dragon age: light up as if you have a choice (3a/?)
Chapter Two: "Expectations, Part I"
Author: kel_fish
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Alistair/Amell
Rating: M (so far for violence and language)
Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to people who aren't myself; I just enjoy playing with the characters they created.
Author's Note: I wasn't sure what the rating should be for the story, but since there's quite a bit of gore and language in this chapter, and there's bound to be more of it before the adult content comes into play, I figured I'd just make it M now. Let me know if you think this is unnecessary--I'm never sure with the system. A special thanks to dasque for this chapter, if only because I would've forgotten to post it otherwise.
Summary: A templar, a crazy mage, a Witch of the Wilds, a war dog, a bard, a qunari warrior, a healer, an elven assassin, a golem, and a drunken dwarf throw themselves at a giant dragon on top of a prison tower; they had to win, they were the punchline.
This thing has been cross-posted like you wouldn't believe. Sorry if it crowds your flist.
Prologue, 1
Solona awoke with a start, jolting underneath the blankets as her hands clutched fistfuls of the sheet underneath her; her equilibrium felt off, her body convinced she was falling out of her bed. She deliberately flexed her fingers, rubbing them against threadbare flannel to reassure her reeling head that she was indeed lying flat on a stable mattress. Gradually, her heart stopped racing, but the room continued to tilt and she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply through her nose to quell the wave of nausea that had risen in her stomach.
She burrowed her head deeper into her pillow, trying to find a better angle to support the throbbing pain weighing down the right side of her skull, and continued to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth. Her clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin as if she’d been sweating heavily, but she knew she wasn’t feverish; somehow, she knew this migraine was a side effect, not an illness-she just couldn’t quite remember what had happened. She was on the brink of recollection, but her thoughts were hazy, jumbled by exhaustion.
“Solona?” Gwynlian’s voice was soft, distant. Solona reluctantly opened her eyes and turned her face away from the pillow, spotting Gwynlian’s blue eyes peeking around the corner of another bunk at the opposite end of the room; she’d been talking to someone else, but now she hurried over to Solona’s bedside, looking worried. “How are you feeling?”
Solona opened her mouth, but promptly closed it when the room started tilting again, threatening to tip her friend across the floor and into the wall. She shut her eyes and groaned, her throat dry and her tongue swollen. She felt Gwynlian’s cool hand on her forehead, feeling for a fever that wasn’t there, and then her fingers smoothed Solona’s bangs away from her face, threading through hair stringy from cold sweat as she hummed low under her breath.
“You’ve been asleep all day,” she informed quietly, her voice barely above a whisper and gentle on Solona’s over-sensitive ears. “It’s just past three now.” Solona risked opening her eyes again, studying the girl kneeling in front of her as her fingers continued to soothe her scalp. Gwynlian’s eyes were dark, unsettled, and her face was paler than usual, as if something had disturbed her. “You were moaning, like something awful had happened.” She paused, then cleared her throat and stilled her hand, her fine brows drawn over an equally fine nose in her concern. “Do you need anything?”
Solona blinked, tried to swallow a few times. “Water,” she eventually croaked, closing her eyes again when the dizziness was too much to handle-at least the apprentices’ quarters had no windows or she would have had to contend with the sun’s light bearing down on her as well.
Gwynlian’s finger lightly tapped the top of her scalp, confirming her request, and then she leaned in close to whisper in Solona’s ear, “Have you been in contact with lyrium?”
Lyrium. Solona’s eyes snapped open again, the events of the night before stringing themselves together in a rush that made her head scream in protest. Her Harrowing… the Fade… a pride demon… “Fuck.” She brought her hand up to her mouth to feel her lower lip-the flesh was bruised, broken underneath her fingertips.
“Ssh.” Gwynlian rose to her feet, still bending over to keep their conversation as private as possible in a room full of girls who had the rest of the day to themselves and not much to do except gossip. “I’m going to go see if I can get some elfroot from Denri-it will help ease the effects, as long as you take it easy… for once.”
Her hand left its position in Solona’s hair, and Solona smiled weakly. “Gwyn, the healer.” This time Gwynlian’s shush was teasing, and she flashed her a grin before turning on her heel and hurrying to the boys’ dorm to bribe the infamous hoarder for a couple of handfuls of dried root pieces; with luck, Denri’s fee wouldn’t be too steep or Solona would just insist on doing without-but she really hoped she wouldn’t have to.
Her stomach roiled in agreement, provoking another wave of dizziness, and just as Solona was about to close her eyes again and doze while Gwynlian haggled, she heard a heavier set of footsteps hurry in her direction. She instinctively knew who they belonged to. “Jowan. Sleep well?” Her voice made her wince, sounding more akin to a frog than herself.
“I saw them bring you in this morning,” Jowan said, wavering uncertainly in the doorway for a moment before approaching, his hands awkward at his sides as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I didn’t realize you’d been gone all night… are you all right?” He stopped just short of her bedside, peering down through the fringe of his long black hair as he shifted his weight back and forth, as if seeing her ill made him uncomfortable.
His concern was something refreshingly unexpected after so many years of only coming to her when he needed something, and Solona’s smile was genuine, if still weak. “Peachy,” she rasped, untwisting her legs so she could rotate onto her side. “And yourself?”
Jowan met her smile with a small one of his own, and he dropped down to sit cross-legged on the rug, sighing in relief. “I’m glad you’re all right. What was it like?” His rather botched attempt at a segue was not lost on Solona, and her initial pleasant surprise dropped quickly to disappointed familiarity; he may have been glad that she returned, but he was here to wheedle information on the Harrowing.
He noticed her change in mood, and his smile likewise slipped into something less easy. “I know we’re not supposed to know anything, but just give me a little hint.” Solona wavered, weighing Circle rules and her general annoyance with Jowan against the sometimes overwhelming anxiety every apprentice experienced over the Harrowing; that and past experience dictating that Jowan wouldn’t shut up about it until she relented.
“I had to enter the Fade,” she supplied-her brush with lyrium would be just as evident to Jowan, after all.
Jowan’s blue eyes were sharp as he studied her expression, and he seemed to be close to literally chewing on his thoughts as his lips pursed. “Really?” he prompted as they both remained silent for awhile, and his scrutiny brought Solona another wave of nausea and a particularly savage spike of pain behind her right eye. “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s pretty much it,” Solona said, terse out of annoyance just as much as the rising urge to vomit.
Unaware of the danger to his shoes, Jowan seemed to draw in on himself, sulking. “And now you get to move upstairs.” When Solona had neither the desire nor the ability to stroke his ego, he continued bitterly, “I’ve been here longer than you have; sometimes I think they just don’t want to test me.” His face elongated into a pout when Solona continued to remain silent, and he muttered, “Irving said he wanted to see you when you woke up,” before pushing himself up onto his feet.
“What for?” Solona asked around a long exhale, trying to calm her stomach.
“Probably to congratulate you on your Harrowing.” Jowan folded his arms across his chest, frowning down at Solona as if she’d personally sought a show of praise from the first enchanter; it usually fell to the mentors to present newly Harrowed mages with robes and a staff, so Irving taking over the responsibility was… unusual, to say the least. It also meant Solona would have to walk to his office.
She groaned and covered her face with the crook of her elbow, and Gwynlian chose that moment to return to the girls’ dorm. “Jowan,” she sighed in exasperation, the soles of her shoes quickly padding along the stone floor. “She just woke up a moment ago.” She edged past him, trying to bodily shoo him away, and Jowan finally seemed to remember that Solona wasn’t at her best.
“We’ll… speak later,” he said lamely, gesturing aimlessly with his hands as he backed out of the room. “I hope you feel better, Solona.”
Solona waved in his direction with her free arm, the other one still shielding her head from further stress. Gwynlian sat down at the foot of her bed, the mattress barely dipping under her slight weight, and held her hand just over Solona’s protected face until she lowered her arm. When she had Solona’s attention, she handed her the proffered cup of water and dropped a cloth pouch onto her chest.
Solona looked down along her nose at it, smelling the somewhat astringent scent of elfroot. When her eyes began to cross, she propped herself up against her pillow, holding the pouch in place against her chest with one hand while she accepted the water with the other, too thirsty to sip like she should have and instead gulping all of it down in one go. “Thanks,” she gasped, handing the cup back to Gwynlian so she could tug open the drawstring on the pouch and pop one of the roots into her mouth.
“Try not to finish off the pouch in a day, all right?” Gwynlian said lightly. Solona stopped sucking on the elfroot to ask how much Denri had deemed it worth, but Gwynlian dismissed her with a wave. “Don’t worry about Denri. He was practically salivating… until I said it was for you. Then he all but gave it to me.” She grinned conspiratorially, drawing closer on the bed so she could stage whisper, “I think he has a crush on you.”
Solona snorted, nearly choking on the root in her mouth, and she tucked it securely underneath her tongue before speaking. “He’s afraid of me, Gwyn,” she corrected amiably. “He wouldn’t trade me a bundle of deathroot a few years back until I wrote an entire essay for him.”
“…Wait… I remember that. Is that the one that Senior Enchanter Cyril read out loud as an example of what not to do when working with summoning fonts?” Gwynlian laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and glancing at the door as if Denri would burst in and take the elfroot away if he heard her.
Solona grinned wickedly. “He tried to corner me later, so I told him he could take up my lack of effort with Cyril-he chose to let it go.” She chewed on the tip of the elfroot; the plant would only dull the ache, but she was grateful for the respite all the same if it meant being able to have a conversation without upsetting her stomach.
“Well, I still think I’m right about the crush-some men like women who can slap them down.” Solona felt her cheeks flush, her fair complexion betraying her embarrassment, and Gwynlian laughed again, no trace of malice in her smile; where she was shamelessly boy-crazy, Solona had always been reserved when it came to trysts in the Tower. She was less inclined to act on attraction like it was some kind of game to play when the templars weren’t watching, when to her it all seemed so… personal. Not to mention she’d known all of the boys since they were little seven-year-olds who still picked their noses in plain view, making it somewhat difficult for her to even be attracted to any of them in the first place.
Solona cleared her throat and made a grab for another topic, finding the drama of Circle romances as unappealing and depressing as ever. “How did the Creation test go?” she asked, and then as the thought occurred to her, “Where’s Wreda, anyway?” She looked around as if expecting to find Wreda standing there with her hands on her hips, peeved that it had taken Solona so long to notice her presence, but she wasn’t in the room.
Then she noticed Gwynlian’s awkward shift at the foot of her bed, watched the way she thumbed at the blankets. “The test went fine, I think. For both of us.” Her reluctance to address Solona’s second question was obvious, and Solona kicked out underneath the covers to tap her foot against Gwynlian’s thigh. “She stormed out of the room this morning,” she explained hesitantly. “I don’t think she’s jealous, I think she’s just afraid you’ll stop talking to her, now that you’re moving upstairs.”
Solona sighed deeply and looked up at the slats of the bed above hers, resigned to the simple fact that she was going to have to walk around the tower-at least for a little while, and then she’d be able to try sleeping off the effects of the lyrium. She bit down on the elfroot again, estimating that she’d be able to manage the trip up to Irving’s office, provided she wouldn’t have to do much else. “All right, I’ve got places to be,” she said, as much to herself as Gwynlian, and kicked out again until her friend stood up, allowing her room to roll out of the bed and onto her feet.
She tucked the pouch of elfroot between the baseboard and the mattress of the bed above hers, ignoring a disapproving tsk from Gwynlian; crafting supplies weren’t forbidden to apprentices, but they still had to be logged whenever taken and considering Denri’s “business,” she doubted there was any record of two handfuls of elfroot and she didn’t want to get Gwynlian or herself in trouble. With her stash squared away, she did a quick once-over of her robes: no singe marks present, but they were wrinkled and hung awkwardly from her upper body after what must have been a night of tossing and turning. She tugged them as straight as she could, not too concerned with their appearance-the whole purpose of her going up to Irving’s office was to receive new ones anyway.
Gwynlian reached out and fluffed up one side of Solona’s hair, trying to get back some of the volume it had lost while she was sleeping, but deemed it futile after a few tries. “I don’t know why he couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” she murmured. “The other apprentices usually get a whole day to sleep, don’t they?”
Solona frowned, chewing on the inside of her cheek. They usually did, and the mentors would breeze by and advise the other apprentices to give them peace and quiet while they slept until a bed was prepared for them upstairs. She had already been puzzled by Irving’s summons, but now she was beginning to feel a little apprehensive as well; he wasn’t necessarily an intimidating man, but years as Ferelden’s First Enchanter had led him to think of the Circle more as a cause, and he usually only made shows of praise when he wished to shine light on the Circle’s progress-the last thing Solona needed was more mages resenting her success at not getting herself killed.
“Are you going to be able to make it?” Gwynlian broke into her musings. Solona nodded, slowly, then reached for the pouch and pulled out one more root before slipping it back into its hiding place. She cupped the elfroot in her curled fingers, effectively keeping it out of sight but still easily accessible if she needed to replace the one she already had in her mouth. “Okay,” Gwynlian conceded, “but really, Solona, take it easy, okay?”
“As pie.” Solona’s tone bordered on sardonic, having every intention of not aggravating her migraine, but knowing that the Tower and its people often foiled the very best of intentions. For some reason, she thought of Jowan and the look on his face when he’d said they’d talk later, how he’d been particularly twitchy as he sat on the floor in front of her. She shook her head, banishing her sudden sense of foreboding, and flashed Gwynlian what she hoped was a reassuring grin. “I’ll be back soon.”
Her trip through the library was fairly uneventful, marked only by Rhys nearly wetting himself as he pitted his anti-magic ward against an enchanter’s fireball; normally, Solona would have been able to join the audience of fellow apprentices, but today many of them eyed her with the awe, envy, anxiety that she had also felt before when watching another of her peers ascend. The Circle, despite its best efforts to instill a sense of fellowship, bred competition amongst its mages while the ever-vigilant templars brought out suspicion, mistrust.
When she was young, the enormity of life in the Tower still hadn’t quite sunk in, and she made friends she assumed would be for life; as she grew older, a lifetime in the Tower started to register and too many of her friends became simple peers, colleagues. Now Wreda was pulling away-even if she wasn’t envious of Solona’s progress, her desperation to get out was too keen, her only comfort knowing that her friends were just as stuck as she was. Solona feared for her, but she was certain that a mage as talented as Wreda would be able to pass her Harrowing and put in a request for an outside assignment.
Besides, the true impact of the Harrowing wasn’t the use of lyrium or a battle with a demon, it was the knowledge of just what the Circle was willing to do to its apprentices to test their resolve-the measures they took to appease the overbearing Chantry. Solona recalled the hopelessness in Anders’ eyes the day after his Harrowing, that eventual resolve that he was on his own. She wasn’t sure how Wreda would react to that shock.
By the time Solona made it to the second floor landing, she had to lean against the banister to catch her breath, her head and stomach protesting the exertion of simply climbing stairs. She chewed vigorously on the elfroot, refusing to throw up in plain sight, especially since the nearby Tranquil in the stockroom would drop whatever they were doing to clean up the mess; the last thing she wanted was a bunch of monotone men and women telling her it was their duty to keep the Circle’s stores clean as they scurried around on the floor. The thought left a bad taste in her mouth that the elfroot couldn’t quite overcome, and Solona pushed away from the stairs, as determined to get away from the Tranquil and the dark reminder they posed as she was to get through her meeting with the first enchanter.
As she drew closer to Irving’s office, she heard that there were already people in the room, and judging from the steadily rising volume of the voice she recognized as Greagoir’s, they were arguing-or rather, they were arguing again. Honestly, the first enchanter and knight-commander fought so often that Greagoir walked around with a permanent scowl etched into his features, and just bringing up mages’ rights set Irving’s brows in grim determination. Solona halted beside the doorway, wondering if she should intrude.
She leaned her weight against the wall, tilting her head so her right cheek rested on cool stone, and listened for a moment: “Most of our senior enchanters are already at Ostagar!” She heard the heavy plate of Greagoir’s armor clank as he grew increasingly agitated. “Sending any more of our own to this war effort will leave the Tower virtually defenseless-”
“‘Your own?’” Irving’s tone was calmer than Greagoir’s, but wry, deliberately goading. “Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir? Do you truly think us incapable of handling matters here, or are you afraid to let the mages actually use their Maker-given powers without Chantry supervision?”
From the sound of things, this was going to go on for some time and Solona was in no mood to wait. She pushed away from the wall and stepped into the doorway of Irving’s office just as Greagoir began to tell Irving what he thought of his insinuations. While she was used to their seemingly constant disagreements, she was not prepared for the third party present in the room, standing off to the side with his arms folded as he observed the two men in front of him. He looked important, not from the sheen of his armor or any particular show of station, but from the way he carried himself: straight and alert, diplomatic but preoccupied with matters of his own.
Not to mention he was in the room while the knight-commander and first enchanter squabbled over a war; was he another herald of the king’s? He looked too well-armed and authoritative to simply be a messenger. As Solona studied him, she realized he had noticed her arrival as he stepped closer, cutting off Greagoir’s angry protests. “Gentlemen, please. Irving, I believe someone is here to see you.” He stood between them and gestured toward Solona, bringing their attention to her as she shifted awkwardly in the doorway, thumbing her robes and cursing herself for wearing them when they were so wrinkled-even if they were the only ones she had at the moment.
Solona cleared her throat, then realized the piece of elfroot was still on her tongue and, after a moment, swallowed it. She pushed down at the material over her thighs with her palms before folding her arms over her chest, mimicking the visitor’s earlier posture as she made a conscious effort to stop fidgeting. “You sent for me?” she explained as everyone in the room remained silent, unable to keep her eyes from darting back to the strange man in the room.
He was watching her with a particular interest she wasn’t sure she liked, especially when Irving’s greeting implied that he had intended to introduce them-as Gwynlian had pointed out, it was unusual for the first enchanter to welcome a new mage to the Circle. As Solona wondered if Irving was going to embarrass her with praise she wasn’t sure she deserved, Greagoir sucked in a breath through his teeth before saying tersely, “You’re obviously busy. We will talk later.” He brushed past Irving, and as he passed Solona she thought she caught a look of… sympathy? Regret?
Before Solona could properly think it over, Irving waved her attention to the man next to him and said, “This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.” Solona’s eyes widened, almost of their own accord, and she let her arms drop to her sides, feeling her previous stance was disrespectful, but now faced with the problem of not knowing exactly what to do with her hands. She remained tongue-tied in her uncertainty, wondering why a Warden had traveled all the way from Ostagar simply to recruit for the king’s army. Covering for her silence, Irving went on, albeit with a little stutter, “You’ve heard about the war brewing in the south? He has come to invite more mages to aid King Cailan’s campaign.”
Both men continued to watch her intently, and Solona gradually caught on that they were still waiting on her to say something. “Er… pleased to meet you,” she offered lamely, unsure of just what Irving wanted of her and just a little peeved that she was expected to do more than accept her robes and go back to sleep. “Is… that all you wanted of me?”
Irving stammered again and Solona caught a hint of disappointment turning down the corners of his mouth, even if it was mostly hidden by his impressive beard. “Of course not,” he chuckled, his gaze darting to his right to look at Duncan every so often. “I wanted to congratulate you on your test.” He turned and sidled around his desk, maneuvering through the stacks of books, papers, and magical odds and ends cluttering his office.
He brushed a sheaf of paperwork aside, revealing a staff and folded, orange Circle robes. He picked them up and shuffled back to Solona, knocking over an old brass scale with the staff in his effort to avoid catching the robes on a corner of the desk. He paused for a moment to assess the damage done to the scale. “Blasted… er, right. Here are your robes, your staff, and-” He fished around in his pocket for something, then, “-a ring bearing the Circle’s insignia. Your belongings are being moved upstairs to the mages’ quarters as we speak, and you will be able to settle in as soon as you like.”
Solona accepted her reward, reluctant to voice her displeasure with her run-in with the pride demon in front of Duncan, but she refrained from thanking Irving as well, merely nodding and letting him interpret her silence as he saw fit. Solona managed to slip the ring onto the little finger of her right hand, noting the runes carved in the band and the light buzzing of energy they emitted against her skin. She bit back a grimace, rotating the ring on her finger with her thumb until she grew accustomed to the feeling; she’d never been one for rings, particularly rings inscribed with power.
Irving continued to speak to her while she was preoccupied with the burden in her arms, stepping back so he was once again level with Duncan, whose piercing brown eyes were still fixed on her. “Your phylactery has been sent to Denerim, and you are now an official sister of the Circle.”
Even a Grey Warden’s presence couldn’t quite stay Solona’s tongue, and she muttered, “My leash, you mean,” before she could help herself. Oddly enough, Duncan’s eyes warmed as she spoke, and Solona could have sworn the corner of his lips twitched upward in a smirk, as if he approved of her honesty.
The first enchanter, however, looked resigned. “Come, it’s not that bad.” His reassurance was half-hearted, as if he not only expected Solona to disagree, but also shared in her distaste.
“I’m sorry, but what are these ‘phylacteries?’” Duncan asked, finally looking away from Solona, who’d been trying to discern his expression-she bit her lip in annoyance and immediately winced and tried to surreptitiously lick at the wound.
Before she could supply her own opinions on the nature of phylacteries, Irving silenced her with a minimal shake of his head. “Blood is taken from all apprentices when they first come to the tower and preserved in special vials,” he explained, glossing over the specifics, but failing to mention how terrifying it was to a young girl who’d been ripped away from home and brought to a lone tower on an island, where someone waited almost at the door with a glass tube and informed her she was to fill it with her blood. Way to make a girl feel welcome.
“So they can be hunted if they turn apostate,” Duncan finished, his tone grim and matter-of-fact. Solona silently added, by using blood magic, as she found the templars’ practice of phylacteries to be very similar to the forbidden art; since the Chantry deemed them necessary in keeping track of the mages, they were approved.
Irving sighed, a frown accentuating the age lines around his features. “We have few choices. We must do what we can to prove we are strong enough to handle our power responsibly.” Duncan appeared nearly just as doubtful as the two mages in the room.
The topic alone was making Solona nauseous, her anxiety worsening her migraine, and she said just a little impatiently, “What now?”
“Patience, child,” Irving smiled apologetically, getting back to the small ceremony that came with becoming a Harrowed mage. “I trust you will not reveal secrets of the Harrowing with those who have not gone through the rite? Now, take your time to rest; the day is yours.”
“If you’ll excuse me, First Enchanter, I think I’ll return to my quarters as well,” Duncan bowed slightly, and he was already beginning to turn away when Irving’s eyes settled on Solona, appraising her again as he had earlier.
Solona had a feeling what was coming even before Irving opened his mouth to ask, “Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan to his room, child?”
So much for the day being mine. Her migraine resumed its pulsing behind her right eye, and she nearly reached up to cover it with the palm of her hand. “Does Duncan not know where his rooms are?” she asked, feigning innocence, and once again Duncan’s eyes honed in on her and seemed to take note of what Enchanter Iva called her “damned impertinence.” Before Irving could reprimand her in front of a Grey Warden, Solona clicked her tongue and sighed, “All right, all right.” Then under her breath as she left the office, “After all, there’s only one guest room on this floor and it’s right across from your office…”
She registered Duncan’s heavier footfalls almost directly to her right as he caught up to her, and she wondered if he’d heard all or most of her rant. Not wanting him to feel unwelcome amongst the mages, she asked, “What’s going on outside the Tower?”
Duncan hummed, scratching his beard and looking at her sidelong as they walked slowly along the hall-more because of Solona’s worsening headache than any desire for small talk. “I imagine you are not permitted to leave often?” Solona’s scoff was enough of an answer for him, and he nodded in understanding. “I’m not a good source of news, I fear. I’ve been preoccupied with the darkspawn incursion.”
Solona stamped down on her impulse to point out that any news was more than what she was regularly privy to, and instead remarked, “I’ve heard of darkspawn ambushes on the outskirts of the wilds, but… an entire horde?”
Duncan hummed again, nodding grimly. “It’s true, darkspawn do attack the surface in ragtag bands, but this time an army is amassing in the south, and if their forces aren’t stopped they will strike north.” He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure about divulging too much information to a mage who had just risen out of apprenticeship, then continued, “I came here to seek the first enchanter’s approval to place a mage or two in every contingent; the darkspawn have magic of their own, a kind similar to blood magic.” Solona’s eyes darted to the side to scrutinize Duncan as surreptitiously as possible as he went on, “The threat they pose is greater than maleficarum or even abominations… I wish the knight-commander would see that.”
Such sheer numbers of darkspawn was a hard concept to grasp, Solona admitted, and while Duncan’s urgency was enough to convince her that the danger in the south was all too real, she also remembered Greagoir’s argument: the Circle would be weak against attacks, from outside and within, if many more mages left for Ostagar. While she kept her thoughts quiet, Duncan added, “Mages could make all the difference in this war: they heal, and call ice and fire down upon the enemy, and… ah,” he chuckled at himself, hanging his head. “Listen to me, with an old man’s ranting.”
Solona shrugged, flashing him a crooked grin. “I’m a Circle mage; I’m used to it.” Duncan’s laugh was brief, but seemed genuine, tapering off as they passed the stockroom, and his eyes fixed on the mages within, nearly automatic as they performed their various duties. “What do you think of the Tranquil?” Solona asked, still watching him shrewdly.
“I suppose it keeps them-and those around them-safe, but I cannot say if such a solution is truly necessary,” Duncan answered, his response honest, but neutral. When Solona perfectly mimicked one of his hums, he chuckled again, then said, “I once saw blood magic firsthand-even if from a distance-when a mage turned a band of templars against each other. It was… dreadful to behold, but I don’t know if this is enough to sever an innocent’s connection to the Fade.”
Solona nodded, satisfied with his answer, and decided that while she didn’t know enough about him to genuinely like him just yet, she did respect him. They approached the guest quarters, and sure enough Duncan knew exactly where they were, as he drew to a stop in front of the door. “Thank you for walking with me,” he said, a hint of apology in his tone as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I’ll leave you to your business now.”
“I… uh… that is, my pleasure,” said Solona, scratching at the back of her head just behind her ear while she balanced her robes and staff in her other arm; she’d never been good with handling gratitude, even when it was only a formality. “I’ll… see you around.” She bobbed her head, unsure if the action was a nod or some weird kind of bow, and nearly tripped over her own feet as she pivoted to walk two doors over to see if her new bed was ready.
She heard Duncan close the door behind her, and she almost immediately slipped the second elfroot piece into her mouth, looking forward to sleeping for the rest of the day. She peered into the quarters reserved for those who had just been initiated, scanning the room for a space that looked relatively empty, and concluded that the bed at the far right was hers. She leaned her new staff against the side of the nearby wardrobe and opened one of the doors so she could hang her robes inside.
“Are you done talking with Irving?”
Part II
Author: kel_fish
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Alistair/Amell
Rating: M (so far for violence and language)
Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to people who aren't myself; I just enjoy playing with the characters they created.
Author's Note: I wasn't sure what the rating should be for the story, but since there's quite a bit of gore and language in this chapter, and there's bound to be more of it before the adult content comes into play, I figured I'd just make it M now. Let me know if you think this is unnecessary--I'm never sure with the system. A special thanks to dasque for this chapter, if only because I would've forgotten to post it otherwise.
Summary: A templar, a crazy mage, a Witch of the Wilds, a war dog, a bard, a qunari warrior, a healer, an elven assassin, a golem, and a drunken dwarf throw themselves at a giant dragon on top of a prison tower; they had to win, they were the punchline.
This thing has been cross-posted like you wouldn't believe. Sorry if it crowds your flist.
Prologue, 1
Solona awoke with a start, jolting underneath the blankets as her hands clutched fistfuls of the sheet underneath her; her equilibrium felt off, her body convinced she was falling out of her bed. She deliberately flexed her fingers, rubbing them against threadbare flannel to reassure her reeling head that she was indeed lying flat on a stable mattress. Gradually, her heart stopped racing, but the room continued to tilt and she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply through her nose to quell the wave of nausea that had risen in her stomach.
She burrowed her head deeper into her pillow, trying to find a better angle to support the throbbing pain weighing down the right side of her skull, and continued to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth. Her clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin as if she’d been sweating heavily, but she knew she wasn’t feverish; somehow, she knew this migraine was a side effect, not an illness-she just couldn’t quite remember what had happened. She was on the brink of recollection, but her thoughts were hazy, jumbled by exhaustion.
“Solona?” Gwynlian’s voice was soft, distant. Solona reluctantly opened her eyes and turned her face away from the pillow, spotting Gwynlian’s blue eyes peeking around the corner of another bunk at the opposite end of the room; she’d been talking to someone else, but now she hurried over to Solona’s bedside, looking worried. “How are you feeling?”
Solona opened her mouth, but promptly closed it when the room started tilting again, threatening to tip her friend across the floor and into the wall. She shut her eyes and groaned, her throat dry and her tongue swollen. She felt Gwynlian’s cool hand on her forehead, feeling for a fever that wasn’t there, and then her fingers smoothed Solona’s bangs away from her face, threading through hair stringy from cold sweat as she hummed low under her breath.
“You’ve been asleep all day,” she informed quietly, her voice barely above a whisper and gentle on Solona’s over-sensitive ears. “It’s just past three now.” Solona risked opening her eyes again, studying the girl kneeling in front of her as her fingers continued to soothe her scalp. Gwynlian’s eyes were dark, unsettled, and her face was paler than usual, as if something had disturbed her. “You were moaning, like something awful had happened.” She paused, then cleared her throat and stilled her hand, her fine brows drawn over an equally fine nose in her concern. “Do you need anything?”
Solona blinked, tried to swallow a few times. “Water,” she eventually croaked, closing her eyes again when the dizziness was too much to handle-at least the apprentices’ quarters had no windows or she would have had to contend with the sun’s light bearing down on her as well.
Gwynlian’s finger lightly tapped the top of her scalp, confirming her request, and then she leaned in close to whisper in Solona’s ear, “Have you been in contact with lyrium?”
Lyrium. Solona’s eyes snapped open again, the events of the night before stringing themselves together in a rush that made her head scream in protest. Her Harrowing… the Fade… a pride demon… “Fuck.” She brought her hand up to her mouth to feel her lower lip-the flesh was bruised, broken underneath her fingertips.
“Ssh.” Gwynlian rose to her feet, still bending over to keep their conversation as private as possible in a room full of girls who had the rest of the day to themselves and not much to do except gossip. “I’m going to go see if I can get some elfroot from Denri-it will help ease the effects, as long as you take it easy… for once.”
Her hand left its position in Solona’s hair, and Solona smiled weakly. “Gwyn, the healer.” This time Gwynlian’s shush was teasing, and she flashed her a grin before turning on her heel and hurrying to the boys’ dorm to bribe the infamous hoarder for a couple of handfuls of dried root pieces; with luck, Denri’s fee wouldn’t be too steep or Solona would just insist on doing without-but she really hoped she wouldn’t have to.
Her stomach roiled in agreement, provoking another wave of dizziness, and just as Solona was about to close her eyes again and doze while Gwynlian haggled, she heard a heavier set of footsteps hurry in her direction. She instinctively knew who they belonged to. “Jowan. Sleep well?” Her voice made her wince, sounding more akin to a frog than herself.
“I saw them bring you in this morning,” Jowan said, wavering uncertainly in the doorway for a moment before approaching, his hands awkward at his sides as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I didn’t realize you’d been gone all night… are you all right?” He stopped just short of her bedside, peering down through the fringe of his long black hair as he shifted his weight back and forth, as if seeing her ill made him uncomfortable.
His concern was something refreshingly unexpected after so many years of only coming to her when he needed something, and Solona’s smile was genuine, if still weak. “Peachy,” she rasped, untwisting her legs so she could rotate onto her side. “And yourself?”
Jowan met her smile with a small one of his own, and he dropped down to sit cross-legged on the rug, sighing in relief. “I’m glad you’re all right. What was it like?” His rather botched attempt at a segue was not lost on Solona, and her initial pleasant surprise dropped quickly to disappointed familiarity; he may have been glad that she returned, but he was here to wheedle information on the Harrowing.
He noticed her change in mood, and his smile likewise slipped into something less easy. “I know we’re not supposed to know anything, but just give me a little hint.” Solona wavered, weighing Circle rules and her general annoyance with Jowan against the sometimes overwhelming anxiety every apprentice experienced over the Harrowing; that and past experience dictating that Jowan wouldn’t shut up about it until she relented.
“I had to enter the Fade,” she supplied-her brush with lyrium would be just as evident to Jowan, after all.
Jowan’s blue eyes were sharp as he studied her expression, and he seemed to be close to literally chewing on his thoughts as his lips pursed. “Really?” he prompted as they both remained silent for awhile, and his scrutiny brought Solona another wave of nausea and a particularly savage spike of pain behind her right eye. “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s pretty much it,” Solona said, terse out of annoyance just as much as the rising urge to vomit.
Unaware of the danger to his shoes, Jowan seemed to draw in on himself, sulking. “And now you get to move upstairs.” When Solona had neither the desire nor the ability to stroke his ego, he continued bitterly, “I’ve been here longer than you have; sometimes I think they just don’t want to test me.” His face elongated into a pout when Solona continued to remain silent, and he muttered, “Irving said he wanted to see you when you woke up,” before pushing himself up onto his feet.
“What for?” Solona asked around a long exhale, trying to calm her stomach.
“Probably to congratulate you on your Harrowing.” Jowan folded his arms across his chest, frowning down at Solona as if she’d personally sought a show of praise from the first enchanter; it usually fell to the mentors to present newly Harrowed mages with robes and a staff, so Irving taking over the responsibility was… unusual, to say the least. It also meant Solona would have to walk to his office.
She groaned and covered her face with the crook of her elbow, and Gwynlian chose that moment to return to the girls’ dorm. “Jowan,” she sighed in exasperation, the soles of her shoes quickly padding along the stone floor. “She just woke up a moment ago.” She edged past him, trying to bodily shoo him away, and Jowan finally seemed to remember that Solona wasn’t at her best.
“We’ll… speak later,” he said lamely, gesturing aimlessly with his hands as he backed out of the room. “I hope you feel better, Solona.”
Solona waved in his direction with her free arm, the other one still shielding her head from further stress. Gwynlian sat down at the foot of her bed, the mattress barely dipping under her slight weight, and held her hand just over Solona’s protected face until she lowered her arm. When she had Solona’s attention, she handed her the proffered cup of water and dropped a cloth pouch onto her chest.
Solona looked down along her nose at it, smelling the somewhat astringent scent of elfroot. When her eyes began to cross, she propped herself up against her pillow, holding the pouch in place against her chest with one hand while she accepted the water with the other, too thirsty to sip like she should have and instead gulping all of it down in one go. “Thanks,” she gasped, handing the cup back to Gwynlian so she could tug open the drawstring on the pouch and pop one of the roots into her mouth.
“Try not to finish off the pouch in a day, all right?” Gwynlian said lightly. Solona stopped sucking on the elfroot to ask how much Denri had deemed it worth, but Gwynlian dismissed her with a wave. “Don’t worry about Denri. He was practically salivating… until I said it was for you. Then he all but gave it to me.” She grinned conspiratorially, drawing closer on the bed so she could stage whisper, “I think he has a crush on you.”
Solona snorted, nearly choking on the root in her mouth, and she tucked it securely underneath her tongue before speaking. “He’s afraid of me, Gwyn,” she corrected amiably. “He wouldn’t trade me a bundle of deathroot a few years back until I wrote an entire essay for him.”
“…Wait… I remember that. Is that the one that Senior Enchanter Cyril read out loud as an example of what not to do when working with summoning fonts?” Gwynlian laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and glancing at the door as if Denri would burst in and take the elfroot away if he heard her.
Solona grinned wickedly. “He tried to corner me later, so I told him he could take up my lack of effort with Cyril-he chose to let it go.” She chewed on the tip of the elfroot; the plant would only dull the ache, but she was grateful for the respite all the same if it meant being able to have a conversation without upsetting her stomach.
“Well, I still think I’m right about the crush-some men like women who can slap them down.” Solona felt her cheeks flush, her fair complexion betraying her embarrassment, and Gwynlian laughed again, no trace of malice in her smile; where she was shamelessly boy-crazy, Solona had always been reserved when it came to trysts in the Tower. She was less inclined to act on attraction like it was some kind of game to play when the templars weren’t watching, when to her it all seemed so… personal. Not to mention she’d known all of the boys since they were little seven-year-olds who still picked their noses in plain view, making it somewhat difficult for her to even be attracted to any of them in the first place.
Solona cleared her throat and made a grab for another topic, finding the drama of Circle romances as unappealing and depressing as ever. “How did the Creation test go?” she asked, and then as the thought occurred to her, “Where’s Wreda, anyway?” She looked around as if expecting to find Wreda standing there with her hands on her hips, peeved that it had taken Solona so long to notice her presence, but she wasn’t in the room.
Then she noticed Gwynlian’s awkward shift at the foot of her bed, watched the way she thumbed at the blankets. “The test went fine, I think. For both of us.” Her reluctance to address Solona’s second question was obvious, and Solona kicked out underneath the covers to tap her foot against Gwynlian’s thigh. “She stormed out of the room this morning,” she explained hesitantly. “I don’t think she’s jealous, I think she’s just afraid you’ll stop talking to her, now that you’re moving upstairs.”
Solona sighed deeply and looked up at the slats of the bed above hers, resigned to the simple fact that she was going to have to walk around the tower-at least for a little while, and then she’d be able to try sleeping off the effects of the lyrium. She bit down on the elfroot again, estimating that she’d be able to manage the trip up to Irving’s office, provided she wouldn’t have to do much else. “All right, I’ve got places to be,” she said, as much to herself as Gwynlian, and kicked out again until her friend stood up, allowing her room to roll out of the bed and onto her feet.
She tucked the pouch of elfroot between the baseboard and the mattress of the bed above hers, ignoring a disapproving tsk from Gwynlian; crafting supplies weren’t forbidden to apprentices, but they still had to be logged whenever taken and considering Denri’s “business,” she doubted there was any record of two handfuls of elfroot and she didn’t want to get Gwynlian or herself in trouble. With her stash squared away, she did a quick once-over of her robes: no singe marks present, but they were wrinkled and hung awkwardly from her upper body after what must have been a night of tossing and turning. She tugged them as straight as she could, not too concerned with their appearance-the whole purpose of her going up to Irving’s office was to receive new ones anyway.
Gwynlian reached out and fluffed up one side of Solona’s hair, trying to get back some of the volume it had lost while she was sleeping, but deemed it futile after a few tries. “I don’t know why he couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” she murmured. “The other apprentices usually get a whole day to sleep, don’t they?”
Solona frowned, chewing on the inside of her cheek. They usually did, and the mentors would breeze by and advise the other apprentices to give them peace and quiet while they slept until a bed was prepared for them upstairs. She had already been puzzled by Irving’s summons, but now she was beginning to feel a little apprehensive as well; he wasn’t necessarily an intimidating man, but years as Ferelden’s First Enchanter had led him to think of the Circle more as a cause, and he usually only made shows of praise when he wished to shine light on the Circle’s progress-the last thing Solona needed was more mages resenting her success at not getting herself killed.
“Are you going to be able to make it?” Gwynlian broke into her musings. Solona nodded, slowly, then reached for the pouch and pulled out one more root before slipping it back into its hiding place. She cupped the elfroot in her curled fingers, effectively keeping it out of sight but still easily accessible if she needed to replace the one she already had in her mouth. “Okay,” Gwynlian conceded, “but really, Solona, take it easy, okay?”
“As pie.” Solona’s tone bordered on sardonic, having every intention of not aggravating her migraine, but knowing that the Tower and its people often foiled the very best of intentions. For some reason, she thought of Jowan and the look on his face when he’d said they’d talk later, how he’d been particularly twitchy as he sat on the floor in front of her. She shook her head, banishing her sudden sense of foreboding, and flashed Gwynlian what she hoped was a reassuring grin. “I’ll be back soon.”
Her trip through the library was fairly uneventful, marked only by Rhys nearly wetting himself as he pitted his anti-magic ward against an enchanter’s fireball; normally, Solona would have been able to join the audience of fellow apprentices, but today many of them eyed her with the awe, envy, anxiety that she had also felt before when watching another of her peers ascend. The Circle, despite its best efforts to instill a sense of fellowship, bred competition amongst its mages while the ever-vigilant templars brought out suspicion, mistrust.
When she was young, the enormity of life in the Tower still hadn’t quite sunk in, and she made friends she assumed would be for life; as she grew older, a lifetime in the Tower started to register and too many of her friends became simple peers, colleagues. Now Wreda was pulling away-even if she wasn’t envious of Solona’s progress, her desperation to get out was too keen, her only comfort knowing that her friends were just as stuck as she was. Solona feared for her, but she was certain that a mage as talented as Wreda would be able to pass her Harrowing and put in a request for an outside assignment.
Besides, the true impact of the Harrowing wasn’t the use of lyrium or a battle with a demon, it was the knowledge of just what the Circle was willing to do to its apprentices to test their resolve-the measures they took to appease the overbearing Chantry. Solona recalled the hopelessness in Anders’ eyes the day after his Harrowing, that eventual resolve that he was on his own. She wasn’t sure how Wreda would react to that shock.
By the time Solona made it to the second floor landing, she had to lean against the banister to catch her breath, her head and stomach protesting the exertion of simply climbing stairs. She chewed vigorously on the elfroot, refusing to throw up in plain sight, especially since the nearby Tranquil in the stockroom would drop whatever they were doing to clean up the mess; the last thing she wanted was a bunch of monotone men and women telling her it was their duty to keep the Circle’s stores clean as they scurried around on the floor. The thought left a bad taste in her mouth that the elfroot couldn’t quite overcome, and Solona pushed away from the stairs, as determined to get away from the Tranquil and the dark reminder they posed as she was to get through her meeting with the first enchanter.
As she drew closer to Irving’s office, she heard that there were already people in the room, and judging from the steadily rising volume of the voice she recognized as Greagoir’s, they were arguing-or rather, they were arguing again. Honestly, the first enchanter and knight-commander fought so often that Greagoir walked around with a permanent scowl etched into his features, and just bringing up mages’ rights set Irving’s brows in grim determination. Solona halted beside the doorway, wondering if she should intrude.
She leaned her weight against the wall, tilting her head so her right cheek rested on cool stone, and listened for a moment: “Most of our senior enchanters are already at Ostagar!” She heard the heavy plate of Greagoir’s armor clank as he grew increasingly agitated. “Sending any more of our own to this war effort will leave the Tower virtually defenseless-”
“‘Your own?’” Irving’s tone was calmer than Greagoir’s, but wry, deliberately goading. “Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir? Do you truly think us incapable of handling matters here, or are you afraid to let the mages actually use their Maker-given powers without Chantry supervision?”
From the sound of things, this was going to go on for some time and Solona was in no mood to wait. She pushed away from the wall and stepped into the doorway of Irving’s office just as Greagoir began to tell Irving what he thought of his insinuations. While she was used to their seemingly constant disagreements, she was not prepared for the third party present in the room, standing off to the side with his arms folded as he observed the two men in front of him. He looked important, not from the sheen of his armor or any particular show of station, but from the way he carried himself: straight and alert, diplomatic but preoccupied with matters of his own.
Not to mention he was in the room while the knight-commander and first enchanter squabbled over a war; was he another herald of the king’s? He looked too well-armed and authoritative to simply be a messenger. As Solona studied him, she realized he had noticed her arrival as he stepped closer, cutting off Greagoir’s angry protests. “Gentlemen, please. Irving, I believe someone is here to see you.” He stood between them and gestured toward Solona, bringing their attention to her as she shifted awkwardly in the doorway, thumbing her robes and cursing herself for wearing them when they were so wrinkled-even if they were the only ones she had at the moment.
Solona cleared her throat, then realized the piece of elfroot was still on her tongue and, after a moment, swallowed it. She pushed down at the material over her thighs with her palms before folding her arms over her chest, mimicking the visitor’s earlier posture as she made a conscious effort to stop fidgeting. “You sent for me?” she explained as everyone in the room remained silent, unable to keep her eyes from darting back to the strange man in the room.
He was watching her with a particular interest she wasn’t sure she liked, especially when Irving’s greeting implied that he had intended to introduce them-as Gwynlian had pointed out, it was unusual for the first enchanter to welcome a new mage to the Circle. As Solona wondered if Irving was going to embarrass her with praise she wasn’t sure she deserved, Greagoir sucked in a breath through his teeth before saying tersely, “You’re obviously busy. We will talk later.” He brushed past Irving, and as he passed Solona she thought she caught a look of… sympathy? Regret?
Before Solona could properly think it over, Irving waved her attention to the man next to him and said, “This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.” Solona’s eyes widened, almost of their own accord, and she let her arms drop to her sides, feeling her previous stance was disrespectful, but now faced with the problem of not knowing exactly what to do with her hands. She remained tongue-tied in her uncertainty, wondering why a Warden had traveled all the way from Ostagar simply to recruit for the king’s army. Covering for her silence, Irving went on, albeit with a little stutter, “You’ve heard about the war brewing in the south? He has come to invite more mages to aid King Cailan’s campaign.”
Both men continued to watch her intently, and Solona gradually caught on that they were still waiting on her to say something. “Er… pleased to meet you,” she offered lamely, unsure of just what Irving wanted of her and just a little peeved that she was expected to do more than accept her robes and go back to sleep. “Is… that all you wanted of me?”
Irving stammered again and Solona caught a hint of disappointment turning down the corners of his mouth, even if it was mostly hidden by his impressive beard. “Of course not,” he chuckled, his gaze darting to his right to look at Duncan every so often. “I wanted to congratulate you on your test.” He turned and sidled around his desk, maneuvering through the stacks of books, papers, and magical odds and ends cluttering his office.
He brushed a sheaf of paperwork aside, revealing a staff and folded, orange Circle robes. He picked them up and shuffled back to Solona, knocking over an old brass scale with the staff in his effort to avoid catching the robes on a corner of the desk. He paused for a moment to assess the damage done to the scale. “Blasted… er, right. Here are your robes, your staff, and-” He fished around in his pocket for something, then, “-a ring bearing the Circle’s insignia. Your belongings are being moved upstairs to the mages’ quarters as we speak, and you will be able to settle in as soon as you like.”
Solona accepted her reward, reluctant to voice her displeasure with her run-in with the pride demon in front of Duncan, but she refrained from thanking Irving as well, merely nodding and letting him interpret her silence as he saw fit. Solona managed to slip the ring onto the little finger of her right hand, noting the runes carved in the band and the light buzzing of energy they emitted against her skin. She bit back a grimace, rotating the ring on her finger with her thumb until she grew accustomed to the feeling; she’d never been one for rings, particularly rings inscribed with power.
Irving continued to speak to her while she was preoccupied with the burden in her arms, stepping back so he was once again level with Duncan, whose piercing brown eyes were still fixed on her. “Your phylactery has been sent to Denerim, and you are now an official sister of the Circle.”
Even a Grey Warden’s presence couldn’t quite stay Solona’s tongue, and she muttered, “My leash, you mean,” before she could help herself. Oddly enough, Duncan’s eyes warmed as she spoke, and Solona could have sworn the corner of his lips twitched upward in a smirk, as if he approved of her honesty.
The first enchanter, however, looked resigned. “Come, it’s not that bad.” His reassurance was half-hearted, as if he not only expected Solona to disagree, but also shared in her distaste.
“I’m sorry, but what are these ‘phylacteries?’” Duncan asked, finally looking away from Solona, who’d been trying to discern his expression-she bit her lip in annoyance and immediately winced and tried to surreptitiously lick at the wound.
Before she could supply her own opinions on the nature of phylacteries, Irving silenced her with a minimal shake of his head. “Blood is taken from all apprentices when they first come to the tower and preserved in special vials,” he explained, glossing over the specifics, but failing to mention how terrifying it was to a young girl who’d been ripped away from home and brought to a lone tower on an island, where someone waited almost at the door with a glass tube and informed her she was to fill it with her blood. Way to make a girl feel welcome.
“So they can be hunted if they turn apostate,” Duncan finished, his tone grim and matter-of-fact. Solona silently added, by using blood magic, as she found the templars’ practice of phylacteries to be very similar to the forbidden art; since the Chantry deemed them necessary in keeping track of the mages, they were approved.
Irving sighed, a frown accentuating the age lines around his features. “We have few choices. We must do what we can to prove we are strong enough to handle our power responsibly.” Duncan appeared nearly just as doubtful as the two mages in the room.
The topic alone was making Solona nauseous, her anxiety worsening her migraine, and she said just a little impatiently, “What now?”
“Patience, child,” Irving smiled apologetically, getting back to the small ceremony that came with becoming a Harrowed mage. “I trust you will not reveal secrets of the Harrowing with those who have not gone through the rite? Now, take your time to rest; the day is yours.”
“If you’ll excuse me, First Enchanter, I think I’ll return to my quarters as well,” Duncan bowed slightly, and he was already beginning to turn away when Irving’s eyes settled on Solona, appraising her again as he had earlier.
Solona had a feeling what was coming even before Irving opened his mouth to ask, “Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan to his room, child?”
So much for the day being mine. Her migraine resumed its pulsing behind her right eye, and she nearly reached up to cover it with the palm of her hand. “Does Duncan not know where his rooms are?” she asked, feigning innocence, and once again Duncan’s eyes honed in on her and seemed to take note of what Enchanter Iva called her “damned impertinence.” Before Irving could reprimand her in front of a Grey Warden, Solona clicked her tongue and sighed, “All right, all right.” Then under her breath as she left the office, “After all, there’s only one guest room on this floor and it’s right across from your office…”
She registered Duncan’s heavier footfalls almost directly to her right as he caught up to her, and she wondered if he’d heard all or most of her rant. Not wanting him to feel unwelcome amongst the mages, she asked, “What’s going on outside the Tower?”
Duncan hummed, scratching his beard and looking at her sidelong as they walked slowly along the hall-more because of Solona’s worsening headache than any desire for small talk. “I imagine you are not permitted to leave often?” Solona’s scoff was enough of an answer for him, and he nodded in understanding. “I’m not a good source of news, I fear. I’ve been preoccupied with the darkspawn incursion.”
Solona stamped down on her impulse to point out that any news was more than what she was regularly privy to, and instead remarked, “I’ve heard of darkspawn ambushes on the outskirts of the wilds, but… an entire horde?”
Duncan hummed again, nodding grimly. “It’s true, darkspawn do attack the surface in ragtag bands, but this time an army is amassing in the south, and if their forces aren’t stopped they will strike north.” He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure about divulging too much information to a mage who had just risen out of apprenticeship, then continued, “I came here to seek the first enchanter’s approval to place a mage or two in every contingent; the darkspawn have magic of their own, a kind similar to blood magic.” Solona’s eyes darted to the side to scrutinize Duncan as surreptitiously as possible as he went on, “The threat they pose is greater than maleficarum or even abominations… I wish the knight-commander would see that.”
Such sheer numbers of darkspawn was a hard concept to grasp, Solona admitted, and while Duncan’s urgency was enough to convince her that the danger in the south was all too real, she also remembered Greagoir’s argument: the Circle would be weak against attacks, from outside and within, if many more mages left for Ostagar. While she kept her thoughts quiet, Duncan added, “Mages could make all the difference in this war: they heal, and call ice and fire down upon the enemy, and… ah,” he chuckled at himself, hanging his head. “Listen to me, with an old man’s ranting.”
Solona shrugged, flashing him a crooked grin. “I’m a Circle mage; I’m used to it.” Duncan’s laugh was brief, but seemed genuine, tapering off as they passed the stockroom, and his eyes fixed on the mages within, nearly automatic as they performed their various duties. “What do you think of the Tranquil?” Solona asked, still watching him shrewdly.
“I suppose it keeps them-and those around them-safe, but I cannot say if such a solution is truly necessary,” Duncan answered, his response honest, but neutral. When Solona perfectly mimicked one of his hums, he chuckled again, then said, “I once saw blood magic firsthand-even if from a distance-when a mage turned a band of templars against each other. It was… dreadful to behold, but I don’t know if this is enough to sever an innocent’s connection to the Fade.”
Solona nodded, satisfied with his answer, and decided that while she didn’t know enough about him to genuinely like him just yet, she did respect him. They approached the guest quarters, and sure enough Duncan knew exactly where they were, as he drew to a stop in front of the door. “Thank you for walking with me,” he said, a hint of apology in his tone as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I’ll leave you to your business now.”
“I… uh… that is, my pleasure,” said Solona, scratching at the back of her head just behind her ear while she balanced her robes and staff in her other arm; she’d never been good with handling gratitude, even when it was only a formality. “I’ll… see you around.” She bobbed her head, unsure if the action was a nod or some weird kind of bow, and nearly tripped over her own feet as she pivoted to walk two doors over to see if her new bed was ready.
She heard Duncan close the door behind her, and she almost immediately slipped the second elfroot piece into her mouth, looking forward to sleeping for the rest of the day. She peered into the quarters reserved for those who had just been initiated, scanning the room for a space that looked relatively empty, and concluded that the bed at the far right was hers. She leaned her new staff against the side of the nearby wardrobe and opened one of the doors so she could hang her robes inside.
“Are you done talking with Irving?”
Part II