The firelight in the farmhouse is dim, but it’s just enough for Anthone to make out the scrawl on the worn letter in their hands.

Dear Waffles,

Maker, you can’t make any of this easy, can you? You’re supposed to be in hiding, but I keep hearing incredible rumors of a certain Champion crashing through Redcliffe, messing up Templars and more or less leaving a trail of smoke signals behind them. It’s all I can do to insist until I’m blue in the face that you went north and I haven’t heard from you since.

Thankfully, the Seeker swallowed that. I don’t know that we were right about her intentions anymore - Tranquility seems to be the furthest thing from her mind. But hey, when someone kidnaps you and roughs you up to find out where your friend is hiding, you’re going to assume the worst. I still recommend lying low. Even if the Seeker isn’t out for your blood, plenty of others are.

That means not raiding Templar strongholds for a bit. Please.

Glad to hear you two are doing well. The Inquisition might be passing through Redcliffe soon -- if you’re still in the area, we should grab a drink. I have ways of keeping out of view of prying eyes. Tell Blondie I look forward to slaughtering him in Wicked Grace again. He never could bluff worth shit.

The letter isn’t signed. Anthone supposes they maybe should have have burned the letter to be perfectly safe, but for now, no one’s on their tracks. And it’s nice to have a little piece of what was. So after a breath, they push the letter back into a deep crevice in their pack. A reply is already off with the messenger: something along the lines of ‘ sorry not sorry’ and ‘ yes we definitely need to meet again ’.

It’s cold in the Hinterlands this time of year. Even in the the shelter of the abandoned farmhouse they and Anders are squatting in, the wind rips through the gaps in the structure, chilling the both of them through to their bones. Anthone crouches by the fireplace and pokes at the dwindling flames.

A big lump of blankets on the floor shifts.

“My love, come back to bed,” Anders murmurs sleepily.

“The fire was getting low,” Anthone whispers back.

Anders makes a small, unimpressed sound. “I’ll just blast it if it goes out.”

“What, and burn down half our home while you’re at it? Your aim sucks when you’re half asleep.”

Anders grumbles again unintelligibly, and Anthone bites back a fond smile.

A spark of flame shoots from Anthone’s fingers, and the fire crackles merrily back to life. Knees creaking in the cold, Anthone straightens and makes their way back to the lump of blankets. Anders lifts a corner to admit them, and Anthone curls up willingly into the warmth. Under the blankets, Anders slips an arm across their waist and holds them close.

For a long moment, the farmhouse is quiet. Anthone listens to the crackle of the fire and the soft huffs of Anders’ breath against their neck.

Then Anders speaks, a murmur in Anthone’s ear: “You’re tense.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“Do enlighten me.”

Anthone rolls back, so they’re lying on their back. From this angle, they can see the drowsy, concerned expression on Anders’ face, and wordlessly, they lift a hand to run their fingers through his hair. “Haven’t heard back from Varric. The messenger could have been intercepted. Or maybe we should have gone to spring him out. He could be locked up again.”

“Love, even if the messenger were intercepted, there was nothing in your letter that could be used,” Anders reminds them gently. “And Varric’s smart. If they locked him up again, he’d find some loose rock in his cell and slither his way back out like an eel. He talked his way out last time. And he’d be furious if we exposed ourselves to come rescue him.”

Anthone scrunches up their nose. “I still want to punch someone for locking him up in the first place.”

“I’m sure he appreciates that. But besides, it’s winter. Isn’t Varric in the Frostback Mountains? The letter may have been delayed by bad weather.”

“You’re right, I guess,” Anthone grouses.

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t worry about our friends.”

Anthone doesn’t say anything in response to that, but a corner of their lips twitch, and they press a soft kiss to the top of Anders’ head.

“Get some sleep, my love,” Anders says. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Anthone agrees.

They wake before dawn.

The sky has lightened to a soft blue-grey, but the first streaks of color haven’t yet risen above the peaks of the mountains. Frost clings to the farmhouse windows, and when Anders and Anthone step outside, the air is bitingly cold.

The two of them move in silence as they skirt around the edges of the pass. Anthone glances back at Anders and sees determination hardening every line of his face. Half shrouded by the pre-dawn shadows, Anders looks dangerously otherworldly.

The effect is enchanting.

But Anthone doesn’t have time to be distracted. Deep in the pass, there’s a small settlement of refugee mages. Libertarians; apostates finally out of hiding; Circle mages reunited with families for the first time since the rebellion. Anthone and Anders had visited before, offering supplies and medical care. It was a beautiful camp last time they’d been there, a gathering on the cusp of becoming a true community.

But the Templars had come.

From this distance, Anthone can make out the shimmer of the domed magical shield protecting the camp. Silhouettes stand on either side of the barrier: inside, the mages who work around the clock to maintain their last line of defense. Outside, the Templars waiting for them to fall.

Anthone and Anders crouch behind a boulder, fifty feet out from the perimeter. Some Templars are patrolling along the edge of the encampment, but it’s a simple thing to stay out of sight. There’s a blanket of magic over the whole pass, and a Templar could look straight at them and still not see.

They wait. The minutes stretch on, and Anthone’s fingers, wrapped around their staff, grow stiff in the cold. The first glow of pink shines around the mountain peaks as the morning sun climbs. Then the first ray of sunshine bursts over the mountain, and a green jet of light erupts from a rocky outcropping to Anthone’s right.

The silence breaks.

The shield collapses, and suddenly offensive spells are whistling toward the Templars. The spells burst on impact with otherworldly howls; The Templars’ swords shiing as they are drawn from their sheaths. Shouts echo off the mountains as reinforcement mages pour out from every cave and crevice of the pass -- among them, Anthone and Anders, who rush into the fray, spells flying.

A Templar comes at Anthone, sword raised. A blast from Anders’ staff sends her flying back, and Anthone shoots at the next Templar who jumps in to take her place. The screeching clash of magic against armor is deafening.

There are almost a dozen Templars converging on them now, but even more mages. And the mages are driven by a righteous fury, the kind of a people with a lifetime of anger boiling in their veins. The rage in their rallying cries is enough to send shivers down even Anthone’s arms. Anthone fires spell after spell after spell - freeze this Templar, shoot fire at that one, blast a punch right through the earth -- and sweat chills their back from the effort of drawing on so much mana. Anders is right behind them. The two of them fight as one, each anticipating the other’s move as easily as if it were their own.

The Templars are holding their ground, however, and mages are falling. A young elven girl is thrown to the ground beside Anthone; they throw up their staff to block the falling sword, and they have to grit their teeth against the blow that rattles down their arms.

The mages will win this battle, but there will be many casualties. And that’s what the Templars want.

Anthone’s gaze races around the pass.

“Pull back!” Anthone suddenly shouts.

Some of the mages stare at them as if they’ve lost their mind. But Anthone grabs one by the arm and hauls him back, yelling again: “Pull back! Behind the shield line! We’re going to blast them out of here!”

The mage whose arm Anthone has captured is suddenly staring at them with awe . . . maybe recognition?

“Pull back!” he yells, and grabs one of his friends.

Anders is herding the mages into a small area just under the far-side cliff. Anthone has to move fast; like this, the camp is like firing on fish in a barrel. The children of the camp are pushed into the center, and Anthone can hear the smallest ones wailing in terror.

“Ready the shields!” Anthone yells out, racing toward the cluster. “On three! One -- two -- three !”

On ‘three’ they spin on their heel and fire a blast from their staff. It’s so powerful it wrenches the socket of their shoulder, and Anthone almost loses their grip. A heartbeat later, the domed shield goes up, encircling all the mages and just two of the Templars.

The blast hits the mountain side halfway up. There’s a great, sickening groan -- then half the cliff face gives out.

The Templars outside the shield yell in shock. They make to flee, but their armor weighs them down; most are caught in the rockslide. The mages themselves scramble back from the edges of the shield as boulders bounce off the surface. The cracks are deafening; the wailing of the children louder than ever. The cliff clatters into ruin around them.

And then it’s quiet.

The exhausted mages drop the shield. Rocks have formed a kind of crescent bay around the mages. A few small stones still skitter down the slope, but for now all is stable. The two Templars who had been inside the shield turn and scramble up the rocks to flee. A few mages give them chase, but Anthone doesn’t bother.

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” Anders murmurs.

Anthone looks back at him. Anders’ face is streaked with dirt and blood, and he looks exhausted. Anthone quirks an eyebrow. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Anders smiles. “I didn’t say I disapproved.”

He steps closer, and tenderly places a kiss to the corner of Anthone’s lips.

The rest of the day is spent carefully shifting rocks and leading the mages out of the wreckage of the camp. The Templars are gone for now, but they’ll be back; the mages can’t stay there. Moving the whole community is long, hard work, and by the time a new, temporary camp is set up in a small valley warded by illusion charms, Anthone’s legs are trembling with exhaustion.

They stay in the camp that night, because both of them would collapse before they reached the farmhouse, and because Anders is still tending to the wounded. But the first thing the next morning, they head out. There’s no sense in drawing further trouble to the mages with their presence. Although Anders calls himself “Harold” and Anthone “Barathan” in the camp, some of the mages seem to have recognized them. But no one has said their names aloud.

In these mountains, Anders and Anthone are legends. They never stay with one group for long, but long enough for the stories to spread. There’s a rumor that if you need their help, leave a note in the hollow tree trunk south of Wolf’s Hollow. If they can, they will come.

Perhaps it works. Perhaps they have other ways of discovering where the raids are going to be, when the battles are taking place. Either way, dozens of stories of the Champion of Kirkwall and the apostate who started it all are whipping around the Hinterlands, spoken by reverent lips.

Maybe they should send Varric a fruit basket, Anthone muses. A gift as thanks for all the misdirecting he has to do.

In the morning, when they make it back to the farmhouse, there’s a courier waiting by the entrance.

“Letter for you,” she tells Anthone shortly, and deposits a slip of parchment in their hands. Then she vanishes, back into the wilderness.

The letter is penned in a familiar hand.

In the Hinterlands. Made camp by Lake Luthias. Meet me by the upper waterfall an hour past midnight tomorrow night .

“I told you he would be okay,” Anders murmurs, wrapping an arm around Anthone’s middle from behind.

“Yeah, yeah, you were right. As always.”

Anders chuckles quietly.

“Are you ready to get thrashed in Wicked Grace?” Anthone teases.

“Oh, this time, it’s Varric who’s going to get thrashed. Just you watch.”

And at that, Anthone has to laugh. They push open the door to their farmhouse and pull Anders inside.

The two of them are on the run, picking battles with Templars and squatting in ramshackle homes in the freezing cold of the Hinterlands. But, all in all, Anthone thinks, it could be worse.