This AU story is based on a breathtaking piece of fanart by the very talented artist Nightlyre. Her amazing work can be seen on Deviant Art! She's one of my very favorite artists from that site, someone who's gifted in many different media (her sculptures are incredible). **Cover Art for this story is also by Nightlyre, and is being used with permission.
Link to the piece (take out the spaces, add dot com where noted) nightlyre . deviantart (dot com) / gallery / 31525975 # / d3rcigf
So many thanks to Nightlyre for giving me the chance to write for her! I claim no right to this story, nor do I own any of these characters (of course). All characters belong to Bioware, I just like to play in their universe.
This story is AU - the history recounted here is not Bioware canon, but has been modified to my whim. Enjoy. :-)
Song Of The Old Ones
based on Nightlyre's artwork of the same name
trapped...
Deep within the earth, miles upon miles below the sunshine and air and things growing freely, the darkness is all-consuming. The air is stale, still, the scent of dirt and rock cut only by the odor of minerals. There is nothing fresh or lively about the soil here, if soil it can be called. Gravel. Rock. Dust. Soil has much too vibrant a feel in a place where only bones remain as reminders of a time when all was not dead and forgotten.
forgotten...
Once upon a time, he had been important. Worshiped. All the world bowed at his feet, twined wreaths of fragrant flowers about his claws, spent days in humbled adoration. Paltry humans... as though flowers and gifts could sway the heart of a god. But oh, the music they'd made! It was this that had convinced him to watch and listen, the sheer beauty of their song calling to him, thrumming a deep cadence within his bones. The dancing, the singing, the barefoot maidens whirling, ribbons trailing from their fingers as they capered around him.
the music...
Now it is only cold he feels. His once glorious skin is ashen, no longer burnished and gleaming. Without sunlight to make him shine, he is as lusterless as a worm. Movement is a thing of the past; his fogged mind cannot recall the last time muscles bunched, wings unfurled. He wishes it was the stone he is encased in that hampers his action. In time, he might be able to break free of his prison, if it were only physical. But his mind... this is what has been strapped down, pinned as though it is nothing more than a butterfly fixed to a board. Thinking... is laborious, and exhausting.
revenge...
The centuries have made him ache for it. How he wants, desires, covets the destruction of the one who sealed him here. He will tear that one to pieces, peel the skin from the flesh, sear the raw wounds until they steam and fester. The screams will be the beginning of his healing, the balm to cool his volcanic rage. He dreams of it, imagines each drawn-out moment in the light of shining perfection. The one that has bound him will suffer, terror and agony coating the eyes with rainbowed opalescence.
Dumat....
His once-brother, the leader of the seven, the one who had grown jealous of the attentions of the humans. Dumat, who had lured each of them away and used his own blood to enchant their bodies to sleep, while their minds cried out at the horror of betrayal. Revenge would be his, oh yes... when he broke free of his granite prison, when his mind was fully returned to him, when he shook off this stupor that clouded his thoughts and filmed his eyes. Dumat will pay for the wasted eons...
Time is all he has. He is willing to wait.
`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`
Though his body is cocooned, his mind wanders the Fade, the only place left to him now. It is here that he learns of the world, sees the way of things. Mortals dream so strangely, their fears and hopes colored by the innocence of their limited lives. The other spirits shy away; they want little to do with one such as him. He has limited influence.
It seems Dumat has been betrayed as well... the thought is calming, but disappointing at the same time. How he had savored the idea of flaying his brother alive. But perhaps it is better this way. Over a span of time unknowing, he pieces history together. If the dreams of the mortals can be believed, Dumat has angered the one they call "The Maker". Jealousy again... he sighs. It seems the attention of mortals is something that every god covets - the one thing an all-powerful being cannot create for themselves. Foolish, all of it. He does not deny that mortals are pleasing to have as worshipers, but to fight each other over such a thing is beyond his understanding.
A fitting punishment, then, that his brother be made into a horrid, wizened thing and cast into the Black City, a damnable void within the Fade that the Maker created in mockery of his own golden home... but what is this? No! Dumat, calling the mortals to him? Is such a thing even possible? How is it his brother can influence their minds? Through his ire, his interest is piqued... Is this a thing he can learn, as well?
He watches the dreams of the ones his brother tempts, howls silently at the indignation of it. Dumat will be free! It cannot be borne! Promises, promises... how familiar he is with Dumat's silver tongue. His brother is sly, whispering thoughts of power, influence, control. All can belong to the ones who free him, to the ones who seek to overthrow this Maker... He watches, flames burning in his belly, as the most powerful of the humans enter the Black City and use the blood magic taught to them to free Dumat. But his brother has learned the tricks of the Fade, and has reshaped himself into the glorious being he once was.
Master! the mortals cry out in adulation. Make us in your image!
I shall... Dumat chuckles, and their skins blacken, their features melt and rot. They writhe, shrieking in pain and fear as their faces stretch into lewd caricatures of never-ending joy. Scales and leathery flesh replace their pale human bodies, reshaping them into things born of nightmare. Monsters, they have become... Dumat has done as they asked, and morphed them into the soulless thing he himself used to be. Darkspawn, he hears the name in the dreams of the mortals, who shrink from their former brethren in horror, banishing them away underground. Spawned of darkness; a fitting name for those birthed in the void of the Maker. Does this laughable god of theirs realize what he has done?
The Maker has turned his back on the world... He hears the cry, the lament in a thousand dreams. The people pray, they chant, they seek to repair the bridge the Maker has torn asunder, not realizing that their deity has no intention of returning to the world he has doomed to oblivion.
Ever do mortals require a god...
From his stony prison, he watches as Dumat rises, intent on becoming their deity once more. The Maker is gone; there must be one to fill the void. The Darkspawn follow, and Dumat is reviled, feared, the humans blaming the dragon for the loss of their beloved Maker. He watches passively as Dumat razes the world, intent now on destroying that which he cannot possess.
Mortal... he calls. The blood... Your key is the blood...
Do they hear him? Perhaps, perhaps not. He keeps trying, intent on stopping his brother, convinced that if he can speak to one of them, he can give them the secret of killing Dumat. Hundreds of years pass, Dumat's dark followers growing in number, building themselves into an army capable of wiping humanity from the face of the earth.
I hear you... The call is weak, fainter than the softest music, but he speaks, desperate to tell Dumat's deadly secret.
The mortal is shocked to hear what he has to say, and it takes many, many hushed communications before he is believed. He guides this one, helping the mortal to obtain the needed things, teaching him the way to defeat Dumat.
What are you, savior?
I... he cannot remember. He struggles, seeking his name. I was once glorious, I was once brighter than sun. Now I am colorless, lifeless, grey...
Then we shall be the Grey Wardens. Is it pleasing to you?
I care not for the doings of mortals... only end Dumat. That shall be my reward. Stand vigilant, for Dumat will draw the shadows forth and cover the world if the sacrifice is not made. Your duty cannot be forsworn, but fear not, for you shall never be forgotten.
Can you join us in our fight?
I cannot... I am trapped, my mind locked within the Fade, forever waiting for my freedom.
Then worry not, savior, for one day, we shall join you.
`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`
The mortals are slow; it is agonizing to watch them struggle. So frail, so helpless. Though they breed more quickly than he can believe, their lives are so fragile that as swiftly as their numbers rise, Dumat ends them, a boot-heel crushing ants beneath his weight. It is their very resilience that saves them, however, and he watches with anticipation as the Order grows, their abilities greater than any of their mortal brethren. A century passes, and he begins to care for the mortals, admiring the way they keep fighting, the way they convince themselves they can overcome any obstacle. In their small way, they do.
The moment of truth comes at last. Dumat is cornered, his options stripped from him. You die now, brother, he thinks, his ancient heart blazing with triumph at last. He watches with pleasure as the Grey Warden strikes the final blow, his sword cleaving the great head in twain, a halo of light fountaining as the souls battle for dominance. And then...
No! Rage envelopes him as he feels the soul of the Warden wither, fade away in the fight for dominance. Like a candle, the Warden's light is snuffed out, though Dumat is weakened. He writhes, the old claustrophobia returning as his brother speaks, calling his name for the first time in time unknowing.
Urthemiel... You think you have won, brother, but this is not finished. Your Grey Wardens cannot destroy me, but they can destroy you.
Dumat, what have you done?
My disciples believe that I live, and so I do. We are of the Fade... we create the reality that suits us.
You will not succeed!
But brother, I already have...
`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`
Zazikel is the first to be taken, Dumat's soul infiltrating the great dragon the moment the Darkspawn touches his scaled jaw. He feels Zazikel sliding away from him; they manage only the barest touch before his brother is lost to himself forever, eclipsed by Dumat and the need to rule. He watches in horror as the whole thing plays out again, ending with Dumat's death at the hands of his Grey Wardens. Faster, this time... there is less damage done to the world, less death. Small blessings.
His feelings for the mortals have grown; how he wishes he could help them. There is music now, Dumat's soul singing to the Darkspawn, calling them to the next of his brethren.
Toth.
Andoral.
Urthemiel...
No, he vows. He will not allow Dumat to use him! He silences himself, using his own music to redirect the Darkspawn. The call is weakened, and centuries pass as they search.
You believe you are clever, Dumat whispers. I shall win, yet...
Bregan...
He howls, enraged. Bregan knows their location! Dumat has told him! And...
You believe you are the only one who can whisper to mortals, my brother? Look... look what the blood of your creations has wrought...
Intelligence.
The Architect... a fitting name for one who will build.
He despairs. Dumat will find him, this he knows. His brother's followers dig, they tunnel, they grow closer hour by hour. Something new must be done. Something... He thinks, pushing against the sludged walls of his brain, seeking an answer, seeking the thing that will end this cycle of possession and destruction.
Inspiration... he reaches, whispering once more, the mind of the woman Flemeth drawing him like a beacon. She is strong, she is ambitious. She will serve his purpose... though she will die when that purpose is completed. There is no way he will allow her to harness the power that will come of his plan. He listens as Flemeth speaks to her daughter, a tiny girl yet, instructing her on what must be done...
This girl, this Morrigan, she will be their savior.
Dumat must not find out! It is with regret that he wipes the plan from his mind, banishing the images of mother and girl, refusing to allow Dumat even the smallest glimpse of humanity's hope for triumph. If they are successful, he will live again, reborn... pure, his brother eradicated at last. He blanks himself; burying his memories, his abilities, his hopes and wishes and dreams, until they can be called forth again by the one he shall become.
`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`
Dig, my brethren! Dig!
A voice urges them on, Dumat's song swirling around him in bright colors that tease their directionless minds into a frenzy. He braces, feeling the moment nearly upon him. Vibrations waver through the shell of rock that encases his body, dozens of implements striking at the stone. Will he be able to move? Will he be able to see? Excitement flames through his heart, a desire to view the world once more shunting every other concern away.
Carefully now! Touch him not!
The rubble falls free, and he rises, the disciples of Dumat falling back in awe. They look on him with shining, devoted eyes, the song that calls them to him calming at last. He is their goal, and they have achieved it. The old feeling of worship returns, and he is warmed by their adoration, monsters though they be.
Do you speak, old one?
The one who directs them... of course. The Architect. He gazes at this one, lanterned eyes blinking once, the muscles nearly frozen from an eternity of disuse. He dares not answer... better to be seen as the beast he is. It will be over soon enough.
The Architect glides forward, a bowl held in its mottled hands. With quiet reverence, it sets the bowl before him, inviting him to drink and be free.
Suspicion lances through him. This one is a creation of Dumat's... what is this trick? But he cannot give himself away... His head dips, and he consumes the liquid - barely a drop to his gargantuan tongue. The taste is sweet, and memory flows through him as he feels its silver tingle streak through his every vein. Consciousness. Meaning. As if he did not have these things already.
The Architect watches with eager eyes, and he gazes back, unimpressed with this small magic.
Have you awareness?
Greater than your own, he replies.
Tell us, master... what will you have us do?
Dumat's followers are rapturous, silently pleading with him to lead them, to enrich their empty lives with purpose.
Touch me, he invites, and the one called the Architect stiffens, eyes flying wide with fright.
You will lose yourself! it cries out.
I do what is meant to be done, he replies, and when they lay their hands on him, he melts away from himself, their affectionate caresses awakening him to his true destiny.
The Blight.