Chapter Thirty-Three: Stay With Me
AN: This is the first half of my AU version of the comic 'Until We Sleep'. I ran out of time, and I'm not going to be able to finish until next weekend because work is tough atmo. Since I'm over 10 000 words it's probably just as well.
The title is inspired by the Nils Wandrey one-man-band cover of Shakespeare's Sister: Stay. Lambert's Sloth demon makes an appearance again, and unlike canon Hawke he doesn't always manage to see through things on his own.
Trigger warnings: references to rape, Fenris remembering being made to assist Danarius in creating oculara, Fade demons posing as children.
The waves lapped rhythmically around the Qunari dreadnought, the Ventosus Straits a warm orange in the flaming sunset. Behind them, shrouded by grey clouds, was the Eyes of Nocen – the towering monolith of Castellum Tenebris, land of the forever rains. It was perpetually shrouded in a dark mist that looked like just another swell in the sea from only a short distance away. South-east from the lands of House Danarius, the city-state of Qarinus – and its subterranean embassy for their dwarven allies – was another coastal city of great strategic importance.
The dreadnought was the most spectacular vessel Lambert had ever seen. With three square-rigged masts (less maneuverable than the triangular sails on The Siren's Call but with greater power) a long hull with room to carry sixteen cannons, it dwarfed the vessel that had nearly killed them on their way to Kirkwall. If the wind dropped, there were four propellor shafts powered by steam turbines, and a large funnel that jabbed into the thin strips of cottony clouds. A flock of seagulls flew overhead.
"Wishing you had one of these ships?" Varric asked Isabella.
"Thinking about what I almost paid for one of these ships," Isabella glowered.
A seagull perched on the very tip of the mainmast, right above Isabella's head. Lambert saw a potential problem brewing, given the bird's position, Isabella's sour mood and the fact she had Gerav's crossbow with her. He whistled, and the bird flew off at his bidding without leaving any presents behind.
"You never used to give the past much thought," Varric mused, "If you want to talk, we've got a lot of boring sea to cross."
"You're cute when you get paternal." Isabella swaggered off to eavesdrop on the meeting between Rillian, Alistair and the Arishok taking place in the ship's state room.
As the dreadnought approached Ath Velanis, the wind turned colder and the dying sun seemed somehow less substantial
Lambert was feeling fragile too – not because they were in Qunari hands but because they were approaching Ath Velanis. He was remembering Kirkwall. Beneath the City of Chains, below where the rat catchers pissed on stones to mark their territory, there were Tevinter ruins. Fenris had carried him through there while he and the others rescued him from the Gallows. Lambert didn't talk about it and could only remember it like a sweat-stained bad dream...
Lambert looked at Fenris and was ashamed. How much worse for the ex-slave who had actually been in Ath Velanis! Ath Velanis and Castellum Tenebris had been close, separated only by the Straits, and Danarius had often lent Fenris to Titus for his entertainment.
"Can I hug you?"
"Go ahead."
Fenris' ribs and their muscle-layer were knit together; his side felt like armour. He was a rock for Lambert – something solid to hold onto in a sea of emptiness.
The air swam with droplets of dusk, the amber sun vanished into the water, and the sky shifted into crushed indigo. The water was like spun stars: a shining expanse of deep blues and greens that reflected the night sky. In the distance they could see Ath Velanis: a proud palace pushing though the dense jungle of the shore.
"No more secrets, then."
Beside Rillian and opposite the Arishok, Alistair laid a fist onto the table with its campaign map. The Arishok sat behind a massive mahogany desk, framed by standing candelabras. His grey-skinned form seemed to pull the shadows around him as his burning violet eyes took in them both. When he shifted to lean against his chair, his tunic strained against his muscles.
"The blood of dragons is in King Maric's veins – which is why Titus wanted him. If he learns you are a royal bastard he will want you too."
"Yavana told me the same. But how is that possible?"
The Arishok remained quiet, pensive, before waving a hand.
"Your Chantry writes of King Calenhad the Great, the Silver Knight, first of his line and father of your fathers. In your legends he is strong, wise, a man who inspired loyalty as much by words as by his sword. But we know Calenhad for what he was – the dog-handler who would be more. Do not doubt that he was clever. But he was not wise. And his strength was not his own. Calenhad struck bargain upon bargain...the witch, Flemeth, sent him to a cave, where one of the great dragons – ancient and proud, its time nearly over - lay. Calenhad did as the witch instructed: plunged his dagger into the creature and felt its heat. And Calenhad drank – and he grew strong, until none could stand against him. Though the secret has faded, the blood remains in you."
Alistair shrugged. "Titus won't be pleased to find out the ritual that made me a Warden tainted my blood forever."
"Enough. We will reach Ath Velanis in two days. My dreadnoughts will bombard the fortress and my warriors will hold the shore for one hour – and then depart. All else is in your hands."
"We have to go inside the fortress," Alistair insisted, "We have to find Maric."
An upward tick to the Arishok's pale brow.
"Our man inside has arranged for one lock to be open. It is a great risk, and he will be remembered with honour."
"Tell me," Rillian murmured, "His chosen name, not the one Tevinter gave him."
"Qunari have no names. We know him as Gatt."
"Thank you. I will remember."
"I wish you luck, basalit-an. "
The Arishok's glowing eyes followed them.
Isabella collared Rillian as soon as they were out of earshot.
"You can't possibly trust the Qunari to leave in one hour! After they have been planning to take this fortress for months? They're going to just give up on holding it? You really think they'd prefer to see it a lab held by thirteen Grey Wardens?"
"He called me basalit-an ," Rillian said sharply. Just because you will never earn the honour...
Isabella sighed. "Yes, he respects you – do you think that means he won't lie to an outsider for the benefit of his people? He's Arishok – their General! He's going to make the best military decision for his own side which – I promise you – won't involve supporting a bunch of Grey Warden scientists."
Rillian hissed in exasperation. "Don't you think Qunari want to end Blights too? They've lost people – they sent Sten to investigate the Blight."
"They sent your Sten to assess whether Ferelden was ripe for colonization and he happened to encounter the Blight."
Rillian's eyes narrowed – her chin dropped imperceptibly. By speaking of Sten, Isabella was treading on sacred ground. Isabella, wisely, backed off.
"Believe or don't believe - it's your choice. Just make sure you leave with Maric and as much research as you can carry, because you won't get the chance to return. Or – you might – but the price will be conversion. The Qunari do have scientists and – if you're lucky – they'll agree with your aims. But you won't be the one making the decisions."
When Isabella turned and stalked away Rillian was tempted to pursue her, but suddenly the uselessness of that – and of so many other things - crashed down on her. If Isabella was right, she would not be able to keep her promise to Carver - not be able to throw herself into research – they'd be living like fugitives, forever on the run.
Alistair turned to her and the flame of her determination sparked, flared. He put his arms around her and she pressed both her hands to his. Through a strange series of associations, she found herself thinking of the times she had endeavored to learn strategy from Loghain. She found herself thinking of Ath Velanis and where it was on the map.
Thoughtfully, she said, "The Arishok may not want to let us have Ath Velanis but I'm not sure they could hold it either. Not long-term. It's too near Castellum Tenebris and they don't have the supply lines – yet – to Par Vollen. The Arishok will know this – and may be open to negotiation."
Alistair nodded and swung one arm in a gesture to the north. "Who knows what lies on the other side of Seheron? If we're to be fugitives forever, so be it. Whatever comes, I'll be beside you."
Rillian leaned into him, savouring the reality of his presence. He was right. Why worry about tomorrow, when tomorrows had a way of disappearing, or coming in a guise no-one expected. He kissed her, and she absorbed the moment, wanting to lose nothing of this time, wanting to be able to recall it all, cherish it as long as she lived.
The thirteen members of Rillian's Folly left the dreadnought on a boat headed for Alam. The plan was to slip into the fortress from its western side - following Gatt's directions – while the dreadnoughts bombarded from the southern coast. Alistair, Ser Otto and Carver were rowing on one side – Fenris, Donnic and Varric on the other. The two mages sat miserably in the centre, Zevran and Sebastian were lookouts, and the three women discussed strategy.
The waves were beginning to wear on Lambert's stomach. He was remembering their escape from the Gallows.
Ugh. Now he was sure to be sick.
To distract himself, he studied their surroundings. The water was a web of stars; a thousand lights in the shadow winked amid the expanse of blue and violet and green. Fish jumped from the waves to swim through the midnight air and once he saw a languid purple jellyfish. The moon-silvered water reminded him of a mirror his mother had once possessed. The salt in the air and splash of waves hitting his face was actually not so bad. Like love, beauty remained.
Sebastian, it appeared, also had doubts about this night's work. He was discussing them with Zevran.
"Come now – don't you want to see how mad a magister can get?"
"Not really."
The comment made both Lambert and Fenris laugh. They heartily agreed with Sebastian. Yet here they were.
The group maneuvered past jagged rocks rising from the waves to enter a small inlet on the southwestern side. Giant cliffs stretched on either side as they rowed into a cave's dark opening. The air cooled, and the sound of the waves was replaced by an echoing drip drip drip and wind whistling a haunting tune through small holes in the chinks. Hazy starlight shone through the cracks. Moss spread along the walls and a tangle of roots dangled from above.
There was little undergrowth because of the gloom. Swordlike ferns managed to grow, and infrequent spindly survivors of other species sometimes reared up from the dark litter. Slugs flourished. Their silvery slime trails were an incongruously beautiful netting. The buzzing of insects and hooting calls of various animals echoed from the tangled nature dripping around them.
Turning a bend in the cave's river, they pulled in their oars and banked their boat upon a stretch of beach. Rillian and Carver told their mabaris to stay, and Lambert knew the dogs would wait for them. He wondered whether this meant Rillian agreed with Isabella – that she was planning to leave the fortress with as many books as she could carry, find the dogs and return to The Siren's Call – or whether she planned to bring the dogs to Ath Velanis once Titus was defeated.
They slipped into the jungle near Alam to approach the fortress; following the shadowed trail until it opened into a field. Like Akhaaz, there was nowhere to hide close to the fortress – it was a killing ground, watched by faceless guards through arrow-slits looking down. It would not be safe for them to approach – even at night - until those guards were distracted. When the frontal assault began, they would follow Gatt's trail.
"Just how will we know when the Arishok is ready?" Lambert asked Rillian.
Zevran – who had accompanied Nathaniel and Anders on the mission against darkspawn in Lothering forest – smiled his trademark snake-eating grin.
"We'll know."
A sound like distant thunder startled Lambert to silence, and then there was a sense of pressure, as though a giant hand were squeezing him. There was a hollow feeling in his head and his vision blurred. He remembered the explosions he had seen just as The Siren's Call was leaving Kirkwall – staring from the deck, puzzled as a newborn – a blossoming, fiery glow. The thirteen stopped and stared at the cottony white smoke eddying into the night sky.
"Now," Rillian ordered – and Lambert looked into features warped into a caricature of the woman he knew. Wide eyes ablaze with inhuman passion. Teeth bared in grimace. She turned a fierce slit of a grin on him. "Party time."
Lambert looked – and saw similar expressions on Alistair's, Carver's, Donnic's, Zevran's and... even Fenris' faces. He turned to Jowan.
"I know Rillian cares about all of us – but she enjoys this murderous foolishness. It doesn't make sense."
"Wardens and Templars are both mad," Jowan agreed. "Two cheeks of the same arse."
Lambert giggled. "Are we the hole in between?"
Jowan chuckled, but Lambert heard something sorrowful in the laughter. He had been given no choice but to Join, just as he had been given no choice but to enter the Circle. Lambert – to whom autonomy and free will were important – understood.
They crossed the field around the fortress in a crouching sprint. Fenris and Zevran stopped at the base of a wall leading to the battlewalk on the inside of the fortress. The walkway was six feet below the wall's full height, scored with firing notches from archers six feet apart. The assassins swung grappling bars across two of the notches with ease and accuracy and Lambert tried not to think about how flimsy their purchase looked. After quick tugs to test the hold, Fenris and Zevran went first, silent and swift, their spiderlike shadows a darker part of the night. They dropped the last few feet to land soundlessly as bats.
Jowan grimaced. The darkness couldn't disguise how pale he'd become.
He said, "I don't know if I can do this. I don't think I can."
Ser Otto reached into his jacket and drew out a coil of quarter-inch line. "I thought this might come in handy. I'll go up ahead of you. Loop this around your upper body. I'll pull."
Lambert scraped and clumped along after Fenris, then landed in an ungainly scramble on the other side. Fenris helped him up matter-of-factly – not laughing as Carver would have done – and stood beside him to help Sebastian up. Zevran was aiding Rillian – they had split into two groups, each following one of the ropes. All except Varric – the dwarf simply shot a coil of rope from the underside of his crossbow and began to climb with aplomb. Then helped Bianca follow, gentleman to lady.
When they were all on the other side Fenris and Zevran freed the bars and uncoiled the ropes. Varric did something strange and quick and mysterious with his crossbow. Fenris led them to a wooden door at the end of the battlewalk. Gatt had arranged for it to be unlocked. It led to the kitchens – which were deserted amid the chaos. A flight of stone steps led downwards; a small candle threw just enough light for them to make out faces. They followed Fenris down, down...to where Titus took his prisoners. The smear of torchflame waned. Waves retreated like that, Lambert thought, carrying the sparkle of sunlight with them, back to the sea's darkness. He remembered Alrik, and imagined indistinct, coldly predatory things lunging from dark fastnesses.
The journey was unimaginably long, down so many steps he lost track. His lungs yearned for fresh air as eagerly as his eyes craved light. A dark passageway led to the dungeon. Massive ceiling beams crisscrossed above them. The weak glow of a torch emphasized yawning blacknesses. Some of what Lambert glimpsed through the pale light made him glad he couldn't see everything. Cobwebs, gilded by candlelight, seemed drawn to his face and neck. Several times he heard shrill rat noises in the distance. They moved past intersecting tunnels, and on three different occasions they burst out of their coffined run to find themselves in large, forbidding rooms. One was large enough to return his laboured breathing as echoes. He remembered the ruins beneath the Gallows - which had been Tevinter – and shuddered. Mysterious sounds crowded in on him and somehow – Lambert did not know how – Fenris found his hand in the dark. The squeeze was comforting, and Lambert felt his heart lift.
There was a door in front of them: a wooden door banded like the entrance to a cell. Lambert's flickering wisps of spell-light was the only light they had: it sent shadows dancing across the raftered ceiling, like black water down the stone walls.
Thanks to Gatt, the door was unbarred.
The thirteen companions moved cautiously inside. At once the stench hit them. The air was alive with the smell of sweat and despair and ineradicable fear. It permeated the very stones. On either side of the long corridors were cells – rows upon rows. Despite the danger Rillian and Lambert would not leave until they had opened each one. But the cells were empty. All that was left were the bloodstains, the barbed chains, the instruments whose only purpose was pain.
Lambert turned away and retched. He was violently sick over the cold stone ground. He backed away from his mess; clumsy, beastlike.
"Attaboy, Sparky – better out than in," Varric said, patting Lambert on the back.
"It's alright, Lambo – we'll deal with this cunt and then we'll deal with Meredith," Carver promised.
Fenris led them onwards towards an open door at the far end of the dungeon corridor. His eyes were so hard and bright with determination they looked like wet emeralds, Rillian's amber eyes were narrowed, Ser Otto's milky eyes shone with serene courage, and Isabella gave him a wink.
The reddish door yawned at them like the mouth of a predator. There was a thud thud that made Lambert think of a heartbeat in the stone. He knew this place lived. He ached with its weary age, trembled with its fearful secrets. The room glowed: shining metal spangled with dark, sparkling jewels. Green. Scarlet. Blue. Uncountable numbers. The laboratory throbbed with a beehive's steady, warming buzz.
At one end of the cavernous auditorium were rows upon rows of books. Lambert felt the magic and thought of his father's stories of the Circle library. At the other end was a ghostly row of glass desktops, stretched in precise curves, surmounted by a screaming skull. Lambert was not sure how, but he knew the skull had been a woman.
What looked like a massive golden chandelier hung from the vast ceiling. The gold was carved to resemble an enormous python endlessly swallowing its own tail. A desiccated, mummified body was supported. Grey, filmy hair hung down. The encoffined man – already half-drowned in his mortal paralysis – was sustenance to a mass of red, veinlike worms that disappeared into what might have been the heart of a furnace.
The parasitic magic had encircled its victim and was dreaming him. While closed eyes flickered with the sights and sounds of the Fade, the machine was dreaming things out of him and dreaming things into him. And Titus was a parasite that grew stronger from his malady. The part he played - as he had played with Fenris - was that of a voyeur. He could have ended the obscenity but chose not to. Like some depraved deity, he sought to build his world with dragon's blood.
The only person who could speak was Varric. "King Maric?" While everyone else hesitated, the dwarven storyteller raised Bianca and fired the crossbow straight into the machine.
Too late, Lambert heard the door open and saw a wash of magical light emblazon his friends. He whirled frantically as a voice like silk said,
"On the whole, you have made better decisions, dwarf."
Aurelian Titus.
Lambert didn't know him but recognized him anyway.
"Run?" Isabella whispered.
"Not a chance," Alistair said grimly. The former Templar raised Harvard's Aegis and readied a Smite.
Stark against the unexpected light, the magister appeared to have no face, no features. The staff he held looked black and fatal; a scythe of darkness.
The void eyes held Lambert until it seemed he must flow, like light, towards their soothing centre; like falling in love with the open jaws of a shark.
The naked dark set off one of the draining fits of depression he had suffered since his teens. Irresolution ate at his soul. The feeling that nothing was worth anything clutched at his mind. He tried to motivate himself to raise his dagger and fight but just couldn't manage it. Thinking of doing anything was an impossible challenge. This was the place he'd decided to go while he still had the will to make decisions; now that will was gone, he would stay. The powerful mage – too powerful to challenge – would either take him or he would not. The decision was out of his hands. What did it matter anyway?
A wise, resonant voice was saying, "Let go now. It's over. You can stay with your loved ones forever."
Lovely words. Lovely voice. So kind.
That large red heart was changing shape all the time. There must be powerful forces up there, shaping the blood, finding it unsatisfactory, shaping it to something else. It looked like a wineglass, then a strawberry, then a butterfly. Eventually, it lapsed into something larger, more diffuse; it reminded him of a scarlet ship.
He thought how he'd like to sail home with Fenris.
He felt himself flowing into unconsciousness, too weary to ask himself why he struggled against the languorous, seductive inner voice whispering, "Sleep. Believe. Surrender."
He was almost certain it was an inner voice.
The white city of Kirkwall glimmered like a jewel under a nacreous sky.
Inside the ballroom at the Viscount's Keep, decked out in his ceremonial uniform, Guard Captain Donnic was being feted. During the Qunari attack, he had rescued seven of his fellow guardsmen from a collapsed building – having to navigate the treacherous undercity to escape past the horned insurrectionists – and the public had insisted his heroism be recognized. After the chaos, the people needed a hero – and he fitted the bill. Donnic liked it, but he also felt a little awkward.
One by one, the awards rolled in. He was given the Freedom of Kirkwall – which made Sebastian and Fenris smile - he won a Pride of the Free Marches award – and he was made an honourary Admiral. He was even given a year's wages to spend on Diamondback! And now the Viscount had declared him the newest recipient of the Silverite Wings of Valour. The previous recipient – Warden-Commander Gordon Blackwall – would pin the medal to his uniform.
Large fireplaces, set into the walls, surrounded the gathering. The illumination was augmented by a square chandelier holding three tiers of candles. Small windows near the ceiling allowed hotter air a chance to escape. In spite of that ventilation, there was smoke in the air, and the light created by the flames had a roseate, muted glow. It gave the warmth a visible component that suggested snugness. He felt it as a rather convivial atmosphere. Expressions and animations were happy blurs; colours unsullied. He had a sensation of softness, of a place without edges.
For more than two minutes Blackwall read out the citation in his gruff, distinctive voice. Beside Donnic, his wife was beaming. Donnic couldn't make out her face clearly (perhaps because of the candlelight?) but she was tall, strong and had flaming red hair. For a split second he sensed Knight Commander Meredith looking over at him. Meredith had not done much during the attack – apparently her talents stopped at bullying mages - so was not being recognized. He stared straight ahead, not wanting to catch her eye.
The Warden-Commander went on, "Without question, Guard Captain Donnic's courageous and utterly selfless action prevented death for those seven men, and for the citizens they went on to save. He is a worthy recipient of the honour."
Donnic stepped forward...and all at once realized: no, the world doesn't work this way. I am always going to be at the arse end of everything.
A crack appeared in the mother-of-pearl sky. He remembered the blood – the prisoner – the faceless magister.
This was a dream. He had better wake up. His friends - Sebastian, Fenris, Lambert and the others – would all be trapped in their own dreams. Not wanting to wake.
Oh shit! Donnic realized. I'm going to have to boot everyone out of paradise! They're all going to think I'm a snake.
Sebastian stood on the Chantry's threshold, silhouetted by the vestibule's amber candlelight. White candles burned in the apse and transept; the arched ceiling was pewter grey. An ornate black iron grille ran the length of the floor. The statue of Andraste breathed; the incense-flavoured air pressed up against his face, crept into his mouth when he opened it.
He was with Grand Cleric Elthina and his own family: his parents and two older brothers. They were here to watch him take his final vows. He had gone from Chantry lay brother to initiate and was now ready to dedicate his life to the Maker. All his past transgressions were forgotten – his parents were proud...
"Sebastian," Donnic was saying to him, "You need to wake up now."
Sebastian felt sorry for him. Of course this man – good, but blunt and pragmatic and of little faith – would not be able to understand the miracle that had occurred. The Guard Captain of Kirkwall had seen the bodies of Sebastian's parents and brothers and would not be able to believe in their resurrection. He turned to Fenris. His friend looked well - actually more than well: he was completely healed of the brands – and was holding the hand of his husband, Lambert. The sight of Lambert nagged him with an inexplicable guilt; he wasn't sure why. He looked to Elthina for guidance and she smiled at him: wise, knowledgeable, pure. The candlelight gave her a glowing halo he was sure was no accident.
"Sebastian," Donnic told him quietly, "I'm so sorry. You know this cannot be real. Your parents and your brothers are with the Maker."
Sebastian could not help it. He chuckled. "My friend, do ye really think me such a fool as not te know that? I saw their bodies. My father...my mother...my brothers. I picked them up and held them. Do ye think I could forget that? My family are with the Maker in the Golden City - and so are we. If we are te return te the Maker, of course it must be through death. Grand Cleric Elthina taught me death opens a door out of a little dark room (that's all the life we've known before) into a great, real place where the true sun shines and we shall meet everyone we have ever loved. We shall meet Him."
Sebastian would never forget the bodies. His family had lain like rag dolls: crumpled, useless, defunct. Crossbow bolts had torn holes in these frail vessels and the vital substance had leaked out. The mystery of the universe had once inhabited his loved ones. When he had buried them they were heaps of nothing.
Can a crossbow bolt do that? Does the soul spill out with the blood on the ground?
"No," he murmured, "ye cannot say the soul is gone when it has merely changed residences. It is blasphemy te say a bit of metal has destroyed life; it is presumptuous te say that because life has disappeared it has been destroyed. The thing that broadened my father's nostrils, that shaped my mother's smile, that gave my brothers a talent for riding or a way with words...that thing exists, and still has the power te flare that nostril, te smile at me, te talk and ride exactly as it did before."
"And the Harimanns? The ones who hired mercenaries to murder your family? You are just going to let them go, after swearing to enact justice?"
Elthina was stern now. "I told you: the Chantry cannot condone revenge."
Sebastian faced Donnic: calm, steady, certain. "Grand Cleric Elthina was right. Why would I need te seek revenge when my family are all here?"
Donnic looked at him in heavy silence, as if wondering which path to take. Finally, he drew Sebastian's attention to Lambert. There was a vague tugging at Sebastian's mind – a sense that things might go better if he didn't look. But he was used to following his friend's advice - Donnic possessed a common-sense he lacked – and Lambert was married to his other best friend.
"Okay: if Grand Cleric Elthina is so wise, so good, so pure, why did she give Alrik and Karras permission to do anything they wanted to Lambert?"
He might have punched Sebastian and had the same effect. Sebastian was shocked into looking at Lambert – shocked into remembering what they had found in the Gallows...
...This is not the body they raped. These are not the kneecaps they shattered. These are not the hands they destroyed. But this is the same person. The memory is not replaced. The soul is not replaced. This is the same person...
Elthina's dove-grey eyes were soft and compassionate. A swift flicker marred their surface – moonlight sparkling off a cresting wave. Sebastian remembered the Minanter River – the swift, sinister grace of the creatures that darted beneath the water. Here one moment and gone the next, they made the mind distrust the eye. His mentor's pupils were engaging as black holes – they drew him in until he felt he must flow, like light, towards their soothing centre.
"Lambert has been forgiven by the Maker for the sin of being born a mage, and he has forgiven the Templars who enacted their unpleasant duty."
He thought he could see himself reflected in her pupils: a tiny shard of light. That light became a steel-bright sliver like a crescent moon, or the glint of a knife. The knife cut through the muddy disarray of his own thoughts, imposed guidance and certainty. The release from conscience and questions brought an overwhelming wave of relief.
"Wake up, man!" Donnic scoffed, "It isn't a crime to be born a mage - how could he help it? Alrik and Karras...rape is a crime in Kirkwall!"
Sebastian struggled to marshal his arguments. They kept slipping through his fingers - it was like trying to build a house on sand. Finally, weakly, he said, "Grand Cleric Elthina was an innocent…too innocent to understand the permission she had given."
"So: she was too naive to find her own arse with both hands and a map - is that what you're saying? In that case, why believe her now? If this is the Golden City, why didn't you have to account for yourself to the Maker? She might have fast-tracked you in the Kirkwall Chantry, but blue blood doesn't count for much up here. Did you really think it would be so easy? You know this is too good to be true."
"Ye are saying," Sebastian said, breathing heavily, "that my family really were taken from me - that I might not see them again?"
"You will - if you lead a good life. But not like this. We've got to defeat Titus first - help our friends… now come on! Time's wasting."
"Sebastian!" Elthina shouted, "Stop this madness!"
Sebastian ignored her - followed his friend.
Cracks developed in the pewter-grey ceiling. Tears in the sky…tears in himself.
He followed Donnic…and into a place that looked very like Starkhaven. They were in a bedroom - and out of the window was an enormous millwheel. It didn't look quite right - it was more like a child's drawing of a millwheel.
Or a child's memory…
Fenris woke in the bedroom of his and Lambert's small house in Starkhaven. Prince Sebastian Vael had changed the law to allow Elves to own property and Fenris had been proud to buy the home of Lambert's childhood; astonished that he - an ex-slave! - could give that to the man he loved. Outside the window was the millwheel Lambert had once told him about: like a giant's face, a massive giver of life that had shaped Lambert's image of the Maker ever since. The image wasn't clear, though – Fenris had never seen it.
Something about that realization bothered him. Uncertain, he turned to his husband. Lambert was sleeping deeply with a lock of soft black hair across his nose. As if Lambert heard his question, his breathing changed – he opened his eyes and gave a slow, beautiful smile: that smile that made Fenris think of beautiful things.
Fenris was no longer a prisoner inside the brands - Lambert had healed him. The only marks that traced his body were the scars he had earned. He had been dreaming, and the dream clung to him like the smell of brimstone.
"Lambert," he asked quietly, "What is the worst thing you have ever done?"
Lambert rolled so that the two of them lay side by side in bed. The bed folded up into a couch, but they were both so domestically lazy it stayed a bed for months on end.
Lambert thought about it. "Cheated on Anders," he said softly, ashamed. "I mean - technically it wasn't cheating, because he stopped me before we could do anything - but thoughts have power. I mean – I was always meant to be with you, not him, but I shouldn't have cheated on him. If I wasn't happy in the relationship I should have talked to him. Should have ended it. I was a coward – and I drove him to do an unforgiveable thing."
Lambert was referring to the fact Anders had tried to sell Fenris back to his former master. He could have told Lambert that was on Anders, but it didn't change the fact cheating was wrong.
"Since I knew you were with him, it's on me too."
Lambert curled up sleepily next to him, looking more like a lithe panther than a tame house cat. They still had, he realized – with a sort of distant surprise – their three cats: Incognito, Incommunicado, and Pumpkin. They had two griffons too: Ripples and Dumat. Lambert must have fed them already: he always took care of things like that.
Lambert's long dark lashes were closed; his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He looked like he'd dozed off. Fenris turned to lie with his hands behind his own head. The creak of the mattress woke Lambert, making the eyelashes flutter open and the brilliant eyes look at him. He turned to Fenris and burrowed into him.
"Stay with me."
"What's yours?" Lambert asked later that same night. Their room was dark, redolent with candle smoke and the ghost of the cheap red wine they had shared. They had barely left the bed all day.
Their room had one rectangular window with an ivory-coloured curtain which was now filled with pearly light. He could not tell what time of day it was – it seemed they had been here a long time. This was deeply satisfying to Fenris: to lie beside his husband, naked, listening to him talk, the rest of the world gone to hell.
"What's my what?"
"Your worst thing."
Fenris knew he was going to lie. Had known he would have to lie from the beginning, when he had asked Lambert. He had asked his husband partly as a test of his own truthfulness should Lambert return the question.
"You already know the worst thing I have ever done," he said – and as he began he had a detached sensation of his larynx making the sounds which were lies. Not because he hadn't killed the Fog Warriors on Danarius' order but because it wasn't the worst thing. He thought of his mouth and lips moving like an anemone in the dark, then of his head on the pillow, then of the room itself, the building.
Where were they? Oh yes – Starkhaven. Lambert had told him his earliest memory was of a giant millwheel and so Fenris had bought the house for his lover as a wedding present. He imagined the leafy trees and succulent fields of the countryside – Sebastian had reminisced, one time, and the images came to his head (Lambert had taught him how to hoard pictures in his imagination that weren't real).
He thought of the spaces and solids of the world and was overcome by a feeling of tiredness; lying there next to Lambert, feeling the warmth of his embrace, he felt as if each atom of his flesh had its own fixed heaviness, that he would never be able to move again.
Later that night, while Lambert slept, Fenris allowed himself the moment he should have given his husband:
...The body of Danarius' latest enemy – a young magister with more fire than sense who had spoken against him – was flopped into the table, his limbs arranged neatly, his shoulders fitted snugly into a special indentation, and his shaved head prepared for the harvesting of ocularum. From the table beside him, Fenris selected one special tool shaped like a curved elongation and another shaped like a tiny sickle. Both were inserted into the man's mouth.
His master directed him as he carved out the mage's tongue. Blood began to gurgle onto the man's cheeks as Fenris dropped his tools with a clatter. Unhesitatingly, he snatched up an appliance resembling a large star-point screwdriver and, squinting with concentration, he guided it into the mouth.
Flashes of red glowed through the gaps in his fingers as he searched out the spurting blood vessels and fired them shut with a rune of flame. He was busy sluicing out his enemy's mouth by the time the smell of burning flesh had permeated the air.
Danarius had ordered the removal of the tongue purely out of rage that the mage had talked against him. The gesture was symbolic. When it became time to actually interrogate the mage, Danarius would use Blood Control, and force the secrets from his mind. Then he would press the Brand to his forehead, rendering him Tranquil, before turning the skull into an ocularum. Sometimes he let Hadriana do it...
Fenris looked back on Castellum Tenebris and was amazed how small, how dull, how boring it had all been. Even the magisters, sheltered from the worst of the ugliness, were like prisoners in opulent cages: living out their lives without even being able to imagine the beauty Lambert had taught him to see. They were princes, masters of the universe, but their kingdom was a slag heap compared to Fenris' own domain. Everything they devoted themselves to was dreary and banal: outrageously expensive food, torture, blood magic, necromancy. All to distract them from the awful desolation, the darkness, the putrefaction of their rotten empire. Lying in wait for them just outside the thin skin of their homes.
One time, Lambert had confided – sheepishly, ashamed - "Sometimes I still want to ask these stupid questions. How could Alrik hate me so much - want to destroy me? That need to make sense of evil – I know that is just my privilege talking. You and Zevran know the world is a jungle and you laugh at the predators – but I keep trying to understand. Stupid, I know."
He didn't hate you, personally – he hated mages. But after a year together Fenris had learned to recognize the times silence was the wisest course of action.
Part of him wondered how much he had in common with violent rapist-torturers like Alrik because he had assisted in the interrogations. It was not enough to say he had not raped – he would not have been allowed to fuck a mage – or that he had had no choice. He could have refused to torture the mages and be tortured himself. Not only had he never refused – 'it's a sin on the one who ordered it, not on the one whose hands carried out the deed' Sebastian had told him, but was that true? At what point did it become impossible to say, 'but I was only following orders'? The facts were: he had done it and - when it was a mage who had enjoyed hurting him or other slaves - he had enjoyed it, as the only retribution possible.
Worse still: a reptile part of him had desired to take Lambert roughly, contemptuously, when the courtesan had first offered his services. Because for a slave to take a nascent mage would have been vengeance, power, proof of freedom. He had refused, disgusted with himself, and a year later their deep and total friendship-love had unwritten the past.
Still, not telling Lambert made him feel dirty.
But what would be the point? Lambert couldn't forgive him his actions – the only people with the right to do that were dead, and why should they? Lambert would be kind enough to forgive his thoughts, but the memory would still rise between them whenever they made love. Why should Fenris disturb Lambert's mental peace for a purely self-indulgent confession?
Because he had the right to know what he was marrying.
"Lambert," he said, "I tortured many mages on Danarius' orders. Sometimes I enjoyed it."
Lambert was still. A slow shudder went through the slender fame, and when he looked at Fenris there were shadows in the violet eyes that made him think of broken things with sharp edges, of darkness and phasing.
"Well - you're not going to do it again, are you? Not of your own free will – not even if you were ordered to, on pain of death?"
"No."
Lambert nodded. "I don't have the right to judge you. Your memories only spanned a few years and you had known nothing but Danarius. How does one judge another person on this level?"
"I don't think you would have done it."
"I don't think you would have cheated. Let the Maker judge us both. I'm staying here with you."
Lambert was pale, his dark-shadowed eyes huge and haunted. An odd, wistful smile played about his mercurial, lively face.
"Lambert: do you remember the time you offered yourself to me as a thank-you for saving you from Danarius?"
Lambert's fair skin blushed slightly. He grinned self-deprecatingly. "Wasn't I a vain idiot! I could tell you were disgusted, and I thought you were disgusted with me. I've known better for some time. You were disgusted because you had only ever seen one man take another man roughly, to cause pain. You fancied me, but you didn't want to hurt me, so you refused. You're a good man. Fen," he whispered gently, hesitantly, "don't answer if it's too personal but – how did you learn to be gentle?"
Fenris thought about that, then grinned. "I followed your lead – and I am a quick study."
Lambert's smile misted like gold dust and his eyes became a thousand shards of sparkling light. He gestured around the shabby building. "Fen," he said softly, "I'll go anywhere with you. Even to the land beyond the clouds."
Fenris never forgot the fierce joy that leapt in him in that moment, nor the sense that he was seeing a representation of the universe as Lambert wanted him to see it: a place where there was dazzling light behind the darkness - couldn't he see it through the cracks? He glanced towards his husband, who was staring up into the play of lights in the shadow. His eyes were blazing violets, lost somewhere in that other world. His softly curved lips smiled dreamily.
The shuffle of footsteps broke the spell. Lambert's beautiful smile crinkled in irritation.
Donnic and Sebastian were standing at the foot of their bed.
"Really, guys," Lambert said, frowning, "I know you want him for Diamondback, but haven't you ever heard of knocking?"
"When was the last time you heard a door-knock?" Donnic asked him shrewdly, "How long have the two of you been lying in bed? Don't you have duties?"
Lambert frowned, miffed. "It's not wrong to relax, Donnic. Or be happy. The two of you should try it sometime."
The conversation was making Fenris think. How long had the two of them been here? How had they gotten here? He could not remember. But, he realized, that may not mean anything. When Danarius had branded him the pain had wiped his memory – it was possible the process of removing the brands had done the same. He turned to his husband. He trusted Lambert to be his memory-keeper, his literal other half when half of him was missing.
"Hawke," he said, "Do you remember how we got here?"
Lambert looked confused - then brightened determinedly. Cheerfully, he replied, "Well - we're in Starkhaven, obviously - so Seb was able to retake the city…. he's helped you free other slaves…Isabella helps you, with false bulkheads in the bottom of her ship - and Leliana is Divine. She freed all the mages…I don't have to hide anymore! I was able to remove your brands - we found the technique in Titus' library…"
Hearing Lambert - who had the same rapt, fey look he wore when singing or telling stories - told Fenris these were not memories. Lambert was making the truth up as he went along. This was what he wished had happened, not what had actually happened.
"Hawke," he said, "That is our future, not our past. We are in Titus' laboratory - the Magrallen acted like a demon and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. It's time to wake up."
Lambert's face took on a strange fixity, full not of possibilities but impossibilities, his eyes filling up as though drowning in dreams. He wasn't deliberately choosing the Fade – choosing his own happy ending over Fenris' free will – he was fooled by the Magrallen, or by his own personal Sloth demon. Or was letting himself be fooled, because he wanted so very much to believe he and Fenris had their own happily-ever-after.
Fenris looked up at the ceiling, at nothingness: the Fade a universe empty of fear and pain and life. He met Lambert's eyes and they reflected the lifeless beauty of the silent, staring universe.
Fenris rose and looked down at his own body. The body he wanted to have: with only the battle-scars he had earned. With that rare courage that insisted on facing any truth, no matter how disturbing or unpleasant, he realized he needed the brands to defend Lambert from Titus. This was the Fade, and thoughts were power. Lyrium could exist both in reality and the Fade and – at that thought – the vial Jowan had given him appeared in his hand. He drank deeply and accepted the pain of the brands.
...Oh well. I've lived with this pain eleven years - I can live with it a few years more...ooh. Aah. But...I must admit...I had forgotten what it felt like...
" Why , Fen!" Lambert's cry was a plaint of heartbreak. "Haven't you suffered enough?!"
He turned, furious, to Donnic and Sebastian. "This is your fault! Always trying to pull him away from me – getting him mixed up in your adventures – giving bad advice. He's my husband. Leave us alone!"
Fenris turned back. "Stay with me," Lambert pleaded - on the bed with arms outstretched.
"Come with me," Fenris countered.
Lambert sighed and got up. "I'll go anywhere with you, Fen. You know that."
The sands of the hourglass ran out and the truth appeared, cast by shadow into the light.
Lambert followed Fenris and Fenris' two friends - and his face crumpled in utter heartbreak when their dream dissolved and he realized he had been fooled by a Fade demon. Worse: that he had tried to talk Fenris into becoming a lyrium ghost, after everything Danarius had done to him. The shock and remorse on his face aged him ten years.
"Reality is messy – but it does have compensations," Fenris pointed out, "In the Fade we wouldn't have been able to have marital sex."
Lambert's attempted smile was awful, infinitely weary.
Fenris thought he'd better get him to snap out of it. He couldn't try a spar - would have to use humour. "It could have been worse, you know. At least you wanted to stay in the Fade with me - it's not like I found you with Anders."
Lambert managed a shaky smile…and they found themselves in someone else's dream.
Carver and Minna sat beside each other at the sturdy oak table, watching their one-year-old son, Lambert, scramble from one chair to another. Lambert sincerely believed the fact he wasn't quite able to walk yet didn't preclude the ability to run. He tried and fell and tried again.
"He'll be a Warden when he grows up," Carver said with satisfaction.
His wife, currently baking her famous apple pie, smiled tolerantly.
When Carver's brother – his son's namesake – appeared, alongside his Elven husband and two friends – one the Prince of Starkhaven and the other the Guard Captain of Kirkwall - Carver smiled and indicated they should sit. Their long family table was big enough to accommodate family and friends.
All had journeyed alongside him in the quest to defeat Titus – the Grey Wardens now had a base there – and then they had helped Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Afterwards their group had dealt with Knight Commander Meredith. The bitch who had tortured his brother was now pushing up daisies, and Viscount Nathaniel Howe had reinstated Donnic as Guard Captain of Kirkwall. Fenris had been named Guard Captain of Starkhaven – an unheard-of honour for an Elf – but Sebastian's progressive views were slowly but surely spreading to other cities in the Free Marches. Apparently the Divine was getting some hassle from reactionaries - the usual suspects - but her spymaster, Leliana, had the situation in hand.
Carver beamed at his friends and gestured they sit. He smiled at his brother with sunlight in his eyes. Lambert was looking troubled, but he supposed that was only to be expected after what he had been through in the Gallows. Minna's cooking would set him right. Carver's wife was concentrating on her pots and pans as if she were leery of what she might say if she spoke. She lifted two platters heaped with food and carried them to the table."
"Sit down," she told Carver's guests, "Eat. If I've given you too much, don't worry about it. I'm used to cooking for this great ox and the Grey Wardens he consorts with."
Carver grinned. The Grey Warden appetite was an inside joke. He said, "You haven't seen Lambo polish off banana fritters. I've never seen anyone with such a sweet tooth! You might wonder why he isn't fatter – I suspect he's been at the mirror in the Black Emporium again!"
His brother's vanity was well-known, and ever since Lambert had discovered how to use the mirror to remove both his scars and his husband's lyrium brands he had been experimenting with minor details in his own appearance. Carver took the piss – as was a brother's duty – Fenris begged him to stop, but so far Lambert still felt he didn't look enough like Varric's storybook version. He had tried to give himself the beard Varric had given his fictional counterpart - 'Garrett Hawke' - but the result had had everyone rolling about laughing and Fenris saying tactfully that Lambert didn't need facial hair to be a real man. Carver supposed it was probably his fault – both their parents had been Elf-blooded humans, which meant their children were either fully human or Elven. Lambert was Elven except for his non-reflective eyes and rounded ears. While Carver had been able to grow a full beard at sixteen Lambert couldn't manage it at all. As he had had no Elven role models growing up he had been easy prey for Carver's teasing.
Lambert was looking stricken, sick, as if he had something desperately important to say and no idea how to say it. "Carver," he said softly, "You, me, Fenris, Donnic, Seb – thirteen of us in all – we were in Titus' laboratory. He had captured King Maric of Ferelden and was using some kind of Blood Magic to hold him...do you remember? That horrible machine...it looked like a giant heart – thud thud – and the tubes running from Maric's body. The skull on the glass desk."
"Yes," said Carver, "I remember. But that was years ago. We've all come so far. Why bring it up now?"
A bland expression on her face, Minna pulled out a chair and held it for Lambert. "I made your favourite."
On the platter, Carver saw fried bananas, nanbread with raisins, chicken drumsticks and sweet chilli sauce. An enormous almond cake crowned the ensemble. Ever since returning from Seheron, Lambert had developed quite exotic tastes, which Minna was happy to accommodate. Why was he being such a mood-kill now? That was unlike his usually sunny brother. Carver was annoyed. He rolled his eyes at Fenris – seeking support – but Fenris, Donnic and Sebastian were all regarding him with the same troubled expression. At that moment, little Lambert came toddling towards him – doing his best not to trip over his own chubby legs – and Carver bent to pick him up.
"Don't!" Lambert shouted.
"What's gotten into you!" Carver shouted back, furious. The little boy wailed.
"Do you remember when Aurelian Titus walked in and used the blood to cast the spell that trapped us all in the Fade? That is where we are now."
"Well," said Carver smugly – determined that his oh-so-clever mage brother was not going to have the last word this time - "If that is true then why on earth should I trust you? You could be a Fade demon sent to trick me. Sent to turn me against my family."
"Because I was with you when we faced Titus and they were not. You left Minna and your son in Ferelden. How could they be here?"
"I told you – that was years ago!" Carver retorted. He was shouting; sweating.
"Do you remember those years?"
"Carver," Minna said tenderly, "You brother is obviously distraught. You know he has not been himself since Knight Commander Meredith tortured him. Sometimes victims have to tell themselves stories in order to cope with what happened to them."
"You're right," Carver said heavily. He looked pityingly at his brother.
"Carver!" Lambert pressed, "Have I ever lied to you?
"Aha!" Carver smirked at the gotcha. "What about the time you told me you'd flown to the moon and back on a broomstick? Or the time you said a pigeon had told you a statue in Honnleath would come alive? Or the time you said a giant cat called Mr Wiggums had freed all the mages in Kinloch Hold? Or the time..."
"Or the time father thought my prank was you and I confessed at once?" Lambert asked sharply, "Or the time you thought a girl fancied me and I said it was you she was after? She was your first, remember? Have I ever told a lie against your best interests?"
Carver frowned. "No..." he admitted, "I know you'd never do that. But...you're probably messed up after the Gallows. Varric wrote how the Templar bastards put demons inside you and tortured you to make you accept their offers. You didn't break – but neither did Knight Captain Cullen and he still ended up seeing demons everywhere."
"Okay," Lambert admitted, breathing heavily, "If you can remember – really remember – everything that happened to you since we faced Titus I'll believe you."
Carver frowned, struggling. Finally, he said, "After we defeated Titus Commander Rillian set up a Warden base here. She gave me leave to return to Ferelden and fetch Minna and our son."
"Didn't Guillaume Caron try to stop you?" Lambert asked blandly.
"Oh...I'd already taken our son and journeyed here. Guillaume Caron could never keep me from you, my darling."
Carver tried to hold himself still but the whole room seemed to be spinning. A shadow as distinct as a cut lay across his son's head. His friends and family – he thought even Bethany was here – seemed to meld in and out of shadows.
Minna snuggled close to him and put a slender arm about his waist. He could smell something cold, something that had begun to rot; something like the exhalation from a neglected tomb.
Lambert, Fenris, Sebastian and Donnic drew their weapons.
"Carver," Lambert said with bleak, dark honesty, "You never told Minna where you were going. You didn't want to put her in danger – didn't want Guillaume Caron to learn the truth. She could not have found you here."
Little Lambert came towards him – the toddler now walking quite steadily. A grin split his face, leaving a wide, empty hole. He didn't leave the shadows; a moment passed before Carver realized he held a candle in his hands. Then three more children appeared beside the little boy, carrying lights in the shadow. The candles were melting. They slumped over their fingers like heated wax. But none of it dripped to the ground, Instead, as the candles oozed the tallow was absorbed into their flesh.
Now Carver realized the whole bodies of these children were covered with slime. Maybe the shadow was playing tricks on his eyes – from this angle they looked putrid.
Sebastian already had his longbow drawn and ready - Lambert was holding his twin daggers, Fenris and Donnic had drawn their swords. The thing that had been Minna – now a rotting corpse – came on, howling, and Sebastian's rain of arrows spiked her to the ground. Carver distinctly heard a popping noise, a sound of rupture, a wail of betrayal clawing the air.
The three children surrounded the corpse and began to feed. Carver could smell them. The demon that had pretended to be his son was so hungry it started out of the shadow into the light. It grinned at Carver as though he were an especially tasty snack. Carver froze. He knew it was ridiculous – against everything he had been trained as a Warden – but he could not defend himself against the thing that had been his son. He could only die at its hands.
Lambert was suddenly there. He leapt over Carver and decapitated the demon with two smooth sweeps of Bard's Honour and The Bodice Ripper.
There was a popping noise - a high, thin wail – instantly, the remaining two children came to feast on their fallen comrade.
A weird battle raged. It was an uneven struggle – four men, with weapons drawn, against the remaining two demons. Swords, daggers, arrows – everything worked. They were only children, and they died like children.
But, with every death wail, more demons swarmed out of the shadows.
In addition, the weapons of the warriors didn't last long. All were being corroded with the leprosies of the demonic ichor. Every arrow that struck home caught fire, every blade that cut came back pitted and weakened, streaked with ruin.
The Lambert seemed to catch fire; blazing with light. Shining like a host of glory, he seemed to frighten the demons more than their weapons. The light seemed to hurt the demons worse than death. They lost their grins, their hunger, their power of movement. And when they couldn't move, they couldn't feed on each other, couldn't regain their strength like predators, or vampires.
Fenris came to stand beside his lover, singing the Litany of Adralla. His song carried the command of the hunt and the appeal of music; so that Carver wanted to leap up inside himself and shout an answer. Everything about Carver felt transformed: his own hand tremors were not the agitation of grief and terror but the strong rhythm of his determination to do his duty. He was a Warden, and he would not let these creatures use his love for his wife and child to keep him from fulfilling it. Lambert's light and Fenris' battle hymn were two sides of the same coin: a thing of glory and truth and beauty that drove the heavy darkness away.
Afterwards the whole place had the fresh, washed feel of a spring morning after rain.
After a moment or two, Carver became aware Lambert had come to stand before him. He had taken a faceful of smoke and appeared to be weeping. The light of burning children reflected in his eyes. Lambert hugged his brother, clung to him, held him.
Trying to recover his composure, Carver muttered, "I am never going to tell my wife and son about this as long as I live."
Lambert coughed at the smoke, cleared his throat. "That's probably a good idea. If I wasn't a mage, I don't think I'd want to know about Fade demons either."
In the same tone, Carver said, "If I ever get my hands on Titus I'm going to kill him."
Distinctly, so there could be no mistake about it, Fenris told his future brother-in-law, "You'll have to get to him before I do."
Carver nodded. He could do basic maths – Lambert had told him Fenris was twenty-four, had been on the run for six years, and had been Danarius' personal slave for five years. Danarius had lent the boy to Titus as one would lend a favourite courtesan. He studied Fenris through the dusk and firelight.
"You know," Lambert murmured thoughtfully, looking from his brother to his lover, "If Titus knew we were this angry he would probably break into a sweat."
Fenris grinned in the humour that only Lambert seemed to inspire in him. "Your enemies, Hawke?" he asked teasingly, "You make me sweat."
The place Carver had yearned to take his wife and son - the safety he had dreamed of providing for them – dissolved like a painting left in rain.
Varric and Bianca woke beside each other. The double bed was not as luxurious as their quarters in Qarinus, but it wasn't bad. A red carpet lay over marble steps and an enormous chest carried a variety of treasures. He wasn't too fond of the paintings – Bianca had picked them – but he knew better than to comment.
"I had an amazing dream, darling. Blood Magic and swordplay, spies and pirates and Qunari..."
"You'd better write it down. I bet it'll sell better than 'Swords and Shields.'"
"I'll have you know Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast – Right Hand of the Divine - is my biggest fan."
"And I've got some prime real estate in the Deep Roads to sell you."
"Oh ye of little faith...whoa!" Varric suddenly became aware of the armed group standing at the foot of their bed. He collected his wits – wouldn't want his last words to be embarrassing – and said, "I can pay you more than whoever you're currently with."
Fenris grinned and winked, as though at something terribly familiar. "I don't doubt it. The Hero of Ferelden is a bit short of funds right now. Weisshaupt doesn't want us – I suppose Clan Lavellan might pay us in ironbark..."
Bianca was looking thoughtful. "I remember Rillian. She gave the Senior Mage Warden a droplet of Corypheus' blood but we kept the Red Lyrium Idol. I'd like to study it in the laboratory downstairs."
"We'll have to defeat Titus first," Fenris stated, "He's trapped us in the Fade."
Bianca frowned. "Impossible. Dwarves don't dream."
Varric's nose wrinkled – at something he could not quite remember – did not really want to remember.
Fenris was matter-of-fact. "You, me, Lambert and Anders journeyed to the Fade to save a boy named Feynriel. The three of you saved me from my own stupidity. Allow me to return the favour. Dwarves can get trapped in the Fade by a powerful ritual, or Blood Magic, and that is where we are."
Varric and Bianca looked at each other – then looked back at their comfortable bed. It would be so much easier just to stay there - away from the Dwarven family that begrudged them every breath they took.
"Please, Scribbles," Lambert begged, using the nickname he had gifted Varric, "I need you."
Varric rolled his eyes – at his own sentimentality more than Lambert's words. Lambert was his found family and he had never been able to deny his little brother anything.
"Alright, Sparky, you win," he sighed, "But if I end up a magister's ocularum I'm not going to be too happy."
"You won't," Fenris stated flatly. "Dwarves make poor subjects for oculara due to their inability to become Tranquil. Danarius found this out by repeatedly attempting it." Realizing what he had just admitted he flushed, ashamed, but Varric – ignoring Fenris' tiresome protocol about not liking to be touched – patted his arm reassuringly. "Do you think I'm going to blame a teenage boy for doing what his owner ordered?"
"The Maker will," Fenris muttered, ignoring Sebastian shaking his head, "I was old enough to receive the lyrium brands so I was old enough to fight Danarius. I had no memories of my life before but you don't need memories to know right from wrong. I was wrong."
Lambert took his lover's hand. Varric might have expected a look of tenderness, of forgiveness – Lambert was exceptionally kind. What he saw was a deep, brooding pain. "Some of us are too worried about our own burdens to add to yours. I'll never recover from Sloth. Never. I tried to keep you in the Fade with me. Tried to make you a lyrium ghost; after everything Danarius had done to you. I was a grown man, and my father had trained me to see through demons. I was never what you saw. Never what I hoped to be. You deserve better."
Fenris tried to speak. Varric cut him off. "Later, please, Broody. We've got to find the others."
Thoughtfully, Bianca – a scientist to the end – stated, "As far as I can tell we're in the Fade: the source of magic and the source of dreams. Only dwarves don't dream. Which suggests two things. First: we are unconscious – possibly dead – on Titus' floor. Second, when it comes to dreaming, we dwarves probably aren't missing much."
"It isn't always like this," Donnic muttered, "One time, I was with a beautiful red-haired Amazon and..."
"You would do better to fix your mind on holy matters," Sebastian interrupted sternly, "If we truly are dead, on Titus' floor, then we have things to do here, first, before we meet our Maker, and we had best not fail Him."
They were wandering across what might have been a giant tree branch, or a giant hand, surrounded by an empty emerald sky. Small islands floated in the distance, but they had no way to cross over.
"You know," said Lambert thoughtfully, "Anders told me once that it's the nature of the Fade to guide you towards your desire."
Varric and Fenris exchanged glances. Neither thought following the advice of a possessed mage was a particularly safe option, but neither had a better idea.
"So... we just think of the others...and we'll appear in their dreams?"
"Or their nightmares," Fenris said darkly.
The six of them plunged onward – and found in the Fade words had power.
Fire, blood, death. They were in someone's nightmare.