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 Two

And so the Warden and the Orlesian ventured together through the mists, fixed of purpose in their hunt for Sloth and their missing companions. Of Niall, there was no sign, and with Leliana restored to him, Sagramor permitted himself a moment’s guilt at leaving the mage behind. He knew Niall was in no condition for a fight, and he’d only departed with the mage’s own urging, but even so, to leave the mage alone in a dimension of nightmares, even for a moment, left him uneasy. “We will find him again, Sagramor,” Leliana reassured him, calmly accepting the Warden’s tale. “I would not leave anyone here for the demons to prey upon.”

“Nor would I,” said the elf, grateful for her support. The Fade was madness made real, a realm that bled trust and hope from every soul caught within, and to be trapped here was a fate that not even the blackest soul deserved. That Niall was not one of his companions was meaningless: Sagramor would sooner lose an arm than deliberately abandon anyone here while he ran for safety. “I just hope he’s all right; he seemed rather shaken and weary when I first saw him. I’m not sure how long he might last out here.”

“We will bring him out safely, along with the others,” said Leliana, muttering a soft prayer for the absent mage and their missing friends. Being stuck in the Fade and her imprisonment at the hands of the demons had clearly taken their toll on her, but she bore it with an admirable dignity and strength of will, never faltering in the search for their comrades or losing hope. She had endured much, yet pressed on regardless, and Sagramor’s already considerable respect for the Orlesian woman grew even further.

Yet there was one misgiving that refused to abate. The priestess-demon they’d confronted in the illusionary chantry spoke of a memory of pain, a description that certainly fit the torture chamber he’d found her in. But if Niall was right, and demons had to rely on the memories of their victims to shape the world around them, then what was Leliana doing in such a place to begin with? A dark thought came over the Warden, too dreadful to voice but impossible to ignore: Has Leliana been tortured? Actually tortured, in the real world?

Without thinking, Sagramor found himself gawking at the lovely redhead, words unexpectedly failing him. “Sagramor? What’s wrong?”

What twisted soul could even conceive of hurting you like that? the elf demanded inwardly, struggling to compose himself. “Leliana, I know we haven’t known each other for very long, and I have no desire to intrude on your privacy. But if you ever need someone to talk to…”

“I know, Sagramor, and thank you. Knowing you are there for me is a great comfort,” Leliana responded, giving his hand a grateful squeeze. “Tell me, how did you escape from Sloth’s trap?”

“The demon overplayed its hand. It thought that using my love for my family would be enough to keep me prisoner, but seemed to think I could forget my mother dying.”

“It is said that because spirits and demons lack souls of their own, they cannot truly comprehend the nature of mortals and their desires,” Leliana expressed. “Perhaps it felt your love for your mother, and could not conceive that you might reject her reappearance as unnatural?”

“That’s certainly possible,” admitted the elf, the nearness of his escape a disturbing shadow cast over his heart. “I also think it failed to understand that my family aren’t the only ones I care for.”

A faint blush suffused Leliana’s lovely features, but her response faded on her lips as a new structure appeared out of the mist, solid granite walls and crenellations standing defiantly amidst the perpetual haze. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s a Warden chapter-keep,” Sagramor remarked in awe, pointing towards the finely carved griffon statues adorning each of the high granite towers and the banners of the Order displayed proudly above the gates. He’d never seen such fortresses himself, of course. His journey southwards to Ostagar with Duncan had brooked no delay, and even twenty years after the Order’s exile from Ferelden was rescinded, the great strongholds that had once served them remained abandoned and derelict. Duncan had spoken at length about the importance of such bastions, how entire Blights had been successfully repelled thanks to the Order’s famous chapter-keeps, and how it was the responsibility of each Warden-Commander to maintain and improve upon such defenses whenever possible. In a rare moment of melancholy, the older Warden had confessed his regrets over not being able to raise or recover a fortress worthy of the Order in Ferelden, a long-standing ambition tragically left unfulfilled by Loghain’s treachery. One day, I will change that, Sagramor promised himself as he gazed proudly upon the dream-fortress’ martial splendour. One day, I will see the fortunes of the Grey Wardens turn for the better, and a castle such as this become more than the product of hopeful dreams. One day, I will set things right.

Holding onto that promise, Sagramor drew his greatsword and made to enter, the gatehouse silent and the great, iron-bound portcullis raised. Torchlight flickered across the wide stone parade ground that dominated the main courtyard, illuminating the laughing trio seated at a nearby wooden table, foaming mugs of ale in hand and tabards of the Order draped proudly over their armour. “Maker, enough!” came Alistair’s voice, and Sagramor watched as he set his tankard aside, a drunken grin plastered over his face. “You win, for Andraste’s sake!”

“Ha!” crowed the burly Warden across the table, a meaty fist slamming his own pint down, rivulets of ale snaking their way through a beard capable of housing a family of squirrels. “Let it never be said that one of the Anderfolk can be out-drunk by a mere Fereldan!”

“Honestly, Gregor, where do you put it all?” Alistair inquired, looking far happier than Sagramor had ever seen him.

Beside Gregor, a thin-faced elven man feigned disapproval, using a long dagger to pick the dirt from beneath his fingernails. “Perhaps that’s what the empty space where his brain would be is used for.”

“Ah, you elves just can’t hold your ale! Care for some fresh spring water, Tarimel?”

“Well, if you’re offering…”

Alistair laughed at their banter, grinning widely as Sagramor approached. “Oh, hey, it’s you! I was just thinking about you. Pull up a seat, we’re celebrating!”

“Looks like it,” Sagramor remarked, approaching cautiously. The two older Wardens tracked his every move with cold eyes possessing all the charm of a viper, the malice that smouldered just below the surface at the unexpected intrusion a sign of their true, darker natures. The elf stayed calm, pretending ignorance as he clapped Alistair on the shoulder. “What are we drinking to?”

“To the destruction of the darkspawn, of course.” The smooth, confident voice echoed from out of the shadows, and Sagramor froze as Duncan stepped forth into the light, the Warden-Commander’s hostile eyes matching those of his compatriots as he took a seat next to Alistair. “It is wonderful to see you again, Sagramor.”

“But… you’re dead,” the elf couldn’t help but blurt out. The illusion Sloth had woven for Alistair had restored the family he’d lost to Loghain’s treachery, the brotherhood in which he’d finally found contentment, and seeing the utter joy in Alistair’s face, Sagramor felt his heart break for him. You absolute bastards. You just can’t leave the dead in peace, can you?

The demon in Duncan’s flesh gave a hearty chuckle. “Dead? Me? Oh, I have been close many times, but I never quite made it all the way. How could I be here otherwise?”

“Yeah, why’d you think he was dead?” Alistair asked in puzzlement. “He hasn’t left the fortress since the Archdemon died at Ostagar.”

Sagramor kept his greatsword in an iron grip. “The Blight is over?”

“Indeed, the darkspawn are all gone, remember?” Duncan remarked patiently. “It was a triumph for all of us, bringing down the Archdemon and setting their underground lairs ablaze. We’ve eradicated them wholly, and now, we can indulge in a well-earned rest. And we owe it all to you two. I can truly say I have never been more proud of both of you.”

Alistair beamed at the praise, but Sagramor was unwilling to give in. “Then what shall the Grey Wardens do now?”

“We shall be keepers of history,” Duncan explained. “We shall sing songs and tell tales of a more tumultuous age, to remind the world of what has passed and will never come again. Sit down, Sagramor. Join us. Take comfort in the great victory you have won.”

“Duncan’s right,” said Alistair, hoisting a stein in the elf’s direction. “Come on and drink with us. We’ve ended the Blights forever! There’s no need to look so unhappy.”

“Well, you certainly seem content.”

“I do, don’t I?” Alistair laughed. “I’m happy than I’ve ever been, and I’ve got all I’ve ever wanted. Why shouldn’t I share my good fortune with a brother of the Order?”

“And don’t forget your sister is visiting tomorrow, Alistair,” said Duncan.

“Oh, that’s right! Hope she brings her mince pie, I love it!”

Before Sagramor could register the notion of Alistair having a sister, Leliana approached the gathering. “Why don’t you tell us the story, Alistair?”

“Oh, it’s…” the former Templar’s voice drifted off confusedly at the sight of the beautiful redhead. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

“Tell us the story of your victory at Ostagar,” Leliana exclaimed eagerly, looking deceptively innocent even as her slim hands remained within easy reach of her blades. “The Grey Wardens are to be tellers of tales, yes? Then tell us of your great triumph at Ostagar. Tell us how you brought down the Archdemon, and ended the darkspawn threat once and for all.”

As one, the older Wardens rose from the table, weapons drawn at the unexpected variable that had presented itself. Instantly, Sagramor moved to shelter the Orlesian girl, but her attention remained focused on breaking through the lies entrapping Alistair. “Tell me what happened at Ostagar, Alistair. What happened with Loghain and the King?”

“You are not of the Order, girl,” came Duncan’s angry growl, silverite blades drawn. “You do not belong here.”

“Wait, I--” stammered Alistair, massaging his temples to ease the vicious headache he’d spontaneously developed. “Why can’t I remember what happened?”

“I don’t know. An Archdemon killed, Ferelden saved, the Blights ended forever, all within sight of both Ferelden’s King and its greatest general? That sounds like the sort of thing one would remember, especially if he played an important role. You were at the Tower of Ishal, Alistair. You saw all that transpired. What happened at Ostagar?”

The dam of lies burst, and the truth spilled forth, signified by the silent tears that poured down Alistair’s face. “She lies, Alistair,” stated the false Duncan, no longer bothering to disguise its antipathy towards the newcomers. “Would you really trust her over your comrades? Your brothers of the Grey?”

“You’re not the Ferelden Wardens,” Alistair hissed in rage, disentangling himself from the bench to face the looming trio, a shaking hand pulling his longsword free. “They died at Ostagar, all of them. You’re not Duncan.”

“Foolish child! I have given you so much, and you cast it back in my face!” Shadowed tendrils began to emerge from the Duncan-thing’s back, anger eroding the demon’s disguise. “Can you not be content with the peace that I offer?”

“It was the real Duncan who aided me when I needed it most, not some… imposter,” Alistair spat. “You’re not him. You can barely conceive of being him! And I won’t shame his memory by abandoning Ferelden to the darkspawn.”

The demon chuckled maliciously. “You will never find the happiness you seek amongst the Grey Wardens, boy. Your kind is only respected when a Blight rages, but should you survive to see the war’s ending, there will be no contentment for you. Those who begged for your aid will turn their backs on you, and all the good you might achieve will quickly be undone. Your integrity will be forever questioned by the selfish, your honour by the corrupt and your value by the stupid. Lesser men who do far worse in the name of far pettier causes will line up to condemn your methods, and the threat you spend your life fighting will be dismissed the moment they return to the Deep Roads. They are not worth your sacrifice. Stay here with us. Join us in the shadows where we stand at peace.”

Handsome features contorted into a grimace of stone, Alistair invested all the hate their manipulations had borne in him into a single word. “Burn.”

Too late the demons realized their peril, their folly in attempting to manipulate the mind of a Templar, and Alistar’s anti-magics burst forth with a tremendous shout of rage, smiting the demons aside. Its body struggling to reform itself, the Duncan-thing tried to counterattack, but Alistair was in no mood to hold back, and the beast howled as the steel longsword punched through its heart. Sagramor and Leliana followed their comrade’s example, pouncing upon the remaining demons as they writhed upon the earth, and within moments, three nightmarish forms were dissolving into nothingness, the Warden keep quickly following. “How in the Maker’s name could I have forgotten?” Alistair muttered guiltily as he slumped to the ground, the pain of Duncan’s loss made fresh and raw anew. “I swore that I would always remember them, and yet…”

“It’s not your fault, Alistair,” Sagramor stressed, helping his fellow Warden back to his feet. “Sloth preyed on our hopes and desires, same as you. You have nothing to blame yourself for.”

“Don’t I? I—I should have figured it out sooner. If you could not tell the others how easily I was tricked, that would be great.”

“Fear not, Alistair, Morrigan will never know,” Leliana said with a reassuring smile.
Alistair remained stone-faced. “Sloth dies for this.”

“It will, I promise you,” Sagramor declared. “Now come, let’s go from here. Wynne is still missing, and we leave no one behind.”

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

They found the Circle Tower easily enough, for like the rest of the illusions meant to keep them trapped in the Fade, it seemed far more real than everything around it. The extensive fires leaping from every shattered window didn’t exactly conceal it either, and on a boat that needed neither oars nor sail to propel them over the formless void below, the little company let themselves be drawn in towards another dream, every instinct signalling their missing companion was to be found here. Corpses greeted them as they came ashore, the bodies of butchered apprentices splayed out on the rocks and at the shattered main entrance, with many more still left strewn throughout the bloodied halls like fallen leaves, each having experienced a horrific end. This was not one of the tranquilizing dreams they’d encountered prior, meant to lull its victim into a state of docile complacency, but a nightmare in the truest sense, every terrifying aspect calculatingly designed to break the subject’s will. This was a promise of what would happen to the Circle should they fail, and as they ventured still deeper into the shadowed corridors, Leliana gave voice to what they were all thinking. “We can’t let this happen, no matter what.”

“But why a nightmare?” asked Alistair. “Sloth imprisoned us by creating fantasy worlds to keep us unresisting. Why not the same with Wynne, assuming that she’s here?”

“Perhaps the demon fears Wynne the most; she is a powerful mage, after all,” Sagramor opined, taking care to step around another clutch of bodies, noticing with growing horror that they were all children, with not a Templar or full-fledged mage among them. “Maybe this is its way of ensuring she’s wholly removed as a threat?”

“Or maybe she defines herself more by her responsibilities than her ambitions,” suggested Leliana. “Remember that she is a Senior Enchanter, a mentor for the Circle’s apprentices and devoted to their well-being. I can think of no greater horror for her than to experience the loss all of those she was meant to protect.”

“Her and me both,” Sagramor said, the yearning to repay Sloth with fire and blood for every horror it had unleashed more demanding than ever. From the next chamber came the sounds of a body being dragged, and the trio took up positions, Alistair cautiously easing the door open with his shield.

Amidst the ashes of a small library and the flesh-growths oozing from out the walls stood Wynne, alone save for the dozen small bodies lying in state at her feet, her hands left raw and bleeding from the effort of moving them. “Maker, forgive me, I failed them all,” she muttered brokenly, the strength and resolve they had witnessed in her vacant now, her eyes left hollow from grief and her robes soiled with blood and grime. “They died and I could not stop it.”

“Wynne, it’s all right,” Alistair tried to console her. “This isn’t what you think it is.”

“How can it not be?” the mage lamented. “All of them, perishing before my very eyes, while I stood here, helpless to prevent it! How could it be anything else?! Death… can you not see it? It’s all around us.”

“This is a dream, Wynne, we’re in the Fade. None of this is real. The Circle can still be saved.”

Wynne continued on as if Alistair had not spoken, tearful eyes staring down at the fallen apprentices. “Why was I spared if not to help them? What use is my life now that I have failed the task that was given to me?” Leliana attempted to place a comforting hand on the mage’s shoulder, only for her to shrug it away, her sorrow absolute. “Leave me to my grief! I shall bury their bones, scatter their ashes to the four winds, and mourn their passing ‘til I too am dead.”

The sight of the confident and wise old mage reduced to such a pitiable state stoked Sagramor’s choler, and without thinking, he moved to confront her, words dripping with scorn. “Wynne, you have to fight this feeling, it’s not like you at all. You’re a Senior Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Magi, not some helpless waif yearning for hearth and home!”

A withered hand lashed out, and Sagramor endured the spiteful blow, cheek reddening from the impact. “You do not know me! You have no right to make such judgments! And where were you when this happened? Why were you not there to defend them?! Begone from here, before my patience comes to an end.”

“We’re not leaving you, Wynne, because while you might not remember it, you have stood by us through many perils, so we’re standing by you. You’re our friend and our companion, and we don’t leave either behind.”

“You have been invaluable to us,” Leliana reminded her, taking the mage’s hands in her own. “Remember how you healed my arm, or saved Sagramor from that abomination? How could we ever abandon one so noble and kind to a place like this?”

“I…” Wynne muttered, the false memories the demon had implanted in her beginning to crumble under the weight of truth. “How could such a thing have happened if you were nowhere to be found? I fought alone…”

“No, Wynne, never alone,” said Alistair.

“Ignore everything around you. This is a trap, designed to keep you from leaving the Fade,” Sagramor explained. “We’re the only things that are real. Now, everything that I’ve heard says that mages are far more capable of comprehending the Fade than us mundane folk. Focus, and you will see the truth of things.”

Wynne gave an aggrieved sigh, frustration evident in her drawn features. “I do not know what this will accomplish, but I will try.” Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes in hopes of restoring some equilibrium, but almost immediately, a frown appeared, brows furrowing at the unexpected resistance. “It is… difficult to focus. It feels as though something is… stopping from concentrating. I’ve never had some much trouble before…”

“It’s part of the illusion, Wynne, we all experienced something similar. Force your way past it. Fight!”

“Perhaps some time away from this place will help me think clearly,” the mage admitted ruefully, cast one last guilty look at the fallen. “There is nothing more I can do here anyways.”

“No!” came the desperate scream, rising in unison from the throats of the dead, the dozen corpses surrounding them springing back to life in perfect synchronization. “Don’t leave us, Wynne!” the first of their number cried out, an elven boy, his lifeless blank eyes staring out towards her. “We don’t want to be alone!”

“Holy Maker!” Wynne gasped, taking up her staff. “Stay away from me, foul creatures!”

“Stay, Wynne,” pleaded a second corpse, pale visage left bisected by a sword-blow, reaching out for her embrace. Without speaking, the little company rallied to Wynne, encircling her protectively as the host of fallen apprentices moved to surround them, her name a prayer on decaying lips. “Sleep soundly in the comforting embrace of the earth. Do not fight it. You belong here with us!”

“No, I—my task is not done yet,” Wynne protested. “It is not my time. The gift that was given to me must not be squandered, not when so many depend on me.”

A sour chuckle ripped its way from the throat of a third apprentice, skull caved in. “Typical Wynne, always willing to abandon her fellow mages in their time of need. You’re never there when you’re needed most; not with Nimue or Anders or Geoffrey or anyone else.” A forked tongue darted past rows of needle-like teeth, the illusion fading as the demons grew impatient. “How many times have you stood by and let the Templars hurt us? How often have you been conveniently absent when the best of us become victims?”

“Come away to your rest!” a fourth shrieked from out of the pack, its fellows swiftly taking up the cry. “You are ours now! You belong with us! Submit!”

“No!” shouted Wynne, indigo light bursting from the tip of her staff to scythe the first of the demons apart. With a vengeful howl, the others charged towards her, mortal disguises abandoned in favour of rending claws and crushing tendrils. The Warden and company counter-charged, Alistair battering away the fiends with his shield, Sagramor’s greatsword hacking them to pieces, Leliana darting through their guard to thrust the Green Blade home.

And in the midst of them stood Wynne, the air around her radiant with the light of her magic, ethereal flames fanned by a will of steel restored. Spears of light shot forth, impaling demons along their length with pinpoint accuracy and burning them to ash, their screams of agony falling upon deaf ears. “You dared to use the image of my students against me?” she demanded, her rage incandescent. “I will never submit to you!”

More spears lanced through the demons’ ranks, their wails fading as they were burned out of existence. All around them, the burning libraries and blood-drenched halls of the false Circle began to dissipate, the illusion overcome by the raw force of her magic. The few remaining demons tried to flee, but there was no escape, and the light swept them away, obliterating any trace until the little company stood alone upon the misted islands of the Fade. “Maker’s breath!” Alistair shouted in astonishment, awestruck at the raw power the old mage commanded. “Wynne, are you all right?”

“I am now. Thank the Maker for you, all of you,” the mage responded, anger giving way to relief. “Are you well? Have you been injured?”

“We’re fine, Wynne,” said Sagramor, quickly getting her up to speed on what had transpired, though he took great care not to reveal specifics of what the others had went through for the sake of privacy. “I only wish I could have convinced Niall to come with me. Makers knows how he’s endured since we parted.”

“Even had you convinced him, I don’t think it would have helped,” Wynne mused. “From what you’ve described of his affliction, the demon may be trying to drain his life force in order to sustain itself. It is common practice for demons who take possession of a soul in the Fade, and no doubt such a fate awaited us all had we remained trapped in our dream-worlds.”

“Then how do we save Niall? Or find him again, for that matter?”

“It is Sloth that binds us here, and is responsible for Niall’s condition,” explained the mage, staff burning bright. With a grunt, she slammed the polished wood down against the ground like a judge’s gavel, and instantly, the surrounding mists gave way, the endless fog they had wandered through dispelled to reveal the full dimensions of Sloth’s domain. “And I know where to find it…”

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

The company reunited, they pressed on into the heart of Sloth’s domain, Wynne’s magically-attuned senses and knowledge of the Fade guiding them unerringly towards their target. Another of the strange gleaming pedestals deposited them onto yet another island, and with another strike from her staff, Wynne parted the encroaching mists once more to reveal the festering horror that surrounded them. “Is this the place?” Sagramor asked, resisting the overwhelming compulsion to gag.

“It is,” Wynne assured him, observing their new environment with a fastidious disdain. At the rear, Leliana muttered a horrified prayer, while Alistair groaned in disgust, backing away. “An appropriate place for a demon of sloth to lurk, wouldn’t you say?”

Sagramor nodded in agreement, breathing through his mouth in a vain effort to keep the abominable stench at bay. The little company had found themselves in a great feasting hall, much like the one in Redcliffe Castle, though Sagramor sincerely doubted Arl Eamon would ever let his own fall into such a vile state. Mould oozed from the dank stone walls, filthy with rot, while from amidst the fungus-blighted roof beams came the squeak of vermin, malicious red eyes staring down at the intruders. The ground was sodden beneath their feet, more like the trackless bogs of the Korcari Wilds than a proper stone floor, littered with thick mud that squelched obscenely with every movement and chest-high pool of filthy water. Four long feasting tables dominated the centre space of the hall, each groaning beneath the weight of a vast banquet left rotting in the sickly air, and amongst the putrefying leavings swarmed vast numbers of rats and cockroaches fighting over the scraps, provoking a nauseated cry from Leliana. It was a kingdom of pestilence they had entered, a realm of sickness and waste, the stench of so much rot congealing together until every breath burned at the lungs and bore the promise of disease, and Sagramor wondered how even a demon could endure living in such a place. “Show yourself, Sloth! Your reckoning has come at last!”

A gurgling laugh like a sewer drain clearing echoed throughout the fetid lair. Sagramor turned to the rear of the hall to witness the humanoid figure cackle from its high throne, features masked by the impenetrable darkness that sheltered it. “What do we have here? A rebellious minion? An escaped slave? My, my, you do have some gall.” Shadows wreathed it, obscuring its full nature, but there was no mistaking its voice, nor the utter malice it radiated at their defiance.

For at last, after so many trials and terrors, they had found their gaoler.

“Sloth…” Sagramor hissed venomously, blade levelled at the seated figure. “I give you this one chance. Surrender. Release us and all those you have imprisoned here in the Fade, and I will show you mercy. Insist on keeping us here, and we will destroy you.”

The demon gave another mocking laugh, the dreadful noise echoed by the vermin infesting the hall. “Such gall indeed, to command me in the seat of my power. But you are my toys and playtime is over. You all have to go back now.”

“To the Void with that!” Alistair snarled. “You made a mockery of our friends and families, turned our feelings for them against us, all to aid in you schemes! We’re not yours to control!”

“You tried to keep us apart,” said Leliana, nocking an arrow to her bowstring. “You led us from each other because you fear us, don’t you?”

The butt of Wynne’s staff slammed against the nearest table, sending the feasting scavengers scattering in fear. “You cannot hold us, demon!” the old woman boomed, voice ringing clear throughout the hall. “We found each other in this place, and you cannot stand against us!”

“One way or another, we will have our freedom,” added Sagramor. “Now release us, or suffer the consequences.”

Something moved from amongst the shadows, circling behind the throne on brittle legs that cracked with every step, bearing a new odour of putrefaction to add to the vile brew. “Leave? So soon? Do that, and you’ll miss out on the entertainment I have planned…”

It was Niall. The mage’s condition had worsened since Sagramor last saw him, flesh deathly pale, his breathing the rasp of an invalid with some wasting disease, but even had he been at the peak of health, Sagramor doubted he could escape Sloth’s demented restraints. A chair made of severed limbs bore the struggling Niall into the light, a cage of mummified arms pinning his arms to his sides, rotting legs creaking with every step as it advanced towards them, spiderlike. “Niall!” Wynne screamed, enraged at the sight of one of her students in such peril, and Sagramor felt his heart sink, the self-recriminations pouring in fast and merciless. Maker, I never should have left him…

“So sorry, Wynne,” the imprisoned mage whimpered. “I tried to fight him, but…”

“This one was very naughty,” came the demon’s snarl, and Niall cried out in pain as the corpse-restraints tightened, mercilessly closing around his chest and torso as if to squeeze the very life from him. “Rejecting the world I made for him, skulking about my domain whispering my secrets to you… very naughty indeed!”

“Release him now, demon!” barked Sagramor, anxiously eyeing the macabre restraints for weaknesses he could cut into without harming Niall himself, while Wynne whispered the beginnings of an incantation under her breath.

“If you go back quietly, I’ll do better this time. I’ll make you much happier.”
“We’ll make our own happiness, creature, and we’ll see Niall freed with us!” Sagramor spat back.

“Can’t you think about someone other than yourself?” Sloth whined, an oddly petulant sound for a being so powerful. “I’m hurt, so very, very hurt.”

Leliana’s bow sang, sending the bodkin-point arrow shrieking into the darkness, an angry shout of pain proof that it had found its mark. “You wish to battle me?!” the voice raged, the shadows pulling back to reveal the nightmare lying in wait. “So be it! You will learn to bow to your betters, mortals!”

The darkness peeled away and the sloth demon struck, bounding into their midst with an agility unexpected in a creature so named, thin bone claws the length of daggers slashing through the air as they scattered out of its reach. It was vaguely humanoid yet utterly inhuman; its four limbs thin and multi-jointed like those of an insect, yet stretched out to bizarre proportions so as to seize distant prey, while a scorpion-like tail jutted out from the base of its spine, stinger glistening with black venom. Paper-thin skin stretched tight over its anemic frame, revealing the clusters of fat black maggots that writhed beneath, and what little flesh it possessed was visibly rotting, sloughing off with every sharp movement and magnifying the overwhelming stench to nightmarish levels. Putrefying black pits stared out from where its eyes would be, and clouds of plague-flies gusted forth with every rasping breath that escaped through its rotten lower jaw and the jagged fangs brimming in its blackened mouth, each as vicious-looking as the crown of bone that grew upwards from the top of its skull. It was entropy made flesh, the promised death that awaited all things, and it was even more horrifying than Sagramor could have imagined, fittingly repugnant for a creature that had sought to usurp their minds and souls, and every fibre of his being screamed out for its death, to correct the Maker’s error in permitting such a loathsome entity to exist.

Shrieking, the sloth demon lashed out, scorpion tail lancing towards Sagramor with astonishing speed. Alistair took the blow, the stinger glancing off his shield with a metallic screech, and leaving it open for Sagramor’s greatsword to slash into its right arm. Leliana’s second arrow caught it in the chest, staggering it back a pace before Wynne brought white-hot voidfire to bear, flinging it away with a tortured screech and the scent of burning flesh. It was back to its feet in a heartbeat, jaw distended in a scream of absolute rage. Templar anti-magics hammered away at the demon, but it endured, seizing one of the feasting tables and hurling it at its attacker.

“Look out!” cried Wynne, uttering a fresh word of power. A bubble of shimmering light enveloped her and Alistair, blunting the impact as the table slammed against it with a devastating crash, rotten wood dissolving into splinters. Staggered by the blow, the pair were left vulnerable to the sloth demon’s charge, and Sagramor cried out in dismay as the pair were battered away like cloth training dummies, falling limply amongst the fetid mire. Shadowfast, the demon pounced towards him, scorpion tail aiming for his heart, but the Warden was ready for it, darting past. Steel descended in one massive blow, carving through necrotic flesh and festering bone, and the demon howled in agony as the limb came away, a river of black maggots bleeding from the wound. Noxious gases vomited forth from its maw in retaliation, engulfing the Warden in a cloud of choking fumes and leaving him helpless to prevent the long claws from tearing through armour and flesh.

“Face me, creature!” came Leliana’s shout, and Sloth hissed in pain as a well-placed arrow sprouted in the back of its head. It came for her, claws scything for her throat, but like an errant spark, Leliana was always beyond its grasp, pious condemnations and stinging arrows drawing it away from the choking Sagramor, the Warden forgotten in its haste to tear the archer asunder. Loosing another shaft into the creature’s face, Leliana darted to her left to avoid another choking cloud, ignoring the cold of the marsh pools that lapped at her boots.

Dead hands suddenly burst out of the swampy waters, a dozen decaying limbs seizing her lithe figure. “Andraste preserve me!” Leliana screamed, longbow forgotten in her terrified struggles, fingers desperately clawing for purchase and finding none. Across the hall, Alistair rose to her aid, left unsteady by Sloth’s blow, and the demon moved to finish the job, shield and longsword frantically warding off its assault. Wheezing, Sagramor tried to help, only to fall to his knees before he took three paces, head swimming with nausea and the blood dripping from his chest too great to ignore. Eyes left dimmed by the fumes witnessed the dead hands pull Leliana towards their nesting place in a deep pool, her screams rising to a new pitch as they dragged her deeper and deeper into the stagnant water, and he willed himself to move, fighting through the pain and disorientation to reach her side. “Sagramor!” Leliana called out in warning, and the elf felt the air forced from his lungs as Sloth seized him by the throat, lifting him up off his feet to dangle helplessly in its leprous grasp. Alistair redoubled his efforts to strike the monster down, longsword biting deep into its frame, but the demon hardly noticed such wounds, free hand swatting the former Templar away.

“Where do you think you are going, insect?” Sloth hissed, its grip tightening. “You can’t save her. You can’t save any of them.”

Sagramor’s belt knife plunged into the meagre flesh of its arm, layers of skin peeling away like a rotten onion to expose the yellowed bone beneath. With a grunt, Sloth hurled him into the closest feasting table, the elf bouncing off the fetid banquet to thump hard upon the earth. “You will all learn your place! This is my dream! My demesne! My world!”

Bolts of violet light glittered like stars in the darkened hall, slamming into Sloth’s back and hurling it over the fallen Sagramor and against its throne. The efforts of the rest of the party had given Wynne the time she needed to recover from Sloth’s assault, and she used it well, the healing magic she’d employed on herself now directed to her allies. Sagramor gave a sharp gasp as the wounds on his chest knitted up and the noxious cloud assailing him vanished, and without hesitation, he plunged in after Leliana, hacking away like a madman at the grasping limbs forcing her head below the surface. Another incantation and Alistair found the strength to fight on, Templar powers and Warden blade-craft forcing Sloth towards the back of the hall bleeding vermin from a half-dozen wounds.

Coughing up filthy water, Leliana breached the surface of the pool, the zombified limbs holding her down floating brokenly amidst the fresh blood Sagramor’s assault had engendered. “Get up!” the elf shouted, his hate for Sloth reaching a fever pitch. The demons using the images of his family against him, the horror and sorrow his companions had been forced to experience, Niall’s miserable condition and the perils Leliana had endured, the anger it all provoked curdled and fermented in his soul until the brew became too powerful to contain, and he gave in, letting fury carry him to victory as it had so many times before. More voidfire spat forth from the tip of Wynne’s staff, and Sagramor added to the onslaught, greatsword slicing open the demon’s sickly gut. “You failed to keep us trapped in this realm, demon. Do you understand why? You failed to understand the nature of your foe!”

With the wheeze of bloating gases, Sloth’s midsection burst apart, horrifyingly familiar entrail-tentacles lashing out to crush the life from the Warden. But Sagramor stayed firm, cutting them down with a skill born from prior experience, leaving the severed ends twitching in the mud behind him. “I am not a frightened child crying out for hearth and home, nor am I some arrogant lordling too addicted to his pleasures to accept his responsibilities,” the elf spat, voice as cold and merciless as midwinter in the Frozen Wastes. The greatsword found its mark amongst the demon’s exposed innards, buried so deep it emerged from out its back. “I am a Grey Warden! I will carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn! I will stand in the shadows, vigilant! And I will hold the line against the night, no matter the cost!”

“You are prey, nothing more!” the demon spat, reeling backwards with an arrow in its left eye socket. Templar anti-magics and spells of the Circle took their toll upon the extradimensional horror, but Sagramor was blind to it all beneath the seething tide of hate. “You will bow and beg and love me for it!”

Roaring in fury, Sagramor ripped the greatsword clear, swinging to intercept another wild slash from the sloth demon’s right hand. Steel met flesh and steel won out, hewing through the limb like a logger’s axe through wormwood, littering the earth with more maggots and splinters of desiccated bone. Its agonized screams filling the air, the demon snatched at the greatsword with its remaining hand, claws closing around the heavy blade and wrenching it from the elf’s grasp to fall amongst the filth and rot.

Sagramor barely registered the blade’s loss, right hook snapping the demon’s head back with the clatter of bones breaking. Death by steel was too clean for such a beast; he wanted to feel the pulse of its unholy existence give out beneath his touch, to rip and tear until it was done. “You abandoned me!” came Shianni’s tearful voice emerging from the demon’s mouth, and fury and grief gave the elf strength, vicious blows knocking Sloth to the ground. “You left me alone with him!”

The belt knife emerged once more, stabbing through the tendons of its left wrist so the limb hung uselessly at its side. “I expected much better of you.” His mother’s voice now, thick with contempt. “You’re unfit to be called my son.”

Down came the knife, driving into the demon’s chest over and over again. “You came too late!” crowed the voice of Bann Vaughan, and Sagramor’s rage became white-hot, stabbing his foe in such a frenzy that the blade snapped. “I took what I wanted, and she begged for it!”

Giving a keening, animal howl, Sagramor cast aside the broken knife, plunging his hands through the gaping wound in the demon’s midsection. Stinging flies and burning ichor greeted the intrusion, but the elf fought through the pain, fingers rooting through the festering organs until the prize pulsed obscenely in his grip. “Wait, no!” the demon pleaded in terror, all resistance gone. “Please, I can--”

With an almighty roar, Sagramor tore the demon’s heart from its chest in a shower of rotting gore, letting the maggot-ridden organ beat in his grasp for a moment before he crushed it into powder. A final, pathetic gasp seeped from Sloth’s maw as it began to dissolve, but the elf fought on, right fist coming down upon its skull again and again and again until it was reduced to pulp, lost to the red haze until steel-shod fingers closed unyielding around his arms and hauled him away. “Sagramor! Sagramor!”

“What?!”

“I think you got him,” Alistair remarked in a small voice. Behind him, Leliana and Wynne looked on anxiously, their shock at his unstoppable anger plain. They were all so afraid…

“Andraste,” Sagramor whispered, the madness passing as the tide of anger withdrew, leaving him hollow and spent. The corpse of Sloth finished disintegrating, the festering hall following its master to the same fate, and Sagramor stared at the sickly gore staining his arms up to his elbows, shame keeping him from meeting his comrade’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I…”

Whatever feeble apology he meant to give went unspoken as Leliana threw her arms around him. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she said calmly, the fear gone now. “This has been a trial for all of us.”

“I know, but I… I shouldn’t have scared you all like that.” Wynne stepped forth with a sympathetic smile, Sagramor’s greatsword in her hands, and the elf gratefully took up the blade, wiping it clean upon his cloak before returning it to his scabbard. “Where’s Niall?”

“Over here,” said Wynne, quickly striding over to the sickly figure lying flat upon the turf, the cage of limbs having disappeared with its creator. Impossibly, Niall seemed to have aged years in the time they spent fighting Sloth, the almost cadaverous lines in his face giving the impression he was halfway in the grave already. “It’s all right, Niall,” the older mage said, horrified at her student’s condition, the blue light of her magic flowing over him with no apparent effect. “We’ll get through this together.”

“Save your strength, Wynne, please,” the stricken mage whispered in a death-rattle voice, rheumy eyes catching sight of Sagramor. “You defeated the demon, Grey Warden. I never thought… I never expected you to free yourself.”

“I’ve freed you too, okay?” Sagramor insisted, kneeling at his side. “Wynne’s going to heal you up, and we’re all going to get out of here, just like I promised.”

“It’s too late. For you, this will have been an afternoon’s nap, but I have been in this realm far too long. And every minute I was here, the sloth demon was feeding off of me, using my life force to fuel the nightmares you suffered. There’s so little of me left…”

“He’s dying? Like, actually physically dying?” demanded Alistair.

“I am. I was never meant to save the Circle, or survive its troubles, but you can. When you return, take the Litany off my… my body. It will protect you from Uldred and his blood mages. Use its power to end this.”

“No, this can’t be right!” Leliana protested. “Wynne can save you, Niall, you can’t give up hope!”

“Ohh, if only such things were in my power,” Wynne lamented, trying and failing to keep the tears at bay. “He is right. What has been done to him is beyond even my skill, Maker forgive me.”

You just had to leave him, didn’t you? Sagramor cursed himself, the regret like a physical blow. “I’m so sorry, Niall. Is there truly nothing we can do for you?”

“Thank you, but it is too late for me.” With the last of his waning strength, Niall reached out, taking Wynne’s hands in his own. “Do not grieve for me, all of you. I do not fear what is to come. They say we return to the Maker’s side when we die, and that isn’t such a terrible thing.”

“You have more than earned your place at His right hand, I know it,” said Leliana, moving to comfort Wynne. “Your name will be remembered for as long as the Circle endures.”
“I’m not a hero,” Niall protested weakly. “Perhaps trying to be one was foolish.”

“You know that’s not true,” Sagramor countered. “I never would have been able to save the others without your counsel, and it took great courage to oppose Uldred to begin with. You deserve such accolades.”

Niall forced out a choking sob. “I should have come with you, Grey Warden. I… tell my mother…”

“She will know of your heroism, Niall, I swear it.”

In his last moments, Niall managed a smile. “Thank you… friend.” The light in his eyes faded, and he spoke no more, dissolving into a thousand motes of light to be carried off on an ethereal breeze. The dream-world began to fade, unravelling like worn thread, and Sagramor felt a sudden lucidity come over him, as if any moment, he could…

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

They awoke, rising from the cold stone where they had fallen, the corpse of Sloth’s physical avatar melting into a grimy puddle behind them, the blood-soaked chambers and halls of Kinloch Hold all around. The injuries they had experienced in the Fade, thankfully, had not carried over into the material world, and Sagramor muttered a prayer of thanks that they had survived their ordeal unharmed and capable of continuing the fight.

But the same could not be said of Niall. Sighing, Sagramor closed the mage’s dead eyes before taking an ancient-looking scroll from the folds of his robes, the faded script unlike any language he’d ever seen. “The Litany of Adralla,” whispered Wynne, cuffing away tears. “Oh, Niall…”

“The Maker will take him to His side, Wynne,” Leliana assured her, holding the older woman close. “And if He does not, then He is not the Maker, and we need not worry.”

“I just hope it’s all worth it,” said Alistair. “Too many good people have died here, Sagramor. We need to make it all worth something.”

“We will. Niall gave up everything to give us this chance, and we will not squander it. The Circle will be saved, no matter what it takes. Wynne, lead us to the Harrowing Chamber. For Niall and all those we’ve lost, we end this now…”