#mage lance

“And what’s that?”

“She wasn’t the Witch of the Wildes. There were many mages who lived in the Wildes, mostly because it was rich in plants we needed for potions. She was the one to treat the Hero, but there were others. I'm sure you've heard of them. Flemeth and Morrigan were another mother and child pair like my mother and me."

Keith nodded. “Flemeth disappeared at the beginning of the last blight and Morrigan disappeared not long after it ended.” They hadn’t been the most well liked either. He remembered a few conversations with King Alistair and the Champion of Kirkwall. They weren’t all that fond of either them.

“Right, well, my mother was talking with the Divine and things were getting heated. They were both trying to keep the peace, but the crowds of mages and Templars were throwing insults and accusations at each other every chance they got and it…they had to call for a break and reconvene within the hour.” Lance fiddled with his fingers, specks of frost collecting at the tips. He brushed them off and took a deep breath.

“My mother didn’t leave the hall like the rest of everyone else, she stayed with the Divine. She said something about being freer to talk with everyone gone."

Keith frowned slightly. “Where were you in the room?”

Lance looked up, a small grin flying across his face. “I managed to climb up into the rafters at this point. Not the most comfortable spot, but it had a good vantage point.” Then the grin dropped away. “But it wasn’t long after that when someone entered the room with them. A monster calling himself -”

“Zarkon.” The word felt like acid on Keith’s tongue. That monster had been the one to destroy the Conclave, leaving it in ruins. None of the mages or Templars there had made it out unscathed, the Divine’s body hadn’t been found.

“Him. He walked in like he owned the fort – I don’t even know what the place was called but it was huge. He had this orb with him and he was holding out in front of him, gloating about it. My mother stepped in front of the Divine and told him to leave. He wouldn't. Then he activated the orb."

Lance remembered how the orb came to life, glowing the same sickly green his Mark did, rippling like water. Zarkon had raised it higher, summoning more of its power. His face was twisted in a grotesque smile, showing off pointed teeth, wrinkled skin, and pupil-less, haunting yellow eyes. Lance still had nightmares about those eyes searching for him. The ground had started to shake, knocking everyone off balance and throwing him from the rafters. He fell heavily, landing on his shoulder. Zarkon had dropped the orb. It had rolled to the side of the room where Lance was. He remembered how he sat up and picked up the orb, how it burned into his hand. Zarkon’s scream of rage haunted him. The monster lunged at him but then everything had gone blank.

“Lance…?”

The mage looked up and met Keith’s concerned stare. It shook him to the core, it’s been five years since he had anyone look at him like that. Lance looked away and rubbed off the frost that had gathered on the table around his hands.

He refused to look at Keith when he returned to his story. “The orb gave me the mark and Zarkon screamed, launching a spell at me.” He gulped. “My – my mother redirected it to her. Then Zarkon…the spell…” Frost was spreading around him. “She… Sorry, but-”

A yell cut him off and both men jumped. Someone was on the floor next to their table, lying on a patch of ice.

Lance froze in place, his eyes locked onto the patron as he slowly stood, face furious.

“What in Maker’s breath is an apostate doing here?” he shouted.

Keith immediately went for his sword, grabbing it and sliding it half way out of its scabbard. Lance still hadn’t moved, staring at the man who had just fallen, eyes wide, full of shock and panic.

“Well?” the man sneered. “Are you going to answer me? Or did some demon take your tongue along with your mind?”

Lance blinked and looked around. People were staring, muttering about the mage in the tavern, judging him. Just like always. He took a deep breath, eyes slipping closed as he found his center.

The man planted a meaty hand on the table, right in front of him and leaned in. “Are you possessed, apostate? Is the Inquisition going to make you Tranquil?”

He opened his eyes and glanced at Keith and shook his head slightly. Keith was inclined to ignore him and step in if the man continued to make comments. Lance stood up and the man stumbled back with a shout.

“Don’t you dare try magic in here, apostate!”

Lance ignored him and grabbed his staff, magic sparking along its length. A quick tap to the ground and the ice was gone. He turned to Keith with a sad smile. “Thank you for the meal, but I’m afraid I should be going now.”

With that, he walked out.

Keith slammed his sword back into place and ran after him.

“Lance!”

By the time he had left the tavern, Lance was already shoving his way through a group of Templars. He rushed over but was stopped by a wall of ice. The foot of it extended out and caught all of the Templars feet, rendering them immobile. Through the ice, Keith could see Lance leaving the village, shoulders slumped and staff clenched tightly in one fist.

Keith pounded on the ice in frustration. “Dammit.”

It was dark by the time Lance returned to his cabin. The eyes of wildlife watching him as he summoned a small wisp to light his way. His part of the Hinterlands, at least the part that he traveled most of often, was nearly void of any other activity besides himself and the rifts.

But that didn't stop the fact that a Seeker, of all people, now knew where he lived. Lance had nowhere else to go, he was stuck in the Hinterlands. Even with the war restarting, there was no guarantee anywhere else was going to be as accepting of mages. Sure, he could travel to Orlais, maybe Tevinter if he was feeling adventurous, but those places were so far away, plus Orlais force required mages to join a circle. There was no freelancing like he was now. And regardless of the fact that the Inquisition was trying to create peace in this fucked up world, he felt that he owed the world something.

It had been his fault that the rift had even opened up in the first place. The orb had seared its mark into his hand, latching onto his magic and used it to rip open the rift that hung over the remnants of the Conclave.

Lance sighed and clenched his staff tighter, sparks racing along it. He couldn't believe that he lost himself in the tavern. Lost himself in front of Keith. He felt like a novice again, just barely understanding his magic. If he thought about it, he really was a one again. The mark took what he knew and threw it out the window and over a cliff. The past five years, he has been trying to regain the control he once had. Maker knew he had it. It was just a matter of working for it.

It had been by chance that he figured out how to close the rifts and sheer luck that he was able to find his mother's journal in his ransacked hut back in the Wildes by the time he had returned. She had always been smart in that regard; nothing was flashy, nothing looked expensive. Everything was nondescript, never catching the eye unless you knew what you were looking for. So when he had found it, he cried. Damn near bawling. His body had been nearly torn to pieces, he was starving, bruises and burns and gashes - everything that was short of a broken bone had happened to him. He was so strung out, literally on his last legs when he made it home. That journal had been his saving grace. If it weren't for his mother's notes, he would have died not long after and Zarkon would have free reign of the world.

Lance dispelled the wisp and walked into his cabin, locking the door behind him. He was secretly glad that Keith hadn't followed him beyond the ice wall. He simply felt too tired to deal with anyone after that. The man who had slipped was just like any other, shouting at him, throwing angry slurs till he left. Of course, it would have ended quicker, albeit violently, if he had used his magic to shut the man up. It wouldn't have been the first time Lance felt that urge. Every time it happened, he was more inclined to do it. And that man slamming his hand on the table, leaning into his space, and shouting at him nearly gave him cause to. But Keith had been sitting across from him...

And why it mattered that Keith, a Seeker from the Inquisition, had been there was lost to him.

Why was it Keith who made him stop? After all these years, it shouldn't have mattered.

Lance stripped down and collapsed into his bed, falling onto his side. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Dark gray eyes stared back at him, framed with dark lashes and long dark bangs falling into them. Lance let the breath go, running a hand over his face. Maker, this was too much...

Thump! Thump! Thump!

He groaned and rolled over, shoving his face into his flimsy pillow and tugged the blanket farther over his head.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“Lance!”

He rolled back over and screwed up his face, scowling at his ceiling. The pounding at his door was doing nothing for the headache he was dealing with from a sleepless night; at least he had been productive and starting a few of the potions he absolutely needed. He was certain he looked dreadful too, not having done his routine since the Frostback incident. He felt like the Fade would open up and take him any moment, anything to just slee –

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“Lance, I swear on the Maker, if you don’t answer you fucking door, I’m kicking it in!”

Lance groaned. As much as he would love to ignore Keith at the moment, he would really love to keep his door. He rolled out of bed, slipped on a pair of pants and trudged his way to the door. He ripped it open and glared at the seeker before him.

“Has it occurred to you that not everyone wakes up this early?” he groused. The sun was barely over the horizon.

Keith had his fist raised, ready to pound Lance’s door again, and his mouth open. He took in Lance’s appearance – bed head, wrinkled pants, and bags under his eyes – slammed his mouth shut and took a quick step back, lowering his hand. Had the mage not gotten any sleep last night?

"I – uh, I'm sorry but, Lance, we - we should talk." Keith stumbled over his words, barely making a coherent sentence.

Lance blinked and narrowed his eyes. “Talk about what.”

“About the tavern last night.”

Lance took a deep breath and opened the door further. No use delaying it. “Fine. There's no point saying no since you'll just be here next morning anyways." He stepped aside and let Keith enter.

His home was a mess, littered with potions in the middle of being brewed, plants were potted and placed near the windows. The shelves were stuffed with trinkets and garbage alike, packed and dangerously close to overflowing onto the cluttered floor – five years of living by yourself gave you the right to be a little messy. Baskets filled with ingredients lined empty spaces by the wall, making the overall size of the room feel smaller than it already was. The desk where he worked on potions was soiled with liquids both wet and drying, several long-term concoctions bubbling under tin lids. His mother’s book and his were open on stands, notes scrawled into the margins on his mother’s and diagrams filling his own.

A few decorative pelts were pinned to the walls, most of which were worn and patchy from exposure to various chemicals and steeped plants. There was an impressive scorch mark on the wall above his desk where one of his earlier potions had gone wrong and blown up in his face. He had been trying one of his mother’s more difficult concoctions just after he finished fixing the place up. The blackened ceiling was something he was used to seeing every time he woke up now. And it was a constant reminder to wear eye protection while working since he'd nearly lost his sight the first time.

The stone floor was marbled with stains, which he’d tried to cover with a few carpets stitched with filigree. The interior overall was dimly lit by an oil lamp on his desk and a couple torches on the walls that had burned close to ash, and he made a mental note to make more later.

“It’s not much,” Lance said casually, letting the door fall shut after the other stepped in. “But it’s home.”

Keith took it all in, a little surprised Lance had given in so easily. He really hadn’t seen anything so lived in, and despite the clutter, it was well loved. As he was still staring at the mage’s home, Lance brushed passed him and made for one of the bubbling pots on the desk, lifting the lid and eyeing its contents. The smell was sickly sweet and strong.

He coughed and covered his nose and mouth with a gloved hand. Lance glanced at him but did nothing to the potion. Instead, he reached for the window and opened it, letting in the morning chill. The wind rustled the leaves, whispering through the tall grass surrounding the hut. Sunlight trickled, catching the different colored mists from the potions. Lance bustled about, turning down the flames underneath a few and uncapping the others, letting more smells take over the small room. Then he was across the hut and opening a second window.

The cross breeze that resulted lessened the scents that were assaulting Keith’s nose and made them bearable. He took a deep refreshing breath and let it out steadily.

“What exactly is it you want to talk about, Keith?” Lance asked as he threw on the tunic he had been wearing yesterday. “It’s not like I have dealt with those situations before.”

Keith blinked and then shook his head. “I’m not looking for you to defend yourself, Lance. I wanted to apologize for putting you in that situation.”

The mage clicked his tongue and moved over to his potions again. “I assure you, I am able to control myself. The likelihood –”

“I am not doubting your abilities. I made you remember a painful memory. I’ve worked with plenty of mages, and memories that bring up strong emotions make them lose a small amount of control. The ice patch that you created was normal.”

Lance didn’t look at the seeker, but Keith saw his shoulders slump as he continued to stir and evaluate his work. “I appreciate hearing that.”

Keith blushed lightly. It had only been three days of knowing Lance and already every time he opened his mouth, Keith was prepared for a sarcastic quip. Even when he was telling his story last night, there was that dryness in his voice he equated to unwilling acceptance. But the voice Lance just spoke with, even distracted, full and void of that dry humor Keith had been subject to.

“I, uh, you’re welcome.”

Lance looked up and smirked, not missing the way Keith stuttered. He straightened, one hand propped on his hip and the other still stirring a potion. “Is that all you needed to say at the crack of dawn, Seeker?”

There it was. Keith felt himself relax and stepped up to the banter. “It’s Keith. Just Keith.”

“Oh-ho? Explain the ‘all-seeing-eye’ emblazoned everywhere on your armor, Keith.” Even in jest, Keith fought down a shiver and a blush. His name sounded too good falling out of Lance’s mouth-

Maker, Keith, get it together.

He scowled back at Lance. “It’s the sign of the Inquisition.”

Lance rolled his eyes and pulled the stirrer out of the pot, tapped it a few times before setting it down. “Yes, but only the Seekers get a shield with the Eye on it,” he crooned as he brushed by him, winking.

The nerve of this man.

Keith glared and retorted, “Just because I have the title, doesn’t mean I like to be referred by it.”

Lance laughed and walked by him, flasks in hand. “You don’t get a rush from being referred to with your title? What a strange Seeker you are, Keith.”

The seeker rolled his eyes and followed Lance closer to where he was working, prepping the flasks with splash of water and dumping it out the window before pouring his potion into them. The current brew he was working with was bright red, almost as vibrant as blood.

Keith let his curiosity get the better of him. “What are these potions?”

Corking a flask, Lance glanced up at him. He swirled it a few times before setting it on the desk and letting it settle. “It’s a healing potion. Does nothing to really close wounds, but it does restore some energy and slows bleeding some.”

He hummed and watched Lance do the same thing until all the flasks were full. He kept out of the way as Lance bustled around. The next potion to be poured was a glowing blue. Lyrium.

“I thought you said you were out of lyrium?” he asked.

“I managed to find a small deposit last night,” Lance explained, pouring it into several small vials. “It wasn’t great quality, nothing like back at those caves yesterday.”

“There’s different qualities?”

Lance grinned and handed him one of the vials. “See how this potion is thick and fairly cloudy?”

Keith held the vial up, letting the light catch it. The liquid moved slower than the health potion Lance had just poured, and it not nearly as clear as some of the other lyrium potions he had seen other mages use. Allura's, in particular, were nearly as clear as spring water.

Lance continued to explain, “The fogginess comes from all the extra mineral deposits that end up in the lyrium ore. For the Hinterlands, this isn’t that bad, but the vein I had found before it turned to red lyrium was the clearest in the area I’ve come across.”

"There's an enchantress who's lyrium is almost as clear as water. She imports it from Orlais."

"Of course she does," Lance scoffed, disdain dripping from his voice.

"She doesn't keep it all to herself."

"Oh, I'm sure she holds a soft spot for all mages from the circles. Orlais isn't forgiving about apostates either."

Keith sighed and looked away from Lance. He could practically feel the other man bristling from the mere mention of anyone from the Inquisition.

"Why do you hate the Inquisition again?" He asked, exasperated.

The mage continued about his business with his potions, pouring more vials of a third dark liquid. As a seeker, Keith could feel the power coming off of it.

"It comes to most of the Inquisition thinking they are right, all-knowing, and overconfident in their abilities. They disrupted everything and make too much noise."

Lance sounded like a pouting child and Keith couldn't stop the huff of laughter escaping him. "It sounds more like a personal reason than the Inquisition disturbing your way of life, Lance." He met the mage's icy glare, bemused.

Lance narrowed his eyes. "Look, you may show up here before the sun does, avert a panic attack, and help save my life from a dragon, but that doesn't entitle you to more of my personal life than I am willing to give. Last night was an exception. That's all you're going to get, Seeker."

Keith raised his hands in surrender. “Fair enough, I didn’t mean to pry.”

That seemed to do the trick. Lance settled and finished pouring out all of his potions, one a darker red and similar to the one he started with and the other was an odd green mix and smelled horrible. Lance was unperturbed by the smells while Keith fought the need to retch. The mage packed them all away into separate trunks, divisions in place to keep them from breaking. The sides were burned and some of the edges were splintering. It honestly looked like Lance had simply grabbed these from an abandoned cart and repurposed them.

Lance just carried on, seeming to forget that Keith was even standing in the middle of his home. Keith didn't mind too much, he was used to watching Allura, the enchantress from Orlais, as she worked about her potions and spells. She muttered to herself much more than Lance did, and it was always funny to see her jump when he made a remark on one of her comments. Made for a good laugh, especially when he shared an evening drink with Shiro or Pidge. But Lance simply flipped through the pages of the two books on his desk, making notes in the one on the left with a piece of charcoal. He drew diagrams, lines of spells running along the side of the page he was working on.

Keith took it all in; the way Lance moved, his facial expressions as he concentrated and figured something out. Even the way he folded his lean body into the chair at his desk, one foot propped up on the seat, knee close to his chest and the other stretched out to the side. It was amazing that a position like that could even be considered comfortable. Yet Lance scrawled away in one book, full lines appearing on the page while making minor notes in the other. It was amazing to watch. Allura rarely took notes, reading tombs and immediately understanding them.

He took a couple steps closer and looked over Lance’s shoulder, reading what he was writing. From what he could tell, Lance was actually taking the difficult spells in one book and simplifying them down.

“Why are you altering these spells?” he asked.

Lance glanced over his shoulder. “It makes them easier to cast, not so much of my power is spent going through the chanting.”

“You’re the only mage I’ve seen do this.”

“Not many bother to learn beyond memorization, even the circle mages.” With that, Lance wrote down one final line and closed both books. He stood up and Keith stepped back to give him room.

By now the sun was well on its way to its high point in the sky and the air had warmed up. Lance's home had been warm to begin with, even with the breeze flowing through it, but now it was becoming uncomfortable for Keith. He pulled at his neckline and moved to a window to catch more of the breeze.

"If the armor is so uncomfortable, why do you wear it?" Lance asked as he packed up his workstation.

“Part of the uniform.”

He snorted. “The Inquisition has a uniform? Maker, you lot really are a cult.”

Keith rolled his eyes. "Not a cult, just an organization," he shot back.

Lance’s blue eyes flashed humor and Keith found himself grinning. The owner of the hut pulled on his boots, also taking the time to place two golden necklaces over his head. “I’m heading to the river; you’re welcome to join me.”

He lifted his bag onto his shoulder and walked to the door, not waiting to see if Keith was following him before stepping outside.