He came to slowly.

With dawning consciousness came the fierce stabbing of pain. He could feel the blade keenly; embedded in his back, between two ribs; breathing was hard – he couldn't draw enough breath to fill his lungs. The blade had pierced a lung. If he'd lain unconscious for much longer, he would likely have drowned in his own blood.

Still might.

The stones were cold against his cheek; the distant sounds of fighting drifted to him, but the courtyard was silent. He was just another bloodied corpse on the ground where so many others lay sprawled in death, except he somehow still lived.

He shouldn't be alive. That hadn't been part of the plan.

Instinctively, he drew on the magic, probing through his body to establish the extent of his injuries. Minor scrapes for the most part; the only grave threat to his life right now was the dagger in his back and the blood slowly filling his lungs.

His hands curled inwards to press against his own chest, the magic pooling in his hands as he concentrated. It whispered coolly against his palms then flowed like liquid smoke into his body, the blue glow hidden by his body. He kept his eyes closed as he reached within, channelling healing to where he needed it most, stopping the bleeding, diverting the blood away and taking a deeper breath as he did so. He shunted the blood into his stomach, aware he would briefly regret that but not having much choice right then.

He fumbled with one hand behind his back, twisting as his fingers fumbled for the cold metal hilt of the knife. He grasped it and drew a deep breath.

This is going to hurt.

Biting down on the black suede of his jacket, he yanked the blade from his flesh with a muffled scream. The blade fell from numb fingers and he slumped against the stones, feeling hot, wet blood flood down his back to pool beneath him. He felt himself starting to weaken, and pressed a hand flat against his chest again, channelling the magic once more to close the wound and heal the sundered flesh before he could bleed out. He felt a deep exhaustion wash over him from blood loss and the drain of forcing his body's natural healing into an accelerated pace.

He didn't know how long he lay there afterwards, but eventually he managed to slowly push himself up into a sitting position.

He didn't know what he was going to do now, but he knew he couldn't stay there. Sooner or later, someone would come to deal with the bodies, and he didn't like to think what would happen when they discovered he was still alive. He didn't fancy trusting himself to the less than tender mercies of the templars. And he no longer hoped for anything from Hawke. After all, it had been Hawke's hand that had driven the blade into his back.

Hawke... He closed his eyes as tears threatened to overwhelm him. No. Don't think about it. Get out of here. Think later. He opened his eyes and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

A moment later he fell to his knees, doubled over as his stomach twisted and he retched, vomiting up the blood. He gagged as his body spasmed, trying to force out every last drop from his body. It felt as though it were twisting itself inside out as it emptied itself of its entire contents, voiding dark blood and bile across the stones as he groaned. When his stomach finally stopped heaving, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shuddering, and then slowly pushed himself back up to his feet again.

Slowly he peeled off the feathered jacket and regarded it sadly. He was fond of it; it had been a gift from -

No. Don't think about that now. The jacket was memorable; too many people were familiar with the sight of him in it. He let it fall to the ground, the tunic following after. He stripped off the bloodstained grey robe beneath.

His shirt... He shook his head. Linen shirts and grey pants were common enough. It was the robe, the tunic and the jacket that marked him out.

He glanced around speculatively.

A short while later, he crept silently out of the courtyard. His blond hair hung loose around his face, brushing his shoulders. A dark grey long-sleeved tunic hung from his thin shoulders; he'd lost so much weight, the garment fitted poorly upon him. The belt he'd stolen from another corpse helped pull it in tight around his waist. The long dark green hooded coat was warm; he was thankful that the mage it had belonged to had died from a thrust to the heart and not a stab in the back – it was unblemished by blood or tears.

A blond corpse now lay on the stones in his place, dressed in his clothes. He had thrust his own dagger into the back; Hawke's dagger was now tucked into the sheath at his waist beneath the jacket. He had left his staff there; he hated to leave it behind, but it marked him as a mage.

Right now, that would be a fatal mistake to make.

He didn't know where he would go. But he couldn't stay here. There was war on the streets, and though a couple of hours ago he had been willing to die, now he realised he very much wanted to live. And that meant he had to get out of Kirkwall.

Anders stared at the smoke that still rose from the ruined remains of the Chantry. Then he turned and slipped into the side streets of Kirkwall, making his way towards Darktown.