By Gods Forsaken

by inwardtransience

One day, the shadows will part, and the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see. (How do you do a summary for something this big? Total retelling, Mahariel!Warden, mage!Hawke, Dreamer!Trevelyan!Inquisitor, worldbuilding, too many OCs, serious plot edits, primarily F/F.)

15. Broken Circle — II

9:30 Nubulis 21

Kinloch Hold, Danesmouth, Highever, Kingdom of Ferelden

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Stepping into the isolation field, Alim ducked his head, gritting his teeth.

There were two primary strategies the Templars had at their disposal when it came to dealing with magical threats. The first one, the more common, was referred to as disruption. In order to shape undifferentiated potential pulled from the Fade into a coherent result, that energy had to be transformed into very particular formations. It didn't have to be quite precise — no mage could resolve the entire volume of magic they pulled into the spell they wanted, the excess energy released to dissipate into the environment (ultimately, sinking back through the Veil into the Fade). One of the things they worked on in their spellcasting lessons was to form spells more efficiently, to get as much of the energy they pulled to resolve as they possibly could. As a mage grew more familiar with a particular scheme, they found those magics less exhausting, allowing them to cast higher-intensity spells that might have been beyond their capacity before; a relatively weak but more precise mage might be able to pull off greater magics than a more powerful one, just by using the power they did have more effectively.

There had been a little bit of this going on with Marian. Alim had absolutely no doubt at all that Marian was the more powerful mage between them, but he'd gotten the very clear impression Marian hadn't thought so — she'd been particularly impressed with the shield he'd cast to intercept that lightning spell, the concussion waves he used to knock down dozens of darkspawn at once. But see, he'd gotten thorough, systematic training from experts at a Circle, and Marian hadn't: his casting was much more efficient. Marian was actually very sloppy, waves of tingling magic crashing over him whenever she cast the bigger spells, enough it'd actually been a little distracting. By comparison, Morrigan's casting was very tight, under such rigid focus he could barely feel any sublimation from her at all — for that exact reason, it was kind of hard to tell how powerful she was, but he suspected she was both more precise and more powerful than him, which was honestly slightly terrifying.

To disrupt a spell, a Templar introduced interference into the energy a mage was attempting to resolve; even small disruptions destabilized most schema very effectively, it didn't take very much power behind it for a spell to just fall apart into nothing. Casting through a Templar's disruption was possible, but a mage would have to have both razor-edge focus, keeping impeccable control over the form of a spell, and be extremely powerful, so even with the disruption picking away at the edges the spell still had enough coherently-formed energy to resolve properly. Since they hadn't any more magic of their own than an ordinary person, the disruption a Templar could cast was rather weak, but it didn't take very much interference for a spell to falter...and they all chugged lyrium constantly — casting through it was theoretically possible, but practically not something that ever happened.

Being under a Templar's disruption was vaguely uncomfortable, pins dragging over his skin and mosquitos buzzing in his ears, but not really that bad. Distracting, could be rather disorienting to run into one without warning, but not really painful. Trying to cast through it, the magic came to hand the same as always, but forming it into a spell was like carrying water cupped in his hands...and then trying to roll it into a ball. Frustrating, yes, but it didn't hurt or anything.

Isolation wards, on the other hand, were awful. Where disruption worked by dispersing the magic in the environment, preventing it from resolving into a spell, isolation prevented magic from coming into the environment in the first place. Basically, an isolation ward firmed up the Veil, pushing the Fade even further away from the physical world, while also reinforcing the stability of the physical world within its range. While a spell was prohibitively difficult to form inside a disruption, even making the attempt was impossible within an isolation field, a mage couldn't pull magic from the Fade to begin with; a spell tossed within its range will just blink out of existence, the world there refusing to be altered.

A determined Dreamer could probably cast through a disruption, but in an isolation field even those most powerful of mages would be helpless.

Luckily, Templars couldn't just make isolation fields the way they could disruption, but it could be done through enchantment. Cells meant to hold mages usually had isolation wards. Not only could mages not cast at all within them, but they were so completely cut off from the Fade that they couldn't even dream — which meant it was literally impossible for them to resort to making a deal with a demon and become an abomination, so Alim understood why the Templars used them, in principle.

That didn't mean they were pleasant to be stuck under. A disruption was kind of itchy, but its effects were entirely external. An isolation ward, on the other hand, penetrated all the way through a person, stabbing deep inside and cutting away at him on a level Alim wasn't usually conscious off. It hurt, like icy needles jabbing into him, not only into his body but into his soul, scattering his thoughts and leaving him reeling. The really painful part only lasted a moment, once the magic was pushed out of him leaving him with just a constant, low-level ache — unpleasant, but mild enough he could mostly ignore it — but exhausted, weak and slow and unfocused. Sleeping under one had honestly been a little disconcerting, consciousness sputtering out and returning with only a vague sense of time having passed, but without even the fuzziest impression of dreams — not even an impression of nothingness, but as though he'd ceased to exist for a time, he might as well have died and been revived a few hours later, he hadn't...

He hadn't liked it, no, not at all. He'd tried to avoid sleeping after the first time for as long as he could, but he'd been in there for a while, and it wasn't like there'd been anything to do to distract himself, and the isolation field itself had dragged down on him, he hadn't been able to prevent it...

There were a few places in the tower the Templars had designed as strongpoints, to keep mages from passing through if they really had to. There was one at the only entrance to the library reserved for Enchanters — Alim had never seen it, he only knew it existed because Cera complained about having to pass through it every time she needed to look something up. There was another inside the vaults, blocking off the most heavily restricted items in the Circle, including all the mages' phylacteries — Alim had gone through that one once, with Jowan, while Lily kept the guard distracted. (She hadn't said how she intended to distract him, but Alim had a pretty clear suspicion he'd been tactful enough to keep to himself, especially right in front of Jowan.) The only other one he knew about was on the staircase joining the Templar and servants' quarters at the bottom and the mages above, the only way in or out.

This door might as well have been the edge of his entire world. Alim knew he'd been born in Denerim, but he couldn't remember it — all he'd known was the tower, the apprentices' quarters and the lecture and practice halls and the library, occasional glances higher up, he'd never seen the other side. He could see out the windows, of course, but the view was so small, so distant, not quite real, as though paintings hung on the walls. This thick, heavily-warded door, always guarded with at least four Templars, was the barrier that stood between everything he knew and everything else, the other side alien and mysterious.

Alim knew he must have passed through this door once before, when he'd been a small child, but he didn't remember it. In their desperate gamble to escape the Circle, he and Jowan had circumvented it entirely — it was impossible to get past the guards, so they'd gone down the laundry chutes instead, coming out in the lower levels below ground. He'd never seen the main entrance they'd come through some minutes ago now — he, Jowan, and Lily had left through one of the side halls — he'd never seen the Grand Gallery — drawings of it, yes, but not in person. He'd never seen the hallway just on the other side of the door. Now, climbing up the stairs, into the tower, was the only time he could remember passing through it. Ever.

And he was going the wrong way.

Even before he'd stepped into the isolation field, that had struck him as, just, wrong. He'd dreamt so many times of passing through this damn door the other way, to leave, he'd wished for nothing more than to escape the Circle for so many years, that stepping onto these stairs to go up felt instinctively, viscerally abhorrent. He'd had to pause for a moment, fists clenched at his side and breath hot in his throat, before he'd been able to suppress the mild sense of panic, force his stubborn legs to climb.

Crossing into the isolation field only made it worse. Daggers of numbing ice stabbed into him, he cringed, shivering from the assault, sudden weakness bearing down on him, his shoulders slumping and his head dipping. Glaring up at the men ahead of him, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, he lifted his foot up to the next step, the motion shaky and uncertain, hauled himself up, taking far more effort than it reasonably should. And then again, again, again.

Eventually, after what felt like several minutes (but could only have been brief seconds), Alim stepped into the familiar curving hallway of the lower apprentices' quarters, and he finally broke through the other side of the isolation field. Magic surged back into its proper place, he stumbled forward a couple steps, gasping for air. He ended up bent over, his hands planted shaking on weak knees, trying to steady his breaths and fight back the headache the brief isolation had left behind.

He jumped at the hand on his back, then bit his lip and forced himself to relax — Lýna, it was just Lýna. Leaning close, her voice low enough the humans around them probably wouldn't hear, she hissed, "Is okay. I won't let them keep you, in any case."

Despite himself, Alim felt a smile twitch at his lips. "I know. I just..." It probably wasn't worth explaining that, sure, he didn't like being back here, but that wasn't all of it, the isolation field was just unpleasant all by itself. He didn't know if Lýna would have felt anything going through it at all. He pushed himself upright, tried to roll some of the stiffness out of his shoulders. "I'm good. Thanks, boss." Not for checking up on him just now, of course, but she would know what he meant.

Her hand finding his, she gave it a quick squeeze, before slipping away again, silently darting up toward the front of the group next to Alistair. The royal bastard muttered a teasingly suggestive comment about giving Alim a hand, but Lýna seemingly didn't get it, glancing up at him head tilting in a confused frown. Not a surprise, those kinds of comments almost always went right over Lýna's head — and this time that wasn't a joke about her being so damn tiny.

It really was quite remarkable how oblivious Lýna could be, considering she'd supposedly been married at least once already. (There had been a couple mentions of a second man, but the context hadn't been very clear.) It could just be the language barrier but, after over a month being around her, Alim didn't think that was it, she just had a...weird, inexplicable blind spot when it came to love and sex. He really didn't know what to think about that.

Though, he doubted Lýna would react very well to Leliana's (seemingly impulsive) flirting, or the looks Alistair gave her sometimes...or that one time— Alim was pretty sure Morrigan had flat-out propositioned her once, the afternoon before they'd left Redcliffe — in Chasind, but her tone and body language had been pretty damn clear — but Lýna hadn't seemed to notice at all. So, maybe it was better she was oblivious about these things, he guessed.

The floor plan in the tower was, for the most part, very consistent level to level. There was a single circular hallway looping all the way around — though, the stairs came up into the hallway, so it was blocked off at at least one point on every floor, it wasn't possible to go all the way around. The hallway wasn't on the outside edge, more roughly in the middle. The rooms on the outside of the hall — which added together were larger than the center, because basic geometry — had the most variety level to level, the center almost always just one big open room. What was in that room varied, meeting and dining and lecture halls, libraries, practice rooms, but it was usually just one big room. The only exception he could think of were the vaults, those were divided into smaller sections, so mostly.

By the time Alim was collected enough to pay attention to what was happening around them, the group had already moved up the hall a bit, coming to a halt outside one of the doors to the right — one of the girls' dormitories, he knew. (This floor was for the young apprentices, mostly prepubescent.) At the noise out in the hall, the door had creaked open a sliver, a feminine voice squeaking with surprise. There were too many tall people in the way, dammit, Alim slipped up and around to—

Oh! It was Keili! Alim let out a sigh of relief — and then frowned, blinking to himself. Why was he so happy to see Keili had made it through this mess? They hated each other, always had. Well, maybe a little bit of an exaggeration, but they certainly weren't friends. Alim vaguely remembered Keili being brought to the Circle — he would have been, what, seven or eight? — and she'd been completely insufferable from the off, whining and crying about being cursed, that she was evil. She'd settled down somewhat, no longer quite so noisy about it, but she'd never gotten better. Even the week before their escape attempt, meeting up with Lily in the Chantry to plan, they'd been interrupted by Keili coming in to pray. She was always praying, begging the Maker to cure her of being a mage — not because living in a Circle was terrible, but because she was terrible, she must be, why else would the Maker curse her with something so evil and awful as magic? Just, she was annoying. Very. This was probably the first time he'd ever been happy to see her.

Talking to Esmond, wide-eyed and breathy, she finally noticed Alim. She jumped hard enough her feet left the floor, letting out a frightened squawk, and then started babbling about evil blood mages, in not quite so many words asking the Seeker why he hadn't killed Alim yet. That did dampen his relief to see Keili alive somewhat.

(If Keili knew the Warden initiation was a blood magic ritual, she would lose her entire shit...)

It took some seconds to reassure Keili that everything was under control here, he wouldn't let Alim do anything unpleasant, get back to explaining what was going on. Not that she had a whole lot to say. The rebels who'd pursued the Templars down here had immediately turned right around once their quarry had retreated through the isolation wards, rejoining their fellows fighting the loyalists upstairs. Keili couldn't tell them anything about the current state of the battle, it'd mostly been going on several floors up and she'd stayed well away from it. Enchanter Wynne was just over their heads, on the older apprentices' floor — after an abomination had come down and attacked the apprentices, she'd put her own wards over the stairs, had been holding it ever since. That had been hours ago now, Keili was supposed to stay here and keep an eye on the little girls, she didn't know anything more.

Once she was finished with her (uninformative) story, Esmond praised the jumpy girl for looking after the children — Keili blushed almost painfully red, but smiled, clearly pleased — told her to close the door and wait it out. One of the other Templars started protesting, something about checking for abominations among the little kids, but Esmond shot him an icy glare over his shoulder, the Templar choked off in mid-syllable.

Esmond led them on, taking the first left into the central room — this one was a lecture hall, a raised platform in the middle surrounded with a circle of low, child-height benches, along the wall cabinets stocked with props and diagrams here and there. Alim was struck with an abrupt flashback, sitting on one of the benches, his feet idly kicking in the air, singing that damn alphabet song with about a dozen other little kids, led by Teacher Cera. (They called the mages who looked after them "teacher", Cera hadn't been an Enchanter yet back then.) Shit, that was ages ago, Alim would have been what, four, maybe. It looked pretty much exactly the same as he remembered.

Except there hadn't been a couple Templar corpses laying around, obviously.

There were only two of them, in the open space between the benches and the cabinets, the quickest route between the stairs up and the stairs down. One of them had clearly been hit with a progressive spirit magic curse of some kind — save for the odd smearing in the armor over his right shoulder, there weren't any obvious injuries, he must have gotten tagged somewhere else and made it this far before the curse did enough damage he couldn't go on. (Which was a little weird, a Templar should have been able to purge the curse no problem, but maybe he'd been too distracted to notice.) The second Templar showed a river of blood down his back, leaking through his armor from near his kidney, his throat slashed.

If Alim had to guess, the first Templar had faltered, the second had paused to help him, and gotten stabbed in the back in a surprise attack before being put out of his misery. The rebels must have broken into the vaults — there were enchanted weapons in there that would be very useful against armored opponents, with the added benefit of Templar abilities not working against enchanted objects. Sort of like the spirit blade Kenrick carried, though not quite so complex. Of course, mages weren't trained in the use of bladed weapons like Templars were (with the exception of Knight-Enchanters, obviously), but many of the enchantments Alim was thinking of could probably cut straight through an ordinary sword, so that probably didn't matter.

Aaaand Alim was remembering Uldred talking to him and a few of the more rebellious apprentices about weapon enchantments. How long had he been planning something like this?

(Alim was trying not to think about the fact that Uldred would almost certainly be dead soon. He liked that sarcastic old bastard...)

The Templars fussed over the bodies for a little bit — a couple of them simmering with rage, probably didn't help that there was no real outlet for it, the responsible parties nowhere nearby — before moving on, making for the stairs up. There weren't isolation wards on these ones, obviously, Alim lightly skipped his way up, slipping around a couple Templars, taking a spot right behind Lýna and Alistair near the front of their group. Just at the top of the stairs, there'd clearly been another skirmish — a strip of the hexagonal floor tiles had been ground into powder by a dissolving curse (spirit magic, serious shit), a couple splatters of blood here and there. Enough blood at least one person had certainly died, and probably more than one, but there weren't any bodies lying around, someone must have moved them.

The hall was empty, quiet, but other than that seemed the same as always. Alim had lived here, not even that long ago — up until his Harrowing, which had been... Shit. It was late Nubulis now — or Drakonis, he guessed, outside of fancy educated circles people didn't use the old Tevene names anymore (though it was kind of weird the non-Tevinter name was literally Dragon, Emperor Kordillus Drakon's coronation had been in early Nubulis) — and he would have left the tower with Alistair, um, just a couple days after Wintersend, he thought, early Pluitanis (Guardian, whatever), and his Harrowing had been less than a week after First Day. So...two and a half months or so? Huh, seemed like longer than that.

Anyway, the same place — the old gray stone, enchanted into permanence by old Tevinter architects, not quite covered with more modern accoutrements, the floor hexagonal tiles emblazoned with golden Chantry sunbursts and the red closed torc of the Circle, the doors (which would have been mostly stained glass in bronze frames originally) heavy oak and pine, stained a rich reddish-brown, the frames carved with birds and dogs, here and there twisting into a glyph for protection or strength or serenity (inactive, purely decorative). It was almost painfully familiar, Alim felt. It hadn't been so long since he'd left, and for all that he'd felt suffocated in some ways by Circle life it'd still been home, the only home he could remember. He hadn't expected to ever step foot in this place again, it was...uncomfortable.

Of course, it wasn't exactly the same. It was eerily silent, it never got this quiet here...and, not far down, a segment of the hall had been damaged, channels carved into the stone, in other places melted and refrozen in rows of jagged spikes, scorched black, the nearby doorframe completely burned away, the arch left empty. This must have been where the fight against the abomination Keili had mentioned had taken place. There was still a faint tingle of magic on the air, smooth and sweet, but it wasn't from the battle — instinctively, Alim recognized it as residue from healing magic, Wynne's. He wasn't certain how he could identify it as Wynne's casting, he just could.

Through the blasted open door, a few mages were cautiously peeking through, one stepped out, and— Oh shit, it was Petra! A human woman some years older than Alim, one of Cera's students, her red hair was a bit disheveled, uneven — she'd been hit with fire magic, some of her hair burned away, scorch marks streaking her left side, patches of her robes over her shoulder even missing. (The skin underneath unmarred, Wynne must have healed the damage.) Walking out to meet the approaching group, her hands were held low at her sides, palms facing backward, moving slow and cautious, unthreatening.

A couple of the Templars did tense, bows creaking, but Esmond held up a restraining hand and they instantly relaxed. "Hello, child," he said, his voice its normal low calm — Esmond was almost creepily placid, Alim wondered if all Seekers were so emotionless — but almost pointedly so, if that made sense. Like, suggesting with his tone of voice that it was fine, he had no intention of siccing the Templars behind him on her.

"Lord Seeker, I'm so relieved to see you." She didn't come out and say it, but probably thinking the Templars were far less likely to just slaughter them all if Esmond were in charge — some of the Templars could be disturbingly bloodthirsty at times, but their Seeker observer tended to rein them in more often than not. Which was really quite fortunate for them, because according to Anders their Seeker was the most mage-friendly one he'd ever met, and he'd been in a few different Circles so he was kind of the expert.

There were a few Templars the Kinloch Hold mages liked just fine, but most of them actually trusted Esmond. Alim had been just as relieved as Petra when he'd spotted him.

"And you as well, child — I see you've had trouble here."

Petra's face flickered. "Rage took Moran."

Grimacing, Alim spat out, "Fuck," before he could stop himself. Moran, an apprentice from South Reach right around Alim's age (though she'd come to the Circle some years older), had been raped by a Templar a couple years ago now. Alim only knew it'd been Knight-Lieutenant Thibault because one day Esmond had walked up and back-handed him out of nowhere, publicly stripped him of his rank and all but dragged him away by the ear — last Alim had heard he'd been sent to Val Royeaux for punishment and penance. Moran hadn't said anything (she refused to talk about it, understandably), but the way she'd been acting, sitting with some of the other apprentices later that afternoon, distracted and twitchy, Alim had assumed. She'd never really...

If someone were to be taken over by Rage, Alim wasn't surprised it'd been Moran — and he really couldn't blame her, she had every reason to be angry at the Templars. But just, shit, they'd been friends, and— Alim grit his teeth, swallowing down the hot tension in his chest as best he could.

(He wondered how many of his friends would be dead by the time this was all over.)

Petra's eyes flicked his way at the outburst, then gave him a double-take, her lips twitching with a half-hearted smile. "Alim! My, I didn't expect to see you here again."

He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out slightly shaky. "Hello, Petra. I didn't expect to be here again."

"I'm glad our Lord Seeker here was able to get you into the Wardens. Jowan shouldn't have done what he did, but I can't believe the Commander was really going to execute you for it."

Alim snorted. "You have more faith in Greagoir than I do — I entirely believe it."

An odd look twisted Petra's face, but whatever she was thinking she didn't get out, Esmond spoke first. "I'm moving to reclaim the tower, before the situation spirals even further out of hand than it has already. I understand Enchanter Wynne is holding the line here."

"Oh! Um, yes, she should be in the open shelves, just there," she said, pointing at the door toward the middle room. A few faces were poking around the blown open doorway behind her, pale and wide-eyed. "I haven't heard from her in a bit. She tasked some of us to look after the children — reading, chanting, anything to keep them occupied, keep them from getting too frightened." To reduce the chances of any of them caving to a demon, she meant. Petra was the sort who'd be all nice with the kids anyway, but to reassure the Templars they had things under control was probably why she was saying it. "It seems things have calmed somewhat, though, she must still be there."

From the room behind her, he heard a hiss of It's Alim! some more whispering as it was passed around. Honestly, he was a little touched the girls sounded so pleased, but they were sort of busy, he couldn't really walk over and say hello.

While Alim had been distracted, Kenrick said something about checking the apprentices for possession before moving on. Petra scowled, a little — none of the mages liked Kenrick much. "Enchanter Wynne has already thoroughly checked over both of the apprentice levels. If you doubt her work, Ser, I suggest you to take that up with her."

Kenrick shifted his stance slightly — probably imagining the polite-but-scornful lecture he'd get if he questioned Wynne's skills to her face. Alim had to bite his lip to keep himself from giggling.

"That will not be necessary," Esmond said, the faintest hint of amusement on his voice. "Return to your duties, child. This should all be over soon. Andraste keep you all."

"And may she watch over you all, Seeker, good luck up there."

With a final nod, Esmond moved on. The Templars trailed after him, some a little stiffly — they clearly didn't like the idea of having mages they hadn't checked over at their backs, but just as clearly didn't want to get into an argument with the Seeker about it. After all, this was a guy who could casually backhand them in front of everyone with no consequences, and then send them off to Val Royeaux for reeducation at the hands of the Knights-Divine. Not someone you wanted to annoy without a very good reason.

The mages trusted their Seeker; the Templars liked him just fine, thought of him as a kind of mentor, but were also just a little bit terrified of him. It was honestly hilarious sometimes.

They'd barely been walking a few steps, Esmond not quite having reached the right door, when there was a shout of "Alim!" coming from the dorm. He twitched to a stop, turned toward the voice, it was kind of hard to tell when she was squealing like that, but he was pretty sure that was—

"Guh!" Alim's breath was knocked out of him as a body crashed into him, he stumbled back a few steps, arms wrapping over his shoulders, he bumped into the wall behind him, night-black hair fluttering over his face — definitely elven hair, a deep blue-ish tinge to it here and there. Very familiar hair, yes, he knew who this was. He was honestly a little taken aback, he'd thought she'd be annoyed with him...

"You bastard, just running off to Ostagar, I'd thought you'd died!" Oh, yep, annoyance, there we go. Lacie had tipped back a bit, her fingers still tightly gripping the leather of his collar, pale elven-orange eyes simmering, glaring up at him with a very familiar angry expression.

"Oh, um, we were nowhere near the main battle, Duncan put us aside in case it went badly, to make sure there would still be Wardens in the country, you know, but there was still this fucking terrifying darkspawn Templar, how is that even—" You're babbling, Alim, quit that. "Ah. Things have been crazy, is the thing, I'm not sure how I'd even get word to you here anyway, but I'mmph!"

Oh. Kissing now. Okay, Lacie couldn't be too annoyed with him, then?

Her fingers digging hard into the base of his neck, Alim winced — okay, no, still annoyed...

After some seconds — despite the situation Alim managed to somehow lose track of his surroundings, his (unfortunately gloved) hands at her hips, pulling her closer, her fingers in his hair (pulling a little, but he kind of deserved it), breathing her in, and— There was a very Orlesian-sounding giggle coming from nearby, Lacie twitched, tipped back off her toes to shoot Leliana a glare.

Once he got his eyes to focus properly, he noticed their group had kept moving, half the Templars through the door already, though Lýna and Leliana had hung back. Leliana had a hand politely covering her mouth (very Orlesian), her eyes dancing; Lýna's eyes were flicking between Alim and Lacie, looking a little bemused. "Sorry, uh..."

Lýna's eyes narrowed in a frown, just for a second before smoothing again. "Is well. The fight is above." So, she didn't actually need him paying too close attention...but she wasn't going to leave him alone with Templars around, he guessed. This girl sometimes...

Her voice coming out with a wavy edge of laughter, Leliana asked, "Are you going to introduce your lady friend?"

Maker, introduce his lady friend, what did Leliana think this was a formal event or something? Fine. "Warden-Lieutenant Lýna Maharjel, Sister Leliana," pointing to each of them, "Lacie Surana." Leliana's lips twitched, Lýna's head tilted thoughtfully. "Uh, no relation."

The Circles kept track of all the mages under their custody — they had a lot of paperwork floating around just in general, actually, they had papers identifying each mage and marking various important events, it got pretty involved. And that paperwork required surnames, to help keep everyone straight. Problem was, the vast majority of commoners didn't really have surnames, so whoever was doing the first round of paperwork when they were brought into the Circle would just pick something. Some kind of epithet, usually, referring to where they'd been found or a family trade or their hair color, something.

"Surana" was a really common one they used for elf kids, particularly ones who had more uniquely elven traits, like Alim's hair or Lacie's eyes. The word itself was from a Chantry Tevene borrowing of an old elven word meaning to sing — it'd long been used to refer to elven converts to the Chant. Which, that was kind of annoying, honestly? Alim knew shit about his family, but he'd been born in Denerim, presumably he'd been raised into the Chant; Lacie was from the elven quarter in Highever, her parents were Andrastian, and their parents and their parents, back centuries. Lacie even clearly remembered the Chantry back in Highever, her parents had been devout as anyone.

Sometimes, no matter how many generations back their ancestors had sung the Chant, some humans still considered elves outsiders to the faith. It was extremely annoying.

"Hello," Lacie said, slightly absently. He noticed her eyes were lingering on Lýna, curious. She'd probably never seen a Dalish elf before, or at least not from so close — Alim hadn't before he'd met Lýna, but Lacie had lived outside the Circle longer than he had...

One of Lýna's eyes twitched, just a little, ticking wider before relaxing again. She was clearly trying to hide whatever that was, the expression very mild, but Alim was pretty sure she was laughing on the inside. "Hello." She glanced at Alim quick, then half turned away, looking toward the door the tail end of the line of Templars was stomping through just now — he would guess, giving them a thin illusion of privacy while also politely making it clear they did need to get going. Or as polite as Lýna ever got, anyway.

Or maybe just the latter, come to think of it. Alim kind of doubted Dalish really understood privacy as a concept, they probably didn't get much of it in their little camps.

Leliana obviously got the message too, turned all the way around. She leaned a little closer to Lýna, muttered something about this being sweet, they were just adorable — he and Lacie probably weren't supposed to hear that, humans constantly underestimated elven hearing. Lýna all but rolled her eyes, but whether that was at what Leliana was saying or her failed attempt to be quiet about it, Alim couldn't guess.

Lacie let out a little huff, turned back to Alim. "If you die up there, I'll be very annoyed with you."

He smirked. "Fortunately, I'll be dead, so that won't be my problem." Her eyes narrowing in a glare, Lacie flicked her fingers, a twitter of magic, Alim was smacked over the back of the head — not hard, but enough his head ducked forward with the force, his hair fluttering over his eyes. "Hey, ow! So cruel to me, Lacie..."

She gave him a flat, unimpressed sort of look. "Maybe I should be coming with, keep you out of trouble."

"You are trouble." Alim nearly followed that up with a joke about Lacie previously not seeming to have a problem with Alim being in trouble on a regular basis, but there was a Sister standing right there — Leliana would probably just giggle some more, but still — so he kept it to himself. Though Lacie was just as bad as he was, her lips were twitching, weakening the glare she was still fixing him with somewhat. "But I'd, uh, rather you didn't." She could handle herself, of course (more than Jowan could, at least), but if she were in a fight with them, it... He would worry, it'd be distracting.

(He'd nearly invited her along on their escape attempt, but... Well, she was good enough at playing nice she didn't attract unwanted attention from the Templars. Alim would rather Lacie be safe than be with him.)

Lacie let out another huff, but she didn't argue. "We'll talk before you leave again." That wasn't a question or a statement, said with a very clear tone of demand. Not that Alim had any intention of refusing, as long as he was here there was no reason not to make time for her — especially with the mess here, they'd probably linger for a few days. Lacie tipped up onto her toes to drop a final soft, warm kiss on his lips before retreating, turning on her heel quick enough her hair fwapped across the face. Which she'd done on purpose, of course, this girl...

By the time Alim, Lýna, and Leliana stepped into the central room — this one a study area, little desks dotted across the floor, the walls lined with a ring of bookshelves two layers deep (mostly history, philosophy, and religion texts, perfectly harmless for apprentices to poke at) — Esmond was already talking to Wynne. He'd admit he was a little relieved to see she looked well. Her hair was a little disheveled, a few bits escaping from her braid here and there, her robes scorched and torn in places, but otherwise fine.

He frowned — she seemed...unusually well, somehow.

Wynne was one of the older mages of the Fereldan Circle, aged enough she'd been an Enchanter here since long before Alim had even been born. She'd been a big woman once, very tall and very blonde — it was commonly assumed she was Avvar, from high in the hills to the west, they tended to be large people — and while age had stolen some of the strength from her limbs it'd left most of her height, her slightly fragile-seeming frame long and willowy (almost elf-like, in a way, though with human-style joints and way too tall). Alim could vaguely remember seeing her with pale Avvar-blonde hair, back when he'd been a small child, but it'd gone silver years ago now, always held back in a plain, simple braid, gentle face thoroughly lined. Wynne wasn't entirely certain when she'd been born, but she must be in her sixties by now, though she didn't really seem like it — she was sounder in body than Irving, and much sounder in mind than Sweeney, and Alim thought the three elder Enchanters must be all around the same age.

But, over the last few years, Alim had noticed that Wynne had started to seem...well, old. It wasn't really obvious, like it was with Irving and Sweeney — Irving had serious trouble with the stairs some days, and Sweeney couldn't even remember Alim's name half the time — but just as though her daily routine was taking more out of her than it used to. Just, tired, her face drawn, her voice sometimes falling into a breathy groan. Once Alim had spotted her, just, sleeping in one of the chairs in the blue library, a book splayed out in her lap, as though she'd run out of energy entirely and fallen asleep where she sat.

It was a little bit distressing, if he was being honest. He could count the Enchanters he actually liked on one hand — Wynne, Uldred, Leorah, and now Cera, that was it. Wynne in particular, she'd kind of been... Well, okay, he'd been very young when he'd been brought to the tower, and Wynne spent a lot of time with the kids, doing basic magic lessons, or just hanging around to be available if anyone needed anything, and she was just nice, dammit. But not, like, boring nice (like Chantry Mother nice), still with an edge of humor to her, so while she was nice she was also fun, which was a combination that really wasn't common among the Enchanters and Teachers. And, Wynne had also been brought to the tower very young — so young she didn't even know her real name, she'd been named after the village nearby where she'd been found — so she'd made a point of being around, helping him adjust, so he'd...

It was sort of how he thought normal people might feel about their grandmothers, he guessed? She was just...you know, Wynne, everybody loved the shit out of that woman, he wasn't at all alone in that. The reality that she was getting old, there might not be a whole lot of time left to her was, just, miserable. He tried not to think about it, honestly.

He'd been startled to find her in the group of mages and Templars leaving for Ostagar. She shouldn't be fighting! She was all...old! And, and Wynne! He'd been very relieved to hear, in the discussion downstairs, that Wynne had survived Ostagar...but also not really surprised, because she was Wynne, she'd always been around, of course she'd made it back. Wynne not being around was just...that just wasn't a thing, it wasn't entirely conceivable.

(He was going to be devastated when she died, he just knew it.)

But now she... He didn't know. Standing a little straighter — he hadn't even realized she'd developed a little bit of a stoop to her back until just now — her shoulders back and chin up, facing the Templars arrayed before her without a hint of hesitation. Not that Wynne was ever frightened of or particularly obsequious toward the Templars, she had a hilarious habit of lecturing them like a disappointed aunt, but she seemed...

She looked...normal? He meant, like there wasn't anything wrong at all, people hadn't been dying like crazy, the Templars weren't on the edge of purging the whole tower, just an ordinary day. Especially with her much more nervous helpers right next to her — Cera and one of the younger full mages, uh, Gareth? (he thought it was Gareth) — Wynne's placidity was...a bit odd. Her voice, the same low, husky drawl that'd grown familiar by now (but that had actually only developed over the last decade or so, her voice dropping as she aged), just the faintest tinge of a hill country accent on some of the vowels, sounding perfectly smooth and calm, almost serene, yet firm and confident speaking to the Templars, it... There was an air of, well, serenity about her, that was really the word, like she were just a step removed from her surroundings. Honestly, it was a little eerie.

Also, was she glowing? That had to be his imagination. He wasn't entirely convinced he was seeing it at all, just the faintest golden sheen on the air around her, probably a trick of the light, and if she were actually glowing he was certain Esmond and the Templars wouldn't just be talking — a mage glowing was a possession sign.

Once he shook off the disorienting mix of relief and concern and confusion, Alim slipped closer to Lýna, leaned over to whisper over her ear. "The tall, silver-haired woman is Enchanter Wynne — she was at Ostagar, don't know if you remember. She's the best healer in the Circle, if anyone can help Eamon it's her."

Lýna just nodded.

By the time they finally caught up, Wynne and Esmond were just finishing up their discussion of what was going on in the tower — Wynne had been more in the thick of it than Keili or Petra, presumably. Vibrant blue-green eyes flicked in his direction, and Wynne cut off practically in mid-sentence. "Oh, Alim. It's good to see you well. You haven't been getting into too much trouble, I hope," she said, a lilt on her voice that suggested she was certain Alim had been getting into all kinds of trouble.

"You too, Wynne — I had no idea whether you'd gotten out of Ostagar." Alim came to a stop right next to Alistair, conveniently putting the big man between himself and Kenrick. "And of course, I'm brilliant and amazing, not trouble. Lacie is trouble, you know."

The corner of Wynne's lips curled with a smile. "Ah, yes. I imagine you haven't the time to get too deep into trouble lately."

Alim choked out a surprised cough — that was very...direct, for Wynne. Or, maybe he just counted as an adult it was okay to make innuendos in front of now, that was possible. "Um. I don't know if you remember the Warden-Lieutenant," he said, jerking a thumb at Lýna.

"I believe we met briefly, yes." Her head dipping in a nod, "Virghilãje, arava aƫishas."

...Alim had had no idea Wynne could speak Dalish. It must not be a surprise to Lýna, she just nodded, replied with, "Falõśe, arava aƫishas."

He'd understood literally a single word of that. At least, he was pretty sure one of those was friend, it'd changed a bit from the old word the Tevinters had written down. He didn't know this elven crap — which just made it even more annoying that the Templars had stuck him with a name for a convert, but not the point.

Anyway, Wynne said she would be coming with them to clear the tower, as though stating a fact; Esmond agreed immediately, without even pausing a second to consider it. Perhaps he thought Wynne would be of some help convincing the fighting mages over their heads to try talking first — she was well-liked by pretty much everyone in the Circle. But, maybe he hadn't even really thought about it? Alim meant, Wynne had always had a rather...authoritative presence, like — you're adorable, sweetie, but I've been doing this longer than you've been alive — but now it... Inviting herself along so firm, but casual, as though the idea of Esmond not welcoming her were completely unthinkable, the absolute, serene confidence, just, naturally they would want Wynne's help, there was no world in which she would not be coming along.

Alim felt the skin at the back of his neck itch, his scalp tingling — there was something different about Wynne. He couldn't quite put a name to it, it was just a little unsettling.

The problem was, if Wynne was coming along with them she wouldn't be able to stay here to make sure the children were safe. They would be going up the tower, but it wasn't inconceivable something might slip past them, Wynne didn't want to risk it. Cera was here, and she was a pretty decent enchanter — the wards they had over the door leading upstairs were actually hers — but she wasn't nearly as good of a fighter, she didn't have confidence in her own abilities to protect the children from an abomination or the like. Esmond thought that was reasonable, they could leave a few Templars behind here to guard the doorway.

Or, Wynne said, they could move the children down into the lower levels, on the other side of the isolation wards. This time, Esmond did hesitate, but after a moment of thought he agreed that was probably safest. Go round everyone up, they'd get them all through the wards right now.

Shuffling the kids downstairs didn't require all their participation — the Wardens and about half the Templars lingered outside Cera's wards, patiently waiting for the rest of their number to return. (Esmond had gone with them, probably to make sure the guards actually opened the door, and almost certainly to warn Greagoir there'd be consequences if any of the children were harmed while he was dealing with the rebellion.) The man Alim was still only about half-certain was named Gareth had run off to the boys' side, soon reappeared crossing the library toward the stairs down trailed by a couple dozen apprentices. Alim, of course, recognized all of them — they had been roommates not so long ago — he got waves and shouts from a few of them, but he stayed where he was, just waved back as they passed by.

They all vanished through the door before long, leaving this level even more unsettlingly quiet, filled only with the distant tromp of feet and the occasional muttering between the Templars. After maybe a couple minutes, Leliana shuffled closer to him — smiling in that creepy way she had, all warm and sweet and slightly absent. "Lacie seems nice."

He almost had to laugh at that — she'd nearly pulled out some of his hair, and then used magic to whack him over the back of the head, which was a big no-no to Chantry types. (Even pulling little harmless pranks on each other, the Sisters here had given him and most of his friends the worst lectures.) He liked her just fine, of course, he was just saying, "nice" wasn't a word most people who'd met Lacie tended to use. "I suppose. Your point?" Because, Leliana definitely meant to say something, she seemed far too pleased with herself for such a banal comment to be all she was getting at.

"You know, if you two marry, she won't even have to change her name."

That was kind of a shit thing to joke about to his face, but okay. "Um, we can't?"

Leliana blinked. "What do you mean?"

...What did she mean? "Mages of the Circle can't marry. Chantry law." Not Fereldan law, of course, but for a formal marriage to be recognized by the Crown there had to be a record of it, and the local Chantries kept the records. "Well, I guess I can marry now, theoretically — it only applies to Circle mages, not Wardens, but whatever Chantry Mother I'm talking to might not know that — but Lacie certainly can't. You did know that...didn't you?"

Because it really didn't look like it. As he'd said it, Leliana had let out a high gasp, her eyes going almost comically wide. Standing nearby, Lýna's face had collapsed into a narrow-eyed glare, so she must not have known that either. (Alistair, though, definitely did, shifting awkwardly in place and avoiding their eyes.) After a moment of just staring at him, she all but shouted, "No! No, I didn't know that! I've never been to a Circle before, I— Really?!"

Huh. She actually sounded kind of horrified. Okay, then. He guessed she was forgiven for joking about it, couldn't have realized she was saying something insensitive. "Yes, Sister, really. Mages are slaves of the Chantry — its Templars have absolute authority over every single aspect of our lives. Even so far as whether we live or die."

"Magic exists to serve man."

Somehow, Alim doubted Andraste had intended Transfigurations 1:2 to suggest all mages should be enslaved, but there was really no use arguing the point right now. Or ever. "Sorry, Kenrick, didn't catch that — maybe get Hadley's cock out of your mouth first."

The Knight-Enchanter throwing out that particular bit of the Chant seemed to make Leliana even more horrified, her face visibly paling a little bit. She had just quoted the same line to Lýna downstairs, so. "I didn't... Well, that's horrible! Love itself is a gift from the Maker, that we might know his love through ours — there is no possible justification to refuse mages that!"

Alim was pretty sure that was heresy, but it was putting her on his side of the issue, so he'd take it. "You're telling me, Sister."

"I don't understand how— Lýna is right, Tevinter slaves are more free than mages here — they, at least, aren't forbidden to marry! Oh..." Her hand coming up over her face, Leliana teetered back, ended up plopping down onto a seat on a nearby desk. After a couple seconds, shoulders slumped and face hidden, Alistair drifted over, moved to put a hand on her shoulder but she slapped it away.

He...probably shouldn't find this funny. He realized Leliana was probably having a significant crisis of faith just now — in the institution of the Chantry, he meant — which couldn't be at all pleasant to go through, but he couldn't help it. He managed not to laugh at her, at least.

After some minutes, the other half of their group rejoined them, Esmond in the lead with Wynne and Cera. Alim was rather surprised Cera was here, given they'd just been talking about how she wasn't good enough of a fighter to hold the door, but apparently she had to unravel the wards for them before they could go through. Of course, the door back into the lower levels was already sealed, so Cera would have to stay on the apprentice levels — while waiting for their group to pull themselves back together after some minutes just sitting around, Cera assured him she planned to hide in one of the child-minders' apartments one floor down and ward herself in, she'd be fine.

It didn't take very long for the wards to come down, once they were all ready. Cera pulled a knife out of a pocket, one of the ones meant to carve glyphs for enchanting work, scored a line through a glowing row of glyphs worked into the door frame. She reached out into the air, as though grabbing for something, after a couple tries her fist clenched, she yanked back — the blue-white barrier sealing the staircase exploded into a burst of mist, which then quickly dissipated, the way ahead cleared.

"Good luck up there, everyone," Cera said, stepping to the side to let them through. "Andraste watch over you all."

They started filing through, Alim toward the rear half of the group with the archers. But as they came to the door, Esmond, Alistair, and the lead Templars already climbing the first steps, Cera's hand snapped out, snatching Alim around the arm. "Stay with me for a second, I need to have a word with you."

Alim managed to hold back a wince. "All right." He slipped out of the group to stand next to Cera, trying not to look uncomfortable.

Cera was the youngest Enchanter in the Fereldan Circle right now, and had kind of been around a lot when Alim had been a kid. She was rather tall for an elf, right around Leliana's height, with short-cropped red hair — though not the intense, elven kind of red Alim had, more brown in it (almost fennec-like, actually) — about ten years older than Alim. Which meant she'd actually been the youngest of the mages teaching the little kids, but she'd been one of Leorah's apprentices at the time.

Leorah was one of the senior Enchanters, one of Alim's favorites — she was kind of scatter-brained and forgetful when it came to everything that wasn't enchanting or alchemy, both of which she was a genius with. Her apprentices ended up needing to make sure minor day-to-day things didn't get forgotten while Leorah was distracted with one project or burst of inspiration or another, like putting away books or equipment, cleaning up alchemy labs...reminding Leorah to eat, seriously, it was kind of ridiculous.

Generally speaking, the Enchanters who dealt with glyph magic a lot were responsible for teaching the little children of the Circle to read and write, as well as history and science lessons and the like. As their Master of Artifice, Leorah was technically responsible for running all of that...but practically, her apprentices were in charge — if they left it all to Leorah, she'd probably get halfway through the alphabet, then get distracted explaining why Dalish elvish doesn't have any words with a P in them despite their script having a letter for it, then go on a long ramble about the history of the Tevene alphabet, how it was actually mostly derived from a simplified version of old elvish (with some dwarven influences), before the lesson was broken up an hour later for lunch with Leorah never having gotten to the second half of the bloody alphabet.

Being her youngest apprentice at the time, Cera got stuck with the boring easy lessons none of the others wanted to deal with, like absolutely basic learning to read stuff. So, Alim had actually seen a lot of her, since his earliest days at the Circle. He'd advanced in his lessons at roughly the same pace Cera had gained seniority among Leorah's apprentices, so she'd been stuck with him a lot, all the way from singing that bloody alphabet song with the other little kids to enchanting lessons only a couple years ago. She was very familiar, if nothing else, though he also liked her just fine — she had kind of a no-nonsense air about her, her humor dry and sarcastic enough it'd honestly gone right over his head until relatively recently.

So, when Cera pulled him aside, part of him felt...weirdly embarrassed, like he were still a little kid about to be given a lecture for spelling his mashed potatoes to fly at the back of someone's head or something. (In his defense, Sewin was really annoying.) It didn't help that his escape attempt had involved exploiting Leorah's distractibility to trick her into signing papers she really shouldn't have.

...Leorah hadn't gotten in trouble for that, had she? Alim had expected the Templars wouldn't be able to put together exactly how he and Jowan had broken into the phylactery vault. If they'd thought Leorah had actually helped them...

Yeah, he was definitely about to get a lecture.

While he waited, annoyingly uneasy over something so small, he heard Lýna up ahead explaining the situation with Eamon to Wynne. And there Wynne agreed to come help them with that as soon as they were done here. So, that was that taken care of already, convenient.

Once everyone was more or less out of earshot — the humans, anyway, Lýna might still be able to hear them — Cera whispered. "I want you to keep a close eye on Wynne for me."

"Oh, uh." Okay, apparently he wasn't getting a lecture — he might be feeling relieved about that just now if he weren't so very confused. "She seemed okay...kind of weird, I guess..."

"She is, but..." Cera winced, glanced toward the stairs. The Templar's backs weren't visible anymore, but she still leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a breathy hiss. "There's something... Wynne tried to stop Uldred, right at the beginning. She was hit, with a spirit curse, in the heart."

Alim cringed — Andraste have mercy, Uldred had— He'd nearly killed Wynne?! That was just... He couldn't even imagine that, they— This whole thing was so fucked up, just awful. "Ah, she seems okay..."

"No, Alim, you don't understand." Her hand clenching tighter around his arm, her voice shaking a little, "She died. Her heart was liquefied, she was dead. And she got up. I was there, Alim, I saw it, she was dead and then she wasn't. And she was glowing."

...Oh.

Oh, shit.

"Wynne is an—"

"Don't say it!" Cera hissed, frantic. "It's fine, she— It's still her...mostly. She– she is different, but it's her, and... She's been... I think something happened at Ostagar."

...

So, not only was Wynne an abomination, but she'd been possessed for going on a month now — any attempt to separate her from whatever was latched on to her would almost certainly kill her.

Alim's eyes drifted closed for a moment, he took a long, slow breath. "What do—" His mouth felt weird and clumsy, numb, as though he'd had too much to drink, he stumbled over his words. "Um. What do I do?" That came out embarrassingly shaky and, almost, whiny, ugh...

But, come on, it was Wynne, he didn't...

"Make sure she doesn't get hurt. I'm certain it's a friendly spirit, and it's still her, but if the Templars find out they might just kill her."

"Right." Yes. He could do that. He'd just...stick close to her. Fuck, he'd take a curse for her if he had to — she could heal him, but healing herself might be...suspicious. "Okay, I can do that. Yes. Oh, Maker, Wynne..."

"I know." For a second, Cera moved like she was about to hug him, but she apparently changed her mind, ruffled his hair instead. "Good luck, Alim."

"Yeah." Because today seemed like a lucky fucking day, didn't it...

Alim hated it when he hated being right. He'd known something was different about Wynne, he kinda wished he'd just been imagining it, because, Andraste have mercy, Wynne...

He caught up to their group on the next floor — mostly life stuff, the refectory and baths and whatnot. (Running water on the fifth floor, because Tevinter engineering was neat.) Their group had mixed up a little bit, the archers still in back but Wynne tucked in the middle of the swordsmen near Kenrick — whose job in a fight would be to fadestep right up in their opponent's business, he needed to be toward the front to be in range — visible to anyone they might come across but still with a layer of protection in the form of Alistair, the Seeker, and a pair of Templars. (Alim wasn't sure which, they all looked the same under those damn helmets.) Lýna had moved up too, sticking right next to her — presumably, she wanted to make sure Wynne survived to heal Eamon. Unsurprisingly, Leliana had joined them, she always tended to follow Lýna around if feasible. (It was a little weird, honestly.) Alim darted through the ranks of archers and then the first bunch of swordsmen, slipped into place on Wynne's other side, putting her squarely between himself, Lýna, and Alistair.

Biting his lip, he tried not to stare at her. He didn't want to attract attention, maybe give away to the Templars that something was wrong, but... This was, just, he didn't want to think about it, Wynne being possessed, he— He couldn't think about that right now, he had a job to do. Just, focus on what he was doing, yes, he could do that.

It'd be kind of hard to fight if he was too busy sobbing like a damn child. Not to mention, kind of suspicious...

The Seeker took them through the entire floor, glancing quick into each room before moving on. He probably didn't want to accidentally leave an abomination to their backs, that did make sense, but still, it was slightly tedious — not to mention, the tower was bloody huge, this was going to take forever. A little nerve-racking too, tension keying up whenever they came to the next corner or the next door, relaxing as it turned out to be empty, again, again, again.

After several minutes wandering around, they moved up to the next floor — one of the apprentices' libraries, along with a few rooms with, like, sitting rooms and stuff, for hanging around reading or chatting. This one was just as empty as the last one, though in rather worse shape. There'd been a fight in one of the sitting rooms, most of the chairs and sofas torn apart or reduced to twisted, scorched wrecks...blood splattered here and there, several bodies laying around, both mages and Templars. Alim spotted Eadric — his chest rent with a horrible bloody gash, pale strips of bone visible through the torn mess, the boy's face frozen in a rictus of terror — and grimaced, forced himself to look away, fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

Stupid boy, what was he even doing up here? He should be downstairs with the apprentices...

Oh, Maker, how many of the children had been killed? He didn't want to think about that, nope, if they could move on now that'd be great, thanks.

Esmond and a few of the Templars checked around quick — for what, Alim had no idea — the whole while Leliana muttering under her breath. He hadn't been paying attention at first, started catching it around, "...not left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

Ah, Trials 1, a prayer for the lost. Sections of it were often sung at funerals, he knew — not that he'd ever heard such a thing himself, Circle mages didn't get funerals. Some of the apprentices would hold little vigils if someone died at their Harrowing, but that didn't happen very often, really, and they didn't use the standard prayers, so...

"Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven."

...Alim was in the uncomfortable position of feeling grateful to the crazy, creepy Sister following them around. She might be insane, hearing voices and all — he still had to have a talk with Lýna about the Chantry, he kept getting distracted — and she definitely had some weird, heretical ideas about the Chant, but... Well, it was sweet, almost. There was actually feeling on her voice, not just something she did rote. He meant, obviously she'd memorized it at some point, but it didn't feel like she was doing it because, well, she was a Sister, and it was just something Sisters did in this kind of situation, but like the sentiment was actually genuine — couldn't just be a performance, he and Lýna were probably the only people in the room who could even hear her clearly, and...

Ugh. He was very conflicted about Leliana, okay. She was clearly insane, and very unnerving, all sweet and friendly but also a retired Orlesian bard, and how was that even a thing, she was far too good at killing things for a Chantry Sister, it was just kind of eerie, but... Well, she was a Chantry Sister, and obviously one of the more genuine, well-intentioned ones at that. He had no idea how to feel about all that, it was just fucking weird.

And he was just noticing now that that slightly-absent, serene sort of calm about her was very similar to the weird air Wynne had now...and Wynne was possessed (at least partially). That... Was Leliana an abomination too? Or, maybe just in close contact with a spirit, the Fade pulling at her leaving her with that vague sense of detachment that just made Leliana's incongruously pleasant smiling in tense situations even more creepy than it might have been from anyone else. Maybe there actually was someone talking to her. Almost certainly not the Maker, of course, but...it didn't seem like whatever it was was malevolent, but...

Ugh, he had no idea how to feel about this, either! He hadn't expected this trip back to the Circle to give him so many serious problems to muddle through, they weren't even finished yet and he was already exhausted...

The floor above that was another library floor, but this one with elementary alchemy and enchanting labs — and it was, unfortunately, not completely empty.

The first sign something was wrong was a lingering trace of magic. That wasn't really suspicious in itself, practically everything in the tower was magic on one level or another — Tevinter architecture used enchanting and alchemy, obviously, but it'd been home to a sizeable population of mages for centuries now, there was a lot of enchanted shit lying around. Not to mention, so much magic being used by so many in such a small place over such a long span of time by itself thinned the Veil, the tower was inherently more magical than most places. (Though Alim hadn't really noticed much of a difference waking, his dreams had seemed slightly less vivid...until the Joining fucked that up, anyway.) It wasn't unusual to feel the buzzing of energy against his skin, wandering melodies of active magic just at the edge of hearing.

This was...different. Like sparks in the air, stinging, but not really in an unpleasant way. Or at least not at first — they lingered, thick and warm and slimy, dribbling down his skin, like sweat on a hot day, muggy and uncomfortable. The hiss in his ears intensified, a single strain slowly rising, wandering and eerie, the occasional sharp note jumping out, disjointed and disorienting.

That was a demon, no doubt about that. And as they got closer...well. First it was a tingle against his skin, pins and needles, the song emanating from the demon getting louder, and then...a moan. Whispering, breathless and wordless, a giggle, cut with a gasp of... Well, it was pretty clear what that sounded like. Quiet, but carrying much further than it should, buoyed along by the abomination's magic, echoing in his ears.

Of course it had to be a desire abomination they stumbled across. This was going to be bloody uncomfortable...

After clearing all the rooms around the edge — the way the magic carried it, it was impossible to tell which direction the voices were coming from — Esmond gave a last glance back at them all, hands tightening around weapons and shoulders squaring, before throwing open the door into the central room. This one was a practice room of sorts, somewhere they could test enchantments or alchemical products, or sometimes the less destructive magics, without worrying about breaking anything if it went wrong. The floor was mostly clear, an occasional pillar here or there. There were more bodies around, mages and Templars both, some of them rather grisly, bones shattered and flesh torn and twisted.

Standing together were a clump of Templars, Alim couldn't tell how many from here. Too many people in the way, he couldn't make out much detail...but he was pretty sure one of the Templars was fucking a nude woman against one of the pillars, the others sticking very close, whispers and kisses passing around.

This was a surreal fucking thing to walk in on, but okay.

(Heh, surreal fucking...)

The bewitched Templars immediately started moving at the interruption, the abomination letting out a high, piercing, reverberating scream, the magic in the air turning cold and sharp, stabbing in at his head — Alim grimaced, but ignored the pain as well as he could, shouldering through the door alongside Wynne. Kenrick's blade snapped into existence with an odd sort of spang noise, hard white-silver spirit magic extending from his hand, and he disappeared with a whisper of blue light—

One of the bewitched Templars raised a hand, a harsh, scraping hiss rung through the air, and Kenrick reappeared, a couple feet short of the group — five, Alim could see now — staggering and nearly falling. The bewitched Templars must have thrown up a disruption, dragging Kenrick out of his fadestep early — Alim almost felt sorry for the bastard, that was really fucking uncomfortable. At the same time, another of the five was stepping forward, sword shimmering gold with that weird Templar shit swinging in at Kenrick's shoulder, he tucked into a roll to get out from under it, coming to a knee and slashing in at the back of the Templar's knee, but another caught the magical blade on his shield — it would have gone straight through ordinary wood and steel, but Templar shields had some serious anti-magic enchantments on them — Kenrick popped to his feet, dipped back, parried another blow—

A stream of arrows fell upon the Templars, carefully aimed high and wide to avoid Kenrick, clinking and clattering against shields and helms and breastplates. None of them did any damage, but they did distract the bewitched Templars, gave Kenrick a second to catch his breath, a green-white stasis spell flying from his hand to crash over one of the Templars — they must have been distracted enough for the disruption to break — but it was dispersed into harmless sparks by the man's armor. And then Kenrick's backup was there, Esmond and Alistair and another three swordsmen joining the melee first. Even in the first couple seconds, Alim could tell their people were avoiding killing blows, probably hoping the bewitched men would be freed once the abomination fell, but they weren't being given the same courtesy, it didn't seem to be going very well.

But that wasn't the most important problem: where the fuck was the abomination?! Alim slowed, shuffling along behind Wynne — she was casting protective spells at their people in the melee, uselessly, the bewitched Templars kept disrupting them — desperately scanning the room for—

There! Halfway across the room, near the left wall there was a patch of shadow that really shouldn't be there, almost seemed solid, that was definitely some kind of concealment magic. A breath of concentration, Alim gathered a spirit curse in his hand— "Lýna, left!" —and released it in that direction, a flickering ball of white light zipping through the air and—

—dissolving into a rain of sparks as it was dismantled by a disruption, still yards away from the unnatural shadow. Dammit! Of course the abomination had to have Templar backup, that just wasn't fair.

The abomination had also been caught up in the disruption, its concealment falling away. The thing was obviously a woman — or had been, at least — though thankfully she wasn't at all recognizable. She'd seemed perfectly human a moment ago, but now the demon's magic had twisted the body it was riding — limbs turning bony and angled, hands extended into vicious claws, skin fading to a deathly white, patches of black and red splotching seemingly at random, eyes gone black and mouth a deep red, as though filled with blood, even as he watched its hair flying back and...fading...until it didn't seem to be hair at all, tendrils of darkness extending from the back of its head, reaching back to join its shadow, much larger and deeper than it had any reason to be, splitting and moving, flickering along the walls and floors and ceiling, almost like—

An arrow darted ahead — Lýna — the abomination threw up a shimmering blue barrier but the enchanted arrow pierced straight through it, meeting the abomination high on its right shoulder — that was the single worst shot Alim had ever seen Lýna make, he assumed the barrier had jostled the arrow slightly. The arrow didn't stick in the abomination so much as tear straight through it, its body quickly dissolving into wisps of shadow, by the time more arrows fell, Leliana and the Templars, it was already gone.

What the fuck was that?!

Screams rent the air, Alim spun around, magic sparking at his fingertips. The abomination had reappeared among the archers, its form somehow even more distorted, crumpled and twisted — wreathed in too-solid bands of shadow, fluttering around it like grass in the wind, others straight and jagged, coming to hard points. Several of them had sliced through one of the archers, finding weak points in his armor, spearing the man through with three different bands of solid blackness — the sight of it looked wrong, Alim's brain refusing to process a shadow cutting through a person, making him a little dizzy — blood welling up without resistance, because of course, he'd been cut with shadows, there was no blade in the way of his blood escaping...

An arrow — Lýna again — carved through the abomination's head, but it just dissolved into scattered wisps again, this time only parts of it, the bits swirling around for a second to reform a bit to the left, the blades of shadow pulling out of the impaled Templar, he dropped limply to the floor, swinging around in a blur, Alim and Wynne both got barriers up at the same time, shielding the archers, the weird shadow things bounced off in an oddly musical twitter. And then Leliana was there, right next to the thing — he could hear her singing through the noise of the fight, take from me a life of sorrow — reaching forward with an arrow in one hand, swiping the enchanted tip through the abomination's weird shadow-hair, and it staggered, letting out another bone-shivering screech — Alim grit his teeth against the pain, formed a dissolving curse, and then instantly lost it when a disruption field came down from multiple directions at once, his skin crawling, he staggered from the weight of it, shaking his head.

The abomination, the shadows wreathing it not completely faded but gone thin and wispy, whirled away, skittering across the floor unnaturally quick — on all fours, twisting itself around at angles a human body should not be capable of, or even an elf for that matter, were its knees bending the wrong way? — and Leliana fired the same arrow she'd severed its shadows with a moment ago, it stabbed into its hip, actually sticking this time, steaming black blood speckling the tile, the abomination let out another scream, losing its footing, stumbling and rolling in a whirl of limbs—

By the time more arrows fell it'd dissolved into wisps again, shadows flickering across the wall, and—

"It walks through the shadows," Wynne called. She took a deep breath, and then magic surged, from so nearby soft and warm but intense, and the entire room was filled with gentle greenish fadelight, not bright but everywhere, filling every shadow in the room. The abomination let out another scream, coming from the right — there, it was falling from the ceiling, the colors around it swirling and blurring, its misshapen form wreathed in orange and violet. He pulled magic to form another curse and—

—immediately lost it when he was hit with another disruption, for fuck's sake! The fadelight blinked out, even as arrows lanced out toward the abomination, but Alim didn't have time to worry about that, one of the bewitched Templars had somehow managed to separate itself from the fight still going on in the middle of the room — just kill the bastards already, come on! — making a bee line for Wynne, shimmering blade drawn back to swing.

Alim balled his fist in Wynne's robes, started pulling her back, and Lýna was already there, shouldering her way in front of the Enchanter even as she drew her sword, she slapped the incoming jab up and away, the Templar staggered forward a step, Lýna twisted back around, her blade neatly slipping right into the seam over the Templar's knee, digging deep. He groaned, made a wild backhanded swing in Lýna's direction — leaving her sword where it was, her bow clattering to the tile — she ducked under the swing, toward him, gripped the inside of his shield with both hands, and—

He wasn't sure how she did it exactly. One second, they were both standing, the bewitched Templar unbalanced from the sword stuck in his leg and his desperate swing, Lýna's back pressed up against his chest, hands on his shield; then Lýna dropped, turning, and the Templar staggered, spinning around to bring his back to Alim and Wynne, falling to his knees; and Lýna was standing at his back, one hand yanking at his helm, her dagger in the other; a moment later, the bewitched Templar had fallen to the floor, one gauntleted hand clutching at his bleeding throat, choking and twitching, Lýna casually wrenching her sword out of his leg.

...Holy crap. He realized Lýna was good at this, but still, that was a Templar, and she'd made it look easy...

(Yep, he was definitely sticking close to the crazy Dalish girl from now on, thanks ever so.)

A wave of tingly, musical, spicy-sweet air falling over him, Alim unthinkingly threw up a barrier, snapping it off a second after Wynne, the wall of light shivering as it was struck with a hail of shadow — ping ping ping ping ping ping ping. The barrier collapsed as another damn disruption field crashed over them, the abomination staggered, passing only a couple feet from Alim, Lýna slashed low across its hips — probably intending to hobble it, get the damn thing to stop moving for three seconds so they could kill it — but it exploded into flittering wisps of shadow again, swirling around them, streaks of darkness obscuring the room, starting to reform behind—

Alim leaned around Wynne, the abomination reappeared just in time to take Alim's curse full in the face. The thing screamed, Alim cringed, his hands jumping up to clench around his skull before he could stop himself, it burst apart, shadows and glimmering violet light scattering across the room. The scream broke into a manic giggle, and the magic clinging to Alim's skin, like sweat on a hot day, shifted and changed, turning sharp and warm and silky-smooth, but Alim took a focusing breath — the demon's magic reached inward, grasping for his mind, but he shook off its influence, his mouth going dry and skin flushing a little, but otherwise unaffected.

...Was the demon trying to...arouse him? That was kind of funny, honestly.

A few of the swordsmen had peeled off from the main group some seconds ago, apparently realizing their archers were being attacked, and the shadows suddenly contracted — the magic thick on the air lifting away, the demon's influence weakening, Alim let out a shaky breath — and the abomination stepped out of thin air just behind the approaching Templars, blades of darkness slicing in at one's back.

But, somehow, Esmond was there before the blow could land — Alim had no idea how he'd turned around and stepped in the way so quickly, that was just inhuman. (But, well, Seekers, nobody was entirely certain what all they could do.) The shadows fell against his shield, and Esmond's other hand came— Where was his sword?! Had he dropped the thing? What was he doing?!

Esmond reached through the deadly cutting shadows, and grabbed the abomination by the throat. There was more screaming, the demon's influence again coming down hard, but the Seeker ignored it completely, and there was a hissing, high and sizzling, like bacon on the pan, and the abomination was screaming and screaming...

The abomination fell to the tile, the mangled mass of flesh hardly recognizable as a human body...most of its neck and strips down its chest and up its face scorched black, peeling in crumbling white flecks, like a log in the fire.

What in the name of...

For a handful of seconds, Alim could only stare at the dead abomination, amazed. He had no idea how Esmond had done that, that was so neat...

He was drawn out of it by the clanging of metal, a shout of frustration — the bewitched Templars were still fighting. The air crackled with disruption fields one after the other, the swordsmen clashed for another fifteen seconds or so before Esmond bit out a curse. "They're bound with blood magic. Kill them."

The Templars hesitated. But only for a moment.

Less than a minute later, it was over.

Alim took a few seconds just to breathe, trying to force his heart pounding in his throat to settle the fuck down. That fight had not been fun, creepy overpowered abomination and Templars at the same time, nope, no thanks, Maker...

He recovered quickly, and moved to help Wynne with the healing. They only had a couple scrapes, nothing too serious — the worst was a stab one of the swordsmen had gotten in the shoulder, a slash along an archer's arm by that weird shadow crap. That latter one was fucking scary. It wasn't particularly deep, just superficial, the man had only been grazed, but the thing had sliced through his armor like it were butter. The splints on his sleeve were sliced neatly in half, not even the slightest bit bent from the impact, just... Yeah, that was some pretty dangerous shit that abomination had been throwing around.

In retrospect, he was kind of impressed they'd only lost one man. They had outnumbered the bewitched Templars handily, but the way the abomination had been teleporting around throwing ridiculous shadow-blade crap at them, they were really quite lucky it'd gone so well.

Anyway, Wynne didn't actually need his help, of course — she was the person who'd taught him healing in the first place, she could handle flesh wounds like these on her own no problem — but he still assisted anyway. If Wynne pushed herself too hard, well, Alim was concerned she might unintentionally do something...suspicious. Like glow, for example. Which meant patching up their people took a little longer than it might have if they'd split up, but it was more than worth it, he thought.

Wynne gave him a curious look at his offer of totally unneeded help, but hadn't said anything about it. Which was good, Alim wasn't certain if he would have been able to come up with a believable excuse.

By the time they were done with the healing, Alim glanced around the room, checking if anyone else needed anything, and finally noticed...something was going on with Lýna. She was bent over a little, hands planted on her knees, her head bowed enough her hair was over her face, Alim couldn't make it out from this angle. She seemed to be shaking slightly, as though shivering from cold, which, that seemed unlikely. Leliana was standing nearby, by her stance having just retreated a step, her expression rather bemused.

Okay, what the hell was that about? Alim decided to go check it out — on the way over he noticed Alistair, talking with Esmond, was shooting Lýna occasional glances. He was...concerned? Had Lýna taken a hit in the fight? Alim hadn't noticed...

Getting closer, he noticed her breathing wasn't particularly labored, but it did sound sort of thin and shaky. And, he had a better angle now, he could see she was rather flushed, darkest under her eyes, the top edge of her ears, and low on her throat, beads of sweat running down her neck, her hair gone a little silvery where it brushed against her skin, damp. Huh, that blush kind of looked like...

Oh. Oh, dear. Alim had had the suspicion that the abomination — a desire abomination, most likely — had attempted to distract them toward the end there...with lust. He'd brushed its influence aside without too much difficulty, but he had some experience with such things, had incentive to learn how to do it. But Lýna...

Alim suspected Lýna was extremely aroused right now.

He bit his lip — he had the feeling she wouldn't appreciate it if he laughed at her.

Once he'd gathered himself again, he reached out, searching for a hint of magic lingering on Lýna. There didn't seem to be anything, or at least nothing out of the ordinary. The demon's influence must have dissipated when Esmond had killed it, or she'd been hit with a disruption at some point, whichever, its magic wasn't still acting on her. She was just taking a moment to recover. Um. Though it was taking a while, it'd been a couple minutes...

Okay, there were two possibilities he could think of. This sort of manipulation tended to hit a lot harder if the demon had something to work with. That was why that abomination at Redcliffe — something like despair or fear, Alistair wasn't certain exactly and these things were actually a lot fuzzier than people often spoke of them as — had been able to mess up Lýna so badly because she'd had a lot of experience that particular demon was skilled at leveraging. The rest of them, hit with the same thing they might have been fine (or less affected, anyway), but they hadn't grown up in a Blight, had they? Among the people involved, Lýna had been uniquely vulnerable, she'd just gotten unlucky.

So maybe Lýna just really needed to get laid. That was definitely a possibility, Alim wasn't ruling it out...but he didn't think that's what it was. No, there was a more likely possibility. A much more concerning one.

Lýna might not be fully recovered from her last encounter with an abomination. Serious mental assaults — in the physical world, at least, it didn't work the same in the Fade — created a psychological injury that took time to heal. Exactly how much time, well, that varied person to person, and depended on the duration and intensity of exposure. There hadn't been much research into these things, though. This kind of mental influence only came from a few sources — abominations, shades, and blood magic. (Also Dreamers, theoretically.) None of those were common enough for previous generations of mages to manage any thorough study of the phenomenon, just the absolute basics.

But that was all it took for Alim to know Lýna's spiritual defenses might be compromised. She'd seemed better, so he hadn't really thought about it too much — also, he hadn't realized there would be abominations running around until after they'd gotten here, obviously. But, well, Lýna was pretty quiet to begin with, she wasn't exactly going around sharing her inner thoughts and feelings with the rest of the Wardens. She could still be struggling horribly, for all Alim knew. Which, that wasn't a problem, exactly, she would recover — and the girl was tough as nails, he didn't doubt she'd get through it just fine — but that was before he'd known she'd be stumbling across more abominations. She might well still be terribly vulnerable to mental assault.

Which was...not good. She really shouldn't be here.

"Ah, Lýna?"

"Yes." Her breath sounded a little thin, her lungs not properly cooperating. Her eyes flicked up to him, but then immediately glanced away — embarrassed, he was pretty sure.

Which, he could kind of see that, on the face of it, but it wasn't really her fault she had this particular weakness. "Do you need to, ah, take a moment?" The lingering effects would fade away on their own, of course, but it'd go more quickly and probably less annoyingly if Lýna just got off. If it were anyone else he might jokingly offer to help with that — he might be shameless but he wasn't suicidal, okay — but Lýna could just go take care of it herself quick...

Leliana obviously got what he meant, her lips twitching with a badly-repressed smirk; Lýna, though, he wasn't certain she did. She shot a glare at him, hissing, "No, I am well." She gradually straightened, her eyes dropping closed for a second, her jaw clenching — Alim imagined (not like that) her clothing shifting against her was probably very distracting right now. One of her ears even twitched, he had to bite his lip again. Her shoulders rolling, she folded her hands behind her back, crossing enough that would actually be uncomfortable for an elf, she must be trying to distract herself. Her eyes opened again, fixing Alim with an approximation of her usual level stare. "We are ready?"

Uh-huh, nice try, Lýna, nobody was buying it. Unfortunately, they really needed her at her best if there was another fight ahead of them, so they'd just have to do this the hard way. Gathering frost magic in his hand, Alim said, "Right, well, this is clearly uncomfortable for both of us, so, please don't hurt me." And he tossed off the spell — weak, just a brief burst of cold washing over her head to toe.

Lýna jumped with a yelp, surprisingly loud, enough Alim jumped a little himself. She gave his shoulder a shove, tipping him back a couple steps, rattled off something in elvish, rather sharp but also weirdly babbly. (Or, maybe Lýna only seemed so quiet because they didn't speak her language? Alim honestly wasn't sure.) She cut herself off, apparently realizing Alim didn't understand a single bloody word, paused to take a long breath.

Alim frowned — the way Leliana was watching Lýna was kind of... Hmm. If Leliana was suicidal, he guessed that was her business.

His little cold spell wouldn't have straight gotten rid of it, obviously, but her blush had already gone down a bit, and she seemed a little less...well, on edge. Lýna finally opened her eyes to shoot Alim a narrow glare. "That was mean."

"Yeah, but it worked." Mostly, anyway. "Lýna, I was..." ...thinking she really shouldn't be here. She needed to be at Kinloch Hold for negotiation purposes, gaining allies to face the Blight and all that, they didn't need her too badly for this whole mess. She'd already gotten Wynne to agree to help Eamon, and they wouldn't be able to make a more long-term arrangement with the Circle until after this was settled — there was no urgent reason she needed to participate in the fighting part. And there was an urgent reason she shouldn't participate: there might well be more abominations up there, and Lýna had absolutely no business being around them before she fully recovered from the incident at Redcliffe.

...But if he said all that, Lýna would just brush him off. Worse than that, really, he suspected she would take it as...questioning her ability to...do stuff. He wasn't really sure how the Dalish did things, but he was aware that among the Avvar a warrior openly expressing doubts about their war-leader's capacity to do their job was a pretty big deal. Of course, he only meant it pertaining to this specific thing at this moment — he'd been more skeptical than he'd claimed at first, but she was capable, and she'd demonstrated she was willing to listen to their advice, so, he was fine with her being in charge now — but he wasn't sure Lýna would take it that way. And she probably wouldn't appreciate Alim (apparently) questioning her leadership with potential allies standing right over there.

He let out a sigh. "I'm carrying lyrium potions. If it looks like we're coming up on another abomination, I want you to take one. It will, um...make your mind heavier, harder for a demon to push at." That wasn't a great metaphor, honestly, but the technical language it would require to explain it properly would be completely incomprehensible to her.

Just barely noticeably, a little tension lifted out of Lýna's shoulders — so she was worried about it, as much as she was pretending otherwise. "Yes. Thank you."

"No problem." He'd be stocking up as long as they were here anyway. "The buzz is kind of wild, and the hangovers are a bitch, but there shouldn't be any detrimental effects. Uh, they won't hurt you, I mean, or fuck up your shooting." Actually, it'd probably improve her speed and precision, which was a terrifying thought. "Sister, you okay?"

Leliana startled at the question, blinking. "Oh! Yes, I'm fine. I, ah, didn't notice much at all, honestly."

He blinked. "Wait, really? How did you—" Ooohh, obviously if she was in direct contact with a spirit of some kind, that would give her some resistance to outside influence — such people's minds were grounded into the Fade, basically, mind-influencing magics just flowed right through them and dissipated away. Or, there could be a much more mundane explanation. "I heard you singing the Chant during the fight, that's probably why. Just keep doing that, you'll be fine."

"Singing the Chant can protect you from demons?" she asked with a frown, skeptical.

"If you concentrate on it hard enough?" He shrugged. "It's called locus of mind, one of the basic techniques mages are taught to resist demons. Usually it takes practice, but if it's something like the Chant, something you have memorized and has deep personal meaning to you, people who don't have any training at all can sometimes get lucky." Leliana pulling it off so well she didn't even notice the demon's influence with no training at all was...improbable, but it wasn't actually impossible. He did still suspect she was an abomination, or more likely just a weird kind of fadewalker who wasn't even a mage (however the fuck that worked), but there was an other explanation. "Oh, Lýna, if you know a song or a poem or something, you might try reciting it to yourself, that might help. It has to be really important to you, though."

Lýna nodded, staring off to the side thoughtfully. Maybe she had something, then. There was no telling how much good it would do but, between an amateur attempt at enforcing her locus of mind and reinforcing her presence with lyrium, perhaps they'd be able to protect her from being affected too badly. Hopefully.

He wouldn't bet on it, but maybe.

(Oh, this was a terrible idea...)

For as difficult as their first fight during their ascent had been, the second was dead easy. A couple floors up — another refectory this time, for full mages and apprentices who didn't want to go all the way back down again — they stumbled across another abomination. There was less warning this time, this demon less powerful, but still enough that Alim could feel the harsh crackle of magic on the air before they got to it. (Rage, he thought, though he wasn't certain.) So, Alim was able to pass a little vial of lyrium over to Lýna before the fight started.

Though he doubted that had even been necessary. They found the thing in the kitchens — again, its form was twisted enough Alim couldn't recognize the person it'd been, though he suspected an elf, probably male. This one was glowing a little, the light shivering and wavering like flame, and it also had backup, though in the form of a dozen animated corpses — mostly kitchen staff, Alim noted with a wince (Maker, that was Cecilia, shit...) — which for all their gruesomeness were a much lesser threat than enthralled Templars.

It went very smoothly. Before their whole group had even gotten through the door arrows were flying, the abomination ducking behind the work counters, skittering away, the scratching and ticking of its claws against stone setting a shiver down Alim's spine. The first rank of swordsmen were falling on the undead, Alim wreathed himself in slippery magic and jumped, his vision washed away in blue-white for an instant, skipped to a halt on one of the counters halfway across the room, lit up three of the undead at once with a ball of fire, catching a fourth with a flick the other way. A second later Kenrick was taking his second fadestep of the fight, crossing half the room in a smear of blue light, appearing nearly right on top of the abomination — Alim hadn't even spotted it there yet, half-hidden behind a pillar — neatly lopped off its head with a casual stroke of his spirit blade — though he didn't just leave it at that, casting more spells at its corpse, making sure the demon inside was properly dispersed. (Decapitation almost always took out an abomination, but better safe than sorry.) The undead didn't fall when the abomination did, either possessed by independent spirits or the spells properly anchored, but they weren't exactly difficult to deal with. Alim fadestepped over to another counter, torched two more corpses, and then they were all down, the other half either incinerated by Wynne or dispatched by the Templars.

Standing atop his counter, Alim quickly scanned the room, looking for any remaining threats, before nodding to himself. That went well.

He coughed — he realized the smoke was mostly his fault, but ugh, gross...

As they started filing out again, Alim skipped up to Lýna. "I'm curious, do you have magic in your family?"

Lýna was still a little bouncy from the lyrium, twitched at the question, turning her head to look at him sudden and sharp, like a bird. Heat tilting with a sort of curious stare, "Yes, my grandfather is Keeper of Savhraj." She twitched, glanced away, awkward — Alim got the very clear impression she regretted admitting that, might not have if she weren't slightly high right now, though he had no idea why. (By how Leliana's eyebrows shot up, she might, but he couldn't exactly go asking just now.) "Why?"

"Oh, nothing, just felt the lyrium hit you is all. You're not a mage, but you're pretty close." People usually spoke of being a mage as though it were a yes or no sort of thing, but it was really a matter of degree — everybody had some connection to the Fade (except dwarves), the vast majority of the time it was just too weak for a person to actually cast. The lyrium hitting her system had been like fanning dying coals, encouraging the fire to return to life, even now Lýna was smoldering away, the faintest spark of magic flickering just out of reach. She was close enough to proper magehood that he was positive she could learn to cast elementary spells, if only with the assistance of lyrium.

Magic was at least partially heritable, as centuries of careful breeding in the north had proven. In the south, it wasn't unusual for a mage to turn up every couple generations in the same family, but among Tevinter nobility it was uncommon to have a child without magic. In fact, it was interesting to note that while the magical population of Tevinter had steadily grown over the years, the south had seen a sharp decrease in mages as a proportion of the population since they were remanded to the Circles — southern mages had very few children, so that just made sense, didn't it? Of course, their ancestors had long-term screwed themselves, since Tevinter, the Anderfels, and Rivain now far outstripped southern nations in magical capacity, the south would be completely fucked in any large-scale conflict, but that was beside the point. The point was someone as close to being a mage as Lýna was was very likely to have magic in her family, he'd just been wondering.

After quickly explaining all that, he added, "Any children you have will also be much more likely to be mages than any random person off the street. Just something to keep in mind."

Lýna frowned. "I can't. The Blight will kill it."

"...Oh. Oh, that's obvious isn't it, I'm a fucking idiot. Sorry."

She didn't seem bothered, at least, just shrugged it off. (Of course, she'd already known, probably since Ostagar, Alim was the idiot who hadn't thought through to the natural consequences of the Joining.) Leliana actually looked sadder about it than Lýna was, which, that was almost funny just on its own.

Aaaannd Alim just got a horrible mental image of a ghoulified baby messily clawing its way out of the womb. He really hated his own brain sometimes...

The rest of this floor was clear, and the one right above their heads. Above that were the living quarters for full mages of the Circle — in these levels the loyalists were holed up. They did have wards over the stairs, probably to keep back the abominations they'd killed on their way up, but they weren't as solid as Cera's work. Esmond had a brief conversation with the mages keeping watch — Devon and Erin — assuring them that, no, he had no intention of killing any mages still loyal to the Circle, nor standing back and allowing the Templars to do so. It did take a little convincing, but not as much as it might have, since it was the Seeker doing the convincing. The wards were eventually brought down, and they stepped through.

The mages' apartments were somewhat nicer than the apprentices' dormitories, though not really in the quality of the furnishings. The curving hall they stepped into didn't look any different, the same as any of the other floors they'd passed through, and while Alim's new bed had been noticeably larger, adult-sized, and came with a surprisingly warm quilt, it felt to be made of the same materials. The major difference was that the full mages were granted more privacy than were the children. These floors were split up into smaller sections, roughly ten to a floor, each intended to house two or three people — so, not complete privacy, but a great improvement over the open spaces downstairs.

There were a little less than a hundred full mages in the Circle, so they needed five of these levels to house them all, though there were actually seven, the unneeded space either converted into sitting or meeting rooms or just shut up for now. (The Circle had been devastated in the Orlesian invasion, mages either killed fighting for the Crown or fled to Kirkwall or Ostwick, and Amaranthine and Gwaren mostly sent their mages to the Free Marches these days, the Circle's numbers still haven't fully recovered.) The middle rooms were mostly meeting rooms or libraries, one holding the low-security vault, the enchanted or alchemic paraphernalia the mages were allowed to play around with, though often only with permission from an Enchanter. It was there Alim had gotten the equipment to break into the high-security vault, the papers required to take the stuff out either signed by an absent-minded Leorah or straight-up forged.

In retrospect, he probably could have just asked Uldred to authorize the withdrawal...though he would have asked what Alim wanted it for — not as a condition of signing off on it, just curious — and Alim doubted he could have lied convincingly. Besides, that definitely would have gotten Uldred in trouble with the Templars when Alim was caught.

...Which might have prevented this whole rebellion. Oh well.

They didn't see many people on their way through. Which didn't mean there weren't people around — Alim could hear them moving, muttering to each other, huddled away in the apartments. Some moaning, breaths coming hard or thin, injured. Wynne's eyes were always drawn by sounds of pain, but that wasn't what they were here for, their group moved on, climbing up into one floor, another. There was a brief incident when someone in one of the libraries — Enchanter Florian, looking rather worse for wear, his robes streaked with ash and blood and hair disheveled — startled at the sudden appearance of Templars, but they managed to calm him down before anything unfortunate happened.

Before too long, they came to the leaders of the loyalist mages, huddled together arguing about something. They were in the enchanting lab, gathered around Leorah's desk, just outside the doors into the vault. There had been fighting here, walls and floor crumbled and cratered in places, one of the bookshelves had been blown to pieces, blood only partially washed out of the stone, leaving pale pink blotches behind. Thankfully, there weren't any bodies lying around.

There was a high slap of palms hitting the table, the chatter immediately cutting off. "Seeker Esmond! Thank the Maker you are here!" Between the Templars around him and the crowd of mages around her, it took Alim a moment to spot Leorah. She looked even more frazzled than usual, deep blue eyes gone wide with anxiety, dirty blonde hair escaped from its normal braid to scattered all over her head, tangled and frizzy. "Please tell me you're here to take over, because I have no idea what I'm doing!"

Alistair snickered. Alim shot the back of his head a glare, but...well, couldn't really blame him, Leorah was kind of silly even on a good day.

After assuring the gathered mages — Alim recognized Enchanter Torrin, but he didn't know the full mages as well as he did the apprentices — that he was indeed here to take over, Esmond got an update on just what the situation was up here. In the absence of the Templars, the fighting had continued, though not with the same vehemence it had before. After all, the rebels considered the Templars the enemy, the other mages of the Circle weren't the problem — misguided, perhaps, but not people they truly wished to fight. Though even so, many had died. The Enchanters here weren't precisely certain how many mages remained with Uldred, perhaps a dozen, which by their head count meant roughly half the full mages of the Circle were dead or missing.

Alim bit his lip to keep himself from gasping out loud — Andraste have mercy, that was...more than he'd thought.

The last skirmish of the battle in the tower had been a couple hours ago now. The rebels had dug in in the Enchanters' apartments, a few levels above where they stood now, magically reinforcing the area against intrusion by the loyalists. There'd been a final raid, Uldred leading the attack personally — a few had been killed, but that hadn't been their goal. They'd captured two people: one was Ser Cullen, the last living Templar up here they knew of (he'd been separated from his brothers and decided to stick with the loyalists instead of striking out on his own and maybe getting killed); the other was the First Enchanter himself. They might or might not be alive, the mages here had no way of knowing.

Partially because of the rebels' wards, yes, but there was another problem: shortly after Uldred had pulled back, an abomination had turned up on one of the floors between the mages' and Enchanters' apartments. None of them had actually gotten close enough to see the thing, but they knew it was there, they could feel it from the floor below — which was absurd, Tevinter whitestone was a magical conductor, that abomination must be ridiculously powerful.

About an hour ago, Niall had gone up — a man some years older than Alim, he'd just finished his thesis a couple months ago, under consideration to be promoted to Enchanter. Niall was very talented with concealment magics, he'd decided he would scout out what was going on up there. Torrin had tried to talk him out of it, that it was too dangerous, but he'd gone anyway. He hadn't come back. They assumed the abomination had gotten him, but they really didn't know.

So. As horrible as this all was, that wasn't...too concerning. The abomination might be difficult to deal with, but there was only one of them — the Templars they had on hand should be able to handle it. Their abilities were designed to fight these sorts of things, they had advantages mages simply didn't, shouldn't be a problem. As scary as fighting a dozen mages sounded — and how much he kind of didn't want to, since he probably knew most of them, and Uldred, nope, not looking forward to that — that should be doable. They did outnumber the rebels, if the loyalists' guess at their numbers was correct, and the Templars could make them practically helpless. Depending on the wards and traps they had set, and if they were still holding hostages, things might get complicated, but Alim didn't doubt their group would come out ahead.

This would all be over soon. Hopefully.

Of course, that would mean Uldred would be dead, which Alim was not happy about — he liked that sly, sarcastic bastard. Also, Alim's personal sympathies were definitely more aligned with the rebels than the loyalists, fuck the Circle, honestly. If Alim hadn't tried to escape, ended up with the Wardens, he might well have joined Uldred's people. But he was a Warden now, and the Wardens needed the Circle's help, so. This was just the way it had to be.

He hated this, just, all of it. Hopefully Lýna would be able to Conscript some of them off the gallows, because, ugh...

They didn't linger for long — the longer they delayed, the more time the rebels had to fortify their environment and torture their captives. Wynne did make a point of asking if they had any people seriously injured, badly enough they might not survive if they weren't given healing now. The whole conversation, Torrin watched Wynne, steady and unblinking, a feeling about him that was too vague to really put a word to. Alim suspected Torrin had reason to believe something was up with Wynne. Maybe he could just tell, like Alim had before he'd gotten specifics...but maybe he'd seen Wynne die, Cera couldn't have been the only person around. Whatever was going on in his head, he was tactful enough not to draw attention to it, hardly spoke a word to her.

As much as he might not be comfortable with what had happened to her, at least he didn't want to see the Templars murder her. That was something, Alim guessed. Torrin was kind of a cunt, so, couldn't honestly hope for any more than not getting Wynne killed.

Before too long, they were moving on. Leorah came with them, at least as far as the wards — they were her work, none of the others were confident in their ability to bring them down without hurting themselves. It was kind of impressive actually but, well, Leorah. There were dozens of glowing glyphs worked into the walls and ceiling around the stairs a floor above the vault, the doorway entirely sealed off with a solid wall of light, swirling green and blue and silver, solid enough Alim couldn't see even the vaguest impression of shape beyond it. Leorah didn't bring the wards all the way down, instead — one hand pressed against one of the glyphs, the other tossing a pinch of lyrium dust to cast a couple on the air — somehow interrupted the action of the enchantment, the barrier dissolving into sparks and fizzling out. The glyphs were still glowing along the wall, it'd probably come right back up once she stopped...whatever she was doing.

"Go on, then," Leorah said, her voice slightly strained, nodding toward the stairs. "I can't hold this open forever. Knock when you want back in." Alim wasn't entirely sure what she meant by knock, but Esmond just gave her a bland nod, led the way through the door.

The no-man's-land between the loyalists and the rebel was in worse condition than the lower levels. Now and again metal or stone cracked or ground to sand, sometimes melted, resolidified in twisted, uneven blobs. Cloth and wood had burned or been torn apart, in some places dissolved into this oddly fluffy dust, discolored with rot, or just sliced into strips and tossed about at random. And there were bodies about, left abandoned here and there — most were badly damaged enough, scorched and rotten and torn apart, they weren't really recognizable as the people they'd been, which was kind of gross but better than literally stumbling over familiar faces.

One room was particularly bad, the floor of a study hall scattered with at least a dozen dead Templars, three, five...eight mages? And one form, twisted into a jagged, lopsided monstrosity, hands extended into claws and toothy jaw opened far too wide, that was definitely an abomination. It was dead, but Kenrick threw dispersal magics at it just to make sure.

Crossing the central room — a practice room this time, the floor carved with enchantments to contain magics within, currently inactive — Alim felt a hint of magic in the air, droning slow and flat in his ears, a cold wind plucking at his shoulders. That would be their abomination, then. The Templars shot wary looks up at the ceiling — apparently they could feel it too, which, how sensitive were Templars to magic, exactly? Alim had never had occasion to test it, and it'd never really occurred to him to ask...

Anyway, Esmond meticulously checked the whole floor before moving on. The next one up was the first of the Enchanters' apartments — they actually got their own bedrooms, most of them with attached sitting rooms and offices, some with bathrooms. For some reason, when taking down some walls and putting up new ones to accommodate the floor plan, on the Enchanters' levels the ring-shaped hallway every other floor had had been broken into segments, so it wasn't actually possible to walk all the way around the ring. People had to pass through the center — a sitting room, he thought — to get from one segment to another. The stairs up and the stairs down were in different segments, of course, so they would have to go through there no matter what.

By the freezing cold on the air, magic slippery and heavy, Alim was certain that was where the abomination was waiting.

The Templars took a moment to collect themselves, checking weapons and tugging at gloves, some bowing their heads, clasping each other's shoulders, muttering snippets from the Chant. Leliana, eyes closed and gently wavering back and forth on the balls of her feet, seemed to be praying too, but quietly enough Alim couldn't pick out the words, just a barely audible musical hum.

Alim frowned at Lýna for a moment, fingers tapping at the potion vials tucked into his belt. She was...probably fine? He could still make out the flicker of borrowed magic, her last dose of lyrium hadn't worn off yet. And while he might think better safe than sorry, might as well toss her one, taking too much lyrium was a bad, bad idea — especially for people who weren't mages without it, it was too easy for them to accidentally pull magic from the Fade and break something. Especially if they were too damn high to focus on not breaking things. She seemed okay, bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet, glaring at the door, so...

Yeah, no lyrium. If the abomination did end up mind-fucking her hard, oh well, he'd apologize for his caution later. But he probably wouldn't have to, she'd be fine.

(Later, he'd decide it probably wouldn't have made any difference.)

---

Arava aƫishas — Woo, conlang bullshit. "Arava" is a verb that is somewhat difficult to translate. It shares a root with canon aravel, meaning to go or to travel, but with a kind of formal, almost poetic connotation. Given the Dalish are always moving around, it has developed a much broader meaning of, just, living in general. "Aƫishas" means peaceful, or peacefully. (In most modern elvish languages adjectives and adverbs are the same category.) Hence, "go/come/be in peace", a standard greeting equivalent to canon andaran atish'an. Can be used for both greetings and farewells.

Virghilãje — Pieced together from canon vir and ghilana, literally meaning "she (who) guides (along the) way/path". A less literal translation could be "pathfinder". It's a somewhat poetical way to refer to a hunter — Lýna has this word tattooed on her arm, actually, it's the one she translated as "she that finds the way" back in chapter 12.

Falõśe — friend, feminine

[Tevinter slaves ... at least, aren't forbidden to marry!] — In the modern day, anyway, exactly what slavery in Tevinter looks like has changed A LOT over history, due to a combination of practical and philosophical factors. In the early centuries, slaves were cheap — most were captured in war, and there was still a lot of conquering to do. It didn't really matter if they were worked to death, tortured or killed for minor offenses, used as blood sacrifices, if you run out just attack neighboring barbarians and capture some more, nbd. But eventually, Tevinter had simply become too successful, managed to expand all throughout Thedas — there were no lands left to conquer. What barbarians remained were in distant lands or hard to reach hill country, practically impossible to capture them in large numbers.

If they still wanted a large base of slave labor, they had to maintain a population — not only could they not kill them willy-nilly anymore, but they also needed to provide them a minimum standard of living so they could survive and even reproduce, keep their numbers up. (A similar retooling happened in the Americas after the international slave trade collapsed.) The decrease in slaves coming in also raised their value, supply and demand and all that, so working them to death simply wasn't cost-effective anymore. And then the Blight happened, the population loss raising the value of labor even more, the weakening of authority chipping away at the power of the masters, giving the slaves more leverage to win more freedoms. (A similar thing happened with serfs during the Black Death.)

Aaand then Andraste happened. Slavery continued to exist in Tevinter (and a few other places), but their new religion made mistreating slaves wildly unacceptable. There has been some evolution on what is considered mistreatment, and abuses obviously still happen (it's not illegal if you don't get caught), but slaves got a whole bunch of protections they hadn't had before. Things have only improved over the centuries since...in most ways, at least, present-day Tevinter is sort of complicated.

Point is, yes, Leliana (and Lýna last chapter) is correct in saying slaves in Tevinter have more freedoms than mages in southern Circles do — and also serfs in Orlais and Nevarra, for that matter. The mages live in much better conditions, obviously, so I actually think they have the better deal, but still.

[take from me a life of sorrow] — Leliana sings Transfigurations 12, Andraste's prayer before the siege of Minrathous, almost every time she fights. She did it in her head back in Lothering, but this time it's out loud.

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So this chapter just keep going and going and going, holy shit. I intended to have the actual events of Broken Circle be one big chapter, because I'm terrible at guessing how many words something will take. Since I probably shouldn't be throwing 40k word chapters at you people, I'm splitting it here. The next chapter starts immediately where this one lets off — as in, they were literally adjacent paragraphs in the same scene originally — and I'm already 10k words into it. I can't tell you exactly how long it's going to end up being. Maybe shorter than this half? We'll see when it's finished.

I am such a wordy bitch, oh my god...