Chapter 11: "It's been a long time since a demon lord has been unleashed upon the Primals. It should be interesting… in a terrifying, get me out of here kind of way, I mean." – Valen (NWN - HotU)
Though Kirkwall had a significantly warmer climate than Ferelden, occasionally winter decided to show some teeth and leave a bite mark. Hawke watched the heavy snowflakes drift lazily through the air, and take a convoluted path up and down along the currents before finally settling on the ground. A thick carpet of snow already blanketed the city, much to the delight of a rabble of children playing in the street that ran beneath her window. She breathed onto the cold glass before her, and drew a question mark on the condensation left behind. Cold as it was, it took some time before the image disappeared. Yet the question it stood for remained. It had kept her awake through most of the night.
What now?
"Nothing," she murmured, rankled by her inability to move past the thought of Anders' kiss. Judging by his embarrassed apology, it had not been born of sympathy. To make matters worse, she was glad of it. And what a rattling admission that was! For the first time in years, she discovered that she wanted something for her own happiness. That it should be mired in complications was unsurprising – her life had ceased to be simple a long time ago.
"So, what now, genius?" She asked the ghostly reflection in her window.
Sabine could not conceive a better solution than her usual approach to emotions: stuff them in a box, and hide them under the bed. Her father had called it "compartmentalizing", which was a fancy word for "not dealing with your shit". Fortunately for Sabine, a discreet knock on the door spared her the usual descent into self-loathing that followed such thoughts.
"There is an Elven lady asking for you, Messere," Bodahn bowed respectfully.
The visitor turned out to be Arianni, distressed as only a mother could be. Sabine listened with growing alarm to the Elf's description of her son's condition. Apparently, Feynriel's talent had proven more dangerous than even Keeper Marethari could handle, and the boy had slipped into unconsciousness for the last few days.
"I am not sure how much help I could be to your son, Arianni," Hawke observed crestfallen.
"Please, Messere," the Elf cried desperately. "You are my only hope."
"I would not abandon Feynriel," Hawke quickly added. "Whatever healing ability I have is limited to the remedy of physical injuries. I have a friend, however, a gifted healer," Sabine ventured. "Perhaps he possesses some knowledge that could help your boy."
Though the day was still young, Anders' clinic was already buzzing with activity. Given the weather, the healer was not surprised to find himself treating a slew of sprained and broken limbs. There seemed to be no end to the lineup, yet he was grateful for it, since his patients were all that stood between him and his thoughts. Even so, the events of the previous evening kept reasserting themselves vividly while he mended fractured bones and slapped on bandages.
What now?
All Anders wished for was to take that bloody kiss back. Not because it had been unpleasant – his traitorous body made itself quite clear on that account – but because it had made him hope. Why on earth had Sabine not slapped him? She should have been enraged at his taking advantage of the situation! Instead she had tried to ease his embarrassment. He certainly did not wish to be the type of idiot who mistook kindness for encouragement, but despite his best efforts Anders could not help himself. He hoped. It was a sentiment he had not indulged in since the magnitude of his merger with Justice had sunk in. He was still a man – the coin that he spent towards that effect was proof enough. However, he had an inkling that this particular itch could not be cured with one good tumble.
The conclusion brought a painful wail, as he set a bone rather roughly.
What now? Nothing… She deserves better.
Anders dismissed the banshee he had been treating, and was favoured with a long suffering look before the man shuffled towards the door supported by a family member. As luck would have it, Hawke chose that moment to stride purposefully into the clinic.
"I need your help."
Hawke and Anders followed Arianni as she led them through her modest home to Feynriel's side. Keeper Marethari kept watch over the boy, her expression grim.
"Serah Hawke and I must make preparations, Da'len. Look after Feynriel until we shall be ready," the Keeper asked in gentle tones. She then motioned Hawke and Anders to the kitchen, where she took a seat and waited for them to follow suit.
"You mentioned preparations, Keeper," Sabine observed. "Does that mean you know what is ailing Feynriel?"
"Indeed, Falon'ma. The boy is what the Tevinters call 'somniari', a dreamer. Feynriel is able to enter the Beyond – or the Fade as you call it – at will without the aid of lyrium. From there, he could even shape the dreams of others. Somniari often disposed of their rivals by invading their dreams and driving them mad. Fortunately, dreamers are uncommon – the few that are born with the talent rarely survive to adulthood thanks to the large number of demons they attract."
"You are sending me into the Fade, are you not, Keeper?" Hawke smiled dolorously.
"It is the only way to help the boy, Falon'ma," the venerable Elf replied. "There is still hope for his recovery, providing someone he trusts guides him through this difficult time. There are few people that Feynriel trusts, and only one he worships – you."
The Keeper then proceeded to explain what would be involved, emphasizing that she could sustain the magic required to keep Sabine and Anders in the Fade for a few hours.
"One more thing, Falon'ma. Feynriel cannot become an abomination. The destruction he could cause is unimaginable. If you cannot save him from the demons, you must kill him yourself."
Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose, and shook her head. "I understand, Keeper." She waived Anders to silence when he started protesting, then went on: "I will do as I must, you have my word."
Looking visibly relieved, Marethari prompted them to return to Feynriel's side, and begin the ritual that would send them into the Fade.
"Are you serious about making the boy tranquil?" Anders hissed, grabbing Sabine's arm.
"I am hoping it will not be necessary," Sabine whispered. "We should be able to figure this out between the two of us."
"There is something you should know, Sabine," Anders blurted, suddenly agitated. "I am not myself in the Fade."
Hawke studied him for a few heartbeats before asking whether he'd prefer to stay behind.
"No, I am not letting you do this by yourself. I – he will protect you, have no fear."
"Is there a problem?" Marethari asked, raising a quizzical brow at their hushed conversation.
"No," Anders replied determined. "Let us get this over with, shall we?"
The first time that Sabine had found herself in the Fade, she had been greeted by her father who expressed great pride at her mastering a difficult spell. The world that had presented itself to her eyes then was no different from the real one. The fact that she had possessed no memory of her lesson was declared normal – an opinion which she accepted without hesitation. Malcolm Hawke assured his daughter that memories of the experience would return gradually, with sufficient rest – which she obviously was to get as soon as they'd return to their home. Long, restful sleep was what her father recommended, and she had fully agreed. Never had her bed looked more inviting as on that occasion, and she fell into it exhausted. How infuriating to have sleep evade her! All because the missing memories bothered her. In the end, it turned out that a sloth demon had tried to trap her. Sabine never again questioned her father's lectures on the dangers of the Fade.
The place she presently found herself in was a pale reflection of Kirkwall. Buildings she was familiar with rose around her, though many of them came to an abrupt end, as if a blade had sheared off entire levels and wings.
"We must make haste. I can sense Feynriel's mind straining."
The deep voice startled Hawke. Anders had materialized by her side, though he looked more the knight in his griffon-emblazoned heavy plate, complete with shield and longsword, than the worn traveller she had become accustomed to.
"I did not expect you to take Anders' form, spirit."
"Humans feel more at ease around familiar things, do they not?"
"Forgive me, but I find it rather disturbing to see a friend before me, yet hear a stranger's voice," said Hawke. "Could you adopt a different visage?"
The change happened before her eyes, and in moments, a dark-eyed man with short cropped hair and well-tended beard stood before her.
"Will this suit you, mortal?"
"Perfectly, thank you."
They made their way along the empty streets of an ethereal Kirkwall, their footsteps the only source of sound, until a figure shimmered into existence far ahead.
"Ware whatever comes our way, Hawke," Justice advised in hushed tones. She nodded agreement, then stepped forward to meet the apparition. A smile blossomed on her lips as she recognized the walk and then the features.
"And here we are again," she addressed her father's image.
"I thought you might be in need of assistance," came the fond reply.
"When have I ever accepted any of your offers, Torpor?"
The sloth demon wearing Malcolm Hawke's visage shrugged. "There is a first for everything, is there not?"
Sabine laughed pleasantly. "Not for everything, no."
"This is a demon," Justice hissed. "Why are you exchanging words with it?"
Torpor turned an amused face onto the spirit. "Perceptive, your friend, if rather dull. Warrior spirits have an unfortunate habit of viewing the world in black and white, and forget about all those delicious shades of grey. And they are so righteous about it. But, I daresay, you, Justice, have found out that the world is no simple dichotomy between good and evil."
"Hold your tongue, you foul thing! There is no question as to your nature!" cried Justice indignantly. "We should not be wasting our time with this creature, Hawke."
"You keep such uncouth company," Torpor complained. "I am here to offer my aid, after all."
"Which, I believe, I have already refused," Sabine countered brightly.
Torpor tsked, then smiled impishly. "I can be more persuasive," he murmured, and his features realigned to that of a young man with startling blue eyes, and hair the colour of spun gold.
"Do not try my patience, Torpor," Sabine growled, all the cheer gone from her voice. Meanwhile, Justice quickly drew his sword, readying himself for attack. The sloth demon reverted to Malcolm Hawke's appearance, and raised his palms in a placating gesture.
"Peace, Hawke. I am your friend. There are two others here, vying for Feynriel's attention – one young and greedy for the mortal world; the other ancient, powerful, and proud. Neither of them will take your interference with their plans lightly. If you want the boy to live, do not let him be tempted." Having dispensed its wisdom, the demon faded, then disappeared, allowing silence to settle once again.
"Why would a demon call itself your friend?" Justice rounded on Hawke.
"Torpor has been following me since I was a child, always tempting and testing me. I imagine he finds my presence entertaining. He may call himself my friend, but the two of us have different ideas on what the word means."
"Why have you not slain it yet?"
"Better the enemy you know, and so forth," Sabine replied tartly.
"I find your live and let live attitude infuriating," the spirit remarked with a scowl, then suggested they focus on finding Feynriel.
With Justice on point, they trotted along narrow streets and twisted passages until the scenery lost its ethereal quality. They stopped before an establishment bearing a three-mast barque with wind-filled sails on its sign, and "Vincenzo's Wares" in filigreed letters below.
"Well, here goes nothing," Sabine breathed, then went through the door.
Hawke slammed against the wall, then crumbled to the floor in a heap. Her vision swam as she struggled onto hands and knees. She had not expected such physical force to come from her mother.
"And where have you been? No doubt dallying with that boy again," Leandra cried.
"Boy? What boy?" Sabine whispered. Her mind felt like cotton. It was difficult to focus, but she finally managed to stand, if groggily.
"You were supposed to accompany your father, you were supposed to be there!"
"Wait, I don't understand – "
"Instead you were too busy playing the village tart! Have you no shame?"
"Mother, I – "
"None of this would have happened if you'd been there!"
Sabine's surroundings became clearer, though her head was still spinning. She was in her home in Lothering. "Ah, you filthy thing," she muttered.
"You killed him! You killed him, you foolish girl!" Her mother wailed bitterly.
Sabine lumbered towards her accuser. It felt like moving through mud in a swamp. "Your father is dead because of you," she murmured, tears running down her cheeks.
"Your father is dead because of you!" Leandra sobbed and fell to her knees in despair.
After what seemed an eternity of plodding, Sabine finally stood before her mother. She gently cupped her chin, and lifted her face to look into her eyes.
"That is true," she admitted softly. A thin blade suddenly materialized in her hand, which she slid across Leandra's throat in one swift motion.
Justice held his shield at an angle to deflect the desire demon's flame attack, then lunged with his sword, clipping the creature on her thigh. Hawke stood entranced at the far end of the hall, outside his reach. Now and again he could hear the woman speak, but had trouble making out the words. The desire demon had flung Hawke into that state after Feynriel escaped its clutches. Justice reasoned that keeping her in that state required considerable concentration, as the demon had not managed even a scratch on him. At the same time, it was bleeding from several cuts he had administered.
He readied himself for another attack when the ceiling suddenly burst open and a purple orb materialized in the air. Chords of light lashed out of the orb and fastened themselves around the demon's neck. The chords lifted the struggling figure high above the ground, while others wrapped around its hands and feet, spread-eagling the creature.
Presently, Hawke walked slowly towards Justice, her eyes fixed on the helpless demon. She tilted her head, while a slow smile spread on her face. She then finally snapped her fingers, and the creature was dismembered.
"I will not be toyed with," Hawke snarled.
They found Feynriel in a courtyard, surrounded by the Dalish, with Keeper Marethari naming him a saviour of the Elves. His power would no doubt restore the ancient race!
"Embrace your destiny, Da'len!"
"Do not let yourself be tempted, Feynriel," Hawke cried, though her voice and appearance were that of First Enchanter Orsino. "Keeper Marethari would never encourage recklessness. You know it to be true."
The half-Elven boy finally recognized the trap for what it was, and fled the scene, restoring Hawke to her usual form. The pride demon that had taken the Keeper's form struck at once, furious at the interference.
"Distract him for me," Hawke commanded, then disappeared in a trail of cold mist.
Justice had little time to contemplate how much he disliked being given orders by the likes of Hawke, as the pride demon – now in its true and most terrifying form – swung its club-like hands at him. He caught glimpses of Hawke behind the demon, encased in ghostly armour and wielding matching blades. Once again, she disappeared within a trail of mist. It brushed against the backs of the pride demon's knees, and the creature toppled howling. Hawke had hamstrung it. Justice did not waste another moment, and jumped high into the air – higher than any mortal could have done outside the Fade – plunging his sword into the demon's heart.
Taking strength from Hawke's encouragement to master his gift, Feynriel left the Fade.
"You have done well," Justice commended.
"We both have," Hawke replied. She studied the spirit for one long moment before venturing a question: "Can the two of you really not be separated?"
Justice turned a severe look on her, then shook his head slightly. "I know I have caused Anders grief. The way things have turned out – it was unexpected. But some good may still come of it. I could give him the strength to free his brethren of the Templars' tyranny. I should like to return here once that will have been accomplished. I am uncertain whether that would be possible, however. Truth be told, I do not know how to let go."
"But you would let go, if you could?"
Justice beheld the woman, surprised by her anxious expression. "Of course. I gave my word. But I can see that you doubt that I should hold to it. You think that I have been twisted into a demon of vengeance, have you not? I am loathe to admit, but my friend has changed me. Then again, I started changing the moment I stepped outside the Fade."
"There is a legend," Hawke began. "Hanal'ghilan – the golden Halla – is said to have once had many brethren. But they had all disappeared. So, Hanal'ghilan set out to learn what had happened to them. It turned out that an evil mage, fascinated by the beauty of the golden Halla, had captured them – all but Halan'ghilan – and cast them into the sea. The Halla could only roam the lands at twilight, before the mage's pet dragon turned them back into the sea. And the mage watched them every eve. Eventually, Halan'ghilan slayed the mage and his dragon, and freed his brethren. On the way, however, he was changed into a mortal by a friendly witch. She thought it would be the only way to protect him from the mage. In the end, he regained his true form, yet his soul was forever changed. You see, having lived a mortal life – if only briefly – had marked him. It is said that to this day Halan'ghilan is restless."
"I am not Justice any longer," said the spirit. "And I shall never be again. Is that what you are trying to tell me?"
Hawke turned a disconsolate look onto him. "Neither is Anders."
Silence stretched between them before Justice went on: "What had marked Halan'ghilan during his time as a mortal?"
"Love."
Anders woke with a start. A sharp head ache flared up while all the memories from the Fade tumbled through his mind. Feynriel was in his mother's arms, who was weeping with relief. Keeper Marethari still sat on the floor, maintaining the ancient Elven magic that had sent him and Hawke into the Fade. The latter was still slumbering. Anders went to her side, running his fingers along her cheek, worried at her tarrying. To his relief, however, her eyes fluttered open moments later. A fond smile bloomed on her face.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," she breathed.
They took their leave shortly after, warmed by the gratitude Keeper Marethari, Arianni and her son expressed. And then, Anders found himself seated at a small table in Hawke's drawing room, an assortment of cold cuts and cheeses set before him. He could not remember how he had made his way to her home.
"You've been awfully quiet," Sabine remarked, picking at some dried dates.
"I am still trying to wrap my head around what happened in the Fade," Anders replied thoughtfully. "I feel grudging admiration towards you. I am guessing that would be your effect on Justice."
"Well, I'll take that as a compliment," Hawke chuckled, popping a piece of cheese into her mouth. "So, you were the passenger over there?"
"Indeed. Most unpleasant. I cannot begin to describe to you the frustration associated with losing control of your body. Being forced to go on a tour with someone else making the decisions is unbearable. Yet it must be how Justice feels all the time."
"'Tis a wonder he hasn't taken over yet," Sabine observed, brows arched.
"Speaks volumes on his character," Anders agreed, going for a pitted olive. "So you have a demon for a friend. And yet you call me crazy."
Sabine rolled her eyes. "Torpor is not a friend. Not precisely. My father has done an admirable job of frightening the living daylight out of Bethany and myself with his tales on the Fade. Still, I owe Torpor whatever willpower I have to resist the tricks demons would play on me over there. That desire demon tried for a very low blow. Luckily enough, Torpor put me through such things before."
"That young man he turned into – he looked so familiar."
"I am not surprised," Sabine shrugged. "He is a member of the Ferelden circle, after all. Though he joined far later than you have. His name is Rian Mora." Asked when the man had joined precisely, Sabine gave an approximation of three years before the Blight.
"Ah, that would explain why I cannot place him exactly," Anders remarked. "I spent most of that time in the dungeons. I suspect you haven't heard from your friend in a while. The Templars have clamped down in Ferelden as well."
Sabine rose from her seat, and stood before the window. She parted the curtains slightly, and watched the snowy outdoors for some time before going on: "It is not because of the Templars that I do not hear from him anymore. You see, Tranquil are not much for keeping up a correspondence."
Anders slowly put down the cold cut he had lifted halfway to his mouth. "He's one of the Tranquil," he said quietly. "I remember him now. There was quite the kerfuffle when he was brought in. I am not sure what it was about, however, nor why he was made tranquil. It was strange, though, because he was a gifted mage, as far as I can recall."
"Rian was very gifted," Sabine agreed. "As to the reason behind his fate, I believe it may be related to his liberal attitude towards blood magic."
"He practiced it then?" Anders carefully asked.
"Yes."
"And you?"
Hawke turned haunted eyes on him, then smiled sorrowfully. "I was very young."
Anders looked away, unsure of his feelings regarding such a revelation. Sabine was quick to grab a chair and seat herself facing him.
"I have no right to judge," he began quietly, working his jaw. "Maker knows, I have done – well, you know what terrible things I have done."
She lifted his face gently, and held his gaze. "And here I am, diminished in your eyes. Nothing scares me more than blood magic. It might be considered a tool, but I cannot think of any man-made item that requires lifeblood to run. I used it once, in grief. But no magic in the world – no matter how powerful – can bring back the dead. I paid the price for it. I nearly exsanguinated. Rian managed to snatch me back from death's door in time – a thing I cursed him for. I regret having done so to this day, and would give a limb to take my words back." She tenderly hooked a golden lock behind his ear. "We have both done terrible things, Anders. Still, I see you. Do you see me?"
"I see you, Sabine," came the soft reply.
"Then take my hand and walk with me through this world of sorrow," she whispered, and pressed her lips against his. He responded hungrily. Yet he felt compelled to tear himself away, and managed to do so shortly, albeit with great reluctance.
"Here you are, and I see you, and you are not diminished in my eyes," he breathed. "But I am fighting a losing battle. I cannot bear to put you through that – and you know the end will come sooner rather than later."
"Will you not accept what little happiness this world has to offer to people like us?"
"Not if it will end in your sorrow," he whispered hoarsely. "Sabine, I can't."
Anders rose then, and with a heavy heart, left behind the only thing he had ever really wanted in life.