A/N: I was always looking forward to doing is section, because it always bothered me that the Wardens' so called 'nightmare' was of Duncan regardless of origin. After all that trauma in their pasts, you'd think they'd have something a little more harrowing (har har) to dream of. Since my Wardens are a rather shrewd bunch, they don't quite fall for the tricks the demon has up his sleeve, though their return to past memories does provide them with much to reflect on. Enjoy!
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Thirty-Six. The Wardens: Lost in Dreams.
When Arlindria opens her eyes after the enchanting whispers of the deformed demon in the Circle Tower clear from her mind, Trian is standing in front of her, wearing his full ceremonial armor from the day he was murdered by Bhelen. Oddly enough, he is irrefutably alive. His chest rises and falls in the proper rhythm of breathing, and there are no wounds in his chest or cuts in his armor where the fatal blow had pierced him. In fact, he is gazing down on Arlindria with the same imperious and annoyed expression he reserved especially for her back when he was alive. All the same, she is as well versed in the natural laws of the universe as any educated Chantry scholar, and knows that what she sees in front of her is realistically impossible. The dead stay dead unless acted upon by a corrupt magical force. When the dead walk again, their soul is no longer within them. They are not who they say they are.
"Arlindria," the Trian-imposter says in a voice that perfectly imitates that of her departed brother. "Daddy's little favorite. It seems for all your effort, nothing will ever come of what you worked so hard to achieve. Tell me, did it kill you inside to have me as an obstacle in your way for all of these years? Did you ever wish to draw that sword of yours across my throat?"
"Thing of fell magic, I will not hear you. There is nothing you can say that will lead me to hate myself more than I already do." She pulls out her sword and points it at the exact spot where his skin had been broken by Bhelen's machinations "Bodies that contain the knowledge of death do not fear it a second time. I will return this vessel to the Stone, and you that possess it to your maker."
"Now, now, sister, will you commit that unforgivable act yourself? There will be consequences. Forget that crown ever touching your head, and forget all about your delusions of honor. You will be better served slaying yourself with that sword than you will me."
"I seek atonement before I seek death, spirit. I am no human with reverence or fear for magic. You will never force me to fold!"
She thrusts her blade forward, driving it through his armor and into his chest. She holds it there for a moment, meeting his soulless eyes before removing it and allowing him to disintegrate to dust at her feet. I am sorry, Trian. I did not wish to bear witness to this again, but nothing can be done. This occurrence was my greatest fear, my living nightmare. I knew if my mind ever found its way against all odds to the land of dreams, I would find you here.
She turns around. The figures of her father, Bhelen, and Gorim are standing there, staring at her in awe and revulsion. She knows that these too are not real, but the life-like sight of their faces strikes her with a pang of misery. The other demons in the tower had been horrendous beings, forces of rage and corruption and lust that seduced the senses and performed acts of physical brutality. But what she sees surrounding her, the unreal bodies of those she both loved and hated the most, is an especially biting form of cruelty. It's as if her inner most soul has been intruded upon and used against her in order to bring her to the point of misery and desperation, a point where she will be forced to choose death for herself rather than live eternally with these shadows.
"I'm sorry father, brother," she whispers, brandishing her blade. "I can't die here now. There is no other way."
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It is no question for Dulcia that she is dreaming. She's experienced this nightmare so many times that she has learned to separate it from her reality and remind herself that the people dying in front of her are not truly her parents, but shades of the people she remembers them to be. If she concentrates hard enough, she can sense the many discrepancies within their imperfect forms. The texture of her mother's skin is wrong, and her father's eyes are devoid of their usual glimmer. The blood that pours from them is too thin and cool like water, and the color of it is inaccurate, more black than the deep red she remembers.
She kneels down and takes their hands in hers. In a few minutes, this will all be over. I'll wake up and it will go away. This isn't real. The people I am losing right now aren't really you.
"Dulcia, my darling," the memory of her father murmurs, his breath hoarse and unsteady, "no more tears. Do not trouble yourself. Close your eyes and join us in our slumber."
She starts, instinctively dropping their hands. Out of all the times she's had this nightmare, he'd never said such a thing to her before. His words always resembled the promise he'd exacted from her during the true event, his pleas for her to follow Duncan and live the life their sacrifices had granted for her. Why would he beg her to stay? Her father would never consent to the death of his only daughter, even if she had begged him to allow her the privilege of dying beside him.
"Only death will set you free, my child," her mother whispers. "Let your revenge go so that you may sleep peacefully beside us. Everything will sort itself on its own. There is no reason to fight it anymore."
Revenge. The word clicks something in Dulcia's mind, restoring her dormant memories. Asha'nan. Lady Revenge. I am here to dispose of Arl Howe and Teryn Loghain for their treachery against my loved ones. I am a Warden of Ferelden, and this dream is a trap to make me give up on our quest. These are not my parents, and there is no feeling to the words they speak.
She pulls her sword from her back, her hands shaking. "This perversion ends here," she sobs, her eyes shrouded with tears at the thought of the unthinkable deed she is about the commit. "Maker, make this swift and painless. For them and for me."
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"There you are! Thought you could run away from me, hmm?"
Nesiara is staring down at him, smiling brightly as if there is something to be happy over. Smiling and winking. She looks so painfully joyous that Alain closes his eyes so he won't have to look at her anymore. He blinks once. Twice. When he opens his eyes, she is still there.
"Why are you here?" he asks, trying to remember where 'here' is. It looks like the Alienage, but it's foggy and distorted as if he is merely dreaming it. Perhaps he is. He cannot imagine another reason his old fiancée would be with him other than that this vision of her is in actuality a nightmare.
"We're getting married, silly," she laughs, stroking his cheek affectionately. "Shianni said you were a bit slow, but I thought you would remember something as important as this."
"We can't get married," he snaps, batting her hand away. "I'm—"
But for some reason, he can't think of his reason to reject her. There was one, wasn't there? He remembers distantly a time when he'd puzzled through this almost-marriage, and uncovered the possible reason why he had found it to be so distasteful. Had that been a dream? Or is this the dream? The former seems to be the more likely scenario, given that it is Alienage custom to get married around his age, and the fact that he'd somehow managed to escape this woman the first time around didn't mean he was guaranteed to pull a repeat performance.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm your betrothed. I'm here for the sole purpose of being bonded to you so that the two of us can live happily." She leans into him, pulling his face towards her. Her kiss is so cold and jarring that he leaps back in surprise, shoving her away from him and onto the ground.
There is a reason I don't want this, he coaches himself. Why can't I remember it? Scattered memories flash before his eyes in incomplete fragments. Holding the Joining chalice to his lips. Hearing the sounds of Loghain's retreat at Ostagar. Looking at the Alienage through the Denerim gate with Zevran. Seeing the look of cold determination on Alixire's face as she stepped into the Circle Tower.
"I remember why I can't marry you," Alain says, drawing his blade. "I'm not in love with you."
"What a silly thing to say. Love will come later if you bide your time and bring yourself to know me better."
"No, that's not it." He takes a step forward, pressing his sword against her heart. "The man you're looking for doesn't exist. And neither do you. You're a dream that I've given up believing in, and it's time for me to wake up now." He pierces her against his steel, leaning into her as if he is sparing her at least one embrace before he sends her back to oblivion. "Goodbye, Nesiara. I'm sorry I can't be the person you hoped I would be."
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"Hannon," Tamlen's voice calls out to him from deep in the forest. "Mahariel! If you go any slower, we'll never reach the ruins before dark."
Such familiar words. This has happened to me once before, Hannon realizes. But it's different this time. The world has gone blurry. I can't hear the voices of the birds or the whispers of the trees.
He stops running. He can't remember starting to begin with, but who ever remembers the beginning of dreams? It is the course of things to be dumped in a nonsensical place in the middle, and go along with where it leads you. And Hannon is willing to be led by it, for the time being. He had left things unresolved the last time he had ventured to this place, and now might be the last chance he has to make amends with whatever demons of guilt still plague him.
"Tamlen!" he calls back to the defiled shape of his friend. "Stay a moment. It won't hurt to wait just a few more minutes."
"That's unusual for you, Hannon. I thought you'd want first crack at the treasure." The figure slows its pace and turns back to face Hannon. The face is true to its original, but it lacks the life that Tamlen so effortlessly possessed, the particular mischievous gleam that set his eyes apart from the other men and women in the clan. It's almost laughable to Hannon that he is supposed to believe this twisted creation is his friend. Tamlen had been so special to him that he would have been able to tell whether it was or wasn't him even if the copy had been perfectly formed. A true friend is never fooled by these sorts of illusions.
"I have something to say to you, lethallin," Hannon tells him, keeping his tone even. "The you my heart remembers is probably beyond hearing these words now, but I must say them in hopes that the wind will carry them to you, wherever you are." He pauses, bowing his head. "I am sorry. I should have saved you in time, but I didn't. It is a burden I will always bear, but I am happy to be shouldered with it if it means I will always have this thread to tie me to you. That is all."
Tamlen screws his face up into his old look of confusion. "What do you mean, lethallin? I'm right here. What do you mean you didn't save me?"
"Don't trouble yourself over it, shadow. The one who was meant to hear those words will understand, even if you do not." He picks up his bow, and strings an arrow through it. "Go on ahead, Tamlen. I'll cover your back."
"Keep up if you can!" Tamlen cries, darting ahead with his powerful strides, running with a stolen levity until Hannon's arrow drives through the spot between his shoulder blades, dropping him to his knees and dissolving him to dust on the forest floor.
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The fact that she has never before dreamed in her life makes it easy for Britomart to tell that the things happening to her do not belong in her normal sphere of existence. The world is unclear, for one. The lines and limits that should be stable shift and blur, causing colors to melt into one another before separating into their original forms. And on top of that, there are people here that she knows are back in Orzammar. At least she thinks Rica and her mother and the carta thugs she used to work with wouldn't come to the surface just for the delight of torturing her.
"Freak!" someone yells from the crowd surrounding her. A rock grazes her arm, sailing past into the foggy oblivion. "Someone like you is better off dead. Do us all a favor and go back to the stone you came from!"
"Why couldn't you have been like your sister?" her mother jeers. "You never did me any good, you selfish little brat."
"That's a good imitation of my mother, demon," Britomart quips, throwing a dagger into the monster's chest. "But you forgot the alcohol breath."
The other demons hiss, the illusions covering their bodies flickering somewhat as the specter portraying her mother crumbles to dust. The false Rica steps forward, placing her hands on their shoulders as if to soothe their anger. Their proper coverings return, but with less detail than before.
"Peace, sister," she says, smiling wryly at Britomart. "Why be so angry at those who speak the truth. You are what you are. Unworthy. Unlovable. Cruel to the bone. What makes you think you know yourself better than these people who have known you all your life do? You are a heartless, foolish girl with no virtue deeper than your own physical strength. Your heart is an aberration and a flaw. It must be purged. If you do not do it, we will do so ourselves."
"Rica," Britomart says, though she knows her words are meaningless. "Don't say these words to me you don't mean. I have hurt you deeply with similar accusations, so I know you would not honestly and with all your heart say them back to me. That is what you have taught me. I am different now."
"Different? Ha! Do not dismiss the wrong that you do with empty words. You cannot change who you are. It is already too late."
"I don't feel that way anymore. And when I next see you in person, I know you'll feel the way I do." She lifts up her remaining dagger and pulls her arm back in preparation of throwing it. "Had you sought me out a few weeks earlier, you would have found me to be easy prey, demon. But things are changing for all of us. We won't be defeated by ourselves anymore. Not even me."
With one last sad smile, she hurls the dagger into her sister's chest, closing the door on the first and worst dream she'd ever had.
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The sloth demon doesn't put much effort into fooling Alixire. There is little point to it. She is a mage; she knows the Fade like the back of her hand, and like Hannon, she has an adeptness for sensing magic in others. The figure in front of her is clearly not Cullen and is a shoddy representation of him at best, though the demon certainly possessed the ability of peering into her mind to see how he truly appeared. Maybe he realized it didn't matter. Simply provoking her thoughts of whether or not Cullen is alive is enough to break her. She doesn't know if this will be the last time she will witness a form even remotely close to the shape of his body again. A part of her doesn't want to know the truth.
"I will wait for you," she tells the figure, her heart throbbing in her chest. "I will wait for you, alive or dead, no matter how long it takes."
"You could stay here with me," the imitation says, pressing her hand against the place where his heart would be. "You don't know what fate awaits you out there. It's uncertain. Me being here with you for what remains of your life… that's certain."
"Life isn't that easy. We were made to make hard choices, and to suffer for things we never wanted to happen. Rather than taking the easy road, I'll go on. Even if I regret it."
"Very well." The demon shifts to its true form, its red eyes fixing on her. "Just be prepared, mage. Who you are means an inevitable road of pain awaits you. Today you may survive, but we will force you to succumb one day. It is the fate of your kind."
"Do your worst," she says, lifting her staff. "I have things to live for that are stronger than your will to take them away from me. I'd wrestle with the Maker himself to keep them safe. To me, you are nothing."
Her staff glows as she concentrates the full strength of her magic at the demon. Wait for me Cullen, she prays, feeling the stone rendition of Andraste's headdress weighing heavily in her pocket. I'm on my way.
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Coming Up: Alixire finally finds what she is looking for, but will she make it in time to keep him from turning his heart completely against her for what she is?