Big thanks go out to the awesome Suilven and her beta stick of doom! You are too good to me, my friend! :)

"Fuck!"

Anders barely caught himself from falling face first into the dark and chilly mud of the swamp, his hands stirring up the muck and further darkening the already cloudy water. The smell of rot reached his nose, causing his empty stomach to lurch uncomfortably and the spinning in his head to increase. He remained still for a moment as his head and stomach calmed, opening his mouth to take gulping breaths of the fetid air. As he waited for his body to calm, he listened intently to the world around him, willing his breathing to quiet and his pounding heart to still. The wind rustled through the bare branches of nearby trees and dead vegetation. Several birds squawked angrily overhead, having been disturbed from their business in the swampy water by Anders' intrusion. Something brushed by his hand in the water, startling him. The only sound of breathing was his own.

On shaky legs, he stood upright and tried to flick the mud from his nearly numb hands. With an exasperated scoff, he wiped his hands on the front of his wet and filthy robe, leaving dark, stinking streaks in their wake. When his hands were reasonably clean, he wrapped his arms around himself, turning to scan the distant landscape for pursuing templars. The sun was shining brightly overhead; he hoped the light reflecting off their armor would give him advance warning of the templars' approach.

Violent shivering gripped him as he searched for pursuers, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. He brought his hands to his face, where he cupped and blew into them in the hope that his breath would do something to warm them. His muscles ached not only from the exertion of his escape, but from the shivering as well. When he had emerged from the waters of Lake Calenhad the night before, he had thought he could not get any colder. He had been wrong; he was just as cold now—if not more so—than when he had first stood on the shore of the lake with robes dripping wet and his long hair plastered to his face.

After making the swim, Anders had used haste and rejuvenation spells to put as much distance between himself and the Circle as he could. He had known that it would only be a matter of time before the templars would discover him missing and muster hunting parties. After using the spells for what seemed like several hours, the thought had occurred to him that he should probably conserve his mana. There was no telling when he would need his magic and it would be best to have a full reserve of mana on hand for when—or if—the time came.

Anders was heading north, following the river flowing from Lake Calenhad toward West Hill and the Waking Sea beyond. From what he could remember from his geography classes, there was a decent sized port in the seaside town. With a little luck, he could try and find passage on a merchant ship as a laborer. The thought that he knew next to nothing about manual labor or had any other skills short of magical ones did not cross his mind. The only thing that mattered was escape.

The shape of a barn became visible through the trees as Anders continued his desperate run north. He briefly debated passing it, but the insistent rumble of his stomach interrupted his thoughts. In his haste to escape from the Tower, he had not stopped to grab any food. There simply had not been any time. Approaching the barn could be risky—he knew his appearance just screamed 'apostate'—but his hunger was getting too strong to ignore. After years of regularly scheduled meals within the Tower, his body was not accustomed to the sudden change.

"Why can't I take the Harrowing? I'm as ready as anyone else and even you have said that my healing talents are as great as mages who have practiced the healing arts for years! Stop holding me back!"

"Anders," the First Enchanter had said, clearly exasperated with Anders' insistent prodding, "when you are ready, your turn will come."

"But, I am ready!"

Irving had shaken his head and had waggled a finger at the young mage. "Your talents are not in question here, Anders, it's your maturity level; you have repeatedly shown that you are not ready to accept the grave responsibilities of a Harrowed mage. You are disruptive in class. You harass the templars. These behaviors alone speak volumes."

Anders had thrown up his hands at the First Enchanter, had sighed with disgust, and had stalked off to his bed in the apprentice dormitories. I have to get out of here, he had thought as he flopped down onto the bed. I can't live like this anymore.

That evening, Anders had found his chance. After spending several hours sulking in his room, Anders had made his way down to the library on the main floor of the Tower, opting to read for the evening rather than join the other young mages in card games, studying, or gossip. He had pulled a book regarding the Tevinter Imperium off a shelf and had sat at a nearby table, idly thumbing through the yellowed pages. A commotion in the hallway beyond some time later had captured his attention and he had put his book aside, curious as to what the sudden swell of voices was all about. The thunder of metal boots had reverberated through the hallways of the Tower as shouts of "Help!" soon followed. Anders had quietly poked his head outside the library and had followed the sounds down the hall and around a nearby corner.

Near the doorway leading to the lowest level and the docks leading out of the tower, several templars had been kneeling on the floor near one of their colleagues. They had been quickly stripping off the armor of an older man, Leonard, as he lay on the floor unconscious. The voice of Knight-Commander Greagoir had suddenly filled the hallway, where he had ordered the templars to take the ailing Leonard to the infirmary. Anders had quickly stepped back into the library, where he had waited for several long moments for the sounds of the retreating templars to pass. He had counted to ten before moving once more into the hallway. The doorway to the lowest level had been left unguarded in the commotion surrounding Templar Leonard. With barely a second thought, Anders had quickly and quietly sprinted down the hallway, where he had passed through the door and into the dim stairwell beyond.

The groaning of his stomach brought Anders' thoughts back to the present and to the nearby barn. He had not eaten since the day before and he could feel his hands shaking in his hunger. There was a house not too far from the barn, so he would have to be cautious in his search for food. Putting the barn between himself and the house, Anders cautiously approached the structure, listening to the sounds of snorting and huffing from the animals within. There was a small gated pasture on the side of the barn, where several pigs gobbled up the remains of their meal in the nearby trough. The thought of trying to scavenge for food within the barn suddenly seemed less appealing as he watched the pigs eat their scraps.

The bang of a closing door suddenly rang out from the direction of the house. Anders' head whipped toward the sound, pausing for a brief moment to listen to approaching footsteps before pulling up his robes and sprinting for the cover of the trees beyond. He was not about to wait around and be spotted by whoever it was leaving the house. A feeling of despair suddenly filled him as he resumed his journey north. It was becoming clear to Anders' that his impromptu plan of escape was not turning out as he had always pictured it in his mind.

The phylactery in her hand appeared to pulse with power when she was not looking directly at it. Seeing the slow, rhythmic beat of the light within reminded her of a beating heart. She quickly moved her eyes from the distant landscape back to the phylactery in an effort to see the pulsing with her direct gaze; she was disappointed to see that it was gone.

"Templar Rylock," one of her companions, Templar Mendel, quietly called out. "Use the phylactery to obtain a direction."

Rylock looked up from the glass vial in her hand. "How does it work? How will I know which direction is the right one?"

Mendel came to her side, cupping his large armored hand onto hers, guiding her hand and phylactery slowly in a circle. "When using a phylactery to track a mage, it will pulse and glow brightly the closer you come to him. That is, of course, if the mage is alive."

"So the glow dies if the mage dies?"

"Exactly," Mendel said, pausing as the phylactery began to glow slightly when pointed in a northerly direction. He jutted his chin toward the small vial in Rylock's hand. "See? You can see the glow now when looking directly at it." Rylock nodded her understanding, grinning as she saw the phylactery react.

This was her first mage hunt, and Rylock found herself both excited and nervous about the prospect as Mendel led their small party north. She was the junior templar amongst the group of four—herself, Mendel, a middle-aged woman named Hope, and a templar named Evan who was only a scant few years older than her. Rylock had taken her vows several years ago, but had never participated in a mage hunt before now. Before she and her more experienced companions had left the Circle, they had been briefed on the missing apostate. She had felt her face frown severely as the Knight-Commander had described the apostate's physical attributes and patterns of behavior. This apostate was exactly the reason why she had become a templar. Mages were a danger not only to themselves, but to those around them. They needed to be contained, lest they bring the horrors of the ancient Imperium to power once again. She would not let this apostate run wild and threaten the Maker's children.

The phylactery made the hunt easier, but not entirely foolproof, as Rylock had learned from her mentors. As they traversed the countryside in pursuit of the apostate, Mendel taught her to look for telltale signs that the mage had passed as confirmation of what the phylactery told him. As they had followed the trail north, they had found numerous signs of the apostate's passage: broken branches and crushed plant life. Footprints in the soft mud next to the river. A piece of cloth, torn from the robe the apostate was wearing. Their best clue, however, came in the words of a farmer that had been tending to his raspberry bushes as the templars passed.

"Aye, ser templar. I did see a young person of that description fleeing from near my barn just yesterday. Looked dirty and disheveled, so he did. I didn't see anything out of place or missing, so I just dismissed it as a curious traveler. An apostate you say?" The farmer had placed a fist on his chest, nodding forward slightly. "Maker protect us all."

After relaying his tale to the templars, the farmer had offered them a place to rest and a hot meal, which Mendel accepted gratefully. Rylock had bristled slightly, wanting to press forward to close the distance between them and the apostate, but Mendel had gently chastised her.

"We will not stop overly long, Templar Rylock. Are you not thankful for the opportunity the Maker has given us to rest among his faithful?"

With a small, reluctant sigh, Rylock had acquiesced. "A rest would be beneficial."

Mendel had given Rylock a small smile, nodding his approval. "You want to do the Maker's will, but even He and the blessed Andraste were entitled to rest now and then. We shall enjoy this man's hospitality for a short while, then begin the hunt again. Rest assured, Templar Rylock; the Maker will not let us fail, nor shall we fail Him."

As night fell, Anders felt the cold settle into his bones even stronger than before. He cursed himself bitterly for his impulsiveness. Why didn't I stop and grab a cloak? Or a blanket? Doesn't matter; it would have become wet in the lake.

He needed to warm himself, and quickly. The only way he knew to do that was to start a fire. And this fire is going to be as big as I can stand it… I'll freeze to death if I can't get warm. His teeth were chattering almost incessantly as he gathered wood for the fire. After several moments where he thought anyone within shouting distance would hear them, he put his tongue between his teeth to silence himself. While it was effective at silencing them, they still moved, causing his tongue to ache within moments.

Anders was rather proud of the pile of sticks and twigs he had gathered from the copse of trees around him. It was haphazard in construction, but should be adequate to keep him warm. He gathered his mana and summoned fire, reaching out with his hands to ignite the wood. It took several moments for some of the wetter pieces to catch but, before long, a roaring fire burned cheerfully in front of him. He stepped as close to the flames as the heat would allow, letting the blessed warmth wash over him.

In the distance, Mendel looked up from where he sat before his small fire toward his companions. Rylock, Hope, and Evan had all retired to their bedrolls not long before, seeking to get what sleep they could before resuming the hunt for the apostate in only a few hours. Though they had the mage's phylactery—and it was glowing brighter as they closed the distance between them—a sense of urgency had filled them. Once the phylactery had indicated the mage's trek north, Mendel's first thought was that the mage might be heading for one of the ports along the Waking Sea. It was not the first time an escaped mage had headed in that direction, thinking that the most direct route to freedom could be found to the north. Even if the apostate had made it to one of the larger cities, the Chantry had men stationed at the ports whose sole purpose was to watch for apostate mages. While it was no guarantee, it was the templars' observation that apostates behaved in similar ways. They were paranoid, causing them to constantly watch over their shoulder for followers. Most still wore their mage robes, which was an obvious indication of their status. Almost all of them avoided the chantries like the plague. Many were dirty, disheveled, and ravenously hungry.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mendel thought he saw a faint flicker in the distance. Turning to face the direction in which he saw it, he studied the landscape for a moment. There… a distant flicker of yellow-orange flame. It was barely visible amongst the trees and gently rolling landscape, but it was definitely there. On a hunch, he reached into Rylock's nearby pack, withdrawing the phylactery. He stood, holding the phylactery out before him and taking several steps toward where he had seen the small fire. He studied the phylactery for a moment, waving it from side to side as he pointed it into different directions. As he suspected, it glowed brighter as he moved toward the fire. With a sense of urgency and excitement, Mendel jogged the short distance back to camp, rousing his fellow templars with a gentle shake and a low voice to each one.

"Wake up, my friends. We resume the hunt."

Anders' eyes flew open and he froze, listening intently to the wilderness around him. It was full dark, the pinpricks of stars the only light other than the low coals of the fire. He closed his eyes and listened, trying to determine what had awakened him from a dead sleep. Perhaps it was little more than the chill creeping back into his flesh. While the fire had burned, the side of his body facing it had grown almost impossibly hot while the other side remained stone cold.

Maybe I should build a second fire and lay between them. That would keep me warm.

Anders snorted to himself at the thought. "Brilliant idea, Andy. Then when the fire creeps up on you, it can roast you like..."

The snapping of a nearby branch caused him to whip his head around, eyes wide as surveyed the copse of trees around him. He stood slowly, warily watching and listening for more noises in the darkness. The hair at the back of his neck began to rise and gooseflesh broke out over his skin. His breaths became shorter and more rapid, and he could hear himself gasping slightly as he continued to whip his head from side to side. The silence around him grew oppressive, threatening to smother him like a thick blanket.

He paused.

And listened.

There was nothing.

After a moment, he scoffed to himself. You're in a forest near a river. You probably heard some animal moving through the trees hunting for prey or heading toward the water for a drink. Anders felt himself relax, releasing the breath he did not realize he was holding with a satisfied sigh. The oppressiveness of the night air and nearly complete darkness were setting his nerves on edge and, while being wary was good, it was threatening to turn into full blown paranoia.

Anders returned his attention to the fire, holding his hand out to warm them over the dying coals. He reached over and grabbed several nearby sticks and twigs from the pile he had amassed earlier, tossing them onto the embers. With a whisper, small jets of flame leapt from his hands, igniting the dried wood and turning the coals into small flames.

As the fire pushed back the darkness, he saw the forms of heavily armed templars emerge from the darkness.

They stood at equidistant points around him. One of the men had his sword drawn, an impressive long blade that gleamed in the firelight; Anders recognized the face of Templar Mendel, one of Knight-Commander Greagoir's senior men. The other man held a sword and shield, relaxed but still ready. A middle-aged woman had her hands on the hilts of two weapons, her armor lighter in design than her companions, but still impressive. Another woman—not much older than Anders himself—had her sword drawn and what was obviously his phylactery in her hand. It pulsed rapidly, a glowing heartbeat in her hand. It was mesmerizing.

"In the name of the Maker's Chantry and the Knight-Commander, you are ordered to surrender yourself," the young woman said, her voice firmer than her age might have suggested. "Step forward so that you can be secured for the trip back to Kinloch Hold."

Anders tore his eyes away from the pulsing phylactery and bristled, a sneer coming to his face as he turned to fully face the young woman. She's first.

"I'm not going back to Kinloch Hold," Anders said, his voice a clear challenge. He felt his hands twist into claw like shapes, the magic beginning to thrum through his body as it concentrated in his palms. Bravado filled him as his power grew. "Over my dead body."

All but the most senior templar took a step closer, tightening the circle around him. The young woman took an extra half step, her eyes narrowing. "That can be arranged, apostate," the young woman spat, slipping the phylactery into a pouch at her waist and bringing her sword to bear threateningly.

Anders saw from the corner of his eye that the elder templar stepped toward the young woman. He placed an armored hand over hers and gently pushed her hands down, lowering the sword into a less threatening position. Anders heard shuffling from behind and turned his head; the other two templars adjusted their positions to close the new gap in formation.

"Peace, Templar Rylock," Mendel said, his voice a low rumble. While Rylock's eyes neither softened nor left Anders' face, Mendel brought his gaze to Anders, the look on his face one of disappointment rather than anger. "Anders," he began, his voice smooth and calm, "let's not have this turn to unpleasantness. You know you cannot leave the Tower without permission. If you cooperate, I will vouch for it before the Knight-Commander. You will still be punished according to Chantry and Circle law, but not as severely."

"No one was going to give me permission," Anders said, raising his hands to the level of his waist. "So, I took permission for myself!" With a growl, he hurled a small fireball toward the templar holding his phylactery, hoping it would hit his target; he had never used magic in a real battle with real opponents before. Always it had been simply flinging fireballs at targets in the training rooms. He felt himself grin as the young templar yelped in surprise, raising her hands to her face to shield against the fireball hurtling toward her, her sword dropping to the ground with a thud. Anders hoped his attack would not only destroy the cursed vessel, but also create enough of a diversion for him to escape into the night. He turned and moved to sprint away from the templars, but before he had taken half a dozen steps, a blinding white light slammed into him, knocking him forward and onto the ground violently. His breath fled him in a great whoosh and he felt his limbs twitching uncontrollably. He tried to draw a breath, but his stunned and shocked lungs would not respond. The edges of his vision began to grow dark as his lungs screamed for air.

Shit, he thought to himself, his last coherent thought before a sharp crack against his skull made the darkness in his vision complete.

The sounds of popping logs and a whetstone on metal gradually penetrated the dark veil of unconsciousness that held Anders captive. His body ached to the core, every muscle seemingly crying out in agony. His head pounded, the spot where he had been hit pulsing in time with his heartbeat. With a strangled groan, he brought his hands up to his face, hearing the rustle of chains and feeling their weight as his hands moved. After rubbing his face for a moment, Anders opened his eyes, squinting slightly at the bright light of a fire before him.

The two female templars sat on the other side of the fire. The younger of the two had her head resting against her clasped hands, her mouth moving in what appeared to be silent prayer. She had a bandage wrapped around one hand and a second one on her head, partially obscuring her dark hair. Apparently, Anders' fireball had found its mark. The older woman had removed her armor, gently polishing each piece with a soft cloth before setting it aside. Anders could hear the breathing of the other two templars nearby, but even moving his eyes to find their location made his head pound in agony. The smell of a hearty stew filled the air, causing his mouth to instantly water and his stomach to rumble insistently.

"Ah, you're awake. Would you like some tea, Anders?"

A set of strong hands helped Anders into a seated position. The young mage saw that he had been lying on a clean and simple bedroll. His dirty robe had been exchanged for a clean, if unassuming, robe that the templars often wore when not on duty. His cleaned hands were manacled in front of him, his wrists connected by a short chain with a longer one running down to a second set of manacles attached to his ankles. The manacles were loose enough to allow him some movement, but tight enough to prevent casting any spell of significance. He sighed in resignation, which turned to a groan as his head began pounding once more.

A small cup of tea appeared before him, held in Mendel's hand. "Here, Anders. This is a bit of weak tea with some elfroot added. It will help counteract the effects of the smite."

Anders snorted lightly, debating Mendel's motives. Why would he show him kindness now? His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the cup before he flicked them up to meet the templar's eyes. They were not unkind, Anders thought, but could it be nothing more than a clever ruse? His stomach rumbled once more as the scent of the tea reached his nose, betraying his deep hunger and thirst. Still, he had no reason to trust these templars; they were hunters, after all.

"Evan," Mendel said, turning his attention to the other side of the fire as he set the cup down near Anders, "prepare a bowl of stew for Anders, if you please."

After several moments, a small spoon and bowl of steaming stew appeared on the ground in front of Anders, the scent beguiling as it reached him. Anders' hunger awoke with a vengeance, overriding any suspicion or doubt that crawled through his mind. Though it had only been a couple of days since his last real meal, he felt as if it had been a lifetime. Reaching out with shaking hands, Anders gathered up the warm wooden bowl in his hands, allowing the blessed heat to permeate his skin. He tipped the bowl toward his mouth, drinking some of the thick gravy in large gulps.

"Easy, young man," Hope said, pointing toward the bowl with one of her freshly sharpened long daggers. "You'll throw it up if you eat too fast."

Anders looked over the rim of the bowl, his eyes squinting in irritation as he continued to slurp the thick gravy. A pleasurable heat began to fill him as he swallowed the gravy, driving away the chill that had settled into his bones. The stew tasted slightly different than that prepared by the cooks within Kinloch Hold. Setting the bowl on the ground, Anders took the spoon, shoveling chunks of meat, potatoes, and carrots into his mouth with gusto. While he ate, the templars watched him with interest, as if they had never seen a hungry young man eat before. The warmth of the stew had spread through him, causing his body to relax noticeably. The exhaustion of his journey began to hit him full force, but Anders was determined to finish his meal before giving in to his weariness.

As he neared the bottom of the bowl, he bit into a small lump with a sharp, bitter taste. With a grimace, Anders spit the mouthful of stew on the ground beside him, seeing a slightly chewed up leaf among the potato bits on the ground. His eyes widened as he recognized the long, slender shape of a deathroot leaf. He looked up from the partially chewed leaf, seeing a satisfied smirk on the youngest templar's face. It was then that Anders realized why his stew had tasted different than what he was used to at Kinloch Hold.

"Fade take you, apostate," Rylock said, her voice contemptuous. Anders opened his mouth to respond to the templar's words, but he found his voice was little more than an indistinct mumble as he rapidly moved toward unconsciousness once more. He slowly slumped toward his bedroll, the spoon tumbling out of his hand to thump against his leg as the darkness raced to greet him. His eyes began to roll about, the canopy of trees and the light of the fire blurring together into indistinct images. The templars began to speak, their voices sounding as if coming from across a great distance.

"… Hope's sleeping draught…"

"… He can't walk if he's…"

"… Then carry…"

The dull throbbing in his hip was the first thing Anders became conscious of. Close behind was a feeling of cool dampness and of laying on something hard. He opened his eyes, seeing in front of him a rough stone wall as he lay on his side. Well, now I know why my hip pains me. His hands were manacled again, this time the long chain leading to a metal ring embedded in the wall. Turning his head, he saw that he was in a small cell, barely longer and wider than his own height. There was no sleeping pallet, no table or chair, no blankets in which to ward off the chill the damp stone of the walls and floor imparted into the cell. The only light came through a small barred window in the thick wooden door. He was still wearing the simple robe the templars had given him, though it was now wrinkled and dusty from laying on the floor.

Through the opening in the door, Anders heard heavy footsteps outside, growing louder as they drew closer. He scrambled into the farthest corner of the cell, the sound of the dragging chain loud in the small room. His heart began to thud within his chest. A moment later, a dark figure stopped and peered into the opening in the door, blocking the wan light from outside. Anders felt his breath hitch in his chest at the sound of a key being inserted into a lock, the tumbler falling away with a small thud. The door opened and a dark shape entered, carrying a small lantern. Two other shapes remained outside the cell door, their attention focused on the events unfolding inside.

"By rights, I should have you shipped off to Aeonar for this little stunt."

Anders quietly groaned as the voice of Knight-Commander Greagoir filled the small cell; he was back at Kinloch Hold. He had no memory of returning here; the templars' sleeping draught must have been powerful indeed. Not knowing what to say to the Knight-Commander's threat, Anders remained silent, his eyes downcast in sullen defiance.

"Nothing to say, Apprentice? I find that hard to believe." Greagoir took a step closer, nudging Anders with an armored foot. "You've always been so outspoken about your abilities and how you felt the First Enchanter was holding you back. Is that why you escaped?"

Anders shrugged, keeping his eyes averted from the Knight-Commander. He thinks he knows it all, let him figure it out. He shifted slightly as he sat, moving some of his weight off his throbbing hip. What he would not give to be able to cast a healing spell on himself but, given his bonds, that was next to impossible.

"Who helped you escape, Apprentice?"

Anders remained silent, not wanting to reveal just how he was able to slip out of the Tower unnoticed. Already, a plan was forming for his next escape attempt. He would scour all the books he could in the Circle libraries for anything that would help him survive in the wilderness. He would make sure he had more adequate clothing, some food, and perhaps—if he could manage to steal it—some lyrium. He would scour the shores of Lake Calenhad for a hiding place to stash escape supplies. Perhaps he could even find a way to fashion a false bottom for his storage chest. This attempt was nothing more than a minor setback; he just knew it.

The Knight-Commander grew even angrier at what he perceived as Anders' stubborn defiance. "If you continue to refuse answering questions, I will order all of your known confidants to be taken into custody and interrogated… again."

Anders looked up and into the stern gaze of the Knight-Commander. If there was one thing Greagoir was known for, it was that he never bluffed. If he said he was going to do something, everyone within the Circle knew he would keep his word and do it. If he had already interrogated his friends once, chances were his second interrogation would be harsher than the first, especially if he thought they had lied to him the first time around. Guilt began to worm its way into his heart and mind; could he let his friends pay the price for his escape? Would they even be his friends if he knowingly pushed some of the blame onto them? Could he live with himself if he did that?

With a heavy, resigned sigh, Anders began to tell his tale. This was a defeat, to be sure, but one that would not stop him from trying to take his freedom again.

Lhiannon ran through the halls of Kinloch Hold, holding her long robe up with one hand while she used the other to steady herself as she ducked and weaved past other apprentices and templars that blocked her way. Cries of "Hey!" and "Slow down!" followed her through the halls, but she ignored them. Her heart both pounded and fluttered in her chest as she ran, exertion and anticipation thrumming through her. She took the steps to the next floor two at a time, her breath coming heavier and legs throbbing as she made the climb. Bursting forth into the hallway, she had a near miss with one of the patrolling templars, using her free arm to guide her around the glowering man.

"Slow down, Apprentice!"

"Sorry!" Lhiannon said, throwing the word over her shoulder as she finally spotted the open doorway she was looking for. She gathered the last of her energy and sprinted the final distance, skidding across the stone floor and using the doorframe as a crude brake to stop her forward momentum.

In the room, sitting on the small bed, was Anders.

He looked up to meet her eyes, an apprehensive gaze crossing his features. She felt her jaw drop and eyes widen as she saw him before her. He looked pale and tired, but otherwise fine. He had only been gone a couple of days, but those couple of days had felt like a lifetime.

Anders stood and faced her, his face almost unreadable. "Um, hi?"

Lhiannon felt her trance snap and she took several small steps into the room, moving to stand before Anders. He's really here… really back… The events of the last couple of days quickly flashed through her mind: the interrogation; the templars crawling through the Tower; the whispers; the tears. She was relieved to see him here and unharmed, yet a blinding anger began to seethe within her.

With almost blinding speed, Lhiannon's open hand cracked against Anders' cheek, the force of the blow knocking him to the side and backwards a step. His cheek turned red as she watched him straighten himself, the blotch taking the rough shape of her hand. He looked down at her, seemingly stunned for a moment at what she had done. Before he could speak, she closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight, almost smothering hug. A hot tear trickled out of her eye and down her cheek as she felt his arms return her embrace.

"I deserved that, didn't I?" he said, his voice quiet and reserved.

Lhiannon sniffled, feeling a small grin spread across her face. "Absolutely."

More thanks go out to the brilliant Wyl for the idea of having a chapter from Anders' perspective on one of his escapes. It was much better than my idea of simply having him retell the story to his friends after he returned to Kinloch Hold. Thank you so much! Readers, if you haven't checked out his DA stories "The Little Hero" and "Hurtled Into Chaos," do yourself a favor and get to it!

I wanted Anders to be a bit scatterbrained in his escape; after all, this is his first attempt and as he's still a teenager here, he's going to be impulsive about it. He also doesn't realize that fire can generally be seen from a distance at night, that he'll leave clues behind as to his path for experienced trackers, and that templars will do what it takes to bring apostate mages back into the fold. Well, if at first you don't succeed...

Baby news: it's a girl! She's got big feet too, and constantly reminds me of that fact. ;)

Big thanks to reviewers Oleander's One, Wyl, Suilven, Arsinoe, naomis8329, and Tyanilth. You all are wonderful! Thanks as well to those of you lurking and following the story as well. I appreciate all of you!

Edit: I forgot something very important! I have to thank the lovely and talented Seika for a picture of Lhiannon that she created. It's here if you'd like to see it: ht tp:/my. deviantart .com/ messages/#/d4z66z6. She's also here on FF under xseikax... go check out her story "Blood Song." I love her Lilyth!