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 Two

Halfway towards the chamber where Alistair had established his billet, a throat clearing drew Sagramor’s attention, and turned to see Geoffrey approach. “Sorry for interrupting, but mind if I borrow you for a few minutes?”

“Not at all. What’s going on?”

Smiling in relief, the apostate led him into another side chamber, where Morrigan and Shale stood around a large, flat-topped rock they were using for an impromptu table, a dozen glowing stones laid atop. “Morrigan and I think we might have figured out what those crystals you pulled from Wilhelm’s lab are for.”

“Actually, ‘twas Shale who determined their purpose,” admitted Morrigan with a sullen frown.

“Yes, these are augmentation crystals,” the golem explained. “I was not even aware it managed to recover any, well done!”

“You’ve used them before then?” asked Sagramor.

“Indeed. I suspect their creation was an art practiced when golems were more… commonplace. My former master took great pains to collect whatever lore he could find on the subject. He searched far and wide to collect what crystals he could, and then… added them. it is not an unpleasant sensation.”

“Added them? Can you show us how?”

“As it wishes. Does it see these slots at the back of my wrist?” Shale posed, extending out her right hand. “Fit one in as it would a puzzle piece, and it will see.”

“I’ll do it!” Geoffrey proclaimed. Like a schoolboy eager to demonstrate his intelligence in front of the class, the apostate mage was up and at Shale’s side before Sagramor and Morrigan could even think to lend a hand, an iridescent red crystal clenched protectively in his grip. A few moments spent determining the best way to fit it in, and the crystal slid into place with a sharp clack. At once, the runes carved along the golem’s body burned red in answer, and new crystalline growths sprouted from its back and behind the wrists, thick and numerous as a hedgehog’s spikes. The golem snapped its fingers, and flames engulfed its hand, a second snap extinguishing them just as quickly. “Maker, that certainly did something. You send Wilhelm found them?”

“Yes, during one of his many expeditions into the Deep Roads. As I understand it, the crystals allow me to… alter the flow of magic around me. Wilhelm had hoped to turn me into a battery of mana, a source of power he could tap at will to aid in his experiments. Some of the crystals invoke the power of a certain element, some increase the presence of mana, some absorb or reflect spells; there are various kinds.” Quartz eyes examining the crystal growths, the golem gave a small chuckle, evidently pleased at the new additions. “So, what does it think? They don’t make me look any wider, do they?”

“No, not at all,” Sagramor stammered, for want of something to say.

“Yes, yes, they’re actually rather… slimming,” stated Geoffrey.

Morrigan made a disgusted noise. “If you’re quite finished with your inane banter, has your hound returned yet, Warden? I was led to believe you wished to enter Denerim as soon as possible.”

“He’ll be back soon enough. Shale, would you be willing to let Morrigan and Geoffrey each keep one of the crystals to study? The more we can learn about them, the better.”

“Oh, very well, since it asked so nicely,” acceded the golem. “Just so long as it promises to find some more. I want to glitter from ear to ear! So to speak.”

“Any idea where to start?”

“Orzammar might be our best bet,” Geoffrey suggested. “They might have lost the knowledge to make new golems, or so I’ve read, but they must have something of value we can make use of if we ask nicely.” The apostate suddenly faltered, enthusiasm fading as he remembered precisely who was in charge of the little company, and he turned back to Sagramor with an apologetic grin. “Just so long as you think it’s a good idea, of course, Warden.”

“I think we can make that happen,” said the elf. “It might take some time to get to Orzammar, Shale; for now, our priority is healing Arl Eamon. But I swear to you, we’ll do our best to find some more crystals for you. We’ll be asking the dwarves to fight and die for us, after all. What’s a few artefacts compared to that?”

“It is indeed most wise for a puny flesh creature,” remarked the golem, stone smile wide. “Very well, I can be patient. It’s earned that much from me.”

“Thank you, Shale, I appreciate it.”

Without hesitation, Geoffrey took one of the larger crystals from the pile, smiling as it lit up at his touch. “Yes, this will do quite nicely. Shale, mind if I borrow you for a few minutes? I want to put this mana tap theory of Wilhelm’s to the test.”

“It damages my crystals, and I crush its tiny mage head.”

“Fine, fine,” Geoffrey muttered, distracted by the cerulean glow of his chosen prize. “Now, where did I put that kit Bodahn gave me?”

Muttering to himself, Geoffrey made for the adjacent chamber that served as his billet, the golem stomping close behind. “’Tis an enthusiastic child you’ve enlisted to our cause, Warden,” Morrigan remarked, more amused than annoyed. “Tell me, do you intend on inducting either Geoffrey or Nimue into the Order?”

Sagramor shook his head. “It’s enough that they’re willing to stand with us, same as the rest of you, so I wasn’t exactly planning on it. Mind you, if they express an interest, I’d happily accept them as Wardens.” Of course, without knowing how to create the Joining compound, it’s all academic… “Why do you ask?”

“Mere curiosity, ‘tis all,” insisted the apostate girl. “I just hope this latest diversion of yours proves more fruitful than the last.”

“So do I,” the elf admitted wryly. “Still, it’s good to know that if we do wind up facing trouble inside the city, you’ll be at my side.”

“Good to know you possess some small measure of sense. Is there something more you wanted from me?”

“Actually, while I have you here, could I ask about--”

The apostate threw up her hands. “Why do you constantly seek to ask me such questions? I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?”

“Mere curiosity.”

Amber eyes rolled scornfully. “How very amusing. Whence comes this strange curiosity to begin with?”

“Life spent trapped in the Alienage with only a few books to expose you to the outside world will do that to you. I don’t mean to offend you, Morrigan. And I’d be happy to answer any of your questions in return.”

“That… is sensible. True, ‘tis better to learn all you can rather than leave your mind blinkered and hidebound, like some fools I can mention. Ask what you will of me.”

Sagramor nodded gratefully. “What Merrill said… all the legends of Flemeth I’ve heard of all say she had many daughters.”

“And you ask if I have sisters?” The apostate shrugged. “I have wondered this myself, for the tales tell of many Witches of the Wild, not just the one, and long before I was born. Perhaps, long ago, these stories were more than exaggerations, but for as long as I can remember, it has only been Mother and myself in the Wilds. Flemeth refuses to speak of other daughters, if they even existed. So am I her first? I doubt that too.”

“She’s actually the Flemeth from all the stories, then? Not just someone capitalizing on the myth to intimidate her enemies?”

“So she has told me. What do you know of that legend, Sagramor? The one the Chasind tell their children to frighten them into obedience?”

“Only a little, but frankly, I’d prefer the truth.”

“Very well then,” Morrigan purred. “I shall tell you what I know of my mother, and you can decide for yourself if it is the truth. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Then as the tales is sung by the bards, centuries ago, before there even was a Ferelden, Flemeth was young and beautiful, a prized gem in a land of uncultured barbarians and the desire of any who saw her. They say that she was wife to Conobar, Bann of Highever, but chose instead to run away with Osen, a poor bard with whom she had fallen in love.” Morrigan grimaced in disgust at that last point. “In truth, my mother claims ‘twas Osen she married, and Conobar the jealous lord who looked upon her from afar. Seeking Flemeth for his bed, Conobar approached young Osen and offered him wealth and power in exchange for his lovely wife, and Osen agreed.”

“He sold his wife?” Sagramor spat, outraged.

“The life of a bard is a poor one, and love fades in the wake of hunger. ‘Twas Flemeth, in fact, who suggested the arrangement,” explained the apostate. “All would have been well had Conobar kept his end of the bargain. But he was a foul man who had bartered with coin he did not truly possess.”

“And he figured steel was cheaper than silver,” Sagramor finished.

“Indeed. Osen was led off to a field and slain. Though the spirits, Flemeth learned of the deed and swore revenge, calling upon them to strike down the traitor where he stood.”

“So she cared about Osen after all.”

“’Twas not the point: Conobar had no honour, and thus she would not have him,” Morrigan emphasized. “Lord Conobar’s allies pursued Flemeth endlessly, forcing her into the Wilds to survive. There she encountered the demon that granted her strength and power.”

“And then?”

“Then we come to the legend of the great Cormac, who united the Alamarri against a great Chasind host commanded by Flemeth that invaded the lowlands centuries later. All lies.”

Sagramor frowned, recalling that tale from his modest library in the Alienage. “Which, that she never invaded, or Cormac never defeated her?”

“The truth of the matter is that there was never an invasion. As Flemeth tells it, the Chasind never raised an army under her banner, and she never fought anyone named Cormac. Cormac led a brutal civil war against his own people, and later claimed it was to vanquish the evil and corruption that had taken root amongst his rival lords, painting himself the noble hero.”

“So Flemeth became a scapegoat to justify Cormac’s ruthlessness?”

“More than likely, or her name became attached to the legend far later. The bards are forever warping the facts for the sake of drama,” spat the mage.

“And this demon must be responsible for keeping her alive for so long.”

“Yes, it has transformed her into… something else. An abomination, perhaps some would say, but I know not. She is no immortal, though. A blade to the heart would kill her like any other, were it lucky enough to find her. But that is the rub. For all her magical power, her true strength lies in her cunning, and she is part of the Wilds as it is part of her.”

“And what about you?” asked Sagramor. “Do you believe her version of the tale?”

Full lips pursed in thought. “I do not believe everything Flemeth claims,” Morrigan said carefully. “Oft it seems her bitterness has coloured her memories. But on the whole? Yes, I believe this tale, if not all.”

“A very interesting story, Morrigan, thank you,” said the elf, profoundly grateful. “My curiosity is satisfied, for now.”

“Flemeth tells it with far more embellishment than I, but you are welcome,” the apostate replied, a slight blush emerging upon her pale features. “Dare I ask about your own mother? Few are abominations of legend, ‘tis true, but I find myself curious nevertheless.”

“She… she was the woman who set me on this path,” Sagramor explained, fighting back the grief that came with the thought of her, lest he display the sort of weakness he knew Morrigan despised. “Everything I am; my skill with a blade, the values I hold, the strength with which I defend them, it’s all because of her, and every day I strive to hold true to the lessons she gave me before she passed. I love her, even in death. What more can I say?”

“I… I see. I find myself a little envious, to tell the truth… but it matters not. You have others to speak to, no doubt, and I need some time to prepare.”

“Of course,” said the elf, turning to leave. “Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

“Sagramor?”

The note of hesitation in Morrigan’s voice made the Warden halt in his tracks. “Yes?”

“I owe you thanks for standing by me when that fool of a Dalish hunter accused me of meddling with their precious ravens, so… thank you.”

Smiling, Sagramor accepted her thanks with a nod. “You’re very welcome, Morrigan. He had no right to speak to you that way, and you’ve more than earned my trust. Besides, I’d make a poor leader if I didn’t stick up for the people under my command.”

“Yes, well…” Words dying on her lips, Morrigan turned on her heel and strode deeper into the cavern without further preamble, blush unmistakable. Lingering for a moment to watch her go, Sagramor made his own exit, wondering yet again how trust was the one thing that the apostate could not seem to accept…

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

“Sorry to put you on the spot like that,” said Alistair, longsword and whetstone discarded at the approach of his fellow Warden. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Denerim for a while now, but with everything that’s been going on, there was never the right time for it.”

“We have been pretty busy lately,” Sagramor permitted calmly. “But let’s make some time now. What’s this personal matter?”

“I was hoping to… look someone up.”

“You have a friend in the city?”

“Not exactly. The thing is, I have a sister. A half-sister, really. You remember me telling you about my mother, right? Of course you do. Anyways, she had a daughter before she met Mar—my father, and I only recently found out about her.”

“Alistair, that’s wonderful!” said the elf, genuinely happy for his friend. “What about her? Does she know you exist?”

“I don’t think so; they did keep my birth a secret, after all. After I went through the Joining, I did some checking, and, well, she’s alive and in Denerim. She’s the only real family I have left, the only one not mixed up in the whole royal thing. I don’t want to miss this chance to connect with her. If something happened to her and I never even tried to see her, I’d never be able to forgive myself, and after Ostagar and Eamon’s illness and everything else that’s gone wrong, I don’t want to take that chance.”

“Understandable. What’s her name?”

“Goldanna. From what I could uncover, she’s a washerwoman who lives by the city’s lower markets, close to the Alienage. If we’re in the area, could we try and find her?”

Pondering the matter, Sagramor eventually nodded. “All right, Alistair, we’ll do what we can, but I can’t promise you anything more than that. Just like with Sten’s sword, our mission here must take priority, and it’ll be dangerous for her too if Loghain or his minions finds us.”

“That seems fair,” the former Templar acquiesced. “And what about you? Would you like to see your family while we’re here?”

“Oh, more than anything!” Sagramor declared emphatically. “It’s just—being an elf in Denerim is dangerous enough without being connected to someone accused of treason, and I joined the Wardens in part to protect my people, not bring more trouble down upon them. As much as I don’t like it, it’s best I keep my distance, for their sake.”

“Shame you have to make that call in the first place. Well, hopefully once we bring down Loghain, you can see them again.”

“Yeah, I’d… I’d like that,” said the elf, genuinely pleased at the notion, and once again, he wondered how his family had been faring since he departed. Maker, I hope they’re staying safe in all this madness, he prayed silently, the thought he might perish without ever having seen them again wearing down his convictions like water upon rock. “Still, we’ll do our best so you don’t have to suffer the same disappointment.”

“It means a lot to me. To be honest, with all the disagreements we’ve been having lately, I wasn’t sure you’d even consider it.”

Sagramor shook his head. “You said nothing about Merrill I hadn’t considered myself. It’s like I said before, Alistair, you’ll never have to watch your words around me. Something tells me Loghain isn’t getting honest advice, and I don’t want to be like that.”

“You could never be like that,” Alistair insisted. “Whatever happens, I’ll have your back.”

“I know, Alistair, and thank you. Get some rest while you can. I’ll need you sharp when we get into the city.”

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

A titanic peal of thunder, so close and so loud Sagramor swore the cavern trembled at the impact, signalled the latest round of the elemental onslaught, rain sheeting down over the mouth of the cave. A second thunderbolt struck moments later, and framed by the entrance, Sagramor caught a glimpse of Leliana’s lithe figure illuminated against the backdrop of the flash. “Any sign of trouble?”

“Nothing,” declared the Orlesian woman, welcoming the elf to her side with a gentle smile. “I do not believe that even the hardiest of Loghain’s soldiers will want to patrol in this weather.”

“You’re probably right, but let’s not get overconfident. This weather will slow us down too.”

“I just hope Ragnar Is all right,” Leliana expressed, seemingly unperturbed at the prospect of venturing out into the raging tempest herself.

“He will be, let’s just give him a little time. And while I have you here…” Trembling hands reaching into the pouch at his belt, and Sagramor willed himself to remain calm, fear and desire churning deep within his soul at her closeness. “I wanted to give you this.”

A blossom of delicate white petals appeared in the Warden’s hand, and Leliana let out a gasp of wonder, carefully taking it up. “Andraste’s Grace. You remembered.”

“Of course I did! I hang onto every word you say,” Sagramor blurted out, turning red with embarrassment. “What I mean is I like talking with you, and after Merrill told me where I could find some, I figured it’d be a nice…” His nervous babbling petered off at the unwelcome sight of a frown marring her perfect, pouty lips, and his heart sank like a stone beneath the waves. “I’m sorry, have I offended you? You don’t have to accept it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s not that,” Leliana quickly reassured him. “This is a lovely gift, and I’m quite flattered you remembered how much I love these. It’s just…” She was silent for a moment, blue eyes fixed on the blossom, before finally sighing in regret. “I’m not sure I’m worthy of it.”

“Why would you say something like that?” demanded the elf, genuinely confused. “Of course you’re worthy! How could you not be?”

In answer, Leliana took a deep breath to steady herself, before meeting the Warden’s gaze. “I lied to you about why I left Orlais, my friend. I’ve lied to you about a great many things. It is past time I set that right.”

Sagramor shook his head. “Leliana, I told you before, you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to--”

“But I do, Warden,” Leliana insisted firmly. “If there is even the smallest chance that the things I’ve done could threaten the success of your mission, then you deserve to know. And in my new life, there is room for neither pride nor shame.”

“The things you’ve done?” asked the elf, privately unsettled. That Leliana concealed much about herself was not the issue; he’d long suspected she was holding something back, and between the secrets of the Order, what happened with Shianni, and the truth of Alistair’s parentage, it would be the height of hypocrisy to condemn anyone else for not being completely transparent with him. No, that the woman he adored for her kindness and eagerness to help others felt guilty about anything was what unnerved him. She’s done so much good and helped so many people, me least of all. What in the Maker’s name does she have to condemn herself for? “Well, if you’re sure about this…”

“I am. Tell me, Sagramor, what do you know about Orlesian bards?” Leliana must have seen the embarrassed blush emerge on the Warden’s face, for she offered a reassuring smile. “And while I may not have the right to ask, please, be honest with me. There’s no need to spare my feelings.”

“Only gossip and rumours, you know, the sort of stuff bandied around by tavern drunks who hate Orlesians,” Sagramor expressed, visibly uncomfortable at having to repeat them. “They say that these bards are actually spies, thieves and assassins working for the various Orlesian noble families. Some of them even, umm…” The elf cleared his throat, red as a beetroot now.

“Go on.”

“Seduce their targets.”

It was the vilest sort of gossip, and Sagramor braced himself for an outraged slap, or worse still, for disappointment and hurt to be reflected in her beautiful blue eyes. What he did not expect was the chuckle from the Orlesian woman. “Yes, that is true of bards. It’s a pity, though, that so many honest minstrels are tarred with the same brush.”

“Sorry, I’m confused. Aren’t the two synonymous?”

“Not exactly, and to do so in Orlais would cause misunderstanding. Let me explain. Not all minstrels are spies; in fact, the vast majority are just singers and storytellers. But some of them are… are what we call bards, and these are the people those rumours discuss. Spies, as you say, and more, all in the service of patrons from the Orlesian nobility.”

“Sounds rather political,” the elf said sourly.

“Indeed. In Orlais, there is much rivalry amongst the highborn, as they fight each other for land, influence, pride and the favour of the Empress. But they cannot do this openly, because it is impolite, and in public they were smiling faces and pretend to be civil. In secret, though, they plot and scheme to destroy one another,” Leliana explained, expression darkening. “The Great Game, they call it, and one meaningless to anyone but its players.”

“And bards are the pieces they use to play this Game. Like you once were.”

“Yes,” Leliana confessed. “I have so much to atone for, Sagramor. I lied, I cheated, I stole, I manipulated peoples’ affections and even murdered when carrying out my assignments, and I took pleasure in all that I did, never caring how many innocents suffered from my choices. But I want you to know that’s not who I am anymore.” She stepped towards him, the nervousness he’d experienced presenting the flower reigniting tenfold as she leaned in close. “I would never do anything to betray your trust, my friend. I swear it in the Maker’s name. Please, I--”

“Leliana, it’s all right. I believe you,” Sagramor declared emphatically. It made no sense to think that Leliana had spent her three years in Ferelden still acting as a bard, for sleepy, rural Lothering was as far removed from power and influence as one could possibly get. Nor did it seem likely she was placed specifically to spy on the two surviving Ferelden Grey Wardens; no one could have predicted Ostagar’s outcome, Flemeth’s assistance in rescuing him and Alistair, or that they’d choose to pass through Lothering in the aftermath. The doubts that were his constant companion faded to nothing in that moment, and the elf clasped her hand in his own. “You’ve helped so many people, me least of all, and not once have you faltered in this quest, so if you say you’ve changed, then I have no reason to distrust you. I have to ask, though, why tell me about this now? Not that I mind, you can talk to me about anything, but…”

“I understand. First off, it’s like I said before: I don’t want you to be blindsided and Ferelden endangered because I kept something from you. What happened to me… maybe it will affect us, maybe it will not, but you should know. My last mission as a bard also took place in Denerim as well, so there is the possibility I could be recognized inside the city.” The redhead gave a sad smile. “Besides, we’re on a pilgrimage, so what better time to confess my sins? I came to the Chantry and left the life of a bard behind because I was being hunted.”

“Hunted?” gasped Sagramor, visibly aghast. “For what?”

“I was framed, betrayed by someone I thought I knew and could trust; Marjolaine, my mentor and friend. It was she who first recruited me and taught me the bardic arts: how to enchant with words and song, to carry myself like a highborn lady, to blend in as a servant, not to mention how to fight with blades and bows. She was bard-master to me, and the skills I learned, I used to serve her, because I loved her and enjoyed what I did.” In the silence that followed, Leliana gave him a questioning look. “Does that bother you, Sagramor? That I desire both men and women?”

“Of course not!” the elf insisted truthfully, quashing any infantile feelings of jealousy before they could fester into something unworthy of the beautiful Orlesian. “If two people genuinely love each other, then things like gender or race really shouldn’t matter. This Marjolaine, though, you were dutiful, yet she betrayed you all the same?”

“That’s right. I thought I knew her, though in the end, it was that devotion to her that blinded me from her… less than noble attributes.” Leliana drew in a great, shuddering breath, her composure fracturing slightly as the old wounds that had driven her to the Chantry’s embrace were laid bare. “I suppose you could say it was my fault. We had come to Denerim to undertake some missions for Marjolaine, the first time I’d ever operated outside of the Empire.”

“We?”

“Forgive me. Marjolaine had sent two associates to aid me, an apostate mage we called Sketch, and Tug, a dwarf warrior who served as our muscle. We were to break into the Arl of Denerim’s palace and plant some sealed documents there under the cover of a burglary, but when the time came, my curiosity got the better of me. Something told me that I needed to know what was in those letters. Marjolaine had been selling Orlesian military secrets to other nations: Nevarra, Antiva and now Ferelden.”

“Maker, that’s high treason,” Sagramor expressed. “Do bards engage with outside powers like that often?”

“A few, though until I unsealed those documents, I never imagined Marjolaine had done the same. My life as a bard taught me that my loyalties should be kept fluid. My concern was not that Marjolaine had betrayed the Empire, but that her life would be in danger if she was caught.”

“So what happened next?”

“I should have left well enough alone, but I didn’t,” Leliana confessed ruefully. “I had to tell Marjolaine I feared for her life. She brushed aside my concern, saying there was no way the documents could be traced back to her, but I insisted we return to the palace and destroy them, just to be certain. I believed I had managed to convince her, and kept believing, until she led the mercenaries who guarded the palace right to us, the documents reclaimed and altered by her hand to paint me as the spymaster.” The poise and resolve with which she’d admirably conducted herself began to crack, and Sagramor’s blood ran cold at the silent tears sliding down her cheeks. “In the Arl of Denerim’s dungeon, they… they did terrible things in order to make me confess and reveal all they believed I knew, and at the end, it was an unmarked grave that awaited me.”

“What I saw in the Fade, that was more than just a demon’s illusion, wasn’t it?” demanded the Warden, horror and outrage trampling any notion of decorum underfoot. “Leliana, did they…”

“They were not merciful,” the Orlesian answered simply.

Red clawed at the elf’s vision, the thought that Leliana might have suffered as Shianni had stoking his rage to an inferno’s heat, and Sagramor forced himself to remain calm before he did something stupid. Leliana needed a friend now, not a raging berserker swearing bloody vengeance on her behalf, no matter how justified, and clearly, speaking of Marjolaine’s betrayal was enough of a trial for the beautiful redhead without voicing every last horrific detail. Without hesitation, he opened his arms, and Leliana accepted the comforting embrace, weeping softly into his right shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, do you understand?” the elf insisted, hoping against hope his words might ease the pain and grief she’d silently endured for far too long. “Nothing excuses what they did to you, and no one has the right to treat you as Marjolaine did, man or woman.”

“I know, and thank you,” said Leliana, wiping away the last of her tears. “I… I hope you will forgive a moment’s weakness.”

“Leliana, how many times have you saved my life? Or protected the lives of innocents? Or endured all the long marches and cold nights without complaint? You have absolutely nothing to prove to me. And if I was stupid enough to condemn you as weak for a few tears, then I wouldn’t be worthy of leading this company in the first place. But if I may ask, how did you escape?”

“The skills Marjolaine taught me were good for something, at least. I broke free when I saw an opportunity and made my escape. By the Maker’s grace, I was lucky. I saw what the Hard Line did to many of the other prisoners in their keeping, and for all their cruelty, I survived intact.”

Where have I heard that name before? Sagramor mused, tabling that mystery for another time. “And Marjolaine?”

“I was furious with her, of course, but… when the time came to draw a blade against her, I could not do it. Nor could I return to Orlais, where her reach was longest. And so I fled to Lothering, to the Chantry and the Maker. Ferelden protected my person, and the Maker saved my soul. And that is the true reason am I here. No more lies between us, Warden, at least in this.”

“I understand, and thank you for telling me this,” replied Sagramor. “I can’t imagine that trust comes easily to you after suffering such betrayal, so… thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Leliana said with a relieved smile. “I’ve tried not to let the experience harden my heart. Darkness will only be banished when the Maker returns, so until that blessed day comes, we must offer what light we can. Still, it feels good to have this off my chest, so thank you for listening, and understanding. For so long, I feared you’d hate me for deceiving you.”

“Never. You’re a good person, Leliana. Your kindness, your bravery, your wisdom, your determination, none of those have been lies, and I…” I care for you, he ached to express, the words dying fearfully on his tongue. “And I cannot see myself doing this without you by my side. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ll have to fear any of the city guards recognizing you. It’s been three years, after all, and many of them may have died or been transferred since.” I certainly wound up helping with the former… “If anyone does discover you, it’ll be from Loghain’s wanted posters, not from an incident years ago. Still, I won’t force you to go into the city if you don’t want to. Give me a place to start, and I can pick up Silas’ trail from there, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but if you feel my presence won’t compromise you, then I’ll trust your judgement. Besides, Silas is a cautious man, and you’ll need me to convince him.” Blue eyes glanced down towards the flower. “It truly is a lovely gift,” she remarked, and Sagramor could only stare in awe as she tucked the blossom behind her right ear, the delicate white petals stark against the backdrop of her crimson locks, breath hitching at her loveliness. “Thank you, Sagramor. Knowing you’re watching out for me… it means the world.”

Perhaps it was the sheer loveliness of the Orlesian woman that compelled him to act, or the importance of reminding her that she was valued, but whatever the reason, Sagramor bent the knee before her without hesitation. “Then let me make you this promise,” he said, right hand over his heart. “Whatever happens, whatever threats appear, know that I will always stand by you. You’re a good person, Leliana, and a good friend. You’ve atoned for your past a thousand times over, and should Marjolaine or anyone else try to hurt you again, they’ll have to go through me.” And before Sagramor could come to his senses, he was kissing her hand, provoking a small gasp from the beautiful redhead. “Upon my honour, I will protect you, no matter the cost.”

It was as near a confession of love as he possessed the courage to make, and once again, the fear that he’d gone too far and unsettled her vanished at that beaming smile. “You truly are a worthy subject for a ballad,” she teased, letting his lips linger on her hand. “Sagramor Tabris, the Elven Knight, so gallant and honourable… and very kind. Thank you.” A gentle touch brought the elf to his feet, and Sagramor couldn’t help but shiver as she embraced him, voice warm and gentle in his ear. “One day, I hope to be able to keep you safe as well. I…”

And then the moment was spoiled by a happy bark and the sound of heavy paws pattering on the stone, and Leliana gave a startled cry as Ragnar burst through the wall of rain and into the cave’s mouth, tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, head tilted quizzically at the sight of his master in a lady’s arms. “Hey, watch it!” Sagramor shouted as the warhound shook out his fur, muddy rainwater splattering against his cloak, his heart still pounding from Leliana’s embrace. “Could you not do that down the passage, boy?” Or wait a few bloody minutes…

Giggling, Leliana released the Warden to ruffle the hound’s fur behind the ears. “I’m guessing he’s found our way in. Well, my friend? Shall we depart?”

“Yes, time to go,” answered Sagramor, irritation vanishing to know his plan was coming together after all. Maker, keep Loghain from learning of us, just for a day or two. Ferelden’s survival may depend upon it…