Notes: We're reaching the end of this... uh, AU that's absolutely not a fix-it except for Caitlyn/Anders' personal lives and the outcome of the Mage-Templar War for the mages. One more chapter to go.

Content Warnings: This should come as absolutely no surprise, but... lots of them. Very graphic war violence, very heavy themes, dark conduct by protagonists.

Song: Again, there's a whole soundtrack, which I have listed in the end notes. The title is taken from "End of All Hope" by Nightwish.


Chapter 90: To End All the Innocence


The Grand Cathedral of Tantervale.

Sebastian stormed through the halls, seeking Knight-Commander Denam. He carried the two ancestral swords of his father's and mother's families. His cousin Goran had been a fool, the dupe of whoever had ordered his parents' and siblings' assassinations, but at least he had not been enough of a fool to destroy or sell the family heirlooms.

With the Tantervale Circle defunct, many of the Templars and Red Templars, including those of the highest ranks, lived and worked in the Grand Cathedral now. Sebastian fumed at that. That proximity only lets them get ever closer to Elthina, he thought in righteous fury. They have corrupted and misled her, Denam and Samson especially. I will kill Denam first, as he is the worst of them, but I will not stop with him. I will see to it that every Red Templar in Thedas is either dead or turned back to a proper one, if that is possible. The conviction filled him with satisfaction. Our side has lost this war, but I can still serve the Maker. I can rid the world of Red Templars.

He slammed the door open to the Knight-Commander's office, revealing Denam himself at his desk. The man even had a kit of red lyrium out. The sight of it enraged Sebastian... or was that the effect of the substance itself, provoking him to anger? It didn't matter. Either way, Maker willing, justice would soon be done upon him.

Denam glared contemptuously at Sebastian. "I'm not surprised to see you here, in such a state as this," he sneered. "You're pathetic."

The swords gleamed in the light of the candles and the red lyrium. "No," Sebastian returned, "you are pathetic. You took that foul substance because you failed as a proper Templar, did you not?" His blades glinted again. "But your feelings of inadequacy would have been left between you and the Maker, if that were the only problem. That is not the only problem, however. You, Samson, Carroll, and all the other Red Templars have been lying to Most Holy, misleading and corrupting her for years!"

Denam actually laughed, and it was a bitter, nasty laugh indeed. "Oh, you stupid fool," he chortled. "Just what exactly do you think I 'corrupted' her into doing?"

Sebastian snarled furiously, "You lied to her about the threat the mages in the Annulled Circles posed! You told her that they were lost, that she had to order the death of everyone, even the little ones! That is why the mage army is going to reduce our cities to rubble with their horrific weapons! They are here to avenge innocent children, and frankly, I cannot blame them for their anger about that! You are a child murderer, Denam!"

Denam smirked back at him. "She gave the order. She told us to perform the Annulments. It isn't my fault that Annulment means killing every last robe. That definition was made long before any of us. Your dear Elthina knew exactly what she was ordering."

Sebastian tried to force aside the horrible memories, still fresh in his mind, of Elthina telling him in frigidly unfeeling tones that Annulment meant the violent death of mage children and that he should not "obsess" about it. "You misled and manipulated her into doing it!" he exploded.

"I reported what I knew from that mage Raddick," he retorted. "His spy had heard the traitor. Reported his own words. And she was the one who gave the order, I'll say again."

Sebastian refused to accept it. "You have poisoned her mind with delusions about red lyrium!" he exclaimed, changing the subject. "She thinks it is a gift of the Maker instead of the... the residue of the Void itself!"

Denam scowled, rising from his chair, slamming his shield over his back, and drawing his sword with a harsh screech of metal. The blade gleamed in the light. "For years I've had to listen to your naïve, self-righteous contempt for me and for the new Templar Order. You fool, we had to evolve to defeat the robes! Look out the window if you don't believe me! See what they've invented! See 'what pride has wrought'!"

"And yet they did not invent these things until after you had let yourselves be turned into beasts by red lyrium," Sebastian replied icily.

The Red Templar gritted his teeth, seething. "A beast would've torn you apart long ago, but I could never lop your head off for fear of offending Most Holy, who wanted to have her own little prince in Starkhaven."

"That is not all that I am to her!" Sebastian exploded.

Denam smiled evilly again. "And this is why I called you a fool. But since you're the one picking the fight, then let's have it out at last, choirboy."

Sebastian pointed his blades at the door. "Yes, let's. Outside."

The Red Templar stalked out the door. Sebastian was momentarily afraid that Denam would draw a small blade and dishonorably attack him before the duel properly began—Red Templars had no honor, that was clear enough after the Annulments—but the moment passed. The pair stood glaring at each other in an open corridor, a railed balcony nearby and more railing guarding several sets of stairs.

Denam attacked first. With a roar, he pumped his biceps—and did something with the red lyrium that coursed through his veins, for as he yelled and flexed, a red miasma surrounded him and gleamed in his pupils. Sebastian blinked, taken aback and momentarily winded from the sheer proximity of the malign substance. For a moment he regretted this challenge.

But he was committed now. The moment of red-lyrium glow passed. Denam lunged at Sebastian in a sudden rush forward, his blade pointed outward as if it were a spear.

But Sebastian knew some tricks too. He brought his blades up in a side-to-side sweep across and in front of his face, catching Denam's sword between the two. A wild hope filled Sebastian in that moment, that perhaps he could disarm Denam with one defensive move and end the duel—but the Red Templar held fast to his blade. A renewed blast of red lyrium filled the air, and Sebastian realized that he was using it to bind his sword to his gauntlet. Sebastian tried to drag the sword out of his adversary's hands, but Denam gritted his teeth, snarling, and jerked the blade free.

The Red Templar roared again and charged, his shield now out. He was like an enraged bronto, and Sebastian realized in a flash that Denam meant to use the shield as a battering ram, slam him to the ground, and end him. He was a fit man himself, but he knew that in a direct-contact fight, he was no match for the mass of muscle and red lyrium barreling towards him. He gazed rapidly, finding a set of stairs leading upwards—I must not cede the high ground to him—and scrambled upon them. Denam was carried forward by his own momentum, and by the time he was able to stop, Sebastian had leaped down again and was rushing toward him with his blades whirling like a cyclone.

Denam had used up a lot of energy in his futile attacks, and he was barely able to fend off Sebastian's whirling assault. He snarled again, invoking the powers of his red lyrium, calling forth another malignant, headache-inducing blast of miasma. Sebastian winced and tried to tough his way through it, though it slowed his attack. He swiped his blades back and forth again, catching the Red Templar's sword once more. He ground his teeth, forcing his way through the headache and hoping for a victory.

"Up there! Who is that?"

"Maker have mercy! It's Prince Sebastian and the Knight-Commander!"

"They're fighting! Betrayal! Get Most Holy!"

The shouts of priests distracted Sebastian. Denam kicked outward, catching him in the knee. His armor protected his bones from being shattered by the man's steel boot, but he was thrown backward, tumbling on the floor. He barely held onto his swords as Denam stalked darkly toward him.

His head was throbbing, his knee was bruised, and he was on his back, unable to scramble to his feet in time. Is this it? Sebastian thought rapidly as the menacing Knight-Commander approached. No. Not like this. Maker grant me strength for just a little longer—

Denam raised his blade to behead the prince. Sebastian sucked in his breath, held his blades close to his chest, and rolled out of Denam's way. The Red Templar's sword stuck in the floor as he leaped to his feet again.

Before Denam could fully recover from his failed attack, Sebastian rushed him, making wide swipes with both swords, arcing them outward instead of upward. Denam backed up against a nearby rail. Sebastian grinned and rushed forward, hoping to slice through his armor—

Denam yanked his sword out of the floor just as Sebastian was upon him. He did not try to fight back, but instead, with another instant surge of red lyrium, tumbled over the rail like an Orlesian harlequin, landing on his feet.

Sebastian rounded the corner, blades swishing, as he felt the taste of triumph. He bounded down the stairs, kicking hard in retaliation. Perhaps it was a dirty and dishonorable move, but Denam had kicked first, and he was using red lyrium to attack Sebastian's body and mind with pain, gaining additional unfair advantages. What is the practical difference between fighting against red lyrium and fighting against magic? Sebastian thought angrily. And mages cannot help being mages. He chose to become a Red Templar.

Denam tried to scramble for his sword, but Sebastian kicked again, catching his breastplate. The Templar rolled down the stairs to a small landing. Sebastian jumped, swords out, ready to end this.

But Denam was on his feet again. Sebastian snarled, trying to get his opponent's sword away from him. Before he could jerk it out of Denam's hands, the Knight-Commander had his shield out. He lifted it. Sebastian was too close and had nowhere to dodge now. Involuntarily he raised his arms, protecting his blades so that they would not shatter and that the force of the blow would not drive them into his own body—

Waves of bruising pain shot through Sebastian as Denam slammed his shield against his arms. He held tight to his swords, but that hurt. His armor jarred, bruising his arms. But he knew that they were not broken. He could get through this. He could still fight. Maker, protect me once more, he prayed, keeping his eyes open for the prayer as he regained his stance.

Denam's shield bash had winded him again, and his sword arm was not ready. Fighting through the pain of his bruises, Sebastian drew his own swords into the same defensive parry with which he had begun the duel. He locked them around Denam's blade. The blade shifted, the Red Templar's grip loosening. Triumph filled Sebastian's heart. Victory was going to be his!

Then Denam leered back, and yet another blast of red lyrium miasma filled the small space. Sebastian's blue eyes widened in shock and horror at what followed. He could scarcely believe his eyes as worm-like tendrils of the substance actually crawled out between the gaps in Denam's armor, gleaming unholy bright red, fastening around him like roots. They grew out rapidly from his gauntlet, wrapping around the hilt of his blade, holding it in place.

"You cannot defeat it!" Denam hissed, eyes wide and wild. "You've lost!"

Sebastian jerked his swords free. Anger and resolve filled his face. "We'll see about that, Red Templar." Before Denam could react, he brought his right-hand blade down hard.

Directly on top of the gap above his gauntlets, which had been widened by the growth of the wormy red lyrium tendrils.

Denam's hand thudded to the floor, the sword still attached. The Red Templar gaped in shock and dismay, staring at the stump.

In the next moment, Sebastian drove both blades through his neck.

Denam gurgled, blood and red lyrium spewing from his mouth and nose. Sebastian withdrew his blades, scowling. The man choked on his own blood and the vile substance as he died on the floor.

Sebastian sighed, sheathing his blades. "May the Maker somehow find it in Himself to forgive you after He has exacted justice upon you."

The priests who had witnessed the fight had not yet returned, but Sebastian knew he did not have much time. He certainly did not have time to regroup with the other members of the peace embassy. He had told them of his intentions and told them what signal to wait for if he were successful, at least. They knew what to listen for. Sebastian rushed back up the stairs, down corridors, heading inexorably for a staircase in the center of the Chantry.

He burst into a narrow room near the rooftop. Various cords of differing sizes dangled through holes in the ceiling. Sebastian knew what was above him: the great bell of the Tantervale Grand Cathedral. There were many bells in this chantry, he knew, and all could be rung from this room. He gazed around quickly. There was a single cord somewhere that could be used to ring every bell in the Cathedral at once...

He saw it, a heavy gold-threaded rope covered with leather for the protection of the ringer's hands, the largest in this room. He darted over to it and pulled hard on the cord.

There were brothers and sisters who knew how to make the bells ring in the melodies of hymns. Sebastian was not one of them. He could simply make all the bells chime, but it was still beautiful, a sounding of various pitches ringing throughout the Cathedral and the city. Like the music of the Golden City, he thought. He rang the bells again.

He was still there, still ringing the bells, when the Templars burst into the belfry to take his swords away and drag him off to a holding cell.

That, Sebastian had expected. The priests who had witnessed the duel had not known why he had done it. Indeed, they had not even known who had started it. Holding and questioning the victor was reasonable.

He was shocked, and all the joy and hope that he had been feeling left him, when he saw Elthina, Divine Fidelia of the Orthodox Chantry, at the rear of the crush of Templars. She shook her head in derision and disappointment, leaving Sebastian to be hauled away without speaking a word to him.


The front lines.

The ringing of the Chantry bell could be heard as far away as the army camp. It was faint but unmistakable. Caitlyn and Anders turned to each other, scowling hard at the sound.

"They're playing games," he muttered. He glared at Tantervale, where the spire and bell tower were faintly visible against the reddening sky.

"That or they think we are playing games," she said. "What do they mean by this?"

Flora Harimann spoke up hopefully. "Perhaps they just sound the bells at sunset..."

Charade scowled. "They never did when I lived in this rotten place."

Caitlyn glowered. "Then it's some sort of trap or game. I stand by my words. This is ridiculous. Even now, they think we're bluffing. Even now, they think I am lying and that an army of hated mages couldn't possibly defeat them in war." She turned to Anders and raised her eyebrows pointedly, gazing from his face to the sunset and back to his face.

The sun hovered on the horizon, an orange-red slice surrounded by a corona. It resembled a fireball remarkably well, which Caitlyn thought ominous. But we knew this was likely, she told herself resolutely. She turned to Anders, her expression hard, and gave a quick nod to him. He returned it.

Wordlessly they rose and walked over to the rocket launchers. The artillery teams had already loaded some large ones in place and had positioned them at angles to strike well within the city proper. The big rockets traveled farther than the small ones due to the greater amounts of propelling powder in their boosters, and the weight increase was not significant enough to counteract the power of the propelling explosions. The artillery team had angled them for military targets to begin with: the building that the maps had marked as the Templar barracks before the schism and hopefully still was, the Circle that was now empty of mages, the guardhouses. If—or more likely when—that did not produce a surrender, the next round would be aimed at civilian areas: the marketplace, the wealthy district, the Chancellor's Keep. Caitlyn felt heavy about that, but this was war. Hopefully they wouldn't have to use Anders' chemical rockets...

She and Anders watched the sun dip so low that it was only a sliver. She took a deep breath—

"Your Graces! The peace embassy has returned!"

Their heads snapped up. A messenger was approaching. In the distance, guarded by Free Mages, stood the Tantervale peace embassy with its white flag. Sebastian Vael was not present in the group this time, Caitlyn and Anders noted. They wondered what that meant.

They did not have to wait long. The embassy members were brought before them quickly, as time was running out. The Tantervalers' eyes widened in shock at the sight of the loaded rockets, significantly larger than the sizes given in the rumors and accounts of the ones that had already struck.

They were rather menacing, Caitlyn agreed in thought. The ones loaded in the apparatus had rods several yards long, and the shells were nearly as long as an adult human was tall. They were ponderously heavy to lift unaided, weighing over a hundred pounds each, but force magic could make them nearly weightless and easily maneuvered in place. Spells and runes could also improve their accuracy.

"Your Graces," one of the embassy began in desperate tones, "Prince Sebastian Vael has killed Knight-Commander Denam, who was—"

"The Red Templar monster with the blood of Tantervale's mage children on his hands," Anders snarled viciously. "We know exactly who he is. Was."

The ambassador nodded nervously. "Yes, Your Grace. Prince Sebastian killed him and rang the Chantry bell himself."

"Does he control the Tantervale Chantry, then?" Caitlyn asked in harsh tones.

The ambassador shook his head in reluctance and fear. "He did not expect to, Your Graces. We believe he is alive but confined. He blamed Denam and the other Red Templar leaders for the... situation, and he accused them of 'misleading' Most H—Elthina about the threat posed by the Annulled mages and... many other things. The prince does not think her guilty of anything."

Caitlyn and Anders exchanged disgusted, infuriated looks. When she spoke, she was seething. "Just to be clear," she began, "Elthina herself did give the order to slaughter three Circles, did she not? Children included?" She was sneering by the end of the question, of which she knew the answer perfectly well—but she wanted the ambassador to say it.

"She did," he said quietly.

"And she herself authorized and ordered the creation of Red Templars for four years. She herself split from the Chantry because Justinia was willing to grant some rights to mages and didn't send a squad of thugs to massacre my entire family. She herself has made war, as the leader of this schism!" She was practically yelling. "And that delusional—" She broke off, shaking her head in contempt. Anders took her hand unobtrusively as she took deep breaths to calm herself. "Sebastian actually expected that we would be satisfied with the death of one Red Templar, when he cannot even hold his own Chantry and refuses to put any responsibility on the shoulders of his precious Elthina?"

The ambassador gazed at the ground wordlessly.

Caitlyn turned to Anders. "This is an insult."

"I agree," he said, his expression equally hard. "It's a farce."

"And look at that," she added ironically, gesturing at the horizon. "The sun has set." She turned back to the ambassador. "Time's up."

She gestured to some soldiers to take the embassy members captive. As they were hustled off, Caitlyn and Anders turned back to the artillery team. "Begin the bombardment."

The mages struck matches against the launchers and lit the long, long wicks. Caitlyn and Anders watched, holding hands nervously, feeling that dark sense of history suffusing them once again, as the sparks traveled down the wicks.

An uneasy look suddenly passed over Anders' face, and he threw up a ward in front of himself, his wife, and the mage soldiers. Caitlyn wondered for a moment just how intense these blasts would be, if he deemed that necessary.

But only a moment. When the sparks reached the combustion chamber, Caitlyn, Anders, and the others standing nearby were nearly knocked backward from the explosive blasts. Their eardrums would have shattered if not for Anders' ward. They gazed up, but the rockets had already left the launchpad, which was now tottering back and forth from the recoil. Five fire-and-smoke-spewing instruments of death tore through the dusky sky toward Tantervale.


The small rockets that had impacted upon and around the outer-ring armory had been shocking and destructive enough. These carried ten times that weight in explosive powder, and the damage they did was exponentially greater.

The one aimed for the former Circle building made a direct hit. There was a terrible white flash of light, a millisecond of intense heat, and then everything within was reduced to flying debris and ash. The bunks, dressers, books, the potions storeroom—everything that generations of Circle captives had used until the Annulment was gone. So were all of the Orthodox Chantry sisters and brothers who were working there as clerks to catalog the inventory, with the sole exception of five who happened to be in the cellar.

When they dashed to the ground level, startled and horrified by the sounds of the blasts, they immediately ran right into a raging fire in the former potions room ignited by the rocket's firebomb mix and the sudden mixing of volatile chemicals. These five stumbled and fell to the ground, choking on smoke and ash, as flames closed in around them.

The three rockets aimed at guardhouses did not hit directly, but they hit close enough. One landed at the base of an interior stone wall, blasting a hole in it. Chunks of sandstone flew outward in all directions, crushing anyone and anything in their paths. The largest chunk smashed through the guardhouse's roof. The second rocket struck a defensive bridge that connected to another guardhouse, destroying it and stranding the guards. The third rocket hit in a small market area that catered to the guards, annihilating stores and pubs.

The rocket that was aimed at the Templar barracks did not strike it directly either. It landed forty feet north of the place. In less than a second, an entire block of homes and shops was reduced to smoldering rubble. The only survivors were three people on the outermost fringe of the blast.

In addition to the fire raging inside Tantervale's Circle chamber, there were now two more fires raging from two of these rockets—the one that had hit near the Templar barracks and the one that hit the small market. Civilian areas were more prone to fire, since there would be more wood, cloth, and unguarded oil lamps and candles. Panic quickly ensued among the handful of survivors and their nearby neighbors, as people began screaming. Several gazed upward at the darkening sky, terrified of more of the apostates' flying bombs coming their way. Others scrambled as fast as they could for grates that led into the city sewer system.


Caitlyn, Anders, and the Free Mage leaders waited, watching through spyglasses as smoke and dust rose. It would be harder to see at night, unless they managed to set fires in the city that provided illumination. Their orders were to give the enemy a few more minutes to reconsider, and if no surrender flags appeared at the walls, to resume the bombardment.

Minutes passed. Caitlyn and Anders exchanged dour looks as the sky grew purple. Finally they each sighed. Anders gazed meaningfully but grimly at her, and Caitlyn gave a curt nod to the artillery team.

Soon after that, the next round of rockets soared violently and loudly towards Tantervale. The mages did not realize that they had already struck civilian areas, though they knew that the aim of these things was not perfect for small targets at maximal distances. This, however, was the first time that they intentionally aimed at civilian areas and buildings. It was a dark moment.

A dark moment to begin a long, dark night, Caitlyn thought as she squeezed Anders' hand. They watched as their weapons of war sped toward the enemy stronghold, as beautiful and terrible as shooting stars bound for a violent impact with the earth.


For the first time in its history, the Chancellor's Keep shook.

Chancellor Joffrey Orrick was watching from his Hand's Tower in dismay at the plumes of flame, smoke, ash, and dust rising in his city. He had personally seen three of the mages' accursed, abyssal flying bombs before they hit. When a blast sounded from the nearby high-end marketplace, he knew that he was not in a good location and needed to get to the lower levels fast. He scrambled for the stairs when the rocket aimed at his Keep made contact.

The walls shook, and dust and pebbles of broken rock from the ceiling fell down upon him as he ran for it. This had never happened before. Not from Tevinter, the Qunari, a thunderstorm, or even a dragon. These mages, however, had managed the feat. They had breached Tantervale's walls from above and made the Chancellor's Keep tremble. Orrick cursed the mage army, its apostate leaders, his advisors, Sebastian Vael, and his own blasted Chantry. I wanted to surrender months ago, he thought as he half-crawled down the stairs, hands shielding his head from falling rocks. That prince and that so-called Divine talked me out of it. Damn it, we should have tried to make terms!

Orrick reached the bottom of the stairs and burst through the doors into the connecting room, a council chamber. Before him was a roomful of Chantry officials and Templars, arguing across the table about the next course to take. He did not see the Knight-Commander of Tantervale, and he wondered about that, but Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch was there.

He's been reasonable at times, Orrick thought, grasping at this hope like a drowning man. He scrambled to the table and slapped his palms desperately on the tabletop.

"Chancellor," said Trentwatch, "we are glad to see that you are safe."

Orrick glared at the Templars and priests. "This can't go on," he said bluntly. "We can't survive this. We have to surrender."

Dark looks were exchanged across the table. Orrick gulped uneasily as Trentwatch rose from his seat, reaching for his scabbard. "I'm sorry," the Templar said, easing his blade from its sheath, "what was that?"

Orrick gaped at him in disbelief. "Knight-Vigilant! We can't—"

Trentwatch pulled his sword entirely out in a scrape of metal. "We must. And we shall."

As if in response, another blast sounded nearby, shaking the walls and rattling the windows. Orrick threw his hands up. "Look around you! They'll blow us to the Maker's side!"

"They do not have unlimited numbers of these... things. We can outlast them. We have to."

Orrick exploded. "Andraste's ass! Are you out of your fucking minds?"

At this, the priests and Templars broke into outraged mutters. Several Templars began to rise from their seats, drawing their weapons. Trentwatch stalked toward the Chancellor, his blade glinting. He shoved Orrick into an empty chair and held the blade against his neck.

"We will defeat the apostates," he growled. "You can be a part of that—or a corpse. Your choice."

"How dare you? I am the Chancellor of Tantervale!"

Trentwatch gazed down menacingly. "Chantry doctrine has long been the law of this city. Long before you were ever born... Chancellor," he said mockingly. "Did you really think you were in charge here?"

Orrick gulped as a bead of sweat trickled down his throat. "Where is Sebastian Vael?" he managed weakly. "Where are the Knight-Commanders, the Knight-Divine, and Most Holy?"

"Most Holy is safe in the Chantry. Knight-Commander Carroll and Knight-Divine Samson are in Starkhaven, protecting the city as the apostates besiege it too. And Sebastian Vael is imprisoned beneath the Chantry for murdering Knight-Commander Denam!" he suddenly erupted. He pressed the blade harder against Orrick's throat, producing a drop of blood. "We won't be so merciful here if you turn on us. What'll it be?"

Oh Maker, Orrick thought in a panic. Oh sweet Maker. He swallowed again. "I... will go along with you," he said in a half-whisper.

Trentwatch withdrew the blade, but he did not sheathe it. "Will you."

"I... I just need to know what we can do," he babbled. "We know they don't have an infinite number of these things, but we don't know how many they do have. We need to try to do something if we're really going to keep fighting."

"That is what we were discussing when you burst in. The best plan we have is to send out a force of soldiers, Templars, and Seekers to engage the apostates. To destroy their infernal devices if possible. If we can do that, we can win."

Orrick nodded emphatically, just glad at this point that he was still alive. "Yes," he repeated. "Yes. Do it, Knight-Vigilant."

"Call up the forces. We march on the apostates at dawn."


"Enemy forces approaching! Two thousand, give or take!"

Caitlyn and Anders saw it too. They had barely managed to get any sleep, but they had finally nodded off for three hours before the rising sun—and their own subconscious tension—awakened them. Now, over a plain camp breakfast of porridge, they saw that they had to counter an enemy attack again.

"I can't say that surprises me," Caitlyn remarked, rising to her feet. "Their other choice is to sit and wait as their city is reduced to ash, flame, and rubble. They must intend to target our weaponry—and, of course, kill some mages."

"They won't," Anders said firmly.

The army was ready to fight, and many of the Free Mages were quite eager to engage the foe on the battlefield with magic, instead of sending explosives at their city from afar. Caitlyn, Anders, and the officers scrambled to call up and ready the best units of elementalists, hexers, thaumaturgists, and force mages. The legions on the north bank quickly began melting the ice and casting glyphs to prevent the enemy from reaching the less-defended rocketry on that side.

Caitlyn set the force mages in charge of a trebuchet. "Use the bombs for this," she commanded. "They are of no use to us otherwise. We can't loft them over the walls by magic or trebuchet unless we get so close that the enemy can attack us in force. That's what the rockets are for, anyway. The bombs and trebuchets are for this, so use them!"

She and Anders decided to fight with the elementalists, hoping that their presence would motivate them. Anders could summon powerful lightning storms and she could produce firestorms as intense as the best elementalists in the army. They cantered up on their horses, each of them armored and armed with a powerful staff, and the horses armored too this time. Her red cape and his black one fluttered in the early morning breeze.

"Free Mages!" she called out, her voice amplified. She raised her staff high. "They are marching on us because they are afraid of us! They know they won't outlast a siege, so they think to destroy us in the field! Will they?"

"No!" roared hundreds of mages.

"Will they disarm us? Take our weapons away?"

"No!"

"Will they take our liberty from us now, in our moment of triumph?"

The roar was loud enough that the enemy force could hear it. "NO!"

"We are free and we will never surrender that again!" Anders suddenly roared, raising his staff next to hers. A bolt of lightning sparked from it. "The Maker creates no slaves! Liberty or death!"

The mages exploded with roars, and even the non-magical soldiers supporting them—their friends, family, their city, and their cause—joined in. Screaming, yelling, they were ready as the enemy rushed forward.

"Firestorms!" Caitlyn screamed. She began it herself, casting an immense orange vortex of whirling inferno. Two hundred fire mages in a line did too, creating an unbridgeable wall of flames. It was so strong that it could create its own weather, as powerful enough firestorms did, and this lethal maelstrom rapidly gained winds that sucked hapless soldiers into its center. It did not quite reach the incoming enemy line, but their own momentum kept them from stopping. The vanguard ran helplessly into the flames, falling over wreathed in fire, as the lines behind them stumbled, trying to halt, some of them tripping over each other and falling into the wall of fire too.

Some of the fire mages wiped their brows. Others gulped down lyrium. They all drew back, giving way to the next line of battlemages as planned. The flames would do serious damage to the enemy force, but they would not last for more than a minute or so. The army needed to be ready with something else.

As the flames died down, Caitlyn nodded quickly to Anders. Behind the vanguard, which had been mostly spearmen and swordsmen, was a line of Templars and Red Templars. These could negate magic. The mages had to hit them first. "Ice!" he shouted. "Blizzards!"

Caitlyn, meanwhile, was giving orders to the trebuchet team to have a line of bombs ready to be lit and loaded in the device. "Aim for the biggest Red Templars!" she called out.

As Anders' winter mages enveloped the Templar line in blizzards, slowing their movements to a crawl and creating whiteout conditions in their immediate proximity, a sizzling bomb soared overhead. It landed next to a Behemoth—and exploded in the next moment, killing the monster and everyone near it.

She had spurred her horse back toward Anders when something heavy whooshed by, mere feet away. She halted, nearly falling off the horse, startled. To her shock, a ballista bolt struck the trebuchet directly just as her soldiers were lifting a bomb into it—a lit bomb, she realized, shock turning to horror. The device smashed to the ground as its beams splintered. The spherical bomb rolled about, its powder-infused wick sparking rapidly—

Later she would reflect on the fact that it would have been more sensible to order another, closer mage to do it, but in this moment, Caitlyn's only instinct was to extinguish the wick herself. She spurred her horse into a gallop.

Anders was gaping at her, shocked and appalled, but he quickly regained his wits. "Take that ballista out!" he snarled to a group of lightning mages. He raised his staff to begin the strike himself.

The lightning bolt struck the enemy ballista, fragmenting it into a shower of wood and twisting its metal into strange shapes, just as Caitlyn's frost spell hit the sparking bomb. To his infinite relief, the casing of ice smothered the sparks entirely. He spurred his horse away, utterly furious with her.

Two-thirds of the wick was burned. Unless they could set up a trebuchet and get rid of this bomb very fast after lighting it, it was unusable, Caitlyn thought, wiping sweat off her brow. But at least it hadn't taken out their forces.

She turned to the gobsmacked force mages who had been at the trebuchet. "It's all right! It's out! Now take a break. Team two, to the fore!" The exhausted mages fell back and let their comrades take their place.

Caitlyn cantered over to Anders, who was shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't decide whether to curse you or kiss you," he snapped.

She grinned back, winking. "How about both?"

He rode up next to her and gave her exactly the hard, rough, biting kiss that she had expected. It was intense and tasted of magic and blood. He drew back. "And fuck you all the way back to Kirkwall for what you put me through."

She smirked sideways. "You can do that soon enough."


The Orthodox Divine had joined the impromptu council in the Chancellor's Keep. She watched in growing dismay through a spyglass as the mages' army annihilated hers with fire, blizzards, storms, and their abyssal explosives. Even after her forces took out their foremost trebuchet, the mages' army could set up others. The only good thing about this was that the barrage of flying bombs—rockets, as Hawke had called them—had stopped. The launch devices had been moved far back, and Elthina could see none of the metal objects themselves loaded in the wooden launchers. Perhaps they feared an accidental explosion from the amount of fire and lightning magic that was flying. They had not used them at all while the battle ensued, in fact, not even against Tantervale's army. Undoubtedly the apostates were preserving them for their siege. Nothing else could get over the walls.

Elthina turned away from the window, trying to conceal the fact that she was very, very worried. Silently she took her place at the table.

"Well," she said, placing her hands on the tabletop. She sighed. "We did our best, but once again, we are witnessing the dreadful power of magic."

"Is there any word from Starkhaven?" Chancellor Orrick asked nervously.

"Knight-Divine Samson and Knight-Commander Carroll managed to get a raven message through," she replied. "The apostates' fleet has Starkhaven blockaded by water on all sides. We do not have the ships there to engage their fleet, and... the apostates' ships are equipped with a few rockets too." She hated admitting this, as she knew it would be demoralizing, but they needed to know.

Sure enough, everyone at the table groaned. "So they've used them," Trentwatch muttered.

"Yes. Carroll sent out a ship equipped with ballistae to try to sink the apostates' flagship. They hit it with four of the accursed things and blew it up. It was a big target at close range, so it was quite easy to hit." She sighed, knowing that she had to be strong, serene, the chosen Successor of Andraste to these people. "We think they have only the small ones there, but we don't know for sure. The point of the Starkhaven blockade appears to be to prevent any aid from reaching us here in Tantervale."

"Will it?" Trentwatch asked. "You say the river is blockaded. Couldn't Starkhaven send a land force?"

"The Minanter surrounds Starkhaven on all sides," Elthina replied. "We have no way of moving thousands of soldiers out of the city." She forced a look of resolve on her face. "The apostates do not seem to want to actually invade Tantervale personally, nor have they been inclined to get close enough to launch a traditional siege... or even a traditional siege with magic. They know that our forces will scrape them off our walls like insects if they try to climb up siege ladders, and that if they get close enough to launch anything over them by trebuchet, ballista, or magic, they are close enough to be hit themselves. They are hiding behind these rockets, but they will eventually run out."

"Begging your pardon, Most Holy, but what's to keep them from just making more? Surely an army camp has a smithy, and that explosive..."

"We don't know what it is made of or how long it takes to make it, so we cannot assume that they can make more of it here," Elthina said firmly. "And again, they have not used rockets against our army, just the city. If they could make as many as they wanted in the field, they would not be holding back. No, their supply is limited. We must outlast the apostates and trust the Maker."


It did not take too many more hours for the Free Mage-Kirkwall allied army to rout what remained of the Tantervale force. They jeered as the several hundred survivors fled back to the enemy walls. Caitlyn and Anders laughed, raising their staves high in triumph, and turned with twin smirks to the rocket teams. "Bring them back out and resume the siege!" she called out.

The mages and their non-mage comrades cheered and hooted as the artillery teams rolled the rocket wagons back out.

Sketch saluted Tantervale ironically as Anders gave the order to launch the next round. "Here's to your 'army,' Elthina!" he called out, though she obviously could not hear him. However, his intended audience, the army, did.


The assault continued from both riverbanks, through the rest of the day, into the night, and through the entirety of the following day. By nightfall the second day, Tantervale was burning. Fires raged; haze from smoke and dust partially obscured the city. The buildings that still stood had sustained a lot of damage, and others had collapsed or vanished in explosions.

Not all of the rockets were striking their intended targets despite the force mages' best efforts to improve their accuracy. But for now, a bigger problem faced the Free Mage army, a problem that was becoming increasingly concerning to its leaders as they crossed off rocket after rocket from their inventory list without any sign of a white surrender flag on Tantervale's ramparts. Even deploying only five approximately every two hours, they were burning through them fast.

As the second full day of the siege drew to a close, Caitlyn sighed heavily. Twenty rockets left, not counting the... the... She glanced uneasily at Anders. He glowered at the list, then returned the same grim look she was giving him.

As sunset turned to twilight and the army started campfires to cook dinner and keep their spirits up by fellowship, Sketch finally voiced the fear that they were all feeling. "What if... we run out?" he asked. "I honestly thought they'd surrender after the first few impacts. But these bastards are a lot more stubborn than I thought they'd be. Maker's breath, their city is in flames! There must be hundreds of civilians dead!"

"At this point I doubt the civilian leadership—or the people of Tantervale—have much say," Anders growled, anger in his eyes. "The Templars apparently took Sebastian Vael prisoner. The fanatics are in charge."

Caitlyn rubbed her eyes, feeling weary—tired of fighting, of war, of constantly having to turn to violence just to defend her chance to have a free life. When she raised her gaze to Anders, she saw that same weariness in him. But she also saw a hard determination that both inspired and frightened her.

She took a deep breath. "If we run out, they'll know it when the impacts stop, and it'll renew their hope that they can outlast us. Tantervale is a rich city—well, was—on a river, and it is just after the harvest. They likely have a lot of food stored. Starving them into submission is not an option for us. We need to end this." She looked out at her friends and councilors, the question unspoken.

Silence fell for a while. In her heart, Caitlyn knew what they would have to do. They had not yet used one type of weapon they had. Finally, with a mix of guilt and dark determination on his face, Anders spoke.

"We've been rather indiscriminate in what we attacked. Some of our strikes missed their intended targets, too. Maybe we haven't hit anything that the enemy considers crucial, anything that would break their resolve if they lost it."

She quirked a brow. "You want to target a specific place?"

His gaze grew darker. "Yes. I think we should target the Chantry."

Anders' face was as intense and hard as she had ever seen it. It made her suppress a shiver—from the ruthlessness of his idea, from the significance of the war's end for mages and the realization that this was a pivot in history, and—she had to admit it—from the way this dark determination in him appealed to her. At this moment, with the campfire casting shadows on his face and gleams of flame reflecting in his eyes, he looked like an avatar of justice.

His idea got a reaction as mutters and shocked looks broke out. However, Caitlyn couldn't immediately rule it out. "The Chantry?" she repeated, mulling it. "That's... an escalation." And yet, it might end this war.

"It is, but this needs to be escalated. In fact, I think we should use... my bombs." The murmurs grew louder, but he continued relentlessly. "If Elthina is inside, blasting their Chantry to the Void could end this. In fact, using my bombs could end it even if she isn't there, if enough others are."

This provoked a storm of remarks. The group gathered nearby seemed to split evenly about whether to carry out this idea.

Flora Harimann spoke up, caution in her voice. "Andrastian armies have never targeted chantries. They're places of sanctuary."

Anders tensed aggressively. "This Chantry is not some neutral place of sanctuary!" he snarled. "It's quite literally the enemy!"

"But what makes them sanctuaries is that civilians may shelter inside," Flora persisted bravely, "getting food or healing."

That word provoked a bitter explosion of rage and terrible anguish from him. "Healing? What healing? They murdered all their Healers!"

"There is non-magical healing too," Flora offered feebly.

Anders shook his head. "It's war. If we wipe out the Orthodox Chantry leadership, it's over. Yes—there will be civilians inside. I regret that. But we're besieging the city. You think that doesn't have a death toll? You think we haven't killed civilians already? If we end this now, fewer will die overall."

Maker help me, I understand, Caitlyn thought, imperceptibly moving closer to him. I see your reasoning, Anders, love. I actually do.

Caspar Waite spoke up. "I agree with you, but... I don't think we should just blithely dismiss what Lady Flora said either. If the door is opened to target sanctuaries, warfare will be far more brutal in the future. We've already opened up grim new fronts with our weapons. War will never be the same."

Anders looked defiant for another moment before his face crumpled. "I know," he said, his gaze falling. "I know. But we wanted things 'never to be the same' for southern mages, and... maybe... the only way to achieve that is by forever changing the face of war too."

"It's still sad to me," Flora said quietly. "A loss of innocence."

Caitlyn thought her husband would explode again, but she was mistaken. Anders could not muster his anger again. He merely gazed wearily at the woman. "Some of us lost that a long time ago," he said sadly.

"What about appearances?" Sketch asked. "If we do this, won't others call us irreligious monsters who attack chantries?"

"It's the enemy," Anders insisted. "This is a schism filled with rebel Templars, but I'd say the same even if they claimed to serve Justinia, because of what they have done." That elicited some raised eyebrows, but he continued doggedly. "If Chantry folk make war on us, they can't turn around and claim neutrality. These people murdered hundreds of mages. They chose to kill them all, their own Circles as well as Dairsmuid's, rather than seeing them join us. And they did it as brutally as they possibly could. I won't repeat Justinia's condemnation. We all know what it said, what they did."

The mages murmured at that, recalling the details of that atrocity. Caitlyn and Anders could tell that this made an impression.

He continued angrily. "And that was the culmination of more than eight ages of abuse from people who thought exactly as the people in that Chantry think. For centuries people like them have ripped the capacity for dreams, hopes, and emotions from us. Thrown us to demons as a 'test' and murdered us if they thought we gave in. Beaten and raped us. Torn us from our parents and siblings, ripped couples apart, stolen our newborn babies from our very arms! Forced us to bleed and die in their Exalted Marches... and once we crushed their foes, they shoved us back in our prisons as if we were no more than weapons to be locked away! And when they didn't need us, they blamed us for everything wrong in the world. They said we caused the Maker Himself to turn aside! He does not do every little thing they want? Does not deliver miracles on demand? Can't possibly be that He gave us free will. No, it must be the mages' fault!" Anders was fired up. "And when we finally stand up and say 'no more,'" he snarled loudly, "they murder our children as torturously as they can!"

His fury was righteous, though with bitterness and dark resolve rather than the pure righteousness of years past. This, Caitlyn thought, was the influence of Vengeance, darkened and hardened, rather than the purity of Justice. But his voice fired her up too in spite of that. Or maybe because of it.

"The people in the Tantervale Chantry are not kindly priests who help any war refugees, from either side, who seek shelter," Anders concluded. "They are hostiles and we should deal with them accordingly." A flash of blue light appeared on his neck, but it vanished before anyone but Caitlyn noticed it.

Caitlyn held up her hand for silence before anyone else could speak. "I will consider this idea. Leave me in peace to do it."

She rose from her chair and walked toward the glow of the burning city. The walls stared them down, unbroken but no longer protecting the city from devastation. Atop the hill, the Tantervale Cathedral glittered from candlelight within, the smoke, ash, and dust surrounding it and creating an eerie glow.

Hiding in there like a giant spider in its filthy cave, Elthina? If we had settled you years ago in Kirkwall, we wouldn't be here.

Or would we? There are clearly plenty of mage-hating radicals without you. Maybe this was always inevitable. She pondered the matter. Her and Anders' hope was that decapitating the leadership would leave them unable to unify around a replacement. Elthina never cultivated a successor in Kirkwall, she thought. Her mode is to hoard power. She's done it with the schism too. We haven't heard of any prominent priest lieutenant, just Templars and Seekers.

At that, doubt filled her mind. Thousands of soldiers were blockaded in Starkhaven. They had to have slain at least a thousand Templars and Seekers here in Tantervale, but she just did not know how many remained.

There must be at least another thousand here alone. If we force a surrender in spite of that, the same reasoning that would cause the ones here to do it would work on the ones in Starkhaven. And—the weight of it settled on her—the only plausible way to get them to surrender is to do as Anders suggests.

She recalled Waite and Flora's arguments. "War will never be the same," she thought again. You're right. It won't. It will be a more impersonal, more brutal affair now. Someday, every nation in Thedas will be able to do what we can do. I don't know what will come after. Perhaps we'll have to come to an agreement not to use these weapons, but to keep them in reserve as a promise of mutual destruction. I don't know. But I do know that war is already changed.

Anders is right. He was right about almost everything. Let's end this.

She returned to the campsite, her facial expression fixed. "We're doing it," she said. "Mages—aim the launchers and target the Chantry building." She hesitated, then hardened herself for the order. "With the chemical weapons."

Anders looked up sharply, but he was not surprised at her decision. He still carried that gaze of dark, hard resolve. Giving her a brief nod, he led a small party to an unobtrusive wagon where the poison gas rockets were still sealed under a metal top. As the crew unbolted it, he stood by, his black cape whipping in the night wind, the coat underneath almost as dark. His profile was illuminated by cold moonlight. To Caitlyn he looked like an avenging spirit.

And so a part of him is, she thought.

The crew carefully loaded one large hundred-pound explosive rocket and four gas rockets into a launcher. Anders consulted the chart of targets and jabbed at a spot on it. He's already calculated what the angle needs to be to hit the Chantry, Caitlyn realized heavily. He knew we might have to do this. She supposed it was... good... that they did not have to work with hastily scribbled estimates, but the fact that he had anticipated such a possibility was terribly painful. My love, she thought. My Healer. In a just world, you should never have had to become this. Neither of us should have. But we did.

The rockets were loaded and tilted. Anders gazed at his wife for a moment, blazing intensity in his face—and, for the first time this night, something like sorrow. Caitlyn could not bear to see him standing alone. Without even thinking twice about it, she hurried to his side.

He put his hands on her shoulders, brought her close, and kissed her briefly on the lips. Somewhat to her surprise, his eyes were entirely amber. She had half expected to see Justice's flickers, but the spirit was contained.

His hands slid to her waist as he gazed intensely into her eyes. "I have to light them myself," he said quietly. "With magic. This was my idea from beginning to end—the invention of these things and the use of them tonight." A sad smile crossed his lips. "You believe that the one who passes sentence should carry it out if possible, don't you?"

"Yes," she said almost in a whisper. "I do."

"So do I. That's... justice." The sad smile momentarily became crooked. "You know what, Caitlyn? Tonight is Satinalia Eve."

She blinked, startled. She had completely forgotten the date. A wry, dark chuckle burst from her lips. "That's appropriate enough."

"Four years ago they brought a night straight from the Void to Kirkwall," he said. "Now we return the favor. Justice indeed."

"I want to do it too," she said suddenly. "I want to light the wicks with you. These are your invention, but I'm the one who approved it. And we... we're partners in everything," she added in a whisper. "Light and dark."

His eyes widened for a moment, but he understood. He leaned over and gave her another kiss, this one on her forehead. "Of course."

They drew apart and walked the short distance to where the terrible weapons awaited them. Together, they cast tiny fire spells between their hands—their own hands, not staves. They held their palms over the long wick of the blasting powder rocket. When the flames caught, they stepped back.

It soared into the air with a blast. When it was halfway to Tantervale—and it took very little time to reach that point—they lit the four poison gas ones.

The gas rockets were only two and a half feet long, deceptively small and lightweight compared to the large and powder-heavy ones that had reduced parts of Tantervale to rubble. But they would inflict far more terror and suffering. When the sparks reached the bases, and the small explosions sent them flying into the dark sky, Caitlyn felt a heavy weight settle upon her. Maker help the innocent, she thought wearily. And let this act end this war.

She glanced at Anders. He looked grimly pleased, but when the tails of fire disappeared, his face fell. He gently withdrew his hand from hers and walked away silently, his dark cape flapping in the wind.


Sebastian had been in the dungeon of Tantervale's Grand Cathedral for the past two days, ever since the Templars and Seekers had apprehended him. He had been fed, and had not been beaten, but he was growing increasingly upset that Elthina had not come to talk to him. He could defend his actions! He could explain how the Red Templars had manipulated them all...

She had not come and had not sent anyone else to hear his account, though, and he hated to admit it, but that was deeply hurtful. His mood was made even worse by what he was hearing through the cell bars. Guards talked freely of the ghastly events unfolding in the city. The mage army had unleashed the exact fury that Hawke had threatened. Her ultimatum had not been a lie at all. Barrages of four or five flying bombs occurred every couple of hours, without fail, through night and day. After the end of Sebastian's second day of confinement, about one hundred of these things had blasted parts of Tantervale, and from what he was hearing, there were fires all over the city. The very air at the surface seemed to be filled with plumes of ash and smoke.

Maybe Elthina has not come because she can't, Sebastian thought darkly. I do not know if she is alive. The guards have not spoken of her dying, but I just don't know for certain. Who has been killed already, I wonder? I might die here, buried beneath rubble. Or the Chantry might catch fire and burn down. Would anyone think of the prisoners if it did?

He picked at his food that second night, wondering if it would be his last meal, when his ears suddenly pricked up at the sound of footsteps. Soft footsteps. These were not the heavy armored footsteps of a guard or Templar. He jumped to his feet as the figure approaching came into sight.

"Most Holy!" he burst out as Elthina, Divine Fidelia herself, approached.

She reached the cell and gazed at him through the bars. "Sebastian," she began, "I am very disappointed in you. You killed the Knight-Commander and you must stand trial for this deed."

"I know," he said. "I can defend myself, Your Perfection, in the name of the Maker I swear I can. I will be glad to stand trial. But"—he hesitated; there was something very obvious that remained unsaid, and he wondered at her omission—"does this mean that we have defeated the mages' siege? No trial could occur while Tantervale is under attack, surely?"

Elthina shook her head. "We have not yet, but surely the apostates will soon run out of these weapons. I believe we have weathered the worst—"

She never finished the statement. In that very moment, a tremendous blast rocked the entire structure. The ceiling of the dungeon cracked, and bits of dust and small rubble clattered on the ground. Four more thuds ensued. Screams pierced the air—screams of agony, shouts and yells of unspeakable pain. They came from the ground level of the Chantry.


In the sanctuary, a horrific scene was unfolding. All five rockets had struck the Chantry. The first one, the heavy explosive one, had hit practically at the front door, blowing the front half of the sanctuary to rubble, splinters, and deadly glass shards. The roof was compromised and the back half was teetering dangerously. The bell tower was gone, blown apart in the blast. The many bells clanged down the steps, a discordant symphony of doom.

With half its roof gone and the other half ready to collapse, the sanctuary was wide open for the four chemical bombs. One after another, they landed in the vast hall, bursting on impact, filling the sanctuary with explosive soulrot gas and—far more lethally—Anders' terrible gaseous adaptation of fleshrot poison and lifestone acid. Choking dark green clouds of deadly vapor polluted the air.

All around, priests, brothers, sisters, Seekers, Templars, and sheltering civilians fell to the floor. A Seeker twitched at the base of the statue of Andraste, which was now half-shattered, the Prophet's head and torso a pile of large chunks of rubble. Blood poured from the Seeker's mouth, nose, ears, and eyes as he screamed a half-gurgle.

At the pulpit, the Revered Mother of Tantervale, who had preached her approval of the Annulment, was on her knees coughing. Blood dripped from all of her orifices too, and as she coughed violently, chunks of red poison-shredded organ tissue began to spray from her mouth onto the carpet.

In the pews, two dozen sheltering Tantervalers keeled over, twitching and thrashing as vapor burned them inside and out. A woman sobbed tears of blood, pressing huge strips of her own skin against her body in a futile attempt to seal the external wounds, though they were slippery from blood.

There were already no people conscious within ten feet of the four spots where the gas rockets had hit. The bodies of those unfortunates lay convulsing and dying, pools of their own blood surrounding them as they twitched. And with each twitch, more of their own skin, already loosened by the terrible corrosive gas, sloughed off from the friction.

Elsewhere in the sanctuary, farther from the immediate blasts, people who still thought to try to escape this new horror were running, covering their faces if they were smart, but nothing could stop the gas from searing their skin off. With each step they took, more skin cracked, exposing raw bleeding wounds. Large pieces of loose bloody skin stuck to their clothes.

The roof collapsed, kicking up more dust. The crash abruptly ended the suffering of the victims who were directly underneath, but the dust cloud that it blew up also spread the remaining vapor further. Six more people who had so far managed to avoid a lethal inhalation were caught in the cloud. They fell to the floor of the corridor, beginning to convulse and bleed already.


"We must go!" Sebastian pleaded with Elthina, who stood frozen in shock as chaos ensued around her. No one in the dungeons knew whether they should flee up the stairs or take cover. Shouted screams from above spoke of a horror in the sanctuary, a poison vapor that inflicted bloody agony upon its victims as it killed them, but there had also been a regular blasting explosive to strike the Chantry, and the cracks in the dungeon roof were spreading by the second.

"Most Holy! Elthina!" he tried. "Please!"

Elthina blinked, finally brought to her senses. Without a word, she pulled out a keyring and unlocked his cell door.

Sebastian did not know what awaited them in the sanctuary, but he did know that they were going to die by crushing if they stayed in the prison. He hurried upstairs, taking her arm to support her. No matter what she had done to him, no matter what she believed about him, he would still do this.

They emerged near the back of what remained of the sanctuary. Sebastian goggled at the sight. A cloud of dark green vapor still hung over the pulpit, the pile of debris that had been the roof, and the remains of the statue of Andraste. Bells rolled in empty half-circles, occasionally falling off steps and clinking as they did. Dozens of Chantry officials, Templars, Seekers, and laypeople twitched in their death throes. Pools of blood and body tissue surrounded them. Others were already dead. Reflexively Sebastian ripped his prison shirt off, then tore it further in half. With one half he covered his face, hoping that he could feel his way out of here. He handed the other half to Elthina...

She fell to her knees, choking and coughing. Blood speckled the ground.

Sebastian could not see from behind his makeshift mask, but he could hear. Terrified, his heart pounding, he did not hesitate. He hoisted her into his arms and ran for it, even as she continued to cough blood all over him. He nearly fell down the back steps of the Chantry, but righted himself just in time.

When he felt grass under his feet, he took the chance of lifting the cloth off his face. When he did not immediately feel pangs of agony in his lungs, he judged that they were past the cloud of vapor. There he gazed upon Elthina.

She had stopped coughing, but her blood trickled from her nose and mouth, staining her Divine robes. Her face was drawn and lined, and the skin of her lower face and neck was red and fragile-looking. She tried to speak, but her voice was ragged and scratchy.

"No need to speak," he said. "We're going to the Keep now. You're safe."

He hurried down the street, trying to harden his eyes and ears against the screams, the fires, the piles of rubble where monuments and buildings had been before. It was only a few blocks to the Keep, all downhill, as the Chantry was at the highest point of Tantervale. He breathed a sigh of relief as it appeared.

But as he advanced, group of armed figures was rapidly approaching, and they all looked furious and had weapons drawn. Some were wearing insignia of the Tantervale Guard. Others bore the griffon of the Grey Wardens.

"We heard why you were imprisoned. We'll let you enter the Keep, but you have to hand her over, Your Highness," demanded the leader, a guard.

Sebastian was defenseless, and he knew that these men and women could kill him. But he resolved to defy them anyway. "No," he said. "I will not."

A Warden, a female mage, replied, exasperated. "This is over. You lost. The Guard and the Grey Wardens control the Keep now. We've taken all the Templars and Seekers there captive. We heard what the army did to the Chantry... that poison gas... and that was it for us. Enough! If we don't surrender, that army is going to destroy what's left of the city and kill us all!"

"You will kill her!" Sebastian exclaimed.

"We're only going to give her to Viscountess Hawke," replied the Warden.

"It comes to the same thing," he muttered. "I will not do this."

"I'm not going to gut a half-naked unarmed man," the guard said, "no matter how much of a stubborn ass he is." Without further ado, he slugged Sebastian in the temple with a mailed fist. The prince dropped to the ground, unconscious, as the Guard and Wardens took the helpless Elthina captive.


Anders stared emptily at the city, now shrouded in dust, smoke, and fires. He knew that at the site where the Chantry had been, poison gas also shrouded the spot. Who had been there? He hoped Elthina had, at least, and the worst among the priests and Templars. It would be a pointless act otherwise. Anders could not stand the thought that this terrible deed might have killed no one but innocents and bystanders in the horrendously cruel ways that he knew these weapons could kill. There had to be malefactors in the blast too. There had to be. It was bad enough as it was; it would be unbearable otherwise.

There were innocents too and you know it, he thought. They are dying horribly now. You know full well that there would have been a greater than average number of elderly, infirm, and poor people, as well as those whose homes were destroyed by our other rockets and needed shelter. You killed them too. No—you are torturing them to death, melting their skin and their lungs with poison. This is happening right now. People are dying like that right now.

The magnitude of it hit him. What have I done?

He had understood Caitlyn's concern the day that he had shown her these bombs. Although any of their weapons and battlemagic might kill, and some of the ways their arsenal killed were painful and gorily violent, these bombs were still different. All weapons and battle spells inflicted fear. All inflicted pain and death. Some did so in torturous ways, such as firestorms. Some did so on a large scale, killing and maiming scores with one strike. Some, the rockets in particular, did so from a great distance, opening a new front in warfare in which people could inflict mass death from a fairly safe distance.

But none of their other weapons, physical or magical, did all of these things at once. Only the chemical rockets had large-scale terror and shockingly cruel torturous deaths as their specific purpose, and only they could be deployed with no immediate risk of retaliation. Caitlyn had been right: These were different. Then, he had known it intellectually. Now, he knew it viscerally.

And I have used them. Caitlyn too, but she used them because of me. My suggestion. My advice. My invention.

Because of me, right now, people are dying horrible deaths, their skin sloughing off, their lungs melting in their chests. I am a Healer. I wanted to help people, to heal them, to make them well and whole. This is...

Maker, forgive me for this.

He put his hands over his face and closed his eyes for a moment.

The war outside was not the only one. Within his mind, it seemed that two voices were warring over what he had just done, Justice-Vengeance and Anders himself, the war leader and the kind Healer.

The lights of Tantervale—and the fires burning away—gave the city a strange glow amid the dust and smoke. Anders sat down on a bench, silhouetted against the hill and the orange glow, as his thoughts warred.

Many of the people inside the Chantry didn't deserve that. Some surely did, but very few people deserve to die in such a terrible way, Anders thought.

It was necessary to end the war, said the voice that felt like Vengeance.

Will it end the war? Will they surrender even now? Or will we have to do it again, somewhere else?

"Have to." It was necessary. Many things are terrible but necessary in war.

There were civilians inside. Innocents sheltering from our other bombs.

This Chantry is a mage-hating, murdering schism. They deserve this. You know they do. You iterated all the injustices and horrors that they, and their ideological forebears, have inflicted upon mages. They deserve this.

The ones who did those things were not the only people inside—or nearby—and because of the siege, our siege, they had nowhere else to go for shelter.

An act of overwhelming, unthinkably cruel force was the only way to end this war. That was not our doing. It was theirs. They rejected all alternatives.

Maybe so, but this is a war crime. We'll never stand trial for it because no one will dare cross us now, but Caitlyn and I have become war criminals.

Anders shuddered, pulling his coat flaps and cape closer. He felt suddenly vulnerable, small, cold, and alone. He closed his eyes. Which voice was right? he thought—but then the answer came to him.

Both were. Everything that Justice and I both thought is true.

The warring voices in his mind subsided at last, but Anders remained cold and alone, his cape wrapped around him, as he sat apart from everyone else. At last, though, a warm touch roused him. He snapped his head up and gazed upon Caitlyn, her red hair blowing lightly in the breeze, it and the red of her cape darkened under the black sky. Her face looked how he imagined his must look—all innocence now lost, but sadly matured.

"Darling," he murmured, pulling her down beside him. She allowed it without struggle and sat on the bench next to him. The heaviness that they both carried was apparent as they held each other wordlessly, side by side.

Finally he spoke. "We were so happy years ago," he said, clinging to her, resting his head on her shoulder. "So eager to change the world." He gestured at the city in the distance and laughed sharply and bitterly. "And this is what it has taken to do it. Would we have been so eager years ago if we had known? Would we even have wanted to try?" He did not wait for her to answer. "We were willing to do it now, after everything that has happened to us. The fight has hardened us both with time... and if it does end the war, if mages do gain freedom permanently, then it was worth it for the greater good... but..." He broke off, gazing at her with hollow eyes. "I mourn for us, love. We've won something important. But we've also lost something that we can never regain."

"I know. Maker, I know how you feel. What has this war done to us, Anders?" She lifted his head and gazed at him as tears formed in her eyes, grief for what they had once been. The Lothering farm couple in the glow of first love, the Darktown Healer family saddened by loss but finding comfort in reunion, the Hightown apostates ready to fight, the Viscountess and Consort hoping for policy solutions, even the Free Mage commanders imagining a quick victory four years ago—they had all had to "die" so that this Caitlyn and Anders would be hardened enough to finish the job. "As you said... we can never regain that moral innocence. If we heal, it'll be with scars. But can we?"

He sighed, closing his eyes. "We have to try."

They curled together on the bench, feeling the weight of it all. Caitlyn hoped and prayed that this was it—that this was the end of the war and the beginning of freedom for southern mages.

At last, Anders tensed beside her. "Look!" he pointed.

She raised her head and gazed at the ramparts of Tantervale. Two people, one in city heraldry and one with a griffon on his chest, stood atop the walls. They were affixing a white flag.


Notes: Chapter 88 was "D-Day" (Dairsmuid Day?). As I expect a lot of you foresaw, Chapter 90 is Hiroshima. And yes, the use of a chemical weapon on a civilian target is indisputably a war crime. But this is a theme I wanted to delve into with this fic. There is still debate about whether the nuclear strikes were justified. Even if you saw it coming (and I did not exactly make my lead-in subtle in the fic or notes, so everyone likely saw it coming), I hope this chapter pleases.

Other matters: Sebastian uses dual-wielding rogue talents in his duel despite that he is fighting with swords. He's a rogue; it seemed more appropriate than sword and shield.

Soundtrack for the Siege of Tantervale (Part 2):
Sebastian vs. Denam: John Williams & the London Symphony Orchestra – "Duel of the Fates," Star Wars Episode One
Bombardment, Siege, and Battle: Inon Zur – "Forever War," Dragon Age 2
Chemical Attack on the Chantry: Nightwish – "End of All Hope"
Sebastian Flees the Wreckage: Demons & Wizards – "My Last Sunrise"
Tantervale Surrenders: Howard Shore & Sir James Galway – "The Black Gate Opens," The Return of the King
The War Ends: Inon Zur – "Mage Pride," Dragon Age 2