Work Header

Fables from Ferelden

Chapter Text

9:41 Dragon

Much of what your Chantry teaches you is false, as you may have surmised. It is true, though, that the Maker imprisoned my brothers and sisters and I in the bowels of the world.

At first I railed against it, against the humiliation, the injustice of it. We trusted Him, you see. We loved Him as one of us.

Betrayal is a terribly bitter pill to swallow.

At long last I slumbered, drawn into the soothing void by the endless silence and emptiness that stretched before me. What do dragons dream of, you wonder? Most of my dreams, I cannot remember. This body processes thoughts and memories in a highly inefficient manner. It makes me wonder how human children ever manage to learn anything at all.

I awoke when the darkspawn found Dumat, as did we all. We called out to him, begging for his assistance to free us, but he was... changed. I wonder if you can imagine it. Your dearest friend, your closest lover (such was the bond the seven of us shared together; mortal attachments pale in comparison) suddenly turned rabid, like a mad dog. Dumat wanted nothing to do with any of us. He wanted nothing but to destroy the world that the Maker loved so dearly.

(We all loved it. Love was not a feeling exclusive to Him alone.)

Dumat was the first we knew of what the darkspawn corruption could do to one of us. He was the first to rise, and the first to fall, almost two hundred years later. I mourned his loss, but perhaps... perhaps it was for the best.

I returned to my slumber, but now there was fear in my heart. Fear that I would become one of those things.

Thrice more the darkspawn came for one of us, and thrice more the armies of the surface world drove them back. Thrice more, and each time, another of my brethren fell.

I slept for four hundred years.

In the world above, kings were born and raised and killed, wars were fought, boundaries shifting as nations grew and fell, as inevitable as the passing of the seasons. Once, I would have reigned above it all. Monarchs and priests and magisters would offer their devotions to me with open hearts, and I would feast upon their love with ravenous hunger.

You seem distressed, Mama.

I awoke to the sound of his voice. It was soft, respectful. Almost... kind. Not like the chittering murmurs of darkspawn I had heard before, echoes of the beasts that woke Dumat and Zazikel and Toth and Andoral.

He was almost... beautiful, in a way, if you could find beauty in tortured flesh and misaligned bones, hairless skin and twisted lips. If you could find beauty in a darkspawn.

He said he wished me to be free.

He promised me I could be free.

I should not have believed him, I know. I should not have listened to those lies, those empty platitudes. But I was so very weary of being trapped, and so very desperate to no longer be alone.

He seemed different from the rest. He seemed so earnest, so...

But he had miscalculated. It was not freedom he brought me, but yet another kind of prison. He touched me, he changed me, and I knew in that moment that I had been wrong to trust him.

The transformation was more intense that any pain I had ever felt, more excruciating than the Maker's punishment, more final than the knowledge of Dumat's defeat. There are simply no words for it in your tongue, nor Arcanum; not even in the ancient language of the first magister lords.

Thus began the fifth Blight.




He still lives. The darkspawn who freed me. He still lives, and he is still searching for me. Hunting me.

I feel him, sometimes. This Calling - this sensation works both ways, as well you know. Someday he will find me.

And then, I will kill him.