Chapter 7
Cullen clamped his jaw firmly, stubbornly and tightly shut as the Tranquil looped a makeshift collar about the griffon's neck and led the creature away. He also deliberately did not make eye contact with Ser Alistair when the Warden Commander spluttered an angry protest about said griffon being collared and removed…by order of Knight Commander Greagoir, a man who – in Cullen's observation - really needed to take a long and relaxing holiday somewhere other than Ferelden (given the jumping tic and bulging vein on the man's right temple). A long, long way from Ferelden. And griffons. And shouting Grey Wardens.
Another thing to note was that Cullen, despite years of absence from his very first post on his initiation into the Order, found himself falling into the old, familiar, stony stance of a statue-like Templar, preferring to remain quietly (and hopefully, safely) unobserved in the background. A slight warmth at the base of his neck told him Diana might use him as target practice later, because quotas needed to be met and there weren't enough smoking, charred corpses in the Tower. Yet. As for the slight chill in the air…that had nothing to do with the possibility he might also be required to bunk with the other Templars tonight (and not his wife) for not speaking up, but the fact that the other Senior Enchanter; the one with the frosty pale blonde hair and giggling dwarf, was so white hot with rage that the ground around her feet was freezing solid with burning ice.
After the Tranquil had left, it had taken Cullen years of hard-learned willpower to not turn and sprint after man and beast before the door closed and trapped him in a room with two mages dangerously on the brink of the thaumaturgical equivalent of twin stars going supernova, a frothing-at-the-mouth Knight Commander close to death by apoplexy, a Grey Warden threatening to turn everyone in the room into a red smear – which, by the way, Cullen knew perfectly well was possible given the way he'd seen Ser Alistair despatch a group of determined yet, ultimately stupid bandits – if his 'griffon' wasn't released immediately.
And then there was the First Enchanter.
If Cullen's memory from his youth served him correctly, First Enchanter Irving was about to get very…fatherly at everyone soon.
The door to the First Enchanter's spacious office closed, removing the obvious escape route. Anyone else opening that door was likely to earn him – or herself a quick and speedy visit to the afterlife.
Which wasn't a tavern run by a laconic yet understanding proprietor named One-Eyed Bob.
As much as Cullen wished it was.
He caught himself before a fatal sigh left him; the effort of holding stale breath in his chest causing his head to buzz. Then…as in a dream…watching himself from the outside in painfully slow motion…he saw his right arm rise. In horror he observed the way the metal links on the backs of his gloves reflected the pale yellow lamp light in the room. And in gathering desperation he tried in vain to prevent his lips from parting to allow his voice to not only escape, but raise itself above the angry tempest swirling in the First Enchanter's office.
A lone, sane voice in an ocean of madness.
Or…more accurately, the voice of someone who wished suddenly that he was someone else.
"If I may speak," Cullen heard himself say, wondering whether some kind of magical compulsion was at play here.
Miraculously – or unluckily (depending on which way the wind was blowing) – everyone in the room stopped speaking and all attention turned to him. Like sunflowers turned to face the sun.
It was not as happy a simile as he would have liked.
"If you have something important to convey…" the Knight Commander began in clipped tones before being interrupted – interrupted – by a whelp of a Templar who he recalled had been exiled to Kirkwall to redeem himself.
"Uh…" What was it about the Ferelden Circle of Magi that brought back the old stutter, Cullen wondered? Ah yes. That particular expression on Knight Commander Greagoir's face.
Wasn't it time the old codger retired?
Oh come on…look at that adorable beard. Clipped so neatly. All the little grey and white hairs completely in line, like little hairy Templars standing at attention.
That's a vision I would have preferred to keep out of my head, thank you.
Cullen blinked. Had there been…voices in his head? Just then?
Arguing?
Oh no, we weren't arguing.
Sweet Andraste…! Cullen cleared his throat. The expectant expressions on his audience's faces told him only he had been privy to clearly a conversation that was not happening in his head. Because that would mean it was him that was going insane. And that wasn't going to happen. Because he was still relatively young with – hopefully – a career, a wife…and half a dozen grumpy, blond haired, green-eyed babies in his future…
Please.
And you haven't heard us…
Yes. It's all in your head…
A rather nice head, too. Do you think that's his real colour?
Shut up. We almost have him convinced.
It was the lyrium withdrawal, wasn't it?
Oh yes, yes it probably is.
Yup. Blame it on the big L kiddo. Whatever makes you feel better.
Maker…!
"You had something to say, Ser Cullen?" First Enchanter Irving prompted him in gentle tones with the weight of several lightning bolts behind it.
Oh go on, just say it.
Can't wait all day, you know. Things to do.
"Have you…" Cullen's voice started out as an unmanly squeak he hastily covered with a cough.
Hand that man a lozenge!
It always starts off with a simple cough, doesn't it? Ends up with his lungs oozing out of his ears. Nasty business.
I think I might have missed that episode…
Oh, it was a good one.
"HAS ANYONE LOOKED OUT OF THE WINDOW LATELY!?"
The echoes from Cullen's bellowed question appeared to mock him long after he'd closed his mouth on the last question mark.
Then…"Phst…bloody room doesn't have a window, does it?"
The room turned to the dwarf, who eyed mages and Templar with a curl of her lip. "Well, duh it doesn't. Can't look out of a window you don't have."
Cullen dropped his head into his hand. Lyrium addiction was beginning to look like an attractive out, all of a sudden.
In the heavy silence punctuated by the almost audible sound of Dagna rolling her eyes, Senior Enchanter Diana Amell was struck by a wave of marital sympathy. "Well," she told everyone in a businesslike manner. "Let's say we find one and look out of it, eh?"
-oo-
Owain closed the door quietly after the feathered creature had shuffled inside, making sure to turn the key firmly in the lock. The eighth floor store room was his favourite. It was spacious, airy, quiet and away from the populated, busy areas of the Tower. And in that quiet, Owain ponderously hung up the door key and took the few steps that led him to the griffon's head. He unfastened the rope collar and then took a single step backwards.
"You may wish to change into something more comfortable…" he told the beast quietly.
The griffon shook its beaked head. There was a sound like all the air being sucked out of a bottle and in place of the griffon was a rather untidy individual in brown trousers and a dun coloured shirt one size too big.
Owain calmly handed the individual a small container of toothpicks.
"Thanks for that," the individual nodded towards him. "I can't tell you what it's like getting darkspawn bits stuck between your teeth."
Owain's mouth crooked slightly sideways in a facsimile of a smile.
"But it's not nice."
Owain nodded, then waited for the inevitable question.
"How did you know?" she asked him.
Owain replaced the container of toothpicks beside its brethren on the shelf, fastidiously aligning it with the others. He sighed; an expression borne out of memory, rather than true sentiment. Then he shrugged.
"That you have been touched by an old god?" Owain asked.
"Well…" the woman began, running her fingers through her knotted hair in an attempt to unknot the mess. "That I needed toothpicks actually, but being putted about by an old god works for me too."
"Putted?" Owain enquired.
"Oh you know…" she continued as calmly as though she were Tranquil too. "Playing Plonk in the Fade, Eye spy my little spirit eye…Pin the tail on the Desire Demon, that sort of thing. Not a lot of entertainment to be found in the Fade, when you come down to it."
"You know transformative magic," Owain stated. "That is rare."
"And unexpected," she pointed out. "I had been aiming for a rock fist or something. Next thing I know I was attempting to digest dragon. Gave me gas something awful."
Owain remembered how to cringe.
The small woman extended her hand. "Merran Amell."
"I know."
"Grey Warden."
"Yes," Owain replied. "That too."
"And you…know what that big fire thing in the sky is?" she asked hopefully.
"The rupture in the Veil?"
"Ah," the mage said with an unhappy twist of her mouth. "I was hoping you'd tell me it was just a spot of bad weather. Hoping to clear up later."
"With demons pouring out of it?" Owain asked.
"Yeah, stupid forget I said that. This has something to do with…um…them again, doesn't it?"
Owain nodded gravely.
Shoulders slumping, the mage sighed. "Nug poop."
Owain nodded again in agreement. "Quite a lot of it too, I'm afraid."
-oo-