Disclaimer: This game belongs to the peeps that made it.

Quick A/N: Thanks for your reviews; they are my own personal pep-talks that got me through the chapters I've been writing. I had this idea in my head midway through EG; it feels great to finally be getting it out, but it's a real pain in the ass to tie together.

Whatevs. Suffer for passion, and all.

Thanks for reading!

The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.

Abraham Lincoln

ACT I

THE PARADOX

01: Slave

-S-

The world was awash with gray.

From the cobblestone streets, to the overcast sky, to the people rushing down the thoroughfare in a variety of heavy, warm clothing. I envied them as I tugged the hem of my gray smock down my legs, trying to recover some vestige of warmth within the freezing air.

Everything rocked with the pattern of the wheels; one had to be larger than the other, causing the cart I was trapped in to wobble. Something kicked me in the side and I fell over, groaning and clutching a new bruise.

"Sorry," came the whispered, frantic words of a boy. I sat up again, my eyes watering as I rubbed my tender skin.

Hello to you, too.

There had to be half a dozen elves in the cart; all were dirty and malnourished, all dressed as indecently as I. My legs chilled in the frigid air, raising my flesh and making me shudder. I glanced upward at the hidden sky, my sight marred by wrought iron.

We were in a cage. Bars surrounded us, locking us inside. I examined my surroundings beyond the cage - wrinkled buildings and shop carts dotted the edge of the road, and hundreds of people clogged the street with their wares and offers.

The world halted its rocking; people continually rushed by, their tailored coats and robes mocking us. Gooseflesh ran up my arms, and I shivered, confused by everything from my surroundings, to my clothes, to the off-season weather.

"How did I get here?" I asked, earning panicked looks from the elves around me. They shook their heads, held up their hands.

"Speak softly," said a low, rasping voice from beside me. I turned to find an aged, fair-haired elf, who patted the space beside him. I scooted to his side and he wasted no time in pressing his cracked lips directly to my ear. "We are to be sold in the market."

"Sold?" I asked, not entirely comprehending. "I can't be sold." Dubious, I glanced around at the sallow faces, hoping someone would chuckle and deny the batty elf's claims.

None spoke up, only stared at their hands.

I blinked. I couldn't be sold, could I?

There was no way that we could be legally sold in a market. If he was using the word soldlike I assumed he was, then he was talking slavery.

Which was illegal.

Everywhere.

And where had my nice clothes fled to?

The wizened elf shook his head, placing a calloused finger over my mouth. "If you want to live, you will be quiet," he said. "You have a better chance of being bought than the rest of us," he informed me grimly. "I would take the odds you are given."

I glanced around at the elves with me; there were a few children, a few women, and then the man at my side. "I am not a slave," I whispered, looking up into his green eyes.

I'm not a slave.

"You are now."

I ignored him, huddling into myself for warmth. Unfortunately for me, my new wardrobe consisting of gray rags barely protected me from the harsh temperature. "Where are we?"

Kirkwall was no Golden City, to be sure, but this place was decidedly worse.

"The market," the old slave said again.

Old bat.

I shook my head, pursed my lips. "No, where are we? What nation?" It didn't looklike Kirkwall, and throughout all my years in the place, I was sure I had laid eyes on every street. Perhaps I had found myself inside of Ostwick?

"Vol Dorma," the slave said, his voice full of pity. Pity for me. Why?

"Lowest slave going at five copper," the man said, gesturing to the cart where we huddled.

How in the world had I gotten here?

I remembered the dark and dank; a scratchy voice telling me to whisper to a pretty gem, a gem that was flecked and resembled hiseyes, and I remembered telling the stone that I wished to understand him.

How the hell did the gem get thisout of a simple plea?

I would have rather been set ablaze. At least then everything would still make sense.

Maybe you should have been more specific...

I rolled my eyes at myself. You think?

On top of all this nonsense, I was going insane.

I turned my back to the man auctioning me off to a disinterested crowd, wondering what the gem thought it would accomplish by sending me to...wherever I was. Perhaps it hadn't; perhaps I had merely been knocked cold in the Emporium and this was all an elaborate dream.

Resisting the urge to pinch myself, I looked up at the elves sitting resigned in the cage. I wondered how they had come to be within the confines of the iron bars.

Hopefully none of them had similar experiences.

...and that made me wonder.

I almost leaned over to the boy that had kicked me in the stomach to ask, "Hey, have you by any chance been talking to a rock recently? Because something strange happened to me recently..."

I doubted any of them would laugh.

Being an elf in a slavery-accepted society must be rough.

If this wasn't a dream, of course. I discreetly pinched my leg and jumped, rubbing the sore spot between my fingers.

Hm.

"You managed to catch a human slave?" tsked a woman. She was clad in brightly colored crimson robes, fit for a woman of importance.

Or a woman feigning importance.

I could not decide which.

"If you are caught..."

"I'll pay fifty silver for the woman," rang a male voice.

So my life had a price, did it?

"Human girl going at fifty silver," the slave master called, his callous voice disinterested. "Once, twice-"

"Seventy," the woman in red threw in; was she not previously worried about getting caught with a human slave?

A hypocrite as well as an attention-whoring snob. I bet my money on the man, if only because I felt the beginnings of a growing distaste for the eccentric woman.

"Seventy-five," another voice added, sounding bored. I sniffed.

He was bidding on my life and could not even bother to fake interest?

"Seventy-five for the girl going once-"

"Ninety silver," the woman retaliated. Her voice was thick; it reminded me of sickly sweet honey, sticky and woody.

Come on, old man. Raise her bid.

The old elf beside me sighed, and I switched my gaze to him. "What's wrong?"

He gave me a half-hearted smile. "With all this commotion around you, we are unlikely to be bought."

I pursed my lips. How unfair; I hardly knew anything about servicing someone, yet I was being sold first because of my race.

Still, staying inside the iron cage did not sound appealing. And I wasn't garnering that much attention; just the eyes of a few people. The others that formed the wall of bodies pressing past the scene hardly bothered to glance in our direction, their eyes focused on the road before their feet.

"Sold, to the Magister in red," said the slave master, his voice detached. "For ninety silver."

I blinked, and someone prodded me with a staff. "Get moving," dared the slave master. "Cause any trouble, and I'll beat you into the ground."

Damn it.

I grumbled and shifted, wrapping my arms around my chest. Unable to stand in the tiny cart, I stooped over, shielding my naked skin from the freezing breeze. I turned to correctly identify the woman who had bought me; she was wrapped elegantly in a crimson robe that ensconced her head, and brown eyes flashed when I met them with my own.

Arms grabbed my legs, tripping and forcefully dragging me from the cart. My back landed on cold, hard stone and immediately felt sore. I glared up at the impatient slave master as I rose to my feet.

"Come," called the woman, pointing to her side. It took all of my power to halt my eye roll before I walked over to her. "Let me look at you," she commanded.

How, exactly, was I supposed to follow that order? I did not understand how to stop her from looking at me.

The man who had the bored voice chuckled blankly. "It seems you have caught yourself a rogue, Fausta." His beady eyes trailed down my body, lingering on my naked legs. He sighed. "Too bad for me, it seems. I could have used such a rebel."

I shuddered, sneering at him.

Fucking rogue, am I?

She tsked. "Scrawny, and too pale," she commented, grabbing at my face. I flinched away, and she slapped me across the cheek.

Again, it took all of my willpower to keep from kneeing her in the gut. I had to remind myself that I had no armor, no staff, and not even enough clothes to protect myself from the damn cold. I would need to behave myself.

"Learn your place," she said, brown eyes raking over me. "You will have to do," she said disparagingly, turning on her heel. "Follow."

That was an easy enough command to regard; I fell into step behind her as the Magister in Red glided down the street, her robes sweeping behind her. My bare feet patted hard on the slimy stone street, and I suddenly felt very empathetic with every elf that never worn a single pair of shoes in their lifetime.

A wayward foot stomped on my little toe, crushing it into the ground. I gasped as water fled my eyes at the sharp pain.

A few minutes later, I slid on some rotting food that had been dropped Maker-knows-how-long ago, nearly toppling over onto the Magister.

The food looked like fish.

Correction: It smelled like fish.

Besides the obvious disgusting facts that came with being barefoot, I also felt the chill seeping into my bones from the cold street, shivering and rubbing my arms.

I wanted a pair of socks. Thick, woolly socks; the kind my mother used to make for my companions during the wintertime, when Anders' clinic chilled, Fenris's mansion's lack of appropriate insulation became apparent, and Merrill insisted on walking around Lowtown completely shoe-less.

I missed my leggings, too.

I followed the Magister as we pushed past the people in the market, and I had a growing fear that someone would recognize me.

"Hey! That's the girl from Kirkwall! She killed my friends! Tie her up and torch the pile!"

It was a long shot, but with my luck it was bound to happen. The crowd seemed to press into me with each step I took; I never lost the trail of the Magister, but my vision blurred as the different people brushed into me, pushing and pulling.

Too close.

There were heated bodies everywhere around me.

Taking deep breaths, I ducked beneath the shoulders of the people, keeping my head down.

"This way, slave," the Magister ordered with a glare. She stood beside a large black buggy that was pulled by handsome stallion, his mane trimmed tragically short to simulate a militaristic style. The door was already open; a tan-colored elf held it for the lady as she stepped in, and I went to follow her lead, but the door slammed shut.

The elf that had assisted her shook his head at me, grimacing. He said nothing, but grabbed my arm, pulling me to the front of the cart.

"Hello to you, too," I murmured as quietly as I could without the sound drifting into the clamor of the street. The elf sighed; his skin was dark, his hair black, his dress appropriate enough for an unfortunate coachman.

"You are no slave," he scoffed, equally as quiet.

"How can you tell?" I asked, not even denying it.

"You are untrained," he said, as if it were obvious. "My name is Kornyn."

"Marian," I responded. "What happens when miss High-and-Mighty back there finds out I'm not a slave?"

"She beats you until you learn," Kornyn said bluntly. "Keep your eyes to the ground and do anything she orders."

"Easier said than done," I griped, poking out my bottom lip.

I'll be lucky if I don't torch the bitch before the week is out.

"Do not talk to another slave while in her presence," he said, shaking his head. "But you are human. She won't kill you for a first offense."

"How reassuring."

The ride was long, and silent, as Kornyn refused to speak to me when we pushed past the din of the Vol Dorman market and into the following town. There were many beggars; mostly elvhen, some human, all starved.

I foresaw a long trip ahead of us, and sat back into my wooden, hard seat. I had never missed the cushioned chairs in my estate so much, but there were more pressing matters on my mind than a seat cushion.

Vol Dorma.

A magister.

I tried to reconcile these two facts with the other knowledge in my head, but came up empty. Vol Dorma sounded like a Qunari word, but in the wrong dialect. It was cold enough to be Ferelden in springtime; not hot enough to be inside of Tevinter.

In my head, Tevinter was a place of extreme warmth; of robes and sand and mages.

A childish perception, but it suited me well enough.

"Where are we headed?" I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. Kornyn raised an eyebrow at me.

"The Magister's abode," he returned, just as silent.

"Which is in..." I lead him, inclining my head.

"Perivantium," he said. "Outside of Minrathous." The word seemed to hang in the dry air beside us as we steadily traveled east.

Tevinter. I was in the Imperium - or heading that way. I looked around for a recognizable sign, something that would enforce the elf's answer, but found nothing distinguishable other than a sea of faces treading in the opposite direction.

"Why are they walking away?" I asked, observing each face for a sign. A recognition. In dreams, weren't you supposed to see people you recognized?

"The war has caused many to flee," Kornyn answered. "The Qunari search for weak points within the capital daily, and Minrathous is full of wandering refugees." He shrugged. "It should not affect a slave, so try not to worry about it." He shifted the reigns. "Now stop asking questions. You will get us both into trouble."

Refugees. They could not possibly be all refugees - there were too many to count. Grim-faced, ragged, all races. I examined them all, wondering why I couldn't have identified the look of them sooner.

After all, I had been a refugee once.

I also noticed that the farther we traveled on the stony roads, the warmer the climate became. It thawed my joints and I popped my knuckles, loosening their hold around my stomach and welcoming the change in temperature.

The sun poked out from behind the clouds, twinkling across our path. The refugees thinned.

"There must have been a recent movement," Kornyn muttered. "I haven't seen so many wanderers in a while."

I said nothing in return, just stared at the heated pathway. Eventually, the clouds dispersed and the sun shone brightly, turning the stone pathways into blistering highways that made me nearly regret leaving the cold weather in the market of Vol Dorma.

I had already grown tired of the extremes in Tevinter, and I had not even been there long.

If I was even there.

I scratched my head, that thought tugging at my attention. I had never felt more mentally unstable in my life; I could have sworn that I had only been asleep for an hour or two, and a ship could not have carried me into Tevinter in such a short amount of time. I could not even remember being placed into the cart with the elves, or, or...

...anything before waking up.

This had to be a dream, even if it was peculiar and disturbingly realistic. I wondered what the gem had thrown me into; what purpose could this serve? Could I be learning how to be a slave in Tevinter to better understand Fenris?

If that was the case, then there had to be better ways to learn this lesson.

Like a textbook.

Or a How Toten-step guide.

It was official: Xenon was insane. Whoever would collect such a useless artifact had to be barking mad.

Hours passed, and the cart bumped and jostled as we reached an unstable, winding path; soon, a mansion came into view, well past the town proper and surrounded by sparse, sun baked trees, giving the allusion of privacy.

It was imposing, for certain, but had an elegant, feminine flair in the architectural design that softened the overall effect. Its peaks were rounded with a hint of rain-washed color, nearly coppery. I could not tell for certain; the sun bore down on the glinting surface, unrestrained by clouds, and subsequently kept me from recognizing the exact shade. Still, the mansion was quite eye pleasing. My new Mistress seemed to have good taste.

Glaring red robes aside.

We stopped at the entrance; I hopped off, prepared to help the Magister out of the cart.

Icould be a good little slave, too.

Though, if I thought about it, that was not exactly a positive thing. I opened the door for the Magister, holding out my hand for her to take; she grasped it tightly in her own, her staff held in the other, and stepped out.

I smirked at Kornyn when he flashed me a warning glare.

The Magister ascended the high steps to the mansion, her robes trailing behind her. I moved to follow, only to be hissed at by Kornyn. I turned a baleful eye to his sharp face, raising my eyebrows in an exaggerated 'what?'

He just shook his head, grimacing, and left me to fend for myself. He drove the cart away to a stable, where I presumed he would care for the horse.

Stable boy.

I ran up the stairs to catch up to the Magister, the stone unforgiving beneath my feet. The doors gave way of their own accord, and I wondered if she employed some sort of magic - or was it slaves?

I rolled my eyes to myself, hoping that I would not be stuck by a door all day, waiting for her passage. The entryway of her home carried the same heat that the outside temperatures bemoaned, but I chalked that up to its charm.

Every evil mansion hadto have a harsh temperature in it, or it would not be quite as evil.

I vowed to myself that I would blend in with this atmosphere as seamlessly as I had in Kirkwall until I figured out why - how I was there to begin with.

That could not be too difficult, could it?

"Svanna," the Magister summoned, her voice bouncing from the high walls. I raised my eyebrows at the height of the ceiling as I stepped into her foyer, appreciating the airy structure and bright colorings of the walls, as well as a few choice paintings that added character.

Pretty, my inner feminine voice swooned. I beat her back with a belt, glaring internally for good measure.

"My Lady," an elegant elf addressed, stepping into the room. Her dark hair was held in a harsh knot on the top of her head, leaving her face blunt and exposed. Orange eyes fixed on me, emotionless, appraising.

"Instruct her on her place," the Magister said dismissively. Svanna bowed - low enough to be respectful, but without falling on the floor. I archived that observation for later use.

"As you wish, Mistress."

The Magister left the room, her stiletto boots making a sharp clicking sound with each step. Svanna waited until she had departed to confront me directly.

"You are no slave," Svanna said immediately, dark skin tightening around her mouth.

"If people keep telling me that, my ego is going to drop profoundly," I pouted.

She ignored my sarcasm. "You will learn your place," Svanna said, orange eyes blazing into me. "You will not kill another with your ignorance. Are we clear?"

Ignorant, was I? I nodded tersely, trying not to cross my arms in defiance. Good slaves were not defiant. "We are."

"Good." She promptly turned and left the room, her brown shift waving after her. I followed her through the door, down a hallway, and into a kitchen.

"After every meal, you will wash the utensils and plates," she instructed, pointing to the basin. "Refill the water when you finish. The well is behind the house."

That wasn't too bad.

"You will also mop the floors in each room that is not predominately covered in carpeting," she continued, and I hesitated.

How many fucking rooms were there in this mansion, again? "Uh, about that..." I began, and the elf sighed.

"Do not speak unless otherwise directed," she warned, glaring. "I will make sure you get a tour of the entire building before dinner, and as for now..." Her orange eyes flickered to the door, and I turned as a young elf entered, carrying a load of dirty dishes.

Dirty dishes that I would wash. I sighed.

"Your name?" The stewardess asked; I snapped my head back to her. Her eyes were cold as they examined my face.

What to say?

Uh, yeah, hi. I'm Marian Hawke - I suppose you have heard of me, whether it was of my exploits in the Deep Roads or my valiant fight against the Qunari...or perhaps it was something else? Like how I had my companion rip the hearts out of Tevinter magisters at his whim?

Hmm. Bad idea. Tempting, though.

"Your name?" Svanna's hand jerked my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze.

I scowled up at her. "Marian," I answered, cheeks puffing.

"Marian," she repeated. "Wash the dishes. The soap is in the cupboard." She exited the room through the opposite door and left me standing in the kitchen with the wide-eyed elf boy. I watched him carefully as he lifted the plates onto the counter, peeking surreptitiously over his shoulder to stare at me.

I wagged my fingers at him. "Hi."

His face turned a shocked white; he ran from the room, stumbling over his own feet as he went back the way he came. I rolled my eyes at his frightened behavior and set to counting the doors in the room.

The kitchen was huge, with several islands and wood burning ovens for preparing large amounts of food. There were five doors in total; one swinging door that the boy had entered and left through, the door I had entered that led down a hallway to the foyer, the door Svanna had left through as well as one more on the opposite wall. I contemplated the fifth door before deciding it was a closet of some sort - really, what sort of room needed five entrances?

I grumbled beneath my breath and turned to the dishes. I had plenty of experience with dishwater and soap; as the eldest Hawke sibling, I was usually tasked with cleaning duty. Of course, people around my estate that assisted in the completion of the tasks certainly helped fuel my reluctance for such work, and I held no joy for the tedium of utensil washing.

Still, I was a slave now; slaves did as they were told. I picked up a clean dishrag and set to work on the fine porcelain plates and precious silverware, contemplating spitting in the washing basin for good measure.

I refrained, if only because of the beautiful craftwork of the dishes. Fine flowers had been delicately engraved into each piece, throwing a dash of color and a delicate character with filigree onto an otherwise pristine white background. I lifted a thin glass to examine the particular cut around the base, impressed with the work.

I kind of wanted a set for my own kitchen.

Banging from the swiveling door made me jump in alarm, obtusely releasing the gorgeous cup that I held. It shattered across the floor, hundreds of sharp pieces scattering near my feet.

I gulped, looking up to meet a highly disapproving, orange gaze.

"Oops?" I squeaked. I knew it couldn't be a good thing for a slave to smash a priceless dish.

Svanna lunged forward, her bony hand circling my wrist. She proceeded to drag me down the hall she had exited through earlier, footsteps hushed and hurried, face livid.

"Clumsy, bumbling human!" she chided, hand tugging mine firmly, causing me to stumble behind her. Continuing to spout harsh, accusatory words at me, she led me forcefully down the winding hall. To punishment?

I groaned. I hadn't even been there an hour and I had already smashed what was probably an expensive dish.

Strike that. It had most definitelybeen an expensive dish.

"Svanna?" whispered a soft voice. "What is happening?"

I turned my head and spotted a short, blonde elven girl poking her head from a doorway. She appeared to be the timid sort, with hesitant fingers and a thin mouth.

"This girl is to be whipped for breaking one of the Mistress's goblets," Svanna replied. "Go back to bed, Pana. This does not concern you."

"I will deal this punishment," inserted a strong, masculine voice. My heart stuttered as I recognized it, breath halting.

I gaped at the olive-skinned elf as he caught my free arm, towing me away from the stewardess. He glared at her hand until she released me, resigned.

"As you wish, guard," Svanna said, grimacing as she watched him lead me down the hallway himself.

I stared at the back of his head, trying to reconcile this odd elf that was familiar with the elf that I knew. His hair was dark, possibly black - I couldn't tell in the faded light of the mansion, but it was a stark contrast to what I was accustomed to seeing on his head. I blinked my eyes to clear my gaze as I took in his impossibly-normal clothes, not at all like the spiked, sinister armor he had worn the last time I had seen him.

He suddenly veered to the left, opening a door and pushing me before him. I tripped, but steadied myself before I hit the ground. I whirled around to face him, eyes wide, mouth open.

He narrowed his emerald eyes at my expression. "Why do you stare at me?"

I opened and closed my mouth repeatedly, recognizing his voice, if not his exact appearance. The markings, they weren't there - none of them showed, not even the stripes that had lit his chin.

How?

Why?

And his hair!

"Fenris," I gasped, my hand reaching out to ghost across his face, to trace the absent patterns. "What are you doinghere?"

His brow furrowed, and his own palm shot up, his fingers encasing mine tightly as they swept across his skin, halting my movements.

"Who are you?"

If you could go back in time and change something, what would you change?