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.

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Chapter Twenty: For The Elf Who Has Everything - Part One

“You should have seen it!” Soris expressed to the amusement of the dinner party, the remains of yet another rich supper spread out before them. “Here comes Sagramor, covered in river mud, and what does he say? ‘Last time I try to ride a horse!’”

“What can I say? Horses don’t like me,” Sagramor stated at the head of the table as his family dissolved into helpless laughter. All around him were the warm and smiling faces of the people he loved more than anyone in the world, come together to celebrate the fortune and acclaim he’d won in the great victory at Ostagar. The Blight was over, the Deep Roads scoured clean of the darkspawn once and for all, and in gratitude for his excellent service, King Cailan had granted new rights to Ferelden’s elven population. Beyond the comforting surroundings of his childhood home, the Alienage stood more prosperous than ever, no longer an impoverished ghetto but a truly thriving district of a Ferelden at peace. His sword hung forgotten over the mantle, never to be drawn again, and why would he ever have need to? Why would he ever have to fight when all those he loved most were right beside him?

At his right hand, Nesiara gave a shy smile, silken gown highlighting her svelte figure, while at his left, Cyrion chortled good-naturedly at his son’s latest antics, beaming with pride. Shianni was there too, playfully jostling with Soris over a haunch of the deer they’d brought down earlier that day, all of them safe and happy. No, there was no need to fight anymore. He’d achieved all he could ever want. Now he could rest content.

If these damn headaches will let me, Sagramor groused inwardly, fingers pressed against the bridge of nose as another came on. Instantly, the attentions of the entire table turned towards him. “Are you all right, son?” asked Cyrion.

“Just another headache, Father, it’s nothing,” Sagramor answered dismissively, hoping the pain would recede. He’d been having them a lot lately, probably brought about by these recurring nightmares that plagued his sleep, a lingering issue blemishing his otherwise idyllic existence. These were strange nightmares too, completely implausible yet horribly detailed, depicting a defeat at Ostagar rather than a triumph, and a frantic flight across Ferelden with a motley band of companions to gather allies to face the darkspawn. Absurdities, of course, especially since many of these companions were human. What use would I have for shemlen? My family is all I’ll ever need.

The headache suddenly intensified, forcing Sagramor to brace himself against the table. His vision swam before his eyes, and for a moment, the familiar surroundings of home were replaced with something… else, only to be restored in the blink of an eye. As one, his family rose from their seats to comfort him, Nesiara’s voice warm and enticing. “What is the matter, my love? Aren’t you happy here?”

“I am, darling, truly,” Sagramor assured her, giving his bride a gentle kiss. Her beautiful red— no, blonde hair glimmered in the light of the hearth, the affection they’d shared since their blissful wedding never fading. “It’s just that—“

“How else can we make you happy, cousin?” asked Shianni, urgently reaching out towards him, the others nodding vigorously in agreement.

A new hand touched his shoulder, and Sagramor’s jaw dropped at the sight of the newcomer. “After all,” Adaia Tabris said, beaming at her only child, “your happiness is all that matters to us.”

“Mother?” Sagramor gasped, headache throbbing as he feverishly tried to process what was going on. “But… you’re supposed to be dead.”

“And why would you think that?” the elven woman responded, strong, loving hands clasping his own, left calloused from weapons drill and the hard labour that came with running a household. She was radiant in the light of the hearth, oddly youthful looking in fact, her pride in his achievements plain for all to see. “You just had another bad dream, my son. There’s nothing to worry about now. I’m here, and I won’t leave you alone.”

“But…” the Warden muttered, staggering beneath the blinding pain. She had to be right; all manner of strange things happened in dreams, and she was alive and vital in a way he had never seen before. Then why do I remember her dying so clearly? he wondered, feeling the bizarre urge to wrench himself clear of his mother’s grasp.

“Why do you struggle?” Adaia asked, tightening her grip. “Isn’t this all you ever wanted? You don’t have to fight anymore, Sagramor. You don’t have to suffer. This is a life well-earned, so embrace it.”

Her tone was so gentle and her words so tempting that Sagramor felt his doubts drift away. Why was he so worried? He was surrounded by all those he cared for, he’d seen his every ambition fulfilled, and he never had to fight again. This was a perfect existence. Absolutely perfect.

If this is a perfect life, then where is Leliana?

The thought struck cold and clear as a blade in winter, biting cleanly into the falsehoods, and all around him, the shadows of his family warped into twisted and deranged forms in the firelight. “This—this isn’t real,” Sagramor gasped in understanding. With a sudden burst of strength, he tore free from his mother’s grasp, nervously backing away towards the hearth. “None of this is real!”

“There’s no need for that kind of talk, young man,” Adaia snapped, palm slapping against the fine oaken table. Behind her, the rest of his family took on a predatory mien, looming over him like ravenous beasts, the light of something inhuman glimmering in their eyes. “Now sit down and have dinner with your family, like a good boy.”

“No, this is wrong,” the Warden responded, a half-remembered instinct sending his hands to his belt and finding nothing. He dared take his eyes from his mother’s approach to the greatsword hanging on the wall behind him, peace-bound to prevent easy access. “You’re not my mother. Do you truly believe I could forget how she died?”

“Son, sit down!”

“You’re not her,” spat Sagramor, the veil of falsehoods lifting by the moment. “I’m still in the Circle, aren’t I? This is some illusion a demon has me trapped in.”

The creature wearing his mother’s form gave a vicious smile, any pretense of maternal concern gone. “So what if it is? Where else will you find the happiness and fulfillment you crave, the respect you desire?”  Sagramor flinched away as she strutted towards him, the touch of her hand on his jawline sending streaks of agony running along the bone. “You will never achieve the things you seek, Grey Warden. Only here can you ever find the contentment you’re searching for.”

“In a delusion designed to ensnare me?”

“And what are your ambitions if not delusional?” she asked mockingly. “Your people treated with fairness? Your Order respected across Thedas? Such things will never come to pass. You cannot defeat the Blight, Grey Warden, for it is beyond the capabilities of any mortal to deal with. And even should you prove victorious, nothing will change. Your people will still be hated. The Wardens will still be scorned by those they save. Stay here. Let go. You shall have everything you wish here.”

“What of my companions? Where are they?”

“You have no need of them,” declared the entity, its form rapidly shifting to that of Leliana, sultry and inviting in her close-fitting leather amour. “Not when we can fulfill your every desire…”

The elf’s fist sent the creature reeling backwards, an inhuman snarl erupting from its lips. “This is what you want, isn’t it? The redhaired girl, eagerly awaiting your touch? Why resist?”

“Stay away from me!” Sagramor barked, tearing the greatsword off the mantle. The rest of his family— the demons— advanced towards him, their carefully constructed illusions abandoned to permit their true, malign forms to emerge. “Release me, or I will cut you down to the last.”

The lead creature, still clothed in Leliana’s beautiful figure, chuckled maliciously. “Is this why you struggle so, Warden? For her? She’ll never care for you like you want her to. How could she? You’re an elf.”

“You know nothing, creature,” spat the Warden, frantically tearing at the leather straps binding the greatsword. “Now get out of my way!”

“No, you cannot leave here!” came the growled reply, Leliana’s lovely face dissolving into something abhorrent. Tentacles, dripping with black ichor, suddenly erupted from the Leliana-thing’s shoulders, seizing his arms in bands of iron, the still-sheathed greatsword falling to the floor. “You belong to us!”

As one, the demons fell upon Sagramor, drowning him beneath a wave of claws and teeth. With a scream of fury, the elf lashed out, heavy boots hurling the first of them away. Still the others pressed on, sheer weight of numbers bearing him to the floor, the Leliana-thing’s breath noxious in his ear. “You are Lord Sloth’s chattel now, subjects of his demesne. Your souls are his to do with as he pleases, and should you defy his will, then the Fade will ring with the sounds of your screams.”

“Where are the others?” demanded the elf, eyes boring hatefully into the demon. “What have you done to my friends?!”

“They serve him now, as you do,” the demon snarled, leaning close. “Cease your pathetic struggles, and he may be prepare to grant you mer--”

With a strength born of desperation, Sagramor seized one of the tentacles holding him and pulled hard, drawing it into a vicious headbutt. Screaming in pain, the demon’s grip faltered, and the elf seized the opportunity, kicking and shoving demons aside, every thought bent on securing his greatsword. The demon that had taken Shianni’s form pounced on his back, barbed claws burrowing into his side, but the elf shook the creature free, ripped away the leather bindings and let the blade sing free of its scabbard. A third demon, face a hideous parody of Soris’ own, scuttled forth on insectoid limbs to face him, only to be first to taste the Warden’s wrath, bright steel scything off its foremost limbs and driving deep into its chest.

He was upon the others just as quickly, fury giving him speed, a mad, keening sound escaping his clenched teeth as he vented his anger upon his would-be enslavers. In the ruthless hierarchy that governed the Fade, these demons were near the bottom, too weak to manifest in the material world and reliant upon deception and illusion to indulge their appetites. They were base predators, left to scavenge the leavings of their betters, and they had judged him mere prey, a lost and helpless soul they could toy with for their own twisted amusement without fear of the repercussions. They paid for that arrogance now, their outraged curses cut short upon the long blade, neither their dread reputation nor their attempts to imitate his family staying his hand.

Until, at last, only the demon that had sought to impersonate Adaia remained, its face shifting between that of her and Leliana as it struck out at the Warden, its body a bloated mass of tentacles growing larger by the moment. “Wretched ephemeral!” it howled, sending a fresh cluster of tendrils against him. The greatsword bit true into the rubbery flesh, and the demon screeched as the first tendril collapsed twitching to the floor. “You will never escape the Fade! You are Lord Sloth’s now!”

“Where does your master lurk?” demanded the elf as he hacked his way through the forest of tentacles, ignoring the caustic ichor hissing from the severed stumps. Howling, the demon lunged, and Sagramor met it in kind, the long blade thrusting into the bloated mass hard enough to bury the tip into the wall behind it, pinning it in place like an insect in a naturalist’s collection. “Where are the others?”

“Beyond your reach!” the demon wailed, squirming in vain along the length of the steel, terrifyingly normal eyes brimming with hate. “Wander the endless tracts of the Fade as you will, but you will never find them! And when my brethren drag your blooded and beaten soul into Sloth’s presence, you will beg for oblivion’s release! He will sow a crop of nightmares and harvest your screams! He will--”

“I will take your silence now,” Sagramor declared, tearing the greatsword free, and in one smooth motion, scything off the demon’s head.

The mask of Adaia fell away, and the elf grimaced at the sight of the creature’s true face: the yellowed fangs, the prehensile tongue and other, even more disturbing features. All around him, the bodies of the demons rapidly denatured, flesh bubbling and melting away like fat in the pan, leaving nothing but oily black stains to mark their passing.

In the silence that followed, Sagramor mechanically wiped demonic ichor from his sword, heedless of the sudden weight of his armour materializing around him, the shock over what had transpired consuming his thoughts. They nearly had me, he admitted inwardly, an uncontrollable shudder coming over him. The demons had done their work well, for in that fantasy world of their design, his every ambition had been fulfilled, his every goal reached and every desire attended to.

All but one. All but her.

Leliana…

Perhaps the demons had failed to comprehend his growing affections for the Orlesian girl, or perhaps they did not recognize that his ambitions had always been tempered by a sense of loyalty and responsibility. It did not matter now. He was free of the lies made to ensnare him, and if his companions suffered under such imprisonment, he would free them as well. And then we will make Sloth pay for all he has done.

The environment shifted, the decrepit walls of the shack fading away like mist burned by the morning sun, but the elf hardly noticed the change. Grim and relentless as death, Sagramor Tabris took up his sword and strode headlong into the endless expanse of the Fade, a single thought driving him onwards. We will all be free of this place, my friends. I swear it!

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Time moved strangely in the Fade, if it actually moved at all, for Sagramor had nothing to determine its passage. Night never fell, the sun never rose, and physical considerations like hunger, thirst and fatigue failed to afflict the Warden. There were only the islands, fragmentary landmasses scattered and floating above the formless void far below, each bathed in the sickly green light and cloying mists that suffused every inch of the dream-dimension, some close to his own, some impossibly distant, some drifting out of existence in the blink of an eye only to return just as quickly. The true points of reference were the disturbing statues that dotted each of the islands, each sculpted by a madman’s hand and more grotesque than the last.

And above it all, staring down like the baleful eye of a deep-sea predator, sat the Black City itself, its unlight reaching greedily into the sky around it and devouring all it came into contact with. It was an ill star to be guided by, for no matter how far Sagramor marched, it remained equidistant to him at all times, his attempts to use it as a point of reference fruitless. And that was only when it could stand to look upon it, before the nausea and pain produced by staring at the tainted and fallen seat of the Maker forced him to turn away, wiping tears of blood from the corners of his eyes. The Fade was wholly alien to him, a realm beyond his ability to truly comprehend, and while he’d heard stories of mages capable of navigating the plane’s ever-shifting environment, he had no such advantage. Yet he did not falter in his search, each dead end and red herring only goading him onwards, the thought of his companions suffering in the clutches of ravening demons beyond endurance.

To his right came desperate scrabbling, and the sound of a man’s voice cutting through the distant whispers. Sagramor brought his blade up, just in time to see a young man in the orange robes of the Circle scrambled over the nearby rocks, a manic light in his eyes. “Stop it before it gets away!”

“It” turned out to be a small mouse, frantically weaving through the rocks to evade its pursuer, squeaking in terror all the while. Before Sagramor could react, it darted for the mouth of a nearby mousehole, squeezing through the aperture barely a hand’s breadth from its pursuer’s grasp. Uttering a snarl of absolute frustration, the newcomer clawed in vain at the opening until his fingers bled, shooting the Warden a resentful glare. “You fool! Why didn’t you catch it?!”

“It was too quick for me,” Sagramor explained, keeping his blade levelled. For all his hopes of seeing another mortal soul again, he’d experienced too many deceptions to lower his guard now. “What in the world would you even want with a mouse to begin with?”

“Fool!” the mage exploded. “You actually think that was a mouse? It was a spirit, like everything else in here, and one that could have helped me! It could have told me how to escape this place!” Choking back a sob, he slumped to the ground, exhausted and hopeless. “And who are you? Are you another demon sent to torment me, to prevent my escape?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Sagramor remarked calmly.

The mage gave a small scoff. “No, I see that you’re not. You’re like me. Congratulations on getting out of that trap.”

“How can you be certain I’m mortal?”

Sighing, the mage gestured dismissively at Sagramor’s tabard. “Sloth is desperate to keep us here, to feed on our thoughts and emotions, so it tries to trap us in dreams it thinks we can’t, or won’t, escape. But demons can’t create things, not effectively; they can only imitate what they’ve witnessed in the minds of mortals. And I’ve not had the privilege of meeting a Grey Warden in person before.”

There was logic in that, but Sagramor would not be lulled into weakness. “What is your name?”

“Niall. And yours?”

“What did you take from the Circle’s stockroom, and who gave it to you?”

“The Litany of Adralla, of course. I had hoped to use it to save the Circle when I encountered the sloth demon. I imagine our experiences were similar.” Niall’s eyes widened in disbelief. “And you’ve seen Owain? He’s still alive?”

“He was before I was brought into the Fade,” said the elf, finally relenting. There was a risk in trusting the mage, if mage indeed he was, but for the sake of his companions, he would bear it. “Tell me, have you seen anyone else in the Fade, anyone real? My companions may have been trapped with me, and I need to know where they are.”

“No, I—I haven’t seen anyone. After I broke free of the illusion, I thought I’d escaped, but I’ve been wandering these empty spaces for a lifetime. And now, without the Litany to counter the blood magic of Uldred’s rebels, the Circle is doomed. It’s over.”

Grey eyes fixed on Niall, cold and unyielding as iron. “Nothing’s over, Niall, not while I draw breath. How do we escape from here?”

“There is no way out of here. You think there might be, but you’d be wrong.”

“Don’t give me that!” the Warden snapped, the fury in his voice forcing Niall back a step. “The Circle can still be saved, and so to can my comrades. Everything I’ve heard says that this ‘Sloth’ is the one keeping us in the Fade, right? So let’s hunt the whoreson down and break the spell!”

“You think I haven’t tried that?! I’ve been hunting Sloth since the moment I escaped his illusions, but I just can’t reach him! This place drains you of everything: hope, feeling, life...”

“Then fight back. Resist! Where is Sloth?”

“At the centre island in this part of the Fade, but you can’t get there,” Niall explained wearily. “His minions control the islands surrounding him, and they’ve somehow established a protective ward over it, keeping any intruders out. His lieutenants are powerful in their own right, too powerful for me to face, and even getting to them may prove impossible.”

“Good thing I’m part of an Order that hunts monsters for a living, then. What of my companions? Would they be on these islands?”

“I—I don’t know. There are many dreamers, though I suppose it is possible… if you’re lucky.” The mage gestured down the path towards a white marble pedestal, motes of azure light dancing lazily around the elegantly carved stone, a thing of rare, ethereal beauty amongst the grotesque architecture of the Fade. “These pedestals let you travel throughout the Fade, guided by your will. Perhaps you can find your friends that way?”

“Have you used them before?” demanded the Warden, getting a weak nod in response. “Then come with me. We’ll stand a better chance of getting out of here and defeating Sloth if we work together.”

“No, I can’t,” Niall pleaded, peering fearfully into the surrounding mists. “You have no idea what it took to escape from Sloth’s trap, Warden, I can’t risk being ensnared in another!”

“My friends are worth the danger, please. I’m not a mage, I can’t navigate the Fade like I’ve heard you can. Help me, and we can get out of this together.”

But the Warden’s words fell on deaf ears. Whimpering fearfully, Niall collapsed against the closest rock, left drained and exhausted by his escape, and Sagramor’s frustration swiftly turned to pity. The mage was in no state to help him, and as much as he might wish otherwise, he could not tarry, hoping he’d regain his strength. His companions were relying on him to free them, whether they knew it or not, and he had no intention of leaving them imprisoned for a moment longer than necessary. “Will you be all right if I leave you here?”

“I suppose I have no choice,” Niall gasped wearily. “Go on, Warden. Stop Sloth, while you still have the strength to do so.”

Sagramor nodded grimly. If Niall was in fact a demon leading him into a trap, then using the transit pedestal was a fool’s errand certain to end in his death, but he had no choice. Endlessly lingering here was not an option, not with his companions imprisoned and Uldred laying waste to the Circle. Sooner or later, he had to trust in something. “I’ll come back for you, Niall. You’ll not die here, I swear it.”

Turning from the mage, Sagramor approached the gleaming pedestal, hands firmly grasped on the finely crafted basin that sat atop it, the faces of his companions rooted in the forefront of his mind. Light came into being, suffusing every cell of his body, and with a flash, he was gone.

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

That it was not a trap was the only comfort Sagramor could take from the teleportation process. Groaning in pain as his body rematerialized, the elf collapsed to his hands and knees, left shaking in the wake of the magic. With no small difficultly, he took to his feet again, letting the worst of the discomfort subside before he dared draw his sword. “Maker, I hope that was worth it,” he rasped, eyes widening as the mists parted.

For standing before him was the Lothering chantry, perfectly replicated and bathed beneath the light of a warm summer sun, just as it’d been the day he arrived. A well-maintained garden flanked the structure on all sides, radiant with a profusion of flowers at the peak of their bloom, while within, Sagramor could hear the stirring tones of the Chant being sung in perfect harmony. Of all he’d witnessed in the Fade, the chantry seemed the most… real, the starkness of its dimensions a welcome change from the indistinct nature of everything else in the dream-world. Real enough to convince someone it’s actually genuine? he asked himself, approaching the entrance, blade in hand.

The great oaken doors parted without resistance, and cautiously, Sagramor crept into the chantry’s pleasant coolness, the smell of the incense burning in their braziers almost overpowering. Sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows, bathing the empty pews and alcoves in brilliant hues, adding to the sense of tranquility that radiated from every stone. Keeping his wits about him, the Warden remained focused, too jaded by the Fade’s deceptions to fall prey now, grey eyes darting about for the slightest movement.

“Blessed art thou who exist in the sight of the Maker,” spoke the soft, familiar voice, and Sagramor felt his heart leap at the sound, the joy it provoked overwhelming after so many horrors. Before the main altar knelt Leliana, clad once more in the vestments of a lay sister of the Chantry, her lithe figure gently rocking in place as she continued her devotions. “Blessed art thou who seeks his forgiveness…”

“Leliana? Is that really you?”

“Blessed— what?” the Orlesian girl halted mid-prayer, rising to greet the newcomer, confusion plain in her beautiful features. “Who are you? And why do you bare steel in a house of the Maker?”

The blade came down. “Leliana, it’s me,” the elf expressed, more than a little hurt by the lack of recognition. “Do you truly not remember?”

Footsteps sounded behind the altar, and the elf was Revered Mother of the Chantry come to Leliana’s side, accompanied by a pair of Templars, grim and faceless in full plate. “Leliana’s place is here,” the old woman chastised him, hostile gaze boring into him. “I beg you, do not disturb the girl’s meditations.”

“Revered Mother, I do not know this person,” remarked Leliana.

“I’m Sagramor, the Grey Warden from Denerim,” he explained, daring to approach her. In an instant, the two Templars had their blades out and levelled against him, but he ignored their threat, the whole of his attention devoted to breaking through to his companion. “We’re friends, don’t you remember?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you are talking about,” Leliana replied, a nervous frown coming over her. “Are you quite well, ser? Perhaps a moment’s rest and prayer might calm your nerves?”

“Please do not vex her,” the elder priestess insisted. “She needs quiet and solitude to calm her mind and heal her heart. She belongs with us now. You will not take her away from this place.”

“She belongs wherever she damn well chooses,” Sagramor snarled. The first of the Templars stepped towards him, and the elf brought his greatsword up to check his advance. “And she deserves better than to remain your prisoner, demon.”

“Demon?” Leliana asked incredulously, glancing between the quarreling figures in shock. “Revered Mother, this man is clearly suffering from some illness of the mind. It would be wrong to strike down one so afflicted. Perhaps we might try and heal his wounds instead?”

“This elf is a blasphemer and a murderer, child, and he means to steal you away from the Maker’s light and led you to damnation,” the Revered Mother said icily, her guards circling around the Warden like beasts at the hunt, waiting for the slightest show of weakness to strike. “Come here, and leave the Templars to their work.”

For a moment, Leliana stood frozen by indecision, and in that instant of doubt, Sagramor made a final plea. “You had a dream, Leliana, a wonderful and terrible dream. Do you truly not remember it? Have you forgotten what the Maker has asked of you?”

Understanding blossomed in Leliana’s eyes, and she staggered back against the altar, brows furrowed in thought. “Yes, there was a great darkness, and… a rose?”

“We have discussed this before, Leliana,” the Revered Mother interjected in a mollifying tone. “Your dream was the result of demons trying to manipulate you. Put it out of your mind, and come here, like I bid you.”

“No, it was the voice of the Maker calling to me, I know it. The Revered Mother understood that. The real one…” Leliana gasped, the illusion faltering.

“Stupid girl!” snarled the Revered Mother, a guttural, monstrous voice overlaying her own. The two Templars began to swell up, tumorous growths squeezing through the gaps in their armour as their flesh became too great to contain, tentacle-like entrails bursting through flesh and steel to ensnare the Orlesian woman before she could react, the slick, stinking innards binding and bearing her up off the floor. “You are ours, now and forever!”

Roaring vengefully, Sagramor charged the demon restraining Leliana, her terrified screams muffled by the vile appendages cocooning her. The second Templar-thing moved to intercept him, breastplate splintering apart as its bloated form continued to expand, the flesh of its torso splitting into a gaping, tooth-lined maw, spewing forth tentacles of its own with whip-like quickness. The elf met its attack with equal fury, greatsword parting the threads of its innards and receiving an oddly high-pitched cry of pain in return. The beast slithered back, fearful of another taste of the Warden’s steel, and he seized the offered advantage, plunging the long blade in through the mouth at its torso and out through its spine. Still it refused to die, remaining tentacles closing in around the Warden in a last-ditch effort, but Sagramor was far quicker, ripping the blade free of its midsection and bringing it down through its misshapen skull.

Black words gushed from the lips of the priestess-demon, and Sagramor was flung backwards into the nearest pew, the impact rattling his ribs through the chainmail. “Meddlesome ephemeral,” the creature hissed, a possessive hand running over the squirming cocoon. “We could have given her an existence of tranquility, but you have ruined that. Now, nothing remains for her but a memory of pain!”

Reality split behind them, tearing like a ragged curtain, the demons and their prisoner swallowed up by the swirling, night-black portal. “Oh, no, you don’t!” Sagramor declared, heedlessly bounding across the floorstones and leaping through the event horizon in pursuit. Like a bottle lost in the raging current, the elf was carried along the rough translocation, battered and buffeted by the flows of magic, until at last, he felt solid ground materialize beneath his feet. “Leliana!” he called out into the pervasive darkness, hearing nothing but the squeak of rats in reply.

Slowly, Sagramor’s eyes began to adjust to the fetid gloom, and he took the pace. The airy majesty of the Lothering chantry had been replaced with dank stone, scuttling vermin, and rusted iron, a palpable sense of misery bleeding from every surface. A dungeon, mused the elf, shuddering in disgust as he waded through puddles of stagnant water a foot high. This was a tomb for happiness, a gaping pit from which no light or hope could find release, and the fear grew stronger with each passing moment. “Leliana?”

From down the corridor came a woman’s muffled scream, an animal cry of pain unwillingly torn from her lips. “Leliana!” shouted the elf as he broke into a run, storming towards its source with reckless abandon. Dark shapes oozed out from the shadows to bar the Warden’s path, but any notion of self-preservation had been cast aside by the thought of whatever torments his companion might be suffering, and he didn’t break stride as he tore through them like parchment, their feeble wails drowned out by a second note of anguish. The door at the end of the corridor gave way beneath repeated blows of his greatsword, and Sagramor burst into the chamber with a feral snarl to witness the hell that lay within.

He did not notice the instruments of torture that hung from the walls, or the iron poker that glowed cherry-red in a nearby brazier. He did not acknowledge the pair of demons cloaked in the scarred flesh of grinning mercenaries, whips in hand, nor recognize the bloodstained tabards bearing the black bar of bastardry they wore. All he saw was her.

It had only been moments since Leliana vanished through the demons’ portal, yet to look at her now was to see a young woman who had suffered for days in captivity. She had been stripped naked, her arms bound over her head with cruel ropes so that she hung suspended off the floor, and above the wide leather gag, her right eye was swollen shut, the left brimming with tears of humiliation and hurt. He had never seen her so broken before, so helpless, the horror of Shianni’s abduction echoed anew in the Orlesian’s own torment. “Well, now, what’s this?” the first of the torturers demanded, gesturing towards Sagramor with the whip. Livid red welts along Leliana’s shoulders and thighs betrayed his prior experience with the coiled leather, and she flinched as he approached, frantic pleas swallowed up by the unyielding gag. “A brave hero come to the rescue? Pathetic.”

“This your latest boy-toy, Orlesian?” asked the second torturer. Like with the first, a labyrinth of scars crisscrossed his bare head, their proportions so nightmarishly exaggerated that not an unblemished patch of flesh remained. “Funny that. If you really wanted some more men, all you had to do was ask.”

A rage like he had only known once engulfed the Warden at the implication, the righteous fury that had carried him through the blood-drenched halls of the Arl of Denerim’s palace instantly ablaze in his heart. Leliana’s name on his lips, Sagramor charged, blood-mad, the self-loathing he’d carried since he’d failed Shianni a goad to overcome all reason. The first of the demon-torturers gave a vicious chuckle, whip lashing out for the elf’s face. Sagramor was quicker, his right hand seizing the whip in midair and pulling hard, yanking his assailant onto the length of his blade. The torturer screamed in anger, mortal shell falling away to reveal a succession of gaping mouths and writhing tendrils, and Sagramor twisted the sword in its gut, provoking a further scream. The second demon, the one who had dragged the struggling Leliana through the portal, brought its entrail-tentacles forth once again, and the elf cursed as the first coil looped around his throat. “Too late, Warden! Always too late!”

Gasping for breath, Sagramor tried to disengage from the first foe, but the demon fought to keep the length of steel lodged in its body, claws tearing the greatsword from his grasp. In desperation, Sagramor drew his belt knife, plunging it over and over into the torso of the demon ensnaring him, but it barely felt the blows, further tentacles binding the elf’s chest in a crushing grip. “What did you expect to accomplish here?” the demon hooted mockingly, lips sealing up and mutating into a lamprey’s mouth, dripping with saliva. “You should have stayed where you belonged, elf, like good little chattel. I don’t think Sloth will mind if we played with you for a while…”

Black spots dancing before his eyes and lungs screaming for air, Sagramor acted without conscious thought. With all the skill invested in him by his mother’s training, the knife flew from his hand, sailing harmlessly past the enemy. “What was that, ephemeral? You missed!”

“Wasn’t aiming for you,” Sagramor wheezed, grinning in triumph.

Burning metal erupted out of the demon’s face in a burst of smouldering gore, its tentacles releasing their hold on the Warden as it screamed in agony, denaturing before his very eyes. With a vengeful cry, Leliana tore the hot poker free of the stinking puddle of ichor, blue eyes alight with righteous fury, the torn scraps of rope and discarded gag behind her testament to Sagramor’s skill at knife-throwing. Naked, battered yet unafraid, she turned to face the second demon, riposting a blow from a club-like arm with her impromptu weapon. “Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter!” she screamed, lancing the poker into the gut wound left by Sagramor’s greatsword.

Howling in pain, the demon lashed out in a panic, limbs and tentacles thrown up in a desperate attempt to stave off Leliana’s retribution. With a sparrow’s agility, the poker slipped through, penetrating blubbery hide to bite deep into its heart. “No!” it wailed as its body began to disintegrate. “This is not what Lord Sloth promised us! You weren’t supposed to fight back!”

“Your mistake, monster, for the Maker protects!” Leliana shouted triumphantly, hammering the iron bar through its skull with a nauseating crunch. The demon gave one last pitiable wail before it collapsed, quickly melting away, and as with the illusion of Sagramor’s home, that of the dungeon began to fade away with the demons who maintained it. Leliana’s injuries vanished within moments, the wounds of her torture yet another product of the dream, and she stared at him with both eyes wide, the flare of recognition appearing in their bright depths. “Sagramor… you’re real.” A slim hand came up to caress his jawline, feeling the pulse of life beneath the skin, and Sagramor had to resist the urge to moan at the pleasurable contact. “You’re actually real…”

“I am, and I remember the tale your childhood in Orlais, and of the Lady Cecile,” the elf stated, making certain to keep his gaze fixed away from her naked figure. “I remember you dreamt your father was a chevalier who might one day return.”

Leliana gave a wry smile, recognizing his solution to their unspoken dilemma. “And I recall how kind and patient you were when I explained the vision the Maker granted me. And how you took so much guilt onto yourself after Connor tried to control your mind.” Her arms came about him, desperate for his warmth, and Sagramor embraced her in kind, feeling her lithe figure tremble after the horror she had endured. “You came for me.”

“I’ll always be here for you, Leliana, I swear it,” Sagramor assured her, remembering the oath he’d swore to himself on the Bounty. The anger faded, soothed by the warmth of her presence, and he patiently accepted her embrace, content to let her recover on her own time. “Do you need a moment?”

“I do, but we don’t have a moment to spare, do we?” Leliana expressed, stepping away. The final vestiges of the illusion crumbled, and she stood restored in her close-fitting leather armour, Green Blade at her side and bow and quiver across her back. “Alistair and Wynne?”

“Lost in dreams, just like we were. Prisoners of this Sloth.”

“Not for long,” she said, striding out of her decaying nightmare, hand clasped in the Warden’s own. That strength of will, so often concealed beneath her demure and generous nature, rose to the forefront, and Sagramor couldn’t help but tremble at the cold steel in her tone. “The Maker will see this creature punished for his crimes, and we are His instruments…”