Chapter 42: The Unveiling of Ages
Disclaimer: I do not own the Elder Scrolls Series or the Dragon Age Series
A\N: Been a while but been busy. Getting right towards the end. Plans going forward, I'll focus on this story then try to finish my witcher/elder scrolls crossover. Afterwards, maybe more but for now, here's the story.
Another battle of titans began again with a frazzling display of magical energy, spewing forth the elements. Marcus could only watch as Mythal in the Inquistiors's body landed blow after blow against Gaius with her spectral sword. But for every blow, he dodged with ease and grace. An Evanuris fighting with vigorous display was a light workout for the Dragonborn.
Yet even with this frightening display, he could still hear the running footsteps of Piven and Nivia. Marcus moved to intercept but his hands refused. His mind and body struggled, on the one his duty and the other his conscience. Whatever his reasons, Marcus can't let the Emperor sacrifice them. There has to be another way. But he couldn't stand and think as another deafening explosion drew him back to the battle.
From the smoke cloud, a streak of light barreled far into the distance as the shout of an unrelenting force blew the cloud away. Marcus could barely follow until a massive strike landed in front of him.
"Marcus," Gaius emerged. "She won't be gone for long so listen."
Without even looking away, Gaius paralyzed Piven and Nivia with a gesture of his palm. Not even a hint of guilt came across.
"Take those two to the ritual circle I've set south of here along the sea. Nilssa will brief you on what to do while I take care of Mythal."
"But-"
"I will explain things when I get there Marcus. Now get going and-"
"Stop!"
Marcus slammed his staff into the ground, bursting out a fiery wreath of magical flames. His own face sweltered with sweat from his own fire erupting all around him and Gaius, nearly blinding his eyes. But he refused to look away, he couldn't. Loyalty be damned, he won't participate in some mortal sacrifice. And the Emperor knew too.
"Marcus, I know what you're thinking but this is not the time. If we don't do this, then we are all doomed," Gaius said, his lips betraying his usual calmness.
It was one of fear, an all too common emotion that baned leaders. Marcus understood all too well, which is why he could not follow his emperor.
"I won't let you kill them, Gaius," Marcus declared. "Not for a ritual that will unleash the Evanuris. That's why we stopped Fen'harel!"
"I am nothing like Fen'harel," Gaius declared.
A pillar of light struck between them. Evelyn merged and crashed with a fervent zeal, clashing against the Emperor. Easily blocking with his arm, a burst of energy exploded forth. A shield conjured, Evelyn battered away to no avail. Mythal's scream echoed with rage as the barrier held. With one last good strike to confirm, she relented in the face of this stalemate.
"You most certainly are not like him," Mythal said, circling the barrier. "He would never act so careless and violent as you!"
"You intend to lecture me?" Gaius scoffed.
"Yes, because I know what you intend to do," Mythal now wreathed in a magical sacred flame that even poured from her eyes. "You are not saving anyone from the Evanuris. This is all a ploy to take their power for yourself! And just like all others of your kind, your ambition will only destroy us all."
The revelation reverberated upon Marcus, his eyes widened and locked on the man he admired. The doubt in his heart now changed as Gaius replied.
"Is that what you've both learned?" Gaius laughed as he strolled to the barrier's perimeter. "The Scroll of Ages, you called it? You saw a vision of me and assumed it to be the truth. You do know that the Elder Scrolls can cause insanity even for someone like you?"
"Twist your words as you may, I will not allow you to leave," Mythal answered. "Without Solas, the Evanuris will be free to reign havoc and destruction foretold. I will not allow you to free them!"
"You can't even break this barrier. How do you-"
"Enough!" Marcus raised, grabbing the two's attention.
"Marcus-"
"No, I have had it. You, Nilssa, Neloth, so many damn lies! No more. I want the truth. Now!"
With icy stares from both Evelyn and Marcus, Gaius lowered back with a heavy sigh. Taking a few moments for a pause, he collected back his stern look before looking on towards Marcus.
"This is not how I wanted to tell you, Marcus," Gaius said, causing dread to appear among the wide-eyed battlemage. "But don't let her words deceive you, she only presents her wicked side."
"You dare to presume!" Mythal battered with such strength that the ground shook. "You who would steal the Evanuris's power for yourself."
The next strike shattered like the sound of glass. Gaius stood his ground and let loose his shout to bend will the Inquisitor. Mythal did not relent yet that was all he needed to stun her and grab her in a giant ethereal dragon claw.
"Be silent!" Gaius commanded even though she'd pay no heed. "Do not listen to her lies, Marcus. Now do not doubt and prepare the two for the ritual."
"To free the Evanuris?!"
"Yes!" Gaius yelled, surprising the battlemage with his angered face. "Do not doubt me, Marcus! I will do whatever it takes to save us! Whatever the cost!"
An unyielding force pummeled against Marcus, the Emperor's words pushing him back as if he were shouting. His knees shook, nearly buckling upon the sharp visage of a man determined.
Or so he thought as he turned back to Nivia and Piven. Even paralyzed, terror emanated from their frozen faces and no doubt dread plagued their minds.
"Marcus!" Gaius yelled.
With his hand gripping tightly on his magic stave, Marcus gritted and slammed with stuff with fury. With thunderous clasp, the circle shattered. The madness he saw had to end.
As Marcus stood between Gaius and the paralyzed youths, the air thickened with tension. Gaius's fury surged like a storm, his eyes ablaze with betrayal and rage. Yet, Marcus remained resolute, his gaze steady despite the turmoil within.
"You defy me, Marcus? Now?" Gaius's voice boomed.
"I dare to do what is right," Marcus replied, his tone firm and unwavering. "I will not stand by and watch innocent lives be sacrificed for your selfish ambitions."
His attention away, Mythal broke free and launched herself at Gaius. The two powers clashed, shaking what seemed the whole world as it followed high into the air.
As the chaos unfolded, Marcus turned to Nivia and Piven. With a solemn nod, he said, "Go. Find safety. I'll deal with this."
With hesitant yet determined steps, the youths stumbled away from the epicenter of the battle, their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.
Running after the Emperor with haste, the hairs on his head suddenly stood and without hesitation, he blasted with flames and ejected from a quick slice to the head.
"Marcus," a chilling voice replied, steeling Marcus's nerves as he turned to face. "At last, you reveal your true colors."
"And the same can be said of you Nilssa," Marcus answered the Grandmaster, seething his tongue at her sight. "You knew about the Emperor's plans, didn't you?"
"How observant of you Marcus," she mocked before narrowing her gaze with disgust.
Marcus met her gaze with steely resolve, though he couldn't ignore the pang of unease that gnawed at his gut. Nilssa had always been a formidable adversary, and now, with his act of defiance laid bare, her disdain for him burned like a smoldering flame.
Before Marcus could respond, a sudden pain sliced through him, drawing his attention to the blood seeping from a wound on his arm. Nilssa looked back with a cruel smirk on her lips, her hands not even close to her blade.
"Be grateful it's not poisoned," she spat, her voice laced with venom. "As much as I want to see you die in agony, time is running short. As Grandmaster of the Blades, Battlemage Marcus, you are sentenced to death for treason against the Emperor and Tamriel."
Marcus and Nilssa's eyes locked in a silent exchange of determination and resolve. Marcus's brow furrowed with worry, his mind a whirlwind of concerns for the safety of the youths, and the fate of Thedas, and Tamriel.
Meanwhile, Nilssa's expression remained inscrutable, her features shrouded in a veil of calm concentration as she moved with the fluidity of a shadow. There was an air of confidence about her, a silent assurance in her every step as if she already knew the outcome of their duel before it had even begun.
With a flick of her wrist, Nilssa's katana seemed to materialize out of thin air, the blade gleaming with an ethereal light as it sliced through the space between them with deadly precision. Marcus reacted instinctively, summoning forth his magical defenses with a sense of urgency born of desperation.
But Nilssa was relentless, her strikes coming with such speed and ferocity that Marcus found himself struggling to keep up. She moved with the grace of a dancer, her movements a mesmerizing blend of martial prowess and lethal precision. With each strike, she closed the distance between them, her hands and feet moving with deadly intent as she sought to exploit any weakness in Marcus's defenses.
Cast upon by the eerie orange glow in the sky, Marcus and Nilssa danced amidst the chaos, their clash echoing like thunder amidst the cacophony of battle. With each strike, they closed the distance between them, their movements a blur of motion amidst the smoke and flames.
Marcus's heart raced with adrenaline as he fought to hold his ground, his mind a battleground of conflicting emotions. Fear gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to overwhelm him with doubt and uncertainty. But beneath it all, a spark of determination burned bright, driving him forward despite the odds stacked against him.
With a defiant shout, Marcus unleashed a torrent of fire magic, flames erupting from his fingertips as he sought to engulf Nilssa in a blazing inferno. But she moved with a grace and agility that belied her years, dodging and weaving through the flames with the ease of a seasoned warrior. Every conjured atronach and dremora fell in single strikes, all without drawing her blade.
Amid their fierce battle, Marcus glimpsed a flicker of something in Nilssa's eyes—a glimmer of respect, perhaps, for his tenacity and skill. It was fleeting, gone in an instant, but it fueled his resolve like a flame in the darkness, driving him to fight on despite the overwhelming odds.
As their duel reached its crescendo, Marcus and Nilssa clashed with a ferocity that leveled the battlefield, their weapons flashing in the dim light like stars in the night sky. It was a battle of wills as much as it was a battle of blades and magic, and in that moment, Marcus knew that he would stop at nothing to emerge victorious, no matter the cost.
As Marcus and Nilssa clashed amidst the fiery chaos below, the battle between Mythal and Gaius raged on with a fury that shook the very heavens. Their voices intertwined in a haunting chorus of echoes, each word reverberating almost as powerful as the Thu'um.
Mythal wreathed in ethereal angelic wings, soared through the sky like a celestial avenger, her every movement imbued with the raw fury of a goddess betrayed. With a wave of her hand, spectral constructs formed from pure magic materialized around her, swirling and coalescing into formidable weapons of divine wrath.
Meanwhile, Gaius, his form suspended in midair with an air of arrogant confidence, countered Evelyn/Mythal's onslaught with a barrage of powerful shouts and elemental magic. Unrelenting force tore through the fabric of reality, while icy breath encased his spectral blade in a sheen of frost as he clashed against Mythal's magical constructs.
The clash of titans sent shockwaves rippling through the sky, the very air crackling with the intensity of their battle. Mythal pressed forward with unwavering determination, her angelic wings beating rhythmically as she unleashed a torrent of divine energy against her foe.
But Gaius was no ordinary adversary. With a cunning smile playing upon his lips, he met Mythal's onslaught with calculated precision, countering her every move with a deftness born of experience and foresight.
As the battle reached its climax, Mythal and Gaius grappled with a ferocity that defied mortal comprehension. A clash of magic surged forth in two beams, vying for dominance. Roaring rage fueled in Gaius, this distraction had gone on too far. With just a simple projection, his beam swallowed Mythal whole and left nothing but dying echoes.
"Now then, it's time too-"
His breath choked for oxygen as his cape was tugged and slammed to the ground. With not even a second to react, blood spurt forth from his lips. His body could only react to holding the blade as he looked upon his assaulter regenerating every muscle and bone before him.
Her body restored itself before his own eyes, which would amaze him were it not for the twisting blade plunging ever deeper. Fiery yellow eyes burned with Mythal's righteous fury.
Gaius's expression contorted in disbelief, his eyes wide with shock as he struggled beneath her grasp. "How?" he sputtered, his voice laced with confusion and disbelief.
"It's over, Dragonborn," Mythal replied, her voice a chilling echo of divine authority. "Your plan ends here. "
The struggle for a breath escaped Gaius as blood expelled from his mouth. "Tamriel will still fall to the Empire."
"But the Evanuris will remain trapped forever."
The air thickened with palpable tension, bearing silent witness to the end of a struggle between divine justice and dark ambition. Evelyn's eyes alight with Mythal's fury held a hand high aloft, charged with radiance to end the Dovahkiin.
However, Gaius, ever unyielding, harbored one last deceit within the depths of his fading essence. As the merged duo prepared to strike the final blow, his form began to pulse with an unnatural light. It was not the light of surrender, but the precursor to his final move. With a wry smile, Gaius whispered.
"And you'll never see it come."
A vortex of spectral energy enveloped Evelyn, assaulting her and Mythal's senses. Their focus faltered and their grip on reality struggled to maintain. Before they could muster a counterattack, an excruciating pull lacerated their souls. Laughter echoed around them, its voice astonished with the results.
"A little trick I learned from Fen'harel," Gaius taunted. "Though I'm surprised you of all people to not see this coming."
The pain was all they could respond to, agonizing and relentless, as the merged being began to separate. In the final moments of her existence with Evelyn, Mythal's consciousness surged with despair. Her radiant essence ensnared, to only realize the true extent of her folly. Her own soul, the catalyst for Gaius's dark ambition.
Her presence evaporated from Evelyn, leaving behind a hollow echo of their once formidable union. The Inquisitor, now alone and stripped of Mythal's strength, had barely the energy to move her head and was now a mere mortal shell drained of what was akin to celestial fire. With Gaius shadowing over her, black soul gem in hand.
"The patron of motherhood and justice," Gaius sighed with disappointment. "Reduced to nothing more than a battery for enchanted weapons. Even though it's not the case, I can't always but think that's what these are."
A few utterances in the draconic language shined the gem with brilliance. As if the sun itself had descended, Evelyn nearly fell blind. Yet she could not turn away from the gem evaporating into a shimmering light and flowing towards the Emperor. Taking out an elvhen orb, like the one Solas had, the essence was captured and blanked with the same light.
"I'm sorry it had to be this way," he said as he put the orb away. "At least you'll be together."
The battlefield, once a stage for the epic struggle between deities and mortals, became a silent witness to the tragic fall of a heroine. Evelyn, bereft of Mythal's spirit, lay vulnerable before Gaius. Yet she still clung tenaciously to a spark of defiance, summoning the remnants of her strength in a display of her indomitable will. With great effort, she lifted her head, struggling to raise her gaze.
"No," she rasped, her voice a mere whisper yet laden with resolve. "It's not over. I won't let you free the Evanuris."
Gaius, taken aback, regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. "I must. Destroying the veil and freeing the Evanuris is a small price to pay to save the world and bring peace."
Evelyn, despite her weakened state, scoffed at his justification. "Save?! Save the world! Bring peace! Are you fucking kidding me?" she questioned, her skepticism piercing the air. "You had Cassandra killed! Rainier! Hurt my friends! Exterminated the Qunari! Destroyed our lives, our homes! Do you not see Minrathous burning, by your army? After all the horrible things you've done, don't you dare talk about peace and justice!"
The rant took on Evelyn as she labored her breath, drawing on her last reserves to rest even a bit. Gaius responded, but not with anger or irritation. Rather disappointed with himself. His expression softened, betraying a moment of vulnerability.
"I wish it were as simple as me being evil and you being the hero," Gaius sighed, his voice tinged with a weariness that seemed to age him beyond his years. "But it's not so simple as it were with Corypheus or even Fen'harel. A truth I've kept hidden from most, one that shadows every step I take. Telling you won't change our fate, but perhaps it's time the shadows were brought to light."
"What truth?" Evelyn asked from the top of her lungs.
Gaius paused, considering the weight of his next words, before he finally acquiesced. Bending down to her level, he locked eyes with her, ensuring she grasped the full measure of his revelation.
"The truth," he said with a quiver of his voice. "The truth is we mortals have no purpose. We're nothing but playthings and tools for higher beings."
"What?" Evelyn questioned as Gaius turned back to her with solemn eyes.
"Do you know what happens when you die, Inquisitor?" Gaius asked. "I do. Despite what your Maker claims, there is no afterlife. Only the void. When you die, your soul is recycled. Renewed. In doing so giving life to a new being, while the part that makes you is cast away to oblivion. And even for those who do have an afterlife, the void is their fate as well. Alduin will ensure that."
"Alduin?"
"The firstborn of Akatosh. The World-Eater. I defeated him a hundred years ago and thought I absorbed his soul. But the Elder Scrolls showed me the truth, that and many others. No matter how many times I read of their knowledge or tried to change things, it's the same. Alduin will return, in one form or another, and bring about the end of everything. It's only a matter of time. And then it will begin again, anew. Everything we've done, all we've experienced, it's for nothing. Mortals like us, our destiny is the Void."
"You're crazy!" Evelyn said. "You expect me to believe that?"
"You find yourself speaking against a native of a continent you thought impossible and with magic beyond your comprehension," Gaius remarked. "You would be a fool not to believe what I tell you. That's why I do this, to obtain the power of the Evanuris."
Evelyn listened, a chilling realization dawning upon her as Gaius continued. "The Fea Opus and the orb I possess will allow me to take possessions of their souls. Like the dragons I kill and absorb, I will then obtain all their power and bend it to my will. I will be a step closer to my ultimate plan- to rewrite everything. A new world, a new godhead, free of the Aedra or Daedra, a world that will endure forever, where nothing is lost to the void."
As he ended, the Dragonborn's gaze held tightly onto his finger. A silver ring that glimmered that he gently fondled. "And restore those lost to it," he whispered, saying in such a way to ease himself somehow.
Evelyn, processing Gaius's vision of a universe remade, realized the enormity of his ambition. A world without end, without loss, without the inevitable decay into the void—it was a vision both awe-inspiring and terrifying. But at its heart lay a fundamental arrogance, the belief that one could, and should, rewrite the very fabric of reality to suit their will.
"You-," Evelyn struggled to say as she lay on her knees. "You're no better than Corypheus or Solas and you'll kill even more. A monster." The accusation struck swiftly, challenging the moral foundation of his grand plan.
His composure cracked, though swiftly controlled, a momentary lapse from the words. A recognition perhaps of the futility of approval. "I knew you wouldn't understand," he said with resignation.
"Never mind," Gaius dismisses with a wave of his hand as he stands to turn away. "Go find your friends, no doubt injured but still alive. And leave. We handle Thedas's defense."
"Evelyn, with a fire still burning in her eyes, shakes her head, refusing to yield. "I can't. I won't run away."
Gaius stopped, and turned back slightly, his tone softening but laced with a cold finality. "Evelyn, the continent is all but conquered. The dwarves won't come to your aid, and Mythal, Solas... they're gone. There's nothing left for you to fight for."
"It's over," he repeats, stressing each word as if to hammer the reality of their situation into her very soul.
Evelyn's mind began to race through her tumultuous journey. A Circle mage of noble origins rising to lead the Inquisition to defeat Corypehus, to stop Solas. Only to lose everything in a few years as she saw the defeat and losses flash before her eyes: Cassandra, Blackwall, Dorian, and Iron Bull missing, Vivienne's capture, and the abandonment by her advisors. The memories of her friends, once her strength, now haunt her—each loss a strike against her resolve, yet also a testament to her enduring spirit. As she looks towards Minrathous, witnessing the onslaught it endures, despair grips her heart. The empire's might, the dragons in the sky, and the mages' relentless assault—all paint a picture of inevitable defeat.
Yet, within her, a fierce determination stirs. "No," she thinks to herself, the word a silent vow. "This isn't how it ends."
Her resolve hardened into an audible defiance, her voice rising from a whisper to a resounding declaration. "I refuse to give up. I refuse to lie down. I will stop this madness and not let you destroy the Veil!"
With newfound strength, Evelyn rose, her hand conjuring a magical blade reminiscent of a warrior's purest fury. Sweltering with heat that took Gaius aback, stumbling on the defensive. A wave of blade and magic blasted forth with new robust vigor, echoing with the power she wielded during the height of the Inquisition.
For a moment, Gaius is forced to retreat, surprise etched from the woman's aggression. The ground scorched from her power, slags of ice and rift energy that froze and energized the air.
But for Gaius, ever the formidable adversary, raw power wouldn't be enough. Not after all this time since his own beginnings. With precise, calculated counterattacks, he began to turn the tide. Evelyn's swings grew wilder, her magic more intense but desperate, as Gaius landed devastating blows with nothing but his fists.
Evelyn refused to yield. Despite the onslaught, she kept the offensive. Each attack was a testament to her determination, and her refusal to accept defeat.
Gaius for his part remained collected, his movements methodical, almost clinical, parrying every strike and countering with lethal precision. Amid the chaos, he embodied a calm at the eye of the storm.
The climax arrived as Gaius unleashed missiles of conjured weapons, tearing armor and spilling blood. Evelyn endured, her cries of pain a witness to her will.
Then, with calculated fury, Gaius delivered a devastating punch to her eye. The force of the impact sends the Inquisitor reeling, crashing to the ground with a thud that seems to echo the finality of her plight.
"Enough," the Dragonborn commands with a voice unyielding. "I am trying to be merciful but you are testing my patience, Trevelyan. Stand down and live another day."
Yet, Evelyn, driven by a resolve that defied her batter form, pushed herself up. She could barely stand, her breath ragged as it battled against the pain. Bloodied and beaten over, parts of her armor lay in tatter. Her shoulder was exposed to the skin, parts of her leg, and even her chest. Blood matted her forehead, and caked over her mouth. Her nose and face were bruised, swelling around an eye that's turned bloodshot from Gaius's blow. And her left hand was now the color of ash from all the flames she produced. But she stood, defiant through her labored breaths.
All the Dragonborn could merely do was glare in disappointment and slightly tinged with annoyance. His hand raised to his cheek, finding a small cut- an embodiment of her fierce determination. Not even with Mythal had she managed to wound him. The cut was a revelation to Gaius as he realized how deep her resolve would be. A pity they were on opposite sides.
"Well…," she prompted, "this is it then."
"Enough, Evelyn," Gaius glared. "This is your last chance. Stand down. This is your final-"
"SAVE YOUR BREATH!"
Evelyn's interruption cut through the tension like a blade. Her determination ignited in her eyes, blazing with a grit that startled even the Emperor. Flames wreathed her right arm, flaring with an intensity that momentarily threw Gaius off balance.
"I'm going to stop you here and now!" Evelyn cried out, the fire around her arm mirroring the fierce blaze in her spirit.
Gaius was perplexed and perturbed, taking a step back as the flames flickered their power into his eyes. His eyes closed, burning it into his mind. Then they opened to a calm, dead look of stillness as he merely replied with chilling resignation.
"Then you'll die."
With a battle cry that resonated with destructive force, Evelyn unleashed her fury. Her flames now engulfed her arm, scorching the earth beneath her. She hurled a torrent of fire straight at Gaius, the air around them erupting in a maelstrom of heat and force. Shockwaves rippled through the battlefield, the clouds above dispersed by the sheer energy of her assault.
The smoke was heavy and gray for what seemed like an hour, masking the conclusion. Little fires burned around in a circle, flickering over what was now just a blanket of ash over a cliffside.
As the smoke cleared, the first to break the silence was not a word, but a single drop of blood, a crimson testament to the battle's toll. It's soon followed by a drizzle, then a rain of it to a puddle fell upon by a charred arm. Bearing the eerie beauty of fiery veins, it glowed for a brief moment. A fleeting spark of the power it wielded. A quiet prelude to the unfolding tragedy.
Evelyn stood motionless to the ethereal dragon claw that pierced through her chest. Her gaze could only remain upon her bloodied arm. Blood trickled from her mouth.
Gaius, his expression one of unyielding disappointment, pushed her towards the cliff's edge, his arm still running through her. Evelyn, clinging to consciousness, coughed—a final act of defiance even as she teetered on the brink of death.
As they reached the precipice, Evelyn's gaze never wavered from the horizon, her thoughts a whirlwind of memories, regrets, and unfulfilled promises. Gaius's eyes remained unchanged, devoid of triumph or satisfaction.
"Goodbye, Inquisitor Trevelyan."
With a deliberate motion, Gaius withdraws the dragon claw from Evelyn's gut. The force of his action and the loss of support send her tumbling over the edge of the cliff.
Her fall is silent, a stark, final descent that ends with a splash into the river below. Gaius stands at the precipice, his gaze lingering on the scene unfolding beneath him. Evelyn's body, carried by the current, floats away, her blood a vivid trail in the clear water, marking the path of her final journey.
For a moment, Gaius watches, his expression unreadable as he contemplates the end of a formidable adversary, the river carrying her further away, the blood diluting into memory. Then, without another word, he turns and walks away, from the tragic conclusion of Evelyn Trevelyan.
Nivia and Piven's frantic escape through all the chaos around served as a vivid backdrop to their turmoil and desperation. Their breaths came in sharp gasps, feet pounding against the dirt and grass as the cacophony of the siege filled the air. Even if they couldn't make it clear, they saw the tapestry of conflict in the distance. Dragons swooping low, their roars and shouting mingling with the clash of magic violently across the barrier protecting Minrathous.
Amidst this turmoil, Niven and Piven are adrift in a sea of uncertainty and fear. Piven felt the string of Marcus's betrayal deeply, a wound made all the more painful by the revelations and sudden shift in allegiances. Nivia, on the other hand, grappled with the series of betrayals from Vel to the harrowing encounter with the Dragonborn, each deception layering atop the next, having her question everything.
As they navigate the chaos, their minds are a whirlwind of confusion and fear. Marcus's actions, seemingly betraying the Emperor in a sudden act of rebellion, added another layer of complexity to their already fraught journey. Yet the constant barrage of noise from the siege served as a grim reminder of the war raging on and the only thing that mattered now. Survive.
In the moment of vulnerability, a voice cuts through the tumult of the battlefield, a beacon of calm in the storm of chaos. It speaks directly to Piven, its message clear and compelling amidst the din of battle. Its inexplicable pull brings Piven into his mind, once again plunging him to a familiar place- the Fade. Dirthamen stands before him within this mindscape, a figure of calm in the chaos. The Fade around them is in a maelstrom; demons whirl past, their forms a blur of malevolence. The Eternal City at its heart pulsates with frenetic energy, its spires alive with ominous activity, and the distant roars of dragons fill the air, adding to the sense of impending doom.
Above them, the sky of the Fade itself appears fractured, cracks spreading across its expanse like spiderwebs, a visual testament to the thinning veil that separates this world from the reality Piven has momentarily left behind. The air is charged, and electric with the potential for cataclysm, painting a clear picture of the stakes at hand.
Dirthamen speaks, his voice cutting through the cacophony, "It's time, young one. The chaos you see around us, in the Fade and material world, all converges towards a singular point. The Dragonborn's ambitions threaten to unravel everything, to bring down the Veil itself. But we can use this.`"
Piven, surrounded by the tempest of the Fade's unraveling, feels the weight of Dirthamen's words. "Isn't the Veil coming down a good thing?" he stammered.
"Not like this," Dirthamen explained, "Not how he will do it, through blood and sacrifice. It will be too sudden, too violent, supercharging every demon as they are freed. Many of our people will die and we will be too weak. Much so that the demons will most likely kill us."
"But how can I- with everything happening?" gesturing to the chaos encircling them, thinking of what no good is happening in Thedas.
"The artifacts you took from the battlemage, they are the key," Dirthamen revealed. "You have sensed them, have you not? A small bit of us, each stored in them, only detectable by those of our children with the most fervent belief. They will act as conduits for us, like a map to you. And this map's destination is back home."
"But-"
"Young child, this is no time to doubt," Dirthamen chides, his voice sharpening. "Remember Maruc's lies, the Dragonborn's plans to use you. You were to be a sacrifice. Would you let their treacheries define our fate?"
Piven flinches at the reminders, the sting still fresh. Dirthamen pressed on, exploiting the pain. "For too long, the humans have humiliated us, enslaved us, seek our eradication. But you, young Piven, you have the power to change that. To restore us, restore Arlathan, take back what's ours, and triumph. Are you really hesitating about that?"
Piven finds it hard to focus, the turmoil around him getting to him. But the words manage to resonate deeply as he thinks back on everything, his clan, his enslavement,... his friend Laya. And now given the chance to play a pivotal role in restoring the elvhen, he couldn't rightly deny the intoxication prospect.
"All right, what must I do?" Piven asked, his decision made through the storm of uncertainty.
"Open your heart to us," DIrthamen instructed, his voice echoing with an ethereal calm that seemed almost out of place. "Trust in us and we will do the rest."
Piven closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he sought to center himself amidst the tempest of his thoughts and emotions. Memories of his journey cascaded through his mind—the sharp sting of capture and enslavement by Oppius, the uneasy alliance and subsequent travels with Marcus, and the camaraderie and shared victory with Hawke and his group. Finally, the bitter taste of betrayal as true intentions were revealed.
With each memory, a whirlwind of emotions followed: the initial despair and humiliation of captivity, the cautious optimism of newfound alliances, the exhilaration of triumph over Vel, and the crushing weight of deception and betrayal. Yet, amidst the pain and loss, a fragile seed of hope began to take root, a hope for freedom not just for himself, but for his people.
Unseen by Piven, Dirthamen's expression transformed, a sly smile creeping across his features.
Back Thedas, only seconds had passed since Piven had closed his eyes in acquiescence. Nivia, still running, felt a sudden surge of magic, ancient and distinctly elvhen. A pang of recognition shot through her—this was magic she remembered from the tomes and relics of her apprenticeship, magic that spoke of a time long past.
Her heart skipped a beat as she sensed not just the magic, but an overwhelming wave of pain that accompanied it. She turned, her scream catching in her throat as she witnessed Piven's transformation. His body contorted in agony, his skin illuminated from within as if a pillar of light was trying to burst forth from his very essence.
He was unable to speak, unable to cry out as the artifacts from his pack levitated around him, caught in a maelstrom of magic and light. Each piece pulsed with energy, drawn to the epicenter of the storm that Piven had become. Nivia, horror-struck, could only watch as the young Dalish boy writhed with pain so excruciating that made her knees tremble in fear.
It's then that Gaius appeared as if conjured from the very air itself. A shout, "FEIM" cuts through the tumult. Nivia whirls around, terror seizing her heart, her hands instinctively reaching for a spell, any spell, that might protect her or fend him off. Yet, her body betrays her, hesitating in the face of the Emperor who had so easily paralyzed her before. The memory of that helplessness, the absolute control he wielded, roots her to the spot, a prisoner of her own fear.
But Gaius makes no move to attack. "You shouldn't," he says, a surprising note of restraint in his voice. "And don't be afraid." His demeanor is almost casual as he steps past her, his attention fixed on Piven's struggling form.
"You should be more concerned about the young boy over there," he continues, gesturing toward the young Dalish elf caught in the throes of the ritual. His words, spoken with calm clarity, pierce the fog of Nivia's fear.
"If you truly wish to prevent the veil from being torn asunder, to stop demons from overrunning our world, I can assist him. I can help Piven." His offer hangs in the air, a lifeline amidst the chaos, suggesting an alliance forged not from trust but necessity.
The scene holds for a moment on Nivia's conflicted expression, her fear warring with the desperate hope that Gaius, despite everything, might hold the key to saving Piven—and perhaps all of them.
Hawke's return to consciousness is rough, each breath a reminder of the Dragonborn's devastating power. As his surroundings come into focus, his thoughts immediately turn to his companions, Merrill and Varric. Staggering to his feet, his concern morphs into alarm when he spots a figure through the haze—a witch, her attire revealing, her head adorned in what appear to be horns.
"Flemeth?" he murmurs, half in disbelief, as he approaches. But the figure turns, revealing not the Witch of the Wilds but Yavana, whose past aid had been pivotal in their quest.
Hawke's mention of Flemeth draws a raised eyebrow from Yavana. "Comparing me to Mother? How droll," she quips, her voice laced with sarcasm. The smirk playing on her lips belies the deep undercurrents of history and rivalry between them.
"Yavana?" Hawke questioned the witch's appearance. "How did you-"
"Must I explain everything," the witch rolled her eyes.
Yavana's expression sharpened as Hawke demanded to know why she was there. With a snap of her fingers, the air sizzled, and Hawke felt a searing sensation on his arms. He looked down to see draconic tattoos flaring to life, their glow intense and otherworldly before they faded back into his skin. "The dragon blood you imbibed has bound you to the Great Dragons... and to me," she revealed, her tone matter-of-fact yet laced with the gravity of the bond it signifies. "I can find you, follow you, as I please."
Hawke, unsettled by this revelation, clenched his fists, the implication of Yavana's words not lost on him. "So you can make me do your bidding?" he asked, wary of her intentions.
Yavana's response was nonchalant, a carefree shrug as she met his gaze. "I wouldn't need to," she chided gently. "You'd resist too much anyway to be useful. No, I won't compel you to action — so long as you're willing to lend me your ear."
Glancing past her, Hawke notices Merrill and Varric unconscious by her side. Instinctively, he tenses, ready to confront her. "What have you done to them?"
"They're safe, Hawke. Saved them from being reduced to nothing. Give them a moment," Yavana assures, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
"Why are you here?" Hawke demands, struggling to keep his guard up despite the exhaustion that claws at his every muscle.
Yavana's explanation unfolds a dire narrative of hidden dragons she put in the Fade and the war that threatens to unravel the very fabric of their world. "The Dragonborn seeks to pull from the Fade something so powerful it will shatter the Veil. The dragons, once freed, will be twisted, and corrupted- maybe they'll even become new archdemons, nothing is out of the possibility. But what is certain is that they will be lost forever."
Hawke's head spins with the weight of her words. "Why tell me this? What do you want from me?"
Yavana's response is cryptic, a challenge to his understanding of their plight. "Think, Hawke. You've already lost much. The question isn't what I want from you, but what you're willing to do to prevent further loss."
"I'm tired, Yavana. Tired of losing, tired of fighting battles where the odds are stacked against us," Hawke admits, his frustration palpable.
Yavana counters, a sharp edge to her voice. "You accepted the dragon blood, Hawke. In a way, didn't you use me as well? Now, I need you to prevent the Dragonborn from finishing his ritual."
Hawke's anger flares, the notion of being manipulated stinging anew. "So, I'm just a pawn to you?"
"Isn't that the role we all play in someone else's game?" Yavana retorts, unphased. "But you, Hawke, have a choice. Help me, and we can stop him."
Defeated and desperate, Hawke concedes, "Even if I agreed, what chance do we stand against the Dragonborn?"
"It's not just you," Yavana says, gesturing towards a figure engaged in battle in the distance. "There's a certain battlemage fighting over there, one recently deemed a traitor by you and yours. He might be our key to preventing the ritual."
Hawke squints, trying to make out the details of the distant skirmish. "You mean Marcus?" he asks, disbelief lacing his voice. The very idea that Marcus, branded a traitor, could be pivotal in halting the chaos unfurling before them is a lot to digest.
Yavana nods subtly, her eyes never leaving the horizon. "Exactly. Despite what has transpired, his loyalties do not lie with the Empire as you think. Observe."
With a flick of her wrist, Yavana enhances Hawke's vision. Suddenly, he can see the battle unfold as if he's standing right beside Marcus, who unleashes a torrent of magic against an adept swordswoman. Despite the onslaught, she counters with nothing but her martial skills.
Hawke watches, captivated yet conflicted. "And what would you know of his intentions?" he challenges Yavana, not ready to let down his guard or fully trust her insights.
"Let's just say, I have my ways," Yavana responds cryptically, her gaze shifting skyward. "But look above, Hawke. The Veil is weakening at the moment. Whatever Marcus's intentions, the immediate threat is what's tearing through the fabric of our reality."
Following her gaze, Hawke's eyes are drawn to the sky, now a chaotic maelstrom of energy threatening to rip the Veil apart. The direness of the situation sinks in, overshadowing his doubts and resentments.
"So, what? Do you want me to just forgive and forget? Join forces with him?" Hawke's voice is heavy with the weight of betrayal and loss.
Yavana turns to face him squarely. "I'm not asking you to forget, Hawke. But right now, your grievances are a luxury we cannot afford. Marcus is fighting against what threatens us all. Help him, and you help us all."
Hawke's stance softens, the reality of Yavana's words hitting home. Despite his anger and confusion, the choice before him is starkly clear.
"You're using me," he accuses, though without the venom that might have colored his words before.
"Perhaps," Yavana concedes with a half-smile. "But remember, you accepted the dragon's blood, and in doing so, you've played a part in this tale as much as I. We've both used and been used in the pursuit of our goals."
Hawke, channeling the tumult of emotions and the urgency of the situation, dashes towards the unfolding battle with a determination reminiscent of his many clashes in Kirkwall. "Another brilliant plan," he mutters under his breath, a half-smile flickering across his face, despite the gravity of the moment—a nod to Anders's often sardonic commentary on his improvisational tactics.
As he approached, the scene before him unfolded with a startling intensity. Marcus, caught in a frenzied exchange with Nilssa, exudes frustration with every spell he casts, each one dodged or countered with an almost effortless grace by his opponent. Nilssa's blade still sheathed, slices through the air with a lethal precision that belies its containment, her movements suggesting the presence of multiple, unseen weapons.
Nilssa's face is alight with a fierce joy, a stark contrast to Marcus's growing irritation. Her loyalty to the Emperor, and her determination to eliminate any threat to his plans, shine through her every action, making it clear to all watching the depth of her commitment.
Marcus, in a bid to turn the tide, unleashes a powerful dome of magic, a move that momentarily catches Nilssa off guard and sends her tumbling away. Seizing the advantage, Marcus bombards her with a relentless assault—bolts of fire, the crushing weight of earth magic, and a final, explosive eruption of flame that lights up the sky like a second sun.
For a moment, victory seems within Marcus's grasp until the illusion shatters. The 'Nilssa' he had been attacking dissipates, revealing her true location as she delivers a swift, cutting strike to his back. The pain is immediate, a sharp contrast to the brief triumph he had felt. Yet, with a staggering blow from his staff, Marcus manages to retaliate, blood flooding from Nilssa's nose.
Laughing off the injury, Nilssa taunts, "Seems we're evenly matched, Marcus." Her amusement is palpable, her confidence unshaken despite the blow. "How disappointing for the so-called 'Battlemage of the Empire'."
It's then that Hawke makes his entrance, tackling Nilssa to deliver a decisive strike. Her surprise is fleeting; she quickly regains her composure, managing to throw Hawke off with a swift summersault and creating distance between them.
As Hawke is knocked back by Nilssa's explosives, skidding to a halt beside Marcus, the momentary pause in the battle allows for a rapid exchange.
"Didn't expect to see you here, Hawke," Marcus grunts, eyeing him warily.
"No time for reunions," Hawke replies brusquely, getting straight to the point. "We need to stop the Dragonborn. Now. Where are Nivia and Piven?"
Before further questions can be raised, a giant beacon of light pierces the sky in the distance—the very sign of Piven's agony they had feared.
"What in the—," Marcus starts, his confusion mirrored in Hawke's expression.
"It's nearly time," Nilssa interjected, her tone dripping with triumph as she produced a device from her pocket. With a flick, a dome envelops Marcus and Hawke, trapping them within. "An experimental capture device," she explains, a smug smile on her face as she wags a finger at their futile attacks against the barrier. "Your efforts only strengthen it. Just relax and stay out of the way; it'll hold you long enough for the Emperor to free the Evanuris."
As the smoke from Nilssa's bomb dissipates, Marcus and Hawke are left facing the impenetrable dome encasing them. They throw themselves against the barrier with a frenzy, desperation etching every line of their bodies as they search for any weakness, any possibility of escape. Their movements are chaotic, driven by a raw urgency as they refuse to be mere spectators to the unfolding disaster.
After several fruitless attempts, their frantic energy begins to wane, the futility of their efforts becoming painfully apparent. They share a look, a silent communication of their shared resolve, but it's tinged with the harsh realization of their current helplessness.
Hawke, catching his breath, turns to Marcus, the frustration clear in his voice. "What now, Marcus? We can't just stand here!"
Marcus, his gaze fixed on the distant beacon of light—the unmistakable sign of Piven's distress—doesn't respond immediately. The worry for Nivia and Piven is evident in his expression, a stark reminder of the stakes at hand.
Finally, he speaks, his voice low and heavy with concern. "I don't know, Hawke. I truly don't." He pauses, his eyes still locked on the beacon. "But we need to find a way out. Nivia and Piven... they're in danger. We can't let them face this alone."
Back with Nivia, her initial terror at Gaius's appearance ebbed slightly as he addressed her not as an emperor to a subject, but with the warmth of a father. He understood her confusion and fear, acknowledging the whirlwind of events that had ensnared them both.
"You must be confused," Gaius started, his voice imbued with a rare gentleness, "but time is a luxury we do not have." He gestures towards Piven, now the epicenter of a storm of swirling artifacts. "Look at those artifacts around him. Tell me, what do you see?"
Nivia, her senses heightened by the adrenaline and the magic in the air, peers through her fear at the ancient relics orbiting Piven. With a moment's concentration, she recognizes the distinct, old Elvhen design, reminiscent of an artifact her master once acquired. "They're like... the artifact my master found. Old Elvhen," she says, her voice laced with disbelief.
Gaius nods solemnly. "Correct. But these are not just any artifacts. They were kept by each of the Evanuris, imbued with memories and emotions strong enough to tear through the Fade. And now, they're using Piven as a door to escape, a process that will obliterate the Veil and leave Thedas in ruins."
The weight of Gaius's explanation crashes down on Nivia. The reality of the Evanuris, the potential destruction of Thedas, and her inadvertent role in this apocalypse overwhelm her. "The Evanuris are real?" she stammers, grappling with the magnitude of what she's hearing. "How... What have I gotten myself into?"
Gaius attempts to reassure her, but the shock and fear have taken their toll. Nivia's instincts scream for her to flee, to escape this nightmare that's spiraled far beyond her comprehension. But before she can act on her panic, her body seizes, paralyzed by the overwhelming terror and confusion.
Then, as quickly as it began, the paralyzing fear dissipated, replaced by an eerie calm that washed over her, soothing her frayed nerves. This sudden shift in her emotional state is no coincidence—it's the work of magic, as revealed by Nilssa's timely appearance.
"Greetings, Emperor," Nilssa says, bowing slightly to Gaius. Her apology for paralyzing Nivia hangs in the air, a necessary precaution in her eyes to prevent any interference with the Emperor's plan.
Gaius, though visibly displeased by Nilssa's methods, acknowledges the urgency of their situation. "We must act quickly," he concedes, casting a spell that envelops Nivia in a calming aura. "Magnus's intervention grows more likely by the moment, and we cannot afford delays."
Nivia, still processing the whirlwind of revelations and the sudden calm imposed upon her, overhears Gaius's mention of Magnus lending her power. The words spark more questions than answers, hinting at a deeper connection to the unfolding events and her own unexplained bursts of power throughout their journey.
As the tension mounts, Nivia, with a solemn nod, retrieves the Fea Opus. "It's ready," she announces, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of fear.
Gaius, his gaze shifting skyward, gives a short nod of approval just as a dragon swoops down to their location. Serana, dismounting with an urgency that belies her composed demeanor, quickly strides towards Gaius.
"Serana, you shouldn't be here," Gaius warns, his tone mixing concern with command.
"I won't let you do this alone," Serana counters firmly, her resolve clear. Nilssa attempts to intervene, suggesting Serana's departure, but is swiftly cut off. "This isn't a request," Serana states, leaving no room for argument.
As Serana turns her attention to Nivia and Piven, Gaius attempts to mitigate the tension. "I'm not going to harm them," he assures. "They're merely conduits for what must be done."
Serana's rebuke is swift, her disdain for the alternate, unspoken decision palpable. Nilssa, ever loyal, insists, "The hardest decisions are necessary for the greater good. The Qunari have nearly been eradicated; what is one city in the grand scheme?"
Gaius conflicted, admits, "It's a harsh course, but if it means saving all mortals and undoing the pain... it's a temporary sacrifice."
Serana remains skeptical, but Gaius reaffirms, "Nilssa speaks the truth. We must succeed. The Evanuris' power is key."
Turning his attention to a communicator, Gaius issues a command to Celanya, the Altmer general. "Proceed with the plan," he orders, his voice echoing with a heavy finality.
As the dragons converge above Minrathous, their collective shout—a thunderous "FUS RO DAH"—shatters the barrier protecting the city. The once-mighty walls crumble, golems guarding the entrances fall, and chaos ensues as Gaius's forces breach the defenses.
Celanya relays the command, and the city descends into a maelstrom of violence. Soldiers and Daedric summons lay waste to the city, soldiers are easily cut aside by murderous charges of Orcs and Redguards. Civilians try to scatter as their throats and heads are shot by volley after volley of Bosmer arrows and Imperial cross bolts. Not even the slaves were spared as Daedroths, Atronachs, and Winged Twilights brutally decapitated them while the dragons took it all as sport swooping and picking as many inhabitants to munch on. The streets run red, knee floating in the streets of organs and piss from the dying. The floating structures held high collapsed, bringing down more rubble and death on top of it all.
The resulting carnage, a grim spectacle of destruction and despair, tears at the very fabric of the Fade. The sky above fractures, revealing a breach that spreads across the horizon, reminiscent of past calamities but on an unprecedented scale.
As the world teetered on the brink of annihilation, Gaius began the ritual. With a determined grimace, he extracted the Elvhen orb from the depths of his cloak, beginning an intricate enchantment. As he chants, the orb pulsates with energy, casting an ethereal glow that momentarily brightens the darkened skies. With a sudden burst, it directs a focused beam of energy toward Piven. The boy, ensnared in torment and magical upheaval, feels an abrupt cessation of his agony as the chaotic energies enveloping him begin to coalesce and calm under the orb's influence.
Gaius, however, finds the ritual's strain taxing, the effort of maintaining control evident in his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. It's Serana who steps in without hesitation, her own magic weaving seamlessly with his. She links him to Nivia, the young apprentice now serving as an anchor, stabilizing the ritual and allowing Gaius to concentrate on the task at hand.
Outside, the tumult of battle and destruction gives way to a peculiar order, a calm at the eye of the storm. Nilssa, ever watchful, stands in awe of the unfolding spectacle. The breach above, a gaping maw of chaotic energy, begins to contract, spitting out remnants of its fury—demons flung far from the epicenter—as if making room for something far more ancient and powerful to emerge.
From a distance, Hawke and Marcus witness the skies convulsing, the barrier that once held them captive crumbling to dust. Freed, they race towards the epicenter, drawn by the spectacle of magic and power that unfolds before them.
The artifacts encircling Piven halt their frenzied dance, aligning as sentinels around him as the breach narrows to a point directly above. Gaius, his voice blending Daedric intonations with the draconic tongue, elevates the Fea Opus into the air, positioning it above Piven, encircled by the artifacts. The scene is electric, the air thick with power as the book begins to draw in the energy, funneling it through Piven.
The intensity of the ritual's climax nearly overwhelms those present; Nilssa braces Nivia against the force, while Serana steadies herself, the magnitude of their endeavor etched in their expressions. The energy flows into the book through Piven, agony etched on his face as it channels through him, splitting into seven beams that each find an artifact.
With a final incantation, Gaius channels the entirety of his will into the ritual. The moment he completes it, a shockwave of unprecedented power ripples across the sky and through the Veil itself. The heavens seem to fracture, a cascade of raw, untamed magic washing over the continent, revealing a world long hidden.
Above, the true sky of Aetherius unveils itself, a riot of magical auroras dancing across the heavens, creatures of myth and legend swimming through the ether beneath the watchful gaze of Secunda and Masser. In the aftermath of the shockwave, the landscape around them had morphed into a realm of otherworldly chaos, the veil's disappearance ushering in an era where the mundane and magical were no longer distinct.
Serana, her head spinning, coughed as she fought to regain her balance, her voice barely audible over the otherworldly tumult. "Gaius!" she called out, her words tinged with urgency.
Gaius, on his knees, appeared charred, as if he had been at the heart of the storm. The orb at his side crackled with residual power before it fractured, falling apart like a shattered egg. Serana reached out with her healing magic, the light from her hands enveloping him, dissipating the worst of the burns. He shook his head, trying to dismiss her concern. "I'm fine," he insisted, though his voice betrayed the effort it took to speak.
"And Nilssa? Nivia?" he managed to ask, concern creasing his brow even as he struggled to rise.
"Out of it but... she looks fine," Nilssa reported, her gaze lingering on Nivia's still form.
Before he could inquire after Piven, a voice, sinister and dripping with contempt, filled the air. "That's the least of your problems."
They all turned, their expressions a mixture of surprise and apprehension, as they faced the direction of the voice. Piven was there, coughing and weak, his gaze slowly lifting to the newcomers.
Before them stood the Evanuris, seven of them garbed in bronze-gold armor that glimmered with an ancient majesty. Each figure was a blend of corporeal might and spectral otherworldliness, with draconic horns adorning their heads, hinting at a power beyond the mortal realm.
And then there was Elgar'nan. As their gazes fixed upon him, his mocking words echoed with the force of thunder, each syllable laced with the promise of a reckoning. "Dragonborn? Emperor?" he sneered, his tone laden with derision. "You trifled with forces you could not comprehend. Mythal? Fen'Harel? Those traitors were mere preludes to the storm you have now invited upon yourself."
The area around them, though ripped apart by magical forces, seemed to hold its breath at Elgar'nan's pronouncement.
Gaius stood, facing the godlike beings, his own power as the Dragonborn now paling in the face of these ancient entities. "If it is a battle you seek, you will find I am not without my own might," he declared, though the hint of doubt flickered behind his eyes.
Elgar'nan's laughter was like the crack of breaking worlds. "A battle, indeed. But know this, Dragonborn: you may have tipped the scales, but we are the weight that will crush them. Prepare yourself."