A/N: As always, with many, many thanks to oneplusme for the beta and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
Warning for suicidal ideation.
Recap - Sylvanna, the Architect - chapter 36
[The Deep Roads]
Sylvanna: Ooh! Bruises!
Architect: Your enthusiasm is commendable.
Sylvanna: Whee drugs!
Architect: One moment while I objectify your body and contemplate the horror of many thousands of shriek babies.
Architect: ...
Architect: Moment over. You may proceed.
Sylvanna: Oh dream!sparrow, I guess I saved you after all. But at what cost?
Eadric: *creepily watches*
Sylvanna: What're you doing?
Eadric: Curing myself of the darkspawn infection using your slightly-less-tainted blood.
Sylvanna: That won't work! Didn't you attend Blood Magic 101?
Eadric: Some of us weren't fortunate enough to train under a Witch of the Wilds. (Geddit? Under?)
Sylvanna: You should die for that pun.
Eadric: Noooooooooooo!
Eadric: Oh, fine. Have my blood. Much good it'll do you.
Sylvanna: asfj#Q%&!11!1!
Valena: Smells like ghoul. Eh, still edible.
Sylvanna: Valena. Somehow being in your presence unravels a decade's worth of enchantments. Feel special now?
Valena: No. Just hungry.
[Later]
Architect: Helpful assistant: dead. Beloved experimental broodmother: dead.
Architect: At least my project to restore the warden's free will appears to be successful.
Sylvanna: I'm going to have a breakdown now.
Architect: If you must.
No Such Place
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The Deep Roads
The first day after the change, the subject did nothing. Periodically, the Architect had to ensure that she was still breathing. She failed to acknowledge his presence, or give any indication of life save for the hum of the taint, emanating from her blood. He spent the rest of the time salvaging what he could from Valena's remains.
The second day, he coaxed her out of her cell with the intention of talking. Tears leaked from her eyes and a wild keening rose from her throat, disturbing the unenlightened as the sound echoed through the caverns. She tore at her hair, ripping out strands until he replaced her manacles, preventing further injury. The weeping became intolerable within the first hour, and he led her back to her cell where the noise would not disturb him.
The third day, he carefully fed her a little lyrium, rubbing the potion over her cracked lips. Her eyes snapped open, glowing with desire and she lunged for the rest of it, clawing at him like a blight wolf. He stepped back, beyond reach of her chains, and made a promise: more lyrium in exchange for her compliance. She growled an unintelligible response, deliberately turning away and curling up at the back of her cell.
The fourth day, he found her lying in a pool of blood, her skull a battered mess. She had fallen unconscious before causing sufficient damage to kill herself. Part of him was disappointed that her calculations as to how much force was required were so vastly incorrect. Perhaps she had not accounted for the regenerative qualities of her newly tainted blood. It was a fortunate, albeit sloppy mistake. He tended to her wounds, placing further restraints upon her to make another attempt impossible.
It took another ten days before she consented to speak with him.
"Why are you torturing me?" she demanded, pacing up and down the floor of his study. Mana arced over her skin in tiny blue sparks, her manacles clanking with each step. "I begged you for death. For pity's sake, end this."
"No."
She launched herself at him, screaming insults and all manner of what he suspected were obscene epithets; he prevented her from doing any real damage with an ease that was almost embarrassing. She had barely eaten in the last two weeks; her muscle mass had decreased considerably as her body began to cannibalise itself.
Once her rage subsided, she began to cry again, huddled in a corner of his study with her knees drawn to her chest. He had grown used to such behaviour, mentally compartmentalising the sound until it no longer irritated him.
"Why?" she asked, when she finally decided to be rational. "What do you want from me?"
He had lost count of the number of times he had explained this to her. "Your aid in defeating the Old God."
Instead of an outright denial, she shuddered, drawing in tighter around herself, if that was possible. "I can't see her," she whispered. "Not after what she did to me. What they did. I can't."
The Architect waited for the weeping to begin anew, but instead she fell into silence, rocking her body back and forth. It was an improvement. He returned to his desk, and for a few hours, the only sound heard was the scratching of his quill against the parchment.
When it came time to lead her back to her cell, he stood, prepared to discount the day as another loss. As he approached, she raised her head, affixing him with eyes that shone white over red veins.
"How can I kill Her?"
Finally.
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Ten years.
Ten years they had kept her, used her, robbed her of her will and her sanity.
Ten years.
Oh, she must have wanted it, somehow, somewhere. The spells would not have been so effective had she not... complied... to some extent.
Ten years.
The sweetness still remained, despite everything, and that was the worst of it. The feeling of the child's soft, fragile skull nestled at her breast, of tiny fingers grasping at her hair - those thoughts floated to the surface, bobbing like pearls emerging unscathed through a sea of filth.
She thought it would be easier simply to hate them, to rage against the cruel injustices they had wrought. She thought it would be easier to hate herself.
She was wrong.
Given a similar situation, she might have done the same. She might have reached out - to anyone - for protection, for succour. Such behaviour could be excused in an infant, helpless, terrified, but not in the being that called itself a god.
She wouldn't have done the same.
Then again, she had never been with child. She had never carried one to term. It did strange things to people, that process of bonding, of growth. That was what Wynne had told her, in any case, so it was probably true.
She hated Morrigan.
She loved Morrigan.
The bards said the two emotions were one and the same, and Sylvanna had never quite believed that, until now.
Which was the lie? Memories beckoned her. A slumbering infant, heavy in her arms, chubby ankles, delicately pointed ears. A voice, naming her, possessing her with its breath; the same voice that called to her now, reaching through her blood: the source of the Song.
She was still a mother, in truth if not in flesh. One choice remained, mocking her with its illusion of agency, but it belonged to her and no one else, and for that reason alone, she would take it.
She would do what she had to do. What the darkspawn wanted her to do.
In the end, she was still someone else's instrument.
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Much work remained, but it was easier now given the subject's newfound compliance and understanding. The Architect was unused to the rapidity of emotional change that seemed to plague the female warden. In other circumstances, he might have devoted more effort to taking readings and making notes, but time was a luxury they simply could not afford. Enough had been wasted already.
He dipped a needle in a solution of blue ink, removing the excess. He had tested various pigments on Velanna some time ago, with acceptable results. It was unfortunate that Eadric was dead. He would have preferred to test them again - just in case - but he was running short on subjects.
"Will it hurt?" she whispered.
In his experience, any discomfort tended to be more psychological than physiological. "Only if you move." He tilted her head back until she faced the ceiling, her eyes staring wide and unblinking.
There was an easier way. He whispered a spell, sealing her in place. If only he had thought to try this with Velanna, there would have been no need to endure her caustic remarks or incessant squirming.
Unhindered, he pierced the clear barrier over the warden's iris, depositing a measure of ink. The needle repeated its insertion another dozen times, at different points, pausing in between to renew the pigment. He gave her a moment's peace as he strengthened the spell, and then repeated the procedure on the other eye.
The Architect set down his tools. She would soon be presentable. The thought gave him a flicker of hope, and he quelled the premature feeling of gratification.
She gasped and clawed at her face when the spell broke, doubling over in her seat. "You didn't warn me - oh Maker, it burns."
"The sensation will subside." Much of the discomfort was most likely due to the paralysis, in any case.
"I hate you," she muttered.
"I have not forgotten."
She slowly removed her hands from her face, tilting her chin to look at him. "How long will it last?"
He considered her appearance. Her eyes looked reddened and teary more than anything else; it would take repeated applications, using different pigments before he could release her. Perhaps he should have informed her before they began. "A month or so. I urge you to act as quickly as you can. The longer you remain in contact with the Old God, the greater the risk of discovery, or of re-enthralment."
"Never." She shook her head, hands clenching into fists. "Never again."
The Architect thought it pointless to make such declarations, but remained silent. He picked up a page of his notes, handing it to her.
"What is this?" she asked, glancing down.
"A recipe to remove the somatic effects of the darkspawn blood. Memorise the process before returning to the surface. The potion must be ingested daily. Its effectiveness will wane with continued use."
She scanned the instructions for a few minutes, before raising her gaze to his. "I can't do this."
His lips tightened, before he forced himself to relax. "Neither of us have a choice, Grey Warden."
The parchment crumpled in her fist. "She'll know. She'll smell it on me. I know she will."
For a moment, he briefly wondered which of the two females 'she' referred to. "That is a risk we must take. The possibility of failure decreases if you do not give Her reason to suspect."
She shuddered, and then smoothed out the creased paper. Her hands drifted back to her eyes, wiping the moisture from her face. "I would like to heal this."
"I would prefer if you did not. Use of magic may disrupt the appearance." It was a justifiable reason, though truly he could not afford to let her recover any mana until her release. If she attacked him, he might be forced to kill her, and that would ruin all he had worked for.
She began to weep again, silently this time. Perhaps he should have covered her eyes with gauze. Surely so much moisture was detrimental.
"I can't," she repeated, gasping. "I can't."
"If you fail, it is likely that another Blight will occur before the age has passed. The majority of Blights run unchecked for decades, even centuries of destruction. The fifth Blight was an anomaly. I suspect it will not be repeated."
That stopped her crying, at least. Surface races were all so delicate; even in her corrupted state, she lacked the sheer survivability of a true darkspawn. He supposed he ought to be more furious at Eadric for tainting her, but his foolishness had worked well enough into the Architect's plans, provided that she found the other wardens. The Seeker was due to report on their activities; his tardiness was uncharacteristic. Perhaps he had fallen afoul of those he had been sent to find? The Architect could ill afford to lose more Disciples.
He rose, moving to his shelves of phylacteries. It would be old now - perhaps nine years, but he had enchanted the vials against mould and other contaminants. She only needed one grey warden, after all. Surely this one would do.
He deposited a vial in her hands.
"What is that?" she asked, holding it to the light. Liquid sloshed within the confines of the glass.
"Blood from one of the few wardens in Ferelden who remains uncorrupted by the Old God." At least, the Seeker had said that they were uncorrupted. Hopefully that was still the case, or his plans would be for naught.
Her forehead wrinkled into a frown. "You want me to track a warden - as if I were a templar? I don't know how."
"This may assist you." He reached for one of his books, brushing the copious amounts of dust from its cover. She sneezed before taking it from him.
"'Phylacteries: A History Written in Blood'?"
"Use the next few days to study it," he advised. "You will not be able to take the book to the surface, for obvious reasons."
"It's like I never left the tower," she muttered, fingers running over the tome, but he knew she would do as he asked.
After all, what other choice did she have?
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"During the process of transition, She will be vulnerable." The Architect had told the warden this more than once, but it bore repeating. She trudged along before him, the hem of her robes dragging against the ground. "It will be nigh impossible to destroy Her otherwise."
She understood. He could see it in her eyes, so gloriously clear, returned to that strange, sky-like blue that was considered normal - healthy - in the surface races. He was inordinately proud of his success; her unblemished skin, her bright crimson blood that sang warden and nothing more. As if Eadric had never happened.
It was a triumph. The perfect illusion. With any luck, the trick would hold.
"Liminality. Neither one thing nor the other." Her voice was a dry, fragile thing, barely a whisper.
"Yes."
"Like me."
He saw no point in confirming what she already knew, and so they continued on in silence, the ground sloping gently upwards. Did she truly understand? Was she prepared to see this to the end? Another chance was unlikely to fall his way - not before the Old God fully matured. Urthemiel would be virtually untouchable if he allowed that to occur. This was his final chance. His means of atonement, for the thousands upon thousands of darkspawn who died during the last Blight. His atonement, for awakening the Old God.
"Stop."
She halted at the word. They could both feel the cool surface air, and she parted her lips as though drinking it in, her eyes closed, face tilted towards the breeze. Ahead of them, a patch of light beckoned, filtering through a gap in the cavern roof.
"The path beyond should be clear." He had seen to it himself, after all. Nothing should stand in the way of her return to the surface.
She stared straight ahead. "I will not fail."
His days were about to become emptier without another warden around. Still, he would have work enough overseeing his contingency plan, should she prove incapable. "I hope not, Grey Warden. For the sake of both our kinds."
The Architect pressed a small vial into her hand. She stared at it, recognition brightening her features. He drew back into the shadows, and watched.
She glanced around wildly for a moment, utterly lost. Undoubtedly she could sense him, as he could sense her, but the shadows were thick where he stood. Her eyes flicked over him, unseeing, and she turned back towards the vial, uncorking it with hands that shook. Once ingested, the lyrium had an instant effect: her shoulders relaxed, a sigh of pleasure escaping her lips. She turned back the way they came - considering, no doubt, her chances of success should she attempt to kill him. He hoped she would leave the temptation alone. She had made a promise to him, after all, and he had assumed she would fulfill it to the best of her ability. Turning on him now would be counter-productive for both of them.
To his satisfaction, she pivoted, taking halting steps towards the light. She stood beneath it for a moment, head bowed, before breaking into a run, her footfalls echoing loudly against the packed earth. He waited until the sound was inaudible, then turned to attend to the rest of his schemes.
He had done all he could. In time, he would learn whether it had been enough.
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She felt it long before it came into view. A strange scent, different to the Architect's. For the first time in weeks, she used magic: a simple shield, surrounding her with a faint aura of light.
The Architect had left her unarmed. No matter. The mana within her was sufficient.
"Peace, Grey Warden."
A slithering voice. A shudder ran through her as she raised her hands, bringing another spell to mind. "What do you want?"
The darkspawn came into view, inching towards her from one of the adjoining passages. Its staff remained strapped to its back, its clawed hands held palms-up in a gesture for peace. "I wish to talk," it said, stopping several feet away. It was a squat, misshapen thing, barely as high as her shoulder.
"I have talked and I have talked," Sylvanna spat. "I am sick of talking. Begone."
"Wait." The darkspawn raised its head, sniffing the air. Satisfied with what it found, or didn't find, it turned back to her. "I am to be different to the Architect. I am the Seeker."
One of the Architect's Disciples, then. She failed to see how different one darkspawn could be to another. "Speak quickly, Seeker. Different in what way?"
It took a step closer. She summoned a ball of frost, raising it as a warning gesture. The darkspawn ducked its head, hands ghosting over its skull in a motion that reminded her painfully of Ruck.
"Do not be angry! We are to offer you a request. Do not be hurting the Old God. The Song, it must not be silenced. We wish to seek another way."
Sylvanna let the ice warm, melting from her fingertips. "What other way?"
"The Song can be changed. Bettered! But never silenced. Madness in the silence. No. It must be saved. Kept pure." The darkspawn dared to peek at her through its claws, taking a step closer. Sylvanna stood her ground. "I can give you what you need," it offered, its voice a sibilant hiss, eyes gleaming within a cavernous skull.
"And what do you think I need, Seeker?"
It clicked its teeth together, lips bared. "Vengeance. I can give you the Architect, yes. He seeks to destroy the Old God, to destroy the Song. He must be stopped!"
Vengeance. That thought had warmed many a cold night, underground. She had dismissed it as impossible - she would not return to the Deep Roads for anyone, or anything - not even for revenge. But if she could work through another...
She turned to look at the sunlight beckoning around the corner of the passageway, and sighed. Behind her, the darkspawn stood, waiting.
She could use it. Listen to it, consider its offer. If she disliked what she heard, she could always rend its heart from its body. "Very well. Tell me everything."
Its mouth twisted into a lipless grin, and it began to talk.
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Redcliffe
By some unspoken pact, they had said not a word about Ishantha's transgressions, though Morrigan could see treacherous thoughts slithering behind her daughter's eyes like snakes in a pit. There were more pressing matters at stake.
"No more," Ishantha gasped, lowering her hands. In front of them, a wide pit had been carved into the ground, revealing the fallen rocks and dirt that had almost buried the Redcliffe guardsmen.
Morrigan frowned. "Are you certain of her location?"
"Yes." Ishantha's response was more abrupt than usual. The girl breathed out, turning to face her mother. "Wait. I think I can sense something again. As if she's moving closer."
Morrigan wearied of hoping, of jumping at the slightest noise, thinking it could be her voice, of straining her eyes at the most formless shadow, thinking she could see her shape. She would believe when she felt Sylvanna in her arms again, and not a moment sooner.
"Oh!" Ishantha's exclamation was filled with wonder. "Mother, isn't that-?"
From amongst the rubble, a tiny wisp emerged, pale and flickering in the sunlight. Morrigan reached out a hand, and it danced across her fingertips, radiating no heat though its core seemed to burn with green fire.
"Did you see where it emerged?" Morrigan croaked, her mouth dry.
Ishantha nodded.
"Concentrate your efforts on that location. Carefully, mind."
Her daughter set to work again, her girlish voice filling the clear morning air with the sound of magic. Morrigan could do little but wait and pace, studiously refraining from biting her nails.
When Sylvanna finally emerged, an hour later, she could almost believe that there was a God.
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"Sylvanna, you'll catch your death of cold."
No response.
She had spoken not a word since her rescue, not even when Ishantha had burst into tears and buried her face in Sylvanna's filthy dress. Morrigan had politely refrained from disclosing how easily their daughter had discounted her life; there would be time enough for that later.
Sylvanna had sunk willingly enough into her arms, even though it had been all Morrigan could do to avoid gagging on the smell. Honestly, worse than the hound; worse even than the templar. But she supposed that was why they were here, servants and guards and daughter dismissed.
It would be easier if Sylvanna would deign to talk to her.
"The water downstream is largely standing. 'Twould be simple enough to warm." Morrigan swallowed uncomfortably. "Please."
Not even so much as the flicker of an eyelid.
"Sylvanna-"
"Your dagger," she said. The words were delivered in a monotone. She had not shifted an inch, skirts hiked above her knees. Bare feet dangled in a perilously cold stream, the water scarcely warm enough to be moving. She was not even shivering, as far as Morrigan could tell, as though she were made of stone and not flesh and blood.
Morrigan's hand dropped to her hip. "My dagger?"
Sylvanna held out her palm, not caring to rise. Morrigan hesitated, but only for a moment before offering the requested blade. "What are you-"
Sylvanna brought the dagger to her head, slicing off whole hanks of hair, close to her nape. Morrigan winced. True, there had been dried blood and other... less identifiable substances encrusted in there, but nothing a proper, hot bath could not have fixed.
"Was that truly necessary?"
"Yes."
Sylvanna looked positively frightful. The short, uneven cut made her thin face seem even more narrow. Ishantha would not be impressed. The girl loved vanity in all its forms, and was sure to see this as a personal affront.
"Would you pleasereturn to the castle, now?" Morrigan asked.
Sylvanna stared at her reflection in the water, head tilted to one side. Fallen leaves drifted downstream, marring her image as they swirled in the eddies. She inclined her head. The dagger glinted in her hand, her knuckles white. Morrigan tried hard not to imagine it buried hilt deep in her own throat.
"Yes," Sylvanna said. "I think that would be for the best."
Morrigan's attempts to assist her to her feet were studiously ignored. This was not unexpected. All she needed was time. Time and patience. After spending a childhood with Flemeth, it was easy for Morrigan to silence the voice of doubt inside her mind.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
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Sylvanna tried climbing into her old, filthy rags after bathing. Morrigan was so horrified, she threw the robes onto the fire, and then instantly regretted it as the fumes from the burning cloth filled the room. During the entire time, Sylvanna responded with barely a shiver of movement, staring glassily before her in a manner that was almost disconcerting.
Patience.
Sylvanna refused all offers of sleep or food, though she was clearly exhausted and unpleasantly thin. Morrigan ought to know. From time to time, Flemeth had permitted her templar companions to stay for extended periods; such sessions had been invaluable in teaching Morrigan about the endurance of the human body and spirit. Since the guests invariably met gruesome ends, she had never learnt what happened when they were restored to their former lives. She suspected she might learn, now.
"I need to talk to you. To both of you," Sylvanna said, not looking her in the eye.
"Very well. I'll summon Ishantha-"
"No." Sylvanna gestured for her to wait. Morrigan caught her gaze for a second, and Sylvanna glanced away, but not before Morrigan saw something there - the first flicker of emotion she had uncovered all day.
Fear.
"Don't go. Tell a servant to bring her."
"If you prefer." Morrigan reached over a settee and rang a bell. Soon the message had been taken by an earnest chambermaid, and they were alone again.
Morrigan placed a hand over Sylvanna's, but the warden drew away at her touch. A pang of dread tightened Morrigan's throat. "Sylvanna, are you-" She paused, unable to even think of what she was truly attempting to ask. Sylvanna seemed physically unharmed, though she could have healed any wounds to the point of invisibility. "Did they-"
"No."
Ishantha's arrival prevented further attempts to glean any information in private. The girl stared at them in horror.
"Mama, your - your hair!"
"It will grow back, Ishantha. Stop fussing," Morrigan snapped.
Ishantha ran her hands over Sylvanna's abused hair, making a noise of dismay. She slipped a wrap from her shoulders, tucking it around Sylvanna's head as a peasant might tie a kerchief, fiddling with the material until it draped to her satisfaction. Sylvanna submitted to the indignity with a complete lack of affect.
"Oh Mama, I wish you hadn't," Ishantha whined. "It looks positively dreadful! Doesn't it look dreadful?" she asked, this last question to Morrigan.
"I fail to see the problem," Morrigan said. Truly, the cumulative effect was quite awful, but it was only hair, after all. Nothing to cry over like some simpering Orlesian flower.
Ishantha petted Sylvanna on the shoulder. "Poor Mama."
Morrigan was forced to note that her daughter was grieving more profoundly over Sylvanna's looks than she had over the woman herself.
Sylvanna reached up and toyed with the silk covering her head. "You should know what happened to me, below."
It was the longest sentence she had spoken all day. Even Ishantha ceased babbling, eyes wide in anticipation. Morrigan cast wards of silence around the room, closing the thick drapes over the window before settling down to listen.
Sylvanna took a deep breath. "They weren't searching for me," she said, her eyes boring into Morrigan's. "They were searching for you."
"The darkspawn?"
Sylvanna nodded. "Some of them are... different. They speak, reason. One of them caused the last Blight."
"The Architect!" Ishantha exclaimed, as though reciting the answer to a lesson.
"Yes." Sylvanna paused, wetting her lips. "It regrets waking you. It wishes you dead."
Ishantha sighed. "And here I thought he loved me."
"Why did the Architect want to capture you? Or I?" Morrigan asked.
Sylvanna's gaze drifted between the two of them. "It believed it could lure Ishantha down underground, if it offered sufficient incentive. It intends to destroy all of the Old Gods. Apparently, the risk of a Blight is too great, threatening the lives of thousands of darkspawn." Her voice cracked on the last word, trailing off into a whisper.
Morrigan frowned. "How did you escape?"
Sylvanna bit her lip. "Not all darkspawn agree with the Architect. Many still long to see - to touch - the Old God, to see her rise again." She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Ishantha's ear. A stab of jealousy coursed through Morrigan's heart.
"One of them helped me: the Seeker. It promised to deliver the Architect into our hands."
"Do you believe that this darkspawn speaks truly?" Morrigan asked.
Sylvanna glanced in her direction. "It seemed sincere. I think the risk of betrayal is minimal. All of them want to be close to the Old God; it's a feeling, an urge in the blood, it-" she broke off, swallowing. "The Architect is an anomaly."
"We'll kill him for you, of course," Ishantha said, taking Sylvanna's hands, all sweetness and light, as though she had never been anything else. "We'll kill both of them."
Sylvanna's response was so soft as to be barely audible, but there was no mistaking the curve of her lips, nor the ferocious gleam in her eyes.
"Good."
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A/N: With many thanks to Auroraas, Misdirection, mutive, often indecisive, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
And major props to Crisium for pointing out in 'What We Choose' that the Architect during Awakening is not only collecting warden blood, he has a book on phylacteries in his study.
NB: There are DA2 spoilers in the reviews, if you haven't finished the game yet.