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Sebastian has no idea how he’d ended up here. One moment, he’d been a wandering penitent, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes as a pilgrim seeking his peace and now, he’s commanding a military greater than Starkhaven could ever hope to field and a green brand on his hand that doesn’t scald him even a quarter as much as his own past actions and regrets do. The Inquisitor’s sword is heavy on his hip, a solemn reminder of his sins.

But his armies need to be fed, need to be watered, and need to be healed, Lady Josephine reminds him. They need to be trained and dug in, the hollow-eyed shell of the Cullen he knew tells him. In Cullen’s eyes, he sees many of the same regrets that he himself bears, and he knows who else steals into Skyhold’s new Chantry in the dead of night to pray and weep and try to eke out some semblance of true forgiveness in a world gone mad.

At least he has an administrator’s mind, he consoles himself. That, at least, was something that he brought away from his past as a prince and a priest. He can sit at a desk and easily sort out the fine messes that Leliana’s escapades cause (and Maker’s breath that was a nasty shock, seeing her again) and the nightmares that moving Cullen’s troops entail. The Inquisition has never been better supplied… not the least because he, in his attempt to atone, accepted the Redcliffe mages into his ranks. It’s a marvel, what a fire mage can do with the constant snow and a few smartly-dug irrigation trenches. But Maker knows, Varric hadn’t been happy with him.

It will go a long way, he hopes, to convince his current quarry - no, he shouldn’t call him that; his current prospective recruit? - to stay long term. After all, the mage had been the one to field ideas about force mages helping to build fortifications, fire and ice mages to help with crops, creation mages to help with harvest. He’d scoffed at the ideas then, but now he sees the wisdom in his words.

He’d sent Leliana’s hunters out to find the mage, tracking rumors that he was hiding with a Chasind clan in northern Ferelden, but he isn’t expecting the ruckus down in the courtyard. He goes to his window and gets one of the nastiest shocks he’s had in a while.

Anders is there, clearly hacked off. There are templars, too, equally hacked off athim and just as clearly spoiling for a fight. Sebastian can’t have that. There’s only one spirit healer left in this blighted world, and Anders is the only man he can truly trust, even now. He pulls on his overcoat (it’s bloody cold up here in the mountains) and bolts down.

He doesn’t know how to manage this. This isn’t how he envisioned himself apologizing to Anders. He never wanted to be in a position of power over the man again. He doesn’t feel like he can command the mage to heal, only ask, but as the Inquisitor -

He makes it down there, and Anders meets his eyes. His honey-brown eyes widen a little in shock, then narrow sardonically. “Vael. Of course it’s bloody well you.”

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It’s a sad fact of his world that even the best surgeons can’t always keep good men and women from dying in war. Even he, with the skills he’d developed on his own, through the Chantry, and traveling with Hawke, can’t do more than emergency support and first aid on the battlefield. Adan has done wonders with his potions, but even a healing grenade only goes so far (as funny as it might be to ‘accidentally’ peg someone in the back of the head with it).

“We need a healer,” Lady Josephine said during one of their endless meetings. “The disaster at Haven revealed that much to us. Even the recruited mages couldn’t do much more than damage control.”

“There are no more healers, Ambassador,” Cullen said. “With the fall of the Circle, the only two Spirit Healers in Thedas are either dead or missing. Or a raving lunatic, which amounts to the same thing.” Sebastian shifted uncomfortably.

Soon enough, Leliana appeared and the conversation devolved into messy bickering. Sebastian kept half an ear on the fight, picking up one of the little map markers and weighing it in his gloved hand. He was more than content to let them argue themselves out and wait until they were in a more amenable state of mind before giving his suggestions and orders.

His mind wandered, like it often did. Was this how his grandfather ran Starkhaven back in his day? He couldn’t imagine that it was; the man still loomed large in his memory with vital force and indomitable personality. And now Sebastian, the weakest of the Vaels, was commanding the army of the faithful that Starkhaven had never dreamed of. He was lucky, at least, of the size of the Inquisition. As much as he sometimes longed to go talk to the soldiers from Starkhaven, he knew that was a poor choice. His cousin had taken the throne in lieu of a true Vael heir and by all accounts was making a fine mess of things.

He looked up from the little bell marker when he heard Cullen repeating in exasperation, “Lord Inquisitor!”

“I’m sorry, what? I was woolgathering.”

“I dare say you were,” Cullen said, a sharp edge to his voice that reminded Sebastian, flinchingly, of some of the Kirkwall Sisters. “We were discussing the practicality of training new Spirit Healers to serve in the hospitals.”

Disapproval ran thick in the air. He set down the marker, considering all three of his advisors. “I was under the impression that is nearly impossible, Commander.”

“Yes, well, you know my position on the matter, Inquisitor.”

“Aye, that I do.” Not so long ago, he’d shared the position. Now, though, things were different. The templars were isolating themselves from the clear and present danger that existed, with no intention of helping those in need. The Chantry was still a shambles, with equally no effort to open its doors to the rest of the world.

It is a hard thing indeed, seeing the golden veil stripped back to reveal the Sunburst throne was riddled with fungus and termites.

“But perhaps some of the Orlesian Circles have apprentices young enough to start developing along those lines,” Josephine suggested. “Some of my noble contacts have children or other young family residing in those Circles. A word or two in the right ears might see one of the them brought to us for training. Or several, to account for attrition rates.”

Leliana sent his other two advisors quelling, pitying glares. “My scouts have the ability to cover huge amounts of land in the space of a few hours. Perhaps we can find a wild Spirit Healer with one of the Chasind or Avaar clans. They have significantly less of a stigma associated with magic and consorting with those from across the Veil.”

She was hiding something, Sebastian sensed almost instantly. He didn’t know herwell, but he knew her enough that the tightness in her shoulders and slightly narrowed eyes meant she was keeping a few cards close to her chest. Unlucky for her, though, he was also a rogue and a better cardshark than most people expected from a Chantry boy. “You think there’s something worth investigating in Ferelden?”

“Yes, Inquisitor. There is always something worth investigating in Ferelden.” He’d forgotten about her strange adoration of the country. “Still, it is a better option than ignoring possibilities or forcing children into fighting our wars for us.”

“If you can find someone to willingly join the Inquisition, you have my blessing,” he said hurriedly, mostly to keep the hurt feelings to a minimum. “But please, do not aggravate the tribes in Ferelden.”

“You wound me, Inquisitor,” she said and he could hear the stifled smile. “I shall send birds out to my agents.”

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Anders looks nothing like he remembers the man looking. He’s still just as lanky, but he’s clean-shaven, clear eyed, with loop through his ear and significantly more leather about his person. He looks dangerous, a different sort of dangerous than he’d been in Kirkwall, and almost more threatening. Even flanked by guards and templars, he looks ready to kick Sebastian’s ass just on principle. “Of course it’s you. Dragging me in to make good on your threat, Choir Boy?”

“No, actually. I, ah. Had you brought in to ask a favor.”

“Did you, now. I suppose sending a polite letter or showing up in person would be too much to ask for?”

He can’t help it. After a moment of boggling at the man, he just starts to laugh. Of course Anders would struggle and bite. He can’t be blamed for his nature. “I suppose I could have, Anders, if it wasn’t the end of the world.”

Anders’ no-doubt sour retort is cut off by a shrill cry of ‘Daddy, no!’ Sebastian hops back in confusion when a small creature - about the size of an elven five-year-old - socks into the back of Anders’ knees, causing him to dip briefly. Arms hug tightly around the blond mage’s thigh and he is treated to a death glare from… an elven five year old.

“… who’s this, then?”

“My daughter,” Anders says warily. “Your mage hunters dragged her along with.”

“They’re not -” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Anders is still remarkably stubborn for a man who is in absolutely no position to negotiate or start hurling insults. But the girlchild being there changes so many things. “Right. Men, bring Anders and his daughter up to the war table. We’ll go from there, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the ex-tempars says, saluting. Anders jerks his elbow out of another man’s grasp, hissing at the soldiers surrounding him. The movement shifts Sebastian’s attention to his hands and he nearly sees red.

“You bound him? Leliana and I specifically gave orders to - Maker’s balls, let him go.”

He’s treated to sheepish mutterings of “Yes, Lord Inquisitor.” Best of all, though, is Anders’ confused and unsure look.

He knows that this isn’t the Sebastian Vael that Anders remembers. He takes a perverse sort of pride in Anders’ confusion, to be quite frank. He wants the man to know that he’s changed, that he wasn’t the conflicted maybe-priest, maybe-prince who excused so much.

“You’re a weird one, Vael,” he says, rubbing his wrists once he’s freed.

“You have no idea how far down the rabbit hole goes, mage.”

They walk into the Keep as equals, strangely enough, and that gives him another swell of pride. Anders’… daughter is on his hip now, glaring pure death at Sebastian in the manner that only a five year old can. He knows that Anders’ presence, once it gets around, will likely cause an Incident with the Orlesians. He finds himself not particularly giving a toss - since getting involved in actual politics, he’s beginning to understand Ferelden’s hatred of them and frankly, Orlesian treatment of the elves and Dalish is downright appalling.

He’s finding himself carrying a lot more guilt for his ignorance than he initially expected.

Still the halls are empty and even the Ambassador isn’t at her desk. He hopes that gives them a few moments to speak before everyone comes to gawk at the Inquisitor and the unofficial leader of the mage rebellion.

Anders pointedly waits until Sebastian has entered the chamber. It’s a remarkable amount of trust that Anders even has in him to consent to an unsupervised meeting, but he suspects the blond either is more than willing to strike to kill - or he’s so far gone that he’s willing to die as a martyr. He hopes to not make either an option.

Once he gets to the table, all the while keeping his back pointedly turned to the mage, he turns. “I brought you here to beg your help, Anders.”

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"You're begging me for help, Vael."

"Aye. That's what I said, Anders." The ex-prince looks... tired. Worn down. No longer a mischievous lad with a crooked smile and the glint of adventure in his eye, leashed and muzzled by a Chantry too interested in temporal power, but an exhausted warlord trying to hold the world together with spit, glue, and hope. There's gray at his temples now and crows feet at the corner of teal eyes, and that more than anything shakes Anders out of his impotent frustration and rage. Maker, he's older than the young man by almost ten years and now he looks fifteen years younger.

"That's a tall order from a man who threatened to kill me."

He sees the momentary flash of rage, shifts so his daughter is out of the line of fire. But Sebastian doesn't rise to the bait, and Anders finds some measure of respect for him. "Aye, I did that, and I won't deny it. You'd taken my home, my family, and what I'd expected to be my livelihood from me. I'd expect you know better than most what that feels like, and I was furious that a man such as you would do so to someone you'd called 'friend.'"

"I simply did what I had to do," he says firmly. There's no room for debate here. The plan had changed, true, and people have already corrupted the message he'd tried to get across, but that's all out of his hands now.

"We all do, Anders. That's why I'm here, with a group of men and women that -" Vael comes up short visibly. Takes a deep breath. Then Anders watches him work off his thick leather glove. "Here. Perhaps this will explain more than anything why I need you here."

The soft russet kid flops forlornly to the table and Vael holds up his hand. A vicious gash is cut practically through the palm, glowing a vitriolic green. Anders feels a second wave of consternation and Bunny lets out a thin shriek.

"Maker's tits," he says, half in revulsion and half in wonder. "There's no way I can patch that up, Vael."

"I... er. Wasn't actually asking you to." He watches the prince wiggle his fingers, cupping the sickly green light in his hand. It reminds him, somehow, of the Fade and the Blight, all rolled into one miserable little mess. "I was actually intending to ask you to patch up my soldiers."

"Go on, then."

"It's simple. You stay here in Skyhold - I have mages enough in my company, there's no need to hang you out in front of the templars like blind bait. You could save a lot of lives, working with soldiers and the villagers when they need you."

He takes a moment to consider Vael's offer, hefting Bunny back up into his arms. "Don't think I haven't noticed you've got a rag-tag group of templars here, along with my dear friend Cullen."

Sebastian shrugs. "Aye," he says, not attempting to deny it. "And Cassandra Pentaghast as well. But I have a Tevinter magister and Grand Enchantress Fiona as well. You'll be protected."

"And Varric." The name is heavy in his mouth - Hawke had forced all of their companions to not lift a hand against Anders. Even after Hawke had left him for Fenris (a decision they'd come to mutually - they'd had one pregnancy scare and she couldn't love Justice and he didn't want to inflict his Calling on her...), they'd still loved one another dearly and Hawke, dear Hawke, had threatened each and every one of them with pointy death. She'd known, of course, about his plan. She'd even laughed at his attempts to hide it from possibly the world's greatest rogue -

"He keeps to himself," Sebastian said, interrupting his caravan of thought. "He's quite consumed with guilt over the red lyrium; despite all his claims to the contrary, it's the only thing he speaks of."

"And Mahela?"

"She will be safe. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are no Circles left in Inquisition-controlled territory."

"... I'd wondered about that," Anders said, feeling himself give way all of a piece. "You didn't really seem like a pro-mage sort of bloke."

"I've learned better," Vael says, with a shy fleeting smile that immediately makes Anders think oh, shit -

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It's snowing. He's not entirely sure why he's surprised it's snowing - seeing as he's up in the benighted Ferelden mountains, in a castle that looks vaguely Ferelden. But in his bones, he knows it's not. The Avvar and Chasind tribes that opted to become "civilized" after the civilized world had done their number on them had aped the monuments and cyclopean architecture of civilizations past because they considered their own comfortable homes and ways barbaric. This fortification is no more Ferelden than he is, only claiming that name because he'd somehow ended up existing inside border at a time when there is a Ferelden.

He knows he's tired because he's getting maudlin about bloody architecture.

So he wipes his clammy, almost-turning-blue hands on his greyish-white cloak and tucks them deep into his warm, wide, fur-lined sleeves. Most noncombatant personnel here is dressed in various shades of grey and white, better to blend in with the snow-glare and stone. He's impressed at Sebastian's foresight. He'd heard of the massacre at Haven, that not even a full battalion of mages and a hundred-strong compliment of Templars could stop. Hide the civilians, make them invisible, and the Inquisition can still survive.

As long as one man, woman, or child believes in the mission, it will endure. He doesn't remember who said that, but he knows it was said at some point back in Kirkwall.

He scuffs his boot against the stone. This is not helping his mental state any. At all. Think of something positive, Anders.

He brightens when he realizes that the kitchens are open by now  and that he could possibly snag a bowl of soup. Bunny's been practically adopted by the not-Warden (oh, he's both looking forward and not to dropping that bombshell on Sebastian's lap), so he doesn't have to worry after her for a few more hours. A new bounce in his step, and he heads down to the keep proper and to the kitchen line.

Most of the non-mages in the Inquisition like him. He considers that his just due; after all, he can make himself very, very likeable, whether he's actually feeling that way or not. The Redcliffe mages also seem to like him and Fiona and he have come to an Understanding. Two ex-Wardens with daddy issues and child issues and Other Issues are practically required to become friends because what the hell else are they supposed to be to one another?

Dorian… is too close to what Anders could see himself being if Other Issues hadn't reared their ugly heads, and is also very, very good at making himself likeable. Anders tried to hate him, briefly, just to see if he could. It was almost a relief when he dropped the thought experiment. He's sort of adopted the brat, teaching him a few tricks that will keep everyone alive just a few seconds longer.

That might keep Sebastian - no, no, no. He hightails it out of that thought quickly enough.

He doesn't like Vivienne, and the less said about that the better.

It's a little confusing as to why these things are going through his mind until he realizes that the third mage of the Inner Circle has stepped behind him in line. The dead giveaway is that his teeth start itching, though the man smells like the Fade and old blood. Though not, thankfully, blood magic old blood, but in the way that some of the Chasind he'd lived with after Kirkwall did - the old blood of a hunter, of a man who wears the pelts of his prey.

… that is an incredibly unsettling thought.

"Ah. The famous apostate."

Blue balls and muddy terrain, he thinks uncharitably. He doesn't turn, because he knows that's what Solas wants - much better to keep his back to the man, let him know that he doesn't see him as a worthy threat. "I was wondering when you'd start bothering me."

"Were you?" Anders feels slightly pleased that Solas sounds moderately surprised. It's not often someone gets to outwit a hunter. "I wish to do no such thing."

Anders holds out a bowl with a winsome smile to the pretty boy who's on ladle duty today. He likes this one - he's got dimples, big brown eyes, and no fear. "No? Because I know what's simmering on the tip of that sharp tongue of yours. It's what every mage wants to ask me about and you're more invested in Fade spirits than most mages I've met."

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Sebastian hears of the spat from Sera. She'd come bouncing into his office, all manic glee about the elven mage and the rogue healer getting into it on the lunch line. He'd listened, politely disbelieving as she told the story - likely embellishing it, Solas doesn't get angry or offended, just amused at all the idiot shem around him - then quietly went to verify with Bull.

He doesn't know why he's surprised that Anders had goaded Solas into what passed for a tantrum for the elf. Anders could annoy Andraste herself with some of his arguments. Maker knows that Sebastian had lost patience with him several times over the years they'd known one another. But still, he's the Inquisitor and has to maintain peace.

"That man is a menace," Solas says when he comes to visit.

"Agreed, but he is my menace," Sebastian says mildly. "What has he done now?"

Solas takes a moment and Sebastian leaves him to his thoughts, wandering around the circular room. The murals are beautiful, executed in a style that Sebastian's never seen before. He wants to touch, but he has better manners than that. "He… is unrepentant. To warp a spirit of the Fade the way he has is horrific in and of itself, but he doesn't show one ounce of remorse -"

Now that, Sebastian knows, is a complete and utter lie. He knows Anders well enough that the man carries an obscene burden of guilt. "He considered Justice a friend."

"Mortals cannot be friends with spirits," Solas says sternly. "It is not in the nature of a spirit to understand friendship as mortals do."

"Justice called Anders ' friend,'" he points out. "And, I dare say, Justice always had quite a bit of agency. By all means, be angry at Anders if you wish, Maker knows everyone else in Thedas is. But please be aware, that nothing you can say or do will change what happened. Anders is quite aware of what was done."

Solas looks mulish, still upset with the healer and, by extension, Sebastian himself. He finds himself all right with that - Solas has a tendency to make himself as unlikable as mortally possible, rudely and abrasively "correcting" everyone who doesn't fit his very, very narrow definition of who or what an elf is. "Any other complaints, Solas?" he asks pleasantly, locking his hands behind his back. "I'll be sure to bring your concerns to Anders' attention."

"He'll do nothing but bring you grief," Solas says darkly.

"Too late," he says, finding himself rather cheerful about the prospect. Apparently he's gone so far through trauma and depression that he's free and clear on the other side. And… he's glad to see the mage again. Glad to know that if he so desired, he can go see the beaky bird of a man whenever the fancy takes him.

Still smiling sunnily, he heads out into the keep proper.

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