A/N: Whoa! Chapter 2…and a heartfelt thank you to all of you who've stopped in to read this story, it's appreciated, even though I might not get a chance to thank you all individually.
Also, warning to the kiddies and delicately-minded…some rather adult concepts at the end of this so have mum or dad cover your eyes and no peeking ok?
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Chapter 2 – Simple Travellers
The mage twitched in his sleep; lips moving with dream-cast spells or whatever it was sleeping mages dreamt of. Greagoir watched him, hunched against a lichen-covered boulder, alternating between analysing every twitch and spasm and pondering his own options. He was disappointed he couldn't come up with more than one or two: Run…or turn ourselves in. Neither of those appealed. No doubt the alarm had been raised by now by those waiting for the Kester's Pride to return. Word would get back to the Tower, Knight Commander Bryant would mobilise his Templars to search for the two of them - now branded Apostates – his phylactery would be sent for…and his father would be told.
Maker, this is a mess…
He glared at Enchanter Connor again. "Prat," Greagoir muttered darkly at the sleeping mage. "Thank you so much for nothing."
Tipping his head back, Greagoir glared moodily into the pale, cloudless sky. It was past midday and breakfast seemed a long-distant memory with little promise of new ones to make up for the loss. He supposed he could hunt something, but with what? He could find a suitable bit of branch for a fishing pole, but with no string or wire to make a hook…or even any bait, the exercise would be a bit pointless. The same applied to hunting anything out of the forest. Not that he would eat anything that came out of Lake Calenhad; and by extension any creature that dwelled too close to the polluted lake. Redcliffe might have a thriving fishing community but Greagoir knew full-well what the mages put into the waters.
It wasn't just failed potions.
Connor twitched in his sleep again. This time, Greagoir picked up a pebble and holding it between thumb and forefinger, took aim…
"I wouldn't if I were you."
The pebble dropped into his lap, falling to the ground as Greagoir sprung to his feet. Fists held before him, Greagoir dug his heels into the rocky ground, arranging himself into a fighting stance. "I know what you are abomination!" the younger mage cried. "I will not let you kill again!"
Connor passed a hand over his eyes before pinning his companion with a look of tired boredom. "So dramatic, Gory?" Connor's eyebrow angled scornfully. "And no magic either? I wondered whether the rumours about you were true."
Greagoir's fists lowered very slightly, though he brought them up again when Connor clambered stiffly to his feet and advanced towards the younger man. "Back demon!" Greagoir warned. "You have no place amongst mortals! Back to the foul abyss from whence you came!"
Connor sighed and shook his head. "There really is no hope for you, is there?"
"I'll be the judge of that, foul fiend!" Greagoir shot back. "Back, I say!" Forgetting completely the boulder directly behind him, Greagoir stepped back and lost his balance; the world upended abruptly. He landed ungracefully on the other side; the only thing preventing from embarrassing himself completely being his current garb. If he'd been wearing his Circle-issued robes, he would not have been able to return to his feet as quickly, though as soon as he was fully upright, he felt Enchanter Connor cuffing him sharply on the side of his head.
"Hey! What was that for?"
"For being a dimwit," Connor told him tersely. "The demon has returned to the Fade for now and I have no patience for your stupidity."
"Oh…oh…"Greagoir began backing away again. "We're on to calling names now are we? Stupid am I? Who was the dumb nug who allowed himself to be possessed, I ask, huh? Not me that…What do you mean 'rumours'? What rumours? What have they been saying about me at the Tower?"
"Stupid and slow," Connor snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Andraste preserve me from idiots."
"Hah!" Greagoir stepped forward. "Better Andraste preserve you from the Templars! You're an apostate now!"
Enchanter Connor folded his arms and gave the younger mage a look. "So are you," he reminded him.
"And whose fault is that, huh?" Greagoir argued. He shook his fists at the sky, unhappy at being reminded that he'd been tarred with the same brush as the abomination, "Why me? Why world? Why?"
"That is a question for the First Enchanter, not I," Connor informed him. "You were certainly not my choice when I requested another to accompany me to Denerim."
Greagoir blinked at Connor in wonder. "Eh?"
"Never mind…" Pushing past the younger man, Connor made his way to the shore of the lake. He stood for a moment looking first in one direction, then in the other. He sighed again. "We appear to be somewhat…north of the Tower," he stated quietly, almost under his breath. "Kinloch Hold is not visible from here so…"
"Well, that's not so bad," Greagoir joined him at the water's edge. "If we start now and work our way along the shore, we might be able to reach the Tower some-"
"Don't be ridiculous, man!" Connor snapped and began to walk in a direction that appeared to be completely opposite to the one Greagoir was about to propose: namely, southwards towards the Tower of Magi. Hopping from foot to foot, Greagoir briefly contemplated what he should do next, when Connor's back disappeared completely from view beyond the shrubbery and he allowed instinct to take over, jogging after the Enchanter.
"Uh…" Greagoir thumbed over his shoulder. "You appear to be going in the wrong direction…"
When Connor did not stop, Greagoir increased his pace. Being taller and somewhat fitter, the younger man caught up easily. Attempting to pluck at the other mage's sleeve for attention only earned him a smack on the hand. Greagoir scowled. Maker…he hits like a girl…"I said you're going in the wrong direction," he told the older mage again. "The Tower's back that way."
"Then by all means, go," Connor told him, waving a hand at him. "I am not responsible for your fate. Do as you will."
Greagoir's jaw dropped, boggling in disbelief. "'Not responsible'?" he quoted. "Not responsible? If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here! I'm not the one who killed two Templars and…Oh Maker, this is such a mess! Will you slow dow…" Greagoir reached for the man's arm again, only to find a stinging ball of flame between them. Greagoir paused, eyeing the fire crawling about the Enchanter's fingers sourly. "What's this?" he asked.
"Fire!" snapped Connor. "A spell even a witless apprentice can master from the earliest age, unlike you!"
Greagoir blinked, completely unafraid. He wasn't, not in the least. A mage…afraid of magic? He hadn't survived years of dodging ice storms, lightning traps and poisoned small clothes in the dormitories to be afraid of magic at the end of his time as an apprentice. And his mother had never been averse to utilising spells from the various schools of magic to discipline wayward children. Apprentices learned early on that being assigned to one of Senior Enchanter Amell's classes was not – as first thought – an honoured privilege, but a test of their mettle. A test few passed. Being threatened by fireballs or a sheet of ice down the back of his robes was as familiar and homey as a hug from mummy.
"No…" Greagoir said slowly, silently assessing the intensity of the flame and wondering whether this was the best that the Enchanter could do. "I meant…is this some kind of threat?" he enquired calmly. "If not, well…I'm afraid you'll find I've completely run out of marshmallows." He frowned as the realisation – abhorrent as it was to him - occurred. "You don't intend to return to the Circle, do you? Never intended?"
The fire abruptly disappeared. Enchanter Connor raised his chin, the hint of a sneer about his mouth as he appeared also to come to the realisation that the younger man towered over him more than he remembered; Greagoir's solid, honest bulk an affront. "Well done," Connor sniffed. "Even if the connection made was rather belated."
Greagoir's frown deepened. "But you're no Apostate…" he said slowly and very carefully, considering the thought from all angles in his head and hoping the statement was actually true…and that this was all a dream and when he woke up there would be pancakes and bluebirds and all would be right with the world. "So, why?"
Connor shrugged and turned away. "That is not your concern." Waving his hand at the younger man again, he added. "Follow me or turn back, I do not care. I only beg you do not foul the air with your nonsensical utterances."
"Hah!" Greagoir called after him. "You haven't heard me sing!"
In no time at all, Enchanter Connor was again lost from sight though Greagoir could still hear the man moving noisily through the scrubby forest. His frown returned. Greagoir had some rudimentary knowledge of forest-craft. If needed, he could call on those skills taught to him by his father and the Teyrn's brother, though he'd prefer to do all of that conventionally, with bow and arrow and dagger, rather than with magic. No doubt the Enchanter would be able to tell edible vegetation from the poisonous, but crashing across the landscape like that was going to alert every wolf, bear and bandit within hearing distance. There were also tracts of land across Ferelden that were still tainted from the Blight and needed to be traversed carefully or not at all.
Having absolutely no idea how self-reliant Enchanter Connor was outside the Tower, Greagoir felt a pang of guilt in leaving the older man to his fate. He knew he should return to the Tower. The both of them should. Short of rendering Connor unconscious for several hours – long enough to carry him back to the Circle – however, he didn't like his chances of being able to convince the older mage that turning themselves in was the more sensible option. I could go back on my own, he thought briefly…face whatever punishment was in store...What was the worse that could happen if he did so after all? Solitary confinement? Lines? Incarceration…his busy brain supplied outcome after outcome, until he reached...Aeonar…Being turned Tranquil. He could argue his case (he supposed) but the fact of the matter was there would still be the missing Templars to explain. In the absence of Enchanter Connor, the Chantry could very well hold him accountable for their deaths. He'd been part of the Circle long enough to know that the Chantry saw one mage exchangeable for another, despite the reforms the First Enchanter had been able to sneak through.
Yet, Greagoir knew that if he followed Enchanter Connor, it was the same as throwing his lot in with the man. He could try to convince himself that he was doing it as his duty as a good mage, but again who would believe him?
The Senior Enchanter would…
"The Senior Enchanter would have had Connor's head off by now…" Greagoir muttered darkly under his breath. In any case, thinking about what the Senior Enchanter would or wouldn't do was a bit of a moot point. She wasn't here. He was and he was in this whether he liked it or not.
Just have to make the best of it, eh?
Or else…wait for the inevitable cry of 'Stop Apostate!', followed by a bit of a sting around the neck area…
Gritting his teeth, Greagoir took a deep breath and plunged into the forest after Connor.
-oo-
A family of squirrels chattered noisily somewhere overhead. Several footsteps away, Connor plucked broken pieces of the countryside from his hair irritably. The set of the man's shoulders told Greagoir he was refusing to turn; to acknowledge his presence…to admit he was completely and utterly lost…and tired…and hungry no doubt. Greagoir's own stomach had been rumbling hollowly for the past hour, even though he'd been skimming handfuls of brambleberries every time they went past the same, tangled bush.
Sucking the last of the berry juices from his fingers, he snagged his thumbs in his belt loops and ducked a nut hurled by the now irate mother squirrel.
Ahead, Connor threw up his hands. "Confound it man! Will you cease that infernal racket!"
Greagoir gaped innocently. "I'm sorry, did I say something?"
"Nothing intelligible!" Connor snapped, slapping a leaf dangling from his sleeve with far more violence than the random bit of vegetation deserved.
"Oh well…" Greagoir grinned, knowing quite well the sound of his whistling was getting on the other mage's nerves. "You know how it is…" He spread his arms out wide, lifting his face to the dappled afternoon sun. "The great outdoors! Open air! Sunshine! Mm, smell all that fresh nature, just waiting to be smelled. Doesn't it make you feel glad to be alive?"
"A state of being that could alter at any moment," Connor threatened. "And that…odour is more than likely to have been the product of some vile forest creature's digestion than anything to do with something…breathable, you…slow-witted imbecile."
Greagoir smiled and extended a stained hand. "Brambleberry, old chap?"
Connor whirled away; Greagoir stifled a chuckle. If the other mage had been female he would have imagined flouncing…ringlets bouncing in consternation…Not that he was in a habit of imagining other, male mages as females…Donk! A better aimed acorn hit him square in the side of his head. Greagoir glanced upwards. Wiggling his fingers apologetically at the animal, he tried not to think of squirrel pie and hurried after Connor. The mage had set off into the greenery yet again. What followed was a string of colourful invective and the telltale whoosh of a fireball travelling through the underbrush.
Greagoir appeared behind Connor to find him patting out spot fires in his torn robes, his features red with anger beneath the ash…the thorny bush that had entangled him a blackened ruin about his feet.
"You know," Greagoir commented oh-so-casually as he approached. "I'm beginning to get the impression you don't like me." Tapping a finger on his chin, he added, "I wonder why that is?"
The fireball that skimmed past his ear burned the hairs from the right side of his nape. It would leave a bare patch in a funny shape for weeks, but Greagoir felt that on the whole, if he hadn't ducked out of the way in time, there would have been far worse to worry about. Skidding behind the nearest tree, Greagoir avoided another handful of flame by a scorched hairsbreadth.
"Have I said something wrong…?" Greagoir called out from his hiding place. "Forget to bring the right doilies for afternoon tea?" When a chunk of tree bark exploded too close to his head, Greagoir tried not to snicker. "Oh my!" he added, diving headlong into a patch of wild privet. "I do apologise…!" Attempting to navigate through the thick undergrowth turned out to be a bad idea. It had been a fair number of years since he'd been small enough to weave in between the tangled branches and underestimating his size and ability to move freely enough earned him a scorched backside and toes.
Emerging out the other side was an awkward business. Greagoir limped upright only to have the Enchanter slamming him forwards into a shallow pile of leaf litter. It took him several precious seconds to recover and then move; far too long. He heard a grunting, guttural growl and saw a looming shadow before he rolled, dragging Connor with him. A second later he realised the other mage was unconscious and saw who – or what – had attempted to assault them; some sort of…creature. Vaguely human-shaped it had arms and legs in human proportions, but that was where any real resemblance to a human being ended. Lipless, hairless, its skin – if one could even call it that anymore – hung in strips from its frame and where it was not covered with a rotting collection of clothing and armour. The stench of it was nothing he'd ever experienced before and considering some of the experiments he'd conducted over the years, that was saying something. It was also armed.
He wasn't.
Abandoning Connor for the moment, Greagoir scrambled madly to his feet, frantically searching the immediate area for some kind of weapon. There was none to be found. In his mad dash to escape the creature, he failed to spy a tree root at the worst possible moment. Though his fall caused him to disappear abruptly out of range of another sweep of the creature's sword, it made him an easy target while he attempted to rise once more to his feet. He heard only an ear-piercing screech, felt something hard strike his shoulder then stumbled sideways. Tangling in his own feet he almost fell again, catching himself in time.
He needn't have worried.
The creature was dead…and the screeching individual was busily despatching another who'd found Connor.
Dwarf…?
Greagoir stared with dumbfounded gratitude. Whoever this individual was, they…
"You stupid or something?"…Her, was it? Her voice reverberated in the heavy, full-face, angular helmet before she drove the handle of the very large, bloodied battle-axe into the ground at her feet. Reaching up, she wiggled the helmet free. Masses of chestnut curls tumbled free about her shoulders, framing a pale oval face generously peppered with dark freckles beneath the jagged edges of a dark tattoo that adorned almost the entire right side of her face. It gave the impression that she was peeking out from behind a mask; impossibly blue eyes assessing and then dismissing him as harmless.
"Eh…" She tipped her head forward and Greagoir found himself disappointed when her childlike curls obscured her face right up to the very end of her nose. "Washed it this morning…nah can't do a single thing w'it." A nose appeared, followed by a view of those blue eyes Greagoir was finding rather riveting. "Nug gotcha tongue, eh boyo?"
"Darkspawn more like…"
Greagoir jumped in surprise. He hadn't even heard the second individual arrive and as she made her way towards the dwarf, her footfalls barely made a crunch on the dry leaf litter. The newcomer was vastly different from the first. Where the dwarf was heavily armoured and covered from the tips of her tiny feet to the massive thick plate pauldrons on either side of her head, the elf wore…well it was hardly fair to say she wore anything. It would have been an insult to material…and stitching and…Wonder how she copes mid-winter…?
When the elf folded her arms, it caused certain parts of her to become even more visible than the narrow strips of cloth draped haphazardly about her limbs and body were willing to allow. Greagoir forced his gaze upwards…then sideways because the dwarf was poking rather aggressively at Connor's prone body.
"Ah…I wouldn't do that if I were you…" Greagoir began in warning.
"Eh?" the dwarf peered curiously up at him through her curly, titian curtain. "He ain't awake," she shrugged. "S'not like he'd notice anyhoo…"
She spoke – predictably – too soon. Connor gave a single grunt then bent a perfect ninety-degrees in the middle to sitting position. His glittering red eyes swept the scene around him and before the dwarf could act, had captured a stained, gloved hand and placed a kiss upon it.
"Ooh er!" the dwarf fluttered her eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. "This one's a bit of a charmer." She turned to her companion. "Shall I have his head off? Or should I aim a wee bit lower?"
The elf did not laugh, only narrowed her eyes distrustfully at first Enchanter Connor, then at Greagoir, as though their entire existence was his fault. Though…if he read the signs right and what had just woken up wearing Connor's body was exactly what he thought it might be, he would be responsible for whatever came next.
Possibly death, maiming…screaming, babies crying in their mother's arms and little old ladies wringing their hands wailing 'why is the world so cruel…?'
Probably.
So in the interests of maintaining peace and keeping the body count to an absolute minimum, Greagoir dove in between the dwarf and Connor. "Ah…you don't want to do that either!" he said hastily. "Because it's uh…uh…" Greagoir froze mid-sentence. The Connor-abomination had wound its arms about his thighs from behind, rubbing its head against…At Connor's height and Greagoir's position, where Connor's head happened to be at this moment in time made the speculative look the dwarf cast the both of them require an urgent – and vehement - denial.
"You too need a room?" the dwarf enquired, looking up at him through lowered lashes. "Darkspawn interrupted a tender moment here?"
"No!" Greagoir practically shouted, trying to prise the abomination from…around his…person. "Will you stop that, for the Maker's…!" He directed a pleading look at the pretty dwarf. "This is…this is not what it looks like, I sw…Well, alright it probably is what it looks like, except that I'm not…Andraste's smoking girdle, not there! Will you quit doing that…!"
"Eh?" the dwarf raised her eyebrows. "You tellin' me you aren't but you are being butt-hugged by another man?" she asked. "S'not everyday I get to be entertained by a couple of good-lookin' men doin'…Gotta admit, he's enthusiastic."
"He's also a completely and utter fu…" Greagoir paused in his attempt to lever Connor's arms off him briefly, suddenly feeling hopeful at the dwarf's words. "You think I'm good looking?"
Exploring this statement further was made impossible by the elf with a timely snort of impatience. Poking at the carcass of one of the dead creatures, she cast Greagoir another accusing look. "Strange for darkspawn to venture to these parts…" she murmured. "What were the two of you doing when they attacked?"
"We were…we were…"
Enchanter Connor sprang upright. Stretching an arm around Greagoir's cringing shoulders, he gave the elf a keen look. "And why would you be so concerned? We are just simple travellers." To Greagoir's horror and enduring embarrassment, Connor craned his neck and licked the side of his face…like a cat…or a child eating a milk ice or…I want to die. World. Hear me. I don't even like Connor and now my reputation is ruined in front of two of the most beautiful…well the elf isn't that great looking if I can manage to concentrate on her face, but…Maker's arse did I just think that? Is Connor's abomination catching…?
Why aren't I dead yet?
"Darkspawn…" the elf jabbed a finger at the nearest carcass, "is the concern of Grey Wardens!"
"Oh, I see…" Connor purred. "Grey Wardens…How convenient. Darkspawn appear and so do the Wardens? Very good. Very good, I say." Nudging Greagoir with his nose and ignoring the younger man's painful jab into his chest with his elbow, he asked, "Did you hear that, Gory? Grey Wardens…how exciting. Aren't you excited?"
"I feel quite ill, if you really want to know," Greagoir grumbled. "And if you lic…Maker's right nut! Stop licking me, you freak!"
"Oh, but you're so tasty, Gory…"
"Shut up. And I am not!" He shot another pleading look towards the dwarf. "Look…" With a little bit more effort, Greagoir had freed himself from the Connor-abomination, putting some distance – and the corpse of a darkspawn – between them. "I'm quite inedible, I'll have you know!" Maker-damned, vile monstrosity! To make the picture worse, Connor threw back his head and cackled. A sound both worryingly insane and terrifyingly evil.
"Well..." Panicking slightly, Greagoir began bundling Connor from the area, "it was a pleasure meeting you both, but we had better get on with simply travelling as my…this person who I don't know very well and whom I rarely have any interaction with whatsoever and – clearly, absolutely nothing in common with - and I go on our way. Good da…"
One moment Connor was trotting obediently with him, the next he had turned back and was standing, looking charming and interesting in front of the two female Grey Wardens.
"I have a wonder…" Greagoir heard him say. "Would you be familiar at all with Warden Commander Neria Surana?"
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