Silvhen stood, staring at the magister, listening but not listening as he spoke of what was to come. The man didn't feel right to him, but Clarel trusted him - or rather it seemed Clarel answered to him. His brain felt fuzzy and loud. He didn't quite trust this man... and yet, at the same time, he did completely. It just felt so wrong.
"Get ready," Clarel had said before leaving. Despite not really listening to them, it seemed he just knew what to do. Something was screaming in his head that this was wrong, something… no, everything about this was wrong. His head hurt when he fought it. But fought what, exactly? What was he fighting? He could hear himself in his head, screaming - but he had no idea what he was saying. Silvhen picked up his staff from where it leaned against the table and left the room, heading to the courtyard where the ritual was to be held. The screaming became louder than anything he had ever heard before, making his head ache more and more by the minute.
The Calling. It had to be. He was so sure, and yet... he couldn't help but think he was forgetting something. An image of a giant darkspawn glaring down at him flashed through his mind, but it was too quick for him to even register it properly. Even so, he knew what it was. He had seen it in his dreams since the Blight had started calling for him.
Too soon, it all went to shit.
He stood with his hand out in front of him, palm facing the green smoke. His hand shone with green light; each crack the magic made felt like he was losing his hand. Perhaps he was - at this point, if it made the pain stop, he couldn't care less. Even if it made his job as a healer harder. Though if the Inquisition made it through the walls, he supposed his healing wouldn't be of much use, anyway. He would be dead.
"Wardens," Clarel called out, gathering everyone's attention, "we are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect."
He found himself nodding, scowling, but his head felt so jumbled, the only thoughts he could make out were wrong, wrong, wrong. He watched as the magister all but stormed up to Clarel. Silvhen had no idea what he said, but it had clearly angered Clarel. She pointed to him and his fellow wardens. An older warden walked up to Clarel and the magister, and Silvhen lowered his head. He just couldn't watch as one of his brothers sacrificed himself for them.
It all just felt so wrong. It felt like he was there, at the back of his own mind, screaming, bellowing, shrieking that this was not what they were meant to do. This wasn't right. But he kept his hand up, the glowing green making his dark skin look ill.
"Stop them! We must complete the ritual!" The magister's words burned in his ears. The Inquisition was here. Didn't they know this was important? Didn't they know how many lives were at stake here?
He so desperately wanted to turn his head, to look at the Inquisition, but he found that he couldn't. It was like his head was frozen in place, staring into the mass of green smoke. Each slight turn of his head was met with the feeling of his cheek being struck, as if someone with a heavy gauntlet had backhanded him across his face.
"Clarel, if you complete this ritual, you're doing exactly what Erimond wants!" a feminine voice bellowed. That must be the Inquisitor, Silvhen thought, and Erimond must be the magister. He realised that, this entire time, he hadn't remembered the magister's name.
"What, fighting the blight? Keeping the world safe from darkspawn? Who wouldn't want that?" Erimond responded.
He's right, of course, he's right… right?
"And yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice. Hate me for that if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty."
If it is my duty... then why does it feel so wrong? Silvhen's mind raced for an answer, but every time it tried to supply him with one it felt like his voice in his head was caged off - as if something was barring him from realising something. But what was it?
"We make the sacrifices no one else will. Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them," Clarel added. She was right, and yet Silvhen didn't feel pride for doing this. He felt pain and a giant sense of wrongness that had no longer just settled in his stomach - instead, it had grown like a thorny vine, twisting itself around his very core.
"And then your Tevinter 'ally' binds the mages to Corypheus!" a voice he knew well retorted. Stroud.
Corypheus was supposed to be dead. He... he couldn't think. The screaming in his head had become a loud drum of voices, all his own, almost vibrating against his skull. This was it, he thought, this was wrong. But, try as he might, he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't stop the magic pouring from his palm. What was happening to him? Why was he doing this? Deep in his tortured thoughts, he missed Clarel's reply and also Erimond's. Erimond was too far away for him to hear his hissing words either way.
From where he stood, he could see the doubt in Clarel's mind. Yes, his mind begged, help us, Clarel… please. But his hopes were soon shattered violently when Clarel shouted for them to bring it through. His arm shot up higher without his permission. It was as if his body had strings and was being pulled left, right and center by a master he couldn't see. His magic pulsed harder, louder, and his mana burnt as it rushed through his arm and helped create a giant virescent crack in the air which exploded in size in an instant. A gateway for 'it'.
The inquisitions party had moved to where Silvhen could now see them. The Inquisitor was an elf, and her party included a lar- no, a ridiculously large qunari, a dwarf, and three human men. Two of which were Hawke and Stroud. Stroud's eyes made contact with him, and he hoped, prayed, begged the Maker that Stroud could see the pain in his eyes. He didn't want this. Stroud knew him, he would know he didn't want this, surely. He could have cried in pure relief when he saw the slight nod Stroud gifted him before he spoke.
"Please, I have seen more than my share of blood magic! It is never worth the cost! I trained half of you myself! Do not make me kill you to stop this madness!" Stroud's words hurt his ears.
Please, save us. The thought of more of his brothers and sisters dying for this mess made his chest feel like it was going to cave. But his soundless prayers fell on deaf ears. What didn't, however, was the echoing screech coming from the green mass in front of him. The sound terrified him.
"The Grey Wardens have a proud history!" the Inquisitor called out. "You stopped the Blight at the Silent Plains. At Starkhaven... and Hunter Fell. At Ayseleigh... and Denerim. The world owes you a debt it can never repay. I would not stand against you if I did not know you were being misused." The elvhen woman's words clearly struck a chord with everyone around Silvhen - except the mages. Their minds and bodies were still shackled to whatever was controlling them and him. He could see in the eyes of some that they were at the same point as him: body still detained, mind aching to be in control once again. His eyes followed the magister as he stepped forward to challenge the Inquisitor.
"My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you!" Erimond banged the bottom of his staff on the ground as he spoke, a bright blood red crackle of magic beginning to surround it. An enormous dragon flew through the air, its mighty voice sending tremors of sheer terror through Silvhen's body. The dragon - Silvhen refused to believe it was an archdemon, he couldn't - spat out red flames at the Inquisition's party but - to Silvhen's relief and surely their own - they managed to jump out of the way in time. The beast was a disgusting black, wings torn and burnt like someone threw parchment into the fire and quickly changed their mind, and its scales were deformed. Silvhen started to doubt the mere "dragon" theory. His gut called out to him to heal the others, but he was still tied up in whatever magic was being used on him and the mages. The dragon flew right into a statue, which crumbled to the ground, and it was just sheer luck that no one was underneath it. It landed on a tower and roared, the sound shrill and earsplitting.
Clarel stepped back in shock, and Silvhen couldn't see her anymore. What he did see of her, however, was her purple lightning shooting forward and hitting Erimond in the back. He felt a sharp crash in his mind, a flash of green, and then suddenly... there was nothing. Not even a heartbeat.
"Hello, Silvhen," a soft and gentle voice whispered comfortingly. He felt it - a warm essence surrounding him, as if wrapping him in a blanket.
"One of the mages is alive!" a voice he didn't recognize shouted as he felt himself being carried.
Silvhen gasped violently for air.