A/N: Special thanks to Reyavie for her feedback and encouragement, and to Suilven who inspired a title for this story after a random conversation (!). Thanks also to the wonderful folk on the Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age forum who inspire me in general. They're an enormously great bunch of talented, amazing bananas if you've ever wondered who they are.
Also, as this story is a sequel to 'Remembering Aunt Mildred' it contains spoilers (as if the story description wasn't bad enough...).
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Chapter 1 – Dark Waters
It was a strange thing; that the number of years he'd spent in this place be represented by so little: a few faded robes too patched and ragged to pass on to another, boots worn so thin he could feel the stones under his feet when he walked, a modest pile of study notes so badly written even he couldn't read them any more. There was little else; proof that he'd been an occupant of these stone halls for nearly a decade and a half. He supposed relatively speaking, that was not as long as say…the First Enchanter or even some of the old Templars had been here. Fade, some of those Templars had been here as long as the furniture.
Listen to me…One would think I was leaving for good. And that wasn't true. A mage carried the Circle wherever they went, branded into their soul the moment they stepped into Kester's boat. Or at least; these days when they were herded onto the Kester's Pride, seeing as the old boatman had retired years ago, selling up his business to a dwarven family who'd kept the name as a 'brand'. Kester had been ferrying mages, Templars and potential apprentices across Lake Calenhad for decades. He was practically part of the landscape; as part of the tales of the Circle and Tower as the Spoiled Princess had been about food poisoning and waking up with all one's clothes missing and little else but the taste of bad ale in one's mouth. There was a confidence; a solidity about the name of Kester (which admittedly, was ironic given the leakiness of Kester's Pride in general and the number of times sodden dwarves and half-drowned apprentices needed to be hauled from the lake).
Well, regardless who would be taking him this time, Kester had seen him safely across the lake all those years ago. The old codger would be missed on the journey back.
He heard a soft shuffle behind him and turned to an unexpected visitor.
"Maker's butt cheeks!" he exclaimed, his formerly sombre expression overtaken by a wide grin. "Father…when did you…?"
The two men embraced; backs were thumped enthusiastically and in the case of the younger of the two men; a wary glance thrown towards the open doorway.
"She's not with me, if you're wondering," his father commented quietly, interpreting the look correctly.
"I wasn't…actually."
"Hm," his father nodded all too knowingly.
"Are you here to…?" A prickle of anxiety overcame him. He frowned. It had been years since his father had served the Chantry in a more official capacity, but the Chantry didn't release their servants willingly. Once a Templar, always a Templar, so his uncle was fond of reminding him. A soldier of Andraste did not always bear the symbol of her burning sword or the Maker's sun. Sometimes, they wore ordinary clothes…Surely he hadn't been recalled to serve?
"No," his father told him wryly. "In case you're wondering. This is a purely social visit. I'm not here to make sure you don't take the best silver with you nor spy on you to make sure you're really not a blood mage before being unleashed upon the unsuspecting public. Besides," was the additional disclaimer, "I promised the Knight Commander I'd look in if I was passing through."
This time, it was the younger man who cast a sharp look at the other. "So it's a coincidence that you're here to see me? This wasn't intentional?"
"Come now, Greagoir," his father's smile did not diminish. If anything those dark eyes twinkled more brightly. "No need to be so sour. The world might not revolve around you, but if a father chooses to say hello to his grown son living on the other side of the country when given the opportunity to do so is that such a bad thing?"
The young mage took his own opportunity to take advantage of the fact that today he was out of his usual Circle garb and in more practical travelling clothes by balling up his fists and shoving them aggressively into his pockets. Circle robes did not – as a rule – contain such convenient tools of expression. He glared through the unruly fringe of dark blonde hair at his father; who chuckled and patted him on one of his hunched shoulders.
"Have you said your farewell to your uncle? Should I pass on a message for you?" his father asked.
"No thanks," was the short answer. Did Greagoir need to be reminded how his family's background had forced him to balance precariously between the Chantry and the Circle? Maker, it was bad enough knowing…what he did. He couldn't help showing signs of magic. There was nothing to prevent that. Nor could he help being sent away to Kinloch Hall to study that magic. As for trying to convince the people he'd grown up with that he wasn't some kind of magical genius nor a Chantry sympathiser…? Well, needless to say he'd made few friends here over the years.
And that included Pickles the resident mouser.
He heard his father sigh and immediately felt guilty for dredging up all the old resentment he'd felt as a teenager here. Especially since time had more or less blunted his resentment towards his parents to little more than a niggle. And not since he'd been told…what he had been told. Huh…after all this time, I still can't bring myself to even think it.
"So…" he began with a brightness he did not feel. "How's the weather outside? Warm? Raining kittens and qunaris?"
"It's summer, son."
"Oh. No kittens and qunaris then?"
"Only if you wish very, very hard for them. Look…son…"
"I don't want to talk about her…" he said quickly, adding because he felt the need: "…father."
Stepping away, Greagoir proceeded with purposeful steps towards the travel pack perched on his bed. Throwing it over a shoulder he made his way to the door. He knew he didn't have a right to resent this man. Maker knew the old man had had no say in the matter but he wasn't in the mood to share his feelings about the subject right now…Or lack of them. Anyway…he had things to do. People to meet. Busy, busy, busy…This was his very first assignment since his internment here…best get on with it. Why put it off and all of that? No time to chat, Da…You know how it is…Or well, Greagoir added to himself, didn't. His father had always been, well…his father. The man who taught him which end of a sword was safe to hold. The one who sat with him during thunderstorms when he'd been a young child; taught him an appreciation of lightning that the talented mage in their household could not. Always ready for a story…a kind word. He deserves better.
"Son…"
Resting his hand on the door frame Greagoir paused, mulling over the worried tone in the other man's voice. Balling up his fist again, he lightly tapped the wood with his knuckles. "So I suppose I'll see you around?" he said quietly. Meeting the other man eye to eye finally, he added. "Thank you for everything…Captain Tremayne…" and felt a complete cad for it.
-oo-
"Nervous?"
Greagoir looked up to a pair of bright blue eyes set above the very distinctive nose of his companion. Enchanter Connor extended a booted foot and nudged at the younger man's leg. "The big wide world outside isn't so bad you know."
"And that would be because…I've never seen the outside world before…?" Greagoir said sourly. Andraste's arse…he had arrived at the Tower when he was seven. He did actually remember that the sky was green and the grass was purple…going so far as to sarcastically inform the Enchanter this very thing. It earned him – unsurprisingly - a substantially sharper kick this time.
"You know what I mean," Connor rolled his eyes at him.
"Why?" Greagoir asked. "Do I look nervous?"
Connor grinned. "Actually no." The older mage's gaze raked over Greagoir's non-standard Circle wear. "To be honest you look like you're about to do a runner."
This statement inevitably drew the attention of the two attendant Templars. "That would be inadvisable, mage," one of them rumbled behind the upended metal flower pot of his helm, while the other simply gave the impression a glare was involved. Greagoir levelled a pointed look at the Templar who'd spoken.
"You do realise that was a joke, right? Humour…a piss-take, having a bit of a…" His sardonic explanation came to an abrupt halt when the Templar took a step forward, grabbed a fist full of Greagoir's tunic and lifted the young mage to his feet.
"I would also caution you against making fun," the Templar growled. Behind the armoured, angry wall, Enchanter Connor snorted.
"And you realise Templar, whom you are talking to?" Enchanter Connor's voice turned icy. "Who we both are?"
"Won't make any difference who either of you are when you're both lying at the bottom of this lake," the Templar snapped back, releasing the young mage all the same and returning to his post by the boatman. He cast one last, warning look at both mages before turning his back resolutely on them both. Straightening his clothes, Greagoir made a face at his fellow mage. All that was returned in acknowledgement was a cool lift of the young man's noble chin so Greagoir returned his attention to his mindless contemplation of the chilly, dark waters of Lake Calenhad.
To be quite honest, he didn't like Enchanter Connor. When he'd heard he was being sent to Denerim with the Enchanter, Greagoir had groaned in dismay. A few years older than himself, the Enchanter had a reputation for being mercurial at best; warm and jovial one moment, cold and arrogant the next. Greagoir wasn't too sure whether this was due to Connor's ties to one of the most established and esteemed noble lines in Ferelden and therefore felt entitled to be a jittery sod or because that background clashed most uncomfortably with the fact he was a mage. Greagoir had met Connor's parents on a couple of occasions when they had visited the Tower. Though he couldn't quite recall the Arl as being more than just another elderly, grey-haired man, the Arlessa in comparison chilled him. A silent, stone-faced woman, she would have been quite beautiful in her day he supposed. As a mother however…? Greagoir knew the people who had raised him were not his real parents, yet those he called 'mother and father' had shown him more warmth and love than Connor's biological parents ever appeared to deem necessary.
So…perhaps being a pompous, pretentious, changeable prat was an inherited trait…?
At the thought of his 'parents' Greagoir sighed and leaned his chin on his knees. He knew he could have stayed a little longer, chosen to speak a little more with the Captain. Instead he'd run and as a result had to kick his heels for half an hour while waiting for the Enchanter to turn up. Could have. Should have. He was just…just digesting. Yes, that's it. Still coming to terms with what he was; who he was. He wasn't even sure how he should react to all of that. When he'd been told he'd been surprised but…not angry. Just…just…for months...Years.
Ah, bugger it, who am I kidding? I have no idea. Had there been a precedent for someone – something – like him? I am the precedent. Just little old me against the world and all of that…
How many people with the soul of an old god are out there? I mean, really? And I'm not…weird or anything. Or at the least, no one had actually told him to his face that he was a freak. Yet. He felt normal. He'd had a normal upbringing (for a mage anyway). It wasn't as if he was particularly good at magic though. If anything he was…average. He'd never excelled in any particular school of magic; had always had to work pretty hard to master even basic spells. The fact that he was nothing like his bookworm Amell mother probably didn't help either nor was his preference for a sword over a fireball; a dagger instead of a Misdirection Hex. He knew how to do all of the required magical stuff; certainly well enough to pass his exams and get through his Harrowing just fine…just not a shining beacon of magehood. It was…Looking at the 'package' as a whole, all Greagoir saw was average everything; an average mage with average height, nondescript brownish hair, unforgettable brown eyes. Even his voice was sort of…droning. Oh Maker, I've just bored myself to tears and we haven't even reached the shore yet…
Which was strange, now that he came to think of it.
Greagoir peered across the waters beyond the prow of the sailing barge. He was quite sure he'd had a view of the hills behind the Spoiled Princess not that long ago. Now, all that was visible were the red crags of the shoreline, rapidly being consumed by low fog and the vague outline of forest behind that. He glanced at the boatman; a stout dwarf by the name of Arngrim. The two templars Sers Mauris and Ilrik stood on either side, looking out over the waters…still and silent as Templars were wont to be.
Still and silent…
A quick look at Enchanter Connor granted him an enquiringly bent eyebrow and a cool quirk of the lips that made Greagoir rather nervous.
He pointed to the unfamiliar shore. "We uh…" he began. "We appear to have changed um…direction." Greagoir's eyes flicked nervously towards the Templars and dwarf. He'd lived surrounded by Templars all his life. They came from all over Thedas and in different sizes, colour and temperament. Some were easygoing, like his uncle and father. Others…not so much. Some ended up slightly wilted from years of lyrium usage. His father hadn't, thank the Maker, owing to an inherited oversensitivity of the substance and his mother's aversion to her husband using it. In general however, Templars were sometimes a tad…what was the word the First Enchanter used?
Mage crazy.
And when Templars went mage crazy, there was a sudden, inexplicable explosion of blood mages and abominations, followed by heads rolling down staircases and apprentice stampedes in the dormitories…
Greagoir was rather attached to his head. Even more than that, his preference for his head to remain attached to him was high on his Happy List. At the top of it in fact; above limb retention and the non-public display of all of his internal organs. Looking at the stiff armoured backs of the Templars, Ser Mauris' threat of drowning was made fresh and more immediate. On the one hand there was a possibility Greagoir would keep his head. On the other hand, drowning would still mean well…being dead. Which wasn't a preferred outcome at all. And then there was also the…
"Do sit down Gory," Enchanter Connor's voice coolly instructed him. "You're rocking the boat."
Greagoir shot a glance at Connor, not realising he had risen and the barge was indeed wobbling but…"My name is Greagoir," he corrected the older man and trying not to sound too self-centred about it. To his surprise, Connor threw back his head and laughed.
"I like Gory better!" Connor barked. "It suits you!"
Greagoir stared, unable to think of a reply that did not sound childish, petulant or imply that he wanted to kick the Enchanter off the side of Arngrim's boat. This was his first outside deployment since his Harrowing and figured it would be considered poor form, while in the presence of two Templars, to get into a fight with a more senior mage. Instead, he took a step towards Arngrim, intending to give the dwarf a light tap on the shoulder and find out what was going on. As he reached out his hand, Connor gave a shout and stood himself. The barge lurched to one side and the three men at the front of the vessel - Templars and dwarf - crumpled…in the case of Ser Ilrik, toppling sideways right over the side with an eerily near-noiseless splash.
"Stop!"
Greagoir's impulse was to dive in after the Templar, but found Connor preventing him.
"Don't waste your energy!" Connor snapped. "The man is dead. He cannot be helped."
"Of course he can..." Greagoir began to protest, pulling himself up short. "What do you mean 'dead'?" He jabbed a finger at the murky waters. "If neither of us go after him, he will be! I'm a good swimmer, I can…" Greagoir found himself being hurled to the bottom of the barge with a force he did not expect from someone of Connor's build. The Enchanter stood over him and it was only then that the realisation hit Greagoir: Enchanter Connor was not what he appeared to be. Or…well what he appeared to be right now was a red-eye-glowing, possessed abomination which pretty much meant that…
"Maker's Holy Raisin Buns…" Greagoir rasped. "What the Fade are you?"
Connor waved an airy, almost bored hand at him, his voice tellingly double-pitched yet distant at the same time, as though there was more than one person speaking. "Surely you can tell, Gory? I would have thought it was fairly obvious."
"Well…at first glance…" Greagoir gulped nervously. Trying to position himself a little more comfortably amongst the barrels and hard-edged benches in the bottom of the boat, his questing hand found Ser Mauris' nose. The rest of the Templar's face did not feel any better. "What have you done?" Why has he done this? Arngrim lay coiled a little distance away. To his relief, the dwarf twitched and groaned.
"Freedom," Connor stated, forcing Greagoir's attention back to the older mage. "That was the agreement. I wanted to see the world," Connor told him. "I needed a body. The mage kindly let me have this one." Whatever was in Enchanter Connor lifted hands, turning them over and inspecting them, curling fingers and flexing wrists experimentally. "It will do. For now. The Templars would have had to be disposed of sooner or later. They would have tried to stop me. It would have been most inconvenient if they had. Hardly any fun at all. The dwarf…" Connor's flashing eyes flicked irritably towards Arngrim. "The dwarf appears to be slightly more…problematic."
Stepping over one of the benches, Connor bent over the prone boatman. "You'll have to help me," he said to Greagoir's horror. "These dwarves are surprisingly heavy."
"Why?" Greagoir baulked. "How would you know? Throw random dwarves overboard on a regular basis do you?"
Connor shot an amused gaze at him. "For someone of your parentage Gory, you're remarkably dimwitted."
"And proud of it!" Greagoir snapped back. "Especially if it means I don't go around randomly murdering people…! Oh Maker…" He dropped his head into his hands. "Our phylacteries are in Denerim, you do remember? The Chantry will be hunting us as soon as they realise we haven't turned up at the Spoiled Princess."
"That is not my concern," Connor shrugged. "I need only use this body for as long as it is convenient. After that, I'm sure I'll find another willing vessel to occupy."
"I did have to ask, didn't I?" Greagoir muttered miserably, trying desperately to remember what the instructions for mages in these kinds of situations were, only to recall that it really wasn't a mage sort of job, but a Templar one. His eyes strayed towards Ser Mauris's corpse. Templars that were slightly more vigilant than these and Holy Maker…that could have been father…! Maker dammit! This creature might not give a brass nug's bottom what happened to Connor and himself, but he was damned thrice if he allowed it to happen.
"You're thinking of stopping me, aren't you?" the Connor-abomination stated. "I can tell you now: don't bother. I can just as easily kill you as I did the others."
"But I hadn't said anything!" Greagoir protested. Connor smirked.
"Well, if it was me, I would want to stop me too," the Connor-abomination shrugged again. "So…will you help me or no?"
"No!" Greagoir spluttered. "Absolutely not! I'm…" With an awkward tug, he had drawn Ser Mauris' longsword from the scabbard on the Templar's back and rose. He swung it towards Connor, the blade wobbling slightly. He'd trained with a longsword before, but in the confines of the narrow barge with benches, a dead Templar and boxed provisions in the way, his footing was less sure. "So help me Enchanter, I'll cut off your head!"
The abomination threw back that head to laugh heartily. "And what will you tell them at the Tower? That a senior mage went berserk, killed two Templars and a dwarf but was vanquished by a junior mage who then returned to tell the tale? What will they think?"
They…? The point of the sword wavered slightly. Greagoir pursed his lips. It would look…bad if only he came back alive, he supposed. How would he explain what happened to Enchanter Connor? The two Templars? It…if his mother were here, she'd…but she wasn't here, Greagoir reminded himself. There were no other witnesses, only his word to go by. "Anything I liked," Greagoir told the older man, feeling little confidence in the claim.
"But you wouldn't," Connor's smirk widened. "You are no killer. Quite aside from the…"
"I have a duty!" Greagoir interrupted hotly. "Enchanter Connor's my…well okay he's not a friend and he's annoying and not someone I would invite out to a drink with the boys but that's besides the point! The point is…the point is…" What is the point? Would First Enchanter Torrin know Connor had been possessed by a demon by just looking at the man's decapitated head? Probably not. Nor would there be a way to prove he hadn't been part of this. He could quote his record of relatively good behaviour but against the reputation of a more senior, established mage and no one else to support his claim, even his father would not be able to extricate him. Then his Knight Commander uncle would be forced to make an example of him...This is a mess…But what can I do?
There seemed little choice.
Greagoir lowered Ser Mauris' sword, the metal clanging loudly above the wind when it landed hilt first on the Templar's armour. Connor's smile turned feral, hungry. "I knew you would see reas…"
He didn't see Greagoir's fist slamming into the side of his head and so the look of surprise was only very brief. The body the demon inhabited went slack, stumbling backwards. Greagoir caught a glimpse of the red in Connor's eyes winking out before the elder mages' legs bumped the sides of the barge then flipped into the air and disappeared. The splash of the unconscious Enchanter Connor hitting the water on the other side was far more audible than Ser Ilrik's had been.
"Oh for the love of…!" Greagoir groaned. Leaping over the benches, he vaulted over the side, diving in after the other man, the cold of the water hitting him like a wall of frigid stone.
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