#wrdnking

To the Warden Alistair,

I write this letter to you in the hopes that it will reach you, though with the ever-changing political climate I cannot be so sure. Perhaps this is the very reason I have decided to put pen to paper after all these years. Perhaps I fear I do not have much time left to say what needs to be said.

I have never been practiced in emotional confessions, most especially when it comes to putting those feelings to the pen, so I apologize if this was not how you envisioned this revelation. It is one I must bring forth nonetheless, as I feel it is owed to you.

(a significant stain of ink has pooled between the two paragraphs, as if the next words written had taken quite some time to form)

My name is Fiona, and I am your mother. I am not some scullery maid or servant to your father's throne, nor am I dead and gone. Though, I would not blame you if you wished that I were instead. I wish that I could grant you solace in the fact that your father simply grew too acquainted with a fawning and innocent woman; mundane and human and without any faults. Instead, an elven mage took advantage of him while they were both at their lowest, and they sought comfort in one another, if only for a moment.

I have had many years to think about our time together. Beyond all of the guilt and the knowledge that we could never remain as close as we had been, I have never stopped thinking about Maric...or you.

It was not an easy thing, having to give you up. There were many moments where I thought to turn and run from my duties. To raise you on my own, but that would have been foolish. You deserved more than being raised by an elven apostate. So I ask that you do not point your anger at your caretakers or your father for something I hardly gave them an option in doing. I deserve all of it; the anger, the tears...whatever has been consuming you, if anything at all. Perhaps you feel nothing about it all, to which I would also accept.

But I understand you must wonder why I choose now, after all these years. For that, there is no simple answer. Initially, this was to be kept from you your entire life, that you find a chance at happiness; away from the throne, and away from any discrimination you might face were others to connect you to me. I see now that fate has a cruel way of complicating things.

It was Duncan and your Warden-Commander who ultimately convinced me. I know there have been times where my name, or simply the mention of my presence has passed their lips in your company. I am aware that Duncan had told you of our journey into the Deep Roads, but had neglected to mention my name, As I am also aware that you and the Warden-Commander who elected to extend more freedoms to the mages in the Circles are close.

It is in knowing that you walk your own path, by your own choice, that I write to you. I cannot say whether this will cause your happiness to crumble, or if it will bring you the clarity you have longed for. Regardless, I do not intend to walk into what may be my death without putting pen to paper. I am aware I am the last of those that might offer you the truth, and so I give it to you.

Your letters will not find me, as in writing this, I have branded myself no more than a wandering apostate, but if fate should somehow conspire for us to cross paths one day, I know you must harbor many questions, or even accusations...to which I shall answer both.

But if it would not be so, know this. You have never left my heart or mind, my dearest Alistair, and I am sorry for not providing you with the truth you deserved more than anything.

Yours,

he hadn't even realized he was  staring. standing watch while the mages mill about the evening-lit halls of kinloch, completing their nightly tasks and chores, was certainly the most boring activity he could seem himself shadowing throughout the latter portion of his recruitment  . . . but at least it wasn't a  harrowing.  and at least the few that pass by him pretend he doesn't even exist.  he prefers it that way  –  as little room for accidental infractions or rule-breaking on his part meant alistair would successfully avoid the ire of his lieutenant for the second night in a row.  call that a win in his book.  but apparently his sightless stare has settled on one mage in particular.  their last encounter hadn't ended on the greatest note.  alistair has a sinking suspicion his night won't go as uneventfully as he'd planned. the templar recruit straightens, face aflame. ❛  i am not looking at you like anything,  ❜  he insists, adjusting the grip on the pommel of the sword at his hip.  ❛  i was just ... 𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠.  ❜

          By rule of thumb, Templars are mostly all the same. Faceless, nameless haunts managing to take up too much space from their incessant posts, staring out blankly from behind their silverite bucket helms. Anders never doubted that they all enjoyed the anonymity. What accusations could stick when a mage could only remember a voice ?

          It was easy to forget men were inside the shining armor. Normal, average men, unpossessed of demons driving them to the horrors they committed. It was easier to cope with being dragged out of his bed and left bloody in a closet if he imagined them a force of nature, as unavoidable and neutral as the wind. The wind didn't care when it swept away a house or coaxed hurricanes from still waters, and neither did a Templar care what devastation was left in their wake.

          And maybe a part of Anders was asking for the abuse. He could've just faded into the crowd, been another face among a thousand faceless mages, but he didn't. He caused scenes, he mounted escape attempts, he jeered the Templars into the only response the armored golems were capable of. He argued and pranked and was generally the most insufferable mage in the Tower.

          But at least he had control over that much.

          Which was why the newest Templar in the tower was already aware of him.

          ❝ Well, aren't you special, ❞   Anders crossed his arms, a loose smirk tugging across his lips.   ❝ I didn't know Templars had the wherewithal to ponder. And you just had to do so while looking at me, right ? ❞   He leans against the nearby wall opposite the flushing Templar and gestures for him to continue with a lax hand.   ❝ What were you pondering, then ?   Quickest route to the mess hall ?   Which hand's your left ?   How many syllables are in 'totalitarianism' ? ❞   He raised a hand to the side of his mouth and finished in a mock whisper,   ❝ I'll give you a hint, it's eight. ❞

growing up in antiva, stories about the south were few and far between ------ instead her head was filled with tales about the crows ( and, ironically enough, one crow in particular who had gone south for a contract on a grey warden and never returned ), about their very own queen mother of thedas, and all sorts of things that supposedly go bump in the night ( most likely, more crows ) to keep little children in line.

so it felt strange now ---- standing there with someone she’d read about in passing, or heard about in story or tavern song. ( if it wasn’t in poor manners or borderline an arrestable offense for all she knew, she might’ve reached out and nudged his arm just to make sure he was truly real. ) “you can imagine what stories about you have made it up north,” she exhales a laugh -------- holding in the urge to nudge feels like a smart call on her part.

“i’m curious which parts are fact and which ones are fiction.”

“ oh, look at that ! he likes you. ”

like is a strong word. it might be the wrong word. vervain looms behind alistair with too focused eyes and a flicking tail. not quite predatory, but not entirely innocent. 

but if the dracolisk meant to take a bite, he would. ( could still, but the calm remains. )

          Karl knows as much about the Harrowing as the next apprentice. It happens at night. Mages survive or die. The alternative is hardly better. There is no literature on the subject save for certain gossip-worthy rumor pieces based in nothing but speculation. 

          He can assume only one thing for certain; that however the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter guarantee a mage’s silence must be severe. But the methods employed can also only be speculated about. Silences existed, of course, but wore off within the bell it was cast. Theoretically, such a spell could be weaved into a rune for permanent use, but if mages walked around with Silence runes etched into their robes, then more people would know about it.

          And Karl hoped that enough would see the resemblance to how the Quanri treated their own mages to let that stand.

          Fear, he’s come to realize in his six years within the Circle, is an effective motivator and most likely how the First Enchanter managed it. Karl tasted the sword-sharp rupture of a Smite boil blood down his throat once. He’s lived in fear of it since. Templars loomed in every hall and Karl isn’t blind nor deaf to the grief they cause. There are bad Templars as there are bad men in everything. There are bad Banns, bad Teryns, bad Kings, and bad Chantry brothers. And there are good ones, all the same. A whole could not be rotten by the few because if that were true, the handful of maleficarum in the world meant the Chantry was justified.

          Fear isn’t what Karl regards his own Harrowing with, however. He knows Anders does and that is part of why he doesn’t. He knows his only choice is to survive it and, fear be damned, prepare Anders for it. By any means.

          Whatever the test was, it couldn’t be one of power. Mages were never encouraged to strengthen themselves in such ways. They were taught to temper, control, remain level headed. The fact that Karl could manage only a handful of spells would not hinder him, he assumed; not when he excelled in the subjects mages were actually schooled in. He had nothing to fear of the Harrowing, but Anders … Anders certainly did.

          Level headed was not how Karl would describe him. Infuriating. Impulsive. Indulgent. Passionate. Stubborn. Brilliant in all the worst ways. Anders could never temper himself. Karl had spent much time in the Circle with Anders out chasing his own tail and the dusty stone Tower was always brighter when he returned, as though he dragged part of the sun in with him.

          It had been three years since he convinced Anders to stop running – a feat more difficult than convincing a Templar to open the front door. In the end, it had taken an admission of … feelings, rather than logic – which baffled Karl still to this day. But it had worked and Anders had stayed safely by his side since.

          Rebellion came in many forms, Karl lectured; there was no need to be eager for a life on the run when their betters entertained discussion. Hope was how Karl actually regarded his Harrowing, because with it came the opportunity to formally join the Fraternities. The essays he – and Anders – had labored on for years now would finally be seen, potentially even sent to Cumberland someday after the First Enchanter reviewed them. Karl knew many long years of revision lay ahead of them. Laws were not codified in a day, of course, but eventually they would sway enough minds and the Circles could see more independence.

          The right to marry. Creches within the Towers, themselves, for mages to raise their own children. Leave to visit family. No restrictions on non-magical activity within the Tower. And for the Maker’s sake, privacy. Less Chantry oversight would be a boon beyond comprehension.

          Karl would see it done. Hopefully with Anders at his side. But that could never be accomplished if the Void-damned man kept running. Which is what Karl assumes he’s attempted – and blessedly failed – when he wakes to the glaring shine of silverite hovering at the end of their bunk. 

          Resignation settles heavy in his chest alongside the bitter stab of disappointment before his eyes have even adjusted to the morning light. He sighs and stands quick enough to make himself dizzy just to check that Anders is in their top bunk. Karl frowns at the sight – he looks as he always does when sleeping. Brow creased with a small pucker between them, jaw tensed enough to grind his teeth. There was so much Anders feared.

          Karl wants nothing more than to reach out and tuck that errant strand of hair behind his ear. His fingers itch to feel the coolness of his cheek beneath his palm. It takes every bit of self discipline Karl has not to wake him with a gentle brush of their lips. Worst of all is the knowledge that Anders would welcome all of it.

          Most other apprentices are still sleeping, Karl realizes as he glances around the room. It must still be early. His cursory search ends on the Templar and his pensive expression lightens into a smile of recognition that doesn’t reach his eyes.

　　' 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄? i've never seen one like it before. '

          Anders thought he knew everything about Templars. In his defense, Templars made it his business to know everything about them. What triggered their anger, what appeased them, what straddled the line. The difference between one who enjoyed their Lyrium a little too much and one that regarded it simply as duty. How to spot the ones that became Templars for power, the ones that genuinely believed in the Maker's vendetta against magic, and the ones that simply had no other choice.

          What Anders hadn't known was that the ones who didn't fit any of the latter categories were almost as good as mages to the rest who did.

          It was an average afternoon. Some bucket helm with a nasally voice had been paying a little too much attention to him. Anders had noticed of course, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He sat and he read and he came up with a dozen jokes that died just as simply on his tongue because he wasn't in the mood for whatever sort of punishment that particular Templar had in mind for him.

          He could leave, if he was really bothered; find another spot in the Tower with a different Templar who maybe didn't care that his hair clung to his neck with the sticky sweat of summer in a stone building. He could leave, so really it was his fault when the Templar finally lost his patience. Anders cringed with every clang of silverite as the man came to stand behind his chair.

          ❝ Senior Enchanter Irving wants to see you, ❞   the Templar informed him, obnoxious voice made tinny from behind his helm.

          Anders sighed all the air from his lungs and then some, suppressing a shiver.

          ❝ Is that so, ❞ he stalled, but there was no reason to. Nothing could change the Templar's mind now. ❝ And how would you know ? You've been in this room longer than I have. ❞

          ❝ Are you questioning the holy order of a Templar or the request of your senior ? ❞ The Templar asked, like there was a difference.

          Anders' shoulders hunched as he closed the book he had been reading. He couldn't even remember what the story was about now. Some ... adventure tale, he thinks. He hadn't been able to concentrate on the words for the last bell, itching under his robes and the Templar's eye.

          ❝ Neither ? Both ? ❞   He shrugged and pushed his chair back to stand.

          Which was when the blond Templar who never bothers to wear his helm interrupted.

          ❝ Is this really necessary, Ser Hangest? ❞   Alistair questioned, ❝ I haven't heard any orders from the Senior Enchanter this afternoon. ❞

          ❝ Quiet, ❞   Ser Hangest -- Anders supposes -- hisses, whirling on Alistair so quick, Anders thinks he might just fall out of his armor. ❝ I mean ... you wouldn't have. You're a junior member. Irving would have no need to speak with you. ❞

          ❝ Why don't I go and check that you have the right mage anyway ? ❞   Alistair offered, tone nearly glib, ❝ As the mage said, neither of us have received word from outside this room today. ❞

          Ser Hangest grumbled and, to Anders' shock, seemed thoroughly dissuaded. He waved a dismissive hand angrily, mumbling something about this being a waste of time and that someone will pay for this, and quickly stomped out of the room.

          It wasn’t until the following day that Anders saw the consequences of Alistair’s brave action.

          ❝ What in the Void happened to your face? ❞   He had asked, which was an appropriate question, considering the wine-purple bruise that spread around Alistair’s eye and dripped down his cheek. It was swollen and red and Anders was more than certain that Alistair could not see out of that eye right now.

          ❝ Oh, this ? ❞   Alistair laughed awkwardly, gesturing towards his face. ❝ Walked into a doorknob. They’re blunt here, did you know that ? Curved and wicked things. ❞

          Anders frowned and couldn’t help himself. He was a healer and Alistair – … Alistair was a friend. Anders closed the distance between them, holding up a hand swallowed in sapphire and pressed his cooled palm to Alistair’s cheek. To Alistair’s credit, he didn’t flinch, which was more than Anders expected a Templar to do in the face of magic. The swelling reduced immediately and gradually, the tissue began soaking up his excess blood as the bruise aged from purple to yellow to pale.

          ❝ Was the doorknob’s name Ser Hangest ? ❞   Anders asked in a whisper after a few quiet moments.

          ❝ They name doorknobs here ? ❞ Alistair asked, voice sounding parched in his throat.

          ❝ Only the chauvinistic ones, ❞   Anders said, lips tugging into an involuntary smirk.

          ❝ Oh, then yes, ❞ Alistair agreed, nearly babbling, ❝ The doorknob was uh, pushy and annoying and really, really stupid. ❞

          ❝ I bet it had a dumb voice, too. ❞

          ❝ Yes ! How did you know ? Do you know all the doorknobs here ? ❞

          ❝ Kind of have to, or else I might twist the wrong one. ❞

          ❝ Now there’s a mental image. ❞

          They both laughed, the sound petering out at the same time as Anders’ spell, leaving Alistair’s face bruise free. His hand lingered a moment, almost entirely against his will.

          ❝ You really shouldn’t have interfered like that, ❞   Anders sighed.

          ❝ It's all right, ❞  Alistair said, and Anders wondered at the bob of his throat as he swallowed against the break in his voice. ❝ I was happy to do it. ❞

          Anders rolled his eyes and patted Alistair’s cheek a little harder than necessary. ❝ I meant that you really shouldn’t have. Not that it wasn’t impressive or … appreciated. He’s only going to be more stubborn next time. ❞

          ❝ I can be stubborn too, you know. That’s what the Sisters called me, Stubborn-as-a-Mabari Alistair. It took three Sisters every morning to convince me to make my bed. ❞

          Anders’ eyes were going to roll out of his head. ❝ I think Ser Hangest is more determined than your average Chantry Sister. ❞

          ❝ We’ll just have to see then, ❞ Alistair grinned, and Anders realized he still had his hand on his cheek – which seemed to be the exact moment Alistair realized it as well. Anders felt the skin heat under his palm and for a moment, considered leaving it there just to see how red the Templar could get.

          But Alistair had saved him from a rather unpleasant afternoon yesterday, so Anders supposed he could have mercy. This once.

          ❝ You can’t be there every time a Templar gets it in his head that he owns me and every other mage here. ❞

          ❝ Why not ? ❞

          ❝ I mean – I guess you can if you really like bruises. ❞

          ❝ I told you, it came from a doorknob ! ❞

          ❝ You really are insufferable, do you know that ? ❞

          Insufferable or not, Alistair’s rhetorical question rattled in his head for days. Why not? – Like he planned on swooping in to save him from every asshole Templar in the Circle.

          Well, if he did … Anders supposed he could get used to that.

@wrdnking said: “nothing finishes an evening in an alehouse so well as a fight.”