Feynriel's words froze the blood in Carver's veins.

Marethari reached out. "Now, da'len––"

"Keeper." Carver hesitated. "This is the dreamer you spoke of."

Marethari lowered her hand. "Sometimes, Feynriel's sleep lasts a whole day. I fear a coma might eventually take him. He needs a friend to navigate his dreams and show him how to wake up on his own."

"By battling the demons drawn to the kid," Sketch suddenly piped up from behind.

Carver inwardly cursed. This was not his night. He wouldn't have minded Sketch's company, but Varric and Isabela were too close to Garrett and Merrill for Carver to easily explain his status with Clan Sabrae.

Varric shrugged at Marethari. "Why can't you do it?"

"Feynriel trusts few to the necessary extent," Marethari replied with a confused covert glance at Carver. He had already insisted that the clan called him Charis before others, but he hadn't explained Feynriel's apparent ease with him. Carver subtly shook his head once. "With my gifts, however, I can at least perform the ritual to send a friend into the Fade where Feynriel's mind dwells."

Carver placed a hand on Feynriel's shoulder. The child still had his arms loosely hugging Carver's waist while watching the adults speak. "Though I can't explain it, he trusts me enough. We should handle this now."

Isabela spluttered. "You're entering the Fade alone?"

The beyond was a mystifying place for anyone, and fearful place for some.

"He's not," Varric corrected. "I'll support him."

Bloody merchant prince. Carver didn't know if Varric had learned his tell, but by the look in the dwarf's eye, Varric had noticed Carver's minutely trembling hands. Carver wasn't ashamed to admit that he was terrified, but now two children were relying on him. The Fade called.

"Fat chance," Carver rejected. "I can handle this."

"Hey, I owe the kid," Varric refuted. "I was there when Hawke sent him to the Dalish for his safety. I ought to see this through."

Feynriel murmured into Carver's stomach, "It's true, friend of Carver."

Carver sighed, pressing Feynriel against him. "At the first opportunity, Tethras, please betray me." So that Carver could kick him out of the Fade.

Varric's mouth opened, affronted.

Sketch groaned. "The demons are going to eat you all for dinner. I'm coming too."

Isabela quickly raised her hands. "I'll supervise your sleeping bodies."

"If it's settled," Marethari urged, "we should proceed."

As everyone tucked themselves in for an impromptu nap, Carver quietly pulled Marethari aside. "I know what you'll suggest, but Feynriel won't need it. He's a tough kid."

Marethari's lips thinned. "Sometimes the Templars have it right. Tranquility would be a mercy."

Carver sighed. There was no point in sharing the origin of Tranquility with Marethari that moment. "A mercy would be to let him go."

"No other clan would take him," Marethari began.

"To Tevinter," Carver elaborated.

Despite his reservations around Solas, the ancient dreamer would have been able to guide Feynriel. However, for better or worse, the wolf was still years out from awakening. At least in the north, Feynriel could end up connecting with Wynne. Shale would also prove to Feynriel that there were weirder situations.

Marethari reluctantly acquiesced that Feynriel's fate was in his hands. Carver lied down next to the bonfire and slid his eyes shut. His last sight was Isabela hovering over the party while Marethari's hands lit with magic. A gentle suggestion sank into Carver's mind, and despite his anxiety, he fell asleep.

A room divided by hanging rags. A window opening to a dead end. Walls upon walls, but beyond the door was an open slum shaded by a painted tree.

The alienage. Feynriel's home before his relocation to Sundermount.

A man with long hair and faint smiling wrinkles leaned next to Feynriel, pointing to letters on parchment. "If I had known you were this smart, I would have brought you home with me to Antiva."

A demon. The fact nearly burst out of Carver as a word, but he contained the urge. A scan of his surroundings confirmed that Varric and Sketch had not followed him into the Fade, or at least not into this particular dream. So long as Feynriel maintained memories of places like the alienage or Clan Sabrae's camp, a version of the places would exist in the Fade while he was asleep. Demons drawn to Feynriel's power would likely lurk in those places, such as the false Vincento sitting beside Feynriel. Carver hoped Varric and Sketch were fine.

Carver stepped forward to intrude on the heartwarming scene. "Feynriel," he called.

His own voice startled him. Carver wasn't clothed in the likeness of Feynriel's mother, as he should have been. Otherwise, Feynriel's subconscious wouldn't have been able to accept him as an actor on his stage. Instead, Carver was himself, if lankier and several centimetres shorter. A hand through his hair confirmed that he was sporting a haircut he hadn't worn since he had been thirteen. Summer Sword was gone from his side. If Carver's younger self had been stretched out like taffy into his height at seventeen years old, then that was what Carver resembled in that moment.

Feynriel looked up. "Carver? What are you doing here?" The blonde teen stood up, the fake Vincento reaching for his wrist and missing it. Feynriel peered into Carver's eyes. "Something is…off."

"Return to me, son," Vincento called.

"Feynriel," Carver's voice shook, and he vainly coughed the fear away. "You're right. Look at me. If anyone is allowed in your home beyond your parents, then it would be the one you allow anywhere."

Feynriel faltered, and Carver reached a hand out to him in concern. "No, no, you're the one who's wrong. Too blue."

"It's my eyes," Carver guided. "They lightened when I passed through puberty. Now they're Leandra's colour – Amell blue."

"Ask your friend to leave," Vincento earnestly suggested.

"Carver is always welcome in my dreams," Feynriel corrected before he realised what he said. Carver caught him as he stumbled away from Vincento in fresh horror. "Maker, I'm dreaming. You're a demon!"

"Pride," Carver identified.

The realisation hadn't come to Feynriel in sudden truth, but in the slow deposition of pebbles on the shores of his mind, the tides of consciousness coaxing them into a larger shape. Vincento's eyes had glowed pride-purple all this time.

Vincento abruptly bloated like someone had punched through the doughy layer that was his human body. Then through another angle, and another – until from Vincento's humble form blew up a towering horned giant, long hair and dyed clothing melting together into purple scales. Carver and Feynriel hurriedly backed up as the pride demon stomped electricity up its legs and arms. Carver's fake image faded away, restoring his original form, Summer Sword and all.

Which he threw squarely between the pride demon's eyes.

The demon fell, howling, and Carver wasted no time retrieving his sword to behead the beast.

Two strokes. That was all Carver needed.

He had faced bigger.

Feynriel anxiously gripped the edge of Carver's sleeves. "Maker, the demons are growing more convincing. I don't know how to tell if I'm awake anymore!"

"It's not your fault," Carver assured, sheathing his sword to pat Feynriel on the back. "The demons want you to lower your guard around them. They're certainly not helping. Feynriel, breathe. I'm here for the both of you."

"Me…and…Carver," Feynriel breathlessly recognised.

Carver held his hand. "Squeeze my hand if you want to sit down."

One squeeze later, they were sitting at the base of the vhenadahl, a breeze rustling the green canopy overhead. The gentle percussion and Carver's reassuring presence eventually restored Feynriel to calm breaths. The event could have lasted a minute, but time was irrelevant in the Fade. It had seemed like hours.

Soft footsteps echoed from the rustling leaves, seemingly from all directions before Carver and Feynriel found themselves gazing to the side. From around the alienage's tree came the form Carver had been wearing moments before. A lanky young man with scuffed knees. Tousled hair. Except in this case, the teen's eyes were a darker shade of blue, more sky than electric.

Carver twitched to stand up, and Feynriel released their joined hands, letting him. Carver took an uncertain step forward. "…Carver?"

A small smile sprouted on the stranger's lips, and like Feynriel, the young man embraced Carver without warning.

Carver returned the hug. "Carver, I'm so sorry. I never intended to take your place, to steal your life in the real world from you. Had I known the truth of my situation, I would have started searching for a solution years earlier. How are you feeling? Have been feeling? Please don't say you've met Flemeth in the Fade before – or heavens forbid, Mythal––"

The original Carver straightened, shaking him once. "Alright, I get it. You've prepared everything you wanted to say for this moment, but don't ruin it. You're in my world now."

Someone else loosened up despite the fear and wonder buzzing beneath their skin. "Of course, whatever you say."

The original Carver scrunched his face in disgust as they parted. "I get enough coddling from Mother, don't you dare add to it."

"From…Mother?"

"Feynriel," the original Carver nodded to the blonde, "my personal abomination and I are going to take a stroll around your mind."

"You treat your friends strangely," Feynriel shook his head, rising to his feet. "I can shut out demons when I'm aware of myself, but I don't know when my mind will next wander and slip into a dream. I'm sticking with you two."

"Whatever." The original Carver ambled off, quickly followed by his two companions. "Mother, Garrett, Bethany – anyone who dreams of me. I only go to places I know."

"Places," someone else echoed, "as in memories. Dreams."

Their counterpart shrugged. "I've never been to the real world, so I can't give a succinct explanation. I don't know what I don't know. That's literally the Fade; you can only access what you can imagine or what someone who's with you can imagine, including spirits. You can't accidentally wander off to new lands."

"You grew up around our family," someone else realised, then amended, "the Hawke family. You're shaped by how they treat you in their dreams – literally, how they unconsciously treat you. Your vocabulary, grasp of societal structures like towns and families, even I'm assuming math: it's all knowledge that you naturally absorb with exposure. Your self-image matches what they expect from you, and they expect Carver Hawke to know these things and look a certain way."

"Garrett expects me to be a sullen brat," Carver grinned. "His sullen brat. Bethany expects me to be her quiet other half. Mother, her willful kid who vanished to Denerim wanting to wield a sword. But I'm not a spirit – I won't perfectly meet expectations. Can't. I'm a soul, like you."

"How did you know?" someone else asked. "I only found out because a witch told me."

"I credit this meddlesome person," Carver gestured to Feynriel, "and a spirit of Compassion drawn to me since I was a babe. They reasoned that since demons aren't interested in me, it's because I can't act as a gateway into the waking world. However, I'm obviously not a spirit."

"The reverse of a Tranquil," Feynriel concluded. "Someone who is severed from the waking world, but somehow still connected to the living. Since the Hawkes behave as if Carver is living in the real world with them, it means that someone is sustaining his body. I've learned from the Keeper that bodies sustained by spirits or demons ultimately decay, and yet 'Carver' has been growing up and walking around Thedas for twenty-one years now."

"Though I must warn you," Carver amusedly drawled, "Mother, Garrett, and Bethany haven't physically seen 'Carver' since you left for the king's army, and only Garrett has an idea of Carver's current height thanks to his brief encounter with you during the blight. Since then, the Hawkes' impressions of Carver have largely been shaped by their interactions with me in the Fade. Hence my lovably childish appearance."

"And attitude," Feynriel deadpanned.

Someone else winced, massaging their temples. "Carver, you met Feynriel and a spirit of Compassion accidentally? I'm hearing that you can imagine places that coincidentally overlap with scenes in Feynriel's dreams."

"Well, you heard wrong," Carver corrected. "I can look at an object in the Fade and give or change its meaning like anyone else, but I can't conjure entire places I've never been to. The fact is, I've realised that people sometimes unconsciously reorganise their memories while they sleep, translating to dreams. One time when Garrett reviewed a day's events while I was with him, I encountered Feynriel dreaming of the same event: his rescue from slavers in Kirkwall. Since then, Feynriel has dreamt of me, allowing me to follow the pull and enter his dreams."

"Which has been a joy," Feynriel remarked, though the sarcasm quickly dissipated. "Really. I would have gone insane dealing with my lucid dreams alone. Carver has been able to keep me grounded. We've learned a lot about the Fade and the waking world together. Although I wish you would stay with me."

Carver snorted at Feynriel's aside. "As much as I like chatting with someone who'll remember our conversation the next time I see them, you can't sleep forever, and I can only stand your face for so long."

"Ouch," Feynriel faked with a grin.

Someone else blinked. "Carver, if everyone who knows you is awake and not dreaming, where do you stay?"

"In the Fade," Carver deadpanned, then elbowed them. "There are places sustained by enough meaning that they subsist beyond any one mind. Spirits of compassion, for example, tend to congregate in the raw Fade. There, I can see the Black City."

"Are you…safe?" someone else hesitated.

Carver rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mother. The only dangers are demons or unpleasant dreams. I'm smart enough to evade both, though recently the latter has started to include Feynriel. I can accompany him through his lucid dreams, but I can't kick demons out for him."

Feynriel looked at Carver. "Well, I'm learning how to recognise them, now. Something about their appearance will be off. Then I can force them out of my dream."

"Regardless," Carver snorted, "I also know my way to Compassion's place, seeing as I've been in and out of there since I was a baby."

"But it's not a normal life," someone else cautiously reasoned. "Interacting with a limited circle of people who won't remember your conversations, who keep placing expectations on you…. As wondrous as spirits are, they don't share human logic or instinct. Carver, I'm here because I'm concerned for you."

At that, everyone quieted. Carver's voice drifted out of him. "I was with Father in his last moments."

Someone else felt their throat close with sudden emotion.

"He passed in his sleep," Carver slowly continued. "We talked, toured the farm together. Father hadn't been able to walk for weeks leading up to the end. I'm not sure he even knew where he was or why he was there. It was like any other day – any other dream where it was just the two of us. I laughed at his jokes. Then he smiled and…slipped away."

Someone else's lips wobbled.

"Thank you for being with him in the real world," Carver murmured, blue eyes meeting someone else's. "As I understand it, you left the family farm at one point to train as a soldier, serve your country. Garrett and Bethany couldn't grasp it, and Mother had an idea, but Father – he knew. He had a way of…accepting things as they were. Whenever I joined him in his dreams, he never treated me beyond what I wanted. No expectations, just love."

Love.

Someone else wiped their eyes.

"You must have had a family, too," Carver said.

Someone else nodded, their voice leaving them roughly. "They're gone, now."

"I want to return to the real world," Carver confessed, gazing ahead. "I want to be able to pass away on my terms. Promise me."

"I'll find a way," someone else swore.

"I mean it." Carver looked at them sharply. "My terms, meaning you can't die. Before I saw you earlier, I had no confirmation that my life wasn't just someone else's dream, and that I wasn't just a statistical quirk. You have no idea how seeing you made me feel. Enough to spur me to hug you. To make me feel alive."

Carver stopped walking, and everyone paused to meet his pace. At Carver's offered hand, someone else grasped it, only to be pulled into a hug.

Carver spoke into their shoulder, a wet warmth spreading there. His words carried a tremor. "I'm not slipping into a body at the cost of a friend. Whatever it takes, we're both moving past this alive. Promise me."

…

..

.

..

…

Funny thing about dreams. They never started from the beginning, always throwing its actors into the middle of a scene.

Someone else couldn't remember their response to the original Carver, or what they talked about afterwards. Personal things, spontaneous questions, feelings. What it meant to love. Someone else could only recognise an unusual sense of contentment and wonder that followed them as they found themselves wandering Clan Sabrae's camp, Sketch and Varric murmuring to a Ser Charis about who the demon could be. Then from near the bonfire, Marethari suddenly flared purple, her appearance burning away to reveal a desire demon underneath. Feynriel stood before her with fists determinedly clenched.

"Clever little boy," the desire demon moaned crossly. "To unveil me so easily, you have no hunger for riches or power. But what of you, Varric Tethras? Haven't you always wished to be the main character in your story instead of Bartrand?"

Someone else blinked aside at Varric, an idea flashing through their mind like a demon revealing its true form, but into something more pure. Someone else was physically Carver, and they had a mission.

"Tethras," someone else — no, Carver warned.

The instant Varric reached back for Bianca, Sketch struck his staff hard across Varric's head. The dwarf staggered back, deftly grabbing Bianca and firing with alarming accuracy as he fell. Carver winced as a bolt lanced his thigh. At the same time, the desire demon summoned shade minions, and Feynriel ran away from the battle.

So. Varric betrayed Carver. Of course he did.

Maybe after helping Feynriel with his demons, Carver could demand a deduction of his debt to the merchant prince. As it was, Carver had to contend with Sketch's shock at his quick disposal of the dwarf, followed by a mana-draining strike at a shade.

"You're a Templar!?" Sketch spluttered.

The desire demon speared her tail at them, only for Carver to deflect it with Summer Sword and divert the blade's momentum to slash her torso. Sketch finished off the demon with a bolt of lightning.

Carver wouldn't have been in as much a hurry to kick Varric out if not for his sword. Vercenne of Halamshiral had engraved his signature near the hilt of all his works, so that a warning – but not full – draw of a sword allowed his signature to peek out. Vercenne's iconic Empire silhouette with a high waistline and narrow skirt reflected the female fashion of his era, chosen as a signature because Vercenne's blades were always "as sharp as a noblewoman's tongue." The engraved ball gown informed opponents that they faced a warrior worthy of Vercenne's blades.

Varric expressed little interest in weapons beyond Bianca, but Carver didn't want to take chances. He had cut Varric down before the man could catch a glimpse of Vercenne's engraving. Then with an explosive smite, Carver had cleared the area of shades.

"I just learned Templar abilities," Carver corrected, stumbling with sudden pain up his leg. "I'm still a soldier."

"Right." Sketch jerked his chin at Carver's grip. "There are mixed reports on that beauty's fate – either lost with her wielder in the blight, or in the hands of the new Ferelden captain. Either way, the king's army wouldn't allow just anyone to keep her." Sketch paused to peer at Carver. "Leliana travelled with the Hero of Ferelden during the blight. Given your acquaintance with her…Maker's breath, those Carver songs are about you. Knowing Leliana, likely all of them are. So you're…what, a soldier with Templar abilities who is friends with Wardens and the Dalish?"

Carver blinked at his rapid deduction. "Concisely put, yes. You're not Leliana's former ally in the Game for nothing."

"Emphasis on former." Sketch placed his staff's butt on the ground and closed his eyes in concentration. "I can handle my own, but staying in Leliana's vicinity is bad for even my health. No doubt the same is true for you."

Carver sheathed his sword. "I've been reliably told I'm allergic to safety."

Sketch hummed. "Well, I can tell that Feynriel has already woken up with Tethras. What say we follow them?"

Varric slowly opened his eyes to the slate blue sky of a coming dawn. The group's dip in the Fade had taken the rest of the night, even if it hadn't felt like it.

He sat up with a groan, working a kink out of his neck. A glance aside confirmed that Isabela had fallen asleep during her watch, and Varric couldn't blame her. It had been a long night for all of them. Around the embers of the bonfire, everyone else gradually woke up, starting with Feynriel. Charis eventually sat up with a hand running through his hair, the usual tension around his eyes gone. The soldier was the most at peace Varric had seen him.

The man had better enjoy it while it lasted. Varric hadn't forgotten how swiftly Charis had stabbed him in the Fade, even if Varric had failed at providing the support he had promised. It was as if Charis had been jumping at the chance to "kill" Varric. Not a pleasant cocktail with Varric's other suspicions. Andraste's tits, Varric would have preferred entering the Fade for the first time with Garrett if he had known how cunning demons could be. It was enough that Varric didn't really know Charis and Sketch.

Varric's hands were trembling. He didn't realise how deeply just one brush with a demon had shaken his foundations.

Varric watched with mixed feelings as Charis stood up and gently nudged Isabela awake, offering a hand to lift her up to her feet. Eventually, Marethari and Feynriel bade the group farewell as they continued their journey for a tunnel that would lead to a river. At the end of their path, Charis and Sketch didn't dwell before the tunnel entrance, candidly shaking hands once before parting ways.

Varric shook his head, mentally scribbling down the night's events and the confusion roused by them. Feynriel had mistaken Charis for another friend, which had surprised the soldier, so Charis was innocent of that. But what of Charis nearly pleading Varric to betray him in the Fade? Or of the whole puzzling matter that was Sketch? Varric only had more questions after tailing Charis through a full adventure. When the group collected the Marauders' bounties from Aveline, they tiredly agreed to split ways, wash up, and change. Anything to feel normal again.

Just as Varric touched the doorknob to his suite in the Hanged Man, an errand boy called out to him, snatching his elbow for attention.

Varric groaned, nearly snapping at the boy, when the courier whipped out a letter from one of Varric's contacts.

"They found him, messere! Bartrand Tethras is hiding in his old Hightown estate!"

;

A/N:

Justice and Ser Pounce-a-lot are one, hence Justice being able to grow up into a cat. For obvious reasons, Justice is the dominant personality.

Spoiler alert: We're not going to follow Varric and Garrett find and take down Bartrand. The next chapter starts afterwards!