Author's Note: Do not fear! This story will continue, and it will end. It's just a matter of time. And who knows what's after that! (Bah. I know. More Warden/Alistair/Zevran fanfic. Gah) As always, thanks to Eva Galana and Bdub for beta-ing the chapter, thanks to you, loyal readers, and please Read and Review!

Chapter 18

Whatever this was, it was not right. Sadbh knew little of the ways of this Fade, nor of the ways of the round-ear elves or of the shem'len outside the forests, but she would not stand idle as the woman in the center of the room screamed in pain. The elven ghost, Adaia, had cautioned them against interfering with the woman's nightmare; breaking the illusion might mean breaking Sylrien's mind. The two foreigners accepted her word as fact, but Sadbh was not so convinced. If her time in the Beyond taught her anything, it was that nothing was as it seems. While Alistair and Zevran turned away from the sight on the floor, she and Tamlen stood at the railing, watching and waiting.

"I will follow you, Lethallin. Just give the word." Tamlen whispered to her, his hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword.

As the dreamy scene turned grisly, as Sylrien howled...Sadbh acted. Leaping from the railing, she landed in the middle of the fleshy floor; her arrows fired at the tentacles that to race toward the intruder. She felt a thud reverberate through the floor: Tamlen was at her side, and together they raised their voices in a fierce cry. The figures of shadow and light that stood on the balconies at either side of them flocked to see what was happening, to see who had interrupted the macabre entertainment. Gore splattered across Tamlen's face as he sliced a tentacle in half, another was pinned to the wooden railing by Sadbh's arrow. Every time one was cut down, two more sprang from the broken, bleeding stump. Then suddenly, another cry echoed through the hall, joined by the sound of splintering wood. It seemed that the knight had finally summoned his courage and was going to fight for the woman he seemed to care for.

His armored form crashed through the railing as he charged forward and down, landing with a heavy thud. The elf followed, nimbly jumping down on to the man's shoulders before hopping to the ground beside him. Zevran raced to the cowering figure in the center of the carnage as the other three squared off against the growing opposition. From the broken railing, the ghostly figures surged forth, all darkness and light converging against the Fade-Walkers. The three intruders stood in a triangle formation with Sylrien at their center. These ghosts were easier to manage than the Darkspawn tentacles; they cut through them with ease, their forms dissipating at the touch of cold steel and iron.

In between the unrelenting assault, Sadbh could see the blond elf trying to wake the sobbing woman. If this was her nightmare, then maybe she could end it. Sylrien was still naked and spattered with blood, and she was sobbing and muttering about something. Zevran was doing everything he could to comfort her, to ease her pain...but nothing was getting through. The Dalish warrior gritted her teeth and turned away. If they couldn't get her to stop it, then they would have to continue fighting. Sadbh was Dalish, and she would not submit to the mad dreams of a flat-ear.

Guilt coursed through him as thickly as the blood in his veins. He had abandoned her to this nightmare while a complete stranger took the steps to save her. Now all he could do was clutch her to him and beg, beg for her to wake up...again. Were these the nightmares that plagued her sleep in Antiva? How could his dream self even think of doing...that to her? If she woke up, he would never stand in the way of her and her knight if it meant sparing her from such dreams as these. Not if, when. She would wake up and he would step back into the shadows and allow her to be happy. She just had to wake up. 'Please,' he thought, shaking her shoulders gently, muttering the words into her ear, 'Please wake up, Syl. Please...'

The fight raged on, but the odds were against them. Bone and muscle eventually tired when constantly assaulted, and there was no lull to be had in this battle. Still Sylrien did not wake, her eyes shut tight and her mutterings and sobbing increasing with the fervor of the battle. The trio fighting around them tightened the triangle they made, backing up against the endless wave of enemies. Zevran couldn't stay here; he had to help the others. His blades were better served against the monsters that threatened her, rather than in the sheathes at his side. He pressed his lips against hers in a quick kiss, before gently letting her go, immediately flying into the thick of the battle. Zevran raised his twin blades, sprinting towards a mass of tentacles that threatened a fallen Alistair, bringing his swords down in a vicious arc-

Only to have them disappear. Suddenly they were no longer in the underground tunnel in the Dead Trenches, but the Royal Palace. No longer was there obscene growths of flesh that pulsed underfoot, but hard cobblestone. The battle was over, and they were the victors...but how? In addition to the ended fight, there were no longer any sobbing noises by the woman behind him. He couldn't dare hope that it might mean...Zevran turned around, only to meet those large gray eyes looking up at him. Her hair was still mussed, she was still naked and covered in blood. She looked down briefly and blushed, covering her chest with her arms as she knelt on the floor. Despite her vulnerable position, Sylrien managed a weak smile at him. Maker, she could be so cruel.

Both Zevran and Alistair moved to help her up, but she stood up on her own. Usually he would have been motivated to make some lascivious remark about her lack of apparel but being in the Fade in order to track down the dreams of one of the most powerful sorceresses to ever walked Thedas soured the mood. Instead, Zevran was content to just watch her pace the width of the hall. Sylrien was taking in every detail of the room, already working on forming a plan despite her recent ordeal. She was not completely recovered, for he could spy subtle signs indicating her distress: She kept her hands held tightly behind her back in an attempt to control their trembling, and she avoided eye contact with anyone. There might be tears later on, but only when there was time for them and when she thought there was no-one else looking, but Zevran would know.

Alistair, equal parts chivalrous knight and prudish Fereldan, took off his cloak and offered it to Sylrien. It had taken her a few moments to recognize the gesture, and she gave him an absent smile as she wrapped the fabric around her waist. She had always been a quiet sort, but this complete lack of speech worried him. Whenever she got this quiet...Alistair watched her pace up and down the width of the hallway, pausing every few steps to look over her shoulder at the strange elven statue. She muttered something, too softly for him to hear, before pointing at the black mass of stone.

"There. That's how we leave this place. That's how we find her."

As if on cue, the statue began to move. Chunks of stone fell away as the limbs slowly flexed and creaked. Everyone but Sylrien took a step back, some of them already unsheathing their weapons. Sylrien did not back down. Instead, she darted past Alistair, taking his sword from him before he could react and started to sprint towards the statue. It was still in the process of shedding the rocky outer-layer, revealing taunt, pulsing ebon flesh underneath . He heard her growl, saw her drag his father's sword behind her. Sylrien began to dodge the falling stone, continuing to pick up speed as the statue seemed to grow and loom over the party, stretching ever taller overhead. She did not seem phased or concerned, only giving the slightest of grunts before jumping on a fallen piece of stone and jumping forward, forward and into the air...

Sinking the blade into the now fleshy chest of the statue. An unearthly howl echoed throughout the chamber and golden sand began to pour from the statue's mouth as Sylrien used her weight to slice down the sword from chest to navel. Alistair froze, part of him panicking at the possibility of another wall of sand coming at them...but it never happened. Instead, thick black ichor began to leak from the wound when the sand tapered off. The living statue gurgled, gasped as more of the sand and ichor dripped from its mouth. The statue heaved and groaned, before giving a final howl as a writhing mass of flesh dropped out of the open wound.

Sylrien did not pause; there was no flicker of hesitations in her following actions. With a tug the sword was free of the statue, which quickly turned into a cloud of black dust that enveloped her pale form for a few moments. Though he could not see her, he heard her growl, shout something as she plunged the sword into the middle of the writhing mass. There was another scream as the entire room began to shake, and for a moment, all was dark.

All that remained was a giant wolf, laboring for breath. The thing looked up at her with evil green eyes, and though its mouth moved, the voice seemed to come from everywhere,

"How...? How did you know...?"

She sneered at the beast. "In this place, Lord of Tricksters...all that is lost might yet be found, and here I remember the fleeting whispers of your betrayed kin. In breaking me, you have freed my mind and I bring Elgar'nan's wrath to his false brother!"

The dread wolf tried to snap at her, but his injuries rendered his attempts moot. All that happened was more expelling of the foul black ichor from his wound, and his bitter gasping for air came across more like strangled, hoarse laughter. Sylrien heard the others approaching, but she paid them no heed. This was the way; the gods guided her hand now. The wolf struggled and sputtered, glaring at her with intense hatred.

"You cannot kill me, Elf. I have existed long before the People ever walked the world, and I shall exist long after the final memories of you and this world fade..."

Sylrien smirked and laughed in the face of the trickster god. "Perhaps is true, Fen'Harel...but this will still hurt very much. And I will enjoy this."

The emerald eyes of the wolfthing widened at the dawning realization of what she was going to do. The sound of the blade sinking into the flesh was music to her ears, and as hide was separated from muscle a bone, the resulting cries of the dread wolf echoed in the dreams of thousands spread out across Thedas.