Chapter Text
You are floating somewhere between sleep and dream when it happens. It begins as a sensation, turns into a sound, before finally you understand that it is a song. You cannot sing the lyrics, or hum the tune, but you think you might understand what it means, because you know how it feels.
It feels like an old photo at a flea market-- like hearing your name called across a crowded room.
Who are you?
The sea surges from beneath you, and now there is nothing. You are falling.
--
It burns white hot, then blazing cold, before fizzling into an inescapable itch.
Again, again, a single voice whispers in your head-- and there are so many of them chittering, chattering, and sizzling at the synapses of your brain. AWAKE, another says, louder than the rest.
Your eyes open. It is too bright until the sun sinks behind the trees and the world begins to glow gold beneath a shivering canopy of red and yellow leaves. Beneath you it is cold, beneath you is the ground, and the ground is… wet? Why? Did you fall?
But you are so tired, too tired, and how can you think when you are chilled to the marrow in your bones?
Awake. Stay awake . But you can’t. Then sleep.
The last moment is simply sensory. A pair of arms snaking under your shoulders and around your knees, lifting you up, up and then…
Soft lips on your forehead. You do not see who’s.
--
Blood, blood, WRONG, dream, sleep, sleep.
“What is that ?”
“Am I to presume you’ve lost your sight as well as your wits?”
“No, I was only--”
An exasperated scoff, “Only wasting my time, as well as your own. It’s a child-- a girl, if I need be specific.”
A door opens and shuts before a warm draft sweeps over your skin. The smell of campfire is overwhelming. “May I ask why you are bringing this... child into our home?”
“You’ve never needed my permission to ask inane questions before." The woman laughs abruptly, but her voice is grave again when she speaks, "No need to make faces, girl. This once, I shall indulge you: No. You may not ask. You will have no answers from me.” The world tilts as you’re lowered, the whispers sinking. “Nor, do I suspect, will you find many with her.”
--
Awake.
You try to sit up but your cold bones creak and your burning body is bound in furs. Immediately, you recognize that things are not as they should be. There is no plaster ceiling, or city sounds, or laser lights blinking in the darkness. There is no warm body, solid at your side.
Instead you see a layer of worn wooden slats above you, gaps cracked in between them. You hear the whistling wind, and the hiss and pop of a real wood fire. Your eyes are drawn to the embers, to the smoke it oozes around the room in a swirling haze.
There is a woman in the corner, but you are-- you’re not tired, yet you feel exhausted. It's as if your body's been pounded into paste and pulled back together with plastic wrap. And as for your head…
“So, you’ve decided to rejoin the land of the living. Tell me, did you have pleasant dreams?”
The woman demands attention, which you have little to give.
“Wha-- Who are...?” You try to begin, but your brain is burning and your voice cracks like kindling.
The woman comes closer, nearly prowling. You realize she's wearing absurd, roughspun looking clothes, dyed in faded russets and forest greens, the edges trimmed with ren-faire leather and fringed with feathers.
She snorts, not looking very impressed with you either, though maybe a little amused.
"Not more than a moment awake and you’ve already asked the wrong question. It matters little who I am or what you call me. The question you should be asking is ‘who are you?’.”
You blink slowly, deliberately, trying to parcel out what --or was it who?-- she’s talking about. There are no good answers.
“What on--” earth are you talking about? Your breath stops and your mouth won’t move for the words. It feels like a rough hand has taken hold of your jaw. No, you hear, but the woman’s mouth is closed in a feline smile. Was the voice angry, or merely forceful? You feel afraid, but where did it come from…?
A tidal wave of voices rise from your spine and riot in between your ears. No. No. No. You can’t.
“What-- What on--”
No, no, no, no -- again and again, until the voices leave you and all you are left with is the feeling of dread and the knowledge that you cannot.
The woman’s wry smile thins.
You still cannot speak, though you don’t know why. Something is wrong, but this woman seems to know things you can't yet recall. Your voice is whisper soft when you ask, “What have you done to me?”
“I have done very little, save for the very beginning. The rest of the blame belongs to you.”
Your eyes flicker to the cracks and corners of this strange place. A ladder leaning on a loft. Walls worn and nearly stripped of paint. Shining pelts and bundled herbs strung like garlands from the rafters. A spindle. A churn. A table and chairs. A door flung open to reveal a black, moonless night.
You don’t recognize any of this.
“Where have you brought me?” Your voice gets stronger as you work it, the tone sounding strangely sweet.
“My home.”
“Where is that?”
She doesn’t answer for a moment, only stares. ‘You will have no answers from me’. Had that been her who’d said that, or had you been merely dreaming? The woman’s eyes are very bright, a fantastic gold that you hadn’t thought possible outside of an illustration. Are you still dreaming?
“They call this land Thedas. Do you recall that much?”
Thedas. Thedas? Thedas, the fantasy land in a fantasy game Thedas? No. Impossible.
Possible.
“What? No.” You snap.
Your anger sobers quickly when you realize you’re arguing with voices inside your head. How crazy. But this whole situation is crazy. Which means that... you must be crazy. Crazy or dreaming. Your thoughts whirl and clash; you feel overwhelmed and very, very done. You want to go back to sleep, and oh, please, let this all be a be a dream.
The woman draws you back in with her unreadable eyes. “No?” She laughs, really laughs, from the pit of her stomach. “How fitting. Then you will need to learn fast, lest you drown in this unwelcoming world. Ah, but do not fear, I will help you find your feet. I owe you that much.”
You want to ask why, but you feel that invisible grip on your jaw, and your moment is soon lost.
She turns away from you, her profile lit by the fire. “Dry your tears. This place cares little for them. Until the time comes, you may sleep at my hearth and eat at my table. Ah, but before I forget myself--I suspect that you are not yet plagued by the fade. I will let you enjoy your rest while you still can. After all, I am not entirely without sympathy.”
They are parting words, and you are far from done with her. “Wait!” You cry out, knuckles swiping at your damp eyes. Your voice still sounds very wrong, but you manage to gasp out one more question-- just to be absolutely sure. “At least tell me your name?”
She snorts with derision, “The men of this age call me Flemeth, though I have had many titles.” She taps a spindly finger to her chin, “Hm. A piece without a puzzle… You have given me much to think about. We shall have to wait and see what becomes of you. Until then--”
Sleep.
--
Your dreams are black, but they are not empty.
--
It’s the smell that wakes you at last. Tender and spicy, like fresh sage fried in butter, followed by the mellow sweetness of thoroughly cooked vegetables. Your stomach growls in appreciation.
“--but I think your guest has woken up.” Someone says with saccharine sweetness.
“She is no more a guest than you are. Are you hungry, child?”
It takes you a moment to realize that you are supposed to be the ‘child’. It isn’t that you’re still tired, or even that you’re scared. You are… thoughtful. Deliberating. Numb. And yes, perhaps you might even be a little afraid. If things really are as they appear, then you are in deep, deep shit.
“Come now. Speak. We will not wait forever.”
You open your eyes and turn your head towards the light. There is Flemeth, sitting in a rickety chair with a wooden bowl in her hands, and standing beside her is her young, beautiful daughter.
“Does she even know how to speak?” Morrigan asks.
“Better than you can cook,” Flemeth replies after sipping her first spoonful.
Morrigan folds her arms and glares, her fingers wrapped around a ladle like she’d rather it was a dagger. Your eyes roam down the curve of her cheek towards the thin span of her waist. You’re not sure how old Morrigan was meant to be during the… events, but you think this girl looks too young for adventure. She wouldn’t look out of place in a high school bathroom, applying too much eyeliner with a murky mirror.
“Why do I even bother? Perhaps our extended guest will be more forthright... Not that that’s hard. Now,” Morrigan’s attention flutters back to you, “Do you know any Common?” She speaks another language then, guttural and foreign, and yet the right words echo in your ears, “Are you Chasind then? Avvari?”
You want to tell Morrigan that you are none of those things, but your mouth opens, closes, shuts. The whispers are quieter than they were when you first woke, but they are no less present, pulsing and pushing until you are left with nothing to give her but lies.
“She has nothing to say to you.” Flemeth says. Her eyes cut to you and there’s a calculating shine in them that you don’t like the look of. “Bring her a bowl. She has not eaten in some time.”
“Lovely. Am I now to be a nursemaid?” Morrigan grumbles. She turns around anyways and begins to rifle through the shelves above the table. Scathingly, she adds, “I’d heard tales of you stealing young girl’s from their beds, mother. I had never thought that they were true.”
Flemeth snorts, “What you know about me could fit in a thimble.”
Morrigan’s grip tightens around a bowl, but she still spoons a serving of stew into it. It looks thinner than it had been in your imagination, but it still appeals to your shrivelled stomach. You wonder, briefly, if you should worry about being poisoned, but the thought leaves as soon as it arrives. You can hardly believe you’re here, there’s no room in your mind to ponder repercussions and implications.
What matters is that you are hungry now. As you untangle yourself from the mess of furs and quilts you realize that you’re completely bare, but by the time you’ve sat up Morrigan is before you. You take the bowl with one hand, the other holding the blanket to your chest in a bid for modesty, and--
--the bowl slips from your fingers, the broth sloshing all over you and the bed. Morrigan curses, but you hardly notice because something is so very wrong.
New. DIFFERENT.
No. No, no, no.
These hands you have are wrong. Your chest is-- it isn’t meant to look like this, so small and, and… You scramble from the bed, your legs lifting out, sliding over chunks of soup and sopping pelts. Your shaking fingers bracelet your knees, bracket your ankles. They’re so very small, small in a way a woman’s body just isn’t, and you let out a great cry once you can no longer deny the… the childishness of it all.
This isn’t your body. This isn’t your body, this isn’t your universe, and everything is wrong.
“Mother!” Morrigan shouts over your keening, “What's wrong with her!? Ugh, she’s gotten it everywhere!”
She steps back when treacherous tears began to leak from your face, her lips curling in distaste. You cover your face in shame, but then wonder, does this mean that your face will look wrong as well? You cry a little harder.
There is a weight on your shoulder, though you don’t look up right away. With some effort, Flemeth pries you away from the clasp of your hands. When you look up your pupils are blown and your eyes are glossed with tears. She pushes back sticky strands of hair from the damp curve of your cheek, and tucks them behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
Fine, black hair. Cool on your skin, heavy on your head.
Different. Empty. New, new, new, new--
“Take this, child.” From the pocket of her apron she procures a tiny bottle of tincture. “Now drink.” You tip it back.
It doesn’t take long for the world to get quieter. Your nose stops running and everything softens. The fire becomes hazy, faces a feather soft blur. Even the whispers seem to fade away. It takes no effort at all for Flemeth to lean your heavy body against the wall. When she places a bowl to your mouth your lips part without protest.
“Swallow. You will need something to settle your stomach.”
“Surely she has a name.” Morrigan is still rooted to her spot with morbid fascination, “Or did you not bother to ask before stealing away with her into the night?”
You know you should tell her your name, but the warmth is hypnotic, and it is so much simpler to be a spectator.
Flemeth wipes a trail that dribbles to your chin. “We will call her Rhiannon.”
“‘We’ll call her? ’ Mother, she is not a pet. You cannot just name a stray child. She’s not so young that she wouldn’t remember her own, she won’t answer to it.”
“And why not? You need not answer to Morrigan, and yet you do, just as I answer to Flemeth, mother… old hag. Names are pretty, but mean little in the grand scheme of things. She will adjust, as have I. Now, wash these furs before they dry. I don’t want the smell to stick to them.”
They talk more, bickering and nagging, but your tongue tastes like thyme and you are floating. You don’t remember anything more from that night.
You sleep.
--
Sleeping is quiet.
Your dream is simple. You’re on a rocky beach, standing on broken seashells and slippery stones. There is a looming cliff behind you, and another hanging weightlessly above the sea-- perched on it’s point is city cloaked in darkness, it’s black spires piercing a sunless sky.
You feel a presence beside you. It whispers your name into your ear. When you turn your head, no one is there.