Short one, but I felt the boring band-aid bath guy needed his moment. Back to the real world in the next one.
The snow kept falling. The sombre walls of dying rainforests stood dark on either side of the horizon, meeting in the east, where the sunlight crept through.
As Fenris walked the paths of waking life, the war behind his eyes continued. In the snowy landscapes wrapped in perpetual dusk, The Patriarch stood bound and weakened in elven form against a great tree trunk, a floral tomb of violets around him.
Leading from the front, the boring band-aid bath guy cut through the horde, determined to tire the Patriarch out. The snow fell on top of the trees, over his brethren, over the unending violence.
The violet thorny crown-headed warrior had taken refuge here for a time, in the Fade, in the depths of Fenris, though his place was at the dawn of consciousness. It was his will to live, his will to dream, his will to grow. But then the Fog came, his grand and utter failure...
The pain of the ritual had been so never-endingly total that his willpower fell apart. The crown of violets became a crown of thorns, a harness of pain flowers, and the Crownhead couldn't take it off. Nothing, absolutely nothing worked! In his place rose the Patriarch, taking all the blows. What had been hours upon hours of agony, Fenris only remembered moments—and it was enough.
The trouble was Fenris couldn't remember anything else, and neither could the Crownhead. The master's house was a daily theatre of horrors, while the inland empire was torn apart, wrapped in the fog, wild and empty. When Fenris recovered from the ritual, he quickly learned a slave had no business possessing a sense of will to begin with and the only acceptable answer was "Yes, master". It was hard for the boring band-aid bath guy. With nothing to go on, no identity, no relationships and no dreams, willpower continued to fail Fenris. It was like fighting in the dark with no sword, no brethren and no sense of direction, but he had to keep him going, he had to—
"Rest," the Patriarch said. "I will fight the wars for him."
So, he did. While the Patriarch stayed on the surface, aiding and advising a calm, cold and collected bodyguard, the Crownhead went in the depths, and had a long, long sleep. He watched from afar the miserable life Fenris had to lead, the lack of possibilities, the blows that kept coming. Soon he could sleep no longer, yet he was too weak to rise. He cried for help, but Fenris wasn't aware of him, and the Patriarch did not answer.
Someone did come, however; a winged man, a caring soul, a dancer of sorts. He said he couldn't fly anymore, and had been lost in the fog ever since he could remember. Everything that should have come naturally was so, so hard. Crownhead empathised…
The Dancer thanked him for his cry for help, because it propelled him like nothing else. He told him they could do something here, together. If waking life was terrible, then Fenris could find peace in his dreams. They filled the Fade with happy dreams, warm reveries and flights of fancy—a cosy house, a funny wife, a loving family. They made sleep a safe place, if only Hadriana ceased to hound it. The Patriarch would absorb all his rage and hate, and would tell Fenris to smile and do as he was told. Just stay strong and get through the next hour, and soon he could return to his happy place.
But one day waking life brought Fenris closer to something like his fantasies, and the boring band-aid bath guy felt himself rising with new-found strength to the surface. In his flight, the Dancer followed with wings wide open, but… only one made it out in earnest.
The Patriarch made a decision of survival, killing the Seherans, and the whole world shook. Fenris fell to his knees, and a dark and empty pit opened between him and Danarius, swallowing the bodies and the Dancer alike. The Crownhead shot out from behind Fenris's right shoulder and held onto the Dancer, but the Patriarch loomed over them on the left-hand side and his paw went over their hands.
"You've consorted with a fool. Let him go," the Patriarch ordered, leering at the Dancer. "There is no heart for you here."
"No!" the Crownhead shouted. "We need him!"
"Abandon silly illusion, child," the Patriarch said tersely. "He will be the death of us!"
"How could you do that to your own?" the Dancer cried.
"Our own?" the Patriarch said, laughing. "They were not our own. They were pawns in a game of chess that had been rigged from the start. They were little peonies standing in front of a child, who could never have protected him."
"They were people!" the Dancer growled. "They were our people; our heroes, our mentors, our friends! How will he live with himself?"
"Just like before," the Patriarch said, very matter-of-factly.
"Are you mad?" the Crownhead said. "He is not going back as a slave. He is not getting corrupted by anyone or anything ever again!"
"This fantasy life is over," the Patriarch said gruffly.
The Crownhead looked at him. "Do you really want to go back to that life?
The Patriarch stared in silence.
"Because this is your chance. It's now," the Crownhead said firmly. "You would no longer need to be the 'little' wolf. You would no longer need to take all the blows. You would no longer need to mask what he feels. You would no longer have to put on a smile and say, 'Yes, master'," he said, making the very well-rehearsed expression.
The Patriarch did not speak.
"You could say 'Fuck you' instead," the Crownhead went on, staring into his eyes. "'Fuck off and die, you little shit. You're never going to get me. This is my fucking life!'"
The Patriarch's nostrils widened as he exhaled. "Very well. What do you propose he should do?"
"He must find other Fog Warriors and continue the fight for freedom," the Crownhead insisted.
"Absolutely not," the Patriarch said flatly.
"He is unworthy!" the Dancer said.
"We agree on that much," the Patriarch said.
"Then he must run. As far away as possible, and find a better life," the Crownhead said.
"Look at him," the Patriarch growled. "He is falling apart, and it is your failure! Yours and this soft fool's that forms attachments and silly fantasies where there should be none. He must run as far away as possible, and survive. Alone."
"No one can survive alone," the Crownhead said softly, shaking his head.
"Not even you," the Dancer said, frowning at the Patriarch.
"I will be the first," the Patriarch said, undaunted. He pressed his claw against their hands.
The Dancer wailed. He was slipping from his fingers.
"Enough!" the Crownhead growled. "You're just stuck here! In the half-world! Pushing us all out, and you have no idea what you're doing! You could try looking at yourself. Really looking. But why would you want to start doing that?"
The Patriarch laughed a low timbre laugh. "What. A. Hypocrite." He looked ahead. "Look how far off the rails he's gone. Look how stuck you are, admiring the wreck around you. You just can't help it. Look, then. Look at yourself—the sum total of your 'accomplishments'."
"I am weak," the Crownhead said. "But dreaming makes me stronger. This wreck is yours. A failure of imagination, an absolute lack of faith."
"Open your eyes, pretender," the wolf said. "It is a lose-lose situation no matter what."
"I don't care," the Crownhead cut him. "I need a fucking win."
"You want to win?" the Patriarch said, laughing a low, derisive laugh. "It is impossible. It is not about winning, but about how much he could lose. With you, it is a precarious world. With this dancing fool, it will all come crashing down. There will only be a throat, in which the world will vanish."
"Andraste, preserve me," the Crownhead said, a flash of pain rippling through his being. "I've made a terrible mistake letting you front. I should never have left. Danarius turned you into a monster."
"The world is balanced on the edge of a knife," the Patriarch said. For the first time in a long time, the Crownhead really looked at the wolf. Whipping scars had bitten little pieces out of him. It must have been excruciating, especially the hip. Before him was a temple of pain that knew little tenderness in life. "It is a game of frayed nerves and evil apes. He is pushed on by fear, pain and rejection. He can either play or he can crawl under a bed and waste away—turn into dust or a flock of fucking seagulls. His enemies would love that. Or he can fight. The only way to load the dice is to keep on fighting. So, the dancing fool has to go. He is a child and does not understand, and his emotions will destroy us."
"No," the Crownhead said frantically. "His shit is apart, and it's so unbecoming. I need to get his shit together. Make us all come together—"
FESTIS BEI UMO CANAVARUM!
The half-world shook again, the great steps of a madman ripping through the rainforest. He was completely naked, and had no skin. He was red from head to toe, black shadows coming underneath the indentations of the flesh. His facial features were faded and blurry, his mouth opening to reveal the flesh had sewn itself together. His eyes would spin around, going into the back of his head, leaving him blind, leaving him with gaping dark holes for a while. He bore the markings on his flesh, black, burnt and devoid of any beauty. But that wasn't the fearsome part—it was the strings. Fleshy strings came out of his exposed ribcage, pulling at him, bleeding him open, letting out that unsettling voice, and he was coming right at them.
The Patriarch calmly walked out of the way, and the half-blind man tackled Crownhead, who held onto the Dancer with one hand and resisted.
"LOVE DID HIM IN! HE FUCKED OVER EVERYONE!" the half-blind man growled, sinking his claws in his face. "HE WILL NEVER TRUST ANOTHER MAGE AGAIN. HE WILL NEVER TRUST SO MUCH AS ANOTHER LIVING SOUL, OR SO HELP ME I SHALL RIP YOU APART!"
"Why do you stand there!" the Crownhead yelled at the Patriarch. "If anyone needs the abyss, it's this madman!"
"He is not a madman," the Patriarch said tranquilly. "He is a scholar. His body is an encyclopaedia of experience, and you should heed his advice."
"I do not take advice from violent men," the Crownhead said firmly, staring him down.
"YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN EVERYTHING USEFUL!" the half-blind man shouted in his face, spitting blood at him. "I WILL REMIND YOU. HE HAS LEARNED THIS LESSON LONG AGO. THE WORLD IS FULL OF EVIL APES. EVIL MAGIC APES PITTING THE LITTLE APES AGAINST EACH OTHER LIKE FLESH PUPPETS. YOU MUST BEAT THE EVIL APES BEFORE THEY BEAT YOU."
It was unbearable merely to look at him, let alone hear him. Even so, Crownhead inhaled and continued glowering. "I do not take advice from violent men," he repeated.
"VIOLENCE IS NOT THE ANSWER TODAY. HE IS TOO WEAK AND BLIND TO SEE HIS REAL ENEMY, LET ALONE FIGHT HIM," the half-blind man said. "THE ANSWER IS TO ABANDON THE FLYING FOOL AND RUN—"
"And never look back," the Patriarch said sternly.
"NOW!" the half-blind man howled.
"I know my real enemy," the Dancer insisted. "Danarius will not be walking today. And neither will you, murderer!"
"Get back to the Fog, bleating child," the Patriarch said calmly. "Your place is in Fuck-All-Borough with the rest of them."
"How about we run and take some time to calm down before making major decisions?" the Crownhead said.
With no hesitation, the half-blind man bit into the Crownhead's arm, tore his hand out.
"No!" the Crownhead said through the pain, watching the Dancer fall into the darkness.
"Good riddance," the Patriarch said.
Something happened to Crownhead watching his friend fall. A formidable readiness raised the hairs at the back of his neck, and suddenly he towered over the half-blind man, over the Patriarch himself. "Enough," he said gruffly. "You are no longer in power here. Go back to Fuck-All-Borough, stay on the surface—makes no difference to me. But you are done."
The Patriarch grew in size and met his gaze. "And how will you accomplish that?"
Crownhead put his remaining fist inside the Patriarch's chest, and as he pulled, out came the gruff one. "That's all I'll be needing of you from now on," he said, as the wolf howled in agony. Crownhead took him by the pelt on his neck, and threw him in the pit. They tried to get the half-blind man, but he was impossibly volatile and seemed to be everywhere at once.
This… turned out to be the case with the Patriarch as well. The years went by, and the Patriarch became a chameleonic ever-presence, even as he was exiled, whispering things, growling commands, speaking through Fenris without even Crownhead himself noticing. In fact, in many cases, Crownhead couldn't even tell where he ended and the Patriarch began. It was a tumultuous soup of consciousness for a long time, and beyond that… it was the Void. The Patriarch imprisoned the Dancer and weaved nightmares for Fenris instead. So, no matter what Crownhead tried, he couldn't accomplish anything past keeping him alive. Fenris had no hopes and no dreams. Only nightmares.
Crownhead merely had the Chantry to take him to for peace of mind. Roofless chapels were the best because he could see the stars, the Watchful Eye constellation. It was always in the north, the direction he should never go in. Crownhead started to feel poetic about it—he too was the watchful eye. He only hoped his direction was the right one.
Three years it took, three long years of trying to get his voice heard louder than any others, three Maker-damned years to comfort him and ease his fears and keep him to the stars running south, and Fenris finally did something different. He drank his first alcohol, let the night take him, got a tarot reading and decided Kirkwall was where he would try to find real shelter.
Then everything changed. Another three years; far more enjoyable ones. Like boiling a frog, it happened slowly but surely. Crownhead was fascinated with Hawke's force of will, her compassion and her wisdom—and once the red band came, he took no time convincing Fenris to look at it for comfort and guidance. If what Adora would say wouldn't work, then at least he was having a moment of deep introspection, and soon enough Fenris started to be aware of the many parts that made him who he was, both old and… new.
The real conversation began.
Even though the boring band-aid bath guy and the gruff one were barred from the deep, they felt the resistance beyond the Veil with every new bond Fenris formed. And the deeper his love grew for Hawke, the more the voices of the revolution rose to the surface. The Dancer was standing against the nightmares, his being seeping through the cracks in his consciousness. The Patriarch had to work double-time to keep him down. Crownhead took advantage of the distraction and pushed Fenris to pursue his dreams, let his love run free, making the Patriarch fight on two fronts. Then Fenris himself awoke in the Fade, and they could see through his eyes what had been happening. With every night terror, he pushed on. With every failure, he progressed a little more, until they found themselves together, both on the surface and in the deep.
This was Crownhead's moment to finish what he'd started. He was not going to fail him again. The sun was beginning to rise, and he was going to let it take its rightful seat at the top of the sky if it was the last thing he did.
Thankfully the Patriarch was getting more and more distracted with things happening on the surface, and he was getting exhausted. Fenris must have reached Markham.
"Why won't he listen to me!" the Patriarch growled to the sky.
"It's a mystery," Crownhead said sarcastically, keeping to the fight.
"You know nothing, knight in broken armour," the Patriarch said. "You are not strong enough to bear the world on your shoulders."
Crownhead approached him when the numbers waned. "No, I am not," he said matter-of-factly. "I cannot bear it alone, and I am not meant to. That is why we have each other here. That is why he has others, out there."
The Patriarch scoffed. "What a waste you are."
"And yet he cannot live without me," Crownhead said. "But you?" he said, tilting his head. "Are you necessary anymore?"
"Until death do us part," the Patriarch said firmly.
"That's a long time to keep this up," Crownhead said, showing the world around him. "Even here," he said, a smile creeping up his face. "Aren't you tired?"
"I am tired," the Patriarch agreed. "Of you."
"Me too," Crownhead said, taking a step closer to him. "I am so incredibly tired of you."
"You want to make him happy," the Patriarch said, staring him down. "You will fail, again, and I will have to clean up after your shit, again."
"Maybe we keep failing because of you."
The Patriarch laughed.
"You are not meant to rule him and you know it," Crownhead said. "You are supposed to come in dire times, and retreat during peace. But you never give him peace."
"I come from war, clueless child," the Patriarch said. "It never ends."
"Because you took it with you!" Crownhead snapped. He steeled himself, and neither of them noticed the sky was growing darker. "You brought it here, so it never ends."
"I didn't bring anything!" the Patriarch said, insulted. "Other than order!" he growled, thrashing against the violets. "Order to a chaos already unleashed!"
"Order?" Crownhead said, raising his voice. He saw it in himself, and calmed down. He sighed. "Maybe it was, once…" he said, looking at the fighting, wind in his hair. "But not anymore. This order has become tyrannical."
The Patriarch's head tilted in his face as night fell. "Boo," he said, tilting it the other direction. "Fucking—"
The world shook suddenly, the never-ending snow replaced by rainfall. The sounds of Fenris crying seeped through the realm so horribly and completely everyone felt it in their own nasty way. The shadows held their ears in agony, the gruff one was screaming frantically at Crownhead to make Fenris stop, the hard-up grinning lunatic fell in a doom spiral of fear that Hawke would lose respect for him, and the Patriarch howled and thrashed like no one else. Crownhead had tired him out so badly he couldn't control the Fade anymore. The rain just kept pouring on top of them, melting the snow, and the world was getting enveloped by darkness. The crying went on and on, until it became the sound of a child weeping.
Crownhead stood motionless for it all, his brethren yelling at him to stop the storm. The pain of the child, wherever he was, was the very reason they all existed, to protect him. But…
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He… didn't want to stop it. Fenris himself didn't want to. He opened his eyes, looking at the stars. He walked in the centre, stuck his sword in the remaining snow and placed his hands on top.
"Shadows fall, and hope has fled…" Crownhead sung. "Steel your heart, the dawn will come."
The rest looked at him as if he were mad, but he kept on going. "The night is long and the path is dark," he sang in a deep timbre, gazing up. "Look to the sky, for one day soon… the dawn will come."
"The shepherd's lost and his home is far. Keep to the stars, the dawn will come," the Dancer's softer voice came from nowhere. The Patriarch thrashed and protested in vain. He went on, "Look to the sky, for one day soon… the dawn will come."
The gruff one and the hard-up grinning lunatic looked at each other, and came to Crownhead's side, raising their weapons. "Bare your blade, and raise it high! Stand your ground!" they sang sternly, impaling the ground with them. "The dawn will come!"
"The night is long, and the path is dark," they sang along the Dancer's voice, arm in arm as the snow vanished and the rain shone on the big green leaves in the sunlight. "Look to the sky, for one day soon… the dawn will come."