Varric Tethras can't stand holding back the truth about Marian Hawke after the Inquisitor leaves her in the Fade to die. What he can't stand more is no one is trying to get her back. With the assistance of friends in surprising places, he fights in...
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"Eternally slumbering," he says. "He wanted to know the secrets of ancient dreamers, a process called Uthenara. He'd wake up to see if he made a difference. He never learned; too busy with his cause. Too busy to notice what he lost."
His black robes of moving ink stain the ground as he steps forward, as if on two broken legs—close enough to talk instead of calling out. Varric lets him. His grayed skin mimics what might have been left of Anders if his body was preserved; nothing left of his hair, but if there is it's hard to tell, and more likely soaked in whatever drips down his head.
"You're not Anders," Varric says.
He wishes it is. A burrowed hatred for what he had done floods back, and images of the Chantry, the spirit lashing out at victims, and Hawke's diminishing happiness invade his head. He sees black turn red and takes every nerve to lift his finger to the side of the trigger guard. A muscle twinges in his shoulder; he clicks his jaw to stop from grinding his teeth.
Without a pause: "No I'm not." He lets it sink in. "I am the demon of Remorse."
"Not a spirit of regret?"
"Why lie? I have nothing left to lose."
"What happened to Anders? Besides what I know."
"I am a shade of what Anders died with; his guilt; his hopes, his wishes—all gone—manifested into me."
"And you just happened to kill this Nightmare demon."
"'Demons don't help.' 'Demons don't fulfill dying wishes.' Years ago it used to be that spirits and demons were synonymous. Take a hint from Merrill. Nothing is what the mortal world says it is."
"Then what is it? I've seen some shit; I might be convinced."
"About me? Anders synced into the Fade and became something more than either Justice or him could handle. Part of that abomination inspired something like me. From Vengeance to Regret, more officially—"
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"A Remorse demon?" Solas snaps.
The Crossroads holds a web of Eluvians, broken or inactive, knocked down or barely standing. These are not the paths he once walked. Had he fully grasped the syntax of Eluvians, he'd have known who created this one so special, fabricated from spirit magic, and the realm of mortals. Only the most powerful of mages could have made it. If he wasn't more worried about the present, he'd wonder where she—the mirror—came from.
