Chapter Text
All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand
Beloved and precious to Him.
Where the Maker has turned His face away,
Is a Void in all things;
In the world, in the Fade,
In the hearts and minds of men.
Threnodies, 12
She’s five. The serving girl from the kitchen is crying while she takes away her mother’s plate. She doesn’t understand why and mother wouldn’t tell her.
She is brought to her room to change into her nightclothes, her nanny brushes her hair in long strokes, singing a sweet song. She forgets her curiosity, but something lingers, something inside her remains shaken and she feels sad.
When she falls asleep, she dreams, and in her dream she’s sad and cries.
There is a table, and she has to collect all the plates and the cups and all the food that is left, but the table keeps getting away, every time she tries to reach it it’s a bit farther and so is her family, still sitting, still drinking from cups and eating from forks. They slip away, slowly, even as she calls at them, even as she cries.
Then she realizes: it’s not them, they are not moving. It’s her. Something is dragging her away, far away, and she has so much to do, so many plates, so many cups to wash, she cries, she calls for her mother, for her brother, for father, but no one answers.
***
She is eleven and it doesn’t happen in a flash, all of a sudden, like the tales they tell in the Chantry when they warn you and scare you.
It happens quietly, so quickly, and for a brief moment, just the blink of an eye, but she sees it. No one else does. She is so scared she feels her heart exploding in her chest.
It’s just a flame, a little, innocent flame, and the day is so cold, in the gardens.
It’s a little flame, not much of a menace, not really, but it’s on her hand, and it comes from her, and that makes all the difference.
Her hand is warm, but the rest of her body is pure ice, now. Terrified.
She runs to her room, closes the door and tries again. No flame, no fire, no magic. A nightmare, a daylight dream, for sure. She lies to herself and she gets a brief moment of comfort from that.
When it happens again, she is not alone, and it’s not a flame, it’s a barrier.
Her brother is throwing snow at her and aims for her face, too fast and with too much strength. She’s going to get hurt, and something inside her knows it, so something else wakes up to protect her, and that’s it.
Everybody knows.
Her brother, the stable boy, her friend Janelle, and her mother… Her mother’s eyes go wide and still as ice, from the porch just a few feet away she can see her mother’s mouth open, but no sound comes out. Or maybe it does, she can’t tell, since her ears ring like crazy, her heart beats a wild rhythm and everything is chaos inside her.
Later, that night, she prays. And prays. She cries to the Maker, she begs him, she promises, she asks forgiveness, she asks for mercy. Her answer is silence and she feels guilty for it.
No one is allowed to cry, when she leaves, her father wants her departure to be dignified. They have cried, sure, but privately, discreetly, when no one could see them, not like some common serving girl from the kitchen.
Her mother smiles when she fastens her cloak and gives her one last kiss.
Her father takes her and places her small hand into the Templar’s big one. “Take care of her, Ser” he says.
She feels like she’s being married off, and she would laugh but then she realizes that will never happen, now.
The Templars are polite and proper and they help her get into the carriage, closing the drapes against the cold wind. One of them is young, not much older than her brother, she thinks. He smiles at her and then hides it quickly.
When the horses move, she feels it, all of a sudden, this is happening, and there is nothing she can do to help it.
She moves the drapes, she wants to look at her mother one more time, at her home, while they move away, before the bend in the road takes the view away from her. The young Templar sitting in front of her moves so fast that she doesn't notice, until his hand grabs her wrist and the other one pushes her down, firmly back on her seat.
She yelps, scared, startled and hurt. His armoured hand squeezes too tight and her head hits the wooden back of the seat.
“Sit down, mage. We’ll be at the tower soon.”
She feels the carriage turn, it’s too late, now.
***
She’s twelve, and she is cold. Her room is small and the cover thick, but the wind howls outside and she hears them, down the corridor. Someone is crying, softly, and then a door closes and there are whispers and steps on the stone.
The stone carries, like a million little echoes of whimpers and muffled pleas, and rustling, and then the sound of a slap and then silence.
She’s cold and she doesn’t want to hear, even if she doesn’t know what she is hearing, but the stone carries.
She’s twelve, and Silvy is right in front of her when she passes out.
They are learning about concentration and centering, and how to draw their strength from their inner magical reserve, when her classmate, two years older, blonde and thin like a willow, suddenly gets up and then falls immediately down. Their teacher is behind her in a flash and a Templar helps him get Silvy up on the table.
Exhaustion, they say. She overextended herself.
She doesn't know her well, but her room is just down the corridor from her own and she can hear her, some nights, and she knows she is tired and weary. The stone carries.
“She can’t sleep anymore…” someone whispers, too soft for the Templar to hear, but their teacher has a fine ear and he closes his eyes for a moment.
“She needs to rest. I will have her taken to the infirmary, and she will stay there for a couple of nights, Ser.”
Something passes between the two men, something she doesn’t understand. The Templar looks worried.
They take good care of them, in the tower. She is lucky.
She is twelve when Silvy turns into an abomination in the middle of the mess hall.
They kill her.
They kill the thing that has taken her place.
Blood and gore, and a moment of burning cold all around, and then it’s over.
She has put up a barrier, a weak one, but steady. It’s the thing she can do best and her teachers tell her she is very promising for her age. She is so proud when they praise her. She feels like she has not disappointed them all, like the Maker has something in store for her, after all. She will be a good mage, a powerful and respected one, she will protect and she will have control and they will be proud of her.
When the cold washes over her, her barrier falls and she feels like something gets torn out of her, and then a piece of Silvy hits her in the face.
The Purge leaves her weak for hours afterwards and she can still feel blood and gore on her face, even after she has scrubbed and scrubbed. She doesn’t sleep, that night, but the corridor is silent and the stone carries nothing.
She has no control, she has no power, she is cold and she knows the Maker has not forgiven her.
***
She is thirteen and it’s a sunny day. They are allowed in the gardens for one hour after the lessons and it’s a glorious summer afternoon. The light reflects on the Templar’s pauldrons and she thinks he must be cooking inside all that metal.
She walks slowly, as they have taught her: her hands visible and a quiet smile on her face, reassuring, not alarming, harmless. He turns to look at her and doesn’t smile back.
“Would you like some water, ser? I can fetch it for you.”
He looks puzzled, for a moment.
“Well… Thank you, yes. That would be most appreciated, Dorothea.”
He knows her name and she knows his. Brenden was just more than a boy, freshly ordained, when he took her from her home, but now he’s a man, two years older than her brother, and he’s usually kind and even smiles sometimes. Once he openly laughed at a joke her friend made.
She’s still a girl, too young and inexperienced for the Harrowing and she doesn’t look forward to it, but that means she hasn’t proven herself yet and Templars are nervous around her and the others like her.
She comes back with the jug of cool water and he takes it, a small nod is quite enough as a thank you and she is happy to help, happy to be of service.
Back at home she never learned how to help, how to serve, that was a job for the kitchen staff, or the cleaning girls, the stable master, the nanny. Now she is happy to take care of others, her classmates and the Templars alike, and she enjoys the little things she can do, even the scheduled chores the Tower enforces.
Here the Mages take care of themselves, the help is scarce and mostly secluded from them. They clean and they cook, but rarely come in direct contact with her or her fellow mages. It’s for their safety, they say. She never understood if they mean the Mages’ safety or the servants’, but she thinks it’s probably right anyway.
She goes back to her friends, walking barefoot on the grass, a small indulgence that would have been deemed scandalous back home.
Nor is throwing a ball with one of the other boys and they jump and shout at each other. Her friend Harvine is sitting on a bench, with eyes closed and her face towards the sun, she is smiling.
She feels happy and free.
Somewhere inside her she wishes she could feel like this every day.
She swats away the sudden sadness that blossoms with the thought. They still have half an hour before they have to go back inside, she’ll have time to be sad later.
***
She is fourteen and she is scared. There is shouting and crying and the stone carries. They’re eating in silence, everyone is pretending not to hear, but they are listening.
Enchanter Hayes has a deep, rich voice and he’s scary when he’s angry, but now he sounds more desperate than anything else and it’s heartbreaking and frightening.
“...enough!” there’s a loud bang and she recognizes Knight Captain Cauldwell’s voice.
Everyone flinches and pretends harder not to notice.
Time passes in silence. Then they hear the enchanter’s voice again.
“...told you. And now you come and tell me there was no other choice? There was a choice, there was one before you took it away!”
“He was dangerous! You all are. And you’d better remember, Hayes, that…” the volume drops and she cannot understand anymore, until the voices become loud again. “...we will exercise that right. It is our prerogative and it is our duty!”
“It is abuse of power!”
“Be very careful, enchanter…”
“The First Enchanter will…”
“The First Enchanter approved it!”
Silence.
They don’t see Arwell for weeks and by the time she meets him again she already knows. He looks peaceful, he greets her when she brings him a message from one of the Enchanters and he thanks her for her service. He doesn’t smile or frown. He doesn’t look at her more than it’s necessary before returning to his task.
He was funny, Arwell, he was handsome and charming and had a wicked sense of humor. He’d made a Templar laugh, once. Now he’s Tranquil.
He’s the same, but she doesn’t think he’s handsome anymore.
“Enchanter Hayes?” she is mincing elfroot with a steady hand, her cuts even and precise. She is good with herbs and potions and she thinks going into healing and restorative magic will be a good choice for her future. Her teachers seem to think the same. She’s a born guardian, Dorothea Trevelyan, she has a natural talents for barriers and protective spells and she can heal extremely well for a mage as young as she is.
“Yes, child?”
“What did Arwell do to be made Tranquil?”
Her question gives birth to a frozen silence.
There are six people in the room: The Enchanter, an older mage with blue eyes she thinks is called Brian, her classmate Nor - Norwood, from Ostwick, just like her - two Templars and herself.
No one answers. For a moment it seems like no one even breathes.
Enchanter Hayes closes his eyes for a second and then looks at her with worry and sadness painted all over his face.
“You were friends with Arwell, were you not, my dear?”
“I was… I liked him. He was funny and we talked, sometimes.”
“You can still be friends, Dora, you know that of course.”
She feels… For a moment she doesn’t understand what she feels, but then it’s clear as crystal. Anger. She suddenly feels like white hot fire filled her and she knows he ears are red and her hand has clamped around the knife handle. She breathes deeply, in and out, until she thinks she can speak without raising her voice to her teacher.
“How?”
“He’s still Arwell, even if…”
“You must pardon me, Enchanter, but he is not. How can we be friends when... Now that… He’s hollow .”
“And yet he is alive, Dorothea. Don’t you think it’s a sad fate to be alive and alone? Even if you cannot feel lonely?”
She pauses. She is about to cry out just that. Why should Arwell need friends, when he cannot feel, when he cannot even understand what friendship is?
But it’s true. It is sad. And maybe Arwell can’t feel it, but she can, and she could not ignore that, now.
And yet, she is not done. She cannot leave it be.
She is fourteen and she is becoming a bit stubborn.
“Enchanter, forgive me, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I have not, Dorothea.”
In Hayes eyes there is a warning, stern but very clearly worried as well.
She doesn’t miss it, but she decides to ignore it.
“This is not something that is forbidden, Enchanter, is it? We are allowed to talk and I just want to know why was he…”
“Because he was dangerous and unruly, and he never kept his mouth shut.”
Knight Captain Cauldwell is tall, and his eyes are usually kind. Not this time.
He walks in and he is the only one in the room to make some noise, of the seven of them now present.
Dorothea turns to face him.
She is not scared. She hasn’t done anything wrong and she has never caused any trouble, and her family is very well known and important and… She is terrified. She has no reason to be, but she feels like her legs are about to give up any moment now. She looks at the Templar anyway and holds his gaze. Steady.
“Your friend Arwell broke the rules more than once, he spoke when he was ordered to shut up, he did what he was not supposed to do and when reprimanded and punished and made to promise not to do it again he simply ignored it all and repeated his actions. Your friend was a rebel and a dangerous element, Dorothea Trevelyan.”
“He was sixteen, Ser.”
She doesn’t know why she says that, but it’s the only thing that makes sense and it comes out of her mouth just like that. It is something she heard others say, her mother, her nanny, others. It rings true. Arwell was just sixteen, a sixteen years old boy, ready for the Harrowing but still…
He hits her. Backhanded, hard, fast.
He’s not wearing his full armor and he’s probably not putting all his strength in it, because she still has a face afterwards, but she falls.
She has never been hit like that before.
Yes, of course, there have been slaps here and there, when she misbehaved or answered too slowly to something a Templar told her to do, obviously. And there has been caning, like it happens to everybody when they go a bit further and they earn themselves a proper punishment, but nothing like this.
Templars never hit her like this, all of a sudden, without warning. Templars tell you “ Now I’m going to punish you because you did this and that” and then they do it, just to teach you where you did wrong and, yes, if you do it again (like when they stole cream from the pantry and were caught, on her first year, oh that was a mistake worth repeating) you get hit harder and for longer and it leaves those angry marks you are not allowed to see healed by magic. Templars bend you over and spank you once or twice, if they catch you doing something you shouldn't do, but it’s just a bit humiliating and it hurts, but not so much when they don’t do it on bare skin, after all. And when they do take the time to lift your skirt, it’s because you’ve done really wrong and you deserve it, and you know it. It’s for your own good and it’s because there are rules and rules are here to protect you all.
This is nothing like it.
This is violent and harsh and there is no warning. This is fighting, except for the fact that she cannot fight back and she knows it.
She falls. Her head rings and she tastes blood in her mouth.
“Your friend was a rebel and a dangerous element, Dorothea. Are you like him?”
His voice never changes, never gets higher or louder. Everyone else just stays silent.
She tries to talk but her jaw hurts and she realizes there are tears on her eyes, ready to spill.
She doesn’t want to cry in front of him. She stays down, crouched, while she breathes in and out, trying to find the way to reply without crying and without whimpering.
She takes a little too long.
An armored booth kicks her on the side. Not too hard, just enough to send her sprawling back on the floor.
She hits the wooden bench with her head and she cries out.
“I asked you a question, mage. You’d better answer.”
She hears him but it’s hard, under her heart beating like crazy and her blood pumping wildly in her ears.
She looks up and she knows. She knows she will remember the sight for the rest of her life.
Knight Captain Cauldwell is towering over her, completely unfazed. His face doesn’t betray any emotion, he looks like a Tranquil, except for the eyes. His bright green eyes are sharp and burning and they look like they’re challenging her. He’s steel and leather and chainmail and muscle and bulk and she is small, so small at his feet.
There are other feet around them: two Templars, one Enchanter, one Mage and one friend. No one of those moves.
She answers.
“I’m… I’m sorry.”
“What did you say? I can’t hear you girl, speak up.”
“I said I’m sorry, Knight Captain.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but that is not what I asked you, is it?”
She wants to get up, she feels humiliated and something in this position, being on the floor, half crouching and half lying with someone towering over her, makes her insides freeze and knot, and she can almost swear she hears a voice inside her head that screams to get up.
She can’t. She stays there, takes a deep breath and replies.
“No Ser. I will not be like Arwell, Ser, I promise.”
She means it.
She will not be made hollow. She will not. She will die first.
She will be good, and she will obey and won’t cause trouble. But if it comes to choosing, she will die.
“Very well. Good girl. Hamons, pick her up and bring her down to the cells. A couple of days in isolation will do her good.”
She stops breathing and everyone around her seems to do the same.
When she feels something again, she is being dragged out of the laboratory, and she is walking down the corridor with legs that feel like wet paper.
But she has a warning now.
Templars always warn you when they punish you, and they do it for your own good.
It’s going to hurt.
Afterwards, they leave her alone.
It’s not too bad, and it’s been quick, almost a blur. Now it hurts, like a hot current going through her, but she will heal. She feels a little nauseated and there is blood here and there, but once the bruises fade she will be fine.
Pain is a strange relief. There was fear, and tension and the horror of not knowing and then pain had come, not blocked by shock or panic any longer, and it was… Well it was pain. Nothing extraordinary, nothing unbearable.
She feels strangely calm, now and she has felt like that for a while.
She is fourteen and she tries to sleep, curled into a ball on the floor. Sleep comes after a long struggle and she can’t remember her dreams, but she knows there was a banquet and someone was dancing with her.