Marian hadn't gone back to the estate for dinner, or even to sleep, because once she and Merrill and Aveline and Varric and Isabela had gotten out into the market to see what truth they could scrounge up from the rumors about this Legionnaire and the Tevinter Magisters, they were lambasted by a whole new and foreboding mix of news and rumors.
The Hero of Ferelden was in Kirkwall, come to save the refugees. Mistress Del's famously mysterious missing brother was a Warden with noble blood, money, and influence. Up from the docks, sailors' news Isabela had gotten from the porters who hung around the market, that in Val Royeaux Divine Beatrix III had died and named a quietly disgraced Sister exiled to the Orlesian-Fereldan border as her heir. From Darktown, on the running feet of one of Varric's dedicated urchin-watchers on the clinic, the report that Wardens had come to see Anders, and made him break down crying right before sending everyone off, and now he was gone.
The first two were obviously talked-up rumors about the Wardens they knew were already in the city, it wasn't like they could do anything about electing a new Divine, and Anders was always a priority. They'd all charged down to the clinic to find the doors shut and locked again- but not crossbarred- so they broke in. It was empty. The supplies had been neatly packed up and locked away, but Anders's clothes and staff and few personal belongings were gone, vanished along with him.
So then it was hours of Darktown in the fading light, trying to find anyone who'd seen where he'd gone, but no one knew. A number of people had seen the Wardens arrive- three elves, two humans, and a mabari, all with Mistress Del.
"I- it can't be," Marian said over drinks in Varric's rooms, after it had gotten to dark and dangerous for anyone but criminals, guards, and themselves to be out. "Mistress Del- she knows how much we need him! She can't let them take him! We can't let them take him! We have to get him back!"
"He deserted, Hawke," Aveline reminded her. "They are… allowed to take him back, for a court martial at the very least. We were both in the army at Ostagar, I know you know that."
"Carver and I weren't there by choice," Marian said savagely. "We were press-ganged! If we'd refused to volunteer the soldiers would have come hunting around, or the Templars would, and then we would have lost Bethany!"
Not that that hadn't happened anyway- and by Bethany's own choice, too. Sometimes, when Marian thought about her sister, it stung bitterly.
"You were there when we went to get those maps from him, Aveline! You remember what he said about the Wardens! How they treated him! We've kept him from the Templars who are 'supposed' to have the power to drag him off somewhere he hates- why should Grey Wardens be any different!"
"Hawke, you're drunk," Varric said. "You only get hysterical like this when you've had too much. Slow down a bit."
"I am not hysterical!"
"You're seriously talking about fighting Wardens. You're not thinking straight."
"I've fought lots of people!" Marian reminded him. "Lots and lots of people!"
"And they fight darkspawn for a living."
"We've fought darkspawn too! And they weren't that tough!"
Her drink was suddenly gone, and she couldn't figure out who had taken it.
"Have you forgotten the road from Lothering?" Aveline asked, her words carrying a slight edge.
"That," Marian said. "That. Was different. That was a Blight."
"And they're meant to fight the Blights and in the Deep Roads, Hawke," Varric said. "Not the nice little quiet tunnels Blondie helped us find. The nasty ones. The nests. The Deep Roads, where no one has walked in centuries. Do you know how Wardens die, Hawke? It's not old age. They go to the Roads entrance in Orzammar with nothing but their weapons and armor and a few day's supplies. They walk out to the Legion's lines, and then they keep going. They take their last Long Walk, and don't stop until the darkspawn kill them. And then the Legion moves their line up a little more- a few miles down one tunnel, occupying a new building on the edge of a thaig no one's lived in since the Blights began, whatever they can grab before the darkspawn move back in. I hear tell that the cleared parts of the Roads are littered with carvings on the walls into the Stone- names, where they're known, but most often just 'Warden'. Thousands upon thousands of times over. Grey Wardens aren't like the rest of us."
"I met some Wardens once," Isabela said. "In Denerim, a few weeks before the Blight ended. They mostly just seemed tired and underfed. And distinctly virginal."
"You're not helping, Rivaini."
"The only Warden I ever saw was a hard man," Merrill said quietly. He took- he said it was the only way, that there was nothing left. For either of them. He told me my brothers were dead."
It wasn't exactly a secret amongst the group that Merrill's clan had been touched by the Blight, but this was the first she'd said about family.
"You never said it was your brothers, Daisy," Varric said after a moment. Marian searched for her hand under the table, holding it- lost siblings weren't something she'd thought they had in common.
"They were," Merrill said. "We didn't share any parents. The Dalish, when someone needs a new Keeper or a new First, and a clan doesn't have any mages born, they ask the others to send someone. There's a meeting of Keepers every ten years where it all gets sorted, so long as losing a First or a Keepr didn't make an emergency. You fix those right away. The Keepers bring some of their clan along with them, however many they need to watch the other mages. They don't- it doesn't matter how old they are, see. They need people to come watch the children and the little babies."
"Babies?" Aveline asked. "They take their own people's babies?"
"But you can't tell that young!" Marian protested, remembering the things she'd learned from her father and sister.
"Yes you can," Merrill said. "We know how. The Keeper checks every birth, just in case. And no one makes people leave their children. If they're fifteen, sixteen, then maybe they go alone. Even thirteen sometimes. But the families switch clans too. It binds the Dalish together."
"How old were you?" Isabela asked, and Merrill was silent for a moment.
"I was five," she said. "And my parents didn't come with me. Alerion was the clan I was born into, and there were two other mage children born before me. Alerion is… blessed, with magical blood. Few other clans can claim so many births as they do. If all families left with their children, eventually there would be no Alerion. So my parents stayed. It was necessary."
"That doesn't mean it's good," Marian told her.
"It is how it is," Merrill said. "There was a woman, Ashalle, who was guardian for the orphaned children of Sabrae. Marethari was supposed to be like my new mother, but- it didn't work. I lived with Ashalle and the ones she watched. Two boys. Tamlen was a little older than us. His parents were stolen by humans when he was just a baby, when the clan had been in Orlais. Theron's father was Keeper before Marethari, and was the one who brought them to Ferelden. His mother was Second- the one in charge of the hunters' and scouts' business. Keeper Mahariel was killed holding off demons, I don't know why. Hahren Paivel never said. All anyone ever said was that Second Saeris jumped into the fight with one of the clan's old swords and went down with him. I think- I think they were trying to protect Theron, and that's why no one ever talked about it."
Merrill wasn't even looking at anyone any longer, just gazing distantly at the blank wall. She must have had too much to drink."
"It would have been glorious," she said quietly. "It was all planned out. Theron and I would get married, because we might get a mage child from Sabrae for it. I would be Keeper. Our daughter would be First. Theron would be the next Hahren after Paivel, learning all of the stories and lore and everything the clans know about Arlathan. Tamlen would be Second. But now Tamlen's dead and Marethari won't take me back even though I'm doing my job and the Wardens took Theron and he went off and killed an Archdemon-"
Everyone else collectively choked on their drinks.
"Merrill," Marian coughed. "Merrill."
"Ancestors, Daisy- don't spring that sort of thing on us out of nowhere!" Varric wheezed.
"You were going to marry the Hero of Ferelden?" Aveline demanded, voice hoarse from swallowing her beer the wrong way.
"He isn't!" Merrill said, surprisingly vehemently, banging her fist on the table. "He shouldn't be! He was never supposed to leave! Neither of them were ever supposed to leave; and now they can't come back! The Taint killed Tamlen and it made that man take Theron away and now he can never really be part of the clan again and I hate the Grey Wardens!"
Her voice rose into a shriek at that last, and then broke into tearful sniffs.
"And now they've taken Anders," she said miserably. "He's so hypocritical and absolutely impossible and sometimes you can't talk to him at all but he's our friend still and they've taken him."
"We'll get him back, Merrill," Marian promised.
"In the morning," Aveline insisted. "I'll question the guards and find out where the Wardens are staying."
Varric sighed, and Marian didn't notice.
"Best stay here for the night," he said. "I don't trust any of you with the way you've been drinking. I don't even trust myself."
Theron had been dead serious about leaving first thing in the morning, and Alistair wasn't exactly pleased by that. He was glad for his friend that they'd finally found Sabrae, but like Zevran had said the evening before, it wasn't like they were going anywhere.
The group heading up Sundermount was him, Theron, Fen, Zevran, Nathaniel, Sigrun, Anders, Mhequi, and, for some unfathomable reason that might make sense once he actually woke up, Fenris.
Nathaniel and Sigrun and Mhequi- sure, they knew Anders. And he and Zevran and Fen were a given when it came to Theron going anywhere. But the weird elf-
He was awake enough by the time they got out of the city and were following Anders up the paths of the mountain to trot to the head of the group and ask Theron about it.
"It's a test of trust," his friend told him, shifting his grip on the sack the remains of the eluvian were in. Theron was in a strange bright-eyed state this morning, something akin to manic energy. Alistair couldn't tell if he was excited or nervous or both. "I told him that I promised to kill Anders if this doesn't work, and Fenris is coming along to see if I keep my word, and don't just tell Anders to run away."
The energy got worse the higher up they got, until Theron was outright agitated, unable to stand still when they stopped for water after an hour or so in. Even Zevran couldn't get him to calm down; and once they started walking again Theron began to range ahead of Anders, up the path and off to the sides, returning only when they were too slow to catch up or to say that he'd found some Dalish trail sign in the hills.
"Stay this time, Commander?" Anders asked some time after the water break. It wasn't quite mid-morning yet, and Alistair judged that they were two-thirds or so up the height of the mountain. On the last path turn with a clear overlook, they'd been able to see all of Kirkwall, in addition to a large quarry on the shorter mountain next to them that Anders had called 'the Bone Pit'.
Apparently he'd helped kill a dragon there. Lucky.
"We're almost there," Anders promised, and Alistair saw Theron clutch Zevran's hand.
"I'll take the sack," Alistair offered, and Theron flashed him a quick, grateful smile as he handed it over.
They really had been almost there. They rounded a small mound that formed a bit of a clearing and saw banner-like markers stake out at the next turn in the path ahead. Alistair recognized them as detached aravel sails. It was how the Dalish marked the edges of their temporary camps, and a clear sign of how long Sabrae had originally intended to stay here.
Theron inhaled sharply just in front of him.
"'Ma'len," Zevran told him, prying his fingers off. "Amora- my Warden. It will be wonderful."
They reached the sails and rounded the bend, Anders still in front. There were two Dalish keeping guard on the path, blocking another turn- Sundermount was such a bendy place- looking surprisingly bored and inattentive. It took them a whole fifteen seconds at least to react to a bunch of armored strangers suddenly appearing.
"Fenaral!" Theron yelled, and rushed towards them. "Radha! Ame alra!"
Shock, confusion, delight- the guards managed to pack a lot of emotion into the next couple of seconds, and laughed with joy as Theron pounced on them, even though he was wearing silverite plate and they only leathers, which had to have hurt.
The rest of the clan came running, and the Wardens quietly slipped past the growing reunion. Alistair unshouldered the sack and dropped it in the dirt, catching bits of Elvhen he knew from the happy babble of the clan.
There were no children, he noticed. Only adults. Theron had told some stories about his clan- there had been children when he'd left for the Wardens. They wouldn't be grown yet. What had happened to them?
One of the elves on the outside of the reunion turned slightly, just enough to catch the Wardens in the corner of his eye. His expression went cold and stony, and he turned the rest of the way around to glare at them.
"Shem'len!" he accused loudly, and the clan quieted. "Su an'banal i'ma!"
Even if he hadn't known common Elvhen insults- and some of the uncommon ones, they were pretty inventive- the tone of it was loud and clear.
'Void take you' wasn't even one of the fun ones.
Alistair looked at him thoughtfully, considering his response.
From somewhere in the group, he heard Theron growl.
"May you have a child who gives you misery," Alistair told the affronted hunter in Elvhen. That was a classic, very insulting, and a good start. "And then may the halla turn their backs to it, and may you lose yourself in the forest in shame and Andruil foul your bowstring, and give your scent to the wolves so that they may laught and bring the story of your failure to Fen'harel who will spread it across the clans and whisper it to your ancestors in uthenera and disturb their rest, so they may wake with embarrassment."
He'd heard that really great Dalish insults were an art form, and could last for minutes, but he wasn't at that level. Most insults shared the same general phrasing, so he hadn't had to worry so much about the grammar or length- only string insults he already knew together, replacing the words he didn't want to use.
Still, that tiny insult was more than enough from a human. The hunter was gaping at him in astonishment, and the clan was dead silent.
"I was an honored guest of Clan Vhadan'ena in Hallarenis'haminathe for a winter, asshole."
"And I a city-born son of a woman of Revasina," Zevran said in his much better accent, words as fluid as if he'd been speaking Trade or Fereldan or his own Antivan and he hadn't known Zevran's mother was Dalish and oh- 'Warden Rivasina!'
"Ele," Nathaniel fumbled. It sounded like he was repeating something he didn't actually understand. "Oh sod- Ele Dirtha'var'en'vhenesan falonen. Lethal'lenaan Lethal'an'velannare."
Alistair had understood about half of that. The grammatical suffixes were messing him up, but that had been something about claiming clan-kinship to Velanna in particularly and the Dalish in general.
"Ea ara'lethal'lenaan," Theron told Sabrae, loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Esh'alare."
Apparently Theron was willing to risk declaring them all family to his clans' metaphorical face. Alistair would have appreciated a little warning.
"Satheraan Nehna Revasina ise ara'sal'shiral."
Satheraan- wait, Zevran had a Dalish name, too? And ara'sal'shiral- 'ma'sal'shiral- that was a pretty strong choice of words. Alistair didn't know how Dalish got engaged, but by Andraste if calling someone that in front of your whole clan wasn't the next best thing-
Sabrae still wasn't making a sound.
"Well," that was a woman's voice, textured with age and speaking Trade for the ones who obviously didn't know any Elvhen. "Quite a homecoming, da'len. I had never thought you to become one for dramatics."
"I haven't really, Keeper," Theron replied. "It's just that Alistair is unable to pass up an opportunity to open his mouth."
"It's a talent!" Alistair called, trying to lighten the mood.
It worked, or the Keeper tacitly accepting their presence worked. Introductions were made all around, and Theron was hard-pressed to tell the story of everything that had happened to him since he'd been gone.
"I will, I will," he promised his clan. "And I want the same from you! But I have to speak to the Keeper about something."
Keeper Marethari took them behind her aravel, away from the eyes and ears of the rest of the clan.
"Is this about Merrill, da'len?"
"Not… particularly," Theron told her. "But I found the eluvian she was trying to restore."
He nodded to the sack, and the Keeper's expression lightened by the tiniest of fractions.
"I don't know how to dispose of it. Could you-"
"I will, Theron, gladly. Now why do you really need to speak with me?"
"I want to know if you can do anything to help Anders," Theron told her, and explained the situation.
The Keeper didn't look very happy about it to Alistair- she got all sad and grave, and he wondered if she was how Theron had learned that particular guilt-inducing set of expressions.
"You are one of Hawke's friends," she said to Anders. "I remember you. I would not have let Merrill go if I knew about you."
"I haven't encouraged her," Anders said. "But she won't listen to me when I tell her it's not worth it."
"Hm," was her only response to that. "This is no small thing you ask for, Theron. You have no magic, and even then, to send you into the Beyond-"
"You did it to us," Anders spoke up. "For Feynriel."
"For the clan," Marethari disagreed. "He was our best chance for a new First."
"Keeper," Theron said. "It will not be my first time."
"You-"
"Have been ensnared by a great sloth demon, and escaped its kingdom," he told her. "Have been thrown into the Beyond by an enemy and bargained my way out. Have become ensnared in layers of half-places, almost-theres, by the blood magic of Ancient Tevinter. Have fought more demons in this plane and the other than I have ever cared to count."
He spread his arms, a silent indication of his presence.
"And yet," Theron concluded.
Marethari looked at him for a few long moments, and then closed her eyes.
"You have changed," she said. "And it not simply the darkspawn or your sword and shield. You have settled."
Alistair snorted, very quietly. He couldn't help it. There had been nothing 'settled' about the months spent chasing him, or the way he kept pushing to get the arling and the Wardens new, better things.
"Before you left, you would not have challenged me so. You were always a kind soul, Theron, and it gladdens me to see it has been tempered with resolve and assurance, and not broken by strife. You would be a great Hahren."
"I will never live that long, Keeper," Theron said, and Alistair couldn't tell if there was regret in those words or not.
"A loss to us," she sighed, and reached out to touch his face, trace his vallas'lin. Her eyes were very sad. "One of Falon'din's, indeed. In fortune, death."
Theron reached up and grabbed her wrist when she tried to pull away.
"Hallarenis'haminathe," he said. "Is the third city of the El'vhenan, banal'halam of Halam'shiral and Arlathan. I saved Ferelden from the Blight and gave it's queen her throne, and in return she gave the fortress of Ostagar and the lands attendant to it. The clans have come, and more are coming. The valley below the fortress is full of halla as countless as the stars, and there they stay in their rest- Hallarenis'haminathe. The children of the Dales have walls of stone, and the Lights of Arlathan crown the Tower of Ishal."
"Oh," Marethari said. "Oh, Creators bless us- the Lights!"
"I found them in Cad'halash," Theron told her. "And I found Cad'halash from the knowledge the human mages keep in their Circles. The First Enchanter of one owe me his life, the Knight-Commander of the Templars in the same holds me in some respect, and I am friends with a woman whose voice carries throughout all Circles. I have asked for her help in finding what the humans know of Arlathan, and what relics they keep hidden away. We may never get them, but we will know what and where they are; and already the Keepers and Hahren in Hallarenis'haminathe are arguing over the knowledge sent from the Circles."
Marethari laughed weakly, wetly, and in that moment Alistair wished that he really understood the significance of everything Theron had just told her. He knew in an intellectual way that their history was what the Dalish lived for, and the feeling of learning all this had to be something akin to what he'd felt actually seeing the Urn of Sacred Ashes, only… bigger, maybe, somehow. The only person who had devoted their life to searching for the Urn had been Brother Genitivi, but the Dalish had been doing the same for their whole culture almost as long as the Chantry itself had existed.
"It seems we were both wrong," the Keeper said, tears shining in her eyes, and Theron let go of her wrist. "You have already lived to be a great Hahren."
Theron ducked his head, embarrassed- Alistair couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his friend so obviously trying to hide behind his hair. Usually he just ended up smiling vacantly in the hope that a veneer of continued politeness would get him out of the situation.
"The last time I talked to Hahren Paivel he scolded me for not remembering the proper wording of the stories."
"Well!" Marethari exclaimed. "I would say he has nothing more to complain about, but it is Paivel."
"Yes," Theron agreed, emerging from his hair with a little fond smile. "Yes he is."
Marethari smiled back, and some weight that Alistair hadn't noticed in the conversation lifted.
"You," she told Anders, pointing to him with the butt of her staff. "You must be asleep if we are to do this. And I only have the control and power to safely send four into the Beyond after you and your demon, so choose wisely."
"Commander Mahariel," he said immediately. "Nathaniel and Sigrun. Um-"
There were four of them left- Alistair, Zevran, Mhequi, and Fenris.
"Mhequi," Anders decided. "Justice- Vengeance- he knew the Voshai. You helped him."
Zevran's face was too set, and Alistair took a steadying breath. The group Anders had chosen made sense, and he himself would likely be of more use here with his Templar training if this turned into an Abomination incident, but that didn't mean he was happy about Theron wandering off into the Fade after a demon without reliable supervision. There was such a thing as taking politeness too far, and when demons stopped to talk Theron had a bad tendency to try to reason with them instead of immediately attacking. It had gotten at least a few people they'd been trying to save from said demons killed before.
"A sleeping draught for you then," Marethari said, and went to fetch one.
As soon as she was out of sight, Zevran's hand shot out and clamped onto Theron's arm.
"'Ma'len-!"
"I'm coming back," he promised. "It will be fine."
"I can't protect you-"
The pet names could get intense and heartfelt and awkward to witness, but this sort of emotional vulnerability was so many times worse. It was probably a sign of trust that Zevran would say things like this in front of them- but still, Alistair looked away and tried to focus on a rock sticking out of the hillside, but in the end was still unable to ignore them.
"Yes you can," Theron said. "If it does go wrong, kill Anders. Kill whoever you have to. Keep the clan safe."
"That isn't you!"
"Banal'halam," Theron reminded him. Everything ends, but there are always traces.
A silence- a kiss, an unspoken 'I love you'.
Marethari returned with the draught. Anders slipped into unconsciousness. The others were sent into the Fade, and Alistair kept a hand on Zevran's shoulder the whole process of getting them there, giving him something to hold on to.
They emerged from the Hanged Man suffering from various stages and intensities of hangover but even more determined in spite of it. They were headed to Hightown for Aveline- not hungover, unfair!- to question her guard about the Grey Wardens, and eventually discovered that they were staying as guests of Lord Harimann, past the Chantry.
They took a quick stop at the Amell-Hawke-Marian's estate to get some food and maybe some new clothes- because everyone ended up leaving things here- which severely complicated the situation.
"He was here," Marian repeated. "He came up his escape route. With the Hero of Ferelden and Mistress Del, who is the youngest child of Rendon Howe."
"The Wardens are coming back to see you tomorrow to ask about your Deep Roads expedition," her mother informed her. "You should make sure Aveline and Varric are here too."
"Well I'm going to go see them right now and-"
"Marian," her mother interrupted. "He was happy. Content. Peaceful, even. Don't just go barging in and ruin that for him."
"'Peaceful' like Bethany was when she turned herself in to the Templars?" Marian asked, not caring about her bitterness in that moment.
Leandra Amell crossed her arms and frowned at her daughter.
"No," she said. "Like a grieving man come to a Chantry, looking at the sacred flame and knowing that Andraste has welcomed his family to Her."
"That's still not good!"
"Are you so sure, Marian?" her mother countered. "Even if they are taking him in for desertion and that problem he's got hitched to his soul- which was not the impression I got- he went willingly. That's where he wanted to be and who he wanted to be with, and he deserves the dignity of his choices."
"Not if they're going to get him killed!" Marian snapped, and turned on her heel.
It took effort to keep from simply charging across Hightown to get to Lord Harimann's, and she let out some of her anger and frustration on his door. A servant answered, nervous from the intensity of her pounding, and flinched back slightly from the sight of her.
"The Wardens!" she demanded. "I'm here to see their Commander-"
"They're not here, messere," the woman said. "They left last night-"
Maker forsake them all! They'd grabbed Anders and lied to her mother, ran, gone to hole up in Amaranthine and even if the left now they wouldn't catch up in time!
"Isabela. What ships are in harbor-"
"Oh, meserre, no," the servant interrupted. "They didn't leave Kirkwall. They just moved down the square."
She pointed at an estate a few doors down- one of the abandoned ones that was falling into disrepair, except that the windows had been unboarded and cleaned and there was a neat stack of broken-down crates outside the door, ready to be carted away or claimed for free as firewood; and signs of where someone had swept a pile of dirt and dust and dry leavings into a bucket so it could be dumped into the square's garden.
"Right," Marian said, refusing to feel foolish. "Goodbye."
"Hawke," Aveline said warningly as they headed towards the other building. "We're not breaking and entering."
"We did it last night."
"It's different when someone might be in danger."
"There's someone in danger here," Marian said. "And it's not going to be Anders!"
"Hawke-"
Marian was already at the door. She kicked it once, hard enough to make it rattle, and then used the handle.
"It's not breaking and entering if the door isn't even-"
She was shoved away from the threshold before she could finish the sentence. Marian skidded back across the square before catching herself some feet away.
The door was still open, but now it was blocked by a half-invisible barrier of pure force, a trick she'd seen Anders manage once or twice. The mage responsible was still standing in the doorway behind it, the gem set into her spiral-ended staff glowing softly.
"Well?" she asked archly.
"We're here to see the Warden-Commander," Marian told her.
"Funny," the mage said, looking supremely bored. It must have been a talent she practiced diligently. People didn't realize how hard it was to look uninterested. "You're very funny. No you're not. If he was going to talk to you, he would have found you; and obviously he hasn't."
"And just what is obvious about this?" Marian demanded.
"A dwarf, a guard, a Dalish, a rogue, and a mercenary try to walk into a house-"
"Wait," Varric said. "I think I've heard this one before."
The mage smiled thinly at him.
"I am Warden Arend," she said. "If you leave your names and the real reason you're here, we'll find you. If it's our sort of business."
Marian was going to answer, but Aveline stomped on her foot.
"Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen," she told the Warden. "And my associates. We're friends of the Warden mage Anders-"
"Oh," Warden Arend said, and some of the cold, practiced disdain melted away. "If you're looking to talk to him, he isn't here."
"Why did you take him!"
Aveline shot her a long-suffering look, and Marian ignored it.
"'Take him'?" Warden Arend asked. "Warden-Commander Mahariel asked him to come home. He agreed. If he comes back from Sundermount."
"If he-"
Warden Arend inclined her staff towards Merrill.
"They went to see Clan Sabrae," she said. "I bet she knows how to get there. Good day to you, Guard-Captain."
She disappeared from the doorway, but the barrier stayed up. Marian didn't want to be impressed, but she was anyway. She was pretty sure that this spell required proximity, or at least line-of-sight.
A quick check of the sky showed that it was only just past mid-morning. They could make it to Sabrae's camp just after lunch if they left soon.
The Fade was much as Theron remembered it, full of watery light and with a penchant towards not fully manifesting details unless you paid attention to one spot for a few seconds.
"Eugh," Nathaniel said, "Is it always so- it's nauseating. Isn't this supposed to be where you dream? I don't dream like this."
"It was basically the same the last time I was here," Sigrun told him. "You mean dreams don't look like this?"
"The usual state of dreaming differs from person to person. Some people experience dreams more as impressions than pictures, or scents and textures. Even vivid dreams often fade upon awakening, leaving behind a vague graps of the plot, as it were, or perhaps a single emotion. This tendency to fade is hypothesized as the origin of its name in Ander, Trade, and Fereldan; and thorugh dissemination and literal translation into Antivan, Rivaini, Orlesian, and modern Tevene. Ancient Tevene directly translated the term in El'vhen, which causes confusion amongst scholars today as so many of them of them search vainly for some indication of the ancient Magisters treated the Fade as simply an extension of this plane, no harder to reach than a distant physical location- 'beyond' the desert or the sea, perhaps."
Theron, Nathaniel, and Sigrun stopped and looked at each other.
Cautiously, Nathaniel turned around.
"…Mhequi?"
"Yes?"
"That was- pretty coherent. Complex."
"Yes, and?"
"We've never heard you talk like that before," Sigrun said.
"Well if you hadn't managed to strip out all the useful parts of your language and left them floating free in your sentence structure wherever they damned well pleased to wander, you would. This is the Dreamworld. Language doesn't matter here, only meaning. Careful what you say."
"We need to find Anders," Theron said. "Or Justice. I hope they're around here somewhere."
"Really," Mhequi sighed. "Really. This is simply. You don't think about going somewhere in dreams, do you? You just end up there."
"One of the mortal world's many lacking features."
Theron knew that voice. It had been some time, but it was a distinctive one.
Justice was standing just off to his side now, doing a good impression of a decorative suit of armor, down to the longsword in his hands planted tip-first against the ground. He didn't look very demon=like to Theron, still glowing blue and ethereal.
"Hello, Justice."
"Warden-Commander," he replied, inclining his head slightly.
"How have you been?"
"Where's Anders?" Nathaniel asked at almost the same time.
"Here," Justice told them. "Sleeping. Was that not your intent?"
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"You… know why we're here, then," Nathaniel said.
"Anders knows," Justice said. "And I cannot help but know as well."
"So are you a demon?" Theron asked.
Justice regarded him silently for some moments.
"I do not understand," he finally said. "There is injustice in your world, injustice he was personally experienced; and yet now he wishes to leave it unaffected, because we are losing our temper and our patience. It is so hard to change mortal things. They are not simply- are because they are meant to be, or because that is how one wills it to be. Things exist that no one person dictates and they persist because- because- because mortals think they do, yet that is not what makes them, it is the actions taken on the thoughts and the actions can persist long after the thoughts are gone or changed or done in spite of them and- it is too much. It does not follow, and yet it does."
"I'm sure he'll keep fighting Templars no matter what," Nathaniel told him. "He really, really has a grudge."
"Change can happen and yet you cannot see it," Justice continued. "I understand nonoe of it. And if people cannot see, how can they know?"
"People act differently?" Sigrun hazarded. "Things change all the time-"
"And yet I cannot tell," Justice said. He was getting increasingly agitated. "Things can change and no one will react at all. To know- to know, the change must be certain. Obvious to see. Physical. Symbolic, perhaps, to accommodate the strangeness of mortal minds. But something must be created or destroyed-"
"No," Mhequi interrupted. "That's spirit thinking. Things may not end or being in our plane, only change from one thing to the next with no one able to say exactly when it became more like one thing than the other. Only in the Dreamworld must all change be so absolute."
"And yet mortals say it is our realm that is strange and inconstant."
"I'm sorry for the assumptions we made coming here," Theron said. "We only had what Anders told us, and it sounds like you're hurting each other equally as much. Anders can't live with how you think, and you can't live with how he thinks, can you? I think you might both be happier if you left."
"I know."
"Then please leave."
"I cannot," Justice said. "There must be-"
"If you don't leave, I've promised Anders I'll kill him," Theron reminded him. "Is it justice to let that happen to him? Is it justice to deny him his own body and mind? Would it be justice for me to break my promise to him, and let him live, because of what you want?"
The spirit was silent for a long time.
"No," he finally said. "No, it would not be. But I cannot simply stand by, and to act in the mortal world-"
"If you want to protect the mages from the Templars, protect them from the demons here," Mhequi told him. "Viktory told me they throw the Circle mages to the demons once they've learned their basics to see what happens. It's barbaric."
"And there are mages who get cornered," Nathaniel said, remembering Renald. "Some of them get desperate. If you can give them help, instead of letting the demons get to them- think about how differently things could have turned out for Anders's friend."
"Yes," Justice said slowly, mulling it over. "Yes, this is acceptable. This is justice, for those wronged."
"Good," Theron said. "I'm glad we found something. Do you two need help separating?"
"No," Justice said. "Anders."
And Anders was there, suddenly. It took him a moment to register his changed surroundings, but when he did, he backed up hurriedly into the Wardens.
"Anders," Theron said, steadying him with a hand. "He's said he'll leave."
"Uh-huh," Anders said doubtfully.
"It is not difficult," Justice told him. "Take my sword and stab yourself with it."
"What? No!" Anders exploded. "No, absolutely not! I am not going to make myself Tranquil to get rid of you!"
"Here things are what you will them to be," Justice said. "I will my sword not to kill you. You will the sword to destroy in you only that which it is like. It will not touch you."
"Except for the part where it absolutely is!"
"This has to be your choice, Anders," Theron told him.
Anders looked at him, then Justice, then the sword with the same considering distaste.
"Fine," he said eventually, holding his hands out. "Give it to me. Commander- if this makes me Tranquil, kill me anyway. I won't live like that."