The Fade

"They are coming. This one can feel them, but does not know if he is among the group," the spirit doesn't grumble. It doesn't understand annoyance or frustration, but it's voice takes on a deeper tone that, in a human, would be mistake for such a feeling. "These wretched ghosts, will they never stop banging their swords against their shields! How can this one concentrate, when they clamour so? Do they not understand their role in the way the world must be?"

Through the flickering blue light of the portal the voice arrives, hallow like the speaker is lost miles underground. But it is still recognisable, its silky smooth texture marred by the stain of its true nature. "Who comes?" The question arrives fast and urgent, travelling via one of the many doorways used by the inhabitants of this pseudo landscape.

The Fade is riddled with such wormholes, backdoors and tunnels that allow them to traverse the territory, some to escape the humans, others to court them. Since the Maker abandoned his country, the land of dreams has been a forgotten waste, populated only by dreamers, the dead, and the spirits who had once known peace there. The land of dreams had once been a heaven from the world, a poem and a love letter from the Maker to all his children, a reflection of the promises He made to them made real. Now it is fractured and torn, beautiful perhaps like a broken mirror, but no longer fit for purpose. The spirit stands near the battlements of the castle, its body straight and to attention. This is how the spirit knows it must stand.

The spirit concentrates, trying to focus despite the growing commotion that surrounds it, a riot that is only awaiting the right word to take full effect. "This one cannot … there is a dwarf, the land distorts around him, he is like a rock in a river, he blocks the tide, he angers the earth. Can you not sense it?" The dwarf is painful, unwelcome and unexpected. The flow of the land, the song that guides and protects the spirit becomes silent in the presence of the dwarf. It is worse than blindness; it is complete absence. Where there should have been the silvery slight threads that lay like patchwork over the world, directing it and channelling it, there is simply silence.

"We are too far from you, this one senses only that they live, and they are here." The hybrid, distant voice for a moment sounds uncertain, "This party is so small. We must know, is he among them?"

"There is an elf, and two humans. They are polluted, tarnished."

"This should not affect the way the world must be," the voice returns strong once again, as if there was never a moment of doubt. The spirit does not wonder at this, nor is it dismayed. It is not human and does not need to be reassured by a strong hand the way they seem to; moments of weakness in its allies do not cause it waiver in its beliefs, and it knows that it's partners feel the same. The four of them have always felt the same, have always seen the truth that blinds their world with its brightness.

"We do not require he lives long," the voice continues, "merely long enough."

The party of mortals moves closer. Now the spirit can hear the song, discordant and bastardised perhaps, but it is there, it is enough. "There is a mage in the party," focusing the spirit strains to hear the subtle shifts in the tone and rhythm, but the landscape is muted and dull and it cannot focus. "He is a mage, but is he the one we seek…" the spirit wonders, knowing the answer cannot be given by his companions.

"If it is not the one we have prepared.." the voice drifts into silence.

If it is not the one they have prepared then all is lost. The four have waited they know not how long. They have watched the human lands fall to each other, and have worked hard to manoeuvre the world into its current shape. And yet, everything is so delicate. The mage is but one strand in the weave, but it must be him, and it must be now if they are to succeed. There have been difficulties. The Magister is an issue, though the spirit's companions were shaping and crafting the Tevinter with a finesse that bordered on the beautiful: drifting through time, through his dreams, leading him as a horse is led. Keeping him away from the warrior is a problem larger than they had predicted, but nevertheless they were succeeding. The warrior himself is, thankfully, following their design nigh perfectly. And yet now it is possible that the mage who approaches is not the one they have groomed.

"The Blight has disrupted the way the world must be?" the spirit asks, it's voice betraying no anxiety though the unspoken question is understood – are we too late?

The crowd are openly jeering now, throwing rocks and clumps of earth over the tall gate. Soon the fight will begin. The spirit turns to watch them as they rile themselves up, each taking courage from the empty bravado of his kinsman. Not for the first time the spirit wonders at the choice of the Maker, to give the world to such howling beasts, little more than animals fighting and rutting their way to the grave. There is no parity, no -

"Perhaps.", the voice continues, cutting across the spirit's train of thought. "It is difficult to understand the time, the time moves.. it is rigid and yet it seems to be constantly in flight, it is hard to follow it in the way the humans do. But this one is told that all is not lost. Hope remains, though Faith has left."

The spirit turns to face the pale blue light of the portal, "Faith succeeded?"

"In every way. Faith is now in place. She awaits her moment, and thus awaits only us."

"Has she recounted… what is it like to be?" The spirit does not try to check the desire in its voice, understanding how futile the attempt would be.

"Yes. She says it is all we wish for, it is everything you knew it to be and more." The voice, soft like silk, drops low as it speaks those words, and the thick heady thrum of its lust drifts through the portal, arousing the spirit as it takes in the words. There is a moment of silence; the space between the locations of the two is filled with their need. The spirit rallies, though the sense of it's desires is now strong in it. "The way the world must be, for the forgotten children. I am unable still to sense the manner of the mage who approaches. The dwarf, he distorts the world."

"Hope says… Hope says he is here. This one trusts."

"This one trusts also."

"I," the voice reminds the spirit, not unkindly. "I trust. Do not forget."

"Yes… I trust." The spirit's answer is slow. It tastes the unfamiliar word, trying to create a sense of individual self that it has never experienced before. Its identity had, until it had met the others, always been fixed, tethered to the world and deaf to all but the music. Now it is aware of itself and, like it's companions, the spirit finds the sensation both confusing and exhilarating. It knows now that it is distinct from the world around it, that it is not of the land of dreams in the way it had always believed. The spirit was awoken, and looked at the world of men and the land of the dreams and had understood immediately what needed to be changed. The spirit had not needed to be convinced to rebalance the scales. "I will not forget," it says the unfamiliar word again with more conviction, "I will not fail."

"You understand the way the world must be." The voice confirms, knowing it to be true. "They approach?"

"Yes.. they are attracted by the noise of this rabble. They bark at the gate like dogs, unaware they are neutered and emasculated. But it attracts the group, it attracts the mage."

"And Pride?"

"This one- I have met with Pride."

"Then there was no covenant." It is not a question, the voice knows the answer already. Too often in the past they had attempted to recruit their kinsfolk to their cause, and too often they had met with disappointment or betrayal, more so when dealing with the Pride spirits. The spirit recalls all too keenly the anger it had felt when the last Pride spirit they had dealt with had betrayed them, taking the body of the Warden and hiding from them in the land of awakening like the craven it is. The spirit remembers how it had watched its companions work tirelessly to prepare the woman, to pitch her hopes, her desires and her faith in herself so perfectly that when Pride had visited her she had accept him gladly. The spirit remembers, and does not mourn the fact that this new Pride spirit is so similar to it's kin. The spirit finds it hopes that, when it too is in the land of awakening, it may cross paths with Sophia Dryden, the cave in which the Pride spirit continues to hide.

"No. We were denied." The spirit confirms, it's voice level. It's desires are known to the voice, it does not need to speak them aloud. "Perhaps this is what we need however. The humans, they will rally to the cause of their brethren, and they will see me distinct, anew; I am not Pride, they will not call me demon. The mage... He is the one."

"You are certain?"

The spirit smiles. "I can feel your influence in him. He desires freedom, he desires revenge, he desires respect, love, sex. He is unaware how deeply these desires run, how they influence him. It is.. Magnificent. You have made him desire justice for the trespasses against him, imagined and actual. He hates the world and pities himself."

The voice sighs, the sound travelling through the Fade like a kiss, "This one thanks you. Now you must sate his desire, he must succumb. We step closer to our goal, and this one envies you your role. Remember what you need to accomplish." The pitch of the voice rose, as all that needed to be done looms heavy between them. "The Hero must open the door, The Champion must be divided, the consecrated order must fall-"

"I understand, do not fear my failure." The spirit interrupts. They all share the same anxieties, but it does them no good to dwell on them. For a moment, the spirit remembers a time when all it had felt was the song; anger when the humans invaded the land, disrupting the tune, and desire when a mage enter the Fade, bringing their own symphony with them. But the spirit does not bemoan its new understanding. Without knowing the disparity, it would not be able to recognise what justice was. The way the world must be. That is what is important. "Look to the warrior," he counselled the voice, "His preparation is the cornerstone now. "

"Do you doubt us?" the voice responded without rancour.

"I am committed in the way the world must be, as I know you both to be. I do not doubt. I only seek to acknowledge the difficulty in the attempt. The mage and his companions are apon me. I will speak to you once it is done."

The voice accepts what the spirit says, there is no reasons to believe they would mislead each other.

"Go well, Justice. Our will is with you in our endeavour."

"And mine with you", the spirit replies.

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