A/N: Hey, it's been a while since I touched base with you wonderful readers so...just wanted to say it's a pleasure having you along, and...apologies if this chapter is a tad, hm, oblique (and expository). Special thanks to those of you who've taken the time to review. You are all most kind to do so.

-oo-

Chapter 9 – When a Mage Smiles

With an arm tucked behind his head, Greagoir pondered the wall of information looming before him; trying to make some kind of connection between the more prominent pieces and failing. Despite reading everything he could have possibly read about darkspawn, the Blight and Grey Wardens in the Circle Tower libraries, he still didn't know enough about any of the three to be able to make any sense out of all of this. He supposed that was what his uncle – the Senior Warden – was for; though Senior Warden Alistair appeared to be just as flummoxed by the current situation as he.

"And you say even the Grey Wardens are at odds with each other?" Greagoir asked, keeping his voice pitched to just above a whisper.

Alistair sighed. "For the last…five years or so, I suppose," he nodded. "There's been a growing movement, I guess you could call it; Wardens unhappy about not being part of the fight against the Blight here in Ferelden rebelling against Weisshaupt. That little…mess in Amaranthine a while back with some kind of intelligent darkspawn called the Architect have the Clevers in Weisshaupt hopping mad with us here in Ferelden, while Orlais believes the Fereldan Grey Wardens sacrificed theirs for some kind of revenge; political or otherwise…"

"And your Chief Warden…" Greagoir frowned. What was he/she called? The First? "He disagrees with your alleged interference with politics in Ferelden and Orzammar? And here I was under the impression the head of the Grey Wardens was pretty much the de facto ruler in the Anderfels."

"Well," Alistair folded his arms. "That and I suspect the belief not nearly enough Archdemon blood got sent back to Warden Headquarters."

"A bit of an oversight on your part?" Greagoir asked, thinking how much blood does a dead Archdemon have anyway?

"Yes well," Alistair remarked dryly. "It apparently didn't matter that Neria and I had both been unconscious for some days after the Archdemon sort of…exploded into teeny tiny bits."

Greagoir snorted, trying to imagine the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden attempting to siphon dragon blood from the stones of the Fort Drakon ruins. "Actually…" his frown deepened. "I'm surprised Weisshaupt didn't send a contingent of official Grey Warden blood collectors or…something to make sure everything was salvaged that could be salvaged. I hear dragon scales are still at a premium."

"I suppose we could have just gathered what we could find and sent it off…" Alistair said, lips twitching. "Of course, considering that it takes weeks to get to Weisshaupt, those bits might have been a tad…ripe by the time they got there…"

"You're evil."

"No I am not," Alistair stated firmly. "Because we didn't actually end up sending rotting Archdemon flesh to the Anderfels."

Greagoir waited.

"Even though we wanted to," Alistair sniffed. "And I only said that because I knew you would be disappointed if I didn't."

"Uh huh."

"Anyway." The Senior Warden stood, dusting off his leather pants, armour clanking. "I suppose enough time has passed to make it seem as though you underwent a proper Joining." Turning to Greagoir he smiled. Officially. "Let's get you introduced to the others. The sooner you show those two Templars out there that you're a real Grey Warden, the sooner they'll go away."

"You hope."

As Greagoir collected himself, the Senior Warden watched him surreptitiously, which in Alistair's case was not particularly surreptitious at all, especially when his eyes kept darting away any time Greagoir happened to look over. Before the two men left the tent, Alistair paused.

"So…I suppose we'll get you kitted out," he said, frowning at the younger man's travel-stained tunic and trousers. "I think we might even have a spare mage staff somewhere to replace-"

"Not a staff," Greagoir said quickly. He pondered the Senior Warden's armour. He'd never worn heavy armour before. His Uncle Alistair…And I should probably stop calling him 'uncle' now too, I suppose…wore plate armour with ease, but the man had been wearing that sort of kit for years whereas he…

"You're a mage…I thought," Alistair said slowly, thinking if all mages didn't wear their unwieldy robes, they might not have to fight at a distance all the time. Greagoir's build would easily accommodate the lamellar armour most Warden mages favoured, but without that silly skirt thing underneath…"I suppose now would be as good a time as any for me to ask; what kind of magic do you do?"

"The rubbish kind," Greagoir grimaced. But I can fight. A longsword…no, maybe something one-handed, like the knights' swords the Highever guardsmen carried would be wonderful…"Actually, I'd prefer a sword."

The Senior Warden's eyes widened. "You?" he asked. "A sword? I didn't know mages-"

"My fa…" Hastily catching himself, Greagoir continued. "Captain Tremayne and Prince Aidan taught me," he said quickly, wondering whether he should have mentioned the younger Cousland prince. It was name dropping, but there was little he could do now he had said it and besides, he was talking to the former King of Ferelden..."I'm probably a bit rusty," he admitted truthfully, "but I can use a shield as well."

"Really?" Alistair blinked…no magic, he thought? At all? "Flaming swords, rock armour…exploding darkspawn Can you do any of that?" he asked.

"Disappointed?" Greagoir asked, watching the Senior Warden carefully.

"No, no, no, just…surprised, I suppose."

"To be honest…" Greagoir grimaced. "I can do the magic. If I have to. It's just that well, magic sort of makes me feel…uncomfortable." Not uncomfortable exactly…But when everyone else around you does it so much better; a piddling spark compared to a thunderstorm…why bother? A sword…a sword was solid, comforting. It didn't need recharging, never ran out of mana. A person could get tired sure, but not as fast as casting spells depleted mana. And there was something satisfying about getting into the thick of things; it was more personal, cutting off an enemy's head rather than sending a rock fist to smash it off at a distance…not that he'd cut off hundreds of heads exactly. In fact, he had yet to cut anyone's head off but it was the principle of the thing.

"In that case…" Alistair said thoughtfully, "we'll find you some armour, sword and a shield…" He smiled. "We'll take you through your paces, see what you can do," he went on to suggest. "I can't imagine mages would get much practice wielding a sword in the Tower so we'll need to see how rusty you really…" The smile abruptly disappeared from the Senior Warden's face. Muttering Maker…he dashed outside with a single shout: "Darkspawn!"

-oo-

Greagoir had seen darkspawn before; humanlike and roughly human or dwarf-sized, but these ones were different. They appeared with an ear-splitting shriek in clouds of a foul fume. Towering over him they resembled insects, not people. A claw raked across his shoulder when he ducked; instinct kicking in a half second too late. The creature's piercing scream reverberated on the inside of his skull, disorienting him for more precious seconds. Then the ground exploded as more of the same appeared, sending soggy tufts in all directions before the twisted creature in front of him disintegrated in a column of flame. Something hard and cold was thrust into his hands and he was pushed forward: "Fight!" he heard the Senior Warden command, even as the veteran Grey Warden swung his own sword in a rapid arc, slicing into the creature at shoulder height.

Weighing the sword briefly in his hand, Greagoir hopped awkwardly aside as a dwarf-sized Genlock charged towards him, a battle-axe raised high. As the Genlock passed, Greagoir spun; foot slipping on the marshy ground. Tipping backwards, he attempted to regain his balance wheeling his arms, the sword slashing the air randomly. The blade struck the Genlock's spine clumsily, checking the creature mid-charge. Greagoir didn't wait to see what it did next, bringing his sword around again, this time impaling it through the chest.

Blood sprayed across his face and mouth. Greagoir swallowed more of the vile darkspawn blood…as if the liquid he'd drunk during the Joining had been a mere aperitif. Wiping his arm across his face, he turned again, seeking out his next target.

"Watch yourself!" a familiar voice bellowed as a rush of heated air overbalanced him again, hitting an unseen Hurlock behind. It too turned it into a pile of smouldering ashes. This time, Greagoir did fall over, landing on the bloody ground in a tangled heap of embarrassment. From the ground he caught sight of Enchanter Connor, arms raised; a flame ball hovering about the mage's hands…snuffed abruptly. The Enchanter stiffened, eyes rolling back into his head and he collapsed backwards, his unresisting body hitting the ground just as another darkspawn ejected itself through the soggy soil.

Scrambling to his feet, Greagoir sprung forward, his clumsiness forgotten for once as – using his forward momentum - he plunged his sword into the Genlock. Wrists and shoulder muscles protesting, he dragged the blade upwards with as much force as he could. Bone crunched, blood spurted…He brought his foot up, prising the body of the darkspawn from his blade. Shaking his blade free of gore, he swung again, separating the Genlock's head from its body. He remained standing over Connor's unconscious form, checking for more enemies, but there were none.

The darkspawn were vanquished. For now.

The Senior Warden jogged towards him. With just a cursory thump on the younger man's shoulder, Alistair continued his advance on the diminutive Templar Ser Myfanwy, standing a short distance away, sword still raised. With little ceremony, and even less warning, Alistair batted the sword aside angrily.

"Never do that again!" he bellowed at her. Grabbing the sword from her surprised hand he hurled it to the ground. A jangling behind Greagoir indicated the timely arrival of her colleague Ser Bertram but the other Templar did not make it far; intercepted by a mountainous Grey Warden who held the Templar fast with a warning shake of his hoary head.

To give her credit, Myfanwy stood her ground, tossing her head defiantly. "That man is an abomination!" she protested.

Curling his fingers over the neck rim of Ser Myfanwy's breast plate, the Senior Warden lifted the young Templar off the ground. Bringing her to eye level; her dangling feet would have been comical if not for the anger burning in the seething Senior Warden's countenance.

"I don't give a damn what you think," Alistair spat. "Chantry business is Chantry business, but interfere in Grey Warden business again and I will not be responsible for my actions!"

Steeling herself, Myfanway tossed her head again, though her scarlet cheeks indicated some of the fight had gone out of her.

"Especially," the Senior Warden growled, "if you - or anyone else for that matter - ever puts any of my people in danger again." Dropping the Templar to the ground, Alistair waited a few seconds for Myfanwy to collect herself before continuing speaking. "Are we clear on that?"

It seemed for a moment Myfanwy would argue, but she appeared to think better of it, taking a half step backwards to put a more respectable distance between herself and the bristling Grey Warden. Greagoir saw his childhood playmate clench her fists at her sides and he shook his head at her stubbornness…Idiot. When did Myf become so…stupid?

Raising her head slightly, Myfanwy murmured; "Yes, Warden…"

"Actually," Alistair corrected her, "It's 'Senior Warden' and just a quick reminder;" he turned, including Ser Bertram behind him, "Connor and Greagoir are now officially Grey Wardens and as such are granted immunity from Chantry law. Neither of you may like that particular fact, but that's just too bad isn't it?" Returning his attention to the smaller Templar, he narrowed his eyes. "Next time," he added, "if there is a next time, you remove one of my Wardens from a fight with darkspawn, don't expect any of us to help you out…should the darkspawn turn on you...Being tainted is a nasty business as you've probably seen," he continued ruthlessly. "And the darkspawn are not known for being…considerate to women in particular."

Waving a hand in dismissal, he told them both: "Now get the Fade out of my sight."

Now set free, Ser Bertram twisted out of the large Grey Warden's grip, to join his colleague's side. Greagoir thought he saw something; some kind of signal pass between the two Templars, but he dismissed it. If the two of them were planning something it would be two Templars versus a campful of Grey Wardens. He didn't think Myf was that foolish. Though he was itching to tell her she needed to sort out her anger management issues, Greagoir instead knelt beside Connor's rigid body. He'd been about to reach out to check the mage's breathing when Connor's eyes snapped open unexpectedly, startling Greagoir into an unwarriorlike cry of surprise.

Connor sat up; bending at a right angle to the waist in the peculiar way that indicated he might not be quite…human at this moment in time. He smiled a demon's smile at Greagoir.

"Ah…He lives!" the demon cackled, though whether it meant Connor or itself was not clarified.

Denny sidled alongside Greagoir, clearing her throat. "Actually…" she said, "Uh…Senior Warden…? Considering those at the recent battle and the…um, numbers of 'spawn we've been encountering in the area, should these good people be sent…out there on their own?"

For a moment, Greagoir thought Alistair might censure the younger Grey Warden for contradicting him. Instead, Alistair's eyes twinkled as he placed a single, thoughtful finger on his chin. "Hm…a good point Warden Denny." Then the light went out of his eyes completely, masking any emotion he might feel behind them. "Except that I am unable to spare any Wardens to accompany them to…wherever they intend to go to next. You know how it is: so few men, so many darkspawn to kill…"

"True, Ser" Denny shrugged with a sorrowful sigh, though her wicked smile was anything but sad or regretful.

"They have big swords," Alistair reminded her. "And thick armour besides."

"I suppose they could stay with us for a bit."

It took a full minute before Greagoir realised it had been he who'd spoken. When he also realised the suggestion had caused him to now be the focus of some rather annoyed attention, he patted the top of Connor's head and stood. He wasn't sorry for the Templars, being at the receiving end of one of Myfanwy's Holy Smites recently, but the thought of sending anyone out to be at the mercy of darkspawn seemed so unlike everything the Grey Wardens stood for…not that he was an expert by any means, it was just…The roll of Senior Warden Alistair's eyes told him that no one had any intention of sending the two Chantry watchdogs to do what he thought they were going to do…causing his cheeks to begin to burn. Ah…spoke too soon.

Again.

The Senior Warden recovered quickly, clucking his tongue at the notion. "Well this is a turn up for the books…" he drawled, wide-eyes. "A mage…? Showing compassion for a couple of Templars? Unheard of!" Clapping his hands together in a businesslike fashion, he strode forward, addressing the other Wardens. "Right you lot! You know the drill; collect these up for the traditional Grey Warden barbecue and marshmallow toasting." He turned briefly to Ser Myfanwy. "You can have a pink one if you behave." Waggling his finger, he added, "But only if you behave."

As he passed, he placed his hand on Greagoir's shoulder one last time. "You weren't exaggerating when you said you were rusty, were you?"

When the Senior Warden left, Connor popped up, blinking like a waking cat at Greagoir in a way that promised mischief; and a great deal of angst for Greagoir later, no doubt. It was then that Greagoir realised that only one of Connor's eyes actually glowed with that inner Fade light. The other was quite…normal.

"En…chanter…?" Greagoir began, not too sure what to make of this.

The Connor demon responded by grinning through cracked lips. Dark circles still ringed the older mage's eyes and while the diseased patchwork of blackened taint had mostly faded, a tracery of black persisted on the skin visible above Connor's tattered collar, like a ruff or the sepals of a flower.

"Ah…" Connor drawled. "You're probably wondering who's…here at this present time, hm?"

Greagoir grimaced. The answer had already occurred to him, though at first he was quite sure it had been his brain merely playing games with the rest of him. "You're uh…"

"Precisely, how eloquently put!" Connor's grin widened, showing one canine slightly longer than the other. Or was that his imagination? "The…Joining appears to have had an interesting effect," the demon informed him. "Oh for the love of…!" Connor's more human voice surfaced, sounding thoroughly annoyed. "Just tell him and get on…look I'll just say that the…

"Me…" the demon's voice reappeared – and Greagoir had to stop and think very hard because two voices were coming out of Connor's mouth and it was most disconcerting…or at least, more disconcerting than before when the two kept swapping in and out. It was just that now, it was more rapid-fire, as though the two were fighting for…equal space.

"Maker's bubble bum…" Greagoir breathed. "You're…you're stuck aren't you?"

"Yes he is!"

"Unfortunately yes."

"Am I going to keep hearing things in double from now on?" Greagoir asked.

"Yes!"

"A sweetie for the sweetie!"

"Oh dear."

"The only good thing about this…arrangement…" Connor added nastily. "Is that the demon is stuck in this particular body. It can't transfer to someone else, even if it wanted to."

"Pshaw! And not for lack of trying!"

"Hah! If I die, so do you, fiend!"

"Pshaw! And it won't be lack of trying, mortal!"

Slowly, so as not to look as though he were doing so, Greagoir backed away cautiously. There were…things to do…surely? People to…um, see? Oh yes, and darkspawn carcasses to burn and so forth. Leaving Connor Abomination arguing with himself...itself...Greagoir widened the distance between him and…them, while carefully and pointedly maintaining a wide arc around the Templars. Myf – in particular – looked as though anyone who came within spitting distance of her would spontaneously combust in Holy Fire.

All in all, Greagoir felt, this wasn't too unfamiliar a start to his career as a Grey Warden, considering how his brief stint as a vagabond apostate had gone. Mostly. At least, he reminded himself, he was being consistent.

Which was pretty much more than he could say for Connor right now.

-oo-

"They're not going away, are they?" Hirral, Commander of the Legion of the Dead commented in a growling voice. "Bit like a bad smell…lingers long after the culprit's escaped."

"Eh, I don't care for the look of that squinty human," Arn, another League soldier commented, swinging his long-handled axe in the air; the flashing blade reflecting light from the surrounding lava. It was too warm down here and Alyce was looking forward to leaving this place as soon as was possible. Wherever this place happened to be. She missed the cold and the miserable, constant drizzle of the outside world and the Ferelden climate in particular. There wasn't even enough quality, musty damp down here. The kind that got into everything; turning them mouldy and limp within minutes of drying. She even missed the smell of wet dog and she didn't even have a dog.

It appeared they were still lost, though considering that the Grey Wardens and Seeker said they knew where they were going but appeared to be lost with them, technically were they actually – in fact – lost at all? The Grey Warden was still quite confident that the direction she was heading in was the right one…which was, coincidentally, the same direction as the Seeker. Which – also coincidentally - happened to be where Alyce and the Legion were heading.

The bunch of copycats…

Was it pride, Alyce wondered? Either party were too embarrassed to admit they'd gone down the wrong tunnel and turned too early or too late at that last nest of ravenous, poison-spitting Deepstalkers? Feeling contrary, Alyce had purposely wandered randomly through a series of circuitous Deep Roads tunnels testing the Wardens and Seeker. Quite apart from the fact that it gave Commander Hirral more grey hairs, the continuing presence of Warden Anike and the Seeker was really…really, really beginning to give her the impression that they were following her.

But that was…nonsensical.

To think they were following her would mean they thought she had somewhere special to go…which she didn't because she was just wandering about random tunnels in the Deep Roads until…she found what she most certainly wasn't looking for because it wasn't a secret that only the First Enchanter knew. And…perhaps a couple of select, senior Grey Wardens. And Florible Phineas Flambeaux I'll Just Stay Here in The Best Comfy Chair in the Mages' Library While You Go Out and Get Dirty Shall I Aldebrant; a person who was so discreet (especially when it came to important Circle research) that in order to get any information at all out of the man, all you had to do was go down to the local pub and ask anyone. Unconscious or otherwise.

Shoulders slumping, Alyce considered her options. She could just ask why the Grey Wardens and Seeker were following her, but she suspected any more information beyond 'Oh you know…just admiring the scenery' was forthcoming. The other option was to find the biggest, nastiest, smelliest nest of darkspawn she could and simply leave the tagalongs to their fate. Except that the vile creatures were increasingly sparse, the longer their party remained underground. The other option…well the other option was not an option at all: tell them why she was here and enlist their assistance.

That way lay madness.

And a very stern look from First Enchanter Torrin; an outcome to be avoided at all costs.

"Probably trying to hide the fact they're after the same thing as you," Hirral sighed knowledgeably. Scratching the side of his nose, he added, "You Surfacers really believe in all this…witchy stuff, no offence meant ma'am."

"None taken," Alyce replied, her own nose sinking between her knees. "And…while I can't say for sure when it comes to the Grey Wardens, it's not like Chantry folk to go wandering about the Deep Roads risking life and limb against darkspawn just because they like to look at rocks."

Hirral snorted and threw a dirty look at Giles Moreau…the Seeker had casually propped himself against a stone wall. Just watching. Casually. "For a while I thought it might be because of the Orzammar Circle, you know…?"

At the mention of that place, Alyce's eyes grew even more flinty. "Reason enough to knock him off the ledge of a lava pit then," she muttered darkly. She hadn't had a chance to speak to Dagna personally. Time had been too short, but Torrin had made known to her the most pertinent parts; meaning the Divine in Val Royeaux had given formal notice she did not approve of the work and relationship the Orzammar Circle had set up in recent years with other Circles regarding lyrium. Clever little Dagna had been working very hard and the discoveries she had made were important. Especially if it meant safer lyrium for all.

An Exalted March on Orzammar…? Clearly…Alyce thought, her mind going down even darker veins…What Orlais needs is another Blight. They sound bored over there…

It occurred to her that she should be careful what she wished for. Another Blight so soon after the last one…Ferelden was still recovering. Another Blight might destroy her country altogether, but some of the signs were there: fewer darkspawn in the Deep Roads; more sightings of them above ground…except the darkspawn did not seem as organised. Yet. They were being busy, but for what purpose, she could only make a few, wobbly stabs at. Searching for an old god on the surface to taint…? Or someone with the soul of an old god…?

"Don't be stupid."

"Eh? You talking to me?" Hirral looked at her sharply and Alyce realised she'd spoken out loud. Placing a hand on the Commander's shoulder, she stood.

"No Hirral," she reassured him. "Just…thinking all that time the Revered Mother spent trying to teach me Andrastrian "history" was a bit of a waste of hot air and good lavatory paper."

The Commander lifted his eyebrows then patted the stone he sat on. "And Surfacers wonder why we Dwarves put our faith in solid stone. All your gods in their sky cities, fightin' each other…And your prophet lady doin' the dirty with the biggest god of 'em all – no innuendo intended there - we already get all of that in the Assembly right here and when someone disagrees with another, it don't mean pestilence and lightning. It just means a knife in the heart, no hard feelings, but you were a git; movin' right along next one please." Scratching the other side of his commodious nose he added; "know what I mean?"

Alyce nodded. "I do, Commander. One day I might defect."

"Eh…" Hirral grinned, jewelled teeth flashing, "I'd like that, but I don't think we have a house tall enough in Orzammar to house you. Not that I don't appreciate the view."

"Why?" Alyce asked. "You have a thing for knees, Commander?"

Chuckling, Commander Hirral pushed himself to his feet. The other Legion of the Dead soldiers followed suit, laughing along with their Commander. A few of them pointedly leered at Alyce's leather-clad knees. After this much time in the Deep Roads and the amount of falling over she generally did, the leather was starting to wear thin in places. If she wasn't careful, these dwarves might get a glimpse of her scabby knees and be overcome by their beauteous knobbliness.

"Let's just try and find this thing before that lot does," she suggested and the Commander nodded.

Honestly…she grunted unhappily to herself, the sooner I find this so-called 'Flemeth's Grimoire', the better…Though if Moreau got to it first - Alyce threw another sour look at the still-lounging Seeker – I really am going to throw that man into a lava pit. I need answers…And if a swarmy Orlesian or a few curious Grey Wardens get in the way protecting my little boy, well then…I'll just have to show them exactly…

What. I. AM.

Fewer mages after all, in the Ferelden Circle of Magi or otherwise had had as much contact with Greagoir as she had. Torrin had made sure of that when she had begun showing the…signs. Removing herself from Greagoir's side had been the most difficult thing she had done in her life and she hadn't liked it. Still didn't like it. She'd been storing up her ire and her resentment; bottling it up; letting it fester; ferment…Switching her attention from Hirral to Giles Moreau, her sour look was replaced abruptly by a sweet smile. Try me…Seeker. I'm sure you'll find it most educational.

-oo-