At first, he’s not sure if he hears Emmrich correctly. If the other man is telling the truth, then he’s been gone for nearly a decade. That’s bloody impossible.

He’s about to protest loudly and belligerently when–as if on cue–Emmrich disappears. Just like that. The teacup he’d been holding falls to the floor, tea soaking into the wolfskin rug.

Hawke stares at the growing stain, incredulity battling with exasperation.

“That trick is not going to work,” he says to the empty chaise. “I know you’re still here!”

His only answer is the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

He waits around in the parlor for a while, convinced that this is all part of their little game, but it becomes increasingly evident that Emmrich isn’t going to return. Frustrated, he kicks at the teacup with a muttered curse.

As if that little bit of porcelain were the keystone holding the entire illusion together, the parlor dissolves before his eyes. He’s back among the wisps, the river a black ribbon near the horizon.

The river. His armor. Emmrich mentioned his armor, didn’t he? Perhaps it holds some clue to unravelling all this.

Trying very, very hard not to think about the possibility that he really has been trapped in the Fade for nine years (nine! years!), he retraces his steps to the place where he made the crossing. Or attempts to, anyway. It’s as though someone rearranged the landscape while he was gone—none of the bends in the river look at all familiar. His armor is nowhere to be seen.

It’s a minor setback, insignificant compared to the larger problem of how the fuck he’s going to get out of here, but it’s the straw that breaks the druffalo’s back. He sinks to his knees, puts his face in his hands, and tries not to cry.

Nine years. A lot can happen in nine years. If, by some miracle, he manages to make it back to the real world, what will be left? Who will be left? A horrifying mental image forces its way into his mind: Corypheus ascendant, Thedas a burning wasteland prowled by crystalline red monsters.

If only he’d managed to kill the bastard the first time. If only he’d managed to do anything right.

“Aren’t you tired of this?”

He jerks his head up. Before him stands Bethany as he’d last seen her, pale and dead and broken. The front of her blouse is a ruin of torn flesh and blood-soaked fabric, but there is no pain on her young face. Only pity.

He stares, mouth agape, unable to speak. She continues, seemingly oblivious to his shock.

“Come now, brother. You didn’t really think you’d find a way out, did you? You know better than that. There are no miracles here. Not for us.”

With great difficulty, he manages to get his mouth working. “You’re not real. You’re dead.”

She laughs in that girlish way of hers, just as she used to do whenever he’d derail one of their father’s lessons with some inane joke or wild tangent. “Yes. What makes you think you aren’t?”

He has no answer to that.

As if encouraged by his silence, Bethany takes a step closer, her dark eyes glittering in the diffuse half-light. He notes, with a strange sort of near-hysteric detachment, that she casts no shadow.

“It’s time to stop fighting the inevitable. You can be at peace now. Come with me to the Maker’s side, Garrett. He is waiting for you. He will reward you for your faith.”

And just like that, the illusion shatters. To say that Hawke is impious would be a gross understatement: he has been allergic to the Chantry practically since he was breeched. As far as he’s concerned, all those promises of a glorious afterlife spent nibbling h’ors d’oeuvres at the Maker’s heavenly garden party are wishful thinking at best and cynical manipulation at worst. Bethany knew that. Everybody knew that.

He gets to his feet, the air turning heavy as he gathers his magic to him. His staff is long gone, shattered into kindling by a single blow from the Nightmare demon’s armored thorax, but he’s no tame Circle mage, helpless without a focus. His father taught him better than that.

Even here, with only a demon as his audience, he can’t let go of his bravado. Old habits die hard, he supposes. He flashes a smile, steels himself for a fight. “Sorry, sweetheart. If you were the real Bethany, you’d know damn well that I’m headed straight for the Void.”

The demon emits an inhuman shriek as his fireball strikes it, its disguise burning away to reveal the tattered rags and hunched form of a Despair demon.

Hawke doesn’t wait for the counterblow. He flees as fast as his legs can carry him, Emmrich’s loaned sash fluttering behind him like a battle pennant. Inglorious retreat. Very gallant of him.

He’s not sure how far he runs. Time and distance blur in the adrenaline haze. He only stops when his legs threaten to give out. As he stands there, gasping, straining his ears for any sound of pursuit, he feels a change in the Fade—the return of a familiar presence.

“Just so you know,” he pants, “I don’t much care for your colleagues.”