"There is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that" – Oscar Wilde

Aldaron had no idea what was happening. His hand felt like it was on fire. Green fire. Like the skin and bone were being torn apart from the inside. And worse every time that horrendous hole in the sky pulsated and sent down matching green fire from within. Desperately he tried to remember what had happened, but there was nothing. The last thing he remembered was sneaking into the temple where the mages and templars were supposed to be meeting, finding a spot to listen in without being seen. Then he woke up, manacled and chained and this thing in his hand and it hurt and surrounded by humans with swords all pointed straight at him. Then they took him outside and he saw the sky. The hole in the sky. They thought he had done this. How could he have done this? How could anyone have done this? What was that thing? What was he supposed to do?

He followed the shemlen woman blindly, certain that she would not hesitate to kill him if he so much as breathed wrong. But his hand hurt so much it sent him to his knees in the snow. She hauled him to his feet and dragged him forward, stumbling and biting back tears.

That thing in the sky. They thought he could fix it. How? He was not even a mage. He was just a hunter. Barely a hunter. Cheeks still sore from the fresh vallaslin when he left the Free Marches.

Demons. There were demons. Actual demons. He had no bow, he had no knives. He had nothing but his bare hands and one is barely useable.

Creators, please say this is all a dream. A terrible nightmare, but he will wake up back in his aravel with his clan. Anywhere but here; this frozen, desolate mountaintop surrounded by shemlen and demons, the sky torn open above him.

This is it. He's going to die.

No.

No, not like this.

Frantic. Something, anything. He would take a greatsword right now, probably couldn't lift it, but at least he would go out fighting. There, an overturned cart. They're not hunting knives but they're something. He scrambled toward them, his hand hurt so much he could barely keep his hold, but he thrust both blades out toward the demon blindly, felt them sink into flesh that wasn't flesh, it screamed and then collapsed and vanished into smoke.

He's trembling all over when the woman comes barreling toward him and it's all he can do to try and keep his voice from letting on how terrified he actually is. Don't make him face down demons unarmed.

But fighting is something he knows, and having the knives brought him a small measure of comfort. Familiarity amongst all this chaos and confusion. He was still terrified, still confused, but now at least he had a chance of not dying a horrible gruesome death. A small chance, but still a chance.

A hole in the sky. Holes in the very air. What is that thing? It made his hand hurt even more. When the flat-ear mage grabbed his wrist and thrust it toward the tear every instinct in his body screamed not to, and he tried to pull back but the mage is surprisingly strong and holds him firm. Then pain like nothing he has ever known. His hand is being torn apart. Stop, please make it stop.

When it does the hole is gone, but his hand is still throbbing with lingering pain.

"I did that?" How? The mage – Solas – explains, but Aldaron does not understand. Magic had never made any sense to him. But maybe they were right about him fixing the hole in the sky. If it is possible, he wants to. And he also does not want to, because he is terrified and in pain. But what else is there? They won't let him run away.

More shemlen, more talking. Finally he understands what happened, and maybe he remembers some of it now. An explosion, that's right. He remembers running from monsters, demons, there was a woman. And then he woke up in the manacles and now he is here. They want him to close the hole in the sky with this thing in his hand, but they can't decide how.

"You wanted to kill me a minute ago, now you're asking for my opinion?" Was this some kind of joke?

"You're the one we need to keep alive."

Alright, that made sense, but it was still a surprise. "The mountain pass," he said, because he was a coward and if there was a human army somewhere he wanted to be as far away from it as possible.

There were more demons and more holes in the air. This thing on his hand closes them, but Creators it hurts so much he can barely keep his feet.

The temple was another thing entirely. Aldaron's first glimpse stopped him dead in his tracks. This was like nothing he had ever seen before. The ground was charred black, corpses frozen in the agony of their death. He swallowed hard to keep down the nausea. What had happened here? What could do something like this? As they continue onward he heard voices. His voice. But he could not remember this, and how was it possible anyway?

The Breach was larger than any of the smaller rifts they had seen on the way here. It was massive, and the demons that came out of it were equally massive. Aldaron held his hand up toward it, staggered from the pain, dodged a demon that tried to cut him in half and tried again. He had to do this; he was the only one who could. But it hurt it hurt it hurt. Someone was screaming. Was that him?

Everything was searing pain and blinding green light.

Then everything was black.