The dull thud of metal against bone did not draw attention at first. It was, after all, only a fragment of sound amongst the distant cacophony caused by the demon. Those who happened to overhear it assumed that it was merely part of the abomination's ransacking of Redcliffe's north tower. It was impossible to guess how much of the castle had been rendered uninhabitable by the rampage. Nervousness crawled between the Circle mages like a creature pulling itself from below ground; none of them really wanted to be there. The round bastion of Kinloch Hold suddenly seemed more a fortress than a prison: keeping them safely ensconced while they pursued harmless academia.
One senior mage not involved in crafting the sedating tincture glanced over her shoulder, a fearful swivel of the neck. By chance her gaze settled near the entrance, where the arlessa stood cloaked in a bright, steely resolution. The senior mage then sucked in a swift and shocked breath. Although the sound was muffled, it was loud enough to draw the attention of those nearby.
A startled murmur grew into an insectoid hum. The bann was the first non-mage to notice the shift in tone. He looked up, then cast his eye along the line of their stares. His brows rose to his hairline, and then he let out a groan of exasperation.
"Isolde, really?"
"I will not apologise," came a thin and tremulous reply. "The life of my son is at stake, Teagan. There is nothing I would not do to bring him back to me."
"But the lass was prepared to take the- " the bann floundered; he could not remember the correct alchemical term. "The sleeping draught. There was no need for this."
"Nothing I would not do," repeated the arlessa, her blue eyes hard and glittering. "I am a desperate mother."
"Maker's Breath!"
The dismayed exclamation came from Alistair, who had only just noticed the cause of the general consternation. His sister-warden lay on her belly amidst the wreckage of a tapestry. She had clearly fallen face first into it after being struck from behind; pulling the Siege of Briathimlond to the ground. She was motionless on the flagstones, her face covered by a spill of hair.
Alistair crossed to her in a handful of strides, kneeling as best he could garbed in full steel. Taking Flora's shoulder in his hand, he gently turned her onto her back. Despite the suddenness of her assault, her face bore no shock or pain: she could have been asleep. Holding his breath, Alistair removed a piece of dark red hair from her eyes. A tautness constricted his throat. Seeing her unresponsive brought back unwanted memories of the days after Ostagar; when Flora had lain unconscious and dreaming while Alistair tried to make sense of a terrible new world alone. He took some comfort from the fact that this time her face bore an untroubled nonchalance: surely if she was in distress, it would manifest itself in her features?
Reluctant to leave his sister-warden's side, Alistair fastened the top button of her coat. Determined that no one would tread on her hand, he lifted it and placed it carefully on her chest. Her palm was cool and dry, the skin softened from constant rejuvenation. The bitten stubs of her fingernails had lines of dirt beneath them: deceptively ordinary.
He then rose to his feet and turned to Isolde. A Marician fury blazed inside him, igniting the green flecks in his eyes and curling his lip until no kindness remained in his face. His expression made Teagan take a step closer and murmur a caution: "Alistair."
Like a blacksmith plunging red iron into water, Alistair took a deep breath and quashed his rage.
I'm not my father, he thought to himself, bitterly. I don't have the Theirin temper.
Or, I have it, but I've always reined it in.
Reined it in like an unbroken yearling.
"I never liked you, Isolde," he said bluntly, casting aside any shred of deference. "Which made us even, since you never liked me much. But I won't forgive you for this."
Alistair's words were less significant than the use of the arlessa's Maker-name. It had emerged unthinking from his throat, as it had never done before. Even during his most vengeful bouts of brooding at the Templar monastery, Eamon's wife had always been granted her title of arlessa. Now he called her by name: an unconscious acknowledgement of the fact that he was no longer an inferior.
Isolde drew in a tremulous breath, her hand fluttering at her throat like a trapped bird. Fortunately, the First Enchanter chose that moment to intercede, striding between them to cast a thoughtful eye down at the prostrate girl.
"A primitive solution," the old mage murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stroked his chin. "A crude one, yes. But she is in the Fade, which is where she needs to be."
Alistair hoped that the man was right, and that his sister-warden knew what she needed to do. He was not entirely sure that she had been listening during the explanation of the plan. He had been watching her surreptitiously while Wynne talked about anchors and liturgies and lines of binding - and Flora had looked on the verge of falling asleep. She had yawned, scratched the end of her nose and then looked around as though surprised to find herself back at Redcliffe Castle.
"Someone will need to guard her during the first part of the exorcism," the First Enchanter said, kneeling with a grunt of aged bones. He opened Flora's eye with a practised thumb, checking the shrunken pupil at the centre of the iris. "The demon may conjure apparitions to protect itself. She is vulnerable."
If Flora had been able to hear the First Enchanter's statement, she would have been outraged: she had several deficiencies, but vulnerable was not one of them . Yet this was not a normal slumber, and the usual assumptions did not apply.
Alistair's mouth was already open, when Leliana cut in: careful and yet firm.
"Alistair, you are needed elsewhere. You're the best defence the mages have, and the swifter they complete the ritual… well. The better for all of us."
The unvoiced part: or else we are all done for.
Before he could reply, Sten strode forward from where he had been poised motionless beside the doorway. The mages parted before him, watching in quiet wonder as he approached the group beside the tapestry. A Qunari was still a rare sight within Ferelden.
"None of you are capable," he said, bluntly. "I will do it."
Alistair was about to protest: he was indeed capable! but then Sten leaned down and retrieved Flora from where she lay sprawled face-down. She might have weighed no more than a paper doll; he slung her unceremoniously over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He then brandished his polearm with his free arm - Isolde and the First Enchanter took a hasty step back - to demonstrate that he was in no way impeded by the burden.
Alistair gazed at his sister-warden's dangling legs. One of her boots had remained on the flagstones; revealing three carefully layered pairs of socks. Flora had a habit of wearing all her clothing at once to save from carrying it. He felt the strange constriction in his throat again, hot and scratchy.
"Don't let anything happen to her," he heard himself say. "Or touch her."
It was not in the Qunari's nature to offer words of comfort and reassurance. Sten merely gazed back at him with a vaguely bemused scorn.
Events moved swiftly then: they could not risk their Fade-anchor waking up prematurely. As Wynne explained for a final time, Flora's only role would be to snare the exorcised demon, yanking it forcibly through the Veil before it could wreak havoc on those left behind. The timing was essential: a heartbeat of delay would come at the expense of lives. A grey-green flame would ignite within the largest lantern once the demon was trapped within the great hall. It would extinguish itself only when the demon perished in the Fade.
All of the Circle paraphernalia had been carefully positioned. The golden thread was unspooled across the doorways; the lanterns placed at each point of the arcane compass. Salt had been flung in snowy trails across the tiles, crunching underfoot. The mirror showed glimpses of shadowed figures with no counterpart in the physical world.
The mages were spaced in an uneven circle, careful to leave no equal gap between them. The First Enchanter had a leather tome in his hand, the binding cracked with age. He was practising the verses of the litany beneath his breath, lips moving soundlessly. The fact that their most senior leader needed a rehearsal did not fire the others with confidence. The mages - Jowan too - stood taut and quivering in their designated spots, eyes darting like trapped insects. Those who stood nearer to Alistair seemed marginally less frightened: his physical bulk was reassuring. Out of the Circle cohort, Wynne alone seemed unfazed, her chin lifted in calm expectation.
Alistair was not as composed as the old mage. Guilt crept within him like a stain; he felt as though he had failed his sister-warden twice over. Firstly, there was the blow over the head from Isolde - Alistair was not sure how he could have prevented that, but there might have been a way - and secondly, he had not protested at her role in Irving's plan. They had sought the aid of the most senior mages in Ferelden precisely because Flora was inexperienced. Now she had been assigned some pivotal part in their ritual, and he was not sure that she had been paying attention when her role had been explained to her.
While Alistair brooded, Leliana had positioned herself on the raised plinth of a fireplace. She had an archer's eye for finding even the slightest elevation. An arrow spun between her restless fingers, ready to be nocked at a moment's notice.
"Please, Connor - you must try and fight it!"
Isolde's muffled tremulous voice broke the silence. She had been sent by the bann to lure her demon-possessed son into the great hall. From the sound of her plea, she was in the adjacent corridor: only a stone's throw away. Nobody dared to breathe, the mildewed air hung suspended in a dozen throats.
The door swung open and the arlessa half-fell inside, gasping with relief. A trio of gaunt shadows followed her, and then came the boy himself. Appearances were deceptive: Connor Guerrin appeared no more than a slender-built boy with the green eyes of his father and the pointed chin of his mother. Then he stepped over the threshold, treading the golden thread underfoot and disturbing the line of salt. A sliver of oily green flame shot up within the tallest lantern.
The shriek of rage that followed reverberated to the bone. In an instant the childish features contorted into something otherworldly and horrifying; eyes blazing as though set aflame. The mouth unhinged to a screaming toothless O that took up too much of the face.
"You tricked me, Mother!"
Isolde let out a choked sob as she stumbled forwards towards the speechless circle of mages.
The abomination turned and attempted to flee; howling as it met with invisible resistance within the doorway. It hurled itself at the unseen barrier with increasing fury, scrabbling at the naked air until it's fingers bled dark matter. Irving, his voice remarkably steady, launched into the first verse of the litany.
The abomination bent itself back beyond natural contortion, as though under physical assault by words of the dusty text. It shuddered, and then hurled itself round: eyes and mouth dark pits of rage.
"You tricked me!"
The demon's fury was reserved for the mother of the host it occupied. A small part of the boy still echoed within the accusatory shriek. Isolde caught her breath, unable to stop herself from turning towards her only child. She reached out a trembling hand, deaf to the bann's shout of warning.
"Isolde, you fool - get back!"
The space between the abomination and the arlessa rippled. Something unseen and forceful passed through the air; the demon's eyes glittered. Isolde cringed, hunching in on herself like a leaf crushed underfoot. Then she lurched violently to the side, almost falling to the flagstones. The missile became visible as it struck Alistair's shield; even he, with his bulk and breadth of shoulder, staggered back. Moving with adrenaline-fuelled swiftness, he had shoved Isolde out of the arcane projectile's path, thrusting his shield forward to take the blow. Fortunately, the curved bulwark had been imbued with magical resistance; much of the arcane energy had been absorbed by the metal. If the shield had been ordinary silverite, the young warrior would have lost the arm below the elbow.
The demon summoned reinforcements as Irving began the second verse of the litany. Crude shadows known as gaunts slithered along the walls and across the flagstones, emerging as faceless creatures armed with vicious claws. Only in this secondary form could they fall victim to Leliana's arrows and Sten's brutal ax-swings. The bard's hand moved in ceaseless motion between quiver and bowstring, an arrow loosed every five seconds. She had a predator's eye for timing: loosing her shot to catch each freshly solidified gaunt in the fleshy web of its throat. The creature - flung back by the punch of the arrow - would disintegrate a heartbeat later, leaving a greasy stain on the flagstones. Six of the enemy fell to the fruits of her quiver before they could get within range of the mages.
Sten was not impeded by the girl slung like a sack of turnips over his shoulder. He fought as though he had forgotten she was there, dangling limply, as he wielded his ax with a caustic, one-armed vigour. A summoned gaunt sprung at him, becoming flesh and blood in the midst of the air. A silvered slice cut sideways and the gaunt fell abruptly into pieces. He moved with a delicacy that defied his size; more graceful a warrior than the panting, red-faced bann.
The crash and frenzy of combat rose to the rafters of the great hall; much as the sound of feasting and merriment had once done in happier times. The abomination's summoned gaunts made an eerie whistle as they materialised, then an ear-piercing shriek as they died. Connor Guerrin, still caught in the maw of the demon's control, capered gleefully at the edge of the chamber. None dared to turn blade or bow on the demon lest they harm the hapless shell it inhabited.
Beneath the cacophony ran the steady murmur of Irving's recitation; now nearing the end of the litany's third verse. A single candle flickered in the dark depths of the mirror; the tallest lantern still danced with the oily green flame of the demon's soul. The abomination was growing more agitated as it felt its grip on the child slipping inch by steady inch.
Alistair could feel the previous day's battle dulling his movements like leaden weights tied to his limbs . Flora had mended the superficial wounds he had received at the Circle, but the bone-weariness endured. Determined that his fatigue would not be fatal for anyone under his protection; he doubled his efforts in their defence.
The mages were the natural target for the demon. It sent swarms of gaunts across the flagstones towards them: formless shadows leaping upwards with tooth and claw bared. Each time they tried to take the limb or throat of a red-cloaked mage, Alistair was there to check them. He knocked the enemy away with his shield, or the flat of his sword, or sometimes with the brute force of his own body: using a steel-bound shoulder or elbow as a weapon. Before the gaunt had time to retaliate, it would find itself impaled on sharpened steel. Alistair's killing blows were violent and strangely merciful: they brought death in a single thrust.
The First Enchanter began the fourth verse of the litany; a low and steady murmur. The yellow parchment in his hands shook only slightly as he read. A gaunt hurtled itself at the old mage, only to crash into the bulwark of Alistair's shoulder. The mail sunk itself deep into the flesh, but the white heat of battle was a natural anaesthetic: the pain would come later.
The abomination writhed, clutching at its head and face with childish, curling fingers. Isolde let out a choked sob, cringing back against the hearth as Leliana's flawless aim dispatched another of the foe.
"Stop them, Mother! They're killing me! They're killing me!"
The demonic growl was more distant from the boyish voice it inhabited: the words no longer emerging in close concurrence. Now they came fragmented, loosely tangled but distinctly separate. Inch by inch - verse by verse - the demon was losing ground on the child's mind.
Each breath now stung the back of the throat. The air was dense with the acrid tang of magic, rippling like iridescent summer heat above their heads. The thrum of the arcane was potent enough to be felt even by those with no connection to the Fade. It lifted the small hairs on the neck as though it were the hour before a thunderstorm.
As Irving began the fifth and final verse of the litany, the tide of the battle turned. A mage staggered and fell, their knee broken into pieces. Alistair, bloodied and losing momentum, found himself surrounded. An unexpected blow to the shoulder brought him to one knee, followed by a strike to the chest that forced the air from his lungs. Dazed, he pushed himself upright with a grunt of pain while the gaunts let out a shriek of triumph, closing a circle around him. He felt one strike his elbow and he shoved it aside blindly, following with a metal-clad fist to the face. His heart leapt at the close call: the creature's claw was a hair's breadth from piercing the mail. At the same moment there came an Orlesian curse from Leliana: she had run out of arrows.
Pushing the sweaty hair from his eyes, the young warrior saw that Sten was fighting with his back to the wall; crowded by a half-dozen advancing gaunts. The Qunari's curdled expression suggested that he was angrier with himself for such a tactical lapse than he was at the enemy. Still, he had been forced into deploying his second arm: dropping Flora like an unwanted sack of potatoes. She fell on her head, disappearing within the pile of her own layered clothing.
"Mama?" The little boy's voice broke through the chaos, high and frightened.
Then it was as though the sun had receded behind the clouds; the great hall became several degrees darker. Instead of growing cooler, the temperature rose in a swift and unnatural climb, as if the stone chamber had become a great oven. A foul and sulphurous smell descended from the ceiling. The demon clung to the eaves, a formless mass of shadow that stretched like a vast spider between the rafters. It's movements were abrupt and spasmodic, as though not yet used to the gravity of the mortal realm. The white cinders of its eyes were focused, unblinking, on the people gathered below.
AN: Oohhh I'm trying SO HARD to get better at writing combat scenes! I think I'm so shit at it and I try to overcompensate by purple prose, hehe. I find it really difficult to convey what a ton of people were doing simultaneously on the battlefield. At least I didn't have to describe what Flora was doing since she's spent the entire battle unconscious hahahaha. Anyway, we've got the demon out of Connor now! Thank goodness lol.