Song is Blind Guardian: Violent Shadows
"They terrify lest they should fear"
(Tacitus)
The wine-dark sky had bled rain for the third day in succession, and Fenris was worried. The blood moon was surrounded by stars like pearlescent shoals, and – though they were several days from Castellum Tenebris – the blackness reminded him of Lusacan, dragon of night.
Still, spring had reached from the cold depths of winter and tapped him on the shoulder. It came with the scent of new life on the air, the warmth on his skin after so many months of half-light. He had remembered long, hot days in Starkhaven filled with the roses Lambert was growing, swimming in the Minanter River, fresh raspberries, Lambert getting sunburn (Fenris' skin was too dark, save for the tips of his ears) bare feet, and barbeques.
His twenty-eighth birthday had come the day they had destroyed the shipment of Red Lyrium, and only Lambert had celebrated. He had just had time to give Fenris a long, sweet kiss and a promise of more, when news had reached them the Venatori had assassinated Halward Pavus shortly after Dorian and Anders had stormed out. Fenris had used all his abilities to reach them – been ready to kill to get them out – but Dorian's mother had found them and told them there would be no pursuit: she knew Dorian was innocent and was naming him her heir.
"I will support my son as Imperial Divine and begin making this a reality" she had said – to Dorian's sick astonishment. And then she had turned to Lambert,
"Thank you for showing me a Herald of Andraste unafraid to be himself – I see my son will not need to marry in order to rise to power. As Imperial Divine, he can declare himself an ally of the Inquisition and advocate for emancipation, if he so wishes. Either way, I will support him."
Lambert had recovered quickly – he was a trained bard – and bowed low and gracefully, with as many elegant flourishes as an Orlesian.
"Thank you for your support, Magister Pavus."
Still, he had taken no chances; her support might be a ruse, designed to lull Fenris into waiting to be returned to House Danarius, and Lambert to end up in her experimental lab. He had brought out the mirror he had bought from the Black Emporium and sent all twenty-two of them through Merrill's Eluvian. It had saved them days of travel.
Fenris had wondered – as he traversed the Crossroads that felt like a long-forgotten home – whether he could use his powers to achieve more.
"The Brands allow me to tunnel past the gravitational barrier – it is like becoming small as a wisp and large as a planet. I wonder what would happen if I were to phase in the space between Eluvians?"
"Don't even think about it! Anyway, you'll soon be free of those blasted things. You'll still be a great warrior who can ride any horse and fly a griffon...who can defeat Blood Magic with the Litany and regular magic with Seeker powers. You don't need the Brands to defeat Tevinter."
The plan of all Tevinter forts was much the same; knowing one meant knowing them all. Here, the ramparts were of rammed turf, and the cohort were all camped together in one small square around a colonnaded courtyard. A grape vine grew up one wall and they could see the humble beginnings of new buds. In the courtyard was a statue of the Ancient Tevinter goddess Ceres – thought to have originally been the Elven goddess Mythal – and an artist of some long-departed garrison had scratched with his dagger a beautiful leaping wildcat on the garrison wall. Someone less gifted had scratched a very rude picture of a Centurian he had not liked.
But Fenris knew no full-time Tevinter family lived in this fort – it was manned by men who reported to Nenealeus. The Magister Sidereal had been here not long ago and possibly still remained.
"Something is amiss here," Fenris muttered, "Most of the guards are gone."
"Great," Anders said, "Why fight when you can investigate?"
"Why investigate when you can fight?"
Anders rolled his eyes.
"Forts always have a side exit," Krem explained – and, sure enough, he found it. "You can use your abilities to phase through, unlock it, and let us in quietly."
"Or I could just destroy the door."
"And cause a fight which will likely get any slaves they have killed," Lambert pointed out, and Fenris sighed in resignation. His husband was right, and he was ashamed he hadn't thought of it himself. How was he the one Varania had entrusted with the lives of her children? How were they going to get them out of Castellum Tenebris before the bombardment? Isabella had been instructed to be careful of collateral damage – her ships were a distraction from the griffon attack and the targeted strikes – but it was unrealistic to suppose there would be no civilian casualties.
Without another word, Fenris phased and let them all through.
"The good news is I got us in and the guards are unaware. The bad news is the guards are all dead – which means we have an unexpected enemy."
"Could it be Eluvia? Fiona told me she wanted an alliance – but would you trust an immortal Broodmother? Even if her intentions were good, once the Song begins we will all smell like food to her."
Fenris nodded and could not resist turning to Anders and smirking. "I suspect "investigate not fight" is going to last about two minutes."
Of all of them, Rylock had gone quite white. Lambert and Anders had both served during the Fifth Blight, but neither of them had been involved in the battle to end The Mother. Lambert knew the story though. Boann had been Rylock's found sister.
"Whatever Eluvia's sins, she really was trying to cure taint," Lambert whispered to the Templar, "I suspect the Maker will be generous when we give her mercy."
"Can we?" Rylock asked bleakly. "Eluvia is not like Boann...she is a Magister Sidereal herself. Immortal as Corypheus. I suspect, when we kill her, her consciousness will seek another tainted creature...as there are no Wardens or darkspawn nearby, and she can cast Fade Step, she may be able to return to Weisshaupt. The most we will be able to do is kill her Children before they are born."
Lambert swallowed hard. "That will still buy us time. Death later is preferable to death now. What we need is a plan. Carv told me Broodmothers can spit taint at the same distance a mage can cast Lightning. As the only people immune to taint are me and Fen, we'll be the only ones who can get close. Everyone else: ranged weapons and staves only: preferably from high ground."
"I'm immune too," Anders told them. "Justice was a spirit, not a demon, and he touched my mind."
"You can't know that."
"It's my risk to take. You two are going to need a healer nearby."
The Main Hall – with its stone steps and balconies – was a charnel house. They could only hope the slaves had made it out.
"It looks like Magister Nenealeus has done his filthy work and will have taken a caravan to Castellum Tenebris. Eluvia has feasted on guards, assistants, and slaves but she doesn't need to eat...she is immortal. Which means Nenealeus only need to return here in nine months' time, when his first batch of experimental subjects are ready."
Dream and reality seemed almost completely interwoven. Fenris was once again on the Deep Roads mission with Varric and Lambert. He carried on with the resolve that had seen him through many battles against powerful mages. The Broodmother showed to his darkvision as a black mass of veins: a network of rotten capillaries that powered movement.
He felt the touch of Eluvia's magic - the foulness on her breath – her thoughts eroded by the Song into shapes of horror. He phased – intending to solidify inside her – not even a Broodmother would survive that explosion. But, though her mind had gone, her magic had not. The borders of the monstrous being blurred, grew indistinct – he realized she was casting Fade Step. The two passed harmlessly through each other.
"Shift sides," he told his husband. He had come up on Lambert's left side – the side with the Anchor – his husband needed Fenris at his right. A shuffle as they swapped places. He felt Rylock moving at his back, a shifting from leg to leg more menacing than nervous. The Chargers, SNAFU and Sparky's Folly were backing them up. Varric's bolter was firing slugs of blackpowder straight into the fleshy monstrosity.
Rylock loosed her Templar powers, to counter Eluvia's magic. Anders' magic had the quality of lamplight or firelight - it would burn as well as heal. The Templar Smite was pure anti-magic; light only, like scouring wind and water.
Black tentacles reared like towering waves – swept vast swathes of the battling fighters. Lacklon barely dodged in time, joined a moment later by Roland. The thing took Roland in the chest. The bard crumpled like a leaf in winter, collapsing backward. Then a terrible sound from Lacklon: a howl so raw with rage it sounded bloody. It would have been a killing blow – but Anders' healing altered the odds. Fenris felt the current of Anders' healing magic; heard his sigh, like falling leaves. Anders withdrew his healing, knowing it had been enough.
Fenris could not help them - could not even look back to watch. All his attention was needed to keep his balance as he inched with agonizing slowness across the crumbling inner ledge of the cavern: half-tiger, half-acrobat, wholly-insane. He stood on the tenuous perch and tore his eyes from the abyss below. He had a sense of demand from the writhing, expressionless void. Half-buried within the walls of the pit were the fleshy sacks that contained half-formed Children, umbilicus-joined by tendrils to their mother. Lethandralis sliced open the nearest, and Fenris found himself asking the Maker for forgiveness. He was an Andrastean, and that meant the Children were innocent children – offspring to two human beings – a little deformed, maybe, but they had had no more choice in their creation than he had had in his.
Fenris, too, had been a child of rape. He was glad Lambert hadn't had to do it – Lambert never shared details of what he had helped Anders do for girls in the clinic, but once – after drunken sleep – he had whispered, "A child cannot give birth to a child – we had to do it – but I saw the face. The baby lived for five minutes – I poured all the healing I had into her – but it was too soon. Was it murder, to kill one child instead of losing both?"
Fenris had held him, murmured meaningless reassurances, and when Lambert had woken he remembered nothing of it. Fenris never reminded him.
Eluvia screamed, shrilly. Atop the unspeakable gluttonous hulk, the face was still recognizable as a woman's.
"Ignis!" she screamed – and Fenris' Brands caught fire.
But Lambert was already casting. Lambert sang the Litany in a coruscating vocal climb – he had a five-octave range – the closest thing to a cyclone in musical form. The pain stopped as if it had never been. Fenris was already swinging Lethandralis – not even a Broodmother could survive decapitation.
Fenris remembered the moment Corypheus had left his current body and saw the same transition. It was almost as if the spirit rose from the severed neck and began the search – like a shark drawn down the bloodstreams of taint, seeking warmth and form. What remained was meat only; the woman had gone.
All twenty-two had survived; the soldiers patching up each other's wounds. Rylock and Krem were discussing parries and thrusts – reliving the battle – while Vivienne was already thinking ahead.
"I will send a raven to Loghain – and another to Weisshaupt. What they get back will still be under influence of the Song – Eluvia will not be able to rule as she intended. If enough Weisshaupt Wardens band together – if a competent leader takes charge – they will be able to defeat the Broodmother and kill her dragon. When both are destroyed, the Magister Sidereal will not be able to rise again. The Wardens who receive our message will race to seek terms from Montsimmard. This is a political victory, my dear – you will unify the Wardens under a banner loyal to you without having to besiege Weisshaupt."
Lambert's only answer was an exhausted smile.
Fort Viridan was useful in two ways. The first was that all twenty-two had been able to take horses – Eluvia had feasted on the flesh of their riders but left the animals alone. The second was Nenealeus' lab. Despite Fenris' drunken disdain, Anders hadn't given up on his plans to refine taint into a means of destroying Fenris' Brands – counting on the Improved Joining Mixture, Rillian's blood, and Fenris' own Seeker immunity to save him from the side effects.
Within Nenealeus' lab was a room specifically designed to handle large quantities of pathogens. His magic maintained a negative air pressure system, and an ultralow freezer that stopped them multiplying uncontrollably.
"It reminds me of the basement at Kinloch Hold," Anders said to his fiancée, "I snuck in more than once – managed to contaminate my phylactery – but the bastards always brought me back. In the end, they decided it was safer to move my leash to Denerim before I even passed my Harrowing. I wasn't as clever as Fenris, you see. When he snuck into the Gallows phylactery chamber to do the same for Lambert, he killed the cells in a way that made it look like Lambert had died. I wish I'd thought of that!"
"What did you do instead?" Dorian asked.
"I pissed in it."
Dorian burst out laughing. A moment later he looked startled. It was the first time he had been able to smile since the bitter argument with Halward Pavus, followed by news of his father's death. Anders had feared Dorian would never find peace now – might even (ridiculous though it was) blame himself for Halward's decision to anger the Venatori. It felt good to make him laugh. Bringing Dorian along was good for him – he wanted to keep him far away from that poisonous place and over-ambitious mother. Dorian didn't need her to become Imperial Divine: the unique qualities he had were plain as day. Everyone would see it.
Anders carefully unscrewed the lid of a large lead-lined cannister. Inside were hundreds of tiny blue spheres. They were magical glass and they contained regular lyrium – the blue stuff. Anders carried them to a containment hood in the corner of the lab. Pumps rumbled inside the machine – sucking air up and releasing it into the clouds, far away from where they might breathe the particles.
Anders sat down on a stool in front of the hood and twisted the cap off a vial, inserting a sterile instrument from which he had taken a sample of Eluvia's tainted blood.
"I'll mix the lyrium with the taint. We'll know within four hours if it kills."
Using his magic to see the microscopic, Anders thought the taint looked like an alien spider. It possessed an icosahedral-shaped head, and below the head hung six spider-like legs used to locate prey. Within seconds, each leg latched on to the crystals of lyrium. Immediately, molecular motors retracted the legs, pulling the taint head down to the lyrium's surface. There, living chemicals for which Anders had no name yet discharged from the head, digesting holes through the lyrium's outer membrane.
It hijacked the lyrium, forced it to make new components, which then self-assembled into hundreds of tainted organisms, each waiting for a signal. When it came – as though organized by a conductor – each clone of taint simultaneously released a toxin that ripped the lyrium's cell wall open. It shimmered like glass in sunlight, dissolving into a silver liquid, then melted away like water. Now freed, the taint sought new targets, repeating the infection process over and over, until every lyrium cell had been lysed.
"Ruffles! It worked!" Anders shouted, beaming like a new father.
"The attack rate must be amazingly high," Dorian noted thoughtfully.
"I thought it would be," Anders said happily, "Eluvia was one of the Magisters Sidereal – and that was her original body, the one that had been to the Golden City. I thought that would accelerate the lytic cycle. We know it works more effectively than the Joining mixture...but we will absolutely need to be sure Eluvia is dead before we can offer this as treatment to cure Fenris' brands."
"Suppose she really is dead...would that make the taint incapable of carrying her consciousness? The Circulum Infinitum is supposed to bring back the consciousness of the dead. This is a fascinating experiment, but I still think the Improved Joining Mixture plus Rillian's blood would be safest for Fenris...the process will take longer, and be unpleasant for him, but at least he won't have to worry about having his mind taken over."
Anders nodded gravely. Both he and Dorian had more reason than most to fear that, viscerally.
As if the thought had recalled Dorian to the bitterness of his last meeting with Halward, he looked away. If Dorian felt like studying magic, Anders happened to be there, spellbook in hand. If Dorian was thirsty, Anders knew how to magic water – not caring that the drops that appeared in his empty flask would lead to dryness somewhere else. It was not by calculation, but a constant awareness of his lover through which no trifle was missed. Now he took note of the shut mouth and the blue lines under Dorian's eyes and said,
"You were not the keeper of Halward Pavus. If you wished to wear the Pavus amulet – which was your right – that wasn't an invitation to him to use Blood Magic on you. Halward chose to declare enmity to the Venatori and the Inquisition would have allied with him – he didn't need to make it all about you marrying a woman, and he certainly shouldn't have thrown you away when you told him, 'no'. You mustn't blame yourself because he made enemies of the Venatori and then sent away the only people who could have defended him from their attack."
Dorian smiled at Anders gently – not in wonder at his ignorance but envy of his innocence.
"Yes...the attack happened at a remarkably convenient time for my hopes to become Imperial Divine: for, if word had got out he'd disinherited me, I'd have had no chance. I could have lived without becoming Imperial Divine, or heir to House Pavus – I'd assumed father had long ago disinherited me – was only wearing the amulet to declare loyalty to my country. But do you know who couldn't have survived it? How long do you think mother would have lived, with her only son disinherited and her husband's bastard named as heir?"
Dorian edged himself closer and Anders held him reassuringly. It was nothing more – no passion, no desperate heat – just comfort. Anders rebuked the response of his own body; tamped it down. Whatever Dorian needed, he must have.
"Last night, before we came to Fort Viridan, I dreamed I caught a snake and was trying to ask it a question, but it kept escaping and turning away."
"Perhaps it wanted you to follow it. I dream like that when searching for cures. I know the knowledge is out there – I'm just too ignorant to see it. Sometimes I dream I'm following a hawk and a wolf, trying to save them, but I never reach them in time."
"No: my snake had a secret, but it wouldn't speak. My parents have always hated each other. As political allies, and mother and father to a son they raised to be a powerful Necromancer, they had to work together. But they'd have harmed each other if they could. Yes, the Venatori were aiming to kill my father – and it may have been our confrontation that made him careless with his wards. But I wonder: is that all? Sometimes I think: unless I find out the truth, it will drive me mad."
Like one person with two skins, Anders felt a fine tremor running through Dorian. Anything he needed, he must have.
"That's stupid. You've got me. Do you think I'd let you go mad?"
"I can talk to you. You've no idea how rare that is – how valuable. Of course, in Tevinter, they'd say I was mad for trusting you."
Anders grinned ruefully. "They told me the same at Kinloch Hold. No mage can dare fall in love. Oh, apprentices all went the rounds on a regular basis...but, once we passed our Harrowings, we knew every mage might be a Chantry informer. Most chose celibacy – invested themselves in rising to power within a gilded cage – a rare few, like Rylock's parents, became married in all but name. And some...the evil ones...took advantage of apprentices. The rapes...these weren't only committed by Templars. Oh...don't worry! I was lucky both ways. I entered the Circle old enough and strong enough to kick up a fuss if any adult tried. They put me in solitary – placed a demon inside me and told me to fight it – but at least they left my body alone."
"You're a good man, Anders. As long as you're with me..."
"I promise you before the Maker: I'll be here as long as I'm alive."
Dorian settled his head on Anders' shoulder and Anders saw, in a diving moment, the succession of prostitutes that had been the only means Dorian had had of being true to his sexuality without social disgrace. He heard again Halward's words; "if you choose to humiliate yourself before this Anders he'll be getting no son of mine". Between his hands had been laid, in trust, Dorian's pride.
"Even if your mother did have something to do with Halward's end, it will be no benefit to you to learn how, or why. She would have been defending herself and her child in the only way she could – and you still weren't Halward's keeper. You were right: he told you, "this display is uncalled for" and you told him he had called for it himself, by summoning you and then by refusing to compromise when we could easily have worked together. He was similar to my own father: who claimed to love me, and who ate me raw. At least Lady Aquinea was honest in her ruthlessness. Halward and my father were the type to use guilt and manipulation to get their own way and then – when we finally stood up to them – make decisions in anger they could not take back. Halward would probably have regretted it later – but Tevinter allows for no second chances. Aquinea could not have acted differently – and you responded in the only way that would have allowed you to keep your self-respect. No, love, you have nothing to blame yourself for."
"Nonetheless, I am planning to become Imperial Divine. It is the only way I have to see my country become more than a corrupt backwater dependent on slavery and eaten alive by Qunander. What worries me is, since my mother's schemes will be necessary to get me to that point – I can't simultaneously be aiding the Inquisitor at Castellum Tenebris, and helping you cure Hawke and Fenris, and positioning myself against Rezaren Ammosine – I will owe her. You have met her. You must know she believes that, when I become Imperial Divine, I will do more than just protect her – as any son would – she expects me to let her reign for me."
Anders' back prickled with danger, but his heart was full of pride. As leader of the Free Mages – a powerful mage in his own right – he realized he had been called into alliance against a mighty rival. Dorian was still looking quite pale. Words must be found.
"Your mother will only be able to call on House Thalrassian. You will be able to call on the Free Mages and the Inquisition. You have allies far outside the scope of her experience. You won't need to tell her 'no'...the thing will spring from itself, like flowers from rain. Together, we'll create the future...or make a failure in such glory as the world as never seen. Are you with me?"
"Always."
Following the caravan of Magister Nenealeus to Castellum Tenebris did not prove to be difficult. The pathway was well-worn, with the trees that had once been part of Arlathan Forest nothing but stumps on either side. Mosses and lichens had colonized the woodland floor – wood anemone and wild garlic grew in the shade, as did sorrel, dog mercury and guelder rose shrubs. Fenris' knowledge of these had nothing to do with his Elven heritage – it was because he was married to a gardener, who liked to talk about his work.
The trail was named the Serpentine Way, and their griffons – they had brought Hawke's griffon, Ripples, Fenris' griffon, Dumat, Varric's griffon, Lore, plus the three animals whose masters would not be reunited with them for a long time: Astra, Aquila and Duncan – lolloped about with ears bouncing, their faces full of joy after being forced to be well-behaved for so long. Lambert jumped over a fallen log – rotten and smothered in lichen – running after them like a gazelle.
Fenris preferred to keep his mind on the danger. So did Dorian – who found him before long.
"Magister Nenealeus isn't travelling as fast as he could. Which means he knows we're here – and is expecting something."
"Expecting to have his arse handed to him," Anders chimed in, "Looks like your former trainer is a bit crazy, Fenris."
"I expect no one knows that better than Fenris," Dorian muttered sheepishly.
Fenris did not think Dorian had reason to feel embarrassed for his countryman – it wasn't as though he felt personally responsible for every man in Starkhaven! – but Fiona's warning that they could not trust all their companions had stuck with him. If Hira really had made a deal with Rezaren Ammosine – well, Miriam would be in no danger so long as her lover didn't lure her to Nessum – but, suppose Hira had made a deal with Nenealeus too? Certainly, Fenris was aware someone in their group was deliberately leaving trail signs. What troubled him was: the person was wise in the ways of the forest. The trail signs had been left in a way that was distinctly Elven.
But who? What reason would Dalish have to aid Tevinter? But Fenris found he would prefer to distrust a member of the Chargers than one of his own Wraiths. And yet...both Gatt and Tallis experienced cognitive dissonance over how much to ally with him and how much with the Ariqun. And the Qunari didn't know the shipment of Red Lyrium had been destroyed. Fenris hoped that was all: if Gatt or Tallis were in contact with the Qunari he could not really see it as betrayal – they were both enemies of Castellum Tenebris.
And yet, Fenris was uneasy as they set up camp. The ruins of the ancient forest were uncanny; the very shadows seemed alive with memory...
... The boy groped for consciousness after another night with Master. He couldn't even think what his crime had been: of late all the male Soporati had succumbed to visitation after visitation. It had long since stopped making sense. All that kept him going was lupine determination – he had defeated all the other slaves who had tried to steal his family's food and he wasn't going to give up now. It was all he could do to think of that – to remember that single idea and who he was – he mustn't let his mother and sister down.
Gathering the scattered shreds of his identity, Fenris made himself anew around a core of unfocused rage. In time it came to him he had arms and legs and labouring lungs, that his eyes worked (and, oh! the blessed feeling of being able to see again – even though to wake in the Master's room was no fun) that the amnesia caused by lightning flaring through his nervous system was temporary.
Groping past, "Who am I? Where am I?" he stumbled mentally across a thick black opacity he could not peel aside… it had something to do with Magister Danarius but fire washed down his synapses again just thinking of the Master, a fire whose heart was pain. The trouble was, Master summoned him so often he was mixed up in everything.
The boy tried to sit up. At first his muscles only twitched but fear was in him…he didn't want to be here when Master returned. At last, with the ugly light of dawn smearing the sky, he fought off the paralysis and inched back to the slaves' quarters. He crept between the lamps on a floor that was hard and shiny as an obsidian coin. With hollowness inside him he began the onslaught of the day with its long burden of labour. The Ventosus Straits were waiting.
Outside, the dirty water was a dull crimson of lava and sparks speared molten upwards. On the water he saw the long thin wooden canoes, with sharply pointed bows like arrows, and the hard-faced procurator – a peon who had sired Leto on his mother – ordered him to go to work.
Leto saw other small boys with arm muscles grotesquely developed from propelling the boat through silty water day after day. Children were involved in casting the nets, hauling them in, and unpicking the fish. But Leto's special talent was diving. He was good at it and – because it brought him more pride than the nights with Master – he pretended not to be afraid of the constant risk of getting crushed by Sylvans or caught in the nets and drowning. He also liked the knowledge the smaller boys were grateful to him – by volunteering, he was ensuring they would not be picked.
Leto was always prepared to dive off, to dive under, to swim through the deep water until his ribs cracked, in his quest to free snagged nets or catch rare fish. One older boy – who thought himself better than the rest because he could make his little finger glow with magic – was jealous of him.
"Can you see them? The dead boys – the ones who got caught by the Sylvans? Are you scared of them?"
"Of the dead boys? Why? They're dead and I'm alive. I'm sad for them, not scared."
But when Master asked for volunteers to get inside the sarcophagus – to be Branded with lyrium and reborn as new men – Leto had wondered what that would be like: to be a Lyrium Warrior who didn't have to spend days breaking his ribs to make the quota and nights shivering as the Master's pet? No more midnight wakenings (his thoughts slid out from under him, from pictures to feelings to blankness).
He thought of the peon: the hard-faced procurator who used lyrium to impale his nerves on needles of fire whenever he didn't return with a good enough catch. He contemplated the horror of being able to do that to someone – in mechanical obedience to the Master – without caring.
The memory came back to him: the dissociation of mind from body, the disintegration of personality in that river of blinding, coruscating pain. The boy leaned sideways, unconsciously, trying to dissociate himself from the frightening idea.
...Could I turn someone inside-out like that with the Lyrium Brands? What if Master orders me to do it to someone I know? Would I still recognize them? What will the Brands feel like?...
He ran a hand down his dark-skinned back, feeling the ridges of past floggings, and tried to imagine meeting that cold glassy ugliness with his fingertips.
...Does it hurt when they put it in? When they peel back your skin to drill into your bones?...
Invisible needles bored into his brain: cold, dead worms rupturing his personality. His essence would drain away; there would be nothing left of...
...Nothing left of what? What am I worth anyway? The procurator forced himself on my mother – I'm not even a mage like my sister – I've already let them both down. Any food they give me is food they don't have for themselves. I'm useless. Worthless...
This way, he could ask for freedom for his mother and sister – do for them what not even a mage child could do.
...But what if, once mother and Varania are free and no longer under Master's protection, he orders me to do it to them?...
Then the boy shook his head. Master wouldn't need to...the only enemies powerful enough to warrant sending a Lyrium Warrior would be his enemies at the Senate. Leto had never seen them but knew they were all human, all mages, all Senators. He pictured himself fighting against many black-cloaked enemies in a blaze of light.
The other slaves all told him Master had to be cruel: these other Senators were worse still. They were being watched over by a god rather than terrorized by a monster. The alternative – that their suffering was pointless and did no one any good – would have been unbearable. Worse, it would have imposed on them an intolerable duty: because, if Master really were a monster, what could a man do but fight him, and how could one fight a god? Far safer to cloak bitter resignation in the language of duty and loyalty and obedience: "my Master right or wrong" ...
Leto's other reason for volunteering was one he did not like to look at too closely. All his life, he had been raised to know he was a disappointment: to his mother, to the Maker. Magic was a Maker-given gift, and the Maker had judged him unworthy. But...Master was specifically asking for volunteers who were both Elves and Soporati! It was a power neither humans nor mages could handle...
...His husband's warm hand – his scent of gardenias and Purple Rain and Varric's mushrooms –brought Fenris back to reality. Hawke winked. "After Corypheus and Eluvia, Nenealeus should be a piece of cake."
Fenris tutted. "You shouldn't be so brash. Things could be much worse."
Krem's saw-edged harshness cut across their conversation.
"Things are worse. The caravans have stopped. About a mile ahead. There's no real need for them to hide, so they're probably waiting for Nenealeus to show himself."
Fenris issued commands to his Wraiths in the Elven sign-language. Lambert briefed Rylock and Fairbanks.
Krem went on, "I just came off watch and I can tell you there's nowhere to run." He paused, spat, as if to get rid of a raging thirst. Lambert recognized the signs of nervousness. If Krem – who would take on any odds with the rallying cry, "Horns up!" – was nervous, he was downright terrified. Krem said, "Inquisitor, I would advise keeping to our high ground here. We know Nenealeus will approach, so we'll have time to put up defences."
Thoughtfully, Shirallas said. "There are over fifty soldiers with Magister Nenealeus. We're surrounded. That means he wants to talk."
Fenris suspected the magister was expecting the Inquisitor to give him up without a fight. Hawke's low growl told him otherwise. Anders, Dorian and the others raised their voices in a growl of assent. "We don't give up our Blue Wraith. Or Miriam. Or anyone. We are a team. Anything you're dealing with, we're dealing with."
Fenris swallowed. He unaccountably had something in his eye. He had never dreamed such loyalty could exist. To him, of all people! Who was he to deserve it?
Gruffly, he said, "I'll be sure I don't disappoint you."
Shirallas said, "Look. See the shems' cookfires spiraling ridiculously thick smoke. The light glinting from bared weapons. To startle us. Build fear. All this is preliminary. To impress."
"Why should he care about impressing me, who has nothing with which to bargain?" Hawke mused. "In fact, why stop at all, when he knows we are on our way to Castellum Tenebris? Why not wait to arrange our 'welcome party' on home ground?"
"I think I know what he wants. I don't think he knows what's involved," Shirallas replied.
Hawke and Fenris exchanged mystified looks.
Nenealeus made a great display of his approach. War horns announced him and the man beside him raised the white cloth.
Fenris' booming voice rolled from ridge to ridge. "We've been waiting, magister. Come, visit."
Nenealeus reined in his mount with a hard tug on the reins and glared down at the relaxed group before him. "You don't speak until you are spoken to, knife-ear. You have disgraced House Danarius."
"If Tractus wants to take me, he is welcome to try. You are just using my younger brother. You would make him the Venatori's whore."
Slowly, menacingly, Nenealeus turned to face him. Utterly expressionless, he spoke in a cold, flat voice. "Bark your loudest, dog. You had the chance to be Danarius' wolf; now you run errands for the Inquisitor. You were unworthy of the gift. The next Lyrium Warrior will not be."
"There will be no 'next' Lyrium Warrior. We are coming to end you, and all your works."
But, even as Fenris spoke, Shirallas was riding apace with him. His Dalish leather armour blended with the forest, his tattoos stood out starkly. He wore the vallaslin of Elgar'nan: God of Vengeance. Strange, how Fenris had never stopped to wonder.
It was his policy never to ask his Wraiths about their pasts...some had suffered more than he had, and if they wished to forget it, it was none of his Maker-damned business. Only who they were now counted – they were all the captains of their ships. Fenris knew from the tattoos Shirallas had once been Dalish – knew Tevinter had destroyed his Clan before they had made him a slave – had heard him speak dismissively of Hawke and Merrill for trusting the Dread Wolf while claiming he would find another way to restore the lost Elvhen glory.
"You left the trail signs," he said. It was not a question. "But why? Even if Nenealeus agrees to train you as his perrepatae, you'll be as much his creature as I was – as much as Tractus is now. You won't be restoring anything."
Shirallas looked at him pityingly.
"There is so much about your Brands you don't know – because you have never bothered to find out. Haven't you wondered why the Fade is accessible to everyone – even non-mages and dwarves – while the Eluvian network is designed for Elves alone, and does not discriminate between mage and non-mage? The Fade is a mere byproduct of Fen'Harel having raised the Veil. It works by negatively-charged particles, and those who exceed the critical threshold of mana can use it for lucid dreaming – pull curiosities and catastrophes out of their dreams. But the Eluvian network was designed by and for Elves – and runs on light particles – which are also waves, like water. Light is not charged, and so has less of an effect on reality, but after the Veil is raised that will not matter. Light can vibrate in polarized states, and coherent beams can hit polished mirrors. With a network of a thousand Eluvians we can travel ten times faster than mere mages can with Fade Step. If Fen'Harel does raise the Veil, there will be no such thing as mages and non-mages. There will only be people like you – and now me – who can harness the power of lyrium and light. Lyrium and silverite are condensed forms of liquid light – a form of superfluid lethal to taint and Blood Magic. I will use it to defeat Tevinter – and the Dread Wolf. Come, join me. We are friends, and we will be comrades-in-arms."
Fenris said, "I will never betray my husband. Never. And I suspect your plans won't sound so grand when Nenealeus attempts the ritual with Red Lyrium instead."
Shirallas gave a slow, secret smile. "Yes, the magister may be waiting for that shipment for a while – but the Qunari are not going to wait. When the shipment fails to arrive, Magister Nenealeus will have to make do with regular lyrium."
Beside Nenealeus, the soldier with the white flag had the look of a man trying to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. He moved, and the saddle squealed protest.
Nenealeus said, "Take our latest recruit, and we will return to Castellum Tenebris. We have no need to fight here. The Inquisitor and his Dog are coming to attack us, after all. We will be sure to give them the welcome they deserve."
Vicious slashes of his riding crop sent his horse racing to his caravan.
There wasn't much left of the night. At Nenealeus' words – "you don't speak until you are spoken to, knife-ear" – it was as if the ten years since Fenris has escaped the Master had shrivelled up small like a dream. How could he ever have believed in them? How could he ever have thought he could lead other slaves to freedom? Shirallas hadn't wanted any freedom he could offer – wanted only the Lyrium Brands. Now he was returning to House Danarius – and so were they...
…"How could you ever have thought you'd escape from me, boy?" asked Master. "None of that folly, do you hear me?"
Leto put down his Firelance and obediently followed Danarius to the Inner Room.
Danarius looked all around him, and Leto became very afraid because he was sure the Master was looking for the mirror the Inquisitor had brought from the Black Emporium, and that would mean Hawke was in his hands. His last hope was Hawke had made it out. But Danarius went to one corner and found (which were not strange things to find in the Master's bedchamber) two hooks and a Tongue Tearer. He gave them to Leto.
"To your work, knife-ear."
On his order, Leto began to break up the onyx stone floor of the bedroom, black and cold as space. It was hard work, especially with the pain in his back – legacy of the latest flogging – but when he had cracked two or three of the large stones he found a black hole, like a well, beneath them.
"Throw yourself down," Danarius ordered, seizing him by the hand. They jumped together.
When they had fallen a long way Leto alighted on his feet, nothing hurt by the fall, and looked around him. It was the cavern beneath Castellum Tenebris.
"Now, work," Danarius said, "Or do you mean to stay the Inquisitor's Dog for the rest of your life?"
And again, Leto had to dig – but his time the labour was worse than before, because what he had to dig was tough, clinging clay. And the air was stifling. But, at last, he had dug so deeply another black hole had opened beneath him.
And this time he knew what Danarius meant to do to him.
He stepped back.
"Do you begin to set your wits against mine? Throw yourself down. There is no Hawke to help you here. We're far below any altitudes hawks can reach."
Leto fell further than before, but again he and the Master alighted unhurt. It was far darker here, and the walls were closing in.
Leto tried to warn Master: "If we're not quick, we shall be buried" but the words came out of his mouth stillborn.
...It's nothing to him to be buried, for he's dead already...
"If I do this, will you set my mother, my sister, and Tractus free?"
"You mother and sister – yes. I am a man of my word. But Tractus can pass for human and – at three – can already cast Light. I may raise his status to Laetan. But you need not worry about that. Soon, you will be a new man. Thirteen is a little young to be considered your age of majority – but I know the Lyrium Brands will take. Did you know lyrium and taint are the oldest of enemies? It is true: the filth they give Warden recruits is a mere corruption of the original virus found in the Void. This virus was absorbed by mortals long ago and plays a crucial role in memory formation. Spirits – and the extinct beings known as Titans – possess no linear memories. That is why the Brands will take your memories one by one. All that remains will be all that you are – and you belong to me" …
... "Fen, Fen, wake up." Hawke was holding him, gently.
"Hawke," he whispered. And the name was not just syllables but a sensory image of shared pleasure in the dark, laughter and alliance against the whole damn world, each man's body interposed to save his other half from any threat.
He smiled at Lambert. "Did you know you made me dream? Of long walks, and meals that made you fat and lazy, and nights where we both said nothing and were too happy to notice? Did you know I could dream like that? I didn't."
Internal resonances shook him – a tidal wave of terror let loose by nearing that castle of glass and darkness. What if the Master hurt Lambert? Danarius was dead but Nenealeus – the man who had trained Fenris as a perrepatae and whose orders he had followed to the last – was a Magister Sidereal. It was not enough to assure himself they had destroyed the Red Lyrium shipment – Fenris knew, from the Fade vision of Varania, Tractus had already started feeding it to his slaves.
Past and present crashed into each other like two worlds colliding. Betraying Hawke was his worst thing and he already had. Wryme...it was no good telling himself that was in the past. When the Red Lyrium took his memories one by one – ate them like sharks – it would be as if he had never met Hawke. He would smell the mana on him and only see a mage – one of his Master's enemies in the Senate. He had always killed mages on Master's orders...
...He had been a fool to think he could escape the past...allowing Hawke to ride into this mess with him was the most loveless act he could have committed...he had ensured his husband would be desecrated. Danarius had liked to do that, so the world was more closely made to resemble himself. Fenris should have stopped Hawke coming – lied to him, tricked him – should never have seduced him into fighting for emancipation. Hadn't that been true? Hawke was a good man but he was doing this for Fenris...if the two had never met, another cause (perhaps mage rights?) would have presented itself.
Terror, self-loathing, grief for Varania...it all came down in a phantom memory that made him feel he was on the verge of insanity...
...and then it happened. He phased. Not as a deliberate act – as it has always been – but utterly involuntarily. He passed right through Hawke.
He recohered on the other side of camp – and realized with an icy electric shock that he had had no control over that either – if the Brands had resolidified him just a few seconds earlier he would have materialized inside the man he would have died any death for.
Danarius had always told him if he were not there to maintain the Brands Fenris would eventually come apart: "Do you mind if I join you?" he had been in the habit of saying, with a knowing smirk.
How long had it been now? Fenris' twenty-eighth birthday had come and gone – and he had been eighteen when he had run from Danarius on Seheron. Ten years. And – more than that – he had been deliberately taking Fenris' Friend, the mixture Hawke had invented for him to try to break the Brands.
...What did I think was going to happen? How long did I think I would last before I became a danger to Hawke – and to everyone else around me?...
Fenris found himself standing at the edge of camp on a sea of grass clad in silvery dew. Little grew on the trail defined by carriages, whose spoked wheels tore up the black earth. The trees circumscribed the hollow like a green crown.
"I've never actually seen you phase before," said a voice – familiar, cultured, Tevene. "It's rather impressive. I've studied the theory, of course. What you do is known as 'tunneling' - using the lyrium brands to penetrate gravity. Tunneling is also the reason I can use Death Cloud to cause uranium to emit radiation – because the radiation tunnels its way through a nuclear barrier to reach the outside world. Remember: next time you see a giant volcano blow its top, you are witnessing the power of tunneling."
"Fenhedis," Fenris muttered irritably. He glared at Dorian. "I'm not Shirallas. I couldn't care less how these filthy markings work. I just want them gone. Not as much as I want to see Hawke cured of the Anchor, but I haven't been taking Fenris' Friend for five years for nothing."
"And has the mixture designed to help your immune system fight the Brands made a difference? Even a little? How do you feel?"
Fenris considered how strange it was he didn't mind the question – that he was actually going to answer this Tevinter Altus honestly. But – since they had been allies against Dorian's parents – he had started to see Dorian differently. So had Hawke.
"Since I started taking the mixture I have felt I was fighting the Brands rather than surrendering to them – becoming solid, real, the opposite of a Lyrium Ghost. Hawke has that effect on people. He is the opposite of Fen'Harel – who finds reality messy and would rather remake Thedas into a mirror of himself. Hawke makes everyone more themselves, not less. But...the fight itself is causing the Brands to become unstable. I just phased and solidified entirely involuntarily. It was pure chance I did not rematerialize inside my husband – or anyone else. How can I – in good conscience – risk anyone by my presence? Either I must stay alone for the rest of my life or I must stop trying to fight the Brands. As a Lyrium Ghost I will be as harmless as any other spirit – unless summoned by the wrong mage. And – Anders has told me of an Avvar amulet that can counter such. Becoming a Lyrium Ghost would not have been my first choice – but it is preferable to risking my husband. I could even make a virtue of necessity and use the Brands to absorb the magic of the Anchor. Hawke has forbidden that, of course – but once the act is done it will be done."
"Well, that's just not acceptable! For a start, you must at least try Rillian's Improved Joining – which has a hundred percent survival rate – before giving up. It may be that just rallying your own immune system to fight the Brands is not enough – that you need to use the ancient method to defeat lyrium: taint. So long as you use the Joining mixture – which ensures the lyrium hasn't been tainted first – the taint won't merge with lyrium to make you a Red Lyrium Warrior. If that were possible, every Templar who Joins would become a Red Templar, and they don't. They just become Wardens with Templar powers. Your Seeker abilities should also protect you. I'd also recommend you take some of Rillian's blood – which she found could cure taint without making the recipient a Warden. Or – better yet – some of Rylock's. Rylock received Rillian's cure and has her immunity. That would be safest, I think. Rillian was hiding out in Wycombe, and I doubt her freezing methods were particularly efficient."
"Yes, you and Anders were very quick off the mark in freezing Eluvia's blood," Fenris said disdainfully, "A most disrespectful way to treat someone who had once been a pregnant woman."
"From where she is now – back in Weisshaupt, presumably – I very much doubt she cares," Dorian said dryly. "Neither Anders nor I would put you to that risk. Eluvia was not truly dead when we took that blood, but it still might contain enough of her memories to make you her creature, as Janeka became Corypheus. No: your safest bet is Fenris' Friend plus Rillian's Joining plus Rylock's blood. I will not lie to you: the process by which this treatment will dissolve the Brands will be time-consuming and unpleasant for you – but it is preferable to becoming a Lyrium Ghost, or staying alone for the rest of your life."
"I'll do it. But I am more interested in the plans you and Anders have to treat Hawke. Anders can amputate his lower left arm and use magic to accelerate the healing process...but what about the lesions that have spread to the rest of his body? I heard you and Anders describe Hawke as a 'Stage 4' when you thought I wasn't listening. I am no medic – but I do know there isn't a Stage 5."
"No," Dorian said heavily, "I won't pretend his odds are good, but I will give him the best chance I can. After Anders has removed the Anchor – and while Lambert is still unconscious – I am going to use a targeted Death Cloud to kill the lesions. One stroke of luck: if the explosion at the Conclave had happened this side of the Veil the only being powerful enough to cure him would have been Fen'Harel."
"Hawke would never ask him. No deals with devils for either of us."
"I know. Which is why it was not only fortunate for every cleric and mage at that Conclave that Lambert managed to catch the orb before it hit the ground. Not only did Lambert save all their lives, he also ensured he was bodily in the Fade at the time the magic passed through him. That will have improved his odds. He has a small chance."
Dryly, Fenris said, "We often say to each other: would we know what to do with a large chance?"
Dorian grinned and – as he made to go – Fenris asked casually, "Since Eluvia's blood is so risky, I hope you and Anders have stored it carefully?"
"It's in my own backpack – in a lead-lined box surrounded by lethal magical wards. Not even Hira could break them."
Fenris grunted and began the walk across camp.
Lambert was sitting cross-legged on their bedroll, waiting for him. He looked like the lovechild of a holy man and a disheveled student smoking weed. His amaranthine eyes were fixed on Fenris. They spun with galaxies.
"Fen," Hawke said softly, "it wouldn't matter what you did…even if you forgot who I am or lost control of your powers…even if you harmed me in some way…you'll still be the man who saved me from the Gallows - who saved his mother and sister while still a boy – who defied Danarius and freed other slaves. You're got enough credit for a lifetime. For ten lifetimes. So please…stop worrying."
Fenris snorted. "You have a strange bedside manner, Hawke. Don't you know you're supposed to reassure me I won't lose control…that I've got this? Who removed your brain and promoted you to Inquisitor, anyway?"
"You have got this." Hawke put his arms around Fenris and pulled him down so they lay side-by-side. "Now go to sleep. You're so punchy you sound like my brother on a bad day."
Fenris' muscles relaxed in increments. It was strange how this man was lover, husband, partner…but in one particular mood Fenris was almost inclined to call him 'brother.' Even though he had friends – Sebastian and Donnic – who were his before they were Lambert's, and Lambert had friends, like Varric, who were his first – he and Lambert were all these others had been to each other. And more. Lambert was his pupil and his teacher, his subject and his sovereign; his oppo, shipmate, comrade.
And yet, Fenris had still betrayed him. The day Arianni had begged Hawke and Keeper Marethari to come with her to Kirkwall Alienage...
... Marethari turned to regard Lambert.
"Feynriel cannot become an abomination. The destruction he would cause is unimaginable. A death in the Fade will make him what your Circle calls "Tranquil." He will be no threat after."
Lambert took a step back with instinctive revulsion. "That is Feynriel's greatest fear. I won't be the one to make it come true."
"I have no choice but to leave it in your hands. Now, gather a team and we will begin. Choose carefully, for all will face temptation."
The Veil fluttered aside. Air that was music surrounded them. Panels in the arched ceiling overhead lighted the room ochre. The music made the walls vibrate with its intensity. There was erotic love in the higher notes and from the lower notes came fear deep and dark as rain beneath his skin. Lust and mindless hatred lilted, rippling and bubbling through the Fade.
Fenris blinked in startlement at the sight of Lambert. Lambert looked much as he did in life – a beautiful young man with a penchant for fine clothes and amethyst jewellery – but here he blazed. Not with light, but with an intense compassion that could be felt on the skin, like sun in the springtime. Fenris felt all the death inside him screaming and cowering away; it knew its enemy.
The vista was a large globular cluster of what might have been stars - or infection under a magister's microscope. The lights glittered feverishly, as if seen from the bottom of a dirty, turbulent atmosphere. Some of them contracted sluggishly to thin, diseased-looking globes. This was protracted suffering, lingering death.
Like a virtuoso, the demon who called itself 'Wryme' fingered Fenris' memories – the places he dared not look – that web of stunning, reverberant horrors. He felt the past begin to grow in him; sudden, helpless panic like the carnivorous burgeoning of a parasitic larva in the hollow of his stomach. At the same moment, he felt the quickening of his own will to survive – impersonal and lethal as plague – the flame of his life-long hatred of mages. The mages who had raped him of body and mind and left him in continual pain.
"Cast your eyes elsewhere, demon. I won my freedom from the magister. I don't need you to give it to me."
"But you fear him still. He has left his marks on your body and your mind. You know it is only a matter of time before he catches you. Three years ago, Kirkwall seemed a bastion of freedom – a place where Templars stand between ordinary people and mage predation. But now you have creatures like this Anders trying to destroy the Templars – trying to make the whole world into Tevinter. And they will, in just a few more years. What do you think will be the outcome of a war between mages and non-mages? With my aid, you could fight for your freedom and the freedom of others. You could have power enough to challenge any who would change you."
"Don't listen, Fen! Even if what it says is true, I'll fight anyone who tries to make you a slave! They will do that over my body."
"Considering Lambert's lack of magical ability that would not take long," the demon said mildly. "But I doubt it will come to that. Do you really think this human-passing half-breed would choose you over his abomination lover, or his Somniari friend?"
"I won't betray you, Lambert," Fenris said quietly, with desperate hope, "I want to fight with you. Together, we can destroy Justice – free Anders from possession. Then we can make Feynriel safe: ensure he does not – cannot – hurt others. You are a good person – I know you don't want to see people hurt. But if you let the abomination and the Somniari go, innocents will suffer."
Lambert looked at him – his entire soul burning in those brilliant purple eyes. "I can't do that. Anders went with me into the Fade - even though he was terrified he would not wake up as himself. I see that now, and I was selfish to let him. Even if I could separate them without killing Anders or making him Tranquil – which isn't certain – I can't do it by trickery, without his consent. I'd be like...like a healer performing an abortion against the woman's will, because he judges it would save her future. And Justice hasn't turned yet. He has never hurt an innocent. I can't judge him – or Feynriel – for what they haven't done yet."
"You see," the demon said in syrupy sympathy, "It is always the same. Even if you think a mage honest, and loyal, and trustworthy, you'll learn that they never go against their own kind."
...If I kill Lambert in the Fade, he will wake up Tranquil...
Fenris saw no point in kidding himself. Lambert - who laughed all the time and sang like an angel. He would live – but he would never be himself again.
"Nor will you ever be yourself again, once Lambert unwittingly helps Anders and Feynriel. Once the whole world becomes Tevinter. It is the law of the jungle – something you flesh-and-blood-creatures cannot escape. Nature red in tooth and claw. Mages and non-mages are different species and only one will survive. It is not immoral to do what you must to preserve your own kind"...
Lambert had never blamed Fenris for what he had done, never judged him. He had said, "You weren't treating me as collateral damage – you'd never have sold me, as Anders tried to do to you – not even to save yourself from a fate worse than death. You gave me the choice. I chose to defend Feynriel and I knew the price of failure would be Tranquillity; as you believed slavery would be the price of yours. We were free men on opposite sides in war."
But Fenris knew there had been more in what he had done than Lambert had realized. Yes, Wryme had convinced him he would need its power as his only defense against Tevinter. But what Lambert didn't know was how pathetically happy he had been with the realization this ancient being – who had once been an Elf – had thought him worth possessing. It was the only kind of love Fenris had ever known – the devouring kind – and the fact he had chosen Wryme as his protector against Danarius proved that he would choose any evil – betray his husband to any power – so long as it promised Danarius couldn't hurt him again...so long as it made him feel valued.
Hawke believed what Fenris had done was oppose him in war – two equally valid arguments, just on opposite sides – but Fenris had dimly known, even then, the difference between Hawke's battle to preserve another person's ability to sleep, love and laugh, and his own battle to end it, to sever Feynriel from himself, to make him less than the Maker had created him to ensure his own survival. Fenris had been fighting for his selfhood but not in innocence, like an animal – the alternative had been put before him.
He realized Hawke would be safe from him only so long as he remembered the last six years: their love, their laughter, their marriage. When Magister Nenealeus took his memories one by one he was going to hurt Hawke, because he didn't have it in himself to resist. You couldn't learn character… it was a nature. Lambert was a good man and he was not.
...Because Hawke was conceived in love and I in force?...
That thought was very tempting: well, with that procurator as my sire, how could I be otherwise? But Fenris knew it was nonsense: Keili is an amazing woman. There is no excuse in biology.
The only thing he could think to do was pray, as Sebastian had taught him (it seemed so long ago now) because no amount of willpower was going to put that character in him when it was lacking. He promised the Maker anything and everything, if only He would keep him from betraying Hawke.
A terrible sheer thought, huge as a cliff, towered before him; infinitely likely to be true. No mother will love you, though you give your life for her, unless you have magic. That knowledge was his earliest memory. So (might it not be?) the Maker would not help him because he did not have that beauty of soul that was Hawke's birthright?
A horrible memory crept into Fenris' mind: of the days he had tried to mend his lack of magic by swapping blow jobs for quack pills...the fake remedies offered by cooks and trusted House Slaves that promised an upsurge in mana. Perhaps he was merely at the same work again, begging the Maker for help when the Maker would not love him (whatever he gave and whatever he suffered) because he had been made to be dregs and refuse everywhere and everyway?
In my world you will also be a mage…the Dread Wolf whispered (Fen'Harel had been doing that for some time now). Shut up! Fenris roared furiously (silently, within his thudding heartbeat). In your world Hawke cannot live so you can go to hell!
Thunder roared down, filling the sky with rain. It didn't wake Lambert; he was flat-out exhausted. Fenris covered him tenderly with a blanket. made sure the tent was waterproof, then got up soundlessly to find Anders and Dorian. With their relationship still being fraught, it felt shady asking them for a favour this big, but he thought to himself that, no matter how stingy life got, there were always a few choices. This was one.
Dorian and Anders were not – thankfully – engaged in anything private. It seemed for the two mages the true act of love was to sit up and compare spellbooks. Anders raised an eyebrow but Dorian gave a smile of understanding. The subtle serpent: how had he known?
"Dorian," Fenris said, "You told Hawke your former tutor, Gereon Alexius, was studying time magic. Specifically, he wanted to go back in time to a point where he could save his wife."
"Indeed," Dorian said darkly, "A month before he died, he wrote me these words: "Livia has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That means nothing. For us believing mages, the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion." But would you like to know the really dark stuff? One of my other tutors at Minrathous – Magister Boltzman – studied energy and was the first to figure out why we experience time the way we do...always moving forwards rather than back. Well, since he learned about taint and lyrium, he lived in constant fear that one day – while up at the podium lecturing his students – he'd suddenly lose his mind and all his memories. Just before the start of my final year, he hanged himself. He didn't leave a note."
Fenris found no humour in the idea of this distinguished magister quietly crapping himself while lecturing students on magical physics.
"Well, it makes sense," Fenris said, "because we all know moving around every day requires energy. But how about moving through time – which we're all doing at 60 seconds a minute? Where's that energy coming from? Well, from my experience with phasing and passing through Eluvians – and walking bodily in the Fade with Hawke – I reckon the amount of energy something needs to move through time is equal to its mass multiplied by the speed of light squared. The Maker meant time to be hidden from mortal eyes – but in the Fade it's visible: your whole life from start to finish as a continuous expansion of 'now'."
Thunder rumbled, by at the speed Fenris' brain was rolling, nothing could shift him off course. Dorian, however, answered him quietly.
"I am going to say this with all due respect – because I massively admire the fact you're literally spitting Enchanter-level physics right now – and that you taught yourself." His palms slid up to his forehead until his eyes were sheltered behind them. "But everything you've said...I already know. It was Magister Gereon Alexius's life's work – anything to save Livia Arida – but he found he could only get the equation to work in the Fade. Once something has happened in reality, we cannot change it. Gereon Alexius could never open a Rift to save Livia and Felix, because once they got tainted by darkspawn it had already passed. You can't change something you've already lived and seen. If we could, nothing would be real; nothing could have any meaning. Not even Fen'Harel could have done that: why do you think he planned the explosion at the Conclave instead of just reclaiming the Eluvians – Marquise Briala and Keeper Merrill hadn't yet changed the password. He knew it would make no difference. In one sense, the universe remembers everything, and time does not exist. In another sense, reality is immutable."
A web of lightning dazzled across the thick violet sky, as if in some electromagnetic realm out there a war was being waged.
...So that is why lyrium can exist both in the Fade and reality. Lyrium is part of what makes spirits spirits – is the essence of forgetting. But how can taint be an improvement? I'd rather be a Lyrium Ghost than a darkspawn...
...The original virus was a creator of reality. The ability to remember the past, to experience time as a linear progression, is part of being mortal. If Andruil took my gift with the intention of killing Titans and enslaving Soporati that was the sin that created darkspawn. The Wardens developed the Joining in a desperate attempt to defeat Blights. The virus mutated – became symbiotically linked with lyrium to create Red Lyrium. Just as the Anchor is a perversion of the immortality that will belong to all my children after death. Any attempt to leave out that part of the story – to get to the Golden City without dying – is going to fail as the Magisters Sidereal failed. That's why, even if Rillian does return through its doors, she'll bring no message back. But you are here – you are mortal – with the power and the glory that entails...
Fenris was aware sometimes false holy men could trick the gullible: that it was possible to hear a mortal's voice and mistake it for a god's. But it didn't work the other way round. No one who heard a god's voice mistook it for a mortal's.
"I cannot help Hawke in reality but I can help him in the Fade. Not by changing myself – by making him strong" ...
...When Fenris opened his eyes he no longer saw Anders and Dorian. He was seeing the young man in front of him: the dandy and dilettante, the plaything of others' leisure. Only Lambert's eyes contradicted this: Fenris had seen that look before on the faces of men prepared to die before they would yield the gate or the pass. But Lambert was going to lose. Fenris saw him raise an imaginary staff and attempt to cast Arcane Bolt. It glimmered briefly, then fizzled out with a damp hiss.
Fenris superimposed his own image of Lambert as he had last seen him in the Fade – as Hawke had always been. He was winged defender, knight and angel, with weapon raised to defend those in his shadow. The staff became a sword in hand, bladed with ravening light, shielded with fire. As if the unexpected transformation had given him confidence, Hawke began to sing the Litany of Adralla - that worked on demons and their minions – and Fenris felt the music enmesh him.
Inchingly, Wryme neared. Its dreadful shadow came creeping closer and the psychic webbing that contained them both tautened and shifted. Wryme was a coruscation whose pattern became less vague. It was a huge-bodied, furfuraceous shape. The devouring jewel eyes, the huge, couched fangs, the spiky, horripilating abdomen, rose towards them and its unholy colour shone brighter. It began to spit magic.
Fenris imagined himself connected to every particle of mana. He squeezed down hard as if wrapping his hands around each one. It burned, but he pressed down harder. He had never been afraid of pain. Just by thinking it, by willing it, he used his Seeker powers to banish the magic, letting heat and red light surge out.
Meanwhile, Varric had taken up Bianca and began smoothly pumping slugs into the demon. Lambert was about to finish the Litany, to destroy it. But Fenris saw the demon's lightning bolt aim for the dwarf – he had already converted most of its mana to light, but the remaining magic would still cut a hole clean through Varric. Fenris didn't give up. Reflexes honed in many a battle released the final ounce of energy trapped inside, and a hot sphere of light disconnected Fenris from the Fade...
...when he came too, Anders and Dorian were looking at him uncertainly. Above them sat an empty black sky that looked like it was creating spheres of rain out of nothing.
Fenris did not know – could he ever know? – whether he had simply imagined this, giving himself credit for Hawke's victory six years ago just to make himself feel better. It could have been real – given it had happened in the timeless Fade and had not changed anyone's memories – but that need not make it more than imagination. He decided he didn't need to know, so would not worry.
If the Maker had protected Hawke, not by changing Fenris but by allowing him to make his husband strong – as close and tender love will – he could only pray the same might be true when they faced House Danarius.
Fenris said, "That vial the two of you created with the Archdemon blood you got from Loghain, Rillian's frozen blood and the blood of Eluvia – I'm going to need that to be able to defend my husband. It won't contain Eluvia's soul – if that were possible, Corypheus would have been able to inhabit more than one Warden at a time. The worst I'll have to worry about is memories, which – given I shut Fen'Harel up every time he tries, and you mages have learned to do the same with demons – is a price worth paying. So: hand it over. If it works, you'll be able to use it to vaccinate others against Red Lyrium."
"As a healer, I cannot approve the intentional infection of people," Anders protested.
"Would you rather test it on helpless animals? I am a man: a volunteer, not a conscript."
"If I let you do this, your husband will murder me," Dorian added.
"Then it's best we don't tell him."
The vial contained the original phage. The fact Eluvia had been to the Black City centuries after Andruil had been to the Void made no difference – they were the same place, and viral evolution only happened this side of the Veil. The original virus – the blood of the Dragon of Beauty – and the blood of an Elf who had been cured of taint and was a universal donor, all seemed a fitting addition to Fenris' Friend. The two human mages might disdain the freezing methods of an Elven Soporati, but Anders and Dorian hadn't worked with Rillian and Hawke had. Anders and Dorian called the mixture T1000. Fenris took it with a steady hand.
"Astia valla femundis!" he said, and swallowed the contents.
AN: Some of the science described here is correct and some of it is bunk! It is true that the neuronal gene Arc plays a crucial role in memory formation and became part of the mammalian genome about 400 million years ago due to a retroviral infection.
My portrayal of taint as a mycobacteriophage is accurate in that it really does look like that, however retroviruses are not bacteriophages (bacteriophages do not contain the reverse transcriptase enzyme).
In my hc, I see the original taint brought from the Void by Andruil as being sort of a lovechild of the two...a virus that can create memory formation (which spirits, and I assume Titans and lyrium, cannot do) and can also destroy lyrium, which in this fic is bacterial. I have based the battle between Evanuris and Titans on the Greek myth of the Titans being displaced by the gods of Olympus.
I think the arrogance of Andruil is what changed the lyric cycle of the original phage to a lysogenic one, in which the virus bonded with the bacterium to become Red Lyrium. If taint is a mycobacteriophage then Red Lyrium is tuberculoid leprosy.
I also think what was brought back by the Magisters Sidereal centuries later might have been the original phage (the Void and the Black City are probably the same place) but would have quickly morphed into darkspawn taint once on Thedas. I think the reason Solas hates Grey Wardens is because their Joining was a corrupted form of the virus that could save people like Fenris from lyrium.
It is also true that quantum physics can either use electrons (which affect the world around them due to being negatively charged) or photons, which aren't. That, to me, is the difference between the Fade – Fade spells affect Thedas - and the Eluvian network (the speed of light is faster than Fade Step but the Crossroads can't be used to power spells). Shirallas despises the Fade because it is a mere byproduct of Fen'Harel raising the Veil, whereas the Eluvian network would have pre-dated it and been the literal 'corridors of power'.
