I loved the Fade part of "Dragon Age: Inquisition". I loved how it was designed and delivered, and how it forced you to make that horrible decision in the end.

Now, as you know, one companion in the Fade is always Hawke, but the other one varies. Depending on your choices in "Origins", it can be Alistair, Loghain, or Stroud - the mustachey dude with a strong 'Orlesian' accent that few people actually care for and who regularly gets left in the Fade.

I wanted to do something a bit more interesting with the premise.

See, one of my very favorite characters in all Dragon Age games is the Orlesian Warden from "Awakening". Y'know, that 'create new character' option that almost no one picks - because why would you, when you can import your old Wardens even if they're dead - even though it makes the entire "Awakening" storyline much more meaningful. That option that got cut out of "Dragon Age: Keep" tapestries. That option a lot of people don't even know of - when I told my fellow Dragon Age fans how I much I enjoyed playing with an Orlesian Warden, I was met with confusion and head-scratching. "You can play an Orlesian?" they wondered. "That's a thing?"

Yup, and it's a thing I have a thing for.

So instead of going back to Alistair or Loghain, or sticking with Stroud who is some sort of a canon stand-in for the Orlesian Warden Commander option anyway, I decided to throw my Marcel Caron into the Fade with Hawke and the Inquisitor, and see what happens.

Especially given that in the end someone has to die.

Beta'd by M. Rosenkov, who did an amazing job here - I'm not a native speaker, and her interventions really made the story flow more naturally in English.

Bonus points if you read Marcel's lines with a strong French accent.

On Expendability

or,

Tonight, Someone Dies

Chapter One: Flowers in the Fade

So this is how the man who will save the world looks like, Marcel thought, observing the awkward yellow-eyed lad as he struggled to get rid of the sticky webs that clung to his coat. Those non-spiders had been attacking them for an hour now—or was it hours? Days? It was so difficult to figure out the passage of time here in the Fade.

The lad's mage coat was self-made – and made well, Marcel had to admit. It was quite resilient in battle, yet looked like a pile of metal junk randomly glued onto a piece of old leather, which was tragically dyed vibrant orange. The way it fit the lad's frame was everything but flattering. Given this obvious lack of care for his appearance, the young Inquisitor either had to be a very modest fellow, or a most pragmatic one.

Or why not both, Marcel thought. After all, the Herald of Andraste and the man who would save the world was—of all things—a blasted Qunari.

His posture was odd for a Qunari, though. In his lifetime, Marcel had met quite a few of the horned people, some Tal-Vashoth, and some followers of the Qun. What all of them had in common was this proud posture, bordering on arrogance—a certainty of their place in the world.

The Inquisitor, however, looked nothing like that. He smiled frequently and too shyly, avoided eye contact, and walked with his back hunched as if he wanted to make himself look smaller. Must be a consequence of growing up so large in our world, Marcel thought as he tried to imagine the lad hitting chandeliers with his horns, barely passing through doorframes with those wide shoulders, or squatting as he struggled to sit in miniscule human chairs. It was not a pretty picture. The lad might've been competent to close rifts or beat the crap out of demons, but with those dreadful robes and clumsy smiles, they would eat him alive at the Orlesian Court, Herald of Andraste or not.

The other one, on the other hand—the former Champion, the one who called Marcel "his Warden contact" and acted as if he knew all the ordeals of the Order, even though they'd only corresponded a few times and had never met in person before the skies were ripped open and everyone went mad—looked the part. Tall, blond, and built like a statue, his face was adorned with an exotic yet tasteful tattoo. He dressed in dark velvet and blue furs that perfectly matched the color of his eyes, and looked as if he were predestined for grand things, as if saving the world was just another pastime he indulged in every Saturday afternoon between lunch and a game of Wicked Grace with friends. His demeanor was friendly, his smirk dashing, and the expression on his face was both weary and hopeful, perfect for a leader in dire times. Too bad his chance to lead anything was long gone.

"Um, I found… this," the Inquisitor said, after spending what seemed an eternity rummaging through dirt and cobbles.

The way the lad acted in the Fade was strange—from time to time, he'd get all twitchy and focus on the ground as if he followed some signs only he could spot, and everyone had to wait until he came up with some seemingly random object. Like this, for example. A bunch of flowers.

Holding the tiny bouquet in his shovel hands, the Inquisitor was quite a sight to behold.

"Flowers? You deem it useful?" the Nevarran woman asked. She always seemed to both question and support the Inquisitor's authority at the same time. It was so contradictory that Marcel found it entertaining.

"I think it's related to those dreamers who are trapped here," the Inquisitor said. "Like that candle from a while ago. A dreamer was afraid of the dark, so I brought him the candle, and he seemed to drift away in peace. Now there's another one, right behind that corner over there, and he's scared that the Blight scorched the ground and destroyed all life. So I thought I could comfort him by bringing him…"

"Flowers," the Nevarran woman finished his line and raised an eyebrow.

"It's not that simple, Cassandra." The Inquisitor blushed. "There's more to it. I don't know how to explain it. It's as if whenever I put a dreamer at ease I grow stronger somehow. My body feels lighter, my mind clearer. It's difficult to put it into words, but…"

"That happens frequently in the Fade," the former Champion interrupted. "I think that's how the Fade works. There are these puzzles, and if you solve them right, you're rewarded by permanently growing stronger. I've done it before."

The tone of his voice suggested he would be all too happy to do it again.

"If that's what it is, then we must all assist the Inquisitor to grow stronger," the Nevarran woman firmly declared. "Even if it means looking for flowers."

An awkward smile stretched across the inquisitor's face, revealing a set of crooked teeth. The former champion narrowed his eyes—a movement too slight for the unobservant to notice. Oh my, Marcel thought. This will be even more interesting than anyone could predict.

The Inquisitor left off to give his flowers to the dreamer—or whatever it was—accompanied by the Nevarran woman, and that strange Grey Warden who looked nothing like a Grey Warden, yet was always the first to praise the Order's bravery and heroism. The dwarf remained with the former Champion—the two of them were best friends of some sort, if Marcel followed the plot correctly.

An uneasy silence settled between the three.

"I take it you knew Blondie?" the dwarf suddenly asked.

It took a moment for Marcel to realize the question was directed at him.

"I beg your pardon, I knew whom?"

"Varric, don't," the former Champion sighed.

"Oh, I apologize," the dwarf continued. "I forget that not all have read The Tale of the Champion. I'm talking about Anders. That Anders. He used to be a Grey Warden under your command, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Ah, oui, mais oui," Marcel exclaimed. "Anders. He served under me in Amaranthine when I was the acting Warden Commander of Ferelden. He didn't stay long with the Order, but he was there in those first months when the situation was the worst."

The former Champion's perfect face darkened, but the dwarf simply nodded.

"What was he like?"

"Varric," the former Champion growled. "Don't."

Marcel took a moment to think. It was a long time ago, and for reasons he preferred not to dwell upon, he'd pushed the entire Ferelden episode as far back into his memory as he could.

"He was charming, superficial, and deliberately silly more often than not. Sometimes fun, sometimes—what's the expression—obnoxious," Marcel carefully pronounced the word. His Fereldan had grown rusty after years of not using the language—his accent was thick and he spoke with effort. "Overall, a very likeable young man. Until the day he did something stupid—not that doing stupidities was out of character for him. But he left quickly afterwards, and I guess you know what happened next better than I do."

The former Champion stared at Marcel, his expression eerily flat.

"Varric," he asked without looking at the dwarf. "Why did I have to hear this?"

"Because I think there's moral to that story," the dwarf replied, "that maybe you should take note of, Champion."

"Do not call me that."

The dwarf was just about to reply when the Inquisitor and his entourage returned from their flowery detour, in the middle of quite a heated argument: the Nevarran woman was yelling, and the Inquisitor angrily waved around with his tree-trunk arms.

"No, Cassandra, I will not. I'm getting tired of this charade. You saw for yourself that everything has a perfectly rational explanation," the Inquisitor ranted. It was the first time he delivered a line without the excessive use of 'errs' and 'ums'—Marcel was impressed. "I'm no chosen one, it happened by accident. It could've been anyone. There's no Andraste, there never was, and the Inquisition should really stop using filthy lies to advance its cause."

"You don't get it, Inquisitor," the Nevarran woman despaired. "If you'd just stop for a moment and think. People need hope in these dark times. Why do you fail to see that? They need to believe. They need to rally around a common cause, and, for that purpose, passing you for the Herald of Andraste really helps the Inquisition."

"Oh, so 'let's-join-forces-to-mend-the-fucking-hole-in-the-sky' is not good enough of a cause?" the Inquisitor sneered.

Way to go, lad, Marcel thought. Didn't know you had it in you.

The Nevarran woman looked as if she didn't know whether to punch the horned blockhead between the eyes, or burst into tears. Marcel almost felt sorry for her.

"Lord Inquisitor, if I may," the former Champion intervened. "What Lady Seeker suggests here is certainly to the Inquisition's advantage. For endeavors such as this one, image and propaganda matter as much as brute force and determination. Perception of one's cause can be as important as the cause itself. When I was leading the mage uprising in Kirkwall, I really paid heed to appearances, not only taking care to present our goals in a palatable manner that would make people accept them as just, but also designing myself in such a fashion that people perceived me as the hero they expected me to be."

"Yeah, and look how far that brought you," the Inquisitor grumbled. He did not mean it as an insult, that much was obvious. The lad was simply one of those people who didn't weigh their words in the heat of an argument—but the former Champion looked as if he had just been slapped in the face.

"I'm, um, quite a tolerant man," the Inquisitor continued, not even bothering to look at the man in front of him, "and I can put up with a lot of nonsense. But this is where I draw the line. No. More. Lies."

"Fine," the Nevarran woman sighed, raising her hands in defeat. "Fine. No more lies. But I pray we continue now, Inquisitor, else we end up stuck in the Fade, and then all our efforts be in vain. Unless there are more flowers to pick?"

"We can go on, yes," the Inquisitor agreed, pouting. Marcel had never seen a Qunari pout before. "This place is spooky and, y'know, kinda sticky, like everything's covered with slime. I've never been much of a Fade fan anyway. I wish Solas were here."

He took the lead, as usual, with the Nevarran woman guarding his back as a proper watchdog, and the dwarf and former Champion—who still looked almost comically shocked—trailing a few steps behind. Marcel was always happy to keep the rear.

"Brother." That strange Grey Warden approached him—there was something off-key about the man, Marcel could swear it, but he couldn't figure out what, as of yet. "You do not partake in their arguments? Maybe the Inquisitor would listen to you. He read reports about you, you know, said he admired you a great deal for how you handled the crisis in Amaranthine."

"I've never been much of a public speaker, mon frère." Marcel smiled and bowed ever so slightly, like a proper Orlesian. "And I prefer to stay away from affairs that do not concern our Order most directly. Meddling into daily politics has never brought us any good—which is, if you ask me, exactly the lesson that our young Inquisitor should take from my ordeal in Amaranthine."

"As you say, brother," the bearded man nodded, visibly not happy with Marcel's answer.

They were just about to turn the corner, Marcel bracing himself for another wave of non-spiders, when it happened.

A voice—male, deep, and unmistakably villainous in that penny theater sort of way that demons always went for—boomed at them from above.

Or maybe it didn't. It sounded as if he could hear the words both in the air, up in the green non-sky, and deep inside of his head.

I greet you, mortals,the voice said. Welcome to my lair. I am the veiled hand of Corypheus. I am Nightmare, your every fear come to life.

The voice paused for a moment for its words to sink in. Marcel felt the off-key Warden tense next to him, and saw the Nevarran woman step in front of the Inquisitor with her shield raised, as if that could stop the words from flowing.

I know what keeps you awake at night,the voice rumbled on. I know who you are alone in the dark. I know whom you see when you look in the mirror. You may have secrets before yourselves, but there is nothing you can hide from me. I feed off your fears, mortals. And I'll rejoice in exposing them to you.

Moments passed in confused silence, broken eventually by the dwarf.

"Well, shit."

Mesdames et messieurs, Marcel thought bitterly and smirked, the plot thickens.