Around day 28 – Lunch, on a lake
A lot has changed in the last few days. I have many things to catch up on, the least of those being sleep. (FYI: brain begging for 10+ hours. For a start).
I can only guess what day it is, seeing as I'm on the receiving end of some shiny metal cold shoulders and no one will tell me how long I was unconscious. At least one day has passed since my last entry. I spent that day following Leliana around and helping to prepare the flimsy town for siege. We got to set some booby-traps and explore the results of a quasi-religious placebo effect on some knights.
If was fun, but then night fell, the nasties descended and it all gets a bit fuzzy.
The non-stop conveyor belt of flesh and bones was an… interesting experience, shall we say, but not something I want to repeat. Ever. Almost reminds me of the Monopoly Incident of 2013 when Ron's strategy got between Hermione and victory, and—ah, actually, let's not go there.
Anyway, I can honestly say that I have never seen a dog so excited as when those walking bones presented themselves for a mauling.
The monsters weren't zombies, it was quite obvious that someone/thing was pulling the proverbial strings. They were inferi, I could feel the malice emanating from the castle. Joke's on me for thinking I was rid of them.
I don't have to do much as the Master of Death. I don't ferry souls or chase down people who hide from or cheat death (if they're canny enough to extend their lives, good for them). Death is natural order; all things that begin will end, and that process cannot be reversed. I don't need to interfere, everyone dies eventually. Necromancers playing with souls, on the other hand… those I actively try to re-educate.
There are rules. Don't kick puppies, eat your greens, try not to cause a temporal flux on you day off – they're suggestions when it comes down to it; subjective depending on where society's moral compass points. Taunting theses boundaries is human nature, thank Merlin because that's how history –or my life– is made interesting.
And then there are Laws. Capital 'L'. There are lines you do not cross, some actions that are truly damnable. Souls are temperamental things and generally react badly to prodding of any kind, never mind that such tampering is akin to desecrating everything you hold innocent.
Playing with the dead? That's a big no.
A prevalent sense of wrongness settled deep in my gut, just as the monsters shambled into sight.
The souls in these men were chained to their bodies long after their time. They struggled, wailing in a way that only I could hear, tugging at my own soul and trying to use it to pull themselves free.
I hate inferi; they're just as bad as dementors, except I have to feel sorry for them.
Still, that's no excuse for being such a colossal idiot.
"Hold it!" I bellowed in my best she-Weasley voice. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
The nearest skeleton glanced at its sharpened crowbar.
"Not you! Demon, or whatever you are; the dead fall under my protection. If you have any sentience at all, you should know to clear out. Now."
Utter silence. That annoyed me. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"
The demon spooked, the control slipped. Effective immediately, most crumpled –one going so far as to dramatically turn to dust– and the skeletons further away retreated to watch.
"And don't you forget it." I relaxed, satisfied that the feeling of wrongness had left my immediate surroundings.
I may have jumped a bit when Ser Perth ran into a hastily constructed proximity ward and bounced back off, hurtling those accusations of abomination. I'm beginning to suspect that I am going to get that a lot around here.
"He has a point." Aedan acceded, similarly ignoring the knight persistently trying to get through my wards. His attention was much more focused on me, his stance ready. "Only a deal with a demon could give you enough power to destroy so many at once."
"I didn't destroy them." They overestimate my abilities, my conscience and the extent to which it reins in my creativity. If I could I most certainly would. "It was the Puppet Master –who we should be dealing with right now– did that when it ran off."
"So you say. But if you're not possessed, what have you done that would scare even a demon?"
Granted, that was probably a relevant question. And so many possible answers. I wouldn't have had enough time to even scratch the surface.
Not that I got the chance.
Sten moved in the corner of my eye. I'd been in his company long enough to know that my instinctive step back was a move in the direction of safety.
My few remaining dredges of sense also noted, having watched them all fight together, that Sten's blaring of "THREAT!" was used to draw attention for a reason, but in the height of the moment, the part of my head responsible for drawing important parallels was cowering behind instinct and my thinning wards.
I heard a sincere apology from the blond Warden, before something shifted in Alistair. It's easy to forget that the painfully young man, who can be coaxed into blushing with no more than a sentence and theatrically raised eyebrows, is a deadly warrior.
Something that had been buried surged out in a blue wave of power. Starving tendrils latched onto my magic and pulled. The next thing I knew, I was bereft of the energy that had been part of me since my birth.
"Sonofabitch!" Shock set in just before the pain. I was drained, empty, kind of terrified. Only then did my nerves scream.
My wards crumbled. I'm assuming this impressive bump and minor concussion is the result of a clonk via sword pommel, but I don't remember getting knocked out, and that at least is a small mercy.
Ugh, the whole thing is so stupid.
For Merlin's sake, I'm a grown man several times over! Complacent. Overconfident. Lazy. Isn't this running to a familiar tune? I should know better by now.
Snape was right; I really do have a tragic inability to learn from my mistakes. It's not as if I haven't had ample opportunity.
I hate it when I have to use 'Snape' and 'right' in that manner, it's a sure sign my life has hit a serious low.
But really…
I only met them a few weeks ago, I know they've never trusted me, and I never went to any effort to get them to even like me – more so the opposite.
Leliana might like my stories and my semi-sentient bag, Zevran may click with my awful sense of humour, the Wardens may well think that my value as a fighter outweighed my proficiency for aggravating all walks of life, but they're out to save the world. They're serious about this gig, they don't dance around Death like I do.
Aedan makes sacrifices and hard choices every day. I won't flatter myself by saying that handing me to the Templars was more of a sad obligation than an unpleasant speed bump in their road.
I am a dangerous, crazy mage, and who can blame them for that assessment? I could hurt people or hinder their goal, so I can understand why they decided that the Templars should put up with me.
Doesn't mean that I won't turn Alistair into a donkey if I see him again. In fact, I'm picturing it right now and the pre-emptive satisfaction has put me in a good enough mood to endure my ostentatious Templar escorts. There's half a dozen of them. I would say something haughty and prideful, but sadly I think it may be overkill. I could deal with one while I'm this drained. We're on a boat; it'd only require a strategically placed foot. The splash would probably clue the others in, unfortunately.
I don't like these guys. Decided that within minutes of meeting them. They call me "mage" like it's a curse, and they've hit me six times already this morning for no good reason. And twice more because I implied some very unkind things about Bucket-Head's mother, but that I at least deserved.
More than anything, I hate them because I'm vulnerable. I don't mean in the usual sense. The people I spent the last few centuries around could hurt me, kill me even. Fatal mistakes were not something to be sought out, but the consequences were never as drastic as the label suggests.
I expected the same this side of the Veil out of habit. No matter there are dwarves, oddly smart dogs, trees and other exciting new things to serve as a trivial break to the ceaseless monotony, there was still one constant: I am secure in my immortality, am I not?
I was a little dismissive of the Templars, and that was quite an epic misjudgement. Many things could temporarily hurt and kill me, but these helmed lightning rods can stop me. The moment I gather enough magic, they hit me with the blue stuff and I'm helpless in addition to being nauseous.
I thought I'd missed the thrill of true fear such as this. I'd forgotten how the ice that starts in the chest and spreads panic through your veins, how the blood pounds against your eyes and your head just screamed at you to do something. Now that I do remember, suddenly the adrenalin rush has lost its appeal.
The Templars watch me obsessively. So far I've only gotten away with writing this because when they look over my shoulder they see botanical studies. I'll thank Fred and George personally the next time we chat. But the ruse will probably be up the moment they touch this thing, if they're as sensitive with their anti-magic as I'm beginning to suspect.
I do not need that on my plate; getting out of this mess is going to be enough trouble as it is, but add a couple entries about travelling across the Veil? They'd never leave me alone, I'd be lucky to see freedom again in the next few lifetimes.
I can't just stop writing – my drop into insanity will be inevitable if my thoughts are left bouncing around in my head too long.
The only thing worse than being confined in a tower by the likes of Fist-Happy and Bucket-Head is the idea of being confined eternally to the inside of my own demented mind. I joke about being crazy, but there's a difference between Luna-crazy and Voldemort-crazy, and the second is a possibility that terrifies me.
If it comes down to it, I'll risk carting around an incriminating book over going a week without it.
Once we're closer to the Tower I'll dump it. I'll be able to get access more paper there, even if I have to resort to encrypted messages in book margins or etchings in the walls.
Maybe I'll mail it to Zev. I know the charm, although I am lacking an owl. He'll break into it eventually, but until then it'll really bother him.
Eh, why not? He deserves a little torment, he's not my favourite person at the moment. There's got to be a bird around here someplace.
…
*This book was harder for the reader to find. There's nothing remarkable about its appearance. Mercifully, it is easier to read. The writing is initially shaky, but it is clear that the author's thoughts are calmer.*
Day 32 – A Great Stinking Tower
Right, I'm at the Tower. Like the new book? Back to that in a moment.
Once confined, the Templars were more inclined to chat (read: gloat) and I finally got some answers. I was unconscious for a day, the trip took two days on their stupid boat and I vested myself of my old book along the way. It was harder than anticipated, involving a gull, a semi-permanent sticking charm, and a stalking compulsion. Now it's Zevran's problem.
The Tower was made with the theme of doom and gloom set firmly in mind. Its dark architecture just oozes oppression. If the Templars have their way, I'll never get another look at it from the outside.
Inside it isn't much better, but maybe that's the clinging scraps of demon talking.
It's as gross as it sounds.
Knight-Commander Greagoir hates me, probably on principle, First-Enchanter Irving is disturbed, and both are concerned. I'm almost more of a pain than an asset. I haven't even really annoyed anyone yet but they've already made it quite clear that the only reason they haven't made an excuse to kill me is because too many mages died when the demons rampaged and they're short on manpower.
The cellars are the worst. They're musty and the rank smell of blood is still painfully fresh. The cells are bare but for a bucket of unmentionable things, and they didn't provide so much as a mattress.
They're "taking no chances" and I have an appointment with a "harrowing" in a couple hours that I really mustn't miss. Now, why would I want to go and avoid something so cheerily named? I'd neglect to show, but there's a concentrated suppressant ward around the bars. Can't even touch them, much less escape.
They tossed me a dress that makes Ron's Yule robes look fashionable and told me to get dressed, then stood around looking intimidating until I complied. I now have no ties to my world left. I can't really say how I feel about that.
I did get this book though. Irving had a minion run it down with a plea to do something constructive instead of trying to erode the masonry. They stole my pen, so I also have to re-learn how to write with a quill. I'd forgotten how annoying these were.
I can swear in ten languages, yet I can't think of a phrase strong enough to express how much I hate them right now.
