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 Thirty-One: All Roads Lead to Denerim - Part One

Simon Rammes, cousin to Bann Loren of the Oswin Hills and captain of his household guard, cursed like a drunken sailor denied shore leave as Roric’s arrow struck home with his usual keen-eyed skill, the realization he’d lost his bet momentarily eclipsing the joy of a hunt fulfilled. “Damn your bloody eyes,” the landed knight cursed, grudgingly tossing the archer the promised pouch of coins before dismounting from his horse and descending into the ravine. To his right, water cascaded down from a small waterfall, lapping at his armoured boots and greaves as it made its way into the nearby stream on its way to the sea, and grumbles arose from the score of men who comprised the hunting party following in his wake. Above, great clouds, black and heavy with the promise of a great summer storm, offered another incentive for haste, yet Simon elected instead to casually stride towards their quarry, indulging in the moment after the hardships of the hunt. Ten paces away, the stench of the prey’s wounds could not be mistaken, and a cruel smile emerged as the figure thrashed about, hands clenched in a death-grip about the arrow lodged in his belly. “Finally caught up with you, huh, traitor?”

Not waiting for an answer, Simon delivered a savage kick to the wound, provoking a fresh spurt of blood and a cry of agony to match. Two weeks spent tracking their prey in all weathers, of enduring the discomforts of long marches and rough living, of pushing his men to the breaking point rather than risk Loghain catching wind of their hunt, of losing both hounds and horses to misfortune brought about by impatience finally found an outlet, and in a frenzy, Simon levelled blow after blow at the wounded fugitive, every feeble cry spurring laughter from the rest of the hunting party. “Bastard!” he spat, anger unquenchable. It was not his fault that their prey had escaped from the dungeons of Caer Oswin, nor that his cousin had been stupid enough to allow him to live in the first place, yet here he was, forced to hunt this wretch down while Loren mumbled his pious inanities and drank the castle’s cellar dry. Not for the first time, he entertained the idea that his cousin might suffer a tragic accident and leave the bannorn in his rightful possession, and he let that thought comfort him as his fists rained down.

“Shouldn’t we question him, ser?” Roric’s hesitant query from the rear of the hunting party made the knight halt, and he turned towards the archer with fury in his eyes for the interruption. “While he still lives, I mean?”

“What great secrets do you think he’s carrying, then?” Simon demanded scornfully. “He certainly had no time to spread his treasons while we were chasing him, and I doubt an old fool like him knows anything of value in the first place. Leave the thinking to your betters.” Steel scraped against the wooden mouth of his scabbard, and with a sadistic grin, Simon levelled his longsword at the fallen figure. “Any last words, scum?”

“Long… long live the King,” wheezed the prisoner through laboured breaths.

Pathetic, the knight snarled inwardly, preparing to thrust the blade home. From behind came a small grunt from Roric, and he whirled about, patience with the archer long spent. “What are you on about now, you fo--”

A glimpse of a red-fletched arrow lodged deep in the back of Roric’s skull, and long-honed instincts took over in a heartbeat, his shield coming up just in time to absorb the impact of a second shaft. “Ambush!” howled the knight. “They’re behind us, you idiots!”

To his credit, Bann Loren did not muster ill-trained men. Hours upon hours of labour in the practice yard paid off, and within moments of their leader’s cry, a shield wall stood locked and ready, the remaining archers sheltering behind, bows drawn and scanning the ridgeline for targets. This meant they died with swords in hand as the fireball struck the formation dead-centre, obliterating four men outright and blasting the rest off their feet to be baptised beneath a rain of mud, blood and body parts thrown up by the shockwave. More red-fletched arrows found their mark the instant the first of Simon’s men hit the ground, precisely cutting down the hunting party’s surviving archers before they could rise and retaliate. “Get up and storm the ridgeline!” Simon shouted, forcing his plate-clad limbs out of the muck. If they could just take the fight to their ambushers…

At first, he thought the storm had finally broken overhead, so loud and close was the crash. Then it sounded again, and again, a rhythmic, heavy cadence like a warhorse in full charge, and the knight’s jaw dropped as what appeared to be a statue suddenly leapt from the top of the ridge, stone legs pumping free of the soft soil, stone arms lashing out and pulverizing any of the hunting party unfortunate enough to be caught in their sweep. The first stirrings of panic rippled through the ranks, as much from the presence of their strange attacker as it was the losses they’d suffered, and Simon forced himself to stand his ground. “Hold firm, you bastards! Stand together, and we can--”

Whatever stirring words the knight had to offer died unspoken as more figures stormed down the ridge and into the attack. It was a regular parade of freaks, the sort to make a walking statue seem utterly mundane; a violet-eyed giant that could have only been Qunari; a blonde elven woman, flames leaping from her staff to lash out at the hunting party once more; an elf bearing twin blades and the most garnish tattoo across his face, and more. Yet Simon barely noticed, his attention fixed on the pale, dark-haired elf at the head of the pack, face permanently etched into his memory from so many hours spent reading over Loghain’s wanted posters, and greed and ambition propelled him forward, his men abandoned in his eagerness to come to grips with his chosen opponent. “Warden!”

Wordlessly, the Warden met the challenge, the clash of their steel echoing across the glade. The elf was no mean swordsman, Simon had to admit, each of his half-dozen furious slashes parried or riposted without great effort, yet he refused to be deterred. How much was the reward for the elf’s head now? A full thousand sovereigns and a holdfast? Certainly enough to get out from under his cousin’s grip once and for all, and the knight pressed the attack with even greater fervour, his universe constricting to the space around the wiry elf and the overwhelming need to put him down. Everything he'd ever wanted was within length of his sword; money, land, power, title, women, finery, all to be paid for with the life of a mere elf. Blows ringing against his shield, Simon counterattacked low, driving his opponent back a pace towards the streambank, armoured boots squelching in the muck. Grinning, the knight pressed his advantage, confidence swelled with every backwards step the elf took. To think such a knife-eared wretch would dare challenge me!

At the edge of the stream, the elf suddenly stumbled in the mud, and Simon saw his opening, longsword thrusting home to make his dreams reality. Faster than he ever imagined possible, Sagramor was back on his feet, right foot digging deep into the muck, and sending a glob straight into the knight’s eyes with a sharp kick.

Cursing, Simon acted on instinct, shield-arm coming up to wipe his vision clear. An instant later, he paid for that loss of focus, Sagramor’s greatsword finding its mark in his gut, punching through mail and leather and flesh. “Impossible…” Simon gasped, coughing up bloody spittle, sword falling from nerveless hands. “You’re just a mere elf… just a…”

Just a mere elf ripped the blade free in a spray of blood, and Simon felt the kiss of bright steel on his neck, his last thought that he was finally free from his cousin’s leash after all…

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

The knight’s armoured, headless corpse fell unmoving onto the mud, but Sagramor was already moving and looking for his next target. There were none to be found; the rest of the company had taken care of the hunters with their usual lethal efficiency, and the few survivors fleeing for cover were cut down by Leliana’s arrows and the spells of the mages before he could even raise his sword, the peace of the grave settling over the wood. “Well, was this worth it?” Morrigan demanded acidly, shattering the unnatural silence. “If Loghain should be alerted to our presence because of this idealistic diversion--”

“What, you think we should have just left him to be butchered, then?” demanded Alistair.

“Look at him, fool!” the apostate snapped back, gesturing towards the prone figure of the fugitive, his breaths sharp and shallow as he writhed about in his agony. “Do you think there’s anything worthwhile left to save?”

“We’ll find out,” declared Sagramor. “Alistair, Wynne, with me. Leliana, you and Ragnar keep watch and let us know if there’s any sign of enemy reinforcements. The rest of you, dispose the bodies and salvage anything useful. Let’s leave nothing for Loghain’s men to find.”

So ordered, the party went about their work, and Sagramor noted with no small measure of pride how readily they seemed to accept his commands. The first of the enemy dead were being stripped of their weapons, armour and valuables, a growing pile forming at Zevran’s feet, while Shale and Sten piled the corpses up for Morrigan and Nimue’s magic to destroy, entropic magics accelerating the process of decay until nothing but wet smears remained of Bann Loren’s hunting party. It was a grisly, unpleasant duty, yet it was all done efficiently, without argument or hesitation, even from the relative newcomers, and despite himself, the elf couldn’t help but feel vindicated. Perhaps I actually have earned their loyalty, he dared to dream, moving over to the fugitive with potion and bandages in hand. Now, to see to this poor fellow…

Then Sagramor got his first good look at the fallen figure’s injuries, and his good mood turned to ash. “Maker’s breath,” he cursed softly, his hopes falling further with each new wound he observed. The arrow buried deep in his belly might have been killing him, but it was clear that the human had been dying long before Bann Loren’s troops caught up, if the deathly paleness of his skin was any indication. His sword hand was gone, cleaved away by some cruel blow, while his arm had gone gangrenous from the ragged stump all the way up to the elbow, the stench making the elf recoil. Deep cuts scored his upper body both front and back, many likewise bearing signs of infection, and his flesh hung loosely about a once-muscular frame, starved into weakness. “Wynne?”

“I’m sorry, Sagramor,” the Circle mage answered, grim-faced. “My powers can only do so much, especially with old, deep-set wounds. Maker, he must have been tortured for weeks before this!”

“Sagramor?” The word escaped past the fugitive’s broken lips, and Sagramor felt the first stirrings of recognition as the fugitive’s face turned towards him, sudden hope manifesting in eyes left clouded by pain. “It is you. Maker be praised that you survived, Warden…”

“You know him?” asked Alistair.

“I do,” answered the elf, the memory finally clicking into place. “He was part of Cailan’s bodyguard at Ostagar… Elric, I think his name is. He was there when the King greeted me and Duncan when we arrived.”

“That’s right, Warden, and thank you for your aid,” said Elric, every word and breath laboured. “I didn’t expect Bann Loren’s men would chase me this far beyond the borders of his fiefdom. I tried to hide here in the woods, but there wasn’t time. And now I’m a dead man.”

“Lie still and try to relax,” urged the elf. “We’ll do all we can to help you. Wynne, can you do something for the pain, at least?”

“No, no, I’m finished, Warden. You know that as well as I. And after all I did to dishonour myself, it’s no less than I deserve,” said the knight, sighing in resignation. “Maker, all that time in Bann Loren’s prison and I couldn’t stop thinking about all they suffered that dark night at Ostagar…”

“It’s not your fault,” Sagramor insisted firmly.

“Maker forgive me, I know. Even had Loghain’s men not turned their backs on us, the darkspawn were simply too many. Even Cailan, for all his bravado, knew there would be no victory at Ostagar, at least, not the decisive knockout blow against the Blight he wanted. Listen to me, Warden. Before the battle, the King entrusted me with the key to the royal arms chest. If anything were to happen to him, he said it was vital I deliver it to the Wardens.”

The elf frowned. “What’s so important about it?”

“I think it’s where Cailan stored Maric’s dragonbone longsword, the one he always boasted of slaying the Archdemon with,” Alistair chimed in. “Beyond that, well, I saw the chest once. Ironwood construction, dwarven locks, runes of protection engraved on the outside; you could hurl it with a trebuchet and not dent it. Anyone of value Cailan wanted to keep safe and hidden from prying eyes, he’d put in there.”

“You’ve the right of it. Documents of state are held within, vital secrets that could help Ferelden endure Cailan’s loss,” expressed the wounded knight, a wracking, bloody cough interrupting his explanation midstream. “And the blade… Warden, if the darkspawn got their hands on a weapon that powerful…”

“Do you even have the key after all this time?” asked Sagramor.

Elric gave a wry smile, a second heavy cough sending him shuddering in pain. “The Maker has a sense of humour, doesn’t He? I suppose it’s for the best, however—if I had kept it, it would only be in Bann Loren’s hands by now.”

“But you said Cailan entrusted it to your keeping!” protested Wynne.

“I was afraid. I thought I’d lose it on the battlefield, so I stashed it at the base of a statue next the Circle’s encampment, up in the King’s camp. Please, it’s probably still there.” The knight must have sensed the Warden’s hesitation, for with his last vestige of strength, up came his remaining hand to seize Sagramor by the tabard, pulling him in close. “Return to Ostagar, Warden, please! Those documents, Maric’s Blade, the King’s other arms and armour… they cannot fall into the wrong hands! You must do this. Not for my honour, but for Ferelden and all those we lost there! Ensure Cailan’s death is not the end of our nation! You must!”

“I…” This is madness, Sagramor reflected, cursed indecision robbing him of speech. Ostagar was in enemy territory now, the advance of the horde leaving the old fortress far behind their lines, and with their vast numbers, he’d no doubt there’d be plenty of darkspawn left behind to defend the prize they’d fought so hard to capture. It seemed unlikely that the key would remain undisturbed in its hiding place, months later, and trying to find it amidst the flotsam and jetsam of war seemed all but impossible, even if the fortress was abandoned. Can I really ask the others to do this? To risk their lives, all for a chest that may have long since been destroyed? To salve our pride over being beaten and betrayed there?

Perhaps sensing his doubts, Wynne spoke up. “The events of Ostagar still haunt my thoughts, Warden. If there is any hope of restoring something good by returning there, I would be happy to accompany you.”

“I don’t know about you, but I left more than a few darkspawn there in dire need of getting stabbed in the face,” added Alistair. “It won’t bring back the King or Duncan, but if we can avenge the fallen, then I say it’s worth it.”

Morrigan’s right. I am a sentimental fool, Sagramor cursed himself. In the end, his own honour would not permit him to deny the last request of a dying man, and so despite his misgivings, he nodded in assent. “You have my word, Elric. We will carry out this last duty, in Cailan’s name.”

“Thank you.” The knight’s hand went limp, and he fell back onto the muck. “And… if you find Cailan’s body, please… see him off. He was… our king. Deserves better…”

“It will be done, Ser Elric. Upon my honour, I swear it.”

“Good… good.” Grey eyes closed, and Ser Elric Maraigne went to the Maker’s side with a contented smile, duty done at last.

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

No more than ten minutes after the party finally found shelter, the dark clouds that had loomed over them since daybreak made good on their promise, the howl of heavy winds drowning out the crash of the waves against the nearby shore and driving the rains so hard it was impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the cavern’s mouth. How the cave network had remained hidden so close to Denerim, he could not begin to fathom, but it was a stroke of good luck to find it before the storm hit, another that their clash with Bann Loren’s men had apparently gone unnoticed. The tempest would erase any trail they might have left behind them, and on a day like this, Loghain’s men would be more concerned with getting a hot meal and staying dry than hunting phantoms in the pouring rain.

Yet as ever, Sagramor’s misgivings refusing to dissipate. Once more, he’d committed himself and his company to yet another perilous diversion, this time to return to the battlefield that had nearly killed him to retrieve documents probably long since torn to shreds by the victorious darkspawn and artefacts scattered to the four winds, all for the sake of honour and the unlikely prospect they might contribute to the war effort… not to mention sheer, stubborn pride. Giving a dying man a glimmer of hope to ease his passing only justified that choice so far, and while compassion and principle demanded he keep that promise, making it in the first place had hardly been prudent.

Enough, he chided himself. Ostagar was hundreds of miles away and getting no closer. It was Denerim that demanded his attention, for so close to the dragon’s lair, the slightest distraction or lapse in judgment would mean the death of all they’d worked towards. Offering a silent prayer that Ragnar would return soon and unharmed, Sagramor made his way back into the central cavern, where, as the little company settled in for a supper of Bodahn’s vegetable pasties, the elf outlined his plan. “I don’t intend on remaining in Denerim for more than a day, two at the absolute most,” he said, accepting a plate from Wynne and immediately noticing how tired she looked. “We find this Brother Genetivi, learn where the Urn of Sacred Ashes is hidden, and then get out without Loghain or any of his cronies knowing we were there in the first place.”

“And if we come across Loghain while we’re there?” asked Alistair from across the cookfire, his tone making it clear what he intended should the possibility arise.

“As much as I’d love to put a blade in him, I don’t think we can risk it now,” Sagramor insisted, resigned. “Believe me, Alistair, I want to bring him to justice as much as you do, but taking on our enemy in his seat of power can only end one way. If we die here, there will be no one left to invoke the treaties or cure Arl Eamon. Loghain’s end will come, but on our terms.”

“He might not even be in the city,” Bodahn piped up. “Everything I heard at Snowgate suggested he was out in the field with his army.”

“All the better for us if that’s true. That said, I can’t imagine he’d leave his seat of power in the hands of total incompetents,” said Geoffrey. “There’s no way we’ll get in through any of the city’s gates, not with everyone and their grandmother keeping an eye out for you. I trust you have something else in mind?”

“It’s an old tunnel that goes beneath the southern curtain wall,” explained the elf. “During the Rebellion, Denerim’s elves used it to smuggle messages and supplies out to Maric’s forces, as well as get fighters from the Night Elves like my grandfather in. Before she died, my mother showed me where it emerges into the city. We find the entrance, and we can get into Denerim unseen.”

“Sounds convenient. But what’s this about finding the entrance?” questioned Alistair. “Don’t you know exactly where it is?”

“Unfortunately not,” Sagramor admitted. “My mother showed me where it comes out inside Denerim, but I’ve never travelled through it to the other side myself. That’s why I’ve sent Ragnar on ahead. With his tracking abilities, he’d certainly be able to find it, and if there are any of Loghain’s men patrolling nearby, a single hound will draw a lot less attention.”

“Still, it’s been over thirty years since it was dug out,” said Nimue. “That’s a lot of time for erosion to take its toll.”

“Or for one of the diggers to confess its secret,” Morrigan added tartly. “’Tis hardly the surest plan you’ve devised, Warden.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sagramor replied, refusing to take offense. “That’s one of the reasons I want to bring a mage with me into the city; if the tunnel’s blocked, magic could clear it long enough to get us through. If it winds up being a complete bust, then we’ll regroup back here and consider our options, though for now, it’s our best bet. The bigger problem will be finding Genetivi in a city this size without alerting the garrison. Leliana, back in Redcliffe, you mentioned a friend who might be able to help us. Someone reliable?”

“Absolutely. He and I both came to the Maker’s service at the same time, and I know he would never betray us.”

“It’s a good place to start at any rate,” Alistair permitted. “Still, Sagramor, doesn’t seem like you not to try it out beforehand. You’re usually a lot more thorough about these things.”

The elf shrugged. “In the past, there was never any need. Only time I it became necessary to use it was after an… incident with the city guards this summer.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Duncan was there to recruit me, so I left the city with him.”

The former Templar did a quick double-take at the implication. “You mean you’re a—” he began, discretion forcing him to silence lest he inadvertently insult the elf.

Sten frowned. “If speed and stealth are your concerns, Warden, then perhaps only a small number should accompany you. Denerim is a nest of enemies. Should they discover us, our full strength will not hold them at bay.”

“I doubt I could enter the city unnoticed even I wished to,” added Shale. “Which I don’t. Honnleath was wretched enough. A city fifty times its size sounds beyond endurance.”

Geoffrey shrugged. “It’s not like we’d have time to take in the sights anyway. Make the call, Sagramor.”

Sagramor took a moment to consider. “Very well then. Leliana, Nimue, Zevran, Morrigan and Sten, before first light, we make our way into the city. Morrigan, I know you could easily get into Denerim with your shapeshifting, but I’d like you to come with us for safety’s sake.”

“My presence may give you away amongst the bas,” said Sten. “Does that not pose an unnecessary risk?”

“Possibly. But I haven’t forgotten about my promise to help you recover Asala, and I’ll need you to make sure we’ve got the right blade.”

The stone of the Qunari’s face cracked. “You believe we can find it here?”

“Well, all roads lead to Denerim, so if we can’t find it here, we might be able to pick up its trail, or learn about this Faren fellow. If we can search for it without bringing the garrison down on our heads, we’ll do so, but the mission must come first.”

“As it should,” Sten expressed, offering a small nod of approval.

“Actually…” A mailed hand raised, and Sagramor turned towards Alistair. “I was hoping to join you. There’s something I need to take care of in the city.”

“How urgent is this?” asked the elf. “I don’t want to risk both of Ferelden’s surviving Wardens if we can avoid it.”

“Urgent enough I don’t want to miss this chance. It’s… a personal matter.”

At the edge of the gathering, Nimue rolled her eyes. “If it’s a matter of numbers, then I’m happy to stay here. There’s nothing for me in Denerim anyways.”

“You sure?” asked Sagramor.

“I don’t have your fond memories of the Alienage, Sagramor,” the elven girl insisted coldly. “And even if I did, I’m too wet, cold and footsore to indulge in my nostalgia. You just get in there and get this done.”

“As you wish then,” Sagramor conceded. “Those of you entering the city with me should get some rest while you can. I mean to get inside before daybreak, while we still have the cover of night and the storm to disguise us from any patrols. The rest of you sit tight, and we’ll be back before you know it.”

And Maker grant that this isn’t all for nothing…

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

To call their evening’s refuge a cavern was something of a misnomer. Instead of a singular, massive space, time and erosion had carved smaller, interconnected chambers out of the rock, from which the party took the opportunity to set up their individual billets with the promise of greater privacy than their camps normally allowed. His meal completed and their plan set, Sagramor made his usual rounds, stopping first to see how Wynne was faring. He hadn’t mistaken it in the light of the cookfire; fatigue was taking its toll on the Senior Enchanter, and he hurriedly waved her down before she could rise. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I am just a little… weary,” the mage insisted, giving a wry smile. “As you may have noticed, I’m no spring chicken.”

“There’s still some life in those old bones, I’m certain of it,” jested Sagramor. “You’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for, Wynne. Fighting against Uldred and the darkspawn, keeping up on our long marches… I know people a third of your age that could never even dream of tackling the challenges you have, never mind overcoming them.”

“That is kind of you to say so. In all honesty, I do not know how many years I have left in me. I have lived for such a long time. But there is always something else to do, and I have to keep going in order to do it. I think I will be glad when I am… done.”

“I’m sure you’ll be kicking around for years yet.”

“Perhaps. But I am glad you came to see me, Warden. I wanted to get your insights on a matter that’s been vexing me since I left Kinloch Hold.”

“Of course,” said the elf, immediately intrigued. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you. After what happened in the Tower, I’ve been considering the nature of abominations lately. The first time I ever saw one, my blood turned to ice. It was months before the nightmares stopped. It was the knowledge that I could easily become one of them that frightened me the most.”

“But you’re a great mage!” Sagramor protested. “You’d never become an abomination!”

“Any mage can become an abomination, no matter how powerful or experienced,” Wynne gently corrected him. “It is one of the first things we teach new apprentices at the Circle, that no matter how confident they are in their abilities, the danger of possession always exists and must be guarded against.”

“What about magics the Circle doesn’t practice, like blood magic or the Keeper lore? Does the risk of possession increase then?” asked the elf, immediately thinking of Merrill.

“Blood magic certainly carries a greater risk, largely because learning it requires engaging with a demon to begin with. Yet no matter their lore, even those who use their powers ethically and cautiously can succumb to a demon’s intrusion. One slip—all it takes is one slip, and everything you are is simply gone, replaced by madness. And there is no turning back. Or at least that’s what they say.”

A dark eyebrow raised questioningly. “You have doubts?”

“Of late, I have begun to wonder if an abomination might be cured without outside intervention. Or, indeed, if a mage could be so possessed and still retain their sanity, their humanity.”

A more rigid mind might have dismissed the idea out of hand as wishful thinking, or the sort of meaningless sophistry only of interest to philosophers divorced from the concerns of the real world. True to his nature, however, Sagramor gave Wynne’s notion the serious thought he knew she was looking for. “I don’t think a mage could throw off possession by themselves. Many of those abominations we fought in Kinloch Hold were probably good people before they were taken, and if they could have broken free, they would have. As for your second question? I suppose if you still made the same choices, held the same values and felt the same way, would a demon actually hold any influence over you? Would anyone even be able to tell?” The elf shrugged. “Honestly, the metaphysics of it all make my head hurt sometimes. I’m probably speaking nonsense.”

“No, no, you have a point,” Wynne assured him, brows furrowed in thought. “It is madness and cruelty that define abominations. If they are lacking, if the mage remembers the person they truly are… then they are not an abomination. Thank you for showing me another way of looking at it.”

“Glad I could help,” Sagramor said earnestly. “Can I ask a favour of you?”

“Of course.”

Carefully, Sagramor withdrew the Warden treaties from his pouch and held them out before the mage. “We’re taking a lot of risks going into Denerim. The treaties getting lost or destroyed can’t be one of them. Will you keep them safe? If the worst comes to pass and we don’t make it out, then someone will need to bring the dwarves and Dalish into the fight, and there’s no one I’d trust more with the treaties than you.”

“A grave responsibility,” Wynne acknowledged, accepting the documents and the Warden’s trust. “For what it’s worth, Sagramor, I hope I never have to fulfill it. A treaty with the Grey Wardens might not carry any weight without a Warden to enforce it. But they will be safe with me until you return.”

“Thank you.” It was not ideal, of course. Passing off his responsibilities went against the grain of his character, especially one given to him by Duncan, and the elf reminded himself that the safety of the treaties dwarfed any personal feelings, and he’d take them up again once he returned. Assuming this all goes to plan… “You should be safe enough in here, especially if this storm keeps up, but don’t feel you have to wait here for us if Loghain’s men start prowling about. Ragnar will be able to find you again if you need to relocate.”

“I hope it does not come to that. Do not take any unnecessary risks, Sagramor. We have come too far to lose you now.”

“Thank you, Wynne. I’ll see you again once we return.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...