Chapter Text
Lord Abenthy-Abernathy-Abernache looked at Quinn, a slow up-and-down that they were used to, taking in the wide swing of their hips and the bound-flat chest hidden behind thick silverite plate. “My…. Lady,” he drawled, in his stuffy-nose Orlesian accent, sounding as disgusted as if he had just stepped in a ripe pile of Mabari shit. Quinn stretched their lips out around a pointed tooth grimace and chanted we need allies, not enemies, while their fists clenched tight, the sharp spikes of the glove biting into the soft leather palm. Quinn said something that would have made Aydan smile and Josephine’s eyes squint in the way that Quinn knew meant she was pleased, and held the image of crushing the stupid Orlesian mask into this pompous lord’s face behind their eyes. It was better than nothing, though by the time they reached the doors, Quinn’s forearms were tight and their fist was shaking with the need to lash out. It was a relief when the templars started attacking. Fighting their way through the keep was difficult but expected - the cut of the letters carved into Cuihmne’s hilt comforting and the iron smell of blood invigorating.
Finding the Lord Seeker was too easy. Quinn knew this even as they rushed at the man, too late realising the trap as he smirked and threw Quinn at the huge red doors. Quinn braced for the landing that never came.
The light was the same light that had haunted their nightmares for weeks. The burning bodies were frequent actors in the dreams that had Quinn screaming themself awake (Aydan shaking them, the burning heat of his hand the only proof that Quinn was still alive) -- picking their way around the twisted figures bent in pain (how they wished it had been them, that anyone else had woken in that dungeon with the Mark of Andraste upon them) (but that would have left Aydan alone) (would that have been better?) their heart hammering a quick tempo in their throat. (Could they hear a drum beating in time with it?) (No.) (Yes.)
Familiar figures made monstrous: Leliana slid her knives into Cullen’s throat and his body crumpled on the floor like so much meat. Josephine stalked forward, a knife glinting in her hand as she slid it across her own throat. Her skin darkening and her features melting into Quinn’s own. Aydan with burning eyes falling on their shoulder, a terribly familiar wetness covering their good hand. Pulling away to find a knife in their hand and Aydan dead at their feet. Stepping back into Cullen, alive again (it’s a dream, it must be a dream, it cannot be reality, please let them be dreaming). Cullen’s eyes burned the same as Aydan’s not-body, dead on the ground. (Dead by Quinn’s own hand.) (When did Quinn pick up the knife?) Cullen’s voice echoed, words spoken from more than one throat in timbres that do not exist. (Or do they?)
Quinn ran from room to room, watching the scenes play out in front of them. Themself, dead. At their own hand, at Cassandra’s -- it was nothing that Quinn had never thought (feared) before. They never went anywhere without the axe that was larger than they were tall, but carried no knives on their person. It was better that way, no temptations. (But they could not think of this now.) Aydan dead, overrun by demons, killed by the very people he worked so hard to protect. (Dead in a fire. In a room that looked like a barn. Was that a figure Quinn saw through the haze? No. This never happened, this wasn’t real.)
Another familiar scene: Cassandra arguing over the war table. The maps aflame, a body spread-eagle, blood mixing with the ink until there was nothing left. (Was that Aydan on the table? No. The cut of the jaw was too soft, the hair too short.) (What a relief.)
Cassandra with her blade drawn at Quinn’s throat, Leliana pacing in the shadows. (Quinn cannot see her face) “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now!” The words echo in Quinn’s head. (They are inside their mind already, shouldn’t the words be echoing aloud?) (But they are.) (This is all Quinn’s mind. Grey smoke and damp corners and the smell of mold, all over the sickening green on the not-scar on their hand, all over the smell-taste-feel of burning flesh (the same taste-feeling-smell that has haunted Quinn’s every waking hour since they fell from the Fade and and woke with Cassandra’s blade on their skin). The confusing rush of disjointed memories is not unusual. Quinn knows, even if they choose to forget.) The smell of mold permeates everything. This does not comfort Quinn as much as they think it should.
The fear that had been hounding Quinn’s footsteps catch them with burning fire. The only recourse a tiny room, the door swinging shut behind them. A new fear. (It was not new. This was the fear born in the room without windows, in the darkness of the bower, in the wardrobe that Evie and Darren had locked shut.) (The barn.) (Quinn was not thinking of that.)
And then: a boy who they could not look at, an impression of blonde hair and rags, a large hat. All elbows and knees until he moved, then unworldly grace. There was an ache below their diaphragm, above their navel. (The knot of dread. The rotten food on their plate, the hollow ache of hunger. Was there ever a time where it didn’t exist?) The sightless mist in the doorway, the room growing more claustrophobic around them. (Was that smoke coming from under the door?) (The boy was not helping. If Quinn could see his face--) The strangely comforting sway of the dandelions, collecting in the corners of the room. The flowers reminded Quinn of the last time there was peace. It was so long ago.
No. Aydan would not die alone, Quinn would not be finished here, lost in their own mind. The boy, Cole, led Quinn out into the forest (Quinn had always known the way). The grass looked soft under their feet but their footsteps rang like they walked on the golden steps to the Grand Cathedral in Orlais. The heels of Quinn’s shoes became wood to better mark the steps until they were free.
The demon wearing Lucius went flying under Quinn’s fist, the thud of flesh-on-flesh satisfying after the immaterial softness of the hellscape of their own mind. Quinn breathed in the air and felt it’s sharpness in their lungs, looked around and took in the solid immovable shape of the stone. They picked up their fallen axe and tightened their grip over the letters. Cuihmne.