Chapter Two: Don't Call Us, We'll Call You
After that spectacular announcement, their gracious host—What sort of an uncreative twat you had to be to call yourself Nightmare, Marcel thought—did not utter a word. It was probably part of its show—a long silence, to wear them down with waiting, to make them dread on what fears the demon would unearth for everyone to see. Fairly predictable. Still, Marcel did not like this silence. It made him focus on himself.
Marcel hoped it wouldn't happen here in the Fade, but it seemed some things were impossible to escape.
Most people did not understand that primarily, it was a physical feeling. It would start as a tingling under the skin—an itch—merely annoying at first until it would grow so strong that you wanted to rip your clothes off and scratch yourself raw. Soon, all you would think of would be corruption crawling through your bloodstream, seeping into your bones. You would feel nauseous—holding down food would become an issue—yet a raging hunger would creep deep into your gut.
Then the voices would come.
Just a buzz to begin with—a white noise, easy to ignore. It would get louder and louder, fusing with howls and shrieks of darkspawn, horrible to endure, yet still impersonal. The real trial would start when the noise morphed into words.
At times, Marcel felt as if he could recognize certain voices in that cacophony—old comrades, Grey Wardens long dead and gone; his father, his younger brother perished at sea, his first love who married another and died at childbirth on the eve of her nineteenth birthday. They whispered to him and told him tales of youth. Sometimes, he heard other voices too, quiet and ancient, who spoke in tongues and promised him secrets. On such days, it took a great deal of willpower to stay focused on the real world.
And then, the voices would melt into screams.
Those screams.
Marcel suddenly felt so sick he could vomit.
Across the hall, sitting on the floor illuminated by the rippled reflections of the green non-sky, the strange Grey Warden was staring at him.
"Do you feel it too, mon frère?" Marcel asked, his voice hoarse.
The man blinked.
"Do I feel what?"
Marcel studied the man for a few instants before answering.
"Nothing," he whispered. "Rien du tout. Forget I asked."
Maybe it isn't that Tevinter bastard's trap, he thought. Maybe my actual time has come.
Instead of chasing after that thing that may had been late Justinia's ghost or yet another Fade spirit with a will to help, a talent for acting and a lot of spare time, they had gone in the opposite direction—up the stairs and into a cave, ending up in a room where two Pride demons had guarded a large, altar-like mirror. Dispatching of the demons had been fairly easy—but then, the Inquisitor had another one of his moments.
While the rest of the party was sitting on the floor waiting, the lad fumbled with an assortment of candles that were placed on the mirror. He'd lift them, examine them closely, sniff them, light them in a certain order, then frown and sigh and blow out the candles, ready to do the entire ritual again. He had repeated it more than a dozen times by now. The Nevarran woman stood next to him, watching his movements closely, nervously scratching that old scar on her cheek. Her eyes were bloodshot, Marcel noticed, her face pale. With her naturally dark complexion, it was the color of ash.
Slowly, Marcel rose and approached her.
"Madame la Chercheuse, do you feel alright?" he asked quietly.
"Yes…" she faltered. Then as if she wished to reassure herself, she repeated, "Yes."
"Maybe you should use this opportunity to rest for a moment. It will do you good."
From the look she gave him, it was obvious she was desperate to sit down, yet too stubborn to leave her most vital duty.
"I will guard the Inquisitor in your stead, madame," he said softly, hoping that women still found his smile charming. "I promise to be as vigilant as you. Now, please have some rest. We need you strong and refreshed."
She hesitated for a moment, then slowly nodded.
"If the Inquisitor loses as much as a hair off his head, I'll skin you alive," she said, turning to leave. And then, to Marcel's surprise, in a hushed voice she added, "Sometimes, I just don't know what to do with him."
She joined the rest of their group, loudly dropping her shield on the floor before she crouched down and buried her head in her palms. She looked in dire need of a good night's sleep—or a bottle of hard liquor. Marcel thought he'd gladly join her.
"Thanks for that," the Inquisitor said.
Marcel approached the mirror and leaned against one of its ornate pillars. He felt odd next to the Inquisitor—he wasn't used to people so tall that he had to raise his head to look them in the eyes.
"You agree our Lady Seeker needs a break?"
"It's not that. Thanks for getting her off my back." The lad continued playing with his candles, lighting them and blowing them out. "Nowadays I feel like I'm not even allowed to take a piss on my own."
Marcel chuckled, looking at the flames on the lad's fingertips. He'd always been fascinated with mages—how they could conjure fire out of thin air and call down lightning from blue skies. It soothed him to observe the lad, he realized, as if staring into the candle light calmed the voices slithering through his blood.
"I, um…" the Inquisitor suddenly whispered. "I don't think Cassandra likes me that much."
Marcel was taken aback by this unexpected sincerity.
"She would die for you in a heartbeat, mon cher Inquisiteur."
"Oh I know that." The lad gave him a clumsy, toothy smile. "But it doesn't mean she has to like me. I think I'm a huge disappointment for her. She wanted someone like Hawke, y'know? Someone who has a way with words, and who'd happily play up that Herald of Andraste angle. Someone pretty. But instead she got stuck with me. An oxman."
There was a strange sadness in his yellow eyes—they were a deep, golden yellow, the kind of color that no human could naturally have, which only emphasized the Inquisitor's foreignness.
Once upon a time—a lifetime ago—Marcel had met someone with the same yellow eyes.
"Varric told me that, at first, Cassandra wanted Hawke to lead the Inquisition," the lad continued, rearranging his candles again. "But shit happened and that plan fell through. I don't think it's too late, though. She can have him, as far as I'm concerned. He can lead the Inquisition and recite the Chant and dress in a drag and claim he's Andraste herself for all I care. I'll be more than happy to stay in the background and close those bloody rifts."
The childlike way the horned giant hungered for approval was almost endearing.
"I'm afraid such a turn of events is not possible"—Marcel wanted to say 'your Grace', but realizing the young Inquisitor wouldn't like to be called that, he changed the sentence midway—"mon cher. And besides, you're being too hard on yourself. You're doing fine with the Inquisition."
"Um, you think so?" The Inquisitor blushed. Surprisingly, Marcel found it sweet.
"Indeed I do. And I know it is not easy, to be a foreigner in the position of power—to have all these expectations placed upon you, but none of the trust. I've been there myself."
"In Amaranthine?"
Marcel nodded and smiled with the corner of his lips—it was not a pretty smile. After all these years, he still found it difficult to speak about Amaranthine, and it made him ill at ease.
The screams in his blood buzzed louder.
"The Fereldans, you know," he began, his accent suddenly heavier, "they have a specific manner of pronouncing the word 'Orlesian'. They spit it out as if it were filthy, as if keeping it on their tongue for a moment longer would somehow pollute their mouth. Labeling a man 'Orlesian' is an insult worse than calling him a lying, thieving, murderous son of a whore. So when I was appointed the Arl of Amaranthine, they weren't exactly thrilled. They had just lost their hero, a boy from one of their oldest, noble families. His face was everywhere—on statues, coins, Chantry window panes—to remind them of how he'd died to save them all. And as a replacement, whom did they get? An Orlesian who barely spoke the language and saw nothing wrong with color-coordinating his clothes."
Marcel huffed through his crooked smile.
"I had nothing to work to my advantage. Rien. I remember once, when I was sitting in judgment as the Arl of Amaranthine, there was a farmer who came to complain that darkspawn ate his sheep. He was angry and blamed the Wardens for failing to clean the lands. Fair enough. But when the man started talking, I did not understand a word—he spoke too fast, it sounded too different than the Fereldan I was taught before they dispatched me there. So I just stared at him blinking, and then told my seneschal to take over the case. I thought I did well, as someone who understood both the farmer's words and his position would better handle the judgment. But you know what rumor spread afterwards? That the god-awful, Orlesian Arl was so puffed up he deemed dealing with struggles of Fereldan farmers was beneath him."
The Inquisitor quietly laughed, then stopped realizing it was inappropriate. He blushed an even deeper shade of purple.
"Alors, mon cher, if you care for my advice," Marcel placed his hand on the lad's elbow, as the shoulder was too high to reach. "If you're offered a role that can make them accept you: take it. Even if you don't believe in it. Especially if you don't believe. It can make your life much easier."
"I think I understand what you mean." The Inquisitor slowly nodded and put aside his candles. "Only I'm not a foreigner like you. I was born and raised right here."
He pointed up at the glowing non-sky—strange, while it was practically impossible to define the exact location of the Fade, they all had this vague feeling of being somewhere underground.
"When, um, when my parents needed financial support, I took up a mercenary job," the lad said, his voice strangely soft. "I was with a human company at first. The captain, William Tully—Iron Ass, as everybody called him—was overjoyed to have a Qunari mage. He thought it would 'build his reputation'. So he dressed me up in some strange garbs which I think he believed Saarebas wore, paraded me around, and yelled at me to look dangerous. I did my best, but he wasn't happy. Then, not even a year later, he dismissed me. Said I was 'too meek'—he wanted a 'raging bull' but got a 'confused cow' instead."
Though cruel, Marcel had to admit that the comparison was quite fitting—with those huge eyes circled by thick, dark lashes, the lad indeed looked nothing like a raging bull.
"Then I thought it would be better to be among my own, and joined the Valo-Kas mercenaries," the Inquisitor continued. "I was their youngest member. They were nice, I can't complain. Shokrakar was very protective, motherly even, although she had this strange, literal way of speaking that I wasn't sure if it was supposed to pass for a sense of humor. Yet all of them were real Qunari, y'know, Tal-Vashoth who'd actually deflected from the Qun. Many of them shared names, full on Qun-style, so we had to call them Ashaad One and Ashaad Two. I was different. I had a proper name—in Qunlat, Farid means 'unique', and I don't know what the hell mother was thinking when she named me that. So, um, they teased me—called me their 'special snowflake' and their 'little human'. They said they needed to teach me how to be a proper Qunari, and despaired when I just didn't seem to get it."
The lad sighed and went back to his candles. He looked unexpectedly vulnerable for someone so large.
"I'm done with people wanting me to be something I'm not," he hissed, almost crushing a candle between his thick fingers. "I am me. Take it or leave it."
"Yes, yes, we get it," a voice said behind their backs. "You're you, and that's all nice and jolly."
Marcel must have been more worn-out than he thought, because he failed to notice the moment when the former Champion approached them. Who knew how long the man stood there.
"I really hate to interrupt your friendly chitchat, gentlemen," the former Champion spoke with a smirk, his arms crossed on his chest, "but I'm afraid we're losing our sense of urgency here. Allow me to remind you: we're in the Fade. Physically. We're very probably lost because we took a wrong turn, we're running out of time to stop an ancient darkspawn from becoming a god, and even in this very moment, we're being observed by this Nightmare fellow who's just waiting for the right opportunity to strike. And he will strike, make no mistake there, he'll hit you where it hurts the most, and for that he'll dig much deeper than a few unpleasant memories or inner insecurities. It's going to get ugly."
His grin was unbecomingly wide, as if the thought made him happy.
"While a lot of us did enjoy this short respite, me included, it's time to move on. Find Justinia, or whatever that is. Beat more of those spider thingies. Face our fears. Now be a good boy, Lord Inquisitor, and give me that candle."
Marcel thought that, after that passionate speech of his, the Inquisitor would smack the former Champion in the face—break his nose perhaps. Instead, the lad obediently handed over the candle.
Go figure.
The former Champion pushed him aside and approached the mirror. He studied the candles for a brief moment, murmured something to himself, frowned, and then with quick, apt movements, arranged them in a certain order—except for one, which he kept in his hand.
"This will do the trick, methinks," he sighed. "Here, Lord Inquisitor, take the last one and place it over there, so you can claim the prize. Maker forbid that scary woman bashes my brains in for preventing you from getting stronger."
That said, with a proficient, theatrical move, he turned on his heel to leave—but then stopped midway.
He stared at the mirror as if he'd noticed it for the first time.
All Marcel could see was the blurred reflection of the three of them in old, grease-stained glass. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Apparently, the former Champion was seeing something else.
"Hawke," the Inquisitor said, shifting his eyes between the former Champion and the mirror pane. "Is everything alright?"
The former Champion approached the mirror, unblinking, an odd expression on his face. Gone was the perfect picture of a professional hero: this man looked broken and a decade older, yet simultaneously, strangely boyish. There was a ghost of a smile in the corner of his lips, but it was not a smile of joy.
Longing—that's what this is, Marcel realized as he watched the man raise his hand and slowly touch the glass, as if he were caressing whatever he saw in it. Someone's skin, perhaps. He tilted his head and bit his lip, his breath hitched. For a moment, Marcel thought he might even shed a tear.
Suddenly, the former Champion curled his hand in a fist and slammed it against the pane with all his might.
The mirror cracked, glass shards falling to the ground and flying upward to the green non-sky.
"The hell did you do that for?" the Inquisitor exclaimed, his orange coat splattered with blood.
"None of your business, your Grace," the former Champion snarled and wiped his hand on his face, leaving a funny blood smear across his nose. "We're done here. Now move along, or by Andraste's tits, I'll drag you by the horns myself."
The rest of their party noticed the ruckus—the Nevarran woman jumped to the Inquisitor's side, shooting an angry glance toward Marcel, while the dwarf came running to the former Champion, taking him by the injured hand. The man just waved him off, however, and continued down the hall in fast steps, without looking back. The others waited for an instant, and then rushed to catch up; the dwarf struggling to keep up the pace with his short legs, the Nevarran woman pushing the Inquisitor forward, and the off-key Warden dragging behind them, lost as only a person who had no idea what was happening could be.
Yet again, Marcel was left to take the rear.
Slowly, he approached the mirror shards that were lying scattered on the ground.
At first, all he saw there was the greenish reflection of the Fade sky, rippling like the surface of the sea, like the shallow waters on the beach where he'd spent his childhood. Then, bit by bit, the colors started to change, from green to yellow to orange, and it was no longer the sea waves he saw there.
It was flames.
Hissing. Flickering. Licking up the charred walls.
The voices inside his head began to wail, calling him to them.
With his heavy boot, Marcel stepped on the mirror shard. He took an unexpected pleasure from hearing it crack.
Maybe, just maybe, he thought, that Nightmare thing is not so uncreative after all.
Chapter Three: Les neiges d'antan
"Did you love him?" he whispered. It was not a question to ask a lady, but fortunately for him, she was no lady.
"No," she lied. "I hated him."
"Good." He flashed a flirtatious smile, and was happy to note she answered in kind. "Good. Then we have that in common."
Marcel shuddered, as if kicked by a sleep twitch