Revelations 8

"Fenris found this whilst you were out of it," remarked Hawke as he led the party through a sequence of large rooms beyond the one Anders had been ambushed by the darkspawn in. "We've never seen anything like it – we wondered, perhaps, if you had come across anything during your time with the Grey?"

Anders stood leaning against the rusted rail, staring out across the void at the tall tower that rose up in the centre of the ancient dwarven fortress – like a stone island, whose roots were so far below in the depths that Anders couldn't see them. As he stared down at the dizzying heights, he felt a wave of vertigo sweep over him and he clutched at the rail for support, paling as he swallowed back nausea.

"There's... a whole tower down here," he breathed. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Are you alright?" asked Hawke as he stepped back.

"Aw, the precious mage flower's afraid of heights!" scoffed Carver as he strode up to the balustrade and made a big show of leaning over.

"Don't-!" began Anders, reaching out a hand to stop him, just as Carver made the fatal mistake of looking down.

"Sweet Maker...!" he muttered in a choked voice, and hurriedly stepped back.

"Bit high up is it?" remarked Hawke drily. Carver darted him a black look.

"We're not here for sight-seeing," he muttered, turning away. "Come on. We've wasted enough time down here already."

As they filed into another room, Carver stepped up closer to his brother. "This is a real mess," he said quietly. "Is it terrible that I'm glad Mother isn't around to suffer this?"

"She knew what to expect," replied Hawke tersely, pausing to poke at the rotting remains of a crate with his sword. He frowned at it, then pressed on.

"The sides we're on, it's all but guaranteed one of us would be worrying her," mused Carver sombrely. "If I knew how to fix that, well...." his voice tailed off. He walked in silence for a while beside his brother. Hawke glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. Carver grimaced and shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. Let's just get this mess cleaned up." He strode on ahead, taking point.

"Hearing your father's voice has him rattled," remarked Varric quietly.

"Him and I both," replied Hawke. "When that last shade bit the dust and I heard Father...." He shook his head.

Anders kept silent as he walked behind them, biting a thumbnail distractedly. He did not dare admit that the haunting sound of Malcolm Hawke's voice had raised an entirely different spectre for him; one that he feared only he could hear. Even now, the faint dry whisper still lingered, like a faint taste of lyrium on the back of his tongue – bittersweet, seductive. He could feel Justice poised, dagger-like, ready to strike back should the voice of Corypheus raise above that haunting whisper. For now, he could force it to the back of his mind, much as he was used to doing with the foetid skittering of darkspawn taint inside his skull – to be discounted until it rose above a distracting murmur.

Like now.

"Darkspawn," he hissed as he reached for his staff, his eyes already searching the shadowy expanses of the room they had entered for the group of genlocks he knew lurked...

"There!" A twirl of his staff, a flare of mana, and a bolt of fiery white lightning streaked away to blast at the creatures, and the battle was joined. "Five genlocks – watch out, there are two hurlocks behind you, Carver!"

He wasn't even looking at Carver; he heard the warden exclaim in surprise as he spun, already raising his sword. Anders had his back to Carver, but all the same he could practically feel the incredulous stare Carver sent in his direction. He grinned as he gestured towards the genlocks, encasing the feet of two in ice; after this many years with the taint growing in his blood, he could distinguish the differences between wardens and the different types of darkspawn by – well, it wasn't quite feel and it wasn't fully taste, but the sense lay somewhere between the two. Justice could blind him to it, and when Corypheus' whispering voice sang it made things blur into unreality; but when he was concentrating as he was now, the magic singing loudly in his veins like quicksilver and starfire, then he knew where and what they were.

He knew with a different sense exactly where Fenris was, too; the elf's lyrium blazing sung like a siren to his mage senses; like a magnetic pull no matter where he was. Right now, that was right in the middle of three genlocks, right in the heart of trouble. Anders' magic knew the elf; it had healed him before. He knew almost as soon as Fenris did when one of the genlocks managed to make it past the elf's guard as he briefly phased back into corporeal tangibility to sink its fangs deep into his shoulder.

Fenris' cry was high and shrill as the creature bit down hard, nearly drowning out the sickening sound of cracking bone. Anders was already moving, running, leaping over the body of a hurlock, skidding slightly on the slick of blood that was spreading slowly across cracked paving stones, twirling his staff overhead with both hands as he called up fire and then speared the staff blade down into the genlock, discharging the fireball directly into the creature's spine even as it howled in agony, pierced by the heavy tempered steel point.

Fragments of bone and flesh, gobbets of innards, coils of stinking guts and gouts of blood exploded outwards in all directions; Anders barely had a moment to throw up a shield against the backblast. Barely had the wet detritus settled to the floor when he dropped the shield, throwing himself to his knees beside the elf, who was slowly pushing himself back up onto his knees, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand as blood ran down his back from the ragged wound. His left arm hung limp and useless by his side.

Heedless of all else around him, Anders dropped his staff and reached for Fenris, who was silent despite the agony he must be in. The elf turned his head a little towards Anders as the mage gently laid a glowing hand against his arm. "Mage," he managed to greet him weakly, then slumped back against him. He let his hand fall away from the wound, and Anders laid his own over the bloody raw flesh, extending his senses down into the mess of shattered bone and torn muscle. Closing his eyes, he sank his senses along with his magic into the wound, shifting and realigning bone, reattaching tendons and sinew, renewing white blood cells, healing muscle, driving out dirt and poison. He delved deeper, his mind searching through the elf's blood, drawing upon the lyrium branded into the elf's skin as he sent healing all through Fenris' body, searching out for any trace of taint. Finally he withdrew, satisfied that the elf had escaped the Blight on this occasion. Bite wounds could literally mean life or death, and frequently it was down to pure chance.

As he opened his eyes, he drew the elf into a tender embrace. "You let yourself get surrounded," he chided gently.

"Once again, it seems I owe you my thanks and my life, mage," Fenris said quietly. Anders buried his face against the newly-healed skin.

"I owe you mine several times over," he breathed.

"Fenris?"

They both looked up at Hawke. "He's OK," Anders replied. "No Blight."

Hawke breathed a sigh of relief.

"How in the name of Andraste's tits did you know?" demanded Carver as he stomped over towards them, wiping off his blade with a rag. "I felt there were darkspawn, but you seemed to know exactly where they all were – even what they were!"

"It's something that comes with time and practice," replied Anders. "You can sense me, right?" The warden nodded. "Well, I can sense you standing right next to me – but I can also sense more taint over there." He gestured towards the wall to the left. "The closer I am to them, the more detail I can feel." He glanced towards the room up ahead. "For instance, in there I can feel-"

Anders broke off, his eyes narrowing. What could he feel? Not darkspawn – or if it was, then none he had ever encountered before.

"What?" asked Hawke. "Anders?"

Anders fumbled for his staff and slowly rose to his feet, frowning in confusion. "I... don't know," he said slowly. "It feels like..." He shook his head. "I don't know what it feels like," he said quietly. "I don't...."

Hawke helped Fenris to his feet as he glanced to his brother, who shrugged.

"I feel it too," he confirmed. "Damned if I know what it is though."

"Then I guess we'd better find out," replied Hawke. He turned and started walking towards the archway leading into the next room, Carver at his side. Fenris and Anders fell in behind them, Varric bringing up the rear.

As they entered the next hall, something moved at the far end – a shadowy figure that shuffled slowly towards them, then moved faster with a peculiar lop-sided gait.

"The key!" rasped the creature hoarsely, as though it were unused to speech and its voice had become rusty with disuse. "Did they find it? The dwarves? I heard them … looking … digging …." It drew itself upright before them, and they were finally able to discern that it was a man.

Or, rather had been a man. The rheumy eyes that regarded them keenly were Blighted and white, the hair unkempt and patchy, as though from mange. The skin was dirty and sallow, almost grey. He wore battered and rusted armour that had not been cared for in years. The teeth were yellow and chipped, his breath rank and stinking of the grave. Yet there was an intelligence of a sort in the milky gaze that stared hopefully into Hawke's face. "How do you bring the key here?"

"You mean this?" asked Hawke, unslinging the strange sword he had acquired from the body of one of the Carta dwarves shortly before the dwarves had sealed them in. "How is this a key?"

"Magic... old magic it is, from the blood," replied the creature. "It made the seals. It can destroy them."

Anders stared at the creature. Something about it seemed almost horrifyingly familiar, though he couldn't quite say why. It was most certainly the source of the strange taint feeling he had sensed from the other hall; the creature didn't appear to be any darkspawn he's ever known, but nor was it human. At least, not any longer. An unpleasant suspicion was beginning to dawn in his mind.

"I came here to find Corypheus," said Hawke. "Do you know where, or what, he is?"

At the mention of the name, the whispering in the back of Anders' mind grew more intense, even as the creature before them recoiled.

"Do not say his name! He will hear you! Do not wake him!" He gestured towards the staff. "Not when you hold the key!"

Hawke slung the staff back onto his back and folded his arms. "Let me guess – you want to drink my blood too?"

"Blood? The blood of the Hawke?" The creature shuffled away, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Are... you the Hawke?" It narrowed its eyes then turned back. "No... I smell no magic on you." Limping, it turned and shuffled closer to Hawke. "But you hold the key! The key to his death... yes, I can show you out, yes...."

"Who are you? What's wrong with you?" asked Hawke, frowning.

"You ask me that?" replied the creature, drawing itself up. "I am the one who belongs here, not you! You are no darkspawn!"

And nor are you, Anders thought to himself. Not... yet. He was beginning to suspect he knew just what this creature was – or rather, might have been. The armour was familiar beneath the rust. He shook his head silently. No. It can't be....A look of horrified sympathy slowly crossed his face as he glanced to Carver and saw that he, too, was sharing the same thoughts.

"That armour. That's Warden issue," the younger Hawke said quietly. "No-one has that."

"You hear it, no? Hear it calling?" asked the creature, it's milky gaze flickering from Carver to Anders. "I smell it in you." It turned and shuffled away slowly. "I know the way out. Down and in. Down and in." It glanced back over its shoulder at Hawke. "You must use it, yes? The key. You must use it on the seals. Every seal, you touch the key to it. Only then they open. Only for the Hawke."

It shuffled away, and after exchanging glances, Hawke and Carver began to follow.

"That... man, and how corrupted he is? Remember that," Carver said quietly to Hawke, thumping the griffon emblazoned on the breastplate of his armour. "That's what I'm fighting for."

"It is appreciated," replied Hawke tersely. He glanced back briefly to Anders, whose amber gaze seemed abstracted and troubled.

"You're damned right it is," pushed Carver.

"Then we agree on something," said Hawke firmly.

"Well... good," muttered Carver.

"Good," replied Hawke.

Varric rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Kids," he muttered.

The creature led them to a large room, empty apart from a circular dais. It was cross-quartered by carved lines, a flaming torch upon a pillar standing at the end of each line. The creature gestured at the dais, and Hawke approached it.

Suddenly a loud crack rent the air as a large, dark demonic creature appeared in the centre of the circle. With a roar, the guardian leapt towards them; the party scattered, flanking the thing on all sides. Bianca rang out as Varric put some distance between himself and the monstrous guardian, firing bolts into its unwholesome flesh. Anders kept up a bombardment of spells, alternating between ice blasts and glyphs of paralysis, to fireballs and lightning strikes. Carver, Hawke and Fenris settled for what they did best – leaping in to butcher the creature with blade and – in the case of Fenris – lyrium-powered claws.

As demonic entities went, this one was perhaps less trouble than some demons Anders had faced; still, he was glad when at last the guardian fell. Hawke stepped up onto the dais, unslinging the staff. There was a flash of light, and then Hawke groaned as bright, fierce energies enveloped the staff in his hand with a high-pitched crackling. The others were forced to look away from the blinding brilliance until finally the magical fire died and the light faded once more.

Hawke stared at the staff; it glowed with a dull red glare which slowly dispersed until the staff was cold, dark and heavy in his hands once more.

"Two thousand years, the magic holds," said the strange, taint-corrupted man as he shuffled out of the shadows once more. "Never broken. But the blood... the blood works. It is good."

"Who are you?" asked Hawke, staring down at the shabby creature.

"Name? So long since I've said my name." He turned and limped slowly towards a plaque on the wall. "L..La...Larius?" He turned and seemed to smile at them. "I was Larius!" He turned back to the plaque; as they drew closer, they could see it was emblazoned with the same griffon design as Carver's breastplate, and that of Larius. "There was … a title, too. Commander." He stared up at the griffon. "Commander of the Grey."

"He was a Warden," said Anders, his voice filled with horrified sympathy. "Poor wretch must have come down here on his Calling...."

"That's how it affects you?" asked Carver, equally horrified. Anders slowly nodded as he glanced back at Larius.

"Yes! The Calling... the songs get louder. Only death stops them," answered Larius as he turned and began to limp closer to them, peering at Anders, who felt a cold shill down his spine.

He was looking at his own fate.

"I am dead," said Larius, his eyes never wavering from those of the mage, almost as though talking only to him. "But I never died."

"Anders?" asked Hawke, turning to him, a look of confusion on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Wardens aren't immune to the taint forever," he replied reluctantly. "In time, we... start to hear voices. The same ones darkspawn hear."

"Not exactly a hero's end, is it?" Carver said sombrely. Hawke turned until he was facing the two Wardens – one, his brother, the other his lover. He glanced between them, comprehension slowly dawning.

"Then... that means..."

Anders slowly nodded. "One day, we'll hear the voices. It'll be our turn to go to our Calling." He glanced over Hawke's shoulder at Larius, but his eyes became distant, seeing a future he would not be able to share with Hawke. "And we will become... that." He gestured at Larius, who nodded.

"Anders..." breathed Hawke. "How long...."

Anders turned away. "Not now. Later."

Hawke stared at him, his expression incredulous and horrified. He glanced back at his brother.

"How long?" he repeated. Carver hung his head.

"Thirty years, from the day of our Joining. Give or take a couple of years."

"Maker!" whispered Hawke. "Why did you not tell me?"

Carver regarded him miserably. "I didn't know how."

"Carver... oh Maker, I'm so sorry! It was my fault! I did this to you...." breathed Hawke, reaching out a hand to grasp his younger brother's shoulder. Carver shook his head.

"No. It was as much my decision as yours. If I hadn't joined the Wardens I'd be dead of Blight." He laid his hand over Hawke's. "I don't regret it. Not one bit. Don't you dare."

Hawke stared into his brother's eyes. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"I already did," replied Carver with a sad smile. He glanced over towards Anders, and Hawke took a step towards the mage who stood with his head bowed, forehead pressed against his staff. Fenris stood beside him, face rigid with shock and disbelief as he stared from the apostate to Larius, then back again.

"Love," said Hawke quietly, taking a step towards him, but abruptly Anders wheeled away and strode on ahead of them all.

He would not let them see him weep.