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This was not Kinloch hold. Despite the familiarity, the feel of cool stone under his bare fingers and the smell of decaying paper and elfroot, this was not Kinloch hold.
At first, Irving couldn’t quite recognize what was wrong about this place. The stone arches, once white but now grayed with time and dust, still curved over doorways. Candle sconces and chandeliers lit the tower with few stained glass windows providing little light. Apprentices wandered the dark corners of the library. Shelves and shelves of books lined the walls. As he peered at the titles filed around him, he found that not a single one stuck in his mind.
He passed between two neatly lined desks and stepped onto a worn rug. He’d practiced barrier spells here, which were perhaps the only sort of magic he had a particular aptitude for. Other appetencies strived for flashier magic, or even practical magic, like Wynne’s healing. Irving had always been happy enough with books and a solid understanding of the basics. He was less likely to blow things up by mistake that way.
It was the smoke rising up from all corners of the place that caught his attention. It obscured his view, but revealed even more. Apprentices emerged from the smoke, and Irving’s adjusting eyes caught something odd about them. Some seemed wisps half formed into robed bodies and others had arms so long they grazed at their knees. His eyes followed a young mage stepping in from the hallway with limbs falling from her belt and around her waist like a flowing skirt. Another walked beside him with flesh built so thick over his pointed scalp and eyes that he almost looked like he was wearing a bascinet. A few vanished when an unknown breeze blew through the library and whirled smoke about them, but more ventured in from the doorway. One strayed need a sconce and the light shown through his head.
These monstrous mages did not frighten him, instead inciting fascination with everyone who walked by.
Out in the hallway, templars stood on guard. Their armor melded into their chests, white as bone with swords carved down the front. Their hands and heads were stained blood red, still dripping onto the stone floor. As Irving climbed a set of stairs at the end of the hall, he noticed that the back of the templars’ heads were burst outward with spikes, which trailed down their spines and stabbed out from their elbows. Though monstrous in appearance, none so much as looked at him, nor the other apprentices. They only stood motionless on either side of each doorway.
Irving peered into the tower chapel. Always the best tended to part of the tower, Irving found it beautiful. Ornate statues of Andraste, gold leaf framed portraits of past Divines, and bowls of incense decorated the room. He, like most others in the tower, was Andrastian, but few of the mages had much faith in the Chantry. It was difficult being loathed by those they were meant to worship. Many found solace in the thought that perhaps meant to be speaking the word of the Maker spoke only their own word.
Just as Irving started to debate where to go next—there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he was meant to be somewhere—a hand flattened on his back and a solid body pushed into the doorway beside him. Another templar, Irving could tell by his sharp red fingers molded into the shape of gauntlets and the white flesh. His eyes trailed up a muscled and armored arm until he came upon a familiar face. It was Greagoir, the young templar he’d spoken with a fair few times in the library. The man was not cruel the way some of his comrades could be. His gruff and awkward disposition portrayed a strictness one might find with his elders, but Irving had found him to be compassionate and gentle. The two of them had even struck up an awkward almost friendship. Greagoir would offer to stay late in the library with him and escort him back to his rooms when the other templars would just as easily punish him for asking. In those late nights, they’d enjoy companionable silence or find common ground in tower gossip. It had become something to look forward to.
Greagoir’s hand was hot against his back, but not so friendly has he remembered. Instead of pleasant, it almost seemed to burn him through his robes. Still, it was Greagoir and therefore touched desire hidden deep inside of him.
“If you were looking for a place to be alone, this is certainly it,” Greagoir said, casting a curious gaze at him. “But I thought you mages liked to stay away from here.”
With a quiet hum and a shake of his head, explained. “It’s not the place really, not for me. No one likes to be called an abomination by the chantry sisters though.” At least even the sisters were nowhere to be seen. He chanced a step into the chapel, and then another. The place seemed to grow more vibrant the further in he went. Had the stone arches above always been cast such a lovely blue? Did the statues truly sparkle with precious metals? By all rights, this place did seem to be supernatural, though he couldn’t claim it seemed holy. No, this place had not been so decadent before. What was happening here?
Greagoir’s voice cut off his thoughts. “You know, I’ve seen you watching me.” It was a relief he hadn’t left. Irving found himself desiring the man’s company, though perhaps not yet in the way his words implied. Of course Irving had little trouble making friends in the tower, being the agreeable young man he was. He kept his head down and did his work, not causing any trouble for the other mages. That life was easy. What Greagoir offered in his companionship was something thrilling. He knew much the mages could not know living as they did in the tower, but he was not forceful with his opinions.
Irving had made his way to the far side of the chapel by then. He stood near a laced metal divider with stone columns separating one of the many altars from the rest of the room. His fingers trailed over a path of iron. He wasn’t sure what to say. In truth, he had been watching Greagoir. To deny it would be pointless. He hadn’t put much thought into why he was watching the man, nothing beyond that he was interesting. As much as he enjoyed Greagoir’s company, he wasn’t about to push his luck and admit it either. Mages had been thrown in the cells for less.
A hand caught his arm. “And you know I’ve been watching you too.”
That was unexpected, but also true. Irving hadn’t known Greagoir to be so observant. He’d been wondering a little about that, but dismissed the thought as being mutual and otherwise platonic interest.
Not so, it seemed. Greagoir let his hand slip to Irving’s wrist and tugged. He came willingly closer. They now stood, nearly the same height, far too close to be considered appropriate by any means. If anyone else were to step into the chapel, they’d be thankfully hidden behind a stone column, but that wasn’t guaranteed to keep them protected for long. It wasn’t bad, Irving decided. It was comfortable here like this, perhaps too comfortable.
“Why have you been watching me?” Greagoir asked. His expression was familiar, a look of discomfort and curiosity he often wore when Irving would attempt to prompt him into conversation. For a templar, he was remarkably bad at controlling his expressions, and all attempts to shape them into something neutral left him looking awkward and tense Irving found it endearing. It certainly humanized a man who in many ways had authority over his life.
Irving hesitated, his eyes searching the man for some sort of trick. “I’m not sure.” The longer they stood there together, the more he started to think he did know after all. His gazed dropped. “Maybe I am a little curious about you.” This is closer to the truth, but Irving is careful to guard his words. Most mages had the sense not to proposition a templar. That would be inviting trouble for all of them.
“You want me.”
His eyes snapped back to Greagoir’s face. The man looked more sure of himself than Irving could ever recall having seen. He also looked more beautiful than Irving remembered. He looked...too much, just as everything else in the chapel seemed too much to be real.
As the hints of realization touched at the back of his mind, Greagoir’s armored hand smoothed over his jaw and cupped his cheek. Such a gentle gesture under the steel of Greagoir’s gauntlet, it made Irving smile and lean into the touch. His hand held the same heat against his cheek that it held on his back, but he had no desire to move away. Let me burn, he thought to himself, just as lips brushed against his.
The kiss was innocent by most standards, but it brought a wave of desire coursing through him. All of those times he caught himself watching the templars for a familiar face, all those warm looks he caught Greagoir giving him while he read, every little squabble in the library late at night, fell into place. He’d fallen in love with a templar, and there was no going back. He couldn’t take it back now if he tried. Greagoir’s arm curled around his waist, holding him close. His body threatened to burn him alive, the heat almost unbearable. Still, this was comfortable. Irving needed this.
Greagoir’s lips trailed away from his and pressed against his temple.
“Do you know,” he said in a rough whisper, “What happens to mages who don’t pass the Harrowing?” Irving froze. The Harrowing. That seemed so near and so far. What was he doing? Wasn’t his Harrowing meant to happen soon?
Greagoir continued. “I could protect you. You don’t have to end up like then.” Irving believed it. Greagoir held his entire life in his hands, and Irving would follow wherever he went. The templar embodied safety. He would not have to endure the Harrowing, he would never have to take that risk.
“All you have to do is let me touch.”
Whatever the demon wearing Greagoir’s face had meant to accomplish, those words broke the spell. This was not Kinloch Hold. This was the Fade. He was going to die because of temptation.
Shocked by this realization, Irving tried to push the demon away, but claws grew from his gauntlets and sunk into Irving’s back and neck. He cried out in pain and attempted to wrench himself away. Now that he had seen what really was, the demon wrapping itself around him took on a gruesome form. Horns pulled from the sides of its head, its grey flesh was adorned with gold and silk.
Irving avoided its face, not wanting to see if Greagoir was still there. He’d been tempted by that face, but he would not fall because of it. Instead he threw up a barrier, which crashed into the demon and threw it away from him. The demon shrieked and threw itself at him, but was forced away by the pale light enveloping him. Enraged, the demon screamed. The room shook with the force of its voice. Dust and loose piece of stone rained down around them. “I could save you!” its voice echoed off the walls. “This could all be yours, just let me have you!” Its bargaining continued as it threw itself at the barrier over and over again. Irving tried to gather himself, but knew he was no match for such a powerful desire demon. There was nowhere to run, not if all the templars and mages outside the chapel were demons too. Without the barrier, he would die here.
The demon drew itself upright and gathered itself for another charge. This time, it leapt into the air and came at him from above. The new angle allowed for greater strength, and the barrier burst, but not before the stone beneath them started to crumble. As the demon collided with him, the floor gave out entirely and they were plunged into darkness.
Just as startled as Irving, the demon did not manage to grip him, and instead fell independent of him. The only light guiding their fall came from above, where they’d just been standing in the chapel.
Fearing impact, Irving twisted himself in the air to see their destination. At first it was too dark to see at all. Then, as they drew closer and closer, he saw that the floor was not stone, but instead a pile of emaciated bodies, black as ash. Their skin had drawn tight around them, as though they’d been left to rot. Some were small; Irving gauged them to be mere children.
“If you will not join me, you will join them!” the demon roared from just above him, jaws open and claws extended toward him. It had given up all semblance of a templar, instead giving into a more monstrous form.
Irving did not wait for it to draw closer. He swung his arm out toward the demon and fire erupted from his hand.
The world around him burst into light and heat. Was this it? Had he died?
Cool air filled his lungs he jolted upright. Everything spun and he toppled over into strong arms. Feeling the cold metal under his skin, Irving propelled himself away, only to fall against the floor once more.
“He’s alive!” called a familiar voice he would not quite place. “And unprocessed too, by the looks of it.” Hands hauled him up to stand. His legs refused to hold him, and again he fell into an armored body. This one hooked an arm around his shoulders and held him upright.
“He is not an abomination,” confirmed another voice, followed by a soft hand along his brow. “Irving, welcome back.” He recognized this one as the first enchanter.
The body beside him rumbled as it spoke. “Congratulations, mage. You’ll live to see another day.” Irving told himself that should be comforting on some level, but the voice was too raw in his mind. It was the same voice that nearly led him to his death. It was tight with worry, more anxious and clipped than it had been in the Fade, but it was unmistakable.
Movement rushed around him. Irving closed his eyes and focused on staying upright. Greagoir remained at his side all the while, holding him up. This body did not burn the way the one in the Fade had. The sharp edges stuck him trough his robes and the metal chilled him. This is real, he told himself, paying little attention to what was happening outside his body.
“He won’t be able to take the stairs yet. I’ll stay wit him here until he’s ready,” Greagoir said after the poking and prodding was done and Irving had been declared demon-free. “If anything changes, I will handle it.” Whatever the other templars and senior mages made of that, they agreed to leave them be. The sound of armored boots echoed out of the room and down the stairs, leaving them in silence.
“Irving, are you alright?”
It took him a moment for him to realize Greagoir was speaking to him. His eyes flickered open. This was the room he’d been in for the lyrium ritual. That seemed like ages ago. So much had changed since then.
Everything was a blur, but at least he didn’t feel like he was about to fall over at any moment. Irving nodded, but didn’t trust his voice enough to otherwise respond. The body beside him shifted and the arm around him tightened. Irving found himself being led, slowly so he could walk with Greagoir’s assistance, toward an open balcony on the far side of the room. There were no balconies on the lower levels and even windows were a scarcity in the tower. Had he been more aware of himself, he might have been more excited at the promise of seeing the outside world. When would he have this chance again?
The sky was dark, lit only by stars and a thin sliver of the moon. Irving’s eyes were slow to focus. Even so, as Greagoir helped him sit against the wall, he kept his gaze skyward.
The clank of metal beside him indicated that Greagoir had opted to sit as well. They were close, but not touching. Irving might have told himself something to explain that away, but with the Fade still so fresh he could only think of the desire he’d learned there. It was not something fabricated by the demon, but instead something young and unformed now blossomed inside of him.
“That’s Judex,” Greagoir’s voice broke through the night air. His finger pointed up at a line of stars above. “The blade of mercy and symbol of the Order.” Irving’s eyes were still too dull to make out the individual stars, but he hummed in appreciation. “And that’s the Oak there.” He paused and Irving could feel his gaze. “You probably know more about it than I do. Mages and their education…Out in the countryside, we only learn the names, not the meanings.” Irving couldn’t remember the last time he got a good look at the stars. They were difficult to see through the stained glass windows of the tower. Even as much of a mess as he was, he appreciated Greagoir’s attempts to teach him the constellations. Books did little good when one couldn’t see the subject.
Undeterred by Irving’s silence, Greagoir continued. “There’s the Eye, the Maker’s gaze. That’s one they teach templar recruits. It reminds us that that the Maker is watching, waiting for us to earn His love. And that’s the Stallion there.” Do his lesson went. Irving had heard of all of the constellations, had seen a few of them as a child before he was taken to the tower. Never before had he so dearly missed stars as this moment. Greagoir had given them back to him.
Here, under the stars with his brain feeling like it had been rattled around in his head, Irving knew what was real. His eyes slipped shut and he smiled. Even if this was just for the moment, he was happy to be here with Greagoir at his side. A slow, trembling hand rested on the templar’s metal gauntlet. It was cold under his touch, and absolutely real. Nothing the Fade could offer would ever be better than this.
Greagoir’s lesson trailed off into silence, but Irving was too contented to open his eyes and see the man’s expression. He didn’t need to. The armored hand beneath his turned carefully upward to cradle his. Then templar started again.
“Overhead is the High Dragon…”