Fade's Wager

by FeatherWriter

The Fade is weakened and the Veil is thin. A sleeping mind troubled by the strain of lyrium withdrawal draws the wrong kind of attention on the other side.

The Fade is weakened and the Veil is thin.

Ever since the Breach tore open the wall between worlds, since rifts have begun to fray at the edges of reality, the thin line between the realm of spirits and the realm of the physical has been more delicate than ever. Kirkwall's Veil was thin from the suffering that had occurred in that city, but the Veil at Skyhold in the days of the Inquisition is like gossamer.

A sleeping mind troubled by the strain of lyrium withdrawal draws the wrong kind of attention on the other side.

They arrive together, and they are three. Each stays wary of the others, three hunters converging on the same struggling prey, none wishing to do anything to jeopardize their chances of winning the prize. However, these three are not mindless beasts only left to snap at one another and circle; the inhabitants of the Fade are far more sophisticated than that. Between themselves they can communicate, they can manipulate.

"As we have come to an impasse," says the first. "Let us make a deal of this. We each have our own idea of how this dreamer may be snared, do we not? We can be civil about this. Let us take turns. Each of us shall make an attempt, and the one who breaks through will be the rightful winner."

"You speak as though we would be equals in this," says the second, with a haughty air. "Whereas I know for certain that my method will be the one to succeed. It is not a competition when I, the winner, am so assuredly decided already."

The first scoffs; the stuck up ones always seem to find their way to these kinds of things. "In that case, you don't have anything to fear from the wager, do you?"

The third gives the impression of a satisfied smirk, as though enjoying the bickering of the other two. "A deal between demons, what an amusing idea. Very well, let us see who is truly the most apt. Let the wager be set."

"I accept as well," the second says. "Though as conflicted as this one seems, I cannot imagine twisting him will be difficult. Hardly a challenge for one such as me, certainly."

Had the first had a mouth, a sigh would have escaped it, but beings of spirit do not possess such faculties in their natural state. "Very well, the wager is set. I shall go first, and show you both the way this is to be done."

The dreamer is open, fragile with defenses down, and the first takes hold of the mind as one gently cups a delicate glass bowl. Memories splay open for all the Fade to see, shifting and sifting. The first shuffles through the dreamer's mind, finding the memories needed.

For the first is Terror, and the dreamer will know fear.

The dreamer finds himself kneeling in darkened halls, the smell of blood and decay cloying the air around him. The glowing ring around him is his prison, a circle within the Circle, and he cannot remember how long he has been trapped there. There are indistinct sounds from the echoing stones around him, cries and screams and the beastial sounds of abominations, but these come to him as though through a haze.

Terror sets the scene of the dream to match the memories perfectly, then chooses a form from those remembrances to adopt. Thick robes, small stature, pointed ears emerging from a curtain of brown hair. Terror knows how this appearance can be worked, for it is familiar to the dreamer. Perhaps more familiar than it should have been. There are memories of fondness attached to this form in the dreamer's mind, and Terror will use that.

The dreamer's eyes are squeezed shut, hands clasped together tightly enough to ache. He softly sings the Chant to himself, the simple melody serving both as a prayer and a sound to drown out the Circle's cacophony around him.

O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places.

He rocks himself back and forth, and it seems as though nothing but the memorized words flowing from his lips could be real.

O Creator, see me kneel:
For I walk only where You would bid me.
Stand only in places You have blessed.
Sing only the words You place in my throat.

My Maker: know my heart:
Take from me a life of sorrow.
Lift me from a world of pain.
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

Transfigurations is a Canticle not often preached, but its words seem like the only thing which might keep the horror at bay. He has repeated the stanzas so many times, its simple melody feels etched into the depths of his mind, its lyrics have settled like a weight on his lips, never to be moved from them again.

My Creator, judge me whole:
Find me well within Your grace.
Touch me with that fire that I be cleansed.
Tell me I have sung to your approval.

O Maker, hear my cry:
Seat me by Your side in death.
Make me one within Your glory.
And let the world once more see Your favor.

Footsteps sound on the stone tiles as someone approaches, but the dreamer simply squeezes his eyes tighter and tries to shut them out. They've finally come for him, but he is determined to last as long as possible. He will not fall for their tricks, he will not succumb to them. He has seen them torture and turn the others, he knows what they will do to him.

But when the sound of footsteps stops outside of his ring, the voice he hears is not one he expects. "Cullen, is that you?"

The Chant trails off in surprise, and he opens his eyes, bewildered by what he sees. "Eliane? What are you… No, you left. The Wardens took you away to join them. You can't be here." He pulled back away from her. "You're not real. Another conjured illusion to torment me."

She kneels down, resting a hand against the barrier of light between them. "It's me, Cullen, don't you recognize me? The Wardens need help from the mages, but I heard the Circle had fallen. I had to come back, this was my home. Are you the only templar left? How long have they kept you like this?"

"I don't know…" he whispers. "I don't know. I'm the last one. I'm the only one they haven't killed. Or… worse. Oh Maker, the things they've done..."

"It's okay, Cullen," she says soothingly. "It will all be over soon." Terror allows a sense of the dreamer's real memory of this scene come through just a bit. This was what happened when he was rescued. This was the face that saved him. Not enough memory to let the dreamer realize this isn't real, but enough to make him trust.

For then, Terror will take that trust away.

"Enchanter Surana?" A new voice joins them, and the trapped templar goes stiff, eyes wide in fear as Uldred walks up to join them. "Or is it Warden Surana now? I thought I had heard your voice out here."

Uldred lays a hand on the Warden's shoulder as she looks up to see who has joined them, and there is something about the gesture that is strikingly paternal. Despite his powerlessness, despite the fear he feels after seeing what this man is capable of doing to him, the dreamer's posture turns aggressive, rushing to defend even though there's nothing he can do. "Don't touch her, maleficar!"

The Warden's face does not show fear of the blood mage who has approached her. Rather, her expression falls into concern. "Enchanter Uldred? Are you the one who's behind this? You broke the Circle?"

Uldred gives an unconcerned shrug, not seeming to hear the words as the accusation they should be. "It was always bound to happen. The Blight gave us an opportunity. I'm glad to see you return to the fold, Surana. You always were one of the best of us."

The dreamer realizes something is very wrong when the Warden's response is only a pleased smile. He pushes himself back, back pressing against the magic-fueled boundary that is his prison, feeling somehow more trapped than he did before, though he wouldn't have thought it possible a moment ago. "No… no, that's not right. That cannot be. Eliane would never…"

The two mages act as though they cannot hear him, Uldred gesturing to the cage without looking at its occupant. "Your return is timely, Warden. We've saved the best for last. You may do the honor if you would like. This templar was personal to you, was he not? He held the sword at your Harrowing, didn't he?" Uldred pulls free a dagger and proffers it to her.

"He did," she says slowly, as if thinking the idea over with care. "Perhaps it is right that I be the one to do it." Finally, her hands reach forward and close around the hilt. Her eyes fall on the templar prisoner again, but they are not the eyes that belonged to the mage he once knew. Everything about them is wrong.

"Please," he says, voice trembling, desperate. He learned very quickly through this experience that he was not too proud to beg. "Eliane, please, you can't do this. This isn't you. We were friends… Please, please, just kill me. Don't make me like them. Don't turn me into one of those things, please."

Terror hears the fear in the dreamer's voice and knows how close victory must be. Fears are powerful, and one need only push on the right weak point hard enough to break. Surely using the memories of that which a human fears most are the best way to overcome them. The spirit pushes the dream further, filling the Warden's form more exactly, seeking to replicate her perfectly.

She tips her head, a placid confusion on her features. "Mages and templars? Friends?" She gives a small laugh, not cruel or mocking, just a sound of light amusement. "You were my captor, Cullen, not my friend. You held the sword above me, ready to strike should I fail. That isn't something a friend would do. I was polite to you here, nothing more. Certainly not fond."

She opens her hand flat, laying the knife's edge against her skin there. He has seen the technique enough to know what she intends to do. He cannot run, he cannot fight. Starved of food and water, he has not the strength to withstand an attack. Starved of lyrium, he has not the resistance to endure the thrall she will throw upon him.

"I am a bit sorry it has come to this, Cullen," she says, her tone as kind as ever. "You can think of it this way, though: It's almost like a reverse Harrowing. It's only fair, is it not? Templars force mages to confront demons all the time. Now it's your turn. You're the one who gets to face the Fade this time, and I'll be the one holding the blade. Something tells me this isn't a Harrowing that you will see the other side of, though. You always were kind to me, however. I'll be sure to call a good demon for you. Something pleasant, like Desire?"

The dreamer curls inward, clutching his head, whispering denials to himself. "No, no, no. This can't be happening. She wouldn't. She'd never. This isn't real. This isn't happening. This isn't real. This cannot be real."

The words begin with fear, but end in conviction. The dreamer finds the untruth in what is happening to him and he holds to it, raising it between himself and his tormentor like a shield. The force of his words breaks the demon's grasp, and Terror feels the dream slip away. For coming so close to success, losing control at the very end feels more embarrassing than a total failure would have been.

The other two have been observing as Terror pulls away from the human's mind. Their enjoyment of the failure is plain. Terror was the first, but the second and third are near to laughing, each ready to take their turn vying for control.

"I nearly had him," Terror snaps, and the truth of the words somehow makes them seem more petulant than if they'd been a lie. Terror had been close, the shame of slipping up right at the end, pushing too hard and having the lie discovered, is nothing short of frustrating.

The second gloats over the failure. "Silly little Terror. Our dreamer is a soldier, he already knows all about mastering his fears. Your plan was doomed from the start. Fears stem from the things one cannot control, those things that are outside of oneself. He is used to handling his fears. If you wish to break a soldier, you must break them down from the inside, the things they cannot escape or avoid. The key lies in their actions . One must use the things they have done."

The third stays quiet, as though assessing the other two spirits still, content to watch them fight and stay in the background. The third does not push forward or demand to go next, rather feeling as though the time will come to try a hand eventually. The sullen anger of the first and the cocky bravado of the second will undermine them. The third knows this, and simply waits.

The first scowls as the gloating boasts of the second grate against the sting of an embarrassing attempt. "If you are so sure of yourself, let us see you do better."

"Watch and learn, then. Pay close attention as your better demonstrates the proper method." The second watches the dreamer's mind for a bit, seeing where the dreams naturally flow, and begins to sift through memories and experiences, just as the first had done. Later memories than the first had used: A different country. A different city. Nearly a different dreamer, it seems, so changed he is by his experiences. Hardened by what he has been through and standing on a knife's edge. These are the memories with which the second chooses to set the scene.

For the second is Pride, and the dreamer will know shame.

The burning walls of Kirkwall rise around the dreamer, the Gallows all but in ruin. Meredith's puppeteered statues lie in twisted heaps of scrap metal around them. The once-Knight-Commander glistens a crystalline red from where she has been transformed into the very lyrium which drove her mad.

The form that Pride chooses is not one for which the dreamer holds fondness, as was the form Terror chose. No, the dreamer has never felt fondness for the Champion of Kirkwall. She is a thorn in his side, an angry mage who delights in tormenting him with her apostasy. Selfish, aggressive, and unsympathetic, Len Hawke cares little for what others think of her. She supported the Order when all hell broke loose, but she has made it clear there was no love between her and the templars she fought beside.

Pride completes the form with a smear of blood across the bridge of her nose, a token from the long battles the Champion and the Order have fought this day. Her mannerisms come naturally to Pride; a confident swagger for her gait, eyes that scan her surroundings and find them wanting.

The dreamer finds himself wearing the familiar armor he bore for years, though it has never felt heavier than this moment in the aftermath. Perhaps he would blame the deep-set weariness that comes from years of stress finally concluding in a long, tiring battle, but he knows that the greater part of the exhaustion has nothing to do with the physical.

What little energy he has left warns that he should be guarded as the Champion approaches him. Very little good ever comes of her talks with him. He's far more likely to get made a fool of, mocked, or verbally attacked when her conversations are inflicted upon him. Still, she fought at his side. He needs to be polite if nothing else. "Serah Hawke."

The Champion slides her staff into the sheath at her back, then slowly claps her hands together. "Congratulations are in order, are they not, Knight-Commander?"

The dreamer sighs. "I'm not feeling especially celebratory at the moment, Champion."

"Oh come now," she says, and though the words are outwardly friendly, there is a malicious undertone to them. "You've just gotten yourself a promotion, and you got to slaughter an entire Circle's-worth of mages. Isn't that every templar's perfect day? Kick your heels back and pour a drink, Cullen! We've saved Kirkwall."

She spreads her arms in a wide, dramatic gesture, and in the silence that follows her words, the low roar from Kirkwall can be heard from the fighting and riots still occurring across the small expanse of water between the island and the mainland. The battle for the Gallows has come for an end, but order is far from being restored in the city. Fires stain the clouds of the overcast sky with a ghastly orange. The irony between the Champion's words and their situation is not lost on the dreamer.

"Now, of all times, you find the energy to mock, after everything that's happened today? Haven't we had enough?"

"Enough? This is your moment of triumph, isn't it? Everything you've wanted, all your years of hard work for the Order leading up to today."

He can't quite tell if she's serious or not. "Do you honestly think that I wanted this to happen?"

She steps up close to him, posture bristling. "What? This wasn't your grand plan all along? You've worked so hard to see this day come, haven't you? Don't tell me it was unintentional."

The dreamer releases a weary sigh. "What happened today was an unavoidable tragedy, Champion. I'm simply thankful for what few lives we did manage to save."

"Unavoidable?" She barks a laugh. "You must be joking. Kirkwall's mages and templars have been on this path for years, and at any point, you could have stopped it! Don't act like you didn't know where this was going! What happened today was your fault, Cullen!"

She has always been able to get a rise out of him, and the accusation now is no different. "I didn't blow up the Chantry, Hawke!"

"You might as well have!" She shouts the words back in his face, getting close enough to jab a finger against his breastplate. "I warned you that Anders was going to do something and you ignored me. You thought you had everything all under control, right up until it quite literally exploded in your face."

"I was trying my best, Hawke! I didn't want this to happen."

She turns, looking out across the water at the rest of the city. "And look what your best has accomplished. You should have stopped this. It was your job to make sure this didn't happen." Her gaze falls back to him again, eyes sharp with accusation. "You were Knight-Captain. You should have stopped Meredith before she brought us to this. You should have listened to the mages so they were not driven to the desperation of blood magic and possession to get away from you. Did you ever stop to think of that? No one does such dangerous, horrible things just for the hell of it. Maybe you should have considered the fact that your treatment was so awful they felt driven to these extremes!"

He is no stranger to her criticism and his old defenses come back. "We did what was necessary to protect people."

The smile she gives him in response is cold. "Necessary. The excuse of powerful cowards everywhere. I'm sure the people of Kirkwall feel very protected from your mages right about now. Tell me, how many crimes did you commit in the name of necessity? How many Chantry rules governing the keeping of Circles did you disregard and call it justified?"

"I would never-"

"You would never, Cullen? Never is such a strong word. Never turn a blind eye to what was happening? Never ignore the rumors of what was really going on? Never authorize a Rite of Tranquility that wasn't completely deserved, just because it was simpler to get a troublesome mage out of the way? Mages are so very dangerous; surely that little bit of extra strictness is deserved, isn't it? No one knows that better than you. That's why they sent you to Kirkwall after all, isn't it?"

His eyes narrow. "What do you mean by that?"

"Surely you've thought about it, haven't you? After Ferelden? They could have reassigned you somewhere easy, some quiet little Chantry with smiling sisters and mages who don't cause problems. Put you out to pasture and keep you happily supplied with lyrium, while saying that you've done enough, you've seen enough. Thank you for your service to the Order."

She tips her head, inspecting him as she leaves a long pause between these words and her next. "And yet... they didn't. They sent you here, to Kirkwall. A city with a Circle notorious for its difficulty and behavioral problems. Maybe it was supposed to be a favor to you, a way to make up for what you endured. You have a bad run in with blood magic and here you are in a city full of blood mages to take your anger out upon. You're not a powerless prisoner here and they deserve the full consequence of your wrath, don't they? 'We're so sorry for what happened to you, Cullen. Here's a city of evil mages for you to discipline. Enjoy yourself.'"

The dreamer's face falls into disbelief. "You think I enjoyed this, Hawke? You think anyone would enjoy what we did here today?"

"Didn't you, Cullen? Wasn't there a part of you that liked all of this? That feeling of power as you signed an order for a Rite of Tranquility? That adrenaline rush when you're the one holding the sword for a Harrowing that goes wrong? The thrill of striking down a maleficar and knowing that's one more mage that won't hurt anyone the way you were hurt? Tell me there wasn't any part of you that took satisfaction in the things you did here.

"Beyond that, they promoted you." Her finger presses against his armor once more, reminding him off his rank. "Knight-Captain," she all but sneers. "Second in command. The Order saw what had happened to you and decided that it made you useful. Efficient. That you were just what a city like Kirkwall needed. Someone who wouldn't go easy on these mages when they acted up. Someone hardened enough to do the things that needed to be done. Someone who wouldn't stop Meredith when she resorted to drastic measures to try to keep these disobedient mages in line."

The Champion steps back, crossing her arms. "And we all saw how well you refrained from stopping Meredith, didn't we? Went right along with everything she suggested, told everyone she knew exactly what she was doing. Such a good, obedient second, weren't you? Didn't step in to do something about her until she was threatening your own life, so yes. I think we can all see where your priorities lie."

"I have tried to keep her in check, Champion," he says through gritted teeth. Her words are difficult to bear, especially because they echo so many of his own thoughts and doubts. "I have tried to keep the Order's actions as reasonable as possible, but we didn't have much of a choice when things had gotten so bad. I went over her head to spare the mages who surrendered to us. I stepped in to stop her from killing you."

The Champion shakes her head. "Too little, too late. And yours are the excuses of a coward, Cullen. You and Meredith are so very alike." Her eyes cast aside, falling upon the red lyrium form of Meredith Stannard, and she gives a small laugh. "Well, were alike, I suppose. I wonder if Kirkwall will change at all under its new Knight-Commander. Or will things be exactly the same as they've always been?"

The dreamer shakes his head firmly, though he feels he is trying to convince himself more than he is her. "No, I will not let this happen again. What happened today will never be repeated."

She laughs again, and they both know how much he hates the sound of her cruel laughter. They both also know that's why she does it, every time. "Or it's going to repeat itself across every Circle in Thedas. And you will be to blame for not stopping it here. You are the cause of everything that has happened here and everything that will come afterwards."

This is dangerous, and Pride knows the risk in speaking of events after this memory in the dreamer's mind. Pride risks the dreamer realizing that these events are memories, that he is not actually standing in Kirkwall after the fall of the Circle. Dangerous, but the weight of the repercussions of what happened here is too tempting a tool to pass up. Even if the dreamer does not remember consciously that he knows what comes next, deep down, he knows the truth and feels within what has occurred. Pride must walk the line between presenting what happens after this as plausible without tripping the awareness that it is actual.

The dreamer does not catch on; the dream continues. "I did everything I could to stop this, Hawke. This is not my fault! If anything, the fault lies with your mage and his actions!"

She shrugs, walking to circle him. "Anders played his part in bringing us here, but that doesn't erase your role in this catastrophe, Cullen. You could have made things better for the mages. You could have stopped Meredith, reined her in. You didn't, and here we are. Know your role in what has happened and embrace it."

His posture weakens, an almost imperceptible amount, as confusion takes hold at her words. "Embrace it?"

"Of course," she says, leaning in close behind him, whispering her words in his ear. "The way I see it, Cullen, you are the cause of this, and you have two options. You can look out over the burning wreckage of Kirkwall and then down at your blood-soaked hands and whisper 'Oh Maker, what have I done?' Or you can take your sword out, lift it up, and let out a cry of victory, exulting in the knowledge that you've won, that no mage will ever think of standing against you again."

She walks back around to stand before him, seizing one of his wrists. "What's it going to be, Cullen? Shall we bare your blade and raise it high? You've earned your shiny new title, striking Meredith down. Why not step up and embrace it? Or would you rather break down and crumble in the face of everything you've caused? Make your choice."

For a moment, the dreamer doesn't resist as she begins to raise his arm. Pride can use either emotion, whichever side of the coin he chooses in the end. Pride and shame, two ideas so closely tied that they are nearly one and the same. Perhaps he will allow the Champion to exalt him and stand behind what he's done. Perhaps he will recoil and hide his face. Pride wins either way.

He pulls his wrist free of her, backing away. His stomach turns at the idea of celebrating after such a tragedy. "No, Hawke. This is not a day to be proud of."

Pride smiles through the Champion's teeth. So it will be shame, after all, then. The mocking tone comes naturally to this form, for the dreamer is used to hearing her talk against him. "Should have known you were weak all along."

He shakes his head. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I have been weak, in this. A lesson to be learned here, then. Never again. If I have been weak thus far, I will not let it happen again. We'll do better next time. It won't come to this. I must ask the Maker for forgiveness, and do better as we move forward."

The Champion's eyebrows draw together, reflecting not her own confusion, but that of the spirit imitating her. This is not the consuming pride or the debilitating shame Pride had sought. This is conviction, this is an admission of wrongdoing. This is confession.

Humility.

The dreamer turns and begins to walk away. "We have a lot of work to do, Champion. Believe of me what you wish, but this conversation is over."

Pride feels a sudden anger, as though the dreamer has willingly deceived his tormentor. The spirit considers holding on to the dream that has been conjured, chasing after him, trying again to draw those needed reactions from him. But the attempt is over, and Pride does not grovel after a pathetic second attempt when the defeat has already come to pass.

Stepping back from the dreamer's mind, Pride finds that the roles of the first and the second are now reversed. Terror's cackling laughter resounds through the space of the Fade, echoing in the ethereal way of a sound that is not a sound. In the same manner as when the second mocked the first, the third stays quiet while the first mocks the second.

"Oh, how satisfying," the first sneers, "watching the proud fall and falter! Somehow I think that every bragging taunt you gave makes your humiliation more enjoyable!"

The second scoffs, ever and always attempting to hold the upper hand. "You did no better, Terror. I will not be belittled by you."

The first laughs at this. "Oh, doesn't it hurt? The wounded little Pride. At least I got close to breaking him down. Much closer than you did, at least."

The third pushes between them, as though breaking up a fight. "And yet, both of you failed. Valiant attempts yes, but failures, no matter how close either of you may have come."

"You think you could do any better?" The second asks, haughty manner unfazed by failure.

The third reaches forward, taking the dreamer's mind lightly and turning over his thoughts and memories. There is an air of delicacy to the motion, as though the dreamer is something precious to be handled with care. "I think it will be interesting to try. You have both made the same mistake. The secret to finding the core of a person lies not in the past, but the present. Once one has found the core, one can find one's place within it."

The third has downplayed the possibility of succeeding, staying in the background, but knows that there is a good chance. Tricks hidden up the sleeves that the other two would not think of. So many spirits think that the only way a human will succumb is through force or trauma. The third knows better.

For the third is Desire, and the dreamer will know need.

Desire starts to reach deeper, working to be ready for the attempt, the last attempt. Yet the dreamer resists now, as though he knows he has been manipulated already tonight, and is unwilling to let another outside force within. Desire pushes harder, walking a dangerous line. The spirit needs to be within to work, but if the force is too great, all will be lost. Just a little more pressure, just a small fissure along a weakened crack. Just a little more and-

The dreamer starts awake, breath coming in gasps as he clutches the familiar sheets of his bed in Skyhold. The hands planted on his shoulders stop shaking him as their owner realizes that he is no longer asleep. The concerned face leaning over his is well known to him. Beautiful. In the dark light, he can barely make out more than the silhouette of pointed ears, soft hair falling over one shoulder, and the lines of blue vallaslin tracing their way across her cheeks. Sylvanni Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor.

The woman he loves.

"Cullen," she says, voice insistent but soft. She smiles at him, meant to be reassuring, but there is worry written underneath. "Cullen, it's okay. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. You're okay now. I'm here. You're safe."

He lies down again, letting his head fall back against the pillow as he waits for his breathing and heart rate to slow. Waking in a panic from a nightmare is not a new experience for him, but that adrenaline surge - like he's just been pulled from the midst of a battle into the comfort of his bed - it isn't a sensation that one ever becomes comfortable with.

The dark room slowly comes into focus, his room, his bed, the top of the ladder leading down to his office in the tower below. Lying back like this, he can see the stars through the hole in his ceiling. Josephine keeps telling him to let her send someone up to fix that, but he's almost grown fond of it now.

"I'm sorry," he says, turning to look at her, to reassure her that he's okay. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Her smile loses its edge of worry, fondness overtaking it instead. She cups his cheek, laying a kiss on his forehead. "It's fine, Cullen. I'd rather you be alright than I sleep through the night."

"I wish the two were not mutually exclusive." He closes his eyes, but falling asleep again holds no appeal. "They were so vivid tonight. I thought they were real this time."

"It's the lyrium, isn't it?" she asks.

Though the question is delicate, and though it has been months since his last dose, even the sound of the word pulls at him slightly, like a tiny thread being plucked within. A miniscule reaction, but there nonetheless. He has long since realized that addictions are very seldom an overwhelming force. They are small distractions, but incessant, until finally one tiny yank on the thread is the one that is too much to bear, and everything comes crashing down.

Or not, he reminds himself. Someday those strings might go away for good, and the Templars will no longer control me.

"There would be nightmares if I let the addiction drive me to madness as well," he says, though whether he is saying this for his benefit or hers, he cannot be sure. "It's better this way. I can handle the nightmares. I'll persevere if it means I could be free of this."

"I know," she says softly, "I just wish there was something I could do to help. I hate seeing you like this."

"It's alright," he says, eyes still closed. He focuses on the sound of her voice. It seems to chase the memories of nightmares away. They already seem more distant. "I'm growing used to it by now, if nothing else."

She's quiet for a long while. Then, he feels her hands rest on his shoulders, slowly starting to rub them in a massage. "Perhaps I can do something to help you sleep better, at least."

"Sylvanni, you don't need to…"

His protest trails off as her fingers press deep, digging out the soreness beneath his skin. He has long suspected that she uses just the barest spark of healing magic through her fingers when she does this, as his aches and pains seem to vanish at her touch.

"Shush," she scolds fondly. "Just relax, Cullen. I know just what you need to make the nightmares go away." Even without seeing her, he feels her weight shift forward as she leans forward for a kiss. He lifts his head just slightly to reach her, and it is with blissful contentment that his mouth meets hers.

Then, he tastes it on her lips, and the contentment vanishes in an instant.

It's metallic, but sweet, as though the Maker has candied molten steel and infused it with lightning. Even that seems an insufficient description. It's life itself and it burns like death. The song - so often an incessant hum in the back of his mind - roars to life as a shout, as a scream. It's ringing in his ears and splitting his skull. The taste of it, just the barest taste, is enough to set him on fire.

He grabs hold of her roughly, taking her head in both hands and pulling her closer, ever closer. He isn't thinking straight. He isn't thinking at all. How could he think of anything else with lyrium right there between them? That gnawing need within him takes over and he can think of nothing but getting more.

The Inquisitor makes a small noise of surprise at his grasp, but the sudden reaction doesn't shock her. She was expecting he would be surprised by the taste of it, and she doesn't try to pull away. If anything, she smiles against his lips, knowing how much he's wanted this. Lyrium to him is water to the man crawling through the desert, and even a few drops are enough to drive him mad. His lips push hers apart, forcing his tongue between them, searching desperately for every bit of it she has.

It isn't much, not even a small vial's worth, yet it seems to fill his mouth entirely. The taste of it coats his tongue and his instincts war between swallowing it down in a rush or savoring the flavor for as long as he can. In that moment of indecision, his self-control finds a foothold. He isn't sure if it is Cassandra's voice, or his own conscience, or the Maker himself speaking, but something tells that this isn't right, that he needs to stop.

He tears himself from her, pushing her away with more force than he should, and a small, pained cry escapes at the effort of resisting. He spits the lyrium to the floor before he can second-guess himself, then grabs the glass of water beside the bed to fill his mouth and spit it out again. He wipes the remnants from his lips with the back of his hand, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, his pulse making a steady rhythm in his head.

It was so close. He had tasted it, and it could have been his, if he'd allowed himself that much. He had pushed the song down into a muffled hum, but now this lapse has broken it free once more and it sings. It claws at him, driving him to find it again, to not repeat his mistake of casting it aside this time. He sits up fully and his hands grip his knees, nails digging into skin as he tries to maintain control. He is tense, every muscle locked into place as though he is petrified.

Her hand falls on his shoulder with a gentle touch. "Cullen, I'm sorry. I should have warned you first. I thought it might be a nice surprise, but it was too much."

"I cannot…" The words are forced out through gritted teeth. "I've come too far. I will not falter now."

"You can't even sleep," she says softly. "This isn't faltering; it's just a little touch to take the edge off. Cassandra said that if the dreams became too much, a few drops might help. So long as I'm the one giving them to you, you're not falling back. You're not choosing to take them yourself."

Her hand moves from his shoulder, cupping his cheek as she turns his head to look at her. "You need your rest, or you'll only burn yourself out. These things take time, and it doesn't always work to cut yourself all at once. Sometimes it's better to take things slow."

She starts to move close to him again, and unconsciously, he relaxes. Being close to her always relaxes him. It's the time when he can take off his mantle and let the worries of the day fall aside for a moment. He can stop being the Commander and she can stop being the Inquisitor, and for just a few stolen moments on their own, they can simply be themselves underneath it all.

"It's okay, you can trust me," she whispers, pulling near to him and leaning against his chest, head on his shoulder. She's close enough that he can still smell the metallic tang on her breath. "I'm not going to let you fall back. I'm right here, Cullen. I only want to protect you. I love you."

"It's too much," he breathes, still fighting for control of himself. "If I go back now, I'll lose it all." The discipline of a soldier clashes against the demands of an addict, and holding on to his strength of will seems almost impossible.

The Inquisitor lays a soft kiss on his cheek, now sitting comfortably in his lap. In the summer evening, they're both wearing only smallclothes, and the feeling of her skin against his is warm, soft, familiar. Her hands rub even circles against his bare back and his defenses start to melt away again at her touch.

"Don't you deserve a good night's sleep? It's not a real dose. It's just something to take the edge off. It's okay, you don't need to worry. Just enjoy it. I'll take care of you."

One hand leaves his back, and she leans forward, bringing something to her lips over his shoulder. The vial. The lyrium. A sudden panic overwhelms him, as he knows he does not have the self control to resist another attempt. He untangles himself from her arms and quickly pushes her away, trying to be gentle in the midst of his urgency but needing to get space between them immediately.

As soon as they're apart, he stands, pacing across the room to get distance. His hand finds its habitual spot, rubbing his neck anxiously. It's as though he can still feel her hands there and is trying to work the sensation free, work it out of his system.

"No," he says firmly, feeling stronger now that he's away, his head starting to clear. "This isn't right. You shouldn't have... Cassandra shouldn't have said-"

He freezes mid sentence, turning back to stare at her. His eyebrows draw together as a stray thought quickly grows into a suspicion. "Cassandra wouldn't have. You wouldn't have. Cassandra knows better than that and Sylvanni would have warned me first."

He takes a step backward, pieces clicking into place in his mind. "Which means you are not the Inquisitor. I... I haven't woken up yet. This is the Fade, isn't it?"

The Inquisitor is naturally suited to stay calm and composed, even when things start to go wrong, and her face betrays nothing as he makes the accusation. Beneath the mask, however, Desire wants to curse the two fools who made their attempts first. Lucid dreaming, figuring out that one's mind is in the Fade consciously, is a difficult accomplishment. Mages trigger it with lyrium, though there are some who can train themselves to do it naturally. That this templar should snap to the realization now only shows how clumsy the attempts of Desire's predecessors were. They pushed too hard, and to no avail, in the process they made him too suspicious. Had Desire made this attempt alone, he never would have broken through to awareness.

Still, while the first and second abandoned their attempt as soon as their first plan fell through, Desire is prepared for a setback like this. Contingencies are always in the back of the spirit's mind, for none knows better than Desire that there is always more than one way to get what one wants.

"You always were so very astute, Cullen," she says fondly, leaning back on her hands with a casual air as she sits on the bed. "I still don't understand why you insist on making this so difficult, however. It would be much more enjoyable if you simply played along."

The dreamer recoils as she confirms his suspicion, hand instinctively going to his hip as he searches for a weapon that isn't there. His eyes flick to the walls, as though he expects the dream to attack him now that he knows it is not real. It is possible, of course - Desire could call upon the walls themselves to collapse upon him, or the rugs and curtains to ensnare him - but an attack would not serve the purpose the spirit intends.

"Release me, spirit," he says, mustering every ounce of the command he has within him. "You are not Sylvanni, and I will not be your plaything."

She tips her head, with a small frown. "Am I not Sylvanni? You mean you don't recognize me?" Then her eyes widen, as though she has just come to a realization and she gives a slow nod. "Ah, I thought you had realized, my dear."

"Do not call me that!" he shouts. "You are not her!"

"Cullen," she says, and the sound of his name in her voice now sends shivers down his spine. "I am all she has ever been. I am Sylvanni Lavellan."

"You lie!"

She gives a small laugh. "Of course. But only the lies you wish to hear. That is our arrangement, is it not? You let me help you, and I spin beautiful stories for you to explore and weave lovely lies for you to live. I've only ever wanted to make you happy."

"I want nothing you have to offer me," he spits, torn between wanting to turn away so that he doesn't have to look at her and facing her so as to have his back to an enemy. "I am not listening to anything you say. I'm going to wake up and all of this will be gone."

She slips off of the bed, and though her manner is entirely unthreatening, he backs up against the wall. She stops in front of him, but makes no move to touch him. He would only lash out at her if she did. While she is closer now, however, she can look deeply into his eyes. There is something about her gaze that seems more seductive than a touch could ever be, and it makes his blood run cold.

"Exactly," she says, a small smile painted across her lips. "It would all be gone if you woke up. Don't you like this life I've given you? Believe me, Cullen, you don't want to go back to the real world. You don't want to see what's really out there. There's nothing left. It's much nicer, here, in your mind."

The things she's implying… he hasn't ever let himself consider. No, it's impossible. He knows what is real and what isn't. He tells himself firmly that he will not be taken in by this ruse. "I will not play your game, demon."

She laughs, and there is strangely nothing cruel in the sound, not like he would expect from a creature such as this. "You don't remember, but that's because I helped you forget. You were at your wits end after all that time, all the things those mages did to you. Much better to give you nicer memories instead. The Warden, your friend Eliane, coming back to rescue you just in time. Saving your life, saving the lives of the other prisoners, killing Uldred and setting you free. A dramatic happy ending, just like I knew you needed."

His head hurts now, her words trying to blur the lines between reality and fantasy. Much as he hates to appear weak, he can't help but lift a hand to rub his temple. "No, that was real. I was rescued during the Blight."

"Is it worth the risk if you're wrong?" She takes a small step towards him again, and the distance between them is halved. "What if you wake and I'm right? What if you open your eyes, and after all this time, you're right back in the Circle? Wouldn't it be better to stay with me? I can give you anything you want. You can be anyone you want."

She reaches forward to touch him, as though to lay a hand on his shoulder, but conflicted as he might be, he's still on defensive. He pushes her away, quickly fleeing to the other side of the room, trying to remind himself that she is an enemy, no matter how well this thing imitates the woman he loves. He wonders why he can't force himself to wake up, now that he knows he's dreaming. He'd hoped it would be as simple as that.

He glares at her from the opposite corner, wary that she will try to follow. "You lie. I know what is true. I was saved from Lake Calenhad's Circle by Eliane Surana, the Hero of Ferelden. I know what really happened."

"I tried to be her for you, at first," Desire says, watching the lie slowly spread doubt within him. "There was always a part of you that fancied her, just a bit. But no matter what scenario I created, you would never say yes. That templar sense of duty, far too strong to fraternize with one of your charges. Something else was needed."

She starts to walk as she continues, but paces parallel to him without coming closer, one hand trailing against the wall. "And so, a perfectly new story for you. A new life. I am rather proud of this one, yes. Isn't it just what you wanted? I'd worried that it would be too perfect, that you would see through the fantasy immediately, and I would have to start again. But this has worked so well for so long, I think it was exactly what you needed.

"Something dramatic, yes? Like a grand epic, brought to life. Resurrecting the Inquisition of old, and you, the Commander, leading their armies in glorious battle. A rip in the sky, spilling demons forth, and an ancient foe, rising up to threaten the entirety of Thedas. One of those evil magisters who originally caused the Blights, trying to raise himself up as a god to take the seat of the Maker."

The walls and furniture of the room blur and fade out of existence, and he flinches back. Between one heartbeat and the next, the cool night air of his bedroom has become the battlements of Skyhold. She is the only thing that stays in focus, even as the casual clothes she wears around the keep fade into existence upon her. He stands at the edge of the ramparts in broad daylight as the many workers of the Inquisition bustle in the courtyards below them, everyone working to their own task. His clothing has changed to his customary armor, silver breastplate draped with red cloth.

The false Inquisitor hands a noteboard off to a passing messenger, adopting a manner as though coming to see him after just completing tasks of her own. Everything about her and the situation feels so natural, so perfectly realistic. He understands now how easily one would be taken in by dreams such as these. When everything looks as it should, there is no reason to question how one got to this point. Even knowing that this is not real, he feels a pull to play along, pretend as though it is. He forces himself to fight that instinct, refusing to be drawn in.

She walks over to lean against the small stone wall beside him. "Isn't it beautiful? An abandoned keep, nestled forgotten in the mountains, yet close enough to walk to after the terrible attack on Haven. I worried that this would be too perfect as well. Every story needs its setbacks, but the thought of the sad, cold, wounded Inquisition stumbling upon this as their new home was too lovely to pass up. A fortress to satisfy your strategic demands, but the splendor of a palace as well. And aren't you pleased with my work?"

He doesn't respond, deciding that talking to her only encourages her. Rather, he backs away again, reminding himself that distance is what he needs. The further he stays from her, the better. She merely shakes her head at his attempts to get away. Does he not realize how perfectly in her power he is so long as he is still asleep? She's been gentle with him thus far - force has never been Desire's method of persuasion - yet perhaps it is time to steal some of his security away.

The scene fades again, but this time the Inquisitor fades with it. The dreamer immediately tenses, looking around frantically to try to find her again. Somehow, he'd thought she was forced to stay in the same place, the way he has been. He didn't realize she could shift herself with the scenes. A miscalculation, and one that leaves him reeling again.

As the dark room focuses, arms wrap around him in a soft embrace. She is behind him, and her head rests on his shoulder as she holds him close. He tries to push her away, tries to free himself from her touch, but despite the apparent gentleness of her hold, he can do nothing to move her. He can feel the puffed air of her laughter against his skin, and it prickles with a sense of danger.

"The only thing left then, to give you everything you want, is someone to share it all with, yes?" The words are whispered calmly in his ear, in that voice which is so familiar, a voice he longs to trust. "Your sense of duty wouldn't allow you to be with Eliane, so I gave you someone new. Another elven mage, similar yet unique. Dalish, for that touch of exotic heritage, and yet she acts without the hesitance of an outsider. Confident and capable, the leader that the Inquisition needed, giving everything of herself to see this movement to success. An Inquisitor worthy of being followed, and you at her side."

She moves around him, still not letting him go, but the expression on her face is unexpected. Fear. The Inquisitor's eyes are wide, and as she holds him now, her grasp is a need for comfort, for closeness. Despite himself, a protective instinct rises within him, wanting to make everything better, and shield her from her fears the way he always does when she looks at him like that.

"And yet, insecurity beneath," she says, the words like a plea, voice trembling as though she is on the edge of tears. "Someone who fears for herself, someone who worries what she has become. And she turns to you for reassurance in the small hours of the night. In the dark and quiet, the unmovable Inquisitor finds her foundation in you."

She looks up to him with openness, her eyes trusting, vulnerable. "Am I not what you've wanted, Cullen? Are you not happy with who I am? I change for everyone else… I must always be what the Inquisition needs, must always be whatever is expected of me. You never needed anything from me other than me, but I can be different, if you wish it." She tucks her head against his chest. "Anything you wish of me, Cullen. Anything you need."

Just a moment, he forgets. Hand lifting to rest against her cheek, leaning forward as though to kiss. "No, Sylvanni. You don't need to be anything more than you…"

He pulls back, shaking his head as though to toss the traitorous thoughts free. "No, no! This is a dream. You are a demon and the things you speak are lies. My memories are real. The Inquisition is real. Skyhold is real. Sylvanni Lavellan is real and you are not her."

Desire begins to feel frustrated at his obstinate refusals, dropping the act just slightly to snap back: "I am all that has ever been of her!"

The dreamer shakes his head, and as he steps back this time, she lets him. "I don't believe you. I will never believe you. You cannot convince me against what I know to be true." As he frees himself from her embrace, he puts space between them again. Perhaps she could twist herself around him again, but for the moment, he will take whatever distance he can find.

She watches him in silence for a long while, then finally sighs. Desire has made two attempts from two different angles, and still he refuses to break. One knows when one is beaten. However, Desire will not leave without a parting blow. If the spirit cannot possess him, he will be left with doubt to weigh him down.

"That is the lovely thing of our arrangement, Cullen," she says. "I don't need to convince you. I simply need to wipe this away and start anew. Sweep this conversation under the blur of just another bad dream, and then you'll wake up again. Lying beside me in Skyhold in the life I've created for you, just as you always do. We'd best wake, my dear. Our Inquisition needs us."

With a smile, she blows him a kiss goodbye, then Desire releases the hold on his mind, stepping back out into the raw Fade once more. No sooner has the spirit relinquished him then he disappears, waking back to the physical world for real this time. And yet, Desire cannot feel that the attempt was entirely a loss. Though the dreamer has escaped, he has not done so entirely unscathed. The questions shall remain, even as the dream fades. The paranoia of withdrawal can twist even the smallest of ideas into a worry, and on further into a fear.

As the third rejoins them, first and second are ready to attack this latest failure, with Terror ready to drag the rival down, and Pride striking like a smite from above. Desire regards their taunts little. As all three have failed, none stands greater or lesser than the others. Though the third is the most recent to retreat, and therefore the most obvious target, none of them are above reproach.

"And so it seems you join us in defeat," the first says, humming with a sense of satisfaction that the others fared no better.

"So it seems," the third says evenly. Desire has never been prone to great shame or gloating. Both are unattractive qualities and therefore, useless to embody.

The second tsks. "Had you not been so sloppy and woken him, perhaps we could have tried again."

"Had the two of you not been so reckless in your attempts," the third says, "perhaps he would not have been strained to the point of waking when I got to him. Personally, I consider it a testament to my skill that I managed to hold on to him as long as I did."

The second exudes an air of disgust. "Only the worthless would take pride in failure, for they have nothing else of value."

"And here I thought you took pride in everything," the first mutters, not quite wishing to become an opponent again, but unable to entirely keep quiet.

The third returns simple amusement. "Only the hypocritical would refuse to acknowledge that they have failed, for they will never grow to surpass it."

The second bristles. "I am not a-"

"Enough," the third says, cutting off the petty defense. "No matter how one decides to assign the blame for it, the fact remains that our dreamer is awake, and now outside our grasp. It was a fine wager, yet we stand on the other side with no victor. An unfortunate reality, but reality nonetheless."

"Don't know why I stayed to watch the two of you make your sad attempts," the first says, "other than that it was entertaining."

"This entire exercise has been beneath me," the second says. "You should feel honored to have been able to watch me work."

The third laughs. "Yes, your floundering was truly informative. I feel wiser simply standing in your presence. However, informative as it may be, I shall take my leave of it. The Fade is wide, and the minds of men are many. There are other tries to be made and other prizes to be won. This dreamer is lost, but there are others. I shall take my leave to find them. I suggest the two of you do likewise, unless you'd rather stay here and snap at one another."

The words ring true. With no quarry, the hunters have no reason to circle. Each withdraws, going their separate ways to try their luck elsewhere. The first and second quickly let the encounter drift from thought, paying it no more heed than any other failed possession. Terror has no use for those who master their fears. Pride does not wish to linger in the presence of a defeat. There are other concerns, other dreams, and better ways in which thought and effort can be spent and these two move on swiftly.

Yet the third lingers upon thoughts of the encounter, and the seeds of doubt left behind. The arguments found no purchase at this time, yet how will his mind fare when left to its own devices? Might those seeds take root, entwining and embedding within, until perhaps - like ivy working its way across a wall, clinging to cracks and forcing them wider - the vines of Desire's lies find the strength to crumble even that which is as strong as stone?

The dreamer did not fall tonight. The third was bested, but does not consider this experience a loss. Interest has been piqued, and opportunities often arrive for those with patience. His thoughts and history holds a myriad of possibilities, beautiful contradictions, and alluring advantages. Strength amongst scars, command beside service, power amidst humility. There are enticing aspects woven through his self, and Desire has enjoyed this brief, tantalizing taste.

He won this battle, yet Desire holds hope that he may yet lose the war. His mind would be a fascinating thing to own.