The crystalline jigsaw resolves into a jagged mosaic of consciousness. Sensation is rapidly catalogued into touch and sound: a woman's voice hisses sinister gibberish somewhere above my head while a hard surface presses up against the weight of my body. I can move my hands; they are not bound as they were—wherever I was, but loose (was I released here, and THEN there?). I brush my fingers over the familiar, dense grain, over the knots in the wood and the softer circles where I never remember to use a coaster. My eyes fly open in alarm: I'm belly-up on my coffee table, of all places. I'm in my living room—I'm home. I've been home this whole time. That bitch.
That bitch is kneeling behind my head, spine bowed in exultation as she chants in harsh Tevinter, a knifepoint aimed at my heart.
Your instincts won't save you, Fenris once warned me. Bull-fucking-shit they won't. I roll—instinctively—as her chant reaches a screaming crescendo, and she drives the dagger home with a force that would have parted muscle and bone like the prow of a warship through calm water, had I actually been there. But I'm not. I'm already on my feet when the thunk of metal on wood startles her out of her trance. Her glacier-blue eyes pop open in surprise and annoyance, and find me, exactly where she doesn't expect me to be.
"Hi," I snarl. My fist snaps across her face with an immensely satisfying snap of bone and cartilage. She rocks backward, whimpering, and lands splayed on her back with her neck bent against the dresser where someone keeps his clothes. Her eyes roll towards the back of her head like marbles, and she slumps.
A giggle of hysteria bubbles from my lips. Something ominously fluid rattles in my lungs, and I drop to my knees, tasting blood. "Hadriana, I presume," I wheeze to the magister's limp form. I roll onto my back, chuckling wetly. I've just punched out a magister, in my living room, after snapping out of a nightmare she created for me. I'm still dressed in just the oversized hoodie, I'm surrounded by slavers' corpses, and I am about to die, drowning on dry land. Why can't I stop laughing?
I squeeze my eyes shut against a spasm of pain, opening them again as soon as it passes. I spent too long with them closed. I'm free—it's better to go eyes wide open. It has to be, or there's no way I'll be able to face what comes next.
Fenris—I'm so sorry—
My ears pop, abrupt in the deepening silence. A solid boot lands beside my head with a soft thud. Two blunt fingers tap against my neck, seeking my weakening pulse under the skin. Glass clinks against my teeth as a bottle is pressed to my lips. My mouth fills with lemongrass and henna and dirt, and I cough on the rush of liquid on my tongue. Gloved hands hoist me into a half-sitting position, and I find myself cradled against leather and skin and—chest hair. A lot of chest hair.
"Hurry up and do your thing, Blondie—"
"I'm trying, but there's not enough—wait, there!"
Blue-white light washes over me, covering me like a blanket. My whole body begins to tingle, starting with my fingertips and spreading inwards toward my core. The death-rattle of blood in my lungs miraculously begins to ease; I curl one hand around the bottle and gulp greedily.
"That's it—down the hatch."
I blink fuzzily, unable to bring my rescuer's features into focus beyond a general impression of a heavy jaw liberally shadowed with stubble. It probably says something about the way my night (my life) has been going that I am less surprised to see him, in the flesh,than I am to see him instead of anyone else. He smirks, full-lipped mouth twisting towards eyes the color of honey. "Varric Tethras at your service, milady," he introduces himself, nodding deeply in an approximation of a courtly bow.
I've punched out a magister, in my living room. I've fought through the Fade. I'm surrounded by slavers' corpses, I was about to die, and Varric Tethras just called me milady. I'm not even wearing pants. No wonder I can't stop laughing. "Erin Campbell, at yours," I snort back. I push myself off his lap, gasping sharply when my injuries vehemently protest.
"Easy, sweetheart." A strong hand steadies me as my vision spins, preventing me from toppling face first into the feathered pauldron covering his shoulder. "You aren't fully healed yet." We haven't been formally introduced, but—"
"I know who you are," I quickly interrupt him; this is weird enough without it getting weird and awkward. "Um. Nice to see you again."
Claws click and scrabble across the hardwood floor with the telltale rhythm of a canine limp. I scramble to my feet, trying not to slip in pools of congealing blood (I'm not freaking out why would I be freaking out are you freaking out of course not so I'm not freaking out—). Scooter trembles against my leg; I kneel beside her and bump my hand against the crossbow bolt stuck in her side. "You're a good dog," I murmur, stroking my palm over her snout. "Anders, can you—?"
"I'll try," he promises, hands already suffused with blue-white light.
"Shit—was that mine?" Varric asks, amiable expression momentarily darkening with contrition.
I shake my head distractedly. "It was that guy's," I assure him, jerking my chin at a corpse no different from the other half-dozen scattered over the floor. "That, on the other hand, was yours."
He follows my gaze to the bolt still solidly embedded in my wall, surrounded by dry-erase facts and figures. "Not one of my better shots," he remarks.
Anders stands, the glow fading from between his fingers. "I've done what I can," he tells me, tone laced with regret. "There isn't enough magic left in the air to draw from. If we could get you to my clinic—"
A muffled groan from the floor cuts him off, and I shake myself back into gruesome reality. There are bigger, other pressing matters afoot that require immediate attention. Like pants.
The ambush left the bedroom relatively untouched. I test the switch to the overhead fan, encouraged when light immediately floods the cluttered room. My glasses are still on the nightstand; my surroundings are brought into sharp relief as I hurriedly push them onto my face. A navy blue button down is draped carelessly over the arm of the desk chair; a pair of black pants lays on the floor beside a crumpled black dress, removed in a hurry. Tangled sheets and pillows kicked to the floor bear witness to something passionate. Something recent. There were two people in this room, in this bed. I was one of them. And the other—
I duck into the closet and quickly wiggle into my favorite pair of Levis and a deep-sky-blue tank top I definitely didn't buy just because it's Fenris's favorite color. Metal and leather rattle together, disturbed by my acrobatics; I jerk my foot out of the way barely in time to avoid a clawed gauntlet as it topples to the floor.
A tightness that has nothing to do with my half-mended ribs squeezes through my chest and into my throat. Tears burn under my glasses, and I all but slam the closet door behind me. He's trickled back in bits and pieces; here, with his minty-static musk still clinging to the sheets, in our place, among our things, he's a flood.
Fenris is real. He's been real this whole time.
I'm not crazy.
"You'd better get in here," Anders warns quietly from the doorway. "She's awake."
Yet. I'm not crazy yet. I nod, scrubbing the damp trails from my cheeks with the back of my hand. The tears solidify into a lump of salt and ice in the pit of my stomach, and I take a deep breath. When this is over. I'll cry when this is over.
Varric holds Hadriana hostage, Bianca (come on, like she needs any other introduction) drawn to a tautness I could probably make sing if I thought he'd let me near her. I slip around him to perch on the edge of the coffee table, putting my back to the dagger meant for my heart. The magister glares at me with thinly-veiled contempt. That dark well of hysteria threatens to bubble over again, and I feel the corners of my mouth pull towards my ears. I don't feel right calling it a smile. You smile when you're happy, and I'm fairly certain this isn't happy. "I'm going to ask you a question," I start.
"How dare you!" she demands. "I am a magister of the Tevinter Imperium—"
"You're on your back in a pool of blood with a gorgeous crossbow held to your throat," I cackle. "'Magister' means dick-all."
"D'you hear that, Bianca?" Varric croons. "Even she knows you're gorgeous."
"So let's start again," I continue, as if he hadn't spoken. "I have a question. You're going to answer it."
"You think your dwarf frightens me?" she scoffs.
"Not a bit." My expression feels frozen in a grimace, and a black gratification spreads through me when Hadriana shifts nervously. "But I will. I don't want money, I don't want power. And I know four words that will make your bargain worthless."
"What bargain?"
"I know about Varania." She blanches as though I'd raised my fist to her, pale eyes widening in true appreciation of just how fucked she is, and I smirk. "That bargain."
Hadriana's gaze flicks between Anders and Varric, trying to decide which poses the greater threat, before settling on me. The ingratiating smile looks strange on her narrow face, too large for a countenance more accustomed to contempt. I doubt she's any happier with the situation than I am. "What do you wish to know?" she asks tremulously.
I bare my teeth at her, feeling predatory and vicious in the face of this small victory. Weaponless, motionless, defenseless me, and I'm still scarier than a possessed apostate and a dwarven marksman. "Where was Fenris taken?" I demand.
"Through the gap," she answers readily.
Walked into that one. "And after that?"
"Danarius plans to return to Tevinter," Hadriana replies after a moment's careful thought. A ghost of a sneer curls her lip. "Fenris will be a slave once more."
Over my dead body. Nevermind the fact that not even half an hour ago, that was a very real possibility. I will skip into the ninth circle of Hell and feed the Devil from the palm of my hand before I let that happen. "When?" I snarl quietly.
Her sneer returns in full force. "You'll never find him in time."
My cold, wolfish smile never wavers. I have what I need. "Watch me."
"So, is there a plan?" Varric asks sotto voice, moving aside to let me pass. "Be nice if there was a plan."
"Not as such, no," I hedge. "Just—gimme a minute."
"What a surprise," he mutters.
I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging on the roots. I need time to think, to sort through the scant information Hadriana has deigned to give me. So what do I know?
There's a revolving door in the living room—
Knew that already.
It's gotten bigger. A LOT bigger—
Knew that too—wait. "How did you two get here?" I ask, turning sharply toward Varric.
"We followed her," Anders replies as he ties a bandage into a tidy knot around Scooter's midsection. "The archdemon could have followed her trail through the Veil, the hole she ripped open."
"How'd she do that?"
"'She' is a magister," Hadriana reminds me, smirking from the floor. "I will never reveal—"
"Blood magic," Anders explains succinctly, ignoring her. "We—all of us—we've been looking for a key. She used a battering ram."
So, now I know that a magister has completely obliterated my private revolving door to and from some random point on the Wounded Coast (Kirkwall, the Free Marches, Thedas, Crazy Town, Planet Earth questionable). I know that Fenris is gone. I know I don't have very much time to find him. I don't know enough—
You know more than that. Focus. What did she say?
Danarius plans to return to Tevinter. Fenris will be a slave again (over my dead body). I'll never find him in time. That's what she said. That's all she said.
She told you everything. What more do you need?
Danarius plans. Fenris will be a slave. Danarius plans. Fenris will be. Danarius hasn't left, yet. Fenris isn't a slave, yet. He was taken through the gap—my revolving door. Which means he has to go through—
Varric eyes me closely, concern softening the blunt features. "You okay, Smiley?"
The air shivers in and out of my lungs as I draw in a deep breath, ignoring the painful twinges of reproof from my splintered ribs. Those can wait. "I have to get to Kirkwall," I gasp.
"The gap cannot be crossed," Hadriana cackles triumphantly. "He is lost to you, she-wolf. You are as likely to fly."
"Ooohh," I growl, "how little you know." Anders flattens himself against the kitchen table as I dive into the bedroom, and pull my violin case out from under my bed. Instincts again—hunches aren't really my thing. But I don't have time to think this out further. I pluck each string with my thumbnail: G, D, A, and E each sing with aching clarity. I whip the bows from the navy-blue plush case and thrust the normal one through my belt loop as though it were a sword. I tighten the nut on the dragon bow; I'm probably imagining that it feels hot in my hand.
"What should we do with her?" Anders asks urgently.
Christ. I thought I'd have at least another hour or so before I had to make one of those decisions. "Bring her," I command indifferently, grinding the top layer of resin to powder with the nut. "Her fate is not my call."
"Um—what are you doing?" Varric asks curiously.
"No idea," I shoot back breezily. That howling song is rising again; I tap a beat against my thigh, and pull the dragon bow across the strings. It starts with a scream; I press one finger down on the E string and slide it up the neck toward the scroll. My joints flex, loose and relaxed, as the song takes its shape in the spaces between my fingers. The world seems to tilt and warp, and the push-pull in the air around me begins to build. It's probably a sign I need to reorganize my priorities that I think that's a good thing. The space within the masking tape square ripples; Scooter glues herself to my leg in trembling confusion as the scents of salt and sea and other mingle with here.
Of all the times to just be right. Without allowing myself too much time to think about it, I step forward, throwing myself on the mercy of—shit it's probably too late to use the bathroom—
It feels like walking through clay. Raw. Gritty. Abrasive. Exhausting. Senses blend, switching places until I'm tasting music with my ears while my eyes press the strings against the violin's neck. My song falters as I choke on liquid air—what is this—oh Jesus no I won't go back I can't go back I'm not crazy—
A slender-fingered hand balls into a fist in the back of my tank top, and yanks. I tumble out of clay into clear night air and coarse sand. I'm so grateful to be right-side breathing I don't even mind it's getting into my mouth. Scooter pokes a wet nose in my ear, whimpering and slurping her tongue across every inch of my face not pressed into the ground. I close my hand around my violin, habitually straightening my crooked glasses as I struggle to right myself. I don't. Fucking. Be-LIEVE it—
Deep-sky-blue eyes hold an echo of my own incredulity. Her ink-black hair stirs erratically in the stiff breeze whipping off the ocean. Pale skin glows orange in the last cast by strategically placed torches, shadowing the smooth features that laugh or frown or snarl at the touch of a button, grinning now because the only alternative is to stick her head under the sand and for it—for me to go away—
"Marian Hawke," she introduces herself shakily. "Welcome to Kirkwall."
