Morrigan
"It was Loghain! Teyrn Loghain bid me do it!" The Circle mage squealed like a stuck pig. She had fruitlessly attempted to separate herself from the sad scene, standing a bit to the side, leaning against a far wall and idly picking at where the skin met her nails. It did nothing to dampen the sounds of the wailing—or the headache of Alistair's unbridled anger—and she found she was forced to observe from afar.
"Oh, I'm sure you fought him on it, tooth and nail," the templar fool spat, as if his childish jeers inched them any closer to their objective.
The man in the cage shook his head in shame. He was pathetic-looking and unkempt indeed—the ungroomed beginnings of a beard, his entire person both dirty and weary. He had been in this cell for quite some time. "His men found me and arrested me on the Imperial Highway."
Solena, who had seemed for the past few minutes as though she had been stunned to complete silence, lifted her face from where it rested in her palm to shout suddenly. "Are you some half-wit? A runaway maleficar, traveling on major thoroughfare?"
"I had meant to make it to Chasind Territory. I thought that was a place where no templar would go to look for me."
Morrigan laughed. "Whoever told you that must have loathed you, indeed."
"It doesn't matter now. When they realized who I was, he told me…" the mage trailed off, likely seeing Alistair's murderous glare and rightly debating whether or not he ought to continue. He did, eventually. "He told me that Eamon was an evil man who would see the country fall for his own ambition. He said I'd be serving Ferelden. I see now that all he did was feed me lies. I didn't ask many questions at the time—I took him at his word! This was Teyrn Loghain—a war hero! What was I to think? Believe me, I know I've been an idiot. I know I shouldn't have taken the bait. But he promised me a royal pardon. He promised…he promised a pardon for Lily, Lena."
"Don't call me that," she snapped at him. The woman seemed unable to look at him now, pacing back and forth amidst the dungeon floor, appearing as if she were trying to calm a headache. She is not the only one.
"What's he talking about?" The fool demanded.
"And where is Lily, Jowan?" Solena countered, ignoring Alistair altogether.
"She…left. Early on. She was…racked with guilt. Hated me for…everything. And she was right to. She said she'd…turn herself in."
"Aeonar. She's rotting in some cell in Aeonar, because you lied to her."
"Yes," he sighed—a sorry sound.
"You fucking bastard." She started for the cell, but Alistair had the sense to hold her back, to try and calm her before she tore the man's head from his spine. "Do you have any idea what I went through to get here? What they put me through because of you? Greagoir would have killed me!" she yelled.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Please, I—"
"You're the reason I'm a Warden," she spat, with more venom than Morrigan had expected.
"I don't know what you want from me. I don't know what more I can say. You can't know how sorry I am, for everything. If you kill me, I'll deserve it. Truly, I will. I'd take it all back if I could. I was no real blood mage—not really. I dabbled, and I'm so ashamed. You're right. So many are dead because of me, and more besides that I put at risk—people I care about. You should kill me. You should—" towards the end of his overly repetitive monologue, the man seemed almost as if he were crying.
"I'm not going to kill you. You're going to fix this. You're going to make this right. And then, I never want to see you again." Solena said. Alistair, as Morrigan had more or less expected, quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, away enough from the man in the cell, but certainly not that she couldn't hear. Spending so much of her time with the ears of a wolf had done little to keep her from eavesdropping.
"Perhaps we should talk about this later. Back at camp. Get him to help us. Don't make promises that I can't keep," he said.
"It's not our place to execute him. He's Isolde's prisoner. And I…I knew him, once. You can't—"
"Don't tell me what I can or can't do—"
"Let go of me." She pulled at where he grabbed her arm. It was nowhere near violent, but still firm. It appeared to unnerve her all the same.
"—not again. Not after today. Don't take my justice away from me," he pleaded, desperately.
"Justice and vengeance are not the same," she spat back. He let go of her arm.
"Perhaps…another time would be appropriate?" Morrigan suggested, loudly, from where they very likely had forgotten her. "I do hate to agree with Alistair for once, but we are on a bit of a tight schedule."
Solena seemed to see the sense in that, and seemed to compose herself, turning back to the cell.
"How do we heal the Arl?"
The man in the cage looked confused. Oh, no.
"Heal him? Lena, you can't. The poison…it's a slow, slow death. I can't reverse—"
"Listen to me," Alistair approached the cell. "If that man is in pain, I will drag your death out until the next full moon."
"No, he—he's not. He's not in any pain, alright? The poison, it separates the spirit from the body. The body is here, in our world, comatose, and the spirit remains in the Fade. It severs that connection entirely, making it impossible for the two to reconnect. Soon, the body decays, and the spirit is lost. It's painless—physically speaking."
"What do you mean physically speaking?" Alistair asked.
"He means your Arl is soon to become a lost denizen of the Fade, cursed to navigate its twists and turns in perpetuity. It is eternal psychological torture, especially for a non-mage who knows not the Fade's true form. Loghain must have hated this man, indeed," Morrigan explained.
"You're lying. There's a way. There's a chance. Something—there's got to be." Solena insisted.
"I…maybe," the Circle mage admitted with a sigh.
"Maybe?" prodded Solena.
"Maybe! Look, it's a poor one, alright? As in, only if you're as desperate as his wife and clinging to the coattails of rumor and superstition. And religion."
"Oh, you must be joking." Morrigan thought she might leave on the spot. She knew the path this led down, and she would rather be back in her hut—the sounds of her nagging mother echoing through her ears as she was eaten alive by darkspawn.
"Andraste's Sacred Ashes." Alistair so kindly explained, to a room of people perpetually five steps ahead of him.
"That's not a solution, that's a children's tale," Morrigan spat.
"And it's the only hope I can offer you. You have no idea the market price of that poison. The coin Loghain must have paid…"
"He paid for torture. And for certain death," Solena resolved, sadly.
"But we have to try! If it doesn't work, so what? Then we'll have exhausted all our options, and at least we'll…we'll know," said Alistair.
"The other half of that sentence, I presume, begins with the inexplicably idiotic, 'but if it does'?" Morrigan retorted.
"What do you want me to say? It may be rumor and horseshit, but if I don't do this for him, what does that make me?" he asked.
"Remotely intelligent."
"I don't understand," Solena spoke, suddenly.
"I'm sorry, I don't have more to offer y—" The man started.
"No, I mean I don't understand how any of this relates. You poisoning the Arl, and dead men attacking the village? The castle under siege? You didn't mention Loghain paying for that."
"He didn't! I keep telling Lady Isolde, but she doesn't believe me! I had nothing to do with the attacks! I don't know what's happened, but whatever it is, it's nothing I did, I assure you."
"You cannot possibly believe that," Alistair said.
"I do," Solena replied, affirmatively.
"He's a blood mage! What else caused all of this pain and death if not that?" the fool continued.
"Necromancy is not a form of blood magic. And Jowan's not good enough to have done all of this himself. These are armies of the dead." Solena explained, rather patiently, Morrigan thought, considering.
"For a while I thought…maybe…never mind," the mage started.
"What?" Solena encouraged.
"It's just a theory, but…look, I shouldn't even be telling you this. The Arlessa hired me to…to tutor her son. It was my way into the castle, and into the family's good graces."
"Before you betrayed them," Alistair spat.
"Why would she hire you to tutor her son?" Solena asked, more cautiously.
"Connor…Connor had been showing signs. I don't know how she ignored it for so long. His connection to the Fade is strong. Nothing like you, though. Connor's case isn't nearly as bad as that. But he has a hard time controlling it. I made some progress, but I fear I'm not really what he needs."
Curious, indeed. At the very least, the woman had the good sense of mind not to send him to the Circle.
"Of—no! Surely not. Connor?" Alistair bumbled and spat like an idiot.
"As far as I know, he's been the only other mage under this roof besides me. I don't know how, or why, but perhaps he knows more than I do."
"Isolde said Connor had been acting strangely," Alistair remembered.
"We need to get up to the main hall. Now." Solena said with urgency, and Morrigan could not have agreed more. She grabbed her willow wood staff and got ready to move. "I'll come back. Once I've cleaned up your mess," Solena told the mage. He had nothing to say in return, but he gave a solemn look.
"Alistair, how good of a templar did you say you had been, again? Before the Chantry kicked you out, that is." Morrigan asked as they three began to climb the stairs from the dungeons. He gave her a distinctly ungrateful side-eye. His retort was sharp.
"They didn't kick me out. I left, to become a Warden. And not very good. I had only been training for two years."
"Well, whatever skills you learned there, you may need them soon enough," she warned.
Even on the approach to the doorway, Morrigan could tell two things: that the great hall smelled foul, the way all demons and dark magic smelled foul, and that the silence that came from it did not bode well.
The Arl's hall was impressively large, though it was clearly in disarray and misuse. Cobwebs drooped from the low-hanging chandeliers of iron. Tankards of ale lay toppled on the feasting tables, flies ate at old meat, and many paintings had been ripped from their frames and torn to shreds. Namely, a portrait of the Arl with his wife and son—ripped very neatly in two so as to remove the old man from the picture—had been left leaning against the fireplace.
It was a family gathering, indeed. The shrew was there, or at least whom she presumed to be the Arlessa. She stood to the side, looking altogether dejected and unpleasant, and rather mortified. Her guard stood around the room, lining the walls in dark coats of armor. The Bann was there too—oh, yes. Though it seemed now almost untoward to have labelled Alistair the fool when one so clearly danced before her—yes, danced. And juggled, and spun and jumped, all to the tune of his own ears, it would seem. All the while, the child laughed. Sat on his father's chair, Connor laughed so hard she thought the hilarity of it all might kill him, all while clapping and shouting, "Again! Again!".
This one was not so difficult a puzzle to figure out after all, it seemed. Though Alistair to her right looked rather perplexed. Was it truly not obvious at this point? Even to him? Really?
Upon sensing their presence, it seemed as though all the life and sound and light in the room died with Connor's glare. So like a demon to flaunt its great displeasure.
"Mother, we have guests," spoke a voice that was not Connor's, though the boy's lips moved.
"Release Teagan," Solena spoke cautiously, but firmly. Wise. "Now."
"Ungrateful!" The demon shouted. "We open our home to you, and you make demands? Tell me your name, woman. Tell me your purpose."
"My name does not matter. We're here to help your father. He's dying. Is that not something you want too?" she asked it.
"Liar! I know why you've come. To kill him, and steal his power!"
"Connor, I knew your father," Alistair said. "Since I was a boy. I would never harm him. We are Grey Wardens, here to help."
"Do not speak to it as if it were a child," Morrigan interceded. "I know you, Demon. Release your hold on this family immediately, or suffer."
"Please! Do not hurt my son! He knows not what he does!" The shrew cried out, like a proper idiot.
"Silence, woman! Your wailing is tiresome to my ears," snapped the demon. "You and your lackeys spew only more and more lies! I will not take such insults from traitors! Guards!"
At his call, each and every armored soldier lining the walls poised their spears at the ready. Alistair reached for his blade.
"I do not want to kill these men," Solena told the demon. "Stop."
The demon wore a sour grimace on its face. Then, inexplicably, Morrigan felt the dark energy in the room waver. A brief pulse. Solena must have felt it too, but she imagined the demon had felt it most of all. When she looked back to the Arl's son, he looked shocked—out of place, and confused. Fear flashed over his features. He looked down at his hands.
"Connor?" his mother asked, hopefully. She took a step towards him.
"Mother, I…" The boy glanced around the room. The fear in his face only grew as his eyes widened. Soon, he had dashed from the room before any could stop him, leaving to some deeper part of the castle. His mother called out after him, but Morrigan stopped her.
"Let him go," she said. "This may be the only peace we get for the time being." She nodded to the Bann, who was now on the ground, recovering from his trance. Solena helped him to stand. The guards had stood down too, looking at one another, just as confused.
The Arlessa scuffled down the stairs to the Bann's side. "Teagan, are you alright?"
"I am fine, Isolde," he dusted himself off. "Your friend speaks true. For the time being, I believe we all are safe. Let us not waste this time."
"How in the Maker's name did this happen?" Alistair asked angrily.
"Easily. She lied to us. To everyone." Solena directed her jab at the shrew. "Connor is a mage. It was never Jowan who did this—he told you as much, repeatedly. But you couldn't live with the blame—that all those people had died because your son was untrained. Because you waited too long to accept the fact that he had magic!"
"Isolde, is this true?" The Bann asked, shocked, for some reason.
"And you know this mage who poisoned my husband? Betrayed my trust?" Isolde countered, ignoring the Bann.
Solena conceded. "I thought I did."
The shrew seemed to accept that. "I hired him to train my son, yes, that is true. Apparently that was a mistake. A poor trainer and mage he was, who could not protect my son from demons."
"No one can do that for your son. He must learn to do it of his own free will. If he has had magic without training from infancy then he has lived with this danger, under your roof, for years. I am merely surprised this did not happen sooner," Morrigan told her. She did not seem to like that.
"And what would you have had me do? Give him to the templars as a baby, to take him away and lock him up so that I might never see him again? The heir to Redcliffe? Eamon and I had enough trouble conceiving as it was."
"I don't know, you seemed to have no issue sending me packing." Alistair spat bitterly, and the conversation seemed to freeze. The silence between them all became ever more awkward. The shrew grew red.
"You were not his son. How dare you compare? Get out! Leave!" The Arlessa exploded.
Something passed over Alistair's face. Frustration, perhaps. Or…something else. He stood, his fists clenching and unclenching, until it seemed he could not bear to look at the woman any more, or anyone. His eyes squeezed tightly together until he turned and left the room out the main door, slamming it behind him.
The Bann spoke first, sighing at the angry exchange but still clearly eager to move the conversation forward. "Isolde, you broke the law in harboring Connor here—training or no. His actions are a consequence of your own. Surely you must accept that."
"I…" she started. "I can. I do. Hiring that mage was another mistake—one of many. I pray to the Maker that my husband will not hate me for what I have done here. I did it all only for him; for our son."
"Be that as it may, you understand of course that in so doing you have doomed them both." Morrigan told her.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Teyrn Loghain arranged the poisoning of your husband," Morrigan explained. "He paid handsomely to ensure that he would never wake up. It is very likely I can do nothing for him. And as for your son, this demon must be dealt with, immediately, before more life is lost. There is only one cure I know of."
The Arlessa's eyes widened at the realization of her words' true meaning. "Surely…no. No! You can't! I will not let you kill my Connor!"
"Normally I would never condone the killing of a child, but…" Solena began. "Even the templars know this is the only way. They execute any mage who becomes possessed."
The woman grappled for anyone who would take her side—she held the Bann's arm as if it were a lifeline, and her eyes grew horribly wet, her voice breaking. "Please, Teagan, you cannot agree with this—this is madness! Please! He is only a boy!"
Morrigan shook her head and scowled to herself. A boy? Please. Whatever age this boy was, she had surely been younger when she had first encountered a demon. She had known better then, than to let it have sway over her. If she could have such will without the Circle's help, then so could he. He was not blameless, and his mother was blind.
The Bann struggled. "Is there…is there truly no hope? This…this prisoner, the mage you hired, could he help? Might he know…something?"
"It's unlikely. He's not even a full-fledged mage. He never took his…Harrowing…" Solena drifted off into what Morrigan believed to be some sort of sudden epiphany.
"Well, do not leave us in suspense too long," Morrigan prodded.
"What? What is it?" asked the Arlessa.
"I think I may know of a way to help your son. But it's not…surefire, and it's potentially very dangerous. And it involves myself and my companions leaving. For…a week, maybe two. I'm not even sure that it's really a solution. The potential loss of life while we're gone, it's—"
"Please," The Bann interrupted. He and the shrew clung to the woman's every word as if it were gospel handed down from on high, and clung to each other just as desperately. "We will try it. We will try anything."
"We need to go to Kinloch Hold. It's the closest place that will have the lyrium we need. We need a lot of it. With it, one of us—myself or Morrigan, can enter the Fade consciously and confront the demon."
"And what? Ask it kindly to leave?" Morrigan asked.
"Well. That's what we'll have to figure out," Solena sighed.
Figure it out. Of course. A sound strategy. Perhaps she gave Alistair too little credit—perhaps all the men and women of this world were just as simple-minded as he.
"I will admit, I know little of such things, but I trust you to do what you must. Go then, with the Maker's blessing," The Bann told them, as if somehow granting them permission. "We will watch over these people as best we can in your absence. Should Connor act out again, we will be cautious, and we will be safe."
Solena spoke her pleasantries, and they left through the main door, Morrigan trailing the hero of the evening. Her eyes bored into the back of her head, hoping that it might explode.
"Upon our return, they will all be dead," Morrigan told her. "'We will be cautious, we will be safe'—ha! What is to stop that boy from raising another army? What is to stop him from running loose on a rampage through the Hinterlands?"
Solena turned on a dime. "Would you murder them both? Son and father, in their beds, and be done with it?"
"I would. As would you, if you did not do everything for the sake of that blabbering idiot," Morrigan said.
"I could have sworn we'd had this discussion already. We need the Arl, we need—"
"Untrue. Alistair needs him. If the Arl and his son both should perish, the Bann is likely to take up the mantle, and you seem to have done a fine job wrapping him around your finger. This heroic derailment of yours will cost us more, I think, in the end."
"Did you see what I saw in the Chantry? Out on the battlefield this morning? These people can't take another loss—they're weak, and the horde is on their doorstep."
"You are right on one count: that they are weak. Arl or no, we do not need them in the war to come."
The woman looked bitterly back at her. "You're weaker than they are. How fortunate that human suffering is a concept so foreign to you that you can't bring yourself to feel the least bit of empathy. To some of us, it's commonplace."
"What good does empathy do us? Leave that to the sister and the Chantry priests. I was under the impression I followed you to war, not to sermon."
"I pity you."
"I do not want your pity. Give it to someone who has a use for it. Give it to your templar fool."
There was that strange look again. A recoil—as if slapped. She wondered who the templar had been, who had scarred her thus. Morrigan had noticed it since Lothering, when the templars there had seen their staves and confronted them. Alistair had talked them down, all while Solena had sneered horribly. For such a non-violent creature, she had a look that could kill.
"No. You can find him, and tell him we're leaving. I'm going back to the inn, packing our things and rallying the rest. We'll meet you both at the bridge. Or I suppose you can go, of course, if you think you don't need us anymore."
That woman did not know how closely she lingered to the truth. She would leave if she could. She would leave, and never look back. Not on the empty-headed sister, not on the fool, and not on the woman who pitied her.
The moralizer had continued out the front door, and she assumed it was customary after an argument such as this that she should not follow. Chasing after Alistair and calming him from one of his many tantrums was her job, not Morrigan's. She would just as soon leave him be, to live here with the demons and the undead. Would he approve of this, she wondered? Prolonging these people's pain and suffering for the mere chance of saving a foolish boy and his bedridden father? Surely he would. Alistair sought paternal figures like moths did flame.
But she had seen the way he had looked, when he had stood amongst the mangled bodies this morning. Perhaps the fool did value something greater than himself and his own petty desires, but she did not let herself hope for it. That way, she would never be disappointed.
So here she remained, wandering the front halls of the castle aimlessly, like an idiot. Not to mention that every inch of the place looked exactly the same. Morrigan remained perpetually unimpressed with Fereldan architecture and its affinity for grey stone. How did these people live thus in a maze?
It was when she heard the dogs barking down the hall that she knew she was headed in the right direction. She rounded the corner slowly and quietly, as a cat might, wearing what must have been a smirk as she leaned upon the door. The fool sat hunched over the bars of the cages, rubbing one of the beasts behind the ears and looking properly miserable. The Fereldan mabari were intelligent and strong beasts—if not a bit smelly. She resisted the urge to hold her nose.
"More comfortable among your own kind, Alistair?" she allowed herself that one. Though in immediate hindsight it felt a bit easy—like low-hanging fruit.
"Go away, witch, and leave me to my thoughts," he said, refusing even to turn and acknowledge her.
"Oh good, you shan't take too long then," she responded. "We are leaving. Come, I will explain on the way."
She turned, but the man did not move. Her brow narrowed, as she looked back at him impatiently.
"I hated dogs," he said quietly, as one beast licked the knuckles of his fingers, "for so long. Isolde told me once that that was how Fereldan lords disposed of unwanted children—by feeding them to their mabari. Mages, bastards—it didn't matter to the dogs, she said. The meat was the same. And look at her now—a mage son she doesn't know what to do with, and a bastard to help. I could almost laugh, but Connor doesn't deserve that."
Morrigan was quiet. She thought perhaps he expected a bitter jest—something cruel. She did not think herself a monster. She could not think of anything reassuring to say, but it was clear he did not want her there—so she would pretend that she wasn't. A small favor, she thought, in the grand scheme of things. That she could manage.
"Took the kennels at Ostagar to rid me of that fear. Suppose I have Cailan to thank for that—his dogs, after all."
He paused, forcing his lips together, as if to stop himself from speaking. He looked at her, then.
"Why are we leaving?"
It took her a moment to gather herself. "Your…fellow Warden. 'Tis her belief that she can solve this mess, without killing the boy. She wants to go to the Circle Tower, across the lake. To gather lyrium, and, I presume, collect on our treaty with the mages."
His eyes widened, and he straightened his back. "That's…great news. She's clever, that one."
"Isn't she."
"His mother's like to be ecstatic. Teagan, too. And you…what do you think about all this?"
She nearly choked. "Me?"
"You know more about…these things than I do. Is it…is this safe? What she wants to do, will it work?"
"I…" she struggled to answer. "Truly, it is safe for no one but the boy. I suppose they all believe a chance for him is worth any price. I am not so sure. But…could it work? Yes, in theory, I believe it could."
He listened. And…nodded. As if considering her words. "I see. I suppose…if it's what the family wants."
Morrigan shook her head, baffled, wondering if she had misheard. "What the family wants? When has what this family wanted been any concern of yours? They disowned you—mistreated you!"
"Connor is not mine. I would not presume to give my input. I know my place."
"Because they put you there!" she argued.
"Are you merely looking for someone to agree with you? Because I don't know that I do, if that's what you're after." His eyes narrowed.
"I do not need you to agree with me, Alistair, to know I am right. Quite the opposite."
"I wasn't looking for a fight," he said, resigned and irritated in equal measure.
"I—" she began, but her voice—curse it—faltered. "—was not…either."
A silence fell between them. It was terrible, and not, both at once.
"I only thought…of…the death that could result from this," she told him. "The greater loss we could accrue that may not be so apparent now. I do not…wish harm upon the boy, of course."
He nodded, firmly. "I know. So we should move quickly. The demon won't wait while we decide."
He grabbed his pack from where it lay at his feet, then stood and moved past her. She breathed deep, and followed soon after.
The camp that night was quieter than usual, or so she believed. Sound was always muffled from where she set up her tent, strategically a fair distance away from the rabble. She built her own, smaller fire, and had only just tonight—begrudgingly—began eating the food Alistair cooked as opposed to hunting and skinning her own vermin. It was at that fool's inane insistence. He had made the trip over, practically shoving the wooden bowl of brown sludge in her face, calling it a "peace offering", or something equally offensive. Thankfully, he did not stick around to observe her reaction. After a few hesitant gulps, it became clear that the choice going forward would be between her own tasteless rabbit, or whatever…taste this was. She was not yet sure which she preferred.
Camping at a distance from the rest granted her perspective. More than any of them had, certainly. She was quite sure she had been the only one to observe the tension shared between Alistair and the sister. Something must have passed between them while the rest were otherwise occupied, but Morrigan knew not what. The sister was unresponsive, of course, maintaining the look of cool indifference that she always had, but Alistair every so often managed a glare—a vein threatening to burst from his forehead. Perhaps it was from thinking too hard. Perhaps he had come to the very same conclusion she had—that the sister was not what she seemed and not to be trusted. But that would be affording Alistair a degree of intelligence that she was not certain he possessed.
Outside of that, the mood had been somber since they had left the village. The air was fresher, and the nights quieter, so it only followed that Morrigan should be happier. She was not, and it was unspeakably annoying.
The events of the day nagged at her. In that, she was not alone, it seemed. The dwarf merchant comforted his simpleton son, quietly, by their cart. The sister was quiet and unsmiling—steely, almost. Alistair busied himself how he could, tending the fire and cooking a meal. The woman picked at her nails incessantly. The giant—the Qunari, sharpened his long blade, one foot upon a large rock. Though, he always looked such. He was far more difficult to read, nearing impossible. It was endlessly intriguing.
He had caught her once a few days back—her shameless gaze upon him as he emerged from bathing in the stream, standing taller than the tree next to him. He scoffed and promptly clothed himself, ignoring her. She had delighted at the exchange.
No part of her expected to lure the giant man into warming her bedroll, but she drew joy from her little games where she could.
Later in the night, when most were asleep, Morrigan woke, and found her eyes would not shut again. There was a painful, sick feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. She thought it might be her blood, but it was too soon for that, and the feeling was different. Then she attributed it to Alistair's horrid stew. She grew restless, tossing and turning about, seeking an angle that would ease the pain. When it could not be found, she stood, dashing quietly into the woods behind her and leaning upon a tree. Her knees buckled, and she quickly forced the bile from her throat.
It left her breathless, gasping. She took the flask of fresh water from her belt and downed it in full, throwing her head back and letting the water cool the burning sensation.
Morrigan shivered. She let a simple spell ease the mild fever, collapsing against the tree and hugging her knees.
She thought only of her mother. In truth, it's what had woken her. Her cackle—her horrid face and yellow eyes had haunted her that night. Morrigan wished that she were dead. She wished the darkspawn had torn her limb from limb, and taken their time, too. Then burned their hut and everything in it to ash. She knew, however, that it was not so. It felt as if her mother watched her, even now, though such a thing was impossible. The old crone's yellow eyes had burned a hole in her, right in her stomach. As punishment. As warning. And as the cruelest reminder.
Her eyes grew wet, and she blinked to rid herself of it. Then she heard the murmuring.
It was soft, and intimate, and she knew at once it did not belong to intruders. Not far from her tree was a narrow glen with a quiet stream running through it. Solena must have set up watch near there, as one of the gentle voices was certainly hers. Morrigan could even see flashes of straw-colored hair through the tree trunks. The trees to the woman's left rustled, and she could see Alistair's form there, too, approaching her. Morrigan sneered. Both of them were clearly off their guard. The woman wore a short, peach-colored thing, likely what she had slept in. Alistair, in a rare occurrence, wore naught but a tunic and trousers, hastily thrown on. Staunch protectors, indeed.
Suddenly, Morrigan found herself feeling incredibly stupid, and felt the heat on her face, which was not the fever. The privacy and nature of the moment had dawned on her, and she quickly gathered herself to make her exit, quietly, when a flash of red caused her pause.
She squinted, attempting to make out the subject of the exchange. Alistair seemed to be holding it in his hands, fiddling with it like a child. It was that which made Morrigan's eyes flare in recognition—the rose. The fool had come to her a week ago, clearly bitter and ashamed to ask her for anything, wondering if she could preserve it. She had laughed at him, of course, but ultimately granted his request. It cost her nothing but a wave of her hand, and then she was rid of him.
She wondered if this had been his intention all along. Witnessing the act…the mere thought of it, baffled her. She thought, for a moment that came and went quickly, that the bile might return. Instead, the sight before her just made her feel numb, and strange. Now, in earnest, she decided to leave.
As she did, she heard the clear sound of delight in the woman's voice, the grappling and stumbling in Alistair's, and the softness and quiet that followed, before she moved from earshot.
She sat back down in her bedroll. Sten—the Qunari—sitting awake without shame or secrecy, looked at her curiously, as if scrutinizing her, or asking a silent question. She shot him a glare, which must have been at least somewhat efficient because it resulted in him resignedly looking away. Or perhaps he just became bored. One never knew with him.
Morrigan turned over, shutting her eyes and conjuring thoughts of the next day and the road ahead. She saw the road split, and split again, and it calmed her nerves, until her mind went blank, the thought erased. All roads lead to one place, she reminded herself, but in a voice not her own. She heard the echo of a laugh that she hated.
Solena grew worse each day that passed.
Not that any of their company had been happy, certainly, since Redcliffe. But it was not Redcliffe that had the woman distant and distracted, Morrigan knew that much. Alistair was too caught up in himself and the events of the past few days to see it, or so she figured. No one else likely knew enough to understand, as Morrigan did, that bringing the lady Warden back to the Circle Tower was a poor, poor idea. Perhaps the woman had thought she could bear it, but she could not, and that became clearer and clearer by the hour.
It was not as if Morrigan awaited that place with bated breath, but no one seemed to concern themselves with her predicament either. She just assumed Alistair or the woman would conjure up some far-fetched lie to feed the templars and would cross their fingers tightly in the hopes that she would not face immediate execution. She would have remained at camp across the lake if she did not know that she was far more likely to be spotted and executed without two Grey Wardens to give her testimony than she was standing at their side.
Nevertheless, for all her perfect composure, the woman was, under the surface, a wreck. Morrigan might have delighted in that discovery if she were not the very fabric that held their party together.
She carried the rose with her now, in her pack, as Alistair had done. She took it out to smell and look at when she thought no one was looking. For as much as she did it, Morrigan thought to herself that it did not seem to be helping.
As they neared the southeastern shore, the continued silence on the roads became strange. Alistair sensed it first, insisting that templars patrolled these roads often, and well. Bodahn suggested it were perhaps a product of the Blight, but in the end, that thought seemed to lose its sense.
It had been slightly less than a day's ride in the sticky air. Morrigan had told the bearded dwarf, upon his irritating insistence to discuss the weather, that she believed it to be the dying breath of summer. It had been a rare warm day, but the way the winds blew told her there would be no more. Now, the sun threatened to set—oranges and purples mixed on the horizon. Small lightning bugs danced around the village that their horses now trotted through. Tomorrow, she predicted, the leaves would fall, and autumn would arrive in earnest.
On a sandy embankment on the shore past the quiet village, a single, bright lantern was lit. On the wooden dock stood, very clearly, a templar. Next to him, a modest rowboat. Behind was the Tower, bathed in shadow—tall and foreboding and terribly phallic-looking. Morrigan snickered.
She remembered when she had first heard of the Circle. She had thought then it was somehow some joke, and she was prepared to admit that a part of her still did. A mage kept indoors from the day they were born until they met their end? She would have hung herself from the rafters as soon as she was able. She did not know why any mage accepted such a fate with complacency. It made her wish to vomit.
Alistair dismounted first, and approached on foot.
"Hail, Ser," he said, with a hand in the air.
"Hail," came the curt reply.
"Might I know your name?"
The templar sneered. "Carroll."
"Well met, Ser Carroll. My name is Alistair. My traveling companions and I thought it strange, on the approach we saw no templars patrolling the roads. Has the Blight pushed you all back to the Tower?" Alistair questioned.
"Yes, one might say so," the ugly man sniffed, pointedly averting his eyes from Sten, and instead choosing to tilt his chin in Morrigan's direction. The gesture alone made her want to bathe. "Staves, I see. You have mages traveling with you?"
Alistair coughed—a deep sound—masking a pause to remember his rehearsed story. "We are Grey Wardens, Ser. We have urgent business in the Tower, with your Commander and the First Enchanter. Inside, they can both confirm our story. My friend here studied at the Circle all her life."
He wrinkled his ugly nose. "And the other?"
"From Orlais, Ser. The White Spire. She speaks no common."
Morrigan could have incinerated him on the spot.
The templar frowned. "Teyrn Loghain has a bounty on Grey Warden heads."
Each one of them froze. Only the horses shifted beneath them. Alistair seemed to be…thinking. Rather intently.
"That he does. But Kinloch Hold has with us a treaty. I have it with me. I assume you would rather report to your superiors before you dishonor it," he said.
The templar narrowed his eyes. "It's no concern of mine. And as for my superiors, I won't be reporting it to no one. The Tower is closed off to outsiders. You'll have to turn back."
"Closed off?" Solena spoke, to Morrigan's left. "Why? What's happened?"
"Mind your business and your tongue, mage. It's none of your concern anymore."
"If I don't see the First Enchanter today, countless people are likely to die. Does even that not concern you?" she asked, eyes narrowed to match the man's. Even Morrigan could not hide her surprise at the woman's tone.
"Best change your plans quick, then. The First Enchanter is dead, girl."
Solena's breath seemed to leave her body. "Irving is…"
"Dead. And you're welcome, by the way, because you'd be too if I let you cross that Lake."
"Listen," Alistair began. "The Arl of Redcliffe is deathly ill, we've been sent—"
"Oh, you're soldiers of Redcliffe now, is it? I thought you said you were Grey Wardens."
"We are, we—"
"You're lucky I don't arrest the lot of you. Turn around, and consider it a mercy."
Solena dismounted, and the sister was not quick enough to reach out and stop her.
"Has Greagoir ordered this? Tell me that pig has killed Irving and I swear, I'll—"
"Back up! Back up, now, the both of you!"
"Solena, stop—"
The templar pushed Alistair backwards with an outstretched hand. "Keep your bitch on a leash, do you hear me? Or I'll strike her down."
Solena fumed, but had stopped in her tracks, saying nothing. Likely she felt the same drain set upon her as Morrigan now did. It was faint—a warning, clearly. Still, it set Morrigan's blood boiling.
Alistair, who was gaping at him, shut his mouth, his jaw setting tightly. Morrigan thought she could even hear it click into place.
"Fair enough," he said, and if she had blinked, she would have missed his head colliding with the bridge of the templar's nose, knocking him unconscious. The draining sensation stopped.
Solena glanced once at the man collapsed on the dock before turning to tie her horse to a post. The rest of them dismounted, and followed suit.
The boat was not large, so Bodahn and his boy stayed behind, along with Sten. The dwarves would watch the horses, and Sten would watch the templar. It seemed a fine arrangement.
On the boat, they—that is, she, Solena, Alistair and the sister, were packed in close quarters. Her right shoulder rubbed uncomfortably against the sister's own, as she suddenly remembered the last exchange she had had with the inane woman and how utterly pointless that had been.
The redheaded fool was captivated, it seemed, by the ruins of the bridge that stretched from the tower to the eastern shore.
"It's completely fallen apart. Has it truly been thus, for so long? Why do they not just repair the bridge?" she asked, stupidly, in her ridiculous accent. "Rowing people to and fro seems terribly inconvenient."
Alistair, brow furrowing as he rowed, looked equally aghast at the question, and that certainly said enough. Solena did not seem to even notice that she had asked it.
"First of all, they do not row people fro, ever. Second," Morrigan snapped, "All mages know how to walk. Few how to swim."
Thus ended the questions. The only sound became the soft ripples of the water beneath the boat. There was no wind that night, and the moons were bright, though obscured by clouds. The trip was deafening in its silence—designed just that way, Morrigan presumed, to strike fear into mages upon arrival.
When they arrived, the sun had set at last. No templars were stationed at the dock that night, so they helped themselves onto the stone pier and tied the boat to a post.
The large double doors at the end of the long pier were made of the heaviest stone, with large rusty handles. Morrigan had felt the powerful wards which emanated from them even as she had exited the boat. Alistair pushed upon the doors, and after sensing they were locked shut, pounded loudly upon them with his fist. Solena hurried up next to him.
After a few long minutes of knocking, as Morrigan stood rubbing her bare arms in the cold and the sister next to her endlessly twirled and un-twirled a lock of orange hair, one of the doors was abruptly cracked open. A templar crowded the small opening, guarding from entry.
"Let us in," Solena interjected quickly. "My name is Solena, I was a student here a little over a month ago. I'm a Warden now, here on urgent business. I must speak with the Knight Commander, immediately."
"The Tower is closed—locked to outsiders under Greagoir's strict orders." The Templar insisted angrily. "Turn back this instant, or we shall use force!"
"Greagoir!" Solena shouted through the crack, as the Templar struggled against her. Alistair placed a warning hand on her arm. "I know you're there, pig!"
The templar was shoved out of the way as a new, shorter, older one approached the scene, somehow redder and more irritating-looking than the last. Morrigan did think the woman's description was apt—he was indeed quite pig-like. Solena took a careful step backwards from him, but still held her chin up high.
"I should execute you where you stand, girl. My patience has run dry for lying maleficars," he croaked. "But once again it seems fortune smiles on you just as it smites others. You are the least of my concerns today. Waste not any more of my time, get back on your boat, and go back to the swampy grave you climbed out of. Why Ostagar spared you when it took so many brave men from us, we may never know."
The door had nearly shut in her face when she spoke.
"Is Irving dead at your hand?"
The templar paused. "My hand? Why you insolent—"
"I know he is dead, your man at the docks said as much. To whom did he fall if not you? You despised him!" The woman accused.
"To demon filth—demons that maleficar such as yourself unleashed upon this tower!"
"Demons? In the Tower?" Solena asked.
The Knight Commander grumbled incoherently, to seemingly none but himself.
"Let us in. This instant," Solena demanded. "Kinloch Hold has a treaty with the Grey Wardens. If Irving is truly dead, you must honor it," she insisted.
The small man showed pause, and great reluctance. But something gave way, in the end. He let go of his grip on the door with spiteful force.
Alistair pushed and the door gave way.
The entrance hall of the Circle Tower was packed to bursting with templars, and with them, the stench of death. They crowded against each other, some clutching their flasks and blankets, others leaning upon one another. There was a meagre infirmary set up in a small dusty alcove. The men there did not look like they were being healed.
Then, Morrigan thought, who was there to administer the healing? There was not a mage in sight other than those who had just entered. She did not yet know the limits of the other woman's piteous heart, but from what she had seen, it did not extend to templars. At the very least, they two had that in common.
At the end of the hall was a large set of doors that mirrored the last, only they were barricaded with every piece of furniture that had once been in the room. Benches and tables were turned on their sides and pressed up against the doors—it looked like a dam threatening to burst. From the infirmary, one man, missing a leg, cried out in pain.
"You see the state we're in. The demons do not relent," said the templar Commander.
"Of course they do not. They are demons. Did you expect them to tire?" Morrigan bit.
The man turned on his heel. "And who are you who speaks so boldly to a templar?"
"Another Warden, Ser." Alistair was quick.
"I did not ask you, boy, I asked her," he spat, his gaze never breaking. "Strange garb, for a Warden. I did not know you enlisted prostitutes."
She would have watched the templar's skin melt in flames—but he had drained her, with a shine in his eye.
"You waste your time, energy, and breath." Alistair stepped closer to the man, engaging him in confrontation and drawing his attention. Morrigan felt his drain relent, and air filled her lungs again. "We can help if you let us, in exchange for the terms of our treaty. If you refuse, we shall seek aid elsewhere, and the consequences of betrayal shall be yours to bear when the war is over."
The Templar's fat lips twisted. "Maker spit on you. Wardens have taken a great deal from us recently. Now you come pounding at our doors again, demanding more?"
Alistair smiled tightly. "Perhaps you did not hear me—I was offering you aid. Your men reek of old blood—you've been at this for nearly…two weeks, I'd say? Your lyrium supply must be near empty, and if you've cut off the Tower from outsiders, your food stocks must not be doing much better." Greagoir gawked, opening and closing his fat mouth rather stupidly.
"You're fighting a losing battle," Alistair went on. "You're near ready to retreat, and surrender Kinloch Hold. Kinloch Hold hasn't fallen to magic since Maric was crowned—I don't imagine that would bode too well for a proud Knight Commander such as yourself. So, by my calculations, I don't think you're in any position to refuse us."
The templar Commander, finally closing his mouth, huffed through his nose. "And by my calculations, you are not the Grand Cleric. So you have no aid that is useful to me."
Alistair narrowed his eyes. Solena did not.
"The Rite of Annulment," she breathed, upon some realization. "Irving is alive. Mages are still alive in the tower, aren't they? But you can't get to them. The demons won't let you, so you're going to…what? Purge the tower? Kill everything that moves?"
Greagoir turned quieter. "The Rite of Annulment is all we have left. Any mage still surviving inside the tower did not do so by any pure means. There is nothing left behind those doors but abominations. Once the Grand Cleric gives her holy blessing and our lyrium and forces are replenished, the Tower can be cleansed of demon influence."
"Cleansed of mages, you mean. At long last, Greagoir, you get your excuse. To slaughter us all." The woman was at her tipping point. Morrigan knew nothing about Rites of Annulment, but its existence—some obscene templar fail-safe—surprised her not. All Chantry manure was the same shade of brown, she had found.
"Don't you think you have grounds to shame me girl, I know not that Irving lives, or any other mage besides. And if they do, I know not which parts of them remain." He shook. "The attack was a surprise. The demons cut through our ranks. We retreated here—what was left of us. We took time to heal ourselves best we could and regroup. When we launched our assault, we were at our strongest, and yet it was not enough. Of all our resources, I run lowest on answers. Give me another, or get out of my bloody way."
He tried to move past her, but she blocked his way. "Send me in, I'll do your damn job for you!"
"Don't make me laugh," he pushed her from his path, but she followed after. Morrigan hesitated to wonder when the man did laugh. Kicking little mage children, perhaps?
She remembered a templar who had visited their hut unwittingly, who liked to beat on little girls. Morrigan had been largely untrained in her magic then, so he had gotten one or two kicks in while Mother, in one of her young, seductive forms, had stepped outside the hut. When Mother returned, she fed him and bed him and Morrigan truly believed her mother had been none the wiser. But Morrigan found him in the bed the next morning, missing his legs. He later died.
Solena and the templar continued to argue rather intently, out of earshot among the mass of bodies in the hall. Alistair leaned back against the stone wall and Leliana continued to look around with that rather sad, pathetic face she wore when confronted with even a modicum of unpleasantness.
When they returned, the templar wore even thinner on patience. He stormed past them to the doors which led into the Tower, and they followed after. He pressed a gloved hand to the stone, whispering some quaint little words and lifting the ward. Then he and two other men lifted the barricade.
"You have until the Grand Cleric arrives with our reinforcements," said Greagoir as he lifted and hauled. "These doors open for no soul but Irving's, who knows the words he must speak to me. If he is dead, then you are lost with him, and that does not concern me."
"That's—" Alistair began, ready to argue.
"Those were the terms of our arrangement, and that is the end of it," he told him. Solena did not once even glance at the three of them.
Alistair and the sister seemed to choose not to argue the point further. Morrigan considered the benefits of not following her—only briefly. She would gladly take her chances with demons before she remained in the hall with the templars.
The two doors split, and slid against the floor as they opened. Solena stepped through without a pause, and the rest of them would have looked much the fools if they had not done the same. Once they cleared the way, the doors slid back into place. When stone met stone again with a clap, the familiar senses came—the eerie silence and the sickly stench that demons brought. But then there was also the Fade. Morrigan felt it. The Veil separating that which lived and that which dreamed was too thin here. And almost…sick.
"Solena, are you—" Alistair reached out.
"I'm fine," she fibbed. She began to walk. "Irving's alive. In what state, I don't know. But he's alive."
"And if he is not the plan is to die, then?" Morrigan asked. They began to pass what looked to her like templar barracks.
"I find I must agree with Morrigan," the sister began, to Morrigan's utter shock. "I trust that your Irving is a wise, capable man, but our cause is—"
"Don't trust in him, trust in me." Solena interrupted. "If things go wrong, I can get us out."
Morrigan shared a cautious look with the sister. Alistair said nothing, perhaps in fear of his fellow Warden turning him into a toad.
"Why have we seen no demons on this floor? Have they retreated up the tower?" the sister inquired.
Solena slowed her step. "Perhaps…" and she seemed to feel something Morrigan did not. "There's something here." She began to jog down the hall which was encased by arched ceilings to rival the heights of the Wilds' pines, and as they all rounded the corner what Solena had felt became quite obvious. A ward blocked the path—though not placed there by any templar, for it shimmered with the magic imbued in it, and she did not feel any drain upon her. That was when they saw the mages in the shadows. Huddling together and hiding like scared animals.
An old woman stepped out first. Hair ragged and a face truly abysmal—from exhaustion, or so it looked. Alistair seemed to lower his guard.
"Wynne? Maker's breath, is that you?" The blade in his hand clattered to the pristine marble floor, and the two met in what appeared to be a friendly embrace. "I thought you were dead. I thought surely you were all dead—!"
"You were not far wrong," she said. "Countless of our finest—and youngest—were left on the field, Maker rest their souls. I and a few of my colleagues were spared."
"Wynne, you—this is Solena, she's a friend and fellow Warden, from Ostagar as well." He gestured to the woman who stood off to his right. "We were the last, or so we thought."
"We've met," she smiled in her direction. "A very talented young woman you've found—I'm so glad the two of you yet live."
The touching reunion appeared to end there. The old woman's look rather soured then, and she distanced herself—ever so slightly—from the two Wardens.
"So," she said. "Why are you here? And why did the templars let you through? Do they plan to attack at long last? Should I expect you to take up arms against me?"
Morrigan watched as children—yes, she could see some were children now—scurried further back into the shadows, hiding behind another woman's skirts, frightened now of Alistair. Alistair appeared to be lost. Lost for words and lost in his mind—she would say that was typical of him, but it wouldn't be quite true.
"If Greagoir has told you we are all abominations to be put to the blade, he knows not of what he speaks," Wynne continued. "Mary and I have protected these children with our lives. This ward has held out against the demons for a week now. We are weak, but we are still in possession of our own minds."
"I do no bidding of the templars, Enchanter," Solena told her. "You have nothing to fear from us."
The old woman raised an eyebrow. "Then what?"
"I must find Irving. Our business is urgent—lives are at stake," she said.
Wynne shook her head. "I last saw Irving before this all started—as Greagoir pounded upon Uldred's door. I couldn't say where he was, or if he even still lives. But I will let you pass through the ward so you may discover that for yourself."
"Uldred? You said Uldred?" Alistair asked. "I met him at Ostagar, he was in Cailan's inner circle—he made it back alive?"
"Yes," Wynne said sharply. "Alive, but changed."
"We were all changed," said Solena—a tone to her voice that once again Morrigan could not place.
"Not as he was. He did not stand in the back lines with the rest of the Senior Enchanters, he fought with his students. Saw them all die before him—and had to be dragged off the field when it was clear the darkspawn had won. Few lost what he did."
"You think Uldred is behind this? Would he attack the Tower?" Solena inquired.
"I…do not know," said Wynne. "In truth, I saw him little after we returned. We did not know each other well enough. There were whispers about him. I meant to check on him, see how he was faring, but never did. I should have. Next thing I knew, Greagoir was marching his men down the halls and knocking down his door. That was when the demons attacked. I couldn't say where they came from, or where Uldred was during all this, but I will not deny that as we've been stuck here my thoughts have drifted to him and what exactly he might be capable of. In short…yes, I suppose…there is a strong possibility."
"Are you…" Solena began. "Are you all that's left? Are all the other mages dead? None were evacuated?"
The old woman shut her eyes. "No. There was no evacuation. Templars and mages both fought as they could. When the battle was quickly lost, the templars retreated without a mage among them, assuming us all to be at risk of possession. Many mages died in the initial onslaught, yes. But that is not to say that some of them do not yet live, somewhere in the Tower. It is my hope and my prayer that they do, and that Irving is still among them."
Solena considered this. The old woman spoke again, hopeful. "Is your goal to put an end to this madness? If Uldred is truly the culprit, will you kill him? End the demon infestation so the Tower may be saved?"
An odd thing happened then. The lady Warden's face changed. It was as if something washed over her. A darkness like Morrigan had not seen from her. Her eyes narrowed and her lips twisted. "And why would I do that?"
Alistair looked upon her strangely, then. The sister looked apprehensive as well. The old woman looked as though she had been slapped. It was almost amusing.
"So we may rebuild. So the Templars may reclaim the Tower and the Circle may be reinstated. As it stands, the Tower may not recover from this."
Solena searched the older woman's eyes. "Maybe it shouldn't."
The elderly enchanter was quite clearly insulted by the discussion, but apparently decided to put her grievances aside for the sake of the present, which Morrigan rather appreciated. She lowered the wards as she had promised, allowing them passage through the Tower. After which she raised the wards once more, saying she would await their return, guarding her charges all the while.
The barracks were largely empty—it was another floor up before they came upon a demon. It stood away from them, sulking, hunched over and facing an empty wall. It swayed—its purply-brown mass moving gently and slightly back and forth, aimlessly—while it ruminated rather intently upon nothing. It was dormant. Almost docile. A most curious sight. Mother had summoned a demon or two in their hut—cautiously, of course, and never without cause. But they had not lasted long enough for Morrigan to observe them in this state. A demon existing in the physical realm without a purpose, without a drive, appeared to be…lost.
The woman took it upon herself to dispel it. She cast a quiet spell that triggered a small explosion within the demon's form, killing it instantly. The four of them quietly scoured the rest of the floor, finding little, and were on their way.
The floors that followed were strangely much the same. No sign of the man Solena sought so eagerly, but plenty of dormant demons in their sleeping, vegetative state, showing aggression if provoked or startled but none if left to mind themselves. Nothing like the colorful picture the templar Commander had painted, of vicious things that tore his force to shreds. Morrigan suspected he was not lying, however. That was what made it all so strange. The demons had retreated. To where and for what purpose none of them could say, and the thought did not set her well-at-ease.
It was not right. None of it. The Fade-tinged air of the Tower was potent and hazy, and everything within it moved slower. It was stuck in a trance. Stuck in time. Morrigan thought to express this, but then grew tired, and thought better of it.
More than half of the way up, they reached what Solena had described as the common area. As they opened the doors that led up the floor they saw that not a single demon roamed upon it. The room was dark and largely cast in shadow, save for a single candle lit in the far back corner of the room. A man stood there behind a table—or so it looked like a man, for he stood inhumanly still and Morrigan truly could not even tell if he breathed. The four of them looked at each other curiously, before Solena set upon approaching cautiously and quietly.
She of course led the pack of them, and as she drew closer towards the alcove she leaned in to look upon him better, before speaking. "Owain?"
The man turned his head. Morrigan could see now he wore robes. A mage, certainly—and at that discovery she elected to move no closer. If the woman wished to be food for demons, that was certainly her prerogative, but it did not have to be Morrigan's. She witnessed Alistair and the sister do the same.
"Hello. Welcome to the Circle stockroom of magical items. My name is Owain. How may I assist you?"
Morrigan stepped closer then. Closer, only to get a better look at the symbol upon his forehead. The rising sun of the Chantry was seared upon his skin.
Solena shook her head. "Owain, you…" she looked back towards the three of them, but they clearly did not offer whatever answers she sought. "Why are you still here?"
"I do not understand your inquiry," the dimwit informed her, with no curiosity to his voice, which Morrigan found to be the most suspect. Though, certainly not a sign of demonic possession. "I am the proprietor of the Circle stockroom. My job is to oversee the Tower's provision of magical items to mages and Enchanters."
"Yes but…" she began. "Have you not seen the demons in the Tower?"
"I have seen demons in the halls, yes. However, they do not enter the common area, nor have they bothered me in my daily tasks. Thus, I remain. I suppose if my work was interfered with, I would have to leave the stockroom, and seek shelter elsewhere. I hope that does not happen."
"What is this?" Morrigan had had quite enough. She bit the question at the air, waiting for an answer. Instead, Alistair and the sister looked upon her strangely.
"He is tranquil," Leliana answered. "Have you not seen a tranquil before?" As if it were commonplace. As if Morrigan were some small-brained fool for having asked in the first place. She huffed.
"I presume this is more of your Chantry nonsense which you think me simple for knowing nothing about?"
"I do not think you simple, Morrigan. Quite the contrary. I am merely surprised. I thought all mages knew of the tranquil," the sister answered, though the end of her thought was stifled by a yawn.
"They're soulless," Alistair explained, which Morrigan was briefly very grateful for. "The templars cut off their connection to the Fade. Leaves them empty; docile. Like this poor sod. Left behind while everyone else ran for their lives, most like."
Morrigan considered the tranquil man.
"Slaves, then," she said.
"Yes," Solena agreed, sadly. "Slaves."
The man, of course, had nothing to say to any of that. He merely blinked at them.
"Why does he look untouched?" Alistair asked. "Why would the demons leave him be like this?"
"Demons can't possess the tranquil," the woman said in response. "They may even be frightened of them."
Alistair failed in holding back a laugh. "Frightened?"
Morrigan thought this was odd, too. Should demons not treat a mage without a connection to the Fade as they would any other human being? Was that not what they were, in the end? She would have to ask the woman about that, later. But she could see that now was not the time for her little curiosities.
"Owain, have you seen the First Enchanter recently?" Solena asked.
"No, I'm sorry, I have not. Now that I think of it, I have not seen very many mages walking about," said Owain, observantly.
"What about Uldred? Have you seen Enchanter Uldred?" she pressed.
"I have seen Senior Enchanter Uldred, yes. Though not, as I recall, for over a week now."
"Did he speak to you? What was he doing?"
"He asked me a great many questions. He seemed interested in me."
"Owain, what sort of questions?"
"I believe he asked: how long had I been tranquil, if I could describe the tranquility process, what being tranquil felt like. I told him I was not permitted to answer the first two questions, and did not know how to answer the last. He seemed frustrated. I hope I did not upset him."
By the time Solena informed them they were a floor from the top, Morrigan was grasping the stairwell, near ready to collapse. She attributed it to the climbing. It did pain her, so. And oh, how exhausting it was. How right her mother had been, to keep her from this horror.
It was at this point she realized the others were faring no better. The sister had sweat upon her brow, which was not typical of her at all. Alistair breathed deeply, and the lids of his eyes slid closed every so often when he believed no one was looking. Solena was tired too, or so Morrigan believed, but it appeared that the woman ran on determination alone. Either way, she did not seem to pay any heed to their struggles.
Instead, she pressed them onward. She directed them to Irving's study, one of the first doors they came across. Alistair signaled Solena to wait as he pressed his ear to the wood. Moments later he stepped to the side, and signaled Solena to open the door. As she did, Morrigan heard a painful screeching, and saw a demon rushing towards the entry. As it passed the threshold, Alistair swung, and sent the demon to the floor in two pieces.
The Wardens entered after that, and the sister took a careful, dainty step over the carcass on the floor as she followed. Morrigan trailed behind.
"Shut the door," Solena told her. "We'll be making some noise."
As soon as Morrigan did so, Solena threw flame upon the torches that lined the wall so that they were permitted sight, and began rifling through stacks and stacks of books and papers laid out upon endless tables. Old things, new things, rusted things and torn things. Morrigan could not recall ever seeing so many artifacts. There were scales and weights and sketches and maps and spherical things that spun around each other when you tapped on them. Alistair was easily preoccupied by the latter.
"What is it you are looking for, exactly?" Morrigan asked, equal parts annoyed and curious.
"Anything. Irving knew everything that went on in this tower. Uldred must have raised his concerns."
The sister quickly began helping in earnest. Alistair did so half-heartedly, still clearly tired and distracted by the many colorful and shiny objects in the room. Morrigan, truly still not understanding what it was she should be looking for, at least made it appear as though she were being useful.
Solena began rifling through desk drawers, then. Making, as she had projected, a great amount of noise. That was when Morrigan heard the scratching and clicking of metal, and looked up.
It seemed the woman had found a key, and was now making quick work of opening up a large chest in the back corner of the room. Alistair crowded her then, and Morrigan could not see whatever it was they were so intently looking at.
But then the woman lifted it up out of the chest, and between their two forms Morrigan could see what looked like another book, but was thick and covered in dark wood carved to look like root tendrils. She could see the dark energy that radiated from it. To look upon it sucked the soul from her. To think of it made her cold, and made her shake.
"Is this…is this what we need? Do you think it has something to do with Uldred?" Alistair asked.
"No," Morrigan said from behind them all. They all turned. "I know that book. It is my mother's."
She walked closer towards it, and held out her hands for Solena to place it in her own. She felt the cover, let her fingers run down the woodwork. She dared not open it here.
"Your mother's?" Solena asked her.
"Yes. Or, it must be. I have seen one exactly like it, locked away in our hut. I was never permitted to open it, if I valued my life. Which I very much did," she answered. "I presume this is not the same one. But perhaps…a copy? Or a second volume. I could not say. How your Irving got ahold of it…that is a true mystery."
"Your mother wants it back, I take it?" Alistair inquired.
"Oh, yes. I can only imagine," Morrigan said, though she did not look away from the book until a thought gripped her like a vice, and would not let go. Her head jerked up, and she looked into Solena's eyes then. "Let me have this."
The woman looked taken aback. "It is not mine to give you."
"Yes, but only you have the ability to allow me to take it. Your Irving will not know it was you—he will presume it to be this Uldred, or the work of his demons, and consider it lost." Morrigan clutched the book to her chest, tightly. She imagined she looked much like a little girl, begging for a gift. She felt silly. She remembered her mirror.
"Listen to me, please," she persisted. "I have never known who or what my mother truly is, nor the extent of her powers, nor her reasons for bringing me into this world. This book likely contains secrets—answers I could never have even dreamed of one day acquiring. If there was something in this world that contained the key to your existence as such, would you not do anything to obtain it?"
Solena looked at her very intently. Morrigan at first thought the look was her pity again, and resented it, but then recognized it as something altogether different. An understanding, perhaps? Perhaps that was not so awful. Regardless, Morrigan knew the look she returned her was nothing short of begging, so she was certainly in no place to criticize.
"You will not return it to your mother?" she asked.
"The crone may kill me for it. Beyond that, no. Never," she answered her honestly.
The woman swallowed. "Then take it. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."
Solena closed the lid to the chest. Morrigan nodded. She knew there were words she should have said, but she could not think of them. Only of the breathlessness she felt, looking at the thing she now held in her arms. And of how very tired she was.
A/N:
I am rachelamberish on tumblr.
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