Chapter 18: A Reason to Fight
Marcus sat alone atop Skyhold's highest tower. Below him, funeral pyres cast an eerie glow in the early morning light. It had been a long time since those fires had burned in Skyhold, not nearly long enough. Many more would burn before the end. And still life went on, and the Inquisition prepared for war. Riders came and went, orders were delivered and received. The wheels turned and could not be stopped. They would all fight, they would fight because he would lead them. In all his life, throughout all his trials and tribulations, Marcus had never felt so alone.
Varric's body was on its way back to Kirkwall for a state funeral. He had left behind a small chest of personal belongings, addressed to Marcus. Inside the chest were mostly souvenirs and mementos Varric had collected during his time with the Inquisition. The most precious item in the chest was Bianca, Varric's exotic repeating crossbow, the weapon that defined him and was practically an extension of himself. With the crossbow were the schematics for how it was built, along with a sealed letter describing in detail how the weapon had actually come into his possession. That had been the dwarf's most carefully guarded secret, the one story he swore he would never tell.
A frayed book was also among the treasures, its pages worn and margins filled with copious notes. Across the top of the front page was scrawled The Tale of the Inquisitor. Below it a note read: 'Give to Ruffles to proofread before sending to publisher.' Then below that in fresher ink: 'When this is all over.' Marcus held it, flipping the pages between his thumb and forefinger, feeling numb. He hadn't begun to read it, he didn't know if he ever would. With a sigh he put the book inside his chest pocket. It felt heavy, much heavier than it should. Marcus closed his eyes and rubbed his temples between his thumb and forefinger. He didn't want to think, he didn't even want to be.
"I heard about what happened to your friend." Marcus turned and was surprised to see Feanor standing at the top of the stone stairs. The Hero of Ferelden was still draped in his long black cloak. The hood was back, showing off the very intricate and very black tattoos on the elf's handsome face. "I'm sorry," he said. The sympathetic words sounded odd coming from a face that wore such a cold and unnerving expression. Feanor crossed to where Marcus was sitting and stood next to him, arms folded. The two stared down at the courtyard in silence for several minutes.
"The attempt on your life was good," Feanor said. Marcus looked at him incredulously. "It shows that the enemy is afraid of you, I did not think they were. They will be even more unnerved when they learn such an obviously elite and powerful killer failed to do you in. They will be hesitant now, cautious. There is an opportunity for you to press the advantage here, Inquisitor."
"Good men died," Marcus said, "My friend died." Feanor looked at him, his expression unchanging.
"This is war," he said simply. "Many more good men and friends will die before it is over. You should not squander what their lives will purchase." Marcus shook his head in disbelief and then scoffed in disgust.
"I loathe men like you, you know that?" he said.
"There are no men like me," Feanor said evenly.
"Oh yes there are, I've met more than I can count in my day."
"I promise you, you haven't." Feanor was glowering dangerously but Marcus didn't care. He got to his feet and stood eye-to-eye with him.
"Is that so?" Marcus challenged. "You see the lives of others as nothing more than expendable currency. What makes you different from the hundreds of other self-centered, narcissistic fools who think the same?"
"I'm far more dangerous than any of them," Feanor said. After a pause he added, "And I harbor no delusions that my life is worth any more than anyone else's. Everyone dies. Everyone." Marcus looked Feanor up and down. There was no doubt he was dangerous, he saw it in the man's eyes, the way he stood, the way he talked. But that was all. He was a killer, nothing more. Marcus saw in that moment that there was no higher ideal that this legendary warrior held himself to.
"The Hero of Ferelden," Marcus said with disgust as he turned and sat back down between the crenulations. "Such an idealist." Feanor laughed. It was an odd sound, devoid of any mirth or joviality.
"The Hero of Ferelden only came into existence after I had piled up enough bodies and crowned it with the head of an arch-demon," he said dryly. "Before that I was an outlaw, a murderer. No armies rallied to my banner to fight out of some sense of moral obligation or high minded idealism. Apostates, bastards, assassins, heretics, disgraced soldiers, those were my companions, that was my inner circle. We hacked and carved out the alliance that stopped the Blight with sword, dagger and spell and waded through rivers of blood to do it." Marcus was taken aback at how Feanor described his role in stopping the Blight, but he was even more unnerved at the way he spoke. Feanor's voice remained calm, his demeanor cool and detached, as if he felt nothing personal for the events he was describing whatsoever. He leaned against the parapet wall, arms still folded across his chest as he regarded Marcus with his piercing emerald eyes. "But you, the Herald of Andraste, the Maker's chosen, you're something different entirely. People flocked to you, fought for you, died for you, because you gave them hope. They believed that you would win, that you would lead them to victory. They did not believe it because of some myth about you being a living prophet, no. They believed it because you had hope, you believed that you could win. So tell me now, Herald of Andraste, do you believe that you can win this war?" Marcus stared at the sharp angles of Feanor's face, the unblinking eyes that looked so radiant and so cold surrounded by the black of his tattoos. Finally he shook his head and looked at the ground.
"I have to believe," he said, "Someone has to. If I don't…" Suddenly Feanor's face was inches away from his own as he leaned over to look him square in the eye.
"Don't talk to me like I'm one of them," he said with an edge of aggression in his voice as he pointed down to the courtyard. "I'm not. I'm not an idealist and I couldn't give two damns about how many thrones or rulers there are in Thedas. I'm not your ally because I believe in the higher purpose of keeping this land free from foreign occupation, I have my own reasons for fighting. So tell me, Inquisitor, do you believe you can win?" Marcus wanted to say yes more than anything, but he knew Feanor's eyes would see through the lie. After a moment he looked away.
"No," he said quietly, "I do not think we can win." Feanor nodded as if this were the answer he expected. He walked a few steps away and looked over his shoulder.
"So why fight?" he asked.
"What other choice is there?"
"Submit," Feanor said simply as he turned and put his hands on his hips. "Surrender." Marcus looked at him as if he had just suggested he change the order of the seasons or make the sun rise in the west. "Do what the Antivans are doing, become part of the new Empire. Throw in your lot with the conquerors if you believe their victory is inevitable. Imagine how many lives will be saved, how much destruction would be avoided."
"You can't be serious," Marcus said in disbelief.
"Why not?" Feanor asked with a shrug. Marcus leapt to his feet and jabbed his finger into Feanor's chest.
"Because this Dragonborn brings nothing but death and despair! Bowing to his Empire will not save lives or bring peace, it will only bring more suffering to the people of Thedas! I have heard the whispers and seen visions of what will come to pass under his reign. We all know what is happening in Ferelden and you yourself know what happens to anyone who so much as thinks anything contrary to his will! I cannot, I will not sit by and let that future come to pass unchallenged!"
"So you will throw away your life and the lives of thousands of others for this? For principle?"
"Yes!" Marcus screamed. "My life, and tens of thousands of lives more! I would see Thedas bled dry so that monster has only a barren land of bones to rule over! If this is to be my end, our end, I would make it such an end that it will be burned into the collective memory of these Imperials until the end of days!" Marcus breathed heavily and felt his heart racing. Feanor calmly folded his arms and looked at him knowingly. Slowly, the words that he had spoken sunk in, and Marcus staggered backwards, putting his hand on the wall to steady himself. "What am I becoming?" he gasped.
"You're becoming what all men with power become once they lose hope," Feanor said. "Desperate. You need to find another reason to fight Inquisitor. When hope fails, you must find something else to drive you forward, or you become the thing you're trying to destroy."
"What else is there if not hope?"
"There is hate," Feanor said. Silence stretched between them. Marcus blinked and looked at Feanor through narrowed eyes.
"Hate?" he asked. The word sounded foreign to him.
"Yes," Feanor said, "Or do you think hate is beneath you? Do you think it is not a just reason to fight?" Feanor walked towards him slowly. "For the thousands of innocents who were at Redcliffe, for those now in chains languishing in Ferelden's darkest prisons, for that future you see so clearly, a future of darkness and suffering." Feanor paused, "For your friend Varric, bleeding to death on the floor. Do you not hate them for that?" Feanor turned and looked out toward the mountains in the direction of Ferelden, and his mouth twitched. For the first time his face showed emotion, and it was dark. "I hate them." Marcus followed Feanor's gaze, imagining rank upon rank of Tamrilic soldiers in their glittering armor, their pendants snapping in the wind, their majesty and their power.
"Yes," he said softly, "I hate them." Feanor turned and took Marcus by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. When he did, Feanor nodded, and Marcus found himself nodding back.
"Good. Now use it."