Chapter Text
Everything is different now, except, of course, for every way it is the same.
Corypheus is dead and the red templars with him, though the Inquisition is no shorter of enemies. On every journey since, selecting her adventuring party is a carefully considered game of chess—no longer a certainty, wordless and comfortable as her companions follow her out the keep doors, two at her flank and one… one at her side. And so too, her bedroll is colder during journeys to and from Skyhold through the Frostback Mountains, though the chill air has no less or greater bite than before.
She sleeps little in those early months, ever-distracted by the chorus of voices in the Well of Sorrows she never quite mastered how to silence. She is worn thin, the exhaustion stemming from deep within her bones, but there is always work to do. Just as the Inquisition lost all necessity, it gained spades of popularity. Baffled by her new celebrity, Sioned keeps to task, routing out the remaining templar filth and spare darkspawn who have the misfortune to cross her path. Anything to keep her from being poked, prodded and paraded by her human handlers and their litany of noble gawkers, all out for their pound of flesh.
Time slurs together and Sioned stops looking for meaning in how it ended. Every day is something new—a procession of duties and missives and official appearances and, indeed, one genuine parade in Inquisition livery—yet entirely interchangeable. Sera notices her decline first and before long Leliana can be heard arguing with Josephine to postpone—nay, cancel—the week’s schedule. Sioned would be grateful, if she could muster it; instead, she takes her teas and tinctures in her quarters, poking at the food that is brought but eating little, and falls to rest eased by the stories spun by the voices in the Well.
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When she wakes, momentary surprise turns to fear and quickly gives way to wonder. As a Dalish mage, she is no novice to visiting the Fade—no more so since she gained the Mark on her left hand—though this pocket of the realm is unlike anything she has ever experienced. She is surrounded by water—up, down, all around her—submerged in a cool, insistent pressure buffeting her like a breeze. Hanging there, embraced in the waters, she begins to take it all in.
She ghosts a hand in front of her face but can barely see it for the dark. The light is minimal, dappling in from some unseen source through underwater currents in the inky blue expanse, and she is thankful for the calm the darkness provides. Her hair, long and lank from months of neglect, dances in the current, given renewed life in the depths. Feeling more confident, she kicks out once while pulling water with her hands and watches with wide eyes as the now jade-green light from the Anchor spills out into the deep.
A whisper of a smile plays at her lips. This is a good dream, she decides.
The thrum of the current urges her on, spurring her to motion. She kicks again, swimming in earnest now. Her mind begins to wander as she considers why the Fade brought her here this night. What mystery is she supposed to uncover? Twirling her head to and fro to better gauge the limits of her dreamscape, she is oblivious to the idle air bubbles that escape her lips.
The water has an unusual uniformity in its hue. For a moment—her wonder punctuated with a touch of doubt—Lavellan pauses to consider that she may be far deeper underwater than she originally realized—certainly far deeper than she could manage to swim. Still, the water’s cool touch on her cheek and threading through the hairs on her forearms is soothing. She is swaddled in its embrace—the gentle pressure reminding her she is alive—and for the first time in months, Lavellan knows peace.
But only for a moment.
The first press at her lungs is unexpected.
Her first instinct is to swim, kicking and pulling water with abandon until she breaks the water’s surface for gulps of cool, clean air to balm her stinging lungs. But then she remembers herself. Unlike her time at Adamant, she is visiting the Fade in her dreams, not physically. There is nothing to fear in a dream.
Sioned can feel her heartrate begin to fall, but the anxiety lingers. On all previous journeys to the Fade—that one time notwithstanding—her experiences were based purely in emotion, in sensing the undulations behind the Veil and how they influenced the corporeal world. The Fade speaks in metaphors, in visuals. She has always walked through dreams unincumbered by mortal concerns—hunger, thirst, the need for rest. And fresh air, above all. That was the point of the Fade, in a way: a dreamscape that offers every opportunity to explore your subconscious thoughts, learn and grow, commune with spirits—whatever one needs to make them whole or bring closure by the time the sun rises.
Physical sensation is rare, if it ever occurs at all.
Which makes the next constriction in her lungs all the more troubling. The once-comforting pressure of the water at her back, front and center takes on a new horrifying quality. Fear is rising in her now, hot through her chest, burning through her strained lungs and radiating out into the icy water.
But it doesn’t have to. She is a mage, after all—and a Dalish mage, at that—meaning the Fade is almost a second home for her. She has never had fear here before, and she doesn’t intend to start now. Collecting herself, Sioned closes her eyes, pulling back the threads of her consciousness that have spread during her short jaunt into the Fade. As she pulls inward, she looks into the well of magic that waits in her core, nudging it to life. A familiar warmth stirs, stretching out, up and down her limbs, sitting at the base of her neck before scaling her crown.
I am in control of my own fate here. This place bends to my will.
However, the sting in her lungs has yet to relent.
Sioned repeats the same mantra, directing her magic to change the scene. She had no specific intentions when she entered the Fade this evening, so she draws on a childhood favorite to spend the remainder of her time—a small forest clearing in the outskirts of Wycombe where she often sought refuge while shirking her training as First. A safe place to restore her balance before she wakes.
Moments pass. The press of water against her skin does not fade as she expects and the stale air in her lungs turns to fire. Lavellan pushes down the fear, frowning to herself, her eyes still squeezed shut against the dappled light. She compels her magic again, pushing harder to propel the transition; she’s never had such difficulty before. The grip on her lungs tightens again and she wonders with a dash of horror whether its hold is entirely natural. If any of this is. Creators, what has she gotten herself into?
Sioned compels the transformation again with new vigor, no longer suggesting the Fade change to her will, but demanding. The response is immediate, and violent.
The soft, buffeting currents from before are long gone, becoming a more insistent pressure that squeezes at her arms, her chest and toes. But the press doesn’t ebb, instead multiplying as Sioned begins to feel the full weight of the water at this depth, crushing her inward and threatening the wrench the remaining air from her lungs. Her concentration slips and her mind races with questions. There isn’t much time to act. But when she calls for the familiar warmth of her magic, she is met with resistance. Her power feels sluggish, dampened somehow. And now Sioned allows herself to feel true horror. Try as she might, her magic does not respond to her call.
And then come the voices.
They are soft at first; whispers over her shoulder raising hair on her neck. Sioned fights the crushing pressure to whip around and find their source, but there is nothing, no one. But the voices build, not just whispers but shouts and jeers all layered over each other in dissonance from every direction. The crushing pressure on her body—on her skull—makes it hard to process, hard to hear. But she cannot afford to parse their overlapping messages. The burn in her lungs is unbearable as she desperately tries to channel her magic into an escape.
The water’s grip tightens like a vice around her middle and Lavellan cries out, losing precious air and taking on her first gulps of water. The voices shriek in response, jeering her failure. Fear spreads across her skin in angry blotches with the panicked realization that she cannot break free of the Fade’s grasp, cannot escape this nightmare. She claps her hands over her mouth, pinching her nose closed with both thumbs to preserve what air she has left, if any. But it’s no use.
Sioned floats helplessly in the deep, never more aware of the doomed breath her body compels her to take. The water pushing through the gaps in her fingers to the corners of her mouth and nose, flooding her ear canal—and just waiting to intrude further. Her head is reeling from the lack of air, to say nothing of the pressure slowly squeezing the life out of her.
Her vision begins to blacken and she closes her eyes in defiance. Sensing the end, Lavellan takes a moment to try to calm herself—gently, tenderly, as she might a child.
You cannot die in a dream, she tells herself, contradicting the doubt screaming in her chest. Not really, anyway.
Her pulse is beginning to slow.
S-scenes shift… change and melt away—
She feels the pinprick of tears in her eyes as they instantly mix with the water of her prison.
—but there is no death. Not in the traditional sense.
Sioned lets her head loll, done expending the extra energy ducking the disembodied voices as they careen past.
Even i-if I…
She can’t bring herself to say “die,” even in her mind, never mind the fact that she’s thought of little else since the Inquisition’s purported victory. Since Solas’ departure.
I’ll just wake up back at Skyhold—
The voices let loose another peal of laughter, chattering as they swirl around her.
—and nothing will have happened. It’s all a dream. No-nothing can hurt me here.
After the events of the last year, she should know better.
The devastating pressure of the deep and the shrieking cacophony of voices reach a fever pitch, nudging Sioned back from the lip of unconsciousness. Something’s happened, but she hasn’t anything left in her to investigate.
Suddenly, something hard, something real—a hand, she realizes, fear dragging her back from the deep sleep—makes contact with her arm. She tries to move away, but the crush of the water and the haze in her vision and brain make her easy prey. There is no fight left in her. Foreign fingers scrabble for purchase before gripping her tightly and pulling, digging into the flesh above her elbow as she loses her battle with consciousness, hoping wherever she ends up next will allow her to rest.