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-Seven: The Unbound Flame

They did not rest easy that night. Several hours hard marching put the flaming and blood-soaked remains of the farmstead far behind them, yet the party was still on edge when they made camp, the rocky, pine-topped escarpment Sten had suggested offering both cover and a commanding view of the surrounding forests. No further darkspawn attacks emerged from the darkened woods to harass them. Whether they’d broken the back of the warband or they were simply wary of Nimue’s magic, Sagramor couldn’t tell, but for all the slaughter they’d wreaked on the monsters, their presence still lingered; fainter than it had been, more distant, but unmistakable all the same, the fear that more would come to hound them in the darkness enough to keep his eyes open and his blade sharp.

Yet the shroud of tension over their camp did not stem from threat of darkspawn ambush alone. They’d inflicted heavy losses upon the monsters, and while the Aeonar Templars had been all but destroyed in the onslaught, the Warden’s own company suffered no injuries Wynne’s sorcery or Morrigan’s remedies could not mend. Even as the elite guards of the Chantry’s most secretive and brutal prison had been put to flight, his companions had fought on, unwavering, his trust in them reinforced with every strike. Whatever came with the dawn, and all the dawns to come, Sagramor remained certain they would to triumph. No, the tension stemmed not from the possibility of attack, but from the newcomers in their midst, and no sooner was the campfire ignited did the debate emerge about to what to do with them. As expected, Morrigan was first to voice her thoughts. “So when will you be inviting them to join us, Sagramor?”

“Now, hold on!” Alistair protested. “What do you mean letting them join us?”

“Shall I speak more slowly so your minuscule intellect will have time to catch up? I mean that Sagramor should recruit them to fight against the darkspawn. Or the girl at least.” A smile like poisoned sugar gleamed in the gathering darkness. “She’d be far more useful than many who have joined this little band.”

“I’m certain the dead of Redcliffe would be happy to hear you say that,” the former Templar muttered darkly, turning towards Sagramor with an expression of utter dismay. “You can’t seriously be considering it, can you?”

“And why not?” came Morrigan’s demand, cutting off the Warden before he could speak. “You said it yourself; no one has escaped from that pestilential prison alive before. That these two have done so suggests they’re both powerful and resourceful, qualities we can surely make use of, no?”

“That they were sent to the Aeonar for a damn good reason doesn’t concern you? Jowan escaped because of them. Loghain was able to strike at Redcliffe because of them. Everything we faced there, none of it would have happened if they hadn’t set him free.”

“Treachery can be more dangerous than even the largest army, and they have already proven themselves false,” Sten affirmed. “I know you will not kill them, Warden, given your sympathy for saarbaas. But they should not be permitted to remain here. Let them wander or die as they will, but there should be no more delays.”

“Sten’s right. This isn’t an apostate thing, it’s a question of trust,” insisted Alistair. “We don’t even know who these people are.”

Across the campfire from the Warden, Zevran offered a knowing smile. “Now, that’s not precisely true. Our fearless leader seems rather familiar with this… Nimue, is it?”

“Less than you might think, Zevran,” said Sagramor, mind drifting back to what passed for carefree days in his youth. “She and I were childhood playmates back in the Alienage, but that was more than a decade ago. Andraste only knows how much she’s changed since then. What about you, Wynne? You’re probably more familiar with her and this Geoffrey fellow than the rest of us.”

“Before she was sent to the Aeonar, Nimue was something of a prodigy amongst the Circle’s students,” Wynne explained. “Dedicated, hard-working and very talented, with an affinity for Primal magic the Circle has not seen in over a generation. As a matter of fact, she became Irving’s apprentice and received his personal instruction over the last several years of her tutelage.”

“A teacher’s pet, hmm?” quipped Zevran.

“Merely a promising young mage, though not always eager to follow the rules the Circle laid out for her,” said Wynne, ignoring Morrigan’s scoff. “Geoffrey Amell, I know better, for he was my apprentice. He never involved himself with the politics of the Circle, never consented to affiliate with any of the Fraternities; his life was his work enchanting with the Formari and he did it well.” She frowned, clearly disappointed with him. “I could never have imagined he would involve himself in something so foolish and misguided.”

“So better to let the Templars have him then?” Morrigan sneered.

“That’s not what I meant in the slightest, and I’ll thank you not to put words in my mouth.” There was no mistaking the steel hidden in Wynne’s even tone, and the apostate glowered resentfully at the verbal riposte. “I would not wish imprisonment in the Aeonar on anyone, least of all those who were once students in my charge, but they were sent there all the same. Set aside for a moment what you believe about the validity of the Circle or the rights of mages. If we bring these two into our company, what will that mean for the Wardens’ alliance with Kinloch Hold? Can we truly risk offending the Chantry and Templars when a Blight threatens the land?”

“She’s got a point,” added Alistair. “We can’t risk our treaty with the Circle after all we went through to save it, just for the sake of two people.”

“One would think saving them from their own incompetence would be more than enough to earn their loyalty,” Morrigan snapped back. “If they are so ungrateful that helping two people is enough to make them turn against us, then they’re fools and hardly worth the effort to begin with.”

“All right, enough.” Sagramor raised a hand for peace, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “I appreciate your counsel, all of you, but I need to speak to them before I decide anything. Shale’s still watching over them?”

“Of course,” said Alistair. At his insistence, the apostates had been left under the golem’s watch away from the main campfire until such time as the party had determined their fate. Personally, Sagramor was not wholly convinced such measures were necessary; they’d come with them willingly enough, but better to indulge his fellow Warden rather than have him fret about having Jowan’s accomplices in striking distance.

“Good. Sten, you’ll take the first watch. The rest of you, try and get what rest you can. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tomorrow and all manner of dangers waiting for us out there. I’ll be back in a little while with my decision.”

Receiving a chorus of nods in reply, Sagramor rose and made his way towards the other end of the camp, brushing dirt from his long cloak as he went. The clank of plate mail signalled Alistair’s approach, and Sagramor turned to face him, blue hood drawn up to shield against the cool night winds. “Something else you wanted to talk about?”

“Well, same topic, really. I’m just trying to figure out how best to put this,” the former Templar confessed, apprehensively fretting before his fellow Warden like a serf seeking a boon from a temperamental lord.

Taken aback by his comrade’s hesitation, Sagramor quickly tried to set him at ease. “Honestly and openly would be preferred. If you have concerns, I would hear them, even if we end up disagreeing about it. Sound fair?”

“You might not like it.”

“Compared to being labelled worthless by bigots or a traitor by Loghain? You never have to watch your words around me, Alistair.”

Alistair gave a nervous sigh. “Okay then. I know you’re excited to see your old friend again and all, but… if this Nimue wasn’t caught up in all this, if you weren’t familiar with one of these apostates, would you be willing to give them a second chance?” An uncomfortable silence lingered for a moment, one Alistair was eager to fill. “Listen, you’ve done a good job as our leader, and I’ll stand by whatever you decide, but I just want to make certain you’re clear-headed about this. Your old friend might not be who you think she was, and I’ve had enough of treachery to last me a lifetime.”

“As have I,” acknowledged the elf. “You’re right, Alistair, I can hardly claim to be utterly objective about the fate of a woman I knew as a child, and I appreciate your honest and candour in reminding me so. Allow me to be honest in return: of all the fates I might choose for those two, handing them back over to the Templars will never be one of them. I’m not abetting torture, no matter how much the Chantry might demand otherwise.”

“That’s more than fair. Just be careful with them, okay? You’ve been picking up on the Templar training really quickly, but I’d prefer a safer method of testing your progress then letting a pair of hardened apostates try to light you on fire.”

“Appreciate you looking out for me,” Sagramor remarked wryly. “Care to come along? Maybe getting to know them might set your mind at ease.”

In the looming darkness, the former Templar’s unease was palpable. “No, I—I don’t think I could hold my temper, and I’d rather not do something we’d all regret. I’ll make sure the watch is set, and Ragnar gets something to eat when he comes back from patrol. We’ve run into enough nasty surprises today as it is.”

Before the elf could press him further, Alistair took his leave, giving Leliana a respectful nod as he passed. “This can’t be easy for either of you, having a dilemma like this drop on your lap…” stated the Orlesian woman, blue eyes melancholy as she watched the former Templar depart. “Will you two be all right?”

“It’s fine. I just have some hard calls to make, that’s all,” said the elf, grateful for her presence. “And what about you? The others have had their say, often repeatedly and loudly, but I haven’t heard your thoughts on the matter, and that’s wisdom I could use right now.”

“I can see where Alistair and Wynne are coming from,” Leliana admitted, falling into step beside him as they made their way up the escarpment. “There is little more the Templars hate than having their authority undermined, and while I doubt Knight-Commander Greagoir would break the oath he swore us, it should not be taken for granted either. But…”

“Go on.”

“They might have helped him escape, but Jowan’s crimes were not their own. It’s likely they never knew what he intended; after all, Jowan was only recruited to poison Arl Eamon after his escape. And if he was offered a chance for redemption, then why not them? Why should they be denied the chance to make amends?”

“It really means a lot to you, doesn’t it? Redemption.”

Leliana nodded solemnly. “It is His greatest gift to us, and not our place to deny it to them should they wish it. We all deserve the opportunity to make up for our mistakes.”

And what were yours? the question lingered on the tip of his tongue, that perennial desire to learn the beautiful redhead’s secrets once again held at bay out of respect for her privacy. He could hardly imagine Leliana doing anything truly terrible. Whatever darkness that might stain her past was nothing compared to the light she brought in the present with both word and deed… and to him. “Would you like to come with me? I could do with an honest second opinion about Nimue, and your counsel is always valuable.”

“I’d be happy to help. You know you can always rely on me, right?”

“Of course. Knowing I can… it means a lot to me,” Sagramor proclaimed, blood smouldering at the sweet smile she gave in response, warming him even as a cold wild caressed the ridge and plucked at the edges of his cloak.

The pair walked along the high escarpment, exchanging greetings with Bodahn and Sandal as they passed, the dwarves hard at work checking the company’s steeds for any sign they’d contracted the darkspawn infection. The smile of relief the merchant bore told Sagramor the horses, thus far, had been spared, and he offered the Maker a silent prayer for that small mercy. He hated to see animals suffer, and nothing and no one deserved the slow, lingering agony that the taint would offer. Ahead, amidst the towering pines that creaked and shuddered in the night breeze stood an old hunting lodge, once an impromptu trading post and meeting place for the region’s trappers, now quarters for the two apostates. Alistair had been vocal they be kept there under guard, and Sagramor remembered the outrage and hurt in Nimue’s eyes at the demand, only the gentle urging of her fellow escapee ensuring her compliance. If your suspicions end up costing us the chance to earn her trust, Alistair…

“Good evening, Shale,” Leliana greeted the golem, stone feet planted immovably in front of the cabin door. Alistair had proposed that she stand sentinel over the apostates in the event they practiced blood magic; the golem had no blood to subvert, after all, and whatever arcane means employed in her construction left her somewhat resistant to magic, more so than ordinary stone would be. “All is well?”

“If by ‘well’, you mean ‘dreadfully boring’, then it is,” groaned Shale. “When I was asked to guard these two, the knight led me to believe that they were hardened killers in need of a good head-crushing. Instead, they’ve just stayed in there, talking. Haven’t even tried to get past me or anything.”

“You disapprove?” asked the elf.

“It’s better than being stuck immobile in the Honnleath village square… if only just. You mean to speak to them now?”

“Yes, but I’d like to get your take on things first.”

“Me?” Stone brows lifted in surprise. “Why does it want my opinion?”

“Because I did not release you from your stasis just so I could demand your mindless obedience. You’re a comrade-in-arms, Shale, and seeing as how everyone else had their say, it’s only fair you get the same chance.”

The golem was silent for a moment, collecting its thoughts. “After all this time, it’s rather odd to be asked my opinion. Not that I mind, of course, it’s certainly better than being treated like a glorified carthorse by that wretch who once owned me.”

“Glad you approve. Now what do you think about Nimue and Geoffrey? They fit to be trusted?”

“It does like to collect oddities, doesn’t it?” Shale remarked offhandedly, drawing a small chuckle from the elf. “If it thinks they can be of use, then why not? Even if they are yet more mages. The odds of it surviving are slim enough anyways that this can’t possibly hurt.”

Sagramor gave her a hard stare. “You think we’ll fail?”

“Merely an observation. It is a small, fragile creature of flesh, after all. From what it’s told me of its past adventures, I’m honestly astonished it’s managed to survive this long.”

“Guess I’m just full of surprises,” Sagramor countered evenly, still off-put by how she referred to him as ‘it.’ “Still, thank you for watching over them.”

“What does it intend?”

“Now that is a question,” he answered, giving a brisk rap upon the door. “I’ll let you know when I have an answer.”

The door creaked open with a cautious slowness, and Sagramor saw Nimue’s sea-blue eyes peek furtively through the gap. “Finally come to speak with us, have you?” she drawled, and he was immediately struck by the bitterness in her voice.

“I have. May we come in?”

A moment’s pause, and the door swung open, the light of the lodge’s roaring hearth greeting them warmly. The cabin had been vacant when they first arrived, the great stacks of pelts placed upon the shelves and piled in the centre of the main room having long since been sold and removed, leaving nothing but dust and a bare space for the apostates to stretch their legs. At the other side of the room, Nimue shrank away from their presence, arms crossed protectively beneath her breasts, and Sagramor faltered, his hopes of a joyous reunion with his childhood friend dying right before his eyes, words of comfort lodging fast in his throat. “How are you both faring? Better, I hope?” Leliana interjected without missing a beat. “The new clothes are to your liking?”

Nimue offered a dismissive shrug. “They’re better than those old rags, at any rate,” she remarked, keeping a wary eye on the Warden and the Orlesian, tucking her hands away into the wide sleeves. A long soak in the lodge’s wooden bathtub worked wonders on her, the filth of her imprisonment scoured away to permit her not-inconsiderable beauty to shine through despite all she’d endured at the hands of the Aeonar Templars. Her prisoner’s garb, soiled beyond recovery with blood and grime, was likewise discarded, replaced with a gown of fine blue silk Bodahn donated from the contents of his wagon. It was a garment fit for a noblewoman, the more feminine attributes of her physique accented by the close-fitting bustier, while her pale shoulders and upper arms were left bare, exposing the faint, lingering scars Wynne’s healing magic hadn’t managed to completely erase, the entire outfit supported by the leather halter around her throat. “Though I’d feel a lot happier if we weren’t stuck in a glorified prison, even a relatively comfortable one. Or has that damned Templar of yours seen fit to have us killed?”

“Easy, Nimue,” the second apostate urged her, donning his most charming smile as he shook the Warden’s hand. He’d yet to see a razor lest Alistair’s more pessimistic predictions come to pass, leaving his black beard a wild and tangled thing, while the way his common labourer’s garb hung off his tall frame spoke to the deprivation and hunger he’d endured as an inmate at the Aeonar, yet he held himself with a courtier’s dignity, as if he stood within the marbled halls of highborn nobility rather than a drafty shack in the middle of rural Ferelden. “Geoffrey Amell, at your service, Grey Warden,” he said, blue eyes flickering cautiously between them. “You’ll have to forgive Nimue, it’s been a rough few weeks for both of us. Still, we’re grateful to you. Ending up in a darkspawn cookpot wasn’t exactly part of the plan.”

“I’m just glad we were able to help,” demurred Sagramor, ever modest in the face of praise. “Though I do have to ask, how’d you two manage to escape from the Aeonar in the first place?”

Nimue scoffed, taking a seat on the nearest chair. “One of the most brutal sadists in the entire Templar Order spent days torturing us for that answer, and we didn’t tell him,” she remarked coldly. “You honestly think we’ll tell you because you ask nicely?”

“Call me curious,” Sagramor pressed. “Listen, I don’t regret stepping in to help you both, and we have no intention of handing you back to the Templars; the Chantry’s business is not ours. But as I’ve been reminded, we may end up compromising our alliance with both Redcliffe and the Circle against the Blight by doing so. If I’m going to piss off a pair of trusted allies, I’d at least like to know why.”

“Redcliffe?” asked Nimue, confusion breaking through her icy reserve. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“There was an… incident in the castle that Jowan precipitated by poisoning Arl Eamon, one that ended up nearly destroying the arling with an army of undead,” said the Warden. Gasps of shock emerged from the apostates, colour quickly draining from their faces. “He’s a prisoner in Redcliffe now, to be held until the Arl recovers and decides his fate.” Or dies, went the unspoken addition, the elf refusing to acknowledge that possibility.

Geoffrey’s affable mien gave way to one of frustration, and he paced about in front of the hearth, hands clenched into angry fists at his sides. “Damn him. How could… what possible reason could he have for poisoning a nobleman?”

“Teryn Loghain needed to remove a potential challenger to his regency, and Jowan was a convenient pawn.” Confused stares met that proclamation. “It’s a long story. A great deal’s happened since you were sent to the Aeonar.”

“And you blame us for what Jowan did?” Nimue demanded, visibly shaken.

Sagramor shook his head. “Jowan’s crimes are his own, not yours, but I’m sorry to say that not everyone will see it that way. I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty, only so you understand that we’ve stuck our necks out for you. Telling us how you escaped the Aeonar is the least you can do in return.”

Nimue and Geoffrey exchanged uncertain glances, until finally, the human gave him an answer. “There was an… outbreak at the Aeonar’s lower levels, we managed to escape in the confusion.”

“An outbreak?”

Nervously clearing this throat, Geoffrey elaborated. “Nothing we caused, I can assure you. The Veil between this world and the Fade is thin where the Aeonar was built, and over the centuries, it’s gotten even weaker. I won’t bore you with the metaphysics, but...”

“It’s allowed spirits and demons to pass through into our world more easily, especially with so many potential hosts in the prison’s population,” Sagramor finished, barely restraining a smirk at the apostate’s shocked expression. “We’ve gotten quite an education into the Fade and demons recently ourselves.”

Geoffrey grinned. “Then you know what I’m talking about, good. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but there were enough demons flooding up from the lower levels that nearly every Templar in the prison was busy trying to beat them back. I doubt they even realized we were gone until a few hours later, thanks to all the chaos.”

“How did you get out of your cells in the first place?” asked Leliana.

“We didn’t use blood magic, if that’s what you’re asking,” Nimue asserted. “Locks can be picked, you know.”

“Perhaps we could compare our techniques at some point? I might be able to learn something from you in that regard.”

The elven girl gave her a cold, distrustful look. “Perhaps. Assuming Sagramor’s sincere about not turning us in.”

“Of course I am!” Sagramor protested, pride stung in the face of her distrust. He’d hoped for, nay, dreamed of a heartfelt reunion with his childhood friend for over a decade, and with conscious effort, he smothered the first budding seeds of resentment before it could grow into something self-destructive. What were you expecting? She’d been a child when the Templars came for her, and had grown up in an environment far removed from his own experiences in the Denerim Alienage, and that was before she’d been sent to the Chantry’s most infamous secret prison. It was unfair to judge her simply because she was different than he remembered, or for failing to meet his own unrealistic expectations of her behaviour. No doubt she wondered how the skinny, adventurous boy she’d played hide-and-seek within the Alienage now proudly bore the tabard of the Grey Wardens… and how he’d changed in that same time. “Did you know Jowan was a blood mage when he asked for your help?”

“No,” said Nimue. “Son of a bitch hid it from all of us, his priestess lover included. There were rumours, but we never paid any attention to them. After all, if there was any truth to them, why wouldn’t the Templars just cut him down right then and there? Not that it mattered to Greagoir in the end; we helped a blood mage, so we both had to pay.”

“He never said anything about Redcliffe or Loghain or anything like that either,” Geoffrey added. “He just wanted to live his life outside the Circle, without attracting any attention. Or at least that’s what he led us to believe.” He offered another slow, sad shake of his head at Jowan’s foolishness. “We’d never have helped him otherwise.”

“So why did you?” asked the Warden. “You had to know there’d be trouble, no matter what Jowan did outside of Kinloch Hold.”

Tempest-tossed eyes widened in outrage. “They were going to kill him, Sagramor! He wasn’t strong enough to make it through the Harrowing, or talented enough for Irving or the other enchanters to stick their necks out for him. He’d be Tranquil or a corpse before the first snows, and everyone knew it. No one else gave a damn about what happened to him. Who’d stick up for him if not for us?”

“Even if he didn’t deserve it,” whispered Geoffrey.

“If it’s a pound of flesh you’re after, then take it from me,” said Nimue. “I’m the one Jowan sought out, and I convinced Geoffrey to help us. He’d never have been involved if not for me.”

“Now, wait a minute! I--“

“Again, I’m just trying to get a better sense of what happened,” Sagramor moved to reassure them. “Tell me, how versed are you in magic? I’ve heard good things about your skills from Wynne and Irving, but where exactly do your talents lie?”

“I’m not much of a fighter, if that’s what you’re asking, Warden,” Geoffrey said hastily. “I know a bit of Force Magic, but that’s about it.”

“Force Magic?” asked the elf.

In response, Geoffrey raised a hand, and the nearest chair began to levitate, hovering before the hearth for a few moments before setting back down. “Gravity manipulation, basically. Again, just something I dabbled in between runecrafting jobs. Nimue’s the real battlemage here, and a powerful one at that.”

“Is that so?” asked Sagramor.

Sagramor was a mere novitiate when it came to the ways of the Templars, his ability to sense magic a feeble, fragile thing, barely developed. Yet even he could not fail to recognize the waves of sorcerous power emanating from the elven girl, like heat radiating from the mouth of a well-stoked forge, as flames like those that had consumed the barn in a heartbeat’s span burst to life in her hands, that stubborn, suspicious attitude that had so soured their reunion seemingly burned away by the act. “Irving doesn’t take just on anyone as his apprentice,” Nimue declared, a borderline arrogant smirk crossing her face, made vicious by the light of her magic. “I doubt there’s anyone in Kinloch Hold, no matter their age, who’s stronger in Primal magic than I am.” Sorrow shadowed her delicate features, and the fire vanished, quick as it came. “Especially now. This talk of Uldred’s rebellion you mentioned on the way here, is that for real?” Sagramor nodded affirmatively, and the tides of regret clung tightened their grip, threatening to pull her under. “Maker, how could things have gotten so bad?”

“It’s not your fault, Nimue,” said Geoffrey, hands falling comfortingly upon her bare shoulders. “Warden, this Alistair said you ended up saving the Circle. He telling the truth about that?”
“He does about everything, though it wasn’t just me,” the elf demurred, giving Leliana a bashful glance. “I couldn’t have done it without the others.”

“Do you know how many people died?” Nimue asked.

“The First Enchanter couldn’t give me an exact butcher’s bill, but just after we saved the Circle, he said forty-six mages survived.” Nimue blanched in shock at the figure, and he could almost see her running through the numbers in her mind and wondering perhaps if they’d be a part of that figure had they not run. “We tried to save as many as we could, but by the time we arrived, a lot of the damage had already been done.”

“If you say you did your best…” the elven mage murmured, downcast. “At least Irving survived, that’s something. I don’t believe in the Circle, Sagramor, and I’m glad to be shut of that damned place. Still, they deserved better than that.”

“Though I can’t imagine it’s made them any more kindly disposed towards apostates,” added Geoffrey. “So what happens now?”

What indeed? Sagramor mused, carefully weighing matters before he dared proceed. That they were guilty of helping Jowan was beyond doubt, a fact they freely admitted if not entirely stood by, and his concerns over how the Circle and Templar would take helping them lingered like some black cloud over his mind, the thought of poisoning that relationship they’d fought so hard to build almost more than he could stand. Alistair was right; he was not objective about Nimue’s fate, and their duty demanded they look at the bigger picture, the former Templar’s previous objections sincerely driven by concern for Ferelden’s survival rather than any anti-mage bigotry, or even anger over what had befallen the family that had taken him in.

All that was true and well worth considering. Yet writing people off as an inconvenience had never sat well with him; it was how too many humans treated his own folk, after all, and stopping the Blight would require enough necessary sacrifices on his part without leaping to make unnecessary ones. They’d gotten this far by taking risks others would deem foolhardy, by fighting every inch for every life that could be saved, no matter how much it cost them, and so far, it had paid off.

So far, but perhaps not forever. Sagramor permitted that thought to linger for a moment before shoving it away. Sten had murdered an innocent family, Zevran had tried to murder him, and Maker knew what Morrigan had gotten up to in the Wilds, yet even so, they’d made a place for themselves in his little company. Who was he to deny Nimue and Geoffrey the chance, if they so desired? Assuming they’re even interested in redemption…

And he could not forget Ostagar, the sight of the endless, ravening darkspawn hordes burned into his mind, forever haunting his dreams. And while the Chantry might rail endlessly about the dangers of magic and the perfidious nature of those who practice it, the resolve Morrigan and Wynne had displayed and how their talents had delivered victory time and time again spoke far louder. He would not see Ferelden fall because he refused to take chances.

He would not see his home laid to waste because he was too afraid to trust.

At his side, Leliana gave him a single emphatic nod, and Nimue frowned at the gesture. “So, have we satisfied your curiosity then? What exactly will you do with us?”

“Tell me, how would you like to help save the world?”

It was a bold request, and Sagramor chuckled softly at their dumbfound expressions. “Did I hear you right?” Geoffrey asked. “You want us to join you? I--” The human mage offered a brief laugh, ironic merriment dying as it dawned on him that it was no jest. “You—Andraste, you’re serious about this.”

“A Blight’s a serious matter, and we need all the help we can get if we’re to stop it, from individuals as well as groups. Your abilities might make the difference between victory and defeat in this fight, and Maker knows how many innocent lives we can save with your help. There is a place for you here, if you wish it.”

“What, you mean as Grey Wardens?”

“Not necessarily,” stressed the elf. “Alistair is the only other Warden in the company besides myself, but that hasn’t stopped Leliana and the others from fighting to save Ferelden, and distinguishing themselves in the process. If you’re willing to stand with us and help, then that’s all I can ask for; I wouldn’t force you to join the Order.” Especially as I have no idea how to prepare the Joining solution anyways…

“And what happens after we’ve won? Assuming of course the darkspawn don’t kill us all in a variety of creative and unpleasant ways.”

Sagramor shrugged. “Then you’ll be free to go about your way.”

“You mean it?” asked Nimue, disbelief written plainly upon her elegant features.

“We will never betray you back to the Aeonar,” Leliana promised. “If there is forgiveness to be had, it will not be found in a prison cell.”

“Leliana’s right; you stick with us and we can keep the Templars off your backs. I know I’m asking a lot of you and you have no reason to trust us, but let us earn that trust. Ferelden needs us, whether it acknowledges it or not, and there’s millions of people out there who have no one else to protect them from the darkspawn.”

“And you honestly think they deserve it?” Heat, bitter and passionate as the elven mage herself, curdled the air about her, whispering an inferno’s promise. “I was the best student First Enchanter Irving ever trained. I had the cleanest and quickest Harrowing Kinloch Hold has ever seen. I am the most powerful mage of my generation. And none of that earned me the slightest bit of clemency when the Templars hauled me away and caged me up like some beast. You honestly think any of those so-called innocents you want us to defend would have considered objecting to our stay in the Aeonar? No, even if they knew what we’ve endured, they’d just consider it our rightful punishment for being mages, and for me being an elf in the bargain. Void, Sagramor, you know these people would only care if every Alienage in Ferelden went up in flames when they finally realized they’d have to clean their chamberpots themselves. You’re honestly willing to die for those scum, and you want us to do the same?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. Because if we do not, then no one will. Because despite all its evils, this world is still worth fighting for, and always will be. Because if we do not succeed, there will be no tomorrows for any of us, elf or human, mage or mundane,” Sagramor intoned, his gaze falling upon Nimue, unbreakable as steel. “Listen, Nimue, we could stand here all night and talk about how we’ve both suffered, and who’s been the most oppressed, and who has the greatest right to feel victimized, but that’s not even remotely productive and it’s not going to save anyone: not Ferelden, not Thedas and certainly not our people. You have my sympathies for what you and Geoffrey have endured, and it’s not fair you were treated like that in the first place. Believe me when I say that. But our enemy, our true enemy, doesn’t care what race we are, the bigotry we’ve experienced or where we place our loyalties.”

“So what are you saying?” demanded Nimue, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. “That I should hold my tongue like a good little girl and ignore the fact that the Templars want my head, instead of burning them all down like they deserve?”

“I’m saying there’s no chance of setting things right if the Blight destroys everything. As you’ve seen, the darkspawn have no compunctions against trying to kill you; no matter where you run, they’ll eventually catch up to you, and you won’t be able to stop them alone. If we’re to stop this, then we need to stand together, all of us, no matter who we are or what we’ve been through.”

“And what happens if the Templars don’t share your idealism?”

“Then we’ll protect you from them. We stand by each other, no matter what. You offer the rest of the team that same loyalty, and you have my word you’ll receive it in kind.”

Geoffrey gave a nervous cough. “And if we decide not to take you up on your generous offer?”

“Again, you’ll be free to go. You’ve sworn no oaths, so that choice is yours. Just know that if you do leave, we won’t be able to protect you should the Templars catch up to you again. And no, that’s not a clumsy attempt at extortion, I just want to be honest about where our priorities lie. Defeating the darkspawn must be our focus, and this journey will take us across all of Ferelden and back again before we’re done. Odds are, we won’t be even around should you need our help.”

“Even so… Sagramor, you’re asking us to die,” said Nimue. “Maker’s breath, even one encounter with those… creatures is about all I could stomach. Facing them again…”

The Warden’s steely gaze never wavered. “Tell me, Nimue, is that why you risked torture and starvation and death to escape the Circle, so you could only be as good as the world might let you be? What I’m asking you to do is hard, I know, and Maker knows I wish there was no need for it. But when you get right down to it, the only reason any of us are alive today is because when past Blights came, good people stepped up to stop them, Wardens and otherwise. So will you live your life like a weathervane, blown about by every passing tempest? Or are you going to be that storm? One way or another, I’d like your answer by dawn.”

“Why? What happens then?”

“The darkspawn warband that attacked the steading and tried to kill you came in greater numbers than we’ve ever seen this far north. Even worse, there was an emissary directing them from the woods, a darkspawn mage. It’s still out there, and Maker knows how many of its minions survived the battle. We need to find out where they came from and stop them before things escalate further. Whether or not you help us… well, your path has been set by others for too long.”

Nimue and Geoffrey exchanged another nervous look. “We need to talk it over,” offered the human.

“Of course,” Sagramor acknowledged. “Still, for what it’s worth, it’s good to see you again, Nimmy. I know circumstances aren’t ideal, but… I’m grateful we got a chance to see each other again.”

Her smile, when it finally emerged in the cabin’s light, was a false, fragile thing. “So am I.”

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

They left the apostates to their deliberations, the cabin door closing behind them with a solid thud, and Sagramor shivered, suddenly finding himself longing for the restrained heat of Nimue’s magic as another cold southernly gust swept through the camp. “Thanks for being there, Leliana.”

“Of course, my friend. And for what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice.”

“Thank you. And what will their choice be, you reckon?”

“I think you might have inspired something in them, or at least in Nimue,” Leliana expressed. “They are holding something back about their escape, though.”

“That was my feeling too, and it worries me,” the elf admitted. “They shouldn’t be treated with suspicion just because they’re apostates, but all the same... Any thoughts on what they’re keeping from us?”

“I wish I knew, sorry. Just be careful with them, my friend. They may give you their oath, but it will be up to you if that oath will be kept.”

“What do you mean?” asked the elf, eager for her insights.

Leliana glanced sadly back towards the cabin. “They may never trust us enough to relate everything they endured in the Aeonar, but I can guess, and because of that, earning their loyalty will be difficult. Their worst fear is to return to that place, Sagramor, and if they believe for a moment that you cannot protect them from the Templars, or intend on handing them over yourself--”

“I’d never do such a thing,” Sagramor insisted hotly. “I don’t turn my back on those I lead.”

“And I know that. But Nimue and Geoffrey have been hurt in ways that make them dangerous. They've been through too much to have faith in anything besides themselves, and they will protect themselves, no matter what.”

“Even if it means turning on us,” finished Sagramor, sighing in resignation. “Better to be too hasty than dare risk imprisonment again.”

“Precisely.” A gloved hand took up his own, offering a reassuring squeeze. “Should they accept your offer, they will come to trust and value you as I do, Sagramor. And if they decide to flee, then you can rest knowing you did your best to reach out to them.”

“I…” Not for the first time, words failed him in the face of Leliana’s warmth, and Sagramor blushed to the tips of his ears. “Your trust means a lot to me, Leliana, and I’ll never take it for granted, not from you or anyone else.”

“We’ve never doubted that. And don’t worry about Alistair either, I’m sure he’ll come around in time.”

“I hope so.” There were enough obstacles standing before them without having Ferelden’s two remaining Grey Wardens at odds, and Sagramor knew how some of his recent choices had grated the former Templar. I’ll have to find some way to make it up to him. “Let’s check on the others and start working out a plan. We’ve a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time to do it…”

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

No sooner had the cabin door closed behind the Warden did Geoffrey begin to pace throughout the cabin, hands wringing nervously before him. “Well, I guess that settles that. Hope we can bum a meal off them before we go.”

“Geoffrey…”

“We’ll go north. The Free Marches are a bust with Meredith running Kirkwall, we’d never manage to get inland without the Templars tracking us down. Neverra’s our best bet; things are a bit more liberal with the Mortalitasi in play, and it’s far enough that the Blight should never threaten us. I--” He finally caught sight of the elven girl’s pensive expression, and his face fell flat, plans dissolving into so much dust. “You can’t—you’re not seriously considering joining them, are you?”

“Sagramor does have a point,” Nimue muttered in a small voice. “I don’t like it, but he does.
”
“Oh, for— We barely survived our last encounter with those things, and you want to actively pick a fight with more? Does that seem like a rational choice of action to you?”

Anger flared in her sea-blue eyes, and Geoffrey retreated a pace. Nimue had always been a woman of intense passion and drive, always striving for greatness, always pushing through whatever obstacle dared bar her way, asserting her will no matter the cost. It was admirable and worrying in equal measure, for the look she gave now was one he’d often seen; when she was invited by First Enchanter Irving to become his apprentice, when she decided to become a battlemage… when she gave up everything to try and help Jowan escape the Circle. Whatever she decided, Nimue would see it through to the end out of sheer, stubborn pride if nothing else, any hope he had of changing her mind slipping through his fingers like so much dust. “It’s Redcliffe. Maker, how could Jowan have been so stupid?!”

“You heard Sagramor. What happened there wasn’t our fault, and it’s not our responsibility.”

“Isn’t it? We let him out, Geoffrey, and Andraste knows how many people paid the price for it. And these darkspawn… How many people are facing what we faced and don’t have Wardens conveniently nearby to protect them?”

“And you honestly think that the Wardens will protect you when Greagoir comes calling for your head?”

Her jaw clenched, unyielding as iron. “They even think about screwing us over, and I take theirs. I’m not stupid, Geoffrey. I know what I’m getting myself into. I’ll convince Sagramor to give you some gold, there’s bound to be some smugglers on the coast who’d be willing to take you north.”

“And leave you to fend for yourself?” Geoffrey demanded incredulously, crossing the distance between them, hands coming to rest comfortingly upon her bare shoulders. “It’s like I said when you decided to help Jowan, I’m not leaving you to face this alone. I don’t think we should be doing this, and I don’t think it’s worth the risk. But if you’re certain about this, then I’ll be right there with you, to whatever end. And if they really start prying into what happened at the Aeonar, well… I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

Chuckling softly, Nimue planted a soft kiss upon his cheek. “You always know what to say to a girl, don’t you?” She held him close, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “We’re not going back, no matter what. We play along with Sagramor for now. If he’s on the level, then we live up to our oaths. If he’s not, then he’ll be the first to die…”