Fenris: Diplomacy *critical failure* : (1 + 0 = 1 vs. DC: 25)
Three years, and still Fenris retired to the wine cellar as soon as summer hit Kirkwall. It was not the heat that bothered him; Minrathous was far hotter. It was the humidity. Kirkwall broiled for months on end, whereas no summer day in Minrathous was without at least three rainstorms. He spent far too much time on edge, waiting for the oppressive atmosphere to break.
The muggy air was almost intolerable in his usual perch at the top of the house, and Fenris had given up attempts to tolerate it in his first year. The wine cellar was hewn from bedrock and thus remained dry and cool all year round. He hated not having a window as an escape route, but it was a small price to pay not to feel like a steamed fish. He slept down in the cellar, he trained there and, on occasion, put it to its intended purpose and stored wine there. Never for too long, though.
He brought up his blade, saluting his invisible opponent; after a moment, Fenris blurred into action, the routine exercises so effortlessly familiar that he pushed the tempo to the point he could barely keep up with his imaginary adversary, and still had space to think.
And, of course, the same subject came unbidden to his mind, as he lashed out and whirled away from the inevitable counterattack.
Hawke.
Hawke, who was a mage. He hadn't known when he'd asked for her help; not until he'd misjudged the Arcane Horror in Danarius's mansion, and the demon nearly killed him, had he felt the distinctive, repulsive slither of magic through his flesh and bones, and known the viper in their midst.
She'd told him, afterwards, that she sought nothing more than survival for herself and her family. That she had no use for power, unless she could use it to help; that she'd vowed never to use her magic to harm. He'd sneered at her and given it a week at the most before she showed her true colours. "I will be watching you," he'd said, and she'd smiled at him and answered that she'd appreciate it.
A week had passed, and Hawke had kept her word, at least where he could see, and the week had become two, and then a month, and he'd lost track of how many times she'd healed him, or that her magic had shielded him. More, there had been times – cornered by spiders, a slaver with a knife to a boy's throat, a blood mage forcing Hawke to hold a knife against her own throat, a flood of darkspawn – when he had thought surely, now, she will give in, but she hadn't.
And gradually Fenris had come to believe that even if she kept dubious company, in the form of a blood mage and an abomination, Hawke was not like them. She wasn't like anyone. She had meant that vow; it was something he could... trust – and that made no sense.
He'd stopped waiting for the mage to reveal the magister, but had not stopped watching Hawke – and that made no sense, either. Why should he care that –
"Oi, Fenris!"
Aveline's voice interrupted his train of thought, and would have gotten him killed if he'd been fighting anything more than a shadow. Fenris lowered his blade, wiped his face and called, "Down here."
It was unusual for the Guard Captain to visit him; also unusual was the guest she brought with her, the woman Fenris had carried down from Sundermount. He nodded a polite greeting to them both. "You are not much given to paying social calls, Aveline." As for the other woman, the one the bald mage had told such a wild story about... well, he wasn't sure what to make of her. She leant herself against a wall, her strange weapon beside her.
"I do have a job to do," Aveline conceded. "As it happens, I'm not paying a social call right now, either."
"I suspected as much. Did Hawke send you?"
"In a sense," Aveline said. "The Arishok asked for you, but the viscount seems to have come down with a bad case of the politicals and wants Hawke to go talk to him. He can't be seen entrusting something as delicate as the Qunari situation to an elf."
Fenris spat out an Arcanum expression, indicative of a potential means for the viscount to deal with the 'Qunari situation' that probably neither the viscount nor the Qunari would appreciate.
Aveline shrugged. "Well, naturally Hawke's uncomfortable with it, and she's hoping you wouldn't mind going together to talk to the Arishok. I suspect she may also intend giving the viscount a piece of her mind." The guardswoman sighed. "In any case, Hawke apologises for not coming herself, but she's busy trying to teach Safiya the entire history of the world. She was attempting to explain Andraste when I left. She asked me to bring Tarva over; apparently there's a few things she's to ask you about."
"Me?" Fenris glanced over at the skeletal woman, who was watching them with an impassive expression on her face.
"You," Aveline nodded.
"If you don't mind," the dark-haired woman added softly.
"I suppose I can do that," Fenris said.
"Glad to hear it. I can't stay," Aveline added. "I hope you won't mind walking Tarva back, Fenris."
"I'm not that fragile," she said, and Fenris snorted. Given that she was barely as tall as the blood mage and considerably thinner, 'fragile' was exactly what she appeared to be. She just looked at him, her eyebrows slightly raised.
"Hawke's orders," Aveline told her, as though that settled it. "Drop by the barracks if you want a hand with the Qunari, and otherwise, I'll see you for Wicked Grace tomorrow night." With that, she dismissed herself, leaving Fenris alone with his unexpected guest.
"That's a large sword you wield," she said. "I would be interested to see you in action at some time."
Fenris knitted his eyebrows. He wasn't sure how to take that. From the witch or from Aveline, it would have been an entirely innocent comment; from the pirate, a pure innuendo. Hawke might have intended it either way, but she couldn't keep a straight face – he would have known her meaning instantly. This woman was unreadable. He offered up, "I was practicing when you arrived."
"I apologise for interrupting," she said, running her hand over the long, curved blade of her weapon, as if to test its sharpness. "If you wish to continue, I have no objection to carrying on a conversation at the same time."
Fenris took her at her word, hefting the familiar weight of the greatsword and taking up the familiar patterns of a basic training sequence. He watched the stranger carefully through the swinging of the sword, just in case she showed any inclination to pick up her scythe; not that she looked like a threat in her current state.
"Hawke said you carried me down from a mountain," the woman said. He could feel her eyes, unwavering, on him.
"Ah... yes." Parry, side-step, spin and thrust...
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I... I am not good with words, but... thank you."
"It was of no moment," he said, and lunged out.
"You're over-extending," the woman told him, sounding a lot more certain of her ground. "It leaves you too open. Don't lock your elbow, and you'll recover better."
Fenris grunted at the unexpected criticism, but tried the move again, paying careful attention – and yes, it did flow better.
"You're good," she told him. "I would enjoy sparring with you." At his incredulous look – he was still a little surprised that she had made it from Hawke's estate at all – she added, "Not immediately. Perhaps in a tenday."
Ten days? That sounded wildly optimistic to him. "Perhaps," he allowed, and executed a perfect Whirlwind before speaking again. "I cannot imagine Hawke sent you here merely to express gratitude and criticise my sword technique."
"No, she didn't," she said slowly. "Hawke said you could tell me about lyrium. Specifically, its effects when trapped under the skin."
Fenris's parry was not as swift as it should have been. "Do you jest?"
"Not at all," she answered. "Hawke mentioned that lyrium is known for its unpleasant side-effects. She said you might know whether I should expect them."
Fenris frowned, coming to a halt facing the woman. "Because you have lyrium embedded in your flesh." It was not quite a question.
"So Hawke tells me," and his guest held out her right hand. In the middle of the palm, marring the distinctive lines that spoke as eloquently of her weapon expertise as her advice, there was a raised, roughly circular burn scar. "She prodded it with magic, and it lit up like a Ghost Light."
Leaving aside the question of just what a Ghost Light might be... "Blue," Fenris said, and she nodded. "And it was painful." She nodded again. "Like this?" he asked, and his brands surged to life.
Her impassive expression was unchanged; he might as well have been displaying his talents to a stone wall. "Similar. I cannot imagine," she added, and although her face was still, there was the faintest of wavers in her voice, "how much that must hurt."
"It is... unpleasant," Fenris agreed, "but I am inured." He phased his arm through one of the wooden wine racks, and watched her eyes widen slightly.
"And that is the effect of lyrium trapped under the skin?"
Fenris pulled his arm free and let his tattoos fade into quiescence. "In my case. In yours?" he shrugged. "You may as well try."
"How?"
"Concentrate," Fenris offered, and with a touch of black humour, added, "or get angry."
She said something to herself as she closed her eyes; Fenris thought it might have been "What's the difference?". A slow exhalation, and she opened them again – and he took a step back. Her face was no more expressive, but there was an intense focus about her features, and something in the eyes...
Fenris knew murderous fury when he provoked it. But this... this was cold, hard and utterly controlled. It reminded him – he felt the familiar sting of lyrium as his tattoos kindled, recognising the threat before his conscious mind had recognised that Danarius's anger had been exactly the same.
"Is something wrong?"
The frail woman was not Danarius. She was not a threat.
The light died, and there had been no answering blue gleam from her hand. "Either that was not the correct way to trigger it for you, or you cannot harness the lyrium in that manner. How did you come by it?"
She looked away. Fenris didn't miss the way her hands cradled the smooth handle of her weapon, as if for comfort. "It's a long story from one of those irrelevant travels Safiya mentioned. May I summarise?" Fenris nodded, and she sat down, leaning her head against the wall to look up at him. "Do you remember what Safiya said about hags?"
"A race of somniari women who eat their mates alive."
"Somniari?"
"Mages who can enter the dreams of others and affect them as they wish," Fenris explained.
"Ah. Yes." She was silent for a moment. "Some of the hags use stones, known as Hag's Eyes, to help them better focus when dreamwalking. An Eye that has been used for a long time by a powerful hag gradually becomes imbued with some of that power. They do not surrender them usually, but there were... unusual circumstances, and I was given one. If I went to sleep with it on my forehead, I could dreamwalk."
Had he heard that right? "You – You are a somniari? You are a mage?" he spat the accusations out venomously.
Her eyebrows raised just slightly at his tone, but she spoke dispassionately. "I could dreamwalk, with help and great effort, but the Eye melted into my hand when we crossed from the Fugue Plane. I'd never heard of lyrium before Hawke mentioned it. And I have never had any command of any sort of magic."
"You claim to be a somniari in one breath and deny being a mage in the next?"
"The two things aren't related."
He narrowed his eyes, unwilling to take her statement at face value. Anyone who could maintain so impassive a mask to hide her feelings had to be an accomplished liar. "How can you be so ignorant?"
"Because I don't come from here, Fenris," the words were soft, but the force behind them was not. "I am very far from home, I know practically nothing about this world, he is missing and I have no idea where or even how to start looking!"
The passionate response startled him into stepping back again. "I did not intend offence."
She shook her head. "There is so much I don't know. Please... don't mock me. Just tell me. What's the connection between dreams and magic?"
"You should speak to Hawke."
"She's repeating the entire history of the world for Safiya. I don't need that much background information. Just a very basic overview."
Fenris shifted from foot to foot, weighing his words, and lifted his sword again, moving into a more advanced pattern of steps. "You would be better off asking Hawke. Mages draw their power from the Fade and remain awake when they visit it. The rest of us are at the mercy of the Fade when we dream." He pivoted back towards his guest.
She was yanking at a handful of her hair. "The Fade is the yellowy place Safiya and I came through, and the source of your mages' power?"
"Yes," Fenris said, slicing the air into several chunks. "It is said that whenever our souls are disconnected from our body, whether we are unconscious, dreaming, or dead, they are in the Fade."
"Dead. Hence the Fugue Plane," she muttered, although that seemed to be to herself, and it made no sense to Fenris in any case. Then she froze. "Fenris... everyone dreams in the Fade?"
"Not dwarves," he said, "nor the Tranquil. I am not certain about the kossith, although their saarebas appear to face the same risks as other mages. But elves and humans, yes."
"Are you saying that I abandoned him in the collective dreamscape of an entire world, alone?"
It was a strange way of referring to the Fade, but not inaccurate. The heavy emphasis on 'him' probably indicated the man they had mentioned... Fenris frowned, lowering his sword and crossing his hands over the pommel. The woman was ice-white, her eyes wide and – yes – panicked. "Yes."
"Oh, gods," she said, and buried her face in her hands.
"There is more," Fenris said; although Hawke would explain it better... "Your bald friend mentioned... he is also a somniari?" There was the faintest of nods. "There are demons in the Fade. They are drawn to mages, attempting to possess them and turn them into abominations. A somniari would be a great prize for them." She looked up, face as white and drawn as a skull, and Fenris told her, "You should hope that he is dead."
She jerked to her feet as though a mage had shot lightning through her veins. Her hands clenched convulsively about her blade; it flared with green-gold light that didn't hide the fact it had sliced across her palms.
"You are bleeding," Fenris said.
"It doesn't matter," she answered, her voice toneless, and her fingers locking tighter around the scythe-blade. "I need to ask Hawke about this, I need to talk to Safiya, I need to –" She shook her head, took a deep breath, although she looked no more settled for it. Her dark eyes fixed on him. "Fenris. Thank you."
The only other person who had ever thanked him for anything was Hawke, and Fenris was not used to it. It was rather more disconcerting in this case, where he had no idea why she should thank him. He said as much. "What for?"
"For your honesty," she said, and turned away, the scythe propped on one shoulder, one bleeding hand staining the wooden handle, the other clenched into a fist that dripped scarlet.
He chased her up the steps. "Aveline wished me to escort you back."
"As you wish." She said nothing more as he accompanied her to Hawke's estate.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Safiya glanced back over her notes. Her gaze snagged on the part about the Fade. There was something there that was ringing faint bells in her subconscious, although she couldn't put her finger on it yet. "You're a good teacher, Hawke. Let me know if you ever want a post; the Academy's a little short of instructors."
Hawke grinned. "Is any of that going to be relevant to students from your world?"
"Well..." Safiya considered her notes again. "Not as such. But we encourage multiple lines of thought and approaches. You never know what will turn out to be useful. And the Mulan humans aren't native to Toril either – my particular race," she added.
"As if your world didn't have enough races on it," Hawke said, glancing over her notes, which were considerably shorter than Safiya's, since they'd mostly been talking about Thedas.
The front door banged; an instant later, Tarva stood in the library entry, flanked by the elf. Safiya had barely looked up, and Hawke was already prying Tarva's bloody hands from her scythe and scolding both her and Fenris impartially for not taking proper care of her patient.
The Red Wizard pushed her notes aside and rose to join the three of them in the doorway. Safiya couldn't read Tarva's moods, not the way Gann could, but she thought she recognised this one, and it meant very bad things. Frequently violence.
Fenris muttered that he wasn't at fault as Hawke summoned her magic and closed the long, clean cuts. Tarva's face set like stone as the harsh lyrium light glared from her hand. "Tell me," she said urgently. "The Fade. Mages. Demons. Abominations."
Everything Hawke had spent the last couple of hours telling Safiya, in fact. She didn't know why any of it (except the Fade, where they had... mislaid Gann) should matter so much to Tarva; it was not like either of them were likely to attract either demons or templars.
"Come sit down, and I'll tell you all about it," Hawke said, just as patiently as if she hadn't gone over it all with Safiya already. "Fenris, would you mind sticking around for a bit? I'd like to go over this Qunari situation with you." The elf nodded, and stood staring at the empty fireplace.
Tarva wasted no time. "The Fade is the collective dreamscape of Thedas," she said, and that particular phrasing made Safiya grin.
"And Gann's a dreamwalker," the Red Wizard said. "An entire world to explore... Well, wherever he's ended up, I bet he's having fun with that." Tarva turned to look at her, and she felt ice run down her spine – "Tarva, what is it? What's the matter?"
"A what?" Hawke interjected.
"Somniari," Fenris said, studying the ugly statue that stood above the fireplace as though trying to spot its weaknesses.
Hawke looked intrigued. "Father said that was a myth. No mage is strong enough to bend the Fade to their will."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Tarva said.
"Gann?" Safiya didn't know enough of the Fade – or of dreamwalking - to be certain, but despite his constant boasting, when it came down to cases, he had always sounded like an expert. And the shaman had pulled off several unlikely feats. "He invaded the hags' dream in Coveya Kurg'annis; have a little faith, Tarva."
"Safiya, we managed the Coven because I was there."
"...Oh," Safiya said, finally starting to see the ugly shape of the matter. "I'd thought Gann was just finding an excuse to spend more time alone with you. Your presence was actually necessary?"
"Vital," Tarva said. "There are risks to walking in a dream too powerful for you – or don't you remember the state Anya was in? The Coven... I am just enough of a dreamwalker to serve as an anchor. Something solid, a link back to the waking world. The Fade -"
"-is probably far more powerful, and Gann's alone." Safiya completed the sentence, cursing herself for jumping to the wrong conclusion. "Wherever he is, he has to sleep sooner or later."
"Wait a moment," Hawke said slowly. "Your missing man is a somniari. Tarva is too, but a... lesser one? And you're worried because if he doesn't have help, the Fade will probably overwhelm his defences?"
"I don't think there's much 'probably' about it," Tarva said softly. "The dream of nine hags was too strong for one person. The dream of a whole world..."
Safiya cursed softly to herself, remembering how Gann had simply collapsed when they'd crossed over, imagining the psychic weight of the Fade, as Hawke had described it – the ancient, endless dream of countless souls, and trying not to imagine the effect of all of it crashing down on somebody sensitive to it and unprepared... "Szass Tam."
"Maker, what a mess," Hawke sighed. "Look, Tarva. The way I see it, you've been in Thedas for the better part of thirty hours. Gann must have had to sleep in that time, especially if he was anything like as exhausted as you two were. Either he survived the Fade, or he didn't."
Safiya saw Tarva pale, but she didn't flinch; it was clearly a thought she'd had already, and it tied in all too neatly with what she'd said about the Dreamer's Heart weakening.
"If he didn't, there's nothing you can do," Hawke continued.
Not quite true, Safiya knew, but, if it were so, she would much prefer that Tarva accept it rather than throw herself into another doomed assault on the City of Judgement.
Hawke went on. "I'm inclined to think that he did; you did, after all, and you implied he was stronger than you. If that's the case, you've got some time to find him. Varric and Aveline both have extensive information networks and they've both indicated they're willing to help. Anders and Isabela have connections too, although they're a little more... specialised." She leant forward, looking very serious indeed. "Don't go looking in the Fade. If he has survived so far, the danger isn't the Fade itself; it's the demons. By all accounts, a somniari will draw a lot of attention from those quarters, and you are probably in just as much danger as he is."
Tarva returned Hawke's gaze steadily, but she didn't nod.
"This is important," Hawke insisted. "Don't trust anything you see in the Fade. Demons can take any form they please; they'll browse through your memories and become what you most want to see. Who you most want to see."
Some things Safiya was good at picking up; even as she feared for Gann, another part of her mind was putting more puzzle pieces in place, and yet another automatically noted Hawke's momentary glance at Fenris.
"They'll promise you everything. Don't listen."
"I've encountered demons before," Tarva said quietly, and despite everything, Safiya had to suppress a snort when she added, "Devils too," and the Red Wizard remembered exactly how well that little incident had turned out. "I know how they keep their promises."
"So don't trust anything you see in the Fade," Hawke repeated her warning. "If he's vulnerable, you are too. Don't go looking for Gann, because you'll only find desire demons wearing his form. If you listen to any of them... you end up possessed."
"An abomination," Tarva said. "Fenris mentioned the term."
Well, that wasn't what the word meant in Toril, but Safiya got the distinct impression that it wasn't any more pleasant a creature to encounter. Except that Fenris had referred to the blonde mage – Anders – as an abomination, so clearly demonic possession wasn't as grave a problem as Hawke was implying.
It might have been a purely emotive term, of course... Safiya indulged herself in logic-chopping; it helped take her conscious mind off the nastier implications of the conversation. She would let her subconscious deal with them.
The theory was a great deal easier than the practice.
"You'd better go eat," Hawke was telling Tarva. "Sleep, too, if you can; it's the best thing you can do for yourself right now. As long as you're careful. You need to rebuild your strength."
"I know," Tarva said, "and thank you, Hawke, Fenris." She nodded to Safiya, and left, leaning on her scythe with every step.
Safiya hesitated, uncertain whether to follow her or not. If only Gann were here... he would know whether Tarva needed company or solitude; he always did. Safiya had no idea. Then again, if Gann were here, there wouldn't have been a problem.
"Nothing else we can do," Hawke told the Red Wizard, "at least, not until we have a little more information. And, if you'll forgive me –"
"You do have other business to attend to," Safiya said, with a nod. "Shall I make myself scarce?"
"May as well," Hawke shrugged. "It's nothing secret; just dull."
Safiya had remarkably little tolerance for boredom, and she wanted to go back over her notes anyway; she nodded to them both, gathered her papers, and headed back to the little room she shared with Tarva. She got as far as the doorway.
Tarva was kneeling beside her bed, face buried in her hands. Safiya froze for a moment, but her friend showed no sign she even knew that Safiya was there... and given how acute Tarva's hearing was, she must have known the Red Wizard was approaching. Unless her mind was so thoroughly occupied with her thoughts (or prayers?) that it hadn't even registered – and in that case, Safiya would find somewhere else to be.
-0-0-0-0-0-
A drip of wax to seal the letter, a pigeon from the special cote, and the message was on its way.
Dear Brother,
My Friends are all Very Concerned about the current Situation in Kirkwall. The Qunari down on the Docks are starting to Look Restless. If your Travels should ever Bring you this Way, I would Value your Advice on the Situation.
You remember that Grey Kitten who Ran Away from us? He's been Hiding in the Sewers here. I think I have finally Succeeded in Winning his Trust. I am hoping to Tame him and Bring him Home. Maker Knows, in Times like These, we need such Talented Mousers!
All my love,
Your sister Em.
-0-0-0-0-0-
"Summing up," Hawke said, "We pay a visit to the viscount a couple of hours before noon, and then go on to the Arishok immediately afterwards. It would be more polite to go direct to the Arishok, but you don't like the idea of jumping in blind." Fenris nodded, and she echoed the gesture. "Right. Now that we've got that settled, I've got something much more important to discuss with you."
"I am listening."
Hawke grinned at him. She'd been waiting for weeks to do this. "Well! No idea when your birthday is, and we're just past the date I met you, but I consider that something to celebrate too. Was hoping it'd arrive before now, though." She flashed Fenris a grin; his eyebrows were drawn together.
"Hawke, that made no sense."
"It'll make more in a moment. Close your eyes and hold out your hands."
"No."
"Please? It's a tradition, and I promise not to attack you." He didn't move a muscle. "Trust me."
Fenris's eyes narrowed in that particular expression that meant against my better judgement. "Very well," he said, closing his eyes and holding up his hands. Hawke stared at the elf. If she'd given Bethany or Carver that instruction, they would have put out their hands palm up and waited for her to drop a present into them. Fenris's hands – spiky gauntlets, olive skin and elegant lyrium lines – were curled closed and shaking slightly, and held too far away from his body.
She couldn't really balance a present on top of his fists, but – with a lurch of pure horror, Hawke realised that he'd held out his hands as if to be cuffed. "Palms up, Fenris," she said, and tried to stop her voice from shaking. She knew he caught the quaver by the way his head moved, but he didn't open his eyes as he obeyed.
Hawke reached behind her and fished up the parcel, laying it flat across his hands. "Happy anniversary-ish," she said, as he frowned over the weight. When it appeared necessary, Hawke added, "You can look now."
He did. His voice was unusually inexpressive as he looked at the present and commented, "It's... a book."
"Yes." She'd thought... she'd thought he'd like it. "You remember we were talking about Shartan a while ago, and you said you wished you knew more about him? It's hard to find the histories that the Chantry hasn't edited, but Varric knows a guy, and he eventually tracked down a copy for me."
Fenris was holding the book very carefully. "I... appreciate the thought, Hawke, but this is useless to me. I cannot read. Slaves are not taught how."
He said it so simply, but still, Hawke felt her face heating. Thank the Maker for a nice, dark Nevarran complexion which hid blushes. "I am... thoroughly ashamed."
Fenris snorted. "You are hardly to blame."
Hawke shook her head, feeling about three inches tall. Maker's hairy armpits, giving a present was supposed to be a simple thing. What a mess she'd made of it. "Three years, Fenris, and I never even noticed – "
"You were not supposed to," Fenris said, and there was something in his deep voice that almost sounded like wry amusement. Hawke raised her head, seeing that particular not-quite smile on his face.
It encouraged her. "If you wanted," Hawke said slowly, feeling her way through the sentence, "if you liked... I could teach you to read it."
Fenris was silent for a time. His fingers traced the gold lettering neatly embossed onto the leather cover. "Yes," he said, finally, and Hawke let out a breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding. "Yes, I think I would like that."
"You say that now," Hawke said, and chanced a grin. "Just promise me you won't throw the inkpot at me when you get frustrated at your teacher."
"I make no such promise," Fenris said. "But I will give you adequate warning so that you may duck."
"Your generosity is more than I deserve, good ser."
"I know."
This... this was better than she had hoped. She'd been entertaining certain ideas about Fenris, inspired perhaps by her deep appreciation for the rough velvet of his voice, the unexpected charm of his rare smiles, his sardonic sense of humour, his effortless, lethal grace in combat... well, by just about everything about him, really, except his abiding hatred for mages (like her). The chance to spend a little more time in close proximity... she liked that very much indeed.
"Let me just grab some paper and things," Hawke said, even as she was doing it. "No time like the present, they tell me."
-0-0-0-0-0-
The thing that is not Tarva returns the next time the Dreamer's Heart strengthens, pulling the strange, livid world into focus about her. The loose shift swirls about her body, revealing more than it conceals; her eyes are red-rimmed and serious. "Gann," she calls his name, her voice soft and loving. She holds her hand out to him; when he turns away, she lets out a shaky sigh. "As you wish," she says.
"I know you're not her. Go away," Gann says dully.
"I won't do that," she tells him. "Even if you don't recognise me, I can't leave you here. It's not safe for you – and if I can't get you out of here until you let me in, I can at least protect you. At least, I'll try."
" 'Let you in'?" Gann is tired, tired to the bone, for he struggles every moment to hold himself together against the dream, and even when he lets himself slip back down into darkness there is no true rest. Still, he instinctively distrusts this thing that has the temerity to take on Tarva's shape and try to fool him; he just isn't sure how to make it leave him alone. His bow is missing, and his leather armour is somewhat the worse for wear after their assault on the city of the dead.
Then he remembers, and bends to touch his boot...
"To aid you, as I have before," she says. "To anchor you. At the Wells of Lurue you told me how dangerous it was for a dreamwalker alone in a dream too strong –"
"Get out of my memories!"In one swift moment, Gann pulls the dream-dagger free and rests its point – red and glowing, as it has never appeared before - against her white throat. She looks up at him, her dark eyes steady, fearless, full of trust.
She isn't Tarva. He knows that. But she stands there, and she looks at him as she would, and he knows he does not have the strength to thrust that dagger home. He wishes that the creature had taken any other form –
Her eyes widen. "Gann, behind you!"
He isn't fool enough to fall for that.
"What have we here?" an oddly-toned female voice purrs, and Gann does turn. There are three succubi there – well, they have no wings, and their skin is the same shade as his, but they cannot be mistaken for anything else, with their antlers, burning eyes and ridiculous lack of clothing, designed to drawn even more attention to their over-lush figures.
"Desire demons," not-Tarva murmurs, just loud enough to hear. "Don't trust them."
"Such suspicion!" a succubus says, holding up her clawed hands in a gesture of peace. "We've only come to pay our respects, sister, and to meet our handsome cousin."
"We'd like to get to know you a little better," another adds, her tongue tracing her full lips, leaving them shining. Behind her, the third tugs suggestively at the golden tassel that hangs from her nipple...
Gann is not entirely unmoved; he is flesh and blood, after all, and he has been celibate for a most unnatural length of time – but it is all so obvious a trap that he almost laughs. He steps forward –
"No!" not-Tarva cries, absolute anguish in her voice, and throws herself past him, armour on, scythe whirling out to take the head of one of the demons and shear through another. The third raises her hands, a spell forming at her fingertips – Gann feels it, the magic drawn from the dream around him – and without thinking, acts to counter it, chanting familiar words, his hands flickering in the accompanying patterns.
When he releases the spell, the final demon explodes.
For a moment, Gann just stares at the red mist seeping into the bilious ground. His spells are not normally so powerful, and it had felt different, too. His magic comes from within him, from the shamanic training that makes him as much spirit as a living being can ever be. This... is drawn from the dream about him. As the hags cast magic. As the demon had.
Cousin, they had called him.
Sister, they had called her.
"You are one of them," he hurls the accusation at the thing wearing Tarva's face.
"Gann, no," she says, tears welling up in her eyes.
But he knows the truth. He's certain he knows the truth.
And he cannot harm her either way.
Author's PS: It always seemed horribly unfair that Fenris was the one who spoke Qunlat, dealt with Javaris, and first attracted the Arishok's 'growing lack of disgust', but that Hawke got all the credit for handling the Qunari. Behold: my interpretation.
