Masquerade Rhymes with Fade

Alistair/Ser Sellose

It was another one of those dreams.

You think as a Grey Warden I would be accustomed to bad dreams, but mainly Wardens dream of darkspawn and shrieks and genlockes and ogres and, if it were during a Blight, huge hulking Archdemons screaming in your brain, trying to draw you to it along with the rest of the damn horde. Those dreams I could handle. Those dreams were familiar, comforting almost in their familiarity. As odd as it sounds, I missed those dreams. I knew what to expect and what they portended.

Since coming to the Cauldron, those dreams had disappeared, replaced by dreams that were far more disturbing to me since they were more than regular dreams of cheese or pie and less obvious in their purpose.

First of all we had the masked ladies, who I have affectionately dubbed Lady Black, Lady White and Lady Dappled to suit their cloaks. They never spoke straight to the purpose, only in sing-song riddles, far worse than Flemeth had been. Though they seemed to be benign, I kept waiting for them to turn into dragons or demons or whatever else you could expect in the Fade. Occasionally they would appear to offer neutral natured assistance and I would reluctantly accept it, since I truly had no other choice.

Second, we had my doppelganger. He was pleasant enough, but he always perceived things that I could not see. I got the feeling that he had the whole picture when I was only looking at a fraction of it. His sense of cheerful, playfulness also irked me. It reminded me too much of the man I was before the Blight and before my losses had taken hold of me. He was not naïve, but his view was much more simplified, as if there were no complicating factors to consider. Whenever he spoke it was difficult to take him seriously and I had to question if I could truly trust him.

The implication would be that I am not entirely sure I can trust myself.

Thirdly, we have the dead that I thought I had buried. Tabris appeared once, and Rian as well. Those cut deeper than the other two. I trust their shades far more than the other dream denizens, but at the same time it makes me feel their loss far more acutely, though I try to maintain my focus elsewhere. Either they still hold me or, perhaps, I still hold them.

I do not even want to consider the other things that haunt my dreams: the talking monster wolf or the evil patchwork Svenya. Those are true horrors that can appear at random and I cannot reason them away as extensions of my disturbed mind. They are not of me and I know they are dangerous.

At times I fear my dreams will unhinge me.

Once Svenya was safely bedded in the cart with me and Letha, sleeping in my arms with soft, even breaths, I finally allowed myself some measure of sleep. My worry for her had kept me wakeful.

I had always suspected she wore a mask of strength and fearlessness, even though her physical mask was gone, and it had been suddenly stripped away for me that night when she approached us, apologizing for the sins of the world that she had tied to her shoulders and which were not hers to claim.

She was so vulnerable and it awoke in me a tenderness that I thought had died and which brought forth that deeper ache which I tried to ignore. We were alike, she and I, in that clumsy kinship we had fashioned and I just wanted to protect her, but I was equally sure she would not let me that close. It was that mishmash of her stubborn resistance to authority, her fierce loyalty and her reluctant compassion that made it so hard to ignore her. This was the woman who chose to warn and watch over a retinue of seasoned knights, trying to protect us from treachery when it would have been easier for her to walk away and see to her own affairs. This was the woman who submitted to rescuing ten villagers from a doomed village. This was the woman who faced down a Templar in a darkened wood, unarmed, ready to fly at him to protect complete strangers. This was the woman who gathered berries and snared rabbits to feed those hungry and in her care. This was the only woman to whom Ser Grey would ever willingly yield to and this was the woman whom Ser Forthwind had died to defend. This was the woman who could take on armies and send lesser men flying if she took a mind, inspiring others with her refusal to back down against impossible odds.

Yet she was also the woman, huddled against me in the cold, shivering and vulnerable. This was the woman who had tears in her eyes, apologizing for the losses sustained and feeling them so acutely, not taking them for granted or dubbing them as "necessary losses" but regretting them, desiring forgiveness and feeling like she did not deserve any. This was the woman who sacrificed her freedom to spare my body and my life, allowing her spirit to be broken to the cruelty of men who did not value her. This was the woman who gave up her cloak to a strange woman she did not know and insisted on shivering rather than sit near the fire. This was the woman tied to a brutish Templar who saw her as nothing more than an object and desired her for purposes that I could only assume were less than honorable. This was the woman who felt her scars deeply and it drove her to defend others from the same pain and yet could not make peace with those same scars.

These thoughts made my heart swell and ache. That numbness that I had schooled myself towards was crumbling, but I tried vainly to maintain it. I had learned about the risks of caring too well. This venture portended to be full of loss and I could not survive such loss with my already wounded heart.

A country I could lose, but to lose one who needed me, who relied on me so blindly in trust - that could not be born. That defeating thought beat back the fire of my heart, banking it to embers and filling me with ash.

With these thoughts I fell into slumber.

It was an all too familiar scene, putting me immediately on my guard. It was the palace throne room, candelabras blazed, couples swirled in a maze of dancers, paired together, dizzying in their constant rotation. Music swelled, skirts swept in whispers across marble, the hum of polite conversation buzzed like a hive. I stood atop the dais of the throne, overwhelmed by it all and yet distinctly separate, when a figure mounted the stairs to approach me. Once again my doppelganger wore my ceremonial armor and he smirked at me, though he wore a sparse mask that merely ringed his eyes.

"You are wearing a mask now too," I observed to him, accusingly.

"It was the one you required I wear," he shrugged, "it is one of your own making. Why are you petulant?"

"I am not petulant!" I snapped.

The doppelganger "tsked" under his breath, "You would think you would be in a better mood considering that this party is for you. What do you desire?"

"I desire to be free of this farce… I want my normal dreams back."

The doppelganger spoke as one soothing a child, "That comes later, but now you must see to your responsibilities. You must mingle with your guests. A good monarch would do this and you must do this in order to be a good monarch. Arl Eamon would be disappointed if you quailed from being polite to the guests who have gathered to see you. Pick a partner. Dance a few rounds."

"I do not dance." I insisted, feeling uneasy again.

"Yes you do, or have you forgotten what Svenya said so soon?" the doppelganger laughed.

My mind recalled the night we had together before the world spun out of control, when she and I danced on pine needles while Ser Grey and Rian watched. Rian laughing at my occasional stumbles with good natured warmth.

She had chided me, "I've seen you dance with mercenaries and bandits, only you do it with a sword. Dancing requires balance, rhythm and maneuverability, just like when you battle or spar. You have to move your feet without looking down and watch your partner. If it helps, picture my waist as your shield and my hand as your sword hilt. Keep your eye on me as you would your opponent and follow my lead."

Svenya guided me until I could gain control of my clumsy feet and allowed myself to be swept up in the music. When she had laughed, "Don't worry, your Majesty, I won't let you fall," I had believed her. It was so easy to trust her, but I could not trust myself. How could I dance without her, her faith keeping me upright?

I half expected to look down and discover that I was not wearing pants. Instead I looked down and saw a red tunic, with a small outline of a sword of mercy embroidered over my right breast in gold floss. I sputtered, "Where did this come from?"

"It is what you were wearing when you arrived," the doppelganger observed, his voice edged with building impatience, "Here you dress yourself. Your clothes are your own choices." Without waiting for either assent or argument, he grabbed my wrist in his gauntleted hand and dragged me down the stairs, into the midst of the dancers. Unceremoniously he pushed me into the arms of a dancer and I groped to find a waist and a hand as Svenya had taught me, praying I did not fall on my face.

It was a moment of swinging before I found the lazy, drifting rhythm of a relatively slow song. When I felt comfortable, I allowed myself to look at the individual I danced with. It was a lady in a lovely gown of gray silk with blue sapphires draping her neck and also set in combs arranged in her auburn hair, swept loosely back from her face. Her mask was a simple white face with a single sapphire tear at the corner of her eye. The eyes through the slit were a gentle green. It was not until I noticed the tapering ears amid her hair that I realized who my partner was.

"Nerine?"

"I was permitted to have the first dance before you must go to the others," she whispered, her voice tender, "I did not know you danced so well."

"It is a new development," I admitted, troubled.

The eyes smiled through the slits in the mask and the voice teased, "That is well. It is a relief that you move on, though you are still dragging your feet, Love."

I felt an impatient tapping on my shoulder, signaling that I had to relinquish my partner and join the next. I faltered, trying to hold on to Nerine, but she nodded and glided from my grasp, saying, "Go. The dance goes on. My turn is over."

I was swung to another partner, but I kept watching Nerine as a footman in a dark black tunic led her carefully from the floor, the dancing couples parting for her before returning to the rotations, obscuring her from my sight. When I could no longer see her, my attention returned to my feet which moved of their own accord, though the music seemed to have gained in tempo. I finally looked at my partner and was startled to see I was dancing with a man, maybe an inch shorter than I.

"Well, this is awkward," I could not help muttering to myself, though none of the other dancers seemed disconcerted, not even my partner.

My partner was dressed in a suit of armor, but the metal had an unusual scarlet tint. The visor of the helmet concealed the face. When he finally spoke, I was vaguely relieved that it was the familiar voice of a trusted friend, "Thank you, your Majesty. It makes me easier knowing that you did not surrender, that you have determined to fight. Please, look after Svenya. Like you she takes too much upon herself."

"I… I will try," I stammered, unsure of what to say.

Again, the tap on my shoulder signaled that partners were to be switched. Rian released me and strode through the dancers. Once again I watched him retreat until he was obscured. He did not look back, but walked with certainty.

"You are quite amusing, you know," a feminine voice snapped me back to the dance, forcing me to be attentive, "even the dead seem to readily come to you, bending the rules of the Fade and tugging on the Veil. You inspire such loyalty. Are you worthy of it, little king?"

My partner was a woman and her voice revealed maturity. The hair was white that crowned her head and her gown was purple and black. The mask had the outline of a snout resembling that of a dragon and the eyes behind it were violet.

"Do I know you?" I quavered slightly.

"Me?" she returned, "Never. No one knows me. No one ever will. I observe. I considered snatching you from the Fade and exacting my revenge, but you are protected here. The spirits do not take kindly to me when I interfere. I am an outsider now. Be aware, though, you are not entirely beyond my reach. None of you are, though some might twist the world and people to make it so."

The tap intervened before I could respond and for once I was grateful for it. I immediately turned to my new partner, not wishing to dwell on her further.

The Black Lady held me in a gentle embrace, her black silk frock simple but elegant and her neck looked unnaturally long for a woman, though graceful. Her mask was trimmed with sweeping ebony feathers that also trailed into her equally back hair, as if the feathers were truly a part of her, "Your heart has been returned, but it is impatient with you. I am not sure that I can blame it. To be both abandoned and ignored by one necessary to one's being is difficult. If you were not shackled to it you might have been tempted to cast it off again. Even my own lord had enough sense to reclaim what was returned."

"You are speaking of the doppelganger, aren't you?" I asked.

"He is no doppelganger; he is the part that balances you. He is one of your wings. Without him you cannot fly."

"I do not wish to fly," I claimed.

She laughed at that, "Truer words were never spoken, I wager, but you must fly. You are no good to those that you strive to help if you don't."

"Why must I fly?" I demanded

"It is difficult to explain to one with crippled wings," she smiled, "but if you do not fly, you will fall. We cannot force you, but we know the consequences if you do not. The ripples spread wide and that which I love well could be destroyed should you fail. Those I protect have cried to me and you are the only point of influence that might stem the tide of destruction, unite what has been sundered. However you cannot unite others if you remain fractured. You cannot win the battle if you war within yourself."

"I am one man…" I complained.

"But you are a good man," she countered, "and a good man can change the world if only to save one of value."

The interrupting tap came again and I was thrown to another dance partner, this time it was the White Lady. She was more petite than my dark partner. Her gown was white linen, not ornate, and belted loosely at her waist with a leather girdle, cinched by pale green laces. Her mask was also trimmed with feathers, though these were white and they did not blend into her pale blond hair. She is the one who chided, "Peace, you are too angry, Alistair!"

"I am being thrown about, dancing to meet another's desire, and you wonder about my being angry? Why should I not be angry?" I growled.

"What do you desire, then?" she queried.

The question almost made me stumble, I was so startled. I was ready to rail against being forced into all this, and yet I really did not know what I actually desired. If I did not want this, I should at least be aware of what I did want. If I had to fight against something, I should at least know what I was fighting for.

She did not speak the rest of the time we spun, just allowed me to brood and ponder over her question. She did not even demand an answer, even when the inevitable tap took me from her hands and placed me in the hands of another. The transitions between partners had become seamless. I was one with the whirl of the dance, like the flowing of a current.

I had half expected to meet the mask of the Dappled Lady, but it was not her. Instead, it was an elven woman with blond hair. She was not dressed formally with the others, but wore scarlet mage's robes, similar to the ones I remembered Wynne wearing when I travelled with her. Her mask was divided in half between black and white, between a smile and a frown. She peered at me thoughtfully through her mask and kept her head level.

We danced in complete silence and it disturbed me far more than the conversation and needling of my previous partners. She watched me, looking deeply into my eyes and said nothing. Finally I could bear it no longer, and reverted to the practiced niceties that Eamon had drilled into me, "Quite a nice party, do you not agree?"

"You remind me so much of your father," the woman chuckled, though the words had a distinctly Orlesian lilt, similar to Lelianna's, "he did not deal well with uncomfortable silences, either."

"You knew my father?" I choked, confused.

"Yes," she inclined her head slightly.

"Have you been at court?" I probed, trying to wrack my brain to figure out who she could be, "Have I met you?"

"You knew me long ago, though briefly, but I was never at court. I met your father when he guided me and a group of other Grey Wardens through the deep roads. We became friends during that journey and he earned my trust. He was a good man, though I think he rued what he had to sacrifice and the loneliness he deemed necessary to keep the country stable. He always wondered if it had been worth it," she explained, "We confided in each other, we comforted each other. Perhaps we loved each other in a fashion, not the same as previous loves, but it was still a sort of love. It had its own place in a shared heart."

"You were a Grey Warden? Who are you?" I demanded, starting to fill with panic, itching with the temptation to tear the mask from her face so that I might see her clearly and yet simultaneously frightened to do so.

Instead of answering my question, she warned, "Do not become a ghost of regret, my son. Do not surrender to despair. You were meant for more than petty power. I wanted more for you than that. You were meant to be more than the sum of regrets inherent of your lineage."

With that she released me, pushing me into another dancer, and she disappeared. I found myself in the arms of another man, wearing the armor of a Warden Commander, his visor, like Rian's, was obscuring his face, "You were always spirited, Alistair!"

"Duncan?" I gasped, the music swelled, the tempo leapt another notch and we swirled faster.

"That is what I believed would make you a good Warden, even spurring me to defy that angry Revered Mother who brow beat me when I conscripted you. I chose you, not for your history, but for your potential. I knew that to leave you as a Templar would be a betrayal of who you truly were and would doom you to a slow death." He shook his head, "It would have also been a betrayal of what I promised."

"You promised something?" I questioned, "You made a promise regarding me? When you saw me at the Chantry it was not the first time you had seen me, was it?"

Inwardly I was cursing myself. Of course he had known me before I had been trained to become a Templar. Of course there was more to him conscripting me than just my abilities. I was clumsy and irreverent. I was snarky, though I tried to be polite and obedient. I just wanted something, someone to believe in. When he appeared I knew to trust him because he was vaguely familiar, even though I believed it was because he reminded me of Arl Eamon. Maker, what a dunce I was.

"Do not judge yourself harshly," Duncan stated, "You always were so critical of yourself. You always felt you were not good enough. I should have intervened sooner, but I had hoped to help guide you. Then I was taken from you too soon, but it was necessary. I was not how you saw me. You did not see my flaws, and in time you would have resented me for them. Forgive me for failing you."

"But I failed you!" I insisted, "I was not with you when you needed me. After you were gone I could not bring myself to continue without you. You were so much better than me. You were so much more deserving than me. If it had not been for Nerine, we would have failed."

"You sell your own contributions short. Do you think she would have sacrificed herself if she had not felt you could lead the people? Do you think I would have sent you to the Tower of Ishal if I thought you were meant to fall at my side, along with your brother? Who do you think recommended that last moment arrangement? Who do you think put you out of harm's way? I did not want to deceive you, but I knew you would not leave me to my fate, not if you believed you might save me. I had felt my death upon me for some time, as you well knew since I confided my nightmares to you when I confided them to no other. My death was my own, just as your life is your own."

He then gave me a gentle shove away from him and I was in the arms of another partner, this one was garbed in Templar armor. His fingers crushed my hand in a vice of pain. He pushed me before him, leading me around and around. The music once again built in tempo, but started to sound discordant, as if the musicians could not keep up with themselves and were chasing their own instruments to regain control.

"Am I what you want to surrender these people to?" demanded the man under the helmet harshly, tilting towards my own face, "Would it not be easier to accept the inevitable? Allow the Cauldron to fall, concern yourself with matters closer to the throne. What are these little scattered, distant freeholds to you? They might as well be a part of Orlais."

"No," I shouted, my ire building with the music, "I will not let you destroy these people. I will not let your blind ambition harm anyone."

Though I had no way to defend myself against him in an even fight, I drew back my arm and swung at him. I must have caught him off-guard and off-balance, for he crashed to the floor, his helmet falling from his face.

I had expected to see someone like Manning, but the visage of the prone man was one I shared. The rest of the dancers had stopped suddenly, creating a ring about us and I stared down in disgust at yet another doppelganger. This one scowled up at me, but his entire eyes were empty and black. His cheek was burned with an angry red scar under his left eye and his features were hard, making him look old.

My friendly doppelganger pushed his way through the crowd and to my side, also looking down at the man, "This is also you, this is also what your potential could drive you to be, this is what happens when you banish your heart and embrace harsh action with no consideration of others."

My heart lodged in my throat, and I shook my head. Placing my hands over my ears and closing my eyes, much like I did when I was a young boy, I screamed, "Stop it! Stop it! I have had enough!"

It was then that a gentle but firm grip pulled my hands away from my head, and I opened my eyes to see a small woman with pale blond hair in the robes of the Chantry. The mask was a pale gold, edged in orange, but it obscured none of her face, barely ringing her eyes. The mouth smiled shyly and whispered, "Friend?"

"Letha? You are here too?" I ventured through dry lips, with a clumsy tongue, "How is this possible?"

"You ask too many questions that trouble your heart. Accept it for what it is. The threads have unraveled enough that I might be in two places at once as needed, though this cannot last. Be comforted. There are things that lie ahead and my time to walk with you becomes thin."

"No!" I grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged her to me, "I need to save you. I need to help you. I will not abandon you."

She spoke the words into my chest, "It is not your destiny to save us all, but I will not be lost. Keep faith in me, as I keep faith in you. The road is longer than I can tread, the crossroads approach and you will be torn and must remain vigilant. You must find the poison. You must thwart the perversions of men. You must walk in the dark and find the other side. You must face the beast who is a man and the beast who strives to become a man. Both manipulate and abuse to suit their ends, frayed sanities shaping their choices. One will fall, one will flee and you will have to decide your role. Awaken! The darkness closes in."

I felt the darkspawn before I opened my eyes, crying a warning to the slumberring camp. Murchad was alert before the others and swiped the shackle keys to set me loose seconds before a hurlocke nearly decapitated him. I saw the blow coming and pushed him down, throwing myself at the beast and killing it with its own weapon.

Svenya, true to her nature, leapt readily to fight at my side and defend both her brother and Letha. She armed herself with a heavy branch, wielding it in a way that would make Ser Grey proud to claim her as a recruit. It reminded me of her analogy of dancing: it was graceful and decisive. I almost wished that I could dance with her again, that she had been one of my partners in the Fade instead of the shades of departed friends and manipulative spirits.

The memory of the other me, the dark Templar aspect of my personality, teased at the edge of my conscience and I felt my teeth grit. I swung at the beasts, allowing the lull of battle to override my rage. I would not be a berserker, I would not be swayed by violence and blood, that was not who I wished to be. The beasts came, I felled them, I protected Letha and Murchad and I relied on Svenya. It gave me a strange sense of completion, of belonging.

When it was over, Ser Manning tried to regain control of the situation, lashing out at his own helplessness, acting as if oblivious of his fallen men. Perhaps he was truly oblivious; perhaps all he could see were the things he desired to control. It reminded me vaguely of Loghain, only seeing his own insecurities, believing everything and everyone else to be expendable in an attempt to assuage his own fears. Maker shield me from such a fate.

Manning was informed by Svenya where she had passed the night, and he automatically assumed her admission meant that she had made love to me. The accusations that sprang from his lips, spewing like vile sewage, startled me so that I could not speak. I listened thunderstruck and felt my hackles begin to rise, like a bear baited. He knew her not. He could not even conceive of the trust and respect I harbored for her. He knew nothing but his own perversions that he foolishly attributed to her.

When I finally re-discovered my voice, he heeded it not at all, "She did nothing to deserve such insult. She slept and that was all. On my honor as a knight, I never touched her or compromised her virtue."

Had I been in possession of my own liberty, I would have challenged him, I would have cast a gauntlet into his face, but I was no fool. Templars are not required to meet an open challenge. By the tenets of the order, they are held to a higher standard: all is done to glorify the Maker and his Bride, even at times to defend the honor of the Chantry as an extention of the Maker's presence in the world. It was illegal to engage in a personal challenge for it compromised one's control, particularly a challenge of a secular nature.

At the same time, I knew that Ser Manning would accept a challenge regardless of his vows, he did not strike me as traditionally pious except in a manner that stroked his own vanity. However, he would dictate the terms, he would find a way avoid an even fight. I had learned from Rian's naive bent of honor that fair fights were not possible with the adversaries that we faced. I had to find another means to defeat my foe.

He continued to rail at Svenya, and if he had struck her I might have been tempted to strangle him with the very chains that bound me, regardless of the consequences. However, it was Svenya's control that eclipsed the false Templar's accusations, with derisive laughter, "If my Father ever led you to believe I would ever obey you, the greater fool you. I will never obey you against my better judgment. I will never follow you blindly. Even if I give you no word in response, know that even my silence defies you... Eventually you will run out of hostages, eventually you will reach a point where the escalating violence will not be enough… what then?"

She was radiant in that moment, probably a match even for the Rebel Queen Moira. Her eyes dared him and he withdrew from the threat of her fire, though he was left smoldering.

I glanced at Letha to find her grinning dumbly at the Templar's defeat, and I recalled what she had said in the Fade, whether it had actually been Letha or a product of my unquiet mind. I placed a finger to my lips, silently counseling her to sober caution. She rewarded me with a mildly confused gaze and then appeared distracted by a crimson leaf fluttering down from a tree to lie in a pool of blood upon the ground, amid the bracken.

We were forced to walk and the road seemed infinitely longer, only delaying the predicted crossroads that I dreaded.

Author's Note:

I wrote much of this chapter in response to the Cheeky Monkeys' Masquerade challenge made by sharem in the beginning of October.