As the countless eyes of the Nightmare turned opaque and lifeless and its meaty carcass crashed onto the ground, Tharin's knees buckled. He collapsed and rolled onto his back, puffing and wheezing. Splintered breaths kept arising at too fast a pace.
He defeated a demon in the Fade.
How did he defeat a demon in the Fade? He was but a mortal man. Perhaps Tharin truly was Andraste's chosen, the Maker's prophet. The Herald of Andraste had risen from the Nightmare, quite literally.
Tharin cut through the buzz of exhausted, excitable chatter in his mind with a loud exhale. When he gathered his hands on his chest, the surface of his armor was sticky. The viscosity of that substance elicited goosebumps. He lifted his right hand to find it red.
He fumbled around, trying to find any gashes on his own body, but he found himself unharmed except for a few bruises and scuffs. The red was just gory matter from the Nightmare.
He snorted and muttered, "I'm still alive," as though to confirm yet again. "I'm… still… alive."
When his breath finally calmed and the tiniest sliver of strength returned, Tharin stood up. With his right foot flush against the demon's carcass, he pulled on his greatsword until it released with a squelching noise and a streak of gore running the length of it. He made a face as he used the hem of his tunic to wipe off the offending matter. Not to say it was an entirely successful endeavor.
Tharin then looked around, trying to locate the portal Hawke and his companions went through. But there was only a minute scar left in the place where the rift used to be. He was stuck.
The Fade had a nasty habit of changing without a warning, Tharin learned this the hard way as he traversed the length of it with his companions. Now, he was standing in an open field, the grotto full of stalactites and the Nightmare's lair long gone. He continued to look around, trying in vain to pin down his location and perhaps find his way out. Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood as an earsplitting noise resounded and the ground – what passed as the ground – shook.
When he turned around, Tharin found a humongous manse that literally emerged from thin air. The blurry edges progressively became crisp and clear, and the gargantuan stone pillars and the marble entryway revealed themselves. Still, it seemed to be enshrouded in illuminant, verdigris fog, making it look eerie.
Tharin drew a sharp breath, for he stood in front of the house from his nightmares.
The Trevelyan estate.
The house of nightmares it may be, but the manse was enthralling to Tharin. Rather, it pulled him in as though it held its own gravity. The house made his blood tumble and roil. He began to traipse forward. One heavy step by step, the monstrous amalgamation of stone and wood loomed large over him.
He opened the front door to find the lavish great hall, just as he remembered. A thin coat of gray dust appeared to cover everything from the bearskin rug to the varnished mahogany tables and accompanying chairs to the ceramic vases with intricate patterns, rendering them unreal and strange.
Tharin made his way into the parlor. Upon the grand fireplace was the Trevelyans' pointlessly intricate coat of arms along with its motto carved underneath – Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed.
A spectral figure stood in the middle of the wide room, and as it lifted its long, spindly right arm, Tharin felt compelled to approach.
More precisely, his body disregarded his brain screeching at him to run and willed itself to propel forward.
The figure's arm continued to beckon until Tharin stood a couple feet from it. As he came to a stop, Tharin instinctively knew this was the monster from his dreams, the very first one to haunt him other than the demon he just cut down. The figure's outline shimmered, and dark veins covered much of its body until it looked pitch black. Most importantly, he felt the familiar dread well up within him.
Tharin's heart raced, the terror engulfing and squeezing it. Yet, his mind was somehow too foggy to care at the same time.
The figure raised its arms and spoke in an impossibly low, gravelly voice, "Well, well, here you are." Its maw was dark and unmoving, yet the words were perceptible.
"Here I am…" Tharin murmured, utterly entranced.
"Your mind's scrumptious. I want more."
When Tharin blinked, he found Otto Trevelyan, his distant uncle, staring back at him with sad, watery eyes. The same hazel ones that pleaded with the young man to tell him more about his real son, Maxwell, before he fell into a coma. All of a sudden, the parlor seemed to fill with Otto's expensive yet cloying scent. It made Tharin gag.
The man whispered, "Hello, my son."
Tharin could not remember what he had been doing or thinking a few seconds before. It was as though he had been standing in the parlor of the grand Trevelyan estate for ages, waiting for his uncle to deign to bestow upon him a scrap of attention. Frowning and wary, he murmured, "My lord…"
Otto's expression twisted in unmitigated hopelessness as he started. His tone was broken, "Why would you ruin your family?" He soughed. "You must know now that everything you touch turns bad. There is a rot within you. Your friend at the Hasmal Circle died because of you. You have gone and destroyed our family. You killed people you were not supposed to. And now, you find out that you are not a hero, that you have never been one…"
Speechless at this long litany of accusations, Tharin bit his lower lip. But everything was true. He had not done a single thing right in his life.
Belying his broken voice, Otto was absolutely relentless. "You are a disappointment – to your friends, to all Trevelyans, to the Inquisition. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I…" Tharin balled his hands into tight fists and looked down at the marble floor. He saw his reflection, and it disgusted him. He deserved death. A grimace spread on his face. "I am a disappointment. Any redemption is beyond me."
"That is correct. And there is only one way forward." As Otto whispered, Tharin felt ethereal tendrils enwrap him. Shapeless smoke coalescing into a noose around his neck. "You must repent."
It was gradual, but Tharin knew he was choking. At first, he tried to hold his breath, hoping it would pass, but it did not. The tendrils closed in, and he felt blood rush to his head. He saw stars in his eyes, his brain signaling its imminent asphyxiation.
As he felt faint, his mind called out repeatedly how he deserved this, and it frightened him. The instinct to stay alive clashed with the desire to end it all.
Tharin held his neck, but there was nothing there to fight.
Except for Cullen's locket tucked under his armor. Tharin clutched at its chain as he struggled.
Tharin may have been a disappointment to everyone. Indeed, he disappointed everyone important in his life at least once. Kyr, Maxwell, Otto, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine… Nevertheless, Cullen continued to love him. The locket was proof of that. Despite Tharin's wanton corruption, despite the circumstances pulling them apart, the two men found their way back to each other.
To Cullen, Tharin was not a disappointment.
His eyes began to bulge from the strangulation, and he blinked in a vain effort to fight it. But it was not all for naught. As he blinked rapidly and held on to the locket, Tharin saw Otto's form dissolve. His face contorted into strange, uncanny shapes until it was pure darkness.
Once Otto's face was gone, the rest came easily. Tharin finally remembered he had been conversing with a demon, and it was that demon who was strangling him with its bony arms.
It was just in time since Tharin's consciousness began to drift in and out. With trembling hands, he reached for his dagger and quickly drew it, the steel grating against the scabbard. Without any finesse because he was suffocating, he hacked at the demon's arms. It shrieked in agony and let go.
Tharin puffed his chest, coughed, and took a huge gulp of the fetid air. He was ludicrously grateful for it. His throat was no longer constricted as his breath returned to its normal rhythm. Still, his eyes did not stray from the demon in front of him. It nursed its wounds like a hurt animal, and in a moment, the wounds sutured themselves and were fully healed.
"You will pay for that," croaked the demon as its claws elongated.
Tharin answered with silence, planting his two feet on the ground and swapping out his dagger with his greatsword. The demon bent its knees, raised its arms, and repeatedly clacked its claws together. It then bared its fangs with something that resembled a cocksure smile.
The demon soared and dove headfirst toward Tharin. With every ounce of strength left in him, Tharin ducked out of the demon's way, whirled around, and struck at its neck. The sword sliced at the demon's flesh effortlessly.
What Tharin faced was a demon, nevertheless. The neck wound would have been grievous on a living thing, fatal in all likelihood. Instead, the demon simply pushed on its head until the wound closed. It snarled in pain.
Tharin held the greatsword close to his heart, waiting for the counterattack. And the demon, clever and powerful it may have been, must now be beside itself with the agony and fury. It expanded its body fully, looming over Tharin as it rumbled.
Yet Tharin felt confidence well within him. The demon's black heart stood out from the system of veins that crisscrossed its body. If he managed to strike and hit the heart, if he managed to destroy its heart, it should die.
Right?
The answer never came, but it was his only option. The only possible way to prolong his life in this miserable place. When the demon lunged at him, Tharin stepped forward and pushed the greatsword through its core. But the demon had a long reach. Its claws penetrated Tharin's shoulders. The young man screamed in burning pain and let go of his weapon.
But it worked. Striking the demon at its heart was the correct strategy. Tharin had witnessed death many times. Lights extinguishing from the eyes of his enemies, whatever race they were. Nevertheless, it was almost awestriking to see a demon's eyes dim until there was nothing behind them. It slumped forward, taking Tharin down with it.
He heard the greatsword impale to the hilt as he and the demon hit the ground. And Tharin kept breathing, breathing… Soupy, lukewarm air entered, and hot, vapory air left. He ran his hands on the floor and was confronted by a coarse, somehow wet rug. No doubt befouled by the Fade, but for now, Tharin was about to burst from joy to be able to touch and feel. Joy at having survived another impossible battle.
After the demon's empty shell disintegrated into fine dust and Tharin was able to retrieve the greatsword, the pain on his shoulders swelled. He ripped pieces of fabric from his tunic, from the few parts that were devoid of demon gore anyhow. He wrapped the torn strips around the puncture wounds in a hurried and shoddy manner that was the best he could do and prayed he would not bleed out.
As Tharin took a moment to recover, he had to acknowledge the escape from the Fade was improbable at best and death stalked him closely. The only choice left to him was either to go down fighting or to bleed out. The latter would be undignified. He decided he would at least die with the sword in his hands.
He would do Cullen proud.
Before he left the parlor, Tharin grasped the locket and lowered his head to peck a lingering kiss.
When Tharin backtracked to the great hall, he found the front door gone. Not locked or barricaded from exit, but simply wiped from existence. In fact, even the windows were walled off. No way to escape. The only way was forward through the manse.
Tharin emitted a noise of frustration that seamlessly transposed into a deep sigh. He began to trudge through the rooms. The parlor led to a long hallway adjoined by bedchambers left and right. At the end of the hallway stood a wall taken over by an elaborate Andrastian mural. The Divine Andraste stood in the middle, burning on a pyre while rays of godly light emanated from her crown. On either side of her were Maferath, her betrayer, and Archon Hessarian ready to pierce her heart with a rapier.
It was the same painting Tharin saw in Valence when he visited the cloister with Leliana to figure out Justinia's intention. The manse was mocking Tharin, cannibalizing the fragments of his own memory to trap him. He huffed a hollow laugh.
The painting in Valence had adorned the secret door to the empty reliquary. This could be another secret entrance.
Of course, there was no doorknob, no handle on the mural. Tharin carefully ran his hand across the panel and scrutinized the art, attempting to figure out how to open it from the outside. The solution turned out to be so simple that Tharin scoffed at himself when he finally discovered it. He pushed on the mural, and after a mechanical whirr, it swung open to what looked like a small chapel.
A gust of warm air rushed past Tharin as he stepped in. In fact, the chapel was downright balmy. There were stone pews and golden candelabra with lit red candles neatly demarcating the lines. An Andraste's statue, puzzlingly abraded and covered in moss, stood on the far end of the dais, and in front of it stood a small demon.
Tharin did not know what the first demon was, and in hindsight, it must have been something to do with disillusionment or expectations betrayed. But with a tattered hood obscuring part of the toothy face, this one was clearly that of despair. Tharin had encountered and bested despair demons many a time and was not afraid to confront it now.
He immediately unsheathed his greatsword, held it out, and took a defensive stance. With his heart thrumming with jittery energy, he kept reassuring himself, I can still fight.
But this manse was the demons' domain. Whatever power the demons wielded in Thedas, it was multiplied by a hundredfold in here. And Tharin could not keep his eyes open forever. Sooner rather than later, he had to blink, and once he did, the demon had transformed itself to the assassin the Trevelyans had sent to kill him.
Tharin had no wherewithal to question this sudden metamorphosis. Yet again, he had forgotten what he was about to do. Instead, his mind accepted what unfolded before him wholly, like navigating a dream without questioning any illogical twists and turns.
The grizzled man in a soiled green cloak stared with a crazed smile. The dark eyes were unmoving. Tharin felt a pang of guilt in his core, the scene of the assassin's execution at Skyhold playing in his mind. The man's pitiful last word of "Mummy…?" followed by a swinging axe, the nauseating sound of bones crunching, and an odor of rusted iron spreading in the air.
He loosened the grip on his greatsword and returned his weapon to its scabbard.
The demented leer remained entrenched on the assassin's face as he raised his hands. "Welcome! I have been expecting you!"
"You have?" asked Tharin, creasing his brow.
"Yes. And you must be curious about those you have left behind," chortled the assassin, "oh, wait, but you have only one person in your mind. Would you like to see him?"
Cullen. Tharin's heart skipped a beat.
The pews disappeared one by one as the chapel dissolved into a perfect darkness that no light could escape from. But the assassin waved his right hand, and from it sprang a little ball of luminescence. It expanded until Tharin could clearly see Cullen in it.
It was similar to the glittering memory orbs he had to retrieve for Divine Justinia's spirit. In it, Tharin saw Cullen squeeze in through the crowd gathered at Adamant's main courtyard. He halted his steps before Dorian administering healing magic on a frayed Hawke and asked in a quavering voice, "Where's– where's Tharin?"
Hawke hacked a dry cough and rasped, "He got left behind."
"No–!" Cullen's whole body seemed to wobble. The next moment, the man dropped to his knees and rid his right arm of its vambrace. He wailed plaintively, "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's eyes were bloodshot. He whispered, "Please stop, Cullen."
Yet, Cullen kept on insisting, "No, no, this can't be it! There must be a way! Some way we haven't considered! Blood magic could be it, right?"
Hawke sat up with much exertion and rebuked, "Cullen, don't…"
The man crawled on his hands and knees toward the two mages, rid his left vambrace, and pleaded, "Just… use me! I don't care what happens to me! It will work, right?! Please! Please… Please… use me."
The light in the orb amplified until its radiance was overwhelming. Tharin had to look away. The assassin cackled. "You made a promise to return, didn't you?"
When Tharin turned back, the corners of the assassin's lips were raised beyond his cheeks, almost to the eyes. It was unsettling. He susurrated, "I… did."
With his words punctuated by stochastic giggles and with his face rotating roughly a quarter way, the assassin explained, "See, though, this is how it goes. Cullen has his future already set out, and it really doesn't matter what you choose." He clapped and snickered. "Cullen loses his mind. He dies from lyrium addiction. Whether you return or not, the point is moot."
As any trace of hope he may have held for Cullen got scrubbed away, Tharin nonetheless inquired, "Why is that?"
"Because your destiny is set as well. Let's say… a very low probability indeed, but you were able to return home. Whatever happiness you manage to glom doesn't last. You, the great fraud and the shame of the Inquisition, die at the hands of Corypheus. You–" The assassin creased his brow and protruded his lower lip in laughably fake grief, "–break Cullen's heart again. Either way, Cullen squanders all the fortune you give him to lyrium and dies penniless on the street. Perfect ending, wouldn't you say?"
When Tharin blinked, the assassin was in front of him, close enough for their noses to touch. The assassin swiftly took out a rusted dagger and ran the blade across Tharin's cheek. "You… don't matter."
Tharin felt a drop of blood trickle down. It was something concrete, something real in this plane of spectral impermanence. As his fingers dug into his palms, he remembered where he was and who he was dealing with.
Tharin flipped through his mind rapidly. From all the tomes he had read regarding horrors that lurked in the Fade, he understood that demons desired to possess living beings to traverse the mortal plane. However, Tharin was not connected to the Fade with magical ability, and possessing him would be nary impossible.
Given such constraint, a weaker demon like the despair may seek only to feast upon whatever emotion or quality it was drawn to. And as far as Tharin could recall, it was difficult to vanquish a demon in the Fade – the previous one notwithstanding – since it could reanimate itself. Nonetheless, he could not imagine the demon in front of him relished in the prospect of expending the limited arcane energy to reanimate itself.
And so, a new idea came to him. Instead of fighting, Tharin would bluff and bargain.
As much as despondency continued to stalk him, he felt a surge of certainty. It was as though his feet had landed on a bedrock underneath the quicksand.
He licked his chapped lips and began to bluff, "You know my future. You know how badly it ends. So, why don't you release me and let me escape the Fade?" Not that I could escape the Fade, he finished in his mind.
The assassin exploded in a demented laugh. "And why would I do that?"
"Because I am worth far more for you out there in the world of mortals, constantly being chased by Corypheus. If I remain in the Fade, that is it. I die, and there is nothing for you to consume. If I leave, I will continue to despair among mortals, and you can feed off that until you are satisfied.
"You said so yourself. The rest of my life will be hopeless. So why keep me here against my will?" With his heart quickening, Tharin risked even more, "Or would you rather I cut you down? Because I have done it before with your brethren."
Tharin had decided to stay in the Raw Fade because the multitude of sins he had committed against the innocents weighed heavily on his conscience. And he had no intention of battling the ghost of the past in the assassin's guise. But the demon did not know that.
When the demon, still in its disguise, hummed and shrugged, Tharin discreetly exhaled a shaky breath. All the bluffs had worked. The demon sibilated, "I shall latch onto your nightmares. I shall feed on your misery. And I shall be there when you die from Corypheus's triumph."
Tharin sneered, "You are more than welcome to, my friend."
"Fine. It is decided." The assassin's form disappeared, and the demon revealed its true appearance. In a low, harsh voice and with its gigantic teeth clattering, it spoke, "Go forth and despair."
The surrounding darkness began to disperse as the chapel came into view once again. With a facetious bow, Tharin ambled away from the demon. His wit alone saved him this time, and his impending death had been postponed yet again. As he stood on the door leading to the next chamber, he whispered, "I can do this."
The shot of nervous excitement from the bluffing and haggling soon subsided, and exhaustion stalked Tharin's shadow.
On an empty corridor, Tharin plunked down on the carpeted floor. He rounded his back, hung his head low, and soughed. Who knew surviving was such a chore?
He lifted his head and stared at the entrance to the next chamber awaiting him. Given his luck, it was occupied by another demon, he had no doubt. A weary laugh bubbled out of him.
His head felt heavy, and his shoulders hurt terribly. He leaned against the corridor wall, shut his eyes, and let his mind wander. It was the most luxury he could afford.
In reality, it had been less than a day since he was separated from the rest of the Inquisition, but it felt like ages. He missed Cullen. He missed the companions. Their banters, their easy camaraderie, and the routines they shared at Skyhold. Sparring with Cassandra, sharing pinched treats with Sera, raucous merriment with the Chargers, even the war council. Their trust in Tharin as their leader. He would not have believed in the last one if not for Varric telling him so.
One day a week before the siege of Adamant, Varric and Tharin stood on the ramparts of the Griffon Wing Keep and together observed the desert sand shift, wondering if there would be any more Grey Warden defectors. Tharin's watch had just ended, and Varric's was about to begin.
Tharin remembered everything. The pungent smell of the unwashed headwrap shielding him from the desert sun, the dwarf coughing and clearing his throat of the sand, and the sound of dunes moving in waves. Like he was still living that day.
"How are you?" Varric's tone was casual, but Tharin knew his mind was always turning, looking for a loose thread that would unspool secrets and spill interesting tales.
"Fine," he answered tersely.
Varric chortled. "Keep your breeches on, I'm not fishing for a story. Though you have yet to tell me what Sparkler asked of you."
Tharin could not suppress a grin. Like warm afternoon sunrays, Varric's affable voice always had the effect of relaxing him. He could not help but tell the dwarf personal things. Anecdotes and observations he thought he preferred to keep hidden. "Dorian asked to lead the Inquisition effort to eradicate Venatori strongholds in Orlais. He then said he would travel to Tevinter, to fix his homeland." He clasped his hands behind his back and breathed in. "I think I angered him. Enough for him to leave anyway."
A divot ran down Varric's brow. "You don't believe that, do you?"
"I've hurt him, Varric."
"Yeah, I figured. You two were hot and heavy for a bit there, and then you weren't." Varric shifted, stretching and yawning. "But he's not leaving because you hurt him. It's because you've given him the future. Or the possibility of it, I guess."
It was Tharin's turn to question. "What do you mean?"
Varric pensively explained, "You've led the Inquisition to many victories. You've shaped it into a force for good. Back when the Conclave exploded and the Breach opened, people were desperate. They thought the world was ending. Now, you've given them enough breathing room to contemplate their individual futures."
The earnestness from the dwarf was a rare occurrence indeed, and it made Tharin feel scratchy inside. Discomfited and with his cheeks aflush, he tried to divert the topic, "…Sucking up will not get you more stories out of me."
Varric snorted. "Ha! I am doing fine on that front anyway, thanks." The dwarf reached and pat Tharin's lower back. "You've done well, kid. Everyone I talked to thinks so."
"Even though I was addicted to lyrium, killed a few innocents, tried to exile the Seeker, and almost ruined the Inquisition's reputation."
Varric tilted his head and beamed. "A slight hiccup. But the path to greatness isn't straightforward. Even Hawke didn't always make the right choice, you know. And you came out a better version of yourself." The smile grew wicked as the corners of his lips rose further. "Now, what does Curly have to say about all this?"
His cheeks were still hot, but Tharin answered honestly, "I don't know. I never asked him. I think I am afraid of what he will say."
"I'm positive he has nothing but praises to heap on you."
"That's pushing it."
Varric hummed. "Look, it's not just his future you returned to Curly. You made the man happy. In Kirkwall, he was a cold person, harshness and judgment lingering behind his eyes. Now, when I see him, I see someone in love, someone who exudes warmth. Still awkward as the Maker's swingin' balls, but yeah."
When Tharin looked at Varric with pursed lips, the dwarf guffawed and clapped. "I knew you two were back together! Oh, man, I should've made a bet!"
After Varric had his fill of laughter, the two men turned their gazes back to the desert and stood silently. There was something hypnotizing about an empty expanse stretching far beyond the horizon.
Varric was the one to break that silence. He murmured, "You matter to great many people. Curly most of all."
Images of the companions and Cullen flashed in Tharin's brain. The Inquisition he helped build was unshakable enough to withstand his death, he knew. Despite what the second demon showed, Cullen along with Leliana and Josephine would make for a fine leader to replace him, just as they did when he was at his most vulnerable. And the companions would carry on routing enemies near and far. Corypheus made for a formidable foe, yet the Inquisition could defeat him.
Without me.
His whole body creaked from all the exertions so far. But he had the next chamber to get to, demons to duel. And so, with a grunt, Tharin raised himself onto his feet.
Cursing himself under the breath for having committed a colossal error of judgment in cutting through the manse instead of circumventing it, Tharin stepped through the ledge to a wide chamber with a low ceiling.
It was a home… A home within a manse.
It was well-appointed but not extravagant. A peaceful, ordinary farmer's home. In the large brick-and-mortar hearth burned a merry fire on which a small pot of delicious smelling stew bubbled. There were worn pieces of furniture. On the floor was a rug made from a wolf's skin and fur. Some corners of the house were dusty, and some exposed wooden joints were discolored from the years. But nothing seemed distastefully unclean or filthy. Everything was in the right place, obviously well-used and stained with traces of the owner's touch.
On the very center stood a sturdy table that held a plethora of cooking ingredients. Cured meats, a pheasant yet to be defeathered, a generous variety of vegetables, and little felt pouches of spices from the North. From the tabletop came a loud yet cadenced banging noise as someone threw and kneaded on smooth dough. It was a muscular, blond man in a wrinkled shirt and overalls, but somehow his face was blurred.
As Tharin closed in, the man's face seemed to come into a distinct focus. And the young man could not help but draw a sharp inhale at the sight. It was Cullen, sun-kissed and covered in dusty patches of flour.
Cullen turned and broke out in a broad smile, positively gleaming in exhilaration. With his arms outstretched, he dispensed a bearhug to Tharin. And he susurrated in his ear, "Welcome home, love…"
The man's light grassy scent spread in Tharin's nostrils, and he felt his heart slow. Letting the tension leave his body, he embraced back and murmured, "I'm… home."
When they separated, Tharin saw the grime on him had left a smudge on Cullen's cheek. He chortled, to which Cullen asked, "What seems to be the matter?"
"You have something on your face."
"I do?"
Tharin reached out and wiped at the smudge with his thumb. For a second, he thought the stubble on Cullen's cheek had turned into a hazy patch of indistinguishable colors. It must have been the exhaustion interfering with his vision.
But… why was he so fatigued? And why was his armor so soiled? …Why did he have his armor on in the first place? Tharin could not recall any of the whys.
Cullen rapped Tharin's back and cheerfully added, "Come, take your cumbersome armor off. You must be famished."
"All right…" Tharin warily bobbed his head and began to take off his vambraces.
As he struggled to be free of his pauldrons and breastplate, Cullen ladled a generous portion of the hot stew and laid it out on the tiny dining table by the wall. Looking bashful, he said, "There was no time left to bake the bread. I am afraid we will have to do with just the stew."
Tharin beamed. "Thanks for cooking, Cul."
As he partook the stew, the gratifying warmth spread throughout his body, and he felt at ease. In a soft, resonant voice, Cullen talked about the neighbors and getting ready for the coming year's seeding and planting. It was apparently winter.
But as Tharin listened, he began to feel the tension return. Something was off, but he could not exactly put his finger on it.
Without thinking, he blurted out and cut Cullen off. "How did we get here?"
A shallow divot appeared on Cullen's brow. "What do you mean? We are home."
Tharin's heart began to drum hard and reverberate in his ears. Something was wrong. "I mean, how did we get here from Skyhold? How did we defeat Corypheus? How are we able to live without fear?"
Cullen cocked his head and questioned, "What does any of it matter? We are home and safe. That's all."
Tharin felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. This was not Cullen. The real Cullen would not have abandoned his duty like this. And what about their friends and companions? What of their safety? The real Cullen would not have retired until he was certain Corypheus had been defeated and the world was saved.
And how did they come to start a farm here?
Where is here?
Tharin's quaking hand reached for his locket. It comforted him more than he thought it would, a force grounding him. At least his voice did not crack as he accused, "You are not Cullen. I do not know what you are, but you are not him."
The fake Cullen let forth a sough and rubbed the back of his neck. There was a tinge of annoyance in his tone, "But this is what you want. A quiet life with me away from the Inquisition. That is all you wanted."
"Not with someone I do not love."
"But you do love me. I am your Cullen."
"You are not."
Cullen's face became twisted with lines. There was manipulative sweetness about his voice, sweet enough to disarm Tharin. "Now, now, do not be so obstinate. I am Cullen and Cullen is me. Whatever doubt you have will turn to trust."
Tharin felt his mind fog again. He shook his head viciously, hoping to ward it off. Arduously, with his mind barely keeping together, he murmured, "I refuse." His hand inched toward his dagger, and the next moment, he pulled it out and swung widely at the fake Cullen.
A thin horizontal red line bifurcated Cullen's smiling face. Soon, rivulets of gore began to drip from the wound. The fake Cullen said, "How could you do this to me? I am yours…" but the jolly tone was unchanged. There was an eerie dissonance between the words spoken and the way they were said.
Tharin felt his skin break out in goosebumps. The convincing act was breaking down, and the unbidden dissonance somehow rendered everything worse. He rasped, "You… are a monster. You are not Cullen."
The fake Cullen wiped the gore away, and as the wound closed, its smile grew until it looked malevolent. "I see I have no more hope of convincing you. You now have two choices. You accept me as your Cullen. I shall possess you, but you won't know a thing. You will forever be happy in your fantasy. Or, and this is the wrong choice, you reject me again. I shall possess you, and you will feel it as I take control of your body."
The fake Cullen stood up, roughly pulled Tharin off the chair, and straddled him. With an echoing, inhuman voice, it declared, "Make your choice, human!"
It was only then when Tharin managed to reassemble his memory. This was the Raw Fade, and he had been assaulted by two demons already. And this was the third one. When Tharin took a deep breath and blinked, the fake Cullen had disappeared. It was replaced by a hulking figure, quite different from the first two demons yet just as grotesque. Black veins coursed throughout its bare, muscular torso draped by an elaborate golden necklace. Two twisted horns jutted out from its head, framing the sickly purple glow, and it emitted a grating humming noise.
"Seriously, I hate the Fade," muttered Tharin as he shoved the demon off him and sprang to his feet. As he reached for his greatsword, which he had taken off along with his armor, he taunted, "I am not a mage. Not that I would let you, you cannot possess me."
The demon growled in clear ire. "Wrong choice. You shall cower in fear as I devour your body and soul."
With his greatsword extending its pointed end to the demon, Tharin scoffed. "I find dragons far scarier than a mere desire demon."
The demon raised its arms at once and leapt at Tharin. For a monster of a considerable size, it was intimidatingly agile and fast. Tharin barely escaped its clutch as he spun away. Suddenly, he saw a doorway appear by him. So long as it took him away from this illusory nightmare, any door would do. He opened the door, srcrambled to the narrow corridor, and slammed it shut behind him.
As he leaned his back against the door to barricade, his overworked mind whirred in him. What to do, what to do. The door had been shut and the demon contained, which was good at least. But Tharin did not have much time. Knowing how strong demons were in the Fade, he could not expect this hard-earned peace to last. And the demon derided from the chamber, "You will have to do better than a flimsy door to confine me, human. You will have to do much better than that."
But any idea Tharin may have had to keep the demon back evaporated as his shoulders began to throb. When he touched the makeshift bandage on his left shoulder, his hand came back bloody. He realized that he would have to confront the demon and that he had but one chance availed to him to defeat it. If he failed, he would not have any more strength left in him.
With a loud bang, wooden chips and dust showered on Tharin. The desire demon's arm now protruded through the door. Tharin bit his lower lip and used his dagger to hack at the appendage. The demon screamed.
Now that the door was compromised, there was not much point in keeping it barricaded. Tharin turned and backed up, unsheathing his greatsword again.
The door opened unceremoniously, but before the demon could exit its chamber, Tharin saw an opportunity in the form of its black heart. And Tharin felt his own heart in his throat. There was a sense of exhilaration but no more fear. He stared down at death, and he was ready.
His one chance.
Just like he had done with the demon of disillusionment, Tharin drew the greatsword close to his core and rushed forward.
His sizable weapon penetrated the demon's heart with a crunching sound and went through to the other side, satisfying in its totality, and the demon emitted a noise of surprise before crumpling to the ground.
The demon's body remained whole unlike in the first battle, which Tharin assumed meant it would reanimate sooner than later. And so, he immediately set out to leave the manse without taking any rest. It was hard to ignore his wheezing breaths, but he coped. He had to.
Tharin noted the demon's home had been emptied out. The furniture, the hearth, even the wooden support beams were all gone. It was just a large hall with a dirt floor lacking in clear purpose.
How could he have been so blind? He had been fooled by demons three times now. And these were demons that had visited him many nights in his dreams. Too many nights. He should have been more attuned to their tricks. As he picked up the strewn pieces of his armor, he muttered an irate diatribe to himself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid…"
Whatever vigor he had gleaned from the demon's stew had been a mirage. And the injuries accrued did not help. He felt desperately drained as he put the armor back on. "I can do this," Tharin emphasized, hoping what he said was the truth. But thirst and hunger only gained in insistence, and he did not have much left in him. Could he fight another demon if he had to?
When he exited the deserted hall and stumbled around a corner, he found an unassuming door. Hoping it led outside, Tharin cautiously opened it.
And in front of him lay the dead garden of the manse. No plant looked alive in the neat grid of soil. Just brown stalks, stems, and husks. Well, at least it was outside.
Tharin had enough of dead things to last a lifetime, so he turned his gaze away. At that moment, he saw yet another shadowy figure approach him from afar.
In apprehension and anticipation, Tharin took a defensive stance. He knew it was breaking down in its flimsiness and worried he would make for too easy an adversary. That he would face a dishonorable death. But when the sallow light broke through the swirling arcane vortex above, it revealed who it was, and he could not help but drop his greatsword.
"Hello, Tharin," said the figure in a warm and affectionate voice.
"This is my life now…" - Tharin Trevelyan.
Thank you for reading!