TRIGGER WARNING! Racial slurs against elves.

"This is weird," mumbled Tharin as he looked up at Warden Stroud dangling from a stone pillar.

Stroud's legs were attached at an odd sideways angle to the pillar, though he did not seem to be in danger of dropping onto the ground. Obviously disoriented, he looked around. "Where are we?"

Hawke drawled, her voice echoing, "If this is the afterlife, the Chantry owes me an apology. This looks nothing like the Maker's bosom." She was upside down, standing on the underside of another twisted stone column. Her head was inches off the ground, yet her hair looked normal, resting near her chin.

Stroud posited, "No, the Inquisitor used the mark to open another rift. We fell through. I believe we are in the Fade."

Looking unhinged, Sera vomited a series of expletives, "Shitballs, fuck, shit, crap. Fade, shit, arse, demons, crap!" She grasped her head and crouched.

While Tharin stood next to Sera and tried to console her by rubbing her back, Varric droned, "Hey, Hawke, remember last time we ended up in the Fade?"

Hawke scoffed. "How could I forget? My closest friends showed such loyalty in the face of a demon's temptations."

"Oh, don't be so huffy. Demons have that effect on people, you know."

Hawke proceeded to fold her arms and roll her eyes, apparently relaxed enough to riposte. "Yes, I know. You know how I know? I know because you all betrayed me and left me to help out Feynriel all by myself."

Varric shrugged, "Well, we got better. Sort of."

They had to take a moment to gather everyone, which included the Inquisitor, Hawke, Warden Stroud, Cassandra, Varric, and Sera, on the same plane. Hawke and Stroud had to slide down their stone pillars. Dorian could not be located, which Tharin hoped meant the mage was back at Adamant safe and sound with Cullen.

Tharin had lost the helmet in the plunge into the Abyssal Reach, which was just as well. Who could say if the helmet would even help in this strange realm. He breathed the odorous air deeply and surveyed the surroundings. The atmosphere was filled with sulfur and floating debris similar to the ashes from spent pyres. The terrain was tortured. Contorted and rugged stone bluffs, precipices, floating islands stretched from one end of the horizon to the other as far as the eye could see. It was like they had been transported back to…

Redcliffe of that future. Where his friends, his love died.

But there were oddly specific touches of civilization here and there too. A series of wan magical lights stood next to what could pass as a navigable trail. Random pieces of furniture like bookcases and chairs dotted the landscape, populated by wraiths.

Far, far away, above the thick clouds was the Breach, green and caliginous and menacing. A thought occurred to Tharin, that if the Breach existed here, then the rifts must exist as well. The Raw Fade this may be, but it was still connected across the Veil to the physical plane of existence by the rifts. After all, they were little tears in the Veil, were they not? Tharin and his companions could escape through the rift close by – hopefully the one Erimond had been using to summon demons through.

The Inquisitor gestured, the excitement of his first practical idea cresting in him, "Come on, we should head to the nearest rift. I believe we can return to our world through it."

Sera perked up at that. Still crouching, she nevertheless lifted her head and shouted, "You mean, we can escape? You sure we can? You sure?"

Nagging feeling of uncertainty aside, Tharin could not think of another idea, and the companions looked so hopeful at his suggestion. So, he forced a grin and nodded. "Of course. A rift is a conduit. We just need to find one."

And so, they decided on the approximate direction of Erimond's rift and marched on.

It was oddly comforting to think that even tortured and haggard, this landscape was the result of people dreaming and conjuring things for thousands of years. It was a river delta where people's collective wants and needs came to a gentle and permanent rest like sediments. They evoked calm melancholy that somehow mitigated the terror of falling into the Raw Fade itself.

Still, a spell of Sera's loud cursing snapped Tharin out of the waxing poetic his mind had indulged in. They must find a way out and soon. With acrid air and unknown terrain inhabited by potentially hostile demons, this was no place for mere mortals.

The wraiths they encountered on the meandering path toward the direction of the rift turned aggressive as they closed. The party fought their way up the stairs to a plaza where they encountered Divine Justinia. Or something that posed as Divine Justinia.

"I greet you, Warden. And you, Champion," said the woman with an Orlesian burr.

In a reverent tone and with her eyes widened, Cassandra approached the figure. "Divine Justinia? Most Holy?"

Something in Tharin niggled. Hesitantly, he inquired, "Cassandra, you knew the Divine. Is this really her?"

The Seeker looked positively lost, like a little child clutching a doll in a crowd of strangers, "It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger…"

Stroud was far firmer in his assessment. "I fear the Divine is indeed dead. It is likely we face a spirit… or a demon."

Justinia grinned, seemingly benevolent. "You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves. In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have."

Hawke stepped forward. "Surely you can understand our concerns and explain what you are."

With her expression earnest, Justinia looked to Tharin. "I am here to help you. You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor."

Tharin wanted to snarl, to lash out and question how she knew he had been made Inquisitor. Doubt grew and bloomed its toxic flowers. Yet, if this person, this thing was not Justinia, she would not admit to it freely. It would be pointless to keep accusing her of trickery and deception. What's more, he had to know what happened on that fateful day. And so, he said, "Okay, talk."

Justinia's grin grew, though he saw nothing treacherous in it. There was… sympathy. "I can see you wonder how I know of your ascension as the Inquisitor. I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus." Her eyes bore into Tharin, into his soul. "It is the Nightmare. It has found a way to latch onto your connection to the Fade, your Anchor. It feeds off fear and darkness you feel every time you suffer from a terrifying vision of the Fade, almost every night now. It grows fat upon the terror in this place of darkness it calls its home."

Tharin felt Cassandra's sharp voice cutting through the Fade's stale air, "You are a non-mage having visions, and you thought saying nothing was acceptable?!"

Cornered, the young man blurted out an excuse, "Solas was away, I couldn't trust Vivienne, and… I couldn't ask Dorian. I did consult Morrigan. She said there wasn't much she could do."

Ignoring the bickering, Justinia turned toward the trail ahead and continued, "The Nightmare has served Corypheus faithfully and has grown strong. When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took your memories and fed off them. Before you leave the Fade, you must recover them."

Sera grunted and screeched, "But we don't even know what you are, you fucking demon or some shite!"

Tharin gave her a look and turned back. He was determined. "You must know the way. We shall follow."

With the appearance of an Archdemon and gory death of Warden-Commander Clarel, most Grey Wardens switched sides and fought the demons. Soon, the flag of the Inquisition was unfurled and raised above the fortress.

Cullen cogitated. It was a victory, yes, but the price the Inquisition had to pay was great indeed. Too many soldiers perished trying to stop the Grey Wardens' foolishness. And the Inquisition lost half of its leaders in one fell swoop. The Inquisitor, Cassandra, Hawke, Warden Stroud, as well as companions Sera and Varric were missing. They fell through the rift the Inquisitor conjured midair as the rampart collapsed. Cullen watched it happen, and he now had the bitter thought that their disappearance into the Fade was a fate better than the unequivocal death a plunging to the ground promised.

The uncertainty was a blessing.

Now, Cullen was in the middle of this disarray, trying to salvage what he could. But once the orders had been given to his troops to surveil the damage and reorganize and to detain the surviving Grey Wardens, he had to confront Tharin's disappearance.

For the first time in his life, Cullen wished he were a mage. He would have given anything if only he could see the Fade in his dreams and guide his love back. His four limbs, his sight and hearing, his implausible freedom from the translucent poison. His life – he would welcome death if it meant Tharin had a fighting chance. And if he could trade their places, he would gladly choose to be stranded in the place of all nightmares. These choices, however, remained beyond his reach.

But he had a thought.

On the day after, Cullen grabbed a large vial of lyrium potion and sought out Dorian. Even as he held the bright cyan poison in his hand, he felt no compulsion toward it. He only felt a sense of despair that would keep buzzing somewhere near the edge of his consciousness as long as Tharin and his companions remained in the Fade.

Dorian was in Erimond's chamber, collecting any and all arcane documents the Grey Wardens relied on to perform the demonic rituals. Covered in papers and parchments and the sandy dust that remained a perpetual feature of this terrain, the man looked up only when Cullen stood right in front of him.

Without appending any greeting, Dorian asked, "Any news?"

Cullen shook his head. He knelt on the floor and extended the lyrium potion to Dorian. "Master Pavus, I need you to enter the Fade through your mind." He hoped he did not sound too plaintive.

His entreaty seemed to surprise Dorian. It took a while for the man to respond, musing with his chin balanced on his knuckles. Yet, he finally hummed, "It would be difficult, but there is better than zero chance of it working."

A strange way to put it, but Cullen did not question the mage. He pleaded again, "Please…"

Dorian sighed. With a thin grin, he relented, "All right. Let me get comfortable, and we can begin."

Erimond's cot was small but appointed with sheets made from the finest Tevene silk. Dorian nonetheless crinkled his nose at it. As he covered the cot with a well-fluffed blanket that had been put aside, Dorian muttered, half-facetious and half-serious, "Can't have Erimond rub off on me…"

The mage then sat on the bed and held his hand out. Cullen nodded and handed him the lyrium potion. After drinking it down in one gulp, Dorian lay down and gathered his hands on his chest. "I am going in."

Dragging an old, grimy chair next to the cot and sitting on its edge, Cullen intently watched Dorian as he ventured through the Fade. Not that he could actually tell what was happening. The mage was awake. But he mumbled some indiscernible gibberish here and there and motioned at something. None of it made much sense to Cullen.

Half an hour later, Dorian suddenly began to hyperventilate. He began to thrash about with his eyes open, which was terrifying. Eventually, Dorian sprang up into a sitting position and inhaled with his mouth, releasing a throaty noise. His eyes became focused on the Commander.

Cullen leaned forward and asked, "Well?"

Dorian held his hand up as he kept breathing hard. The suspense was a killer. When Dorian swallowed hard and his breaths calmed, his face contorted into an expression of remorse as he replied, "I am sorry, Commander. This was always a fool's errand."

Cullen felt like he would lose his mind as he barely contained himself and rasped, "Why?"

"It was impossible to track them down. The geography of the Fade does not follow the rules of time and space of this world. Things shift constantly, the time stretches and accelerates for no reason, and demons lurk in every corner. I was almost felled by a demon just now." Looking wary, Dorian added, "If I had died in the Fade, I would have become a Tranquil."

Of course, Cullen knew. He knew all this. His templar training had to count for something. He knew that sending Dorian in without knowing where to look had been tantamount to sticking a dagger in the man's back. All he could do was to express gratitude for even going through with his preposterous suggestion and leave the spot right then and there.

Helplessly, Cullen whispered, "Thank you for your time."

Dorian's eyebrows were arched in sympathy as he pointed at the papers on the sandy floor. "I promise, I will look for other ways to assist Tharin in the Fade."

Cullen walked the corridors back to the main bailey.

For now, the Inquisition had its purpose. It had to patch up injured soldiers, contain the capitulated Grey Wardens, catalog every object found in the fortress, and take down witness accounts of the events that unfolded here. It would take days to complete these tasks.

But then, what? The Inquisition could not hang around Adamant indefinitely waiting for Tharin and his companions to reappear. As much as Cullen would have liked to stay put for days, months, or even years, the Inquisition was needed elsewhere.

The Spymaster would not hesitate to remind the Commander of this fact, indubitably.

Cullen halted his steps and gritted his teeth. I need you, Tharin, he thought.

Live for me.

Those were the last words Tharin said, Cullen was sure of it. The young man had the most beautiful, heart-wrenching smile imprinted on his face as he slowly descended into the depths of unknown. Cullen would never forget that expression until he was truly dead and gone.

It was then when he heard Dorian desperately calling for him, "Commander!"

A few minutes had barely passed since he'd left Dorian, yet the mage was here, running toward him looking giddy.

"What is it, Master Pavus?"

The mage slumped forward, catching his breath. The running, the gesticulating, and the posture, they were all most unlike him. "Just realized… we have an excellent source of information for all things Corypheus and the arcane in our grasp. Bring Erimond to me and I will figure out if he knows any means of reaching the Inquisitor."

Cullen felt his heart speed. The idea was not half bad. "You are right. We ought to be questioning him." He promptly summoned two soldiers walking along the corridor and ordered them to bring the magister to the tent he had set up his office in.

Magister Erimond was presented in chains looking not unlike a string-tied roast, obviously disgruntled and hostile. The man was ratty, certainly the result of having been thrashed about by the late Warden-Commander Clarel. The Commander sat on a bejeweled throne, with his legs knee-crossed and his chin resting on the right hand, attempting to look more in control than he was feeling. The Inquisition soldiers stood in two lines inside the tent. And Dorian stood next to Cullen.

After a moment of silence in which he tried to read the magister's expression, he said gravely, "Do you know how to get the Inquisitor out of the Fade?" He heard Dorian sigh exasperatedly, no doubt annoyed that Cullen was not willing to engage in a back and forth. Verbal sparring probably would have worked well on a man like Erimond who regarded his own intelligence above all others', but the Commander was in no mood. Steady now, steady, he was barely holding on as it was.

The Venatori sneered, his haughty profile turned ever skyward. "If I do know, I am not telling you," the magister spat, sounding like a petulant child.

Talking to Erimond was a decent choice given neither Cullen nor Dorian had any other workable ideas, but Cullen could already tell there was no point to this exchange. The man was not ready to relinquish any usable knowledge. The Commander exhaled deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He asked the Altus, "Would you like to try?"

Wordless up till this moment, the mage finally started, "No. I can see this is a waste of time. I am sorry for having suggested this." Then, with the most arrogant voice Cullen had heard from him, Dorian mocked Erimond, "You are obviously too stupid to know anything beyond the rudimentary anyway. It was no secret in Minrathous that you were never able to join the top-tier Circles even with your father's clout. You never had the grades. Well, I must congratulate you, Erimond. Your stupidity is finally catching up to you."

Cullen snorted. It was admirable how Dorian was still able to hurl insults meant to break the man down psychologically under these stressful circumstances. It seemed like a useful skill. Perhaps he should ask the mage to give him pointers when everything was all right.

Whenever that may be.

He was about to wave away the magister when the man began to struggle against the restraint. Needless to say, this was futile. Even so, the magister looked proud. Must be something in the Tevene water.

Erimond fumed, "I'm thrilled, you know. I'm beside myself knowing that piece of garbage, that slant-ear mongrel you call the Inquisitor is stuck in the Fade with his equally worthless minions, and my master will–"

Before the magister got to finish the abuse, Cullen leapt from his throne. In a flash, Cullen grabbed the man by the collar and punched his face. So hard that Erimond lost consciousness and collapsed in a bloody heap.

"Commander!"

If Dorian had not rushed over and inserted himself between Cullen and Erimond, Cullen would surely have done much more. For he was the human incarnate of bloodthirst. He felt savage. He was savage.

Blinded by heedless rage, Cullen wanted to bathe in Erimond's blood. His fur surcoat, his velvet tunic, his steel plate, his face – everything would be drenched carmine. And concentrating his anger and fear on this pathetic little worm would have been cathartic. He wanted, no, needed to kill, because taking away the life of this rubbish of a human being, the principal cause of Tharin's current predicament, would make him feel better.

But something in Cullen halted him. And by that time, Dorian had seized his arms. "Calm yourself! Erimond's beneath you, and he's your prisoner! Tharin would not want Erimond's blood on your hands!"

At the mention of his love's name, Cullen glared at Dorian. The mage glared back.

In a bellowing voice, Cullen derided, "Do not talk of Tharin! You could not even do one thing for him in the Fade! You do not get to mention his name!" He thought he would have been far more convincing had he not started to cry. But tears came, unbidden and unwelcome.

Dorian's handsome face broke into something venomous. "Oh, and what good are you? You cannot even fathom what the Fade looks like. You bark and yap like an untrained mabari, yet you cannot do a thing without my help. Admit it, you are just as lost as we all are. You do not have the control of the situation."

Cullen let his fists tighten. He did not know what he wanted now. He would have liked to assail Dorian as he did Erimond, yet at the same time, he needed to be comforted by the man. To be touched, to be hugged, and to be told everything would be all right.

Diverting his attention from the mage, Cullen turned to Erimond. The Venatori's face was swelling up from the punch, and he showed no sign of sentience. With his voice progressively breaking and hitching, Cullen spoke to two fidgeting soldiers by Erimond, "Bring this man back to his cell. And make sure he receives healing." The soldiers, their faces pale, refused to meet Cullen's eyes as they dragged the man away.

The Commander then straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and ordered in a still frustratingly unsteady tone, "The rest of you are dismissed. Including you, Master Pavus."

As the soldiers left the tent, Dorian sneered and shook his head. "Acting erratic won't bring Tharin back."

"I said, you are dismissed," stressed Cullen as he firmly crossed his arms.

The amalgamated memories drew a picture nobody could have foreknown.

The Grey Warden mages were behind Divine Justinia's assassination and the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Tharin, a mere former templar, happened upon Corypheus's ritual to tear open the Veil. Justinia slapped Corypheus's orb out of his hand, and Tharin picked it up with his left hand, marking his hand forever.

The explosion followed.

An understanding washed over Tharin as well as the rest of his party. Tharin was the Herald by accident. Just a person who happened to be lucky enough to survive and emerge as the Herald of Andraste. But it could have been anyone. Anyone could have been the survivor.

In short, he was a fraud and a nothing.

Tharin supposed his greatest fear was proven true. The party had just encountered a graveyard filled with tombstones. Everyone's greatest fear was written on each, though only Varric confirmed his own, unhappily and under protest, that his fear was turning into his parents. On Haretharin Trevelyan's gravestone? The phrase, Duty without Purpose.

Despite his fierce resistance against the Inquisition responsibilities, a part of Tharin wanted to believe he was serving something greater than himself. He wanted to believe that for a reason that would remain unknown, he had been chosen to help the people of Thedas. And it mattered not whether it was the Maker or Andraste or someone else who willed it so.

Turned out, every tribulation he had gone through had been without a reason. Because it could have been anyone in his position. It could even have been a mindless puppet, and the result would have been the same.

And what a perfect puppet Tharin made for the Maker who did not exist, for the Andraste who was dead and gone. Was this how Corypheus felt when he discovered the Black City empty and deserted? For all the efforts he expended for the Old Gods, he was shown the true meaninglessness of life. Perhaps that was what drove Corypheus to insanity. To villainy.

Perhaps Tharin was not too different from Corypheus.

He could keel over from hilarity if not for the fact that he was stuck in the Raw Fade. Plus, the constant whispering of the Nightmare demon made it impossible to think straight.

As he quietly seethed, Cassandra walked next to him and raised her voice, "What are you thinking?"

A scoff escaped Tharin. "That if I don't survive this, the world would not be worse off one bit."

Tharin felt Cassandra's hand on his back. It felt warm. "Don't say that. You've proven yourself."

Tharin blustered, "Anyone could've been the Inquisition's leader, right? You told me you originally wanted Hawke. I mean, if Hawke were the Inquisitor, maybe none of us would be stuck here!"

Hawke's response was immediate and astringent, "Hey, don't bring me into this mess."

Cassandra puffed her chest. "The Maker works in mysterious ways. You are who we needed for the Inquisition."

Tharin wanted to argue further, to say he obviously was not who the Inquisition needed. A shattered, lyrium-addled former templar with a death wish was and ought to be no one's idea of a good leader.

But he had grown weary of all the chatters.

And so, Tharin and his party continued on in deafening silence, toward the inevitable battle with the Nightmare.

It had been close to an hour since Cullen left his tent and slammed the door to his temporary quarters. After taking off the bloody gloves and ridding his face of the stray tears, he paced the length of the room, trying to commune with the Maker. Or, more accurately, trying to scream into the Void, hoping the Maker would hear his tirade.

A sudden knock on the door pulled him back from the realm beyond. He growled, "What!?"

There was a moment of pause before he heard Leliana's calm voice, "Commander, I have a message from the Inquisitor."

Cullen's heart stopped. He jumped and opened the door with a breathless query, "Is he back?"

Leliana frowned as she held out a letter. "No, Tharin isn't back. This is something he left before the battle. He asked me to give it to you if something happened."

Overwhelmed by the different emotions running helter-skelter in him, Cullen stuttered, "I… I… don't… What…?"

With a heavy sigh, Leliana clutched Cullen's wrist and placed the letter on his palm. "He knew something might happen. For his sake, read it." Leliana's hand was cold and forced a chill down Cullen's spine.

Speechless, he watched the Spymaster walk away after delivering the letter. When she turned the corner and disappeared, he looked down on the envelope.

On it was his nickname written out in Tharin's neat print. Frozen on the spot, he merely held the letter for a moment. When he ripped open the envelope, he found two pages of meticulously written out words in a neat cursive, so bloody typical of Tharin.

Cul,

If you are reading this, something's happened and I am dead. Or I am not in a position to carry out the duties of the Inquisition at the very least. I've been hoping this happens after Corypheus is defeated, but if not, I am so sorry. I have failed you.

Regardless, I believe the Inquisition is in good hands, and it will be able to deal the finishing blow to Corypheus and his army. I don't doubt that you will be at the forefront, leading the charge against him in person. I regret I won't be there to see you in the moment of triumph. What a sight it would be, you in your full armor taking down swarms of Venatori conscripts and the Red Templars. Perhaps I could watch it from afar where I am headed.

Ever since I stopped taking lyrium again, I've been thinking about the future. More specifically, your future. I think we never discussed it because the specter of disaster was always hovering in our thoughts, but I know you will have a great one. And I would like to help.

If you go to my quarters, there is a dresser by the walk-in-wardrobe. In the lowest drawer, you will find a small piece of paper with a number. It's for an account at the Bank of Ostwick, which holds all the money my uncle left me. It's not a large sum, not by the noble standard, but it will keep you comfortable for many years. Actually, I think you will be able to live off it for the rest of your life, since I know you are not the type to splurge on creature comforts.

I probably should have told Josephine and donated the money to the Inquisition, but I just couldn't. I wanted it to help you. I hope this will give you some breathing room to explore what you would like to do after the Inquisition, after you've saved the world and made it better for mages, templars, and all the others. Maybe you could go join your family in South Reach, become a farmer? Maker, now that is a sight I am truly sorry I won't get to see.

I have left explicit instruction at the bank to allow you access in the case I am no longer available to retrieve the contents. And I am sure the news of the Inquisitor's death will travel fast, so I don't imagine they will give you a lot of grief.

Lastly, I want you to forget me. We never even got started properly, but I know you deserve much more than what I could give you. So please, forget me. I want you to find someone who will be there for you without fail, someone who will defend you and make you so happy that you would think of the past no more. So happy that you would never think of me again for the rest of your life. That will be the parting gift for me.

I'd like to ask you now to replace your kettle and mugs with mine from the quarters as well, if not for the fact that they will probably remind you of me. So, if you want them, please take them, but by no means feel like you have to. For the record, you need new ones.

Cullen, it has been an honor and a privilege to fight by your side. You chose me, and you made me the happiest person.

May the Maker always watch over you.

Thank you.

Tharin

A surge of anger and grief hit Cullen, making his forehead feel too hot. He punched the desk. The force was enough to break open the skin on his knuckles. He began to bleed, but the new wounds went unheeded.

The party fought off the Nightmare's minions in the form of spiders, which made Hawke shudder and shout "Spiders! Always the Maker-damned spiders!" These were followed by every kind of demon conceivable.

The party was surely reaching its breaking point as they traveled through a winding cave full of stalactites and shallow pools of almost gelatinous water. They had been at it without a proper break or food and water for nearly a day, and who knew what kind of effect the Raw Fade had on mortal beings' bodies. But the spirit of Justinia was encouraging. "You must get through the rift, Inquisitor! Get through and then slam it closed with all your strength. That will exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade!"

The cave eventually widened to what looked like a large chamber. Beyond that was the green light of the rift they had been desperately searching for.

"The rift! We're almost there!" Hawke pointed and proclaimed excitedly.

Varric soughed. "Great, Hawke. Why not just dare the Old Gods to try and stop you?"

But as the party began to run, the Nightmare appeared in front of them in two forms: a fear demon and a gigantic spider with countless rotating, beady eyes. They descended and obscured the exit.

The spirit of Justinia soared toward the Nightmare and bade farewell, "If you would, please tell Leliana, 'I'm sorry. I failed you, too.'" It soon convulsed and erupted into rays of blinding light, dazing and incapacitating the Nightmare.

"This is it!" shouted Tharin as he charged at the fear demon left bereft of the Nightmare's weighty bulwark.

But the fear demon was a daunting enemy. It cast an energy barrier on itself as Tharin tried to slash at it with his greatsword. Instead of making contact with the demon, the greatsword struggled against the barrier and arcane sparks flew.

Hawke cast a thunderous discharge, which temporarily disabled the barrier and allowed Tharin and Stroud to ram the demon with as much force as they could muster. The demon began to flit about, avoiding the direct contact.

It did produce specters of itself, which passed through Tharin and others. And when it did, Tharin felt his body instantly chill and his energy sap. The others had the same reaction, evinced by their shivering. The fear demon, cocksure in its nimbleness and speed, continued to taunt Tharin, "You are nothing! Your life means nothing!"

"Eat shit!" Sera's voice ripped through the stale air as she loosened multiple arrows one after another, hitting the demon in its face and making it screech painfully. Beside her stood Varric, who, like her, rapidly nocked and released bolts at the demon.

Tharin did his best to avoid the demon's bleak touches, but it was impossible to do so in close proximity. He had to stay close to slash and hack away at the demon.

And every time Tharin thought he could deal the finishing blow, the demon would disappear into the ether and summon little fearlings in the shape of dark spiders.

The party's persistence, however, paid off. The fear demon's movements slowed considerably. When it began to conjure another barrier, Tharin emitted a leonine roar and pierced the demon's core, dealing it the finishing blow.

The party began to run once again only to have its path blocked by the Nightmare's main manifestation.

"We need to clear a path!" Stroud shouted.

Hawke looked determined as she declared, "Go. I'll cover you."

Warden Stroud was just as unyielding, "No. You were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must–"

"A Warden must help them rebuild! That's your job! Corypheus is mine."

Yet the Anchor, which had been silent and docile during this ordeal, suddenly activated and began to vibrate. The pain coursed through Tharin, forcing him to grip his wrist and bend forward. He knew from previous experiences the Anchor would soon emit an arcane discharge. Instead of trying to suppress it with his mind, he decided to use it to the party's advantage.

"Stand back!" he shouted as he laboriously made his way forward to the Nightmare.

The pain reached and surpassed its threshold. It was intolerable. Tharin cried out.

The reverberations in the Anchor intensified until Tharin thought his whole hand would ignite. When he could no longer hold it back, he extended his left arm forward at the Nightmare.

A flash. A stupefying light filled his vision, and Tharin squeezed his eyes shut and turned away from his hand.

And a detonation.

When Tharin caught his breath and opened his eyes, a scene of carnage expanded before him. Once again, the Nightmare had been subdued. But it still twitched about, obviously still alive. Or whatever equivalent of alive for demons was.

Tharin heard a drawn-out moan behind him and turned to find Warden Stroud and Marian Hawke, the two people standing closest to him when the Anchor burst, on the ground, writhing in pain. Their hair looked charred, and their skin blistered.

With a sinking feeling, Tharin realized the discharge had struck Stroud and Hawke as well as the demon. Stunned, Tharin murmured, "I'm sorry…"

It was at that moment he saw Cassandra run up to him and shake him violently. "Focus! We must go!" She then helped Hawke up and supported her.

Tharin's mind slowly drifted away, but he managed to stem it in time. He looked to his companions and announced, "I will follow! Take Stroud and Hawke and go through!"

Cassandra stared at Tharin skeptically, which prompted him to nod and assure, "I swear to the Maker!"

Sera and Varric supporting Stroud, who was only lightly injured, went through first. Cassandra dawdled, but she and Hawke soon began to limp toward the exit.

But the Nightmare was not yet defeated. Angered beyond the ken, the demon would entrap the party, even follow those who escaped out to Adamant given the chance.

Someone had to stay and fight. And die.

Tharin determined it would be him, the fraud who should never have been the Herald of Andraste or the Inquisitor.

As he watched his party disappear beyond the rift one by one, he remembered that terrible day on the Storm Coast, when he summarily killed surrendered Venatori mages, their callow faces contorted in fear. And that day at Skyhold when he executed his would-be assassin along with the blameless emissary. The sickening crunch, the blood flowing freely, and Cullen looking away.

Cullen. He would sadden Cullen yet again, for the last time.

Tharin whispered, "I'm sorry, Cul. A life for the lives lost." As the Nightmare demon roared, Tharin flicked his hand and closed the rift.

The sun had set hours ago when Cullen received the news from a scout, who barely knocked before she entered his temporary quarters.

"They are back!" She shouted, "The Inquisitor's back!"

When Cullen raced down the stairs to the main bailey, he saw the large rift there vanish with an arcane explosion. It grew dim as only torches alighted the courtyard.

The first person he ran into was Leliana. With a somber countenance, she said, "I am so sorry, Cullen."

Every dark thought he had had in the past two days, every whisper of despair surged within him until he felt like his heart would burst.

"No, no, no, no, no," Cullen muttered. Feeling weightless enough to float away, Cullen only just managed to push past a crowd that had gathered. He walked past Cassandra supporting a clearly injured Warden Stroud. He pushed past Varric, who turned and sharply emitted, "Just don't, Curly!" He inched past Sera, who looked nearly catatonic.

When he came upon Dorian tending to Hawke's wounds with healing magic, he knew.

The worst had happened.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, Cullen could hear his own heartbeats as he croaked, "Where's–where's Tharin?"

Hawke, with her hair looking singed and her face bleeding, looked up and slowly uttered, "He got left behind."

"No–!" Cullen cried. Somehow still standing upright, his whole body felt numb. Which was almost comical considering how much his core hurt, how his heart splintered into countless jagged fragments.

An idea struck. A passing fancy impulsively seized. Something that was not nothing. A nothing that must be something if he ruminated on it hard enough.

Cullen fell to his knees next to Dorian and hastily took off his right vambrace. He held his naked arm out and blathered, "Use my blood! That's it, there must be a way to–to use blood magic to open the rift again! I'll go in and help Tharin!"

Dorian looked up with tearful eyes. "Please stop, Cullen."

"No, no, this can't be it! There must be a way! Some way we haven't considered! Blood magic could be it, right?"

In the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Hawke turn toward him and extend her arm. "Cullen, don't…"

Crazed, Cullen took no notice of the whispers of the gathering throng. He tore off his other vambrace and held his arms up. "Just… use me! I don't care what happens to me! It will work, right?!"

Dorian looked away and trembled.

"Please!" Cullen implored, "please… Please… use me…"

Some life events are intruding on the posting schedule. I will try to post two weeks from now on Sunday, September 4 as usual, but it may not happen. I will post any updates in this chapter.

Sunday, September 4: Unfortunately, the next chapter won't be posted today. I will try to get it posted tomorrow or Tuesday. Many apologies.

Tuesday, September 6: The next chapter is coming soon. Still needs some more editing.

Saturday, September 10: The next chapter is coming tomorrow on Sunday, September 11. Another chapter will be posted a week later on Sunday, September 18.

Comments and reviews are never obligatory but give me life! Thank you for reading!