The Grey Path - Chapter Twenty-One, Part Two

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-One: Heart of Darkness - Part Two

It took several minutes of wrangling and pleading on Irving’s part, but at last, the great doors barring their way to the entrance hall finally opened, and the tattered and exhausted survivors of the Circle emerged into the light with an audible cry of relief, the fear their jailers once invoked in them a minor anxiety following all the horrors Uldred had unleashed. “Irving!” blurted Knight-Commander Greagoir, signalling the skittish door guards to stand down. “Maker’s breath, I had not though to see you alive again.”

The First Enchanter gave a weary smile in thanks, hoisting himself up off of Sagramor’s shoulder, the worst of his injuries attended to by Wynne’s magic. “It is over, Greagoir. I shall tell you all in the fullness of time, but for the moment, know that we have won. Uldred is dead, and thanks to the Wardens, the Circle lives.”

“So it would seem,” Greagoir admitted cautiously. A swell of suspicious muttering rose from the depleted ranks of the Templars, the walking wounded and bedridden alike observing the survivors distrustfully, as if wary of being contaminated by some lingering corruption, but a stern look from their commanding officer silenced any stray gossip. “If that is truly the case, then we owe you a great debt, Grey Warden. Exactly how many mages are left, Irving?”

“Uldred tortured the mages, hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations,” interjected Cullen, thrusting his way through the crowd. “We can’t know for certain how many of them have turned.”

“What?!” demanded Irving, shocked at the accusation. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Of course he’ll say that, he could be a blood mage!” the Templar insisted. “They could all be! Do you know what they did in there? I won’t let it happen again!”

“I am the Knight-Commander here, not you,” came Greagoir’s stern reminder. “It is I who shall decide what fate befalls this Circle.”

“Then what is the Knight-Commander’s decision?” asked Sagramor, ensuring his sword was close at hand. The rest of the Warden’s companions tensed in anticipation, and Greagoir sighed, recognizing the complication their presence provided. They had fought far harder than he’d expected and achieved more than he’d ever thought possible in the Circle’s defense, and he doubted they would simply stand aside after all that struggle to let the Right of Annulment be carried out. Even without the Wardens’ aid, the mages could conceivably overcome them; neither the permission to enact the Annulment nor the reinforcements needed to carry it out had arrived since he first permitted the Warden’s company passage into the Tower, and despite the losses they’d endured, the surviving mages had the advantage of numbers over the depleted Templar garrison, those few men fit enough to fight insufficient to withstand the Circle’s combined magical strength.

And if he was being honest with himself, the moral considerations around the Right of Annulment were growing more dubious by the minute. He had despaired of ever seeing his charges alive and uncorrupted again; that any seemed to fit both categories was miraculous in its own right. They would need to be monitored for any signs of corruption, of course; they were mages, and such was the duty demanded of him. But he had seen how too many of his fellow Templars rushed to judge their charges, how other Knight-Commanders would order a mage’s execution or Tranquility with all the consideration they’d give to crushing a cockroach under heel, a cautiousness some had derided as sympathetic weakness. The Right of Annulment was only to be used when a Circle was beyond saving, yet in defiance of all expectations, it had been. If there was further corruption to be found, he would root it out, yet he would not condemn all those who had survived so much based solely on nothing but his own misgivings, out of a fear of what could be. “We will rebuild, Greagoir,” Irving declared, sensing the Templar leader’s hesitation. “The Circle will go on, and we will learn from this tragedy and be strengthened by it. I swear to you, what happened here will never again come to pass.”

“These mages defied Uldred at great cost to themselves, and even helped us put him down for good,” Sagramor expressed. “That should be proof enough of their trustworthiness, and we’ll need that strength if Ferelden is to survive.”

The moment seemed to stretch on forever, pregnant with anxiety as Greagoir weighed their arguments against the letter of his oath, until finally, mercifully, he nodded in acceptance.  “We have won back the tower. I will accept Irving’s assurance, and that of the Grey Warden, that all is well.”

“But they may have demons within them, lying dormant! You can’t--” Cullen moved to protest.

“Enough! I have made my decision, and I expect far better from you, Cullen,” Greagoir snapped back, cowing the younger Templar into submission with a fierce glare, before offering a stiff bow to the Warden’s company. “Thank you. You have proven yourself a friend, both to the Circle and to the Templar Order.”

“It was an honour to assist Kinloch Hold in its time of need,” Sagramor replied with a bow of his own, right hand moving into his belt pouch. “But it was duty of our own that drove us to come here. The Blight is upon Ferelden, and we will require the Circle’s aid in order to drive it back.” The ancient Warden treaty bearing the mark of the Circle of Magi was revealed, and Sagramor passed it into Irving’s waiting grasp. “I know the Circle has suffered greatly, but will you stand with us in protecting the world from the darkspawn? Will you help hold the line against the night as you vowed in ages past?”

Irving gave a wry smile, meeting the elf’s gaze. “The tower in disarray, the Circle nearly annihilated… yet it could have been much, much worse. I am glad you arrived when you did, Grey Warden, for without your aid, none of us would see the dawn. The Circle of Magi is grateful to you, and to honour the oath we swore to your Order, we will stand with you against the darkspawn to whatever end. Besides, I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight. You have my word, as First Enchanter of this Circle, that we will aid the Grey Wardens against the Blight. This I swear.”

“And you shall have the assistance of my Templars as well,” added Greagoir, moving to stand at Irving’s side. “We too owe you a great deal, and to stand by as Ferelden is consumed by these creatures of dark sorcery would make a mockery of our oaths. Whatever strength we have left to offer is yours.”

Immense relief washed over Sagramor like the morning tide, and the elf released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in, soul buoyed by the sudden enthusiasm that came with success. Thank you, Maker. After all this time, we’ve done it... “Thank you. I-” he responded, trying not to grin like an idiot and failing miserably. “This means far more to us than we can express.”

“But there are so few mages left,” Leliana expressed, the true enormity of their losses only now beginning to sink in for the myriad occupants of the hall. Under Greagoir’s chivvying command, the remaining Templars tended to their charges’ well-being, with food and medicines produced to ease their suffering, but even so, the Circle’s state was a miserable one. “Will the Circle ever be able to recover from this?”

“We shall, my dear, if for no other reason than to defy those who would condemn us all for Uldred’s madness,” Irving assured her with a patrician smile. “Those mages you see here will recover and be a great help to you. We will not be found wanting, not in these dark times.”

“Irving, I have a request,” Wynne piped up. “I seek leave to follow the Grey Warden, to aid him and his companions on the journey ahead.”

Greagoir did a quick double-take, clearly bewildered by the sudden request, while Irving gave a weary sigh. “Wynne, we need you here. The Circle has suffered enough without being deprived of one of its foremost Senior Enchanters.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Irving, but the Circle will do fine without me. You are more than capable of seeing it restored,” she explained, turning to glance at Sagramor. “This man is brave and good, and has the potential to achieve many great things. If he would accept my help, then I would stand with him to see his quest fulfilled and the land made safe once more.”

“We could definitely use her aid, if only so we don’t have to rely on Morrigan all the time when it comes to magic,” Alistair expressed. “Besides, it would be handy have her with us if our working relationship with the Circle is to continue.”

“If she is willing and able, then I see no reason to refuse her, Sagramor,” urged Leliana. “The Maker smiles upon all those who give their aid freely. Let her come.”

No need to convince me, Sagramor mused, shaking the Senior Enchanter’s hand. “I’d be honoured to have you join us, Wynne,” he declared, receiving her grateful smile. In truth, he’d been impressed with her from the moment he first met her back at Ostagar, and with every desperate clash and brutal engagement against Uldred and his minions, his respect for her had only grown. There was no point in trying to dissuade her with warnings about the dangers posed by Loghain and the darkspawn either; she was better acquainted than most with their threat, and still had the courage to volunteer. He’d be a fool to disregard her willingness to aid him, or the abilities she could bring to the table. “As long as you’re permitted to leave the tower, of course.”

“I suppose if any mage could be trusted to operate without supervision, it would be Wynne,” Greagoir grudgingly admitted. “She’s had leave to depart Kinloch Hold under escort for some time now, so I’d be willing to permit this if you are, Irving.”

“You never were one to stay in the tower when there were adventures to be hand elsewhere,” Irving chuckled.

“Why stay, when I can be of service elsewhere? There is an entire world in need of aid beyond these walls.”

“True enough. Then I give you leave to follow the Grey Warden, Wynne, and eagerly await your safe return to the Circle once the Blight is over,” Irving intoned before turning his attention back towards the hubbub surrounding them. “Now then, if there is nothing else--”

“Actually, I’m afraid there is,” Sagramor interjected sheepishly, the thought of Redcliffe destroyed overcoming any concern about appearing ungrateful. “I know you have promised a great deal in spite of the Circle’s current condition, and we truly appreciate it. But there is another matter that we require the aid of Ferelden’s mages to resolve.”

“Yes, this incident in Redcliffe you mentioned briefly,” said Greagoir. “I believe the time has come for a fuller explanation on the subject, Grey Warden.”

And so, Sagramor gave it to them, recounting all that had transpired since their arrival in Redcliffe: the Arl’s sickness, the undead attacks, Connor becoming an abomination, every bloody moment relayed to his increasingly horrified audience. Greagoir had the good grace to wait until Sagramor had finished his tale before he let his anger run rampant, mailed fists clenched in rage. “Jowan!” the Templar exploded. “By Andraste, is there no end to the damage that follows in his wake?! Your precious apprentice has much to answer for, Irving.”

“She does, and she has,” Irving answered despondently, regret etched into every wizened line of his face.

“But is Jowan right, though?” came Sagramor’s desperate question. “Can Connor truly be freed from the demon’s possession?”

“Indeed, rituals of that nature can be done, though they pose no small amount of risk, and their success is hardly guaranteed,” explained Irving, stroking his beard in thought. “Yet in this case, it is a risk worth bearing, both for the sake of the child and for Redcliffe. We will begin preparations, Grey Warden. Though, as you might expect…”

“It’ll take some time, given the state the Circle’s in,” Sagramor acknowledged. It couldn’t be helped; he’d hoped to spare Redcliffe and his other companions another terrifying night of demonic incursions, but night had already fallen, and after all they’d endured, that the Circle was even willing to help was miraculous in its own right. He’d done all he could to ensure Redcliffe survived. Maker grant that it will be enough…

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There was no need to set a watch that evening; the Warden’s company had been thorough in their efforts at eradicating Uldred’s demons, and Kinloch Hold’s remoteness and the wide, deep waters of Lake Calenhad made it unlikely that any foe could strike at them from out of the starless night. Yet Sagramor was too canny not to take precautions, the routine that had ensured their safety so many nights before worth following, even with the surviving Templars and mages on-hand to assist should danger threaten. Too wound up to even consider rest, the elven Warden maintained his vigil, idly drawing a whetstone over the greatsword’s edge as he listened to the wind rustle through the tangled foliage that grew beneath the endless shadow of the Circle Tower. Years earlier, the small clearing had served as a place of exercise and relaxation for the Circle mages, but after several escape attempts, the Templars abolished the practice, forcing their charges behind the great doors of Kinloch Hold and letting the carefully-tended gardens become neglected and overgrown.

Still, there was space enough to accommodate the Warden’s party, and behind him, Leliana and Alistair slept like the dead beneath the deep purple of the clouded sky, having finally succumbed to the fatigue wrought by the day’s ordeals. Wynne had elected to remain within the Tower, both to determine the fates of her colleagues and to aid in the Circle’s preparations for exorcising Connor, and Sagramor had accepted that request, still grateful that she’d seen fit to join them at all. Kinloch Hold was home to the elder mage, her devotion to the Circle clear, and after all she’d done for them, giving her an opportunity to bid it farewell was the least he could do.

We actually did it, the elf acknowledged, savouring the unexpected sensation of triumph, however great the cost. Their survival, let alone their success, had seemed rather unlikely, but their perseverance had been rewarded, and with this victory, the cloud of doubt hanging over his soul began to lift, the bitter memory of Ostagar no longer his constant companion. The first of the Warden treaties had been invoked, and while the Circle had certainly seen better days, its considerable power was at the Wardens’ disposal, the mages’ efforts driven as much by gratitude as by the ancient oaths of support. If nothing else, freeing Connor would be a good test of their willingness to work with him, and thus far, they were passing with flying colours. He simply hoped that Redcliffe was doing all right; they’d been gone for far longer than he’d planned, and as tough and resourceful as Morrigan and Sten were, it didn’t sit right with him to not share the danger they faced. And Ragnar too, he reminded himself, uttering a silent prayer for the wounded hound’s recovery.

The tap of a wooden staff against the dry earth roused him from his thoughts. “First Enchanter?”

“Good evening, Grey Warden. I hope I am not intruding?”

“Not at all,” Sagramor expressed, rising to greet the mage. “You should be resting, ser; I’m certain there’s more Wynne can do to heal your injuries.”

Irving gave a small smile. “Wynne is tending to the injured Templars as we speak, men in far worse condition than I. There will be time enough to see to my hurts when the rest of the Circle has recovered. I did want to inform you that our preparations for the journey to Redcliffe are well underway. We will let you know when we are ready to disembark.”

“Excellent. I know I’m asking a lot from the Circle, after all that has happened--”

“Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him, Grey Warden, and serve we shall,” the First Enchanter assured him. “We will not be found wanting in this, not after all you have done for us. And if such a powerful fortress should fall to any threat, then I’d imagine the fight against the darkspawn would become far more difficult for us all, hmm?”

“It would indeed,” Sagramor replied. “And I know that Bann Teagan would welcome your aid; between the Blight, Connor’s possession and Arl Eamon’s sickness, the aid of the Circle is sorely needed in Redcliffe. If I may ask, what’s the butcher’s bill? Exactly how much of the Circle still lives?”

“Of the exact number of dead, we cannot be wholly certain,” Irving explained. “Many were wholly obliterated over the course of the fighting, or became abominations and denatured when they were killed. But I can tell you that we have forty-six mages present, minus Wynne, roughly half of whom are trained and capable of fighting.”

“Forty-six…” In truth, it was far more than Sagramor had expected, given the sheer butchery Uldred and his minions had perpetrated. Even so… “Out of how many mages that lived here before the uprising?”

“Over a hundred,” Irving admitted.

The number hung in the still night air for what seemed like an eternity before Sagramor dared break the silence. “If only I--”

“Warden, in my experience, there is neither profit nor peace in ‘ifs’. The Circle has endured a tremendous tragedy, but I know for certain none of those who remain would be here without your timely aid. You did not fail us, Grey Warden, you set things right, and that is nothing to feel guilty over.”

“So you say,” replied the elf. It was good advice: Bann Teagan had said much the same the night before, and there was no small wisdom in their words. But he could not so easily dismiss all memory or sympathy towards the dead, to simply write them off as necessary losses in a wider war without a second’s thought. Someone stronger, or perhaps merely crueler, could do so, but not him. “First Enchanter, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I know you’re still attending to the fallen and trying to determine the full extent of the Circle’s losses, but can you tell me if Nimue Surana survived the uprising? She’s an elven girl about my age, blue eyes--”

“I know who Nimue is,” Irving retorted, far sharper than he’d intended. Sagramor fell silent as the elder mage took a seat on a nearby rock, looking every one of his many years, until at long last he spoke, voice hollow in the darkness. “Wynne told me you met Owain.”

“This Tranquil fellow? What does he have to do with Nimue?”

“A great deal,” Irving explained, eyes downcast. “Nimue... is not amongst the casualties, Sagramor, for Nimue is no longer with us.”

“Explain,” demanded the Warden, heart pounding with nervous trepidation. After all this time, he’d simply assumed she was still in the Circle, confined to the tower like every other mage, and the notion that something might have happened to her sent a chill running through him that had nothing to do with the faint breeze coming off the lake.

“We mages are both gifted and cursed with powers beyond those of other men, Sagramor. As such, it is vital that a young mage be properly trained to control their abilities, lest they pose a danger to themselves or others. This study never truly ends, but when we feel a mage has proven both mature and capable enough to manage their powers, they go through a test we call the Harrowing. Those who pass graduate out of their apprenticeship and become full mages, but regrettably, there are many who never pass this threshold. Some simply lack the strength to resist a demon’s intrusion, or are incapable of obtaining the necessary control over their magic, so for their safety and ours, we must employ the Rite of Tranquility to remove any danger they might pose.”

“Are you saying that the Tranquil are actually mages?”

“Once, but no longer. When a mage is made Tranquil, their connection to the Fade is severed, and with it their powers. This means demons can no longer possess them--”

“At the cost of their emotions,” Sagramor all but spat, the unease he’d felt when speaking to Owain blossoming into full-fledged revulsion with these new revelations. The sudden image of his family left branded and hollow and broken manifested in his mind’s eye, and the elf forced himself to clamp down on his rising fury before it jeopardized their newly-forged alliance. “And people complain about the Wardens’ methods.”

“The Rite of Tranquility is not applied lightly,” Irving protested, almost placid in the face of the Warden’s scorn. “Indeed, there are some mages who are so terrified of their powers they specifically request it, despite our attempts to help them come to terms with their gifts.”

“And you dared subject Nimue to this… atrocity?”

“No!” the First Enchanter declared, shocked at the accusation. “No, never her, Grey Warden. My apprentice passed her Harrowing with a skill I’d never seen before, and Chantry law states that once that is done, a mage cannot be made Tranquil. But to another mage of your acquaintance, the prospect of Tranquility was quite real.”

“Jowan. That’s why he ran from the Circle, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. Jowan had not demonstrated the discipline and control we expect of our apprentices, and we had begun to suspect he was dabbling in blood magic. But before we could intervene, he convinced Nimue and young Geoffrey Amell, another of our mages, to help him escape the Circle.”

“No…” the elf said in a small voice. The Templars were intolerant of dissent from their charges in the best of circumstances; outright defying their authority by helping a fellow mage turn apostate could only result in strict reprisal. “They killed her?”

Regret stirred in the old man’s eyes. “They sent her to the Aeonar, Sagramor.”

The elf’s blood went cold in his veins. Every Andrastian knew of the Aeonar, knew it and feared it: the Chantry’s secret prison, a dumping ground for apostates and heretics from which none had ever escaped, its location a secret to all but the most senior hierarchy of the faith. It was a pit that devoured who entered its wall, so steeped in the dark magic of Old Tevinter and the suffering of its inmates it was said the Veil had torn open there, allowing demons to infest the lower levels and prey upon those trapped within. The wild, stupid hope for a reunion with his old friend he’d permitted to flourish in his soul withered and died, and he slumped down onto the long grass, too deflated to lash out. “She’s gone then.”

“I am sorry, Grey Warden,” said Irving, still refusing to meet his gaze. “She was like a daughter to me, and I had high hopes for her future within the Circle. If there was any way I could have saved her from such a fate, I would have, but even a First Enchanter can only do so much when the Templars demand it.”

“I’m… sure you did all you could,” Sagramor replied dully, forcing back the first tears. “Thank you for letting me know, at least.”

“I merely wish I had better tidings to give you,” admitted Irving. With a groan, the old mage rose to his feet, finally sparing the elf a mournful glance. “I have failed too often of late, first with Nimue and now the entire Circle, and I will bear the burden of those failures until I am drawn to the Maker’s side. But I will not fail you, not this in dark hour or any other.”

Sagramor managed to offer a lightless smile, bare of warmth. “I will hold you to that, First Enchanter.”

The mage trundled off, staff tapping a steady cadence as he went, and only when the noise had receded back into the Tower did the elf sink beneath the tides of grief, the first choking sobs forcing their way past clenched teeth, grey eyes screwed shut to dam away the river of tears. Perhaps he’d been stupid to hope, to even conceive of seeing Nimue once more, but never in all his darkest imaginings had he dreamt of such a fate for her. From deep within came the horrible notion that he could have stopped it all, that if he’d never let her be taken to the Circle in the first place… “Oh, Nimue…”

Slim, warm arms suddenly encircled him. “It’s all right, Sagramor.”

“Leliana?” gasped the elf, vainly trying to restore some measure of dignity, lest he demean himself further in front of the beautiful Orlesian. “I…”

“Hush…” the silken voice urged from out of the darkness, her breath warm and sweet at his neck, and his soul clung to the promise of her soft words, his one lifeline out of the abyss. “All will be well, my friend. The Maker has promised it so. All will be well…”