14 Days of Circle Mages

A Dragon Age Fan Event | Starting Feb 1st, 2025 | FAQ

[14dayscirclemages]

14 Days of Circle Mages

A Dragon Age Fic Event

Coming: Feb 1st, 2025

Have a character with a Circle mage background you always wanted to write about? Now's your chance!

Why not take 14 days out of 2025 to develop these stories?

FAQ is now live! Check out this post for more information.

Text version of prompts and links under the cut!

Prompts:

Day 1: Upbringing Day 2: Arrival Day 3: Phylactery Day 4: Templar Day 5: Friends Day 6: Enemies Day 7: Lovers Day 8: Joy Day 9: Sorrow Day 10: Blood Magic Day 11: Lyrium Day 12: Wish Day 13: Escape Day 14: Free Space

Tag @14dayscirclemages or upload to the collection at https://archiveofourown.org/collections/202514DaysCircleMages

[shurlock]

upbringing

@14dayscirclemages

i'm probably not gonna do all the prompts for this and i'm also very late but i had to get this out of my head. anyways- lucis surana be upon ye

Lucis used to climb the vhenadahl in her alienage. 

The memories she had of the alienage had faded with time. All she remembered of her father were calloused hands, and all she remembered of her mother was a lullaby. What she could never forget was the bark under her small hands, the sunlight streaming through the leaves, the colorful ribbons fluttering in the breeze. Perched on a branch of the vhenadahl, she could see all the way to the gates of the alienage. 

Up there, it was easy to believe. She was Garahel, the elven hero of the Fourth Blight. She could take on anything: archdemons, demons, dragons, the silver humans that stood outside the gates. On some nights, she believed she could pluck a star from the sky.

Like all things, it never lasted for long. Lucis slipped and broke her arm. From then on, she was forbidden to climb the vhenadahl, and just like that, it felt like Lucis lost everything. It was back to rumbling stomachs and skinned knees. A rundown house whose roof leaked when it rained. A click of the lock on their door as another elf is stolen away by humans in the night. She remembered hoping and praying to a small statue (Andraste? One of the Creators?) to fix her arm because the ground was a terrible place to be.

She must've thought it a gift from the Maker when a small spark of flame came to life at her fingers. Although, she knew better now than to attribute everything she's capable of to an absent deity. Everyone knew what happened to people with magic so she spent her days hidden behind closed doors.

She spent days coaxing the spark and it eventually turned into a strong bright flame. Her arm eventually healed, but she never climbed the vhenadahl again. Not when the fire in her cupped hands was as bright as a star.

On the day Lucis was taken to the Circle, something had happened—humans in the alienage. It was always humans. There was a pretty girl Lucis followed around everywhere. She had golden hair—like her Zevran—and she taught Lucis how to braid her own black hair. Lucis liked her, and it turned out, humans liked the girl too. Humans liked elves' pointy ears and large eyes.

When those humans grabbed the girl, no one did anything. The human men laughed and spoke cruel words. The girl shivered between them, tears in her eyes. And still, everyone stood around and did nothing.

"Magic exists to serve man." That's what's said in the Chant of Light. That's what's recited in the mass held in the center of the alienage. If she was supposed to serve, then why was the Chantry mother stopping her?

Lucis remembered struggling against the Chantry mother, who clamped a hand over her mouth. She remembered sinking her teeth into the woman's hand.

With a yell, the woman released her. Lucis rushed towards one of the humans leering down at the elf, a blazing heat spreading across her body. She could still taste the blood in her mouth when she pulled the human's arm away with a strength she didn't know she had. Fire burst to life underneath her hands. The human screamed, and Lucis felt a thrill of satisfaction.

A hard hit in the head and she sprawled out on the mud. She spat out a tooth.

There was more screaming, making her head throb even more. She didn't know if she cried. She didn't even know if the girl was safe or if those humans still took her. The next thing she knew, she was being held up by one of those silver men. They put handcuffs on her, handcuffs small enough to fit even a small malnourished elven child.

Did someone try to help her? Did her parents see her? Did they try to do anything? She couldn't remember, but she remembered the taste of blood on her tongue, the gag they put on her.

"Fucking knife-ear," someone said.

As they carried through the alienage gates, the last thing she saw was the vhenadahl standing high with its streamers fluttering in the wind.

[suranastair]

@14dayscirclemages

This is Part 5 of a writing challenge for my Dragon Age Origins OC Selph Surana.

There will be 14 parts in all and I will upload a complete tumblr list once they're done. Otherwise I encourage reading on Ao3. 😊

~ Prompt 5: Friends ~

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62724109/chapters/172734292

Rating: Teen & Mature

Warnings/Tags: Fantasy and Fictional Setting Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Bullying, Child Death, Child Neglect, Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood Magic, Blood Magic (Dragon Age) +more on Ao3

Word Count: 2,730

Summary: Selph and Jowan have been friends for a long time in the tower, but another unlikely (and untimely) meeting sparks what could be something of an opportunity.

“Hey.” Pause. “Psst. Selph?” Another pause. “Seeeeelph? Are you awake?”

Well, I am now. Andraste’s pyre…

Selph cracked open a sleepy eye with a sigh, lolling it to the figure standing above her. In the muted darkness of the high-ceilinged chamber, she’d recognize the person’s silhouette anywhere.

Sighing again with a groan, Selph rolled over and pulled the covers above her head. “Jowan, go back to the other side before you get us both in trouble…” Her voice was muffled under the coarse and itchy blanket, even moreso with her grumble.

“Hey, I wouldn’t be here if I knew I’d get us in trouble! Not after last time. Or the time before that. Or the other—”

“Jowan.” Selph’s displeasure was apparent and abundant.

“Ohh, nevermind. The templars decided it was time to get up on our end anyway.” He grunted. “Thought it’d be nice to warn my best friend of that before they did the same to this side, you know?”

“Wait.” Selph brought down her covers, darting into an upwards position. “Did they kick you out of bed again? Are you okay?”

Jowan’s penciled jaw shuffled, and he hummed another sound of disapproval. “Me and several others. My bum’s throbbing right now.” He dropped to a whisper. “Bastards.”

The door to their chamber abruptly swung open, just as Jowan was saying. A templar with full arms and armor propped themselves in the door frame. They called out to the room packed with sleeping or groggy apprentices, all like sardines in their bunks.

“All right, you lot! Up and at ‘em! New recruits’re comin’ in today an’ we want all’a ya on yer best behavior!”

Selph recognized the knight’s voice—Tristol, an older member of the Order. Jowan’s side must have gotten his minor, Spann. The latter wasn’t so forgiving, much to the apprentices’ dismay.

“Right,” Selph mumbled after putting it together. She began casting a light mixture of heat and healing spells on Jowan’s aches, using her magic before prying eyes and prodding swords would stop her. “You never answered me,” she said, pointing her firm statement at him.

Jowan’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Never better with your help, of course.”

His sarcasm wasn’t lost on her, but she blushed all the same. “Oh, sure. You should learn how to do this for yourself. At this rate, you’ll never be called to your Harrowing.”

“Ha!” His laugh died in his throat. “Meanwhile, Irving’s been talking of yours coming up any month now,” he then said, a bite to the end of his assertion before his balm of a second could negate it. “Besides, it’s not the same unless it’s you patching me up.”

Nibbling on her lower lip in thought, Selph cast him a knowing glance before forcing herself to focus, trying to hide her rosy cheeks as Jowan palmed her shoulder.

In the meantime, the other apprentices stirred and fumbled about before any other templars like Spann became their alarm clocks on top of Tristol’s.

This day dragged, seemingly longer than others. By late afternoon, she was on her way to the library, heading to gather several older tomes for First Enchanter Irving while he was caught up in a meeting with Knight-Commander Greagoir.

It was surely regarding the new recruits arriving for the Order. That was fine. It kept her busy. Selph was glad to have this task—any task—to get her mind off that. It would be more fuel for the fire with which all the mages would have to contend in this prisonic place. She couldn’t help but be anxious, even if she was used to it.

It was to be expected. The other week some of their older members retired. Others outright died from age, expeditions and encounters with maleficarum and the like, or from lyrium sickness. The latter encompassed many side-effects, some more horrible than others.

Selph had seen them, had seen the effects, and perhaps that was why she held on to a sliver of empathy for some of the templars. Only some, and that was never something she’d admit out loud. They had to be replaced sooner or later. It was like clockwork. Predictable. It was similar for her and her fellow mages. At any point she could be gone, replaced.

Forgotten.

Selph ran her fingers along a book’s tattered leather spine. The dust it dragged away caused her to pull back with a frown. She was used to it, being forgotten. They all were. In one way or another.

Be quiet, she chastised herself. You’re lucky enough to be one of Irving’s apprentices, at least. She’d heard that enough to turn it on herself now, grimacing internally. But they don’t know the truth. And they never will.

“Which is good,” she whispered to herself, grabbing the book and tucking it close to the others in her arms. “It’s good,” she repeated, squeezing until her knuckles turned white.

Selph became wrapped up in her thoughts, distracted. So much so that when she collected the last of the books for her task, she clumsily ran into someone. Upon regaining her spatial awareness and grounding herself, she had a horrible realization.

There they were: the new recruits taking their tour, and she ran smack into one of them. Or he ran into her. The latter’s case would never be considered.

Fear hit her hard and fast, like they had read her thoughts, like she’d become one of the tomes now spread open on the ground in a haphazard pile.

It was a coin flip on what came next.

What she didn’t expect was the opposite of what she bet on that flip. The recruit was rather surprised and timid, his expression unlike any she’d seen before up to then. In another shocking surprise, he apologized for her muck-up. Even more of a shock was when he decided to kneel and help her!

She met his deep-set amber eyes that suddenly grew wider. Taking in his features, she noted both his angles and how they rounded to softer edges. The shadow of scruff hardened him, but his blonde curls were a rekindling of youth.

They exchanged a few words, more than she could remember in the coming days if she were being honest. New to the tower or not, she didn’t make a habit of chatting with templars.

But this recruit was…different. In the most perplexing of ways. To her, at least. In the following days, they passed one another in the halls as he started his training in the tower. Their visions would lock, and his gaze would linger. He would greet her or wave and she would reluctantly reciprocate if pressed, and his face would turn pink like before. She couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable or not.

And that was worrying.

Another new day came. The tower’s chambers thrummed with the echoes and patters of rain mixing with the footsteps of its residents. Selph was supposed to have grounds cleaning duties that day, but the weather said otherwise, keeping all indoors under extra watchful eyes.

Selph forcefully exhaled and stretched her limbs as break time came about. She, instead, was helping with the younger apprentices in their classroom studies. Selph didn’t mind helping plan lessons, but she was looking forward to seeing the last of the spring blossoms that wouldn’t survive the nearing frost.

There goes my one day to see the sun for this month… she despaired.

As she gathered herself and fixed her hair pin, Jowan found her. He was uncharacteristically bright and beaming as he met her pace on the way to the next floor. Selph tried to commit his expression to memory with a smile of her own.

“Selph! There you are!”

“Here I am,” she replied, nudging him in the arm. “What’s with that face?”

Brows raising as he broke momentarily free from his daze, Jowan pursed his lips. “What d’y’mean? Am I not allowed to be happy?”

Selph’s smile twisted into one more wry. “Is that a rhetorical question? Or has something actually gone well for you? For once?”

Rolling his eyes, Jowan nudged her in return, almost knocking her willowy frame off balance. “You make it seem like I’m just a ball of misery.”

“Because you are, Mister Misery,” Selph dropped her voice a couple octaves in mockery. “At least without me around.”

“Ha, ha.” Jowan hummed and shook his head, slowing his steps and scratching the scruff on his cheek. “Very funny, Missus Misery.”

Selph felt a rush of heat up her neck. She scoffed and slowed to match his pace. “Well…misery loves company. So? What’s going on?”

They came to a fork in the hall—one that would continue onward toward the Chantry vestibule, and one that would take the way around to the recreation chamber.

Jowan hesitated with his answer, moved aside some of his stringy black bangs and cleared his throat. “I…” he started, his eyes looking faraway before dimming. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit and tell you everything. How long until you’re need back?”

“That’s not ominous or anything,” Selph said with a serious squint.

Jowan’s groan nearly turned into a whine as he tilted his head back. “Just—! When are you due back?”

“Whenever Senior Enchanter Callie asks for me? I’m technically a substitute today, just helping out. I’m sticking close, whatever the case may be.”

“Oh, that old biddy will be fine without you. I’ll meet you in recreations in a bit, then. But for now, gotta go!” Jowan was already on his way before finishing his goodbye.

Nodding with a bit of confusion, but not questioning him further, Selph affirmed their meeting for later to herself. There was a strange sensation surrounding her for a moment, settling in her gut uncomfortably.

She pushed it aside as she entered the chamber and made headway for the reading nook. It was empty, like usual, and she seized her chance to delve into the botany books that had been collecting cobwebs to pass the time. It would keep her close to the classrooms, and she got to indulge in plant life, if only in crusty pages.

She lost herself in her readings until in walked that recruit—the one from the library. He and another templar barged in, one of the worst in the tower: Audrey. She announced their arrival, a most irritating performance.

As Audrey did all the needless theatrics in their entrance, the recruit stood and wrung his hands on his sword’s pommel, more than embarrassed, Selph noted. She wanted to laugh, but held back for her own sake.

Audrey was the one who took Spann under her wing, “taught him better than Tristol ever could,” she’d often say.

It was by luck that Selph didn’t have any unsavory encounters with the woman herself, but Jowan had enough stories to make her stomach curdle and blood boil. It would seem as though she would dodge another arrow with her this day as well; the recruit and her exchanged some heated words she couldn’t hear before she left him there. Alone.

Selph scanned the room again. He wouldn’t have a tough time with anyone currently there. Audrey had to have known that. Or, maybe, she hoped he would. Either way, the ones present weren’t what anyone would call “troublemakers”. Maybe dramatic, sometimes, but nothing past a little tiff or two.

She swallowed, reborrowing her nose in her book. And why in Andraste’s name do you care, Selph? It doesn’t matter.

Too soon, most of the other mages and apprentices funneled out, leaving her alone with him. And too soon from there did he begin making his way toward her…?

No. To the board games.

That didn’t stop him from giving her a glance and a smile. And, Maker preserve her, she reciprocated.

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. She tried to ignore him, tried to read again, but it was no use. She’d been caught observing, and the recruit kept eyeing her as he set up a game of chess.

For…himself?

She knew it wasn’t uncommon for one to play a solo chess session. Still, Selph shifted in her chair. How long had it been since she got there? Where was Jowan?

Her worries came to a head when the recruit approached her and introduced himself. Cullen was his name. Cullen Rutherford.

“Looks like I wasn’t wrong when I said we’d see more of each other!”

Selph pushed out a tiny, strained laugh, holding the sizable tome over her small chest. “It’s, um, not necessarily that difficult when we’re confined to a tower.”

Selph feared she’d toed too close to a line, but Cullen simply laughed—nervously, his cheeks turning that pink she’d seen before. “Very true. Same faces, different day. Still, I thought I might get a moment with a mage or two just to talk and introduce myself. Take a moment to listen to the wards instead of…well…” He trailed off.

“Audrey?” Selph so badly wanted to add the title of ‘The Blowhard’ afterward.

Cullen looked around as if he would be the one punished if caught badmouthing another templar. “Maker, is she always like that? She’s going to do my head in.”

Selph’s mouth formed into a line, and she shrugged in place of a plethora of unsaid words.

“A-anyway.” He stood up straighter, his armor clanking. “I’d heard you were one of the First Enchanter’s hand-picked apprentices. That’s quite the honor!”

Standing and tenderly putting the book back while he spoke, Selph shuffled around Cullen and more into the open. She took painstaking care of her steps and held her middle in the absence of the book, cursed not taking it with her.

“Yes, it is.”

“It must have taken a lot of discipline and willpower.”

“It did.”

“So, you like to read in your off time?”

“Mm-hm.”

A long bout of silence stretched between them then. Cullen was, once again, the one to finally break it.

“My apologies,” he said, defeated. “This…isn’t a test or anything, I promise. I do just want to talk.” There was a pause before he continued. “A-and you can talk to me anytime if I’m around.”

Selph sighed, at an impasse. “No, it’s—O-okay, I’m—It’s just that I’m supposed to be meeting a friend of mine, but…” Now it was her turn to trail off. “I think he stood me up.”

“Do you have to be off, then?” Cullen asked, his brow quirking. His genuine curiosity of her continued to surprise.

“I still have some duties to attend to,” she lied, but it was a poor one.

Nevertheless, Cullen’s eyes widened with realization. “Right! Of course!” He then took a dare. “Perhaps we could indulge in a game together some other time? Do you play?”

Right. Chess. Selph glanced at the board for several seconds, and then back to him. “I do. A little.” She shifted her weight again, her hair swishing with the action. “I mean, I’ve read a bit on it, but…never really played much.”

“I could teach you sometime, if you like,” he offered. “Hands on. I’d like to say I’m good, but if my eldest sister were here, she’d make me eat my words.” He caught himself with another nervous chuckle. “That is, I could always use a practice partner if you’re willing.”

‘Willing’. That was a strange word to use considering their positions. It was invitational, potentially twistable. Already twisted. Selph’s brows came together, and her throat tightened.

“I…” Her tongue felt like sandpaper. “M-maybe.”

Idiot! Idiot, idiot, IDIOT!

“A maybe it is, then—ah, um…I never got your name.”

“Oh. Right.” She felt heat bloom across her freckled nose and into her cheeks, wanting nothing more than to kick herself. “Selph.” She took another moment to breathe. “I’m Selph.”

“Selph,” he repeated, like he was testing the name on his tongue and with his Ferelden accent. “It was nice to formally meet, and talk a little.”

Another strained smile made its way to her lips. He seemed genuine enough. For now. As for her, she was at a loss for what she should say in response. The ‘shoulds, woulds, and coulds’ truly didn’t matter when it came to the power imbalances in the circle. But if he was actually different…

Selph almost lost herself in a flood of thoughts and leveled her focus.

“Likewise, Cullen.”

[suranastair]

@14dayscirclemages

This is Part 4 of a writing challenge for my Dragon Age Origins OC Selph Surana.

There will be 14 parts in all and I will upload a complete tumblr list once they're done. Otherwise I encourage reading on Ao3. 😊

~ Prompt 4: Templar ~

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62724109/chapters/172066684

Rating: Teen & Mature

Warnings/Tags: Fantasy and Fictional Setting Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Bullying, Child Death, Child Neglect, Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood Magic, Blood Magic (Dragon Age) +more on Ao3

Word Count: 2,136

Summary: Cullen Rutherford starts his role in the Templar Order at Kinloch, and it seems there's already someone catching his eye.

Cullen’s legs wobbled as he and one other stepped off the small boat. There was a slight stumble in his step, and in his stomach. Fortunately, this trip was quick. The company, however, made it slightly less so.

Nevertheless, Cullen believed he should thank their escort. What was his name again? Ka—Kre—Kes—ah!

The captain of the small boat was already shimmying himself away from the tower’s dock. He wiped sweat from his brow from his penultimate trip across Lake Calenhad’s dark waters in his reliable, if tattered, vessel. He’d talked Cullen’s and the other recruit’s ears off about it the whole way.

“It’s Kester, right?”

The older man tucked his feet to the side to steady the boat as he pivoted his top half back toward Cullen. “Oh? Aye? Something else you need, ser knight?”

“Ah—oh, no! No. Cullen, please,” he insisted with a sheepish smile as he raked his fingers through his short blonde curls. “I just wanted to thank you for your services. It truly was appreciated. As were your anecdotes! They helped take my mind off my lack of sea legs, anyway, ha!”

Kester was surprised to hear anything from those he considered stuffy suits of armor at best. Unless it came to Knight-Commander Greagoir. He held great respect for him keeping everyone in line—templars and mages. Maybe the tower was finally starting to get some recruits with some proper manners! That’d be the day. Not that he was ungrateful for the young man’s thanks, not at all!

Of course, Kester wasn’t one to keep things to himself, saying all those points out loud for Cullen to hear, right along with his appreciation tacked on the end of his statements.

Kester got a nervous laugh and nod, a halfhearted reply before they bid each other true farewells. Kester’s mumblings devolved into a hum to himself as he rowed away—“Busy day, buuuusy day. Hmm-umm-um…”

Cullen shook his head. Nothing could bring him down right then. His anxious excitement at the sight before him would have washed away all negativity, even if he were offended by Kester’s longwinded prattling. Not today.

He looked up at the fortress that was Kinloch Hold. Bathed in the oranges of the setting sun, the stone structure loomed and dwarfed anyone and anything in comparison. Smack in the middle of Lake Calenhad it sat, a structure of magnificence and mystery.

“Oi!” The other recruit called back to him. “You just gonna stand there and gape? C’mon!”

Cullen’s mouth pursed. Now, what was his name again? Maker’s breath, he’d have to learn it sooner or later. Hopefully by the time he did the other’s surly attitude would lessen. He chalked it up to the guy probably being as anxious as him, or that he probably just needed a good meal.

He knew he himself did, at least. It’d been almost a fortnight since he left Honnleath, and he was already missing his mother and eldest sisters’ homemade cooking. He had said his goodbyes to his family and left them after becoming an official member of the Templar Order of Ferelden.

He’d trained for many years at this point—devoted himself body and soul, pushed himself past limits most wouldn’t dare to know or care about—all for this moment. It was all paying off. He wasn’t about to muck it up now.

Cullen forced himself to press on, past the mixture of his awe and apprehension. He could contend with it all later. For now, it was time to meet his superiors.

The structure swallowed him up as the double doors opened and closed. It was easy to note Tevinter’s design in the architecture. The lyrium buzzed in his blood stream as he took a spot next to the other recruits—six in all, four men and two women. The magic in the air was thick, thicker than he ever felt before. It was to be expected, but it still threw him for a dizzying loop.

The Knight-Commander soon graced their presence, a man he would soon come to look upon with utmost respect, even more than he did right then. Cullen puffed out his chest with pride, making a mental note thrice to write his family of this day.

Introductions were made and a small tour was underway. The apprentices were up and about, scurrying this way and that with their studies or duties, greeting the new recruits with either respected silence and nods, or a light ‘hello’ or ‘welcome’.

Cullen kept up in the middle of the group as they passed through the next giant door’s threshold. Then another, and then another after a slightly skewed hall. There was so much to take in and no time to do it!

And then they entered the library and, Maker’s breath, so many books! Shelves as high as the ceiling, even! Back in Honnleath, the Chantry’s collection was never this extensive, nor was the monastery’s. Surely, there was even more and—

Cullen was so enraptured with everything around him that he fell behind the others, accidentally brushed by another. It was enough to send him and the other person off balance, and send their stack of books clattering to the floor.

“Maker! I’m sorry, I—” Cullen came to a dead stop as he leaned down to reflexively help pick up the mess.

Fingers brushed and amber met emerald.

“Sorry,” he repeated, near breathless.

Golden hair, long eyelashes, a freckled nose, and rather annoyed, pursed lips—they all belonged to a girl. A very beautiful girl, at that.

“It’s all right,” she said with a huff. “My fault.”

“No. I’m…ah…” Cullen was at a loss for words. “The fault was mine.” He gathered up a part of the books and gave them to her.

The girl tucked a loose strand of her golden locks behind a pointed ear. She was an elf. A servant, then? No, she was wearing robes, those of a mage.

“Are you an apprentice?” Cullen found himself asking, clearing his throat of a sudden falsetto of his chords.

She was already stepping away but was stopped by his inquiry, looking surprised by it, even. She turned and raised a brow. “I am.”

Cullen found himself smiling, his next sentence flowing out of him like a leaky tap. “I see! We’ll probably be seeing a lot of one another in future, then!” His brain finally formed a stopper. “Ah, not that…I mean…”

As he talked, the girl’s expression skewed more and more into one of discomfort. Cullen closed his eyes and swallowed, had to break eye contact to recuperate.

Now who’s prattling on? Might as well sign on to be that old boater’s apprentice! Maker’s breath…

“Rutherford!” Knight-Commander Greagoir called back. “Is there a problem?”

Cullen nearly tripped again. “No, ser! Just, um—”

“My apologies Knight-Commander!” the girl called over. “Won’t happen again!”

She then said, looking directly at Cullen, “Greagoir isn’t a patient man, trust me.” Her expression went from discomfort, to kindly, and then back to severe in seconds.

Realizing the multiple eyes on them at this point, Cullen watched her motion with her head and an extra, silent ‘go’ to him before finally getting the point.

He gathered himself and rejoined the group to continue their introductory tour, glancing back one last time to catch the lithe figure of the elven girl in her oversized robes.

Her face then was unreadable, her emerald eyes dullen, nearly black.

* * *

The following week for Cullen was a blur. Before any further lyrium doses, Chantry sermons, or training came the donning of his new armor.

It was another joyous and memorable moment as he reflected on himself in one of the mirrors of the templars’ quarters.

He flexed his fingers in the gauntlets and wriggled his toes in the boots. A reflection of a reflection bounced back and forth on the chest piece that was emblazoned with the Order’s heraldry—a sword pointing downward, flames on either side.

He could do some good here. He would do some good here. He swore it. To himself and to the Maker.

Today would be his first “shadow watch” with an older recruit. Her name was Audrey. She was a short and stout woman with pitch black hair that was always pulled back into a ponytail, one so tight it wrung the early wrinkles out of her forehead.

He quickly learned that she took her duties more than seriously. That was all well and good to him, but she seemed a bit…harsh at times. Cruel, even. This afternoon was no different as they stopped for a snack and “straightened out” one of the apprentices on kitchen duty.

A grumble formed in Cullen’s chest. “It seemed like they had their fire magic under control.”

“Nary an ember out of line,” Audrey replied, a hand fixed on the pommel of her sword as she swayed down the stone halls, almost a skip in her step.

“Then,” Cullen scoffed with a frown, “why the shove afterwards?”

“Psh. Seriously, Rutherford? You give these mages an inch and they’ll take a mile.” She stared down another group of apprentices as they passed by.

Cullen placed a hand on the back of his neck. “Where are we off to, anyway?”

“Recreation. Follow me.”

Audrey led him down a floor. He’d only seen this room a couple times during his walks, but those times he wasn’t in full armor. Going down wasn’t so bad, but he imagined going back up. Maker, he was going to have to train a lot more for endurance. He snapped back to the present when he and Audrey paused at a smaller wooden door that led into the center of this floor.

“Ready for your first watch, kiddo? I won’t be here all day with ya. Gotta learn to manage this mess on your own sometime.”

He nodded, resolute. “I’m ready.”

Audrey pushed open the door like it was nothing, announcing their arrival like some kind of cavalry charge. Cullen turned to the side in embarrassment. All this commotion for barely a dozen mages, all whose eyes were on them now. Great.

“Really?” Cullen groaned.

“I told you. Let them know who’s boss.”

“I think they know.”

Audrey sniffed. “Says you, greenhorn.” She gave him a rough pat on the back with an armored clank! “C’mon.”

“Maker, preserve me,” he mumbled.

Cullen took a moment to observe the large room. There was a place for card and board games occupied by several mages who’d gone back to conversing, thankfully. It looked like some of them were gambling, too. Some with nothing more than stone pebbles. The others who kept their eyes on him and Audrey occupied other sections for light exercise and reading respectively.

His stomach suddenly knotted so hard it ached. In the latter nook, Cullen saw her—the elven girl from the other day. She was watching him. Closely. It made him squirm, and, damn it all, his face felt hot!

Audrey followed his line of sight. “Oh. Good eye. She’s a bit of a snoot, that one. Best to look out for her likes, especially.” Audrey grumbled for a moment and wrinkled her nose. “She stinks of old magic.”

“Huh? Who?”

Audrey nudged him between his plate. “Don’t play dumb, boy. I saw you eyeing her. That elf is one of the First Enchanter’s precious, hand-picked apprentices.”

“Oh? Really?” His amber eyes widened, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “That must mean she’s—”

“It means—” Audrey overrode his esteem with her disdain, “she might as well be Maker-damned royalty and nigh untouchable.” Audrey paused grumbled again. “And most don’t look at her twice like I do because she’s Irving’s favorite little knife-ear.”

“Don’t call her that!” Cullen snapped, a little louder than he should have in hindsight. He gulped down his further shame.

Audrey took a step to the side, arms crossing as her crow’s feet clenched at her temples. “You got a soft spot for their like, Cullen?” It was rare to hear a superior call him by his first name, if at all. “All right. You said you’re ready? Prove it, then. I’m off.”

Cullen’s stomach dropped. “But, wha—Wait a second! You—”

“You’ll learn one way or another, Rutherford,” Audrey interrupted with a shake of her head and a pitiful look in her eye. “Feeling sympathy for them doesn’t earn you anything but disappointment.” She paused for another long moment. “And if’n I’m thinking the way you are, you’ll earn nothing but heartache.”

Her words hit harder than he thought they would. It was…irritating. Cullen watched the woman pace away and took his post with a heavy sigh.

Heartache? That’s not… He grimaced—both at Audrey’s implications and his face flushing once again. Don’t be ridiculous.

[suranastair]

@14dayscirclemages

This is Part 3 of a writing challenge for my Dragon Age Origins OC Selph Surana.

There will be 14 parts in all and I will upload a complete tumblr list once they're done. Otherwise I encourage reading on Ao3. 😊

~ Prompt 3: Phylactery ~

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62724109/chapters/171809665

Rating: Teen & Mature

Warnings/Tags: Fantasy and Fictional Setting Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Bullying, Child Death, Child Neglect, Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood Magic, Blood Magic (Dragon Age) +more on Ao3

Word Count: 2,378

Summary: Selph's phylactery ceremony is at hand. But something's amiss within…

Selph looked into the large vanity mirror. What reflected back wasn’t registering, hadn’t registered in the week since her arrival at the tower. She tried to smile, but found there was a great, relentless weight that held her face in a permanent frown.

The itchy and oversized robe she wore was pulled up and over her shoulder as she examined the right side of her back, all with what little privacy she was given—essentially, none. Her stomach clenched and churned under the templar’s gaze, even if it was hidden beneath a spotless helm.

She flexed her shoulder. With every move she could feel the new undulations of her skin. Unfortunately, even with healing magic, there was massive scarring where Selph sustained the worst of her burns.

With treatments, her pain subsided into numbness, then into a stinging dryness. She was given a medicinal lotion for application, and that day was the first where she finally got a good look at herself as she applied it.

That weight grew heavier, as heavy as the black and blue bags under her eyes. Her head spun, dizzy. She had to push the thought away; sleep couldn’t take her, not then.

Selph’s hair, once long and kempt, was now shorter than shoulder length. The ends were uneven, frayed and singed from what had transpired. Another apprentice kindly helped her trim it to make it more even, but it would take time for it to grow back to what it once was. A long time.

Brows furrowing, Selph sighed. Her ears now stuck out like sore thumbs, something she tried to hide in the village she once called home. At least here it didn’t matter if one was an elf or a human—a mage was a mage. Still, the unfamiliar sensation gnawed at her.

“Time’s up,” said the templar hovering in the entryway. “Follow me.”

Selph finished applying her ointment as fast as possible. She wasn’t about to argue with the fully-armored, sword-wielding knight who wouldn’t think twice before striking her down.

She straightened her clothes, ran to her bed—nearly downing several other apprentices in the process, put the medicine in end table she shared with her bunkmate, and was back at the templar’s side within seconds.

“Stick close,” the templar said, “and no funny business.”

Selph nodded, silently wishing she could at least see the face of her escort as they headed into the hall. The templar led them past other guards and mages as they bustled about their duties, out toward a set of stairs that led down.

“A basement?” Selph asked aloud, not gaining any answers.

Instead, the templar pivoted toward the arrival of an older Chantry sister. They, too, didn’t speak. They only nodded toward one another as they led the way down, sandwiching Selph between them—the templar in front, the sister in back. If Selph happened to fall behind, the sister nudged her forward with a harsh hand. It hurt her scars, but Selph kept her whimpers as quiet as possible. She was still adjusting to this place, to its massiveness and overwhelming aura that added to the pressure already upon her. Her stomach twisted, the discomfort going up her throat.

The door was down a set of stairs that led into a darker tunnel. Indeed, it was a basement, but it wasn’t one room as Selph assumed it to be. It was a long, cold and dank hall that branched off to more doors. Some were left to her imagination as to what they were. Others—ones with piles of hay and filth behind enchanted steel bars—left no room for any other presumptions.

Selph audibly gulped, her throat suddenly dry. “Um. Where are we going exactly?”

“Your phylactery is due to be added to the register,” the Chantry sister said without so much as making eye contact. “And because of your extensive injuries and recovery time, yours in particular is due posthaste.”

Phylactery. A fancy and foreign word to Selph. “Phy—ah, what’s that?”

The templar curtly replied, “Quiet. You’ll find out soon enough.”

The further they went into the stone-laden hall, the dimmer it got. Torches lit the way as the temperature also dropped. A thin layer of fog swirled around their feet. They reached a final door where a mage awaited them. The mage and sister did some kind of exchange in front of an imposing ornamental door. Selph was forced to turn her back as they did so.

A spark and groan indicated that whatever locks held the door in place were now undone. There was even more fog within the following chamber. Selph glanced at the mage as they left them behind, their pitiful gaze at her doing nothing to ease her anxiety.

As soon as they passed the threshold, Selph’s teeth chattered with another temperature drop. Where she was in the depths of the tower, she didn’t know, and she couldn’t help but feel that this sensation served a greater purpose. It was too familiar for her liking.

Awaiting their arrival was First Enchanter Irving and Knight Commander Greagoir. The sister placed a firm hand on Selph’s shoulder, stopping her in place as she parted from Selph to join the heads of the tower and the two senior mages behind them. The templar escort joined the others of their regime on the far wall, a line of soldiers so still they could have been statues among the old architecture of the chamber.

Selph’s wide eyes wandered as she held herself for warmth. A set of stairs led up to a second story with shelves that contained phials of red liquid. Selph swallowed once again. Despite the First Enchanter being there as a somewhat friendly face, she shivered, and not from the cold. In fact, she was starting to feel rather hot.

Irving and Greagoir spoke with the sister before she departed the chamber. Greagoir then went toward his templars, and Irving approached Selph. His kind eyes complete with crow’s feet shone brightly, even in the dark and neutral grays of the room. Hands behind his back in his normal fashion, Irving nodded to Selph and explained to her what was to happen. There was going to be a procedure involving lyrium—another foreign word to her then, albeit less so—and her blood. It was to be taken and put into one of the phials she’d seen earlier.

“My…blood?” Selph’s brows scrunched, and her stomach did a fluttery tumble. “Why? What for? Is it going to hurt?” Her face felt flushed.

Irving shook his head. “Only for a moment, if that, child. All apprentices have this procedure done.”

“What for?”

The light in the elder man’s eyes dimmed in his hesitation. In Irving’s stead, Greagoir answered Selph’s question, all while directing the senior mages and Selph to their proper spots for the procedure.

“To ensure that should you attempt to leave the tower without permission or attendants, you can be tracked down and taken in for custody. Your phylactery will be held here until you advance out of your apprenticeship, in which it will be sent to the capital for official records.”

Distant. Concise. Sterile. Everything Irving’s words weren’t.

Selph gave a fearful glance to Irving as one of the senior mages gestured to a chair near some medical-looking equipment. Greagoir’s words were clouds of gnats in her ears. She grew hotter.

Irving and the other senior mage sat her down in the chair, exchanging words and nods. Selph comprehended none of it. She felt beads of sweat forming on her temple as sounds began to filter into her ears as a high-pitched whine. Her hands were then placed in restraints that wrapped around the chair’s handles after one of her sleeves were lifted to expose her flesh. It, too, was restrained by a thick belt, a much tighter fit than the restraints. It felt like her arm was being pulled apart.

Selph whimpered, now feeling a bead slide down her brow, her sweat now colder than her skin. “W-what’s going to happen now? Is this going to take long? First Ench—”

“Shut your gob and keep still!” hissed one of the templars now restraining her legs, mumbling further under his breath as he finished, “Maker, these procedures are a pain in the arse.”

Selph was soon met on the side by one of the accompanying senior mages, a woman. She gave Selph a kind smile, tried to reassure her as she held up a thin, curved blade. The woman was talking, but her words were funneled into that same tortuous white noise as Selph’s vision began to blur.

She felt like she was on fire as the blade pressed into her raised vein. The second senior mage slid adjacent to the one drawing her blood, a sight only caught in Selph’s peripherals as she strained to look away from the activity.

In the other mage’s hands was one of the glass phials. Inside was some glowing blue liquid—lyrium, she would come to know. With magic, the mages guided her blood into the container, the mixture within becoming one with her blood. It undulated before sustaining a bright red glow as they finished and corked the phial.

The procedure was quick, but it felt like it took a millennia for Selph. She was bandaged and undone from her restraints, but she didn’t move. Her whole form was leaden against the chair.

The templar who escorted her there was to escort her back as well, and their impatience got the better of them as they grabbed her flaccid arm and pulled her up. “Come on, gi—AHH!”

They pulled away as if they were burned, because they had been. The templar’s gauntlet sizzled as they stepped back from Selph who was now kneeling on the ground.

Selph coughed and vomited. Her arms trembled as they tried to hold up her weight. She was so hot! Burning! Steam was rising from her fingertips!

The people around her backed away with looks of horror as Greagoir and the other templars drew their swords.

“Andraste’s pyre, she’s an abomination!”

Abomination? Selph imagined the mayor saying the same thing. The villagers. Their children.

Everyone.

Fine. They wanted an abomination? They’d get one. She stood up, wiped the back of her mouth with her sleeve, and screamed. Fire flickered to life in her palms.

But…this wasn’t her. She wasn’t doing this! The sound that erupted from her lungs wasn’t normal. The fire in her palms burned too hot. These feelings—she was watching this happen, but not through her eyes. Every sinew within was like strings being pulled by a malicious marionette. She was watching herself slip further and further away.

Why was this familiar?

Why did this hurt?

This couldn’t be her…

“N-no! No, no, no! NO!” Selph fell to her knees again, forcibly extinguishing her flames and digging her nails into her arms. She started to bleed.

Irving stepped between her and Greagoir. Their mouths moved, slower and slower until they smeared into painterly blurs. The room spun. flashes of a twisted world bled into the corners of her vision until it covered everything cold and blue with something stagnant and green in its place.

It’s YOU, isn’t it!?  You ruined everything! More bile filled her throat, but it refused to come up, the acid scorching her throat. She felt the ghost of a slap to her temple, the grit of gravel and straw piercing her skin—a recent memory surfacing, trying to weaken her resolve. Go AWAY! GET OUT!

The space around her continued to fracture and bend. It formed fragments of mimicry, a mockery of the space around them. Red and steaming liquid bubbled from the cracks in the earth and formed a hunched shape before her. Beady eyes, white and molten with something more than the rage for which its namesake was given, formed amongst its inflamed rivers of lava-like skin.

“Cursed knife-ear!” “She’s go’ magic n’ all! She’s a witch!” “Teach you”—"back to you ‘ole you”—"keep to you own you—!”

“If the little knife-eared witch survives…”

She couldn’t breathe. Survives…?

Survival. It’s all she’s ever known. It’s all she’s ever had. It’s all she’s ever…

It was all too much, their voices. All of them. Their hate, their disparages, their malaise.

“Stop…”

In the sickly sky beyond, a severe dark shape came into view—a black…castle? Whatever it was, it wasn’t of the world she knew. There was a painful tug in her chest, as if looking at it was a sin in and of itself.

I̴͍̾'̵̼̅M̷̲͂ ̵̬͋SO̶͎̊Ȓ̶̝R̴̳͑Y̶̪̕.̷͎̅.̴̬̿.̶̥͋I̜̋ ̷̈͜C̶̦̈́Ŏ̶̬Ȕ̴̞L̴͕̅D̵̮̽N̴̫͐'̷̻́T̵̻́.̵͍͆.̷̰͐.̵̰̀

The…thing? It was talking. To her.

And then, Irving was there. He stood above her, manifesting magic that felt heavenly in this hellish place. He cast it upon her…or, rather, the creature before her. Whatever was the case, there was a sudden feeling of sadness and emptiness that replaced the one of utter heat and hatred. Regret and relief became like the glow in that phial.

Harsh breaths came between the familiar voice’s acidic spitting. She soon deduced it to belong to Greagoir. “The consequences be upon your head if any of this proves to be a fool’s choice, Irving!”

Irving cleared his throat, stuttered over his words to find coherency. Whatever happened had taken a toll on both of them. “We had the resources, and it was weak. She fought this the entire way to the tower, and through grievous injuries. She will survive and thrive, Greagoir.”

“She’s your responsibility now, Irving.” The Knight-Commander’s tone was low with heavy warning. “And NONE of this mess leaves this chamber! Understood!” Greagoir sheathed his sword to punctuate his subsequent bark at everyone else in the room. His booming echo made sure the demand made its way to all present ears twofold.

Nothing and no one objected.

Greagoir then bid everyone out of the chamber through gritted teeth. This conversation was over. For now.

The last thing Selph remembered was gravity’s existence and the cold, still silence of the chamber…and from within. The presence that had once held her close in its comforting warmth had burned up until only embers remained.

She held in her tears—fearing their extinguishing as well—and everything went dark.

[librivore42]

A Tower, Breaking

A late submission for the @14dayscirclemages event, written with the lovely, talented @winebearcat. I still can't believe we just casually smashed out 5k words, but that's the power of writing with someone you gel with. A Tower, Breaking (5805 words) by winebearcat, Librivore42 Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Male Amell & Anders (Dragon Age) Characters: Male Amell (Dragon Age), Anders (Dragon Age), Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Mages, Bad Templars (Dragon Age), Good Templars (Dragon Age), Past Anders/Karl Thekla, Pre-Dragon Age: Origins, Blood and Injury, Trauma, POV Alternating Summary: Knight-Templar Lux is as silent and steady as the stone tower she's been raised to patrol, protecting the mages as best she knows how, even if that means from other templars. Being isolated is a consequence she's used to. Being conversed with by one of the mages she's tried to protect? Not so much.

[librivore42]

I've added absolutely nothing to this sketch page of Lux since I started it in January, so maybe posting it will force me to add to it. This is a little entry for @14dayscirclemages, with some fic to come soon.

Will I ever shut up about Lux? Signs point to no. If she interests you, here's some more art and a fic!

[14dayscirclemages]

Hello! I completely missed this event but I have a templar oc I'm significantly unwell about so~ My question is can I only participate with content created after February 1st? Because I have some art I made in January but haven't publicly posted yet. No worries if that's the case, I can start creating from now.

Nope, no restrictions like that. You can go ahead and post anything you like from any time! Just tag this blog.

I confess I made the February 1st start date sort of arbitrary just so that I could make myself follow through on the idea XD Submissions will continue to be open beyond February as well, so if any other inspiration strikes feel free to post and I'll reblog!

[apostacism]

Day 14: Free Space

Written for @14dayscirclemages. Prompt list can be found here, and for those who (like me) don't read: this event is 14 days all month! Get those circle mage headcanons out there for the rest of February.

Happy Valentines Day please enjoy some gay people.

---

A son wasn't much good as a mage.

At almost twenty, Sai knew it as well as he had at seven, when the frost crept over his hands in the humid bowl of summer and his mamae got that tired look on her face, the one that could take no more nonsense today, and said "I suppose they'll be wanting you in the city."

A mage went to live in a Circle, too far away to wade into the shallows and check the traps, to lift and carry heavy things, to guard the door against intruders. If a son left he might at least send back money to compensate for his absence, but there was precious little money in magic.

Sometimes a daughter came back as a seer and filled her days birthing babies and weaving protections and advising those who came to her doorstep seeking counsel. A mage son who returned would find his hands empty even when there was work to be done, would find a room silent when he walked in where moments before it had been filled with good humor. A mage son's steps were dogged by the long shadow of the Chantry at his heels, the sword arm of her Templars stretching out from Dairsmuid to cast a pall over bright land it normally never dared to touch.

A mage son, compared to any other kind, could not do very much at all.

In Sai's case, a mage son did even less than he might.

Past his apprenticeship, he was within his rights to petition to seek a place aboard a ship. First Enchanter Rivella would allow it - her father had captained a ship in the Felicisima Armada, and before she took the position as First Enchanter, she herself had served. Merchant vessels always wanted wind-talkers and fire-throwers, though they would not say the latter aloud. A mage who served a ship would find himself well-compensated, and would pass beneath the Chantry's eye so long as he did not disembark in less liberal ports and returned to Dairsmuid every few years to prove he had not turned apostate. A sailor, if he sent his profits home rather than drinking them away, might be a respectable and useful sort of son indeed.

Sai was not a natural gift with the elements, not air or water or fire - or so he told himself. Maybe it was just easier that way. If he would be no asset to any ship that would have him, he could not be blamed for failing to find employment aboard one. Every soul on board relied upon a deck's mage to see them safe to the next port, through storms and past conflict. A mage not up to the job risked, by hubris or ignorance or insufficiency, drowning dozens of other families' sons and daughters who had also signed up that they might send back their earnings.

But the truth could not be untangled from Sai's perception of himself, and in truth, Sai wanted to be incapable of ship's work. No good man, even a good son, took on the responsibility for dozens of lives if he did not believe he could safeguard them. As long as Sai could not, he was free of having to ask himself why he would not.

"Are you busy?"

Sai startled as a voice cut into his reverie, followed immediately after by a sheaf of papers so thick he could only assume it aspired to become a book suddenly spread across the previously empty table before him. "By the looks of it, I'd say I am now."

Lord Joaquin Ianto Callisto Honore Phillipe Trevelyan, clad in a high-collared linen robe dyed one of the colors of sunrise and so smooth Sai could not see the weft, which revealed glossy slashes of a dove-gray underrobe as he walked, raised his eyebrows, unable to entirely smother the unrepentant upward tug at the corners of his mouth. "You looked like you were thinking about something. I can come back later."

"I'm afraid half of this would blow away if you tried taking it somewhere else." Sai lifted the top sheet of paper, turning it to try and orient the diagram upon it into making sense. "What is this, by the way?"

Joaquin, taking his acquiescence for what it was, pulled out the chair next to Sai and sat down. Sai had chosen one of the best tables in a normally crowded sitting room, coveted for its proximity to a sprawling bay of west-facing windows which poured generous measures of sunlight over the whole area and revealed, through the foliage of orange trees, a glimmering sliver of sea.

"You remember the proposition you made the other day, about relative distance in the Fade?"

"It's generous to call a few unfounded questions a proposition."

Joaquin waved a hand, throwing brief rainbow facets across the walls. "Allow me to beg off a competition in humility, to spare myself the embarrassment of losing."

Sai ducked his head, pressing his lips together to hide his smile. On the table between them, Joaquin was deftly rearranging his papers, pulling out individual sheets and laying them side by side in an array by some criteria which Sai could  not immediately determine. The writing on them wasn't uniform - he recognized Joaquin's open, elegant script as a throughline, but many of the others must have been pulled from other sources, some of them so faded the ink was scarcely darker than the parchment. The scholar in Sai winced.

"They're replicates." Joaquin tapped one of the oldest-looking pages with two fingers, nailing to the table the elegant bloom of a partially-completed map which feathered out at the edges as if the artist had gotten lost. "Sympathies. The originals are safely in the library, locked up behind preservative spells where the sun can't even think about them. They'll fade in an hour or so."

"I would expect no less," Sai lied.

"I would." Joaquin glanced up at him, wry and self-assured, then returned to his sorting. "I think I'd hang the man who brought me Steel Age originals. Bare-handed, even ."

Joaquin's strong, elegant fingers flashed as he moved them over the table, thick bands of precious metal reveling in the light. His clean, uniform nails were buffed into smooth arcs, his gestures fluid as he left the imperceptible oils of his skin on papers that would not be preserved for three hundred years. He could afford to be careless, Lord Joaquin Trevelyan. His mother's family lived in the city and worshiped at the Grand Cathedral, sent him money enough to see half of the library re-bound in calfskin and still dress with thought only to his own tastes.

He could afford to be careless. But Sai had to admit, given some decade's knowledge of the man, he didn't choose to be.

"I'd have thought you'd be at the Allsmet."

Joaquin barely glanced up. "There will be another in half a year's time. Allsmet are all more or less the same, after you've seen enough of them."

The indifference of his answer surprised Sai. "You don't like the Allsmet?" In their teenage years, Joaquin had on several occasions disappears into the opening ceremony of the Allsmet and only returned at the close, wearing the same clothes he had left in and a glimmering layer of satisfaction, lasting just long enough to hand out whatever spoils he had obtained as gifts before collapsing into bed.

It was Joaquin's turn to look surprised. "Of course I do. I'll go to the next one. Or the one after that, or the next. So long as there are queens and Seers, we're at no risk of running out of Allsmet, and I'm otherwise occupied." He leaned over his array of diagrams and notes. "Look at this. Your point about quantifying and standardizing temporal distance as a fourth dimension in the geography of the Fade got me thinking..."

His words spilled over Sai like trails of paint from a brush stirred in clear water, like the coveted spill of sunlight in an empty room that was normally full. Sai leaned forward, elbows on the table, already reaching out to disrupt the pattern Joaquin had laid out in front of him, shifting the pieces around to examine them in new form. "An exhaustive catalogue would be unfeasible," he began, when Joaquin reached a lull in his explanation. "One might theoretically expend a lifetime on a few square meters and be unable to pass along the research without a reliable anchor point. Constraining the temporal frame to the past few centuries could expedite the process, at the likely sacrifice of any hopes for isolating the Black City - which is, of course, what anyone would care about... what?"

Joaquin had paused in the rapid reshuffling that had busied their hands and focused their attention on the shared table space for the past minutes. Instead, his eyes were fixed hot and unwavering on Sai's face, something in his expression like a riptide, like hurricane winds. "I didn't say anything."

"My mistake." Sai tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear, letting the movement guide him naturally away from their eye contact. "...As long as we're hypothesizing, I think this model will need more than four dimensions."

Joaquin laughed, tipping his head back, his teeth a white flash of lightning. He came back to center grinning. "How many do you want?"

"What?" Sai laughed too, not broad and open like a bell but a disbelieving roll of breath. "And you'll get them for me?"

"Why not?" Joaquin leaned forward. The handspan between them compressed to liquefaction. "Go on. How many dimensions?"

Sai collapsed back in his chair, throwing an arm over his eyes to hide the sudden burn in the tips of his ears and across the bridge of his nose. "Six," he said. "Eleven. Thirty."

"What are you going to do with thirty dimensions?"

Sai lowered his arm enough to look at Joaquin over the ridge of it. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Joaquin sat back, shaking his head in amusement. "Thirty dimensions it is. And you were concerned about feasibility of scope with four."

"I'm ambitious," Sai murmured.

"What luck." The grin was back. Not for the first time, the thought came to Sai that Joaquin Trevelyan had the potential to be dangerous. "So am I."

[highwayphantoms]

Day 13: Escape

fell off the bandwagon a bit but WE'RE BACK @14dayscirclemages

I'm planning to fill all 14 prompts and post them to AO3, it's just. not going to happen within the 14 days of the actual event lol

so here's some Cal fic for you all :3

Warning for mildly graphic description of an injury (but it's Ostagar, so the worst is yet to come lol)

-

"Healer!"

The shout carried clear across the camp. Cal lifted their head to follow the sound and—there, at the edge of the mage encampment, a stocky young man waved to them. Another day, another scout torn to pieces by darkspawn. Cal sighed and straightened, exchanging glances with Nell. She shrugged and said, "Your turn."

"It's something to do," Cal dryly replied, collecting their staff from where they'd set it against a young tree. "See you in a bit."

Nell laughed and replied, "Have fun."

The templar who had blocked the young man from entering nodded politely to Cal, and they acknowledged him in turn even though just being near a templar set them on edge. Then they turned to the young man. From here, just a few paces away, they could properly make out his face—and stood stunned for a moment.

He looked like a young version of Papa. And he was staring back at them.

Cal stepped past the templar, casually lifted their hand and held a finger to their lips. Quiet.

The young man nodded stiffly, and said, "This way. We brought him to the infirmary."

"Yes, I know where the infirmary is," Cal replied, starting towards it. He fell into step beside them with ease despite standing head and shoulders above them. Once they were safely clear of the mage encampment—and the templars—Cal said in a low voice, "What's your name?"

“Carver. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Cal frowned. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Then they tapped his armored shoulder with their staff and said, "Keep it to yourself. Don’t want the templars knowing I know you."

"Got it."

A decade and change and here they were, together again just in time to watch a Blight unfold. Cal would have never guessed that this would be their way out.

It was a short walk from the mage camp to the infirmary, which had been set up in a more intact section of the ruined fortress. Carver led them across the aged cobblestone and gestured loosely to an occupied cot that two scouts hovered over. Cal shooed them out of the way and asked aloud, "Darkspawn?"

"Wilders," one scout said. "Ambushed us. They said it was an accident, that they thought we were darkspawn, but how do you accidentally gut a person?"

Indeed, what little Cal could see was grim. Someone had stripped away the armor of the young man on the cot, leaving him only in his smalls with a bloodied bandage wrapped around his midriff. He didn't seem to be coherent, alternating between moans and unintelligible muttering. Cal hummed thoughtfully to themself for a moment then said, "Someone go fetch fresh bandages and a bowl of clean water."

Carver started to move, but Cal flapped a hand at him. "You, stay. I'll need you to hold him down."

While the other two scouts fled, Carver stared blankly at them. "Hold him—why?"

They offered him a faint, cheerless smile. "We don't have the luxury of giving people time to heal properly," they replied. There was the proper method: slow, gentle, painless. The fast method was none of those things. It was also exhausting, even with a spirit’s aid, but that was precisely why Cal had lyrium potions in their pack.

Without further preamble, Cal set to work. Not darkspawn, so the man would probably live, but he might not be glad for it. With the short, sharp dagger kept at their hip, Cal cut away the blood-soaked bandages, gently teasing them away from wounded flesh.

It looked… marginally better than they had expected. In truth, they had expected entrails where there should not be entrails, but the man's guts seemed to be more or less where they were supposed to be. A good start. All the same, Cal reached for the Veil, wordlessly seeking spirits. A few responded, and Cal drew them through with practiced ease before turning their full attention to the injured scout.

The first scout to return carried a bowl. He stood awkwardly at the foot of the cot for a minute before Cal noticed him and gestured at the ground beside them. "Set it there," they said. Before he could leave, they added, "I might need something else."

"Yes, ma'am."

The feminine form of address grated on their nerves, but Cal let it go. They had higher priorities. They returned their attention to magically weaving flesh back together. The injured scout thrashed against Carver's firm hold on his shoulders, but Cal held the spell steady. Bit by bit, with wisps at their fingertips, they repaired bruised and bleeding organs. Then, once that was done, they set to stitching the scout's skin together. Doing it the traditional way with thread was kinder, but the scout would only tear the wound open again. No, magic it would be: a loose spell stringing skin together, holding it tighter than thread ever could. When they looked up again, the other man had returned as well. “Thank you,” they said, then turned and crouched down to rinse their hands in the bowl of water. Then, with clean hands, they covered the sealed wound, first with elfroot salve from their pack, and then with the fresh bandages. "There," they said finally. "He'll live, and he'll have the scar to prove it. Tell your commander he needs to rest tonight and through tomorrow, and then he can return to duty."

"Okay," Carver said. "Uh, thank you."

Cal offered their brother a thin smile as they pulled a small vial of lyrium from their pack. "That's why I'm here," they replied, then popped the cork out of the vial. It wasn't much, far from enough to replenish their full energy, but it was sufficient that they wouldn't be completely drained. Enough that they wouldn't be totally defenseless. Cal brought the vial to their mouth, tipped it back, and swallowed the contents all at once.

It tasted foul. Always did. With a grimace, Cal tossed the empty vial back into their pack and then straightened.

"I'll walk you back," Carver offered, earning an odd look from his comrades. Glaring at them, he snapped, "Shove it. I'm just being polite."

One of the other scouts snickered.

Cal simply shrugged, faintly amused by the other scout’s reaction. "Afraid I'll get lost?" they remarked, and stepped away from the injured scout’s cot. Without waiting for a reply, they started back towards the mage encampment—but slowly, giving Carver ample time to catch up.

Once they were out of immediate earshot, Cal said softly, "You should go home while you still can."

"That's desertion," Carver scoffed. "Besides, what about you?"

"I'll be fine," Cal replied. "Mage, remember? I won’t be anywhere near the front lines.” And I don’t plan on sticking around, either.

“Callie—”

“Just Cal, now. Look, if you see a black and white dog, follow it. Trust me.” It was a risk even to consider trying to pull Carver out of what was bound to be a grisly battle instead of just slipping loose and running as far and as fast as they could, but there wasn’t a single part of Cal that was willing to turn their back on a brother they’d been sure they would never see again.

“There’s no myth I’ve ever heard—”

“Just trust me,” Cal repeated. Then, without giving him a chance to keep questioning it—there was no way they were going to tell him outright that they could shapeshift, not here—Cal quickened their pace and retreated to the relative quiet of the mage encampment. They had two days, maybe three, before the horde was expected to reach Ostagar. That meant two days for Cal to make their final preparations to escape the Circle once and for all.

They would never get a chance like this again. It had to work.

[imkerfuffled]

14 Days of Circle Mages — Day 13: Escape

@14dayscirclemages Cross-posted here in Chapter 2 of Joining, an Awakening-era fic starring Solona & Anders. Each chapter is a standalone.

“What would you have done with your freedom?” Solona asked out of the blue.

The sun hadn’t yet risen over the ramparts, but on mornings like this, when the post-Joining nightmares or midnight cravings chased Anders out of bed early, he often wasn’t alone. Today, it was their illustrious Warden-Commander he’d found sitting at the kitchen table, already poring over the latest ledgers from Mistress Woolsey and nursing a mug of that awful Antivan drink they’d all become dependent on.

“Hm—what?” Anders said, tearing himself away from a vivid fantasy of making sweet sweet love to the scrambled eggs he was shoveling into his mouth. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

Solona gave him a knowing smile.

“Once you’d destroyed your phylactery… you must have had a plan, before all this.” She gestured at the Vigil around them, her meaning clear. Before I made you a Grey Warden.

“Oh. Um…”

“You don’t have to tell me. I was only curious.”

“No, it’s just—” Anders sighed.

There was something magical about these quiet, peaceful mornings (he hesitated to call them “tranquil” for the obvious reason) that made it almost easy to talk. That flippant attitude Anders put on to distract from all the bitterness and rage festering in his heart, always so close to exploding and taking him out with it… None of it felt as important as it did in the sunlight. Now, without all his pretenses and defenses, it wasn’t so hard to be just Anders.

And Solona was easy to talk to, as well. Now, when she wasn’t the Commander of the Grey, hero and savior of an entire nation, her every move scrutinized in minute detail by everyone from the lowest peasant in Amaranthine to the First Warden himself far across the sea. Now, she could be just Solona.

“Do you remember Karl, in the Circle?” Anders said, peeling back another layer of himself.

The way her eyes filled with sympathy was all the confirmation he could need to see she knew exactly what he meant. Knew what Karl meant to him. Somehow, he found, the pity didn’t rankle so much right now, with his defenses down.

“He was sent to Kirkwall, wasn’t he?” Solona whispered. “You were going to find him.”

Now, the pity just hurt.

Anders shrugged uncomfortably. “It was a thought, at least.”

They lapsed back into that pre-dawn silence, broken only by the creaking of Solona’s chair as she leaned back into it. She kept watching him, while he tried not to squirm under the weight of her stare. It wasn’t pity in her eyes—not really—but something… thoughtful. Something akin to understanding.

She took a slow sip of her coffee, and the spell broke as soon as her eyes disappeared behind the mug.

“Jowan was going to get married,” she said into her coffee. “Settle down in the countryside. A quiet, peaceful life.”

Her tone sounded light. Casual. But there was a tension in her shoulders that suggested Anders wasn’t the only one peeling back layers of defenses. He wondered what had happened during the Blight to make her believe the way to comfort a friend was to let them see her bleed in return.

“Jowan… he’s the squirrelly kid who was always following you around?” Anders said carefully. “He escaped, too?”

“Briefly.” Solona set her mug down.

“Shit, I’m sorry… What happened to him?”

Solona peered into her coffee with the kind of hard, impassive stare that Anders still wasn’t accustomed to seeing on her face. But just when he thought the subject was dropped and they’d returned to companionable silence, she stood up, her chair scraping back across the tiles. There was a sort of grim finality to the noise that made Anders flinch.

“I happened to him,” Solona said.

And just like that, the spell cast by their quiet, peaceful morning was snuffed out. The Warden-Commander swept out of the kitchen without so much as a look in Anders’ direction, leaving only the chill of her magic in her wake.

Notes: Just like Alistair and Leliana went through their Hardening Quests, so did Solona. For her, it was saving Connor in Redcliffe. She arrived to find Jowan—her closest friend, the man who unwittingly condemned her to this life she never wanted as a Grey Warden—locked up once again because Loghain had tried to turn him—her closest friend—into a murderer. Whatever else Jowan had done to reach that point, Solona didn't think she could ever forgive Loghain for that. And then... in order to save Connor... She couldn't kill a child, no matter how necessary the Circle might have deemed it had this happened there. She couldn't afford to wait for aid from the Circle to sever the demon from him in the Fade, not while the demon was still slaughtering people (especially not while the Circle was besieged by demons itself, though she didn't know that yet). Their only option, in Solona's mind, was to accept Jowan's offer of help. Become exactly what Irving and Greagoir feared her to be: an active accomplice to blood magic. Sacrifice the Arlessa (and in a way, it was almost worse that she offered herself willingly). Condemn Jowan to the Circle's punishment (death or Tranquility, the very fate he destroyed both their lives to escape). Condemn the boy to a lifetime of imprisonment and guilt once he realized what his inexperience had cost... But she would save his life, and she would save Redcliffe. In the end, it wasn't Loghain who turned her closest friend into a murderer, it was Solona. And she will never forgive herself for that.

[volkoss]

FIC: DISSONANCE (CH. 8 - JOY) 

CHAPTER 8: JOY | MERESINO | WORDS: 618 | RATED: T

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages.  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 (AO3 LINK)

Although Meredith usually considers herself to be a devout and faithful woman, sometimes she cannot help but wonder if the trials and tribulations the Maker puts her through are not simply mere mockery instead.

Thirty-five years since her family died, and yet in all that time she’s only ever experienced joy, true joy, in the fleeting moments she’s stolen with Orsino. There had been the dalliance of their youth, of course, the sparks of friendship igniting into something more thanks to the fuel of mutual attraction.

Yet there are the intervening years to consider, too. The years between when they had first recommenced their relationship that fateful day Orsino had stormed into her office shortly after his appointment as first enchanter and now. Almost a whole decade. Like any couple—if they can be considered such—they’d had their ups and downs, periods of silent treatment interspersed with screaming matches, make-up sex followed by angry fucking.

But the joy is there. The joy has been real. The joy has made the rest of it worth it. Just like it had the first time. For a moment, it meant something. She believes it now just as earnestly as she had back then.

Even now, after everything, despite the worsening nightmares, she sleeps better with him by her side, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder. She knows she should question it, why he’s crawling back into her bed after all these months of ignoring her, knows beyond doubt she should not be permitting this behaviour at all.  He's up to something. She can tell. But what does it matter? Let him plot and plan and fester in his own frustration. That is his duty, and she has hers. Their story had been doomed almost as soon as it had begun.  But only almost.

Meredith sometimes wonders if Ser Wentworth had known how much she would come to rely on Orsino when she had been handed down the order to ensure he survived his Harrowing. With the benefit of hindsight, she suspects this—her and Orsino, together—might have been his intention all along. He must have known his days were numbered.  Just like she does now.

It's a pity Wentworth had started to lose his mind more quickly than anyone had anticipated. If she’d had the chance to ask for his advice before the lyrium sickness had dug its claws into him, she can’t help but think he might have finally encouraged her to run.

Impossible, too, to ignore the plain truth of the matter: that if he had never gotten sick, she would never have needed to ask at all. She would have had more time with Orsino. He would’ve become brave enough to tell her the truth.

She would’ve been brave enough to follow.

But that is not the world they live in. In this world, there can be no happy endings. Not between templars and mages. In this world, their story can only end one way now: in unholy transformation, muscle and bone mutating, ashes and smoke, fire and blood.

It will be brutal.

But for now, the joy is still real. Safety wrapped in the pretence of intimacy. Where her bare skin touches Orsino’s, she doesn’t feel too hot for once but just warm enough.

And when Meredith drifts back to sleep, for once her dreams are not some hazily recollected nightmare, but instead pleasant possibilities, in another world, in another time.

A cabin in the woods, sun streaming in through a window with no bars. Orsino, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, methodically peeling an orange. Together by choice, instead of circumstance.

In this world, nothing will tear them apart.

[sulahlena]

Sorrow, a Blight Unbearable

For @14dayscirclemages I'm combining the first two prompts, "upbringing" and "arrival" since my Warden's backstory is a bit different from canon. Lucy is very dear to me and her story has been in my head for a while, so I'm glad I spent this time elaborating on her childhood.

TW: loss of a parent... sort of.

Read below or on AO3.

Lucy Amell was nine years old when the Tranquil mark was branded on her mother’s forehead.

Unlike the other mages in the Circle Tower, Lucy was born at Kinloch Hold. Never had she walked the busy streets of Denerim or glimpsed the snowy peaks of the Frostback Mountains. The farthest she had ever gone was the outskirts of Lake Calenhad when Irving permitted students outside—heavily supervised by templars, of course. A group of enchanters always accompanied them, their sole job being to uphold a magical barrier in the water. Lucy would swim as close to the barrier as she could just for a peek of Redcliffe Castle. On clear days, she could just barely make out the stone spires on the opposite side of the lake, pointed red flags blowing in the breeze. It was surreal to think that some of the most important people in Ferelden could be so close. Theirs were lives entirely different to her own, ones she had only read about in books. When she couldn’t sleep at night, she imagined what sort of things might be happening behind those castle walls. She cooked up stories of forbidden love between servants; King Maric and his advisors visiting on very important political business; heated arguments in a dining room adorned with crystal chandeliers and doused in candlelight. 

Despite her wandering imagination, Lucy was content as a child in the Circle. The Chantry sisters who raised her instilled her with the true Andrastian virtues of discipline and gratitude. They taught her to be quiet, proper, studious—and she was. Time spent with her mother, however, was different. 

On her free afternoons, Evanora took her daughter to the parts of the tower only senior enchanters were permitted to enter. She showed her rooms enchanted by shimmering wards, ancient books imbued with powerful magic, priceless staves both charmed and cursed. As Lucy began showing signs of magic, Evanora taught her daughter herself in addition to her routine studies. One of Lucy’s earliest memories is sitting on the floor of Evanora’s study, her mother’s hands cupping hers while she charged Lucy’s magic with her own, just enough to manifest the smallest snow flurry above her little palms. 

“I did it!” little Lucy squealed, giggling madly and pressing her cold hands to her face.

“I knew you could,” Evanora responded with a sly grin. “You have magic in your blood.”

Evanora was ambitious, gregarious, and one of the most skilled mages in Kinloch Hold. She earned the trust that Irving and other powerful mages in the Circle had placed in her. And with that trust came privilege. When the Circle needed representation—be it in Ferelden or elsewhere in Thedas—Evanora was almost always the one chosen. Where most mages in the tower were lucky to take one step outside the courtyard, she had been to places like Denerim, Highever, Ostwick. Her favorite place to tell Lucy about, however, was Nevarra. 

Lucy’s skin prickled with goosebumps as her mother described the Necropolis, a great, underground city of tombs. “The air was stale with death and decay,” she told her, “and some strange incense that made my nose itch.” The stories ensured that Lucy had no desire to visit the Necropolis herself, but she still loved to hear them. Not because of the morbid tomb-cities, but because of the way the story always ended. 

“And I came home with you,” she smiled.

“I’m from Nevarra?” little Lucy had asked the first time she heard the story. “Where the dead people are?”

“No, no. That’s just where the Maker decided the world needed a Lucy.”

Lucy always noticed a particular look in her mother’s eyes when she talked about it, something unfamiliar that she wasn’t able to place at the time. As she grew older, she realized what it was: nostalgia. The melancholic kind that pulled a bit too tight at the heart. 

The day Lucy lost her mother was scorched into her memory like the glyphs of a ward, so bright the pattern remained even behind closed eyes.

The adults in the tower spoke in hushed whispers when she entered a room. Lucy hadn’t seen her mother in days, which wasn’t unusual—she often had obligations that kept her busy for days at a time—but something was different. As the older mages’ glances lingered on her in the library one afternoon, Lucy wondered if she had done something wrong, if her mother was avoiding her for some transgression she wasn’t even aware of. She combed through the events of the past few days in her mind, trying to determine what it could be, but there was nothing. Her recent evaluations had gone exceedingly well. She had never, not once, been reprimanded for bad behavior. Her mind began to drift to the catastrophic. Maybe she was being transferred to a different Circle, like any child born within its walls. She had only recently learned that her mother insisted on keeping Lucy with her, and it was only at Irving’s trust and gratitude that she was able to do so. Irving was a reasonable man, but he still answered to the College of Magi. If her mother had done something to upset them, would Irving send Lucy away? Would he send her mother away?

Lucy sat at a table with eyes glazed over an open book, lost in her thoughts, a quill tapping restlessly on parchment.  She startled when senior enchanter Wynne approached.

“Lucy,” she said softly, a gentle smile on her lips. “Your studies are going well, I hear.”

Lucy looked up and nodded. Wynne wasn’t here to talk about school. 

“I am glad to hear it,” she said. Then, cutting to the chase: “Irving would like to see you in his study, dear. I’ll walk with you.”

Wynne made small talk as she led Lucy to the First Enchanter, but her words were careful; nervous. Lucy had spoken with Irving many times, but had never been to his study. Although Evanora had shown Lucy many secretive areas of the tower, Wynne brought her through corridors she had never walked before—the doors were visibly locked with heavy chains and armed with templars bigger and scarier than the ones she was used to. One of them looked their way as he polished a spot on his helmet, his face so badly scarred he was missing half of his nose. Lucy stuck a little closer to Wynne and felt a cool, steady hand on her shoulder until they reached the next floor and approached Irving’s study.

A group of enchanters gathered in a nearby chamber, and, like almost everyone the past few days, stopped talking and frowned in pity as Lucy walked by. Her chest tightened. Her stomach twisted. She wrapped her arms around herself as she often did at night when she felt lonely in a sea of bunkbeds, only this was much, much worse. All she wanted was her mother. Not the Chantry sisters who taught her to steel herself against emotion lest a demon squeeze itself in through a crack in the Fade—her mother, who was all laughs and rage and passion and had managed it all without ever becoming an abomination. She wanted to hear her voice, listen to her stories until Lucy’s pulse slowed back to its normal pace and she fell asleep. Everything would be better when she woke up.

The door to Irving’s study was open. He had always been kind to Lucy, always greeted her with a smile, but as he looked at her over his desk, his expression mirrored that of everyone else. He was better at hiding it than most, but it was still there, something jagged and blurred beneath the surface. It was more than pity, though. It was remorse. Wynne gently shut the door behind her as she left, and Lucy’s hands shook as she sat in a chair much too big for her. The room was silent as Irving searched for the right words to begin speaking, but Lucy could hear every particle of energy buzzing loudly in her ears. Every beat of her heart pounded against her ribcage. She felt as if her body itself might burst at the seams.

“Lucy, you are a very bright child, and I will not disparage you with small talk,” Irving finally said. His voice was calm and raspy as usual, but strained, as if his words were the only thing holding back a stampede. “You are aware that something is… different, are you not?”

Lucy nodded. She wanted to ask what was going on, why she was here, where her mother was, but she couldn’t open her mouth. Her body wouldn’t let her.

“The news I have to tell you is… unpleasant. It’s about your mother, Evanora.” Irving trailed off, eyes wet with grief. He looked at the paintings on the walls as if he would find solace there. Lucy took a sharp breath and braced herself for the worst—she was being sent away, or she had accidentally conjured a demon, or she had been injured in an accident. Hours seemed to pass before Irving turned his gaze back to her.

 “She was caught practicing blood magic.”

Lucy flinched as if he had just said the most foul words known to man. Blood magic—she didn’t know anything about it except that it was horrible, dangerous, and an affront to the Maker. It was a crime akin to murder. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. She could only stare at Irving as his words registered in her mind.

“No, that wasn’t her,” Lucy said, finally finding her voice. “She would never do that.”

Irving's gaze lingered on the paintings again. A single tear escaped and rolled down into his thick beard. 

“I would have said the same if I had not seen it myself.”

Lucy’s heart beat in her throat, ferocious and fearful. The room was shrinking, the air disappearing, the walls distorting.

“I know this is hard to hear, especially for one so young,” said Irving. Lucy could barely see him now. He was merely a blur behind a veil of tears. “The senior enchanters and I debated on whether or not to tell you. But you are bright, like I said, and you would have learned the truth eventually. I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it carelessly spoken by someone else.”

Everything felt too big, too much. She still longed for her mother’s embrace to shield her from it all, cocoon her in warmth and safety and promise her everything was going to be okay. Yet she felt repulsed at the thought of her arms around her, a blood mage, the most despicable thing a person could be. Only her mother could offer her the comfort she needed, yet she felt abject terror as she imagined it. A loving embrace became a strangled neck. Her hands and arms left blood in their wake. Lucy’s clothes and skin drenched in red. Her mother grinning madly in the shadows.

No—no, it wasn’t her. That wasn’t her. She shook her head to dislodge the image from her mind, to think of the Evanora she knew and loved. The one who told her stories of her travels, who snuck her into secret rooms, who taught her daughter magic in her own unique way. Those moments were clear in her head, and she willed herself to focus on them. But the blood always came back, dripping down the walls.

“What’s going to happen to her?” Lucy asked, wiping her tears futilely with the back of her sleeve. She could hardly get out the words.

Irving sighed and rose from the desk. He paced slowly from wall to wall, chin towards the ceiling and hand covering his mouth. A tendon in his neck tightened. Lucy wondered if he was silently speaking to the Maker.

“She will remain here in the tower,” he said. Relief and dread fought for dominance, raging inside her. They didn’t cancel each other out—only made the other more confusing. Could she bear seeing her mother in the halls knowing what she’d done? Could she bear being here without her? Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe she could explain everything, and it was all a misunderstanding. Yes, that must be it. 

“Please, can I see her?” she pleaded. Tears wet her lips with salt and grief. “Please.”

Irving stopped his pacing and braced himself on the desk with both hands. He dropped his chin to his chest and several small droplets fell onto the wood. When he looked back up, his eyes were rimmed with red. It was this moment when Lucy realized that grown-ups couldn’t always make things okay. 

“I’m so sorry, Lucy,” he breathed. “She’s been made Tranquil.”

—

The Formari workshop always made the hairs on Lucy’s arms stand on edge. She sometimes wondered if it was safe for her to be near so much lyrium, especially as it seemed to affect the air itself. The Tranquil assured her that as long as she didn’t touch it, limited periods of time in the workshop would not pose a threat. Over the years, she learned that she could stay for about half an hour before the inside of her mouth started to tingle. 

“Are you prepared for your Harrowing?” Evanora asked as she set a rune into a well-loved staff with meticulous precision. 

“Is anyone ever really  prepared for their Harrowing?” Lucy picked at the skin around her fingernails. She tried to avoid the topic when visiting her mother.

“Yes. I remember feeling…” she paused for a moment and looked up, searching her memory for an emotion she could no longer experience. “Confident.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Lucy smiled. Her mother’s face remained blank. 

“You are a skilled mage, Lucy. You should feel confident, too.” Her last words were uncertain, like she couldn’t quite grasp the concept, but knew it was the right thing to say. 

She watched her mother work with the inlaid runes, her movements methodical and rhythmic. The serene focus she seemed to find in her work reminded Lucy of the old Evanora, the version of her mother who could become so engrossed in her research that she’d disappear for days at a time and emerge with a wild look in her eye, talking excitedly to anyone who would listen. It was a different sort of focus now, but every time Lucy caught a glimpse of it, joy fluttered briefly in her chest before plummeting into sorrow. It was a reminder of what she lost—a ghost of the mother she knew. And sometimes it was easier to pretend that’s all she was. 

 A man’s voice interrupted Lucy’s thoughts.

“You do not have to do the Harrowing,” he said. “It is a peaceful life to be Tranquil.”

Alvin was one of the younger Tranquil, though still a few years older than Lucy. She remembered the day he was separated from the Fade. He did so willingly, too afraid to attempt the Harrowing at all. Lucy had more respect and understanding of the Tranquil than most, but even she thought him a coward.

“Lucy is unnerved by you, Alvin,” her mother said matter-of-factly. She had always been blunt, but even more so without an emotional filter. “She does not wish to be Tranquil.”

“Suit yourself.” Alvin looked at Lucy with that signature blank stare. The brand on his forehead was still dark red where many of the others’ had faded with time. “It doesn’t seem so terrible when the alternative is being struck down by templars. I much prefer living without that fear.”

“There is a third possibility you’re forgetting about,” Lucy said, visibly annoyed but trying to soothe the rising anxiety in her stomach. “Passing the Harrowing.”

“Yes. And the risk of becoming an abomination,” he said. “A risk that applies to none in this room except for you.”

He wasn’t trying to argue—he was just stating facts. Lucy knew that. But still, she found herself agitated. 

“Alvin,” Evanora said without looking up from her work. “Lucy is confident she will pass her Harrowing. Stop pestering her.”

As always, she spoke with no emotion, and somehow it hurt even worse when she tried to emulate the supportive mother she was before. Lucy felt her jaw clenching. She had been trying to push her worries about the Harrowing out of her mind, but the Tranquil always seemed to have a knack at prodding the most sensitive wounds. A subtle, electric tingle started to form in the back of her throat, and she took the opportunity to say goodbye to her mother and leave the room. She walked swiftly to a washroom at the end of the hall, thankful for the privacy in this area of the tower. Once inside, she fell against the heavy, wooden door and let the knot in her throat unravel. She stifled her cries with the sleeves of her robes, hoping it was enough to keep anyone from hearing. All fear had to be stamped out before the Harrowing, or they would not let her attempt it at all. There, sunk down to the cold, stone floor, she swore to herself this would be the only time she let her fears best her. After these tears were dry, there would be no more.

Tranquility was not an option. She would pass her Harrowing or die trying.

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Day 4: Templar

I've got some catch-up to do oops good thing @14dayscirclemages is all month?

Rating: T Word Count: 294 CW: none in particular this time

OC in question: Robin Amell

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Robin struggled to sleep in the apprentice dormitory.

She had her own room at her family’s keep and was unaccustomed to the sound of others sleeping, or failing to. Snores that ripped through the air, whimpers an undercurrent, groans and whispers in equal measure, all carried on a deafening wave of breathing. So much breathing, with however many children were housed in the younger apprentices’ dorm, Robin didn’t know how there could be enough air.

She tossed the wool blanket off and set her bare feet on old stone. Her bunk was a lower one, so her escape wouldn’t disturb anyone else’s sleep at least.

There was just enough light to see her way between the beds. Maybe in a few years she wouldn’t need the light at all to wend her way between them all, she would know the way as instinctively as she found her way to her parents’ bed when she had a nightmare.

That didn’t matter anymore. Robin shoved the thought down as she escaped the maze of slumbering kids and entered the gentle glow of the privies at the end of the room.

“State your name.”

Robin jumped and spun to find the voice. A templar sat just inside the main chamber of the privy, helmet off to reveal a woman with dark hair and heavily hooded eyes. A book sat in her lap, and on the table beside her was a sheet of parchment and quill.

“J- I’m Robin Amell,” she was too stunned to do anything but reply. Did the templars watch them pee?

The templar took up the quill and jotted something down. “Go about your business.” She didn’t get up, thankfully, but returned to her book, and Robin scampered gratefully to a stall.

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 7 - Lovers)

CHAPTER 7: LOVERS | MEREDITH & ELTHINA; MERESINO | WORDS: 884 | RATED: M

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages.  Chapter-specific CWs: graphic violence, hallucinations 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 (AO3 LINK)

With each passing day, Meredith becomes all the more convinced that what she had once accepted as her unfortunate reality is instead an inescapable, never-ending nightmare. 

It is the only plausible explanation for the Grand Cleric’s presence here in the Gallows—here, in Meredith’s office—asking her questions about her relationship with Orsino.

“Come now, Meredith. It would be remiss of me not to ask, given the rumours.” Elthina’s expression is placid. Demure. Like she’s not every bit as dangerous as Meredith when she wants to be.

Like she doesn’t already know the answer.   It has long been evident to Meredith that Elthina’s weapon of choice is other people. Used and used and used until discarded.

Meredith herself has been a tool in the Grand Cleric’s hands for far too many years. She’s had enough of it. Too many people are dying because Elthina can’t see reason. Because it doesn’t suit her ambitions. Because of motherfucking optics.

Politics still isn’t Meredith’s strong suit, but for a moment, she allows herself to consider the ‘optics’ of ramming her thumbs into the Grand Cleric’s eyeballs and smashing her head in against the wall.

Unfortunately, Meredith does know at least enough to realise the optics thereof would be bad. More accusations of tyranny, etcetera etcetera. And there’s no need to give herself another headache today, not on top of the one she already has.

It’s too fucking hot in here. Again. Why does this keep happening to her? Rivulets of sweat stream down her body underneath her heavy plate, her gambeson, her underthings. Certainty pulses against her back. The song steadies her, centres her. She turns away from Elthina, seeking the breeze wafting in from the window. Presses her hot cheek against the cool bars. Tries not to feel like a prisoner.

“Rumours,” she scoffs, hoping for a level of disdain somewhere between complicit and murderous. “To be frank, I didn’t think a woman of your standing would put much stock in malicious gossip. Your Grace.”

If Elthina is perturbed by Meredith’s directness, it doesn’t show. Then again, Meredith’s not exactly looking. It tracks, though: while Elthina doesn’t care what they discuss together in the relative privacy of the Gallows, she does mind what Meredith says in public, especially in front of the nobility.

Especially in front of the Champion.

Elthina’s worried, then. Worried that one day, Meredith might just start singing, and she won’t be as easily disposed of as all the detractors that preceded her. Or at the very least: won’t be as easily forgotten.

When Meredith dies, she’ll go down swinging, diligent and dutiful until the very end. The Maker will reward her, embrace her; she will have completed the work she was brought into this world to do.

When Elthina dies, will she be able to say the same? Meredith is not so arrogant as to presume what the Maker has willed for others, but somehow, she doubts it. In any case, it will not be long now. For either of them. She can feel it in her bones.

Yet, here they are. In Meredith’s office. Talking about fucking Orsino, in multiple senses of the phrase.

“It ceases to be gossip when I have information from multiple reputable sources,” Elthina explains.

Meredith forces herself to turn from the window. She misses the cool breeze against her face almost immediately. Elthina’s expression has taken a turn for the constipated.

“Reputable source—” Meredith repeats, before her eyes dart to her office door. Or, more accurately, what lies beyond.

Oh, she’s going to fucking murder him. She’s prepared herself for this moment ever since she was assigned the killing blow at his Harrowing and finally, the time has come. It takes all of her self-control not to brush Elthina aside and kick Orsino’s door down. The fact that it had been a public altercation that had gotten her into this mess in the first place is the main thing that keeps her still. While Elthina could hardly challenge her authority in public, Meredith remembered what the Grand Cleric was capable of when less eyes were watching.

Bone, crunching. A noose, hanging. A body. Armour. Knight-Commander? Guylian? I’m so sorry. No—no longer a body, just a face. Long blonde hair. Her own? It hurts to breathe it hurts to breathe. The noose, tightening. Her hand, the pommel of the sword. Frantic. Cut her down! Amelia, Amelia, Amelia—the Thing is her sister. It/she smiles. Monsters mages monsters. Certainty. Talons on her armour. No, not talons. Human. Cullen? No. Where was she again? Her office. The knight-commander’s office. The year is 9:37 Dragon and she is Kirkwall’s knight-commander.

Elthina, by her side, brow furrowed in genuine concern. “Meredith, what’s wrong?” There is no way in this world that Meredith can tell the Grand Cleric the truth. Is this what it had been like for Wentworth, at the beginning of his end? And to think, not half an hour ago, Meredith’s main concern had been the potential humiliation of discussing her relationship with Orsino.

Orsino is not relevant, does not matter, has never mattered.

He has been doomed since his birth, just like every other mage. Just like Amelia. A long death, or a quick one? Suffering, or mercy?

Meredith had long been convinced of her answer. But she now possesses what she had lacked twenty years ago: the courage to act.

[apostacism]

Day 8: Joy

Written for @14dayscirclemages. Prompt list can be found here, for six more days of circle mage appreciation.

---

"Would you like to hold her?"

Joaquin extended his arms. "I hope you understand that I won't be giving her back."

"Good riddance." His mother laughed quietly. Her contentment was muted by exhaustion: dark circles lay under her eyes, and her normally immaculate appearance had been pared down to just the essentials. "We're too old for this."

"Aisha," his father scolded, though he handed over the baby nevertheless. "I won't hear or consider it."

Aisha Trevelyan raised her sculpted brows. "You aren't the one who has to feed her."

Joaquin's infant sister squirmed in his arms, stretching her tiny limbs to test their fit in this new hold. Her eyes remained closed, her little brown mouth parting thoughtfully, nose wrinkling, then she seemed to decide waking wasn't worth it after all and settled back down against his chest. A fuzz of short black curls already peeked out from beneath her swaddling. She was, simply put, the most exquisite thing he had ever seen.

"I'll bring her back for holidays," he murmured. "I promise she will be suitably adored, and you won't even have to pay for her education."

"See?" Aisha leaned back against the divan, closing her eyes in parallel to the newest and least-expected of her children. "Joaquin will do fine. We managed, and we were younger than him."

In perfect harmony, Joaquin and his father made faces at each other. Before he received the letter notifying him that his mother was pregnant, children had been the farthest thing from his thoughts. It was surpassingly strange to think of his parents at his age, already three years married and raising him. His apartments and lifestyle in Dairsmuid were hardly suitable for a child, and on most days he still found himself staggered by the breadth of his own ignorance and inexperience: all that he, despite years of dedicated study, had yet to learn.

And yet... He looked down at his sister's tiny face, her body warm and surprisingly light in the crook of his arm. Some of his peers had married, of the past few years, set spouses up in households close enough to the Circle for convenience and begun to get about the business of their grown lives. If he asked his mother, he was sure she would say that she had not been prepared for him when he came, had not known everything she needed to know about babies or children or any of it. If Joaquin would never truly be ready for a child, could not, then, the desire to be stand in its stead?

The image which struck him hit in the soft breathless space just below the heart: a wide window, light spilling through gossamer curtains; the sharp, pretty face of the man who waited for him at home written in unbearable softness as he gazed down at the babe he cradled. He was so good with the apprentices, guiding their small hands through the forms of spells and their restless minds through the rhythms of meditation. No child of Sai's house would lack for either love or sense, and Joaquin would be grateful just to keep up.

Reality took on cooler tones. They were both mages and both men. One or the other of those barriers might be surmounted, but together they compounded the difficulty in obtaining such a goal. Joaquin would never simply end up a father; if he were to come to that place, it would be through conscious effort and careful intention.

"My baby, what thought has brought that expression to your face?" His father's voice cut through the trajectory of his thoughts.

Joaquin shook himself, but carefully, so he would not disturb his sleeping sister. His mother's reports of her excellent lungs had not been exaggerated; when he arrived, she was shrieking fit to level the house, and had only consented to settle through concerted effort. Reportedly, she could not abide a bed and it fell to whomsoever was least likely to keel over at any given moment to take responsibility for walking her up and down the halls. Joaquin envied his younger siblings: that they were here when he was not, that they would see the baby Noor grow up in sentences and paragraphs rather than sporadic punctuation. That this house was still home to them, and not merely a place to visit.

He smiled. "You would call me a baby still, when you have such a recent point of comparison?"

"You are my children. Seeing you together like this only makes me certain that in my heart, you will always be my babies."

"Simón, stop it," Aisha complained. "You're going to make each other emotional, and you know your daughter can sense weakness."

Joaquin laughed, softly. As he passed his father, he leaned briefly against him, shoulder to shoulder, letting his head drop so their skulls rested against each other before continuing on. It was still a surprise, though he had outgrown his father at seventeen, to find himself the taller. Lord Simón Trevelyan's presence was as warm and encompassing as the sun, filling up any room he entered. It sat strangely in Joaquin's mind to realize that his own innate sense of all the ways in which he did not yet measure up was not equally obvious from the outside.

"I'll have to take her for a walk, in that case." He leaned down to kiss his mother on the cheek. "It's not fair to ask him to go against his nature."

"Clever, to avoid taking responsibility for your own." His mother squeezed his forearm. "If she starts fussing, bring her back. I know you'll do your best, but at that age, some things are most easily solved with a breast."

"Or a clean cloth," Joaquin suggested. "I may be an insufficient substitute for her mother, but I think I can at least manage that much. You two deserve a rest."

Aisha shook her head. "This from the man fresh off a week of travel. You'll make me out to be a poor host."

"You'll make me out to be a poor son," Joaquin countered, "if I cannot even ease my parents' burdens for an hour. Let me take advantage of my sister. I am being selfish in this, and we will come straight back if she decides she objects."

"We trust you," his father said. "Just remember that you did not only come to visit the baby, I hope."

"I'm delighted to meet her," Joaquin turned his head to look at them both, "but I missed you."

"Oh, go on." His mother waved him off. "What did I tell you two about setting each other off? The baby won't stand for it."

Joaquin politely pretended he had not seen the sudden shine to her eyes.

"Come on, darling," he addressed his sleeping sister, whose tiny brow scrunched as if in answer. "I'm sure you've seen all of the house by now, but they can't have yet shown you all the grounds. I recall a copse I was particularly fond of as a boy..." As he spoke, he let his feet carry him out of the room, matching his pace to the soothing rhythm of his words, chosen with less thought to meaning than tone. His parents did not truly need him - they had three other children, aside from the newest, to share in the labor and the joy of an infant, but it was nice to feel useful. To feel, at least, for a little while, as if he were truly a part of this house.

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 6 - Enemies)

CHAPTER 6: ENEMIES | MEREDITH & GUYLIAN | WORDS: 531 | RATED: M

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 (AO3 LINK)

On rare occasions, Meredith will dream about what had happened when her knight-commander had been hanged. Mercenaries acting on behalf of the tyrant, or so the official story claimed, but Meredith knows better. In the first two weeks after Threnhold’s arrest she’d spent most of her waking hours standing guard outside his cell. Even back then she could recognise a man being tortured when she heard it. The pleas, the wails. The crunching of cartilage, the breaking of bone.     

The sobs, the silence.

The sounds of a man realising he was all alone in the world. No allies, no friends. Not a single living soul would ever care that he had all but disappeared and nobody would be coming to save him.

By all accounts, Threnhold had been a despot deposed by his own hubris. The former viscount had risked igniting an Orlesian invasion and the Order had provided a ready response to the threat to Kirkwall’s sovereignty. It would be an impressive tale, if one did not understand the basic tenets of the templars; or, to be more precise, one did not understand the functioning of the Kirkwall Order under Knight-Commander Guylian’s leadership. Guylian had been the kind of knight-commander depicted in children’s storybooks: steadfast in his duty and apolitical to a fault. He’d confided in Meredith that the Chantry had requested the templars pressure the viscount into reopening the harbour. But most importantly: he’d told her how he’d refused them.

And now, he was dead. Hanged in his own stronghold, no less!

Meredith had once aspired to the same neutrality she had been taught by Knight-Commander Guylian and Ser Wentworth before him, but she was no idiot. That dream was dead now. Dead, like her mentor. Dead, like the knight-commander.

Dead, like she would be if she did not comply. She could already feel the noose around her neck, rough rope threatening to choke her.

The long arm of the Chantry, ready to pull the lever.

It was tempting to let them. It would be a small price to pay for freedom: fall, fall, fall, snap. But she had seen executions go wrong too many times before. Besides, if she were dead, she could not perform her duty: she had sworn to save the people of Kirkwall, just as she had once promised to protect her sister. She might have failed Amelia, but Meredith would not, could not, fail this city.

Why else would the Maker have rescued her that night if not for this purpose? If He truly had no plan for her, would it not have been better, kinder, to have left her there to die?

Instead, she had suffered, but the suffering had strengthened her. And it would continue to strengthen her, empowering her to do what needed to be done.

She could endure a thinly-veiled threat. She had endured so much already.

When Elthina finally dismissed Meredith from her post, the post outside the cell of a man whose worst crimes had been a terrible temper and refusing to bend the knee to Orlais, it had been with little more than a soft, steely smile and the words I’ll see you soon, Knight-Commander. Meredith had known better than to question the new title, relieved to finally be released back to the relative safety of the Gallows.

The Gallows, where her knight-commander had been hanged.