As always, the first few moments in the Fade were disorienting ones. Too much was distorted — familiar things crooked and twisted in such a way that always left Amelle feeling faintly seasick until she settled herself, and found her feet. As it happened, she found her feet standing in the middle of what looked very much like Darktown, but for the sky above — and the color of the sky was as wrong as the fact that she could see anything above at all; being all but completely underground, Darktown tended not to offer anything resembling a view. Beyond that, everything stood at strange, jagged angles, from doors to crates to the walls themselves. It was Darktown remade through a different lens, and while one was depressing, this one was… disturbing.

"Okay," she said under her breath, though of course, unlike the real Darktown, not a soul was nearby to hear her. "Not an ideal starting place, but I'll take what I can get." She turned around once, taking everything in, in an attempt to get her bearings, muttering, "Maker, but I hate this place."

She cast about for a moment, deciding which way to go. The closer she got to Sebastian's lingering spirit, the better she'd be able to sense it, but for now, she was stuck with one option: blundering around until she began to sense it. Him. Amelle hoped there would be less blundering than sensing; she didn't want to spend a minute longer here than was absolutely necessary.

Find a familiar spot, she told herself, looking around. Somewhere to anchor yourself.

The clinic was nearby — or should have been — and, in theory at least, home was a mere ladder's climb from there. There was no telling how closely this Fade construct of Darktown followed the real thing, but finding that spot felt like the right place to begin, so Amelle took a few hesitant steps in the direction that, under normal circumstances, would have taken her to the clinic.

She'd barely gone five feet before she heard the guttural roar, and felt a hard, hot wind blow at her back as a rage demon gurgled to life. One, then two, then a third hideous fiend, all heat and wrath, lurched at her. This was, if nothing else, indicative Amelle was at least in the right neighborhood. If Sebastian's presence in the Fade was attracting demons, it surprised her not at all that rage demons were the ones finding themselves drawn to him.

Still: not pleasant.

She took a step back, breathing in and focusing her mana, and drew the staff she knew would be at her back. A wave of frost issued forth, freezing over and slowing the trio of demons, their enraged screams making her ears pound. Flinging her hand forward, her fingertips tingled with energy as she sent a blinding chain of lightning at the demons; it was enough to shatter one, but it only irritated the others. Working quickly, Amelle called forth another blast of frigid air and rushed forward, slamming her staff hard into another of the iced-over demons. It was slower work, but they were gradually weakening.

But the spell faded as Amelle was swinging the staff around, and one end of it became lodged in the demon's molten hide. With a particularly vicious curse, she threw her hand forward, sending out yet another blast of cold air, then closed her eyes and gathered her mana, unleashing a fireball and flinging up a barrier the second she let the flames loose — it was too late to try and get any sort of distance between herself and the demons, but she could at least avoid incinerating herself in the process of pushing them back.

The sudden, blazing heat made the ice encasing the demons crack dangerously, and the creatures let loose a pitiful wail as they sank again into the ground.

"Right then. Let's try to avoid any more of those," she muttered, turning and hurrying down the flight of stairs that she hoped would take her to the clinic — or at least the Fade's version of the clinic.

Hopefully there'd be no similar encounters there.

#

When Amelle found the clinic, she was relieved.

When she opened the door, she was baffled.

The space looked nothing at all like the one she knew from the waking world. This version was… pleasant. The broken-down, dilapidated furniture — the blood-magic exsanguination tables — were gone. Window-boxes running wild with elfroot and spindleweed, the greenery peppered with bright embrium blooms, hung in the clinic's narrow windows. Heavily-constructed tables — no, beds; real and proper beds — lined the walls, covered with clean linens. Even stranger, the dimensions and the proportions of the room and everything in it felt right. Nothing was crooked or broken-looking. Everything was whole. Bright. Clean.

In the center of the room, curled in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the clean windows, was a cat.

For all Amelle knew Fade demons and spirits took on a number of different forms — and surely, this cat was either a spirit or a demon — she still felt faintly absurd clearing her throat, stepping forward, and saying, "Hello."

The cat, an orange striped tabby, perhaps a hair too vibrantly colored to be considered normal, lifted its head and regarded her. It slowly blinked its jewel-green eyes once. Twice.

"Hello," it replied in a voice that was both male, and surprisingly soothing. The cat tilted his head at her. "You are Amelle Hawke."

"I am." She tilted her head back at the cat, mirroring his expression. "And you have me at a disadvantage."

The cat unwound itself and stretched languidly, his tail curling at the tip as he extended its claws and yawned. He padded to her feet and looked up at her.

"You may call me Compassion."

She looked around at the clinic once more. "A pleasure, Compassion. I love what you've done with the place."

"I have not done this, Amelle. You have."

She arched an eyebrow down at the cat. "I'm… fairly certain I haven't. I think I'd remember something like window-boxes."

"This construct is yours. The Fade shows little the way it is; you know that to be true. This," the cat said, with a swish of its tail, "is merely an image of potential fulfilled. Just because it doesn't look like this now does not mean it can never look like this."

"I see. I think." She looked around again. "So this is… my… mine?"

"Your anchor in the Fade. The one you seek is… anchored as well."

"I'm not sure I like the way you hesitated just then," murmured Amelle, a tiny niggle of worry pulling at her. Sebastian. This spirit knew he was the one she was looking for.

"Do not think I am ignorant of the reason you seek him. Though he is anchored, that hold is… tenuous." The cat paused. "He needs you."

"Mmm. I was afraid of that," she said on a sigh. After a moment, Amelle crouched down by the cat, looking wonderingly at him. "So you're… a Fade spirit of compassion," she said slowly, reaching out and giving the animal — spirit — whatever — a gentle scratch beneath the chin. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the touch in a remarkably cat-like manner.

"Surely you are aware spirits and demons of the Fade can assume myriad forms."

"Yes, but…" With too many good reasons to be suspicious, she hadn't the time to make mistakes.

Though the cat's head still pressed against her hand, he opened its eyes and gave her a long, searching look. "Ah. You have questions."

"That may be understating things somewhat. And I .. am in something of a hurry," she added, apologetically.

The cat rubbed his soft head against her knuckles. "If it will ease your mind, child, ask them. I will answer all to the best of my ability."

"Fair enough." Amelle looked around them. "Why here? I could understand the rage demons — under the circumstances, and given Sebastian's… frame of mind the last time he saw us all, I expected rage demons. But you — Compassion — are a surprise."

"As I said, this construct is yours, Amelle. I am here for you. It was compassion that brought you here. It is compassion that urges you to seek out Sebastian. You require a guide."

She digested this, still petting the cat's head, her fingertips tracing the silky triangle of one ear. "So you're here… for me."

After a moment, the cat dropped its head slightly and sighed. Amelle quirked an eyebrow at it.

"Quite a world-weary sigh for a cat," she remarked, dryly.

"You would not be the first human I have attempted to aid."

"Attempted. You… failed once before, then?"

Sorrow crept into the soothing voice, making Amelle's heart ache a little. "I fear I did."

"What happened to her?"

"Him."

The cat went out of focus slightly, and the light emanating from him expanded outward in tiny threads of color and light so painfully, blindingly bright Amelle had no choice but stand and step back, shielding her eyes. When she looked again on the spirit, it had taken on a markedly different form.

Amelle stepped back again, her eyes going wide as myriad emotions — anger, panic, betrayal — surged through her, hear heart clenching as her lungs grew tight, mana sparking beneath her skin. She drew her staff and clutched at it, not quite aiming the weapon, but not letting the spirit draw too close. "Anders?"

The form was unmistakable, though the colors composing his appearance seemed more vibrant and yet translucent at the same time. Unless she missed her guess, his expression looked strangely… sheepish.

"You are no spirit of compassion," spat Amelle, trembling all over. Careful, her better sense whispered to her. Careful, or the rage demons will sense this, and they'll find you. But her own admonitions fled — it was all still to clear, too painful in her memory: the moment, the exact second all of Kirkwall turned red with spellcasting and innocent blood, and she once again felt the nauseating twist of betrayal in her gut. Lightning crackled at her fingertips as the spell gathered strength; she'd called upon it without even noticing. But the spirit only looked at her.

"This mage… turned his back on me."

"Oh, that's putting it mildly," she snorted. She did not lower her staff, and lightning still hovered at her fingertips.

"It was not always so. Please, allow me to… attempt an explanation."

Amelle took another half-step back and looked hard at the spirit. After a moment she noticed while it certainly resembled Anders, there were differences. Subtle ones. The spirit was taller, she was nearly sure — or at least he seemed less stooped, and his hair was longer, pulled back into a neat ponytail. His robes were clean and untattered, and so blue, all of it giving this version a far different bearing than the Anders she'd known. Even his face seemed different — kinder, somehow, and lacking the haunted, haggard quality that always lurked in his features. His expression was not pinched in disdain, his lips not pursed with self-righteousness. And, perhaps most incongruously, an earring winked jauntily from his right ear.

"He told us he had a cat," Amelle said, finally lowering the staff and letting the lightning spell subside. She did not move any closer.

The spirit bowed his head. "For a time, I lived life beyond the Fade, in the mortal realm. In the body of a feline."

Amelle stared as she processed this and all it meant.

"Anders' cat was a Fade spirit?" she blurted, blinking hard. "You — you're Ser Pounce-a-Lot?"

At this, the spirit looked away, sadly. "It has been… some time since I have been called that. But yes. I suppose I am. Or was."

"But he said the Wardens made him give up his cat."

Compassion made a pained face. "The entire story is… somewhat more complicated."

"What a surprise." She paused and looked more closely at him. "All right. So answer me this — why are you here now?"

"In the Fade at all," he asked with a gesture, "or… here, in this portion of it?"

"Both, if you please."

"Animals succumb to the darkspawn taint. I was able to… protect my host's body, allowing it — and me — to survive longer than might otherwise have been the case. But the animal's body eventually perished. When that happened, I was returned to the Fade."

"So his cat… died? I don't understand. You said Anders turned his back on compassion. On you."

"And so he did. Upon entering into a pact with the spirit he had befriended."

"Justice?"

The spirit looked away sharply, as if the very mention of the name hurt. "At one time."

"But not afterward."

"Spirits and mortals are not meant to join as they did. Anders held anger in his heart, as do many, but the moment he allowed Justice to meld with him, the emotions he'd always held in check, controlled and dealt with like all humans, changed him irrevocably. They were both changed. I could not remain with the mage afterward. I could not change what he had become."

"So you just left him?" Amelle asked, growing suddenly angry herself — most surprisingly, on Anders' behalf. "You said he turned his back on you! It sounds more like you—"

"Compassion cannot exist where Vengeance lives, child," the spirit broke in. "There is no room for it. Vengeance consumes, until nothing remains. Do you not see? Neither of them could ever again be what they were, and I could not remain by his side. A demon's pull is strong; you know this. I could not risk corruption."

Amelle shivered. It didn't bear thinking about, imagining the demon that might be born of a spirit of Compassion. She couldn't blame the spirit for not wanting to remain, but something about the words sat ill with her. "But — but when we arrived in Kirkwall, we found him here, healing refugees. He healed their illness, treated their injuries, and accepted no payment. What is that if not compassion?"

"Guilt."

"Guilt?" she echoed, blinking at him. "For… what?"

The spirit gave a deep sigh. "For more than I can convey in any short time, child."

Amelle sank down to the ground, landing hard upon her knees. In her construct, apparently the floor was solid. Lucky her.

"If I am here, if I am drawn to a construct such as this," he went on, "it is because I… remember the mage as he once was." The spirit turned, slowly walking the length of the clinic. "After my host's body eventually perished, I sought him out again. Unencumbered by a mortal form, I went to him. I tried to speak to him."

It made sense; if demons could whisper to mages, so could more benign spirits. "So you found him." Her voice sounded uncharacteristically bleak to her own ears. "And, what, he… ignored you?"

"Worse: he couldn't hear me at all. Vengeance had settled so far into his heart, into his spirit, that he could no longer hear the voice of Compassion. There was little I could do. I went to him, I spoke to him — I pleaded with him. I thought he might hear me here, where he aided the sick without recompense, but…"

"And when he dreamed? What then? Surely you tried to approach him in the Fade?"

"I attempted it, yes. But his dreams were frequently troubled — it is the hallmark of what he is."

"A mage?"

"A Grey Warden," corrected Compassion. "In time, I saw my efforts were in vain. He would not be moved from his chosen path."

"But you still tried."

"He was my friend, once. It is an odd thing, you must understand, for a spirit of the Fade to have such things as… friends." The spirit spoke the word with difficulty, and though it was the spirit speaking, he spoke with Anders' voice, wearing Anders' face. Amelle felt a sharp, uncomfortable pang.

"So you're here because you… part of you…"

"Remains his friend, though he is well beyond hearing my voice now, or possibly ever again."

"And you want to help me."

"The one you seek is not so far gone as you fear, Amelle," Compassion said, offering her his hand.

"And what are you going to ask me in return?" she asked, eyeing the hand warily.

This made the spirit laugh — an unexpected sound — and he shook his head.

"You do know which questions to ask, young one. But worry not; Compassion asks for no payment. I aid you freely. You may accept or decline as you wish."

Amelle considered it. As strange as it was accepting help from any being wearing Anders' face, Amelle had to admit that the offer of assistance was appealing. She took the hand and felt herself lifted to her feet.

"All right. I'm not one to cut my nose off to spite my face."

"What an unusual idiom," the spirit replied, tilting its head at her in a manner that reminded Amelle powerfully of the cat he'd first appeared as. "I should hope you'd not do such a thing. It seems most unpleasant."

#

Kirkwall looked very… pretty.

As Amelle walked on, the spirit of Compassion by her side (still wearing Anders' face, and it was so strange), she couldn't help but notice how clean things looked. How nice — even if everything was still vaguely out of focus and tilted at odd angles beneath a garish purple sky.

"If the clinic is my anchor, then what is the rest of this?" she asked as they walked through the Hightown marketplace — it was deserted and eerily quiet, but Amelle supposed quiet was infinitely better than crawling with demons, and so she didn't complain. Still, she had to wonder.

"Your friend has been here quite some time," the spirit replied. "He has created most of this. In the beginning he ventured through these portions of the Fade, as if searching for something. Once he found the spot he'd been seeking, he remained there."

Amelle had a feeling she knew precisely where that spot was. She hurried up the stairs leading away from the market, her steps taking her through Hightown and around corners, until finally, finally, she strode through an archway and saw it.

For all that she tried to prepare herself for the sight — she knew what was coming, knew what she was going to see — when the Kirkwall Chantry filled her vision, tall and gleaming and whole, Amelle lost her breath. Everything inside her hurt to see the structure looking even more pristine than it had before. Every brick, every stone, was perfectly placed, and the brightly-colored banners swayed gently in a breeze she couldn't feel.

"There still aren't any people," she breathed, looking around them.

"It is better if there aren't," replied Compassion.

"Right," Amelle murmured, looking up at the chantry again. "Demons." But it seemed wrong to imagine the demonic in a place like this.

"Indeed. If we are lucky, he is holding them off himself."

"And if we're unlucky?"

He looked a long time at the chantry, and then at Amelle, his expression grim. "Then I am afraid you will have to confront whatever lies between you and your friend."

"I had a feeling you were going to say something like that," replied Amelle, taking a step forward and crossing the courtyard.

She still took in every detail — and every change — Sebastian had made, intentionally or not, to the place. For as long as she'd lived in Kirkwall, there'd been a chipped stone in the chantry courtyard she'd nearly always stumbled over, but here, the stones were perfectly uniform, identically smooth. As they neared the stairs, Amelle saw there was no chanter's board. She nearly asked the spirit why such a detail had been omitted when Amelle remembered:

They'd met Sebastian through the chanter's board.

She stopped suddenly, staring at the spot. No chanter's board meant no trouble, no wrongs to be righted, no…

No pain. No loss. No grief.

"Oh, Sebastian," Amelle breathed, feeling her heart contract and ache. And it was then that she began to understand why this version of Kirkwall looked the way it did: Sebastian was fixing it.

They climbed the stairs, and Amelle wondered briefly if Sebastian had also made the stairway longer, or if that was another distortion of the Fade. The white chantry steps felt as if they went on forever. At the top, she turned and looked out over the rest of this city, Kirkwall's twin. Its horizon was jagged, set against the Fade's purple sky, and in the distance, far beyond Sebastian's Kirkwall, Amelle could see floating islands and winding paths floating in midair. Only when she pulled her gaze away from the sky and looked at the white stones did she find she could… forget this was not the way things were.

It was a terrifying realization, and she gave herself a shake before turning and pushing at the large, ornate door.

"Let's go."

Inside, everything was precisely as Amelle remembered it, only better, somehow. It felt warmer here, quieter, safer, and Amelle realized none of the strange Fade distortions existed in this area he'd created. This chantry was precisely as it existed in Sebastian's memory, and he had recreated it in loving detail. And with this realization, it was hard not to feel like she was intruding upon some very private recollection.

"Your friend is here," Compassion said quietly. "Can you sense his spirit?"

Amelle nodded. She felt an odd little pull inside, like a child tugging at a string — Sebastian was somewhere nearby. "Wherever he is, he's probably praying," she whispered; it was a hard habit to break, not whispering in a chantry, even in a Fade-reproduction of one.

"He is there," murmured Compassion, nodding at the raised dais, high above them both.

As she had suspected, Sebastian knelt, hands clasped and head bowed. Amelle turned and rushed for the set of stairs on the left leading upward, but the moment her hand rested upon the cool stone, a voice made her freeze, nearly to the point of staggering.

"Welcome, child. Maker's blessings upon you."

Amelle whirled and stared.

"Grand Cleric Elthina?"

The old woman smiled and bowed her head, and only then did Amelle realize the spirit still wearing Anders' face had moved closer to her side.

"This is no mortal spirit, Amelle. This is not your Grand Cleric."

"What? Are you mad? Just look at—"

"Do not let yourself be fooled by a pleasant facade," warned Compassion. "This—"

The thing wearing the Grand Cleric's kind, weathered face began to laugh softly. It was a low, chilling sound, and Amelle stepped back, going a few steps farther upward. Elthina's eyes had been the most soothing shade of dove grey; this… thing's eyes were the color of cold steel.

"Oh, come now," the demon purred in a voice like a sword being drawn from its sheath. "Surely a fellow Fade spirit can appreciate one of its own kind having a bit of fun."

"You are no kind of mine, demon," Compassion ground out.

At this, the demon only made a careless, dismissive gesture, so out of place on the old woman. "Two sides of the same coin. We are not so different, are we?"

"We are different enough."

"Typical of your kind," it sighed in mock-wistfulness, "focusing on only our differences. We are quite the same at the core."

"Stop," Amelle said, looking between the two beings. "Just… stop it." She looked at the… thing that still bore such a resemblance to the dead Grand Cleric. "Are you holding him here, then?" She jerked her chin up. "Toying with him?"

The demon laughed. "I do not need to keep him here, girl. He stays of his own volition." Then it spread its arms and smiled and Amelle suppressed a shiver as it said in a mockery of kindness, "I only offer guidance and advice to those who seek to follow the Maker's path." The smile melted into a smirk, and then it winked.

"Then why isn't he leaving? Why isn't his body healing?"

"Perhaps he does not wish to. What does it matter to you?"

Darkness like the blackest ink began gathering, surrounding the thing that wasn't Elthina. It darkened and swirled around the old woman's figure, like a viscous mist. The darkness stretched out and grew upward with a wet, slapping sound. Then, all at once, the thick cloud fell, landing in a dark, glistening puddle around the demon.

And, oh, it most certainly was a demon now.

The thing that stood before them was nearly twice as tall as Amelle — a warrior shade, clad in armor, its helm hiding its face, save for two eyes burning like white-hot coals. Longswords were crossed at its back, while a shorter sword and a mace hung at its waist. It carried no shield. The demon was sharp all over, a dagger made manifest, the deadly edges of its armor glinting maliciously in the chantry's candlelight.

"What are you?" breathed Amelle, staring upward. Instinct cried out that she draw her staff. Common sense told her this fiend could end her before she laid a finger on it.

"Vengeance," supplied Compassion.

Amelle felt suddenly sick.

"He deserves to die, don't you think?" Vengeance asked, and in a voice of fire and pain, its breath a wave of loosed arrows.

"No," Amelle breathed. "No, he doesn't."

Vengeance laughed, a wet, sucking sound, like daggers stabbed into unguarded backs. "Don't lie to me, little mage. I know your mind; I know your heart."

Clenching her fists by her side, Amelle stood up a little straighter. Inside she trembled. Inside, she was afraid. "Do not presume to know anything about me, demon."

"No? Then you would not have taken the life of the human who owns this face?" it asked, gesturing carelessly at Compassion. "Your sister spared him, but you… you would not have been so merciful, would you?"

"Living in the world he made is punishment enough," she retorted sharply. "Release Sebastian."

"Sebastian," spat the demon. "Why do you pretend to care about his life? He would have let you all die, you know. He walked away. You remember his last words, do you not, little mage? You, especially. He would enjoy seeing you die. He would relish it. You are all he hates, and all he wishes to make suffer. What trouble is it for you to leave him here?"

Amelle inclined her head and regarded the demon levelly. "I am not leaving him."

"Come now. No one need ever know you were here. Your sister may mourn for a time, but he will never be able to hurt her again. Let him die the way he would have let you all die at Meredith's hands."

"No!" Compassion shouted, making Amelle jump. "You will not do this! You cannot — you will not — feed this… this vicious cycle! You cannot possibly be suggesting this mage let a man die to get vengeance upon him for actions he's not even taken!"

"Actions he has not taken yet, you mean. He has threatened to take vengeance upon her, upon her sister. I am merely encouraging her to protect that which is dear to her. "

"Protect?" echoed Amelle. "You dare twist vengeance into… into… compassion?" Anger flooded through her at the mere insinuation that she deceive her sister — deceive herself — so. And with this rush of anger, fear ebbed away. "Whatever transpires between my sister and this man is between them. I am not his executioner, demon. I am his healer, and I am his friend. I did not travel all this way only to abandon him!"

"You think this human is worth saving? You believe he will not strike you down the very moment he can?" It laughed, low and derisive. "You think he is your friend?"

"I think, demon, I will let him prove those things to me himself."

The demon peered down at her with those eyes, burning like white fire. "You truly believe this."

"I think you know I do."

"Very well." There was a pause, and then the demon smiled. "Then allow me to propose… a wager."

Amelle shook her head, folding her arms over her chest. "I do not make deals with demons."

"It is naught but a friendly wager, little mage. You speak to your… friend. If you can convince him to leave, he is yours. If you cannot, you leave him to me, and never return."

Amelle's heart pounded in her breast and she closed her eyes, thinking hard. It was risky — incredibly risky — to make such a bet. This was precisely the sort of thing she promised Fenris she wouldn't do. She could nearly see the elf's disapproving glare, and winced.

No. I must at least try. I… can convince him to leave. Of course I can.

In her mind's eye, she saw Kiara's face when she looked down on Sebastian upon the kitchen floor, bloody and still. She imagined what expression her sister might wear if Amelle were forced to tell her she'd not been able to save Sebastian after all.

Something inside of her steeled, and Amelle looked up at Vengeance.

"Very well. I accept your wager."

Vengeance disappeared in another wet cloud that seemed to slither into the stones beneath their feet. Amelle stared at the black, sludge-like residue, biting down on her bottom lip. After a moment, she looked back at Compassion.

"This might be more difficult with you looking like… that."

Compassion considered a moment. "Perhaps a smaller form would be less… problematic?"

"If you wouldn't mind," replied Amelle, somewhat apologetically. "Kittens tend to be less threatening as a general rule."

In the space of a heartbeat, Compassion assumed the smaller, feline shape. Amelle smiled down at the cat as it turned itself in a little circle, flicking its tail.

"Much bett—"

The cat then leapt up and perched itself on her shoulder.

"Um."

"…Forgive me," the cat replied. "Force of habit."

Together they climbed the stairs leading up to the dais where Sebastian still knelt, still prayed. After a moment's hesitation, she moved in front of him and knelt as well.