Fate or Chance

You are set on breaking the barrier between worlds – reaching through and pulling your friend to safety. An admirable quest. But without the Anchor to channel your efforts, I hope you are ready for the consequences.

The words of Mythal during their last encounter came to mind while Lavellan wandered the mist of the Fade, the way between worlds. After her all-too-brief encounter with Solas, she had awakened with the knowledge of how to open a rift from within the Dream itself – his gift to her. Moments later, she had suffered another attack; pain had wracked her body and a shockwave of green static had forced a dreadfully concerned Dorian to summon an arcane barrier around himself. He had objected to her doing this; her presence here proved who won that debate.

Oh Dorian… Her dearest and most loyal of companions had tried desperately to convince her of the danger of her quest. It wasn't worth her life. They could still temper the effects of the Anchor's lingering magic. They both knew it wasn't true. And she had made a promise. She still remembered Varric's expression when he found out that his best friend had been sacrificed. If she couldn't save Thedas or Solas or herself, at least she could do this.

"Hawke!" the somniari called out.

The sound of her summons was absorbed by the mist, and no answer came.

"Might I ask how you managed to procure a functioning eluvian on such short notice…Commander?"

Gideon cringed at his latest title, bestowed in anticipation of his leadership against the armies of the Dread Wolf himself.

"Consider it bribery for me accepting this promotion…Archon," the warrior grumbled, accepting a cup of strong coffee from his host as they settled into the dining room. Their charge was slumbering just down the hall in the library, seconds with reach. Tonight, they would need all their wits about them. He rolled his eyes at Dorian's disbelieving scowl. "I had an unexpected source – claimed she'd spoken to Fen'Harel and that she owed Hawke her life. Twitchy little elf. I almost offered her sanctuary with us, as she seemed rather frightened of her master, but she left before I could say anything."

"She knows the Champion?"

"Evidently." He raised a hand before Dorian could interject further. "'Tis all I know. Your Herald has worked toward this day for a long time. What makes you think she is ready?"

The mage scoffed, glancing at the open door.

"Because she said she's ready."

"That's all?"

"Yes, that is all," Master Pavus whispered, spinning his glass on the table. "She's seen what the future could hold and is doing everything to prevent it, just as she did with Corypheus. That girl has lost far too much. Any future she might have had before the Anchor was taken the moment she touched the Orb of Fen'Harel. Her arm, the man she loved, her faith in herself…even her clan is either scattered or dead. If all she asks of me is to take her word in this matter, I will gladly to so."

"But aren't you worried she will fail, or worse, lose her life? Can you guarantee that she would not ally herself with the Dread Wolf, given the choice?"

The other man hummed, thumbing the book he had brought along to distract himself; the latest novel by Varric Tethras had become an overnight bestseller.

"The stories of heroes always end after they have saved the world, yet never show the trauma and wisdom and beauty of that hero once their part is done. Some think that you are fated to become the Savior of Thedas, Commander; your titles already cover half the cities of our country – Savior of Ventus, Savior of Vyrantium… Should you survive your quest, do you think the legends will tell of your guilt for those you could not save, or whatever passions you've accumulated along the way? Will they tell of your children or your attempts to fix the mistakes you made? I think not."

The Blue Wraith hovered outside the window of the new Archon's residence, quickly spotting the slumbering Suledin on a couch within the library. She had her chance, and now he would have his revenge. First, he would come for the Inquisitor who had sent Hawke into the abyss; then, he would hunt down the Dread Wolf, even if it meant certain death.

Fenris took a moment to catch his breath, contemplating the rusty glow of his tainted markings against the glass. He was still himself, but the infection had spread through the network of his markings, sapping his strength and reminding him every moment of his own foolishness. How long was he to last? Was he fated to go mad as the others had done? A battle with a god was sure to keep him from ever finding out.

With one last glance at his surroundings, the elf carefully began edging the window open, determined to avoid alerting the massive Qunari with the eyepatch snoring in the nearby barracks. Out of the corner of his eye, he remained wary of the giant mirror propped against a bookshelf off to the left; it hadn't been there before.

Solas watched and waited from a distance, confident that his vhenan would find success in her quest tonight, yet ready to lend his aid if needed. She was not aware of his presence, and it would remain that way. He was tired – tired of this quest, tired of this road of death, and tired of resisting her magnetic pull. After so many dealings with his followers on this day, seeing her even in this state was a relief.

Abelas was growing impatient, waiting for the Veil to be torn. Feynriel continued his attempts to redirect the Dread Wolf's plans. Mythal continued to taunt him from afar. And the insignificant Cult of Fen'Harel continued to be an annoyance as they lingered outside his ancient underground temple. Then there was the matter of his quest – the Orbs, the lyrium, the idol, and the prison. Mythal had forced his hand; he would be completing this task with one Foci missing, but at least he had acquired the others. But would he have the time to prepare? Tevinter seemed suddenly keen on ensuring that was not the case.

"Hawke," Suledin called out again with a twist of pain in her voice, "I don't know how much longer I can do this!"

Something drove Hawke's steps forward. Hope, the spirit who had bonded with her to ensure her survival in this place, was nearly giddy with excitement – over what? All she could see was the raw Fade and the endless fog that served as its blank canvas. So, what did her companion sense that had yet evaded her sights?

The mage's dull surroundings leapt into being all at once. In every direction, muffled voices muttered around her as flickers of color, memories just beyond the mist, began reaching out. Every so often, she could pick out the familiar voices of old friends:

Remind me never to get on our bad side. Seems to be…unhealthy.

When someone tells you 'move on,' you take their hand and say 'my choice.' No one tells you how to mourn.

I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?

If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with me.

Well, the Maker has a sense of humor. Darkspawn, and now a Templar!

By the Dread Wolf! Why is my house always a mess when people are here? It's clean sometimes, I swear.

I like big boats, I cannot lie.

I am so sorry about your mother, Hawke. I've put a remembrance for her on the Chantry's memorial wall.

You are looking for forgiveness, but I'm not the one who can give it to you.

"Hawke!" The Champion froze as a clear, familiar voice cut through the fog. Not a memory seeping through the cracks, but alive and desperate. "Hawke, I don't know how much longer I can do this!"

And there it was. Materializing from the ether was a nine-foot-tall mirror, twisted and whispering – Merrill's eluvian, or at least a copy of it. And something was different; she could feel a tingling magic reaching through and coming to life. The cracked surface she remembered was shimmering, crystalline and inviting. For the first time since she had faced off with the spider demon to ensure the Inquisitor's escape, she felt the thrill of real hope.

Yet she couldn't help but also feel a sense of anxiety – was it a trap? a path to a Dream? a simple memory? No, this was different. Countless hours of wandering struggle, constantly facing the terrors and longings of unnamable creatures – dared she believe that it could be over? that she was not fated to die here, or worse, become some shade cursed to wander forever in the shadows?

The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.

Hawke held her staff at the ready as a hand appeared, grasping the mirror's withered frame. What was it? Demon? Spirit? Dreamer? Or even the Dread Wolf?

"Hawke."

"Inquisitor?"

"Though I don't use that title much anymore," the elf teased, wincing before she collapsed beside the mirror and held her left arm to her chest. Hawke ran to her side, but Inara waved her away dismissively. "'Tis a small price." The mage raised an eyebrow at her acquaintance's mischievous smirk. "Are you ready?"

The Blue Wraith silently unsheathed the dagger at his belt, standing over the Herald of Andraste even as she slumbered peacefully on the divan. If not for his intention to go out in a fiery attempt to vanquish the Dread Wolf, he would make this last and savor her screams. As it was, Inara Lavellan would die quickly and quietly to avoid notice – a fate far kinder than the one granted by her to the woman he loved more than life itself.

"Do not mistake this visit as forgiveness, Suledin. If Hawke dies because of you…"

"You'll rip my heart out and feed it to a dragon. 'Tis not the first time my life has been on the line."

"Tonight, you meet your end, Suledin," he growled, stepping forward, ready to inflict a clean slice across the throat. Hawke would be avenged. "You said you would save her. You lied."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, my friend," a charming Antivan accent crooned from his side. The warrior pivoted slowly, feeling the cold edge of a steel knife on his throat. He was faced with a rather cheeky male rogue with tanned skin and a tattoo across his cheek. "Fenris, yes? I remember you. I'd hate to kill you."

"Zevran. Formerly of the Crows, yes?" A begrudging smile creeping onto his face, Fenris adjusted the weapon in his palm. "The feeling is mutual."