MG11 - The Fade
Solona knelt closer to the fire, rubbing her hands as she bathed in its heat. It was a surprising cold night, but glancing about their quiet camp, none of her companions seemed bothered by the chill.
Through the flicker of the flames, she watched Leliana strum a tune on her lute. It was a song Solona knew, but could not quite place the name. Absently, she tried to hum along, only to find herself shivering in the chill. Surely Leliana's fingers were frozen; Solona wondered how she could still play.
Solona pulled her magic tight against her skin, cloaking herself in the slight warmth it offered. She pushed some stray tendrils into the campfire, coaxing the blaze up into the night's sky.
Nearby, Wynne leafed idly through a book, ignoring Zevran's crude commentary as he polished his blades. Oghren was passed out next to them, snoring and grumbling in his sleep. Off in the distance, beside his lonesome tent, Sten meditated, apparently ignorant of the cold. Further out still, Shale huffed and moaned about something or rather, as Bodahn rummaged through his cart and Sandal danced about merrily nearby. Solona looked back over her shoulder to Morrigan's crude shelter; the witch was likewise deep in thought, staring into her own campfire.
Solona frowned as she seemed to forget someone. Someone important.
Jowan.
Right, Jowan.
She glanced back to her left, confirming that Jowan and Irving remained crouched over the First Enchanter's desk, still sorting through a stack of brittle old scrolls. She smiled; it pleased Solona to see them working together.
She shivered once more as the cold seeped past her magic. Idly, she wondered where Cullen had gone off to; he usually stayed close to the fire with her. Perhaps he wasn't on Watch tonight and had remained upstairs. Ah, no, there he was - standing in the shadow of the bookcases. Even in the cold night air, a rosy blush painted itself across Solona's cheeks as she met the Templar's eye and then quickly looked away.
Turning back to the fire, Solona yawned and stretched up towards the hazy green of the night's sky. She glanced longingly towards her tent, wondering if it was too early to retire. She felt tired - not sleepy, but worn through. Weighed down. Heavy.
Perhaps she would make it an early night, crawl into her lonely tent, and - there it was again: the feeling that she was missing someone. She scanned around the camp, counting her companions. No. Everyone she loved - had ever loved- was here.
But the feeling of absence did not abate. Solona counted again, glancing between the camp and Irving's study, knowing something was wrong, but unable to place it. She shook her head, perhaps it was later than she thought. How long had she been sitting here next to the fire? Listing back, she tried to recount the events of the day. Before sitting at the fireside, she must have helped set up the camp. Yet she could not recall any of the dinner preparations or wood gathering that must have taken place. And before that, she and her companions must have spent a long day travelling to... travelling to... Solona gaped at the blanked expanse of her memory: she could not remember where they had been travelling to or even from.
So, why were they travelling? At least that she could remember: the Blight. She shook her head. No. The Blight was over. She had slain the archdemon herself. She shouldn't be in this camp. Irving and Jowan and Cullen, with their scrolls and bookcases and stone towers definitely should not in the camp.
And then, like a ray of sunlight piercing the morning's mist, Solona shook off her stupor: it was the lie. It was all a lie.
Her braids fell back from her face as Solona wretched her eyes upward towards the sky. She found the moon and stars missing, replaced instead with a sickly grey-green vortex. Jagged grey spires lined the horizon. In the distance, the Black City loomed.
Her breath felt short, her chest tight in fear. It felt like the Fade - but the sensation was wrong - so very, very wrong. The cold of the Fade usually seeped with an relentless crawl into the deeper recesses of her soul. But now, the chill felt more corporeal. More solid. More real. It crept through her chest and pooled in her heart. It was overwhelming.
Slowly, she let her hand fall from her lap and onto the ground beside her. Her fingertips rasped against the earth, gathering a small mound into her palm. Squeezing, she felt the scratch of its grit and the sharp cut of a stray stone against her skin. The details were too fine to compare to any of her past journeys into the Fade.
With a strangled gasp, she understood: she was in the Fade - well and truly in the Fade. Like the magisters of ancient Tevinter, she had somehow breached the Veil and physically walked through the Fade. She blinked, trying to sort the memories. She hadn't walked. Something had drawn her through.
Solona tried not to panic, not to reveal to whatever demons or others that may be watching that she had seen through the illusion. Her chest burned as she forced her breath to slow. She pulled her trembling hands back into her lap. It was then that she noticed part of the reason for her chill: instead of her usual robes, she wore a silver gown, too fine and delicate for the coarse hostility of the Fade. She ran a thumb over the sparkling embroidery, trying to discern if it was real or just another illusion. The fabric flowed like water against her. Even in the dull sourceless light of the Fade, its little twists of silver shone bright. She pushed down the uncomfortable questions that wearing an unknown garment raised.
Glancing around her, it was all so obvious now. The shadows that pretended as her family were cheap illusions. They looked flat and blurred against the landscape. The music and friendly chatter had never actually sounded; they were nothing but false memories.
And then, at last, she remembered who had been missing all along.
Solona's breath caught in her throat as she glanced slightly to her right to where he used to sit.
Just as she had somehow known, a figure was crouched a few feet away, his back turned to her. His armor looked mostly familiar, but still, something was wrong. Unlike the rest of her companions, he lacked the telltale shimmer of illusion. His lines were clean against the horizon; he did not bleed into the Fade's ether.
Solona swallowed down the urge to shout out to him. It made no sense for Alistair to be in the Fade - but then again, neither did she. Did he know they were trapped? She thought back to their time at Kinloch Hold and how he had refused to see past the demon's illusion then. He probably had no idea.
"Alistair?" she whispered.
With shaking knees, Solona rose and took a few cautious steps towards him. She called his name again. He did not answer, did not turn or even respond. Although it was difficult to be sure in the Fade's hollow light, his hair looked darker than Alistair's sandy blonde. His figure was familiar, but not quite right.
She stepped carefully towards him. With each footfall, her breath grew tighter in her chest. Somewhere, deep in the bottom of her heart, she knew. Yet, she could not bring herself to disbelieve. His name fell again as a choked whisper from her lips.
"Alistair?" she called, her voice breaking, terrified both that he would and would not answer.
To her uncontainable terror, he turned to answer with a movement too quick and graceful to be her lover.
For all that her instincts screamed to flee - to run and hide - Solona forced herself to hold and regard the man that stood before her. He was tall. Strong. Handsome, even.
Her chest seized in panic. No. Not a man. Something else. Something wrong.
Solona stumbled back, her feet clumsy in the dirt. She could feel it now - magic and something more wafted off the figure. He wasn't a demon, but he certainly wasn't human.
A wrong step had her slipping upon a stone, and then tumbling backwards. Her shout of panic was nothing more than a choked cry as she hit the ground. The sharp corners of stone cut into her palms as she scrambled back. The heels of her boots scratched into the earth, kicking up clouds of dust in their frantic search for purchase. Her magic deserted her - caught in panic like the screams crowding into her throat.
The man stepped forward. He smiled, crouched down, and offered his hand.
"Hello, mother."
"I don't know!" Alistair shouted once again. Crouched over in the rickety chair, he let his forehead fall into his hands. Wynne and Zevran loomed over him, demanding once more that he recount every detail of Solona's disappearance.
Not knowing what else to do, Alistair had run to his old companions as soon as the Veil tear had closed. They had tried all combinations of Wynne's magic and Alistair's templar abilities, but no sign of the tear could be found. They gathered inside Solona's room, the broken door and bloodied sheets the only evidence that Alistair had not dreamt up the abduction.
"He had dark hair, fair skin, on the taller side - maybe about my height. That's all I know. Fereldan, Orlesian, Freemarcher maybe - probably not Antivan or Rivanni - or maybe he was - I don't know! "
Zevran towered over him. "Nothing else? " he demanded. "You remember nothing else?"
Wynne grasped his hand, gentle and comforting. "Alistair, please, try to remember. Anything at all could help."
He shook his head. They had already been through it a dozen times or more. Every detail of the mere moment Alistair had had to observe the stranger had already been repeated and scrutinized. There was nothing else he could remember.
Alistair blinked. Well, actually, there was something. Not a memory, but a feeling. "He ... " Alistair shook his head. It was foolish. It made no sense at all. It was probably useless at best, and distracting at worst. "He reminded me of Cailan. Just something - I don't know - in his eyes or his cheeks or jaw or something - it was like Cailan."
Zevran swore beneath his breath as he and Wynne exchanged glances.
Alistair's gaze flickered between the pair, not understanding. "What?" he demanded.
"Like Cailan?"
"Yes, Cailan. Just, something, I don't know."
Wynne's voice was soft but kind when she spoke. "Oh, my boy, not Cailan." She placed a hand against his cheek, something like pity in her eyes. "He looked like you."
Solona kicked out at the man kneeling before her. Somehow, she managed to stumbled back to her feet, her stance unsteady, her mind reeling. "Stay back!" she warned. Her magic coiled about her fingertips.
The man frowned; the slight lines at the corners of his mouth were unnervingly familiar. "Are you unwell, mother?"
She ignored his question. "Who are you?"
His frown deepened. "I am your son," he answered as though it were obvious.
Lies. Demons and lies.
Around them, the illusion of the old camp evaporated into the grey. The pair faced each other on a barren Fade isle, a handful of twisted shrubs the only witnesses.
"What do you want?"
The spirit cocked his head to one side, his brow furled. He appeared to consider for a moment before answering slowly and thoughtfully. "I am content, mother."
Mother. He had said it again.
"What do you want?" she demanded louder this time. Her bark strong enough to hide the quiver of fear.
His confusion grew to exasperation. "I wish for you to be pleased, mother."
"Tell me who you are - what you are," she demanded.
He stepped forward. She stepped back. As in any other battle she had found herself in the last year, Solona took a moment to size up her opponent. He was tall, standing a good head above her. His dark hair suggested youth, but his age was unclear. Likewise, his armor hid any details about his build.
When he lifted his foot to take another step forward, Solona let loose her magic. Lightning crackled about her. It was mostly for show: a spell to charge the spells that would follow. It conveyed all the threat of the drawing of a sword from its scabbard but with infinitely more flash.
The spirit seemed to understand her panic. Dropping his hands to his side, he took a slow step back. When Solona again demanded his identity, he drew a long breath before answering. "I ..." He paused, looking uncertain. "I am your son, but before I was not. I think I've had many names." At her silence he continued. "Once, I was called Urthemiel. I remember that." He gave a slight nod. "You could call me that. Unless," he paused, his glance almost hopeful as he surveyed her gaze, "Unless you have a new name for me?"
Her bark of laughter was cold. Whatever stood before was a demon's trick, delusion or dream. It could not possibly be an Old God - the very idea was absurd. "I don't know what game you're playing at, but you'll need a better lie than that," she warned.
"I would not lie to you, mother."
"Look, I don't know what in Burning Andraste's name you are, but you are sure as hell are not an Old God."
Solona let her magic swirl about her, wild and unchained. Magic in the Fade - physically, corporeally in the Fade - was a delight. The Fade was the source of all magic, and without the dulling filter of the Veil to dampen its flow, Solona drank freely from it. It snapped and snarled about her, and she stood taller in the comfort of its power. "I'm only going to ask once more: what do you want?"
He shook his head as he repeated, "I wish for you to be pleased."
"You want to please me? Either tell me what in Burning Andraste's name is going on, or do a damn better job at pretending to be an Old God."
In a flash, his expression changed to one of inspiration. A flick of his wrist opened a Fade portal at Solona's side. Glancing at it through the corner of her eye, she could spot no difference from the portals she once traversed at Kinloch Hold.
The one who called himself Urthemiel gestured towards the cold twists of grey and violet. "Come. I will show you."
Step blindly into the mysterious portal that some crazed man or spirit or thing conjured up on a whim? Solona scoffed, "Not a chance."
In turn, the spirit sighed once more, patience lost. "Very well," he muttered.
Before she could react, the spirit vanished from before her and reappeared at her side. With a gentleness that contradicted his force, he grabbed her and pushed her through.
A scream lodged in her throat, Solona tumbled through the portal, landing hard upon her hands and knees. Her breathes came in shuddering gasps. Still alive, she confirmed after a moment. Still alive.
The cold and unkind air confirmed she remained in the Fade. Beneath her palms lay coal black cobblestones. She stared down at them for too long. Black was a surprisingly rare commodity in the Fade. Grey was in abundance, often twisted with sickly hues of green and purple, but never the oily thickness of a true Black.
Solona's eyes flickered about her. She knelt within a great city of Black. Black spires coiled up from the abandoned black streets in all directions. The answer, so painfully obvious hit her with enough force to stall her breath: the Black City.
She searched the coiling green of the Fade's sky for confirmation. Despite their many eons of careful study, the mages of the Circle knew very little of the Fade. They knew it was the realm of spirits and demons. They knew that the dreaming minds of mortals often visited. And they knew that the Black City, supposedly the corrupted remains of the Maker's kingdom, was viewable from every corner of the Fade. Solona's eyes scanned the sky for any of sign of the Black City, but of course, she found none. She could not see the Black City within the sky, for she knelt upon it now.
As the avalanche cascading down a mountain's side, the enormity of her situation continued to grow. She was tumbling, tossed into a dangerous decent. Not only was she the first mortal to walk within the Fade since the age of Old Tevinter, she was likely the first human to see the Black City in any form.
The one who called himself Urthemiel came to stand before her. "This was your desire, yes?" he asked.
At her blank stare, he carried on. "Before, when it was just the two of us, this was what you wanted: to go to the Black City." He turned to regard it, seemingly indifferent about the location, but yet anxious for her response. "Does this please you?"
"I'm not your mother," were the only whispered words she could find.
She could not miss the way the tick at the order of his lips. "You are," he replied, his words clipped as his brows drew together in frustration. "You rescued me from that ..." he paused as though searching for the word. "... that Tainted thing. You carried me in the Thedas and protected me in the Fade." He reached out for her hand, but again she pulled back and up on to her feet, afraid. "The demons offered you everything - power, wealth, your very life - but you protected me instead." He was so near now, Solona should have felt his breath rasping upon her cheek. "You are my mother," he insisted.
"No," she said again, the only word she could seem to find in the face of his wild tale.
This man's mouth parted slightly as he seemed to come to a sudden realization. "You don't remember," he sounded puzzled. "I thought you would remember," he mumbled mostly to himself. He shook his head as though it mattered little. He startled Solona as he suddenly leaned forward to loom closer still.
"Remember," he commanded as he pressed a hand against her temple.
Before Solona could push him away, a jolt of energy sharper than any magic she knew ran through her. The memories crashed in upon her: the grey light of the Fade, the child that appeared before her, the silken voice of demons, running, fear, and then, Morrigan.
She saw, but she would not believe.
And then, half a heartbeat later, it was over. As the wave of memories receded, Solona stumbled back, retching, coughing, choking on the acrid bile that rose into her throat.
The man leaned in as though to brace her.
"Don't touch me!" she warned, pushing against him and staggering back onto her feet. The way the man held himself at a respectful distance unnerved her. If he was a demon, he should have pounced while she was dazed upon her knees. "Prove you're not just a spirit or a demon or ..." she trailed off, uncertain of what else he could be.
The man opened his mouth as though to argue, but then chose to hold his tongue. With a sigh and a careless flick of the wrist, he opened another portal before them.
"Come," he demanded before striding through.
The portal stared back at Solona as she debated what to do. It's twisting violet ether looked comical against the malachite city walls.
Solona could not help but question the spirit's every reaction: was his exasperation genuine or just a convincing facade? It was madness to go after him. She should try to run, hide, find fortifications to defend herself from him, anything but step through that damned portal.
She rubbed her arms as the cold of the Fade seeped further into her bones. Where would she go that he could not find her? From the way he so easily summoned the portals, he was clearly a master of this domain.
With little else to do, she followed.
Stepping through, Solona found herself upon yet another indistinguishable Fade isle. For all she knew, it could have been the same one she visited during her Harrowing or when she was trapped by the Sloth demon, or, most likely, one she had never seen before and would never see again.
She startled backwards at the Rage demon that stood unmoving before her. She would have run had the man not waited so carelessly next to it.
"Demon," the man addressed the churning mass of hate and rage before them with a casual indifference. After a moment's consideration, he commanded, "Rend yourself in two."
Without thought or hesitation, the demon grasped each side of its jaw and, sinking its claws into its own flesh, began to pull. It was a small mercy to Solona that Rage demons were among the least humanoid of the Fade's creatures. Their faces had no clear features; there were no eyes to stare back at her as it wretched its own jaw apart. And yet that did not stop it from screaming.
How many demons had she slain without a second thought? A hundred? More? But the shrieks of this demon as it tore at itself made Solona's stomach churn. It's screams cut at her ears as it ripped itself in two, it's own claws trembling at the effort and yet unable to stop.
Solona stumbled backwards once more, an expression of pure horror and unshielded fright painted across her face. She panted in terror.
Seeing his mother's reaction, Uthermiel lifted his hand, and with a simple gesture, the demon fell to dust, it's screams finally silenced.
She cowered away from him.
"Please mother, you have nothing to fear from me."
Her heart was racing, thundering in fear and threatening to burst free of her chest. "You..." she gasped and hiccuped around the words. "You - how do I know you won't just make me rip myself apart too?"
His sigh was as though she were a foolish child. "You are not a demon, mother. You are human. You have free will."
She was shaking, she realized, uncertain when she had started. Her hands, her shoulders, her entire body, trembled and she could not make it stop. An Old God. An Old God stood before her, claiming to be her son. It couldn't be, could it? It was beyond an impossibility. And yet, for all her doubts, Morrigan's bizarre offer at Redcliffe hung over her.
"Why now?" It was the least important question she could ask, and yet somehow it rose to the top of her mind. "Why do this now? Why not reveal yourself as soon as I killed the Archdemon?"
He looked thoughtful - distant, even - as he answered. "I was weak at first - very weak. I forgot myself. What I was or was not. I was ... torn between the Fade and the Thedas. For a while, there was darkness as the Fade was hidden from me - from us. And then, I was not strong enough to open the portal to the Thedas alone. Not yet. I needed ...help."
"'Help'?"
"Blood," he answered without emotion. "My own - our own," he explained. "I had to sever my ties to the mortal realm." His expression changed to that of one who had recently read a book on personability. "Do not worry though," he gestured at her waist. "I have mended you, made you well again."
She saw it then: a familiarity that frightened her. He peered back at her with cold grey eyes that mirrored her own. The cut of his chin, the angle of his eyes were all too similar to Alistair. Even the cowlick in his hair - so contradictory to his polished attire - reminded Solona of her lover, save for the colour in her own earthy brown.
He wore the image of her son as he would have been.
"What are you then?" she demanded once more.
He looked uncertain. "I think, I was once a god." After a moment, he nodded to himself. "And then I was trapped as a beast. While you carried me, I was human. And now, I am ... I do not know." He stepped closer to her. "Parts of me still feel human." His hands ran over his face. The way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the shape of his eyes, the angle of his jaw, she saw so much of Alistair in him now. "But I become ... more, each moment. More of what I once was. I remember ... being more each moment."
He turned back to her. "I know what I was. I know what I will be. But now, I am something else." There was a strange gentleness in the way he regarded her. "And now you believe." Something almost like a smile curled its way onto his lips. "So now you will help me."
"Help you?" Solona's laughter was short and cold. "Why would I help you?"
She knew his answer before even he spoke: "You are my mother."
"What do we do?"
It was the only question Alistair could manage. He glanced between his two companions, lost once again. "What do we do?" he said again, his voice a coarse whisper.
He wore no crown today - in truth, he had worn it only the once during his own coronation - but for the past few weeks, he had been a king: a leader. And yet now, Alistair felt helpless, useless, worthless.
When they had been Wardens of the Blight, wandering back and forth along Fereldan's winding highways, Solona had been the one to make the hard decisions. She led and he followed, both content with the arrangement. In time, as their companionship had grown into friendship and finally blossomed into love, they learned to share in the burden of command. As partners - lovers - they had plotted their course together.
But now, he was lost once more.
"Do we call the Templars?" he asked.
Zevran's answer was firm. "No Templars," he warned. His tone made it clear there would be no further discussion of Templars.
Wynne nodded in quiet agreement. There was a time and a place for Templars, and unfortunately none of those involved Solona Amell.
"So we just sit here and wait?!" Alistair growled. "We're just going to sit here and hope that she reappears?"
He loved Solona with everything that he was. His wife. The mother of his child. He would walk through fire to see her safe and well. And yet, there was no fire here. No army for him to fight. No chains for him to break. What could he do? Would he wait forever?
Only silence answered.
And so, they sat, and waited, and hoped.
A/N: The incredibly difficult chapter I've put off writing for two years has instead become the incredibly difficult two chapters. So, update with the second part soon ... hopefully?