The snow was falling in steady sheets now. The thick flakes blanketed anything and everything around them, working well to cover the band of corpses that littered the ground. Eight there had been. Young, desperate, and inexperienced. The last of them gaped vacantly at the sky, unblinking, as the snow covered his eyes. He couldn't have seen more than sixteen winters. His last the most cold and unforgiving.
Within the hour any trace of conflict would be buried and forgotten.

Breathing heavy, Sebastian turned away from the vibrant red splatters staining the pure white snow, a cold sweat working over his brow. He sheathed his dirk and wiped the warm trickle of blood from his lip, pausing to mutter a prayer for the departed into the silence. The words rang hollow and empty in his heart.

...Maker, know their hearts
Take from them a life of sorrow
Lift them from a world of pain
Judge them worthy of Your endless pride

Creator, judge them whole:
Find them well within Your grace
Touch them with fire that they be cleansed
Tell them they have sung to Your approval

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

For You are the fire at the heart of the world
And comfort is only Yours to give.

With purposeful strides he walked around to the other side of his mare, leather boots crunching and packing the thick, white powder beneath every step. The light dusting that had covered his saddle was swept away before he swung his armored leg over. The horse swished its mane and stamped its hooves. "We make for the nearest arm of the Minanter," he said, slinging his bow across his back. "The bandits here tend to camp away from the river, to elude guard patrols. We can avoid them if we keep to the waters edge."

Fenris nodded from beneath the hood of his cloak. The sharp knuckles of his steel gauntlets creaked as he mounted his own horse and held steady his reigns. The sound was near to deafening in the white forest. "We've lost a full day," the elf noted, his gaze far off. "And with the weather like this, who knows how much more we will lose."

Sebastian's eyes followed his. The branches of pine hung so heavy around them the ends had fallen limp and lifeless against the ground. Chunks of ice were clinging to the curtains of needles, and made the trees feel as though they were closing in around them. Squinting his eyes, he glanced up at the blotted gray sky. It could have been midday or dusk and he wouldn't have known. The weather had come upon them as sudden as the dead thieves at their feet, and it was not likely to improve. It seemed many forces were at work against them. "We'll ride hard until we've found shelter. This storm is not like to be the worst of our foes. It will pass." His gloved hands reached back to secure the buckskin straps of their equipment in place. He wished he felt as confident as he sounded. In truth, Sebastain had never seen so much snow in the Free Marches.

"It is not the storm that worries me." Fenris paused to meet his gaze. "It is Anders."

He felt the muscles of his jaw tighten as he fixed his eyes on the road ahead of them. "Starkhaven's armies will not head my call until I solidify my place at the throne. But rest assured, if Kirkwall does not bring that abomination justice, I will."
He whipped his reigns.

The Vimmark Mountains. It was the only part of their journey that should give them any trouble, until they reached Starkhaven. Sebastian knew the Marches well. The roads had changed little since his time at Kirkwall; but the bandits had grown in numbers, and the woods had grown colder. Even now he could feel the unrest lingering in the shadows around them as they weaved their way through the snow-covered pines. Ever so often he would see phantom faces flash in and out of sight amongst the trees, or hear faint cries carried along the wind. If sleep had not been eluding him every night, he might have believed he was going mad. How long, he wondered, before the ripples of destruction they left behind caught up to them again. How far would they spread? He pushed his thoughts aside. Best not to think about Kirkwall. All that mattered was seeing that murderer pay for his crimes. He owed the dead that much.

Several hours passed in silence. The chill of the wind whipped at his face, but Sebastian paid it no mind. After some time, what little daylight they had began to fade, and muted hues of magenta were peaking through the treetops. They rode as long as they could before he spotted a nice secluded spot to set up camp for the night. He turned to face his elven companion as he quickly dismounted. "We have little light left, and we best make good use of it. Tie up the horses, and I'll see to the firewood."

"Consider it done." Fenris gave a nod in his direction as he followed suit.

Sebastian took the initiative to scout the perimeter. They had chosen a spot against a thick row of trees with a generous amount of slated rock for shelter and ample room for a small fire. The site was hidden well amidst the white foliage. His eyes scanned the forest floor for anything to get a fire going. Most of it was soaked pine. The rocks began to thicken the further he wandered, with boulders jutting up from the ground like stone fingers. Ducking beneath the branch of a tree, he came upon a small alcove, where a bundle of dry sticks and logs were tucked neatly against the corner.

Bandits, or a rogue traveler perhaps... He searched the grounds for footprints, one hand resting on the hilt of his dirk. There was no uneven snow, no marks from a fire pit. Nothing. His eyes peered through the darkness as the wind moaned low through the hollow – long abandoned. Cold and empty. He gathered what he could and headed back.

Within minutes their flames were holding strong against the crisp cold air. The bits of dry wood crackled as the two of them collected the rest of their gear and finished setting up camp just moments before the sun disappeared. Nightfall came swiftly. They sat quietly in the dim light, and Sebastian peered down at the small ration of nuts and berries in his gloved hand. If tomorrow had better luck, he decided he could try to find some game to hunt out here.

"I never thought I'd say it, but some cheap mead and stale bread sounds incredibly appetizing right about now."

Sebastian looked up at Fenris and attempted a smirk. "The Hanged Man does have a strange allure to it." He paused when a small shiver crept up his spine, and drew his fur-lined hood tight around him. "But only to desperate men."

"No matter how desperate I become," Fenris stretched his hands out towards the flickering campfire. "I am never eating the 'mystery soup' ever again."

I doubt we'll ever get the chance again. Sebastian's smile slowly faded when the thought struck him. He would have given anything in that moment to be back in that decrepit tavern, of all places. If he closed his eyes, he could still conjure the smells – the salt, sweat, and sulfur of sailors and miners, the pungent stench of ale, and the rotting wooden planks of the floorboards. He could hear Varric's laughter and Isabella's drunken curses; still see the glow of the fire, and Hawke's shy smile… The Hanged Man had been his bittersweet sanctuary.
But now it was one more thing left behind. One more memory he'd sooner forget. If he could.

"You haven't touched your berries."

Sebastian blinked, dropping his gaze to his hands again. "No," he chuckled, "I haven't. Perhaps I left my appetite back in Kirkwall as well." He paused to chide himself for his lingering thoughts. "I…never thanked you. For helping me. Showing up when you did. I admit I did not expect anyone to follow."

His elven comrade studied him from across the fire. "No thanks necessary. Though I can't say I'm surprised it's slipped your mind, as little as you've spoken. You've hardly said a word since I found you."

Sebastian looked up to meet his gaze. When neither looked away Fenris continued.

"While you are due your grief, I think it is important that you make your intentions clear before we continue tomorrow."

Blunt as ever, he thought, his brows furrowing. What more needed saying? "When I left, I made my intentions perfectly clear…"

"When you left you threatened to level Kirkwall with your fury," Fenris said, pinning him with his gaze. "And while I'm sure your words were merely hollow symptoms of your loss, if I am to follow you, I need to know your plans."

"I…" Sebastian sighed, running his hand over his face and through his hair. The heat and smoke from the fire was irritating his eyes, and fatigue was beginning to wear on him. "I appreciate your help, Fenris. Truly, I do. I just…need some time. To think about everything." He turned to lay out his bedroll. After a moment he glanced back. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Fenris' dark eyes passed back and forth between his. "Very well. We will speak whenever you're ready." He reclined against the rock at his back. "But don't wait too long about it."

The silence between them grew, and Sebastian conceded to curl up beside the glowing flames. His eyes slid closed, and he focused on the sounds and smells around him. There was a time when the whispers of his faith had been enough to quiet his doubts and his fears – a time when he felt the Maker's presence with him always, and Andraste's hand guiding him. But he felt nothing now. Nothing except the wind biting at the exposed skin of his cheeks, and the bitter cold seeping through his veins. A distant howl drifted on the wind. The forest around him erupted in beams of light, and the howls turned to screams as he watched the walls of the Chantry disintegrate before his eyes. Flames, and the pungent scent of blood and decay flooded his mind as he knelt amidst the smoldering rubble of Kirkwall's sacred ground and cradled the body of the Grand Cleric in his arms. He wept, for her and for the innocent men, women, and children taken away in the wake of the destruction and madness that had befallen the city. A hand at his shoulder brought his gaze down into Elthina's gray, dead eyes as she whispered to him… "Sebastian… You cannot sleep. You must wake up… Please wake me up." The rotted appendages squeezed tight around his skin, causing him to stare down in panic. Only this time it was Hawke in his arms, lifeless, gazing up at the sky beneath the scarlet sunburst mark on her forehead. "No," he cried, holding her small limp frame in his arms and crushing her to his chest. "Maker, No!"

Sebastian shot up instantly. Very slowly, his terror and confusion was replaced with a growing awareness as he took in his surroundings. Breathing deeply, he willed his racing heart to calm down. The campfire had dwindled somewhat, and Fenris was sleeping soundly across from him. It felt as though only seconds had passed since closing his eyes. Another night lost to nightmares. He ran a hand over his face and leaned forward to feed the dying flames. The snow had stopped sometime during the night. Once again, darkness and silence were his only companions. In a practiced haze he closed his eyes in another empty attempt to find some semblance of comfort.

Doubt was not new to him. They were old friends, in fact. Since joining the Chantry, his faith had been tested and tempted on countless occasions. Once you find it, however, faith is a difficult thing to truly lose. Even in the worst darkness it waits, somewhere in the back of your mind - like a soothing voice of strength and reason beckoning you to find it again. Many times it faltered when it was new and weak, but he felt it falter strongest when his family had died... And again when he met Hawke. Several moments passed by, and he gazed up at the few stars daring to peak through the holes in the clouds. Was he losing it again? When he closed his eyes, all he felt was unrest – a sense of foreboding that plagued him, kept him from sleep, and deprived him of hunger. Now it was testing his convictions like nothing before. His path had been so clear when he left. But after what Fenris had first told him, about the fate that had befallen Kirkwall...

The image of Hawke laying pale and silent in his arms came unbidden to his mind and he shook his head to clear the thought. He never once asked about their companions. Never considered what transpired after the Chantry. He was so absorbed in getting to Starkhaven, in finding Anders... Guilt coiled around his throat like a snake. What would happen to the rest of his friends when the world started to fall apart? To Hawke? And if he found Anders, if he took back his throne, what will he do to help?

His thoughts carried him 'til dawn. When the red sun rose, Starkhaven seemed worlds away.

Dawn… It was always discolored in the Fade.

She was back in Lothering. The imagined warmth of the fire licked gently across her back as she stared out the window from her home, watching the gentle flutter of snowfall with distant eyes. Winter was, to most Ferelden's, a dreaded time of year. The frozen ground, and the slush that followed in the early months left little to be desired for crops or for travel. Still, it held some of her favorite memories.

The breath that passed her lips fogged the windowpane. Every now and then the tip of her nose would graze the frosted glass, but the sensation that should have followed was… dimmed. Muted. Such details were always noticeable in the Fade. It was as though you were always halfway inside.

That was the first thing her father had taught her to notice.

The sound of distant laughter tore her from her musings. She turned her head to study the familiar features of her childhood home. It was all exactly as she remembered – the dirt floors, the stone fireplace, the crooked beams supporting the thatched roof above. Though her family had traveled on more than one occasion, this place had given them shelter for most of her life. Behind her was the room she had shared with her siblings. The rustic décor was still the same – trinkets and treasures from their travels lined uneven shelves of Ferelden pine. Her mother always liked to decorate. It occurred to her then that she had not dreamt of Ferelden in a long time.
Not since her mother died.

Again the laughter shook her mind awake, and the resounding thump thump thump of approaching feet halted at the doorway.

"Can we do it now papa? Can we?" Though muffled, she could easily make out Carver's voice.

The front door opened and Malcolm Hawke stepped inside, holding the catch of the morning. He looked young despite the wrinkles of crows feet at his eyes as he smiled down at the twins. They were no more than ten years old. Carver was bouncing ecstatically with a bow in his hand while Bethany hovered behind them, clinging to the fabric of their father's pants.

"I don't want to see," she muttered quietly.

"You're the one who wanted to go," he teased, puffing out his chest in pride. "And you saw me get both rabbits. I'm gonna be the best hunter in all Ferelden!"

"A good hunter must also know when to keep quiet," her father laughed. His voice had hushed to above a whisper. "Your mother is still sleeping. Now put your bow away before you help. Bethany, you go wash up before breakfast," he smiled gently, leaning to pat her head. "You don't have to watch. You can help me cut the vegetables."

Bethany beamed up at him before tiptoeing off to get ready. Carver bounded after her, tumbling into their room with a loud thud.

Malcolm sighed and shook his head, setting the rabbits aside in the kitchen before turning towards the window. "How are you feeling sweetheart?"

She allowed herself the solace of reciting the answer, just to hear his voice. "Better, papa."

"That's good." He leaned down beside her to feel her forehead. The touch was like a breath of pure air against her skin. "Can't have you sick for your name day tomorrow."

She smiled back at him, studying the green in his eyes and the stubble on his face. His winter robes were made with thick wool, and she remembered being younger, and stealing them nearly every chance she got. She would run around shouting how she was going to be the greatest mage that ever lived, and would mimic spell-casting at her brother and sister before shooting fake lightning bolts at invisible enemies. Malcolm Hawke would always play along, pretending to be a giant ogre or a terrifying dragon. …Her memories of her father were too few.

"Since you're feeling better, I have an early present for you," he said. His ethereal form disappeared into the other room just long enough for her to get a hold of herself.

I shouldn't be here. She cast her eyes out the foggy window one final time, just as her father reemerged, holding a small carved wooden staff in his hands. "You will be thirteen tomorrow," he said, his voice fading to an echo. "Normally I would have waited a little longer to give you your first staff, but you've passed all your tests so well..." he chuckled. "Looks like I'll have to teach you more tomorrow. You've earned it. I am very proud of you sweetheart."

A wistful smile fell over her lips as the memory began to disappear around her. That had been the happiest moment of her life, and the best name day she'd ever had. The memories danced in and out of sight as she reached within herself to wake from her dreams. It felt like only a matter of minutes, but she knew there was no telling how much time had passed in the real world. She also knew that she had lingered longer than usual. These were shadows of a life she would never see again. She needed to remember that, and get a hold on herself.

"Shadows are but dark reflections of truth," a voice whispered.

Hawke spun around. The images of her mother and father, of Carver, Bethany, and their Lothering home turned to nothingness around her. She was floating, standing upon an endless sea of oblivion. Staring back at her from only a small distance away was a desire demon. The purple flames of its hair licked at the tips of its curled horns, and its sharp teeth smiled at her as it slowly approached.

"This truth can be yours. You need only reach out and grasp it," it said, sliding its claws over its body.

Hawke reached for her staff, but the tips of her fingers merely brushed the air behind her. What? Where was her staff? Only a moment ago it had been there… hadn't it? She turned narrowed eyes towards the creature. "I grow weary of the same questions night after night. Can't you demons get a little more creative?"

"But you do grow weary. Don't you. Happiness eludes you, and so you have been seeking it here, in your dreams. In your memories."

Hawke stretched out a hand towards the demon as it began circling her. Electric strands of magic began to flow along her fingertips. "I'm perfectly fine feeling weary and nostalgic on my own, thanks. No need to offer the same predictable, empty promises. It won't work on me." The blast of electricity radiated from her like a blinding pulse, exploding on the demon's chest before slowly dissipating.

It smiled back at her, unharmed. "Oh, but you want it to work. I can feel how badly you want it."

Hawke's eyes widened as it approached. Why can't I hurt it?

"Because you know I can give you what you want. You simply worry it will be fleeting, and your wish will feel tainted. Empty." It stopped behind her, whispering in her ear. "All life is fleeting. Your desires would become as real as the painful reality you are living now. Only it will be so much sweeter. You deserve this as much as you want it. You deserve to feel happy again."

"Stop it!" She sent another blast of magic behind her. It vanished over the distant horizon.

She was alone. And it was so quiet.

The tears flowed freely, and Hawke crumpled to the ground as a scream of agony tore through her throat. "Please," she whispered out into the void. "Wake up."