The Spirit Girl—Banal nadas.
The tale of Dragon Age Inquisition ends and the credits begin to roll.
"Huh."
Her gaze traces the names, but they register more as shapes than words. She sits through the smooth slide, her hands still clasped around her gold controller. Her roommate must have been eating while playing because one of the buttons had started sticking. God, her roommate. Wasn't it enough that she did the dishes week after week, scrubbed the toilet, and took out the trash? Could a little respect for her things be so much to ask for?
"I live with a goddamn rat," she grumbles to herself. And not the good kind. Living with Charlie Kelley would probably drive her to madness, but at least he was the adorable kind of trash baby. Her roommate reserves all her cleanliness for work. Stingy bitch. Her brand of adorableness certainly doesn't make up for the gnats.
Her attention focuses in at the first mention of the voice actors, eager to spot Solas. The slow slide seems to have sped up because she can't remember the names of any of them once they pass beyond the screen. She groans at her failure, glancing at her alarm clock.
"Only ten?"
She had finished the game much sooner than she had anticipated. Allotting four hours for what amounted to less than two hours of gameplay had been overkill. Her hesitance to lose Solas upon entering the final quest had rendered her overleveled for her battle with Play-doh face.
"Ha. Play-doh Face." She glances around her empty bedroom and spots her reflection in one of the mirrors embedded in her closet doors. "At least someone appreciates my jokes." She watches her lips slip up into a smirk.
She turns back to the screen. It takes her a few seconds to realize what's happening.
"What the fuck. Is it replaying?" She scans the names, uncertain until the list of actors starts to slide by. "Is that it? Where the fuck is my cutscene?" she whines.
She starts pressing buttons, no longer caring if one accidentally exits her out, keeping her from the final cutscene. Her guilt over her inattention toward the names of the artists involved in the game's design and production is overshadowed by her annoyance.
The names disappear after she clicks—something—and she holds her breath. When the darkness remains a beat too long, her shoulders slump. The loading icon in the corner isn't moving.
"Goddamn it," she sighs, leaning toward the console.
The tips of her fingers barely brush the power button when a spark zips up her hand.
"Motherfucking—" she hisses "—ow!"
Her attention snaps back to the television as an image begins to fade in.
"Hell yeah!" she grins in a sing-song voice. "I got my cutscene!"
She watches the scene play out between Solas and Mythal, frowning by its end. The visual suggested that Solas had pulled the power from her, but Mythal's final words seemed more indicative of her willingly leaving that body to possess him.
"That's it?" she asks, watching the throne room of Skyhold form around her Inquisitor.
She ignores her better judgment and directs her character toward the rotunda. Solas's absence doesn't surprise her, but its emptiness is rather startling.
"Right," she mumbles to herself, angling her character toward the stairs leading to the library.
She directs her character straight toward Dorian, relieved that he, at least, remains.
"It will be interesting, a Devine likely to punch heretics in the face." She frowns, still uncertain how she feels about Cassandra becoming Devine. "It will be difficult to return to Tevinter after all this. I have a good friend here. You don't find those just lying about. Such is my lot. Just a little longer then."
"Oh my god," she grins, her chest tightening when she recalls his words during the party. "Dorian is my best frieeend," she sings in a goofy voice.
Subsequent clicks on Dorian yield nothing but comments about bees. Her grin falls. Dorian has been reduced to a regular NPC.
"I think that's enough for today," she says, sighing.
She hesitates for only a second before adding a new save. She will need to go back to a previous one once she has finished checking on the rest of the companions. How could she go to that one lost Elven temple without Solas? And she still hadn't unlocked the rest of those doors in the Forbidden Oasis. Solas would probably have something interesting to say once she did.
"Oh, crap. And that time-locked rift in the Western Approach!"
How could she have forgotten about that? Those demons couldn't be harder than Play-doh Face.
She finishes logging out and shuts off her console. Her legs haven't even begun to ache yet. She climbs off her bed and stands in the middle of her room, surveying the mess of books, notebooks, and clothes. What is she supposed to do now?
Okay, so maybe the piles of clothes were getting a little out-of-hand. And she should really move that badass journal her sister had gotten her back into the bookcase. A shame she didn't have something good to put in there. That glorious piece of craftsmanship deserved the best. It would have made a killer hunter's journal.
She sighs, feeling wistful for a life she would never have. She doesn't touch the journal, opting to move toward the closet instead. Her reflection catches her attention. There's a shading under her eyes, almost making the resident bags shimmer. She watches herself rub underneath them, but when she glances at her fingers, she finds nothing. A glance at the mirror reveals that the shimmer remains. Maybe there's something on the mirror. Her roommate does like to admire herself in them.
She presses the index finger of her right hand onto the glass, but recoils when it seems to cave inward.
"Whoa!" Her hand is clenched, cradled against her chest. She holds her hand back up, uncurling her fingers. There is nothing. She reaches her hand out and touches the glass in a quick tap.
"What the..."
She glances in the eyes of her reflection, seeing only her own shock mirrored back. Its eyes aren't glowing, nor are her lips smirking. This probably isn't like Oculus, but. Well. She definitely won't be eating anything in the immediate future. She presses her fingers back into the glass, staring at its caving surface for a moment before slowly pulling her hand back again.
"Okay, so, this seems to be happening," she says to her reflection, relaxing a little at the sound of her own voice.
This...this is new. And impossible. Her thoughts flit through what she knows about magic, from nine and three quarters to cursed rabbit's feet to elves with slave brandings. Meddling doesn't always end well. The hero doesn't always make it back alive. Sometimes, there isn't even a hero. Just a lonely, naive girl who was too desperate for adventure to consider the consequences.
The Doctor once compared his promise of adventure to a kid being promised sweets. So many people had died from knowing him. His brand of friendship wasn't always kind. She knew that. She also knew that if that blue box ever appeared in front of her, she wouldn't hesitate. Could this mirror be her blue box? Her call to adventure?
She surveys her room one more time before turning back to the mirror. She presses her whole hand against it this time, feeling the glass cave under her palm. Her movement through the glass gains speed as the mirror pulls her quicker than she had been pushing. It has consumed most of her arms and legs. There is nothing to grab onto, nothing on the other side, and the mirror is beginning to slide up her neck. She has a moment to panic when—
...
She gasps when her lungs allow it, when they have learned to expand again. She throws her shoulder into the roll off her back, body hunching. One hand clenches her knee and the other presses forward to support her. Her long hair has fallen forward, stifling the air further.
"What...the...fuck," she gasps, "...was...that?"
Her knees begin to ache before she can fully regain her breath. This bed offers little cushion. It definitely doesn't look like something picked up from IKEA. When she lifts her hand off the quilt, a layer of dust obscures her skin. The rest of her body must be covered in it by now, with all her rolling around.
She turns toward the rest of the room, surveying her surroundings. Planks of wood lie in half-hazard piles on the floor. Large pots rest on their sides. A painting, its canvas shredded to the point of obscurity, remains mounted on the opposite wall.
"Where the hell..." she croaks out. She rubs at her throat, but the dry ache doesn't fade. It's fine. She just needs to remain calm. Get her bearings.
She holds her breath, straining her ears to pick up any noise outside the room. Silence. Her breath slips back out at the confirmation. The bed creaks when she levers herself off and she cringes, listening. Still nothing. She concentrates on relaxing her shoulders and ignores the slight shaking of her legs as she stands, investigating the room.
"This seems real..." she whispers to herself, brushing her fingers down one of the strips of canvas. "I wasn't asleep..." she continues, focusing on the small raised lines on the back of the canvas, "...right?"
She traces her thoughts back to when she found herself gasping on that bed. Her eyes had been shut before that. No, not shut. It had just been too dark to see. But what about before that darkness?
"The mirror," she says, the volume of her voice rising above a whisper. "I'm in the mirror." Her eyes widen and her chest tightens. "Holy shit, I'm in the mirror!" she squeaks, whipping around to search the room. Everything in the room seems to be just as solid as they were before this revelation. "Mirror worlds really exist?"
Her chest feels close to bursting. Her hand darts up to her mouth, muffling the sound of her next high squeak. What does she know about mirror worlds? An image of a small, blonde girl in a nightgown staring at a mangled version of her own reflection rises to the forefront of her thoughts. Her joy dissipates.
"Wow, this could have gone so wrong," she says, disgruntled with herself. She ignores the thought that says it still could. "Seriously though...where the fuck am I?"
Another glance around the room reveals the same conclusions she had drawn during her first search. The place looks trashed, like someone just swept through it. However, the layer of dust covering the whole room remains undisturbed—barring her own meddling. Since the layer of dust conforms to the exact shape of everything in the room, that means that no one has disturbed it, and thus, the place has probably been abandoned.
She nods to herself, feeling like a regular Sherlock Holmes.
"A simple deduction, my dear Watson," she says in a superior voice, nose tilted in the air. She imagines Jenny standing beside her. She did often make a good Watson to her Sherlock, for all her trash baby behavior.
"Oh, man, I can't wait to tell her about this," she grins, her excitement faltering when her attention shifts back to the room. "Shit." Can she even get back?
Right. Well, she'll never know if she doesn't leave this room, will she?
"Please let this be an episode of Doctor Who, not Supernatural." There are two doors to this room—one on either side of the bed. She stares between them. Right or left? "A light-hearted episode of Doctor Who," she amends, stepping toward the door on the right. She realizes that she can't think of an episode that remained light-hearted throughout. In fact, a lot of people have died in that show from indulging simple curiosity. "Crap," she says, continuing to step toward the door. At least she hadn't entered that mirror in her pajamas or worse, without her bra. "Could've done with some shoes, though," she grumbles, gripping the metal ring acting as doorknob.
The heavy door expels a loud creak as she heaves it open, making her cringe. A strong breeze coaxes her hair around her face the moment she manages to widen the gap enough for her to slip through. She gasps at the icy stone under her feet, pushing her hair behind her ears to survey her new surroundings. Mountains reach toward the sky in the distance, staggered in every direction, but her right. To her right, the front of a monumental—well, castle—seems to reach even higher than the mountains themselves. She realizes that it can't actually be taller, that it has to be due to her perspective. Still.
Her gaze traces down the open doorway into the courtyard. She slams back into the door when her mind registers the moving figures as people. She doesn't know if they've seen her. Across from her, another door waits.
Should she walk with caution or purpose? Which is more likely to catch their attention? God, she hates being so exposed. Ducking down might draw more attention than a confident stride. That dude on the grass definitely has a sword. Not to mention the full armor. Did she freaking time travel?
Not that the old-timey room hadn't already clued her into that possibility. Confirmation though—still a little hard to swallow. What should she do? If they did see her, then they might already be coming.
She strides toward the door, trying to maintain a steady pace. Can't be too quick, look too eager. Can't be too slow, look too suspicious. She's Goldilocks, strolling passed the bears. Come on, channel the Doctor. Channel Sam and Dean. Channel Sherlock Holmes. They almost always look like they belong places they shouldn't be.
The next door gives her less trouble than the first. She has more difficulty restraining herself from looking over her shoulder than wrenching it open. Once she can feel the wood of the door pressing against her back, she allows herself to take a real look around.
A small flight of stairs—literally like six steps or so—leads her down the platform beside the door and into a bigger room. Dim lights—torches—coupled with a melodious voice coming from downstairs, gives the place a much warmer feeling than the previous room. The clinking of glasses and unintelligible chatter accompanies the music, adding to the ambiance.
This room seems empty until she notices movement ahead—a young man standing in the corner. She can't see his face under the large hat on top of his head, but she can almost feel his gaze. Little point in trying to hide when he has already spotted her. She stares for a few more moments, waiting for him to make a move. He doesn't, apart from the periodic shifting of weight from foot to foot.
She tries to keep her steps to more of a tiptoe as she makes her way toward him, hoping to keep the rest of the people in this building ignorant of her presence. His shifting doesn't falter, nor does the feeling of his gaze. If he hadn't attacked her yet, he probably wouldn't. Right?
The brim of his hat conceals less the closer she gets. His clothes seem more of a patchwork of other pieces of fabric than a solid garment, though his boots look sturdy. His pale hair—white, platinum, or maybe ashy blonde—reaches his shoulders, his bangs falling into his eyes. How does he see anything with that hair and hat?
"Hello?" she greets in a tone raised just enough to be heard. Her gaze slips to the brim of his hat as she waits for his response. Its shape reminds her of her own hat. She needs to talk to Jenny about getting the raft back for the summer.
"The Sun burns, but the river—she greets like a friend," her eyes widen at the sound of his soft voice, her gaze immediately darting back to his face in an attempt to catch his. "It helps. Strains wide to protect. Fingers itching for a caress. Hers isn't better, but it is. Is it velvet?"
"Cole?" she whispers, failing to register his words in her shock. Damn it, what if he had said something cool?
She manages to catch his gaze. Now that she has heard his voice, the glazed eyes and deep bags underneath are unmistakable, even if they lack the customary DAI animation look. Holy shit, she's standing in front of Cole.
"Bright and warm. Affection catching hold." His voice sounds almost puzzled now. At least, she thinks so. Cole's tonal changes can be difficult to pick up on. Most of the companions—most of the Inquisition, really—tend to judge him for not expressing himself the same way they do. Annoying and hypocritical. He's hardly stoic. Just because he doesn't shove his emotions into their faces... At least he's genuine. His eyes skitter away from hers. "You...you want to hug me." Yeah, that's definitely puzzlement, now.
"Uh..." She totally isn't blushing. Nope.
"You remember me...but I don't remember you." It might be her imagination, but he sounds kind of awed. She tries to focus on that over her own disappointment. Of course he doesn't remember her—they've never actually met. "I've made you sad." Distressed? "I didn't mean to. I don't always get it right. But I can help." Aww, he sounds so earnest. She wants to smoosh his cheeks a little. Maybe even blow a raspberry. No, that'd be too weird.
"Cole—"
"Will...smooshing...my cheeks make you feel better?"
"Oh my god." She doesn't know whether to laugh or run away. Hearing him say that was too much. She wants to hide her face for the rest of the day. Or maybe just hug him a little too tight.
She freezes when his arms suddenly wrap around her. His chin rests against her hair, his arms stiff against her back. It reminds her of the way Sheldon hugged Penny when she gave him his Christmas present.
Her arms raise to wrap around his back and she steps closer, tightening the hug. She feels kind of weird with her chest pressed against his, recalling the party banter about his virginity. The thought makes her blush. She's starting to feel like a bit of a perv, despite the lack of sexual tension in the moment. God, why does she have to ruin a perfectly innocent, compassionate hug with creeper thoughts? And now he's starting to pull away. Damn it. He could probably hear her thoughts.
No, wait. He isn't pulling away. She's being pulled away.
"What the..." His hands have slipped to her forearms now. When she glances over her shoulder, she sees nothing but the room behind her. So what's pulling her? She can't tell what his expression is doing under the weight of her own panic.
Her arms, her legs, her chest—
Or is it her skin, her veins, her blood—
She's being pulled—no, ripped—backward.
Her chest is tight, she's having trouble breathing—
Her arms slide right through his hands, even though he doesn't seem to have moved, and then—
...
She trips over something and tumbles backward, her arms dragging across—carpet, her mind supplies. Carpet burn really isn't easy to forget. Several things are digging into her back, but she just lies there, staring at the ceiling—her familiar stucco ceiling—as she regains her breath. When she musters up some energy, she uses it to smack at her cheek.
"Definitely awake," she croaks, her cheek stinging. God, it feels like she hasn't drank anything for hours.
With the sound of her own voice, the rest of her shock seems to dissipate. She rolls to her feet, staggering toward the mirror embedded in her closet—the same one she had used last time. She stands a few steps away, staring at her reflection. The shimmer underneath her eyes is gone, but the bags remain.
"Fuck." It couldn't have been a dream. It couldn't. Her toes still burned from the icy stone pathway between those rooms. She glances at the alarm clock behind her, squeezing her eyes shut when the time registers in her mind.
"No!" She bangs her fist against the glass, watching the whole door shake. The surface of the glass remains level. She rests her fist back onto the glass, allowing her head to fall forward. The glass cools her skin, though it makes her chest ache. "No...it isn't fair."
It had to have been real. She knew what dreams were like. She knew the difference. Everything had been too solid, too detailed. She could trace her thought patterns all the way back to when she sat in her room, battling Corypheus in the final main story quest. Dreams weren't like that, even the dreams that were nearly lucid. At least, not based on her own experience in training herself to lucid dream.
She sighs, watching her breath fog the glass. The bags under her eyes seem darker. Her shoulders slump. She is rather tired.
She steps back from the mirror, surveying her room. It really is messy. She should have spent her time cleaning, rather than playing that game. The dishes need to be washed. She should probably just clean the grease and fat out of that small George Foreman grill herself. If a month of it taking up half the counter space hasn't motivated Jenny to clean it, then two months won't phase her either.
"Janice!" Jenny calls in a sing-song voice, her voice carrying through the apartment. "You home?"
"Yeah!" she shouts back, scrubbing a hand down her face. No better time to start cleaning. Maybe Jenny will feel guilty if she actually sees it happening. "Hmph."
She reaches toward the mirror, wiping her breath off the glass in reflex. Should've used a cloth to prevent fingerprints smudges. She stills when she feels the glass begin to give under her skin. The give is far more sluggish than before, but it's there. Her gaze slides up her reflection and the grin she feels stretching her mouth almost hurts when she notices a bit of that same shimmer under her eyes.
She pulls her hand back and the surface of the glass snaps into its previous shape like elastic. She taps the glass once more and her touch causes the surface to give again.
"We've got work to do," Helena says to her reflection, grin somehow growing even wider.
...