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Daithi's remaining time in the Fallow Mire was blessedly brief. Joining him as one of his companions was an almost surreal experience, a bizarre sort of duality. The men and women surrounding the Herald were so very mundane next to the appointment their leader had been given. He could hardly call them 'normal' - their own stations were remarkably myriad: Right Hand of the Divine, Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais, a Grey Warden, a common thief and prankster, a Qunari mercenary, an elven apostate, and a dwarven "businessman". But listening to their conversations as they walked, the banter among themselves both pleasant and tense, made the holiness of their mission seem more distant. They were simply people, fighting for a cause they felt was right, and just. And among them, it was often easy too, to see Daithi as just a man. Brigham wondered how Andraste and her following might have felt, so long ago. If Andraste knew her importance to the Maker, the holiness of her mission, but still simply felt like just a woman sometimes.

But at various times, perhaps even odd moments, the Enchanter would look to the Herald and in him again glimpse something holy— the way he mended rifts, the mark on his hand beyond simple magic; The fury in his fight, sometimes unearthly; and occasionally even at night, as they sat around the fire, and nothing otherwise was out of the ordinary.

In closing the Breach, however, surely few could deny seeing the Maker's hand in it. Surrounded by Templars, standing at the Inquisitor's side as he sealed the tear in the sky- it was a sight the Enchanter would surely never forget. (Being so close to the Fade, too, powerful and raw far more than any rift, gave him an odd sort of nervousness he was unused to.)

There was merriment after, raucous and mirthful celebration. It seemed the world was saved, and that things could begin to be repaired. It would be a long road, but it had at least begun— so it seemed.

Even Brigham, who rarely took opportunity for leisure when there was work to be done, had allowed himself to be pulled away to sit with some of the other Enchanters and watch the dancing. The bells sounding an alarm shattered the tentative hope he had begun to allow himself that things might begun to return to normal, but it was hardly the time to think.

Chaos and panic erupted. In the din, Brigham instructed the Enchanters close by to ensure all of the mages, especially the younger ones, made it safely into the Chantry. The Herald and the other companions would be fighting, of course, and the Enchanter hastens to fetch his staff and join his side.

Standing outside the gates of Haven, staring at the army on the mountainside approaching them, Brigham feels less fear than he expected he might. He prays, to be certain, but there were a limited amount of outcomes, and all he could do, was all he could. The rest was in the Maker's hands.

It still wrenches him to look on the Red Templars, twisted as their are from their identity and their purpose. The first time Brigham had seen them, it shook him deeply, this... perversion of something that had always represented safety and stability to him. Even now, he's not sure he'll ever get used to the sight. He doesn't hesitate to fight them; is thankful, though, that he doesn't really have to directly: he focuses on supporting the Herald, and the other companions. A warding glyph keeps enemies firmly at bay- at least the weaker ones. Thankfully nothing stronger contests it as they fight to protect, and then loose the trebuchets.

An otherwordly screech somehow calls clear, even over the din of battle. There is fire, then, hot and furious, followed by screaming the likes of which the Enchanter had never heard, and prayed earnestly he never did again. There is a scramble to ensure everyone gets to safety within the Chantry, panic and in some, despair. With a dragon - archdemon? - bearing down on them, Brigham could not blame such fear. They are able to save many, thankfully. In the Chantry, a wounded brother tells them there is a path. A glimmer of hope, then, but using the Herald as bait? Brigham does not ask whether he might accompany Daithi, then, but stands close by as a wordless declaration of his intent.

More Venatori and Red Templars, then, and the Enchanter is glad of the presence of the other companions. The fight is taxing, and a few of the more corrupted Templars are strong enough to ignore his wards, distracting him from ensuring Daithi's protection.

He finds his attention pulled by the groaning of a man, and the sensation of magic normally so familiar across his skin, even pleasant, suddenly crawling and vile. In the midst of the battle around him, Brigham stops entirely as red lyrium crackles and bursts from the wretched form of a Templar, tortured sounds haunting and becoming less and less recognizable as human. The proximity to so much lyrium lurches his stomach, and dizzies him until he's nearly disoriented, stumbles nearly, and yet he remains transfixed and staring at the abomination.

Edited 2017-09-12 20:02 (UTC)

Sealing the Breach, in its resolution, is the simplest task the Inquisition asks of him.

He survives. His arm remains whole. He is not free, no, — he is not foolish enough to think that possible — though he is nigh unassailable, now, and prophet or otherwise, ... none will question the value of a knife ear mage for such feat. The promise of that influence will serve him well in steering this Inquisition: stronger, now, for their triumph. Soon, to feel embolden. Soon, to press Chantric will unto Thedas.

Such concerns are foreign, though, far flung plans once thought for those that follow, and Daithi watches Haven's celebration from an ascent, somber and separate, even from his own person. (He is a poor companion, then, for Cassandra's thoughtful presence.) Twice, now, he has emerged from the Breach when survival was uncertain; twice, now, he has emerged in possession of a mark, hallow in shemlen eyes; and twice, now, he becomes something more, something less. He cannot join Haven's people even if he might wish.

Their celebration is premature, regardless, — not for the rifts that remain than for the questions, the threat of more until such answers are within grasp, — and although Daithi cannot fault them, appreciates the sense of ease and rest the Inquisition's soldiers crave, mustering a smile to watch even the most stoic of his companions, ... he cannot help the confession, either.

Daithi regrets he is proven correct so soon.

The assault is relentless: siege engines, granting no more than minutes in the vanguard's resistance; wave upon wave of soldier, falling upon them. (Soldier? Some, yes. Others ... mere men and women, children near enough in age to receive vallaslin though children, all the same, fresh from tower prisons, foreign to such concepts of war or skirmish. Daithi is sick to realize this is his doing.) He presses ever onward, though, ferocious in Haven's name, and when Cullen cannot offer more than the suggestion of interference, Daithi remains unwavering.

Much of the fight is easier for his companions. Brigham's wards grant them considerable margin: Daithi, most of all, as he mans more than one engine and now, as he aims another for a final avalanche. The fight is indeed taxing, though; and where one soldier falls, another seems to appear, fervent or fearful, Daithi is not certain which, and for all the attempt to spare the mages, those he recognizes from Redcliffe's village, he was quick to realize: only death slows them.

Varric harbors no such reservations, however, felling a Venatori steps from Daithi. Daithi turns, given to instinct (even as he orders himself continue), when the mage slumps into the Haven snow. In the next instant, cries of pain, animal and overwrought, jerk his attention elsewhere, and Daithi surges with a great and sudden fear, abandoning the trebuchet to join his companions. His voice carries across the clangor as he shouts, "Brigham!"

As a child, barely old enough to remember anything, one of Brigham's first memories was the Chantry in the small village nearest their home. The smell of burning candles, old parchment, the smoke from censers- all familiar and warm. He remembers too the Templars, towering over him in their armor, shining and well-polished. They had never intimidated him. Instead, he found them a comforting presence, and he felt secure in knowing the Templars were there to protect him. Even standing between the worn wooden pews in the middle of the night, nervous of his newfound abilities and already missing his family, Brigham was glad of the presence of the Templars, firm and reassuring. He took solace in the fact that he was safe from himself, from others, and that others were safe from him. In the Circle, Templars were constant, ever-present. He had seen them every day since his arrival as an novitiate, and in fact had rarely gone any number of hours without seeing them. Their calling was holy, their work, noble and just. Many of them had been warm acquaintances, and one had been precious to him, above anyone else. He recalls most of their names, and all of their faces—

The sound of the Herald's voice, urgent above the cacophony of battle, sharply redirects his focus towards the twisted abomination before him. Templars stood for everything good and just and righteous, and this was the unfair fate that befell them? He has no time to mourn them now, to give in to his sorrow nor horror nor the sick threatening to rise in his throat. He backs away from the once Templar, one hand to mouth, the other gripping his staff tight enough that his knuckles show white. Others focus the wretched creature, and if it had set its sights on Brigham, its attentions were elsewhere now.

A small shake of his head, and he looks to Daithi. It works grounding, serving as a means and reason to focus. They are weary all, and the fight is like to continue. Magic blossoms before him briefly, shimmering green, a bloom to restore the mana of their mages.

Daithi meets Brigham in several paces, — rough against the other man though gentle as he touches neath Brigham's shoulders. Relief soothes his emotion, and voice, where nausea pitches his stomach; his expression remains firm, though.

"Your wards aren't working," he rumbles. "Can you fight?"

He finds it difficult to speak though Daithi beckons him to, though battle does not allow the luxury of time to his words. Brigham glances away for just a moment, ensuring there are no enemies closing on them. When he answers, emotion carries as a notable undercurrent in his words, though he likewise is firm in response as can be:

"Of course."

It's dismissal as much as reassurance, and he gives Daithi one more glance, before stepping away. He is glad of the touch, finds it grounding as much as the sound of being called, but he is shamed, too that he might be distracted so easily in the midst of battle. Then again, perhaps what he witnessed was understandable to some extent, but he resolves to not let it distract him again (prays, though, that he doesn't have to witness it again, if only to spare any more Templars the miserable fate).

The answer is enough.

Daithi separates from Brigham, then, returning to combat without another glance. He allows their warriors to fell the Templar, though, cautious of the ill aura emanating from the misshapen knight. Daithi, instead, uses the mana Brigham grants him to rush Venatori, the Templar's range support, catching them offguard in melee. — killing two and stunning others in an electrical arc.

It seems the more they fell, the more take their place. Even with how many Venatori and Red Templars must have been lost beneath the avalanche on the mountain, there were more than enough to overtake their small group, were they anyone. And while Brigham might consider himself among the number of normal, the Herald most certainly is not.

He positions himself in the midst of the other companions, setting a repulsion ward around him. He bestows a mass heal on the party, to mend any bruises or small injuries they might find themselves inflicted with as they occur, and reserves his now limited mana, allowing himself to recover and keep an eye on the fight— and most importantly, Daithi.

Most mages are ill suitable in close quarters, though most mages are not the clan Lavellan's First, accustom to fight and pain, an endless onslaught of the two, and Daithi exploits such knowledge to his advantage: rattling and stunning, preventing the use of spells and unleashing his own in great surges, killing and controlling his enemies with ease.

The task is easier, still, for Brigham.

Neither save Daithi his hesitance, though, pausing as Fiona enters the field. She is unflinching, heedless of the Herald's pleas, and his barrier — sprung after the first spell sent him to his knees — weakens under a salvo of magical elements. "Fiona, please! You don't have to do this."

The Enchanter is startled to see Fiona - his superior, once, Grand Enchanter and a woman he very much looked up to. That respect had been crippled by the vote she had called at the peak of the unrest between Mage and Templar. Still, she had otherwise done well by the Circle, and had a historied and accomplished life. That she would join sides with the enemy, give those under her care to them as though they were coin to be spent... such was beyond unforgivable. The Maker would judge her, he knows, but that does not soothe the ache, the fury for the injustice of all the souls she led astray.

Brigham is late to stop the first blow, grateful for the Herald's barrier. He hurries to Daithi's side, casts a heal as hand brushes shoulder. He places himself squarely between Enchanter and Herald, the crackle of so much magic on the frigid mountain air blowing wisps of copper hair about his temples. He gestures with his staff, inscribing a glyph of neutralization in attempt to damp the woman's magic. Spreads his arms outward, then, wordless, the grip on his staff tight.

Fiona pauses.

Daithi cannot guess the exact reason — glances Brigham as the most probable cause though the gaze is one of concern as well. He cannot allow his companion this much risk, he thinks. (He is risking all their lives, he knows, on sentimental gamble. If he can save the Redcliffe mages, though ...)

He edges from Brigham, offering a peaceable gesture of his palm as he speaks. His stance remains offensive, though, poise for another attack. "Fiona," Daithi calls. "There is, still, a place for you and your mages in the Inquisition. Surrender," he urges. "Help us fight. ... it needn't end this way for any of you."

For a moment, she seems to consider: then, her expression darkens, and Fiona raises her staff.

She had already sold the lives of so many that trusted and had faith in her, that Brigham could not imagine inviting the woman into the Inquisition now. Still he recognizes that Daithi is trying to save more mages pain of death, and for that, his respect for the Herald grows.

That the pleas fall on (mostly) deaf ears, however, does not surprise him.

It is too late to do much by the time Fiona has lifted her staff, though Brigham at least tries. It was foolish of him to think that he might contest the Grand Enchanter's magic, though he tries out of necessity, not pride. His own spell is interrupted by a shock of lightning. The brunt of the damage is deterred by a well-timed barrier from one of the other mages in their party. He is stunned, still, every muscle in his body seizing tight and leaving him momentarily paralyzed. Sound around him seems to suddenly seem very far away, muffled beyond recognition.

He remains standing, though is half-sure (once he can think somewhat straight again), that it is only because his muscles refuse to move. The lingering magic stings across his skin as he struggles to regain control of himself.

It is difficult to find breath, and harder still to speak. "She will not listen, Your Worship," is what he finally manages, unsure if he was loud enough to be heard. Though he hardly wished to sign the death warrants of so many mages, he likewise did not wish Daithi to suffer her onslaught when reasoning was fruitless.

Daithi's reflex is immediate, staggering Fiona in a gust of willpower. He is still in the aftermath, if for a moment, aware of Brigham's voice though attention, unwavering, fixt upon the elven woman. His fingers twitch against his staff.

— then, tighten their grip of the weapon. His own expression darkens. "Get the trebuchet aimed," he shouts — to no one in particular among their companions — and takes aim of Fiona. The field erupts into storm: either elf, favoring the power of thunderlight.

Brigham turns his head (though his muscles protest the motion) as the Herald shouts, sees someone else- more capable than he, especially at the moment, move to aim the siege engine. He turns his full attentions to the two elves, backs stiffly away from the flicker of lightning, uncomfortably close after the strike moments before.

Though he does not falter nor lose focus, he feels a flicker of sadness, ever so briefly, thinking of Daithi's pleas. He takes no joy in fighting the Grand Enchanter, but imagines for the Herald, it is even less pleasant.

He calls upon the earth to damp Fiona's storm (and his own susceptibility), weaving the element so that it interfered with Daithi as little as possible, yet protected him— or at least, gave his best attempt to. There were other mages, Venatori now, one unfortunate enough to stumble across his glyph and finding themselves utterly without mana to cast. Brigham does not lay another glyph, mindful of his mana as the battle between Fiona and Daithi carries on.

The enchanter retains an advantage, a greater pool of mana, though the Herald is not alone, and the interference of his companions, stalling either comrade or magic, allows him to match the other elf in combat. Still, he is the first to exhaust mana: his fight, soon, given to the simplest spells amidst quick, evasive steps.

Fiona wears thin for such an opponent, though, and Daithi glimpses sapphire in a vial. He scrapes the remains of his mana into a final push, then, catching Fiona in close quarters. He strikes the vial from her grip. She, in turn, crushes his cheek against the shaft of her weapon — electrocutes his shoulder, sparks in her palm, forcing his own staff from his fingers.

He uses his opposite shoulder, then; the collision, sending either elf to the snow, Herald above enchanter, where the immediate fight is for control of Fiona's staff. Daithi grits his teeth, willing his grip tight, pressing the staff ever near Fiona's throat. — until she gives, hollow in expression, and for half a heart's moment, naive for all that he knows elsewise, ... Daithi is hopeful.

Instead: "make it quick, Herald."

He thinks to refuse her. — hasn't the time to save more than Haven's people, though, and murmurs "ir abelas," thrusting a shortblade through Fiona's neck. Her blood spills warm.

Mages are hardly trained to be combative, in the Circle - at least in Markham Circle, and Brigham is less than skilled with hand-to-hand with his own stave. He defends himself with spell then, when another mage assaults him, and though is victorious, he cannot give Daithi his undivided attention for a moment's time - to be expected, in battle. Brigham chides himself still when he takes note of the Herald's sapped mana, marked by such small magic. The spellbloom of regenerative mana he had created had withered, given to its last.

He pushes through the battle as the two elves grapple, ignoring his own hurts— the stun has worn away, finally, leaving only aching muscles. He turns with Daithi's staff in hand in time to watch the Herald's blade cut flesh. The Enchanter is quiet, then, watching the lifeblood of his Grand Enchanter pool. Somber, he offers his hand to pull Daithi up, and returns his staff. He rests his own staff into the crook of his shoulder so he might reach, cupping a hand to soothe the hurt of Daithi's cheek.

Daithi rises to his feet with a groan; the arm he offers Brigham is weak and sore for Fiona's magic. He grips his staff in his opposite palm, then, after mustering the strength to sheath his blade: unclean, still, with Fiona's blood.

He is otherwise silent through Brigham's attentions, save the roughness of his breath, and slow to respond.

The tide of Venatori and Red Templar has slowed, finally. Brigham judges, then, that he might use the last of his mana, and have time enough for a draught of lyrium should his spells be needed again urgently.

His grip on the Herald is gentle, strong just enough to support him. Hazel eyes flicker to find Daithi's, momentarily searching them for something— only to look away again. Magic, surely familiar by now, warms the hand that comes to settle against his cheek; a heal and a reassuring touch besides. Brigham lifts his gaze once more. "I am sorry, Your Worship," he murmurs soft, and sincere.

Daithi raises his gaze as Brigham speaks. — averts his attention, watching the man's robes, instead. He hums in answer. Then: "how's your mana?" he asks, avoiding the subject. Behind them, their companions use the lull to tend each other as well.

He watches Daithi for a moment, quiet too and thoughtful. His hand lingers for a moment perhaps longer than necessary, magic fading. His voice is gentle when he answers; "It will recover." It is exhausted for the moment, much like he suspects the Herald's is, and their other mage companions. The healer glances to the others; they will require tending, too, once they have a moment, but their need is not dire. Brigham's attentions remain then, perhaps selfishly, with the Herald. "How are your hurts?" he asks, soft.