God of Beauty
He remembers… light. The chill of ice in his veins.
A dreamless sleep. The sound of a thousand voices echoing in his mind, unshakable, unavoidable, unable to be silenced. Whispers bringing him back from his slumber, taunting him with the lucidity denied him by the Maker as his punishment.
An awakening… of sorts.
And then came the pain. He screamed with it, writhed with it, seethed with the agony of his own blood. Fire ignited in the deepest reaches of his being, his very soul immolated with the slick feel of the Taint, and he burned.
He raged, struck out at what he could reach, felt himself twisting, cracking, being broken and reformed, until he was a cruel mockery of what he had once been.
Love turned to hate. Joy turned to sorrow. Peace turned to agony.
Beauty turned to abomination.
He shuddered, wracked with the enormity of what had occurred, and felt the sludge in his veins that spoke of the Taint. His Curse. His freedom. And then he smelled them. Creatures in the dark: filthy, rotted, walking corpses of men, reeking of the Taint, and he knew.
These were what brought him out of innocuous sleep and into this living Void. He screamed at them, shattered the very world with his Voice, and the monsters trembled before him, prostrating themselves, recognizing his right to their lives.
The men of this world had a name for them.
Darkspawn.
He had his own name for them.
Mine.
The Darkspawn roared, cheered, growled their admiration of him, trembled and shook and waited to hear his Voice command them to act.
Kill.
They raged, turned on each other, ripped with claws and tore with teeth, tore one another to pieces in their desire to serve his will. He roared his pleasure at the bloodshed and surveyed his children, the ones who'd revived him, given him purpose, given him life.
They had no purpose but to serve him, and all was as it should be. But he craved the light, the wonders of the world, all that had been denied him since the Fall. And now he had the means to take it.
He roared, and the Darkspawn roared with him, and he led them to the light, to the surface, and tore a hole in the world to find what he sought. He breathed fresh air, flexed tainted wings, and screamed his Call. He felt them, in the earth, in the tunnels, heeding him, coming to him, serving him and his Voice.
He cast his gaze across the world and knew it to be his. He would claim the lands and take its people as his own. He knew only one need, one desire, and he Voiced it to his children.
Conquer.
They shouted and roared and growled and surged into the world, massing into hordes and groups as they did what they were bred to do: obey.
He retreated into the darkness, into the earth, into the Deep Roads of the durgen'len, and Called his children to his side. He would Call them and they could come. He would Command them and they would listen. He would give them Purpose and they would give him Life.
He would do all these things because he was Urthemiel, Old God of Beauty, and these were his Children.
He felt them, crawling beneath his skin, those who are of his blood but not his flesh, the Bane of his Brothers and Sisters.
Grey Wardens.
He saw them, peering out from a thousand eyes, watching, waiting, planning.
He heard them, rebuking him in their sleep, protesting his Commands, succumbing to his Call when the Taint Sang its loudest, coming to him, crawling to him, begging to serve him in the end. They all served him in the end.
He felt them gathering, massing for an attack, and he roared his challenge to them while they slept.
Kill them. Kill the Godslayers.
He felt his children respond, knew they would follow his Command, and rejoiced. He struck at them at their most vulnerable, in their dreams, their nightmares. No fear was safe from his gaze, no terror hidden from his Voice. They would learn to fear him, or they would die.
His children came to him, stroking his scales, reverent, loving, and he sent them unto the world to claim what was his.
He loved them, but he hated them.
They made him this way. They Tainted him, twisted his form, sent spikes through his bones until what remained was a husk of a beast, a demon. The Godslayers knew him as Archdemon, and it was fitting. He had been beautiful, once. Now the very shadows flee from his presence, and he screams his rage, his hate, and crushes his children under his heel.
But still they come, still they answer his Call, and serve him, accepting his rage for what it is, and he calms. The fire stirs in his veins and he can see his children attacking the Godslayers, overwhelming them, and tastes his victory.
He Calls to them and masses them in the Deeps, sending them to wait at the Dead Trenches until he is ready to reclaim his world.
He feels a spike in his blood, pauses, and raises his head, eyes aglow with his rage, his triumph.
I see you, little Godslayer, he Voices, a whisper of a whisper, as an insect twitches in its sleep.
It is close. Near. He screams, tears his way out of the Deeps and into the lands, winging towards the Godslayer who called to him in her sleep, and seeks her end.
And he stops, screaming, hanging and flying back, as he is repelled.
She Who Never Ages. Asha'bellanar. Her.
She dares shelter the Godslayers? He is enraged, and he screams it to the world, shattering the Veil with his Voice. He cannot touch Her, but he will wait. He is patient. He is unyielding. He is timeless.
Mine, he screams, and the Darkspawn cower beneath his rage, Kill the Godslayers, but the Insect is MINE!
He is ready. It is time. His children are with him, and he crouches on his mountain, grinning at the sight of what is soon to be his spread before him. He can feel the Insect and the Godslayers like a vibration in his blood, and he roars, bathing the air in flame, and marks them for death.
Annihilate.
And they surge towards the largest gathering of the men, with him at their head. They burn everything they pass, feasting, rending, tearing, spreading his Blight to all they touch, until he sees it.
Denerim. The first city that he shall claim as his. The first of many.
The city falls in moments, overwhelmed, swarmed by his children, his Darkspawn, and razes it to the ground.
And then he feels them. The Godslayers. His children know his will, and move to obey it. He does not mourn the loss of his army, his horde, his Brood. They are insignificant, replaceable, never-ending.
There is fire in his wing and he screams, feeling the Godslayer who dared to wound him, and he throws his shoulder into the nearest tower and dislodges him, grinning as he falls. But he is wounded, and collapses at the top of the tallest spire, Calling his children to his aid and they obey him.
The Insect. He can see her, taste her, feel her in his blood, and he shatters the earth with his anger. She dares raise a sword against him? She will bow to him in the end, whether on her knees or in pieces.
Time is unimportant, insignificant; he is outside of its influence.
An Age passes, a few minutes, a day, and he can no longer stand. He is furious! This is his time, his chance to rule! He sees the Insect and her Godslayer, and staggers towards them, intent that if he is to be ended before he begins, so shall they be.
He strikes the Godslayer with his claws and the Insect screams at him, her voice small and weak, and he laughs at her. And then he feels her blade in his throat, the fire in his veins cooled, and he collapses, only to have her sword pierce his skull and he is…
I am… free.
He is at peace. The fire cools. The Taint falls silent. Blessed, blessed silence. The screaming in his head, his mind, his slavery to the Taint, it is finally over. He can return to His side and beg His forgiveness, and he thanks the Grey Warden who freed him from his agony.
The Darkspawn cry their loss and flee, panicked by the loss of their God, and Urthemiel relaxes into his waiting Oblivion.
Only… there is no Oblivion waiting for him. He is… drawn… absorbed… and the world goes dark.
He remembers… darkness. Agony. Welcome slumber turned to a waking nightmare.
A Voice in his mind. Slavery to the Taint, the illusion of control, circles within circles. The cries of the Darkspawn as they coated him with their sickness, their hatred, their disease.
A punishment… of sorts.
And then comes the peace. He feels the kiss of air on his skin, rejoices in the cooling in his blood, the absence of the Taint's vile Voice, hears the heartbeat of one who he does not know yet seeks to touch.
The men of this world have a name for her.
Witch.
He has his own name for her.
Mother.
He is Urthemiel, Old God of Beauty, and he is reborn.
A/N: I am a bad, bad person. I should be writing more chapters for "Thedas for Dummies" and instead I'm writing little short things about Templars and Archdemons. I've got the attention span of a peanut, I swear...