Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

**************************

Chapter Nineteen: Broken Circle - Part One

It took Carroll close to an hour to ferry the small party all the way to the Circle Tower, and not a moment passed when Sagramor’s apprehension dimmed. They had come to the Circle seeking the salvation of both Redcliffe and Ferelden proper, and to arrive in the midst of some looming disaster was troubling indeed. Bigot though he was, Kester had made it clear that such a lockdown was unusual, even by the harsh standards of the Templar Order, and Sagramor checked that his greatsword’s edge was keen in preparation for whatever they found.

Carroll knew little of use either, any thought of holding his tongue eroded away by Leliana’s charms. “The Knight-Commander didn’t really tell me much,” he explained, staring dumbly at the beautiful Orlesian as he ceaselessly pulled away at the oars. “Just told me there was an issue of security at the Tower, and I needed to guard the boat.”

“What kind of security issue? An escape? An uprising?” demanded Alistair at the stern.

The Templar barely noticed him, left wholly entranced by the redheaded woman. “Abominations, I think. Not sure. The Knight-Commander doesn’t usually explain himself to the rank-and-file.”

“Ohh, how horrid!” Leliana expressed, lashes fluttering at the Templar in an exquisite piece of playacting. “Maker be praised we have brave, strong Templars like you protecting us, ser. You could clear out all those abominations by yourself, I’m sure, no matter their numbers. How many would you say there are? A half-dozen?”

“Think it’s more than a score,” Carroll mumbled, blushing red at her compliments, and completely failing to notice the sly wink she gave the elven Warden. “Plenty for certain.”

A score of abominations, Sagramor thought, horrified at the prospect. Connor under the demon’s thrall had been difficult enough to subdue, but a score of mages so possessed could lay waste to much of Ferelden if left unchecked. What in Andraste’s name could have happened to bring so many abominations into existence at once?

For a moment, Carroll seemed to realize what he was doing, and made to utter a protest, but Leliana had the measure of him, her soft voice and promised sensual tales so utterly enthralling the Templar that Sagramor couldn’t help but be impressed by her seemingly effortless manipulation. By the time the boat at last reached Kinloch Hold, Carroll had just about melted into a puddle, offering a weak farewell as the trio made their way to the main doors and left to wonder what use a shy young noblewoman and her depraved elven servant might have for a peculiarly-shaped turnip. It was a side of Leliana Sagramor had never seen, and while a part of him wondered what other hidden talents she had in store, another wished he could be a target of such seductive grace. “That was…”

“A bit shameful, I know,” Leliana admitted ruefully. “I don’t like manipulating people like that, not when there are other options. It feels… unethical.”

“I was going to say that you were magnificent, but I can see where you’re coming from,” remarked Sagramor. “Trust me, I’d never ask you to do that sort of thing, Leliana, not if you don’t want to.”

“A score of abominations, though…” mused Alistair, moving to the door. “If that’s in any way accurate, we’re looking at a real disaster here. No wonder they wanted to keep people away from the island.”

Iron hinges squealed as the door opened, the sound drawing every eye present in the front hall. The Templars had not bothered to lock or guard the outer entrance, and the briefest glance at their surroundings told the elf why.

The Templars of the Ferelden Circle of Magi simply didn’t have the men to spare. Beneath the grim pillars and stern-faced statues of Andraste that dominated the entrance hall, over a score of Templars lay badly wounded in what had become a makeshift infirmary, thrashing upon thin pallets as frantic volunteers worked desperately to bandage gaping wounds or stem the flow of blood from lost limbs. Even those Templars still left standing had endured much, and as they strode into the hall, Sagramor didn’t see a man among them without some form of wound, their fear and exhaustion plain. All in all, less than half of those present were fit enough to fight, and few had any confidence of victory. It was Redcliffe all over again, but the fact that these were trained warriors in such dire straits only deepened the elf’s anxiety.

“Looks like they’ve barred the inner doorway,” said Alistair, gesturing down the hall to where a great, iron-bound door stood locked and guarded by no fewer than eight Templars. Four knelt before the portal, polearms braced to receive a charge from inside the Tower, while another four stood over them with crossbows loaded, fingers hovering nervously over the triggers. “The more I see of this, the less I like.”

“And where are the mages?” asked Leliana, glancing about for signs of the Templars’ charges and finding none. “Surely they might have rescued some from this disaster?”

“What on earth?” From the midst of the general misery, a greying Templar stomped out to confront the trio, his full plate armour more ornate than those of the rank-and-file, the weight of his duty evident from his worn features and suspicious brown eyes. “What in Andraste’s name are you doing here?” he barked authoritatively, clearly impatient. “I gave Carroll express orders that no one was to cross the lake!”

“Please do not blame him,” urged Leliana. “Our need to speak to the Circle is urgent, Knight-Commander…”

“Greagoir,” the Templar permitted. “And you have come to the wrong place if you mean to find aid; we’re dealing with a very delicate situation, and you must leave, for your own safety.”

“Regretfully, Knight-Commander, we cannot,” Sagramor expressed, pulling the treaty from the pouch at his waist. “My name is Sagramor Tabris of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and with me is Alistair, a brother of the Order, and Leliana, one of our sworn companions. We have come seeking the Circle of Magi’s aid in stopping the Blight, as they swore to the Wardens long ago.”

Greagoir groaned despondently. “I am weary of the Grey Wardens’ ceaseless need for men to fight the darkspawn, but it is your Order’s right, particularly in these dark times. Yet you shall find no allies here. The Templars can spare no men, and the mages are… indisposed. I shall speak plainly: the Tower is no longer under our control.”

“That seems to be putting it mildly,” Alistair remarked, wincing at every pitiful moan and gasp from the wounded Templars. “Exactly what happened here?”

“I do not know. The enemy came upon us without warning, and despite our best efforts, we were overrun and forced to fall back. Now abominations and demons stalk the Tower’s halls at will, destroying all they come across. Should they escape, all of Ferelden will be in jeopardy.”

“And the mages?” asked Leliana.

“Some doubtless became the creatures we fought, the rest their prey.” Greagoir gave a tired shrug, the weight of his failure evident. “It matters not now. The Circle is lost.”

Sagramor tried to force the cold claws of despair away from his heart, his gambit for saving Redcliffe dissolving before his eyes. Andraste, was all this for nothing? Have I doomed the others? he thought, the notion too great a wretch to contemplate. “What is your plan?”

“My men lack the numbers to properly dispatch this threat. I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and for the Right of Annulment to be invoked.”

Leliana gasped in shock, and the elf heard Alistair mutter a curse under his breath. “What? What’s the Right of Annulment?”

It was Greagoir who explained. “The Right gives the Templar Order the authority to neutralize a Circle too corrupt to be preserved. Completely.”

“So it’s a purge, then,” Sagramor all but spat, recalling the looming spectre of violence that all city-born elves, no matter their land of origin, lived under. Vaughan’s threatening words rang clear and cold in his mind, and the thought of any pogrom being committed in his presence inflamed the elf’s choler. “So that’s your logic? Better to let all those innocent mages die than risk letting a single abomination escape?”

“Yes,” Greagoir responded coldly, defensive in the face of the Warden’s anger. “The Right is not something to be employed lightly, but I will do so in the face of far worse consequences. Understand this, Warden, I would sacrifice any mage of the Circle and every Templar under my command if that is what it took to keep Ferelden safe. And there is not a single Templar in all Thedas that would do any less in my place!”

“More’s the pity,” Sagramor growled.

“The mages are probably already dead,” cautioned Alistair, resigned to the outcome. “Any abominations remaining in there have to be dealt with, no matter what.”

“We don’t know that!” Leliana countered, appalled at the prospect. “Until we are certain there are no survivors, we can’t sanction something like this!”

“Leliana’s right. The mages are not defenseless,” said the elf. “Some may yet live.”

“If any are still alive, then the Maker Himself has shielded them,” said Greagoir, a new urgency entering his voice, the burden of his failure plain. “This situation is dire. There is no alternative: everything and everyone in the Tower must be destroyed before it can be made safe again. If there were any other way, Grey Warden, I would see it done. But there is not. Annulment is our only hope. Any innocents who might be caught up within it are… necessary sacrifices.”

Without hesitation, Sagramor made his choice. There was a logic to Greagoir’s plan; a ruthless and cold-hearted logic, certainly, but logic nonetheless, one driven by rigid duty rather than a bigot’s hatred. But to give up on others ran against the grain of the elf’s soul, to abandon the lost and the helpless intolerable. The world takes enough from us without giving it over of our own accord. I will not let those mages die, not without trying to save them first. And if Nimue is among them...

The elf’s greatsword whispered from the fleece-lined scabbard. “Open the door.”

“What?” Greagoir demanded, eyes wide with shock. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to look for survivors in the Tower, of course. Now, are you going to open the door or not?”

The Knight-Commander scoffed disbelievingly at the elf’s apparent bravado. “I can assure you, an abomination is a force to be reckoned with, and you will be facing more than one!”

“I know that, but I’m not going to just sit here waiting for a death squad to arrive! If there’s even the slightest chance of there being survivors in the Circle, then we have to try, regardless of the risk.”

“If you truly wish to help, Grey Warden, then I would advise you wait and join us in carrying out the Annulment. Even once reinforcements arrive, we’ll need every blade we can muster to cleanse the Tower.”

“With all due respect, Knight-Commander, if you can’t win without three extra fighters, then you can’t win,” Sagramor retorted. “And I came here to get the Circle’s aid, not see them butchered. Dead mages are of no use to us, and it’s the right thing to do besides.”

Greagoir’s thin lips pursed in thought. “Does he speak for you as well?”

“He does,” Leliana expressed, stringing her longbow. “The Maker smiles upon those who act in defense of the innocent and helpless. We will prevail.”

“Suppose we have no choice,” said Alistair, compassion winning out over his lessons of Templar doctine. “Both Redcliffe and Ferelden in general are depending on us getting some magical assistance, and we can’t let them down.”

Stone-faced, Greagoir pondered their offer, well aware that all eyes were upon him, including those of his men. He did not hold out much hope: the Warden’s proposal was a foolish one, rooted in overconfidence and sentiment, both qualities frowned upon by the Templar Order. His men were well-trained, skilled and disciplined, yet had fallen before the demons like wheat to the scythe, and he truly doubted that any Warden could prove anywhere near as capable. In all likelihood, the only result of their boldness would be three more corpses waiting to be possessed and turned against them.

Yet with the advance of the darkspawn and now rumours of impeding civil war, he had no way of knowing if reinforcements were indeed coming, or if his messenger had managed to warn Denerim in the first place. The death of the Grand Cleric at Ostagar was another complication; without her authorization, the Right of Annulment could not be enacted, and there’d been no word of a replacement to fill her seat. And gruff and resolute as he was when it came to enforcing the Chantry’s laws against mages, it was not in his nature to partake in wholesale slaughter. There were Templars who’d carry out an Annulment unthinkingly, but though Greagoir was willing to do his duty, this was one order he hoped he’d never have to carry out. “Very well then, I shall open the doors for you. But a word of caution: once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred behind you, and I will open them for no one until I have proof that it is safe. I will only believe it is over if Irving, the First Enchanter of this Circle, stands before the doors and tells me that it is so. If Irving has fallen… then the Circle is lost, and must be destroyed. Do you accept those terms, ser?”

Sagramor turned to his companions, receiving nods of agreement. “I do.”

“Then may Andraste lend you Her courage,” Greagoir intoned, motioning two of his subordinates to the door. A confused murmur ran through the Templar ranks, but they obeyed nonetheless, those guarding the door bracing themselves for whatever fresh horrors lay beyond. The iron bars were pulled back with a torturous shriek, and slowly, the doors open to reveal the stench of death beyond. Behind them, Templars shuffled nervously. “And may the Maker watch over you all.”

Without hesitation, the Warden strode into the darkened corridor, his companions following at his side. You’re either the bravest man I’ve ever met, Grey Warden, or the most foolish, mused the Knight-Commander as the door closed behind them. Doubt I’ll ever find out, one way or another…

***************************

The heavy door slammed shut with a thunderous crash, and surprisingly Sagramor felt his misgivings disappear at the sound, banished with the knowledge they were truly committed now. Only one path remained open to them, their only choices victory or death, and the elf took comfort in that certainty and in knowing he had done the right thing. To enter the Circle and rescue those they could was a decision quickly made, but had he been given a thousand years to deliberate, Sagramor doubted he would choose any different. “Alistair, by any chance, did you visit Kinloch Hold during your Templar training? Any idea where we might find this Irving?”

“No such luck. But most Circles are designed alike, with the younger mages quartered near the bottom and the more experienced near the top. Maybe the First Enchanter’s office is a good place to start?”

“We shouldn’t neglect any side rooms or dormitories either,” Leliana urged them. “There may be people in need of rescue there, or monsters that could pose a threat to any survivors.”

“Agreed,” said Sagramor, greatsword at the ready. They’d tended to their blades during their northward voyage, a necessary chore and one they had not expected to pay dividends so soon. The corridor was silent save for the hiss of the strange, crystalline wall lamps lining it, their pale blue lights casting fresh shadows off the many statues set equidistantly along its length and illuminating the bloodstains and corpses that dotted the stone floor. Sagramor’s stomach churned when he saw the first of them: an elven boy and human girl in robes of dark blue, hands clasped together in death as their life’s blood congealed around him. They’d barely seen a dozen winters, but had been torn apart all the same.

“Poor kids,” Alistair muttered, gently closing their eyes. “It must have been terrifying; locked in here, unable to protect themselves, left as prey for monsters…”

Her lovely face a mask of horror, Leliana whispered a prayer to put their souls to rest. “And unless we stop this, the Templars will do the same. The Annulment applies to all a Circle’s mages, correct?” she said, an anger Sagramor had yet to witness in the Orlesian girl coming over her. “I will not let that happen. We must not let the same fate befall any more innocents, Wardens, no matter what.”

“We won’t, Leliana, I promise you that,” Sagramor reassured her, eyes fixed on the bodies so as to etch them into his mind. The Circle was a world he had never experienced, centered on forces he could barely comprehend and established around a set of ethics he found personally troubling, but this much was certain: these people deserved better than to be penned in and slaughtered. This chaos would not go unresolved, and those so cruelly slain would not go the Maker’s side unavenged. From down the hall came terrified screams and the cries of children, sending the trio rushing to meet the threat. Alistair charged the door shoulder first, the wood splintering. He was also the first to see it; a creature of fire, radiating malice like an ill-made star as it strained against the barrier of energy blocking the passageway at the opposite end of the hall. Long, burning claws stabbed through the membrane, and the beast chuckled hatefully as it forced its way through, undulating like a slug towards the helpless group of children.

And then they found they had nothing to be concerned about.

Before the demon stood a woman in red robes, her demeanour proud, her white hair secured in a severe bun, her spirit untouched by the fear that gripped the rest of the hall. With a sonorous word of power, she sent a wave of force hammering the creature back against the barrier. A wave of her long jewelled staff, and bands of energy sprung into existence around its neck and wrists, locking the howling nightmare in place. Another incantation engulfed it in frost, and the demon wailed as it shrived up and died, leaving nothing but a pile of dank ashes behind. It was over in moments, before the Warden’s company could intervene, and smoothly, she turned on them, the tip of her staff smouldering with white fire. “It’s you… No, come no further, Sagramor. Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down where you stand should you press me in this!”

“Wynne?” blurted the elf, motioning for his companions to lower their weapons. “What are you doing here?”

The staff remained leveled at them. “I am a Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi. This is where I belong,” Wynne stated bluntly. To her left, a score of mages, left frightened and edgy in the wake of the catastrophe, nervously inched away from the newcomers. Most were small children, the youngest of the Circle’s apprentices, though Sagramor spied two in dark blue robes and a tall, red-haired girl around his age in rich orange garments. All were in awe of Wynne though, the older mage staring the Wardens down with all the determination she could muster. “More importantly, why are you here? The Templars would not allow just anyone by, especially in such a crisis.”

“You know her, Sagramor?” asked Alistair.

“She was one of the mages at Ostagar; we met shortly before I joined you,” Sagramor explained, sheathing his sword in hopes of defusing the standoff. “I had not expected to see you again, Wynne.”

“Nor I you, Sagramor. It seems fortune smiled on us both,” the mage remarked crisply, unwilling to be lulled into a false sense of security. “But the question remains: why are you are?”

“We came here seeking the Circle’s aid against the Blight, as well as to deal with an ongoing threat to Redcliffe.”

“And you were told the Circle was in no shape to help you, I suppose?”

“Something like that. When we learned that the Templars had lost control, we volunteered to enter the Tower proper and try to save as many mages as we could. I get the feeling this Knight-Commander Greagoir was willing to let us try for lack of any other option; he’s still waiting on authorization for the Right of Annulment.”

At mention of the Right, the assembled mages gasped in horror, a cacophony of terrified murmurs spreading like wildfire amongst the children in their growing panic. Sighing in resignation, Wynne lowered her staff, and Sagramor was struck by how old and worn she seemed, every line in her face reflecting a deep-seated fatigue that refused to ease. “So they sent for it, then,” she lamented, defiance bleeding from her like an open wound. “I feared they might have. What else could they do in the face of this disaster? And no doubt Greagoir thinks we are all dead, that the Circle is beyond hope. They abandoned us to our fate, yet even trapped and besieged as we are, we have survived. Should the Templars succeed in invoking the Right, however, we will not be able to stand against them.”

“To be fair, he barely knows what’s been going on in here,” stated Alistair. “Neither do we, for that matter. What exactly happened here, Wynne?”

“I will not burden you with every last detail, for time is short enough as it is. Let it suffice to say that we had something of a rebellion on our hands,” Wynne explained bitterly. “One of our Senior Enchanters, a man by the name of Uldred, is responsible. When he returned from Ostagar, he tried to take over the Circle. As you can see, it didn’t work out as he had planned.” Fresh steel emerged in her pale blue eyes. “I don’t know what became of Uldred, but I am certain all this is his doing, and I will not let the Circle be lost to one man’s pride and stupidity.”

“So what’s your plan?” Sagramor asked.

“Until now, my main focus has been to keep the children safe. This door here leads to the rest of the Tower; I erected the barrier over it to keep the demons at bay and buy us some time. You will not be able to move forward so long as the barrier holds, but I will dispel it if you truly mean to save the Circle.”

“Of course, Wynne,” Leliana reassured her. “That was always our intent.”

“Leliana speaks for all of us in this,” added the Warden. “We’ll do whatever we can to help. And what of First Enchanter Irving? The Templars will only stand down if he tells them the Circle has been secured.”

“I do not know. Uldred would have taken care to deal with Irving as soon as he could, but he is First Enchanter for a reason. If anyone could survive this madness, it would be him,” said Wynne, confident in the truth of her words. “Once Greagoir has seen that we have made the tower safe, I am certain he will tell his men to back down. He is not an unreasonable man.”

“Then we should get to it quickly,” stated Sagramor. “Will the children be safe here?”

“Petra, you and Kinnon shall watch over them,” Wynne ordered, the mages paling at the thought of this tremendous responsibility. “The Warden and I will try to slay every fiend we come across, but should any manage to slip past us, it will be up to you to deal with them.”

“Are you sure you’re up for this, Wynne?” Petra asked in a small voice, hands clenched in fear about her staff. “You were so badly hurt earlier. Maybe I should come along.”

“I will be fine, my dear,” Wynne assured her, giving the orange-robed mage a comforting smile. “Right now, the others need your protection more, and it’s a responsibility I know you can handle. You are one of my brightest students, Petra, and you have never failed to meet my expectations. I know you will not fail here. Be strong.” Petra gave a worried mutter of assent, and Wynne turned to the others, her calm, collected tone cutting through their misgivings. “Everyone, Petra is in charge here. Listen to her instructions and remain calm. We will return.”

Mustering up her courage for the task ahead, Petra made one final plea as her mentor turned to deactivate the barrier. “Grey Wardens? Please… look after her.”

“Don’t worry, miss, she’ll be safe with us,” Alistair stated reassuringly.

Without any further preamble, Wynne placed her hands flat against the blue glow of the barrier, fingertips tracing arcane symbols into the energy field. “Petra said you’d been injured?” Sagramor questioned. “Anything we can do to help?”

“It’s quite alright, Warden, my own powers have seen to them. Petra simply worries for me. Though I must admit, I am somewhat amazed at myself for having kept the barrier in place for so long.”

“Not bad for an older woman,” the elf jested weakly in hopes of dispelling the tension. In truth, he was rather impressed with Wynne; she clearly possessed by great power and strength of will, the latter all the more notable in the face of the current anarchy.

Wynne permitted herself a brief smile, the barrier fading as she uttered the counterspell. “Be on you guard, all of you. I do not know what manner of beasts lurk beyond.”

There was a rush of displaced air as the barrier collapsed, the magic dying away with a hollow thud. Sagramor was first through the entranceway, gasping in shock at the nightmare that stood before them. It was horror and madness made flesh, its blue robes torn to tatters during its initial transformation, spine swollen and its limbs grown to bizarre proportions, clawed hands ripping into the corpse before it in hopes of assuaging its monstrous hunger. At the sound of their approach, it rose to its full height, all seven feet of it, the flesh of its face like melted candle wax, lower jaw splitting open to reveal a cluster of writhing tendrils where its tongue would be and far too many teeth for any normal mouth to contain. The insane mutations wrought by demonic possession upon unliving flesh were all the more hideous when the host was alive, and despite himself, Sagramor was taken aback by the sight of the creature, his charge faltering in its opening moments.

“So there actually are abominations!” Alistair shouted, his Templar anti-magics forcing the creature back several paces. “Wonderful!”

Howling in fury, the abomination lunged for them, eyes alight with a sickly indigo flame. Leliana put an arrow into its chest, yet the blow barely slowed it, the beast crossing the great, blood-slick floorstones with a speed borne of madness. Wynne’s voice rang out and the abomination screamed as the arcane bolt smashed it into the wall, its ravaged flesh sizzling and blistered. Seeing an opening, Sagramor went for it, over four feet of steel plunging into the monster’s breast. It was a blow that would have been fatal to anything else, but astonishingly, the creature weathered it and answered in kind, the elf’s cry of triumph giving way to a scream as a hooked claw lashed out, tearing into his side through the chainmail.

Serene and vengeful, Leliana dashed to his side, the Green Blade biting deep into the abomination’s arm before it could strike another blow. Jaw split wide in its agony, Alistair’s longsword took that as its mark, bone scraping as it punched through the back of its head. Spasming violently, the monster breathed its last, another dose of Templar powers insuring it stayed down permanently. “Sagramor!” Leliana shouted, tearing open her pack in her desperate search for bandages to halt the elf’s bleeding.

“I’m alright, Leliana,” the Warden replied weakly, blood trickling through the gaps in his fingers as he put pressure on the wound. ”It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have left myself open like that.”

“Be at peace, girl,” Wynne calmly reassured her, fingers dancing in the beginnings of an incantation. “I am here.”

With a word, blue light suddenly suffused the elf’s wound, Sagramor gasping at the pleasant sensation. In moments, the bleeding ceased, pain faded, flesh knit, until all traces of the injury had vanished, leaving nothing but naked flesh where the terrible wound had once been. “That’s—that’s much better, Wynne. I owe you one,” said Sagramor, coming to his feet. He was genuinely impressed: Morrigan was capable enough when it came to healing magic, but never had she displayed such effortless skill as the Senior Enchanter possessed. “Seems we’ve hit the luck of the draw with you at our side.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Wynne stated wryly. “But we must be careful. My powers may not be able to protect you from all the dangers awaiting us here…”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...