World fell away then, misty in mem'ry,

'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams

A vision of all worlds, waking and slumb'ring,

Spirit and mortal to me appeared.

'Look to My work,' said the Voice of Creation.

'See what My children in arrogance wrought.'

Andraste 1:1

'Well, she did not massacre Vol Dorma. It…She… did not even fly out from under the city. She caused a crater but no damage…'

'Alright,' Radonis said, nodding to a bewildered Maryam Tullius, and rushing down the corridor alongside her. 'What does she want?'

'A pipe.'

'Say again?' the Archon queried. 'Nota bene1, a pipe is useless without tobacco so…'

'The Lady Mystery thinks tobacco too thin. She cannot see the future in smoke so thin, so she asks for weed.'

Radonis braced. 'Spindle weed?

'Gods old and new, yes, that she wants,' Maryam Tullius whispered. 'And she wants your pipe, for whatever that means. I don't understand, your grace does not…smoke.'

He let out a strangled chuckle. 'I used to, two decades ago,' the man responded. 'So it so happens I do have a pipe; it is almost as if Flavius knew this would happen, he bought me one.' He whispered, to himself.

He shook his head, attempting to focus. 'It is…at home,' he told Maryam Tullius, who was arching an amused eyebrow. 'My wife will tell your chosen agent where.'

The Magistra chuckled. 'My chosen agent?' she asked. 'No, Clodius Radonis, this I need to see myself. Besides,' she added, with a deep breath, 'I would rather have a moment's pause and visit with Livia than have another brush with the Augur – that pleasure should be yours alone.'

Radonis took a deep breath, and cast an askew glance out the window; the female dragon covered the male dragon's body with her own, abandoned and slack. It did not distract from her beauty – her scales were white, shaded in orange and purple and seemed to be changing colour depending on the angle at which they were beheld, she was mystery in and out of his sight. He paused there, with Magistra Tullius still by his side, as if the stolen moment could restore some sense of normality to the situation. It could not, so, unwillingly, he pulled himself away from the gigantic shapes of the revived Gods, and Maryam Tullius' reassuring presence, and went forth. Alone.

'Cassandra…Your worship,' Radonis said, greeting Divine Victoria, who stood once he entered his antechamber.

'You brought back Razikale,' Cassandra said; her voice sounded neutral, and, he considered, there was no inflexion that might have suited the situation; he'd had no choice, so, indeed, he had awoken Razikale, and for better or worse, the sky had not yet fallen in. Perhaps it was about to.

'Yes,' he shrugged. 'And all she asked for, once she was up, was to be out of it.'

The Divine adjusted her voice with a cough.

'She wants to smoke. Weed.' The Archon clarified, with a sigh. 'At least she did not ask for a necklace of elven ears,' he added.

'Maker have mercy.' The Divine replied, by sheer practice.

'Manaveris Dracona,' he whispered, by sheer practice too, and they braved the door of the study together.

In human form, Razikale was a beauty to a rare taste. She was more dangerous than mere beauty, however. She was interesting; her body was spectacular indeed, by any standard, but her face could only be described as odd, for she truly had an undeniable reptilian quality: her features were elongated, her cheekbones too tall and pointy, her purple eyes too round, her lips thin, and her nose so flat he could have sworn it had no bridge. Taken alone, none of them were in any way beautiful, still, all together, they formed an eerie balance, an undeniable, strikingly inhuman perfection.

Lusacan beheld the humans' shocked scrutiny of his sister's human form with benign amusement.

'Seven millennia,' he said, 'and still all men and women take pause to behold thee, Mystery.'

Razikale chuckled. 'No wonder,' she agreeably said. 'Mine face is the only thing about me anyone can see clearly. Ferryman,' she said, setting her purple glance upon a still stunned Radonis,' though hath not brought me the gift I asked thee for; I hear that thou hath lost all your elvhen. I guessed my demand would be easier for thee to fill – willt thou defend thine pipe with your life and position too, as I hear thou defended the race punished by slavery?'

'It is being fetched, Augur,' he responded, taking a deep bow.

'Ah, the hope for instant gratification - dashed,' Razikale sighed. 'This age of my awakening doth not begin well. Priestess of the song, what would thy God do, if thus thwarted? Could he summon ice and lightning? Petrify with his gaze? Or is his only power giving maidens dreams?'

Divine Victoria visibly swallowed the very first thing that probably came to her mind, which was likely to have been that the Maker most certainly did not smoke.

'He would probably patient for half a clock's face,' Cassandra answered, with remarkable calm; Razikale huffed in dismay.

'Patient gods,' she muttered. 'Hear that, mine brother?'

Lusacan shrugged. 'This world has fallen far during our sleep, Mystery. They'll learn again,' he soothingly added, and despite the fact that the Watchman's voice carried no threat, Radonis felt a shudder. 'And 'tis, perhaps no better time to learn than now,' he said, 'nor better choice of students at our feet.'

He stood, and waved his fingers – with that single, careless and light gesture, he caused whatever remnants of the veil still about them to warp, taking them…taking them out of space and time, taking them…not into the fade, Radonis realised, protectively trying to step in front of the Divine, yet realising that he could not move. Still, he felt no restraint, no pain and no pressure, he felt as in a dream not of his own, for no matter how he tried to focus, he could not see through the mists Lusacan had conjured, at least not until Razikale appeared before him, a single solid shape so radiant that he could barely make out her features.

He heard Divine Victoria gasp behind him, but oddly, all the fear he'd felt for a Soporati drawn in such magical turmoil vanished; this was no fade walk, he realised – it was merely a shared vision.

'Now truths will be shown thee,' the Augur said. 'Not all. Thou shallt learn what thou must, as we shall deign to teach thee, for too much sudden light is blinding – yet this, what thou shall see is the first truth…'

'First chapter of the true song, priestess,' Lusacan said, taking shape by his sister's side.

Then, all took shape, surreal, resplendent but untouchable – the two humans were still suspended in the vision, and only moved forth to follow the gods.

'Before the might of the seven Magisters Sidereal, the Veil shattered like the flimsiest glass.
Dream and waking lay before their feet, two paths diverging.'

They felt the familiar words, rather than heard them though both Old Gods had spoken together - still not even this was needed, for the words of the Chant were unfolding before their very eyes. Seven dark shadows drifted upwards, on the wide staircase leading to golden, shimmering walls; both Cassandra and Radonis were close enough to touch them, yet the seven men paid them no heed – upwards, ever upwards they walked, and the vision pulled Archon and Divine on their trail.

'Into the dream they strode, dauntless, for nothing in the realm of gods or man could keep them from their promised prize.' Razikale alone followed.

'This was our design,' Lusacan chillingly whispered.

'The minds of all lay bare before the Seven, and machinations against the sleeping had brought them hence.' They once more spoke together. 'Against the sleeping,' they hissed. 'Not even at our door yet and they dreamed to undo us - by blood and lyrium they raised themselves, inexorably, to the Unreachable City, the presumed heart of all creation.'

'Or so they thought,' Razikale oddly giggled. 'This, too, was our design.'

No sooner had she spoken, that the vision abruptly shifted; no longer wide and marbled steps lay before them, no golden walls, but a forbidding fortress suspended in a void, whose jet black walls radiated an ominous, sickly green light. The seven still ascended, the looks of hunger and ambition upon their features unchanged, as if they were still heading towards gilded gates, as if they still trod upon marble.

'At a touch, the gate swung wide, and the Light parted before them like a curtain, swept aside by nothing. And then,' the dragons said, 'we read their petty hearts and minds for they had truly entered our dream. We knew then, their design.'

'Which was not ours,' Lusacan said, his subdued rage infectious, for Radonis felt it to the very marrow of his bones. 'And we saw the black mark, spreading like a sore upon the gate where mortal hand had lain.'

'Too late, we saw.' Razikale said, in equally infectious sadness. 'Too late we understood what we had wrought; too late, too far we were to stop it, still tied by treachery…'

'Surrounded by vain glory, the Seven stood,' the gods followed with their account, even as the shadows of the Seven glided silently within the jet black walls, 'in the hall of apotheosis, heedless of what festered in the shadows they cast there…'

Radonis and Cassandra were not heedless though, and proving herself braver, the Divine drifted forth of her own accord, on the trail of the Seven – Radonis felt her gliding though him, and as their spiritual projections briefly touched, he felt her fearful disappointment and sadness, but also her determination to see. To know…

The dragons needed speak no further – the hall in which they all now stood was dark and stifling; within seven crevices along its circular walls, seven lights glowed dimly. The Magisters Sidereal stopped, and it took a moment to notice that they were not frozen in the same awe that gripped the two humans, but it was merely that the gods had stopped the vision from progressing. Along the walls they strode, Lusacan with heavy steps, Razikale with flowing grace…Five lights they reached for, but not touched.

'The one you called Dumat; his name was Silence.' Lusacan said, his features bathed in dull, grey luminescence.

'The one you called Toth; his name was Fire2,' Razikale whispered, standing before a faintly flickering red light; she drifted on, as did her brother – he came to stand before a vibrant, green flame.

'The one you called Andoral3; her name was Merit.' He said, dryly.

'Urthemiel…' Razikale said, her voice filled with tears; for a moment it looked as if she would actually caress the faded, pinkish light, but her fingers folded but a fraction of an inch short. 'His name was…'

'Beauty,' Radonis whispered, not knowing if his voice could be heard in the dream; the dragon goddess gave no sign of having heard him, yet did not speak the name again.

'I loved him, once,' she said, instead. 'I very much still do.'

It was to Lusacan to speak the last dead name, to a glowing white light. 'The one you called Zazikel4; his name was Rebirth.'

The gods exchanged a glance, and crossed the chamber and each other, passing though the frozen figures of the Seven; Razikale reached for a purple light, and pulled it from its crevice and into her chest.

'You call me Razikale,' she said, smiling. 'My name is Mystery.'

Her brother hesitated before his own blue flame, and when he finally touched it, he allowed it to creep along his arm, and fade within his skin. 'You call me Lusacan. My name is Contemplation.' He tiredly finished, then looked to Razikale, and gave her a faint smile.

'You,' he whispered, in gentle, touching warmth.

'You,' she responded, and once more crossing the room, they embraced, touching their foreheads to one another's. Their touch caused the flow of the vision to resume – as one, the Magisters Sidereal each headed for the flame of his God – there was no trace of surprise or hesitation on their features; at the Archon's side, Divine Victoria pressed her palm to her lips, and the man truly wished that she, at least, would not be forced to watch her faith unravel in such a gruesome manner. She could not look away, though. Neither could he.

'But upon the throne of heaven they did not find the Maker of the World in all his Radiance,' the gods said, once more speaking as one. 'They found,' Lusacan said, alone, 'truths they were unwilling to accept. They found what their most avaricious dreams had readied them to rob.'

'To rob,' they hissed, together – the Seven Magisters Sidereal reached for the flames of their Gods, with wicked, joyful and distorted grins. 'The souls of their Gods, bound by foul treason as they were, defenceless without their glorious bodies, and unprepared for yet more treason. In secret they had bonded with each other, to bind us to them – to take our might into their puny bodies, to tie us, the eternal Gods, to their will. To their impermanence, to the ruin that is your unchanging world – to mortal filth and greed which knows no bounds – no Silence, no Fire, no Merit, no Beauty, no Rebirth, nor Mystery nor the Contemplation that arises from it.'

'We'd stooped so low, but we would fall no further,' Razikale whispered. 'We had to fight, but hope was dim, half the harm done as we'd conceded to their binding, without knowing its true goal; we struck with our last might, and like moths who reach a bonfire, the Seven burned.'

The smell of burning flesh and cloth invaded Radonis lungs, and it was by miracle alone that he did not retch. The torment of the Seven lasted, it lasted…and screams and pleas, and too long delayed oaths of renewed faith melded together, a cacophony of earned pain and despair.

'Please, stop,' he breathed, covering his ears. 'Please, Gods…'

'Now you see, Ferryman,' Razikale chuckled, walking away from her brother. 'We are your Gods. You are only a human in the end.'

'I am,' he pleaded, seeking her too round, purple eyes.

'We are,' Divine Victoria said, adding her plea to his – and wondrously, the Gods exchanged a glance, smiled, and prayers were granted by half, for the screams stopped. The sight of the Magisters' torment, however, followed its set course, though Lusacan and Razikale walked through the bodies of the burnt as the flames still lapped at their flesh, beholding the scene with the same cruel detachment they probably had felt millennia ago.

'We kept them from death for long days, and in great wonder we held the Defilers before us and looked upon them, our long-awaited, trusted saviours, at last ascended to us. We saw only hunger and envy in their hearts, only pride and desire in their eyes.' Razikale spoke.

'We knew, then, that they knew us not.' Lusacan said, stopping aside the Magister engulfed in his blue flame and baring his teeth in feral joy. 'Yet - now they knew us. Now, you know us…'

'Their Gods called to them: from their ancient prisons they sung the song of long awaited freedom. We are no dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts, with blacken'd wings on which deceit takes flight; we are the first light that the people forgot.'

Radonis' heart froze in mid-beat; the bodies of the tormented Magisters vanished from the rounded hall, as sand blown off a marble etching, and, at its very centre, Lusacan and Razikale stood, side by side. As in a dream without end, their features did not change, their glances did not lose expression. Their ears however, their rounded ears stretched; their stature shrunk, yet that was of no import – because the truth, the blinding truth that he could not look away from was that their ears, as they grew long, also grew sharp. As sharp as knife points.

The two spoke no further, but turned to leave, dragging the spirits of the two humans behind them; one more glance at the truth they allowed them before returning them to the unchanging world.

It was the sight of the Elvhen, as they called him, Solas, pressing his hands to the gates of the hall they'd all just left, and making them change into the jet-black fortress walls, then whispering under his breath and causing the ominous green light to rise about it.

'You asked mine brother of what for a vengeance, priestess of the wrong song,' Razikale said, once more returned to her choice beauty of a human form. 'Now you know; it is but the first truth of many.'

1 Take note

2 Forgewright of Fire, in Tevinter religion

3 Appraiser of Slavery, in Tevinter religion

4 Madman of Chaos, in Tevinter religion

Hmm, what? The Old Gods are elves? Oh, no-no, no no!

Why, Solas would positively die at knowing that! Morrigan won't though ;)

Abstract and Ivi thank you for reading and commenting,

Cheers,

Abstract