Burn (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

The Destruction of Haven

Haven was on fire. Rosalind knew she hadn't willed this into being—but somehow, deep down, she felt she must have. It was so much like what she had described to Varric. She'd wanted to burn it all down, to get away, to win her freedom, but not like this. This wasn't freedom. The screams of the dying were all around, and the Templars, enveloped in their red glow, were closing in.

"Get to the trebuchet!" Cassandra called out. "Quickly. I will hold them back."

Rosalind didn't think even the Seeker could hold off an entire squadron of Templars, but there was little choice other than to let her try. If they couldn't get to the trebuchet, no one in Haven had any chance of survival.

*****

Varric followed Phoenix through the destruction of Haven. He hadn't done this, he told himself. Not really. But somehow he had, too. That idol in the Deep Roads ... Bartrand ... red lyrium ... and now Corypheus. They had killed him. He had watched Hawke kill that bastard with his own eyes. But those same eyes had looked across the space between them and seen that twisted form, just as it had been in that lost tower in the middle of the desert.

Flexing his hands, Varric could feel the inevitable closing in on him. Everything he touched was doomed. Everyone he came close to died—or lost everything. It would be best for everyone if he was buried in the avalanche they were about to set off. Probably he would be.

If only he could see Hawke again, one more time. Closing his eyes briefly, he could see her beautiful eyes, leaf-green and tender with affection or bright with laughter, as if she was there with him. At least he had made love with her once. That was a memory to take with him.

*****

The Iron Bull was thinking rapidly, calculating odds. He was good at that, walking into a situation and assessing it. That skill had kept him alive in Seheron for a long time. But no matter how he ran the odds of this one, he always came out with the wrong answer. Cullen had been right—there were no tactics to make this survivable.

Well, so be it. If this was the end, if this was the way he went out, at least it was in a good cause. Whoever, whatever this Corypheus asshole was, he needed to die, and the Iron Bull was just the one to kill him.

He squared his shoulders and followed the Herald of Andraste, ready to end this once and for all, whatever it cost.

They reached the trebuchet, and between them managed to wind it up, preparing to launch. But before they could set it into motion, an ear-piercing shriek split the sky above their heads, and they dove off the platform of the trebuchet for cover as a giant red dragon swooped down from the sky toward them.

*****

Varric scrambled to his feet, taking stock of the situation. The dragon, with the unmistakable tall twisted figure of Corypheus next to it, crouched next to the trebuchet. The Herald lay unmoving on the other side of the dragon. But Tiny was next to him, groaning. Varric reached down and tugged at his shoulder. "Come on."

"What?" The Qunari sat up, blinking his eye. "Let's take this asshole down."

"We can't."

"Sure we can!"

"I'm telling you, we can't. Hawke tried. She—we thought she killed him, but ... I don't know if he can be killed."

"We have to try."

Part of Varric wanted to stay, to throw his life away on a fight he couldn't win. But the part that owed Hawke, the part that owed the world, said otherwise. "We have people to help save. We get back to the Chantry and help everyone get out."

He was glad Tiny didn't take long to consider. They had moments, if that, to get out of here without drawing Corypheus's attention. "Yeah, okay. Let's go."

It was surprisingly hard to leave her, the Iron Bull thought. She was almost certainly dead—she hadn't moved a muscle since she'd landed, as far as he could tell—but he wanted to be sure, wanted to go and scoop her up out from under that darkspawn bastard's nose. With an effort, he turned and followed Varric.

*****

Rosalind groaned with pain, rolling over. She sat up, squinting in the light of a fire burning nearby. A giant figure, thin and wrong, was coming toward her.

She pushed herself to her feet. "Whatever you are, I am not afraid!"

"Words mortals often hurl at the darkness," he said dismissively. "Once they were mine. They are always lies."

It was a lie. But that didn't matter, because whatever else happened, she had to stall him, to buy time for the others to flee. Varric and the Iron Bull were gone, nowhere to be seen. She hoped they had gotten away, back to the Chantry.

There was no further time to worry about them—the figure had reached her, lifting her by the marked arm. Pain shot through her, bringing tears to her eyes.

"Know what you have pretended to be," he hissed at her. "Exalt the Elder One! The will that is Corypheus! I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now."

Through her tears, she could see an orb in his other hand. It glowed green, the green of her hand, and the pain as the orb tried to pull the mark off her hand was excruciating. She had never known such pain in all her life.

"You interrupted a ritual years in the making, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose! What you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens! And you used it to undo my work. The gall!"

Rosalind tried to clear her head enough to follow what he was saying, but it sounded like so much gibberish. "Stop!" she begged, ashamed of herself for giving in so easily. "Take it, please, but make it stop!"

All at once it did stop. He flung her away and she landed hard on her side. Blinking away the tears, she could see the mark still there, on her hand. She flexed it.

"I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the empire in person," Corypheus was saying. "I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more! Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods—and it was empty!"

She didn't understand what he was saying, or what he wanted. What she did understand suddenly was that he had flung her onto the trebuchet platform—and behind him, above the trees, a flare was rising into the night sky. The signal! The others were away. They were out of Haven.

"I will begin again," Corypheus said, "and find another way to give this world the god it requires. And you! I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die."

"If I must ..." It was hard to breathe. Maybe she had broken a rib when she landed. No matter. She got unsteadily to her feet. "Then I intend to take you with me!" With that, she kicked the lever of the trebuchet. Above her head, it launched its missile into the hillside, and the snow began to come down.

With a cry of rage, Corypheus turned to his dragon, which seized him and flew off. So. She hadn't killed him. But she had given him pause, and she had given the others time, and that would have to be enough, because the snow was coming and there was no escape.

It was upon her now, striking her like a blow, knocking her off the platform. Beneath her, something splintered, and then she was falling into silence. Peaceful, dark silence.