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 Twenty-Three: Fadewalker
From within the endless fog, the first whispers emerged in response to the intruder’s presence, the various entities that made the Fade their home muttering amongst themselves as the newcomer materialized to the sensation of ethereal winds caressing her bare shoulders, her mind a closed fortress whose many secrets could not be brought to light. A cold glance from her amber eyes sent them skittering away in fear like hares before the hawk, even the most malicious or desperate spirits unwilling to test themselves against the power contained within. To be prey to spirits and demons eager to experience the world through mortal eyes was the burden mages had to bear, yet none dared to trespass against the ephemeral in the midst.
They knew a predator when they saw one.
“Let us be done with this,” Morrigan muttered darkly, striding into the endless dream-fog with her usual impatience, magically-attuned senses unerringly guiding her way. Another person, even another mage, might have been tempted to exercise caution amidst the dreamscape, but her stride never faltered, the many-fold dangers that awaited her scorned with an almost casual disregard. The Fade was a place like any other: one needed only to understand it in order to master it… and she had learned well.
Certainly better than any of those fools from the Circle! Morrigan remarked inwardly, indulging in a hearty moment of contempt for the Chantry’s willing chattel. It had been a difficult evening, waiting for Sagramor to return--indeed, they’d expected him far sooner-- and though her spell of paralysis had succeeded in keeping the Connor-abomination secure, the dangers it had unleashed still lingered. More than once, she and Sten had been forced to deal with malicious spirits intruding through the breach in the Veil, and while it could not physically oppose them, the Connor-abomination still possessed the power to try and influence mortal minds, assailing the fortress’ liberators with waking nightmares and harsh visions in hopes of turning them against each other and sow fresh corpses to be possessed. To their credit, Bann Teagan and his men had resisted, but it was a close-run thing at times, and it had been a relief when the morning light brought the Warden back to Redcliffe, bearing with him numerous mages, the lyrium needed to complete the ritual… and tales of how the Circle had nearly been destroyed from within.
That Sagramor had spared them in spite of their folly and weakness was typical behaviour from the elven Warden; that he’d permitted that doddering old biddy of a Senior Enchanter to join their company frustratingly so. ‘Twas bad enough those mindless sheep nearly destroyed themselves, and wasted our time in the process. Did he really have to shackle us with one of their craven number until the Blight is defeated? Indeed, when the question arose of who was to enter the Fade to free Connor, Morrigan had happily volunteered. It was not the fate of Connor that motivated her, of course; as far as she was concerned, any mage weak-willed enough to fall prey to a demon deserved everything they got, and compassion was a waste in the best of circumstances. Yet to risk the perils of the Fade was a considerably more pleasing prospect than enduring the barely contained suspicion of the Circle mages and their Templar handlers, and knowing Sagramor trusted her enough to do so was unexpectedly gratifying. If only he’d exercise such good judgment elsewhere…
But there would be time enough to question the Warden on his choices later; for now, she had work to do. With a wave of her staff, the endless mists were burned away, the stark landscape of the dream island laid bare by the force of her magic to reveal the dark tower that loomed over the horizon, lilac flames burning bright at its summit. “There you are,” the sorceress purred, lengthening her stride. Ghostly whispers rose up from the tower’s depths, drawn forth by her display of power, and she let their sibilant words guide her towards the dream-forged stronghold without hesitation. One way or another, I will have what I came for…
***********************************
“This is folly, Knight-Commander!” Cullen protested yet again, obstinate in the face of his superior’s growing irritation. “Do you truly mean to let this… insanity persist?”
“Be silent, Cullen,” Greagoir snapped back, frowning deeply at the pair of mages asleep on the wide beds, dead to the world beneath the quietus of the Circle’s incantation. “We are committed now.”
Cullen opened his mouth to speak further, but at the look of reproof from his superior officer, held his tongue, electing instead to offer Sagramor a resentful glare, his irritation with the elven Warden evident to everyone within the luxuriously appointed guest chamber. For his part, Sagramor let the whisper of the whetstone along the edge of his greatsword speak for him. He knew why Greagoir had insisted on bringing Cullen along; left to his own devices and still traumatized by his ordeal, the junior Templar could pose a risk to Kinloch Hold’s surviving inhabitants and to himself, and it was better to have him close at hand where they could watch over him. But if he thinks that justifies threatening any of my companions, he’s got another thing coming, the elf promised silently, matching Cullen’s hostile stare until the Templar at last withdrew into the corner, sullen in the face of the elf’s defiance. “Any change, Wynne?”
“Not as of yet, Grey Warden,” the elder mage replied, maintaining her close vigil. It had taken no less than six of the Circle mages, including First Enchanter Irving, to conduct the ritual to send the apostate girl’s spirit into the Fade, the exercise leaving them drained and exhausted despite the lyrium they’d taken beforehand. While they retired to the Great Hall to rest from their exertions, Wynne had been left to monitor Morrigan and Connor, and if necessary step in should the demon break free to threaten Redcliffe once more. An almost palpable sense of tension governed the chamber, manifesting itself in myriad ways; in Alistair’s nervous pacing, eager to see Redcliffe’s long nightmare banished and Eamon’s family saved; in the clench of Sten’s jaw as he fought the urge to condemn the sorcery surrounding him; in Leliana and Isolde’s murmured prayers for the child’s salvation; in the nervous tattoo of Bann Teagan’s fingers upon his scabbard, and most certainly in Cullen and Greagoir, the risk involved in the ritual and of employing an apostate endured only by the gratitude owed to the Warden for the Circle’s survival… if only just. Yet Wynne remained her usual cool, collected self, the quiet confidence she’d displayed since their first meeting a wellspring from which the others could draw strength, his decision to accept her into their little company validated with every passing moment.
I just hope I can say the same for Zevran, Sagramor thought to himself, glancing towards the giant velvet armchair the assassin had claimed, arms casually folded over his chest. In contrast to most of the room, Zevran seemed singularly unperturbed by the proceedings, both the struggle to save a child’s life and soul and the methods used to do so treated with his usual dismissive equanimity. He’d even patiently accepted the watchful suspicions of the rest of the company, their lingering fears he might poison their next meal or murder Arl Eamon in his bed endured without complaint. Indeed, even as the others paced, fretted, or carefully scrutinized the sleeping mages, the Antivan elf had elected to take a brisk nap, green eyes half-lidded at rest, like those of a jungle cat… or a viper. He’d already received a great deal of criticism for electing to bring Zevran into the fold, most of it well-founded, and not for the first time, hoped he’d made the right call in sparing him. I said I’d give him a fair chance, and that’s a promise I must live up to. Treating him as a villain will only make him one, and we can’t afford to let that happen.
At his feet, Ragnar whined curiously, rising on restored legs to greet his master. “Easy, boy, easy,” Sagramor urged, settling the warhound down with a few loving pats. Between Ser Perth’s knowledge of houndkeeping, Wynne’s healing magic and the mabari’s own robust physiology, the injuries he had suffered facing the Connor-abomination had healed, but there was no sense in straining anything unnecessarily, just in case. “I’m just woolgathering, that’s all.” Smiling, Sagramor ruffled the dog’s ears. “You were a very good boy helping Morrigan and Sten last night, weren’t you?”
Ragnar offered a happy bark before padding over to Morrigan’s side, resting his chin upon the goose-down mattress to stare at the sorceress with anxious eyes. “She’ll be okay, boy.”
“Are you absolutely certain she will be able to rescue my boy?” came Isolde’s tremulous question, evidently seeking some temporal assurance to go with her prayers. “If she fails…”
“She won’t, my lady. Morrigan’s stronger than you might think, and her sense of determination and pride won’t permit her to fail. I wouldn’t have chosen her for this task if I didn’t have confidence in her.”
“That you would rely on an apostate at all just shows how far the Grey Wardens have sunk,” Cullen spat.
“Be silent, Cullen!”
“I will not, Knight-Commander!” the Templar dared openly contradict his superior officer, the outburst boiling up from the wounded depths of his soul. “We’ve already witnessed the treachery of mages first-hand, the devastation they can unleash, and those were members of the Circle! If we cannot trust them, what makes you so certain we can put our faith in an apostate of all things?”
“Because she has earned it,” Bann Teagan interjected, crossing the room to stand between Cullen and the target of his ire. “It seems to me that the only reason we’re in this position is because of the abject failure of the Templar Order to both recognize Jowan’s interest in blood magic and keep him secured within the Tower. You and your fellow Templars failed in this, Ser Cullen, and too many innocents have died as a consequence.”
Growling, Cullen stepped forward to confront the nobleman, only for a plate-clad arm to hold him back. “I know, my lord,” Greagoir admitted, regret etched into the weathered lines of his face. “And I will spend the rest of my life atoning for that failure.”
“Conversely, the Lady Morrigan has already proven herself in my eyes, Knight-Commander. She has shed her blood in defense of Redcliffe, and eaten our bread and salt besides,” insisted Teagan. “That puts her under my protection.”
“Conventions of hospitality don’t apply to apostates!” snarled Cullen.
“They do where I command, boy,” said Teagan, investing the last word with all his scorn. “If—when my brother awakens,” he expressed, burying the sudden surge of emotion that came with his brother’s miserable state before it could compromise his authority, “he will know the truth of matters, and I am certain he will accept the presence of an apostate given the circumstances. But until that glorious day comes, by right of birth and blood, I am Lord of Redcliffe, and on that authority, I proclaim that the Lady Morrigan shall not come to harm within these walls, Chantry law be damned. None of the Wardens’ companions shall. They stood with us in our darkest hour, and that means more to me than the words of any priest. Now, if you truly seek a mage to lord over, Ser Cullen , perhaps guarding Jowan’s cell will satisfy you. He accepted his return to imprisonment easily enough, but I think we’d all feel safer with a Templar of your standing watching over him, now wouldn’t we?”
Fuming, Cullen stalked from the room, shooting Sagramor a resentful glare on the way out. “I apologize on Cullen’s behalf, my lord,” said Greagoir. “He will be chastised for his behaviour, I can assure you.”
“I am relieved to hear it, Knight-Commander, but my point still stands. If you would make a point of letting the rest of your men know, I would be grateful to you.”
Grim-set, Greagoir nodded in acceptance, following his wayward subordinate out. “I appreciate you standing up for us, my lord,” Sagramor muttered.
“I still owe you for your efforts in defending the village, Warden, not to mention saving my life several times now, and stabbing your allies in the back is Loghain’s area of expertise, not mine. You have my trust, Sagramor. If you’re certain Morrigan can succeed, then succeed she will.”
“Thank you, my lord,” replied the elf, an unexpected spark of pride igniting within him. Growing up within the confines of the Alienage, he never could have dreamed that earning the trust of a human lord would be so gratifying, nor come to respect one so. It could not be taken for granted, of course, not if he wished to keep it, but in that, Teagan was no different than any of the companions sworn to his cause. And he is right. I turn my back on them, I become no better than Loghain.
Time oozed by, slow as boiled sugar, its passage delineated only by the cadence of Alistair’s pacing and Isolde’s murmured prayers. Knowing she would curse him for it, Sagramor nevertheless offered a quiet plea of his own to the Maker for Morrigan’s success. She does not believe in you, but she is worth believing in. Stand with her in this hour. Help her see Redcliffe free of this nightmare…
***********************
The gates to the dark tower opened at her approach, and Morrigan accepted their invitation, entering the looming obsidian structure and emerging into a realm of uttermost desire. Wall-mounted torches illuminated the main hall with a vivid lilac glow, casting their light over a library that stretched on forever, every great shelf full to bursting with a forest of books and scrolls, each incalculably valuable and brimming with knowledge no man or woman of learning could be tempted to disregard. Gilded marble columns braced the endless length of the hall, each standing behind well-maintained flowers of heartbreaking loveliness, the heady, intoxicating mix of their perfume suffusing the air and tugging at her senses. Along the walls, numerous doorways opened up, and glancing through the silken curtains covering each entrance, Morrigan glimpsed the fulfillment of every conceivable ambition, of endless riches, of vast throngs of worshipful followers, of lavish feasts, and of other, more carnal desires.
“And all of which can be yours…” said the sultry voice, emerging out of every polished stone and darkened corner, pregnant with the promise of future enjoyments. “Do you like what you see?”
“’Tis most appealing,” Morrigan idly remarked. “Yet I would witness the one responsible for it all myself.”
Mocking laughter echoed throughout the cavernous hall. “A brave request, well-suited to one that dares trespass in my demesne.”
“Why do you hide behind illusions and shadows, spirit? Come. Let us converse.”
“Very well, ephemeral, no more illusions,” the voice purred. Motes of violet light began to coalesce before the sorceress, the outline of limbs quickly manifesting. “Let us see what kind of accommodation we can reach…”
For the entities that dwelt within the Fade, no matter how one choose to classify them or what values were imposed on each breed, concepts like appearance and gender were utterly meaningless, immaterial in a realm where the laws of nature held little sway and their measure of magical power was the only restriction on what form they could take. This was especially the case for spirits of desire. While they often took on the appearance of lissom, horned maidens, particularly in the material realm, they were forever employing their glamours and shapeshifting abilities to assume the ideal form for their would-be victims, based on whatever subconscious desires they could pick out of mortal minds. The entity that had taken possession of Connor was no different, and with a clinical eye, Morrigan watched as it assumed more masculine dimensions; broad chest and arms rippling with muscle, strong legs tapering off to end in goatlike hooves, a mane of lilac flame and an incubus’ girth completing the ensemble. Beneath the curved horns jutting up from its brow, familiar grey eyes scrutinized Morrigan’s every move, perfect white teeth gleaming in pleasure at what it saw. “I bid you welcome into my realm, ephemeral,” the demon murmured in a smooth baritone, sending unwilling tremors of pleasure running along her spine. “It is here I am most powerful, yet I have no desire to test the power of one bold and strong enough to enter my domain. Tell me, what is it you seek?”
“I come to discuss the fate of the boy Connor, spirit.”
“Ahh, yes, the boy,” the desire demon remarked, the perfect dimensions of his visage twisting into an expression of utter hate. “You, who destroyed so many of my minions, who helped to free my mortal chattel, who even went so far as to ensnare my chosen host, you dare to beg for my favour? That you breathe at all, in any plane of existence, is testament to my glorious magnamity. Know this, ephemeral: Connor is mine, body and soul, and I shall not give up my rightful prize. Try to destroy me here, and you risk damaging the boy’s mind in the process.”
“Yet ‘tis unlikely you will maintain possession over him for much longer,” declared Morrigan. “Do you not comprehend what has occurred, spirit? Even as we speak, the Chantry’s Templars are debating whether or not to simply kill the boy and be done with it.”
“You lie. The mother’s love for her son, the uncle’s love for his nephew, they will never permit the child to come to harm.”
“Such things hardly matter where the Templars are concerned,” the sorceress explained, her disgust for the Chantry’s mage-hunters colouring her every word. “When they learned the nature of the threat facing Redcliffe, more than a few of their number suggested that the ritual bore too many risks, that you could break free to continue your rampage, and killing the child was the only sure way to make the castle safe again. Indeed, they would have done so already, had the Warden not convinced them otherwise. Eventually, their fear will overcome their gratitude, and when that happens, your connection to the material realm will be severed. And it is not just the Templars you must contend with either. You tasted the minds of Sagramor and his companions when you enthralled us. You know they will not permit you to remain within Connor.”
The demon’s anger at her presence mercurially gave way to amusement, face altering until Sagramor stared out at her with longing eyes. “You think about the elf a great deal, don’t you?” it murmured enticingly, the gentle caress of its hands against her bare shoulders setting her nerves afire. “Your mind is closed off beyond my ability to fully read, strangely enough, but I can see that much. Such a stalwart soul, yet deeply wounded, hobbled by his insecurities. Shall I tell you whom he truly desires, whose name he holds dear when the darkness closes in?”
With a tap of her staff, Morrigan forced the seeking hands away. “Perhaps not then,” tittered the demon. “So, was that your purpose in coming here, to warn me of what your comrades intended? To deliver an ultimatum upon pain of losing my host? Foolish ephemeral. Kill him now, and his soul remains in my keeping. And while it would be a shame to lose his body, there are plenty of mages out there for me to seize. I’d return to your world in time.”
“But you are not the only spirit in need of a mage’s flesh to inhabit. How many rivals did you have to fight off to obtain Connor in the first place, and how long would it take you to find another, much less hold onto it?”
“So, even if I were to abandon my host, I would be forced to remain within the Fade?”
“No. ‘Tis not what I came here to propose.”
Too many teeth offered a lightless smile. “What do you mean?”
“A Blight has descended upon Ferelden, spirit. We confront a horde of darkpawn that outnumbers the leaves in the forest, and whom do I have to aid me? A veritable host of misfits, incompetents and weaklings, each more useless than the last and none of whom can be relied upon. And every time I turn my back, Sagramor plunges the dregs for yet more simpletons to follow him; the glowering zealot, the preachy schoolmistress, and now an assassin sent to kill him, of all things! If I am to survive the coming storm, I require more useful allies. I require power that cannot be matched. The sort that once brought an entire arling to its knees, perhaps?”
The demon’s realm grew silent, palpable anticipation radiating from its chosen form. “What exactly are you proposing, mage?”
“Give to me what others of your kind gave to Flemeth in ages past. Give me the power to stand against the Blight, and you will have your gateway into my world,” Morrigan declared confidently, proud amber eyes meeting the demon’s gaze. “You will have me.”
****************************
Boredom soon gave way to weariness, and despite himself, Sagramor found it difficult to keep his eyes open, the lavish comfort of the armchair and the weight of all he’d endured since Ostagar finally catching up to him. Blinking away fatigue, the elven Warden took the opportunity to examine his finely-appointed surroundings, at the velvet sheets embroidered with gold thread, at the elaborate carvings that decorated the heavy pine bedframes, at the soft mattresses generously stuffed with goose down. Like the rest of the castle, the guest bedroom had seen better days, the destruction wrought by the Connor-abomination’s undead minions as random as it was pointless, but even so, he couldn’t help but marvel at it all. More wealth existed in this one single room than all of the Tabris family home, and within the tall bookshelves sat more books than existed in the whole of the Denerim Alienage. And this was but one room of an entire suite employed to accommodate visiting dignitaries, never mind the rest of the castle. Idly, Sagramor tried to imagine owning even a tenth of the wealth he saw on display, but the mental image stubbornly refused to form. If they can afford to spend so much in his one room, Maker alone knows how mighty a host Redcliffe can assemble when properly directed…
“Mother?” a fragile voice called, and every eye in the room turned to the bed where Connor lay, thin arms flapping weakly at his sides as the boy groggily came awake. “Where are you, Mother?”
“Connor!” Isolde shrieked, hastening to his side, only to be halted by Leliana’s firm grasp. “What are you doing?! I have to make sure he’s safe!”
“As does Wynne, my lady,” Leliana said comfortingly. “Be patient for a moment longer. We need to be certain the ritual worked.”
“What’s going on?” Connor muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he attempted to rise from the bed. A gentle touch from Wynne arrested his progress, and the boy gasped in shock at the sight of her staff and robes. “You’re--you’re--”
“A mage of the Circle, yes,” said Wynne. “Now lie still and remain calm, child. You are quite safe here.” Light coalesced at her fingertips, gathering into an orb of radiant energy, and Isolde cried out in shock as Wynne sent it hurtling into the boy’s chest, the spell phasing through his body with no apparent effect. The mage offered Leliana a brief nod, sending Isolde flying from the archer’s grasp to embrace her son, weeping tears of joy. “It worked, Warden. Connor is free of the demon’s control.”
“You are quite certain of this, my lady?” Teagan pressed.
“I am. The spell I cast is one the Circle uses to expose hidden abominations; a demon could not have endured it without reacting and giving itself away. No trace of it lingers to control him.”
Teagan gave an audible sigh of relief. “Then, it is over.”
“Not yet,” Sagramor interjected, gazing upon the remaining sleeper. “We still have one mage left in the Fade…”
***************************
“Ohh, this will be well worth the bargain,” cooed the desire demon. From out of the black granite sprouted slick tentacles, wrapping themselves securely around Morrigan’s waist, wrists, throat and ankles to avert any potential struggles. “It has become rather tedious fulfilling a child’s desires, especially keeping that stupid nobleman alive. I yearn to experience your world through more… mature eyes.”
“And so you shall,” Morrigan promised, motionless in her restraints. “Everything I am, every secret I possess, it shall be yours.”
“Yes…” Without hesitation, the demon lunged for her, fingers phasing through the sides of her skull with the sensation of cockroaches scrabbling over the crevices of her brain. Gasping, Morrigan resisted the urge to fight back against the intrusion, the mental defenses she’d long maintained to guard against such a threat knowingly withdrawn, leaving every hidden corner of her psyche laid bare before the demon’s hungering gaze.
She had not lied to the creature. Everything she was, every secret she possessed, it was all offered up to the spirit that wormed its way through her mind. The innermost recesses of her soul opened up, and like a moth to the flame, it drew itself in, every buried secret exposed for its perusal, the complete sum of who she was left transparent.
It saw everything.
And then it cried out, not in triumph, but in terror, withdrawing from her mind in a blind panic, its possession abandoned. All around them, the tower shuddered in reflection of its creator’s fear, and Morrigan smiled as the tentacles fell away from her slender figure, the demon’s concentration shattered by the truth. “You… you cannot attempt such a thing!” it shrieked in protest, fearfully backing away.
“I shall not attempt it, spirit. I shall accomplish it,” Morrigan declared, the full force of her magic surging up within her with the thrum of arcane power, obliterating the tentacles before they could seize her again and knocking the demon back in a blaze of eldritch light. “And not one of your kind will keep me from realizing that ambition.”
“Treacherous ephemeral!” the desire demon spat, still reeling from all it had witnessed. It had indeed been given a gateway, to vast ambitions kept secret from the rest of the world, to an agenda that transcended the struggle against tyrants and Blights, and with it came the realization that such knowledge doomed it, and she had never meant to let it live. “I’ll cast your soul into the darkest pits of the Void for--”
Morrigan’s lightning bolt cut its rant short, the blast hurling it away, perfect skin steaming and blistered. She was upon it before it could recover, a stream of electricity breaking through its hastily-cast arcane shield and relentlessly hammering it down with all her guarded strength, its screams echoing across the breadth of its demesne. “And they call me a monster!” howled the demon, vainly struggling against the mage’s power. Up came its right hand, witchfire gathering, and a new syllable entered Morrigan’s incantation, stone spikes materializing out of thin air to nail its palms against the earth, crucifying it. “Your comrades will learn the truth, witch! And when they do, you’ll die screaming at their hands!”
“They will do nothing, as will you,” the sorceress retorted, the demon writhing in agony beneath the touch of her sorcerous power. The first cracks emerged in its flesh, sickly violet light spilling forth as the physical form it had chosen to manifest in began to deteriorate, and Morrigan redoubled her efforts, harsh shadows playing over her beautiful features as the storm of magic approached its climax. “Do you think me fool enough to reveal myself to those simpletons before I had determined the endgame? That I would debase myself by bending the knee to the creature that violated my mind?! When we first encountered your host, spirit, you made the error of incurring my wrath, and now I take payment for that insult in full!”
“No!” came her adversary’s wail, but Morrigan would not be denied. The storm burst, and demonic strength at last gave way to the sorceress’ fury, the light enveloped the demon, hotter than the brightest star. The desire demon uttered a final outraged curse, but even that last act of defiance was denied, drowned out by the roar of her magic and Morrigan’s scream of triumph as it burnt to ash.
Finally, the tower darkened as Morrigan’s magic withdrew, and she stood triumphant over the smouldering ruin of her foe, dismissive of the ominous groans that sounded deep within the dream-structure’s foundation. “Poor, foolish spirit. You should never have dared to contest me, in this world or any other,” she declared with a relieved chuckle. It was an arrogant statement, but how else could one describe risking possession in the first place, all on the presumption that an understanding of her plans would leave the demon distracted and offer the opening she required. Of course it would be shocked. Who wouldn’t be, if they knew what I truly intended?
With a slight nudge of her boot, the demon’s blackened corpse crumbled into dust. Bereft of its guiding will, the tower began to follow suit, immense stones toppling free from the walls and disintegrating into wet ashes before they hit the ground, the endless gratifications it offered vanishing upon the gathering winds. Ignoring the growing fatigue settling over her, Morrigan took her leave, the seams holding the dream-realm together unraveling as true consciousness stirred at the edges of her brain. The desperate whispers of watching spirits pursued her, plaintive and obsequious, and Morrigan smiled, knowing what they so eagerly sought. Let them learn from the desire demon’s example. Let them all comprehend the price of defying my will.
Let them know who commands in this place…
***********************************
A sea of anxious faces greeted Morrigan as she awoke, and as expected, it was Sagramor who spoke first. “Good to have you back amongst us, Morrigan. How are you feeling?”
“I’d be feeling far better were gawking onlookers not crowding around me,” Morrigan remarked groggily.
Alistair rolled his eyes. “Well, she certainly sounds like her usual cheerful self. Wynne?”
The elder mage nodded in acknowledgement, and Morrigan remained obediently still as she cast her spell, the light phasing through her without ill effect. “Oh, Maker be praised,” Teagan proclaimed, reaching out to shake the dark-haired sorceress’ hand. “Redcliffe lives due to your efforts, my lady, and Connor as well. The entire arling is indebted to you.”
“I—well, I merely did what was asked of me,” Morrigan demurred, observing his outstretched hand like she might a particularly venomous breed of spider. “’Tis nothing to make a spectacle about.”
“Still, it was a remarkable achievement, Morrigan,” said Wynne. “Not many mages, even those of the Circle could have accomplished such a feat. Are you certain you are well?”
“Well enough I do not require your sympathy, old woman. The deed is done, the child is freed. Now them, if you would be so kind as to desist pestering me, I desire naught but some true rest.”
“We good here, Wynne?” asked Sagramor.
“No trace of demonic influence seems present within her, Warden. I think we can grant her the time she needs.”
“Ohh, how generous of you,” Morrigan remarked acidly, already drawing the covers over herself. “I did not realize I required your permission.”
“Would you prefer to have the Templars watch over you for signs of corruption? I’m sure Ser Cullen would not mind that duty,” came her measured response, provoking a further snort of indignation from the apostate girl. “We should inform Greagoir of our success, Warden, and plan our next move.”
“Indeed, let us retire to Eamon’s study.” It was Teagan who answered, offering the company a grateful bow. “We have a great deal to discuss, supporting your mission in particular.”
“That support would be most welcome, my lord,” Sagramor answered, ushering the little company out of the bedroom. “Would you care to give me a moment alone with Morrigan?”
“Of course.”
The door shut behind the vacating company, and Morrigan peeked out beneath the fine cotton sheets to offer him a suspicious glare. “More unnecessary well-wishes from you, Sagramor? I thought I--” Her objection died on her lips at the sight of the leather-bound book that emerged from the elf’s pack, and fatigue was forgotten as it was placed into her waiting hands. “You found Flemeth’s grimoire?”
“As I said I would.”
“When I spoke of it, I did not truly hope… but this is a most fortuitous event!” Morrigan exclaimed. Slender fingers hastily threw open the latches, opening up the tome to reveal pages of densely-bound parchment, each covered front to back with an arcane script the likes of which Sagramor had never seen, and a genuine smile manifested on the apostate’s curved lips. “You have my thanks, Warden. I shall begin a study of the tome immediately! You did not experience many complications retrieving it?”
“No, I just took it off of the First Enchanter’s desk,” Sagramor answered, making sure to keep his voice low. “On that note, if you could be discreet about your possession of it?”
“Fear not, neither the Templars nor their Circle puppets will ever learn you brought it to me,” she assured him, eyes flying over the text of the grimoire. “This tome represents the one time Flemeth’s secrets were able to get away from her, and I do not intend to squander this opportunity to learn more than what she wished me to know. This should be… interesting.”
“Glad to hear it. Let me know what you find in there; anything that will give us an edge over the darkspawn is worth looking into.”
The unpleasant sensation of gratitude fluttered within her breast despite herself, cloying and unwelcome, and Morrigan withdrew, smothering the emotion before it could grow. “Yes, well, such was always my intent,” she stated bluntly, drawing the book protectively towards her. “Now, you should go. It would not do to keep the others waiting.”
“As you wish,” Sagramor replied, thankfully taking the hint. “And thank you for everything, Morrigan. Whatever happens, know you can always rely on me.”
The beginnings of a blush began to manifest, inspiring Morrigan to bury her long nose into the grimoire, and only when the elf had departed and her privacy was assured did she dare emerge, her heart as unyielding as iron. I certainly can rely upon you to be guided by childish idealism and sentiment, as ever. He hadn’t sent her into the Fade out of strategic necessity, but merely to avoid hurting a child, and not for the first time, she wondered what further diversions they would be required to endure. As if saving the life of a single child or stooping to help some pathetic villagers will matter should the Blight overrun everything.
And yet, Sagramor had retrieved her prize, despite his vocal misgivings about stealing from a potential ally, all at her personal urging. And if she was being fair to the elf, she had also benefitted from his sense of compassion; she doubted Alistair or Sten would deign to be so vocal in defending her, nor be willing to follow through should the Templars press the issue. I can make this work, she acknowledged inwardly, biting her lower lip in thought as she glanced at the closed door. The Warden will find an ally in me, and in doing so, he will give to me all that I seek…
**********************************
Closing the door softly behind him, Sagramor took up a brisk pace, heart lighter than it had been in some time. The realization their efforts had just saved an entire arling buoyed his spirit in a way he hadn’t felt since Ostagar, provoking a broad smile on his lips, the sensation amplified by the respectful greetings offered by passing knights and mages , eager to demonstrate their gratitude for the Warden’s labour. Redcliffe is safe, Maker be praised. Now, to keep it that way…
Returning the salute from the guards stationed at either side of the door, the elf entered Arl Eamon’s study, the grandeur that had so impressed him in the guest chamber rendered insignificant by the room’s contents. Shelves of books lined the walls, hundreds of volumes strong, some even dating back before the Orlesian conquest, and what space was not dominated by the Arl’s library was occupied by finely woven tapestries depicting key events of Ferelden’s history and myth. On the far wall sat a massive vellum map of Ferelden, bearing the signature of the master cartographer Champlain of Montsimmard and detailed down to the remotest hamlet and stream. A desk and reading table, both masterfully carved from oak and displaying the heraldry of Redcliffe and the Guerrins, sat in the centre of the room, the latter bearing both a chessboard and a tafl set. Like the rest of the castle, the study had experienced its share of damage, but already Teagan and his companions were hard at work restoring tomes to their proper places and retrieving the ivory chess pieces left scattered during the undead attacks. He also found Isolde and Connor waiting alongside his companions, the boy’s eyes widening in shock to see an elf bearing weapons. “I owe you my deepest thanks, Warden. I can scarcely believe Connor is the boy he once was,” Isolde said softly, urging her son forward. “This man saved you, Connor. What do you say to him?”
“Thank you, ser,” Connor said tremulously, the viciousness and cruelty displayed in his possession replaced with a nervous tension, the presence of so many armed strangers about probably not helping matters. How much of his ordeal he remembered was not apparently clear, and for his sake, Sagramor hoped that no one sought to take vengeance upon the child in recompense for the terrors he’d inadvertently unleashed; he’d suffered far too much as it was. “Redcliffe owes you a great debt.”
“I did my part, my lord, but it was Morrigan who truly saved you.”
“Then I must thank her. Father always says you should thank the people who help you.”
“He certainly has the right of it.”
“You’ll help him, won’t you?” came Connor’s anxious inquiry, his desperation plain. The demon had exploited Eamon’s condition to its own twisted ends, turning his desire to save his father’s life into the gateway into his soul, and that desire had not vanished with the possession. The first tears emerged in his brown eyes, and he cuffed them away in shame, finally finding the courage to meet the elf’s gaze. “You can make Father better again?”
Sagramor hesitated for a moment, cutting and shaping the words he’d hoped would assuage the boy’s guilt into their required form. “We… will do everything in our power, Connor. I can promise you that.”
From the other end of the study came Leliana, offering a reassuring smile. “Take heart, little one. If Sagramor has promised it, then it will be so,” she proclaimed, inspiring a blush upon the elf’s gaunt features.
“So we’re coming to recognize,” stated Bann Teagan, wiping dust off his hands. “How fares the Lady Morrigan?”
“Well enough. She just needs some time to recuperate, that’s all.”
The nobleman sighed in relief. “Thank the Maker. I’d hate to lose her now after all she’s done for us. And what of Eamon? Has there been any change to his condition?”
“Several of my colleagues examined him while we were busy expelling the demon from Connor,” said Wynne. “From what they’ve told me, there is no change with the Arl’s condition. Whatever the demon did to preserve his life remains despite its destruction, but he still remains comatose. Once I have the opportunity to examine him personally, I may be able to tell you more.”
“Wynne’s a brilliant healer, my lord, and even in the short time I’ve known her, she and her magic have saved my life several times already,” Sagramor expressed. “It’s worth letting her try, at the very least.”
“Jowan might be of some use too,” Alistair interjected, the need to save Eamon’s life overcoming his disgust for the maleficar, if but for a moment. “He says he wants to help? Then he’ll tell us what exactly he used to poison the Arl. We know that, we might be able to make up an antidote.”
“I could try my hand at that,” offered Zevran, chuckling at Alistair’s hostile glare. “What? I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
“Only as long as we avoid torturing Jowan this time,” said Leliana, Isolde shying away in shame at the cold remark.
Teagan accepted their recommendations with a nod. “Do what you must, Lady Wynne, I trust your judgment in this. But if Eamon cannot be healed--”
“The Urn!” shouted Isolde. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon!”
“My lady, the Urn has been lost for close to a thousand years,” Sagramor sighed regretfully. “It may have been destroyed long ago, or indeed be only a legend in the first place.”
“Sagramor has a point, my lady,” added Alistair. “I want to see Arl Eamon restored as much as you do, but we’ve no idea where to start looking. We could spend our lives searching for the Urn and not find it, all the while the darkspawn lay waste to the entire kingdom.”
“I understand, Alistair, and I would not have you search aimlessly, even for my husband’s sake,” Isolde responded calmly. Whatever antipathy she once possessed for her husband’s ward had vanished in the wake of his heroism and her mistakes, and she came to him as a supplicant, pride crushed beneath the greater need of Eamon’s survival. “My husband once employed a scholar, one Brother Genetivi. Six months ago, he found proof that Andraste’s Ashes were here in Ferelden, and left Eamon’s service to pursue his research further.”
A dark eyebrow rose. “The Brother Genetivi? The one who wrote In Pursuit of Knowledge?” Sagramor asked enthusiastically. He’d spent long nights as a child engrossed in Genetivi’s writings, his depictions of distant places, peoples and events an invaluable gateway for a young elf bereft of the opportunity to experience them firsthand, and with that memory came echoes of his mother’s gentle encouragement and the crackle of their small hearth, sending contented warmth racing through his heart.
If the Arlessa was astonished by the existence of a literate elf, she wisely kept it to herself. “The same. When Eamon took ill, I wrote to Genetivi, asking for any news of the Urn. When he did not reply, I sent the Knights of Redcliffe to search for him, but they could find no trace. Find Brother Genetivi, Grey Wardens, and Maker be willing, he will know the Urn’s resting place.”
“Where would be begin the hunt?” asked Sagramor.
“His last letter to my husband spoke of finding new lodgings in Denerim, but did not specify where. The knights have likely searched the city for him, but perhaps you can succeed where they did not.”
“A dangerous request, Warden,” interjected Sten, clearly sceptical of the whole business. “Denerim is a city, the greatest of its kind in your land, and the fortress of Loghain besides. It will be difficult, if not foolhardy, to separate a grain of wheat from the chaff of such a place.”
“I have a friend in the Denerim Chantry who might be able to help us,” Leliana piped up. “If it means saving the Arl’s life, is not worth the risk? And after all that has happened, Ferelden could use the hope such a discovery will bring.”
All eyes turned to Sagramor, awaiting his decision, the weight of fresh responsibility settling upon his shoulders to rest with all he had borne since taking the grey. Yet, even as a small part of his soul railed inwardly against this latest burden, the greater part of him decried that selfish reluctance. The knights and mages he’d passed in the corridors had not given their respect because he’d evaded the responsibilities that had come before, and that so many people of diverse attitudes, values and experiences trusted him enough to make such judgments was something to be celebrated, not lamented. For better or worse, the choice was his, and good men did not shy away from such choices, but accepted the cost of making them. “Very well then. We will head to Denerim and search for Brother Genetivi,” he said at last, watching the sudden, euphoric hope emerge in Isolde’s eyes. “I cannot say what we will find, but we will try.”
“Oh, bless you, Grey Warden!” cried Isolde, freely weeping tears of joy.
Behind him, Alistair chuckled. “What’s so funny, Alistair?” asked Sagramor.
“Just wondering how Morrigan is going to take being part of a quest to find the holiest relic of a faith she detests,” came the wry response. “Have fun telling her.”
“Your loyalty is duly noted, Alistair, thank you,” the elf replied sarcastically.
“As is yours, Sagramor,” offered Teagan, utterly sincere. “With you and your comrades taking up the quest for the Sacred Ashes, I can recall Eamon’s knights back to Redcliffe and prepare the arling for war. We’ve defeated one inhuman enemy, but the greater evil remains.”
“Indeed. We should--”
Whatever Sagramor meant to purpose went unspoken, as a brisk knock sounded against the oaken door. “Apologies for the intrusion, my lord,” came Ser Perth’s voice, “but there’s someone with an urgent message for you. He says he’s from Lothering, and apparently rode like the wind to get here.”
“By all means, send him in,” urged the Bann, exchanging worried glances with Sagramor. The door opened to admit the messenger, a bedraggled man in his thirties, homespun farmer’s garb left ragged and sweat-stained from exertion, Ser Perth following close behind to guard against any treachery. At sight of the Bann, fresh tears erupted, cutting rivulets through the dirt and grime soiling his tired features. “Be at peace,” Teagan said, taking him by the shoulders. “What is your name?”
“Hueon, my lord.”
“You are both welcome and safe in Redcliffe, Hueon. Now, tell me, what has happened?”
Even before the farmer spoke, Sagramor knew what had brought him westward, and the joy of Redcliffe’s salvation turned to ashes in his heart as the words were haltingly forced out. “Lothering is gone, my lord. The darkspawn… we could not stand against them!”
“Maker’s breath,” Teagan lamented, bracing himself against Eamon’s desk. Alistair cursed, and Sagramor saw the shadow of regret pass over Leliana’s beautiful features as she cast her eyes downwards, the beginnings of a prayer forming. “When did this happen?”
“Three days ago, my lord. They fell upon us before we knew what was happening and sacked the entire town. Some of the militia tried to fight, but there was simply too many of them, all we could do was run!”
Andraste, no… The elf closed his eyes, keeping the lid on the seething cauldron of guilt before it dared boil up to the surface. He could not have saved Lothering, a fact he’d known when he’d first arrived there, and had they lingered in the village any longer than they did, it was entirely possible that both the Circle and Redcliffe would have succumbed to the evils besetting them, losses that might have doomed Ferelden outright. It was better to lose a village than a kingdom, and they’d done all they could for Lothering regardless. All this was true, and yet none of it changed the fact that an entire community had been destroyed, its people either butchered or scattered to the winds. “Were there any other survivors?”
“You…” the farmer gasped in recognition, jaw dropping at the elf’s presence. “You’re the one--”
“The Grey Warden is an ally of Redcliffe and a friend to me, Hueon. You will answer his questions as you would mine.”
Teagan spoke gently, but a request from a noble of Ferelden was tantamount to an order, and not one to counter the wishes of his betters, Hueon complied. “Much of the village managed to evacuate after you, umm, defeated the bandits, Grey Warden, but there were still people left when the darkspawn attacked. I don’t know how many got out.”
Maker, please grant that the Hawkes escaped. “Have they advanced any further into the central Bannorn?”
“And what about Ser Donnell, did he manage to escape?” asked Alistair.
“I couldn’t tell, Warden, I just got out of there as fast as I could. And I don’t rightly know who Ser Donnell is either. But it’s worse than just Lothering. I tried to go to Honnleath and get my brother and his family out of harm’s way, but the darkspawn were there too, blocking off every road and path, swarming over the landscape. Please, you have to do something!”
“We will do all we can,” Teagan promised, sounding far more confident than he appeared. “Ser Perth, see to it Hueon gets a hot meal and a chance to rest. I shall have many more questions for you, and any scrap of information you can offer may save lives.”
Sobbing in gratitude, Hueon permitted Ser Perth to guide him out of the office. As the door closed behind them, Teagan let out a frustrated sigh. “Maker, this is a disaster. If the darkspawn have made it as far as Lothering, everything south of the arling may very well be lost. Would that we could actually help Honnleath…”
“What are you saying?” demanded Wynne. “You do not mean to abandon Honnleath, do you?”
“It’s not that simple, my lady. The undead attacks have cost Redcliffe dearly, and until my brother’s knights and their retinues return or and new strengths be raised from across the arling, we remain both weakened and undermanned here, even with the mages and Templars that have joined us. I will not allow Redcliffe to fall into enemy hands again, and we may have refugees from the east who will require our protection, and darkspawn hunting them down." It was a painful admission for the nobleman to make, and Sagramor could see how it went contrary to his sense of both pride and duty to make it. “I have no men to spare, not for a village too far to be reinforced that almost certainly lies in ruins.”
“You can spare us, my lord,” declared Sagramor. “My companions and I will go to Honnleath and find what survivors we can. Besides, if what Bodahn has told us is true, then it’s more important than ever we see what has become of it.”
“Why? What do you hope to find?”
“A weapon,” said the elf, tracing the village’s name on the wall map. “One that could turn the tide of the war in our favour…”