Poor mages. I feel bad just writing this. And, this is kind of my reaction to Alistair's dialogue. I got angry, after what he said in Lothering, and then said this at the Tower. Shame on him.

Anyway, read, enjoy (or not), and review. Feedback of any kind is appreciated. Thank you.

Disclaimer: If I owned Dragon Age, I would have to do all my own voice-overs. That would be lame.

If she hadn't been in a mood, Alistair would have said she had thrown the doors open with a wave of her hands just to be dramatic. But the worry that seemed so out of place made him think she was just doing it as a convenience. He had heard that the doors to the Circle could take several grown men to open even partially. But he had to wonder how she had known that particular spell to open it.

Gwyn marched up to Greagoir, seemingly furious and absolutely worried. Irving was not amongst the men crowded in the entrance. That was not a good sign. The Knight-Commander was not supposed to abandon the First Enchanter. That was what Irving had insisted when she had questioned the safety. He had promised her that for all the hatred Greagoir may have harboured for mages, he would not abandon his post or his duties. His oaths, and his pride, held him to them.

Scanning the very few mages - children - she did not see Rhoswen amongst them either. Her eyes flickered over the pyre in the far corner. She hoped the girl had not gone and gotten herself killed. Gwyn had no intention of burning bodies anytime soon. Bridges, maybe, bodies, no.

Her thoughts flickered to the runaway mage. Last she heard, he was locked up in the dungeons. The door leading to the apprentice dormitories was shut. She hoped he was all right. If she was going in, she would see if he was still alive. Let him out, if he was still there.

"Well, the Maker certainly has a sense of humour."

"You are not the first to say that. I've been saying it since you fished me out of the Lake."

A brief flicker of humour crossed the weary face of the Knight-Commander. It was gone as fast as it had appeared. The lines on his face seemed deeper. It was not a comforting thought.

"What happened here, Greagoir?"

Gwyn wasn't going to dance around it. She could smell bad blood. And it had nothing to do with the burning corpses, or with her blood magic, but it was similar the smell that develops when tampering with the Veil. Or the Fade.

"Mages happened here, Amell."

"No, really? I mean, the likelihood of that ever happening is -"

Greagoir raised a hand, silencing Gwyn. "Enough. Blood mages are running rampant, summoning demons. I have sent for the Rite of Annulment."

Gwyn's eyes widened. "You-you can't do that! There must be people alive!"

Greagoir shook his head. "I am sorry, Gwynaeth, but nothing you say or do will change this."

"If that is true, then maybe we should leave."

A small remark, but Gwyn turned around, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

Alistair felt immense regret at speaking up. Morrigan was regarding him with a certain amount of venom he wasn't sure he deserved, and Leliana looked on incredulously, like he had sprouted a second head. But he maintained eye contact with Gwynaeth.

He had read about snakes far in the north of Thedas. Looking away meant a certain, painful death. He was sure the mage before him would find kin among such beasts. He wondered how she would react to such a comment. His future was not looking any brighter.

"I'm just saying, Gwynaeth, that if there is no hope -"

"There is hope. There is always hope. Mages aren't defenceless beings." She turned to Greagoir. "And not all of us submit to demons, and blood magic, thank you very much."

Greagoir raised an eyebrow at her statement. "You did."

Gwyn looked mildly impressed, if a little dumbfounded. "When did you find out?"

"Irving revealed it not long after you left. That you had not made a deal, but read books. Or so he said."

"About the ancient uses or blood magic, yes. Healing purposes, mostly. Contact with spirits. Keeping demons locked behind bars. The traditional sort of thing."

Greagoir snorted, shaking his head. "Regardless -"

"Regardless of my previous studies, I need to go in."

The Knight-Commander studied the girl before him closely. She was thinking ahead, weighing her options. He could see that clearly. Had she not been born with magic, she would have surely made a name for herself in the years to come.

But her emotions made her careless. Her desire to run in and save her brothers and sisters was cutting her plans short. She was suffering from minor lyrium withdrawal, too. The air around her was unstable, not quite sitting in a comfortable spot. Most likely, she would raid the storerooms on her way up the Tower. Waste time. Time was precious.

And she was exhausted. Injured. Her right arm was tensed, likely she was holding in the pain, but only making it worse. With no training, she had probably tried her hand at wielding a blade, and it had not ended well. Wielded a blade against a band of raiders, most certainly.

The other man's comments were not making her decisions better.

However, as much as the elder man could tell that Gwynaeth was in no condition to run headlong into demons and abominations, he would not win.

Stepping aside, Greagoir waved his hand at the Templars guarding the door.

"How long?"

Gwyn pinched her nose. "Three hours. Any longer and I am dead."

"I would have suggested four."

"Time is of the essence, Greagoir. And as it so happens, we have wasted quite a fair amount of time exchanging pleasantries."

She brushed past him. Eyes narrowed, mind focused. She was looking for certain people. Trying to catch an aura that suggested that her foolishness might have been worth something. She dug her nails into her palm, drawing the slightest amount of blood. She would have better range, and would cover their own scent if blood mages tried to stop them. Confuse them. This she whispered to Leliana and Morrigan.

"Return with Irving. When I hear his word, I will accept that the Circle has been reclaimed."

"Understood."

Alistair hurried behind the three women. The doors opened, and Gwyn turned.

"You are to stay here."

"What?"

"You do not think I can do this. You can storm the Tower with the rest of the Templars in three hours, if you wish. Just know, I remember what you said in Lothering. That we needed mages."

The treaties slapped Alistair in the face, before falling to his feet. He gaped at Gwyn's back.

"Then, you are on your own. And you will not have to worry about mages anymore."

The doors shut in Alistair's face with a wave of Gwyn's hand.

He paced, back and forth, back and forth. Greagoir had given up watching the young man an hour prior. There was little point in the man wasting energy. He would need it later.

Greagoir did hope that Gwyn would succeed. He truly did. But, he could not see it happening. She was a force, but there were greater things than a temperamental mage.

Alistair let loose a frustrated sigh. Looking up at the hourglass, he growled. She had less than two hours to return.

He would give her another few minutes, before he was going in.

Nodding to himself, Alistair knew that this was the best way. That, and he was sure it was another way to earn Gwynaeth's trust back.

She knew, tactically, that this was all wrong. Three mages, and an archer. Unless the elderly mage knew how to swing a sword, they were not going to last much longer. Range was not in their favour.

Another abomination fell to a screaming heap at Morrigan's feet, and they continued running up the flights of stairs.

Ducking into an office she recognised too well as a group of mages passed by, Gwyn locked the door, allowing them to catch their breath.

"This is madness."

"This is the only way."

"Surely there is another way."

"The Rite of Annulment is the only other way, Wynne. And with all due respect, I can't let that happen."

Morrigan was rifling through drawers, scattering books. Finding what she was looking for, she threw two more in Gwyn's direction. Swiping them from the ground and into her pack without letting Wynne see, she nodded. "Let's go."

Two hours.

The doors opened for him and shut behind him just as fast. Keeping his sword in his hand, he jogged through the quarters, surprised to find so many mages huddled within one room. The sheer number made him pause.

They raised curious eyes, but only one approached him. A small, elven woman, with hair cut too short, and winding facial tattoos. She looked like she had a bad smell under her nose, or she was just permanently irritated. Maybe both.

"She said you would turn up."

"Gwynaeth?"

A nod. The elf pointed to a door. "She is angry, but she does forgive you. And that is saying something. My Gwynaeth has never forgiven so easily."

Alistair thanked the woman, and continued onwards. He looked over his shoulder, watching the elf return to the side of another mage. A broad shouldered male, who stuck out like a sore thumb from the rest. The male glared at Alistair.

Alistair wondered what he had done, apart from being born.

A barrier flew up behind him, and the people on the other side blurred away into nothingness. He continued on, the oddities leaving his mind..

She was impeccably happy. So much that she never wanted to leave. Here she was, with brothers and sisters alike. Daughters and sons. Nieces and Nephews. A family.

That was all she wanted.

She raised her glass, and the people followed suit. Expensive garments. Music in the background. Laughter. So much laughter. Happiness.

She felt herself relax. This was definitely what she wanted.

"I am disappointed, mage."

The voice was deep, not belonging to the rest. She ignored it.

"I thought you had more resolve than this."

"Who dare speaks to the Amells like so?" A brother stood, slapping his hands down on the table.

The voice belonged to a blue tinged man, appearing in the centre of the room, floating above the table. He shook his head solemnly. Disappointed.

"You know this is all a lie."

She let a heavy sigh leave her, as she watched the figures slowly fade away. "Aye, Valour, I do."

The world went black, and all Gwyn could think was I'm drowning. Mother, help me!

He had to hand it to Gwynaeth, she could carve her way through just about anything.

He was in the Templar quarters now, holding his stomach down. So much blood splayed the walls. Growths covered the faces of sacred statues. Decay was the only thing he could smell.

Alistair reached a grand circular room, with a high roof. His stomach churned as his eyes tried to follow the elaborate features. Looking down, he saw the crumpled form of Gwyn.

Running over, he landed on his knees beside her. He held her in his arms, and watched the colour drain from her skin, her hair, her eyes.

Alistair closed her eyes. He didn't know what to do, now.

The Sloth demon fell before her, mouth opened wide in an unending scream of pain.

She turned her back to the spectacle, and met with Niall, who was hovering on the edge. His existence was fading. It was too late for him. She couldn't help her sorrow. She had failed one person.

"Darker times, greater heroics, huh? You once told me that."

"I remember."

"I'm glad someone does. Tell my mother, will you?"

"Of course, my friend. Safe journeys wherever you may go."

"To you as well."

Niall vanished. Black covered her vision, blinding her. She clawed at her own throat as air seemed to leave her lungs.

"Gwynaeth? Oh, thank the Maker!"

She rolled out of his arms, gasping for air. Gwyn massaged her throat, and through blurred vision, watched Morrigan, Leliana and Wynne stand, albeit unsteadily.

Looking back over her shoulder, she couldn't help the incredulity in her voice.

"Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, I couldn't let you have all the fun, could I? That would be just rude."

Gwyn smiled despite herself, and leaned in close to him. "Thank you."

She kissed his cheek and stood. He flushed and followed suit, trying to come up with something witty and charming. He couldn't find any words.

With a wink from Gwyn, he regained the barest amount of courage. "We have little time left. Let's go."