prongs flickered, drawing their attention, and the patronus bolted lightly over the snow. Both deer snorted in alarm and ran to stay with it, because nothing meant safety like the feeling of happiness.
They moved quickly, four long legs having a much easier time with the snow. That said, going downhill was still a trial of jumping and barely controlled skids. The hart stayed behind him, a loyal shadow.
It was less heart wrenching when they joined the trail of freshly churned snow. Without the icy crust to test their footing, they moved even faster.
Prongs drew ahead once, twice, and for a few tense minutes Harry's eyes would roll wildly until the patronus returned to adjust his heading.
He smelt fire and wolves. They were too close for comfort and closing. He bayed angrily, and ploughed right on ahead. The hart stepped up his protective game, running agitated circles around the smaller deer when the pace slowed.
Harry sunk to his chest in a snow drift and lurched to a halt. He scrambled for purchase, nothing solid beneath him, narrow legs gaining no purchase on the snow. But his frantic movements dug him deeper and his hooves grazed the ground, to little effect. Somewhere a wolf howled.
His ears lay back. He didn't like this.
Prongs bounded to his side. The translucent deer nuzzled his fur and spread tingling warmth while guiding him to the left, to higher ground. The hart's strong intervention was responsible any actually forward progress.
The storm was heading into full blizzard territory when Prongs disappeared for good. Harry reached the spot a few seconds later. There was a familiar woman waist deep in snow, clutching her side in pain but moving doggedly forward. With that, his reservations vanished. His powerful legs pushed forward to meet her. He stretched his head up to hers in greeting, taking in her familiar scent. It was almost overpowered by blood. It was in her hair, her stomach, her back.
Blood meant danger. He stomped a foot, ears flicking nervously, but they didn't pick up anything besides the wind.
"Falon," she whispered with surprise. The word, though it should have been unfamiliar, was easy to interpret. The more conscious human part of Harry's mind decided that was probably due to some elvish animal and nature thing. He didn't care.
Harry barked and the hart, until then vigilantly guarding the pair, trotted over and lay down. Lavellan blinked, swaying unsteadily. Too slow. Harry eyed the woods warily, hounding her with his antlers until she got the message. He was just the right size to push her around and help her scramble up the mountain of elk. Her light weight settled on the hart's back, she huddled down and wrapped a cloak around herself. The elk heaved upward, mindful not to throw her off.
Harry saw her shivers, heard her pained noises. The herd needed to be safe, they would be together, with the rest. They started back up the mountain.
It wasn't long before the blizzard developed into a white blanket over Harry's eyes and ears. There was no Prongs to guide him, his nose was a shoddy substitute. The snow didn't hold scents well and the air was moving too fast, biting and cold.
When he paused, uncertain, the hart carefully stepped up beside him. Harry froze as the heavy weight of its head settled against his, a comforting rumble running through them both.
Faith.
It was an annoyingly persistent sort of responsibility to live up to. It was almost human, and that made it grounding.
Harry kept going up, veering towards the strong acrid signs of fire when they surfaced. Fighting unhelpful instincts was slightly easier than it had been.
At the first camp, the ashes were cold. There wasn't another fire scent for a long time. The air got thinner, the winds harsher, until a formation in the mountain sheltered them for the worst of it and his senses came flooding back. There was nothing to hear, nothing but snow and mountain peaks on either side, but plenty to smell.
Many people, some animals, lots of sickness and blood.
The snow was thinner, he moved into a canter. The hart kept up easily and Lavellan didn't groan at the pace that time, and to the deer that felt too much like the unnatural quiet before an attack.
The scents suddenly became fresh, and irregular sounds audible. Harry reached a rise and looked down on the camp in the pass. He could smell Anders, now.
The snow was hard packed, icy to the extreme. Deep too; Harry sunk to his chest in places and snorted uncomfortably. Sounds rose up as he approached and he panicked a little; he felt they were good, but he was pinned on all sides by snow.
The snow was sturdier at the bottom of the small hill, but that only allowed them to run at him faster. Too loud, reaching toward them. Several men smelled familiar: blond with a slight hint of bear, horned and somehow unique, earthy dwarf. They were almost drowned out by the number of new people.
Harry didn't like it at all. Stomping, glaring, he lowered his antlers.
The threat fazed them, (as well it should), but only momentarily, it would seem. Several circled behind him, aiming for the hart; that was not trustworthy.
Anders was close by, but where? He was definitely dependable, the only one the stag wanted to see. He charged, head down, and the nameless people scrambled to get out of his way. They followed double time when the giant elk galloped after him.
The tents were closely packed around a few resilient pines, intertwined with ropes that made excellent tangling hazards. The ground, though mostly free from snow, was still frozen and slippery. He bayed in frustration, almost losing his footing and careering into a pile of supplies.
It was not the ideal habitat for deer.
The faltering pace allowed people to trail closely. He could see them running, hear their yelling, but he was more excited than afraid – there was a tent, ahead, it smelt very strongly of his friend.
He barked demandingly, pawing at the fabric, looking for the way in.
"Harry!" Anders emerged suddenly, and dodged with a curse. The antlers nearly took out an eye or two. Harry turned his head with difficulty, but his antlers caught on the tent to his side, so his happy greeting came out a little strained.
"Maker's breath, settle down," he hissed, squeezing into the very full isle. His hands soothed Harry's shoulders.
At the touch, the hart snorted warningly, lowing even more sharp points into the corridor. He crowded closer, doing his best to cause a scuffle but lacking the manoeuverability to really put up a fuss. Anders was less than pleased.
"Maker's breath, with the trials you put me through, I should be the next prophet. If your friend ruins my feathers I'll replace them with his antlers, don't think I won't." The mage ducked away and was kicked by something less cloven than he was expecting. "What - Herald!"
Anders reached for Lavellan. Luckily, the hart was much happier to find himself between Harry and the man, and didn't attack him for the transgression. Through the elk's legs, the stag watched Anders coax her fingers to release and carry her inside.
More people reached them, then squeezed into the tent under Harry's shrewd watch. There was a pained cry, and he forced his head past the flaps, concerned.
"Get your long face out of here!"
Harry snorted, but stepped back. Then he went further. He wasn't needed, and with that pressure removed, he found himself quite unable to put up with the crowd.
The hart shadowed him still, and that would have baffled Harry if he weren't so grateful for the steady company. He knew the change usually came now that the four-legged role was done, but change meant the cold, the pain, and the empty numb gap in place of his magic would be so much more noticeable.
He was just going to sleep, it wasn't as if it mattered where and how he did that. Really. And if anyone suggested otherwise he'd sic a half tonne herbivore on them; anything else seemed like too much effort. He really could not keep on his feet much longer.
Harry moved to the edge of the camp and lay down under the low branches of a pine. He closed his eyes, ignoring his follower's proportionally large thump and the awkward shuffling that moved half the tree, because that level of ridiculousness was pushing it.
Harry tried for stoic dignity when the confused stable hands tried to sort out the loose animals in their midst. The hart was even less receptive to their coaxing. (From the swearing alone, Harry suspected that was going to require treatment).
They were mostly left alone, afterward, what with people far more focused on singing and sleeping. Harry dozed until an elf that had the bearing of a much bigger predator stopped a respectable distance away. Then his head shot up quick smart. The hart, though disturbed by Harry's movement, remained strangely unconcerned.
"Thank you," was all that was said.
Harry flicked his ears in acknowledgement.