My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "They never proved it was me," Jowan whined.

  "Right, because you standing there with mana still pouring through the veil and water up to your ankles means...the butler did it?"

  Lana ignored their never-ending argument as Jowan tried to prove it somehow wasn't his fault. Nothing was ever his fault. They weren't supposed to know the templars in the tower, but of course mages would on occasion talk or even joke with their guards. But these templars were different. They were the hunters who traveled across thedas searching for mages -- either fresh into their power, or hidden apostates -- and brought them back to the tower. Supposedly, they were stationed all over Ferelden in tiny towns or farming villages as much as Denerim and the other big cities. It was rare for them to visit the tower save for drop off days or if it was a big holiday. She never saw Grayson for more than a few days each year, but he always had a big smile for her, tales of his adventures, and a wink that they'd meet again. No one thought anything of the seven or eight year old girl rushing out to hug the grown man around his leg, but as the years passed Lana felt the curious and judgmental stares of both mage and templar wondering what she was doing. At fourteen she knew better than to risk hugging him, but there was nothing wrong with saying hello and talking to him.

  "Wait," Lana waved her hand to stop Margie and Jowan arguing, who were now onto his lack of bathing, "I don't see Grayson." Before either could respond, Lana wadded her too long robes in her hands and flitted down the back staircase.

  Marguerite nipped at her heels, "Lanny, what are you doing? You know we're not supposed to go down there when--" Her words died away as the two girls stepped onto the ground floor and a dozen templars turned to them. Slowly, the masticating jaws ground down while the steel eyes measured the apprentices up for size. "This was a bad idea," Margie whispered.

  "Excuse me, what are you doing here?" a templar walked over to them, his face young and ambitious, but with a gentleness that kept him from waving his sword to chase them off.

  "We were leaving," Marguerite said, tugging on Lana's sleeves. "Right?"

  No, she had to know. Yanking her arm free, Lana approached the templar. She kept her hands clasped together in front to try and show she was no danger. "May I ask you, um, where's Ser Grayson?"

  "Ser Grayson? You, you want to know about him?" the man whipped his head around at the others who suddenly grew far more interested in their supper than before. "I, um, I'm uncertain if I can..."

  "It's all right, Caroll," an older woman slipped out of the group and almost dropped to a knee to reach Lana's small stature. "Young lady, Grayson has been retired to Denerim."

  "Will he come back here?" Lana asked, her eyes darting from the woman to the shrinking man.

  "I..." the woman rose up from her lean, her full height looming over the tiny mage, "No. He will remain in Denerim, permanently."

  "That can't be right," Lana shook her head. "He promised he'd come back. He always does."

  "Ah, perhaps you should discuss this with your, oh, blighted what do they call them?" the woman turned to the man named Caroll.

  "Teachers?" he threw out, earning him a scowl.

  "Enchanters that advise you in such matters," the woman smiled but there was a strain under it, her eyes darting to the edges as if she was obscuring something. Lana wasn't about to give up so easily with a few platitudes and a pat on the head.

  "You're hiding..." she reached out when Jowan grabbed onto her arm, pulling her back towards the stairs.

  "What are you doing?" he hissed in her ear. Then apologized to the templars, "So sorry, Ser, and Ma'am, and others. We'll just be going now."

  "Of course, apprentice," the woman nodded. Every templar chewed their cud with a somber tone; something dark washed over the proceedings blanketing down every happy tongue.

  Jowan locked both hands around Lana and yanked her up into the air. Using his greater height and weight, he shoved her up the stairs, plopping her unresponsive body onto the stair above him and continuing to jab her upward until they were halfway up. She shook both of his hands off her and glared at him while Margie hung back in the distance.

  "Knock it off, Jowan! They're hiding something. Grayson wouldn't slip off like that to retirement, he'd have told me. He wasn't like the other templars. Oh Maker, what if he died?!" She'd thought about it sometimes when she'd grown old enough to learn about the wicked blood mages in the world. A lump grew in her throat every time she'd rush to the atrium in fear to find not the aging man greying to match his name, but instead his corpse prepared for the pyre.

  "I don't think that's what they mean by retirement," Jowan said. "Look, okay, I overhead some senior enchanters talking."

  "You mean you were spying on them," Margie threw in, but she leaned just as close to listen in.

  "Whatever, they were talking about templars and the lyrium they take. Seemed one of 'em went odd and almost jumped out a window."

  "You mean a mage?" Lana asked, struggling to keep up. They all knew the rules about the barred windows.

  "No, a templar. I thought it weird too. What do they have to worry about? Anyway, I guess drinking all that lyrium isn't good for them, so they go funny in the head, real funny in the head. When they get older they're carted off to a sanitarium in Denerim. That's templar retirement."

  Lana shook her head madly, "No, that's...I don't believe you. I don't believe you at all. Why would they do that? They take it, they make them take it, or something like that."

  "By Andraste's holy knickers, how would I know? Templars are all mad as wet hens."

  She threw off Jowan's arms and ran up the stairs two at a time, her legs straining. Her friends could have easily overtaken her but they hung back, uncertain what to do. It didn't make any sense. The templars were the ones in charge, everyone knew that. They told you where to go, when to eat, when to sleep - actually, they told the enchanters who then told the apprentices. But it was templars at the top. Even the First Enchanter answered to Gregoir, sometimes their arguments filtering down to the lower level where apprentices whispered about what changes it meant for them.

  Why would they intentionally poison themselves? Lyrium was deadly to a mage if touched, a fact drilled so deep into their heads, Lana cried the first time she saw a philter of it for class. She'd assumed it was different for non-magical people, that they were safe to go near it and that was how templars fought mages.Oh Maker, Lana. What, did you think they spat it at blood mages? It seemed as logical an explanation as any for her. Why drink it?

  She'd run up another two staircases, reaching the third level of the tower where she was not supposed to be. Apprentices never left the first without accompaniment and permission. Despite having neither, Lana jumped off the stairs - her slippers catching upon the freshly polished floor. The tranquil washing it looked up for a moment but said nothing as she scrambled to right herself and kept running towards the only answer she could find.

  Thanks to Jowan, Lana knew exactly where the First Enchanter's office was. She reached her fist up, about to knock, when the pain wedged on her chest cracked enough for common sense to break through. What are you doing? What are the chances anyone in there will tell you what you want to hear? It's more likely you'll be punished for wasting their time. Go back downstairs.

  Her fist hung in the air as defeat washed over her. It was right. All she'd get here was more obfuscating and being sent on her way. She blinked rapidly, surprised to find her eyes stinging, when the First Enchanter's door swung open and her limp fist collided with the sword of mercy carved into every templar's breastplate.

  "Maker, I..." she scampered back from it, knotting her offending hand behind her back, then she glanced up and all blood drained from her face. It wasn't just any templar, it was the Knight-Commander. Forget ever seeing the sun again, Lana.

  His grey eyes gazed down at her, then he turned back to the study, "Irving, looks like you have company."

  "Do I?" the First Enchanter's raspy voice chuckled from the depths of his
office. "Child?" he rose off his chair and inched closer to her, but Lana was frozen, her head hanging down as she stared at the Knight-Commander's shoes. Her own blotched eyes gazed up at her in the polished reflection. "What brings you to me?"

  "I..." Lana rolled her lips up and pinched into her hands behind her back. The Knight-Commander stepped back himself, letting the First Enchanter get a proper look at her. How could she ask Irving about things she wasn't meant to know when Ser Gregoir stood only a breath away?

  "Is something wrong? Something I should be informed about?" Irving asked. "Whatever's the matter, we can't fix it unless you tell me."

  Chattering her teeth, Lana never felt more foolish than she did at that moment having the two most powerful men in the tower staring down at her like she'd lost her mind. What could she say? How could she possibly...?

  "Whatever it is Irving, I assume you can handle it." Gregoir said. He reached his hand out to try and push Lana away, a gentle move so he could slip past but something inside of her snapped.

  "I wanted to know what happened to Ser Grayson, First Enchanter!" she barked as if commanding Irving in the sparring yard. "And Knight-Commander." Lana's eyes glanced quickly over the man, then back down as she included his name. It seemed rude not to.

  "This is a templar, I assume..." Irving turned to Gregoir who stared deep into Lana's skull. Whether he was trying to figure her out or wishing he had the authority to bash it open, she couldn't tell.

  Rising higher away from the girl, Gregoir sighed, "He...is. He was retired to the refuge in Denerim four months ago."

  "Why?" It couldn't be true, Grayson was her friend. He'd have said goodbye. She knew that in her heart, but there was no reason for the Knight-Commander to lie to her, to the First Enchanter. Lana tipped her head back to stare at Irving and she felt the first tear tumble down her cheek.

  Irving turned to Gregoir, an almost cross look in his eye. The two shared a message through body language Lana couldn't follow, but neither seemed happy. When the First Enchanter returned to her, he let his easy smile slide on, shifting to the grandfatherly patron of the tower. "Child, perhaps you are unaware that templars take lyrium and that the lyrium can have deleterious effects upon their bodies and their minds."

  "I don't understand," Lana smooshed her arm across her nose, catching most of the snot on her sleeve. The tears were unstoppable now.

  "We need it to be able to fight mages," Gregoir spoke up, his words curt. A sneer ended it, not aimed at her but the world in general, as if he almost didn't believe the fact himself.

  "But...Grayson he'd, he'd never not say goodbye. We were friends."

  She'd watched the Knight-Commander in the years since he'd taken the role from the back with all the other apprentices. While the First Enchanter bore a bonhomie elegance to him, the Knight-Commander was a breathing stand of armor who only brought out his rage when an impenetrable line had been crossed. Keeping herself out of trouble as much as she could, Lana only experienced it second or third hand. Even then, she had trouble seeing the man as a person under his armor with or without the helm.

  Now, that uncrossable brow bent, and an almost tremble tripped up his lip. "I am sorry to inform you of this, but the lyrium will often take memories as well. More than likely, due to his...affliction, Ser Grayson didn't remember his promise, or you."

  He's lying! She felt the words stirring in her mouth begging to be spat at him, but why would the Knight-Commander say such a thing? Maker... Lana stumbled back, her hand pressed to her mouth as she tried to face, to understand this shift in her life. There'd always been mages and templars in her world, she could remember nothing else from before beyond a few snippets of memory before the magic took her. Mages were her people, the ones who could bend the fade to their will, create amazing tricks and spells to help and heal. They were also the people cursed by the Maker, if not watched closely they would fall into wickedness given the slightest provocation. But templars weren't the opposite. Some were bad and best to keep away from, yet there were others like Grayson who held her hand when she first saw the demon in the fade and snuck in a small bottle of Free Marcher apricot jam just for her. Were they all doomed to spending their last years memoryless, maybe even brainless puttering around in some chantry run sanitarium with no friends? How was any of this right?

  Above her, Irving hissed at Gregoir, "Am I to believe this was only a matter of friendship?"

  "She's a child, they're prone to fits of overreacting," Gregoir shrugged.

  "Despite being short, she is old enough for it to be an issue. You should guard your templars with a better eye."

  "I knew Ser Grayson. He was a well liked man with a wife and his own children. He would never jeopardize that for..."

  "Which sounds much the same as Ser Templeton," a burning rage spat out of the First Enchanter as he drew up that name.

  Lana screwed her eyes up. She knew that man, they all knew that man after...they knew of him even before his arrest, they just didn't talk about it in public. "Grayson didn't touch me, not ever, not like that." Maker, bile climbed up the back of her throat from even having to speak the words. Having to think it. She wanted to know the truth and instead she pointed an accusing finger at him. Damn it! Why did she keep getting it wrong? "He was my friend, I swear," she gasped. Her eyes burned, the tears run dry.

  Backing down, Irving nodded his head, "I believe you. I forgot how disturbing news of the lyrium can be for some. Come, girl. You should return to your dormitory and take time to process it. And we will discuss fraternization between templars and their charges again at a later day," Irving shot at Gregoir. The Knight-Commander sighed, but accepted it.

  Lana had no idea what to say. Her body felt as if someone slit open her veins and drained every drop onto the floor. The muscles along her shoulders and up her legs screamed in agony as she tried to shuffle away. While stepping gingerly towards the staircase, she reached out to steady herself when a hand grabbed onto hers.

  "Careful, Miss. You almost missed," a muffled voice called out of the tin. She started in terror, having completely failed to spot the templar standing right next to the frame. Nodding without answering, Lana stepped downwards leaving some of her naïveté behind.

  When she woke she felt the same crushing loss upon her chest. It took her months to get over it, almost as if she'd lost a member of her family to disease or worse. The fact he took the lyrium even knowing the end it would bring chewed her apart. It wasn't until she was older she realized the addictive qualities, how impossible it was for templars to free themselves, that it was the chantry's mission to keep them leashed. Maker, please let Cullen have been strong enough. He had to be, she'd never met a will stronger. When he set out to do something he accomplished it.

  Lana folded up her hands and prayed. Not from the canticles or any of the later prayers adopted into chantry canon. She begged whoever might be listening that it wasn't her death that broke him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rain

  ?:?? ?

  Lana knew the spirit couldn't keep away long. She'd been granted only a day and a half reprieve which was spent either eating what spider meat and questionable but edible squash she found, and sleeping. The green mists haunted her dreams, and an unnatural chill froze her fingers and toes when she awoke. In the distance, beyond whatever barrier her dreams had her trapped inside was a statue. Grey stone, taller than a person, with something like a hand stretched out towards her. She tried to sketch the silhouette of it before the dream faded but all Lana could see in her doodling was a misshapen blob. Wynne was the one she needed to speak with, but that wasn't who warped reality to pop into place.

  A miniaturized fountain burbled beside Lana's desk - the exact desk she abandoned in the Vigil. She found some of her old letters crammed in the back of the drawer including one from Alistair and another she never got around to sending. Rather than reminisce about what could have been, Lana flipped both pages over and took to sketching out her wild theories.
Exhaustion dogged her every quill scratch, the ink made from boiled spider innards -- runny but useable. Despite the obstacles, she wasn't going to turn tail and roll over now. Fighting was all she had left.

  "Good morning, dear," the spirit spoke in its androgynous voice. Genderless but far sweeter than Shale's, the spirit spoke with a creamy voice as light and airy as strawberries on a summer afternoon. "I see you're keeping busy attending to something. Did you locate anything of interest in the interim?"

  "No," Lana huffed, putting down the last few words she'd spoken to Wynne. The curiosity spirit spoke in roundabout riddles, but there had to be an answer. For now, Lana needed to find the question. "Why? Was there something for me to find?"

  "Of course not, I only thought to inquire about your day. Shall we begin again?"

  Waving her hand over the paper to try and dry the spider ink quicker, Lana squared her shoulders. Her chair leaned to the side, the back leg shorter than the others. It was the same one she used for ten years in her classes in the tower. "First, I think it's time you answer a few questions for me."

  The spirit's ethereal presence pulsed as a white light in the center strobed for a moment. Then its not mouth smiled slyly, "I'd never keep anything from you, dearest."

  "Right. You said that in exchange for my memories you could help me create a way out of here."

  "I am helping you," it interrupted, hovering closer towards her. "The best way I know how. You are safe with me."

  That didn't answer her question. Without watching, Lana made a notch against the old letter - the one where he first asked her to move to Denerim and become an arcane adviser. "The only changes I've seen so far have been cosmetic, the fade itself is becoming familiar to me, taking pieces of my past to dangle in front, but there is nothing to help me escape."

  "Do you not enjoy returning to what you once loved, here around you?" The spirit hovered past the tiny fountain towards a bookshelf crammed not with books but small tokens, old weapons, trinkets excavated from her adventuring life and put on display without any care for their meaning or history.