Chapter Text
“Heard tales once,” Syrillon spoke aloud, disturbing the stillness seeping in like fog around them, “about things living in bogs. Spirits, like memories. Just little fragments of thought captured in a single moment, spread out forever, like… butter.” To further clarify, he gave a slow swipe of his hand.
“Mm, butter.” Varric chimed, grumbling lowly with each squishing step.
“Don’t start with the scary stories now, weirdy. M’tired of spirits n’ bogs n’ shite.”
“There’s rules for ‘em,” Syrillon continued, ignoring her, moving with broad, tall strides to keep his feet from sinking too far into the mud, “just three. First, name your blades, so they’ll come back t’you if you call. Things listen in places like this.” Approaching the old, dried body of a hollowed and barren tree, Syrillon moved off their path. He soaked in Sera’s grumbling, and he kept going.
“Second, don’t look behind ya. There’s things out here that’re keeping eyes on ye, and they don’t want you starin’ back.” He hopped out of the muck one foot at a time, climbing onto the body of the tree; it wobbled with every step, stubbornly suspended, even though it was a sun-bleached, withered corpse with twisted limbs and a long body spread out like a bridge to nowhere. He walked along it, tracking muddy footsteps, until he came to where its old roots splayed out like an explosion trapped in time. He leaned one hand onto a root and watched the party pass by, still in the mud.
“And the third?” Blackwall piped up, seeming intent to not be on-edge, but still needing to hear the answer. Syrillon rocked on his heels, jumping without lifting his feet, and the tree creaked along.
“Don’t get comfortable. If you’re seein’ things, it’s ‘cause they wanna be seen. They’re hunting.” He jolted, flashing his palms, at Sera and she let out a surprised squawk, then a sharp cuss. He hopped down into the mud again, submitting to her barrage of punches to his arms.
The mire was in a worse state than what could be communicated through written correspondence. The whole place reeked of rotting mud and smoke. The camp at the border was in a sorry enough state as it was; they’d tied up all their belongings to stop them from being waterlogged by the constant downpour. At the edge of the mire was a thick forest of pine and spruce; evergreen, with needles gleaming black in torchlight like they were cast from onyx.
The sun never showed. It hadn’t in years and, apparently, it was determined to not bow to the appearance of the Inquisition, either. The rain would pitter off for days at a time but the sun still remained chaste, hiding behind its veil of gloomy black clouds. What remained of the soaked maps of the region faded not a days’ march to the south, the land remaining completely uncharted. It would be a muddy, rainy amble in soaked boots, damp breeches, and--according to the scouts--plenty of strange happenings.
‘When anything dies in the water, The Mire preserves it,’ so said the man who had generously aided the border camp in their scouting operation. He was weathered, with a wife and grown child he sent on ahead to take solace in the next town over--someplace dryer, with less spurn from the Maker--and he’d been a fisherman for years previous. He warned of the undead--people, and… things… rising up from the murky water. There had been a plague which steadily whittled down the population of Fisher’s End over the past year and a half, finally culminating in a proper evacuation--of what was left of them--not two weeks prior once a group of hostile Avvar moved in.
By the time the Inquisition passed under the half-collapsed, shabby arch signifying the start of Fisher’s End, there seemed to be something in the air. There were stranger things than the dead lying in wait, fallow, beneath the stagnant water’s surface.
To the far southern edge of the Mire came reports of a ruin, half-sunken into the earth and flooded with mud. Along its path were massive stone carvings, older than Fisher’s End, older than the fortress now overtaken by shambling corpses and Avvar. A camp had been set up at a distance, two scouts assigned to surveillance.
“There’s plenty of undead,” Scout Harding said, packing up her bow and arrows and a bedroll to sling onto her back, saying it with a kind of hardy optimism, “but they don’t seem to come out until you touch the water.”
“Oh, only if you touch the water. In the massive swamp.” Varric murmured, like a verbal roll of his eyes; he knew enough to not do that to her face lest she rescind her offer of accompanying them farther into the bog.
“Our scouts have been having a tough time out here. I hope the next camp is getting along okay.” The march into the mire was a quiet one. There were birds overhead, but they stayed silent, never landing on the barren trees pitched in the water like a remnant of a more lush forest. They trailed over solid mounds of land and the network of shoddy pine-wood bridges in this grey-brown world, none of them feeling especially excited to speak; to disturb the fog settling in around them.
“So, just find the Avvar, rescue our soldiers, then we’re out of here?” Varric broke the silence after a few long minutes into their march. “I get the feeling it’ll end up more complicated than that.”
“Why, I have no idea what could lead you to that conclusion.” Dorian piped up, following a step behind the rogue as they crossed another narrow bridge. “The Inquisition could make a midday stroll into a fight for the end of all things, yes, but let’s not be pessimistic.”
“I’ll stay at the second camp, I think they could use the help.” Scout Harding said, tossing the words over her shoulder, guiding them along the charted path on the map she had tucked inside her cloak. “But I can show you the way to the fortress, that’s no problem.”
“We appreciate all the help you provide.” Said Cassandra, third in line, trailing behind the Inquisitor in his stony silence.
“Nah, it’s nothing. I’d probably get bored if I didn’t have walking corpses to shoot at.” Scout Harding’s voice trailed off and the party came to a steady halt. “...Shit.”
“Already?” The Iron Bull scoffed. “That’s gotta be a record, it hasn’t even been an hour yet.”
“Should’ve bet on it.” Dorian murmured. Syrillon and Sera, making up the flank, peeked over opposite sides of the narrow bridge they crossed. In the murky water, Syrillon could spot a messy heap of rotten, collapsed wood.
“Looks like we’ve got stuff to work with in the water.” Called Harding.
“Mages, is there anything to be done?” Cassandra took up the mantle of ordering the Inquisition proper, even if it was their scout doing the pushing.
“Of course, my dear.” Vivienne spoke for the three, and though the two others didn’t exactly delight at her speaking for them--Maker knew they both could do plenty of that themselves--they lent their skill to raise the collapsed wood from the water and form a path. As it came back to itself, water whooshed out of its grains, out of every rusted joint, out of each gap in its surface. Solas allowed the rest of the group to pass him by, maintaining the thing from one side as Vivienne held the other. Two by two, the Inquisition crossed onto a larger piece of land.
“Well, that was easy.” Dorian chimed. “One obstacle down, thousands to go!”
“Thousands seems to be a generous under-estimate.” Said Solas, marking a rune in the mud with one foot, maintaining the dull spell to keep the bridge up.
“It’s… strange.” Scout Harding interrupted their pessimistic banter. “I’ve been told that even throwing rocks into the water will wake the undead.” Her comment lulled for a moment, the party sharing glances.
“That was probably more than a rock.” Varric supplied. The group looked about. The water was calm; no sign of danger at all. Where were the dead?
“Great.” The Bull grunted. “Now we’re worried when there’s not dead bodies in the water.” Scout Harding’s face twisted up in concern.
“There should be a patrol here.” Said she. Moving quickly around a bend, she dashed across another, shorter wood bridge to where the camp sat. Nothing and no-one, except for the misty spray of rain, the distant sound of wingbeats, and the creaking of trees in the water with a slow wind. The party trailed along behind her with varying levels of haste, feet thumping over the little bridge and reverberating into the mire.
Cassandra was the first to come to Scout Harding’s back. Then Varric, who laid a hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t understand.” She murmured. “Where would they go?” Her expression of soft-hearted concern for her scouts toughened into one of concentration. The party spread, picking through the abandoned camp, as Harding paced in a small circle. “There’s nothing marked on the map for miles. There’s no bodies; scouts or undead.”
“Maybe they were taken.” Piped Syrillon, sounding distracted, as he turned a scroll--pitched between his hands--all around to try and make it out. He let out a little giggle at the pornographic drawings he revealed, rolled the thing back up again, and tucked it into his pocket for safe-keeping.
“Could it have been the Avvar?” Asked Cassandra, nonchalantly following after Sera as she made a small mess of things, tidying them up each time; righting knocked-over cups, scattered clothing. At the edge, near the water, Blackwall and The Bull crouched to investigate a set of tracks, murmuring and pointing out its contours. At the mention of Avvar, the Bull piped up.
“Nah, couldn’t be them. Only one set of tracks here, and they lead into the water.”
“Well, that’s it, then. Everyone got tired of working and decided to drown themselves.” Dorian suggested, not really helping, leaning on the shabby requisition desk under the only cover in the camp. “Simple, really.”
“What do you think are the odds that you’ll regret saying that?” Solas asked, not sharp enough to be insulting.
“One-hundred percent, I’d say.” Dorian replied. “I usually do.”
“It’s stunning, a man who knows himself so well yet refuses to act on his better judgement.”
“If I did that, I wouldn’t exactly be in this bog, now would I?”
“Yes, you are both very clever and insulting,” Vivienne interrupted their bickering, rifling through the letters in one out-of-place bookshelf, herded together with other pieces of mis-matched furniture under a soaked-through leather tarp. She had a barrier glistening above her head, saving her from the plop-plop-plop of rainwater on her headpiece, “kindly cease this pointless squawking. You’ve both puffed your chests enough.”
Varric, who’d been doing his routine glance-around for their oft-forgotten rogue, found the young man by one of the half-collapsed tents. There was a notebook tucked inside, which Cole pointed towards, urging him to bring it up. Varric flipped through it, circling back towards the party. Though most of its contents were rain-soaked and ruined, he could make out that it was a collection of letters. Unsent, unseen; a personal diary.
“Hey, hey,” he called out, picking through what words he could read. Then, flipping a little farther, found one page that was still mostly in-tact. Harding was the quickest to come to his side, “got something.”
“I woke in the midst of the night to water seeping into my breeches.” Read Harding aloud. “I was waist-deep in the mire, the rain plodding down on my head. From where I’d come, I couldn’t recall. My knees were stuck in the mud and my hands were raised with my palms out towards the shine in the water…” She trailed off, squinting out at the dimly-lit expanse of bog around their little island. There was nothing at all, not for hundreds of strides; no shrine to be seen. She continued. “… A tree without its limbs, carved with runes and surrounded by stone bricks barely peeking out of the mud. I couldn’t say what compelled me, but when my feet got moving, I reached out to touch it. It was warm in the rain, somehow. Warm like fresh-baked bread or holding someone’s hand. But it couldn’t have been, not even with all the weird shit going on. My fingers were probably numb from the cold.”
All the entries were addressed to her--updates on their condition, probably pleas of help lost to the rain--and on one, at its footer, remained a small anecdote:
“There’s people waiting in the water.” The party was sheepish and quiet, mulling over the diary entry with wavering confidence.
“Think they all drowned?” Asked Sera. “Sounds like it. Rain made ‘em nutty, then they didn’t know which way was up and then they ended up drowning.”
“I bet it’s demons.” The Bull grumbled. “It’s always demons.” He rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his palm.
“Regardless of what it might be,” Cassandra said, speaking up just before any other contentious argument could brew, “we will make camp for the night. In the morning, some of us may remain here in case our scouts happen to return.” Unease lingered in the mist, like the smell of rot. Where else could they settle? They needed the rest.
“I’m no’ tired.” Syrillon said, settling down in the lonely chair at the requisition desk. “I’ll have first watch.”
“I’ll join.” Chimed the Bull, who didn’t look as though he’d lose his shifty-eyed glances of caution anytime soon. Varric gestured towards them two.
“I think we’ll do a few rounds of cards.” He volunteered. Dorian made a beeline for the only tent which hadn’t already buckled under the past days’ rain. Together, Cassandra and the Inquisitor built a large campfire, trying to make some warmth in the dampness. If they could even manage anything. There was a store of firewood, and though the top and bottom of the stack was soaked, a small segment seemed dry enough to light.
Solas hopped between Vivienne and their Warden, who was finding something from the not-so-dry reserves to eat, and to the former pair, lending a hand with a small fire spell--though it was not his specialty--to get their warmth started. Sera claimed a tent and made herself at home. Once the fire had built to something brave enough to withstand the gentle downpour, Blackwall laid his bedroll at its edge and settled in until second watch. Scout Harding continued searching through the camp late into the night, restless and desperate for any more answers.
There were people in the water. Naked. Stood up straight like sticks in the mud, arms at their sides, with the water up to their thighs and sometimes to their chests. They stood there, rain or no, and watched the shore.
We’d started running low on food nought three weeks into setting up camp. The carriages weren’t coming in, and every letter I sent to the scoutmaster seemed to be ignored. We rationed, all of us used to thinning out our meals down to the bones; children of the Blight, and all that. Teeth bleeding, stomach pains, you name it. But we were scraping by, barely evading each new hit from the far-reaching Avvar scouts. One small raid killed off Thomas, slit his throat in the middle of the night, and that set the tone. They weren’t doing it to kill us--they made that clear; if they wanted, they could’ve already done it--they were doing it to make it obvious that they might. That they were watching us like we were birds in a cage.
We doubled our watch after that; difficult to do, with only the five of us. That was when the nightmares started. Fat lot of good it did to have switch-shifts when the poor fuck getting rest couldn’t even catch two hours of it. All of us saw different things; mutilated bodies, people sick from the plague, the sky shifting like an eye, back and forth. Some didn’t say what they’d seen, only that they couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t hardly blame them.
One morning, Davis flew into an absolute rage; claimed Effis had stolen his special scroll. Bit of prodding it took, getting him to admit it was old smut drawings he’d brought with him. No-one knew anything about it, of course, until we found it tucked into Effis’s bag a day-and-a-half later. Davis had to leave the camp, go on a short walk to cool down. His eyes looked like they’d pop out of his head. Said Effis was jealous of him and his special scroll. You’re a rain-drenched, sexless bastard; that’s what he’d shouted. Suggested Effis had been stealing rations. It was funny at the time, how red-faced he got over it.
A day later, Elwyn came down with something. Not a nice thing to see, staying in a bog where the last residents all died from some mysterious plague. We petitioned the scoutmaster for cures, but no answer. I went to quarter-rations to make sure Elwyn had enough to eat. Just a head-cold, he’d insisted. I don’t know about the others, but I heard him retching into the water in the middle of the night somethin’ violent. Must’ve hacked up a lung. Two days, that’s all it took. Two days, and we found him sweat-soaked, dead in his cot. We walked him away from the camp and tossed him into the water. What else could we do?
Davis started to get anxious, around that time. Aodh kept quiet, kept to themself. They seemed gloomy, and I did my best to steal an aside; to chat and see if they were alright. Their nightmares were the worst, I think. Horrible things, they saw. Their loved ones massacred, torn to shreds by their own hands.
Came to a head nery four days after Elwyn’s body was tossed in the water. Effis claimed he’d seen his corpse walking around the camp, and I think Davis was just in it to argue with him; said he was spoutin’ shit and just trying to scare us. I didn’t know what to do; just sat there and watched while they argued, pushing at each other. And I was too late; by the time I saw Aodh walking, there wasn’t a thing I could do. They strode right into the water, watching something I couldn’t quite see; just a shape out there in the mist. They didn’t even struggle, just held onto a mass of rock and drowned themself, right there.
The other two didn’t even notice they’d died. By the time I turned back, they were up in arms, wrestling in the mud, and I couldn’t even tell who was where. Ended when Davis grabbed one of the tankards and smashed Effis’ head in. I just watched; the skull gave way, the blood mashed together with the mud. He just kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting, long after the body had gone still.
He was like a kid, Davis. Looked up at me with eyes so wide I couldn’t even utter the word ‘murderer’. Together, we walked Effis’ body to the same place we’d dropped Elwyn’s. We watched it disappear below the surface. I’m not sure what happened to him, but the next morning, Davis was gone. Left a note on the requisition table admitting to his guilt.
I think what’d saved me was being busy. I focused so much on the food, on the Avvar, on Elwyn getting sick, on pleading to the scoutmaster for aid; I didn’t notice them until I was so alone I couldn’t stand it. Every squawk from the crows circling above made me jolt, mind racing so fast for so long that my vision swelled with my heartbeat like the world was curving around it. It was silent in the mire, so fucking quiet I had to breathe heavy to know I was still doing it at all.
They eat the bodies, those… people, out in the water. I don’t think they’re really people, not hardly, ‘cause they’re always just there. Naked, staring, waiting. It’s human, to fight. But those, they just wait there, let you fall apart and do all the work for them. I can’t sleep, not that I had been before. I can feel them watching me. I sit on the shore and I plead with them to come closer, to walk on land and fight, like an animal would. They’re not of this world, those people in the water. They’re patient, and they don’t ever listen to me wailing.
I’d wondered where the undead had all gone; plenty of times, we’d disturbed the water only to find it lay empty. Now, I sit upon the bank, knees up to my chest, and I watch them. The longer I sit, the more there are. They stare, and they stare, and they stare, and they stare, and they stare, and they stare. They’re far enough to be almost faceless; blurry, obscured by the distance. They eat the corpses in the water, but they watch me while they do it. This is you, it’s like they’re saying. This is all that comes next. Sometimes I nod off, only waking to see them toil with the bodies in the water; having their fun. I’m reminded of Davis’s special scroll, and I laugh, and it sounds like a wail to my own ears.
They’re demons, I think. I sit at the edge of the water, listening to them calling me. They send me the smell of my mother’s homemade apple cider; I know it’s hers, because I can smell the roasted ginger and the honey-mead she’d add to it. There’s three days’ food left, even for me alone, even on quarter rations. It’s been raining non-stop for four days, soaking everything, washing away the world. I move to piss, to eat the same rain-drenched hardtack. And I wait for them to kill me; to convince me that whatever they do to me once I’m dead, it’s only a matter of time. There’s nowhere else to go. They’ll always be there, standing. Waiting.
The Bull had been the first to volunteer to stay at the first camp. Seemed like it was for the best; whatever was afoot, odds were it was demons, and no-one wanted an over-anxious Ben Hassrath watching their back, not when they already had Avvar and undead to worry about. He’d piped up the moment Scout Harding said she’d be staying, insisting he’d help her to get the camp back in order and find out just what had gone wrong. Vivienne, who was an enemy of mud at the best of times, found a convenient excuse to stay on (relatively) dry land, in that she’d be the one to mercilessly slaughter their Ben Hassrath should he be possessed. The Bull seemed to respect her excuse. Solas, too, insisted upon staying; he’d help to gather ingredients, make more cures for the plague--scouts had, evidently, been needing more and more--and investigate the mention of a shrine, wherever it was.
So, in one large group, the remainder of the Inquisition marched on. It wasn’t perfect, having only one mage out of the eight of them. But they’d make do. They fell into clusters all on their own; the Inquisitor--Ilan--hung near Cassandra, and Varric, like moss to a stone, lingered in her shadow. To Varric, Cole stayed attached. The bog made the young man uneasy, that was clear. There were strange things at work that made him waver in and out of being. Dorian, too, seemed to cling to Varric’s side; seeking out levity and gambles to make, distracting them both from the grim atmosphere. Syrillon and Sera went together; the former persisted in telling old, eerie legends just to get a rise from the latter. And Blackwall, ever the mediator, told Syrillon to shut his mouth when Sera grew close to notching an arrow.
It was a mostly easy break, then, when they found a fork in the road. There were more Inquisition camps on both paths, and given their first one being in such an odd state, making a clean sweep seemed like the best idea. They’d split in halves--parties of four; a reliable size--and visit as many camps as they could within two days. Then, on the third, they would converge at the stronghold to the north--their original target--and meet the Avvar.
Varric volunteered himself to join the Warden’s group, evening out the score of people. Then, they were off, marching into the mist, saying goodbyes until they met again in a few (blessedly short) days.
It began with nightmares. The whole group was irritable; couldn’t hardly catch a wink of sleep. Their first day was spent in a hazy, ill-tempered blur. They waded through muck, Syrillon telling old legends just to fill the air and keep them all awake. They held on, at least; stayed together, and stayed themselves, despite the difficulty.
A day-and-a-half in, and Sera complained of seeing strange things in the distant waters. Twenty minutes and Varric called out an alarm, watching her wander--as if in a trance--into the mire. Their Warden yanked her out, held her at bay, while the other half of the party disposed of the rousing undead. She was in a ragged state, shaken down to her mud-soaked boots. Blackwall, of the four of them, was the most grounding. He placed his heavy hands on her wiry shoulders and shook her, gripping hard enough to bruise.
“You’re here.” He grunted, “You’re in control.”
“I’m here.” Sera asserted, voice shaking like a loose handful of pebbles. She was tear-streaked, running off adrenaline, and she wiped her nose like it was an insult. “I’m in control.” With red eyes, she stared out at the water. “You hear me? I’m in control!” Once she was firm enough on her feet to stand, she kicked at the muddy ground, launching a ‘bloody-shittin’-rotten-bog!’ at the land, as if it’d hear her and take offense.
They began running out of food near the end of the day. Blackwall checked their pack and found it mostly empty. Strung out by stress and lacking sleep, he jumped to blaming Syrillon.
“You’re a criminal,” he accused, “and you’d sell your own mother if it got you a warm bed for one night.”
“I should think my mother deserves that, if I’m in such dire straits.” Syrillon shot back, turning up his nose, not making matters any easier. He seemed to be immune to the bad dreams, and to the strange sights, Syrillon. Experience, he claimed it, with both, sometimes in tandem. Blackwall kept it in mind as an excuse, among many others, to distrust. Varric was the only one in the group who’d managed to keep them all together, like a rabbit-skin glue.
They made it through two camps, both of them no worse for wear. But it was hardly reprieve; too soon the four were back on the road, already behind on their scheduled meeting by half a day. There was a shortcut, told to them by one of the scouts at the second camp, and they had little choice but to take it.
Each bridge they crossed was rotten and rickety, the water running high from the torrential downpour the night previous. Nearly every path was flooding over, and the undead were a constant barrage, and though they had re-stocked their food, it seemed to be running out again. The heavens spurned them; spurned this hellish little swamp in the middle of the Fereldan backcountry.
Syrillon was in charge of the flank--in charge of keeping an eye on Varric, and Varric, keeping an eye on Syrillon--and he struggled, at first, with speaking up once he found the rogue had disappeared. Syrillon had his roots in the wilderness; knew how to track someone. And his ears, too, were fine-tuned to the sound of footsteps, to filling out the spaces in the world that he couldn’t see. But Varric simply… vanished. His steps stopped completely, there were no tracks left to follow. Gone. Poof.
As it turned out, he didn’t have a chance to mention the disappearance; the next moment, the half-rotten bridge they crossed collapsed, and Blackwall fell into the raging water, filled with loose sticks and rainwater and mud. Sera dove in after him, calling something out about being a bad swimmer, but determined to save the man all the same.
Syrillon could have helped. He could have dove in after her; could’ve saved the day. He’d lived his entire life near water, had no trouble navigating currents, knew how to not-drown, and had the strength to carry a man like Blackwall if he needed it. But he froze. Sera’s voice--her cry; I can’t swim, you daft twit! Don’t you dare drown!-- echoed in his ears, and into the distance.
Turning in a circle, he found himself alone. He was stuck in a deep mist, the vague outline of trees on all sides. He cursed quietly to himself. Demons? He held his breath but couldn’t hear anything. Definitely demons.
“Syrillon?” A familiar voice called out from behind him. He spun on his heel and faced her: the same as she looked a decade ago, wearing her favourite indigo robes, a flower tucked in her hair. Her smile crumpled when it crossed her lips, smushed by bittersweet tears. She hoisted up her skirt and ran closer, wrapping her arms around his midsection and trying to lift him off his feet as if he were still a boy.
“Aiswyn--” he grunted, halfway to a laugh-- “you’ll throw your back out, stop that.” Letting out a giggle, she pulled away. She was a head shorter than him, his sister. But even looking up at him, she still seemed so much older, larger, carrying herself as if she were the entire world.
“Come here, da’sa.” She beckoned, laying gentle hands on his cheeks. “Let me look at you. You’ve gotten so big! It’s not fair.” They were calloused from her staff but warm against his skin. The touch was healing; sapped his weariness and sank into his flesh with all the sallow heat of the autumn sun through trees. His heart twisted, wrung out like a wet cloth, eyes stinging with his own tears.
“Kick me in the shins, it’ll make up the difference.” He suggested, choking on it.
Syrillon had lost years of his life to vice. He had trouble, sometimes, recalling whether a recollection was rooted in an actual memory, or if it was the machination of his own beaten-up mind. But he could tell, now--he had a gut feeling--when something he saw wasn’t real. Even if he didn’t know why. He couldn’t recall how she’d gotten there, or where he was, or exactly how long it had been. Her hands felt warm and real on his cheeks, along with her wobbly smile, and the soft, half-hearted way she tried to bully him to make up for lost time. She was never any good at being mean to him; she spoiled him too much.
He needed it to be real. He’d been so cold for so long, every sensation dulled, never really seen by anyone in… years. He missed her so, so much he couldn’t even bear it. It was like he was eight years old again, ready to start sobbing at the slightest provocation. The tears cutting down his cheeks were real, he thought. Those would stick to him once this mirage ended. He didn’t have much time, but he had this.
Pulling back, he gave his sister a grimacing smile, and he memorized her face again. She’d have crows’ feet now--in reality--and he tried to imagine her with them; marks of joy cut into her skin with years of use. She liked to smile; it’d suit her. She looked up at him, worry creasing her brows, and brushed her hands over his cheeks again.
“Feeling alright?” She asked. He swallowed, tasting the bitter sting of tears in the back of his throat. She barely let out a gasp when his knife’s hilt pressed to her skin, the blade notched between her ribs. He wrapped an arm around her, pressing his head against her crown, hands running raggedly over an awkward handful of her hair. He squeezed her tight in his arms, so crushingly tight until the ache in his throat matched the pressure against his chest. One violent sob ripped its way out, tears escaping through his squeezed-shut eyes like leaves through a storm-drain.
The illusion fell, and he came back to the stink of rot and mud. Pulling back, he found himself half-buried under the roots of a tree, old, crunchy leaves over him like a blanket. He wriggled his way out of the detritus, wrenched the old, stale roots off--some of them were brittle; went snap! under the force of his pushing--and, with a mud-smeared backside, came back from the dead.
Desire demon. Must’ve been. Probably fled when he ruined the trick so swiftly.
He couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary--there was a distant gale, the encroaching wind rattling the dry leaves in a hollow-sounding chorus, like the scutter of spider’s legs in a drumroll--a small bubbling; some kind of stream, not far. His own breaths rushing through his chest, his heart hammering in his temples. The air was cold and stale and it hung in his throat. Nothing around but trees, gaps of murky water, a black sky. Night. How long had he been separated? Blackwall and Sera, they’d fallen in the water. It felt like weeks ago, now; like everything had been a dream. The only real day he could recall was... riding in on the road. Arriving at the first camp, settling in for the night. How had he gotten here? He closed his eyes and inhaled a passing breeze.
Rot. Mud. Smoke. He listened. Crackling, flame eating at dry branches. The wind whistled again, low and then high and then low, whistling through the trees. A loud yell: a fight.
Syrillon took off through the trees. He’d lost his travel-pack, had only his weapons and armor. His boots beat hollowly on dry ground and he listened, in each footfall, for the texture; here, it was wetter--there was a dripping nearby--and he jumped, avoiding a slippery patch he couldn’t see. His eyes began adjusting to the dark. The wind gusted through his lungs, tore its way out in a gale, cold and sharp like knives, the air flew past his head.
He paused, breathing heavy, the burn starting in his legs and his chest. The light of trees on fire peeked through the trees, probably three-hundred paces from him, the only light for miles around. Syrillon pushed through the wiry grove, skipped over streams, toed past old corpses. Even out here, they scattered the ground just as often as hollow logs. One-hundred paces, now, and he started to feel the heat. The crackling. It was dull, at first.
The fire began filling up his eyes--made them sting--and it was hot, dry, throbbing against his face, soaked into his leathers. A rush--like the whistle of wind; a wailing, and then a harsh gust, the stink of smoke grew so intense he couldn’t tell it was nighttime anymore. Thick plumes of black smoke rose from the world around him, disappearing into the sky above. Arm over his mouth and nose, Syrillon walked the edge of the localised forest-fire. It hadn’t spread much; couldn’t have been going on for very long.
There it was again! A whistle, a wash of sound, and another lash of flame burst out to one side. At its centre, he spotted movement; a staff, a set of robes; a mage.
Syrillon didn’t think it through, not really. He found a gap in the burning trees and broke into the lit-up ring where the man lighting the fires seemed to be in a trance.
“Dorian!” He called out, narrowly dodging a fireball. The mage rubbed a hand at his face, murmuring to himself, and dropped onto one knee. Sweat covered him like a sheet, soot caking his face. Demon problem, definitely.
Step one would be to get out of the fire. The heat crept into Syrillon’s skin, bathed him; it had barely been a minute, but he was already roasting alive. Dorian would fling fire wherever he was--Syrillon wondered, momentarily, what the man thought he was aiming at--he’d need to get around, snap him out of it.
Think. Dorian, Altus, fire mage. Long-range would be bad. Runes? None. Soft-bottom prick; noble; probably hasn’t been in a fight he couldn’t win. Snooty, thinks hitting shit is barbaric. Ah.
Can’t take a punch.
Syrillon threw a flame-bitten log towards the trees at the mage’s back. Like clockwork, Dorian twisted on his heel, sent a barrage of white-hot flame out behind him. Syrillon closed in, hooked arms under Dorian’s, clasped hands at the back of his neck. The fire kept burning, roaring loud like crashing water, filling up his head, every breath shorter, the smoke choking him. Dorian’s staff dropped with a mute thunk and Syrillon, kicking out his knees, dodged to grab it.
“Got your staff, you twit!” He goaded, backing up towards the exit. “Come get me!” Dorian, eyes still glazed, scrambled to his feet. He summoned another fireball from his hands alone, narrowly missing Syrillon’s head. The warrior, in turn, let out a yelp and took off at a sprint through the trees, the mage hot on his tail.
The cold air returned, rushing through his throat, clearing out the sickly smell of smoke--even though it still clung to his clothing--and, as the shape of the fire faded behind him, he was pulled from the roaring down to the sound of their two pairs of footsteps beating over the ground. He could hear Dorian’s gasped breaths, then a thump as he tripped on slick ground and collapsed. Syrillon took it as an opportunity to slow down, turning towards him.
“You give up?” He called out. The light of the fire had burned into his eyes, its inverse still flashing in his vision. But he could hear the ragged breaths, the coughing, the sound of Dorian staggering, struggling to get up.
“Give it back.” Dorian murmured, even from their distance of twenty strides. Syrillon let the dull end of the mage’s staff hit the ground with a ‘thunk!’ and settled his other hand on his hip.
“Take it from me.” He challenged. Whatever the man was seeing, whatever spell he was under, he was still Dorian. And that meant he could be pushed. “Weak fuck. Come on, come get me!” He called. A weak fireball launched his way, hissing and smouldering when it landed in a muddy pool instead. As it soared past, it lit up their shabby battlefield in a brief light. Dorian, on his knees, let his head hang as he caught his breath.
“That's all you got?” Syrillon continued to goad him. “I know frogs more fearsome than you. Come on!” Another fireball whizzed through the air, this time nicking at Syrillon’s coattails. He hopped about, stamping out the flame as it caught him, hissing out a hot-hot-hot! Another grazed his leg, burned through his trousers and ate into flesh for only the moment it touched him. Letting out a surprised yelp and a ‘son of a bitch!’ Syrillon dodged a third fireball.
He heard Dorian charging him before he saw it. Feet on the ground, breaths hoarse, putting all the remainder of his strength into one final, big blow. A spell crackled in his hand, focused, hot enough to burn Syrillon into a little crisp. The warrior--stolen staff in hand--wound up for a counterstrike. In the light of Dorian’s spell, Syrillon could see his face change--spot a glimmer of recognition--
The head of the staff landed, cracking Dorian across his face. He fell aside, back meeting the mud with a thump and, dazed, his spell died on his fingers. He fell still, the only sign that he was alive at all being the groan that resonated in his chest. Syrillon, out of breath, half-limping and half-stumbling, paused to crouch at the mage’s side.
“Sorry ‘bout that.” He drawled, out of breath, leaning on Dorian’s staff for support. With his other hand, he gave the mage a weak pat on his ashy cheek. The Altus let out another unintelligible groan. Syrillon released a breathless laugh, grabbed the mage by his arm and hoisted him onto his shoulders.
“Take a rest. Feel better soon.” Syrillon ordered, panting as he marched through the mud. The sun began rising through the trees, casting an orange-rimmed silhouette of the stronghold in the distance. Syrillon let out a whine. Right there! He’d been at his destination the whole time! Fucking hell.
The mist had cleared from the trees, and he cut a quick path, thankful for the weight on his shoulders to keep him grounded in their reality. With each step, Dorian’s staff supported him. If he was lucky--which he knew he was not--he’d meet the rest of the party by breakfast. A gentle sprinkling of rain began, which turned into a downpour, and he was secondarily thankful for the mage on his shoulders for keeping him dry from the rain, the sorry bastard.