He blinks. “Wake up…?” So this, then, is the demon’s cover story. Hawke doesn’t buy it. He remembers his encounter with the dreamer Feynriel: the boy had been confused, unable to distinguish reality from the tricks of the Fade. If Emmrich really is a dreaming mortal, then his lucidity is exceptional.

For all his suspicions, though, he still doesn’t have a clue what the demon might be angling for claiming to know Isabela. He considers her a trusted friend, but he was not exceptionally close to her during their time together in Kirkwall—no closer than he was to any other member of their little band of misfits, at least. If the aim is to manipulate, then claiming a connection to Varric or Carver makes far more sense.

(Or even Anders, loathe though he may be to admit it.)

The other possibility, however unlikely, is that Emmrich is telling the truth. If that’s the case, then Hawke is even more fucked that he previously thought possible. Just how much time has he spent in the Fade?

But there’s hope. False hope, in all probability, but right now it’s the only lifeline he has. He takes a deep breath, steels himself for the worst, then nods. “Alright. Deal.”

The demon—or the dreamer—requires a secret. He searches his memory, pushing aside the guilt he feels at revealing Isabela’s personal business to a (possibly malevolent) stranger.

“Tell her… Tell her that her husband deserved it. That’s she’s a better person than she gives herself credit for. And that she still owes me one for that debacle on Sundermount.”

By ‘debacle,’ he means the time that Isabela left the rest of their party on the mountainside in the pouring rain while she ducked into a tent to do some catching up of the physical variety with her old Crow acquaintance.The muddy trudge back down to the valley below was one of most awkward trips he’s ever had the misfortune of enduring, but the incident soon became a running joke within their circle. He’s certain that she’ll remember—probably get a good laugh out of it, too.