That Hushed Future
@mossandrock invited this hurt into the world and I have only faithfully given it shape. AU ficlet ft. Inquisition Companion Egeire Mahariel as he lives through the long year of the quest In Hushed Whispers that (moss’) Herald Camlen Lavellan misses out on due to time magic. It happened. It was real.
Warnings for the sort of thing you’d expect to have gone wrong there: body horror, sanity loss, emotional trauma, mentions of/suicidal ideation, etc.
Egeire had fought with every ounce of strength in his body, the Iron Bull at his side and cleaving through more of Alexius' men with the same ferocity. But they kept coming, and Alexius followed on the momentum of his first deadly spell, creating time warps and assaulting the Veil. Demons broke through into the castle hall. They moved like lightning on water, and Alexius berated the Inquisition's insignificance as Inquisition scouts were engulfed in barriers of slowing magic. They too were quickly overwhelmed. The last thing Egeire saw as he fell, almost immediately covered by Venatori, was the Bull in a swarm of demons and the faces of the Inquisition scouts almost frozen in pain and horror. Fiona screamed and distantly Felix was shouting for his father to stop.
And then everything went black.
Egeire was surprised to wake up; he was considerably less surprised that he woke up inside of a cell. His body ached from battle and from being discarded on a hard, stone floor. The cell had a bucket with the handle pried off, and nothing else. His wounds had been unkindly wrapped, and he was left with his armor, but everything else had been taken from his person. Egeire groaned as he sat up, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. Two Venatori stood outside his cell; keeping guard, clearly. Their heads turned only slightly as he stirred. One nodded to the other, who then left.
Egeire scowled. The remaining guard was smartly just out of arm's reach now. "And where is he going?" No answer. It was what he expected, but frustrating all the same. He committed himself to pacing instead, intermittently stopping to try and stretch some of the aches from his body.
The guard returned soon after. Following just behind him was a man in a sharp black and white coat whom Egeire would peg as more Venatori just for the way he seemed to be willingly escorted... but he wasn't Tevinter. Not like Alexius, Felix, Dorian (the man who had disappeared, died, gone in a flash with...). And it only became more sickeningly evident as the man came to stand right in front of the bars of his cell. His impeccably formal posture was contrasted by warm eyes and a friendly smile.
"Hola, Egeire Mahariel; buenas tardes." His voice was soft, a lilting Antivan accent tying knots in Egeire's stomach. "It is a pity, truly, that we must meet in these circumstances. My associates and I had hoped we could find a way to convince you to... meet with us, shall we say, to discuss a mutually beneficial business proposition. Fools like the Inquisition acquiring your reputable skills first was not a part of the plan."
There weren't enough words in any one language to describe the tumultuous knot of emotions in Egeire's battered chest. Anger. Pain. Frustration, desperation, a deep and vicious longing for numbness. This man was not a coincidence. Nothing about him was. "The plan." His voice shook even as he scowled once more, nostrils flaring and hands trembling. From anger, he told himself, only anger. "What plan?"
The Antivan's smile turned apologetic. "Ah, of course. Forgive me. I have such the advantage of you that simply beginning in the middle is rather rude of me. My name is Kharon Valisti, and I am here on behalf of the Venatori to negotiate."
"Negotiate what?" Egeire cut in, suspicious, shoulders hunched and arms crossed tightly.
"To put it simply: a collaboration. You see, Egeire, you are... simply an impossible, astounding individual. A man of unmatched skill, physical and political, who has shown time and time again capable of overcoming any odd. Or... almost any. The Blight has taken a toll on you. Even now, it ails you." Kharon held up a hand to politely ward off Egeire's impending interruption. "We are a resourceful group, Warden-Commander Mahariel, with contacts in many places. We know many things that most people would claim perfectly protected secrets.
"And of course, you have thrown in your lot with a motley group of fools. Just like the Chantry to use people as needed and then leave them to rot, isn't it? The Inquisition is little more than an obstacle to a better world, just like the organization it spawned from. You see, Egeire, I come to you on behalf of the Elder One. He is the being who can change this world and give it the divinity it lacks. If you joined us, he is the being who could find the cure for the early death that looms over you like the chill of a coming storm. Without the false Herald, Egeire, all this is over; it is only a matter of time. If you opted to join the winning side, however, your innumerable assets could make the coming months that much smoother."
Egeire refused to let his guarded stance budge. "If I refuse?"
A slight sadness in his smile, before Kharon's face fell utterly neutral. "A tragedy. After all, it would be such a waste to leave you to rot here in this cell for the rest of your life... but that is all it would be, I'm afraid. A once-great hero, left to wither away in darkness and obscurity, a sacrifice of nothing but stubbornness, ultimately changing nothing."
To betray the world to save himself. And for what? What an offer. Egeire remained silent, turning his gaze from Kharon to the stone wall in answer. Kharon sighed. "I see. Your reluctance is understandable, but I highly encourage you to think on our offer, Egeire. It is extremely generous, under the circumstances. I will be here another month before other work calls me away. I quite hope you will change your mind before then."
With that, Kharon left. Egeire did not dare glance after him, or even tear his gaze from the wall until his footsteps had completely faded. The two guards settled back at their posts.
It would be a horrifically long month.
For the next week, Kharon was there every evening like clockwork. He would bring dinner that was considerably nicer than the bare necessities Egeire was allowed for breakfast and lunch, and he would sit on the other side of the bars and eat his own there. Egeire picked at his own food, and talked as little as he could. It was hard, sometimes, to not let his voice be coaxed from him.
Kharon spoke more than enough to fill the silence anyway. Egeire learned far more about him than he had ever wanted to. He was born and raised in Antiva. His favorite kind of tea was chamomile. He had almost been an accomplished court dancer, once. He knew little bits of Elvhen. Years ago he had been in love with a Rivaini man, now deceased. There was a duel in Antiva between two nobles to settle a dispute over land deeds and a brothel woman; he had been involved in rigging it so that both would die. The land, amusingly enough, had then gone to the woman. What a world.
Egeire refused to speak when Kharon brought up the Venatori's offer. He could feel the eyes of Kharon and his guards whenever the silence hung in the air. Kharon would sigh, ask him to reconsider, and then take both their plates away. Egeire only hid his face in his knees after he left, and tried not to think about it.
Zevran was gone. Camlen was gone. Egeire didn’t know what happened to anybody else after what had happened in the castle hall; perhaps he was the only one they had even let live. And now... these were his choices? Join the Venatori, or be left to die in the Redcliffe dungeons. He had hated the dungeons enough when it was filled with demonically-possessed corpses, let alone when it was filled with cultists. It was unlikely anybody would be coming for him; for all he knew, the rest of the Inquisition thought them all dead. Even if there was any hope there, without Camlen, there was no closing any rifts the Venatori opened. No stopping the demons from passing freely and destructively into the world.
For the next two weeks, Kharon did not come. Egeire did not ask after him. Egeire's meals were reduced down to breakfast and dinner, still the basic, wanting fare that left him hollow and hungry. He refused to ask for more. He had a feeling as to how it might come, if he were given it at all. The various guards did not speak to him, and only sparingly, quietly, to each other. In Tevene, no less. There was no chance to try to escape; he was unarmed, and never left alone to have any time to even try to fashion a makeshift lockpick.
Instead, he waited in the silence. He would pace, inspect every inch of the walls, pray to Mythal in silence. He loathed sleep. It brought only nightmares, the Blight and the Breach slipping together in fluid, horrific detail. The Archdemon. The "Elder One." Darkspawn, demons. Zevran's death, Kharon watching Egeire coyly from his fallen shadow. Camlen, dead, left to rot on display for the Venatori just as Cailan had been left aloft at Ostagar for the darkspawn. He only woke up tired. Tired and hungry. Tired and hungry and in pain.
Egeire had almost jumped out of his skin when Kharon's laugh finally echoed down the hallway again. He'd brought lunch. He even dismissed the guards. Egeire did not pick at his food; he was starving, too much so to even look at the patient smile on Kharon's face as he let Egeire eat in silence, not rushing him for words. And then, soft again, as Egeire finished: "Have you reconsidered my offer, bello?"
If he had still been eating, he would have choked. As it was, Egeire's chest still seized with pain at the tender endearment. He looked away immediately. "The answer is still no, Kharon. I will not let the world burn to save my own hide." Egeire tried to sneer at the far wall, but could only summon a grimace. "Your mistake is assuming I even have a reason to live in the first place."
Kharon hummed, then sighed. He leaned against the bars, but still Egeire refused to look. "You could, if you would only choose to." His hand rested itself briefly on Egeire's shoulder, causing him to stiffen. He twisted to look away from Kharon completely "I will be leaving at the end of the week, Egeire. Please. Make the right choice." Then, Kharon took Egeire's plate, and left. The footsteps of the guards replaced his.
Egeire breathed out a ragged sigh, and gripped at his hair, desperate for the silence again.
For another week, Kharon returned for dinner, and Egeire's plain lunch returned. Kharon spoke philosophically and at length on many topics. Purpose. Loneliness. Sacrifice and suffering, and morality in the face of the coming end of the current ways of the world. Egeire even fell asleep to the warm ramble of his lilting voice one night, curled against the wall beside the bars. It was humiliating, and he seethed at himself for the show of weakness. No wonder Kharon was trying at this for so long. Egeire must have seemed so pathetic, so close to the knife's edge of breaking. Zevran would be ashamed of him. It had only been a month.
The final night of the week came. Kharon brought the largest dinner Egeire had been granted yet. He knew it would be the last. He made no show of reserve for this, resigned to at least eating the last full meal he would likely ever get. When Kharon passed him the other half of his own plate, Egeire wanted to recoil, shout at him, refuse. Keep some shred of pride. Instead, he ate. It would be the last time his stomach would ever be full.
"I leave in the morning," Kharon whispered, leaned against the bars, hand resting on the stone floor inside Egeire's cell. Egeire did not look up from his food. He couldn't bear to. "Egeire, please. You don't have to do this. Tell me you'll leave with me tomorrow. Just tell me you will join me, and this nightmarish chapter of your life can just be over. You could even spend tonight in my quarters instead of this awful, barren cell. Will you come with me, Egeire?"
Egeire was silent. Then, he slid the stacked plates toward Kharon, and moved away from the bars of the cell. "I believe I will be staying here," he replied, tired. He only had to get through tonight, then Kharon would be gone, and he would be left to rot to death in peace. "I will not join the Venatori."
Kharon sighed, almost sounding genuinely sad, before chuckling bitterly. "I suppose it is true what they say about Fereldens, then."
Egeire still didn't look. But he couldn't help replying. "Oh?"
"Stubborn as dogs." He took the plates and stood, brushing himself off. His voice was sad again. "And horrifically cruel. Goodbye, then, Egeire. We will not meet again."
With that, Kharon left, the guards replacing him almost immediately. Egeire's breathing was ragged, eyes burning before he even realized it. He dragged himself into the furthest corner of his cell from the direction Kharon had departed in, curling up tightly with his hands pulling his hair harshly over his face. He could at least hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. Pathetic, pathetic. Weak. All he wanted in that moment, more than anything else, was to see Zevran again. To hold him and bury his face in his hair and sob and let Zevran rub his back, to breath in the scent of leather and Antivan brandy and wildflowers, alone in their other home in Antiva.
But all he was was alone, alone, alone and pathetic and weak and crying. If he threw himself against the bars, begged the guards to send for Kharon, and knelt there sobbing that he had changed his mind, he was sure he would be released from his cell and held, rocked, reassured in sweet, soft Antivan. It would all just be over.
So instead Egeire curled in on himself tighter and murmured fragments of an Antivan lullaby under his breath, and despairingly tried to hold himself together until the next morning had come and passed.
Egeire didn't move from the corner until something soft hit him in the head. Then he jolted, looking up to see a meager bread roll tumbling onto the floor. The rest of his lacking dinner was dropped unceremoniously onto the floor just inside his cell, right next to his untouched and unnoticed breakfast. A miserable relief washed over him. His shoulders slumped. At least that agonizing temptation was over with. At least he still had the will to choose an austere damnation to oblivion rather than give up everything to show how spineless and weak he really was when he was alone.
He numbly took the roll from the floor and pressed it to his lips, curling back up and taking small bites when he could will himself to move at all.
With the Venatori giving up on turning him came the passing of days and weeks in a blur. Guards came and went. Sometimes he got meals. They stopped coming with any kind of regularity. Sometimes they were only scraps. Egeire vaguely stretched, but pacing had entirely lost its appeal. The injuries he had sustained in the losing battle with Alexius had not healed well. The scars ached and his body was painfully stiff. Having nothing to fitfully sleep on but the cobbles of his cell did not help either. When meals had become irregular, they started leaving him a second bucket, of water, to drink from. He wasn't sure why they bothered.
The first thing that changed over the slog of his captivity was the day another Venatori member came up to his guards. It was only one, so it wasn't a relief shift. "The two of you are dismissed," she told them, not even glancing down at Egeire. "You are being relieved by a patrol."
"A patrol?" the guard on the left asked. "You mean--?"
"Yes." She looked from him to the guard on the right, and then back. Egeire could not see her face under her helmet. "Empress Celene has been assassinated."
Right-Guard snapped to attention. "Really? Finally! Are we being transferred? Even without any mutts here, this place stinks of mongrel. Not to mention how intolerable--"
Head-Guard somehow managed to convey a withering sneer even through the metal covering her face. "Asking stupid, inane questions out of line is a good way to indicate that you're too unfocused on what is important to be good for anything but babysitting that fool Alexius and our lingering work here."
Left-Guard stiffened at that, and immediately hissed for his companion to shut up. Head-Guard left, and Left turned to strike Right on the shoulder in disgusted exasperation. "Are you trying to get us stuck in this hole while the Elder One transforms the world? As if we want to be in Orlais when the Veil is torn entirely open there."
Right flinched, drawing away. "I just can't stand Ferelden," he muttered, turning with his companion to leave. "At least watching demons tear Orlais apart would be entertaining...."
Egeire blinked dully at the opposite wall as they left. Empress Celene of Orlais, assassinated? By the Venatori? Why? No. For the chaos, surely. They already declawed the Inquisition, so turning up the rest of Thedas in a state of unrest was likely to ensure nobody else would have the chance to mobilize against them. Or... perhaps this Elder One enjoyed the chaos? Or it enabled him to rip open the Veil? Was it another Breach to be created, pouring demons down from the skies? Or something else?
Distantly, he wondered if assassinating the Empress was something they had wanted him for. Not that it mattered, clearly. Just as Kharon had said... it had gotten done eventually.
He stood up, paced around his cell a few times now that he was alone, stretched, and then settled into the other back corner of his cell. It wasn't like anything had changed, anyway. He was still here, still locked in a cell, still going to die here alone.
He wondered if he would ever hear anybody say his name again.
He was half-conscious in the corner of his cell, listening to Blightsongscream of the Calling, of the Taint in his blood, when the clanging of metal on stone startled him into awareness. He looked over at the door to his cell to see his dagger and sword, after so long of being apart, tossed through the bars onto the cell floor. Two Venatori guards were staring at him, one leaning on the bars with one hand and making sure to look down on him. "Noticed you weren't eating," one of them said.
He had somewhat stopped bothering. Perhaps they had taken it for a hunger strike. Not that he had ever demanded anything. He didn't reply either way. "So if you don't want your food, you may as well save us a stop on our patrol," the other said mockingly. "We'll just call it a mutual favor, knife-ear."
The first guard just snorted as they both walked on. Alone again, he looked over at his weapons. There was no point in giving the Venatori the satisfaction of his quick death. He shifted slowly and went to take them nonetheless. It was... almost comforting to sheathe them on his back again. He didn't really have a use for them, but at least he had them. Even if he broke out of his cell, what was he going to do? Storm the castle alone, maybe make it far enough to kill the man who had already beaten him once, who seemed to not even be an important pawn for the Elder One anymore? There would be no point.
At least it felt like he had a little piece of himself back, even if it was meaningless.
Dreams, dreams... dreams? Dreams. Yes, best to call them what they were. So what if they were his only company? What were they going to do, leave him too? The solitude had left him numb to caring. Even the constant ache of his body had become background noise. Well, just about everything had become background noise. The pain he was in, the leak in the lower dungeons that was starting to flood his floor, the stiffness he had started simply working around rather than try to work out of his body. Didn't matter none of it did. (None of it?) None of it. None. All drowned out by the humming anyway.
Not humming like voice humming. Humming like his bones, humming like clawing like the Calling digging claws into the back of his neck like trying to get up into his brain where it already was when it wasn't in his blood which was in his brain anyway so it was still there too. Except for when it wasn't. He was mad. No he wasn't. Well, yes he was, but it didn't matter. He had practically embraced it when he saw it coming. Mad was better than miserable, or at least consciously, solely miserable. Better to strain his throat humming and trying to harmonize than scream it raw.
Sometimes he ate but usually he didn't. Some part of him liked the idea of making them waste their damn efforts. He was usuallyalwaysnever hungry anyway-- the Taint was warping him-- so one more or less meal or twenty didn't matter. He had long tuned out their footsteps. He only liked the footsteps of the children that came to listen to his stories or the silent drifters who liked to listen to him hum. He liked to listen to him hum too. No he didn't. Well, he did it anyway, so it didn't matter. Nothing else to do.
Heavier footsteps passed. Not children, not drifters, so he only hummed and swayed to drown it out. They passed too. Background noise, background noise, like everything and one else dying in this hole. Whole hole, wholly dying. Stiff body splashing along the floor to retrace the steps of a field dance he didn't have the room for. Oh well. No room for anything really.
He was remembering the path through burning, Tainted woods when he heard a voice. Another voice. He always heard voices but they weren't always gruff and echoing and wrong and they didn't call, "HEY, KNIFE-EAR!"
Well, yes, they did, but not in that voice, and not from way down the hall.
He stuck his face out of the bars and looked down the hall and squinted, because he was pretty sure he was the only knife-ear here (or at least the only one worth yelling at if he said so himself). He would almost chalk it up to another waking dream except no except no, there was a grey hand and a big big grey shoulder pressed against the bars of a distant cell and a big big big horn poking out into the hall. It was angled awkwardly. He probably couldn't really get his head out proper. Big dumb sod. "WHAT?"
"So it is you!" Big Dumb Sod yelled back, because they were rather far apart for casual conversation volumes. "I guess they weren't lying when they said you didn't fucking talk. I've been trying to get your damn attention for days; I was starting to figure you were just dead."
He laughed at that, cold and gravelly and hoarse, almost doubling over. "As if our luck would hold out for that!" Luck. Luck! A joke in itself, a concept too high up the shelf. His face itched at the thought. And his shoulders. Fuck. They always itched, he was just noticing it again.
A gruff grunt. "Yeah." Pause. "You been here the whole time?"
"What time?" he asked vaguely back, slumping against his bars. "The all time, I suppose. Yes? And you. Not dead, ox? Thought everyone was."
"Nope. They locked me up a floor up. Guess they're just moving everyone downstairs since everything's a shit fire anyway."
He hummed. "Orlais too."
"I heard." Another pause, longer. "Everywhere by now, probably."
"Indeed." He drifted out, trying to picture the scope of Thedas. He could barely imagine the size of Ferelden anymore, cooped up under Redcliffe for... for months? Many. He turned back to the hallway. "How long, ox-man?"
"How fucking long what, knife-ear?" got shouted back, irritated. "Too fucking long, probably. Whatever it is."
"How long since... since...." What was in a name? "How long since we lost? Since they threw us in cells?"
The silence that followed pulled the heat out of the air, out of the other's voice. It was tired when he called the answer back. "Eight months, I think, give or take some weeks. Not much to do if you wanted to celebrate the anniversary of us and the world getting our asses kicked, though. They probably wouldn't even bring us any ale if we asked."
He let himself devolve into little mad, hopeless giggles, falling to sit on his heels and lean back against the walls by the bars of his cell. Eight months. Of course he couldn't even tell, down here. How old would that make him again? Didn't matter. That much he could agree upon. Well... no, no, it really didn't matter. If it did he wouldn't have a scar on his throat that itched too. So really, nothing mattered.
"KNIFE! EAR!" came the exasperated yell.
He perked up, looking back down the hall. "What?"
"Look, just... one more question. One more question, and then you can go back to talking to yourself or cackling like a loon or whatever the fuck it is you do over there for fun." He hummed and waited, leaning against the bars. Listening. "Does... your cell have red lyrium in it, too?"
He smiled wryly, looking down at the red glow cast across the surface of the inch or two of water over the floor. He tried to keep himself from actively itching even as a gloved hand came up to poke at his hard, crystalline scabs. "Of course it does," he called back, and laughed. "Where doesn't, anymore?"
Within weeks he was hewaseas-- he was fairly consumed. Felt no pain. Better than months prior. He itched so much, though. Had to braid his hair back to keep it out of his face or it would drive him... he was already there but more. Eyes closed didn't matter. Cell hummed skin hummed blood hummed he hummed. Red lyrium soothed the Blightsong, crystallized the claws at his neck. Made it damn hard to stretch his neck. It jutted out of his shoulders in solid stalagmites now. Rough peaks of ore poked him in the face if he let his head drop to either side. Learned it the hard way. A small piece broke off in his temple once, grew up to the tip of his ear. Whispered. He tuned it out.
Voices voices unimportant humming loud singing almost started humming too. "Hey, knife-ear!" He listened, this time. The ox. Coming... closer? "You listening?"
He cackled. When was he ever? Why would he? "Bite me, ox-man."
Splashing footsteps (floor long flooded), horrific curiosity bubbling up like drowning men's breaths. Ox-man. So tall. He'd practically forgotten. Ox crackled with red lyrium too, seeped into his eyes and radiating but not growing from his skin. But that was not the red that suddenly captivated him. He missed the gasp but not its owner.
The very picture of a year ago. Two wide open mouths, a white-knuckled grip on a staff. Green coat red hair warm skin, scaredshocked eyes. He met those eyes they said nothing. Impossible-- impossible? Ox-man free and dead men walking? He pulled himself from the wet floor, standing with a faint hum. They didn't speak hum. Pity. Good? Well, unimportant. Little one, important one, dead one, gaping, breathingwhimpering, "Egeire."
He cocked his head. What? What was that? It prickled like lyrium growing into his lungs but it wasn't there yet, not interested yet in his useless breath. Important. Yes important. The First said more but he didn't listen. Ox's voice, deep and rough and lyrium, "That's you, knife-ear."
... Him! Right! A small sound of understanding left his throat, as the other mage came to open his cell door. Egeire stayed standing in his cell, turning over the sound of his name in his mind again. Egeire? Yes, yes, right. Maybe Ox had used it. He'd never listened. He listened to the elf, little First and not-Herald. It seemed rude to ignore a specter (not-specter?). The Ox kept talking regardless. "Herald's not dead, we're going to kill Alexius, it'll be a good time."
Now that sounded fun. Fun wasn't something he-- Egeire-- had thought about in... months-that-felt-like-years. He finally came up to the open door of his cell. Cautious, careful. Just in case it wasn't really open and he was about to walk into it. He didn't hit anything so he leaned against the doorframe, unable to help a small laugh as a painfully wide smile strained his face. Egeire looked up to see the First looking so confused. He hummed. "Well then. You've missed quite a bit...." Name. The First remembered him, but Egeire didn't remember the First. Who was he? Who? It wouldn't come. He'd let too much go.
Egeire shook his head to focus. "You've missed a lot," he purred (maybe?), "a lot, a lot..." It was so entertaining to speak again, voice threatening to drift into the rhythm of the corruption consuming him. He stopped again, clearing his throat, "Ahem. Has the ox-man told you?"
"Bull hasn't told us much yet, no." Oh! Bull, not Ox. Close. He'd hardly been corrected. Until now? "If we can just get to Alexius, we should be able to get ba... well." Well. Unimportant, probably. Egeire never did get the actual plans of Keepers. Why should First be any different? "But how did... mythal'enaste, what happened?" Then he turned away, to Bull, and Egeire simply blinked. Well, Keepers never consulted him either. All fitting really. Egeire pondered on Mythal instead. How long since he had prayed to her...?
"Red lyrium set into him faster," was what Bull was saying when Egeire paid attention again. "Couldn't tell you why, boss. Knife-ear went completely insane months ago. At least he isn't singing about his glory days again."
Oh, insane! Bull thought he knew insane! Egeire smiled but held back a laugh, instead dreamily humming, "The Blight, the Blight...." Bull sighed. The Blight... mischief faded to thoughtfulness. "The Calling sang and the lyrium found it and harmonized," Egeire mused, voice rough and thin. "I could not answer the song but I have started to learn it, however faintly. I cannot tell the Calling from the lyrium anymore; maybe they're the same, now."
It felt like it. Had red lyrium grown into Blight or Blight into red lyrium? Impossible to say. Insecurity at ignorance in front of a First suddenly lashed at him, and Egeire quickly added, "Oh, but I can tell you of the year you've missed!" A smile, finally some use. Song in his blood and song in his memories called to him, but he tried to stay on topic. "You and the shem were turned to ash, the Inquisition couldn't last; the Elder One killed the ruler of Orlais at her ball, and soon after would the whole empire fall." A laugh! "Demons, little First! The Elder One commanded so many demons. An army, armies, stormed Thedas alongside his Venatori, and we all fell, fell, fell as he rose. And so here we stand, forgotten in the ashes of a dead world."
Egeire smiled, glancing back towards the First. "Astounding what happens in but a year."
"Like I told you, boss," Bull groaned, "crazy. Right about the last parts anyway, but damn far off the deep end enough to be halfway to Par Vollen."
The FirstHerald looked oddly thoughtful, glancing between Bull and him. He said no thoughts. All he said was, "Come on. Let's get to Alexius and end this. I've seen more than enough of this world."
Egeire gave a rough laugh in response, feeling something drain from him. "You're telling me," he quipped, suddenly realizing how tired he was. It grounded him a little from his madness, at least. He stepped out of his cell, joining the assembled group. The First and the shem had blood on them; the guards were definitely still around then. There was yet more fighting to be done.
He reached up and back over the lyrium growing from his shoulders to draw his blades, though at first they didn't want to budge from their sheathes. Egeire yanked harder, breaking them free with loud cracks as his sword and dagger, now encrusted with red lyrium, yielded to his hands. He had missed having them. He missed holding them. The difference in weight didn't even register. "Lead the way." Time to follow.
The First's jaw twitched, grip on his staff tightening. "This way," he replied evenly. He turned away and walked off into the corridors. Egeire, with the other two, followed behind.
They allowed themselves a slight detour from going straight to Alexius. The remnants of Fiona had managed to croak out a reason: "Leliana." That was all Egeire had needed to hear, laser-focused, only hearing "Find her," before he was already about to walk off without the others. They were not far behind him.
The hissed voice, an open door, the movement of armor. "I will die first." The First was ahead but Egeire was right on his heels. She saw them, they saw her, hanging from the ceiling, a Venatori torturer turning to face them. "Or you will." Her legs swung up and locked around his throat, the First stilling in shock at the sight. The Venatori choked and clawed at her shins but she was still armored and vicious and given new reason to fight. He started to fall and she wrenched against his struggles and just like that, he dropped with a broken neck. Egeire could only stare in silent awe through a fog of addled madness.
The First rushed over, fumbling at the dead man's belt for his keys, and Leliana watched with shocked but calculating eyes. She was gaunt and pale with sunken cheeks and bruised eyes, face warped by innumerable withered creases and wrinkles. Stringy, dry orange hair poked out from her dark hood. The First rose to free her from her bonds, and her voice held all the weight of the world: "You're alive."
She watched him he watched her, and he managed, "We have a plan, we-- we're going to try to fix this."
"Forget 'try.'" Her voice was nearly as sharp as her stare, softness worn away by... a year? of torture. "If you're back from the dead, you will need to do more than 'try.' You need to end this." The First swallowed thickly. "Do you have weapons?" A nod. "Good. The Magister is probably in his chambers."
Everyone watched her as she crossed the room purposefully to retrieve her bow and quiver from a chest by the door. Egeire almost didn't know what to make of her. None of this felt real but she felt like a reflection in a broken mirror. It felt wrong, she looked wrong, even though he knew he looked worse. "You... aren't curious as to how we got here?" the shem asked, awkward.
"No." Leliana stood with her reclaimed possessions, and Egeire could not help a snort. So lost. He felt so lost. Her focus was almost comforting. Why would anyone care about the story? There could be change. Change after so long a year of waiting and suffering. The Elder One couldn't possibly be stopped now, but if there could be a change before the now...
"Alexius sent us into the future," the mage said anyway. Egeire rolled his eyes. "This. His victory, his Elder One-- it was never meant to be!"
"If we can get back to that confrontation in the castle hall, we can stop this from ever having happened," the First agreed, determined. "We can fix this. We have to."
Leliana sighed. "And mages wonder why people fear them.... Nobody should have this power." The shem mage started talking again, and Egeire sighed in the doorway and shut his eyes. He was so tired. There was no time, no time, never and always and fixed and malleable and he was so so tired. Leliana snapped, "Enough!" A relief. "This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was-- this is-- real."
She turned away-- and looked right at Egeire. "... We suffered," she said, rough and angry voice falling quiet. Up close he could see the blood under her pale skin, the mottled bruises and the way her pale eyes practically glowed in comparison to the shadows engulfing them. A long pause followed. He held her gaze. "My friend." He couldn't read her expression. "After all you did for me... I could not find you. I am sorry, Egeire."
There were no words left in the ravaged pieces of his minds to describe how comforting it was to hear his name wrapped in her voice, her accent; through the fog he could remember the Blight, a decade ago when her cheerful voice and the lilt of her accent had even then been soothing against that backdrop of chaos. Meeting her eyes, he had a feeling she knew how far gone he was. "I... knew... there was no saving me," he rasped, stumbling on trying to word grounded thoughts. "I never blamed you, Leliana."
Leliana smiled bitterly, the moment fading, but she rested a hand on his arm briefly to remind him, "We must once more go save the world, Egeire."
Egeire found a smile to return to her. "I suppose I could manage that one more time."
He tuned out most everything after that, the strain of thought taking its toll. Leliana and the Bull and the First kept him focused enough to help kill their way to the Magister. Egeire took an especial, vicious pleasure in seeing him cut down. But after that... the adrenaline began to subside. The mages knelt by the body and looted in, the shem taking an amulet and turning it over in his hands. They talked. More noise. Egeire leaned against a pillar and closed his eyes.
So close to the end. And yet... even if they left, went to "fix" things, what then? Would everything just cease to exist, gone in an instant, waking from a nightmare? What if it didn't? Where could they go? Nowhere. This "future" was still ruined. They were still dead walking, purposeful yet damned to the void.
"An hour?!" Leliana snapped, turning and approaching the mages. "That's impossible! You must go now!" She spoke reason enough even before the castle shook around them. Rubble toppled from the crumbling ceiling as the distant howl of demons tore through the halls behind them. Leliana looked up as the ground settled. "The Elder One."
Well, Egeire supposed that settled the question of what was going to happen to the rest of them.
"There's a reason they won," the Bull said, unsettled, as a silence fell. The First looked confused, afraid. Leliana, grim as ever. Egeire glanced over at the Bull, who was looking at him. They shared a look, and though Egeire knew Bull did not hear the humming, he knew they had the same idea.
Egeire stepped forward, Leliana turning back to him instinctively. "They'll be coming to kill the mages. Bull and I will go out to meet them, hold them off for as long as we can. Buy the time that was worthless a year ago. You remain here, kill anything that gets past. I know you can, for long enough."
The First's eyes were wide with shock. "Th-That's suicide. Egeire--"
"Look at us," Leliana hissed. "We are already dead, Camlen! The only way we live is if this day never comes." Camlen. Camlen, gods, that was it... and here Egeire was, only just learning it again before his death. He nodded to Bull, who nodded back and started moving to the door. "Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows."
Leliana turned and drew her bow, stalking toward the door with purpose as Egeire began to follow Bull. He smiled wryly for her, one last time, but she did not return it. Despite himself, Egeire said, softly, "And here I thought I wasn't going to go on my Calling." Her determined expression shifted slightly-- pain. He dropped his gaze sadly, before it all began to fray again, and he joined Bull at the door. It was already open. Bull did not relish this moment either, but he was ready.
The crossed the threshold together and pulled it shut behind them. At least it was sturdy. The howls of demons grew louder. In the haze, Bull was just about the picture of a fellow Grey Warden, following Egeire out into the endless legion. They would fight as hard as they could, until they were overwhelmed and fell. He was no Warden, these were no darkspawn, this was not the Deep Roads... but this really was a Calling, wasn't it? Egeire saved them a bit of bloodletting, swiping quick slices across his arms as they approached the invading horde, and let the twice-tainted blood drip down his blades like a poison.
Egeire Mahariel did not fear the sleep of death any longer. He had become the bestial epitome of nightmares already. All, for one last time, to save the world.