fade shenanigans

[accipio]

Hawke isn’t sure how long it’s been since the others left him to face the Nightmare demon. 

He had expected to die. Counted on it, actually. When the demon raised one of its chitinous appendages and swatted him into the abyss, he’d been almost disappointed to not land face-first in the Maker’s bosom. It was supposed to be a heroic sacrifice—a far better end than he’d ever imagined himself getting, all things considered. 

What he gets instead is a rather ungentle landing in yet another Maker-forsaken corner of the Fade. He allows himself a brief moment of despair, and then he carries on.

So he walks. And keeps walking. The world around him dissolves and reforms without rhyme or reason; fragments of impossible architecture give way to eddying greenish mist that solidifies into eerily familiar shapes before dispersing again. The mist, in turn, gives way to vast plains and valleys populated only by drifting wisps. Time as well as space seems to expand and contract around him. He knows from his past experience with the dreamer Feynriel that time passes differently in the Fade; minutes here could be days in the real world, and vice versa. He tries and fails to avoid thinking about what might be happening on the other side of the Veil.

After what could be weeks or mere hours, he comes to the shore of a river. Something about it unnerves him. It takes him a few moments to realize that the surface of the still black water casts no reflection—not his face, not the distant spires of the Black City, not the endless green sky. He spends an indeterminate amount of time walking along the water’s edge, but no bridge or isthmus presents itself. With a sinking feeling, he realizes that the only way to cross is to swim for it. He hurriedly strips off his armor, telling himself that physical protection matters little here. It doesn’t help; he still feels uncomfortably vulnerable without it.

He expects the water to be cold. It isn’t. It doesn’t really even feel like water at all, more like mist or steam. As he swims for the other side, doing his damnedest not to think about what might be lurking below, he feels something beneath the surface ghost across his bare legs. It’s light, almost playful. Only with immense effort does he resist the urge to thrash about in panic.

Against all odds and his own expectations, he makes it to the other side in one piece. The Fade here is… different. Welcoming, even. Wisps flit about in the perpetual twilight, their little lights twinkling merrily. If he squints, he can almost convince himself that he’s back in Lothering, watching the fireflies dance in the fields on a summer evening. 

Therein lies perdition. Hawke is no fool; he knows that the denizens of this realm have likely been watching him since he and the others first tumbled into the Fade. Weak demons attack outright, but the truly dangerous lull their prey into a false sense of security. He’d bet every copper to his name that he’s just wandered into the domain of the latter.

Well, it will have to work for its meal. He squares his shoulders, draws himself up to his full height. The effect is somewhat spoiled by the fact that he’s currently soaking wet and naked save for his smalls.

“Hello?” He can’t fight his way out of this, so he may as well try and talk his way out. “Just so you know, I taste awful.”

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[accipio]

The Fade feels lonelier this time around. The knowledge of Varric’s death hangs over him like a looming shadow, everywhere and inescapable. The starless sky seems to press down on him suffocatingly, and the dancing wisps begin to look more sinister than merry.

Try as he might to distract himself, his mind keeps going back to that night in Varric’s tent. If he had known that they’d never see each other again, what would he have said? I’ll miss you? Trite. You’re my best friend? Trite and obvious. I love you? Trite, obvious, and not something that two hairy-chested, hard-drinking men would ever dare say to each other.

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one in particular. “For everything.” He doesn’t put stock in the idea of an afterlife, but if any part of Varric remains, then maybe...

He abandons that line of thought, recognizing the wishful thinking for what it is. The simple fact is that Varric is gone. There’s another hole in his life where a person he loved used to be. It seems to him that his life is mostly holes now. Empty spaces and dead ends.

In a way, he’s grateful for the tears when they come. Let him exorcise his grief now and face Emmrich again with some shred of his dignity still intact. After a few moments, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and pushes away his sorrow. He can’t afford to be indulgent. Not here, among creatures drawn to pain like sharks to blood.

Repressing his feelings is therefore a matter of self-preservation. He paces back forth on the riverbank, studiously attempting to avoid thinking of anything at all. When that doesn’t work, he starts counting pebbles. He’s on pebble number one thousand and sixty two when a tall, Emmrich-shaped shadow falls across his discard pile.

“Oh,” he says casually, blinking red-rimmed eyes. “Nice to see you back."

A real, live griffon. He'll be damned. "If you were anyone else, I'd accuse you of taking advantage of my credulous tendencies. But you don't strike me as a liar.” He pauses. "Thank you. For coming back to me."

[corpsestuff]

The red-rimmed eyes, now that Hawke's looked up, say everything and Emmrich feels awful about the timing of his last departure. It isn't something he can control, but that changes nothing. He takes a seat next to Hawke and the pile of pebbles.

"Both 'you're welcome' and 'of course' fall utterly short as responses to that," Emmrich says. "But I will keep returning." Either they get him out because he's alive, or the man needs company here as Emmrich tries to figure out what can be done for a seemingly intact dead person wandering the Fade. Assuming, of course, that he's Hawke, but Emmrich doesn't let those doubts color his mind while he's here. He's too aware of how transparent he is with everything he feels. If this is a person, Hawke deserves to feel trusted.

"And I apologize for starting so abruptly on my return." Spending the day going through a practical checklist of things to look into and trying to remember them to say in the Fade later lead to a feeling of needing to make sure some things were said before he forgot them.

"Would you like to take the lead and set the pace today? Downriver still appears to be our heading." The wisps had yet to indicate otherwise, and he was rather hoping the Caretaker could find a way here.

[accipio]

Somehow, Hawke finds the wherewithal to try for some semblance of humor. “Just can’t stay away, eh? I tend to have that effect on people.” He attempts a cheeky wink, but it comes off as more of a wince than anything else. “Sorry. Old habits and all that.”

Truth be told, he’s not sure why Emmrich continues to go to such lengths to assist him. The risks are myriad, and the potential benefits minimal. Perhaps the Mortalitasi is one of those rare altruistic people who simply can’t help but try and rescue every bedraggled stray they come across. Or perhaps Hawke really is dead, and Emmrich is simply caring for another one of the departed, just as he’s surely done countless times before. The possibility disturbs him. He doesn’t feel dead—but then again, he doesn’t know how being dead is supposed to feel.

Best not to dwell on that now. He rises to his feet and dusts himself off. “No apologies necessary. Let’s get going—I fancy a change of scenery.”

As they walk, the Fade geography surrounding the river begins to change subtly. Half-buried stone structures emerge from the sand, so decayed and ancient that Hawke can’t even guess at their original purpose or provenance. The weight of his own thoughts grows oppressive, so he talks just for the sake of it. “So. How exactly does a senior Mortalitasi come to join a band of god-killing misfits? Felt like a bit of excitement, did you?”

[corpsestuff]

"You did refer to your charm a couple of days ago," Emmrich says warmly, hoping it's encouraging rather than off-putting. The last stretch of a difficult journey is always the most difficult, and Hawke is showing so many signs of being worn down. It isn't the grief alone. Years of having to be on guard just to survive would of course take their toll.

He stands with Hawke and dusts his pants off with a nod. The ruins are promising as they get more complex, oddly enough. While they could be the hiding spot of any number of older beings, the amount of ruins in the Crossroads make him hope that they're getting somewhere adjacent to them.

Hawke's question gets a laugh out of him. "Not in particular, no, though it is rather invigorating. I'm an expert on the Fade and spirits, and Solas not only used to be a spirit, he wishes to tear down the Veil. I was called upon for my knowledge and to assist in dealing with increased activity and see what we can do to prepare if part of it is indeed torn."

He pauses, and his expression grows more amused. "I think I'm also along to help the three younger members of the team not give in to the various temptations along the way. Like the bizarre inclination to go fight a dragon after getting too drunk to stand up on one's own. Or the desire to poke a just-discovered ancient artifact and see what may happen."

Sometimes he finds himself helpful with curbing Spite's influence as well, but this doesn't feel like the time yet to explain what's going on with Lucanis. That requires a little more build-up.

"All seven of my teammates are competent, thankfully. Though of course no one comes without baggage."

[accipio]

Hawke much prefers walking to sitting around. His mood changes along with the scenery, growing less melancholy as the ruined stone walls and chunks of masonry turn into identifiable buildings—derelict and ancient, sure, but still a promising sign that they’re headed towards… something. If not a way out, then some kind of resolution. Closure is about the best he dares to hope for at this point.

“Of course Solas wants to tear down the bloody Veil.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Why wouldn’t he? None of these megalomaniacal tits ever want to do anything logical, like plunder a few treasuries, or install themselves upon the throne of their choice. No, that would make too much sense. Better remake the whole damn world instead.” With the elf in question out of his reach, he settles for venting his frustration upon an egg-shaped rock at his feet. His kick sends it skittering in the river. “Arsehole.”

At least Emmrich and company are doing their best to stop Solas’ plans from bearing fruit, even if some of the younger members of the team seem a bit… rambunctious. He smirks, reminded of the antics that he and his friends used to get up to back in Kirkwall. Emmrich would have had his hands full with them, that’s for damn sure. “I owe you my congratulations, then. It sounds to me like you’ve become a foster parent. Or a criminally underpaid babysitter, if you prefer.”

Emmrich seems to hesitate, and Hawke wonders what he might be holding back. Perhaps things in the waking world are more dire than he’d imagined. That diplomatic remark about baggage, though, makes him wonder whether the issue isn’t something more personal. “That just means that you’ve lived,” he agrees, his tone carefully neutral. “We all have our burdens to bear. Every one of us. But we don’t have to bear them alone.”