Chapter 31 - All Roads Lead to Denerim
Simon Rammes, cousin to Bann Loren of the Oswin Hills and captain of his household guard, cursed like a drunken sailor denied shore leave as Roric's arrow struck home with his usual keen-eyed skill, the realization he'd lost his bet momentarily eclipsing the joy of a hunt fulfilled. "Damn your bloody eyes," the landed knight cursed, grudgingly tossing the archer the promised pouch of coins before dismounting from his horse and descending into the ravine. To his right, water cascaded down from a small waterfall, lapping at his armoured boots and greaves as it made its way into the nearby stream on its way to the sea, and grumbles arose from the score of men who comprised the hunting party following in his wake. Above, great clouds, black and heavy with the promise of a great summer storm, offered another incentive for haste, yet Simon elected instead to casually stride towards their quarry, indulging in the moment after the hardships of the hunt. Ten paces away, the stench of the prey's wounds could not be mistaken, and a cruel smile emerged as the figure thrashed about, hands clenched in a death-grip about the arrow lodged in his belly. "Finally caught up with you, huh, traitor?"
Not waiting for an answer, Simon delivered a savage kick to the wound, provoking a fresh spurt of blood and a cry of agony to match. Two weeks spent tracking their prey in all weathers, of enduring the discomforts of long marches and rough living, of pushing his men to the breaking point rather than risk Loghain catching wind of their hunt, of losing both hounds and horses to misfortune brought about by impatience finally found an outlet, and in a frenzy, Simon levelled blow after blow at the wounded fugitive, every feeble cry spurring laughter from the rest of the hunting party. "Bastard!" he spat, anger unquenchable. It was not his fault that their prey had escaped from the dungeons of Caer Oswin, nor that his cousin had been stupid enough to allow him to live in the first place, yet here he was, forced to hunt this wretch down while Loren mumbled his pious inanities and drank the castle's cellar dry. Not for the first time, he entertained the idea that his cousin might suffer a tragic accident and leave the bannorn in his rightful possession, and he let that thought comfort him as his fists rained down.
"Shouldn't we question him, ser?" Roric's hesitant query from the rear of the hunting party made the knight halt, and he turned towards the archer with fury in his eyes for the interruption. "While he still lives, I mean?"
"What great secrets do you think he's carrying, then?" Simon demanded scornfully. "He certainly had no time to spread his treasons while we were chasing him, and I doubt an old fool like him knows anything of value in the first place. Leave the thinking to your betters." Steel scraped against the wooden mouth of his scabbard, and with a sadistic grin, Simon levelled his longsword at the fallen figure. "Any last words, scum?"
"Long… long live the King," wheezed the prisoner through laboured breaths.
Pathetic, the knight snarled inwardly, preparing to thrust the blade home. From behind came a small grunt from Roric, and he whirled about, patience with the archer long spent. "What are you on about now, you fo-"
A glimpse of a red-fletched arrow lodged deep in the back of Roric's skull, and long-honed instincts took over in a heartbeat, his shield coming up just in time to absorb the impact of a second shaft. "Ambush!" howled the knight. "They're behind us, you idiots!"
To his credit, Bann Loren did not muster ill-trained men. Hours upon hours of labour in the practice yard paid off, and within moments of their leader's cry, a shield wall stood locked and ready, the remaining archers sheltering behind, bows drawn and scanning the ridgeline for targets. This meant they died with swords in hand as the fireball struck the formation dead-centre, obliterating four men outright and blasting the rest off their feet to be baptised beneath a rain of mud, blood and body parts thrown up by the shockwave. More red-fletched arrows found their mark the instant the first of Simon's men hit the ground, precisely cutting down the hunting party's surviving archers before they could rise and retaliate. "Get up and storm the ridgeline!" Simon shouted, forcing his plate-clad limbs out of the muck. If they could just take the fight to their ambushers…
At first, he thought the storm had finally broken overhead, so loud and close was the crash. Then it sounded again, and again, a rhythmic, heavy cadence like a warhorse in full charge, and the knight's jaw dropped as what appeared to be a statue suddenly leapt from the top of the ridge, stone legs pumping free of the soft soil, stone arms lashing out and pulverizing any of the hunting party unfortunate enough to be caught in their sweep. The first stirrings of panic rippled through the ranks, as much from the presence of their strange attacker as it was the losses they'd suffered, and Simon forced himself to stand his ground. "Hold firm, you bastards! Stand together, and we can-"
Whatever stirring words the knight had to offer died unspoken as more figures stormed down the ridge and into the attack. It was a regular parade of freaks, the sort to make a walking statue seem utterly mundane; a violet-eyed giant that could have only been Qunari; a blonde elven woman, flames leaping from her staff to lash out at the hunting party once more; an elf bearing twin blades and the most garnish tattoo across his face, and more. Yet Simon barely noticed, his attention fixed on the pale, dark-haired elf at the head of the pack, face permanently etched into his memory from so many hours spent reading over Loghain's wanted posters, and greed and ambition propelled him forward, his men abandoned in his eagerness to come to grips with his chosen opponent. "Warden!"
Wordlessly, the Warden met the challenge, the clash of their steel echoing across the glade. The elf was no mean swordsman, Simon had to admit, each of his half-dozen furious slashes parried or riposted without great effort, yet he refused to be deterred. How much was the reward for the elf's head now? A full thousand sovereigns and a holdfast? Certainly enough to get out from under his cousin's grip once and for all, and the knight pressed the attack with even greater fervour, his universe constricting to the space around the wiry elf and the overwhelming need to put him down. Everything he'd ever wanted was within length of his sword; money, land, power, title, women, finery, all to be paid for with the life of a mere elf. Blows ringing against his shield, Simon counterattacked low, driving his opponent back a pace towards the streambank, armoured boots squelching in the muck. Grinning, the knight pressed his advantage, confidence swelled with every backwards step the elf took. To think such a knife-eared wretch would dare challenge me!
At the edge of the stream, the elf suddenly stumbled in the mud, and Simon saw his opening, longsword thrusting home to make his dreams reality. Faster than he ever imagined possible, Sagramor was back on his feet, right foot digging deep into the muck, and sending a glob straight into the knight's eyes with a sharp kick.
Cursing, Simon acted on instinct, shield-arm coming up to wipe his vision clear. An instant later, he paid for that loss of focus, Sagramor's greatsword finding its mark in his gut, punching through mail and leather and flesh. "Impossible…" Simon gasped, coughing up bloody spittle, sword falling from nerveless hands. "You're just a mere elf… just a…"
Just a mere elf ripped the blade free in a spray of blood, and Simon felt the kiss of bright steel on his neck, his last thought that he was finally free from his cousin's leash after all…
The knight's armoured, headless corpse fell unmoving onto the mud, but Sagramor was already moving and looking for his next target. There were none to be found; the rest of the company had taken care of the hunters with their usual lethal efficiency, and the few survivors fleeing for cover were cut down by Leliana's arrows and the spells of the mages before he could even raise his sword, the peace of the grave settling over the wood. "Well, was this worth it?" Morrigan demanded acidly, shattering the unnatural silence. "If Loghain should be alerted to our presence because of this idealistic diversion-"
"What, you think we should have just left him to be butchered, then?" demanded Alistair.
"Look at him, fool!" the apostate snapped back, gesturing towards the prone figure of the fugitive, his breaths sharp and shallow as he writhed about in his agony. "Do you think there's anything worthwhile left to save?"
"We'll find out," declared Sagramor. "Alistair, Wynne, with me. Leliana, you and Ragnar keep watch and let us know if there's any sign of enemy reinforcements. The rest of you, dispose the bodies and salvage anything useful. Let's leave nothing for Loghain's men to find."
So ordered, the party went about their work, and Sagramor noted with no small measure of pride how readily they seemed to accept his commands. The first of the enemy dead were being stripped of their weapons, armour and valuables, a growing pile forming at Zevran's feet, while Shale and Sten piled the corpses up for Morrigan and Nimue's magic to destroy, entropic magics accelerating the process of decay until nothing but wet smears remained of Bann Loren's hunting party. It was a grisly, unpleasant duty, yet it was all done efficiently, without argument or hesitation, even from the relative newcomers, and despite himself, the elf couldn't help but feel vindicated. Perhaps I actually have earned their loyalty, he dared to dream, moving over to the fugitive with potion and bandages in hand. Now, to see to this poor fellow…
Then Sagramor got his first good look at the fallen figure's injuries, and his good mood turned to ash. "Maker's breath," he cursed softly, his hopes falling further with each new wound he observed. The arrow buried deep in his belly might have been killing him, but it was clear that the human had been dying long before Bann Loren's troops caught up, if the deathly paleness of his skin was any indication. His sword hand was gone, cleaved away by some cruel blow, while his arm had gone gangrenous from the ragged stump all the way up to the elbow, the stench making the elf recoil. Deep cuts scored his upper body both front and back, many likewise bearing signs of infection, and his flesh hung loosely about a once-muscular frame, starved into weakness. "Wynne?"
"I'm sorry, Sagramor," the Circle mage answered, grim-faced. "My powers can only do so much, especially with old, deep-set wounds. Maker, he must have been tortured for weeks before this!"
"Sagramor?" The word escaped past the fugitive's broken lips, and Sagramor felt the first stirrings of recognition as the fugitive's face turned towards him, sudden hope manifesting in eyes left clouded by pain. "It is you. Maker be praised that you survived, Warden…"
"You know him?" asked Alistair.
"I do," answered the elf, the memory finally clicking into place. "He was part of Cailan's bodyguard at Ostagar… Elric, I think his name is. He was there when the King greeted me and Duncan when we arrived."
"That's right, Warden, and thank you for your aid," said Elric, every word and breath laboured. "I didn't expect Bann Loren's men would chase me this far beyond the borders of his fiefdom. I tried to hide here in the woods, but there wasn't time. And now I'm a dead man."
"Lie still and try to relax," urged the elf. "We'll do all we can to help you. Wynne, can you do something for the pain, at least?"
"No, no, I'm finished, Warden. You know that as well as I. And after all I did to dishonour myself, it's no less than I deserve," said the knight, sighing in resignation. "Maker, all that time in Bann Loren's prison and I couldn't stop thinking about all they suffered that dark night at Ostagar…"
"It's not your fault," Sagramor insisted firmly.
"Maker forgive me, I know. Even had Loghain's men not turned their backs on us, the darkspawn were simply too many. Even Cailan, for all his bravado, knew there would be no victory at Ostagar, at least, not the decisive knockout blow against the Blight he wanted. Listen to me, Warden. Before the battle, the King entrusted me with the key to the royal arms chest. If anything were to happen to him, he said it was vital I deliver it to the Wardens."
The elf frowned. "What's so important about it?"
"I think it's where Cailan stored Maric's dragonbone longsword, the one he always boasted of slaying the Archdemon with," Alistair chimed in. "Beyond that, well, I saw the chest once. Ironwood construction, dwarven locks, runes of protection engraved on the outside; you could hurl it with a trebuchet and not dent it. Anyone of value Cailan wanted to keep safe and hidden from prying eyes, he'd put in there."
"You've the right of it. Documents of state are held within, vital secrets that could help Ferelden endure Cailan's loss," expressed the wounded knight, a wracking, bloody cough interrupting his explanation midstream. "And the blade… Warden, if the darkspawn got their hands on a weapon that powerful…"
"Do you even have the key after all this time?" asked Sagramor.
Elric gave a wry smile, a second heavy cough sending him shuddering in pain. "The Maker has a sense of humour, doesn't He? I suppose it's for the best, however—if I had kept it, it would only be in Bann Loren's hands by now."
"But you said Cailan entrusted it to your keeping!" protested Wynne.
"I was afraid. I thought I'd lose it on the battlefield, so I stashed it at the base of a statue next the Circle's encampment, up in the King's camp. Please, it's probably still there." The knight must have sensed the Warden's hesitation, for with his last vestige of strength, up came his remaining hand to seize Sagramor by the tabard, pulling him in close. "Return to Ostagar, Warden, please! Those documents, Maric's Blade, the King's other arms and armour… they cannot fall into the wrong hands! You must do this. Not for my honour, but for Ferelden and all those we lost there! Ensure Cailan's death is not the end of our nation! You must!"
"I…" This is madness, Sagramor reflected, cursed indecision robbing him of speech. Ostagar was in enemy territory now, the advance of the horde leaving the old fortress far behind their lines, and with their vast numbers, he'd no doubt there'd be plenty of darkspawn left behind to defend the prize they'd fought so hard to capture. It seemed unlikely that the key would remain undisturbed in its hiding place, months later, and trying to find it amidst the flotsam and jetsam of war seemed all but impossible, even if the fortress was abandoned. Can I really ask the others to do this? To risk their lives, all for a chest that may have long since been destroyed? To salve our pride over being beaten and betrayed there?
Perhaps sensing his doubts, Wynne spoke up. "The events of Ostagar still haunt my thoughts, Warden. If there is any hope of restoring something good by returning there, I would be happy to accompany you."
"I don't know about you, but I left more than a few darkspawn there in dire need of getting stabbed in the face," added Alistair. "It won't bring back the King or Duncan, but if we can avenge the fallen, then I say it's worth it."
Morrigan's right. I am a sentimental fool, Sagramor cursed himself. In the end, his own honour would not permit him to deny the last request of a dying man, and so despite his misgivings, he nodded in assent. "You have my word, Elric. We will carry out this last duty, in Cailan's name."
"Thank you." The knight's hand went limp, and he fell back onto the muck. "And… if you find Cailan's body, please… see him off. He was… our king. Deserves better…"
"It will be done, Ser Elric. Upon my honour, I swear it."
"Good… good." Grey eyes closed, and Ser Elric Maraigne went to the Maker's side with a contented smile, duty done at last.
No more than ten minutes after the party finally found shelter, the dark clouds that had loomed over them since daybreak made good on their promise, the howl of heavy winds drowning out the crash of the waves against the nearby shore and driving the rains so hard it was impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the cavern's mouth. How the cave network had remained hidden so close to Denerim, he could not begin to fathom, but it was a stroke of good luck to find it before the storm hit, another that their clash with Bann Loren's men had apparently gone unnoticed. The tempest would erase any trail they might have left behind them, and on a day like this, Loghain's men would be more concerned with getting a hot meal and staying dry than hunting phantoms in the pouring rain.
Yet as ever, Sagramor's misgivings refusing to dissipate. Once more, he'd committed himself and his company to yet another perilous diversion, this time to return to the battlefield that had nearly killed him to retrieve documents probably long since torn to shreds by the victorious darkspawn and artefacts scattered to the four winds, all for the sake of honour and the unlikely prospect they might contribute to the war effort… not to mention sheer, stubborn pride. Giving a dying man a glimmer of hope to ease his passing only justified that choice so far, and while compassion and principle demanded he keep that promise, making it in the first place had hardly been prudent.
Enough, he chided himself. Ostagar was hundreds of miles away and getting no closer. It was Denerim that demanded his attention, for so close to the dragon's lair, the slightest distraction or lapse in judgment would mean the death of all they'd worked towards. Offering a silent prayer that Ragnar would return soon and unharmed, Sagramor made his way back into the central cavern, where, as the little company settled in for a supper of Bodahn's vegetable pasties, the elf outlined his plan. "I don't intend on remaining in Denerim for more than a day, two at the absolute most," he said, accepting a plate from Wynne and immediately noticing how tired she looked. "We find this Brother Genetivi, learn where the Urn of Sacred Ashes is hidden, and then get out without Loghain or any of his cronies knowing we were there in the first place."
"And if we come across Loghain while we're there?" asked Alistair from across the cookfire, his tone making it clear what he intended should the possibility arise.
"As much as I'd love to put a blade in him, I don't think we can risk it now," Sagramor insisted, resigned. "Believe me, Alistair, I want to bring him to justice as much as you do, but taking on our enemy in his seat of power can only end one way. If we die here, there will be no one left to invoke the treaties or cure Arl Eamon. Loghain's end will come, but on our terms."
"He might not even be in the city," Bodahn piped up. "Everything I heard at Snowgate suggested he was out in the field with his army."
"All the better for us if that's true. That said, I can't imagine he'd leave his seat of power in the hands of total incompetents," said Geoffrey. "There's no way we'll get in through any of the city's gates, not with everyone and their grandmother keeping an eye out for you. I trust you have something else in mind?"
"It's an old tunnel that goes beneath the southern curtain wall," explained the elf. "During the Rebellion, Denerim's elves used it to smuggle messages and supplies out to Maric's forces, as well as get fighters from the Night Elves like my grandfather in. Before she died, my mother showed me where it emerges into the city. We find the entrance, and we can get into Denerim unseen."
"Sounds convenient. But what's this about finding the entrance?" questioned Alistair. "Don't you know exactly where it is?"
"Unfortunately not," Sagramor admitted. "My mother showed me where it comes out inside Denerim, but I've never travelled through it to the other side myself. That's why I've sent Ragnar on ahead. With his tracking abilities, he'd certainly be able to find it, and if there are any of Loghain's men patrolling nearby, a single hound will draw a lot less attention."
"Still, it's been over thirty years since it was dug out," said Nimue. "That's a lot of time for erosion to take its toll."
"Or for one of the diggers to confess its secret," Morrigan added tartly. "'Tis hardly the surest plan you've devised, Warden."
"I'm aware of that," Sagramor replied, refusing to take offense. "That's one of the reasons I want to bring a mage with me into the city; if the tunnel's blocked, magic could clear it long enough to get us through. If it winds up being a complete bust, then we'll regroup back here and consider our options, though for now, it's our best bet. The bigger problem will be finding Genetivi in a city this size without alerting the garrison. Leliana, back in Redcliffe, you mentioned a friend who might be able to help us. Someone reliable?"
"Absolutely. He and I both came to the Maker's service at the same time, and I know he would never betray us."
"It's a good place to start at any rate," Alistair permitted. "Still, Sagramor, doesn't seem like you not to try it out beforehand. You're usually a lot more thorough about these things."
The elf shrugged. "In the past, there was never any need. Only time I it became necessary to use it was after an… incident with the city guards this summer."
"So why didn't you?"
"Duncan was there to recruit me, so I left the city with him."
The former Templar did a quick double-take at the implication. "You mean you're a—" he began, discretion forcing him to silence lest he inadvertently insult the elf.
Sten frowned. "If speed and stealth are your concerns, Warden, then perhaps only a small number should accompany you. Denerim is a nest of enemies. Should they discover us, our full strength will not hold them at bay."
"I doubt I could enter the city unnoticed even I wished to," added Shale. "Which I don't. Honnleath was wretched enough. A city fifty times its size sounds beyond endurance."
Geoffrey shrugged. "It's not like we'd have time to take in the sights anyway. Make the call, Sagramor."
Sagramor took a moment to consider. "Very well then. Leliana, Nimue, Zevran, Morrigan and Sten, before first light, we make our way into the city. Morrigan, I know you could easily get into Denerim with your shapeshifting, but I'd like you to come with us for safety's sake."
"My presence may give you away amongst the bas," said Sten. "Does that not pose an unnecessary risk?"
"Possibly. But I haven't forgotten about my promise to help you recover Asala, and I'll need you to make sure we've got the right blade."
The stone of the Qunari's face cracked. "You believe we can find it here?"
"Well, all roads lead to Denerim, so if we can't find it here, we might be able to pick up its trail, or learn about this Faren fellow. If we can search for it without bringing the garrison down on our heads, we'll do so, but the mission must come first."
"As it should," Sten expressed, offering a small nod of approval.
"Actually…" A mailed hand raised, and Sagramor turned towards Alistair. "I was hoping to join you. There's something I need to take care of in the city."
"How urgent is this?" asked the elf. "I don't want to risk both of Ferelden's surviving Wardens if we can avoid it."
"Urgent enough I don't want to miss this chance. It's… a personal matter."
At the edge of the gathering, Nimue rolled her eyes. "If it's a matter of numbers, then I'm happy to stay here. There's nothing for me in Denerim anyways."
"You sure?" asked Sagramor.
"I don't have your fond memories of the Alienage, Sagramor," the elven girl insisted coldly. "And even if I did, I'm too wet, cold and footsore to indulge in my nostalgia. You just get in there and get this done."
"As you wish then," Sagramor conceded. "Those of you entering the city with me should get some rest while you can. I mean to get inside before daybreak, while we still have the cover of night and the storm to disguise us from any patrols. The rest of you sit tight, and we'll be back before you know it."
And Maker grant that this isn't all for nothing…
To call their evening's refuge a cavern was something of a misnomer. Instead of a singular, massive space, time and erosion had carved smaller, interconnected chambers out of the rock, from which the party took the opportunity to set up their individual billets with the promise of greater privacy than their camps normally allowed. His meal completed and their plan set, Sagramor made his usual rounds, stopping first to see how Wynne was faring. He hadn't mistaken it in the light of the cookfire; fatigue was taking its toll on the Senior Enchanter, and he hurriedly waved her down before she could rise. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, of course. I am just a little… weary," the mage insisted, giving a wry smile. "As you may have noticed, I'm no spring chicken."
"There's still some life in those old bones, I'm certain of it," jested Sagramor. "You're much stronger than you give yourself credit for, Wynne. Fighting against Uldred and the darkspawn, keeping up on our long marches… I know people a third of your age that could never even dream of tackling the challenges you have, never mind overcoming them."
"That is kind of you to say so. In all honesty, I do not know how many years I have left in me. I have lived for such a long time. But there is always something else to do, and I have to keep going in order to do it. I think I will be glad when I am… done."
"I'm sure you'll be kicking around for years yet."
"Perhaps. But I am glad you came to see me, Warden. I wanted to get your insights on a matter that's been vexing me since I left Kinloch Hold."
"Of course," said the elf, immediately intrigued. "Whatever you need."
"Thank you. After what happened in the Tower, I've been considering the nature of abominations lately. The first time I ever saw one, my blood turned to ice. It was months before the nightmares stopped. It was the knowledge that I could easily become one of them that frightened me the most."
"But you're a great mage!" Sagramor protested. "You'd never become an abomination!"
"Any mage can become an abomination, no matter how powerful or experienced," Wynne gently corrected him. "It is one of the first things we teach new apprentices at the Circle, that no matter how confident they are in their abilities, the danger of possession always exists and must be guarded against."
"What about magics the Circle doesn't practice, like blood magic or the Keeper lore? Does the risk of possession increase then?" asked the elf, immediately thinking of Merrill.
"Blood magic certainly carries a greater risk, largely because learning it requires engaging with a demon to begin with. Yet no matter their lore, even those who use their powers ethically and cautiously can succumb to a demon's intrusion. One slip—all it takes is one slip, and everything you are is simply gone, replaced by madness. And there is no turning back. Or at least that's what they say."
A dark eyebrow raised questioningly. "You have doubts?"
"Of late, I have begun to wonder if an abomination might be cured without outside intervention. Or, indeed, if a mage could be so possessed and still retain their sanity, their humanity."
A more rigid mind might have dismissed the idea out of hand as wishful thinking, or the sort of meaningless sophistry only of interest to philosophers divorced from the concerns of the real world. True to his nature, however, Sagramor gave Wynne's notion the serious thought he knew she was looking for. "I don't think a mage could throw off possession by themselves. Many of those abominations we fought in Kinloch Hold were probably good people before they were taken, and if they could have broken free, they would have. As for your second question? I suppose if you still made the same choices, held the same values and felt the same way, would a demon actually hold any influence over you? Would anyone even be able to tell?" The elf shrugged. "Honestly, the metaphysics of it all make my head hurt sometimes. I'm probably speaking nonsense."
"No, no, you have a point," Wynne assured him, brows furrowed in thought. "It is madness and cruelty that define abominations. If they are lacking, if the mage remembers the person they truly are… then they are not an abomination. Thank you for showing me another way of looking at it."
"Glad I could help," Sagramor said earnestly. "Can I ask a favour of you?"
"Of course."
Carefully, Sagramor withdrew the Warden treaties from his pouch and held them out before the mage. "We're taking a lot of risks going into Denerim. The treaties getting lost or destroyed can't be one of them. Will you keep them safe? If the worst comes to pass and we don't make it out, then someone will need to bring the dwarves and Dalish into the fight, and there's no one I'd trust more with the treaties than you."
"A grave responsibility," Wynne acknowledged, accepting the documents and the Warden's trust. "For what it's worth, Sagramor, I hope I never have to fulfill it. A treaty with the Grey Wardens might not carry any weight without a Warden to enforce it. But they will be safe with me until you return."
"Thank you." It was not ideal, of course. Passing off his responsibilities went against the grain of his character, especially one given to him by Duncan, and the elf reminded himself that the safety of the treaties dwarfed any personal feelings, and he'd take them up again once he returned. Assuming this all goes to plan… "You should be safe enough in here, especially if this storm keeps up, but don't feel you have to wait here for us if Loghain's men start prowling about. Ragnar will be able to find you again if you need to relocate."
"I hope it does not come to that. Do not take any unnecessary risks, Sagramor. We have come too far to lose you now."
"Thank you, Wynne. I'll see you again once we return."
Halfway towards the chamber where Alistair had established his billet, a throat clearing drew Sagramor's attention, and turned to see Geoffrey approach. "Sorry for interrupting, but mind if I borrow you for a few minutes?"
"Not at all. What's going on?"
Smiling in relief, the apostate led him into another side chamber, where Morrigan and Shale stood around a large, flat-topped rock they were using for an impromptu table, a dozen glowing stones laid atop. "Morrigan and I think we might have figured out what those crystals you pulled from Wilhelm's lab are for."
"Actually, 'twas Shale who determined their purpose," admitted Morrigan with a sullen frown.
"Yes, these are augmentation crystals," the golem explained. "I was not even aware it managed to recover any, well done!"
"You've used them before then?" asked Sagramor.
"Indeed. I suspect their creation was an art practiced when golems were more… commonplace. My former master took great pains to collect whatever lore he could find on the subject. He searched far and wide to collect what crystals he could, and then… added them. it is not an unpleasant sensation."
"Added them? Can you show us how?"
"As it wishes. Does it see these slots at the back of my wrist?" Shale posed, extending out her right hand. "Fit one in as it would a puzzle piece, and it will see."
"I'll do it!" Geoffrey proclaimed. Like a schoolboy eager to demonstrate his intelligence in front of the class, the apostate mage was up and at Shale's side before Sagramor and Morrigan could even think to lend a hand, an iridescent red crystal clenched protectively in his grip. A few moments spent determining the best way to fit it in, and the crystal slid into place with a sharp clack. At once, the runes carved along the golem's body burned red in answer, and new crystalline growths sprouted from its back and behind the wrists, thick and numerous as a hedgehog's spikes. The golem snapped its fingers, and flames engulfed its hand, a second snap extinguishing them just as quickly. "Maker, that certainly did something. You send Wilhelm found them?"
"Yes, during one of his many expeditions into the Deep Roads. As I understand it, the crystals allow me to… alter the flow of magic around me. Wilhelm had hoped to turn me into a battery of mana, a source of power he could tap at will to aid in his experiments. Some of the crystals invoke the power of a certain element, some increase the presence of mana, some absorb or reflect spells; there are various kinds." Quartz eyes examining the crystal growths, the golem gave a small chuckle, evidently pleased at the new additions. "So, what does it think? They don't make me look any wider, do they?"
"No, not at all," Sagramor stammered, for want of something to say.
"Yes, yes, they're actually rather… slimming," stated Geoffrey.
Morrigan made a disgusted noise. "If you're quite finished with your inane banter, has your hound returned yet, Warden? I was led to believe you wished to enter Denerim as soon as possible."
"He'll be back soon enough. Shale, would you be willing to let Morrigan and Geoffrey each keep one of the crystals to study? The more we can learn about them, the better."
"Oh, very well, since it asked so nicely," acceded the golem. "Just so long as it promises to find some more. I want to glitter from ear to ear! So to speak."
"Any idea where to start?"
"Orzammar might be our best bet," Geoffrey suggested. "They might have lost the knowledge to make new golems, or so I've read, but they must have something of value we can make use of if we ask nicely." The apostate suddenly faltered, enthusiasm fading as he remembered precisely who was in charge of the little company, and he turned back to Sagramor with an apologetic grin. "Just so long as you think it's a good idea, of course, Warden."
"I think we can make that happen," said the elf. "It might take some time to get to Orzammar, Shale; for now, our priority is healing Arl Eamon. But I swear to you, we'll do our best to find some more crystals for you. We'll be asking the dwarves to fight and die for us, after all. What's a few artefacts compared to that?"
"It is indeed most wise for a puny flesh creature," remarked the golem, stone smile wide. "Very well, I can be patient. It's earned that much from me."
"Thank you, Shale, I appreciate it."
Without hesitation, Geoffrey took one of the larger crystals from the pile, smiling as it lit up at his touch. "Yes, this will do quite nicely. Shale, mind if I borrow you for a few minutes? I want to put this mana tap theory of Wilhelm's to the test."
"It damages my crystals, and I crush its tiny mage head."
"Fine, fine," Geoffrey muttered, distracted by the cerulean glow of his chosen prize. "Now, where did I put that kit Bodahn gave me?"
Muttering to himself, Geoffrey made for the adjacent chamber that served as his billet, the golem stomping close behind. "'Tis an enthusiastic child you've enlisted to our cause, Warden," Morrigan remarked, more amused than annoyed. "Tell me, do you intend on inducting either Geoffrey or Nimue into the Order?"
Sagramor shook his head. "It's enough that they're willing to stand with us, same as the rest of you, so I wasn't exactly planning on it. Mind you, if they express an interest, I'd happily accept them as Wardens." Of course, without knowing how to create the Joining compound, it's all academic… "Why do you ask?"
"Mere curiosity, 'tis all," insisted the apostate girl. "I just hope this latest diversion of yours proves more fruitful than the last."
"So do I," the elf admitted wryly. "Still, it's good to know that if we do wind up facing trouble inside the city, you'll be at my side."
"Good to know you possess some small measure of sense. Is there something more you wanted from me?"
"Actually, while I have you here, could I ask about-"
The apostate threw up her hands. "Why do you constantly seek to ask me such questions? I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?"
"Mere curiosity."
Amber eyes rolled scornfully. "How very amusing. Whence comes this strange curiosity to begin with?"
"Life spent trapped in the Alienage with only a few books to expose you to the outside world will do that to you. I don't mean to offend you, Morrigan. And I'd be happy to answer any of your questions in return."
"That… is sensible. True, 'tis better to learn all you can rather than leave your mind blinkered and hidebound, like some fools I can mention. Ask what you will of me."
Sagramor nodded gratefully. "What Merrill said… all the legends of Flemeth I've heard of all say she had many daughters."
"And you ask if I have sisters?" The apostate shrugged. "I have wondered this myself, for the tales tell of many Witches of the Wild, not just the one, and long before I was born. Perhaps, long ago, these stories were more than exaggerations, but for as long as I can remember, it has only been Mother and myself in the Wilds. Flemeth refuses to speak of other daughters, if they even existed. So am I her first? I doubt that too."
"She's actually the Flemeth from all the stories, then? Not just someone capitalizing on the myth to intimidate her enemies?"
"So she has told me. What do you know of that legend, Sagramor? The one the Chasind tell their children to frighten them into obedience?"
"Only a little, but frankly, I'd prefer the truth."
"Very well then," Morrigan purred. "I shall tell you what I know of my mother, and you can decide for yourself if it is the truth. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Then as the tales is sung by the bards, centuries ago, before there even was a Ferelden, Flemeth was young and beautiful, a prized gem in a land of uncultured barbarians and the desire of any who saw her. They say that she was wife to Conobar, Bann of Highever, but chose instead to run away with Osen, a poor bard with whom she had fallen in love." Morrigan grimaced in disgust at that last point. "In truth, my mother claims 'twas Osen she married, and Conobar the jealous lord who looked upon her from afar. Seeking Flemeth for his bed, Conobar approached young Osen and offered him wealth and power in exchange for his lovely wife, and Osen agreed."
"He sold his wife?" Sagramor spat, outraged.
"The life of a bard is a poor one, and love fades in the wake of hunger. 'Twas Flemeth, in fact, who suggested the arrangement," explained the apostate. "All would have been well had Conobar kept his end of the bargain. But he was a foul man who had bartered with coin he did not truly possess."
"And he figured steel was cheaper than silver," Sagramor finished.
"Indeed. Osen was led off to a field and slain. Though the spirits, Flemeth learned of the deed and swore revenge, calling upon them to strike down the traitor where he stood."
"So she cared about Osen after all."
"'Twas not the point: Conobar had no honour, and thus she would not have him," Morrigan emphasized. "Lord Conobar's allies pursued Flemeth endlessly, forcing her into the Wilds to survive. There she encountered the demon that granted her strength and power."
"And then?"
"Then we come to the legend of the great Cormac, who united the Alamarri against a great Chasind host commanded by Flemeth that invaded the lowlands centuries later. All lies."
Sagramor frowned, recalling that tale from his modest library in the Alienage. "Which, that she never invaded, or Cormac never defeated her?"
"The truth of the matter is that there was never an invasion. As Flemeth tells it, the Chasind never raised an army under her banner, and she never fought anyone named Cormac. Cormac led a brutal civil war against his own people, and later claimed it was to vanquish the evil and corruption that had taken root amongst his rival lords, painting himself the noble hero."
"So Flemeth became a scapegoat to justify Cormac's ruthlessness?"
"More than likely, or her name became attached to the legend far later. The bards are forever warping the facts for the sake of drama," spat the mage.
"And this demon must be responsible for keeping her alive for so long."
"Yes, it has transformed her into… something else. An abomination, perhaps some would say, but I know not. She is no immortal, though. A blade to the heart would kill her like any other, were it lucky enough to find her. But that is the rub. For all her magical power, her true strength lies in her cunning, and she is part of the Wilds as it is part of her."
"And what about you?" asked Sagramor. "Do you believe her version of the tale?"
Full lips pursed in thought. "I do not believe everything Flemeth claims," Morrigan said carefully. "Oft it seems her bitterness has coloured her memories. But on the whole? Yes, I believe this tale, if not all."
"A very interesting story, Morrigan, thank you," said the elf, profoundly grateful. "My curiosity is satisfied, for now."
"Flemeth tells it with far more embellishment than I, but you are welcome," the apostate replied, a slight blush emerging upon her pale features. "Dare I ask about your own mother? Few are abominations of legend, 'tis true, but I find myself curious nevertheless."
"She… she was the woman who set me on this path," Sagramor explained, fighting back the grief that came with the thought of her, lest he display the sort of weakness he knew Morrigan despised. "Everything I am; my skill with a blade, the values I hold, the strength with which I defend them, it's all because of her, and every day I strive to hold true to the lessons she gave me before she passed. I love her, even in death. What more can I say?"
"I… I see. I find myself a little envious, to tell the truth… but it matters not. You have others to speak to, no doubt, and I need some time to prepare."
"Of course," said the elf, turning to leave. "Let me know when you're ready to leave."
"Sagramor?"
The note of hesitation in Morrigan's voice made the Warden halt in his tracks. "Yes?"
"I owe you thanks for standing by me when that fool of a Dalish hunter accused me of meddling with their precious ravens, so… thank you."
Smiling, Sagramor accepted her thanks with a nod. "You're very welcome, Morrigan. He had no right to speak to you that way, and you've more than earned my trust. Besides, I'd make a poor leader if I didn't stick up for the people under my command."
"Yes, well…" Words dying on her lips, Morrigan turned on her heel and strode deeper into the cavern without further preamble, blush unmistakable. Lingering for a moment to watch her go, Sagramor made his own exit, wondering yet again how trust was the one thing that the apostate could not seem to accept…
"Sorry to put you on the spot like that," said Alistair, longsword and whetstone discarded at the approach of his fellow Warden. "I've been meaning to talk to you about Denerim for a while now, but with everything that's been going on, there was never the right time for it."
"We have been pretty busy lately," Sagramor permitted calmly. "But let's make some time now. What's this personal matter?"
"I was hoping to… look someone up."
"You have a friend in the city?"
"Not exactly. The thing is, I have a sister. A half-sister, really. You remember me telling you about my mother, right? Of course you do. Anyways, she had a daughter before she met Mar—my father, and I only recently found out about her."
"Alistair, that's wonderful!" said the elf, genuinely happy for his friend. "What about her? Does she know you exist?"
"I don't think so; they did keep my birth a secret, after all. After I went through the Joining, I did some checking, and, well, she's alive and in Denerim. She's the only real family I have left, the only one not mixed up in the whole royal thing. I don't want to miss this chance to connect with her. If something happened to her and I never even tried to see her, I'd never be able to forgive myself, and after Ostagar and Eamon's illness and everything else that's gone wrong, I don't want to take that chance."
"Understandable. What's her name?"
"Goldanna. From what I could uncover, she's a washerwoman who lives by the city's lower markets, close to the Alienage. If we're in the area, could we try and find her?"
Pondering the matter, Sagramor eventually nodded. "All right, Alistair, we'll do what we can, but I can't promise you anything more than that. Just like with Sten's sword, our mission here must take priority, and it'll be dangerous for her too if Loghain or his minions finds us."
"That seems fair," the former Templar acquiesced. "And what about you? Would you like to see your family while we're here?"
"Oh, more than anything!" Sagramor declared emphatically. "It's just—being an elf in Denerim is dangerous enough without being connected to someone accused of treason, and I joined the Wardens in part to protect my people, not bring more trouble down upon them. As much as I don't like it, it's best I keep my distance, for their sake."
"Shame you have to make that call in the first place. Well, hopefully once we bring down Loghain, you can see them again."
"Yeah, I'd… I'd like that," said the elf, genuinely pleased at the notion, and once again, he wondered how his family had been faring since he departed. Maker, I hope they're staying safe in all this madness, he prayed silently, the thought he might perish without ever having seen them again wearing down his convictions like water upon rock. "Still, we'll do our best so you don't have to suffer the same disappointment."
"It means a lot to me. To be honest, with all the disagreements we've been having lately, I wasn't sure you'd even consider it."
Sagramor shook his head. "You said nothing about Merrill I hadn't considered myself. It's like I said before, Alistair, you'll never have to watch your words around me. Something tells me Loghain isn't getting honest advice, and I don't want to be like that."
"You could never be like that," Alistair insisted. "Whatever happens, I'll have your back."
"I know, Alistair, and thank you. Get some rest while you can. I'll need you sharp when we get into the city."
A titanic peal of thunder, so close and so loud Sagramor swore the cavern trembled at the impact, signalled the latest round of the elemental onslaught, rain sheeting down over the mouth of the cave. A second thunderbolt struck moments later, and framed by the entrance, Sagramor caught a glimpse of Leliana's lithe figure illuminated against the backdrop of the flash. "Any sign of trouble?"
"Nothing," declared the Orlesian woman, welcoming the elf to her side with a gentle smile. "I do not believe that even the hardiest of Loghain's soldiers will want to patrol in this weather."
"You're probably right, but let's not get overconfident. This weather will slow us down too."
"I just hope Ragnar Is all right," Leliana expressed, seemingly unperturbed at the prospect of venturing out into the raging tempest herself.
"He will be, let's just give him a little time. And while I have you here…" Trembling hands reaching into the pouch at his belt, and Sagramor willed himself to remain calm, fear and desire churning deep within his soul at her closeness. "I wanted to give you this."
A blossom of delicate white petals appeared in the Warden's hand, and Leliana let out a gasp of wonder, carefully taking it up. "Andraste's Grace. You remembered."
"Of course I did! I hang onto every word you say," Sagramor blurted out, turning red with embarrassment. "What I mean is I like talking with you, and after Merrill told me where I could find some, I figured it'd be a nice…" His nervous babbling petered off at the unwelcome sight of a frown marring her perfect, pouty lips, and his heart sank like a stone beneath the waves. "I'm sorry, have I offended you? You don't have to accept it if it makes you uncomfortable."
"No, it's not that," Leliana quickly reassured him. "This is a lovely gift, and I'm quite flattered you remembered how much I love these. It's just…" She was silent for a moment, blue eyes fixed on the blossom, before finally sighing in regret. "I'm not sure I'm worthy of it."
"Why would you say something like that?" demanded the elf, genuinely confused. "Of course you're worthy! How could you not be?"
In answer, Leliana took a deep breath to steady herself, before meeting the Warden's gaze. "I lied to you about why I left Orlais, my friend. I've lied to you about a great many things. It is past time I set that right."
Sagramor shook his head. "Leliana, I told you before, you don't have to share anything you don't want to-"
"But I do, Warden," Leliana insisted firmly. "If there is even the smallest chance that the things I've done could threaten the success of your mission, then you deserve to know. And in my new life, there is room for neither pride nor shame."
"The things you've done?" asked the elf, privately unsettled. That Leliana concealed much about herself was not the issue; he'd long suspected she was holding something back, and between the secrets of the Order, what happened with Shianni, and the truth of Alistair's parentage, it would be the height of hypocrisy to condemn anyone else for not being completely transparent with him. No, that the woman he adored for her kindness and eagerness to help others felt guilty about anything was what unnerved him. She's done so much good and helped so many people, me least of all. What in the Maker's name does she have to condemn herself for? "Well, if you're sure about this…"
"I am. Tell me, Sagramor, what do you know about Orlesian bards?" Leliana must have seen the embarrassed blush emerge on the Warden's face, for she offered a reassuring smile. "And while I may not have the right to ask, please, be honest with me. There's no need to spare my feelings."
"Only gossip and rumours, you know, the sort of stuff bandied around by tavern drunks who hate Orlesians," Sagramor expressed, visibly uncomfortable at having to repeat them. "They say that these bards are actually spies, thieves and assassins working for the various Orlesian noble families. Some of them even, umm…" The elf cleared his throat, red as a beetroot now.
"Go on."
"Seduce their targets."
It was the vilest sort of gossip, and Sagramor braced himself for an outraged slap, or worse still, for disappointment and hurt to be reflected in her beautiful blue eyes. What he did not expect was the chuckle from the Orlesian woman. "Yes, that is true of bards. It's a pity, though, that so many honest minstrels are tarred with the same brush."
"Sorry, I'm confused. Aren't the two synonymous?"
"Not exactly, and to do so in Orlais would cause misunderstanding. Let me explain. Not all minstrels are spies; in fact, the vast majority are just singers and storytellers. But some of them are… are what we call bards, and these are the people those rumours discuss. Spies, as you say, and more, all in the service of patrons from the Orlesian nobility."
"Sounds rather political," the elf said sourly.
"Indeed. In Orlais, there is much rivalry amongst the highborn, as they fight each other for land, influence, pride and the favour of the Empress. But they cannot do this openly, because it is impolite, and in public they were smiling faces and pretend to be civil. In secret, though, they plot and scheme to destroy one another," Leliana explained, expression darkening. "The Great Game, they call it, and one meaningless to anyone but its players."
"And bards are the pieces they use to play this Game. Like you once were."
"Yes," Leliana confessed. "I have so much to atone for, Sagramor. I lied, I cheated, I stole, I manipulated peoples' affections and even murdered when carrying out my assignments, and I took pleasure in all that I did, never caring how many innocents suffered from my choices. But I want you to know that's not who I am anymore." She stepped towards him, the nervousness he'd experienced presenting the flower reigniting tenfold as she leaned in close. "I would never do anything to betray your trust, my friend. I swear it in the Maker's name. Please, I-"
"Leliana, it's all right. I believe you," Sagramor declared emphatically. It made no sense to think that Leliana had spent her three years in Ferelden still acting as a bard, for sleepy, rural Lothering was as far removed from power and influence as one could possibly get. Nor did it seem likely she was placed specifically to spy on the two surviving Ferelden Grey Wardens; no one could have predicted Ostagar's outcome, Flemeth's assistance in rescuing him and Alistair, or that they'd choose to pass through Lothering in the aftermath. The doubts that were his constant companion faded to nothing in that moment, and the elf clasped her hand in his own. "You've helped so many people, me least of all, and not once have you faltered in this quest, so if you say you've changed, then I have no reason to distrust you. I have to ask, though, why tell me about this now? Not that I mind, you can talk to me about anything, but…"
"I understand. First off, it's like I said before: I don't want you to be blindsided and Ferelden endangered because I kept something from you. What happened to me… maybe it will affect us, maybe it will not, but you should know. My last mission as a bard also took place in Denerim as well, so there is the possibility I could be recognized inside the city." The redhead gave a sad smile. "Besides, we're on a pilgrimage, so what better time to confess my sins? I came to the Chantry and left the life of a bard behind because I was being hunted."
"Hunted?" gasped Sagramor, visibly aghast. "For what?"
"I was framed, betrayed by someone I thought I knew and could trust; Marjolaine, my mentor and friend. It was she who first recruited me and taught me the bardic arts: how to enchant with words and song, to carry myself like a highborn lady, to blend in as a servant, not to mention how to fight with blades and bows. She was bard-master to me, and the skills I learned, I used to serve her, because I loved her and enjoyed what I did." In the silence that followed, Leliana gave him a questioning look. "Does that bother you, Sagramor? That I desire both men and women?"
"Of course not!" the elf insisted truthfully, quashing any infantile feelings of jealousy before they could fester into something unworthy of the beautiful Orlesian. "If two people genuinely love each other, then things like gender or race really shouldn't matter. This Marjolaine, though, you were dutiful, yet she betrayed you all the same?"
"That's right. I thought I knew her, though in the end, it was that devotion to her that blinded me from her… less than noble attributes." Leliana drew in a great, shuddering breath, her composure fracturing slightly as the old wounds that had driven her to the Chantry's embrace were laid bare. "I suppose you could say it was my fault. We had come to Denerim to undertake some missions for Marjolaine, the first time I'd ever operated outside of the Empire."
"We?"
"Forgive me. Marjolaine had sent two associates to aid me, an apostate mage we called Sketch, and Tug, a dwarf warrior who served as our muscle. We were to break into the Arl of Denerim's palace and plant some sealed documents there under the cover of a burglary, but when the time came, my curiosity got the better of me. Something told me that I needed to know what was in those letters. Marjolaine had been selling Orlesian military secrets to other nations: Nevarra, Antiva and now Ferelden."
"Maker, that's high treason," Sagramor expressed. "Do bards engage with outside powers like that often?"
"A few, though until I unsealed those documents, I never imagined Marjolaine had done the same. My life as a bard taught me that my loyalties should be kept fluid. My concern was not that Marjolaine had betrayed the Empire, but that her life would be in danger if she was caught."
"So what happened next?"
"I should have left well enough alone, but I didn't," Leliana confessed ruefully. "I had to tell Marjolaine I feared for her life. She brushed aside my concern, saying there was no way the documents could be traced back to her, but I insisted we return to the palace and destroy them, just to be certain. I believed I had managed to convince her, and kept believing, until she led the mercenaries who guarded the palace right to us, the documents reclaimed and altered by her hand to paint me as the spymaster." The poise and resolve with which she'd admirably conducted herself began to crack, and Sagramor's blood ran cold at the silent tears sliding down her cheeks. "In the Arl of Denerim's dungeon, they… they did terrible things in order to make me confess and reveal all they believed I knew, and at the end, it was an unmarked grave that awaited me."
"What I saw in the Fade, that was more than just a demon's illusion, wasn't it?" demanded the Warden, horror and outrage trampling any notion of decorum underfoot. "Leliana, did they…"
"They were not merciful," the Orlesian answered simply.
Red clawed at the elf's vision, the thought that Leliana might have suffered as Shianni had stoking his rage to an inferno's heat, and Sagramor forced himself to remain calm before he did something stupid. Leliana needed a friend now, not a raging berserker swearing bloody vengeance on her behalf, no matter how justified, and clearly, speaking of Marjolaine's betrayal was enough of a trial for the beautiful redhead without voicing every last horrific detail. Without hesitation, he opened his arms, and Leliana accepted the comforting embrace, weeping softly into his right shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, do you understand?" the elf insisted, hoping against hope his words might ease the pain and grief she'd silently endured for far too long. "Nothing excuses what they did to you, and no one has the right to treat you as Marjolaine did, man or woman."
"I know, and thank you," said Leliana, wiping away the last of her tears. "I… I hope you will forgive a moment's weakness."
"Leliana, how many times have you saved my life? Or protected the lives of innocents? Or endured all the long marches and cold nights without complaint? You have absolutely nothing to prove to me. And if I was stupid enough to condemn you as weak for a few tears, then I wouldn't be worthy of leading this company in the first place. But if I may ask, how did you escape?"
"The skills Marjolaine taught me were good for something, at least. I broke free when I saw an opportunity and made my escape. By the Maker's grace, I was lucky. I saw what the Hard Line did to many of the other prisoners in their keeping, and for all their cruelty, I survived intact."
Where have I heard that name before? Sagramor mused, tabling that mystery for another time. "And Marjolaine?"
"I was furious with her, of course, but… when the time came to draw a blade against her, I could not do it. Nor could I return to Orlais, where her reach was longest. And so I fled to Lothering, to the Chantry and the Maker. Ferelden protected my person, and the Maker saved my soul. And that is the true reason am I here. No more lies between us, Warden, at least in this."
"I understand, and thank you for telling me this," replied Sagramor. "I can't imagine that trust comes easily to you after suffering such betrayal, so… thank you."
"You are most welcome," Leliana said with a relieved smile. "I've tried not to let the experience harden my heart. Darkness will only be banished when the Maker returns, so until that blessed day comes, we must offer what light we can. Still, it feels good to have this off my chest, so thank you for listening, and understanding. For so long, I feared you'd hate me for deceiving you."
"Never. You're a good person, Leliana. Your kindness, your bravery, your wisdom, your determination, none of those have been lies, and I…" I care for you, he ached to express, the words dying fearfully on his tongue. "And I cannot see myself doing this without you by my side. For what it's worth, I don't think you'll have to fear any of the city guards recognizing you. It's been three years, after all, and many of them may have died or been transferred since." I certainly wound up helping with the former… "If anyone does discover you, it'll be from Loghain's wanted posters, not from an incident years ago. Still, I won't force you to go into the city if you don't want to. Give me a place to start, and I can pick up Silas' trail from there, if you'd like."
"Thank you, but if you feel my presence won't compromise you, then I'll trust your judgement. Besides, Silas is a cautious man, and you'll need me to convince him." Blue eyes glanced down towards the flower. "It truly is a lovely gift," she remarked, and Sagramor could only stare in awe as she tucked the blossom behind her right ear, the delicate white petals stark against the backdrop of her crimson locks, breath hitching at her loveliness. "Thank you, Sagramor. Knowing you're watching out for me… it means the world."
Perhaps it was the sheer loveliness of the Orlesian woman that compelled him to act, or the importance of reminding her that she was valued, but whatever the reason, Sagramor bent the knee before her without hesitation. "Then let me make you this promise," he said, right hand over his heart. "Whatever happens, whatever threats appear, know that I will always stand by you. You're a good person, Leliana, and a good friend. You've atoned for your past a thousand times over, and should Marjolaine or anyone else try to hurt you again, they'll have to go through me." And before Sagramor could come to his senses, he was kissing her hand, provoking a small gasp from the beautiful redhead. "Upon my honour, I will protect you, no matter the cost."
It was as near a confession of love as he possessed the courage to make, and once again, the fear that he'd gone too far and unsettled her vanished at that beaming smile. "You truly are a worthy subject for a ballad," she teased, letting his lips linger on her hand. "Sagramor Tabris, the Elven Knight, so gallant and honourable… and very kind. Thank you." A gentle touch brought the elf to his feet, and Sagramor couldn't help but shiver as she embraced him, voice warm and gentle in his ear. "One day, I hope to be able to keep you safe as well. I…"
And then the moment was spoiled by a happy bark and the sound of heavy paws pattering on the stone, and Leliana gave a startled cry as Ragnar burst through the wall of rain and into the cave's mouth, tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, head tilted quizzically at the sight of his master in a lady's arms. "Hey, watch it!" Sagramor shouted as the warhound shook out his fur, muddy rainwater splattering against his cloak, his heart still pounding from Leliana's embrace. "Could you not do that down the passage, boy?" Or wait a few bloody minutes…
Giggling, Leliana released the Warden to ruffle the hound's fur behind the ears. "I'm guessing he's found our way in. Well, my friend? Shall we depart?"
"Yes, time to go," answered Sagramor, irritation vanishing to know his plan was coming together after all. Maker, keep Loghain from learning of us, just for a day or two. Ferelden's survival may depend upon it…
A/N: Many thanks to you all for your patience in this exorbetant delay. I'm not going to lie, I had some real writer's block with this chapter, but overall, I'm fairly happy with the finished product; as ever, I'd love to hear your thoughts and feedback on it. I have to admit, I sorta wrote myself into a corner here; previous chapters established that Sagramor had never actually been outside Denerim before Duncan recruited him, hence why there's the handwave that he knows about the tunnel but hasn't actually gone through it before. For all I like to talk about doing long-term plotting, it was the sort of silly error I should have caught a dozen chapters earlier, so I'll make sure to do better in the future. Also, long-time fans of the franchise may note that I ended up referring to the events of Leliana's Song rather than the story she tells the Warden in the core Origins campaign. While the former was clearly built around taking advantage of as many existing in-game assets as possible, I did feel the more dramatic storytelling made up for it, and her connections to the various characters, including the Hard Line, offered more narrative opportunities to explore.
This chapter was beta-read by my good friend Lathiira over on DA, be sure to check out his stories. Thank you all for your continued patience and support, it means so much to me!