The Death of Dreams

Curled up on the hard ground, staring at the wisps of smoke from their fire, Leonie could not sleep. Her dreams had awoken her, persistent imagery of carnage and death at the Vigil kept stealing her fragile calm, robbing her of sleep.

Alistair coughed and she heard him moving restlessly in his sleep. Nathaniel was quietly sharpening arrowheads by the fire; she could hear the steady rasping noise of his knife as he worked. She struggled to sit up.

"You should try and get some more sleep, Lion," he chided quietly, before going back to his work.

"At least you have not yet told me I look terrible," she replied, reaching for her breastplate.

"I don't like to state the obvious," he replied with a snigger, surprising Leonie into a huff of laughter.

There was a steadiness in Nathaniel that Leonie found not only comforting but calming as well. Tamra had been good for him. She was the warm, golden sun of summer to his dark, winter night. He brooded less, participated more, even teased on occasion. And he had been good for Tamra, a steadying, guiding hand that gave her a new, quiet confidence.

She finished buckling into her armor and looked at the sky. Long streaks of grey, edged with salmon and deep violet, meant morning was close and with the dawn came their continued push to the Dragonbone Wastes. From the look of the deeply tinted clouds starting to glow in the ever lightening sky, rain would soon be traveling with them.

"It is time to wake up, Warden Alistair. We need to move out soon," Leonie called out quietly, as she began to fill their bowls with the leftover gruel. It was an unappetizing grey glop in her bowl and it was sheer stubbornness that kept her from setting it aside. She had ordered her men to eat, she wasn't about to do otherwise. But each bite became a hard, miserable lump in her stomach.

Alistair finished his bowl with more relish than manners and then looked around for more. She readily handed him the rest of hers. She found several pieces of dried, salted meat in her pack and handed those over as well. They were gone before she could close and refasten her pack.

Standing up she began to pack up her gear. They would reach the Dragonbone Wastes soon and she was anxious to put an end to the Architect and the Mother. It was time those dreams, those nightmares, ended.

"This place we are going, it is just a graveyard for dragons, yes? We will not encounter any?" Leonie asked as she mounted behind Nathaniel.

"So they say. I haven't been there since I was twelve. No dragons then," Nathaniel reassured.

"As long as we don't run into dragon cultists, we should be fine. They're tougher than a high dragon," Alistair chimed in with a grumble, before adding plaintively, "I'm still hungry, anyone have any hardtack?"

Leonie buried her face into Nathaniel's back to keep from laughing. She felt his shoulders shake slightly and knew he was suppressing his own laughter. "I've got a spare pair of boots in my pack. You're welcome to try them," Nathaniel finally answered and Leonie bit her lip to hold back her snicker. She was afraid Alistair might take him up on it.

"No thanks," Alistair finally replied with a grin. "They taste pretty awful without gravy," he explained and the laughter that Leonie had been trying to suppress decided to come out in a gust.

Rain began as they approached their destination. A steady wet trickle from leaking clouds. Leonie called a halt and they tied the horses and hid the bulk of their gear nearby. Leonie kept only empty vials and healing items in her hip kit. Nathaniel and Alistair did the same. She rationed out their food and they ate in solemn silence.

Of course there were dragon cultists. Nothing, she thought with a certain bitter irony, was ever simple. Leonie found the cultists were every bit as tough as Alistair had said they were. She had Nathaniel climb up to the top of a rise overlooking them and pick off as many as he could. He was wickedly accurate even from that distance, allowing Leonie to move at will. She and Alistair battled their way through the throng of True Believers, as Alistair called them.

As they pressed forward, Leonie caught a mace in the side, knocking her down to her knees, where she toppled over in the mud. She was incensed, so angry at the suddenness of the pain that she hurled her dagger at the man, catching him in the chest and surprising them both. He went down without a sound; she stood up and ripped her dagger out of him, uttering a triumphant grunt over the body. Alistair shook his head and continued on.

By the time they had finished killing the last of the cultists, Leonie could feel the sharp ache of the bruises forming on her side. She and the others paused long enough for her to down one of the healing potions and take a long pull from her waterskin. Nathaniel was busy gathering arrows. It was while she was examining a nasty looking gash on Alistair's cheek that she heard the leathery beat of wings, felt the downdraft. She and Alistair exchanged glances.

"Nathaniel, target the eyes and throat! Flanking only, Alistair! Destroy the wings first!" she cried as she once again unsheathed her weapons. Her sword slashed and hacked through the tough fibrous skin of the dragon's wing. The dragon was plunging and lunging, roaring and belching out a green mist that smelled deadly. She and Alistair were constantly adjusting their stances to keep their flanking positions.

When she was certain the dragon could no longer fly, she yelled at Alistair, "Up! Jump up and go for the brain!" She hoisted herself up, steadying herself before beginning the ascent up the thick, horned skin of the dragon's long neck. The beast was flailing, neck twisting in an attempt to throw them off. Leonie felt herself sliding down the wet neck and then tumbling to the ground. A large, curved talon swept toward her and she rolled, continued rolling until she was far enough away from the dragon to stand.

"To your left!' Nathaniel cried as she searched desperately for her weapons. She grabbed Lionheart and ran toward the dragon. Alistair had reached the head of the beast and was raising his arms high over his head to plunge his sword in. With a roar of his own, he sank his sword into the dragon's head all the way up to the hilt. The dragon screamed in agony, pitching forward, and Alistair's voice was a long wail in the wind.

"Hold on to the sword!" Leonie screamed at him and he grabbed the sword. She could see he was preparing himself for impact and she continued running toward the beast, who, with a shudder and stagger, dropped lifeless to the ground. Alistair slowly released his grip on his sword and pulled it out.

"That's a lot of blood," he said in something akin to awe as Leonie came to stand beside him. The pool of blood was flowing in an ever widening pool and they both stepped back. The rain, still trickling with lazy intent from leaden skies, began to wash the blood and gore from their armor as they stood there.

It was then, when she was just contemplating her next move, that she felt the fragile, caressing pull in her blood, like a beckoning call from a lover and she felt herself moving forward, drifting with a light tread. Black ribbons of dark magic seemed to move through her blood, into her brain, robbing her of her own will. A voice, hypnotic and mesmerizing was whispering to her and she knew who it was.

"Lion!" Nathaniel called in alarm as she moved toward a door in the side of a cliff. It was open, welcoming. She found herself walking through it, unable to stop.

"Nathaniel! He is here!" she cried, trying to bring her arms up and brace herself against the door, to stop herself.

"Alistair, he is using mind control. Break it!" she screamed, but her voice sounded like the distant echo of a forgotten dream.

"On it!" Alistair yelled.

She saw him moving quickly toward her, toward the steps leading down into a dark abyss that was so familiar she knew which corridor to take, which hallway was blocked. She had been here in her dark dreams after Montran. But not a dream, this was not a dream.

Snaking through her thoughts, fingers of blood and madness, dark and malevolent, she had finally found the Architect.

"Can you only hold me through mind control?" she sneered contemptuously as she entered the round chamber she knew he was in. Or did she only think it? The fingers and ribbons slithered away and she gasped at the sudden emptiness in her, the coldness.

"You are here because you are destined to be here, Leonie. You know what is in your blood. We are the same," the Architect crooned. His smile was grotesquely lopsided and filled with an unholy darkness. Leonie was shaking, weakness wicking along her muscles.

"No! We are not the same. I am not a darkspawn!"

Nathaniel was in the shadows. She caught a flicker of movement and then he was gone again. Alistair was coming to stand beside her.

"You remember your orders, Warden Alistair. I will not be taken alive," she whispered to him and Alistair blanched but nodded once.

Unsheathing her sword, she smiled grimly at the Architect. "I once fought a duel with a Chevalier using this sword. I do not suppose you will be much more difficult," she mocked.

"So, you wish to fight me? When we could be so much more? I was sure you would want answers first," the Architect said in amusement, moving in her direction.

"You are Svanar Fryklund, are you not?" Leonie asked quietly and the Architect hesitated. "A fifth generation Grey Warden mage went to his Calling thirty years ago. Are you not that same man?" she continued, watching the creature's eye widen.

"That is a name I have not heard in many years. That man no longer exists," the Architect replied with a small, pensive smile.

"And I am a fifth generation Grey Warden, am I not? That is why you want me?" Leonie pressed, her sword arm moving up as she balanced on the balls of her feet. She felt another Warden presence, tainted and twisted. Utha, she rememebered suddenly, the Silent Sister who traveled with the Architect.

"The Calling. How little you know, my lovely Leonie. You think you go on your Calling to prevent yourself from becoming a ghoul. It is what they would have you believe. What they teach you. But that is not the truth," he answered softly, his voice lulling and hypnotic.

"What is the truth?" she prodded, moving forward slowly. They were a mere ten paces from each other. She saw that Alistair had finally noticed the dwarf warrior, Utha, and he was moving to intercept her.

"A Warden hears the call of his brethren, calling him home to the Deep Roads. And when a Warden tarries too long in the Deep Roads, he become one of them. He is a darkspawn. Even now, the taint is slowly destroying your fellow Wardens and they will become the very thing they have spent their lifetimes fighting. We take in the taint to destroy them but in the end we become them."

Leonie's mouth went dry, her thoughts fell away. "You are lying," she claimed but there was uncertainty in her voice. Maker, was that true? Had that happened to her father? Ceres? All the others? Had they become mindless monsters searching for an Old God?

"You know the truth. It is in your blood. You are like me, Leonie. We are special. I became a darkspawn and then I discovered the secret within my blood. I became more than a human and more than a darkspawn. Listen to our blood, feel it, Leonie. It is the same," he whispered. "Do you hear it singing its own siren song?"

"No! No you are lying!" she cried, but somewhere inside her she began to believe he was telling the truth. She tried to bring her sword up but found she could not.

"These sentient darkspawn, did you create them?" she pressed on, her voice shaking. Her need to know was only slightly stronger than her need to pretend this was all a dream.

"I do not create, that is what the Mother was intended to do. We are trying to balance the world, Leonie. You can help in that."

"How? How can I help?" she whispered, sickened. Her sword hung limply in her hand.

"You would be the perfect mother for a new generation, neither darkspawn nor human," he sighed, his voice wrapping softly around her thoughts, flowing like silk through her blood.

"I – I cannot do that," she murmured.

"Kill him already!" Alistair yelled as he fought with Utha in the shadows just beyond her vision. His voice reached into her, past the dark whispers in her head.

"The new darkspawn, are they from Mother?"

"Sadly, she did not react quite as I had anticipated. I did not have enough of your blood for her," he remarked with a grimace. "Too little drives them insane."

"Too little of my blood? You - you gave them my blood?" Leonie asked on a rising note, horrified.

"Just as you drank some of mine at your joining," he agreed with an eerie, almost gleeful smile. "You were drawn to the only darkspawn that had been given his new Joining using my blood. That is not coincidence, that is destiny," he murmured tenderly.

"We are not the same," Leonie murmured. Maker, do not let me be like him. "Are the sentient darkspawn other Wardens?" she heard herself ask in a weak, frightened voice.

"You will know all the answers in time, Leonie."

"Where is my ring?" she demanded, bringing her sword arm up, muscles once again taut and ready. Her vision cleared and she saw the monster before her, could not stop the fear that the same monster lurked within her.

"Come with me, Leonie, and you shall have your ring. Help me create the dynasty of a new species," he said, his voice a soft, sibilant sigh. "We can put an end to any future Blights," he tempted with a another twisted smile.

"You created the Blight that killed thousands, you have sent your talking darkspawn into the world and killed hundreds. You have allowed your Mother, your chosen mate, to produce a new darkspawn, all of these things you have done and yet you believe I would go with you?" she asked, incredulous.

Dark fingers in her blood again, pulling her forward until she was standing within a single step of him. Leonie struggled, trying to push those fingers out, tried to control her actions, her thoughts.

"You will not take me. My men have orders to kill me rather than let me go."

She caught a flicker of movement, saw that Alistair was quietly moving in behind the Architect.

"Come, Leonie," the Architect beckoned, his smile almost sweetly pleading.

"I – I cannot go with you until I know everything," she finally whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek. She heard Alistair's hiss of dismay. "Share your knowledge with me, Svanar, and I shall go with you," she continued, placing her sword on the ground.

He moved his hands, placing them along her temples and they curled around her brain as he whispered his knowledge into her thoughts. This, she thought hazily, was finally the death of dreams.


The rain arrived with the first wave of darkspawn. Loghain, standing in the watchtower, raised the alarm.

"Northwest archers, make ready!" he called and watched as the archers took up their positions along the outer walls.

They were moving as one unit, genlocks and hurlocks together, a massive wall of darkspawn intent on destroying them. He felt a curious sense of familiarity in watching them rushing headlong at the stone walls.

"First line, move out!" he shouted and watched as a wall of shield warriors stepped out in front.

The women and children were in the keep. Anders, standing beside him, had a dozen mana potions with him, ready to cast whatever was needed. Sigrun was staying in the shadows, watchful and waiting. Tamra and Varel were with the shield warriors, Garavel was on the far wall with his men, waiting for the order to drop the firebombs. Loghain's smile was grim as he called to the archers to launch their first volley. This was war and war was something Loghain Mac Tir understood very well.

The first gate to fall was the small garden gate. A group of archers had been posted there, along with Dworkin. Two dozen darkspawn fell in minutes, blocking the passage. The other darkspawn hissed and growled and cried their frustration. Voldrik moved forward with a team of men, filling in the gap with timbers and rock. The firebombs made short work of those on the other side of the gate.

It was then that Loghain noticed that the hurlocks were literally launching the genlocks over the walls. Some missed and some had their skulls crushed as their heads met stone wall, but some were getting through.

"Sigrun, take your men to the north!" he shouted and then the emissaries arrived. Loghain's tower was set on fire by an emissary's fireball and he and Anders stumbled down the stairs as the tower began to lean precariously. They barely cleared it before it toppled over, sending sparks everywhere.

"Anders, get the buckets ready!" Loghain ordered, drawing his sword and shield as he ran forward. He didn't watch to see if his order was carried out. He knew these men. He didn't have to watch.

He felt alive, every nerve ending snapping with life, with adrenaline. The sounds of the battle rose in pitch, pulsed through his blood as he led the shield warriors forward, felt the satisfaction of slicing through a hurlock with his sword, bashing at a hurlock with his shield. The rain slicked down his skin, washing it free of the splattering blood. He raised his face to the sky, a loud cry urging his men to press forward.

The first three waves were crushed with little damage to the keep and few injuries. But there were more on the way. They had less than an hour to regroup before the next waves came at them, more vicious and deadlier than the last.

"Get those emissaries down quickly!" he shouted at the archers and then he felt it, the prickle of pain at the back of his head that Leonie had warned him meant an ogre. The main gates shuddered and shook at the force of the attack. There must be more than one, Loghain realized and moved to the gates. The reinforcing timber was cracking under the onslaught.

"Dworkin, get those firebombs to the main gate!" he commanded over the cacophony of battle.

"Herren and Wade, bring those iron sheets up now!" he yelled and watched as Voldrik and the armorsmiths led a group of men carrying large iron slats up to the front gates. It had taken all day to melt all the old armor they could find and forge it into a series of metal plates.

"Get them in place, Voldrik and then I want the three of you inside the keep," Loghain ordered before moving away again to fight the encroaching horde. They battled well into the night, the gates and walls holding.

Exhausted, Loghain found a quiet step to sit on, pulling out his waterskin and drinking deeply. Anders came up and collapsed beside him.

"Casualties?" Loghain asked wearily.

"Fourteen dead, thirty three wounded," Anders replied glumly. Loghain clapped him on the shoulder.

"A fine job, mage."

Anders stared at him in disbelief. "A fine job? A fine job would be zero of each," the made declared angrily.

"Not possible, Anders. War breeds casualties. We are doing well, trust me," Loghain replied calmly.

The shockwave sent both of them to the ground. Two ogres, working together, had destroyed the reinforced gate, the iron bent and twisted. Loghain was already moving toward them, dropping his shield and reaching for his dagger. He launched himself at the first, felt the bite of steel in muscle and shoved his sword deeper, twisting. Loghain felt a flush of triumph as the ogre began staggering backward. Until the second ogre grabbed him, plucking him off the dying ogre as if he weighed no more than a child.

The hand that held him began to squeeze. He could feel his armor being crushed, digging into him painfully. He wondered if Cailan had felt this pain, the feeling that his bones were liquefying, like the air was being pushed with angry hands out of his lungs. The irony made Loghain want to laugh but he had no breath to do so. The world was tilting and growing dimmer. It seemed a fitting end. His need to laugh turned into an overwhelming grief. Leonie. He had wasted so much time denying his feelings for her, fighting her every step of the way. And now it appeared he had no more time. Was this, then, the death of dreams? His eyes closed against the black that was devouring him.


"Thank you, Svanar," Leonie whispered with a trembling smile, moving her hand slowly to her waist. With a quick twist of her wrist, she pulled her dagger out and plunged it into the Architect. He screeched in pain and surprise, slapped at her with hands that were already curling in on themselves in pain as her dagger twisted into his chest.

"And now you die, you bastard," she hissed at him and when Alistair moved in to help her, she waved him away. She pulled the dagger out very slowly, turning it the entire time as she did, knowing it was slicing into him with each turn. His eye was wild, the light in it dimming with pain, and death. With a smile that only the Architect could see, she thrust her dagger in again, this time through his heart. Finally, the death of dreams. She withdrew her dagger, watching the blood gathering underneath her feet. It was just blood, it no longer sang to her.

"Come help me, we need to collect his blood," Leonie said calmly.

"Andraste's ass, Lion! You might have let us know you weren't his thrall," Nathaniel muttered angrily as he squatted down beside her with several empty vials. "I nearly killed you!" he exclaimed, voice unsteady.

"Yes, Nathaniel, because he would not have heard me say that," she returned and then stopped and turned to him.

"I am sorry, Nathaniel. I could not let you know without letting Svanar know. I did not mean to frighten you," she said softly, contrite.

"Still, it would have been nice to know," he grumbled, collecting the full vials and sliding them carefully into his kit.

"I know where his journals are. They are in the room with the Mother. I think we need to go and kill her, yes? I have a desire to return to the Vigil and have a bath," she continued and stood up.

"Warden Alistair? You look very pale. Are you wounded?" she asked in concern, coming to sit beside him. His face was ashen, his eyes wide and shimmering.

"Maker's breath! Has anyone ever told you that you are insane?" he asked, eyeing her through damp lashes.

"Entirely too often for my liking," she responded with a smile. "Now, shall we finish our work and go home?"

"Home? I like the sound of that," he agreed with an answering smile.

They gathered up their gear and the vials of blood and made their way along the winding corridors that led further into the mountainside.

"How is it, Lion, that you know your way around here but you get lost going from the smithy to the stable?" Nathaniel asked finally.

"I have been here many, many times, Nathaniel."

"Do I want to know?" Alistair chimed in.

"In my dreams," she explained and then stopped abruptly.

"She is in that chamber and she is not alone," Leonie cautioned. "Warden Alistair, you know how to fight a Broodmother, yes?"

"Know? Yes. Like? Not so much."

"Nathaniel, stay in the shadows and shoot from range. I am hopeful that we can dispatch the guardians first, before the Mother joins in. If this does not happen, stay with the guardians before you start fighting the Mother, yes?"

Both men nodded. Leonie took a deep, steadying breath and then entered the chamber. The guardians were more of the new darkspawn, worms on legs that seemed to have bodies made of silverite. Leonie felt the sharp burn of teeth biting into the soft skin of her shoulder. When had she lost her pauldron? She staggered back and fell to one knee, reaching frantically for a healing potion. The hot fluid coursed through her and she was up again, hacking through the guardian and kicking him away. Her dagger was useless to her, her shoulder oozing blood and the muscles refusing to obey her.

The Mother was not at all happy with the Wardens. Every time Leonie found an opening, a tentacle would appear out of the ground and swat her away. Alistair was continuing to occupy the Mother with swift strikes and bashes. Nathaniel's arrows whistled over her head. Groaning, Leonie picked herself up again and with an angry cry, ran at the insane monster that had once been a human woman, that could have just as easily been her. She thrust Lionheart into the Mother's gaping mouth. The silence was instant and welcoming.

Leonie sank to the ground, panting. She was lightheaded and her muscles were screaming in protest. She could feel bruises coming up along her legs where the tentacles had wrapped around her. She glanced at Nathaniel, barely scratched. She wondered if she was too old to learn archery.

"I hurt," Alistair lamented and then added, "And I'm hungry."

Leonie raised a tired brow at him. He flashed an equally tired smile at her. He was sporting a rather large black eye and a large lump was forming on his forehead. When he noticed her scrutiny, he ran a hand along his brow. There was blood leaking from a cut somewhere on his leg.

"That dwarf woman. She didn't fight fair," he said with an embarrassed smile.

They spent almost an hour tending to wounds. None of them were as serious as they could have been. She knew how lucky they were. She could only pray that those at the Vigil were equally lucky. Her thoughts turned to Loghain and she closed her eyes, momentarily overcome with fear for him, for the others. She would not lose anyone else, she could not. But she wanted to leave the accursed place and get back to the others.

Svanar's journal was in a small room off the Mother's chamber. She gathered it up, along with several small vials of viscous black fluid, and in the midst of the clutter was a small wooden box. Leonie's heart beat loudly and her fingers trembled as she opened the lid. Nestled in the bottom of the box on a piece of linen, was her ring. She pulled off her gauntlet and slipped the ring on her finger just before the tears came. Nathaniel came and put his arm around her and Alistair looked around uncomfortably.

"Those are happy tears, right?" he finally asked.

"Very," she mumbled through them and gave him a watery smile. She could explain later. Now was the time to leave.

"Was he telling the truth, Warden Commander?" Alistair asked as they reached the horses.

Leonie sighed. Was he? Only time and the journals would tell, but the knowledge Svanar Fryklund had shared with her said he was telling only a part of the truth.

"Not entirely, Warden Alistair. But I do not know yet what is the truth and what is his own peculiar truth," she answered tiredly and let Nathaniel pull her up behind him as they turned the horses home.


Loghain had not expected to wake up. And when he finally did, he found even his eyelashes seemed to hurt. Anders, looking exhausted and grim, was sitting by his bed.

"This is unexpected," Loghain managed around a dry and swollen tongue.

"And more than you deserve," Anders agreed, helping Loghain sit up enough to drink some water. Most of it dribbled down his chin. Loghain frowned and found that hurt as well.

"Casualties?" he asked finally.

"Thirty six dead, fifty seven wounded. No women or children," Anders said glumly.

Loghain, while not happy with the numbers, felt a wave of relief. That was far fewer than he had expected, far fewer than he had any right to expect, considering.

"Varel? The other Wardens?"

"Fine. Well, Sigrun has a broken arm and Tamra has some nasty cuts, but otherwise, they're fine. Garavel didn't make it."

Loghain nodded and found that hurt as well. Anders leaned forward and whispered as a soft blue glow flowed through Loghain's body. He sighed as the pain eased.

"What happened to Garavel?" he finally managed.

"He tried to save you. Well, actually, he did save you. He just forgot to save himself as well. The ogre crushed him when he fell."

"And my injuries?" Loghain asked.

"Nothing too serious. Lots of bruises, inside and out. You have bruises on top of bruises, actually. And I think all but two of your ribs were broken. When I saw you, I was sure you were dead. Bedrest for at least three days, maybe more."

Loghain was silent for a long time. "Any word on the Commander's team?"

"No, nothing. I would have thought they'd be back by now," the mage answered, worrying his lower lip. "She never writes, never visits," he added, his attempt at humor falling heavy and flat.

"Well, Anders, it is possible that we were a little busy, yes?" Leonie said, stepping into the room with a tired smile. Loghain found his heart was beating entirely too quickly. He tried to stifle the groan that rose unbidden as he moved his head toward the door.

Anders was up and swinging her into his arms, shouting with relief, before Loghain had time to do little more than register her presence. He found himself smiling, even though it hurt.

"Ewww, you're bleeding all over my robe!" Anders exclaimed, setting her down hurriedly. Loghain struggled to sit up. Bleeding? His smile faltered.

"It is nothing, Anders, and your robe was ruined long before I had the temerity to bleed on it," Leonie chided with another smile as she made her way to Loghain's side.

"And you, you stubborn man, do not try to move," she ordered sternly, kneeling down beside the bed.

She was a mess, her hair matted and bloody, her face bruised and sweat stained. Her armor was dented and her pauldron was missing, a bandage leaking blood in its place. But her eyes were telling him things he thought he should listen to. She reached out with tender fingers and gently brushed the hair back from his forehead. "You look terrible," she remarked with a smirk.

"Insolent chit," he muttered softly and she rewarded him with another smile, bending to brush her lips against his. It hurt, but he found he didn't mind the pain at all.