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

[corpsestuff]

He marks the Fereldan accent the moment the being starts talking; Emmrich hasn't heard it often, but it's very convincing. All of the act is convincing, the vague story that hints at so much more, the pretense of suspicion regarding the sash, the way moments later the Fade shifts so dramatically, and then the icing on the cake, the name drop. Of course. Even in Nevarra everyone has heard of the Champion of Kirkwall. As far as Emmrich knows the physical details even line up.

"It's lovely to meet you," he says as he takes the indicated seat. He'd been here first, so Emmrich feels confident that the chaise isn't a trap. There'd been no time for the being to set one.

"I'm Professor Emmrich Volkarin, but Emmrich will suffice." His company likely already knows exactly who he is, though the wince is a nice touch. Provocation spirits might go for that, but they're among the most simple of spirits - they want reactions and will take the easiest route possible. This might be too complex for one of them. Then again, 'Hawke' is incredibly underdressed. An older Provocation, perhaps? Incitement? Inducement?

At the very least the company poses an interesting mystery and challenge, and Emmrich knows how to resist a spirit's influence. This could be an educational meeting if nothing else; there are always more papers to be written on unusual denizens of the Fade.

"I did hear that the Champion of Kirkwall had gone missing. You've been in the Fade all this time?" Emmrich is an incredibly poor liar. Dodging any statements or questions that show how much he doubts this being's story is the only way he can hope to seem like he's entertaining it.

But even as he starts gently probing at the story it strikes him that there's one point toward it being possible. The Caretaker had offered Rook new clothing about a week ago, a few outfits, and one of them matched what Hawke had always been depicted wearing. Of course, that's only one point against so many, and it could have been an excellent setup for this very moment.

Which then suggests this is something incredibly old and complex for the Fade. Emmrich can't help himself -- the academic in him had already been interested in this being, but now he's so very intrigued. That comes as a relief, too. The being's appearance is handsome, and it's been some time since Emmrich's had time or reason to appreciate such a thing.

"Is there something you'd credit for surviving the Fade for so long?" It's a simple question that could work on more complicated levels. What being would credit another spirit's nature? Or would this being mock the idea?

[accipio]

Hawke raises an eyebrow fractionally at the title. His new friend does rather have the bearing of an academic, now that he thinks about it. The name, though, means nothing to him. What could a demon possibly hope to gain by appearing to its victim in the guise of a perfect stranger? Hawke feels like he’s missed something, which does nothing to calm his already-frazzled nerves.

Fortunately, he’s well-practiced enough to keep his unease from showing on his face. His expression remains cheerful, his posture relaxed. It occurs to him that there’s little point in dissembling in the presence of a creature capable of sensing mortal emotions, but old habits are difficult to break.

“Likewise, Professor—er, Emmrich. Honestly, it’s a relief to run into someone with a sense of decorum. The last demon I encountered here was a bit of a prick, all things considered.” And too leggy by far. What was it with demons and spiders?

Of course the demon knows him. He’d been expecting that. What he doesn’t expect is the implication that he’s been lost in the Fade for a considerable span of time.

“What do you mean?” This time, he’s unable to keep his bafflement and dismay from creeping into his expression. “It’s been… no more than a few days, surely.”

Truthfully, it’s difficult to estimate how much time has passed. Day and night don’t exist here, and basic corporeal needs like hunger and thirst don’t seem to affect him. Still, he can’t imagine that he’s been gone for more than a week.

The demon is toying with him. Hawke recognizes the tactic for what it is, but that doesn’t mean that he’s immune to it. He grips the arm of the chair just a little tighter, his posture tensing slightly.

“My charming personality, of course. The demons are simply too starstruck to kill me—though I suppose I have Varric to thank for that.” He meets ‘Emmrich’s’ eyes and holds his gaze, his smile turning into a lopsided smirk. “I gather that he’s somehow managed to introduce Tale of the Champion to the Fade, seeing as you seem to know who I am. Quite the untapped market. When I get back, I’ll have to congratulate him on his business acumen.”

[corpsestuff]

He grimaces briefly, almost instinctively, as the being calls them demons, only to have to examine his reaction a moment later. The living using the word can influence spirits, but would creatures of the Fade experience such a shift? That's a question he's not sure that he's ever seen or heard explored. Emmrich sorely wished he had a notebook that could transfer notes from Fade to the walking world.

"No more than a few days?" Emmrich echoes, sounding surprised. The being is very well-studied; its reactions would be fully convincing anywhere else. He's strongly reminded of tales of Imshael, but to the best of his knowledge that Desire spirit did not try to hide what they were.

They also easily drop 'charming.' Would an ancient Charm spirit tell its target what it is? On second thought, one might. It could be confident enough, especially as Emmrich can't deny that he's fascinated.

So. A Charm spirit who has chosen to play at being Hawke. To what end? Possession seems far too basic for this, or traditional possession does, at least. The warped form of your typical abomination serves neither the possessed nor the possesser. Unless it's aware of Lucanis' situation, and is looking for something like that.

Potentially-Charm continues and Emmrich blinks at them, thrown. He doesn't know how to respond. Rook's denial is a constant, worrying situation. This, though. Even with 'Hawke' being a facade, Emmrich doesn't want to say something that would hurt the real one. Charm is convincing.

"We do have books in Nevarra." Emmrich says slowly. "I'd even suggest it would be exceedingly difficult to be a professor without books, though perhaps one could manage if their course was purely practical."

Only after speaking does he catch what's being suggested, that he's the Fade being here. His smile returns, and amusement fills his expression. There's a hole in this whole story here now, a clear one. Why would Charm, or something similar, mention Hawke and then play surprised when Emmrich recognized the name?

"And come, Charm. You give a name, construct a setting that's a mix of Ferelden and Free Marches, and then act surprised that I'm catching your references?" Even if he's off a little with the guess, making it will serve him. Emmrich holds out a hand and materializes a cup of tea on a saucer. He leans back, feeling slight, potentially unearned confidence, and sips the substance that's more scent than anything else. "Why did you send the armor?"

[accipio]

Hawke takes note of that grimace and mentally chastises himself for his carelessness, remembering how Justice had bristled at being called a demon. It strikes him as odd that beings of the Fade would care about mortal terminology, but perhaps it has more to do with the emotional connotations attached to the word than the word itself. Emotions, he reminds himself, are made manifest here.

“That’s right. Why do you ask?” Hawke squints at Emmrich, desperate to find some flaw in the performance, some damning evidence that the being before him is a demon and not a flesh-and-blood man. He finds nothing. This spirit, or demon, or whatever he may be, is a devilishly good actor.

That, or his surprise is genuine. That possibility raises several questions, none of which Hawke particularly wants to entertain.

He isn’t sure what to make of that little tidbit about Emmrich’s nationality. The only Nevarran Hawke can recall meeting in recent years is that brute of a Seeker who dragged Varric to Ferelden by his ear. He spoke but a few words to her during his short stay at Skyhold, the interaction too brief for him to get a good idea of what a Nevarran accent ought to sound like.

Perhaps the demon is testing him—putting on an elaborate charade just to see if he can spot the flaws in the performance. “If you’re a professor, I imagine you’re attached to the Circle of Magi in some capacity. Which Circle? Cumberland?” He knows good and well that the Cumberland Circle fell years ago, but perhaps the demon doesn’t.

Just when he thinks he’s beginning to learn the rules of their little game, Emmrich flips the proverbial chessboard. “Charm? What are you—why would you—?” After a moment of ineloquent sputtering, he fully grasps the demon’s implication. “Wait. You think I’m the demon? Is this some kind of trick?” He realizes that the question is an idiotic one before it even leaves his mouth. First rule of demons: they seldom have the decency to let you know when they’re trying to trick you.

The question about armor is equally flummoxing. “I didn’t send anything anywhere. If you’re referring to my current state of undress, believe me, it’s not intentional. Whoever—or whatever—is in charge of all this topsy-turvy Fade nonsense thought it would be amusing to make me cross a river to get here.”

He narrows his eyes slightly at Emmrich, his expression an odd mix of accusation and bemusement. “If you wanted to admire my form, you could have just asked, you know.”

[corpsestuff]

What is the angle with pretending it hasn't been over a decade since the Champion left Kirkwall and went missing? What can be gained from that? And surely Charm can't expect someone to believe that Hawke vanished because he fell into the Fade.

Unless the suggestion is that Hawke's been hiding somewhere until just recently. Considering the fact that the location of Anders, should he remain alive, is also unknown, that could in fact be what Charm is saying. That makes far more sense. Emmrich's so busy looking for holes in the spirit's story that he's not allowing for logical explanations.

"What year did you get tossed into the Fade?" he asks, just to be certain. They can go from there, because he's quite curious what story Charm might weave for what the Champion of Kirkwall has been doing in the meantime.

...of course the theory falls apart at the mention of the Cumberland Circle. Unless Charm is pretending to test him? What a convoluted, complicated web this being is weaving. Perhaps this isn't Charm. Perhaps it's Beguile. Now that feels like it fits better. Which means Emmrich feels confident responding, especially as the being starts sputtering.

"I'm with the Mourn Watch, in the Grand Necropolis. I work with the dead, the Fade, and the residents thereof. The latter category are usually a great deal easier to categorize, and no, I do not resort to trickery." Most of the time. Sometimes lives are at stake, lives and existences, and matters must be... massaged... but Emmrich tries to be as straightforward as possible at all times. "I apologize, however. I may be slightly off with Charm. Beguile, is it? Possibly originally Charm, which is why you were not adverse to mentioning it as one of your qualities."

He truly must give Beguile credit for the sputtering, the misleading implication, and the majority of this performance. This is a spirit he'd like to know a great deal more about. And a spirit he needs to resist the urge to let his gaze travel down as Beguile refers to his form. Emmrich mostly succeeds at that, but he's merely human.

"And if I was behind you losing clothing, why would I offer the one piece I had that would fit you? You're incredibly clever. I can't begin to imagine how old you are. But I know the Fade, Beguile."

[accipio]

He stares at Emmrich as though the other man has just asked him if the sky is blue. (Or green, rather.) “Same year as it was yesterday. 9:42 Dragon.”

“You’re a Mortalitasi?” That, too, catches him off-guard. He’d always pictured Nevarran death mages as wizened figures wrapped in dusty old cloaks, smelling of incense and mummy dust. It’s difficult to imagine a man as vibrant and alive as Emmrich spending his days fiddling with corpses in some lightless catacomb.

That’s because he isn’t a man, fool, grouses an inner voice that he tentatively identifies as his better judgment. He’s a demon, an exceptionally guileful one, and you’re playing right into his hands.

It’s one thing to know that he’s being toyed with, but quite another to stop himself from taking the bait. “I don’t know. Because you want me to think you’re human? Because you thought it would look rather fetching on me? Perhaps it was merely a passing whim. Your kind is capricious, after all.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. His patience is beginning to wear thin, which is likely exactly what Emmrich wants. “My name is Hawke. Garrett Hawke, technically, but no one ever calls me that except my mother—” He realizes his mistake and cuts himself off, but it’s too late. Mentioning his mother is like poking at a poorly healed scab, and the demon is bound to recognize the weak point for what it is.

As if bound to his emotions, his surroundings change subtly. The shadows in the corners of the room deepen, and he spots something white out of the corner of his eye. There, on the mantelpiece, a bouquet of lilies—the calling card of the man who took his mother’s life. He turns away, feeling sick.

When he speaks again, all the irritation is gone from his voice. In its place is weariness. “If you’re such an expert on the Fade, then tell me how to get out of here.” A beat. “Please.”

[corpsestuff]

What if he's wrong?

Emmrich hears out what the being before him says, the frustration, the tiredness, confusion, all of it. He sees the corner change, shifting into something that makes the being look ill.

If he's right, then Beguile is a master of acting and controlling the scenery of the Fade. The older spirits are incredibly powerful, as so clearly demonstrated by Solas, the evanuris, and at least one Forgotten One. And all of the Forbidden Ones. There's every reason to think that the scene playing out before his eyes isn't true. But Emmrich knows how to keep Beguile, or any spirit for that matter, from possessing him. He knows how to keep himself safe. There should be no true danger here as he can wake up as needed.

Which means that he should weigh other possibilities, even if they are incredibly unlikely. A living being surviving a decade in the Fade is, to the best of his knowledge, unprecedented. But so much of his recent experience is unprecedented. And if this is real, then before him is a person who is alone, lost, and worn down.

Emmrich takes a slow breath, considering. Kindness is incredibly important, and he can keep his guard up enough to not be in danger. Telling Beguile about the Lighthouse seems questionable, though. It has not been compromised despite the best efforts of Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, and he can't risk the lives of everyone in it.

"I am Emmrich, yes, of the mortalitasi. And exiting the Fade when you're physically in it is--" Emmrich breaks off as a thought occurs to him. "Generally, is incredibly complicated. There is a possible easier way, but I cannot offer it to a denizen of the Fade. However. I know an associate of the Champion. Isabela. Tell me something that only she and he would know. I will wake up and confirm it with her tomorrow. Should it be true, and you remain here tomorrow night, then I will attempt to guide you through there."

This all depends on not only this being Hawke, but something more challenging if it is: Hawke trusting someone in the Fade who tells him to give him a secret and then follow him. There may be help there too, however.

"...and I will ask her if there's anything, a second thing, that only the two of you know so you can verify I've spoken with her."

He does not think this is Hawke. But he has to give the being a chance, just in case.

[accipio]

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.

[corpsestuff]

Emmrich is not surprised when the being before him comes up with an answer of sorts. After all, anything here wants attention, spirit and otherwise. With this, the being has an assurance that Emmrich will attempt to return here, and has a head start on setting the stage to its benefit. Tomorrow night will be incredibly dangerous if this is not Hawke.

He wishes he had any sort of ability to bring backup. While certainly more than a few in the Necropolis would be willing to assist, he's the Fade expert. He's the one that knows how to navigate it. And he doesn't have any idea how to draw someone to a specific area of the Fade even if they do fall asleep at the same time. There's no effective beacon-lighting in this realm that shifts on a whim. Even if Vorgoth was willing (and able) to assist, Emmrich isn't sure they could coordinate in here.

The answer itself gives Emmrich little to go off of, as well. The first feels specific enough, but if a spirit's watched Isabela's dreams they might have been able to pick something like that up. The second is a rather universal platitude. The third? Everyone knows Sundermount is near Kirkwall, and the odds of a debacle happening there are high. It feels much like a fortune teller's reading: just vague enough to safely apply to nearly everyone.

"Her husband deserved it, she's a better person than she gives herself credit for, and she still owes you one for the debacle on Sundermount," Emmrich echoes. He'll bring it to her anyway, and see what she thinks. She'd also be likely to have more information about where Hawke has been. And somehow, that will still be the easy part. If this is Hawke, backtracking to where he took off his armor and then trying to follow the path it took to the Lighthouse from there cannot conceivably be straightforward. But at least it gives them a possible path out. Otherwise, what he knows about physically getting into and out of the Fade, aside from the Crossroads and Lighthouse, is uselessly little.

Emmrich leans back, getting comfortable in his seat. "I cannot wake up on cue if there's no apparent danger, so I am here until something wakes me here or there." It might happen at any moment; time flows oddly in the Fade so he could have been sleeping for hours or simply minutes. Which reminds him...

"You should know that it is 9:52 Dragon. I doubt I can answer every question you have if you have them, but I will tackle what I can." A spirit would know that. It costs Emmrich nothing to tell the being this, or explain what's going on in the world, as if this is Hawke.

"Isabela is quite well, back in Rivain, lead--" Manfred accidentally dropping books jerks him awake and out of the Fade mid-word and mid-sentence. While he drifts back off again until morning and knows he touches the Fade, he can't return to the awareness he needs to find and speak with someone for the rest of the night. At least once day breaks he's free to head off to Rivain and speak with Isabela.

got a bit carried away. hope this is okay!

[accipio]

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.”

Absolutely!

[corpsestuff]

It's been a long day. Contrary to his expectations, not only had Hawke's words meant a lot to Isabela, she'd known Hawke was left in the Fade. Varric Tethras had apparently told her and the rest of their surviving crew after it happened, but otherwise it had been kept quiet. Which meant the chances of a demon knowing that were incredibly slim. Add that to the very real armor that Rook had worn around for 'fun' once, and Emmrich now has yet another near-impossibility to achieve ahead of him.

Even Dorian hadn't been able to pin down exactly where Hawke had been sent into the Fade. Apparently only the Inquisitor (who was impossible to find in the current chaos of the South) and Warden Rainier (missing after the fall of Weisshaupt) had known that. So backtracking it will have to be.

His attempt to bring a couple of books with him into the Fade fails, which isn't much of a surprise even though it's a disappointment. There's little time to dwell on that, though, because Hawke's right there. Emmrich jerks back despite knowing that this has to be the man and not a spirit; he had not been quite prepared.

"You've met other members of the Mourn Watch?" he asks, confused. "When? Here? Surely not. I don't think Vorgoth sleeps, and none of the rest are as competent with the Fade as I am."

Only after he speaks does it sink in that Hawke doesn't mean his actual colleagues. Emmrich closes his eyes briefly to recenter himself, reopens them, and shakes his head.

"Isabela says that your constant running around a tiny room would have been hilarious if not for the fact that you did it to spare her life." He had to assume it meant the solo battle with the Arishok. Everyone knew, thanks to Varric Tethras' writing, that it had been one-on-one in a small room. The reason, apparently for Isabela's life, had never made print, though. "And she wants you to know that she has people she consults with now whenever they come across an artifact that may have cultural value, returning them when it matters."

He takes a breath. "I am no spirit. And, it seems, neither are you. Which means that this is the year I'm tasked with multiple unprecedented things to accomplish. At least we're not without places to start."

The gesture he makes in the air is elegant and graceful, and swirls of green spread from his fingertips through the air. "I seek knowledge and assistance, guidance through the chaos. Help us find our way, and your curiosity will be rewarded." Moments later several wisps fly in from different directions. They dance around him, chittering, and Emmrich nods before refocusing on Hawke.

"I know that it will take work to trust me. You don't have the luxury of asking any of my friends anything, and I doubt we can get you out in the space of a night. I will vanish from time to time. But you need assistance, and I will do all I can to help you get free of the Fade. Will you give working with me a chance? Will you direct us to where you last saw your armor?"

[accipio]

Hawke takes a shaky breath. The adrenaline fades from his system, leaving him feeling exhausted and unsteady. “No, I meant—Never mind.” It’s probably unwise to tell Emmrich about his encounter with Not-Bethany, both because he still isn’t sure whether Emmrich is human and because the subject of his sister’s death is still painful, even after all these years.

If he is a demon, then Emmrich is a remarkably patient one. Two encounters now, and still there’s been no overt attempt at possession. Despite his misgivings, Hawke is beginning to give serious consideration to the idea that the Mortalitasi may really be who he says he is.

That tidbit about Isabela helps to drive away his remaining doubts. “That’s not fair,” he grouses, though there’s no real bite in his tone. “I didn’t just run around. I did a lot of hiding behind pillars, too.”

He’s not sure what to make of the fact that his old friend has apparently turned over a new leaf. “The Isabela I knew would have gleefully snatched up any bauble that caught her eye, cultural importance be damned. Then again…” He shrugs. “...People can change. For the better, even. I’m glad for her.”

The words aren’t empty platitudes. Hawke truly believes that people can become more than what they were before—and that initial judgments can be faulty. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t balk at Emmrich’s offer. He’s tired of assuming the worst. And if he’s being painfully honest with himself, he’s tired of being alone, too.

He’ll take his chances. If he ends up possessed—well, better to end up a host for a gentlemanly demon than the likes of Rage or Despair.

“Unprecedented, you say? I do have a way of keeping things interesting. I’ll try to make it worth your while.” How he could possibly make this worth Emmrich’s while is a problem for future Hawke. He’ll figure something out.

In spite of his exhaustion, he can’t suppress a smile as he watches the wisps flit around Emmrich like ducklings following their mother. “You weren’t lying. You really are good at this.”

He holds out a calloused hand. “I don’t claim to possess any special knowledge of the Fade, but if you’re willing to put up with my ineptitude, then you have yourself a deal. As for my armor, the most that I can tell you is that I left it by a river, which is somewhere in a general… that way… direction.” He gestures vaguely at the Fade landscape behind him. “The river was strange. I tried following it while you were gone, but it seemed to go on forever. Maker only knows where it leads.”

[corpsestuff]

Even with the joke about hiding, Hawke's practically radiating tiredness. And the complaint helps solidify Emmrich's certainty that this is a living being. A worn-out living being, who has been here much too long.

"People change, the world changes, and sometimes it's for the better," Emmrich says quietly. "She thought you were lost to the Fade, and sometimes loss can spur someone on. It was a reasonable assumption, because yes, unprecedented. This long in the Fade..."

He shakes his head. "I'm glad to have been wrong, as is she, and I won't hold you to making this worth my while. Protecting the living and otherwise is my life's work, my calling."

While fear of death trips him up and sometimes even holds him back, it's something he can move past when someone else's existence is at risk. Emmrich is at peace when there's someone to protect. And now he has someone to escort out of danger. Someone who is handsome and still half-naked, no less, which he's trying not to think too hard on. Even though Hawke is a mage, Emmrich knows trying to teach him how to actively manifest different clothing would be a waste of time. It's taken him years to learn how to summon an illusory cup of tea.

Emmrich takes Hawke's hand and shakes it, also trying not to think too hard about how firm and warm the grip is. "I'm a professor, as I said, and my students are in their late teens and early twenties. I believe any ineptitude you may possess will still seem like the epitome of competence itself. It's hardly like you're about to attempt to summon a spirit of memory into an exam hall and instead summon five spirits of mischief."

Now that had been chaos. Emmrich hopes the memory also helps a little with Hawke's exhaustion. Amusement can do a great deal for someone worn down, and he has countless more anecdotes where that comes from.

"The river's a beginning." Emmrich gestures again, another elegant, sweeping extension of an arm, and two of the wisps zipped off down the river at top speed. The remaining ones start to lead Emmrich and Hawke in the direction the two vanished. "Things in the Fade are ever-shifting, and rarely what they seem. But geography markers like that, large and seemingly never-ending, tend to be somewhat what they seem. And they also tend to be unclaimed, which is good news for us. Let's."

He sets off after the wisps, trusting their guidance. Enough of them had responded to his call that he can be certain none were sent by something wanting to feast or possess.

[accipio]

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. “I, likewise, am glad to have dispelled any rumors of my premature death. And glad to have you as my gallant protector—though I should warn you that I make for a poor damsel in distress.” And a rather underdressed one. He pulls Emmrich’s sash tighter around his shoulders, feeling strangely conscious of his near-nudity. He’s not ordinarily shy about showing off his assets, such as they are, but… well, Emmrich is an attractive man, and Hawke is only human. He feels like he’s stepped into one of those dreams in which he realizes halfway through an important social engagement that he’s forgotten to put on his trousers.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the touch of another human being until he feels Emmrich’s hand in his, warm and alive. He holds on for just a second too long, then hastily breaks the contact when he realizes how strange his behavior must seem. Maker, Hawke, what’s the matter with you?

Fortunately, Emmrich gives him the opportunity to think about something other than his rapidly atrophying social skills. “That must have been a real pain in the ass to clean up.” He tries to picture Emmrich babysitting a bunch of rowdy, magically gifted teenagers. The thought serves to lighten his mood by a fraction, though the idea of academically sanctioned spirit-summoning is difficult for him to wrap his head around.

“Where I’m from,” he continues, “most people don’t make any distinction between spirits and demons. Intentionally trying to summon one… Well. It’s frowned upon, to say the least. I always thought that dabbling in that sort of thing could only lead to possession. But you’re no abomination.” He tilts his chin up to look Emmrich in the eyes, his gaze appraising. After a few moments, he seems to find what he’s looking for. “Maybe I was wrong.”

He's grateful for the chance to do something productive instead of wandering around thinking about how catastrophically screwed he is. He takes off after Emmrich and the wisps, his protesting muscles be damned. It doesn’t take them long to reach the river.

The winding black ribbon looks much the same as it did before, lending credence to Emmrich’s hypothesis that major geographical features in the Fade have at least some degree of permanence. Hawke gazes at its opaque surface, still perturbed by the lack of any reflection. He’s not taking another swim any time soon, that’s for damn sure. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could manifest a boat?”

[corpsestuff]

Being cast as a gallant protector by someone smiling at him like that means his heart rate is a little faster, especially when the hand in his lingers. Emmrich can see why Hawke chalked his survival up to charm.

"You're clearly no damsel in distress," he agrees warmly, trying not to let his mind dwell. "You've been collected and far from upset. Unlike those students, and the cleanup, yes." Emmrich adored teaching, loved helping shape future mages' minds and encouraging them to reach their potential. The world was not yet a kind enough place to mages to guide them there. It was improving. But it had a way to go yet.

As Hawke talks, Emmrich nods in understanding until his gaze is met and held. It is something, to seemingly be found worthy or at least acceptable in Hawke's eyes.

"It's cultural, Nevarra rather than Ferelden. As we believe death sends one soul into the Fade and brings one spirit into the waking world, it means we inherently value and appreciate them in a way they respond to. In the Necropolis we work with them respectfully. Rather, the Mourn Watchers do, and the young adults are like young adults you find across the world. My assistant, in fact, is a Curiosity wisp, ambulating about in a skeleton we built for him. His name is Manfred."

He's fond and proud. Manfred, Nevarra, the Mourn Watch, they're all precious pieces of him, precious pieces of his world. Though he's not entirely certain why he's deciding to share so much. Maybe it's because it will be a long trip, and it puts off two things he needs to talk about on it.

And speaking of long, there's the river. Emmrich shakes his head as he looks at it. "Deliberately manifesting items that are not on one's person takes a great deal of work. Manifesting an entire boat that could then hold our weight is beyond my abilities. But if it's any consolation, the distance may be illusion. ...Also once we get far enough, it's possible there is a boat that can be steered our way."

He pats Hawke's back, meaning it to be encouraging, and oh, that's quite the powerful back. Emmrich quickly redirects his thoughts. There's no reason to practically light a signal fire to any desire spirits that might be nearby.

As they walk, he decides to tackle the topic that's least likely to be painful first. "You should be aware that there's a chance this does not work, Hawke, and there's no easy way to explain this. Sometimes when someone dies, they don't realize it. They continue on. When it happens in the waking world, the continuing is aided by a spirit. Here, that's not necessary. You are Hawke. But there is a chance that you have not, in fact, survived the Fade. And here we can likely not figure that out for sure until we attempt to leave."

[accipio]

For once, Hawke is content to shut his trap and listen. Emmrich has a way of commanding attention without being overbearing; little wonder that the other man seems to have found his calling as a professor. Even Hawke, who has never been anything close to a model student, finds himself listening with rapt attention as Emmrich explains Nevarran views on spirits. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Emmrich is also dapper and charming, and Hawke enjoys the way his eyes light up whenever he’s talking about something that interests him.

That anecdote about Emmrich’s skeleton assistant is a little too much for him to believe, though. He breaks into a grin, his incredulity plain on his face. “You’re having me on. A skeleton, really? Does he also wear a little tophat and serve you sandwiches for tea?”

He knew the boat was a long shot. “Pity there aren’t any trees around here. With some wood, we might be able to sling together a raft.” He pauses, shooting a quizzical look in Emmrich’s direction. “You say that like Fade boats are a common occurrence.”

He’d intended to further pursue the boat issue, but the sudden presence of Emmrich's hand on the small of his back scrambles his thoughts. He unconsciously leans into the touch, driven by the base animal instinct to seek more contact, more skin against his own. Fortunately, he comes to his senses before he has the chance to truly embarrass himself. “I. Er.” He can’t think of anything exonerating to say, so he falls silent, flushing.

Part of him had known that this conservation was coming, and that same part of him is relieved that Emmrich lays it all out so plainly. Mostly, though, he’s just afraid. Not afraid of dying, per se, but afraid of losing his chance to finally fix his mistakes—to clean up the mess he’d made of Thedas.

He chews his lip, suddenly incapable of looking Emmrich in the eyes. “I didn’t bring it up before, but you should know. While you were gone, I saw my sister. Or a demon pretending to be her, anyway. She—it—seemed to think that I was dead. That I was… I dunno, roaming the Fade out of spite, or stubbornness, or something. I thought it was just a trick, but in light of what you’ve said…” He trails off, unwilling to give voice to his thoughts. “I can’t die yet, Emmrich. I still have so much to do.”

[corpsestuff]

He laughed at the questions about Manfred. Of course he'd talk more about his little companion; Emmrich loved Manfred and he doubted Hawke had experienced much in the way of joy in quite some time. In addition, any time spent talking while they walked was ground covered.

"I haven't tried putting a hat on him as of yet. He does wear shoes and carry a backpack, and he loves making and serving tea. Or something close to tea. It's the steam from the kettle that catches his attention, so other details sometimes go by the wayside, such as actually adding tea. Every now and then he's also equally fascinated by how sugar dissolves in tea, so the end result is something that's far more like a grainy liquid than anything else." Emmrich still drank it. Manfred always presented tea with so much joy that Emmrich could hardly let him down.

They could circle back around to the topic of boats later. When he woke again he'd speak with the Caretaker and see if it was possible to meet up in the deeper Fade, or if there was a safer route. He'd consulted the Caretaker briefly already, but he should have thought about the boat.

That was fine, because Hawke needed time and room to process the heavier topic. Emmrich wasn't sure if he should offer more contact or not; he'd seen how the man had leaned into it, but at the same time it could be a selfish instinct spurring him on. The most important thing here was to help.

He nodded at the story, this time managing to not react to Hawke's word choice. "Luckily, the words of any being here that you're unfamiliar with can't be trusted. The spirit that chose that form had an agenda. If you wanted to discuss the approach they took," which he doubted, Hawke was not looking at him, "we could attempt to analyze it and see if they sought a ride out or a meal, but even then without knowing the nature of the spirit we could be wrong."

More contact seemed to him to be the most comforting choice here now, so Emmrich placed his hand on Hawke's shoulder this time. "There is always more to do. You may still be alive. If you are not, you have still left positive ripples across Thedas. Isabela's Lords of Fortune are helping protect Rivain against Antaam incursions, while one specific one further aids in our efforts to protect the world, and without you, Isabela would not be here. Our efforts, our team..."

Emmrich faltered briefly but recovered. "Our leader is Rook, recruited along with a fellow mage and a Dwarf archer, by Varric Tethras. The only reason the Veil is still up is because of Master Tethras and that trio. Kirkwall's Viscount is your former companion Aveline. I don't know where the rest of your team are, but your life and theirs were changed together, and the impact is seen to this day. It will be little comfort if you have in fact passed, I know. But you have left quite the legacy, and quite the positive mark on our world."

[accipio]

Hawke should have probably been disturbed or at least concerned by the way that Emmrich spoke of Manfred as though he were a small child, not a spirit. He was certainly no Chantry zealot, but his common sense told him that getting too close to any denizen of the Fade was apt to end in grief—the disastrous collapse of his friendship with Anders was proof enough of that. And yet he refused to even entertain the possibility of extinguishing the light that glittered in Emmrich’s eyes when he recounted the antics of his skeleton friend. Hawke may have been a cheater, a braggart, and a libertine, but he was not a cruel man.

He made an effort to smile, hoping that none of his thoughts showed through on his face. “I’d love to meet him once all this is done. You’ll have to have me over for tea some time—or have me over for grainy sugar-water, I should say.”

He had never set foot in Nevarra, and most Nevarran practices regarding magic were beyond his ken. He wondered idly if Mortalitasi were permitted to have families, or if their lives were as tightly controlled as those of Circle mages in Ferelden and the Free Marches. Could Manfred have been something like a son to Emmrich? A small taste of the stable family life denied to their kind?

Almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, he realized that it was not only incredibly presumptuous but also none of his damned business, and it made him sad to boot. He shook his head, trying to herd his fatigued mind back to more appropriate topics.

The hand on his shoulder dragged him out of the pit of melancholy he’d descended into. Somehow, he found the wherewithal to stop avoiding Emmrich’s gaze, and he was touched by the kindness he found there. Not everyone would have gone to such lengths to comfort a complete stranger. In truth, Hawke was unsure whether he deserved the effort.

“You have no idea how hard it is not to demand you fill me in on every single thing my friends have done over the past nine years.” He heaved a sigh, caught halfway between fondness and guilt. “Varric should have retired to his own private island by now. Maker knows he deserves the break. They all do. I’m the one who dragged them into this… Well. I believe ‘complete and utter shitshow’ would be a bit of an understatement.” Without realizing it, he raised his hand to his lips and began biting at his thumbnail—a nervous habit from his boyhood that he’d never quite been able to break. “The war, Corypheus… It’s all my mess. My responsibility. I have to stick long enough to clean it up, at least.”

Danced around it for as long as it was possible, but alas

[corpsestuff]

Emmrich was exceptionally poor at hiding anything about how he felt. He was not poor at reading through others' smiles when they masked something, however. Hawke was not completely pleased at the thought of meeting Manfred and having tea from him, but that could easily be marked up to cultural differences as well. In Nevarra, a skeleton or mummy wandering about was commonplace. That was true nowhere else.

Hawke's expression fell further. Emmrich wished he could help, but as Hawke spoke, it was clear the second thing needed to come up and it was the opposite of helpful. At least he could slightly soften the blow by absolving Hawke of any guilt.

"Corypheus is no longer the issue. I do not know why you would blame yourself for that particular mess, but he was defeated the same year you wound up in the Fade. I doubt you hold any responsibility at all for ancient elven gods rising up." Which frankly sounded ridiculous even now, and that was why he could not blame the First Warden for his reaction. "I don't know if you met Solas while you visited the Inquisition, but it turns out he was the god of lies, trickery, and betrayal. And... And when he betrayed Master Tethras, two other gods were accidentally set free from the prison he'd held them in."

The gods were important to know about, but they weren't where he had to focus now. Emmrich looked away, pressing his lips together briefly before shaking his head. It did have to be said. It was a true shame that the news couldn't be broken in a gentle way, when Hawke was safe.

"The red lyrium idol you found below Kirkwall found its way back into its maker's hands. Solas' hands. Somehow it was refined back to pure lyrium, and that is what he killed Varric Tethras with." Hawke didn't need the speculation that it was Varric's blood and death that really sent everything awry. He didn't need extraneous guesses, or tangents. "Where we emerge, should we emerge as I hope, we have a few of his belongings still as he created our team. Our fight. His jacket, his latest journal, and Bianca. I am sorry, Hawke, truly sorry."

i am SO sorry for the delay!!

[accipio]

Hawke likes to think that he’s good at taking bad news. Maker knows he’s had enough practice at it over the years. Father, Bethany, Mother… Each loss was devastating in its own way, but each time he forced himself to keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on. He grieved in private, away from the eyes of those who needed him to be strong. They were relying on him, and he couldn’t let them down.

Now is different. Now, he has no one to be strong for. He knows from the look on Emmrich’s face—dismay, trepidation, but most of all pity—that he won’t like whatever news the other man is about to give him. He expects something awful: Kirkwall in ruins, his friends rounded up like criminals for their part in the mage rebellion. And yet he never, not for a single moment, expects to hear that Varric is dead. The very notion seems impossible. Varric is as canny as they come. The dwarf can talk his way out of nearly any situation and shoot his way out of the rest. Hawke always knew with a bone-deep surety that the sly little bastard would outlive him.

But now he’s dead. He’s dimly aware that Emmrich is trying to fill him in on the current state of affairs in Thedas, but he can’t hear most of the words over the roaring in his ears. Varric is dead. With nightmarish clarity, Hawke recalls their last conversation over drinks in Varric’s tent just before the assault on Adamant Fortress. It had been casual—trivial, really. They had both seen so many battles that the prospect of another was hardly worth any dramatics. If only Hawke had known. The things he would have said—

He buries his face in his hands, a muffled, choked sound escaping his lips. To his great mortification, he realizes that it’s a sob. With great effort, he manages to gather himself and face Emmrich once again. It’s not the Nevarran’s fault that this happened. He shouldn’t have to watch Hawke fall apart.

“Thank you,” he manages, his voice unsteady. “For telling me. It can’t have been easy.”

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.”