Chapter Text
The purple-grey face, wide with a toothy grin, shattered into a thousand shards as Mara Cousland woke up in her old bunk bed, her extremities chilled and her coarse linen robe sodden with sweat. Last night, close to midnight, the templars had awoken her and delivered her to the Harrowing Chamber, where she was cast into the Fade to test her will against a demon and prove she could resist possession. After the Pride Demon that called itself Mouse told her that tests never ended, she’d fallen into true unconsciousness, only to awake back in the advanced apprentices’ dormitory. When Jowan, a pasty-faced apprentice with unruly dark hair, shook her shoulder again to rouse her, she sat up and startled him. “What?” she demanded irritably.
“You’re finally awake,” Jowan said, collecting himself. One of those squirrelly people who almost invited the scorn they received by dint of mere existence, he was of low talent and less reliability but had become her acquaintance more by being of a similar age than any deliberate effort on her part. “They brought you back around dawn and it’s now just past noon. What happened?”
Mara raked her ash-blonde hair back from her face, yawning into her other hand. Accompanying Jowan were Daylen Amell, who’d come from Kirkwall years ago, and Neria Surana, an elven apprentice whose penchant for Primal magic was the pride and curse of their study group. It was likely that those two would face their own Harrowings within a few months, especially with rumours of trouble in the south and both of them being very adept at destructive magic. “I had my Harrowing,” she admitted, yawning again. “No, I’m not talking about it.”
“I thought it was,” tall, olive-skinned Daylen observed in his well-enunciated tenor. There was enough of the noble he’d been before his magic manifested remaining in his impeccable carriage and grooming, drawing the eye of all genders alike. It concealed the absolutely terrifying array of Primal and Entropic spells that he knew, drawing the attention of the templars who’d openly debated on whether he should be made Tranquil instead of undergoing his Harrowing as a safety precaution. Only Irving’s intervention had prevented that fate from befalling him. “And why not?”
“Because I’m not about to put myself on the templars’ sh*t list just to satisfy your curiosity,” Mara told him bluntly. “Suffice to say, it’s named well.”
Neria lifted her chin. Gangly and brown-haired, she had a mousy quality that belied her ability to simultaneously freeze, burn and shock whatever foe drew her ire. She was true friends with Jowan, bringing him into their study group by default, and arrived in Kinloch Hold at the tender age of four. “You can’t warn us?” she asked.
“No,” Mara said shortly as she swung her legs around, sticking them out from under the rough blanket that covered her. Apprentices were stacked three to a bunk bed in the dormitory until they passed their Harrowing, were made Tranquil or died. Their belongings were passed down from previous owners and given to younger apprentices when they moved elsewhere while few keepsakes were permitted to them. She tried not to consider the odds of Daylen, Neria and Jowan passing their Harrowings when it was roughly one out of three to become a full mage, the second being made Tranquil and the third dying to templar or… other reasons.
“Well, some friend you are,” Neria said sourly. “But then, you’ve always been a good little Loyalist, haven’t you?”
Mara got out of bed, smoothing down her rumpled robe. Coarse linen dyed the medium green of an apprentice who pursued Creation, it had been discreetly mended by her own hands during the mandatory sewing lessons that all apprentices undertook. While the heavy work was done by the Tranquil, apprentices were expected to keep themselves and their spaces clean and tidy. In another life, her fingertips would have been pricked from embroidery, not from mending but she tried not to think about that too often. “Why was I woken?”
“Irving wants to see you,” Daylen said smoothly, flashing Neria a warning look. “Now we know why.”
She sat down and stuck her feet into the leather-soled stockings that apprentices wore inside the Tower. Nothing of theirs was suitable for life outside to discourage them from thinking of escape. “I suppose I better go immediately then,” she noted. “Anything I need to know?”
“There’s a Grey Warden in the Tower,” Daylen supplied. “I’ve heard he’s recruiting.”
“Well, I guess that would be you or Neria then,” Mara pointed out. “You’re the best battlemages in our group.”
“Maybe,” Daylen said wistfully. “But he might go for someone with more experience.”
“Possibly.” Mara rose to her feet and they stopped crowding her. “I… Just remember what we’ve been taught in our lessons when you come to your Harrowings. If you take too long, the templars have someone ready with the Sword of Mercy.”
As one, the other three shuddered at the heavy two-handed claymore forged from volcanic aurum that was used to relieve mages found guilty of various crimes of their lives. That was the only warning she could give them because everyone knew that the templars were always waiting with one hand on the Sword, be it the ritual one reserved for executions or their own weapons. Magic was like fire, dangerous and useful, and the wise mage remembered that it was to serve man, never rule over him.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Jowan said sourly as he exchanged glances with Neria. “You better run along before Irving wonders where you are.”
“Congratulations,” Daylen said softly. “You worked hard for it.”
“We all do,” Mara said with a sigh as she combed her hair into a neat bun. Now wasn’t the time to look slovenly, though her robe couldn’t be helped as she’d receive two new ones from Owain. “But it’s will and knowledge that count in the Harrowing, not effort.”
Jowan blanched, as well he should. Eighteen years old and he still only knew three spells. She expected to see him with a sunburst brand on his forehead soon enough, which would devastate Neria and distress Daylen, but she’d known he’d be made Tranquil almost as soon as she met him because of his lack of ability. It didn’t make her happy, of course, but she’d long since learnt to accept what she couldn’t change.
The apprentice chambers were on the first floor of the Tower with the library while the stockrooms, quarters for Harrowed mages, laboratories and the Chantry were on the second floor. Senior Enchanters lived on the third floor except for First Enchanter Irving, who kept his quarters next to his office, and the templars dwelled on the fourth floor. Fifth and final floor was the pinnacle of the Tower where the Harrowing Chamber was located. Mara walked through the curving corridors, aware of the whispers that she’d passed her Harrowing that flitted through the apprentices who came and went, and reached the stairs that led to the second level. The templar standing guard let her through the door with a curt nod of respect. Now she was Harrowed, she was a little more trustworthy in their guardians’ eyes.
Irving was in his office, arguing with Greagoir and a sinewy umber-hued man in the blue and silver of the Grey Wardens about the King’s request for mages to serve at Ostagar. The Knight-Commander was reluctant, as always, to release the Tower’s inmates while the Warden was arguing that the mages’ raw power could turn the tide of the battle against the darkspawn. Darkspawn? Had a Blight begun?
“Ah,” Irving said as she knocked on the doorframe. “I see our newest Harrowed mage has arrived.”
Mara found herself the subject of an intense dark gaze from the Warden. “Is she skilled at combat magic?” he asked in a rich baritone.
“No, that would be Daylen or Neria, who will be Harrowed within the week since the King has need of our best,” Irving explained. “Mara’s talents lie in Creation magic.”
“Ah.” There was a note of disappointment in the Warden’s voice. “Well, two candidates are better than none.”
“You can choose one and that’s it,” Greagoir declared, drawing himself up proudly. Despite being nearly as old as Irving, he was still an impressive figure in his heavy volcanic aurum plate. The Knight-Commander’s armour was passed from leader to leader of the Tower’s templars, just as was the Sword of Mercy that he (or another) wielded when it came to end a mage’s life. “We just can’t hand you mages on a platter.”
“I’m sure one will suffice,” the Warden said mildly, though his dark eyes flashed with annoyance. “Thank you for your assistance, Knight-Commander.”
Greagoir grunted as he strode towards the door, Mara quickly getting out of the way. Even Harrowed, she was still vulnerable to the templars if they were in a foul mood. But the Knight-Commander stopped and looked down at her. “You did well during your Harrowing,” he said brusquely. “We will see if your two friends will do the same.”
“Thank you and I hope so,” Mara said softly, bobbing her head in gratitude.
He stalked off and Irving gave an aggravated sigh. “I apologise for that,” he told the Warden apologetically. “Greagoir and I had little sleep last night and we’ll have little tonight because of Daylen’s Harrowing.”
The Warden bowed slightly. “It’s nothing, Irving. I simply assumed that the Knight-Commander’s armour was pinching him in a place best left unmentioned.”
Irving chuckled softly. “I suppose when you have the rights of a Grey Warden, Duncan, you can say what you will about the templars.”
“Not quite. The Grand Cleric is still rather unhappy about me conscripting a templar recruit from the Chantry,” Duncan said wryly. “But I digress.”
The First Enchanter nodded. “Just let me sort Mara out and then I’ll have her take you to the guest quarters.”
Mara walked up to the desk. “I slept for a while, First Enchanter,” she explained. “I apologise.”
“It’s nothing, Mara. Last night was hardest on you of all.” Irving pulled out a silver ring with a vein of blue-green lyrium cast into it. “Your ring of study. I’ll give you a token for Owain to give you the robes and staff.”
She accepted the ring and slid it onto her left index finger, feeling the chill of lyrium-infused enchantment against her skin. “Thank you, ser.”
“Do not thank me. The effort was all yours.” Irving sighed and looked elsewhere for a moment. “Once you’ve escorted Duncan to the guest quarters, you have liberty until dinnertime. I suspect that you’ll be accompanying Wynne to Ostagar, so you’d better enjoy your rest while you can.”
“Of course, ser,” Mara said, trying not to tense at the thought of leaving the Circle.
“Then go along. I have other business to attend to.” Irving sighed and deliberately reached for a piece of paperwork from his table. Mara took the hint, heading for the door, and Duncan followed her with a wolf’s prowling grace.
Outside the office, the Warden threw her a curious glance. “Mara. I seem to have heard that name before. It means ‘bitter’ in Old Alamarri, does it not?”
“Yes ser,” she said politely.
“A prophetic name, given what magic is,” Duncan noted. “Do you know Daylen and Neria?”
“We study together,” she said, sliding him a sidelong glance. “Both are talented battlemages.”
“And yet you pursued healing. Interesting.” Duncan sighed and looked ahead as they walked through the corridor. “Are you proud of your magic, Mara?”
“Pride gets people killed. I am a mage. Changing that fact is impossible short of a death of personality I needn’t worry about now,” Mara said shortly. “I will serve wherever I am sent, mindful of the laws of the Circle.”
“Hmm. I see.” Duncan fell silent as they reached the guest quarters. “I will undoubtedly see you around over the next few days. Have a good day.”
“And you, Ser Duncan.” She nodded and turned on her heel, eager to escape him and his too-curious questions.
She was halfway towards the storeroom when a bulky shoulder, clad in the steel pauldron of a templar, interposed itself between her and her destination. For a moment, she felt a flash of anger, and then she saw tousled golden-brown hair and warm amber eyes in a flushed youthful face. Last night, he’d held the Sword of Mercy in his hands, ready to execute her at the Knight-Commander’s orders. Undoubtedly because they were… close.
“Cullen,” she said softly, glancing around to see if anyone was in earshot.
“I-I’m glad to see you’re up and about,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I-I was given the task of striking you down.”
“I noticed,” she said with a sigh. “But you didn’t have to.”
“Thank the Maker,” he said in relief. “Now you’re a full mage.”
“I am,” she agreed. He hadn’t shaved for a couple days and the stubble roughened the planes of his face. He was handsome and kind, the sort of man she might have married in another life. She was drawn to him despite the danger of loving a templar. “I’ll finally have my own bed and chest.”
He chuckled softly. “I suppose that would seem like paradise after the apprentice barracks.”
Mara looked into those warm amber-hazel eyes. “I’m glad you didn’t have to be the one to kill me.”
“So am I,” he whispered. “Come with me. I have something to give you.”
She followed him into an empty classroom, relieved that no one had noticed. If it was dangerous for an apprentice and a templar to dally, it was little less for a Harrowed mage, though her punishment wouldn’t be Tranquility but instead exile. Even if everyone knew how he felt for her and she for him, it was politely ignored so long as they were discreet. “What is it?” she asked quietly.
He reached into his beltpouch and pulled out a silver amulet in the shape of a laurel leaf. “I-I remembered what you said about your family,” he whispered, taking her hand to turn it over and place the amulet in her palm. It had the cool sheen of enchantment. “I was over at the Spoiled Princess, saw a trader selling that amulet, and had one of the Tranquil enchant it.”
Mara closed her eyes. Laurel leaves had been the symbol of the family she’d left behind when she was taken to the Circle. “Cullen, it’s beautiful.”
“I waited until your Harrowing to give it to you,” he said softly. “I’m… glad you survived.”
They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment before kissing, long and deep and sweet. Stolen, as all their moments were, and never lasting long enough. But it was all they had.
“I love you, Mara Cousland,” he whispered when they broke apart. “And I always will.”
“I love you too,” she admitted softly.
They rested their foreheads together for another precious moment before leaving the classroom separately.
That amulet never left her neck for the rest of her life.
