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The screams never stopped, but at least he could dull them down to background noise.
Egeire Mahariel kept his eyes closed. He was sitting cross-legged on a thick branch of a sturdy tree, leaned back against its trunk. The forest was burning around him in sickly, off-color fire, while darkspawn shrieked and swarmed far beneath him. He had long taken the blades from his back and let them drop into the rabid abyss. They just made it harder to settle against the tree, close his eyes, and count: “Uno, dos, tres…”
He was never very good at taking control of his nightmares, but in the years after the Fifth Blight, he had at least learned to endure them.
Counting in Antivan had become Egeire’s preferred method of self-occupation in his nightmares. It was less desperate than a full mantra, and required a bit more thought than counting in Trade, Alar, or his clan’s mixed dialect of Alar and Elven. It was comforting in its way, keeping the reminder of Zevran close even when Egeire’s nightmares threatened to drag him back to that isolated state of mind from when he felt so alone in the beginning of the Blight, rearranging his memories for their twisted play. Then, of course, it kept him calm; that was what was really important. Even if Egeire couldn’t change the circumstances of his dreams, he could keep the Blight-poison in his veins from exhausting him in his sleep.
It still wasn’t serene. His sleep had rarely been pleasant or soothing since he’d come across that damnable cursed mirror in the ruins. Egeire missed the soft blue skies he used to dream of; their presence had long been replaced by a mottled, almost Fade-like green. Perhaps one day he would be cured of the Blight and the peaceful glades from the sleep of his youth would return; perhaps his mind would be too scarred to ever relinquish the images the Taint forced upon it. For now he would have to continue to endure the death screams of his loved ones, the swarming darkspawn, and the burning trees.
The one tree not burning, at his back, shook, knocking Egeire out of his thoughts, out of his calm, and nearly out of his perch. Egeire opened his eyes, a new, thick fear starting to drip down his spine. He was supposed to be sturdy in the chaos, nothing was supposed to be able to get to him, even if it came close. He tried to still his panic even as the shrieks of the darkspawn below him rose above the stagnant smoke. No, he realized, it was more than mere shrieks, it was their voices rising into an ear-splitting harmony, terrifying and familiar all at the same time.
Egeire scrambled to his feet, disjointed and clumsy, the song pointedly burrowing through his skull. It beckoned him ravenously, demandingly over the edge, into the embrace of the darkspawn below, into their claws and blades and wailing mouths. Egeire was frozen with his back pressed against the trunk of the one unburnt tree and the sickly, off-color smoke was rising in search of his lungs, of his voice, but he was so suddenly in shock that he couldn’t draw a single breath. The tree kept shuddering like the darkspawn below meant to bring it down with only the force of their mindless bodies, slamming into it repeatedly and destroying the calm, the near-quiet, scattering leaves and bark and the numbers Egeire had been holding close and the calm, the awareness of the dream he had been clinging to for sanity, ripping it all away,
and shadows engulfed the forest, the entire forest, leaving only the corruptedwrongTainted light of violet flames devouring the trees just as the Blight was devouring Egeire himself, burning him up and leaving only disgusting smoke, filling him with the screamed song rising to meet the roar of the a r c h d e m o noverhead and the darkspawn wantedneededlived for it reaching for it throwing themselves at burning trees to try to reach it so eager to reunite with it, eager to take Egeire with them (it’s coming)
and the claw trap closed around his ribs(come to me)the noose tightened around his neck(come to me)the formless force like hands pulling at his wristsarmshoulders dragged him from the support of the tree trunk(COME TO ME)and the smoke choked his voice and the terror drowned his thoughts and the shock numbed his limbs and he was pulled over the over the edge to meet their voices and he was
falling
and the cold, hard shock of hitting the stone floor woke him up. Egeire rose in a sharp panic, thrashing to get tangled blankets off of him. His breath came in short, fast draws, cold air rushing through his lungs but doing nothing to steady him. Blood, pulsing, pounding, drowned out all other sound. Fingertips brushed his shoulder blades, the darkness out the window came closer, cool fresh air embraced him–
His name, a near-shout shaking off the roughness of sleep, stopped him dead.
Egeire turned to see Zevran one step behind him, taking back an outstretched hand. To stop him from going out the window, Egeire realized. Amber eyes met wide greens. Zevran was still, not breaking his gaze. They stood together in silence broken only by their breathing, and slowly Egeire’s leveled out to match Zevran’s. When the tension still held in Egeire’s raised shoulders, in his anxious hands, in his tight jaw, Zevran spoke quietly: “Mi amor?”
Egeire had to swallow and work his jaw loose before he could speak, replying in a hoarse whisper, “Am I awake?”
Zevran kept his gaze on Egeire’s searching eyes, carefully closing the distance to take Egeire’s hands. Calloused thumbs stroked cold, trembling flesh. “You are awake, Egeire,” Zevran said slowly, clearly, squeezing his hands as if willing as much calm through that contact as possible. “What happened, amor? You haven’t had as bad a nightmare as this in months, if not years.”
Egeire pressed closer first, Zevran allowing it as Egeire pressed his face into the crown of Zevran’s sleep-mussed hair. Zevran’s arms around his waist let Egeire let out some of the tension in his frame with a breath, sagging against Zevran. “Darkspawn,” he mumbled. “The Taint, the Blight, the… the….”
“What, amor?” Zevran asked warily. His embrace tightened minutely. His head shifted under Egeire’s tilted slightly more upward, but not enough to push Egeire off.
Egeire swallowed thickly, reaching for his words even when they wanted to flee him… even when the fear at the voices that hadn’t stopped singing in the back of his mind wanted to drown his words out. He kept his arms folded at his chest, hands clutching each other tightly. The fear of hurting those he loved was suddenly back with new intensity, like a wildfire.
“The Calling,” Egeire finished quietly. Already he wanted to tear from Zevran’s arms, either flee out the window to get away from it all or run to his desk to see how quickly he could throw himself back into the thick of the search for the cure. Zevran seemed to see his roiling, buried panic without words; his own voice was shaky when he spoke again:
“Amor… you cannot mean–”
“I’m hearing my Calling.” Flat, fearful, firm, giving way to silence. Denial gripped them both as Zevran gripped him tighter. Egeire shut his eyes as he breathed against Zevran’s hair. Questions would be next, undoubtedly, once Zevran managed to find his scattered nerves through the shock. Questions, or maybe anger. Egeire almost hoped it would be anger. Questions meant doubt; anger meant purpose.
Egeire Mahariel was not ready for the end, and for once in his life, rather than wait to meet it or even actively throw himself at it, he would make it take him first.