The ocean has never felt so heavy before.
Casadh fights towards the surface, though as hard as they try they cannot move their arms, nor kick their legs. Their eyes, too, are sealed shut, and their chest is weighed down by an enormous pressure. It takes them a few seconds to realize they are breathing.
Not water, they think. But they can taste salt through the parting of their lips, dripping in with a tang of sour sweetness, like iron—blood.
Suddenly, they know they must open their eyes, must find where the blood is coming from, must move to get away, must—
“Contendit contra vincula,” someone says from close by. Casadh cannot open their eyes to see who is talking. They do not recognize the voice.
“Renova sanguinem.” Another deep voice, bored, gives the command. Casadh feels something wet and warm on their face, the pressure of a finger drawing a sigil, and what awareness they had is gone in an instant.
The room is large, and well-furnished. Not for Casadh’s sake, they’re certain, but in the hopes that it might appease a god, once the god in question decides to show up. Casadh had told their captors that the chance of that happening were slim to none. They should know, since Casadh knows this god better than almost anyone else alive. No one seems to believe them, though.
Perhaps they should be grateful that they’ve been given ways to pass the waking hours. The desk in the corner of the room is stocked with high-quality paper and inks. There is sand, for drying, in case they happen to write enough to fill more than once page in a single sitting. They can’t imagine what they’re expected to write, however, since they aren’t allowed any contact with anyone besides their jailers. No letters. No notes. No kind words.
Truthfully, after a week of this, they’re growing a bit … complacent.
They’ve tried every conceivable thing to wiggle their way out of this, but the cage has been too well-constructed, and the trap too well-set. Their waking hours are spent in boredom, with an occasional supervised walk (complete with magic-dampening manacles), and their sleeping hours, of which there are many, are equally a prison.
Casadh had realized with the first sip from the cup left for them on the sidetable that the pitcher of water was laced with those Dalish herbs that helped facilitate Fadewalking. They’d spit it out and stayed as far from the water as they could, for as long as they could, but eventually they had grown thirsty. That, and one of their captors, a Magister Bellum (Casadh suspects that this is not his actual name, as Master War seems a bit too on the nose) had stopped by to make a few things clear.
1. The Venatori (because it was the Venatori who had abducted them from their seaside home in Antiva) do not need their cooperation. If Casadh does not wish to take care of themself, the Venatori will happily force them to.
2. It is imperative that Casadh not waste away, because their body is an integral part of a larger plan.
3. Casadh will sleep and Dream; never will they close their eyes and not open them in the Fade.
4. Casadh will act as bait for Fen’harel, who is trapped in the Black City and whom the Venatori wish to use for their own purposes. Once Fen’harel takes the bait and steps across the trapline, he will be sealed in with Casadh and his only option will be to possess them, bind himself to them more fully than he had during the war between himself and the other Evanuris, and use their body to break free.
5. The Venatori will be waiting. He will not be free, and neither will Casadh.
Casadh had scoffed, of course, and had bluffed their way through the conversation. They’d acted bored and unimpressed and even, to Magister Bellum’s irritation, a bit condescending.
They truly didn’t expect the Dread Wolf to fall for such a trick, did they? Casadh had asked. They didn’t think that he cared enough about Rook to take the Venatori’s bait?
When the magister had left, Casadh had laid on the feather-bed and stared at the canopy, a lush, scarlet velvet, and tried to make no noise as they cried.
The wards on their room were too tough to break. There were no spirits in the vicinity Casadh could ask for help. And if someone did come, if Solas came, or Lucanis, or anyone else, they’d be trapped here, too.
So, now, Casadh sits at the desk and doodles a seascape. The view from their own bedroom window. They lift the cup of water to their lips and wait for it to make them drowsy. Then they’ll fall asleep like they did before, like they will again.
The Fade isn’t as bleak as Solas’s prison had been. There the colors had all been muted, as though drained from the world. Casadh’s normal experience of the Fade had, before then and since, been of color beyond description, feeling beyond sensation. Everything beautiful and unutterable and unknowable, seen but hardly understood.
This place isn’t like that, but it’s not dreary, either.
Casadh is able to mold this part of the Fade according to their dreams, so they’ve been practicing. It won’t let them do anything to break through the barrier, extending in a perfect circle about a hundred paces in each direction, but even so …
They’ve made an image of their home. Not the one they’d shared with their parents and sister—that will always be home, of course, but they have another home now, too. The sea roars gently around them as they perch on a rock, watching the waves lap at the shore. Behind them there is a lone building, not quite a house but not quite a shack. Two bedrooms and a living space. Perfect for two people who just want to slip away from responsibility every now and then.
The worse part of this, though, is that however perfectly Casadh has recreated their home, they will always be the only one in it. They won’t poke their head through the window and see Lucanis bent over the fire, stirring something that smells glorious in a large iron pot. They won’t return from their rounds in the village, checking on patients and delivering medicine, to find Remembrance or Abelas sitting at the table. They won’t climb down into the basement, past the wards, to place their hand upon a sleeping eluvian, nor step through to Skyhold and Clan Lavellan waiting on the other side.
At least, at the very least, no one is trapped here with them. That’s a comfort.
Casadh scowls and picks up a pebble by their hip, tossing it roughly into the water. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the waves and disappears. There isn’t even a splash.
It seems that their control over the Fade is still imperfect.
Day after day, it repeats. Waking, sleeping, dreaming, drawing. It all melts together.
Soon enough, they stop waiting for someone to come for them, and hope that no one does. They don’t want the Venatori to win.