Dragon Age 1. Chapter 1

_A thank you gift for the lovely Perahn at CMDA._

_Thanks to EasternViolet for her beta skills._

* * *

Marian Hawke made sure to keep her head down as she dodged through the courtyard of the Kirkwall Gallows. She did not expect any trouble—the majority of the templars knew her to be one of Athenril's underlings—but she did not wish to chance her luck. Over the last few weeks, she had focused on cultivating a relationship with her fragile contacts: volunteering for any job or errand which might desensitise the templars to the sight of her within the Gallows. When Athenril had questioned her compulsion, Marian had explained that it was simply a means of keeping Carver from the place so that he might not be persuaded to join the Templar Order when their year-long bond to the smuggler was completed. To her credit, Athenril had accepted the reasoning and subsequently ensured that Carver was kept busy with running errands to various other parts of the city, while Marian was assigned almost exclusively to work from the Gallows. It was in the elf's own interests to keep her two promising young recruits, after all.

But right at this moment, Marian had little care for Carver. Years of idealistic imaginings were about to be realised as she ducked through a side door of the courtyard and moved through the winding corridors of the Gallows.

_If Father could see me now..._

Marian shook the thought from her head and instead concentrated on the floors plans she had spent night after night memorising Through narrow corridors and dingy rooms, she moved swiftly, keeping to shadows wherever possible. Finally, she arrived in the very heart of the Gallows and halted outside a large wooden door.

She rested a hand against the latch and took a moment to savour the heady mixture of apprehensive excitement flooding her body. Yet for all her exhilaration, the sensation was tinged with loneliness knowing that once she had fulfilled her ambition of sneaking into the Kirkwall Circle library, there would be no one to confide in afterward. But that paled into comparison with the sheer pleasure of surrounding herself with the collective learning that existed only a few steps away.

Pulling down on the latch, she pushed open the door, noting the smooth flow of a well-oiled hinge, and slipped into the room. Shutting it behind her softly, Marian turned and took a deep breath, marvelling at the way in which the different stimuli assaulted her senses and mingled into one overwhelming experience.

Her only personal experience of a library had been the small anteroom in the Lothering Chantry. It only contained copies of the Chant of Light and the occasional religious biopic but each book revealed its own personal history. Some remained in perfect condition, their spines creaking as she gingerly opened the front cover, while others offered no resistance and fell open to a passage which had provided particular succour to some weary soul. On occasion, there was a scribbled word or two—she assumed from one of the Sisters as opposed to the faithful who gathered—and her breath had caught in her throat each time she discovered such a rare find, mouthing each word with a reverence which likely bordered on blasphemy while she imagined the kind of person who might leave such a mark.

She had always believed that it was possible to sniff out knowledge. And certainly, the musk of the leather bindings, the acrid taste at the back of her throat from the smoke of the large fire at the far end of the room and the staleness of years of undisturbed dust was surely as close as it got. Marian bit on her lip as her gaze flew up the bookshelves towering above her—the wood was lighter than she had imagined—before glancing around at the long tables—she had expected individual desks—interspersed between and the dozens of candlestick holders dotted about the room.

All of it beckoned to her. Here, within this room, there was the promise of... something. Freedom, perhaps. An odd freedom, to be sure. She had little desire to be shackled and guarded whilst being hated and feared, but being among these books—this collective knowledge and experience—she could at least be herself. In some ways, she was not so different from Carver; he wished to prove himself as a warrior. She only wanted to be recognised as a mage.

* * *

The scrape of the library door across the flagstones echoed throughout the library. Slow and deliberate, it was in sharp contrast to the resigned push of the young apprentices or the indifferent shove from the templars when they entered into the room.

Orsino rose from the table, interest piqued and his research forgotten. The crackle of the fire obscured the faint rustle of his robes as he moved with silent step towards the end of the long bookcase and peered around its corner. A young woman leant with her back against the door, head tilted upwards with eyes wide and mouth parted in awe as she looked about. Remaining hidden in shadow, he watched her hesitantly step forward, and stagger in small circles as she strove to take in every detail of the room. The expression of contentment, marred only by the grime and fatigue etched across her face, was one Orsino could only dream of seeing on his own mages.

She brushed against one the bookshelves and the jolt was enough to encourage one of the misplaced books to topple from its precarious position onto the floor behind her. The woman gave a start, whirling round with her hand pressed against her chest, and Orsino permitted himself a smile as she gave a visible sigh of relief at the sight of the fallen book.

With a self-conscious giggle, she crouched down and retrieved the text and replaced it on the shelf. She wandered down the aisle, disappearing from sight and Orsino hastily repositioned himself. Her arm trailed behind her as her fingers grazed across the grain of the wooden shelves while her head swung from side to side, taking in the impressive sight of the books surrounding her. Once or twice, she stopped to peer at a particularly interesting spine, perhaps drawn by the slight variation in colour or recognising the odd symbol or word, but otherwise she continued on her exploration.

After a while, her confidence grew to such an extent that she at last reached out and carefully removed a text at random from the shelf. She carried it across the aisle to one of the tables and set it down. Her hand briefly reached up to flick away the hair from her eyes before her forefinger began to run beneath the words of the title, her mouth moving soundlessly as she contemplated the pronunciations. Written in an archaic form of the common tongue, her lips begin to falter and a frown darkened her face.

The educator in him could not bear to witness such a willing student become so easily disheartened and he stepped out from his concealed position.

"You need not pronounce the 'e'."

The woman froze.

Drawing nearer to her, Orsino continued with his explanation in the hope that it would convince her that he bore her no ill. "The spelling has since fallen into disuse."

Hesitantly, the woman turned her head to look towards the mage, the tip of her tongue running across her lower lip.

"Try again," he encouraged.

She mumbled a half-hearted attempt but the blush colouring her cheeks spoke to the common humiliation that any student suffers when their ignorance has been revealed.

"A valiant attempt."

Her face lit up for a moment before she remembered her place. Bowing her head, she began to shuffle backwards to the far end of the bookshelves and the way to the door. "I must go..."

"Yes," Orsino nodded, moving towards the table and taking up the book. A quick glance told him that it was a text intended for the younger mages; simple elemental spells, for all they were presented in an outdated tongue. "The templars do not take kindly to the presence of an apostate in their midst."

Her head jerked up and a fear crept across her face, chasing away any sign of the joy she had previously found in her surroundings.

"Here," he proffered the book and gestured towards the cloak she wore with his other hand. "Hide it well."

The woman stared at him, unsure how to respond.

"You wish to learn, do you not?"

"You don't even know me." Her accent was Fereldan. A refugee, no doubt.

"True," he acknowledged. "However, it is possible to understand a great deal about a person by the manner in which they treat a book." Orsino balanced the book against his forearm as he skimmed through its pages, searching out a specific page. "And I believe you will treat both the book and its contents with respect. Here," he located the page and tapped his finger against the basic spell contained on it. "Should you understand the workings of this, return here."

"Won't the..." another frown hampered her features as she scrabbled for the title, "En...chanters... miss the book?"

A wry smile surfaced on the First Enchanter's face before he casually waved a hand towards the bookcases. "If you don't tell them, I won't."

The woman hesitated, sizing him up with a long stare. At last, she stepped forward and accepted the book, clasping it against her chest as though it were a precious gift. "I... I can't hurt anyone with the spell, can I?"

Orsino shook his head, revelling in the unexpected pleasure that his faith in this stranger had been so promptly rewarded. "No, it is a basic spell."

Her fingers curled around the edges of the book and she chewed on her lip, her head tilted to one side.

Orsino had little doubt that the woman already possessed the skill which the book hoped to teach but that was not the point. This apostate, whoever she may be, had crept into this den of lions simply through a desire to better understand herself and her power. That was sufficient enough to capture his attention for now.

"Thank you," she murmured, secreting the book into her cloak. She spared one last glance at him before bolting.

Orsino returned to his abandoned research. He hoped he would see her again.

* * *

A week later, Marian crossed the Gallows courtyard and headed towards the Main Hall. When that elf had appeared from behind the bookcases, she had thought her time was up. His gift of the book was unexpected and she had convinced herself that he had been making a mockery of her. Torn between humiliation and indignation, Marian had stuffed the book beneath a loose floorboard as soon as she arrived home and resolved never to look at it again.

Two days later and the fireplace had been filled with snow. As her mother pestered her for an explanation, Marian had feigned ignorance, claiming she had been distracted when casting her fire spell while discreetly pushing the spell book beneath the log pile with the heel of her boot. What was certain was that she would never again mistake a circle with two lines struck through it as the symbol for 'fire'. It was _not_.

Still, the success of her casting, even with its unintentional results, had reinvigorated her and she had anxiously awaited a new assignment from Athenril which would grant her access back into the Gallows. A request had at last come down and while Athenril had initially been suspicious of the order from the First Enchanter himself, the sovereign included as part payment convinced the smuggler otherwise and off Marian had been sent.

This time though, her stomach lurched as she moved through the Main Hall and up the flights of stairs towards the First Enchanter's office. Deliver the package and try to sneak back to the library; that was as far as her plan went. She was the first to admit that it could probably be improved.

She rapped on one of the many doors, having asked for confirmation of the office from a nearby templar, and waited for the invitation to enter. As soon as it came, she slipped into the room, garbling her greeting in her earnestness to be away again.

"Delivery from Ath..." Her voice faded away as she recognised the figure sitting behind the desk. "You!" A groan escaped as everything slotted into place. "Maker's breath, _you_ are the First Enchanter?"

"For an apostate, you do not keep your identity well-hidden, Marian."

The use of her first name felt strangely intimate but she did not protest. Instead, she set the small package down on the desk. "It's not my identity that the templars have a problem with, is it?"

"True," the elf acknowledged, relaxing back into his chair as he dropped the papers he had been reading.

"So what's your name?" She hoped her flippant tone would conceal her embarrassment. "Or do you actually like being called 'First Enchanter'?"

The mage nodded. "It speaks to my megalomania."

A snort of laughter escaped before Marian succeeded in biting down on her lip.

"However, it is a title only recognised by Circle mages," a small smile cracked the elf's poker face. "If you are asking what you may call me, my name is Orsino."

"Orsino," she echoed, rolling the name around in her mouth before deciding that she approved. "Alright. So, I take it you didn't order something from Athenril by accident?"

"I did not wish to spend the foreseeable future in the library based entirely on the desire to see if you might return," the elf eased himself from behind the desk.

"Good things happen to those who wait."

"Yet we are encouraged to seize the day. Do we intend to trade irrelevant inanities each time we meet?"

"I'm only delivering a parcel."

"Then the book of spells you carry is only in case you find a moment for light reading?"

Marian narrowed her eyes. "How did you know?"

"I'm the First Enchanter."

She gave a haughty sniff but under the deadpan scrutiny of the elf, she eventually crumbled. With a roll of her eyes, Marian reached into her cloak and withdrew the book from where it had been hidden. "Fine. I brought the book back."

"And?"

"Are you testing me?"

"Perhaps. What did you discover?"

"I'll show you." As she began to cast, Orsino lunged forward, catching hold of her and forcing her arm down. His fingers were warm against her skin as he gently wrapped them around her wrist but she paid little attention as she stared down at the elf in bewildered outrage. "Hey..."

"I meant _tell_ me. Do you wish the templars to sense your magic?"

"I..." she blinked, taken aback at the simplicity of her error. "I never thought about it."

"It is likely the templars overlook any remnants of mana around you as residue from passing through these hallways. However, if you were actually to cast a spell then their reaction would be quite different." The elf released his grip and a chill crept up her arm at the departure of his touch.

Chastened, she dropped her gaze to the floor as she murmured, "snow. It was a spell for a snow flurry."

"Yes. Well done."

His praise sent a small thrill through her and she risked a small glance towards him. His expression had cleared and there was a reflection of her own delight in the smile he flashed at her.

"It was a fluke, to be honest," she confided.

"I did not expect it would be easy. That was the point," he remarked, easing the book from her hands and flicking through the pages as he had done in the library. "It was only intended as a starting point to assess your skill and determination. Now," he stopped at a new page and presented the book to her so that she could glance at the spell. "This involves applying some of the knowledge you have already gained. You will notice that some of the symbols are the same, yes?"

Marian nodded, her eyes skimming the symbols in front of her.

"Build upon your prior knowledge," Orsino snapped the book shut and passed it back to her. "I will send to Athenril in a week's time if you wish to visit me."

She accepted the book, secreting it away once more before flashing a grin at the mage. "I look forward to it."

* * *

Orsino studied the woman as she pored over the ancient text in front of her, biting at her lip and absent-mindedly pushing her hair from her face as she concentrated. His familiarity with the gesture brought a warm smile to his face. Over the months, their weekly meetings had quickly turned into twice-weekly and then thrice-weekly. Her enthusiasm for her subject matter was infectious and as he watched her devour the countless texts he presented her with, Orsino had discovered her presence to be a restoring tonic for his flagging spirit. Her visits had swiftly become one of the highlights of his week.

As her knowledge had grown, they had been forced to adjourn their meetings to the library where there was greater access to the necessary texts. It was becoming increasingly difficult to monitor her development without witnessing the way in which she cast her spells. And yet, he hesitated to offer her a place within the Circle. Not that "offer" was the right term but he did not know how else to describe it. So far, her contract with Athenril and her dedication to her family had prevented Marian from raising the question herself. It was only a question of time, however, and Orsino found that he was not so certain of his own motivations that he could be sure his response would reflect the decision which was truly best for her.

"Orsino."

The sound of his name was accompanied by a gentle shake of his arm as she attempted to recapture his attention.

He blinked, torn from his thoughts. "My apologies, Marian. What was your question?"

"Is everything alright?" Her forehead crinkled into a concerned frown as she covered his hand with her own, squeezing it gently.

"The templars," he lied.

"Oh." She resumed chewing her lip and as a crimson speck swelled up where she nicked the skin, he fought the urge to reach out and touch her cheek in the hopes of distracting her. "Is it very bad?"

Orsino raised an eyebrow. "If there was any question in my mind as to whether you have ever been a Circle mage, it has now been answered."

"Tell me."

He hesitated before reluctantly easing his hand from beneath hers so that he could gesture around the room. "Tell me what you see. Here, in front of you."

"Oh." The woman leant back in her chair and let her gaze fly around the room, her frown softening as she became caught up in the sights she encountered.

"It is written across your face what you see here," Orsino remarked quietly, his attention focused fully on her. "It is a wonderful thing to witness."

Her gaze snapped back to meet his as she assessed whether he was mocking her or not.

"The Circle should be as you see it. A haven. One that exists amidst the chaos of the world, but not apart from it," he expanded on his statement, keen that she should not misunderstand him. "It should be a place where knowledge and experience is shared, willingly." As much as he wished to remain idealistic, the bitter reality of his experiences with Meredith and the Templar Order began to colour his tone. "I do not argue that we must punish those who abuse their power but we are not a curse to be hidden from view. The Circle could be more than it is. But any progress is hampered by paranoia of ... demons! Blood magic!"

Sensing his growing agitation, Marian flashed him a reassuring smile. She shuffled in her chair so that she was able to rest her head against his shoulder as she asked quietly, "and are there many blood mages?"

"There is some of everything, Marian," he replied curtly. "But they do not lurk behind each and every shadow."

"I see," she murmured. There was a small pause before she added, "so I shouldn't slit my wrists and dance naked under the moonlight just to fit in?"

Orsino debated for a moment whether to hold onto his outrage or submit to her blatant flirtation as a means of lightening his mood. He found his answer in the response which sprang to his lips. "If that's what you intend, perhaps I'll join you after all..."

Straightening, she giggled and winked at him with a lewdness a sailor would have been ashamed of but which made his pulse quicken.

The elf shook his head and tapped at the forgotten book. "Before the naked dancing, however, perhaps we should ensure that you deserve the title of mage, blood or otherwise. Explain to me this spell."

* * *

A heavy tread marked her progress through the Gallows as Marian made her way towards Orsino's office. Her darkening mood radiated outwards and helped to prevent both templars and mages alike from approaching or addressing her.

She was uncertain as to why the end of her bond to Athenril came as such a surprise. But in a few days, the debt owed to the smuggler would be paid and the Hawke siblings would be permitted to find their own way in this strange city she was still disinclined to call home. Yet it was not the uncertainty which lay ahead but the reality that without her connection to the elf, Marian would have no recognisable business within the Gallows and her meetings in the library would inevitably have to stop. That was disappointing, certainly; but it was the thought that her meetings in the library _with Orsino_ would inevitably have to stop which caused the greatest pangs of regret.

Marian had briefly considered remaining in the employment of Athenril: the elf seemed pleased with the work she did and for all the dubious nature of the trade, the smuggler herself seemed to have some ethics. She was aware that there were much worse jobs. But her mother and Carver did not share her view and were already looking forward to advancing their position in the city through other means.

Sighing, Marian pushed the thoughts from her mind and rapped twice on the door of the First Enchanter's office.

As she entered, Orsino turned from the window, his hands clasped behind his back and a frown troubled his expression.

"You look how I feel," she joked, half-heartedly.

"Oh?"

She set the small package down on the desk and was momentarily distracted by the presence of another parcel, neatly tied with string. In all her time visiting Orsino, his desk had remained an island of order and calm where each item had a place and purpose. It was her wicked streak which prompted her to disturb the peace each time she made a delivery. This was the first time she noticed another parcel on the desk.

"I can't stay long," she murmured, tearing her gaze from the odd parcel on the desk back towards the elf. "Athenril is expecting me back. I think she's worried that I'm just going to disappear as soon as my contract is finished."

"Would that be so bad?"

"If _disappear_ means the bottom of the harbour, yes."

Orsino gestured at the package, though he did not directly acknowledge her comment. "A gift, Marian."

"A gift? Whatever for?"

"Just open it."

Marian loosed the knot of the string before pulling at the ends, watching the scraps of linen which protected the contents falling away to the side. Inside, a dark green robe was folded neatly and she grasped at the neckline, pulling the robe free of the packaging in order to better examine it. "What is..." she began before shooting a bewildered look towards Orsino. "Circle robes? These are Circle robes... aren't they?"

"You would be welcome to join us here, Marian. It will not be easy and many of your ideologies will be sorely tested, but I believe we can offer you what you seek," the elf remarked quietly. "And I believe your presence will herald its own change within these walls."

"My mother... and Carver..."

Orsino held up a hand in acknowledgement of her conflicting loyalties. "It remains your choice, Marian."

She eyed him, wondering whether to remark on the fact that of all colours available, the elf had succeeded in picking her favourite. Maybe she was reading too much into coincidence but something about his reluctance to meet her eye told her differently.

"What about us?" she asked at last.

"That also remains your choice, Marian."

The answer startled her. They had never spoken about the blossoming relationship between them and now faced with the reality of his reciprocation of her own feelings, Marian found herself at a loss for words. Rather than respond, she concentrated on carefully repacking the robes into the protective cloth and retying the string around the bundle. Finally, she muttered, "I need to think."

"Of course."

Marian backed towards the door, clutching the package to her chest. "As I said, my bond ends in a few days. Don't request any items from Athenril unless you actually need them."

She waited only long enough to see Orsino nod his agreement before taking an abrupt leave.

* * *

Orsino rubbed at his eyes as the strain of reading faded documents in murky candlelight finally caused him to go cross-eyed. Dusk fell too quickly at this time of year and it seemed there was never enough time to complete the array of administrative tasks Meredith insisted upon. Regardless, he persisted in the hopes that his compliancy might someday reflect favourably on the mages under his stewardship and spare them from her wrathful fervour. The noble sentiment did little to make the chore any more bearable, however.

As he stared blankly across the room, a templar barged in. Without a staff or quill, the man was clearly under the impression that the mage was shirking in his duties and thrust a sheaf of vellum towards Orsino with an impatient tut.

"Attendance reports. As requested."

"Requested by your Commander," Orsino corrected as he accepted the papers, though his rebuke was half-hearted at best. "Not by me, Ser."

The templar grunted before turning on heel and, without waiting to be officially dismissed, slammed the door behind him.

Orsino ran a disinterested eye over the sheets, reading through the names and picturing their faces. His Circle was not large and he knew each mage personally. Some better than others, of course, but none were purposefully excluded. If Meredith had thought to extend the same basic courtesy, she might have found that her concerns in some way alleviated. Familiarity might breed contempt but it was the fear of the unknown which was the real threat.

As he neared the end of the list, Orsino ignored the flickering hope that he would find her name recorded. It had been four weeks and three days since he fumbled his offer and he had heard nothing. Cool practicality had to take precedent.

Even so, when a hastily scribbled addition to the list caught his eye, his breath caught.

* * *

Marian peered at the strange symbol. It made no sense. She was certain the symbol denoted broth but she was yet to encounter a spell which demanded a nice loin of rabbit be boiled up into a thick broth before casting could commence. The rabbit, she could believe. The broth; not so much.

As she continued to mull over what this little discovery might mean, acknowledging that the rabbit broth actually sounded quite appealing, the sound of deliberate footfalls announced the arrival of another.

Marian continued to study the text in front of her, head bowed as she waited.

"You wish to improve your understanding of ancient culinary recipes?"

"Recipes?" she wrinkled her nose before lifting her chin to gaze at the elven First Enchanter. "That might explain the broth, then."

"Perhaps."

She laughed and eased the book shut with a sheepish shrug. "Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. I only came to the Circle today, after all."

Orsino settled into the chair next to her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I needed to make sure my family were provided for. It took longer than I expected," she returned her attention to the book, her fingers splaying across the binding as she rested her hand against it. Softly, she added, "and I thought you might have forgotten."

Reaching out, he eased her hand from the book and raised her open palm to his lips, brushing a kiss against it. "I had not."

"So I see." A smile curved the corners of her mouth as she caught his eye, reassured by the small unexpected sign of devotion. "It's the robes, isn't it? Green is my favourite colour, you know."

"Oh, so you came for the robes?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Oh no," she scoffed with a brusque shake of her head. "They're nice and all, but no." A wickedly mischievous glint appeared in her eye, one she fully expected would earn her the Rite of Tranquillity should the templars ever spy it. But then it wasn't a look intended for anyone but the elf in front of her. "So tell me; when does the naked dancing start around here?"


	2. Chapter 2

The early dawn chill threaded its way through the cracks between the stone in Orsino's office, the long burned-out fire in the grate offering no defence as the draft teased the warmth from the First Enchanter's skin.

Orsino stiffened, eyelids flying open as an intake of breath punctuated the stillness of the room, swiftly followed by a groan when the elf attempted to straighten in his chair. His hand crept to the back of his neck and he murmured some healing incantations—words that came automatically with no need for thought or skill—which eased the spasms in his neck and spread a pleasant warmth across his shoulders and down his back.

It had been a little over four years since Orsino had fallen asleep at his desk. He had learned, early in the first year of his tenure as First Enchanter, that agonising over a thing to the extent of exhaustion achieved little. Each matter would, in time, be addressed and resolved; and he had found that measured preparation often had a greater impact than a decision reached in the throes of desperation.

Yet the sight of the Chantry's sunburst emblazoned on the top of the vellum just beyond his right hand reminded the First Enchanter why, after all this time, he was still capable of ignoring his own lessons.

The Rite of Tranquility. It was not the first Tranquility order he had been presented with and when his signature had been sought on previous orders for the Rite, he had signed. He did not doubt that in each and every instance, the actions of the apprentice—by Chantry law, it had to be an apprentice—was a result of such desperate disempowerment that there was no other option. But such things were a burden that each apprentice and mage had to learn to bear. And if they could not, they had to be smart enough to know how to run and where to stay hidden.

No, it was not his first. Just as it was most definitely not the first which Knight-Templar Alrik had proposed.

Unbidden, Orsino felt his mouth twist in distaste. Where others tentatively sought to blaze anew the path trodden between that of templar and mage, Alrik had carved his way. The Maker's light burned brightly in Alrik, or so the man himself clearly believed, judging by the zeal he went about his work.

But this. Even for Alrik, this was unusual. The request cited that Karl Thekla, formerly of the Fereldan Circle, was to be subjected to the Rite of Tranquility. That was all; no reason or provocation was provided. It was not so much a request for approval, Orsino realised grimly, as it was an expression of power. What he was not certain of was at whom the expression of power was directed—Karl or himself.

The faces of the Fereldan transfers were easy to call to mind. Not because of their small number, though it had been less than half a dozen, but rather the ingrained fear which marred each of their expressions. Karl, he remembered, had been quiet and respectful, only raising his eyes to meet Orsino's when the First Enchanter had spoken to him directly. Orsino could not believe that the man who had mumbled his greeting could have committed so atrocious a crime as to warrant the Rite without first hearing reports of the act.

Yet there was a current unease amongst the Templar Order, thus explaining why Alrik's fervour had been permitted to go this far. A new and genuine fear seemed to ripple through the newer templar recruits though what they were fearful of, the elf had been unable to discover. Whatever it was, it had not been directed at the mages, however, and Orsino had been grateful for the short respite.

But perhaps this order marked the end of the lull. When in doubt, return to what is familiar: and there was nothing more familiar than the enduring threat of mages. In which case, the Rite in front of him would only be the first of many; his agreement to it would become a precedent; and the Circle would bear the brunt of this initial decision.

Though if he refused... It would be viewed as a direct challenge to Knight-Commander Meredith's authority. And the Circle would still bear the brunt of the decision.

The chiming of bells broke his dark reverie and Orsino swivelled in his chair, glimpsing the rising sun as it crested the rooftops of the lower parts of Kirkwall far below the Gallows. He swore beneath his breath. He was late.

* * *

Marian hummed under her breath as she moved through the hallways of the Gallows. The faint sound of Knight-Captain Cullen talking with one of his Lieutenants drifted through the stillness of the early morning air and spurred her on, her step quickening in order to reach the library before the changing of the guard. Restricted in the manner in which they could meet, Marian and Orsino had taken to convening each morning in the seclusion of the library, timing their separate arrivals to coincide with the change of the templar guards so that it was not quite so obvious. The best place to hide something was in plain sight, after all.

She slipped through the library doors just as she heard the clunking of armour as the Knight-Captain approached from the far end of the hallway. Pausing inside the door, her back leaning against it as she took a deep breath, she listened as the thuds of footfalls drew closer to the door and then passed on without interruption. She was in no particular danger, even if she had been spied, but she did risk being sent back to the dormitory if her behaviour seemed overly suspicious. Still, it was a damning testament to the disinterest of the mages within the Kirkwall Circle that the templars did not see it worth their while to guard inside the library itself. However since it worked in her favour, Marian was disinclined to point out that particular truth to anyone.

The glow of the early dawn light graced the very tops of the tall bookshelves but the sun was yet to rise high enough to bathe the whole library in light. Marian moved through the room, toward the far corner, lured by the silent promises contained within the ancient books nestled beside one another.

Curiosity had gotten the better of her a few weeks ago when Orsino had failed to arrive one morning. Both of them understood the problematic nature of their meetings and his absence had not worried her unduly. Instead, she had spent the time exploring, peering at the spines of the old texts which lined the dimly lit shelves towards the back of the library, their titles in undecipherable tongues with unintelligible markings, caked in dirt which was in turn layered in dust.

She had ventured further and further down the aisle, squinting as she struggled to make out the shape of the strange symbols in the poor light, when a wave of nausea washed over her. Grinding to a halt, she swallowed and pressed her hand against her stomach in the hopes that it might encourage the sensation to pass. But even as she lingered, waiting for the sudden queasiness to settle, a numbness began to creep up from her feet and through her legs, causing them to buckle.

At that, she had begun to panic and staggered backwards, her arms flailing outwards as she sought to counterbalance herself against the bookshelves. It could only have been a matter of steps, but the nausea and numbness vanished, leaving only a cold sweat beading her forehead. Marian had sunk down on the floor in giddy relief, legs sprawled out in front of her, and waited for her senses to recover from the strange assault of afflictions.

With the pounding of her heart still echoing in her head, Marian had been content to simply gaze along the bookshelves stretching away from her towards the back wall. It was then that she caught sight of the glyph of neutralization carved into the stone. She must have wandered within its active range and the nausea and numbness had only been the first of its draining effects. That settled that, then; she would not be venturing further down this part of the library.

As her pulse steadied, however, and she turned her attention to the shelves towering right above her, Marian began to consider the significance of the positioning of the glyph. It was clearly intended as a means of denying a mage access to what she assumed were old and powerful texts. Yet no glyph had been carved near these texts. It was a detail which made these books and manuscripts, stored near to but not within the range of the glyph, all the more intriguing.

A few days later, a scrap of vellum and a stub of charcoal in hand, Marian had crept back amongst the musty bookshelves, careful to remain back from the point where she had begun to feel ill, and noted down the few titles which contained letters she recognised. Armed with a starting point, if somewhat vague, she had focused her energies on deciphering what was contained within the bindings of the texts.

It had taken some time, and no small amount of inventive research on her part, but she had succeeded in interpreting and translating the small selection of titles. One in particular had caught her attention. It contained an archaic name for a particular ritual: the Harrowing. That had been enough to shore up her flagging spirit, and she had eased the book from where it nestled on the shelf, poring over its pages as she painstakingly translated the outdated language, hoping to uncover the secrets contained within.

Admittedly, her fascination with regards the Harrowing was not entirely scholarly. Much to her chagrin, the time for naked dancing—beneath the moonlight or otherwise—was proving to be more elusive than she had anticipated. Accustomed to pleasing herself when it came to inviting others to share her bed, Marian found that the relationship between a First Enchanter and one of his lowly apprentices did not lend itself to fulfilling the delightfully improper thoughts which occupied her mind. So although she had no objection to playing the naughty magling on occasions, she had no wish for it to be the case on _each _occasion. The only solution: complete her Harrowing. She hoped that Orsino would see the logic in her reasoning and be persuaded to make sense of a handful of sentences which had defied her own efforts.

Lost in her thoughts, the abrupt _snap_ of a book being closed echoed throughout the silent room and caused Marian to jump. She pulled up short and turned her head, straining her hearing in an effort to pinpoint where the noise had originated from. Stealing back through the bookshelves towards the centre of the room, she glanced back and forth down the aisles on either side of her when an impatient sigh alerted her to the presence of the stranger.

In one of the alcoves, obscured by a collection of artifacts, Marian caught sight of a splash of colour from the skirt of a robe. Creeping towards it, she found a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor with a sheet of vellum laid across her lap and a handful of books scattered about her.

Grace: one of the mages from the Starkhaven Circle. A few of them had arrived only days after Marian, but the blood stained robes had revealed all that was needed to know about their adventures. After a fire destroyed their Circle, rumour had it that the small group of mages had hoped to escape the Chantry by setting sail—from and to where, Marian had no idea but she could only hope that they had not intended escaping via the Wounded Coast—but they had been discovered long before then. Some had come willingly; Grace had been one and there was another young man, Alain, who occasionally smiled at Marian before he had been shooed at by Grace, but the rest had been slaughtered. Or so the story went.

The story also claimed that the Kirkwall Templars challenged their status as Mages and that the Knight-Commander had sent to Starkhaven for any evidence to prove that they had undertaken their Harrowings. As a result, until such a time when Meredith was convinced of their self-control, the Starkhaven mages were to be treated as apprentices.

Peering over the shoulder of the demoted Mage, Marian recognised the faded copy of the floor plans she herself had spent so long memorising. It seemed that Grace had developed a case of itchy feet.

Marian cleared her throat and the other woman let out a muffled shriek. Twisting round, Grace clutched the vellum to her chest, face pale and hands trembling, but still succeeded in summoning a withering glare. Whether she recognised Marian or not was unclear, but it seemed that the appearance of the young apprentice was no more welcome than that of the Knight-Commander.

"You shouldn't be here!" she snarled.

Out in the courtyard, bells began to chime and signalled that it was time for the residents of the Gallows to greet the new day, whether they wished to or not.

Upon hearing the first refrains of _Blessed Maker_, Grace hissed and whirled back round to her books, hurriedly folding the vellum into the front page of one of the tomes before gathering them all up. She clambered up onto her feet but her unsteady sway sent two of the books crashing back to the floor.

Marion stooped down and retrieved the fallen texts, absentmindedly casting an eye over them for any damage. "You'll need to be careful what passageways to use. Some lead to very nasty places indeed, you'll want to avoid them."

"I don't know what you mean," Grace snapped but the shrillness in her voice betrayed her.

"These are histories of the Gallows," Marian gestured towards the books in Grace's arms. "And the vellum you hid is a map of the floor plans. You're looking for a way to leave."

"Looking at floor plans is no proof of that!"

"No," Marian agreed with a small shrug. "And whatever you're doing is up to you. I just thought I could help, that's all."

The mage eyed her warily. "Even if I were doing what you accuse me of, why would you help?"

She shrugged, turning the two books over and over in her hands. "Maybe the real question is; why wouldn't I help?"

Grace snorted, but Marian was pleased to see that some colour had returned to the other woman's cheeks. She may not trust Marian but it was clear that she was beginning to realise that the Fereldan woman had no intention of alerting the templars.

"Look," Marian stepped forward and relieved two more books from Grace before replacing one of the texts which had crashed to the floor back on top of the pile. "That's the one with the floor plan in it. Hide it while I put these back. If I don't know where the floor plan is, then I've no proof for the templars and you know you're safe."

It was not quite as simple as that, after all the templars were often not troubled by the need for proof of a mage's wrongdoing, but it was all Marian could offer as way of reassurance.

The mage hesitated. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Marian, but she at last gave a brisk nod of her head in silent agreement.

Flashing a smile, Marian turned on heel and made her way down the aisle. She knew the sections of the library well and while the various tomes on architecture had never held her interest, she was able to work out from the various gaps dotted about the shelves where the books had come from.

After a few minutes, Grace rejoined her and filed away the remaining books. Only one space remained and Marian quickly reorganised the shelf so that it was eliminated. Turning, she made to speak to Grace but the mage had already left, scurrying towards the door with head down. She slipped out of the library without a backward glance, leaving Marian on her own.

With a small shrug, Marian retraced her steps towards the far corner of the library and recovered the small antiquated book from which she had gathered the majority of her research on the Harrowing. Carrying it back to the desk in the centre of the room, she glanced towards the windows as she judged how much time she might have before being forced to abandon her wait in favour of making an appearance at breakfast.

After a few minutes however, her patience was rewarded as Orsino entered. Catching sight of the dark circles beneath the elf's eyes and the tired lines etched across his face, Marian swallowed the teasing rebuke which rested on the tip of her tongue and stood. When he came within arm's reach, she leant forward and brushed her fingers across his forehead, sending pulses of healing through the tips as means of rejuvenating him.

"Now, why didn't I think of that?" he teased her, catching hold of her fingers and drawing them down so he could kiss her palm, his breath tickling her sensitive skin.

"Oh hush," she retorted with a smile. "Isn't it nice to be looked after?" Her gaze flickered over his appearance. "Those are the robes you wore yesterday. Don't you have a bed to go to?"

"No, a single plank of wood."

"Why would anyone sleep on a plank of wood?"

"It is a means of distancing the trials of the physical body from the concentration of the mind. It improves mental discipline and control when summoning magic."

She fixed a sceptical look on him, and sure enough the slight twitch of his mouth as he tried to resist laughing gave him away.

"Oh, very funny," she sniffed, dropping her hand out of his and settling back down in her chair. "Truthfully, what do you sleep in?"

The elf moved to her side. "Perhaps I'll show you some time."

A glint appeared in her eye which was entirely at odds with the sweet smile she turned on him, pushing the dusty text sideways towards him as she did so. "Perhaps sooner than you think."

Orsino did begin to chuckle at that but the sound faded as he began to scan the page in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was cold, "Marian, what is this?"

"It's about the Harrowing."

He cut her off. "And you did not think that the inches of dirt and grime across its cover suggest that this is a book that should not be examined?"

"The books in the far corner all look like this."

"They are archaic texts intended for study by only the most senior of Enchanters! You are not permitted to access them."

Leaning back in her chair, Marian folded her arms while angling a cool stare at him. "If that were the case then another glyph would be carved into the bookcases."

"It is not expected that apprentices would be so foolish as to venture near them! You have no reason to as part of your studies."

Accustomed to the fire in her brother's temper, Marian kept her own and allowed the elf a moment to collect himself. For all his dark expression, there was a note of panic in his voice that she had not expected.

"Orsino," she chided softly, locking her gaze with his. "You know what I must do to become a Mage."

"In time," he replied lowly. "Not so soon. It's too dangerous."

"I know," she dropped her gaze and tapped a finger against the book. "I've been reading."

The First Enchanter reached out and grazed his fingers against her cheek . Sensing that she was forgiven, Marian raised her eyes and gladly pressed against his hand, offering him a tentative smile. He returned it, his thumb running tenderly across the curve of her lips. "And how much do you know?"

"Well..." she drew the word out with a small exhale. She made to take up the book and Orsino slipped his hand to her shoulder so that she could examine the text more easily. Steeling her nerve, she flicked over the page to reveal the heading of the next chapter and warily offered it up to his inspection. The disposal of an abomination required its very own entry, it seemed.

A small groan escaped from Orsino.

"Forewarned is forearmed," she attempted to placate him.

"You are seeking to apply logic to the realm of demons, Marian. It is a fool's attempt."

"Orsino." His hand still lingered against her shoulder and she reached up to cover it with her own, her fingers wrapping around his and squeezing gently. "It has to be done. And I want to. Besides," her voice lightened, "you said only mages are allowed to take part in the naked dancing. And I'll dance as a mage or I won't dance at all." She lifted an eyebrow in mock seduction. "And I dance well, I'll have you know."

The elf sighed, as though pained. "You are aware that you must be deemed ready to take the Harrowing. It is not my decision alone."

"I know," she nodded. "I have to demonstrate that I'm likely to succeed."

"Then you already know what you must do," he eased his hand from beneath her own and closed the cover of the book, sliding it across the table and out of her reach. "And that is all you need to know."

She made to rise in her seat. "There's more in there!"

"Yes, all of which relay the actions a templar must take if you fail," he shrugged off her protest, neatly dodging the grasp of her outstretched hands as he pushed the text further across the table. "You will succeed."

Marian stilled, sitting back in her chair as she stared at the elf. She herself had no doubt, but she heard the trace of desperation that underwrote the First Enchanter's words.

"You will." The elf must have realised his mistake because there was no hesitation this time. Instead, he spoke with a cool certainty which helped to bolster her own.

After a few moments of studying him, she adopted a haughty air and remarked, "I'm glad we're agreed."

Orsino laughed softly. Turning, he closed the distance which their disagreement had created between them and lifted a hand to brush away the hair which had fallen in front of her eyes. Before he could so, however, the thud of the library door heralded the arrival of another and marked the end of that morning's discussions.

* * *

Trusting to his feet to guide him through the winding corridors of the Gallows and back to his office, Orsino thumbed through the pages of the book he had confiscated from Marian. He suspected that if he simply returned it to its rightful place in the library, she might be tempted to retrieve it and continue with her reading.

Not that the book was especially dangerous, at least not in and of itself. The archaic language and antiquated references would likely have dissuaded a less eager scholar, but for all it contained information relating to the Harrowing, there was no detail that any Mage would not already know through their own experience.

Orsino sighed. A part of him had hoped that Marian might have somehow stumbled across some overlooked text which could guarantee her success in the ritual. Unbidden, his mind began to sift through the fragments of memories from his own Harrowing and a familiar dread settled over him. Drawing a sharp breath, Orsino closed his eyes briefly, his step stilling for a moment, as he willed the thoughts to scatter before he would be forced to remember fully. All he would permit himself to acknowledge was that his experience had been... challenging.

Each time he oversaw a Harrowing, the same sense of unease and self-doubt would resurface as though he himself were being tested once again. As well-practised as he was at schooling his face whenever he entered the Harrowing Chamber, Orsino was aware that he lacked the truly cool detachment which every First Enchanter should cultivate in such circumstances. He did not relish the thought of the torment which awaited him when he would be forced to watch Marian endure the ordeal.

But as she had so succinctly remarked, he had known what would be required of her once she had committed to joining the Circle. If he had but dwelled on it a little longer, he might have also anticipated that she would eventually seek out her own answers. It had only ever been a matter of time.

The realisation of which ignited a grudging admiration within him. Marian had found her answers, and then some. Yet she had not balked. True, she had attempted to better understand what was involved, but she had not protested or refused outright. She had taken it in her stride; one more obstacle to overcome, that was all.

Her ready acceptance did not allay his own biased fears, but it reminded him of his intent that his time as First Enchanter would be spent as an advocate of the mages. Perhaps one step towards that was acknowledging the right of the apprentice to declare themselves fit for their Harrowing. Allowing Marian to undertake her Harrowing was a risk, yet he would advocate her right to make that decision; and ultimately, he would respect it.

It was not a wholly convincing argument. Yet in spite of its flaws, the elf welcomed the sharpened focus which it seemed to impose on his mind and as he stepped into his office, Orsino found his mood was much improved from when he had left it earlier that morning.

A stack of newly arrived letters had been placed on his desk and his attention was drawn to one of the envelopes. Setting the Harrowing book to one side, the First Enchanter pulled the envelope from the stack, noting the texture of the vellum which reflected its quality and observing the way the lettering had been carefully inked, swirling across the page in confident strokes of the quill. He turned it over in his hand and a scrap of a letter fell from where it had become stuck in the wax seal of the other, fluttering to the ground. Orsino bent down and picked it up, and caught the word _Somniari_ as he replaced it back on the desk and refocused on the original letter.

Cracking open the wax seal—likely the only reason it had not been opened prior to its delivery— Orsino read through the contents. He found that he had to reread it in order to fully understand the meaning beneath the words. In essence, the matter at hand was blood magic, but not so crudely described. Still, it would have been a lie if Orsino claimed that the venture outlined in the letter did not hold some fascination. The hypothesis was intriguing while the methods were experimental and would surely push his knowledge of magic to its very limitations. Yet the implications should the research prove to be successful made him queasy.

The same doubt which continued to gnaw at him regarding the request that the Rite of Tranquility be performed on Karl now overshadowed the hints of promise contained in the letter. As First Enchanter, he was obligated to protect the mages under his care, and to do so required that he remain above reproach. His relationship with Marian had already muddied the waters in that regard, but should it ever come to light, their bond would not threaten the very foundations of Chantry law. His involvement in blood magic, especially in the aftermath of the events at Kinloch Hold, on the other hand... No, this Quentin fellow would have to continue his research without the endorsement of the Gallows' First Enchanter.

Twisting round, Orsino thrust the letter into the fire. For a moment, the vellum sat on the hot embers before flames began to lick the edges. One raced across its surface, leaving a blackened trail as the vellum began to collapse in on itself. The fire danced around it before the sheet combusted into leaping flames, and then it was gone.

* * *

_Many thanks to EasternViolet for her help and suggestions. All mistakes are entirely mine. _


	3. Chapter 3

For such a decisive action, the burning of Quentin's letter did not herald any further revelations. The problem of Karl, the power of the templars, and even the suspicion with which the Chantry viewed those with magical ability did not crumble to ashes along with the letter. In short, the morning progressed as it always had—and always would, Orsino hazarded.

As the bells struck eleven, a knock roused the First Enchanter from his administrative tasks. The precise timing of the knock alerted him to the identity of the visitor and he rose from behind his desk in order to open the door.

His midmorning ritual: crafting herbal teas. It was as close as Orsino came to original research—hence the initial lure of Quentin's ideas. Yet even this simple indulgence had raised the suspicions of the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle was only permitted to partake in his hobby under the watchful eye of Meredith's personal assistant, Elsa.

Today, the tray she held was lined with an assortment of small jars, each filled with a different ingredient. Once Orsino greeted and bid her enter, Elsa moved with measured step and set the tray down on a side table. She picked up the small kettle which rested in the centre of the tray and settled it near the grate of the fire so that it might remain warm.

"Good morning, First Enchanter," she intoned in a flat voice. "You discussed a desire to create mint flavours. I have brought the necessary ingredients, as well as a selection of appropriate recipes."

Orsino bit his tongue and contented himself with a non-committal _hmm_. Elsa often brought him recipes for flavours, leaving the neatly trimmed pieces of parchment on the tray in front of the jars and remarking that she had found the results to be of satisfactory taste. The elf suspected that she simply could not understand his penchant for crafting a flavour which she judged to have already been mastered. It was a trait of her Tranquility, he was sure.

The woman turned from the fire and busied herself with arranging the jars of ingredients into a single neat row while Orsino looked on. He had long since discovered that it was more trouble to disturb her process than it was to simply allow her to complete the task.

When he had first been brought to the Gallows from Ansburg, Elsa had been an impetuous young apprentice. Rather than rile against the Chantry however, she had taken a more insidious route; Elsa delighted in engaging the templars in religious debate. There had been precious few who could match her near perfect recall of passages from the Chant of Light and if one were inclined to be churlish, her Tranquility may very well have been approved simply to quieten that grating voice.

The woman straightened, her task complete, and turned to the elf. "I am finished, First Enchanter."

"Very good, Elsa," he nodded. Given recent events, the idea of questioning the woman about her Tranquility was tempting but he knew what responses he could expect, none of which would actually help him towards a solution. He gestured towards the door. "I will be sure to inform you of my success with this morning's experiment."

* * *

Standing at the window of his office, looking down on the main courtyard of the Gallows, Orsino conceded defeat. His peppermint tea was an unmitigated failure. It was not entirely his fault, however; the bitterness he tasted was only in part related to the number of mint leaves which he had stewed.

Enough was enough. Setting the delicate cup and saucer down on his desk, Orsino disregarded the incomplete reports and unfinished letters and strode from the room. The heaviness in his heart began to lighten as he made his way through the hallways of the Gallows towards the prison nestled in the very centre of the fortress. His progress was marked by countless templar-knights but none saw reason to intervene as he passed by their posts. He had a sense that might well change in a short while.

As he approached the guard post nearest the cells, a young templar stood to attention on hearing the footsteps. Recognising the First Enchanter, however, she relaxed her pose and a poorly-disguised scepticism clouded her expression. "First Enchanter. The Knight-Commander did not send word..."

"I wish to speak with the apprentice."

"I have orders that he is to see no one."

Orsino arched an eyebrow at the young initiate. Meredith had often sought to shackle his influence as best she was able, but she was yet to uncover a means to diminish the fear with which many of her youngest recruits regarded the First Enchanter. "I am no 'one'."

The templar gave a brisk nod, abashed, and headed down the corridor towards the occupied cell. Following in her wake, Orsino felt his skin begin to prickle and the sensation grew more intense as they neared the cell.

"Who permitted you to smite him?" he demanded of the templar, his face contorted into a snarl.

The templar started and spun round to face him, her face pale and her eyes darting about. "It wasn't me, Firs Enchanter. Knight-Templar Alrik spoke further with him this morning. He said that the..." there was a hesitation as the templar remembered who she was addressing and scrabbled for the appropriate title, "_apprentice_ had attempted to attack him."

"If that were so, do you truly believe that only a junior member of the Order would be permitted to stand guard?" Orsino retorted. "Open the cell."

"The Knight-Commander..."

"Shares her responsibility with me. Part of that responsibility includes the welfare of all within this Circle of Magi. Open the cell."

The templar bowed her head and plucked a key from the chain on her belt. She raised her arm and struck the bars of the cell with her gauntlet while barking that the apprentice was to move against the far wall.

A hunched figure crawled into the dim light which the flaming torches lining the corridor had cast. His movements were stilted and he slumped against the wall in an awkward position.

The templar barked another command and the apprentice cowered but held out his hands for inspection. They were bound.

"What is this?" Orsino raged. "Why is he bound? Is this more of Alrik's doing?"

"Alrik said that it prevents him from casting."

"If he had been able to cast, do you not think he might have healed himself?" the elf gritted his teeth. "Open the cell and leave us." Seeing that the templar was about to protest, Orsino fixed another steely glare on the young initiate and hoped that in that single look he personified every fear she had ever held about mages. "_Go_."

She swallowed but obediently turned the key in lock. He half-expected her to demand that the cell be locked behind him but she had obviously come to the same conclusion as he—even the most powerful mage would be hard pressed to escape from the very bowels of this templar stronghold.

Removing the key, she walked away and the sound of her receding footsteps began to fade into the gloom. There were far more than was necessary to return to her post, however. The woman was seeking out her superiors.

Aware that he had a limited amount of time, Orsino stepped into the cell. Karl shrank back, pressing himself against the wall in panic, but relaxed when common sense prevailed that there was no such thing as an elven templar.

"May I come near?" Orsino requested quietly.

The man struggled into a sitting position and nodded.

Ignoring the squalor of the cell, Orsino moved to his side and knelt down, murmuring various healing incantations. He rested a hand on Karl's wrists and focused his energy on the chaffed and bleeding skin but stopped short of removing the bonds; it would go worse for the man if it was discovered that Orsino had taken upon himself to relieve him of his restraints.

"One moment," the elf murmured, rising to his feet and returning to the recently abandoned guard post. He snatched up a small provision of food which had been delivered in anticipation of the midday meal and returned to Karl.

The man's eyes widened as he caught sight of the food.

"Only a few mouthfuls, friend." Orsino pressed the bread into Karl's hands so that he might feed himself and maintain some sliver of dignity. "You will make yourself unwell if you do otherwise."

Karl nodded obediently. He took a few measured bites and then Orsino held a cup to his lips so that he might drink. He eagerly sipped at the water before drawing back and clearing his throat. His voice was rough but he managed to struggle out, "thank you."

"Do not thank me yet. I am here to better understand why you were arrested. Although I do not believe that you will readily admit to practising blood magic."

Wordlessly, the man held up his bound hands. Dirty and with various nicks and scabs, there was no telltale slash of repeatedly healed flesh.

"Speak quickly. We will not be unobserved for much longer."

Karl shook his head. "An ol... old friend. From Ferelden."

"An old friend? Do you mean a fellow mage? Why are they not imprisoned?"

"No. He's—was—an apostate."

"I do not understand."

"He spent his time in Ferelden escaping from the Circle. The Warden-Commander discovered him and recruited him. He's a Grey Warden now, free from the Chantry. He's here somewhere in the city."

"I see. I am not privy to much that occurs in Kirkwall but I have not heard any news about Grey Wardens or any business which might bring them here."

Karl coughed repeatedly, shaking his head again. "He's a Grey Warden, but he's not. Something happened and I think he is on his own. It was only a garbled message. Alrik must have overheard. First Enchanter, I promise..."

"Be still," Orsino soothed, laying a hand on the man's shoulder. If an apostate, protected by the Order of Grey Wardens, was living somewhere in Kirkwall, then he could understand what had prompted the excessive actions of the templars. Understand, but not condone.

The man gave a shuddering breath, trembling beneath the elf's hand. "I didn't do anything wrong. Please, don't let them make me Tranquil, _please_."

In the distance, the echoing thud of footsteps revealed that the young templar had found someone more able to deal with the troublesome First Enchanter.

Knowing he was unlikely to gain any further meaningful detail from the man, Orsino concentrated on administering final healing spells in an attempt to ease the man's confinement. He hoped that Karl might overlook that his pleas went unanswered.

"First Enchanter Orsino." The low greeting of Knight-Captain Cullen signalled that his time with Karl was most definitely at an end. "Your presence here is over-stepping your bounds."

Orsino straightened and turned away from Karl to face the Knight-Captain. "A pity you do not see it fitting to step up to your bounds, let alone step over them."

"I understand that this is a difficult situation for you, First Enchanter," Cullen maintained his respectful tone, even as the dull clinks of his armour revealed that he had tensed. "However, this apprentice is imprisoned for his own safety."

Orsino knew he should have expected as much from the Knight-Captain; the man had been studiously toeing the party line ever since his disgrace at Kinloch Hold. While it was true that Cullen exhibited a more even-handed approach to the mages than some of the others, in that moment the First Enchanter was disinclined to be diplomatic.

"We mages do not aspire to martyrdom, Knight-Captain," he spat. "Do not ease your conscience with declarations of concern for others."

Unperturbed, Cullen stepped into the cell so that he no longer blocked the doorway. "I must ask that you leave now, First Enchanter. I will speak with the Knight-Commander and communicate your concerns."

"Do not trouble yourself, Knight-Captain. I will speak with her myself." Whirling round, the elf murmured a farewell to Karl before storming out, leaving the Knight-Captain and his young recruit to lock the cell.

* * *

The Knight-Commander paced her small office with her hands clasped behind her back.

Orsino stood, not having been invited to sit, and watched the performance with a closed expression. He had allowed his temper to break through in his altercation with Knight-Captain Cullen but he could not risk aggravating the Knight-Commander in the same way.

"I would have wished that you had come to me directly with your concerns, Orsino."

"I find it difficult to believe you were not aware of the problematic details of the order for Karl's Tranquility, Knight Commander. You did not observe the absence of concrete evidence, for example?"

"I trust to the integrity of my men," she responded coolly.

"Your trust is misplaced, Knight-Commander."

She bristled but retained her cool demeanour. "I see this has provoked a reaction from you, First Enchanter. It seems this matter warrants further investigation." She strode to the door and called to one of the guards standing in the hallway. "Bring Alrik to me."

Cullen must have anticipated what would follow the meeting between Knight-Commander and First Enchanter because it was within a short time that the man in question was escorted into the office. He stood in front of Meredith and dutifully reiterated his concerns regarding Karl Thekla.

"It was noted that one of the messengers from the city was intent on speaking with the apprentice. He had been paid a good amount of coin to ensure the message was passed on, but only to Karl Thekla. He had been given a detailed description of the apprentice and he refused to entrust his message to the templars."

Orsino clenched his jaw for fear of what rebukes might spill from his lips.

"He was directed towards Karl who was taking his daily exercise around the courtyard. I opted to observe the exchange in the hopes of alleviating our suspicions roused by the secrecy. Unfortunately our fears proved justified. The messenger relayed that a man by the name of Anders was in the city, that he had escaped from the Circle but had become bound to the Grey Wardens, and he wished to renew contact with Karl. The message was relayed only once and then the messenger departed."

Unable to hold his tongue further, the First Enchanter blurted out, "for this, you decide that the Rite of Tranquility is an appropriate punishment to inflict on Karl?"

The Knight-Commander studied the elf for a few moments but made no comment. She shifted her gaze back to Alrik in silent invitation that he continue with his debrief of events.

"I was unable to persuade my superiors to have the messenger apprehended, however. I thought it would be advantageous to determine how the messenger had come by this message, but there was not thought to be sufficient cause. When informed, Knight-Captain Cullen remarked that he was familiar with this Anders and he asserted that the apostate would not have made direct contact with the messenger or his master."

A frown flitted across Meredith's brow at mention of Cullen.

"This is why I submitted the request for the Rite of Tranquility directly to you, Knight-Commander," Alrik had evidently caught the movement and began to press home his argument. "I did not wish to offend Knight-Captain Cullen but I was adamant that the connection between Karl Thekla and this apostate Anders could not be tolerated. Since we have yet to capture the apostate, we must do what we can to sever the unrest which could be caused within the Gallows as a result of his contact."

"Has Karl been questioned with regards his knowledge of the apostate?" Meredith enquired, her expression and voice both masterfully controlled.

"It has not been possible as yet," Alrik shook his head.

"We are certain that Karl does have knowledge of this apostate, however?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander," the man nodded. "I would respectfully ask that it is not forgotten that this is an apostate who insults the very law of the Chantry through his connections with the Grey Wardens." He paused, as though weighing up his options, and then added, "there may also be connections between this apostate and the missing recruits."

Orsino felt his mouth twist into a sneer but had no inclination to fight against it. Missing recruits might go some way to explain the unease he had noted amongst the Order, but Alrik was relying on assumptions and paranoia to advance his argument.

"Apostates have no wish to draw attention to themselves, much less kidnap templar recruits," the elf stated, his tone withering.

"We have discovered corpses drained of blood, Knight-Commander..." Alrik began, refusing to acknowledge Orsino even while he defended his assertions against the First Enchanter's observations.

"Karl had no mark on him," Orsino spoke over the templar-knight and addressed Meredith directly. "Such extensive use of blood magic cannot be hidden with healing spells. Strip him; you will find no evidence that he is involved in anything other than mistreatment by his captors." At that, the elf succumbed to the bubbling rage in the pit of his stomach and he turned his head to level a glower at Alrik

The templar curled his lip at the accusation but continued to focus on the Knight-Commander. Apparently not even the First Enchanter was worthy of his full attention.

Meredith held up a hand. "He may have only been an accomplice but it seems clear that he is implicit."

"An accomplice to what?" Orsino demanded hotly. "You have no idea what crime you should accuse him of! I cannot agree to the Order of Tranquility without evidence. You have failed to provide it, Knight-Commander. I cannot and will not sign."

"Evidence." The Knight-Commander repeated, rolling the word around in her mouth before giving an abrupt nod. "Very well, Orsino; we will uncover your evidence." She straightened and addressed Alrik. "You have my permission to question Karl Thekla with regards these circumstances. I expect a full report by this evening."

Alrik bowed with his arms crossed against his chest. "Yes, Knight-Commander."

"You may go. Send word that Knight-Captain Cullen is to meet with me at once."

The man bowed again before striding from the room.

Orsino regarded the Knight-Commander and hoped that the wariness which was causing his skin to prickle at sight of the woman could not be seen on his face. "May I be so bold as to enquire what you intend, Knight-Commander?"

"I intend to uncover your evidence," she responded with a thin smile, turning her attention from the door to the elf. "I intend that the Knight-Captain will have all the Fereldan apprentices and mage escorted into a room, and that their belongings will be searched before each of them are questioned." Her smile faded as her gaze pierced through him. "I thank you for your diligence in insisting that we uncover the full extent of this matter, First Enchanter."

* * *

Herbalism classes were created solely for the purpose of defining the limits of patience, Marian had decided. Sitting in the small classroom, surrounded by herbs which all looked the same while Enchanter Gyle waxed lyrical over the differences in the shape of leaves, Marian knew what it meant to lose the will to live.

Thank the Maker, then, for Rory. A young boy of only eight or nine had been assigned as her partner—an act he took to be a personal insult, as though he alone was tasked with educating this woman he took to be entirely inept. In his tousled head, plant and herbs were catalogued in a manner Marian could only marvel at. She had a sneaking suspicion that if he cut himself, he would bleed green.

The class task for today was to craft a small health potion and Rory had been quick to take the lead. He was in the process of adding some leaf or root—elfroot, maybe?—to a vial filled with a blue-tinged water. It was supposed to be a joint effort—as all their tasks were—but they both knew that Rory was the brains in their pairing and Marian saw no harm in allowing her young apprentice companion his moment to shine.

It was an odd position to be in. With no official training, her skills in some areas were severely lacking while those talents which had proved most useful in her previous life in Lothering meant that she was placed in classes with some of the most experienced apprentices. It amused her that, when not tasked with deciphering the instructions for a spell, Marian was in fact a competent elemental caster.

The liquid in the small glass jar in front of them began to deepen from into a deep red and Rory let out a soft crow of satisfaction.

"There!"

Marian gave a small cheer and offered him a round of applause. "Well done, Rory! Much better than I could have done."

He granted her to a scathing look but before the youngster could treat her to a succinct summary of her failings—a talent of his which she did not admire quite so much as his herbalism— the abrupt arrival of two templar guards disturbed the quiet buzz of the apprentices throughout the room . While one lingered in the doorway, the second templar marched towards Enchanter Gyle at the far end of the room.

The sight of the templar prompted Rory to sidle round the desk, experiment forgotten, and press himself against Marian. She snaked a reassuring arm around his shoulders and flashed him a smile. Her age often acted as a deterrent for many of the templars but she had witnessed the way in which the children were intimidated, especially if they had been tagged as troublemakers. Rory was one who had found himself in disgrace many a time.

At the front of the room, the templar spoke in hushed tones with the Enchanter. The elf gave a timid nod and pointed towards the back of the room in the direction of Marian and Rory.

Beneath her arm, Marian felt Rory begin to tremble and she gave him a quick squeeze as signal that he was to control himself. The boy had done nothing wrong—at least as far as she knew —but he was acting as though he had planned to overthrow the Grand Cleric herself.

The templar advanced on the pair and he cast a wary eye over the boy before settling on Marian.

"Hawke?"

She nodded. "Yes, Ser."

"You are to come with me."

"At once, Ser."

Disentangling her arm from Rory, who practically sagged against the desk, Marian stood and walked out into the corridor with the templar at her heels. The one who had remained at the door grasped at her elbow and steered her in the correct direction so that she was marched down the hallway and through the Gallows. They met with a larger group of mages and apprentices, escorted by a large contingent of templar guards, and were shepherded into a dormitory in the East Tower.

The room had been emptied of furniture but as the templars fanned out around the walls, it was clear that the mages and apprentices were to settle themselves regardless. Looking about her, Marian recognised some of the faces but it was the sound of _home_ which was prevalent in the murmured conversation that caught her full attention. They were all from Ferelden.

"What's going on?" she asked a man standing near her.

He grunted and shook his head, casting a furtive glance towards the templar guards. It was a hint to refrain from talking and she realised that the conversations around her were beginning to ebb as the others had come to the same conclusion.

Sinking down on the floor, Marian was content to follow the general consensus although she strained to overhear the whispered snatches of conversation which continued in fits and bursts. A single question began to be repeated with more frequency than any other: _where's Karl?_

Marian could not place a face to the name, but she recognised it from her elemental classes. That would mean that Karl was one of the more accomplished apprentices and the most advanced Fereldan apprentices were the transfers from Kinloch Hold. His absence was proving to be a source of disconcertion for his friends. One had assumed that he was with another friend who had believed him to be with someone else. Apparently, no one had seen him for at least two days.

The slam of the door coupled with the templars standing to attention caught everyone's attention. Knight-Captain Cullen stood a few paces inside the room with a sheaf of vellum in his hand.

"Your cooperation is appreciated," he began in a clear voice, his gaze flickering over the faces in front of him, "while we investigate claims which have been raised against you."

Apprehensive glances flew amongst the gathered group but all knew to keep any remarks to themselves.

"The Knight-Commander will speak with each of you independently. This matter will be resolved in due course. However, until such a time, you are not permitted to leave this room and all conversation is forbidden."

Marian flicked her hair from her eyes with a heavy sigh. Suddenly, herbalism didn't seem so bad.

* * *

Marian had never wished so badly to be an Amell. The Knight-Commander had ordered that the apprentices and mages be sorted into alphabetical order and Marian was forced to endure the unwavering scrutiny of the templar guards for some hours before she was summoned to face the inquisition.

Escorted from the room, she was ushered into an anteroom some way down the corridor. The Knight-Commander sat behind the desk with reams of vellum spread in front of her. The neat headings under which were written long paragraphs resembled a very full record. Marian cursed inwardly for not anticipating that the templars would take a vested interest in the background of the mages under their care.

"Marian Hawke." The guard accompanying announced by way of confirmation and the Knight-Commander gave a brisk nod in acknowledgement. The guard saluted and excused himself, shutting the door behind him.

Meredith took a moment to look Marian up and down before she spoke. "You are amongst our newest apprentices, are you not?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander." With no offer of a chair, Marian stood in front of the desk with her hands clasped loosely in front of her. "I've only been here a few months."

"You travelled to Kirkwall with your family to escape the Blight, correct?"

"Yes."

The Knight-Commander lowered her eyes to the papers and scanned the information which had been collected. "I see that they remain in Kirkwall."

"As far as I know," Marian agreed tentatively. "I've had no contact with them since I came to the Gallows. As per Chantry rules."

Meredith gave a humourless chuckle but did not raise her eyes. "Indeed. Well, Marian, allow me to inform you that your brother is making his name known amongst the lesser desirables of this city. I am told he keeps company with a dwarf and low-ranking city guard."

"I see." The low-ranking city guard had to be Aveline. Marian was relieved that the obstinate red-head might still be keeping an eye on Carver. She supposed that the dwarf was the storyteller from the Hanged Man; Varric. She hoped that meant her brother was still in partnership with him.

"It seems your brother—Carver, is it?—makes regular trips into Darktown." The Knight-Commander looked up at last and her chair creaked as she leant forward, locking her gaze with the apprentice. "Why might that be, Marian?"

"I'm not sure," she responded in genuine bewilderment. The only reason either she or Carver had ever ventured into Darktown was on behalf of Athenril. Since Carver had been eager to part ways with the smuggler, his continued association with Varric implied that their business venture into the Deep Roads remained on course. Marian could only think of one other reason why her brother might spend time in that area. "My mother likely wouldn't approve. If anything, it will be to do with my uncle."

"Ah, yes," Meredith bowed her head to glance over the reports once more. "Gamlen Amell. Extensive gambling debts."

Marian let out a wearied sigh. "That's him." A sudden fear struck at her and she cast a beseeching look towards the Knight-Commander. "Are my family well?"

"You remain concerned for them?"

"Of course," Marian frowned. "They're my family."

"Yet it is your family which makes your presence within the Gallows all the more suspect," the Knight-Commander stated harshly. "Your father is Malcolm Hawke."

Marian only nodded. She loved her father, but she had never ridden herself of the sense that both she and Bethany were in some ways a disappointment to him because of their magic. She could only guess at what he would think of her having voluntarily joined a Circle of Magi.

"He has not been sighted within Kirkwall."

"No. He passed away about four years ago."

"A convenient excuse," Meredith scoffed. "Am I really to believe that Malcolm Hawke's daughter willingly joins the very Circle from which he escaped?"

Marian blinked. Her father had never spoke of it but she had known he had once been a Circle mage, though she had assumed that he had met her mother having already escaped the Chantry. She had never imagined that it might have been the _Gallows_ that he had escaped from. What had her mother been _thinking_ by insisting that the family return to the city?

"There were also rumours that he became involved with the Grey Wardens."

"I... had no idea," she stammered in a daze. She didn't understand how that fitted in with anything else, but it seemed important to the older woman. How was it that the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall knew more of her family than she did?

"Given that your father resisted submitting to Chantry law, what would convince you to see the error of his ways?"

The threat of betraying Orsino became her new focus. She chose to push aside the revelations surrounding her father in favour of concentrating on more immediate concerns.

"Kirkwall is not the haven for apostates that we had been led to believe," she muttered, acting as though the Knight-Commander had forced the confession from her. "It's true I had hoped that I could hide away here with my family, but the nature of the city... hemmed in with criminals at every turn. I only have a basic skill with a weapon and I found I had to turn to my magic to defend myself. With the templar presence, I knew it would only be a matter of time. I wanted to make the choice willingly than be forced."

"Your enlightenment seems contrived, at best," the Knight-Commander shook her head before calling out to the guard standing in the hall. When the guard entered into the room, she turned back to the apprentice. "I wish to examine this issue further, Marian."

Marian offered a submissive agreement.

"You will be removed to the prison for the time being."

The templar guard deftly caught hold of Marian's wrists and expertly bound them before she could even protest.

"Wait!" she blurted out, panicked. "Wait, no, surely that's not necessary, Knight-Commander?"

Meredith glanced at the rope binding her hands before lazily raising her gaze to meet Marian's eye. "Our trust in you is shaken, Marian. There is no other option. Rest assured, if you are proven innocent then you will be returned to your rightful place in the Circle."

With a flick of her hand, the Knight-Commander indicated that she was finished and Marian was forcibly ushered from the room.

* * *

Marian lay sprawled on the floor—it was more comfortable than the stone slab which passed as a bed—and stared up at the ceiling. At least, she would have if she had been able to see it. In the dank gloom of the prison cell, for all she knew, up was in fact down.

She wished she had a book. Arcane magic, ancient culinary recipes, children's stories; anything would be a preferable alternative to the incessant circling of thoughts in her head.

Before she was reduced to examining each and every detail of this Maker forsaken day, the scrape of boots coupled with grunts and curses alerted her to the arrival of another prisoner in the cell next to hers. A thud signalled that the prisoner had been deposited in the cell but there was no indignant objection or cry of pain.

"Clean him up," a gruff voice ordered.

The slop of water in a bucket and then the patter of droplets against stone could be heard. Manoeuvring the best she was able with bound hands, Marian slunk nearer the edge of her cell, careful to keep against the wall just in case the templars decided to check on her.

"Shit, Alrik really did him over. He'll need a healer," another voice, different from the first, swore.

"Alrik likes them to suffer."

"What if the First Enchanter pays another visit? Or the Knight-Captain? It's you and me who'll suffer for it, not Alrik."

"He's fine. Look," there was a moment of silence before a sharp slap. "Wake up."

A low groan signalled that the prisoner had regained some consciousness.

"See?" the same voice remarked. "If he dies during the night, it'll probably be a blessing for him. Alrik is determined to see him made Tranquil."

"Poor bastard," the second voice—the one who had suggested a healer—sighed.

"Careful the Knight-Commander doesn't hear you; she'll have you down as a mage sympathiser, Thrask."

"Tranquility is a violation. It robs them of their souls. It would be better to kill them outright rather than force them to endure a lifetime as emotionless husks," the voice—Thrask—muttered. "I'll fetch one of the apprentices in the morning. They can usually be persuaded to keep quiet if they see it's in the interests of other mages."

"Suit yourself. I won't be losing sleep over it."

"These Fereldan transfers have suffered enough," Thrask argued. "They don't need to be brutalised by the Order."

Marian stiffened, her head now resting against the cell bars as she feigned sleep. _Karl_.

After a time, the templars left the cell—one hit her bars, commanding her to get back—before leaving the two prisoners to the dank darkness.

She heard a whimper and her heart lurched. She called out, so soft that it was barely audible.

"Karl?"

The whimper eased but she could just make out the very quiet snuffling of sobs.

"Your friends are worried about you, Karl. Do you know what's going on?"

Still nothing.

Obstinate to the last, Marian pressed against the bars of the cell to see if she could catch sight of the templars. There was a glow of torch light a short distance away but from the muffled conversation, it did not appear that the templars were paying particular attention to the prisoners. She realised she didn't really care if they were, anyway: years of watching over her younger siblings had forged her into a protector which was much a part of her identity as her magic.

"Goodnight, Karl," she called, hoping he would take comfort from the tone of her voice as she tried to pour as much kindness and tenderness into it as she could. "You're not alone now; just remember that."

* * *

_Thanks to __**EasternViolet**__ for her beta magic!_

_I usually respond to reviews via PM but since that isn't possible for Guest reviews, I'd just like to say thank you to the Guest who commented on Chapter 2 :)  
As ever, thank you to __all__ who read, review or follow this little tale._


End file.
