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.”

Comments

You have no idea how glad I was to see this. <3

[corpsestuff]

He stops walking when Hawke covers his face, waiting patiently and watching the river so the other man feels no pressure. They have time. By all accounts, the two were the best of friends, so of course the loss hit hard. Even if they hadn't been, grief is a powerful thing.

Emmrich turns to face Hawke again when he speaks and shakes his head. "I'm with the Mourn Watch. Part of my duties are to support those who have lost, and sometimes those who have been lost. It's never easy, but it's important." His voice is gentle.

"Whatever time you need, we can take." Time is strange here. They both know it. Distance can also act oddly; sometimes standing in place for a time and then walking covers more ground than a mad dash. Emmrich is an expert on the Fade but even he will easily admit there's much he does not yet know. "Or if you have another need we can attend to that. I'm here, and until I wake up, I'm staying here. I'll continue returning until we're at a point to attempt an exit."

He needs to remember that his first priority upon waking is talking with the Caretaker. If anyone can get a Fade boat up a Fade river, it's them.

[accipio]

Odd, how the Fade seems so much more foreboding now than it had a scant few minutes ago. Sometimes he forgets just how powerful loss can be, the way it knocks the entire world off its axis. He feels dizzy, as though the earth has literally shifted beneath his feet, but he knows it’s just in his head.

Emmrich’s consideration is touching; honestly, Hawke isn’t sure whether he deserves it. He flashes a watery smile, desperate to convince the other man (and himself) that he isn’t about to fall apart. The ground lurches again, dangerously close, and he’s forced to admit to himself that perhaps the shock and fatigue are taking their toll. He lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the sandy swell of the riverbank. “Sit with me a moment?”

“You’re putting yourself in danger by visiting me here,” he continues, gaze sweeping aimlessly over the pebbles that litter the water’s edge. Among them are small fossils of odd-looking shelled creatures. Funny, he thinks, how life once flourished even here. “I won’t disrespect the risk you’re taking by sitting here and crying into your apron. I just… need a minute or two.”

Or five, or ten. His vision blurs once again, and he desperately searches for something, anything to focus his numb, dizzying grief into something useful. “Solas. You said Solas killed him.” Hawke saw little of the elf during his brief collusion with the Inquisition. From what he remembers, Solas was a soft-spoken, intelligent man who largely kept to himself, which probably had something to do with the fact that he was an apostate living among a bunch of Chantry zealots. At the time, Hawke sympathized. Now? He could throttle the bastard with his own hands.

“Surely he’s not really an elven god. That’s…” Impossible, he wants to say. Nothing he’s ever seen in his thirty-odd years has ever given him the slightest faith in the existence of any higher power, Andrastian, elven, or otherwise. But when seemingly impossible things keep smacking one square in the face, there comes a time to reconsider one’s beliefs. “...Fucked up. How do we stop him?”

[corpsestuff]

"I have chosen this risk," Emmrich says as he takes a careful seat, mere inches away from Hawke. It won't actually make his pants dirty, the sand, but he's aware of it nonetheless. Silly, truly, to be concerned about that when strong, territorial spirits might be on the prowl.

He follows Hawke's gaze and wonders what the man is thinking about, what he's seeing. The Fade is beautiful even in its darker corners and heavier moments. Soon enough Hawke starts speaking, and Emmrich has a guess as to the first stage of grief his companion will be working through.

"Currently he's imprisoned. Let me back up a little so there's some context to the situation." Emmrich can give Hawke a goal, a target for his anger, and maybe increase the odds of his survival. But he needs to not get too bogged down by the details, switch into lecture mode and risk losing his audience.

"There were eight evanuris, elven gods, powerful spirits who took form and became elvhen mages, and countless powerful but less-so mages around them. Solas was involved with the eighth, Mythal, and when the other seven killed her, he lead a rebellion to imprison them in a prison filled with the Blight, forming the Veil. He also buried the dragons tied to them, now known as the archdemons. When an archdemon died, it made the evanuris attached to it vulnerable, letting the Blight kill them so only two remain." So many details were being skipped and this was still verging on too much information.

"Solas wanted to remove the veil and return the world to how it was, flooding it with spirits, but the former prison was a part of it. He made a new prison for the two gods and was in the process of transferring them into it when Varric and three more finally caught up to him. In the chaos that followed, Solas wound up in the new prison after killing Varric, and the two other gods escaped. So Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, and Elgar'nan's archdemon are the current threats as we've ended Ghilan'nain's archdemon."

It's only slightly daunting and ridiculous, reflected in his voice. "He has, doubtlessly, a plan to get free. But with Tevinter blood magic cultists, Venatori, and the military arm of the Qunari, the Antaam, both choosing to serve the gods for more power, and the gods controlling Darkspawn, Solas is somehow a lesser threat."

That he's currently seemingly assisting them does not need to be mentioned. Emmrich will not trust Solas to be helping for any reason other than something being in it for Pride as well. There will be a catch, he has no doubt. Wisdom turned Pride is an incredibly dangerous combination, especially when it's likely Pride is convinced he retains the part of him that was once Wisdom. No corrupted spirit ever wants to believe they're so corrupted that they've lost who they once were.

"So. We kill the final archdemon and two gods, one of whom we have actually injured, thankfully, and then we can sort out the last god. It is incredibly ridiculous. I did mention earlier that I was tasked with multiple unprecedented things to accomplish, though." He did understate it, a little. "There's a team, which helps matters. You'd be very welcome to join if you so choose, but I do want to re-state that there is no price for getting you out of here."

[accipio]

In any other circumstances, Hawke would assume that all this talk of risen gods was part of a very elaborate, very outlandish prank, but Emmrich doesn’t seem the type to play cruel jokes. He listens in gobsmacked silence, feeling more and more lost by the second. Elgar’nan, Ghilan’nain… These names he knows from Merrill’s stories of her people’s Creators, but she certainly never mentioned Archdemons or the blight. He pinches the bridge of his nose, a headache forming behind his eyes.

Slowly, the full implications of what Emmrich has told him begin to sink in. “If even half of this is true, then it disproves the whole foundation of Andrastianism.” He’d always believed that the Chant of Light was about as factual as one of Varric’s sleazier potboilers, but he feels no pleasure in having his suspicions vindicated. “I’m from the South—I know how deeply entrenched the Chantry is down there. Even if the whole world doesn’t go to the Void in a handbasket, there will be…” He grimaces. “...Complications. People don’t usually react well to the knowledge that their entire belief system is built on lies.”

He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “But we can burn that bridge when we come to it. First things first.” Emmrich has given him a target, something to focus on. For that, he’s immensely grateful. “Sounds like our job is pretty simple. What’s a bit of deicide here and there?” He smiles faintly, feeling almost like his old self again. “I never could resist impossible odds.” Maybe it’s the lingering shock that makes him reach out and lay a hand on Emmrich’s shoulder. Maybe he needs an anchor. Maybe he just wants to be close to the man who’s gone out of his way to help him. “If I manage to make it out of this, I swear to you that I won’t stop until all of this is fixed. If your team will have me, I’m all yours.”

[corpsestuff]

Hawke's hand is large and as warm as the man himself seems to be, something solid in this place where things can shift on a whim. The touch is only momentarily surprising at this point. A little more surprising is his own response; Emmrich reaches up to rest a hand over Hawke's. He's being comforting, he tells himself, and tries to ignore any fluttering he feels.

"If it's any consolation, faith is a powerful force. There will be many who simply refuse to believe that Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain showed up, forget that they were ever more than excessively powerful mages. And the Chant has been challenged before. Those who choose to believe it will simply go on as if nothing's changed."

After giving Hawke's hand a squeeze, Emmrich pulls back his hand, stands and offers his hand right back out in case the man would like help standing.

"And I have no doubt my team will have you." He will not let his mind wander further down that road. "We're a little mage-heavy but no one's complained yet. There's Neve, Bellara, Rook, and myself, all mages. Then we have Lucanis, the Crow who works with daggers," and considering the story of Kirkwall he's going to have to ask Lucanis for permission to broach the topic of Spite with Hawke before they meet, "Lace, an archer, Taash, who uses axes, and Davrin, a Grey Warden who uses sword and shield. And griffon."

There. He can at least interject a little bit of joy into the mix of heavy news as there's no chance Hawke's heard of griffons being back. Perhaps later they can talk about still needing to rescue 12 of them, but there's no need to spoil some happy news.

As soon as Hawke's up, whether he takes Emmrich's hand or not, Emmrich is once more claimed by waking up and vanishes.

[accipio]

Hawke half-expects Emmrich to politely request that he move his meaty paw elsewhere, or at least ignore what amounts to a rather tactless breach of personal space. The smaller hand that comes to rest atop his is therefore unexpected, albeit very welcome. Hawke stares at it, stupidly, then glances up at Emmrich with an expression of flustered surprise. “I like your rings.” Maker. With lines like that, it’s little wonder that his love life is drier than Meredith’s arid, mummified—

Anyway. “Perhaps you’re right. If faith brings people comfort, let them hold onto it. And yet part of me hopes that things will never go back to the way they were. Blind adherence to tradition is what got us into this mess in the first place.” He huffs a laugh, suddenly self-conscious. “Maker, I sound like Anders.”

When Emmrich withdraws his hand, Hawke finds that he sorely misses the contact, but he knows that sitting there holding hands like teenaged paramours is not a strategic use of their very limited time together. Herding his thoughts back to safer territory, he allows Emmrich to help him to his feet. If he should lean on that supportive arm for a few seconds longer than necessary, then what of it?

“That sounds like quite the band of misfits. Reminds me of the old days, actually, back when Varric and I—” He stumbles onto that emotional landmine with all the grace of a blind Orlesian dowager trying to dance a minuet after half a bottle of claret. He might have broken down then and there if not for Emmrich’s deceptively casual mention of his team’s resident griffon. Hawke is so flummoxed that he forgets to be devastated. “Wait. What do you mean, a griffon?”

He’s always had terrible luck when it comes to getting men to stick around after they spend the night with him. The fact that he and Emmrich have spent the night exploring the Fade rather than engaging in more carnal pursuits evidently makes little difference. “Andraste’s tits,” he grumbles at the patch of air formerly occupied by his companion. “At least give me some warning!”

[corpsestuff]

'I like your rings,' Hawke had said, completely off-topic and out of the blue and with an expression that sticks with Emmrich after he wakes, along with how Hawke had definitely sought prolonged contact with him. Emmrich lays in bed for a few extra moments. He can't let any thoughts or emotions get out of hand. Hawke could be dead, and there's no having more with a remnant in the Fade.

For the first time his hopes that Hawke is alive include a little selfishness, though.

The primary issue, the one he heads to deal with as soon as he's out of his nightgown and armed with tea, is figuring out if he can coordinate efforts with the Caretaker. There are no maps of the Fade. The river feels old, incredibly so, but that doesn't mean it's been there for any longer than the couple of weeks ago Hawke's armor had shown up. It also doesn't necessarily mirror any real rivers. Even trawling the Necropolis' library doesn't help him with sorting out the Caretaker's destination. They'll try to find the current, they assure him. It's something. Audric promises to see if he can help as well, and that too is something. Knowing he's not alone on this side of the Fade trying to figure out a way to help Hawke is even far more than merely something.

Neve finds him when he returns to the Lighthouse and jerks her head in the direction of her corner of it. Emmrich raises an eyebrow and follows her into her wisp-filled office.

"This seems personal," she says in lieu of small talk. He appreciates that.

"I am the Fade expert, and I'm the one who found him. It can't not be personal."

The corner of her mouth curls up in a half-smile briefly as their gazes meet. "But that's not all."

Emmrich takes a seat on her table. He knows it's more personal than that, but he's not had the time or the desire to really break down the situation. Not until now. It doesn't help that he's a bit tired; when he's aware in the Fade his sleep isn't nearly as restful.

"It is more than that," he says after some consideration. He's still mulling it over as he talks, since sometimes speaking helps his thoughts fall in order. "I think in part it's due to the scope of everything we're facing. Killing two gods, along with all of the rest, would generally be considered impossible. Rescuing someone from the Fade who has been in there for a decade would also be generally considered impossible. If I can do the latter, it makes the former feel more approachable."

"More possible." She nods, looking out the 'window' to the Fade. "And you're sure this isn't the trick of some demo--spirit? I have to ask."

"Of course." They're mages. They know the importance of asking questions. Emmrich shakes his head, half-smiling. "I'm nearly sure. Unfortunately I can't think of any way to be absolutely certain. The messages he had for Isabela were just on the side of specific enough to be believable, but anything more specific would likely be too personal. There are any number of beings wandering the Fade that are clever and capable, and I can't deny there's obvious appeal to rushing in and rescuing a handsome stranger."

Neve suddenly looks very amused as she looks back at him. "Handsome, is he?"

Emmrich raises an eyebrow in return. "Oh, that's the point we're focusing in on, then?" He refuses to be embarrassed when he's quite certain she'll agree if she gets the chance to see Hawke.

She laughs. "It's far more fun than the risk of bringing something powerful to the Lighthouse. I know you know better than to go and get possessed, but there's a fourth Forbidden one still wandering about out there and he's a tricky one."

"Imshael," Emmrich confirms. Stories say that Gaxkang had been dealt with by the team with Hero of Ferelden, that Hawke and his friends had seen to Xebenkeck, and recently the Lighthouse crew had banished the Formless One, but of Imshael there's only tales of meeting him, nothing of his defeat. "From everything I recall reading, he prefers to be clear about who and what he is, but yes. The fact that he's Choice from Desire while Hawke's nearly undressed hasn't escaped me. I have to try, though."

She nods. The conversation continues for a time, covering nothing he's not been concerned about, but it's helpful to go over it out loud. When night falls he's returning to the Fade, a little tired, a little subdued, but still determined.

"Hello again," he says, smiling, as soon as he sees Hawke. "I hope things have been peaceful enough in my absence? Either way, I bring news: the one spirit I know with a boat is going to see if they can find us. Let's continue down the river, of course, as it may still lead us out on its own, but we may have assistance coming. And if I remember right from last time, yes. A griffon. The Wardens found a magically protected nest, it seems, and so we have a young griffon named Assan on the team."

There. That should set the mood well for this leg of the trip, bringing a little more hope and joy into the mix to help Hawke with all of the heavy news weighing him down.

[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.”