Prologue, Part Seven
The Battle of Ostagar III
The rain had grown from light to heavy. Later still, it grew from heavy to a picture that made not droplets, but full strides in the air.
"Hm?"
Hawke peered out at something past the torrent from above. The rain obscured her vision, but through keen eyes she could still make out a shape of something in the sky.
"…No, that can't be right…" Hawke said to herself, fixated. The Archdemon had a rather distinguishable shape. It looked like a great or high dragon corrupted by the taint, jagged in outline.
And it was not an Archdemon that she saw.
… …
…
The rain was beginning to grow from light to heavy.
An old warden once told Alistair that anything a man is overexposed to in wartime, he'll become deaf to. Archers don't hear the harsh pitch of whistling arrows. Blacksmiths don't hear the pound of a hammer against the anvil. Prisoners of a castle basement don't hear the screams from the torture chambers, veteran soldiers don't hear the death throes of comrades, and Grey Wardens don't hear the screeches of darkspawn.
For some reason, he couldn't seem to hear the rain. He heard something else, though.
"Hold the gates! Let not a single spawn through!"
"Always orders with these loud-types, isn't it? Never just saying 'hi', asking how the day's going..." Alistair grumbled while helping push some of the soldiers out of the way, trying to make room for Rhyn and Kristoff.
The flankguard's battle outside the Tower of Ishal had drawn to a stalemate. The Thedosians had fallen back behind the walls surrounding the tower, forcing the darkspawn into a melee at a single chokehold at the gate. This limited the increasing numerical advantage of the darkspawn on this front into a slow exchange with less than a dozen simultaneously active combatants on both sides.
This had a few drawbacks for the Fereldan forces.
To start, it removed the slope advantage that the hillside had, forcing the melee fights onto even terrain.
Additionally, it made Ferelden's ranged support non-existent. Being of Tevinter make, Ostagar's ancient walls lacked the architectural design that would make them very practical for non-mages. They lacked both machicolations for raining down arrows and proper crenellations for archers' cover. With the darkspawn swarming this close, there was no easy way for the archers to come into play.
Finally, it brought the possibility of darkspawn bringing their own makeshift artillery into play. If they managed to make a breach in the wall, the advantage of a single chokepoint would be removed. Worse, if they managed to push Ferelden back to the bridge they would have room enough to move their long-ranged equipment inside the walls, potentially giving the darkspawn the opportunity to either rain down on the denser forces in the valley or counter-siege the Trebuchets inside Ostagar.
Currently, Alistair's party wasn't fighting. They were making their way towards the field hospital set up in the courtyard next to the tower.
"Men infected with darkspawn blood use the outside tents! All other wounded, take to the tower for healing!" A revered mother shouted at the trail of incoming wounded.
"Another one. Great." Alistair muttered.
"This is good enough." Rhyn stated, terse. He set Kristoff down on a cot inside a vacant tent. "Cydor, can you get to work patching him up?
"…"
"Hey, Cydor!"
"My apologies...what were we…?" The elf-warden-mage Cydor shook his head, sweating as if he were afflicted by fever.
"Healing Kristoff. Can you close off that wound completely, do something about the pain?"
"If we had a mirror I could probably…ah, I must have pushed myself too hard during that fight."
"Are you alright? Did you get hit by anything during the battle?"
"Ah, no." Cydor shook his head again with eyes still and narrow from fatigue. "But there's this ringing in my ears…almost as if…" He stuck his head outside and looked up at the top of the Tower of Ishal. The signal was still unlit.
The beacon was covered and could still be lit regardless of weather, so the growing rain shouldn't affect it.
"Halt! You there!" A voice called out at the wardens intruding on their territory.
When Alistair left the tent to see the approaching source, he was met with a surreal sight.
A lay sister blonde of hair and amber of eyes had shouted at them. Wearing bloodied chantry robes, white bandages wrapped around the lower half of her face as some sort of makeshift mask, and a saw in one of her hands. The saw had a coat of blood, fresh, dripping from the teeth.
"These tents are for blighted patients only!" She placed the knuckles of her free hand against her hip. "Anyone who is not tainted risks infection."
"Ah, I, we—." Alistair stumbled over his words trying to explain for the group.
"We're Grey Wardens." Someone explained for him. "The taint doesn't affect us."
"You're Grey Wardens?!" She shouted, shocked.
She suddenly seized the hands of two different wardens, forcibly tugging them along. "All of you who aren't busy, come with me!" She shouted again, her normal voice clearly suppressed by the rush of blood in her brain. "We need extra hands to help us hold down the tainted troops during the amputations."
"Ah, wait one second. Do you—" Alistair called out at her as she was trying to leave with the two persons she had taken hold of.
"What?!" The chantry sister turned to him and shouted, infuriated.
Alistair reflexively put up both of his hands, slightly intimidated.
"…A mirror? Sorry if this seems a bit stupid, but do you know where we could find one? My friend says it might help heal our wounded." Alistair asked on Cydor's behalf.
To Alistair's surprise, the chantry sister reached behind her back and produced a handheld mirror for purposes of vanity.
"Take this, I usually use it to do my face. My name's on it, so make sure to give it back when you're done."
And then she ran off, kidnapped wardens in tow.
Alistair walked back inside the tent, completely blank minded.
"…Well, at least that wasn't weird. Yeah, not weird at all..." He remarked, dumbstruck. He looked down at the mirror and flipped it over to the non-reflective side. The initials 'M.R.' were carved on the back.
"Chantry Sisters helping patch up the wounded? That's relatively normal, it's not like prayers will sew the skin together." Rhyn responded.
"Well, yeah, but…helping how, exactly? By looking like a murderer running around with a jaggedy-cutty thing?" Alistair asked, his head tilted and eyes rolled up.
"You mean the medical saw…? Like she said, they're doing amputations."
"Did she say that?" Alistair asked, unable to recall. He must not have heard. "And…they're cutting off people's limbs…?" He was a little a bit put-off by the mental image.
"At spots where the darkspawn bit or bled on open wounds, probably…they think it'll stop the darkspawn blood from spreading. A rather common procedure in Anderfels and other regions plagued with Darkspawn."
"Does that work?" Alistair asked, trying to not sound hopeful.
"Of course not." Rhyn answered. "The Taint always wins."
"That aside, can I see the mirror in your hand, Alistair?" Cydor asked, sweating from the brow, blue mana generating a light from his palms.
"Right. Here you are." Alistair handed the mirror to Cydor. "How exactly will this help with his arm? Some kind of magic that uses mirrors?"
"Only the magic of experience." Cydor said, pulling his hands away from the wound. The protruding stub of bone from where Kristoff's arm had been sliced off was fully covered by skin now. It might be slightly disingenuous to call it 'healed', but the threat of the wound reopening or infection was now gone.
"Kristoff? Can you hear me?" Cydor asked, leaning down.
"Nnnng." Kristoff made a grunt. He had been dipping between detached and awake consciousness ever since they had passed the gate.
"When you look at your arm, can you still feel it?"
"Can still feel my fingers, even…just as the old wardens always said." Kristoff said, weakly.
Dismemberment, though not the norm, wasn't uncommon among Grey Wardens. It was shared knowledge among the senior ranks of the Order that loss of a limb was rarely something quietly accepted by the mind. There were several cases of maimed wardens waking up after sound sleep, looking down at a lost leg or hand, and then feeling immediate pain and a feeling like they could still move around the parts of their body that had been lopped off. This could go on for several years after the limb had been lost, sometimes persisting all the way to their death or Calling.
"Here, hold both of your arms up side-by-side. Keep them eye-level."
Kristoff did as Cydor said, and held what remained of one of his arms beside the other.
"Now rotate the wrist on your existing hand and then try to do it with the one that isn't there." Cydor angled the mirror so that Kristoff saw his existing arm overlap over his injured one in the reflection. "Look into the mirror while you do it."
Kristoff did as he said, and his face relaxed, a heaviness lifted from it.
"Better?" Cydor asked.
"Yes, much…where did you—?"
"Years ago, from the Marshal of Nevarra. She wrote a book describing a wide assortment of methods designed to deal with various injuries, one of which was the use of mirrors to alleviate the recurring pains from loss of a limb." Cydor explained.
Alistair's eyes were wide with astonishment. "That's pretty amazing…that really works?"
"Well, that's the funny thing about pain. It really is only in your head."
…
…
Cousland bashed his hilt against the side of a Hurlock Alpha's head. Its skull fractured and temporal bone caved in at impact.
Vigilance's blue flame had extinguished, prolonged fighting and an encounter with a particularly dead ogre having tired out its owner. He couldn't break off from the front line anymore, but he had strength enough to stay at the helm.
Hot oil poured from above and incinerated the skin of the darkspawn's front line like liquid fire. One genlock dashed through the waterfall of black and lost everything but the motor function of its mouth, clamping and thrashing impotently at the air as it fell to the ground.
The Warden-Commander took one step back to where it had landed, placed his boot on its head, and calmly squashed it like a melon.
The human forces in the valley had fallen back beneath the bridge for the defensive advantage and then held their ground without any significant gains or losses. Casualties were still low and particularly lopsided in the Thedosians' favor, but visually none could see a change in the Darkspawn's numbers or plan.
He had already rested the front line twice by cycling out those in the fighting in the front with his reserves. If Ferelden didn't make any progress in the next hour, he would need to start putting his fatigued soldiers back in the front.
He focused his eyes forward, perceiving every darkspawn in front of him—
—And felt something small tap at his armor from behind.
Without time for the source to retract their fingers, the Black-and-Red armored Warden spun around and seized the small entity by the throat. With one hand, he lifted them in the air and charged back behind Fereldan's line, violently knocking aside the Thedosians of the sword-and-shield cohort and choking the life out of the defenseless thing held up by the throat.
He stopped, and the writhing shape in the dark that he caught started to shout at him.
"—Ack!…Me!" An elf shouted with both his hands trying to pry off the immovable vice around his throat. "It's me! The one who cleaned your armor, remember?!"
"…"
"I'm not a darkspawn!" Pick shouted. It felt like Cousland's fingers had only tightened.
"I am aware." Cousland said blankly. When, exactly, he became aware; he didn't say.
The Teyrn of Highever released the fingers of his right hand, and the elf servant he was hoisting in the air fell on the side of his hips, gasping for air.
"I assume there is a reason for your being here?" Cousland said, his question a demand.
Pick staggered up on his feet and panted out his words.
"Loghain sent me!"
"And?"
"He needs to see you immediately!"
"Then run back and tell him to send a better reason than none at all." Cousland turned away.
But the elf insisted by pulling at the arm that had constricted his throat.
And before The Butcher of Amaranthine could call the low elf servant an insolent whelp and take his consciousness, he heard something that could pierce through all of his stubbornness and incur the miracle of making him change his mind—
"It's the magi of the Grey Wardens, they're—!"
…
…
"Alistair! Is there an Alistair Theirin here?!"
The one named heard himself being called outside.
He stepped outside the tent's flaps.
"I'm an Alistair, how are—you?"
But in the middle of his customary quip, he saw the reason why they were looking for him.
"…Adaar?" Alistair walked over to the party of and saw the slumped over Qunari they were supporting by the arms.
Two of the gynours he had previously met were carrying him as best they could, Adaar having sunk below their heights and his legs dragging against the ground.
"You're Alistair, right?!" The one-eyed gynour asked, hoarse. "He collapsed on the ground not more than ten minutes ago. Last thing he managed to say was that we needed to take him to you."
"We think he's possessed." The other gynour added. He was younger and considerably more anxious than the sole-eyed one.
"Possessed…?" Alistair repeated, bewildered. "Um, that…doesn't just happen. Possession requires some sort of catalyst, a deal, or—"
"You can do something about that, can't you? You know, help him? Get rid of the demon?"
"Ah, sure…" Alistair answered, a bit weakly.
During his time in the Templar Order, there were lectures held in the Chantry at nightbreak about how to spot the signs of possession, usually held by some lay brother or graying templar too stubborn to retire to Orlais. But they were always contrasted in the morning exercises by the drillmasters shouting to show no mercy and never risk an abomination.
He usually slept through the former to get through the latter.
"Alistair…listen…" A voice called to him from below.
Everyone else went quiet when they heard the Qunari speak.
"If I look like I'm being possessed…if it even seems to you like there's the slightest of chances that I'm being taken over…" Kaaras couldn't open his eyes all the way, but between the slit of the lids a pupil could be seen quivering in place, with all the strength of a Mabari at the end of its chain.
It was so strange. Usually Adaar was every bit as talkative as a deaf tranquil, and every bit as uncordial to Alistair as every other mage in camp; but now that he looked close to dying, he was more animated than ever.
"…Then stab me. As many times as you need to until I stop struggling."
Alistair's eyes went wide. "What are you—?"
"I'm not afraid to die…I've lived a good life…" said the sixteen-year-old Qunari. "…plenty of us die all the time…I'm not afraid…" Adaar grunted in pain and slumped further towards the ground, his body beneath his waist unmoving.
One of the two gynours dumped Adaar's arm off of his back, and stepped away.
"What are you—?!" The one-eyed gynour, still supporting Adaar's weight, shouted at his younger counterpart.
The younger gynour reached for a pouch on his person, and then threw a knife at the ground in front of Alistair.
"Here. Use this." The younger gynour said to Alistair. "It'll go quicker than your sword."
"…I can't do that—"
"You have to!" The younger gynour shouted and bowed his torso down. He wasn't commanding, but pleading. "Please listen to me, Sir. I'm not a brave man. My father was a soldier in the Rebellion under King Maric. He served for all his best years and then beat me every night when he came home after the war. I swore on the lives of my family that I wouldn't kill another man and come back to my wife after this Blight a changed man…please, you're a Templar, aren't you? Or a Grey Warden, or whatever! You have to kill him to save the rest of us—isn't that what you do?!"
Alistair went quiet from the gynour's confession of emotion. He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of what to say or do. As urgent as it was every part of his body felt like staying still and waiting right now.
But the silent moment of desperation did not last for long.
"Alistair!" A voice called out from back in the tent.
Alistair turned around, and saw Rhyn beckoning him.
"Get in here! Cydor collapsed while he was healing Kristoff!"
The words alone were enough to confirm the worst suspicions.
Alistair tried running back to the tent. But in panic he turned his head back at Adaar and the pleading trebuchet-loader, then forward, then back again. His run was more of a panicked walk—a stride of full length that was like a jump, then a pause and moment of wondering if it was really alright to leave them alone—and then a jump again.
Inside the tent, the temperature seemed to rise to a sweat. Kristoff had fell faint, but the elf healer with a missing finger was holding his head with both of his hands, flat on the ground. He rolled and kicked like a wingless insect beneath a magnifying glass.
"Didn't give any warning at all. Just dropped down and started crying out about the pain." Rhyn explained the obvious.
Cydor bit into the tent's fabric and screamed silent, jerking the cloth with his writhing and waving the walls and roof like a great storm. Compared to this, Kristoff losing an arm seemed like nothing at all.
It was possible for the Veil to become thinner in areas of great violence and bloodshed. Demonic possession of mages would not be impossible.
Alistair saw Rhyn move his mouth, but for some reason, it felt very hard for Alistair to listen. There was something unfamiliar beating in his ears, and each time he tried to look at their face his eyes seemed to zoom in on some spot behind them.
Alistair could probably guess at what he was saying, though. Some sort of variation of "what should we do?"
And he didn't know the answer. He always relied on other people to make these decisions for him.
First, it was Duncan. Then, it was Cousland.
"I don't have anyone smarter than me here…"
The more senior wardens at hand were either incapacitated, preoccupied, or not in the right state of mind.
And if there were really a tear in the Veil somewhere causing all of this, then he had a finite amount of time.
Alistair took in a deep breath, racking his brain for a solution. The weight of the silverite breastplate against his lungs felt like someone was standing on top of him.
And then, he made his decision.
He ran back to the trebuchet-loaders as fast as he could. He needed to deal with Adaar first.
Alistair picked up the knife at the feet of the gynour that had thrown it to the ground earlier.
Then, he pointed it at Adaar.
He drove it into Adaar's clothes, and starting cutting them apart.
"Help me get his robes off!" Alistair ordered the two trebuchet-loaders that had brought Adaar over.
"Ah, understood!"
One of the most obvious signs of possession by a demon was the sudden appearance and growth of bulging grafts of corrupted flesh over one's skin. Or their skin could be twisted into something exoskeletal, parts of it spiking out like tendrils or coiling roots of a tree.
If Alistair could rule out the physical signs of possession, he could ensure everyone was safe.
"Turn him over."
The gynours did as he said and flipped over Adaar from lying on his back to his stomach. Kaaras' skin tone was a consistent pale grey on both side. From what Alistair could see, there was no corrupted flesh purple or white.
"Alright…" Alistair could at the very least rule out the most obvious signs of possession.
He could potentially reenter the tent and check for any physical signs of possession on Cydor's body, but if that turned up nothing he still wouldn't know why they were nonresponsive or if there were really a possession of mages occurring at Ostagar.
The quickest way to investigate would be…
"Is anyone here from the Circle of Magi?!" Trampling the grass, Alistair took off, running in the direction of the Tower of Ishal. "Any mages or anyone who's suddenly collapsed!"
The crowds of Chantric Sisters and Brothers, healers, and wounded became onlookers as he passed by them, repeating himself.
One of them, an Orlesian circle mage in white robes, rose her hand reluctantly.
Alistair saw her, and darted straight in her direction.
He grabbed both of her hands by the wrists and unleashed a barrage of questions.
"Are you alright right now—have you fainted or felt any headaches come on?! Have you noticed any spots of corrupted flesh or involuntary casts of unusual magic?!"
"Ah!" The white-robed mage made a little noise of fear, clearly uncomfortable with an on-the-spot interrogation.
Realizing the situation, Alistair released his hands from hers and took a step back. "Sorry!" In bemusement, he shouted as if angry. This would be a bit scary for most people.
"I'm sorry, it's just…" Alistair exhaled and tried to calm himself down. It felt really hard to hear right now. "Does anything feel off to you right now…anything at all?"
After a second's pause of confusion, the girl shook her head, timid.
Alistair turned away from her and calmed his breathing. He needed to think rationally.
There were two simultaneous cases of incapacitation of two different mages.
There was no clear attacker in either case, if there were one at all.
Other magi did not seem to be affected.
"…"
He racked his brain as hard as he could, but he couldn't make sense of it at all. Just thinking about it made his head swell up and swirl around. The take charge, decisive attitude didn't suit him at all.
He looked up at the sky. The rain was growing stronger.
It was growing from heavy, to full strides in the air.
He felt someone bump into him, bringing his awareness back down. He was in the middle of a warzone, after all, he shouldn't expect things to pause at his confusion.
Alistair's sight came back down to eye level, as he saw a flash of white robes run past him. It looked like she tried to say sorry, but the rain drowned her out.
She was running toward a crowd in the background where one of the medical tents where chantry sisters were performing amputations. There might have been some commotion inside them, but the gathering crowd didn't seem to make too much noise.
But it didn't concern him. He needed to get back to the rest of the wardens he had brought with him.
He wasn't one of the amazing ones. Cousland, Hawke. Those were the heroic types that could change everything they passed by. He wasn't going to suddenly push past the crowd to see what the problem was and solve it on the spot. He had one problem now and he needed to fix it before he could possibly try to solve another.
He walked, slowly, and made his way back to the gynours and the wardens. He really needed to run right now, but he felt too drained.
…He had felt drained for a while, now. A year to be precise.
"…I…I have to be really bad at this if this is what I feel like right now. Just doing something like this makes me…"
The crowd seemed to grow larger and taller as he skirted along its circumference.
Didn't make any sense how they were getting taller. His eyes were just tired.
When he made it back, he raised his arm weakly and spoke.
"Hey everyone…back...what…?" Alistair said. At least, he thought he said that to him. Something seemed off at the moment.
The sole-eyed leader of the gynours had immediately darted up to him and started…shouting in his face? It looked like he was, but Alistair really couldn't tell.
But odder still was when the two hands of the trebuchet-loader latched onto his shoulders, trying to shake him around—and he didn't really feel anything, either.
…Like Aedan had said, overexposure to a sensation can cause someone to become deaf to it. This took years to occur, and it didn't just apply to the sense of hearing.
Grey Wardens dealt with mental pain and anguish all the time. Plenty were recruited from duressed backgrounds, had watched others die in The Joining, and then acclimated themselves to the life of the Deep Roads and knowledge of the inevitable.
But Humans, Elves, Dwarves, and Qunari aren't such fragile things to break down from those experiences alone. Most just found their own ways to endure, and any stress they may have had in their hearts could be wound up and restrained with the strength of willpower and toughness.
Any amount of pain could be overcome and enslaved by an indomitable will. Or dodged with a flexible mind, shut away by thoughts of something else.
If they were assailed with a curse that caused it to increase to the point of event horizon, would any of them notice until it was too late?
Alistair looked around.
A group of healers, wounded, and other spectators had gathered around him—just like at the medical tent from earlier.
He looked over to the tent where Kristoff, Cydor, and Rhyn were. There should be screams of pain coming out of that tent. So why was it deathly quiet?
He walked over to the tent…
…At least he tried to, but for some reason the ground wouldn't stay still.
His feet tumbled over, and he hit the ground.
Getting hit can clear a man's mind.
Hitting himself against the world was enough for him to realize that his 'rational' thinking from earlier wasn't rational at all.
Right from the start, he shouldn't have suspected demons at all.
Neither Adaar nor Cydor were casting blood magic or doing anything that should allow demons to cross the Veil. Mages don't just explode into abominations out of the blue. If he had simply trusted both of their competencies instead of listening to an emotional plea and letting his own biased desire to protect get in the way, he could have realized that.
There was an alternate explanation, a single realization, and it arrived in following pieces—
The crowd that had gathered around the medical tent earlier…was probably the very one where his extra wardens had been taken to help.
And the crowd around him right now—was perfectly fine.
"No…"
He said it out loud, but he couldn't hear himself speak.
It didn't matter at all that Adaar and Cydor were both mages. That would only matter if it were really demonic possession, and it was not.
Instead, they had something else in common that could single them out from everyone else on the battlefield.
Something that they had in common with him.
"Maker, no…"
And then, the throbbing in his ears finally burst.
…
…
"The Commander of the Grey!" Loghain shouted.
"It is you who says so." Cousland replied, nonchalant.
They were standing near the rear of the army, where the valley ended with a wall of geography to their backs. With them were nobles, tacticians, and all else those who wanted a claim to fighting without any danger.
But there were others, as well. A number of Grey Wardens were strewn out at their feet, all collapsed and struggling in involuntary spasms and cries of pain.
With a straight back, Cousland looked down at one of them. A Warden-Lieutenant name Clarel was flat on the ground in arrest, shaking. There were three missing fingers and gushing wounds on one of her hands, and teeth marks for each corresponding knuckle.
She took another bite of her own hand, and made it four.
"Some of my men claimed this to be the sure work of some demon from the Fade. Do you believe so?" Loghain asked.
Looking away from the mess on the ground as if it were someone else's problem, Cousland's unaffected eyes met Loghain's.
"You had served in the Rebellion for six years and have bemoaned it for thirty—and yet you need me to answer that question?"
"No, I suppose I do not." Loghain replied, scowling. He already knew the answer just as Cousland did, he simply wanted to confirm it.
It was relatively easy to rule out demonic possession. Anyone with experience working with mages and a collected mind could spot the absence of a catalyst that would force such a causation.
Cousland placed his left hand to his face, one finger poking against his cheekbone. "What did they utter before they became this state? Any words that might hint at the cause or symptoms?"
"Most claimed a headache or fever at first. As time progressed, some started complaining about loss of hearing or vision. Every warden had some sort of individualized pain, but all of them—eventually—stopped saying anything at all."
"And you summoned me personally, The Warden-Commander furthest from you, to deal with the problem? Take it up with Fontaine or Blackwall, and leave me be. Your ineptitude with Orlesians is not justification enough to take me away from the front."
"Why, certainly." With no daintiness, Loghain replied sarcastically. "The Warden-Constable of Orlais is right behind you. Why don't you ask him what he thinks of all of this?"
With all intent of doing so, The Warden-Commander of Ferelden turned around to do so.
But there wasn't anyone there. Not at eye level.
Cousland had to look down instead, at a convulsing thing that was choking on its own tongue.
Cousland couldn't recognize his face, but he saw the medal of the Silverite Wings adorned on his armor.
"…Your messenger claimed it to be only the magi."
"It was only the mages at first, but it spread to all the others." Loghain's distinct voice was as gravelly as always. It was not the type that needed to repeat itself.
"…" Cousland looked up at the unlit Tower of Ishal, silent.
"I had suspected you were no different until you came to me. Do you not notice any changes, Warden?"
"…Has the lyrium sand in the tunnels below the Tower of Ishal been detonated yet?" Cousland answered the question with an entirely different question. He did not feel any difference at all, and he did not care as to why.
"No, it has not…what are you plotting, Warden?"
"Plotting? Nothing of the sort, I am simply going to allow you to tend to your own mess here, and I will tend to mine." Cousland turned to leave.
But he felt someone stopping him. This would be the second time today.
"Warden." Loghain's grip tightened around Cousland's wrist, his fingers iron. "Where, pray tell, do you think you're going?"
"Through those tunnels, and up through to the Tower of Ishal. Away from here, to return only at my own leisure." Cousland's eyes looked up at their corners in disinterest. He had no intention in trying to help his fellow wardens.
"Leaving as your own soldiers lie dying on the ground?!" Loghain shouted. To abandon all semblances of both camaraderie and tactics so easily was unforgivable to any man of an army, even a darkly general. "Have you no shame, Warden?!"
Cousland eyes looked back at Loghain's, irreflective of them. "Shame of what? I am a Warden-Commander purely out of utility and others' desire. And these ones on the ground who served with me are without any utility of their own right now, and none who can help them but the Maker." Cousland closed his eyes. "My shame, as well as my responsibility, is elsewhere."
"None can help them? What of you, Warden? Are you not immune to it at the moment?"
"Immunity to what root cause, to what disease or attack? Perhaps the ones at our feet are dying because they are simply inferiors made of lesser souls, much like those elves in the Alienage that you planned to sell. I will not pretend to know more than I do. And I will not lie and act as if I care."
"Then where is your shame, if it is anywhere at all? What is so important that you would abandon those who fight for you?"
Aedan opened his ultramarine eyes. The reflection of the faraway torches' light had cast red in the center of his pupils. "It is a Teyrn's duty to protect his King."
The moment Aedan Cousland had heard that all other wardens were affected, he had ceased to care about all of them save one.
"…Is that so?" Loghain asked with realization.
"It is." Cousland answered. The battle only mattered to him because it threatened his King. If there were a threat more immediate to his liege than the Darkspawn Horde, then he would turn away from and that fight and deal with the new danger before lifting another finger against darkspawn. And he would deal with that danger as applied to the one specific person that he thought mattered, before trying to diffuse the same problem afflicting anyone else.
Even if all those others who were afflicted were strong, brave, and loyal. Such notions of honor and goodness did not move the walls of evil's heart.
"If you understand, then release me." Cousland commanded with his eyes closed.
"No, Warden. I will not."
Cousland looked at Loghain with annoyance. At first he was content to simply fell Loghain with reasoning, but now this was a clear challenge to his own supremacy, and defiance of a simple fact—
"Do you have a death wish, Loghain? Or do you really believe you can beat me?"
—That the aged tactician does not beat the master swordsman in his prime. It would be suicide to even try.
"Yes, Warden. In fact I do." Loghain smirked. "You always speak of yourself as if you are above righting simple wrongs and in pursuit of some greater good. Well, Teyrn Cousland, if you are as intelligent as you act—then give me an answer to your own riddle."
Keeping his hold, Loghain raised Cousland's arm and where he was holding it up to their eyes.
"Right now, I will not let go of you." Loghain continued. "And the only way to remove me is to remove either my hand or my life, as you have no doubt done countless times before."
Cousland's eyes tightened, but he kept listening.
"If you do either, I will be incapacitated much in the same way those at our feet are. My second-in-command, Ser Cauthrien, will be too emotionally withdrawn from the sight of me to take charge and assume control as she should. The only one left who would be capable to lead and prevent our command from being thrown in disarray—would be you."
"…"
"Do you still leave the battle then? Knowing that it would be fully lost without leadership, and that death would await Ferelden even if you were to save that boy that you pretend is King?"
"Say I were to break all your fingers on the hand restraining me, one-by-one. Would you still be speaking so mightily then?" Cousland asked, presenting a third option.
"You would quite enjoy that, wouldn't you? But what if I were to seize you with my other hand when you were finished? And if—once you had done that same to my other hand, as I am sure you would—" Loghain's accent enunciated the word 'sure' with a heavy /sh/. "—I were then to bite at your neck, and force you to pluck out all of my teeth with that strength of yours?"
"Then I would avert all of that by striking you with an empty hand, and force you to lose consciousness."
"I am not as young as I were during the War, Warden. I may very well be unconscious for a long time."
Cousland closed his eyes, and lowered his seized arm down, limp, as if surrendering.
"Now Warden," The Teyrn of Gwaren said, victoriously. "Make your choice. Give me an answer to what you will do."
Absolute stubbornness was a true strength in its own right. Combined with a positional advantage on the chessboard, it could defeat absolute strength.
Nevertheless, Loghain was not the only one immovable.
Aedan took a deep breath with his eyes still closed, his calm collected.
He opened his eyes, and locked them against Loghain's—
"If it were Maric atop that hill, you would have already left."
—And with both arms at his sides and feet on the ground, limbs still, had hit him as hard as he could.
Loghain's eyes widened. He knew it wasn't a matter of right or wrong, but the truth forced him, just for a moment, into Aedan's shoes.
And then—perhaps as a result of being thrown slightly off balance by the truth, or perhaps as a result of agreeing with him ever so slightly, for just a moment—Loghain's fingers loosened.
And Teyrn Cousland was gone before he had a chance to try again, disappeared into the night.
Loghain Mac Tir sighed. He had been beaten. Persuaded by the least persuasive man in the world, by means of relatability.
It was in the midst of all this, that the famous general did not even realize a fundamental change in the battlefield—
Just as they were from the front by darkspawn torches, his army was now colored bright from the back as well.
Loghain turned his head toward the top of the landscape, at the source, and looked at the Tower of Ishal.
Fire.
…
…
She had thrown a lit torch onto the beacon's kindling.
At the sight of it tripartite, Hawke's entirety felt stuck inside a body.
Like everyone else, she was not invincible against the fear of dying. Yet she always had a way around it. She could whirlwind it together with excitement and give herself a boost in adrenaline when she needed it the most.
Failing that, she could bluff against her own heart. Tell herself a lie and get into the right mindset. Whenever she did she would feel not a shiver until she was alone in bed and covered up.
…At the sight of it, she was suddenly caught in a fight she didn't prepare for, and didn't have the experience to win.
Her legs were jelly that quivered underneath the weight of her body. They wanted to go everywhere, and therefore, could go nowhere.
It wasn't just her life at stake. She needed to remember that to get herself grounded again.
And at the sight of the beacon's flames spreading to the top, she knew she had done enough for the sake of Ferelden.
She took off towards the stairs. It was the fastest she had ever run.
…
…
Adaar stood up, leaning against his staff.
None of the pain assailing him had let up. It had burrowed through his brain like a thousand worms, hollowing out his mind into a hive with a thousand holes.
He didn't think he still had legs when he first tried to stand up. He could move them, but he couldn't feel them. He couldn't feel anything outside his skull.
But he could still hear.
Not the panicked cries of wounded and healers running past him, trying to get away from whatever that was in the sky.
He heard the screams of death coming out of the Grey Wardens, the harrowing of souls from torment surely worse than his.
And out of all of them, Alistair had screamed the loudest.
It was all Adaar was allowed to hear. And hearing it was enough—enough to kick an old voice back into his head.
"What were you doing on the ground, you little shit?" A familiar voice from his past called out. "I thought Qunari were supposed to be big and scary tough guys—what are you, huh?"
"…"
Adaar's legs hobbled forward, using his staff as makeshift support. His master would probably kick his staff out from under him and tell him to stop acting like an old man right now.
Circle mages were the ones allowed to sit in their tower and grow fat from literature and butter. Apostates were used to being on their feet, and the ones who would never get caught were the ones who were always ready to run. Even if he couldn't feel his legs, he would be able use them as long as they could still move. The muscle memory was too ingrained in his mind for him to forget.
He focused his gaze forward.
Everyone was running past him.
He didn't see anything on the ground, so…
…
…He saw something circling above.
Something impossible, but he saw it anyway.
It landed, landed, and then landed.
It was not an Archdemon,
It was Three.
The First took to the Tower of Ishal
With black fire that gave no heat, the eyes of the weak and wounded were extinguished, and the stone undone.
Those who survived ran and fled.
The Second took to the courtyard's exit.
With hueless fire unbright, it burned alive all who tried to escape.
Those who were alive still ran back to the middle.
And The Third landed in between the two prior.
And with each swipe of its claws, bite of its mouth, and breath of its flames; lives were lost.
And it was then that all choices were the same.
Adaar grasped at his ribs. He wanted to run, but he wasn't sure if everything that was supposed to be inside his body was still there.
…
…
Hawke threw open a set of double doors blocking her path, and kept running.
She had made her decision. She was going to descend until the second or third floor, then jump from a window and flee before the Darkspawn could win the battle and storm the tower.
She'd run as fast as she could north through the Hinterlands, avoiding the Imperial Highway and never stopping until she found a horse to steal. And then she would ride it day and night until it either died and she needed to find another, or when she reached Lothering. She would steal two more horses, ride home, and tell what was left of her family that they were leaving the country.
They would need to compete with other refugees for space on a boat, but if they cut straight through The Bannorn and tried to find a port town in The Coastlands instead of somewhere on the east coast like Gwaren, she could be gone before the northern cities' criers had a chance to spread the news.
They could go to Kirkwall. They had family there, so they'd be safe. Definitely.
She reached the base of another flight of stairs. Another set of double doors were in the way.
Without stopping, she pushed both of her hands against them.
"…"
"…Wh—?"
She bounced off, harmlessly.
In confusion, she grabbed the handles and tried pulling instead. They didn't budge.
With no patience, she started kicking. There was no lock, so something had to be barring the door on the other side. A sword between the handles or a barricade perhaps.
"…"
This was impossible.
There was only one staircase up to the highest levels of the Tower of Ishal. She had passed through here by herself on the way up, and there wasn't supposed to be anyone else in the tower, save the field hospital on the first floor and the Legion of the Dead holding the tunnels beneath them.
The only way there could be someone else up here would be if they passed by the numerous Thedosians to get here, or…
…or if they were here the entire time.
Hawke suddenly felt a freezing chill on the nape of her neck.
Her instincts kicked in.
She killed her breath and spun, expecting to see death behind her.
And she saw nothing but the way back up.
"…"
Her breathing returned to normal. Of course someone wouldn't just show up there just because she thought some enemy might be there. If there really were another person in the tower, they'd be on the other side.
She grabbed one of the handles again, this time looking for what was fastening it to the door's wooden frame. There wasn't a lock to pick, but if she could just unbolt the handle, she could easily reach through the resulting hole and get rid of what was blocking her on the other side. Or at least see what it was.
But before she could try, she felt the door shake for some reason.
And right after, the floor shook too. Neither stopped.
And it was accompanied by sound of the reason why—
…
…
All the Lyrium embedded in the walls glowed red.
Aedan looked over his shoulder, hearing what was behind him.
An inferno was heading directly towards him.
The Lyrium Sand network placed in the foundation of the Tower of Ishal had been set off. The ingenious trap, turned against him.
He felt the flame burn his skin, and the ceiling above him collapsed—
…
…
Adaar looked up, unable to move in his depleted state.
Originally intended to trap the darkspawn once they had pushed back the Legion of the Dead, the blast had affected more than the plan of Loghain and Cousland had intended.
Already weakened at the base by the blightfire of the Archdemons, the tower swayed.
It seemed to be staying in place, buoying itself in one spot with flirtation of disaster in one direction, then rocking back in place, and the swinging towards the opposite.
And then it leaned.
And then it leaned some more.
When something so massive and close-by falls, it doesn't look like it is falling at all. It looks like the rest of the world is moving instead.
And Adaar couldn't look away. With his eyes stabilized on the Tower of Ishal, he saw the world around it move, move, until all of it was perpendicular.
The Tower of Ishal fell south, towards the battlefield; falling against the walls enclosing the courtyard, onto the forested hill, along the ridge with the oils and archers.
With the thunderous collapse of a structure older than the trees surrounding, the sound of it deafened all in its vicinity—and instantly killed all of those who were even closer.
All at once Adaar's surroundings were engulfed by smoke and dust.
He took one hand and arm away from his staff to cover his eyes, and his legs wobbled from the lack of support, like they were each an Age of age.
Adaar slowly removed his arm away from his eyes, taking in the sight—
It was nothing but the color grey in whole. Entirely a blinding billow, complete with the fleeing crowds as descript as mannequins and bleached the color of smoke.
Adaar blinked. The living got their features back.
He blinked again. A million bricks of stone, painted glass made in the years of the Imperium's prime, and a thousand-and-a-half years of history.
Adaar's eyes followed the wreckage of the Tower of Ishal until they came across where it landed on the walls surrounding where the tower had stood.
There was a breach made by the collapse.
Kaaras looked at the gate where one of the Archdemons was perched. Darkspawn were pouring through over the corpses of the defenders.
…If he were going to escape, now would be the time to do it.
Adaar hobbled towards the breach, driving his staff down between each step forward as if he were bearded and grey.
But he stopped. Just as soon as he realized he might be able to make it.
Kaaras Adaar looked back over his shoulder. The situation hadn't changed. There were still screams in his ears.
"…" Adaar looked away and at the ground.
…It shouldn't concern him. He had only become a Grey Warden recently, and there was never any really camaraderie between himself and anyone else here.
There was nothing he could do. And even if he could, it would mean abandoning all the others he couldn't save. It would just make him a hypocrite to try.
"…" Adaar looked at the breach again. Escape was right there.
But he had a debt. Someone had tried to help him, even when it would have been easier to just let him die.
"Why do I have to…?" Adaar complained, a thing he never did in front of anyone else.
And then he turned himself around, and slowly walked back into the eye of a nightmare.
He put one knee down next to the one who tried to help him earlier. Kaaras had to drive his staff down as hard as he could to stop himself from collapsing on the way down.
"Alistair." Adaar spoke, putting one hand on the man below, the one tortured by forces beyond comprehension. The world wavered when Kaaras took one balancing hand off his staff.
But Alistair didn't change. He kept screaming and struggling against the ground.
It made sense to Adaar why Alistair couldn't hear him. After all Alistair had it the worst among him, since he was in the most pain. Adaar was the only one still with some lucidity, so he had to have had it the easiest, Kaaras thought.
Adaar tried again, but found his hand struck away by the random movement of Alistair's limbs.
It was obvious that he couldn't do anything.
And so the qunari who had no business being here decided—he was going to drag him out, by force.
Trying several times in the midst of the blurriness, pain, faintness, and heaviness—Adaar reached out his hand and closed his fingers and palm around the air, trying again and again to grab a hold of Alistair's wildly-flailing arms.
When he finally did, he pulled, trying him along. Kaaras fell back down instantly.
Kaaras Adaar wasn't a muscular or particularly physical individual by any means, but he figure he could do something like this at least when it counted.
Adaar pushed himself back up, clutching at his staff the whole time. He tried to take a step and pull Alistair to safety.
He fell down again. The world spun around and his consciousness flickered in and out as when he hit the ground again, everything losing color again.
It would be all over if he gave in here, so Kaaras bit the inside of his cheek and bled it so he wouldn't pass out.
He let his sight keep spinning wildly until he caught a sight of the escape route from earlier. He still had time.
So he tried to pull Alistair as hard as he could, while they were both on the ground. He didn't budge.
Either he wasn't strong enough, or his own arm wasn't responding to his own will anymore.
His neck lost the battle against gravity, and his head lulled back against the ground, vision spinning a full circle.
Looking around him, he saw the feet and boots of Darkspawn, Humans, Darkspawn, Humans.
Adaar looked at the last avenue of escape, one last time.
It was blocked from sight by The Horde. Even if it wasn't, there was doubtlessly thousands of darkspawn on the other side.
Adaar looked around again.
He saw Darkspawn, Darkspawn, Darkspawn, Darkspawn.
Adaar wasn't able to hear it through the clotting of his ears, but when the kinetic sensation of war vibrating against the ground had died down—he knew that there was no longer a cacophony of steel clashing, stomps of the desperate fleeing.
Adaar looked between, and saw someone else on their back trying to push off a group of hurlocks. He couldn't quite tell, but it looked like they were being eaten alive.
The screams of the tortured Grey Wardens that had filled Adaar's ears suddenly grew one lighter.
…It seemed like they were being saved for last.
In fact, given that the Archdemons chose to attack here instead of the valley, it was possible they killed everyone else here just to get to them.
The Grey Wardens from the tents one-by-one each became silent, until a sword being driven through a throat quieted the very last one.
The last but two, anyway.
Adaar stood up. It was painful, even more painful than before, but he did it regardless. Even if it didn't ultimately matter whether he chose to lay down or stand.
Never die from behind or on your back. That's what she always said, anyway.
Leaning on his staff again, he circled in place looking for which of the darkspawn were going to attack him first.
They looked more or less like someone would expect them to. Yellow eyes gleaming in the dark, snarling rotted teeth from rotted facing housing empty souls.
But if there was one thing that was odd, it was that none charged. Not a single of the enveloping horde chose to attack.
Adaar couldn't fend off one right now, let alone all of them.
The darkspawn were still, and to his ears, silent. Against what should have been all reason.
But of course they didn't charge.
Darkspawn do not become afraid of qunari during a Blight, no matter how determined that qunari may be. They do not fear elves, dwarves, or humans either.
But they do know how to preserve their beings. Especially from their own.
The hurlocks and genlocks surrounding him parted at one point in their encirclement.
The ground shook, again, absorbed up. But all in one motion, and then none at all, and then again. It was at the tempo of footsteps.
…Adaar knew what was coming to him. He couldn't see it in its entirety, but he didn't need to. It was what anyone would've guessed.
And—he knew what he needed to do.
Run, his instincts said.
But he couldn't.
He could barely move his legs. And so he couldn't run.
And so he figured—he'd have to settle for taking a stand.
Adaar readied himself, took a wide stance so it'd be harder for him to lose his balance, and thrust his staff up. His next attack would take everything he had.
Lusacan; The Old God known as The Dragon of Night, and one of the last three Archdemons known to Man—came forth, through the path the darkspawn had opened.
The experience of all ten-thousand years of history ran through its veins. And the experience of years before history, before even Elves thought to put quill to parchment, letters to words.
It was forever.
Twice the size of any High Dragon living today. Darkly porphyrous, with influences of red and black. Its outline jaggedly cutting through the backdrop and rejecting the world at each sharp joint of its scales. Scary, probably. That's what Adaar guessed that the Archdemon looked like.
He still couldn't see all of it. His sight was too blurred at this point to make every detail out.
But he could see that the Archdemon's attention—was not caught by him at all. Its sight was focused on the one in-between them:
Alistair was still writhing against the ground like an insect. He still couldn't move of his own volition.
Whether the sadism of the decision was deliberate or merely automatic, the Archdemon was going to kill the one that could do absolutely nothing about it first.
The Archdemon raised one of its forelegs, the claw aimed at a single target. If Kaaras were going to attack, it had to be now.
"You…" Adaar muttered out of no intention.
…He remembered some sort of advice that if he were going to put his life on the line to save someone, that he should shout something from an epic, like 'You shall not pass!'
There was no way he was going to do something that embarrassing. Not a chance in the world.
He gathered everything he had inside him. Every ounce of mana, every bit of blood, sweat, and tears that he had left unshed.
Every time he looked away when someone said something interesting. Every bit of potential idle chatter that came to his mind, and that he then threw away for being pointless. Every emotion in him that he thought would make other people look down on him and think he was stupid.
Everything bottled up inside of him. It all traveled from his feet to his hands, from his hands to his staff, from his staff to his charging spell at the tip. He spent all of his mana, and then found something more and swept it all outside into something incredible. There would be no holding back, no second chance.
The Archdemon swung down. And just as it struck, so did he.
Adaar's spell flew forth from his staff, dancing through the air.
The blast had no color, no blinding light or anything of the sort. It was invisible, a convex warping in the air.
It was nothing elemental. It was a force of pure gravity, the ultimate representation of his Force Magic.
The rain around it curved and got sucked in, revolving around the center. The rain above funneled and then spread across the surface, shaping a sphere. The rain below stopped falling down entirely, and then fell up.
Adaar did not know what the name of this attack would be. And he did not care.
It struck The Archdemon in the middle of its own attack. A direct hit.
Immediately, a shockwave emanated from the epicenter of the contact. The falling rain changed direction and flew out like a tsunami.
All of the darkspawn encircling them were knocked down or killed. Every tent and makeshift structure in sight was blown away.
Kaaras, on the contrary, was knocked away, away into the air. He had drained himself so much that he didn't even have the energy to fuel the throbbing headache that stole his five senses.
The black at the edge of his eyes was closing in. He looked at where he had put all of his power, through the slits between his eyelids right before he completely lost all of his energy.
"…"
He saw the Archdemon, inert.
Still on three legs, one in the air.
And its claw still coming down, practically unaffected at all.
"…"
Of course it was still alive. How could he have hoped to have killed an Old God with a single attack? It was probably worthless to have even tried.
He saw the Lusacan's claw come across Alistair's chest, ripping it open.
And then, as he was falling back to the ground, Adaar felt his heart stop.
His eyes closed, his breath stopped, and he became just as quiet inside as he always was on the outside.
…
…
Alistair didn't even feel himself dying.
He just felt what he was feeling all along.
A million bugs in his brain, burrowing and multiplying inside a million holes.
Acid in the space between his eyes and the sockets, melting and healing ad infinitum.
Whatever was in his head stung holes through his skull and dug out, abrading underneath the skin of his scalp.
He was a hive for an infinite amount of sensations. And he felt them all at once, and in each moment he felt an infinity of others.
He tried to look at what was causing all of this. Pain was supposed to be the body's defense against the mind, but this wasn't the product of his body's reaction. It would have merely ceased to be at this point if it were.
His eyes were open, but in each moment he tried to look ahead, he saw something else.
He saw a thickly translucent sheet of red over his eyes, the Archdemon beyond it. The red cracked like a window.
He looked again. He saw the Black City, clear as day. His sight was catapulted from the Fade and flew closer and closer. It was as big as the sun. He could try to see everything, but he'd just lose his eyes.
He looked again. On top of the Archdemon, there was something else. Two arms, two legs. Robes flowing in the nightly wind.
He looked again. He saw a memory of Aedan Cousland, from someone else's mind. The invincible Teyrn of Highever was engulfed by flamed and buried alive from the explosion beneath the Tower of Ishal.
And then he saw everything at once. It was equivalent to seeing exactly nothing at all.
Which was exactly what he saw next.
…The rain felt nice. Warm, even.
His soul went somewhere else, and he didn't see anything anymore.
